silentsneezes

[silentsneezes]

i really like it when someone's so stuffed with a cold that they can't even sneeze, and they spend the entire day going please let me sneeze please let me sneeze. but when they actually start sneezing, they can't stop and it's just god, i take it back, i regret my words, please make it stop

[silentsneezes]

here’s a (small) addition to the w/olfstar drabble i posted last week

MINORS DNI!!

(characters are 19)

Remus keeps a close eye on Sirius, who seems determined not to sneeze. His pointer finger is curled below his nose, and it seems to be doing the trick. They make it back to the fat lady’s portrait in a few minutes, only pausing once for Sirius to cough roughly into his elbow.

“Password?” The painted lady requests eloquently, squinting down at the seventh years.

“Paptrop-“ Remus starts, but he pauses as Sirius flinches forwards next to him, pinching his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“ng’GXch! hh-Ngck!”

“Paptroplock,” Remus speaks clearly to the portrait, ignoring the fat lady’s look of disgust as Sirius sneezes. He grabs Sirius’s wrist gently and tugs him into the Gryffindor room.

Sirius blushes and allows Remus to drag him up to their dorm. Once the door closes behind them, Remus drops his wrist.

“You okay?” Remus asks after a second, looking at Sirius with a concerned expression.

Sirius nods, flashing Remus a little grin, “Peachy”

Remus scoffs a little. He rolls his eyes and sits on his bed. As much as he hates to admit it, sitting is much better for his hip.

Sirius hesitates before walking over to his own bed and sitting on the edge of it. Remus looks over to the sickly boy, wishing he’d sat closer.

The werewolf pulls out a book and starts reading. He resigns himself to staring at the same page. ‘If Sirius won’t acknowledge his illness, neither will I.’ He thinks stubbornly.

He’s distracted again as Sirius changes his shirt, and Remus does his best not to let his eyes linger on Sirius too long. He looks back at the page. Chapter Three: Whimsies and Warlocks of the Wizarding World.

Remus doesn’t even get past the title when he hears a quiet, ‘hh-kNXch!’ He looks over at Sirius, whose face is once again buried in the handkerchief.

‘hn’GKXT!’

Sirius’s shoulders shudder as he stifles the powerful sneezes, clearly they’re not easy to suppress.

“Bless you,” Remus comments casually, pretending to flip the page of his book and continue reading. He tries to focus:

Whimsies, a species discovered in the early 1940s by Mickgraw Flottle, have wreaked havoc on Wizarding developments in the West Indies since-

‘hhE’KSXCHEWw!’

Sirius sneezes harshly, unable to stifle the sudden expulsion. He sniffs liquidly, blushing as he tends to his nose with the handkerchief, which was looking terribly sodden.

Remus keeps reading, determined to wait until Sirius might finally admit to his illness.

Remus finds his place on the page again: …since Wizards first discovered their habitat. Whimsies are most commonly recognized by their-

‘heh… hh-‘

-abnormally sharp teeth, similar to those of a Huwendog, which-

‘hh-hhr’GN’xch!’

-have venomous bites, fatal to everyone: Muggle and Wizard alike. There are 108 recorded attacks from Whimsies, most of them taking place in-

‘hHSXChhH!’

Remus snaps his book shut and stares at Sirius, “Bless you,” he says pointedly. Sirius nods his thanks, his blush visible even from across the room.

The werewolf sighs, setting the book aside and standing up. He walks over to Sirius’s bed, but hesitates before sitting next to the sniffling boy.

“Sorry to inderupbt your readig,” Sirius apologizes, taking note to avoid certain letters, his congestion more obvious than ever.

“Blow your nose, I can hardly understand you,” Remus instructs, a little more harshly than intended.

Sirius blushes crimson, but he gives in and blows his nose. As soon as the congestion in his nose shifts, he snaps forwards.

‘hHN’gGXxt!’

The stifle grates against his already sensitive throat, and he winces a little. Remus waits to bless him- Sirius never sneezes just once.

Sure enough: ‘hHdDTSchw! h’nNGSXchx!’

“Bless you. Just let them out Pads”

Sirius sniffles into his sodden handkerchief and mumbles something Remus doesn’t quite make out, but sounds an awful lot like, ‘hypocrite’. Remus brushes this off, rolling his eyes.

He takes out his wand and taps it to the handkerchief, whispering, “Scourgify!”

“Ta,” Sirius thanks him, his voice strained.

TBC

sorry for any grammatical or spelling errors! any feedback or comments are much appreciated :) hopefully the next update will be longer!

#sneeze kink #sneezefucker #sneeze blog #snzblr #cold sneezes #snzfics #sneezefic

[silentsneezes]

i haven’t written any fics in months, but here we are! this is a m/arauders fic and takes place during their seventh year when they’re all 19

wolfstar will eventually be paired together, but in this part they’re just pining. anyways, i hope you guys enjoy sick s/irius b/lack as much as i do :)

The Hogwarts campus was unusually empty over the Christmas break, which Remus relished. He much preferred being able to wander around the castle, occasionally making additions to the Marauders Map. The map was nearly complete now that the marauders were seventh years.

It was past curfew, but Filch had given up patrolling the corridors over break- his cat Ms. Norris didn’t like the cold. This meant Remus had practically had free reign over the castle for the past week. James and Peter had both gone home for the holidays. Sirius, on the other hand, wasn’t allowed home this Christmas. He’d received a howler from his mother after pulling a particularly nasty prank on the Slytherin house- even at 19, Sirius was hellbent on pranking his rival house.

Remus and Sirius had been lazing around all week, occasionally playing exploding snap or looking through Peter’s collection of chocolate frog cards. It was nice, having the dorms to themselves. Except for the past few days, Sirius had barely been in the dorm.

Remus wasn’t sure why, but Sirius had been avoiding him like the plague since Sunday. By the time Remus woke up, Sirius was always gone, and he didn’t return to the dorm until late at night, when he’d close his curtains around his bed without saying a word to Remus.

The werewolf found himself over analyzing everything he’d said before Sirius suddenly distanced himself, but he couldn’t think of anything that would’ve provoked his friend.

He’d finally thought he was making progress, that maybe his crush on Sirius wasn’t as world-ending as he initially believed, but it was clear to him that wasn’t true.

Remus tugs the Marauders Map out of his pocket, feeling a sudden rush of frustration with Sirius. He searches the map, eventually finding a little tag that reads ‘Sirius Black’ in a bathroom on the fourth floor.

Remus sets off. He doesn’t know what he wanted to accomplish in finding Sirius, but he’s tired of wasting his break alone.

The werewolf smells Sirius before he enters the bathroom. His senses were always heightened near the full moon, which was only a few days away. Remus walks into the bathroom quietly, surprised to see that Sirius isn’t in a stall. He’s standing in front of the mirror, his shoulders slumped in an entirely ‘un-noble’ fashion- his parents would’ve been seething.

Sirius doesn’t notice as Remus enters the room, he’s preoccupied as his breath catches delicately. He snaps forwards, pressing a handkerchief to his face and sneezing wetly.

‘hh’rRSCHHh! heh-eETXCHhew!’

Remus stays frozen to the spot as he watches Sirius sniffle pathetically into the handkerchief.

“Bless you” He says after a moment.

Sirius whips around, straightening his posture and tucking the handkerchief in his pocket.

