Definitely Not A Weird Kink Page

Rio | 22 They/Them-ish ~Minors DNI~ Sneeze/Caretaking kink I’m aware that my kink is weird, I don’t need you to kink shame for me, I can do it myself ~🦎

[softblesses]

H.ucklerobby’s (not so) Perfect Picnic.

Fandom: t/he P/itt.

Part: 1/?

Word count: 1.9k.

Another collab with the amazing @silentsneezes <3 we are bringing you established h/ucklerobby & a side of h/ucklerabbot for this fic!! I hope you enjoy :D!!

It could be a learned trait from his childhood, maybe: to give and give and give until he can’t. Or maybe it’s his desire to prove that he can do more than just accept the constant favors people are paying him, ones he can’t return as easily. He may not be able to pay Trinity rent or support Robby the same way the older man supports him, but he can sure as hell plan a picnic; he can give Robby extra kisses in the morning, learn how to make his coffee just right, and offer small comforts on the days where everything starts to feel a bit too much.

It’s a flawed logic and he knows it, but he’s willing to do whatever it takes to make his newfound happiness last. Today that includes packing all the appetizers that Trinity had given the highest ratings in a cooler alongside a few types of cheese and a bottle of wine from Robby’s pantry. Each item fits neatly in the container, but Dennis arranges and re-arranges them a few times nonetheless. His only stills when Robby comes up behind him, broad hands finding their places as his hips as he presses against Dennis’s back.

Dennis leans back into the touch eagerly, smiling as Robby’s beard brushes against his ear. He feels a little kiss land on his neck. “You ready?” Robby asks, watching as Dennis fits the last few items neatly into place.

“Mhm. We just need to carry everything out to the car.” Dennis turns so he’s facing his boyfriend, grinning up at him with a giddy excitement. It’s going to be a perfect day, he’ll make sure of it.

He pushes himself up onto his tippy toes so he can give Robby a kiss, but the older man turns to the side just as he does, dodging him slightly so the kiss lands on his cheek instead. Dennis’s lips tug into a slight frown, pouting up at Robby as he feels a little pang in his chest from his aversion to the affection.

“Sorry. I’ve still got coffee breath,” Robby excuses lamely. He squeezes Dennis’s hips gently. “Give me two minutes.”

With that, Robby leaves for the bathroom, and Dennis tries to ignore the slight doubt at his boyfriend’s excuse. He’s been dating Robby long enough to know his routine, his habits, and he knows for certain that Robby’s already finished his coffee and brushed his teeth over half an hour ago. ‘Stop it,’ Dennis thinks. There’s no need for more of his fanatic overthinking… right?”

•

Somehow the next half hour follows according to Dennis’s plan; they drive to the park, find a lovely half-shaded spot to set up, and get settled in a relatively private area. The sun is shining, and there are a few clouds blowing in… but, that should be fine.

“I hope I didn’t bring too much food,” Dennis murmurs more to himself than to his partner, as they begin to get everything out of the picnic basket.

Robby smiles, reaching his hand across to momentarily stop his overly-anxious boyfriend from unpacking for just a moment. “Relax,” he eases gently, “this is all amazing, no matter how much you did or didn’t pack. I promise you, you’ve got this.”

He’s already blushing — the way Robby can make his partner turn wonderful shades of pink and maroon always amuses him greatly — and Dennis clears his throat, before becoming momentarily distracted by an incoming tickle. The pollen is nowhere near as awful to him as it is in Spring, but where there’s nature, there’s usually a reason to sneeze, in his world.

‘hh-eh-isShZziew! ‘ksHh! ‘kshiew!’ Dennis sneezes thrice into his bare elbow, sniffling afterwards and frowning in the vague direction of a nearby tree. “Sorry, ‘scuse me.” He murmurs, a little sheepish, “I was trying to say thank you.”

Robby just grins. “Bless you, bless you… buh-less you.” He starts helping Dennis unpack the last of the food, before eagerly reaching for a sandwich.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, stabbing a paper straw into the little juice box he’s picked out first.

The first thirty minutes of the date go pretty perfectly, if Dennis could say so himself. They chat about idle things, a little bit about work, and about their plans for their next day off. They enjoy the food that he’s packed, and Robby makes sure to compliment almost every bite of something new. In fact, things are going so well, the at neither of them notice the clouds above start to turn to grey… until the dark shadows become too much, and their pretty picnic is now shrouded in gloomy darkness from above.

“Oh, fuck, it looks like it’s gonna—“ as if the comedic Gods are sneering down at him, the heavens quite literally open at that exact moment before Whitaker can even finish his sentence, and it begins to pour. “—rain!” He squeaks, fumbling to try and pack away the food as quickly as possible.

Robby is quick to step in and help, and although they’re both almost soaked through by the time everything is packed up his help was most definitely needed. He rushes to the trunk of his car parked just a metre away, shoving the basket and a few loose items inside, and grabbing the picnic blanket from his boyfriend who’s now very grateful for the temporary shelter of the trunk roof.

“You okay?” Robby asks, slightly breathless, and silently wishing fuck, I wish I could kiss him right now out here in the rain. But… but…

He’s quick to turn away, and duck into his elbow, ‘HHUH’YYSHOO! ‘YSHH-UH!’ Well, maybe the cat’s out of the bag already. He most definitely has a cold, and being out in the rain clearly hasn’t helped. Fuck.

“Woah-“ Dennis blinks, stumbling in surprise. “Bless you. Are you okay?” He’s not sure if he’s ever heard Robby sneeze twice in succession like that.

“Sorry,” Robby sniffles thickly, congestion having appeared out of nowhere all of a sudden. “I, uh—“ he’s interrupted by a clap of thunder, that also makes Dennis yelp in surprise. “Let's get in the car!” Robby raises his voice over the sound of the rain, deciding it best to spend as little more time outside as possible while the Summer storm persists.

•

“I’m sorry you caught a cold,” Dennis pouts, returning to his boyfriend’s side after having changed into some warm and dry clothing.

“I should’ve mentioned it earlier,” Robby clears his throat, reaching for one of the strawberries on the picnic mat they’d set up in the living room. “I just didn’t want to ruin the afternoon you’d planned for us.”

Dennis smiles slightly, shuffling closer to his boyfriend. “The weather did a good job of that instead,” he groans, remembering not that long ago when the pair were torrential rained upon, “maybe it was a sign.”

“You could go back to Santos’? Just for a few days while I get over this cold — I don’t think it’ll stick around long.” Robby muses, planning to neck as much vitamin C as possible over the next twenty four hours.

But, Dennis is quick to shake his head, “I never get to take care of you, and besides, we spent the night together in very close proximity. Might be too late for me, but a valiant sacrifice it was indeed.” He grins, and Robby laughs, a ticklish cough catching on the end of it.

“Well, I didn’t feel sick then. You might still be safe.”

“I’ll be careful — wash my hands, not kiss you on the lips. Sorry.” He shrugs, feigning innocence at the last remark. “I could go make us tea? I know it’s not the picnic in the sun that we planned, but I also didn’t have a spontaneous Summer storm on the itinerary. You get what you’re given, I guess.” He shrugs, glancing at the rainy skies outside of the window.

“I’ll make us tea,” Robby insists, “you’ve planned a great day, don’t put yourself down about some rain. The weather can be as unpredictable as one of our shifts.” He stands before his boyfriend can protest, and Dennis startles as he hears a rather loud — ‘hhH’AH’YYYSHHH’EW!’ From the kitchen. Robby’s congestion is clearly settling in, along with the telltale tickle that he gets at the start of a cold.

“Bless you!” Dennis calls out, earning a stuffy, ‘thank you! Sorry!’ right back.

As if the universe was trying to create a romantic comedy starring the both of them, Dennis succumbs to a sudden tickle (most likely caused by the residue raindrops in his hair that are intermittently falling) and ducks into the sleeve of Robbie’s hoodie he’d shrugged on earlier once dry. ‘Hh’iShhH-! ‘tChH! ‘isSzzZshHiEw!’ The last one comes out high pitched, and he hears Robby’s low-pitched giggle in the room.

Dennis re-surfaces, sniffly and tearful for a moment.

“Bless you,” Robby hums, placing two cups of honey tea down onto the picnic mat and taking a seat again. “You okay? Not trying to set a record time for catching a cold, I hope?”

“I’m fine.” Dennis responds immediately. He rolls his eyes when Robby looks at him doubtfully. “Really, just adjusting to being inside I think.”

Despite his reassurance that he’s okay, he berates his nose with the cuff of his hoodie, leaving it irritated and tinged with pink. It’s a sight that Robby has grown more than used to, but still can’t help but be endeared by. These small, domestic moments that warm his chest.

“Feeling chilly?” Robby offers, before the realisation, “I guess I can’t really cuddle you.”

“You can. Well — I’ll cuddle you. You’re always taking care of me, let me return the favour?” Dennis pouts for extra effect, but smiles when his boyfriend laughs. “Please? I’ll still be careful, like I said.”

“Let’s get up on the couch,” Robby gives in, knowing Dennis just wants to make him feel better. They both get settled, leaving the picnic items on the floor for now, and Dennis wraps his arms around Robby’s middle; resting his head upon his chest with a contented little sigh.

The TV is switched on, and he flicks through various channels before settling on some nature show. Outside, the rain is still gently pattering against the windows, but the sun has come back out and there’s likely a rainbow shining somewhere. Robby’s comfortable, happy, and runs his fingers gently through Dennis’ curls.

“‘M sleepy,” Dennis hums. “Do you need anything? In case I fall asleep?”

“Just you,” Robby murmurs, close to his boyfriend’s ear, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck and causing him to giggle softly. “You sure you don’t wanna go lie down? If I sneeze, I’m waking you up immediately.”

“It’s okay.” He reassures. “Not your fault.”

“Still,” Robby hums low. “Are you sure?”

“Mhm. I’ll just go back to sleep afterwards, so, like, bless you in advance?” Dennis yawns, clearly very close to slumber.

[softblesses]

Part 2/?

Word count: 4.1k (we cooked a little too hard, maybe?)

When Jack eventually arrives just under an hour after Dennis had called him, he walks in to Robby dozing on the couch; the coffee table having become a portable pharmacy, and a very fluffy blanket covering his boyfriend. His stuffy snores are evident to the Summer cold he’s nursing, and Jack smiles to himself, glancing around for any sign of Dennis. He doesn’t seem to be in the immediate vicinity, so the man quietly makes his way into the kitchen, searching the cupboards for soup ingredients.

Meanwhile, Dennis (who didn’t hear Jack come in in the slightest), is busy tidying his and Robby’s bedroom while his boyfriend sleeps. He’s also ignoring the telltale ache in the back of his throat, and the fact that his nose is starting to get just a little bit itchier than normal, as well as the occasional need to sniffle more than he usually does. It’s probably just the pollen from outside, that’s all, and it’ll dissipate soon. He glances outside at the late afternoon sun, immediately regretting it as the sunbeam hits his eyeline and he dives into his elbow.

‘hhh’iTShhiew! ‘tShh! ‘yyYiew!’ Dennis frowns, sniffling and rubbing his nose with the cuff of Robby’s hoodie he’s still wearing. Oops. It’s fine, he’ll wash it later.

With a quiet huff of frustration, he wanders back into the living room to check on Robby, at the exact same time that Jack decided to do the same. And, having not known he was here this whole time, Dennis yelps in fright — clasping his hands over his mouth to try and diminish the sound once he realises what he’s doing.

“Shit, I’m sorry—“ Jack whisper-yells, not entirely sure what to do.

“No, no, no, it’s fine!” Dennis squeaks, the pair glancing at the couch as they hear Robby start to stir slightly.

Both of them are interrupted momentarily, as Robby sneezes… twice. ‘HHH’uH—YYYSSHHHEEH! HH’YYRSHIEW!’ Directly into the blanket covering him… yeah, they’ll be washing that later.

Dennis jumps, and even Jack flinches, their attention now solely focused on their sick boyfriend fumbling to reach for the tissue box on the coffee table. “Bless you—“ both of them say in unison, and Dennis is quick to step back when he realises Jack is also going over to check on the man. Suddenly, he feels a little out of his depth.

“Hey, you,” Jack greets, handing him the tissue box and sitting by Robby’s feet. “You feel as shitty as y’look?” He grins, glancing at his boyfriend with a chuckle.

“I don’t look that bad,” Robby rolls his eyes, pausing their playful bickering session to blow his nose. He throws the used tissue into the trash can Dennis had placed beside the couch earlier on, reaches for the bottle of sanitiser and rubs his hands together to ensure they stay clean. “But, I guess I feel pretty awful to have slept since…”

“Uh, two thirty. You fell back to sleep at two thirty.” Dennis hates how he suddenly sounds so small, and feels himself shrink even more as both older men turn to stare at him. “It’s… almost four now.”

Robby’s expression softens, and he gestures for Dennis to come over, but he shakes his head. “I, uh, was about to order soup for dinner, um—“

“Hey, no need. I’m making us some. You come and keep Robby company and I’ll be the chef for the night. Pretty good deal, if you ask me.” Jack jests lightly, standing and offering Dennis his seat.

Hesitantly, he walks over, sitting by Robby’s feet.

“Why don’t you both stay for a bit?” It was no secret to the two other men that Dr. Robby, the stubborn and stoic man when at work, was actually a lover of some soft caretaking and a little fussing every now and then once behind closed doors. Jack has known for many years, and kept it under wraps for him, yet teased him endlessly all the same. Dennis has only learned this recently, but adores the way Robby smiles at him when he brings him tissues and kisses his forehead. Very endearing, indeed.

Robby shuffles into the middle of the couch, so that Jack can sit on the other side of him. “The biggest softie, isn’t he?” Jack smirks, wrapping an arm around Robby and squeezing Dennis’ shoulder slightly. Dennis smiles at the display of affection, already feeling himself start to blush.

“Hey, I’m right here, you know.” Robby sniffles, leaning his head against Jack’s shoulder and reaching out to hold Dennis’ hand.

“Sounds like the congestion is settling in,” Dennis says quietly, rubbing his thumb across his boyfriend’s palm. “Do you need anything?”

As much as Dennis wants to offer Robby whatever he needs or wants, he’s also itching to make himself of use. He’s grown used to it just being him and Robby, and while he takes no issues with Jack, he’s not exactly familiar with the attending outside of professional settings. Sure, he’s seen Jack exchange affection with his boyfriend, and Robby was quick to explain the circumstances of the situation when he and Dennis first started flirting. He takes no issue with Robby and Jack’s relationship – in fact, he rather enjoys getting to hear Robby talk about their past dates and stories that the older man is so endeared with.

But it’s always been just that: stories, brief exchanges, nights where Dennis stays with Trinity because Jack doesn’t have a shift. It had always felt hypothetical to some extent, and now it’s very, very real.

Which means that, naturally, all of Dennis’s anxiety has taken a front row seat in his chest, nestled behind his ribs. It’s not just ‘what do I say’ and ‘is my body language decent’ but also ‘how do I prove to the man that’s loved Robby for years that I’m capable of doing the same?’

And, worst of all, the question of ‘am I capable of doing the same?’

He’s broken from his reverie as Robby answers with a simple, “no, thank you sweetheart,” and a shake of his head. He gives Dennis’s hand a little squeeze, smiling at the way their fingers slot together so perfectly.

Dennis relaxes slightly, his lips quirking into a smile as they always do at the sound of the petname. He can do this, right?

“Should we watch something?” Jack suggests as a silence fills the room, broken only by stuffy breaths from Robby. “Or we can just sit here listening to you sniffle all night.”

“I’d say the latter, you could learn some patience for once,” Robby teases, but he leans forwards to grab the remote.

Dennis can’t help but steal a glance at Jack, and to his surprise, he finds the older man looking right at him. His breath catches in his throat, a quiet noise slipping out as his cheeks flush pink. Jack just smirks, placing a hand on Robby’s thigh and noting, “no rom coms. I don’t want you getting sappy.”

The teasing – light, affectionate, quick – comes so easily for the two of them, and it dawns on Dennis that they must know each other through and through. There’s an air of comfort between them that Dennis has observed before at work, but this feels different, closer; it’s the kind of intimacy that he’s just grown used to with Robby.

Dennis pulls his knees to his chest as he watches Robby flick through their recently watched shows – they’ve both fallen into a slight Friends addiction over the past few weeks. He barely registers the fact that he’s started rubbing at his nose with his hoodie’s sleeve. The fabric collects a bit of moisture against its surface, leaving a small damp patch. Unfortunately, the rubbing does nothing more than spark a shock of irritation from the tip of Dennis’s nose to his sinuses. It festers in the left side, taking root and prickling stubbornly with every breath.

No problem, right? Dennis just has to hold his breath, press his tongue to the roof of his mouth, and – ‘hh’ – a little hitch breaks through, the itch growing with unexpected strength. His lashes flutter and his eyes fill in itchy, dewy anticipation as another hitch catches on his tongue, and another.

Dennis is quick to tent his elbow over the lower half of his face, clamping his jaw shut and swallowing as the next hitch tries to slip out. He knows without a doubt that he’s attracted Robby’s attention by now – afterall, the man is used to this whole ordeal by now – but that’s much less embarrassing than the fact that he can feel Jack’s eyes on him too.

His eyes squeeze shut just as his head bobs down with the first stifled ‘ngG’St!’ The itch sears through his sinuses in protest of the suppression, forcing another few back to back sneezes, ‘hnNGt’ngsxch!isch!’

The stifles do absolutely nothing to appease the burning sensation, and he hiccups into a few quick, quiet gasps before falling into another flurry of sneezes, ‘ngck! hk’Kxt! ih’nsXt!’

He barely registers Robby’s little admonishment of, “don’t hold them in,” through his body’s need to rid itself of the itch. Whether or not Dennis intended to stifle the last sneeze, it slips out in a high pitched, ‘h’iTtschH’yiew!’

The fit leaves him breathless for a moment, and he keeps the lower half of his face shrouded in the hoodie sleeve. He can feel his embarrassment flushing pink up to the tips of his ears, and it only worsens when he hears, “jesus, bless you kid,” from Jack. It’s not rude or judgemental, but shocked – it’s a reaction he’s accustomed to after sneezing like this all his life, and it’s much preferred to the teasing he gets from Trinity.

Robby offers a soft blessing as well, and Dennis nods his thanks, wordlessly reaching for a tissue from the box he’d opened for Robby. He misses the silent communication that happens behind his back: an eyebrow raise from Jack followed by a concerned but affectionate smile from Robby.

“You always sneeze that much?” Jack asks as he shifts on the couch, adjusting his posture and crossing his legs. If possible, Dennis flushes an even darker shade of red.

“Uhm, yeah. Usually, I guess. Sometimes it’s only two or three, if I’m lucky,” he wipes his nose with the tissue as he replies, determined not to look back at either Jack or Robby.

“Damn.” Jack leans closer to Robby, dropping his voice to mumble a quiet, “and here I was thinking you were exaggerating.”

“I’ve never exaggerated a day in my life,” Robby whispers back, unable to stop himself from laughing at the blatant lie — catching a ticklish cough into the crook of his elbow closest to Jack.

Dennis is snuggling himself close to Robby again, eyes half lidded and feeling warm and cosy. The embarrassment from his sneezing habits have subsided for now and all he really wants to do is rest, and hope that his symptoms will keep at bay for as long as possible.

•

Dennis knew he couldn’t stay undetected for long, because by dinner his nose is starting to run from the steam that the soup kicks up and although he could simply blame it on that alone, he’s sniffling even after excusing himself to the bathroom where he blows his nose. He tries not to, but minutes after leaving the bathroom he can feel the dampness return and he has no choice, unless he wants a consistently damp Cupid’s bow. They’ve all been sat on the couch in the same order as before — Dennis, Robby, Jack — and watching old reruns of Friends. He had been hoping the TV and the pair’s idle conversation would have them distracted from Dennis and his own goings on, but sadly, he hoped wrong.

“Hey, you okay?” Robby turns, looking down at his boyfriend, who’s just sniffled once again. He notes the slight pinkness on his cheeks, and around his nostrils, and frowns.

“Huh? Me? Yeah. Why?” The answer probably sounds suspicious, especially the way his voice raises an octave higher with each word. Dennis clears his throat, blinking a few times to try and reset himself.

“Sniffling a lot,” Robby notes.

“Oh, that. Yeah… soup was really steamy, sorry. It was really good though!” He leans across to catch Jack’s eye, who smiles in response.

Seemingly pleased with that answer, Robby goes back to discussing the current episode’s storyline with Jack, bickering quietly about something or other seconds later. Dennis just focuses on staying undetected for as long as possible, reaching for a tissue to softly blow his nose. He leans against Robby’s arm afterwards, letting the other men’s voices slowly soothe him, starting to doze before he can stop himself.

When he wakes, it’s to the sky turned to a rosy pink shade of dusk outside, so he hasn’t slept too long, but maybe… two? Three hours? The next thing he registers is that he’s no longer leaning against Robby, but there’s a cushion in his place and he’s been covered by a blanket. There’s distant voices somewhere nearby, maybe in the kitchen, and Dennis rubs his eyes before sitting up. The ache in his throat has gotten a little worse, and when he breathes in through his nose, it’s accompanied by a liquid sniffle, followed by a dissapointed groan.

“Oh, hey, sleepy head,” Jack reappears in the living room, Robby following after him with a mug of tea in his hands. “We made tea — you want some?”

“Um—“ his voice cracks. Brilliant. Fantastic. “No, thanks. I’m okay.” Dennis clears his throat, covering a yawn with the back of his hand. “Sorry, it’s been a long week.”

Robby sits down beside him, silently desperate to kiss his forehead but refraining due to his germs. Dennis notices that his nose is even redder, and that he’s officially resorted to mouth breathing. He curls closer, not caring about his cold (mostly because he knows he already has it.)

“You sure you’re okay?” It’s Jack that asks, taking the words right out of Robby’s mouth. “It’s fine if you aren’t.”

Dennis swallows. “I’m good. Did I sleep long?” He subtly runs the cuff of his hoodie sleeve under his nose, hiding it before anyone can see the dampness that forms, and then he sniffles.

“About two hours,” Jack replies, pressing play on the remote again, “it’s not too late. Although I might need some convincing to get Robby to go to bed early — before he falls asleep on here after telling us he’s not tired.” He smirks slightly, glancing at them both.

“I’m not tired. My head hurts like a bitch, and I can’t breathe, but I’m not tired. I practically napped the day away.” Robby rolls his eyes, and continues to drink his tea.

Dennis can’t help but laugh softly at that, but also feel a little sorry for his boyfriend. “You don’t have a fever, do you?” He asks instinctively, looking up.

“No fever. A full exam has been carried out.” Jack insists, and Dennis isn’t too sure of what he’s implying and suddenly feels a lot out of his depth again. Although, he doesn’t get to dwell on the anxious feeling for long, because the tickle has reignited inside his nose and his entire attention is now focused on not sneezing. But, even when he’s coming down with something, his nose doesn’t usually get that kind of memo.

“hh-“ he shakes his head, as if that’ll will the sneezes away. ‘hHhh’ii’ehhh-excuse m- hh’nGgTt’chu! ‘mmxx’ch! ‘iTtxxchHuh! hhh’h-ITtzzYshiew!’ He squeaks out a half-stifled fit against Robby’s sleeve, too overwhelmed with the itch and perhaps a little more under the weather than he thought; because he neglects to move and the realisation settles in just moments after. He shuffles away from Robby immediately, sweater-paw hands coming up to his face to cover his mouth and nose. “Sorry—!” Dennis yelps, sniffling helplessly. “I-I’m still half asleep, Robby, I—“

“Woah,” Robby hushes gently, “you’re fine. Bless you.”

And, suddenly all of his fears and anxieties from the evening and the dull ache behind his eyes are all becoming too much and Dennis feels his eyes starting to sting with the threat of tears — and, it’s all silly, really, because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that he sneezes like this, it doesn’t matter that he already caught the stupid cold, or that he feels so tiny in the presence of Jack. They’ve tried to tell him that none of this matters, yet now he’s overcome with the creeping guilt that they’re going to have to take care of him now when all he’d wanted was to take care of Robby, and hell, apparently he can’t even do that.

“Dennis?” Robby treads carefully. “Baby?” He reaches a hand out and touches his knee.

“So, uh, I don’t — I don’t feel well.” Is all Dennis manages to mumble, gaze trained downwards at his own hands and feet. He feels stupid, and small, and everything he’s always felt before he met the most amazing people he has in his life right now.

“Hey,” he doesn’t notice Jack get up from the couch and kneel down beside him, until he has two hands resting against his knee. “You wanna talk about it?” The elder man clearly senses that something more is wrong, but Dennis lightly shakes his head.

“You wanna sneeze about it?” Jack risks a small joke, and grins when it successfully makes Dennis laugh a little.

“Probably,” Dennis sniffles, swiping the fabric of the hoodie at his eyes and underneath his nose.

Robby wraps a careful arm around him, “you know, tissues were invented for that purpose.” It’s not a harsh tone at all, but Dennis still blushes with embarrassment, going to apologise before Jack’s finger meets his lips. Fuck, now he’s blushing even harder.

“No more saying sorry. I’m going to go grab some things from the store, and you and Robby are going to be good boys and stay right here, cuddling, or something.” He stands with a small grunt of effort. “If you try to exert yourselves in any way shape or form while I’m gone, there’ll be a hard ban on forehead kisses.” He points at them both with a faux stern look on his face.

Dennis finally gives in once Jack is gone, flopping his body against Robby’s chest. A few tears fall down his cheeks, and he tries to be as quiet as possible in the ordeal, but crying isn’t often a silent task. He sniffles a few times in succession, drawing his boyfriend’s attention back to him.

“Hey. You’re holding it all in, I can feel it. Just let it go.” Robby rubs gentle circles against his back, and continues to do so until Dennis has stopped crying and reaches the sniffly hiccups stage. “There,” he coos. “Better?”

Actually, he does feel a lot better. Pent up emotions are one of Dennis’ specialities, and Robby can most definitely relate. “Yeah, but I feel like an idiot.” Dennis murmurs, completely stuffed up now, blunting each and every consonant. “And—“ he hitches softly, going to move, but Robby holds him close still.

“Can’t catch my own cold, sweetheart. Just let it out.” He places a kiss atop of Dennis’ head, seconds before he falls victim to another ticklish fit of sneezes.

‘hh’iiitishhiew! hh’yyZzshiew! ‘iTTshhH-tSH! hehh’tzzYysHhiew! ‘chuH!’ It feels good not to stile, but he’s still left with a lingering tickle at the end of it, and sits up in a small daze.

“Bless you. Dizzy?” Robby asks, sympathy dripping from his words.

Dennis nods. His ears are stuffy now, the cold starting to properly take hold. “I didn’t want you to feel guilty about all this.” He murmurs, rubbing his sleeve over his face; the fabric truly messy now, but Dennis is too emotionally exhausted to really care. “I just wanted to take care of you, and I felt… I don’t know. It’s different — not bad different — but, with Jack. Y’know?” He peers up at Robby, who’s listening sincerely with those warm, brown eyes trained on his sniffly boyfriend.

