I love your scenarios! I was thinking of maybe like a first date scenario where this person has a cold but trying to push through it? You’re amazing btw!! <3
Hey Anon! Thanks for your suggestion! This was a fun one to do. My sneezes got so wet... my sleeve was pretty damp by the end!
I'm on a first date, but fighting a cold. I want to push through, but my kind date has a better idea.
***PLEASE DO NOT REBLOG TO ANY NON-KINK BLOG***
As always, if you have any ideas or suggestions, hit me up! Also, your positive feedback makes me smile and helps keep me motivated to crank out the goods for the sneeze lovers out there!
My first original piece I've posted here! Around 9k words.
This is VERY self-indulgent so you’ll have to excuse me lol. It’s like.. lizard brain horny. Seriously lol. Slapping NSFW on here for good measure. It’s rare I get embarrassed about my kink nowadays but I feel a little embarrassed about this one. Still, I had fun writing it! I hope someone else can enjoy it too!
Details: Male sneezes, no pairing (yet..)
Summary: A secret agent is going undercover for a few days, and his target has a sneeze fetish. The agency’s best engineer has constructed something to give him an edge.
These are original characters, all in their late twenties and early thirties! This story was inspired by @testingtwns writing. She has such captivating descriptions, spectacular characterizations, and fascinating world lore. This snippet can’t hold a candle to her amazing stories, but I was moved to try writing it after reading hers. (If you would prefer I remove this shoutout, Red, please let me know! Your stuff is just so great!)
(Warnings: Unrealistic science, my cringe attempt at sneeze characterization, Mess Lite™, questionable workplace dynamics, general horny undertones and overtones, accidental boners and feeling pleasure from sneezing).
THIS STORY IS NSFW!
-
It was never a great morning when Agent Omicron found himself in Dr. Anita Voster’s lab. She was a little eccentric, he thought, and liked to make mischief. Not a good combination for a scientist. Still, she was the best in the force and the one assigned to his case by the powers that be. He knew why he was reporting to Dr. Voster’s lab and he knew what his bosses would say - The sooner you report to Dr. Voster, the sooner you can begin your work.
Omicron reported to her lab sharply at 0800, shrugged off his suit jacket at her behest, and sat himself down in her vaguely threatening patient chair for the administration of her invention. Dr. Voster was far too giddy in handing over a small container of nasal spray. It looked harmless, but Omicron knew better.
“This,” he said, inspecting the bottle, “will make me sick?”
“Something like that,” Dr. Voster replied. She fetched the bottle from his hand as she spoke, and rolled a plush stool over to sit as they talked. “This virus was engineered specifically to make you sneeze, so think of it like a cold in your nose.”
“Similar to allergies?”
“Yes, if you were allergic to air.”
Omicron sighed. He wasn’t in the business of complaining, but this was going to be challenging. He crossed his arms, trying not to fidget. “How long does it last?”
“Just long enough to see you through the mission. Your symptoms should abate by Thursday.”
So he’d be sick the entire time, essentially. Great. His leg started to bounce.
“Will this slow me down?” he asked. Dr. Voster arched a look over her safety glasses. He clarified himself. “Am I going to feel like shit?”
She smirked at him. “Are you one of those man-cold types?”
Heat swept over his ears and burned the back of his neck, and her smile only widened. He crunched his brows with a glare. “No, I’m just being thorough. If this will compromise my performance in any way, I want to know about it.”
“It won’t,” she chuckled, and he tried not to get defensive at the amusement in her voice. “Like I said, the primary function of this virus is to make you sneeze. You’ll be contending with some nasal congestion, but aside from that you’ll be fine.”
That was easy for her to say. She wasn’t going undercover into enemy territory. He tensed as she snapped on a pair of gloves and looped on a face mask. When she uncapped the bottle, he cleared his throat. “The paperwork said something about me being more ‘suggestible?’ What does that mean?”
She huffed at his air quotes and yanked down her mask. “It means you’ll be vulnerable to psychosomatic triggers. In other words, if you think hard enough about sneezing, you’ll prompt one.”
“That sounds unlikely.”
“We have testing data to support it,” she chastised, and yanked her mask back up. “It was a goal for the formula. We thought you might find it handy to take matters into your own hands if a sneeze wasn’t forthcoming.”
“For.. what? Tactical measures?”
“Yes, strategic options. Now, tilt your head and relax.”
He reluctantly settled back into the cushioned chair, sniffing in preparation. One of her latex hands moved to cradle his jaw and keep him still as she nudged the applicator up the right side. It was wide enough to graze the sides of his nostrils, and he felt them flare in response.
“Okay, deep breath..”
Swallowing, he breathed slowly, deeply through his nose. A fffssh from the bottle yielded a mist of curiously warm aerosol that instantly coated the skin. He flinched a wrist up to his mouth to cough in response. It felt suddenly like his nose was running, so he sniffed, sniffed, and sniffed again. A strong flavor coated the back of his throat.
“Why is it salty?”
“Well, we didn’t intentionally flavor it,” she said, already moving to his left nostril. “Probably the saline. We used it as a base. Now, give me another big breath.”
He did as he was told, and again a warm puff of wetness invaded his nose. And another. And another. They performed this three times for each nostril, alternating sides, and the last one rubbed him wrong. A tiny tickle ignited. Omicron warded Dr. Voster back with one cautious hand as the other routed to his nose. He anchored his forefinger beneath his nostrils, pressing deliberately against his septum as he parted his lips to breathe. Voster snorted at him as she set the bottle aside.
“I thought that only worked in cartoons.”
“And on me,” he mumbled in a heady voice.
It took a moment of concentrated effort, but the urge passed. He sniffed, a little wetter this time as he blinked away tears. Agent Omicron was an old hand at holding back sneezes. Sudden, uncontrolled outbursts weren’t great for business when he was out in the field. That, and he generally didn’t like to draw attention to himself even in civilian life. He caught Dr. Voster smiling at him and his brows trenched.
“What now?”
“I’m not into sneezing,” she told him as she capped the bottle, “but that was pretty cute. Your target won’t stand a chance, Mr. Honey Pot.”
He replied with a scowl and one more see-sawing rub beneath his nose. “When does this kick in?”
“Give it twenty-four hours,” she said, and snapped off her gloves. “I’ll check on you then to make sure it took.”
He stood and slipped back into his jacket, straightened his tie. “Isn’t this cutting it a little close? I’m flying out tomorrow.”
“Maybe, but we didn’t want your poor nose suffering anymore than it has to,” she cooed, and punctuated this with a little tap of her knuckle to his septum. He swatted her away.
“Stop.”
“Oohhh,” she pouted, leaning a hip against her workstation. “Always so serious, Agent O.”
Omicron lurked a warning glare her way as he adjusted his sleeve cuffs and shirt collar. “I’ll be back in 2400.”
---
And he was, though he dragged his feet most of the way.
Omicron believed Dr. Voster when she said this nasal spray contained a virus that would cause his nose some hell, but he didn’t quite understand just how.. intense the experience would be.
He sniffled, a necessary indignity since he woke up this morning, and the slow, deliberate flare of that ever-present irritation beckoned him toward an unavoidable conclusion. Still, Omicron shoved the hard edge of his finger beneath his nose and tilted his head back for another whip-crack sniff. It flared the tickle dangerously, but the steady breakwater against his septum kept him in the clear. His nostrils twitched and he pinched them, rubbing rubbing rubbing until he heard the embarrassing squelch of something wet in his nose.
Another strong sniff, and a weak huhh on his exhale. Shit. He wiped his hand on the side of his pants with a grimace. He’d have to start carrying tissues.
“There he is!” Dr. Voster greeted him with a disarming smile, but he could see the hawklike way she zeroed in on his nose. He tried not to sniffle. “How’s my magnum opus treating you?”
It’s bullying me, Omicron thought, but as he laced his hands properly behind his back, what he said instead was, “It’s working.”
“Oh, is it?” she said. She wasn’t even trying to mask the delight in her voice now as she crowded him back into her exam chair. “Let me take a look.”
He stared hard at the ceiling as she slipped on gloves and wheeled forward on her stool, leaning over him like a dentist. He hated the dentist. A warm trickle of wetness prompted an automatic sniff, and a huffing exhale when that far-back tickle teased him.
“Runny nose?” she chirped, using her thumb to gently coax his nostril open. She held an otoscope with her other hand, using the little light to peer up his nose. Omicron tried not to shrivel in embarrassment as she crooned with sympathy. “Oooh, poor thing. You’re so inflamed..”
“Wasn’t that the idea?” he sighed, and sniffled again. A spark somewhere in his sinuses caused him a hard blink.
“Yes, but it must tickle so much..”
In response to her words, another spark snapped inside him. Like striking flint to burn kindling. Another reflexive sniffle. His eyes began to water.
“It must feel like something fuzzy is stuck up there,” she was saying, rubbing her thumb softly against the quivering edge of his nostril. “Every time you breathe, this fluffy thing, lodged in place and too far for you to reach..”
The frantic efforts of the virus continued, tenacious now in its purpose. The fuse caught, as did Omicron’s next inhale. His chest hitched with a stutter. He tried to reach up, finger extended and ready, but Voster caught his wrist and pinned it back down to the chair arm.
“It must be new for you, to be so out of control. This thing inside you, tickling so sweetly, growing unbearable, and there’s nothing you can do but submit.”
That tantalizing feeling got worse. The line of gunpowder trailing through his pulsing nostrils lit up with an unstoppable blaze. It raced through him, and Omicron couldn’t do anything but give it fuel. He gasped hugely, his chest straining against the buttons of his shirt. The exhale crashed out of him clumsily, unrelieved.
“H-HUHhh..”
Dr. Voster leaned away, but set her otoscope aside to pin his other wrist when he reflexively raised it to ward off what was coming. “Don’t fight it, Omicron. That tickle nestled in your nose was built for this. Listen to it. You two are a team, remember?”
Omicron couldn’t even open his eyes, the sensation held him so powerfully. It felt alive, calculated, somehow vying for control. He snatched in another soft breath, breathed it out on a moan, and then gasped again. His lungs strained to accommodate as that demanding tickle wanted more.. more..
He huffed out another helpless groan. “HHUHhhh..”
His hands flinched toward his face, but met resistance. A tear surfed down his cheek and got caught in his stubble. He gasped- gasped-! “.. hH-hiIHH-!”
