Illness/Sneeze + Whatever I see and like kink blog. I'm Zoe, I'm 25, and this is probably a big mistake. (She/They) 18+ MINORS DNI (I use a tumblr client on my phone that doesn't show my messages so I'm sorry if I don't answer messages or asks very fast!)
An.thony St.ewart H.ead reading an audiobook wherein one of the characters has the flu, complete with stuffyspeak, coughing, and ONE GLORIOUS SNEEZE
The audiobook for M.ixed M.agics (D.iana W.ynne J.ones) is almost impossible to find in the US, and it contains a LOT more stuffyspeak and a little more coughing, so if anybody wants it, lmk and I can point you in the right direction
The excerpts I chose:
He began coughing again. They had climbed to where it was bitterly cold.
.
“How do you know all this?” he asked bluntly.
“Have you heard of a god called Ock?” Ch.restomanci coughed. “He came to talk to me when you should have been the age you are now. He was worried—” He coughed again. “I shall have to save the rest of my breath for Heaven.”
.
Ch.restomanci looked up at Zond and thoughtfully blew his nose. It was hardly respectful.
“For what reason do two mortals trespass in our halls?” Zond thundered coldly.
Ch.restomanci sneezed. “Because of your own folly,” he said. “You gods of Theare have had everything so well worked out for so long that you can’t see beyond your own routine.”
Thinking about a man who isn't used to being taken care of coming down with an awful cold. He can't stop sneezing and coughing, he's got a fever, he's absolutely miserable, but he's still got work that needs to be done and others needs to put before his own. Eventually, someone (maybe a work crush/lover 👀) gently cups his cheeks and coos sympathetically, telling him that he should be in bed. He insists that he's alright, but can't help but lean into their touch. Crush/lover decides to just let him keep working, not wanting to push him too far out of his comfort zone, but offers cups of tea, tissues, medicine, and a bit of physical affection throughout the day. They convince him to let them take him home, and give him the most gentle care he's ever had; a warm bath, a soothing massage, some soup and tea, and of course, plentiful cuddles. He falls asleep to the sound of their steady heartbeat and their fingers in his hair, relieved to finally have someone who will help him even when he's sure he doesn't truly need it
Giving Perry a break for a bit, and introducing a new OC! Crawford Seaver is a weather wizard with an unfortunate cold, and an even more unfortunate quirk that comes along with his sneezing.
Part of the Perryverse, but stands on its own for now. Just a simple, soggy, sneezy wizard for your reading pleasure! Enjoy!
“Looks like bad weather at the lighthouse.”
Ruby, polishing glasses behind the bar, rolled her eyes as a fisherman, dripping wet from the rain outside, approached her Aunt Hortense with this grim warning. Two weeks working at the Dropped Anchor, banished to the tiny fishing town of White Water for “unbecoming behaviour” with the attractive son of a prominent cleric in the city, had done little to curb her impatience, or tendency towards sarcasm.
“It’s bad weather everywhere. Look outside!”
The fisherman looked to Ruby with disbelief, shaking his head disapprovingly.
“Aye… But it’s bad weather at the lighthouse.”
Aunt Hortense gave a disapproving tut, looking up from polishing the bar and meeting the fisherman’s eyes.
“Ignore Ruth. She…”
“Ruby!”
“Ignore Ruth. She doesn’t know, doesn’t care, and won’t be staying. Does it look bad? Poor Mister Seaver, out there all alone…”
Ruby snorted.
“Does he expect a social life, living in a lighthouse?”
Her elders ignored her completely, with the fisherman going on in grim tones.
“We’ll see how bad soon enough. His supply run day, isn’t it? And if he’s got what half the town’s had…”
Aunt Hortense’s brow creased with worry.
“If he’s got what half the town’s had, he’ll be sneezing up a storm. I’ll see that there’s something on the stove in case he wants to stop by for a meal, and we’ll just have to hope he has matters under control.”
As Aunt Hortense retreated to the kitchen, Ruby turned to the fisherman with interest, no longer even pretending to polish the glass in her hands, instead leaning in for a chat.
“So, what’s the big deal about this Seaver? Someone important? How come I never see him around town, if that’s the case?”
The fisherman shook his head disapprovingly.
“He’s a wizard, is our Mister Seaver. A weather wizard, and a good one, too! So mind you show him proper respect, and leave him be, he likes his space.”
Ruby rolled her eyes, turning back to her glasses and making a half-hearted effort at polishing one.
“Who ever heard of wizards these days? I thought they all live off in towers somewhere, all high and mighty and above it all. And if he’s so good with weather, can’t he warm things up a little? It’s been miserable for days!”
The fisherman opened his mouth, no doubt to chastise her, only to be cut off by a gust of bitter wind as the door opened, and a stranger entered. A tall figure, clad in an oilskin coat dripping with rainwater, his face largely obscured by a blue woolen scarf, and his hair wild and damp from the weather. Ruby caught a glimpse of hazel eyes over his scarf, looking watery from the chill wind.
A terrier trotted in ahead of the stranger. A scrappy-looking little creature, with one ragged ear, and a tail held proudly in the air like a banner. He looked up at the stranger, all attentiveness, and Ruby heard a soft, hoarse voice from behind the scarf.
“Go and sit, Neptune.”
The terrier, Neptune, plainly familiar with the place, trotted over to an isolated table in the corner, while his master approached the bar, hanging back a little as if unsure if the fisherman sitting there was being attended to first. The fisherman nodded respectfully and gestured for him to approach, and shot Ruby a warning glance, as if silently urging her to show respect as well. Evidently this was Mister Seaver, the local wizard.
Never one to blindly bow to those deemed respectable, Ruby had a quip ready along with an empty glass, when the stranger stepped forward, carefully unwinding his scarf. Ruby’s cheeky remark died in her throat.
The term ‘wizard’ had conjured up a mental image of an old man with long white hair and an equally long white beard, with flowing robes and perhaps a pointed hat. A somewhat ridiculous creature from a storybook. Instead, the man revealed as the scarf peeled away was strong-jawed with a hint of stubble, his age hard to determine. Handsome, in a weathered and weary sort of way. Jaw-length brown hair peppered with grey, gentle, intelligent eyes, and a prominent nose, the bridge of which was a touch irregular, as if broken sometime in the past.
Said nose was absolutely ravaged with a seemingly brutal cold. Rubbed red and raw, decidedly damp about the nostrils, it sounded dreadfully congested as the wizard wrinkled it and gave a marshy snuffle.