“Neither of us expect you to be used to it. It’s new, we both know that. And if it’s ever too much, you just let me know, okay?” He holds Dennis’s gaze, every word spoken with a genuine care. One of his hands makes its way to the back of Dennis’s neck, providing a grounding, warm touch that Dennis definitely needs in that moment.

He nods and sniffles again. “I know. I guess I’m just… used to being the last choice in my family. I’m the youngest, so I was always just… there.” He has to pause to sniffle again, digging his knuckles against his right nostril – which has resigned itself to be entirely blocked. Robby waits patiently; he’s always been good at lending Dennis the time to compose and express his thoughts, and now is no different. “It’s not fair to compare this to being at home, but I guess I’m nervous that things will change? Maybe that’s selfish, I don’t know.”

His uncertainty is almost tangible, creasing between his brows in an anxious twinge. A small breath in hits the wall of nervousness in his chest and forces a light cough directed towards his wrist.

“Dennis,” Robby’s voice cuts through his anxious haze, even as it’s seeped in congestion, “I’m not going anywhere, alright? Not unless you want me to–”

“I don’t,” Dennis interjects, earning a smile from his boyfriend.

“Well, that’s always a good sign,” he jokes, his fingers applying a gentle pressure to Dennis’s neck and rubbing the tension away, “we’ll take this one day at a time, okay? We can always go back to the way things are, Jack and I are happy to keep our relationship separate.”

Dennis nods a little, blinking away the sleepiness that’s lingering in his body and brain; it dulls his senses, as if a fog has taken residence in his mind. “Can we talk about it another time?”

“Of course.” Robby shifts on the couch. He pulls Dennis closer, wrapping his arms around the smaller man’s waist now that he knows Dennis has already caught his cold. Dennis’s head ends up nestled on his chest, tucked just beneath his chin. “Comfy?”

Dennis nods, “comfy.”

“I’m sorry you ended up catching this,” Robby adds, rubbing Dennis’ back.

“I’m not,” Dennis responds, a smirk toying at the corners of his mouth whilst he looks up. “Means I can do this, now.” He shifts and presses a kiss to Robby’s mouth, though it’s short lived due to the fact that neither can breathe well enough through their noses.

“Oh, yeah?” Robby chuckles, pressing his palms against Dennis’ lower back to better support him. “Jack said don’t exert ourselves.” He pecks Dennis’ forehead.

Giggling, the younger man leans in again, yet this time Robby’s facial hair tickles at the skin near his nose, and Dennis has to break apart the kiss to duck into his elbow. ‘Hh’tshh’iew! ‘ssyzzShHiew! ‘tch, ‘tch, -tTchHh’uh’isHhiew!’ He sniffles thickly, rubbing his nose against his sleeve. A small groan falls from parted lips.

“Bless you,” Robby lets Dennis lean back against his chest, clearly a little tired out from the latest fit.

“I should take a shower,” he hums quietly, “I feel kinda gross.” He’s definitely used less tissues than he should have, which isn’t usually like him, but sometimes he just gets so fatigued from fit after fit. Plus, Robby’s a very comfortable pillow.

“Can I come?” Robby’s already grinning, and Dennis laughs softly.

“No exerting ourselves.” He reminds his boyfriend, glancing up at him.

Dennis carefully rises to his feet. “I won’t be long,” he reassures, “maybe when Jack’s back, we could watch a movie? I don’t think I can sleep just yet, after accidentally sleeping, like, the whole day.” He stretches his arms above his head, Robby appreciating the view it gives him as Dennis’ shirt rides up slightly.

Robby watches without complaint, grinning as Dennis continues to stretch, oblivious to his attentiveness. After a moment, Dennis catches Robby’s eye, immediately recognizing his expression and flushing pink. He drops his hands to his sides, but he can’t help but smile. He steps closer to his boyfriend, pulling him in for another brief kiss – he always gets greedy about kisses when he feels bad – before saying, “I’ll be back soon. You okay here?”

“I’d be better in the shower with you,” Robby says smoothly, and it takes every ounce of self restraint Dennis has for him to shake his head; how Jack ever says no to his brown eyes, Dennis isn’t sure.

“I just want to rinse off,” Dennis excuses, which isn’t entirely false, though he mostly wants to stand under the steam until the congestion blocking his nose eases. Robby’s already witnessed enough sniffling from him in the past half hour, he doesn’t need to be privy to whatever sneezes the shower coaxes out.

“Okay.” The older man concedes with a tired grin, “hollar if you need anything.”

[softblesses]

Part 3/?

Word count: 5.2k (I told you we cooked.)

Dennis hadn’t intended for his shower to end up being too long. ‘Ten, fifteen minutes tops,’ is what he’d initially told himself; just long enough for him to work out some of his congestion, wash the feeling of sick off his skin, and maybe use one of Robby’s nice conditioners.

Somewhere along the way, he finds himself standing brainlessly beneath the water’s stream, his skin gradually turning a darker shade of red as the hot water pelts against it. The entire bathroom is filled with a thick, hot cloud of steam, and it’s working wonders on Dennis’s congestion. Sure, he’s spent a good amount of his shower stumbling in and out of fits, but each of them leaves his sinuses a bit looser than before.

He vaguely registers the sound of talking from the living room, although he can’t actually make out any words, just the distant lull of Jack and Robby. It feels nice, domestic almost, to know that there are not one but two people awaiting his return from the shower – two ridiculously hot people who also happen to be his boss's bosses.

Dennis stays in the shower until he’s dizzyingly warm, but the comfort of the hot water disappears as soon as he steps out and starts toweling himself dry. A small shiver works its way up his spine, and he hurries to pull on the pajamas he’d nabbed from his drawer in Robby’s dresser. And, he doesn’t hesitate to pick up a clean hoodie from the laundry pile, belonging to his boyfriend of course.

He walks back into the living room, painfully aware of how the couple already sat down seem to go silent almost immediately, yet their smiles are warm at least. “Hey,” Robby’s voice sounds rough. “Good shower? Help ease up the congestion any?” He pats the space that he and Jack make between them on the couch.

Dennis nods, yet sniffles still. “Yeah, a lot, thanks.” He says quietly, sitting in the middle and feeling a little unsure of where to lean. He naturally gravitates towards Robby, but doesn’t want to offend Jack, yet the issue is solved when Robby pulls him gently into his arms.

“I see you’ve commandeered another one of my jackets, huh?” He teases lightly, running his fingers through Dennis’ curls.

“Too hot to wear it yet.” So, apparently, he’s just cuddling it.

“You two sickly lovebirds wanna choose a movie?” Jack interjects, but it’s not out of spite, and he chuckles softly. “Like I said before, though — no rom-coms.” He holds the remote out towards Dennis.

Dennis is slow to react, his brain eventually kickstarting enough that he accepts the remote with a little, “sorry,” mumbled under his breath. Maybe the shower had made him more disoriented than he’d initially recognized…

He sniffles as he flicks through various tv shows, movies, and advertisements. His nose is apparently less than happy with its sudden change in climate, working to undo all his progress in decongesting. After a minute or so of mindless scrolling and endless sniffling, he feels Robby gently coax the remote from out of his hand. His grip loosens within an instant, and he feels Robby’s other hand settle over his hip with a little squeeze – a silent ‘is this okay?’

Dennis nods, pressing himself further against his boyfriend’s side and watching as Robby takes over in deciding what to watch. The warmth of the shower seems to have washed a new layer of sleepiness over him, too, because he doesn’t really remember much of the movie Robby ends up choosing. He somewhat recalls Jack enticing him to stretch his legs out across his lap, and then he must’ve dozed in and out throughout the entire thing. So much for not being sleepy anymore.

•

Dennis leans against the doorframe of the bedroom, watching Jack tease Robby and pretend to tuck him in, before rubbing vapour rub all over the sick man’s chest. His gaze travels to Robby’s exposed skin, watching the gentle and tender strokes Jack makes and —

“Dennis?”

Maybe he was watching a little too intensely.

“Huh?” He straightens himself up, clearing his throat.

“You coming to bed?” Jack has climbed off of Robby now, and is standing a few feet away.

He shakes his head. “Oh, umm… no, thanks. I was thinking of…” he scrunches his nose, the effects of the medicinal lotion already getting to him. “Um…” he avoids Jack’s eyes as the man gets closer, still holding the little pot of sneeze inducing nightmares.

“Robby said your chest gets pretty congested with colds, so—“

“No, thank you! That stuff usually really m..mhh-makes me- hh’Mmm’Ishiew! ‘KkshHiew! hh’nGxT! ‘xXkjShH-SHiew! Guhhh…” Dennis succumbs to an itchy fit, trying his best to muffle them and stifle against the sleeve of Robby’s hoodie he’s since put on.

“Sneeze?” Jack finishes off for him, eyebrow quirked upwards and a smirk to match.

“Mhm.” Dennis sniffles pitifully, soft little hitches teasing him before he gets the chance to properly recover.

‘hhh-‘

‘hh’iiH-‘

‘hhhh-?’

Jack watches, slightly entranced by the way Dennis’ seems caught in that pre-sneeze limbo, temporarily tortured by the itch, yet with no relief. He watches him flutter his eyelashes, blinking away tears and sniffling again; he drops his arm back by his side, after no relief comes.

“Stuck?” Robby asks from the bed, and both of the other men jump slightly; having been interrupted from their different trances.

Robby’s eyes flick over Jack’s expression knowingly before he turns his attention to Dennis. He pats the spot beside him in bed, willing Dennis to forgo his previous denial, “c’mon. It might be good for you to work out some of your congestion.”

Wordlessly, Dennis steps around Jack and pads over to the bed. Seeing the clear sheen of vapor rub over Robby’s chest is enough to make his nostrils flare again. The unmistakable scent of menthol permeates the area around the older man, but Dennis is too tired to deny taking the spot beside Robby. It’s not his typical place in bed; usually, he and Robby have a relatively equal split between the bed’s sides – that is, until Dennis inevitably works his way onto Robby’s side. Tonight, however, Robby’s laying in the center of the bed, and Dennis opts for choosing the far left side.

He doesn’t even get the opportunity to sit down before another hitch teases at his senses, imploring his eyes to slip shut, ‘hhH’ih?’

He stands, expression pinched and hazy, at the bedside. After a few seconds of remaining frozen in anticipation, his breath falls in a disappointed exhale. When he opens his eyes, he’s immediately met with Jack’s gaze glued to him from the other side of the bed. Dennis flushes pink and looks away – if he hadn’t, he’d have realized that Jack looked almost as sheepish as he did about being caught.

Robby pushes the blanket and the sheets down, patting the bed once again to prompt Dennis, who slips into bed and practically melts into the mattress. It hugs at his sore limbs, the warmth of Robby’s body nearby easing some of the discomfort lingering in his body. Unfortunately for him, the proximity also gives his nose what it needs to finally break past the point of hitching – ‘kSSchH! hh?!-isch’iSCHhyi!’

He only gets a second of reprieve before his body forces another pitchy gasp and a few itchy sneezes, ‘szSCHh!… ih’yhSXchi! itTsSChhyu!’

“Bless you, although, I have a feeling you’re not done.” Robby hums, turning away a little to cough into his fist.

Dennis shakes his head, still entrapped by the pre-sneeze limbo; soft little hitches spilling from his lips. ‘hh’yYzzsHhiew! ‘ishhiew! ‘kk’sHh-ShHtt-Yysh’oo!’ He doesn’t try and stifle this time, tired out and dizzy, the rapid triple coming at the end with practically no chance to breathe in between.

“Bless you,” Robby whispers softly, listening to Dennis wheeze for a few moments, regaining his composure. “You okay?”

He doesn’t say anything in response, a slightly bark-like cough being caught against the sleeve of his hoodie, that’s already a little damp from the sneezes. Dennis looks up, noting that Jack has disappeared. Great, he’s managed to gross him out already. Or annoy him. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Your cold sucks, by the way.” He smirks slightly — more confident since the first time Robby took care of him when he was sick.

“It does,” Robby agrees. “How’re you feeling, though? Symptom check? I’m going for throat feeling like it has shards of glass inside, ears sounding like I’m underwater and nose blocked up to the nines.” He chuckles quietly.

“Uh, same, I guess. Itchy.” Dennis sniffles, scrubbing at his nose a second later, as if to prove his point. “Very itchy.”

Dennis continues to scrub at his nose, scrunching it up in protest of its irritation. The scent of menthol still hangs in the air, thick and bothersome. Beside him, Robby tugs his shirt back on in an attempt to lessen the vapor rub’s scent.

“Sorry, I know it doesn’t agree with your nose,” Robby offers sympathetically, noting the frustrated pinch of Dennis’s brows. The younger man continues to berate his nose, doing his best to fight back the little hitches threatening to surface, as if his previous fit hadn’t been enough.

His breath stutters into a few light coughs directed towards his elbow and a teasingly close false start, ‘hhDt–’ A huff of disappointment falls from his lips instead, and the pawing at his nose begins again.

“Hey, stop,” Robby chastises lightly, “you’re just gonna make it sore.”

Dennis huffs dramatically at that, but does as he’s told, resorting to simply wriggling his nose instead.

“Handkerchiefs,” Jack’s voice travels back into the room, “I’ll leave them beside the bed.”

He climbs into the bed, leaving Robby comfortable in the middle. “I’m going to turn off the light now, you two get some rest.” He announces, leaning to switch off the lamp on Dennis’ side, his hand lightly grazing the younger man’s shoulder. Shivering a little in response, Dennis curls against Robby and shuts his eyes.

•

Somehow, despite the amount of sleep he’s already had, Dennis falls asleep first. Jack isn’t really tired, so he’s more than happy to lie awake softly talking to Robby about work, and asking him idle questions to get to know the sleeping, sickly beauty beside them a little better. Dennis snores, stuffy breaths punctuating the pauses in the pair’s conversation, and it isn’t long until he’s hitching in his sleep.

“Is he…?”

“Oh, yeah. He can sleep sneeze. If he’s tired enough.” Robby smirks slightly, trying to get a glance at his elder partner’s reaction. Jack’s eyes are glued on Dennis’s face, taking in every detail as his features scrunch together in anticipation.

“You’re kidding,” he comments despite the very obvious build up that proves Robby is not, in fact, kidding.

Dennis doesn’t allow Robby time to reply. His breath hitches into a final soft gasp before he’s sneezing softly against his pillow, ‘hh’kKshiew! ‘ksHh-shiew…’ Robby sits up slowly, careful not to jostle Dennis as he reaches over him for the tissue box on the nightstand. ‘itsSchu!’

Pinching the tissue between two fingers, Robby wipes away the moisture pooling at Dennis’s philtrum as gently as possible, trying to avoid triggering more sneezes. The younger man’s nose twitches in protest, and he stirs in his sleep, to which Robby whispers, “it’s okay. It’s just me.”

Dennis’s nose twitches again and he rolls over partially, burying his face in his pillow and throwing an arm carelessly to the side. It falls over Robby’s waist, draping itself in an awkward – and certainly uncomfortable – position. After a few seconds, his stuffy snoring returns, this time muffled into the pillow.

Robby grins and tosses the tissue in the general direction of Dennis’s nightstand before giving Jack another glance. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Does he do this every night?” Jack whispers back, lying back on his pillow.

“Not every night. If he’s sick… or his allergies are playing up. So, yeah actually. Most nights.” Robby chuckles to himself.

After a heavy exhale, Jack runs a hand down his face. “You think he’ll wake up if we’re gone for a few?” He murmurs, considering… things.

Although his partner can’t see him, he can practically hear Robby’s smirk in response. “If we’re quiet.”

“Which is impossible when it comes to you, can I add.” Jack scoffs slightly.

“Now, that’s just rude, considering you like it like that.” Robby’s shit-eating grin causes Jack to just roll his eyes in response.

The pair are as quiet as possible whilst getting out of bed, and Robby ensures Dennis is properly covered over and still asleep whilst Jack fetches his prosthetic. They leave their snoring third fast asleep under the covers, none the wiser.

He’s not sure exactly what time it is when he wakes, but Dennis certainly knows he feels ten times worse. He must’ve developed a low grade fever, and mouth breathing has made his throat a lot more sore. To make things even worse? When he rolls over expecting Robby to embrace him, he’s not there. “R’bby?” Dennis murmurs pathetically, his hoarse voice cracking slightly.

Nothing. “Jack?” He pushes himself into a sitting position, sniffing and immediately regretting the action. ‘hh’KkKshiew! ‘kkyYzzZsh! ugh… ‘tchieW!’ Three itchy sneezes leave a mark against the cuff of his hoodie, and he groans at the pain they cause his throat.

“Robby?” He calls out again, a little louder this time.

‘—YYDSHHhHh’HHYUE!’ Somewhere in the distance of the apartment he hears Robby sneeze. Well, that explains his absence.

“Bless you,” Dennis mumbles, forgetting that Robby most definitely can’t hear him. He sniffles again, curling into the covers and hoping Robby will be back soon; fully aware he’s reached the clingy stage of his illness.

He must’ve drifted back off, because the next thing he knows is there’s a slight dip on both sides of the bed, and somehow Dennis is now in between both Jack and Robby, instead of at the edge of the mattress. He grumbles softly at the intrusion, his mind foggy, and rolls over directly into Jack’s chest. “Where’d y’go?” Dennis slurs, voice still sleepy, not even opening his eyes.

“I… had to sneeze,” Robby’s voice sounds from the other side, and suddenly the half-asleep Dennis in the middle is blushing, realising where he is instead of against his usual person.

He rolls onto his back, coughing slightly. “Heard you,” Dennis admits, “did you… were you sneezing?” The sentence makes more sense in his head, but Jack catches on before Robby does.

“Four times. He’s got nothing on you, though. Don’t worry, kid.” Jack reaches for Dennis hand,’ giving it a soft squeeze, making the younger man giggle slightly.

There’s a small pause, whilst Jack looks at Robby, still lightly holding onto Dennis’ hand, when the aforementioned owner of said hand begins to hitch. ‘Hh-‘ once, ‘hhhiih-‘ twice, ‘hiH-hhnnnghhh…’ thrice, yet nothing. It’s something that tends to happen at the beginning of a cold for him, and it drives him insane every damn time. Not to mention the fact that there’s still a fair amount of pollen outside, and now that the storm has settled the rain will have washed it all down. Thankfully, Robby has AC and so there’s usually no need to sleep with the windows open.

Instead of a sneeze, Dennis moves his hand from Jack’s grasp and coughs into his elbow, scraping his throat and emitting a sound somewhat akin to croup. Something Dennis has been acquainted with at various times in his life, embarrassingly also as an adult.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Abbot hums, “should probably get that checked out tomorrow.”

“You’re a doctor. I’m a doctor. Can’t I just… fix it myself?” He mutters, and Robby can’t help but chuckle at the grumpiness in his tone.

“Oh, yeah? With what equipment and medicine?” Robby teases, pulling Dennis into his arms to distract him from any plans of an argument.

He just whines into Robby’s chest, which is a clear mistake because he had forgotten all about the vapour rub residue on the man’s shirt and —

‘hh’mm’tTsHh! ‘tsSH! ‘iiZzZzsShH! haH-guh… hhh’zyShHh’kiiEeewwW!’ At least his sneezes have finally been coaxed out, yet at what cost? His head is spinning slightly now, nose running against his boyfriend’s shirt and an irritated cough slips past his lips once again. “‘M sorry-“ Dennis squeaks, leaning back and realizing what he’s done.

“No harm done,” the elder man reassures gently, “this thing will be in the laundry tomorrow anyway.” He reaches out, brushing some hair from Dennis’ forehead and feeling the sticky heat.

“Bless you,” Jack adds, having somewhat been silent a second before. “Handkerchief incoming.” He leans back over, deciding first to offer the material to Dennis instead of immediately doing it for him; they’re not quite at that level of intimacy yet, at least in his mind, and he doesn’t want to scare him in any way.

“I’m gonna grab some Tyleno…” Robby trails off, caught in just a second’s pre-sneeze haze warning, before crumpling forwards into the vague direction of his elbow as he’s half sat up. ‘HUHH-DZZSHhHhHOOH!’ The sneeze hits him harder now that his cold has progressed a little more, leaving him a little dizzy and groaning at the pain in his back.

The sneeze sets off a chaotic chain of events — Dennis startles, his body jolting at the sudden interruption, and in Jack’s momentary lack of focus and amongst his own mild fright… Dennis’ face collides with the hovering hand Jack was holding above him. A soft ‘oof!’ followed by an “uh oh-“ alert Robby to something happening, and he reaches to switch on the light, which only further aggravates the matters at hand.

Dennis is sitting up now, but has to fold once again into the sleeve of his jacket as the sudden burst of light triggers more sneezes from his already worn out nose; ‘-ttshHyiew! ‘kShhH-hh’TtchKiew! oh, ow—‘ it’s then that he pulls away, and Jack and Robby realise his nose is bleeding, running past his slightly parted lips and down his chin.

“Oh, fuck—“ Jack reaches forwards, covering the lower half of Dennis’ face with the handkerchief as quickly and as gently as he can.

“‘M sorry,” his voice is muffled and much stuffier from the hold Jack has against him, in order to slow the blood, “that happens sometimes.”

“You bumped into my hand, I’m sorry, I must’ve moved the wrong way and—“

“It’s okay!” Dennis reassures, “I’m honestly due a nose bleed, to be honest. Uh… I said honest twice, didn’t I?” He frowns, trying to bring his hand up to cover an incoming cough, but Jack tsks him softly — he’s got it covered.

Robby, having regained his composure after the small domino effect from his sneeze, is now rubbing soft circles against Dennis’ back. “I startled you both,” he points out, and Jack shoots him a look that says ‘don’t blame yourself for this.’

“It’s okay! Hot weather makes this happen anyways. I pro’bise, I’mb fi’dne!” The sentence sounds extra nasally, and Robby smiles slightly from endearment.

Jack slowly removes the handkerchief a moment later to assess the bleeding, satisfied that it’s slowed down enough to carefully clean Dennis’ face; all the while trying not to trigger anymore sneezes for the moment. “There,” he hums, “good as new.”

Dennis’s eyes flit around as Jack gently wipes the blood from his face, doing his best not to meet the other man’s eyes. Until today, his touches with Jack had been reserved to smaller motions – the kind Robby used to enact at the beginning of their flirtation: a hand on the shoulder, a brush against his waist, and playful nudges. This is entirely new terrain, though not unwelcome.

“You okay?” Jack confirms, his voice soft. He positions two fingers beneath Dennis’s chin, prompting him to meet his gaze. Dennis blushes crimson at the action, nodding wordlessly and finding himself unable to look away. Jack’s eyes soften around the edges, creasing as he smiles. It’s a little strange to see him look so… soft. Dennis knows just enough about Jack’s past to understand that he’s been hardened by a multitude of experiences; he sees it at work whenever he works overtime and bleeds into the nightshift.

Robby breaks Dennis from his trance with a rough cough, directed loosely towards a raised fist. His chest rattles with the expulsion, followed by a shaky breath as his throat constricts painfully, clearly unhappy with his body’s need to expel whatever’s taken hold of him. Robby barely manages the single breath before he’s doubling over again. Jack acts more quickly than Dennis, sitting up and reaching across the smaller man so he can rub Robby’s back.

His hand works from between Robby’s shoulder blades up to the nape of his neck and back down in small circular motions. Once the coughing fit seems to be calming down, Jack lets his fingers make their way up to Robby’s neck once again. They press themselves just below his hairline, working to ease out some of the pent up tension.

Without thinking, Dennis finds himself leaning into Jack’s close proximity. He wishes he wasn’t so stuffed up – maybe he would have been able to smell Jack’s cologne. It’s a scent that he’s noted all too often in the pitt. Whenever he crosses paths with Jack, he gets a whiff of it. On occasion, he’ll smell it on Robby after the two of them exchange goodnights or goodmornings when switching shifts.

Dennis’s body seems intent on breaking him from his thoughts once again. His breath catches in a soft hitch as the steady buzzing in his sinuses rears its head again. A prickling itch blooms in the base of his nose, taking root in its left side and urging him to scrunch up the appendage. With hoodie covered hands, he reaches up to paw at his nose, mixing the action with a few damp sniffles.

If he hadn't been so preoccupied with the itch, Dennis might have noticed the way Jack’s attention snapped to him at the sound of his hitching. With his nose buried beneath his sleeves and burning in anticipation, however, he misses the older man’s movement. He only notices when Jack brings a hand to his wrists, tugging his hands down and replacing them with the handkerchief.

Dennis startles at the contact, and it’s just enough to break through the build up, forcing a quick ‘hh’ followed by a little flurry of sneezes. “itSSch!hh?!-kSch!iSXhyi!” They tumble out one after the other, casting a light spray against the cloth steepled over the bottom half of his face.

Whether his fever has dulled his senses or he’s just grown more comfortable sneezing around Jack, Dennis isn’t sure, but he doesn’t feel nearly as embarrassed as he had earlier. Realistically, his rising fever and the fact that it’s nearing 2AM are probably the leading factors. Even then, he goes to apologize, as if by instinct, “sorhhy’yYsSCHhiew!itTsXCh!”

“Bless you.” Robby and Jack murmur in unison, and Dennis clears his throat before trying again.

“Sorry. That was…”

“Completely unintentional?” Jack supplements when Dennis pauses.

“I was thinking more along the lines of gross.” Dennis’s sheepish admission is accompanied with a little smile as Jack brushes his hand over his side.

“Robby was right. You apologize too much.”

Dennis blinks in surprise as he processes Jack’s words. He turns to Robby, his affronted expression earning a little grin from his boyfriend.

“Don’t start. It’s too late for this.” Robby’s teasing deflection is in part true. They should all be asleep, especially if the two sickies want to kick this cold soon. Dennis huffs, but lets his complaints go unsaid. Jack flicks off the lamp on the nightstand and shifts closer so Dennis is perfectly wedged between the two attendings – God, Trinity would have a field day if she saw him like this.

“I’ll start tomorrow then,” Dennis mutters indignantly, but Robby can tell that he’s smiling after saying it.

There’s a pause, just as Dennis starts to feel incredibly cosy and safe, when Robby curses under his breath. “Tylenol,” he remembers aloud, moving slightly in an attempt to sit.

“Oh, no you dont—“ Jack sits up, grabbing his crutches and prepping himself to leave the room instead. “You’re sick too. I’m getting you both some. Maybe some cough syrup too, actually.”

“What flavour?” Dennis asks, groaning extra dramatically as Jack leaves the bed; taking away half of the comfort and warmth he was gaining so accustomed to.

There’s no answer, so he fears the worst… although, he’s so stuffy he won’t really be able to taste it much. Dennis stays lying down, curling up against Robby now, who wraps his arms around him and mumbles something about how they’re going to have to sit up soon and the light will be back on.

A few minutes later Jack returns, giving a gentle pre-warning about the incoming burst of light… which, even though he hides his eyes, sends Dennis into a small fit once again. ‘hh’ishHyYiew! ‘kshiew! ‘tsH-ShhH-!’ Caught against the pillow he had been trying to use as a shield against the enemy (the lamp.)

“Bless you, darling,” Robby hums, his voice sweet like honey to Dennis’ ears.

