Lady Blackrose’s Blog

(She/her) 30’s, bi/pan, AuDHD, sneeze kink blog. Minors DNI, indication of approx age req or DNI!

[victoriablackrose]

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To be clear, any of the scenarios, ideas, or bits of dialogue I throw out there are up for grabs. Take all of it or just part of it! I don’t care, just credit me!

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Witcher fics

The Wishing Stone Au, aka M.E.S.S Universe (yes I know I’m a dork, but I thought of the acronym and 🤣)

The Mysterious Enchanted Sneeze Stone AKA the Wishing Stone (many characters) (cold) (fin)

The Bardic Competition (Geralt) (cold) (unfin?)

Unrelated Witcher fics

Danger in the Water (Geralt) (sinus infection) (fin)

Lessons in Listening to Witchers (Jaskier) (flu) (fin)

Lambert fic (Lambert) (cold) (fin)

Thank You For Staying With Me (Jaskier) (fin)

Geralt And The Griffins (Geralt) (cold+whump) (unfin)

Battling a Sneeze (Geralt) (dust) (fin)

A Wolf, A Bard, and the Flu (Geralt) (flu) (fin)

Not Crying Wolf (Geralt) (cold) (fin)

Bad Colds and Broken Legs (Geralt) (cold) (fin)

Slow and Steady (Geralt) (cold) (fin)

In Hot Water (Geralt) (flu) (fin)

Finally Safe (Geralt) (cold) (fin)

Six sentence ficlets

Concussion (Geralt)

A Chill (Jaskier)

Peaky Blinders

Tommy Ficlet

No Rest For The Wicked (Tommy) (flu) (fin)

⬇️ Commonly used tags ⬇️

[hockeynoses]

"hih…ha'iggSHH’IUE!” The wet sneeze is followed by a muffled, congested groan into a soaked tissue. "Ugh, I dodn't feel good."

[victoriablackrose]

I think my preferred cold to write is messy but the character is TRYING to keep it contained. They use the tissues or handkerchief as well as they can, with only the occasional sneeze sneaking past their guard requiring clean up.

Being so full of cold means constant, long, heavy nose blows and dripping that leaves their nose so very red, raw, and tender.

[silklined]

So I read this book that @friv0lite recommended (it was cute! Thank you!) and there is one line in it that I can't get over:

“Poking and prodding and bloodletting, followed by medicines that make me too weak to even sneeze properly..."

And since then, the idea of a sick man who is "too weak to even sneeze properly" has been driving me absolutely crazy. (Bloodletting optional.)

He probably has delicate sneezes at the best of times. The tickle in his nose seems fierce enough to overwhelm him, but also so light that it takes an age and an effort to become strong enough to trigger the much-needed release. And when the sneezes come they are fragile, breathy things - both requiring repetition to offer him any relief, and apt to collapse at their height into a shuddering, unsatisfied sigh.

"ihhh... hihh?ihggh?!.... hih'hih'ihh... hhh'shhhhh!.... hhh'hhh-igh'shhhh!... hhh'hhh!'hhh?-nnghh.... hh'hh'hhh'iihhh....kshhh'uue!... itschh'huueh!"

But it's a hundred times worse when he's sick. His head colds come with low, lingering fevers that  sap his body of all energy. It's all he can do to lie supine in bed, under bedclothes that now feel like they have been lined with lead. The cold exhausts him but there's no hope of restful sleep, because it's also inflamed every membrane in his head beyond belief. His eyes burn and the lids betray where he's rubbed them in frustration by turning an angry red. His sinuses swell, throbbing beneath his cheeks like they've been stuffed with cotton. His throat is so sore that he can barely swallow the hot, sweet tea at his bedside. 

But his nose is the bane of his existence. 

The cold is sitting high in his sinuses, almost exactly between his eyes, as both painful pressure and an incessant itching. He's always on the verge of a sneeze, and yet his body doesn't seem to be able to summon the strength to do it. However deliberately he breathes, however much he rubs and pinches his nose, the sneezy feeling neither swells nor retreats. It's all he can do to snatch fluttering, shivering gasps, and submit himself to cycles of hitches that bring tears to his eyes. And then finally when the tickle triggers a sneeze, it's only a soft little "hhhk'sshhhhue!" that brings him no relief at all. 

Poor thing is just desperate to sneeze properly, for a sneeze that's as heavy as his cold feels. A good strong sneeze that might help shake the cold from his head, or at least stop his nose from tickling so. But he just doesn't have it in him.

[bloodyassboots]

Rain

Victim: T/emprence B/rennan (B/ones)

Word count: 3.8k

Time: After the ‘draw the line’ conversation (2x12?) (not actually important this time, just vibes)

Type: f Sneezing

If asked, T/emperance B/rennan would state this was all Booth's fault. It was his fault they were in Georgia. It was his fault they had wasted so much time looking into the wrong suspect. And most of all, it was his fault they were stuck in the rain.  

She walked ten paces behind him and glared at his back, even as they finally neared the hotel he was staying at. It was worse than hers but far closer. Which, considering their current situation, was ideal.

When they had finally made it to his hotel door he stopped, turning to face her, hands on his hips “Why are you being so grouchy?" he asked

She glowered harder at the question, “Because it was completely unnecessary for me to be here Booth! I could have been working on an iron age relic, but instead you dragged me to Georgia to work on a case that any mediocre forensic anthropologist could have worked on.” Which was true, despite the time it took to find the murderer most of that had nothing to do with her! Instead revolving around motives and people, both things she has been told many times, are not her strong suit.

Booth sighed again before turning to unlock the closed door using his room key. He opened the door slightly before turning his head to meet her eyes, “maybe any old forensic anthropologist could have told me the muder weapon, but only one of them is my partner.” he finished with a grin.

“But I'm not old?” she stated, confused. This however only caused his grin to widen as he laughed finally opening the door. “Maybe not, but you understand the gist of what I'm saying don't you?” he spoke again as he entered the room, her following closely behind. And, she did, a little at least. She nodded her head only once before beginning to look around the room. 

It was nice enough, there was a couch and tv set up in this room and a door at the end of a short hallway presumably leading to the bedroom. She was broken out of her examinations as Booth spoke again, "I'm going to take a shower first if that's okay?” He sounded a bit uncertain but continued on after she nodded her affirmation, “Okay, cool, just make yourself at home I guess.” That last bit had confused her, but before she could ask he had already walked off.

Not knowing what else to do she sat on the couch to wait. With no desire to watch tv, she quickly found her eyelids drooping, moving to one side of the couch she removed her shoes and curled up, leaning her head against the armrest.

She was awoken an unknown amount of time later to find Booth standing over her. He had a towel around his neck, he had changed his clothes, now wearing a tight fitting t-shirt and shorts. Her head felt uncharacteristically heavy as she gazed up at him questioningly. She noted how he shifted under her gaze a little before answering her unasked question, “the showers ready.” His voice was soft and quiet, likely as compassion for her grogginess.

When the words finally registered she clambered off of the couch, heading in the direction of the bedroom. “There is a towel and some clothes for you on the bed!” She heard Booth call after her. Sure enough as she took stock of the room she found a towel as well as a loose long sleeved shirt and shorts. 

Gathering the garments she quickly made her way into the bathroom, turning on the shower, removing her soaked clothes and stepping inside. The hot water felt incredible on her aching muscles. As she continued her shower she felt her nose prickle sharply.

“Hh’tsheiw! Hh’tshheiw!” Her shoulders hunched forwards as she sneezed openly onto the shower floor. She sniffled thickly before straightening. She let the water continue to run over her as she enjoyed the heat. It was most likely the unfamiliar soap that caused a reaction she decided, not giving it much thought.

It was a few minutes later when she finally stepped out of the shower. The cold air hit her immediately and she rushed to dry off. Once dry she quickly dressed herself in the clothes Booth had given her. The long-sleeve fit loosely over her frame, the sleeves were long and she had to roll them up to prevent them covering her palms. Looking down she noted the unfamiliar logo across the front, it was most likely from a hockey team Booth liked. The shorts were plain black with stripes, luckily they fit well enough. They smelt like him, she noted.

Walking back into the front room she found Booth sitting on the couch watching some sort of program on the TV. She came behind him before speaking, “What are you watching?” she asked, her voice more gravely than intended, and watched him jump slightly as the unexpected presence. She cleared her throat as he paused the TV, slowly turning his head, clearly attempting to pretend the jump had never occurred. She would play along.

“Probably not something you'd recognize, y’know, with having no TV and no life” he joked cranking his heck to look up at her

She furrowed her brow, she had a life, but as she tried to tell him as such her words caught in her throat, she turned to the side coughing into her elbow. After a moment she rasped out a ‘sorry’ clearing her throat when it came out rough. Turning back she found Booth watching her with worry. Their eyes met and his flickered away, seemingly embarrassed to have been caught staring so intently.

Clearing his throat, Booth stood from the couch, “I found a blanket for you,” he gestured at the folded stack he’d placed on the couch, “I’m guessing you want to sleep here, unless…” her glare stopped that sentence in its tracks and he cleared his throat once more before continuing, “well… I… yeah…” or trying to at least.

After a few moments of silence she decided to save him from his misery, “Thank you… for the blankets.”

He stared at her for a second before smiling and walking to the bedroom. With that done she quickly set up her sleeping area before climbing in. The blankets were warm and though using the arm of the couch as a pillow wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, it was null, as the heaviness in her body caused her to quickly fall into a deep sleep.

—

She woke up coughing, they were harsh and grating causing her to sit up as she continued to cough endlessly. It took her a few minutes to get it under control. Sniffing back the congestion that seemed to have settled in her sinus cavity during sleep she found herself simply staring straight ahead.

Her face was hot, actually her whole body was hot, except for her toes, they were freezing. Noticing they had escaped her blanket she quickly drew her feet back into the warmth. She heard a shuffling sound and before she could ask the person spoke up, “You okay Bones?” Booth asked.

She turned her head to face him but didn't answer, her head was foggy and it took her far too long to even process what he was saying. After a moment of silence he spoke again walking closer until she was fully in view, “it's just… I heard you coughing.” he finished lamely, a worried frown martyring his brow.

When she again didn't respond he reached forward, placing the back of hand on her forehead and hissing, “your burning up bones,” he spoke in a murmur. She made a confused noise in the back of her throat, “Fever.” he clarified, and… that actually made a lot of sense. 

She opened her mouth when a sudden prickling sensation stopped her, she moved her head down, bringing her hands to her face as her breath hitched, “Hhi’tsshh!” she sneezed breathlessly into her cupped palms. She rubbed her irritated nose looking back up at him, “What time is it?” She asked, looking back at Booth, her voice gravely and slightly congested.

He sighed again as he looked at her surely flushed face worried, “too early, go back to sleep” he answered after only a moment of contemplation. And while normally she hated when he was vague, right now, all she cared about was the second part. Her eyelids drooped fast as she settled herself back into the couch, sniffling lightly as she curled up. Beginning to drift she heard the sound of light footsteps and distant running water. Just as she was vanishing into sleep she felt a cool sensation on her forehead and sighed contentedly.  

—

She woke much slower the second time, drifting in and out of sleep for what felt like hours. When she finally woke fully it was to the sound of the hotel door opening. Immediately much more awake, removing a now dry cloth from where it had fallen on her eyes she dropped it on the ground and scrambled to her feet, wobbling slightly as a wave of dizziness pushed through her. When she caught sight of the person entering she immediately relaxed.

Booth. It made sense seeing as it was his hotel room, however she seemed to have a particular inability to think at the moment. 

Booth turned to her once he had finished locking the door, he had changed clothes and had a small plastic bag in hand. “Heya Bones! You feeling any better?” He asked cheerily, catching sight of her. She nodded, it wasn't the complete truth but it wasn't like she was feeling worse.

He looked at her sceptically, “Are you sure?” His tone was careful and slightly disbelieving, “Cause I hate to break it to you Bones, but you looked like death warmed over,” he finished chuckling, his brow still furrowed.

“I don't know what that means.” she said, blatantly ignoring his question. 

He huffed, moving closer to set the plastic bag he was holding on the coffee table. “It means you look awful, and very very sick.” He answered, turning to look her up and down, “Your shaking Bones.” 

She was about to retort about how she was fine when a sudden prickling sensation in her nose stopped her. She quickly brought her sleeve covered palms to cover her mouth and nose as her breath hitched. 

“Hih’TSHEIW!” Feeling suddenly dizzy she sat back down onto the couch, holding her head. 

Booth watched her worriedly, moving to stand in front of her before crouching down. “Bless you, Bones.” he spoke gently, reaching his hand up to her cheek. She looked up. His hand felt nice against her burning skin and she couldn't help but lean into it, even as he hissed at the radiating heat.

Temperance couldn't help but whine slightly as he stood, removing his cold appendage in the process. He looked down at her fondly, before turning to the coffee table and searching through the plastic bag. “What are you looking for?” she asked, staring at him with sluggish eyes. 

In response he pulled out an item showing her, “thought you might need some supplies considering how sick you seemed last night.” he smiled at her, she couldn't help but smile back, “I got you ibuprofen for the fever," he continued, handing her the small pill bottle, “as well as tissues, cough medicine, crackers, thermometer, and pretty much anything else I thought you might need.” he finished sheepishly, dumping the contents of the bag onto the table. 

He had gotten quite the variety of things, most of which she at least somewhat understood, however, "why did you get a toy?” she asked, referring to the small plastic snake that sat in the middle of the items, she was genuinely curious on how that was supposed to help her. 

“Oh, right,” Booth started, rubbing the back of his neck, “when I was little my mom got us toys whenever we were sick! It may not help physically but I always liked it… it's stupid, but it always helped me feel a little better” he finished, looking down.

“It's not stupid,” she stated, he looked up at that and she smiled at him “I like it.” She said, reaching forward and picking up the snake to inspect it. It wasn't the most wonderful thing but she found that she loved it simply because he had been the one to get it for her.

He watched her with a small smile before his eyes fell to the small pill bottle next to her. Reminded of his mission he reached into the pile, picking up a water bottle and handing that and the pills to her as she set down the snake on the floor next to herself. “Take two now and I’ll remind you of the next dose in six hours”

She did as he said, turning and coughing lightly into her elbow as the pills had scraped against her already irritated throat. Turning back just in time to have Booth shove a dose of cough syrup at her. She downed it in one go, making a disgusted face as the terrible taste registered. 

Booth laughed at her face, taking the cup and handing her one last item, “Last but not least I want to know your actual temperature so that ill have a baseline for knowing when to take you to the hospital” he joked, or half joked she guessed, as she had no doubt that was one of the reasons. 

When the thermometer beeped, Booth immediately removed it from her mouth before she could, she blames her dulled reflexes. “101.2.” Booth announced, clearly worried as he looked her over again. 

“A fever is not dangerous enough to warrant the hospital until it reaches around 104.” She answered his unasked question. He gave her a small smile, even as the worried furrow remained in his brow. They end up staring at each other for a few moments before they both seem to realise, she smiles before quickly reverting her gaze downward.  

