I love the concept of sneezing into the thing that is causing you to sneeze. You're tickling your nose with a feather duster AND you use the dusty feathers to sneeze into because they're all right in front of your nose???? Same thing with a bouquet of flowers or something fluffy that would tickle your nose like a big pile of fur or feathers. Perhaps an article of clothing with far too much perfume on it.. ouuhh. The way you'd just sneeze and sneeze and sneeze from this 😵💫🩷
justa quick reminder that as long as what you’re doing makes you happy and isn’t illegal, discriminatory, or causing active harm, I think it’s really awesome to see what this weird interest of ours has inspired you to create. I love that you’re putting yourself out there, even if it’s not a subject or fandom that directly appeals to me. you felt driven to share your voice with the world, and that’s really brave! it’s especially refreshing to see in a time where a non-insignificant amount of people believe that human art is dying out.
your passion is your superpower. no one can take that away from you.
or, four times I/lya R/ozanov was the most sensitive person in the room, and one time he wasn't alone. 5.6k
truly, this is just an excuse for me to get out all the sappy scenarios bouncing around my brain curtesy of all of your lovely posts. i know multiple of these are inspired by hcs of @perseaphoneaa and @sleptwithinthesun and probably more that i can't remember lol. probably slightly ooc, probably timeline mistakes, but we will just have to deal!! enjoy i/lya being a mess through the years and some people around him cleaning him up with love! with a little kink/honeymoon rhinitis s/hane at the end as a treat :)
Ottawa, 2011
Ilya really needs to start bringing his own fucking toiletries on the road. But, he’s not thinking all that hard when he packs (partly due to the fact that he’s chronically late, even on airport days), just shoving clothes and socks and shoes in his duffle before rushing out just in time to not get left behind.
And, he’s definitely not thinking all that hard after a game, a game they just had their lights knocked out of them, by the way (is that the expression?). All he’s thinking about is getting under the hot, steady stream of water in the hotel shower and washing this night off of his skin. Throughout his rookie season, he’s been mindlessly categorizing the cities he’s been through in many ways: best coffee, hottest women, most people that hate him, and best hotel showers. The hotel they stay at in Ottawa has a shower that cracks the top 3. Maybe top 2.
What he maybe needs to start making a mental list of, though, is which hotel toiletries make him the most miserable. (On second thought, maybe that needs to be a physical list.)
They’re all named stupid English shit he can barely translate or pronounce in the small text on the bottle, like Tropical Oasis or Sandalwood Breeze or Mountain Escape, so he doesn’t even know what’s in the shit that makes him so miserable. He just knows that, at any given hotel, there’s about a 25% chance that whatever tiny little bottles they have innocently sitting in the shower are going to set him off like crazy. (Alright. 33%.)
And, hey. A 25% 33% chance isn’t all that bad considering how badly he feels the need to wash the sweat and grime of the game off his body. And, honestly, it hadn’t happened in a while. Maybe he should’ve taken that as a sign that his luck was running out.
About 45 seconds after Ilya pops the small cap open and starts rubbing the bubbly body wash across his skin, he feels that tell-tale prickle high in his left nostril. The sensation is so sudden, it forces a suprised cough from his lungs as his eyes start to squint shut and his nose scrunches up of it’s own accord.
Somehow, though the echoing sound of himself bouncing around the ceramic walls of the shower, he hears muffled rustling outside the bathroom door.
“Fucking hell, again, Roz?”
Ilya has the sense through this fit to roll his eyes at this. (And then promptly sneeze again.) Cliff has, unfortunately (and embarrassingly) been there for many of Ilya’s nose’s tantrums, especially considering they’re always rooming together on the road.
As mortifying as it can be (like in this moment), Ilya’s grateful it’s him. Marlow’s always been kind to him, seeking him out to start conversation, and always seeming to have a sense of when Ilya’s not quite understanding something. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, which Ilya appreciates. With Marlow’s boisterous, loud kindness, they’ve started a friendship fairly quickly.
“Ah, yes, SehhH?! H’JYSZZCHH! Serenity Mist. Of c-course, I know I am ahH! ahH’yIISHhhuU! snf! allergic to thing named Serenity Mist. How could I forget?” Ilya yells out sarcastically, his accent reverberating across the bathroom. Well, he hoped the sarcasm came across through the non-stop sneezing.
“That’s why you look at the ingredients on the back, rook!”
Ilya does not have the time, energy, or breath at this moment to explain to Cliff that one, he was not thinking hard enough to remember that; two, he’d be lucky if he knew one English word on that ingredient list; and three, he doesn’t even know what the hell’s in this shit that he’s allergic to. So, he just sneezes in response.
A knock at the bathroom door cuts through the noise of his sneezing and the running water. He hears the door crack open and blinks his tears away to see Marlow’s large arm sticking through, holding a white bar of soap.
They’ve done this exact music and dance (he knows he’s not using that one right) so many times, it’s routine. Ilya thinks at this point, Marlow probably brings an extra bar of soap just for him. He’s not going to think too deeply into the warmth that idea spreads through his chest.
Scrubbing roughly at his nose with one hand, his other hand opens the shower door, letting a fresh, cool breeze of air in to scatter goosebumps across his skin. Ilya steps out carefully, droplets of water skittering down his body, leaving little puddles as he pads towards the door.
His nose just can’t help itself, though, especially with the new addition of cold air making his sinuses shiver. “ehH? hiH’JZZSHHuU! hh! DSHHhU!--ehH-EH’TZZSHHuu!” His head snaps down as he shudders through a desperate trio of sneezes, pointedly directed away from Marlow’s arm outstretched in front of him.
“If that was your snot on my arm, Roz, I’m going to kill you,”
“Fuck off. Is not snot. Just water. And Serenity Mist soap, maybe”
He hears Marlow’s deep, booming laugh over the sound of the still-running water. “Fuckin’ Serenity Mist. I’m starting a list so you don’t forget, that’s goin’ at the top,”
Ilya rolls his eyes. Marlow himself will forget to even start said list, he’s sure. “snf! Thanks,” Ilya lets out, grabbing the bar from his hand.
“Gotcha, man. Got Claritin, medicine out here for you, too, once you’re done,”
“I do not--”
“--Take pills, I know. It’s the liquid kind. Figured I should find some after the last time you decided to suffer through a 12-hour allergy attack instead of taking any meds,”
Ilya doesn’t know how to respond in a way that doesn’t reveal that Marlow’s simple gesture is just about the nicest thing someone other than Svetlana’s done for him in a long time. Good thing his nose takes over for him.
“EH! yYISSHHhhUU!”
“Jeeesus, rook, I get it. Go wash all that stuff off, quick, you’re hogging the good water,”
What Marlow means by ‘the good water’, Ilya’s got no idea. And he doesn’t think this is an weird English thing, he thinks it’s a weird Marlow thing.
“Yes, fine, going,” He huffs out, shutting the door and shuffling back in the shower. And, if he’s not as much bothered by all the sneezing after that, well, maybe he’s learned he just needs a good Marlow to take care of him help him out during these reactions to make him feel a tiny bit better.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
2. Sochi, 2014
He’d really tried to be alone. Really, really tried his best. He was pissed, in the worst mood, and just wanted to wallow. Because, really, Latvia? His father was right, it was a disgrace.
Oh, and on top of everything? Losing to Latvia, being a disgrace to his country, yelling at Shane Hollander, and being berated by his father? Ilya was sick. Of course. Maybe it was karma. For failing his country. For being an asshole. He did start to feel that congestion seeping in only one day after their loss.
But, for some reason, Svetlana didn’t want to let him be alone. He tried to tell her not to come around him, that he’d get her sick, that he didn’t want any company. Tried to be an asshole (he felt like he was getting pretty good at that recently). Considering his pounding head was propped up against her side, both of their legs stretched out across her hotel bed…He definitely wasn’t enough of an asshole. Or, he was, and Sveta just didn’t care. Probably that one.
“Damn, Canada is on fire. They’re about to get another power play. No way the U.S. gets through it without Hollander scoring. Maybe twice.”
Ilya groans against her side, muffled by the cotton of her shirt, eyes still squeezed shut. “Sveta, stop talking about-” Shane fucking Hollander. “-hockey. Do we have to watch this?” The Russian consonants fall easily from his lips, even muddled by his congestion.
“Your eyes have been closed the whole time, you’re not even watching.”
“I feel like I am with your constant announcing,”
“I deserve to watch some beautiful hockey when you’re laying there sniffling your germs all over my bed,”
Ilya’s jaw and eyes pop open, squinting against the glow of the TV, shocked expression pointing up at his best friend. “You must be kidding. You practically forced me over here, and now you’re complaining about it?” He can’t help but to sniffle against the congestion building, even knowing he’s proving her point.
A laugh that reminds Ilya of wind chimes falls from her lips. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you actually watched with me. You’re my favorite person to watch hockey with,”
The compliment makes chest feel warm. Or, maybe that’s a fever. “Sveta, take two seconds and imagine why I wouldn’t want to watch Olympic hockey right now,”
“Ilyusha, you’re sick. We always watch hockey when you’re sick,” She points out. And while she’s not wrong…
“Well, I’ve never been sick and lost to the worst fucking country in the Olympics at the same time. This is new territory,”
“Exactly. I figured you’d want to watch some good hockey, since you hadn’t seen any yourself in the past few days,”
The grin across her lips, reserved for when she’s purposefully pushing his buttons, catches his eye. And, he is sick, but hasn’t lost all his reflexes yet.
He swiftly pushes up, rolling himself over her and capturing her wrists in his hands. He shakes her with each word he says, and that wind-chime laugh is already in his ears. “Too far, Sveta, too far! You know I am the best hockey player in the world, admit it!”
“You are, factually, not the best hockey player in the world! Once this game is over, we are going to see which country the best hockey player in the world is from, but he is not from Russia,” Svetlana nods at the television, which Ilya just knows is showing Shane Hollander right now, so he can not turn around. Again, karma is not on his side.
And he knows this for absolute certain because now is when his nose decides it has had enough quiet time.
“Hh? heEH! nNGgtt!--nnGgkT! hh! nNGT’tshh!” He ducks off to the side, stifling three sneezes in quick succession as best he can hands-free. Ilya rolls off Svetlana, scrubbing at his nose in the aftermath, and pointedly not looking at her.
“Ilya,” Fuck, he knows that tone. “Don’t do that,”
He rolls his eyes, grumbling softly. “You were right there. What, you wanted me to sneeze all over y- hhn! nGKT’Chh! -snf! you?”
She swiftly ignores his excuse. “I thought we stopped doing that.”
A scoff leaves the back of his throat, and he ignores how just that slight vibration felt sore on the way up. “We? I did not know you, too, had a nose that was broken a million times and can not stop sneezing at every little thing,”
His attempts at distracting and baiting her are obviously not working. “I have not heard you do that in a long time, Ilyusha. Since you were a teenager, around your father,”
He groans, obviously not escaping this conversation. And, she is trying to be sweet. He knows this, even if his melting-fever-brain is telling him that she’s simply being annoying and overreacting about holding in his sneezing of all things. “It’s just…Being back here. You know. Around everything. I guess just makes me think I have to…go back to that,”
She hums softly, and he can feel her eyes on him, even though he’s deliberately avoiding hers. “You know you do not ever. Have to go back to that, yes?”
And, with his nose and brain already clogged, he can not start to release everything right now, that he does have to be tied here in some way, in some way, because of his mother’s grave, his father’s illness, his Russian passport and citizenship, his niece…He already feels pressure behind his eyes just at the thought of it all.
So, instead, he goes with: “Yes, I know. I know, Sveta,” Finally, his eyes meet hers.
Another set of wide eyes scan across his face, full lips pressed together. With a soft breath, she hooks an arm around his shoulders, tugging him down to lay in her lap. He maneuvers his body with her, his head instinctively nuzzling deeper into the comfort of her warm legs as her lithe fingers tangle in his hair.
Of course, the change of direction has his sinuses protesting yet again. His swimming brain doesn’t notice until he’s hitched a few times, the bridge of his nose crinkling tight. His instinct is to bring two fingers up to his nose, but he only makes it a few inches before he feels a soft, warm hand against his arm.
