Abi | she/they | 27 | 18+ ~I follow from tnafb-main~ Link to my fics If you have a sneeze fetish, enjoy your stay! If not... I am so sorry you discovered this corner of the internet.
Zuko looked soooo good in the A/vatar Aang movie, so I had to torment him with a fiery head cold ❤️
3.2k, set around the time of the movie so Zuko is 29ish. Sokka is there but it's not explicitly zukka (but also it is in my heart).
CW: mess
*****
Republic City was buzzing with anticipation for the 12th annual Foundation Day Festival. Benders and non-benders from all the nations gathered to celebrate the anniversary of Republic City's founding with feasting, games, and parties that lasted through the night. In advance of tomorrow's festivities, the United Republic Council was hosting a soirée with a mile-long guest list: every politician, entrepreneur, and minor local celebrity had received an invite. This, of course, included the Avatar and his friends.
Upon arriving at the reception hall and seeing four towering ice sculptures, Aang, Katara, and Sokka gasped.
"Wow," breathed Katara. "These soirées get more impressive every year."
Sokka tilted his head and squinted at the sculptures. "There's a sky bison, a badgermole, a dragon, and... a wheel of cheese?"
"I think they're supposed to be the original benders," Aang offered. "That must be the moon. But... it does look pretty cheesy. Maybe if I just..." Aang assumed a waterbending stance, about to subtly improve the sculpture, when he sensed a disturbance in the air. "Look out!"
Katara and Aang ducked, as a pebble hit Sokka in the side of the head. "Ow!"
The source of the pebble made herself known as Toph stepped out from behind a crowd of socialites to greet her friends, a smirk on her lips. "Thought I felt your dainty steps, twinkle-toes."
"Toph!" Katara said, wrapping the earthbender in a hug. "It's so good to see you."
"No, it isn't!" Sokka cried. He rubbed a hand against his left temple, which was noticeably more red. "She just shot a rock at my head."
Toph crossed her arms. "I was aiming for Aang. You gotta work on your reflexes, Sokka."
"You gotta work on not throwing rocks at innocent people!" he shot back. "I'm gonna get a drink... and some ice for my wound." He pointed dramatically at his head and stalked off, ignoring Katara as she hid a laugh behind her hand.
As Sokka approached the bar, still grumbling, he spotted a figure in elegant red and gold robes lurking on the edges of the room.
Fire Lord Zuko.
Sokka's face lit up at the sight up a friend who wasn't actively attacking him with rocks, and he made his way through the crowd over to where he'd seen Zuko. When he emerged on the other side of the room, however, Zuko had already managed to slip away. Sokka scanned the sea of refined guests, trying to catch a glimpse of the Fire Lord, when he noticed a flicker of red cloth sneaking out onto a balcony. Sokka followed Zuko to a corner of the wrap-around balcony where he now stood alone, free from the din of the crowd, with his back to the party.
"Zuko!" called Sokka. "Are you brooding in darkness already? The party just started!"
Zuko said nothing and continued to stare out at the city skyline. Sokka came over to join Zuko and leaned on the balcony railing, arching a quizzical eyebrow as Zuko took a step away from him.
"You might want to keep your distance," Zuko said, not meeting Sokka's eye.
Sokka's brow furrowed. "Is everything okay?"
Zuko's lips parted with a quivering inhale, and his eyelashes fluttered. Nose twitching, he spun away from Sokka and tented his hands over his face as he doubled over with the force of the sneeze. "AtshhHiiuhhh!"
Despite Zuko's attempt at covering, flames spilled out through the gaps in his fingers. Sighing, Zuko casually batted out an ember on the sleeve of his robe while Sokka looked on curiously.
"Uh… bless you?" Sokka had a clear view of Zuko now, illuminated by a mix of moonlight and fading flames: his eyes were sunken and tired, his nostrils were a furious shade of red, and judging by how his mouth hung slightly open, he must have been thoroughly congested. "Hey, Zuko, you look…"
"I look like what?" Zuko spat. He put on his best menacing-Fire-Lord voice, but any authority he might have possessed was undermined as he punctuated the sentence with a sniffle and ran a finger under his nose to wipe up errant mess.
"You look…" Sokka put aside the words that initially came to mind like "terrible" and "disgusting," and opted for a kinder phrasing. "…like you could use a nap. And maybe some soup."
"Yeah? And what am I supposed to do about that?" Zuko said, crossing his arms.
"…take a nap and eat some soup? I know you face a lot of complicated dilemmas as the Fire Lord, but this one's pretty straight forward."
Zuko sighed. "It's not like I can just leave. I have to come to these events. If I don't go to the Foundation Day Festival, it looks like I don't support Republic City, and if people think I don't support Republic City, they'll worry the Fire Nation is reverting back to its old ways."
"Hm… but you don't really have to participate in this stuff to keep up appearances. As long as people see that you were here and know that Foundation Day has the Fire Lord seal of approval, you're golden. If anyone tries to deny you were here, I can vouch for you." Sokka slapped an encouraging hand on Zuko's back.