“Wha-,” Sirius relaxes a little when he realizes who it is, “Jesus Moony, you gave me a heart attack”

Remus grins a little, holding back from retorting ‘you deserved it’. He isn’t in the mood to bicker, not with Sirius, anyways.

“So, what’re you doing camped out in a bathroom?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at Sirius. The longer he looks at the black haired boy, the more his worry grows. Sirius is paler than usual, his typical cocky posture abandoned in a slump, his eyes glassy, and his nose looking pink and sore.

Sirius shrugs, “What? I’m not allowed to piss now?” He jokes with a grin. He’d always been quick at making excuses. If Remus didn’t know him so well, he might’ve believed Sirius.

“Right. So you haven’t been avoiding me because you're sick?” Remus replies bluntly. It didn’t take a genius to realize the black haired boy was ill, and Remus wasn’t one to beat around the bush. Sirius looks back guiltily, but his response is firm.

“I’m not sick.”

Remus rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. He knows how stubborn Sirius can be about ‘showing weakness’, which was stupid in Remus’s opinion. Everyone gets sick, it’s just a part of life.

“Fine,” he says simply, not looking away from Sirius.

“Fine,” Sirius repeats, crossing his arms and returning Remus’s stare. Neither breaks eye contact, refusing to be the first to look away and accept defeat. Remus is about to give in when Sirius suddenly twists away from him, burying his face in his elbow.

‘hH’NGXxCHT! n’ZSXCH-schh!’

Sirius struggles to stifle the double, which comes in quick succession. He straightens up, his face a little flushed with embarrassment.

“Bless you,” Remus offers. He holds his tongue yet again. He wants to yell at the other boy, to tell him he’s obviously sick. Most of all, Remus wants to take care of him. Sure, Sirius is 19 and more than capable of riding out a cold alone, but the werewolf can't help but feel protective.

“Thangks,” Sirius cringes at the congestion in his voice, pressing the handkerchief to the base of his nose, but refusing to blow it in front of Remus.

Remus shifts his weight to one leg, wincing exaggeratedly. It does exactly as he’d hoped: Sirius’s expression crumples worriedly, “Is your hip bothering you?”

Remus shrugs, leaning against the bathroom wall, “Not much,” he replies simply. Sirius rolls his eyes at this answer.

“And you say I’m stubborn,” Sirius taunts, a grin tugging at his lips, “C’mon, let’s go back to the dorm so you can sit”

Remus nods, feeling an odd sense of pride that his plan had worked. He knew Sirius would never go back to the dorm due to his own illness, but if Remus was in pain, he wouldn’t hesitate.

“H-hold on,” Sirius pauses as they leave the bathroom. He presses his wrist against the base of his nose, trying to quell the itch. His eyelashes flutter as his breath somes in quiet gasps for a few seconds. He turns away from Remus as he sneezes against his wrist.

‘hh’NGKk!’

Sirius manages to stifle the first sneeze entirely, but it does nothing to stop the itch.

‘heh-hhH’ngk-tSCHEW! hhrRSSCH!’

The third sneeze escapes unstifled, and Sirius flushes red. He sniffles wetly and turns his back towards Remus while he wipes at his nose (and sleeve, which was considerably damper after the triple).

Remus busies himself with looking at his watch, trying his best not to make Sirius any more embarrassed than he already was.

“Bless you” Remus says once Sirius turns back to him, offering the sick boy a little smile. Sirius nods his thanks and starts walking towards the Gryffindor common room.

Sirius’s sniffles become increasingly frequent as they make their way closer to the portrait of the fat lady. Remus can’t help but glance over at Sirius every few seconds.

In fact, the werewolf is so focussed on Sirius that he doesn’t think twice about the sinking step in the North stairwell. Sirius doesn’t remember to skip the step either, his brain is muddled in a sick haze.

Both boys sink into the stairwell when they reach the sinking stair. Sirius yelps and braces himself with Remus’s arm.

Remus feels his hip pop painfully as his leg sinks into the trick step. He ignores the throbbing sensation traveling from his hip to his knee and makes sure Sirius stays upright.

“Shit. Why haven’t they fixed this fucking stairwell yet,” Remus snaps frustratedly.

Sirius grins affectionately, pulling himself upright and then offering Remus his hand.

“You have to admit it’s kind of funny to watch Peter fall” Sirius says playfully as he helps Remus out and then continues up the stairwell. Remus couldn’t deny that it was a little funny. Peter, who had always been the runt of the friend group, failed to remember the trick step every time. James and Sirius always guffawed as their friend sank into the stairs, but they helped him out every time.

“Fair enough,” Remus shrugs. He considers saying more, but one glance at Sirius tells him the other boy isn’t listening. His eyebrows are furrowed, his nose twitching and his hand hovering in front of his face.

‘hh-heh’

Sirius’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t sneeze. Sirius whines and rubs at his nose roughly with the handkerchief.

“God! Can’t I just sneeze already?” He says exasperatedly. A smile tugs at Remus’s lips, and he nudges Sirius’s arm with his own.

“Let’s get back to the dorm,” Remus instructs, his voice soft, but authoritative. Sirius nods, keeping one finger tucked under his nose as they continue walking.

that’s the end of part one! i’m not sure if anyone is interested in the m/arauders, but i’m hyperfixated on them, so ofc i had to write a snzfic

also MINORS DNI !! this is a fic written about adults by an adult.

#sneeze kink #sneezefucker #sneeze blog #snzblr #sneeze thoughts #snzfics #cold sneezes

[silentsneezes]

The Lord and The Lieutenant (B/lack S/ails, M)

DO NOT REBLOG IF YOU ARE NOT A KINK BLOG!!!!

Alright, now that that’s out of the way :) I know I said I didn’t want to spoil the show because I want everyone to watch it and experience it in its majesty the way I did, but you know what? Fuck it. Please enjoy my favorite lord and lieutenant who love each other (canonically!), who kiss each other (canonically!), and who are just two queer little lovebirds (canonically!). I couldn’t hold my love for them in any longer. Also, I just need Lieutenant J/ames M/cGraw to sneeze.

If you’ve seen B/lack S/ails, this occurs when Thomas and James are friends, but before the Dinner and the Kiss. So Thomas is pining (and let’s be honest, James is too but we don’t know that bc POV). If you haven’t seen B/lack S/ails, just read this now and watch it later.

Keep reading

[silentsneezes]

i am so horny for loud desperate man sneezes

[silentsneezes]

Dank farrik, bless u mando ✨🔥 A silly fan comic of this amazing fic:

[silentsneezes]

I love your sneezes so much!! Could i possibly request some elbow sneezes? Just imagining you doing that is already so hot😵‍💫 <33

since you asked so dang nicely

[silentsneezes]

my handkerchief was already soaked at the start of this

[silentsneezes]

thinking about an elbow thoroughly sprayed

[silentsneezes]

The Coronation

FINALLY I am writing Patrochilles again <3 I have missed them so much. Please enjoy this disgusting sneezing while hiding fic, where Achilles seeks an escape from his coronation and hides away with Patroclus. NSFW as always Some words to mention in case you aren't familiar: Therapon: brother in arms, sworn to a prince by an oath of blood and love, his most trusted adviser. Philtatos: most beloved, closest to one's heart.

“I tire of these coronation preparations,” Achilles groans, strumming lazily on his lyre. The notes are delicate yet slow, a true indication of his indifference.