Jack, who had been busy opening up the cough syrup, smiles. “What he said.”

Dennis shakes his head a little, sniffling as the itch persists. He pushes himself into an upright position, blinking rapidly as his eyes flutter shut, “hhih–” he ducks into his elbow just in time to catch a quick double, “schHhew! t’chhiew!’

“You done?” Jack asks with a little smirk and upon receiving a nod from Dennis, he adds, “Good. Bless you.”

“Thangk you.” Dennis pauses as he registers the congestion in his voice, sniffling to try to combat the discomfort settling in his sinuses.

“Here,” he’s handed a clean handkerchief by Jack, “blow your nose while I force meds into Robby.” He jests slightly, smiling.

Robby, who is very good and does as he’s told, takes the Tylenol he is handed and then the spoonful of cherry flavoured cough syrup; only pulling a slight face of disgust afterwards. “Was that really so bad?” Jack chastises, a smirk on his lips.

“Personally, I prefer the blackcurrant stuff,” Robby replies, lying back down.

“Yeah, well they were all out, wise ass.”

Grumbling, Robby lies back down, but they both know he isn’t really upset about it. “Good boy,” Jack teases, tucking the covers over him, before moving on to Dennis.

Despite having just reassured Jack that he’s done sneezing, Dennis is waiting with a hazy expression, the handkerchief half raised as his brows knit together. His nose is twitching again, the itch just present enough to demand his attention. After a few seconds of enduring its teasing, Dennis scrunches up his nose in an attempt to lessen the buzzing of his sinuses.

The itch dances to the tip of his nose, forcing his nostrils to flare outwards and his breath to stutter into a little hitch. The gasp falls lamely into a light cough before building up once again. He waits, sitting in that irritating, inexplicable limbo as his sinuses tease him.

Jack watches with bated breath, his mouth going dry as he observes Dennis’s expression be so utterly desperate. Robby follows his gaze, letting out a quiet noise of sympathy as he notes Dennis’s evident need to sneeze.

“Stuck again?”

Dennis nods, his mouth falling further agape with a sharp ‘hhH–’ that once again forms nothing more than an exhale and a quiet whine. Moisture clings to the ends of his lashes, collecting at their base and threatening to slip down over rosy cheeks. In sum, he looks just as miserable as he does desperate.

Robby shifts closer just as Dennis starts hitching again, breaths stacking on top of each other more quickly than he can handle. “You’re okay,” Robby hums, his hand finding the nape of Dennis’s neck – it’s warmer than it should be, he notes. “Can you take a deep breath in?”

Dennis shakes his head, curls bouncing as he wordlessly expresses his inability to do anything aside from hitch. Robby’s fingers apply a light pressure to the back of his neck in an attempt to ground him. “M’kay,” he acknowledges, “we can wait it out.”

His thumb rubs little circles over Dennis’s spine, and Robby can feel each gasp and hitch. They’re occasionally interrupted by a small cough or a false start that leaves Dennis whining at the false promise of relief.

Once Jack breaks himself from his trance, he follows Robby’s lead, placing a hand on Dennis’s knee and giving it a little squeeze. He meets Robby’s gaze, brows knit in concern at the younger man’s evident discomfort and receives a small nod of encouragement from Robby. Jack shifts closer to Dennis, his eyes remaining glued to his face.

He racks his brain trying to remember the details and stories Robby has told him, filing through his memory in an attempt to find something, anything that might inform him how to help. His mind falls short, and he’s left with the uncomfortable truth that this is uncharted, very much unknown territory.

With Robby, Jack knows what to say, what buttons to push, which boundaries never to cross, when to touch, when to tease, how to comfort, how to protect. With Dennis, Jack knows only what he’s learned in their brief encounters and the stories Robby tells. He must’ve done something right though because even in Dennis’s desperation to sneeze, some of the tension in his leg eases as Jack touches him.

After another excruciatingly long minute of hitching, Dennis’s breath finally stutters into a flurry of soft, congested sneezes, “id’dSCh! ngKSxCh!idSSCh! k’tTzZXch’ew! ihHsSSCH!-tsch-tssh!”

“Bless you,” Robby’s hand slips down to Dennis’s lower back just as his breath catches again, his body apparently unappeased by the fit. Robby raises a brow. “Again?”

Dennis isn’t even granted the opportunity to reply. He dives deeper into the handkerchief, shoulders hunching with the second wave. “hgKsChh!hih–idDtTSCHh’ksch! ih-hHh…” he pauses briefly, faltering with a false start and a whine of utter frustration.

“Jesus.” Jack can’t help but comment; it falls somewhere between sympathy and surprise.

“Sorry,” the younger man sniffles, silently contemplating whether or not to get up to the bathroom to hide away and blow his nose; and most likely sneeze more, away from the extra pair of eyes. He knew Jack meant no harm, but sometimes just one extra person who wasn’t Robby being around when he was like this felt all too much.

“Hey,” Jack begins, moving his hand up to Dennis’ shoulder, “you don’t have to apologise. You can’t help it — is there anything we can do to help?” He offers gently, still feeling a little lost and in uncharted territory.

Dennis shakes his head, keeping the handkerchief steepled over the lower half of his face. “No, it just gets like this when I’m sick. There’s not much to do aside from hh–” his sentence stops with an abrupt hitch, earning an another irritated whine followed by a few quick sneezes, “idSCh–kzZxdch–it’sSChh!”

Luckily, the itch abides after the soft triple; they’re barely even full expulsions, just breathy, damp aftershocks from the fit.

“Bless you,” Robby hums again – how he hasn’t gotten tired of saying it today, Dennis isn’t sure.

Dennis finally lowers the handkerchief, his nose a darker pink than it had been before, and mumbles, “thank you.”

[softblesses]

Part: 4/4. (Part two incoming…)

Word count: 530. (I should’ve split it up better, but I only have one brain cell, so there we go.)

It reaches three am, and this time both Robby and Dennis are asleep, which only means there’s double the snoring, snuffling and general noises of congestion there to keep Jack awake. He doesn’t actually mind it all that much — it lets him know his partners are doing okay, and it’s all rather endearing. But, come four am when he’s still struggling to drift off, he contemplates his choices; search the nightstand as quietly as possible for some ear plugs, go and sleep on the couch or… just wait it out.

He chooses the latter, because he’d rather hear better in case one of them needs him, and being in the living also makes that difficult — not to mention lonely — and, it must eventually work, because the next thing Jack knows is that he’s being dragged out of his slumber by quiet whimpering coming from beside him. Jack rolls over gently enough so as not to disturb anyone, and reaches out for Dennis.

“Hey,” he whispers, “you’re okay.” Assuming he’s having a nightmare, Jack rubs the man’s shoulder, moving down to the small of his back; the smaller man curling into the touch, the whimpering and quiet sounds of distress beginning to dissipate already at the comfort.

Dennis goes quiet (well, aside from the obvious symphony of general cold noises) for a moment or two, staying still, before turning his body again and beginning to hitch a little as he rolls toward Robby. Jack isn’t sure if he’s asleep, awake, or somewhere in between, but tries to reach out to him all the same.

“Dennis?” He whispers, drawing him carefully away from Robby so as not to wake him, too. “You okay?”

“hhmmnnnghh..” is the only reply, which Jack supposes is potentially a clue to the fact he’s definitely somewhere in between wakefulness and sleep right now.

“Bad dream,” Dennis whispers against Jack’s chest, as he seems to become a little more lucid. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Jack lies, “you need anything? Sounding a little wheezy there.” Their close proximity has Dennis’ body heat radiating against him, and… each and every part of the pair is close, but Jack’s too tired to properly consider that; as is Dennis, clearly.

“Mmm… deal with it tomorrow?” He murmurs, sniffling. “‘S’okay.”

Jack slips a hand over Dennis’s back, resting it between his shoulderblades and feeling the unsteady rise and fall of his breathing. “You sure?” He asks doubtfully, only receiving a nod in response.

Dennis all but melts against Jack as he starts to doze off again, apparently unbothered by the sticky warmth trapped between the two of them. Dennis’s fever must have risen, his skin wouldn’t be radiating heat if it hadn’t.

Against his better judgement, Jack drops the subject, letting Dennis cling to him and hoping that a few more hours of sleep will help his body recover. “Alright,” he murmurs, “sleep well.” Just as Dennis returns to his state of stuffy snoring.

Jack smiles. He’ll keep an eye on them both, listening out for any signs of worsening, but for now they all seem to be comfortable. Maybe himself the least so, but would he trade it for anything else? God no.

End.

Part two incoming…

[lilies-and-hyacinths]

Just Tired (H/eated R/ivalry, S/hane)

Summary: S/hane gets sick during the playoffs and tries like hell not to be. I/lya gets big gooey heart eyes about it and gives him a massage. Set during their first year as a couple, right after I/lya switches teams and moves closer. (Contains possible kink I/lya, if you squint.)

*

“You okay, H/ollander? Moving slow this morning.”

S/hane could feel his brain moving at a glacial pace as he fought to comprehend the words that had been tossed at him carelessly by a teammate. He’d woken up this morning feeling like he was half-underwater, like everything was hazy and dreamlike, but not in a nice way.

He’d dragged himself slowly to morning practice, even when I/lya—already out of the playoffs this year, and sleeping at S/hane’s apartment—had teased that he should just come back to bed “if he was going to be such a slowpoke”.

By the time he’d processed JJ’s words, JJ had skated off, leaving him behind. “I’m just tired,” S/hane said, protesting to no one. He swiped a glove under his nose, which had started running from being out on the ice.

That was all it was. Just tired.

He picked up his hockey stick and kept moving.

*

After practice, Hayden was chatting at him by the lockers. Something aimless, about Jackie’s latest bird food recipe for him. Something that didn’t require a lot of participation on Shane’s part, thank God. He hadn’t been able to shake off this morning’s haziness quite yet, and practice had only made him feel slower, heavier in his bones.

“You good, bro?” Hayden interrupted himself to ask. He poked at Shane’s arm, as if imagining that Shane would deflate like a balloon. “You’re really pale over there. Like, more than usual. I think I can count all your freckles.”

Shane cleared his throat, shifting away from Hayden to avoid more poking. He picked up his water bottle and took a long gulp. “Just dehydrated, I think. Skipped my morning smoothie.”

Not because his throat had hurt. He just hadn’t been thirsty.

“Okay,” Hayden said cheerfully. “I bet you could find someplace around here that makes them just as disgustingly healthy as you do.”

Shane flipped him off and headed for the showers, ignoring Hayden’s cackle of laughter behind him. The water was cold when he stepped into the spray, and Shane couldn’t keep himself from immediately snapping forward with a sneeze.

“hh’esshht!”

He caught it in his elbow, thanking God that none of his other teammates were in the showers just yet. He hated when the cold made him… him…

This one, he managed to mostly stifle between his pinched thumb and forefinger. “hh’nkkt!”

And the next two. “hh’ngkt! …HAH’ngxxkk!”

The last one had come with a louder inhale than he’d wanted, and he knew he needed to blow his nose or risk this turning into a bigger fit. He fumbled to turn the shower off, reaching blindly for his towel.

“Hollander, you alr—?”

“HEHHT’sschhh!” he sneezed again, hastily into the palm of his hand, this time only partially keeping the sound of it contained. He could feel the congestion building up, and they were only going to get wetter. Reluctantly, he brought his towel up to his face and bullied his nose with the rough fabric until the tickle died down.

“Jesus, man,” Miitka said, giving him a wide berth as he went to another shower stall. “You don’t sound too good.”

“S’just from the cold water,” Shane muttered, wishing he still had the showers to himself so he could blow his nose without an audience. Giving up on the shower, he wrapped the towel around himself and booked it for the bathrooms so he could clear out his sinuses in peace.

*

Hayden talked him into lunch with the team, some poor eatery that wasn’t prepared for twelve hockey players and their humongous appetites. Shane was just grateful they had a single salad on the menu with his safe foods in it.

They didn’t have ginger ale, though. He was surprised by how actually upset he felt about that, having to push back the barest prick of tears in his eyes.

He felt… raw. Like an exposed nerve. His sensitivity surprised him. Practice had really worn him out.

“You’re shivering, dude,” a teammate told him.

Shane struggled to swallow his bite of salad. His throat was dry, the tiniest bit sore, and he chugged more water to fix it. “Yeah, we’re right under the vent,” he said, though it really wasn’t even that cold.

The next sip of water went down the wrong way, and he couldn’t keep from coughing, pressing his face into his elbow and praying he would stop before his teammates started thumping him on the back. His skin felt hypersensitive, probably from the cold of the vent plus overexercise at practice, and he suddenly couldn’t bear the idea of being touched.

He pushed his chair back, the sound of it scraping the floor hurting his ears, and mumbled an excuse before booking it to the bathrooms. In there, he coughed until tears burned at the corners of his eyes, swallowing tap water from the sink—which he usually avoided drinking on principle—to finally make himself stop.

Hands braced on the edges of the sink, Shane looked up and eyed himself in the mirror warily. He forced himself to take in the facts. A wet shimmer in his eyes from the tears. Dark under eye circles. Skin so pale he could see his freckles standing out. He sniffled—there was a thickness there, like inflammation and congestion both settling in. His throat still tickled a little bit. His skin still hurt, and maybe it wasn’t from overexertion after all.

His grip on the sink tightened. “No,” he told his reflection, firm and insistent. “This is not happening.”

*

He made it through the rest of lunch without doing anything to stand out or embarrass himself, which he was thankful for. Hayden had offered a hangout at his place afterward, a way to chill out before the game, but didn’t seem too pressed when Shane declined. He’d begged off for a nap at his place instead, which was a common thing for players to do before a game, thank God.

He slid into his car and rested his forehead against the steering wheel for a minute before forcing himself to sit up. Now that he wasn’t in the group, the pressure to act normal was off him, and he suddenly felt so tired that he thought he might actually nap once he got home. He hoped Ilya wouldn’t mind—he probably expected some marathon sex session, knowing him.

Shane had decided by the end of lunch that his moment in the bathroom had just been pre-game nerves. He was not sick. There was no way, he didn’t have time for it, and he hadn’t been around anyone sick. Well, Hayden’s crew always had some bug going around, but Hayden himself seemed fine, didn’t he? So it stood to reason that Shane had to be fine, too.

“hh’TSSCHH’sheww!” He flinched forward with a sudden sneeze before he could stop himself. His nose tingled, like he’d been dusting or something, and the sneeze felt wetter, heavier, than he was used to. Shane lifted a hand to his face to try to scrub the tickle away, only for it to abruptly transform into another sneeze that refused to be held back, forcing him to shield the spray with only a palm. “hh’TCCHHH!”

Once he’d recovered himself, sniffling into a takeout napkin that Ilya had probably left in his car, and regretting not having any tissues, he slumped back against his seat. “Fuck.”

He drove back to the apartment, suddenly overwhelmed with the proof of his immune system giving up. He kept having to stifle back little fits of sneezes, like he’d done in the shower that morning, so he wouldn’t wreck his car. His throat protested, too, but he wasn’t coughing. Yet, he thought ominously. And his skin ached, worse than this morning.

The drive itself was short and uneventful, aside from all his symptoms refusing to be dammed back anymore, and he’d spent the whole time daydreaming about his bed, but he found himself lingering in the car once he’d parked. He didn’t know what he’d say to Ilya once he got inside, Ilya who’d been waiting all day for him—“hey, thanks for making the inconvenient drive from your new apartment in Ottawa, but I’m sick, so leave me alone? I appreciate your eternal devotion, but my nose is stuffy, so get the hell out?”

He’d never been sick around Ilya before, not beyond little post-game sniffles they’d been able to ignore during hookups, and certainly nothing since they’d made their relationship official. His immune system’s sudden breakdown made him a little nervous for Ilya’s reaction. It was inconvenient, it was gross, and worst of all, it was weak.

Eventually, he had to force himself inside, knowing that he needed the nap before it got too late in the day. What he didn’t want was to go into the game tonight exhausted and… and sick. It was the playoffs, for God’s sake. He cursed, dragging his feet and making his way to his floor.

Ilya was lying on the couch, playing one of those stupid ad-ridden games on his phone that he was addicted to. “Good practice?” Ilya called out, not taking his eyes off his game.

For once, Shane was grateful not to have the weight of Ilya’s full attention on him. Usually he craved it, but today he felt like ducking notice as much as possible. He croaked out a, “Yeah,” and slunk into the kitchen like a dog trying to avoid getting into trouble. He was halfway through making his afternoon protein shake when he felt Ilya slide up behind him, wrapping his arms around Shane’s stomach and pressing his chin into Shane’s shoulder.

“Okay?” Ilya asked.

Shane couldn’t keep himself from smiling. He loved the way Ilya pronounced that word, so quintessentially Russian. “Tired,” he said, clinging onto the excuses that the team had bought wholeheartedly all morning. Just tired. Just dehydrated. Just cold. Really cold, actually, now that he’d stopped moving. He shivered.

Ilya seemed to read his mind, rubbing his hands up and down Shane’s arms to soothe the goosebumps. “Chilly,” Ilya said, an observation and not a question.

“The, uh, restaurant was kind of cold.”

“And the car on the way home?” Ilya asked.

Shane could feel Ilya’s raised eyebrows without turning around to look at him. He stayed very still, like a prey animal hoping to avoid the predator’s eye.

Ilya waited a beat, then sighed and rubbed Shane’s arms again, this time more to comfort than to warm. “Malyyysh,” he said, drawing the word out until it was almost a tease. It was one of Shane’s favorite pet names, and he knew it. “You are getting sick, I think? Yes?”

Shane felt caught, like the prey animal he’d imagined himself as. Maybe he needed to stop thinking in metaphors. “I’m fine,” he protested, but his voice broke awkwardly on the words, leaving him exposed in the lie, and he abruptly knew there was no point in it. Ilya always knew all the things he wanted to hide. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he nodded. “You can go whenever.”

“Go? Go where?” Ilya asked, actually sounding surprised. “You think I am going to leave, malysh?”

“I mean… yeah?” He let himself sniffle, feeling the drag as it caught uncomfortably in his swollen sinus passages. What was the point in hiding it anymore? “I wouldn’t blame you for not wanting to catch this.”

Ilya shrugged and draped himself over Shane even harder, if that were possible. “I am out for the playoffs already. Does not matter if I get sick.”

Shane groaned at the reminder of tonight’s game. He brought up a hand and scrubbed at his eyes. They were so tired they were starting to pulse, but he was dreading lying down. There was no way he woke up feeling any better than he felt now—most likely, it would be even worse, and then he’d still have the game to play.

“You, though,” Ilya mused, reading his mind again. “We need to do something about this, yes?”

“Like what?” Shane snapped. Immediately, he sighed and rubbed at his nose, feeling it prickle at the touch uncomfortably. “Sorry. I’m… shit, I’m sorry. I don’t feel great. And I don’t have time to be sick right now. I have so much to do.”

Ilya huffed out a laugh and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder over his shirt. “I do not think you get a choice in this, Hollander. It’s okay, though. We fix.”

Shane couldn’t help but feel curious. “How?”

He let Ilya take charge from there, leading him into the bedroom and gathering up comfy pajamas. “Ilya,” he put up a token protest when Ilya physically pushed him toward the bed, “I’m sorry, I really don’t feel like—”

“Thank you, Shane, I know this,” Ilya put in with patience, rolling his eyes with a fond smile. “I am not here to rock your world, at least not right now. But how will you nap with dress shirt, hm? Put on your pajamas.” Ilya shoved a soft pair of sweatpants in his direction, then disappeared into the en-suite bathroom.

Shane changed his pants and sat down on the bed while Ilya perused the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. The prickling in his nose had only grown more insistent, teasing and annoying in equal measure. He stripped out of his dress shirt, making to fold it as he sat there shirtless, but the teasing sensation abruptly transformed into the immediate, undeniable need to sneeze. Casting the shirt to the side, he ducked into his cupped hands, stifling the sneezes back as much as he could. “heh’kxxt! heh… hih’KGGXHHT!”

The two sneezes were rougher than he was used to. Drier, though that was because he’d been stifling; he could feel wetness begging to come out, congestion having thoroughly settled in his sinuses. They had hurt from the force of stifling, too, and he resisted the urge to groan.

“Bless you,” Ilya called out from the bathroom.

And after all that, they’d still been audible, making it hardly worth the effort.

Shane blushed, scrubbing at his nose until the lingering tickle died down. “Thangks,” he muttered, feeling now just how stuffy he was getting.

Ilya returned from the bathroom with a bottle of cold medicine in hand. “You should not hold them back like that,” he informed Shane, measuring out a dose. He handed it over matter of factly, leaving Shane feeling like he was six years old again.

“I’ll keep that ind mbind,” Shane mumbled, flushing again when he heard how congested he sounded in his n’s and m’s. “That’s what everybody says.”

“You will give yourself sinus infection,” Ilya said. He gestured at his own thrice-broken nose and deviated septum with lighthearted self-deprecation. “Take it from someone who gets one every year: they suck. Take your medicine.”

“Jeez,” Shane cracked a smile, unable to help himself. “I wouldn’t have pictured you as such a mother hen.” He downed the medicine like a shot, praying it worked quickly. Sitting down had let him relax a little, and all he could focus on now was the way his body ached. He hoped he wasn’t spiking a fever. He’d be useless tonight if he couldn’t even skate straight.

Ilya only grinned and took charge once again: hanging up the dress shirt so Shane wouldn’t fuss over folding it, putting away the rest of his clothes, and ushering him into bed. He even went to get Shane the protein shake he’d left behind in the kitchen.

By the time Ilya got back from the kitchen, Shane was sitting up against the headboard, trying to coax out the sneeze that had been taunting him for the last few minutes. He had grabbed a handful of tissues from the fresh box Ilya had left on the nightstand, but it just wouldn’t come. He dragged the tissue over his nose, featherlight this time, and felt his breath finally catch in the way he’d been waiting for. Too relieved to stifle, he let it come out a little louder than typical for him. “hehh… HEHHH… HEPT’SHHIEWW!”

“Bless you,” Ilya said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

But he wasn’t done. He rubbed at his nose through the tissue and hitched again, helpless until the itch was finished with him. “huhh—!” It was fighting him. Frustrated, he hovered over the tissue, feeling his breath catch again and again as the tickle teased him some more. “huhh… huhHH—!”

“Oh,” Ilya said, a little surprised but mostly teasing him, just as surely as the tickle was. “Oh, I see. One is not enough, you go again?”

Shane’s eyes were closed, so he was surprised to feel Ilya’s fingers brush against his cheek, the tips dragging at the bridge of his nose.

“You need help, hm?” Ilya murmured, gentle but ribbing him. “A little assist?”

The hockey pun wasn’t lost on him, but he didn’t have time to react as Ilya’s gentle touch, plus the tickle in his sinuses, overwhelmed him. He crashed forward into his lap, the tissue barely covering everything as he gave in and let the explosion burst out. “HUUSSCHHH’OOH!”

It was bigger than any sneeze he could remember having, huge and soaking and demanding. It sounded like one of Ilya’s sneezes, actually, loud and satisfying. Shane moaned, half relief and half embarrassment. Maybe a little bit turned on, too, though he couldn’t explain why. He was Pavloved to Ilya’s touch in all circumstances—even the snotty ones, apparently.

Ilya sucked in air against his teeth, surprised. “Big sneeze, moya lyubov.”

Shane’s shoulders hunched, the embarrassment belatedly winning out. “Sorry,” he mumbled into the tissue he’d sneezed into, feeling its dampness against his skin. Gross. He blew gently, trying not to be as loud as he knew he could be. Jeez, this cold was turning out wet. Just what he needed.

“Is okay,” Ilya said softly. His hands were suddenly everywhere on Shane, rubbing his shoulders and taking away the tissue to throw it away for him. “Lie on your stomach? I have idea.”

Those were usually Shane’s words—he’d have an idea, and Ilya would grumble and groan but eventually give in. The role reversal took Shane by surprise. This whole afternoon was taking him by surprise, honestly. Ilya was being so soft, so calm, so unexpectedly sincere.

It was… nice. So nice he didn’t even put up a token protest, only flopping back onto the bed and rolling onto his stomach. It was harder than usual, breathing in this position with his nose so stuffy, and he propped his chin on folded arms to make it a little easier.

Then Ilya sat on the backs of his thighs, and Shane didn’t breathe at all for a second. “I-Ilya,” he said, coughing a little with the shock. “I… I really dond’t thingk…”

“You don’t want back rub?” Ilya teased. “I will be gentle, solnyshko. Will help you sleep, I promise.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the back of Shane’s neck. His next words came out breathy, his exhale felt on Shane’s neck. “I promise, is all this is.”

Shane could feel the evidence of Ilya’s arousal against his ass, but he didn’t argue. A massage sounded amazing, if he didn’t fall asleep immediately. Why had he ever been against the thought of a nap? Now that he was horizontal, he could barely keep his eyes open. “Mmb… ogkay,” he said sleepily. “No funndy busindess.”

Ilya snorted at Shane’s congested words. “Sure, sweetheart. No funny business.”

For a moment, nothing. Then, Ilya’s hands were on Shane’s shoulders, gentle at first before he started to dig into the muscles. Several minutes of this passed peacefully before Ilya spoke again.

“Was going to do this for you anyway, what with the playoffs. Good for sore muscles,” Ilya mused out loud. He dug his thumb into a knotted spot that had Shane groaning into his folded arms. “But it will probably help you sleep off this bad cold, too, hm?”

Shane shivered a little, though he wasn’t cold, exactly. He felt warm, and hazy with sleep, and cared for even when he was being gross, and the combination was kind of intoxicating. His nose started to tickle, and all he could bring himself to do to fend it off was to rub it hard against his forearm.

“Tired yet, malysh?” Ilya murmured. His touch was firm but not painful, teasing and prying at all the knots of tension Shane carried in his shoulders and back until they simply fell apart. It felt better than any physio.

“Mmb…” Shane knew he’d made a sound in response, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to form words for a response. He felt so sleepy, and maybe a little hazy off the cold medicine starting to kick in, and abruptly ticklish… God, his nose felt so unbelievably sensitive with this cold…

“Shane?” Ilya asked, pressing hard at a stubborn knot in one shoulder.

He couldn’t focus long enough to say something, anything, to reassure Ilya. All of his concentration was suddenly on the tickle, but oddly enough, he didn’t feel like fighting it for once. He sucked in a hasty breath, letting the sneezes burst out of him in a wet, needy rush that felt so, so satisfying.

“heh… hehhh’shieww!” He sneezed, feeling the hot, damp air of it as he sprayed helplessly across his forearms and into the sheets. Immediately, he was inhaling for the next one, no time to even think of covering or stifling it, no desire to do so even if he’d had time. “huhh… huh’hupshhoohh! Oh…. I’mb… huhhsshheww! Ohhh…”

God, the relief of them had been intense. They’d been softer than his previous sneezes, but no less powerful. His nose still tingled, like it might need to sneeze again in a moment but was in no hurry to do so. He found himself completely uncaring of the fact that he’d sneezed so openly and wetly on himself, right in front of his boyfriend. Too tired and overwhelmed with this cold to even be embarrassed anymore.

