Nes

26 | transmasc and gay | he/they but the they is because we're a system | snz kink sideblog, follow back from ****track

[confessional-secrets]

When someone with a freckled face scrunches up their nose pre-sneeze and the freckles shift with the movement…

[sleepysoftsnz]

sneezing during sex is great, but what about someone who *can't* sneeze during sex because all of the sensations are too overstimulating, so they're just stuck hitching and feeling soooooo ticklish (at least until their partner slows down and helps them)

[starletstarry]

someone in the middle of an allergic fit.

lips parting, breath catching in uneven hitches. hand coming up quickly, pressing beneath the quivering nostrils as the eyelashes flutters against the tickling sensation.

the sneezes tumbles out and desperate to muffle them, shoulders jerks with the sudden release. harsh but stifled into cupped hands, leaving the nose pink and damp as they lower the hands with a rough sniffle.

'...still.... hhhhh, not done.' they express, staying half-bent for a moment, blinking rapidly, fishing out a fresh tissue from the pocket with a thick wet sniffle before another build up takes them over.

the second round hits them harder and they have to lean their shoulder against the wall, keeping the crumbled tissue close to their mouth as the sneezes keeps coming, harsh and now explosive.

[girlsn0t]

sunlight in the temple of aphrodite- h/ades + e/pic snz, a/pollo and a/phrodite

@stargazersnz and i have become deranged about a/pollo. please enjoy this absurdly flowery fic about a/phrodite, snzfucker and messfucker extraordinaire, looking after an ailing a/pollo. not actually this much snz in this one but don't worry, there Will Be More.

sunlight in the temple of aphrodite- aphrodite takes care of an ailing apollo and muses upon how undeniably beautiful he is while sick.

contains: mess, nonsexual nudity but definitely implied sexual thoughts from aphrodite, inducing someone while they sleep (consent established off-screen and pre-fic; further elaboration in tags).

Aphrodite’s palace upon Olympus is beautiful even by the standards of the heavens themselves. Of course, it could not be anything but beautiful, for Love herself resides within it. The palace is not too unlike her temples in Corinth and Kythira; the building is composed of carved white marble and gold, offset by seastone and burnished bronze. All manner of ever-blooming flora surround it, and birds of all varieties pay pilgrimage to her gardens. Doors and windows are covered only by sheets of sheer, gauzy fabric, further adorned by windchimes of seashells and uncut gemstones. 

The interior, of course, is full of that which Aphrodite treasures. Trinkets from her lovers, busts in her likeness, little perches for doves. Everything inside is bright, as if doused in perpetual sunlight, and it always smells of crocus and hyacinth. There is no place Aphrodite would rather resides with that which she adores.

Perhaps most adored of all, right now, is the fellow god resting upon her bosom. 

Her dearest songbird, Apollo, lies beside her with his head resting upon her chest and one muscular arm resting limp across her midsection. His knee just barely presses against the soft curve of her inner thigh. Sheets of fine silk and warm downy feathers has been strewn to either side of the bed, and its two occupants are entirely nude. The warm weather, along with Apollo’s fever, have made bedding unnecessary for now.

The poor thing has been resting for some time, albeit a bit fitfully. Artemis had practically dumped him at Aphrodite’s door, claiming she could no longer stand his whining and dramatics. And of course, Aphrodite had jumped on the opportunity to care for her ailing songbird. 

It had been no struggle at all to coax Apollo into bed for a much-needed nap, leaving Aphrodite free to admire his beauty. Golden afternoon light emphasizes the rich bronze tone of his skin. Well-trained muscles adorn his arms and back. Soft locks of hair the same color as sunlight spill over his shoulders and through Aphrodite’s fingers as she gently runs her fingernails over his scalp, again and again, soothing the poor thing whenever he shivers in his sleep. His entire body radiates sickly heat, and a deep flush colors his cheeks and nose. Oh, his poor, beautiful nose…

Aphrodite could admire Apollo’s nose all day. It is perfectly suited for his face, straight and elegant. A perfect balance of soft, androgynous beauty and sharp, knowing angles. Presently that lovely nose is red and raw at the nostrils, warmer than the rest of him where it presses, just barely, against Aphrodite’s clavicle. 

