[boxofmushy]

Welcome to my weird little corner of tumblr-

Info

🎃 They/Them, 30s, ace/grey 💜 🤍🖤

🎃 Snz blog is very strictly under the NSFW umbrella. Minors DNI, I don't follow blogs without an age

🎃 I'm open to anons, sneeze fet discussions and making new friends! I'm not super comfortable with talking about my own self obs. Please respect that.

🎃 I like to RP occasionally with friends. Please read my rules first before asking!

What I'm into

🎃 Colds & Allergies, Fevers

🎃 Holdbacks & Stifles, lengthy build-ups, basically anything that prolongs the sneeze 🤧

🎃 Both super fluffy, cuddly scenarios and spicy, dom/sub situations. I also love really niche and creative scenarios too! (SWH especially)

🎃 monsters

FIC LIST

Original Work

[boxofmushy]

that one werwolf thats photic but not from the sun, from the moon.

[boxofmushy]

Midsummer Whump and Snz Prompts ☀️

💡 photic sneezing

🥵 sunburns

🤧 summer colds

🏊 chlorine sneeze

🛌 hot nights

⛺️ camping gone wrong

🧺 picnic allergies

🛁 sick in a hot tub

🦟 mosquito bites

🍃 grass rash

[selene-and-the-cold]

This prompt list gave me all kinds of ideas and since I am trying to get back into writing again, please have a silly drabble inspired by the prompt: 🦟 mosquito bites

This is really just a silly short piece, without any form of beta whatsoever and I wanted to post it before I can talk myself out of doing so again. Thank you, Beez, for inspiring me :)

Now please enjoy a short drabble of my Victoiran-era inspired OCs Silas and Bertie:

The Hazards of Summer

“I think you should stop touching it.”

“Hhh’tssssh! Tsshhrr! Hiihh’Tssshh!”

“Bless you! See, that is exactly what I meant. You’re only making it worse, Bertie.”

“Oh, do shut up, will you, Sy!,” Albert pouted, then sneezed again into his handkerchief, rubbing the tip of his nose through the fabric. That only prompted more rapid-fire sneezing, one sneeze more desperate than the other.

The two men sat in Silas’ carriage on their way back home from an outing in the park. ,

“It is so terribly itch— hiihhh…. Hihhh’YESSHH!”

“Bless you,” Silas offered with a cluck of his tongue. He sat facing Albert who leaned heavily into the cushioned seat of the carriage, nose muffled into his handkerchief. Or rather into Silas’ handkerchief, as Bertie had run out several sneezes ago.

“Now don’t even think of rubbing your nose with the handkerchief. In fact: hand it over to me at once.”

“Whad?,” Albert asked, still snuffly from his latest sneeze. “Dod’t be ridiculous, I ndeed it still.”

“Maybe, yet I can see you trying to itch and scratch at your nose through the fabric of the handkerchief and we can’t have that. All you’ll achieve is rub your beautiful nose quite raw by the time we arrive home, whilst feeding that tickle in your nose,” Silas chided softly.

“It’s not in my nose, Sy, and you know it!” Albert hissed in protest, his usual calm, docile demeanor melting away. He sat cross-eyed, trying to glimpse the very tip of his nose.

“My apologies, Bertie. On your nose then. Though I should think the tickle doesn’t quite care if its origin is in your nose or on it, Bertie.”

“But I care!”, Albert protested and wiggled his nose, then gave in to the itch and scrubbed the very tip quite thoroughly. Sighing with relief, he leaned his head back against the upholstery - only to snap forward with a series of breathless sneezes, each sounding as itchy as a can of ants crawling all over one’s back as they exploded into the small space between them.

“Heehh…’Esssshttssh!! Eeeeehh’Ttttsssh!!! Hehh?… Eeehhh!!!…. Hehh’ktttTSSSH!!!”

“By Jove, bless you! Alright, this is quite enough now, Bertie. Let me see…”

Silas stood and sat down on Albert’s side of the carriage right next to him, leaning in to study Albert’s twitchy nose.

“Mhhhh, I see. Well that is quite unfortunate, my poor darling Bertie, as impressive as it is. You should try your luck at the gambling tables tonight. That was a one in a million chance to happen. And yet it did,” Silas mused as he studied Albert’s nose.

“Lucky me…,” Albert said dryly, a finger reaching out to scrub at his nose again. Not just anywhere, but at the very tip of it, where a tiny red bump sat shiny and proud.

Silas shooed Albert’s hand away with a few waves and pats on Albet’s hand. “No, Bertie! Don’t touch it, for the last time!”

“But it iiitcheeeees,” Albert whined, quite pathetically slumping in his seat by now, utterly defeated by the nagging, gnawing tickle that hadn’t let off ever since they had been walking in the park near the pond.

“And what kind of bad luck is it anyways to get bitten by a mosquito at exactly that spot while all I wanted to do was taking a stroll around the pond with you,” Albert continued to complain, then wiggled his nose again as the mosquito bite itched yet again, triggering another flurry of sneezes.

“Hehh’Tsssshh!!! EkTTTSSSHUSSH!!… Hhhhehhhh…. PttSSsH!!”

“At least it isn’t that dreadful summer cold that’s going around,” Silas offered as consolation, which earned him a deathly glare from Albert.

“Ah but this is ridiculous, Sy! Who sneezes from a mosquito… b-… bi-hhiihhte… Hihhh’Tssshhiii!”

“You, and tremendously sensitive nose, Bertie,” Silas purred, booping said nose, which he loved to tease.

“Sy! No, stop it! You’re making me… hehhh.. Hehhh’kTTTSSSH!! EtttSSSHH!!”

“Bless you~ Now, how about I take you back to my townhouse. It is blessedly mosquito free and my physician recently concocted the most wonderful balm against mosquito-bite-itches. Rubbing that on your nose will soothe it in no time.”

“Hehh’TSSSHH!”

“I’ll take that as a yes then, Bertie~”

[boxofmushy]

uselessly fanning a hand in front of a nose mid-buildup is great. It’s so nonsensical and hopeless, like what are you trying to do? The idea that a sneeze is this physical fluttery thing that can be potentially shooed away.

[empresskaze]

god I want to wreck him with the worst cold ever. LOOK AT HIM /FERAL

[boxofmushy]

I'm only doing prompts for my vampire OCs or the hotel trio at the moment 🖐️

[boxofmushy]

Midsummer Whump and Snz Prompts ☀️

💡 photic sneezing

🥵 sunburns

🤧 summer colds

🏊 chlorine sneeze

🛌 hot nights

⛺️ camping gone wrong

🧺 picnic allergies

🛁 sick in a hot tub

🦟 mosquito bites

🍃 grass rash

[rosy-bless]

it's time to speak my truth. gesundheit as a blessing is hot.