The moment his hand made contact, Sokka could feel the silk of the Fire Lord's robes pressing against his fingers as Zuko's lungs expanded. "S-Sokka, I'm going to — !" The sentence hung unfinished in the air, but it was very clear what Zuko was going to do: breath hitching, nostrils flaring, Zuko's hands flew over his face again, and he snapped forward in a sneezing fit. "hah-ah… hah'tsShhioo! hih'ITSshiuhh! hiiiih? ih-hih… ATSHhhiioo!"
Flames licked his palms, but he seemed to have avoided setting anyone or anything on fire. Zuko stood there for a moment with his hands still covering his face just in case another sneeze tried to sneak out; with a tentative sniff, he decided his nose was cooperating for the moment and lowered his hands.
"Wow," said Sokka. "Bless you." He realized belatedly that his hand was still pressed against Zuko's back, rubbing a soothing circle. He withdrew it as Zuko turned aside, searching through his robes for a handkerchief.
Angled away from Sokka, Zuko dabbed at his nose, not allowing himself the real blow he sorely needed. "Thanks." He wiped at his nose again, then apparently decided this was a fruitless endeavor and shoved his handkerchief back in his robes, resigning himself to either sniffling incessantly or allowing his nose to run freely. In this moment, he chose the latter.
"I hate feeling like this," Zuko grumbled. "Not being able to control my bending… it makes me feel like a kid."
Sokka refrained from mentioning that as Zuko stood there pouting with snot dribbling down his lip, he looked like a kid, too. Still, there was something endearing in the childish tableau that activated Sokka's protective instincts and tugged at his heartstrings. "Let's get you home before you light any world leaders on fire."
Zuko nodded and followed Sokka's lead back toward the reception hall. "I gotta say," said Sokka, "I think this is another win for non-benders. I've never sneezed so hard I caused property damage."
Sokka looked back with a grin, expecting to see Zuko's (presumably annoyed) reaction, but instead he saw Zuko stopped in his tracks, his eyelids drooping and his jaw slack. Zuko buried his face in his hands once again.
"AkSHHhooo!"
Over his tented hands, Zuko's eyes widened in horror and regret as he realized he should've actually blown his nose earlier. "Sokka," Zuko said urgently, "there's a pocket inside my robe on the left with a handkerchief in it. Can you reach it?"
A deep blush rose in Sokka's cheeks — he wasn't sure if it was from secondhand embarrassment, discomfort at the intimacy of being asked to pat down the Fire Lord, or some combination of the two — but he soldiered on nonetheless. His hand hovered near Zuko's chest, trying to find the best opening to reach in and search for the handkerchief, but Zuko's refusal to lower his arms made it difficult to locate a point of entry.
Sokka's face suddenly lit up as he was struck by an idea. "Wait, I've got it." Sokka unwrapped the cloth belt around his midsection and held it up in front of Zuko's face, beaming at his own ingenuity.
With impossibly quick reflexes, Zuko snatched the belt from Sokka with one hand and turned around to clean himself up. Though Zuko tried to be discreet, Sokka caught a glimpse of the messy situation Zuko found himself in; the lower half of his face and his hands were drenched. Zuko mopped himself up, then stared at the now sodden piece of fabric in his hands.
"I'll, uh, wash this before I give it back to you."
"You know what? You can keep that," Sokka said with a hint of disgust. "Consider it a Foundation Day present from the Water Tribe." He bowed generously, as though he had bestowed Zuko with his finest possession.
"Thanks," Zuko said. Knowing that Sokka didn't want the belt back, Zuko finally allowed himself a real nose blow, clearing out some of the deep congestion that had been plaguing him all night. When he finished, he tucked the belt in his robe alongside his handkerchief.
"Okay, now before we try to navigate through a crowd of highly important people, I want to confirm that you've got your nose in check. Are you ready?"
Zuko narrowed his eyes, looking as serious as if Sokka had asked him to prepare for battle. "I'm ready."
They crossed the threshold back into the reception hall, and Sokka positioned himself behind Zuko, using the Fire Lord as a shield to push their way through the crowd. The guests parted as Zuko approached, either because they recognized the insignia of Fire Nation royalty in his hair or because no one wanted to block the path of a wall of a muscle. (What does he even need those muscles for? thought Sokka. He can shoot fireballs from his hands.) Or, possibly, the guests distanced themselves from Zuko because with his raw nose and chapped lips, he might as well have been carrying a sign that said "I'm contagious."
Regardless, Zuko and Sokka's path was clear, and they had almost reached the exit when a voice behind them called out, "Sifu Hotman!"
Aang leapt twelve feet in the air over a group of Earth Kingdom women — who yelped at the sudden appearance of a flying man over their heads — then floated down next to Sokka and Zuko. Katara and Toph walked over a moment later.
"Fire Lord Zuko," Aang said with a bow.
Zuko rolled his eyes but returned the bow nonetheless. "Avatar Aang."
"Are you leaving already?" Katara asked. "They're bringing out dessert soon. I still think about the plum tart from last year."
"I, uh…" While Zuko appreciated the opportunity to catch up with his friends, he wanted nothing more at that moment than to disappear back to his apartment and sleep off this illness in peace. He shot Sokka a pleading glance, and Sokka immediately jumped to his aid.
"Hey, is that a troupe of dancing hogmonkeys?" Sokka asked, pointing to the opposite side of the hall.
Aang and Katara spun around. "Where?" Aang asked excitedly as Zuko started to slink off toward the exit.