 “They are so boring. And so long. I have to stand for hours, then recite the stories of our lands from memory, and wear the stuffiest of robes. It is exhausting. Why can they not just declare me king and get on with it?”

He stretches out on the bed and gazes at his lover, hoping for a reaction. 

Patroclus does not look up from his book, nor stir from his comfortable position on the chaise lounge. Achilles has been grumbling all morning.

“There are many who would give up their lives for your position, Achilles,” he says matter-of-factly, flipping the page. “And your father will never turn down the opportunity for a feast.”

“This is all true,” Achilles agrees around a yawn, staring at the ceiling. “But what good is a feast if the prince does not want to be there?”

“The poor prince.” Patroclus turns a page again. He is not particularly interested in hearing Achilles moan about his princely duties. He can be a bit whiny at times, and needs a reminder of his luxurious reality. Patroclus certainly does not have the same privilege.

Achilles goes quiet, and Patroclus foolishly thinks he has sated him. The brunt is too vested in his book to notice Achilles silently stalk over to him, like a wildcat after its prey.

Suddenly, a gentle but firm hand is wrapped around his throat from behind. Patroclus stiffens in his grip. Achilles has, apparently, grown impatient with Patroclus’ errant attention. 

Patroclus holds his breath, a rabbit beneath a hawk’s shadow.

“What if,” Achilles voice hums low beside his ear. An electrified shiver runs down his spine. “The poor prince would rather have his way with you under the banquet table?”

He snatches the book from Patroclus’ hand and places it to the side. Achilles’ soft lips graze the curve of his neck, teasing, waiting for Patroclus to reply.

He swallows thickly, imagining Achilles sneaking under the banquet table, somehow undetected yet surrounded by hundreds of guests, and taking Patroclus into his mouth. The idea stirs warmth to his groin.

“The prince may do as he wishes,” He replies, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Achilles’ palm.

The blonde's lips spread into a mischievous grin. Achilles twists around the chaise and into Patroclus’ lap, satisfied with his answer. He pushes him back against the cushions. 

A whine escapes his throat when Achilles spreads his legs apart. His muscled, smooth thigh is pressed against Patroclus’ testicles, his rose petal lips a whisper away from his own—

A loud, demanding knock on the door makes them both freeze.

“Prince Achilles,” Eirenaios announces as he strides into Achilles’ chamber. His gaze darts between Patroclus and Achilles before averting down to the floor. 

Achilles lowers his cheek to Patroclus’ chest, glaring at Eirenaios with a gaze akin to sharpened daggers. 

Patroclus imagines that if he had a cat’s tail, it would be whipping back and forth in utter annoyance. He is like an indignant, proud lion who has had his meal interrupted.

“King Peleus has requested your presence in the grand hall. Guests are due to arrive any minute.”

“I will be there momentarily.” Achilles turns his head to return to the shelter of Patroclus’ neck, intent on picking back up where he left off. His lips press against Patroclus’ throat.

“He has requested that you return with me. Now.” Eirenaios stands firm. “It is not a matter for debate, young prince.”

Achilles groans, but obediently leaps off Patroclus with a feline gracefulness. “Come, Patroclus, this won’t take long.”

“I’m afraid Master Patroclus’ presence is not required. Your father has requested you alone.”

Patroclus can practically see the fire burning off of Achilles’ shoulders. He squares them and clenches his jaw, aggrieved.

“Whatever my father wishes to tell me can also be told in front of my therapon.” His tone is sharp. “Come, Patroclus.” He says the word with a slicing finality, like a slammed door.

Eirenaios sighs, but turns on his heel and walks out the room, waiting for the duo to follow. He’s clearly not in the mood to argue with the prince. Achilles holds out his hand for Patroclus and they follow the advisor out of the door.

They stay a fair distance behind him, Achilles lazily placing one foot in front of the other. He does not want to attend the coronation preparations, he would much rather play with Patroclus on the chaise and find a new way to make him moan his name. 

While Achilles is lazy, relaxed, Patroclus seems to have caught onto the stress and excitement that hangs thickly in the air as the palace prepares for the coronation. Servants are racing about, calling for furs, vases, where to rearrange the furniture, for pitchers of water for the guests. They are cleaning the floors, balancing on ladders to dust the furthest corners of the marble columns.

He feels nervousness tighten in his chest. They ought to be on their best behaviour, especially today. 

“Must you vex Eirenaios? He already does not approve of our relationship,” Patroclus whispers as Eirenaios walks further out of earshot. “I am happy to wait in our room until the feast.”

Achilles loops his arms behind his back, staring up at the ceiling. He really could not look more bored if he tried.

“Were you my wife,” he begins,”you would be invited to all gatherings with me, regardless of whom I am meeting with. Such are the duties of a wife.” Achilles tone is even. His sandalled feet are silent against the marbled floor. 

“But you are more than that. You are half of my soul, my philtatos, and my future advisors would do well to understand that sooner rather than later, should they wish to remain on the king’s council.” 

Achilles smiles confidently at him, in that way that makes any of Patroclus’ arguments die on his tongue. 

He concedes defeat, but cannot quell the worry within him.

His feelings are soon justified when he sees a gathering of foreign women waltz down the corridor, turning a corner into the palazzo. There is something familiar about these women. Their dresses, their high, sing-song voices. Patroclus’ eyes widen when he locks eyes with the leader of them.

Deidameia. The princess of Scyros.

And Achilles’ wife, though not by choice.

“Speaking of a wife…” Patroclus whispers, stopping in his tracks. He grabs Achilles arm and watches as he too locks eyes with Deidameia.

Eirenaios rounds a corner, out of sight, and the flock of women disappear into the palazzo. 

All except for Deidameia, who hangs back from her group. She takes a step towards Achilles and Patroclus.

“This way,” Achilles hisses, grabbing Patroclus’ hand. He leads him around a series of bends, racing to get out of Deidameia’s site, until they are in the grand hallway. 

The flutter of women’s voices sound around the corner, following them.

Panicked, Patroclus’ eyes dart around, looking for an escape. His gaze falls on a door.

“In here,” he says, slipping into a servant’s closet, Achilles right on his heel. They shut the door just in time for the sound of sandalled feet to rush down the corner and past the door. 

“I have just seen him. Where is Achilles?!” Deidameia’s voice is shrill. Her women soothe her, tell her that she will see him during the feast, and herd her away down the hall towards the palazzo again. She continues to shout for Achilles, yet soon her voice fades as she’s ushered away.

Patroclus lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. They are chest to chest in this small, cramped closet. He imagines there are shelves of dusty furs and vases, likely stored here in anticipation of the guests. Only a few rays of sunlight slip through the cracks in the door.

Achilles is panting against him, incensed. “That— what is that woman doing here?! Who invited her?!” He hisses, gripping Patroclus’ tunic. His blood is boiling. Patroclus hasn’t seen him this enraged, this besmirched, since the war, when Agamemnon stole Briseis. 

“I suppose Peleus invited her. It would be indecorous to not invite your wife to your coronation.” Patroclus cannot help but be sarcastic. 

Deidameia has always been a point of contention for him. Even if the marriage was not Achilles’ fault, and was instead a trick designed by his goddess mother, the thought of his lover forcefully married to a tempestuous princess still irritates him. 

Achilles huffs and glares at him through angry, sulking eyes. “We are only married in the eyes of the gods. I have not seen her in ten years. I would not be surprised if she has remarried.” 