The sensation crested, and finally, overcame him.
“HHZZZSSSCHOOO!!”
The force of it threw him forward. It was the loudest, strongest sneeze he’d ever sneezed, but somehow it didn’t feel big enough. Cool, tingling aftermath quickly gathered a second storm. This time, Omicron didn’t do anything but breathe into it.
“..hhHI’JJIZZSHHUE!”
Another uncharacteristically enormous sneeze. His wrists were free, but he didn’t even bother to cover his mouth or muffle into his elbow. Usually he’d rather disintegrate than sneeze freely even in his own home, but.. this tickle.. he just wanted to let it.. let it do..
“HEH’CHIZSHOoo!”
.. do whatever it wanted. And what it wanted was complete and utter domination. Omicron sniffled helplessly, half-aware he was leaking out of more than one orifice but too punch-drunk to do much about it. His breath caught fitfully in his throat and he-..
“-idzhih.. HID’ISSsshoo!.. huhh..”
Omicron leaned over to press hands over his eyes, his palms coming away wet. He was normally a one-and-done guy, with fairly normal-sized sneezes; this many at this size had him light-headed. His breath hitched again, quick like the strike of a viper, before he let it go on a sigh. And another, just the same. It felt like hiccups. He didn’t dare touch his nose, too wary of setting off the wrath of this thing deep inside him. Instead he just sniffled pitifully, catching his breath.
There was a tap on his shoulder. He glanced askance to a sheepish looking Dr. Voster who was offering a box of tissues. He snatched several, still too dazed to be properly embarrassed as he blew a wet, crackling sound into the wad of them. It took a few rounds, but when he finished he cleared his throat and blinked at her with teary eyes.
“What the fuck, Anita.”
“Sorry,” she winced, and she actually did seem sorry. “I wanted to test the ‘suggestible’ variable and you reacted more strongly than I anticipated. Also, um.. bless you, by the way.”
He sat back against the seat with a stuffy sniffle, arms crossed, and now that he was more aware of himself, valiantly fighting down the urge to blush. “Yes, well. You were just doing your job, so I can’t be mad.”
She hedged a nervous smile. “Can’t be, or shouldn’t be?”
He gusted a long sigh, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose when somehow even the rumble of his own voice stirred the residual dust of another sinus-deep tickle. “Do you need to test anything else, or can I go?”
His voice had lost most of its resonance from the sneeze attack as the congestion set in -- not yet enough to blunt his consonants but enough to dull the overall sound. Moisture skated down the side of his nose and Omicron wrinkled it with another snuffle that moved nothing at all. How could his nose be both dripping and completely blocked? He indulged a rub this time, soothing his nostrils to stillness with the tempering back-and-forth of his index finger.
The doctor’s voice broke the quiet. “How does it feel?”
Omicron peered up at her, finger still held to his upper lip. “Pardon?”
“Your nose,” she clarified, but not by much. “How does it feel?” He scoffed and stood to leave. She stood to stop him, holding both hands out as if to placate him. “I’m not teasing you. I really do need to know. Are you in pain?”
“No,” he said, chest lifting with another short sniff. He pressed harder against his septum, rubbing in earnest now as the tickle began gathering momentum. It stalled against the wrangling touch, but didn’t back down. “No pain.”
“But it does tickle?”
“I believe we’ve estahh..hkrrrm!” He cleared his throat to steady his voice. “.. established that, yes.”
She eyed him, her gaze trailing down to the finger glued beneath his nose. “You shouldn’t try to hold them off, Omicron. It might be why your sneezing earlier was so extreme.”
All this talk of sneezing was just emboldening the tickle. It’s like the sensation was surging forward, eager to answer to the call of its name. His eyes fluttered closed and he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to try and waylay another gasping breath. His nostrils pulsed against his finger, prompting him to pinch them instead, but still they tried to flare against his grip. He heard Dr. Voster sigh.
“I don’t know why they picked you for this mission,” she muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “If you’re too shy to sneeze, you’re going to lose your target pretty much instantly.”
His eyes sliced open, as defiant as his nose still squirming between his fingers. His voice was bottled back in his throat completely. “I’b dnot shy, I’b.. I’b jhhss.. hooh..”
The tickle hijacked his voice, tremoring it on a snatchy inhale. It prickled ominously behind his eyes, insistent, and Omicron stayed perfectly still in an effort to tame it. Even with his nose plugged and his fervent attempts to rub the sensation away, the tickle persisted. It dragged another breath in on a soft gasp, out on another dreading utterance.
“.. H-Ihih!.. ohh..”
“You’re so stubborn,” said Dr. Voster, and he could hear her rolling her eyes. He’d known her for years, and while he tried to rise above her goading taunts, there always came a point when she got to him.
Omicron let go of his nose and took as long and deep of a breath as he could through his trembling nostrils. The tickle welcomed it, greedily advancing, and rather than prolong the fight Omicron simply braced his hands on his knees to keep his balance as the sensation built inside him. As Dr. Voster so strangely asserted during his last volley, he and this virus were a team. He wouldn’t see the success of this mission without it.
It was this thought that compelled him to breathe again, a sniff that coasted directly into a gasp. He waited, hovering on the edge of it, but the sneeze backed away just before he could snatch it. Omicron squinted up at Dr. Voster, who was watching him with bald interest.
“Iihhff… hoo..” He sniffled, abandoning all dignity as he snubbed the wet edges of his nostrils against the sleeve of his suit. “If I let this tiH.. tiihckle ha..uuHUhh.. have its way ev..”
His eyes fluttered closed, and he snatched in a series of chuffing breaths. Each was a shrill gasp followed by a bleating exhale, utterly beyond his power to stop. The crescendo carried him into increasingly higher and faster octaves, before the sneeze ripped out of him with gusto.
“HAH’CHIZSHOO!-ohhhh..” He swayed on his feet, panting at the ground, and was shocked to find in the tingling aftermath how good that felt. It made it easier to let the next one swell and crash out of him. “..HIH’SSschoo!- fuck mbe..”
Omicron rarely swore, but the power and sheer abandon of these sneezes were so unlike his usual that he couldn’t help it. Through the haze of another rising tickle, he tried to hurry through the rest of his thoughts before he completely forgot what he was saying.
“If I let it have.. hahve it’s wayiiiiee..ig’GIZZSCHue!!-hah... I’ll be sdnee.. sdiizz.. HIZZSSSHOO!!..ughh, sdeezig for..fuh! UH!hhh.. for days.” He finished on a sigh, unrelieved, one hand now holding desperately onto the chair so he didn’t end up on his knees.
Dr. Voster didn’t immediately speak and when he finally blinked away blurry tears, he found her biting her lip with a worried crease between her eyes. “.. Do you always sneeze like this when you catch a cold?”
Even the very word caused his nose to buzz. His willpower was all but shredded, so he clamped onto the chair with his other hand and threw his head down with a body-shaking, “IID’DZZSSSSSTTH!!”
It was an unfortunate sneeze, one that painted his tie and the seat of the chair with its aftermath. Omicron didn’t have the energy to blush about it; honestly, this was all Anita’s fault so if he happened to catch her furniture in the crossfire of his helpless sneezing fit he.. heeeeeeee-
“HEEZZZSHOOO!!” He stumbled forward into a suspended tray of implements that crashed to the ground in a tremendous clatter. Omicron paid it no mind, tilting his head back to the fluorescent lights in an effort to keep his running nose at bay. “Bloody hell, won’t it st.. uh.. ohh.. hH!”
A bridge of pressure appeared beneath his septum, pressing firmly against it. He cracked his eyes open to find Dr. Voster beside him, her finger fearlessly anchored beneath his flaring nostrils. They threatened another revolt, under the tickle’s full command. That enduring, swelling force inside Omicron begged again for release and he gasped loudly against Dr. Voster.
“..hihHIT-!”
“Nope, nope, nope,” she muttered, pressing even harder against his nose. “Work with me here..”
Omicron had no idea if she was talking to him, or the virus, but both struggled to comply. The maddening prickle became tortuous. His nose cried out for relief, as the tickle played his sinuses like a fine instrument. Holding it back now seemed impossible. And to be frank, he was still a bit irked with Anita. He flicked his gaze up to the lights, sensitive enough that the bright flash of them set alight the simmering fuse inside him.
And, because he was a gentleman, he did try to warn her. “.. caahh.. cahhdd..”
“O, don’t you dare. I know you have more control than this, just-”
He heaved his way through an ominous buildup, letting the tickle dictate the pace of his breath until it brought him to the brink. His chest inflated, pressing against Dr. Voster as she fought to the end to keep him together. She pressed hard enough that he half-wondered if his nose would bruise, but no amount of pressure could tide it back. He threw both of them forward with a sneeze scraped up from the depths of his lungs.
“HAAAZZSCHHOOOO!!-ooohhhhh..”
His knees felt a bit weak after that one, but for the first time since he’d woken up that morning, his nose tingled with welcome relief. It would be brief, he was certain, but he’d take the reprieve while he had it. The satisfaction of the fit filled his head with a pleased emptiness as he teetered his way around the edge of the chair and dropped to sit there. He tried to catch his breath.
“Agent Omicron, I swear to god,” groused Dr. Voster. He cracked his eyes open to see her ripping out more than a dozen tissues to throw at him. “You did that on purpose.”
He gathered them up and groaned wetly into the white bouquet. His voice was an achy croak. “I had no control over that, I promise you..”
Dr. Voster washed her hands at the sink and joined him on her stool when she finished. By that time, he’d managed to make himself somewhat presentable. His suit was a bit of a lost cause, but with luck the stains would dry into something less noticeable before his flight.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, and there was a serious quality to her question. “Do you always sneeze like this when you catch cold?”
Omicron shook his head, bringing another bunch of tissues to his face to blow. ‘Sore throat’ may not have been an intended symptom, but it soon would be if he kept shouting sneezes on the hour. He massaged his sinuses through the thin paper, already hopelessly stuffed up as he tried to suck in a sniffle. It just made him cough.
Dr. Voster was muttering beside him. “.. may have hit you harder than intended..”
“Whad was that?” he asked. He didn’t bother masking the reproach in his tone. She sighed and adjusted her glasses.
“I said, I may have underestimated how reactive you’d be,” she admitted. “You rarely sneeze, so I thought your sinuses weren’t sensitive.”
