#sneezing fanfiction

[bewitchedfeathers]

The Grey - Vik/tor Snz Fic

For the anons who requested allergic Viktor! I had this in my draft and thought I'd release it into the wild for you!

Not sure where to go from here but I hope you enjoy this ficlet nonetheless. Set in an AU where Viktor never came to Piltover.

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Jayce stepped into the small shop off one of the dark side streets of Zaun. Little to identify it outside of a small sign designating it a repair shop. But Jayce had heard he could fix anything and even upgrade things and Jayce had hit a wall in his current prototype. He was hoping this lauded genius of the undercity might be able to help him.

He tried not to cough to much and draw attention to himself as green smoke swirled around his ankles as he walked. He stepped inside and was immediately stunned by the beauty of the man behind the counter. He was working on some kind of delicate clockwork device, long beautiful fingers moving with steady precision. His auburn locks and high cheek bones made him look almost aristocratic but he had a bit of a wild air to him.

“Shut the door please,” he said without looking up from his project.

Jayce quickly stepped fully inside and shut the door behind him, cheeks hot. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he murmured finally lookikng up from his work with a curious gaze. Eyes going slightly wide in surprise when he saw Jayce, probably placing him as Piltovian even with the ratty cloak over his clothes.

“How can I help you? Snf.” He asked. His voice was soft and accented and Jayce tried not be distracted by it. But then the man’s nose wrinkled and he sniffed again. 

Jayce watched as a wisp of green colored smoke drifted across the air and brushed nose, and the response was immediate as he took a sharp breath in. “Ih’TSSHHxkt…Snf.”

“Are you all right?” He asked utterly entranced and trying not to act like it. 

“I’m fine. It’s just….thehh-the grey. Huh’ITCHxt. It always makes me Hhh…ITCHssht. Pardon me. Snf.” He rubbed underneath his nose with one delicate finger. 

“Bless you,” Jayce breathed, heat coiling in his belly, “Um, Should I come back another time?”

“No, no, I’m fine. It’s just a minor hh’ITCH-shuh…inconvenience. Pardon me.”

“Bless you. If you’re sure…”

“Yes, I’m fine. Hihhh’IKXT…hn. There’s no need to fuss over it.” He shot Jayce a look that suggested he would not like what happened if Jayce made a fuss over it. 

Jayce conceded with a quick nod, not wanting to press and make the other man uncomfortable 

“I'm Jayce by the way. Sorry for not introducing myself.” He certainly wouldn't admit it was because he was distracted by the other man's sneezes. 

“I'm Viktor,” he offered softly followed by a few sniffles. “What can I help you hhhh’IGSSHtt snf, pardon, help you with?” He wrinkled his nose with a grumpy expression, obviously irritated by the continuous interruptions to his speech even though he seemed otherwise fine.

Jayce shook off his momentary daze as Viktor let loose another poorly stifled sneeze. “Ah, I was hoping you might have an idea of how to get this working? I was told you're the best.”

“Oh? And where did you hhh-hear that?” He asked curiously as he examined the device Jayce had set on the counter between them. 

“I asked around,” he offered vaguely to which Viktor raised an eyebrow at, but let the subject drop.

A moment later Viktor set down the device as his brows drew in and his nostrils fluttered. He turned his head until his nose hovered just above his elbow. “Hhh…pardon me a-hh moment…Hhhh’IGSSHtt…Hh’IGSSH–Ishhuh…hh’huhh’ EGSSHHooo…sndff goodndess. Mby apologies. Sndf.”

“It's fine,” he said hoarsely, pants feeling too tight. “Um, bless you.”

- TBC??

[Snz Fic Masterlist]

Let me know if you liked it and feel free to hit me up if you have ideas for where this should go.

[sicktember]

Official Sicktember 2023 Prompt List!

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[2023 Sicktember Collection on AO3]

[2023 Content Promotion Changes]

** Please remember to read the FAQs before asking event related questions**

[text version of the prompt list below the cut]

Prompts:

1. Hopelessly Bad at Self-Care

2. Quest for a Cure

3. "What happened to your phenomenal immune system, huh?"

4. Hiding an Illness

5. Preventative Measures (Not Taken)

6. Sick and Injured

7. “You’re a Jerk When You’re Sick”

8. Persistent Fever

9. White Coat Syndrome

10. “The only place we’re going is to the pharmacy”

11. Beginner’s Guide to Faking Sick

12. Old Wives Tale

13. Anxious Stomach

14. ‘‘I shouldn’t be worried about you, but for some reason I am’’

15. Sick in an Inconvenient Place

16. Consulting the Internet/Web MD

17. Magical Remedy/Healing Potion

18. “Wear Your Coat, You’ll Catch a Cold”

19. Curled Up With a Pet

20. Cramping Pain

21. "But if you stay, you'll get sick too"

22. Terms of Endearment/Nicknames

23. Coughing Fit

24. “Did you just sneeze?”

25. Confused/Disoriented

26. Pink Eye/Conjunctivitis

27. Uncooperative Patient

28. “I should have stayed home”

29. Side Effects/Adverse Reaction

30. Patient 0

Alts.

“I Could Really Use a Hug Right About Now”

Fuzzy Socks

Pounding Headache

Forehead Kisses

“I’m so sorry”

[l223m0nade]

Bees (a stucky au snzfic)

ok

ok ok

so I saw this random thing on a tumblr post:

and it got its Stucky-idea hooks so deep in my brain. It just did. And the thing is my deepest inspo is honestly in the land of snz. (This fic kind of ends abruptly sorry but i want to do more and it'll probably end up on Ao3 w like a M or E rating 😳🫣 when and if that happens i'll link to it)

Stucky au, no powers, age gap, what I'm picturing in my head goes less with the words "silver fox Steve" and more with the words "dorky Dilf Steve" like 2012 Cap fashion with current Chris Evans face? in..a good way? and longhair early-20s burnout Bucky. I have some backstory headcanons that are just hinted at here, hopefully it's tantalizing rather than confusing.

anyway have 11.5k words of this and encourage me to write more bc i have fallen in love with these particular boyz. Some light existential angst but mainly idiots pining aka the sweetest sauce

~Fic~

Sam isn’t sure how much longer he can allow this to go on. His barback and the new semi-regular square dude are once again being all awkwardly flirty while pretending they’re not, like two sad lonely white...ducks, who never learned a mating dance and have zero game.

At least Square Dude has an excuse: he’s the most obvious newly-divorced newly-out family-type guy Sam’s ever seen. He’s clean-cut, with a ridiculously handsome square jaw, wearing well-made but unstylish button-down shirts and pants that make him look like he belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting. He started coming in about two months ago, quiet, friendly when ordering his one or two beers of the evening, and firmly shy when it comes to the inevitable overtures sent his way. It doesn’t take a genius to see that this is him dipping a first toe into the pool: coming to a relatively quiet gay bar, just to sit and watch men talk to each other and let the whole notion sink in.

By now most guys would’ve found someone to spread their wings with or gone elsewhere to find em, but Square Dude, whose name is Steve, seems content to talk to the guy who pours his beer about whatever DIY project Bucky is pulling questions out of his ass about.

The crush is painfully obvious, and suburban closeted Steve can’t be blamed for having no deal-sealing abilities, but Bucky has no such excuse. Sam has watched him pull stiff-backed business bros in five minutes flat when the mood struck him, with his big blue puppy eyes and his dark wicked smirk and long lean slouch. But with Steve all he appears capable of doing is asking him questions about crown molding as though those words mean anything to him while gazing at him like he’s beaming the words You could fix me directly into Steve’s skull. Steve, for his part, just doesn’t seem to be able to look anywhere other than Bucky.

As usual, anyone that tries to strike anything beyond a friendly conversation is kindly but firmly rebuffed. “He’s not ready for that yet,” Bucky had insisted with unnecessary defensiveness when Sam implied it was time for the new guy to move from spectating to participating in the relatively mellow flirting and hookup scene the bar played host to most evenings. “People go at their own pace.”

“The only pace he’s going at is towards you,” Sam smirked. Bucky glowered at his implication. “You gotta make it weird. He comes here to, like, practice. I’m part of that, in a chill, friendly way.” He shrugged and looked at the glass he was drying. “When he is ready, it’s not gonna be for me, it’s gonna be for someone actually in his league, like a...hot college professor, or something.” Sam had rolled his eyes and resolved to stop trying to help Bucky Barnes flail around in his mess of a love life anymore, for the hundredth or so time.

Tonight is busy enough that Sam can mostly be distracted from this bad sitcom, and not so busy that he has to yell at Barnes for being distracted. Still, there are a couple empties on tables in the Steve-less side of the bar, and after finishing the drinks for the people in front of him he turns, catching Bucky’s voice, in a tone of delight he uses when speaking with only one person, saying “Wait. Seriously? Bees?”

“Yeah!” Steve responds, equally puppyish. He’s tall and broad, sandy hair and beard just beginning to show a hint of salt-and-pepper. He looks like anyone’s fantasy fireman or lumberjack, at least in the context of a place like this. He also exudes genuine sweetness and vulnerability despite his intimidating muscled height.

Bucky Barnes, Sam’s barback and old friend, leans against the bar doing the helpless-goober-with-a-crush stare, a look on his face like Steve just announced he was a Nobel Prize winner. “No way. How do you keep bees? Just as, what, a casual hobby? That’s, like, a whole thing, you can’t be an expert in so many things!”

Bucky is all shaggy longish dark hair and stupid cheap graphic t-shirts, with a striking, animated face that is used mainly for sarcasm. He and Sam had been at the same high school a few blocks away, though Sam is older, and in the funny way of life they’ve wound up good friends. He’s working at Sam’s place because, in his words, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing with his life. Bucky’s going through his own version of one of those fairly bleak lost periods of 20-something misery, but he’s smart and not a drunk and decent at what he does for Sam, and if he bangs a third of the customers he does it discreetly enough. Sam never knew dark-blond, broad-shouldered, bass-voice sad-eyed dudes pushing 40 were the kryptonite that made him unable to do anything including flirt, until Steve came in one day and Bucky sprayed himself with the keg he was tapping.

Steve chuckles— is this man blushing? “Oh no, I’m nowhere near an expert. But it’s pretty easy once they get established. Don’t need much from you. I’m not, uh, living at the place with the backyard where the hives are, right now….so….but they’ll be fine without me.”

Steve gets a little quiet and Bucky’s fangirl expression dims with distressed sympathy. It gets sad like this sometimes when talking to Steve. Recently divorced guys had this problem, where everything came back to the one topic. Steve’s not doing it pathologically, didn’t seem like, just genuinely realizing another change. Bucky looks stricken. He doesn’t always seem young, at newly 24, but sometimes it still shows.

Sam finally manages to catch his eye away from gazing at Steve to convey a quick head jerk of get-the-hell-over-there-and-do-the-job-I-pay-you-for, and Bucky peels himself away with an apologetic smile at Steve. Sam picks up the conversation with Steve as Bucky clears tables at top speed, hearing how he’s renting a place month-to-month not far away, not able to plan something more permanent just yet. He doesn’t say anything revealing, but it’s still easy to paint a picture of a small, empty apartment. Bucky’s not the only one with a soft spot for this guy, and Sam is warmed by the thought that his little bar offers him respite.

………………..

“That’s so sad,” moans Bucky a few days later. It’s just after opening on a weekday afternoon, and Bucky seemed quieter than usual so Sam is tantalizing him with what he learned talking to Steve the other day. “Did he say—you know he has kids?”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam answers. He’d been as offhand as a person could be about that sort of thing, but it wasn’t hard to see how he really felt. He was standing in the rubble of a sincere loving marriage to a woman with whom he had two 11-year old twins. Helped explain his rectitude when it came from moving from his spot at the bar, meeting someone other than the staff. Bucky’s eyes are pools of sympathetic anguish and Sam feels the need to say, “This kinda stuff happens to people, Buck,” earning an eye-roll for his patronizing efforts. “It’s good he’s coming here, learning about himself. I think you help a lot, for the record.”

Bucky starts and gives him a bewildered look. “What?”

This is aging him. Sam sighs, “He’s lonely. Maybe feels kinda lost right now.”

Bucky’s mouth gets a pained downward slant to it.

“He. Likes. You.”

At that, of course, Bucky gets uncomfortable, blushing and moving off to wipe tables somewhere away from Sam, rubbing his nose and clearing his throat like he’s been doing since he got there. He brightens when Steve comes in an hour later, and Sam rolls his eyes and leaves them to their game of mouse-and-mouse.