Toph, however, was immune to visual misdirection. "Sokka, are you trying to distract us so Zuko can sneak off?"
"Uh…" Sokka knew the charade had fallen apart immediately, and yet he couldn't help replying, "No?"
Toph folded her arms over her chest. "I know you're lying."
Zuko paused in his tracks, having only made it about three steps, and Aang and Katara turned back around. "Wow," Aang said, shaking his head. "I can't believe you lied about the dancing hogmonkeys."
"Why is Zuko trying to sneak out anyway?" Katara asked, hands on her hips. "And why are you helping him?"
Zuko's back was still to his friends, and Sokka watched as his shoulders tensed. Pinching his nose with his thumb and forefinger, Zuko bobbed forward. He stifled a series of sneezes to the best of his ability, but even so, the power behind each one was audible. "h'NgXxT! ghShhT! k'tTChh!"
Though Zuko succeeded in preventing a fiery outburst, as turned to face his friends, he exhaled steam from his nostrils.
"Oh, Zuko…" Katara's voice softened. "I can help, if you want." She bent some water out of the bag she kept on her hip, ready to apply healing energy. "I can't cure the common cold, but I should be able to relieve some of your congestion."
"I'b fide," Zuko said, so stuffed up he was almost unintelligible.
"We just went over this," Toph groaned. "I can tell when you're lying, remember? And even if I couldn't, it doesn't take an earthbending master to know that that's a lie. You sound awful."
Zuko felt around in his robe for his handkerchief (ignoring Sokka's disgustingly wet belt), pulled it out, and blew his nose.
"I am fine," he enunciated. "Or…" He deflated. "I mean, I'm not fine, but I will be."
"You should go home and get some rest," Aang suggested.
Zuko looked ready to strangle Aang. "That's what I was trying tih... to…" The urgent need to sneeze overtook Zuko so quickly that he wasn't able to stifle. With nowhere convenient to turn, he threw his hands haphazardly over his face and directed the fiery expulsion at the ground. "AKSsHhhiiuh!"
Though Zuko's companions were able to jump out of his literal line of fire, a nearby tablecloth was not so lucky and ignited. Katara, fortunately, still had her water accessible and splashed out the flames immediately, leaving only small scorch marks along the tablecloth's bottom hem. A few guests gaped at the scene, but it had happened so quickly and the reception hall was so large that Zuko had managed to draw minimal attention to himself. Still, he felt his cheeks burning at the shameful loss of control, and he wanted to leave, now. Were there any high-level bending techniques he could use to turn himself invisible? He would have to ask his uncle.
For the time being, at least he had Sokka, who gripped him by the arm and started dragging him toward the exit, saying, "Okay, you're going straight to bed, mister."
"Feel better, Zuko!" Aang called after them.
"Let me know if you change your mind on the healing session!" Katara added.
Hearing their concern, Zuko felt his face turn an even deeper shade of red, and he was grateful when he and Sokka finally exited the venue a moment later.
Zuko let out a heavy sigh as they turned down a side street. "I can't believe I did that."
"Eh, barely anyone noticed," Sokka said with a shrug. "Besides, all this Foundation Day stuff is about harmony between the four nations, right? Respecting differences, that kind of thing? Maybe the rest of us just have to accept that flaming sneezes are a fun, firebender quirk."
Zuko made a sound halfway between a huff and a laugh. "I think we have different definitions of 'fun'."
The pair paused as they came to an intersection. "You don't have to walk all the way to my apartment with me," Zuko said. "You should go back and enjoy the party."
Sokka waved a dismissive hand. "No way. I want to make sure you don't burn down a building by accident. And between you and me…" He leaned in conspiratorially. "Those plum tarts Katara loves are overrated."
A smile tugged at Zuko's lips, and they carried on down the cobbled streets. Though Zuko could never articulate it, there was something about Sokka that made him feel at ease. "This way," said Zuko, grabbing Sokka by his shirt collar as he started to make a wrong turn. "It's faster to cut through the park."
When they came across a small, stone bridge over the lazy stream which ran through the park, they paused to take in the nighttime cityscape. Foundation Day lanterns twinkled along the banks, their reflections sparkling in the water. Sokka leaned on the bridge's railing, his chin resting in his hands. "It's beautiful."
Zuko didn't respond. Instead, he braced himself against the railing and leaned over it, staring at the stream below. Sokka had come to recognize the telltale signs that Zuko was about to sneeze: he drew in an uneven breath, his upper lip curled, and his nose twitched dangerously. Zuko sneezed uncovered, straight down at the water. "hih-ih-HEH'tSHhhhiuh! ATShhiihooo! hah'AKShhiiuuhh!"
The flames fizzled and dissipated when they hit the water's surface. That, too, had its own kind of beauty, Sokka noted. But since he wasn't sure how to express "your sneezes are beautiful," he simply said, "Bless you" and hoped the message got across.
Zuko sniffled and unceremoniously wiped his nose along the length of his sleeve.
That should've been less beautiful, and yet… Why is that also attractive? Sokka wondered. Was it the unexpected thrill of seeing the refined Fire Lord do something so lowly? The confidence he must possess to disregard appearances in a public place? The way his arm now glimmered in the lantern light?
