#coldfic
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Then & Now (M, cold)
Hiii, hope you like A LOT of hurt followed by 2-3 sentences of comfort lmao. This is Greyson fic - Grey is sick on a day he and Reed are supposed to have a date, and he's sure Reed is going to be angry with him because Trauma(TM). It's told in a flashback sort of format which I really enjoyed because I love writing blurbs of colds at different times in life lol. I hope you guys like it, please let me know what ya think, good, bad, or otherwise :)
CW: Male snz, cold, pneumonia mention, coughing, contagion mention, lots and lots of whump lmao. A little over 4K words under the cut.
Then & Now
Now
“Morning, Chef.”
“Huh-! HhITSZHH-ue!”
Elijah turned towards Greyson, who was doubled over into his hoodie sleeve, and gave him a sympathetic grimace. “Cooks finally pulled you under, hmm?”
“Ugh, like way fuckin’ under,” Greyson muttered, rubbing his eye and sucking in through his nose. “I feel like ass.”
“Sorry, dude,” Elijah said, tossing his counterpart a box of tissues. “Sucks.”
Greyson caught the box and pulled out a few just in time. “HITSZHZH-uhh!” This one, he managed to catch in the handful of tissues. He wiped his nose and shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, tossing the used tissues. “Mbostly because I was supposed to have a date tonight.”
Elijah smirked at his friend, who was pushing past the GM into their shared office. The two of them sat in unison. “Do you guys still call them dates? You’ve been official for, like, six months.”
“It’s our six-month anniversary,” Greyson said, his voice flattened by congestion. “We were going to do EMP.”
“Awww, now I’m depressed,” Elijah said. “Also, why didn’t you tell me earlier you were going to Eleven Madison? I still know people there.”
“So does Reed,” Greyson said, massaging his temple. “That’s why we were goigg. Fuck, mby fuckin’ head is pounding. Do we have any -?”
Elijah placed the ibuprofen in front of the chef before he could ask, along with a bottle of cough syrup and a decongestant. “You know we have it all,” he said, pushing an old cup of water across the desk for Greyson to swallow his arsenal of pills. “And fair enough. Well that fuckin’ sucks, dude, I’m sorry. Hey, at least you can leave early, right? Matt’s closing?”
“Yeah,” Greyson said, unwrapping a cough drop and popping it in his mouth. “I’ll head out once the rush is over. I still have to text Reee – hh...hhNTSHH-ue! HGTSHH-uhh!” Greyson doubled over, sneezed into his arm, and groaned. “I’mb gonna kill the guys when they get in,” he said, mostly to himself.
“Don’t do that,” Elijah said, placing a hand on Greyson’s shoulder on his way out of the office. “Then you’ll have to stay all night.”
Greyson huffed out a laugh and pulled out his phone. He clicked on his conversation with Reed, sighing. He did not want to have this conversation.
Greyson
9:31AM
hey babe. gonna have to cancel tonight, the cooks infected me w their plague :( im rly sorry.
The chef set his phone on the desk, prepared to either be ghosted or gaslit – two of Collin’s favorite pastimes whenever Greyson had had to cancel their plans during their relationship – and was shocked when the phone buzzed with a text almost immediately. He was almost afraid to look at his boyfriend’s response.
Reed
9:32AM
Oh, baby don’t be sorry!! what time are you off? I’ll pick you up and take you home :) we can do a sick day little date night instead!
Greyson stared at the phone, stunned. He couldn’t help it; he read the message again, then out loud said, “What the fuck?”
Then – Ten Years Ago
“Chef?”
The Executive Chef looked up from his paperwork at Greyson and sighed. “What is it, Abbott?”
“I, um – hh! HTSHH-uh! HGXTSH-ue! Snf. Umb, I just wanted to see if it was okay if I… left a little early today?” Greyson asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His chef raised his eyebrows and put his clipboard down. Oh, no, Greyson thought.
“Leave...early? And leave your clean up and prep to whom, exactly? Me?” The Executive Chef huffed out a laugh. “That’s rich, Abbott. Why the fuck would you need to leave early?”
“I…” Greyson started, but his voice gave out on the single syllable. He attempted to clear his throat. “I just… I really feel like shit? I was hoping I could, like… sleep it off, I guess. I mbean, I wouldn’t want to get anyone else sigck.” Greyson felt a cough bubbling to the surface; he tried to quell it, to no avail. The younger man collapsed into a coughing fit that felt like it lasted a lifetime.
The Chef remained unmoved. “My guys,” he said, placing a hand on his chest as Greyson attempted to compose himself, “don’t get sick, Abbott. And if they do, I don’t fucking hear about it. Understand? Because I really don’t give a shit. If you’re here, you’re here. If you decide to leave early,” he shrugged, uncaring, “then you leave for good. And Abbott, if you try to get a job after walking out of my kitchen, I promise you I will make it impossible. I know you’ve only been here a couple months, but here’s what you need to learn: put your head down and do your fucking job, and you can work anywhere in the world after this. Be a whiny piece of shit who tries to walk out on his shift, and you’ll be working at McDonald’s for the rest of you life. Got it?”
Greyson, too shocked to rebut, just bobbed his head up and down.
“Let me hear you say it,” the Chef said. Greyson cleared his throat.
“Yes, Chef,” he said. The Chef nodded.
“Now get the fuck out of my office.”
Now
“Elijah. Look at this text.”
The GM looked up slowly from the iPad where he was going over reservations for the evening. “...Why?” he asked, taking the phone from Greyson’s hand.
“Just look. Tell mbe that’s ndot weird,” Greyson said, crossing his arms over his chest. Elijah looked down, confused, and read the text. He pinched his eyebrows together just a little, and read it again. “See? Isn’t that weird?”
“Greyson…” Elijah said, handing the phone back. “That’s not weird.”
“Seriously?” Greyson asked, reading the text yet again. “It’s bizarre. He’s ndot even a little mad? C’mon. That’s weird.”
“He’s being sweet,” Elijah explained, slowly, as though he were talking to a toddler. “Did you want him to be mad? Because that’s bizarre.”
“Ndo I don’t want him to be mad. I jus – HTSZHH-ue! HRRSHH!” Greyson wrenched to the side to sneeze, which sent him into a fit of hacking coughs. “I just figured he’d want to, like, yell at mbe or something. For canceling,” Greyson finished, his voice strained against another cough. Elijah didn’t respond, not at first, and instead pressed a hand onto the chef’s forehead.
“I think you’re sicker than we thought, because you’re acting fucking delusional,” he said as Greyson slapped his hand away. “Greyson, normal people don’t yell at each other for getting sick, or having to cancel a plan. That’s, like, really twisted.”
Greyson rolled his eyes. “It’s ndot twisted, Lij you fuckin’ drama queen,” he said, then held up a finger. “Onesec – hh! Hh...hnn.” Greyson sniffled, a let out a little irritated cough. “Lost it.”
“Go back to the kitchen,” Elijah said, pointing towards the swinging doors. “Sit down. Rest. Let your medicine kick in. I don’t want people seeing this -” he gestured to Greyson, as if to allude to his entire being – “when they walk past the restaurant. Alright? Text your boyfriend something nice. Not something unhinged.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Greyson muttered, turning toward the kitchen, his phone still open to the conversation with Reed. He turned towards Elijah again before pushing through the kitchen doors. “I still say that this is the unhinged thing.”
“Go to therapy, Greyson,” Elijah said, not looking up from the iPad. Greyson rolled his eyes, pushed into the kitchen, and regarded his phone once again.
Greyson
10:07AM
thanks, babe. it’s ok, I can take care of myself. it wont be a long day, ill just grab some nyquil omw home and sleep it off. ill reschedule our rezo too, don’t worry about that. im really sorry again for canceling. if I could taste the food id still go lol.
Figuring that sounded at least relatively normal, Greyson hit send. He sat down at his desk once again and placed his head in his hands. No way he’s not pissed, Greyson thought, and he really believed it. In all his years of dating, he’d never met anyone who would respond that way; they’d at least have a snippy remark about the last-minute nature of the cancellation.
Greyson’s phone pinged once again, and he couldn’t help but grab it right away to assess the damage.
Reed
10:08AM
honey, please don’t apologize, seriously. youre sick, it happens, its no biggie :) I already moved the reservation to next week but if we need to ill move it again. james at emp said to tell you feel better btw.
Greyson blinked, dumbstruck. He started typing without thinking.
Greyson
10:10AM
you REALLY arent mad? seriously?
Reed
10:10AM
im really not mad. who gets mad at someone for being sick…? is someone at work mad at you? am I supposed to be mad..? lol
Greyson
10:11AM
I mean its a last minute cancellation. id understand if u were mad.
Reed
10:11AM
welllll….im not. is that ok? haha
Reed
10:15AM
grey…? you believe me, right?
Reed
10:21AM
greyson..?
Then – Seven Years Ago
He was moving through molasses.
Greyson placed a sluggish hand to his own forehead – you can’t check yourself for a fever, dumbass – and blinked painfully. He’d made it to work, he’d made it through the day, and he’d made it back home, against all odds. Now, he was stuck on his couch, unable to even crawl to the bathroom for a thermometer.
It had all compounded on him, was his guess. The endless fourteen hour days for the better part of two years at his thankless sous chef job. The shitty Chicago-suburbs apartment with no heat, where he froze for the few hours a week he slept. The near-constant drinking. Sure, he was only twenty-five, but what was it they said about this industry? It ages you in dog years. Yeah, that was it.
“Hh-! Hh...ITSZHH-ue! HTSHHH-ue!” Greyson sneezed helplessly into the blanket he’d wrapped around himself, and groaned. This was not what he’d imagined when he moved here from Minnesota. He’d thought it would be glamorous, working as a sous chef at a high-end hotel in a big city. He thought he’d have friends, or a girlfriend, or something. Instead, he was trapped on his couch, benched by a sinus infection and seasonal depression that seemed to last the whole year round. Fuck this, Greyson thought. He couldn’t get off the couch, but he could reach his phone; Greyson pulled up Indeed and changed his search parameters.
Actively searching for work. Location: Any.
Now
“Um… Chef? What’s, uh… what’s going on?”
Greyson paused for a moment, a crate of spoiled food held on his shoulder. He turned towards Matt, keen to answer, but instead held the crate tighter and wrenched to the side. “HRTTSHH-uh!”
“Bless you,” Matt said, an automatic reaction. Greyson nodded, turned towards the dumpster, and dumped the food in before beginning the cycle anew: pick up crate. Turn to sneeze. Dump old food. Matt wasn’t sure if he should help his boss, or go inside for backup.
He chose the former, picking a crate filled to the brim with rotten tomatoes off the ground and hoisting it into the trash. “You gonna tell me what’s up?” he asked as the two of them continued gathering and tossing.
Greyson sighed, pulled a hand down his face, and shook his head. “I thingk Reed and I are over,” he said, voice soft and throaty. Matt’s eyebrows shot up.
“What? Seriously? What did you do?” Matt asked, prompting a stuffy laugh from his boss.
“I just don’t thingk it’s going to work,” Greyson said, shrugging. “I… I don’t want to, like, play gambes. I can’t do that again, ndot after Collin.”
“Chef,” Matt said as he gathered and tossed the last milk crate, “what are you talking about? Reed is, like, the most straight-shooting guy I’ve ever met. How is he playing games?”
Greyson, left without anything to occupy his hands, just shrugged and pulled out his phone. He handed it to Matt without explanation, and the sous quickly read through the text conversation Greyson and Reed had going. Matt furrowed his brow.
“I don’t get it,” he said, handing the phone back. “He wants to take care of you, what’s the problem with that?”
“He doesn’t want to take care of me, he wants to have the upper hand,” Greyson explained, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and sitting on the step just outside the back door. “Want one?”
“Sure,” Matt said, sitting beside his boss. “I mean, you shouldn’t be smoking if you’re -”
“HTSHH! Hh-! ITZSHH-ue!” Greyson turned into his elbow, taking a long moment to gather himself before handing Matt his cigarette.
“-sick,” Matt finished. The older man shrugged, and Matt plucked the lighter out of Greyson’s hand to light both of them up, not daring to push his boss any closer to the edge. For a moment, they smoked in silence, only Greyson’s sniffles and coughs interrupting the quiet.
“Boss,” Matt said, finally, “I think you need to talk to Reed.”
“I did,” Greyson said, stubbing out his cigarette. “You saw.”
“No, I mean actually talk to him,” Matt said. The two of them stood, looking at each other – a face-off without the malice. Matt continued. “Not ignore his texts and clean out the walk-in.”
Greyson scoffed. “Matt, just because you have sombe fairy-tale love story doesn’t mbean everyone else does, too. Okay? If it’s over between me and Reed, it’s fine. I’mb better off alone, anywaa – hh! Hh… Hhhii-!” Greyson stood with his elbow poised at his face, stuck in pre-sneeze agony for what seemed like an eternity. While he was incapacitated, Matt took his phone and typed out a message that his boss couldn’t see. Finally, Greyson lowered his arm and sucked in, fruitlessly, through his nose. “The fugck are you doigg?” he asked, snatching his phone back from his sous.
“If you’re not going to talk to Reed,” Matt shrugged, unapologetic, “I will.”
Greyson looked down at his phone, which buzzed twice in his hand. Reed’s face popped up on the screen. Call from: reed <3
Then – Three Years Ago
“HTSHH! Huh! ETZSHH-ue! HRTTSHH-ue!”
“Bless, bless, bless you. Allergies?” Collin asked, not looking up from his phone. Greyson sniffled in vain, and coughed painfully.
“Ndot exactly,” he croaked from the doorway to Collin’s living room. “Baby, do you thingk you could drive mbe to urdent care, actually?”
