#snzfic

[shamefilledsnzblog]

A Desperate Cover-Up

So, this was meant to be for @lostatsneeze 's Sick at a Ball prompt game (linked here), but it ended up being nearly 4000 words and I never even got these poor fools to the ball! That might need to be Part Two...

Characters are my DnD OCs: Perry, a human of minor nobility, a self-styled Gentlman Druid with a fascination for all things fungal and a terrible immune system. And Serafina, a purple tiefling, the bastard (but beloved) daughter of an immensely wealthy lord, who happens to have the kink.

Perry has an utterly miserable cold, but Serafina is still determined for him to make a good impression. Featuring some inducing, some mess, some sneezing while hiding.

“Again? And now? Peregrine, I really do feel awful for you, but this is the third time in as many months, and your timing couldn’t be worse!”

“Believe me, I’m distressingly well-aware. But surely it’s not too.. t-hhiieehh… HIESshhHYIEEW! Snf… Too obvious?”

Serafina refused to dignify that with a reply.

She had come to meet Perry at the gate of her father’s townhouse, all excitement. For months, she had been urging her father to finance Perry’s Underdark expedition. Months of carefully explaining to him how the discovery of newer, safer trade routes and outposts could be invaluable to his business (and, of course, he would be aiding in the advancement of science via enabling Perry and his companion Janessa’s studies, but as she had repeatedly stressed to Perry, that was not an aspect likely to win her father’s interest). Months of sitting with Perry, watching with increasing endearment as he plotted routes and consulted notes of prior expeditions.

Her father had grown increasingly interested, and multiple meetings with Perry had convinced him of the young man’s intelligence and enthusiasm. Unfortunately, they had not convinced him of Perry’s resilience. Between his numerous allergies, asthma, and two truly brutal head colds, he had sneezed, snuffled, coughed, and wheezed his way through nearly every meeting. Each time, as soon as Perry left, Serafina’s father turned to her, shaking his head.

“I’m not doubting that his heart is in it, and he’s got the brains. But surely he’s too frail for such a dangerous journey?”

Tonight, at a small, formal dance, her father had agreed to give Perry one chance to make his case. And Perry had shown up with the most glaringly obvious head cold Serafina had ever seen.

“I… I’m sorry. We could say I was kept away by some emergency?”

“Which he’ll expect you to explain next time, and we both know you’re an utterly miserable liar. Oh, Peregrine…”

Perry’s shoulders slumped in defeat, and he dabbed at his red, raw nose with a handkerchief, wriggling it and sniffling wetly in irritation. His sinuses sounded full to the brim with congestion, and by the looks of that twitching nose, he was just desperate to sneeze it all out. His voice was hoarse, and he muffled constant ticklish coughs into his handkerchief. Pronouncing any word with an ‘n’ or ‘m’ sounded utterly pitiful. His skin, always pale, was chalky white, dark, bruise-like shadows lurked beneath his eyes, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow. He had no hope whatsoever of convincing anyone that he was well.

Well, not without help.

Serafina turned to her shy elf maid, Mayna, keeping her voice low.

“Mayna, go and check that there’s no one around the back door, and let me know when the coast is clear. I’m taking Peregrine to my bedroom to see if I can’t work a little of my magic on him. You’re to give me a warning should you see anyone coming. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss. Good luck, and feel better, Sir Peregrine.”

Perry’s reply was lost in a miserably wet sneeze. Mayna hurried around the side of the house. Serafina grabbed Perry while he was still in the process of blowing his nose, dragging him out of sight.

“We’re going to make this work.”

“I… IiieESHIEEW! Guhh… I’ll do my best, Miss DeVille.”

Mayna returned shortly, her eyes wide and nervous, gesturing for Serafina and Perry to follow. Dragging the snuffling, coughing Perry behind her, and hiding from a few servants on the way, Serafina finally reached her bedroom and shoved Perry inside. With one last look at Mayna, who nodded with timid determination, she shut the door and turned to look at her project.

“We have a lot of work to do. Starting with that voice.”

She pulled up a seat at her dressing table and gestured for Perry to sit, which he did with some relief. Poor thing, if he was running a fever, as she suspected he was, he must be awfully achy. Not to mention, he would usually be immensely flustered at finding himself somewhere so intimate as her bedroom. Instead, he just seemed exhausted. Serafina squeezed his shoulder encouragingly before going to her bedside table.

Sure enough, there was a packet of lozenges in the top drawer. An enthusiastic singer, proud of her voice, Serafina always tended to keep some on hand. Taking the packet and pouring a glass of water from the bedside carafe, she passed both to Perry.

“Drink that. All of it. And suck on one of those. Right now, you sound as if you’ve gargled broken glass. We’ve half an hour before you’re expected to arrive, so let’s make it count. How many handkerchiefs do you have with you?”

Perry, drinking the water and grimacing with every swallow, stopped and tried to catch his breath. He seemed to be having a hard time drinking with his nose so badly blocked.

“Four.”

“And how many are left in a usable condition?”

“Two.”

“That won’t be enough. I’ll fetch some of mine; don’t worry, I’ll make sure they’re unscented.”

Perry tried to respond, but the even with the lozenge and water, the tickle in his throat became too much. He doubled over, coughing until he was red in the face. Already Serafina could hear a damp rattle that suggested this cold would be going to his chest, and probably making its home there for a good long while.

“Deep breaths, Peregrine. Finish that water, then I want you to have another glass. How’s your head?”

“Aching t-terribly. HhhHIESHOO!”

“Probably even worse after that. Poor thing, they do seem to sneak up on you when you’ve got the sniffles, don’t they?”

Retreating into her ensuite, she opened the medicine cabinet, rifling through the contents. Headache powders. Cough syrup. Balm for chapped lips. She grabbed all three, soaked a flannel in water, and returned to find Perry blowing his nose. It sounded as if there was no end to what he needed to clear out.

“I think that’s that handkerchief spent. Sounds as if you’re still awfully stuffed. Say something for me, let’s see how you sound.”

Giving his nose one final wipe and wrinkling it with a damp snuffle, Perry sighed.

“I’m so terribly sorry. Even if I do manage to pass myself off as healthy, I’ll still no doubt get you sick, and probably poor Mayna as a result.”

“You may pay me back by naming a new discovery after me when you get to the Underdark. Not some foul slimy toadstool, either. Ideally something purple and magnificent. As for Mayna, I’ll see that she’s given all the time off she needs, and is thoroughly pampered. We need to clear you out a bit more, though, if we’re to convince Papa. You still sound miserably stuffy. Take a new handkerchief. Blow again.”

Obedient as ever, Perry took another handkerchief from his pocket and began another weary series of blows. As he did so, Serafina mixed one of the powders with water, and poured a dose of cough syrup.

“Both of these down, quick as you can. We still need to get to work on covering all that red.”

Perry grimaced as he looked at both medicines, but obediently downed the cough syrup, spent a few moments grimacing at the taste, and set to work sipping at the medicine-laced water.

“Speak for me again?”

“You deserve more than just a fungus named after you, Miss DeVille. But of any I discover, I promise, I’ll name the loveliest after you.”

“I’m not sure I trust your judgement on that. I’ve seen you go misty-eyed over something that looks like a cauliflower with a skin condition. I shall expect full illustrations and descriptions first. Unfortunately, I think we’ve got more work to do on those sinuses first.”

Perry turned to see her going to her writing desk, and taking up a delicate feather quill. His nose twitched at the mere sight.

“Please, no.”

“You know a good sneeze tends to clear you up when all that congestion is being stubborn, and even as sensitive as you are, I don’t believe you can do it on command. I know it’s unpleasant, but we’re running low on time, and all that blowing is just giving me a redder nose to fix.”

Perry let out a slight whimper, but sighed and nodded, allowing Serafina to draw close. She came to stand before him, cupping his cheek and tilting his head so that he was looking up at her. Unable to resist, she gently stroked his cheek with her thumb. It really was unhealthily hot.

“Poor thing. That’s quite the temperature. I know you must be feeling so unwell. You just need to do your best a little longer, and we’ll try to make your excuses early so you can go home and rest. Now, close your eyes.”

Perry did so, leaning slightly into Serafina’s hand, seemingly seeking out the relative coolness of her skin. How wonderful it would be, Serafina mused, to lead him to her bed, and join him there, letting him seek the touch of as much of her as he wanted.

Those thoughts would have to wait. With her free hand, she set the very tip of the quill to that poor, long-suffering nose. The reaction was immediate.

“HeEhHH! IehehHEH! Hm.. hff… Iehh-hihh… HEH!”

“That’s right. Sensitive, aren’t you? Relax. Let it happen.”

Perry couldn’t reply even if he wanted to. His lips parted, revealing a slightly curling tongue. His eyes squeezed shut, a tear of irritation rolling down his cheek. And that poor nose… Serafina kept gently brushing beneath those delicate nostrils, watching them flare in torment. Almost as if inviting her to go deeper, begging for release from the tickling.

Another time, she might have teased. Let the quill linger, just enough to tickle, not enough to bring him satisfaction. Let him hitch and gasp and squirm, let him plead for release. Another time she would enjoy drawing things out, letting that nose grow redder and redder, letting it sniffle and twitch and leak, before finally enveloping it in a handkerchief and letting the poor man sneeze until he was satisfied.

Tonight was not the night for teasing. With a deft twist, she inserted the point of the quill deeper into a flaring nostril, drawing forth a gasp of irritation, a great, flustered snort, and…

“HhhHGYIESHIEW!”

Perry barely got his handkerchief up in time, sneezing wetly into its folds. Serafina rested a hand on his shoulder, gently stroking with her thumb.

“Well done. You’re not finished, are you?”

“GHHIYIESHOO! SHIEEWW! Guh… Pardon me… SNRFff!”

“Don’t sniffle it back. We want it all out, remember? Nice gentle blow, that’s it. Good, I can hear things loosening up. Now, there’s a few more sneezes in there, I think.”

Perry nodded, finding a clean spot in his handkerchief to nuzzle into, his nose plainly tormenting him. Her hand still on his shoulder, Serafina felt him breathe in great unsteady gasps, plainly trying to bring on another sneeze. Taking his hands, gentle but firm, she pushed them down, removing the handkerchief barrier hiding his face.

“There. Don’t fuss at it, just let that poor sore nose do what it must.”

Perry nodded, eyes closed, crinkling his nose, lips parted, plainly battling a truly torturous tickle. Even after emptying a good quantity of in into his handkerchief, moisture still pooled beneath his raw nostrils, clearly irritating them further. He sniffled desperately against the irritation, and tried to raise his handkerchief again.

“Hhyiehh… Hehhh… SNF! Hfff… Ghhihhhehhh… Hyehhh…”

Serafina pushed his hands back down once more, and raised the quill to his nose.

“It’s teasing you, isn’t it? Not to worry, we’ll soon have it out.”

This time he let out a strangled whimper as the feather touched his sore nose. Serafina could feel his breath, hot and urgent against her hand, and once again cupped his cheek, tilting his head up to face her. She flicked the quill back into place, seeking the sensitive spot in those inflamed nostrils, while Perry snorted in irritation again, another tear spilling over his cheek as he began another round of desperate hitching.

“Ghhyieehh… Hhihhh… HYiehhh… HEHhhh… SNRF!”

The feather was becoming too damp to do its job. Serafina twitched it more insistently, scratching against the raw, sensitive walls of Perry’s nose, while he plainly struggled not to pull away. When she withdrew it and set to work on the other nostril, a string of mess came with it.

“HhH-Hhh… Hhyieehhh… I… I can’t… Hghhyyiehhhh…”

“You can, and you will. A little deeper…”

Another deft flick of the quill, and Serafina seemed to have found the spot at last. Perry’s face contorted in ticklish agony, and though he pulled away and raised his handkerchief as quickly as he could, Serafina still felt the mist of the resultant sneeze on her wrist. A slight shiver ran through her, and warmth stirred in her belly.

“HhHGYIESHHEWW!”

It was the wettest yet, and Perry seemed spent. Breathing heavily, avoiding Serafina’s eyes, he once again began soaking his handkerchief with the newly loosened congestion. When he could at last speak again, his handkerchief was rendered useless, but his voice was noticeably less congested.

“I’m so very sorry. You must find this utterly repulsive.”

You poor man, if only you knew.

Serafina fondly brushed a strand of hair behind his ear. The relentless sneezing had caused a few to come loose from his ponytail, framing his face rather nicely.

“You aren’t repulsive in the slightest. You’re just miserably ill. Sounds as if you’re a little cleared up, though. Let’s get to work repairing the damage.”

Taking the damp flannel, she carefully wiped Perry’s face, being careful of his raw nose and chapped lips. Perry leaned into the cool cloth, and Serafina held it in place for a moment, allowing him a moment’s relief after his efforts.

“Poor Peregrine. No dancing for you tonight, I think. Your partner would feel you burning up immediately.”

Opening her cosmetic drawer, Serafina began to go through the contents. Perry looked on with weary eyes, taking the flannel himself and holding it to his overheated brow.

“I don’t know much about cosmetics, but surely yours are some shade of purple, to match you? I don’t know that it’s going to help me.”

“Most of them are. But I ‘borrowed’ this one from Delia one day when she was being especially unpleasant. She hides from the sun at all costs for fear of developing freckles, so she’s almost as pale as you.”

Removing the ‘borrowed’ powder, and a jar of moisturizing lotion, Serafina opened both, and swatted Perry’s hand away when he reached for them.

“Oh no you don’t. You said yourself, you know nothing about cosmetics. You’ll leave this to me, thank you.”

“You’re having entirely too much contact with this wretched nose of mine. I’m sure you’re going to catch this.”

“Then you shall have to find a way to make it up to me. I’m sure between us we can think of something. Now, hold still, please.”

Perry flinched as Serafina dabbed a little lotion on his nose, beginning to gently rub it in. It felt even warmer than the rest of him, and twitched charmingly. Once again Serafina had to remind herself that now was not the time to tease.

“It feels odd. Is it having an effect?”

“Not on the colour, I’m afraid, but it might soothe you a little, and it will make it easier for the powder to stick.”

At the mere mention of powder, Perry gave a nervous sniffle. He watched and swallowed hard as Serafina picked up the powderpuff, disturbing a fine cloud of the cosmetic.

“I know. You need to try not to breathe in while I apply this. Close your eyes, and try not to think about it.”

Perry did as he was told, holding his breath and refusing to look. Even so, his nose scrunched and wriggled as Serafina applied powder in deft, careful dabs. It was going to require more powder than she had imagined.

“Alright. Take a breath now, then we’ll try some more.”

Perry let out the breath he had been holding, together with a few ticklish coughs that made him wince and press a hand to his chest. His nose twitched again. And again, more desperately. His eyes began to develop that familiar, distant look.

Serafina pressed a finger beneath his nose, giving him a stern look.

“No. If you sneeze, your handkerchief is going to undo my work.”

Perry sniffled. Serafina gave his nostrils a firm rub, feeling them twitch and flare. A tentative hitch. Another.

“Peregrine. No.”

At last, Perry’s breathing settled, and he opened his eyes. It was hard to tell if the flush on his cheeks was from fever or embarrassment.

“I think it’s under control.”

“Good. You need some more powder. Hold your breath again.”

The second application seemed even more irritating than the first. Perry’s tormented nose scrunched and wriggled, and his chest shuddered with the urge to take in a great hitching breath. Serafina finished the second coat, and once again pressed a finger beneath his nose.

“You’re doing well. Deep breaths. Try not to think about it.”

“I-ihh… it won’t le-hehhh-t me think of much… much else…”

Before Serafina could reply, Mayna’s timid voice sounded from outside the room.

“Good evening, Lord DeVille! Miss DeVille is just getting ready!”

Perry froze in horror. No matter how innocent the circumstances, being caught in the bedroom of Lord DeVille’s beloved daughter would be a disaster, even if he was in perfect health. Seizing him by the arm, with no time to hide him anywhere safer, Serafina dragged him to his feet and shoved him behind her bed, hissing in his ear.

“Not a word from you, and for the gods’ sake, not a sneeze!”

Serafina seated herself at her dressing table just as her father knocked on the door.

“Are you decent, my dear?”

“Just putting on some finishing touches, Papa. I’ll join you shortly.”

The door opened, and Serafina forced herself not to glance nervously at Perry. She didn’t need to see him to know that he was struggling. Her father, elegantly dressed in his evening attire, entered, greeting her with a fond smile.

“I don’t know why you fuss about with all that makeup. You look perfectly lovely to me.”

“A lady is always on display. One must attend to the details. Did you need something, Papa?”

Maddeningly, Lord DeVille seemed in a mood to linger.

“Your young man hasn’t arrived yet. Odd, given he’s usually early. I hope he’s well this time.”

While her father looked over her array of cosmetics with fond amusement, Serafina chanced a glance at Perry. Her heart sank. He was huddled as far out of view as he could, but from what she could see of the part of his face not buried in his handkerchief, he was on the verge of giving himself away. His shoulders shuddered with desperate hitches, his eyes squeezed shut.

“I’m sure he’s perfectly well. He’s been most enthusiastic about this evening.”

Lord DeVille gave a huff of amusement.

“I’m not sure what he’s more interested in. My finances, or my daughter.”

“Peregrine’s always perfectly respectful on both subjects.”

Lord DeVille frowned, nodding to the open powder sachet and bottle of cough syrup on the dressing table.

“You’re not unwell yourself, are you?”

He reached out and felt her forehead. Ordinarily Serafina would have been touched by his concern. Right now, she struggled not to squirm in frustration.

Hold on, Peregrine. No matter how it tickles!

From behind the bed, she heard the desperate “hmp!” of a painfully stifled sneeze, and she coughed slightly to cover the noise.

“A slight sore throat, Papa, nothing more. Given I’ll likely be asked to sing tonight, I thought I ought to take some precautions.”

That, at least, would take the blame off Perry when she inevitably caught his cold.

