and i'd do it again | sneeze fetish blog

“Is okay, Shane, you worry too much,” Ilya rolls his eyes and sniffs as he dutifully helps Shane out of the passenger seat. Not a necessity, a courtesy of their dynamic. 

It’s a Boodram team party. The best of the best. Bood can grill like nobody’s business and he also invites any and all WAGS (or otherwise plus ones). There’s no better Centaur’s bonding than a Bood party. 

As captain, Ilya has no problem admitting this. Previously, the whole secretly dating Shane Hollander-thing really put a damper on his abilities to host. Now that they’re both on the team, he’s found that he still prefers a Boodram kickback. If it was their place –  (they’ve fucked on every surface of their home, so it would become Oh, no, the rookies are playing poker where we fucked doggy that night) – then Shane would get too anxious about the clean-up, really, he means.

So, the A hosts, and the C arrives with his husband. 

They’ve been doing this for their first year as husbands. The only difference of note tonight is that Ilya has a cold. It’s nothing that would concern the team doctors, but there is a level of casually under the weather that Ilya is forced to bring to the party along with the case of beer under his arm. And, simultaneously, not be too casual or else be scolded by his husband for brazenly spreading it. His cold, specifically. 

Unfortunately for his husband – he’s surely caught whatever cold Ilya is down with already. He’s had to hold his tongue all day from giving him gentle reminders such as we sleep in the same bed or you had my spit in your mouth last night every time Shane makes him wash his hands or scoots marginally away from him. 

“I am cleared,” Ilya reminds Shane as they head towards Bood’s front door. He can hear the thumping bass and general chatter from the backyard. “Good to go for games, just the sniffles?” 

Shane sighs and grasps for his waist as they walk up to the door. “I know. But, if you feel bad, let me know, promise?” 

“Yes, yes,” Ilya groans back, pinching the bridge of his nose. It doesn’t escape him that his exasperated sniffle is heavy, and wet. He knows he has a cold, but he isn’t coughing and doesn’t have a fever. So Shane should leave him alone. 

This response hasn’t satisfied his husband, who is giving him a stern look. “I promise,” Ilya adds, “and I also promise I will not feel too bad when I fuck you when we get home after.” 

Shane jabs his side and then raps twice with his knuckles. The door falls open in front of him. Shane insists on knocking every time even though this is always the result. Never locked, never closed.

They step inside and Ilya eyes a corner of Bood’s kitchen counter as they step inside, “Want to get drunk?”

__

Ilya ends up with a beer in his hand and a husband on his left thigh, out at the campfire. 

He’s been doing well tonight, but the smoke and the lack of tissues has been admittedly making him sound worse and worse. 

“Wyat’d!” he exclaims at one point, voice husky and low in the back of his throat. He sniffles and points at him with the rim of his bottle, “you are such a fucki’g nerd! Literally nobody in the world knows tha’dt much about comics, so you are arguing with a wall.” 

The conversation continues, but his throat kind of hurts and he clears it only once before Shane is producing a cough drop. He watches from his peripherals as his husband pulls it from his pocket, unwraps it, and offers it against Ilya’s lips.

He takes it, enjoying the menthol and blowing the scent at Shane’s ear to piss him off, thankful.

His burning throat immediately starts to recede and he gives Shane a squeeze on his hip, where he’s holding him in his lap. 

__

Ilya only realizes he might be congested to ears other than his own when someone makes fun of his accent. 

He’s been used to it since North America, more than half his life, but he’s never heard it from the Centaurs before. So it must mean something, if they’re bringing it up. 

It’s Dykstra, who teases first. “I’b Rozanob an’ I’b our captain”, he remarks with an obvious accent and nasality, interrupting whatever Ilya had been saying. 

He baulks. “Fuck you, I soud fin’d,” he remarks, disproving his own point as the syllables reach his ears. He sniffles, reflexively, and thumbs at the side of his nose. 

Shane shifts on his lap and cups a hand around his ear, “Do you want to go?” 

He shakes his head.

Despite this, Shane produces a tissue from somewhere and whispers, “do you need to blow your nose?” as he presses it into his hand. 

His brain short-circuts. He does. He’s been sniffling around this cold for the past hour and something. He’s sneezed a few times and it’s been getting more frequent. Still, a non-issue, really, more like an annoyance. But it’s so sweet that Shane had a tissue for him. But it’s also so embarrassing that Ilya apparently needs to blow his nose so bad that his husband is telling (he asks, but he tells) him to. 

He takes the tissue and pinches at his septum, gathering up the wetness waiting there. He doesn’t blow as instructed. 

__

The tissue is forgotten in his hand, held between his index and middle finger, the other three wrapped around his beer. He only remembers it when he gets up to get a refill, accidentally tossing it into the recycling along with his empty bottle. And he decides maybe he should blow his nose after all. 