[boxofmushy]

okay I fibbed, I lied. the loser vampires are going to get more fics now. its all I can think about. new mental hyperfocus unlocked

[boxofmushy]

Two for One and Done (oneshot...maybe)

A vampire bites a priest with a cold and has to live with the consequences. 🦇 🎃

Hey everyone. its vampire sneezing. That's it. That's the fic. you're welcome. Unbeta'd, written in a fever of h0rniness. Kind of gross.

18+ (SFW)

CW | horror movie level violence, mentions of blood, no egregious descriptions of gore. Shared psychic sneezing, general spooky vampire vibes, eternal colds, empathy sneezing, some slight SWH elements, monster snz, are you into priests? I'm not really, but I do like vampire priests I guess, happy halloween everyone

Special thanks to @shamefilledsnzblog, who shared a tumblr post that filled me with such wanton lust that I vomited this into my word processor.

Prowling cemeteries at night wasn't something the seminary prepared him for. But after serving the small community of Cat's Cradle, Reverend Nathaniel Lark knew better than to question the concerns of a worried mother knocking on his door at 11:00 pm. 

He swore it was the trees—Cat's Cradle was a mountain town surrounded by an ancient forest. Tales of ghosts and monsters flourished in the dark, and it wasn't his place to disprove or deny the concerns of his parish. Their belief was real, and that was enough for him. So he peered down every haunted well, climbed up every ominous staircase, and looked under every bed. He hadn't planned on becoming an official boogeyman hunter, but he preferred it over listening to his pompous, bigoted peers back home. He took up the collar to bring comfort to others, and if bringing comfort meant going out into the dark with a crucifix and a jar of garlic in the middle of the night, he was going to do it. 

"Igheh'Hhh—Hihff'Shhiew!!" 

He unfolded a new bundle of tissues, already exhausting a box. The miserable cold that spent its time passing from townsfolk to townsfolk in the winter had finally caught up to him just as spring finally came around. He practically sneezed his way through the last mass. It was a proper head cold, one he hoped would dry up in a week. Thankfully, most of his colds were short-lived. 

"Heeh-hh—ohdearmbe—hehh'IGHHFFF!!!" 

That one bent him in half. His back twinged in pain, and for a moment, he stayed bowed, lower half of his face buried in a handkerchief. The airy sneeze rang out in the graveyard, the only sound of life amongst the dead.

Wincing, he slowly, carefully straightened out again. The grand age of forty-five had done his spine no favors. Or his knees. Or his neck, for that matter. Funny, the things one took for granted. Working backs and knees. Graveyards had a way of making him meditative on his own mortality, as graveyards should. They were places for contemplation. To honor and grieve loved ones. They were places where memories were buried forever.

They were not supposed to be dug up again, least of all by the local priest. But the kindly baker told him she'd seen a vampire take its residence in what should have been her auntie's final resting place, and he wasn't going to argue with her. If a flock of sheep bleated at a wolf in the woods, the shepherd would be foolish not to go and chase it away. 

He still felt foolish placing the jar of garlic on top of the grave. He felt even more foolish when he nearly jumped out of his skin in fright when the caretaker yelled at him. 

"What the hell are you doing?" The old man stood at the stoop of the funeral house, weathered face lit by the glow of his outdated lantern. 

"Oh, hullo!" Rev. Nathaniel Lark smiled awkwardly, trying to make the act of digging up a grave look perfectly normal. "Just uh—snff—checking for…something." 

The caretaker scowled. 

Nathaniel cleared his throat. 

"You haven't uh—seen, any..oh..I don't know—uh—vampires around?" 

The caretaker grumbled a string of colorful expletives and returned to the funeral home, slamming the doors behind him. 

"Have a good evening!" Nathaniel lamely called after him. He always tried his best to end every interaction on a positive note. You never knew when a goodbye would be your last. 

Nathanial was unsure if a jar of processed garlic with "a hint of rosemary" would have the same effect as an actual garland, but he didn't have any time to sew one together, and frankly, he didn't feel well enough to focus on crafting one. He took a small bottle of holy water and gave the top of the grave a generous sprinkle. Though he seriously doubted a vampire had exhumed the body in order to take up residence in its place, He hoped the process was convincing enough ward for the baker to feel comforted by it. 

She was waiting for him in the parking lot, watching from the safety of an old truck. The baker still seemed worried as he approached, eyeing him suspiciously. 

"You think that's enough to keep it away, father?" She asked. 

He coughed lightly into the crook of an elbow, the cold had passed the point of scorching his throat, but the drip of it remained. 

"—I don't see why it wouldn't, Mrs. Keller. From what I'm told, even jars of garlic are enough to keep evil spirits from harassing the dearly departed remains." 

He wasn't told about any of this. But he wasn't lying. Lying was a sin. He was comforting someone, and there was nothing wrong with that. The look of relief on the baker's face was enough to make the harmless pantomime worth it. 

"Thank you so much, Father! You'll get a whole month's worth of fresh bread, I guarantee it." 

"It's the least I can do—Now, is there..any-anythihg—anythingelse-??" 

A sudden tickle fluttered between his eyes, and he quickly pressed a knuckle to the underside of his nose. Guiltily, he begged for the conversation to be over, so he could get back to bed and sneeze out the rest of this cold. 

Mrs. Keller took her time thinking of another investigation while Nathaniel tried to smile through the burn of an approaching sneeze. 

"Mmm…I don't suppose you could check the graves tomorrow, just to make sure?"

"Hhhh!!—"  He held his breath, eyebrows lifted dramatically as he clamped his nose between the tissues. "—HFFFHIEW!!" 

"Oh! Bless you!" Mrs. Keller grinned, suddenly amused, "How funny, me blessing you. Feels a bit strange." 

Nathaniel sighed into the tissues, still muzzy with a second sneeze brewing. He did his best to extricate himself from the ever-gregarious Mrs. Keller, finally leaving the dark graveyard parking lot for a long walk back home. It was a bit of an eerie walk, the kind where you were almost sure someone was following behind. Perhaps the superstitious nature of the town was starting to influence him. 