Ruby felt her cheeks flush. Something about a handsome man with a cold always made something inside of her squirm. It was no coincidence that the cleric’s son who had been her undoing had constantly been catching the sniffles. She broke into a catlike grin, leaning forward on the bar a little, displaying herself to best advantage.
“You must be Mister Seaver. I’ve heard all about you.”
The wizard only briefly met her eyes, and then lowered his gaze. Not to where Ruby wanted it, annoyingly, but rather looking at a corner of the bar, as if embarrassed to look her in the eye. He sniffled again, his nostrils arching with the effort of it, and he rubbed a knuckle beneath his leaking nose.
“I am. Crawford Seaver. At your service. You… erm… You’re new…”
He turned away slightly to cough into his fist, and Ruby took the opportunity to tug the neckline of her blouse a little further down. The fisherman, watching her disapprovingly, tutted and shook his head.
“I am indeed. Ruby. A pleasure to meet you. What can I do for you? You look as if you need warming up…”
Her attempt at a sultry manner was ruined by Aunt Hortense returning and taking her shoulder, pulling her back and directing her towards the kitchen, scowling all the while.
“If you’re not going to make yourself useful out here, you can go back there and start washing dishes. Now, Mister Seaver. You look wretched, I imagine you’ll want something warm in your belly. We’ve a mutton stew, if that suits?”
The wizard, Crawford, nodded, fishing a frayed old bandana from his pocket and roughly pinching at his nose. For a moment, his eyes took on a distinctly absent look, and his breath caught. Ruby, lingering in the kitchen door, watched unashamedly, and tried not to feel too disappointed when the vaguely sneezy expression faded, and Crawford breathed a sigh of relief.
As did the fisherman, who, Ruby noted, had been watching Crawford nervously.
Odd.
Crawford spoke up again, his quiet voice muddled with congestion.
“Thank you, Mrs. Platt. And if I might have some tea? My throat…”
“Sounds like you’ve gargled gravel, and no doubt you could use some steam to clear you up. Go and sit down, the girl and I will take care of it. Ruth, kettle. Now!”
Ruby shot a sulky look at her aunt, and, before retreating into the kitchen, looked back over her shoulder at the ailing wizard. As she watched, he took his bandana again and mopped at his streaming nose, before rubbing it none too gently. His breath caught, his eyelids fluttering. For a moment, Ruby noted both Aunt Hortense and the fisherman tensing up, the fisherman edging away a little. Both only relaxed when Crawford let out the breath as a soft moan, rubbing his nose once more.
Aunt Hortense spoke up.
“You have those sneezes under control?”
Crawford’s cheeks coloured a touch, and he nodded, avoiding her eyes. Stranger and stranger, Ruby mused, before retreating into the kitchen as Aunt Hortense turned and glared. Grumbling under her breath, she set about filling the kettle and hanging it over the fire, while Aunt Hortense came to fill a bowl with steaming mutton stew, and slicing bread to go with it.
“Why’s everyone so nervous of him sneezing? It’s just a cold, and we’ve had half the town hacking and spluttering all over the bar these last couple of weeks. No more risk of catching it from him than any of them.”
Aunt Hortense shot her an irritable scowl, placing the bowl and bread on a tray and passing it to her.
“Don’t you go meddling in our Mister Seaver’s business. It’s none of your concern. Now, take that out, and then leave him be. The poor man’s ill, he doesn’t need any of your nonsense!”
“Oh, I don’t know. He looks rather miserable. A little nonsense might cheer him up!”
“Ruth, I swear to whatever god happens to be listening, if you keep talking back…”
“Alright, alright, I’m going!”
Tray balanced on one hand, Ruby made her way back out to the bar, spotting Crawford now seated at the corner table, his dripping oilskin removed to reveal the same sort of cable-knit woolen jumper the local fishermen wore. He rested his head on one hand, and with the other, kept his bandana pressed to his nose, alternately pinching and rubbing. Evidently the swollen appendage was troubling him immensely.
The little dog, Neptune, sat obediently at his feet, and alerted him to Ruby’s arrival with a sudden “Wuff!”. Crawford sat up a little straighter, and lowered his bandana, avoiding her eyes once more. Up close, she could hear him giving soft little sniffles with every other breath. Offering her most charming smile, Ruby set down his food, and lingered, holding onto the tray.
“That ought to put some colour back in your cheeks.”
“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”
Crawford hesitated, seemingly unsure whether to begin eating in her company. No doubt unused to the charms of city girls, Ruby mused, toying flirtatiously with her braid. She offered a teasing smile.
“Everyone says you’re a wizard. You don’t look like one.”
Crawford blinked up at her. There was a hint of feverish haze to his eyes that melted something inside of her, and when he replied, soft and hesitant, his voice was so heavy with congestion, he struggled to make himself understood.
“Erm… Then I must resort to the old cliché, Miss Ruby, regarding appearances being deceptive.”
“I suppose they must be. Your appearance says you should be in bed. Yet here you are, up and about!”
Crawford flushed a little deeper, and looked down at his bowl as if it might hold the answer to escaping this conversation. Unwilling to let him get away just yet, Ruby grinned, leaning her hip on the table.
“So, if you’re really a weather wizard, can you conjure us up a ray of sunshine? Gods know we could use it around here!”
Crawford continued to stare down into his food, stirring it idly and addressing the bowl.
“That would be inadvisable for a number of reasons. Natural conditions shouldn’t be… Hehhh… Shouldn’t be tampered with. Too much… Huhhh…. Uhh… Sndfff!... potential for… for unforeseen… consequences… I’m so sorry, I beg your pardon, I…”
Shaking his head as if he might somehow deny the inevitable, Crawford lurched forward into his much-abused bandana, though, having struggled to talk his way through the build-up to his sneeze, he buried his nose in the damp folds too late, failing to entirely cover an impressive plume of spray.
“HhhhHHRUFFFSSSHOO!”
It was as if someone had suddenly pulled out a weapon. The various tavern patrons, who had been shooting Crawford the occasional worried glance, suddenly pulled abruptly away. One or two leapt to their feet. One dived under his table.
Silence hung in the air for a moment, broken only by Crawford’s unsteady breathing and pitifully damp snuffling. At length, cheeks and ears flushed red, looking as if he wished to disappear, Crawford emerged from behind his bandana at last, and chanced a brief look around the tavern, raising a hand apologetically.
