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Oh this is gorgeous. He's so cute and adorable at care taking. Would love to see some sneezes from him in the future as well. 

***Note*** My shitty life keeps being shitty so I distracted myself with a plotless oneshot allergy fic. Okay, so this is a first person POV with an observer watching my OC Savannah having an allergy attack at a semi-formal work event. Bit different, but I thought I'd give it a shot. (Yes, I know I still have to finish two fics. No, I can't tell the muse where to focus; I'm just happy there's any creative juice at all in me at the moment to be honest, because MY GOD if my life doesn't stop being a dumpster fire shitshow soon I don't know what I'll do.  ) ANYWAY, here's the fic, cross-posted from tumblr. Comments are as always very welcome. ^^ Little bit of mess but not a lot.  ***   I hate these parties with a passion, I’m not big on socialising, but I know what comes with being married to the head surgeon of the state’s biggest research hospital. There are lots of representation dinners and cocktail parties and fundraisers, and I’m the plus one. I don’t know much about medicine, but I do know how to fake a smile and exchange superficial pleasantries. I did work as a secretary before getting married. No, I wasn’t my husband’s secretary. I’m not that much of a cliché, and neither is he. He’s a good man and he always makes it up to me for dragging me to these horribly boring events. This time it’s a bit better than usual, because it’s a garden party, which makes it a little less suffocating and a bit easier to sneak away to get a moment for yourself. At least that’s what I tell myself. And of course, there’s another reason this particular event is better… I have never actually met the only female surgeon at the hospital before; she doesn’t attend many of these events, and the ones she has attended have always been when I haven’t. Not for any animosity, just coincidental. According to my husband, she never brings a plus one, although he knows she has mentioned being married. I think he said that the husband works abroad, a businessman or something. When people have no plus one it messes up the seating arrangements, but garden parties like this one don’t require that. I’m not the hostess of this party so it doesn’t matter to me either way, but still. She’s the odd one out. I can’t recall her name; the first thing that pops into my head when I see her in person is that she looks like an older and more sophisticated version of the Jolene that Dolly was so concerned about stealing her man in that song; thick, shiny hair, flaming red like a polished copper coin in the evening sun, eyes of emerald green – though behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses – and pale ‘Irish’ skin, although if I’m not mistaken I think she’s English and not Irish. But this ‘Jolene’ wouldn’t steal anyone’s man even if opportunity came along, I can tell that almost from the get-go. It’s just a vibe, but I’m certain of it, she’s playing for the other team. I’m not going to mention it to anyone; my husband doesn’t care what his surgeons do in their spare time as long as they do their job well, but I know other people, especially on the hospital board, have issues with gay people. And besides, who am I to say for certain? Like I said, it’s just a vibe. Regardless of which team she plays for, she’s a very beautiful woman. The others here have of course met her before, but there are still some lingering looks following her around at first. I’m afraid I can almost be accused of ogling her, and thankfully nobody seems to notice before I realise and can fix my manners. She wears a tight-fitting, off-shoulder-style ‘little black dress’, the perfect cocktail party dress if I may say so, and her eye-catching red hair is mostly free to cascade over her pale, slightly freckled shoulders, except for one strand on each side of her face, which are tied back into a thin ponytail with a single yellow flower expertly placed at the top of the simple yet elegant arrangement. She can’t have done it herself, surgeon or not, even the best surgeon wouldn’t be able to do such delicate fingertip precision work behind her own back. And pretty as it is, that flower isn’t something that a beauty salon would just stick into a single simple ponytail. Someone made that hairdo for her, and it has an undeniable female touch. Most of us ladies have hung our purses in one spot, but she carries a small clutch-type of purse with a thin pearl strap over her shoulder. It doesn’t take too long for me to realise why; she has a travel pack of Kleenex in it and she needs them close. I did notice the slight pinkish tint around her elegantly shaped nostrils almost immediately, because my eyes are naturally drawn to a person’s nose. She has a prominent nose, though maybe not exactly big, and it fits her face beautifully, but yes, it’s prominent. And with the pink hue around slightly arched, elongated nostrils, my eyes are drawn to it even more than they normally would. At first she seems alright, but the hand not holding the Martini glass keeps wandering up to her nose, knuckles pressing lightly