“Ilya,” And it’s all she has to say.
“hhiH! EH! dJJSHHhh! ehH’TSHhh! hh! yyISHhhhUU!” He still brings his elbow up, but more to try to save Sveta’s legs from the spray than to try to hold in the expulsions.
“Bless you,” She hums. And, maybe as a little reward for letting go (of more things than just his sneezes, she thinks), she hands him the remote for the TV.
He’ll be asleep in minutes anyway, and then she can go back to watching her hockey.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
3. Ottawa, 2018
He blames Shane not being here. If Shane had been here, he’d be the one insisting to man the sauce pan and stir. Ilya’s been told one too many times he over-mixes. Or, at the very least, he’d have had some brain to maybe inch Ilya away while adding the spices.
Maybe he’s just pissy because he knows if Shane were here watching this all go down, he’d get to see those sprinkled freckled cheeks turn adorably red. And, if he was lucky, see Shane’s little eyebrows do their little motion as he tried to think of a valid excuse to drag Ilya back to his room and kiss the shit out of him.
Either way, definitely not Shane’s fault. He does wish he was here to see it, though.
“ehH?! eHH’DJJSHHhuU!”
It’s really Ilya’s obliviousness’ fault at this point. He knows his nose well enough, he should’ve known to make himself scarce when Yuna had mentioned she was adding the spices. But, to be fair, it usually wasn’t this bad. Or, was it? And he was just remembering wrong?
He was 75% sure it wasn’t usually this bad.
“heH! hH’DZZSHH! ehH’TSZHHhuU!!”
Blinking through streaming eyes, he tries to pull himself back together. But, his lashes are fluttering shut again within a few moments. Whatever steam that was rising from the pan, mixing all those spice particles and throwing them up at him had his nostrils prickling and his eyes squinting in irritation. Fuck, he hates that this had to happen around…
“God, sweetheart, you sound like you’re going for the record! Come on, sit, sit,”
Yuna.
He absently feels a small hand against his back, gentle pressure urging him towards what he can only imagine is the kitchen table. His eyes are apparently just as irritated as his nose.
The hands move to his shoulders, pushing him down against a hard chair in the kitchen. He wants to tell her she shouldn’t be so close, that he’s really fine, but, again.
“I-- iiH! yyIZZSSHhhU!”
Hard to do while your immune system is attacking itself. He coughs irritatedly when he finally gets a damn breath that doesn’t immediately feel like an incoming sneeze, wincing as he feels Yuna’s presence still hovering. Two fingers instinctively raise, and he pauses half-way to his face with a roll of his red, watering eyes.
And that, that, is something he can actually blame Shane for. And Svetlana. Making him feel all safe, all comfortable to be imperfect, to show his ‘emotions’ and ‘feelings’. Insisting he just ‘lets it all out’ - sneezes included.
Assholes, the both of them. He was pretty sure even if he wanted to hold in his sneezes like he used to, he wouldn’t be able to. Without significant effort. Those motherfuckers Pavloved him. (He’d been proud using that term for the first time to Shane).
“Bless you, honey,”
Fuck, he’d forgotten about Yuna. His frame twitches with surprise as he feels paper in his free hand. Thankfully, the one not attached to the elbow he’s been sneezing into for dear life.
Blindly, he fumbles to press the bundle of tissues to his nose, mopping up moisture he doesn’t want to think about the origins of…Eyes or nose…? Just pretending it’s all from the eyes.
“Yuna, I’m so- soHH! ahH’DJJSSHhuU! snf!“
“No need to apologize, Ilya, I promise,” Magic mom intuition apparently knew where he was going with that one. “Just blow when you can to get all that stuff out,”
At this point, Ilya isn’t sure if the flush high on his cheekbones is from the embarrassment of this happening in front of Shane’s mother of all people, or from exertion from sneezing so much. He starts feeling that itch in his chest, that he needs to hold it in, needs to just not be so fucking disgusting--
“No, no, I cannoht--eHG’TZSHHhhU! I shhhould just go outside for a s-sehH! second, clean--”
She cuts him off swiftly with a hand on his shoulder. “Ilya, honey, I don’t trust you could make it outside with your eyes watering like that. It’s not going to get better unless you blow,”
In the end, it’s not really fully his choice. A particularly desperate double has him crunching down into the tissues tented over two hands, burying his overactive nose in the folds. The sneezes have him him sniffling frantically in the aftermath, feeling wetness snaking through every part of his sinuses. He feels the need to blow just to clear that sensation, immediately.
And, loathe as he was to do that with Yuna right there (close enough she was touching his back, by the way), the next breath he takes in post-nose blow is the clearest breath he’s taken in minutes. Shit, did the Hollander genetics just have it written in that they had to be right all the time?
After double, triple checking that he was sufficiently clean, he finally lowered the tissues from his nose with a sniffle, chancing a watery glance up at Yuna. And with that soft, fond smile she was giving him, well, no one could blame him if he saw a glimmer of Irina. Or if he had some water in his eyes having nothing to do with the spices.
Yuna chuckled gently, dragging her hand across the side of his cheek, smoothing down the curls by his ear. “Maybe we find a new kitchen job for you, huh? At least while I’m finishing up this part,” She suggests, kindness and a little amusement in her tone.
“Or, maybe…You know, because I am so helpful and I do the worst job that you do not want to do…snff! I go help David finish his puzzle,”
A bright laugh escapes her lips. “God, yes please. He’s too close, you know he’s not going to want to come until he’s finished--”
“--And, then we will be having dinner at 9:30pm. Yes, yes, I will go save family dinner from puzzle master,” Ilya stands, shoving a few clean tissues in his pocket, just in case, as he begins walking to the other room.
“This is why you’re my favorite son!” Yuna calls out after him.
“I am telling your least favorite son you said this!” He calls back, over his shoulder. At the domesticity of it all, feels a sofy, mushy feeling in his chest, something he’s come to learn almost feels like healing.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
4. Ottawa, 2021
“So, it’s already recording, we’ll edit down all the content later, all you’ve gotta worry about is making sure the guys are in frame, audible, and making good content. Which, really, is never much of a problem with this grou--”
“Hey, what’s going on with them?”
Harris looked up and blinked, obviously too engrossed in his explanation. Or, maybe he was just too good at drowning the sound of his idiots out, at this point. It was his new social media assistant’s first day, hired to help take the load off of him with all the content and PR needs the Centaurs had. Well, it looked like she’d be starting off with a bang.
“That’s two! And, looks like we’re headed for--”
“hiEH?! ehH’TSZHHUU! hUH! DJjjSHH--EH’YISHhhUU!”
“Three! Fou--Five!”
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Harris muttered, unable to keep a lick of fond exasperation out of his tone. “They have this thing--”
“snf!! oh- aH! dyY’ISHHhhuU! kH! hh’TZSHHUUu!”
“Oh, and boys, the gloves are coming off! If we’ve learned anything this season, if the gloves come off, it’s at least another four to go!” Wyatt’s voice rung out, obviously emulating one of the many announcers they’d heard throughout their years in the league.
“ShhuuH! uH’DJJZHH-uu! Shut the hell uuHP’IISCHHhU!, ugh--Hazy,”
And, sure enough, at the middle of the ice, was Ilya Rozanov, shaking out his hands to send his gloves flying. All the while, sneezing his fucking head off, bringing his newly freed fingers to scrub viciously at his nose.
Harris shook his head, glancing back at his new partner-in-crime. “They’ve got this thing, with Ilya and his sneezing. Something about being out in the cold on the ice for this long sets him off, and every time he starts going off like this, they start counting to see if he’ll beat the record,”
He receives a raised brow. “And, what’s the record?”
“Ladies and gentleman, the Russian cursing has emerged! We’re in the home stretch! Will tonight be the night Mr. Rozanov beats his previously set record?”
“Who’s keeping count?” Bood asks, glancing around before clapping Luca on the back, watching the rookie tick one more finger up each time Roz--
“ehH’JJSHhhhuh! snff! Ohh, and you all like to have biih! iH’TShhhUU!-ngh, big ego about being kindest team in the league, so-called ‘good guys’, what will f-ahH! hH’ATTSHhh! fuck! What will fans do -snf! When they know their team is full of ahhAH! adD’JJSHhhUU! assholes?”
The players are all huddled around laughing, but Harris’s eyes drift to Troy (maybe they’ve been on him the whole time, unconsciously). He watches on as Luca, still diligently counting on his fingers, leans over and mutters something to Troy, which promptly makes him cackle so hard, Harris thinks he might double over. He isn’t surprised, Luca is sneaky-funny.
The group's collective attention splits to Troy for the moment, a few eyes still glancing back at Ilya as he continues sneezing and sniffling. It takes Troy a few moments to spit out what’s making him laugh so hard, Luca innocently standing beside him with a knowing smile.
“He’s mic’d up today--!”
The realization that this whole interaction is being recorded with the little microphone attached to Ilya’s jersey causes the guys to fall into hysterics, all thoughts of counting for the record tabled.
Harris can’t help but to chuckle himself, watching as, of course, Rozanov’s watery, blinking eyes flit around to land on him.
Skating, sneezing, and ripping off a hot mic all at the same time was pretty impressive, in Harris’ book, even if said hot mic was getting shoved back into his hand by a very large, very sneezy hockey player.
“Harris, I promise, if I see that shihH!--shit on Instagram...hhUH! uH’DJJSHhUU! --or Twitter or whatever Centaur page, I will make your PR life living hell. I will Tweet about favorite sex position, and comment on stupid American political posts I don’t uhh!--understand… ehH’JJZSHHuUU! and post not-classy ‘thirst trap’ of me with ‘too much skin’ and ‘too low angle’--”
Now, that last part, was a direct quote from Harris. He really didn’t think he’d be at a point in his life where he was vetting hockey player thirst traps. “You already do half of those things!”
“I can make it worse,” Ilya threatened, with not too much success considering the sniffling and the pawing at his red nose was cutting through his intimidation. It was making the Russian look, for lack of a better term, adorable.
“I saw extra tissues in the supply cabinet if you’re out in your locker,” Harris sighed, ignoring the captain’s empty threats, switching off the tiny mic in his hands and sitting it on the table. He’d seen this happen enough times to know how to handle Ilya in the aftermath.
As if he wasn’t still recovering from an all-intensive sneeze-attack, Ilya gave an enthusiastic nod at Harris, pounding him on the back thankfully before ducking forwards with another sneeze. “snff--Thank you!”
Harris shook his head fondly, glancing back out at the guys still on the ice, still laughing and shoving each other around. And, if some clips of that video made it into Ilya’s birthday post that year, well…It was Troy’s idea.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦
+1. Montreal, 2016
Shane stumbles into the bathroom, feeling all-too lightheaded to do anything more than just go through the motions. Grab paper towels, turn sink on, run towels under cold water, press on face…
A shaky breath escapes his chest. The cloud in his mind is slowly dispersing, allowing more thoughts in full sentences. God, he thinks, flipping the paper towels and pressing the cool side to the back of his neck, of course this would happen. He’s either severely angered some god looking down on him, or he’s their favorite human on the planet. He really can’t tell which one, because--
“hyEH! EH’DJJZHHhhU!! hh! TSHHhhhyUUU!”
Because that. Shane shifts his eyes up to look through the mirror, the door behind him swinging open to reveal a familiar blonde Russian. Of course.
“hh-hiH! yyYIZSSHHUUu!”
A sneezing, familiar blonde Russian.
Shane feels that same stream of heat he’s been trying so hard to ignore for the length of the shoot trickle low in his stomach. He sighs out a flustered frustrated breath.
Maybe Shane should be Ilya’s manager, because he’s positive that he could’ve told the man this would be a bad idea. Even in his fairly limited in-person interactions with Ilya in the past seven years, Shane had quickly picked up on the fact that the man’s nose was overly sensitive. To seemingly everything.
The cold air of the rink, the pollen in Canada, the cleaning products used in hotels, and yes, what seemed like anything scented. So, why Ilya thought doing a cologne ad with 3 other hockey players was a good idea, Shane had no clue. He must’ve known it would end up like this. With him sneezing his head off throughout the shoot, and Shane attempting to not look like he was getting harder and harder with each and every sneeze.