“… Sorry… Under control…”
The patrons returned to their drinks, though wary glances continued to be sent in Crawford’s direction.
Ruby, mouth dry, face warm, struggled to find her words. Gods, the man sneezed like a thunderstorm. Loud, and wet. She swallowed hard, and struggled not to giggle as she spoke.
“Well, I’ll bless you, even if no one else here has manners. It’s alright. No need to be shy. Sneeze as much as you like.”
Crawford shrank into himself a little more, and dabbed at his long-suffering nose.
“I’d very much prefer not to. Apologies. I… You ought to keep your distance.”
Almost as if he meant to chase her off, Crawford buried his nose in his bandana once more, and, thin chest expanding with a slightly wheezy inhale, let loose with a blow that rivaled a foghorn, giving his nostrils a vigorous rub afterwards. Three times, he repeated this process, and at last tucked his bandana away once more, drooping over the table, somehow still looking heavy with congestion.
Far from being deterred, Ruby clucked her tongue sympathetically, and tried not to squirm. If ever a man needed to be held…
“Oh, you needn’t worry about me. I never catch anything. Except when I decide to chase something.”
Once again, her flirtation fell on deaf ears. Crawford merely shrank in on himself further, and shivered. Ruby fought back a sigh.
“Alright. I’ll leave you to eat, and get that tea ready for you.”
As she passed the bar, the fisherman, now being poured a glass of ale by Aunt Hortense, let out a low chuckle.
“You’re barking up the wrong wizard there, my girl!”
Ruby’s cheeks flushed with annoyance as she stormed back into the kitchen, and poured hot water into the teapot to prepare it for the leaves.
“Honestly, does anyone in this washed-up wreck of a town have taste?”
Waiting for the pot to warm, Ruby went to listen by the door, and struggled not to squirm as she heard another sneeze from Crawford’s table. Once again, it sounded loud, soaking, laden with cold… And was once again it was accompanied by the scraping of chairs and sound of movement as patrons drew away, followed by a hoarse, miserable apology, and assurance that all was under control.
“Honestly, they can sail through a storm but can’t handle a man with the sniffles…”
As Ruby emerged from the kitchen with a large, steaming mug of tea, her attraction to the ailing wizard merged with sympathy. Looking to his table, she saw him shivering hopelessly, having pulled his oilskin back over his narrow shoulders, poking miserably at his food. And, as if to further compound his misery, all those who had been anywhere remotely near his table had relocated to the other side of the tavern.
“Honestly, it’s just a cold…”
Ruby glanced at Aunt Hortense, and found her at a table at the other side of the room, laying down the law regarding a patron’s unpaid tab. Taking her chance, Ruby ducked beneath the bar, seizing a bottle of whiskey and adding a generous shot to the mug of tea. That ought to chase away the chills!
Crawford, feeding Neptune a piece of mutton from his stew, looked up at Ruby with bleary eyes as she approached his table, setting down the mug with a smile.
“There. That’ll have you nice and warmed up in no time.”
Worn and weary and wretchedly full of cold as he looked, this time, Crawford managed a slight, shy smile in return.
“Thank you. Very much appreciated.”
Crawford wrapped his hands around the mug, sighing in relief at the warmth, and raised it to his lips, attempting to inhale some of the steam through his stuffy nose. Failing this, he took a deep sip instead.
His eyes, closed in relief at the warmth, suddenly opened in horror.
“Is… Huhh… Is there… Snff-SNF! Huhhh… HaAHhh… whiskey in this?”
“Just a nip! I thought it might warm you up?”
Crawford gave a flustered snort, setting the mug down and pushing it away, and grabbing urgently for his bandana. His reddened nostrils flared wide, and he shook his head, as if he might somehow refuse the oncoming sneeze, even as his eyelids fluttered closed and his chest and shoulders jerked with violent hitches.
“I… I can’t… Ihh… I’m sorry… I… Ehh… HehEHhh… HhhHRFFFSHHHOO!”
Crawford did his best to smother the explosion in his bandana, but to no avail. It was torn from him, throat-scraping and violent, and already he was gasping in air for another. Neptune gave a sharp yap, and retreated under the table between Crawford’s feet. The patrons at the other side of the table rose to their feet, and Ruby heard one of them cry out.
“Best clear out, here he goes!”
“HhiieeffsssSSHOO!”
The second sneeze left Crawford panting and teary-eyed, bracing himself against the table, coughing weakly, but already drawing in air for a third effort. Several patrons hurried out the door. Others ducked under their tables. Aunt Hortense, spying Ruby, came storming over and seized her by the arm.
“Get away, you silly girl, before…”
“HhhHHRAAASSSSHOO!”
The sound of the sneeze itself was nearly drowned out by a crack of thunder, and a blinding brightness as lightning flashed just outside the window. Wind shrieked through the tavern, blowing an abandoned newspaper about the room. Ruby gave a shriek of alarm, clutching Aunt Hortense as the sudden violent gust tore at her hair.
Crawford, rubbing furiously at his swollen, leaking nose, attempted to stammer out an apology.
“I’m so sorry… The whiskey… I… Iihhhh… AhhHAAaahh… AHHhhHASHOO!”
Aunt Hortense swore, shoving Ruby aside and taking Crawford by the arm, trying to haul him to his feet.
“What whiskey? Who… Alright, time for you to step outside!”
“I… Hhhehhh…”
“Oh, no you don’t! You keep that nose of yours under control!”
Crawford struggled to get to his feet, but, seemingly clumsy from illness, stumbled back into his seat with the sheer force of the next sneeze.
“HhhhHHYAAASSSSHH!”
Aunt Hortense took Crawford by the arm once more, snapping at Ruby as she did so.
“Help me get him out, girl! Before…”
“EhhhHESSSHOO!”
Another violent wind ripped through the tavern, and this time, fat, heavy raindrops began to fall, slowly at first, then thick and fast. Ruby gasped as they splashed against her skin, rapidly cooling her flushed cheeks. Seeing the urgency of the situation now, she took Crawford’s other arm, and between them, the two women helped him to the door, the poor wizard already shuddering with urgent hitches, fueling the next sneeze.
The force of it nearly sent Crawford stumbling, and Ruby put an arm around him to steady him as they stepped out into the street, where wild winds tore at their hair and clothes, and sleet stung their skin. The chill, Ruby noted, made the feverish heat radiating from Crawford all the more pronounced. With her arm around him, she could feel his chest heaving, readying for the next effort. The little dog, Neptune, yapped urgently, getting underfoot in his attempts to herd them onwards.