“Oh, Shane,” Ilya said, a little hoarse. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Shane’s shoulder, chaste and sweet. “Bless you, sweetheart. Feel better?”

Shane smiled into his forearms, half-drunk on sleepiness and the cold medicine. “Bet-ter,” he said, gently mimicking Ilya’s accent. “Will you nap with me?”

Ilya smoothed his hands over Shane’s shoulders and back one more time, feeling for any remaining knots. Then, satisfied with his work, he dismounted and collapsed back onto the bed beside Shane, eyeing him with a lazy smile. “Nothing I’d rather do,” Ilya said genuinely. “Come here, malysh.”

Shane army crawled into Ilya’s arms, resting his head on his chest. With what little remained of his rationality, he hoped and prayed he wouldn’t sneeze into Ilya’s chest. He’d embarrassed himself enough for one afternoon, and even Ilya couldn’t possibly be so accepting after that. He’d already put up with Shane sneezing and sniffling all over himself.

Shane felt like he was dreaming already. He’d never imagined, this morning, that Ilya would stay through all this, would take care of him. “Thanks for staying,” he mumbled into Ilya’s skin. “You’re good at this.”

Ilya pressed a kiss into his hair, so quiet and gentle that Shane wouldn’t have known it had happened at all if he hadn’t felt the slight pressure. “I have been waiting a long time,” he said softly, “to take care of you in all the ways I want to.”

Shane felt a little overwhelmed by that—he was frequently overwhelmed by the depth of Ilya’s love, when he least expected it—and he couldn’t think of the right thing to say. He snuggled further into Ilya’s arms and pressed his own kiss into the skin just beside Ilya’s nipple. “Me too,” he whispered.

“I know,” Ilya said. His hands petted Shane absently, soothing over the nape of his neck and across his back. “Sleep, malysh. I will wake you when it’s time.”

*

It was getting to the end of the game by the time Shane really started flagging.

He’d woken up from his nap to another dose of meds already ready for him, along with hot tea and Gatorade. Ilya had kept him well-hydrated as he’d eaten a light dinner and prepped for the game, and it had done a lot to soothe his headache and growing cough. Keeping hydrated had also kept him with a permanently streaming nose, so Ilya had pushed bundles of tissues into his hands every few minutes to address it, until it was time for him to catch his ride for the game.

Shane had made it to the stadium feeling decently okay to play, though he couldn’t quit sniffling, to the point where Hayden had noticed. “Thought you were just dehydrated,” he’d said dryly in the locker room.

“Caught your Pike plague, I guess,” Shane responded snarkily, thumbing at his nose and praying it behaved itself during the game. He’d been feeling too annoyed and self-indulgent to even pretend not to be sick.

Hayden only rolled his eyes with a grin and shoved a water bottle at him. He’d been nice about it, at least.

Shane had played fairly well, though now as they wound down, he could feel himself starting to droop. There were only a couple of minutes left in the game, and Montreal had the lead by 1, which he felt confident in. They’d win tonight, putting them into the next round of the playoffs, which would earn Shane a couple of nights to rest off this cold. He could feel now how badly he needed it.

He finished his shift on the ice, collapsing readily onto the bench and watching his teammates play with bated breath.

“…hihh—!”

Okay, not so much bated breath, maybe. The sneeze had snuck up on him, but he’d been fighting them off all evening, increasingly more as the game went on. This tickle was insistent, though, and he was exhausted and worn down by all the energy he’d spent playing. Unable to help himself, he snapped forward with the sneeze, hastily buried into the elbow of his jersey. “hiiihh’tiisschhoohh!”

The sneeze was damp, airy, and not half as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be. He sniffled on the inhale of his next breath, and the tickle burst back into life, forcing him to immediately hitch and sneeze again on the exhale. “…sndff… huhh—tchh’shhuhh!”

Fuck, he could feel eyes on him. Maybe even the cameras. He prayed that this wasn’t being broadcast to the whole stadium. He couldn’t check himself, because his eyes were still shut tight, his head rearing back as he got ready for another one.

“hetchhshh!” he exploded for the third time, this sneeze wetter and heavier than the others.

It seemed to be the last, for now. He emerged from his elbow, feeling the redness in his cheeks as he caught the eyes of his teammates watching him. He sniffled, dragging his arm under his nose when that wasn’t enough to stop the flood, and he cringed at how disgusting that was.

The game ended soon after, wrapping up their advance to the next round of the playoffs like he’d hoped. Shane hurried his way through his shower and cool-down, ready to get home. He checked his phone first chance he got, seeing several texts from Ilya commentating on the game throughout.

And then, the most recent text, from the last few minutes of the game:

Lily: God bless you sweetheart! That looked like a strong fit. I will have tissues ready for you when you get home ❤️

Well, that was confirmation that the cameras had caught him all sick and sneezy for the audiences at home to see. Shane knew he was blushing down at his phone, and he hoped his teammates didn’t notice. He couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the text, only letting Ilya know in a brief message when he was leaving the stadium.

The car ride home was quick, or at least he thought it was, but he was really starting to fade now that the adrenaline from the game was wearing off. Time was losing its meaning. Before he knew it, he was stumbling out of the car and up to his apartment. The elevator ride was equally hazy, and by the time he made it to his door, all he could focus on was the idea of his bed, with Ilya in it. That, and the resurging tickle in his nose.

He pushed his way through the front door just as the tickle caught up to him. Helpless to stop it, and not really in the mood to try to crush it down, for once he just let himself sneeze as loudly as his body needed to. He bent forward at the waist, barely catching a pair of violent, huge sneezes in his cupped hands.

“HUUPPSSCHHOOHH! huhh… sndff… huh-huh… hh’HUUTTSSCHHOOOHH!”

Jesus Christ, that had felt agonizingly good. He panted into his hands for a second, trying to see if there would be more, and decided that that had been enough to satisfy his sinuses for now. He sniffled thickly and straightened.

Ilya, who’d been approaching, stood in front of him, a little frozen in shock from the outburst he’d just witnessed. He blinked and recovered, coming up to hug Shane and produce a handful of tissues for him from his pocket. “Big big sneezes, malysh!” he exclaimed. “Game wear you out? You played well.”

He’d have played much better healthy, but Shane wasn’t in the mood to diagnose his errors tonight. That was unusual for him, but he was just too tired, and Ilya’s arms around him were so warm…

He took the tissues and blew his nose, cringing when he filled the tissues immediately. “Ugh, thangks,” he said, his voice more of a congested rasp than it had been just an hour ago. “Umb, do you have andy mbore…?”

Ilya readily handed over more tissues, and Shane blew his nose again, coughing a little afterward. His nose felt clearer, though, and his head was not-unpleasantly foggy as his body and brain equally decided they were ready to give up for the night. “Bed?” he suggested hopefully.

Ilya laughed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, guiding him toward the bedroom. “Once you have your meds again,” he said, “you can lay down. And maybe, if you are good, I will rub your back again.”

Shane felt pretty sure he’d be asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, massage be damned, but he let Ilya talk up the prospect of it anyway as he put on pajamas and took a dose of the nighttime stuff that Ilya had carefully measured out for him. He could cash in on the massage tomorrow, maybe, when he undoubtedly woke up feeling achy and exhausted after exacerbating his cold with tonight’s game.

And maybe, in a couple of days when Ilya inevitably started sneezing and coughing himself, Shane could flip the tables around and return the favor. He was feeling pretty grateful, after all.

“Thangks for all this,” he said throatily, half from illness and half from emotion, as he curled into Ilya’s arms in bed. It couldn’t have even been midnight, but Ilya hadn’t protested the early bedtime at all, and that was making him feel more mushy than usual with this cold fucking with his emotions. “Taking care of mbe, I mbean. Staying.”

Ilya squeezed him a little tighter, like Shane was going to slip out of his arms. “I would not be anywhere else,” was his unusually serious response. “I love you, moya lyubov.”

Shane felt his eyes drifting shut. “Love you too,” he mumbled, just as he fell asleep.

[mew31]

Thought for the day

A is annoyed at B for being in the shower for ages and using all the hot water. Unbeknownst to them, B has come down with something, and the shower was the only thing relieving their congestion. Not to mention comforting and warm against their achy body.

A goes to confront them, but their whole demeanor softens when they find B perched on the edge of the bed, towel pulled tightly around them. Still naked and damp, shivering, and sneezing pathetically.

[snzqt]

"how are you feeling?"

"i cad't.. f-fuckidg breathehh— hhH.. hhHD'SHIEW! HH'EWSHOO! sdff.. EUGH'SHIEWW! f-fuck.."

"oh love, those were really intense"

"i-it.. itdches.. so.. baddhh— HEEE'TSCHWW! h-hh.. nghhh— GHH'SHWWDD! sdFF.."

"hey, easy.. you're gonna hurt yourself"

"I kd'now.. snnff— i cad't help it.."

"poor thing"

[sickhaze]

oh, sweetheart... || h/eated r/ivalry 🏒 || sk/ip 🫐🍌 || NSFW 🔞

→ today, i come bearing plotless, highly indulgent, sk/ip pwp with kink!scott. dug out from the depth of my archives, dusted off, finished up, and given a fresh lick of paint. because that's apparently my coping mechanism now for dealing with real life hockey stress, lmao. → hope you enjoy! → 2.3kish

The apartment was dark when they arrived home, silent and still until they stumbled in.

Kip shrugged out of his coat as Scott set off on a circuit of the living room, flipping on each lamp he passed before returning to him. They were still giggling over the story Scott was telling in the elevator about some of the Admirals rookies’ misguided post-game celebrations on the road trip he wasn’t long back from.

They were both pleasantly tipsy, the whispers of alcohol and good company warming their blood. Scott had a rare day off from practice the next day and they’d taken full advantage of it, taking up an invitation to go meet Kip’s friends down at the Kingfisher for a drink. Honestly, for no other reason than to catch up, gossip, laugh, have a bit of a bitch and a moan about the little grievances in life like you just needed to sometimes.

It was nice. Shoved into a cozy, intimate little booth as they were, Scott’s thigh pressed into his own, hot and inescapably present, the whole evening. Sometime after Scott’s second pint, his hand had joined it.

Early in their relationship, Kip used to fantasise about times like this. Wistful but in no way certain there’d ever actually be a day when they could be seen together in public without Scott skirting on the edge of a panic attack, never mind hold hands. Or press a kiss into each other’s cheek. Or cuddle up next to each other in the corner of a booth in a bar. Each gesture that once felt like an incriminating little snapshot inside their own heads, encased in barbed wire and branded a danger, repurposed into being, well, normal.

Even so, Kip’s heart still fluttered when he felt Scott’s hands on him where anyone was free to look. Tonight they’d done all three. He still went flush with pride at how far his man had come; felt joyful for everything they had because Scott finally gave himself permission to be happy.

“hhH’ESSSCHEUH’hh!”

Scott emerged from the crook of his elbow with a tight, sharp sniff.

It hadn’t been the first sneeze of the night. Having spent most of it practically tucked under his arm, Kip had felt each of them coming too, mentally pulled out of the conversation each time the other man’s chest began to shake against his shoulder. He’d chance a glance up and sure enough, Scott’s expression would be hazy and faraway, silently losing the fight against–

“Ble-”

“hh’aH’EHDTZZS’sssch’huh!”

Scott had brushed it all off at the bar, declaring to the group when it became unavoidable that he must be allergic to something in the air. Someone’s perfume, or some cleaning product randomly driving him nuts. Kip knew better, though. He could hear the gravel in his voice, the hint of stuffiness starting to bleed into the edges of his voice; the urgency in his sniffles in the aftermath of each sneeze.

Though not without some degree of difficulty, for Scott’s sake Kip dutifully refrained from openly acknowledging it each time it happened, despite how doing so went against every polite instinct his mom and dad had gone to great lengths to instill in him, the ‘nice Brooklyn boy’ that he is. Let’s just say they’d learned of the very unintended impact Kip’s blessing had on him the, uh, hard way. 

But now, wrapped in the shrouded, comfortable cocoon of their home, the peace afforded them safety. Ever since the door snicked shut the air had crackled with something live and anticipatory, heavy with unspoken possibility as they danced round each other a bit now. Kip hadn’t realised he’d been keyed up waiting for something, but apparently he had. The sneezes simply said the word ‘go’ from the director’s chair.

“Bless you,” he emphasised, face creased with sympathy. God, Scott looked affected even just at that. Kip closed the distance between them and cupped the nape of his neck, pulling himself up onto his toes so he could kiss the hinge of Scott’s jaw. Kip felt the shiver wrack through him. “Those sounded like they hurt. Are you okay?”

Scott let out a huff of laughter. They all sound like that – always. “Not any more so than usual. I-I’m fine,” he said, punctuated by a sniffle. He hadn’t been able to look Kip in the eye as he said it, which wasn’t like him, not if he was actually trying to convince him of something.

Kip bit back a smile.

Oh, that’s what we’re doing.

“Are you sure?” Kip replied seriously, playing along. “You’ve been so sneezy tonight. You’re all sniffly now, and your nose is going all pick at the edges…” His searching gaze pinned Scott in place, who squirmed a little under the scrutiny. “I think you’re catching a cold, sweetheart.”

Kip felt like he could guide Scott to the edge of the earth and have him stand on the very edge with the way he relaxed under the palm of his hand. Honestly, it still made his head spin to be confronted with the fact that he could have any kind of command over a man like Scott. That he trusted him with his vulnerability like this. It made him feel so incredibly special.

“I-I don’t know…” Scott stuttered. “Maybe? Do you… do you think so?”

Kip tilted upwards, moving in to kiss him properly, but at the last second Scott swerved before their lips could connect. Kip just smiled, unsurprised.

“See? I think you know.”

Scott’s head dipped down again and Kip brought a hand to his face, imploring it ever so gently upwards with a cupped hand to his cheek. He let his thumb swipe delicately over the other man’s cheekbone, as if kissing with its pad in lieu of his mouth. Led by an ember of mischievous impulse, he shifted the focus of his fingers’ attention. Experimentally, he pressed his thumb into the spot between Scott’s eyebrows, satisfaction warming him when his face crumpled in relief.

“Does that feel good?”

Scott’s eyes had fluttered closed and he nodded silently, obediently.

Kip would bet he could make it feel even better.

He hummed his approval, replacing his thumb with his forefinger and trailing it lightly down the bridge of Scott’s nose. He flinched a little at the pressure when Kip pressed in a smidge, wiggling the cartilage as if trying to shake something loose. Kip froze, worrying for a split second that he’d hurt him, but when Scott’s eyes opened again, they did so into a look that was decidedly more hazy than aggrieved. His nostrils flared.

“Oh no, what’s this?”

Scott’s breath scissored dangerously, eyes filling with moisture as they fluttered closed. Meanwhile, Kip’s lips found his neck, kissing around to his throat where his breath was contracting. The cologne he’d applied earlier was well-faded by now, overwhelmed at this point by the scent of Scott himself, and something spiked in Kip’s stomach. His hand, teasing and exploratory, skimmed up Scott’s shirt to settle on the firm ridges of his abdomen.

“hhhuhH’AEH’DZZSSSHhhhh’uh!”

Kip hummed, the sound dripping in sympathy. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just trying to ease some pressure, and look what happened. So sensitive.”

Caught between the urge to succumb to Kip’s ministrations or the still ever-pressing need to sneeze, though one hand had risen instinctively to press Kip in closer by the small of his back, the other he just managed to get to his face as he nudged it away, just over the top of Kip’s head.

“hhh’aH’EHTSSSCHhh’huh!”

“Bless you. Poor thing…”

Kip grabbed Scott’s cock through his jeans. Oh, he was rock hard; positively throbbing. It ripped a watery groan from the older man’s throat as he immediately rutted against Kip’s hand, chasing the friction as squeezed and rubbed with the practiced, expert rhythm of someone who knew his body like the back of his hand. Only–

“hhH’AEHHTCH’ssch’iew!”

The sneeze got away from him slightly, not quite as well covered as before, and the burst of spray glistened in the soft, warm lamplight.

“Oh, bless you, sweetheart – you don’t sound well at all.”

Each word Kip uttered was a precisely pointed jab at Scott’s resolve, the doting layered on intentionally thick. Left bleary-eyed and full of sniffles, but with the distinctly viral itch now seemingly ebbed, Scott appeared to only fall further into the heady encouragement of his attentions.

“I’mb sorry…” he mumbled, followed quickly by a thick sniffle. The sensation bothered him enough that he spared the back of a hand to mash his nose into, scrubbing it back and forth with a slick, congestion clicking sound.

Kip’s expression crumpled. “Hey – you have nothing to be sorry for, okay? Not a thing. It’s gonna be alright. Y’know why?”

Scott shook his head. “Ndo. Sdnfff. Why?”

“Because I’m going to take care of you.” Kip gave Scott’s erection a firm squeeze. “Starting with this, hm?”

Hooking his fingers down the waistband of Scott’s jeans, Kip directed him over to the edge of the couch. He popped open the button and shimmied them down a little on his hips, before gently coaxing Scott downwards. Feeling the heat of Scott’s gaze as he looked up at him from below, Kip wasted no time climbing into his lap and pulling his dick out of his pants. In a bit of a pinch, he spat into his own hand before taking Scott in hand, his stroke calm and rhythmic.

Scott’s eyes had glazed over slightly, gleaming as they took him in, openly adoring and worshipful but slightly unsure, begging for something he couldn’t give himself permission to vocalise. Kip couldn’t help himself. He started to move in, but Scott instinctively stiffened.

Kip held his gaze resolutely, bringing a hand round to the back of his head to hold it in place, and when he spoke his voice was low, warm, trickling like honey. “It’s okay…” he assured him, inching his face closer, closer, as he muttered it over and over again, quieter and quieter each time, like an incantation to lull Scott into a trance with. “It’s okay… this is okay… s’okay….”

Scott’s shoulders relaxed again as he eventually gave himself over to the moment with Kip’s insistence, sighing into his mouth as their lips slotted together. Time melted away as they kissed, Scott’s hands finding Kip’s ass as they tended to do, kneading and squeezing as Kip’s hand worked his length with consistent, maddening efficiency. Kip licked into his mouth, suckling on Scott’s bottom lip in the way that usually has him unable to keep from smiling against his face.

Instead, now, Kip feels him pull away, sucking in what sounded like a much-needed breath, sniffling back the audibly growing congestion settling in.

“Awww, you’re starting to get all stuffy, I can hear it…” Kip continued stroking him as he said it, letting his thumb circle, featherlight, over his red, swollen head, catching some of the pre-cum gathering in his slit. Scott whimpered. His eyes grew heavy lidded, his body tensing up as Kip felt him tiptoe closer and closer to the edge with each stroke, each word.

He had him in the palm of his hand.

Kip hummed. “You need a tissue, don’t you? Don’t worry, I’ll get you one when we’re done…” He huffed out a chuckle. “Won’t be too much longer, now. I can feel it. You’re so hard it must be painful, baby. Let me take care of you right… you can let go whenever you need to…”

As if to affirm his point, Kip picked up the pace, Scott’s body jolting in answer.

Kip, feeling his blood heat and his own cock harden in the face of just how turned on Scott evidently was, reattached himself to the side of Scott’s neck, laying kiss after indulgent, suckling kiss all the way across the hot, stubbled skin, right up under his ear. Fuck, Scott has to go to practice day after tomorrow and he should probably be more careful… Scott will never hear the end of it from the guys if he rocks up with a hickey.

Scott was shaking now, more so with every handful of seconds that passed as he got closer and closer to the precipice, even his sniffling growing all the more desperate as his breaths grew laboured and staccato.

“S-Sorry, I h’hhave to–”

“Again?”

Scott nodded, regretful. Kip sighed.

“Go ahead. Get it all out, sweetheart, you’ll feel better–” Kip’s lips found the shell of Scott’s ear, his next words hushed and uttered directly into it. “...but you’ll be going straight to bed after.”

“hhUH’IHHHDZSSTCHhh’uh!”

Scott came with a strangled moan on the tail end of that final sneeze as he spilled into Kip’s hand, the sound enunciating an edge of hoarseness to his voice Kip could tell was likely to stick around now for the next few days as he coaxed him through his orgasm, with utterings of ‘bless you…’ … ‘there you go…’ … ‘come for me…’ … ‘so good for me, look at you… so good…’.

God, he looked so hot when he came. He wasn’t sure he’d ever quite get over it.

With Scott’s body now lax and sated, he slumped back into the couch, the heaviness of lust gradually cleared away from his gaze with his release, sheepish gratitude rising to replace it in the aftermath as he rushed to thumb away where his nose was now running into the crease of his nostril.

“Sorry,” he repeated, appearing to be flirting with the idea of being ashamed, but not quite able to get there. Good, Kip thought, you absolutely shouldn’t.

“Hey– don’t. You’re totally fine. I wanted to help.” Kip joked, his tone light as he caught Scott’s averted eye, smiling in a way the other man was helpless but to mirror. Kip sat back a little in Scott’s lap and carded his, um, free hand through his hair. “I meant what I said, though– you don’t sound good and we’re getting you into bed pronto.”

Scott raised an eyebrow, nodding towards Kip’s crotch and the very obvious hard-on poking him in the leg. “Oh, I think I could be down for that.”

[horridly-plagued]

I know I’m in such a weird niche because I’m literally inspired by a book no one gives a fuck about, but also, I’m like one of the few people here that make gay old men snz content. </3 Where are all the people with old men OC’s at? I’m so sorry I’m sorta obsessed with old lovers and I need to find more of this very specific content. 

Im also super into time period specific work, I’ve noticed little bits and pieces but I need to find the secret gems. There has to be someone bro…

[zensations35]

Hi I am a Texan who is fucking mad at my government. Let me state that digitally, verbally, spiritually, everywayably. Fuck what the US is doing.

Please return to your horny scrolling. Thanks!

[silklined]

Fic: Versus (H/eated R/ivalry, 5/5 (!), 8k (!!), NSFW)

Or maybe Rozanov had nothing to do with it. After all, they’ve always come as a pair, ever since the draft. First and second; second and first. Rozanov and Hollander; Hollander and Rozanov. Only, not like that, not… coupled. No, it’s Hollander versus Rozanov, now and always.

[I finished it!! I had this this realisation half way through writing this final chapter that I may have written an entire hockey match to put off writing the sex scenes. But written they are. I don't usually write explicit stuff but this is - though nothing more so than the show or the books. And I did enjoy doing it. Anyway, thank you if you left comments, or reblog notes, or clicked like on any other parts, because the responses made me truly happy and I am ever so grateful.

Happy May Day, if you celebrated or are celebrating tomorrow; join your union, up the workers.]

The buzzer for the end of the game is sounding. But that’s impossible. The game is still going on. Shane knows the game is still going on, because, alone in the home locker room, he can hear Coach yelling at him to get the fuck onto the ice. He’s late – the rest of the team have been out there for ages. But Shane can’t join them that because it’s not his Metros kit that’s hanging in the locker room; it’s his juniors kit. It’s his Kingston juniors kit, in the size that Shane wore when he was twelve – so comically small that none of it will come close to fitting. He can’t even get his feet into the skates, and it’s ridiculous to try but he’s trying anyway, because what else is there to do? And Theriault is still yelling that they’re losing the game – and the buzzer is going again – and that’s even weirder because the end game buzzer doesn’t ring twice – and now it’s ringing again, again, over and over and…

Shane opens his eyes. He’s not in the locker room anymore. He’s in his investment apartment, on the couch, where he meant to sit down just for a minute because he felt so exhausted after changing out of his suit. He sniffles, heavy and wet, because his nose hasn’t stopped running since he left the arena, and swallows painfully. He must have drifted off for… Shit. Half an hour, according to the time on his phone, which says ten minutes after ten, and he’s got five missed calls, and the buzzer is going again. But he realises now that it’s not the buzzer for the end of the game; it’s the buzzer for the apartment.

Rozanov. Shit.

He leaps off the couch far too quickly, and nearly collides with the coffee table, his proprioception shot from his body still being half-asleep and his head being full to the brim with congestion. He really needs a tissue, but he also really needs to get Rozanov – who is probably freezing cold, trying not to be noticed, and increasingly angry about what the fuck Shane is playing at. So the first thing he does is press the button to open the front door; he hears the thud of it closing seconds later. Then, he takes a moment to wipe away the crud that’s gathered in the corner of his eyes, and to slow his heartrate and breathing, because apparently being woken abruptly and sprinting a few paces is enough to make him feel like his chest is about to burst open.

The unfortunate consequence of being more awake is that Shane is more aware that he feels like shit. He was supposed to take cold meds before Rozanov arrived, but he hasn’t, and whatever little effect remained from the painkillers and decongestants that he took before the game has now gone completely. There is a stabbing headache behind his eyes, and a dull pain below his ears and across his cheeks. He’s cold, even though the apartment is heated to its usual temperature and he’s wearing a fleece-lined hoodie. So cold, in fact, that he shivers which is hell on his aching muscles – especially on the shoulder that took the brunt of the hit, and is already starting to stiffen. He should see the physio tomorrow, except that he almost certainly can’t because now that it’s not being held back by the meds, his cold is obviously and virulently contagious. He’s having to sniffle every few seconds to stop his nose from overflowing completely. And every time that he does, it triggers a prickling deep in the back of his sinuses that makes his eyes water.

Once his heart feels like it will stay inside his ribcage, Shane reaches into his pocket for a tissue that isn’t there, and then remembers there’s a box on the counter in the kitchen counter. But before he can grab some, he hears the approach of footsteps and a notably sharp knock on the door.

Rozanov wears the coat that he wore last night, and the red-rimmed eyes and pale colour that he wore during the game. His cheeks are flushed too, but whether that’s from the temperature outside or the temperature he’s running, Shane doesn’t know. He steps through the door that Shane is holding open without saying anything, just swiping the back of his wrist under is nose with a congested snuffle.

And then, it happens all at once. Shane has closed the door, and is turning back around, ready to ask Rozanov whether he’d like a drink, when he feels his shoulders slam into the wall of his apartment. It’s not enough to wind him, but, because of his body’s response to the virus and because he’s spent an hour being a punchbag on skates, it hurts. More embarrassingly, it draws a yelp of surprise from him, that the congestion in his head quickly turns into a damp splutter.

“… the fuck!”

Rozanov’s eyes are dark. His mouth is set into an insouciant expression that is entirely at odds with the force at which he has just accosted Shane. He has a fistful of Shane’s hoodie, and apparently no inclination to let it go. As Shane tries to shake off his grasp, Rozanov slams another palm into Shane’s right delt, pinning him back against the wall.

“You told your team that I am sick,” he snarls. His voice is a cracked rumble that resonates in Shane’s chest cavity.

“No.” Suddenly, the half-truths in which Shane has dwelt all day don’t seem to be providing him with the same protection. Technically, he didn’t tell JJ, or Hayden, or anyone else that Rozanov was sick, and so technically he’s not lying now. But he sounds like child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, especially because he has to punctuate his protest with a sniffle, and then because he decides to add. “You told your team about me, too.”

Rozanov snorts scornfully, or perhaps just because he can’t breathe through his nose.