A dreadful cold has taken up residence inside that perfect nose. Apollo had been sniffling from the moment he arrived, and congestion altered the harmony of his voice when he spoke. He would frequently wipe at the appendage with a silk handkerchief. And, of course, he was sneezing. Quite frequently.

It is a melody that Aphrodite will simply never tire of hearing! Watching the swell of his defined chest and the sudden hazy, needy expression that would overtake his handsome face- it was a performance unmatched by anything the Muses or poets could create. Apollo’s sneezes always had the soft yet pronounced quality of a hymn, melodic and lovely and desperate in ways that made Aphrodite’s heart flutter. This is emphasized further by how shy the poor songbird is about being ill. It is unbecoming, he says, for a god of plagues to be brought low by his own element; for the sun to not shine as brightly, for notes to fall flat. 

Utter foolishness, Aphrodite thinks. There is nothing so beautiful and perfect as when Apollo gives in. 

“Nhhh…”

Aphrodite is torn from her musings by a soft, congested whimper from Apollo. He’s still asleep, but a crease has formed between his brows, and his nostrils flare and twitch. 

“Poor thing,” Aphrodite hums as she runs her fingers through his hair again, voice low and tender. “You must be so itchy.”

As if to agree, Apollo twists a bit in his sleep, instinctively rubbing the tip of his nose against Aphrodite’s bare collarbone. Sudden warmth races up and down her body, yet she remains perfectly still, save for the hand playing with Apollo’s sunny locks. 

“ihhh….hh!” A note of desperation accompanies the next whine. Apollo shifts again, and Aphrodite admires every new angle she witnesses. The faintest glimmer of wetness shines at the base of his nostrils, which crease and twitch once more. His lips, full and fever-warm, part just slightly as his breath hitches. 

Apollo’s whole face becomes a stage for unresolved nasal torment, and it is a beautiful performance.

Aphrodite knows she ought to leave Apollo be, but how can she, with such neediness and desperation literally laying atop her? The idea of letting this tickle crescendo naturally is indeed pleasant, but Aphrodite has never been one for patience. Apollo needs relief from that awful itch, and he certainly won’t find it without some help. 

She takes a piece of her own hair between her fingers and guides the end of it to Apollo’s beautiful, cold-ridden nose. Delicately, Aphrodite brushes her hair under Apollo’s nostrils. His nose immediately scrunches in response from even that faint brush, and Aphrodite has to hold back a fond chuckle. Apollo is typically the very picture of poise and elegance, and there is something quite wonderful about watching him come undone like this.

Aphrodite can see a drowsy trickle of snot beginning to leak from one reddened nostril. Her poor songbird must be so terribly congested and itchy…all the better to sneeze all that mess out, then. 

Again Aphrodite sweeps her hair beneath Apollo’s nostrils, this time with more speed and pressure. The god’s breath hitches, brow creasing and expression becoming hazy. The tickle is undoubtedly mounting even as he slumbers, but it will take more than just a tickle to draw it out completely. With traces of his snot making the ends of her hair clumped and stiff, Aphrodite gently traces the outline of one flaring nostril before slipping the strand in.

The reaction is instantaneous. Gorgeous, melodic hitches pour from Apollo with increased intensity as Aphrodite tickles the sensitive, inflamed lining of his nose. 

Normally he isn’t so easy to induce while ill, but his body is desperate to expel this irritant. Apollo’s shoulders quiver and his expression becomes almost pleading as Aphrodite tickles his nose. She swirls the strand of hair about until one particular pass makes his whines pitch upwards, and she focuses her attention there until Apollo finally erupts with a set of sneezes.

“Ihh’HHTSHhh’uue!” That perfect nose finally achieves relief. Startled into wakefulness, Apollo’s entire body moves with the sneeze, pressing against Aphrodite, head bowing forward gracefully. A generous amount of mess splatters across her breasts, and a heavy, gleaming cord of snot connects his nose with the strand of hair she had used to induce him. “-hhhah! Ahh-hhAH— HHIH-!”Another symphonic swell of hitching. Now conscious and fully surrendered to the sensation, Apollo’s head tips back a bit as he builds up, giving her a front-seat ticket to the performance. His gorgeous face crumples once more, every muscle and bit of breath giving into this undeniable urge. “IHHH’TSHH’hiew! hhh-hh’HIH’PSH’hue!”