Collin looked up and slowly raised an eyebrow. “For what?” he asked, obviously annoyed. Greyson swallowed as best he could and placed a hand on his throat.
“I thingk… I mbight have strep. Or bronchitis, or sombething. I, uh… I’ve had a fever for like. A week.” Greyson had to stop to close his eyes and grab onto the door frame, a sordid attempt to keep from hitting the floor like a rotten sack of potatoes. Collin rolled his eyes.
“You’re such a drama queen. You seemed fine when you came over last night.”
“You were asleep whend I came over,” Greyson said, his eyes still closed. “Did you ndot notice that I haven’t been over in like five days?”
Collin shrugged. “I mean, yeah, but I figured you were busy with work. You’re always busy with work,” he said, the venom in his voice making clear that he wanted to fight.
Greyson, physically incapable of fighting at that moment, just slid slowly to the ground and nodded. “Yeah. You’re right,” he said. “Ndow I’m paying the price. Please, baby. Can you please just take me? I… I really don’t feel well.”
It was pathetic. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself; he was fairly sure he was moments from passing out. Collin turned and made himself comfier on the couch.
“I’ll call you an uber,” he said, pressing some buttons on his phone. “You barely make time for me, and now you’re asking me to be your chauffeur? Please, Greyson.” He showed his ailing boyfriend the phone. “He’ll be out front in five minutes. Better make your way down.”
“Okay,” Greyson said, pulling himself slowly to his feet. “Thangk you.”
Collin didn’t say a word as Greyson let himself out of the apartment. He made it downstairs, and into the uber, and into the waiting room at urgent care. He made it out by himself, too, with a laundry list of prognoses – strep, sinus infection, walking pneumonia – and a handful of prescriptions. When he texted Collin later to fill him in, his boyfriend didn’t text back.
Greyson fell asleep on his shower floor and awoke to freezing water pounding on him, and a courier pounding on his door. When he toweled off and answered it, chicken soup from the local bodega and a note that read feel better -c sat at his feet. Greyson breathed a sigh of relief; at least he had been forgiven.
Now
Reed had dated plenty of men is his thirty-five years of life, and had found that there were two general categories when it came to sick men: there was the Baby, and there was the Don’t Look at Me.
Greyson though, an enigma since the moment they met, seemed to fall into a third category, a category that was, to Reed, yet undiscovered: the You Hate Me.
Reed was good with the first two categories; the Don’t Look at Me, you left medicine outside their room and texted them funny memes. The Baby, you laid in bed with them and spoon-fed them soup. Easy. Understandable. Truthfully, this was one of his favorite things about men: they were easy to crack. He figured Greyson would likely fall into the Baby category, which was fine by him – there was nothing he’d like more than to look after an ailing Greyson, to be honest. This third category he seemed to embody, though, was not something Reed knew what to do with.
“He didn’t answer when I called him,” Reed said into the phone receiver. “I just want to know what’s going on, I mean, did I say something wrong?”
On the other end of the line, Elijah sighed. “No, you didn’t do anything wrong. This is just… it’s just Greyson being Greyson.”
Reed wasn’t about to take this lying down. “Hey, are you guys super busy tonight? I mean, I don’t want to be that boyfriend, but, like, can I come get him? We really need to talk, and if what Matt said is true he probably shouldn’t be, like, working anyway, right?”
While Elijah paused, Reed pulled the phone away from his ear and once again re-read the text Matt had sent from Greyson’s phone: hey reed, it’s matt. grey is sick as hell, so DO NOT take any of the crazy weird shit he says seriously, k? his temperature needs to lower by like 5 degrees before you do this, but u guys need to actually talk. he’s being stupid.
“Please,” Reed heard Elijah’s tinny voice on the other end and put the phone back to his ear. “Please, come and collect him. I’m begging.”
Reed stood from the couch and grabbed his keys. “Give me twenty minutes. I’m on my way.”
Then – Two Years Ago
“Heyyy, baby, cand I buy you a dringk?”
The girl leaned back, her face marked by disgust. “No, thanks. Save your money and get yourself some NyQuil,” she said, disappearing into the crowd. Greyson huffed out a sigh and coughed into his hand – a long, crackling sound that made the other bar patrons inch their chairs away.
“She’s right, you know,” the bartender – Skip, Greyson had learned his name was a few weeks back when he had started coming in every night – said, filling Greyson’s shot glass yet again. “You need to go home.”
“And yet you pour mbe another drink,” Greyson said, knocking back the shot. “The duality of mban. NGTXSH! HTSHH! Huh-! HRRSHH-ue!” Greyson covered his mouth lazily with one hand, wiped it on his pants, hand held the glass up to indicate ‘another’.
“Bless you,” Skip said, not pouring the shot. “Greyson, seriously: go home. You sound fucking awful.”
“Are you cutting mbe off?” Greyson asked, his rheumy eyes meeting Skip’s over the bartop. “Because unless you are, I’mb staying.” He coughed again, into his elbow; the cough was quickly becoming a problem. He’d had a cold two weeks ago; the symptoms had been mild, but the cough had hung around. When he caught whatever-the-fuck this was two days ago, the cough had turned from an annoyance to a pressing issue; he should go home. He should go to the doctor, he should take a day off, he should, he should, he should.
But he wouldn’t. He would stay, and he would drink until he was kicked out, then he’d pass out on the train and not make it home to sleep. He’d go to work at seven AM and stay until midnight and do it all again.
“I’m not kicking you out,” Skip sighed. “I’m just saying… you should take care of yourself.”
Greyson blinked slowly. He could feel his lungs, heavy with fluid, gearing up to cough again; his head, pounding in spite or because of the alcohol; his heart crushed into a million, Collin-sized pieces. Take care of yourself. It felt impossible, when you’d never been shown how.
“This is mbe taking care of myself,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll have another.”
Now
Greyson rested his head on a case of lettuce in the corner of the walk-in. He knew he should be continuing his madness of cleaning, but he’d accidentally sat down on his fifth trip into the refrigerator, and now he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get up again.
Fucking Reed, Greyson thought as he allowed the cold salad box to sate the fever he had burning in his brain. Why can’t he just be up front with me? If you’re mad just say it, don’t fucking torture me.
Perhaps deep down, he knew he was being ridiculous; Matt and Elijah were most likely correct. The simplest answer – that Reed truly was just a good guy – was probably the right one. But he just couldn’t get out of his mind all the times he’d reached out, needed help and asked for it, and been shot down. He certainly couldn’t allow himself to believe that the person he was dating was truly good; he knew he’d never deserve that.
“Greyson?”
Speaking of Reed, that sounded a lot like him – was Greyson hearing things? Had he, in his fever-addled state, conjured a hallucination of his boyfriend to have a fight with? Bizarre, Grey, he thought to himself. That’s really fucking bizarre.
“Grey? Elijah said you were in here but I don’t – oh!”
Either this was a really crazy hallucination, or that really was Reed standing over him, in the walk-in. Greyson blinked hard, then blinked again, and suddenly Reed was on the ground next to him.
“Babe...it’s really cold in here. Do you think we can, um, leave?”
Greyson furrowed his eyebrows together. “Leave… and go where?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I have to… work. What are you doigg heeee...HRTSHH-ue! Huh -! HTSHH! NTSHH! IGXTSH!” Greyson attempted to stifle over and over, until Reed gently took his hand and pulled it away from his face.
“That has to hurt,” Reed said, his voice quiet and calm. “You can just… sneeze, you know. Like, regular.”
“Tryigg ndot to get you,” Greyson croaked, his eyes glazing over once again. “Youbettermov – HRRETSZCHH-ue! ITSZZHH-ue! Fuck – NGTSHHZ-ue!” Greyson sneezed into his lap, then coughed until his lungs felt sore. Reed didn’t move; he came closer and rubbed Greyson’s back.
“Bless you, baby,” Reed said, eventually.
“Thangks. Sorry,” Greyson murmured, pushing his hair out of his face and turning to look at Reed. “Why are you here?” he asked, levity out the window.
Reed let out a little laugh. “Umm, why do you think?” he asked. “You’ve been ignoring me since this morning. I got worried, since Matt said you were super sick – no lie detected, by the way, you sound truly awful –”
“Sorry,” Greyson said again, wiping under his nose. “I kndow, it’s gross.”
“Please, Grey,” Reed said, taking both sides of his boyfriend’s face in his hands and looking him in the eye. “Please. Stop apologizing. It’s okay to be sick. I don’t understand why you think I’m angry at you. I’m not.”
Greyson swallowed, painfully, and gave a little nod. “Okay,” he said, finally.
“Okay,” Reed repeated. “Anyway. I called Elijah. He said to come and collect you.”
At this, Greyson couldn’t help but cough out a laugh. “Collect mbe?” he asked. Reed smiled a little.
“Yeah,” he said. “His words, not mine.”
They both laughed, softly at first, then ramping up to near-hysteria. They only stopped when Greyson started coughing again and couldn’t seem to stop.
“Let’s go get you some water,” Reed said, helping his boyfriend to his shaky feet. Greyson allowed himself to be pulled out of the walk-in, and given a bottle of water that was sitting on his prep station. Greyson drank until the fit subsided, then regarded Reed once again.
“So… you really aren’t mbad?” he asked, rubbing his goosebumped arms up and down. Reed shook his head and shrugged off his windbreaker. He draped it over Greyson’s shoulders.
“I’m really not mad,” he insisted. Greyson nodded, seemingly satiated. Reed sighed through his nose and slipped his arms around the chef.
“Life’s done a number on you, huh?” he asked, quietly enough that it could’ve just been to himself. Greyson huffed out a sad little laugh.
“Like you wouldn’t believe, baby,” he murmured, pressing his hot head into Reed’s hair. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
#whiskeyswriting#snz#sickfic#snzfic#coldfic#snzblr#snez#male cold#male snz#this was a fun one!#whump#h/c#but mostly hurt lol#i know it's a lot of dialogue. my apologies i just love to write dialogue and HATE to write exposition lol#which is Not Good Writing but whatever#this is my horn snz blog not my doctoral thesis lmao
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Relief, Part Two
The vampire brain rot continues. A/starion once again finds himself needing T/av's assistance when he comes down with a nasty cold...
Tav had given up all hope of a productive evening.
She had withdrawn to her tent for the night, intending to work on some potions with the latest batch of herbs she had gathered. It was a task she always found calming; sitting with fragrant herbs spread before her, a book on herbalism and potion-making in her lap, enjoying the soft glow of her lantern and the background noise of the camp settling for the night.
And then Astarion had joined her. Astarion and his absolutely miserable cold.
It had been obvious from that morning that the vampire was sick. Paler even than usual, he kept his distance from the rest of the group, but not far away enough to hide that ticklish cough, those damp sniffles, those frequent shivers. During a fight the day before he had been knocked into a river, and with camp hours away, had spent most of the day trekking about in cold, wet clothes. Now he was suffering the consequences. Only Tav knew the true extent of those consequences, though…
Since their time in the Underdark, Tav had become intimately aware of a peculiar feature of the vampire’s anatomy. Certain reflexes had been dulled by his undead condition, and sneezing was one of those reflexes. Things still bothered his nose, certainly. The constant haze of spores in the Underdark, the scent of garlic, dust, and now a cold in the head. But it was rare for that irritation to bring on a sneeze; at least, not without great effort. Since helping him get relief from the spores, and accidentally revealing her own peculiar interest, Tav had more than once found herself offering to help a desperately itchy Astarion sneeze, providing great satisfaction to them both.
It was that satisfaction Astarion had come seeking tonight, Tav was sure of it. But gods forbid the stubborn vampire actually ask for help. Instead, he lounged beside her, watching her work, the very picture of misery. A blanket draped around his shoulders seemed to be doing little to ease his chills, and his lips were chapped from breathing through his mouth. And his poor nose… It twitched and wrinkled near constantly, and had turned pink from being constantly dabbed at with a handkerchief. He sniffed almost constantly, and when he spoke his voice was heavy with congestion. And, every now and then, his eyes would close, his lips would part, he would tilt his head back, chest expanding with a great, expectant breath, and… Nothing.
It was all Tav could do to keep from squirming.
“Perhaps you ought to take a nap,” she suggested, after a bout of hitching turned into a yawn instead. “You might feel better after you get some sleep.”
“I can’t sleep like this,” Astarion grumbled, rubbing his nose through the handkerchief. “Couldn’t sleep all last night, from the moment I felt it setting in. Every time I started nodding off, I… I’d start to…”
Tav swallowed dryly, watching the display. She was almost sure Astarion was doing it on purpose. He lowered the handkerchief, giving her an uninhibited view of his flaring nostrils, and wrinkled his nose, trying to bring on that desperately needed sneeze. One great hitching breath… Two… And…
“Gods damn it all! Why does this have to be so miserable?”
He blew his nose angrily, and Tav flinched at the sound.
“Don’t blow so hard! If you think you’re miserable now, just wait til you give yourself a sinus infection.”
“Easy for you to say. Ugh, I hate this! My head feels so full it could burst, and my nose is a perfect nightmare!”
For you, perhaps, Tav mused, watching him rub angrily at said nightmare. Sighing, she set down her book at last, and patted her lap.
“This is going to drive us both mad at this rate. Here. Lie down, and let me help.”
Astarion gave her a look of gratitude from over the top of his handkerchief, and did as he was told, laying down with his head in her lap. Trying to keep her mind on the problem at hand, Tav ran a gentle finger down the length of his nose, feeling it twitch irritably. Astarion sniffled and let out a gasp of irritation, and tried to bring his handkerchief to his nose. Tav pushed his hand back down, giving him a reassuring smile as she pulled a clean handkerchief from her sleeve. She dabbed gently at his nostrils, which had begun to look rather damp.
“Easy. Just try to relax, and let me take care of you.”