“Royalty from all of Phthia’s allies have been invited. Did you really think Scyros would not send their queen?” Patroclus cups Achilles’ cheek. “It is all right. You are to be king. You can annul the marriage if you wish and cast her back to Scyros.”

“This is a cruel trick. I am sure my mother orchestrated this. My father— he would never invite her. He knows my feelings about the matter.” Achilles lets his forehead fall to Patroclus’ shoulder. 

“I am sorry, Patroclus.” His voice is thick with regret. 

“There is nothing to be forgiven,” Patroclus murmurs, lifting Achilles’ face. The small slivers of light through the door illuminate across Achilles’ face, creating perfect shadows across his nose, lips, eyes. 

“It would be a shame, though, to waste this hiding spot. I doubt even Eirenaios would look here,” the brunet says. His lips curl into a mischievous smile. 

Achilles is not the only one who wishes to escape the coronation preparations.

There are golden particles of dust dancing around them. Their eyes lock together for a heartbeat, the tension mounting. They are so close together.

In an instant, their lips crash against each other, like waves against a rocky cliff side. 

Achilles pushes into Patroclus and he bumps into the shelf behind him. There really is not much room, the closet is so small.

A loose fur, dislodged by the movement, falls with a heavy thump to the ground. It goes unnoticed by the two men and sends up a glittering cloud of golden dust. 

They kiss each other hurriedly and become a tangle of limbs in the closet. Achilles presses his thigh against Patroclus’ groin, one hand gripping his hip, the other clasped against the back of his neck. Patroclus knows he will not last long like this. 

Achilles tilts his head, exposing the graceful arch of his neck, and Patroclus dives in, worshipping the tender golden skin with sweet kisses and soft bites. He does not notice the itch in his nose, the way his nose is starting to run or his eyes are beginning to water. 

Another fur becomes dislodged on the shelf, and more dust flies into the air. The itch in his nose has now turned into a burn, and he can no longer ignore it.

He pulls away from Achilles throat, blinking against the tears in his eyes. Achilles does not stop. He kisses Patroclus’ jaw, his cheek, until Patroclus has to put a hand on his chest to push him back, as if he is an over eager hound.

“H’IDTSshh! Sndff.. Sorry, I think it is the d-duhhh… dust.” He rubs at his nose, but it only serves to drive the itch deeper into his sinuses. 

He can feel Achilles purr beneath him. “Oh? That is a shame.” The way he says it tells Patroclus that it is obviously anything but a shame. He kisses Patroclus again, gripping him close. 

There is nowhere for him to sneeze other than the nape of Achilles’ throat or his shoulder. Though Patroclus is more than aware of how much Achilles’ likes this particular affliction, he aches to get out of this dusty corner and breathe some fresh air.

“Perhaps we shhould— H’IDTSsHhh��YUE!!” He sneezes messily against Achilles’ shoulder, finding comfort in the scratchiness of the others’ tunic against his nose. “Ugh. We must find Eirenaios and get you to your father.”

“What is the hurry?” Achilles is hard beneath his tunic, his cock is flush against Patroclus’ thigh. “They have not even noticed that we are miss—“

“Prince Achilles?” Comes Eirenaios voice, shouting down the corridor. Patroclus’ eyes go wide and he stiffens in Achilles embrace, as still as a hunted deer.

“Have you seen the prince? Where is he?” Eirenaios demands to a servant as he strides past the closet door. “Prince Achilles, this is not the time for games!” 

Just then, Patroclus’ breath hitches. He shuts his eyes and rubs his nose against Achilles’ shoulder, his hands trapped around Achilles’ back. He is too fearful to move lest he jostle something in the closet. 

“Hhih..!” He tilts his head back, pressing his tongue to the proof of his mouth. 

Do not sneeze, do not sneeze. He thinks, but it is in vain. There is too much dust. They are going to be found. He takes one final gasp of air before—

“H’DKT!” Warm fingers pinch around his nose, covering his mouth. He opens his eyes to see Achilles gazing up at him with wide eyes, his right hand pressed to his lips and nose. Patroclus feels Achilles’ cock twitch against his thigh.

“Phaedra, is the prince in his chambers? Where has he gone?”

Eirenaios is still standing in the corridor. He is close enough that he would most certainly hear Patroclus sneeze. He breathes a shaky exhale against Achilles’ palm before the next sharp intake of breath.

“H’GKT! Hh-eh..! H’GXT’sh!” That one had almost escaped him. He pitches into Achilles, who stands as still and steady as a marble column, stablising them both. 

Achilles palm is still tight around his nose and his mouth, the soft skin becoming coated with spray. His other hand cradles the back of Patroclus’ head, his fingers pulling on his curls, tightening with each release. 

“Patroclus,” He whispers. It is half a warning, half a whine. They will surely be found out if he continues like this. Despite the situation, and though he is quiet, Patroclus can hear the husky twinge of lust in his voice.

Patroclus squeezes his eyes shut and exhales a shaky breath through his mouth. There are particles of dust that dance through the air, like shimmering diamonds caught in the light. His nose itches so horribly.

He can’t do anything. He needs to sneeze. Many times, by the feel of it.

“I’mb g-godda…” Patroclus breath hitches, chest expanding rapidly against Achilles’. He needs to sneeze so badly. His eyebrows twitch together, his lips part against Achilles’ palm.

He can’t hold it, nor stop it. Achilles can only watch, transfixed, as his lover tries to fight it back.

“Hh’aah…! Hih-ih!”

The light from the cracks in the door illuminates Patroclus’ face so perfectly. Achilles watches as his features twists in itchy desperation, feels as his nostrils flare against his hand. It isn’t long before—

“H’GKT! Hihh.. H’GNT’uh!! Haah… h’ih’eh..!”

He gasps against Achilles’ hand, clenching his teeth together. Be quiet, be quiet.

“H’IGK’tssh! H’KTSHh! Ah-Ahhchilles…”

The warm heat pooling in Achilles’ groin has turned to fire as soon as Patroclus breathes his name in sneezy, hitching breaths. 

The blonde cannot stop his free hand from wandering to his hard, pulsing cock as Patroclus sniffles against his hand. They’re going to be found.

“Hihh…! Sndf..! Guh… godda sdneeze…” Patroclus whispers, the sound needy and faint.

Outside, the sound of sandled feet begin shuffling down the halfway again, away from their hiding spot. 

“I will check the back gardens. Phaedra, see to it that the prince is not in his rooms. And tell no one,” Eirenaios says, walking down the other end of the corridor. Achilles listens for the sound of the servant’s feet to pass by until there is nobody outside. 

It is good timing, because Patroclus cannot hold on for any longer. As soon as the servant walks away, he pitches against Achilles’ hand, bringing his own hands up to close around Achilles’. The sneezes are fast, desperate, eager to get the irritatants out. 

“H’GKT’sh! Huh–IHGTSH’TSHhh! Hih’IGTSH’iew!”

The sneezes are wet against Achilles’ palm. He begins to stroke himself through the tunic, moaning gently, pressing a kiss to Patroclus’ tearful cheeks through the fit.  

He is far from finished, the dust is too much. “Hh’GKTSsHh’uh! Huh’GNKTSHhh!”

Achilles lowers his hand from Patroclus’ mouth to kiss him, his hand resting against the back of the other’s neck. Achilles pulls his head down towards his own, their lips gliding against one another. Patroclus, as dazed as he is from the sneezing, responds in turn and kisses him deeply. 

