A news anchor with some pretty bad hayfever, which they can usually control with allergy meds. But today the pollen count is quite high, and they have to do a report outdoors (possibly ON the high pollen count???) and they hold back. For a little bit. But slowly their composure drops, and the first sneeze gets through. They brush it aside as they continue talking, but then another comes, and another, and yet they still fight to keep reporting as they become more and more disheveled, eyes watering and nose running and face turning red all the while.
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Part two of exhibitionist/humiliated cold sneezes. Part one here.
A roomful of fetishists watch with fascination as your partner’s breath starts to hitch. Their nose is so swollen and so red; it looks twice its normal size. You could tell they were sick from across a crowded room. “Please,” they beg you blearily, “my sdeezes are godda be bmessy, I ndeed something.” They scrub desperately at their oozing nose with their forearm, leaving a shiny trail.
“You don’t want all these people to see you make a mess?” You ask them gently. “They’d love to see you sneeze on yourself. Or on me.” A quick visual sweep of the room shows the watchers nodding furiously, trying desperately to contain themselves.
“I’ll sdeeze for you as mbuch as you wadt, I swear,” your partner croaks. “But cad I please have a hadkerchief?”
You finally relent and hand over the handkerchief from your pocket. Your love immediately puts it to their nose, soaking up their messy, infected dripping.
“You don’t feel good, do you babe?” You put your arm around them.
“Bmy–eh–heh–bmy head hurts—ehh-SCZTIEW!” They studder helplessly into a thunderous sneeze. That single explosion has drenched the handkerchief with thick, sticky snot. They moan in embarrassment. When you look up at the crowd, at least a few people are surreptitiously touching themselves.
“Look at that,” you say to your sweetheart, “beautiful thing, you’re making everybody so happy. They think you look so pretty.”
Just for that, they cringe and muffle their next humiliated, blushing sneeze into your shoulder.
Obviously if you’re not comfy with that then just ignore me lol
Hi you! Thanks so much for the ask and the well wishes, I think work is starting to even out, but we'll see haha. I entirely missed the word 'similar' and just... used it as a script (oops), but my sneeze mimicking powers are nowhere near as good as Zen's haha. Hope you anjoy anyway!
ok so I finally finished being torn to shreds by finals and can join the h/eated r/ivalry fun! I have read a total of one (1) fic so far bc I was banned from enjoying things until I locked in, but I have been writing this in the backgrounddd. anyway, have a little all star moment, idk what year, don't ask meee, pre 2017 tho.
also shoutout to @poetic-illness for explaining the concept of hockey 700 times until it went into my brain enough for me to write this, and for waiting like three weeks for me to finish it lol.
I hope you enjoy! ♡
fandom: h/eated r/ivalry
word count: 5.5k
cw: sneezing, general illness, contagion, stupidity on so many levels
Shane struggled slightly as Ilya pushed him against the wall. He was trying not to let the feeling of the Russian’s tongue in his mouth freak him out. Obviously this always slightly freaked him out, but right now… was it wrong not to tell the other man he was sick? Was he not telling him because he didn't want him to stop kissing him or because he didn't want him to know? Would he even stop kissing him if he knew? Probably not.
As though reading his mind, Ilya stopped kissing him and pulled back. Shane licked his lips and tried to be subtle about gasping for air. He couldn't really breathe through his nose anymore.
“What is wrong with you?” The blond asked, bluntly.
Shane's heartbeat quickened, and he saw on Ilya’s face that he could feel the speed of his pulse change with his hand still wrapped around the Canadian’s throat. His eyes narrowed, searching Shane's face for answers.
“Nothing.” And after a second he added “Fuck you.” But he really meant ‘move on’. Either keep kissing me or leave, this is the last thing I want to talk about. Shane tried to convey that message with his eyes as Ilya inched closer again.
“You're lying, Hollander.” His words were a whisper, low, dangerous, almost a warning.
It was too late to tell him now, he'd essentially sabotaged the other man's ability to play at his best by infecting him. Technically that didn’t matter that much for this weekend, but he knew the Russian needed to be perfect and to set records like he needed the wins on regular games, always proving he deserved to be there. “Shut up.” He spun them around so Ilya was the one pressed against the wall, leaning in to kiss him aggressively as emphasis for his words.
Ilya, to his credit, shut up. He took a fistful of Shane's shirt, kissing him back as he pulled him in to grind against his hip bone needily.
This time there was no room for gasped breaths in between kisses, Ilya keeping their faces so tightly pressed together that Shane couldn't pull away. He could feel the Russian's warm breath coming in pants through his nose against Shane's cheek. Must be nice to take full breaths like that.
They kept kissing until the Canadian’s lungs started to burn and he pushed hard on Ilya's shoulders until he was able to pull back.
Ilya kept his grip on Shane's shirt, though he let him step back a pace or two, watching like a hawk as the brunet caught his breath.
Just as he felt like he could breathe again, his heart dropped as he felt his nose start to itch. He couldn't attend to it with him standing right there, watching.
“Uh I'm gonna go-” He jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom “-clean up.“
Shane rolled his eyes on purpose and wrinkled his nose involuntarily. “Let go.”
“No.”
The itch was starting to become a problem now. Shane felt his nostrils flare, and hoped to hell it read as anger. “Fuck you, man. Let m-” He gasped as the itch flared, one hand coming up to try to rip the blond’s hand from his shirt as the other scrubbed over his face as if he was frustrated.