“I'll relax when I'm free of this damned itch,” Astarion groaned, and let out a few ticklish coughs. “Do hurry up and bring out that feather of yours!”
Tav shook her head, turning her attention to the herbs she’d been working with.
“You’re a bit too… damp, for a feather, I think. Let me find something a bit sturdier.”
Keeping the handkerchief pressed to his nose with one hand, feeling his nostrils twitching restlessly, Tav selected a frond of dried grass. Delicate enough not to hurt, but sturdy enough to get the job done. Astarion snuffled desperately as she lowered the handkerchief and set to work. Starting slowly, she twirled the grass across his nostrils, and was immediately rewarded with an eager hitch.
“Hhh! Hhh-Hh! Hhhnn…”
It was never that easy. Astarion’s nose was as stubborn as the rest of him. Not wanting to tease him when he already felt so wretched, Tav gently poked the grass further into one aggravated nostril. Astarion gave a flustered snuffle, and raised his handkerchief as his nose began to run. Tav beat him to it, pressing her own handkerchief lightly against his nose, rubbing gently, still twirling the stalk of grass all the while.
“Easy… Let me take care of you…”
Astarion couldn’t answer, his breath snagging on a useless round of hitches. A tear leaked from his eye, and Tav dabbed it gently away.
“HHnn… Hhm… Hhh! I… I think… it’s…”
Tav pressed the grass deeper, seeking out the point that would release all that irritation, and found it. As Astarion drew in one last desperate breath, she covered his nose and mouth with the handkerchief, just in time.
“HHhh… Hh’tshhoo!”
Astarion sniffled damply in the aftermath, nose nuzzling into the handkerchief, and blinked up at Tav, dazed. The sneeze had been a rather weak one, and didn’t seem to have scratched the itch.
“I… I think I need more, darling…”
“Of course. Let’s try again.”
Tav set to work again, trying to find a more sensitive spot. With Astarion weakened by his cold, she was evidently going to have to work harder to bring on the kind of relief he needed. Guided by her skilled fingers, the blade of grass twitched and twirled, and Astarion hitched and sniffled and gasped, but seemed unable to bring on another sneeze. Tav withdrew the grass, bringing on a flustered snuffle and a few coughs, and set about teasing the other nostril.
“Stubborn thing…”
She tickled and twitched and twirled away with the grass, dabbing occasionally with the handkerchief, and Astarion squirmed in her lap, chest rising and falling with hitching breaths, sniffling and gasping, eyes growing decidedly teary as the irritation grew. Tav began to worry she might only be able to bring on that one weak, unsatisfying sneeze. And then, finally, the grass tickled just deep enough.
“Da-ahh-rling, I… think… I… IhhhHHSHOO!”
Again Tav pressed the handkerchief over his nose just in time. As she began to lower it, Astarion took hold of her wrist, keeping it there.
“No… I… Ahhh… Hhh… HHRASSHOO!”
A shiver ran through him after that one. A shiver ran through Tav too, for rather different reasons.
“Need me to keep going?”
“No, I think… Think there’s more… Hh! Hhh-hh-hHHSHOO!”
Tav withdrew the grass and used her now free hand to wipe away irritated tears, then gently ran her fingers through white curls.
“That’s it, you’re doing well. More?”
“HhhHHSHOO!” Astarion sneezed in agreement, and gave a series of damp sniffles. Tav pressed the handkerchief more firmly against his nose, feeling it twitch and wriggle, bringing on the next desperate “HHRRASHOO!”
Sneeze after sneeze burst out. Slower than the allergic fits brought on by dust or garlic, and judging by the way Astarion was beginning to breath more heavily, rather more exhausting. At last, with a final, exhausted “Hhishhoo!”, Astarion opened his eyes, and, taking the handkerchief from Tav, wearily sat up and blew his nose.
“Thank you, darling. I feel… Well, I still feel wretched, but that’s one misery resolved. You… enjoyed that, I take it?”
Weary from his cold, his smile as he took in Tav’s flushed cheeks was more fond than seductive. In answer, Tav leaned in and pressed a gentle, featherlight kiss to his long-suffering nose, letting out a surprised giggle as doing so prompted a ticklish “Htshhoo!”.
Astarion raised the handkerchief too late, and if there had been enough blood in him, Tav suspected he might have blushed.
“Ah! Sorry about that, darling! Although, given your… peculiarities, perhaps I ought to say ‘you’re welcome’?”
Tav let out a snort of laughter, and leaned in to kiss him properly this time… Only to pull back in alarm as Gale’s voice sounded outside the tent.
“Astarion! Might I suggest you take something for that cold, rather than keep the whole camp awake?”
Tav let out an embarrassed giggle, and called back before Astarion could snap something rude in reply.
“Don’t worry, I’ll see he’s well taken care of!”
As the wizard’s footsteps retreated, Astarion gave her a rather more flirtatious smile.
“You will, will you?”
Tav leaned in closer, but instead of kissing him this time, picked up the fallen blanket and pulled it around his shoulders once more. His seductive act dropped, and he gave an embarrassed cough that brought on several more.
“I will. But not like that. You need to sleep this cold off. Let me get back to my herbs, and I can make you something to help. And if you’re feeling better tomorrow… Well, then. Let’s see what morning brings.”
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A Little Help from My Friend (M, Musketeers)
So the hindbrain wrote this one. CW for: inducing, contagion, mess, stuffy-talk, character with the kink, and absolute desecration of characters from classic literature. Very glad Mr. Dumas is not around to see what I've done here. How far we've strayed from the light.
This is a marked departure from what I usually write and I honestly don't know what came over me. I'm very nervous about posting it for some reason (?) so please be kind.
“Hehh… uhhh…” For the umpteenth time that day, the sneeze which had been building and dragging Aramis to the precipice now abandoned him there, snuffly breaths hitching as he rubbed his hands over his face with a groan. “Snf!” His nose squelched as he rubbed at it, in one last vain attempt to coax the sneeze forward. He huffed miserably. “I’m so ill, Porthos.”
As attractive as it was to watch Aramis’s face go through the slow, agonizing permutations of readying to sneeze time and time again, Porthos felt terrible for him. “I know,” he said, biting at his lip. “I didn’t have it half as bad as you.”
Aramis coughed, the sound wet and congested. Porthos’s own cough hadn’t sounded that bad, had it? He thought back to when he’d been sick with this cold. The first couple days it hadn’t been bad enough to keep him from duty, so Aramis had merely hovered beside him like a worried nursemaid, urging him to drink often and offering his own waterskin when Porthos’s had run dry. Then when Treville had taken him off duty to prohibit him from sneezing on the royal court, Aramis had been with him in his every spare moment, pouring him tea and washing his sodden handkerchiefs. Really, Porthos supposed, he should have expected that just as soon as his own sniffling diminished, Aramis’s increased, as though the cold had just seeped from his head into his friend’s.
Aramis’s croak drew him back to the present. He flopped his arm around miserably on the bed. “I’m beginning to think I’ll ne-eh’hehhh—never be well again. Snf!”
Porthos couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “Well, that’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”
Aramis shot upward, curled in on himself in what Porthos was sure would end in a sneeze, only for his nose to be left a dripping, flaring, unsatisfied mess as the sensation abandoned him once more. “HEHH...ohh.” He pressed the back of his hand hard against his nose with a set of marshy sniffles. “If I could only sneeze, the world would look so much brighter.”
In more ways than one, Porthos thought, making a concerted effort to swallow down the fluttering feeling in his stomach. He felt bad enough that he was enjoying his friend’s misery in a way; he would be damned if Aramis found out about that fact. Whereas the day previous Aramis had been veritably unable to stop sneezing, each expulsion somehow leaving him sounding more congested than the last, today he was many times taunted but never satisfied. Yesterday had brought its own challenges when Porthos had come to check on him, namely the need to hide any untoward reactions to his friend’s desperately ill sneezes, but when Porthos had agreed with Aramis’s plea for the heavens to make him stop sneezing, it hadn’t been with this new misery in mind. Misery for Aramis, but also for Porthos, because these near-sneezes were hardly any better.
Aramis coughed again, rubbing at the swollen glands near his jaw. “Oh, and my throat,” he moaned with a harsh swallow. “And my ear.” He winced as the coughs continued and Porthos felt his heart split in two. No sooner did the coughs cease than did his breaths begin to hitch again–
“Hehhh…Ihhh…IHHHhh–”
–only to fade away into nothingness once more. Poor Aramis let out a hoarse, throaty groan, and that pitiful noise not only increased Porthos’s concern but also must have banished whatever sense he possessed, for he suddenly heard himself saying, “I think I know something that could help you with the sneezes.”
Luckily, Aramis’s eyes were closed as he pinched and rubbed at his leaking nose, for Porthos was sure he looked like the portrait of a mortified man. His hands shook slightly and he blinked; help him? Dear God, what was Porthos thinking, exposing himself like that? Worse, what if Aramis accepted? How could Porthos pretend to be normal in that?
A second passed in which Aramis said nothing, and so Porthos rushed in with a fumbling attempt to somehow explain his offer. “It’s something I’ve done–uhh, it’s a bit unconventional… but…” Good Lord, Porthos thought, he was merely digging himself deeper into this godforsaken hole.
“Porthos,” Aramis sighed, cracking open a tired eye at him, “at this point I would join the Cardinal’s Guard if it would make me feel better.”
Porthos gasped in mock scandal. “You don’t mean that.”
He was stalling, this much he knew, but he also knew he would rather be trampled by every horse in the garrison than continue this conversation, even though Porthos had been the fool who brought this whole predicament upon himself in the first place.
Aramis said nothing in reply, merely fished his handkerchief out from beneath the blankets and gave a liquid blow into it. He fixed his gaze balefully on Porthos when he finished, rubbing at his nose with the corner of the cloth in slow, slurpy circles. He looked so utterly miserable, his cheeks flushed, his nose chapped, his eyes bruised with purple, that Porthos knew instantly he would swallow every inch of his pride to make him feel better.
“Sit up, then,” Porthos said, and said a quick prayer to nothing at all to help him, for surely this was out of God’s domain. “I have a feeling this might help you.”
Aramis grumbled and groaned but did as Porthos bid him, dragging himself into a seated position and swaddling the thickest quilt from his bedsheets around his shoulders. Meanwhile, Porthos went to the post at the wall where he had hung his own hat and plucked one of the feathers from it. He cared far less for his hat than Aramis did, and anyway he knew that Aramis was planning to give him a new one for his birthday that year, as the man could really be horrible at keeping secrets sometimes. As such, one feather now could be sacrificed to the cause.
Porthos returned to the bed and took a seat across from the bundled, shivering Aramis. His heavy-lidded eyes fell upon the feather which Porthos twisted nervously between his fingers and he grinned, even as Porthos wished the floor would swallow him whole.
“Ahh, I see,” Aramis murmured, and Porthos nearly lept to the ceiling.
“You-you see?”
“Would you believe me if I said I’ve done this before, too?”
At this, Porthos’s heart nearly stopped. He felt dizzy, felt his mouth drop open, unable to believe what he was hearing. Aramis continued. “With a feather, I mean. I used to know a woman who was quite, shall we say, fond of sneezes.” Porthos could already feel his cheeks burning, but then Aramis’s eyes took on a far-off sparkle, glimmering with pride, and the words which accompanied them were almost his undoing.
“Especially mine, so she said.”
I’m inclined to agree with her, Porthos thought. His cheeks felt positively aflame now, and Porthos hardly knew how he managed to keep his voice from being a croak as he asked, “By fond do you mean…” He licked his lips, almost praying that Aramis would spare him completing his question. “Aroused?”
Aramis smiled. “I was trying to be discreet, but yes.” That same faraway look of pride gleamed in his eyes again, and Porthos wished he could slap the man for it. “Ah, I wonder if she’s found a better sneezer than I.”
At once, Porthos’s mind supplied him with I doubt it, and wished he could slap Aramis for prompting that, too. To hide the tremble he felt rising in his voice, Porthos scoffed. “You,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Discreet.”
“I am very discreet, dear Porthos.” Aramis laid his hand across Porthos’s, the one which held the feather, and Porthos could feel the man’s fever even through his fingers. “Notice how I have not so much as disclosed her name.” Removing his hands, Aramis pressed his thumbs beneath his eyes, near the bridge of his nose and massaged himself lightly. He groaned softly at the contact. “Snf! Now, enough reminiscing. My nose is positively stopped full and it n-n-eh-needs your help. Snf!”
If the Lord did exist, He must have been very displeased with Porthos, for He was surely testing every mite of Porthos’s resolve this day. Porthos raised the feather slowly, his hand trembling so badly he was worried he might jab Aramis in the eye with it. He was almost unable to look Aramis in the face but he forced himself to, trying to distance himself from the thought that he was really doing this, that he was really putting a feather to his friend’s blocked, sniffly, cold-ridden nose just as he’d always–
“I don’t think it’ll take much,” Aramis said thickly. “Snf! I’ve been hovering on the brink all day.” He caught Porthos by the wrist, stopping the feather a mere hairsbreadth from its target. “I might—snf!—I might sneeze on you.”
Porthos cursed the stirring he felt in his trousers. “That’s alright,” he managed, hoping he didn’t sound quite as breathless as he felt. He tried to don an air of uncertainty; it wouldn’t do to seem to be enjoying it so much, for God’s sake. “I-if it was my cold first, that means I shouldn’t catch it again, right?”
“I should hope not bc I—snf!— I feel miserable and I’d feel even worse if I made you this miserable too.”
Porthos made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat and worked to push aside any thought that wasn’t of concern for Aramis. The man was freely admitting to feeling miserable, for God’s sake. Porthos could help him, would help him, and would not let any silliness get in the way of that. If this is what it took to alleviate the smallest bit of his brother’s discomfort, so be it. Porthos could deal with himself later.