“HhhHRASSCHOO!”
Ruby felt the spray of that one on her cheek, and the shiver that ran through her wasn’t entirely from the cold.
As Crawford, teary-eyed, nose streaming, looking exhausted, stumbled to a halt as the next sneeze began to overwhelm him, Aunt Hortense took Ruby by the arm and tugged her back, looking grim. Still reeling from all that had unfolded, Ruby watched with wide eyes as Crawford leaned back in readiness, and was flung forward by the force of one final, exhausting sneeze.
“Ehh… Hehh… Huhhh... HhhhHHUUURUSSSSHOOO!”
One last burst of howling wind swirled outwards from the unfortunate wizard, followed by an eerie silence, broken only by his soft moaning and snuffling, as the pattering rain turned to a thick, heavy fall of snow.
Crawford, shivering as snowflakes settled over his hair and clothes, raised his now all but useless bandana to his nose and gave an exhausted, careful blow, and looked to Aunt Hortense with rheumy eyes, looking thoroughly miserable.
“I… I’m really so terribly sorry. I could have sworn I had it under control, only…”
Aunt Hortense folded her arms across her chest, shooting Ruby a look that promised dire consequences to come.
“Only this one slipped you a shot of whiskey, it seems. That’ll be coming out of your pay, girl! And as for the mess…”
Crawford held up a hand apologetically, wrinkling his nose and snuffling terribly.
“You mustn’t blame her, she didn’t know. And if you’ll let me catch my breath, I can clear all this up…”
“She knows better than to slip people drinks they haven’t asked for! And by the time you’ve collected yourself enough for that, you’ll have sneezed us up a proper storm!”
Unable to argue with that, Crawford visibly slumped, hanging his head, mopping at his nose once more. Aunt Hortense strode briskly back inside the tavern, and returned with Crawford’s scarf, which she briskly wrapped around his neck, before pulling his oilskin coat around him tighter.
“Go home, Mister Seaver. I’ll speak to the grocer and have your supplies sent to the lighthouse.”
“I… You mustn’t go to any trouble…”
“Did it sound like I was asking?”
“… Thank you. Good day, Mrs Platt.”
The wizard and his little dog turned to walk away, Neptune with his tail still carried high, Crawford with his metaphorical tail between his legs, sniffling and coughing all the while. Ruby watched them go, vaguely aware of Aunt Hortense scolding her.
“And you, my girl, can spend the rest of the day with a mop for company!”
“Mh-hm… Of course… So… Whereabouts is this lighthouse..?”
C/lark K/ent snz fic (with some S/uperbat caretaking <3)
Y'all see @peachsnz's Clark snz drawing?? Yeah, this is definitely born from that xx. There are going to be at least 2 parts to this, the second part is almost complete.
MINORS DNI. Contains: m snz, cold/flu, mess (no fr, this is def for you messfkers out there)
3.5k | part one/two(?)
Bruce taps the side of his phone absentmindedly at the end of his Watchtower shift. He had sent a quick message at the beginning of his shift, and Lois was just getting back to him now.
BW: Did Clark seem…?
LL: Like he's been fighting the headcold from hell for the past few days?
LL: Pls tell me you have a way to force bedrest. Or at least stop him from spraying his germs all over the bullpen.
LL: Can he even be contagious?
BW: Working on it.
LL: You're welcome. And thanks xo
Apparently, the blue boy scout was sneezing through his Daily Planet shifts too. Bruce had showed up for his watchtower shift ten minutes early, as always, and headed to the main monitoring room to switch off with Kal-El. What he had found wasn't completely the Kal that he knew. Superman, normally picture-perfect and coiffed, had been a sniffly mess. Bruce had watched him try and fail to cover a spraying sneeze, the particles settling on top of the monitor board. He had been able to cover his kneejerk reaction of disgust, instead rifling through his memory bank for a previous example of Kal sneezing. Finding none, he had tilted his head slightly, asking, “Everything alright?”
Kal had answered with the affirmative, and since Bruce trusted him, he had let it be. Mostly. After he sent a text to Lois and collected a swab of the moisture left behind on the monitors to run via flow cytometry later.
_______________________________
Bruce had three hours between his Watchtower shift ending and Clark getting off from the Daily Planet. He spent most of it running Clark's fluids through a multitude of tests and getting too many positive results to confidently say which ones might be causing his ailments. No kryptonite readings at all, either. On a good day, Superman had an overwhelming and unique microbiome. He couldn't see many differences between Kal's baseline and these readings, except for a slightly elevated viral load. Was that enough to cause his current symptoms? And why was Clark acting like he was unaffected? It was a mystery, which was luckily Bruce's specialty.
Although he and Clark had an agreement that Bruce would let Clark know if he was breaking into his civilian apartment, Bruce figured this counted as extenuating circumstances. Since Clark had seen fit to lie to him, he didn't feel very bad about a little B&E.
The apartment itself was telling. It was usually cluttered due to its small size, but it was in more disarray than usual. Although it was early fall, and Clark was unaffected by cold weather, there were many blankets piled on the threadbare couch. Bruce catalogued tissue boxes that usually weren't present on the small kitchen counter, the couch, and the TV stand, and Clark’s small kitchen trash can was set up beside the couch as well, filled a quarter of the way with balled-up tissues. Bruce sat delicately on the uncomfortable sitting chair that he had already tried and failed to get Clark to replace, crossing his legs by settling his ankle on his thigh just in time for the lock on the door to rattle. The door opened, and Clark appeared a few moments later, closing and locking the door behind him. He turned around and froze, wide eyes locking with Bruce's.
The surprise took only a moment to clear from his face, replaced with a tired resignation. “Lois?” He asked, shoulders slumping in that stupid oversized suit jacket of his.
“What's wrong with you?” Bruce always found getting right to the point was best. Clark wrinkled his nose in annoyance.
“Would it kill you to be ndice?” Clark rubbed at his face before dropping his messenger bag at the door, making his way into the living room and flopping down on the couch. He leaned his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose over the top of his glasses as he breathed through his cracked, parted lips. Bruce hardly saw him so miserable, especially outside of kryptonite poisoning.