Booth however huffs a quiet laugh, walking towards the bedroom. A large part of her wanted to follow him but her muscles aching won out. More than that, her eyelids had begun to droop once more, either an effect from the fever or the medicine she took, she didn't currently have the brain capacity to figure it out. 

Sighing she leaned back against the couch. However, before she could drift off an annoying prickling sensation entered her sinuses. Her breath hitched dangerously and she quickly brought her elbow to her face. “Hhi’Hisheiww*! Hhh-! ’ITSheiww!” She sniffled thickly, breathless from the sudden onslaught.

“Bless you!” Booth's voice came from behind, causing her to flinch slightly at the unexpected presence. She turned to face him, he was holding his phone to his ear as his other hand held a DVD case she didn't recognize. Based on its size and odd cover she would guess it was a movie. 

Looking back to Booth's face she could see he was clearly listening to somebody. His face was serious as he nodded his head, occasionally answering questions she couldn't hear with a ‘yes sir’ or ‘no sir.’ It was probably Cullen then, she mused. 

Finally snapping his phone shut with a final, “yes sir.” Booth looked towards her, smiling. “So,” he started leaning against the back of the couch, “that was Cullen, I got his permission to stay here for a few more days.” he finished, tone serious but warm as he smiled lightly at her. However, her brows furrowed as she processed his words. 

“Why?” she asked after a moment, baffled. 

He laughed at her expression, “Because you're sick, Bones. And you shouldn't be traveling, or working.” he stated, tilting his head as he playfully considered her. This only caused her brows to furrow further, she didn't understand.

“Even if that were true, I don't see what that has to do with you.” She said, her face painted with (if you asked S/eely B/ooth; adorable) confusion.

Booth sighed fondly, with his elbow on the back of the couch and face in his palm, he leaned forward until their faces were nearly touching. Temperance resisted both the temptation to lean back and the (illogical) temptation to lean forward. Smiling at her, Booth spoke again, “Because we're partners, Bones. Plus, you would do the same for me.”

And, she realised with a start, he was right, if the situation was reversed she would have made similar decisions. Not wanting to fall further into those thoughts she simply nodded. “What movie is that?” she asked, eyes flicking to the DVD he held, deciding that a change in subject would be ideal.

“The Matrix.” he said simply, walking forward and cuing up the film before coming back to the couch and sitting right next to her. She noted the length of the couch as he sat. However, she said nothing… she didn't exactly mind.

Ten confusing minutes, a dozen questions, and a demand of ‘no more questions’ later, and her drowsiness had once again started to catch up to her. She yawns slightly before letting her head fall to the side. She felt Booth tense minutely as her head fell onto his shoulder. She was too tired to care, her eyelids dropping as she entered a dreamless state, feeling an arm wrap around her.

She woke to a prickling in her sinuses, her head felt heavy and she couldn't think. She brought her hand to her face as her breath hitched dangerously.

“Hhh-! Eh’ETCheiw!” She sneezed, her head barely bobbing from her perch on Booth's shoulder. She tilted her head up, “sorry…” she mumbled, her voice congested. Booth said something in response, but she didn’t hear, her head falling back into place on his shoulder, she was easily lulled to sleep by both her fatigue and the gentle hand rubbing her arm soothingly from its place around her.

—

The third time she woke up was to Booth shaking her. He must have moved her at some point as she was now laid out on the couch and covered with the blanket. She reached her hand up, pushing him away and pulling the blanket tighter around her as she shivered. She heard him laugh from above her before leaning down, “You have to get up now Bones,” he whispered, his breath hot on her ear, her breath hitched for a completely different reason than earlier. 

Objectively, her response made sense, Booth was an attractive male that she had formed a close bond with. On the other; no. Just no. It wasn't like this mattered anyhow, as Booth had made it very clear, there was a line between them, made for the benefit of both themselves and their professional careers. 

She sighed, shaking her head and sitting up blearily. She hugged the blanket still around her shoulders closer as she shivered once more. Seeing as she couldn't avoid it, she looked to the side to meet Booth's gaze. 

He smiled once he noticed she was looking at him, holding up two plastic containers, “Soup!” he said grinning, "Don't worry I got you vegetable, though I do have chicken in case your vegetarianism doesn't extend to sick days.” he joked, smiling at her.

“That’s not how it works, Booth.” Her tone was stern but she couldn't help but grin. 

“Hey! I was just making sure!” he laughed, moving his hands placatingly. She laughed lightly, watching as he set the soup and utensils on the coffee table before dragging it closer. Coming to sit he once again chose the spot directly next to her. 

Opening her container, she tried the soup, it tasted really good, but more than that, it was warm and soothing traveling down her scratchy throat. “Thank you booth, it's delicious.” she stated, sniffling as the steam loosened her congested sinuses.

“Your welcome Bones,” he said, trying his own soup and humming. A flash of guilt seemed to cross his face before he turned to her again, “Plus, it is sort of my fault you got sick in the first place…” he mumbled guiltily.

Catching on to what he meant, she thought for a moment, if she had thought about it earlier she could conceded she most likely would have blamed him, however… "Technically, rain and cold temperatures don't cause rhinoviruses, that is a common misconception.” She stated, rubbing irritably at her nose as it had started to run.

“Maybe so, but getting soaked in the freezing rain probably didn't help anything right?” Booth asked questioningly, looking over her undoubtedly flushed and sickly appearance. She sighed.

“No, the rain and cold temperatures likely weakened my immune system, making me far more likely to contract a rhinovirus or unable to as effectively fight off one I may have already caught.” She answered in her normal monotone voice, sniffling afterwards as a low burning sensation began in her sinuses. “But, seeing as you have bought me medicine and taken care of me today I’d say were e- even, ag- hhi- Hh’ITSCHiew! Hhh-! Hih-! Hh’ISCHHH! ih’Shieww!” She sneezed into her elbow, coughing lightly and sniffling in the aftermath. 

Lowering her elbow from where she had quickly brought it up, she found Booth staring at her with worry. “Bless you,” Booth said gently, reaching across the coffee table to grab and hand her the box of tissues he had bought.    

Taking the box she quickly opened it before removing a few she turned away from him to blow her nose. The shift in congestion, however, seemed to set off her nose again. Her breath hitched as she held the tissues closed to her face, “Hhh-! ’IHShhh‘IHsheiww!” The sneezes grated harsh and unpleasant against her throat, blowing her nose again she crumpled the tissue in her hand.

Looking for a bin was easy as Booth, thinking the same, was already holding one out for her, she smiled gratefully, watching him as he put it back down on the floor before picking up the forgotten remote.

Tossing the remote in the air he looked at her “What do you say we eat our soup and finish the movie, huh?” He spoke, already moving to turn it back on.

“I say that would be enjoyable, though I make no promises that I'll understand anything” she warned him as he continued to fiddle around with the DVD player

It took a few minutes but eventually she found herself leaning against him once more. She felt his hand reach around her as she shivered, bringing the blanket higher on her shoulder and bringing her closer. This was of course most likely a logical decision on Booth's part, seeing as body’s are excellent scores of heat. She smiled, melting into him a little further. 

“What does the music indicate?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him.

“The music means that somebody is about to have their ass handed to them,” Booth answered jovially, grinning as the men on screen circled each other. 

“I don't know what that means,” she said quietly, smiling at him.

Booth shook his head, laughing, “of course you don’t,” he smiled back.

Notes:

I have never watched Matrix but I searched it up and it does have music, also I have assumed that at some point men circle each other... might not be true IDK

Also; this is my second time writing snz fic (or fic of any kind) so it might not be great, I can tell shes not the most consistent throughout

Also Also; I wrote like half of this at 3AM after getting almost no sleep for the past week, and I honestly think my 1st one was better but I'm not 100 percent sure

[sherbet-shivers]

Fever VS Fervor

Series: H/eated R/ivalry

Characters: I/lya R/osanov, S/hane H/ollander

Blurb: Ilya is under the weather and Shane is acutely aware of his inner forecast. Plot is spoiler-free!

Length: 3.6k words

TW: Cursing

**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs and minors DNI! Feedback and formatting tips are always welcome <3**

“aa’HZSHH-!!”

When Ilya catches Shane staring at him out of the corner of his eyes, he inadvertently stiffens his lip and flashes a frown in his direction.

“It was a sneeze, Hollander.”

It was several, actually, Shane thinks but doesn’t say. Two when he’d entered the apartment, and four while he showered. But hey, who was counting? 

Oh right. He was.

Shane sits up straighter on the couch, watching as Ilya enters the room, freshly cleaned and slightly damp following his shower. Ilya had only just returned from practice an hour ago (having gone against Shane’s wishes), and despite the obvious head cold he was battling, he’d managed to catch a ride to Shane’s, dodge his chastising, abandon his gear, shower, and change into his lounge-wear in record time.

All that was left to do was flop onto the couch, which he does with a resounding grunt and effort that has Shane nearly dropping the book in his hands. Removing his glasses, Shane gingerly places both his novel and spectacles on the coffee table beside him. Now that Ilya was here, he was the immediate center of his attention.

The minor migration from the bathroom to the couch must’ve been enough to stir something in Ilya’s sinuses, because the second his face hits the cushion he’s refurfacing with a hastened gasp. Shane can literally count down to the sneeze in his head.

One…two…three-

“aA’ZSCHH’hu!…hhy’ZZCHH-!! Fuck!”

“Bless you,” Shane chirps, adding: “again.”

“Is that all you can say now?” Ilya asks moodily.

“If all you do is sneeze, then yeah, I guess so,” Shane replies.

Ilya had been irritable all day, and it looked like this evening would be no different. Before he’d left for practice, he and Shane had gotten into an argument over whether it was really necessary he attend or not. Maybe “argument” was too strong a word, but chalking it up to a minor disagreement felt equally disingenuous. 

Ilya had been stubborn as all Hell about going. On any other day Shane might’ve applauded his commitment to the sport. After all, of everyone either of them knew, it was Shane who understood just how vital it was for a captain to be present for his team. Today was different though. Shane knew Ilya wouldn't listen to reason when it came to his health, so he’d tried to convince him that if he went to practice and exacerbated his cold (or God forbid infect his whole team), his attendance would only work against him. Normally Ilya would listen to logic like that, but Shane was pretty sure he’d ignored the facts purely so he could get out of the house. Ilya didn't like to sit still for too long, and getting him to rest at all was like pulling teeth.

Deep down, Shane wasn’t angry or disappointed Ilya had gone; he was only frustrated over his flippant disregard for his own health. That, and parts of him worried that his persistent attempts at nursing Ilya had inadvertently chased him further away. He didn’t think that was the case, but the possibility bothered him. He couldn’t help it when the thought clung to him like an itch…and speaking of itch...

“hHH’ZZSHH’hu!”

Shane startles free of his own thoughts.

“Bless you,” he repeats more patiently this time. With a deliberate softness, he reaches for Ilya and pets the tops of his hair. It was his way of extending an olive branch after their earlier argument. “How was practice?”

“Fine,” Ilya grumbles. He sniffles and rubs his nose on the couch. “Fucking cold.”

“Is it getting worse?” Shane asks.

“What?”

“Your cold? Do you think it’s getting worse?”

Ilya tilts his head, squinting slightly.

“…I meant the rink, Hollander,” Ilya corrects. “The rink was cold.”

“…Oh.”

Ilya stares at his boyfriend, shaking his head while he murmurs something under his breath. He sighs, chest deflating as he sinks deeper into the cushions.

“I’m not dying, you know,” he murmurs. “You act like you’ve never heard me sneeze before.”

“Okay, but you don’t normally sneeze like that.”

Ilya immediately peeks at Shane, looking at him sideways in a way that has him feeling unusually nervous. It was like Ilya had suddenly flipped the script and Shane was now the one being studied.

“Oh? How do I usually sneeze then?” he asks.

Of all the ways he could’ve responded, Shane never would have guessed it’d be like that.

“W-Well,” Shane licks his lips, “it depends. Out on the ice, you tuck it because of the gloves. You know, sneezing into your jersey or your collar or whatever. But out in public or during your interviews, you pinch it; usually in twos. Not like when you’re alone with me.”

“Huh,” Ilya breathes, glancing Shane up and down, “and how long have you noticed this?”

“A while,” Shane admits. “Like…I don’t know; since rookie season?”

“Oh, so you were spying on me,” Ilya teases, his tone dry but gaze mischievous. “You are obsessed.”

“Fuck off,” Shane says, embarrassed but pleased to be reinstated as the subject of Ilya’s coy banter (as opposed to a reminder of his poor condition).

“You should be paparazzi,” Ilya proposes.

“And do what? Follow you around, take your picture? I do enough of that already,” Shane smirks. “Besides, you’re only saying that because you like being the center of attention.”

“Ah-ah — I like being the center of your attention,” Ilya amends. “Very important distinction. It’s where I belong; between the ice-“

Ilya inches closer via an army crawl and nudges his forehead against Shane’s thigh.

“-and you.”

Shane smiles and clicks his tongue. “Can’t argue that,” he concedes.

“Good, because I am sick of arguing with you,” Ilya sighs. “And I am actually sick.”

His confession catches Shane by surprise. “So you are sick?”

Ilya glances at Shane.

“Yes,” he answers, "aren't you the one who’s been saying it all day?”

“I guess, or I mean…” Shane swallows as he reorganizes his thoughts. He was used to Ilya speaking candidly, but not always with such honesty. He’d anticipated having to coax admission out of him, but once again, Ilya has usurped his expectations. 

“I thought it was possible,” Shane says, finally. “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” Why didn’t you just tell me, he thinks.

Ilya shrugs with a sniff. “It’s not important.”

He says it like it’s simple, but to Shane it's anything but. It was Ilya’s reasoning that bothered him. He may not understand Russian, but after ten years, he could speak Ilya with near fluency; so he knew deep down that “it’s not important” secretly (and heartbreakingly) translated to “I’m not important”…and that hurt him almost as much as he knew it hurt Ilya.

Shane clenches his jaw and stiffens his shoulders, his body bracing against the thought as a tough, painful feeling swirls around his chest.

“It’s important to me,” Shane responds; his tone is stern and serious, but lacks defensiveness. “How long do you think you've been sick?”

“A few days,” Ilya estimates, suddenly giving Shane an odd look. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Me?”

“Yes, you,” Ilya clarifies. “You seem bothered…am I bothering you?”

“What?” Shane asks, almost sounding offended by the suggestion. “No, you don’t ever bother me.”

“Then what is wrong?”

“Nothing, I-…-I just want to make sure you’re okay is all,” Shane says, swallowing again. “Are you? I mean, do you feel okay?”

Shane thought what he’d been asking was obvious, but then it occurs to him that Ilya wasn’t always used to being asked questions about himself; at least not outside his performance as an athlete (or who he was sleeping with). Asking Ilya about his health was always a tricky gamble. On one hand, it made Shane insecure. Ilya did always say he asked too many questions, and Shane could imagine why the questions he asked may feel more interrogative than intended — especially to someone so unfamiliar with being asked at all. Up until they’d met (and even years thereafter), Ilya had been reluctant to discuss any subject breaching the surface, so Shane was acutely aware this sort of attention was foreign to his boyfriend under most circumstances. He didn’t want to dismiss the progress they’d made by being too pushy.

