I saw a post from @sickficluvr about a h/owl’s m/oving c/astle fic and I simply could not resist…. I love that sneezy Welsh man so much.
this follows more closely with the actual book (I’ve never read anything other than the first book, but I know Howl and Sophie get married and Sophie ends up being a powerful witch, so enjoy a slice of their married life and Sophie using her witch powers to subconsciously make Howl sneeze!)
it’s quite short, and rushed, and I literally wrote it in 30 mins
Sophie was not entirely convinced that her husband, the remarkable wizard Howl Jenkins Pendragon, was in fact on death’s door, as he so ardently professed to her.
“Sophie,” he whined, like a petulant child, from where he lay prone in bed, “mby dearest… You dod’t understadd. I’b— I… hh-hh—ihh!! h’hyiiZzSCHhue!— Hhy’bzSCHCHhHue!! Guhh… sndffgk! Dy’igg… I bay odly have a few hours lehh… lefffhhyhh… leftTH’SHHHhzzIEW!— hh—aahh…! AhSCHHhyii—HIEW! Sndff—!”
Then, when she didn’t bless him and instead rolled her eyes, he added, “You’re by wife. You should be bore — SNfFF! Sybpathetig…”
Without a moment to spare, he buried his large, pink nose into a handkerchief, and blew it until he had no air left in him.
She could only sigh. He was the most pathetic wizard in the world, that was for sure.
“At this rate, you’ll sneeze yourself hoarse, Howl,” she chided, fixing one of his many decorative pillows to help him sit upright.
“If it awards mbe eved a droplet of compassion frob your icy heart, so be it,” Howl muttered. He settled back against the pillows with a congested cough.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if her husband lost his voice. Choosing to ignore him, Sophie felt his forehead and tsked her tongue at the warmth beneath her palm. “How did you even come down with such a bad cold?”
“I told you,” he said from behind a navy blue handkerchief that he magicked out of thin air. “Everytibe I go to Wales, I get a blasted cold.”
“And why did you go to Wales?” Sophie simply could not make sense of his faraway home. It was a strange place, with strange people and buildings and rules, and she did not like going there, not even when Howl once dragged her along for a “rugby” match. What a strange game that had been.
Howl sneezed again, three times in rapid succession, as if the very mention of Wales was enough to make him sneeze. The bedframe croaked under him. She could think of no one else who sneezed as much as him when he had a cold.
“H’igCHU! HhH’izSHhu!… hh’aah… hAHCHhu! Ugh. It was—“ he paused to blow his nose, then sunk down further beneath the blankets. “Saidt David’s day.”
“And who is Saint David?” That was a funny name. Sophie moved about the room and gathered the endless half-empty mugs of tea Howl had been drinking since last night. “Is he a friend of yours?”
“Heavens, no. It’s a ndational holiday id Wayyhh… WayyhelsSHZSSHiew!! Oh, hell.”
He cursed again in a different tongue, the language that Sophie was only just beginning to understand as Welsh, and coughed heartily.
Sophie hummed. “I see. You went to see your family, I suppose?” Then, feeling mischievous, and thinking how funny it was that he seemed to sneeze at all this talk of his hometown, she added, “In Wales?”
The effect was immediate— she may as well have blown a plume of pepper in his face. Howl’s long, angular nose twitched, and his perfectly plump lips screwed up to reveal white canines, and he forwent the magicked handkerchiefs all together and sneezed — loudly, wetly, and directly — into the quilt Sophie had laid over him.
“hh!HUH!… H’BbYZSCHhhhhYyIEWwhh!!!”
The sneeze scraped the very front of his throat, sounding awfully painful, and Sophie could not help but feel a little bit guilty. Perhaps him sneezing at the mention of Wales was her fault, a secret magic spell that she had unconsciously brought to life, simply by thinking it. That sort of thing seemed to be happening more and more lately.
Still, despite the fact that she felt slightly at fault, Howl saw the merriment dancing in her eyes and scowled at her with a fiery vehemence.
“I understand, ndow. Mby deteriment amuses you. Dod’t vex mbe so much, wife, or I wod’t spare you so much as a cursory glance whed you catch mby terrible cold. Maybe thed you will kdow how dreadful I feel!”
Then he pouted, appearing genuinely put out, and pulled the multi-patterned quilt dramatically over his head.
“Oh,” Sophie cooed, laughing despite herself. Perhaps she’d taunted him too far. She abandoned the mugs of tea and sat beside him on the bed.
“Howl, come out.” She patted his hip, but he did not reveal himself.
His only reply was a poorly stifled sneeze — “hIGKtt—guh…” (small, sad, pitiful) — like he was trying to hide the very fact that he was under there. His entire body jerked with effort beneath the blanket.
Sophie ran her fingers down his side. Even with the quilt covering his very ticklish skin, he jerked away from her touch like he always did when she tickled him, and growled at her.
“Quit,” he grumbled.
“Come out so I can take care of you properly.” Sophie tried to peel back the blanket, but he kept it firmly trapped in place, and moved further away from her.
He was going to be difficult, then. Fine. She stood from the bed, brushed off her skirt, and then walked in place, placing her weight more lightly towards the end, to really make it seem like she was receding down the hallway.
It worked like a charm. Howl mumbled something about only falling in love with difficult women, sneezed once, twice, three times, then four times more in earnest, and then emerged from the blanket with his raven hair askew. He gasped when he saw his wife still standing above him.
“Sophie!“
“You’re not so hard to fool, are you? Now come here, you ridiculous wizard, and let me look after you.“
Smiling, she leant down, kissed his forehead, and joined him in bed. He eagerly invited himself to lay his head upon her chest, locking their limbs together as though they were a natural puzzle. He had clearly been waiting for this sort of attention ever since he felt the beginnings of his cold (he believed his wife’s touch to be better than any medicine, after all).
Sophie began to pet his hair, Howl practically purring beneath her touch. He pressed his lips to her neck and said, “I cannot believe you used your magic to mbake mbe sdneeze. It’s a horrible waste of your powers.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” He scrubbed his nose against her hemline. “I, for one, would ndever do such a thing. I love you too much.”
“How sweet,” she said, scratching her nails across his scalp. He sighed contentedly. “Almost as sweet as those cakes you brought back for me from—“
“Dod’t you dare.”
“— Wales.”
He sputtered, his beautiful nose twitching once again as he fought against the magic settling over him. But even a royal wizard (especially one with a cold as insufferable as his) was no match for her spells.
“Oh, you rotten… you intolerable… you… hh— you…hh-HDT!!!—… Woman…—!! hhIH!!-HUH! HIH’YIIZSSSH—HYIEWHHh!”
afaik gaiman was removed from involvement with good omens
if youve got a source on that feel free to share! the most recent info ive seen has made mention of him stepping back to some degree but has been pretty opaque about how much he is still contributing and how much he stands to benefit from the finale.
that aside (and im p sure ive said something to this effect before but it mightve gotten lost in the notes of that post) i still think itd be tasteless at best to watch and promote the finale as if nothing happened, especially when gaiman himself is in the process of trying to downplay and obfuscate the allegations against him in the wake of a new creative project.
edit: lol i actually thought this ask had been sent to my other blog because id already posted on the subject multiple times in more detail over there. so i did already essentially answer this there but obvi yall wouldnt know that.
A delicate gentleman who’s being made, against his will, to go shooting. Despite the fact that everything about hunting makes him sneeze. The horses, the hounds, the grass, the trees, the cold, the dust, the gunsmoke, and even (assuming he didn’t make such a racket that he scared off all the game) the birds.
When- blast it all- it begins to rain on top of everything else, the master of the hunt takes pity on the poor thing and offers his greatcoat to drape over his canvas hunting jacket. Already shivering, he accepts the coat gratefully. Even though he is, of course, dreadfully allergic to wool.
(note: this is gonna look sloppy, so apologies in advance! I'm out of town and will go back and edit/fix formatting on my laptop when I'm home. My precious italics 😭)
Summary: L/ogan is driving W/ade insane with his allergies, and being a bit of a stubborn brat about it. W/ade decides to fess up.
Rating: Explicit
Pairing: L/ogan Howlett aka W/olverine x W/ade Wilson aka D/eadpool
Tags: snz of course, kink!Wade, kink confession, smut, L/ogan being a grouchy brat, holdbacks/stuck sneezes, anal sex, top Wade/bottom Logan, fluff, spray (more tags when I come back and edit but nothing really potentially triggering I promise)
Word Count: 3.8k
There are fewer things more elusive than a Wolverine who doesn’t want to be disturbed.
A lesson Wade’s learned many times as they’ve cohabitated, and come to respect as they’ve become partners. Logan just needs his space sometimes. He’s not asking for it to try and get away from Wade specifically – okay, maybe he is sometimes, but everyone needs a break from one another now and then. It’s more like he just wants to be alone to think. Be somewhere quiet.
Wade’s fine with that. They both need time to chill out as individuals, a couple hours or a whole day. Logan does his drive-out-to-the-woods thing and Wade keeps himself busy with something sensory seeking that would normally drive Logan up the fucking wall.
And they get by with this little routine, this mutual understanding. When they’re together again, it pops any balloon of tension that might have formed. Logan’s always happy to see him, and Wade’s clingy enough that he’s going to melt for affection as soon as he gets it. He’d say this happens about once a month since they started living together, since that boundary was first set.
Like he said, fine by him. But the past few days haven’t fallen into the rhythm of that agreement.
Logan’s been in a less-than-cheerful mood, and Wade can guess why. Spring is staking its claim on the city, and though they’re both glad for that first warm breeze after the grasp of winter, Logan’s struggling hard. Or his nose is, anyway. Having super senses isn’t all fun and games, as Wade’s been discovering. As much as Logan might try to hide it, almost everything seems to affect his sensitive nose.
Before the pollenpocalypse hit, the main thing Wade noticed that set him off was dust. He’s guilty of putting dusting off for ages, because fuck is it tedious. But Wade definitely makes more of an effort to keep things dusted after seeing how itchy it gets Logan, trying to stifle irritated fits of sneezes whenever any amount of it gets stirred up.
Does that go directly against how fucking hot Wade finds the whole thing? Well, yes. But if he can do something to make things a little easier on Logan, he’s willing to try it. He’s not a sadist. (At least not all the time.)
Wade hasn’t exactly let Logan in on this kink just yet. Why not? Well. How would you feel if you told the hottest man you’d ever seen that you were into something kinda bizarre and he said “wow, Wade, what the fuck?” and hit the road right then and there? He’s waiting until he’s a hundred percent certain that Logan won’t laugh him out of his own apartment before spilling that kind of tea.
It doesn’t help that Logan’s been outright torturing him this early spring. First of all, he almost always acts like he’s not affected by it. Nothing gets to the Wolverine, right? Instead, he just goes about his day, sniffling and blinking back allergic tears. Temper shortened by about half. Pausing throughout the day to squint and gasp before muffling sneezes into his shirtsleeve or handkerchief or tissue.
Stupid 19th century etiquette. How dare he be so fucking polite.
If Wade pauses to bless him, or suggest that he maybe take a nap or drink some tea or something, he just gets growled at. Because Logan’s fine and it’s just the weather changing and I don’t need you to fuss over me, Wade. Leave me alone.
Touchy!
Fine, whatever. If this is what he needs to keep his ego intact, Wade’ll do his best to pretend he’s not jerking it in the shower every other day.
But he only lasts half a week before he wakes up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. Now that’s a red alarm; as grouchy as he might have been recently, Logan’s soft in that he loves physical touch. Hold his hand, be his big spoon, pet his hair. Whenever they’re apart, he confesses that it’s hard for him to fall asleep without Wade holding him. He’s never seen Logan actively try to avoid it.
Wade walks out to the living room to find the lamp on, creating a dim circle of light around his missing partner. His partner who is curled up loosely on the couch, looking miserable. Dark circles under his eyes and his nose scrubbed red. There’s no way to know how long he’s been out here, but something tells Wade that his allergies have kept him up for quite a while.
“Hey,” Wade says, moving to sit down beside him.
“Hey.”
He bumps his shoulder against Logan’s gently.
“Why you sittin’ out here?”
“Well, I –” Logan looks down. Frowns at the floor. “I didn't wanna bother you. I guess. Thought I might keep you up.”
Wade melts. Why didn’t he just say that? Not like he’s been dying to take care of him or anything, stubborn ass. Not like being with him is a gift and a treasure.
“Aw, baby, c’mere,” he says softly, reaching out. “You're not bothering me. You don't ever bother me.”
Hesitating only for a moment, Logan sighs and leans forward into his arms. He knows he's been a bit distant, acted annoyed and snapped when it wasn’t even Wade’s fault. He’s been stupid. It's nice to just curl up into Wade and not have to put unnecessary space between them. Nestling his face into the soft material of Wade's shirt, he lets himself relax.
“That's better.”
He kisses the top of Logan's head, shifting further into the couch so that Logan can cuddle in closer under his arm. Logan doesn't say these kinds of things out loud, but he loves being held. He makes a small, contented sound when Wade starts carding a hand through his hair.
It feels so good to just lie there together like that for a while. Logan's thumb runs comforting little circles on Wade's arm for a few minutes, then drops to the side. Wade would almost think he'd fallen asleep, if not for the continued sniffling and occasional restless shifting to scrub at his face.
“Still getting to you, huh?” Wade's voice is full of sympathy, and despite the reaction that this gets out of him, he means it.
“Not a big deal,” Logan says. “Just a pain in the ass.”
He curls up tighter into Wade, resting his cheek sleepily on the other man's chest. Like he really just wants to go back to bed but his nose won't let him.
“Poor Wolverine,” Wade teases lightly, grinning even though Logan can't see him. “Don't think the comic book writers would guess your biggest weakness is just, like, trees and grass.”
That's Logan's cue to growl and snap and tell him to shut his mouth. He doesn't take it. Instead he's gone strangely still in the cradle of Wade's lap, and Wade realizes what that means as soon as it's happening.
He only hears the quietest handful of hitched breaths before Logan half-stifles two sneezes into his shoulder, each sounding desperate and irritated.
“God, bless you,” Wade all but trembles out. He's so hard, holy shit, he can't move an inch or Logan will definitely know there's something not kosher about his beef.
“Thanks,” comes Logan's reply, still breathy from sneezing. So hot. “And also, fuck you.”
There it is. His spicy little guard dog.
Wade pretends to pout. “Hey, who came out here to see if you were okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. You know I'm just messin’ around.”
Logan sighs, sniffling thickly and shifting to lie on his stomach to look up at Wade. In doing so, he rubs full force against Wade's very full, very hard cock. They freeze and look at one another.
For once, Wade has nothing clever to say.
“Um.” Logan grinds down for emphasis. Wade hisses, arching up on instinct, biting his lip. “The hell is this?”
He tries to look innocent. Innocent is not an easy look on him.
“My…my penis? My disco stick? My –”
“I know what it is, smartass,” Logan growls. “I'm asking you why you're this hard just sitting here right now.”
Of course, he says all that with such an exasperated, sneezy look on his face that Wade's cock has to be leaking in his boxers. There's no way it isn't.
Wade's never been shy – so he really doesn't need to pick tonight to start, does he? It’s probably time he confessed.
Fuck it.
“You're turning me on,” he admits. “The sneezing, it's – it's always kinda done it for me. You're looking at the reigning champion of weird and surprising kinks.”
Logan takes a second to process this.
“It – huh. I do. When I –? Oh.”
He doesn't say that in a negative way, just like he's contemplating it. There's a beat of quiet.
Wade tests the waters, his anxiety getting the better of him.
“And… what is your opinion on that?”
Logan gives him a self-conscious half-smile.
“I mean, not the weirdest thing I've heard of by a mile. And if that's what you're into –” he chuckles, “ – seems like you lucked out with me, huh?”
!!!!!!!!!!!!
His brain does a series of excited little skips and hops before registering that Logan's pulling the Bedroom Eyes on him, dark and seductive. A cute, sniffly Logan who's just learned one of his weirder kinks and is cool with it. And who just now happens to be propping himself up for better leverage, leaning pointedly into Wade's cock again. Grinding up and down, waiting for a response.
“Jesus Christ,” Wade whispers. “Did you know you're fucking perfect?”
Logan smirks. “I wouldn't go that f-far…heh…heh’ESSH!” He ducks down with the force of it, popping back up a little pink in the face. (Wade has to be dreaming, right?) Logan's expression stays stuck in a moment of pre-sneeze bleariness for a handful of seconds until “ – ESSH! huh’ESSH’ew! God.”