“You look…concerning.” Understatement. Clark looked properly ill, cheeks slightly flushed in what Bruce figured was a fever, his nose red and raw down to the lip, his eyes rimmed pink and watery. Bruce could hear the catch in Clark’s chest when he sighed, the congestion that probably felt like cement in his sinuses (if the way he was massaging them was any indication) bogging down his words, the exhaustion in his words that were punctuated by light sniffles. Even his outfit had suffered the effects of his illness, damp spots sticking out on his gray suit top sleeves from where he presumably wiped his streaming nose into them. “How are you sick?”
Clark huffed out a laugh, one that turned into a hacking cough that he hurriedly muffled into the already damp cuff of his sleeve. “It happends, Bruce. Ndot oftend, but I’ve had a few colds and flus.” He sniffled, wiping the corners of his mouth with the wrist of his sleeve. He looked so delicate, which was a strange state for someone who was probably the strongest person on Earth. “Usually whend I’m already runnding mbyself ragged.” He sighed, pressing his fingers to his face where it looked like the congestion was bothering him the most. “I overdid it with that tsunami and the League mission. And a lot of people at the Planet have beend calling out, some sort of flu I think. I’m just the mbost recent victimb.”
“This information is not in your file,” Bruce said. Discomfort prickled at his skin. Superman being affected by the common cold or Type A and B flu was the sort of thing that should be included in the files that he kept on everyone. What if Clark had fallen ill on an away mission and was unable to tell them what was wrong? Or no one could get ahold of him? A few dozen worst-case scenarios ran through Bruce’s head, but he bit them back. Clark was probably well aware of what points Bruce would bring up.
“It’s the flu, B,” Clark looked amused. “And I hardly ever ge-heh…hah!” Bruce leaned over and plucked a few tissues from the box on the couch, holding them out to Clark, who was fanning his face with one hand and reaching towards the box with the other. He hurriedly grabbed the proffered tissues and held them firmly over his nose and mouth. “...Hihh!! Heh’KSHht! Heh’ESHH’uh! –TSCHieew! Ngh. ‘Scuse mbe.”
If anyone had asked Bruce what he thought Superman’s sneeze would sound like, he would guess some sort of loud, abrasive, and succinct, “Ah-choo!” noise. But Clark was a hitching, damp mess, panting into the tissues and seeming almost embarrassed as his voice pitched up oddly in response to his tickling nose. His sneezes wrenched him forward but didn’t incapacitate him, though his glasses were knocked askew and the tissues squelched as he pinched off the mess he had produced. Bruce watched in silence as Clark threw the bundle of tissues away only to immediately grab two more, blowing his nose unproductively before giving a stuffed up sniff and tossing those as well after a final sniffle and a crisp swipe under his nose. He hadn’t managed to catch everything, though, or maybe the nature of his congestion meant that sniffing wasn’t effective, because a small gleam of moisture clung to his reddened nostrils. Clark sighed, exhaustion tinging the noise. “I’m assuming ndo one’s letting mbe go into work tomorrow?”
“Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve been going at all this week,” Bruce quipped. “It’s highly irresponsible to be around other people when you’re as ill as you are.”
“I’ve beend masking up,” Clark protested. “And I had a big deadline.” He blinked. “Crap. I took mby mask off when I got into the building.”
Bruce shrugged, standing up. “Don’t worry about it. Do you have a fever?”
Clark shrugged. “Probably. I feel kinda achy. What…what are you doing?”
“Taking your temperature. I assume you don’t have a thermometer.” Bruce stood over Clark on the couch, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. Years of fatherhood gave Bruce a pretty good idea of what fevers felt like. “Elevated, but not too far from your normal range. Are you tired?”
“Exhausted,” Clark exhaled. “Wait, you shouldn’t get too close. You’ll catch this.”
Bruce ignored him, moving into the kitchen. “Get changed and make yourself comfortable.”
Clark grumbled under his breath but did as he was told, shuffling into the bedroom to presumably change into something more appropriate for a sick day. Bruce could hear his dry, painful-sounding coughs punctuating his actions, though he was focused on cataloguing Clark’s food supply and medicine cabinet. Predictably, there was nothing stronger than over the counter painkillers, probably for guests, but Clark had a fair amount of ingredients in his fridge and pantry. Bruce wasn’t much of a cook, but Clark could hold his own, even while not feeling his best. Bruce had been witness to many of Clark’s culinary adventures, the man able to balance cooking, holding a conversation, and editing Lois’ article without skipping a beat. Sneezing and cooking at the same time would be a cakewalk comparatively.
Although he was lacking in medicine, Clark did have some cold packs in the freezer, and Bruce got one out, wrapping it in a towel before taking it back to the living room alongside a glass of water. That was about the time Clark shuffled back in from the bedroom, clad only in a t-shirt, a pair of boxer briefs, and thick socks. He had ditched his glasses, which made his eyes look smaller and more watery. He immediately beelined for the couch again, grabbing one blanket to pull over his lap and another to wear over his shoulders. If Bruce hadn't felt his forehead, he'd be sure of that fever now. Clark had obviously chosen his outfit so that he could alternate between feeling hot and cold at a rapid pace. At the moment, he shivered slightly, tightening the hold of the blanket a little. With his reddened nose and eyes, he looked the sick man that he was.
“Here,” Bruce held out the glass of water, watching Clark drink half of it before setting it back on the side table. He handed him the towel-wrapped cold pack. “Put that on the back of your neck.” Clark did as he was told with a sniffle, eyes fluttering shut in relief as the cold pack soothed his the heat that seemed to be plaguing him. He leaned his head back again on the back of the couch, giving Bruce a clear look into his nose, which was so swollen and red that he was positive Clark had been sick for at least a few days prior and was doomed to many more days of his illness ahead.
“Four days?” Bruce guessed.
“Hm?” Clark didn’t open his eyes. Bruce looked at him fondly.
“How long you’ve been feeling sick. Four days?”
Clark hummed again, this time slightly contemplative. “My throat started hurting Friday.”
Today was Wednesday. “Five days, then.” Clark hummed once more, sounding slightly miserable about it this time. “That’s one hell of a flu.”
“The other symptoms didn’t start for a few days.” Clark coughed slightly. “Can we stop talking about it for a sec? It’s making me feel itchy.” His nostrils flared as if in warning, and Bruce knew he would acquiesce to almost anything Clark asked of him when he was looking so pathetic. “Tell me how the family center’s renovations went?”