“I have to sdneeze all the time,” Omicron admitted in turn with a sawing rub beneath his nostrils. “I’b just good at holding themb back.”
Dr. Voster stared at him a moment, then bent over her knees with a sound of pure frustration. “Omicron. You should have TOLD me that in the INTAKE INTERVIEW.”
Omicron startled in his seat, sputtering with insult. “Are you tryi’g to make this mby fault? I answered all your questions honestly!”
“I asked you if you sneeze a lot when you’re sick and you said no!!”
“Thad’s because I DON’D!”
His throat didn’t take kindly to the treatment and he turned away to cough. He yanked out more tissues, determined to free his consonants with a noseblow. Nothing moved, and all he got was another threatening jab from the tickle for his trouble. Oh, please not again, he thought, blinking at the sensation.
“Then what do you call this, O? Are you sneezing for fun?”
Anita’s voice called him briefly back to his ire. “I almost never sneeze this much when I’m sick! In fact I sdneeze more when I’m well, I-..”
He stopped, and Dr. Voster watched him with bare worry as he wrestled with what could be another punishing sneezing fit. Omicron learned his lesson from before, and he didn’t try to fight it at all. Just gave himself over to the feverish tickling until it snagged his breath in one fell swoop.
“H-ih.. TZSshoo!”
He waited briefly for another, but none came and Omicron could have wept with relief. That was far closer to what he’d expected at the start of this experiment. He wiped his nose with a tissue and was unsurprised to find the skin was already getting sore. His skin was prone to chafing with too much friction, which was just as inconvenient as it sounded.
Dr. Voster frowned at him. “Was that..?”
“My usual, yes,” Omicron verified with a sigh. He was numb to the embarrassment of discussing this by now.
“Okay.” Dr. Voster folded her hands in her lap and with a deep breath, marshaled herself. “Okay, okay. This.. is salvageable. I just have to create an antidote, or maybe a diluting agent, and then maybe I can administer a weaker dose before..” She glanced at her watch and hung her head in defeat. “.. you leave in less than an hour.”
Omicron gave her a half-lidded stare over his tissues. “You didn’t create an antidote?”
Dr. Voster threw her arms up and shot up from her chair to pace. “No, Omicron! No, I didn’t. It’s a cold. It’s a harmless, nose-oriented cold at that. Barely a case of the sniffles. But apparently you have the most delicate sinuses of all mankind because my dose was too strong and now you’re-”
She glanced over at Omicron to find him in a state of sneezy limbo, no longer listening as his nostrils twitched their way to a consuming finale. He stuttered a few breaths, each exhale a sound of unwitting surprise when the sneeze didn’t come. It took longer than Omicron wanted, but he finally got it.
“DZSSSH!” Another pitchy gasp, the corners of his mouth flinching upward in the barest hint of a relieved smile as he vented one down on his lap. “TSSschoo!! ahhh, tha’g you..”
Omicron wasn’t even sure who he was talking to, the tickle or his nose, but each succinct release felt wonderful and left him spent in a way that relaxed him. It seemed if he didn’t try to stop them, they would come in much more manageable waves. Hmm.. maybe that meant if he held them off, he could get another one of those punishing volleys when he needed one. It would depend on the target’s preferences.
“Omicron, are you listening?”
He glanced up to find a fretful Dr. Voster, her hair loose from her ponytail and lab coat a little askew. He sniffed. “No, sorry. What did you say?”
“I’m going to recommend we ground you,” she said. Omicron froze, uncertain if he heard right, but jumped to his feet when she snatched up her phone. “We can’t risk this compromising you.”
He tried to grab her phone from her, but she dodged. “What are you talking about? I thought that was the point.”
“The point was to give you a reliable way to sneeze,” she clarified, quickly typing something out with her thumbs. “Not make you a liabilit-HEY!”
Omicron managed to liberate her phone and held it high above to keep it out of reach as he tried to reason with her. He sniffed again when he felt his nose begin to run, and blinked against the throbbing reply of his nose-tickle. “Listen, Anita, I’ve been training for this mission for months. It’s our only chance t.. to..”
Her eyes narrowed as his fluttered. “You have to sneeze right now, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, but I’m telling you I’m hh!UHhh..” He sniffled again, fighting for composure. “.. I’m learning to work with it, alright?”
“If you can go thirty seconds without sneezing, I’ll believe you.”
Omicron swallowed. Thirty seconds yesterday would have been nothing, but today? His nostrils flared at even the suggestion. If he wasn’t certain viruses had no capacity for thought, let alone emotion, he would claim this tickle had a mind of its own and a chip on its shoulder. It was always simmering somewhere in the recesses of his sinuses, but the moment he committed to staving it off, it surged forward with pure intention.
Somehow, he could tell he’d be in for another seismic sneezing fit if he tried any tricks to keep it back, so he let his eyes fold shut. Rather than increments of jumping breaths, this sneeze was a smooth slide into fruition. He drew in a dreamy breath and felt his nostrils ease wide. Then-
“HETZChuu!” It was cleansing, a reset that cleared his mind. He welcomed another. “h-hHEH!h.. ohhH!hh..”
The urge abandoned him, and of course the moment he wanted to sneeze, he couldn’t. Clearing his throat, he realized with a measure of chagrin that when he sneezed, he hadn’t done more than turn his head. Where had his manners gone? The urges were so immediate, he could scarcely think of anything else.
Dr. Voster snatched the phone from his hand. “That wasn’t even fifteen seconds! I’m calling HQ.”
“Anita!” he growled, and darted forward. The two of them ended up in a spontaneous spar. While Dr. Voster was rarely on the field, she was trained in hand-to-hand as well as he was. They exchanged a series of blocks, strikes, kicks, dodges, and by the time Omicron wrestled her into a hold on the linoleum, they were both breathless. Splayed out on her back, he huffed heavy breaths into her hair. The silken strands ruffled in the gusts.
She threw him a dirty look from the corner of her eye. “Let me go, Omicron.”
“Not until you let go of this notion that I’m incapable of fulfilling this mission, Anita,” he leveled back at her. “It’s unlike you to worry like this.”
Her glare darkened; she didn’t like his choice of words, but didn’t deny it. “I oversensitized you. It will be my fault if you collapse in an uncontrollable sneezing fit and get captured by the enemy.”
He scoffed. “Is that all? I didn’t sneeze once during our spar and, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got you in a lock on the ground. Not to mention the mission is information extraction. If I attract unwanted attention, that would be my own mistake.”
She said nothing in return, which prompted Omicron to slide off of her. Together they sat up, still sitting on the floor together. She tucked hair behind her ear, refusing to look at him. He sighed. “Anita..”
She shot him a side glance. “.. are you seriously going through with it?”
“Of course,” he replied, twitching his nose to one side. The tickle rippled, and he sniffled in response. Out of habit he reached up to rest his finger beneath. “If the target enjoys this as much as sources claim, th-h!.. then it’ll beeeeh-”
He tucked his finger more tightly to his septum, only realizing his mistake after the tickle churned restlessly against the tender, tortured edges of his sinuses. “Oh, fuck mHH-.. HIH!hh.. uhh… UH..”
Dr. Voster made a noise of exasperation and he caught the sound of tissues getting snatched from the box. As he gasped and groaned his way through another incredible buildup, a flurry of softness enveloped his squirming nose. He cupped his hand over hers as he flinched forward into their shared grip.
“iiiIHH’GGZSSCHOO!..oohhh, uhduther-..” He caught his breath in a desperate gasp, straight from the bottom of his belly. When he crunched forward, he heard a couple seams rip in his shirt. “AAHHDZZSCHOO!!”
“I guess I should said bless you,” grumbled Dr. Voster. She wiggled the tissues around his nose, which remained twitchy. He had yet to open his eyes. “Are you done?”
He shook his head.
“One more?”
He paused to consider, then nodded. And after another terrific gasp, the force of his doubling-over wrenched their hands down toward his lap. “EEHTTZZSSSCHOOO!!.. ohhh, wow..”
Omicron nearly shivered at the pleasant, tingling aftermath. Why did they always feel so good? The bigger the better, even if they winded him. Dr. Voster left him with the tissues as he muzzily blew his nose. He kept his head down for a moment to let the dizziness ease, so he was still facing his lap when he opened his eyes.
Oh. That was new. Side effect of the virus, perhaps..?
Omicron darted his eyes to the doctor, but she was already up on her feet and brushing off her coat. She hadn’t seen - his first and only stroke of luck today. Because if she thought his violent sneezing was grounds for calling off the mission, his sudden sneeze-induced half-chub would definitely warrant a mortifying and career-destroying advisory call to HQ. He rushed to adjust himself as she turned away, and then both of them jumped when the door opened.
“ - yes, yes, just tell them to fax it,” Agent Delta was saying, attention still focused on someone else in the hall. Omicron scrambled to his feet, standing at attention as Dr. Voster filed beside him, just as Delta turned to them both. He clapped his hands together. “Ah, there they are! Case 28947!”
That was the case number to which they were assigned, and the very case that would see Omicron leaving for the airport in the next.. his eyes flew to the clock on the wall.. twelve minutes. That’s probably why Delta was here.
“How’s our experiment? A success?” He strolled over to Omicron, over whom he held a few inches. Omicron stood his ground, resolving not to drop his eyes when Delta jovially scanned his features. His gaze lingered on Omicron’s nose. “Looks like it was.”
“It was.” Dr. Voster and Omicron briefly locked eyes before she continued. “It’s.. functioning as intended.”
“Really?” asked Delta, impressed. Dr. Foster preened under that look, in spite of the circumstances. The senior agent looked between the two of them with a polite smile. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind me testing it as well?”
Again Omicron and Anita met eyes. This time, Omicron cleared his throat and nodded his reply. “If you wish, sir.”
Delta scratched his cheek thoughtfully, studying Omicron in silence until the shorter agent couldn’t help but sniff. He also couldn’t help the need to briefly wrinkle his nose afterward. Delta grinned.
“From how it was described, it must tickle pretty bad in there, huh?” he said, nodding to Omicron’s nose. It must be blushed pink by now, if not darker. He waited for Delta to continue, and then realized that his superior was waiting for an answer.
Much as it humiliated him to say it, he replied, “It does, sir.”