Lord DeVille looked unconvinced, but he patted her shoulder, squeezing gently.

“I’ll not have you pressured into singing if you’re not up to it. And early to bed for you tonight! No lingering to discuss toadstools with that poor besotted fungal fellow!”

“As you wish. Was there anything else?”

While her father looked elsewhere, she chanced another glance at Perry, and her heart began to race. He stifled another sneeze into his handkerchief, managing to keep it perfectly silent, but that would not be the case for long. Even pinching his nose harshly and forcing his mouth closed, he was on the verge of coming undone.

Lord DeVille picked up the jar of powder, giving a hum of amusement.

“This wouldn’t be the powder Delia was throwing a tantrum about, would it, my darling?”

Another muffled “hnk!” from behind the bed. Serafina suspected she had moments to act.

“Is it? Oh dear, I must have picked it up by mistake! Here, I’ll see that it’s returned to her!”

She reached for the powder, and in doing so, allowed her sleeve to catch the glass of water she had poured for Perry, deliberately knocking it into her lap. She leapt up with a cry of alarm, her voice covering up a muffled “HM-ph!”.

“Oh! My dress!”

“There now, my dear, it’s just a little water, I’m sure there’s no damage done!”

“Perhaps not, but I can’t wear this now! Better let me change, Papa, if you want me downstairs by the time guests arrive!”

Lord DeVille nodded, turning back to the door.

“I’ll leave you to it. Not to worry if you’re a little late, I’ll make your excuses for you.”

The moment the door closed, Serafina dived behind the bed, dropping to her knees. Perry did not even seem to notice her. He was lost to the build-up of a sneeze that had no hope of being silenced. Serafina hurriedly seized a pillow from the bed and pressed it over his face, praying that between the muffling effect and the closed door, her father would not hear.

Perry lurched forward, delivering a flurry of violent sneezes into the pillow.

“HHIEMMMPHHH! MMPHH! HHhuHMMPH!”

Serafina rested a hand on his back, rubbing soothingly as he sneezed again and again, the explosions gradually growing weaker until he was left panting, raising his head from the pillow at last. His eyes streamed, as did his nose, and all traces of powder were thoroughly removed. The cool silk of her pillow had been left damp and darkened from the results of his sneezes.

“Miss DeVille, I’m so very…”

“No apologies, please. Bless you.”

The stifling had undone her efforts in making him sound less ill. He sounded just as congested as he had when he arrived, and looked utterly defeated, as well as humiliated, as he took out his handkerchief and gave his nose an exhausted blow.

“Truly, though, I am sorry. I really think I ought to go home.”

Serafina helped him to his feet, and guided him determinedly back to the dressing table, where she picked up her quill once more.

“We’ve come this far, and I’m not one for admitting defeat. Let’s try this again, shall we?”

[aller-geez]

Live, Laugh, Lose Consciousness

written & illustrated by: allergeez 🖤

Wow, geezie can write fics that AREN’T Remi or Vaelyn? I know, I’m shocked too. "૮₍ ˶•⤙•˶ ₎ა saw @mew31 ‘s prompt (found here) and after a lovely anon encouraged me, (love you, Nonny 🖤) this fic was born. 4.3K words with a follow up fic in progress already..... @thekinkyleopard owns Elex 🖤

The stream started like any other—well, mostly. S7en leaned back in his chair, rubbing one eye with the heel of his palm as his other hand clicked through his usual startup routine. His teal and orange hair was a little more ruffled than usual, sticking up in odd places like he’d just rolled out of bed five minutes before going live. Which, to be fair, he had.

The camera feed flickered on, revealing his usual setup: LED-lit walls casting a dim glow over his desk, a collection of figures and posters crammed haphazardly onto shelves in the background, and of course, the telltale flick of his fluffy orange tail behind him. Normally, it swayed lazily or curled in satisfaction when he was vibing, but tonight it twitched with silent irritation. Not that he acknowledged it.

S7en dragged his mic closer, exhaling through his nose before finally addressing chat.

"Alright, you motherfuckers, 1Shot9Lives here and we’re live," he muttered, voice slightly raspier than usual as he adjusted his headset. He didn’t give the change much thought. Probably just needed water. Or caffeine. Maybe both.

He clicked through a few things on his second monitor, setting up the game as his chat flooded in with their usual chaos. "We’re playing Ghost’s Gambit today because—uh, because I said so. Also, Elex bailed on our co-op stream last second, so everyone bully him when you see him."

The messages scrolled at lightning speed.

[MOD] REXBURN: u sound like shit dude

VOIDGREMLIN: bro did u sleep at all

STYXORRI: uhhh yeah S7en u good?

CATTITUDE69: u look kinda rough tonight lmao

S7en rolled his eyes, clearing his throat sharply before speaking again. "I always sound like shit, thanks. That’s my brand.” He sniffled for dramatic effect, shooting a look at chat before continuing. "Y’all need to chill. I’m fine. Let’s start."

And that was that. He powered through, ignoring the mild scratch at the back of his throat, the slight congestion creeping into his words. It was nothing. Just one of those days where talking felt rough. Nothing new.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

For a while, things went smoothly. He played through the first section of the game, making sarcastic commentary about the haunted mansion’s ridiculously dramatic soundtrack and the protagonist’s questionable life choices. But every few minutes, he had to pause to clear his throat or take a sip of his drink. The rasp in his voice wasn��t going away—it was getting worse.

Chat, of course, noticed.

GHOSTBEE: ur voice is actually breaking dude

LOSTLAMB: are u dying or

[MOD] REXBURN: drink water. now.

S7en squinted at the chat, then at his can of soda. Technically, that was liquid. Good enough. He took a swig, wincing as the carbonation stung the rawness in his throat.

He barely acknowledged chat’s growing concern, too focused on the game—or at least, that’s what he wanted them to think. In reality, he was starting to feel it. That creeping, telltale tightness in his throat, the way his words felt just slightly too rough, like they were catching on sandpaper. He swallowed, grimacing at the lingering scratch, and reached for his drink again.

But carbonation and a sore throat? Not exactly a winning combination. The first sip stung enough to make him wince, and he had to bite back a cough. He set the can down with a little more force than necessary, shaking his head. "Geezus. That was a mistake."

VOIDGREMLIN: u good there, my guy?

CATTITUDE69: literally why do u drink soda when ur voice is dying lmao

[MOD] REXBURN: I SAID WATER. WATER, DUMBASS.

S7en rolled his eyes but still didn’t move to grab anything else. Instead, he cleared his throat again—harder this time—forcing his voice back to something more manageable. "I said relax. My voice is just doing that thing where it sounds like I’ve been chain-smoking for forty years. It’s fine."

It wasn’t fine.

He knew it wasn’t fine.

His throat felt tight, raw, and somehow both dry and congested at the same time. His sinuses had started to ache—not enough to be distracting yet, but enough to be annoying. He exhaled sharply through his nose, sniffling once before refocusing on the screen.

But chat wasn’t about to let it go.

STYXORRI: Uhhhh u sound worse than u did 10 min ago???

GHOSTBEE: Does this man even have a water bottle? Blink twice if you’re being held hostage by your own bad decisions.

VOIDGREMLIN: definitely getting sick lol

S7en scoffed, dragging a hand down his face. "Okay, first of all? Rude. Second of all?—" He cut himself off with another sharp sniff, his nose twitching slightly. A brief pause, his brows pulling together like he was trying to focus on something just out of reach. Then he suddenly turned his head, breath catching in a sharp, desperate inhale.

"Hh—! Hhh! HAHPT’tschiew!! HAH! AHHDT’shiiiiew!"

The sneezes snapped him forward, harsh and congested, forcing him to duck his head into his arm at the last second. He stayed there for a beat, sniffling, before straightening up with a heavy sigh.

Chat immediately lost it.

STYXORRI: OH HE’S GONE

VOIDGREMLIN: LMAO THAT WAS WET AS HELL

[MOD] REXBURN: fucking called it. called it.

CATTITUDE69: lmao he sneezes like an anime girl

S7en groaned, rubbing a knuckle under his nose as he sniffled again. "Okay, fuck you guys. That was—ugh—that was nothin’."

Another sniff. Another irritated twitch of his nose.

Yeah. This was definitely not nothin’.

S7en barely had time to blink before his breath caught again, his whole body tensing as another sneeze clawed its way to the surface. He gasped—sharp and desperate, his head tipping back slightly before he was wrenched forward once more.

“Hh! HHhih—! HAHDT’tchhhiiew! Hhh! AHHDT’tsschueh!!”

The force of it practically shook his frame, leaving him momentarily dazed as he blinked blearily at his screen. His ears flattened slightly, tail flicking behind him in a telltale sign of irritation—whether at himself or chat, he wasn’t sure.

And chat? Chat was feral.

VOIDGREMLIN: HOLY SHIT

CATTITUDE69: BRO U GOOD?

STYXORRI: this is the sickest catboy streamer arc we’ve ever seen

[MOD] REXBURN: called it AGAIN. y’all owe me money.

S7en groaned dramatically, scrubbing at his nose with the heel of his hand. It did nothing. If anything, the congestion just laughed at his attempt at relief, settling even deeper in his sinuses like it had set up camp there permanently. He sniffled, but it was weak, ineffective. The sheer stuffiness was making his voice even raspier when he finally muttered, "You guys are the worst."

GHOSTBEE: says the guy actively sneezing himself into an early grave on stream

VOIDGREMLIN: honestly impressive at this point

CATTITUDE69: u literally sound like a dying cartoon character lmfao

S7en exhaled sharply through his nose—immediately regretting it when the movement made his breath hitch again. “Oh, fuck m—hhHh!—me.”

His hands barely got up in time before he was thrown into another sudden, wrenching sneeze.

"HH’AHPT’TSSCHIIEW!!"

The force of it made his shoulders jerk violently, ears flattening even more as he sniffled miserably into his sleeve. His brain felt like it had short-circuited. He blinked a few times, dazed, before shooting chat an exhausted, half-lidded glare. "This is your fault, by the way."

[MOD] REXBURN: how the fuck is this OUR fault

GHOSTBEE: yeah bro I don’t remember being the one rolling around in a pile of pollen or whatever the fuck u did to yourself

STYXORRI: nah he just has the immune system of a wet paper bag

VOIDGREMLIN: get wrecked, nerd

S7en opened his mouth, fully prepared to snap back at chat, but the sharp inhale that followed cut him off completely. His breath hitched—quick, frantic gasps pulling his chest upward as his nostrils flared helplessly. He was on the precipice, teetering on the edge of release, his head already tilting back as his body prepared for the inevitable.

And then—nothing.

The sensation fizzled out entirely, leaving him stranded in the worst possible limbo. His nose twitched furiously, a cruel, lingering tickle buzzing deep in his sinuses like static electricity with no release in sight. His breath wavered once more, teasing at another attempt, only to leave him stuck in place, helpless and miserable.

Chat immediately exploded.

CATTITUDE69: oh my god he’s stuck

STYXORRI: SOMEONE PUT HIM OUT OF HIS MISERY

VOIDGREMLIN: bro buffering like a dial-up connection

[MOD] REXBURN: this is just embarrassing now

S7en let out a strangled groan, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes in pure frustration. "I hate you all," he muttered, voice thick with congestion, but the heat crawling up his neck betrayed the way chat’s relentless teasing was getting to him.

He sniffled, thick and wet, scrubbing at his nose with the side of his hand in a fruitless attempt to banish the stubborn tickle. His fluffy tail flicked behind himk in irritation, but he quickly straightened up and forced a nonchalant shrug, trying to redirect the focus back to literally anything else.

"Anyway!" he rasped, voice still wrecked, but he powered through, picking up his controller again like nothing had happened. "We’re not gonna sit here and analyze my respiratory system, alright? Let’s get back to me carrying this game—since we all know I’m cracked as hell, even while dying."

He pressed a button to unpause, but his nose twitched again, a rapid series of sniffles betraying him before he could fully recover. Chat was still absolutely losing it, and he knew—he knew—they weren’t going to let him live this down.

For a while, he managed to power through. His fingers moved on autopilot across the controller, leading his character through dimly lit hallways and flickering candlelit rooms, his voice providing commentary—albeit raspier and more strained than usual. He made sure to keep the energy up, even as he had to stop every couple of minutes to sniffle or swipe a knuckle under his nose.

If he ignored it, it wasn’t happening. That was the rule.

But his throat was starting to itch. Not just a little tickle, not just something he could clear away—it was deep, an irritating scratch that no amount of swallowing or subtle throat-clearing could shake.

Still, he tried.

"Ahem." He coughed lightly into his fist, barely audible over the game’s ominous soundtrack.

Chat noticed immediately.

VOIDGREMLIN: bro you’re actually falling apart rn

GHOSTBEE: is it me or is he literally getting worse every five minutes

CATTITUDE69: cough once if you’re dying, cough twice if ur in denial

[MOD] REXBURN: just grab some water before you get stuck like that forever

S7en rolled his eyes, but his ears gave him away. The orange, tufted tips had started to sag, drooping ever so slightly as the irritation in his sinuses and throat mounted. He sniffled sharply, forcing himself to sit up a little straighter as if better posture would somehow help.

"Y’all are dramatic," he muttered, his voice definitely dipping further into hoarseness, but he just forced a cough and kept playing.

The itch in his throat lingered. It crept deeper, settling into his chest like a slow burn, and he knew—he knew—that if he wasn’t careful, he was gonna start coughing for real. He muttered another useless, half-hearted cough, barely suppressing a grimace when it rattled weakly in his lungs.

God, his eyes were getting blurry.

His vision kept swimming, the words on screen harder to focus on as his slitted pupils narrowed in an attempt to adjust. He blinked quickly, rubbing at his face with the palm of his hand to chase away the moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes.

He knew the solution. He just really didn’t want to grab his damn glasses.

It wasn’t even about comfort—they just made him look nerdy, and not in a cool, hot-guy-who-reads way, but in an I’m-an-insufferable-know-it-all way. Not a look he was going for.

Still, his ears flicked back, half-pinned against his head as he tried to ignore the way his vision kept going fuzzy around the edges.

This was fine. Totally fine.

He just had to hold out a little longer.

S7en blinked hard, rubbing at his temple with the heel of his hand as the dull ache behind his eyes slowly tightened its grip. His brightly lit screen wasn’t helping. The artificial glow pressed against his already blurry vision, and he caught himself squinting just to make out the text at the bottom of the screen. His ears twitched, then flicked backward slightly in irritation.

Still, he kept his usual energy up.

“Well, this guy’s an idiot,” he quipped as his in-game character opened a door that was very obviously a trap. “Yeah, lemme just step into the most ominous room possible, what could possibly go wrong—OH okay, yep, cool, immediate ghost attack. Love that.”

Chat scrolled fast, a mix of reactions ranging from LMAOOO to we tried to warn you to bro is squinting so hard right now, grab the damn glasses.

S7en ignored them.

He wasn’t even in that bad of shape, really. Sure, his throat felt like sandpaper and his nose was definitely trying to ruin his night, but he’d gotten through worse. He just needed to push through a little longer, keep the energy up, keep—

CLOUDHOPPER24: DUDE, hop on ESO, let’s run some dungeons.

S7en scoffed. “Yeah, no—”

STYXORRI: WAIT YES ESO TIME

VOIDGREMLIN: oh my god yes dungeon run let’s goooo

GHOSTBEE: don’t be lame get in nerd

[MOD] REXBURN: you’re outnumbered bro, just give in

S7en huffed, dragging a hand down his face before reluctantly exhaling through his nose. He already knew there was no getting out of this. The second chat got attached to an idea, they latched onto it like leeches.

"Fine,” he sighed, feigning great suffering as he exited his current game. “But if we’re playing ESO, I have to get my glasses or I’m not gonna be able to read shit.”

Chat didn’t seem to mind…

CATTITUDE69: GLASSES ARC LET’S GOOOOO

VOIDGREMLIN: nerdification incoming

STYXORRI: I REPEAT WE ARE ENTERING THE GLASSES ERA

He rolled his eyes but smirked slightly, peeling his headset off and pushing his chair back from the desk.

Before stepping away, he quickly pressed the mute button on his mic—at least, he thought he did.

His nose was still running. He sniffled thickly, pressing the heel of his palm against his septum before finally giving in and grabbing a tissue from the box on his desk. He tried to be discreet, turning away slightly as he blew his nose, but the sound was way thicker and wetter than he anticipated—loud, congested, a full-on mess.

And apparently, his sinuses were not ready to be cleared out all at once.

A maddening itch flared to life deep inside his nasal passages, raw and unrelenting. His breath caught, his chest stuttering through sharp, gasping build-ups as the sneeze took its time wrecking him.

“Hhh—! HhhAHH—! HAHDT’tchhhiew!! Hhh! AHHDT’tschhhiu!!"

The force rocked him forward, leaving him dazed for half a second before the itch surged right back up.

"Hhh! HAH—hhAHDT'shhiiew!!"

He sniffled hard, rubbing his nose roughly with his palm before finally slumping forward against the desk, exhaling sharply. God, that was miserable. But at least it was out.

Clearing his throat, he shook his head, grabbed his glasses from the shelf, and finally slid back into his chair. He adjusted the frames on his nose, pressed the power button on the monitor—

—and was immediately greeted by absolute chaos in the chat.

S7en’s brain took a solid three seconds to process what he was looking at.

The chat was moving so fast it was practically a blur. His orange ears twitched, then pressed flat against his head as he stiffened in realization.

CLOUDHOPPER24: BROOO WE HEARD ALL OF THAT

VOIDGREMLIN: THAT WAS UNHOLY

GHOSTBEE: unmute challenge (failed)

[MOD] REXBURN: you absolute dumbass.

CATTITUDE69: I THOUGHT HE WAS GONNA DIE FOR A SECOND LMAOOO

STYXORRI: new ringtone just dropped

S7en blinked.

“…What?”

That was all he could manage.

