...oops, I did it again!

At first, Bucky had insisted he was fine, that he could manage an eight hour expedition into Louisiana’s ragweed and pollen-rich swamps without any problems. But after spending the first hour of the day coughing, sniffling, sneezing and wheezing in constant rotation, and then launching into an astonishing sneezing fit during breakfast (18 times within 20 seconds), Sam made the executive decision to call off the fishing trip they were supposed to go on with his nephews.

“I told you already, Buck. It’s fine.” Sam sets a Kleenex box on the coffee table. “We’ll do it another time, reschedule.”

Bucky squints, pink nostrils flaring. “But a-are the boys really dis… disa… disahh’TSHhh—” he jolts from his pillow and sneezes harsh enough to send tears down his face. “Guh, disappointed?”

Sam tries- and fails- to suppress an amused smile.

Despite having heard Bucky sneeze at least a hundred times already today, there’s just something about the way he interrupts himself with an itchy little burst that makes Sam feel all gooey inside.

“It’s not funny, Sam,” Bucky huffs, offended. “Was waiting ten minutes for that sneeze- snf!- and not even a damn bless you.”

Sam shakes his head with a fond chuckle as he settles himself into the loveseat closest to the couch. Meanwhile, Bucky lets out a stuffy groan, using his fingertips to massage the tender spots under his eyes where his sinuses are the most backed up.

“You know, I thought you said Steve was the one with all the allergies.”

“Yeah, well, the twenty first century…” Bucky laments, gesturing vaguely at the air with his vibranium hand, “it doesn’t agree with me.”

Sam laughs. “I just think your little urban nose isn’t quite acquainted with the Southern pollen. Huh, city boy?” He boops the tip of Bucky’s nose, drawing out a ticklish gasp.

“hih’hiH—!? Ugh…” the cresting sneeze backs down almost as quickly as it came on, but Bucky feels it lingering in his swollen nasal cavities. “It’s pro’ly both,” he says, answering Sam’s mostly rhetorical question. He gives his nose a good rub, hoping to tease the sneeze out.

“Hm. Probably,” Sam grins, endeared. He watches Bucky focus on his nose, nostrils twitching and breath wavering. “Is it- oh, yeah, there you go,” he says when Bucky finally draws in a deep, pre-sneeze inhale.

“eH’DJSSHhiw!!” Bucky curls forward, sneezing openly at his lap while Sam keeps a steady hand on his back. “huH— EH’TZSChiiw!!”

“Bless you. You good?”

“I think- oh no.” Bucky pinches his quivering nostrils shut and stifles three sneezes into wet, squeaky squelches. “hih’kkddt! dDZSshh! gDZzhsht!!”

“Aw, wow. Those all came at once.”

Bucky scrunches up his face and roughly rubs his nose with the back of his metal hand. “God, I’m still so itchy.”

“Easy there, tiger,” Sam says, taking Bucky’s wrist away from his face. “Want me to do the compress thing?”

“Ngh... I guess. Just need to- h’hih—?!” He hitches desperately to no avail, then lets out an annoyed groan as his nostrils continue to quiver teasingly. “Need to get this itch out of my nose.”

Sam rises and gives Bucky a pat on the shoulder. “I think it’ll help.”

“Huh… h’hopefully— hih’DZZSHhk!!” He sneezes again, itchy-sounding and frustratingly useless. “Dammit.” He forcefully scrubs at his suffering nose all over again.

Sam frowns with pity. “Bless you, Buck. Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

***

Taehyung is the opposite. He tosses his towel down haphazardly in the sand under the umbrella, pushing his sunglasses up and grabbing a bottle of sunscreen. Before he opens it, however, he turns to look at the lifeguard stand nearby, squinting up at the empty seat.

“I hope Jungkook is okay. I haven’t seen him yet today.”

Jimin turns around and raises an eyebrow. “Who’s Jungkook?”

Taehyung’s mouth opens and closes silently like a fish out of water.

“No fucking way,” Jimin whines, half impressed. “You talked to him? Without me?” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “You horny fucking bastard.”

“I’m sorry.” Taehyung ducks his head guiltily. Then, he looks back up, eyes flashing in delight. “Jiminie, he’s fucking gorgeous up close. He’s a goddamn tree. And he’s more of a himbo that we could have possibly guessed.”

Jimin feels a shiver run down his spine. “Fuck, Tae.”

“I know.” 

Now, they both turn to look at the unoccupied lifeguard stand.

“Well. There’s no use putting this on if he’s not here to watch us today,” Jimin pouts, grabbing the bottle of sunscreen and tossing it into his beach bag. “I’ll move my towel under the umbrella with yours.”

“Wait.” Taehyung throws his arm out across Jimin’s chest. “Look.”

Jimin looks. There, trudging across the sand, is the beautiful, beefy lifeguard– Jungkook, apparently. He’s wearing his usual bright red shorts and his sexy sunglasses, but he’s also wearing, to Jimin and Taehyung’s immense surprise, a big gray hoodie.

“A hoodie?” Jimin gasps. “In this heat?”

“Who cares!” Taehyung exclaims, diving for the beach bag. “Sunscreen time!”

Jimin scrambles to take his t-shirt off. He tugs his swim trunks down low on his hips and adjusts his sunglasses, turning to face the lifeguard stand square on. Reaching up, he gathers his long blonde hair into a messy bun, securing it on the top of his head with a hair tie. 

Taehyung squeezes a heaping pile of sunscreen into his palm. “Go time,” he whispers, and then rubs his hands together before standing at Jimin’s side. 

“Tae!” Jimin screeches as soon as Taehyung’s hands touch his skin, rubbing the sunscreen into his exposed chest. “Ahh, it’s so cold!”

His dramatics have the desired effect; Jungkook’s head snaps in their direction, his sunglasses-protected gaze scanning the empty beach until he locks in on Jimin and Taehyung.

Taehyung grins and massages sunscreen into Jimin’s pecs and abs. “You’re sooo sensitive, Jiminie!”

Jimin arches his back into the touch. His skin is glistening under the sunshine, and he knows he looks damn good like this.

“TaeTae, stop! You know my nipples are sensitive!" 

The lifeguard– Jungkook, Jimin reminds himself– stares in their direction, mouth open. 

Taehyung lifts a hand into the air and waves. “Hello!”

Jungkook turns and looks over his shoulder. Jimin can see the visible confusion on his face despite his sunglasses, and it makes him giggle. When Jungkook looks back at them, Taehyung is still waving.

Lifting his own hand, Jungkook starts to wave back, but then he stops, frozen, mouth falling open even wider.

“What is he doing?” Jimin hisses through his smile.

“I think he’s–”

iiiihh-shoo! 

A sneeze bursts out of Jungkook like he’s spitting it out, and based on the way his mouth is still open and he doesn’t cover his face, Jimin’s willing to bet there’s quite a bit of actual saliva coming out. 

The sneeze sounds almost desperate. It also sounds, if Jimin is being completely honest, germ-ridden, and it makes his stomach swoop in an unidentifiably uncomfortable way. But the dazed look on Jungkook’s face and the little whimper he makes afterward– a pathetic noise that carries easily over the sound of the waves– turns that feeling straight into arousal. 

“Oh my god,” Taehyung huffs, his teeth out in a wide smile. “That is not a sound you want to hear at the beach.”

“No,” Jimin agrees. 

“Look at him– aw, he’s gonna sneeze again. Wonder what’s bothering hi– awww, look at him, Jiminie! Sorry, but he’s cute when he sneezes? How is that fair?”

Swallowing back a reply, Jimin watches as Jungkook sneezes again. And then again. And then a third– fourth?– time.

“Holy shit,” Taehyung whistles. 

“Holy shit,” Jimin echoes, frowning as Jungkook drags the sleeve of his hoodie under his nose. Even from this distance, Jimin can see the trail of snot left behind that turns the fabric a darker gray.

Jungkook seems to have forgotten about them by the time he’s done sneezing. He turns around, searching for his lifeguard stand like he’s lost track of it, and then he’s climbing up into the seat.

“Fuck. Thought he might come over today.”

Jimin nods and puts his hands on his hips. “Let’s go to him.”

“What?”

“Let’s go over there. Last week when we tried our other plan, he didn’t think we were drowning and he just waved at us. Imagine if we had actually been drowning?”

“Right. So…we’re gonna go talk to him?” 

Nodding, Jimin starts walking. “More than just talk, if I have anything to say about it.”

As they approach, Jungkook sneezes again. His whole entire big muscular body lurches forward. Jimin and Taehyung watch in horror as he keeps going, sliding to the edge of the chair and wobbling precariously back and forth as the entire stand rocks forward, then backward. 

They can only watch in horror as another desperate look crosses Jungkook’s face, his head tipping back and his chest expanding far enough that Jimin can see the hoodie stretching taut. One of Jungkook’s hands grip the edge of the chair, and the other hovers in front of his face, trembling, until the sneeze finally escapes.

Jimin starts to run. He can see what’s about to happen from a mile away– but luckily, he’s only a few feet away now.  

The sneeze sends Jungkook tumbling forward. He tries to stop himself, but ends up twisting sideways, one hand gripping tightly onto the armrest of the chair until it slips from his grasp and he falls to the ground. 

Luckily, the ground isn’t so far down.

Jungkook lands feet first and then rolls back, flopping flat onto his back in the sand. He doesn’t make a sound– just lies there, his expression frozen in shock.  

“Holy shit, are you okay?” Jimin yelps, kneeling next to Jungkook.

Taehyung dives to the ground on his other side, hands hovering over Jungkook’s chest. 

“He needs CPR!” Taehyung shouts.

“No,” Jimin replies, trying to stay calm. He can see that Taehyung is not staying calm. “He just got the wind knocked out of him.”

“Mouth-to-mouth!” Taehyung exclaims, but Jimin stops him with an arm across his chest before he can get his mouth on Jungkook’s.

“Taehyung,” he snaps, eyeing Jungkook’s chapped lips. Pretty, but chapped. “He’s fine. He just needs a minute to recover. He’s still breathing, okay?” 

Jungkook is groaning between them now, his eyes closed and his fingers digging into the sand. Jimin puts a hand on Jungkook’s chest and shudders at the feeling of all that muscle under the sweatshirt.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re Jungkook, right?” 

Jungkook’s eyes fly open. He sucks in a huge breath and then coughs.

“Shh, okay. See, you’re okay. Just had a little fall, hm?”

Taehyung’s hand join’s Jimin’s on Jungkook’s chest. “And you’re still breathing,” he supplies helpfully. “So we don’t need to do CPR.”

Jimin snorts out a laugh. “God, Tae. You really want to kiss him when he’s all…” He gestures vaguely at Jungkook’s face.

“Yes,” Taehyung replies without hesitation. “I do. Don’t you?”

Honestly, Jimin gets it. Even with his red, runny nose and the chapped lips, Jungkook is hotter than hot. His face is pretty, his body is divine, and for some reason every little sound he makes and every expression that crosses his perfect face is driving Jimin wild with lust.

Currently, Jungkook’s breathy little pants as he tries to catch his breath are giving Jimin unholy thoughts. The way he’s looking up at them, his gaze endearingly hazy, is causing Jimin to imagine what other activities might lead to that kind of befuddled, empty stare. He just knows that Jungkook would have such a pretty org–

Jimin comes to his senses, shaking his head to clear the mental image of Jungkook’s imagined pleasure, and realizes that his dick is half-hard and Taehyung is running his fingers through Jungkook’s hair like they’re already lovers. 

“Hey,” he blurts out, grabbing Taehyung’s wrist before he can stop himself.

Taehyung gives him a cheeky grin and squeezes Jungkook’s hand, which apparently he’s been holding with his other hand. “I think he caught his breath, Jiminie.”

Jungkook is panting, loud and noisy. Slowly, they help him into a sitting position. Up close, Jimin can see that his nose is visibly running, and prays that the lifeguard has a pack of tissues somewhere on him.

Jungkook wipes his nose with his wrist, and looks between Jimin and Taehyung, blinking a few times.

“Oh,” he says softly, breathless. He’s all congested and hoarse, but his voice is surprisingly sweet. “It’s you guys…”

“Oh? You recognize us, huh?” Jimin smirks. “You’ve been watching us, haven’t you?”

Jungkook’s cheeks turn pink, but he nods earnestly. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ve been watching you too.” Jimin reaches for his shoulder. “Are you feeling okay now? Do you want to stand up?” 

Jimin moves his hand down to Jungkook’s bicep, feeling him up through his hoodie as he watches Jungkook sniffle dazedly and seemingly try to decide if he is in fact okay to stand up now or not. After a minute, he nods. Jimin, who’s squeezing Jungkook’s forearm now, moves his hand back up to Jungkook’s shoulder and smiles.

“Okay, great. Want some help?”

Sniffling wetly into his sleeve, Jungkook shakes his head and pops right up off the ground, startling both Jimin and Taehyung. 

“Whoa,” Taehyung chuckles, holding out both hands like he thinks Jungkook is going to fall down again. “Easy, big guy.” 

Jimin brushes the sand from his knees and straightens up. Jungkook is taller than him, and a little taller than Taehyung, too. It feels like he’s towering over them, broad-shouldered and confidently taking up every bit of space that his muscular body fills.     

Then, Jungkook sniffles, and he seems to shrink back a little, eyelashes fluttering in irritation as he drags his hoodie sleeve under his nose again.

“Do you happen to have any tissues?” Jimin asks him, peeking around for a backpack or something. 

“Tissues?” Jungkook asks.

“For your nose,” Jimin prompts.

After a second, Jungkook’s face lights up with understanding. “Oh, yeah. I have a cold,” he announces, his voice deep and raspy. 

“Yes. You poor thing.” Jimin tilts his head. “Why did you come to work today?” 

Jungkook also tilts his head, looking legitimately confused by the question. “I come to work every day.”

Taehyung laughs, head thrown back. “Did you hear that?” he asks. “Hilarious.” 

“Don’t listen to Tae,” Jimin rushes to say when he sees the bewildered look on Jungkook’s face. “I’m sorry you have a cold. You must not feel very well.”

“I’m really cold,” Jungkook agrees, turning big, watery eyes on Jimin, his voice thick with congestion. “And my nose is stuffed up.”

Something comes over Jimin that he’s never felt before, something he’d never be able to put into words. He reaches up, cupping Jungkook’s flushed cheek, and longs to pull him into a hug. 

A hug.

A hug won’t do, though. 

Not even when Jungkook is leaning into the touch like a cat, unashamedly rubbing his fever-flushed cheek all over Jimin’s palm, his eyes closed and a blissful smile spreading across his face. 