Bruce wasn’t pleased with the deflection, but he understood it. Clark wasn’t used to being cared for, he was usually the one doing the caring. He couldn’t count the times that Clark had helped a friend, a family member, or Bruce himself through an injury or illness, and he knew all too well the feeling of weakness that came with asking for help. So he sat back down and started regaling Clark with stories from the renovations. The surprisingly high volunteer turnout, the surprisingly beautiful weather in an otherwise rainy autumn, the general cheerfulness and the stupid speech he had to bumble his way through at the beginning.
Although Clark didn't move from his lounged position, Bruce could tell he’s listening actively to his words. He puffed out a breath of amused laughter when Bruce mentioned Dick parading in with his friends, all of them playing at being airheaded socialites with minimal gardening skills while also installing an irrigation system in the newly-built front garden beds. When Bruce talked about the innovative updates to the building, he made appreciative cooing noises. And when Bruce shared his annoyance about the shareholders who decided to naysay directly to his face, Clark scoffed hard enough for snot to shoot from his nose, and he quickly straightened up, the back of his hand lifting to cover as the shifting congestion causes his eyes to crinkle, lids heavy as a wrinkle appeared between his brow and his expression turned hazy behind his hand.
“HEUH’kkSSCHeugh! Gah, ha-h’kchiew! HII’idgsheuh. Ugh.” Clark ended the fit with a miserable gasp, snorting inelegantly into his hand. “Godda be gross for a sec, B,” he said, horribly congested, hand still pressed to his nose. He put the cold pack in his other hand down and used it to pull two tissues from the box on the couch. He probably gave the warning so that Bruce would look away, but instead he watched as Clark pulled his hand away, sniffling in large, soupy sounds but unable to snort back a rope of watery snot that connected his hand to his upper lip. Clark grimaced, looking like he was trying to decide whether to wipe up his nose or hand first, but his hand won, Clark mopping that with the tissues before following the rope of mess to his running nose and blowing, a thick, gurgling sound coming from the action. He balled the tissues up and repeated it, the same germ-laden, snotty noise filling the room. He pulled the tissue away with a thick sniffle, thumbing at his sore-looking nose.
Bruce looked away before Clark caught him staring, and once he felt his lover’s eyes on him he turned back, smiling in genuine sympathy. “You sound miserable, Clark,” he said. “In what world made you think you should go to work like that?”
Pink embarrassment dusted Clark’s cheeks, and he pulled the blanket around his shoulders a little tighter to himself. “Like I said, there was a big deadline. But I finished it this morning.”
“And you still finished out your work day? You’re always on my case about being a workaholic, but you’re just as bad.”
Clark sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Bruce gave him a sympathetic look, then walked over from the chair to sit on the couch, pulling Clark in for a one-armed hug. “Don’t be sorry. But look out for yourself, sometimes? It’s okay to take the time to be well.”
He could feel Clark’s nod. Once he felt that Clark suitably understood his point, he pulled away and pressed a kiss to Clark’s forehead. “Put the cold pack back on your neck. I’m going to make you something to eat.” He had made the executive decision that Clark was too ill to have to do anything, especially make dinner, and although Alfred liked to pretend otherwise, Bruce could follow a simple recipe.
“Don’t you have patrol soon?” Clark asked, squinting up at him like he was trying to remember if he was correct.
“There’s still a few hours,” Bruce responded. “I’ll get you set up, then into bed, and by the time you wake up I’ll be back from patrol.”
Clark blinked. “Oh. You’re…staying?” He looked genuinely touched, like his long-term partner deciding to stay in his apartment with him when he was sick from a near-debilitating cold was a gift instead of an expectation. Damn, Bruce loved him.
“Of course. I’m sorry I have to leave for patrol,” he turned away to wander into the kitchen, pulling out the raw ingredients that Clark had for a simple curry. Potatoes,onions, peas, chickpeas, carrots, chicken, spinach, and apples, all of it with plenty of ginger and garlic. He would make a curry so healthy that Clark would immediately be healed upon eating it.
Another liquidy sniffle and a loud, “HIh-GGKSSHUU’HA!” followed by another sopping nose blow. Okay, so maybe Bruce was being a bit optimistic. Nevertheless, he was determined to get some nutrients into Clark.
Clark was mostly quiet in his misery, sounds of sickness but no words coming from him as Bruce chopped the vegetables as quickly as possible. So when Clark stood, he paused, giving his partner his full attention. “Clark? Need something?”
Clark blinked, thumbing at the moisture at his nose. “Bathroom,” he said with a sniffle, then shuffled off. Bruce listened carefully for the door to close, and then followed the noises of Clark relieving himself and washing his hands. He knew that this was Superman, and Superman could handle a bathroom trip, but Clark was so vulnerable looking and miserable that Bruce couldn’t help but worry. He got this way around his kids when they were sick or hurt, too. It irked the hell out of them, he knew, but he couldn’t stop the paranoia that crept into him when his loved ones weren’t feeling their best.
He was just finishing leaving everything to simmer on the stovetop when he heard the bathroom door open again, though it sounded like Clark was making a pit stop for something in his bedroom.
Then Bruce heard a muffled thump, just a bit louder than it should have been, and he quickly moved from the kitchen towards the bedroom, concern spiking. Did Clark fall? Did he trip over something? Trip into something? He rounded the kitchen in time to see Clark leaning heavily against the wall in the small hallway that led to his bathroom and bedroom, face hovering above his forearm before he lazily brought it towards his nose. “hehh… h'uhhH'EHSSCh'uh! Heh'ESHHuh! Eh’ISHh! Esh'SHiuhh!”
Clark braced himself on the wall, head bobbing up and down with each sneeze. He tried to sniffle between them, but it seemed that his nose was adamant about being cleared, because an itchy look overcame his expression and his glistening nostrils flared again as he aimed the next flurry of sneezes towards his arm again. “-IIhp’sshHHEhww! HiihhhhiH-HiisccHHihwww!!” He tried to dab at the mess, but it was futile, a strand of it connecting his nose to his bare arm. It broke in half, dripping down his face, and it must have been ticklish enough to bother him again because Clark only had time to brace his hand against the wall as he bent in half with a, “IhZZSCHHihhwww!!” that had his huge chest heaving towards the ceiling at its start and snapped him in half by the end, his running nose shooting towards the floor. Bruce was frozen in disgusted fascination at the thick ropes of mucus that stuck to themselves as they were expelled weakly from Clark’s nose, clinging to his septum and unable to be sniffed up, despite the marshy sniffles Clark was attempting between ragged, exhausted breaths. In the sunset of the early evening that filtered through Clark's limited windows, he could see glittering spray in various sizes rain down upon his poor sick partner.