VOIDGREMLIN: LMAOOOO HE DOESN’T KNOW

STYXORRI: MY GUY. MY DUDE. YOU LEFT YOUR MIC ON.

GHOSTBEE: THE WHOLE THING. LIVE. UNFILTERED. IN HD.

[MOD] REXBURN: chat has been enlightened by the ancient knowledge of your waifu-esque sneezes.

S7en paled. His hand shot up to check his mic settings, only for his stomach to drop when he saw it. The mute button was still unpressed.

No.No. No. No.

Slowly, he turned his gaze back to chat, his tail flicking erratically behind him.

“…You guys heard that?…”

STYXORRI: YUP.

CLOUDHOPPER24: EVERY SINGLE SECOND.

VOIDGREMLIN: including the part where you DIED midway through the buildup

CATTITUDE69: top ten tragic anime deaths

GHOSTBEE: bro got done in by his own sinuses

[MOD] REXBURN: bro you took, like, a FULL ten seconds to die

S7en groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Oh, my god.”

He was never going to live this down.

His head thunked against the desk in pure, unfiltered misery. “This is literally the worst day of my life,” he muttered into the woodgrain, voice muffled.

STYXORRI: no, this is the best day of OUR lives

VOIDGREMLIN: actual best content we’ve ever gotten from you, 10/10

CATTITUDE69: sneeze tier list when

GHOSTBEE: top ten streams that changed history

S7en groaned again, lifting his head just enough to glare at his screen. His nose twitched, still red and visibly irritated.

“You’re all the worst,” he sniffled, rubbing his knuckles under his nose as he slumped back in his chair. “Swear to god, I could die on stream and you’d just clip it.”

[MOD] REXBURN: correct.

CLOUDHOPPER24: exactly. that’s what the clip button is for.

STYXORRI: ‘local streamer perishes in real time, audience eats popcorn’

VOIDGREMLIN: ‘thoughts and prayers (clipped for later)’

S7en huffed, shaking his head as he reached for his controller, ears still half-flattened in lingering embarrassment. “Remind me why I stream, again?” he grumbled, clicking through the ESO title screen.

But even as chat continued to roast him mercilessly, he couldn’t quite stop the tiny, amused smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips.

S7en settled into his chair, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to shake off the stiffness creeping into his muscles. The chat scrolled rapidly beside him, a chaotic mix of mocking comments, dramatic sympathy, and the occasional unsolicited health advice. He skimmed over it absently, only half-registering the words as he adjusted his headset.

“Alright, alright, let’s get this over with,” he muttered, loading into the game. His voice was rougher now, a rasping undertone slipping in that hadn’t been there at the start of the stream. He cleared his throat sharply, but it only aggravated the scratchiness, sending a brief, irritated shudder down his spine.

The dungeon queue popped, and as the loading screen flickered, he exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to steady himself. It didn’t help. His sinuses were a mess of static, an unbearable, crawling sensation burrowing deep behind his septum. He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, willing the feeling away, but it only grew stronger, teasing at the edges of his control.

The dungeon started, and S7en forced himself to refocus. He tightened his grip on the controller and sent his character charging into battle—only to immediately regret it. His timing was off. His dodges felt sluggish. His fingers barely seemed to respond to his brain’s commands. He sniffled sharply, but even that felt like it took effort.

This was fine.

He could push through.

Except—he was already pushing too hard. And his body? It was beginning to push back.

His fingers fumbled over the controls, barely registering the vibrations in the controller as his character staggered from another mistimed dodge. The edges of his vision blurred slightly, the bright colors of the game screen bleeding together, making it harder to track what was happening. The chat continued to roll, but he could only make out scattered words between the rising noise in his head—something about him playing like shit, a few half-serious “get well soon” messages, and Rexar demanding he take a damn break.

S7en ignored them.

Or, at least, he tried to.

The static in his sinuses had evolved into something sharper, a deep, pulsing itch winding its way from the bridge of his nose down into his throat, clawing at his lungs. He sucked in a careful breath through his mouth, but it only made the irritation worse, sending a raw prickle skittering down his airways. His ears twitched in frustration before flattening again, his tail curling tightly against the back of his chair.

“hHh—! hh—! HAHHDT’tchhIEEW!!”

The sneeze tore through him without warning, snapping him forward so fast his headphones nearly slipped from his head. He barely had time to catch his breath before another struck—"HhHAPTT’tchhiEW!!"—leaving him dazed, blinking against the sudden dampness in his eyes.

A quick glance at chat told him all he needed to know. They were already losing their minds.

“Dude, shut up,” he croaked, scrubbing a sleeve under his nose before sniffing sharply, only to regret it immediately when his breath hitched again. He groaned, dropping his forehead against the edge of his desk, gripping the controller weakly in one hand.

This was bad.

His head was thick with congestion, the weight of exhaustion settling into his limbs like lead. Every movement felt sluggish, every blink heavier than the last. He sniffled again, but it barely did anything, his sinuses clogged beyond saving.

S7en was losing it.

Not just in the game—though, yeah, that too—but in general.

His entire body felt like it was made of damp cement, each movement slower than the last. His reactions were sluggish, his dodges mistimed, his attacks weak. He knew he should have been moving—ESO dungeon bosses weren’t that hard—but every time he tried to focus, his head swam, a dull, pulsing ache pressing against the backs of his eyes like someone had wedged cotton into his skull.

His ears remained half-down, twitching every so often when the congestion shifted in his sinuses. He was hyper-aware of everything—the scratchy dryness spreading through his throat, the constant, prickling tickle that bloomed behind his nose and refused to either build or dissipate, the way his nostril chain swayed whenever he sniffled, brushing against the irritated skin of his nose and making everything so much worse—

He was also hyper-aware of chat absolutely clowning on him for standing in yet another AoE.

VOIDGREMLIN: bro. MOVE.

STYXORRI: S7EN. YOU ARE LITERALLY DYING.

CLOUDHOPPER24: I’ve never seen someone eat this much damage in my life.

GHOSTBEE: watching him tank this boss like he’s a healer main is making me sweat.

[MOD] REXBURN: you are getting bullied in a video game. please pull it together.

S7en sniffled, slumping forward slightly in his chair as his character hit the floor again. His hand lifted sluggishly, rubbing at his pink-rimmed nostrils with the back of his hand before his tail flicked in frustration.

“Tch… shut the fuck up, you all suck so much dick it’s not even funny.” he muttered, voice rough and hoarse. He cleared his throat again, trying to chase away the itch, but all that did was send him into a brief fit of unproductive, breathless coughs.

The chat immediately jumped on him.

CATTITUDE69: nuh UH what was that.

VOIDGREMLIN: ?? HELLO??

STYXORRI: sir. sir you are literally dying live on air.

[MOD] REXBURN: LOG OFF.

S7en ignored them, waving a lazy hand at the screen as he tried—and failed—to get his character back to the fight in time. His vision blurred slightly, and he blinked hard, trying to refocus, but it only made his sinuses throb. His breathing was getting shallower, his chest starting to ache in a way he really didn’t want to think about.

Then, just as the dungeon boss was finally, finally defeated, his entire world was shaken—literally—by the front door slamming open.

“Yo, I’m home—what the fuck are you still doing awake?”

S7en physically cringed.

His fluffy orange ears pinned flat against his skull as he slowly turned his head, as if that would somehow make him seem less guilty.

Elex stood in the doorway, arms crossed, staring him down like he was a parent catching their kid sneaking an energy drink at 2 AM. His dark green brows furrowed slightly, his mismatched eyes scanning him for a second before narrowing further.

S7en knew that look.

That was the you look like shit look.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Calm down, I’b—hh—! hhHAHPT’tSCHHhhuue!!!!”

The sneeze absolutely wrecked him. His already weak frame pitched forward with the force of it, his headset nearly slipping off as he ducked down into his sleeve. His breath barely had time to hitch before another one overtook him.

“hH! HAHDT’tschhhiuuue!!”

The second left him dazed. He sniffled thickly, blinking blearily as his ears drooped even lower.

Elex just stared.

“…Uh huh. Yeah. No. You’re done,” he announced, marching over without hesitation.

“Dude, I’b fide—“

“You’re not fine.” Elex cut him off, reaching around him and—without a second thought—closed the game.

S7en gawked. “EXCUSE ME—”

Chat, meanwhile, lost their minds.

STYXORRI: EL EX JUST STRAIGHT UP LOGGED HIM OUT LMAOOOO

VOIDGREMLIN: nah bc that’s actually so funny

[MOD] REXBURN: thank fuck, finally.

CLOUDHOPPER24: you have been evicted from the internet.

Elex turned to the screen, squinting at the chat before promptly leaning in and—click—ending the stream entirely.

S7en could only sit there, stunned.

“…Okay, rude.” He sniffled, rubbing his nose against his sleeve again. His voice was wrecked, all rough edges and stuffy vowels.

Elex huffed, eyes still sharp but softening just slightly as he took in the way S7en’s ears stayed pinned, how his shoulders drooped with exhaustion, how his breaths were already starting to wheeze.

“…How bad is it?” he asked, quieter this time.

S7en hesitated.

And for the first time that night, he didn’t have the energy to lie.

“…Bad.”

The end~

[undercover-horn-blog]

MY HUSBAND KEEPS WRITING DRABBLES AND SHORT STORIES FOR ME, TOTALLY UNPROMPTED???!! 😭😭😭😍😍😍🥹🥹🥹

He has been super prolific, I really can't believe my luck. I first asked him (quite shyly) whether maybe he could write something really short for me, like three or four lines ONE AND A HALF WEEKS AGO. After he sent me a much longer drabble (maybe 300 words or something?), I told him how much I loved it, but didn't beg for anything further.

Yet ever since this man has produced six drabbles for me, one of which is 1300 words long! He says he's having a lot of fun with it and that the ideas just come to him and he wants to keep writing for me.

I am so spoiled, oh my God. 🥹🥹🥹 (And perpetually turned on. No, seriously. It's an issue.)

I've been asking my husband to write increasingly more explicit snz fic for me and damn has he been delivering!! Not me corrupting his vanilla writing like this 😭 (I love it tho)

[disasterman-snz]

Dating Sim Demo!

Hello everyone!

Merry Christmas! I come bearing a gift... or well, a part of an upcoming gift haha.

I've been working on developing a snz-centric dating sim! And I'm very excited with how things are finally coming together.

With it being the holidays, and me having some time off work, I've finally been able to take all the art, writing, and voice acting I've been working on to create a functioning draft of the first scene of the game!

It's very short at the moment, but there's a lot more to come!

That said, I'd love feedback! (And even some suggestions, although keep in mind the amound of work that goes into writing, drawing assets, voice acting, and coding, and adjust expectations accordingly lol... this is my very strange hobby after all!)

*NOTE: I know mobile support was a big issue on my last game (it's unfortunately an issue I can't really fix atm). This game WILL have mobile support. It technically will run on a mobile device now, but the text is really hard to read because it isn't loading my custom ui elements for some reason. I'm going to figure out a solution of some sorts before the full release of the game :)

Please feel free to message me or send in asks with any feedback, bugs, suggestions, etc. I hope everyone enjoys <3

[4108927]

pretty long holdback session -> stifled sneeze -> immediate accidental half stifle -> full let out -> “oh fuck, that feels goo—” -> desperately let out fit

[bewitchedfeathers]

Hitching - Jay/ce Snz Fic

For the lovely anon that requested Jayce desperately hitching with a stuck sneeze. I hope this satisfies! Included Viktor inducing him with a tissue.

--------

“Oh mby god..”

“Jayce, are you alright?”

“I’mb finde I juh--just…hhh’Hhh…Sndf ndeed to sndeeze…SDnffff”

“And it is stuck?”

“Yeah, I keh-heeep…hih-hitching…”

Viktor came over to his side, letting a hand settle on Jayce’s shoulder and gently massaging at the muscle beneath his delicate fingers.

“That sounds frustrating,” he said with a small frown. He looked over Jayce and he looked no worse than he had this morning, nose slightly pink but otherwise energetic. His voice had a slight rasp to it and he’d been drinking tea all that morning but Jayce had assured him that it was a mild cold and it would pass on it’s own. 

“I cah-cadn’t get anything done. I just..hhh’Hihhh…Hih? SNDFF snffsnf keep doing that.” 

Viktor gave a sympathetic hum. Gaze turning thoughtful as he considered the problem. 

“I’m too hhh…distracted to work on eh-equations and I definitely can’t…hhh…can’t work on hh-huh anything phy-Hiihhhh…Hh’Huhhh’HUH…..nghh physical. Sdnff.”

He looked up at Viktor with pleading watery eyes.

“Perhaps-” Jayce interrupted him with a heaving breath in, eyes falling shut again and a tear slipping down one cheek as he hitched wildly for a moment but it again came to nothing.

“This is hh..ridiculous. Sndff,” He grumbled stuffily. 

“Perhaps, if we force you to sneeze it will give you some relief.”

“Force mbe? Huh-how do I make myself sndeeze?”

“Are you allergic to anything?”

Jayce immediately shook his head at the suggestion, a vague look of horror in his eyes as he imagined inducing with an allergen right now. “I definitely sdnff don’t want to…ahh-add allergies on top of…of…Hohh’hhh…Huhhh..of this.”

“Reasonable. Then perhaps something slightly more invasive.”

“More invasive?” Jayce said with a panicked expression, “I don’t like thuhh-the sound of that, Vik.”

“No, no, nothing harmful. I just meant perhaps inserting something into your nose might induce a strong enough reaction to cause you to sneeze.”

“You thih-think Hhhh…Hiiihh’HIH!...hnn. Hoh…my god. Okay. I’ll try anything…”

“Give me a moment,” Viktor stepped away to search through his bag for an appropriate tool. Jayce rubbed irritably at his nose, which twitched under his touch leading to another round of wavering breaths that lead nowhere.

“Ah, there we are,” Viktor murmured and pulled a packet of tissues from his bag he kept in case of emergency. Both Jayce and Viktor usually carried a handkerchief, and Jayce had brought in a few this morning, setting them on a side table in preparation for a work day with a head cold. But today his tissues would be used in a different way than a kerchief.

Viktor returned to Jayce's side and tugged a stool over to sit next to him. He pulled out the tissues and began rolling one into a long point. Jayce watched curiously as he dabbed his nose with his usual red hankie. 

“Now this will be inserted into one of your nostrils, preferably the one most sensitive, until we hit a spot that triggers a sneeze,” he outlined his method casually.

“And you thuh…huh..thought this up just now?”

“No, I've done it to myself once or twice before, for a similar reason.”

“Huh. Okay, so I just stick it hihh..hh… up there.”

“I would insert it going slowly and twisting it as you go and then gently pressing it to the back of your nose. I can do it for you, if you'd prefer?”

“You don't thihhh-hihh…think that's weird?”

“We work with the strange and unexplainable everyday, this is really very mundane, don't you think?”

“I guess… Then um let's hahh-ve you do it. If Sdnff you don't mind.”

“I said I don’t,” he offered mildly, “Now move your chair closer so I can reach more easily.”

Jayce pauses in his movement. “Wait, if this w-works I'll end up hh…huh?.. sneezing on you”

“Nonsense you will hold your handkerchief at the ready and catch any sneezes in it. It'll be fine.”

Jayce bit his lip mulling it over, “Okay. Okay, lets go ah-head and do it then.”

“Good. Now sit and tilt your head up slightly,” he directed gentle but firm.

Jayce tilted his head back and his breath hitched, flaring his nostrils wide before they relaxed again as his breathing leveled out. 

“Very good,” Viktor praised distractedly. Jayce's cheeks flushing lightly in response.

Viktor inserted the tip of the rolled up tissue just past the edge of one nostril. But as soon as it brushed the inner rim Jason flinched back on instinct. His nostrils flared wide as he heaved in a few gasping breaths, and then huffed out a discontent sigh.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, sniffling congestedly.

“It's alright, Jayce. Lets try again.” This time Viktor took a hold of Jayce's chin to help keep him still. He inserted the tissue into Jayce's nose and ignored the way Jayce's breath hitched and wavered at the least provocation. He twisted it slowly as he pushed it farther up and Jayce's hands balled into fists where they clenched along the edges of his handkerchief. 

“I can..hahh..feel it…hh-huhh. Hoh god it tih-hihhh…HIHHH…”

Viktor felt the tissue nudge against the back of Jayce's sinuses and his chest heaved, brow crumpling and eyes slamming shut. Viktor didn't let up, twirling the tissue between his fingers while keeping it there. 

“HIIHHH..HIH..HUHHHHHHH!?” He hovered for a moment on the precipice and Viktor nudged the tissue up.

“EERRRRUSHHOOO…HH’EEIISSHHHHOO…HH’HEH’EIISHHHHUHH…”

The first two sneezes caught Victor's hand before he could pull the tissue away. Jayce's head ducking down to aim towards his lap and the handkerchief still held halfway to his face. He managed to mostly capture the third in the loose folds of the kerchief.

“HEHGZSSHHuhh…Heh’DJSHOO…huhh…I cah-cad’t hhhhh’IGZSSHHuhh stop hh’huh-HEH’SHOO…”

“Try blowing your nose when you can, Jayce,” Viktor offered with soft concern.

“Hh’hh’EISSHHuhh…hhh’EDJSHHOO…” he managed to blow his nose, only pausing to sneeze once, before managing to get some relief. His handkerchief was a mess and he flushed keeping it pressed to his nose.

“Jesus, excuse me,” he offered bashfully.

“Bless you, Jayce,” Viktor murmured with a soft sympathetic look. “Feeling any better?”

Jayce sniffled, considering the answer, but he gave a tired smile when his breathing remained slow and even. “Yeah, actually. Thank you, Viktor.”

“It was nothing,” he responded, waving off Jayce's gratitude. “Now what is it you were working on?” He asked curiously. 