Steve is telling Bucky... how window insulation works. He thinks he asked, he hopes to god he did, at least. He’s been embarrassing himself for weeks, coming to this place almost every day. He’s kept it pretty well under wraps that although he liked the neighborhood simplicity, and talking to Sam, and got comfortable after the first few visits, the real reason he’s there more evenings than not is to see Bucky. With his bright grey-blue eyes and dark hair hanging past his chin, swinging against his cheekbones, with his smile and wicked sense of humor and his confounding ease in himself, the ease that gives Steve despair and hope for himself. With that mouth and that divot in his chin, and those last two thoughts are not allowed, because the need to put his thumb into that dot in his sculpted chin and kiss those ridiculously pink lips is urgent and unthinkable.

He doesn’t do that, he just sits and pines and chats awkwardly with him, and gets to know a few other regular guys and talks sports with Sam. He just likes talking to Bucky, it’s easy, easy like nothing has been in a long time, and he’s a creep, he’s a pathetic older guy using his experience to take advantage of a younger guy—

Only, he’s not actually experienced here, at all. And Bucky is so smart, he’s self-deprecating about it but it’s not like he and Steve aren’t generally on the same level beyond his inner glossary of home improvement terminology. He downplays the fact that he knows cars like an expert, insists the stuff Steve learned from keeping up an old house and the hobbies he picked up to stay sane is somehow far more impressive— Steve’s pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose, to make him feel less adrift and clueless. He has that way about him, of someone who looks after other people without realizing it.

Things were all dark there for a while, with the end of his marriage to Peggy. But he’s pretty sure he and Bucky are friends, and he feels bright when he sees him.

Tonight, though, Bucky seems just a little worn down. He’s wearing a waffle-knit shirt under his incomprehensible-thorny-calligraphy-t-shirt, as though he’s cold, and his eyes are tired. Steve waits for a reply to the last thing he said and looks to see Bucky with a dazed, spaced-out expression, before he shakes his head and rubs his nose, saying “Sorry, I thought I was gonna sneeze, what’d you say?”

Talking about the goddamn weather and window insulation was segueing into a real conversation, to Steve’s delight: “How my mom moved us out to Jersey so we could live somewhere better and I never forgave her.” Bucky gives a wide-eyed grimace of agreement and he can’t help the bright laugh that bursts out of him. “How about you, you grow up in the city?” He’d inadvertently spilled his guts about the divorce on like his third time in the bar, something that humiliated him to think of but Sam had simply said with an understanding face wasn’t too unusual, so Bucky knew the basics about Peggy and the twins, but Steve had felt clumsy asking Bucky about himself.

He rolled his eyes with his problematically attractive crooked grin and answered, “Aw man, I grew up practically around the block from this place. Went to high school at the big catholic cinderblock in the neighborhood. I was at school on the west coast for a couple years, but…” His eyes cast downward. “now I’m back.”

Steve remembers how bad it felt at that age, to not have accomplished enough fast enough. Saying that will make him sound like an old grey dad and even if that’s what he is he can still hold out a little hope of being something different here, so he just says, “Brooklyn’s a good hometown to come back to.”

That makes Bucky smile at him and look him in the eye, like he liked what Steve said, even like it made him feel better. Steve tamps his answering grin down to reasonable levels.

Bucky’s also been rubbing at his nose on and off this whole time, and he can see it give a little twitch right before he breathes out a “scuse-me” through hitching breaths, his eyes flickering closed. He pushes his nose firmly into his long-sleeved elbow. “hhh-hh-tdschuh!” He sneezes quietly and muffled. “Oh, snf, sorry,” he says, blinking and emerging from his elbow but not lowering it, the hazy ticklish look still on his face, breaths hitching. “Another—hhh—‘nother one?” He freezes, looking up at the overhead lights, nostrils flared, but after a second he deflates with a sigh. “Nope, nevermind. Snff.” Steve’s guts swoop. This crush is so unsustainable. He’s gonna fail to be cool and friendly and he’ll have to watch Bucky go all uncomfortable and pitying as he explains to Steve that he has six hot boyfriends who are not almost-forty almost-virgin losers who only know how to take up his time when he’s trying to work. According to his therapist these “harangues of negativity” are “unhelpful.” But Bucky looks tired and a little pale and like his nose is going to start turning pink and Steve is just trying to survive.

“Bless you,” Steve says softly in his gentle voice that’s so deep it takes Bucky by surprise and makes his stomach flutter every time he talks to him. He feels like he might be blushing.

“Thanks,” it comes out husky and he clears his throat hard, moving to the little sink to wash his hands.

“Allergies, or…?” Steve ventures, a little divot between his eyebrows of concern-more-like-pity.

“I dunno, something’s bothering my nose today,” he says lightly with a shrug. In truth Bucky has a good idea what’s making him sneeze. The fucking radiator that was supposed to heat his cheap shitty basement apartment had stopped working in the middle of the night, so he’d spent six hours until dawn shivering, and an itchy tickly feeling had been growing in the back of his nose and throat since around noon. It’s starting to evolve into a runny nose and an ever-present but elusive feeling of being about to sneeze, and he knows that means he’s coming down with a cold.

He sees some convenient glasses to clear and excuses himself with a smile so he can sniffle out of Steve’s earshot; he’s enough of a mess compared to Steve on his best day, he doesn’t need to show off his scraggly urchin runny nose aesthetic of tonight any more than he has to.

For the next hour, these light, tickly sneezes either sneak up on him or abandon him at the last minute, leaving his nose feeling like it’s going to start getting stuffy.

Steve watches Bucky do his job, sniffling, rubbing his nose, and sneezing furtively into his sleeve or collar; tucking the strands of hair that have come loose from his short ponytail behind his ears, and feels so helplessly tender for him that it can’t be normal or healthy even by desperate crush standards.

Bucky’s coming down with a cold. He seems to want to brush it off, but Steve can hear a slight change in the resonance of his voice that gives it away even if the tired pink starting to border his eyes and nostrils doesn’t. The place is getting crowded and he’s busy; Steve feels for him, as well as pathetically jealous of his attention as he banters with him in passing once in a while.

He glances up as Bucky heads in his direction with a short stack of empty glasses and sees his steps slow; he pauses, blinks up at the overhead light, eyes hazy, and then, wavering, starts to turn his face into his shoulder, before pausing again and then sighing and sniffing as the sneeze evaporates. He looks up and sees Steve watching him like a creep and laughs, “Damn, lost her,” and then as he continues behind the bar, “You havin’ fun watching me look stupid?”

“It’s agony actually,” he responds, gets a laugh, and feels the now-somewhat-familiar internal squeal of this is flirting! I’m flirting with a guy and I think he can tell! It’s painfully pathetic, but he can’t help but track the fact that Bucky knows plenty of the folks that come to Sam’s, that he’ll give anyone his attention if they ask for it, smiling and joking, but the only person he really goes out of his way to talk to, initiates teasing with, is him, Steve. It’s still nothing more than polite obligatory chatting, he’s sure— when you work at a bar this kinda thing is natural. Bucky is young and charismatic and gorgeous. His love life would probably give Steve enough combined envy and jealousy to cause heart failure, which would be perfectly appropriate because he is an old square divorcee. It makes him warm and bubbly enough that he seems to be Bucky’s favorite customer to pass the time with.

A guy down the bar gets his beer from Sam and sidles closer. “This seat taken?” he asks with a good-humored cocked eyebrow. This is why Steve actually started coming to this place: to meet people, to meet guys, in a way that, well, went somewhere. To call his own decades-old bluff. Not to moon over staff half his age who woulda been out of his league even if he was still in his twenties. He turns to the guy—his age or a few years older, attractively lithe with muscle, a hard but handsome face, and smiles.

Bucky gets busy for a stretch— Sam’s place is actually full tonight thanks to the playoff game. He enjoys the feeling of being a genuinely necessary part of the bar’s operation, when some nights it’s hard to believe he’s more than Sam’s charity case. Nights like this remind him that he has a real job, he’s decent at it even with a bum left arm; whether he’s living out his dreams or not he’s an adult with a job, a place to live, and people he cares about. Plus it distracts him from feeling sorry for himself for coming down sick.

His satisfied feelings fade when he looks over to the Steve end of the bar and sees Brock Rumlow talking to him. He scowls. Fucking Rumlow. He only ever comes on nights with games these days, but Bucky would be perfectly happy if he never came in at all.

It’s fine. Steve’s fine. He is a grown-up, significantly more of one than Bucky. Of all the people who have no need of his misplaced ineffectual chivalry, Steve has got to be last in line.

Maybe he finds more stuff to do in the general area of that end of the bar, and maybe he’s listening for Rumlow to say something dickish, or maybe he’s just a masochist and he wants to know firsthand if they hit it off. Sam is trying to point his “Don’t-be-Stupid” face at him like a flashlight beam but he resolutely ignores it while he replaces a couple bottles that legitimately needed it, ok, just because they’re in a convenient place doesn’t make that untrue.

“Yeah, I’m glad I found this place,” he catches Steve’s cheerful voice. A wave of bar noise obscures their next words, and then he makes out Rumlow,

“—actual sports on the TV. ‘Course,” the smile is audible in his voice, “the clubby places are good for at least one reason, y’know?” He quiets down to say it but not enough. Steve wouldn’t particularly like that, Bucky guesses, and then grinds his teeth as his brain helpfully supplies him with the memories of how easily Brock had charmed him, months ago. It wasn’t any kind of nightmare, but it was still probably his least favorite hookup to date: he’d been so happily focused on Bucky at first, then rough and selfish in bed, capped off by an unnecessarily clear implication that he wouldn’t be calling. Bucky knew the score with casual sex, but it had still given him enough whiplash to sting; it crossed his mind a few days later that it had been like Rumlow wanted him to feel like a dumb kid.

Steve has sputtered something about “not sure he’s looking for anything like that” while Bucky fumed about the past. He has to grab beers for a couple guys, and bending to get in the lowboy fridge makes his nose run suddenly, and flush with an insistent tickle. He manages, just barely, to squash the sneeze completely into a silent mmp! into his shoulder, andmakes a getaway to the bathroom. He blows his nose, but it won’t stop tickling, so then he stands there like an idiot, holding paper towels like they’re a book he’s reading, staring up into the lights and waiting to coax the sneeze out.

He can feel it coming but it still takes forever. At least the bathroom is empty. He wrinkles his nose exaggeratedly and sniffs and his breath finally starts to catch.

“hehh...heh...heh—heh-Uhh....huhh. Fuck.” There’s no way it’s not happening though, his goddamn nose tickles so bad— “hhHAh—EHSsschhooo!” It’s a ridiculous cartoony sneeze but at least it’s satisfying. He blows his nose again, then sighs. He’s definitely sick. Gonna be great sleeping in a freezing apartment. Turning into kind of a shitty night, he thinks with sarcastic pep.

When he leaves the restroom he can’t help glancing over to where Steve sits, and sees he’s now frowning at whatever Rumlow’s saying, looking politely uncomfortable on the way to annoyed. As he drifts back into earshot he hears, “….fun, but, if you’re looking for more than, um, casual, I dunno, kind of a dead end.” Then his pulse jumps as Rumlow looks right at him and finishes, “not dating material, trust me. Either way,” he leans in, “I think you can do better.”

Bucky closes the distance but puts himself behind the bar so he doesn’t immediately clock the asshole. His fists are clenched. Can he throw him out? If he doesn’t get away from Steve and shut up Bucky’s gonna end up fired and charged with assault, probably, but he doesn’t know if he can throw someone out on the grounds of being a jerk that he hates. Thank God, Sam’s caught on that something is up.

Rumlow doesn’t seem to have won Steve over, in any case. He’s turned cold and hard in a way that makes him look unfamiliar, and he says quietly but very clearly, “I think you’ve got the wrong idea.” He sounds like a straight Army Captain contemptuously shattering an underling’s heart immediately post-office-suckjob or something; in the morass of anger and panic it still registers with Bucky’s dick to his utter bewilderment. It definitely triggers some core memory for Rumlow, who turns the color of old milk before flushing and standing. He takes in the sight of Bucky glowering behind Steve and barks an ugly laugh. “It’s like that, huh?” he asks, shaking his head in mock pity. “Good luck with that rescue mission.”