Well, hopefully he didn’t know that second part. But, that first part, Ilya must’ve known.
“snf! I do not think you are so much of a polite Canadian, after all,” Shane blinks in surprise, glancing up at Ilya though the mirror as he spoke his first true words since entering the bathroom. Even through the reflection in the mirror, he must see the confusion written across Shane’s expression, because Ilya takes his pause to continue.
“I have sneeze attack for whole shoot, sneeze ten, twenty, thirty times, and do not hear one bless you from Shane Hollander,” Big, brown eyes can’t help but to track large Ilya’s hand as he brings it up to scrub at his nose, sniffling uselessly before he continues. “Heard from all the other players, from nice producers and camera people…Is polite for at least one ‘bless you’, if you did not want to bless for the other twenty-nine,”
Shane’s breath hitches deep in his throat, cheekbones rosy as he turns around to face his ‘rival’, the marble countertop of the sink cool against his back. It’s about the only part of him that feels cool right now. Since he can’t think straight, instinctive words he never has to think about fall out of his mouth without permission: “Fuck off, Rozanov,”
And, right on time, Ilya ducks forwards with another triplet of sneezes, aiming towards his arm. Shane is decidedly not noticing that he half-misses his arm, and can see the evidence of that in the air between them…Fuck, he’s noticing, he’s definitely noticing, and he feels a pulse of energy between his legs. And a matching prickle high in his sinuses. No, no, they were not about to do this here.
Ilya is sniffling wetly, blinking through irritation, his eyes falling on Shane again, flitting across his expression. God, is it possible that this allergic irritation makes his eyes look even more mesmerizing? “What, you are…What is it called? When you are scared of germs?”
“...Germaphobic?”
Ilya nods. “Ah, yes, you are germaphobic?” The way he says it, all stretched out and broken up, makes it sound like he’s pronouncing each sound alone, making sure he’s repeating it just as Shane told him.
“Wha-no!” He’s getting whiplash from this conversation, more to do with the incessant sneezing from the Russian than any type of language barrier.
Shane’s gaze trails from Ilya’s eyes to his nose, twitching and flaring seemingly of its own accord, definitely without Ilya’s permission. Shane takes a short sniffle in himself, wrenching his nose to the side instinctively.
“So, then, if you are not germaphobic,” his accent sounds smoother this time across the unfamiliar word, “thehh…thEH! eEH’DJJZHHHUUuu! snf! Hoo…‘bless me’,” Ilya blesses himself in an expecting tone, brows raised and gazing over at Shane like he was waiting for him to do the same. Of course, leave it to Ilya Rozanov to turn this into some kind of power-play dynamic. He didn’t even know what he was getting himself into.
At Rozanov’s low words, Shane gives another sharp, irritated sniffle before answering. He could do this, he could get a handle on it and do it without setting off that godforsaken reflex. “hh! Bl…Bless you--hh’TSHh--iIH’HTSHhh! oh--ehh’SHhh!--uhh…”
Fuck.
Slowly straightening up from where he had ducked into his wrist, Shane’s eyes rise to meet Rozanov’s face. Hell, and of course Rozanov’s looking at him all confused, because the only times the man has heard him sneeze like that were when…
“...What, you are coming now? Untouched?” The ‘again’ is unspoken, but implied.
Cheeks dusted pink, thumbing shyly at his nose, Shane replies with a shake of his head and a roll of his eyes. He can feel the pink turning into red, fast, and promptly ignores it. “No! Fuck off,” How eloquent, Shane.
Ilya raises a brow. “Well, you are not feeling scared or phobic, that is for sure. Opposite, maybe,” He’s looking curious now, which isn’t a good thing for either of them. For Shane, mostly. A large frame and blonde curls move closer into Shane’s space, bright eyes boring into his. Shane can feel warm breath against his skin, and he shakes his head needlessly.
“We can’t. Not here,” Shane insists.
“Hollander. Shoot is over. Everyone is leaving,” Shane can feel his skin vibrating where Ilya’s body is ghosting over his skin, seemingly just getting closer and closer.
“N-Not everyone, half the crew is probably still here!” He watches Ilya rolls his eyes, and Shane knows he’s probably about to call him boring again--
“Half the c-crew is ehh! exaggeration, and anyway, I locked the bathroom d…door on my my! iIH! iiH’DJJZHHUU! hHEH’EHHJJZZHuU!”
Shane tries. He really tries not to, but with Ilya so close he can practically feel the sneezes reverberating through his frame, Shane’s really got no choice in the matter. He feels his cock twitch, and his nose twitch in tandem.
“hhN! nN’TSCHh!--iiHTSHh! iiH! ih’TSHhhh!!--ngh…”
Ilya blinks up at Shane with a sniffle, straightening back to full height in the aftermath of his own sneezes. Understanding smooths out his features, and Shane mutters a curse under his breath.
“...Oh, it is this! Is my sneezing that is making you…Well. Sneezy, too,”
Fuck. Within their first two times together, Ilya had quickly put together that Shane couldn’t help but to sneeze when he was turned on. To be fair, it was a little hard not to put that together when he was a sneezy mess every time he came in front of Ilya.
What Shane was carefully sure that Ilya hadn’t put together in all of their rendezvous was…The other part. The…kink of it all. And, he’d been doing a fine job at it so far, he thought! But, with Rozanov sneezing so desperately like that, inches away from him…Shane’s own nose obviously felt the need to betray his true feelings on the matter.
Shane scrunches his eyes shut, letting out a shaky breath and dropping his forehead to clunk against his blonde counterpart’s shoulder. “Oh god…” Aaand, the lightheadedness is back.
His reaction is apparently enough to confirm Ilya’s thoughts, and to his credit, he really only takes what feels like a few moments to blink in surprise down at Shane before he springs into action.
“No, no, do not overthink, is perfect, actually,” Large, callused hands grip at Shane’s face, gently guiding him out from his hiding spot against Ilya’s own shoulder. “This is probably easiest way I could ever turn you on. Is adorable, really,”
Shane blinks, cheeks blazing. “I-It is not adorable,” And, because he can’t help himself, “And you doing it over and over again is not helping,”
His lips twitch up with a soft shrug, as if to say ‘I can’t help it!’, his smirk dangerously attractive. “It is adorable, Hollander. And, you know, kind of works out. snf! I was going to throw all these stupid cologne samples away after the shoot, but…” The Russian trails off with a tilt of his head, eyes boring into Shane’s.
“I think I will keep them around. The scent is kind of growing on me,”
Hi! I'm back with my stupid allergic guys! Happy spring!
Summary: 4.3k words. OC enemies to lovers M/M. Bellamy and Nass go camping. Both sneeze. Prince Bellamy discovers a new allergy.
TW: Sneezing fit while driving. Light mess.
My Ko-fi is linked here. If you enjoy my content and feel called to offer something, it is deeply appreciated. Either way, thank you to everyone who reads and enjoys this universe. <3
Part two will be very spicy. But for now, enjoy the buildup ;)
Authors note: Yekitiverse is a magical OC universe inspired by the culture/relationship between Spain and Morocco. It takes place akin to our early 20th century. So there are cars and technology but society is in a transitional stage.
***
“I don’t like this,” Nass complains as he helps Bellamy shove a rolled-up tent into the back of their rental car.
“Only rich people would willingly sleep outside on thin blankets,” Nass grumbles.
He rubs absently at his lower back, like his body remembers too well the years he and Marwa shared a mattress so thin it may as well have been the floor. The best their parents could afford at the time.
“I will make you like camping. I am sure of it.” Bellamy says neatly folding both of their jackets and setting it into the trunk.
“Doubtful,” Nass snorts, though he’s grinning.
“Well,” Bellamy pauses, bringing his hand to rest on the small of Nass’s back. He squeezes, his breath hot against Nass’s neck. “At the very least, I’m sure you’ll enjoy what I plan to do to you in complete privacy.”
Now that got Nass packing up the rest of the car in no time.
The university had a long weekend and for the first time in the history of them knowing each other, neither of them had anywhere to be. No royal obligations, exams, or illness. And the weather was perfect.
It was finally spring in central province, all warm wind and red weeds beginning to bloom along the highways and city streets. Bellamy had suggested a two-night camping trip in the Aylean Woods — three hours from the city, isolated enough that no one would bother them.
Nass knows Bellamy loves being in nature. The prince practically wilted if he spent too long trapped inside. And selfishly, the thought of having Bellamy entirely to himself for three uninterrupted days made Nass’s stomach flutter.
Their relationship had been going well — really well — the past few weeks.
Which honestly terrified him a little.
A few days ago, Nass had accidentally overheard Bellamy on the phone through his bedroom door.
“I sort of have a boyfriend I think,” he’d heard. “A Southerner.”
Nass had nearly dropped the tea he was holding.
“He hates the North,” Bellamy continued, deep voice muffled through his bedroom door. “It’s complicated. But he really likes me. Well, actually he says he loves me.”
Nass’s throat had gone dry at that.
There’d been a pause.
“You can’t meet him, Jorge. I c-can’t bring him to our village.” Bellamy said finally, tone flattening in that careful way it always did when he was upset. “He’d freak out.”
Nass had stood frozen in the hallway staring at the wall.
“I know it’s probably a bad idea,” Bellamy said, an air of finality to his voice. “But when has anything in my life ever been easy?”
The entire conversation had lodged itself beneath Nass’s ribs ever since. Half butterflies and half dread.
Nass had never had a boyfriend before. Just messy hookups in the back of clubs or in cramped dorm rooms.
Now he was dating the prince of Yekiti.
He wants to meet people from Bellamy’s past. He wants to see Bellamy’s home. And he sure doesn’t want to freak out or be a bad idea.
He wants to prove to Bellamy he’s easy to be with. Even if the idea of stepping foot in Northern province — hearing their language everywhere, seeing Northern soldiers like the one that killed his mother— makes nausea curl in his stomach.
And who the hell was Jorge anyway? Bellamy had never mentioned him. Or anyone from his past really.
But this weekend he’s determined to find out more.
“Did you pack your tincture for motion sickness?" Bellamy asks as he slides into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah, I packed it. And took some already.” Nass drops into the passenger seat. Being in cars, boats, trains — any form of transportation really — always made him horribly motion sick. It was incredibly embarrassing and inconvenient. “I don’t travel without itt — Hih’Gnxt’Shuu!”
The sneeze pitches him forward.
Ugh. He sniffles thickly rubbing at his tickling nose.
“And your allergy tincture?” Bellamy asks as he starts the car. “In case that continues?”
A smile tugs at Nass’s mouth. Bellamy’s concern is sweet. Ridiculously sweet.
“I have it,” he says, flipping on the radio. His hay fever is significantly worse in the early fall, but the pollen levels have been so high this week it’s affecting him even now in early spring.
Yesterday Bellamy had noticed Nass sniffling halfway through first period and had disappeared to the apothecary before lunch to buy him allergy tincture.
Bellamy notices everything.
“Good,” Bellamy pulls onto the main road as Nass settles onto a Southern radio channel.
“Where did you learn to drive?” Nass leans back into the cushiony leather seat.
He’s somehow unsurprised that Bellamy knows how to drive. He’s learned by now Bellamy knows how to do most things, despite living half his life as a prince.
Nass himself, just learned how to drive last year. Only the wealthiest Yekitians owned cars and in the South transit was still mainly camel or horse.
“I got lessons when I was a teenager,” Bellamy says, as he merges onto a main road. “I never liked my father’s staff doing things for me.”
Bellamy doesn’t seem comfortable with anyone doing anything for him, but Nass doesn’t say this.
“Why do you never speak of your friends from the North?” Nass asks, watching as Bellamy pulls sunglasses over his light eyes. “Did you not have any?”
“You really think my social skills to be so poor, Nass?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow, but Nass can tell he’s teasing.
“Of course I have friends.” Bellamy says. “You saw one of my friends in fact. Camille.”
A sharp stab of jealousy hits Nass instantly.
Camille’s hands in Bellamy’s curls flashes through his head. Bellamy kissing her under the red lights of Hookah’s Sex Lounge.
“She didn’t look like your friend that night at the sex club,” Nass says flatly.