Jayce eagerly launched into an explanation only pausing for the occasional cough or sneeze. Both of them happy to focus on the science they loved. And if Viktor made tea and brought him tissues while insisting he wasn't fussing over him, Jayce chose not to call him on it.

----

Let me know if you liked it! Feedback is always appreciated and motivating! <3

[Snz Fic Masterlist]

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Noticing (M, cold)

Ok, so I got an idea and ran with it and it came out as 4.5k words with no sneezing until 2.5k words in (apologies). But this was a super fun write! In it, Reed and Greyson are newly moved in together and Greyson realizes Reed has some quirks he didn't know about. Sick Greyson, if you make it all the way to the snz then I promise he is pretty miserable by the end lmao. I hope you all enjoy, I know I've been MIA for a few weeks, I'm hoping to be around more but in the meantime I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one. Anyway, enjoy!

CW: Male snz, cold, some coughing. A lil relationship angst. Nothing too crazy in this one.

Noticing

The moment they moved in together, Greyson realized that Reed was… let’s just say a different breed of human than he was used to cohabitating with.

This wasn’t to say that a different breed was bad; quite the opposite, in most ways that mattered. Every roommate Greyson ever had could have been affectionately referred to as a swamp garbage monster from hell; dishes were done by Greyson and only him, and that was when he could actually get to them. Laundry littered the floor of the apartment, and not just the bedrooms but the living room and even kitchen floors, and the fridge would’ve been better classified as a biomedical waste bin.

Then there had been his brief stint of life with Collin. Collin wasn’t a swamp monster, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t a monster at all; Collin was what Greyson called the ‘everything-in-its-place’ monster. There wasn’t a single day that went by in their month-long living partner stint where Collin wasn’t berating Greyson about his toothbrush being on the wrong side of the sink, or his shoes being on the wrong side of the closet. As disgusting as it was, Greyson knew that if push came to shove he’d pick a million garbage roommates over a single monster of Collin’s variety.

Greyson had made it a point throughout his late twenties and into his thirties to live alone if he could, even if it meant taking the train an hour one way to work every day. He’d enjoyed his time alone, having everything where he wanted it, a home that most would call a bachelor pad, but without all the grime. Having something just for himself, especially after the disaster that was Collin, had felt safe. Comfortable. Easy.

The decision to move in with Reed had felt easy and comfortable too when he’d agreed to do it, though. It had felt safe, and he knew it was; it was just hard to give up the life he was used to, especially since he was once again moving into someone else’s space. The new apartment was… incredible. But it was Reed’s.

Reed’s life revolved almost completely around his apartment, Greyson quickly realized. His boyfriend worked from home, and worked a lot – there were nights when Greyson would stumble out of bed at three a.m. to pee, only to realize Reed was in his office typing away.

“If I get an idea, I have to write it out,” Reed had explained one morning when Greyson confronted him about it. “If I wait and go back to bed, it’ll be gone.”

Greyson could understand this; after all, he kept a notebook on him at all times for writing down ideas for menus or recipes. Creative force struck when it struck, he supposed. What he couldn’t understand was the absolutely insane schedule his boyfriend stuck to during the day.

“Honey, you don’t work from home so it’s hard for you to understand,” Reed had said when Greyson asked about the hour-by-hour, day-by-day schedule Reed kept on a bulletin board over his desk. “You really have to keep yourself on task in this line of work.”

“Yeah, I get that, babe,” Greyson said. “But I mean… you’re scheduling bathroom breaks. You work next to your bathroom.”

Reed had shrugged. “Sometimes I forget.”

Sometimes you forget?? Greyson found himself turning this idea over and over in his head the day after his boyfriend had uttered it. When Elijah asked him what he was so distracted by, Greyson couldn’t help but ask, “Have you ever forgotten to go to the bathroom?”

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” Elijah shot back. “Remind me to not ask you what you’re thinking about ever again.”

The schedule didn’t just apply to his work, though; Reed had everything scheduled. A cleaner came every Tuesday at nine a.m. sharp, no exceptions except for holidays. On the first Friday of each month, a man came to change their air filters. Was this a service provided by Reed’s fancy-schmancy apartment? Greyson had asked off-handedly the second month he lived there. Reed had raised an eyebrow at the question.

“Of course not,” he said. “I schedule it.”

“But… why? It’s not like you have any pets. I can change the air filters when they need to be changed,” Greyson offered. Reed’s lips pressed together at this offering, an indication that what he wanted to say and what he would would be two very different things.

“Let’s just keep it the way it is, baby,” he said. “So neither of us forget.”

It wouldn’t have mattered if Greyson forgot something, though, because Reed was not only on top of everything, he was ahead of everything. If Greyson forgot to throw his boxers in the dirty clothes when he got in the shower, they were in the hamper before the steam settled. The first time Reed made him dinner and Greyson offered to clean up after, he was shocked to find that there wasn’t a single dish in the sink to contend with. Even the counters were spotless.

None of this was to say that Greyson felt he’d moved in with a stranger; he knew that Reed was particular, Type A, and just a touch anal retentive before he’d moved in. He just hadn’t realized quite how intense the situation was.

“I don’t see the issue,” Elijah said when Greyson casually brought up the situation over drinks one night. “That sounds like a dream living situation. It’s like you have a free butler. Is he being an asshole about doing everything? It’s not like a Collin situation, is it?”

Greyson took a long pull from his whiskey, signaled the bartender for another. “No,” he said, turning towards his friend, “that’s exactly why it’s weird. He doesn’t say anything about it. I could probably smash all the plates in the cabinet, shred his blankets and shove them down the toilet and then take a shit in our bed and he’d have it cleaned up by the time I got home from work. No questions asked.”

Elijah pressed his lips together, thinking. “I just don’t see how any of this is bad.”

“I’m not saying it’s bad. I’m saying it’s weird.”

“Like you don’t have any weird quirks,” Elijah said, nodding at the bartender’s gesture to pour him another whiskey as well. “C’mon, Grey. Be serious.”

Greyson rubbed a hand down his face. “Yeah, I mean obviously. I’ve just, like… I’ve never lived with anyone like this. I feel like I’m tiptoeing around the house. Remember that Disney movie from way back? Smart House?”

“You are constantly forgetting that I am ten years older than you, asshole. No, I don’t remember fucking Smart House I was busy paying taxes when it came out.”

The chef flipped off his friend, laughing in earnest. “Whatever. It’s like the house is watching me, is what I mean. Which it isn’t, Reed isn’t watching me, obviously, it’s just… a totally different way of living. I don’t know.” Defeated, he knocked back the drink and shrugged, looking down. A hand slid over to pat his arm.

“You love him?” Elijah asked when Greyson looked up at him. A flush bloomed on Greyson’s face, prompting a laugh from Elijah. “Yeah,” the GM said, “you love him. So just accept him for this. It’s a weird quirk, yeah, but I mean it’s better than the alternative.”

“Swamp monster being the alternative?”

“Collin being the alternative,” Elijah corrected. Greyson shuddered. “Exactly.”

That was where he landed; he’d just accept the schedules, and the clean-freak weirdness, and the anticipatory service that would put a five-star hotel to shame. Greyson loved Reed, quirks and all, after all.

There was, however, one quirk Greyson hadn’t realized his boyfriend had – not until three months into living together.

On a Monday in May, Greyson woke up to the sound of Reed on the phone.

This was hardly new; Reed was on the phone near-constantly on days he worked, talking to magazines and news sites, interviewing other chefs and restaurant owners in the city. At first, Greyson assumed this was one of those calls – that is, until he walked into the kitchen and began eavesdropping.

“Thanks for understanding, Melissa. Yep, should be all good by next week, I appreciate it. Mmhmm. I’ll Zelle the partial payment now. Thanks again, hun, see you next week. Buh-bye.”

Greyson raised an eyebrow as Reed hung up the phone. “Was that Melissa the cleaning woman?” Reed nodded, penning something into his day planner.

“Mmhmm,” he said, looking up at his boyfriend and smiling. “Why? Good morning, by the way.”

“Morning,” Greyson said, peeking into Reed’s planner. “Were you calling her off for tomorrow?”

“Yes…?” Reed said, drumming his fingers on the table. “Is that okay?”

“Obviously it’s okay,” Greyson said as he made a coffee in their Keurig. “I mean, I’m just surprised. You’ve never called her off, she comes like fuckin’ clockwork. Do you have some sort of plans?”

Reed shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “Um,” he said, closing the planner. “Sort of.”

Pouring creamer into his coffee, Greyson burst out in a laugh. “Sort of? I’ve lived with you for months, baby. You’ve never sort of had a plan. I’d be shocked if you hadn’t planned your own birth for a specific day.”

“Don’t be silly. No one would ever choose to have a Christmas birthday.”

“Mmm, fair enough,” Greyson said, sitting next to his boyfriend. “Sooo… what’s the plan?”

Again, Reed seemed uncomfortable. “You’re going to think I’m weird if I say it,” he admitted. Greyson snorted out a laugh.

“My love,” he said, cupping Reed’s chin, “that ship has sailed. You are very weird, and I love that about you. Now tell me why you called off Melissa, throwing a wrench in your otherwise-perfectly-curated day.”

Reed pressed his lips together. Then, quietly: “You’re getting sick.”

Greyson reeled back as if Reed had pushed him. “What?” he asked, dumbfounded.

Immediately, Reed set to explaining: “Okay, okay, I know this is bizarre but… um… okay, the explanation is going to sound even more bizarre, I’m now realizing, but you have, um, a tell. When you’re getting sick. And I know that sounds weird or invasive, but I just noticed it last night so I figured I would call off Melissa so that tomorrow you can just sleep instead of, like, listening to the vacuum all day. That’s all.”

The apartment was quiet then. “What’s the tell?” Greyson asked after a long pause.

“Grey, please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, I’m… I don’t even know what I am, honestly. Freaked out?”

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have said anything,” Reed moaned, putting his head between his arms on the table. “I’m so fucking embarrassed.” He lifted his head then, his face red. “Please don’t be upset?”

The wind had been taken out of Greyson’s sails. “I’m really not… upset. Just tell me the tell.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not. Tell me why you think I’m getting sick.”

Reed sighed, looking down at his planner. “I just… like details. That’s all.”

“Reed, for God’s sake just tell me.”

“Okay!” Reed said, his embarrassment turning to frustration. “Okay. It’s just… ugh this sounds so weird. Okay, so like… you start to say a couple days before that some food that you love tastes weird, even though it doesn’t. This time it was an orange, you said it tasted rotten - I tried it, it didn’t. Then you’re super cold and moody, you wear your jacket to work even though it isn’t cold. That happened yesterday, then you came home and refused a drink. Those are all tells. So I figured by today when you got home from work, you’d be feeling shitty.” Reed shrugged, an attempt at being blasé that failed miserably with the catch in his voice that meant his embarrassment was about to spill over into tears. “That’s all.”

For a moment, Greyson just nodded – one continuous nod that he couldn’t seem to stop or accompany with words. “Okay,” he said, standing. “Um… I need to go to work. Can we talk about this later?”

“Greyson,” Reed said, desperation clear in his voice. “I promise I didn’t mean this to be so weird. I just… every time you’ve been sick, it’s been the same thing. I’m sorry. I notice patterns, it’s… one of my things, I guess. I don’t want you to think I’m a freak.”

“Reed,” Greyson said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I need a minute with this one. Okay? That’s it. I’m not mad, I just need… a minute.”

They stood in silence then, a stand-off with no winner or loser. “Okay,” Reed said finally. “Have a good day.”

Greyson went to the bedroom then, put on his work clothes, and gathered his backpack. What the ever loving fuck, he thought as he left without saying goodbye, was that?

***

“I mean, yeah, boss, that’s kind of weird I guess.”

This was not the reaction he’d been hoping for from Matt. “What do you mean kind of weird?” Greyson said, throwing his hands in the air. “He’s, like, stalking my habits. Keeping tabs on me. It’s insanity, Matt.”

The sous just shrugged, noncommittal, and continued chopping onions. “First off, I think you’re blowing this out of proportion. He’s watching your habits because he cares about you. It’s called intimacy. And second, I don’t know how to tell you this, Chef,” he said, glancing up, “but you do kind of have a tell when you’re getting sick.”

What kind of fucking nega-universe am I living in right now? Greyson thought, slamming his knife on the cutting board. “I do not have a tell,” he said. Matt glanced to the side, silent. “I don’t, Matt.”

“You don’t what?” Mark glided into the conversation, popping a cherry tomato from his boyfriend’s prep station into his mouth. Greyson took this opportunity gladly.

“Mark, glad you’re here,” Greyson said, turning away from his sous. “Random question: can you tell if Mark is getting sick?”

The floor manager furrowed his eyebrows together, looking Matt over. “Are you sick?” he asked his boyfriend.

“No,” Matt said. “But Greyson is.”

“Oh, my God no I am not,” Greyson insisted, throwing his arms over his head. “Never mind, Mark. Go.”

“Snippy,” Mark said. A knowing look passed between Mark and Matt then. “I’ll let Elijah know.”

No shot in hell this is my life, Greyson thought, looking wildly around the prep kitchen. “What the fuck is happening right now? I’m – HRRTSHH-ue!”

Silence fell over the back kitchen as Greyson ducked into his elbow. Then Elijah, from the office up front: “Oh, fuck off, I knew you were getting sick!”

Matt and Mark cackled while Greyson attempted to quell the volley of sneezes he knew were on that first’s heel. “You guys are asshoo – assholessITSZCH-ue! Hh - ! HETSZH-ue!”

“Bless, Chef,” Matt said, still laughing. The blessing made Mark literally double over, unable to catch his breath. Greyson glowered at the two of them as he yanked a handful of paper towels out of the dispenser and blew his nose. This is fucking humiliating, he found himself thinking.

“Shit, sorry Chef,” Mark said, finally catching his breath. Matt wiped a hysterical tear from his eye. “It’s just… I mean, it’s always so easy to tell when you’re sick. Can I get you some medicine from up front?” “No, Mark, you cannot get me some medicine,” Greyson grumbled. “You can go to the front and do your fucking job, though.”

Greyson could see Mark bite his cheek to keep from laughing again. “Yes, sir,” he said, disappearing from the back kitchen. On a roll, Greyson whirled around on his heels to point at his sous.

“And you,” he said, “finish up this prep. I’m going to the office.”

Matt just nodded, the smile on his face betraying his thoughts. “Yes, Chef,” he said.

As he stomped, defeated, to the front office, Greyson checked his phone. One new message.

11:52AM

Reed

hi, love. just wanted to make sure you’re having a good day. sorry again for my weirdness. love you.

God-fucking-dammit.

***

It had been a running joke from the time he was a kid.

Greyson, the go-til-you-drop expert. Greyson, the workhorse. Greyson, who wouldn’t know he’d been hit by a bus until someone else forced him into an ambulance. It was weird, he guessed, but it was what it was; he didn’t realize he was sick until it hit him because he was working. He was busy. That was how it always had been.

“Would you get in the office and take some fucking Dayquil, please?” Elijah plucked the knife from Greyson’s hand as he ducked under the prep station to stifle a flurry of coughs into his jacket. “We already said we’re sorry for embarrassing you, now go take something.”

Unwilling to give in, Greyson just shook his head and yanked his knife back from Elijah’s hands. “You didn’t embarrass mbe because I’mb ndot sick.”

“Uh huh,” Elijah said, crossing his arms. “Could you say that again?”

“Say what again?”

“‘I’m not sick’.”

Greyson rolled his eyes. “I’mb ndot sick.”

“‘I’mb ndot sick’,” Elijah parroted back, his consonants purposely dulled. “That’s crazy, that’s exactly how well people sound when they say that.”

Greyson’s face flamed. “Fuck off, Elijahhh – ahhTXSH-uhh!” An attempt to stifle a sneeze that immediately backfired. “HRSHH-ue! Huh -! HhhITSZCHH-ue!”

Taking pity, Elijah took the few steps to the office and grabbed a box of tissues. He placed it in front of the chef’s face and, begrudgingly, Greyson pulled out a few. “Bless you,” Elijah said, pointedly.

“You kndow what I miss,” Greyson asked, wiping his nose and sucking in, fruitlessly. Elijah raised his eyebrows as if to say, What? “I miss when I first started here and you were so clueless and self-involved that you didn’t ndotice I was walking around the kitchen with the fuckigg flu. I mbiss clueless Elijah. At least he wasn’t up mby ass twenty-four-seven.”

Elijah barked out a laugh. “You do not miss that,” he said. “You couldn’t even handle an afternoon of me not realizing you were sick. You were so downright offended that I hadn’t noticed you were sick that you literally went off on me. Please, Greyson. You can play the I’m-not-sick card all you want, but don’t pretend you don’t like the attention.”

At this, Greyson balked. “Are you calling mbe an attention whore?”

“Grey, of course I’m calling you an attention whore,” Elijah exploded, throwing his hands in the air. “Someone who isn’t an attention whore doesn’t turn a weird fight with his boyfriend into a day-long diatribe at work. You think Reed realized you were getting sick because he’s stalking your movements? Please, Grey. He realized it because you do the same damn thing every time – you sulk around work for a day or two, complaining about the thermostat being wrong in the kitchen. Your taste is off, and every dish Matt brings to you for editing doesn’t have enough salt. Then you come into work one day in a bad mood and seemingly out of nowhere start sneezing and coughing and shit. It’s like clockwork.”

The two of them stood there for a moment, silent. Despite it all, Greyson was in a bit of shock – was he really that obvious? How the fuck did everyone else realize he was sick before it ever even dawned on him? “It’s like that every time?” he asked, finally. Elijah nodded.

“Every time,” he said. “I thought you were always just trying to soft-launch your illness before it hit, get us all ready for a few days of you being an asshole.”

Was that what he was doing? Now Greyson was having a hard time even trusting his own brain – but no, that couldn’t have been his intention. He’d never even noticed before when he was getting sick. He figured that’s how everyone was; one day you’re fine, the next you’re on your ass.