At least he didn't live far away. For that, he was grateful. He was even more grateful when his landlord remembered to let the plumber in to fix the sink. But it was odd that the plumber showed up so late at night and didn't actually fix the sink. It still leaked when he trudged into the kitchen. He rolled his eyes at the puddles of water on the kitchen floor, snuffling thickly as he tried to mop them up. 

Nathaniel knew he had many flaws, as all humans did. One of them was self-pity, something he tried to dip in only occasionally. But tonight, being sick as a dog and with a busted sink, he let himself wallow in it. Poor Reverend Nathaniel Larkin, crawling on his hands and knees mopping up puddles, nose as leaky as the broken sink. 

Another puddle mopped, another one to go. Nathaniel's mouth slowly swung open as yet another sneeze tickled him. He would have had it too, if he hadn't wiped away a splatter of blood. 

He bolted upright, eyes following the trail of blood to the couch. A man lounged there, leg crossed. He looked perfectly cordial despite the front of his shirt being covered in blood. He grinned crookedly up at Nathaniel. Teeth razor sharp, eyes glowing in the dark. 

"Heads up. You might need a new landlord." The man said. 

Nathaniel didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. Only feel pure terror. 

"He was kind of a boring guy. Talked too much, no real flavor to him." The man's eyes flashed. 

"Worst of all, I'm still hungry." 

Before Nathaniel could even think, the creature pounced on him. 

His head slammed against the floorboards as he felt the fangs sink into his neck. Nathaniel yelled for help, flailed, and shoved at the monster on top of him. Strong hands (or were they claws?) held him fast, all he could do was scream.

But there was no pain. That was the odd thing. After the agony of the bite, there was nothing. He felt the blood and the cold skin of the creature's lips against his throat, but he didn't feel pain. His mind fogged over, and his vision went blurry, and if it wasn't for the fact that he was being fed on by a damn vampire, it was almost…good. 

Really good. 

In the cloud of sensation, Nathaniel felt a sudden inhale against the divot of his neck, where throat met chest. Then another sip of air, and a distinct sound of a sniffly nose. He thought for a moment he was sniffling, the cold chasing him to his death. But he felt the fangs unhook from his flesh, and he looked up to see that the vampire was rubbing at his nose against the heel of his hand. Panting, his glowing eyes hooded as it sucked in another gasp of air, nostrils fluttering open—

"What—heh—the-h-hell—HH—" The vampire's voice wavered as his lips curled up in a snarl. But he no longer looked ferocious. He looked confused, almost soft…

Sneezy.

"Ah—Ahh—HAHk'SHHH!!" 

It exploded out of him, spluttering messily between sharp teeth. Body cringing forward, eyes closing despite his best efforts…

It was just enough time. Nathaniel used the moment to shove the vampire off of him and reached into his back pocket for the crucifix. The world swam before his eyes as he lurched forward with it, pressing the holy object to the vampire's back. He heard the creature cry out in pain, saw the smoke, the fire, and then nothing.

Reverend Nathaniel Larkin swooned, and his world went black. 

———————-

It'd been a month since he got a crucifix to the back. 

He sat at the empty bar, nursing a full glass of beer. Just for looks, of course. Human drink could never satisfy as much. It might as well have been air. He wasn't there for the drinks, he was there for the music. Soft guitars strummed effortlessly from the modest stage, and a handful of true devotees sat and enjoyed the gentle ballads. Every Saturday he'd go to sit and listen, music was the last true thing that made him feel alive. 

The fucking scar itched. He thumbed at his back uselessly. What did it look like? Did it leave a mark?  There was no way he could know. 

"You gotta leave." 

The bartender gave him a final warning. Nice guy. Knew about the whole vampire thing. Knew enough to let him in and leave him be, at least. Nodding, he slid off the barstool and skulked into the dark. One of the things they didn't tell you when you became a child of darkness was that you should always honor a few spaces. You couldn't run your whole immortal life. He had quite a few spots across the globe by this point, places he could rely on for shelter, at least briefly. Some were permanent, some less so. 

For now, his less-permanent shelter was a trailer, the final home of his last meal. It was ratty, but it was dark, and it had a couch. And a tv. He could hardly complain about that. Flopping on the sofa, he kicked up his boots on the coffee table, and reached for the remote. He was almost at peace.

Almost.  

He hissed, and pinched at the bridge of his nose as a sneeze sparked to life. He'd felt one coming on all damn night, a tickle that flowed and ebbed seemingly at random. He never thought he'd be bothered with sneezing again. He hadn't done it for hundreds of years. Up until the encounter with that priest, he'd almost forgotten what it felt like. At first, he thought it was a fluke, perhaps drinking the blood of a clergyman ignited an allergy he was unaware of. Whatever it was, he hadn't indulged in it since. 

Until tonight. He woke up with his nose buzzing, and he'd almost been excited to try for one again. Almost. But every time he seemed to work up to one, it went away, leaving him stuffy and frustrated. Twice during the concert he nearly got an AH in, but the fucking Choo would die away. At one point, his ridiculous gasping made someone's head turn, drawing unwanted attention. He flushed with embarrassment, just thinking about it. He didn't know he could still blush either. 

"Oh-come on.." He sniffed at the cold air, twiddling his wide nose against the palm of his hand. His breath snagged, and he felt a swell of anticipation in him as his chest rose, and rose, and rose—

"Ah—hh-hh—AHHH!!" 

He tilted his head back, as if the sneeze was a thing to be caught in the air with his teeth, a thing just right out of reach. 

Curiously, he could hear someone else hitching, too. Someone unseen in the dark. Someone close by, who didn't want to be seen, was struggling not to be heard. 

"—AHt'CHHHHSH!!!" He launched forward with it, exaggerated. The sneeze scraped through his sinuses in a wonderfully relieving way, like a rake of nails down his itchy nose. He licked his lips, indulging in the strange little reflex he thought he had left behind ages ago. 

"Hhh-INDG'T!!" 

Someone else sneezed. Or rather, tried not to sneeze. 

Someone else was in the dark with him. Unusual, not to see someone in the dark. Humans were easy to spot, animals too. The only thing that could hide from a vampire was another vampire. 

He bolted from the couch and flicked on the light. Standing in the corner, with a finger hovering uselessly under his nose, was the priest from a month ago. Tall as ever, but this time without the silly white collar they all wore. In its place was a red scar wrapping around his neck, a permanent ring burned into his skin. 

The priest grabbed him. Lifted him up by the jacket collar and shoved him into the wall. He'd been weak as a human. He wasn't weak anymore. 