Instead, Jimin slides his hand down to the side of Jungkook’s neck, where his skin is even hotter, and swallows back most of his concern.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jimin coos. “You’re burning up. Why don’t you take this off and come into the water with us to cool down?” He tugs at the hem of Jungkook’s lifeguard hoodie.

Wet a wet, wet sniffle, Jungkook nods and lifts his arms up, and Jimin coos again, tugging the hoodie up and over his head.

The sight that meets them is glorious. They’ve seen Jungkook shirtless before, of course– it’s the main reason why they come to this beach, after all– but seeing it up close is a different story.

As soon as the hoodie is off, Jungkook’s skin erupts all over in goosebumps, and he shivers once, a full-body thing that makes his toes curl into the sand and his teeth clatter together. Taehyung had certainly been right– Jungkook is big. Big. So big that Jimin’s cock twitches at just the thought of Jungkook in the gym, working out every day, pumping iron with those big glorious muscles.

He could probably take on Taehyung and Jimin both at once, easily, without a single struggle. 

His skin is beautiful, too, glowing and blemish-free, with tiny little moles sprinkled all over– and he’s flushed from his face down to his chest. Jimin’s eyes go straight to his nipples, tiny and perky and rock hard, and then to the tiny trail of peach fuzz below his belly button that disappears into the waistband of his swim trunks.

Suddenly, Jungkook’s hand flies up to hover in front of his face, and he makes a squeaky, congested little sound, his face scrunching up adorably. 

“You okay?” Jimin chuckles, breathless, aroused. 

Jungkook reaches out with his other hand, trying to grab something without really looking– because his eyelashes are fluttering rapidly, his teary gaze unfocused. Jimin and Taehyung watch him, slightly confused, until Jungkook manages to get his fingers around the hoodie that Jimin is still holding.

“Oh, are you too cold? Do you–”

Jungkook grabs onto his hoodie and yanks it back, bunches it up in front of his face, and sneezes mightily right into the fabric. 

“iiiihh-shoo!”

The sneeze sounds wet. It’s followed by a second wet sneeze– htsch’shoo!– and an even wetter sniffle.

“Fucking gross,” Taehyung says, but he sounds more amused than disgusted. 

Jimin himself is completely speechless. 

With a shuddering, desperate inhale, Jungkook sneezes yet again. “hhhh-IHHCH’shoo!” 

Jungkook finally lifts his head. There’s a string of snot that goes with him, stretching between his nose and the hoodie until he sniffs hard and it breaks.

“Repulsive.” Taehyung laughs, bright and delighted. “Bless you!”

Jungkook doesn’t respond. His eyes are already rolling up again, his massive chest heaving with frantic breaths.

“hhHH! hihhh! hhHH-IIISHOO!”

Most of the sneeze makes it into the hoodie. Some of it, Jimin can see, does not. Jungkook shakes his head back and forth, scrubbing his nose against the damp fabric, and then looks up with red-rimmed eyes and a bright red nose.

“Bless you,” Jimin murmurs reflexively. “Can you stop? I mean, are you…done? With the…the sneezing?” 

Jungkook nods his head eagerly and it reminds Jimin of an overexcited puppy. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice trembling in a very unconvincing way. “M’done.” He drops the hoodie into the sand at his feet. 

“Good.” Jimin smiles at him. “That’s good.”

Jungkook’s neck and ears turn red at that. His nostrils flare dangerously, but he jams a knuckle under his nose. Jimin can see, because Jungkook’s lips are slightly parted, his tongue pressing up against the roof of his mouth. 

Jimin looks over at Taehyung, raising his eyebrows when Taehyung looks back. Without a word, Taehyung nods and takes Jungkook by the elbow.

“C’mon, big guy,” he says, grinning when Jimin snorts in amusement. “Let’s go down to the water. You know how to swim, right?” 

Jungkook blinks his big round eyes, processing the question. Or more accurately, not quite processing the question. 

“It was a joke,” Taehyung tells him, and Jungkook stares for a second longer before his face breaks into a big grin.

“Oh,” he giggles hoarsely. “I get it.” 

Jimin is almost positive that Jungkok does not, in fact, get it.

Almost shyly, Jungkook starts walking, his breath hitching when Taehyung’s hand slides down to grab his hand. Jimin smiles and takes Jungkook’s other hand, and Jungkook lets himself be pulled toward the water without hesitation. He only stops once they step foot into the ocean, cool waves lapping at their feet, and squeezes both of their hands in warning before–

“HHH-SHOO!”

“Bless you,” Taehyung says, but it’s drowned out by another sneeze.

Taking both of his hands back, Jungkook scrubs at his face, sniffling loudly and rocking back and forth between his feet. 

“When-hhh! Whenever I step into cold water when I have a cold it makes me sneeze like crazy,” he tells them, clearly holding back another sneeze.

“That’s very specific,” Taehyung laughs. “Jimin sneezes when he drinks red wine.”

“That is not necessary information,” Jimin mutters, but he’s too busy ogling Jungkook’s bulging biceps to be annoyed by Taehyung’s oversharing.

Jungkook’s hands are big and his fingers are long and Jimin imagines, as Jungkook uses his thumb to swipe over the tip of his nose, what they might look like rubbing the tip of something else.

“Let’s go a little farther out,” Jimin suggests, wading through the shallow water. 

Waves lap at their legs as Jimin leads Jungkook deeper into the ocean. Taehyung guides Jungkook from behind with a hand on the small of his back, and Jungkook sniffles pathetically, his nose dripping and his congested breathing loud over the sound of the waves.  

They go to where the water is waist-deep. There’s not a single other beachgoer nearby, so Jimin doesn’t feel too guilty about occupying the beach’s only lifeguard for a moment. Standing in front of Jungkook, he puts both hands on the lifeguard’s waist and strokes the skin just above his waistband with his thumbs.

“So, Jungkook,” he murmurs, “you’ve been watching us, hm?” 

Jungkook nods. His hands reach out, hesitant at first, but when Jimin gives him a smile they settle on Jimin’s hips.

Taehyung comes to stand behind Jungkook. He slides a hand up to the back of Jungkook’s neck, and his other hand wraps around Jungkook’s waist, palm pressed against his abs. 

“What do you like most about watching us?” Taehyung asks, his lips brushing Jungkook’s ear.

Shivering, Jungkook ducks his head, biting his lip like he’s too shy to say it. 

“Did you know an orgasm can help clear up a stuffy nose?” Taehyung says conspiratorially, like he’s letting Jungkook in on an especially good secret. 

“Really?” Jungkook replies, looking back up. “I didn’t know that.”

Laughing, Taehyung glances over at Jimin, raising his eyebrows. They have the same idea at the same time, both reaching down into the water to palm at the front of Jungkook’s shorts. Jungkook shivers at the touch, whining softly, and Jimin feels a thrilling rush of blood straight to his face and his cock– Jungkook is packing. He’s big. Bigger than Taehyung, even.

“So big,” Jimin gushes, looking up at Jungkook’s face. “I bet you look so pretty with your cock out, sweetheart.” 

“Ahh–” Jungkook shivers again, and thrusts his hips forward, his head tipping all the way back.

“Let’s see.” Jimin unties Jungkook’s swimsuit just enough to tug the front down a little, pulling Jungkook’s cock out. “Look at you. Already getting hard for us? Even when you’re all sneezy?” Jimin purrs, wrapping his hand around Jungkook’s thick length. 

Jungkook nods eagerly, proud. “I can get hard even when I’m sneezy.” 

Taehyung cackles. “He’s hilarious,” he says to Jimin, his hand joining Jimin’s around Jungkook’s cock. To Jungkook, he says, “Very impressive,”

Face flushing, Jungkook’s hips jerk forward again. His red nostrils flare wide, and for a moment Jimin thinks he might sneeze, but instead he just moans loudly, his breath coming in shallow, hitching gasps. 

“I…I’ve behhh…been thinkin’ about this for w-weeks," he admits, his voice hoarse but unashamed.  

Taehyung grins and presses his own erection against Jungkook’s ass. “Yeah? You’ve been watching us sunbathe and imagining us touching you like this?" 

“Y-yeah.”

Taehyung’s grip tightens, and Jungkook whines, his cock twitching. The waves toss them gently back and forth, but Jungkook is like an anchor, unmoving.  

It doesn’t take long before Jungkook is shaking all over, his glowing skin flushed all over and drenched in sweat, his thighs trembling as Jimin and Taehyung pull him closer and closer towards climax. Taehyung keeps a hand on his stomach, feels his abs clenching as he pants out whiny, whimpering moans. Jimin reaches up and toys with Jungkook’s nipple, pleased when Jungkook arches into the touch with a breathy moan. 

“I’m–” Jungkook gasps suddenly, voice cracking, and Jimin grins.

“Gonna come, sweetheart?”

A desperate cry tears from Jungkook’s throat. He brings shaky hands up, one to grip Jimin’s wrist by his chest and the other to hover in front of his face, half-clenched in a fist. 

“I’m…I…I-hhh…”

“That’s it,” Taehyung soothes, keeping up his rhythm as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Jungkook’s neck. “Come for us, big guy.” 

“I’m guhhh…I’m g-gonna– hhh…”

Chest heaving, eyes rolling up, Jungkook shudders beneath their ministrations, his entire body tensing up. 

“I…ihhh’hghh–”

“Don’t fight it,” Jimin chuckles, tugging his wrist free and brushing his thumb over Jungkook’s nipple again. “You’re so close, aren’t you?”

Jungkook does something with his head, half nodding and half shaking it back and forth, like he’s unsure of what’s about to happen to him. Which, Jimin realizes, could be true– what if Jungkook has never had an orgasm before? What if he’s only touched himself, never been touched by someone else? 

“You’re doing so well.” Jimin changes tactics a little, smoothing his hand up Jungkook’s collarbone, reaching up to cup his face. “We’re gonna make you feel so good. Just let go, okay?”

“I’m–”  

Whatever Jungkook is about to say dissolves into another whimper as Taehyung sucks on the underside of his jaw and Jimin’s thumb swipes over his slit, over and over in time with every movement of their hands together on his cock.

“Don’t hold back, sweetheart,” Jimin whispers, his own heart pounding as he watches Jungkook fall apart. 

Jungkook gasps then, his body locking up with a shuddering, desperate inhale. For a moment, he’s suspended like that, frozen where he’s teetering on the edge, until–

“hhHH-GHH’SHOO!”

A loud, wet sneeze explodes messily outward in a spraying arc. Jimin feels it splatter against his bare chest, his shoulder. His cheek, maybe, but before he has a chance to dwell on it, Jungkook’s cock pulses in his hand and he’s spilling out across Jimin’s fingers and his forearm, ropes of cum shooting out like it’s been uncorked by the force of the sneeze.

Through it all, Jungkook trembles and whines, pleasure mixed with intense relief mixed. Eventually he slumps forward, hands returning to Jimin’s waist, blissed-out and runny-nosed.  

“Wow,” Taehyung whistles.

Jimin looks over to see that he has a hand down his swim trunks, working himself furiously under the material. 

“Wow. Fuck,” Jimin adds, still processing the fact that he’s just been sneezed on and cummed on simultaneously. “Fuck.”

Jimin’s cock is hard, too, but for some reason he doesn’t reach for himself, even as the heat in his gut grows at the sight of Taehyung jerking himself off. Instead, he closes his eyes and captures the mental image of Jungkook’s helpless desperation in the seconds before he’d orgasmed– and sneezed, what the fuck– and tucks it away in the back of his mind for what will surely be a mind-blowing jerk-off session later on, when he’s alone. 

“You’re so sexy,” Taehyung says roughly, pressing himself up against Jungkook’s ass again. “God, you’re so sexy, Jungkook–”

Jungkook tries to turn around and look at Taehyung, but he’s too slow as Taehyung pulls himself out and slots his cock against the defined line of his crack. Through Jungkook’s swim trunks, Taehyung rubs the head of his cock against Jungkook’s hole, rutting his hips forward until he’s coming with a growling moan. 

“Ohh!” Jungkook gasps weakly in surprise, his cheeks turning pink. 

He bends forward, arching into the touch, and Taehyung lets go of himself to grab onto his waist with both hands. 

“Fuck,” Taehyung spits out, jaw clenched as his pleasure racks through his body. “You’d take me so fucking well, wouldn’t you, big guy?”

Jungkook nods frantically and sniffs back an unholy amount of snot that’s threatening to drip from his nose. “Yeah.”

Even though Jungkook has already come, his cock twitches as Taehyung comes over the back of his shorts, forehead pressed against the back of Jungkook’s neck. 

They stand like that, Jungkook sandwiched between Taehyung and Jimin, and catch their breath. The ocean washes away most of the evidence of their debauchery, but Jimin can feel Jungkook’s snot drying on his skin, so he dips down into the water to scrub it away. 

Jungkook watches him, blinking slowly, completely unbothered by the fact that he’d so thoroughly marked Jimin. Taehyung cleans himself up too, and Jungkook adjusts his swim trunks with shaky fingers, carefully tying the drawstring closed again. 

Then, Jungkook pinches his nose and drags his fingers down, dipping his hand into the ocean afterward to clean off all of the snot that comes with it. Jimin fights back that funny disgusted-aroused feeling again and gestures towards the beach.

“We should get out of the water.”

As they start making their way back to the shore, Jungkook starts sneezing again– tired, congested little sneezes that come in sets of two and three, aiming them into a cupped hand.

“hgsh-uh! eghh’shoo!”

“Bless you,” Taehyung murmurs, watching Jungkook rub his nose before he starts walking again.

A second later, Jungkook stops again. “hh-hgsh-uh! ahh’hpsh!”

Each time he has to sneeze, he stops for a moment, like he can’t walk and sneeze at the same time.

“hgshch! hp’shoo! eghh’shoo! Fuck,” Jungkook groans, dragging his forearm under his running nose. 

Taehyung chuckles and nudges Jungkook to keep moving. “Bless you.” 

The next time Jungkook sneezes, he stumbles forward a bit, until Jimin catches him by the elbow. “eghh’shoo! nnhhh-EHH’shoo!” 

Slowly, they make their way out of the water.

“hh-eghh’shoo! ehh’shoo!”

“Bless you!”

“hh-ehh’shch! hgshch! ehh’shoo!”

“Easy, big guy.”

“hpshch! eghh’shoo! hp’shoo! iiighh-shoo! Ehh’shch!”

“Goodness,” Jimin murmurs, watching Jungkook’s nose run onto his upper lip. “You’re not gonna stop, are you?”

Jungkook looks almost alarmed at that, but then his face crumples and he’s sneezing again. “nnhhh-EHH’shoo! hh-ehh’shch!” He sniffs hard and shakes his head. “Need to blow my nose,” he says, whiny and stuffed up.

“Aww,” Taehyung coos. “Let’s go find you a tissue.”