“Bless you, fuck,” Wade blurts out.
Grinding even harder against Wade's cock, Logan blushes deeper, but says nothing. He reaches up to take Wade gently by the jaw, closing his mouth for him.
“Do you wanna fuck me, sweetheart?”
Just a low purr of a question delivered in Logan's sexy voice, and Wade's gasping, squirming, so ready for anything.
“Please,” Wade begs at once, tears threatening to well up from how badly he wants it. “Please, Logan, I want that. Want you, baby.”
He grins.
“You're such a weirdo.”
Logan leans up to kiss him, the words coming out fond. He takes a second to wrestle out of his sweatpants and underwear. Wade's too stunned stupid to do the same at first. He just lies there still clothed as Logan kisses him, grinding into him hard and dirty. Logan's such a good kisser that it's hard to blame him, all hot, open mouth and little sounds of want. Wet allergic sniffles.
On every grind, the tip of Logan's cock rubs against Wade's stomach, slipping up under his shirt and leaving a trail of precome behind. It's tantalizing, hot, like they're teenagers doing something they shouldn't. Wade knows he's already making some pathetic sound, knows he could come like this if it goes on too long. A mess.
“Don't know how you plan to get inside me like that,” Logan pulls away to remark, considerably breathier than before the kissing had started. “C'mon, Red. Lose the pants.”
Fuck.
“Right yeah of course I was totally gonna do that –”
He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pajamas and almost dislocates a hip in the hurry to get out of them. Logan's eyes are burning on him for the second they have to break contact, and when they touch again, it's like gasoline on fire. He wants to be fucked about this newly voiced kink. Badly.
Wade moans into Logan's mouth when their bare cocks rub together, thrilled when Logan answers with a sound of his own. He whines a little when Wade's mouth travels to his neck, granting him full access. Grinding into Wade when he bites down. Like a whore. Like he's been so fucking ready all day, waiting –
“If you wanted me this bad,” Wade murmurs, fishing for the bottle of lube stuffed between the couch cushions, “why didn't you say something earlier?”
“‘Cause I'm like this,” Logan answers, gesturing vaguely at his whole face. Eyes a little watery, nose scrubbed red and irritated. “Most people don't really want to fuck someone when they're like this.”
“Lucky for you that I'm always down to clown,” Wade jokes weakly as he lubes himself up. He doesn't miss the way Logan's eyes follow his every move. “Lift up, baby, move your legs – there we go. Perfect.”
With a shaky exhale, Logan adjusts until Wade's right up against his opening.
“You ready for me?”
“So fuckin' ready,” Logan says, low and needy.
Wade pushes in slow, taking time to savor the way Logan's body takes him perfectly every time. If it were up to Logan, he'd be pressing in harder, rougher. But Wade wants to a.) tease him a little and b.) be gentle with him, at least to start. Logan deserves some gentleness in his life.
They're tangled up in a mess of limbs. Logan's legs around Wade's back. His arms around Wade's shoulders. They kiss like it's a language each is desperate to tell the other, interspersed with little moans and gasps as Wade gets closer and closer to bottoming out.
And all the while, Logan sniffs and huffs and tries to ignore the buzzing itch in his nose. All he wants to think about right now is Wade, how good he feels and how he's trying to thrust back. His face is practically buried in Wade's neck when they pull away to breathe, making him all the more aware that he's trapped. But if Wade really likes that sort of thing, then…
“Is that good, peanut?” Wade asks with his first handful of thrusts, because his answer is oh holy fucking shit this feels amazing and he's hoping they're on the same wavelength.
He feels Logan nod right away.
“Fuckin' course it's good,” he answers. “I just – if you don't move, I'm probably–” His breath hitches, interrupting what he's trying to say. “Y’know, I'm gonna – huh –”
Wade feels Logan's whole body tense, feels that delicious hitched breath in his ear. Disappointingly, he turns as much as he can and stifles four each in rapid succession – but God does he clench around Wade’s cock.
“Bless you,” Wade says, then mutters cockblock though he knows Logan can hear it.
He sniffs thickly. “Cockblock? You're inside me, asshole!”
Too true. Wade picks up the pace again, faster now, and Logan buries his face in the other man's collar with a needy moan.
“Guess I am,” Wade teases. “And if you want me to stay here, you should probably do what I say. Right?”
A stubborn look flits over Logan's face, replaced quickly with want as Wade adjusts his angle just right.
“And what are you gonna tell me to do?”
Ooh, this is just like Christmas. Better than, maybe.
“I wanna hear you. No stifling or holding back. Got it?”
Logan rolls his eyes, but he's blushing. Wade's not fooled; he knows Logan likes to be bossed around a little if he's going to be the one bottoming, and hey, Wade is more than happy to give him what he wants.
“No promises,” he says finally. “You fuckin' brat.”
Wade gives him a satisfied hum.
“We'll work with it.”
He kisses Logan on the shell of his ear, pleased to get a little shiver in response, and ups his tempo. Logan clings to him, grasping tight at his tshirt, his little moan sounding relieved as Wade fucks him deep.
Logan's never one to hold back when they're having sex, dissolving into it, a mess of pleased sounds and open expressions. Nails and teeth. Letting the animal out. So why draw the line now, just because of some pesky sneezes?
“You needed this, huh?”
It takes Logan a few seconds to answer, panting hot and open against Wade's ear.
“Y-Yeah.”
He's crushing Wade to him, body tense, his cock wedged between them. Every inhale comes with a hitched whine, eager to take everything he's given. Every few seconds he sniffles, harsh, as if that's going to help anything.
“My poor kitty cat,” Wade simpers. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me how bad you want it.”
Another long, low sound before Logan can focus enough to find the words. A few breaths. He swallows.
“It's good,” he says finally. “You always make it f-feel so fuckin' good, and you're really deep inside me and I – hh–”
Logan fucking rubs his nose against the collar of Wade's old tshirt to try and quell the itch. And yes, Wade does gasp about it.
“All I wanna think about is what we're doin’ but I cahhn’t–”
“Can't what?” Wade asks, trying to keep his tone somewhere near neutral. He feels like he's about to pass away.
“Can't think,” Logan groans. “Itches too bad, all the fuckin’ t–hih-time–”
God the suspense is too much. Wade can't concentrate on rolling his hips up into Logan with perfect timing and think about whether or not he's about to have all his kink dreams fulfilled. His rhythm falters.
Can he write it off as a power play? …Maybe. But probably not.
“What did I just say?”
Wade's tone treads the line of stern but doesn't quite get there. His voice is too gentle for it, too utterly delighted to hear Logan all tense and caught up the way he is.
Logan really can't think, poor guy. His body feels tense, breath coming in halted pants, clicking in his throat.
“Told me not to hold back,” he answers finally. “I'm not doing it on – purpose. I just can't.”
“Oh, I believe you, kitten.” He forces himself to go completely still inside Logan, prompting a disappointed huff. “You're getting all shy about it now, huh? Performance anxiety?”
Another growl as Logan thrusts up, trying to get them going again, making Wade's legs twitch. He's a lot less intimidating with all the snuffling and watery eyes.
“I don't kn–heh–” Logan breaks off in a series of hitching gasps, and Wade bites him lightly on the shoulder, groaning in anticipation. But nothing comes of it, and Logan sighs, just as frustrated. He's cute when he's irritated. “ I don't know. Can you just fuck me? Please?”
“Sneeze first,” Wade says sweetly. “Or I'm not moving. C'mon, I know you wanna.”
“What I wanna do is claw you through right now.”
Wade ignores that; they both know it's an empty threat.
“It'd feel so much better to just let it out,” he muses, teasing Logan with a handful of thrusts.
Logan arches for it, whimpering. He can't even suck in a full breath without hitching like he's about to sneeze, grappling with it. Wade keeps talking.
“I can tell when you're trying to hide it, you know. Those cute little stifles you think I don't notice. And it itches so bad, doesn't it? All the pollen and the dust. So sensitive, right? But you don't want anyone to –”
“There we go,” Wade says eagerly, sliding his cock back up into Logan deep with a groan he doesn’t even bother to contain. “And bless –”
Logan is not done. The first sneeze was wet, desperate, and loud, spray landing on Wade’s shirt and collarbone. If there’s one thing Wade’s taken away from watching him endure allergic irritation, it’s that he never sneezes just once.
“Fuck, sorry,” he manages to say before tensing up again. “I – heh’ESSH! ESSH! ESSH-uhh! God, Wade, please please don’t stop –”
The way Logan melts into a breathless whine as soon as he can stop sneezing to do it makes Wade go fucking crazy. He growls in answer and shifts one of Logan’s legs, fucking him harder, knowing he’s found that sweet spot when Logan keens so high his voice cracks. He reaches down to stroke himself, and Wade gladly lets him.
“That feel good, baby?”
“Yes, hell yes, I’m so – hh so fucking –”
Wade’s rarely heard him so undone. His own self-control is in tatters, orgasm building at a rapid pace as Logan comes apart underneath him. He can hear himself panting, ragged, open-mouthed, but can’t bring himself to care.
“ESSH’iew! ESSH! Heh’ESSH! HEHSSH’IEW! Oh god,” Logan gasps. “Wade, Red, sweetheart you’re gonna make me come –”
“Then you’d better – do it. C’mon, peanut, give it to me.”
With a broken sound, Logan keeps his promise, sinking his teeth into Wade’s t-shirt and covering it with streaks of his release. Wade’s only a few short thrusts behind, shivering through every pulse and praising Logan for being so fucking good for him.
(At least, he’s pretty sure he’s praising Logan. His mouth is moving and words are coming out, and Logan’s looking up at him all dazed and sweet.)
For the interested reader, here's the dialogue that Logan would later tell Wade was being babbled out at him: Logan. Oh my god holy fucking shit. Bless you baby bless you times like a thousand I fucking love you. You're so fucking hot. You took me so well, didn't you? Such a good boy. You're the hottest person on the fucking planet. Would it be weird if I kissed your nose right now? Yeah probably I'm not gonna do it, okay, I love you, did I say that already? You're so pretty, fuck, you're so pretty –
Eventually, Logan smiles at him, all soft edges. He reaches up and cups Wade’s face.
“Wade.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you even know what the hell you’re talkin’ about right now?”
“Uhh.” It’s a little humiliating to admit he can just ramble without having a fucking clue what’s coming out of his mouth. “No. All systems offline. Floating through dead space, captain.”
Logan huffs out a laugh. “Then float back to me, knucklehead.”
Something in his chest goes all half-baked cookie dough soft.
“Aye-aye.”
Wade leans in to kiss him, aware of how fast his heart is still beating. That got intense. And so fucking hot. To be honest? He's already raring to do it again. From the way Logan's nose has been acting up, he's certain they'll get their chance sooner rather than later.
“Hey, bub?”
“Yeah?”
Logan swallows, his eyes cutting away.
“Sorry I've been kind of a prick. Haven't felt the best, but that's no reason to get short with ya.”
Well, shit. If fucking him senseless through an allergy attack was all it took for Logan to go this soft, Wade would have done it weeks ago.
“I get it,” Wade says playfully. “You have a whole testosterone-fueled persona to maintain. But you could, you know. Let me take care of you. Help you feel less sniffly and pathetic.”
“Not tryin’ to maintain anything,” Logan argues. “Just not used to people wanting to – I dunno. Look after me.”
“Then get used to it,” Wade says. “Cause I don't plan on going anywhere.”
Logan blushes at that, smiling a little despite an effort not to. Wade kisses him one more time, a soft and purposeful thing, and they shuffle into the shower. Even Logan's sneezes sound sleepy now, and this time when they crawl into bed, he tucks close into Wade's chest and falls asleep in minutes.
The shapeshifter pouts in the middle of their introduction, and the exasperated frown on their face is very foreign to you. Up till now, you’ve only ever seen them wearing a smile. God. How are they so gorgeous even with such an unsavory expression?
They scrunch up their tiny nose in obvious frustration before letting out an almost disgusted sigh. “Well! There goes my dramatic entrance, and for no damn reason, too.”
“Um… sorry?” It was dramatic enough as far as you’re concerned. You think they could probably pack all the theatrics of a Shakespearean play into something as simple as a sneeze. “You needed me to… do something for you?”
The note that was hung up on the club’s, uh, bulletin board flashes through your mind again.
Anyone who isn’t easily flustered, offended, or repulsed AND can keep secrets: meet me in private room 2 at half past midnight! Willing to part with some coin in exchange for service rendered. This is NOT a sex thing, thank you!!
―Star Performer
When you read that, you were honestly sort of hoping they were the one who’d written it. Although you aren’t particularly closed off to the idea of sex with them, (they’re incredibly attractive, after all), the whole thing intrigued you. Over the months you’ve been watching them perform, you’ve apparently caught some feelings for them. The ache of wanting to get to know them better despite them having no idea you exist has formed a solid weight in your chest.
This could be your chance. Nobody else showed up, or if anyone planned to… well. Finders fucking keepers. You’re not letting this person slip through your grasp if there’s a possibility you might get their attention by responding to whatever their offer is.
“Quick on the uptake, I see.” They crinkle their nose again. “Uuuugh. Come on, darling, you’re too far away! Do you want… want me to… cahaahhhh… call you… anythi―thihiiih―hiii-ahh… huhh―!! Gods!” A clawed hand comes up to rub at their nose, and one black boot stomps at the ground. “I can’t!”
When you take a few cautious steps closer after making sure the IN USE sign is visible on the outside of the door, you see what must be annoying them so much. The area around their nostrils is a much deeper shade of green than the rest of their skin, raw and chapped as if they’ve been rubbing at it a lot. Ouch. “Uh, my name’s (Name). And yours?”
The heel of their palm kneads against their nostrils for another second. “Ugh… call me Double Trouble, sweetie. Or just Double, just Trouble, DT if you wa… want… ahh…! Oh, this is torture! I’m not fussed what you call me, so let’s ge―hehh― ugh, get down to it.”
You shift a little of your weight from one side to the other. Their note said this wasn’t a ‘sex thing’. So what could they have in mind? “Okay, yeah. Can you, ah, tell me what you wanted me to do…?”
“Mhm. I was…” They pause as if trying to find the right phrasing. “… Out of town, so to speak. A few da… dahaaahys ago… and I, guh, was mistakenly… hit with a… a strange… spehehhll…” A slender knuckle nudges violently against the side of one nostril. “I have tried… everything!! The spell’s made it so I ha… have to… haaah! Have… t-to… hhhih! Haa―ihh―!! Ugh!”
“… Um, have to sneeze, but can’t?” you guess in an attempt to speed this along. They’re clearly suffering and the sooner you can help, the better. “Have you tried to, uh, you know, um… stick something up there and wiggle it around to make yourself sneeze? Or sniff pepper? Or something like that?”
They nod, looking thoroughly fed up with the whole situation. “I just can’t seem to get it out! So I fi… fi―hiiih ― figured…”
“Figured maybe someone else could help. Okay, I think I gotcha.” Understanding and trying to make them sneeze are different things, though. Just because you understand what’s going on and why they asked for help doesn’t necessarily mean you can get results. “Ummm, let me see… these are all the cabinets with stuff for people to… use, right?”
Another miserable nod. “Darling, my note made it clear―”
You raise up a hand as if you can command them while opening up one of the cabinets. “Not a sex thing, yeah. I have an idea, though.” Although Double Trouble huffs behind you at being interrupted, they don’t make any real objections.
After a moment of rummaging around in the cabinet, you come up with an artificial feather. It’s bright white, a little frayed, stiff at the tip; a kind of tool that most good, wholesome kinksters use for things like sensation play. “All this junk gets washed or replaced after every use of the room, right?”
“Y… yes… haahh… mmhh…!”
Good, so that means this feather is clean. “Okay, like I said, I have an idea. You might just not have been able to find a good spot doing it yourself, so how about I give it a shot? If it doesn’t work, I’ll come up with something else to try. Is that okay?”
They step closer, still rubbing furiously at their nose. “Please, anything!”
Wow. They are… even better-looking up close. Even with their current predicament, they’re just so beautiful. Long, soft chartreuse hair, partially shaved on each side. Pointed ears that might be pierced in a few places. Big, sparkling, golden eyes. Their tail swishing back and forth in agitation.
They could be anything or anyone they want, but… if this is their real appearance, you can’t imagine why you would ever want them to look any other way.