“You.. haah..! You couldd’t help yourself, could you?” He asks, voice thick with congestion. He sniffles directly against Achilles’ neck and Achilles fears he will come undone right then. 

“What if hh… Hih’IDTSHHhh’YUE! H’IDZSHH’iu! Someone sees?” Patroclus asks. Despite the heat circulating through his body, he is nervous. 

A flame ignites in Achilles’ jade eyes and his cheeks alight with colour. He clearly is not vexed by this possibility. In fact, he almost seems spurred on by it.

“Then they will see the crown prince having his cock sucked by his therapon,” Achilles purrs, knotting his fingers through Patroclus’ curls, pushing the other gently down to his knees. 

There it is again, that burning self-assurance that only Achilles has, like a beast that has no predators. Patroclus loses himself in it. It fills the brunet with encouragement to trust him, follow him, do whatever he asks and worry about the consequences later. 

He falls down to his knees and pulls Achilles’ tunic with him as he goes, until it is wrapped around his ankles. Achilles’ cock is completely erect, twitching in the pale golden light against his abs. Patroclus sniffles, then swallows.

Patroclus leans against the blonde’s muscled thighs. “You’re sure?” He kisses his skin, the soft expanse of his inner thigh, noticing how it is already hot.

Achilles nods. “Please, Patroclus.” His voice is almost a whine.

It is all he needs.

Patroclus takes Achilles in his right hand and pulls him into his mouth, breathing sharply through his nose as Achilles curses above him and tightens his grip on Patroclus’ curls. 

He slides his cock down his throat, twisting his tongue around the tip as he pulls him back out again. Achilles whines his name again, moaning against the sensation as he slides in and out of Patroclus’ mouth. 

This is the only time he gets to see Achilles undone, unwound completely by Patroclus, and even still he looks like a divine being. His golden curls fall like a curtain around his shoulders, his muscles illuminated by the dim light in the closet. His face is one of complete lust and want, of surrender. 

Achilles is the perfect picture of sexual pleasure. 

“Yes,” the blonde moans, pushing himself deeper into Patroclus’ mouth. 

Patroclus looks up momentarily to watch him. It is dark, but through the light of the door he can make out his features. 

Achilles’ eyes are closed, his head is tilted back to reveal the beautiful curve of his throat. His chest rises and falls with smooth, pleasured breaths, yet goosebumps cover his perfect golden skin. His peony lips hang open just slightly, moving with silent words Patroclus cannot hear. 

He resumes, eager to pull him deeper through his pleasure. Patroclus tightens his grip and moves his palm up and down his shaft as he pulls him in and out of his mouth, lips tight around his cock. Achilles clenches above him, nearly there.

It’s then, though, that another fur falls off a shelf, disturbed by Achilles leaning against it. Another cloud of dust bursts into the air and suffocates them. Patroclus’ eyes are streaming from the coalescence of the dust and Achilles’ cock in his throat. 

He pulls off momentarily to sniffle and rub his nose, hoping to stave off the irritation.

It is useless. The itch blooms a thousandfold. Achilles’ hand loosens in his hair, curious as to why he’s stopped. His breath catches in his throat when he sees Patroclus looking up at him through half-lidded eyes, his nose twitching. He’s going to sneeze.

“Hhh... ih…!” Patroclus shuts his eyes, chest hitching with effort. He leans into Achilles for support as his jaw hangs slack, eyebrows pinching together. 

One hand cradles the back of Achilles’ thighs while the other wraps around Achilles’ cock again, squeezing it gently as the itch mounts in his nose. 

“Heh…” 

“Philtatos,” Achilles whispers. He looks so beautiful.

“Hih’GHTSH’iew!” He sneezes against the blonde’s crotch. Achilles can feel the warm, dense spray cover his thighs, cock, as Patroclus pitches against him. Electricity pulses within him.

“Hih— ih’TSHHhh’ih! H’ITSHh’iew!” God, the poor thing, he sounds so itchy and irritated and–

“Heh–EhTSHHhh’uh! H’IDTSHHh’uh!” Patroclus directs the two sneezes against his thigh this time, rubbing his nose against the soft hairs there. Achilles is on fire.

His nose grazes the side of Achilles' shaft. “H’EHZTShHh’chuh!”

His sneezes are beginning to sound harsher, less soft, more like Achilles’. It might be time to get him out of this closet.

Before Achilles can suggest it, the familiar intense, wet heat envelops his cock again, gifted by Patroclus’ mouth. Achilles moans loudly and then slaps his hand over his lips to quell the sound. He’s so close.

Patroclus seems to sense it and hums against him, pulling him deeper down his throat once more. His hand quickens around his shaft, pulling and rubbing as his mouth moves in tandem. 

Whether he means to or not, Patroclus sniffles, and the sound is wet and deep. Achilles is undone.

He comes in Patroclus’ mouth, pulled through the throes of passion and pleasure as his lover sweetly sucks him off. He doesn’t miss a beat and swallows each drop, running his tongue along Achilles’ tip for good measure when he finally pulls out. 

Though he is still riding the waves of his climax, he needs Patroclus against him. With ease, he pulls the taller man to his feet as though he is a doll, wrapping his arms around him. 

Patroclus sneezes softly against his shoulder before their lips can meet.

“H’TSHHh’ue…” It is soft, cute, practically just a force of breath. “Huh… h’idTSHh’ue!” His nose bobs against the spot where Achilles’ collarbone and shoulder meet, coating the area with spray. The adrenaline of hiding, of being forced to stay quiet, is wearing off.

Achilles closes the distance between their lips and celebrates in the taste of himself on Patroclus’ tongue. Though dazed and itchy, Patroclus seems content with this development, and returns the kisses eagerly.

“Oh, Patroclus,” Achilles moans, kissing him breathlessly. “You are so, so good.” 

Achilles’ lips find the other’s throat, pressing deep, languid kisses there. “The best of men.” 

The words are lost on Patroclus, though, when he sniffles again and pulls away to rub his nose against the rough fabric of his tunic. 

Though he’s hard against Achilles, he looks miserable. His cheeks are streaked with tears, his waterline a bit swollen, and his nose is bright pink and running. Achilles can hear the hint of a faint wheeze on his breath. They’ve been in here far too long.

“We will go,” the prince decides quickly, bending over to pick up his tunic and shimmy it back over his body. 

“I will have a bath drawn for you. Can you walk?” A protective arm wraps around Patroclus’ waist.

Patroclus chuckles a little. “I am fine, my dear heart. It is just the dust, you know how it affects me. Which–” he bends down to brush his lips against Achilles’ ear. His voice is a bit congested yet still layered with lust. “– I hope you enjoyed.”

A fire blooms in Achilles’ chest and he shivers. God, how he wishes to carry his lover back to their bed and continue. But his father will be upset if they delay any longer.

“I am not worthy of such pleasures,” Achilles murmurs, pressing a grateful kiss to his lover’s cheek. “I will leave first and be found. Distract everyone. You shall go back to our chambers and bathe the irritants away.”

Achilles’ slender, petal-veined fingers dart along Patroclus’ collarbone, his throat, before settling against his cheek. 

“I will see you again in the banquet hall, my love.” The blonde’s lips are drawn into a wry smirk. “Potentially, under the table, to return the favour. You may wear my crown while I do so.”