against its underside for a few moments. It’s not quite a rub, nothing so conspicuous, and I can tell she tries her hardest to not do it too often. From a distance and over the conversations and low background music I can’t hear if she’s sniffling, but I can see how her nostrils flex. Being outside in this garden, something that I enjoy immensely, must be torture for allergy sufferers. And I’m certain this is allergies, and not a cold. Oh, there, that was an actual rub, short in duration but furious in execution! Knuckles pressed against twitching, reddening nostrils so hard that the damp, inflamed interior must have left a trail of wetness on her fingers. This time I can hear a sniffle, and almost immediately afterwards, her eyelashes flutter behind the glasses as her chest rises in a quick, hitching inhale… that leads to nothing but an immediate exhale and a hint of an apologetic smile towards the people she’s talking to. But I’m sure she’s going to sneeze soon, because she is clearly getting itchier and keeps pawing at her nose more and more often. Her nose is redder, too, but that’s probably no surprise given the harsh treatment it’s getting now. She has that kind of complexion that flushes red from just a light brush and now she’s rubbing her nose with some force. I watch as she lowers her hand again, with what looks like another suppressed sniffle, and nods a little in agreement with whoever is speaking right now. She tries to listen, of that I’m sure, but I can tell from the hazy look in her eyes that her focus is probably on a persistent tickle in her nose. That kind of allergic tickle that won’t let up once it starts. I don’t know if she hasn’t taken any allergy tablets or if she’s this affected on allergy relief, but she can’t say she didn’t know this little event would be outside. It was very clearly stated on the invitation cards. Watching her nose getting redder and twitchier, more and more a bother to her, makes me pay more attention to the scents in the cooling evening breeze. I can’t even count how many different flowers I can smell; roses, of course, those are Mrs Randall’s pride and joy, and that balm-like scent of white jasmines is carried on the breeze from another garden nearby. There are other flowers too, but the scents are numerous and mixed together… marigolds, I’m certain I can smell marigolds too, but the rest are all mixed into a sweet, tickly perfume. But above all other scents, like a blanket of pollen and fragrance, is that sweet yet oddly sharp scent of cut grass. I would assume it’s the grass more than anything else that bothers her, I don’t know why I assume that, but I do. Maybe because the scent is so strong it’s almost intrusive. It would be if it wasn’t so pleasant, but I suppose it’s not very pleasant when the scent itself is making your nose drip and burn. She raises her hand again, almost hesitantly, and that vague, sneezy look is sneaking into her eyes again, then the rest of her features. Her nostrils are flaring, lips parting – they already were slightly parted, probably so she can breathe properly despite a most likely completely stuffed up nose – and her eyes are closing. Her hand, curled into a loose fist, is pressed against her nostrils, almost as if she’s trying to push the building sneeze back in. That’s almost what she’s doing, too; she turns slightly to the side and takes a quick breath before stifling a sneeze against her curled fingers. Her shoulders shudder for a moment as her slender body absorbs the sneeze, suppresses its force within, and from what I can tell from here, she only makes a minimum of sound. But when she turns back, her eyes are watering, and she has to take her glasses off and wipe them. It’s a bit of a juggle since she’s still holding a nearly full Martini glass in one hand, but she takes her glasses off with one hand and kind of hooks them to the lowcut front of her dress. If she leans forward now, they’re going to fall out and onto the lawn (the recently mowed lawn), but I guess at the moment she feels she has more urgent things to deal with. Besides, she’s not in an operating room now, and unless she’s completely blind without the glasses, she probably doesn’t need them to mingle with colleagues and drink a cocktail. She opens the clutch with one hand, and honestly for a moment I’m as enchanted with her hands as I was (am) with her nose. She’s not fumbling with it, the way I think most people would trying to open a clutch purse with one hand, she has the most elegant fingertip precision and flexible fingers I’ve ever seen. Certain parts of my body kind of clench in desire to personally know just how skilled this doctor is with her fingers, but I would never actually make a move. I’m happily married. Just watching. She takes out a tissue and wipes at her watering eyes, still trying to keep track of the conversation, which has been going on without her verbal input for quite some time now. And then she quickly clasps the tissue over her nose – I’m sure she attempted to cover her mouth with it too, but it was folded into too small a square to cover her mouth too – and sneezes again, this time unable to hold back or even