You reach out and your hand shakes a little as you take their wrist to tug them a bit closer. The two of you are practically in a near kissing position by now. That’s… wow. Wow. “Just… let me know if I hurt you or if you need me to stop. I’m gonna start, okay?”
One last frantic nod, then they force themself to pull their hand away and tilt their head up.
Hesitation is too palpable. If they’re fine with trying this, why is it you who’s trying to work up the courage to do it?
A few seconds pass before you gently, gently brush the tip of the feather against the rim of one nostril. It’s an attempt to test the waters, and it seems to make their nose twitch. They let out a small growl that ends up sounding more like a whine. “Y-you’re making it ihhh… ihh… itch… more…!”
“S-sorry! Um…” Yeah, maybe some deeper stimulation would be a better idea. If they’ve already been tormented by a never-ending tickle, being light in your ministrations is only going to tease them worse.
So you take another second of mental preparation… then carefully insert the feather’s tip into the same nostril. You don’t want to just shove it in and potentially hurt them, but the force of it needs to be enough to push their nose over the edge.
Being so close and so focused on them, you’re able to get a good view of their nose, and their face in general. You wouldn’t say they’ve got a babyface, but you’re pretty sure you couldn’t guess their age if you tried. Young enough to not be absolutely ancient, but old enough to have been around the block a few times. Their cheeks are subtle curves, their ears sharp points, with a delicate jawline. And their nose is… well, not quite like a human nose. Though their nostrils are easily visible, the general shape of their nose is kind of small. There’s a dainty slope that leads into the suggestion of a tip, and that’s about it.
It’s weird, you can’t help it, you can’t explain it ― their nose is cute. Every part of them is cute, dammit.
You give the feather an experimental flick inside their nostril, watching to see the reaction. A brief thought flashes through your mind; do they just want you to make them sneeze once, and then that’ll be enough? After a few days, (or what they claim to be a few days, anyway), of being unable to sneeze despite a persistent itch, you can imagine a single one might feel anticlimactic.
“A-aah―!” Their nostrils flare a bit, their top lip curling upward to reveal… oh. They’ve… got… fangs. God. So many horrible and wonderful possibilities are circling through your mind right now. “That tihiih… tickles…! I… I’m g… huuuh… keep… keep going…”
Ahhhh, shit. Do they have any idea what they’re doing to you? For some reason, this is… kind of hot. Maybe because you’re so close to them, maybe because it’s them, but it’s perhaps unfortunate that you find yourself liking this.
You move almost like you’re in a trance. Your hand pushes the feather forward slightly, twirling it between your fingers. By what you can feel through the feather’s reach, it seems like Trouble’s nasal passages are awfully thin. How do they even breathe properly?? There isn’t a whole lot of room for you to work. You’re trying your best, of course. You just hope there’s enough space inside that you’ll be able to find a good spot.
Their eyelids flutter, which is mesmerizing to watch because it gives you a display of the nictitating membranes over their eyes. “Juuhhh… st a li… little… mohhhre…!”
“Okay… let me just…” You do your best to give the feather a flourish inside their nostril, using the small bit of area you can.
That seems to be the magic movement. In an instant they gasp in a sharp breath, and one of their hands fans in front of them as if they can wave the irritation away. It’s a very histrionic gesture which suits them perfectly. Before you can even think about pulling the feather out and moving so you’re not in their way, they inhale twice in a quick staccato and are suddenly pitching forward.
“HaaATSCHH-sheww! IiiHTTSCHH-iewww!” The first two high-pitched sneezes that burst out spray your hand, and the sudden stimulation knocks you back into full awareness. Enough to remove the feather from their nose and take a step back, at least. Part of you wonders if you should just throw the feather away at this point. The club’s private rooms aren’t something you use, so you don’t know where to put it to ensure someone cleans it. And it’s… well, no way to put it delicately, the thing is covered in snot now.
Double Trouble stumbles back, although they don’t seem to be too bothered about being close to you. The only thing they do to preserve any sense of decorum (if they had any to begin with) is steeple their hands over their face. “O-oh, my G… aaah… aaAATSSCH-hhieeww! HiiIAATSCHhh-eewww! HaaAATSCHhh-shheew!”
It’s… funny? Funny or cute, you can’t decide, that their sneezes have this very obvious separation between an initial expulsion and a smaller exhale. There’s almost a slight pause that bridges two sounds. Maybe it’s funny and cute.
Their sneezes are so breathy but also forceful. It’s kind of impossible for you to tell whether that’s how they might always sound, or if they sound so powerful because Double Trouble’s just been unable to sneeze for so long. Like how an orgasm is more intense if you delay it a few times first―
HOLY SHIT, you scream at yourself, because you’re unable to do anything else, SHUT UP. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT 200 GENERIC MONETARY UNITS. DO NOT FINISH THAT THOUGHT!
It’s not your fault, right? This person is hot. You’ve been watching them off and on for a while now, wanting to get closer to them. You’re allowed to have Thoughts about people. You think they’d be flattered if they knew, especially given that you’re having those thoughts at such a time when most others would be trying to keep their distance.
“AaaATSCHH-ieeew! AahahHTTSCHH-iieww!” Another couple sneezes rip you out of your thoughts and back to watching Double Trouble. They’re still at it. They’re so slender and these sneezes are so damn strong, each one is making them bend over at the waist like it’s trying to snap them in half.
Although they try to straighten up after every few sneezes, it’s pretty fruitless. It’s just one after another, a seemingly endless cycle. “IiiTTSCHH-eeww! AaaATSCHHH-iewww! HahAATSCHhh-iieww!” Every time their head bobs forward, their hair falls over their face like a curtain at the end of a play. Something about them being out of control is so pretty.
Well. Everything they do is pretty.
Their hands are still firmly cupped over their face, though… it sounds like things are starting to slow down now. The sneezes are coming a little further apart, and Double Trouble seems to be able to take a fuller breath between them. “Aaahah… ATSCHhh-ieew…! Huhh… hah… iiITSCHH-hewww!”
If you were keeping track, you would have noted that was twelve sneezes. You’re, uh, not doing that. Definitely not. All that really registers in your mind that it’s a lot.
Then again, however, they’ve been going at least a few days without being able to sneeze even though they desperately have to. Maybe they’ve all built up and one just wasn’t going to cut it.
You don’t even try to bless them. Not until you’re 10000% sure they’re done, or you’ll be talking over them.
“… AAATSCHH-iiieww! Oh, gods. I can’t.” Oh. That seems pretty final. Double Trouble’s voice doesn’t waver, hitch, or trail off uncertainly. Their hands stay clamped over their face for a moment as they sniffle, clearly trying to regain their bearings after all that. “Whew. Okay,” they laugh, “I wasn’t ready for that. My entire world was nothing but sneezing for a minute.”
Luckily there are tissues in the private rooms, so you quickly reach over and grab a few to hand over; guessing that’s why they’re keeping their hands over their face. Seems like they’re done for the moment. “Uh, yeah… that was… bless you, like, a lot.”
They laugh and turn around briefly once they take the tissues from you. The sound of them blowing their nose is pretty quiet, though they seem to move around a bit, fussing with cleaning themself up. Are they… shy about that?? Oh. Cute. “I guess I should have warned you that tends to happen! It’s never just once or twice with me. Usually they come in threes or fours. But… never that many at once.”
Sooooo… their nose is usually sensitive. Interesting information. Maybe not important, just interesting. They knew they were going to sneeze a minimum of three times. This many was apparently a surprise?
Why are you so intrigued by that? It’s interesting information, you’re just not sure what you’re supposed to do with it, and yet your brain is latching onto it as if it’s going to be on some pop quiz about this person that you need to be prepared for.
You step a little closer to them, just to check that they’re doing alright. “You okay?”
“Yes! Yes, I’m fine, I’m… I’m good.” When they turn back to face you, there isn’t a hint of anything inelegant or undignified on their face. No tears, no snot, just… a slight green flush in their cheeks that might be your imagination. The same tinge, just a bit darker, is still present around their nose, probably because the irritation isn’t going to go away even after they’ve had their moment of relief.
They give you a smile that you think is meant to be sultry and confident, but in reality, they just look exhausted. “Thank you, sweetie. I feel so much better. I can’t tell you what a weight off my shoulders it is to not have to walk around with that annoying buzzing in my nose anymore. Ugh.”
They flip some of their hair over their shoulder. “Alright, now, I did say I was willing to part with some coin for this, but I didn’t put any amount on my note, did I? Usually I avoid specifying with things like this so it’s easier to swindle anyone who’s stupid enough to insult me, but I genuinely wasn’t sure what this was worth.” You’re a little shocked they’d admit that out loud. Of course, you suppose they think they’re buying the fact that nothing that went on in this room leaves it, so why not throw a few comments in for someone they believe they’ll never see again.
Their tongue clicks, their slender claws reaching into their pocket. “Let’s see… I’m paying for your silence on…” A pause, so they can duck their face into their shoulder, gasp, and sneeze a few more times. “― IhihTSCHhh-eew! HaaATSCHH-iiieww! AaaATSCH-ewww! Ugh… on everything that happened here tonight as well as the relief you gave me. So… I don’t know, does 200 sound fair to…”
“N-no.” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it, and it comes out a bit wrong, so you immediately try to fix it. “I, uh, bless you. I mean… I mean, I don’t want money.”
That gets their attention. One thin blonde eyebrow arches at you. “… No? My… sign said I was willing to pay for this. I…” They sniffle again before laughing, and run a hand through their hair. Is it you, or do they suddenly seem very flustered about the idea that you don’t want payment? “I owe you. And, well, the only thing of value I have to trade for services rendered is money.”
You’re blushing now too, dammit. For someone who’s so incredibly dramatic, they’ve decided to describe this insanely clinically. ‘Services rendered’ ― you’re not a whore!! Uuuuugh. “You, um, you don’t… owe me. I was… I was happy to do this for you. Like, you perform a lot for this place, and you give it your all, and I watch you pretty much every night and…”
Your eyes glance toward the door. The last thing you want is to make them insecure. Is it even possible to make a person like Double Trouble insecure…?
They seem to parse what you’re thinking, because their gaze follows yours, then sharply tears away from the door.
“Nobody else showed up when I needed something, even with the promise of getting paid,” they mutter. If you’re not mistaken, their tone is bitter. But if you weren’t paying attention, you’d miss it; that smile of theirs is plastered back on their face in an instant, though it looks wry. “Some star performer I am! Haha, ah, I should have figured. You know, I picked my name because it’s accurate; I’m twice the trouble I’m actually worth.”
Something about that makes a soft part inside you twist uncomfortably. How can a person talk about themself like that? They chose their own name, for whatever reason ― because no one else named them, because they’re nonbinary and their deadname was heavily gendered, because they just didn’t like their old name, whatever the reason is ― and that’s the thought process behind the way they named themself? Because they think they actually are just a whole bunch of hassle?
… You don’t think so. Hearing that, in a strangely vulnerable admission from this person you don’t know very well, (and maybe that’s why they say it, with a laugh and a flippant tone, because for all they know you’re a stranger who will vanish from their life), makes you want to know them more. Just what the hell about them makes them think they’re ‘double trouble’?
You hum before clearing your throat. “I, uh… didn’t come help because I want money. And you don’t… you don’t owe me just because I helped you out. But… if that’s the way you wanna think about it…” Your face is on fire. “You could… buy me dinner sometime?”
They’re busy rubbing furiously at their small, already abused nose as if they think that’s going to divert their focus from whatever storm is raging in their mind. Then, your words seem to reach them. They pause. Pull their hand away from their nose.
“O… kay? But if I just gave you the money, you could… could… aah… aaATSCHHhh-eew! HiiITSCHhh-iiiew! IiiIATSCHH-iewww!” Their knuckle returns to insistently scrubbing at their nostrils. The ferocity they’re using suggests that there’s still an itch despite feeling a lot better. “Ugh, you could just buy yourself dinner! What do you get out of me being there to buy it for you?”
They’re so confused. It’s funny to you, really. Double Trouble seems to be a natural charmer on the surface, comfortable with flirting and romance and sex. Except… if they’re baffled by the idea of why you’d be asking them to buy you dinner, maybe they’re not used to anyone showing genuine interest in them.
It might not be strange. You’ve seen that they wear so many different faces onstage. Their own face is rarely among those masks. Yet it’s obvious they don’t hate their own appearance.
They might simply be unused to anyone else liking them for… them.
You give a soft chuckle, feeling your face flush again. “Bless you. I’d get your company out of it.”
“Mh…” Still rubbing their nose, a little less aggressively now. “My company, is that right? Or literally anyone’s?”
Huh. You can only imagine the requests of, Hey, will you go out with me and oh could you look like XYZ so it’ll be like I’m dating him/her/them??? that a shapeshifter receives. That must be… wow. You don’t like that idea. It kind of pisses you off.
Like. Why would you want them to be anyone but them?
You shake your head. “N… no. No, no. Just you. Is, um, is it a date?”
Something about the phrasing seems to make it click to them. Their hand freezes against their nose, and their eyes go wide as they stare right at you. It’s like they’re trying to figure something out; whether you’re serious, perhaps.
Double Trouble stares at you for a long moment. They’re searching for something. At last, they seem to find it. They scrunch up their nose a little… before giving you the most wicked, sexiest grin you’ve ever seen in your life. They look like a predator who’s just found their favorite food to play with for dinner.
“You’ve got a deal, darling. Let’s see if you can handle just me.”
omg...idk how the requests for this work but may i ask for 🌬+🤞🏻 ft. kimsuragi [looks at you with huge pleading eyes]
Hi anon!! Sorry for the wait, I've been....preoccupied 🙃 Thank you so much for the prompt (breezy day + stifles)! This one kind of got away from me and it sits at 3.3k lol
I went ahead with some K/im x fet!H/arry because I'm a creature of habit ✨ Please enjoy!
~~~~~
Content:
M/M, H/arry has a sneezing fetish, K/im is a kinky motherfucker, sneezing from dust / general debris, manually induced sneezing, mentions of sex, stifles, spray, sneezing into a handkerchief, mild embarrassment/humiliation, buildups, nose rubbing, exhibitionism/voyeurism, sneezing on somebody, sneezing into someone else's hand, teasing, implied public sex
NSFW - Minors DNI!
The start of Kim’s day off had been unexceptional, which wasn’t to say bad. Harry had stayed the night at his apartment, and Kim found that waking up next to him was becoming progressively more frequent and desirable. He still craved his own space like he craved air and he didn’t see that changing, especially not at his age where his personality and all of his habits were pretty solidly baked into him. The company, however – Harry’s company – was comforting. If he wasn’t so stubbornly persistent about playing coy with his own feelings, he might even have admitted to himself that it was something he looked forward to more than almost anything.
It had barely been half a year since he’d met Harry, so he allowed himself some grace with regards to how close he kept his cards clutched to his chest. Still – he wouldn’t with any real sincerity have been able to rebuff accusations that he was entirely smitten with his partner.
He woke before Harry, then sat up in bed and watched him sleep for a little while. His fond smile was so wide it practically split his face, his chest heavy with adoration.
He headed to the kitchen to get started on breakfast.
~~~~~
Lunch in a semi-fancy café in Le Jardin was delightful. After a morning of sex that made Kim feel like a man half his age, they’d followed their stomachs to the fancier part of town and treated themselves. Harry was making googly eyes at Kim half the time, which ought to have been embarrassing but wasn’t. It just felt good.
A stroll in the park was next. As nice as it would have been to hold hands, it was the middle of the day and far too crowded for Kim’s liking. It wasn’t even that he didn’t care to advertise his sexual orientation; he just didn’t fancy his happy little bubble being rudely burst, and nothing was quite so effective as the judgemental stares a pair of middle-aged, interracial, homosexual lovers openly showing affection brought about. Flying under the radar had its own advantages. Harry kept tossing his arm around Kim’s shoulder and laughing at his jokes, convivial enough that any deeper intimacy it relayed could be perceived as purely platonic. That it wasn’t, and that it was making Kim feel like a giddy schoolboy with his first crush, was neither here nor there.
They sat on a bench and watched children throwing crusts of bread to an eager crowd of ducks, more and more of them swimming to the edge of the pond by the second. Harry liked children; he was good with them. Kim sometimes wondered why he, and so many other adults, struggled to get along with them, having been children themselves. Then again, he hadn’t even gotten along with children when he was one, so.