“I’mb gonna keep it really real with you, Lij,” Greyson said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve ndever ndoticed that I did any of that. HRRTSHH-uhh! Fugck.” He grabbed another handful of tissues from the box beside him and wiped his nose. “I thought ‘getting sick’ was, like, a myth. You either are or you aren’t.”

Elijah closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You… are a different breed, Greyson Abbott,” he said, gathering himself. “You’ve never, like, taken inventory of how you’re feeling? Ever?”

“I mean, if I’mb forced to,” Greyson said, coughing into a fist. “Like ndow I am.”

“So you’re saying the only time you think about how you’re feeling is when you’re already down bad.”

“Uhh. Yes,” Greyson admitted, sniffling. “Pretty much.”

Elijah cracked his neck then, as if gearing up for a fight. “Get help, Grey,” he said, laughing. “That’s fucking crazy work.”

But it was true. From the time he was young, Greyson was busy. Sports as a teen, then restaurants the second he graduated – there simply wasn’t time to take inventory of how he was feeling. Taking inventory meant spending time thinking about how shitty things were, or could be, or would be eventually. In all honesty, Greyson had no interest in thinking about how or when things would all fall apart. They always did, eventually. No need to dwell on it.

Again, the two of them stood in silence, until finally Greyson broke the tension. “You said we have Dayquil?” he asked. Elijah just nodded.

“Want me to bring you some?”

“Yeah. Thanks, boss.”

***

By nine p.m., Greyson so done, if he were a steak you’d need a bone saw to cut through him.

“Huh-!” For the millionth time that evening, Greyson’s breath hitched painfully, and he folded completely in half to -

“HRRTSZHH-ue! Huh...hhITZHCHH-ue! ETSCHH-ue! Huh -! Hhnnn… Fuckigg – HRRETSZH-ue!”

“Bless, Chef,” the cooks called. Matt raised his eyebrows at his boss from behind the line.

“Ready to admit defeat yet?” he asked as another ticket printed. Fuck, Greyson thought, pulling the ticket. Yes, I fucking am.

“Order ind,” Greyson called, his voice dipping on the second word. “Two scallops, one ribeye. HRRTSHH-uhh!”

“Yes, Chef. Bless, Chef,” called the cooks.

Okay. Even he knew when it was time to call it.

“Mbatt, combe expo,” Greyson said, yanking his apron off. “I’mb going home, I’m fuckigg dying.”

Matt just nodded and walked around his coworkers to the other side of the line. “Feel better, Chef,” he said, pulling another ticket. “Order in.”

Greyson trudged to the office and slammed the door. Fucking Reed. Fucking Matt. Fucking Elijah, he thought, unbuttoning his coat and yanking his hoodie over his head. Just as he was about to open the door to leave, someone knocked timidly. “Come in, ndo one’s naked,” Greyson muttered.

Elijah opened the door and stood in the entry. “Admitting defeat?” he echoed the sous. Greyson rolled his eyes painfully.

“I guess,” he said, coughing into the sleeve of his jacket. “Gotta go face the all-seeing-eye at home. Can’t wait.” Elijah nodded, shifting from foot to foot as if weighing what he wanted to say next.

“Greyson,” Elijah said finally; gently, carefully. “I know what you’re used to. We all know what you’re used to, and it’s what Collin gave you. Neglect. Nothing. I get it, dude. You aren’t used to a partner really caring about you. But Reed? He’s like us, like me and Mark and Matt. He cares about you.” Elijah shrugged. “Let him.”

Even if he didn’t feel like shit, Greyson probably would’ve teared up. As it stood, he felt the tears fall down his face before he could even look away. “What happens whend he leaves?” he asked, his voice small. Elijah placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, looked him in the eye.

“What happens if he doesn’t?”

***

When he walked in the door, Greyson was surprised to find that the TV was on and Reed was nowhere to be found. The TV was almost never on in this apartment, and Greyson could almost always hear the click-clack of Reed’s keyboard when he walked in, no matter the time.

“Reed?” Greyson called, his voice straining. “Are you hombe?”

From the bedroom, Greyson heard a crash, then a “Fuck,” then suddenly Reed was standing in front of him in a t-shirt and pajama pants, looking very much not like his usual put-together self.

“Grey,” he said, throwing his arms around Greyson’s neck, “you came back.”

Greyson pulled back, looking at Reed’s face – had he been crying? “Of course I cambe back,” he said. “What do you meee – HRRTSCHH-ue! Fuck, ’scuse mbe.” Greyson wiped his nose on his jacket and Reed, ever-prepared, handed him a box of tissues from the entry table next to them.

“Bless you,” Reed said. “I mean… you never answered my text. You kinda stormed out this morning I figured… I don’t know. I had freaked you out too hard and you were done with me.” He shrugged, one hang wringing the other. “I’m sorry for being such a freak.”

Gently, Greyson pulled Reed’s hands away from one another, placed them on his own face. “Please don’t be sorry. You’re ndot a freak,” he said. “You’re just… you care. And I’mb ndot used to that. That’s on mbe, Reed. Ndot you. Caring, noticing… it’s a good thing.” He smiled then. “It’s something I admire about you. I’mb sorry I’ve never said it.”

Reed looked down, blushing. “You’re really warm,” he said, finally. Greyson coughed out a laugh.

“You’re also a bit of a prophet,” he said. “I feel like dog shit.”

Tutting, Reed moved one of his hands from Greyson’s cheek to his forehead. “Want me to get you some ibuprofen? Or I can make you tea, we have a ton, or let me run you a bath, or -”

“What I want,” Greyson cut him off, pulled him close, “is to go sit ond that couch. With you. And rot for the next few hours. Mbaybe order Doordash.” He coughed into his sleeve again, then, prompting Reed to attention once again.

“Shit, I should’ve made dinner or something, I honestly was just so worried you weren’t coming back I haven’t done anything today, I’m sorry baby I should’ve -”

“Hey,” Greyson said, pulling him back. “I just want you. I don’t want you to do sombething for mbe, or get something for mbe, or mbake something. I just want to be with you. Is that ok?”

Reed stopped in his tracks. “You don’t want anything?”

“Just you,” Greyson said. “And – HRRTSSH-ue! Snrf. And mbaybe the tissues.”

A smile spread across Reed’s face then. “I can handle that.”

[wickedsniffles]

Domestic Bliss

Summary: A bit of morning sex during allergy season. Wade has the kink. Logan has the allergies ❤️ (This got SO out of control but holy moly was it fun to write)

Pairing: Wade Wilson aka Deadpool x Logan Howlett aka Wolverine

Rating: Explicit

Tags: established relationship, oral sex, handjobs, snz, kink!Wade, praise kink, pet names, fluff

Word Count: 1.2K

Wade's situated between Logan's legs, on his stomach, in the warm nest of their bed. He's sucking his cock in an almost dreamlike state, only half focused on the task at hand (in mouth). As nice as it is to get his partner off, as much as he loves to do it…it's getting harder and harder to ignore his own arousal. 

It's all because of the look on Logan's face. Flushed pink and worrying at his lip, Logan is the fucking picture of sexual pleasure. His pretty hazel eyes laser focused on Wade, breathing heavy as he fights not to arch up into his mouth. 

One hand sits on top of Wade's head, fingernails digging into his scalp gently. The other stays at his side, wandering up to his face every once in a while to scrub at his nose. The nose that is much darker shade of pink than his face, itchy and irritated, only drawing attention to the handsome shape and strong outline. 

Wait, what? 

Yeah, you read that right. Wade's unashamedly sucking cock and getting off to how Logan looks like he's trying hard to stay in the moment, focus on Wade, and not give in to the itch they both know is torturing him. 

It's allergy season, baby. And they might both be built to heal anything from a papercut to an axe wound, but that healing factor doesn't do shit against a nose as sensitive as Logan's. He's a wreck with the first warm breeze. 

A polite wreck, to be sure. Uncharacteristically polite. Of course, with Logan being Logan, there's no way he'd come out and admit to being taken down by something as small as a grain of pollen. The first time Wade notices him being allergic to something, Logan stifles it so well that he almost misses it entirely. Like a fucking sneeze ninja. 

They'd been cuddling together on the couch. Logan had just, like, frozen in place and pressed a knuckle to the side of his nose. His shoulders shook once, twice, three times. A soft exhale. 

Wade remembers bristling. Kink activated. “Um…bless you?” 

Logan had gone bright red down to the tips of his ears. “Shut up.”

The more attention Wade paid – and trust him, audience, he was paying plenty of attention now – the more times he caught him. When there's a lot of dust. When it's cold outside. Around certain flowers. God help him. As months passed and they got more comfortable around one another, Logan stopped stifling them like that every time. But Wade knew it was still his first instinct. 

Wade moans around what's in his mouth and takes Logan deeper, pressing his hips hard into the mattress. He can't believe Logan hasn't sneezed since he started sucking him off. 

But he looks like he might. Wade knows the look by now. A lot of blinking with those long pretty eyelashes. Expression going all distant and far away. Breath hitching, lips parting.  

That, or he's about to come. The fact that the two expressions are so similar makes another wave of heat clench in Wade's abdomen. 

“So fuckin' – good, baby,” Logan croaks, sounding absolutely wrecked. He scrubs at his nose with a thick sniffle, swallowing hard. “You gettin’ close too?” 

Wade whines his affirmative. I’d be closer if you indulged my weird kinks, bub. 

Smiling at that, Logan thrusts deeper into his mouth, making Wade take more, and god that’s a treat in itself. 

“You’re –” his breath hitches, followed by another irritated sniff.  “You’re gonna make me come,” he says. Nose scrunching in that familiar way.  “Wade –” 

He can’t take it anymore. Wade takes the hand that Logan has on his head and winds his fingers through, then grabs his other hand by the wrist until he’s locked in place. Oh, oops, sorry, I’m sooo cute and I just wanna hold your hands while I suck you off. Or do I have ulterior motives? 

They make eye contact. Logan tries to break loose from the grip, but Wade’s not letting him move an inch. Logan’s no idiot. He knows exactly what Wade’s trying to do, what he’d like to happen. His eyes narrow, both with exasperation and the effort of trying to hold back. Wade’s heart leaps. 

“You are f-fucking…” 

Oh, he’s not holding back this time. Wade grins like the devil around the cock in his mouth. 

“Heh…heh’ESSH-uh! Esshh! ESSHH-uh!”

Logan sneezes into his shoulder, breathy and desperate. Finally finally finally – 

That’s all Wade needs. With a long, muffled whimper, he comes hard against the sheets, feeling the warmth of it bloom against his stomach with each spasm. He relaxes into the mess, going boneless, and hears Logan scoff out a laugh. 

Wrestling his hands free, he carefully takes himself out of Wade’s mouth. 

“Bless you,” Wade manages, working his jaw. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Logan answers. “I was gonna say ridiculous.” 

“Yeah.” He’s definitely not gonna deny that. Wade Wilson is the original seven herbs and spices of ridiculous, with some added kick to keep people on their toes. 

His Wolverine’s eyes crinkle up into a smile. “C’mere, Red.” 

Crawling up until he’s straddling Logan’s cock, Wade can’t help but mirror the expression. There’s no one else on this planet – no one else in the multiverse – who matches his freak like Logan does. Who loves him like Logan does. They’re two perfect halves of the same fucked up pepperoni pizza. 

Wade rubs his half-hard cock against Logan’s until he’s groaning with need, gripping it tight before leaning in to kiss that spot on his neck that makes him all hot under the collar. Logan gasps instantly and almost crushes Wade to him, pressing his face into Wade’s old t-shirt. Tilting his head for better access. 

“Fuck, please,” he says, breath hot on Wade’s skin through the material. 

He comes undone in only a few strokes, in just a handful of open-mouthed kisses pressed to his neck. Logan pants and gasps through every pulse of his orgasm, arching into Wade’s hand as Wade strokes him through it. 

“Good boy,” Wade tells him, low and hot in the shell of Logan’s ear. He shudders at the praise, dribbling a little more come with the smallest sound of need. Fuck. 

They breathe for a while, cuddled close like that. The feeling of Logan’s arms around him and listening to his pulse gradually slow against Wade’s cheek is his idea of a lazy morning well spent. He’d gladly spend hours like this, if it weren’t for the mess they’re currently covered in starting to get cold. Hell, they might come right back here to their little bed nest after they shower. 

“C’mon, peanut,” he says eventually. “Let’s get cleaned up. We’re gonna be stuck together if we don’t move now.” 

Logan doesn’t answer at first. When he does, his response is another trio of hitched sneezes into the collar of Wade’s shirt, followed by an irritated growl. 

“Sorry. And yeah, let’s go,” he sighs, rubbing at his itchy nose with the back of his hand. “Wade, get offa me.”  

Wade can’t move; he’s stunned into horny silence, more than aware of his cock filling up against Logan’s thigh. 

Once he realizes what’s going on, Logan breaks out in an embarrassed grin, shoving Wade off of his lap and onto the mattress. 

“You are the fucking worst.” 

“I love you too, babygirl,” Wade says sweetly. “And bless you!”

[vllergy]

strawberry scones

s/tar/d/ew v/alley, 2.6 k, s/am allergy fic my farmer has the fetish because i said so, sam/seb/farmer are some kind of polycule also because i said so sorry to call u out directly but just want to note the text messages and dynamics are directly inspired from @bestwhumpist's fics because i'm obsessed with the way you write the 'one partner with the kink and everyone else around them' dynamic and you inspire me xoxoxoxoxoxoxo ty

goblin destroyer + milo abigail: r we still practicing today?? seb: we were supposed to…. abigail: ???  seb: sam might still be dying sam: IM GOOD! IM FINE! i took my allergy meds sam: we’re still on >:|  seb: uh huh sam: im serious! im much better sam: 4pm at my place be there or be lame sam: milo, you in? c: 

The glare from the sun made the surface of his phone near impossible to read at first. Angling his hat forward, Milo let the brim cast a shadow over the screen until the group chat became legible. And when it did, his throat immediately went dry. Nervous heat fluttered in his chest despite the still crisp early spring air and his thumbs became clumsy as they hurried to type back a response. 

milo: you know it!!! i’ll bring snacks

He was about to pocket his phone and resume tending to the bed of soil in front of him when another message came through. A private one, outside the group chat. Milo swiped back to read it and his heart dropped into his stomach.

sebastian: ur so fucked lol 

Upon first arriving, it seemed as though Sam’s insistence on his own well-being was actually genuine. He greeted Milo at the door with clear eyes and a beaming, slightly crooked smile. Feeling like a delinquent for doing so, Milo gave a cursory glance at his nose and found it not even the slightest bit red or raw looking. He tried to temper his disappointment in favor of relief. This was good, actually. If Sam’s allergy meds really were doing their job, this was going to be a lot easier for him to sit through.

Sam threw a lean, muscled arm around Milo’s shoulders and guided him inside. He smelled like fresh laundry and sunshine and was already talking a mile a minute. 

“I think you’re really gonna like the new stuff, Sebastian’s been working on some lyrics that really brought the whole ting together--” he glanced at the tote Milo had clutched under his arm, “Oh shit, you really did bring snacks! I could kiss you, dude.”

They entered Sam’s room—always surprisingly clean for a man so full of boundless energy—and Abigail snorted. 

“Ugh, save it for when I leave,” she muttered, “The three of you can make out on your own time.”

Milo blushed dark red, the freckles on his cheeks nearly dissolving into the pools of color as the heat crawled up his face. Just as his step faltered, Sebastian appeared at his side and snaked an arm around his waist. He pulled Milo free of Sam’s golden aura and cocooned him in his own: velvety and dark and every bit as distracting.

“It was a figure of speech, jeez,” Sam’s cheeks went a little pink too, much to Milo’s delight. The blonde palmed the back of his neck sheepishly while he kicked off his shoes. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Milo caught Sebastian smirking. He never quite knew where the lines between them all existed. He and Sebastian were dating, he was pretty sure of that. But Sam and Sebastian had a thing all of their own too. And for their part, Milo and Sam always seemed to get tongue-tied around one another, a phenomenon Sebastian relentlessly encouraged. 

The only one who could clock all of them from a mile away seemed to be Abigail, who rolled her eyes and snatched the tote away from Milo before retreating back to the couch with it. Cracking open the lid made the room fill with the sweet scent of fresh baked scones. Abigail’s eyes went wide.

“Milo, you outdid yourself,” she gasped.

Milo, who’d just stopped blushing started right up again, and raked a hand through his dark curls.  

“It’s a new recipe.”

“Oh hell yes! Gimme one!” 

Sam darted past and snatched one out of the bin, jamming nearly half of a scone into his mouth with glee. Both Sebastian and Abigail rolled their eyes, but Milo merely watched with unmasked affection. Sam never did anything elegantly. It was all wide-toothed grins, exaggerated movements and unapologetic mirth.

By contrast, Sebastian was more delicate about the whole ordeal. Taking a scone for himself, he held it between his long, pale fingers and inspected the glaze. His dark eyes flickered to Milo.

“Strawberry?” he asked.

Milo nodded, “Picked this morning.” 

Sam had already demolished his first and was onto his second as he stooped down to his guitar case. Scone in mouth, he snapped the latches with his hands and shook hair out of his face like a dog. Milo’s chest squeezed. So cute.

En route to the keyboard, Sebastian stopped and placed a soft kiss on Milo’s cheek. “Thanks, farmer.” His hand strayed to his hip as he passed and pinched at the bone playfully. Milo almost yelped but managed to keep his reaction from emerging. 

He whirled an accusing gaze on Sebastian who merely gave a pointed look over at Sam who now held a half-eaten scone in one hand and was furiously rubbing at his nose with his other.

—

Abigail used to joke that Milo was a captive audience for these practice sessions. But the truth was, there was nowhere in the world Milo would rather be. As music filled the room, Milo sank back into the old couch Sam had dragged in and pushed against the wall.