Still, he also couldn't just ignore that something was wrong — not when it was sniffling in his face.

Thus, Shane shifts his weight on the couch and faces Ilya directly, lacing their fingers together and curling both their hands in his lap. Up close, and connected, he senses and sees a sort of hyper-vigilance shadowing Ilya’s features; an unease that he wasn’t comfortable expressing. Catching this, Shane instinctively hovers his thumb against Ilya’s knuckles, touch light and fleeting in hopes that in some way he can comfort him — remind him he’s not judging, only curious. Only caring.

Together they share the silence. Shane didn't need to repeat himself. He knew Ilya had heard him and was processing the question. The least he could do was be patient enough to await an answer.

Shane raises his other hand to cup Ilya’s cheek, which burns and flushes with fever. He tenderly brushes a stray curl out of Ilya’s icy blue eyes, then plants a kiss to where the lock lands, curtaining his face.

“You look so tired,” Shane murmurs, his touch reluctant to retreat from Ilya’s space as he moves on to stroking his beauty mark.

Ilya swallows, sniffling and allowing his eyes to fall shut while he leans into Shane’s touch. He pecks his palm, breath warm against the flesh.

“I am exhausted,” he whispers. “I feel disgusting."

“You’re not disgusting — you could never be,” Shane hums back dotingly. “You’re just sick and it’s been a long day.”

“Too long,” Ilya complains.

“I agree,” Shane nods. The heat emanating off Ilya’s skin is distracting, almost dizzying this close up. “You’re burning up, you know.”

“No, you are just cold,” Ilya disagrees, his speech half-muffled as he nuzzles into Shane’s palm and itches his nose. “It’s the Canada in your blood — icy.”

Shane smirks. “If either of us is cold blooded, shouldn’t it be you? You’re the one who’s survived Russian winters.”

“Barely,” Ilya murmurs, shaking his head. “And who told you I was Russian? That does not sound like me,” he jests.

“Right; except that is exactly how you sound,” Shane smiles back charmingly. He reluctantly pulls back his hand, earning him a pout and a whimper. “Shhh,” Shane consoles, locking on to Ilya’s needy gaze, “I’m not going anywhere.”

To satiate his partner, Shane extends his arms, spreading wide then beckoning for Ilya to fall into his chest. “Come here.”

He loves the way Ilya smiles at him; his features relaxing into a soft, fond look while he gladly takes up Shane’s offer. Together the two fall into place like dominos, with Shane tentatively grasping Ilya’s shoulders and reclining him back into his lap, and Ilya trusting Shane’s touch to guide him. He really wasn’t kidding about being exhausted, Shane thinks. On any other day, Ilya would put up some sort of playful resistance, begging for Shane to make him surrender while probably making some cheeky remark, calling him captain or accusing him of being unnecessarily handsy…but tonight, he wordlessly obliges his invite to shamelessly snuggle in his lap and unite in his warmth. Head against Shane’s thigh, Ilya turns on his side, stretches and yawns, his whole body releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

“Mmm,” Ilya hums.

“What?”

“It’s nice.”

“My lap?” Shane asks. Ilya nods.

“Yes. Your thighs. They make good pillows,” he says, reaching overhead to grope and massage the flesh. “I am so used to gripping them while you ride me that I-“

“Woooow,” Shane interrupts. He scoffs despite feeling flustered, “okay.”

“What? Is a compliment,” Ilya drawls, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

“You’re such a flatterer,” Shane teases, “do perverts like yourself really not take sick days?”

Ilya hesitates, shifting his weight again so he’s on his back. He blinks up at Shane as the latter pets through his hair and wordlessly admires the hidden shades of seafoam drifting in Ilya’s eyes. Slowly, Ilya reaches up, pinching Shane’s chin and admiring him from his current angle. In his mind, he connects his freckles like constellations.

“No,” Ilya says, “and neither do boyfriends.”

Shane can't resist the smile that creeps up on him, and best of all, he doesn’t want to. He leans forward, attempting to kiss Ilya, but his partner catches him, netting his lips into the cusp of his hand.

“You will get sick,” Ilya chides, shaking his head. Shane kisses his palm, reciprocating his favor from earlier.

“I don’t mind,” Shane says.

“Yes, but I do,” Ilya confesses. “And I am not nice like you — you are whiny enough healthy; I won’t take care of you if you are sickly,” he adds, kneading at his nose with his other hand.

Shane grins, knitting kisses along Ilya’s palm lines. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he insists.

Ilya raises an eyebrow. “And how would you know this?”

Shane lands one last kiss before retreating back so he’s sitting upright again. “I’m going to sound weird if I say.”

“Weirder than when you talk about me sneezing?”

“Fuck you,” Shane scoffs, though his words are far from unkind. While he fights his creeping embarrassment, Ilya nods at him again, urging him to continue. It’s enough encouragement for Shane to brave a deep breath.

“Okay, so this might sound crazy because it is,” he starts, “but I’ve noticed you have a tell.”

“A tell?” Ilya repeats. He blinks, looking as confused as he sounds. “What is…?”

“It’s like a quirk o-or a signal that tells you something about someone. Usually it’s a trait or habit others would consider inconspicuous, but…it’s one that I notice because,” he pauses, swallows, “because I like you; and I notice you, obviously.”

“I think you do more than notice me, obviously,” Ilya says, lips twitching into a smirk as he shifts positions again. He likes the way Shane rolls his eyes at him. “Okay, okay,” he relents, “speak.”

“Right,” Shane exhales, feeling sweat springing to his palms, “so when you lie-“

“I never do this.”

“When you lie,” Shane restarts, chuckling, “you always touch your nose. Like you do this-,” Shane removes his right hand, then demonstrates by alternating between pinching and scrubbing at his own nose, “-that sort of thing,” he sniffs.

Ilya says nothing at first. Instead, he stares at Shane, lips slightly parted around questions he doesn’t ask, and eyebrows knit together in curiosity.

“I honestly thought maybe you just had allergies or something at first,” Shane continues, “but then I realized you do it whenever you lie about something.”

The silence from Ilya sustains, serving only to make Shane feel smaller and more insecure where he sits. Finally — after what feels like years — Ilya clicks his tongue.

“What?” Shane asks.

“Nothing that is just…” Ilya trails off, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, “learning these things; it makes me realize you are…what is the word…? Ah-! Yes!”

Ilya blinks again, snapping his fingers and settling his sights back on Shane.

“Neurotic,” he cheeses. “And a pervert for my nose.”

“Oh fuck off,” Shane laughs.

“Is the right word, yes?” he chuckles back. “Because Hollander, who the fuck notices a thing like that??”

“I do, asshole!”

“Yes, but why??”

“Because-!” Shane leans his head back, no longer laughing, but still left smiling. “See this is why I didn’t want to tell you; you think it’s weird — that I’m weird!”

“I already thought this-“

“Fuuuuck you.”

“-but that’s okay,” Ilya giggles. “You know why?”

“…Why?”

Ilya toys with Shane’s ear, his thumb grazing along its edge as it turns pink. He bites his lower lip, fighting the urge to spring up, suckle it and kiss Shane all over.

“Because I enjoy weird,” Ilya murmurs, breath as hot as his attitude.

“Whatever,” Shane blushes while swatting Ilya’s hand away. Any more fondling and he was going to squirm. “You’re the one who asked, you know,” he reminds him.

“I know, I wish I hadn’t,” Ilya chuckles, absentmindedly rubbing at his nose. He catches himself mid-act, both he and Shane immediately sharing exaggerated glances. “See??” Ilya exclaims, shaking his hands like they’re cursed, “now I will think of this forever…of you forever!”

“Oh what a terrible fate~!” Shane cries. Ilya reaches up his hands, breaking Shane into a fit of faux sputtering and genuine giggles as he pretends to choke him. “I’m innocent, I swear!” Shane howls.

“That is just what everyone thinks! They don’t know you like I do, Shane Hollander,” Ilya mocks, “and you are far from innocent!”

Shane throws his head back and begs for his freedom between saccharine laughs. That laughter is like music to Ilya’s ears, and the sight of Shane’s perfect smile is a feast for his eyes; the way his lashes bat so prettily against rosy cheeks, his teeth sparkle behind those lips he loves to greet, and how his freckles dance and wiggle, just as expressive as the rest of him. The sight of his happiness was an antidote to Ilya’s aches, even if just for a moment.

“Mercy! Mercy!” Shane pleads.

Eventually, Ilya releases his lover, both hands raised in generous surrender. Shane struggles to catch his breath, his laughter dying down as he blinks slowly back at Ilya.

“You are too attentive for your own good,” Ilya says, voice low and husky, but nonetheless bemused and bewildered by Shane’s bizarre interest in him. He reaches forth and fixes Shane’s bangs, pushing them out of his eyes. “And you are crazy, you know that?”

“What, about you?” Shane asks, sounding sleepy following his smothering.

“Mmm yes about me,” Ilya confirms, “and in general. But I will add myself to the list.”

“The list?”

Ilya nods. “Of all the things that make you crazy.”

“Oh yeah? And what else do you think is on that list?” Shane asks, entertaining Ilya’s banter and watching him dreamily while he curls his golden hair around his finger.

“Mmm…hockey, ugly cars, birds, real estate, and your boring, tasteless ginger ale.”

“It’s not tasteless,” Shane giggles, infectiously smitten by Ilya’s deceptively lazy wit and proud, precious grin. “You’re just saying that because you’re used to drinking vodka. Besides, I could’ve sworn you said you were starting to like it.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s tasteful.”

“Then why do you drink it?”

“Because it is always around. That, and it tastes like you,” he smirks, “reminds me of your mouth.”

Shane can't decide whether he’s flattered or embarrassed or confused, but his expression must reflect a mix of all three because Ilya pokes his cheek and laughs.

“You’re blushing,” Ilya points out.

“Maybe,” Shane grins. “You say crazy things.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

“Right,” Shane rolls his eyes, “so you admit you’re also crazy?”

“Am I?” Ilya snickers. “How so?”

“I don’t know…because you like me?” Shane asks, his tone shrinking slightly. “Because you tolerate the things I notice and say, even if they’re somehow boring and crazy and weird all at the same time?”

Tolerate? How could someone so smart be so dense? Ilya thinks. He relished everything Shane noticed and said, even — no…especially when Ilya himself lacked the words to express as much.

Ilya mulls over his boyfriend’s inquiry. His mind searches for a remedy to his speechlessness, all the while his gaze remains restless; busy absorbing all the small details of Shane’s face. He memorizes the moonlit whites of his eyes to the freckles painting the bridge of his nose and smattering his cheeks like pixie dust. He fancies the cute curve of his lips, so plush and pink, and how they team up with his smile to light up the rest of his face. Shane wasn’t just beautiful…he was breathtaking, and Ilya felt lucky to bask in his glow.

But it was what lay past that perfect face that he was really attracted to. Shane’s kindness, his curiosity, and his vulnerability to ask questions Ilya could never pose, let alone answer without him. He was cautious, but he was also ridiculously brave, and that only made him shine brighter from Ilya’s perspective. For so long Ilya had only known a void of emptiness, and now he spent every day feeling blinded; eternally grateful to orbit a whole new world side by side with the light of his life — the sun newly adorning what had once been a relentlessly dark, cold, and isolated existence.

Words could never suffice nor do justice to the overwhelming feelings he had for Shane. They just bubbled up so naturally, as natural as breathing, as natural as-…!

Crying?

“Ilya…? Hey,” Shane coos as he swipes tears that have sprung from the corners of Ilya’s eyes. His expression mirrors the concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ilya shakes his head, sniffles. Being so tired must’ve been making him emotional, but even while exhausted, he knew he could never tire of Shane’s company. It was simply impossible, even if he didn’t quite know how to say it. “I love your boring, your crazy, and your weird,” he says finally.

He blinks hard at Shane, freeing indecisive tears.

“You are too nice to me,” he whispers.

Shane swallows, taking both Ilya’s cheeks in his hands and holding him with reverence.

“I like being too nice to you,” Shane reassures, tilting Ilya’s head back and planting a kiss to his forehead. “You just hate hearing that.”

Ilya bites the inside of his cheek, then shakes his head, exhaling shakily and cupping his hands over Shane’s.

“Not when it’s from you.”

Shane’s chest melts. He smiles, then tilts his head, connecting both their noses in a silent gesture he hopes speaks to his endless adoration.

“Please let me kiss you,” he whispers.

“We shouldn’t,” Ilya whines, though it’s so obvious he wants to. “It’s not healthy; it’s to protect you.”

“But it’s torture,” Shane half-whimpers.

“Torture?” Ilya says, mirroring Shane’s smile back at him. “Is that what this is to you?”

The two share romantic stares until Shane breaks first, his smile irresistibly dreamy as the two lock hands.

“No,” he whispers. “Everything but.”

And that’s all it takes for Ilya to cave into a kiss. Lips colliding, he swears he’s seeing stars behind lidded eyes; a thousand little cosmos igniting in his chest and exploding into a dazzling fervor.

Fever be damned. His fervor won this round.

[evilfloralfoolery]

Lethal and Divine

Here's a short little vampire and werewolf fuckery between Lucien and Marrok because I felt like it. Yes, I have written this type of "snz at the opera" scene 923847 times and will continue to do so.

Lucien may be a vampire, but some of his mortal issues came along for the supernatural ride. Sunlight won't kill him, but it DOES pose other problems.

______________________________

“I listened to some of this,” Marrok says.  “I thought Mozart was all about some funny and happy shit. This ain’t that.” 

“Did you believe that I would not take you to something worthy of your ears?” Lucien gestures to the curtained stage. “This is ‘Don Giovanni,’ one of Mozart's most grand achievements.” 

“Hmn, okay.”  Marrok scratches the space beneath his chin with a curved nail.  “What’s it about?”

Lucien smiles, the tips of his fangs showing.  “Promiscuity, infidelity, and murder.” 

“Huh.”  Marrok sits back in his seat, dark hair spilling over one shoulder.  “That actually sounds . . . good.”

“It is more than ‘good.’ It is magnificent.”

Much like his companion on this fine evening.  Marrok is dressed in unrelenting black, a combination of his own design with a jacquard vest beneath a more modern tailcoat with strategically placed metal studs that is more “goth rock” than it is operatic formal attire.  But Lucien has no complaints.  The mere fact that the werewolf is wearing a coat of sorts is nearly unheard of, a concession that he has made purely for Lucien’s sake.

The sentiment has not gone unnoticed.  

He nudges Marrok’s thigh with his own, lays his hand upon it with a squeeze. “Have I told you, mon cher, that you look lethal and divine?”

“You have.”  Marrok leans in close enough to run the utmost tip of his tongue along the shell of Lucien’s ear.  “But you can say it again.” 

“Rapscallion,” Lucien says.   

Marrok flashes him a smile that showcases both sets of canines. “Don't fuck with me or you'll be watching my face instead of the stage while I devour you.”

“Right here? Amongst all of these mortal gazes?” Lucien feigns a gasp, one hand upon his heart. “Why, I am scandalized!”

“Yeah,” Marrok rumbles. “Just like this.” 