stifle. “Hehh-TSSHHuh!” It’s restrained, almost dainty even if you can’t call it ‘cute’ or ‘girly’, but it’s a full sneeze and it sounds a bit wet. The palm of her hand must have gotten sprayed. It wasn’t a very dramatic sneeze in terms of body movement either, but it was clear from how tense her shoulders were that she was making an effort to keep it that way. Oh, I wonder how this woman sneezes when the pollen is completely overwhelming her allergic nose and she doesn’t have a choice but to give in fully to the itch. I guess she doesn’t want to draw embarrassing attention to herself from a crowd of people, some of whom have her career in their hands and others she’s supposed to be the superior of, so she’s going to put up a fight against her obstinate nose. From what I’ve seen so far, it’s going to be a losing battle, with all these fragrances (not only flowers; perfumes and colognes are heavily used as well) constantly teasing a nose already tortured by the pollen that’s everywhere, it seems inevitable. This beautiful woman is teetering closer and closer to a complete allergic meltdown, and the anticipation is so strong it gives me butterflies, so I decide to begin to move closer to her. Even as I think that, she gasps and then turns away and sneezes again, pinching her nose with the tissue and trying to stifle, but this time one sneeze isn’t enough. “Nnnkkt! Heh… nnXXThh!... huhh… uhhhNGTSCHKKT-TSSSHHEW!” These sneezes are far stronger and they rock her whole body no matter how discreet she tries to be about it, and I see how a few drops of her drink spills over the rim of the glass, even though I have to say I’m impressed she didn’t spill the whole thing. I know surgeons must have steady hands, but how she managed to keep her hand that still when her whole upper body snapped forward and to the side, that’s still impressive. I’m also secretly impressed by how her glasses stay put. I would have imagined they would be the first to go if she bent even the slightest. “Bless you,” says one of the men she’s been speaking to. He’s one of the board members, one of those powerful people you only meet on events like these, and you’re only invited to events like these if you’re fortunate to be high enough in the food chain. (or in my case married to the one who is). I can only imagine how mortified she must feel to so blatantly lose control in front of one of them. “Thank you, I’b so sorry,” she says in a congested voice that sends pleasant chills down my spine. It’s a pleasantly melodic, fairly deep voice, probably bordering on sexy when she’s well and definitely crossing that border when it’s thick with congestion. I don’t know if that light rasp is natural to her or if it’s another symptom of her allergies, but it certainly does its part in making this one of the sexiest female voices I’ve heard. And yes, that accent only makes it better. “Summer colds are the worst,” he continues as she tries to clean herself up without being too obvious about it. That poor Kleenex must be soaking wet at this point, but she’s resisting the juggling act of taking out a fresh one, maybe because that would call even more unwanted attention to her drippy self. “It’s not a cold,” she says, and she sounds tired, like she has to say this often. I bet she does. “It’s hayfever.” “It sounds bothersome,” he says. “It is,” she says, but shrugs and gives a long-suffering smile. “But there’s not a lot to do about it. The meds available aren’t that effective on me and the side effects are almost worse. But I’ll be okay.” They exchange a few more sentences between each other, but I can tell that her voice has that breathy, pre-sneeze quality to it as if she’s trying with all her might to hold back another fit. I don’t know if the men notice it and either want to spare her the embarrassment, or save themselves the experience of seeing an attractive woman being gross and unladylike in front of them, or if the whole thing is a mere coincidence, but they empty their glasses and comment about getting a refill. Her glass is still full, minus about two small sips and what little spilled over when she sneezed, so it’s a natural separation. She actually looks relieved when they leave, but that look doesn’t linger for very long before it’s completely overtaken by a desperately sneezy expression. She probably would have gotten a new tissue out if she’d had the time, now that she wasn’t being watched (well… except by me, but she hasn’t noticed yet), but she has been holding this back for quite some time and now it’s building too fast for her to do anything. She turns her head away from the direction of the rest of the guests, and sneezes uncovered and unrestrained. I can see the spray glitter and mingle in the golden light of the setting sun. “AaaISSSSHHH! HAH-ISSCHUH-uhESSCHH-ah-ESSCCHH-aaahERRSCHHuh!” The last sneeze has a near-aggressive sound to it, harsh and almost barking. I don’t know if it’s because of how utterly uncontrollable it is or if it’s just the situation as a whole, or maybe just from the sheer effort, but once this fit is over her cheeks flush as red as her nose, which now has a very deep, very itchy-looking red shade. This time, even her trained and