Bellamy chuckles at Nass’s tone. “Camille is a very good friend.” He continues. “After I moved to the palace and had to go to private school, she was one of the only people who dared to socialize with me.”
“Why?” Nass frowns.
His fingers tighten slightly against the steering wheel.
“My brother did not take kindly to suddenly discovering he had a secret half sibling threatening his future throne. At school he made it very clear that speaking to me would have consequences.”
Nass feels immediate disgust crawl up his spine. Jason Velaquez being a bully as a teenager is the least surprising thing he’s heard all month.
“Camille was never afraid of him,” Bellamy continues. “Her father is a trusted palace advisor. So Jason had no real power over her. Though he certainly tried.”
“And then?” Nass presses.
Bellamy gives a small shrug. “Eventually we dated for a few years. But Camille is not a mage and has no interest in living anywhere but the North.”
He doesn’t elaborate further. He doesn’t need to.
“And your friends from before you were a prince? From the orphanage?” Nass asks. He can’t even imagine it. To Bellamy, that time must feel like a past life.
Bellamy’s jaw tightens. Nass thinks he isn’t going to answer but then he does.
“Jorge and Amira,” he finally answers. “They are more like my family.”
Jorge. The person Bellamy was speaking to on the phone.
“Jorge was born with a degenerative illness and uses a wheelchair. Amira is albino. And I have the king’s eyes,” he waves at his face. “Invalids they called us. And so, we were never adopted. Though I suppose I was technically adopted by the king.”
Something twists painfully in Nass’s chest.
“You must miss them,” Nass comments.
“Very much,” Bellamy says quietly. “I don’t see them often.”
“Why not?” Nass frowns.
Bellamy goes still.
“Because I am the prince,” he says finally, voice clipped. “And my father forbids me and my brother to associate with invalids.”
The words are so cruel Nass almost thinks he misheard them.
Bellamy sniffles softly, rubbing at his nose with the back of his wrist.
“And if anyone saw us together and word got back to the palace,” he continues, “it could make their lives… difficult. So, when I do see them I must be very discreet.”
Silence settles heavily between them.
Nass stares out the window, throat tight. He can’t imagine being forbidden from seeing Marwa. The thought alone makes him feel ill.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.” Bellamy clears his throat. “Anyway. It’s hot in here.”
He presses the button for the windows. Warm spring air immediately whips through the car, tangling Nass’s braids together.
The sharp scent of pine and something sweet he can’t exactly name hits him. Nass inhales, spraying his lap with an itchy and uncovered “Hih’Ttt’Shuuyiew!”
“Bless you,” Bellamy says. “Do you want to take your allergy tincture?”
Nass rubs his face. “No. It’ll only make me sleepy.”
“It will be a three-hour drive,” Bellamy says kindly. “It’s okay if you sleep.”
“That doesn’t make me a very good c-company — “Hih-EsshHUE!”,” Nass wrenches forward with the uncharacteristically loud sneeze, his seatbelt pulling against his chest.
He clears his throat that’s beginning to itch.
“You are good company awake or asleep, Nass,” Bellamy smiles. It’s almost shy.
The sincerity in his voice makes warmth spread through Nass’s chest so quickly it almost embarrasses him.
Maybe Bellamy is right.
Besides, even with the motion sickness tincture already in his system, the rolling highway has nausea beginning to churn low in his stomach.
With a sigh, Nass reaches into his bag, retrieves the allergy tincture, and lets a few bitter drops fall beneath his tongue before washing the awful herbal taste away with water.
After another forty five minutes and half a dozen sneezes later, both tinctures start to kick in. Nass leans back in his seat, letting the steady sound of the car and the drumming of Southern music lull him to sleep.
The next thing he knows, Nass is woken up to a thunderous “hHHh’DZZSSCHh—'uH-!” echoing through the car. He startles awake, neck aching from the awkward angle he’d fallen asleep in, just in time to see Bellamy snap forward with a second uncovered and equally loud “hh! H’uh! hih! IIESHHh'YEUh!”
It sprays all over the steering wheel, the mist sparkling in the sunlight. Bellamy sniffles, face twisted in irritation.
“Skies,” Nass struggles to sit up, “Bless you.”
“Sorry to wake you,” Bellamy pants, knuckling at his nose. Nass can see that his boyfriend had removed his sunglasses, blue eyes red and watering. “Gods, I couldn’t sth! Stifle anymore… hh! — “heH’SCHEUG’Hiih-!”
The car jerks slightly as Bellamy makes a right. He gives another irritated snuffle, his eyes glassy. “Can you check if there are any tissues in here?”
Nass doesn’t think there will be tissues anywhere in a rental car, but he checks anyway.
“Nothing,” he says, poking around the center console. “And I’ve told you many times you don’t need to stifle your sneezes, Bellamy. I don’t care if it wakes me up or —”
"Heh- hH’IYSChhiuEH!!” Bellamy interrupts as if his body agrees, a loose frizzy curl flying into his eyes from the force of it.
Bellamy mutters what Nass presumes is a curse in Northern tongue.
“Bless you,” Nass says, trying not to stare.
“Sorry,” Bellamy coughs. “I can’t stop sneezing for some reason.”
“You don’t need to apologize, Bellamy,” Nass blinks, growing flustered.
“Ugh,” he gives a stuffy sounding sniffle. “I think I should blow my nose. Do you have an extra handkerchief?”
Nass flushes, all of the blood in his body rushing to his pants. He blinks, adjusts his jeans against his erection then blinks again. Fuck why is Bellamy so hot, how can he say things like this and not have a clue what it does to him —
“N-Nass?” Bellamy asks. Shit. He must’ve have zoned out for a second longer than appropriate.
“Do you have one? We’re on this highway for a while and I don’t know where I can bu! Buy —h’IEGHkSsH’hue!!”
It sprays absolutely everywhere. The steering wheel, the dashboard, Nass even feels some of the mist settle on his arm.
“No — shit — I’m sorry, yes I have an extra one,” he twists over towards the backseat, pulling the soft fabric out from the bottom of his backpack.
“Here.” He hands it out to him. “Do you want to pull over or —,”
“It’s fine,” Bellamy makes a face of brief disgust at using a handkerchief, but takes it anyway, calmly removing one hand off the wheel to blow his nose. The aftermath of the blowing wrestles another tickly sounding sneeze from him.
Bellamy groans.
“Bless you,” Nass squeezes his shoulder trying to sound normal. His erection is so stiff he’s nearly throbbing. “What’s setting you off? Hay fever?”
Bellamy always sneezes multiple times in a row so it could just be that. But his blue eyes look very red and irritated. Though as far as Nass knows, the only thing Bellamy is allergic to are cats.
“I — I don’t have hay fever,” Bellamy sniffles, sounding a little bewildered. “In fact, I spend most of the spring and summer outside.”
“You’re living in a new place,” Nass shrugs. “You could be allergic to something here that isn’t in the North. My seasonal allergies are way worse here than back home in the South.”
Bellamy shrugs at this, though he raises the crumpled handkerchief to his face to blow his nose again.
“How was your nap?” Bellamy asks, lowering the handkerchief onto his lap. He rubs at his nose with his wrist.
“Good,” Nass cracks his sore neck. “Are we almost there?”
He is suddenly very desperate to get there and take care of the… problem in his pants. Plus, he can tell they’re getting close. Huge old growth trees dot the sides of the highway, their gnarled roots woven in between flashes of bright red fireweed.
Bellamy nods at the map on the dashboard.
“In about thirty minutes,” he says with a punctuated sniff.
Nass leans back in his seat. Bellamy had changed the radio station, while he was sleeping. Soft Northern flute music blares through the speakers.
“You don’t like Southern music?” he asks, the question coming out a little defensive.
He itches to change the station back to the Southern channel, but he doesn’t. That would be incredibly rude and selfish. Besides, he started seeing a therapist a few weeks ago to work on his…issues with the North and she advised to him to stop and breathe before acting.
He takes a deep breath.
“Of course I do,” Bellamy’s answer comes out polite and diplomatic, just like everything Bellamy says.
“But I also enjoy the music of my people Nass.” Nass has spent enough time with Bellamy to hear the slight hardening in his voice.
And with that, he leans forward and increases the volume. And Nass would never say it out loud, but the Northern music isn’t so bad.
It’s good even.
He closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the flute and Bellamy humming along. He can’t tell how much time has passed, when the distinct sound of Bellamy sniffling has Nass opening his eyes at full attention again.
Bellamy’s right hand is off the steering wheel, scrubbing at the underside of his reddening nose. He has his sunglasses back on again, but Nass is willing to bet his eyes are probably just as irritated as his nose looks. He hears Bellamy take a shaky breath, then exhale.
“Bellamy,” Nass clears his throat. “You should close the windows. You’re clearly allergic to something and having the windows open is probably making it —,”
“AEHD’SSCHhy’uuh!" Bellamy gasps, splattering the steering wheel with an irritated sounding sneeze.
“Worse,” Nass says barely able to finish the word before Bellamy explodes with —
The sound tears through the car so loudly Nass’s heart lurches into his throat.
A silver car tears past them in the opposite lane, missing the driver’s side by what feels like centimetres. Nass catches a flash of terrified faces through the window.
His stomach lurches violently.
“Bellamy!” Nass shouts, lunging forward and wrenching the steering wheel back into place. The movement jolts painfully through his shoulder. “Pull over!”
Bellamy gasps out, clearly unable to say anything at all. One hand is clamped over his nose and mouth now, the other hand white-knuckling the wheel.
Nass reaches across Bellamy, nearly climbing over the center console to flick on the turn signal just as another itchy "h’IEGHkSsH’hueY!” sprays across the side of Nass’s face.
Nass jerks the steering wheel hard, pulling them out of the lane and onto the shoulder of the road. Gravel explodes beneath their wheels. Another angry horn sounds somewhere behind them.
“Brake! Brake!” Nass yells over the sound of three more strangled sneezes.
Bellamy slams on the brakes hard enough to throw both of them forward against their seatbelts. The car skids unevenly before jolting to a stop.
Nass leans over, putting the car in park with shaking hands. For a second, he doesn’t move, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He blinks against a wave of nausea.
Gods, they almost got into an accident.
This is why his father and grandmother tell him not to mess with cars. Cars are not safe, they always say. Travelling the good old fashioned way by camel or horse is much safer and —
“hh! ehh’HTSSHH’Yueuh!” Nass blinks again, finally registering that Bellamy is still sneezing his head off. A miserable stuttered gasp from his lover gets him springing into action.
He shoves open the passenger door, grabs the allergy tincture and water bottle from the backseat, then rushes around the car and yanks open the driver’s side door.
Bellamy is still trapped in the seatbelt, sunglasses discarded, handkerchief crushed to his face as relentless sneeze after sneeze wracks through him.
“—AhehDTSSS’shuh! hhH! “hhh... hhAATCHSHhh’uye!!”
“Gods,” Nass mutters, fumbling with the buckle. “Come here.”
He drags Bellamy upright by the arm. Bellamy stumbles out of the car, disoriented, eyes streaming so badly he can barely keep them open.
“Here,” Nass presses the water bottle into his hands. “Wash your face.”
Bellamy leans against the hood of the car as he unscrews the lid, not hesitating as he dumps cool water over his eyes and nose with a shaky groan. Water drips from his curls, down the sharp line of his throat, soaking into the collar of his pressed green shirt.
Bellamy glances down at the soiled handkerchief in his other hand and makes a disgusted look. Instead, he lifts the hem of his linen shirt to scrub at his wet face.
Nass is so concerned the part of his brain that would otherwise be enjoying this has gone completely silent.
Instead, he watches helplessly as Bellamy pants from the exertion, bringing the water bottle to his lips for a few desperate sips. Then his lover’s face twists again, full lips parting as he lurches to the ground with another helpless and uncovered — “hh! hhK’IISCHhh’Yue!”
Bellamy swears under his breath, eyebrows pinched together in allergic frustration.
“Here,” Nass says quickly, unscrewing the allergy tincture. “Lean your head back. I’m giving you six drops instead of three, okay?”
Bellamy answers with another strangled sneeze, though this time it’s only one. The fit must finally be slowing.
Nass moves fast, tipping the herbal drops beneath Bellamy’s tongue.