Ilya only held on tighter. “What is wrong with you? Tell me or I don't let you go.”
Shane, utterly helpless to resist, twisted as far from his rival as he could with him holding on to the front of his shirt, pinched his nose tightly, and ducked in the direction of his far shoulder.
“hhEhNGT!”
He didn't turn back. He didn't need to see that look on Ilya's face, and besides, he knew he was blushing, which would just be another thing for the Russian to tease him about.
“God bless you.” He said the words slowly, savouring them. There was intrigue in his tone, and it sent fiery anger through Shane's veins. He felt like an animal in a zoo, trapped, observed, ridiculed. How stupid of him to think this was a good idea, something to take his mind off how shitty he felt. As if Ilya wasn't going to notice.
“Thanks. Fuck, I’m sorry.” He muttered, chancing a look back at him.
The blond’s face was unreadable, and his grip loosened on Shane's shirt as he spoke. “You don't have to apologise. If you didn't have to do it, clearly you would not have.”
Shane felt his face heat up again, and he dropped his gaze to the floor. It snapped sharply back up though, when he felt Ilya's cool palm push back his hair to rest on his forehead. How he could keep a hold of his stick on the ice when his hands ran cold anyway was a mystery. The gloves only did so much. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it either. Every time their hands touched it sent a shock through him, for multiple reasons.
“The fuck are you doing?” He ducked away.
Ilya remained unbothered. “You're warm. You're sick.”
“I'm…I'm flushed. I'm fine.”
Ilya cocked his head. “I am making you blush, then?”
“No.” Shane stared back at him, defiantly, caught between a rock and a hard place. And unfortunately the hard place wasn't-
“You are sick, then.”
“No.”
“People do not turn pink for no reason, Hollander.”
“I’m not- this was a bad idea.” He smoothed down his hair one handed, walking towards the door.
“Where are you going?” Ilya pushed himself off the wall, starting to follow. “This is your room.”
Shane hunched his shoulders, scrubbing at his nose where he was reasonably sure the Russian couldn’t see. “I’m walking you out.”
“So polite.” Ilya’s tone was impassive, even as he closed the gap between them, spinning Shane around by the shoulder and pressing him up against the door.
The Canadian felt like his nose was a massive neon sign in the middle of his face, screaming ‘I’m sick as hell, look at me!’. Ilya’s eyes were fixed on it, making him mentally kick himself for abusing it so violently on his way to the door. It was probably bright red. Fuck. He could feel it still prickling with itchy desperation, the instinct to expel this shit from his system almost irresistible.
The blond reached up, totally mesmerised, and drew a finger, feather light, around one of the brunet's flaring nostrils. And now the instinct was completely irresist-
“heh-” Shane panted, trying to fit his arm between their chests so he could reach his face.
“Something wrong?” Ilya’s eyes flashed with amusement as he blocked him.
“M-hh-ove.” He gritted his teeth, fighting with every muscle in his body to hold it together.
“Or what?”
Shane looked at him as incredulously as he could with his eyes half shut and his nostrils flaring and then shifted all his weight onto one foot…on top of one of Ilya’s.
“Ow!” The Russian looked down, pulling his foot away and taking a step back. “You could have just-”
“hEHNGTt!”
“-said ‘please’.” He waited for Shane to turn back from where he’d ducked off to one side. “God bless you.”
“You don’t have to say that every time.” He sighed, reaching for the door handle.
“What, ‘please’? I think you do.” Ilya reached a hand over his head to press on the door, keeping it from opening.
“Just go. I'm not going to fuck you.” The energy was draining from Shane fast, and with it his patience.
“Why? Because you are sick?”
Shane snapped immediately, willing to try anything to get this asshole out of his room. “So what if I am? Why do you care?”
Ilya’s expression didn’t shift. “First, you just put your tongue in my mouth. Second, we are teammates right now. I need to know if you are going to pull your weight.”
Shane scoffed, and then swallowed clumsily, trying not to cough. “Of course I’m going to pull my fucking weight. I’m fine.” It was not a particularly witty defence, but he wasn’t in the mood to go back and forth endlessly.
“Yeah, right.” A flicker of roguishness crossed his face, and he leaned in, kissing the Canadian deeply, tongue quickly making a circuit of his mouth before Shane could push him away.
“What-”
“Now I am ‘fine’ too.” Ilya smiled wickedly, taking his hand off the door and letting Shane open it.
“You’re such an idiot.” He muttered, as though his heart wasn’t pounding in his ears.
“Don’t die, okay? It won’t be boring enough playing without you.”
“I’m not gonna die,” Shane started to shut the door, ignoring the jab. “It’s just a cold.”
“Ha!” Ilya pointed a triumphant finger at him. “You admit it!”
“Fuck off.” And he shut the door, frustration at himself for the slip rising in his chest. Shane sighed, his tongue tracing the path Ilya’s had taken as if trying to replicate the feeling it had given him. This game was going to be a shitshow. If both of them made it that far, that was.
…
A knock on the door roused Shane from a feverish slumber on top of the covers. He’d blown off the days activities, getting up just long enough to send a few apologetic messages, order room service that he barely ate, and stretch on the balcony for all of 30 seconds before he got too cold and tired. Who the fuck-? Actually, he didn’t care. He needed every second of rest he could get before the events started. He wasn’t getting up unless the building was on fire.