"Turn me back! TURN ME BACK NOW!" The priest spat. His nose ran, and his pupils glowed bright. "YOU DAMNED ME!" 

"What the fuck are you blabbing about? I can't turn you back! What the hell do you think this is??" He struggled to pull the priest's hands (or were they claws?) off of him. 

"You gave me this dark gift. I never wanted it. You…you ruined my life." 

"I..I think you need to be a bit educated on this one." He grinned, trying to placate the newly turned spawn. "I was gonna drain you. Right? You'd be dead if I did. But you're not. You're a spawn now. Fresh as a daisy. And I'm your sire." 

The priest sniffled. A dribble of mess trickled down his lip. 

"You're… like my father now?" 

"NO! Fuck no. Disgusting." He wrinkled his nose at the idea. "No, I'm like…your friend. You have my power now, and my thoughts. And I have yours. If I die, you die." 

The priest's grip loosened, and he released him. 

"Look, let's try this over. Hello there! My name's Quintus." He held out his hand for a shake. "You can call me Quint. What's yours?" 

The ex-priest, now-vampire, glowered at him. He wiped his runny nose with a cluster of tissues. 

"Nathaniel." 

"Nice to meet you, Nate. Now, let's not tear each other's heads off tonight. Let's just talk. Can we talk?" 

Nathaniel nodded. He understandably wasn't happy about it, but he was willing to hear Quintus out. 

And he did hear him out. For an hour, they sat and talked. Quintus shared his own fractured knowledge of vampirism and how to live the life, and Nathaniel quietly moped and took it in. No doubt it would be years for him to really adjust, but Quintus wasn't about to let a spawn go on in the world, sad and clueless. He wasn't responsible for spawns, but he felt responsible for this one at least. There was something inherently sad and puppyish about the man that compelled him to charity. Besides, it didn't seem like he was willing to just leave Quintus alone. Whatever situation they found themselves in, they'd have to work it out together, since killing each other was not an option. For now. 

"Excuse—mbe..hih-Igh—" Nathaniel reached into his pocket for another nest of tissues, eyebrows rising. "Th-this stupid cold—been'd taking forever to—hhhh" 

Quintus felt the tickle crawl up and down Nathaniel's sinuses. It made his own nostrils pulse and his own breath wobble. Dread realization hit as his lips curled away from his fanged teeth in an itchy snarl. 

"Ah-AHH'GHSHHOOH!!" 

"HF'Fhieww!!" 

They both sneezed in tandem. Quintus first. Nathaniel second. They both sniffled and looked at each other, surprised. 

It was the first time in a long time Quintus felt real dread. 

"You were sick when I bit you?" 

"I was, yes. Horrible little cold-snff-snff-" Nathaniel dabbed at his runny nose. "I just don't understand. I thought I'd be over it by now. Sickness doesn't linger with me." 

"As a human no." Quintus's glared. "But whatever you are when you are turned, you remain."

"…Are you suggesting I will have this cold…forever?" 

"I don't..know. Maybe, maybe it'll last for a year, or a hundred years. Or it'll go away tomorrow..I don't know. What I do know is— I think we're sharing more than power. If you sneeze, I'll sneeze." 

Nathaniel sniffed, looking sulky. He pinched his nose between a clean fold of tissues and gave it a loud blow. Quintus wrinkled his own nose at the sound, he could feel his sinuses shift from Nathaniel's exertion. 

"Well. Snff—looks like someone will have the sniffles for a while then. Should have thought about that before you feasted on my neck."  Nathaniel lowered the tissues, his septum a red, raw streak. Twitching his nose back and forth, his chest began to huff up and down, and a small, sarcastic smile spread over his parting lips as his nostrils ticked open. "Speakig-of..get ready..I think'g—this is gunna be a big—one…" 

Quintus couldn't help it. Despite hundred's of years' worth of power, of sheer focus on survival, he couldn't stop the tickle crawling up and down his nose as Nathaniel's face crumbled. He pinched at his widening nostrils, trying to stop them from flaring. 

"Don't! Hh-Come'd on-Nate-don't—Don't s'deeze—I—ah-" 

"-S-Sorry—Hhhh—" 

In a last, pathetic effort, Quintos slapped a hand over his mouth. He could feel his sharp teeth parting open, desperate, helpless. 

Oh fuck. Helplessness. That was something he hadn't felt in a long time…

"AH—AH—" 

It terrified him. 

"AH-AHKTCHH!!" 

There was a time, long ago, when he knew how to stifle a sneeze. To properly bottle it up. Some murky part of his past where he was hiding, the last time he felt fear. He couldn't remember how to do it now. The sneeze sprayed wetly against his hand, his ears popping with the painful explosion. 

"Hieh'FFHshh!!" Nathaniel smiled wryly as he blew at his nose and folded the tissue neatly on his lap.  "Snff-Snfff. Gesundheit, Quint." 

Quintus groaned and slowly lowered his hand and wiped the drool on his pants. That stuck-up, whiny, no-good, asshole Nathaniel was doing this on purpose. To think he almost pitied the guy! He wanted to punish him!

 If they couldn't kill each other, they'd have to resort to annoying each other. For all eternity. And beyond. It was a fate worse than death. 

Though…sneezing wasn't so bad. It did feel good. 

[tears-sweatandblood]

big fan of your sopping wet wizard @shamefilledsnzblog 🫣

details ⬇️⬇️

[shamefilledsnzblog]

Oh my gosh?!?!

I just woke up to this, and had to squeal and roll around in bed out of sheer delight! Thank you, I'm so extremely flattered, and can't stop looking! The weariness in his eyes, the cable jumper details, the stubble and dripping hair, his poor nose... I'm gonna be staring for a while!

Truly, thank you, I'm so very touched!

[selene-and-the-cold]

A group of people huddled together in a tent or around a campfire. They are cold and damp, but in good spirits - until one of them suddenly sneezes, specks of the sudden sneeze dancing in the center of the circle of friends.

They all share a look, but the sneezes insists it was nothing, only the dusty air.

Then, one by one, the members of the group succumb to the fierce cold that set up shop in the first person's nose.

Since all of them are strong, stubborn individuals, none of them admits to having caught the illness until it is glaringly obvious as they are shivering from fever, nose bright red and dripping incessantly, thus they only accelerate the spreading of the disease by going about their day as normal.

Until finally, all of them are bundled up in blankets around their fire, a sneezy, sniffly round of feverish, red-nosed people, trying to get through the awful headcold they caught.