Sokka shoved down whatever these thoughts were and continued his mission to return Zuko safely home. The rest of their walk was quiet save for some sniffles, and Zuko managed not to set anything else on fire.
They stopped outside Zuko's building. "Well, congratulations," said Sokka. "You made it home in one piece."
A hint of a smile played on Zuko's lips. "Thank you, Sokka."
"For what?" Sokka cocked his head. "I didn't do anything."
"For, uh…" Zuko cleared his throat and patted the left side of his robe. "…the belt—"
"Oh, that's nothing—"
"No, and, um… staying with me, tonight. I really appreciate it."
Sokka blinked, surprised at the sincerity. Was Zuko running a fever? "Oh, yeah. Of course. Any time. I'll always be there if you need anything."
Zuko smiled again. "Thanks." He stifled a yawn. "I should probably get some rest. Have a good night."
"You too. I'll stop by tomorrow with five-flavor soup."
"Oh, you don't have to do that," Zuko protested.
"But I will," Sokka replied. "It's a traditional Southern Water Tribe dish. What better way to celebrate Republic City's Foundation Day than with a little cultural exchange, huh?"
"It's not an 'exchange' if I don't give you something in return."
Sokka hummed in contemplation. "You're giving me company right now. That's something. And you're probably giving me this cold."
Zuko sucked in through his teeth. "Yeah, sorry about that…"
"Nah, it's all good," Sokka said with a wave of his hand. "Even if I do get sick, I had fun hanging out with you tonight. I wouldn't exchange that for anything."
I'm really trying to get back into writing, so... here, have another little oneshot I fought my way through today, lol. It's my older lesbian professor OCs, this one takes place this year, and it's Clarissa's lover Leah who's sick, and Clarissa doing some TLC to the best of her ability.
cw: mentions of other diseases, including plague (yeah. lol)
Tea With Honey (female, cold, F/F)
Professor Leah Sharp, normally a fire tornado of a woman, was uncharacteristically subdued during her morning lecture about the Salem witch trials. Her voice was raspy with the campus cold, the wings of her nose pink and she had stopped to turn away and sneeze heavily into the sleeve of her knitted burnt-orange cardigan a total of five times in twenty minutes.
“Sorry,” she croaked after the fifth sneeze, and took a sip of the coffee she had brought, wincing as the warm but bitter liquid filled her throat. It wasn’t the temperature; it was the coffee itself that hurt her sore throat. Leah knew that in this stage of the cold, pretty much everything would hurt her throat. The only possible exception she could at all imagine was tea with lots of honey. But she had none of that.
“Just know that I blame you guys,” she continued, not unkindly, and her students laughed, some of them a bit awkwardly. It was likely that she had caught this from a student, or even a colleague, it seemed like everyone was coughing and wheezing at the moment.
Well. Everyone but the resident iron lady, Clarissa Ashfield, the English Department’s strictest professor who specialised in Victorian Literature and scaring undergrads to tears with a single raised eyebrow. Clarissa never got sick. She moved through the halls like she belonged to a superior kind of human, more machine than woman, or at least that was what the campus legend said about her.
And Leah was her greatest enemy. At least in public.
Behind the scenes, however, they had a secret love affair that would shock everyone at the university if it ever came out.
“Alright, let’s go back to Salem… imagine the panic that spread, a disease in its own right… huhh-ESSCHHHew! ‘scuse me, a plague of superstition yes, but that’s not all it was…”
***
After wrapping up her lecture, at this point with almost no voice left at all, Leah shuffled to her office. Her head was pounding, her whole body felt sore, and she was pretty sure she was running a temperature. Her throat felt like it was on fire and there were embers from that fire spreading to her nose.
She dropped down in her chair and sneezed heavily into the crook of her arm again, because of course she had forgotten to bring any tissues.
That’s when there was a knock on her door.
She opened her mouth to say ‘come in’, but nothing happened. The only noise that came out was a high-pitched squeak that reminded her of a random noise her cat made sometimes. She cleared her throat and tried again, with marginally better result.
“Cobe id…”
The door opened and Clarissa Ashfield stepped inside, quickly locking it behind her. She looked as regal as ever, with her silver hair in a perfect French twist and her tailored grey suit flawless and wrinkle-free. Leah's cardigan looked like a disaster zone in comparison.
“Good morning, my dear. I heard you caught the campus plague,” Clarissa said softly and put a steaming cup down on Leah’s cluttered desk. Porcelain, not paper. “Earl Grey with lemon and honey. I assumed you needed it.”
“Oh God Clare, thag you…” Leah croaked. “By throat is od fire.”
“I know,” Clarissa said sympathetically and stroked a wild strand of hair out of her face.
“How would you kdow? You dever get sick,” Leah replied, attempting a joke although there was some seriousness mixed in. She had worked at the university for nine years, had a, first exclusively erotic but lately increasingly tender, relationship with Clarissa for six months, and had never seen the elegant English professor with as much as a case of the sniffles.
Clarissa put an unopened travel pack of Kleenex in front of Leah, who gratefully pulled out two sheets of paper and blew her nose with emphasis.
“Oh, so you think I’ve never been sick, do you?”
“Well, I’ve never seen it, so it can’t be very often.”
