I'm not the biggest fan of the art style of Contagion but these panels give me life.
Alfred lowkey convincing Dick that Tim died a horrible death from the Clench, only to be like "hey it was funny at the time" and "what was I meant to do? Not traumatise you, be real, Master Dick"
Let's commit assault with Mama đ
Tim being a spoiled kid who is about to ask batdad for an elevator because his little legs are sick of walking up and diwn those stairs
Tim snoozing đđđ
"Ivy, you know I'm fucking gay, you're gay, I'm not in the mood to pretend to be straight right now, people are dying, you have a girlfriend, you're better than this"
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sneezing and being tied up is so hot, and it's hot no matter who's tied up
like oh you cant scratch your poor itchy nose? you can't stifle or cover your sneeze? poor baby better hold it back as long as possible. you need a tissue? maybe if you're good for me.
or
you can't go anywhere, and I think I'm coming down with something, my nose is just so itchy. wouldn't it be a shame for me to sneeze all over you while you have nowhere to go?
If I had a penny everytime Data threw his close friend, who's wearing a yellow uniform, to get them out of danger, I would have two pennies. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.
Data, you really have to find a better way to save your friends... That looks like it hurts.
hearing loud, cold-stricken sneezes ripping through the room next door, one after the other, then taking a cheeky peek inside after they left a few minutes later â and just seeing an absolute carnage of ripped, wet tissues littering the top of their bed đ as well as a half-open bottle of Nyquil from how bad those sneezes definitely sounded on their throatâŚ
bonus points if you just stand in the doorway lookin like âđĽşâ when your partner comes back and they come to realization just how visible their cold is, even when youâre not witnessing first-hand. Like their spacial awareness returns and theyâre left maybe a little embarrassed~
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Someone in the group has been sick for a few days now. They've been keeping it well under wraps, excusing themselves from rooms, volunteering for the tasks that can be done alone, getting up and going to bed earlier. And god they're so exhausted. But sickness is weakness, they know this.
By day 5, it's getting pretty rough. Their sneezes are getting so thick and heavy that stifling takes everything in them. Their chest is starting to ache from the congested pressure and their bones are growing cold from days of running feverish.
But then, someone else in the group comes down with the cold. Not knowing that it's really original character's cold. This second character has no qualms about admitting when they're sick. The group bands around them, making sure they rest and are well looked after.
This of course means additional chores for original character. They trudge their feet along the ground, feeling their fever growing higher and higher as day slips to night.
As they lug something heavy, nose dripping, head swimming, they look over at the crackling fire. Second sickie, whose cold is mild, is bundled in blankets, sipping something warm. The others are bunched around them, laughing, passing handkerchiefs, faces golden by the blaze.
And as original character turns to keep walking through the silent, glacial night, some quiet, desperate part of them wishes they really would collapse, so the others would take care of them too.
Disclaimer! I know nothing about any sports of any kind, least of all hockey. I will attempt to make it believable but any mistakes are a product of my ignorance.
â-And if Rozanov could keep his hands on the stick rather than on his face, the Raiders have a good chance of advancing in the fight for the cupâ
Drawn by the commentatorâs jab at his boyfriend, Shane tore his attention away from his meal prepping stations and turned towards the game he had admittedly been watching with only a small portion of his attention. He knew Ilya was never one to be bashful, so to cover his (second, after his ass- his brain added) most valuable asset mid game was a sign that something was off. Had he been hiding some sort of injury from Shane, or worse his team members, hiding behind his gloves to avoid letting the camera see a wince? The cameras panned away from the center, bringing attention to Marleau as he advanced with the puck towards the opposing goalie, though Shane barely noticed the play over his worries. Immediately Shane reached for his phone and texted the Russian.
âAre you ok?â
He didnât expect an answer immediately but the lack of response did nothing to quell his concerns as the camera zoomed in on a tense, distant expression that passed through Ilyaâs face that dispersed soon enough, giving through to frustration, but not before the commentators had the opportunity to mock him for his apparent distraction. At this Shane abandoned his meal prepping and migrated to the couch, worried he might miss something glaringly concerning about Ilya. He still seemed to be skating with his usual force, but Shane knew Ilya better than to assume he couldnât be hiding something deeper.
As the second period ran to a close and the players exited the ice, Shane turned a worried glance to his phone. Logically, he knew it might be unlikely that Ilya would even see the message knowing he only had a handful of minutes till he had to skate back out. He didnât need to worry for long however, as soon after the game cut to commercial, a three-dotted bubble appeared in their chat.
âDa,â Ilya replied. âAm fine. Nose is⌠How you say? Scratching?â
âYou mean itchy?â
Normally, seeing the usually stoic player flub a word in English would bring a smile to Shaneâs face, but the topic at hand made him unusually nervous.
âYes, that. Been sneezing all day, headcold is annoying.â
Shane stared at the screen, a sudden, familiar heat blooming low in his chest,
He flushed at the thought of Ilya, usually an unstoppable force on the ice struggling with such a small crack in his facade.
âOh be careful on the ice then, donât want you to get worse.â Shane replied, though secretly he wished his condition would improve for selfish reasons first.
âYou worry too much.â Ilya replied, but before Shane could craft anything approaching a clever retort, intermission was over and the teams were called to return to the ice.