He was pulled out of his meandering thoughts by a sudden, teasing tickle blossoming in the depths of his left nostril. It wasn’t enough to bring about a sneeze, but enough to make him sniffle and wrinkle his nose in irritation. That seemed to do the trick for the moment. He glanced over at Harry, wondering if he’d taken any notice, but one of the children was screaming, running away from a particularly boisterous mallard, and his partner was laughing openly at the scene. Kim repressed a laugh of his own.
They sat idly, enjoying the endearing spectacle and each other’s company. A few minutes later, however, an unseasonably cold draft of wind roared its way through nearby treetops and swept over them, chilling Kim instantly. Harry inched closer to him, wrapping his arms round himself.
“Fuck, that’s cold! It’s still summertime, for fuck’s sake!” He murmured, cringing against another gust of air.
“Technically, detective, it is autumn already. I was hoping for a warmer start to September, but-” He cut off to shield himself against more wind, ducking his head down towards his chest with a grunt of irritation. Neither of them was wearing more than a light blazer; only sun had been forecast for the remainder of the day.
“Ughh, it’s collld, fuck!!” Harry complained, entirely uninterested in Kim’s correction.
As if in a retaliatory ‘fuck you’, the harsh wind blew across the park once again, even stronger than before. Kim winced in discomfort, feeling goosebumps rising over the bare skin of his forearms. He heard the kids scrambling away, no doubt to find better cover than the exposed open edge of the duck pond. He could have sworn that latest gust moved a stationary duck several inches across the ground.
Not only had the most recent gust of wind been as cold as the latter, it had had the unpleasant effect of whipping up a great deal of dusty debris – all of which had been deposited onto them, bringing tears of irritation to Kim’s eyes. Harry made sputtering sounds and scrubbed at his face.
“Jesus, so much for a nice little walk in the park.” He groaned.
“Let’s get out of here.” Kim said, taking a moment to wipe his glasses with a cleaning cloth.
“Lucky – wish I was wearing glasses right now. I have all kinds of shit in my eyes.” Harry teased, blinking away tears.
“Harry, they’re glasses, not goggles.” Kim smiled, turning round to peer at the undefined blob of him, letting him see his own leaking eyes. “I’m blind and in pain.”
“Awww…” He imagined the blob that was Harry smirking at him, making those stupid googly eyes again. Kim grinned, then tensed up quite suddenly, his smile falling. The tickle was back – evidently helped along by a face-full of irritating dirt, dust and pollen. His grin returned.
“You’re going to like this.” He said to Harry, pausing for just a moment before his breath began to hitch several times in quick succession. His nostrils flared delicately, eyebrows knit in a look of intense desperation, and then he was sneezing fitfully into his wrist, hands otherwise occupied with his glasses and cloth.
“Hd’tt! Hh-ngt! Ngx’shu! Oh. Pardon.”
He stifled them habitually, allowing himself to gently rub his nose against his arm in the aftermath, then slipped his glasses back onto his face to take in Harry’s expression. He bit his lip in an attempt to hold back a smug smile, but he just couldn’t. He loved how wrecked and entirely whipped Harry looked after even one sneeze from him. What a wonderful fetish. What an effortless, pleasurable way to tease.
“Oh, bless you, Kim. You, uh, okay?”
Kim could not stop smiling; Harry was practically purring.
“I’m fine, Detective. You might be happy to know that I’m not quite sure if I’m done.”
He wasn’t lying; the tickle hadn’t been fully quashed by that hastily stifled triple. The dustiness had really done a number on him; he could feel that this might become somewhat of a drawn-out affair. Before Harry, that would have been a total mood-dampener - now he was practically vibrating with the possibilities of it all.
Harry shifted in his seat, crossing his previously wide-spread legs and hunching forward ever so slightly. It was painfully unsubtle. Kim resisted the urge to squirm himself, thinking about Harry’s hardening cock.
“By all means, Kitsuragi, sneeze all you want. I won’t complain.”
“Mm, I will. I want to, I’m just not quite sure if I can get there yet.” He tapped the side of his nose, partly to draw Harry’s gaze to the flexing arch of his nostril and partly because it did, at times, help in bringing about a particularly stubborn sneeze.
“Want my help?” Harry grinned, reaching towards Kim’s face. Kim gripped him by the wrist, hard, and shared a heated stare with his partner as he lowered it back down to Harry’s side.
“We’re in public, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor.”
“Oh no. Are you gonna punish me, Lieutenant?” Harry waggled his eyebrows, going for flirtatious and devilish but ending up more obnoxious than anything else – which, pathetically, did more for Kim anyway.
“You’re actually punishing yourself, right now. Distracting me certainly won’t help me sneeze.”
Harry let out a heavy breath through his nose and squirmed again, angling his body to face Kim’s, expectant. Kim smirked, continued to face directly forward, allowing Harry to take in his profile.
“You’re so shameless.” He murmured, then sniffled a couple of times, hoping to kick-start the tickle into something productive.
“Does it tickle, honey?” Harry asked after a beat, entirely unable to wait.
“Impatient, too.” Kim muttered, tapping an outstretched index finger to the twitching curve of his right nostril. That was definitely helping; he was reaching the point where the tickle was overstaying its welcome. He desperately needed the sneeze to culminate or recede entirely, and the former was infinitely more desirable in his current mood. His heart was starting to race in anticipation. He expertly ignored the discomfort of his cock as it ever so slightly filled with blood, and sniffled again.
It wasn’t enough, somehow; he was sure if he left it alone, it would certainly rear its head again later, but he wanted to sneeze now.
Unwelcome though it had been before, another gentle gust of wind suddenly raced through the park, bringing with it another miniature dust storm – just what Kim needed. He heard Harry grunt in frustration, turning away to avoid another face of the stuff, and whilst he instinctively wanted to do the same, Kim merely closed his eyes and frowned in discomfort. He would need to shower as soon as they got home; he imagined his hair, his clothes covered in silt and dirt, though realistically it felt worse than it actually was. He sniffled again, willingly taking in a deep breath of dusty air.
Oh. That was certainly effective. Immediately, before the wind had even died down, he felt the tickle surge forward with a renewed voracity. It was strong enough that he coughed several times into a raised fist, then gasped when at last a sneeze threatened to overwhelm him.
“Harry, I’m going t-to-!” He managed, eyes still screwed shut, before his face twisted into an expression of irritated surrender. The tickle was immense; it seemed to spread with teasing tendrils throughout his sinuses and fill his entire head with a demanding flutter. He felt his nostrils flare to capacity, and then he was gasping, once, twice, three times, and –
Kim snuffled, keeping one hand pressed protectively under his dripping nose as his other searched through his pockets for his handkerchief. God, that had been a rush.
Each little sneeze had been incredibly itchy, and so forceful – it had taken a great deal of effort to stifle them into submission. He might not have bothered, if he didn’t know exactly how much holding them back drove Harry up the wall with both arousal and impatience.
“Bless you, honey. Fuck! Don’t hold them in if it’s making it worse.”
Translation: ‘Stop holding them back and put on a show for me, you evil bastard’. Kim decided he would continue to hold them back specifically because doing so was indeed making the tickle worse. Stifling assuredly made him sneeze almost twice as much as he needed to. Harry ought to appreciate his efforts, honestly.
“Thank you. Not done…Going to-!”
He barely had a moment to raise the handkerchief to his face before he was sneezing again with renewed vigor, masterfully stifling each one.
Finally, the tickle seemed to grind so unbearably against the innermost part of Kim’s sinuses that he gasped hugely in response. There would be no stifling this one – or, if he attempted to do so, it promised to be an uncomfortable and dissatisfying affair for both Harry and himself. So, he let the tickle hold him on the precipice for several maddening seconds, face emerging from the handkerchief to allow Harry to take in the torturous expression that marred his usually placid features. When he thought he would simply never sneeze, frozen in ticklish purgatory forever, it at last burst forth; he pitched forward into the handkerchief, letting it out with abandon.
“-HadDDZT’Tzshieww-!!”
Kim was glad that the previous unpleasant change in weather had otherwise cleared their general vicinity of the park; such a commotion of a sneeze was bound to cause even the most disinterested of individuals to crane their neck in search of the source. Luckily, it was just the two of them. When he finally lifted his bleary eyes to peer over at Harry, he felt a huge swell of affection at his partner’s naked desperation that he was so clearly attempting (and failing) to mask.
“Excuse me.” Kim murmured, as sultry as he would allow. He folded the handkerchief neatly and placed it back in his pocket. “I think I’m done. For now, at any rate.”
“Bless you, Kim. Holy shit. I’m just glad we’re sitting down – my knees are like jelly right now.”
Kim smiled softly, feeling the fondness that had dogged him since this morning reaching near critical levels of saccharine. He wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes were wet and huge like a puppy, the way he couldn’t help gazing lovingly at Harry – his Harry.
“You’re ridiculous.” He told Harry for quite possibly the thousandth time since they had met. “And very sweet.”
Harry looked at him and smiled back, a bashful combination of ridiculously horny and visibly love-drunk. It was all Kim could take. He really didn’t want to get hard on a park bench in broad daylight, and doing so certainly wouldn’t help Harry’s case at all. No – they needed to leave, and he needed to get them right back into bed where he could relieve some of this ridiculous pining, most unfitting for a man his age.
He got to his feet, and Harry (unsteadily) did the same. He hesitated for a moment, then – passersby be damned – rubbed his hand up and down the thick bicep of Harry’s right arm, delighting in the way Harry flinched and seemed to melt into the touch.
“I think we should head home, Detective. I have certain…affairs I’d like to deal with – as soon as possible.”
Harry evidently couldn’t have agreed more.
“Baby, I am so glad you said that.” He leaned closer to Kim’s ear and lowered his voice. “My boner is tucked up under my belt right now.”
Kim choked back a laugh.
“When did you manage that?!”
“When do you think?” Harry grinned it at him, looking paradoxically embarrassed and not the least bit pleased all at the same time. “When you were sneezing your gorgeous head off. I was scared I was gonna go off in my pants.”
“Hmm.” Kim smirked, raising an eyebrow. “Hard to hide the aftermath in trousers like that.” He glanced at Harry’s salmon-pink flares of choice.
Harry smirked back. He looked positively dishevelled. Kim wanted to press him up against a nearby tree and kiss that stupid expression off his face. He cleared his throat, tried to clear his mind as a young couple walked past them, as if frightened they could hear his thoughts.
“Shall we?” He said, leading the way back to the path.
Harry was beside him in moments, practically stepping on his feet, zero concept of personal space as always. Kim found that he didn’t mind at all. As though magnetised, he felt his body involuntarily (though quite happily) arching towards Harry. Seeing the park practically empty, besides the young couple ahead of them who were far too interested in one another to take note of them, Kim surrendered. He reached for Harry’s hand and laced their fingers together. Harry looked at him in happy shock, then squeezed Kim’s hand back, hard.
Home was always about a million miles away every time Kim wanted to fuck. It was an eternal curse. It hadn’t stopped him from dragging various partners into semi-public locations before, but they tended towards alleyways and public bathrooms. No matter how much he wanted to fuck Harry’s brains out, he couldn’t bring himself to actually have sex in a park, mid-afternoon.
His nostrils tingled quite suddenly – forebodingly. A delicate shiver of arousal danced along his spine. He wouldn’t fuck Harry now, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t tease him in the meantime.
Gently squeezing Harry’s hand, he veered them away from the path to the partial covering of a cluster of trees. A quick glance over his shoulder to ascertain that they were alone for the moment, and then Kim did press Harry back against a tree.
“Kim?” Harry practically wheezed, eyes glittering with excitement.
“Shhh.” Kim said, squeezing Harry’s arm reassuringly, then reaching up to tap at the bridge of his nose where bone met cartilage. Harry’s eyes, already glassy and blown, where practically pools of liquid black when he realised what Kim had in mind. He moaned, softly enough that Kim didn’t feel the need to reprimand him - just as well, given that he had clearly lost his own mind and was doing nothing to keep himself in check.
It didn’t take very long; the tickle flared up in earnest, more than helped along by Kim’s ministrations. He inhaled softly, tingling all over with a devilish excitement, drinking in Harry’s deer-in-the-headlights expression of utter giddiness until his eyelids were forced shut, the pre-sneeze preparation overwhelming his senses.
He didn’t bother with his handkerchief; he merely let the sneezes come as they would, giving them free reign.
The burst of spray from each sneeze arched with a delicate aerosol across Harry’s chest, some catching his neck and chin with their fittish intensity. When he was done, Kim glanced with satisfaction to see that some droplets had left visible stains of moisture dappled across Harry’s shirt. That Harry would have to walk home with the clear evidence of their mutual depravity electrified him.
Harry responded as predictably (and wonderfully) as Kim had expected. He looked pained with arousal, breath coming in little pants as he struggled to keep himself together. Kim was certain that if he reached between Harry’s legs and merely kneaded against him with the heel of his hand, he’d be cumming all over his stomach. His own cock throbbed violently in response at the thought of it; it took him a moment to compose himself.
A delicate hand under his chin, lifting his face ever-so carefully snapped him back to attention. Harry’s other hand reached with a gentle thumb to swipe away at the moisture that clung to his nostrils. He felt electrified by the touch – how caring and tender it was despite Harry practically shaking with pent-up excitement.
“God bless you, baby.” Harry murmured. “Some tickle, huh?”
Kim couldn’t have responded if he tried; Harry’s persistently nudging thumb against his overworked nostrils induced another horribly tickly sneeze. He had a split second to grab Harry by the wrist before he was sneezing openly against his palm.
“-dDZZt’TSZHieww-!! Ough. Pardon.”
That one had been particularly wet; he subtly licked his lips clean.
“Kim-!” Harry sighed.
It was the final straw. There was no way they were making it home. Kim pushed Harry further back into the thicket, unbuckling his trousers as they went.
When a servant / maid / valet comes down with a nasty cold, but still tries to fulfill their duties.
They try to be as quiet as is required of them, going about their daily tasks, but the cold keeps budding in. They have to stop what they are doing to swipe a finger under their runny nose. They have to turn away from the food they carry or the desk they dust so they won't ruin it by sneezing their contagious cold all over it.
Their nose turns pink from all the rubbing and blowing and despite them doing their best to suppress the cold, their employer notices.
Cue role reversal in which the master / lady of the house takes very good care of their sick employee, forcing them to rest, offering their own handerkchief or bring them tea, and make hot, sexy, dirty, contagious love to them.
if you are still taking prompts (and if you are not please feel free to ignore this!) my request is: Finger under nose + edge of a sneeze for ANY disco elysium char!
I am still taking prompts and was sooo happy to see this one in my inbox 💕 This ended up jussst under 3k (whoops) and features sneezing from H/arry, K/im, J/ean and J/udit because why not!!
The M/ajor C/rimes U/nit find themselves at a crime scene - in a Perfumery 😇
~~~~~
Content:
M/M, Mostly M sneezes but F mentioned, H/arry has a sneezing fetish, K/im is a kinky motherfucker, J/ean is suffering, allergic sneezes/sneezing induced by scents, sympathetic sneezes, rapid sneezes, mentions of hayfever sneezes, briefly mentioned inducing, masturbation, teeny mention of mild mess, spray, sneezing on someone's face, elements of domination/submission, verbal demands, sneeze denial, hold-backs, K/im manually holds back Harry's sneeze, some caretaking, some voyeurism
CW: Mentions of serial killings and bodies in typical crime fic fashion, nothing too graphic; K/im briefly holds H/arry in place by gripping his chin
NSFW - Minors DNI!
Harry had to admit, it was a pretty sweet deal this particular serial killer had scored. Having access to a Perfumery within which to conceal the stench of rotting corpses seemed like a stroke of genius. The killer, however, was anything but; after he’d filled the underground crawl space entirely, he’d deposited several bodies in the attic, giving the poor insulation expert who’d ventured up there that winter a veritable heart attack.
The discovery of these bodies was a huge deal. Firstly, the location of this Perfumery was one of the bougiest, most affluent streets in Le Jardin; the middle and upper-middle classes of Revachol were in near hysteria at the very suggestion that such abhorrent crimes had crossed over into their relative bubble of high society. Secondly, from the freshest corpses alone, victims were identified as missing person records spanning several much less affluent precincts. By the time Harry arrived en scene with Kim, Judit and Jean in tow, the Perfumery was bustling with cops from all over.
Several officers from the GRIH greeted Kim as he entered the building, pulling him into a quick conversation. Jean scanned the premises immediately, an intense look of concentration on his weathered face. The four of them were eager to see if any further information could assist in several of their own open cases of missing persons, and it seemed the other precincts had had a similar idea. What a number this guy has fucking done, Harry thought to himself. Fucking sicko. He watched as a body was carried out on a covered stretcher and swallowed the urge to cry.