Bucky feels like he did when Hank Ackerman pantsed him in 8th grade. Everything’s too bright and clear. He wants to cover his face and run into the back, but he’s rooted to the spot by the thought that that’s just what the dumb baby slut Rumlow’s been making him out to be would do.

“That’s it man,” Sam comes up beside him, smile on his face as though he’s just casually joining their conversation. “You’re done. Get outta here.”

Rumlow scoffs, takes a step towards the door, then turns with the beginning of a macho intimidation-lean in Sam’s direction. He’s hammered, Bucky hadn’t realized, and he can usually tell with people. He’s...kind of fucking scary. Had he gotten rougher around the edges, or had he been like this when Bucky went home with him? Jesus Christ.

Sam just returns his stare, all semblance of friendliness gone from his face. “Get out.”

Rumlow glares another second, but then he goes. There’s a reason Sam’s successful running a bar in the middle of the still-managing-to-be-seedy part of Brooklyn, as well as his finely tuned sensibilities to the unmet needs of Brooklyn’s grownup queer folks. He has the air, recognizable to serious troublemakers, of someone who will absolutely meet and raise any escalation. There were, in fact, a taser and a gun behind the bar, but Sam had never had to use them.

Steve stands up sharply, like he’s—what, gonna follow? Bucky opens his mouth to protest, but then—“Steve.” Sam’s got the side bar entry folded up and he’s intercepting his angry stride. “Please don’t.” He goes on, too quiet for Bucky to make out. Steve deflates and sits back down, taking a long drink of beer and then frowning at his knees.

Bucky consciously lets go of his tension as he sees Rumlow’s silhouette, walking outside, disappear from the last window on the right. He feels shaky, the way any kind of confrontation leaves him, and embarrassed as hell. He avoids Steve’s eyes for all he’s worth, scrubbing a hand under his nose and sniffing sharply.

Steve was just a customer. Bucky was just one of many people that Steve made polite conversation with in the course of a day. Feeling like this was just a consequence of getting that confused. Because he’s an idiot. He has to sniffle again. He also feels about ten times sicker than he did a few minutes ago, and successfully blinking away the brief prickle in his eyes just turns it into the need to sneeze.

Steve tries to breathe smoothly and calm down. This frat-boy rage is ridiculous, he still wants to go punch the hell out of that fucking creep. He must be drunker than he realizes, although deep down he knows it has more to do with the inarticulate surge of protectiveness he’d felt for Bucky since the guy had gestured to him with a jerk of his head as he crossed the room.

He hears a shuddering gasp and sees Bucky duck down to crouch behind the bar. His concern flares way up, but then he hears the three muffled sneezes, all in a rush, “hhhMPtchsh—hmptsschoo—hptsshhuh,”. He straightens back up, sniffing hard, more wetly than he sounded earlier. He’s rubbing his nose and glaring at the door, not looking at Steve.

“Bucky,” he says, frowning, determined to get this across, “what that asshole said about you—”

“Steve, snff, it’s fine, just drop it, okay, I’m asking you,” he meets Steve’s eyes with a downcast expression, before it flickers as his breath catches, and he sneezes again, half-pinched down into the collar of his shirt, “ihh-dtsschuh!”

His nostrils keep quivering and he lets out a shaky sigh of frustration before ducking around the corner out of sight with his hands tented over his nose and sneezing, “hiih-hih-HIDtschoo!...hih-HIH-TISchoo! ..heehh...heh—HEH—” the last one deserts him and leaves him sniffling. They’re still pretty quiet, but a lot heavier and spraying than the first sneezes Steve heard earlier. Bucky blows his nose and washes his hands thoroughly, and when he’s back behind the bar his nose is decidedly pink.

“Buck,” Steve says, and Bucky’s lips thin in exasperation— it’s not like him, compared to the guy Steve’s talked to the last few weeks. Whatever, he can’t help but say, “you do sound like you’re coming down with something, you should—”

“Steve, I’m fine,” says Bucky, in a soft tone that brooks no argument. Still tense, he turns to Steve with a crooked smile and says, “Really,” and it’s warm, if strained, between them again, and it seems like that’ll just have to satisfy Steve, and he says as much to Bucky who blushes and bites his lip for some reason.

Sam rescues Bucky by asking him to do inventory in back, letting him be sneeze and be dramatically in his feels without anyone around, especially Steve. The bar is slow enough now that he just shamelessly hides for the rest of the night. He’s constantly sniffling and sneezing and needing to blow his nose with the roll of rough brown paper towels back there, and even without that he’s too keyed up and pissed and miserable for human company, so it’s for the best.

He casts furtive recon glances to the bar where Steve sits, first craning his neck trying to spy Bucky, then brooding into his beer glass which makes Bucky feel like an asshole, then perking up at least a little shooting the shit with Sam, hopefully talking shit about Brock Dickface Rumlow. Then the misery wells up enough to get him to actually focus on work to avoid feeling it, and then it’s a few hours later and they’re closing up and he goes home to his little icebox and tires not to think about anything.

The next day, Sam chooses evil.

Steve and JB Barnes are both at least somewhat complex men, and it is always a bad idea to meddle in the affairs of others. But screw it, he’s had Bucky moaning in his ear for months now, and he was gonna have to recheck all his angry counting from last night, and these guys really seemed dumb enough to let the tension of mutual attraction strain between them until it just broke, some misunderstanding threw them both on the defensive or whatever, and they missed the chance at any of the fun part of connecting with each other.

So.

It isn’t a big surprise when Bucky calls him around 2, apologizing and pausing to make some gross “ihHgjshuhh!” noise, saying he was probably too sick with this cold to come in. What is a surprise, for poor Bucky, is Sam’s implacable response: “Duuude, I’m so sorry, but there’s some kinda convention in town and the place is packed, I need you here so bad, no matter what. You can take the next two days off, I’ll pay you.” He hears Bucky swallow back the what the hell and resignedly say ok. He feels diabolical. But hopefully it will be worth it. Steve usually comes in early on Thursdays, and he’d looked all hangdog-worried about Bucky the night before.

He’s been there twenty minutes already, chatting distractedly with Sam and staring at the TV screens but really looking all over the room like Bucky might be hiding somewhere. Bucky slouches in, ten minutes late, takes in the mostly empty room and gives Sam a betrayed glare.

“You really ndeeded mbe, huh,” he mutters as he puts his backpack away.

“You don’t even sound that bad,” Sam rejoins cheerfully, and Bucky’s mouth drops open with incredulity.

He moves some boxes around in back without issue. Then he tries to start prep by the bar. In a fifteen-minute period he has two sneezing fits that require him retreating to the bathroom to blow his nose endlessly and wash his hands. Sam decides that’s plenty sufficient. He and his customers are gonna pay a price in germ exposure for this stupid ass cupid skit he’s putting on.

“Steve, you believe this guy?” Bucky’s been avoiding Steve’s concerned hopeful looks since he got here. “He insisted on coming to work.” Bucky chokes in outrage, then coughs for real, while Steve moves a few seats closer. Sam turns; Bucky couldn’t look more betrayed if there was a knife with Sam’s name on it in his guts. Lord deliver him from dramatic white boys. “Did you take the bus here, Buck?” There was no other way for the guy to get to work, but he just replies flatly,

“Yeah.”

“You oughtta go home and rest.”

“Le me give you a ride, Buck,” Steve jumps in with the Air-Bud eagerness Sam had expected. They confirm it and bustle Barnes into a Civic while he’s sneezing too much to protest. Sam washes his hands metaphorically of the situation, and also very literally and thoroughly.

Steve’s car is a little old, and cold, and dusty. Bucky shivers as he buckles his seatbelt. He feels silently nervous and thrilled to be in Steve’s Car!!, but at the moment it’s hard to be anything but….sneezy…

“hhh-hh-hhmmPtchuh! S-s-sor-ry-hiihHIptchsh!” Holding them back when he feels like this just makes his nose more irritated and thus even sneezier. He stubbornly jams his fist under his nose to quell the tickle. He has some napkins from work, so a nose-blow is possible, but it doesn’t feel possible, not so close to Steve, who has it a million times more together than Bucky even on days when he isn’t falling apart on a cellular level.

“Bless you,” Steve says quietly. He looks at him reflexively, to see a small, sweet, sympathetic smile. “Ready?” Bucky gives a little nod and the car pulls out into the slushy road.

His nose is running onto his finger, it’s a crisis. This is why it’s always a terrible idea to leave the house when you’re really sick. “Ugh, I gotta blow mby ndose, I’mb sorry, I’mb so gross right ndow,” talking also makes his nose angry. Fucking Sam and his supervillain plan to humiliate him. What had he done to deserve this? He fumbles for the napkins with his less-dextrous left hand, the one he should have stuck under his nose, goddamnit, he’s gonna sneeze again…

“Psh, don’t worry about it,” scoffs Steve like the big huge dad he is, then with a sympathetic glance he turns the radio on, to the classic rock station, because of course, Bucky almost laughs even while racing to get tissues on his face before this giant wet sneeze overcomes him. The music is loud and it does help him feel less embarrassed.

“heh—HEH-KSSSHOOoo!” he gets the wad of napkins in front of him just in time. Blowing his nose after that demolishes them, but he feels a little closer to a human being.

“Bless you!” Steve chuckles. “Man you got a good bug, jeez!”

Why are he and Sam both so cheerful. “Thanks, I’mb glad you’re impressed,” he croaks.

“You have cold stuff at home?” Huh? When Bucky doesn’t answer he continues, “Tissues, tea, soup, medicine, you know?”

“Oh, umb, sorry, I’m tired,” Steve makes a sympathetic sound. “I usually just use toilet paper. I took the last of my Dayquil before work. I dunno if it even helped, all it feels like it did is mbake me jittery and sdeezy.”

“Why don’t we stop by a drugstore.” He sounded decisive.

“Oh, you don’t have to bother with that, really Steve—” he pauses to sniffle desperately. Technically he can afford a couple things, and he probably needs them. “Or—you could drop me off and I’ll get myself home from the store, that would totally be a big help—”

“Is the heat even on in your place?” Steve interrupts, shrewd-eyed. At Bucky’s wide-eyed sputtering response he continues, “I knew it. I used to be a broke Brooklyn kid, once upon a time. Only reason to come into work, am I right? Can’t believe landlords are still getting away with this shit.”

Bucky considers denial, then slumps. “S’why I’mb so much...hhh...worse...hh-huh-hudschuh! Snff-snff. Worse today. They said it’ll be fixed by tomorrow so...we’ll see, ha. I got a space heater and an electric kettle though, I can get in my blankets and drink tea and I’m fine.”

Steve is quiet, no response, and Bucky worries irrationally that he pissed him off. A few minutes of classic rock later, he pulls into the small parking lot attached to the drugstore, turns the car off, and turns to him, looking a little uncomfortable.

“Bucky I—” he breaks off and laughs to himself. “I know you have to be polite to customers, I don’t want to—” he makes eye contact, looking pained and rueful. “I’d like to think we’re friends. But I don’t want to put you on the spot or anything,”

“We’re friends,” Bucky interrupts gently. Steve’s face brightens like a sunrise and Bucky’s chest does a nice warm thing.

“Yeah? That’s...I’m real happy to hear it.” Steve says, sheepish but grinning. Then his eyes get the determined look that Bucky is starting to think means trouble. “Well the reason I asked is, as a friend, I really hate the idea of you trying to ride this out in an icebox apartment. I have heat. And a couch!” He hastens to add at whatever wide-eyed look Bucky’s giving him. “It’s just, I know it’s no fun being sick by yourself, and, well, honestly I wish I’d socked that asshole at the bar last night, and I really wish I’d clocked him as a jerk faster, and I’d feel a lot better if I could do something nice for you, and you really seem like you could do with some rest and medicine. Will you let me grab some stuff here and spend the night at my place—where there’s heat— and let me fuss over you?”

“Steve, that’s—that’s so nice, but I really can’t imb—snff—impose on you, and I gotta be so contagious right now…”

“I don’t care about that,” Steve says easily. “And I know you’re not gonna die on your own, but,” and, whoa, he’s deploying some kind of dignified mature version of puppy-dog eyes, it’s so sincere, and also so certain, that it starts to seem like the only sensible course of action is to let his gorgeous crush take him to his apartment while he’s the polar opposite of sexy, an unspeakable snot factory, and also possibly starting to run a fever.

….His apartment is gonna be so goddamn cold.

And lonely, incidentally.