Shane was just burrowing back under the hoodie he was using as a makeshift blanket, being too hot to put it all the way on but too cold to leave it all the way off, when his phone dinged.
“Ughh.” He groaned, fumbling around for it without looking.
Lily: Answer the fucking door.
Shane stared blankly at the screen. Shouldn’t he be at the bar? Or the gym? Or picking up some random woman just for the fun of it? Or picking up some random woman because his usual booty call was utterly disgusting right now. Did Ilya even know the phrase ‘booty call’?
Lily: I hear you groaning. Answer the door.
With another sigh that he immediately regretted, wondering if Ilya had heard that too, Shane pushed himself to his feet and staggered in the direction of the door. The second it was open, Ilya was pushing past him and staring at himself in the mirror.
“What the fuck did you do to me, Hollander?”
“Wha- nothing, you did it to yourself!”
“Yes,” Ilya spun to face him, eyes darkly contrasted hollows that made Shane’s widen, “After you did it to me.”
His accent was stronger than usual, and coupled with the congestion and apparent shortness of breath, the words were barely discernible. Shane wondered if he’d run up the stairs rather than taking the elevator or if the illness was just hitting him that hard.
“I’m… sorry.” He really didn’t know what else to say, wondering why this hadn’t just been a text. Or a few days of the silent treatment. Something more distant. More Ilya.
“I’ll forgive you,” He grabbed his hoodie by the bottom, pulling it up and over his head. Shane shivered, watching him immediately break out in goosebumps. “After we fuck.”
“Right now?” The Canadian frowned, thinking of the ache in his muscles, and the prickling in his skin at the thought of taking his clothes off, despite the perfectly temperate room.
“Yes, right now. I can’t breathe with my nose. We can use the shower if you’re cold.” Ilya started walking decisively in the direction of the bathroom.
“…yeah alright.” Shane headed after him, drawn in by the idea of steam and heat, and someone to hold him up if he got dizzy this time. Although actually, Ilya might be equally likely to pass out under the warm water if he was anywhere near as sick as he looked.
…
The sound of the water drumming on the tile was irritating. It felt like it was physically tapping on his ears, and Shane wanted to recoil, to turn the shower off, to block the water. A quick glance at Ilya told him the Russian was probably thinking the same thing, brow furrowed in frustration. Was this awkward? Waiting here together? Should he have said something, or taken his clothes off or-?
Shane glanced back at the shower, still no steam rising from within. As annoying as the sound may be, it was a whole lot better than standing under freezing water. Although maybe not for his fever, which was probably the thing causing him to be so damn sensitive to the sound in the first place.
“Do you have more towels?” Ilya broke the annoyingly-not-silence.
“Oh uh, yeah. In the wardrobe probably.” His mind was too full of fog to think that far ahead. He just wanted to be warm and satiated, with no ‘afterwards’.
Ilya stepped out of the bathroom to get the necessary linen, and Shane used the time to glare at the shower and give himself a once over in the mirror. It was hard to say which one of them looked worse.
“H-Hollander-” Shane looked to the doorway, to see the blond had returned, and was holding out the towels to him with a frantic look on his face. Well that certainly seemed worse.
“What?”
“T-ahh-ake them.” He insisted.
Shane took the towels obediently, startling at the speed with which Ilya snapped away from him, leaning out of the doorframe, only visible from the neck down as he-
The Canadian watched mesmerised as his abs contracted with each sneeze, and he shifted his grip on the doorframe from one hand to two, almost clinging on for dear life.
“Fuck.” They said in unison, once Ilya was finished.
“Bless you. Are you-”
“Don’t.” Ilya waved a hand, dismissing the question before it had even been asked. “It’s always like that.”
Shane watched him unceremoniously strip down the rest of the way, pressing past him with a meaningful look on his way to get into the shower.
“You getting in? It’s warm.” Ilya held out an inviting hand.
“Uh, yeah.” He put the towels down, fumbling his own clothes off, partially uncoordinated from the fever, partially rushing to not be standing naked in the cold for too often, partially longing to fall into Ilya’s waiting hands.
…
The two rivals lay splayed flat on the bed side by side, both breathing noisily through their mouths, with the occasional sniffle as the congestion the shower had dislodged shifted around.
With a slight groan of effort, Ilya pushed himself up so he was resting on his elbow, studying Shane, who got busy studying the ceiling and pretending like he hadn’t noticed. After a few seconds, the Russian moved closer, leaning in until Shane was forced to look. He grinned triumphantly at the small victory, prompting the Canadian to try to kiss the smirk off of his face.
Ilya rolled over so he was on top of Shane, pinning him to the bed, and deepened the kiss, both of them sniffling desperately, neither wanting to pull away to breathe. It was a competition now, who could go the longest-
Apparently Shane could go the longest at the undefined challenge, because Ilya pulled back before he could finish the thought, sitting straight up, knees either side of his rivals hips, and head tilted back slightly. Shane wondered if he was just dizzy from the limited oxygen the kiss had permitted, or if Ilya was swaying slightly.
“You okay?”