Clarissa rolled her eyes and shook her head, but there was a hint of a smile on her lips.
“Oh Leah, you have no idea. When I was in my thirties, I was sick constantly. And I mean constantly, back-to-back colds, sinus infections, stomach bugs, strep throat, bronchitis, pneumonia, laryngitis, ear infections, even chickenpox… oh, and then there was that time when I had the bubonic plague…”
Leah stared at her, then she started laughing so hard the laughter turned into wheezy, raspy coughing.
“Now you’re just pulling my leg! You did not have the black death, Clarissa!” She squeaked the words out through her raw throat, but despite Leah’s disbelief, Clarissa’s expression didn’t change.
“Yes, I did. Yersinia pestis. I caught it in the 90s when I was in Arizona. The bacteria still exists in some places and apparently, I crossed paths with an infected flea somehow. I spent that semester’s finals week in isolation with a cannula in my arm and fever delirium. I think it was after that ordeal that my immune defence finally decided it was time to start doing its job. After that, I think I’ve had three colds total over the past twenty years. A far more acceptable behaviour of my body, if I may say so.”
“The fucking plague… you truly are an enigma wrapped in a riddle, Clarissa Ashfield,” Leah managed in a half-squeak, half-whisper, as Clarissa put her hand on her forehead. Her palm was wonderfully cool against Leah’s hot skin.
“And you are a feverish mess, Leanne Sharp,” Clarissa replied. “Drink your tea, and then you should go home. Get some proper rest.”
“I’d love to, but I have essays to grahh-grade… hehh...”
Leah’s breath caught in her throat, and she snatched a clean tissue from the pack that her lover had provided her with.
“Huhh-EISSSCHHHew! Oh God…”
“Bless you. Give them to me. I’ll grade them for you.”
“What does a Victorian literature expert know about the Salem witch trials?” Leah asked in her wavering, almost-gone voice and blew her nose again.
“More than I would like,” Clarissa said with a sigh. “My ancestors were there, Leah. Though I regret to inform you, they were not on the right side of history.”
Leah was a bit too feverish (not to mention her throat hurt too much) to interrogate Clarissa on her family link to the history that Leah so vividly taught, so she settled for a more practical approach – accepting the offer.
“Please don’t grade as harshly as you would your own students,” she said. “Mine would be suspicious.”
“I’ll give as much lenience as my conscience will allow.”
“None at all then, thank you so much for scaring my students,” Leah said, but this time she was grinning. It was a tired grin, but nevertheless full of genuine amusement.
“You’re welcome,” Clarissa said in a deadpan tone, but the hand she placed on Leah’s forehead again was gentle, her touch full of the tenderness she couldn’t show in public. When she spoke again, her voice was soft.
“Drink your tea, Leah. And then go straight home. I’ll take care of your grading, and if it’s that important to you, I’ll grade generously.”
“Th-thank… thank you-uhhh…huhh-ISSSCHHew!”
“Bless you, my darling. Oh, that sounded like it hurt.”
“Ugh,” Leah replied, which was the only confirmation Clarissa needed.
She leaned in closer and placed a gentle kiss on Leah’s forehead as she slowly ran her slender fingers through the younger woman’s hair again.
“I’m coming over with some soup later.”
“You?” Leah squeaked. “Making soup?”
“I’ll pretend I’m not insulted by the insinuation that I can’t cook,” Clarissa chuckled. “You’ll see later. If you can taste anything in the first place.”
“Doubtful,” Leah admitted and blew her nose forcefully. “But I promise to praise your cooking skills anyway.”
“You better,” Clarissa said, took the pile of essays on Leah’s desk and put them into her leather satchel. “I’ll see you tonight, then.”
“Thank you,” Leah wheezed. “You’re so sweet.”
Clarissa stiffened for a moment on her way to the door.
“You may be the only person in the world who thinks so.”
“Well, be that as it may. I’m sure you know by now that I’m quite persistent in my opinions.”
Clarissa laughed out loud this time.
“That, you are.”
When the door had closed behind her, Leah sipped the tea and closed her eyes as its smooth sweetness slid down her inflamed throat. She hadn’t said the words she wanted to say, because she wasn’t sure if that would be the thing that would scare off the ice queen professor for good and didn’t want to take the chance, but now she whispered them into the silence that Clarissa had left behind.
I was making out earlier today with someone who ~knows~ and their breath kept hitching and they kept pausing to rub at their nose but they couldn’t sneeze. they just sent me this
im screaming because they’re a vanilla and they censored the word for me
examining the term “love sick.” imagine a world where romantic feelings manifest as cold/flu symptoms. finding someone attractive and waking up plagued with fatigue and aches. overcome by sneezes when they enter a room. when a crush is an attack on the nervous system, the options are endless.
did you knowreal and true fun fact? whining and moaning and making a lot of noise is really really really good for allergies or a cold. scientists are saying: "its like tht thing where if you yell when youre hurt the hurts less or whatever". so there u have it. try some today.
currently kind of obsessed with the idea of someone sneezing at a tissue/handkerchief rather than into it.
maybe it’s an accident. maybe it’s carelessness. maybe the snz came on too urgently or desperately for them to cover properly. regardless, it is hot lol
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 to 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
putting the details (and the graphic m/f smut/smut-adjacent excerpts) below the cut bc what--and i cannot stress this enough--the FUCK
The book in question is called Why Cheese? by Ellen Mint. It's a why-choose shifter romance where the four (4) male love interests are wheels of cheese by day and sexy, muscled, naked men by night. Also like I said the FMC has a full on-sneezing fit after having a good orgasm. I pulled the relevant parts here, but if for some reason this is your thing, I found it at the library and it's also on kindle unlimited. 🧀
Someone grabbing a tissue or handkerchief for their sick partner before sneezing into it themself, because now they’re coming down with the same thing their partner has. 🫠
Just rewatched F/ullmetal A/lchemist: Brotherhood, so here's Roy and Riza both trying to hide their colds from each other at the office🥰
3k, set immediately post-series. Minor mess mentions.