And Steve is so nice. He’s literally, actually here, he seems to mean it that he wants to take care of Bucky’s sick bedraggled ass as some kind of friend-favor. There’s no way this is a come-on with him in this state, even if he can still muster enough energy to wish it was. No way Steve’s ever gonna want to fuck him after watching him snuffle through 200 tissues and mouth-breathe all evening, but he was nuts to think he ever would anyhow. He’s just that nice, and Bucky is that pathetic, and that might not feel great, but he wants to be Steve’s friend, he really does, and even through his own shyness he can see that the guy is pretty lonely.

“You, umb. You really don’t have to.” He says, watching Steve, who waits with obvious hopefulness. “But. Uh.” Steve raises his eyebrows and gives him a little smile, and Bucky finds himself returning it helplessly. “If you really don’t mbind. It could, potentially, be really ndice to take you up on that. You really don’t have to though!”

“I want to, though.” Jesus, he’s so sincere. Bucky feels some weird kind of protective way about the earnest honesty in his eyes.

“Well, then, okay. Thangk you, I really appreciate it.” He laughs, finally feeling how miserable it would have been to go back home and try to sleep in a cold blanket pile on his mattress on the floor. “Mby place sucks right now.”

“Alright then,” Steve beams. “Let’s get you a couple things and then get you cozy.”

Bucky’s nose is not okay with him using his face to talk instead of constantly blow it. It’s gotten completely blocked, and it’s tingling unpleasantly, and running so bad again he has to smush his knuckles under his nostrils. The tickle crests and his breath catches before he can do anything about it, but he clenches his jaw and forces it into a stifle. “hhh-huh-MMP!!” The problem with doing that is it just makes the tickle— “hh-mMP!” worse. “Ugh, sorry.” His hand is a dam against his nose at this point.

“Bless you!” They both step out of the car, but Steve hurries over to his side with a crinkle in his brow. “Why don’t you just stay here and I’ll grab a few things. Anything in particular, or just tissues and NyQuil?”

“Dyquil is just schndapps,” Bucky grumbles, then his brain catches up a little and he says “tissues,” fervently, and then it catches all the way up and he says “wait, ndo way are you buyig!”

Steve cocks an eyebrow like a handsome jerk. “You really wanna go in there?” With your current nose situation? He’s kind enough to not say.

He casts about for a moment—“Grab me a little pack and then I’ll go in!”

Steve gives him a skeptical look and says “Sure,” in a way that makes him think his orders won’t be followed, but he’s too busy squishing his nose more firmly and silently begging it not to make him sneeze again to keep arguing, or to protest when Steve opens the door for him and puts his car keys in his hand before dashing into the store with a promise to be quick.

He’s back not even ten minutes later, by which time holding his nose plugged and not letting his sneezes out has put Bucky in a state of perma-misery, stifling relentless sneezes every few seconds, unable to keep his eyes fully open. Steve tosses a box of tissues onto his lap before he gets all the way into the car because he is a saint.

“Guh,” Bucky says gratefully, pulls out a wad of about ten, and lets the miserable sneeze that had been building out into the nest of forgiving softness. “HehgSHOOmpff!!” And then blows his nose forever. Finally he feels like he can speak and have a face again; the little drugstore bag is now home to a dozen nasty used-tissue balls. “Well,” he says as he puts the last one in there, “wish I hadn’t had a witness for that.”

Steve just chuckles. “You’re fine,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing rumble. “I grabbed you a toothbrush, and I’ve got some stuff that can fit you for pjs.”

Bucky feels like he sneezed out the last of his strength. “You’re way too nice.” He sniffles and slumps against the window, looking at the familiar blur of orange streetlight. “I should be more worried you’re a serial killer.” Steve chuckles again, and he likes that, so he goes on, “Probly got a nice Jeffrey Dahmer setup at your place. Sorry if I don’t make a good steak.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Steve replies, sounding indignant. Then laughs for real, shaking his head, “I’m not gonna chop you up and eat you, I swear.”

“It’s fine. Just mbake mbe into soup,” sighs Bucky. That would be warm. He’ll just be a big hot pot of Bucky, and Steve will stir him and season him so carefully with his big strong hands. This is a weird train of thought. He might have a fever. But he can still hear Steve chuckling.

Steve pulls into his parking spot and the car shudders to stillness as he takes his key out of the ignition. Next to him, Bucky is asleep with his head mushed against the window. He’d conked out for the last five or so minutes of the drive. “Hey, Buck, we just got to my place,” he says softly, trying not to sound too bedroom-y. His eyes flutter open, the blue of them standing out, and Steve takes a steadying breath because Bucky is so good-looking it catches him off guard and overwhelms him sometimes.

His eyes are glassy-bright and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones, and as he shifts upright in his seat Steve reaches over and touches his forehead without thinking about it. It’s noticeably hot, but not burning. The twins’ childhood bouts with the flu gave him a sense of bad-fever heat. “Think you got a temperature,” he murmurs sympathetically. Bucky just blinks up at him, a little wide-eyed, and only then does he realize his big meaty hand is practically covering half his face. He feels himself flush to match Bucky, and for a second they just look at each other.

Until Bucky sniffs a miserable liquid sniffle and they both almost jump. “Sorry,” Steve mutters awkwardly, and Bucky’s saying the same thing at the same time. They both move to get out, “Just one flight of stairs up.”

“huh—tschumpf!” is Bucky’s answer, his nose buried in a new handful of tissues. “huhh, hUH—huh.” The second sneeze fizzles, leaving him blinking and frowning and wrinkling his nose snifflishly against the ticklish haze as he shuts the door. “Fuck. Sorry, scuse mbe.”

“Bless you.” It’s probably not normal to find someone so sick so adorable.

Steve leads him up and along the hall and then he’s unlocking the door, feeling giddy that he’s letting Bucky into his apartment, and then guilty for being excited, when the poor guy is just hesitantly accepting a much-needed favor. Bucky trails in behind him and then stands still while Steve sets the bag from the drugstore and started to turn to him, saying, “It’s not much, but—”

“ASHHOO!” Bucky’s sneeze interrupts and snaps him forward into his tissues, and then he just stays folded over for a second like it sapped the last of his energy. Then he straightens, rubbing his nose into the tissues and sighing. “Jesus, sorry,”

“Bless you! You don’t have to be sorry, you’ve just got a cold.” Steve has to hold himself still to keep from rubbing his back.

“You’re...hh-huh….? Snfff, ugh. Totally gonna catch this, I owe you way mbore apologies.”

“I won’t hold it against you,” he chuckles, toeing his shoes off. Bucky follows suit and he continues, “I stopped caring after raising toddlers, they’re little germ factories, you catch everything.” Why’d you bring up your old-dad status, Steve? “I’ll grab you some things to sleep in.”

An hour and one confrontation about Steve giving up his bed later, Bucky is ensconced on his couch like the king of cold-medicine commercials, surrounded by blankets and pillows and tissues and steaming cups and bowls. He feels a little more human, which is nice, but lets him access how incandescently awkward he feels at being rescued from his idiotic life like a snotty Cinderella. Steve has been flitting back and forth between the couch and kitchen, fussing over him to a truly excessive degree while exuding satisfaction and cheer, like some kind of calendar-model Santa with a caretaking kink. He was practically rubbing his hands together at the prospect of getting Bucky blankets and tea on his couch. Now he’s giving a rundown of his TV system standing next to the couch and it feels the tiniest bit manic and Bucky can feel himself getting a little too quiet but he can’t help it. After a minute Steve notices, and sets the remote down.

“I should stop babbling at you and leave you in peace,” he says with a bashful chuckle, turning to leave the room.

“No, I— you don’t—” Bucky doesn’t really have a response beyond ‘please chill out and hang out with me and let me picture cuddling with you,’ which will not be said aloud.

“You really don’t hafta feel like you need to entertain me, Bucky.”

“It’s not, I don’t,” he sighs and then sniffles. He doesn’t want to sit here and stare at the wall and stress about this, alone in this room in Steve’s goddamn apartment. He maybe should have thought about just how much he’d fallen for Steve before taking him up on this offer, because the concern and sweetness and fussing are starting to ratchet up his anxiety, because what if there was a chance it meant—

“Is anything the matter?” Steve crouches smoothly to be on his level and torment him with his eyes’ blueness. When all Bucky can do for a moment is flounder he looks more concerned, and a little downcast. “I really don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. If anything’s bothering you, you can just tell me.”

What the hell is an ordinary sinner supposed to do in the face of this much sincerity? Act like he thinks he’s a damn grownup, Bucky guesses, and girds his nervous loser loins.

“Why’re you—” he starts, frowning, then cuts himself off and tries again with a small, apologetic smile.

“It’s just...this is such an imposition, and you seem...kinda weirdly happy about it? I just don’t get why.”

One side of Steve’s mouth quirks up, making him look dry and self-deprecating and unfairly handsome. “You’re worried I’m gonna start talkin about Scientology, or put you in my basement dungeon?”

Bucky shrugs. “Kinda.” Just ‘cause he went home with strangers didn’t mean he had no sense.

Steve seems to cast about for an explanation, and he also starts to turn pink. “It’s—you’re just so—” and then he sighs and sits on the end of the couch, next to his blanketed feet, addressing his words to the wall in a rush. “Honestly, Bucky? I have a huge crush on you, and,” he laughs in embarrassment, decidedly blushing now, “I’m just real happy to have a chance to take care of you in whatever little way.” Now he does turn to look at him, pained. “I’m sorry, that must be so uncomfortable to hear. I promise you’re not my hostage! Please don’t make a break for it, it’s cold out and you’re so sick. I swear I’m not Cathy Bates in Misery.”

“Y—hihdsschuh!” The sneeze catches him by surprise, but he has wadded-up tissues in his hand already anyhow. He has to blow his nose, and he does it thoroughly to buy time. Steve stares stoically at the ceiling as though waiting for sentencing. Is this seriously Steve telling Bucky...he likes him?

“You…” he stops, sniffs. He needs a plan. He doesn’t have one. His mouth is gonna keep moving anyway, “You said, ‘you’re just so—‘, what were you gonna say?”

Steve looks confused for a second, and then just helpless. “Bucky, you’re just so sweet. I’m happy for a chance to do something for you because I owe you, you get that, right?”

“Owe me?” Bucky asks, nonplussed. Steve laughs with what seems like disbelief at his confusion.

“Yes, Buck! For the last few months! For taking pity on me that first night I came into Sam’s. You asked me a question about antifreeze.”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs. His world is rearranging itself. Steve remembered that?

“I feel—real self-conscious, I guess, coming into the “scene,” he gives it air-quotes and Bucky’s heart swells a little more, “by the route I have. Y’know, married dad who woke up one day and realized the stuff he repressed at sixteen might be the real him. Sam’s was the third place I tried to go into. I just felt so ridiculous, I still do— 39-year-old brand-new gay dude, it’s idiotic. I was practically gonna have a panic attack, I was definitely gonna leave and not try again and just...stop trying in general, maybe, to figure this new scary shit out. Except you were there, this—this smokin-hot guy, and you’re acting like you actually want to talk to me, and… so I stayed. And came back.” He looks Bucky in the eyes and it makes Bucky’s stomach clench. “I feel like you’ve been taking care of me this whole time, helping me ease into things, helping me not to feel bad about being completely uncool, asking me about stuff I actually know about instead of laughing at me because I’ve never heard of ‘poppers’,”

At that, Bucky has to give in to the giggle bubbling out of him, which inevitably leads to a short coughing fit. His first instinct is to keep laughing, rake Steve over the coals, but Steve is looking at him with a careful sort of expression, and it occurs to Bucky that just because he’s older and seems like he has it all together and has great posture doesn’t mean he’s immune to feeling vulnerable. And he looks like he’s feeling really fucking vulnerable right now. Acting like Bucky is worthy of this adorable schoolboy crush is absurd, but it’s not like it was so many eons ago that little baby Bucky Barnes was having his First Gay Bar experience, and he’d been scared as shit.

He already feels like he missed the boat on his life. Steve is starting over at 39. He’s so fucking brave. Bucky...somehow, unthinkably, Bucky is in a position where he could really hurt this guy.

“I’mb, umb. Snfff. Thing is, I’m a little surprised…” And Steve must think that’s the prelude to rejection because he pulls this sad little smile onto his face that’s the worst thing Bucky’s ever seen, and he has to make it go away, “It’s just, to hear you tell it I took pity on you and I’ve been talking to you to, like, guide you along and coach you because I’m some saint!” He smiles, starting to feel amused. “Steve— I just wanted some reason to talk to you, dude.”