More snot sprays across Aphrodite’s bare skin. Apollo coughs a bit, dazed and breathless in the aftermath of that dazzling display. Aphrodite herself feels a bit lightheaded, heart dancing in her chest and warmth stirring within her.

“Bless you, little songbird. My, what a lovely gift to wake up to, those gorgeous sneezes of yours,” Aphrodite praises, voice flush with genuine affection. She brings a single delicate finger to Apollo’s nose and wipes it beneath his leaking nostrils.

“Nhh…lovely for you, perhaps,” Apollo rasps, melodic voice thick with congestion. He winces a bit at the mess he’s made over Aphrodite, and moves to sit up- but she keeps an arm around his shoulders to dissuade him. 

“Here, let me…”

Aphrodite plucks a silk handkerchief from thin air and tenderly begins cleaning Apollo, starting with his sculpted chin and moving up over his lips until she finally starts wiping mess from his nose. He flushes red as if embarrassed, but they both know he secretly adores the attention and doting care. “How are you feeling, love?”

“Uh…uhh’TSHh’iew!” Apollo sneezes again in response, muffled into the folds of the handkerchief. He sniffles thickly on instinct, but it accomplishes nothing. “Unwell.”

Apollo must be feeling truly awful, if he’s settling on such low-syllable, non-evocative adjectives. Aphrodite coos in sympathy and folds the handkerchief over. “Poor thing…blow for me.”

There’s a beat of hesitation, but Apollo complies, blowing as gently as he can. It still creates a snotty gurgle that makes Aphrodite shiver, and she hums in appreciation as she wipes his nose in the aftermath of it. “Good, so good for me…” Apollo shivers in her arms, and Aphrodite knows it has nothing to do with his fever. “My dear, how does a hot bath sound? It will ease your congestion and soothe your muscles.”

Apollo looks up at Aphrodite, pupils dilated and cheeks flushed darkly. Despite his ailment, a small smile begins forming on his face. “A bath sounds lovely.” 

No further discussion is had before Aphrodite leads him to her bathing chambers- and though she forgets a robe, she is sure to grab a fresh handkerchief on the way. 

[buckysnose]

HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHAT 👁️👄👁️

You’re saying astronauts sneeze MORE in space??? HUNDREDS of times?? And it’s more MESSY?!1!

[snuizel]

guys hear me out. testosterone that makes you sneezy. testosterone that gives you allergies. tboy who never sneezes transitions and starts sneezing like 5+ times a day.

[dopaminty]

Anyway you folks do you know what's hot? Hitches that catch. All sorts of marvellous hd-! and hhit...! and h'gh!! sounds. Like yes gasping and panting is choice already but just that extra extra audibly desperate edge telling you that someone is really really ready to explode.

[whimsyysnz]

hey let’s talk about a soft “oh, bless you baby”

[xghostlightx]

I will always love, in snzfic or just media generally, the moment in dating where a character sees their partner sick for the first time. And there's that moment of 'oh, seeing you like this crystalizes something for me about the way I feel about you — I love you even wretched and pitiful like this. I love you MORE having now seen you wretched and pitiful like this'.

[thebeessnz]

okay kinda gross mess thought:

an allergy sneezing fit where the mess starts off super runny and watery, like it’s mostly just from their itchy, teary eyes. and as they sneeze. and keep sneezing. the mess gets thicker, their nose working so hard to remove the irritation.

[silklined]

So the Guardian runs a blind date column in which two strangers go on a date and then answer a series of questions about it/each other. And this week's contains...

[xghostlightx]

I will always love, in snzfic or just media generally, the moment in dating where a character sees their partner sick for the first time. And there's that moment of 'oh, seeing you like this crystalizes something for me about the way I feel about you — I love you even wretched and pitiful like this. I love you MORE having now seen you wretched and pitiful like this'.