“Oka-hhh– ehh’shch! gshsh-uh!”

They make a detour to where their stuff is under their umbrella, but there isn’t a single thing in Jimin’s bag to use as a tissue there. Jungkook stands there rubbing his red nose raw and sneezing repeatedly while Jimin looks around, thinking. 

“hhh-ehh’PTCH! gshsh! hpshch!”

“Let’s go check by the lifeguard stand,” Taehyung suggests. “Jungkook, did you bring any tissues with you today?”

“N-nn– iiighh-shoo! hh-hgsh-uh! No?”

He doesn’t sound very sure, but they make their way over anyway. After a brief search, they still come up empty. Since there aren’t any tissues, Jimin finds the next best thing– Jungkook’s sweatshirt, already damp, still in the sand from where he’d discarded it earlier. He picks it up between two fingers and shakes it to dislodge as much sand as possible before passing it to Jungkook, who takes it and looks at it in confusion.

“For your nose,” Jimin says, gesturing at Jungkook’s face.

“But…but…gshsh! hgsh-uh! gshsh-uh! hhh-ehh’PTCH! ahh’hpsh!” 

Despite his apparent lack of understanding, Jungkook has no choice but to bring the sweatshirt up to his face, sneezing wetly into the fabric until he’s left exhausted and stuffed up and shivering.

“Blow,” Jimin instructs, holding onto Jungkook’s elbow to keep the sweatshirt up to his face. “Blow your nose.”

Luckily, Jungkook obeys without question, exhaling forcefully into the sweatshirt. 

“Yuck,” Taehyung chuckles, a sickened yet fascinated expression on his face by the sheer volume of mucus being expelled. “Sounds like you’re really congested.”   

Jungkook wipes his nose one final time on one of the hoodie sleeves and then drops it back into the sand. 

“Why do I want to take him home so we can take care of him?” Taehyung asks, speaking about Jungkook as if he’s not standing right there. 

“It doesn’t feel right to just leave him here,” Jimin agrees. Especially not after what they’ve just done in the ocean. “And I think he still has a fever…” 

Taehyung frowns. “Okay. Let me look for a number or someone we can call. There’s got to be a backup lifeguard, right?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook croaks, looking sleepy. “There’s a backup lifeguard.”

“Perfect! Do you have a phone number?” 

It takes Jungkook a moment after he nods to take action, and then he reaches into the pocket of his swim trunks and, to Taehyung and Jimin’s horror, pulls out his phone.

“You had your phone in your pocket?” Jimin yelps.

Taehyung laughs.

Jungkook, tapping futilely at his dark phone screen, looks like a sad puppy. He looks up at them, nostrils twitching, and sniffles pitifully. 

“S-Sorry– hhh-eghh’shoo!”

MARVEL:

Sam looks down to a watery-eyed Bucky scrubbing his nose upwards with the heel of his palm. “Bless you,” he says.

Bucky looks up apologetically. “Oh… sorry, babe. Snf! Thi’gk my allergy meds are wearing off.”

“It’s alright,” Sam says softly. “Lay back down.”

Bucky settles himself back to where he was before his nose disrupted him, with his right cheek pressed against Sam’s cotton t-shirt.

Sam snakes his hand up Bucky’s shirt to rub his warm back. But after only a moment, he feels Bucky take a shaky breath, body shuddering against his chest. “Again?”

“h’mptsh! h’MPTSH’iuhh!! Ugh, yeah…” Bucky sniffles thickly. “They just keep od comi’g.”

“Bless you.” Sam continues rubbing Bucky’s back, feeling goosebumps appear under his palm as the clearly allergic guy tries to ride through a spell of desperate, hitching breaths. “You seem so itchy, Buck… maybe we should head back.”

Bucky shakes his head, refusing to move from Sam’s side despite the terribly uncomfortable, burning tickle pulsing along his inflamed mucus membranes, making him gasp and hitch uncontrollably.

“D’uh-uh. huh- uh-?! Ngh. I-I’m f-fide, Sam. T-totally- hih! f-fide...”

Sam raises an eyebrow. This is the same man who was once considered the stealthiest assassin in the world? “You sure about that? Cause you sound like you still need to—”

Bucky flinches inward, shuddering thrice in rapid, spraying succession. “g’sh! h’gSHH!! H’GXDSHh!!”

“…sneeze.”

“Fuck,” Bucky mumbles, vigorously rubbing his inner wrist against his wet nostrils, eliciting a soft squelching sound. He detaches himself from Sam and rolls onto the picnic blanket, props himself up with an elbow before reaching into his pocket to pull out a couple crumpled tissues. “Ugh… ‘m sorry, Sam.” He blows his nose. “I’m done now. I promise.”

“Mhm,” Sam nods, unconvinced.

“I am!” Bucky responds with a voice crack. He clears his throat and sniffles.

Sam tilts his head and raises a brow as Bucky’s pink nostrils twitch precariously around the edges, like they have a mind of their own. His normally blindingly blue eyes are dulled by a sheen of irritated tears which threaten to spill over puffy lash lines each time he blinks.

“Somehow I don’t believe that,” Sam says, but he’s not gonna fight him on it, especially given his familiarity with Bucky’s stubbornness. He just sighs and picks his paper back up, trying to find where he left off reading about Sunday’s game.

Feeling dejected, Bucky huffs and lowers Sam’s newspaper, much to the latter’s dismay.

“Wh— hey, I was reading that— mm?!” Sam’s eyes go wide as Bucky presses a kiss to his lips. “Hmpf… okay, fine,” he says in between breaths. “The Saints lost anyways, so…” He lets Bucky push him back and trail kisses down his neck.

“You’re so, snf, pretty, darlin’,” Bucky hums between kisses, voice low and sultry.

“Buck…” Sam whines, running his hand through Bucky’s short hair as he cradles the back of his head.

They go on for a couple minutes, bodies working in harmony with each other as they kiss and press their skin as close as possible, as if to meld into one existence…

…until Bucky feels a burning twinge in his sinuses rush at him all at once. He realizes he’s about to sneeze- a lot- but barely has the time to take a complete breath, let alone warn Sam what’s about to happen. He has no choice but to bury his nose into the crook of Sam’s neck and sneeze.

“ngk’TSH! hng’kTSH!! NGX’TSH!!”

It takes a second for Sam to process what just happened considering he was really enjoying his makeout session, but when he does, he can’t help his lips from turning up at the ends with a mischievous smile.

“Uh-oh, there it is,” Sam teases.

Bucky sits back on his heels, his twitching nose pointed towards the sky as he builds up for more. “hih— h’hEh— eH’tsh! tsh! g’tsh! C-cah… can’t st-stuh- stop—! k’tsh-ih’TSH-ISCHhhh!!”

“Let them out, Buck,” Sam says. “It won’t stop until you do.”

Despite his attempt at stopping the rapid fire sneezes by pinching his warm, irritated nostrils shut, another triple wracks through the allergic guy with agonizing intensity.

“IGDZSH!! TZSSCH!! H’DZSHH!! Fuck!” Bucky pulls his hand- which is now covered in spray- away from his face and groans. Although he hates to admit it, he knows Sam’s right. He’s so itchy, he can feel it in his eyes and through the roof of his mouth.

So, when his sinuses buzz once more with the irritated thrum of allergic rhinitis, Bucky lowers his hands to his lap and lets his nose run wild. “hIH’GISHHiew!! Snfffk! Snff! heh- hEh- EH’TSHHiew!! Hih’ISHHIEW!! ESHHOOO!!”

“There you go. Feel better?” Sam asks, rubbing soothing circles between Bucky’s shoulder blades.

Bucky blindly nods— although it’s not particularly true— head tipping back, his widening nostrils preparing for release like a reloading gun with fresh ammo.

“hEH-EH’DSCHH! Ugh…” These sneezes scrape his throat and seem to use every inch of his body, his sinuses swollen and desperate to get the pollen out out out. “geH— EDTSSHH’yIiieEWw!! Oh god…”

“Bless you, baby,” Sam says, sounding so sweet and gentle as Bucky gets his absolute shit rocked out of him by stupid flowers. “Got another one coming?”

Again, the only thing Bucky can do is nod through his ticklish torture. It’s as if every muscle in his body is aching in anticipation for just one—

“ihH-”

final—

“eh’hh-”

all-encompassing—

“hehH- eeEEIISSCHOOO!!!”

Bucky shoots forward, his frame shuddering as the sneeze harshly barrels out of his nose, explosive and wet and desperately loud. The front of his shirt and his lap have become damp with moisture, while the remnants of his allergic fit cling to his pink, raw nostrils, septum and philtrum, running down his lips and to his chin. “Holy cow… sdfff…”

“Jesus, Buck, god bless you,” Sam chuckles while rubbing Bucky’s back and shaking his head, amused. “Think everyone within a five mile radius now knows about your allergies.”

The bedroom has seen better days.

It has also seen much worse days, when Lois has been chasing a lead for weeks and barely had time to stop home for a shower before she’s in the city or on the road again. College Lois was also a complete disaster, and her shithole apartment at the time suffered much more than a broken mirror and some hastily rearranged furniture. 

Her only real concern now is stepping around the broken glass when she gets up to start the coffee pot, but that’s still a minor inconvenience. Wholly worth it, too, for the sight that greets her when she returns with her first heavily-doctored cup. 

She’s already pulled the blinds all the way open, which reflects the scattered mirror shards and creates an oddly whimsical, disco ball pattern of sunlight cascading around the room. More importantly, it comes streaming in through the windows and across the bed with the kind of full force morning brilliance that was only an annoyance before she acquired a solar-powered boyfriend. 

Six feet and some change of chiseled alien boyfriend, in fact, his impossible body still relaxed with slumber as he continues to drool on her pillow. Lois masks her smile behind a sip of the jet fuel and sugar slurry she’s concocted. Even while unconscious, Clark has curled himself into the rays of warmth, chasing the heat and light that casts him in a resplendent golden glow. Every time. He’s like a cat in a sunbeam. 

She doesn’t think either of them will have the pleasure of sleeping in long, though it’s still early. She’ll take all the time they can get. 

Especially if she starts caffeinating now.

Lois sets the mug aside on her end table, which has survived so far and is therefore probably in the safe zone. If not, oh well. She’s careful as she slips back into bed, only because she’s trying not to wake him. 

Clark stirs anyway, with the sharpness of a sudden, deeper breath and the groggy shift towards her body, groping for her frame. She’s not sure she’d call it full consciousness. Still, Lois is preferable to the sunlight? She’s flattered. 

“Mmn,” he mumbles, curling an arm across her middle. Lois welcomes the weight of it as she lugs him over into a proper cuddle, guiding his head down against her. “Time’sit?” 

“Still way too early. Go back to sleep, farmboy, we’re good for a while.” 

She allowed herself the indulgence of exactly ten minutes to sift through her phone notifications while the coffee brewed. Just enough to confirm that nothing is actively, literally on fire. It takes incredible dedication to her relationship and not her job to go back to bed, but now she’s very glad that she did. 

This is what it’s all for, isn’t it?

She kisses Clark’s brow and takes the opportunity to assess him more closely, once he drifts back off into a compliant doze. He doesn’t look banged up and bruised like he did last night, all the marks of betrayal faded from cellular memory in the warmth of the sun. His skin is smooth and unbroken now, the curves and dips of it leading her gaze down and down his length to... 

Lois pauses. Okay, well that is some truly impressive morning wood that she’s now wishing she’d addressed before shushing him to sleep again.

Maybe they can circle back.

For now, she returns her attention to his face. Long, dark eyelashes fan over his cheeks, and Lois draws a musing touch down the line of his jaw. There’s a pleasantly rough texture there, a faint shadow of stubble that catches under her skin. He seems to grow a beard at approximately the same rate a human man does, though Lois still isn’t sure she believes him when he claims that he lasers it off every morning via heat vision. She’s refused to indulge him enough to ask for a demonstration, yet she knows she’s going to cave eventually. 

Lois pauses again, when she arrives at a darker smudge across his upper lip. Just under his left nostril, in fact, is a shiny mark that looks almost like pencil graphite or a sort of glittery eyeshadow. Frowning, she skims her thumb across the swatch and comes away with a faintly metallic smear on her skin. 

It takes a moment of studying the sheen as she tilts it in and out of the light before recognition clicks. 

So, she wasn’t seeing things last night. 

Clark looks better on the surface, sure, but she has no idea what’s going on internally. The answer, apparently, is thousands and thousands of microscopic robots that his body is still in the process of purging. She glances at the small drool spot on his abandoned pillow, and can’t decide if that also has a silvery look to it, or if that’s her imagination. 

“Weird,” she murmurs to herself, fascinated. 

There’s no palpable grittiness to the nanites when she rubs her fingers together, but the desiccated tech crushes down easily to a finer and finer particulate. She can see how irritating this would be clinging to the entire surface of his respiratory tract. 

Lois can’t feel any disgust like he seemed to be fretting about last night, just a fresh wave of sympathy. Dating a metahuman takes a lot of adjusting expectations, and one dedicated to global… possibly galactic heroism even moreso. They’re both very much still figuring the paces of it out, in addition to figuring each other out. The quirks of biology are sometimes the easiest thing for her to just roll with. Residual, nanite-laden mucus after a bloody battle is an oddity that barely blips on her radar.

She steadies Clark with one arm and leans up with the other for the tissue box she spots near the headboard. Lois folds a couple sheets over and steals a swipe or two under his nose, while he’s still out. 

“C’mere,” she mutters to herself as she adjusts him closer. “You’re a mess.” 

Clark scrunches his features a bit at the attention, not quite awake. He’s getting there, especially as Lois checks her clean-up efforts with the brush of her thumb around the edge of his nostril. Back and forth a few times, idly, admiring the unusual softness of his septum as she bumps against it. Only when the rim of his nare twitches and trembles under her touch does she fully realize what she’s doing to him.

Oh… oops.

On the one hand, she’s treated to Clark’s quivery ‘I have to sneeze’ face, which is about as precious as it gets. On the other hand, she should probably give some consideration to damage control.

Does the finger under the nose thing only work in cartoons, she wonders. Does it work on Kryptonians? Either way, she’d feel bad denying him the relief — especially when she’s the one teasing him, however unintentional.

She gets another handful of tissues ready, instead. 

Clark squints his eyes open with the first, wavery “—h’uhHH…!” before his breath catches and his chest rises.

“Clark,” she warns, shifting so he can have his other arm. He’s already got one hand clasped clumsily to his face, and is now struggling to sit up and away from her. 

“I… I ndeed—…” He starts. The sentence dissolves as he hitches wildly, his eyes squeezing shut, nostrils curling open behind the splay of his fingers.