He would never say this out loud to his boyfriend, unless he wished to horrify him to no end, but Bellamy’s nose was profusely running, watery rivulets running over his lips and down his chin.
“Here,” Nass says, softer now, pulling his own handkerchief from his pocket. “Use this.”
It’s slightly used, which is pretty unhygienic, but Nass supposed they’d swapped their fair share of bodily fluids by now. And clearly Bellamy must be feeling quite desperate because he does not hesitate at all before snatching the handkerchief out of Nass’s hand, burying his abused nose in the fabric with a relieved groan.
Nass gives him some privacy as Bellamy blows his nose. When he turns back, Bellamy is leaning heavily against the hood of the car, pinching the bridge of his nose between damp fingers. He’s taking slow breaths through parted lips between careful sips of water.
Thankfully, the sneezing finally seems to be easing.
Nass approaches him cautiously, laying a hand on his arm. “Skies, bless you. Are you okay, Bellamy?”
“Yes,” Bellamy sniffles, sounding a bit dazed. “Well. Besides bmy dignity, which I fear did ndot survive that experience.”
His face is bright red down to the very tips of his ears.
“I’m so sorry for scaring you,” Bellamy dabs at his watery eyes with the edges of Nass’s soiled handkerchief.
“It’s fine,” Nass squeezes his arm. “Nothing happened. We’re fine. Are you sure you’re okay? I’ve never seen you sneeze like that before.”
Bellamy flushes even darker.
“Neither have I,” he takes a stuffy congested breath. “A-andyway, I just need a minutde. Thend we cand g-go.”
He can hear Bellamy trying to hide the lingering shock in his voice. Trying to appear calm and collected for Nass.
His stomach twists again.
“Are you crazy?” Nass stares at him. “I’m driving the rest of the way.”
“But it’ll just make you even more motion sick,” Bellamy says faintly, scrubbing at his nose with the underside of his wrist. Clearly whatever he is allergic to is still bothering him.
“Bellamy!” Nass says aghast. “I took medicine. I’ll survive. Besides, what if you start sneezing like that again? We nearly drove into incoming traffic!”
Bellamy pinches the bridge of his nose again. Closes his watery red eyes. “You’re right, of course. That must’ve been terrifying for you. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize for being a human being Bellamy,” Nass crosses his arms.
“Okay,” Bellamy swallows.
Then —
“I have no idea what set me off like that. Skies.”
Frustrated, he kicks a stone near his shoe. It goes skidding across the roadside shoulder, flattening a cluster of bright red fireweed.
There’s a brief silence.
Then Bellamy’s expression shifts.
“Nass,” he says slowly. “What are those?”
“What?”
“Those red flowers.” He points at them.
“There not flowers. You don’t have those in the North?” Nass raises an eyebrow.
Bellamy shakes his head.
“They’re weeds. Called fireweed because of their red colour.”
“I see,” Bellamy shifts. “And they grow here?”
“They grow everywhere this time of year,” Nass says, squinting against the sun.
“Right,” Bellamy nods, looking at them thoughtfully. “Okay then.”
And before Nass can tell him not too, Bellamy takes a few steps forward plucking a few fireweeds from the grass. He raises them to the underside of his nose, inhaling experimentally.
He blinks, eyelashes still damp from earlier. And maybe not less than a minute later, Bellamy chest shudders, exploding down with a violent —
“hh-hhh-HA! Hh’AEDTSSCCH’HY’ueeH!” that sprays his trousers in messy droplets.
Bellamy swears, shuddering to the left with another uncovered, equallly massive “heH’SCHEUG’HiiyUhH-!”
The fireweed tumbles from his hand.
Clearly, he has found the culprit of his allergic misery.
Bellamy blinks rapidly, blowing his nose hard on the leftover available real-estate of Nass’s handkerchief. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. The sound is soft and a little sad around the edges.
“Maybe it’s a signd to go back to the North,” he says as he rejoins Nass against the hood of the car. “Clearly the people do not want bme here.” He sniffles. “Or the land.”
Nass stomach twists.
“Well, I want you here,” he bumps Bellamy’s shoulder. “And I enjoy your… sneezing. Not when you almost drive us into oncoming traffic. But otherwise,” Nass leans in, pressing his lips to the side of Bellamy’s temple, “I enjoy it very much.”
“Oh, I have noticed,” Bellamy sniffs again, then gives a real laugh at this. The musical sound makes Nass’s stomach flutter.
“I thought I was more discreet than that,” Nass scratches his head.
“You certainly attempbt discretion,” Bellamy turns to him with a shit eating grin. “But the sexual endergy that pours out of you, I must say, Nass, is quite loud.”
Nass blinks.
Bellamy has always been much more observant and perceptive of energies than he is. And Nass would rather eat cotton than admit it, but he fears that is exactly what makes Bellamy a far better mage — and person — than he ever will be.
Still to hear that Nass’s sexual energy is… loud? Well, that gets his cheeks warming.
“Andyway,” Bellamy clears his throat, but it does nothing to ease the congestion in his voice. “If I have to suddenly suffer spring allergies, I am at least glad it’s not wasted.”
“Definitely not wasted, Your Majesty” He can practically hear the lust in his own voice. His eyes drag over Bellamy’s tight green t-shirt. His mouth waters.
He wants to pleasure that man senseless. Even if it is in the woods in a stupid tent. It seems the sex gods have answered his deepest, darkest sexual fantasies. He has his tall, extremely sexy lover, suddenly ridden with hay fever, all to himself for three whole days.
Nass’s dick can hardly stand the thought.
“Let’s go,” he nudges Bellamy. “I am suddenly quite inpatient to get there already.”
Bellamy gives him an amused knowing look, tossing him the car keys. “I’m sure you are.”
They switch seats, Nass sliding into the driver’s side, adjusting the seat and mirrors.
“Can we stop at the next road stall to buy some tissues?” Bellamy asks, stuffing Nass’s sodden handkerchief into his pocket.
“In case…well… in case that happens again?” He rubs at his red nose.
Nass swallows hard against the thought of Bellamy doing that again.
“Of course,” He says with a laugh. “It seems that tissues are a camping necessity, Your Highness,”
And with that, he starts the engine and pulls their car back onto the road.
I love the faces of sneezes. I love watching the nostrils redden and flare. Then the lips begin to part, as the mouth twists into a deep, deep frown. The eyes water and squint. The face and jaw tighten. The head tilts back, exposing wet nostrils that continue to contract. Then the breath in the chest that rises sharply through agonized moans. The whole face and body at the mercy of the nose.
Oh my god people can we pLEAAASE not reblog vanilla drawn snz like FROM THEIR BLOGS DIRECTLY IS WILD!!! 😭😭😭 have the times changed? I might be out of touch but like idk I feel like this is so absurd and I’ve definitely posted about this before, but there’s been huge waves of new snz blogs since. This might be old man yells at cloud and if it is, SERIOUSLY someone please reality check me on this, maybe im being too paranoid about things that aren’t that serious.
I get there’s a whole “my blog my posts, don’t like don’t read” vibe and truly, at the base of my heart, I believe in live and let live. However, if I can state my opinion on why I personally discourage like making commentary on vanilla sneeze posts and reblogging it to your niche fetish sneeze kink blog:
1. I can’t force ppl to do this or that, but (likely, at least) these vanilla OPs did not make that art/post with sneeze kink in mind. They probably have never considered it to be a kink AT ALL. I’ve seen genuine negative reactions (albeit it was on FA which is 50x more unhinged) where someone (vanilla) felt genuinely uncomfortable about the fact a snz page favourited art of them being sick. If their post isn’t meant to be sexualized, maybe don’t come at it from a kink angle on your kink page.
2. Follow up to point 1, gives all of fetish/kink a bad vibe!! This is like those ppl on YouTube who comment how hot someone’s sneeze is on some random streamer’s video, unprompted. And not just snzblr but everyone! Asking is consent, knowing when to separate kink from non-kink spaces is consent!! We want to make sure people know that we care about communication and feel safe to talk to kinksters, and reblogging some random vanilla post and MAKING COMMENTARY ON THE POST without asking does not demonstrate that!
Like idk this might be a hot take but I do feel like it’s a responsibility of being in a community to maintain it within and outside of. Not everyone is comfortable with the general public knowing about their kink blog, recognizing them from their wavs or art style etc. and while, if that is the case, it’s on them to leave, it shouldn’t have to get there.
3. If you absolutely must share it, I feel like linking or screenshotting is the way to go. Respects the fact that the OP didn’t ask to be part of a kinky conversation and still allows kinksters to have a discussion about whatever the post is.
Like at the end of the day I don’t think the OPs would really care that much, this is like the Internet and will not be anyone’s last run in with a niche community, but like just as a courtesy, you know. I always use the analogy of sharing a picture of your socks and getting some random person commenting on your feet or your toes, or sharing it to their collection of kink content. Is it harmful? No not really. But is it a little creepy?? Yeah I think so? same difference I think? Is this old man yells at cloud??
Kinda wanna just revitalize this conversation and get ppl’s opinions on it, I might be of the minority vote on this and if that’s the case then I’d like to know
Idk how to start this post, but I just feel the need to reiterate that if you use AI for your blog in any capacity, you WILL be blocked. I know this is a silly kink blog and in the grand scheme of things it’s not that big of a deal, but it is to me. DO NOT follow me if you use ai for your blog.
I’ve been seeing a lot of blogs using ai lately (for profile pictures, banners, “artwork”, etc.) and to me it’s very disrespectful to the very talented artists in this community. A lot of artists in the snz community do commissions! If you really need artwork for you banner, just pay someone or draw it yourself. Or even go to pinterest for some cute pictures of flowers/feathers/kink-related items if that’s your vibe. It’s literally that simple. Everybody that uses ai thinks they’re sooo subtle, but it’s pretty easy to tell if something is ai if you know what to look for.
anyway, tldr: don’t follow me if you use ai. I’ll block you. you piss me off
Sooo I’m curious, am I the only weirdo that likes male sneezes that sound feminine & female sneezes that sound masculine???… Is this a thing or am I just weird? lol
Sooo I’m curious, am I the only weirdo that likes male sneezes that sound feminine & female sneezes that sound masculine???… Is this a thing or am I just weird? lol
(something odd and self-indulgent i've been meaning to write for a while, and then stopped, and then started, and then stopped, and then started. the scene popped into my head and i kinda got into a flow state for a section of this. this is SUPER NSFW. sex is literally a word in the first sentence. visual refs for my girls are here.)
there's really nothing quite like that moment right after sex is interrupted. it was definitely different to the feeling you get during it being interrupted, but...like, kinda similar? like there's still shame there. the same sorta flighty, anxious feeling in your chest. but, like...it was different.
it was like an aftertaste. afterfeeling? is that a word?
celeste isn't sure, but she knows thinking about that is less awkward than actually thinking about what she's feeling right now.
there really is nothing she can compare it to.
your wrists bound above your head loosely, your shirt pulled up to your chin, and your bra removed, pulled up and around--that's the knot tied around your hands, a gesture that initially made you bite the inside of your cheek to avoid laughing. you could probably get out of it if you wanted, but...
your body vulnerable, exposed to open air, waiting; your eyes shifting uncomfortably from one thing to another, while your partner stands in the other room, trying to get over the...interruption. she'd stumbled out in a panic without untying you. again, not like it was tight, but...
yeah, well, maybe this awkward feeling is a touch more unique than your typical sexual indiscretion: for one, nobody barged in. this was exclusively between her and her. for two...well, it was...her fault, maybe, technically. she shrugs her shirt back down, at least.
i mean, it wasn't like this was the first time a new perfume had set her off like this, but it was just-! it smelled so subtle! celeste could barely smell it, how could juno possibly be that badly affected by it?