“You miss easy pass from Pike. My teammates are not stupid like him. They would have noticed.”

“Hayden’s not stupid,” Shane snaps. “And you dodged every check that came at you in the first period – you think Boiziau wouldn’t have noticed that?” He sniffs, the pressure between his eyes almost painful now, but he’s not going to back down from this. “I didn’t have to tell him you were sick; he worked that out by himself once I’d pointed out how shit your skating was.”

Rozanov’s whole body tenses and Shane can something dangerous radiating through the heel of the hand that pushes deeper into his shoulder. If it was anyone else, Shane would think that he was about to get a punch to the jaw. But he knows instinctively that Rozanov won’t, would never, do that to him. He doesn’t even really do it on the ice. He doesn’t need to when he leaves most players reeling in his wake, and he prefers to give lashings with his tongue.

That’s kind of what happens now.

Rozanov pulls tighter on the fabric of Shane’s hoodie, and crashes his hungry lips into Shane’s. The kiss that Shane returns contains everything that he’s been holding back all day, through the game.

“I expect it,” Rozanov rasps, mostly into Shane’s mouth. He breaks the kiss, but tilts his head upwards, inviting Shane to pay some attention to his open throat. Shane happily obliges, trailing kisses down his throat, exploring Rozanov with his mouth, sucking and catching his teeth on the too-warm skin he finds there. Rozanov gasps, and chokes out a laugh. There is a damp note to it, and a crackle to his exhale. They really shouldn’t have let him play tonight.

“Everyone thinks Hollander is such a good boy. Hockey prince. But I know better.” Rozanov jerks his head back to centre so that Shane is forced to break off his kisses and look into his eyes. “I know what you’ll do to get what you want. I know what you’re like when you’re… desperate.”

Rozanov takes a step back, and looks down at Shane’s crotch, where the evidence of his desperation is already unmissable.

“Are you mad at me?” Shane asks, hoarse, breathless. He sniffs again, putting more energy to it, in the hope that it might stop his nose running for a few moments at least. The thick, wet sound makes him cringe.

“Of course.” Rozanov releases the hand that is pinning Shane’s shoulder, and rubs the cuff of his sleeve against his own nose. Then he tugs Shane’s hoodie upwards, exposing the waistband of his pants, and slips his hand beneath it. “But only because I know you like it.”

Through his underwear, Rozanov’s hand cups Shane’s hard-on, and Shane feels his hips buck forwards into his touch. Rozanov smiles now, his real smile, the one that changes his whole face; makes his sharp features seem gentler, makes his eyes twinkle and their corners crinkle in with surprising warmth. So Shane smiles too, even though his body still aches and his nose is still streaming.

Rozanov gives a final squeeze on his dick and then whips his hand away, placing it back at Shane’s shoulders.

“Don’t get too excited, Hollander. You need to make it up to me first.”

Shane is about to ask Rozanov just how he can do that when his nose decides that it’s finally had enough of the creeping itch that’s been building and retreating inside of it since he woke up. It starts to tickle more insistently, and when Shane sniffs to try to quiet it, this only triggers the tickle into a burning that makes his eyes fill with tears. There’s no time to slips out of Rozanov’s grasp. It’s all he can do to tuck his head into his left shoulder – the one that Rozanov isn’t pinning down – and pull the cuff of his hoodie over his wrist before he smothers the sneezes into the heel of his hand as best he can.

“huht’ISSHhoo!’ihSHhh’uu!”

The sneezes barrel into one another, Shane’s torso twisting painfully as his head snaps forward with each explosion. He’s making a mess of himself and his hoodie, but doesn’t have time to apologize before two more sneezes follow hard behind the first.

“huh’ISHHHeugh!...huh-huh… huh’EESHHuhh!...Fuhgk…”

The expletive is mangled by congestion and the damp cuff of the sweatshirt that Shane’s forced to sniff frantically into. He doesn’t dare to lift his head and he can barely look at Rozanov, whose usual expression of cool indifference has taken on an unusual softness, but hasn’t morphed into the disgust Shane had expected.

“Bless you.” Rozanov’s voice is uncharacteristically hesitant, as though he learnt the phrase from a text book years ago but has only just had the chance to try it out.

Shane tries to communicate gratitude with a tight nod. Anyone else would have stepped back by now – anyone sensible would have run a mile because Shane is being objectively disgusting – but Rozanov is still standing there, still holding a fistful of Shane’s hoodie, his hand perilously close to where Shane is trying to stem the flood now coming from his nose and preserve the last of his dignity.

“Sorry,” Shane mumbles, trying to extricate himself again, wincing at how full his head sounds. “I really d’eed a tissue.”

Rozanov finally lets go of Shane’s clothing, and while in any other situation Shane would be disappointed about this, it feels like a mercy. But because Rozanov cannot behave like a normal human being ever, he doesn’t let Shane leave to hide in the bathroom where he can blow his nose and get over the mortification of sneezing all over himself in the middle of their foreplay. Instead, Rozanov reaches into the pocket of his coat and pulls out a handful of clean tissues.

For one terrible, inexplicable moment, something in Rozanov’s expression and the way he’s dancing the tissues from side to side in front of Shane’s face makes Shane think that he might be about try to wipe Shane’s nose for him. Thankfully, it doesn’t come to this. After one round of keep-away, and a satisfied grin when it elicits the desired “Fug’k off!” from Shane – Rozanov allows the tissues to be snatched from his fingertips.

Shane closes his eyes as he tries to clear his nose both thoroughly and quietly. He succeeds in doing neither, and he’s pretty sure that Rozanov is staring at him the entire time, with that cool, unreadable gaze that Shane thinks might haunt him for the rest of his life. He’s certainly staring when Shane lowers the tissues, more because they’re so damp as too be useless than because he can actually breath normally again, his dark eyes shining with what might be fever.

“You are a mess.”

Probably it’s the unusual cadences of his English, but Rozanov makes the phrase sounds curious, as though he hadn’t known that Shane could be like this. Even though Rozanov reduces Shane to a begging, panting, spent mess every time they are together; even though he’s devoted a good ninety percent of his interactions with Shane to precisely that end. And Shane’s dick twitches again just thinking about that – about how much of a mess he is for Rozanov, how much more of a mess he’s going to be by the end of the night.

Not that he’s going to tell Rozanov that.

“You’re not looking so great yourself.” That’s a lie, of course. Shane isn’t sure Rozanov could ever look truly unattractive, but he certainly isn’t now. Even with what seems to be a very heavy chest cold, Rozanov looks fucking hot. His curls are tousled from the wind outside, and with his flushed cheeks, he reminds Shane of the angels in those old Italian paintings that his parents dragged him round on trips to the National Gallery. The redness around his nose seems to make his lips look even pinker, which makes Shane even more wild about the thought of them on his own lips, his chest, his thighs, his cock.

Rozanov must know it’s a lie because he laughs and shakes his head as he takes off his coat, throwing it behind him so that it lands in a crumpled heap on the back of the couch. He’s dressed for warmth. No low-v t-shirt tonight, or shirt made from some delicate, silky material that makes Shane’s mind go pleasantly blank when he strokes his hands across it. Instead, he’s wearing an Addidas sweater that looks soft from washing and wearing, and sweatpants that are tenting in the same area as Shane’s own.

Well, clearly he hasn’t put Rozanov off.

The thought of what he’s doing to Rozanov, the fever he’s running, or some combination of the two sends a shiver cascading though Shane’s body. He hisses slightly as it grips his sore shoulder, the seizing of the joint sending an unexpected jolt of

“You are cold?”

“I… I think I have a fever,” Shane admits, with a sniffle that sounds pathetic even to his own ears.

“Do you want me to check?”

Shane’s no doctor, but he’s pretty sure the medically advised method of taking someone’s temperature doesn’t involve tugging off their clothing, and running your hands up and down their body. Nor does it involve slipping your tongue inside their mouth, as your lips press against theirs almost frantically. It definitely doesn’t involve placing your hands on someone else’s hips and grinding them forward into your own, so that your rock-hard dicks rub against each other through fabric that feels, at once, far too much of a barrier, and put under so much strain that it might tear any second.

But Shane doesn’t complain about any of this, because his mouth is too full of Rozanov’s lips, Rozanov’s tongue, Rozanov’s name – the last one escaping in a hoarse moan as he breaks their kiss to draw breath.

Rozanov is smiling at him. He leans back at little, eyes dark and dangerous. Shane can feel a familiar heat rising to his face. It’s not his fever; this happens every time Rozanov’s eyes dance over Shane’s body, like Shane is something that Rozanov wants to devour entirely, to possess immediately and for all time. Shane’s always hated that he blushes so easily, that his feelings appear as a pink flush across his cheeks, like the ink in those toy pens that gives up its secrets the instant a light shines on it.

Rozanov really likes it when he blushes. Shane can see the desire building in him, in the way that Rozanov’s tongue darts over his chapped lips, the way his eyes widen further, like he wants to see all of Shane so that he might know him completely. It should be awful, standing in front of Rozanov, feverish, sniffling and weak. Shane ought to hate being seen like that by anyone, but especially by Rozanov: the only person whom Shane has ever really thought of as competition, who Shane – in moments of gut-churning 3am honesty with himself – has ever worried might only not be better than he is, but better than Shane could ever be. Shane Hollander with a red nose, and sore throat, and a cold that is bad now and will be worse in the morning, is not a version of Shane Hollander than Ilya Rozanov should ever get to see.

But now that Rozanov is seeing it, it only feels awful in the good ways, in the ways that Shane always hates himself for wanting more of. Which means that maybe it’s not just ok that Rozanov sees him like this, but maybe that Shane wants Rozanov to see him like this - if only because Shane wants to know what it will make Rozanov do to him next.

“How’s my fever?” Shane asks, meeting Rozanov’s gaze and enjoying how much it burns.

“Bad, I think.” Rozanov teases his bottom lip in his teeth, runs a thumb across his nose, and then presses Shane hard against the wall, so that he can hook Shane’s hips over his own and take Shane’s weight, his impossibly strong arms wrapping round Shane’s torso, his fingers digging into Shane’s thighs. “Time to put you to bed.”

Shane is propped against the headboard, legs open wide, with Rozanov straddling him, their clothes scattered like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs, a trace of their path to the bedroom. Rozanov’s mouth is exploring the swoop of Shane’s clavicle. Shane tightens his hands around the bedsheets, squeezing them until his knuckles hurt to make sure that he stays in the room, to stop himself from slipping off into some hazy, shimmering cloud of overstimulation.

Fevers always make his skin too sensitive, so right now, the brush of Rozanov’s lips, fingers, curls across his feverish skin is almost too much. He wonders if Rozanov feels the same, if fevers make him dread any contact but make his body more needy, so that any graze from someone else’s is almost unbearable but not being touched would be worse? Because that’s how this is making Shane feel, like Rozanov hands caressing his chest and his dick might make him scream out in pleasure and pain all at once.

Will a fever do the same thing to his cock? Shane’s never had sex when he’s been ill before, so he doesn’t know. But maybe it. Shit. That’s probably not what Shane needs. Sometimes just being with Rozanov, being this close to him, being allowed to touch him – fuck it, just being allowed to look at him without second guessing every which way that his looks might be read – sometimes it was hard enough for Shane to keep it together through all of that. The soft, wet, heat of Rozanov’s mouth on his chest is almost too much for Shane to stand, he can’t imagine what it would feel like if Rozanov placed it around his dick.

Rozanov doesn’t offer that, which is probably a good thing consider that he’s barely able to breathe through his fucked up nose. But he does wrap a slicked hand around Shane’s cock, before stroking up and down with practised tenderness. The moan slips from Shane’s lips almost before he’s realised, and he closes his eyes and throws his head backwards.

No, no, stop, stop, stop…

For a minute, Shane thinks that he must have said the words out loud, because Rozanov does stop – has stopped – nibbling at his throat. His hand is still curled round Shane’s dick, but it’s teasing strokes have paused. But no, Shane definitely didn’t say it out loud, not least because Rozanov would never have passed up with opportunity to laugh at him if he had. And now, even with his eyes closed, Shane is suddenly aware that the weight of Rozanov’s body has shifted, and there is a distance between the two of them that wasn’t there before. So what the fuck is going on?

“ngh’uhTSCHhhhh!”

At that sound, and Rozanov’s hand jerking tight around him and tugging sharply, Shane opens his eyes. Rozanov is sitting a bit more upright, his hand still on Shane, but his torso twisted away. His left arm is thrown up haphazardly across the lower half of his face, and he raises his head above it to take a shuddering breath before the next sneeze hits.

“huhh…hhh’GHHh’chuhh!”

For a moment, Shane held captive by the outline of Rozanov’s shoulders, the perfect v of his torso down to his waist. He can’t do anything but stare at how the muscles in Rozanov’s shoulders and stomach contract and release as the sneeze rips through him. Shane isn’t sure he’s ever seen anyone sneeze that hard. His whole body is taken over with it, and then with the snuffling and tight gasps of breath that suggests the fit clearly far from over.

“hhhh’?.... hhy’yyyhh?... hhh’YHH’tschhhh!’Y’TTTschuuh!”

It an unusual sensation, yeah, but not an unenjoyable. Quite enjoyable, actually, when the sneezes jerk Rozanov forwards so that his hips crash forwards into Shane’s, the base of his shaft rubbing into the underside of Shane’s erection. Especially because, unconsciously, Rozanov’s grip on Shane tightens with each sneeze, enough to make Shane squirm and shift, to rub himself against Rozanov’s hand. And even when practically incapacitated by his sneezes, Rozanov notices that, managing a crooked half smile through hitching breaths and watery eyes, before sneezes again.

“hhh’DJJISHHH’ughhhh!”

Jesus, that one was strong. So strong that when Rozanov’s head snaps forward and takes his body with it, Shane presses up an arm to catch Rozanov’s shoulder, and wraps his other arm around Rozanov’s waist to brace him in position. And if this means that Rozanov’s hips are pulled even closer, up against his own, well that’s just a happy coincidence.

At Shane’s touch, Rozanov’s eyes blink open in surprise. His eyes are damp and dazed as they meet Shane’s, slipping away from focus for a second until Rozanov scrubs his nose into his forearm with determined violence. And then he coughs, with the deep crackling sound that Shane remembers from the rink earlier than night, though its worse now that Shane is closer to it, and there’s no noise to drown it out. When he finally lowers his arm, after swiftly ducking into it again for another wrenching “hhhh’GHHshhhhuh!”, his face is flushed, cheeks tear-stained, and nose scrunching with near-constant sniffles.

“Are you…”

Before Shane can finish, Rozanov pounces forwards to silence him with a very snuffly kiss.

“Hollander,” he growls, mostly mumbling the words into Shane’s lips. “If you ask me again if I want to lie down I will…”

This time, its Rozanov’s turn to be interrupted, not by a kiss but by Shane’s spur of the moment decision to combine the leverage he has at Rozanov’s shoulder with a sharp upward thrust from his hips at the same side. Off balance from leaning forward for the kiss, and definitely not expecting Shane to try something like this, Rozanov topples over to his left, which makes it easy enough for Shane to end up on top of him.

Rozanov looks up at Shane from where he is now lying on the bed, pupils blown, and with a smile registering unexpected pleasure – and, Shane lets himself think, a touch of admiration.

“I’m not asking this time,” Shane says, almost surprising himself when the words slip from his mouth.

“Fuck, Hollander,” Rozanov growls. “You have been practisi’ihhh’ hhhh’YSHHHughhh!” It’s all Rozanov can do to turn his head to one side and direct the sneeze into the comforter that neither of them bothered to pull off the bed. “Nghh…” The groan follows hard behind desperate sniffs and Rozanov clearing his throat harshly. “Can’t fucking stop…”

“I don’t care.” Shane grabs Rozanov’s dick, and enjoys the moan of pleasure that he gets in return. Maybe he is supersensitive after all. Rozanov’s hand is still loosely on Shane’s cock, and so, Shane places his other hand on top and begins to move them both in the same rhythm, indulging in a sigh of pleasure as Rozanov follows his lead.

“hhh’uhhh’?...Uhh’TSCHhh’EUGH!”

“Fuck!” It slips out without Shane meaning it to, because every time that Rozanov sneezes the grip he has on Shane unconsciously tightens, a squeeze and a jerk that is a deliciously sharp interruption to his otherwise sweeping strokes.

Rozanov laughs. “You like that, when I…”

“Shut up,” Shane growls, speeding up the pace of hand on Rozanov’s shaft. But he does, like it. Not the sneezing exactly, though they are both, he thinks, way, way past caring about the dubious hygiene of this whole encounter. But the side effects of the sneezing are… pleasurable. And judging by the way that Rozanov is looking at him, pleased with himself and brimming with desire, Shane knows that he is blushing again.

“Do it for me,” Rozanov says.

“What, sneeze?” Shane laughs, because he assumes he’s misunderstood. But Rozanov is nodding as he’s jerking Shane off, picking up his speed to match Shane’s own.

“Want to know what it feels like,” Rozanov breaths. “So do as you’re… nghh’GHTSchhh!… told.” 

Rozanov’s request is patently ridiculous, not just because its not something that anyone asks for during sex, but also because it’s not possible for someone to sneeze on demand. Except that it doesn’t take much to make Shane sneeze when his nose feels as sensitive as every other inch of him right now. It’s itched and prickled every time that Rozanov has sneezed, as though in sympathy with the tickle he can’t seem shake. And Shane really, really wants to do as he’s told, wants to do that so badly that his body feels like its vibrating with the urge. So, feeling less stupid about it than he ought to, Shane tilts his head back slightly, closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose where bone meets cartilage, and rubs.

From somewhere beneath him on the bed, Shane hears Rozanov whisper an almost reverent, “Wow,” which sends a shudder of pleasure thrilling through Shane’s body. Apparently, even if this doesn’t work, Shane’s eagerness to please is enough to please Rozanov, which also pleases Shane and so…

Fuck, though, it is working. The itch in the back of his nose is building, slowly but surely, teasing tears from Shane’s eyes as it does so. Concentrating on the sensation, and on the tension growing in his cock as Rozanov edges him closer and closer to release, and on the feeling of Rozanov in his hand doing the same, makes everything else in the room go black. After what feels like an age, but can only really have been seconds, Shane feels his breath catch once, twice, and then…

“hhh’EISSHHuu! hhuh'huh-YISHHuuh!”

“Fuck!” Rozanov yells, which must be from some combination of the way Shane’s grasp has tightened round his shaft, and the way that Shane’s hips have bucked against Rozanov’s dick with the force of the releases. “Oh, fuck Hollander, make me come…”

Not caring that his eyes are watering and his nose is streaming, Shane speeds up the motion of his hand even more, rotating his wrist as he does so in a way that draws a rough his from deep in Rozanov’s throat. And then all it takes is for Shane to rub his own cock against Rozanov’s, for everything to blur between their hands, and their dicks, and their moans, before Rozanov comes, with a strangled cry. The release splashes all over his and Shane’s stomach where, seconds later, it is joined by Shane’s as he comes and collapses forward into Rozanov’s arms.

It is a while before either of them moves, other than to place feverish, fucked-out kisses on the other one’s mouths. Shane is nestled into the crook of Rozanov’s shoulder, his limbs tangled round Rozanov’s body. Now the thrill of his organism is receding and the sweat on his body is beginning to dry, Shane can feel that he’s starting to shiver again. He should get under the covers, or put some clothes on, or maybe take a hot shower. But his instinct is to simply pull himself closer to Rozanov, as though the other man could provide all the warmth that he needs.

Rozanov, however, has other plans. He places a tender kiss on Shane’s temple but at the same time lifts Shane’s leg from where it lies across his thigh. Then he carefully sits up, depositing Shane’s head gently onto a pillow.

“Ngghh…Where’re you going…” Shane mumbles. “C’m’back…”

“Just a minute, sweetheart,” Rozanov whispers. Shane feels another kiss being pressed to his lips, and then hears footsteps are padding across the bedroom carpet.

Beneath the haze of head cold and afterglow, Shane hears water running. Not enough water for a shower, so maybe Rozanov is just cleaning himself up. Shane wriggles himself upwards until he’s half-sitting against the headboard, and studies the mess that remains on his skin. Maybe he’ll clean Shane up too. Shane secretly loves when he does that, or maybe not so secretly because he’s pretty sure he’s moans every time Rozanov wipes a warm flannel over his stomach and his dick and wherever else has ended up sticky and salty.

But when Rozanov does come back, its not a washcloth that he hands to Shane, but a mug of something warm, and with a familiar, cutting scent – acidic and medicinal – that cuts through even Shane’s stuffed head. It’s the same cold medicine that Shane made for Rozanov last night.

“You made this for me?” Shane says, which is stupid because who else is going to have done it. And yeah, Rozanov rolls his eyes.

“No, I make it for all the other hockey players with colds that I fuck tonight,” he says, which makes Shane laugh. Normally, this would be fine – good even, because the corners of Rozanov eyes crinkle when he manages to make Shane laugh, in a way that is utterly adorable and that Shane rarely gets to see to otherwise. Except now that his nose is so itchy, and his sinuses are protesting his movement to a semi-seated position, and so now Shane is going to sneeze while clutching a mug of very hot liquid.

The only thing Shane can do is thrust it back towards Rozanov, whose athlete’s reflexes allow him to take it without thinking.

“It’s not right?” he says, for a moment – maybe for the first time Shane has ever heard – sounding genuinely disappointed. “You don’t want it?”

The feeling of a sneeze building is not easy for Shane to speak through, but Rozanov sounds so crestfallen that Shane feels he has to try.

“Doh’hehhh…jusd…reallydeedto-oo’hhh’ISSHhhh’uu! – huh?’huh’ISHHHuuh!”

Shane feels something land in his lap, and opens his eyes to find the tissue box that was on the nightstand has been deposited there.

“So many sneezes,” Rozanov says, settling next to Shane as he blows his nose, and tries not to wince at the sound. “Though not as many as me, I think,” he adds, as he hands the mug back to Shane for a second try.

Shane gives a huff before taking a sip of his drink. Of course, Ilya Rozanov could even turn their colds into a competition.

“Is ok?” Rozanov asks, and Shane notices, approvingly, that he’s cradling a cup of his own, too.

“Yeah, it’s good.”

Rozanov nods. “I hear, better with honey,” he says, which makes Shane smile into his cup, until Rozanov adds, “And someone told me that you can’t microwave the water or it tastes funny, but I think he is a liar. And also boring.”

Shane is about to jab his elbow into Rozanov’s side when he remembers that they are both holding scalding drinks. So he settles for flipping Rozanov the bird instead. Rozanov grins in response, but it falters slightly as he looks at Shane, and Shane knows what he must be seeing. The pale skin, reddened nose, and inflamed eyes that Shane himself is seeing when he looks at Rozanov. Still, it is a surprise when Rozaonov reaches over and presses the back of his hand against Shane’s forehead.

Did you ever have a boyfriend who would feel your forehead to check if you had a fever? And did your boyfriend ever do that for you?

“I think you do have a fever,” Rozanov says, unusually serious. Shane nods and shrugs.

“Probably,” he agrees, allowing himself a little bit of a self-pitying sniffle. He hates being sick – who doesn’t – but he really, really hates how having a fever makes him feel. Like everything that usually stays so well hidden is suddenly right beneath the surface, and the cloth that is hiding it might be pulled off at any time. And so because it’s easier not to think about himself right now, he adds, “I think you have one too.”

Rozanov shrugs as well. “This will help, yes?” he says, holding up the mug as a gesture.

“Yeah, it will,” Shane says, taking another large sip from the mug. “Thanks.”

Rozanov looks down at his own drink, and smiles.

They lie there quietly, side by side, for several moments, their shoulders and upper arms touching. Rozanov must have retrieved his phone from his coat when he went to fetch the medicine, because he’s scrolling through messages and the Raiders Instagram account; Shane pointedly keeps his eyes on his mug so as not to see anything he shouldn’t. For his own part, Shane is content to lie and listen to the muted traffic outside, nowhere near dying away yet, and the snuffling, wheezing sounds of Rozanov’s breathing. Hopefully someone on the Raiders team would make him see a doctor before they flew back.

And suddenly, almost before Shane can think about the consequences of them, the beginning of a phrase is on his lips, almost spilling over before Shane can catch up with it.

“I wish - ”

 I wish you didn’t have to leave. I wish you never had to leave. I wish we could stay together all night, and every night after that.

But he can’t say that. Because this is what they do; they fuck and they leave before morning.

So, instead, Shane tries, “I wish I hadn’t gotten sick this week.”

Rozanov’s teasing huff comes out probably more congested than he’d intended. “So it’s ok if I am sick?”

“Shut up.” Shane swallows the last of the medicine and puts his cup on the nightstand. Then he curls himself into Rozanov, returning his head to its place on the other man’s chest. “Obviously, I wish that you hadn’t gotten sick either.”

It’s not true though. Or rather, it’s not that Shane wants Rozanov sick, but that he wouldn’t mind Rozanov being sick if he could stay and let Shane take care of him. Lying in the dark, as Rozanov starts to thread his fingers through Shane’s hair, Shane lets himself think about a version of the past few days where they weren’t having stolen whispered conversations, weren’t sneaking around at night, weren’t having to leave before the morning. Where instead of being in this stupid show-home, they were in his real apartment, where there was a kettle for tea, and pans to make soup. Where Shane could have tucked Rozanov up in blankets on the couch, and put on a stupid movies, and checked his temperature, and rubbed his back when his cough sounded bad, and played with his hair until he fell asleep. Something like that could be… nice.

Shane’s so busy thinking about this that he almost doesn’t notice that Rozanov is speaking again.

“But better we were both sick, than just one of us.”

Shane hums his assent, and is ready to let the silence fall again. But Rozanov, it seems, is not done with talking, even if his fingers have quieted their soothing motion across Shane’s forehead. When he speaks, he doesn’t look at Shane as he does so, staring off instead into middle distance at somewhere far away, or perhaps, somewhere a long time ago.

“I think I am not very good at being a sick person,” he says.

Shane laughs; even to his own ears it sounds thick and heavy, dragged from his lungs like a dull skate blade.

“No one is good at being sick,” he says.

Rozanov shakes his head, as though Shane has misunderstood something.

“I think,” he says again, “I am not easy to care for.”

It is such a strange phrase – not easy to care for – that, not for the first time, Shane wonders what is being lost in translation when Rozanov speaks to him. Not just because he is speaking English, but because there is so much context for who Rozanov is that Shane doesn’t know. Who made him feel this way, and how did they do it?

Those aren’t questions Shane can ask now; even if he could, Rozanov probably wouldn’t answer them. All Shane can do is hold him a little tighter, and press another kiss to his cheek

“I don’t think that’s true,” he says, forcing out the words as steadily as he can. “I… I want to take care of you.”

Even as he hears himself saying the words, Shane knows that he’s gone too far. This isn’t the kind of thing they say to one another. This is dangerous. And if Rozanov started it, then Shane’s taken it further. They are out in the middle of the thin ice they’ve been skating on for a while now, far from the shoreline, and if it cracks, and there is nothing beneath but drowning.