Porthos brushed the feather delicately beneath the red, chapped skin of Aramis’s nose, and the man gave a full-body shiver at the contact, bundling deeper into the blanket tucked around his shoulders. He coughed lightly, his nose already beginning to twitch and flare, and Porthos knew the man had been right, it wouldn’t take much. He inserted the very tip into one of Aramis’s nostrils, gave it a slight wiggle, and that was all it took before the man’s breath snagged on a ragged inhale.
“P-hhhooo’ohhh’ISHHHUHHH! Ihhh’KSSHHH! Ihh’HESHHHH!”
The dam finally broken, Aramis sneezed and sneezed, collapsing forward with each expulsion. Porthos could see the wetness hang in the air between them, could feel it land on his cheeks. Mess trailed down in ropy tendrils from Aramis’s nose and he cupped his hand in a futile and retrograde act of containment. “Heh’KMMPPFF! Hehh’RMPFFF!”
His hands shook with the fervor of his movement, and he was not successful at keeping them plastered to his face. As they broke away they brought with them a strand of mucus, clinging to his fingers, but still Aramis was far from finished. “Heh’ZDSHHH’ooo! Ihh’GSHHH’ooo! Hehh’ihh’INGSHHHH!” He sniffled almost convulsively between each sneeze, desperate for air. Porthos felt a mist on his cheeks and for a moment he was paralyzed.
Porthos wouldn’t have minded if the man kept releasing a fountainous spray upon him, but to preserve his friend’s dignity he cast around feverishly in the bedsheets. “Damn it, Aramis, where did you put the handkerchief?”
Aramis was pinching his reddened nose, his fingers glistening with the mess which had spilled onto them. Already his hair was wild and framed his face like an unholy halo. “Udder the pill-Pshhh’IEEWWW! Pillow? Heh’DSHHH!”
It was not under the pillow, nor tangled in the bedsheets, but had rather fallen to the floor halfway beneath the bed. Porthos scrambled to retrieve it as his friend released sneeze after sneeze of the wettest, fullest sort, as though they had been building in his head the whole day. They probably had been, the poor man. He started to cough, only for more sneezes to cut him off.
“Heh’RSHHH! Heh’TSHIEW! Oh, thagk you,” Aramis sighed as he hurriedly took the cloth from Porthos. Their hands brushed, and Porthos swallowed heavily at the dampness he felt on Aramis’s fingers. He watched as Aramis took a deep breath before blowing what must have been every bit of fluid in his nose into the handkerchief. Once he had finished, he folded the cloth, turned it over, and blew again, before seeking out a dry corner and nuzzling into it, massaging his nose between the folds and making stuffy noises of relief.
He lowered the cloth for a mere moment before his eyes clouded over again. “I’ve got… sdeeze! Ahh’TSCHOO! HEHH’TSHHH!” He blew his nose again and coughed throatily into the handkerchief, before his breath crescendoed into one final, massive sneeze. “Ahh’hihh’HITSCHHOOO!”
Aramis buried his nose in the folds again and simply held it there as if to let gravity drain away the rest, shutting his eyes in the utterly exhausted aftermath of such a display. Porthos was grateful for the man’s distraction, for he was finding it increasingly difficult to sit still.
“Oh, Porthos,” Aramis groaned in a positively sinful manner as he finally lowered the handkerchief. “Snf, snf! Snf!” The sneezing had clearly shifted the congestion in his head, but already he was beginning to sound all bunged up again. His cheeks and nose were flushed scarlet, his hair a tangled mess, his eyes streaming, and before Porthos could stop himself he squirmed and gave a minute groan of his own.
Then, to Porthos’s horror, Aramis smiled at him. “Am I wrong in saying that you appear to be enjoying this quite as much as Ju—my friend?”
At once, the room began to spin. Had he really been so obvious? Porthos’s breath quickened as thoughts and curses jumbled together in his mind, his hands beginning to tremble, his legs starting to bounce in agitation. He would have to leave and hope Aramis would forget this; he was not some oddball lover who–
Aramis’s hand was back on his thigh, stilling its motion. “Porthos, mon ami,” he said lowly, and Christ Almighty, every ounce of congestion was back weighing on his voice. Porthos could not look at him. “I will not judge you. I—heh’TSHIEW!”
As if on reflex, Porthos found his head snap up at the sound, and he damned himself. Aramis had twisted away to sneeze at his shoulder, but he turned back to Porthos with a bleary sniffle. He smiled at him again, and though his eyes were tired, they held nothing but gentleness. “What a man likes in bed is between him and the parties in it.”
Porthos could hardly believe what he was hearing, could hardly believe what had happened and what was continuing to happen. He spluttered, choking over thank you for not thinking I am a deviant, and I hope I haven’t made things odd between us, until all he could think to say was, “But I–we–we’re not in bed!”
Aramis gestured to the mattress on which they sat with a laugh. “In any case, I am glad someone is eh-enjoying my… my cold. Hhhh’KSHHHH’uhh!” The sneeze burst from him too quickly to be adequately covered by the handkerchief, and so Porthos saw a heap of wetness slide out from his nose before being sniffled back. “Snf! Guhhh… Because it certainly isn’t me.”
Aramis gave his nose a haphazard swipe with the cloth. “We could do some more if you’d like. There’s still a lot—a lot…” Aramis trailed off as though forgetting his train of thought, but the true reason for the pause became apparent when his breath gave an almighty hitch and his eyes flickered shut. “Hhhh’RSHHHH!” He sniffled thickly and gave a rueful little smile. “A lot left in there.”
Warmth pulled at the base of Porthos’s belly, but he dared not hope. “Are you sure?”
“After a day of being clogged up with no respite, sneezing like that was nothing short of divine.”
You can say that again, my friend. Porthos smiled, anticipation thrumming in his veins as he picked up the feather once more, the realization washing over him that he would get to see that divine display again, that he would be able to watch his friend’s beautiful sneezes crash forth and not need to look away for fear or propriety’s sake. It was dizzying, and Porthos felt as though he might burst with it.
Again, Aramis took him by the wrist. His eyes were alight, but serious. “Tell me how to make this more pleasurable for you.”
Porthos must have been dreaming. “P-Pardon me?”
“My l-friend, she liked it when I tried not to sneeze after she’d tickled me.”
Porthos’s voice, when he found it, was naught more than a rough whisper. “I—uh—I’d like that too.” If he ever found this woman, he would fall at her feet and kiss them.
“Noted,” Aramis said with a grin. “Snf!” He slid a knuckle beneath his nose. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to hold back given how congested I am, but on my honor as a Musketeer I will try.” He patted his breast proudly, and Porthos thought he might love the man for it. “What else?”
And if Porthos thought he loved the man before, he was surely infatuated by that comment. What else, the man asks? As if this weren’t already everything and more. The heady thrumming pulsated in his ears, and he could hardly feel his lips as they moved. “Tell me how you feel.”
Aramis blinked at him blankly, and for a moment Porthos feared all was lost. Stuttering, he pushed ahead. “Y-your symptoms. How miserable you feel.”
“Oh, you like it when I complain?” Aramis flashed him a sparkling, devilish grin, and in that instant Porthos saw what every woman must see in him. “You are in luck, dear Porthos, because I feel awful.” He frowned, shaping his features into a dramatic pout. “Every part of me feels run-down and achy—“
Porthos danced the feather ever so lightly across the man’s septum, marveling at how much it quivered at such slight contact.
“Snf! And sh-shivery. Snf! Like I have a-a f-fehhh… a fever.”
Porthos pressed his hand gently to Aramis’s warm forehead, his fingers stroking back the sweat-damp hair. “I think you do, poor Aramis.”
“Poor me, indeed!” Aramis cried hoarsely, breaking off into a few sharp coughs directed at his shoulder. Porthos’s fingers slid to Aramis’s jaw and he guided the man’s face back to him. Porthos ran the feather against his septum again. Aramis’s entire face twitched, but he soldiered on.
“My throat… my…” His expression went lax as the feather ghosted against his skin and his eyes fluttered to half mast. He gripped Porthos’s thigh, his fingers flexing and relaxing, his nails digging into the flesh. “Oh, I have to sn-sneeze. Hehhh—“
Were it not for the iron grip of his friend’s hand, Porthos felt as though he might float away into the ether. “Keep holding on,” he croaked, sounding almost as wretched as Aramis. “Keep talking.”
Aramis doggedly blinked away the tears which had begun to form in his eyes. “Oh, snf!” His nose was red, chapped, and quivering, and yet Porthos taunted it more with the feather. Aramis squirmed. “My throat feels like I’ve choked on my sword. My ear feels hot and full. Snf! Hehhh…. Oh, and my nose. Snf! How is it possible for it to be so stuffed up and… and so runny… HEHhhh… Snf! At the same time?”
And indeed, Porthos could see the evidence of such a predicament, a line of mucus dripping from one of Aramis’s nostrils no matter how forcefully his nose twitched and sniffled. It wouldn’t be long now, and so Porthos made the final gesture, inserting the feather into the snotty nostril inch by inch with a tantalizing slowness. Aramis squeezed his eyes shut and moaned, his breath already beginning to hitch. Porthos wiggled it a couple times and then withdrew it at the same pace, drawing with it a thick rope of slime.
“Ohhhh…” Aramis was trembling, his breath shaking as he fought against his body’s urge with every ounce of strength. But he was no match, this Porthos could tell; he was going to lose this battle, and lose it quickly.
“I’b really…hehhh’EHHH...huhhhh—Snf, snf!” His voice was rapidly taking on a breathier and breathier quality with each word he spoke, and Porthos’s heart raced. “Really dot feelig—HESHHHOO! Ihh’TSSCHHH! Uhh… I’b dot feelig well at all, Porthos. Heh’TSHIEWWW! Oh…”
They were both done for now, Aramis lost in a violent haze of sneezes, even more vigorous now than the first, and Porthos swirling in his own private ecstasy. “Heh’ZDSHHH! KSHHH’uhh! Hehh…Ihhh..HEHISHHH! Hhhh’ITSCHHH! Snf! Huh’TSHHHH’ooo! Nggghhh…”
Aramis rubbed at his nose with the handkerchief as he sniffled and sneezed, letting it fall to the side with a sigh of irritation upon finding the cloth utterly soaked. Mucus dribbled down his lips no matter how many times he sniffled, and the sharp inhalations made him cough.
“Let it all out,” Porthos rasped, “you’ll feel better.”
“I deed–de-heh’HESHHH’oo! Snf! Oh, Porthos… Heh’KSHHHIEW! Snf, snf! A haddkerchief–snf–please! Ahh’TSHCHH!” It was true, Aramis’s face was a mess of fluid from his eyes to his chin. Porthos dug out a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and passed it to Aramis, before flopping back against the bed and tending to himself as Aramis blew and blew. All the while, Porthos lay on his back, panting, staring at the ceiling as visions of what he had just seen danced across his view.
“Ugh, I’b exhausted,” Aramis said upon finishing, before dropping abruptly onto Porthos’s chest, pillowing his head against his breast and curling up beside him. Porthos stroked the top of the man’s head, gratified when the man let out a hoarse and congested, yet content hum at the contact. He pressed a long kiss to the hot skin of Aramis’s forehead, suffusing it with the thank yous and I love yous and my heart breaks when you aren’t feeling wells that he could not put into words. Aramis turned and pressed his nose into Porthos’s shirt, drawing a long breath in before muffling his next sneeze into the fabric, though some still spilled over onto Porthos’s exposed skin where the shirt came undone at his chest. “Ehh’KMPFFF! Oh…” He sniffled and laid his head back down on Porthos’s chest, before murmuring tiredly, “You’d best hope you can’t catch this again.”
#groundcontrol's sin#my writing#snzfic#mess#inducing#coldfic#the world needs so much more historic snz fic#what's a musketeer feather for if not this huh?#sick ara/mis
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Whumptober 2023 - Shion's Masterlist
Shion's RP ad
Not necessarily all "canon"
Day 1 - Sick (Cliff). A snippet from when Cliff first got sick and some backstory for his parents. (I don't love this one. Start somewhere else lol.)
Day 2 - Overworked/Exhausted (Shu). Shumei doesn't know when to take a break. Pre-Julian.
Day 3 - Isolation (Shu). It's lonely to fall apart.
Day 4 - Lying (Shu). Shu keeps getting sick, but Julian doesn't seem to mind.
Day 5 - Kidnapping (Rey). Rey backstory.
Day 6 - Forced Feeding (Rey). Rey can't refuse food for much longer; Clerval takes matters into his own hands.
Day 7 - Flatline (Cliff, part 2/3). It gets more than Elliot can handle at home (part 2).
Day 8 - Seizure (Shu). Julian was aware that he may have gone too far this time.
Day 9 - Interrogation (Rey). When you get kidnapped this often, you have to get a bit of fun out of it.
Day 10 - Scarring (Rey). Rey’s body looked like a battlefield where neither side had possibly won.
Day 11 - Fainting (Cliff). Elliot never minded driving Cliff everywhere.
Day 12 - Sacrifice (Rey). If they were going to escape, they couldn't wait long.
Day 13 - Paranoia (Rey). “Then why have you poisoned my tea?”
Day 14 - Bleeding Through the Bandage/Field Medicine/No Anesthesia (Rey). Rey can’t heal himself magically, but he knows how to use a needle and thread...
Day 15 - Experimentation (Rey). Rey's powers could only do so much.
Day 16 - Hospital (Cliff, part 2/2). Elliot would stay until Cliff woke up. (Part 2 to Blood Loss).
Day 17 - "You Look a Little Pale" (Shu). Love at first flu sight.
Day 18 - Fever (Cliff, part 1/3). It gets more than Elliot can handle at home.
Day 19 - "Why Wasn't I Enough?" (Al). If he could go back in time and change it all, would he?