“I h-huh-have t-uhh-ikKH! hKk! hiHKk!- snee- iHKSHh! - sn- kKSHh! KSHhuh! hhUHKSHHoO! Fuck.” Ilya lowered the fist he’d been sneezing into, or at, really, and sniffled forcefully.
“Bless you.” Shane smiled, amused by the sight of his rival overtaken by desperation, unable to even get his words out without sneezing. That was unreasonably adorable.
“Thank you.” The Russian looked down, noticing his grin. “What? My suffering makes you happy?”
Shane stretched up, lacing his fingers together behind Ilya’s neck and pulling him back in, the fever and the vulnerability of it all making him forward. “You don’t look like you’re suffering. Are you?”
“Never.” Ilya kissed him, before wrinkling his nose and rolling off him, frustrated. “Ugh, fuck, this angle.” He rubbed at his nose, sniffling again as he tilted his head back to the ceiling.
“There’s tissues somewhere.” Shane tried to look helpful rather than captivated, sitting up to look.
“No.” The blond reached out, smacking passively at his chest with a cold hand to stop him from getting up. “Switch.”
“No, because then I’ll…I’ll be at that angle.” The Canadian said, awkwardly.
“So what? Your turn to suffer, my turn to be happy about it.”
“Shut up.” Shane lay back down, going back to staring at the ceiling. He could practically feel Ilya pouting in his direction.
They lay side by side for a little longer, the heat from the shower lingering enough that they didn’t feel the need to get under the covers. After a minute, Shane noticed the congestion in his head was beginning to shift, giving him a welcome reprieve from the headache he’d been noticing on and off all morning, but also sparking a feather light tickle in the back of his nose.
Shane stopped breathing for a moment, assessing the intensity of the itch, before suddenly pushing himself out of bed.
“Where are you going?” Ilya caught his wrist as he went past, gripping tightly.
“I- heHNGTt! I’m sorry, I have to-.”
For reasons unknown to Shane, the blond let go of his wrist easily, not pushing the issue, never taking his eyes off him, though, Shane able to feel his gaze on his back on his rapid route to the bathroom. As he shut the door, the Canadian took a shaky breath, raising his hand in preparation to stifle again and then startling at Ilya’s voice calling through from the bedroom.
“God bless you, by the way.”
He rolled his eyes, debating replying when his nose decided for him. Shane took a couple of steps away from the door, as though the short distance would make a difference in Ilya’s ability to hear him. He pinched his nose, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he turned away for additional privacy.
“hhNGTt!” To his surprise, he found the itch not quelled after the single sneeze. His nose was practically buzzing with the need. Shane reached out, fumbling for the faucet and flicking it on. “hehNGTt!” This one bent him double, and he had no time to straighten up before, “hEhNGTchuh!”
Shane winced, blinking dizzily as he steadied himself on the sink. After a second he reached out and turned the tap off, staring at himself in the mirror exhaustedly. There was near silence, just the faucet dripping into the sink and his own breathing echoing off the tile, before Ilya’s muffled voice was audible through the door again.
“Bless you again, I assume.”
“Fuck you.” He called back, passively, though anxiety welled in his chest at the thought of Ilya imagining what he was doing in there. Why couldn’t he just pretend not to know, like a normal person?
Shane grabbed some tissues from the counter, blowing his nose as softly as possible before washing his hands and reluctantly leaving the bathroom.
“So, you come in my mouth, but you will not sneeze in front of me.” Ilya tilted his head to study Shane as he slinked back to bed.
The Canadian's brain took a second to catch up with that insane sentence, freezing at the side of the bed when he'd processed it. “What?”
“You are always trying to run away. Why? It is natural.”
“It’s-” Shane shook his head, slipping under the covers with a shiver.
“It’s what?”
His eyes closed automatically as he got comfortable, a welcome respite from Ilya’s discerning stare. “It’s nothing. Now either shut up or fuck off, I’m going to sleep.”
“You will eat, right?” Shane felt the bed move as the blond slipped out. Why had he hoped Ilya would pick ‘shut up’ rather than ‘fuck off’?
“Mmyeah.” He mumbled.
“What will you eat?”
“When will you wear wigs?” Shane responded, with a laugh that didn’t feel entirely like himself.
“What?”
“Shut up, I’m thinking.” He found himself halfway through mentally cataloguing the available food at his apartment before he remembered where he was. “Room service I guess.”
“You want me to order it?”
“No.”
“It took you two minutes just to decide you want ‘room service’ to eat, Hollander. You think you can hold a phone conversation?”
Ilya had a point, and Shane proved it by groaning incoherently in response.
“Okay. I will order, and then go. I have to ‘arrive’ soon.”
Shane went silent, remembering that technically, Ilya wasn’t even supposed to be in the state yet. They’d managed to get there early enough for a little fun before the events were due to begin, but now he was kind of wishing he’d spent the extra time resting at his apartment, and Ilya had spent the time as far away from him as possible. That way at least one of them would have been on top of their game for this week. Through the comforter over his head, he heard Ilya talking to the front desk, a muted thrill of anxiety running through him at the thought that they might notice the different accent from the last time he’d called.
The Russian hung up, and walked over to ruffle Shane’s barely visible hair. “Is done. See you for press, tomorrow.”
“See you.” The Canadian responded, although it was barely audible. He waited sullenly for Ilya’s footsteps to cross the room, and the door to open and shut before poking his head out. Wait, what the fuck had he actually ordered him?