He goes into the bathroom, pisses, and then blows his nose into a handful of toilet paper. Huh, he can actually almost take in a full breath through his nose now. 

He tweaks the side of his nose with his thumb to tease out an indulgent sneeze, see if he can get rid of the lingering congestion. It works too well. One success turns into three, turning the toilet paper cupped in his hands to mush. He tosses them and grabs another wad before washing his hands. 

He goes to grab another beer, then stares at the cooler for too long and grabs a water in case Shane wants one, and heads back outside to check if Shane is hiding any more cough drops in his pockets that he can steal. 

__

It takes another half-hour or so before Shane starts to get really serious. Ilya had been talking with the guys (couple hits off the shared blunt in, now, loose and warm), before Shane asserts himself. 

“Ilya,” he says, stalking up to him as he, Bood, Dykstra, and Hayes are lounging on the back porch, “let’s go home.” 

“Ughhh,” Ilya groans, through a sniffle and a wipe of his nose on the back of his hand, “the missus,” he stage-whispers to their teammates. 

“No,” Shane says crossly, as if this is actually a point that needs correcting. “Your husband.” 

Ilya grins at him. He loves hearing Shane say that in public. “Yes, my husband.” He grabs the closest water bottle off the table and takes a quick sip as he hears his voice crack. He’s getting cotton-mouthy from the weed and his throat is irritated. 

Shane doesn’t like this response. “Your husband is currently clinging to the last of his energy of this night and doesn’t want his sick, cross-faded husband to get worse.” Shane has his high-and-mighty look on. His arms are crossed, but his tone makes it seem like he should have them on his hips. He’s so cute. 

Ilya hears himself giggle. His Shane is sooo cute. “да - мой зайчик,” he drags himself out of the lawn chair he’d been sprawled across. 

He goes to give his beautiful, adorably strict husband a kiss, but gets dodged. Or maybe he missed. He tries again and confirms Shane is being intentional. He whines unhappily at this, interlocking their fingers absentmindedly. 

“You’re gross. Your nose is running,” Shane informs him, but he sounds sort of fond. 

“I know,” Ilya agrees, but pulls the bottom hem of his tank up to wipe at it because he would like to kiss his husband. “I sneezed earlier and WOOSH!” he gestures emphatically at his face, “I am dripping like a leaky faucet now.” 

“You’re gross,” Shane repeats, grumbling, but presses a chaste kiss to the side of Ilya’s mouth. 

“Yes! Victory!” Ilya scoops Shane up in his arms, planting a kiss to the side of his head. 

“Hear that?” he asks, head tilted back to their teammates as he clings his arms around the small of Shane’s back. “I am gross and I still have a very sexy husband who loves me. None of you could be so lucky.”

This very satisfying moment is lessened when he turns into his shoulder with a spraying sneeze, forcing him to release Shane as he stumbles. 

He feels Shane’s arm catch him across the waist as he grabs the neck of his tank and releases – some many number of times more. He loses count. His shirt is going to need a good wash after this. Stark-white, one of his favorites, and he can feel the evidence of his cold seeping through it. He pinches off the mess as he withdraws from it. 

“Go home, Roz,” Hayes says, not unkind. Lisa had at some point reminded him that Ilya got a sinus infection last time he had a cold, so now he’s turned into a concerned citizen. 

Ilya is very proud of the way he manages to balance bitching and moaning with politely saying goodnight to his friends, allowing Shane to push him inside and snag them some leftovers. 

He will let everyone else be right, even though he’s fine. They’re right only because he knows they say it because they care about him. Not because they’re concerned about the team or think he is weak.

__

He’s stretching crackling tinfoil over a plate to take home as they stand alone in the kitchen when, “Is it, uh, morally wrong that I think you sound hot right now?” 

Ilya glances sideways at Shane and chuckles, low. “No, I do not think it is morally wrong to be attracted to your husband.” 

He jerks his head towards the door as he walks to Bood’s entranceway. 

“No, I mean,” Shane says, avoiding eye contact as he holds the front door for Ilya, “Like, your, uh, sick voice? It’s doing things to me.” 

“Eh,” Ilya shrugs, grinning, as he beeps their keys in his hand before passing them to Shane, who is always their after driver. His nose is prickling again and he pinches it, hard, trying to stave off the feeling. “If your husband must suffer, at least you can enjoy. I see no issue.” 

___

They settle into their sensible Jeep and Ilya can start to lay his I’m going to fuck you when we get get back trap. 

He leans over and says low in Shane’s ear, “You did so good tonight, sweetheart.” He purposefully scratches at his stomach, exposing a strip of skin between the hem and his waistband. 

Shane is probably flushing, but he can’t tell in the dim light of the driveway. He waits until they’re pulling out onto the main road, street lamps illuminating him in flashes.

“You take such good care of me, my Shanya,” said leaned over the center console and against his ear, again. He even flicks his tongue out to his earlobe. He accidentally sniffles before he pulls back. 