[sniffly-soap]

C/lark K/ent snz fic (with some S/uperbat caretaking <3)

Y'all see @peachsnz's Clark snz drawing?? Yeah, this is definitely born from that xx. There are going to be at least 2 parts to this, the second part is almost complete.

MINORS DNI. Contains: m snz, cold/flu, mess (no fr, this is def for you messfkers out there)

3.5k | part one/two(?)

Bruce taps the side of his phone absentmindedly at the end of his Watchtower shift. He had sent a quick message at the beginning of his shift, and Lois was just getting back to him now. 

BW: Did Clark seem…? LL: Like he's been fighting the headcold from hell for the past few days? LL: Pls tell me you have a way to force bedrest. Or at least stop him from spraying his germs all over the bullpen.  LL: Can he even be contagious?  BW: Working on it.  LL: You're welcome. And thanks xo

Apparently, the blue boy scout was sneezing through his Daily Planet shifts too. Bruce had showed up for his watchtower shift ten minutes early, as always, and headed to the main monitoring room to switch off with Kal-El. What he had found wasn't completely the Kal that he knew. Superman, normally picture-perfect and coiffed, had been a sniffly mess. Bruce had watched him try and fail to cover a spraying sneeze, the particles settling on top of the monitor board. He had been able to cover his kneejerk reaction of disgust, instead rifling through his memory bank for a previous example of Kal sneezing. Finding none, he had tilted his head slightly, asking, “Everything alright?” 

Kal had answered with the affirmative, and since Bruce trusted him, he had let it be. Mostly. After he sent a text to Lois and collected a swab of the moisture left behind on the monitors to run via flow cytometry later. 

_______________________________

Bruce had three hours between his Watchtower shift ending and Clark getting off from the Daily Planet. He spent most of it running Clark's fluids through a multitude of tests and getting too many positive results to confidently say which ones might be causing his ailments. No kryptonite readings at all, either. On a good day, Superman had an overwhelming and unique microbiome. He couldn't see many differences between Kal's baseline and these readings, except for a slightly elevated viral load. Was that enough to cause his current symptoms? And why was Clark acting like he was unaffected? It was a mystery, which was luckily Bruce's specialty.

Although he and Clark had an agreement that Bruce would let Clark know if he was breaking into his civilian apartment, Bruce figured this counted as extenuating circumstances. Since Clark had seen fit to lie to him, he didn't feel very bad about a little B&E. 

The apartment itself was telling. It was usually cluttered due to its small size, but it was in more disarray than usual. Although it was early fall, and Clark was unaffected by cold weather, there were many blankets piled on the threadbare couch. Bruce catalogued tissue boxes that usually weren't present on the small kitchen counter, the couch, and the TV stand, and Clark’s small kitchen trash can was set up beside the couch as well, filled a quarter of the way with balled-up tissues. Bruce sat delicately on the uncomfortable sitting chair that he had already tried and failed to get Clark to replace, crossing his legs by settling his ankle on his thigh just in time for the lock on the door to rattle. The door opened, and Clark appeared a few moments later, closing and locking the door behind him. He turned around and froze, wide eyes locking with Bruce's. 

The surprise took only a moment to clear from his face, replaced with a tired resignation. “Lois?” He asked, shoulders slumping in that stupid oversized suit jacket of his. 

“What's wrong with you?” Bruce always found getting right to the point was best. Clark wrinkled his nose in annoyance. 

“Would it kill you to be ndice?” Clark rubbed at his face before dropping his messenger bag at the door, making his way into the living room and flopping down on the couch. He leaned his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose over the top of his glasses as he breathed through his cracked, parted lips. Bruce hardly saw him so miserable, especially outside of kryptonite poisoning. 

“You look…concerning.” Understatement. Clark looked properly ill, cheeks slightly flushed in what Bruce figured was a fever, his nose red and raw down to the lip, his eyes rimmed pink and watery. Bruce could hear the catch in Clark’s chest when he sighed, the congestion that probably felt like cement in his sinuses (if the way he was massaging them was any indication) bogging down his words, the exhaustion in his words that were punctuated by light sniffles. Even his outfit had suffered the effects of his illness, damp spots sticking out on his gray suit top sleeves from where he presumably wiped his streaming nose into them. “How are you sick?”