[boxofmushy]

Stares out into the ocean.

I think I’m gonna write vampire snz.

Walks into the ocean, waves overtaking me

[shamefilledsnzblog]

Friends in Deep Places

More Crawford fic! This soggy wizard is very much in my brain right now... This time, featuring an ancient and mysterious friend. Well, she considers Crawford a friend. Crawford still hasn't gotten that memo...

Enjoy more cold-stricken wizard, and mysterious dream companion!

White Water Point was no stranger to bad weather. The lighthouse had stood for over a century, and bore the scars of those many years of wild winds, crashing waves, and the simple passing of time.

For it to be raining inside the lighthouse, however, was a touch more than it had been designed to endure. And yet, endure it did, and rather frequently at present, as Crawford Seaver, the weather wizard who resided there, battled his way through a truly relentless cold.

Tarps had been strung up to protect the table, and the seat by the fireplace, and in a separate room, another covered Crawford’s bed. The bookshelf overflowing with books, and the masses of charts covering the walls, had all been treated with the waterproofing spells Crawford had learned out of necessity when his powers had first begun to run away with him all those years ago. Lightning rods had been installed, protecting the occupants from any sudden bursts of lightning Crawford happened to sneeze up. And yet, no amount of prevention and preparation could keep the chill, misery, and rain from the air as Crawford battled his way through his ailment.

Crawford himself stood before his wall of charts, frowning at one in particular, watching enchanted lines of ink move about, indicating wind and air pressure, forever shifting. He shivered constantly, despite the thick woolen blanket wrapped about his gaunt frame, the scarf wrapped around his neck, and the cup of tea clutched in both hands, sweetened with honey and spiked with rum. His prominent nose, red and raw from constant blowing and wiping, twitched with constant, useless sniffles, each one holding back the tide for mere moments. He desperately needed to blow his nose, but that would mean letting go of his mug and loosening his blanket, and Crawford had no desire to relinquish either.

Sniffling, however, could only serve him for so long, and before long, his bleary eyes began to grow hazy and filled with dread, and his chapped lips parted as his breath began to catch.

“Oh… Ehhh… Huhh… Oh dear…”

Neptune, Crawford’s scruffy little terrier, let out a whine, and retreated under the table, where his bed had been moved to protect it from the rain.

“Sorry, Neptune, I… HhhYUSSHOO!”

Occupied with both mug and blanket, Crawford merely turned away from his charts, narrowly avoiding catching them with the spray of mist that burst from his nose and mouth. Not that it would have mattered much; they’d been rained on enough already.

For just a moment, Crawford hoped he might have gotten away with a single sneeze. So long as he could keep it to just one, all would be well. His magic would remain at bay. The moment seemed to drag as he waited, eyes closed, lips parted, nose quivering, until…

“HhhuHHESSSHOO!”

And that was that. When there was a second sneeze, a third followed, as inevitable as the tide. And with it…

“HhuhhHAASSSCHOO!”

A crack of thunder sent Neptune whimpering and huddling into his blankets, as lightning struck the rods outside the lighthouse. Inside, a gust of wind swirled about the room, tearing a chart from the wall. The rain, which had slowed to a miserable drizzle, began to patter down anew, dripping from the light fixtures, the furniture, and Crawford’s long-suffering nose.

Crawford heaved a sigh that turned into a cough, and looked apologetically to Neptune.

“Sorry, old man. I am trying.”

Snuffling, groaning, rain splattering into his spiked tea, Crawford made his way across the room to collect the chart. It had landed dangerously close to the fireplace, and he hastily snatched it away from the reach of any errant embers. Sighing, Crawford dropped his rain-soaked blanket and settled into his chair by the fire, the tarp protecting both him and the flames from the sneeze-induced rain for now.

He stretched his feet out towards the fire, though only one could actually benefit from the warmth. The other, a wooden prosthetic, served as a grim reminder of the consequences of careless magic. Even over twenty years after the loss of the leg, Crawford still felt a dull ache where the limb ought to have been. It was always the way, when he was ill.

Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, shoulders heaving with the effort of an enormous snuffle, Crawford looked wearily over the chart. One finger came to trace a pattern of lines. A hurricane in its infancy, and in a region where no hurricane should ever be. His sigh turned into a cough.

“Again… Less than a year since the last… What’s going on there..?”

Neptune, seeming to trust that no further sneezes were imminent, ventured out of his bed and came to sit at Crawford’s feet, looking up at him and heaving a sad, doggy sigh. Crawford echoed it with a sigh of his own, and reached down to scratch the little terrier behind his ragged ears.

“No two ways about it, my friend. This one’s got me at a loss.”

For some time, Crawford sat and puzzled over the chart, turning the matter over with a mind muddled from both congestion and weariness. He sipped his spiked tea, the honey doing a little to soothe his raw throat, the rum not chasing the chill from his bones half as well as he had hoped. He took a sodden bandana from his sleeve, and gave his dripping nose a foghorn of a blow, wincing at the pain it caused deep in his sinuses. The more he puzzled over the chart, the more the lines ceased to make sense, until he felt ready to throw the damned thing into the fire and be done with it.

Not that he would ever do such a thing. Too much hard work had gone into those enchantments. Too much lost sleep…

“… Sleep… Gods, I need to sleep…”

Crawford’s eyes, having been growing ever heavier, suddenly opened, and he sat up a little straighter. Neptune tilted his head, and offered a questioning “wff?”, watching as Crawford stepped out from under the tarp’s protection, shivering violently as he went to rifle through a cupboard.

“Two heads are better than one, as they say, and I know of a head a lot older than mine. Let’s hope Thalassa is still asleep, hm?”

Neptune gave an uncertain whine as he watched Crawford fish out a glass medicine bottle, together with a dry bandana. Trembling and snuffling, Crawford brought both back to the fireside, carefully dabbing at his nose with the latter, and pulling the stopper from the former. Crawford glanced guiltily at Neptune as he poured a little of the bottle’s contents into the remains of his tea.

“I know. Awful stuff. But it’s the only way I’m getting any sort of decent rest right now.”

Neptune gave a noise of discontentment, his expression awfully judgmental for a terrier.

Setting aside the bottle, Crawford took the bandana and carefully blew his nose again. Doing so cleared out another flood of congestion, but ignited a spark of irritation as the blowing vibrated his raw nasal passages. Crawford frowned, wrinkling his nose extensively as he tried to sniffle and snort it into submission. It didn’t seem ready to become a sneeze, but nor did it seem to be going anywhere…

“Ugh.. Right, let’s get this over with…”

Taking the mug, Crawford took a deep breath and drained the contents, grimacing and shaking his head as he swallowed.