Day 20 - Bullied (Cliff). It's Elliot's fault that his stomach hurt so much.
Day 21 - Blood Loss (Cliff, part 1/2). When Elliot goes back to collect his things after the breakup, he doesn't expect to walk into that.
Day 22 - Punishment (Cliff). “Would it make you feel better if you hit me?”
Day 23 - Begging (Al). Promise me you won't ever do this again.
Day 24 - Too Exhausted to Keep Running (Rey). If he could have run forever, he would have.
Day 25 - Nightmares/Flashback (Rey). Rey's not the same when he comes home.
Day 26 - Magical Exhaustion (Rey). Rey hadn't used his powers to heal anyone since back then.
Day 27 - Hypnosis (Rey). Sometimes it's better to forget.
Day 28 - Oxygen Deprivation (Al). Can't breathe.
Day 29 - "The Easy Way or the Hard Way (Rey). Rey gets kidnapped. Felix gets mad, mostly at Rey.
Day 30 - Coma (Cliff, part 3/3). It gets more than Elliot can handle at home (part 3).
Day 31 - Headaches/Crying (Al). Headaches and CF don’t mix very well, but having a loving boyfriend helps.
AI-Less Whumptober's Prompt List: https://www.tumblr.com/ailesswhumptober/725663795951878144/prompts-for-ai-less-whumptober-2023?source=share
#shionwrites#whump#ailesswhumptober#whumptober 2023#sickfic#coldfic#male cold#hospital setting#emotional whump#male whump#hurt comfort#angst#illness whump#illness kink#fever#fever whump#fever kink#flu whump#oc: albert#oc: cliff#oc: shu#oc: rey#chronic illness whump
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Untitled Lesbian Coldfic (Original Characters)
The inherent homoeroticism of pinning your lover's hair up because she has a bad cold and can't stop her nose from running long enough to do it herself.
I am working on a part two of my most recent fic, but for some reason it's giving me a lot of trouble so I decided to crank out this ficlet as a way to get the inspiration flowing. (My hormones also decided to remind me that I am, in fact, extremely queer, so. It's gay!)
The necessary context- Esther ("Esty") and Sara are life partners living together in Boston around the turn of the century (Boston Marriage, anyone?) Esty is a woman of independent means, and Sara is a reporter for The Woman's Journal, a women's suffrage journal.
Boston, 1891
"Don't tell me you're thinking of going to the office today."
"Why yes, I... snf! I amb."
"Sara..." Esty shook her head at her partner, who was struggling to keep her nose from running and pin her hair up at the same time. "You've got a bad cold. You need to rest, not go gallivanting around the city."
"I do ndot. And ind any case, I'mb ndot gallivanti'g. I'mb worki'g ond a sdory aboutd the importandce of factory girls havi'g the votde."
"A noble cause, but one which I'm certain can wait until you can pronounce all of your consonants again." Esty, still in her dressing gown, crossed the room as she spoke, coming to stand behind Sara, who was sitting at their shared vanity. She gently took the hairbrush and hairpins from Sara's hands. "Here, let me."
Sara let Esty take over, taking comfort in the feeling of her practiced fingers brushing out her long red hair and gently twisted it into a fashionable updo. If she was being honest with herself she felt absolutely miserable, exhausted and drippy, but her drive and ambition as a reporter almost always outweighed her desire to curl up in bed and go back to sleep.
As Esty finished pinning up her hair, Sara sniffled again (as best she could with the frankly impressive amount of damp congestion which had settled in her head) and scrubbed at her nose with her knuckle. "Snf-snf! Guh..."
"There, finished." Esty leaned down and planted a soft kiss on Sara's cheek, noting its slight warmth. "At least come home early, hm?"
Sara huffed a laugh, opening one of the vanity's drawers and pulling out a handkerchief which she blew her nose into unproductively. "I'll try mby best, but I'mb afraid I cadt promise anythi'g. You kndow mbe," she said, her voice slightly muffled as she massaged her nose with the handkerchief.
Esty smiled fondly. "Of course I do."
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❄️💊❄️ for your cute elephant pleaseeeee
I'm finishing up a coldfic with Kei by popular request! When I do, I'll reblog this post and tag it on. But for now, here's an itch they can't quite reach!
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A quick piece I did for the D/ragonspine coldfic I'm writing
K/aeya: You know, with all that mess of yours we could just be a freeze team
D/iluc: ....shut up. *sneezes yet again*
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copying up and slightly editing an old coldfic thing >:)
#one of the chars in this one is just the most pathetic little mew mew who does not deal with illness well#i havent thought much about these characters in years tbh but it actually fits him so well. i kinda popped off when i wrote this#snz
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for the fanfic asks (I'm doing a bunch of these bc they're all related)
3: Ren. That man is sexier than he has any right to be.
6: Ren and Skye in the bathroom at the end of Together 3 (which I reread pretty recently, so that's 12 covered as well!). Also Ren and Leo in the grocery store in the Christmas fic. Basically just any time he's being unfairly sexy and one of the baes reacts accordingly.
11: for the love of god, more coldfic. especially now that they're all properly together. I am a simple gay of simple tastes and jfc I just want to see them catch colds and indulge the almighty fuck out of each other about it
15: Are Skye and Leo dating and/or are they ever going to? Or are they just going to be metas? That's the one pairing out of all of them that I'm kinda unclear on, lol
as always, you're a fuckin' pillar of the community o7
ohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshOHMYGOSH
This made me cry actual tears of joy. UNFFFF WHAT A SWEET FKING ASK...LIKE ughhh yall all make me so happy. Seriously, thank you so much for all the details. I’m gonna be rereading THIS in the future for extra feel goods.
For clarification: Skye and Leo are not dating officially, and neither are Sasha and Ren. BUT, I dooooo want to eventually tie everyone up in a nice little bow so they can all have just the most fucking fantastic bbs ever!!
Ren is my favorite whumpee. UGH I’m weak for a posh/proper man who loses control. FAVE
I have another arc in the works. It’s going to be...a bit different than the ones I’ve done. But, hopefully a good different. Surprises are incoming! And yes, I plan to do more cold fics, I have a rully rully good idea for one after my next arc. I also have a little mini fic between Ren and Skye almost finished where they have some late night ***fun*****
Again, thank you so much for this lovely ask/message. I adore you and you keep me writing/creating!! <3 <3 <3
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Hard to Shake (M, cold)
Woof, that was too long of a hiatus. I'm back with some Greyson sickfic! In this, Greyson has a one night stand and ends up 'running into' his hookup in a not-so-stellar way. This was a fun write, I'm feeling a little rusty after taking a couple months off writing but I hope you all like it. Please let me know what ya think, good, bad or indifferent! :)
CW: M snz, colds, contagion, coughing, some M/M romance but nothing above PG-13 lol. 5k words (it's a slow burn, shocker, I know)
Hard to Shake
The club was dark, humid, and loud as fuck - just the way he liked it.
“I’ll get us drinks,” Matt said, disappearing into the crowd to push towards the bar without waiting on Greyson’s response. Not that he would have stopped his counterpart; Matt had a boyfriend waiting for him at the end of this black hole of a night. Greyson, alternatively, was on the prowl for a bed, and someone to share it with.
They had begun the night at two pm, just an hour after brunch ended, since the only way to get a proper buzz on a Sunday was to start early as hell. Elijah had closed the restaurant early – “We’ve had ten guests all day. It’s too damn hot for brunch, and I want to go home” – and Mark was currently on a plane home from England after a week spent with family; it was like the universe was begging them to go out.
The restaurant’s reservations had been capped at a tiny number the next two days to prepare for their food writer dinner on Wednesday, and Greyson was so nervous about this career-shaping dinner that he could barely keep himself from lapsing into panic attacks at the slightest provocation; it was Matt who insisted on the bender.
“We haven’t gone on a good one since Mark and I got together,” the sous chef had said after service. “And you need a drink, you're acting like a psycho.”
Greyson, never one to deny himself a good binge drink, had taken the bait and allowed himself to be paraded through the city for the rest of the day. Now, at eleven pm and with Mark back at his and Matt's place safe and sound, Greyson could feel the night coming to a close. Time to round it out with a good old-fashioned one-night-stand.
Without waiting for Matt to return with the drinks, Greyson sashayed onto the dance floor and began grinding on whoever seemed the most into it – he ground on a group of drunk men, twirled between two gorgeous women who laughed giddily through the song, and put his tongue into so many people’s mouths that he lost count. Of course it was fun; it always was. But the hunt for a bed partner had proven, thus far, unsuccessful.
“There you are,” Matt slurred, coming up behind his boss and shoving a whiskey into his hand. “Why do you always run off? I’m about three seconds away from getting you one of those toddler-leash backpacks.”
“Makin’ friends, Matty boy,” Greyson said, chugging his drink and slamming the glass onto the closest table he could find. “Some of us don’t have the luxury of goin’ home to a warm, naked man in our bed.” Greyson elbowed Matt playfully and the younger man rolled his eyes.
“Fair ‘nough,” he said, sipping his drink. “Hey, actually, I saw someone who was exactly your type back near the bar. Talkin’ about food and everything.” Greyson raised his eyebrows, intrigued, and Matt looped his arm into his boss’s and led him back towards the horseshoe-shaped bar. “Let’s see if we can’t get you fucked to sleep.”
Matt pushed the two of them through the crowd, his head on a swivel, until finally he spotted the man he’d been talking about. “There he is,” Matt said, pushing Greyson towards the bar. “Do your thing.”
The sous hadn’t lied; this man was quintessential Greyson’s type. Shorter than his six-foot-three-inches by about half a foot, perfect skin, hair coiffed in a way that just smelled of total pretentious douchebag, and a full blazer and dress pants at the club. Oh yeah, Greyson thought, pulling the elastic out of his sandy curls and shaking them to fall around his shoulders, there’s the rest of my evening.
“Hi,” Greyson said, pushing himself in front of whoever the guy had been talking to before. “Can I buy you a drink?”
***
In his defense, he hadn't known the condition of the man he'd left with until they got to his apartment. The club had been dark; he could barely hear the sound of his own voice, let alone the wheeze of someone else’s. And he’d been really, really drunk.
“Hh-! EISHH-oo! ISHH-oo!” The man – Reed, Greyson had learned his name was – curled into his elbow to sneeze as he pushed open the door to his apartment. “Shit, pardon mbe,” he muttered, clearing his throat and beckoning Greyson in. The chef, blasted as he was, simply ignored Reed’s constant sneezing.
“Now, where were we?” Greyson purred, pawing the back of Reed’s head and pulling it into his own. The two stood in the entry of Reed’s apartment – a truly incredible fifteenth-story one-bedroom in the Upper East Side with its own doorman – making out until Reed had to pull away to catch his breath.
“Shit,” he said again, panting, “sorry. Thought the worst of this fuckin’ cold was behind mbe but – ISHHOO! Snrf. Apparently ndot.” He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and cringed. “I understand if you don’t want to stay,” he said, giving Greyson an apologetic look.
Greyson remained unfettered. “Reed,” he said, taking a step back towards the other man. “Stop talking. And get in bed.”
Reed’s face colored. He opened his mouth to say something, but Greyson cut him off with another kiss.
“What did I just say?” Greyson asked, taking off his t-shirt and unbuttoning Reed’s expensive-looking button down. “Get in the bed -” - he yanked the shirt off the smaller man and licked him, navel to collar bone, prompting a moan - “- and let me take care of you.”
To his credit, Reed did as he was told. He did as he was told all night long.
***
“Lij, I don’t want to alarm you.”
“Greyson, I don’t want to hear it. Zip it. I’m being so serious right now.”
“I don’t want to alarm you,” Greyson repeated, slamming the rest of the bottle of Pedialyte and holding onto the prep table as if for dear life, “but I think I may be dying. I think I may need you to call me an ambulance.”
Elijah swung his chair around and strode towards the chef. He took the sunglasses Greyson had placed on his face the moment he walked inside the bright kitchen and tossed them across the room. He regarded the chef with an annoyance usually reserved for parents of crying toddlers at Disneyland.
“Your drinking antics, Grey, are what most people would describe as ‘a you problem’. You decide to get unreasonably wasted and then come in to prep one of the biggest dinners of your career? That’s a you problem. I don’t want to hear it. The only thing I want to hear is your knife going into and out of different types of food.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to hear about the incredibly hot guy I hooked up with last night?” Greyson asked, a smile blooming at his lips. Elijah, despite himself, felt his eyebrows raise halfway up his face.
“But you haven’t slept with anyone in months,” he said, annoyed at himself for taking the bait but too curious to stop himself from saying anything. “I thought you were on a self-imposed time-out?”
Greyson shrugged, pushed his hair into a bun at the top of his head, and secured it with an elastic. “I was,” he said. “But - and you’re not going to believe this, but it’s true – I am finally feeling… I dunno. Healed?”
“Healed?” Elijah asked, snorting. “I think you’ve been taking too many hot yoga classes. Like, spiritually healed?”
Greyson tipped his head back and forth, considering. “Kind of,” he said. “Like… ready. Moved on from Collin. Prepared to get back out there for real, not in a self-punishing way.”
Elijah whistled, long and low. “Wow,” he said, patting Greyson’s back. “Well, congrats, man. A little over a year and you’re finally back on your feet. That’s actually quite impressive.”
“Thanks,” Greyson laughed, shoving Elijah playfully. “I was also really drunk and you know nothing stops drunk-Greyson when he decides he’s going to sleep with someone.”
“There it is,” Elijah said, rolling his eyes and laughing. “So… tell me about him. Did you get his name?”
Greyson dead-panned his boss as he pulled knives out of his bag and cracked his neck. “Yes, I got his name, Elijah. That’s what healed people do, they get people’s names before sleeping with them, and I am, as previously stated, healed.”