Massive hands cup Lucien's face and Marrok kisses him with brief, but passionate fervor. 

“Well,” Lucien murmurs against his mouth.  “Scandalous, indeed.” 

The lights dim and the overture begins and Lucien is grateful for the change in lighting.  Why must mortals have the interior of everything bright as the midday sun?  Infuriating, to say the least.  At least he could manage without the sunglasses indoors.

For the most part.  

The effects of his latest sunlit excursion still persist, however.  Twenty minutes into the performance, Marrok is silent and attentive to the onstage antics.  Not at all what Lucien had expected.  

There is, of course, the occasional wince during a piercingly high note from the soprano or the ghastly idiocy of the assistant principal violinist, who clearly has the ear of deaf man.  Lucien himself does his fair share of teeth grinding aggravation.

“The fuck is wrong with that guy?”  Marrok’s breath is warm against his ear.  “The violin player.  I’m about to go break that screech plank over his head.”

Lucien nods. “Would it be unethical of me to drain him for such heresy?”

“No,” Marrok scoffs a laugh.  “I’d eat his heart in a fucking second.” 

“Hmn.  Better perhaps to consume his fingers, non?”

Marrok chuckles. “Something like that.” 

And while Lucien does his best to feign that nothing is out of the ordinary, things within his body are certainly amiss.  Particularly within his sinuses.  

Now?  His immortal body is choosing this moment for such nuisances?  Honestly . . . 

Lucien rifles through his inner coat pocket and cups the still-folded handkerchief in his palm for an instant before clamping it over his nose to muffle a tightly contained “Hhhuh–NKGT!”  His breath hitches and his chest heaves. “. . . IHHKGGTCH!” 

Marrok's hand  lights upon his own and squeezes. “You okay?” 

Lucien nods with a sniffle. “Yes, mon cher.” 

He tucks the handkerchief back into his jacket as Marrok's arm settles around his shoulders. 

He does, however, lean into the gesture just a touch, which elicits a dark rumble of approval from his companion. 

But putting away the handkerchief so soon was not the soundest decision. A pre-incident paralysis seizes him and he stifles the sound against the back of his hand with a clenching “--NXGT!” The one that follows is near silent, but the shuddering of his shoulders is far more pronounced. 

“Goddamn,” Marrok swears under his breath with such displaced frustration that Lucien chuckles. 

“Tres désolée,” ¹ Lucien says. “I could not prevent it.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Marrok says, but the words hold no true irritation now. 

After a good hour or so, the end of the first act signals an intermission and the werewolf clearly needs some air. 

Or perhaps, something more vital. 

______________________________________________________

A brisk walk around the fountain seems to cool the werewolf's near boiling need just a touch, which is, of course, amplified by the impending full moon.

“You're making it hard for me to pay attention to the damn story,” Marrok says, his fingers laced through Lucien's own.

The vampire offers him a coy smirk. “And for this, I am not sorry.”

“I'm so goddamn shocked.” Marrok rolls his eyes. “You French fuck.” 

Lucien laughs, but the sound is cut short by the very thing that has been incensing his companion for much of the evening.

He  holds up a hand in a halting gesture and leans away, the other hand pressed against his against the side of his nose in deflection.

“Hhih-iiih. . . ! HiihIESSCHHUh! –UhhISSCH! Hhk. . . ISSSCH–iiUUH!” 

The way his shoulders heave and shudder in such a horrid betrayal of decorum is mortifying, but not nearly as much as the fact that he has misplaced his handkerchief. Which, of course, had forced this ghastly display of indecency in the first place.

But Marrok has come to his rescue, pressing a clean fold of cotton into his palm. 

“Ah, such keen foresight you have,” he says, his voice softened and a bit breathless from the covert indiscretions of his body. “Mon dieu, that came upon me with such suddenness.” 

“Yeah.” Marrok's voice is a low, penetrative bass. “Yeah, it did.” He grabs the edge of Lucien's coat and pulls him into a claiming embrace. “I kinda feel like I should say something to you.” 

“What something?” Lucien arches an eyebrow.

“Whatever it is that humans say to each other. They still say it, right?”

“Indeed, they do.” Lucien smirks as he meets the werewolf’s stare. “But that would be nonsensical, non? Blessing the damned.”

He laughs at the absurdity of the thought, as does his companion. 

“But. . .'' Lucien drags a nail along the most delicate skin of Marrok's neck near the base of his throat. “You may say it to me, if it pleases you.”

“Nah, it's weird.” Marrok's claws sink into the shoulder of his coat. “Gonna do this instead.”

Marrok cups Lucien's face between his massive palms and imparts a growling kiss unto his lips.

“I'm wanna eat your fucking face,” Marrok murmurs against his mouth.

“Mmn, and here I believed your kind to be far more partial to the heart.”  Lucien nips at his lower lip and Marrok’s growl becomes increasingly more wolf and less human. 

The werewolf pulls back enough to showcase just how gleaming yellow his eyes have become, a tiny beading of blood upon his bottom lip.  And the ears.  Marrok never had bothered to hide those.  Decidedly pointed. And of course, the canines.  

What a magnificent, intimidating beast.  Remarkable in both mind and body.  Truly lethal, yet with the capability for chivalry and decorum.  

Lucien slides a hand over Marrok's cheek, nails skimming the skin with the most delicate of touches. 

“Je t’aime,” ² he murmurs.

Marrok cocks his head, ensnaring the fingers in his own.  “Yeah?” He pulls Lucien into a tight cinch of an embrace, pressing his forehead to that of his companion.  “You're mine.”  The kiss that follows is breath-stealing in its claim. “Say it.” 

Lucien’s voice is like warm velvet, softened by the wind. “I belong to only you.” He brushes a kiss over the hollow of Marrok's throat where the skin is visible and enticing through the cover of his scarf. “Only. To you.” 

Amber eyes flash back to bright yellow. “Je t'aime aussi.” ³

For once, the werewolf's accent is near perfection. 

“Ooh.” Lucien shivers, taken aback, a hand upon his chest. “You have been practicing, non?”

“Maybe.” Marrok tucks a loose strand of pale golden hair behind Lucien's ear. “Wanna skip the second half of this and go for a hunt instead?”

“Such a romantic,” Lucien says.

But he concedes to the change in plans nonetheless.

___________________________

1 - I'm sorry 2 - I love you 3 - I love you, too

[cherrycherrytree]

someone getting their partner chicken noodle soup with fun pasta shapes to try and cheer them up while they’re miserably sick with a cold

[victoriablackrose]

Maybe even something like this to get them to laugh lol

[deucewilliams]

Stoking the Fire (M, cold/induced, dragon)

Summary: Luise's job as the Royal Stoker has less to do with keeping a boiler lit and more to do with managing the melodrama of a sneezy dragon

Contents: Sick dragon, fire sneezes, nose scratches, stuck sneeze, one instance of inducing, probably an annoying amount of worldbuilding lol

Bad, because it meant they'd been waiting for her. A theory proven by a faint tremor rumbling up through her ice caked boots, only just enough to clock if one were already on the alert.

That the servants door opened on her second knock was both good and bad news for Luise: good, because it meant she was quickly able to escape the bitter morning freeze that bit at her face and fingers, ushered quickly into a kitchen large enough to feed several hundred, and already warmed from hearth fires preparing to do just that.

The kitchen boy who'd opened the door for her was a new one, his face twisted in worry as he helped her untangle the bundles of her scarf, shawl, and thick coat. Luise's skin puckered with gooseflesh with the loss of trapped heat, but it did nothing to quell the warm smile she sent his way. "He's been in a bad way today, eh?"

The boy nodded, dark hair flopping over his eyes. Her friendliness loosened his tongue a mite. "...mam says it'll knock the whole castle in, way it carries on."

Gossiping cooks. Luise blew a dismissive raspberry with her tongue, the boy's head lifting in surprise at such an unexpected sound. "Bunk. He may act the grump, but he's nothing but a big pussycat, never mind your mum." She hung her winter clothes over a broad, bare shoulder, offering the boy a conspiratorial wink. "But I'll have a word with him, yeah? The castle won't come down this day if I have any say in it."

Luise snagged a steaming roll off a nearby platter before weaving her way through a throng of frantic cooks fretting over the day's first meal as though the worry were part of the routine. She offered waves of greeting to those she was friendly with, noting with humour the naked relief in their eyes. A level of composure settled over the kitchen at her presence, something she found flattering and ridiculous in equal parts; cooks were a fussy, superstitious lot, and their proximity to her coworker made them antsy. She wasnt even certain the way they conspicuously avoided coming within arms reach of the iron door between the massive stone fireplaces was intentional, or just within their nature. People tended to avoid predators, after all.

Luise rolled her eyes fondly at them as she pushed through the iron door and descended the narrow stone staircase beyond.

The descent was long, lit only by the occasional sconce, and she took the stairs two at a time, eagerly seeking the wafts of warm air brushing her bare arms. The temperature rose, beating back the winter with every step until she'd gone from chilled, to cozy, to glistening with a thin layer of sweat.

The bottom of the staircase widened, then opened into a massive stone room big enough for the entire village to hold a fete if King Doran had any inclination to let them. The ceiling stretched to blackness before Luise could begin to make out details, sounds echoing eerily as they bounced off stone and the elaborate weave of giant metal pipes that burst from seemingly every surface, twisting and rolling in their organized tangle to converge near the back of the room.

Once, her predecessor had told her, this room had been a dungeon demanded by a wicked king forgotten by history, built large enough to hold his many foes. Later, another king with far fewer foes ordered a famous architect and inventor to fit the space with an enormous boiler and giant pipes to bring heat to every corner of the sprawling castle during the cold seasons. As much as Luise figured, the theory had been sound, but the project was abandoned after calculating how many resources it would require to stoke a boiler so large, the cost of fuel to burn and the manpower to burn it too excessive for a king who had already spent much of the royal treasury on piping. For a long time the project sat useless and abandoned, until King Doran's grandfather struck a bargain with their current boiler.

At the back of the room, the stonework had been dismantled to create an opening larger than a house, a series of natural caves visible beyond. The idea had been to install the boiler in the gap between the two, using the cave passage to recieve fuel deliveries and vent dangerous pressure in case of emergency. As such, all the pipes hung close to this area, waiting patiently to be attached to a machine that would never exist, and in the midst of these pipes lay a massive red dragon.

He was an elegant thing, beautiful in his awesome power, with sinuous muscles that rolled at the base of his wings as he shifted position, and beneath his long neck when he shook his head like a dog. Water arced off like crystals with the movement, more making languid trails down his spiral horns and scarlet scales to pool on the stone beneath him. Claws long as swords scored new marks along countless others in the floor, throwing up sparks in his restlessness. Thin tendrils of black smoke curled up from nostrils nearly as tall as Luise herself, jaw slightly parted to reveal enough teeth to rend a village into paste without so much as a blink of his yellow everflame eyes.

Those eyes locked on Luise in an instant, a low growling sound beginning in his deep chest and rising until it filled the room with his displeasure. 

She grinned. "Bad today, huh Snuff?"

The growl gradually grew more vocal, and by the time Luise reached her workstation it had morphed into a long, tortured groan. "I fear, dear Luise, that I am not long for this world. What a cruel twist of fate that a creature so magnificent as I should bravely battle the elements, risking life and wing against blizzard and blaze alike, only to die here underground, as if he were a common lizard."

"Cold's no better, eh?"

"It feels as though I have inhaled a cotton field and am attempting to irrigate it with mucus." 

Luise managed to add a sympathetic note to her laughter as she swapped her coat for her soot-blacked apron, giving the row of temperature dials leading from each pipe an initial check. "One of the kitchen boys was convinced you'd bring the walls down."

Snuff gave an irritated huff, jetting out more black smoke. "If this bloody ailment lasts much longer, I just may anyway out of pure rage."

"Of course," she soothed indulgently. Suneffessoat had been the castle's boiler for longer than she'd been alive, and regardless of his physical health he'd never make a move against the castle so long as the royal agreement remained intact: the exchange of heat for food and a salary (and a captive audience for his dramatics) was far too good a deal. "How's the snoot, you coot?"

She nearly felt the air shift with his powerful sniff, which he then released on a wavery sigh. "Primed and reh... r-ready, as always. Never let it be said that I am not a prepahh... prepared professional." He worked the muscles of said snoot, nostrils blowing wide enough in the process that Luise could've fit through without turning her shoulders.

She peered over her shoulder towards a slim tube tucked next to the temperature dials, the end feeding out into a shallow, empty tray.  Having worked this job for so long, she could normally track the incoming delivery of a request slip even through Snuff's insistently vocal sneezes, but the tube remained silent of its telltale hiss. "Judging by how you were shaking the ground, I suppose you're not far off?"

Indeed, his neck was beginning to pull back into a swanlike curve, chuffing breaths losing their rhythm while his flaring nose picked up the beat. "Clohhhhhser e-ehh... every minuhhhhhHH--"

Now she heard the swish of an incoming request, and from the way Snuff bit back on the rising urge she knew he had too. "Ach, you can vent that one. The way you're winding up, the next one will be along before the fire's even out your mouth."

"I resehhhhh... I reseeEHHHHH... HH! HuuhhhHHHHH--" From the base of his throat grew a red-hot glow, and even in the throes of a sneeze he swung his head round to bury his explosive snout into a low-set pipe. "HRUUHHH-X'SHUUUHH!"

Luise retrieved the request from the tray, slipping a tightly rolled scrap of parchment out of the sleeve. She turned back in time to see Snuff give another shake of his head, narrowed eyes unfocused. The next sneeze worked his chest like a bellows and set the smoke from his nose rolling in great black clouds. He didn't have long.

She read neat, looping script written on the slip of parchment. "Next one goes to the guest apartments." The Countess Iris was visiting from the southern kingdoms, and if her frequent requests were any indication, she had some strong feelings about the weather. "Can probably give her the one after, too, she's a delicate sort."

Snuff, in no state to respond, hazily twisted towards the correct pipe just as his sneeze crossed from "urgent" to "immediate". "Hh-HRRUAHHHSHOOO!!" He then settled, sated for the moment, tension bleeding from the lines of his shoulders and the base of his wings.

Luise turned to pin the parchment to her order board, but she caught the deliberately innocent slide of Snuff's attention in her direction. Behind her, he snorted. And then again, louder, just in case she hadn't heard the first.

She rolled her eyes good naturedly. Working together for decades, and still, heaven forbid he ever ask for help directly.

When she didn't instantly turn to acknowledge his discomfort, a chorus of little self-pitying moans joined the sporadic snorts and snuffles. Luise would put a day's wages on the fact that he were flexing his nostrils theatrically all the while, and she'd win that bet. "Is something the matter?"

A heaved sigh, heavy enough to move the hair on the back of her neck. "Nothing to concern yourself with. After all, dragons have proudly and steadfastedly withstood far worse than a maddeningly itchy nose."

He couldn't quite look away fast enough as she turned to prop a hip against her station, angling his head up and away from her. 'No, I wasnt looking at you, of course not, how dare you imply such!' "Truly, a hardship," she played along benevolently. "Is there any way a powerless human such as myself could assist in this travesty?"