Whether he’s requesting tissues or alerting her of the imminent explosion, Lois has the same response. She presses her bounty upon him and spreads a hand to his back.  

“Here… take these, c’mon. Let it out.”

Maybe she should brace herself, too?

“Uh…!” Clark inhales. He still manages to take the tissues from her, crushing them to his nose and mouth at the last moment.

“HUH’EIDSZSHHHH—-SshhOO!!”

He gets it under the control behind the clap of both hands, for which she’s certainly grateful. Even contained, the strength of the sneeze is enough to make the bed creak dangerously. Lois is almost certain that the whole room shakes, but when she looks up from her instinctive hunch at his back, all of her windows are still intact and the ceiling isn’t falling down around their ears.

Well, that’s a relief. Especially since Clark is already building helplessly towards another. 

She keeps a hand pressed beside his spine, feeling the swell of his breath through thick muscle and overwashed cotton. She’s sure he doesn’t need a reminder of her presence or anything. Her interest here is a little more… self-serving than self-preservation. She’s aware that she has very little sense of the latter, she’s been told as much by both Clark and Superman, along with most of the bosses and boyfriends she’s had in her life. She knows. 

“Huh…. ! H-EHDTTSSH-sHHHH!”

Yeah. There’s definitely a weird little zing of arousal that shoots through her nervous system as Clark ducks over his lap and sets the bed to rocking. She wasn’t misremembering that from last night, either. 

There are several possibilities at play here.

Is Lois in the honeymoon phase where the guy she’s found herself really really caring about got imprisoned, poisoned, and almost squashed by his own clone? Probably yes. She’s just happy to have him here, warm and alive and evacuating strange tech from his lungs beside her. She’ll take Clark in any shape right now.

Is she always a little bit attracted to the display of Superman’s powers, whether he’s fully in control of them or not? Apparently also yes. The second sneeze managed to flutter the sheets, despite his efforts, and it trips an absurd excitement switch in her brain. Maybe it should be fear, and she got her wires crossed somewhere along with that healthy sense of self-preservation.  

“Gesundheit,” she offers. So far he’s tapped out after one or two, in her limited experience. Lois can’t be blamed, then, for the surprise surge of horniness when he gasps and dives forward into an uncharacteristic third.

“HD’JZSSHHH–SHHhoo!” And… seriously, another? She must have gotten to him more than she thought. Maybe this is just the result of his body pushing tiny irritants to the surface all night long, while he was unconscious. Clark is bent away from her now, but Lois can picture his crumpled expression just fine as he inhales at a shaky, broken clip. She swallows. 

“H-h-h… --hd’DjjJSZHHH-shhuh!”

The strength of his response seems to be lessening each time, yet the fire that’s stoking low in her belly is only fueled by the successive eruptions. 

“Oh m’by gosh,” Clark sniffles through a heavy sluice of congestion as he finally straightens. His curls are a rumpled mess, eyes watering and nose flushed a bright, wet pink. “…SNFFH! Excuse m’be.” 

“Jesus, Clark,” Lois laughs in a reflexive attempt to conceal her arousal as she fetches the tissue box. She puts it in front of him, since he seems relieved enough to manage his own exchange. “Bless you.”

“Thagk’s,” he murmurs on the recovery, dazed and sheepish in equal amounts. Clark makes a slight face at his persistent stuffiness, and plucks another round of tissues to deal with some of it. It takes a few tries, while Lois reaches for her coffee cup and pretends to give him some sort of privacy.

At last, Clark sighs and wrinkles his nose, scrubbing it on the backs of his knuckles. 

“Ugh,” he groans. “Sorry, if I woke you. I had the worst tickle.” 

Lois shakes her head and sets her cup aside. “You didn’t wake me. Other way around,” she says. Clark pitches the tissues into the trash beside the bed, and she kneel-walks the short distance between them closed. She leans in to test the waters with her lips pressed to his shoulder. “And I think that might have been my fault. It was only… mostly an accident.” 

“What’s that?” Clark laughs. One hand is compressing the tip of his nose into a rough pinch between thumb and forefinger, working it back and forth like he’s trying to get an unreachable itch somewhere inside. God, that’s really not helping… 

“Nothing,” Lois says quickly.   

Clark gives her a curious look, but he drops his hand and accepts her attention without fuss. An arm slips back around her waist, and he ducks readily into the distraction of a follow-up kiss. No hard feelings, then, not that she expected any. 

“Good morning,” she adds, once they’ve broken off, both a little flushed and glassy-eyed. Clark especially so. “There’s coffee.”

He smiles. “Is it coffee, or is it high octane mud?” 

She narrows her eyes. Brewing it strong is a side-effect of her masochistic relationship with what amounts to hot, rancid bean juice. Her methods don’t always translate to someone who actually likes the taste. 

“That’s rude.” She steals another kiss. “I followed the package ratio, just for you.”

His breathy chuckle turns into a twist aside into his shoulder, where he fields a series of light, repetitive coughs. The effort is enough to jostle her against his side. It also drives up her need to pin him down and bite him all over. 

“Hg’khmm, sorry,” Clark exhales afterwards. He leans without resistance into her hands combing back through his hair, the assertive kiss she presses to his temple. 

“Don’t be. Maybe I should make you some tea, instead,” she hums. “With honey.”

He groans, then pulls back to peer at her. His big blue eyes are limned with tears and warmed with a haze of pink irritation. “I promise I’m not sick. This is just…” He makes a loose, helpless gesture to his general upper body. Yeah. 

Lois valiantly resists the urge to smooch the tip of his nose, sensing that it might be disastrous. She settles instead for the brush of her thumbs across his cheeks. 

“... crud?” She suggests. It earns her another laugh-turned-cough, his head turned away in time. This one he manages in just a few beats before he’s swallowing and nodding. 

“Yeah, sure. Fight crud.”

There are sexier ways to put it, of course. Sadly, it really is working for her no matter what she calls it.

“I know,” Lois says. “But it might help your throat anyway.”

His gaze flicks over her face, seeming surprised. 

She must have said something right, because in the next second Clark has her buoyed into his lap as if she weighs nothing at all. To him, that’s true. The transition pulls a short, sharp gasp of delight from her, and Lois is too pleased to be embarrassed about it. Instead, her arms wind around his shoulders while Clark boosts her up and puts his mouth to her neck. 

Okay, good. This is good. They’re on a similar trajectory here after all. 

Lois scratches her nails across his nape, smiling as she feels his full-body shiver in response. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, breathless and still sounding a bit stuffy, his huge frame warm and solid beneath the arch of her own. “That does sound good, actually. But… in a minute…?” 

Lois nods. Caffeine can wait. The rest of the world can wait. They’ve barely had any time to themselves the last few days, and she wants him. 

His teeth find her collar and she gasps again, her hands sweeping up into his hair for fingerfuls of loose curls. Bearing down into his lap grinds her against his cock, still stiff and wanting from either a good dream or her slow build of kisses. The meandering, sleepy morning intimacy is some of the rarest kind, for them, but she’s been thinking about it for… well. Since she knew he wasn’t going to die, anyway.  

“Can I assume that you’re feeling better otherwise?” Lois murmurs as she rocks her hips down into him. It draws a low groan from her partner, his fingers flexing against her thighs and riding up under the edges of her soft linen shorts. 

“I–… I feel great.”

Lois's smile sharpens. “And you’re up for some more rigorous physical activity?” 

“Yes,” his voice cracks on the word, which only makes her want to hear it again. She can’t tell if his glazed look is all from arousal, or if there’s still a fuzzy urge to sneeze in there somewhere. The expressions are remarkably similar, which is something she’s going to have to unpack later, with the rest of all this.

Not now, though.

She smooths his hair back, even as he ducks under her jaw so she can’t see his face when he sniffles. This time it takes greater effort, like he’s trying to curtail something. The sudden show of bashfulness is not helping her desire to pounce at all. Neither is the return of his normal, low baritone after a careful throat clear.  “I just… uhm…”

“Clark,” she laughs, hoping she reads him right. She rubs the back of his neck. “You can tap out to sneeze and blow your nose, you know. I don’t care.” 

His shoulders relax a little, suggesting that some of his anxiety was indeed tied to that. Ridiculous. This man can move literal mountains. 

“In fact, remember when I said that you were kind of cute like this?” Clark looks up from between the valley of their bodies, eyes a brilliant blue. 

“Very.”

Her brows raise, amused. “What?”

“You said I was very cute.” 

Lois pushes herself off his shoulders to get a better view of him, bleary and wavering a bit around the edges. Oh, he’s definitely fending off another sneeze. The way her pulse picks up at this is also patently ridiculous. That he can probably see her heart beat faster inside her own thoracic cavity is an eerie reality that she doesn’t always like to think about. In the moment, that sureness only bolsters her confidence. 

He’s kind of hard to lie to, after all.

“Okay, well I’m upgrading you to ‘weirdly sexy’.” 

He splutters a laugh. “That’s an upgrade?” Clark sniffles hard enough to inspire a cough. He gets a hand up to contain it – even so Lois can still feel a burst of air escape between them. 

Clark doesn’t seem to notice, but Lois is biting her lip and fighting not to squirm off his lap as she feels it rush across the tops of her thighs. Good God… 

“Now I know you’re… SNDFFH! You’re m’bessi’g with mbe. Ugh…” 

Lois resists the urge to roll her eyes. Nevermind, maybe she could have kept him going as long as she wanted. 

Clark switches the cover of his hand to a fitful rub against his nose. It appears successful at heading off the sneeze, which is a pity. The effort produces an audible click of his fingers itching at the edges of his nostrils, and Lois can’t tell if it’s her pulse or his throbbing so hard between their hips. She’s still ridiculously turned on by all the set dressing of the moment even without the actual discharge to follow, it seems.

“Alright, you be the judge,” Lois smirks. Her hand slips down over the large, sprawling shape of his own where it supports her. She redirects his fingers up over the waistband of her shorts, then down her midline until he finds the drenched and eager heat.

“Oo–kay,” Clark exhales. “Oh wow, you’re…” He’s dropped the other hand away from his face to help brace her. Likely for personal reasons as well, with the way one palm effortlessly cups her ass. He swallows with the nudge of his fingertips threatening to breach her entrance, but not quite… not quite. His whole hand spans the length of her instead, almost reverent. “I’mb uh– SNFF!” He gazes at her and oh yes, there’s definitely enamored awe there. “Happy to stand corrected.” 

Satisfied, Lois sinks down on his hand and gasps as he angles it just right. He lets her grind against the meat of his palm, bearing as much weight as she wants to give him. Delicious strain sings up through the muscles of her abdomen. There are many applications of enhanced strength in bed, as it turns out. Being a willing recipient of anything she can dole out is just as exciting as when he takes a more dominant role. Moreso, really.

Especially when he’s like this.

“Ssshit, okay… yes. Right there,” Lois breathes, twinging as she finally feels his middle and ring finger press up into her. She rocks into his hand, almost spasming already with her clothes still on and her stupid, sexy boyfriend barely two knuckles deep. She has both hands braced against his shoulders for balance as she twists into the roll of his thumb over her clit. Again, then again. “Don’t stop.” 

She nearly makes good on her earlier thoughts of biting him, when Clark suddenly maneuvers his hand away, gripping below her thigh with his slicked up fingers. She half-bucks into the emptiness of his absent touch, groaning. “Clark.” 

“I know,” he rumbles, voice gravelled from either arousal or the increasingly persistent sniffling he’s doing, the wet and urgent little sounds that are underscoring her own. “Just… is it the sndee–...?!” 

Her breath catches almost at the same time Clark’s does. Lois gets a second to process his watery expression, and eases back down into his lap with a thrill of anticipation.

He gets ahold of himself with a shaking exhale, but she can tell from his dopey look that the urge hasn’t gone far. “... hhhuh. SNDF! The sndeezing? B’cause I m’bight ha–aaave to…” 

No shit, Lois thinks to herself. At the same time, though, she feels her heart constrict with ferocious affection for this man who wants to know more, do more, make it the best experience for her possible because any other option really hasn’t occurred to him.

“I think so,” she does her best to answer, while she’s still deliriously horny and Clark is obviously trying not to sneeze. “I haven’t really examined it myself, yet.” Lois frowns as she watches him raise a shaky hand to his faze, focus fizzling out. “Just don’t…!”

Too late. Clark keeps her secured with one hand, but the other crushes his nose shut the moment he draws a sudden, gusting inhale. She swears she can even see the ends of her hair pick up, before…

“H’INGGKK’Ttt–uhhh…!”  

Calamity. Or… it probably would be at this range, if Clark hadn’t held it in so tightly. The tide of guilt lapping up over her is still secondary to the lust that surges in like a flash flood. 

As it is, the suppressed strength of it rushing through his body jogs her hard in place. Lois feels herself actually leave his lap, bounced for a fraction of an inch and a second of pure exhilaration. She doesn’t hear any resounding crashes in the background, suggesting that he’s managed to contain the tail end of it as well. She’s barely paying attention to collateral damage anyway. She nearly climaxes from that alone, just feeling his shoulders and thighs shake beneath her. She’d be a definite goner if she were still riding his fingertips. 

“Bless you,” she groans in her daze. That’s becoming a reflex too. Lois has never once in her life been a casual blesser, but it would feel somehow criminal not to say it to Clark. 

He can’t respond anyway, because he’s not done. Of course he’s not done. 

“Hh-hhh…! NGKT—… ssSHOO!!”

This time, Clark keeps both hands on her hips and throws his head to one side, scrunching his features into it and only half-hiding the display behind his arm. The hands-free stifle isn’t quite so patented a technique, and Lois is aware of the curtains flaring up on the edge of her vision, whipping in the backdraft. There’s a clatter of something hitting the floor that doesn’t sound important. She pushes up into his hands, arching like an animal in heat. 

His thumbs press against her hipbones, the two smallest points that keep her from climbing him like a tree while he sniffles through a punchdrunk recovery. 

“Don’t what…?” He musters at last. 

It could be that she's a little punchdrunk too. Lois blinks down at him. “What?”

Clark squints, turning into his bicep to half-cover a few coughs. “You said ‘just don’t’ and then’d I…snfSNF!”  

“Oh.” She sits deeper against his pelvis, feeling the heat of his erection pressed close. She’d like to get to that very soon. She trails her hands down her arms in the meantime, now that she doesn’t need them for balance. “I meant don’t hold them in like that. It sounds miserable.” 

Clark sniffs, and sniffs again. It no longer sounds like he’s moving much air or congestion, just trying and failing to maintain some sort of constant drip homeostasis. 

“It looks worse than it is, I promise.” 

Lois gives him a skeptical look. “Do you hear yourself?” 

To her surprise Clark laughs full and open, despite the chastisement and his obvious discomforts. The sound warms her from within as keenly as his sneezing and sniffling does. 