There’s quiet for a long moment. 

“I like taking care of you. Even if I know you don’t need it, I want to.” 

Ilya knows this. Shane knows he feels the same, the vice-versa, whatever. Still, it’s melting him down to his sappy bits to hear out loud and he grabs for Shane’s right hand, desperate to squeeze him as he dissolves against the passenger seat. “I know. I love you. But is just a cold, I swear.” 

“Also, I love you, but you sniffle, like. All the time,” Shane sighs.

Ilya frowns, drawing their joined hands to his heart. “I have a cold!” he exclaims. “I am a victim!”

“Yes, baby, I know. Sorry.” Shane squeezes their hands together like a heartbeat, sparing a glance his way. There’s no heat behind it. “But you’re actually incessant. I wanted to strangle you halfway through when we were sitting at the firepit.” Shane squeezes again. 

“Incessant. Hmm. I will take this English word to mean sexy?” Ilya presses a kiss into their joined hands, biting lightly at a few of Shane’s knuckles. He knows what it means. He makes a mental note to blow his nose more if he needs to and thunks his head against the window again, closing his eyes.

__

The moment they’re back through their own door, Ilya is searching for more Shane, dragging his hair between his fingers, kissing him desperately. Shane is returning, putty in his mold, grasping desperately for handfuls of his ass and biting at his lower lip.

Ilya pulls back for air as he starts to get congested and notes, “Seems like you don’t mind if I am gross after all,” because Shane is swiping Ilya’s mess off his lips with a very irritated glare. 

“Go shower. You smell like weed,” Shane commands, shoving him lightly in the direction of their staircase. 

__ 

The warm steam of the shower is nice. Probably too nice. Now that he’s alone, the heavy thrum of the water onto the floor blocking out the world, he can admit he doesn’t feel … great. 

His head hurts. He’s surely still somewhere between high and tipsy, but he’s come down enough that he has to feel the headache he’s been avoiding.

His throat is ragged. Too much talking and smoking and clearing it over and over and over against the phlegm dripping down from his ever-suffering nasal passageways. 

Speaking of his sinuses — he hadn’t realized how much they burned until now, fraught with overuse from his constant sniffling, surely. Shane was right, he does do this too much. 

The sneezes run freely now, down over his cupid’s bow and onto the tile of the shower where he’s pressed his face for some reason, and then mix with the rest of the clean, warm water. He’s folded over, gasping for breath as each release frees him, but also makes him more dizzy as the steam builds. 

Mostly, he just feels a little buzzy and a lot tired. 

He strokes his dick a few times, ensuring it’s still in working order. It starts to swell up, assuring him he’s still good to make his husband cry with pleasure. 

Good.

But – there’s not usually a but.

He’s very tired. 

__ 

“Okay, I took a shower. Now we can fuck?” Ilya announces, the line three-times rehearsed in his head as he exits their bathroom. 

Shane is sitting on their bed, criss-crossed legs balancing his laptop. His hair is damp. Oh. He showered, then. In the guest bath. The last time they used the guest bedroom was some months ago after some fight which ended with Shane joining Ilya there because assholes get to sleep in the guest room, so I realized I should because I’m also — 

“I made you tea.” Shane barely looks up as he says it, interrupting whatever horrible train of thought Ilya had been about to go down.

He approaches his side of the bed and peers at the waiting warm mug. He lifts it to his face, but he can tell before he smells it that it’s his kind of tea. Jammy. Shane prefers earthy teas for himself. Hojicha is his favorite, he remembers. 

He takes a blissful sip. “Thank you,” he tells his husband as he flops down in bed, grasping a hand around his thigh to squeeze it properly. The tea soothes his throat and follows warm down into his stomach.

He clears his throat and rolls over more towards Shane. “You are too busy with laptop drama, won’t let me make good on my promise?” 

Shane looks at him, confused, for some reason. “Uh, I just thought we’d go to sleep.”

Ilya must have pouted at him for too-long because he follows up, “You’re sick, Ilya. I can tell you’re tired.” 

He sniffles, because he needs to, but he’s exaggerating. “I know. But, I want my Shanya to feel good too,” he can hear the pouting in his voice and doesn’t shy away from it. He pulls out his widest, most shining, pleading eyes he can manage and looks up at Shane. 

Shane reaches a hand into Ilya’s curls and scratches. He loves to do this. Ilya loves it, too, like he’s Shane’s overgrown puppy. “I’d feel better if you rested, sweetheart.” 

“Ah, he has pulled out the big guns,” he says, gasping before he sneezes, pinched between two fingers. He doesn’t like to suppress them, but he wants to rest and not be bugged about a tissue or medicine by Shane.

“‘Sweetheart,’ he said,” Ilya continues, attempting at frustration, but takes little coaxing before he’s burying his head deeper against his pillow and closing his eyes as Shane continues to massage at his scalp.