Elijah flipped the chef off lazily, non-committal. “Well, out with it then,” he said. “What’s his name? Tell me about the night.”
“His name is Reed Parker, and we fucked til the sun came out,” Greyson said simply, laughing at his own gregariousness. He looked up when he realized that Elijah wasn’t laughing – in fact, his face had gone stark-white. “What?”
“Reed Parker?” Elijah asked, pulling out his phone. “You’re sure that’s his name?”
“Umm, according to him at least, yeah,” Greyson said, unwrapping a pan with a cleaned striploin in it. “Why, do you know him?”
“No,” Elijah said, pushing his phone towards Greyson. “But if that’s him, we’re going to know him in two days.”
Greyson looked down at the phone and felt the wave of nausea he’d been holding back all morning wash over him – oh. Oh, no.
Pulled up on Elijah’s phone was an Instagram post from The Foodie Society – a group of well-acclaimed food critics and writers in the city. The group that was hosting a dinner at Elliot’s in two days. The group that would likely be the deciding factor in whether Greyson got nominated for a James Beard award this year.
We are so excited to announce Reed Parker, writer of the extremely popular food blog, ‘Eat Like You Mean It’, as our newest Foodie Society member! Reed has been a prolific writer and food critic in the city for nearly five years, and we are so delighted to have him aboard. Can’t wait to collaborate with you, Reed!
Above the blurb was a photo of – undoubtedly – the man that Greyson had slept with the night before. He looked markedly healthier in the photo, and his hair was a little longer, but there wasn’t any was it wasn’t him. Greyson swallowed hard.
“Oh… shit,” Greyson muttered, lowering himself to the floor. “Oh, no.”
“Maybe he was drunk, too?” Elijah said, the panic clear in his voice. “Maybe he won’t remember?” Elijah kneeled down next to Greyson, trying to console him. “Hey, Grey, it’s alright. Obviously you guys didn’t know who the other one was. It’s not like he’s going to think you slept with him to get the nomination. It was just drunk sex. Right?”
“He gave me an out,” Greyson muttered, shaking his head. He looked up at Elijah, eyes wild. “Maybe he did know, or maybe he figured it out on the walk back to his place, because he gave me a fuckin’ out.”
“What do you mean?” Elijah asked, pulling Greyson back to his feet. The chef stood, but placed his head in his hands and his elbows on the prep table, as if to steady himself.
“He was getting over some sort of sickness, and he said he’d understand if I didn’t want to stay. He basically told me to get out and I just… fuck. I told him I didn’t care, and I stayed the night. Shit. I’m never going to get nominated now. There’s no fucking way.” Greyson rubbed both hands down his face and shook his head in disbelief. “I fucked myself.”
“Greyson,” Elijah said, taking his friend’s chin and lifting it so their eyes met. “You didn’t fuck yourself. Okay? He didn’t know it was you. It was a mistake, and also he’s brand new there, it’s not like he’s THE deciding factor. Just – wait, did you say he was sick?”
Greyson, his chin still in Elijah’s fingers, looked away from his boss with just his eyes. “Uhh… I mean, yeah, kind of, I guess. He had some sort of cold, I think.”
“You purposely slept with someone who was sick three days before this huge dinner?”
“Umm… did I mention I was really drunk?”
Elijah sighed loudly and threw his hands in the air. “Never a dull fuckin’ moment with you, is there?” he mumbled, storming into the office and pillaging through their medicine cabinet. He returned a moment later with Emergen-C and Airborne in his hands. “Take those.”
“Yes, sir,” Greyson muttered, pulling them to his side of the table. “Sorry.”
“I think it’s crazy that out of all the millions of people you probably saw yesterday, the one you just so happened to pick is a food writer who could decide your future fate who also had a fucking cold. There wasn’t a single other person in the city you could sleep with?”
“Apparently not,” Greyson muttered, pouring Emergen-C into his water bottle. Elijah took a deep breath before continuing.
“Let’s just… let’s try to get through the next couple days,” he said, heading back to the office. “I am glad you want to get back out there,” he continued from afar, “just maybe give them a cursory Google before you bang them next time. Okay?”
Greyson, completely deflated, just nodded. He swallowed and thought he could already feel a twinge of a sore throat, which would just figure. His dick had sealed his fate. Fuck.
***
Tuesday, May 12
NEW MESSAGE
Matt
3:53pm
r u almost back??? idk how much longer I can handle them at each others throats.
Mark
3:58pm
On my way back now! Are they at each other’s throats again?? I thought they were over it..
Matt
3:59pm
has elijah ever REALLY been over smthn..? & greyson’s going down fast af so hes pissy.
Mark
4:02pm
It seemed like he was in the downward slide when I left...ugh. ok, I’ll be back in 15!
“We are ndot,” Greyson said from behind his sous chef, “at each other’s throats.”
Matt jumped at the sound of his boss’s voice and quickly clicked his phone screen off. “Don’t read my private texts, Chef, that’s rude.”
Greyson shrugged and pulled a tissue out of the box on the desk next to Matt. “Don’t talk shit about your boss and you don’t have to worry about mbe being ruuhh – huh! Hh...IGTSZHH-ue! Hh-NTSHZH-ue!” Greyson crumpled into the jacket he’d pulled over his chef’s coat to sneeze. His hair fell over his face, blocking the grimace he hid as he sucked in through his nose.
“Bless you, moron,” Elijah called from the dining room. Greyson rolled his eyes so hard he felt it splinter in his head. Matt winced when he saw Greyson shudder with pain, and stood from the desk.
“The prep sheets for tomorrow are all written, Chef, tell me how I can help you,” he said, guiding Greyson into the chair. Greyson allowed himself to be sat down, despite his better judgment.
“I feel pretty good about -”
“You feel pretty good? Is that a joke?” Elijah asked, pushing through the swinging kitchen doors and leaning on the office door frame. Greyson gave his boss the dirtiest look he could muster and turned back to Matt without a word to his boss.
“I feel confident about the first three courses for tomborrow’s dinner, but the steak and dessert I feel like we’re way behind. Plus I have ndo idea how the guys are looking for service tondight, so pick which one of those you’d rather tackle and I’ll – hhuh! Hh...HUHESTZHH-ue! Fuck, snrf.” Greyson grabbed another tissue and blew his nose before finishing. “I’ll do the other onde.”
Matt nodded while Elijah stood wordlessly in the doorway. “I’ll get with the guys and help them with tonight, make sure it goes smooth,” he said. Greyson nodded back and his sous looked away and scurried towards the line. Elijah, in stark contrast, pushed past Greyson and sat at the other end of their shared desk, unwilling to look away from the mess that was the executive chef.
“How ya feeling?” he asked finally. Greyson pulled another tissue out of the box just in time.
“HRTSHH-ue!” he sneezed into the tissue and let a tickling flurry of coughs escape as well. Elijah sighed, looked into the kitchen, and reached past Greyson to shut the door to their office.
“How are you feeling,” he asked again. “Seriously.”
Greyson sighed wheezily and pulled a hand down his face. “Honestly?” he said, looking Elijah in the eye, “like fuckin’ shit.”
Elijah sighed as well. “You seemed okay when you came in this morning,” he said, as though it mattered.
“I felt okay this mborning,” Greyson admitted. “I mean, I felt like it was coming but I definitely didn’t feel this… shitty.” He shrugged. “It just… I don’t kndow. Hit mbe out of nowhere.”
Elijah nodded. “I mean, if you want to leave so you’re good for tomorrow, you know I’ll understand.” Greyson just scoffed.
“I have so mbuch shit to do before tomborrow,” he said, sucking in through his nose and coughing again. “There’s ndo way in hell.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, until Elijah sighed. “Fuck, Greyson. I’m really sorry.” He looked up at his friend, the true pity evident on his face. “I know how important this dinner is to you. It’s still going to be great, okay? If you need to par it down, do it. It’s not like they know what’s on the menu til tomorrow. I’m cutting off reservations tonight so you can go home early, okay? We’re going to make this work.”
Greyson had to set his jaw to keep from tearing up. “It’s mby own damn fault,” he said. “Ndo need to baby mbe – hh...HTSHH-ue! HRTSHH! NTSHH! Huh! Huhhh-ETSZHHH-uee!” Greyson collapsed into his own lap, lapsed into coughs again. Elijah handed him a water bottle, which he took the cap off of while wiping his nose with the other hand.
“Can we go back to you being a dick to mbe?” Greyson asked, his voice rough. “That I can handle.”
Elijah pressed his lips together to keep from smiling. “Sure, Chef. Get your lazy ass up and start prepping,” he joked, pushing Greyson’s arm lightly. “Sitting is for the weak.”
Greyson smirked, an attempt at a laugh that wouldn’t make him cough. “Thanks, Lij,” he said. “Let’s get this stupid fuckigg show on the road.”
***
Course One
Compressed Cantaloupe
tarragon | smoked sea salt | brown butter crumble
Reed sat in the cushy, velvet chair and attempted to make himself comfortable. He hoped beyond hope that this dinner would go as quickly as humanly possible.
After their little rendevouz at the club, of course Reed had looked Greyson up; in this day and age, who wouldn’t look up their previous night’s partner, if only to make sure they weren’t some sort of psycho killer. And after he looked him up, of course he realized that oh. It was that Greyson Abbott. The same one whose food he was about to be poised in front of. The one who he and his fellow writers gathered around this table were tasked with deciding whether or not he was worthy of a Beard nod.
Of course.
Reed shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. The other writers had started talking immediately and, this being his first dinner with them, he was feeling awkward and left out. He really could have used the distraction of talking about their craft, but apparently he would have to earn a word tossed in his direction. This was going to be a long evening.
At least the restaurant is beautiful, Reed thought to himself. He’d never been to Elliot’s before, and now he was kicking himself for it. The wrap-around bar, the view of the park, the chandeliers… everything was gorgeous. He just wished he wasn’t here with these people, under the circumstance that his fling was in the kitchen plating up. That put a bit of a damper on things.
“Good evening,” a husky voice came from the head of the table, and Reed whipped his head to see a gorgeous plate of food placed in front of him, and the absolute god of a man he’d slept with a few days before standing just feet from him. Reed swallowed hard.
“I’mb Greyson,” Greyson said, and Reed immediately clocked the congestion in his voice. So you did give him that cold. Asshole, Reed chided himself. Greyson attempted to clear his throat before continuing.
“If you’ll excuse mby voice, I’mb at the tail end of a cold,” he continued, and Reed felt his face flame. Tail end, he thought. Yeah, sure.
“Our first course is compressed cantaloupe,” Greyson said. “I hope you enjoy. Pardon mbe, I have to get back to screaming at mby cooks.”
The group laughed in earnest as the chef walked away. Reed, too embarrassed to even look at the other writers, just picked up his fork and gathered a bite on it. He stuck it in his mouth and closed his eyes.
Christ, Reed thought, he cooks as well as he fucks.
Course Two
Hamachi
yuzu pearls | grapefruit | coconut crème
“I swear to God, Mbatt, what is goigg on?” Greyson yelled the moment he walked back into the kitchen. “We’re already behind, and none of the hamachi is on the plates yet? Can we please get it the fuck together che – ehh! HhITSZHH-uh! HRITSZHH-ue!”
Greyson yanked his chef’s coat over his nose and mouth and ducked away from the plates. The cooks called, “Bless, Chef,” and Elijah came up behind him with Sudafed – “The good shit, from behind the pharmacist counter,” he’d promised Greyson earlier, when he made an emergency trip to Walgreens for medicine – and popped two into his hand.
“I just took two,” Greyson croaked, sucking in through his nose.
“Well, it sounds like they’ve already worn off,” Elijah countered. Greyson swallowed the pills and coughed. “Is he out there?”
“Of course he’s out there, Lij, did you think he’d cancel because of mbe?” Greyson said, washing his hands and heading towards the pass to place hamachi on plates. “Like you said, hopefully he doesn’t remember.”
“Hard to forget a giant, loud, blonde buffoon who’s sporting the cold you just got over,” Elijah murmured, and Greyson flipped him off. “Just saying,” Elijah said.
“I don’t have timbe to think about him,” Greyson said, swallowing painfully. “I can’t think about anything but this.”
Elijah nodded. “You’re right,” he said. “Let me jump in with the pearls.”
Course Three
Lamb Lollipop
harissa | mint chutney | bbq ‘chip’
“Pretty incredible, right?”
These were the first words uttered to Reed all night, said moments after the third course was placed in front of him and seconds after Greyson disappeared back into the kitchen. Reed could see him dip into an elbow to sneeze before he made it back to the kitchen. He cringed; poor guy. This was all his fault.
“Reed?”
The writer who’d spoken to him waved a hand in front of his face to snap him out of his stupor. Reed pulled his head back to the table and smiled. “Really incredible,” he said. “I mean, this guy has talent.”
“For sure,” the other writer said. “I mean, he’s been hoping for a Beard nod for years.”
“Yeah?” Reed asked, hungry for any bit of lore he could get about Greyson. The other writer dug into his lamb as he nodded.
“About five years,” he said. “The menu is deemed as one of the best in the city, and he changes it every single day. I mean, the guy’s an animal.”
Reed nodded slowly. He could only imagine how hard Greyson had worked, how nervous he was, especially with Reed's stupid ass sitting here to judge him. Especially when Greyson was sick as a dog.
“That he is,” Reed said, and he took another incredible bite.
Course Four
Rutabaga Tart
fennel | feta | cured egg yolk
“Matt can put these on the plates, Chef,” Elijah said, putting a hand on Greyson’s back. “Take a quick break before you have to talk to them again. Drink some water. Blow your nose.”
Greyson shook his head, pushed the flop sweat off his forehead. “This is mby shot. These are mby plates,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “I’mb here until the end.”