*****
Riza Hawkeye was the perfect sharpshooter. Her discipline, precision, and control allowed for near-flawless aim, while her calm and collected demeanor ensured that she could get in, get the job done, and get out without hesitation.
As Riza awoke with her head in a fog and aching limbs, she prayed her skills would not be needed today.
Since joining the military, Riza couldn't recall having a real break. Not that she wanted one, particularly. For every national issue the military addressed, it seemed like two more popped up like the ugly heads of a Hydra. Governing a nation is—or should be—an ongoing exercise in betterment, and as long as Colonel Mustang had his eyes on the highest office in Amestris, Riza would work dutifully by his side to improve the lives of Amestrians. For anyone else, losing one's sight in a battle against a Homunculus who swallowed God and somehow coming out victorious would be a cause for celebration. A vacation, maybe. For Roy, it only kindled his desire to rebuild Amestris on a foundation of justice, carving out the violence and hatred seated deep in the country's core.
As soon as Roy and Riza were discharged from the hospital (and even before), they were back to work. With Grumman taking on the role of Führer, the Eastern Command Center was sorely lacking leadership, and Roy was the obvious candidate for the role. Roy and Riza had now been back in the office for three days, and Riza was starting to wonder if she had perhaps rushed her recovery. Her head was pounding as she entered the Command Center. Her throat burned. Her eyelids drooped. Riza felt, in no uncertain terms, like a pile of hot garbage.
Upon dragging herself into the Colonel's office, Riza noted that despite how sluggish she felt, she was as punctual as ever and had arrived before her superior. She took a seat at her desk and sighed at the mountain of paperwork in front of her; it would be another long day.
As the minutes ticked by, Riza wavered between relief that Mustang hadn't arrived yet to see her sorry state and concern as to his whereabouts. Had he gotten into a fight on the way to work? Had he been kidnapped by a Bradley loyalist? Did he accidentally light himself on fire?
Her hypothetical concerns were interrupted by a persistent itch deep in her sinuses. She pinched the bridge of her nose to try to quell the sensation, but the relentless tickle refused to leave. It only grew and grew, demanding her attention, until she had no choice but to release a double into her cupped hand. "hksShh! hih'KSshiew!"
Riza grabbed a handkerchief from her pocket to clean her hand and dab at the moisture above her upper lip. Before she could fully regain her composure, she heard the familiar sound of military-issue boots approaching in the hallway, followed by the turning of the doorknob. Riza shot up out of her chair and stood at attention.
"Sir!" she barked, a slight rasp creeping into her voice.
Colonel Roy Mustang entered and dismissed Riza with the nonchalant wave of his hand. "Lieutenant."
"Late start this morning?" She analyzed his face and movements, searching for any signs of injury. Though she found no cuts or bruises, the bags under his eyes and unnatural pallidness of his skin suggested that something was off.
Roy averted her gaze. "Yeah, I overslept. I had some trouble sleeping last night."
"Something on your mind?"
"I suppose a lot of things. I want to handle the restoration of Ishval appropriately. Major Miles from Briggs will be coming in next week to discuss what his team is working on so we can collaborate. And speaking of Ishval…" Roy grabbed a piece of paper from his desk. "This is the materials requisition form for the first phase of our project. Can you make a copy of this?"
"Yes, sir."
"I'll be in the archives office for most of the day doing more research if you need me." Roy turned to leave.
"After I make the copy, do you want me to join you?"
"No," Roy answered too quickly. "No, that won't be necessary. After you bring me the copy, you can continue working through our backlog of paperwork—" He gestured to the stack on her desk. "—and if by some miracle you finish that, you can start the proposal for an Ishvalan irrigation system."
Riza nodded, grateful that she would have some solitude today, but finding Roy's behavior somewhat suspect. She would get to the bottom of what was going on sooner or later. In the meantime, she had plenty of work to do.
Roy exited, and Riza took to carefully typing up a copy of the requisition. Normally, such a task would only take her a few minutes, but today, she found herself checking over each line a dozen times for errors as she fought through increasingly blurry vision and a budding headache. After what felt like an hour, Riza pulled the almost-completed form from her typewriter and grabbed a fountain pen to check the last few boxes and sign off on the form. She pressed the tip of the pen into the paper, only to be interrupted by the return of that irksome itch in her nose.
Not again, she thought.