steady hand couldn’t stay still enough, most of the cocktail has spilled over, watering the allergy-inducing grass with clear liquor. The olive remains in the glass, but it was tumbling around quite a bit. She gets some of the juniper berry-scented alcohol on her hand and winces as if it hurt. It probably did; now that I’m closer I see a small nick on her hand. Not deep, but it’s fresh enough that getting almost pure alcohol in it must have hurt. I’ve seen cuts like that on my husband’s hands too occasionally; even the best surgeons give themselves an accidental nick with the scalpel sometimes. With the wince, she sucks in air between her teeth, and that sudden inhale catches in her throat (which is probably itchy as well if she’s this allergic) and she coughs. Not as intensely as she just sneezed, but the cough in turn seems to trigger the irritation in her nose again, and her breath hitches wildly. She looks so helpless and miserable, tears overflowing her eyes and smearing her makeup, her now crimson nostrils flaring and a sheen of wetness underneath them, lips parted as she’s gasping for air to sneeze again. In one hand the almost empty cocktail glass, in the other a soggy, overly-used tissue that she now tries to cover her dripping nose with, looking horrified as she notices me approaching her. She turns away from me and sneezes heavily, obviously struggling to make the sneeze less harsh than it wants to be. I can’t say she succeeds very well, but it comes out in three distinct syllables which hasn’t been the case before. “Aah-ERSCH-huh!” I reach out for the glass. “Bless you. Let me hold that for you.” She hands it over to me, embarrassed but grateful. Once she has both hands available to take care of her nose, she begins to dig into her purse for the Kleenex pack, but that elegance I noted from her earlier is gone; she’s fumbling now. Maybe she’s exhausted from the sneezing or maybe she’s just desperate and embarrassed. As she’s trying to get the purse open and get to the tissues inside, her face begins to scrunch up in a pre-sneeze expression that conveys such profuse desperation that my heart skips a beat. Her parted lips pull back into an almost snarl, eyelashes fluttering shut which cause more tears to overflow, marking her cheeks with streaks of ruined makeup, her eyebrows knit together, her damp, red nose is twitching and quivering, protesting in vain against the persistent influx of allergens with each breath she takes… she fights the sneeze with all her might, trying so hard to get to the tissues before it comes out, but finally it’s just too much for her, and she gives in, turns to the side, and explodes with a rough, throat-scraping double. “HEH-ERSSSHH! AaaERRSCHHOO!” A few droplets of watery liquid escapes her nose, glittering like diamonds in the golden sun, and she belatedly cups her hand over her nose to stop any more mess from coming out. She’s blushing more than ever, the poor woman is so embarrassed she looks like she wants to sink through the ground. “Excuse me, I’m so sorry,” she sniffles and finally manages to get a clean tissue out. “It’s only hayfever, I’m not contagious.” “Don’t worry about it. Can I get you anything?” She shakes her head and buries her drippy nose in the tissue, giving it a soft blow. It sounds like she needs something far more forceful, but she’s probably being polite. “I knew it would be bad today, but I think it got a bit too much with the freshly cut grass,” she says, dabbing at her red-hot nostrils. “I can’t take my medication unless I want to fall asleep within half an hour, so I just have to hope for the best and keep tissues close.” “It must be awful.” I do feel bad for her, but she’s also so incredibly sexy looking all roughed up by the pollen. As far back as I can remember sneezing has gotten me very hot and bothered. I hope I’m not squirming too obviously, but even if I am, she’s probably too consumed by her allergies to really notice. “It’s not quite the epitome of personal entertainment,” she says in a dry tone and I chuckle. “I can imagine. I’m Mrs Sullivan.” I extend a hand, and she hesitates, blushing again but steeling herself and looks me straight in the eye. Her eyes are a stunning deep green, but puffy and watery from the allergic irritation.  “I hate to admit it, but I’ve been sneezing into my hands several times, so I think I’ll pass on the handshake. But it’s nice to meet you. I’m Dr Thompson.” I wouldn’t have minded, but I just withdraw my hand and smile, not wanting to make her even more uncomfortable than her hayfever already makes her. “I’ve heard a lot about you. My husband is a big fan,” I say in a light tone, realising too late that she might think I soft-accuse her of flirting with him. “I see you’re married,” I hurry to fix my faux-pas, pointing to the golden ring on her left hand. “Is he a doctor too?” I’m pretty sure she’s not officially married, because I’m pretty sure there’s no ‘he’, but I can play along with the pre-written script. “No,” she says, smiling – it’s that wide, dumb, hopelessly infatuated smile that can’t help itself when you’re in love, so whether it’s a man or a woman it’s clearly a happy relationship – “Lin