…
Shane shifted his position against the wall for the fourth time in as many minutes, the fever and the anxiety combining to make him the most uncomfortable in a suit that he’d ever felt. And that was saying something. Situations where he had to dress up like this were not exactly his favourite. He sighed, rolling his shoulders back as he adjusted his stance again, the starched fabric of the suit rustling irritatingly as he did so.
“What?” Ilya almost snapped, studying him with a frown that was half focused scrutiny, half a defence against his headache.
Shane met his eyes immediately, unable to stop himself from voicing his anxieties now that he’d been prompted, “Just- what if they figure it out? Like we're sharing a fucking cold and we're not even on the same team normally. That's pretty fucking obvious, right?”
They were about to go into a press conference, just the two of them standing out in the corridor, waiting for someone to come out and bring them in. They could hear chairs shifting and the hubbub of reporters catching up with one another from inside the room. It was the waiting that was the problem, really. If they could just go in and get it over with… but no, they had to stand out here waiting, with nothing to do. Not a great setup considering their reported animosity for each other. What if they’d gotten into a fight and bludgeoned each other to death with the sponsored metal water bottles they were both currently sporting?
“Maybe.” Ilya's gaze turned distant as he thought for a moment. “It would be easier if more people were sick, yes?”
“Sure, but suddenly everyone's got immune systems of steel, seems like.” Shane sniffled softly as he lamented the lack of contagion resulting from their camaraderie.
“Maybe you should put your tongue down more of their throats.” Ilya cleared his own to make a point.
“Fuck off.”
The Russian moved closer in defiance, making the most of the pillar between them and the press room that partially shielded then from the view of anyone walking out that way.
Shane said nothing, inhibitions fever-dulled, desire to be touched, comforted magnified by the malaise, swallowing thickly as Ilya's face moved closer and closer to his, hands squeezed tightly around his water bottle as if holding it was an excuse not to move away. The blond captured his lips softly with his own before pulling back again. They shouldn’t be doing this. Not here.
His hand closed around the Canadian’s, tugging it away from the cool metal, and for a second Shane thought he was trying to be romantic. But no, he was just pressing his own water bottle into his other hand, freeing up both of his own so he could cup Shane's face as he kissed him. Fuck, they really shouldn’t be doing this.
It was daring, dangerous, and completely exhilarating, and as much as it chased away the nerves with something brighter and sharper, it didn't particularly help with how he was feeling physically, and Shane found himself sniffling helplessly against Ilya's cheek, trying to keep himself together. In more ways than one.
When they broke apart, he turned in the direction of his shoulder to sniff a little more forcefully, turning back with a wince, “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
Ilya pressed a single finger under his chin, tilting it upwards and then poking experimentally at his septum with his other hand. “We are both sick. It doesn’t matter.”
“D-hh-on’t do that!” Shane twisted his head out of Ilya's hands, crinkling his nose in an attempt to fight back against the automatic response.
“Why?” If he hadn't been so caught up in the need to sneeze, he would have been absolutely infuriated by the question, he was sure.
“B-ihh-ecause, it's gonna-” Shane attempted to shove Ilya's water bottle back into his hands, but the blond made no move to take it, “-make me sn-ihh-eeze you f-uhh-cking idiot.”
Ilya didn't respond, and his eyes were fluttering shut automatically, so he couldn't even see the Russian's expression as he fought the building urge, tooth and nail. Could he drop the bottles? There was nowhere to put them down and Ilya was clearly not going to be decent and take them. He could still feel the blond standing in front of him, keeping him trapped against the wall. Would it be more noticeable if he dropped the water bottles on the floor and sneezed silently or if he held on to them and sneezed aloud? But no hands to stifle meant no hands to cover, either, and with the Russian right in front of him…There was no good option here.
Just when Shane thought it was all over, and there was no way he could breathe without coming apart, he felt Ilya’s cold fingers suddenly pinching his nose shut. He opened his eyes to see that intense, daring look in the Russian’s gaze, but before he could process what was happening the shock washed away and the itch returned full force.
“hHNGGTt!”
Ilya’s hand retreated, but Shane’s eyes stayed closed, breath still catching and stuttering.
“Another?” He questioned, intrigued, attentive to the brunet’s stricken expression.
Shane could only nod. The strong, supportive grip returned. The urge to sneeze competed for attention with the butterflies in his stomach. Don’t think about it. Don’t fucking think about it.
“hHNGTTch! Sorry.” He muttered on the exhale, unable to stifle perfectly without the comfort of his own hands in control.
Ilya moved his hand to hold Shane’s chin instead, pulling him closer, forcing him to meet his gaze. “God.” He kissed him. “Bless.” And again. “You.” The third kiss was deeper, and the Canadian could feel him smirking into his mouth. Heat rushed to his face at the realisation of what had just happened, what he’d just done. He willed the blood away. Literally go anywhere else, he couldn’t walk into this thing blushing. Or wait, no- not anywhere else.
Ilya pulled back, immediately glancing over the hand he’d used to pinch Shane’s nose with passive curiosity. “How the fuck do you do that? I thought your head was going to explode.”
Shane shrugged, trying to regain the concept of 'casual'. “Practice.”
“Will you teach me?” Ilya took a step back, straightening his tie. “It looks useful.”