Steve blinks at him. “What?”

He has to laugh, putting his forehead in his hand. “Sorry. I, just, I have not been operating under the assumption that I had a chance with you? And now it sounds like you’re telling me I do? While I sit on your couch filling your trash can with my disgusting tissue mountain?”

All he gets from the man is “...Huh?”

“You said ‘crush’,” he insists, and he’s not laughing, his heart is pounding actually. “What did you mean by that?” He’s gonna awkwardly say that he wants to fuck, and once that box is checked in his Gay Awakening, he’ll move on to actually date people actually in his league, and that’s maybe not gonna feel great, but, well…

Steve looks up from staring at his hands, makes eye contact, and he looks a little confused and a lot like he’s facing a firing squad. “I meant, I mean that…” he blows a breath out. “Jesus I have no idea what I’m doing. I mean that I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask you out on a date, since pretty much the first night I met you.”

Bucky’s head does a record scratch and Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes, “But I guess instead I kidnapped you when you were sick and blurted this out to you while you were trapped on my couch waiting to be left alone to sleep. I was never smooth but I swear I’ve done better than this.”

A giddy feeling is rising up in Bucky’s chest, making him forget completely about how tired and crappy he feels. “Well, I am smooth,” he says, “I’ve got game. At least, I did, until you showed up and turned me into a giggling bimbo. What the hell, Steve.”

“This is starting to seem like a romantic conversation but I can’t tell,” murmurs Steve with his face still uncertain but a little twinkle in his eye.

Bucky’s nose is gonna ruin this, he’s surprised it gave him that long a grace period. “Yeah, snfff, real romantic, I’mb gonna—hih—fuckin’ sndeeze—heh-heTShoo! Againd.”

Another sneeze teases out, and then he has to blow his nose for about ten years. “Bless you,” says Steve all quiet and bedroomy in his deep voice, and he’s definitely smiling, sparkle-eyes, leaning towards him the tiniest bit, but still looking like Bucky’s leaving him hanging a little, unsure, and he can’t help the wave of doubt he feels.

“Steve, you—” he stares at the blanket on his lap. “I’m a mess. You’ve accomplished shit, you have a real goddamn job, I—I’m just, ok, we’re both adults, but I feel like a screw-up kid compared to you.” He takes a deep breath and says what he doesn’t want to, “I’d be...pretty damn flattered if you wanted to hook up. I kinda can’t imagine you actually want to date me.”

He dares to look up and Steve looks more serious. He doesn’t say, “no shit.” He says, “I won’t argue if you say you don’t want anything, but I sure don’t agree with how you describe yourself. I don’t want to hook up—at least, not just that— I want to date you, get to know each other better, because I like you. I trust my judgement, when I think someone’s a good person.”

He says it so simply, and Bucky finds himself believing it despite himself, and a warm happy fire is kindling under his ribs. “Well, shit,” he murmurs, “it’s starting to seem like you’re asking me out.”

“It’s...starting to seem like you might be saying yes? If I am?” Steve looks agonized and Bucky’s doubts are no match for the giddiness fizzing up inside him, and he lets it show on his face with a grin, and whatever that looks like makes Steve kinda gulp and scootch up closer to him. Bucky makes a show of giving a slow, considering nod. Yes.

Steve has this soft, nervous little smile on his face, but his eyes hold something weighty, almost burning, as he moves even closer, and it’s just, it’s really, wow, Bucky has maybe never been taken seriously in quite this way by anyone before, it makes his knees feel watery and kindles something in his core. “I know you’re sick,” he rumbles, “but I feel like I gotta kiss you,” and how is it that the softer he speaks the deeper his voice sounds? He brushes his curled fingers over Bucky’s cheek because that’s how close they are now and this isn’t really Bucky’s life, is it? “What if I was to kiss you, right now?”

It’s hard to tell with the sexiness melting his brain but he realizes Steve is actually asking, because he’s a gentleman— a gentleman Bucky wants to be taken apart and turned inside out by. “Then you would be a guaranteed victim of my plague,” he breathes. “But I wouldn’t stop you, I’m not that selfless.”

“Sounds like a dare,” Steve murmurs, and tilts his head and presses their lips together.

It’s a short simple kiss but they each give a quiet gasp at the contact, and then stay there a moment. Steve’s beard isn’t huge but he feels it, like a firm underline to the shockingly warm plush pressure of his lips. He thankfully tragically remembers that congested people can’t make out and pulls away after just a brief press of lips, but not before giving a soft lick to Bucky’s, full of promised things to come.

They sit there a few inches apart and breathe. Bucky feels like a vibrating tuning fork. He just barely stops himself from shakily saying “wow,” like a highschool virgin, but when he sees Steve looking at him with lips still parted and a gobsmacked expression he changes his mind and lets it out anyway, “wow,” with a giddy grin.

“Yeah,” Steve breathes, blinking like he got hit with a cartoon hammer, going from pink to red, and then he swoops in and kisses Bucky’s cheek, and then stands, going, “Excuse me, just gotta go...out of your sightline, and. Do something cool. And serious. No victory dances.”

…..the next morning…….

Steve could hear Bucky in the shower, sneezing three times, but not sounding—four times—nearly as heavy or exhausted as the night before. A few minutes and one loud noseblow later, he came out wrapped in a towel, mercilessly bare-chested, his nose bright red but his eyes clear and cheerful. Steve’s attention caught on his chest as his nipples tightened in the relative chill as Bucky said sheepishly, “forgot my clo-hothes—” his voice swooping to a breathy quaver on the last word, “hhh-hh-hehh—EHisSHOooh!” he turned as far away from Steve’s part of the room as possible and sneezed over his shoulder. “Snnfff. Excuse me, sorry.”

“Can I lend you some warmer stuff, just for now while we eat breakfast? There’s no way you’re not still sick,” Steve fussed, forcing himself to round the kitchen island slowly and casually instead of rushing over and wrapping him up in his arms and kissing his red nose that was twitching again. He quelled it with another sniff that sounded a lot less congested than the previous night.

“Ah, I’m ok. I felt really bad yesterday, but I slept so well,” he said with a warm grateful smile at Steve that went to his toes, “I don’t feel shitty and run-down anymore, just all, like, shnuffly.”

Steve chuckled helplessly and went over to rub his shoulder. “You’re adorable.”

“No way!” Bucky glowered, but then a few drops fell from his wet hair to his chest and neck, and he shivered into a sneeze so quick and light it sounded incomplete, “hih—tish!” followed by “ih-hihtchoo!” and he blinked, taken by surprise.

“That was... the cutest thing that ever happened,” Steve said truthfully.

“Shuddup— heh—edschoo!”

[thesneezevault]

Daryl Dixon - Sneeze cannon:

Daryl’s sneezes are naturally wet and powerful, but he works hard to restrain them, desperately trying to squelch down the force. When the first tickle hits, it comes on strong -“Hhh…gnXSSSH! Hhh-pshhuuuuh! Hhhnngh-pshoo!” A small fit, each sneeze fighting its best to break free. He clenches his jaw, biting down on the urge to let it out. His cheeks puff up, his head dipping forward with the effort to hold them in, but the power still lingers, a deep, muffled rumble, even though he’s doing his best to contain it.

He’s got this instinct to quickly turn away or pull his sleeve up to shield anyone nearby, as if the mere thought of spraying someone would be his undoing. It’s the reason he stifles so much - he’d rather suffer in silence than risk making a mess. Don’t expect him to let it all out - he’d rather wrestle a walker than let you see him truly lose control.

• Uncovered and shuddery: His sneezes are usually left uncovered, a release that comes with small, involuntary head bob as he struggles to stifle the sound. Despite his best efforts, the force still takes over, causing an explosive shudder that leaves his shoulders trembling. He keeps his mouth tightly shut, focusing all his energy on suppressing the sound, desperately trying to keep it contained. Even when he manages to stifle it, the strain is visible in the tightness of his jaw, as if he’s fighting a battle he can’t quite win.

• Doesn’t usually announce or apologize: He rarely announces his sneezes or apologizes afterward. He simply tries to stifle them as best as he can, often without drawing attention to them. When they slip out, it’s almost like he’s pretending they didn’t happen, especially since he’s not one to acknowledge the discomfort or inconvenience he might cause. He’s more likely to brush it off with a gruff look or a grunt, refusing to make a big deal out of it.

• Big Hitchy Build-Ups: His sneezes always come with a warning - intense, hitchy build-ups are the telltale sign. He doesn’t need to announce it; you can see it in his face, hear it in his breath. His chest tightens, his breath hitching sharply, each inhale stuttering as his body braces for the inevitable. It’s a struggle to hold back, and the longer it goes on, the more uncomfortable it makes him. His face scrunches in concentration, eyes fluttering shut, as the hitching builds and builds.

• He’s self-conscious about how intense they are: They are naturally extremely powerful, despite his best attempts to contain them. He often ends up sniffling or wiping his nose afterwards, unable to fully control the dripping aftermath. He squelches the sneezes down into a much more manageable sound, doing his best to keep them contained.

• Quick, Forceful Fits: The sneezes come in rapid-fire fits, usually four or five at a time, and with each one, it gets harder for Daryl to hold them back. His breath hitches, a deep, building pressure in his chest before the first one bursts out, his body tenses with the effort to keep them quiet, but the force is almost too much to contain. Another build-up comes right after, his chest tightening as the tickle intensifies, “Hhh-PSHOO! Hhh-PSHHHOOO!” Each sneeze is thick and wet, his face scrunching up, cheeks puffing slightly, as his fringe flops into his face, blocking his vision.

• Allergy Struggles: Daryl has grass pollen allergies, which is a real problem for a guy who spends most of his time outdoors. Growing up, his dad didn’t give a damn about his allergies. In fact, he made it clear that sneezing was just another way to screw up. “Shut your damn mouth, boy. You so much as make a peep, I’ll leave you out here to starve,” his dad would bark at him when they were out tracking, his voice harsh and unforgiving. Daryl learned quickly that sneezing wasn’t just inconvenient — it was a way to show weakness. So, he taught himself to stifle. Jaw clenched, he’d try to keep every sneeze as quiet as possible, suppressing the urge to let it all out. It’s something he’s done for years, so much that it’s second nature now.

• No Tissues, Just Sleeves: He doesn’t bother with tissues - never has - but if he’s standing too close to someone, he’ll at least sneeze into his sleeve. He hates the idea of spraying anyone, even if it’s unintentional. On his own, though? It’s a different story. Wet, messy, sneezes that he doesn’t bother covering unless they’re strong enough to annoy him, or unless someone’s close enough to notice. Allergy season especially gets the better of him, leaving him sniffling and rubbing at his nose while muttering curses under his breath, like he’s personally offended by how much the pollen is winning.

• Refuses to Admit He’s Sick: Daryl doesn’t get sick or catch colds often, but when he does, he’s not one to admit it. He’ll swear up and down he’s fine, even if his nose is clearly running and his voice is hoarse. “I’m good,” he’ll mutter through a cough, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. He doesn’t like being sick; it feels like a weakness, something he’d rather ignore than acknowledge. His dad always told him that real men didn’t need anyone’s help, and his mom? She was too busy to care. The best Merle ever did was toss him a bottle of whatever pills he had lying around and tell him not to die. So, when someone offers to help, it makes him uncomfortable. He’ll grunt, shift awkwardly, and mumble something like, “Ain’t no big deal,” while trying to wipe away the evidence of his misery.

• Dixon’s Don’t Show Weakness: Even if he’s clearly struggling, Daryl refuses to rest. He’ll push himself to keep going, even if his body’s begging him to stop. “I’m fine, just… gotta finish this,” he’ll insist, even when he’s half-dragging himself along. His nose twitches, and another wet, gruff sneeze sneaks up on him. “Hh-gnxshhh! Hhh’pshoo!” His body shudders, but he doesn’t want to give in, not to the cold, not to anything. “See? I’m fine,” he mutters, trying to brush it off like it’s nothing. It’s like he’s forgotten how to let himself slow down, even when every inch of him is telling him to rest.