“Mmm,” Delta hummed thoughtfully, and to the man’s credit he sounded a little sympathetic. “It must feel like.. hm, how did your poetic literature put it, Doctor? What was it?.. Liiike..”
Dr. Voster, who was busy putting her hair back up into its customary ponytail, darted an apologetic glance toward Omicron. Well, it wasn’t her fault. Omicron knew what literature Delta referenced and it was only part of protocol for her to write something thorough for their records.
“Like feathers.”
“That’s right, like feathers,” Delta continued, shifting on his feet in front of Omicron. His eyes never left his subordinate’s face. “Constantly and tirelessly petting the inside of one’s nose.”
The words seemed hypnotic to Omicron because he could feel it. He could feel those feathers, stroking so gently and repeatedly against the far depths of his sinuses. Somewhere deep, somewhere too far to scratch. They were careful with the fragile nerves there, but dauntless in their purpose. To make him sneeze. And sneeze.. And sneeze…
Omicron’s eyes fluttered shut, his breath deepening as his nostrils flared softly to the siren call of those thoughts. His hands remained firmly clasped behind him.
Delta continued as if he didn’t notice. “Yes. An ever-present irritation in the most sensitive depths, coaxed to greater and greater strength by your breath. Isn’t that ironic? That you yourself are the catalyst to this growing fire inside you, cursed to fan the flames even in sleep.”
Did it start while I was asleep last night? Omicron wondered. Because when he woke, it was to an itchy nose. So itchy in fact he snorted, sniffed, and rubbed it with such single-mindedness he nearly forgot he was due to Dr. Voster’s lab today. He breathed now, a slow and reverent inhale that squeaked around his blocked sinuses and added speed to the stroking sensation of those silken feathers.
His lips parted, his chest jumping with a sudden breath. He sighed it out, the ghost of a moan carried on his exhale.
“And once it starts, it is nigh impossible to stop. That tickle won’t let you. No matter how badly you might want a reprieve, those feathers are mindless. You can’t reason with them. They’ll just keep at their work, teasing and teasing that aching flesh until..”
The tickle buoyed him through a catching gasp. Omicron sighed again, his voice carrying, wanting. Another cresting gasp, the wave of something reachable, and then he fell short again. His nostrils pulsed plaintively, begging what dwelled inside to give him relief. But Omicron didn’t mind this limbo, this torture. He knew what came after would be well worth the wait.
“.. agitating.. working you over.. beckoning you with a relentless tickle.. until you can take it no longer.”
His chest swelled, and what he thought might be another forsaken gasp turned into the exclamation of climax. “HAH-.. BBZSSSSCHHUUHH!”
The first one came, because of course there would be more, and he snatched an arm around his middle when there was a strong, delicious undulation of pleasure deep in his gut. He groaned, his voice deep and gravelly and unfamiliar to his ears.
“Whoa!” came Delta’s exclamation. He sounded shocked. “That sure was something. Omicron, bless-”
“HEH-.. BBZSSSHHOO!.. nnnnghh.”
These were smooth as butter - one big, long, scooping breath and then a knee-shaking release. He sniffled thickly, wetly, with his eyes shut in concentration. Omicron wanted another, and this time the tickle delivered. Those invisible feathers rustled like wheat in a windstorm, and he caught himself grinning as he gasped another huge breath.
“HHHH!.. EHDZZSSSHUUE!!”
He swayed forward as another cramp of ecstasy swirled in his gut, and Omicron felt a strong hand brace his shoulder to keep him from tipping over.
“Is he okay?” was one faint voice.
“Yes, just-” came another.
Omicron sneezed.
“HIIH!.. IIHTDZZSSSHHHTT!! .. fuck.”
That one was particularly wet, fired haphazardly at the floor like the rest. It also contracted in a burst of stars behind his groin so intense that Omicron became instantly and fearfully aware that he would actually come in his pants if he kept this up. And holy shit he didn’t want that to happen. Not here. Not now.
He jerked his free hand out, holding it expectantly toward the voices. With tremendous effort, he tried to be understood. “Tiih.. Tiizzusss.. HUH-”
“One second, one second!!” he heard Anita’s tempering assurances over the rush of blood in his ears.
And the rush of ticklish sensation through his nose. He couldn’t get the visual of feathers out of his head. Delta, damn him. All Omicron could see behind the dark of his wet eyelids was a field of pristine, white, downy feathers positioned diabolically against every inch of his nasal walls. The tips of them wavered each time he hitched a stuttery inhale, and huffed a helpless exhale. They were devoid of life beyond that which he gave it, breathing intent into them as they swayed against swollen, irritated flesh. He could picture his nasal membranes flinching helplessly against the onslaught, crying out to him for relief. And he would give it-
“hH-.. uHH’TZZZSSSHHOOOO!!”
The feathers fluttered wildly and his nose calmed with a prickling balm, sated. Until he sniffled against the slogging block of congestion in his nose and what little air there was eeked through and-.. the feathers trembled, dragging their soft tips gingerly against his quivering flesh, an endless torment, so subtle yet compounding in its simplicity because he could feel the echoes of that tantalizing sensation all through his nose and as he snuffled against the feeling, the feathers trembled again as if in eagerness, excitement, their tendrils tracing long worn paths on fraught nerves as the aching pressure built and built in his nose, deep inside, and oh-.. ohh-
“hHHHHH-”
“Oh no you don’t.”
The sudden presence of a hand over his nose surprised him, frightened the sneeze away, and Omicron felt an irrational pang of frustration when his gasp escaped from him with a gutteral hhuhh unrelieved. He realized in retrospect that the voice was Dr. Voster, and the hand belonged to her too. He also realized, in a wash of cold sweat, that he was achingly hard where his prick was tucked into his belt.
“Blow your nose, Omicron.”
He struggled to comply. A hitching breath got out of his control, only emboldening the tickle, and again he thought of the feathers. They were everywhere, impossible to blow out, and they’d just keep… keep-
“RRZZSSSSCHH’HOO!”
It tore out of him with a passion, and the pleasure washed over him so fiercely he would have gone to his knees had Delta not stepped in to catch him. Omicron panicked, bursting into motion to put distance between himself and the others. They let him go, only for him to stumble backwards onto his ass. The impact shook an impending sneeze out the queue, and Omicron had a moment to collect his bearings.
He quickly got to his hands and knees, trying to keep his crotch pointed to the floor. He was still painfully hard, but thankfully he hadn’t managed to sneeze himself into orgasm. Now that he had his wits, he realized he still had the wad of tissues in his hand. He brought them to his face and blew as hard as he could, concentrating only on the act of getting something out rather than thinking too hard about what was happening inside.
Adrenaline and humiliation were quick and quiet boner killers; any residual arousal swirling in his thoughts extinguished as he assessed his situation. He was somewhat sweaty, stained with a few of his own sneezes, and his damn nose still tickled. Omicron threw caution to the wind and rubbed it with fast, punishing pressure against his septum, as if to admonish it. Rather than chance a sniffle, he breathed only through his mouth as he climbed to his feet.
Both Dr. Voster and Agent Delta regarded him warily. Omicron straightened his vest, his jacket, and smoothed back his hair where it had fallen into his eyes.
“Pardod be,” he rasped, still breathless. He coughed into his fist to clear his throat.
Delta’s features eased into genuine concern. The man’s flippant nature notwithstanding, he did care about his people. “Agent, are you alright?”
“Of course,” insisted Omicron. He cleared his throat again. “Just fine. Why?”
“Well, that just..” Delta looked over to Dr. Voster, who was refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. “.. it seemed very intense, don’t you think? Doctor?”
The doctor startled at her name, then reached to adjust her glasses. She looked now at Omicron, her expression as hard and firm as her voice. “Yes, I agree. And I would recommend..”
Here, Omicron bit his tongue. If Anita really did want to rat him out, he’d only dig his own grave if he tried to deflect. But then her eyes softened.
“.. that Agent Omicron desist from triggering the suggestion impulse until this initial sensitivity wears off.”
Tension left his shoulders. He closed his eyes briefly in relief.
Delta rubbed the back of his neck, contrite. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize it was an issue. You should have told me!”
“I wasn’t aware it was a pattern until you tried it, sir,” said Dr. Voster. She crossed her arms and nodded toward Omicron. “And with all due respect, sir, you should really apologize to Agent O.”
Delta turned to him with dewy puppy-dog eyes and Omicron wanted to evaporate out of embarrassment. He didn’t do well with anything sentimental and at times his superior was pure sentimentality. “Forgive me, Omicron. I hope I didn’t cause you any distress. I’m sure that wasn’t comfortable.”
On the contrary, thought Omicron, but admitting anything even close to the truth made his tongue wither. His cheeks burned, and to add further indignity, he sniffled. The brief, tickling swell prompted him to thumb the end of his nose to encourage good behavior.
“Not at all, sir. Please don’t trouble yourself over it.”
Delta clapped him companionably on the shoulder, and when he turned toward Dr. Voster, Omicron leaned around him to throw a scathing look her way. She only smiled. That prompted apology was likely just her getting some revenge. To be frank, the new complication of sneeze-induced arousal would absolutely complicate the mission, but Omicron begged to be given a case like this for months. More than a year, even. He’d take the risk rather than give this up.
Besides, it wasn’t his fault his nose couldn’t calm down. He didn’t conduct a half-baked intake interview and design an overpowered tickle virus, so why should he be the one to suffer the consequences? Beyond those he was already suffering, he supposed.
Once again, thinking too much about it summoned the tickle forth. Omicron refused to get stuck in another self-perpetuated sneeze-cycle, so he focused only on the wall as the urge lapped at the edges of his sinuses. Oh, the ones that made him wait were the worst.
“.. to it that we grab your luggage on the way to the jet,” Delta was saying. He still had his hand on Omicron’s shoulder and squeezed when he got no response. “You already packed right?”
Omicron took a breath to reply, but it hitched in his throat. Then rushed out with a soft uhh that he couldn’t suppress. Gone were the days when he could quietly build up to a sneeze; it seemed this virus wanted everybody to know as soon as his nose started to tickle. He fought to keep his eyes open, and his ears from flushing red.
“.. yeh..hssirr..”
Delta’s smile tilted back into concerned territory, and he rubbed Omicron’s shoulder. “Looking a little sneezy, Agent. Try not to knock yourself down this time.”