“I do,” he assures her, with a kiss to her throat that softens her right up, the sap for him that she is. She runs her fingers over the back of his neck, scratches her nails up through his hair just so she can feel him shiver when he isn’t trying to tamp down on a hurricane. 

“Listen, I’ll try not to,” he sniffs. “But I do have to hold it in sometimes – SNFF! Just. There’s not always better options.” He doesn’t sniffle directly against her skin, but Lois swears she’s going to claw right out of it anyway. 

“Point taken,” she swallows. He would know the consequences of his own powers best, something she always inherently trusts him to. The admission of something he knows he can’t control is… that’s doing something for her. 

Lois pulls back to consider their position, and presses a kiss to his brow. It brings him to attention nicely – so sweet and present for her. The uptick in his sniffling and half-choked little coughs hasn’t escaped her, the slow distortion in his focus. There are more twinging moments with his nose, too, and have his nostrils always been so expressive? They’re sharply defined, and she’s noticed before that they flare dramatically when he’s upset. 

Ugh, how long has she been like this? 

Lois also needed him inside of her, like, yesterday. That might have plenty to do with it. She checks her own lust with another kiss, this time daring for the bridge of Clark’s nose. He permits it, apart from the crinkles forming beneath her lips just before she leans back.

“Ssspeaking of which, do you need a break?”

“Nn—…” Clark starts to respond in the dismissive, automatic, then catches himself and lets the thought actually gestate. His nose twitches with a sniffle, eyes fluttering. “…maybe. SNF! Two mbidutes?”

She gives his flank a couple of quick pats, like a faithful horse, and grins when he dumps her unceremoniously back onto the bed. “Take five.” 

His dick says he’s up for it, but she’d like for the rest of him to get there, too. 

Lois climbs out of bed while he folds himself over the opposite edge of the mattress, tissue box in tow. She makes a mental note to buy more of those, possibly even accounting for bulk purchases within her tiny apartment’s storage space. 

Unless… oh, God, how adorable would her ruffled dweeb of a boyfriend be, if she could convince him to carry a handkerchief? She puts a pin in the notion, for later. 

Lois slugs the rest of her coffee before it cools to room temperature, then strips herself from her top and bottoms without ceremony. She’s not exactly wearing her sexiest set, and there’s no real point in doing a stripshow for someone with x-ray vision. In the background Clark is already busy, making a valiant effort to levy some of the fallout from his sinuses. 

After several attempts to blow his nose, it sounds as if he’s relieved at least some of the burden, leaving him in a tingling and breathy aftermath. Breathy enough to get her attention in full. If he tries to suppress it again…

“I–...” 

He starts to say something, but is suddenly overwhelmed with sensation. Clark inhales loud and fast. He clutches the current nest of tissues back to his face, then spasms forward with an intensely muffled sneeze that leaves the windows rattling. 

“H’WHFFSZHHHhh-SHOO!!”

Lois jumps, despite having seen it coming. 

“Jeez. Can’t ding you for that one,” she says as she crawls back onto the bed, and across the distance between them. Once she’s sure he isn’t going to go again right away. “Gesundheit.” 

“Thangks,” he sniffs. “Snduck up on me.” He lowers his head into a last short, amending blow, then pitches the tissues into the trash and rolls back to face her. “I’m good now.”

His gaze travels down, clocking her naked body for the first time. His brows raise. “... really good.”

Lois smirks. She uses the front of his shirt to pull him back into a kiss, which he’s happy to return. When she gives them both a break for air, she switches her grip to pulling the tee up and over his head. Clark lifts his arms to accommodate, then draws her in and begins lavishing attention from a pulsepoint of her throat and wending downwards. She can feel the heat radiating off of his bare chest.  

“Fantastic. I’ve got an update for you,” Lois breathes as he presses a kiss to the top of her breastbone.

“Uh-huh?”

She twists her fingers in the curled ends of his hair where it brushes the back of his neck. “It’s definitely the sneezing,” she admits, swallowing. “Not just that. But it’s helping.” 

He kisses the center of her stomach, and she debates the merits of pushing him lower, guiding him to the blazing center of her energy. She’s so turned on, it wouldn’t take much. She wants him even closer than that, though. 

“Great,” Clark murmurs. He sounds genuinely interested. He’s also planning his path downward, palming and mouthing at hot skin as her hips lift into him. “That’s… SNF! Really good news. What can I do?”

“You can hurry up and fuck me before I go crazy, Kansas.” 

His laughter whooshes over her stomach and thighs with a warmth that makes her ache. 

“Well, I think I can oblige you there.”

He leans up and over her, not a moment too soon. Lois already has a hand skating down the hard planes of his stomach, dipping below his waistband to encircle the equally stiff heat within. Clark’s breath rushes out of him in a shuddery exhale as she gets a hand around his cock and palms it free.    

She gives him a few slow strokes, savoring the feeling of controlling a being so powerful with so little effort. Just her hand where the curve of his thick length fits perfectly in its center, squeezing just a shade tighter than she’d ever dare with a human man. 

“God, Lois–....!” 

He thrusts shallowly into the fist she gives him, wrapping her fingers around his shaft as tight and far as they’ll go. She’s aware of the faint crackle and catch in his breathing as his chest presses close. 

Undeterred, he sinks down into her as she guides him into place. It’s usually a very snug fit – she’s a small woman, and Clark is not a small man. There’s usually a good deal more teasing, of rubbing his erection leisurely across her dripping sex, kissing her breasts, mumbling the most ridiculous country-ism praises she’s ever heard. No matter how many times they’ve done this, regardless of her can-do attitude, there’s still an adjustment period. Right now she’s wet and ready enough that the glide is almost frictionless.  

“Oh,” she pants out when he’s fully seated inside her with so little effort. She claws at his back while acclimating to his size, his closeness, and the reality of her primal cravings being answered. “Wow, okay. Hi,” Lois breathes, and kisses his shoulder. “Missed you.”  

She gets a kiss smushed to her temple in turn, and the press of his cock bottoming out as far as she can accommodate. The burn of stretching and entry becomes an ache, which becomes a pulse that throbs white light and pleasure up through her core every time he moves. 

“Missed you too.”

Lois didn’t want to admit it, in case things didn’t work out, and she doesn’t want to be hyperbolic here either. Still, sex with Clark has probably ruined her for every other man on Earth. 

He is the only metahuman she’s slept with, but she sees no reason to expand her repertoire at this point. It’s also only partly due to his superior strength and stamina. Moreso it’s because Clark holds and touches and fucks her like she’s the only person on Earth. Being in the epicenter of his focus and adoration is a powerful drug. 

If anything, she has to bully him away from being too careful with her, sometimes. It’s better than the alternative, though, and Clark is a responsive lover in every sense. They find their rhythms quickly and easily.

“Hhhyou feel so good,” he huffs against her neck, where his breath sticks to and then dries her sweat almost as soon as it forms. He’s like a handy, built-in HVAC system. In the stickiest and swamp-ass months of summer that was actually quite helpful for their intimacy, versus rutting near her geriatric window unit air conditioner. The memory of sprawling in bed like a princess while he exhaled cool air across her body and touched her slow and sweet is one of her favorites. 

Where is she going to find that convenience in a human man? 

Not that she’d be forcing him to do any tricks for her in this state. Even having recently evacuated a fresh round of nanites from his system, Lois can hear Clark sniffling and panting on the threatening edge of more. 

It’s hard to form thoughts when he keeps rocking on the edge of her sweet spot at the same time, but Lois manages to pull herself back from the event horizon of pleasure to check in, breathless.

“You okay?” She presses her mouth to his neck, then gives into the urge for a little nip. Clark’s hips jerk into her with a grunt. “Need a break?”

Clark shakes his head, curls scattered loose in his eyes. He looks beautiful like this, tear streaks starting to shine across his cheeks. He sniffles again, heavy, then turns his head over the barrier of his arm and coughs freely. 

Lois feels the blankets tug off the loose tangle of their legs. The involuntary lung squeeze manages to spasm his entire body against her, inside her, and she juts up with an involuntary cry of her own. Fuck, that’s good.

She can see the advantage of this position for multiple reasons, now. Usually she’s on top, although they both enjoy variety. Being pinned beneath him, with his arm propped on either side of her, gives him a little more freedom to redirect the ongoing nanite management. There’s less fear of either harm or just… sneezing them down onto her like this.

Actually, the jury is out on that possibility and her reaction. She might be okay with it. She can’t think over the stretch and the rhythm that makes her brain want to turn off and just ride the waves of rapture.  

“Im’b good. Just… SNFF! Godda… snff! …s-sneeze.” 

He says the word in such a casual hush, between thrusts, that she feels like she’s mishearing him. Possibly flirting the line of sanity here, but very much paying attention now.

“Should I–... ahh-h, should I… move?” 

She really hopes she’s not expected to, somehow, when he’s currently almost knocking on her liver. Rolling her hips up still gets him to respond with more of those short, shallow strokes that build pleasure rapidly inside her. 

“N’do, just… SNF! … s-sstay…”

Lois locks her ankles around his legs as she feels his trunk expand with an escalating draw. Not her first close-range sneeze, but it feels like he’s about to… like she’s about to… 

“H’UH..! H’uhh-hhhuh…! … HIH’GISSZSHHHH-ssSSSHHOO!!”

She did ask for this. Lois feels the blankets catch, pull, and take riotous flight in the backdraft, his sneeze discharged somewhere past the shield of an arm and shoulder curled around her. Something heavy hits the opposite wall. She feels the natural thrust of his body like he’s trying to spear her into the mattress, deep and tight and hot. A shockwave seems to start almost from her toes and radiate higher.

“Clark…!”

He barely gets time to breathe in from the first explosion, feeling her clench tight. She’s gone by the second sneeze that barrels out of him and into the bedding. 

“GZZSHSHHH–SSshoo!”

It’s loud and desperate and close enough to make her ears ring. 

The crest of orgasm breaks over her, crashing like a wavefall across her body as her nails dig into his arm. If she whimpers or if she screams, Lois isn’t sure. She could be squawking like an endangered toucan and neither she nor Clark would care right now. Her hips drive up into him in an aching undulation, drawing out her unraveling euphoria as long as she can.

She’s so busy chasing the last curls of pleasure, trying to drag him over with her, that she barely notices Clark’s recovery from the last, violent sneeze. He doesn’t have much of one, locked instead into an open grimace that she only observes when her spasms start to ease. 

“Clark…” She breathes, barely a whisper. 

He’s an impressive sight with nostrils open at full flare, the pearl-white tips of his teeth showing beneath an expression curled with torturous irritation. That tickle must truly be a monster…

“HURRESSSHZHHH-SHHhhoo!!”

The sneeze whips past them, crashing or blustering through whatever is in its path. She can still tell that he’s letting them go with a fraction of his strength, since there are no obliterated walls or spewing water lines in their wake. Meanwhile, Lois can’t decided if she’s even fully come down from her first orgasm when the second rips her off her moorings.

His too, judging by the way Clark goes suddenly, critically stiff above her. Tiny, controlled ripples down his spine push him into Lois as she feels him twitch inside, feels heat begin to spill deep within. He fills her up and up into overflowing as she rides him with every scrappy inch of her human enthusiasm, letting herself come and come apart, wrung out on his cock until she can’t take more.

At some point, when her blind, surging rush of dopamine and oxytocin have begun to gradually subside, Lois becomes aware that he’s either pulled or slipped out. Clark spends the last few rounds of his orgasm across her inner thighs.

He’s watching the mess through tear-glazed eyes, nose red as he fights for breath harder than she’s seen him after altercations with twelve story tall killer robots. He reaches down to fist himself through the final spasms, then sinks back… not unlike a collapsing kaiju, actually.

Lois gets her arms out of the way before he hits the mattress beside her with a whumpf. The pair of them bask there in a post-coital bliss that’s nearly a coma. She watches him catch his breath and enjoys the rare emptiness and peace that comes from having every last thought fucked out of her head. 

Slowly, the tinnitus in her ears fades, and the blurry edges of Lois’s world narrow back to the man sharing her bed. 

Clark is sprawled on his side, gazing at her with unchecked esteem in his starry blue eyes. His devotion feels like it’s still penetrating her, even when his prick is going gradually soft against his thigh. 

Not that that matters. Kryptonian refractory periods are shorter than even Earth women. Most of the time she and Clark match up nicely for rounds two, three, and so on. Right now, she just wants to cuddle him. 

“God bless you,” she says, stretching a hand down. She strokes his forehead with the backs of her knuckles, the only part of him she can reach without moving too much. His eyelashes flutter shut like she’s giving him the sweetest and most thorough petting in the world.

“Thank you, Miss Lane.”

Oh, God damn him. He knows exactly when to spring that on her to do the most damage. Lois fights the urge to shiver. 

Clark is back to staring up at her. “You were really into all that?” 

Lois snorts, regaining a few sparks of energy as she makes a flapping, come-hither gesture at him with both hands. Clark looks at her through a similar haze of exhaustion. He inches closer like the world’s saddest, most sniffly superpowered caterpillar until she groans and forces herself upright.

“Get over here. Was I turned on by you hacking and sniffling and sneezing your big beautiful head off? Of course I was.” She pulls him down against and atop her, slumping his not-inconsiderable weight across her ribs. “Oofh.” She buries a kiss in his hair. It’s satisfyingly fluffy after all the exertions. And some of the stray gusts. “Either that, or I’m a really incredible actor. I even had myself fooled.”   

Clark laughs, shaking her a little. Shaking her more when he makes himself cough. “Hk-KHMM, ‘scuse me.” He takes the bulk of his weight onto an arm as he pushes up, leaning to kiss her. She pulls him in for more. “That’s fantastic,” he sighs, when they break. “But I really, really need to blow my nose. Can I…” He pats a palm to her arm twice, lightly, and she lets him up without a second thought.

“Oh, yeah. Of course.” 

He only taps out as long as it takes to empty the rest of the tissue box. Lois closes her eyes and lets him work through it. She’s pleased when he returns and does all the moving hereon out, in fact. 

Pulling her towards him, Clark draws Lois atop his body, cleaned up and back at full stretch. For all of the impressive muscles, there’s just enough squish to him that he’s surprisingly comfortable to lounge upon. Very good to hug. Lois can tell from the weightless, nearly imperceptible bob that they’re also in mid-air, floating a few inches above the bed. She rests her head on his chest and ragdolls with contentment, listening to the improved sound of his breathing. 

“I think that actually, finally cleared my head,” Clark admits. He sniffles for emphasis, and there is indeed much less drag on it now. His voice still has a slight, resinous cling, but from what she understands his lungs took the worst of it to begin with. “Thank you.”