Attempting to keep the pen steady, she turned her head to the side and held a knuckle from her free hand under her nose. Breath hitching, she inhaled, then exhaled just as shakily, warm air from her nose caressing her fingers. "hih…ih…"
Riza Hawkeye was not one to back down from a fight, but she could tell this battle was already lost. Letting the sneeze overtake her, she curled into her fist, spraying her hand and coat sleeve. "hiihSShhiew!"
Sniffling, she withdrew her hand from her face and returned her focus to the requisition form. Her eyes widened in horror as she noticed that despite her efforts to keep the pen in control, an unseemly ink blot marred one box. Though the form was still legible, she scolded herself for her lapse in professionalism. Ordinarily, she would have retyped the form, but so much time had passed since the Colonel initially asked for a copy that she figured it was better to turn in something, imperfect as it may be.
Sighing, Riza snatched the form from her desk and set off toward archives. She found a perky secretary with her hair in a bun seated outside the office.
"Good morning," Riza said. "I have something to deliver to Colonel Mustang. Is he here?"
"Yes!" the secretary replied with a grin. "Though… he asked not to be disturbed unless it was urgent."
"I'm his Lieutenant. He asked me to bring him a copy of this form."
"Ah, well…" The secretary hesitated.
Riza was unperturbed. "I'm going in. If he has a problem with that, I will answer to him. You've done your job."
She strode into the archives office and shut the door behind her. As it latched with a thud, Roy Mustang popped up from behind a filing cabinet. "Lieutenant!" He seemed frazzled by her sudden arrival. "Did you…" He coughed once into his fist, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Did you need something?"
Riza held out the form, hiding the smudged ink with her thumb. "I have the copy of the requisition."
"Oh. Thank you." As he took the form, she held her breath, hoping he would say nothing about the poor quality. "You can get back to your paperwork. I'll be here if you have any issues."
"Yes, sir."
When she returned to her desk, Riza began to tackle the seemingly endless pile of work in front of her. She had only filed two forms when that obnoxious tickle returned to torment her nose. Having learned her lesson, she dropped everything she was holding and frantically dug in her pocket for her handkerchief as her chest heaved. She pulled out the handkerchief in the nick of time and pitched forward. "hih'kshh! ishhh! Hih'KSHhhiew!"
As Riza blew her nose wetly, the door flew open, and Colonel Mustang entered the room. She hastily shoved the handkerchief back in her pocket and sat up straight.
"Lieutenant," the Colonel said, "please make another copy of the requisition form."
Riza's gaze fell to her lap. "Yes, sir. Was the last copy not up to standard?"
When Roy didn't respond immediately, she glanced up and was surprised to see that the Colonel's face had blanched. "Er, no, it's… I just need another."
Was he trying to protect her feelings? She was well aware of the ink blot, and if there had been other errors she had missed in her groggy state, she needed to know. "Colonel, please tell me if my work was unsatisfactory so that I can adjust accordingly."
A deep red rose in Mustang's cheeks. "We don't need to discuss it further! Just make another copy. That is an order, Lieutenant."
Riza's eyes narrowed. She had no problem following fair and logical commands, but she didn't take well to having orders barked at her without justification.
Roy didn't wait for a response, and left Hawkeye alone once again in the office. She meticulously copied the form again, painstakingly double-checking every detail between sniffles and sneezes. She simply left the form on the Colonel's desk when she finished; if he wanted it, he would have to come get it.
The rest of the day was tedious and lonely. The Colonel stayed holed up in the archives office even through lunch, and Riza found herself struggling to sort through the paperwork all on her own. As her symptoms worsened throughout the afternoon, it became almost impossible to read any files. Her eyes were bleary, her nose was dripping, and her throat was on fire. She wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep.
As evening approached and she was putting the finishing touches on one last file, there was a soft knock at the door. "Lieutenant?" Mustang's muffled voice came from the hallway.
Though her body protested, Riza rose to open the door. "Colonel. I left the new copy of the requisition form on your desk, and I made a dent in the paperwork backlog."
"Thank you. I just wanted to let you know I'm heading out."
Riza nodded. "I'm finishing up too. I'll leave in a few minutes."
"Well, goodnight, Lieutenant." Roy turned on his heel.
"Sorry, Colonel. There was one thing I wanted to speak with you about before you go." Stopping in his tracks, Roy spun back around, face-to-face with the Lieutenant. Riza couldn't meet his eyes. "I wanted to apologize for my substandard work today. I have to admit that I may not have fully recovered from my injuries before returning to the office, and I haven't been feeling well. I know that came through in my work."
Roy was silent for a beat. And then another. When he still hadn't responded, Riza looked up to see his slack-jawed, watery-eyed expression as his chest rose and fell. Roy tented his hands over his face and snapped forward with a volley of powerful, wet sneezes. "hih'JSHhoo! ikSHHhoo! hih-ih-HIH'KSHhooo!" Roy groaned, realizing his charade was up, and wiped a finger inelegantly under his nose. "I could make the same apology to you, Lieutenant. To be honest, I didn't notice a difference in the quality of your work. I've barely been able to keep upright today. I think we picked something up on the train from Central."
Riza wasn't sure whether to be relieved that the Colonel wasn't judging her for her poor performance, angry that he had hid his ailment (though she, of course, had done the same), or worried about his health. She settled on confusion. "Why did you ask me to recopy the requisition form? It wasn't because of the ink blot?"