Now, it is Patroclus’ turn to shiver. They exchange a final, deep, hurried kiss, before Achilles slips out of the closet. 

It only takes a few moments for there to be a loud commotion down the hall when he is found. From the quiet of the dusty closet, Patroclus listens to the sound of Eirenaios shouting from the end of the corridor and the shuffle of several servants whisking Achilles away. Eirenaios curses about how they must cover the vivid red love bites across Achilles’ throat in time for the coronation. 

Once the noise has died down, Patroclus slides out of the closet silently and hurries back to their chambers. He is already looking forward to welcoming a king into his bed tonight.

[silentsneezes]

a cowboy with hayfever <3

[silentsneezes]

Getting Into Routine (The |_ast 0f Us, J0el)

This meant to be a short story and now its like 3000 words. Tale as old as time. Anyway, finally, I made that dilf sneeze. After J0el and E||ie get back from the Fireflies, they settle into a nice routine in Jackson. Until J0el catches cold.

The snow was rapidly turning to slush by the time they returned to Jackson and it was clear that the awkward transitional period between winter and spring was at hand.

Joel and Ellie hadn't even been back two weeks when Joel awoke, earlier than Ellie, dangling his hands under the tap while he waited for the water to heat up, vaguely taking note of the raw heat that stung when he swallowed.

Ah shit.

It was probably going to happen. It was still cold, most of his energy was going into healing that stab wound (which still wasn't quite right), doing any and all work that he was allowed to do (Tommy and Maria had told him he needed to take it easy for at least another few weeks), looking after Ellie (she was a little too quiet for his liking still) but he still swore and sniffed experimentally through his nose.

Blocked. And wet.

Joel exhaled sharply through his mouth, coughing to clear his throat as he did, and began to wash his face.

—

"Ellie." Joel shook the blanketed lump on the bed, "Ellie, time to wake up."

A growl from under the duvet brought a smile to his face - acting like a normal teenager at last - "Come on, you want breakfast before school. Early breakfast starts in ten."

Ellie has been resistant to the idea of school at first. She had bemoaned the idea of being told what to do and pointed out there was nothing to learn that she didn't already know but Joel had insisted. Any semblance of a normal life, anything that got her mind off the Fireflies and Marlene and any of the fuckery that the world had become - sure, she wouldn't be going on to college and getting a 9-to-five afterward but…

Fuck man, any time he saw her playing with other kids it made him feel lighter on the inside.

"Come on, get your butt out of bed and dressed," Joel sniffed harshly, Texan leaking into his voice, "don't make me ask twice."

"Alright, alright, I'm getting up." She grumbled, "Fuck, it's cold!"

"Well then I guess you'd best put something warm on, hadn't you?"

The first sneeze came in the food hall while Ellie was devouring her eggs and bacon. Joel felt his eyes tearing up and the constricting tickle at the back of his throat spread up through his nose. He barely had enough time to set his coffee down before -

"HEEEEEhRRRRR'tsch!"

It was loud enough to be heard over the chatter, to draw attention. Certainly loud enough to startle Ellie.

"Holy shit! Jesus, dude, what the fuck?"

Joel glowered, knuckling wetly at his nose, "Never seen a man sneeze before?"

"Uh yeah, but not you and certainly not like that!"

"You've seedn mbe sdneeze before."

"No I haven't. I would remember that and good thing too, it's like a gunshot, man, jeez…"

"Ellie…"

"I mean we'd have been fucked if you did that while we were on the road…"

"You dnow mbost people just say 'bless you' and mbove on."

"There he is! Wondered who had the plates rattlin'!" 

Tommy clapped his brother hard on the back, "Ready to go in ten?"

Joel tried not to wince swallowing his bacon, "Ready."

That would have been the end of it. If his nose hadn't had other ideas.

"HAAAAAAHHR'URSSHH!!"

Stifling wasn't an option and directing it into his fist didn't muffle it's noise at all, based on the stares and quieting of conversation about the room. Joel raised his head from his hand, bleary-eyed and visibly dripping. 

"Uh-oh," Tommy joked, "I know what that means."

"Tommy - "

"That's a cold brewing, cowboy. I know you too well. Ellie, you should stay with me and Maria the next few days, save yourself!"

" 'm fine," Joel growled, eager to shift Ellie's attention, "we gon' get to work or not?"

"Alright, alright," Tommy raised his hands in mock surrender, "just keep your distance, alright? I ain't tryna sleep on the sofa for the next week."

Joel glanced at Ellie, her expression unreadable, "It's goin' round. Get some orange juice in you."

"The fuck's orange juice gonna do?"

"Vitamin C, strengthen your immune system."

"That's bullshit."

"HHHHRRRrrrr'USCHHH!!!!"

"See, Ellie, Joel didn't drink his orange juice and now he's sick - best drink up."

"How old do you think I am, five?"

"I said am fine, Tommy - "

"Come on, old man, we got work to do."

The wind whipped at Joel's face, stinging his skin and making him feel older with each lick of the breeze that had him bracing his jaw against the cold. His nose was running, he barely felt it but he knew. The last twenty years spent in the north didn't undo a previous lifetime of Texan sun.

"The east fence is starting to wear out at the corner here." Tommy said, gesturing to the structure, "It's not serious but we wanna get ahead of it and reinforce it out, lest it split when it dries out. Standard annual checks and reinforcements."

Joel nudged his nose with a gloved hand, "Feels like old times. Contracting."

Tommy fixed him with a look of nostalgia.  Sad but warm. "Yeah."

—

Hail spattered down on them, leaking under their collars and snaking down their spines until they were shivering in their boots. Joel's sniffling worsened, his wrist no longer able to keep up with the watery catarrh that dripped from his nose.

"We're 'bout ready to knock off!" Tommy called, "Shift ends in fifteen, then the afternoon crew takes over! May as well clear off, no one can do shit when the weather's this bad. Food hall?"

Joel didn't answer, his eyes were screwing up with a broad inhale, fist raising slowly to his nose. If he had been quicker about it he made have made to cover in time but -

“EHHHHH'schOOOOOOH!!”

He couldn't tell if the liquid that sprayed forth was rain or whatever was lodged in his nose but either way he recoiled from it and straightened up.

“Bless.’’ Tommy clapped him on the shoulder, “Come on, get you outta this weather.”

—

“One southern fried chicken sandwich, Seth.” 

“Coming up, you?”

“Same.”

“Uh-uh, nuh-uh, not for him,” Tommy interrupted, “Make his a beef and noodle.”

“Tommy - “

“It'll warm you up.”

“I don't ndeed - hhhhh - !“

“There he goes.”

“HWWWRRRRR'ftscOOOOH!”

“Gesundheit.”

The soup was warming, Tommy was right, not that Joel was going to let him know that as he picked at the chunks of rich beef floating among the snaking noodles.

His throat was calming down, at least.

Unfortunately, the warm bar and the steam from the soup was rapidly defrosting the ice cube his nose had become and once sniffling was no longer an option against the steady glacial stream of his upper lip, Joel resorted to buffing at his septum with the rough wrist of his jacket.

“Look at you, wiping your nose on your sleeve like a toddler,” Tommy admonished, teasingly, “where's your damn handkerchief?”

Joel sniffed petulantly, “I don't have one.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Cause it ain't 1955 and also I don't need one.”

Tommy sighed and produced his own from his jeans pocket, “Take it, ain't no kleenex to be found round here. More reliable anyway.”