Elijah pressed his lips together and flashed Matt a look. The sous chef just raised his eyebrows and gave a little shrug. Once Greyson was like this… well, there was certainly no arguing with him.
“Okay,” Elijah said. “I’ll make you some tea, then.”
“Thank you, Lij,” Greyson managed, before ducking under the pass to sneeze into the collar of his chef’s coat. “God, fuck, I’mb gonna have to throw this thing away after this.”
“More like burn it,” Matt countered, prompting the first laugh from Greyson all evening.
“Burn it is right,” Greyson said. “HHITSZHH-ue!”
Course Five
Striploin
deconstructed bearnaise | white asparagus | duxelle
The fifth course was placed in front of them, and the writers looked up expectantly at Greyson.
“Forgive mbe,” Greyson said, his voice strained to a whisper. “I’ve yelled mbyself out in the kitchen, so mby number-two will introduce your last two courses.”
The writers tutted or laughed and looked over towards the sous chef – everyone except Reed. Reed was staring at Greyson, hoping he could hear his thoughts. I’m sorry you’re sick. I’m sorry I’m here. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
The sous finished the description and the writers began to eat once again. Reed was sure he could hear the younger chef say to Greyson, “Just one more, Chef,” as they walked back to the kitchen.
Reed sighed and took a bite of his steak. He closed his eyes; perfection.
He did not deserve to be here.
Course Six
Matcha Milk Bombe
coffee | pastry crumb
Greyson placed the final pastry onto the final plate and turned away to cough as the servers brought his final plate of food to the critics. He felt like he was attending his own funeral.
“I don’t think I can go out there again, Lij,” Greyson said, shaking his head and crouching down on the ground. “I can’t look at all of themb, I’ve embarrassed myself enough.”
“You haven’t embarrassed yourself at all, Grey,” Elijah promised, pushing Greyson’s sweaty hair out of his face. “But I understand if you’re too exhausted. I’ll go out for the last one, thank them all for being here.”
“Please,” Greyson said. Elijah nodded, stood, and left the kitchen to meet the writers, while Matt nodded towards the office.
“Go,” he said to his boss. “Sit. You did it.”
Greyson shook his head. “Gotta clean mbyself up first,” he said, standing and moving towards the kitchen doors. “I’mb using the damn guest bathroom, fuck those pretentious assholes.”
Matt laughed in earnest. “You’ve earned it for sure, Chef.”
Greyson slipped into the guest bathroom, hoping no one saw him, and locked himself in a stall. Finally, he sat down and let himself go.
“HITSHH-ue!” Greyson sneezed into the open, then quickly grabbed a handful of toilet paper to keep from becoming the restaurant’s biggest biohazard. “HTTSHH! IIITZSCHUE! Huh! Hh…. huh, huhhh… huhhETSZHHH-ue! Huh! HRRRSHHH! Fuuuck mbe.” Greyson blew his nose, beyond exhaustion. He felt like shit. He knew he looked like shit. He’d put out shit food, he’d been in a shit mood… this whole thing was just… shit.
Finally, feeling a little more cleared out, Greyson flushed the toilet paper and unlocked the stall. When he exited, he nearly jumped out of his skin. There, in the doorway, was his fling - Reed.
“Jesus,” Greyson said, placing a hand on his chest. “Give a guy a fuckin’ heart attack.”
Reed shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, then let Greyson by to wash his hands. “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to scare you. Bless you. By the way.”
Greyson huffed out a laugh. “Thangks,” he said, drying his hands. “Sombe cold you’re passing around town. Shouldn’t you be finishing your meal? Or was it so bad you’re here to hock it back up?”
“It was incredible,” Reed said earnestly. “Truly, Greyson. Thank you. I… I’m sorry. For being here, for getting you sick, I – I didn’t know that this place was… um… yours.”
“Mmm, more Elijah’s than mbine,” Greyson mumbled, looking away from Reed’s face. “But, uh… thank you. Glad you enjoyed. Hopefully it's ndot for nothing.”
"I don't think it will be. They all had nothing but good things to say. I'm just the grunt, but I mean...you have my vote. You're... You're incredible," Reed said, the words escaping his mouth before he could even consider what he was saying.
Greyson tried to hide a small smile by looking down. They both stood awkwardly until Greyson cleared his throat. “I, uh… better get back to mby guys,” he said, starting towards the door.
“I had an amazing time the other night,” Reed blurted out suddenly. “I, um… I haven’t stopped thinking about it, actually.”
Greyson smirked, the tension finally broken. “Yeah?” he asked. Reed nodded.
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “You’re… you’re hard to shake.”
Greyson took a step closer to Reed, looking him in the eye now. He sniffled, rubbed his nose, and crossed his arms, a smile dancing on his lips. “Who are you, Reed Parker?” he asked. Reed’s face flushed bright red.
“I – I don’t know what you mean. I’m a food writer.”
“Mmm,” Greyson nodded. “Well, Reed the food writer who can’t get mbe out of his mind, at the moment I’m a bit, uh… incapacitated. But,” Greyson pulled a Sharpie out of his coat’s side pocket and grabbed Reed’s hand, “if I’m still rattling around in your brain in a few days… give mbe a call.” Greyson coughed into his shoulder, capped the Sharpie, and gave Reed a little smile.
“I will,” Reed said, biting his cheek. “Thank you. For, um… dinner.”
Greyson paused, thinking, then took a bold step towards Reed, grabbed his chin in his hand, and planted a deep kiss on his lips. “It was my pleasure,” he said, and stepped out of the room.
Reed stood, flushed and breathless, for a moment. The kiss sat, swelling his lips, sweeter than any dessert he’d ever had; he looked at the number on his hand, felt his heart catch in his throat.
Greyson Abbott, he thought, looking towards the bathroom door. Holy shit.
#whiskeyswriting#snz#sickfic#snzfic#coldfic#snzblr#snez#male cold#male snz#ooo we have a new character hope you guys are into him bc i have ideas lol#im not a huge fan of the first part of this story but i really like the ending. whatever its fine#we're going with it. idk. i want to post it ive been looking at it for 8 hours so into the ether it goes#happy to be back :)
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that level of intimacy, when you can be so gross and disgustingly symptomatic with somebody, and it's absolutely okay and not a big deal at all.
character A is sick with a cold that is just heavy; it's heavy on their sinuses – their entire face hurts with congestion and they're stopped-up to the point where they're completely miserable, and it's heavy on their chest as well – coughing and coughing and coughing, and it's wet and thick and exhausting as hell; by the end of a fit, they're dizzy.
they truly feel like shit.
they live with character B, with whom they share a very close relationship. they could be romantic partners, very close friends or even siblings; what's important here is that they both feel fully at ease with each other, truly comfortable.
when A gets home at the end of the day, they completely let go: allowing messy sneezes to come out in full-force, groaning as they wipe their nose and blowing loudly for minutes on end, thick and gurgling, not giving a thought to how they sound. giving way to deep, chest-rattling, productive coughing fits that leave them absolutely beat; all this, with B right next to them, sitting on the couch or cooking dinner in the next room.
A doesn't feel the need to hide anything: they know they're going to be accepted, no matter what state they're in. with B, they are truly home.
#and it's completely mutual#of course#B's reactions deserve a separate post 😍#snz#snzblr#snz kink#sicknario#sickblr#sneezing#coughing#nose blowing#illness kink#sickfic#sickfic prompts#coldfic#hurt comfort
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Unspoken (2/at least 3)
Link to first part here: x
Below the cut resides the godforsaken image that inspired this whole bonanza in the first place.
No, I literally saw that photo and said, We need a fic in the age of wig powder. And so here we are. I decided to break this section up and stop it here, so that means that there will now be at least 3 sections! Woohoo!
When Sarah awoke the next morning, the morning sun already shone strong through the lace curtains that covered the great window. She flipped on her back and let out a contented sigh when the movement provoked no pain nor cramp.
“Sarah,” Jonathan said upon seeing her awake, “good morning at last. Are you feeling better?”
She smiled and rubbed her eyes. “Yes, much.”
“Good. Though I wish I could say the same for myself.” He was scarcely able to complete the sentence without coughing, and it was in those coughs Sarah could instantly tell how ill he was. The book he had been reading before she awoke lay on his chest, fluttering up and down with each expulsion.
Sarah sat up against the headboard and frowned. “Oh, Jonathan…”
“I think I will have Parson dress me for winter today because…” He trailed off, expression glazed over, and he shivered before a set of sneezes burst from him. Sarah felt the bed shake. “Hehh’KPSCHOO! Ihh’CHOOO! Snf! Ahh’hhh’KSCHOO!” The sneezes were hopelessly congested, and he moaned softly. “Ugh, snf! I am not well at all.”
“Oh,” she said again, softly and sadly, for it was the only thing she seemed able to articulate. Her heart sank as she remembered the agenda for the day. “And your father is coming today.”
Jonathan nodded as he reached for a handkerchief. “Unfortunately.”
He took one from a small pile that lay beside his pillow, and its existence meant that he had gone sometime in the night to the boudoir to retrieve them. By the looks of it, they had already gone to good use, and Sarah felt a bit guilty that she had slept so well when her husband so clearly hadn’t.
“Hehh’KSCHEW! Hehh’ihhh… He held the handkerchief at his nose, but the second sneeze failed to materialize, even after a few moments of rubbing. He sniffled with a great effort, sounding completely bunged up, and gave a couple wet and sore-sounding coughs. “I doubt he would be keen to excuse me on account of a headcold, even one as awful as this. Not least of all because of his journey.”
Sarah had met his father once, briefly, when they had been married, and this instance coupled with what Jonathan had told her of the man gave her no evidence to the contrary. He terrified her, but it also enraged her as she sat beside her husband, so ill with a terrible cold, that he would have to deal with the Baron on top of everything else.
She shook her head and said resolutely, “It isn’t fair how he treats you.”
Jonathan paused a moment before sighing carefully to avoid coughing. “No, you’re right,” he said hoarsely, “it isn’t. But what am I to do about it?” He wiped his nose with his increasingly sodden handkerchief, looking more and more unwell the redder and more the skin became. “He’s never in a good mood after three hours in a coach, and I doubt by the time he arrives I’ll be in a much better mood myself after the same time spent sneezing.”
“At the very least, rest until he comes.”
“Alas, there’s no more time to–to rest. Ahh’kSSHH!” He pinched his nose between the folds, remaining motionless for a time before lowering the cloth with a heavy sniffle. “We have already stayed far too long in bed. My father will be arriving in less than two hours and I am still undressed.”
He began to cough then, wet and raspy, wincing at the pain in his throat while Sarah winced at the sound.
“Oh, Jonathan, that cough…” She frowned and patted his chest gently. “Stay here in bed for a moment longer while I send for Parson and some tea, alright?”
She left poor Jonathan in bed, coughing and sneezing and sounding all in all like an emblem of ill health and sent for the valet, for tea with as much lemon and honey as the cooks could manage, as well as her own maid Rosie to help her dress for the long day ahead.
***********
It was the powder room that was the nail in the coffin. Sarah was waiting in the corner of the room, having just finished receiving her own powdering regimen, when Jonathan entered, flush-cheeked and handkerchief in hand. He nodded tiredly at Sarah before taking his seat in the powdering chair, or rather, collapsing into it. He sighed and bit his lips to close off the coughs that bubbled up in response as Collins draped a protective sheet over his shoulders.
“I am quite under the weather today,” Jonathan croaked, “so you will have to excuse any sudden movements. Heh’TSCHHH’uhhh!” The sneeze was so sudden that he did not manage to extricate a hand and handkerchief from beneath the sheet, instead just doing his best to sneeze away from his servant. “Such as that. Snf! I can’t really help it.”
Collins, ever stoic, merely nodded as he picked up the powdering billows. “Of course, sir.”
Jonathan buried his face in the cone in the hopes of avoiding the worst of the powder as Collins worked, methodically pinning and powdering the wig atop his head. Sarah could hear him snuffling and coughing in there, and the image reminded her of a muzzled horse, which under any other circumstance would have drawn a laugh from her. She filed the memory away in her mind to bring out again and tease her husband with once he was well again. For now, only pity stirred in her.
The series of events which next transpired were quite unfortunate. Sarah heard Jonathan’s sniffles growing more productive, as well as his mumbled “I’m going to sneeze”, but obviously Collins did not, too caught up in his handiwork. As such, Jonathan launched forward and dislodged the cone so he would not sneeze into it, only to receive a fresh spray of powder straight from the billows upon his uncovered face.
“HRSHHHH’uhh!”
“I’m sorry sir!” Collins cried, dropping the billows.
“The powder,” Jonathan gasped, his nose and eyes streaming, but the worst was only beginning. “Oh God, helb mbe!” Foregoing the handkerchief entirely out of the utmost urgency, Jonathan buried his poor nose in the cover sheet and was overcome by a ferocious sneezing fit. “Hih’SHOOO! ISHHH! HRSHHH! Ahh’KSSHH! Ehh’hehhh’HEHIISShhh! Snf, snf! AHHTSSSHH! Heh’TSCHOO! Heh’TSCHOO! Snf! Ohh, oh God, ahh, AHHTSCHOO! ihh’TSCHH’uhh!”
Sarah ran to his side. “Take my handkerchief, Jonathan. That sheet is probably covered with powder.”
Jonathan groped for the proffered handkerchief and, having found it, clamped it immediately to his face to run through even more sneezes, each sounding more painful than the last. After what seemed like hours, the fit finally began to subside, allowing Jonathan to straighten and wipe at his wet, red face. In the cruelest of ironies, his wig had become shifted out of place in the fit.
He coughed, the sound shredding on his abused throat. At last he spoke, though his words were almost unintelligible amidst the wall of congestion and his almost-gone voice. “Bore carefully, snf!, if you please, Collids. Snf!”