Roy rubbed a hand on the back of his neck sheepishly. "Ah, I barely got a chance to look at the form. You see…"
Roy recounted his eventful morning.
***
Being a State Alchemist came with perks. Money, fame, power… and, for better or worse, responsibility. Roy often felt the weight of the nation on his shoulders, and today, that weight was compounded by soreness and fatigue. He couldn't take a day off when there was so much rebuilding to do, but… his bed was very tempting that morning. As he donned his uniform for the day, he sat down on the edge of his bed to pull his socks on, struggling to keep his eyes open. He indulged himself by allowing his eyes to drift shut for a few seconds. When he opened them, he was sprawled out on the bed and twenty minutes had passed.
"Shit!"
Roy raced to the office, well-aware he was already late. He tried to keep his cool when Hawkeye questioned him about it, but he knew he had to find a way to distance himself from her, because if she dug much deeper, she would undoubtedly realize he was sick and tell him to go home. The archives office provided the perfect excuse: he did, in fact, need to read through some old files on Ishval, and locking himself away meant he would be free of the Lieutenant's discerning gaze.
Roy splayed out several reports on Ishvalan architecture on the floor and sat down in the middle of them. While his legs were grateful for the opportunity to rest, his sinuses were less impressed by their current situation. Tossing the musty files to the ground had kicked up quite a bit of dust, irritating Roy's already sensitive nose. He inhaled deliberately; there was no use delaying the inevitable. He had locked himself away to dwell alone in his sick misery without feeling judged, so he might as well get some relief.
As Roy breathed in, the itch spiraled deeper and deeper until it became unbearable. His breath quivered, his face contorted, and he snapped forward, sneezing uncovered toward his lap. "hih-Hih'KSshhoo! jSHhhioo!" Spray danced in the air. With a sigh, he leaned his head back against a filing cabinet, hoping to take a minute to recover from the powerful expulsions that just tore through him.
The recovery was cut short, however, as he heard the sound of the creaking door. Roy jumped to his feet. "Lieutenant!" Had she heard him sneezing outside? Would she attempt to relieve him of duty? He had to act natural. "Did you…" Damn, his voice was too raspy. Clearing his throat as subtly as possible, he continued, "Did you need something?"
"I have the copy of the requisition," she said, offering him the form.
"Oh. Thank you." Roy approached her and took the paper, trying to keep his movements natural and his speech level. He felt rather like a drunk person feigning sobriety. "You can get back to your paperwork. I'll be here if you have any issues."
"Yes, sir."
As Hawkeye shut the door behind her, Roy let out a breath. Phew. She doesn't seem to suspect anything.
Roy perused the form from the Lieutenant, making sure all the right boxes were checked. "Mhm, looks good," he mumbled to himself, followed by, "Oh. Oh no. HIH'JKSHHhioo!"
Roy sneezed squarely in the middle of the paper. Where droplets of spray had hit it, the ink was already starting to run. "Shit, shit, shit." He held a gloved hand behind the paper and snapped, intending to create just enough of a flame to dry the wet spots on the page. Instead, the whole sheet ignited and crumbled to ash at his feet.
Colonel Mustang, the Flame Alchemist, a man renowned for his pinpoint accuracy, stared in silence at the charred remains on the floor. "Hm. Fuck."
***
When the Colonel finished relaying the incident with the form, all Riza could do was shake her head while suppressing a smile. "That was why you needed an extra copy?" she asked.
Mustang hung his head. "Yes."
Riza suddenly stood at attention, her fierce eyes aimed dead ahead and her posture impossibly straight. "Sir! Neither of us are fit to work, and our illness will continue preventing us from completing our tasks unless we take time to heal. I am requesting to put in a sick day for tomorrow."
A smile toyed at Roy's lips. Lieutenant Hawkeye almost never took time off. She must have been feeling as awful as he was. "Granted, Lieutenant. Please get some rest tomorrow."
"And sir! I am also requesting that you take a sick day tomorrow."
Roy was taken aback. "Lieutenant! I have been entrusted with overseeing the Eastern Command Center. I can't take a day off just because I… I f-ih-eel… ih-hih… hih-ih-HIKSHhhioo! Ugh… Just because I feel a little…" He sniffled. "…sick."
Hawkeye held her ground. "Sir, if you come in tomorrow, I will too." As if to emphasize how bad an idea this was, she cupped a hand over her nose, and her head bobbed down with a rapid fit. "ikshh! h'Kshhuh! ih'KSshhiew!" She blew her nose to punctuate her point.
"Lieutenant…" Roy sighed. "Fine. Request granted. We should both take a sick day tomorrow. Is that all?"
"I have one final request." Maybe it was a budding fever talking, but Riza was feeling bold. "I am concerned that you will not take care of yourself properly if you're home alone tomorrow. As your adjutant, it is my responsibility to assist you so that you can operate at your best and most efficient." Riza stared Roy straight in the eye. "As such, I am requesting that you come back to my apartment to recover. Sir."
It was an absurd request, and an obvious transgression of the military's rules about fraternization between superiors and subordinates. But maybe for one night, just until he felt better… Roy imagined Riza bringing him tea, wrapping him in a blanket, maybe even laying a gentle hand on his forehead to check for feverish heat…