Omicron huffed a laugh that trembled into a gasping inhale, a fitful exhale, an even more urgent inhale-.. “-uUHH!” and then left him on a frustrated sigh. He rubbed his face with both hands. “Fuck,” he mumbled. Then his head shot up in alarm. “Oh-.. ah, sir-...”
Agent Delta only laughed, booming and cheerful as he slid his arm further across Omicron’s shoulders to give him a jostling side-hug. “Don’t worry, Agent. These are extenuating circumstances, I’ll let that it slide.”
Omicron nodded as he was jerked around by Delta’s strength, reaching up to push his hair back when it fell out of style again. His nose was still tingling, unrelieved, and he scrunched it with exasperation. Sneeze or don’t sneeze, won’t you?
“Off we go!” crowed Delta, escorting Omicron toward the door while still under his arm. He looked back to Dr. Voster. “I’ll be with him on the flight, so we’ll let you know if there are any case developments.”
He tightened his hold when he said this, and Omicron fought down a flash of annoyance that Delta probably meant any developments with Agent Omicron’s nose. Speaking of which…
Omicron let his eyes roll shut as Delta led him into the hall, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. He was saying something, probably about the jet, but Omicron let the words wash over him just as he let the tickle wash through his nose. Wary of what might happen, he strayed away from thinking too much about feathers. Instead, he thought of dust motes. A dandelion seed. Something small and irritating and hopelessly stuck somewhere deep inside him. Whatever it was, this thing wanted to escape. It squirmed and twisted, fluttered its wings or flicked its tail. The throbbing urgency of Omicron’s tender pink membranes wouldn’t deter it, neither would the gradual unsteadiness of his breath. He exhaled, yearning.
“..uh-..”
The invader redoubled its efforts, writhing against his most sensitive places. He couldn’t-.. he..
“.. huhh-..”
If only he could reason with it, but on a baser level, Omicron didn’t want to. He wanted it to flap and struggle, tickle and itch, uncontrollable and impossible to satiate. Fan the flames of this urge so feverish that he couldn’t do anything but-
“HAH-!”
Omicron found himself smiling again, delirious as he breathed into this unstoppable force. He was completely helpless to its thrall. This thing in him, nuzzling and ruffling and bothering his nose so fervently, dotingly, sweeping him up with its caress. He.. oh-.. oh-!
“S’combi’g-” He gasped out, if only just to himself. The breathy word preceded an absolutely euphoric sneeze. “WRIZZSSSSHUUU’uoohhhh…”
Omicron stayed as he was, one hand cupped to his nose and the other bracing his middle. Another dagger of pleasure had stabbed him through, but it was fast to dissipate as he sniffled into his palm. The way his nose tingled signaled a temporary relief. Omicron couldn’t decide if he was disappointed by this or not.
“Goodness, bless you!” Omicron jumped. Delta stood beside him, both hands in his pockets now, looking amused. Omicron had forgotten he was there. “That was a big one! Sounds like you worked your way up to it.”
Why was Omicron cursed with the chattiest superior Agent in the force? He snuffled again behind his hand, by habit searching his pockets for a handkerchief or a restaurant napkin, anything. He paused when Delta extended a travel pack of tissues.
“Thought you might need these, so I brought a few packs along.”
“.. Tha’g you.”
Omicron took it with grace, turning around so he could use both hands. He blew his nose yet again, dismayed with the sheer amount of moisture he was capable of producing. At this rate he’d need to stay hydrated. Once he finished up, he turned back to Delta to find him extending a small bottle of hand sanitizer. He eyed the other man.
“You can’t actually catch this, sir.”
“I know, Agent, but the public won’t know that,” he said, as carefree as ever. “And even if you’re not actually sick, better to keep your hands clean, mm? And maybe try the vampire trick too.” Here he demonstrated by lifting his elbow and tucking his nose in.
Omicron burned with the embarrassment of having his lackadaisical sneezing addressed in such an obvious way. Normally he was very thorough with his hygiene practices. He sneezed into his elbow or better, a handkerchief if he had one. He washed his hands frequently and properly. Something about this tickle just emptied his head of all sense when it came over him. It was a miracle he’d managed to even cup a hand to his mouth just now. He didn’t remember doing that.
So he could only nod, his cheeks burning, as he took the bottle and copiously applied. The stringent scent bloomed in the air. Delta could probably tell he was upset because he gave the shorter agent a lighthearted slap on the back. “You’re usually very conscientious. Just a gentle reminder, agent.”
Omicron nodded again, this time with a yip of surprise as his eyes slammed closed. Suddenly his nose was frenzied, filled to the brim with that strong, alcoholic smell. It burned, so sharp it brought tears to his eyes as he rushed his elbow to his face. Unlike the other sneezes of this morning, this itch wasn’t indulgent. It was almost brutal.
“Chssh-! Tschh!” Even without muffling into his jacket, they would have been small. Smaller than his normal sneezes, even. They were fittish, barely letting him up for air. “Itschh! HHtschh!.. uh-.. TSSH’hee!!.. fucking hell..”
It only lasted seconds, over as suddenly as it began, and Omicron picked his head up blearily. He sniffled, coughing again at the remaining scent on his hands as he fished out another tissue and nursed his nose. Stupid thing was so needy now, he couldn’t even use hand sanitizer without a complaint. Belatedly he realized he’d cursed in front of his superior again.
When he looked at Delta, the man was regarding him thoughtfully. Not his usual fond musing sort of look either. The kind of discerning expression that awarded him the rank he currently held. Omicron’s blinked at him, wide eyed over the edge of his tissues.
“S-Sorry for sweari’g, sir..”
Delta stirred from wherever he’d been, and dropped into a polite smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s alright, Omicron, I honestly don’t mind. But, I’ll ask this again: are you alright?”
Omicron blinked at him again, owlish. “Me, sir?”
Delta chuffed an airy chuckle. “Yes, agent, you. You’re sure this..” He warred over his words, trying to pick the best ones. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time for this opportunity, but are you sure? About this?”
Omicron bristled, and he was certain Delta could tell. He finished up with his nose, balling up the tissue and foregoing hand sanitizer this time. “Respectfully, why wouldn’t I be sure, sir?”
“This science isn’t exact,” Delta told him. His voice was lower now, the proper tone of a superior officer. “Dr. Voster is a genius, but this is the first time we’ve tried something like this. There’s bound to be a margin of error. So I’m asking you again, Agent Omicron..” Here he fixed his subordinate with a firm stare. “.. are you sure about doing this right now, as you are, in this state?”
Omicron didn’t have to think about it. He merely drew himself up to a force-standard posture and looked Delta in the eyes without flinching. “Yes, sir. Very sure.”
Delta held his stare, but when Omicron didn’t buckle, he sagged where he stood. With a long sigh, he once again patted Omicron’s shoulder. “Alright, agent. But if you change your mind or if you become compromised, you must be honest and tell me immediately. Am I understood?”
Omicron just barely managed to resist twitching his nose; he could feel it wanting attention, but didn’t want to give Delta any reason to doubt him. “Of course, sir.”
Delta gave him a jaunty thumbs up, back to his usual lofty cheer. “Grand! I’ll take you at your word.” He turned away, beginning to stride down the corridor with expectation Omicron would follow. “Now, we ought to get a move on. They’ve got the jet idling and you know how they are about the fuel budget..”
Agent Delta carried on, blind to his subordinate keeping step behind him. Omicron absently, then more purposefully, rubbed his nose. The skin was starting to sting, no doubt ready to peel by tomorrow like sunburn. The tickle stretched languidly, lazily working Omicron up to another toe-curling sneeze. The hedonist in him wanted to welcome it.
However, he had nearly twelve hours on a jet to contend with, surrounded by other personnel. And he was certain now after that little conversation with Delta that the man would be watching Omicron carefully from here on out. If he noticed anything suspicious, he’d ground the mission and take Omicron off the case without remorse. He couldn’t let it happen, not after how hard he’d fought for this.
His nostrils flared against his finger, a premature warning to what was brewing. But Omicron knew, and he was prepared for the impending battle. It wouldn’t be easy, but he fully intended to negotiate with his nose and keep sneezing to nil on the flight. Almost nil, if he couldn’t hold out. Again his nostrils flared, as if playfully chiding him. You’re not in control, his nose seemed to say. I am.
Well, thought Omicron as he stepped out of the jet bay and into the sunshine. The jet sat waiting on the tarmac, a flurry of activity around it. We’ll just see about that.
/tbc??
I’m not sure if I’ll continue it, but I hope you had fun reading!! Part 2 is in the works!
I made a prompt game! I’m calling it a 6x6 Misery Maker.
It’s a dice game: your character is in the situation at the top, in this case “Sick at a Formal Ball”, and then you can either pick a category or roll a d6 for a random category, then roll a second d6. The number you roll corresponds to a row. The prompt in the column you chose and the row you roll is yours!
(If you just pick your favorite prompt without consulting the dice, no one has to know.)
As someone with the kink I think I'm cursed. My own sneezes do absolutely nothing for me, I feel indifferent. However, I am BY FAR the sneeziest person I know. I'm allergic to basically everything outside, when I get a cold it almost exclusively affects my sinuses, my nose runs like a faucet when it's cold, itches like crazy when its hot and dry, and yet I have no way to actually enjoy it.
Thinking about sinus infections. Thinking about how, on top of being horribly congested and possibly feverish, their face hurts, their cheeks and eyes sore and swollen, giving them the worst sinus headache. Thinking of them complaining about their headache, and another character overhearing. Thinking about this other character offering to massage their face where their sinuses are to relieve some of that pain. Thinking about how that action stirs up and dislodges some of that congestion. Thinking about that character sneezing with the other character still right in front of them.
yayyy, Joseph prompt. I am one of the people who loves pointing out the irony of a sick doctor that he complains about, so now you get a whole prompt about it! 2.2k
⁂
It is impossible, truly, to avoid the oncoming 'fresher flu', or whatever other coy little term it's stuck with. A large number of people congregating, mingling, away from home for the first time and desperate to make a good impression; it's a recipe for one person tracking something into the university, and it spreading like wildfire amongst the population, whether they be student or staff.
Of course, he's no fool. He takes more than adequate precautions, but all the caution in the world is unable to do anything to prevent contracting something entirely. He may as well pin his same hopes on holding back an ocean with a sheet of paper.