“Gods, that stuff is more vile every time! Still, let’s hope it works.”

Settling himself into his chair once more, Crawford wrapped his arms around himself, trying to rub some warmth into his aching muscles and joints. Leaning his head back, he gazed into the fire, watching the glowing embers, trying to breathe deeply, listening to the sounds around him. The howling winds outside the lighthouse. The slowing pattering of rain within. The gentle crackling of the flames…

As the potent cough medicine began to take effect, Crawford yawned, and Neptune echoed with a yawn of his own, stretching out by the fire and resting his head on Crawford’s foot. As Crawford’s eyelids began to grow heavy, he raised his hand to a thin strip of leather around his neck, drawing a peculiar amulet from beneath his jumper. An odd sort of coral, worn smooth from years of handling, a dull red in colour. As his breathing grew slower and deeper, Crawford turned it over in his hand, running his thumb over the lumps and ridges, calling to mind the one who had first pressed it into his hand. As sleep began to claim him, his last thoughts centered on a vision of silver eyes, and a mighty form stirring in ocean depths.

His nostrils gave a warning quiver, but before his nose could be satisfied with a sneeze, his head slumped to one side, a congested snore emanating from his lips instead.

When Crawford opened his eyes, it was to bright sunlight, and sand and stone beneath his mismatched feet. Looking about, he found himself on a sunlit shore, surrounded by towering sandstone cliffs. A place he had never visited in the waking world, but in dreams, many times. He took a moment to close his eyes, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves; a far cry from the wild seas he had heard as he slept. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost make himself feel the warmth of the sun, chasing away the fevered chills.

A lingering prickle nagged at his cold-ravaged sinuses, a reminder of the state his body was in. Pawing clumsily at his nose, Crawford made his way further up the beach, where great pillars had been carved into the cliff, standing on either side of the door of a temple long since abandoned. Crawford bowed his head respectfully as he stepped inside, onto cracked tiles half-buried in sand.

An altar stood in pride of place, and behind it, covering one wall, the faded remains of a great mural. It depicted a line of robed figures on a cliff, one in front raising a staff, as the others bowed their heads in worship. Depicted in the sea beneath the cliff was a figure not unlike a stylized dragon. A mighty leviathan, with a mane of flowing kelp, and great branches of red coral for horns, and great fin-like wings.

Crawford was not alone in the temple. A woman knelt before the altar, gazing up at the mural in quiet contemplation. Her robe looked to be made of tattered sail-cloth, and the silver hair that spilled over her shoulders was topped with a crown of red coral. Though plainly not young, her age was difficult to guess; though her eyes were creased at the corners, and laugh lines framed her mouth, there was something oddly ageless about her. Crawford knelt quietly beside her, and nodded up at the mural.

“Memories of happier days?”

The woman turned to him, smiling, warmth in her strange silver eyes.

“Memories of sunnier climes. I thought it might appeal to you. I could feel the chill and heaviness about you as you called to me. You are unwell.”

Crawford tried and failed to suppress a shiver at her words, and turned away briefly to scrub his nose on the back of his hand. The itch still lingered, and he longed to give a good hard sniffle to try and quell it. But not here. Not in Thalassa’s presence.

“It’s nothing worthy of your concern.”

“And yet, I am concerned. I know you do not rest properly when you call on me. And if you are unwell, rest is what you require.”

Crawford felt his cheeks warm a little, and he cleared his throat, wrinkling his nose again.

“I’m perfectly alright. It’s barely a sniffle.”

Thalassa chuckled, shaking her head.

“You admit to a cold like some might admit to a mistress. So be it. So, why is it you felt the need to call on me, when you should be sleeping off your sniffle? Loneliness, perhaps?”

Crawford quickly shook his head, and turned away to scrub at his nose again, growing a little more flushed.

“I would never bother you for something so trifling!”

There was a certain sadness in Thalassa’s eyes as she watched him try and fail to discreetly deal with his troublesome nose. She sighed softly.

“And yet, I wish you would. It pains me, to see a friend lonely.”

Crawford avoided her eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“You needn’t trouble yourself over such things. Especially not over me. You… I’m a mayfly, in comparison. Why worry, over someone who, to you, will be practically gone tomorrow?”

“You are here today, are you not? Here, and ill, and troubled. If I can ease your troubles, I want to. Besides, do you see no beauty in mayflies?”

“I… erm… I suppose I…”

Crawford shifted awkwardly, avoiding Thalassa’s eyes. Somehow, she always did have a way to wrong-foot him. He cleared his throat, and sniffled. The irritation in his sinuses was spreading, moving forward, just begging him to…

He forced himself to speak, refusing to let his voice waver.

“There’s a hurricane forming off the coast of Altir. Hurricanes have no business forming there, and yet this is the second in the space of a year. I can find nothing in my research to explain it, and no history of anything similar occurring in the region. I thought… As you…”

He trailed off, rubbing his nose again, cheeks burning as he felt Thalassa’s silver eyes upon him.

“As I predate your written histories, you thought my memory might offer something your research cannot?”

“I… I did wonder…”

Crawford grimaced, feeling almost lightheaded with sheer irritation. He held his breath, and bit down hard on his tongue. His nostrils flared, and he scrubbed beneath them urgently with his fingers. Completely against his will, he gave a tremendous snort, loud and congested and completely revolting. Cheeks now positively flaming, he buried his face in his hands, bowing his head, mortified.

“I… Please, forgive, me, I… This wretched cold… I shouldn’t have called…”

 Though he refused to look at Thalassa, he heard her laughter, soft and warm with amusement, and felt her cool hand on his wrist, forcing him to lower his hands. Chancing a glance at his companion, he found her looking at him with fondness and concern. She raised her hand to cup his cheek, and Crawford only barely stopped himself from leaning into the touch, scrabbling back to some semblance of decorum at the last moment.

“How unwell you must feel, to be in such a state even here! You have nothing to apologize for, my friend, and there is nothing to forgive. I only wish I could do more to set your mind at ease. Alas, I’ve never known the waters in question to be home to such weather.”

Crawford groaned, bowing his head once more.

“I thought as much. I apologize for disturbing you. I should…”

“You should be gentler with yourself. And allow me to help. When I awaken, I shall go there myself. Perhaps I may see more from the depths than is visible from above.”