Lois smiles against him, feeling warm inside. “I’m glad. I mean.” She tilts her head up and presses her lips to the rough underside of his jaw. “Bad news for me, I suppose. But you needed it.” The man deserves to breathe clearly after the week he’s had. 

She also deserved to get thoroughly dicked down after the week she’s had, so Lois considers it a fair trade. 

“I wouldn’t be too disappointed,” Clark chuckles. He cups her shoulder with one hand, steadying her in place while he adjusts himself effortlessly in their float. “This was very enlightening.” When he sniffles, it’s much closer to the shell of her ear than before. Lois trembles against him, toes curling. 

“Yeah, well. Don’t get it twisted. That might have been a one time thing because I was so happy to have you in one piece, or whatever.” She’s lying, obviously. If anything, she’s giving him more ammunition as he smiles and noses gently behind her ear. 

“Sure, okay,” he grins. “Then you won’t care that I’m allergic to cats, and that I always hold my breath when you put pepper on your turkey sandwiches?”

She shudders again. “God damn it, Kent. That’s not true.” Lois pushes herself up onto his chest, looking down at him. She has a leg straddled to either side of his torso, hanging down in mid air. They’ve fucked like this before, Clark on his back and untethered by gravity, arms folded cockily behind his head. Not that she’s thinking about that now, or anything. 

“Is it? Don’t tease me.”  

She’s sore and stretched out and still has what feels like a bucketful of his cum wanting to leak out of her, but Lois could go again. Shower off their sins before the world needs them and.... 

Clark shrugs. He takes one of her hands resting on his chest, framing where his emblem would be, and brings the backs of her fingers to his mouth. “I guess we’ll find out.” 

The romantic filter over her field of view finally widens, past the heart bubbles and lustful haze to her bed beneath them.

The room itself actually isn’t in too bad a shape – nothing that he can’t clean up by the time she’s poured his first cup of coffee. Lois can throw some spackle on the rest. She’s also pleased to see that her mattress and pillows have survived, even if they did get blown into the shattered mirror. 

The fitted sheet, on the other hand… well. It will probably wash out, she’s sure it will, but Lois is startled to a sharp and bleating laugh at the absurdity of the scene. From somewhere near the head of the mattress and streaking nearly to the foot, there is a whalespout spray of dark, metallic pinpoints striking at range and dispersing outward. Was that his last sneeze, and the last of the nanobots along with it? It must be. It looks like when one of the interns loses a fight with the toner cartridges, at the Planet. 

Okay, well now she really is cackling, head thrown back and fully enjoying it regardless of how pink his cheeks get in response.

“So, I was going to warn you. I’ll replace them.” 

“Oh, my God.” Lois grins, wild, but she only inches up and over him so she can dip towards his mouth. “No wonder you feel better.” She keeps breaking off into runs of giggles between kisses. Clark does not seem to actually mind being the source of her amusement. Or he doesn’t mind enough to fend her off, anyway, as she rains affection down on him.  

“You know what,” she says, peering past his shoulder to the impressive spread of micro-irritants below. It’s like a shiny soot print of his sneeze. “There’s something wrong with me, because that’s still pretty hot.” 

“Stop it,” he grumbles, pinching the tip of his nose. 

“I’m serious,” Lois laughs. “I like it.” She fights past his hand to capture his mouth, however briefly he lets her take possession. Clark waits to sniffle until she’s pulled away again. “But listen, while we’re up…” Very… literally up in the air. She lets him appreciate her pun with a begrudging smirk before she continues. “... and until a flying dog comes crashing onto my balcony, I’d like to open the discussion for round two.” 

Clark makes a face. “Lois. Come on. Why would you invoke him?” That he doesn’t immediately startle and bolt off to check on a forgotten pooch suggests that the day’s responsibilities aren’t far from his mind either. However… “And what’s to discuss? I’m already game. SNF!”

Lois grins. She leans down to kiss him once more. “Discussion closed, then. All in favor – hey!” She breaks off with a laugh as he pulls her close and into a crushing embrace, with the kind of restraint that suggests Clark is also suffering from cute aggression with his partner. She manages to free one of her arms to wrap around him in turn. 

“Fine, tough guy. Then I’ve got a few more things I want to try, before the world figures out where you are.” 

He’s already kissing up the side of her neck to make good on his word, a hand tangling in her hair. 

A cage is too crass of a word to describe the luxurious containment pod Lex built for Clark. This is a gift. A gesture of admiration dressed up as a fish tank. 

It’s made of high glass walls, thick and reflective from the inside, so Clark can’t see outwards but Luthor can see in. Inside is a twin-sized cot, covered in burgundy and brown quilts, arranged with the tenderness of a caretaker rather than a captor. Lex isn’t a captor, he’s just a scientist. A round wooden nightstand sits beside the bed, a potted plant at its foot. On top: a silver analog clock, a glass of distilled water, a framed photo of Jimmy, Lois and Clark at a baseball game. 

No, it’s a terrarium fit for Superman. 

Surrounding of the terrarium is a laboratory, bought and owned by LexCorp, with the purpose of studying meta-human DNA to further modern medicine, science and building a better tomorrow, today. 

He came up with the mission statement himself. It sounds nicer than ‘I wanna be smarter than Einstein and richer than Rockefeller.’

Getting the facility up and running was a massive undertaking. But procuring Superman? That had taken years of planning. 

Or—no. Not Superman. Not anymore.

Clark.

Clark Kent is his muse now.

There was a very lonely few years in prison, staring at the corroding cement, with those blue eyes burning into the back of his skull. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined Superman’s straight teeth and deep, cavernous dimples. 

It made his stomach roll with rage enough to kill him. 

But it also gave him passion. There was a motivation behind his prison break, one that couldn’t be quenched by curiosity. He needed answers. He needed science. 

Clark sits hunched over, elbows on his knees, in a pair of plaid flannel pajama pants and a white tee shirt that hangs off of him. He looks… smaller like this. Fragile. Not like the man who once hovered above cities with the sun burning at his back. Not like the god the world once looked up to.

Clark takes off his glasses, rubs the lenses against the hem of his shirt, his hands trembling just enough to betray him.

“I—I don’t know if anyone’s out there,” he says, voice fragile and shy. “But I think… I think you’ve got the wr—wrong guy.” He doesn’t sound convincing. Not even to himself.

Lex had thought the same, once. Had laughed aloud in disbelief when his men brought him a bumbling reporter from The Daily Planet—the guy who spilled his coffee, who regularly volunteered at the soup kitchen, who said “gosh” and kept a bottle of Zoloft in his medicine cabinet. 

But then the cloth soaked in kryptonite was pressed over his mouth, and Clark had dropped like a stone. His skin even screamed. Turned gray, veins rising in angry black rivulets across his arms and neck. His heart slowed. The air had been yanked from his lungs.

That’s when Lex knew. That’s when it all clicked into place.

The bumbling fool. The clumsy hands. The cowardly flinches. The incompetent reporter was actually Superman in disguise.

Clark doesn’t know he’s being watched. The walls of the terrarium are mirrored on his side. But on the other side, Lex watches everything.

He steps into the observation deck now, gloved hands steepled behind his back. He watches the way Clark flinches when the mic flips on, even though he can’t see who it is yet. Something primal in him knows. His senses are heightened, maybe he knows Lex’s scent the way Lex knew his. 

There’s a beat. Then recognition.

Clark’s head jerks toward the mirror. He doesn’t see Lex, he’s looking a little too far right. His eyes widen, pupils blown. Confusion, then disbelief. Then horror.

“Lex,” he breathes. “You’re… You were supposed to be in prison.”

Lex smiles, not bothering to hide the satisfaction that ripples through him. “Hello, Clark. It’s been a while since we’ve seen one another. Though, I knew you under a different name then.”

Clark stands. Slowly. He’s taller, broader than Lex, but he shrinks into himself, shoulders curling inward like without his suit he’s trying to disappear. 

“Lex, listen—I know you’re upset but—”

“You’re mistaken,” Lex says gently. “I’m not angry. I’ve had time to reflect, Clark. Four years, to be exact. Four years staring at the same four concrete walls, with nothing but your face in my mind. Your eyes. Your voice. Your smile.”

Lex steps closer to the glass, his voice soft, reverent. He brushes his fingers across the glass. 

“I learned that it isn’t that I despise meta-humans, I despise lack of understanding. I hate what I do not understand. You see, right?” Lex paces along the glass mirror, and to counter Clark sits back on the mattress. He’s too big for the twin size, his width swallowing it whole. “So in my solitude, I decided I wanted to turn a new leaf. I don’t want war, I want understanding.” 

He presses his hand to the glass, palm flat. “And now look where we are.”

Clark swallows hard. His lips are red, bitten, worry-wet. His skin glows golden in the artificial lighting, freckled across the bridge of his nose where the sun has kissed him the most. The prescription in his glasses makes his eyes look enormous. Vulnerable.

Lex wants to trace every line of him. He wants to hold Clark’s face in his hands and make him understand how tragically beautiful he is when he’s terrified. How weak he is when he’s not hiding behind Superman’s bravado. 

The door to the terrarium opens with a hiss, and Lex steps through.

Clark freezes. Moves back again. But there’s nowhere to go. The cot creaks beneath him as he sits, arms stiff in his lap.

Lex kneels before him, slow, patient. One hand reaches up, fingers brushing Clark’s chin. He tilts his head left, then right. Studies him like a sculptor admiring his masterpiece.

“You’re magnificent,” Lex whispers. “You always were. Even when you were pretending not to be.”

Clark doesn’t answer. His breathing has quickened. His eyes search Lex’s face like he’s trying to find the man he used to know. But Lex sees the exact moment he realizes he’s gone.

This isn’t a rivalry.

This is worship.

“Lex, there are people who need me out there. You’ve got to see that by now—just let me go. The lives I could be saving—”

Lex’s fingers tighten abruptly around Clark’s chin, the gentleness from before vanishing into the air. His thumb presses cruelly into the hinge of Clark’s jaw. A high, wounded sound escapes Clark’s throat.

Lex smiles thinly. “Feel free to take off your shoes and get comfortable. You’ll be here for a while.”

He releases him with a flick, shoving his hands into his pockets like nothing had happened. As he walks toward the door, Clark’s voice trembles.

“And what happens when you’ve grown bored of experimenting on me? What then?”

The door hisses open, electric and final.

Lex doesn’t turn. “Then I’ll kill you.

Lex is a scientist, not a monster, so he leaves Clark Kent to get acclimated to his room. He watches the monitor of his terrarium from the privacy of the observation deck for the majority of the night. Not out of cruelty, just sheer curiosity. 

Clark is a peaceful sleeper, on his back, with an arm thrown over his stomach. He wets his lips and crinkles his nose a lot while he’s dreaming. It’s involuntary, it’s fascinating. 

At 6:30 a.m., breakfast is delivered—eggs, toast, and a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Clark eyes the tray with understandable suspicion. He stabs at the eggs with his fork, flips them, pokes the toast like it might spring to life. Eventually, hunger wins. He takes a tentative bite, and when nothing happens, he finishes the meal. He drains the water last.

At 7:15 a.m., Lex switches on the mic.

“Experiment One.”

Clark bolts upright, startled. He looks around wildly for the source of the voice.

“I’ve long been curious about your relationship to kryptonite,” Lex says, conversational. “We know the green geode in the physical form weakens you…tactile exposure leads to shortness of breath, disorientation, cell decay. But what about different types of kryptonite? What about different states of matter?”

A soft, mechanical click echoes from the ceiling. Then: a hiss.

From the vents, a faint green haze begins to spill, curling like smoke. The color is soft but unmistakable—glowing a radioactive sapphire, delicate in its danger. The mist spreads slowly across the floor, dense, clinging to corners and swirling across the cot like fog at dawn.

Clark tenses. He squints up at the vents as the first trace of kryptonite-laced vapor curls down toward him. The scent hits him instantly, the smoky, charcoal chemical. To Lex, it was barely noticeable, like charred metal or a burnt-out fuse.

But to Clark, it’s overwhelming.

He reels back, face twisting in visible discomfort, his breath catching sharply in his throat.

“Oh, look at you,” Lex purrs into the mic, raptly focused on his subject.

There is a brief second where Clark entirely loses control over himself. His lip curls up in a snarl, driving a knuckle into the side of his nose. The tickle contorts his face into a desperate limbo, lips puckered as the scent shifts around him. The air grows thick with the heavy scent, nearly odorless to Luthor but so strong for Clark. 

“Wh—hH!…gzH..”

Erratically, his nostrils pulsate and his breath snags on the edge of a sneeze. He sniffles deeply as moisture immediately begins to collect at the rim of his nostrils. He wipes his nose carelessly on the back of his hand. 

Lex watches in fascination as Clark’s elbow preemptively rises and lowers as he wars with the sensation. This was not the reaction he anticipated at all, but it piques his interest all the same. Is he going to sneeze? Maybe? Maybe not? 

Clark’s breath trips on a soft breath, then rushes out in a groan, and then a larger more violent gasp. His chest expands to take in as much air as possible. 

Clark pushes out another breath. His voice is whiny and cracks in the center, in a way Superman’s had not. “HHU—Hhhh..”

Then the most glorious thing happened. Lex approaches the glass in awe. 

A tear rolls down Clark’s cheek, it skates into the crevice of his nose, down his lips and drips off the bottom of his face. 

It’s beautiful. 

Lex steps closer to the glass, heart thudding. This is it.

Clark gasps audibly, then again, but silent this time, his face twisted, lips parted in raw anticipation. “hihHh! hHHH!”

The sensation peaks. 

“HEHh’TZZSSSCHHHhOo!”

It was the most enormous, throat scraping sneeze Lex had ever seen, and the look of satisfaction never crosses Clark’s face. The glass walls tremble with the force of it, the glass of water tips, a slow splash sloshing over its lip. The clock on the nightstand shifts backward an inch from the force.

Clark doesn’t even pause. His breath catches again.

“h—dJJZSSSHT'uhh!! Oh boy, that rhH…really tiHhckles—hAHhh…HD’ZZSCHHHHh’eu!”

Another follows: deeper, rougher. It seems once he breaks the surface tension, he can’t stop. He coughs, a catastrophic swelling breath catching right on the edge of his teeth. Lex watches Superman press his mouth into the crook of his elbow with a prayer and a cinch between his eyebrows, shoulders quivering as he bends himself in half. 

“h-h…Oh, geez L-Louise—MMHFSSHHhh! hD’jSZCHHHT’iu!” 