“Fuck no.” He was glad to already be flushed, because the image in his brain was enough to send all the blood to his head three times over, “I think it’s pretty bad for you anyway.”
“Then why-”
The door of the press room starting to open cut Ilya off. He snatched his water bottle back, taking a big step backwards as Shane ran a hand under his nose, checking he was presentable. He felt like he was still blushing. Fuck, was he blushing?
“Alright, we're ready for you guys now.”
“Thank you.” And without a glance backwards, Ilya was walking in. Shane took a staccato breath, suppressed a shudder, and followed him.
…
It was the same questions as usual, essentially. The expected questions, anyway. He answered them with barely a second thought, mind still out in the hallway. Until-
“Shane, somebody mentioned that you were feeling a little under the weather recently, is that going to affect your game at all?”
Shane’s heartbeat thumped in his chest, the lights suddenly ten times brighter, accusatory. Somebody had mentioned? Who the hell would even know that? He'd barely hinted at it when he'd cancelled yesterday. “Uh-”
“You heard wrong.” Ilya interrupted, leaning forward pointedly into his microphone. “I am sick. Not Hollander.” He punctuated the statement with a rough sniff, and a cough that he had the grace to direct slightly away from the microphone.
Floating outside of his body, Shane heard himself mutter, “Yeah.” into the mic before Ilya started saying something about what could and couldn’t affect his game. As far as Shane could tell, there was very little in the ‘could’ list.
He slowly returned to inhabiting his physical body again over the next few questions, and was halfway through some bullshit about camaraderie, when Ilya twisted sharply away in his seat.
“kKH! hiHKk! KKHh! hhihAGHKkh! hhAHSHHhoo!”
The first few sneezes were almost coughs, but the force with which they shook him was unmistakeable. He caught the first few against his fist before switching to using his hand simply to shield his face from the press, palm towards the cameras as he sneezed in the direction of the floor.
Shane leaned forward into the mic as he watched him sit back in his seat. “Uh, bless you.”
The room of reporters echoed his sentiment and Ilya nodded tiredly. “Thank you. Please, continue.”
Honestly, he wasn’t sure he could, his mind back to racing at a million miles an hour. Now that Ilya had confirmed his rumoured illness, Shane had to try even harder to keep from showing a single symptom. They were on the same team, it wasn’t unlikely that they would catch this shit from each other, but when they were only supposed to have been in the same state, let alone the same room for like 20 hours…
“So, yeah. Probably the most important element of performance.” He finished lamely, unable to fully recall the question.
“Great, thank you.” The reporter acknowledged him, before the next question started.
It wasn’t a long conference, as there were other players to fit in, and since they hadn’t actually played anything yet, there wasn’t too much to talk about. Shane found subtle ways to rest his aching throat and sniff back the congestion that the microphones and cameras wouldn’t pick up. Ilya frequently excused himself mid-sentence to clear his throat or drink some water or sniffle against the back of his hand, Shane’s knee softly knocking into his in wordless comfort when he seemed to be struggling.
They stood, nodding in response to the reporters’ thanks, Shane following Ilya back to the door. He was so focused on getting out of there, he barely noticed when the blond stopped abruptly, and almost crashed into the back of him.
“You okay?” He muttered, mindful of the still hot mics and lenses in their vicinity.
“ihHKk! KKkh! hKk! hhiHKKh! huhHKSHh! KSHh! hhAHPSHhOo!” Was Ilya’s only response, starting by ducking slightly away from the cameras and winding up setting his water bottle down on the table they were still standing behind so he could cup both hands over his nose and mouth.
“Bless you, man.” Shane awkwardly clapped the Russian on the back as he slipped around in front of him to open the door, the instinct to be more familiar with him, more caring, fighting against his logical attempts to repress it.
“Yeah.” Ilya mumbled, retrieving his water bottle and heading out into the corridor without looking back at the field of reporters who’d also mostly murmured blessings in response to the display. A display that Shane was sure would be circulating the media for the rest of the week, longer if they lost. Fuck, he'd really have to keep it together if he didn't want to be in that headline too.
after having this fetish and being involved in the community for years i have finally done it. i have finally written snezfic. inspired by this prompt by @just-a-nervous-bean, with some liberties taken.
sooo here you go, for all those interested! 3k words of lesbian sex, contagion kink, subby!franziska, and maya’s wall-shaking sneezes that i am so very in love with. for a full list of content tags please check it out on AO3! comments, reblogs, and any other feedback is encouraged!
i also take requests, if anyone wants more of these girlies, hehe. alright, here you go!
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Hiiiii long time lurker first time posting ☺️ ive been in a couple small communities but this is my first jump into tumblr so plz be kind 😅 my dm’s are open so feel free to say hi! (Minors DNI)
prequel to greedy. ilya discovers shanes sneeze kink. lots of edging. some spellings. as usual please read bio if u stumbled here.
_
“Oh, bless you,” Ilya hums vaguely, eyes fixed on something in their fridge.
“Thank you,” Shane can’t help if he blushes as he replies. Ilya doesn’t know what this is doing to him. And thank god he doesn’t. He hides a sniffle behind his hand.
Lucky for Shane, one of his best talents is masking everything that’s happening inside his head and setting on a polite face.
Unlucky for Shane, he has no ability to control the way his other head twitches when Ilya turns around, shuts the door like an afterthought, and says, “You have allergies?”