They’d been the last to arrive, and as the morning stretched on and other officers confirmed all they could, they were soon on their way. It was just as well; there wasn’t an awful lot to glean here as the bodies were slowly taken away, and the main suspect was already in custody. The employees of the Perfumery seemed almost robotic in their answers as they were interviewed, no doubt out of partial trauma but also out of boredom; by the time the 41st Major Crimes Unit got to them, they must have repeated the same statements ad nauseum already.
“Well,” Harry started, turning to his squad after they’d excused the last shaking staff member, “I guess that’s all we can do for now. Let’s burn rubber, gentlemen and lady.”
“Finally.” Jean muttered, striding towards the door, looking even more irritated than usual. Harry tried to swallow like a normal person when he noticed Jean was ever-so subtly pressing the tip of one finger down on his philtrum, the way he had done countless other times in Harry’s presence when he was desperately holding back a sneeze or twenty.
The aforementioned interviews had been difficult not only for the depressing subject matter; several officers had sneezed throughout the day, evidently bothered by the florid scents of the converging perfumes. Being such a high-class establishment, however, there wasn’t an overwhelming deluge of conflicting scents; the smell was strong, sure, but not enough as to be unpleasant or overpowering, at least in theory. Even so, Harry had thought he might sneeze several times. He neither heard Jean nor Kim sneeze, though he had seen Jean’s shoulders trembling incriminatingly, and saw Kim tense into a raised fist out of the corner of his eye. He was beyond grateful when one cop with a particularly attention-seeking, cock-teasingly desperate sneeze finally left. He had been so close to getting a hard-on that having not gotten one, he felt pathetically proud of himself.
Judit and Jean climbed into the back of the MC as Harry sat shotgun. Kim expertly pulled out of the cluster of other police vehicles and started them back to the station.
“So,” Harry started, pretending as hard as he could that he hadn’t just heard Jean’s breath snagging in tell-tale irritation. “That’s two missing persons identified, straight off the bat. Which is fucking awful, but at least it’s something.”
“Yes,” Kim said, sounding grave. “I was hoping we would locate some of the missing individuals but now, given the situation…I just hope there aren’t more.”
Harry nodded, hearing Kim but also hearing the tiny, definitive little gasp Jean made behind him. He again tried to swallow quite normally.
“Would it be worth gathering the rest of the unit today rather than tomorrow morning for a briefing, Lieutenant?” Judit asked from the back seat.
“I think so.” Kim nodded, weaving in and out of traffic. “I think if we…”
Harry’s brain could no longer focus on work, not one little bit. Kim and Judit continued to talk, but all he could hear was the barely audible swallows of air and shuddering exhalations as Jean sneezed, over and over again.
Harry blinked. Fuck. Kim and Judit were waiting for his input. He opened his mouth, hoping that whatever came out was a more appropriate response than the simpering moan he had been repressing, when Jean saved him the effort with an uncharacteristically harsh sneeze.
“-IhgK’TSHHH’IEWww!! H’ohh…”
Harry’s fingers dug into his thighs, wrinkling the fabric of his bellbottom trousers. How the fuck was he supposed to think of anything other than stroking his cock, which was absolutely and entirely hard at this point, when Jean was sneezing like that? Like he had the biggest tickle of his life, like it was too big for his body to contain or purge with his ordinarily diminutive sneezes? Why did he have to sigh like that afterwards?! It was unfairly erotic. Judit and Kim’s simultaneous and emphatically concerned blessings in response only made things worse; his cock throbbed over the fuss.
“Fuck, sorry. I was in there for too long. I feel like shit.” Jean sniffled, sounding suddenly much rougher than any of them had expected him to. Harry ventured a glance at him in the rear-view mirror, really wishing he hadn’t when he took in the sight of his twitchy pink nose and equally pink, watery eyes. He was a picture of allergic misery. Harry scrunched his eyes shut as his cock gave an enthusiastic throb. When he opened them and glanced sidelong at Kim, Kim was peering right back at him. The second they made eye contact, the Lieutenant’s gaze flicked away, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. Bastard.
“Don’t apologise – you can’t help it.” Judit started. “I think we were all in there too long. Our uniforms are probably setting you off right now.”
Jean wasn’t able to respond, at least in words, because he’d started sneezing again. Harry felt giddy with arousal. It had been ages since he’d heard Jean sneeze like this – even when his hayfever was awful, he had prescription-strength antihistamines to ease the reaction. With nothing at all, he was a wreck.
All three of them blessed him again, Harry hoping at the very least Judit couldn’t make out the breathlessness in his voice. Only ten minutes until they were back at the precinct and Harry could fuck his own fist in one of several men’s bathrooms.
~~~~~
In the end, Judit had volunteered to drive Jean home. He was so allergic that it didn’t take much to convince him to take the rest of the day off; he was exhausted and completely disinterested in continuing to sneeze his brains out on display for the rest of the unit. Harry and Kim had gone to shower and change into spare clothes, realising they had become nose-blind to just how much they stank of perfume. It was enough that some of their fellow officers had actually recoiled, which Harry found entirely over dramatic given how many dead bodies they dealt with on the regular.
Harry ended up jerking off in the shower stall right next to Kim’s. It had been entirely too much, watching Jean’s head bob forward so helplessly, the perpetual agony of the tickle in his nose worn plainly across his face. Before she had left, Judit also sneezed, several feminine “Hahdt’Tsch’iew!”s that seemed to shock her and went straight to Harry’s interested dick. The final straw, however, was the unrepressed double that Kim let out beside him, right as Harry felt his orgasm starting to crest.
“Huhp’TISHHH’Ieww!! Hh-! HaHPT’TZSSsshh!!”
He groaned far more loudly than he had intended to. His cock pulsed in his hand, waves of pleasure flowing through him as he was mercilessly tipped over the edge. Sighing in relief, he fucked gently into his fist as he continued to streak the wall with the result of his orgasm. Kim’s shower turned off with an abrupt screech of the handle.
“I’ll see you shortly, Lieutenant-Yefreitor.”
Hearing the amused edge to Kim’s voice, Harry knew without a doubt that he had made himself sneeze on purpose. His cock twitched happily with a final tremor.
~~~~~~
Harry really thought he had escaped the Perfumery entirely unscathed – the shower and changing of clothes was more of a courtesy for everyone else. It soon became apparent, however, that rather than him having no reaction at all, it had merely been delayed.
“…IIIIESSSSSHHHhhtttt!!!”
He barrelled forward with it, raising an elbow a second too late and dappling the paperwork he was completing with moisture. He snuffled miserably, squeezing his itchy, red eyes shut. Even with the antihistamines Judit had brought him, courtesy of Gottlieb (Harry’s regular supply of store-bought antihistamines pilfered from Jean’s emergency stash gone, he was irritated to discover), he was getting little to no relief.
It wasn’t the worst thing in the world. The sneezes weren’t rapid, nor nonstop. But what they were was a tease. They would come and go, hitching his breath with a promising tickle before leaving him hanging, sinuses prickling. He’d been working on that most recent sneeze for well over ten minutes, which made it all the more embarrassing he’d been unable to cover.
The rest of the unit were giving him a predictably wide berth, but it didn’t stop the joking. That wasn’t all too much of an issue for Harry. Even this prolonged, slow-motion sneeze attack was bearable. What wasn’t was the sympathetic sneezes he kept triggering in Kim – a quirk he should have gotten used to by now but wasn’t sure he ever would.
He glanced over at Kim’s desk in time to see him sneezing into his wrist, pen barely pausing as he worked through the convulsions – only just audible, yet deliciously desperate to Harry’s keen ears.
“Hh’Ggkt’shu! Ngxt’shh! Hh’Nndt’shoo!! Ouf…”
Harry sniffled again, repressing the urge to cough as his inflamed sinuses prickled anew. Stupid Kim and his sexy sneezes and god-tier ability to ignore everything else in the pursuit of immaculate administrative duties. He hissed a little as squirming in his seat pressed the too-tight fabric around his crotch into his balls, hot and heavy and now incredibly strangled. With a resigned sigh, he leaned his forehead on crossed arms and closed his eyes.
~~~~~
“-Lieutenant. Harry?”
Harry lifted his head, consciousness returning to him after his entirely unintended nap, and saw Judit hovering over him with a kind, concerned expression. He barely had a moment to take in the fact that he had been drooling in his sleep when the bastard tickle had him gasping in preparation for another sneeze.
“HAAAH’GKXXTtt!!”
Oh, that had been close. Twisting to the side and biting down hard, last minute, had prevented him from sneezing all over her. She’d foreseen it, of course, and he needn’t have bothered with such a degree of contortion, but he was relieved nonetheless. Less relieved to discover that he was still sneezing even after waking up.
“Sorry, Minot. Do you need me?”
She shook her head and smiled softly at him, looking away politely as he started to scrub at his nose a little too enthusiastically with his handkerchief.
“Lieutenant Kitsuragi asked me to wake you and tell you he will be escorting you home.”
“Oh? But my paperw-“
Harry blinked. His files were gone, and his desk had been organised.
“Did Kim do this?” He asked incredulously.
“Yes.” Judit said, starting to walk away.
“Damn,” Harry muttered, shucking on his jacket and rising on stiff knees.
“It’s been a long day, Lieutenant. Lieutenant Kitsuragi is waiting for you in the garage, he said. See you tomorrow – feel better soon!” She called over her shoulder, gradually receding in what looked like quite a rush – which made perfect sense after he’d glanced sheepishly at the wall-affixed clock.
~~~~~
“…HHUHHHRESSSSSHHHhhh!!! Ugh, finally.”
Harry deflated after sneezing openly, enthusiastically into the air in front of him, sinking back into his couch cushions in relief. He idly rubbed his itchy, pinkened nostrils back and forth, grateful to be in his shitty apartment and away from judgemental coworkers.
“À tes souhaits.”
He heard Kim call from the kitchen. He listened intently for the sneezes that were sure to follow his own, disappointed only to catch the sigh that followed them.
“I hate when you hold them back in private.” Harry mumbled.
Kim laughed, walking into the living room with two mugs.
“You have no right to be making demands of me, not today.” He said, a cheeky smile crossing his face. He placed the mugs on a scruffy coffee table and sat next to Harry, reaching out to push a stray hair back from his forehead.
“How are you feeling?” He asked, cupping Harry’s cheek in his hand. Harry loved when Kim did that; it made him feel delicate and tiny in an entirely nice way.
“Fine. Itchy.” He said plainly, leaning into the touch. “Thank you, again, for doing all that. You’re an angel. Angel cop.” He murmured.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind a little writing.”
“Nerd.”
Kim grinned at him.
“Drink your tea.” He commanded, pulling away from Harry to reach for his own.
Harry was half-started reaching forward when another sneeze started to build. He paused and allowed himself to lean into it, irritated, semi-vocal snatches of air drawn out of him as he urged the tickle to culminate. He was sick of them taking so long. He just wanted the relief that only a huge, dramatic explosion would provide – if only for another 5 minutes or so.
He'd been so focused on sniffling and hitching his way through his build-up that he was startled by a sudden pressure under his nostrils. He opened his eyes as wide as he could – which wasn’t very, as he hovered right on the precipice of a sneeze – and took in the sight of Kim pressing an outstretched finger under his nose.
“K’hiim, what…?” He managed, breath wavering as the tickle lingered but did not swell, effectively wrangled into submission by the pressure on his philtrum.
“Don’t sneeze, detective. You need to learn some self-control.”
Harry blinked at him, unsure of whether to be affronted or aroused. Arousal always won with Kim, though, god damn him. Harry felt his cock twitch with renewed interest, shivering under Kim’s domineering gaze.
“But it ti’h!! Ti’hiiih’ckles-!”
“You can do it.” Kim stated, applying more pressure to Harry’s philtrum, barely even flinching as a droplet of clear mess rolled out of one nostril and onto his finger.
Harry was surprised when he managed, after several more dangerously close build-ups, to hold back the sneeze entirely. He exhaled in a near orgasmic sigh, glancing over at Kim under heavily lidded eyes. Kim removed his finger, wiping it on Harry’s shirt.
“Good man. Keep that up.” He said, reaching for his tea again.
Harry tried to – he really, honestly did. The absence of Kim’s finger and a poorly timed sniffle, however, meant he was bristling again almost immediately, the tickle so overwhelming he gasped hard enough that both he and Kim jumped at the sound. Immediately Kim was back in position, pressing his finger down hard and peering at Harry’s twisting pre-sneeze expression. This time he straddled his lap, and Harry reached out instinctively to grip his waist.
“What did I just say, Officer? Are you so eager to disobey me?”
Harry wanted to shake his head in dissent, wanted to hold back so badly, but it just tickled so much that even the pressure under his nose was useless. He couldn’t so much as utter a perfunctory warning before his helplessly crumpled features cinched tight, nostrils flared wide, and he sneezed all over himself and Kim.
“HAHH’EEEISHHHHHHhhh!! HIGGSHHUUUUuu!!!”
They felt incredible, great big spraying affairs, even more relieving having been fought back and denied. A pleasant wave of satisfaction washed over Harry in the aftermath, and his head fell back against the cushions, eyes closed in blissful surrender.
His eyes shot open as he felt Kim securely gripping his chin, squeezing fingers drenched with the result of those sneezes. He shuddered in anticipation, having a split second to take in Kim’s desperately cinching expression, cock lurching as he prepared for the inevitable. His eyes closed reflexively when Kim sneezed, unrestrained, spraying his face and neck thrice with delicate clouds of aerosol.
Harry blinked his eyes open, watching in giddy adoration as Kim used his free hand to rub at his nose, twitching nostrils squished side to side, audibly damp. He released Harry, slumping backwards and sitting on top of Harry’s lap, applying an unbelievably tantalising pressure that had Harry gasping softly and rutting against him.
“Well,” said Kim, shrugging as Harry looked expectantly at him. “It was worth a try.”
Harry lunged at him, drinking in Kim’s satisfied sigh as he pressed him back onto the couch. He figured now was as good a time as any to thank him for the paperwork.
For Fever feb: 9, 12 or 16 for wat//son? (Or a combo of the three if you feel really inspired?) Whichever version of the sher//lock canon you like the most, i know there's like million adaptations lol
idk what version of sherlock this is, probably closest to the og lol but I hope you like it <3
Sherlock Holmes had spent long years working alone. It had been optimal, efficient, a perfectly adequate way to conduct his investigations. And then John Watson had come along and Sherlock had no need for working alone ever again.
The current case had taken them away from their cozy flat on Baker Street and had them tromping around the rainy hillsides more than an hour outside of London.
Cases so far flung were hardly a normal occurrence, but this particular case had piqued Sherlock’s interest, which had been rather dim as of late.
Sherlock strode down the gravel path, long legs covering more ground than his speed would assume.
Watson wasn’t lagging necessarily but he also couldn’t stop to admire the tiny flowers that grew out of the cracks in the stone wall along the path either, not if he wanted to keep up with Sherlock both physically and mentally.
“The clues are aligning, Watson,” Sherlock said, having recounted much of their investigation as they walked so that Watson could review his notes and make sure everything was in order.
”I’m glad to hear it, Holmes,” Watson said, tucking his little notebook safely away as the mist around them grew thicker. Watson wasn’t sure if he could really call it a mist at all now, more like being in the middle of a raincloud with the way he could feel cold droplets stinging his face. Holmes, however, seemed unaffected by the weather, same as he had been all week.
Watson envied him, not for the first time, though the reasoning for the envying was not always the same. This week in particular it did tend to revolve around Holmes’ resilience to the damp and the cold. It didn’t seem to bother the man at all. Not when they were out in the soup and not when they got back to their rented room.
It seems to roll off Holme’s back like the proverbial duck. Watson regretfully was stuck feeling damp and clammy and chilled at the end of each day, unable to fully warm himself no matter how long he sat in front of the fire.
He couldn’t wait for Holmes to solve the case so that they could return to their own brand of fog, and not this rain thicken wool the pastoral fields seemed determined to be drenched in. He also couldn’t wait to hear what the solution to this case was, as his own mind was sluggishly refusing to connect any dots whatsoever.
“Are you listening at all Watson?” Sherlock frowned, stopping to allow his companion to catch up, as Watson had fallen more than a few steps behind.