Snuff held to his haughty aloofness for an entire second before eagerly snaking his head in her direction, smooth scales nearly skimming the floor. "I don't suppose you could take time out of your busy day to give me the tiniest scratch?"

She laughed, thick wire brush already in hand. "Just don't sneeze on me."

"I would never!"

Despite his affronted claim, Luise knew well the map of his muzzle, taught to her in serious, cautionary detail by her mentor: do not cross the threshold where the sturdy pebbled scales of his face smoothed into the plush pink interior of his nostrils. Use extra force on the septum, lest his body decides to register a tickle instead of a scratch. And above all, never stand directly in front of his nose.

When she described her job to friends, many of them thought she was sick in the head (though most of them rescinded the thought once she hinted at her salary). Admittedly, it had its struggles. But as she leaned her weight into each long stroke of the brush, Snuff's eyes drifting closed and contented hum rumbling where her body pressed against him, she thought again what an honour it was to work with such a magnificent creature so intimately.

She scratched the spots she knew he liked; just behind the hood of his nostrils, along the length nearly to his cheek, standing on tiptoe to rub tight circles on the crest of his snout like she would groom a horse. These were not things taught to her, and sometimes she wondered if her mentor had viewed Snuff as more of a beast of burden  and less of a companion, never bothering to learn his preferences and habits and quirks beyond what was needed to perform the job. Once they'd gotten comfortable around each other, Luise never needed to heed the warning about standing in front of his nose, because she could always tell when he was getting tickly by the way his inner nostril began to shiver and tic, the pink flesh growing steadily flushed until it nearly matched the shade of his scales.

Like now, for example.

He whined as she pulled away, chasing her until his snout bumped against her stomach again. No amount of shoving could move his giant head if he didn't want it to, so her cursory attempt ended in an affectionate pat. "Alright, you baby, nose in the air. You gotta sneeze."

"Do not," he grumbled, purposefully ignorant of how his nose twitched as though it had life of its own. A long tremor agitated the length of both nostrils from tip to depth like a wave.

Luise noted a crease like a snarl form in his scales. "It'll be a double, send them to the baths."

"S-smuhhhhhg bastard." For all his pouting, he followed instructions and unloaded two giant sneezes into the baths pipe. "HhhHHH'XHOOO-!! HAAH-SHOOO!!"

The day continued as such: orders delivered by way of parchment and tube, then executed through Luise's guidance and Snuff's unforgiving cold. His dramatics aside, it truly seemed like a bad one this time. Occasionally on high demand days, Luise would need to dump a wheelbarrow of coal or two into his open mouth to help stoke his inner flame. Today, her arms were already black with coal dust and soot from how many trips she'd made from the coal pile to Snuff, and still as the end of the day drew near, he was tiring.

Not that he'd ever admit it, of course. But she saw it in the hang of his head, the way his internal flame flickered at his throat, too low to properly reach his nose. The sneeze reflex and the flame were intrinsically linked, he'd told her once, and the lower the flame, the harder it would be to reach satisfaction. 

"Hhh-! HUHHT-- rrrgh... hhaH-HAAH-- HADT-!!"

Judging by his stuttering half-sneezes and ticklish false starts, Snuff must've been feeling very low indeed.

At the next sneezes to fizzle away, Snuff let out a frustrated sound between a growl and a roar, thrashing in place. At this point his little tantrum was probably warranted. "Blast this nose, blast this cold, I must sneeze! HEAHHHH--" for a moment it seemed like he would finally get his wish, maw agape and nostrils blown nearly wider than his muzzle. "HEEAAHHHHHH--!!"

And then, tragically, nothing, the elusive sneeze teasing at his nose before darting mischievously away, heedless of its host's desperation.

Enough was enough.

Reaching down her shirt, Luise retrieved a key kept on a leather cord around her neck and knelt beneath her table to unlock a hidden cabinet. It was near empty of contents anyone could have considered valuable, but the two items held within were far more dangerous than the king's entire army.

On the right, a small selection of long, brown primary feathers pilfered from the rookery.

On the left, sealed tightly, a tiny jar of glowing golden powder.

Luise worked from the floor, blocked by the cabinet door. More than once Snuff's sensitive nose had been set off by the mere sight of these implements, and the general rule of thumb in dragonfire and pixie dust both was 'a little goes a long way'.

Careful not to get any on her hands, Luise opened the jar as though she were handling explosives. Using a sturdy feather, she gave the jar's rim a quick swipe. The few grains that caught the light as she twisted the feather in her fingertips would be more than sufficient. On went the lid, back went the jar, locked went the cabinet, hidden went the key. Safe again.

Snuff's wobbly hitches stuck high in his chest, eyes rolled to the ceiling. He didnt look round as she approached, weapon tucked behind the bib of her apron. "Head down please, Snuff."

Even in his all consuming battle with his stuck sneeze, he complied, resting his chin against the stone and snorting against the tickle in his nose. So violently did it twitch and flare and shudder that Luise didnt dare lay a hand on it. Other things, however, were free game.

She adjusted her grip on the feather shaft, coming to stand directly beside his right nostril. "Alright, big guy, give me a nice big sniff."

The feather flicked forward, drawing a long, slow line along the division between tough scale and tortured membrane a split second before Snuff obeyed. The feather and its payload vanished down the dark wind tunnel of his nose, trailing a vibrant red flush in its wake.

Luise took several very large steps backwards.

For a tense second, Snuff went completely still save for the rapid fluttering of his eyelids.

"Hhhhhhhhhhaauhhhhhh..." So great was the urge to sneeze that he couldn't even move his head for his first true, unsteady hitch: while his chin remained solidly on the stone, his volcanic nose tilted towards the ceiling as his jaws creaked open, scaly lips ticking up to flash gleaming teeth.

He sniffed HARD, long neck arcing into the air. His nose danced at the end of his muzzle like a leaf in the breeze, and Luise could almost see the feather's leisurely path down his sinuses based on what sections shivered with sensation. Only a slice of yellow remained visible beneath his hooded eyes. "HhaaaAAAahhhhhh..."

How much it must have tickled! Snuff, by his own proclamation, was rather sensitive to the effects of pixie dust (though experience suggested he far undersold how much it affected him). Such a tiny but potent irritant, on such a delicate and wispy vessel, gently brushing and caressing and stroking nasal passages stripped of any defenses by illness. Was it any wonder why his jaw went slack, wings rising slightly as if to brace against the oncoming storm.

Everything picked up speed as the feather continued its journey, spurred on by his rapid reflexive sniffles. "Hh! Huh... huuhh... HH-HUUHHH--" His voice plummeted as his fire rose, throat glowing with the promise of release. Huge, gasping breaths stoked his internal flame, his nostrils and mouth gaping so widely Luise could see soft embers flickering in their depths.

As he didnt seem to be of the mind to take instructions at the moment, she didnt offer a pipe suggestion to put this sneeze through. Honestly, she didnt even know if they'd be able to withstand it.

Finally the feather did its job. The fiery gradient of his neck surged upwards just as Snuff threw his head forward. "HRRRUUUUUAAHHHH-T'CZHOOOOOOOO!!"

Flame shot from his mouth and nostrils in a deadly torrent, spanning the entire length of the room and splitting into starbursting jets upon hitting the far wall. Louise shielded her eyes until his sneeze ran its course, light twisting eerily in every shadowed corner of the room, exposed skin buffeted by waves of intense, rebounding heat.

After the blaze flickered out, she gave a low whistle at the giant scorch mark he left behind, coating the far wall and a twenty foot streak on the floor with black soot. A strange smell filled the room, the subtle scent of burnt rock. "You want to aim for the vent pipe next time, mate?"

Snuff's head hung low, eyes hooded and mouth slightly open as he caught his breath. One final, searching sniff saw his nose to relieved satisfaction. "If you think I was not perfectly in control through that entire ordeal, you would be most sorely mistaken. I'd sooner bite my own leg off than kill you, you're hardly more than a morsel and it would be an inefficient waste of fire."

She heard the apology for what it was and waved it away with a hand. "Feeling any better now?"

His voiced sigh was the clearest it had been all day, repeated nose-clearing sneezes having burnt away the bemoaned morning congestion. "All this dreary awfulness today has served its purpose, I suppose." So, yes, despite the extra throaty growl on the edges of his words. Another huff, and he shifted his great body to curl around himself, pointedly resting his head near his haunches and away from her. Suneffessoat had officially clocked out.

Which meant it was time for her to follow suit. Luise smiled affectionately at the back of his head, trading dirty apron for dirty coat. "See you tomorrow for more dreary awfulness."

He didnt look round. "Your dying in the cold would inconvenience me severely, so do try to be considerate."

She skipped over the scorch mark bisecting the room, leaving boot tracks behind in the soot. Just before she started up the stairs, she sent a last cheeky, "I'll miss you too!" over her shoulder, ascending back to the dark and the cold as her bright, warm companion spluttered indignities behind her.

[diamond-pixie-dust]

Biological Warfare - Part 3

fandom: Heated Rivalry, word count: 7.1k

Part 1, Part 2

*two months later*

Well, that was closer to the writing timeline I expected. In my defense I was in Canada for a few weeks. I would like to thank the H/abs for doing their best, even though the one time I was in the Bell Centre was game 4 against the Canes. I believe in you, we'll try again next year.

As usual, @snzivore is an amazing beta reader. Thanks for putting up with my hockey rambling, this thing would be 50% less hot and 80% less in character without you. Ilya and Shane's suffering was partly inspired by this post.

* * *

As ordered, Shane was leaving early to see the team doctor. Hayden offered to go with him, but was curtly rebuffed. He couldn’t even blame Shane for being crabby; his cold had gone from annoying to straight up nasty. His voice was raspy, on the verge of properly hoarse. His nose was simultaneously clogged and running nonstop, with a post-nasal drip that had him coughing every few minutes. His sneezes were frequent and, frankly, kind of disgusting. 

“Damn, I hope the doc gives you the good drugs. You sound really rough,” Hayden said sympathetically. 

“S’just a cold, Hayd. Head hurts a bit, my throat is sore, but mostly I’m just, uh…snffl! Snnrfff! Hehhd’ISSSSHh’huhh!”

The sneeze left his nose streaming once again, completely soaking the tissue he barely managed to cover with. Shane cringed as he swapped it out with a fresh one from his pocket and blew his nose productively. He folded both tissues in half twice before dropping them into the trash can. 

“Bless you. Again. Now go get high on Sudafed.”

“I won’t get high—“

“Dude, relax, I know. Breathing through your nose doesn’t count as performance enhancing, I checked.”

“Fuck off.”

Shane’s response was half-hearted, but he still wasn’t looking at Hayden. His eyes were watering, and his upper lip was already glistening with more moisture. It kind of looked like he was crying, but Hayden knew that any time he caught a bug, Shane’s whole face turned into a leaky faucet. He also knew that Shane absolutely hated both the sensation and the loss of control.

Despite all of it, pissy, overstimulated Shane was replaced by Captain Hollander the moment he got his shoes on. Hayden had seen the transformation hundreds of times over the years, but it still gave him the heebie-jeebies sometimes. 

“Right, I’m gonna go,” Shane said flatly. He still sounded undeniably sick. 

“Feel better, snot monster. I hope you manage to turn back into a human by the time we meet up.”

Hayden rolled in to the stadium an hour later, but Shane wasn’t in the dressing room. He was immediately cornered by a concerned J.J.

“Pikey! Où est notre capitaine?”

“Probably in medical still. Surprise, he’s sick,” Hayden shrugged. 

“Crisse, sa pa ka fèt,” J.J. swore, but he looked more worried than angry. 

“Shit, really?” Andropov looked up from taping his shin guards. “He seemed fine this morning.”

“Of course it had to happen in Boston,” Comeau grumbled, seeming more concerned about the game than his teammate. 

“I didn’t know cap could get sick,” Schneider, their rookie, marveled. “He’s never missed a game in his whole career. I thought he just ordered his immune system to wait for the off season.”

“Guys, chill. He’s not that sick,” Hayden reassured them. “He just has to get cleared for the game and take some meds.”

That seemed to do the trick, and the anxious tension in the room dissipated. Hayden awarded himself a point on his internal ‘nailing the alternate captain thing’ scoreboard.

“At least is not just us with a sick capitaine, eh? You hear about Rozanov?” J.J. commented. Hayden had no idea where J.J. picked up his real-time gossip, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. 

“Is that confirmed? I was pretty sure we heard him sneezing in the background on ESPN,” Hayden speculated. 

“Might not mean anything. That asshole is always sneezing all over the place, I remember from Russian junior team,” Andropov snickered. 

“Whatever. I hope he’s too sick to skate straight,” Hayden said. “I’m gonna go find Hollzy and see what’s taking so long.”

With that, Hayden made an about-face and left the rest of them to gossip in the dressing room. As expected, he found Shane in the medical clinic. Unfortunately, he looked just as bad as he had an hour ago. At least someone had found him a tissue box; he was holding on to it like a life raft.  

“Dude, I thought I told you to do drugs,” Hayden teased with an undercurrent of concern. 

“Hi, Hayd. I didn’t take anything yet, doc wants to time the meds so they last through the game,” Shane said tiredly, his voice raspier than before.

“So, what, you’ll sit in all the pre-scout sessions with your brain leaking out of your nose?” Hayden asked skeptically. “You hate when anything messes up your routine.”

“I’ll be fine. S’just a cold, my…hihhh! my brain isn’t going aehhhhnywhere except—hhh!—my s-skull— Ihhhh’DJSSHhhuuhh!”

As usual for Shane, the sneeze was a fucking mess, soaking the tissue he’d covered with. Hayden watched with morbid fascination as Shane pulled at least four tissues from the box and swapped them with the ruined one, then gave a sopping wet nose blow. He didn’t even bother folding them before dropping them in the trash can. 

“Bless you. Should I tell the trainers to have tissues on standby?” Hayden was only half joking.

“Fuck you,” Shane replied automatically. “I’ll be fine when we get on the ice.”

“Okay, okay. I guess we don’t want to jinx it,” Hayden conceded. 

“Right,” Shane said curtly, then coughed lightly into his elbow. 

There was a knock on the open door of the clinic. Matt McCann, one of the assistant coaches, poked his head in. 

“Oh, good, you’re both here. Hollzy, doc says you’re a bit under the weather?”

Shane looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he squared his shoulders. “Yeah, just a bit. I’m fine, really—heehh-kZSCH’ssshh! ehhh’khTJSshoou!”

Hayden winced. Two in a row, forceful and crackling with loose congestion, they sounded undeniably sick. Shane’s body was perfectly still as he mechanically wiped under his nose with a tissue, then folded it neatly into quarters and dropped it in the trash. 

“Excuse me,” Shane said, voice devoid of emotion. 

“Gesundheit,” McCann said jovially. “That looks like a hell of a cold. Theriault is not gonna be happy.”

“Is he ever happy?” Hayden wondered. “We won the fucking cup last year, he barely cracked a smile.”

McCann’s lips twitched upward, but he didn’t comment. Shane coughed again, then sat up straighter. 