“No, I don’t –”
“You are sneezing so much.” He eyes Shane suspiciously.
“Are you getting sick? Is this sabotage, Hollander? I am leaving for pre-season and you have this evil plan to infect me?”
Holy shit. Ilya wants to fucking kill him.
“No. Shut up.” Shane tries his hardest to remain casual. He sits at one of the stools at their kitchen island to hide the evidence from Ilya, who is still studying ingredients.
“Something’s bothering me, I guess.” Truer words have never been spoken.
It’s not even the sneezing that is making him so hard. It’s the fact that he’s sneezing and Ilya is watching – even though he’s not really paying attention – and hearing everything. It’s that he’s present for every bit of Shane’s unraveling.
It’s that Shane can’t control this unraveling as it happens. He’s trying, really fucking hard, to control it. He doesn’t want to sneeze. And that’s even worse because all the blood is rushing from his brain straight to his cock the longer he tries to tamper down the itchy feeling in his sinuses.
He watches as Ilya fixes himself dinner. Shane had offered to make him something, when he’d arrived, but he had insisted on fending for himself. It’s off-season. I will find my own combination of foods I want to eat from Shane Hollander’s rabbit kitchen.
He scrubs at his nose. It’s still testing him.
Ilya had arrived at their cottage and immediately swept Shane up in his arms. These arms included a bone-breaking hug and a forceful, hungry kiss.
Shane had been all in, until he registered that Ilya was wearing something new on his skin. Whatever scent he had on had, unsuspectingly, made its way from his boyfriend’s pulse points and up into the recesses of his nasal cavity. And it had fucking burned. And itched. And…
All this to explain why he’s been struggling ever since. A stifled fit into his boyfriend’s shoulder as they embraced had been the start. And now, three more itchy sneezes pinched between his forefinger and thumb — he understands why Ilya took notice.
“Shane.”
“Ilya.”
Ilya sets down the spoon and leans against the counter, arms crossed. The evil-scented fabric of his shirt pulls across his muscular shoulders. Shane’s nose twitches traitorously as he tries to hold the gaze
“Is it me?” Ilya asks. He doesn’t sound offended. He sounds more curious. A little careful, in the particular way he gets when he’s working something out.
Shane’s brain runs a very quick cost-benefit analysis. Cost: I have a weird kink. You’re going to chirp me about it forever. No, I can’t explain it. Benefits: My dick is so hard it hurts and I need you to touch me right now. Please. And maybe you’ll sneeze for me sometime.
“It – hh – whatever you’re wearing,” he says. “I think I’m sensitive to it.”
Something shifts in Ilya’s face. He reaches his wrist to his nose and takes a deep, thoughtful sniff.
“My cologne?”
“I think so.” Snf.
“Hm. It is new. Test?”
And Ilya is shoving his wrist under Shane’s nose before he can react.
Shane’s mouth falls open with an involuntary moan because this just pushed a hidden button inside him. He claps a hand over it and shifts back in horror, but not before he gets a huge noseful of itchy musk.
“Ehh’IkKh’SHhUu!!” He follows this up with three more desperate attempts at stifles. It’s so tickly, the scent, forcing its way into the back of his sinuses and activating some deep trigger. He’s been fighting it off, but to have it presented like that, so strongly. Like a hit of smelling salts.
Wetness leaks from his eyes and bursts between his tightly-clenched fingers at the tip of his nose.
He needs to get out of here now. He will as soon as he can catch a breath. Ilya’s staring, he knows this for certain even with his own eyes screwed shut and free hand steepled over the lower half of his face.
He gasps, head flicking up in an imitation of rage and giving his best glare to his boyfriend between irritated, watery eyes. He’s not where Shane had last seen him – he’s standing beside Shane with a damp paper towel in his hand.
“Sorry котик, I just rinsed my arms, okay?” He sounds genuinely regretful as he goes to wipe under Shane’s eyes, then all of a sudden stops with a jolt. His hand is half-raised to Shane’s face, but his gaze is down at —
“Huh,” is all Ilya says, so quiet Shane almost misses it. He resumes wiping at Shane’s face. As if that isn’t ominous.
As the damp paper towel swipes under Shane’s nose, it triggers another sneeze. His immune system has been thrown into overdrive and is reacting on a hair trigger.
“H’h’E’shz’ieWWw, hh!, hh, sor— eh’zS’CHEIWw!” And it’s right against Ilya’s large palm.
An itchy, desperate outburst of relief, freeing him from the violent building in his nose. It’s possibly the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. And also the most mortifying. He gasps out an apology between desperate, liquid sniffles, but he’s becoming even more distant and floaty.
He’s so fucking needy. Ilya saw his visible arousal and ignored it. This never happens. So it’s a game for him, then. A game that Shane really wants to lose.
He thinks Ilya is onto him and he’s being gentle about it. He wants him to call him out, to pin him up against the countertop and embrace his every filthy desire.
“I…” his eyes are streaming, burning irritated red at the sides, and he wipes a wrist over the moisture, sniffling, “I…”
Suddenly, Ilya forces in. He flicks his tongue at his cupid's bow, collecting up wetness Shane hadn’t known was there. He moans involuntarily at the contact, words falling away. Ilya licks around his nostrils and sucks a wet kiss at his philtrum. He should, really, force him off. But he’s beyond high off the feeling, and Ilya is always his drug of choice.