Clark huffed out a laugh, one that turned into a hacking cough that he hurriedly muffled into the already damp cuff of his sleeve. “It happends, Bruce. Ndot oftend, but I’ve had a few colds and flus.” He sniffled, wiping the corners of his mouth with the wrist of his sleeve. He looked so delicate, which was a strange state for someone who was probably the strongest person on Earth. “Usually whend I’m already runnding mbyself ragged.” He sighed, pressing his fingers to his face where it looked like the congestion was bothering him the most. “I overdid it with that tsunami and the League mission. And a lot of people at the Planet have beend calling out, some sort of flu I think. I’m just the mbost recent victimb.” 

“This information is not in your file,” Bruce said. Discomfort prickled at his skin. Superman being affected by the common cold or Type A and B flu was the sort of thing that should be included in the files that he kept on everyone. What if Clark had fallen ill on an away mission and was unable to tell them what was wrong? Or no one could get ahold of him? A few dozen worst-case scenarios ran through Bruce’s head, but he bit them back. Clark was probably well aware of what points Bruce would bring up. 

“It’s the flu, B,” Clark looked amused. “And I hardly ever ge-heh…hah!” Bruce leaned over and plucked a few tissues from the box on the couch, holding them out to Clark, who was fanning his face with one hand and reaching towards the box with the other. He hurriedly grabbed the proffered tissues and held them firmly over his nose and mouth. “...Hihh!! Heh’KSHht! Heh’ESHH’uh! –TSCHieew! Ngh. ‘Scuse mbe.” 

If anyone had asked Bruce what he thought Superman’s sneeze would sound like, he would guess some sort of loud, abrasive, and succinct, “Ah-choo!” noise. But Clark was a hitching, damp mess, panting into the tissues and seeming almost embarrassed as his voice pitched up oddly in response to his tickling nose. His sneezes wrenched him forward but didn’t incapacitate him, though his glasses were knocked askew and the tissues squelched as he pinched off the mess he had produced. Bruce watched in silence as Clark threw the bundle of tissues away only to immediately grab two more, blowing his nose unproductively before giving a stuffed up sniff and tossing those as well after a final sniffle and a crisp swipe under his nose. He hadn’t managed to catch everything, though, or maybe the nature of his congestion meant that sniffing wasn’t effective, because a small gleam of moisture clung to his reddened nostrils. Clark sighed, exhaustion tinging the noise. “I’m assuming ndo one’s letting mbe go into work tomorrow?” 

“Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve been going at all this week,” Bruce quipped. “It’s highly irresponsible to be around other people when you’re as ill as you are.” 

“I’ve beend masking up,” Clark protested. “And I had a big deadline.” He blinked. “Crap. I took mby mask off when I got into the building.”

Bruce shrugged, standing up. “Don’t worry about it. Do you have a fever?” 

Clark shrugged. “Probably. I feel kinda achy. What…what are you doing?” 

“Taking your temperature. I assume you don’t have a thermometer.” Bruce stood over Clark on the couch, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. Years of fatherhood gave Bruce a pretty good idea of what fevers felt like. “Elevated, but not too far from your normal range. Are you tired?” 

“Exhausted,” Clark exhaled. “Wait, you shouldn’t get too close. You’ll catch this.” 

Bruce ignored him, moving into the kitchen. “Get changed and make yourself comfortable.” 

Clark grumbled under his breath but did as he was told, shuffling into the bedroom to presumably change into something more appropriate for a sick day. Bruce could hear his dry, painful-sounding coughs punctuating his actions, though he was focused on cataloguing Clark’s food supply and medicine cabinet. Predictably, there was nothing stronger than over the counter painkillers, probably for guests, but Clark had a fair amount of ingredients in his fridge and pantry. Bruce wasn’t much of a cook, but Clark could hold his own, even while not feeling his best. Bruce had been witness to many of Clark’s culinary adventures, the man able to balance cooking, holding a conversation, and editing Lois’ article without skipping a beat. Sneezing and cooking at the same time would be a cakewalk comparatively. 