"Hhnn-eEESHHIEW-!" celeste cringes, practically able to feel the soreness of her throat from the harshness of her sneeze. high pitched, but scratchy. she sighed.
okay, yeah, this was definitely a low point for her.
in fairness, who would've predicted this?
the first thing juno did when she walked in the door was to wrap her arms around her shoulders from behind, leaning in toward her hair. celeste laid a hand against hers, plucking a piece of lint from her shirt...she leaned her head back, closing her eyes, and juno's thumbs were digging into her shoulder blades. she hadn't even been thinking about it.
it all just sort of happened, the same way winding down for the night turns into sleeping; the same way taking a few shots turns into hurling dinner into some guy's bushes, juno and celeste tumbled from quiet, wordless intimacy, into increasingly frantic sex. long day for both of them. they wanted a long night to follow. kissing and licking and biting and-
it was only AFTER juno had gotten through the foreplay of tying her up; slowly, salaciously pressing her fingers across sensitive, soft flesh as she maneuvered her bra off, up, over, around, and...and leaned in to plant another kiss on her lips. she then leaned her head further down, pressing a kiss onto her chin, onto her jaw, onto her neck, onto...
and that was it.
juno's breath tickled as it passed over the nape-and she recoiled suddenly, a hand flying up to squish her nose into her wrist, a sudden gasp ripping through her-- "hH-?!" --almost like she was in pain, just barely managing to keep herself under control as she fumbled (and tumbled) backwards against the bed. "Wh-what's wrong?" celeste mumbled, hands instinctively pulling at her bonds.
"...It's n-" a squeak escaped from her wrist, her eyes tightening shut. "...n-nothhh-ihh-!" the rest of the breath escaped in a wheeze, followed by a cough, trying to squish and rub her nose into submission. "Nuh-...nothing. It's...-snf- nothing." she grit her teeth, stubborn.
on the surface, it looked like she'd regained control of her nose, but both of them knew it was a temporary victory. she could almost imagine the burning feeling...it looked so red...she...wouldn't be able to hold it in forever.
the most obvious indicator to celeste was that far off look in her eyes, which didn't seem to leave. "There's...um." her eyes were normally so intense. harsh. piercing. "There's some...tissues, in the drawer of my bedside table..." that almost sounded like instructions. like a command.
celeste bit her lip.
maybe it was the way her hands had drifted around her underarms when pulling up her shirt, maybe it was the attention she'd paid her breasts as she worked the bra off, maybe it was the fact that she was currently lying on the bed, sweaty, tied up, tits out, with her saliva on her neck, but she certainly was aroused, and the only thing she could think of was how beautiful juno looked right now. how cute.
how weak she looked.
...yeah, okay, maybe she's just very horny. it wasn't like this was the first time she'd felt this way around this, but...well, still.
juno paused, before scoffing, scowling, and leaning over her towards the drawer.
fine, she seems to say. she sniffles, reaching, and- "hnnNNGSHIEWWw-!" without warning is overcome by the first sneeze, her entire chest shaking with the exertion. laying where she was, celeste felt the exertion of juno's body as it bucked in time with it. felt the flex of her chest. her abs. the way everything else seemed to bend inwards, towards...
"Sorry," breathless and sweaty, before- "-nNNSHHIEWww...!" bending double again, finally grabbing a tissue from- "nNN-hHyi-EHSHHHIEW!...urgh..." each and every little breath, sniffle--every little movement of her face as it twitched and tightened--every little detail of each sneeze was on full display for celeste, up close, personal, and unavoidable.
a quiet scream died in her mouth before it could make it to the air. she pursed her lips.
she felt like she was short-circuiting. wide-eyed, sweaty-palmed, and tingly all over. unfortunately receptive to touch.
and even after juno rose, reddening nose buried in a tissue, celeste felt like she had a perfect mold of her body spasming and jerking around as she sneezed against her chest over and over and over and...
...b-buh-!
body! celeste's body. her body. sneezed with her body against hers, not against her...not into her chest, pressing...every...
celeste whined as juno left, nonverbally protesting borh her decision to leave her like this, and her own thoughts.
"I'll...be right back." she sounded almost startled. celeste swears she can see tears in her eyes.
and now, all to herself, celeste can't stop thinking about it. about her.
...hhhggggghhhhsdfdsrhgjuno get back out here i need you so bad-
speak of the devil, and she shall appear, sniffling wetly, still scrubbing at her (increasingly crimson) nose, trying her hardest not to appear embarrassed. which lights celeste on fire.
"So," she leads, "new perfume."
"...yeah, sorry..."
Snf.
"Right. Well. I..." she trailed off, and celeste held her breath. was she going to-?
"...sorry." what. she clears her throat.
"Sorry. I don't think I can...I mean, if I just avoid that one spot, maybe..." ...oh, right, she still hasn't told her this is driving her crazy. and for once she hasn't picked up on the heavy lust in her eyes. no, she's...
"L-...listen. It's...fine." she's too in her own head. juno sighs, not knowing what she wants to-
"It was...kinda...hot?" that last word was whispered, but juno heard it anyway. her eyes widen. Snf.
"...what?" genuine bewilderment, which is not something she hears from juno often. she bites back laughter again, though whether it's at her or at herself, she doesn't know.
"You sneezing, I mean." she managed to avoid stuttering. she seemed damn near confident in herself. that is, until she shrinks inwards slightly and adds "L-like, it's...that was sexy. That was really really hot."
"..."
"..."
juno is not sure what to do with this information.
celeste is immediately regretting sharing this information.
"...So..." juno starts. celeste looked up expectantly.
"...so?"
"...so...do you...d'you want me to-?" celeste's mind flickers and heat fills her chest.
she bites her lip, nodding enthusiastically, and juno is amazed. whether at her or herself, she doesn't know.
...well, it wasn't like it was particularly painful to her, or anything. it was just...
she leans in, reaching for her chin, their faces inches apart.
...it was different. but that was why she liked celeste, wasn't it? different.
"...Alright then...let's go." whispered against her ear. celeste gasps, and juno's lips press against hers hungrily.
it was slow to start, but they quickly regained steam.
lips locking becomes a spit trail becomes handfuls of hair becomes more kissing becomes a hand down her pants. juno nips at celeste's ear, and she moans as 2 fingers press up and down around her perineum. celeste grips the mattress with her hands, digging her nails in. she bites her lip.
"...C-can y...you..." breathless, celeste stumbles through not enough words, but juno knows anyway. still, she can't help but tease.
she inhales slowly through her nose, sniffing up against her cheek, against her ear, against her hair...
"Can I what?" she doesn't smile, but celeste can tell she's amused. her head lightens.
"Use your words."
"...p...please..." it's almost a moan.
"Please what?" her voice rumbled inside her chest, rolling out long, slow; it's velvet against her eardrums, and celeste just remembers to breathe.
"...Please sneeze for me." ...There you go.
"All you had to do was ask." there is, admittedly, something very awkward, and very silly about this. but when juno looks down, celeste is gazing up expectantly, and she can't help herself, really.
...she isn't sure what, if anything, would actually constitute foreplay in this situation. does she sniffle, pretend she needs to blow her nose?
i mean, she doesn't really need more. in fact, celeste would probably prefer less right now based on her expression.
still, she teases.
if sneezing is a need for celeste, teasing is a need for juno.
she leans in, burying her nose in celeste's hair, one hand massaging her inner thigh. she squirms as juno takes a deep breath in, tickling up the top of her back.
juno blinks, hard.
Fuck.
she cringes as the perfume invades her nostrils again, despite her attempt to avoid it. too close. and the scent traveled upwards, obviously.
"Oh-uh-ghh-" a series of undignified noises fell from juno's lips, and celeste bit hers again.
"What's the matter?" her voice was sharp, sharper than either of them were expecting, and for some reason that made both of their hearts leap.
"Ih-it's..." was it hotter to try and deny it, or to announce it to her? when in doubt, she fell on old habits.
"It's...nothing...ih-!" this much was manageable, but that wasn't what celeste wanted. in a second she w-
"No. You need to sneeze."
Huh? Wait-
no, there was no waiting. celeste twisted around, forcing juno's pale nose into the freckled nape of her neck.
"iiIIH-!"
"Let me help you." breathy, quiet, and desperate. oh, and juno has to sneeze, too. she attempts to pull back, but celeste turns her head to kiss her cheek, burying juno's nostrils deeper in the scent.
it certainly had its intended effect.
"hHIUHH-NGGSCHHEWWwww-! hHhnNNNGSCHHHH! Ugh...hH-!" juno just managed to free herself and turn to the side as two massive sneezes buckled her at the waist. celeste watched what spray she could see with great interest.
"Hhgh-hHuhh-! hHhMMSCHHEWw...!" it seemed like no matter how she turned her head, more of it somehow invaded her nostrils. her nose was all ablaze, and she felt tears fall down her cheeks. "gGHIHH-SCHEWW! Guh..."
"Don't do that."
"Wh-hH-?!
"Don't turn away. I want to see you." celeste's face was red. redder than juno's seen in a while. "Please."
her voice drifted through a weird up and down between commanding and whining. juno wasn't sure how to feel, but didn't have time to think about it. her mouth wouldn't shut, despite multiple attempts to clamp down on it. her nose was just too tickly...
"B-buhhh-" she coughs, sniffling in frustration as she knuckles her nose, eyes still half-lidded.
"Don't rub it. Don't cover it."
"But-b-I-...I wuh-" celeste's arms drop from above, still tangled, but she wanted to pull juno closer anyway.
"I'd b-be sneezing o-hh-! On you-!" the tickle reaches fever pitch, and juno's eyes shut.
"...Yes." what else is she meant to say? "Sneeze on me."
she doesn't have the time to protest.
"hHHHUHH-NNGGTSSCHHEWWWwww-! nnNNGGSCHH-! -SCHHewww-uh-sCHhh-!" sneeze after tickly sneeze forced themselves out of juno's poor nose, initially directed towards celeste's face, but after a quick push, pull, and reorientation, celeste buried juno's pale nose into her cleavage. as if there was any doubt that she was enjoying this, celeste pressed up with her crotch into juno's thigh.
"Juno…"
"hHH-MMGSSCHHEWWWwww-! -mMMNSHH…! hiHh-!" her nose felt cold against celeste's skin. juno struggled not to cough, the feeling of warmth and softness pleasant against the burning feeling in her nostrils. this much juno understood. there wasn't much better than a face full of tits, even if she was covering them with snot and spray. if she could've gotten a hold of herself for enough time, she would've taken a mouthful of nipple.
"nhiHhh-! hH-HHH…!" celeste stared down with a blank expression, watching as juno's face continued to buckle and contort under the tickle.
it was dying down, not that her nose felt any better.
"Ihh-! It's s-stuck…" preferably not that. not that celeste minded. her eyes widened.
more tears fell down juno's face as she tried to will it forward while simultaneously not using her hands…she was usually in the lead, but couldn't deny the urge to follow celeste's command to the letter. this whole thing feels unusual, and she's not sure what to think. not that she can think of much but how much her nose is tickling.
a stuck sneeze was a decidedly unsexy feeling for juno. the same cannot be said for her partner.
"Hey," her hands slipped from her bra easily, cupping juno's chin with one, and gently rubbing the bridge of juno's nose with the other. "Let me help."
"hHGhuhh-! hNhuHH-!" she pants, desperate, helpless, putty in celeste's hands. the feeling is immediate, intense, and uncomfortable. she really isn't sure how to feel about it, and she has no time at all to consider it.
celeste purses her lips. her face, if possible, has gotten redder.
"…I'll help you sneeze…"
"hhHHHh…!"
"…if you help me cum."
"HghHUHhh-! hH-!?" her hands stop, and juno is left in an agonizing sneezy limbo.
"P-plea-hH-!"
"Mm-mm. Come on. Be a good girl."
…juno is learning a lot about herself today.
celeste's voice is a strange mix of commanding and needy. more sultry than she's ever heard it, and it makes her heart pound.
she can't hold the whine in this time, fingers forging past her pantyline to find celeste's cunt while blinking heavily, trying to move her nose without touching it.
she seizes up as juno makes contact, pointer and middle clumsily pressing inside; celeste screwing up her face before promptly moving her own hand again.
juno grunts as she dry humps celeste, grinding her pussy against celeste's body, unable to hold herself back. whether it's the way celeste has her bent, face full of her tits, or maybe it's because she is actually developing this kink in real time, or maybe it's just because she's been pent up all day, neither of them know, but this is, thankfully, doing it for her.
and by god, is it ever doing it.
"hHgHHhiIH-! hHUHhH…!" celeste's hand makes quick work, following the tickle and scrubbing the feeling forward; whether she realizes what she's doing or not, it's working.