“I… I never meant for you to awaken, I… I can’t ask you to…”

“And you haven’t asked. I have offered, and will do as I say. In the meantime, I believe you have weather stations in the area? People shall receive warning of the conditions?”

“I… Well, yes, but I…”

“Then for now, you have done all that can be reasonably expected of you.”

“Yes, but I…”

Thalassa shook her head, and reached out, resting a cool fingertip on his lips, silencing him.

‘Go back now, my friend. And sleep properly, without seeking out solutions even in your dreams. Call on me again when you feel well, and I shall tell you what I have seen.”

Crawford sighed, and closed his eyes. His nose threatened to drip, and he snuffled pathetically.

“… May I not stay a little longer?”

Thalassa’s smile widened.

“I would be glad of the company. But I suspect you may not have a choice. Here. Let me help you along, so you can get to your bed sooner.”

With that, the cool fingertip left his lips, and instead flicked lightly against his nose, teasing the raw skin of his septum. The tickle flared to life in response, and Crawford’s breath caught, his eyes opening wide in alarm as he pulled back, covering his nose and mouth with both hands.

“HaaAAhh! Ahhh…”

“Bless you, my friend, and I hope to see you again soon.”

Crawford caught one last glimpse of Thalassa’s smiling face, before his teary eyes closed, his chest expanding with a great, urgent “HhaaAAHhh…”

“HhAASSHOO!”

Neptune, having perched himself on Crawford’s lap, leapt back with a yap of surprise as Crawford was jolted from his slumber, lurching forward with a tremendous, spraying sneeze. Crawford, disoriented and looking borderline drunk from both slumber and sneeze, had no chance of stopping the next, only managing to clumsily bring a hand up in time to mist it with spray.

“Uhh… HhhUHHhhRUSHHOOO!”

Neptune heaved a sigh, and crawled beneath Crawford’s chair as he helplessly gasped in a breath to fuel the inevitable third.

“HhhYYYFFFfffsssSSHHOO! Ughh…”

With a tremendous clanging and clattering, hailstones began to rain down, pinging off various metal instruments and the glass of the windows, and covering the floor in tiny while balls of ice, ready to melt into the puddles of rain already gathered. Crawford groaned miserably, taking his bandana and blowing his nose until he was out of breath. As Neptune emerged from beneath the chair to give him an admonishing look, Crawford reached down to scratch his ears.

“Alright, old man. Let’s go to bed. We can see cleaning all this up in the morning.”

Groaning and snuffling, limping slightly, Crawford hauled himself to his feet and made his slow, shuffling way to his bedroom, Neptune at his heels. As he changed for bed, his thoughts lingered on the beach and temple from his dreams, and the ancient being within. Next time he sought her out in his dreams, he hoped, she might meet him on that same beach once more.

Already, he missed its warmth.

[boxofmushy]

Buttoned-Up

1k drabble for my OC's Terry and Clive. Quick and h0rned up. No context needed.

Read more about my OCs and the Rookverse

NSFW +18 🍆

Content - holdbacks, Clive being anal retentive and repressed, Terry being sad. Poly relationship, spicy bedroom time implied. Tickling, massages. Another fic where I describe Terry's back for no goddamn reason. The end.

"Dearest Clive, I hope this letter finds you well! 

Filming has been tolerable. Thankfully, that oaf of a director was fired. I put in a good word for a replacement, my friend Dionne (the lovely girl I met while climbing Mt. Crucious). Unlike that OAF, she actually has a vision! I hope production can finally take a turn for the better now. I can't be in another turkey. 

I'm so glad you are getting on well, I know the holidays are stressful for you. I'm also happy to hear our darling Terry has gotten a raise! It's about time. 

Speaking of Terry, I hope you've received the ointment I sent you for his aches. It hurts me to know he suffers so. 

I hope to see both of you soon, I miss the pair of you terribly. 

Yours forever - 

Merle Das.

P.S. Don't forget to give yourself a break, you idiot!" 

💜 💜 💜

Clive smiled and folded the letter reverently. She was always so thoughtful with gifts. Even just seeing Merle's swirling handwriting made him feel like she was there, an eternal comfort. It's something he needed to get through the absolutely horrible season. 

The considerate Merle was right. The winter holidays were one of the busiest months for the Grand Pietre. Wealthy vacationers fled to the warm Riviera, fleeing snow for sunny shores. The more guests there were, the more events were organized in order to entertain them. Everyone on staff had to pull overtime, and Clive had to step up as ringleader of the chaotic, vacationing circus. 

Of course, as always, with a heavy flow of guests, a holiday bug would inevitably hatch amongst them, the plague spreading from person to person and, of course, to his staff. It was always during the most critical parts of the holidays when the circus fell. All it took was a single sneeze, and the chain reaction would begin. 

This year, in a horrible twist of irony, the patient zero was him. 

His entire career was spent crafting an image of untouchable authority, a servant to guests, someone who existed outside of the physical form. As such, he hid his sickness like a cat. 

Coughing was handled well enough. He always kept a pocketful of lemon drops, even when he was healthy. A stray cough from allergies or otherwise was always seen too, as soon as it manifested. At the first tingle of a sore throat, Clive made sure to keep a cup of hot tea poised on the kitchen counter. He'd excuse himself, take a sip, and pop a lemon drop. 

It was his nose that betrayed him. As soon as the day of a sore throat subsided, the endless dripping began. He kept a handkerchief balled up in his fist, hidden from immediate view but quickly accessed as soon as he sniffled. And he sniffled a lot. He spent the week with a handkerchief poised, sneakily dabbing at the point of his nose. Clive didn't dare blow it properly, as blowing meant a red, raw nose. Unsightly. Diseased-looking. The last thing guests wanted to see while mulling over a dinner menu. 

But because of the lack of a good, proper blow, Clive's sinuses tickled relentlessly. A constant, irritating flutter that begged for relief but was denied every time. And with the tickling came the sneezing. 

Or there would be sneezing. If he allowed it. But Clive was a professional hotel concierge. Professionals never sneezed in front of guests. 

He knew every trick in the book to keep it at bay. As soon as the ever-present tickle burned into something stronger, he'd quickly press at the divot under his nose. Counting from ten backwards also seemed to distract him, his meticulous mind easily occupied. Sometimes, when counting and pressure weren't enough, he'd employ Merle's ridiculous "pineapple" strategy, muttering the word to himself under a hitching, shaky breath when he knew no one was within earshot. 