Although he was lacking in medicine, Clark did have some cold packs in the freezer, and Bruce got one out, wrapping it in a towel before taking it back to the living room alongside a glass of water. That was about the time Clark shuffled back in from the bedroom, clad only in a t-shirt, a pair of boxer briefs, and thick socks. He had ditched his glasses, which made his eyes look smaller and more watery. He immediately beelined for the couch again, grabbing one blanket to pull over his lap and another to wear over his shoulders. If Bruce hadn't felt his forehead, he'd be sure of that fever now. Clark had obviously chosen his outfit so that he could alternate between feeling hot and cold at a rapid pace. At the moment, he shivered slightly, tightening the hold of the blanket a little. With his reddened nose and eyes, he looked the sick man that he was. 

“Here,” Bruce held out the glass of water, watching Clark drink half of it before setting it back on the side table. He handed him the towel-wrapped cold pack. “Put that on the back of your neck.” Clark did as he was told with a sniffle, eyes fluttering shut in relief as the cold pack soothed his the heat that seemed to be plaguing him. He leaned his head back again on the back of the couch, giving Bruce a clear look into his nose, which was so swollen and red that he was positive Clark had been sick for at least a few days prior and was doomed to many more days of his illness ahead.

“Four days?” Bruce guessed. 

“Hm?” Clark didn’t open his eyes. Bruce looked at him fondly. 

“How long you’ve been feeling sick. Four days?” 

Clark hummed again, this time slightly contemplative. “My throat started hurting Friday.” 

Today was Wednesday. “Five days, then.” Clark hummed once more, sounding slightly miserable about it this time. “That’s one hell of a flu.” 

“The other symptoms didn’t start for a few days.” Clark coughed slightly. “Can we stop talking about it for a sec? It’s making me feel itchy.” His nostrils flared as if in warning, and Bruce knew he would acquiesce to almost anything Clark asked of him when he was looking so pathetic. “Tell me how the family center’s renovations went?” 

Bruce wasn’t pleased with the deflection, but he understood it. Clark wasn’t used to being cared for, he was usually the one doing the caring. He couldn’t count the times that Clark had helped a friend, a family member, or Bruce himself through an injury or illness, and he knew all too well the feeling of weakness that came with asking for help. So he sat back down and started regaling Clark with stories from the renovations. The surprisingly high volunteer turnout, the surprisingly beautiful weather in an otherwise rainy autumn, the general cheerfulness and the stupid speech he had to bumble his way through at the beginning. 

Although Clark didn't move from his lounged position, Bruce could tell he’s listening actively to his words. He puffed out a breath of amused laughter when Bruce mentioned Dick parading in with his friends, all of them playing at being airheaded socialites with minimal gardening skills while also installing an irrigation system in the newly-built front garden beds. When Bruce talked about the innovative updates to the building, he made appreciative cooing noises. And when Bruce shared his annoyance about the shareholders who decided to naysay directly to his face, Clark scoffed hard enough for snot to shoot from his nose, and he quickly straightened up, the back of his hand lifting to cover as the shifting congestion causes his eyes to crinkle, lids heavy as a wrinkle appeared between his brow and his expression turned hazy behind his hand. 

“HEUH’kkSSCHeugh! Gah, ha-h’kchiew! HII’idgsheuh. Ugh.” Clark ended the fit with a miserable gasp, snorting inelegantly into his hand. “Godda be gross for a sec, B,” he said, horribly congested, hand still pressed to his nose. He put the cold pack in his other hand down and used it to pull two tissues from the box on the couch. He probably gave the warning so that Bruce would look away, but instead he watched as Clark pulled his hand away, sniffling in large, soupy sounds but unable to snort back a rope of watery snot that connected his hand to his upper lip. Clark grimaced, looking like he was trying to decide whether to wipe up his nose or hand first, but his hand won, Clark mopping that with the tissues before following the rope of mess to his running nose and blowing, a thick, gurgling sound coming from the action. He balled the tissues up and repeated it, the same germ-laden, snotty noise filling the room. He pulled the tissue away with a thick sniffle, thumbing at his sore-looking nose. 