Bruce went from voyeur to witness when Clark looked up, embarrassment written in his expression at the performance being seen by someone else. “Oh mby god,” he mumbled, quickly bringing the corner of his blanket to his nose. “Sorry. Sorry, that was gross.” He snuffled without any progress, and that finally kicked Bruce into action. He turned around and grabbed the tissue box from the TV stand, handing four to Clark. He looked away politely while the other man cleaned himself up, miserable breaths and squelches the only thing letting him know that Clark was still working at it. Bruce pulled a couple more tissues out and offered them again, and Clark took them with a grateful thanks.
Once the noises had subsided, Bruce turned to see Clark still leaning against the wall, red-faced. His chest warmed at the sight.
“Let’s get you back onto the couch. Want me to take those?” Bruce held a hand out for the used tissues, but Clark’s grip went white-knuckled on the mass of soggy paper.
“I’ve got it,” he said, and gratefully accepted Bruce’s arm as they shuffled back to the couch. “Sorry,” he said again. “Ugh, I’ll ndever be able to forget that. Absolutely humbiliating.” Bruce rubbed his back comfortingly. He wanted to comfort Clark, but he knew his words probably wouldn't convince the man of anything. The best he could do was hand him tissues and be here to get him through the worst of it without judgement. Then he realized that there was an etiquette faux pas he had been making, something he hadn’t said yet today.
A stern, severe man who does not deny his allergies (or illness if that's your thing), but he can most certainly handle them on his own, is quite capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much, and, good Lord, could you please stop making such an awful fuss over him??
prim and proper dignified characters pale, sickly, weak on their feet. unbuttoning their collar, sweat-soaked hair, unsure footing and fluttery breaths. muttering a hesitant, "I don't... feel well."
Prompt: "Great, now I have your germs all over me"
Fandom: P.okémon
Wordcount: 1,387
Summary: (Pre-RSE/ORAS) M.axie cancels a longstanding rendezvous with Archie due to an unspecified illness. Suspecting a lie, A.rchie comes over to see it for himself.
Comments: I may have gotten some details wrong because ngl I only ever rotate these guys in my mind from time to time; I'm not feral for 'em. Also, I wasn't strong enough to write A.rchie's pirate slang I'm so sorry I just couldn't
CW: None
Fucking Maxie. And Archie had even been stupid enough to get excited when he'd seen the message notification. And all he'd gotten was a stupid, esoteric (yeah, he knew big words, too) 'we're off for tonight. sick.' No other explanation. Never mind the fact that Archie had already bought the condoms. He'd slipped them in the breast pocket of his blazer for safekeeping, just in case Maxie changed his mind. (Yeah, his blazer. He'd even gotten dolled up for this).
Like Maxie was even really sick. He probably just wanted the excuse to work on one of his projects and was hoping Archie would be too stupid to figure it out.
With no other plan than confronting Maxie, fueled by the vague anger swelling in his chest, Archie marched straight up to the door of Team Magma's hideout (stupid name, shouldn't they have been 'Team Terra' or something?) and pulled it open. It was a small place, not much of a hideout. It seemed that Maxie had chosen a name before actually assembling a team; as far as Archie knew his only legitimate member was an awkward 20-something dude with a girl's name. Tammy or something like that. He was nowhere to be found.
From some indeterminate room, the sound of coughing emanated. Archie licked his lips. It sounded bad, the kind of hoarse fit that doubled you over and made you see stars, hitching breaths scraping up your throat like rough coral. Had Maxie really been telling the truth? It seemed so unlike him to admit to any form of weakness, not when he always held himself so rigid and fussed so much over outward appearances. Maxie liked his aesthetics. The hideout was a testament to that. It was all smooth lines and matte white, minimalist decor and light wood. Archie kicked a few fragile-looking chairs out of place as he went deeper into the hideout. Leaving his mark on the place.
He found Maxie in a bedroom done up mostly in shades of cream and beige, saved for the comforter, which Maxie was wrapped in. The deep red rivaled the rich shade of his hair and, at the moment, his cheeks. A laptop sat in the spot that Archie assumed his legs would be, somewhere deep beneath the thick duvet, hissing quietly. Maxie wasn't looking at it. He had his eyes closed, brow slightly furrowed, chest heaving with shallow breaths. He really did look miserable. And sort of cute. Wrapped up like a burrito surrounded by a sea of tissues…. Archie's heart wrenched and he started to laugh, booming and resonant.
Maxie jerked, his eyes flying open. "What's so funny?" he rasped, squinting.
"You," said Archie, because there was no explaining the funny tickle in his stomach that flared up when Maxie— When he just— When he was so himself that there was nothing Archie could do. "Look at you."
"I'm sick," Maxie said with great dignity, the corners of his mouth turning downward. "I don't see what's so funny about that."
He was flushed up to his forehead, a fine red that spilled across his cheeks and up between his brows, contrasting magnificently with the subtle brown freckles that trailed across the bridge of his nose. Archie took a half-step forward before stopping himself. They didn't touch. Not unless they were holed up in a discreet motel in Lilycove or Slateport and too drunk to think. "I thought you might have been lying."
"I'm not a child, Archie. I wouldn't— Mm…" Maxie squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the duvet up to his nose.
"What's wrong?" Precedent be damned. Archie bolted to the bedside and had to lean on it with both hands to get anywhere near Maxie; he'd set himself up directly in the middle of the king mattress.
"Quiet," Maxie said, less of a demand and more of a plea. His face relaxed by degrees even as his shoulders continued to heave with ragged breaths.
Archie balled up his fist in the top sheet, warm brown against livid red. Aside from a box of tissues and a thermometer (and of course, a light wood valet tray) there was nothing on Maxie's nightstand. No water glasses, no wrappers or empty plates, no pill bottles. Shit. "Maxie."
"Whaaat," Maxie moaned, drawing a shaking hand down his face.
Shit, shit, shit. "Have you had any water today?"
"I don't know. Maybe. What time is it?"
Archie leaned over to check the smart watch, nestled in its spot on the valet tray. "'Bout 5:00."
"In the evening?"
"Yes, in the evening." Okay, that was it. Archie leaned over and pressed his hand to Maxie's forehead. Burning up. No surprises there.
"You…" Maxie's eyes widened but whatever he was going to say got lost in an explosive coughing fit. He turned toward Archie, because of course he did, clumsily aiming his face toward the folds of the duvet and missing by a mile.