• He’s Super Protective: When he’s sick, his first instinct is always to push people away, especially when he feels vulnerable. “I ain’t some damn kid that needs a babysitter,” he’ll grumble, trying to keep his distance. But despite the gruff exterior, his body betrays him - he shivers from the fever, exhaustion evident in his every movement, and his eyes keep darting to you, though he refuses to admit how much he needs comfort. He’s not just worried about being seen as weak, though - “Dammit, Y/N, you’re gonna get sick too. I ain’t lettin’ you catch this,” he’ll argue, his voice hoarse with the fear of making you sick. His protective instinct is fierce, and the thought of putting you through what he’s going through is unbearable. As the fever deepens, and the shivers get harder to ignore, you try to spoon him to help warm him up. Despite all his protests, the battle is slipping away from him. He might grumble something like “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” with a resigned sigh, before muttering, “Fine, damn it.” Even though the words come out rough, the tension in his body softens as he lets you spoon him. He won’t say it out loud, but it’s a huge step for him, letting you in like this. It’s not easy for Daryl to trust anyone, but with you, he does. He’s letting you take care of him - something he rarely allows. It’s a quiet admission that, no matter how hard he tries to hide it, he needs you more than he’ll ever say.

[hyog-blog]

The Demon Cat Case [fic]

My brain is still hopelessly trying to write them into a romcom :D But it's always 10% humor and 999% DRAMA with them XD I bring you kitty Zhuo Yichen and soft Zhao Yuanzhou and found family getting closer to each other. Written in the spirit of the first episodes of the show but everyone is feeling things already. Also, there's a hairpin trope.

If you read it and love it, come and celebrate with me in the comments! :D

Summary:

Zhao Yuanzhou spends a considerable amount of time hypnotizing the small black-furred beast that’s occupied his table. The resemblance was uncanny, although he never expected he’d live to the day when he witnessed Zhuo Yichen taking up a… cat form. A dragon was more likely, but a cat? The bright-blue eyes are piercing him with a cold very cattish stare that was incredibly like him in his broodiest moments, which Zhao Yuanzhou had started to predict even before they would appear on his face, accompanied by a deep frown and a pouty mouth. If a cat could pout – then this probably was it.

[compacflt]

Rumors from Pearl Harbor.

When Admiral Kazansky first comes to Pearl, he brings with him about half of his previous staff, all exceptionally-hardworking people hand-picked over years—advisors, flag aides, secretaries, ranks all over the board. But his new hires, upon getting acquainted with the old guard, are shocked to discover that his previous staff still hardly knows him at all.

“He keeps to himself, mostly,” Lieutenant Commander Hartford explains over a pint. “I made the mistake of asking him once what he did for fun. You know, like, hobbies and stuff. He blinked at me for a second, and then said, ‘I read.’ That’s it! I read! My advice to you newcomers would be, don’t ask him questions about his personal life, because it tends to be pretty boring.”

“It sounds to me like he’s a walking, talking Wikipedia page,” says Captain Calvert, who worked for the previous two Pacific Fleet Commanders and thinks she knows how to deal with them by now. “We owe it to ourselves to figure him out. It’ll make our lives easier, anyway. So, let’s put our heads together: what do we know about him?”

What they know are his habits, which they’ll come to learn intimately over the next few years, and which are admittedly pretty boring. Admiral Kazansky is one of the first to show up to work in the morning and one of the last to leave in the evening. He often answers e-mails past 2300 hours, but never later than midnight. Jokes never catch him off-guard; he rarely smiles, and when he does, it has an ulterior motive. When he’s not working, he’s scheming and making plans to go back home to San Diego, and his requests for leave are always granted, because he works like a pack mule from home anyway. He signs off every e-mail with “Sincerely,”…

“Is he sincere, though?” asks Chief Warrant Officer Kent halfway through Admiral Kazansky’s first year. (Admiral Kazansky is surely unaware that his staff now spends the second Friday of every month chit-chatting about him over drinks in downtown Honolulu.) “I can’t ever tell. And he lives in Hawaii. San Diego’s nice, I know, but what’s so different about the beaches there that he can’t get here?”

“I genuinely don’t think he’s human,” confesses Commander Stoddard. “People warned me about that when I came here, and I laughed it off, but… he keeps his desk biologically sterile. Not one fingerprint, but I’ve never seen anyone wipe it down. I’ve looked through his drawers. Don’t judge me, I got curious. Everything squared away, like he’s goddamn Einstein or something. Have any of you ever seen him in his civvies?” No one has. “God damn it, where does he shop for groceries? No one’s seen him at a grocery store? Does he even own a pair of jeans? Does he wear his uniform to bed, too?”

“He probably goes grocery shopping on the whole other side of the island to avoid all the enlisted kids,” laughs Captain Calvert. “Come to think of it…you know how he always eats lunch in the office? It’s always a salad. And always the same kind of salad. This guy survives on one cup of coffee and one spinach salad a day. Maybe he really isn’t human.”

They build out their wealth of knowledge and come to learn that Admiral Kazansky is defined by his extremes, by what he always does and what he never does. Admiral Kazansky gets his uniforms dry-cleaned every week, though he never spills anything on them. No one has ever seen Admiral Kazansky stumble over his words while giving a speech, or trip over a sidewalk curb, or push a “pull” door. He is always polite and never friendly. Sometimes he is cold, and sometimes he is cruel in his patience with you when you’ve fucked up, like a cat toying with a hemorrhaging mouse. But he never raises his voice. He is always immaculately put-together, well-groomed, constructed every day like a product on an assembly line. Nothing is ever out of place. Allegedly his umbrella once turned inside-out during a rainstorm; he disdainfully shook it once, as a hunter might pump a loaded shotgun, and it flipped itself right-side-in again. The laws of physics do not seem to apply to him. Nor do the natural embarrassments that come with being human. Admiral Kazansky is never flustered, never harried, and never falls apart.

“I found this old picture of him shaking hands with another pilot on the Internet,” says Chief Warrant Officer Kent in Admiral Kazansky’s second year. “Smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Never seen him smile like that in all my years working with him. And he had frosted tips, too. Like Guy Fieri on a diet and steroids. It was the eighties, sure, but it’s like he knew how to have fun, once upon a time. Wonder what happened to him.”

“I feel lonely for him sometimes,” says Commander Stoddard. “Strict guy like that, no family, no friends, no wife, nothing to live for but the Navy? He’s like a workhorse with blinders on. Nowhere to go but forward. That’s a lonely existence.”

“Not if you’re a robot,” says Lieutenant Commander Hartford. “I swear, sometimes he breathes and it makes me jump, ‘cause I forgot he was alive!” —What else doesn’t Admiral Kazansky do?

That’s when they realize that none of them, not the old guard nor the new, has ever, not once, ever seen or heard Admiral Kazansky sneeze.

And they all finally give up the game and quit arguing and agree that, no, he really isn’t human after all. He must be some cyborg from the future sent to whip the Pacific Fleet into shape, and you can’t ask for too much humanity from someone who’s doing a pretty damn good job of it.

The rumors start soon after that. Jokes that could get them all tossed out of the Navy, but probably won’t. Jokes that accidentally spread like wildfire.

Yes, Admiral Kazansky could be a cyborg, but he also could be a Mormon fundamentalist, or a Scientologist, or a really weird Catholic. Maybe he goes home to San Diego so often because in his spare time he’s really a mule ferrying cocaine across the Mexi-Cali border. That’s what he does for fun. He eats spinach salads because he’s a reincarnation of Popeye the Sailor Man, and he needs all the super-strength he can get to deal with the Navy’s modern-day bullshit.

“I don’t know if that story makes sense,” laughs Captain Calvert on the phone with her husband in Washington, “but it makes more sense than the real Admiral Kazansky does!”

So the rumors get spread around.

“I don’t know if you know this,” Maverick comments, watching Ice make their bed from the relative comfort of the bedroom doorway, “or if I should tell you this, because you might crack down on it, which would be a shame, ‘cause it’s funny. But every time you send a mass e-mail to the Pacific Fleet commissioned officer corps, you become the main topic of conversation between all of us officers for a solid day and a half.”

“Oh?” says Ice with a smile, struggling to fit the last corner of the fitted sheet to the mattress. He sighs, tugs on the strings of his old ratty-ass hooded sweatshirt, and looks at Maverick balefully through his glasses. “Help me out over here, would you? —What are people saying? All good things, I hope.”

“Not really,” Maverick says, stuffing a pillow into a pillowcase as he stares out the window into the San Diego sunshine. “Some pretty crazy shit, actually. Hard as hell for me to keep a straight face. I heard this one—you know, people are saying you eat nothing but salads?”

“Oh,” laughs Ice, hospital-cornering the free sheet. “Yeah, that one’s kind of true. I bring salads in to the office sometimes.”

“You hate salads.”

“I know, it’s torture! Move over.” He bumps Maverick out of the way to tuck in the last corner. “But, I figure, if a man torments himself with spinach-and-arugula salads three times a week, you ought to respect his commitment. It’s all an act. You get to a certain Defense Department paygrade, it all starts being storytelling and stagecraft.”

“Or trickery and deception, depending on how you look at it.”

“Sure. But you could say that about everything. —Besides, I’d rather the Navy discuss my salads than discuss… well, this.” He gestures to Maverick, then down to the bed. They start tugging the comforter over it together. “How much slack you got over there?”

“‘Bout a foot.”

Ice pulls his side down a couple more inches to match, then flips the top up. “Is that it? That’s all people are saying about me?”

Maverick grins and bends down to pick up a pillow. “They’re also saying that you’re the reincarnation of Popeye the Sailor Man. I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam, and all that. Think fast.”

Ice doesn’t think fast, and the pillow hits him square in the face, and he laughs again as he catches it in his arms. “Shit, that’s good,” he says; “I was just about to call Slider, think I’ll tell him that one. That’ll make him laugh. Popeye Iceman.” He tosses the pillow onto the made-up bed and pulls out his cell phone, but—then he frowns, grimaces, mutters “Ah, no,” and turns away to sneeze.

[esilher]

Collaborative December klaine challenge 2023 between @esilher and @mynonah

"ACHOO!"

"Whoa..." Blaine stares in amazement at the beautiful stranger behind him. Okay, not really a stranger... They have been going to the same coffee shop every morning for at least 5 weeks now. Well, 38 days… not that he's counting.

He's as gorgeous as ever. "Bless you!"

"Ugh, thanks."

And his voice is mesmerizing...

"Oh my God."

"What...?"

"I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"I... I just ruined your scarf."

"Oh! Yeah, that, um... it's okay." I can't believe he’s talking to me.

"No, it's not. How could this be okay? It's disgusting. I'm so sorry, but it came so suddenly," - Kurt tries to explain, "out of nowhere and it was the closest thing to a handkerchief."

"Don't worry about it, really." Would it be too soon to tell him that he can do whatever he wants with me? Yeah, probably.

"Give it to me. I'll wash it."

"You... you want to take my scarf?"

"Not forever, silly... But yes, of course. Here, take mine. I don't want you to catch a cold. It can be dangerous... You might sneeze into someone's scarf. Who does such a thing, huh? We wouldn't want that, would we. There you go."

"Oh." Did he really just tie his scarf on me? It smells like… cinnamon. Wow. He's not only beautiful and hot, he's funny and caring... He would take such good care of our imaginary children!

"Are you sure?" - Blaine asks.

"I'm sure, that's the minimum, really."

"Then, um... maybe... we could change numbers? Just so... you know, because of the scarf. It was a gift, and..."

"Oh, of course!"

"Great." And that's how I met your dad, kids.

"But let me make it up to you."

"I'm really not ma... what do you... how?"

"I'll buy you a coffee, okay? Please? I'd feel better."

Note for later: thank grandma for the scarf one more time! Note for now: breath!

"A grande non-fat mocha and a medium drip for this guy with the lovely scarf, and maybe I can get him to split one of those cookies."

"This is your scarf."

"I know that."

"Wait! You know my coffee order?"

"Of course I do. It took you weeks to finally ask for my number, I had plenty of time to memorize it. I'm Kurt, by the way."

"My name is Blaine."

[archoniluthradanar]

It's one little sneeze

A response to a request from @iloveslasher

Spring has arrived in Volterra. The trees are starting to bloom, then the blooms will fall when the leaves begin to grow to take their place. The air is filled with excitement while the human citizens of the city begin to plan several upcoming festivals. Unfortunately for you, with Spring comes sneezing fits. Your mates are vampires, the three leaders of the Volturi coven.