“You are sneezy from my cologne?” Ilya asks, as if his tongue hasn’t been making Shane crazy.
His whole body is on fire as he groans; and, finally, allows himself to palm at his own dick. Sparks tingle across his whole body with the contact. He might need aftercare just from this.
“F-fuck. Yes. It’s – uh, shit. Touch me, please. I like it. When –” He can’t articulate it, but Ilya stops him with a primal, biting kiss to his lower lip.
“You like to sneeze?” Ilya asks, voice lilting, yet sincere as he pulls away and runs a hand down Shane’s waist. His other hand thumbs at his cheek and moves towards the edge of his nostril.
“No. I don’t think it’s –” he’s panting, floating in ecstasy; his eyes are still closed as he pulses with pure, unadulterated want.
“I think maybe you do, no?” His boyfriend squeezes a hand over his dick and he moans with want. Moans. He feels the need for him rise up behind his eyes, splitting into bursts in his aching sinuses.
“It’s weird,” Shane complains with a careful sniffle, finding himself. He forces Ilya’s hand away from his leaking cock. “Fuck off.”
“Is hot, too. If you like it? I will want to make you…” Ilya, the dirty bastard that he is, lets his voice trail off and licks his lips as he pauses for emphasis, “sneeze?”
“Fuck off.” He tingles, whole-bodied. Ilya is completely right, of course. Because there’s no way Shane would have ended up with anyone except someone who can read him completely. His brain is going static-y, like an unreachable channel.
Ilya darts his tongue out to the tip of Shane’s nose and he gasps, shoving him off.
He squeezes his nose between two tightly-held, flat palms as he stifles, once, twice, expression pinching as he shudders with the feeling.
“I think you like that,” Ilya teases. He palms at Shane’s dick again and he shudders, moans, “but I will shower, okay?”
If he insists, then Shane will wait. Even as he's so hard that he's seeing spots.
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BDSM snz idea (will contain mess!)
A Brat type with an obvious cold, runny/stuffy nose, face flushness, sore throat, sneezing and coughing.
Their dom asks if their sick and the brat type denies it even though Dom knows they're sick. So dom decides to play keep away with the tissues until their sub admits it. Maybe they use their own shirt (or their dom's) until they can't take it anymore and begin to beg for a tissue.
"pl-please sir/miss/mx, cad I-i haaah hah! have a tihhh hih! tissue?" But of course just this little ask isn't enough. the Dom wants more!
"hm? but i though you weren't sick sweetheart, why would you need a tissue?!" The dom replies wanting to give their sub a taste of their own medicine (haha pun)
Thee sub keeps sniffling and snuffling to keep their runny nose in check as best they can but its only making the tickle in their nose worse.
"pl-please I-I hih! I need th-them'b" "And why is that???"
"b-behhh because i-i hahhh Have a c-cold" The dom chuckles and smirk widely.
"oh you do?! why don't you tell me what doesn't feel good" The sub knows the dom's doing this to humiliate them and boy is it working.
"M-my h-head h-hurts, s-so does my throat aaah hhhaaah! and! EEETCHIIIEW! EEETCHHIIIEEW! ugh my dn-dnose iiih! IITSHIIIEW!"
The sub could hardly get a word out as each sneeze caused their nose to drip and leak with snot and spray wetly. Their breath still hitching signaling their nose still wasn't done making a mess out of them yet.
"Oh what about your nose, lil pet?" The sub begins to desperate fan at their face while they continue.
"It s-s-so stuuuuhh stuffy, ad ruddy aaahh ad so tiiih tih hih! IIH'CHIIEW! tickly!" The dom gets nice and close to their sub and chuckles a little.
"oh yeah its all red and irritated honey, I think you do need a tissue" They slowly pull one from the box and press it to their sub's trembling and leaking nose.
"go on, now right into the tissue" The sub gasped hugely and went into a fit. This quickly soaked the tissue, the dom could feel the wetness already seeping through and coating their hand but they kept going until the sub stopped. Pulling away the tissue caused many strings and cords of snot of varying thickness to follow. The dom laughs once more and says.
"aaaw my poor baby, you really do have a bad cold. Look at the mess you made. All that snot oozing out of your nose, you got my hand all wet too! tsk tsk tsk what am i gonna do with you and that nose of yours~" The sub looks up at their dom, blushing in horny embarrassment. The dom kisses their forehead and pulls them to their chest.
"Guess that means I'm gonna have to take care of you.~"
Just watched a cute streamer try to write code while taking a hit of weed every 15 min, trying to finish the game he was modding before he got too stoned to continue. Watching him get progressively gigglier and more unable to focus was definitely making me feel some type of way
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*emerges from a room, cartoonishly fucking drenched, and grinning ear-to-ear* Heh... You should see the other guy
*"other guy" in question emerges from the same room with the reddest, twitchiest, most tormented nose you've ever seen, damp eyelashes, breathing through his mouth, & with pieces of feather still stuck in his hair*
“erm this artist’s style is a little weird…im worried that they might draw fetish art in private…” ok awesome i hope so. i wish Michelangelo painted inflation vore Mario in the sistine chapel instead of boring church shit. who fucking cares !!!!
Hoarding coldfucker content like a dragon @catchingcozysnz - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