”Of course, Holmes,” Watson replied and then quickly reversed as Holmes raised an eyebrow at him and glanced pointedly at Watson’s empty hands. Ah, there had been more notetaking to be done apparently.
”I may have been admiring the stone wall,” Watson countered, somewhat feebly. “It’s very impressive craftsmanship.”
”We’re not here for walls,” Sherlock said, glancing at the wall anyway, as though it would tell him a secret. “You must pay attention to the case at hand.”
Watson nodded. “Of course.” He fumbled with his pockets to retrieve his notebook. “Perhaps we could finish our notetaking indoors…” He could feel the damp seeping into the paper as he tried to turn to a new page.
Holmes huffed a small laugh. “When we have access to such invigorating weather?”
Watson grumbled nondistinctly. But he also finally got a fresh page and readied his pen. When no dictating occurred he glanced up to find Holmes regarding him.
”You’re a bit out of sorts today, Watson,” Holmes observed. “For a few days, though I had hoped it would have resolved without mention.”
Watson huffed, less humorously than Holmes. “Mearly a distaste for the weather, my good man.”
He felt pinned, like a taxidermy butterfly, under Holmes’ sharp gaze.
Holmes took a step closer and reached out then, too quickly for Watson to even flinch, and laid his hand upon Watson’s brow. “As I suspected,” he said after a moment.
”What could you possibly have suspected?” Watson frowned, still too stunned to think about moving out from Holmes’ touch.
”You’re fevered.”
Watson huffed again. “Ridiculous.” He still didn’t move from under Holmes’ touch, which now pressed against his cheek. “I am a doctor you know, I think I would be well aware of being unwell.”
”Sometimes the best of us are blind to personal hardships,” Holmes replied, finally pulling his hand back. “You’ve been irritable and chilled. I had assumed it was simply the change in location putting you off, but it seems that there’s a more biological failing.”
Watson puffed up. “There is no biological failing.”
”Now now, Watson, no need to get worked up.” He placed a hand on Watson’s shoulder. “Its obvious that you’ve been having trouble keeping up with the logistics of this case and now we have a reason for it.”
Watson gaped at him. “I’ve been keeping up perfectly well!” He knew this was a lie but blast it if Holmes was going to insult him like this.
“My dear Watson,” Sherlock said, patiently and indulgently. “I’m afraid you’re simply of no use to me in your current state. I must insist that you head back to our lodgings and take a rest.”
“You’re sending me away? When we’re so close?” How could Holmes deny him the conclusion of the case? For a simple raised temperature that Watson wasn’t fully convinced he even had.
“For your own well being, since you seem disinclined to care for yourself.” Holmes gave his shoulder a pat. “There will be plenty of other cases. Once you’re well again.”
”You need me,” Watson insisted.
Holmes turned from him then, not cruelly but with an air of gentle finality. “I’ve solved plenty of cases on my own.”
Then he took off down the path again, leaving Watson to stare after him.
Watson supposed he could just hurry to catch up, pretend like the entire conversation hadn’t happened, ignore Holmes’ diagnosis, and ignore Holmes possibly ignoring him, or worse, finding someone to escort him forcefully back to their room like a disobedient child.
He shivered, feeling the fog close around him, damp and unyielding. It felt as though it reached straight through and wrapped around his bones. A small part of him whispered that perhaps Holmes was correct, that his chills and malaise and irritation at this perplexing case was due to an unacknowledged ailment.
There was nothing to be done about it now, except head back to their room. Holmes had dismissed him. Found him useless. And perhaps he was.
Watson dragged himself back to the small cottage they were renting the room. Along the way his quiet resignation at being discarded had turned into a somewhat reluctant acceptance of possible illness. WIth each step he felt himself grow heavier, like the damp was filling him up inside. He shivered as he opened the door and nodded to their host, making an excuse about having a bit of a break while Holmes went adventuring.
He heaved himself up the stairs, each more difficult than the last, until he reached the top and then sighed at the expanse of hallway to reach their room. It seemed as though the distance grew each time they retired.
Watson finally made it through the door and started to peel his clothing before he even fully shut it behind him. He draped his clothes around the room so that they could fully dry and stood trembling in front of the fire. He considered that perhaps this wasn’t the actions of a well man, but he had no way of proving it. He hadn’t thought to bring his medical kit with him on this excursion. Something he’ll remember for next time.
Holmes had mentioned having a rest. Bed. He could have a small lie down. Just until he was warm again. And then he could go back to Holmes. That would certainly be enough time for the other man to realize how essential Watson now was to him.
Watson slipped under the covers, curling into a tight ball at how cool they were against his still damp skin. Just a small lie down.
He tried to settle. To rest as he was instructed.
Like a child. Sent to bed without his supper for failing to live up to expectations.
Watson pressed his face against the pillow. The pillow was warm. He turned, flipping to his other side, but the pillow was warm against this cheek as well. He turned the pillow over. Just as warm.
He couldn’t find a comfortable spot. His mind whirled. Replaying Holmes walking away from him over and over. He still trembled, but he was also too warm, too consumed with the thought of Holmes on his own.
Watson twisted under the covers and then stared at the ceiling.
Eventually, he dozed off. He must have, for he jolted awake at the creak of the door. “Holmes?” he mumbled.
”Ah, afraid not, sir,” a man’s voice cut through Watson’s personal fog.
Watson raised up on his elbow, squinting at the timid intruder. A local they had met on the first day, very willing to help.
”Mr. Holmes sent me to make sure you were resting. He regrets he couldn’t come himself.” The man peers at Watson. “Are you resting sir?”
“I was.” Watson scrubbed a hand across his face with a clipped sigh. It would do no good to be cross with this man. “Has Mr. Holmes finished his investigation?”
The man twisted his hand in his hands. “Not yet, but it feels as though he is close. He said that if you asked to tell you not to worry, to continue your rest, he’ll return when he’s finished.”
Watson nodded. “I see. Where is he now?”
“Mrs. Bursbury’s home, sir.”
”Well,” Watson sniffed sharply. “You’ve done your errand.”
The man, feeling the cold dismissal for what it was, slipped quickly out the door, shutting it softly.
The Burnsbury home wasn’t too far. A mere few minutes walk.
Watson threw back the covers and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The room tilted before settling. Watson chose to ignore that. He also chose to ignore the way his legs felt made of jelly before he forced them to surely take his weight.
He was a grown man. Partnered with another grown man. There was no reason to be put away like a frothing pony.
Watson dressed with only a few minor incidences of lightheadedness. He had rested, he told himself, a quiet mantra that kept him from giving into the exhausting that threatened to fall over him.
The trip downstairs was easier than the trip up and the success buoyed Watson’s resolve to finish the case with Holmes, whether Holmes wanted him there or not.
It, perhaps, took more than a mere few minutes for Watson to make his way to the Burnsbury home. But he made it. Wheezing, a bit short of breath, sweat dotting his forehead while chills raced down his spine.
He stopped at the gate, adjusting himself to make sure he was presentable. He readied himself to knock (lightly so as to not disrupt any resolutions) when the door opened, revealing Holmes saying his goodbyes to the local authorities.
“We could have never solved it without you, Mr Holmes,” the local constable said as Holmes made his way outside.
“I’m sure you would have eventually discovered the true culprit," Holmes assured the man, solicitously.
Watson deflated. Holmes had solved the case without him. With no need for him. Perhaps even hindered by Watson and his inability to not become fevered and chilled by a change in the weather.
He turned to make his way back. He was meant to be resting after all.
“Watson?” Holmes’ voice rang out and within moments a hand was gripping Watson’s shoulder, turning him. “Goodness man, what are you doing here?”
Holmes sounded so worried. Watson blinked at him dumbly. “I…” He stopped. Sighed. “I thought perhaps you would need me after all.” It sounded so silly now.
Holmes placed a hand across Watson’s forehead again, and then down his cheek, and finally cupped around the nape of his neck.
”I won’t lie, Watson, I believe it would have been much easier with you by my side.” He then wrapped an arm around Watson’s shoulder, guiding him down the lane. “I missed your steady presence quite acutely.”
”Oh,” Watson said.
Holmes held him steady as they walked, taking more of Watson’s weight as they went. “I used to do all my cases alone,” Holmes continued, much like he was musing to himself out loud, working through unfamiliar thoughts. “And I thought, perhaps, with you indisposed, I would fall back into the habit without a stumble.”
Watson kept his eyes on the ground, not trusting his feet. Yet he also kept his ears on Holmes.
”But I found myself turning to your empty space time and time again.” Holmes was quiet for a moment. “I apologize for not noticing you were unwell earlier. So that we could take a day, get you well, and we could finish the case together.”
Watson wasn’t sure what to say. “I didn’t notice either,” he landed on, though that doesn’t feel entirely correct to say.
“We’ll have to be more watchful in the future,” Holmes answered.
The climb to their room didn’t seem nearly as arduous this time. Not with Holmes at Watson’s side, keeping him steady.
Holmes continued his firm support once they were in their room. He helped Watson out of his clothing and found sleepwear for him, which was more than what Watson had done for himself. And then he guided Watson to bed, somehow managing to make Watson’s body relax into the mattress when hours before it had seemed impossible.
“Have you eaten?” Holmes asked softly, perching on the edge of the bed, ready to pop back up at a moment's notice of Watson needing something.
Watson shook his head. Truthfully he didn’t feel like eating, but Holmes had a look about him. Intense, with perhaps a hint of desperation.
”You don’t have to do anything, Holmes,” Watson attempted to assure him. “You told me to rest, so that’s all I need right now.”
Holmes looked wounded, as though Watson had struck him. Though he did try to cover the reaction up. He glanced around the room instead of looking at Watson.
”I would like to,” he said, voice thick. “I wanted to ever since I sent you off on your own. If the resolution of the case hadn’t been time sensitive…”
He trailed off. “Please, Watson. Allow me to care for you. As I should have.” He looked at Watson then and the naked hope in his eyes prohibited Watson from saying anything but ‘of course’.
Holmes relaxed then, fussing with the blankets and pressing his hand against Watson’s forehead once more. “Do you need another blanket? You were shivering while outside.”
Watson shook his head. “Not now,” he said, allowing a slight smile to settle across his lips. “Perhaps later, when it gets cooler outside.”
Holmes nods. “The fire will be kept up then, as well,” he mused. “I’m going to get you something to eat. And a cool cloth for your forehead.”
He wouldn’t have guessed that this was how the day would end, but now he wouldn’t have it any other way if all the upset would lead to Holmes’ full attention and care. Such an odd and novel thing that Watson would have never even hoped to be the focus of.
They stay for another three days, making sure, on Holmes’ insistence, that Watson was more than recovered before traveling.
Is anyone else still into the M/agnus Archives?
Maybe, maybe not, but I have had this fic sitting in my google docs for months, and I just finally managed to get myself to finish up the last bit, so here is part one of a possible two part fic, if I can ever manage to get myself to write the next part!
So, if anyone wants, please enjoy a little Allergic to concepts Jon. aka, Jon is so allergic to dogs that just the idea of them gets him a bit worked up~
I'll never be over this podcast, and I might start sharing small (tiny) drabbles of these guys if anyone would be interested <3 or even just to start coaxing myself back into writing~
Characters: Jon, Martin, Tim, and Sasha
Word Count: 2.7k
“-so to conclude, we absolutely, most certainly, cannot do that,” Martin finishes, hands woven into his hair. Seems to happen more often nowadays; getting a job you’re not exactly qualified for tends to bring on a touch of added stress. What brings even more stress, however, are the faces staring back at him, twin smiles painted across worryingly calm canvases. Seems once a poet, always a poet, even in your own thoughts.
Tim chuckles, mischief running through his eyes. “How do you even know that? You been stalking our new boss?”
“W-well no, it’s just that…” Martin starts, beginning to study the floor as his rambling starts to take over. “Well there may have been an… incident, of- of sorts, with a uh… well it was, I was trying to open this door, but see I was holding files, and there was this dog, and they kinda just- well I was trying to stop it but it got in and- so I went to Jon’s office and he was just kinda… and then I-”
“So what?” Tim interrupts, mercifully saving Martin from his own tongue. “Why should his issues stop us from havin’ a good time?” With a snap of his fingers, Tim casts Sasha a devious wink. The colour seems to drain from Martin’s face as he holds up a shaking finger, aiming somewhere behind Tim’s shoulders.
“Ah, speak of the devil,” Sasha mutters, her smile never wavering.
Spinning on his heel, Tim turns to greet the newest arrival to the hallway. “Fancy seeing you here, boss! Burning the midday oil?”
Jon pauses, papers nearly spilling from his crowded arms as he fumbles with some keys. “That’s not an expression. And what are you all doing cramped in the hall? Don’t any of you have work to do?”
Martin nearly keels over as Jon’s glare settles against him, seemingly deeming him responsible for this lapse in progress. As if! In fact, he’d been the one begging them to get back to work. Honestly, Jon should appreciate the fact that he talked them out of-
“Actually, we’re thinking of heading off for the day,” Tim cuts in, leaving Martin’s mouth nearly hanging open. Had they not just gone over why this was a horrible idea? As if to answer his unspoken question, Sasha joins in with support for Tim’s cause. Martin’s pretty sure there’s actually a gap between his lips.
Jon, having opened the office by this point, merely stops and stares. Seconds pass, though it feels more like minutes. There appears to be some sort of staring match between the three of them.
Finally Jon breaks the silence with a short… well, it’s hard to call it a laugh, more like a huff. His posture tightens as he attempts to pull himself to his full height, casting Tim a wary glance. “You can’t be serious.”
“Quite serious in fact! See, me and Sasha have been thinking,” Tim pauses, gesturing to the aforementioned with a sickly sweet smile. Merely performance charm, which given the eye-roll she shoots back, Sasha’s well aware of. “All of us here need a chance to bond.”
“Bond, you say,” Jon’s monotone voice offers no insight to how he’s taking this suggestion. As Martin’s mouth begins to dry, his hands start working their way back into his hair.
“Indeed!” Tim continues, seemingly oblivious to Martin’s rapidly increasing heart rate. “We’ve all been stuck here together, figured we should become more of a team, you know? A team-building exercise you could call it. Something to get us more on the same page.”
“And what is this ‘team-building exercise’ you have in mind?”
Well, his heart may have been racing before, but it’s not anymore. In fact, he’s almost entirely convinced it’s just stopped completely. Jon’s eyes meet his own, and Martin drops his gaze fast enough to leave him dizzy.
This time Sasha speaks up, her coy tone doing nothing to alleviate the heart attack symptoms Martin’s now convinced he’s feeling. “An animal rescue cafe. They rescue dogs and cats, the ones that need rehoming, and bring them there so you can get to know them before you adopt. One opened just down the street from here, and me and Tim have been looking into going. We figured, might as well drag you and Martin along with us.”
Jon’s glare narrows further, a single hand coming up to rest between his eyes. The movement is completed by pushing up his glasses with a sigh. “And how exactly does drinking tea in a room full of animals qualify as team building?”
“You can tell a lot about a person from the way they treat animals,” Tim offers. “Not to mention the fact that there’s a whole study about how psychopaths are more likely to hate cats, which is mostly due to the fact cats have willful behaviour.”
Martin can almost taste his heartbeat at this point, a fact he’s finding quite alarming. Still rummaging through papers, Jon steps into his office. Much to Martin’s chagrin, they all seem to be following him.
“Are you suggesting someone working in this office is a psychopath, Tim?” Jon continues, huffing out another sigh as he notices the entourage entering his office. Jon’s glare lands on Martin once more, something he’s almost gotten used to at this point.
Laughter begins to flow from Tim, Sasha joining in with a mild chuckle. “Of course not, but hey, this job’s all about researching things that probably aren’t true. Better safe than sorry, right?”
Seemingly the only one noticing Jon’s growing apprehension, or maybe just the only one that cares, Martin can’t peel his eyes off their boss. Unaware of the scrutiny, though perhaps expecting it nonetheless, Jon pushes up his glasses again. Martin doesn’t miss the way he lets a single finger brush against his nose during this action. Nor do his eyes skip over the light scrunch forming at the bridge of said nose.
Oblivious as always, Tim’s still going on about the cafe. Something about which animals are available, what tea they serve, scones, and more useless information. Sasha’s typing something in her phone, apparently fact checking his current ramblings. Still, all of that fades into the background as Martin’s attention is drawn to Jon once more.