It was during one of the castle tours. You got in for free, thanks to a woman named Heidi, but found yourself about to be attacked mid-tour. Except for the quick reflexes from the tall man sitting on a dais where three thrones were, you might have died. The masters took you in and discovered their link to you. Marcus had seen the bonds first, telling both Aro and Caius you had to stay. He warned them not to harm you, but to offer you a home here, with them as your mates, and for the meantime, as a human. You were grateful when you heard that. But now that Spring was here, you wondered if that was such a smart idea. You suffered from allergies, and would sneeze whenever a breeze blew through the garden. Any irritant would set you off actually, but this was your first Spring in Italy.

The Volturi had defeated werewolves, immortal children, and the entire Romanian coven. Yet these ancients, these super-educated men, these police of the vampire community, your loving mates for many months...find themselves flummoxed by a sneeze.

The strange thing was your sneezes were like that of a baby. Tight, quiet, and at times, they had almost a musical quality to them. It wasn't that you tried to hold them in. They just came out as tiny sneezes.

When Aro had first heard the sound, he looked around the throne room from the table where he had been sifting through some old manuscripts. The smallest bit of dust from them set off a sneezing fit in you. He flashes to your side. "What is that noise?"

"I'm sorry, Aro. I...I...*hu...he...*snirt* The dust from your old books made me sneeze," you explain, before sneezing again and wiping your nose.

Aro's eyes go wide. "If you are ill, then you should be in bed." Before you can object, he picks you up in his arms and runs quickly to his rooms. All the while, you protest this is normal for you and that you're not ill. Once in his rooms that he sometimes shares with you, Aro takes you to the bedroom, removes your shoes, and orders you to undress, picking out a nightgown from one of your drawers. He hands it to you and once you've put it on, he tucks you into bed.

You sneeze again, the sound muffled naturally.

Marcus has entered Aro's bedroom, having heard the sounds when they originated from the throne room. Seeing Aro, he flashes to his brother's side. "Is something wrong with our mate, Aro? What is that sound she's making?"

"She says nothing is wrong, Marcus. It's normal," he pronounces doubtfully, emphasizing the word "normal".

Caius storms in a few minutes later, concern on his youthful face. "What is going on? I heard some repetitive noise coming from this room. Who is being strangled?" he demands, ready to fight for your safety.

"No one! Caius, it's just me. The dust from the old books in the throne room made me sneeze. It may sound...different, but I can't help that," you say. "My doctor says it has something to do with my lung capacity or trachea size. I'm fine though. Even if you are thousands of years old, I can't believe none of you remember what a sneeze is."

Marcus sits on the side of the bed, taking your hand in concern. "Can we get anything for you, my dear?"

"Yes, please. Tissue boxes, several. And nose spray. It might clear my sinuses." You lay back, thinking of taking the slightest advantage of your mates' distress. How long had it been since they were human? Did they really forget what a sneeze was? Were they willing to do anything you asked?

"Aro, I could use a cup of hot tea, or maybe a whole pot. And maybe a few of the chef's homemade cookies?"

"Will that help you?" he asks, worried that you might need a human physician instead.

"It can't hurt," you answer, trying to keep from smiling. "And no doctors!" You might fool the masters, but you'd never fool a real doctor.

Caius sits on the other side of the bed from Marcus, while Aro flies to the kitchen to see what the chef can make up for you.

"Is there anything we can do for you, love?"

You frown, as if in pain and ask for a movie to watch. Caius goes to the TV in the room and offers various names of films Aro has bought for you. Just as he is putting in the movie for you, Aro returns with a tray carrying a tea pot, a cup, and a plate of chocolate chip peanut butter cookies. The breeze that accompanies his speedy gait carries pollen from the garden and you begin to sneeze again.

*snirt* ahhh...oh no...he-choo!" You curse with each sneeze, holding your nose while your mates wait patiently. Marcus pours you some tea and hands you the cup. You feel miserable, but loved as you grab a cookie off the plate. The three masters join you on Aro's huge bed, and all four of you watch the movie you requested, the original version of Fright Night. It never fails to make the Volturi masters laugh.

[pmak2002]

I think this is the inbox lol, can you please do the sneezing prompt for Timothee 😁

Of course! Taken from Here

A loud sneeze from from Timothee. Startles you out of your train of thought. You were working on your new article for your writing blog. Timothee had been home for a few weeks after Dune had been released. It was so nice to have him home.

“Bless you!” You call from your office.

Timothee comes upstairs and comes into your office to get a tissue from the tissue box on your desk.

“Feeling ok?” You ask.

He shrugs and sneezes again into the tissue.

He blows his nose and tosses out the tissue into the trash. Then he walks behind you and wraps his arms around you as you type on your computer.

“Are you done writing yet?” He asks. “Me and kodack miss you.” He says. He rests his chin on your head. Watching your fingers fly over the keyboard.

“bientôt mon amour bientôt.” You reply in French as you type.

Timothee whines and sniffles.

“That doesn’t sound good bub.” You comment.

Timothee sighs “been sneezy all day.”

“Doesn’t sound like sick sneezes. Allergies?” You ask.

He nods you can feel his chin rubbing your head.

“Just a few more minutes you can take the tissue box with you.” You tell him.

“Thank you.” He says as he grabs the tissue box and leaves your office.

A few minutes later.

You submit your article for review and head downstairs to the living room.

You see Timothee on the couch with the tissue box cradled into his arms. You sit next to him and rub his back. He leans his head against your shoulder. You cuddle him and kiss his face.

He smiles weakly and grabs a tissue to sneeze into.

“Bless you.” You say

He nods in thanks

“I feel gross.” He whines

“I know sweetheart Allergies are no fun,” you say as you cuddle him.

[pixelatedraindrops]

My RainCode fic, Under The Weather is officially on my AO3! I made a quick little scribble to promote it a bit further too :3

Poor Yuma can never catch a break with me... ;w;

I altered and added to it so its 2k words longer than what I had in the OG post so...hope you enjoy the little additions I made to it!

This is also my tamest silliest fic as well as it being the only one that has NO SPOILERS. So anyone can give it a read!

Hope you enjoy! ^-^

[tworoadsandapenny]

It's Snot Funny

~*~*~*~*~*~

It came out of nowhere.

A slight itch, followed by a tickle, and suddenly—

“AAAAAACHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

The sheer volume echoed throughout Draxum’s lair with such intensity, it felt as though the walls might collapse in on themselves. Everything shook and swayed, taking several moments to settle as the sound slowly disappeared into the air.

Donnie poked his head around Raph’s shell. His copyright tech kept his ears protected and unbothered, but he noted the terror on his brother’s face. “You okay?”

“Raph’s sorry!” The larger turtle squeaked in hushed tones, clearly embarrassed by the ruckus he’d just caused. “I… I forgot that I could do that.”

Donnie smiled coyly, unwilling to admit aloud how much fun it was watching his brother rediscover his physical body. “Was it satisfying?”

Raph took a moment to think. “Yes.”

“Well good—”

“WHAT WAS THAT!?” A disheveled Draxum appeared in the room, his eyes wide and worried as he searched for the source of the near-earthquake he’d felt shake his home like a shivering mammal.  

Raph rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Sorry, that was me.”

“What did you do!? Did you blow up my lab!?” He shouted, directing the last half of his ire at Donnie, who only scoffed at the implication.

Raph shrugged. “I sneezed.”

There was a full beat of silence as Draxum digested the reply, turning it over in his head a few times, silently panicking at the destructive potential this mutant possessed.

“Okay then.” He said cooly, his even-tempered demeanour returning immediately so as not to betray his inner turmoil.  

“Sorry, Raph won’t do it again. I… I think…”

“If you say so.” Draxum turned to leave, still silently calculating how one being—even one as large as Raphael—could create such immense sound, when he paused to call over his shoulder.  “Oh, you may want to check on your child.” He pointed just behind Raph’s shell. “I think you may have broken him.”

Both turtles turned to see Casey Jr on the floor, eyes wide and ears almost visibly ringing, his tongue hanging slightly over his lip, and muscles entirely limp.

He’d been sneaking up on his uncle to trap him in a hug when the sneeze assaulted his senses with such intensity, his entire body was still stunned and dazed.

Raph scooped up his small human and held him gently. “Casey! I'm so sorry! Are you okay!?”

Casey nodded slowly, the ringing in his ears finally dying down as he pulled a rag from his pocket and held it aloft with shaking hands.

“Bless you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Look, LOOK. Yes, it's rushed. Yes, it's dumb. And yes, it's my first sad attempt at writing for the Rise fandom. But I couldn't help myself. Reading through the non-robot Raph updates in @somerandomdudelmao's apocolypse AU, I had to add my own idea.

Given this post:

There's no way Raph rediscovers sneezing without some hilarious collateral damage.

My words can never be as good as Cass's drawings, but we mere mortals must accept our limitations, so here we are.

Anyway.

End of Line.

-TRAaP

[septic-dr-schneep]

@whumpril Day 8: Bloodshot

“Hh—” Marvin tensed, screwing his eyes shut as his nostrils prickled in warning. “Hh-khgh!” The force of the sneeze sent dull, clogged pangs of pain through his skull and made his vision swim as he groped around his desk for the box of tissues.

“And you’re sure this is no cold? No contagions to spread across the seats at your show?” Schneep asked as he pushed the box closer. “Not that in your condition the show should go on anyway.”

“It’s allergies,” Marvin insisted, scrubbing the tissue against wet, itchy eyelids before squinting up at the rather blurry impression of the doctor. “Just…bad ones.”

“Mm, I can see that. Can you see that? Can you even see me straight or is this another case of the septic eyes?” When Marvin grumbled unintelligibly and started dabbing at his lashes again, Schneep could only sigh. “Let me get the eye dropper.”

[sicktember]

It's Not Too Late To Join In The Fun!

Sicktember is a month-long whump/hurt/comfort prompt event that takes place in September. This event focuses on sick characters and their caregivers.

There are still about two weeks until the official start of the event- but hey! Being fashionably late never hurt anyone.

Link to the original post with a [text version of prompts]

Link to [Faqs] Post

Link to [#event faqs] blog search

Link to [How to Submit Content] Post

Link to [#2023 prompt clarification] blog search

Link to [#resources and advice] blog search

[klaineadvent]

[yukiumisakura25]

AN: This is A TakeMikey ship, but from the present time, so they’re adults! Also like an alternative universe where Takemichi only needed to save two people. -SMALL SPOILER ALERT- It was going to be a one shot, but I kept writing. My second SNZFIC!

Fandom: Tokyo Revengers

Pairing: TAKEMIKEY (Takemichi and Mikey)

CW: It’s messy, description of snot, sneezing, contagion, spoiler alert, and cussing.

Synopsis: Takemichi has a date with Mikey, but Mikey shows up late and is sick as a dog.

First Date Back

Takemitchy took an hour getting ready for his date with Mikey. He fought with his black hair to stay tamed as he put on a nice, light blue collared shirt that complimented his deep blue eyes. He decided since it was supposed to be a warm day, tan shorts would be the best to go with. After getting back to the future, having saved Draken and Baji, he discovered he was still connected to Toman, even if he was not officially in the gang anymore. He planned to ask more questions about what happened, as he only just recently reconnected with Mikey, but all he could think about was the text message he received yesterday morning.

‘Wanna to go on a date Mitchy?’ Takemitchy never sent a yes so fast before.

‘Great! I’ll see ya tmr at R. Amusement Prk at 9!’

Takemitchy re-read that message at least 10 more times before he could process what had happened. He could barely sleep that night and now he’s staring in the mirror, debating on putting cologne on or not.

He left his house with thirty minutes to get to the location, deciding against anything too extra. He took the train to the amusement park and ran the rest of the way. He checked his watch and found he was five minutes early and sighed in relief. He looked at his reflection in the water and fixed his shirt and his hair that got messed up in the run. Fixing his collar, he stood outside the park, and checked his phone.

It was 9:03 a.m.

Takemitchy fiddled with his phone as he kept looking around, waiting for Mikey’s figure to show up or to hear his voice.

He checked his phone after a few more minutes, finding that it was now 9:07 a.m.

Takemitchy called Mikey, knowing if it was him late, he’d get an earful and probably a forehead flick from Mikey. The phone rang three times before it stopped.

‘Yo this is Mikey, I’m not here at the moment, obviously, leave a message if you want to-‘The voice mail was cut off by an incoming call from Draken. Takemitchy quickly answered it, feeling worried about the lack of Mikey.

“Draken?” He held the phone close to his ear.

“Takemitchy, hey. Did Mikey call you yet?” Draken asked, sounding out of breath. Takemitchy’s eyebrows furrowed.

“No, and he didn’t answer my call. And he didn’t show up to our- well…” Takemitchy was blushing, unsure if he should mention their date.