Luckily, Rozanov finds a branch to drag them back to familiar, safe, grounds. With another huff - half amusement and half derision, and, tonight, also mostly the congestion in his head - he looks down at his softening cock and then back up to Shane, one eyebrow raised with suggestive menace.

“That what you call this? Taking care of me?”

Shane, at least, can follow his lead.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Or maybe it was ‘taking care’ when you build whole gameplan around your teammates fucking with me because I’m sick? Make me skate so hard that stupid cold turns into nuumoneeya?”

“Pneumonia?” Shane replies, checking his translation.

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“That’s not a thing that happens!” And it wasn’t, right? “Anyway, you did the same to me.”

“Or when you leave me outside on freezing cold street for an hour?”

An hour? Fuck no, is he getting away with this.

“It was ten minutes!”

Rozanov tilted his head to one side as though he were considering this, and then said cooly, “I think more.”

“Shut up – no, it wasn’t. And I bought you cold medicine.”

“Which I make for you,” Rozanov responds, waving his mug as he places it on the other nightstand.

Shane is about to point out that he made medicine for Rozanov yesterday when he was ignoring the fact he was running a fever for Christ’s sake. But he’s interrupted by an annoyingly familiar sensation in his nose, that leaves him scrambling for the tissue box that – even more annoyingly – is only in his reach because Rozanov put it there.

“hhh’EISHHhhhh!’ISSHHhhhh!”

“And now you sneeze on me to try to win argument.”

Shane blows his nose sharply, and drags himself to a sitting position. Rozanov is grinning at him, and Shane knows there’s no point in continuing the back and forth, except that he can’t let Rozanov win after saying something so completely stupid.

“That doesn’d even make sense,” he grumbles.

“Yes, it does. And you are going to sneeze again,” he adds, matter-of-factly.

“What? No, I’b…” But he is. Right now. “hhh-IShhheuhh!... hhh’ISHHhhhewhh!

“Bless you,” Rozanov replies in a sing-song tone, his confidence with the phrase obviously increasing.

“Oh, fug’k off.” Shane gives Rozanov’s hamstring a soft kick, and shakes off the hand that is resting on his hip bone. He’s not sure where he’s going – shower maybe, or the kitchen for some tea, or to see if there’s something – anything - else in what he bought that might help him stop sneezing. But he doesn’t have to listen to this in his own… well, not actually his apartment, but a building that he owns.

“No, no, Hollander…” Rozanov’s wheedling tone can’t disguise the laughter in his voice, as he grabs Shane’s forearm, tugging him back towards the bed. “You cannot leave. This is not ‘taking care’. I will be cold.”

He pouts, and its adorable. Annoying adorable.

Shane is still about to tell Rozanov to go fuck himself when he realises, suddenly, that Rozanov has grabbed the arm furthest from him – so the arm that has the shoulder that didn’t get slammed into the boards, and so isn’t beginning to stain with indigo and burgundy bruises. The tenderness is so unexpected from Rozanov, who is a professional asshole first and a hockey player second, that it snatches the air from Shane’s lungs, and he thinks that the only way to get it back might be to kiss Rozanov and never stop.

As their eyes meet, he thinks Rozanov can see it. There’s something about the way that his grip loosens a little, about the tremble in his breathing as they are both frozen in the moment, trying to work out what the hell they are supposed to do next.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. You have got to stop this, Hollander. Sell your fucking apartment. Delete Rozanov’s number. Don’t ever think about what he’s doing, what he’s thinking, whether he’s thinking about you. This has got to stop.

It’s not going to stop. 

A familiar sick feeling is back in Shane’s stomach, and he’s about to shake off Rozanov’s grasp, when he realises that he doesn’t have to, because Rozanov’s grip on him has already loosened. His upper lip curls, his nose scrunches upwards and his whole body crumples forward.

“hk’TSKHHHhh!’HUH’tschhh!’NGH’tschhh!..... huh’TX’schhh!.... hhh’TXX’SHHhhh!... uhh’huhh’DJSHHH’ghh!”

“Jesus Christ, do you always sneeze like that?” Shane mutters, extending the tissues to him.

Rozanov snatches a handful and blows his nose loudly. Then, he looks at Shane balefully over the tissues, and gives a reluctant nod.

“Well then, bless you, I guess.”

Rozanov finishes wiping his nose, though he’s still sniffling. He meets Shane’s eyes, and he’s not grinning now, and nor does he look like he’s about to rip into Shane again. It’s not even the cool, studied indifference that Shane is used to from Rozanov. It’s something quieter, less performed, more… sincere.

“Thank you,” he says. “And thank you for the tissues. And thank you for… ‘taking care’.”

He opens his arm, an invitation for Shane to return his head to Rozanov’s chest. It’s the worst idea in the world, and Shane doesn’t need asking twice.

“It’s ok. I… I don’t mind.”

I like it. I love it, actually. I would do it forever, if you would let me. Would you let me, Rozanov?

Rozanov tightens the arm around his shoulder, as Shane nestled his head back into Rozanov’s shoulder. Rozanov doesn’t say anything, but it feels, somehow, like he understands. They are silent like this for a moment, Rozanov teasing his fingers through Shane’s hair, Shane stroking the back of his knuckles across Rozanov’s bicep.

Oh, fuck it.

Shane clears his throat.

“Next time you’re sick… I mean, if you’re sick again, and… and you want someone to complain to, or I dunno… Well, you can, um, let me know.”

“You will ‘take care’ again?”

“Yeah, I’ll ‘take care’ again.”

Rozanov laughs again, and it’s still horribly congested – enough that Shane does start to worry that skating yourself into pneumonia might be a thing. But it’s also warm and kind. It’s laughter to wrap yourself up in against a cold day, and a colder world. Shane wonders who else knows that Rozanov’s laughter can sound like that.

“You will ‘take care’ from Montreal, when I am in Boston?”

“We can text. Or whatever.”

“Or whatever.” Rozanov leans down, and kisses Shane gently on the forehead. “Is your fever talking?”

“No,” Shane says, looking back up at him. “No, I mean it.”

“Ok.” Rozanov smiles, and it is beautiful. He is beautiful. Sick, and exhausted, and beautiful. “Ok. Maybe I do that.”

----

The interview and the photographs are published two weeks later. Shane discovers this when he arrives at practice to find the magazine’s front cover stuck on the wall in his usual stall. It’s someone’s – probably, JJ’s – idea of a good joke. Chirping their captain for being a pretty boy apparently never gets old.

Shane glances at the cover. By now he can pretty much guess the straplines word for word.

Hollander v. Rozanov - Head-to-Head with the Eastern Conference’s Greatest Rivals!

The cover photo is one that was taken at the practice: he and Rozanov facing off against one another. Because, like, they’re rivals? Really fucking original.

Carefully giving the picture only the most cursory glance, Shane turns back to his assembled teammates and their howls of laughter. He rolls his eyes, curses them playfully – whichever of you motherfuckers did this is skating laps – and makes a show of pulling down the cover, to some really old lines about when he’s giving up hockey for modelling – “because the pay is nearly as good and your workmates are hotter!”.

But Shane doesn’t screw up the cover and toss it in the trash, like he’s done on other occasions where his teammates have tried this gag. Instead, when no one is looking, he tucks in inside his kit bag in a space where it won’t get crumpled.

After practice, he’s deliberately slow getting changed, so that he’s the last one left in the locker room, once he’s told Hayden to go ahead and get them both a coffee, that he’ll be right out. And then, once the room is empty, Shane takes a deep breath and pulls out the picture.

Someone must have done some touching up or whatever, because neither he nor Rozanov looks anywhere near as sick as they actually were. The only real evidence is a tiny bloom of pink around the tip of Rozanov’s nose, and a pinched flush on Shane’s cheeks, both of which might be down to nothing more than the cold of the rink. Nothing that any one would notice. Almost like the two of them being sick never happened.

In fact, the more notable thing about the picture is that the two of them are smiling at each other. Not really smiling, or laughing, not like they were the day of the CCM shoot all those years ago, like they must be in some pictures that were on a photographer’s hard drive, but probably don’t even exist anymore. But they are smiling, lips quirking upwards in a way that might be read as confidence, or a playful challenge, or enjoyment of competition for its own sake, even though Shane knows that it was none of those things at all. And Rozanov knows it, too.

All at once, it strikes Shane that, aside from his parents, Rozanov probably knows Shane better than anyone else. And of everything fucked up about this whole fucked up thing they have, that might be the most fucked up thing of all.

He lays the cover on the bench, pulls out his phone and snaps a picture – to send to his mom and dad, if anyone asks. But he doesn’t send it to them; he sends it to Lily.

The read notification flicks up and immediately the three dots start flickering on the screen.

              Lily: Congratulations. You are second hottest hockey player in the picture

Shane huffs, and types his reply.

Good job they had Photoshop to make you look like you weren’t dying from a cold.

Shane is about to put his phone away, because Hayden’s going to start wondering where he is, but then something comes over him and before he can think too hard about it, he adds:

              You survived, then? No pneumonia?

Lily: No. I was not going to die before we could beat you in December

December. Six weeks. Nineteen games. Not that he’s counting. Shane taps his response with particular fervour.

              You wish

              Lily: You wish 😉

Shane stares at the message for a while. He knows it’s a dumb joke, in response to another dumb joke. It doesn’t mean anything. It can never mean anything. But still… But still.

You wish.

I do.

Shane rubs his eyes, suddenly overcome with tiredness.  Swallowing hard, he locks his phone screen, the messages disappearing to black. Then he takes one last look at the cover photo, and folds it carefully away.

[feverish-cuddles]

that suddenly excessively messy snz that happens after multiple false starts or congested snzs that ends with the most relieved look on the person's face as all that mess pours down their face and maybe down to their chest

[ghostlychill]

Okay I am absolutely feral for someone being angry with a sick character and then immediately changing their tune when they find out the person is sick

BUT

What about someone being angry at the sick character and then when they send them a message like ,“We need to talk,” the sick person says, “Can we do it later? I have the flu.” So the angry one is just like, “Yeah,” and doesn’t say anything to them again for a couple weeks, just leaves them to recover alone.

Or they’re in an argument and the angry person notices the sick one is too unwell to pay attention or keep arguing. So they stop and say, “You know what, we’ll talk later.” And they leave, and the sick person just sinks into the couch, relieved that they can turn off now.

[hollanovsnz]

*taps microphone* excuse me, everyone. we need to have a conversation about this gifset of Ilya’s nose twitches.

LOOK AT THE FUCKING TAGS:

and, of course,

waaayyy ahead of you, buddy….(also, MILD? LOL. LMAO. LMFAO, even.)

[blesser-in-disguise]

Three Times S/hane Hid Something From I/lya, and One Time I/lya Helped Him

Three: Fraught By Surprise

part one , part two

hiii, I come bearing part three of sneezy s/hane with a sprinkling of miscommunication (I went slightly lighter on it this time). I thought that this would be out faster and written better than it was, but between waging war with my dissertation and watching my team slay the playoffs (and simultaneously injure all our coaches wtf??), my brain has been all over the place, so I fear this is as good as it gets.

I hope you enjoy! ♡

fandom: h/eated r/ivalry

word count: 6.2k

cw: sneezing, minor injury, both s/hane and the writer being incredibly evasive about wtf is going on with him

“Okay,” Shane muttered as he put the car into park. “Okay. It’s going to be quick. In, and out again. Ten minutes tops.”

He unbuckled his seatbelt, pausing to glare in frustration at the beige gift bag sitting in the passenger seat. He knew exactly what Ilya was going to think of that. But it wasn’t like he’d picked it out, it was just the standard option at the stupid store.

“Wow Hollander,” Shane mimicked his boyfriend’s tone as he took off his sunglasses and stowed them in the center console. “This is really flashy bag. Did people stare at you whe-”

The brunet hesitated mid-mocking-sentence, hand outstretched to take it by the little string handles, frozen out of habit as his brain shut off all unnecessary actions and focused on enacting a singular reflex. Fuck. Not again.

“hehnGT!” He reached up, lightning quick, and pinched his nose with his free hand, the other wavering uselessly where it remained outstretched towards the bag. “hHNGTCh!”

Grip loosening one hesitant finger at a time, Shane sniffled, leaning over to open the glove compartment the moment he was sure he was done, and retrieving a fast food napkin from the neat stack-an unofficial record of the occasions where he found himself, usually on Hayden’s request (though he played it off as being the kids’ idea) making his way through a drive-thru to pick up some unappetising junk for his various passengers- sitting back up to blow his nose softly.

“Ten minutes.” He muttered again, glancing at himself in the rear-view mirror. His voice sounded slightly strained this time, pitchy and weak like he’d exhausted his vocal cords. Fuck.

He cleared his throat. “Ten minutes. Ten min-utes.” He cleared it again, and then swallowed. “Ten minutes? Ten minutes.” Another swallow. “Hi Ily- hey Rozanov-” A shaky breath in and an eye roll about how stupidly meticulous he was being as he half laughed it back out.

“Everything is normal. Everyth-ihh-” He had the briefest of thoughts about whether it was the ‘th’ sound causing tiny vibrations in his face that had reawoken the urge, and how feasible avoiding those two letters next to each other for this whole interaction was, before he was pressing the napkin back to his face again, “hTCHhew! Fuck! hhEH-”

The irritating little voice in the back of Shane’s mind that occasionally informed him that he was about to miss when he lined up a shot to score, picked that exact moment to tell him that Ilya Rozanov was staring in at him through the window of the car. Shane cut himself off mid hitch, emerging from the napkin to frantically scour his surroundings for confirmation. Nothing. Jesus fucking-

“hEHTDSHh!”

A shudder ran through him in the aftermath. He blew his nose again, took a deep breath- two deep breaths- three- okay. On autopilot, he folded the napkin, once, twice, and shoved it into the pocket of his trousers with the others, not having wanted to litter his car with used tissues.

“Everything is fine.” He grimaced at the faint nasal tone of his voice. “You sound normal. He’s not going to notice.”

…

The door swung open to reveal Ilya in a stupid sleeveless hoodie, looking stupidly hot and casual, like he hadn’t known Shane was coming. Which he had because he’d literally texted him less than ten stupid-

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“You sound weird.” Fuck.

“Fuck you. Are you going to let me in?”

Ilya shrugged unaffectedly, stepping back to make room for the Canadian to step inside, which he did, waiting patiently for the door to shut before holding the bag out towards his boyfriend.

“For me?” The blond blinked at Shane’s outstretched arm, the unidentified beige object less than a foot from his chest as he turned around from shutting the door.

“Yeah, it’s a gift.” He clarified pointlessly as Ilya unhooked the bag from his fingers.

“Wow.” He held it up, letting it swing around by the strings so he could see each identical plain brown side. “You get this… customised? Is very you.”

“Shut up. I knew you'd say something like that.”

“You are psychic now? What is it?” He lowered the bag, fingers reaching out to push aside the tissue paper. He’d known he was going to do that, as well.

“Nope. You have to wait.”

“What?” Ilya looked up, intrigue impeded. “You tease me. Wait for what?”

“Till you really miss me.” Shane said seriously, his gravity an attempt to combat the gratified smirk growing on his boyfriend’s face.

“How you know I will miss you so much? Maybe I forget.”

“Fuck off. No opening it the second I get back in the car, okay? It's for the middle of a roadie, or if a solar storm kills all the phone lines or something.”

“Okay.” The blond looked like he had more questions about that second situation, but it seemed like he had accepted the conditions of the gift, attempts to bypass the limited barrier provided by the translucent paper abandoned.

They walked through to the kitchen, Ilya placing the bag down before leaning his forearms on the countertop beside it, fingers laced, watching as Shane walked past him to stand opposite, eyes roving up and down his body like the brunet was naked. He really wished he didn’t feel like shit, because it would be far too long before he’d have an opportunity to actually be naked in front of him again.

“So…” He had no idea why he’d started the sentence, because he really had nothing to say. It had just started to feel like if he left Ilya alone in the silence for too long, it would turn into something significantly less silent.

“So.” The Russian echoed, the tiniest hint of suggestiveness in his voice as he swiped at his nose with his knuckles, a habit so frequent that it was almost as unremarkable as blinking, though this time Shane felt the gesture as though it was his own hand across his own face, nostrils flaring slightly, imploring him to mimic the movement. He didn’t. Ten minutes. Keep it together.

“What’s your schedule looking like?” Wow, that’s some great conversation. Top tier topic to discuss with your boyfriend right before you don’t see him for ages, something you could look up and memorize in less than a minute.

“Like big piece of paper.” The blond responded unhelpfully, still signalling that he would very much like to see more of his boyfriend than was currently on display with his eyeline alone.

Shane clarified, despite wishing he’d chosen a different topic, “I mean, what order are you playing in?”

“Oh.” Ilya feigned dawning awareness, clearly amused even by the small flicker of frustration he’d managed to provoke with the non-answer. “We start with-”

As he listed off the game schedule, Shane began to zone out. His nose was really starting to bother him again now. Ten minutes was kind of a long time. He’d give almost anything to be able to tend to it without Ilya seeing, just a quick pinch, a harsh rub, and it would be okay again. At this point he’d even settle for scrubbing it against the heel of his hand as the Russian often did if it would quell the ominous sensation that rose with every inhale. But no, he could ignore it. Ilya didn’t need to know. He didn’t need to explain. He wasn’t even sure he could explain at this point, it seemed like the kind of thing you brought up immediately rather than-

…

Ilya ground to a halt, noticing that his boyfriend wasn’t listening anymore. He could hardly blame him, it wasn’t an overly exciting schedule to listen to recited, but that sort of bland, boring information was usually more interesting to Shane than most people. And he’d fucking asked about it. Shane seemed preoccupied today, though. Ilya was mostly attributing that to the mysterious gift he’d been given, but whatever secret the brunet was harboring seemed to be bringing him more anxiety than thrill as he stood, even more tense and awkward than usual, physically in the blond’s kitchen, mentally who knew where.

There was silence for a moment, not that the Canadian seemed to notice, Ilya watching his gaze flit evasively around the kitchen, tiny flickers interrupting his neutral expression as though he were seeing things that the Russian couldn’t. He was seconds away from turning around to check there wasn’t some comedy-movie-crazy shit going on behind his head when-

“I’mgonnagrab a drink.” Shane said suddenly, turning and opening the fridge, upper body hidden from Ilya behind the door.

“Get me something too.” The blond responded lazily, though the rushed announcement, and urgent way his boyfriend had opened the appliance had thrown him slightly. He was never even usually that assertive in his own house, let alone Ilya’s.

“Wh-hh-at do you want?” The voice emanating from within the fridge sounded strained, like he had his tongue between his teeth.

He shrugged noncommittally, though he knew the other man couldn’t see him. “Surprise me.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than Shane was ducking back out of the refrigerator, one hand clamping over his other, which was already constricting his nose and mouth as the door slammed behind him. “heHNGT-MPHhew!” The second sneeze, or the second half of the sneeze, Ilya wasn’t quite sure, seemed to have breached the brunet’s typically airtight containment, straining against the firm seal of his hands.

Ilya stared at him, mouth slightly open. “O…kay, that was surprise. God bless you.”

“Sorr-ihh-y” Shane started fumbling around in his pocket, struggling to fit his fingers in far enough to retrieve whatever it was he was looking for. Ilya stood to his full height, playful posture dissipating, watching silently as his boyfriend’s eyebrows tented and relaxed over and over again, breath coming in quick shivery inhales against the palm he was using to cover most of his face. What little of it that the Russian could see, though, was flushed with embarrassment.

At what appeared to be the absolute last second, the Canadian’s hand re-emerged, clutching a tiny overfolded, clearly already used tissue. As he raised it to press over his nose and mouth, another fell from the partially inside out pocket of his trousers, equally tiny and folded up, landing gently on the floor beside his foot.

“heHMPHh! EHMPhhew!”

“Fuck, Shane. You are dying?” He was at his side in a second, hand smoothing back the brunet’s hair, eyes searching his face for signs of ailment.

“Excuse me.” He sniffled, pinching the tip of his nose with the compressed tissue, the appendage turning pink as he let go. “No, I’m fine.”

“You are sure?” Ilya frowned, pulling him in further and kissing the top of his bowed head. “You are not getting sick?”

“I’m sure.”

“Mm.” He made an unconvinced noise into Shane’s hair. “God bless you.”

“Thank you.”

Ilya was just closing his eyes in order to soak up the peaceful embrace, when his face rest ducked out from under him. The blond’s eyes shot open, checking if his boyfriend was succumbing to more sneezes or if he was falling unconscious, or something. But no, Shane had just spotted the tissue that had fallen out of his pocket and was crouching to retrieve it.

The Russian watched with equal parts affection and wariness. He had never known Hollander to keep tissues, especially not used ones, stuffed in his pockets, although sometimes the man had an uncanny ability to produce them from nowhere when Ilya was in a moment of need.

“I should probably head back.” Shane muttered, pushing the tissues firmly back into his pocket as though if they went far enough in, Ilya would forget having seen them in the first place.

“Why?” The blond bumped his hips into his boyfriend’s, making him meet his eyes.

“I have some things to check over at the arena, uh- and-”

Ilya had zero interest in hearing the rest of that boring excuse, leaning in and capturing the Canadian’s lips mid word, kissing him deeply, hands on the small of his back, feeling Shane's soft grip on his upper arms. Maybe if he couldn’t tell him why he should stay he would show him.

…

Shane had to resist from giving a sigh of relief as he leaned into the kiss, having had absolutely no idea where his stupid on-the-spot cover story was taking him. He still felt slightly snifflier than he was comfortable with with his nose as his only way to breathe, hoping the tiny itchy breaths he was taking weren’t audibly different from his usual. Fuck, how did he usually breathe when they were kissing?

Feeling an impending sense of doom, but not willing to be the first to break the kiss, the Canadian assessed the situation. The preoccupation with his nose was making him anxious, clumsy, ruining their normal intuitive flow. They were usually almost completely in sync, attentive to one another’s intentions and needs, but with his focus impaired like this-

They moved in opposite directions at the same time, a sharp sudden collision that cracked their browbones together and crunched Shane’s nose sharply into Ilya’s cheekbone.

He pulled back with a jagged gasp, only feeling Ilya recoil as his eyes were squeezed shut in pain and preparation, hand already flying towards his pocket, although the second his fingers touched the outer seam he knew that it was a fruitless journey, and he really should have just covered his-

“hhNTChh!” Defences weakened by an uncharacteristic amount of intermittent sneezing, the disorientating pain, and the extremely short notice, Shane’s instinctive effort to stifle made almost no difference, and though he tried to duck, his pressurized breath definitely at least skimmed his boyfriend’s arm.

Ilya said nothing, and he had no time to open his eyes to appraise the situation, raising his sweatshirt-covered elbow to his face with a rushed out, “Fu-huh-ckI’msosorr-hTCHhiew!”

“Budʹzdorov.”

“You did that on purpose!” Shane blinked angry, watering eyes at him, lowering his arm again and realising he was very much still gripping onto Ilya’s bicep for balance, which made sneezing all over his other arm and then yelling at him significantly more awkward.

But from the slightly pained expression on the Russian’s face, identical glossy eyes staring back at him- apparently the contact hadn't exactly been pleasant for his own, rather more maimed nose- he clearly hadn't done it on purpose.

“I did not.” Ilya confirmed evenly, face returning to smooth indifference with a gentle sniffle.

Shane gave a significantly less gentle sniffle in response, leaning in and crushing his face against his boyfriend's shoulder, careful not to let the base of his nose anywhere near the surface lest he leave some kind of damp spot behind.

“Sorry.” He murmured, and then, “’m gonna miss you.”

“When you die? Of plague?”

“Ugh!” Way to ruin the moment. “I don’t have the fucking plague. Fuck you!” But he wasn’t making any attempt to move away from him, he wanted every single second of contact to last him through the next few weeks.

“You were not bitten by rat recently?” Shane could hear in his breathing how he was on the brink of laughter, chest stuttering on the inhale like it was going to burst out of him any second. It would be endearing if it wasn’t pissing him the fuck off.

“It wasn’t rats that did the biting, idiot.” He pulled back, glaring at him like he had some kind of a passion for the history of pathology now. “And no. I don’t have rabies either, in case you’re about to ask about that.”

Ilya raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay.”

“I really do have to go now, though.”

The blond nodded, stepping to one side and then following him as he walked back to the front door. There Shane turned, leaning in to kiss him again, quicker this time to prevent any collisions.

“Am I going to die now?” Ilya raised a hand to swipe a finger over his lower lip, tilting the digit towards him accusatorially afterwards as though either of them could see the chemical composition of the spit they’d just swopped.

“No.” Probably not. Solid answers like that had always felt to Shane like jinxing it a little bit, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud. Ilya still looked doubtful, so he pressed on. “Bye, I love you.”

“I love you. We see in a week if I am dying, yes?”

“What’s in a week?” Shane frowned, trying to remember the start of the schedule Ilya had recited.

“Nothing, but it takes time sometimes right?” What did? Getting sick? Fuck, was he ever going to give over on this?

“Oh right, yeah. Ok fine, we’ll see in a week.”

…

Ilya crinkled his face up in frustration as the door shut. Forget the actual gift, he was pretty sure the most memorable thing about this visit was the damage to his nose. He brought tentative fingers up to swipe at the underside of the appendage. Ow. Not broken- God knows he knew what that felt like- but still a less than pleasant feeling.

“hhuH-” And of course, it was going to have the same reaction as it did to everything. “-hiH-” Every fucking time.

Ilya started to walk through to the living room, challenging himself to make it to the box of tissues on the coffee table before the fit ended.

“hHK! Kkh! hKk!-” Glance up to check he wasn’t about to walk into the wall? Good.

“-hKk! hKSH! hKSHH! KSH!”- Don’t drift off course.

“-kKSH! hiHKSH! hKXSCHh!-” Eugh. Ok, mission aborted.

He snagged a sweatshirt from the back of the chair he was passing and stopped short, raising it to his face.

“-hHKSHh! hAHKSHh! hAHMPHh! hHMPHh!”

Ilya sniffled, angrily flicking away the single tear that had dared to venture down his cheek, the pain and the force of the fit having set his eyes watering again. He wasn’t particularly interested in the stinging pain and possible blood of attempting to blow his nose right now, so he tossed the sweatshirt back where he’d found it with another sniff, and headed back in the direction of the kitchen to retrieve his phone. He swore to God if Hollander got him sick on top of trying to break his nose, no gift in the world would make up for that. He had a sinking feeling that he hadn’t actually asked the Canadian straight out if he was sick, and he knew he had a tendency to take things slightly literally, sometimes to his own evasive advantage.

…

Shane jogged back to the car, breathing through his mouth. The half of his brain that wasn’t occupied with screaming in overstimulated agony was frantically recounting every stupid awkward thing he’d just done that would ‘ruin’ their final interaction before the season started in earnest. Fracturing both of their skulls was one. Wasting his words sidestepping the topic of his health was definitely another.

He gritted his teeth as he tugged open the driver’s side door, dropping into his seat and slamming it behind him as he once again dove for the glove compartment. The frustrated noise that emerged from him as his nose started to drip was animalistic, raw, tortured by the simple sensations of his body trying to defend itself.