Lex waves a hand. The fog machine stops. The hiss cuts off. The colorful mist halts mid-swirl, the color beginning to dilute in the air. Clark, still reeling, lifts his head slightly. His elbow glistens with spray, wet and slick from the last sneeze. His eyelashes are soaked spikes, cheeks stained rosy and marred with tear tracks. Clark surprises him again, by cupping his hands into small fists and lifts them to cover his mouth and nose like he’s trying to trap the tickle. 

“h’ZTSSHh’yh!—KZSCHhh!!” Clark’s shoulders jerk inwards, as he captures the sound into his palms. The harshness of his sneeze fades with the oppressive burn of kryptonite fog. Without such an offensive presence, his sneezes are much more meek—fitting of him. The itch isn’t brutal and consuming, it was needy and flighty, dancing with just a delicate touch. It was euphoric, a gentle tease, feathery and light. 

Lex watches, rapt, as Clark’s wet lashes flutter open. His face is pink and painfully human. His breath is still shaky, still uncertain. Another sneeze curls at the edge of his face. He blinks up at the ceiling, breath hitching—

And dives into his hands again.

 “DzSShh…! —t’ZSSCHh!! — dZSCHht! Umb, snff-sNF! Excuse mbe—hHDZJJSSCHHHh!—uhhggnnn...”

Lex tsks under his breath. The sound is quiet, almost affectionate.

His expression shifts, still cold, but with something softer beneath. It doesn’t suit him. Sympathy looks strange on him, tenderness stretches like an ill fitted glove. 

Clark is a dripping mess, an aftermath of natural disaster. Red-nosed, damp, dazed. Lost in a haze of allergic misery, too overwhelmed to remember to be polite. His hand drags across his upper lip, from knuckle to wrist, sniffling wetly. He lifts the hem of his shirt and pinches it against his enflamed septum, dabbing moisture across the fabric with frantic itchy urgency.

The microphone picks up every sound—the wet squelch of congestion, the rhythmic sniffles, the desperate rustle of cloth against irritated skin.

Lex sighs.

He crosses the observation deck and retrieves a box of tissues from a corner desk. When he reaches the door, he presses his palm to the biometric pad. The DNA scanner flashes green, and the door hisses open.

“You’re going to rub your face raw,” Lex says coolly, stepping into the terrarium.

Clark doesn’t answer. Just sits there, dazed, still sniffling, red-eyed and blinking.

Lex crouches in front of him and smacks his hand away from his nose. The damp fabric of his shirt flutters down.

Up close, he watches Clark’s nostrils pulsate, quivering wide and trembling with every slow inhale. But the irritant is gone, and the sneeze won’t come. The tickle lingers… taunting… tickling… torturing.

Poor, pathetic thing.

Lex holds out a tissue.

Clark doesn’t move to take the tissue. His breath is panting, suspended in that pre- and post-sneeze haze—his glassy eyes half-lidded, his nostrils quivering delicately, flaring with each shallow inhale.

Lex sighs, exasperated. “Useless,” he mutters, and folds the tissue neatly over Clark’s flushed nose himself. “Blow.”

That breaks through the fog. Clark startles, eyes widening in a haze of allergic tears. His cheeks flush, blooming a deep, rosy red embarrassment that streaks all the way up to his ears.

“But—I’bm all—I’bm a mbess,” he stammers, voice thick and nasally. “I dodn’t wadnt you to see mbe like—”

“Spare me the sonnet and blow,” Lex snaps, crisply.

Clark’s blue eyes study him for signs of bluff, mercy or anything that might soften. There is nothing but calm, expectant detachment. His stillness confirms that he is serious. 

So, Clark blows his nose into the tissue. Wetly. Loudly. His breath shudders as he exhales into the tissue, a long, gurgling honk that leaves his nose streaming. Lex pinches the mess away from Clark’s nostrils with precision, folds the tissue clinically, and gently wipes beneath his nose in a motion. The skin there is hot and sticky with irritated moisture.

Clark, obedient as always, places his hands beneath his thighs like a reprimanded boy. He watches Lex with an unreadable expression, unsure of the impasse they've landed in.

Lex watches him back. He is a scientist first. When will Clark understand that?

A low beep signals the door, which hisses open. A lab tech rushes in, head ducked. They collect the used tissue with gloved hands, seal it in a specimen bag, label it, and vanish again in a breath.

Clark watches them go. Then, after a pause: “You’re bei’g… kind to mbe. I don’t understand.”

Lex doesn’t look up from the sleek interface on his smart watch, where he types out a quick string of commands. “That’s the difference between us,” he says calmly. “You dedicate yourself to misunderstanding me. I’m simply a man of science. Knowledge is my greatest strength.”

He stands and joins Clark on the cot, the mattress squeaking beneath their combined weight.

“And my life’s goal is to understand you.” He adds, with a hint of private humor, “and maybe bring about the demise of Superman while I’m at it.”

Clark studies him like he’s trying to figure out which part is the joke.

Lex’s watch chimes with a message and he hums thoughtfully as he reads it. 

Then, something smug shifts behind Lex’s gaze. He turns his head toward the mirrored wall as though he can see beyond it. He sees Clark’s eyes widen with dawning horror in his periphery. Clark scrambles to his feet, snatching his glasses from the nightstand and jamming them onto his face.

“Wait! Dodn’t—dodn’t do this—”

“On to Experiment Two,” Lex says, already bored. “Mix the blue and the purple kryptonite. Increase output by twenty-five percent.”

“Ndo, ndo, ndo! Lex, please! Obviously, I’bm allergic. Is that what you wadnt to hear? I’bm allergic to kryptonite— Dodn’t do this—”

But the vents slid open once more.

A new fog begins to swirl in, thicker than before, a dreamy periwinkle that pulses faintly with radioactive glow. It creeps in through the ceiling vents like smoke from a fire.

It’s even more exciting to witness up close. 

Clark gasps instinctively and holds his breath, desperate not to inhale it. His chest rises and locks. Lex remains seated, one leg crossed lazily over the other, fingers folded over his knee.

Clark clamps his mouth shut. His lips press into a tense line. The fog curls and dances around his legs, around his arms and face. It’s inescapable, like he’s trapped in an allergenic bubble.

One second.

Two.

Three.

His eyebrows twitch. His nose twitches harder, disapprovingly. The bridge scrunches faintly and the nostrils begin to flutter, angry red and already starting to drip again.

He won’t last.

Lex, eager to move the process along, stands and reaches toward him. Clark is taller, an annoying fact, but it grants Lex a perfect view. Clark has a long nose, Lex observes. A very strong, prominent bridge, but delicate, reactive tear drop shaped nostrils that turn red at the slightest irritant. The tip is upturned and malleable, already flushed a sweet shade.

From below, he studies the elegant slope of Clark’s nose, the flush at the tip, the way it flares and writhes under the influence of the airborne kryptonite.

He presses his knuckle to the underside, nudging it softly.

Nothing. Too much congestion. Maybe he’s applying too much pressure.

The lack of reaction is unsatisfactory for Lex. Lex frowns, adjusts tactics. He switches to the pad of his index finger and begins to trace gentle, teasing circles across the irritated tip. It’s a featherlight touch, massaging the very tip of his nose. 

That does it. 

Clark loses his breath, inhaling sharply at the tickle. The second he breathes in, the kryptonite wafts into his system, causing his nostrils to tremble immediately. They flare up and wide, fluttering away from one another. His mouth drops open, silently his chest jumps with four staccato breaths. 

Clark freezes and Lex does too, his finger gently placed against Clark’s nose. 

Then, in a blur of motion, Clark reaches forward, grabs Lex by the waist, and pulls him flush to his chest, twisting them both so Lex is shielded by Clark’s body. His hitch is wild and loud as he whips his head away from Lex. He sneezes with all of his power over his shoulder. 

“IHRRSSSSCCHHHHOO!!!”

It’s a sneeze of seismic force. The nightstand topples on to its side, the water glass shatters, the photo frame skitters across the floor and hits Lex’s dress shoe. The glass cracks beneath his heel.

Lex grins. 

“Well,” he breathes, giddy. “It looks like someone can’t control their powers when they sneeze.” 

Clark isn’t listening. The tickle fumes and seethes, wrecking havoc on his sinuses. His sinuses are on fire. Clark’s grip on Lex’s waist slackens and begins to attack his nose, furiously crushing the heel of his palm into the side of his nose. The tears are back, streaming from Clark’s crystal blue eyes. 

His mouth gapes open, eyes screwed shut before he snaps forward, sneezing violently into the open air. It knocks his glasses askew. “HHIDGZSSSHH’uh!!”

He doesn’t even finish the first sneeze before the next gasp wracks his frame.

“HH’NGXSHT—GUh! G-Gosh I’bm—! HHH’MMFFSHh!”

Lex, watching with the calm of a researcher and the rapture of a man in love, presses the voice note button on his watch. Clark sneezes as the underscore, his curls flying into his eyes. 

“Subject exhibits violent expulsion reflex. Pressure from the diaphragm suggests loss of control over bodily strength during the act of sneezing. Reactions to combined kryptonite vapor are heightened resulting in tears, impaired breathing, and multiple consecutive sneezes with increasing force. Remarkable.”

Clark shudders. “L-Lex, I can’t stop—” he pleads, eyes wide and watery, cupping his hand over his face from nose to chin. “MMFFZSSSHHHH! HhFFZZSSHHHT!! HD’ISSSCHHHH—OOHh!!”

The evidence of his fantastic performance is painted inside his hands. Spray, tears, all glistening signs of his body’s great betrayal. Wind stirs around the room, leaving the blankets on the cot fluttering. Lex plucks a tissue from the box and tucks it into Clark’s hands to clean himself up, not unkindly.

Lex waves a hand toward the glass, and the vent shuts with a soft hiss. The mist fades slowly, color bleeding from the room.

Clark blinks through the fog, winded and panting, dazed with allergic misery. His face is slick—red and raw, nose twitching, glistening. His chest heaves as he tries to breathe.

His shoulders jerk. 

“Hh—tZSH!”

Lex, already anticipating it, lifts a hand and covers Clark’s nose with his palm. Spray coats the center of Lex’s palm. “hh’ih-iH-iHhZSSSHh-u! hKZSSSHHHh! —KSH’ih!” 

Clark grimaces. 

Lex cups his cheek with the other hand. “There we are,” he murmurs. “You’re doing so well.”

He pulls a fresh tissue from the box and uses it to wipe his hand clean without a grimace. 

“I…I totally just sdneezed on you,” Clark muses, sounding defeated and apologetic. “I’bm so sorry.” 

It’s endearing, hilariously misplaced because Lex is causing all his sneezing. Still, he sighs. 

“Don’t apologize,” Lex grumbles. His watch is freckled in the crossfire of Clark’s spray. “It’s fine.” He taps the face of his watch, pulling up the data feed and begins another voice note. “Subject exhibits reduced sneeze force once the irritant is removed from the vicinity. A fit of softer— Actually, replace ‘softer’— the term is misleading. Sneezes remain aggressive in decibel and physical output but demonstrate a higher refractory arc, also a higher frequency interval. Strong implication that the subject suffers from human-style allergic triggers. Possible cross reactivity with ragweed, dust mites, etcetera. Investigate common allergens. ”

Clark watches him, blinking blearily through swollen lashes, his hair a mess of dark curls and sweat. After a long beat, a mischievous smile tilts his lips. 

“You’re ndot going to bless mbe?” 

Lex’s fingers freeze mid-air. He glances up from his watch, startled. “No.” 

Clark sniffles, itching his nostril with his thumb. His eyes are big and pouty, wet. “Why ndot?”

Lex swallows, hard. The air is thick with kryptonite residue and something else he doesn’t have a name for. Something awful and unwelcome stirs heavily in his gut. It’s the cousin to rage, and friends with lust. 

“I’m a scientist,” Lex snaps, attitude forever his armor. “Not a priest, Clark.” 

Clark sniffs, still rubbing his nose with the side of his thumb. He knows exactly what he’s doing now, Lex can tell. He has to know how disarming he looks when he’s flushed and flushed out, all watery eyes, pink nose and trembling shoulders. 

“C’mbon Lex,” he croons. “After all this fuss about mby biology? I’bm starti’g to think you don’t appreciate this.” 

Lex’s mouth tights. There’s a tick in his jaw, a crack in the wall he so painstakingly built. “That concludes today’s observations.” Lex croaks, stiff. 

Clark smiles like he won something. 

Lex tosses the box of tissues onto the cot besides him with a little too much force. “Clean yourself up. Tomorrow we will test new variables. Maybe I’ll see what happens when you ingest it.” 

Clark huffs and mutters solemnly. “Should I bring wine?” 

He doesn’t dignify it with a response. He turns on his heel and strides out, sharp and fast so he can outrun the heat crawling up his neck. 

Outside the pod, in the observation desk, slams his hands atop the desk, grounding himself, jaw locked. 

He shouldn’t have gotten close, Clark is a bigger evil than Superman. It leaves him low and bitter. 

***

Sure enough, two days after the first sneeze, Bucky wakes up in full blown coldish misery.

He can’t breathe at all out of his right nostril, and the very little air he can get through his left tickles his nose so much that he’s practically sneezing with every inhale. His sore throat and pounding head do not appreciate the constant sneezes, and to make matters worse, a painful cough is already well underway.

As he blearily stumbles through his morning routine in his little living quarters in The Tower, he can’t help but feel anxious about the day ahead. The thing is, he knows people are still getting used to him. It wasn’t even that long ago when people knew him as The Winter Soldier and not Bucky Barnes (hell, he didn’t even see himself as Bucky for a while, and every so often he still needs some reminding). That being said, he’s very aware of his presence and spends a great deal trying to be as low profile as possible- whether it’s for his own sake or for others- and being sick with a cold isn’t exactly subtle. He’d rather just hole himself up in his room until he’s healthy, but that’s not really a possibility. He doesn’t have much in his apartment, not even coffee and god he really, really needs some coffee.

So, Bucky hauls his ass into a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, ties his hair into a shitty ponytail and steps into his sneakers with laces already tied, and does the whole thing while coughing and sneezing like he’s auditioning for the lead role in a DayQuil commercial.

He’s just about to shuffle his way to the door when a particularly nasty coughing fit makes him grasp onto his dresser for dear life.

A sudden electronic ping sound fills the room as the tablet screen built into the wall lights up blue and orange.

“Detecting acute respiratory distress and elevated temperatures,” JARVIS says. “Sergeant Barnes, would you like me to alert the med bay?”

“Doh— ugh, degative. I’b fide,” Bucky attempts to tell the disembodied voice, but he doesn’t know if he’s even intelligible. He just needs to catch his breath first, then maybe clear out his sinuses.

“Shall I contact Captain Rogers?” JARVIS suggests.

“Doh,” Bucky repeats. “He’s on a bission. Doesn’dt deed di… distractions. Heh- heh’DSSCHH’iiieww!!”