He couldn’t hold a tune to save his life and he’d never learned to play an instrument, so the best he could offer was a pair of listening ears for Goblin Destroyer’s new material. He tended to think everything they did sounded great, but he at least pretend to offer varying opinions. He mostly just liked being a part of it all. Plus, watching both Sebastian and Sam in their element had a kind of hypnotizing power over him. 

Unfortunately, not hypnotizing enough to distract Milo from the losing battle happening before his eyes.

Sam turned his head against his shoulder and rubbed his nose against his shirt. With both hands occupied by his guitar, it seemed to be his only option, and one made effortlessly casual at that. It was over and done with in a second, having not missed a beat for his efforts, and it seemed Milo was the only one who’d noticed. It could have been a fluke. 

But of course it wasn’t. 

A few moments later, Sam sniffed hard. The sound was lost behind the music but Milo could see it happen clear as day. The bridge of his nose crinkled a few times and then the tip wriggled as he tried to assuage an itch without actually scratching it. Milo squirmed on the couch, wondering what it might be like to help him. To reach up and rub his nose for him while he played, or run his fingers along the bridge of his nose to try and coax out— 

Sam sneezed without warning. A tightly controlled thing, just one bob of his head and a brief shuttering of his expression. It was impossible to say if he’d made any sound or not given the volume of the music, but Milo doubted it. For as inelegant as Sam could be, he’d been suffering from his allergies for long enough that he’d gotten good at suppressing them. Normally he didn’t bother, at least not around them, but Milo supposed these were different circumstances. There was a certain veneer of professionalism here.

Sam sniffed hard enough to wrinkle his nose again and continued playing, unbothered. But Milo knew where this was going. And he was certainly bothered. 

Sam’s fingers never missed their mark on the neck of the guitar as his eyes fluttered and his head snapped forward once, twice, and then a third time with completely suppressed sneezes. His mouth was shut in a tight line, his expression pinched. He shook his head after the third as if to clear the sensation and arched his shoulder to wipe under his nose as he played. 

Milo felt the room turning to molasses around him. Heat crawled up his throat. Worse still, Sebastian had caught that last outburst. A tiny smirk played on the keyboardist’s pale features as he continued to play, his eyes flashing almost wickedly as he met Milo’s gaze. 

His expression seemed to say Told you. 

There were a few moments of peace. Milo tried to will himself not to look at Sam again but his eyes were pulled there like a magnet. He could tell the fit was getting away from him. Sam’s eyes closed and this time his hands paused their rhythm on the guitar as the tickle distracted him. He tilted his head toward the light, a lock of blonde hair falling limp across his forehead, and then whipped to the side after a brief pause. 

“—tiiew!” 

Milo only caught the tail end of the sound over the music, and the resounding-undoubtedly wet-sniffle was swallowed up by Sam falling seamlessly back on beat. He blinked a little groggily as he continued playing. Then, he must have noticed Milo staring, because he grinned sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders at him. 

That slight acknowledgement of it all went right to Milo’s dick. He somehow plastered on what he thought was a convincing smile in return and then had to cross his legs. His heart began jackhammering in his chest. Fuck, was he really about to have to sit here while this happened? Maybe he really was a captive audience.

Sam struggled in vain to keep playing but his nose had other ideas. Surrendering to the tickle, his hands went slack against the instrument again and his upper lip curled over his canine. Milo couldn’t hear the uptick of his breath but he could imagine it well enough, watching the plane of Sam’s chest swelling against his t-shirt. Hh—hh? Hh?

Sebastian stopped playing. And the pause between Abigail’s drumming was just long enough for the first, clear sneeze to strike through the room crystal clear.

“h’h’JIISHZSHh’huu!” Sam gripped the neck of his guitar and angled away from it. Milo couldn’t tell if he was worried about sneezing near it or just using it as a point of stability. He gasped and let his head snap forward with a second, wet, “hh’tiiISChiew!” 

Abigail stopped playing too. Silence descended, to which Sam quickly shook his head. He turned to the others even while his head bobbed between sneezes, eyes struggling to open during the quick cadence.

“N-no, don’t—nNNCH!—stop, I’m—hNGT!—fiii-nnGXT!—hGNT!—I can keep—tschh! TSCH! Going!”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, “Yeah, you sound like it.”

“You know when you hold them in like that it only just makes it worse,” Abigail scolded him.

Milo felt like the walls were closing in on him. He quickly angled himself towards the arm of a couch and placed one of the pillows on his lap as strategically as he could. 

Sam lifted the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth as he geared up for another. “h’Hsshhh-ue!!”  "Bless you," Milo said, his mouth dry.

“I thought you took your allergy meds,” Sebastian sighed.

Sam remained under the cover of his shirt, eyes cinched shut. He gasped wildly and ducked down, “HHh’uPSCHh’ue!” A watery, pathetic sniff followed and Milo could think of nothing else besides the wet mist most likely spraying his own chest. 

As Sam emerged, his nose was pink, nostrils an angry shade and twitching. “I did,” he groaned, “God, I fucking hate sp-sprhiing.” 

Lifting up his shirt again, he pinched the fabric around his nose and shuddered into another, “hh’eSCHh!” 

Milo couldn’t help but notice the slight spot of dampness now forming on the shirt. "Bless you," he said again, trying to keep his voice steady. His eyes were apt to roll back into his head if he wasn’t careful.  "Thagks," Sam sniffed hard.

“Maybe sit this one out,” Sebastian suggested as Sam pawed at his nose, “Abby and I are the ones who have to learn the run anyway.”

To anyone else, it might have sounded like something a concerned friend might say. But Milo could hear the edge of playfulness to it. The slight lilt of teasing that was meant for him, and only him as Sam nodded glumly, shrugged out of the strap of his guitar and made his way over to the couch. 

Milo stiffened, eyes going wide. Sam flopped back, completely oblivious, one arm going behind him around the back of the couch. He dropped his head back, gave a liquid sniffle and groaned. Milo could feel the heat of his arm near his shoulders and chewed on the inside of his cheek so hard he could taste blood.

“Just don’t sneeze all over Milo,” Sebastian warned. 

Milo gave him a desperate look. It must have been really desperate, because Sebastian even laughed and managed to appear a little apologetic. 

“Or the scones,” Abigail added.

Sam gave them both the finger even while turning his face to the side and half-stifling into the open air. The frame of the couch shook softly and his knee brushed against Milo’s as he released it. “hH’NGXtssh!”  He groaned and shifted back. Sam hardly ever looked grumpy, but he was absolutely pouting now. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something else but his arm quickly retracted from behind Milo so he could lean forward. He ducked beneath the safe haven of his shirt again, head dropped and hair falling over his brow as he buried his nose into the fabric. "hh'tscHH!! hhi'zESHhhiyew!"

Milo instinctively reached for him, his hand smoothing over his spine. Sam startled at the sudden contact and bit down the next series of sneezes seemingly on instinct, folding into himself further with each quick set.

"hH'nNNT! nnGSST! nnGXCH!"

"Sorry!" Milo said hurriedly, retracting his arm.

Sam tried in vain to shake his head through and speak through the last of the tickle, "No, my ba-haa'aSScHIEW--bad! Sorry, hh'tssch!--fuck! There."

He'd thoroughly soaked the front of his t-shirt now. Sniffling wetly behind the cover of it, he lifted his gaze with no small amount of bashfulness. A hoarse, weak laugh escaped him. "Bless you doesn't seem to cover it," Milo said, breathless for entirely different reasons.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam continued to apologize, sluicing the moisture from his nose with his shirt.

"Do you not own tissues?" Abigail balked. "My house, I can sneeze where I want," Sam sniffed again before standing up and unceremoniously stripping out of his sodden shirt. Milo blinked, stunned, and could do nothing but stare at the lean muscle on full display as Sam walked towards his dresser. Sebastian cleared his throat and when Milo caught his eye, he was practically grinning. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him look so happy. Milo sank further into the couch and forced his eyes to the floor. "Okay, I think the worst's over," Sam declared as he grabbed a fresh shirt. Though Milo caught his profile just as the telltale hitch of his breath followed the statement. "Hh? Hh!"

His long, blonde lashes fluttered as turned to the side, eyebrows lifting in expectation. Milo watched his bare shoulders swell softly as he inhaled, muscles along his ribs flexing. Sam sniffed and seemed to ignite the tickle fully, directing one last tired sneeze towards his elbow. "hH'tishew!"

The exhausted nature of it did something irrevocable to Milo. His mind went completely blank as Sam sniffled through tossing his new shirt over his head and eventually returned to his guitar.

Music started up again but Milo barely heard it. He was lost completely, shoving strawberry scones in his mouth one after another to have something to focus on other than Sam's delightfully pink nose.

[syncsnzthings]

SFW OC snzfic - lab experiment - Rowan and Daniel

I've been obsessed with this concept for a while, I can't stop thinking about it.

SUMMARY: Rowan agreed to be the test subject for his friend, who works in/runs a lab that tests pharmaceuticals for companies that make allergy meds. He has no idea that he's not testing an antihistamine; it's something a lot more interesting. WARNINGS: Sneezing, long holdbacks (in a way), mild scientific malpractice if you squint, something akin to sneeze torture but not really WORDS: 3,100

━━━━━»•»🌺

The door to the lab finally opens and Rowan's head perks up to see Daniel wheeling in a tray covered by a thin sheet of cloth. Rowan, ever eager to help, had agreed to be the first test subject for a compound Daniel's lab had produced. Although he works in data entry and has no connections to the actual lab practices—save for his friendship with Daniel—he always ends up getting dragged into these things. He has such a hard time saying no when he's the best test subject any of them can think of.

Daniel and his lab associates do contract work for various pharmaceutical companies, mainly companies that produce allergy medication. Because of this—and factors unknown to Rowan, though he knew there were some—Daniel had taken up a project in creating his own compound with some of the research money the lab had been granted.

The basic rundown he was given was that this medication was supposed to prevent him from sneezing. It's a challenge finding something that will halt Rowan's allergies entirely; he seems to be allergic to everything under the sun, and he's never found an allergy medication that completely mitigates all of his symptoms. Hence, he's the perfect test subject for whatever Daniel and his associates cook up.

"Rowan," Daniel greets him with a friendly smile after he crosses the short distance from the door to the side of the medical cot Rowan is sitting on. He stills the cart, adjusts it slightly to be within reach but not in the way, then turns his full attention to Rowan. "Are you ready to test this out? You haven't taken your usual allergy medication today?"

Rowan returns the smile , his back straightening up in anticipation for the test. "Just like you said. I hope it's worth it, I've been itchy all day."

"Even in the winter, with no seasonal allergens around, your nose is insatiable," Daniel replies, dry amusement coloring his usually professional tone. "And you swallowed the liquid ten minutes ago?" Rowan fixes him with a look. "I have to cover all my bases. It's important that everything is accounted for."

"Yes, I took the stuff when you told me to and then came right here," Rowan says. "I've been waiting here for you forever, you know."

"Ten minutes is hardly forever," Daniel says distractedly. He pinches the thin cloth covering the cart between gloved fingers and tugs it aside, folding it haphazardly and placing it on the counter lining the adjacent wall.

Rowan finally gets a glimpse of what's underneath. He's used to a sight similar to this because of his history of volunteering as a test subject: a tray of allergens, each guaranteed to produce some kind of reaction in him. Usually the tests are for antihistamines, so triggering his allergies doesn't make him react too horribly. This time, he finds himself getting slightly nervous. Daniel had never used the word antihistamine this time, he only said that it was supposed to stop him from sneezing. Daniel is nothing if not precise, so the sudden switch in vocabulary had instantly struck Rowan as odd. He's off his usual allergy meds, and he has an unknown substance working its way through his blood.

"Are you ready to begin?" Daniel turns his eyes back to Rowan, a flash of something Rowan doesn't recognize passing over his expression.

"Well, as ready as I ever am, I guess!" Rowan replies, trying to sound chipper despite his increased nerve.

Daniel nods once. He reaches for the tray on the cart and picks up a long feather, pointed at the tip but quickly morphing into soft disarray closer to the base. Rowan takes in a quick anticipatory breath as Daniel's hand approaches his face. The sharp tip of the feather begins tracing a gentle path along the rims of Rowan's nose and his breath catches again, this time caused by the tickle that instantly spreads up through his sinuses. Whatever it is that Daniel had him take, it did not make his nose any less sensitive to the stimulus.

Rowan pauses, his breath hitching sharply for a long moment. He's entirely prepared to sneeze and let Daniel mark this one down as a failure for now. But nothing happens. His breath evens out again only to pick back up into quick hitches and gasps. He sniffles and blinks his eyes open to look at Daniel.

"Wahh- hih! What's hahhppening? I need to… ihh!" Rowan stutters through his unsteady breathing. His vision is slightly unfocussed, but he swears he sees Daniel's lips quirk up into a satisfied smirk.

"It looks like the compound is working perfectly," Daniel offers as a simple, unhelpful answer. He continues teasing Rowan's nose with the feather, turning it on its side now to let the soft, flexible plumes rub against Rowan's sensitive nostrils.

Rowan twists his head to the side and Daniel lets him do it, lowering his hand to watch intently for a reaction. Rowan's hands hover uselessly in front of his face, steepled to catch a sneeze that doesn't seem to be coming. His shoulder shake with rapid breaths and his face is pinched in pre-sneeze agony. "Haa-! Hih! Ihhh! Ahh… HIH! Uhh…"

After a moment, the immediate need to sneeze seems to pass with no real result, leaving Rowan itchy and irritated. He brings the heel of his hand up to scrub at the underside of his nose, trying to rid himself of the tickly feeling. He turns watery eyes to Daniel. "Wha-hat's going on?"

"This compound is designed to stop you from sneezing, not remove the urge to do so." Daniel watches Rowan rub his nose, then reaches out with his unoccupied hand to gently take hold of his wrist and pry Rowan's hand away from his face. "It's going to take some… extensive testing to be sure it works to its full capacity."

Rowan lets out a shaky breath and sniffles softly. "How much testing?" His eyes fall down to the tray piled with allergens and he suddenly feels much more apprehensive than earlier.

"I'd like to see how far I can trigger your allergies before your body fights the compound entirely. If it does at all, that is." Daniel doesn't wait for a response before reaching down to set the feather back on the tray. He switches to a small, unlabeled glass container with a spritzer. He unscrews the cap, extends it out to Rowan, and lifts it. "Go ahead and give this a sniff."

Rowan can already smell the strong scent wafting out of the container. It's definitely a perfume. His nose twitches with a renewed tickle without even needing to sniff the substance. But Daniel keeps the container held out to him, so Rowan reluctantly leans forward and gives the pungent fumes a tiny sniff. His eyes glaze over with moisture and his nose twitches again and his breath catches.

Daniel urges the container forward. "Again. I need you to take a deep breath through your nose."

Rowan makes a small noise in his throat, half way between a whimper and a gasp, but he does it again. He sniffs the perfume until he has to pull back to gasp again, his nostrils flaring in instant irritation. His sinuses burn and his breath catches, his chest heaving with the rapid inhalations.

Daniel looks satisfied with that and he replaces the cap back on the top of the container. He considers for a moment, then seems to decide on something. He aims the spritzer directly at Rowan and gives a few sprays. The droplets land everywhere; on Rowan's shirt, on his face, on his lap, on his hands which are once again poised in front of his face ready to catch the sneeze that won't come.

Rowan's eyes widen in distress for a brief moment before they flutter shut again. The scent of perfume surrounds them, invading every inch of Rowan's allergic nose and giving him no reprieve from the overwhelming burning, ticklish sensation. He gasps in shallow, rapid breaths that brig him closer and closer to the relief he so desperately needs. It's being kept just out of his reach, driving him wild with need. His hands begin fanning in front of his face like it'll help him escape the feeling.

"Still working as intended," Daniel notes, his own interest barely masked by scientific detachment. He watches as Rowan struggles against his allergies.

Rowan is stuck like this for several minutes, unable to get a single breath in past his desperate hitching and sniffling. He briefly tries to rub at his nose again, but the scent of the perfume is still stuck to his hands and only causes him to break out into another fit of helpless gasps. Allergic tears well up in his eyes and he doesn't have the control to blink them away.

Wordlessly, Daniel lifts a cut sprig of goldenrod blooms from the tray of allergens. As soon as Rowan's breath has almost returned to a manageable pace, Daniel brings the pollen coated flowers up to his face and rubs them directly against his pink, twitchy nostrils.

Rowan's nose is a sight; bright pink, quivering uncontrollably, reacting to even the slightest stimulation. The pollen sets him off again nearly instantly. There's a light dusting of golden dust coating his flaring nostrils and tears streaming down his cheeks. The way he's desperately sucking in breaths is starting to sound closer and closer to whimpers and moans of distress.

"You're quite a sight like this, you know," Daniel comments. He sets the flowers on the cot next to where Rowan is seated and steps directly in front of him. He can see the way Rowan's nose is running, the way he's only barely managing to contain the mess by sniffling nearly constantly—as often as his frantic breaths will allow.

Daniel lifts his hand up to Rowan's face. He uses his thumb to swipe away a tear that falls down his face, then drags it across his cheek toward his nose. Gently, he presses the pad of his thumb against the twitching tip of Rowan's nose. Rowan only reacts by gasping deeply and then returning to his efforts to mitigate his suffering. Daniel can't help an amused hum. He begins rubbing a small circle on the tip of Rowan's nose, adding pressure to manipulate and squish the flesh under his finger.

"The effects of the compound can only reach so far. If we stimulate your nose enough, you might just be able to get a sneeze out," Daniel says thoughtfully, his eyes laser focused on Rowan's nose. He presses up on Rowan's nose and watches his nostrils flare frantically with every breath. "You'd like some relief, wouldn't you? We'll have to increase the discomfort before you can let it out, obviously, but it'll be worth it."