Bruce looked away before Clark caught him staring, and once he felt his lover’s eyes on him he turned back, smiling in genuine sympathy. “You sound miserable, Clark,” he said. “In what world made you think you should go to work like that?” 

Pink embarrassment dusted Clark’s cheeks, and he pulled the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter to himself. “Like I said, there was a big deadline. But I finished it this morning.” 

“And you still finished out your work day? You’re always on my case about being a workaholic, but you’re just as bad.” 

Clark sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Bruce gave him a sympathetic look, then walked over from the chair to sit on the couch, pulling Clark in for a one-armed hug. “Don’t be sorry. But look out for yourself, sometimes? It’s okay to take the time to be well.”

He could feel Clark’s nod. Once he felt that Clark suitably understood his point, he pulled away and pressed a kiss to Clark’s forehead. “Put the cold pack back on your neck. I’m going to make you something to eat.” He had made the executive decision that Clark was too ill to have to do anything, especially make dinner, and although Alfred liked to pretend otherwise, Bruce could follow a simple recipe. 

“Don’t you have patrol soon?” Clark asked, squinting up at him like he was trying to remember if he was correct. 

“There’s still a few hours,” Bruce responded. “I’ll get you set up, then into bed, and by the time you wake up I’ll be back from patrol.” 

Clark blinked. “Oh. You’re…staying?” He looked genuinely touched, like his long-term partner deciding to stay in his apartment with him when he was sick from a near-debilitating cold was a gift instead of an expectation. Damn, Bruce loved him. 

“Of course. I’m sorry I have to leave for patrol,” he turned away to wander into the kitchen, pulling out the raw ingredients that Clark had for a simple curry. Potatoes,onions, peas, chickpeas, carrots, chicken, spinach, and apples, all of it with plenty of ginger and garlic. He would make a curry so healthy that Clark would immediately be healed upon eating it. 

Another liquidy sniffle and a loud, “HIh-GGKSSHUU’HA!” followed by another sopping nose blow. Okay, so maybe Bruce was being a bit optimistic. Nevertheless, he was determined to get some nutrients into Clark. 

Clark was mostly quiet in his misery, sounds of sickness but no words coming from him as Bruce chopped the vegetables as quickly as possible. So when Clark stood, he paused, giving his partner his full attention. “Clark? Need something?”

Clark blinked, thumbing at the moisture at his nose. “Bathroom,” he said with a sniffle, then shuffled off. Bruce listened carefully for the door to close, and then followed the noises of Clark relieving himself and washing his hands. He knew that this was Superman, and Superman could handle a bathroom trip, but Clark was so vulnerable looking and miserable that Bruce couldn’t help but worry. He got this way around his kids when they were sick or hurt, too. It irked the hell out of them, he knew, but he couldn’t stop the paranoia that crept into him when his loved ones weren’t feeling their best. 

He was just finishing leaving everything to simmer on the stovetop when he heard the bathroom door open again, though it sounded like Clark was making a pit stop for something in his bedroom.

Then Bruce heard a muffled thump, just a bit louder than it should have been, and he quickly moved from the kitchen towards the bedroom, concern spiking. Did Clark fall? Did he trip over something? Trip into something? He rounded the kitchen in time to see Clark leaning heavily against the wall in the small hallway that led to his bathroom and bedroom, face hovering above his forearm before he lazily brought it towards his nose. “hehh… h'uhhH'EHSSCh'uh! Heh'ESHHuh! Eh’ISHh! Esh'SHiuhh!”

Clark braced himself on the wall, head bobbing up and down with each sneeze. He tried to sniffle between them, but it seemed that his nose was adamant about being cleared, because an itchy look overcame his expression and his glistening nostrils flared again as he aimed the next flurry of sneezes towards his arm again. “-IIhp’sshHHEhww! HiihhhhiH-HiisccHHihwww!!” He tried to dab at the mess, but it was futile, a strand of it connecting his nose to his bare arm. It broke in half, dripping down his face, and it must have been ticklish enough to bother him again because Clark only had time to brace his hand against the wall as he bent in half with a, “IhZZSCHHihhwww!!” that had his huge chest heaving towards the ceiling at its start and snapped him in half by the end, his running nose shooting towards the floor. Bruce was frozen in disgusted fascination at the thick ropes of mucus that stuck to themselves as they were expelled weakly from Clark’s nose, clinging to his septum and unable to be sniffed up, despite the marshy sniffles Clark was attempting between ragged, exhausted breaths. In the sunset of the early evening that filtered through Clark's limited windows, he could see glittering spray in various sizes rain down upon his poor sick partner.