“Anyway, is he alright? Have you heard- “

“Takemitchy!” He heard from his far left. He almost gave himself whiplash when he turned his head and found a breathless, red-faced Mikey. He was bent over, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath, his black hair falling onto his face.

Takemitchy beamed and used his free hand to wave to Mikey.

“Mikey! I’m over here!” He called to him, then heard Draken through the phone.

“Mikey?? He’s there?? Why- “

“Sorry to worry you Draken, he made it. I’ll have him give you a call later, I promise!” Takemitchy pulled his phone away.

“Wait Take- “Takemitchy hung up and Mikey jogged slowly over to him.

“Sorry I was late, I slept through my alarm.” Mikey said, still sounding breathless. Takemitchy beamed and shook his head.

“No, it’s fine, you’re here now.” Takemitchy said excitedly. Mikey smiled lightly before letting out a small cough. Takemitchy was able to fully appreciate Mikey’s casual wear. A light green jacket over a black button up, and dark jeans that showed off his ass.

“Let’s go Mitchy!” Mikey grabbed Takemitchy’s hand and ran inside, quickly purchasing two tickets.

“Mikey, I could’ve gotten my own tickets.” Takemitchy blushed, allowing Mikey to pull him around with no resistance.

“No way Mitchy, I asked you out, so I wanted to pay.” Mikey smirked, pulling Takemitchy further into the amusement park. He abruptly stopped, Takemitchy nearly faceplanted into his back.

“Ow, Mikey!” Takemitchy rubbed his nose with his free hand. Mikey made a soft, breathy sound.

“Heh…” Takemitchy looked over Mikey’s arm to see his face. His eyes squinted as his mouth hung open alittle. Takemitchy noticed his nose was twitching like a rabbit’s.

“Mikey?”

“HEH-KSHUUU!” Mikey leaned forward violently, spraying the air without even attempting to cover. Takemitchy moved back, nearly jumping at the intense display.

It was quiet for a moment, then he heard a soupy sniffle as Mikey stood up straight.

“Mikey?” Takemitchy softly asked, watching Mikey rub his nose on his sleeve from behind with another sniff.

“Hm?” Mikey questioned, turning to look at Takemitchy with his nose still in his sleeve.

“Are you okay?” Takemitchy asked looking into his eyes, which looked away as he sniffed.

“I’m fine, just a sneeze.” Mikey grumbled and sniffed harder, rubbing his nose harder on his jacket. Takemitchy huffed and reached into his pocket to pull out a free tissue packet he got from the station.

“Don’t use your sleeve Mikey, here.” He held the packet out to him. Mikey froze and eyed the packet, then to his own hand holding Takemitchy’s. Takemitchy held the packet to Mikey, waiting for him to take it. After a moment of Mikey not taking it, he looked at the hand holding his. He sighed and tried to pull his hand free, but Mikey kept a firm grip.

Takemitchy huffed. “Mikey, you need to let go so you can clean up.” Mikey looked to the side, muffled a ‘No’ as he kept his grip firm.

Takemitchy sighed heavily. “Mikey. Fine, here.” Takemitchy used his teeth to open the packet and held out the tissues. In one swift motion, Mikey grabbed a few and turned away from Takemitchy to clean up his face. Mikey took a deep breath and blew into the tissues, making a squelching noise as he rubbed his nose roughly.

“Mikey, are you sick?” Takemitchy asked concerned, to which Mikey turned to look at him with his nose buried in the tissues.

“Me? Sick? HA!” Mikey put the used tissues into his pocket.

“C’mon, I wanna ride the gut blaster!” Mikey pulled Takemitchy off to the right, stopping at the rollercoaster. Although he wasn’t sure what was going on with him, he trusted Mikey.

If he felt bad, he would tell Takemitchy, right?

He held onto that hope after the next three rollercoasters, Mikey looking more and more drained after each one.

“Let’s sit for a moment Mikey.” Takemitchy said worried as Mikey looked pale, with a permanent blush on his cheeks.

“No, wait. We haven’t sniff mbade it to the ferris wheel.” Mikey began to sound congested, pulling gently on Takemitchy’s hand, the same hand he refused to let go of the whole day.

“Mikey, you don’t seem very well.” Takemitchy spoke worried.

“Mbitchy, I- heeeh...” He used his free hand to rub his nose, trying to stave off the sneeze. Takemitchy frowned.

“Mikey-“

“HEh-TCHEEEW!” Mikey turned and sprayed off to the side, takemitchy watching as tiny droplets fell onto the pavement. The sneeze made Mikey off balance and Takemitchy held his shoulder while gripping Mikey’s hand abit firmer.

“Heh- Heh- HESHEEEW!” Takemitchy held onto Mikey’s shoulder as he threw his body forward with the sneeze, keeping him balanced as Mikey swayed.

“Mikey! Are you okay??” Takemitchy worriedly led Mikey to a bench, sitting him down.

“Sniff Guh.” Mikey lifted his head, and a string of snot was hanging from his right nostril. Takemitchy sat next to him and rubbed his back, frowning.

“You’re sick.” It wasn’t a question anymore. Mikey sniffed hard, looking forward with a glare, like he was mad his body betrayed him. Takemitchy pulled out his phone, as Mikey used his sleeve to rub his nose again. He eyed Takemitchy as he snuffled.

“What are you doing?” Mikey asked warily.

“I’m calling Draken, to pick you up- hey!” Mikey let go of Takemitchy’s hand and quickly grabbed his phone.

“No!” Mikey called out desperately. The tone in his voice shocked Takemitchy, as he had never heard Mikey like that.

“We- We sniff haven’t gotten to the ferris wheel, or take a picture, or- or sniff sniff “ Mikey’s eyes welled up with tears, and his nose was running. Takemitchy waved his hands unsurely, taken aback from the crying Mikey.

“Mikey, it’s okay.” He said, trying to calm him down. He took both his hands, ignoring the sticky and wetness of one of them.

Mikey shook his head, tears falling down his face.

“It’s not! I wanted to go on the ferris wheel sniff with you.” He cried out, trying to sniff back his congestion. Takemitchy then noticed how hot Mikey’s hands were and reached up to touch his cheek, then his forehead.

“Mikey, you’re really hot.” He said worried. Mikey gave a forced chuckle.

“Really Mbitchy? Flirting right ndow?” He spoke a little playfully, closing his eyes and trying to keep from shivering as Takemitchy held a hand over his forehead.

“I’m serious Mikey, I think you have a fever. A high one.” Takemitchy looked at Mikey concerned. Mikey sniffed as he leaned into Takemitchy’s hand with a hm.

“Takemitchy!” He heard a booming voice from behind and turned to see a disheveled Draken running towards them, having a hand.

“Ah! Draken!” Takemitchy yelled back and stood up, getting Draken’s attention. A shaky hand gripped his shirt.

“Hah..heh..” Mikey hitched as he held onto Takemitchy’s shirt.

“Mikey, wait- Mikey-“

“Heh He-HESCHEEEW!” Mikey snapped forward with the sneeze, coating the bottom of Takemitchy’s shirt in a thin layer of snot and saliva. A blob on snot landed on the crease of Takemitchy’s shirt and the hand holding him down. Takemitchy held in a deep sigh, then noticed that Mikey wasn’t done as his eyes were still squinting.

“Damn.” Takemitchy grabbed Mikey’s nose to save himself from another snot shower as Mikey snapped forward again.

“HEH-PTCHU” Mikey stifled into Takemitchy’s hand, the congestion from his nose splattering Takemitchy’s fingers. If he were in his right mind, Takemitchy wondered if Mikey would have been embarrassed. Mikey tried to sniffle and whined as Takemitchy hadn’t moved his hand.

“Mbitchy~ sniff.”

Takemitchy searched through Mikey’s pockets for the used tissues, then heard heavy footsteps jogging up beside him.

“Take..mitchy..” Draken was out of breath, leaning forward to catch it. He choked alittle and coughed. Takemitchy let go of Mikey’s nose and slowly pulled back, a huge string of mess following his fingers as he held up the used tissues to wipe off his fingers and then Mikey’s face gently. Mikey made a soft nose that nearly broke Takemitchy’s heart while getting off most of the mess.

“You dumbass…” Draken stood straight, glaring at Mikey, then Takemitchy’s gentle cleaning.

“I told you to stay home.” He gritted out, moving closer to Mikey and touched his forehead.

“Fucking hell Mikey, you’re burning up!” Draken pulled his hand back, then turned to Takemitchy.

“And you, why didn’t you answer your phone??” He demanded. Takemitchy turned to toss the tissues into a nearby bin, not being able to move far as Mikey kept his grip on his shirt.

“My phone? I didn’t receive any calls. When I went to call you, Mikey took my phone.” Takemitchy frowned, trying to look into Mikey’s glazed over eyes. Draken saw the phone in Mikey’s hand and took it with ease. He looked at it and tched.

“That’s cause you have shitty service.” Takemitchy looked up at Draken when he sighed.

“We need to find better reception to call Mitsuya, he’s probably freaking out.” Draken looked down at Mikey and put the phone into Takemitchy’s back pocket. He gently moved Takemitchy over, with Mikey’s grip still firm.

“Mikey.” He spoke softly, nothing at all what Takemitchy was used to. Mikey had his eyes closed, swaying a little as he fought to remain upright.

“Hm.” He replied quietly, proving the fever really kicked his ass.

“We need to get you home, get on my back” Draken turned around and got on a knee for Mikey to lean down. Takemitchy noticed how Mikey’s grip on his shirt slacked.

“Okay, then I’ll call Mitsu-YA?!” With strength Takemitchy didn’t think Mikey could muster, he was pulled into Mikey’s lap and his arms wrapped around his waist with a death grip.

“Mikey?! Wait, what are you doing??” Takemitchy blushed as he felt Mikey shove his face into Takemitchy’s back.

“No. Ferris wheel.” Even with the stuffy nose and muffle through his back, Draken and Takemitchy could hear the pout.

“Mikey, you’ve caused enough trouble as it is! Now let go of Takemitchy and get on my back!” Draken shouted, causing Mikey to shake his head ‘no’ and held Takemitchy tighter. The movement caused Mikey’s nose to rebel again and Takemitchy couldn’t move away as Mikey sneezed.

“PTSHU!” Takemitchy felt a warm wetness in the center of his back, trying his best not to grimace at the mess Mikey just made. Draken growled and grabbed Mikey’s arm and began pulling.

“Takemitchy isn’t your handkerchief you brat! You know how worried I was when Takemitchy told me you showed up?! I told your ass to Stay. In. Bed! I ran around town trying to find your grape flavored cold medicine and you take that moment to sneak out with a 100.4 degree fever?!” Draken roared; his sweet tone completely gone.

“NDO!” Mikey yelled muffled in Takemitchy’s back, gripping harder.

“Draken…stop..” Takemitchy choked as he could hardly breath. Draken tched and let go.

“Mikey…we can come back once you’re better. I promise.” Takemitchy tried to reason, but Mikey didn’t reply, only sniffed. Takemitchy sighed.

“Alright Mikey, one ride. But then you have to go home and rest. Deal?” Mikey looked up from behind Takemitchy.

“Really?? You mbean it??” Mikey sniffed and loosened his grip. Draken scoffed and spoke sarcastically.

“Yeah no, this is a great idea. Just give into him.” Mikey sniffed and rubbed his eyed before Takemitchy stood up, helping Mikey up. Mikey wrapped himself around Takemitchy’s arm and leaned onto him heavily.

“Okay, I’ll call Mitsuya, and we’ll meet you at the bottom of the ferris wheel.” Draken said and held up his phone. Mikey held a childish smile as he seemed over the rainbow. Takemitchy mentally sighed and nodded.

“Alright, see you then.” Takemitchy nodded and started to lead Mikey to the ride.

“Oh, and Mitchy?” Takemitchy turned his head to Draken with a questionable expression. Draken wore a shit eating grin.

“Mikey NEVER covers.” Takemitchy looked confused, then it clicked, hearing Mikey’s breath hitch.

“Heh..heh”

“Yeah, I guessed as much.”

“HEPTSCHEW!”

I tried to keep them as close to the characters as I could! I felt Mikey would totally be a brat being sick. Again, this was supposed to be a one-shot. Part 2?

~Plz Don’t Repost To Non-Snz Blogs~

[brandnewcouch]

you’ve heard of “you are what you eat” but have you heard of “you are what you read”