Rowan can only nod rapidly in response, the movement causing Daniel's thumb to rub and press against his irritated skin. Daniel's lips quirk up and he removes his hand from Rowan's face. He looks down at the tray again and takes a moment to scan his options. While he puts together a plan in his mind, he takes a vial of chinkni in his hand and absently holds it near Rowan's face.

"Here, sniff as much of this as you can," he instructs. He doesn't even have to look to know Rowan is eagerly following his instructions. He can hear the desperate little sniffs and feel the puffs of breath against his hand.

Once he can no longer feel Rowan's breath on his hand and he can hear his test subjects whines rise in pitch, Daniel sets the vial down and reaches for the feather again. He tips another vial on its side and sprinkles a layer of dust over the length of the feather, coating it entirely. He does the same with a pepper shaker, then lifts the feather to inspect it, making sure the entire thing is coated in the substances.

Daniel's eyes flick over to Rowan before he decides to start. Rowan has completely given up on sniffing back the tide of runny mucus in his nose, instead just letting it drip down his upper lip in a steady stream. Allergic tears are flowing non stop from his eyes and he looks like he might break at any moment. Daniel plucks a tissue from the small packet on his tray and uses it to wipe the clear mucus from the underside of Rowan's nose.

"If this doesn't make you sneeze, then I don't know what will." He tosses the tissue into a trash bin in the corner of the room, then brings the feather up to tease Rowan's nose once again.

The light tickling against the outside of his nostrils doesn't seem to do much of anything anymore. Rowan is too lost in the throes of his allergies to notice the light stimulation. Daniel hums shortly and begins inserting the tip of the feather into Rowan's nose. He doesn't stop, slowly pushing until every inch of Rowan's nostril is filled with the tickly plumes of the feather, coated in layers of dust and pepper. Immediately, he uses his fingers to twist the feather in a circle, dragging the instrument against the sensitive inner flesh of Rowan's nose.

Rowan gasps wetly and his nose twitches uncontrollably. The entire appendage seems to be quivering with anticipation of the release. His tears fall in thicker streams and his chest heaves with the frantic, rapid breaths he manages to pull in. Despite all of this, he tilts his head back to allow Daniel better access to his nostrils. He's so desperate to sneeze, he'd let Daniel do anything to him if it meant he could finally get relief.

But still, nothing seems to be happening. He whimpers as the tickle builds and builds, but nothing comes of it. Daniel slowly begins pulling the feather out of Rowan's nostril, the agonizing stimulation causing him to whine in protest. Once the feather is almost completely withdrawn, Daniel shoves it back in as far as it'll go. He repeats the process, quicker now, until he's thrusting the feather in and out of Rowan's desperate, trembling nose. With a quick flick of his wrist, he withdraws it completely, then wastes no time in inserting it fully into Rowan's other nostril to do it all again.

To Rowan's dismay, and to Daniel's enthusiastic interest, Rowan still can't seem to sneeze, no matter how helplessly allergic he gets. Daniel pulls the feather free, watching as a string of mucus connects the tip of it to Rowan's red, twitching nose. With his free hand, he plucks another tissue free and uses it to break the string and pinch the mess away from Rowan's nose.

"Still nothing? This compound is more effective than I thought." Daniel drops the soaking wet feather into the trash bin along with the tissue. He pulls a few more fresh tissues free and guides them into Rowan's hand. "Here, you're going to need these. I have a backup plan."

Rowan's hands tremble as they weakly grip the tissues. He doesn't use them yet, too preoccupied with hitching around several false starts. Daniel watches him for a moment; takes in the sight of his nose, which is bright red, irritated, and wriggling with a mind of its own. Rowan looks like the picture of allergic misery.

After allowing himself to indulge for a moment, he turns to pick up an unlabeled container resembling a sinus spray. He steps closer to Rowan. "This should completely counteract the effects of the compound. You need to be ready, because the effects will be nearly instantaneous. Are you ready?"

Rowan gives a small nod and Daniel nods as well. He lifts the nozzle of the small container to Rowan's nostril and presses it inside. The cold plastic makes Rowan's nostril flare.

"Get your tissues ready. As soon as I spray this, you'll need them." Daniel waits for Rowan to lift his hands, still clutching the tissues, then sprays a mist of the liquid directly into Rowan's nostril. He quickly pulls it away and steps back to allow Rowan a bit of space.

Rowan's face scrunches up at the feeling of a foreign liquid in his nose, but that only lasts for a moment. His sinuses are instantly filled with the tickle that has been building up this entire time. He clumsily lifts the tissues to his face but he doesn't even get them there before he's exploding into a wet, desperate sneeze.

"Haa'tISHhuhh!! Ha-ahh-! 'tISShhUH!!" The force of the sneezes has him jerking forward into the soft tissues. A shaky whimper of relief bubbles out of him.

"Bless you," Daniel supplies, knowing full well that Rowan is nowhere near done.

"I-ihhHH!! Hiih'tISCHHuh!! Ha'TSCHHh'tISHH'TSCHHuhh!!" Rowan can't drag in a single productive breath. Every inhale sends him into another fit of wildly desperate sneezing. "Hih'tishHh'tiSHhh'tSSCHHH! HaahH'tisHHUUHH! Ih'tSHUH! Hih'tshUH! Haa-ahhHH-!! HahHH'TSHUUh!"

Daniel stands a comfortable few feet away from Rowan and watches him dissolve into a helpless, desperate sneezing fit. After a moment of just watching, he reaches to take a few more tissues. He steps forward and gently takes Rowan's hands, swapping out the wet, used tissues with the dry, clean ones. He guides Rowan's hand back to his face, then disposes of the soiled tissues into the waste bin.

"Bless you," Daniel says again, his voice soft as he watches Rowan's attempts to soothe himself.

Rowan stutters through an attempt to speak, ultimately interrupting himself once again. "ThahhH- hih! Thahh'ank y-yo-ouhhH'tISCHHH! Ihhtshh'tiSHhuh! S-Sorhhuu'tiSHhhUH!" He gives up on it and instead buries his lower face completely into the tissues and gives himself over to the reaction. "IhhH'TIShhuHH! Haa'tshUH! Hihh'TSHhh'TISHHhh'TISCHHhuuhh!"

"Wow. Bless you," Daniel muses, a smile tugging the corners of his lips up. "You're a mess without your antihistamines, aren't you?"

Rowan cracks his eyes open to look at Daniel. He tries to shoot him a glare, but all he succeeds in doing is looking water eyed and miserable. He can't keep them open for long, either, because he starts sneezing again.

"Okay, okay," Daniel relents. He hands Rowan another bunch of fresh tissues, swapping them out for the used ones again and discarding them in the bin. "This has been really valuable information. I almost want to do a longer test to see if I can run the compound through its course. Another time, though."

"And… h-hh… hopefully a… Hihh'tSCHhuhH! Proper warning next time," Rowan requests.

"I can arrange that." Daniel smiles at him again before turning to pack up the cart.

[suddencolds]

of painkillers and lenience

...hello! 😭 I wrote this way back in April; it's been sitting in my drafts ever since. Chronologically, it takes place shortly following Atypical Occurrence.

I wasn't sure if I was ever going to post this. I suppose it's more a character study than a proper romantic installment :') but it's an exchange I'd been wanting to write for a long time.

you can find everything I've written in this universe here!

—

Summary: Yves comes down with something. His best friend wonders where Vincent is, in all of this.

—

Perhaps it’s merciful that it’s on a Sunday that Yves wakes up with the slightest tickle in his throat.

Yves has an idea what it means. He’s had the flu enough times in his life to know that it comes on quickly. Maybe if he attempts to sleep it off, he’ll have a better time over the next few days.

Or maybe not. He cancels his Sunday plans, goes through his itinerary. There’s a slew of emails he’ll have to send off, a handful of meetings he’ll probably have to reschedule for this coming work week. He’ll need groceries, too, to last him the week—ideally something that won’t take too much effort to make. Resting now seems like it’d be a waste of time. Best to get everything over with before the illness has a chance to properly settle, he thinks. 

He really does mean to stop by the grocery store. It’s perhaps just the timing that doesn’t work out as planned. Between figuring out how to reschedule everything that’s coming up with work—figuring out who he can ask if he needs to reallocate any of his assignments to anyone else, rearranging things for clients, and getting all the paperwork in order—all of it takes him nearly two hours. He wanders into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea, finds himself having to turn aside to cough, notes the unpleasant sting in his throat when he turns back around. 

It’s not terrible yet, but he feels distinctly off. His head feels a little heavy, and everything he does feels strangely—sluggish, maybe. Like he can’t quite manage to be as efficient as usual. Judging by past experience, he’s probably going to crash in a few hours.

He can already feel a headache brewing. Staring at his computer screen probably hasn’t helped with that. If he takes something for it, it’ll probably be at least tolerable when it gets worse.

He opens the medicine cabinet, rifles through the couple bottles and the first aid kit he has stashed in there.

Right. He’s out of Advil.

It’s no matter. Just a quick grocery trip, then—he can grab the rest of his groceries while he’s at it. Yves shuts the bathroom cabinet, grabs his wallet and keys, and makes it all the way to the doorstep outside when the wave of dizziness hits him.

All of a sudden, he feels a little lightheaded. Heat crawls up under his skin, prickling and unpleasant, as if something in him has cranked up the heat generation to the max—but that can’t be right, because he’s shivering inexplicably in the wake of it. He leans his weight back against the wall, squeezes his eyes shut.

Fuck. He probably should have gotten groceries first, before sorting out everything for work. Perhaps going out on his own now would not be the wisest.

He heads back in, locks the door, and—after some thought—calls Mikhail.

Mikhail picks up on the second ring. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Are you busy?” Yves starts, but the words catch on his throat, and he has to stop immediately to muffle a cough into his elbow. 

There’s a moment of silence on the other end. “It depends what you’re about to ask me for,” Mikhail says.

Yves swallows. Shuts his eyes. He doesn’t like asking for help, but he doesn’t think he’ll be in any state to be doing this on his own over the next few days. “It’s not that urgent. Just if you have time,” he says. 

He can almost feel Mikhail rolling his eyes on the other end. “You’d say that even if you were bleeding out.”

Yves laughs, startled. “I promise I’m not bleeding out. Just—do you think you could run to the store and get me some Advil?”

There’s another, longer pause on the other end. “Any time is fine,” Yves says. A part of him already regrets this. “If you’re busy right now—”

“I’ll be over in a few,” Mikhail says. Then the line goes dead.

—

He doesn’t remember drifting off, but when he wakes, it’s to a knock on the front door.

The knock is just for courtesy, of course. Mikhail is one of a few people whom he’s permitted the privilege—or the burden, perhaps—of having a spare copy of his apartment key.

Yves opens the door anyways.

There, in the windy April weather, Mikhail shuts an umbrella and leaves it dripping at his feet. “You look even worse than you sounded over call,” is the first thing he says.

Yves blinks at him, surprised. “Did I really sound that bad?”

In lieu of answering, Mikhail just looks at him, scrutinizing, the corner of his lip ticking downward. “What is it? An injury? A migraine?” When Yves shakes his head, Mikhail presses forward to pick a stray lint ball off of Yves’s shirt. His hand makes contact with Yves’s shoulder, and he frowns.

Before Yves has a chance to explain, he feels a tickle—not the first, today, and certainly not the last—surface. It’s irritatingly difficult to ignore, more irritating still when he finds himself forced to turn away, to duck into one arm—

“hHehh-!’ hEHh’yyiISCHh-HHEEW!”

The sneeze is rough enough to scrape against his throat. He coughs tightly into his raised arm.

“A cold,” Mikhail says, with a frown. “But usually you don’t take Advil for colds. Wait—don’t tell me this is something worse?”

Yves winces. What is he supposed to say to that? “The Advil was all I needed,” he says. “Thanks for making the trip. I owe you one.”

“No, I’m sure of it now,” Mikhail says. “If it were only a cold, you would’ve driven out to get this yourself.”

“It probably isn’t,” Yves says, neglecting to mention that he knows exactly where he caught this. “Thanks for bringing these. I’ll take the next couple days off. I—”

The next sneeze sneaks up on him. He ducks into his sleeve again, taking another step back.

“hHhEH’iiDzzsCHH-yYew!” The sneeze sends a burst of pain through his temples, and for a moment, he’s glad his face is too deeply buried into his sleeve for Mikhail to see.

“Does Vincent know?” Mikhail asks.

The question catches him off guard. “What?”

“That you’re apparently unwell enough to ask me to pick up Advil for you.”

Yves doesn’t like where this conversation is going. “I told you not to come if you were busy.”

“It’s not a problem,” Mikhail says. “But if you’re sick, shouldn’t he be over here, taking care of you?”

 “He’s had a really busy few weeks,” Yves says, which is true, but simultaneously might be true at any point during the year. He clears his throat. “I - coughcough - wouldn’t want him to catch this.”

“So he doesn’t even know,” Mikhail says.

…Perhaps Yves should’ve thought of a more convincing excuse. Mikhail isn’t the type of person to drop an issue after he’s raised it, and Yves had, perhaps, neglected to think about how—for all Mikhail does to appear casually disaffected—he’s one of the most perceptive people Yves has ever met. “He doesn’t have to know.”

“What are you talking about? He’s your partner. I’ll text him,” Mikhail says. It’s then when Yves recalls that Mikhail probably does have Vincent’s contact—exchanged before their trip to France, so that he could text them all to coordinate the rides to and from the airport.

“Wait,” Yves says, unable to keep the panic out of his voice. “Don’t. If you text him, he’ll - snf-! - feel obligated to come.”

Mikhail doesn’t lower his phone. “I’ll just ask him to drop by,” he says. “You can talk to him about it when he gets there.”

But that won’t happen—can’t happen—because Yves knows that if Vincent were to see him like this… 

I’d feel terrible if you caught this, he’d said. He’d sounded so upset over it. How can Yves, after all his reassurances last week, admit to him now that he’s faring badly enough to need someone to look after him? 

Besides, Vincent probably has enough on his plate already. Yves knows enough to know that in their line of work, taking time off almost always means being swamped with assignments upon return. 

“Please don’t ask him anything,” Yves says.

Mikhail looks long and hard at him. He looks as though he’s trying to puzzle something out. “Did you guys get into a fight, or something?”

“No,” Yves says. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then, if you’re on good terms, why are you so resistant to the idea of him coming over?”

Yves squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them. He can think of a dozen more excuses to field away the questions—that isn’t the hard part. Mikhail has always been good at seeing through his bullshit, but if Yves has to steer this conversation to a close through sheer willpower, he thinks he can do it. But then again—

Maybe it’s fine, he thinks, if Mikhail knows. For better or for worse, Mikhail is his best friend. Yves knows that if he asks him to keep his mouth shut about this, he will. 

“Vincent is my coworker,” he says, slowly.

Mikhail’s eyebrows creep up. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Yves says, with a cough. “He is just my coworker. Nothing else.”

The alarm that flashes across Mikhail’s face is unmissable. “You two broke up?”

And there it is—another crossroads, where Yves thinks the easiest course of action would be to reshape the current lie into a simpler one, to keep the trappings of their fake relationship intact. With anyone else, it would be easier, that is.

Yves says, honestly, “We were never together in the first place.”

“But you went with him to France,” Mikhail says, confused. “Not to mention, to Margot’s new year party, and then to Joel and Cherie’s housewarming. Are you telling me—”

“That was all an act,” Yves tells him, and waits for this information to register. “There is nothing between us that’s real. That’s the reason I haven’t called him.”

The recognition settles on Mikhail’s face. Then he laughs, a little disbelieving. “You’re really not dating him? Why would you lie about that?”

“Do you remember Margot’s party?” Yves asks. It seems like the right place to start, after everything. “Erika was there with Brendon. And I was bitter, and—to be honest, jealous—and I wanted to show her I was fine. So I asked Vincent to go with me.”

“That was months ago,” Mikhail says.

“It was easier to just keep up the act, after that.” Yves says. “Easier to have him accompany me once a month than it would have been to stage a proper breakup. But obviously, this is all temporary. I just haven’t figured out when it’s going to end.”

Mikhail is quiet for a moment. Yves looks past him, at the staircase that leads down to the first floor.

“You’ll be fine, then,” he asks. “If you two break it off.”

“Of course,” Yves says. “I know it’s going to happen someday.”

“You won’t be upset at all?”

“What is there to be upset over?”

“From the way you spoke to him, I really thought there was something there,” Mikhail says.

“He is a good liar,” Yves says.

“Maybe so,” Mikhail agrees. “But you are not.”

He says it so calmly, it barely registers as an accusation. But Yves hears it, loud and clear.

“Vincent is attractive,” Yves says. “Anyone with eyes can see that. That’s all there is to it.” it feels wrong, even as he says it. Yves has always known Vincent to be attractive—that much hasn’t changed. But he knows that the feeling in his chest when he sees him at work, in the break room, or at lunch—the unusual ache—is a little more than that. 

“Margot’s party was at the end of December,” Mikhail says. “It’s April, now. Margot wouldn’t tell you this, but since I don’t like withholding my feelings from you, I will.”

Yves waits—waits for Mikhail to tell him how all of this has been unduly dishonest, how Mikhail doesn’t appreciate having been lied to.

But Mikhail doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he says: “If you’re still intent on keeping this fake relationship up…” Here, he meets Yves’s eyes, a little sternly. “You should think about who you’re really doing it for.”

It’s only for convenience, Yves wants to say. Now that we’ve set things up already, it’s merely the path of least resistance. But that isn’t quite right, is it?

“Don’t worry about me,” Yves says, trying a smile. “Vincent and I have talked this through already. Whatever happens with our arrangement, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay,” Mikhail says. He pockets his phone, and then hands Yves the bottle of Advil. “Sorry for the interrogation, then. If you believe it to be fine, I trust you.” Perhaps that’s the worst part of it. Mikhail has never been the type of person to stay quiet about any foreseeable problems, but Yves knows that his agreement now is not a tactical retreat, nor is it an acknowledgment that it’s not worth arguing over something they won’t agree on. Mikhail is dropping the subject because he really trusts him.