Bruce went from voyeur to witness when Clark looked up, embarrassment written in his expression at the performance being seen by someone else. “Oh mby god,” he mumbled, quickly bringing the corner of his blanket to his nose. “Sorry. Sorry, that was gross.” He snuffled without any progress, and that finally kicked Bruce into action. He turned around and grabbed the tissue box from the TV stand, handing four to Clark. He looked away politely while the other man cleaned himself up, miserable breaths and squelches the only thing letting him know that Clark was still working at it. Bruce pulled a couple more tissues out and offered them again, and Clark took them with a grateful thanks.

Once the noises had subsided, Bruce turned to see Clark still leaning against the wall, red-faced. His chest warmed at the sight. 

“Let’s get you back onto the couch. Want me to take those?” Bruce held a hand out for the used tissues, but Clark’s grip went white-knuckled on the mass of soggy paper. 

“I’ve got it,” he said, and gratefully accepted Bruce’s arm as they shuffled back to the couch. “Sorry,” he said again. “Ugh, I’ll ndever be able to forget that. Absolutely humbiliating.” Bruce rubbed his back comfortingly. He wanted to comfort Clark, but he knew his words probably wouldn't convince the man of anything. The best he could do was hand him tissues and be here to get him through the worst of it without judgement. Then he realized that there was an etiquette faux pas he had been making, something he hadn’t said yet today.

“By the way, bless you, dear.” 

[lblmr32]

"I'm gonna sneeze" is good.

"I'b godda sdeeze" is great.

"I'b godda sdeeze sobe bore" is sublime.

[tickleshy]

Okay- the truth is.. I h-hih-hhaave, uhh- psy-psy- T'SCHhhu! Psychosomahh... hih... Psychosomatic S-sneezes... sihhehh... hd-hh... HEpt'pFfshh! HEP'Yscxhh! HEH-Shyuihh!

It- it means, hehhh... it means that the m-m-more I think about... sndeh... sneh- sneezing-! ATch-ooo! Hah- Hatchzzchh! Hadj'chh! Hept-! Ohh, excyuuhh..se me... HAAHPPsstchh! The more I- !! Heehhd?? Heh-hehh- Hyeehhhh.... Snf! Hsf! HDST! HEEHDT-! HYEAATTSCHHH!! St'tddshHoo!

Hyhh... Ihh... I can't stohh- Uh-huh... Uh! Apt! APTISHHOOO! Hhih can'dt stop- Ih'm- Gonna- !! HHZZtcchhsshoo!!

[nsforsnz]

pollen (and dust) gathered on my shoes from the 3 day festival I went to with grass pollen being "very high"

my eyes, throat and nose are still so so full of it

I couldn't manage to sneeze almost anything out because of the mental block I've discovered I have directly being around people, inducing recording under the cut (includes a noseblow at the end)

[achhiu]

good morning, i’m making myself dizzy first thing in the morning thinking about waking up next to a partner whose hayfever is active from the moment they wake up

waking up slowly to the sound of them muffling sneezes into the blankets. they’ve rolled away from you, stifling as quietly as possible and trying not to move too much so as not to wake you with their persistent fit even though you’ve assured them that this is your favorite thing to wake up to.

once you’re up, you reach for them to pull them closer, and as soon as they know you’re awake, they turn towards you, sniffling and whining, relieved that they don’t have to hold back these tickly sneezes anymore. they bury their twitching nose into your neck, clinging to you, asking if it’s okay if they sneeze on you, to which you say “of course, love.”

cuddled up all soft in bed with your red-nosed, sneezy partner hitching against your skin, shuddering in the safety of your arms as you stroke a soothing hand down their back. the first dozen words you whisper into their hair every morning is a series of adoring “bless you”s.