Joel, sulking but grateful, wiped his nose on the cloth and took another bite of soup.

Was this their new dynamic now?

—

Ellie would be home in an hour.

Joel's cold had kicked in good and proper at this point. There was no hiding it. But God if he wasn't going to try.

He let out another thundering sneeze, a second too late to catch it in his arm.

Well. He could at least downplay it, right?

But the next person coming through the door wasn't Ellie. It was Tommy, bearing a steaming pot and a stack of cloth handkerchiefs. 

“Chicken stew!” He proudly proclaimed, “Don't tell Maria, I added some extra stuff in there.”

“I won't ask,” Joel replied flatly, “what the hell are those?”

The handkerchiefs were suspiciously brightly-coloured, interspersed with plainer ones.

“What?” Tommy picked a pink and white cloth off the top with a flourish, “You don't like gingham?” his eyes softened, “Seriously though, it's a nasty bug. If you wanna send the kid to me and Maria - “

“No.” Joel cut him off, “I don't wanna send her off just because I'm run down, she's vulnerable - “

“We're across the street, Joel, we're not cross-country.”

“Ndo.” Joel said, congestion creeping into his voice, “I'll give her the choice but remember what happened last time?”

Tommy snorted, “May as well bring more handkerchiefs right now.”

—

“Joel? I'm home.”

Joel was still emptying his rapidly refilling nose into a handkerchief when he heard Ellie walk in and he stopped abruptly, the liquid still flowing.

See when a person is only halfway through blowing their nose and then stops, it tends to mean the mess that was being blown forward just…sits…in an awkward place.

Nevertheless, Joel popped his head out the kitchen where Ellie was wrestling her way out of her super-fucking-aubergine coat.

Joel frowned, noting bandages on her fingers, “What happened to you?”

“I suck at sewing.”

Joel huffed a laugh, hand absentmindedly finding his side.

Ellie notices.

“You okay?”

Joel roughed at his nose with a plaid sleeve, “Yeah, why?”

She watched him closely, silent for a few seconds, “Just wondering.”

It was unfortunate that his nose chose that moment to drip again, reigniting the tickle he had wrestled back.

“Hrrrr'ATSCHOOOOOH!”

He had managed to twist away from Ellie, but only had enough time to throw up a hand a few inches from his face in a pathetic attempt at a shield. His other hand braced his side where the scar tissue was tender and pressed where the ache shot through. 

It was wet. He felt the spray soak his hand and when he cracked his eyes open he saw the aerosol mist glittering in the aftermath. 

That should have gone in a handkerchief. 

“Joel?”

Joel blinked hard, sniffing up as much of the mess as possible, scrubbing at his nose before facing her. “Yeah?”

“Are you sick?”

Joel started to say ‘No’ but he made the mistake of looking at her. 

Her face was stony, hard but full of concern. The kind of expression that was impossible to lie to. And he didn't want to lie to her. He had already lied enough. 

“It's just a cold.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm fine,” Joel grabbed his handkerchief and wiped up, “sore throat and stuffed up but nothin’ major. I'll be run down a couple days but I just gotta get some sleep and drink some tea and I'll be fine.”

“You're in pain.”

Joel hadn't realised he was still clutching his side and let go. “Twinges sometimes. When I make sudden movements.”

Her expression barely changed, but Joel noticed the guilt clouding her eyes.

“Hey,” he put a hand on her shoulder (the non-sneezed on hand) “I'm fine, okay? It's just a cold. Had plenty of ‘em.”

She nodded, still steely, and turned to go upstairs.

“By the way,” Joel called after her, “Tommy offered for you to stay with him and Maria. Just in case you were worried…you know, ‘bout catchin’...”

“No.”

“No?”

Ellied stared him down, a dull fire in her eyes, “No.”

She wanted to stay close to him. He understood that. 

“Got some chicken stew for dinner.”

“Okay.”

“I'll heat it up in a couple hours.”

“Okay.”

—

“Joel? Joel!”

Joel slid his eyes open, cringing against the light.

“Joel?”

Ellies worried face came into focus as she loomed over him.

“Joel?”

His head felt like a snowglobe. Heavy and full and shaken.

“Ellie?” He forced out, “What…?”

What's wrong? He wanted to ask. But also what time is it? What is happening? What year is it?

He hadn't meant to fall asleep, he only intended on laying there for a bit but laying on his back hurt his head more so he turned to lay on his side and the positioning was just right and he felt so heavy…

“Are you okay?”

He snapped his attention back to Ellie.

“Yeah,” ow, his throat, “ ‘mb alright. Jus’ drifted off, s'all.”

“You feel warm.”

He hadn't realised her hand was feeling his forehead and he palmed at his own cheek for confirmation.

Ah. His hands were warm too.

“Should we get help? Do you need a doctor?”

There was a subtle note of panic in her voice that he would have missed if he didn't know her so well.

“Ndah,” he turned his face from her and coughed, attempting to clear his throat, “you plate up the stew, I'll go get the thermometer. Still got some of that willow bark stuff in the cupboard somewhere.”

“Mmkay.”

—

100.4°f. Shit. That was a fever. 

Not a bad one, but a fever nonetheless.

“HaH'TschOOOOO!!”

“Dinner's up.”

Joel started. He didn't hear Ellie come in.

“Cobming.”

—

“Good?”

Ellie coughed, “Spicy.”

“But you're stuffing your face anyway.”

“‘S good.”

Joel chuckled. Ellie wolfed down food like it might be snatched from her at any moment. Growing up in the QZ orphanage, it probably was. She had put on weight over the last few weeks alone. Starting to look like an actual fourteen-year-old, not a malnourished child. He had no doubts she'd start growing in height too now she was having regular nutritious meals.

A tickle broke him out of his reverie and he wrenched to the side with a drenching sneeze. Then another. And another.

“Man,” Ellie said, only mildly disgusted as she watched Joel clean himself up with the handkerchief, “don't drown yourself.”

“Once again, people usually just say ‘bless you’.” The cayenne pepper Tommy had added had certainly loosened the congestion but his nose now tickled and burned.

“I think I'll brew up some of that willow tea,” Joel announced, if only to soothe Ellie's furrowed brow, “Add a bit of chamomile, turn in early.”

“Mmkay.”

“Don't stay up too late, yeah?”

“I won't.”

She would, he knew it, she had borrowed a book on nebulae last week and he had to fight tooth and nail to get her to put it down before midnight.

—

He wasn't due for any work until later on, taking the evening shift on guard duty and Joel would have liked nothing more than to stay in bed where his head had welded itself to the pillow. 

Joel peeled himself off the material, a fresh pain in his throat that came from sleeping mouth-open.

Urgh.

A sharp, wet sneeze shook the worst of the fog from his senses and he winced upon cleaning himself up, acutely aware that his nose must have been running in his sleep last night, based on the destruction that had been wrought on his skin there.

A younger Joel would have flopped back down onto the mattress and bundle himself up with a bottle of whiskey til this thing had been purged by the alcohol. But he wasn't young anymore. He was on the wrong side of middle-aged and he was a long way from home - in miles and deeds.

And Ellie needed to be up in time for school. 

Joel groaned and struggled up, clearing his nose again and coughing and he felt his cheeks, trying to gauge his temperature. 

It was important that Ellie see he was okay.

Knock knock

“Ellie?” 

It wasn't quite a whisper. More like a croak.