Collins, looking suitably chastised by the display, nodded and applied the rest of the powder so carefully and so sparsely, Sarah was not entirely sure the style would hold, particularly owing to the fact that those sneezes would be far from Jonathan’s last that day. She sent for more tea as she listened to her husband’s chesty coughs, wishing she could do more for her friend.
Just as Collins was finally finishing and removing the sheet, Mary entered the powder room with a steaming cup of tea and worry on her face as she passed it to Jonathan.
“Thank you,” Jonathan whispered, coughing behind the hand that was not holding the cup. “If I survive this day…”
Neither Sarah nor Mary chastised him for such a dramatic statement, for it was evident from the bright flush of fever in his cheeks to the congestion laden in his breaths how awful he was feeling. Mary clucked her tongue. “I wish I could send you back to bed, sir. Cough like that is already halfway to your chest.”
He nodded subtly, both agreeing and dismissing her. “As do I, Mary.”
Sarah rested her palm on Jonathan’s shoulder, feeling the heat of his fever beneath her hand. “Save your voice for when the Baron arrives, Jonathan,” she said sympathetically. “I hurt just listening to you.”
#the world needs so much more historic snz fic#historical sickfic#snzfic#snz#jonathan and sarah#my ocs#DO NOT REBLOG TO NON KINK BLOGS#sickfic#coldfic#my writing
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G/eralt with: rainstorm ⛈, sneezes 🤧, colds 🦠, and cold medicine 💊 please
It had been a horrible season everywhere.
No matter which part of the continent that Geralt traveled to for contracts always seemed to be enduring an onslaught of stormy weather.
He was beginning to wonder if he had been cursed when he had arrived in a small fishing village to pick up a couple contracts on Drowners and it was, yet again, raining as if the sky had held back a great tide until this very moment.
It was as he was packing up the saddle bags on Roach when the slow and overwhelming pull of a tickle rose up at the back of his sinuses and brought forth tears unbidden to his eyes.
He paused momentarily to grasp Roach’s saddle as he felt his breath catch and his chest swell with a mighty inhale.
The tickle held fast and left him in a strange and agonizing purgatory until it finally reached it’s peak and his voice swooped sharply higher as he ducked into a punishing trio.
HHh-! HAEE’SHOO! ..Hih’ESSSHIIIEW! Hh-! hih’ HAESSSH! Ughh…
He staggered slightly in the after math, the crease high on the bridge of his nose threatening a fourth before after long last the feeling faded, leaving the poor Witcher unsatisfied and sniffly.
He heaved a sigh, one would have been easily explained away but three was almost unheard of. He gave Roach a thoughtful scratch behind the ear as he listened to the rain pounding on the stable’s roof.
In the end, with a thick burbling sniffle, he decided it wasn’t worth the crowns a few Drowners would bring to go out in the storm as it was.
He had a few herbs he could mix into a medicine to help expedite this process along, but he figured it would only take a day or two at most for his Witcher constitution to eradicate the virus.
“Looks like we ged the nighd off, eh Roach?”, he said, his voice catching as it scraped uncomfortably from his throat. He made a face and began to unsaddle her as he tried valiantly to hold back the tide of mucus that threatened to interfere.
Just one more day…
#The W/itcher#The W/itcher sickfics#sickfic prompts#sneeze prompts#sneeze fic#sick!geralt#Sneezy!Geralt#Coldfic#sneezing#sneeze kink#snzblr#I'm fucking drunk and still having fun#ask me things yo#there is a new promptish list
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Can I get the Klance thing with I and 12 please? Also, I'd kill a man for you. Thank you for giving me a small patch of joy in my stressful but mundane life with your sick Keith content.💕💕😘
You??? Made my day??? Thank you so much for your kind words that means so much to me
I hope you like this fic!! I sort of took the flu mask thing from when my friend got the flu right before we left for the Baltic states on a choir tour and he had to wear a flu mask for the flights and layovers. The poor guy was miserable but it was also pretty hot…
In a word, Keith was miserable. He’d boarded this flight with a slight tickle in his throat, but now, only 4 hours in, he was sure he had a full-blown fever. Complete with sweating, shivering, and sensitivity to light and touch. And to top it all off his boyfriend was currently in a nice, comfortable ambien-induced sleep. If only he could take something, anything, to help him sleep, but no, the doctors always told him that his arrhythmia could be negatively affected by taking a sedative as strong as ambien, and his insomnia was such that over the counter medicines didn’t do jack squat. They still had about an hour left in the flight, and then a 6 hour layover. Lance had specifically instructed him to wake him for the landing, lead him to their new terminal, and to allow him to sleep again. He knew Lance was terrified of flying and would rather have him in a comfortable sleep than miserable and panicky, but he wished he could have some sort of comfort from his boyfriend in his current state.
He shivered and huddled closer to Lance, who mumbled something in his sleep before turning away so Keith was awkwardly halfway cuddled to his side. Damn.
He huddled deeper into the thin, airline supplied blanket and desperately wished he could wake Lance for comfort without feeling eternally guilty about it. Muffling a raspy cough into the blanket, he shut his eyes and willed sleep to come. He awoke a few hours later to a flight attendant shaking his shoulder gently,
“Sir, you and your seatmate need to exit the aircraft, please.”
Keith mumbled a hoarse “I’mb so sorry,” before dragging a half-conscious Lance off of the plane. They both stumbled towards their next gate, Lance stumbled because he was hopped up on his ambies, and Keith stumbled because it felt like the world was swimming around him. He was walking in a haze, only just realizing that he still clutched the airline blanket around his shoulders. He finally located their gate after an older airport employee took pity on him after seeing him struggling to read the map on the wall and showed him the way, even helping him guide Lance, who was basically sleepwalking.
He thanked the man as many times as his destroyed voice could handle before he erupted into a volley of crackly coughs, prompting the man to offer a travel sized packet of tissues from his pocket,
“You sound like you’ve got an awful cold, my dear boy. Unfortunately I’m going to have to ask you to wear one of the flu masks we provide in an attempt to keep your germs to yourself,”
He went and grabbed one from the desk for Keith when the latter attempted to stand but began shaking so violently from both chills and exhaustion that he couldn’t stay on his feet for more than 15 seconds before collapsing backwards.
Keith took the mask abashedly, croaking out a final “thangk you so mbuch for all your help, sir. I really appreciate it,” before slipping the elastic behind his ears and affixing the mask over his mouth. The man smiled, before tilting his head towards Lance, who was sprawled out in the chair next to Keith, drooling.
“Does he know you’re this sick? He should have realized you’re not fit to be flying right now.”
Keith shook his head blushingly, not used to this kind of concern from anyone, let alone a complete stranger.
“He’s petrified of flyigg. I’d rather he be asleep thand padickigg.”
The man looked disapprovingly towards the sleeping man, but left it at that, wishing Keith well before leaving him to shiver and attempt to ignore the looks he was getting from other travelers. In a way it was nice to have people avoiding him because of the mask, but it also made him feel terribly self conscious about his illness. He began stifling his sneezes and coughs, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible despite the mask. He shivered miserably as sneeze after sneeze wracked his fevered frame, each desperate stifle sending shockwaves of pain through his skull. At times he felt himself beginning to doze, but would shake himself awake again, an ironic turn of events, really. Just hours prior he would have given anything to be able to fall asleep but now he didn’t want to risk missing their flight.
That was how the entire layover and flight was spent, and by the time they landed, it was all Keith could do to drag Lance from the plane, grab their luggage, and haul everything towards a cab. The driver took one look at Keith’s fever bright eyes and the part of the flush he could see above the flu mask and rolled his window back up. Keith huffed, eyes filling with frustrated tears. He was sick and tired and he just wanted to crawl into a warm hotel bed and sleep until this horrid illness left his body. He somehow found a cab that didn’t mind his being stricken with the plague, in fact, the driver seemed a little too interested in his symptoms for his comfort, but Keith was far too feverish and exhausted to care too much. They finally, finally, made it to the hotel, and there was a light drizzle misting the air outside which caused Keith to shiver violently and sent a dangerous prick straight to the back of his sinuses, but the sneeze refused to manifest.
After a few embarrassing moments of desperate hitching he deposited Lance on the sofa in the lobby and carefully made his way over to the counter, his body suddenly feeling far too light without his boyfriend and their luggage weighing him down.
The attendant looked a bit frightened at his disheveledness, and Keith couldn’t blame her, though he was impressed when she plastered on her best Customer Service™ smile and kindly asked him for his name,
“K-hih!!”
The need to sneeze hit him like a ton of bricks, and he wrenched himself away from the desk, stumbling forward with the force of the sneezes. He didn’t even have time to think of stifling them,
“HIH’KSHH’SH! T’SHChh’EW! Heh’eh…Hh’AKCH’SH!”
He snuffled exhaustedly into his hand before remembering he was still wearing the mask and that his face was dripping with snot. Ew. He checked in as quickly as he could and grabbed his things and Lance before fleeing to the elevator.
Thankfully there was no one else on the elevator to give him dirty looks for bringing his illness into an enclosed space with them, but that also left him with the daunting task of removing both their luggage and Lance from the elevator without the doors closing before he was done. His arms felt like jelly after lugging Lance around all day, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the bed and sleep, but he knew he should at least get to the cold medicine he’d packed in his checked bag “just in case,” or so he’d told Lance. He gingerly deposited Lance onto the large bed, removing his shoes and tucking him under the thick comforter. He just had to take something for this fever before he could join his boyfriend. He swallowed the pills dry and bent down to remove his shoes, but evidently he tried to get back up too fast because the next thing he knew, the floor was coming much too close to his face and the world went dark.
Lance awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to seize the day. When he looked beside him and saw no sign of Keith, though, he got a bit worried. He could vaguely recall a few moments from the ambien induced fuzz that Keith hadn’t been looking too hot for most of their travel time, but he’d been too out of it to form words and say something about it. He hesitantly got out of bed, gasping when he saw Keith sprawled on the floor, shivering, with a flu mask on his face.
“Oh Keith, baby, what happened?”
Keith stirred at his name, sniffling miserably,
“La’dce? You’re awagke. I’mb ndot feeligg so good…”
He trailed off, eyes going unfocused. Lance palmed his forehead, hissing at the heat he felt burning there and rushing to Keith’s luggage,
“We need to get some meds in you, babe. You’re so, so warm.”
“I already took sobethid’ at ligke 10. Just gotta wait for it to kick ind. I’mb really cold. Will you please cuddle mbe?”
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s 7 in the morning,”
Lance tutted and helped him to sit on the bed, covering his lap with the large comforter as he shivered hard.
“Oh… I guess we should get ub thend,”
He attempted to heave himself from the bed, but Lance pushed him back. Keith was difficult to understand, his voice partially muffled by the mask and partially dulled from congestion, but when Lance tried to take the mask off, his hand was smacked away weakly,
“Do, you cad’t catch this. I gotta keep by gerbs ind here with be,”
“At least let me help you blow your nose? You sound so miserable under there,”
Keith thought for a moment, evidently forgetting his own warning about germs in the process, before taking the mask off and scrubbing at the inside of it with Lance’s offered tissue, but the mask was beyond repair at that point, and his face wasn’t looking much better. His nose was red and chapped from his endless rubbing and pinching, and his cheeks were flushed a deep crimson from both the fever and from being trapped with the moisture for so long. Keith didn’t think to tend to his messy face, only continued to attempt to clean the mask that was almost falling apart in his hands.
Lance couldn’t help himself, he grabbed a couple tissues and tenderly wrapped them around Keith’s twitchy and warm nose,
“Blow,”
He commanded gently, and Keith obeyed, wincing at the jolt of pain he felt in his head. Suddenly a tickle worked its way into his nose and he gasped once before ducking back into the tissue with a series of wet sneezes.
“AahtCHTSSh’SHEW! Hh’CHTSshuh! HuhNGT’Chuh! HP’NGKshh’ew!”
They sat like that for a few minutes, Lance switching tissues while Keith continued to either blow or sneeze.
Finally Keith stopped the cycle with a barky cough into his shoulder, his mind vaguely recognizing that his cough had gotten much worse since the previous night, before dizziness took over and he slumped forward into Lance. Lance was startled at the sudden collapse of his boyfriend, but gently propped him up against the headboard and shook his shoulder gently,
“You need to stay awake for a minute, honey. I just need to get you to take some meds for that fever and then you can sleep, okay?”
“Budt our plands… ”
Keith protested softly, a guilty but determined look plastering itself over his misery,
“Nope, I don’t have plans anymore. You’re my number one priority.”
He watched Keith down the pills with the glass of water he’d brought from the bathroom and then bury himself under the blankets, shivering harshly, and couldn’t help but frown. If he hadn’t been such a baby about flying he would have noticed how sick his boyfriend was and this all could have been prevented.
Keith, seeming to sense his boyfriend’s thoughts, reached a fevered shaky hand out from the downy depths of the comforter and grabbed Lance’s hand,
“Dond’t evend thigk about blabigg yourself. I kdew what I was gettig idto, ogkay? I couldd’t bear to see you panicky and biserable.”
He coughed again, and Lance winced before climbing under the covers with him,
“I still feel bad, but I’m going to make it up to you by taking such good care of you that you’ll forget this miserable experience ever happened.”
#Aa writes#sick keith#caretaker lance#coldfic#sickfic#sneezefic#sneezing#poor keet#my son#always miserable in my fics
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So I have a cute snzfic I could post. It has tea, unnecessary house descriptions, endearing characters, overall very soft and comforty and its 8 pages (handwritten)
Problem is it's a crossover featuring two generally beloved childhood characters and I feel like I might get a few disgruntled messages if I post it
Which of course is all the more reason to do so😊😊
I have holidays again so I can't post it until at least Thursday
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