And so here he sits, holed up in his office like a hermit while he feels this cold settling in full force. He wrinkles his nose against the feeling of it, everything damp and thick like it's trying to become a swamp in inflamed sinuses. He blows his nose, frowns more deeply, and blows it again. It does little to ease the discomfort, but does provide a small amount of relief in allowing him to breathe somewhat more easily, at least for the next few moments.
He squirts some hand sanitizer into his palms, even if by now it's somewhat of a moot point. If someone doesn't get something from him, they will get it from someone else. That doesn't mean, of course, that he shouldn't still be cautious--he is, after all, a medical professional. To transmit something to someone else, they would need to actually enter his office, but no one has signed up for his office hours, and it's customarily silent in here, save for the sound of his sniffling.
It hasn't quite progressed to the sneezing just yet, but there's that niggling irritation in the back of his nose, nestled deeply within where no amount of sniffling, or rubbing with tissues, or blowing his nose will truly clear it. It will only be satisfied by a truly scraping sneeze that will scratch the itch, if only temporarily.
The door opens, much to his surprise, and Monty slips in as unobtrusively as he can manage. "Mr. Cavanaugh."
"Dr. Valentine." He goes to raise his mask, but Monty waves him off. "Don't bother, I'm sure I've already got it coming down the pipeline. My roommates all came down with it earlier this week, and there's really not much room to stay away from eachother."
He doesn't shrug, but does give a slight nod of affirmation. "You're free to make your own decisions." He nudges the box of tissues in between their two desks, to keep it in reach of the pair of them. He doesn't exactly want to share the box, he would much prefer unfettered access to them, himself and no one else. But it's important to be generous and open--or so says the HR department.
They love to fuss and fawn and breathe down the back of his neck, but rarely seem to actually take "yes" for an answer. He's not going to be kissing babies or shaking hands, and that seems to be the only thing that people want to see. No one cares about the fact that he has opened his office to another person. That he is sharing the burden of his workload. That he is being so gracious as to even share his tissues with someone else.
It's not so much the tissues that he's really focused on, it's the concept. It's the fact that he is being so gracious, that he is working so diligently to appease the desires of the people who need to feel so important that they have nothing better to do but hound him, and no one is giving him the credit he is due for it. To buy him a bit of breathing space from the fears that they will take away his final chance to have a TA, that he is some cruel beast who is going to chase this one off like all the others.
"You should be resting, if you're coming down with this."
He laughs, adjusting the thin wire frames of his glasses in that unconscious habit of his. "I could say the same to you, really."
He takes off his reading glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose between his eyes, something to fend against the dull headache that's starting to grate at him. "You're right."
It's a surprising admission, clearly, because Monty looks like he's been nearly knocked out of his chair just to hear it. "Did I hear you right? You, Dr. Valentine, are admitting that you're willing to go rest?"
"That's where you're wrong. I admitted I should be."
"Doctors make the worst patients, then?"
"And I'm one of the worst." He sniffles, distinctly aware of just how wet the sound of it is, and plucks a couple tissues from the box. He can feel that nascent tickle, the feeling of it beginning to slowly unfurl and brush delicately along. He grits his teeth slightly, waiting for it to decide whether or not it's going to become an actual sneeze.
And it does.
He takes a sharp gasp, and sneezes harshly into the handful of tissues, his shoulders jumping hard from it. "HH'RRASSHHue!" It scrapes roughly over his throat, tears through his sinuses in a way that does, thankfully, scratch that irritation.
Monty jumps, looking up from his laptop. "Jesus! Bless you!"
He glowers over his steepled hands, nothing but exhausted and angry eyes above the painted nails.
"Right. No blessings. You got it."
He waits until he sees him swivel his chair back to what he's doing before he finally relaxes his shoulders, blows his nose harshly. It was satisfying, this time at least. It'll become less effective later, when he gets into the thick of this cold. For now, it's an effective, if momentary, relief of the tickle. He sniffs again in the aftermath of it, the action feeling significantly drier and less wretched than it did beforehand. He knows it's going to refill soon enough, his mucous membranes working overtime to attempt to flush this virus out of his system, but for now he's thankful for what relief he can scrape together.
"This is one of the things you must accept, as a medical professional." Monty doesn't turn to look at him, and for once he's thankful to not have to be making eye contact. "You will still always get sick, no matter the precautions you take, and no matter the attempts at diverting the course of nature. Being the 'sick doctor' is something that people always find deeply amusing to point out the irony of, and something you must accept."
"I don't think people usually hold it against anyone. Like you said, it's impossible to avoid--especially this time of year, when it just wreaks havoc on everybody."
"And yet. And yet." He swipes a pair of tissues from the box, folds them in half in preparation. "People will point it out as if you're supposed to be able to make it happen. As if being ill is some moral or professional failing on your part."
"I guess it's hard for people to sort of separate the professional from the profession."
"The 'campus crud' and 'fresher's flu' and whatever else they decide to call it. Every year it takes its toll on the populace of any school, and every year everyone wrings their hands and fusses and frets because it's inevitable. Would I prefer that it was something we could actually truly avoid? Something which we could actually force the steps necessary to minimize its effects? Certainly. Who wouldn't, especially as a medical professional? But as it stands, we can only work with the authority which we're granted, and that authority doesn't extend much farther than the walls of this office, or occasionally the classroom in which we're teaching." He sniffles, and takes the tissues from his desk. "Don't startle, this time."
"Doctor?"
" 'RRSSHHue! HH'RRASSHHue!"
He sniffles in the aftermath, holding his position for a second longer than he really needs to ensure he's finished, before he straightens up and pinches at the tip of his nose.
He looks like he tried his best, but it's impossible not to notice the jump in his shoulders, the way he looks more like a prey animal than a TA. "Bl--" He falters under the waspish glare. "--ack. Black...uh, polish. It suits you." He gestures flashes his own bare nails for emphasis.
"Don't get used to wearing it if you want to be in the operating room." Even though he just sneezed, it hasn't fully scratched that itch. He grants himself the indulgence of wrinkling his nose hard against the feeling, and sniffs sharply, the liquidy sound blunted by the congestion preventing it from being wholly effective. "Some hospitals allow it, but I would discourage its use. One of the many perks of teaching, rather than doing."
He leans forward slightly, takes another couple of tissues and blows his nose thoroughly, before squirting hand sanitizer into his palms. Monty's stopped working entirely, it seems, because he leans back in his own chair and makes some vague motion with his pen. "And the schedule, I'm sure."
"I don't miss being on call. I will likely never be able to hear the sound of a pager without that instinctive jolt of adrenaline that tells me something is happening urgently."
"You still have it, I'm guessing?"
He offers a faint, wry smile. "I'm not one to throw out perfectly good technology."
"I don't think you're beating the old man accusations at this rate."
"Let them make whatever accusations they want. I'm middle-aged, but old to those doe-eyed and bushy-tailed freshmen who think that anyone over the age of thirty-five is going to keel over and die at a moment's notice." He rolls his chair across the floor mat and grabs a stack of papers from the printer. "Here. Tomorrow's lecture notes, you're going to be my annotation."
"Wow, and just when I thought the exciting world of Molecular & Cellular Basis of Disease couldn't get any more exciting, now I get to annotate a stack of papers that are their own basis of disease."
He scowls. "If you're implying that I've handed you lecture notes I've been using as a tissue, you're insulting me."
"I wouldn't say insulting so much as, like, good-natured ribbing."
"Don't."
"No ribbing? No friendly joshing?"
"Get out of our office."
He certainly isn't going because he's been told to, but he gets up nonetheless. "Fine. I'm getting a Monster."
"I will remember your kidneys fondly."
"You'll be my donor?"
"I will not be offering you my kidneys, nor my surgical prowess."
He rolls his eyes, but continues out the door nonetheless.
He massages his sinuses now that Monty is out of the room, granting him the privacy to be a little more indulgent in the way he tackles this cold. He is not optimistic that it's going to be over soon, nor gently. His nose is prickling with irritation, and he can feel how warm it is to the touch, blushing from the abuse it's been taking. He's always been somewhat chagrined by how quick it is to redden from his attention, drawing everyone's eyes to it without any chance to say no.
He glances towards the ugly fluorescent lights outside of his office in the hallway, the light harsh in the little window by the ceiling. It does enough, this time. "Hh'RRISSHhue! Hh...hH'RRRSSHhuh!"
He sighs, and brings a hand up to rub his throat with a little wince. The curse of the 'dad sneeze', as it were, is that an already tender throat is only made more so by them. He blows his nose, and pinches at his nose. This has, finally, seemed to scratch that itch fully. He's bought himself a bit of time before the next time, and in so doing has bought himself the time to start annotating a test that's already starting with several wrong answers in a row. Joy.
He pinches the bridge of his nose again, the headache trying to push through the malaise. He's going to have to sleep early tonight. An extra hour of rest, perhaps, carefully rearranged to fit into his busy schedule. He isn't planning on taking any time off--for a cold, especially one so minor as this--would be foolish. And, of course, this early into the quarter, it would be not only unprofessional but setting his students up for failure. Missing time as a student? Difficult, but able to be made up. Missing time as a professor? It sets the entire class behind.
He's never smoked, but there's occasionally that desire within him to go take a smoke break. That immediately soothing of tension, of frayed nerves and discomfort eased. He takes a sip of coffee instead--a different concession to himself, one that isn't recommended but is more tolerable than alternatives. His mug, some old, kitschy thing with a bat that was a gift from a friend years ago, shows its age in the fading color and the surface cracks that run along it.
So I know I haven't posted in a bit, funny story, I got sick! Because of course I did. It has been miserable but very useful for research purposes and I have another little story planned with my boys so that'll probably be posted sometime in the near future!
(They do all exist within the same universe unless specified otherwise)
Jay Archer -
20 year old gay english major in college, he/him pronouns. Huge introvert, oldest of 5 siblings (3 sisters and 1 brother). Fairly poor health just in general and tends to get sick often and easily, but his lack of care of his wellbeing (ex. poor sleeping and eating habits, drinking anything but water, barely going outside) doesn't help matters any. Roomates with Elliot whom he attends the same college as.