"Talk to me."
"…whHHIGghh-uh-! Ab-about wha-hh-t-?" she wheezes off into a cough, despite her best efforts, but celeste doesn't mind.
"Tell me…how it feels." juno isn't sure where to start, but she tries.
"Ih-ihhh-! T-tuh…tickles…!"
"Poor baby…" she lowers juno's chin back down into her breasts, and strokes her hair.
"GhHH-! T-tickles so much…I-!" her face was so twitchy. she felt every little movement against her soft, freckled flesh.
so twitchy.
she kept clenching up around her fingers. juno isn't sure where she is inside her anymore, but even in her sneezy haze, she manages to find her clit.
celeste knuckles the bridge, and this time, juno seizes up.
"HmghUH-! HIUhHHhhgghhh…! I c-can't-hIH-hUhhh-! I'm-I'm gonna sneeze, I'm g-"
celeste wraps her hand around her nose, and juno loses the sneeze, despite it being…right…there…
"GHiHh-! N-no! P-please! Please, please, please…" there are real methods of torture done by real, certified professionals that don't get this kind of behavior out of her.
celeste is dripping. juno is too, in more ways than one.
"Not here. Not in my breasts. Not yet."
"I-I need t-! hNNNHUhh-!"
"Down." celeste was pushing her head, and juno finally responded, pushing herself up on her hands--and promptly being pulled back down, forced to rest just below her waist.
her belt was already off. she just needed to slip th-
"HhHH-! HUhHhhh-!"
pants, off, underwear, down, face…
"Okay. I'll help you the rest of the way, now."
hand makes contact with nose again, and juno moans at the touch, the taste of sweat and celeste still fresh on her tongue, feeling…
"Y-your p-pubihh-hHhHHH-!" celeste began in earnest, and juno lost control of her mouth again. good.
she's not supposed to talk anyway.
her ankle. little bit below her knee. her ankle again, repeatedly--finally she pushes her hand down into her own pants, giving up on dry humping celeste's leg.
"You're so beautiful, Juno…"
"HhH-Ggeh-huhHHH-" celeste presses her finger just above juno's top lip, filling both nostrils with the scent all anew. she wasn't sure if any of the scent would transfer from her neck to her hand, but…
well, it certainly seemed effective.
"gISSCHHEW! HNNGSCHEWW! -gGGESCHHEWWWWww-! HHNNNNGSCHHHH-SCHHHHHuhh…!" again and again she sneezed and she sneezed, over and over, simultaneously overwhelmed and relieved to finally get them out.
"HmGGSCHHEWWWwww-! HNNGSCHhhh…! HmFFTSCHHHHeww-hhg-!" tears spilled down her cheeks with reckless abandon as the fit picked up steam, one sneeze bending into another, into another, as celeste rode wave after wave orgasm against her spasming face.
juno somehow wasn't sure if she was cumming. it sorta felt like it? then again, her whole body was already jerking back and forth repeatedly, and the relief for each sneeze was...well, orgasmic seemed like an exaggeration, but after all that teasing, it...
her hand moved erratically below, shaking and jerking and stumbling against her inner walls, unable to stop herself on either side.
well, there's an answer. if nothing else, it felt good, and she didn't want to stop.
rising tides of pleasure coupled and mingled with rising tides of relief. both juno and celeste were right where they wanted to be, and it felt good.
never mind the twin strings of mucus tying juno's nose to celeste's perineum right now...
--
the two lay, breathless, juno's face still wedged between celeste's thighs, and celeste's fingers still running through juno's hair.
it's a long moment before either of them say anything, still basking in afterglow.
"…That was…mindblowing."
juno tries to sniffle, and instead it comes out sounding like a backed up sink, before nodding.
"…Yeah." she sounds terrible, and her nose is more congested than she thought possible, but it isn't…well, it isn't especially tickly, anymore.
celeste hummed.
"Come here." it takes a moment, but juno manages to separate herself from the forest of limbs below her, cringing as she feels mess peel back from her face, climbing up to find celeste wiping her chest down with a tissue. she goes to reach for one, and celeste grabs her wrist.
"Relax. Let me do it." …juno isn't used to this treatment, but can't deny that it's nice. either way, she feels too worn out to protest.
she sighs contentedly as celeste wipes her face down, too exhausted to really care how silly the whole thing feels, either. besides, whatever makes celeste happy.
at least, that was the thought she had in mind until celeste wrapped the tissue around her nose and pressed one nostril down.
"Blow."
"…no." it sounded more like "ndoh", but juno didn't care.
"Be a good girl."
"…I d-" …celeste waits, but there's no safeword that comes next, as she quietly, bashfully tries to clear her nose.
her cheeks redden, and celeste nearly melts from how cute she is as she stares expectantly up into her eyes.
"…other nostril?" she sounds less stuffy.
"Oh, sorry!"
--
"Urgh…" juno coughs, finally done cleaning up.
"I'm…" celeste pulls the curtain, finding nothing but a new moon and that same streetlight outside her window.
"I guess I'll shower in the morning...Stay…uh, I guess stay…away from my neck?"
"Mm. Don't wanna." juno's ready for bed. no complete sentences left in her.
"...You're gonna sneeze." she seems to consider this for a moment, before shrugging.
"Mmhh…okay."
celeste smirks, shaking her head.
"Okay you're not gonna do it, or okay you're just gonna be sneezing?"
juno shrugs, but doesn't move from her spot on her chest. celeste chuckles, a melodic sound that brings a slight smile to juno's face.
"Okay. Fine. But don't blame me if I start fingering myself when you do."
"…let's shower together." a little kiss on her chest.
Long time, no post! Remember this old fic of mine, about an office worker with quite spectacular spring allergies? I decided to follow the poor bastard home, to see what would happen after the incident at the office.
And if you thought the first fic was horny... well. I can confidently say that this is, hands-down, THE most indulgent, unapologetically horny thing I've ever written. I treated it as a kind of challenge, basically I wanted to see what it would take for me to be properly turned-on by my own writing. I've done similar experiments in the past, but practise makes perfect. (◕‿◕✿)
Anyway. You know the drill. No plot, only symptoms. A couple of mentions of mess, but nothing too graphic. Ridiculously long build-up, followed by ridiculous amounts of sneezing. Nose action-heavy to a pornographic degree.
Enjoy!
˖⁺‧₊˚❀˚₊‧⁺˖
The commute home is a nightmare. Not quite rush hour, the train car is still crowded enough for him to feel deeply self-concious about his near-constant sniffling and the stifled sneezes that he only barely manages to keep in check. It's equal parts humiliating and exhausting, pinching his nose closed for the tenth time in as many minutes and turning a would-be disastrous sneeze into a pathetic, wet little squeak. Like a drowning mouse, he thinks, bitterly, as he tries his best to wipe the resulting overflow with his already damp fingers. The stifled sneezes do less than nothing to soothe the burning urge in between his eyes, that hot, clinging, allergic itch that serves as a constant reminder that spring has sprung and he has at least two more months of this to look forward to.
"Heh'dnxgh!-uh."
He can't wait to get home. Once safely indoors, there are only two things on his agenda: taking his allergy meds, and getting in the shower.
- - -
By some miracle, he manages to make it home without accidentally sneezing on a fellow commuter. Front door barely shut behind him, he shudders out of his coat and makes a beeline for the bathroom. Stepping in front of the sink, he reluctantly looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. Certainly not a sight to instil confidence. It's worse than he had feared.
The culprit is there on full display, of course, front and center of his tired, bleary-eyed, slightly puffy face. For the past - god, what might it be? Eight hours now, at least? - he has known all too well what it feels like, but it's only now that he's had the chance to actually survey the damage, as it were.
He winces at the sight, but his expression quickly morphes into something less sharp, less intentional. Feeling the dreaded sensation pull at his facial muscles once more, he stubbornly fights to keep his eyes open as his mouth relaxes open and his eyelids droop.
"Huhh..."
The last thing he sees before his eyes fall involuntary shut is the star of this terrible show he has found himself in. His nose. Huge on his face. High in the air from his head tilting back, his nostrils take center stage. Scarlet ovals flared wide open, pulsing impatiently -
"Hh...! Huh...! H'DJSHNXGHiew!"
He sneezes uncovered, straight down toward the sink. Something between a bark and a wet snarl, the sound distinctly angry. He can feel the spray land on his hands that are gripping the sink.
"HEH'DJSCH! HIH'DDJSH! HEH, HEHH, -H'TJJSCHew!"
Horrible, awful, disgusting.
(Bliss.)
Leaning over the sink, shaking his head groggily, twin strings of drool and snot, thin as spider silk, slide from his nose and mouth into the drain. He sniffles, or tries to, and his nose gives a whistling squelch instead. He opens his eyes again, looks up. His gaze flickers across the mirror for a moment, as though searching in there for something other than his own reflection. His eyes soon revert back, however. Drawn by the sheer spectacle.
Fuck, but he looks a mess. His normally immaculate hair is standing every which way, his eyes are puffy pink slits, his lips chapped, his nose painful-looking, so red and inflamed it looks like he's taken a punch to it. He knows that, technically, it can't actually have swollen to twice its normal size, but it certainly feels like it. His nose isn't exactly small to begin with, and with all the rough treatment it's been put through lately... well. It definitely isn't pretty.
Hand not entirely steady, he reaches up against better judgement and touches the tip of his nose. Bright red bulb, shiny with inflammation, too warm to the touch. Itch immediately stirrs inside it, spidering up and down his nasal passages, making his eyes water.
Right. No time to waste.
Blinking hard and scrunching his nose to buy himself some time, he hurriedly reaches into the medicine cabinet behind the bathroom mirror and pulls out his antihistamine nasal spray.
Bracing himself, he gingerly inserts the nozzle tip into his left nostril, but his nose is already on such high alert that he doesn't have time to press down and release the spray to where it might, hypothetically, do some good. For the second time today, he sneezes full force without so much as a second's warning, a clipped double sneeze that echoes off the tiles in his bathroom. He opens his eyes and meets his own gaze in the mirror again. A look says more than a thousand curse words.
Next try he actually manages to push some spray up there, but again his nose rebels on him, violently evicting the medicine with a sharp "Eh'TDSHHjsh!" before he can contain it.
For fuck's sake.
Attempt number three. This time he pinches his nostrils closed before he can take another breath, squeezing tight as the repressed reaction shakes his diaphragm with strangled little "hdT-!, htTT-!, hdtT-!"-sounding sneezes. The action leaves him dizzy and his eardrums pop, but this time around the medicine stays put. He can't wait for it to start working. Even just the slightest bit of relief would be a massive improvement compared to his current situation. Sensing a small break in the ongoing fit, he lets go of his nose just long enough to push a second dose into his right nostril, then promptly squeezes it shut again. His nostrils twitch in his grip, the sharp menthol-y sting of the medication prickling horribly.
"heh'dt-! eh'dtj-! 'ttdjNXGH!"
Finally daring to loosen his grip of his nose, he looks at his reflection once more and cringes at the sight. Why couldn't he just have... moderate hayfever? Itchy eyes, runny nose, some sneezing here and there. Annoying, sure, inconvenient, absolutely, but not... not this. Not this embarrassing, crippling, dramatic spectacle of an allergy. A nose that demands him to drop everything to deal with its constant temper tantrums at having to breathe a little spring air. Speaking of breathing, his nostrils have begun to twitch again with little fluttering hitches. It's not that his nose has started to tickle again - it never stopped tickling in the first place - but rather that the ever-present irritation spreads and grows in intensity, its crawling, bristling needles of sensation blooming all throughout his nose, hijacking all other mental and physical functions. His breath stutters, his eyes overflow, his face twitches and contorts into all sorts of ridiculous expressions while his hands fan limply at the air in front of his face. For all he knows, the only thing this accomplishes is to waft even more pollen into his nose, but the action is reflexive, barely conscious. His chest heaves and expands, head rearing back, upper lip curling, baring teeth. His nose itches. God, it itches so bad. He wishes he could reach his fingers up there and just scratch, wildly rake his nails across the inside of his nasal passages with complete abandon. It's as if someone has packed his nostrils full to the brim with a mixture of dust, pepper and chili powder, or a million tiny feathers, or the world's most potent itching powder, or...