At first, he can’t figure out why he’s watching. Jon didn’t speak, and from his posture he hasn’t made any significant gestures. There doesn’t seem to be anything specifically that should have caught his eye, and yet-
And then it happens again. Jon’s brows tighten, his eyes begin to flutter shut, and his lips part just enough for his tongue to peek out between them. There’s a beat of silence, then a single breathy inhale, barely noticeable above Tim’s monologuing.
“ihh-”
Just as quickly as it began, Jon crushes it back once more, a hand roughing swiping against his nose. There’s a quiet feeling of– perverse excitement as Martin watches him. Why? No earthly idea. It’s not as if there’s anything specifically… exciting about the action. There’s no physical stimulation beginning, to phrase it politely.
Still, there’s something… almost electrifying, about bearing witness to a moment so personal and private. As if the only person in the room is Jon, and he’s opened the door for Martin to join him in his world. Which, as you think about it, just becomes more and more– creepy as hell! Damn it!
Pulling himself from his thoughts, Martin manages to peel his gaze away from Jon. Zoning back into Tim’s rambling, he just barely catches the tail end of a rant about different toppings on cinnamon buns. His silence was entirely unnoticed. Understandably, given only Tim had said anything in minutes.
“Personally, I’m a fan of the regular cream cheese icing,” Martin offers, forcing himself to keep his eyes on Tim as another soft sniffle sounds behind him. The others don’t notice it, Sasha rolling her eyes as a light begins to dawn in Tim’s.
“Well, interesting you say that Martin, they actually have those at the cafe down the street! Isn’t that such a wonderful coincidence?” Tim swirls his body towards Martin, casting a playful glance back at Jon as he continues. “Wouldn’t you like to stop by and get yourself one of those delicious buns?”
Martin feels his face begin to pale again, and barely manages a meek, “W-well… I don’t need to… get one right now… but if you want-”
Thankfully he’s saved from himself as a gasp sounds out from the desk. Everyone in the room turns, Martin included, just in time to see Jon duck into his wrist with a tight, “ih’nGXt–uih!”
“Bless you!” Sasha calls, Tim and Martin echoing the sentiment. A flush begins to spread over Jon’s cheeks, but it’s brushed off as he waves a hand, continuing to scribble on some papers. Casting a glance over to Tim, Martin sighs as the mischief floods the other man's face. He’s very clearly not letting this go.
“Was that actually a sneeze?” Tim laughs, mimicking the sound as Sasha suppresses a giggle.
Jon keeps his head down, pen still moving across the paper in disjointed movements. “It was in fact a sneeze, yes. Happens to everyone from time to time, no need to make a big deal out of it. Now, I believe you were going to a cat and do- hiHh! rescue cafe?”
The hitch manages to escape from Jon’s tight grip, his posture shuddering slightly with the force of continuing the sentence. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Martin that just the word dog seems to leave him breathless.
“A dog cafe, yeah! You’re coming too, right boss? Come see all the adorable little puppies?” Tim offers, gesturing towards the door. Apparently it didn’t go unnoticed by him either.
An audible gasp sounds out, and all eyes turn back to the rapidly hitching boss. Jon manages to stifle the first one almost silently, only a rush of breath escaping at the end.
“Bless you, boss.”
Jon waves a hand, wiping away the water beginning to flood his eyes. “Was just sihh… sighing, Tim.” He finishes the statement with another stifle, this time his whole body jerks along with the rough exhale.
“Really? Because that sounded like another sneeze,” Tim taunts, poking a finger towards Jon’s face. “And given the way your nose is twitching, you seem far from done.”
Jon seems to consider debating, but another frantic hitch decides it for him. Giving up the ruse, he ducks into his shoulder with another, “eh’tNGxt–uh! ih’NTchhuh!”
“Bless yo-”
“eH’DGZSHhh –uu!” The volume makes everyone jump, seeming to surprise even Jon.
“Oh- mby apologies, I seeb to be… hiehh–” Jon trails off, one hand frantically searching for a tissue, nose visibly trembling behind the other. In a move of uncharacteristic pity, Tim pushes the box within reach. Jon mumbles out a thank you, before swinging his chair around for a touch of privacy.
The silence is almost deafening, cut up only by the rustling of fabric as Jon attempts to subdue the onslaught. “eh’nGNt –oo!” And fails miserably.
“Do- maybe do you want… well possibly we should, actually I think you might- I mean he might want–” Desperately trying to find a way to fill the space, Martin rambles on, gaze bouncing between all three of his coworkers.
“Martin,” Jon cuts him off, “just say it.”
The annoyance Martin’s come to expect seems unaffected by the breathy quality of Jon’s words. Unless you notice the flushed nature of his ears, which… is kinda hard to miss when his nose is starting to match.
“S-sorry! I just figured you may want a touch of uh… privacy..? You seem… itchy,” Martin offers, already beginning to back out of the room.
Jon glares, lining up a retort before pausing as the first syllable comes out muffled with congestion. A sharp sniff and quick rub later, he continues in an easier tone. “I’m quite alright. No need for such concerns.”
“I mean- If… if you’re sure…”
Tim interrupts this time, draping an arm across Martin’s back. “You heard the boss, he’s fine. Now, onto that cafe?”
Before Martin can get a word out, Jon stands from his chair, dropping the tissues in the wastebasket next to his desk. Sasha chuckles out her approval, sticking her phone into a pocket and beginning to exit the office. Tim follows suit, leaving Martin standing alone with Jon.
There’s a beat of silence, Martin watching, horrified, as his body refuses to move an inch, silently waiting for Jon’s approval.
“Well?”
It’s not exactly an invitation, but it’s more than enough to send Martin scrambling for the door, muttering more sheepish apologies under his breath. If Jon heard them, he gave no indication, busy rustling through a desk drawer. A few more muffled stifles make their way through the noise, no indication given they were heard either.
As Martin makes it into the hallway, he catches Tim waving from the door. He’s propping it open with one foot as Sasha waits outside, once again on her phone. Martin waves back his acknowledgement, before gesturing towards the kitchen. Tim simply shrugs, calling something about ‘not waiting around’, before joining Sasha in the crisp autumn air.
Making his way back to the kitchen, Martin pauses at Jon’s door. He’s not eavesdropping, just… listening in, to see if Jon’s alright. It’s his boss after all, and he’s an assistant! He’s supposed to… assist! Perfectly natural thing to do, isn’t it?
A harsh double pulls him from his spiralling, Jon’s voice coming through audibly in the groan that follows. Alright, enough listening in, this is starting to feel more creepy than curious.
With what little confidence he can muster, Martin works his way through his plan. The mugs are where they always are, but the water in the kettle was a bit more cold than a proper cup of tea would allow. Flipping the switch, Martin began heating it, and hurried out of the kitchen to his desk. He picks out a fairly bland tea, Jon seems the bland type… right?
Another few sneezes sound out from the boss’s office, and Martin almost starts to feel guilty for still being in the office. It’s obvious Jon assumes he’s alone, if not from the sneezes themselves, from the groans that come after them. Ever the stickler for a Professional Appearance, he’d never allow himself to be seen or heard in such a state willingly.
The kettle sounding pulls Martin from his thoughts once more, and he pours the water over the tea bag. Moving carefully, as not to spill, he makes his way back to Jon’s office, knocking softly on the door.
“Yes?” The reply is sharp, a frantic sounding shuffling occurring as Martin begins to slide open the door.
“Hey, yeah sorry I just- you sounded like… I just thought that maybe you’d want… you might need some…”
“Spit it out, Martin,” Jon sighs, giving his nose a subtle swipe. Unfortunately for him, this seems to have been the wrong choice. His nose twitches, eyes beginning to unfocus, and Martin finds himself pausing for the interruption. At least, until Jon gestures at him to continue.
“Well, I just ma-”
“ih’tNGT–uu!”
“Bless you. I just made you some tea, it seemed you cou-”
“hHUh’dNT–uh!” There’s a pause, Jon’s breath catching dramatically, before he swivels around in the chair and aims a harsh, “eH’dZSHH– eih’DSCHhhh–oo!” at the fistful of tissues he managed to grab.
It wasn’t exactly quiet, and Martin finds himself flinching against the noise, but holds it together as he places the mug on Jon’s desk, hurrying through the rest of his sentence.
“Seemed you could use some tea, bless you again by the way, anyways I’m gonna head off with Sasha and Tim, I’ll see you there I guess! Or, well- not just me, we’ll all see you there, as a group, if you choose to come that is! Which of course you don’t have to, though we’d lik-”
“Martdin,” Jon, mercifully, cuts him off, congestion seeping through his words. With a deep sigh, he finishes his sentence. “Thagnk you. You mbay go ndow.”
Taking the out, Martin gives one last nervous smile, sliding out into the hallway. Another desperate sneeze leaves him wincing, Jon’s vocal groan sounding out yet again. The poor guy sounds miserable, and Martin almost considers going back in and telling him not to come. If he’s this bad from just the thought… well…
But he’s embarrassed himself enough for the day, and, albeit hesitantly, Martin heads off to meet Tim and Sasha at the cafe.
are you guys ready for ANOTHER H/owl's M/oving C/astle fic? I hope so. this is just me being a freak
other instalments:
In Which a Royal Wizard Catches (Another) Cold
In Which a Witch Catches a Wizard’s Cold
my fic master list
In the Wizard Pendragon’s moving castle, a fire flickered peacefully in its hearth, and a young witch gathered herbs together at her desk for a spell. It was a quiet, gentle morning.
But it was soon to be disrupted by none other than—
“ahh—hIZzSCHHhyihEW!”
… none other than the—
“HhyiiisSCHhyhhuew!”
… none other than the—
“Hh—hhih—iiihh…! hhThhSCHhhyiiiuhhhh!”
NONE OTHER THAN THE cold-ridden wizard Howl Pendragon, sneezing outside the castle door.
Sophie looked up from her work. By the sound alone, she knew it was her husband sneezing outside (no one else could possibly sneeze as loudly and dramatically as him). She prepared herself for a world of theatrics as Howl swung the door open and a billowing, cold wind rattled in with him.
“I ab never — SNDFFf! Go’igg bagck to the High Norland agaid,” declared Howl. “I dod’t care if it starts adother bloody war. Ndothi’gg is worth mbe.. hehhh.. catch.. hhih!… catchiGSCHHHhz’iHh!… catch’igg adother… adotherrhhYiiiSCHhzzhUE! —yYZCHhhHi’ue! Miserable cold… SNDFFgk! — such as this ode.”
Sophie winced. More for herself than for Howl, really, because he was insufferable with a cold, and it would fall on her to take care of him.
“Heaven’s sake, Howl. Bless you,” she said.
With a groan, he flopped down at the breakfast table, where he suddenly looked very sorry for himself. This was followed by some moaning, and groaning, before he whined for his wife to please bring him the quilt from their bedroom, and could she also bring him some tea, and perhaps start digging his grave near her favourite flowers outside?
“… And while you’re up, write a letter to the ki’gg to tell hib I wod’t idvolve byself id adother war.” He buried his nose into a handkerchief and blew loudly. The windows of castle rattled in chorus. “My codstitutiod is far too delicate for it.”
Sophie found it difficult to muster up any sympathy and was not at all amused with him. Her husband was normally very skilled at weaselling his way out of any conflict, especially when it came to being told what to do by the king, but this one took the cake!
She tsked her tongue and asked, “You’ll let innocent people die in a senseless war all so you don’t have to have a stuffy nose again?”
“Yes,” was Howl’s curt, congested reply. Then he sneezed again, in a dejected and echoing manner. The beams of the castle shook.
She rolled her eyes and decided it best to leave him. But as soon as she turned away, he whined for her again.
“Sophie,” he moaned pleadingly, his forehead pressed to the table, “feel mby nose. It is hotter thad coals. My edtire face feels like it bay melt off!"
“I’m not touching your nose, Howl.”
“You must,” Howl cried. He turned to face her. “A wife ought to listed to her husba’d. She ought to care. A good wife — one who loved me — would do adythi’gg I asked of her, especially whed I’b as close to death as I ab.”
Sophie fought back a laugh. A good wife! She wished to slap him, and would have, but Howl prattled on.
“At some poidt in this union, you’ll have to show a shred of concern and care for me. What were our vows? In sigg’ness and id health?”
He continued on and on, spinning a ridiculous tale about what how cruel Sophie was — how she didn’t truly love him, not really, and he should’ve never fallen for her and her rotten ways — but oh, how he loved cruel women anyway, probably something to do with the way he was raised or a spell put on him — and she’d finally had enough.
“Calcifer!” Sophie called to the fire. “Don’t bother heating the bathwater for him later. He’ll need an icy cold bath. I think the fever has all but ruined whatever brains he had left.”
“I agree,” muttered Calcifer.
“Curse you and your hard-heart!” Howl wailed to her. “You are a wretched, fiendish woman.” With a cough, he conjured another tissue and buried his nose into it, then sneezed sadly and dramatically, his chest expanding with each intake of air, like a balloon being puffed up. “—Hhah—ahh—hhaahh…! hhaH'yZSHhhHH-ahh! SndffFF! I ndeed to lay down. Perhaps with a hot drink and a compress.”
And then he looked expectantly at his wife, doe-eyed, before very nearly shrinking under her venomous gaze.
Sophie put her hands on her hips and set her mouth in a thin line. It was impossible to tolerate her husband when he was so childishly sulky. She had zero intention of making him a hot drink, of cooing over him as though he were some broken baby bird, when he was in the throes of a tantrum.
The moments stretched on, and as the silence became too much for Howl to withstand and it became clear she would not indulge his petulance with a response, he looked up at her again from behind the tissue. His marble-green eyes were wet and piteous. In an instant, Howl magicked her to him, sliding her across the floor as if she were a manican. She dug her heels into the floor but it was no use.
When he was satisfied, he locked his arms around her, crumpled forward, and laid his cheek on her abdomen, prostrating himself.
“Sophie,” croaked the wizard pleadingly, “please tagke care of me. I feel positively ill. You mbake me feel better.”
“And how it possible for a wretched, hard-hearted woman to make you feel better?” Sophie snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. Though he irritated her to no end, her wizard had a desperately sad look to him that tugged on her heartstrings ever so slightly.
“I overstepped,” admitted Howl. “You are ndot wretched. You are lovely. You are… you… are… hh—…”
His features fell, then, his soft bottom lip gently dropping open as his reddened nostrils twitched furiously. Yet he hardly looked silly or strange. In fact, he looked as pretty as ever. It enraged her to realise that even mid-sneeze, he was still devilishly handsome.
He pressed his large nose to her ribcage and she felt each release as they came. A warm spray crested against the baby blue fabric of her dress. The sneezes were wet and certainly promised a damp spot, whenever he finished sneezing on her for attention.
When it was clear his third sneeze wouldn’t come, he extricated himself from Sophie and flicked his gaze up at her, still caught in that itchy, desperate, pre-sneeze look. If she didn’t know any better, she’d mistake his expression for near-erotic.
The sight of his damp, teary eyes that beaded with wetness in the corners, his wrinkled eyebrows and quivering shiny lips and gasping breaths — well, it was difficult to ignore the swell of heat that bloomed in the very base of her belly.
“Ihht’s s-stuhh.. HEH—! hhaahh.” His exhale was borderline sexual. “Stuck… cad you help me?”
She bit her lip.
“Soph—hhih—hihhh—hiee…hh!”
Listening to him hitch her name in breathless little pants — the same way he did during sex — that was simply enough. She needed to put an end to it immediately.
The witch leaned forward and, focusing all her power on Howl’s twitching, red nose, said with a heavy dose of enchantment laced in every word, “Your nose is so itchy that you will sneeze until you simply can’t anymore. Until I say so.”
Howl gasped. His nose twitched, his eyes screwed shut, and he his fingers around his nose in a vice-like grip. The cold-ridden wizard now looked very much like he was no longer trying to sneeze, but rather fighting it off to curse her one last time.
“You terrible woman,” he sputtered, “why would you say—yhh sayyyihhh— hihhHh! Sayitlikethat— hhyiESHhHhyhiew! ... hh ... hih—zSCHhyh—ieZSCHhh—hhSCHhyIEWhh!”
He sneezed again and again and again, every breath promising a sneeze to follow after, or two, or three or sometimes even four in one go.
Occasionally he’d even try to stifle, “hgIXxt’uHh! hnGKT’uh! ... ih’xdt’hdXTk’uh!!! … ihgktSh—ZzscHHyiew!!” Until he realised that just made the sneezes stronger and wetter, as if they were simply building up behind his nose, demanding to be released.