Yves just doesn’t know if that trust is justified.

Mikhail turns on his heels, steps delicately past the hinge at the bottom of the doorframe. 

Yves clears his throat. “Thanks for stopping by.”

Mikhail nods. “Feel better soon. If you need anything other than Advil, just give me a call.”

Then he’s gone. Yves shuts the front door behind him and wonders just what exactly he’s gotten himself into.

[undercover-horn-blog]

Humorous forehead feeling that turns serious!!!

A is feeling B's forehead literally jokingly, to insinuate that B is being silly or incoherent or just wildly off base somehow. So A gives them a mock-concerned look and places their hand on B's forehead for just a moment.

Then: Hesitation. Confusion. The mock frown turning serious. "Wait, what the hell, B?"

And in that moment A realises that B is ACTUALLY running a temperature and hasn't said a word this entire time 🥰🥰🥰

[dsnzfb]

You've Maid My Day

Cactus/Rose, allergies, M/M, ~1.5k

After a long week of work, Cactus has a surprise for Rose.

“Rose, check it out! Tada!!”

Stood proudly in front of his work, a currently dress-clad Cactus motioned at the completely clean living room. Sweat was dripping down his forehead from the effort, though he did not care in the slightest. 

“What- what is this, Cactus? Did you do the spring cleaning?” Rose stared on in awe, hanging up his coat quickly and jogging into the flat proper.

Cactus laughed, a wide and sharp grin gracing his features, “Sure did! Weather was nice, you were at work, I had the day off… The perfect storm!”

Rose was stunned, unable to stop staring at his boyfriend’s handiwork.

“You did all of it…? You didn’t have to do that! I could have helped!”

The shorter man shook his head with a smirk.

“I only got the one maid dress.”

The florist finally paid full attention to Cactus, taking in his figure. He wasn’t sure whether to blush, laugh, or both. It fit him surprisingly well! Showed off his legs, his arms, and the cute patches of vitiligo on them that he didn’t often get to see. Ooh, his neck, too, if he peeked past the frilly choker.

“I suppose you’re not wrong.” He smiled, leaning in and giving him a soft kiss, lips barely grazing, “But to do all this by yourself… You do too much for me. You’re adorable.”

“H-Hehe… You have no idea how much of a pain-in-the-ass it was! I mean, it was my own fault, check out what I used!” Cactus giggled, pulling out from behind him his chosen instrument, wielding it with the pride of a kid who just found a big stick.

An almost cartoonish feather duster. Rose’s nose scrunched up just seeing it. He did the whole place with that? God- he could see the dust clouding off it with each movement.

“W-Why?” He sniffed reflexively, regretting his action immediately as the itch in his nose started to blossom, “Why not use a… I don’t know, a damp cloth? A regular duster?” Oh god, his eyes were starting to itch.

“Huh? I mean, this is like… It’s the image, y’know? Even if nobody was here ta see it, I gotta commit. It’s pretty cute, right?” 

Rose snorted, his laughter only serving to make him breathe in more irritants, “Oh my god, you… Haha! That’s typical of you, I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything elhhh-!”

Cactus blinked. He broke out of his excited haze and paid attention to how Rose was looking. That hitch sounded needy, almost desperate. His eyes were starting to look glassy and twitchy, and irritated tears began swelling. His nose looked just as tickly as Rose hitched, and hitched, and… Stopped. Why did he stop? Wouldn’t it feel better to let himself sneeze?

‘I can’t… Not while he’s watching me like that… He worked so hard, and for what? For me to have a stupid bloody allergy attack?’

“You okay? You look itchy, did something happen? Don’t tell me you walked home through the dog park again…”

“Nn… Nuh… No… Not today…” Rose scrubbed at his nose, a harsh sniff accompanying the motion. He realised belatedly that he could have lied, and pinned the blame on literally anything but the soft, fluffy, and dust-filled instrument in his boyfriend’s hand.

Cactus stood on tiptoes and leaned in closer, a large hand cupping Rose’s cheek and their foreheads touching, “Comin’ down with another cold?” 

Shaking his head in a way that didn’t convince Cactus at all, Rose pulled away from him in panic. 

“I’m f-fi-ii-HHhtSH!! IhtSHH! t’shhHiiiu!! Hhah-eh-… Aahe-ttShHiew!! Pt’sshuu-iis-sshiew!! Gghwaah… I’b fide.”

“Yuh huh, yeah, ‘fide’ indeed.” Cactus placed his hands on his hips, the offending item shaking out more dust at being disturbed. 

“Just… Sobethi’g id the air.” Rose sniffled again, annoyed at his body for reacting so quickly to the dust and making a mess of himself. God. Cactus could do so much better than him. He’s so handsome. So manly. So cute. Domestic househusband. Soft and cuddleable. Stupid. Perfect. 

While Rose’s thoughts ran away with him, Cactus looked on in confusion. He was staring again, with that dumb gay smile on his face. Cac never quite understood what Rose saw in him, but it definitely wasn’t what *he* saw in the mirror. Well, he wouldn’t complain! If Rose saw something he liked, who was he to deny that? Cactus decided to do something about Rose’s current predicament, since the florist was distracted. He lifted the feather duster to his boyfriend’s face and waved it gently under his freckled nose, watching the soft barbs brush pinkened nostrils and dust waft up in plumes.

“G-Ggh-aagh!! C-Cactus, what are you doing?!” Rose smashed a cupped hand over his nose, though it was far too late. 

“I’m helpin’. You looked real tickly.”

“H-Helping? It’s that thing that’s made this happen in the first place!!” He shrieked, “Ah- oops.” 

Rose turned beet red, a second hand coming up to cover a cheek. He didn’t mean to snap, nor did he mean to admit the course of his nasal troubles. He just… He got so embarrassed when sneezing in front of him.

Cactus gave him a smirk, pulling the feather duster away.

“Ohhh, I get it. I forget that you’re allergic to dust sometimes. Hah, my bad! You know, though? It’s pretty cute. Your face under here…” He pulled at Rose’s hands, prying them from his face to reveal a running, twitchy nose, “Your expression is way adorable. Hehe, you gotta sneeze real bad, dontcha? Remember what I taught you?”

‘Remember? Remember? What you taught me is engraved in my mind and will never leave, thank you very much!’ Rose could still hardly believe what Cactus had done for him – he’d induced using a pointed tissue right in front of him, just to prove a point about how ‘hard’ a sneeze should be! How did he learn that?! Rose’d nearly died on the spot, fairly sure steam literally rose from his head from how much he was blushing at the time.

That, and now this? Cactus had never said it outright, and he wouldn’t be able to pull an admission from Rose’s dead corpse, but… Surely, this meant something? He knew about his… Affinity? This isn’t the sort of thing a normal person would do for another normal person.

Though, that does assume that they’re both normal.

“C-Cactus, let go. Let me… Let…” Rose struggled, “I h-have to…”

“Then do it.”

Rose’s cheeks burned hot in embarrassment, what made Cac think he could just sneeze? Let them out? On him?!

“N-no, I… I can’t just- i-iih- h-haa-aah-!!” 

“C’moooon, you can do it. I believe in you,” The shorter man didn’t let his hands go, pulling closer while teasing him, “So… You understand what to do, mmm? Take a deep breath in, let your allergies overtake you, let it fill you… All that dust I swept up is bothering you, so it’s time to get it all out.” 

Rose’s eye was twitching, nose scrunching. Even the clear mess dripping down his philtrum was torturing him, and Cactus just. Wouldn’t. Move.

He let out a strangled whimper, allergic tears making his vision swim. It wasn’t long before the intense tickle forced his eyes closed, and the tears fell down his cheeks.

“I… I… Ah–… H-hah… Hhih– C-Caaaac, m-move… I’m g-going… To…”

“Not movin’.” 

Stubborn arse.

“Hh– Iigh– n-no… I… IIghHTt-!! GgsSHh! GGshTTt!!” the attempted stifles sounded pathetic, honestly, even to himself. He heard Cactus laughing; a soft chuckle, and one that made Rose’s cheeks burn bright red.

“Bless you, baby. Come on, I know you got more in ya. You can do it. You don’t gotta hold back just for lil’ old me.”

“Hh-hhaAAah..!! Oh my god, Cac, you’re e-evil…!” Rose whined, glasses even steaming up from how embarrassed he was, “...Nnn… this is… torture.” 

The red-haired man groaned, rolling his eyes. “Your ‘help’ so far h-hhaahs been a touch dubious, to put it lightly. Nngh- I must be positively repulsive right now… Hh-hhaAH!! hHg-GGshHTtchew!! HhagTSHHh!! TTshh-Iishh-SShhiiuu! Hh-iggSSHh! Haah-aasHHEW!! Ghhwaaah, oh my godddd… hhpTtshUu!!”

Cactus grinned, looking up devilishly. He leaned slightly closer, a playful lilt in his voice, “What, need more help?”

He was a mess. And Cactus was still holding onto him, a slightly softer smile on his face now.

“Bless you. See? Much easier when you let them out.” the blond let his boyfriend go, rummaged in his nearby hoodie’s pocket for a light purple handkerchief, and pressed it into Rose’s palm.

“You…” the cloth was gratefully taken, then used to blow his nose and clean himself up, “I don’t understand you sometimes. You’re… you’re absurd.”

“Yeah, ‘spected as much. Uh, by the way…”

“Ah, but ya love me.”

“That I do, dear.” Rose performatively raised the hand still clutching the handkerchief, “I’ll need to keep using this for the rest of the night, you know.”

“Mm?”

“How do you clean a feather duster?”

“Wh– t-take it outside!!!”

[hockeynoses]

Something inspired me, and I wanted an "I Told You So" situation, so I wrote this. It's only a teeny bit D/s, with a sweet ending.

“Aww, sweetheart, you look miserable,” says A.

“SNF. I amb,” B responds, their words thick with congestion.

“I’m sorry you’re feeling poorly. But you know, this could have been prevented.”

A miserable, viscous sneeze is B’s only response. It fills the tissue that’s held desperately to their face, a constant presence under their red, streaming nose.

“Like I said, if you had only…” A looks at B expectantly, prompting them to finish the sentence.

“If I had… ha… ha’ERRSSHH’IUE!” B groans miserably into their mangled tissue. “If I’d have godden bmy flu shot.”

“Yep. Then you wouldn’t be…”

“Ha’IIGHHH’SHUU! Ugh. Sigg.”

“With?”

“The… huh- the -heh’AAIIEEH’SHUH! With the flu,” B practically whines into the tissue.

“Correct.” A can’t control their smug, satisfied smile. “Now, are you going to listen to me next time?”

“Yes. ihh-KIIISSSHH’iew!”

“Good,” says A, their smile turning sunny.

“Can you brigg bme sobme tea now?”

“Of course, love.”

[bewitchedfeathers]

Bouquet - Viktor Snz Fic (Ja/yvik)

Anon requested Allergic Viktor with Ja/yvik and I had a blast writing this real fast! Thank you for sending in a request! I hope you like it 💕

Set in an AU where Jayce and Viktor are already together and everything is happy and nothing hurts.

Notes: Jasha is (if my research is correct) a petname for Jayce in Russian. And Vitya would be the petname for Viktor. Solnishko is a petname meaning sunshine or little sun.

I hope you enjoy!

Please only reblog to kink blogs ❤️

—-

Viktor opened his door to let Jayce inside for their date and couldn't contain his laughter as he was met with a bouquet that Jayce's large upper body was completely hidden behind. Viktor could only just see Jayce's pout, good natured though it was, at Viktor's response.

“You brought me flowers? You are ridiculous, solnishko (sunshine),” he said still laughing softly. “What am I going to do with these?” He asked rhetorically, voice exasperated but warm with affection. 

“They just look and smell nice. And it's supposed to be romantic,” he complained playfully.

“Pilties,” Viktor responded with a roll of his eyes and then he beckoned Jayce inside. And Jayce laughed at the familiar response to many things in Piltover that he thought were ridiculous. Jayce shifted the bouquet to one hand so he could gently cradle Viktor's face with the other and kiss him in a slow lingering greeting. 

Viktor savored Jayce's kiss but he was grateful when he pulled back as he felt a faint tickle in his nose, not an uncommon occurrence, and he didn't want to sneeze on his partner. “Snf. Go set those somewhere. I'm making us suh-some tea.”

Jayce perked up at the mention of tea. Viktor had shared a tea only found in the undercity that he enjoyed and surprisingly Jayce had loved it as well. So now whenever the weather was cool and they spent the evening at Viktor's apartment he made them tea.

He stepped into the kitchen, making the tea on autopilot, as he rubbed at his nose trying to get rid of the itch. And then finally he couldn’t fight the inevitable any longer and he turned his face into his raised elbow. 

“Huhhh’Isshhuh..hh’IZSShhuh…snf..” He rubbed his nose and then gathered two mugs in one hand, his cane in the other, as he made his way to join Jayce on the couch. Jayce knew better than to offer to help when he obviously didn't need it right now.

“Bless you,” he said as he took his mug eagerly from Viktor's hand.

“Thank you,” he murmured to be polite but his attention was on his nose that was feeling annoyingly itchy. He rubbed the underside with his index and middle finger. 

“Hhh..Hh’GSHHxt..ngh.” he sneezed over his fingers, only partially stifling it.

“Bless,” Jayce said as he gave Viktor a once over searching for signs of illness, that Viktor tolerated with only a raised brow.

“I feel fine. My nose is just…juh..hhhh’IGSHhhh…snf just sensitive tonight,” he reassured, responding to Jayce’s unasked question. 

“Alright,” Jayce said with a little relieved smile and Viktor appreciated the show of trust. “Since that's the case,” and then Jayce's left hand was cradling his cheek while another gripped his hip as he leaned to kiss Viktor deep and slow.

Viktor tangled both his hands in Jayce’s hair as he moaned into his mouth. But all too soon the tickle spiked and he jerked away from Jayce’s lips with a sharp inhale. Whipping his elbow up to hover just below his nose.

“Suh-sorry. Have to.. have to sneeze-GZSSHoo…hhh’IKSSHht..snfSnf.” he wriggled his nose trying to get rid of the lingering urge to sneeze. “Pardon me, zolotse (darling).”

“Bless you, Vik. It's alright.” He stroked some hair out of Viktor's face. “Something been bothering you?” Viktor certainly has enough allergies to warrant the question but he's mostly allergic to artificial scents and none of his natural allergens are in season currently.

“No, no, I've been fine,” he said a little bewildered. “You didn't get a new soap did you?” He feels compelled to ask.

“No nothing new,” Jayce assures with a shake of his head. 

“Hm, odd. Perhaps its just a…hah..a random tickle. snf.” 

“Certainly a persistent one,” Jayce offered non-committally. He pulled a red handkerchief monogrammed with the Talis hammer and offered it to Viktor. Viktor grabbed it and Jayce used their joint hands to bring Viktor's fingers to his lips before he let him go. Viktor blushed and grinned at the ridiculous gesture.

Viktor muttered his thanks as he brought the kerchief to his nose. He tried to massage at his trembling nostrils through the fabric but he still felt his breath catch.

“Huhhh…hh'hh'ISSHmphh…hh'huh’IGSSHmphh…Snffff…” he let out a frustrated sigh at the distraction from their time together. He mopped at his face and blew his nose, grimacing as the kerchief grew damp.

Jayce brushed his hair out of his face again. “Bless you.”

Viktor hummed in acknowledgement but he was already struggling not to sneeze again. “Hh…huh’Hhh?...” Jayce set down his tea and grabbed some tissues from a nearby table. He pressed them into Viktor’s hands, trading out the used kerchief, and Viktor nodded in gratitude. His eyes were beginning to look pink around the edges and a few itchy tears rolled down his cheeks. 

“Sweetheart, something is definitely setting you off,” He grimaced guiltily as he realized, “Must be something in the bouquet.”

“Hihhh…Hh’hh-IGZSHHoo…ESHHHxkt…Hhh’Ishh-Issh-IESSHHuhh…oh mby god…” he groaned before blowing his nose into the tissues to try to get some momentary relief. “I’ve never had an issue with fluh-flowers before..hhh’ISSHxt…nghh…” He complained grumpily as he wiped at his nose with the quickly failing bunch of tissues. Jayce passed him the tissue box and got up to dispose of the flowers.

“Sorry, love. Looks like you were right about flowers being a bad idea afterall,” he said with a guilty smile.

Viktor smiled back softly, “It was a sweet thought, Jasha. Hhh’GSSHHuhh..SNF…”

Jayce’s smile brightened knowing he was forgiven and he walked to the balcony and tossed the flowers down to the street. At Viktor’s laugh of disbelief at the casual action, Jayce defended lightheartedly, “Well someone might stumble upon it and enjoy that way instead of putting down the trash shoot.”

“Ridiculous man. Come here, solnishko.” He beckoned Jayce back to the couch and Jayce trotted over like a happy puppy.

Jayce immediately draped himself over Viktor’s side, wrapping an arm around his waist. He pressed a kiss to Viktor’s cheek but pulled back when Viktor’s breath caught, shoulders hiking as he tensed in preparation bringing a fresh tissue to his nose.

“Hhh’GSSHHuhh…Hehh’ISSH-IXSHHkt-Hh’Hih’IGDSSHooo…SNFSnf…Snfff…Pardon me,” he murmured, ears tinged pink with embarrassment at his nasal outburst.

“Bless you, Vitya,” he murmured not phased in the slightest and immediately leaning in to kiss his cheek and nuzzle one lightly flushed ear. The flush only got worse as Jayce used his favorite petname, used sparingly so it always effected Viktor, giving him a ridiculous fluttery feeling in his belly.

“Thank you, solnishko,” he murmured back and then pulled him into a kiss without interruption.

—---

{Snz Fic Masterlist}

Thank you for reading. Nice comments and tags encourage me to write more things, if you have the spoons for it!

[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!”