Although he’s aware how gross it is, Bucky lets himself sneeze out into the open, full force and unrestrained. It is his own room, after all, and holy shit did he need that. His nose feels all warm and satisfied, like a pesky itch has finally been scratched, if only temporarily.

“Oh, sdf, god…” Bucky moans, nostrils streaming. He grabs onto his tissue box, pulls out whatever’s left and passionately blows his nose. When he’s all done, he straightens up with a sigh. “Guh, fu’gg mbe…”

“Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky nearly jumps out of his skin, having forgotten about JARVIS.

“What?”

“Would you like some more tissues?”

He sheepishly looks between the empty box on his dresser and the soggy clump clutched in his hand.

“…yes, please.”

***

Finally, coffee. Probably the only thing worth dragging his sick and mucus-filled body away from the comfort and privacy of his own room. Thankfully, he’s managed to avoid running into anyone on his way to the kitchen area, which- again, thankfully- is completely empty.

Bucky sniffles repeatedly while scooping coffee grounds into the silver coffee press, feeling chills climb up his back. He shivers and shakes, causing him to accidentally spill brown coffee dust onto the white marble countertop.

“Shit,” he swears.

He bends down to grab some wipes from under the sink. When he stands back up, he immediately turns away from the coffee press and coughs harshly into his arm, his chest crackling with congestion.

“Oof, that doesn’t sound good.”

Bucky whips around and finds Natasha leaning against the doorway with her arms crossed. If he wasn’t so brain-fogged and if his ears weren’t so stuffed up he would’ve for sure heard her approaching. This damn cold.

Bucky waves her off, swallowing hard with a wince. “It’s dothing,” he says then cringes at his voice.

“Hm, not sure I’m buying that,” Natasha says. She joins Bucky at the kitchen counter and studies his face with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “I thought super soldiers couldn’t get sick.”

Bucky just shrugs. “Yeah, well, guess Hydra’s serum wasn’t a perfect copy.”

“Guess not.” Nat takes a beat, eyes briefly flickering to the mess of loose coffee grounds on the counter. “Go sit down. I’ll finish making the coffee— that wasn’t a question,” she adds when Bucky opens his mouth to object.

Only, Bucky doesn’t move. Instead, he stares hazily past her shoulder, mouth ajar.

Natasha frowns, confused. “Bucky? Are you—”

Suddenly, the former Winter Soldier snaps forward, metal knuckles pressed firmly under his nose.

“ngk’tiew!!”

Natasha raises her brows. “Oh, you’re going to—”

“h’ngktt! h’mpftsh!!”

“—sneeze. Again?” She asks as Bucky takes heavy, measured breaths, his nostrils twitching like crazy.

Bucky nods his head, then continues the movement into one last expulsion. “ih’ddsst’chiew!! Snnff! Oh, god.”

Natasha chuckles as she watches Bucky gruffly wipe his nose with his sleeve. “Будь здоров! Bless you.”

“Спасибо,” he mutters while looking at the tiles on the kitchen floor. His nose feels as big as a strawberry and is probably just as red.

“Is there anything I can get you?” Natasha asks, although she already knows his answer.

“D- sdfff! No, thank you.” Bucky emphasizes the “n” so as to avoid sounding as miserably congested as he actually is. “Just the coffee. snfSNF!! Please.”

“You got it,” she grins. “And don’t stifle your sneezes. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Cheeks almost certainly as red as his nose, Bucky sheepishly nods before going to sit at the kitchen table. So much for being quiet and inconspicuous.

***

“So,” Sam says. “I hear you’ve got the plague.”

Bucky glances up from tying his boots. “Guess word travels fast.”

“Round here it does,” Sam shrugs. He retrieves a roll of boxing tape from his gym bag and begins wrapping his right hand. “But to be fair, I did hear you coughing from the hallway.”

“Great,” Bucky mutters, then straightens up with a soupy sniffle.

For some reason, Bucky had felt that it would’ve been more inconvenient to take a rain check on training with Sam than to show up exhausted, pale, sick and miserable. Was it a dumb decision? Absolutely. Unfortunately, by the time he’d considered getting up and leaving the combat studio, Sam had already dropped himself down onto the wooden bench across from him. There was nothing he could do but get on with it and hope for the best.

Sam rips off the end of the tape with his teeth before getting a closer look at the soldier’s face. He clearly doesn’t like what he sees, considering the way his eyes soften and eyebrows scrunch closer.

“Are you… feeling okay enough to spar?” Sam asks before lifting the back of his hand to Bucky’s clammy forehead.

Bucky recoils and pushes Sam’s hand away. “I’b fide, Sam. I’b… I…” he trails off, distracted by a sudden quivering of his nostrils. “huh- huH’EHSSCHH!!”

“Jeez. Bless you,” Sam frowns. He gets up from his bench and moves to sit right next to Bucky. “You know, I’m sure Banner would be able to develop some ‘super’ cold meds for you, or whatever. The guy’s sorta a genius.”

“Didn’dt he turn himself into a green mbonster?” Bucky asks, jaded, while scrubbing his nose with his forearm.

Sam raises his eyebrows and puts on an incredulous expression. “Hey, being a genius doesn’t mean you can’t make mistakes.”

Bucky considers Sam’s point for a moment while the latter finishes wrapping tape around his other hand. When he’s done, he nudges Bucky’s shoulder with a grin.

“C’mon, let’s go warm up.”

They both start out strong with stretches, jumping jacks, pushups and sit-ups, with Bucky only needing to pause a few times to blow his nose or drink some water when he gets hit with a bout of coughing.

However after an hour, his symptoms take a turn for the worse; a pulsing headache has grown increasingly hard to ignore, matching the rate at which his sinuses have become astronomically stuffed up. His nose and ears itch like crazy and his brain feels sluggish. But it’s only after failing to block- and in turn receiving- three straight punches to the face that Bucky finally taps out.

“Time… time out,” Bucky says, breathing heavily. He puts his hands on his knees and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Shit, Buck, are you okay?” Sam asks.

“I’b… snfffk! I’b okay,” he answers, though his voice sounds unsure. He pinches the space between his eyes and waits for the room to stop spinning. “Mby head’s just swimming. SnfSNF!”

Sam goes to Bucky’s side and lays a supportive hand on his back. “It’s alright, Buck. Let’s just call it a day, ‘kay?”

Bucky straightens up and nods. Suddenly, his face scrunches up, making him look like he’s about to--

“huh’gxxt!!”

The sneeze comes over him quickly, only giving him just enough time to turn away from Sam and loosely press his nose into his shoulder.

“Bless you,” Sam says.

“Th-thank—” Bucky starts, but another sneeze bursts from his nose before he can even get the word out. “hUh’pdtsshh!!” He hastily swipes at his drippy nostrils, suddenly conscious of the fact that a lot more sneezes are on the way. “Sorry, Sam. I deed to- hih’hih— shit, I g-gotta- huh—!”

“It’s alright, man, do what you gotta do.”

Bucky nods, trying to keep himself together until he can put at least a little distance between himself and Sam. He stumbles across the studio toward the rack of folded towels and snatches a small one off the counter. He turns his back to Sam and holds the cloth at the ready before letting his nose go completely ballistic.

“hEH’ddszzh!! Ugh… hih’hih… hIH’DSSCHH!” Bucky lifts his head with a gruff exhale, his eyes teary and nose trembling. Despite the fact that the first two sneezes had come out harsh and vocal- even with being muffled into a towel- his nose still feels as itchy as ever. “God— tsh- g’dtsh- gxxt- h’gxxt!!”

This fucking cold. He really should’ve just gone back to his room after getting his coffee, and he definitely should’ve just canceled his session with Sam despite it being at the last minute. Sneezing all over the place is arguably much, much worse than flaking out on plans.

“Ah’TCHuhh!! ‘TSHiissh!! Oh… guh— HEh’tsh- tsh- chh- chh- ‘tchiiiew! Ouch, fuck.”

The feeling of a hand landing on his shoulder catches him off guard. He blearily looks up to Sam giving him a sympathetic yet concerned look.

“Buck…” Sam starts, but Bucky cuts him off.

“Hih… h-hold on…” he says, shakily raising the towel to his face as one final sneeze crests. He rears back with a gasp then pitches forward, doubling over at the waist. “hiH’DTISSHHyiew!!”

Sam winces at the sick sounding sneeze and subsequent nose blow Bucky unleashes into the battered cloth.

“I really think you should go get some rest, Buck. We’ll pick up again when you’re feeling better, alright?”

After some snuffling and stuffy groans, Bucky sheepishly lifts his head, a bashful expression painted across his face. “Okay, yeah… I deed’a go lie dowd.”

***

Almost as soon as Bucky crawls into bed, he’s out like a light. He probably could’ve slept for 24 hours if something hadn’t caught his attention and pulled him from his sleep.

As he opens his eyes, he realizes his head feels heavy as hell. When he sits up, his upper body overshoots the trajectory, causing him to loll to the right like a boat in troubled waters. He props himself up with his arm and steadies his body back to equilibrium. It takes him a second to remember what caused him to wake up in the first place until a sound outside his bedroom door snaps him out of his brain fog.

Bucky stealthily slips a knife from his pillow case before getting out of bed. He silently creeps across the hardwood floor and slowly opens the door…

…only to find Steve putzing around his living room.

“Sdeve?” He croaks. Is he actually awake or still dreaming?

The captain pauses halfway through putting a book onto a shelf and turns his head. He notices the knife clutched in Bucky’s hand, grip tight enough to turn his knuckles white, and immediately adjusts his body language. He drops his arm, stands up straight and softens his demeanor, keeping his arms at his sides with palms facing up to show that he’s not a threat.

“Hey Buck,” Steve says gently. “It’s all right, it’s just me.”

Bucky relaxes with a stuffy sigh. He sets his knife on his dresser and completely emerges from the bedroom. Wordlessly, he makes a beeline straight into Steve’s arms.

Steve lets out an “oof” as Bucky crashes into his chest before wrapping him in a tight hug.

“Hey baby, hi,” he says softly, cheek smooshed against Bucky’s fever-warm forehead. “How’re you feeling?”

Bucky coughs roughly into Steve’s shirt, his whole frame shaking from the force.

“Better,” he chokes out, “with you here.”

“Honey, you sound terrible,” Steve says just in time for Bucky to let out a desperate, helpless sneeze aimed into his shoulder.

“hehh-ETCHHiissh!! Ugh… sddffk! Sorry.”

Steve rubs Bucky’s back. “Bless you, baby… aw, you’re really sick, hm?”

“Guess I’ve been healthier…” Bucky admits, sounding a tad apologetic, as if he had any control over his immune system or the germs he’s been exposed to. A sudden harsh, phlegmy coughing fit comes over him.

“Sam and Natasha really weren’t exaggerating…” Steve tsks to himself while continuing to rub Bucky’s back. “Let’s get you back into bed, alright?”

He nods, still coughing, and lets Steve guide him back into his bedroom and under the covers.

“Is there anything I can get you, sweetheart?” Steve asks once he takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. “A cold towel? Some tea?”

“Just want you,” Bucky says, eyes glassy and fatigued from fever. Suddenly his nose twitches, causing him to hitch softly yet helplessly at his boyfriend. “A-and maybe some tih- hih- h’GXXTJCH!”

“Tissues, got it,” Steve chuckles fondly, finding his boyfriend endearing even when he uses his blanket as a snot rag.

***

Later, after Bucky’s gotten some sleep (Steve definitely indulged in a little shuteye himself), the two super soldiers eat dinner together. They sit on Bucky’s couch surrounded by a growing collection of tissues and sip on ramen while catching each other up on the last week of their lives.

“D’othing really eventful- sdfff!” Bucky grabs another tissue, pinches his nose and drags it in a forward motion, collecting the moisture dripping from his nostrils and clinging to his septum. The steam from the soup is making his nose extra runny. “Boring meetings and- sngfff! Ugh. Drowning in mucus.” Keeping his tissue handy, he takes a spoonful of soup and swallows with a slight wince. “How about you?”

“Hm, let’s see,” Steve ponders. “Met a few aliens, almost broke a few of my ribs, stopped some bad guys.”

“So the usual,” Bucky says.

“I guess so,” Steve laughs and shrugs. “But this time I was lucky enough to be sent on an extra special mission,” he adds, eyes sparkling in the way they do whenever he says something cheeky.

“Mm?” Bucky hums curiously.

“Once we caught word that a certain someone was down with a nasty flu, I was sent on the first flight home.”

Bucky pauses in the middle of bringing another spoonful of soup to his mouth. Furrowing his brows, he returns the spoon to his bowl and gives Steve a concerned look.

“What?” His brain feels hot like an overheated computer as his thoughts scramble to make sense out of what he’s hearing.

Steve reaches over to cup Bucky’s cheek against his palm, looking at him like a lovesick puppy. “Sam and Natasha made damn sure I’d be back to look after you, make sure you’re okay ‘n all that. Best mission I’ve ever received.”

“Why?” Bucky asks, genuinely perplexed.

Steve snorts. “Because they care about you, Buck.”

Error404 not found. Bucky mumbles an ‘oh’ and fixes his gaze on his soup bowl.

Huh. That’s… wow. He didn’t even consider that as a possibility. To be honest, he’d half expected Steve to come back from his mission, sit him down and explain to him as gently as possible that the people in The Tower have found him and his cold to be an imposition on them. Realizing that he’s not only not been a menacing inconvenience to everyone around him, but that he actually has people looking out for him and caring for him… fuck… he’s going to blame his fever for the tears welling up in his eyes.

“Aw, Buck,” Steve says softly, setting aside both his and Bucky’s bowl on the coffee table. He uses his thumb to wipe a tear from Bucky’s flushed cheek. “Come here.”

Bucky sniffles, helpless against the wave of emotions pouring over him and his vulnerable state. His nose feels all warm and buzzy as the urge to cry manifests into actual tears, and he knows he’s going to start sneezing again while Steve pulls him in for a hug.

“Steve…” he murmurs shakily, his nostrils quivering with that maddening, ticklish headcold-induced craving for a big, messy sneeze.

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby,” Steve says, cradling Bucky’s head against his chest. “You can sneeze.”

It’s as if Bucky’s nose reacts full force once given the go ahead. His whole body shivers as he takes a single deep inhale, then—

“huh’EIIISHHHOO!!!”

He curls into Steve cotton t-shirt, feeling wet in every sense of the word. He lets out a pleasured moan and immediately feels his face heat up with embarrassment.

“‘m sorry,” Bucky apologizes and buries his nose deeper into Steve’s shirt. “Felt good…”

“You’re alright,” Steve says warmly. “Bless you.”

He rubs the sick guy’s back until muffled, congested breaths become stuffy, content snores.