“It’s not that bad. Doc will give me something before the game. He said I’m good to play as long as I stay hydrated,” Shane’s voice was hoarse but steady, and audibly congested.  

“Good, good. I’ll talk to Theriault about managing your minutes—don’t argue, Hollander,” McCann gave him a look born of years of experience with hockey players’ stubbornness. “It’s Boston, LeClaire’s gonna hard match you, there’s no point in wearing you out against their second line when you’re not at 100%. We’ll save you for Rozanov.”

Shane looked like he was about to correct what McCann was saying, but he bit his tongue at the last second. Something wasn’t adding up. As far as Hayden could tell, McCann was probably right about the line matching. Was this about the Rozanov illness rumors? What did Shane know that McCann didn’t, and why was he keeping it to himself?

* * *

On a hunch, Cliff decided to show up early at the arena and stop by medical. Not that Roz didn’t know his own body, but he had a wicked stubborn streak. Case in point. 

“Rozanov, how many times are we gonna have this argument? Take the goddamn decongestant,” Doug’s exasperated voice echoed down the hallway. The team doctor was a veteran of years’ worth of arguments on the topic. 

“Dod’t d’eed it. Is od’ly id’ by d’oze, I play like this all the tibe id sprid’g,” Rozanov said stonily, so congested that Cliff had a hard time making out the words from outside the room. 

“And every time you do it’s a bad idea,” Doug said matter-of-factly. “Seriously, Rozanov, why do you hate your own sinuses this much?”

“Is other way aroudd. By siduses are traitors that hate mb’e,” Roz grumbled, half a register lower than normal, just as Cliff reached the door of the clinic. 

“I had a feeling we’d be doing this again,” Cliff said, standing in the doorway. 

“And I was hoping you’d show up.” Doug looked genuinely happy to see him. “You’re better at convincing him.”

Roz glared at both of them. Cliff was unimpressed. Getting into a staring contest with Roz was usually a bad idea, but in this case his cold was on Cliff’s side. It didn’t take long before Roz’s scowl cracked, replaced by pure, irritated need. 

“Huh’GHXXDT’chh! yhH’KDTJ’zzhhh! huhhh… hYEH’KGXZz’hdtt!!”

He crunched forward over his lap, face obscured behind yet another t-shirt-turned-snot-rag. The sneezes sounded so painfully clogged up that Cliff felt phantom pressure behind his own eyes. Roz followed it up with an attempt at blowing his nose, but the pathetically choked-off sound made it clear that the gunk in his head wasn’t budging. God, his sinuses must feel like a lead brick. Cliff couldn’t for the life of him think of a reason to willingly spend any more time in that condition, let alone go out and play three periods of hockey. 

“Those were wicked gnarly, even for you,” Cliff commented. “Why do you put yourself through the ringer like this, Roz? That can’t be comfortable.”

“Do I look fuckigg cob’fortable?” Roz snapped. 

“No. But you will be if you take the goddamn pills,” Doug prodded. 

“I do nd’ot—“ Roz started, but was interrupted by Cliff and Doug completing him in unison: “take pills.”

The stony expression was back on Roz’s face. Whatever issue he had with pills made him obstinate to the point of stupidity, but Cliff could never get him to talk about it. 

“I would give you a nasal spray, but we all know it’ll just make you sneeze your head off,” Doug continued. “So unless your nose has magically gotten cooperative, you’re stuck with the pills.”

“Or I cad suffer ad’d suck it up,” Roz shrugged entirely too casually. 

Doug groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “And get another sinus infection in the process.”

“B’aybe,” Roz conceded, but he didn’t look too concerned. Cliff wanted to slap him. 

“What about the actual game we’re playing tonight? You really want to drop two points to Montreal because you can’t breathe through your nose?” 

Roz had the nerve to smirk. “Ah, but is d’ot just mb’e. Hollad’der is also sick, reb’ember?”

“We don’t actually know that—“ 

Cliff was interrupted by someone knocking on the door of the clinic. 

“Doug, you there? I have a request for a medication from the Metros’ doc.” The unfamiliar woman’s voice was muffled by the door, but it sounded strained. Doug opened the door a crack, not letting her see inside.

“Sure thing, what do you need?” Doug was equally short. The league mandated that medical staff share resources when needed, but it could get awkward. Doug was probably eager to send her on her way before she got any intel on Roz. 

“Just Sudafed,” the woman said, impatient. 

Cliff exchanged a glance with a smug Roz as Doug busied himself fulfilling her request. The medication in question was already right in front of him, so it didn’t take long. 

The silence stretched after she left, broken only by Roz’s sniffling. The three of them looked at each other. Cliff spoke first. 

“Okay, so Hollander is sick, but he’s a big boy who takes his medicine,” Cliff taunted. 

Roz bristled, but didn’t manage a retort before his cold spoke for him. 

“yKGGHZXD’ttttch! hhh-GDJJCH’zhhh! Huhh- uh’GXXHJ’TCHeuh!!”

The sneezes sounded like they’d gotten trapped in his swollen sinuses before they could fully escape. They were followed by another honking nose blow, which ended in a defeated sigh. 

“Fide. Give mb’e the fuckigg pills.”

* * *

Look, Hayden got that Shane was self-conscious about being sick in front of the guys, but this was getting ridiculous. 

“Buddy, you planning on hiding in here until the team meeting?” Hayden pestered, trying to keep his voice light. “You’re not gonna have time to do your weird yoga stretches.”

That seemed to get through. Apparently, the thought of playing with tight ligaments was more horrifying than being seen with a runny nose. Shane sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shrug off his anxiety. 

“You’re right, Hayd, m’sorry. I just really hate…this,” Shane said weakly, gesturing vaguely at his face. “Especially in front of the guys.”

“It’ll be fine,” Hayden said dismissively. “I keep telling you, we’re all hockey players. Dealing with gross teammates is part of the job description, why else would I put up with Comeau’s B.O.?”

Shane wrinkled his nose in agreement, which seemed to set him off. He managed to grab a handful of tissues from the nearly-empty box, in time to bury his face in them.

“Hehh’dZZS’sshhhhh! Ihhh-djCH’sshoouh!! Fug’ck!” 

They were still uncharacteristically harsh, instantly soaking through the tissues. Shane dropped the soggy bundle in the trash, swapping it out for another handful. 

“Ugh, I feel like a leaky faucet,” Shane griped as he mopped up the remaining mess on his upper lip, wincing as the tissues brushed his chapped nostrils. 

“Yeah, I’m gonna go ask for another one of those,” Hayden gestured at the tissue box, which was now empty. 

With the critical supplies acquired, Hayden and Shane made their way back to the dressing room. 

“Capitaine! You live!” J.J. called out from across the room. 

“I wasn’t dying. It’s just a cold,” Shane said flatly, his illness as audible as ever. 

“Well, your cold has shitty timing,” Comeau complained. “Did you have to get sick right before a game?”

“Shut up, Comey. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s the middle of the season. We’re always right before a game,” Hayden retorted, earning a few snickers. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Shane said firmly. “I’m cleared, and it won’t affect how I play. If coach makes any adjustments, we’ll discuss it in the meetings.”

Shane turned sharply to face his stall, putting his back to the room like the matter was closed. But Hayden was right next to him and yeah, no, he could see the real story. Shane was just trying to hide his face as his nose overflowed again. 

No one on the team seemed eager to question Shane further. Messing with another guy’s rituals was taboo anyway, but doubly so when it came to their captain, who had his routine timed to the exact second. Shane seemed relieved to be left alone, keeping his back to the room as he wiped the mess off his upper lip yet again. Hayden had a feeling that the new tissue box was not long for this world. 

It was probably best to let Shane do his thing for now. Hayden grabbed a protein bar from his bag, then joined Andropov and J.J.’s recounting of the previous night’s exploits. Apparently Schneider had managed to leave the club with a girl, but refused to share any details. 

Hayden glanced over to check on Shane, who had completely zoned out the room as he stood on one foot, his other leg bent into an improbable position. Hayden was just in time to watch him almost lose his balance in his haste to grab a tissue.

“Hehh- yhH’DTSSSHhhooo! IHH’DZZSsshuhhh!”

Glances were exchanged around the room as the team collectively decided to look the other way. Definitely the right call. Shane hated to be interrupted when he was trying to lock in, and he’d basically told them to drop it. 

Theriault, who chose that moment to walk in early, apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. 

“À tes souhaits. Again,” the head coach said, looking Shane over with a critical eye. He huffed in displeasure. “That’s unfortunate.”

Shane’s face was impassive, his posture perfectly straight. 

“It’s not ideal, but I can play,” Shane still sounded like his vocal cords were in a battle with a river of snot, but his tone didn’t betray even a hint of discomfort. Still, he had to be pretty miserable. Whatever timing the doc was attempting, Hayden hoped he wouldn’t hold off on the meds for much longer.

“Of course you can. You’re not the type to be a little bitch about a head cold,” Theriault said gruffly. From him, that was almost a compliment. The head coach sighed again. “It had to be Boston.”

* * *

Cliff was seriously contemplating strangling Roz. Which would be a shame, considering all the work he’d put in to ensure that bastard could breathe during the game. 

“Fuck off! It’s my turn, we listen to Skrillex. End of the story,” St-Simon said angrily. 

“If I wad’t to liste’d to dial-up ind’terdet, I go back to 2005,” Roz drawled, his blasé tone at odds with the painfully distorted consonants. 

“You have listened to this song every day last week,” St-Simon argued.

“That was before mb’y head feels like is full of wet cod’crete,” Roz retorted, a bit more snappish this time. 

“Fine,” St-Simon threw up his hands in exasperation. “I’ll give the aux to Sebb, but next time we listen to the whole of Bangarang.”

Roz leaned his head back against his stall and closed his eyes without bothering to acknowledge the compromise. Cliff glanced at his watch to check how long ago Roz had taken the pills – just ten minutes. He was pretty sure Doug had said they had half an hour to wait. This was going to be a long twenty minutes. 

Sebbin, now in possession of the aux cable, put on a flat out boring pop song. Cliff had definitely heard it multiple times, but he didn’t remember a single lyric. 

“…Better.” Roz still had his eyes squeezed shut. 

The peace lasted exactly ten seconds. 

“Still terrible.”

“You just said it was better!” Sebbin protested. 

“Yes, I said better. Did d’ot say good,” Roz clarified without opening his eyes. 

Sebbin shot him a fearful glance, then wordlessly passed the cable to Feller. Cliff wished that he’d picked literally anyone else, but he kept his face-palm internal. Sure enough, a country song started playing. Half the room immediately groaned. 

“Seryozno?” Varkov ribbed his defensive partner. 

“It’s one song!” Feller said petulantly. 

“It’s the same one as this morning,” Cliff had to open his mouth, but he immediately regretted feeding the fire.

“It’s not—“

“Huhh’KGHDZZ’txhh! yyG’DJXX’Tdch!! Hhhh-! UH’hGDDHJJZ’dttt!!”

Their captain’s triple sneezes were background noise at this point, and the team usually ignored it. This time, he sounded so obviously sick that the whole room stopped to look at him. He was doubled over his lap, face buried in another spare t-shirt. Eyes closed, he made an attempt at blowing his nose, but only managed a grating squeak. He peeled open his eyes and scowled. 

“What are you all lookigg at?”

“Nothing,” Sebbin blurted out, at the same time as Cliff quipped: “Just want to see if any concrete comes out.”

Roz rolled his eyes. “You have nd’ever heard of mb’etafora? They do d’ot teach id’ Ab’ericad’ school?”

“I’m Canadian,” Cliff retorted. 

Roz waved a hand dismissively as he pinched the bridge of his nose. Cliff glanced at his watch again – seventeen more minutes. Nobody spoke for a few seconds, leaving the country song to play in the background. 

The silence was broken by Varkov. “Marly’s right, it is same song from this morning. Always singing about trucks.”

“This one’s about tractors,” Feller protested. 

“Is sab’e thid’g—ahh’KGHXX’Dtxhh!-hGDTJJ’ZHh!! HUH-YGKHX’Ttjj!! Blyad!”

The sneezes were, impossibly, even more pathetically congested. Roz stayed hunched over for a few seconds and let out a low groan, before straightening and tilting his head back. It hit the side of his stall with a soft thunk. 

“Jesus Christ, bless you,” Connors said uneasily, exchanging a glance with Cliff. Cliff shook his head slightly, hoping it came off as reassuring. 

“I dod’t thig’k he approves of b’y lifestyle,” Roz said tiredly, then pointed at Feller. “You do d’ot deserve mb’usic choice. Give to sobeod’e else.”

Without waiting for acknowledgement, Roz closed his eyes again and raised both hands to his face, massaging his cheekbones. Feller looked at Cliff, arms raised in a ‘what should I do?’ gesture. Cliff shrugged, which Feller apparently interpreted as a request for the aux cord. Well, it would probably be better if Roz directed his ire at the A, rather than the kids. He scrolled through his playlists, deciding on a hard rock mix that he knew Roz worked out to sometimes. 

As soon as he heard the opening riff of Seven Nation Army, Roz opened his eyes and looked around the room accusingly. “Who has aux nd’ow?” 

“Me,” Cliff said, crossing his arms.

“…Really?” Roz scoffed, the rolled R coming out stronger than usual. 

“What?” Cliff asked neutrally, inviting the challenge. 

“I expeg’cted better,” Roz narrowed his eyes. It was probably supposed to be threatening, but his flaring nostrils made it clear that he was actually holding off more sneezes. 

“I’ve known you for five years,” Cliff narrowed his eyes right back, biting his tongue to stop himself from laying into Roz. 

“Ad’d you’ve disappoid’ted—hhh!—m’be for f-faaahive—haA’KGHDJ’ttsch!- yGHXDT’Chh!-kGXDTT’xhjj!! huhh- ekh’GXDZZ’xheu!! HYEH’DGJXXZ’TChh!!”

The sneezes must have scraped something on the way out, because they immediately transitioned to a fit of hacking coughs. Fuck, that sounded wicked rough. Cliff was still annoyed, but he straight-up winced looking at the guy. The fit left Roz panting, t-shirt held over his lower face. He spat something into it, then pressed the palm of one hand into his eye socket. Finally, he looked up and met Cliff’s eyes. 

Cliff raised one eyebrow, trying his best not to look concerned. Roz responded better to being chirped than to being babied. 

“Roz. That soundtrack is flat out worse than anything we could put on the speaker. Go hang out in the showers, get some steam, come back when you can breathe.”

They stared each other down for a few seconds. Roz was usually a stone wall in a stare-down, but he lost it when he had to duck his head and cough into his shoulder. For a split second, he looked dead on his feet. But then his face remembered that he was supposed to be an asshole, and went right back to pouting. 

“So cruel, sed’digg ill captaid’n to exile. N’dow who will save aux cord frob’ your terrible b’usic?” Roz tried to make it seem like Cliff was twisting his arm, but when he stood up his feet were already pointed toward the showers. 

* * *

To the surprise of literally no-one, the Metros’ coaching staff had thrown a wrench in the line matching strategy. Shane had done his best to maintain that he was just ‘a little under the weather’. Hayden didn’t know who he thought he was kidding. Everyone already assumed the forwards would be called in for a last-minute extra meeting.