Shane sank deeper into the couch cushions as the third period officially got underway, his focus completely narrowed down to number eighty-one. The heat that had sparked in his chest during their brief text exchange only intensified now that he knew exactly what to look for. Ilya was out there playing high-stakes playoff hockey while silently battling a miserable head cold.
It didn't take long for the cracks in Ilya's armor to show.
During his first shift, the camera tracked Ilya as he raced down the boards to fight for a loose puck. He won the battle with a vicious shove, but as he turned to pass it back to the blue line, he suddenly stiffened. Mid-stride, his head snapped down into his shoulder twice in rapid succession. Even through the grainy television feed, Shane recognized the violent, full-body jerk of a suppressed sneeze. The momentary lapse in his rhythm cost him; an opposing defenseman easily intercepted his pass, and Ilya let out a visible, frustrated snarl, his jaw hanging open as he forced a heavy, congested breath through his mouth.
Shane swallowed hard, his throat dry as he watched Ilya skate back to the bench. His hand inevitably reached for his boxers, cupping the bulge that had silently been growing as he watched. Ilya constantly worked to portray himself as a paragon of strength, and in this moment of weakness, the contrast was utterly intoxicating.
Once on the bench, Ilya immediately ripped off his helmet and gloves. Instead of leaning back to rest, he buried his face in a white trainer's towel, blowing his nose with a harsh, unbothered roughness. When he pulled the towel away, the camera caught a tight close-up of his face. His cheekbones were sharply flushed, a feverish, beautiful pink that stood out starkly against his sweat-dampened hair and the white ice behind him. His eyes looked glossy, heavy-lidded, and clearly irritated by the bright arena lights.
Shane wouldnât have been able to control himself if he had tried, he had never seen Rozanov look more gorgeous. He reached into his pants and released the pressure that the waistband was placing on his achingly hard dick, taking the precum that had started beading at the tip and spreading it all over his penis. He couldnât help but imagine that it was Ilyaâs snot as he twisted around the head and he had never felt more ecstasy running through his veins.
On his next shift, things got messier. Positioned right in front of the opposing goalie to screen his vision, Ilya was a wall of muscle. But as the whistle blew to halt play, Ilya didn't have a towel. Shane watched, a sudden thrill spiking in his stomach, as Ilya lifted his heavily padded forearm and messily wiped the back of his wrist right across his nose, trying to clear the inevitable snot before his next sprint. Shaneâs hand quickened around his member, chasing the peak of his arousal desperately. Ilya looked completely drained of his usual prickly pride, operating entirely on pure, stubborn adrenaline and a rising temper fueled by his own physical misery.
He was a lethal, terrifying athlete, but right now, he was also just a sick, feverish mess who was going to be completely exhausted the second his skates hit the locker room floor.
The commentators praised his "gritty, physical play" and noted how aggressive he seemed tonight, but Shane knew the truth. Ilya wasn't just mad at the opposing team, he was furious at his own congested sinuses, leaking snot onto his face and disrupting his concentration as his body tried to sneeze out the virus that had lodged itself in him. Shane leaned back against the pillows, a heavy, restless anticipation settling deep in his core as he watched Ilya's chest rise and fall in hitchy stuttered breaths as he lost what little control he had left over his body. Both of them were building up their release, and as the camera chose that inopportune moment to zoom in on the raidersâ captain, Ilyaâs nose finally succumbed to the tickle that had been erratically building in his sinuses and, making eye contact with the camera, he released a loud uncovered sneeze straight onto the ice, unable to bring his arms up fast enough once he realised he wasnât going to be able to shake the itch. At the sight of this Shane finally lost control of the coil that had steadily been building in his abdomen while watching Ilya lose control and he came harder than he had in months, shooting ropes of cum over his stomach and his hips.
The announcers commented on Rozanovâs unhygienic practices, but Shane was too far in the afterglow of his release to even notice. He reached for his phone.
âI have to see you. Tonight.â
He sent the text, then got up to clean himself off. He wasnât sure what heâd say or do when Ilya came over, but he knew he couldnât wait longer than absolutely necessary to see him. His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Thinking about a person filming a commercial for cold medicine or tissuesâŚ
The makeup artist is getting up close, applying blush to the nose, deepening the bags under the persons eyes, and spraying on beads of âsweatâ to the forehead. The hair stylist is making sure their hair is appropriately disheveled, the costumer has set them in come comfy pajamas, all getting up close to the actor to prep them.
The crew starts by purposefully placing crumbled but unused tissues on the set. They want the commercial to look real so they induce the actor, triggering an onslaught of sneezes that last throughout the day. As the actor sneezes more and more some used tissues accidentally make their way around the set.
The actor is sniffling and wiping their nose absentmindedly with their hands as different props are being passed between them and the prop master. The camera crew is getting up close to that red nose, often stepping in front of the camera to help the actor achieve the perfect pose for the scene or promo shots.
The âsickâ actor is the star, before the day finishes it seems that every cast member has interacted with them in one way or another. Theyâre sneezing, coughing, burying their nose into props, doing whatever needs to be done for the camera.
When the actor wakes up actually sick the next day their stomach drops at the thought of how many cold-ridden germs they spread across the set the day before.