The rough material of one of his last napkins in the stash forced the tickle into submission as Shane massaged his nose roughly, coughing as the two sensations fought against each other, tears springing to his eyes.

The moment he could breathe without coughing or moaning in twinned distress and relief, he blew. The feeling was unsatisfying, leaving him leaning forward, desperately trying to force more air out of his lungs and through his nostrils, to no avail. One sniffly, congested breath of the slightly stale air in the vehicle was all it took for his reflexes to take over the clean-up job.

“hhTDSH!” The tissue was barely whole enough to be helpful anymore, but he had to start being sparing or he wouldn’t have enough to make it home. “hhEHTSHh!”

Shane tilted his head back, blinking damp, doe eyes up at the ceiling as the sensation rose again. Just two more, and then he could drive back.

“hheHNGt!” Fearing the remains of the napkin wouldn’t be able to handle another set of sneezes, even as manageably sized as they were, he started to stifle again. “hNGT! heHNGT!-” Oh no.

His blood ran cold as another sneeze followed hot on the heels of what he'd thought would be the last one, protesting his attempts to wrangle it back. Nonono. He would not have a repeat of earlier. He had neither enough napkins nor enough energy for that.

…

~Two hours earlier~

Shane fought every instinct in his body that was telling him to drop the bag and sprint across the parking lot. Keeping himself together for the short shopping experience had been significantly harder than he’d anticipated, and now he felt like he needed to be back in the privacy of his car more than he needed to get this gift safely to Ilya, or not draw attention to himself by sprinting around like a madman. Which was wrong, he very much needed both of those things.

“hHeh-” He bit his tongue, ducking his head down to hide the itchy expression that he could tell was tugging his eyebrows up and flaring his nostrils impatiently. Two more rows. Why had he parked so fucking far away?

Eyes on his sneakers, Shane focused on controlling his breathing, in and out, through his mouth, matching it in time with his steps- one, two, three-breathe, three-two-one, breathe.

And then he was on the right row, four cars away, but now he was holding his breath, because if he didn’t, something was going to burst out of him, and he wasn’t sure if it would be a sneeze or his soul.

It seemed almost inevitable that he’d make it. He had his hand in his pocket, pulling out his car keys and-

He was just passing the SUV parked one car down from him when a woman appeared from behind it, the two of them obscured from each other until the very last second. Shane jolted to a stop with a gasp as the woman made some kind of polite surprised noise.

“Sor-hh” Halfway into the obligatory apology, his breath caught. Usually the panic of being in public was enough to stem the urge to sneeze, but right now his nose had decided that it had been polite for too long, and he knew there was no denying it.

Shane pressed his fist under his nose, unable to pinch it while holding the car keys in one hand and the gift bag in the other. “heHNGt! hNGTt!”

“Oh!” He’d now managed to elicit two surprised noises from this poor bystander in under a minute. “Wow, God bless you! Y’alright there?”

“Sorry, excuse me. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you.” Don’t get distracted, don’t think about Ilya just because she said the thing, just get back to the car. He could very much feel that he wasn’t out of the woods, nodding awkwardly to the still shocked stranger as he made it the last few steps to his car, unlocked it, and got in.

By the time he’d placed the gift bag on the passenger seat, the woman had mercifully disappeared, Shane immediately forgoing all attempts to look normal and casual, lunging to open the glove compartment and fumbling for a napkin with shaky hands, getting it to his face just in time for,

“hEHTDSHh! hTCHh! hhEh… hEHTCHhew! TCHhh!”

He moaned, coughing as what had begun as an itch in his nose and quickly turned into a frantic buzzing, grew and moved, reaching into his throat and deep into his sinuses, punishing him for trying to suppress it for so long. One very ineffectual attempt to blow his nose between coughs later, the tissue was spent, and he dropped it into his lap to throw out before he drove off.

Reaching for another napkin, Shane was surprised to find himself inhaling sharply again, barely having enough time to duck against the bicep of his outstretched arm before, “hTCHhew!” He raised his other hand, fingers still only skimming the stack, not close enough to snatch one away, pinching his nose.

“hNGT!” Mistake. Big mistake. He knew it the second his eyes opened again, the fire of a thousand suns igniting in his sinuses. “hEHNGT! hNGT! NGKt! hNGTch!” Shane willed himself to lean further forwards, find the napkins by touch alone, and bring one back before his head exploded. “hNGTt! heHNGt! hhhEhnGT!-EHNGTDSHh! Oh mby god.”

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d failed to stifle a sneeze when he’d really been trying like this, sure sometimes they slipped by him when he was half asleep in Ilya’s embrace, or more focused on the road than his nose in the car, but an explosion like that? His search renewed with desperation, finally retrieving the first few napkins from the stack and sitting back up with an overdramatic breath,

“hhEHhEH…hEHTDSH! hTCHhh!-” Barely given time to think, let alone breathe or switch out his tissues in the wake of the fast paced double Shane let out a helpless little noise, as though his body would hear it reflected back and take pity on him. “heAHTChh! HTSHhEW!” No such luck.

Hesitantly, he pinched his nose shut again, fumbling for another one of the napkins that had strewed across his legs as he’d extracted one to press to his face, and doubling it up on top of the first one, “heHTCHh! TCHh!-” God, was this how Ilya felt all the time? Because as intriguing as he found those fits, he was starting to feel guilty for just sitting there and watching them happen. “-TCHhew! TCHh! hTCHuh! Oh f-huh-uck. heHTSHhew! Please, make it-hEHTDSH! -make it sto-oH-ohmygod-TDXSHhEw!”

Ungratefully, Shane continued to mentally swear to, and plead with, and berate whatever power was listening during the brief respite from sneezing that he was then afforded. To be fair to him, the respite consisted entirely of a violent coughing fit that felt like it would expel most of his organs mummification style, but it was all he was going to get, so he really should have made the most of it.

The brunet surfaced from the now threefold layered napkins clamped to his face, blinking in the sunlight, tears running down his face, probably looking the picture of angelic suffering had anyone been there to witness it, and whispered a single word. “Please.”

Apparently, that was either not the passcode to freedom from torture-by-immune-system, or the powers that be were still less than pleased with the language used in his internal monologue while he was hacking up his lungs, as Shane felt a tiny popping sensation somewhere in his sinuses, the congestion repositioning itself. The tiny popping sensation was of course the catalyst for a colossal burning sensation to begin, a wildfire picking up speed as it spread throughout his nose, white-hot pain that had him scrambling for the glove box again, fresh napkins pressed over the offending appendage, and he blew to extinguish the flames.

The breath that Shane sucked back in through his mouth was sharp enough to audibly snap against the roof of his mouth, and all he could do about it was try to use his last few seconds of autonomy to express his frustration at the situation, “Fuck this f-uhH hEHTDSHhuh!-”

…

“-hNGT! hTSHhew!”

Having learned his lesson by now, Shane allowed himself to sneeze fully in order to stop the fit, wincing at the feeling of the napkin degrading in his hand.

He reached for another. Maybe he could stop by a drive-thru on the way back. Order just a water and every napkin they had. Or not. He knew they most likely would have heard stranger requests, but there was a small chance he'd be recognized and he feared he'd never live that down.

“heHTDSH! hTCHhew!” Okay, he was done now. He could drive. Drive back to his place and sleep for the rest of eternity.

Shane folded the napkins together, pushed them into his pocket and reached for the hand sanitiser he kept in the car door. Drive back to his place, shower, and then sleep for the rest of eternity. That sounded good.

…

~ One week later ~

Ilya’s phone buzzed on the nightstand, drawing his focus away from the television. He picked up the device and frowned at the text on the screen, immediately shifting his position to type back.

JANE: Are you sick?

YOU: what?

YOU: no.

YOU: I score 2 goals tonight.

JANE: Remember at your place when I gave you the gift?

The Russian stared blankly at the whitewashed hotel wall for a moment. Gift? Was that a codeword for something else? Or- Ah no, he remembered the bland boring gift bag now, and it’s tantalisingly unknown contents.

YOU: yes.

JANE: I said I wouldn’t get you sick. Because I wasn’t getting sick. And you said I would. So…

YOU: means nothing. I have flawless immune system.

YOU: your attempt to sabotage me failed.

JANE: You’re so fucking annoying.

Ilya smirked, imagining Shane’s brow creased in frustration as he stared down at his phone. Ah he missed that adorable little pout. Maybe it was time to open the gift when he got home. If he remembered to, that was.

…

Ilya hadn’t remembered to. He hadn’t remembered for so long that Shane himself had almost forgotten the gift by the time that text came through.

LILY: a candle?

He was just walking back into his hotel room after a meal, mercifully alone, because the immediate way he’d become captivated by his phone at the single notification probably would have raised a few eyebrows, and started some serious rumors about his love life. Shane paused to text back before starting to get changed.

YOU: Yes. Smell it.

The notification came through while he had his sweatshirt halfway over his head, and he rushed to pull it all the way on, and seat himself on the bed to read the reply.

LILY: is going to knock me out? or get me high?

Shane shook his head with a sigh. Just do it already.

YOU: No.

LILY: boring.

A few seconds passed. Then the typing dots appeared.

LILY: it smells like you???

LILY: or have you always smelled like candle? and I never noticed?

YOU: I had it custom made to have my cologne and soap and stuff so it’s really accurate to how I smell. Because you always say you miss that…

LILY: fuck I love you.

LILY: I should have opened it when you were there.

LILY: then we light it and fuck.

YOU: I love you too. I don’t think I was in very good shape for that at the time though.

LILY: ??

LILY: you are in great shape. always. sexy.

YOU: I mean like I wasn’t feeling well.

It was torture to type that out, contrasting sensations of the shame of the phrase, and sensuality of the topic, the awkwardness of bringing up the old argument, but the satisfaction of knowing he could finally explain why he was right, mixing and melding in his chest.

The typing dots again. For longer this time. Then the bubble disappeared, and Shane twisted his lips to one side, shoulders raising with growing tension, hyperconscious of every passing second without a reply. Maybe he shouldn’t have brought it back up.

Eventually,

LILY: I remember. I asked if you are sick and you said no.

Shane started to type a response, Ilya cutting him off several times before he could do so.

LILY: liar.

LILY: why you lie about this? :(

YOU: I didn’t lie. I wasn’t sick.

There was no response, even after a minute had passed, and the Canadian sighed. He was just about to throw his phone down and turn on the television to try and distract himself when it started to buzz.

LILY CALLING…

“Hello?”

“Explain.”

Blood rushed to his face at the realisation that they were about to have this conversation over the phone. Better than Facetime he supposed, especially now that he was blushing this hard.

“I wouldn’t lie to you about that.” He began, slowly, delaying the inevitable.

“Really? Because you just said you did not feel good, and I remember you sneeze all over the place. My place.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.” The tension in his muscles was starting to ache. He pushed himself up to stand, so he could pace around a little. “I really wasn’t sick, though. I was… I guess I think I was having an allergic reaction.”

“You were? To what? The candle is literally made of you, so was not that.”

“It’s not made of me. But no, I think it was something in the store, they had these test samples of something that another customer was spraying all over the place and I guess… something in that got to me.”

“Ah.” Ilya’s voice was slow, sympathetic, but Shane could hear the edge of a smile tugging at his lips. “If was that bad at my place you must have been mess in the store, no?”

“No, actually.” The Canadian shrugged, running a hand over the back of his neck, unconsciously trying to relieve the tension. “I uh- managed to keep it together until I got in the car.” Well, almost.

“Wow. Mr Self Control.”

A laugh, part amusement, part discomfort, entirely an attempt to hide how flattered he was by the stupid joke, bubbled out of him. “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen me in the parking lot. I couldn’t go 30 seconds without sneezing. It took 15 minutes for me to calm down enough to be able to get out and grab an antihistamine from my bag in the trunk, and another 10 till I could drive away.”

Ilya clicked his tongue. “Ty bednyazhka. You know what specifically bothered you?” It almost seemed like politeness, the natural course of the conversation, or pure sympathy, but Shane could tell the question was acutely focused, like whatever answer he gave would be filed away to reference against the ingredients of every grooming item Ilya purchased for the rest of his life.

“No, sorry.” He tried to conjure the image of the store, the tiny little spray bottles, back into his mind. “Uh-” The scent was right there, nameless, familiar, so strong in his memory that it almost made his nose itch just imagining it. He sniffled. “- I can remember how it smelled but not what it’s called.”

“Maybe we go back? Or just me?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Shane pressed his thumb to the side of his nose, now trying to get his brain to stop recreating the sensation he’d had in the store. Surely the memory alone wouldn’t be enough to make him-

“It’s important. Imagine if fan wore to meet and greet or I buy as gift for your mom.”

“Jesus, fine, alright, let’s just stop talking about it.” Since when was he buying announced gifts for Shane’s mother anyway?

“What? Why? Are you okay?”

The Canadian realised as he paced past the mirror that he was unconsciously mirroring the frown he could hear in Ilya’s voice, facial muscles starting to ache from the empathetic habit. He relaxed his brow, though the relief of the relaxation revealed another underlying sensation. “I just- thinking about it kind of makes me feel… like… I’m… going to-”

He lunged for the tissue box beside the bed, pulling two free and raising them desperately to his face, “hhEH-” The instinct cut off sharply as he heard Ilya shift on the other end of the phone he still held to his ear. Shane’s face flushed. He’d been about to sneeze with the microphone right next to his mouth.

Not wanting to deafen his boyfriend, he tossed the phone down onto the bed, folding the tissues and staring at the wall as he waited it out. The tickle arose again, then waned, mind flicking back to the awkwardness of leaving Ilya waiting on the line. He sighed in frustration.

Just remember that day. Standing at the counter, waiting for them to ring you up. The rows of tiny bottles, the shelves of candles and soap and diffusers and incense. The scents mixing and muddling in the air, which had initially been pleasant, but quickly become slightly nauseating as his senses struggled to process them all. The loud-voiced man beside him, enthusiastically reading aloud the names on the bottles and spritzing the air in front of him before giving those long, obnoxious sniffs in to test the scent. Then that specific one that had caught sharply in the back of Shane’s nose, brought tears to his eyes and a grit to his throat. And an itch like he’d never felt before that spread all the way through… his…

“hehhH…EHTDChh! hiEHTCHew!”

With a sniffle and a swallow, he brought the phone back to his ear.

“Sorry, excuse me.”

“God bless you. Must be bad allergy if you still sneeze weeks later.” The Russian’s voice was sweet and thick as honey, and almost drowned out by Shane’s heartbeat thumping in his ears.

“Thanks. I- I guess.”

“We will figure out and then avoid, yes? Is good candle and I do not want you to die getting me another one.”

“Well I’m glad you like it.”

He sat back down on the bed, dabbing softly at his nose with the tissues and listening to Ilya fiddle with the gift packaging on the other end of the line. After a minute, he heard his boyfriend breathe a barely audible laugh, and the clink of the candle jar being set down before he spoke.

“Shane.”

“Yeah?”

“I really thought was going to be a dildo.”

[pyronomous]

highly infectious behavior (6.9k, h/eated r/ivalry)

I wrote this with my (proverbial) dick in my hand, and it’s my first time writing snz porn so that has me feeling pretty vulnerable. I’ve always appreciated those of you who post explicit content, but I’m appreciating from a different lens this time! this is scary! or maybe I’m just a chronic overthinker. but this is a kink space and we all (most of us?) jork it to a sneeze, so I gotta get my head out of my ass.  anyway, I also experimented with tone!! not sure if it’ll make a big difference in the reader experience, but I’m interested to hear what you think! once again, sorry for always rambling before I get to the horn. I’ll stop here :)  post-TLG pwp (except there’s a lotta love in the details?) in which shane and ilya both have colds. they’re married, they just won a game, and they want to get off. or; ilya has no qualms about sneezing during sex and is generally a menace. shane needs to be eased into it but is very down bad for his menace husband. the results are really, really filthy.  VERY NSFW!!! 18+ as always, but even adults should be warned about the depravity that follows.

The Centaurs won.

It had been a grueling few days, back-to-back games with the the winter holidays coming closer in view. They still had a few weeks of games packed tight before Christmas, but tonight was the start of a rare two days off for recovery. 

And it was much needed. A cold was spreading through the team, and if their wins the past two nights were considered, most of the league were likely plagued with something similar—if not worse, given some of the awful plays they’d been witnessing the past two weeks. 

Shane’s drive home from the arena had been easy and quiet, with his husband leaned back in the passenger seat and only occasionally making comments on how they could spend the next couple days. (‘Snnfffsnf! We can get—snnf!—Christmas tree tomorrow. Take Anya with us. And look online for—snnff-ggh’mm—new orm… Orma… Eh, decorations.’) To Shane, it sounded more like there would be a lot of lounging in order, and a lot of sniffling. (‘Ornaments. Snnngff! And we’ll see.’)

Anya had been with Shane’s parents since yesterday afternoon, dropped off before they headed to the arena, what with both Shane and Ilya being under the weather and having back-to-back games. It had been the most logical choice when neither of them were at their best and were going to have two late nights in a row. 

Ilya had been less than pleased but agreed under the reality that Anya would happier not being alone so much—and having a staycation with her grandparents (Shane’s mom had feelings about that, and she most certainly had voiced them).

Normally Shane loved coming home to Anya, loved watching how Ilya would crouch in greeting and kiss words of endearment into her fur like he hadn’t seen her in days, like it wasn’t ritual to spend his pre-game nap with her in bed. But tonight Shane was glad to share a quiet homecoming with him. He enjoyed the way they were transforming right over the threshold of their front door, going from tired but fulfilled teammates to a pair of husbands with colds who had no obligations beyond dragging each other to the couch between kisses. 

They were both sniffly and exhausted in that weathering-a-cold way, but the high from winning back-to-back games was taking its time to fizzle out. There was still enough of a buzz left in both of them, and there was no good reason to withhold their bodies from each other when they were already sharing the same cold.

Ilya kissed him gently at first, awkwardly and between steps, little pecks with parted lips that were more for the sake of keeping contact as they ambled further into their home. Shane reacted with short hums of appreciation and roaming hands, because Ilya’s lips felt far too good against his face to possibly interrupt but he desperately needed to place himself somewhere in the scope of exercising his need for Ilya in return. He wanted to have his cake, eat his cake, and fuck it too. 

Being on the receiving end of Ilya’s mouth, when it was at its most tender and occasionally its most filthy, filled him with so much warmth he didn’t know what to do with it all. It bled into him until it spilled over, because Ilya was nothing if not a giving lover, and Shane needed a place to store the excess of it (re: right back into Ilya’s waiting palms, and he knew they would be handing it back and forth, back and forth all night). 

Shane knew, and weakened over the idea, that no one else would ever have the privilege of experiencing just how selfless Ilya’s mouth could be. They got vicious digs, while Shane got—

They collapsed on the couch together, Ilya lounging in a half-lying sprawl in the corner of the sectional while Shane hovered in a straddle, and Ilya dove forward to mouth at his neck. Shane saw sun-kissed curls as he let his eyes fall shut, and he swore it could have been the light of god flashing over him because surely this had to be heaven.

“—ISHH’ewh!”

That had come out of nowhere, courtesy of said curls tickling over his already irritated nose, and there was nowhere to turn when he hadn’t even known it was coming in the first place.

So, yeah, Shane had sneezed on top of his husband’s head.

And yeah, that put a fucking wrench in the mood.

And—of course Ilya was still kissing his neck like nothing had happened.

“Ilya, wait—“

“Mmh?” 

Ilya kept going, and Shane had half a mind let him because his skin was being tugged into Ilya’s hot mouth as he sucked right on his pulse point, just the way he liked. He groaned and was rewarded with a generous swipe of Ilya’s tongue, which was a very convincing argument against—well, there wasn’t any argument at all, but his nose twitched and reminded him of why he asked Ilya to wait in the first place. 

He sniffed sharply, nose wrinkling, and weakly pushed at Ilya’s shoulder. “Maybe—ahh!—maybe we’re too sick for this.”

That got Ilya’s attention. 

Too much of it, maybe. Ilya straightened, lifting his head and inching back to sit taller with Shane still straddling his lap. His lips were already tinted red, swollen in that just-been-kissed way Shane could die staring at just to prove the point that he could stare at them forever. 

“You feel bad, malysh?” 

Ilya took his hand off of its place at Shane’s hip and touched the back of his wrist to Shane’s forehead, then his cheek. It was a choice so deliberate and thoughtful that it made his stomach flip, which was truthfully a little perplexing. Apparently he needed to add his husband’s capacity for concern and care to his ever growing list of ways Ilya could get him off. 

It was also thoroughly frustrating, because he could feel himself getting harder with each passing second. 

“No, we just... This is kinda gross, Ilya,” he mumbled but didn’t feel all that sure, and that uncertainty proved real as it carried over into his voice. He could hear it, the way it sounded like he believed what he was saying but only halfway meant it. The way his words formed in his mouth one way and shaped into something else entirely once they were out of him.

Ilya rolled his eyes, head falling back in exasperation. “Right. Because nothing we do is gross, ever.”

“Shut up, you know what I mean.”

Ilya cupped his hand over Shane’s crotch. It wasn’t exactly a squeeze, but it was enough to make Shane loosen his breath and tilt his hips. “Right now I know your dick is hard enough to rip through your pants.” 

But then Ilya was pulling his hand back, and Shane let his own hand ghost over the same space, pressing oh-so-slightly because he was suddenly very aware of the lack—and, in part, because he had to physically hold himself back from letting his hips follow Ilya’s hand like a dog to its fucking master. 

Ilya looked down at this, eyes all fire and gratification, like the look he got during a face-off he was confident in winning. Sometimes Shane missed seeing that look on the ice, head-on with Ilya playing dirty and trying to piss him off. And he wasn’t sure how much he liked seeing it in bed these days (which was a lot, actually, but he was a sore loser and he usually lost to this).

“No, never mind. I think you don’t need this as much as me.”

“That’s—“

“No, no. I need to fuck you so bad I will let you sneeze everywhere.” Ilya motioned in a wide swoop down his body, then sagged in a resigned, overly dramatized way like it was somehow possible to collapse when he was already pressed into the couch. “But you will let big scary germs win.”

Shane’s jaw clenched. His temple pulsed. Ilya was playing an angle Shane could see from a mile away, and it was working. “Alright! Alright.” He still wasn’t keen on the idea of sneezing all over the place, and on his husband, but his cock was really starting to ache. He gave it a squeeze because, fuck, he couldn’t help it. “Fine, you win. You win.”

Ilya lolled his head to the side, feigning hopelessness. He wistfully voiced, “Ooh, but I will also sneeze on you probably. You won’t like that.”

Shane gritted his teeth. “Can’t you just, like, try not to?”

“It will happen, Shane.” Now Ilya was all serious business, pitching his voice higher and letting his body follow. He traced his fingers over Shane’s arm. “By accident, of course. But I cannot control a sneeze.”

Shane considered this. It was true, and it was silly that it needed to be said. The whole conversation was silly, in fact, but Shane had a feeling Ilya wouldn’t back down. Shane wouldn’t have, anyway. Probably. It was hard to understand how the scales tipped when his weeping dick was on the line. 

Maybe Ilya, and his tendency to give Shane everything he wanted, was the only way Shane could ever stand to lose. In a way, it made Shane feel like a winner by association—and because he always got an orgasm out of it.

“…can sneeze… me…” 

“What? Sorry, can’t hear so well.” Ilya smiled subtly, a smug and self-satisfied sort of kink to his lips that made Shane want to kiss it right off of him. Ilya motioned at his ear in a lazy wave. “Very stuffed up because I have a cold.”

“You can sneeze on me! God, you can fucking sneeze wherever the fuck you want.”

If he had known that was all it would take, Shane would have said it ages ago. (Minutes, actually, but what were numbers on the timeline of desire? He’d never been very good at math.) Sure, maybe he had been the one to stop their doings in the first place, but he had been wrong for it. He could admit that now, with Ilya’s mouth crashing into his.

Shane apologized for it the way he knew how. With his mouth, trailing rushed and frantic kisses across a strong jaw, the soft underside of it where he could practically taste his pulse, the nape where he could best smell the perfect mix of Ilya and shower room soap—

“H-hheEH-“

Shane started to pull back. Ilya’s hold on the back of his head tightened, fingers tugging his hair so taut it was practically a dare to keep fucking around and find out that his hair wasn’t actually as married to his scalp as he thought. Ilya was simultaneously pulling his hair and pushing him so hard against his collar that the tip of his nose flattened wide against his skin.

“-h’ISSHHT!”

Ilya laughed heartily as Shane broke away to roughly rub two fingers under his nose, partly out of shock and partly because it was still tickling.

“Fu-uuh!-huh’ISSHooh! Fuck you! What was that for?!” He ground the heel of his palm against the underside of his nose, which he knew was arguably gross, but it was itching so badly. It was next level torture, almost on par with the way his dick was twitching in his pants. “Kind of—huh’ISSHuhh! sdnnff! Kind of seems like you want me to sneeze on you, pervert.”

Ilya looked reasonably amused by that. “Mmh, no. But I don’t mind, and I want you.” His voice dipped low, gravely from his cold. “And I want you to kiss my neck some more.”

(Shane was dismayed to realize he had another item to add to the list of things that turned him on, and it was his husband’s voice when he had a cold. At some point, maybe he’d have to resign from jotting any of it down and just put Ilya, Ilya, Ilya instead. It would sum up the list quite nicely.) 

Ilya grabbed his bicep with strong fingers. It was like Ilya could ball up all his need in his hand and make Shane feel it through his grip alone, so Shane let himself be pulled forward in a trance fueled by Ilya and his cold-ridden voice, and his insatiable hunger, and so what if they sneezed on each other when he was pretty sure that later he was going to come so hard the proof of it would end up on both their faces.

And between all this lust, they were still fully clothed. It was ridiculous, and he would have to fix that later. Soon probably, but he was already back at Ilya’s neck. 

It was hard to tell whether the dip of Ilya’s neck was wet from the way he’d been mouthing at it moments ago, or because he had sneezed on it. Probably both, which was what he would think if he had the wherewithal to form even half a thought. 

“HhH-HAAHDt-dzZSHOO!” Ilya sneezed, and now Shane understood why it had been so easy for Ilya to keep kissing through it. “Yhh’HIDSCHHT! Ghh-hehh-heED’ZSCHUuh!” 

“B-Bleshh’oo,” he managed absently around his wandering tongue, still trying to find a point of entrance, trying to find a place where he could bury his whole mouth right into Ilya’s throat and feel the vibration of those sneezes directly from his vocal cords with the whole of his tongue. 

Ilya chuckled, if a little breathy, and Shane started seeing stars. Whether it was laughing, or sneezing, or talking—he just needed Ilya to keep on so he could taste his way around the shape of Ilya’s voice. “So polite, solnyshko.” Fuck. “Always—snnghff!—so polite.”

Shane adjusted his hips, angling so he could rut his groin right up against Ilya’s stomach and, in turn, feel his balls drag over Ilya’s thick, hard length. It was an odd contortion, one where his spine was curving every which way, but Ilya felt so good. He wanted to thank whoever had the idea of making athletic joggers so thin, maybe mail a note or write an email because he was just that grateful—and very certain that whoever designed these things also had a beautiful husband whose dick they needed to feel the details of even through clothed foreplay. Functional fashion, or something, and his praise for it. 