There were many times Clive found himself trying to stand at still-attention, watery-eyed with the threat of a sneeze tickling him mercilessly. But he never let the reflex win. Not until his shift ended. Then he'd sprint to his quarters, breath hitching by the time he gripped the door handle. 

"hih—oh-hiih—" 

He'd make sure to lock the door behind him, chest ballooning with an inhale. 

"heeehh—" 

"Clive! You okay?" 

"hhh—goddamnit Terry… you scared the life out of me. What the hell is wrong with you?" 

Clive didn't mean to snap. He didn't expect Terry to be waiting for him, and the man did have an unnerving tendency to scare people accidentally. His sinuses burned away as he pinched at the straight bridge of his nose. 

"Hey, don't come at me with that! You said you wanted to go to the pictures tonight." 

Clive's heart fell. He had completely forgotten. 

It wasn't the first time this happened. The day before, he'd also forgotten about having an evening with Terry. And the day before that as well. As soon as the holiday season began, Clive had distanced himself. He didn't realize how distant. A week had turned into a month, and then two months. 

And Terry had been busy too. Overwhelmed with maintaining the changing grounds during the season. Chopping down overgrowth, removing a tree gone sickly. When Clive did see him, he'd be bent forward, his old back injury acting up. He'd keep up a brave face, but Clive knew he was in pain. 

And he didn't even bother to ask about it. He'd been so wrapped up in his own misery, so overwhelmed with the guests and the staff and the budding cold in his head.

"I can't. This day has been miserable. Start to finish. Maybe tomorrow…"  

Clive looked up to see Terry's crestfallen face. The man looked genuinely hurt, but resigned to it in a way that only someone who was used to being hurt could be. He nodded and put his jacket back on. 

"Don't worry about it, Clive." He muttered and left. A dark cloud hung low over his head. 

Merle was right, Clive thought. He was a complete idiot. He needed to rest, to stop micromanaging and let his staff do their job. And he needed to make up for all those missed dinners. 

Thanks to Merle, he had just the thing. He grabbed the small jar of ointment Merle had sent him and ran off to the dark of the gardens. The light was still on in Terry's small house. There was still time. 

——————————

The apology tumbled out of him, clumsy but honest. He was unused to them, and he worried that he'd only dig himself deeper. But Terry understood, and suddenly it was Terry apologizing, and then it was both of them tripping over each other's mutual apologies. Then it was laughter, and then it was relief, and warm embraces. 

And then it was Clive pulling Terry's shirt off. He gently led him to the bed, kissing and murmuring quiet reassurances. Clive eased Terry onto his stomach, straddling him.  

"Clive— you don't have to. You're under the weather…if anything, I should be the one to-"  

Terry gasped as Clive smeared a healthy dollop of oil on his back. It was hot and cold all at the same time, with an intense aromatic scent that filled the room. 

"Hush. I've been an ass." Clive bent forward and pressed a kiss to the small of his back. "I'm not that sick, anyway." 

That was a lie. Clive could feel a fever setting in. His eyes were heavy with it, but that didn't matter. He wanted to make it up to Terry, to make him feel good. He added more oil to Terry's back and sank his fingers into the tight muscles, searching for knots. The scent of the medicine was overwhelming, it made Clive's stuffy nose run, and he sniffled with it as the aroma loosened the congestion in his head. 

It seemed to affect Terry, too. In between the shameless moans and sighs from Clive's soothing ministrations, Terry began to snuffle from the odor. He rubbed his nose against a pillow, growing more and more bothered. 

Clive smiled. He knew what'd come next. He could feel it happen right under his fingertips. Terry's ribcage fluttered and expanded with a hitch, muscles tightening as he wound up for a sneeze. 

"Heeh—HEPT'SHHH!!!—hh—sorry." 

Terry's head snapped forward, spraying into the pillow. The sorry came out automatically, like it always did. A nervous tic developed from a more harrowing life. 

"It's okay.." Clive reassured, stroking a hand through Terry's auburn hair. "I got you." 

"hh—HGG'SHHHIEW!! HRH-PHHHBT!!" 

More sneezes, muffled against the pillow. They sounded watery and wonderfully relieving. Clive couldn't help but feel his own nose tingle with envy. It'd been denied for so long, and the odor of the ointment made a sneeze enticing. Clive wriggled his nose back and forth, trying to ignore that old feeling of shame and scrutiny that came with it. 

"Heh—" a hitch warbled out of him, hesitant. He felt his nostrils twitch in anticipation.

Terry softly huffed underneath him. 

"snff—you gonna finally sneeze or what?" Terry peeked over his shoulder, a glint of mischief in his eyes. His hand found Clive's knee and gave it a squeeze. 

Clive blushed from the attention. 

"Oh shut up—hih—you know I can't concentrate with you waiting on it like that." Clive scrunched up his face, feeling the sneeze dangle at the tip of his pointy nose. He pinched at it a little, trying to lean into the sensation. 

"Just like that one night at Merle's…" Terry winked. 

Clive lightly spidered his fingertips against Terry's ribcage. The man spasmed, and his arms quickly coiled over his sensitive sides. 

"CLIVE!" He yelped. 

"Oh-oh scared of a little retaliation-snff—" Clive rubbed at his nose, trying to escape the clawing tickle that bounced between his eyes. "Now-just let-let me—hhh—HHH—" 

His mouth parted, and his nostrils curled open.

"hihp-tSHHiew!!" 

Annoyingly small and shy as always. But a sneeze was a sneeze, and he felt all the pressure of the months behind him crack open with it. His shoulders sagged, and he smiled through the second hiccup of a sneeze, a soft but relieving "Hh'Shieww!!" 

"Bless ya." Terry's voice was muffled in the pillow, his body still tense from the threat of being tickled. 

"..hhh Thanks…" Clive sighed and returned to the task at hand. There'd be no more teasing for Terry tonight. The massage continued, melting into heavy caresses as what little clothing remained between the pair of them peeled away. 

The fever made Clive's movements sluggish, the night blurring into a melange of pleasure and release. 

And sneezes. Encouraged by the mentholated ointment. As Clive hitched and against the skin of Terry's throat, his mind drifted to Merle…

She really was amazing at gift-giving. 

[boxofmushy]

Good morning. Thinking about a feather being slowly dragged under a nose. That's all.

[invisiblefig]

someone saying “i’m not gonna sneeze”…..while they’re actively building up….hitching through the denial & then….sneezing! a lot! yes! perfect <3 :D