Knock knock

“Ellie? You awake?”

“Yeah.”

That was a pleasant surprise. He hadn't had to raise his voice any more, which was something. 

But Joel knew Ellie. Compliance and placidity were warning signs.

—

“Eeeeeh'yATSCHUUUUUHH!!” 

“Joel…” Maria hummed sympathetically, “you should be in bed.”

“Save your breath, darlin’.” Tommy snorted, “I already tried, he won't listen. He's like a coal fire. Just gotta let him burn himself out. Ain't that right, Joel?”

Joel glared over the handkerchief, “Can a man eat in peace?”

“What peace? You keep breakin’ the peace with your damn snee - “

“AAAAAhh'TSCHOOOH!”

“ - sneezing. Bless you.”

Joel glowered. He had deliberately sat away from everyone for this reason - and to spare them his germs. Tommy had work to do, Maria had a baby to think of and Ellie.

Well, despite him waiting for her to sit opposite Tommy and then deliberately sitting at a different table, she had moved to stick close to him.

Joel sighed. Might need to get some more handkerchiefs.

—

Joel sighed deeply, not even bothering to shrug his coat off before he flopped down on the sofa. 

Ellie was at school, he wasn't working until eight. He could relax. 

Boiling the water, he sniffled while he waited, knuckling his dripping septum.

He caught sight of his reflection in the window of the microwave and grimaced.

He looked tired. He always looked tired but the shadows under his eyes were more pronounced. Even in the poor view he had, he could see how his nose glowed an angry red. Scarlet and shiny.

Joel took in another liquid sniff and coughed, feeling a dull ache in his ears make itself known.

He should sleep before watch.

—

If Joel's head felt like a fishbowl before, it now felt like someone had poured gelatin in there and let it set.

He struggled up, immediately feeling the prickle of pressure change in his sinuses and sneezed it out with a wet shout.

But it sounded off. It sounded muffled somehow. Like he had sneezed into a thick duvet. 

There was a noise to the side. A person.  But he couldn't make out who or what was said but he stood up, wild-eyed and ready to attack.

Tommy.

Joel could see his brother moving towards him making calming motions. He could see his lips moving. But his voice was muted, far away, incomprehensible through the gel that encased his senses.

Panic fizzled in his stomach.

“I can't…” Joel started, “I can't hear you…I can't…”

Concern clouded Tommy's face and Joel subconsciously focused on his mouth.

Ee - ee? Ear? Hear? Possibly. Me - that was definitely ‘me’ 

But his lips were too fast, too inarticulate to guess what was being said. 

“I can't hear anything.” The panic was growing. This was bound to happen. All those shots fired, his ageing, pushing his limits. He knew he was going deaf. Why did he…how could he…no, no, now what would he do? How could he communicate? How could he hear threats coming? How could he keep her safe? Protect her?

Tommy was gripping his shoulders now.

Joel recognised the sounds he was making as his own name and he squinted at Tommy's lips.

“LOo - a - me…” ‘Look at me’, that was obvious, ‘‘ou - aa - pee - va - “ what could that be? ‘Ou, aa…pee? Bee? Be? Va? Fa?’

“What?”

Tommy sighed and repeated louder. 

“Your - oa - pee - va.” Then it clicked. 

You're gonna be fine.

But how. The fizz of panic was creeping upwards like heartburn, seizing his chest in a fist and shaking it hard. He tried to breathe in but was met with a wall of pain. Everything was too close, too suffocating. Tommy was sitting him down and it took all his presence of mind to not shove him away. Focus. Breathe.

But he couldn't hear his breathing.

Fuck.

You're okay, you're okay.

Tommy left his side and for a second Joel reached out for him, only to see Tommy scrounging round in a drawer. 

He returned with a bit of ancient scrap paper and a blunt pencil.

‘Were taking you the doctor’

Joel frowned, “No, I don't need - “

‘You cant hear and you grip your wound when you cough or sneeze its hurting you’

“It's fine, Tommy - “

‘I aint arguing lets go’

Before Joel could react, Tommy had seized him by the elbow and was marching him to the door.

Oh hell, maybe they'll give him something other than willow bark.

—

“Huuuh'RESCHOOOH!”

Whatever the hell this stuff was it was clearing his nose something mean, better than the expired Vaporub they had in Boston.

Joel's breath hitched again. Tommy had headed home and Joel was under strict orders to take what the doctor had given him (herbal tea and mint goop) and stay in bed for at least the week (that's what Tommy had written down anyway, which Joel suspected he would regardless of what was actually said).

Staying in bed a week was not an option. He'd never last. But he could smear this - 

“HEEEHTCHOOOO!!”

-on his chest and doze for a bit before Ellie got home. 

Joel grabbed a handkerchief from the table and cleared his nose. It was definitely looser and - “Hhhhhuuuh…uuuuhh…” - the mint was - “Uh…..huuuuuhhh…!”

Oh come on.

He sighed, scrubbing at his nose frustratedly. 

Just sneeze, already.

—

He was in the middle of a fit when Ellie walked in and he jumped out of his skin when he turned to see her.

“Not feeling any better, huh?”

Joel glowered over the handkerchief at her and pointed at his ear.

“Oh. Sorry.”

It was easier to make out Ellie's voice than Tommy's. A high pitch was more decipherable than a low rumble.

“Jus'mbake sure you're lookidn’ straight at mbe whed you're talkid’ to mbe. Keep it short.”

Ellie nodded and moved towards him but he put a hand out to stop her.

“Amb godda…HHAAAATSCHOOOOOHH! IIIIIIHHT'TSCHUUUUH!”

“Amb serious, Ellie, you dod't wadda catch this - just keep your distadce, right?”

“Are you okay?”

He looked straight at her, no longer lying. “Feel like shit.” He said, “But I'll be fide. I just dod't wadt you to get sick.”

“Are you sure?”

Joel sniffed and managed a tired smile, “Amb alright, babygirl.”

—

After a bowl of spicy noodles and a cup of valerian, Joel was dead to the world.

But if he felt a hand on his forehead and a small weight curl into his side, he didn't mention it. 

And if, once his ears opened up again, he could hear Ellie coughing and snuffling, he didn't mention it then either.

#t|0u #snzfic #oh yesss

[silentsneezes]

reblog this if you're an 18+ snzblog?

my reccs and 4u page aren't doing it for me i need more content

[silentsneezes]

are u a pinched or hands free stifler?

usually i stifle hands free, but if i’m sick or sniff chikini i have to pinch to stifle

as for what i enjoy, i prefer hands free stifles! or messy stifles. to be honest, any kind 🫶

thanks for the ask anon :)

[silentsneezes]

someone stifling until they just /can’t/ anymore. they have to release a spraying, desperate sneeze or their nose will just berate them with stifle after stiftle

[silentsneezes]

My local cat cafe frequently has yoga with cats where you get to do yoga with all the cats hanging around, and more recently, they’re offering meditation with cats too. The cat lover in me thinks it would be so relaxing and fun 😭 but the snzfucker in me is picturing someone with horrendous cat allergies getting dragged into doing it…

Trying to keep their balance steady during yoga with all that cat dander floating around…struggling to not cause a disruption via snz during meditation…idk guys, there’s potential and it’s sexy, that’s all I’m saying!!!!

[silentsneezes]

rewatching tl/ou and thinking about j/oel sneezing in this 🫶

#sneeze kink #sneezefucker