“Fuck, oh fuuuck. Ilya.” Just as he felt he was about to come in his fucking performance pants (yeah, already, but only because Ilya was tugging his hair again and making awfully crazed noises), Ilya placed his hands against his chest and made him come up for fresh air. 

“Stop, stop.” 

“Noooh-hah’IXSCHewhh! No, I can’t—“ Shane led with his lips, eyes hooded and caught in building up to another sneeze, and not having the capacity to care, as he dove back in. This was a primal kind of revolt in the face of denial, stripping him of sense and manners and the ability to cover his fucking mouth, apparently. “Hhuh! ‘ISSHHhueh! Please—“

“I was wrong, I think.” Ilya’s hands were firm on his chest, effectively stopping him from doing anything other than sneezing on Ilya’s outstretched arms. Ilya said, breathless, “You need this more than me, maybe.” 

“Fuck off, I don’t need anything.” But his voice came out thin, so obviously a lie it made his face flush hot because who was he to deny he needed anything when he had chased after his husband sneeze-forward.

“You need to take off your clothes before you come in them.” Ilya tried to sound smug, and it almost landed, but he also had that low rasp that meant he was on the brink of losing his fucking mind, too. “You do want me to fuck you tonight, yes?” It was a surrender, maybe an admission that Ilya was coming completely undone, or at least that was how Shane wanted to take it. 

“Yes, yes, please yes.” 

Ilya grabbed the hem of his sweatshirt and let his fingers slide past to reach the shirt under it, too. It was a practiced motion, one they’d had down pat by the time they were early twenty-somethings and in need of finding the fastest way to get their clothes off when trying to fit hookups into their threadbare pockets of time. This, a decade later, felt just as urgent as that. 

Shane was bare from the waist up in record time, and Ilya took a moment to be greedy. Shane was impatiently pulling on Ilya’s Adidas long sleeve (‘You know you don’t have to be a stereotype, right? You can wear Reebok, too.’ ‘Shane, I told you a thousand times, I am Russian so I must wear Adidas. Is my duty.’) and Ilya was interfering with sloppy kisses to Shane’s chest. 

“Ilya,” Shane complained on a tight breath. Ilya stopped momentarily, and Shane was about to celebrate the victory by ripping Ilya’s shirt off when—

“HaaHHD’DJSHuuh! Hh’DZSCHuuwh!”

Right onto Shane’s bare chest, but instead of wasting time by allowing Ilya to gather his bearings, he capitalized on the little cognitive hiccup and yanked Ilya’s shirt over his head. Lust could make a person overlook a lot of things, including having his husband’s sneezes spattered over his chest. 

And now they were equally bare chested. Shane wasn’t winning, but they at least had equal footing. Then Ilya coughed a laugh and knuckled at his nose and said, “You—snnfsnnfff!—want me so bad,” and it didn’t feel very equal anymore.

Well, at least he got to stare at his shirtless husband now. And he also knew how he might be able to tip the scale in his favor this time. 

He lifted himself from the couch and took a couple heel-to-toe steps back as he slid his hands past his pants. He pushed them down and grabbed himself through his boxer briefs, all while he kicked his pants to the side in what he hoped would be a shocking enough diversion of routine to make Ilya sweat. 

Ilya watched with heavy eyes. His hands were bracing the cushion under him.

Shane slipped his fingers under the waistband of his briefs, adjusting his erection so the head of his cock slipped out and hit the open air. He felt a little silly, putting on a show he needed to sniffle his way through, but at least Ilya was sniffling too—with his mouth hung wide open. Shane let his head fall back with a slow groan, ghosting his fingertips over his still covered shaft.

—and that was when Ilya scrambled off the couch to get to him.

Ilya had his hands on Shane’s waist in an instant, grip nearly crushing as he toed Shane backwards in slow, pointed steps. Their stomachs were touching, Shane’s cock trapped between them and Ilya coercing them into moving like they were a single entity. 

Ilya was close, the sliver of space between their lips so small there was hardly enough room for their stuffy breaths. The side of Ilya’s nose was pressed against Shane’s, and he felt like he might sneeze again, but he forgot why that ever mattered. 

Ilya advanced still, until Shane’s back pressed against the frigid floor-to-ceiling window facing their backyard. He made a sound, a soft mmhf at the sudden thunk, and he knew there was nowhere left for Ilya to push. He chanced a glance, just a flick of his eyes up to meet Ilya’s, and felt appeased when Ilya stole his mouth in a kiss. 

His lips were so plush and warm and gentle, Shane had the urge to barrel forward with his teeth. Love could be funny like that, sometimes making violence feel like the answer to tenderness. Or maybe it was just that tenderness whetted an appetite, and Shane was only human. All animal, respectively. 

“Hheh’ISHHuh! Sor-sooorrh-ihh’HISHHeuh!” He barely had the sense to pull out of the kiss before he sneezed, but instinct luckily took over. Sneezing into Ilya’s mouth would have been a step too far for him, even this far gone. Instead he directed them over Ilya’s shoulder at the last second, shivering as he was pulled from the daze of a well earned kiss. The window was freezing against his back, what with snow sticking to the ground outside, and it was doing something strange to his nose to have the weather creeping into his skin. “Heh! H’IISHHehw-heh’ISHH’NG’uhh!”

“Ooh, sorry, malysh. Is too cold, yes?” Ilya took a quick step back and brought Shane with him, keeping them belly to belly, as if they might not survive the winter otherwise. He rubbed warm hands down Shane’s goosefleshed back, pulling a few pleased shivers out of Shane, and pressed a couple steady kisses to the corner of his mouth. “We should go to the bedroom. Will be much warmer.” 

“Yeah, good idea.” Shane couldn’t stop sniffling, and really, neither could Ilya. “Need some tissues, anyway.”

He considered picking up his clothes left in front of the couch, but his nose really was running. The spilling over his philtrum kind, which he hated, and his cock was still hard and mocking him, twitching and pulling the waistband of his briefs with it—which he hated, too. 

Which is why he didn’t say anything when Ilya dropped trou right there, bare naked with Shane still pressed up against him in front of the window, and carefully toe-step-toe-stepped them off. He let Ilya drag him along, clothes forgotten on the floor because they’d still be there later for Shane to bitch about. He could set himself and all his particularities aside to make room for Ilya and his messes, and the way he was wet-nose-kissing his neck again. 

They didn’t separate until they reached the bed, which Shane tried to point out was where they were actually supposed to touch, but Ilya shushed him and pushed him back onto the mattress with a smile. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Shane’s briefs and pulled them off in a quick, clean swoop—but hey, Shane had at least helped by lifting his hips. It mattered, that they were a team at home too.

“You need tissue, yes?” Ilya had a twisted smile on him, the kind that made Shane’s toes curl in sometimes great and sometimes not so great (terrifying) ways. It was a smile he used for threats; when he threatened to suck Shane dry, when he threatened to break a rival's nose for checking Shane too hard into the boards. 

“Uh… Yeah,” Shane said warily. “Please.” 

Ilya hovered over Shane, leaning in to press a soft, chaste kiss against his forehead. It was a diversion, a clever one that let Shane’s guard down just enough so Ilya could wipe Shane’s nose with his briefs still clutched in his hand. Shane jerked his head sideways and scrubbed the back of his hand against his nose like that might do anything to take the action back.

“Christ, Ilya! That’s fucking gross.”

“Sorry, you would like it better if it was my dirty underwear, huh? Sexier that way.” Ilya brought Shane’s briefs to his nose, the same ones he’d just used to wipe up Shane, and blew his nose into them like it was some fucked up competition. 

“Stop fucking around—“

“Mmh, I think you like it.” Ilya finally dropped the briefs, which Shane made a note to toss in the trash later (or burn, or throw in the trash and burn the whole trash can), and prowled his way on top of Shane until they were chest to chest with Ilya’s nose brushing over freckles. “At least, he does.” Ilya rutted his hips against Shane, sliding their cocks together. “He likes it very much.”

“It’s—ahh—you’re just—mmhh…“

“Just? Just so sexy you want to sniff my underwear like pervert?”

“Fuck off! No way.”

“My underwear holds my dick, your mouth holds my dick, why not have your mouth hold my underwear?” Ilya held Shane’s gaze, and Shane didn’t back down, keeping an irritated glare. “Ahh, you’re no fun. Fine, get your tissue. Blow your nose like a…” Ilya motioned in the air as he pivoted his knee against the mattress to sit beside Shane. “Like a… What is that thing? David says a lot. Model…”

“Model citiz—uh… Maybe don’t bring up my dad when we’re about to have sex.” Shane frowned and craned his body sideways, just enough to finger-grip the corner of the tissue box. He inched it into his hand and pulled the entire thing back with him, yanking out exactly two tissues so he could fold them over and properly blow his nose. “We should keep this in reach… M’going to need more of them.” 

“Whatever you want.” Ilya smoothed his palm along Shane’s shoulder, massaging circles into his trap with his thumb. “Now can I fuck you?” 

Shane, momentarily, was at a loss because yeah, he still wanted to be fucked, but there was a lull in the energy after all the shivering and the brief-blowing and god—even his dad. But if he looked at the facts, he was still hard and Ilya’s dick looked ready to shoot off. 

(Which was hot, sure, but it also pissed him off because why did he go all jelly-boned and blood-down-south when Ilya felt his forehead and sounded sick, while Ilya seemed to get off on testing his limits—except, really, that did something to Shane too, so…)

Ilya smirked. “You look like you want to eat me.”

And damn it, he did. 

Because truthfully, Shane liked to make Ilya laugh. Not the kind of laugh when he was two seconds away from a one-two-punch, when his mouth would curl and his laugh sounded more like an angry spit. He liked making Ilya laugh with teeth on display and cheeks flushed with that cherry-tint joy, and so maybe Shane had to be the punchline sometimes, if only because Ilya loved teaching Shane that embarrassment didn’t always have to be kept close. It could happen, and then it could pass, and he would be okay. 

There was just no good reason for Shane to feel embarrassed when Ilya loved and loved and loved. 

Ilya seemed to understand when Shane suddenly croaked, “I love you.” 

They were a mess of limbs in an instant, opening their mouths in a wild, untamable greed. Their recycled breaths, one chest to another—between the two of them, they probably weren’t getting enough oxygen, which Shane would use as the excuse for how he kept kissing the corner of Ilya’s mouth when he barely turned his head to sneeze (hHR’SCHUUuh!).

If only the brain were advanced enough to take orders from someone desperate enough, if only a person could pick and choose when to see everything in slow motion. If Shane had a choice, every breath would be draggingly slow, every touch would be felt with such sharpness he would be able to pinpoint every inch of his skin and the corresponding touch. Instead, he was a mess of gasps and shivers and heat pooling in his belly, and it made it all so hard to keep a single cognitive thought. 

It came in blurry snapshots, of hip bones grinding into each other and sniffly kisses left sticky on every possible inch of skin, of being lifted and deposited nearer to the head of the bed, with a pillow so thoughtfully tucked under his sacrum while his legs were forced to bend above him. 

Ilya’s mouth was scribing, writing his hunger straight down Shane’s torso with his tongue and marking it further with teeth. Shane took hold of one of his own legs, freeing Ilya’s to roam his chest and grab greedy palmfuls of muscle. Shane’s cock was jumping on his stomach, the head of it staring straight at him from this angle and begging to be touched, but he couldn’t remember how to move his other hand from its clenched grasp in the sheets. It was his only anchor as Ilya moved his mouth down. 

“HhDT’ZSCHHT!” 

Shane felt it on his balls first, a strange wisp of cool air barely escaping past clenched teeth like Ilya had at least actually tried to stop the sneeze from escaping. 

“HuUH’DZSCHuueh! HaAH’DJSHhuuh’zZDJSHOoh!” 

Now he felt them on his inner thigh, leaving behind a dampness that cooled in a way he could pretend was made from hungry kisses. It was funny, the way his cock lurched at the thought. Perhaps being sneezed on wasn’t the worst thing. He wasn’t going to add it to the list or anything, but they did have the same cold, and he never cowered in the face of having Ilya’s saliva kissed onto every inch of him, and half his DNA was probably fused with Ilya’s by now if the past thirteen years had anything to show for it—

“Oh, fuck—”

His hips jumped involuntarily, Ilya’s tongue slipping lazy circles around his rim. He felt like a live wire, fraying at the ends and sparking with electricity that just needed somewhere to go. Ilya passed his tongue with variation—in fat strips, wet and smooth; in agonizingly slow, firm pushes; in wet kisses that felt like suction. 

Shane settled into it, raising his hips to meet Ilya’s mouth because fuck, Ilya always made him feel like he was allowed to take and take and take. 

(His entire history of learning about [good] sex and understanding how it could feel like this, was with the man between his legs. This was the man who first taught him how to take fingers down his throat, how to arch on a face and not worry himself to death over the probability of suffocation by ass.)

“Hh’DSZCHuhh! Hh’ADZSCHUuh! RRH’SCHOoh!”

With the angle, Ilya’s nose bumped right into Shane’s taint, an uneven and regrettably short-lived rhythm with each sneeze. It left Shane crying out in surprise and absolute delirious praise. It was so overwhelming it made him shiver all the way to his fingertips, hardly noticing as he sneezed around wanton moans.

“Mmnh’iSHHeuh—ohmygod-ohgod-ohh’TSHh’h’IH’shhuh!” 

(Fuck it, sneezing could go on the list, too.)

Ilya growled, a dangerous sound Shane could always clock as meaning he was about to get his ass split and handed to him. Shane gave a distressed groan when Ilya’s mouth pulled away from him, but it choked in his throat when Ilya grabbed his cock in a loose hold. His thumb rubbed the underside of it gently, and it was too dry but too good to do anything about it other than let him.

“Open.” Ilya’s voice sounded wrecked, a little congested and thoroughly thick with the heaviness arousal brought on. Ilya shoved two fingers into his mouth, and he sucked instinctively. “Mmh, good.” 

Ilya pushed his fingers deeper, pressing down on the back of Shane’s tongue and nearly choking him. Shane forced his tongue up, separating Ilya’s fingers wide and swirling his tongue around them. Ilya looked positively ready to reward—or punish—him for it. 

“Hh’k!”

Shane tried to pull away, nostrils flaring wide and him struggling to breathe with Ilya finger-fucking his mouth, but Ilya doubled down and curled his fingers on either side of his bite. His thumb pressed firmly under Shane’s chin, and the hand on his cock squeezed. Shane’s eyes rolled back automatically.

“No.” Ilya said it firmly, a command. “Stay.” 

“Hhg’SHHngh! HhG’gshhngh!” 

It was a power play, probably, because then Ilya’s fingers were out of his mouth and touching his rim, one bravely prodding past the tight ring of muscle. And Shane didn’t have time to be mad when—

“Fuck! Fuck, please—“ 

Ilya worked his fingers faster than usual, already knuckle deep and spreading him. Ilya’s hand moved from his cock to the back of Shane’s knee, forcing his hips to rock back again. Shane, mouth hanging open, gripped hold of his own cock to hold it still or hold himself back or just to hold for the sake of it because exactly what is he supposed to do when—

“HhaAH-HAH’DSCHHuh!” 

Ilya’s fingers crooked when he sneezed, forcing the tips of them so hard against Shane’s prostate he thought he might die. He might die like this, with words stuck in the back of his sore and scratchy throat, with his nose running and and his eyes squeezed tightly shut in silent, excruciating ecstasy. 

“You like?” 

And fuck him, because how was he supposed to answer that with his throat so tight and head so gone. He dragged a breath, wheezing and desperate, willing himself to stop writhing in search of more. 

Ilya took his fingers out. “Answer me.” 

If he thought he had been close to death before, this was something beyond it. This was incoherence, this was being at the edge of bliss and having it ripped from you and left empty. It was worse than death, a searching amble through purgatory with every other place just out of reach—and sorely missed. It was yearning for anything.

“I like, I like, I fucking like, please just—aahh—“

“Yes? Just?” 

“Fuck me, please, fuck me, I-need-you-in-me!”

Ilya had a bottle of lube already in his hand (procured by magic was Shane’s guess, but he’d been flying halfway to another dimension), squirting a generous amount. He felt what he assumed to be the ministrations of Ilya slicking himself up, and then the gentle, delicious push of thick head against his entrance. He went in surprisingly easy, Shane’s body opening up in welcome.

“Hheh! Heh’ISHHeuh!” 

Shane sneezed, and Ilya let out a wounded noise. 

“FUCK—do that again.”

Shane had sneezed, of all the things he could have done, and Ilya asked him to do it again.

“Wha—Ilya, what, what are you—“ He felt frantic, fingers gripping Ilya’s shoulders so tight he might leave marks. Shane was ready to be filled to the brim and Ilya was tense and still, asking him to sneeze. He hooked his hands behind Ilya’s neck and pulled him down closer, to which Ilya had to brace his elbows against the bed as he hovered, red-faced, right over Shane. “Fuck me, god, just fuck me.”

“You—feel so fucking good. When you sneeze. Is like…” Ilya moved again, a slow pull out and in, and groaned. “Feel fucking tight.” 

Shane wasn’t sure he understood, but Ilya was fucking him again, and that was all that mattered. Slowly, enough that he could practically feel the details of Ilya’s cock against the sensitive walls inside him. He rolled his hips, matching Ilya’s pace and letting a stream of nonsensical sounds fall out of him. 

“HHURHh’ISSCHUuh!” That landed on Shane’s shoulder, and simultaneously sent Ilya’s hips snapping forward in a much harder, deeper thrust. “HUH’DZSHUh!”

So maybe Shane didn’t understand what Ilya had liked about Shane sneezing while inside him, but Shane certainly could get behind Ilya sneezing again when it made him fuck so hard. 

Ilya drew his hips back and thrust his cock back in, intentionally this time. Shane’s lower half felt somehow numb and on fire, his swollen cock trapped between their bellies as Ilya fucked him more and more and harder, with the head of his dick pressing Shane’s prostate as he went in and passing over it in luscious thrusts. 

“Oh god,” Shane rasped. He clutched at the back of Ilya’s neck, fingers twisting in sweat damp curls and pulling hard in an effort to gain some semblance of control. He wanted to stop his back from bowing, from angling his hips any further away from the perfect rhythm Ilya was keeping, but the pressure of Ilya’s abs on his cock was near impossible to resist. “Holy shit, I can’t—“ His groans evolved, changing shape as he came further undone, leaving him a mess of husky whimpers and shaking limbs. He turned his head, hiding his cheek against the sheets when he let out a particularly loud whine.

Ilya wouldn’t stand for it. He stole Shane’s mouth in a kiss, bringing him back, and mumbled hysterically into his mouth, “Stay, stay, because your nose—so red, and fuck, so cute—and freckles—make your face look… nngh, like beach… with sunset, and—oh god—need to look—“

Ilya didn’t sound far behind, or maybe Shane had the race backwards entirely. Maybe Ilya was closer, or maybe there wasn’t any finishing line at all. Ilya sounded positively insane, like he could barely form a coherent thought. And Shane only half understood what Ilya meant about his red nose and his freckles and sunsets, but it sounded and felt so good coming from his mouth, muttered into Shane’s. It sounded like Ilya was in a place of worship, like perhaps alters weren’t the only place you should get down on your knees and beg, and that made Shane feel like a god.

“HUDT-DZSCHuuh! RRH’SCHUuh!” 

Ilya’s sneezes misted Shane’s cheek and Shane felt fucked to heaven and hell and—god, Mordor, for all he knew. But he did know he was flying from his body, the frantic pull of a universe he’d never been, and he needed Ilya’s mouth to bring him back. He grabbed Ilya’s face, palms on cheeks and fingers gripping his scalp, and kissed him hard. His balls pulled tight and his cock jumped angrily between their stomachs, spilling wet and hot and sticky. He gasped his breaths and groans with his tongue in Ilya’s mouth.

He was still shuddering through his orgasm when a sudden, sharp jolt pricked high in his nose. Sneezing after coming happened sometimes (he’d heard from Hayden, something about seeing an article on it and it being some kind of neural something-or-other.), but it had never happened to him. And not with Ilya still inside of him.

“Heh-fuuuuck’ISSHOoh! Hh’iishh’ISSHeuh’ISHhoo!”

He could feel it, coming back to his body now, the way he clenched around Ilya’s length. He felt how Ilya pulsed in response, and then Ilya groaned tight and high and stuttered, slamming into him and stilling. 

Ilya collapsed on top of him after, effectively stealing the breath from Shane, both of them sagging with tired hurrumph’s. Their chests heaved together, pressing into each other in a seesaw sort of synchronization, with Shane’s chest up when Ilya’s went down, and vice versa. Their hearts pounded in tandem, trying to burst out of them and lay plainly on the sheets beside them like a reminder that they were still there, the hearts behind it all. 

They laughed.

It was light at first, just breathy little chuckles of disbelief, and then it morphed into belly deep laughing, and holding each other through it. 

Shane wiped at his eyes, tearing from both his cold and the laughter. “What the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know.” Ilya laughed again, lifting his head and grinning with boyish joy. Shane couldn’t help but kiss him again, a gentle peck. “But I fucking love it.”

“Mmh, yeah. Me too, actually.”

Ilya got up and stumbled into the bathroom. Shane could hear the shower turn on but he stayed on his back, still trembling through glowing aftermath, little vibrations easing through him even when Ilya came back and wiped him off with a warm, damp cloth. It cooled his skin and made him shiver, full bodied this time, and in turn made him sneeze. 

“Huh’ISSHeuh! Heh! H’ISSH’uh!”

“Bless you.” Ilya held out his hand. “Get up. Shower is warm now.”

They showered together, lazy touches and lazier kisses as they washed their sweat (and germs) down the drain. They were both shivering as they took turns towel drying each other’s hair, teeth chattering and soft sniffles punctuating the sleepy silence they had settled into. 

Once finished, Ilya patted Shane’s ass through the towel looped around his waist. “Wear your Christmas pajamas. The thick ones, or else maybe you get worse.” 

“You’re one to talk. Wear yours, too.” They had matching ones, from the Christmas before when Ilya had insisted.

They both wore more clothes to bed that night than usual. Shane could count on two hands the number of times they had gone to bed with both of them covered limb to limb. The chill of early December didn’t usually stop them from needing to be skin to skin, but this shared cold made it trickier.

They settled under the blankets together, with Ilya on his back and Shane curled into his chest. Ilya’s hand crawled under Shane’s fleece shirt until he was up to his elbow in it, hand flat between his shoulder blades. Shane’s hand slid under Ilya’s matching shirt, until his arm was resting over his stomach and his hand was cupping over prominent lats.

Sleepy and sated, Shane didn’t feel the need to pull away when he sneezed a soft, “Heh’isshuuh!” At the same time, Ilya wrenched forward, over Shane’s head with a stronger, “HAh’DZSHOoh!”

“Bless you,” Shane muttered, while Ilya said in perfect synchronization, “Bud’zdorov.”

It set off a war of blessings.

“À tes souhaits.”

“Gesundheit.”

Shane scoffed. “You don’t even speak German.”

Ilya raised a brow. “But I know Gesundheit.”

“Okay, then, salud."

“Uz veselibu.”

“What’s that one?”

“From Latvia.”

Shane balked. “How do you even know that—“

“I am smart, Shane. And Latvia is a neighbor country. To Russia.”

“Yeah, but… Russia’s huge.”

“And Canada is sooo close to Mexico, Mr. Salud?”

“Okay, go to hell.”

“Hah! So you lose.”

“No, that’s my blessing. Go to hell. I’m gonna say that next time you sneeze.” 

That made Ilya wheeze a laugh, which then made Shane playfully thwack his palm against his side. They settled again, Ilya still punctuating the calm quiet with sleepy, adoring chuckles, and Shane smiling into his chest.

Unfortunately, between the two of them, Shane was the first to sneeze next. “Hheh! Heh’iSHHeuh!”

“Go to hell, Shane.”

“Oh, fuck you!”

a/n: as you can see, I’m thoroughly confused about how I want to use parentheses and italics :’)

now I understand the power of writing porn. I wanted it to go on forever!!! I couldn’t stop!!! I grappled over just how many ways I could write he snz and moan like a whore and snz again without it becoming more redundant than it already is. I guess everyone deserves to cum in the end amiright 

this is so ridiculously horny. if I thought fluff could pull emotions out of me, ho boy! whatever this is, I’m gonna live in it now. 

also, what is the least cringey way to write ass eating? I have no idea but I refuse to write ‘fluttering hole’ and I would like some more alternatives to it.

double also, what would you write if they’re wearing boxer briefs? just keep saying boxer briefs? boxers? briefs? undies (lol)? let me know your thoughts 

[bloodyassboots]

When somebody is frozen mid build-up waiting for release as their breath hitches endlessly when after a few moments of hesitancy their partner reaches over and gently lifts their chin up so they're eye catches the light, finally giving them relese.

(Who knows, maybe the reaction is a bit to imidiate andtheir partner is just a bit to close to get out of the way in time)

(Maybe they can't get anything up to cover or maybe they just don't have the mind to, so they sneeze openly, fully misting their parner)

[rio-19]

Hey so this is random but I just watched C/astlevenia… imma need to see those characters knocked on their asses and intensely loved IMMEDIATELY.

I’m particularly interested in fics based around A/lucard and T/revor (bc duh obviously, have you seen them??) if anybody has any recommendations at all they would be deeply appreciated 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

[sf-libet]

Hm. I often avoid making posts on here related to any discourse because as I say, I usually come here to jerk off, but I've been seeing things I don't like around this neck of the woods lately, so I guess I'll fire some rent-lowering gunshots and get some people to block me:

Trans women are women, trans men are men, nonbinary and genderweird folks are under no obligation to justify their existence to you, and if you think otherwise, fuck you! Get the fuck off my blog, you piece of shit.

I think AI is cringe and stupid. AI-generated images and videos are bottom of the bottom of the barrel of porn. Don't put that shit on my dash. Get out of my living room.

Doing porn is not consent. Quit being creeps. If you think you're coming on too strong when hitting on someone, you probably are! Pull back, chief, reel it in; you're about to smash your dick into a concrete pillar.

[zensations35]

Workaholic character (A) gets sick. They try to push through the symptoms at the office/worksite/store but is starting to make simple mistakes that is very out of character for them.

Fellow employees notice and work bff (B) finally approaches them to say something. A is in denial--they are too busy and too behind to be sick!!

Stress and overclocking makes the illness worse and A has to be forced (by their boss) to take PTO to just rest. So, A is guided to the doctor by B and then commanded to lay down at home for at least two days.

But...two days?? Do they understand how much A can get done in one day? One hour?!

B leaves to finish just a few things and orders A to stay put. But...ugh. Rest. More like hell. Hell with sniffles. Eyeing the dishes, A tells themself...what could one chore hurt?

Bonus:

B returns to find A collapsed and exhausted. But hey! The apartment is clean! B does the "I told you so" caretaking. Gets A into bed scolding them despite A's delirium. Stays with them for the night to make sure A doesn't stupid them self back into a fever.