As a veteran, Hayden knew what to expect. It was too late to make any in-depth tactical changes, but the coaches could decide who to send out on the ice at any given time. Shane would be playing fewer minutes, which meant other lines would be getting more ice time than usual. The question was which of the Raiders’ lines they would be facing, and most importantly – who would have the pleasure of taking face-offs against Rozanov. 

The twelve forwards settled on the benches in the dressing room. The atmosphere was mostly boisterous and competitive, but Hayden noted an undercurrent of anxiety. He could only hope that Theriault’s buzzkill attitude wouldn’t drag the whole room down. Shane usually left the hype work to his alternates, so the damage control would be Hayden’s problem. He was already mentally prepping a speech for after the meeting. He was relieved to see McCann walk in. 

“Alright, boys, here’s the deal,” the assistant coach clapped his hands and rubbed them together, as chipper as ever. “LeClaire loves to hard match, and he’s been trying to contain our top line for years. Thing is, Hollzy is a beast.”

Hayden glanced at Shane, who had a tear leaking from one eye and a wad of tissues pressed under his nose. He looked about as far from a beast as a human could get. Well, maybe some kind of creature that got dragged out of a swamp. McCann was either completely blind, or, more likely, just playing dumb to give Shane some privacy. 

“Normally, we let LeClaire have his fun,” McCann said with some satisfaction. “He rolls the Carmichael line against our first line more than we’d like, but you three still find ways to score on them.”

Hayden made a face at the reminder. Rozanov would always be his number-one headache in Boston games, but the Raiders’ second line was a close second. Carmichael was one of the best shutdown centers in the league; trying for a zone exit with that guy on the ice was just a massive pain in the ass. 

He glanced at Shane again to catch his reaction, and found him completely distracted. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking from the outer corners, and his nose was pinched in a vise-like grip through the tissues. 

“Either way, Hollzy has enough minutes in him that there’s enough left to deal with Rozanov when we really need it—“

“Hihhh- ehh’DTJj’SSSsshhh! EH’DHJSSSsshhhhue! hnngh…”

McCann was interrupted when Shane lost his battle with his nose. He pitched forward into the tissues with two miserably wet sneezes. Hayden was pretty sure only he heard the soft groan that followed. 

“Bud’ zdorov,” Andropov said, sounding both sympathetic and grossed-out. 

Shane, who was in the process of swapping out his soaked tissues with a fresh handful, froze. Hayden was close enough to see the flush creeping up his neck. 

“What he said,” McCann added, still either ignoring or happily oblivious to his star center’s embarrassment. “Hollzy, I know you don’t want to hear this, but there’s no way you’re logging twenty-five minutes tonight.”

Shane scowled, but he didn’t argue. Or maybe he just wanted McCann’s attention off of him so he could tend to his nose in peace. Now that he’d lowered the tissues, Hayden could see that the rosy, chafed hue had spread from his nostrils to his philtrum and upper lip. That had to be painful, and it was the exact sort of discomfort that drove Shane up the wall. Hayden was pretty sure he would rather skate on a broken ankle than irritate his skin. 

Hayden felt a sudden flash of irritation at Boston Lily for making Shane so miserable, but he immediately felt like a jerk. It wasn’t her fault, and she was probably suffering just as much as Shane right now. He needed to save the hate for the real enemy – the Boston Raiders in general and Ilya Rozanov in particular. 

His train of thought was interrupted by McCann. “We have to manage your ice time, so when you’re out there, it needs to count. Here’s how the rest of you guys are gonna pick up the slack. ”

The changes were straightforward. No double shifts on the power play, fewer defensive zone starts, replacement on the penalty kill as needed. It all seemed pretty reasonable, so Hayden had no idea why Shane was chewing his lip like that. His musings were interrupted by a woman’s voice outside the dressing room. 

“Are you all decent? I have good news and bad news.” Hayden recognized the voice as one of the newer trainers. 

“Lovely,” McCann called back. “We’re good, come on in.”

The trainer entered and unceremoniously shoved two pills and a water bottle at Shane. “Enjoy breathing through your nose.”

“That does sound nice,” Shane said hoarsely. “Thanks.”

She nodded in acknowledgment, then turned to McCann. “So, the bad news: the Raiders definitely know about Hollander.”

“Goddamnit,” McCann swore. “I was hoping to keep LeClaire in the dark at least until puck drop.”

Shane’s eyes narrowed; he looked pissed. Which seemed a little ridiculous, honestly, because there was zero chance they were keeping his cold a secret. His nose was so red that any Raiders player who came within ten feet of him would immediately figure it out. 

“You haven’t heard the good news yet,” the trainer grinned. “Rozanov is also sick. Actually, he sounded worse than Hollander.” 

McCann actually laughed. Shane looked…nervous? Hayden wasn’t sure why. As far as he was concerned, anything that slowed Rozanov down was the opposite of nerve-wracking. 

“Oh, excellent,” McCann said, still laughing. “I swear, it’s like nature wants to keep the rivalry even.”

“I think is just karma,” Andropov shrugged. “Rozanov sleeps with a different girl each night, while half the city is sick. Is not surprising.”

“Then what happened to Hollzy? He never leaves his fucking house.” Comeau sounded like he was joking, but his tone rubbed Hayden the wrong way. Shane would probably shrug it off, but Hayden wasn’t gonna let it go. He knew exactly what had happened to Shane, so he could tell everyone Comeau was talking straight out of his ass. 

“Maybe not his house, but he definitely leaves the hotel sometimes,” Hayden smirked, elbowing Shane in the ribs. Big mistake. Hayden winced as the contact triggered a fit of wet coughing. 

“Shut up,” Shane croaked, red-faced and glaring at Hayden. It would have been intimidating if Shane’s nose hadn’t chosen that moment to start running again, forcing him to look away as he buried his lower face in yet another tissue.

“Alright, you can discuss Hollzy’s love life later,” McCann cut in, now a bit exasperated. “Piker, do us a favor and try not to kill your linemate.”

“Sorry,” Hayden said, meaning it. “So, Rozanov is sick. I’m guessing that changes things?”

“Yes, and no,” Shane piped up, hoarse but suddenly energized. Were the meds already working? Hayden was pretty sure that should take longer than two minutes. 

“I don’t like it, coach, but you’re right. The way you’re deploying me makes sense regardless of Rozanov. But since he’s also sick, the math changes. They have more defensive depth, so I’m guessing they pulled him off the PK completely. That means that even if you only give me one look on the PP, our conversion rate goes up. Plus, if they’re protecting him with heavy O-zone starts it actually works in our favor. It means I won’t be taking as many draws against him in our end, and he won’t be leaning on me all night.” 

Shane’s words spilled out in a flood of precise analysis. His voice was steady but sounded like sandpaper, his gaze fixed on the air to the left of McCann’s head. Hayden glanced around the room and saw that everyone was staring at him, their assistant coach included. Shane, completely in his own world, just kept right on rolling. 

“Of course, if they know I’m sick, they have ways to fuck with us. Their forecheck is nasty even without Rozanov, so they’ll dump and chase heavy to force board battles below the dots. They might try to get me to take more face-offs, but that would gas Rozanov just as fast. If it looks like he’s slowing down we could try driving down the middle lane on zone entries, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Our best bet is east-west plays. He’ll bite and chase the puck every time because it usually works, but tonight it’ll wear him out. Oh, and pressure Varkov on the breakout, he usually ices the puck if you force him onto his backhand.”

By the time he’d finished, Shane’s voice was basically hanging on by a thread. He gave a tiny shake of his head, eyes snapping back into focus and darting around the room. Everyone was still dead silent, staring at him. 

“Respectfully, cap, what the fuck?” Schneider, their rookie right winger, said incredulously. 

“I, uh—hihhh-!”

Hayden saw the disaster unfolding before it happened. Shane had been completely checked-out, distracted by the scouting report he’d apparently managed to do in his head in real time. He hadn’t noticed the tickle in his nose until it was too late. 

“Hehh-dJZZ’SSSSHhhhuh! Ehhd’TSCH’ZSSssshhh!!”

At the last second, Shane managed to get his hands up in front of his face. The pair of sneezes barreled out of him, forceful and audibly pretty messy. His hands did nothing to absorb it, but at the dozen or so people staring at him were spared the sight of snot spewing from his nose. Hayden winced. Even by hockey hygiene standards, that was kind of gross. Shane’s face was as red as it had been after Lily had called earlier. 

The silence stretched, so Hayden decided to break the tension. “Bless you, man. Maybe, uh, go take a break?”

Shane nodded behind his cupped hands, then fled in the direction of the bathroom. McCann cleared his throat. 

“Right. Good to know Hollzy’s IQ is still the best in the league, even if the rest of him isn’t at 100%,” McCann’s cheerfulness sounded a bit forced, but Hayden appreciated the effort.

“Is that what’s going on in his brain? All the time?” Schneider said, sounding slightly awed. 

“Yup. He’s just like that,” Hayden grinned. “That’s why we’re going back to back this year.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” McCann rebuked them. “We still have a game to win.”

* * *

Roz returned just as the boys were filing into the meeting room, and Cliff craned to get a look at him. The sounds that had echoed out of the showers after he’d left were kind of nasty. For his own sanity, Cliff had done everything in his power to tune them out. Hopefully all that sneezing, hacking and nose-blowing was a sign of the meds working to break up the congestion and not a preview for the rest of the night.

Cliff caught only a brief glimpse of Rozy’s face before LeClaire pulled him aside, clearly trying to see if he could actually go tonight. It seemed to be a mixed bag. His nose still looked like it had been to war, but the glassy, dead-eyed stare was gone. Cliff could only hope his attitude had cleared up in tandem with his sinuses. 

Apparently satisfied, LeClaire clapped Roz on the back and headed to the front of the room. Roz took his customary seat between Cliff and Connors in the first row. 

“So, how are you liking the benefits of modern medicine?” Cliff needled him. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Roz replied, but his earlier spitefulness was gone. He lowered his voice as he continued. “You were maybe kind of right. Is nice not to feel like my face will explode.”

Yeah, he sounded much less stuffed up, and he was actually, if grudgingly, conceding an argument. They might make it through tonight after all. 

“Glad to hear it, man. Really,” Cliff said earnestly. Sincerity wasn’t their usual style, but neither was Roz folding on an issue like this. 

Roz looked at him for a long moment, then smirked. “Of course you are. Is first and only time you will ehhh-ver w-win ahhh!-argumehhnt—Huhh’DJZSH’EUuh! yHH’DTZCH’SHUue! Haahh-PJZSCHhihh!”

Roz twisted away from Cliff at the last second, bending over double in his seat to sneeze openly at the ground. Well, it would be too much to hope that the meds would completely eliminate any sign of Roz’s cold. Especially his sneezes; Cliff kind of doubted that any drug in existence could do that. At least they didn’t sound like they had to punch through a brick wall on the way out. 

“Well, that sounds like a sign that we should get started,” LeClaire said dryly, but his voice carried enough to get the attention of the twenty unruly hockey players filling the room. “There have been some developments.”

The room stilled completely. “Rozy, please tell us you’re still cleared,” Connors begged. St-Simon nodded vigorously beside him. 

“Yes, yes, Doug is smart man, he says I can handle tiny cold,” Roz said airily. Cliff kept his mouth shut about the half-dozen other warnings the doc had tacked on to that sentence. The important part was true. 

“He did say that. He also said you’re getting less ice time, but you knew that already.” LeClaire said amiably, holding up one hand to forestall Roz’s objections. “Enough, Roz. We need you rested for the road trip next week more than we need you to pull double shifts tonight. Besides, you already got us a consolation prize.” 

Cliff grinned in anticipation. Roz’s mutinous expression melted into a small, private smile. 

“Are you talking about Hollander?” Connors asked excitedly. “Cap, what did you do? I thought you were joking about the biological warfare thing.”

“Yes, Connie. I invite captain of Metros to my house so I can sneeze on him and infect him with illness I did not know I have,” Roz said, dead-pan. 

Connors laughed delightedly. Cliff snorted, marveling at Roz’s ability to say the most ridiculous things with a completely straight face. Although, come to think of it, if Roz had actually hooked up with his Montreal girl last night, that was exactly what had happened to her. Wherever she was now, Cliff hoped she wasn’t too pissed off at Roz. 

LeClaire pinched the bridge of his nose. “What I meant to say is that Roz and Marly got us accidental intel. But yes, Hollander is also sick.”

“Great,” Carmichael said, for once not even slightly sarcastic. “I was not looking forward to taking extra face-offs against him.” 

“Too bad, you’re still taking them,” LeClaire declared with a resigned determination. Sure enough, Carmichael and Roz objected simultaneously. 

“But shouldn’t we save Roz for—“

“There is no need, I can take Hollander—”

“I said enough!” LeClaire barked, banging on the table to shut them up. He shot an annoyed look at Roz. “You’re getting less ice time, and so is Hollander. Theriault will avoid starting him in their defensive zone so he can focus on scoring. Which is exactly what I’m going to do with you. Mikey is perfectly capable of shutting down the Hollander line, that’s what we pay him for.”

It was mostly true. LeClaire’s current game plan against Montreal’s top line was to let Hollander and Roz have at it in the first period. In the second, he’d use the combined power of Carmichael and the long change to trap them in their zone and cycle them to death. That usually left them gassed and less dangerous by the third. It would be less effective without Roz out there to stir up shit, but not a total disaster. 

Carmichael looked a bit more compliant now that he’d had his tires pumped. Roz was still mutinous as he scrubbed his knuckles roughly under his nose. He closed his eyes for a beat, swallowing whatever complaint he had left, then shoved his game face back on.

“Is not bad idea, but there is one problem,” Roz said thoughtfully, his voice still a gravelly baritone. “If they know about me, then Hollander will expect this. Mikey slows down the game, is how he makes life hard for players who use speed for attack. Hollander will not do this tonight. If you give him space to think, he will play chess with Mikey. Is low-event game, but he is good at chess.”

LeClaire was still a bit ticked off, but he was listening. “Do you have a different idea?”

“Yes. We do not give him space to think. Hollander hates being sick, will be easy to annoy him. When he gets comfortable, send us out to rile him up, then let him waste energy on Mikey.” 

Roz’s face settled back into his trademark heavy-lidded stare. Combined with his accent in that low, guttural voice, he sounded like a movie villain laying out his master plan. The whole tough-guy image was immediately ruined when he scrunched up his nose and scrubbed it against the back of his hand like a toddler.

LeClaire gave Roz another long look. He seemed impressed that the guy’s brain was still firing on all cylinders, but Cliff could see the edge of concern in the coach’s eyes. “I’ll consider it. Moving on, we can’t know exactly how this will affect the Metros’ game plan. We put our heads together with the analytics guys to come up with a baseline. Let’s start with—“

“haA’kGXTJ’SHeuhh!”

Roz pitched forward with another sneeze. Thankfully, it was the normal loud kind and not the wicked blocked-up ones that sounded like they rattled his teeth. He drew a few nervous glances from the kids, but was mostly ignored. LeClaire, who was used to that particular disruption, just kept talking. 