Or pollen. That hateful, inescapable stuff that seems to coat every surface outside in a powdery film. Just now, when walking up to the house, he had seen it floating on the surface of the rain puddles in his driveway, like watercolor splotches of pale yellow. So much of it. Everywhere. Sticking to everything. His coat, his hair, his eyelashes. Grass. Birch. Oak. Hazel. Riding on the breeze, infiltrating his every breath.
"hihuh... h'hih, hih, huhh...!"
Reddened eyelids drift to half-mast, his gaze goes unfocused, then cross-eyed. His nostrils spasm fitfully, seeming to flare wider with each consecutive breath until they're gaping open, perfectly circular, frozen in limbo. His head is thrown back, chest straining against his shirt, his lungs full to capacity, his face a cartoonish caricature of an allergy sufferer on the cusp of a truly devastating sneezing fit.
"huhh...! hhHHUH...!"
He can't think for itch. For a brief moment, his entire face seems to consist of itch, his nose its red-hot singularity. Stinging, burning, all-consuming. A crisis of itch.
"-AAHH...!!"
A beat. His body is so ready, so desperate to sneeze that it actually starts the process, producing a half-strangled "AH'DJh-...!" at the back of his throat, but then... it doesn't follow through!? His voice manages a pathetic, whispered "...tsheww"-sound, a toothless imitation of the release he was promised. His entire nose aches with disappointment. Fat, itchy tears spill down his face, adding their salt to the metallic taste in his mouth. Groaning, he grinds the lower part of his palm up against his nose, then again, and again, working the bulbous tip back and forth with aggressive fervor, attempting to ease the itch inside by rubbing his nostrils together. It barely makes a difference, and the screaming tickle high up in his sinuses threatens to drive him mad. He snatches a handful of tissues from the box on the sink and blows for all he is worth, immediately soaking the paper all the way through. Another handful, same result, but the blowing seems to be helping at least a fraction. Gasping and cursing, he buries his nose in a third wad of tissues, massaging the bridge of his nose through the paper all the while, giving a final, resounding blow... one that sets his nasal passages vibrating at just the wrong frequency. The resulting tickle goes off inside his head like a fire bomb:
Bliss. Torture. Bliss. Torture. The faint flicker of relief each sneeze grants him feels so good, even as the unbearable itch reignites immediately after. Goosebumps break out on his arms and his whole body tingles with sensory overload as he keeps sneezing and sneezing and snh... huhh-
He hates the rapid-fire sneezes the most. They make him feel so out of control, not to mention dizzy from the lack of air. Each frantic, breathless double-triple-quadrouple-quintuple bursting out of him only seems to aggrivate his nose further, triggering an endless chain reaction of allergic frenzy.
It's never-ending. That dreadful, squirming, crawling sensation of panicked nerve-endings writhing inside the tight confines of his swollen sinuses. Like a nest of angered ants, swarming and biting.
"AH'KGDJSHHIW!"
But maybe it's...
"GH'DTSCHEWW!-TCHEW!"
...finally starting to...?
"HP'TDSCHUH-TSCHUH!-tCHEW!"
Tingling lips parted, pouring eyes blindly shut, pulsing nose pointing at the ceiling -
"HAH'TDDJSCHHIEWW!!"
Bent over the sink, nose buried deep in his... fifth? six? handful of tissues, one hand gripping the side of the sink for support. Panting. Lightheaded. Exhausted. He tries to sniffle but is so brutally congested at this point that he barely makes a sound, his nose only manages a kind of wet squeak as he wipes it. Like a fucking clown nose, he thinks mirthlessly. Big, red, and making ridiculous noises.
"Guh..."
Please, that must be it, right? He has been sneezing non-stop for at least five minutes straight. His nose is so stuffed-up at this point that it feels physically heavy on his face, pulsating dully and aching with pressure. His abdominal muscles are sore, his throat raw, his eyes stinging, but his nasal passages don't feel like they are actively on fire anymore? Ever so carefully, he wrinkles his nose, scrunching his nostrils first to the left, then to the right. Waiting, breath withheld. It still tickles, of course. That feather-light buzzing tingle won't go away for at least another two months (god help him), but at least for the moment it seems his sinuses are no longer in absolute panic mode.
The meds must finally be starting to take effect. Either that, or his body is simply too exhausted to keep firing on all cylinders like that. Whatever the reason, he'll take any respite he can get.
At least now, he's able to keep his eyes open for long enough to find his way to the shower. He can't wait to get under the hot water and finally rinse all of that p... p-pollen off...
Don't think about it.
Of course he's still covered in the stuff. It's on his shirt collar. His sleeves. His hair. His face.
"Hh..."
No. He flat-out refuses.
"Huh... hh... "
Shirt, trousers, socks, underwear. In a mad scramble, he's shed them all and dropped them on the bathroom floor. Then he's in the shower, nearly slipping on the floor tiles in his haste to get in there before his nose can take him hostage yet again. Faceing the shower head, he doesn't even care that the water is freezing at first. If anything, the cold spray feels good and soothing against his flushed, itchy face.
"Hhuh --- djsh!"
The sneeze is weak, half-hearted, spray meeting spray, barely audible over the sound of the shower.
He might as well not have sneezed at all, the way his nose doesn't even register this sisyphean attempt to scratch at the itchiness inside.
Wincing deeply, he jams an outstretched forefinger up against his sore septum and starts to rub his nose again. Lightly at first, but soon he is applying more pressure, crushing his nose upwards, shortening the sloped bridge into a mass of crinkles. Finger sawing away, back and forth beneath his nostrils, pushing their inflamed insides together and grinding them against each other. The itch is a throbbing heat all throughout his nose, but searing sharpness has been replaced with a duller, more muted sort of irritation now, one that doesn't threaten to make him sneeze every two seconds. Instead, he's stood there scrubbing away at his face, not wanting to stop despite how tender and sore his nose is becoming. It feels so good to rub, to finally be able to scratch the itch that's been plaguing him for hours and actually feel it have a soothing effect rather than make it worse. A sigh of relief, then an almost sensual whimper escapes him, as he switches the position of his hand and starts pulling his nose up and down with his fingers wrapped around either side of it.
"Nnh... fuck..."
The squelching sounds are disgusting, and he couldn't care less. Eyes blissfully shut, fingers working away, loosened congestion mixing with the shower water and running down his lips.
All day he has been so. fucking. itchy. From the second he woke up and started off his morning by sneezing violently six times in a row into his pillow. All throughout his workday which ended with a disastrous sneezing fit and an humiliating early exit. Nine hours of this. Non-stop. Of the histamine-drenched nerves in his nose, eyes, ears and palate screaming bloody murder.
And now it's letting up.
One final, sensous pull on his nose, from brow to tip. He lets go of his grip just as the last remnant of a tickle sparks back to life in the raw depths of his sinuses. A pinprick stab of sensation, one big, quick gasp, and he is thrown forward with possibly the most satisfying sneeze he has ever experienced in his twenty-odd years of suffering from hayfever.
”AHH --- ! 'AATTDJSHOOohh!-ohhhh god.”
And so, for one, long, blissful moment there in the shower, his nose feels completely clear, calm, and unaffected by the raging springtime outside.
It may be temporary, but he'll enjoy it while it lasts.
maybe a bit niche, but i love a good useless sneezing fit.
i love a sneezing fit that just does absolutely nothing for you, whether because you're not letting it, or because it doesn't tickle enough to actually get you to sneeze out whatever it is.
a quiet fit of girly "choo!"s that does nothing to clear the dust from your nose. a stifled fit between thumb and forefinger that doesn't clear any of the pollen. a tired, half-hearted fit that barely makes your nose run through the congestion of your cold.
the kind of thing where you sneeze for a solid 30 seconds and immediately go back to sniffling and hitching again, only to explode in another unproductive fit 30 minutes later.
it's just not helping. you need to tickle some bigger sneezes out if you want that to change
I lived out a snzfic irl today and I am actually going to need 4-6 business days to recover because this is what went down:
The setting: a meeting room (many of us around a table listening to a presentation and looking at a screen)
The situation: one of my colleagues (A) is presenting. we're all listening intently. Then there's a sneeze from another one of my colleagues (B) at the table (who immediately apologizes) but A keeps speaking.
Five seconds B sneezes again. Then, on the heels of it another one, and then A at this point pauses in her presentation and kind of smiles and tilts her head and looks at B — and to be honest we're all looking at B at this point — because she's sneezing AGAIN.
B realizes that the entire table is now staring at her (not unkindly just kind of vaguely concerned and also collectively amused because she's usually so soft-spoken but evidently sneezes at least five times as loud as I think any of us have ever heard her even speak before 🫠🫠🫠) and goes "...Sorry. I'm sorry! It's the pollen!"
To which another one of my colleagues (C) goes: "...Inside?"
And I swear to god you cannot make up this comedic timing but B sneezes again (loudly) which made everyone laugh and then says "I think it followed me inside."
...And then asks if someone could pass them the tissue box at the end of the table.
....And guess who was sitting closest to it? 🫠
YEAH. YOURS FUCKING TRULY.
So as A gets back to her presentation, continuing where she left off I'm trying not to blush as I grab the box and slide it down to B.
And yes, you would be correct in assuming I did not absorb or retain one single word from the rest of that presentation.
I NEED EVERYONE TO HEAR MY L/EON K/ENNEDY SNZ HEADCANONS (I HAVE NEVER PLAYED A RESIDENT EVIL GAME) (I LOVE THIS MAN BUT BE SO FUCKING FOR REAL I DON'T KNOW MUCH BEYOND DEAD LOVED ONES AND ONE LINERS) (SORRY)
learned how to stifle REAL FUCKING QUICK on account of zombies
i see younger l/eon stifling into the heel of his palm a lot
i feel like he eventually learns to stifle hands free (with varying success lets bffr) and then he might duck his head away a little
can i be soooo typical and give him a dust allergy 👉👈 my hand slipped
bffr mans dad jokes are paired with a dad snz. one of those loudass like "hRRSShhhuh!"
that is why he learned how to stifle 😊 in case you were curious
i feel like he used to be particular about covering and he is a LOT less particular now. like before it was either elbow or into wrist/hands if no other choice
now its like, maybe turns his head three degrees to the side lmfao
like he wouldnt snz on someone but he doesnt especially? care??
usually 1-2 snz unless especially irritated (or unless he had to holdback for a while......)
this man cant holdback for shit btw. like he tries, believe me, but without hands he's COOKED
with hands he's less cooked but he'll probably end up giving into a stifle or eight
i legitimately think if he snzd in r/equiem he wouldve thrown his back out. sorry l/eon. extenuating circumstances cooked the man.
l/eon k/ennedy at AT LEAST one point in his life has had a snzing fit and recovered with a STUPID ONE LINER
i cant think of anything but i KNOW this has happened
The warm dim lighting of the bedroom is delicious, a soothing break away from white fluorescents. He’s emptying his pockets, shedding his jacket, throwing a handful of crumpled sodden Kleenex into the trash. She’s up before he can take three shaky steps into the room.
Pain sparks like pop rocks as he makes a murky attempt at clearing his throat. He turns his chin, eyes aching, vision blurring as he exhales some assuring words. He feels her hand on his shoulder, then her cool fingers against his temple. She says something, and he opens his mouth to disagree. Before he can, he’s consumed with the urge to sneeze again. And again.
A dizziness hits him, and the room starts to move on an axis. Turning, before a hand steadies him by the shoulder.
Next door, there’s faint bass. While she gets him to sit, his attention shifts to focus on the fuzzy sound, similar but separate from the pounding in his feverish head. It’s too fast to keep up with.
Blinking from a fog, he sees she’s placed a clean, comfy shirt next to him on the bed. She’s still there, by the closet, rooting around. Going on about having put away the winter things just for the temperature to drop again. He recalls the gaping holes he’d avoided on the road - too many to count. She comes back over and sets down a pair of flannel pyjama pants next to the shirt. Pausing to watch as he stares at the clothes, zoning out. He feels her hand on the back of his head and her lips press to his forehead. The next words she murmurs to him, he doesn’t contest.
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