Elliot Holt-
22 year old bisexual psych major in college, he/him pronouns. Major extrovert and social butterfly, only child to a single mom. Doesn't get sick often and is in relatively good health, but has an insanely sensitive nose (specifically to strong scents and the cold) and several allergies. Roomates with Jay, met him during a shared class (Elliot was desperate to get away from his current crazy roommate and Jay was desperate to get out of the college dorms).
Jay is on the shorter side (probably like 5'4" ish). He's got mid-length wavy blonde hair he usually has up. Normally wears sweaters (token indie white guy) and has several piercings in his ears. Large green eyes, perpetual baby face, dimples. Skinny boardering on underweight with chronic eyebags, modern day sickly victorian child type look.
Elliot is the exact opposite in virtually every way. On the taller (maybe 6'1") and bulkier side. Long black sleek hair he usually has down, but occasionally wears in a loose ponytail. Darker tanned skin, longer nose and more angular features, sleeve of tattoos on his right arm and various other tattoos scattered about. Sporting a pierced septum and ear gages.
a young woman in the 1800s binding her chest to pass as a boy and gets a job as a stablehand to help support her parents but the hay dust has her sneezing in fits by the end of each workday and the rich daughter of the family she works for starts falling for her and gives her a lacy handkerchief and...
Question, do you prefer having descriptions of characters to look back on to better visualize the characters you're reading about, or do you prefer having details left vague so you can use your own imagination to create your own version of what the characters look like in your head?
(They do all exist within the same universe unless specified otherwise)
Jay Archer -
20 year old gay english major in college, he/him pronouns. Huge introvert, oldest of 5 siblings (3 sisters and 1 brother). Fairly poor health just in general and tends to get sick often and easily, but his lack of care of his wellbeing (ex. poor sleeping and eating habits, drinking anything but water, barely going outside) doesn't help matters any. Roomates with Elliot whom he attends the same college as.
Elliot Holt-
22 year old bisexual psych major in college, he/him pronouns. Major extrovert and social butterfly, only child to a single mom. Doesn't get sick often and is in relatively good health, but has an insanely sensitive nose (specifically to strong scents and the cold) and several allergies. Roomates with Jay, met him during a shared class (Elliot was desperate to get away from his current crazy roommate and Jay was desperate to get out of the college dorms).
I'm a long time lurker, first time (snz) writer. I wanted to try my hand at writing something like this, and decided to pull out a couple ocs I've had for a bit. Kinda experimental, dipping my toes in the world of writing for this kink so any feedback is appreciated!
Only about 1k words, background is that Jay and Elliot are both students at the same college and roommates and that's pretty much it! Their relationship is not romantic yet, unsure of if it will be but idk, I'll see how it goes.
Cw: contagion mention, fever
God, Jay wishes his professor would just shut up about Greek mythology already.
In his foggy mind, those stupid fucking stories from this stupid fucking lecture are the only things that seem to stick. Icarus with his wax wings, flying too close to the sun. He feels a sort of kinship to that doomed boy, his hubris, his downfall. If Jay is Icarus, Elliot is his Daedelus. Setting a bottle of Dayquil on the counter seemed like such a nice gesture at the time, too, considering his roommate was the patient zero to this nightmare plague.
Jay usually has such good impulse control.
With a cold from hell, too much medicine sounded like an oxymoron. Anything would have to be a step up from drowning in his own mucus.
A shiver shoots up his spine, but he barely shifts from his slumped position on the desk in the back of this classroom. With the edge of his sweater over his hand, pressed against his sluggishly leaking nose, he sniffles. He feels and hears a pitiful squeak of pressure stab through his sinuses, ears crackling loudly as he swallows.
He's not sure if it's better or worse, being too dazed to fully comprehend just how disgusting he must be right now. Through the thick haze in his mind, he can vaguely feel the stinging of his rubbed raw and chapped nose, abused by the rough wool of his shirt sleeve. In any other case, he'd be too self-conscious to do this openly, too afraid to be seen as gross by his peers.
Now, as his head periodically bops back up after slowly drifting down, exhausted eyes trying their best not to close, he can't quite muster up the energy to care.
“hhHIT’sschUE!”
He wrenches forward into his elbow, sneezing for what feels like the hundredth time since he's woken up. A couple hoarse, grating coughs follow after, and if he weren't in public he would've allowed himself to groan in misery.
People are probably staring at him, he knows. It's cold and flu season, and he's basically Typhoid Mary right now.
Let them. If the teacher hadn't made this lecture mandatory attendance, he wouldn't have shown up at all. Through red rimmed, watery eyes, he glares at her with as much rage as he can muster. He hopes someone coughs on her doorknob.
One of his knuckles paws at the side of his nose weakly, letting out a small sigh of annoyance at the inevitable. His breath hitches.
“HhHhuhhggh’shkew!! HtxcHH-shEWW!” Hands cupped around his face, his fingertips rest against overheated cheeks brush against the bottom of his teary eyes. God this sucks.
Something taps his shoulder, breaking him out of his dazed self-pity. His head lazily swivels around, vision swimming sickeningly for a short moment.
A figure comes into focus- Jenn, one of Elliots's friends, he vaguely notes- holding something out to him wordlessly. Tired eyes dart down, and out of pure relief, he almost feels himself sober up a bit.
It's a pack of tissues. He could cry. He might cry.
He accepts them readily.
“Thangks.” He rasps, at least attempting to blow his nose. It barely budges, but it's still nice to clean his upper lip with something besides his clothes.
“Of course man. You um… you alright?” Jenn questions, what little attention she'd been paying to the lecture replaced with concern.
Jay sighs, keeping the tissue wadded in his hand as his shoulders slump.
“Fidne.” He grumbles, turning to cough weakly into the tissue.
“Elliot finally gave you his cold?”
Jay scoffs.
“How'd you figure that ode out? Thought I was hidi’g it well.” He complains, punctuating it with a blocked sniffle. Jenn tuts sympathetically, patting him gently on the shoulder. He knows he must be out of it, as he doesn't move away. She seems to notice this too, her eyes darting to the large digital clock on the wall.
“Think you can tough it out for fifteen more minutes?” She asks, getting a half-hearted shrug in response.
“It wod't kill mbe.” He mumbles.
Nodding in understanding, Jay pulls out her phone.
“I'll let him know to come pick you up. No offense dude, but you probably shouldn't be driving right now.” Knowing him, she expects at least a little push back from this, as he's been historically against anything even vaguely considered coddling.
He simply sniffles, wipes his nose, and nods weakly, trying hard not to pay attention to the room spinning as he does.
“Sou'ds gguhh…
hhuh-ghhTCH'SSCHUEww!” Oh god that one was so loud. He can tell Jenn is looking at him without turning to her, even as he lets out a breathy, congested groan into his hands hiding his face.
The professor launches into some lengthy discussion about Sisyphus when Jay completely tunes her out again. All he has to do is make it fifteen minutes.
———
Jay finds himself blinking back into semi-awareness after a bit, not having realized he'd dozed off.
“Snrk- wuh… huh?” He mumbles, distantly feeling the cold touch of a palm against his forehead.
Before he could do anything too embarrassing like lean into the hand, he turns to cough, reaching up a hand to rub his throat with a swallow and a wince. The sleep did nothing but make him feel even more clogged.
When he finally blinks his watery eyes clear, his roommate's form finally becomes visible. He knows he should feel mortified, at least a bit more than he is right now.
But, at least that means he's got a ride home now. The thought of finally laying in his bed is almost enough to make him sob with relief.
“El…” He practically whines, feeling the much larger man's arm gently guide him out of the desk by his shoulder.
“Looks like this thing's kicking your ass, huh?” Elliot comments, the slight amusement in his tone not appreciated by Jay.
“You gave mbe this shit, jackass.” He grumbles with what little anger he can muster. His head resting on Elliot's shoulder as he's guided away certainly doesn't help his case.
“Hey, I warned you. Not my fault you didn't take the multivitamins I offered.”
Jay lets out a single, breathy laugh.
“You act like you're fifty.” He comments, breaking off to muffle a couple coughs into his fist at the end.
“At least my cold wasn't this bad. You look like death.”
“Gee, thangks.” Jay knows Elliot is probably right, though. Which is only more embarrassing given that he knows Elliot still managed to look like a runway model even while running 101°. That man has to be blessed.
Speaking of, Jay stalls for a moment, causing Elliot to stop as well. Jay's breath hitches, one hand weakly coming to cup his face, leaning into his roommate's supportive frame as his eyes flutter.
“HhhhITSCH-UEe! hhgsh'TCHEWww!! Hhhhuhhh…nghohgod-” He groans, stumbling back with the force of the sneezes, lightheaded and drained.
Elliot's hold around Jay's shoulders tighten, noticing him falter. Unintentionally he pulls the smaller man closer, Jay's face towards Elliot's body as he curls into himself.
“Oh hey, easy man. We can just-” Before Elliot can finish, Jay snaps forward into Elliot's shirt.
“hhhhHIITSCH’HEWW!!”
Jay doesn't need to cup his face anymore. Any potential mess has been contained, right into Elliots chest.
Immediately Jay's already overheated and feverish cheeks somehow redden further, shame permeating that constant bleariness for once.
“Nghh- shit. I'mb sorry, that's- that's so fucki'g gross.” He mumbles into Elliot's shirt, not wanting to look up in fear of his friend's possible expression.
The chest beneath his hands and nose stutters a couple times in a chuckle. A hand pats him on the back, and he looks up.
“Hey, I already had it once, so I'm basically immune to it now. No harm no foul.” Elliot offers, a soft smile on his lips.
A set of coughs release themselves from Jay's lungs, a weak fist half-heartedly covering it. Elliot hums in worry, and nudges Jay to keep walking with him.
“C’mon, we're almost home. A little sleep will do you some wonders.”
Jay wanted to retort with the fact that his little nap in the classroom did nothing but make the problem worse, but can't bring himself to. With little to no other choice, Jay allows himself to be guided back to Elliot's car, face still half buried in the man's shirt.
Tomorrow he'll blame it on the medication. But he feels unfairly safe in his roommate's arms.
A is the fretting sort, and they are sure that one way or another, B is going to catch a cold.
there are too many damning factors! A is just getting over a cold themselves, the weather has changed, B has been sleep-deprived...
it just seems inevitable! it is going to happen! unless... maybe they can bypass it if (xyz caretakery quadratic formula?)
it's a chilly evening and they're walking around together. B absentmindedly sniffles and rubs their nose.
ahhhhh! there it is! it's starting!
no, no, wait. it's weird to freak out over a sniffle.