“—their forwards. We expect them—“

“Huhh’PTXZSCHhh-eu!”

“—to shelter the Hollander line, which means Comeau—“

“Ihh’kGHX’SCHuhh!”

“—is going to swallow up more hard minutes and d-zone draws. That’s good news for you three,” LeClaire, still ignoring the interruption, nodded toward Cliff, Roz and Connors. 

Cliff exchanged a satisfied look with Connors over a  bent-double Roz, who had yet to look up after his latest sneeze. Cliff was definitely looking forward to running over Montreal’s fourth line. The Raiders had no qualms about playing a heavy, greasy game. But those three idiots took it too far, and it was galling to watch the Metros escape with their choirboy reputation intact every time. Cliff blamed Hollander and his picture-perfect media-trained captaincy. 

Of course, LeClaire wouldn’t let him have too much fun. “Marly, keep your nose clean tonight. No stupid penalties. I can’t have you in the box when we’re already down one of our best penalty killers.”

Several guys jeered, and Roz briefly stopped bullying his nose to blow a loud raspberry. LeClaire was obviously fighting a smile as he kept going. 

“Speaking of the PK, we’re not entirely sure what we’re up against. Their PP1 has Hollander running the point, so he can try to win with his brain instead of his legs. He won’t cycle down low, but he can still pick us apart from the blue line if—“

“yhH’KGDHx’schueh!”

“—we give him time. Pressure him up top, make him skate. He—“

“Huhh-PdTX’SSHhh!”

“—wants to log the full two minutes, but if we make him work he’s going to—“

“Aah’GDHXxt’SHIIIh!!”

“—gas out early, bless you. Bottom line, they’re still dangerous. We’ll get more detailed in the PK meeting.”

The sneezes drew more attention this time after LeClaire’s offhanded blessing, but everyone looked away before Roz could catch them. As Roz righted himself, Cliff nudged him and raised his eyebrows in a silent ‘you good?’

Roz rolled his eyes and flicked his wrist carelessly, then scrubbed his knuckles roughly under his nose. That was probably Roz-speak for ‘leave me alone, you should be used to this by now.’ Fair enough, as long as he stayed that way for the next four hours. 

* * *

Author’s notes:

Shane wants the ground to swallow him whole, and that was before his teammate blessed him in Russian. Ilya plans to do more than just annoy him. 

Ilya would rather piss everyone off than experience a single moment of emotional vulnerability. This is an airtight plan and Shane will definitely not disrupt it by existing in his general vicinity. 

Hockey analysis - I wrote my best attempt at analyzing how each team’s tactics would adjust to this situation. I’m just a hockey fan without personal experience so my knowledge is limited, hopefully some of it makes sense. There’s maybe too much jargon, but I erred on the side of keeping the discussion in character. Both coaches are doing fairly standard stuff, but with slightly different emphasis. McCann is focused on load management, LeClaire is playing chess with match-ups. Shane is being autistic detail-oriented about his special interest, Ilya is engaging in psychological warfare. 

ESL speakers - Ilya isn’t the only one. Varkov and Andropov are Russian, so they’re gonna drop articles and use weird prepositions. Victor St-Simon is the most Quebecois name ever. He definitely grew up speaking French, he’s been speaking English for a while but he messes up verb tenses and idioms sometimes. J.J. is Haitian-Canadian, so he’s also a francophone. Plus he can swear in a combination of Haitian creole and Quebecois sacres, which is fun. I made a whole meta of where I think players are from based on their names, if anyone’s interested I can post it. 

Nicknames - around their team, hockey players almost never refer to each other by their full surnames. The lack of nicknames in canon bugs me almost as much as the lack of Russian diminutives. Hockey nicknames usually have 1 or 2 syllables, based on the player’s last name with an ‘s’, ‘y’ or ‘er’ suffix. Sometimes it’s an inside joke or a reference to a distinctive attribute (a redhead could be Red or Rusty, a tall player could be Tiny, etc.) For the sake of clarity I went with the boring options here, but I love the silly ones. My irl favorite is A/rber X/hekaj, nicknamed WiFi because his surname looks like a default password you would find on the back of a router. 

Timing - a hockey game lasts 2.5 to 3 hours. Ilya took meds about two hours before the game. Shane took meds about an hour before the game, so they would kick in when he gets on the ice for warmups. Sudafed wears off after 4 to 6 hours, faster if you’re playing the most high intensity sport ever. The math is not working out in their favor. 

[selene-and-the-cold]

I'm probably the most boring person ever, but the simple, domestic fluff of having a person taking care of their SO who has a cold will always be so very dear to my heart. Just simple cuddles, and tea, and blankets, and bless yous while someone's doting on their partner 💕

[victoriablackrose]

It's been said before but someone unknowingly using a scented tissue that multiplies their need to sneeze by several orders of magnitude is HOT!!!

[evilfloralfoolery]

Now THIS is some fic-level fuckery. I can't believe I witnessed this.

Went to see a band tonight and there's not really a frontman. It's not that kind of band. One guy was sitting in a chair, but I figured it was just easier for him to play his instrument that way or perhaps he had an injury or something that required him to sit down.

Well, the guy that was doing most of the talking thanked the audience for their energy and their love. Then, he motioned to his seated bandmate and said "Especially (his name). He needs your energy most of all. He's been very sick the past few days."

Excuse me, what?

So, I took a very good look at this guy and he was 100% feeling like death warmed over. His hair was in a messy bun, he had wrap-around shades on, and he was pale and flushed. But he played anyway and they took breaks so he could walk off the stage and do gods only know what.

Right before the last song, the sick guy called his bandmate over to him and they fucking HUGGED on the stage. The sick guy walked off and the bandmate apologized to the crowd and said they had to cut the set short because his bandmate's health was suffering and he just wasn't going to make him play the last song.

Y'ALL....

I was already TREMENDOUSLY moved by their music, quite literally tearing up like a fucking girl, but I thought I was going to melt through the goddamn floor when THAT happened. I didn't even care about the last damn song.

[thedevillionaire]

Consequences

Short and sweet, a little hot and heavy, a lot cold and wet, Cerberus and Kia, just walk on in. 💕

---

She’s been anticipating his return from the intrarealms since she woke, but Kia gasps anyway as she finally hears the door close, hurriedly puts her coffee down on the side table and gets up from the couch, a broad smile lighting her face. The week’s felt impossibly long, and despite the several social get-togethers and gatherings she’s hosted in that time, the house has felt empty no matter how many others have come and gone. And you, you stupid thing, she thinks as she looks over at the meagre hearthfire she’d eventually managed to kindle, valiantly doing its insufficient best, are not my problem anymore.

“Welcome home, sweetheart,” she says brightly as she enters the foyer. “How was…”

She stops short as their eyes meet, frowns in confusion. It’s a perfectly clear, if crisp, autumnal day, so...

“Why are you so wet?”

Cerberus pushes dripping hair from his face, glancing momentarily down at the small puddle forming at his feet almost as if it comes as a surprise, sniffles and rubs his nose, sniffles again. “Unfortunate side effect of being caught in the rain, love,” he says as he removes and hangs his sodden overcoat, and there’s no missing the congestion corrupting his diction, the shiver he utterly fails to disguise.

“Um…” Kia, doubting her memory enough to double check the state of the weather through the windows as she takes a quick detour, collecting a towel before circuiting back to her bonded as they meet by the fireside, points outdoors. “It’s…not raining, though?” She delivers her statement as a question, because…well, just in case. Invisible rain would hardly be the strangest thing she’s ever encountered, after all.

“No, darkling, not hhH… *snf!*” Cerberus presses a forefinger firmly underneath his nose to force a rising need into submission – a fairly tenuous one, he’s well aware, the way the day’s gone so far, but he manages a submission nonetheless, and he exhales carefully, a little shakily. A directed command, much more certain, transforms the quietly crackling hearthflames instantly from little more than a flicker to radiant blazingwild intensity. “Not here. Can’t say the same for the Realm, though.” Another sniffle and an undertoned sigh of irritation. “Practically all damn week, in fact. Ridiculous place.” He gives his bonded a wry smile as he weaves a hand through Kia’s hair, kisses her with a craving undisguised. :I’ve missed you every second, love.:

Immersed in the moment, Kia reciprocates his kiss ardently, accompanied by a heartfelt :Oh, sweetheart, I’ve missed you too: before she wraps an arm around his waist, and the immediacy of other matters pulls her attention elsewhere.

“Whoa, you are freezing!” She gathers a handful of his shirt sleeve, lifting it briefly away from where the fine linen clings to the contours of his arm, damp and chilled, and waves the towel at him with insistence. “Babe. Here.”

Cerberus gets as far as reaching to accept it before the frisson of dissonance between worlds and temperatures becomes too much and he gives a short apologetic shake of his head, focus collapsing unstoppable, turning from Kia posthaste.

“Hh-TSSCHH-uu! Excuu… hh­-hH…” He Creates a handkerchief in a breathcaught pause of expectation, brings it to his face in cover immediately. “AHHTSSCHuu! Ugh, sorry, excuse me,” he says, and sweeps chaotic wet hair back from his eyes with another sniffle, blows his nose, sniffling again immediately afterwards.

“Bless you, honey.” Kia, voice far steadier than heartbeat, passes him the towel again, more successfully this time. “You seriously need to warm up.” She casts an assessing gaze over her beloved, rainsoaked and sniffly and significantly more dishevelled than his meticulous norm, with concern in her eyes but also something much more primal, covetous – ohgods how does anyone even have the right to be this damn gorgeous it should be illegal or something it’s not fair ohgods – which she suppresses for the moment for the sake of practicality. Almost. With a glint in her eye, she affects an air of command.

“Strip.”

Towel in hand, Cerberus pauses to quirk a half-smile at her, more than a little intentionally wicked, and raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t give me that look,” Kia faux chastises with a laugh. “Come on, you have to get out of these wet clothes or you’ll catch cold.” If you haven’t already. She moves to unbutton his waistcoat while he roughly towel-dries his hair. “Gods, babe,” she murmurs as she undoes the final button, begins doing the same to his shirt. “You travelled like this?!”

“Well, it was either travel through it or remain in it, darkling. *snf!* Given th…the… Oh, I…” Cerberus breaks off with a staggered gasp, rubs his nose with strong determination against the insistent itch that’s refused to be sated day-long. He’s not going to succeed and he recognises the fact of it quickly, places a firm hand on Kia’s shoulder to halt her motion, and with rushed apology and a surrendered, desperate inhale, turns to bury his face in his elbow. “Huh-AHSSCH-uu! hhh… Huh-TSSCHHuu!”

Kia proffers a whispersoft blessing though she well knows he isn’t done – and clearly so does he, his expression expectant, encouraging culmination, his breath incremental, erratic, preparatory. She reaches across and takes a couple of tissues from the box on the side table, presses them into his hand mere moments before he capitulates, powerful, absolute, twice and twice again. “Hhh-AHTSSCH-uu! HUHschuu! Hh...hh-HH… hhAHTSSCHUU! Ah-HEHTSHhuu! *SNFF!* Ah, gods.”

“Bless you!”

Cerberus exhales heavily and wipes his nose firmly, repeatedly, Mindsending an apology-laced :Thanks, love:, another series of sniffles accompanying it. “Excuse me,” he says, once more pushing back strands of displaced ebony, and moves to claim another tissue, blows his nose. He catches Kia’s look of scrutiny and attempts a bit of damage control as he immolates the used tissues in a flash of aetherfire.

“I’m alright, darkling. It’s just too much time out in the cold. It’ll pass.”

“Hmm…” Kia, unconvinced, sits cross-legged on the thick rug by the fire, motioning for Cerberus to join her. He does, though not before first taking another tissue, then, upon further consideration, the box with him.

Kia smiles to herself, more than a little knowingly, at this. “I mean, if you’re sure, babe,” she says, and resumes unbuttoning and removing Cerberus’s shirt, fixing her stunning beloved with a look of mild challenge as the hearthside warmth envelops them both. “It’s just that thi…”

Her sentence collapses alongside his focus and the sharp catch of his breath; he mutters a barely audible fuck, and quickly turns from her again.

“hh…HXTchu! Uhh…” Stifling was never going to suffice; he inhales again, deep and immediate, and he doesn’t bother trying such follies a second time. “Huh-TSSCHH-uu! *snf!*Damn it, excuse me.” He shivers and wipes his nose, shifts a little nearer the fire.

“Aw, bless you, sweetheart.” Kia places a soft kiss on his shoulder as she moves to nestle alongside him, traces the muscular contours of his arm, her touch lingering and indulgent. “It’s just…well, you know this sort of thing kind of tends to come with consequences,” she finishes.

Cerberus, with a light sniffle, considers this only briefly. “As far as I can tell, love, after far too much time spent having to deal with idiots and inclement weather, the consequences seem to be that I’m finally home in front of the fire with my wonderful, beautiful bonded—” He cups her face in his hand, tilts her face towards him and kisses her tenderly. “—who I’ve not seen for a week. I can certainly think of worse consequences, darkling.” Meeting her gaze with a smile both disingenuous and suggestive, he raises an eyebrow. “And I’m half naked.”

Kia collapses into laughter. “Gee, lucky you told me, or I might’ve missed it,” she says with a grin, and brushes some of his still slightly damp hair aside to touch a kiss, and another, another to his neck, down his chest. :You wouldn’t be playing down how you feel because you’re horny, now, would you?: she Mindsends, her cadence teasing, flirtatious.

:And if I was?: Cerberus wraps his arms around her, drawing them together, and murmurs in sotto voce midnight velvet, “Would there be further…consequences?”

He raises the ambient heat with an elegant wave of one hand, curls the other through Kia’s hair and kisses her deeply.

She makes a small sound of pleasure, involuntary, needy. “You,” she purrs, dark and sensual, “are shameless,” before pointing at the redoubled fire and adding a more mischievous, “And I know you did that just to get me naked too.”

“I hope you’re not after a denial, love.”

Kia, heatcaressed and heartpossessed, presses a finely manicured hand to his chest, pushing him back onto the rug as she straddles him, rich mahogany waves tumbling over her shoulders. She looks down at Cerberus, her eyes vivid desire cast bright blue.

“Oh, that is definitely not what I’m after.”

--

[coughdontfeelwellcough]

Any variation of ‘you really don’t feel well, do you?’

“You are sick, aren’t you?”

“Poor thing, you have got it bad haven’t you?”

It gives me butterflies, every time.

[peachsnz]

Invisible woman is feeling a bit under the weather 🤧

Another commission !!! One of my favorites. I absolutely love the way this turned out! Thank you to lovely anon who commissioned me! Xxx

[victoriablackrose]

I'm working in the floral department for the holiday, and mostly it's just hauling things and filling buckets and refilling balloons. But I was privileged tonight to have a customer make a very moving request, and when I handed The finished arrangement to them I revealed I had woven meaning into the flowers I chose. I almost moved that old woman to tears. I want to have the opportunity to do that kind of thing every day. To do something so beautiful that it gives the people I tell the story to chills. Make something that means so much that it brings tears to someone's eyes. I want that to be my life, weaving love into the world through something as simple as a flower