is working in landscaping.” I’m still not sure if Lin is short for Linda, or Lincoln, or something, but that’s not really the main focus for me; her spouse works in landscaping, and she’s miserably allergic. I wonder if she gets one of these deliciously itchy allergy attacks hugging her spouse when they come home from work. There’s probably an arrangement made to avoid that, down girl, I tell myself, but the images my brain conveys are very nice. Before I can say anything else, I notice that her eyes begin to get that hazy look again, and her breath is hitching. She fights hard to stave off this sneeze, but eventually she shakes her head slowly, giving me a resigned glance. “’scuse me, I’m gonna sneeze again…” she says, voice becoming breathier with each word, and I get butterflies in my tummy again. “Oh God,” she moans quietly and then her breath hitches twice… a brief pause… and then a sharp, deep inhale, and for a moment I’m reminded of how much pollen and rivalling fragrances that inhale must bring into her inflamed airways… And then she rocks forward, her whole upper body involved in getting the sneezes out as fast and brutally as possible. “AaaESSCHH!” The first sneeze pushes her glasses almost out of their cosy hangout spot between her breasts – on the smaller side, but she’s certainly not flat-chested – and the second sends them tumbling through the air and hitting the grass. “HaahESSCHH! AhhESSCHHeew! Hah-ISSCHEW! Oh bloody hell,” she groans and sneezes again, pressing the tissue over her nose and mouth as firmly as she can, doing everything she can to avoid a repetition of the droplets shooting out of her nose for anyone to watch and be horrified about. I’m not horrified. I’m painfully turned on. To conceal the fact that I’m staring at her with hungry eyes as she’s sneezing up a storm, I quickly bend down and pick up her glasses for her. There’s no damage to them; the lawn is soft, but there’s some specks of grass clinging to them, and I suppose that’s not ideal when you’re as allergic as this gorgeous creature. But I don’t want to get any thumbprints on the glass, so I leave it alone. She’s still sneezing, no longer even trying to open her eyes between the sneezes, she’s just giving herself up to the fit, as if she knows she has nothing more to put up against her hayfever. She sneezes over a dozen times in a row, harsh, itchy-sounding sneezes that she probably wants to keep silent but is utterly unable to. The throaty, wet explosions just keep coming, somewhat but inadequately muffled into the tired Kleenex in her hands. Eventually she stops, but she’s out of breath and practically dripping. “Oh my God,” she sighs shakily, “it just never ends.” “Would you like me to call you a cab?” I ask. I would love for her to stay and grace me with her sneezing fits for hours to come, but I feel bad for her. “I don’t think anyone would mind if you leave early, you sound miserable.” This is a woman who isn’t used to accepting defeat, I can tell that from her posture, from the way she tenses up when I suggest an escape route, but she’s also a woman who has a pragmatic mind, and she knows she can’t mind-over-matter herself through this evening without sneezing herself half to death. “Would you do that? I don’t like to be the one running away early, but I really don’t feel well.” “Of course. Why don’t you sit down somewhere and I’ll make the call. I’ll come find you with a glass of water while you wait for the cab.” “Thank you.” I should be thanking her, honestly, and so should my husband because he’s going to get the ride of his life tonight. But I only give her a smile, hand her glasses back to her, and give her shoulder a brief squeeze. “Don’t mention it.” I head back to the more crowded area of the garden to find the hostess so I can borrow their phone. Dr Thompson may have wanted to make the call herself but I think she’d have a really hard time getting through it without another sneezing fit, and she must have come to the same conclusion. I look back over my shoulder to see where she is, and she has found one of the garden benches near the small pond and is sitting there, two crumpled tissues on her lap and another in her hands, cupped over her nose to blow as much of the mess and tickly pollen out of her sensitive nasal passages as she can. She sneezes again, and again, and again, the violent allergic outbursts cutting through the calm summer evening like the cracking of a whip, ruthless and repeatedly and no doubt both torturous and embarrassing for the poor woman. She probably should have picked a better spot, though. The bench is right underneath a magnolia tree, and I have a feeling her poor allergic nose isn’t going to like that. But maybe the distance to the rest of the partygoers is worth the additional suffering. I hope the mythical ‘Lin’ is at home waiting for her with that sleep-inducing medication and a nice massage to ease those exhausted muscles and tense shoulders. “HAAERRSSSHHHEW! ISSSCHEW! AH-ESSCHHOO!” She’s going to need it.       

Okurrrr 🏃‍♀️ 🏃‍♀️ 🏃‍♀️💨💨

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congrats and welcome to the party !! 🤧 if you are into male sneezes drop me a PM