B sniffles again, then clears their throat.
oh no! now A is certain! poor B isn't feeling well and they're being forced to go on this walk in the cold!
A immediately swoops in, trying to camoflauge the worry but not succeeding. "are you okay? are you getting sick?"
B blinks. "huh? i don't--..."
A is already taking off their scarf and coat, feeling B's forehead, the whole nine yards. "i thought this might happen! do you want to go back? you must be cold out here. i'm sorry, this was a bad idea..."
B is... confused. then, embarrassed as they catch themselves drinking in the attention of being swaddled. touched. important.
...and then, they're snapped back to reality by the weird feeling of their fingers being coaxed into gloves that are not the right size, and the whirlwind of A's steadily increasing urgency.
B smiles, warm and knowing. "hey, hey, hey, hey, wait. hang on, hang on. stop."
and A does stop, fully. comically. in their tracks. wide-eyed, as if being scolded.
"here. at least take these." B says gently. they give back the scarf and gloves. "you just got better. let's keep it that way."
A averts their eyes, pursing their lips stubbornly. they're undeniably flustered and warmed up inside by the soothing protectiveness of B's voice. "...mm, okay."
B smiles, tying the scarf snugly around A's neck. "but... i am cold. so, i'll wear the coat. if it would make you feel better."
A is still pouting a bit, but they give a sheepish flicker of a smile. "yeah. it would."
(...and then, naturally, B absentmindedly pulls the lapel of said coat to their nose and pitches forward, muffling an unusually harsh sneeze. the cycle of fussing starts anew and tenfold.)
Wrote another one! Only about 1-2k words again, but it's Elliot's turn this time. The weather where I live is just rainy and freezing and horrible, so what else can I do but subject my ocs to it?
Cw: Customer service job
“Syl, If I have to make another peppermint mocha, I want you to drown me with the cold foam in front of the customer that orders it.”
Next to Jay, he hears his coworker chuckle at his grousing, cut off half-way by the espresso machine whirring to life. Jay shoves a cake pop into a bag with an unnecessary amount of force as it clicks back off, and Sylvia passes him with a half-full cup.
“Have you ever tried one? They're pretty good.” She offers, mixing some drink off to the side. Jay moves to the edge of the bar, sets the cake pop down and yells out a name. He doesn't stop to see if it's grabbed before he heads back in.
“If you ever catch me drinking anything mint flavored I want you to shoot me. I'm pretty sure I got peppermint syrup in my nose at some point, all I can smell is mint. Why can't people just order a hot chocolate for once or something?” He grumbles, just at the volume level for Sylvia to hear.
She shrugs, putting something in the oven.
“Holiday drinks will sell. You've worked here long enough to know that.”
Jay rolls his eyes.
“I can still bitch about it.”
“You're just mad you can't listen to music right now. No reason to blame other people because you left your phone at home.”
Jay grumbles something annoyed under his breath. His coworker kicks his ankle, just light enough to not really hurt.
“You're not even supposed to be listening to music when there's customers anyway.”
The male scoffs. “Not like you're gonna tattle on me if I do. And I know you've put vodka in your Stanley before so even if you do, I'm taking you with me.”
Despite the threat of blackmail, Sylvia laughs, knowing the threat is empty. She simply shrugs and shifts back to the drinks she's manning.
Jay's focus moves to whatever overly complicated drink he's stuck making, hearing Sylvia doing the same at the other end of the bar. When the door dings open, he glances at her, then at the door.
With a sigh he lifts his head up just enough to project his voice. “Hi welcome to Starbucks, I'll be with you in a minute!”
Instead of any verbal response, he hears shuffling, then a sharp intake of breath.
“Hiih-hihhh’TSCHhh! Hehh'ngKCHhh!!”
Those sneezes sound… familiar.
Forgoing his drink for a moment, Jay's head peeks from over the bar. Sure enough, standing there, absolutely soaked, is his roommate Elliot.
The man notices Jay staring at him from the corner of his eye, and shoots him a smile. One hand waves at his friend, while the other rubs at his nose with a knuckle.
“Hey, Jay! Hope I didn't catch you at a bad time.” Elliot comments as he nears the bar.
Jay looks him over, and lets out an incredulous laugh, unable to stop concern from bleeding into his expression.
“Jesus, what happened to you?”
Elliot sniffles, and gestures to the window. “It started pouring like ten minutes ago. Forgot my umbrella.”
The Starbucks worker lets his eyes trail over to the window, only now noticing the pounding rain against the glass.
“Huh. Guess it is.” His eyes move back to Elliot, tracing the edges of his shivering frame, and sopping hair and clothes.
“You're not wearing a coat? It's like 40 degrees outside.”
Elliot shrugs, hand coming up to scrub at his nose again as it scrunches up.
“Honestly I di-hiiih-didn't think it'd be thahaah- hiiih'gnTSCHhh! Hiihh’nNTSHChh!” He suddenly snaps forward into his elbow, tiny droplets of rain decorating the tiled floor around him as his soaked hair swings.
As Elliot sniffles through the aftermath with a sort of pinched and uncomfortable expression Jay doesn't see from him very often, the short man gets closer, leaning over the counter. He looks up, and pauses, the two of them making eye contact.
While Jay is aware Elliot isn't someone to shy away from physical touch, Jay… very much is. Even so, though, he finds his hand moving at his side, and up. Next to Elliot's face, it sits, hesitating, but then gently smooths away wet hair stuck to the side of his friend's cheek.
His fingers just barely brush against the skin, and yet it's enough to send a shiver trickling down Elliot’s frame. Jay's face scrunches into a scowl.
“You're fucking freezing.” His voice is soft despite his expression, and Elliot can't help but smile even as the shorter boy pulls away.
“Well, it's my fault. I didn't check the weather before I got in the car.”
Jay's eyes narrow. “Why are you even here anyway, shouldn't you be in class right now?”
“Oh, the professor got into a car accident and canceled class.” He answers, much too nonchalantly for the content of the sentence.
“Oh, shit, are they alright?”
“She said she'd be alright to teach on Friday so I figured she must bhehh- hiiih- hoh. Damn, it's gone.” He grumbles, punching and rubbing his nose between his fingers.
Jay looks away, noting Sylvia eyeing him with equal parts curiosity and confusion.
“So, what, you drove all the way out to campus to get a coffee?” He asks, facing Elliot again. The man in question seems to realize something at that, and begins rummaging through his pockets.
“Ah- no, actually I came to bring you this.” He explains, holding something out to Jay.
The barista takes it, and his eyes go wide.
“Oh… you um, you noticed I forgot.” He comments, grasping his phone and earbuds in his palm. Elliot keeps the focus of his gaze anywhere else.
“I know you'd just be complaining about it if I didn't. Pretty sure you have your earbuds in more often than you don't.”
Jay chuckles, shoving the items in his pocket. He opens his mouth to thank his friend, but as he looks up, sees Elliot's face screwed in plain discomfort, lips just barely parted.
“S-sorry, Iihh-hiiih’NGKT! Iiihh'NGgxt!” He cuts himself off by pinching his nose between his fingers, tilting away from Jay to keep the younger man out of the crossfire.
Jay can't help the concern that comes soon after, reaching for Elliot's hand to pull it away.
“Dude stop, you're gonna burst a blood vessel like that.” He admonishes, earning an exasperated, stuffy huff from Elliot.
"Ndot happe'd yet.” He retorts, congestion leaking into his voice now. He turns away again.
“Hehh’inGCSHh- hiih… hiih’nnGTSchh!!” Jay watches Elliot snap forward again, face buried in his hands. Droplets fall from his still wet hair as he sneezes, then shudders, reminding Jay that his friend is not only still soaking wet, but it's not exactly the warmest both in the building and outside.
The barista can feel his co-worker's eyes boring into the back of his head, his impromptu break nearing much too long. However, the sound of a door in the back swinging open is music to his ears. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see his manager, Erin, leaving the restroom, walking towards the register.
With little hesitation, he quickly unties his apron and haphazardly tosses it on a hook.
“Taking lunch!” He yells back, stepping around and out from behind the counter.
He ignores his boss and Sylvia's slight surprise at his sudden break, beelining to Elliot.
“Alright, back to the car.” He announces to Elliot as the man scrubs at his nose with the edge of his jacket sleeve, pausing in confusion at Jay's hasty exit.
“Wait, hold on-” Jay is already pushing Elliot out of the store with one hand while snatching his bag and rummaging through it with the other, deaf to Elliot's confusion.
“You're gonna get pneumonia if you stay in those wet clothes, man. So, you're gonna go home and change and like, make herbal tea, or something. You've got some of that healthy shit in the cabinets, right?” He asks rhetorically, pushing Elliot out the doors.
There's a sudden whoosh behind Elliot, and he looks over to see Jay opening an umbrella, before holding it out to him.
“There. Just give it back to me when I get home, ‘kay?”
Surprised, Elliot stares at the offering for a couple seconds.
“Um… wond't you ndeed that when you get off work?” He asks, sniffling again.
Jay shakes his head, practically pushing the umbrella into Elliot's hands.
“I'll be fine, employee parking is right at the front so I'll only be walking for 5 seconds or so.”
Though he hesitates, the explanation must be satisfactory for Elliot, since he accepts the offered coverage.
“You're uh, you're not gonna get fired for leaving like that, right?”
Jay scoffs.
“What, like it'll be that hard to find another shitty minimum-wage customer service job? They're short-staffed anyway, plus I technically didn't break any rules. Just took my break without permission.” He says with a shrug, trying to ease Elliot's worries.
The taller man eventually sighs, rubbing a knuckle against the underside of his nose.
“Alright. Thanks.”
“Hey, it's no big deal. You would've done the same for me.” Jay offers with a small smirk, nudging his friend.
With a couple pats on Elliot's shoulder, Jay pushes him off.
“Now go home idiot! If you get sick from this, I'm hiding the cold medicine.” He yells out the empty threat, waving Elliot off, who turns, smiles, and heads back to his car.
As Jay turns around, he can hear another set of two, breathy sneezes from the parking lot. He laughs under his breath, his hand moving to his pocket, feeling the phone and earbuds resting inside.