Hot breath ghosted over Archie's leg, spreading out across the fabric of his pants. "Oh, gross," he said, only half meaning it. "Now I've got your germs all over me." Maxie continued to cough and Archie's hand found its way to the flaming red hair at Maxie's temple. He stroked it back with his thumb, forcing himself not to mind the beads of sweat that dampened his skin. With a heaving breath, Maxie's coughing fit finally stopped. He went limp with his face buried in Archie's thigh. "Are you okay, Maxie?" Archie murmured.
"I think I need some water."
Archie got him a glass from the kitchenette and grabbed a box of water crackers while he was at it. What Maxie was doing with water crackers, he had no idea, but he certainly wasn't eating them. The box was unopened and had been buried behind an assortment of canned foods and cereal boxes.
"When was the last time you checked your temperature?" Archie asked upon confirming that Maxie was at least able to sit up and drink on his own.
"I don't know, but it was only 38.3." Maxie held the empty water glass out to Archie. Archie eyed it for a moment. Oh, screw it. Maxie was sick and it wasn't like they ever had to talk about this again. He got up and refilled it in the bathroom. "Thank you," Maxie said stiffly.
"Okay, now I know your fever has gone up." Archie pressed his palm to Maxie's forehead again, this time purely to antagonize him. "You're thanking me?"
Maxie's jaw tightened visibly, the corner of it becoming sharper and more pronounced beneath his ear. "You did me a favor."
"It was no favor," Archie said, forcing a laugh. "I just couldn't pass up an opportunity to see you miserable."
"I see." Maxie wouldn't look at him, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere on the mattress. "Well. With a flu like this, it's bound to get worse before it gets better, so if you'd like to stick around and watch the show…"
Archie raised his eyebrows. Maxie was asking him to stay? "I suppose someone should stick around and make sure you don't die."
Maxie nodded, one short, tight dip of the chin.
The silence stretched out, threatening to become awkward. Archie made a half-hearted grab for Maxie's laptop, which had slipped toward the edge of the bed. "What were you working on?" he asked, running his finger over the trackpad
"If you really must know, I was watching a documentary on underwater volcanoes— And no, it's not related to any of Team Magma's upcoming projects, so don't even ask."
"Alright, alright." Archie dumped the laptop on Maxie's only half-trying to avoid his groin. Guessing on the wheeze that followed, he must have overshot and dropped it on Maxie's stomach instead. "Whoops."
"Idiot," Maxie muttered, but there was no venom behind it. He typed in his password and Archie pulled off his boots so he could lie next to Maxie in bed. "The flu is contagious, you know."
"Thank you, Professor Maxie." Archie rolled his eyes. "I don't get sick." He settled in and hit 'play' before Maxie could respond.
Maxie didn't last five minutes before passing out with his head on Archie's shoulder. Archie let him be, and made a silent vow to never speak of this again.
STEM dads on vaction. I've seen seasickness explored with Maxie and I think it's a pretty universal headcanon for him....but I wanted to pitch the concept of carsickness for Archie.
I am in a serious need of sick wizards. So had to write a fic. This is not exactly a fanfic, but I’ve been listening to a lot of Pratchett books lately so that is the general jam.
Also using that idea of a person sneezing in a rocking chair… and a prompt from a prompt list
Content notes: m sick f takes care; mess; pitifulness
–
Rocking the chair
It is not easy at all to find a good rocking chair. Sure, many a carpenter could produce something that looked like a good rocking chair, polished all shiny with files and such things and with a good scrub using a sturdy knit sock to finish it off, and would feel like one too, except the moment one actually sat on it. It is all about the balance, hidden all around in the thickness and length and curve of its arms and legs and spokes and rockers and whatnot. And Liselotte’s old rocking chair was nothing short of excellent. So excellent, that instead of getting a new one like indeed many good intentioned a carpenter had suggested to her, she kept taking it out for repairs or at least check-ups for every suspicious new squeak or groan. It was big enough to accommodate some pillows and narrow rug for comfort, with rockers long and curved enough to lean back for a nice impromptu nap, and above all: when Liselotte placed her sturdy, long-serving witch bum on it, it tilted to an angle exactly right for reading, knitting, daydreaming, or whatever she wanted to do in her cherished chair.
But right now the chair was not working properly. Despite being occupied, it still stood nearly upright in an angle that was not exactly uncomfortable, but still left a lot to be desired. Despite the pillows and the rug, and despite all the blankets the wizard currently sitting on it was wrapped in, it failed to settle in that perfect angle. It was probably because the wizard’s bum was too scrawny for the chair to know it was being sat on.
happy pride to the asexual snzfuckers who were very confused about how they could be into no one and also snz at the same time! it’s a wild experience, but i love that there are so many of us on here and that the snz community is so inclusive when it comes to asexuality <3
Ok but what about the handsome, kind (or handsome, nasty?) regency gent who spends his summers at the manor house of a rich aunt or great aunt in the middle of meadows and pastures and lush gardens and he has massive hayfever...
...and he is both mortally embarrassed and turned on by it. And turned in by the embarrassment and embarrassed of how turned on he is.
Starting every morning with a ludicrous sneezing fit, sneezing as he gets up, just sits on the bed and sneezes and blows his nose for a good while, conscious of the fact that he's being heard through the door by anyone who happens to pass by and so embarrassed by the thought. Another guest knocking the door and asking if he's alright, he blushes up to his ears. "Don't mind!" he pipes with a stuffy voice, and sneezes. "Thank you!"
And he's embarrassed by the fact that the servants have obviously been told to keep his nighstand stacked with neat piles of handkerchiefs because he has a streaming hayfever. His hayfever is accounted in how the household is run. Embarrassed, and shamefully turned on.
Perhaps he's adamant about dressing himself because he can't just sneeze all over a manservant first thing in the morning. Or perhaps he just holds a handkerchief to his nose through the whole process, switching hands when needed.
And then there's the breakfast to get through, all the comments, the inquiries about his health, the gentle frowns from the women and jokes from the men, friendly or crass. The smartass cousin who will bless him as she's leaving: "Bless you times thirty-eight" because she counts to vex him. What she doesn't know is that she's also getting him painfully hard.
The well meaning chaps trying to arrange him a meeting with a lady in the garden. Just generally being constantly perceived and commented, though sometimes it's even worse when he's alone, fully gives in to sneezing and blowing his nose, then remembers how easy it is to hear him through the door.