When he finally decided to give up on stifling, especially after one in particular seemed to promise him quite the headache, “hhH—ihHDXTtssh’UHh! Ow!”, he pulled Sophie to him again, and his nose between her breasts. He used her dress as a newfound handkerchief and sneezed into it like it was all he had left in this world.
Sophie was utterly transfixed. He sneezed against her so strongly, so wetly, and though she should be irritated, she couldn’t find it in her to be upset. There was something in the way he was sneezing in between her breasts, holding her so tightly, hitching and hitching and hitching before each release, that was oddly interesting to her.
She eventually lost track of how many times he sneezed, though when the castle started to croak and groan as the fit continued, she thought perhaps it was time to end the spell. It would be a very bad day indeed if Howl sneezed the castle to rubble.
It wasn’t until the thirty-something sneeze (this was around the time she stopped counting) that Howl finally begged to her. “… hAHtchu! Please — ahHZschu! — Sophie—" He looked very pathetic, like the most miserable creature in the world, and sneezed openly in the space between them. “— hyZSCHh’iew! Mbake it.. mbake ittSCHh!’iuu! stop — hhih.. hh’bZChHhu… ‘hzschhh-ih…”
His sneezes barely had any force behind them now. Poor thing! He’d had enough. Even if he had asked for it in the first place, perhaps she’d been a bit heavy handed in her method. And maybe he’d learned his lesson about calling her a wretched, hard hearted woman, and slithering his way out of his duties. And, maybe, she could use this to her advantage.
After a moment of thought, and about three more sneezes, she picked up his feverish face in both her hands. He pressed his nose to her palm for comfort and sneezed — sadly, pathetically, wetly — against it, “ihSHhyiew…” before she spoke the magic words.
“You are done sneezing, Howl—" His eyes lit up. "—if you agree to meet with the king again to discuss the war.” And then they quickly darkened again. But Sophie was extremely pleased with herself. Even if she couldn’t get him to change his mind on his involvement, maybe Howl could at least convince the king to not start another war.
Though he looked a bit irritated at having his hands essentially tied, Howl finally nodded, and kissed her palm. “You are the only ode who cad wrangle mbe… idto… into— ihhySCHh’iu… submissiod— ... huh! Hh’bschhyiew! Sndf! — ... ... h’AHschu! Hell, I wadt to stop sndeezi’gg. Very well, wife. I … I … agreehYSCHhiu! I agree to your terms,” he said.
The spell came undone. As the magic lost its grip on him, his nose finally stopped twitching, and he took a breath without sneezing. Howl pressed two fingers to his pink, warm nose with a sign of relief before he collapsed into his wife.
“Oh, stars above, I thought I’d sndeeze forever," Howl mumbled into her abdomen. "Thagk you, mby love.” He seemed to have completely forgotten she was the one that made him sneeze so much in the first place. She hummed and patted his head.
“You are very welcome. I suppose the king can wait till you’re well again to meet you." It was hard not to smile at her cunning mind. She certainly could get her husband to do just about anything, if she used a bit of trickery! "Until then, perhaps we can sweet talk Calcifer into a warm bath.”
“That,” Howl purred, “would be lovely. I told you, you kndow how to mbake mbe feel better.”
Calcifer flickered in his hearth bitterly. “Except it’s me doing all the work to get the water hot, not her,” he muttered.
But all the same, the pipes started to groan as the hot water flowed in. Sophie led her husband to the bathroom. And of course, all the way there, and even when he was submerged in the bath, he sniffled and sneezed and coughed and whined about how terrible he felt, then sniffled and sneezed and coughed, and then sniffled and sneezed, and then eventually just sniffled — until he was so relaxed in the tub that he fell asleep.
Fandom: Chain/saw man Pairing: AkiAngel (characters are 21+)
Summary: Aki and Angel wait for their ride (2.1k)
Tags/Warnings: mess, briefly at the end / spoilers up to s1/reze arc
Aki makes the careless mistake of stepping in a puddle, just before reaching the awning that marks his retrieval point. The wet, heavy smack of his gait in pooling rainwater rings out, and then it begins to seep through his shoes, his socks, straight to his skin and bones. He frowns at the sensation, the new muddy feeling around his ankles, the restrictive, sodden discomfort rushing in all at once.
Sure, they were dispatched in the rain, but to fight in it, to feel the mist across his neck as he draws his sword at some slobbering creature, cooling on his skin as he catches his breath, that’s different. A necessary evil versus some mundane annoyance. Damning steps with different consequences. A laughable, amateur error for someone contracted with the Future devil. And yet.
He steps back, resigned, shifting his view of the gently rippling water so that all that’s left in the reflection is the downy corner of an outstretched wing.
The Angel devil slouches against grimy brick at his side, a comfortable distance away, eyes fixed on the falling raindrops. There isn’t much to say between them. Today’s work was another job where Aki did all the dirty work and Angel stood at the wayside, somberly inspecting the dead, kneeling down, lips moving, siphoning off the remaining years of what could have been a long life if they’d lived in any other world.
Aki reaches into a trouser pocket, pulls out a lighter and a box of cigarettes. If there’s time to smoke before Public Safety comes to collect them, he’s taking it. He rests a cigarette between his lips, cupping a hand against the wind as he swipes his thumb down the sparkwheel.
Just his luck, it’s too cold, too windy, for the flame to take properly. Sparks catch and fail, tumble out near his rough knuckles and vanish.
“Hey.”
With damp hair plastered down half his face, Angel meets Aki’s eye.
“Help me out here,” commands Aki, gesturing to his hands, cigarette bobbing in his mouth. “It’s the least you could do.”
Angel answers his request with a heavy sigh, stepping marginally closer and curling a wing around Aki so that it hovers by his shoulders, a barrier, not a blanket.
“Seemed like you had everything covered,” says Angel.
Aki’s light takes. The end of his cigarette begins to glow a steady amber, thin paper curling as it transforms to ash, falls like dust. Angel retracts his wing.
“I did,” Aki agrees.
“You hardly needed me. It’s a waste of my time, getting called in to handle these weak devils.”
“It’s more work to fight the strong ones, isn’t it? I gave you a break.”
“It’s not a break if I still have to show up.” Angel curls a wing under his chin, begins to stroke its feathers absent mindedly. “Easy work, hard work, it’s all work. There’s nothing good about having a job.”
Aki is familiar with this conversational pit of Angel’s, his black and white talking points when it comes to work. Practically speaking, Aki disagrees, but he’s always understood the sentiment behind Angel’s melancholy disdain for employment. He won’t say anything more. He sees no reason to defend their employer, the endless cycle they’ll work in until they die.
“Besides,” Angel continues, speaking the afterthought into the cold night air, “I’m tired.”
Aki exhales a soft plume of smoke, says nothing. A dull buzz engulfs his thoughts, its brief reprieve never enough, as the rain cascades down onto the lamplit streets, falling like confetti through slices of light.
He thinks about how sick he is of the weather, of whatever mess that Denji and Power have made waiting for him at home. Chest constricting, he thinks of Himeno. How she’d be smoking with him if she were still here, how she would’ve done something pointless and endearing like holding a cigarette between her teeth and asking Aki to bring the light closer. Maybe she would have met his gaze, smiled, shut her eye, and leaned in, trusting that he’d never burn her, not even by accident. And he wouldn’t have, never, not ever.
Beside him, Angel draws his wings inward over his head, folding them into a makeshift umbrella, arms crossed tight over his chest. Rainwater drips from the awning to his wings, runs its arcing gamut until it hits the ground or collects like dew among his feathers. He’s shivering, still gazing out into the empty street, at a crosswalk’s blinking sign as it counts down for no one. Inclement weather aside, no one likes to venture out when there’s been a reported devil attack nearby.
Aki hears something like a soft gasp, and then-
“heht’chhiew!”
An arc of water flings in his direction, not hard, but enough to leave a thin, dark line near his bicep. Aki’s eyes slide to his sleeve with mild curiosity, but otherwise, he doesn’t acknowledge what’s just happened.
Angel sniffles a few times. Watery, pathetic things. Aki catches the discomfort in his expression, the somber acceptance in his browline, the tight, thin line of his lips, his nostrils a light shade of pink from the cold. Angel looks more upset about the bad weather than he ever has observing the loss of human life.
That’s why I hate devils, Aki thinks, but even though this has been his mantra for years, the flare of emotion, of certainty that it used to bring no longer reaches him.
A memory of Denji and Power flashes through his mind, a pile of dirty dishes waiting in the sink, the collection of dried vegetables flung at unreachable angles on the wall. He can’t help but think of a hard candy, one that’s been rolling in his mouth for years until one day its outer coating grew thin enough to give way to something softer and sweeter on his tongue.
He takes another drag from his cigarette. A deep one.
Angel gasps again, two quick breaths climbing on top of one another. Then he sneezes. The sound is so full of his voice that if it weren’t for their unnatural cadence, it could almost be confused for a spoken announcement.
“heh—Tchiiew!”
His wings twitch and shudder again, this time with enough force to send droplets of water as high as Aki’s neck. Aki glances over and sees Angel with his mouth still parted, jaw slack and brow furrowed in waiting, nostrils flexed in a downward slant. He raises a forearm to shield himself just as Angel jerks toward again.
“Ehh’shyiew!”
“Watch it.”
Angel gives a pitiful moan, shivering within the cocoon of his wings.
“I hate the rain.” He shrinks back against the brick, sniffling. Then, “I can’t do anything about it. Sorry.”
Cautiously, Aki lowers his arm, frowning at the sight before him. The Angel devil certainly doesn’t need his sympathy, but it forms traitorously within him anyways. As they continue to wait for their driver to arrive, Aki tries not to pay too much attention to the continuous sniffling at his side.
It proves to be near impossible, because Angel seems hell bent on drawing attention to his running nose every few seconds. When he isn’t sniffling, he’s fidgeting, wings shifting in and out of Aki’s peripheral vision as he brings the cuff of his suit close to his face and swipes it across his upper lip.
As smoke wafts near Aki’s face, he can’t help but wonder if that’s adding to Angel’s current sneezing issue, or if it’s the cause. He’s smoked near Angel before and can’t remember Angel ever seeming bothered at all. Conversely, Angel has sneezed in front of him plenty, and he can’t remember any snarky comments about the smoke.
The cigarette in his mouth is nearly through. He doesn’t feel like wasting the last few puffs, but he cranes his neck away from Angel when he exhales, directing its final wispy plumes to the awnings margins.
He flicks what remains to the sodden ground, snuffing out the remaining embers without a second thought.
As he does so, Angel slides down, hugging his knees close to his chest. Even his wings look despondent. Any passerby would be able to tell that he’s exhausted. They’d never guess that all he’d done during their dispatch was show up.
“This guy is taking forever,” he laments with a sniffle. “I’m so cold.”
“He won’t get here any faster if you whine.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Not really.”
Angel’s head lolls into his knee, cheek squishing against his knuckles.
“I guess you would say that. You’re a city mouse after all.”
Maybe Angel has a point, not that Aki would ever encourage the indulgence of complaining. Their driver does seem to be taking their sweet time. How did he get stuck looking out for so many immature charges?
“Hih-hihh—!” Aki tenses at the noisy hitch of Angel’s breath, readying himself for more water to be flung in his direction. He watches, then, as Angel huddles into his knees and flinches, wings rigid, tense.
“-ehGXh’chiew!—ishh!—tssh!—tsssh’Hyiewh!”
Aki finds himself flinching despite himself at the harsh, suppressive nasal quality of Angel’s first sneeze, followed by its emphatic vocal ending. His eyes, though, are on Angel’s wings, as they remain flexed, drawn close towards Angel and away from him as he shivers through the rest of the fit in rapid succession, each breathy sneeze tumbling out with no pauses.
Tentatively, one of Angel’s wings lifts, revealing in its parting view Angel with a still hazy expression. His long eyelashes are at half mast, betraying that even after such a display, he still needs to sneeze. His head bobs forward with a shaky breath, a flash of orange cradled in a sea of white, and then he disappears once more behind a wall of feathers.
A beat passes, and then Angel seems to relax, unfurling his wings with a heavy sniffle. He rubs a knuckle under his flushed septum in a way that’s almost demure, in stark contrast to the way these two sneezing fits have seemed to violently possess him. He groans soggily.
Aki can’t take it. Angel, or himself.
He slides himself out of his suit jacket, then heaps it unceremoniously on top of Angel’s head.
“Put this on if you’re so miserable. You sound like you’re hurting yourself,” he explains.
“I am.” Aki tilts his head. He has his doubts.
Angel shimmies himself into Aki’s clothes, which sag comically over his slight frame. The excess fabric pools on the ground, the sleeves bunched up several times at the wrists so that Angel can still access his hands, which are now balled up under his chin.
Angel glances at Aki, amber to cobalt, searching for the warmth, for the absence of it. His gaze shifts to the stray raindrops starting to soak Aki’s shoulder, dark freckles gathering into a single conglomerate.
“Thanks,” he says, finally, standing back up.
“Don’t get snot on my suit,” Aki answers, but there’s no bite to the words. It’s a request with no strings attached. He crosses his arms and steps further into the awning.
“I’ll do my…” Angel trails off, and Aki finds himself watching as Angel’s nose wrinkles, curious about the outcome. Angel crushes a hand to his septum, sleeve gliding down his forearm as he pinches the tip of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.
“Heh’gxdt!-chiiew! hEh…Eh…-eh’krrschh!-iew!”
Aki grimaces as the squelching fullness of the second sneeze. It’s not a surprise, he supposes, even if whatever is tugging in his chest is.
Angel opens his eyes slowly, pulling his hand back to reveal gossamer strings of mess webbed at his fingertips and running to the base of his nostrils, catching the warm glow of the streetlights.
“heht—schyiew!”
Aki clicks his tongue, digging in his pocket for a handkerchief. He squats down as he retrieves it, holding it out to a watery eyed Angel with half of his face obscured.
“You’re hopeless.”
Angel meets his eyes for a second, then averts them, taking care not to touch Aki’s hand as he takes the handkerchief.
“That’s not a nice thing to say to an angel.”
“You’re a devil first.”
Angel hums something noncommittal because he doesn’t disagree or agree, headlights sweeping over them as he starts to blow his nose.
“And you should really get your own handkerchief. How many times am I going to have to loan you mine?”
Aki says offhandedly as he steps into the rain and towards their waiting vehicle.
“I don’t know,” Angel says as he follows suit, still clutching soiled fabric that smells faintly of smoke, cologne, detergent and Aki to his face. The hum of the car’s engine mixes with the shush of falling rain, drowns out the remainder of his muttered reply.
I've been ungodly horny the past couple of weeks for something that involves mirrors, sex and a cold... and I finally decided to do something with it. I've been contemplating whether to post it here, because it's so shamefully graphic. But in the end, I couldn't resist. I put it under the cut, because I don't want to be banned and I care for my dear ace followers who can not be bothered with this! I love you and you're valid. 💕
So... queer NSFW under the cut. It was nice to draw some t!ts for a change. Hope you don't mind.
Thank you so much for all the love on my last fic! I wanted to do a follow up piece for it. I’ll likely write one more cold-fic for Howl too because I love writing his dramatics 🤣
In Which a Witch Catches a Wizard’s Cold: Sophie comes down with Howl’s cold, and Howl is pleased about it. If only she would admit it!
There came a time in every wizard’s life when he would be bested by a more powerful match. Whether it be in conjuring, shape shifting, or spells, it was the natural order of things to eventually be eclipsed by another.
Howl could not accept, however, being outdone by his stubborn wife.
Sophie Hatter — newly discovered witch, former hatter, and owner and keeper of the wizard Howl’s unruly heart — had caught her husband’s cold. It had been inevitable, he knew, and he could hardly hide his joy when he discovered his wife discretely blowing her nose and drinking a gallimaufry of magic herbal tinctures (which, she should know better than to do, because there was no cure for a cold). She was sick!
He was pleased as punch. Sophie Hatter, who had claimed she wouldn’t catch his cold. Sophie Hatter, who had made so much fun of her husband for feeling pathetic and profoundly pitiful with a cold. Sophie Hatter, who now had come down with his same cold, and was hell-bent on ensuring she did not show a singular sign of weakness to her husband, out of complete and utter stubbornness.
No, he would not be outdone by her. He would get her to admit she was sick, allow him to take care of her, and then he could breathe his favourite words: I told you so.
It began when they were sat at the breakfast table. Howl was reading his newspaper, and Sophie was reading a spell book. When she turned to the side and stifled three sneezes into her hand — h’igXT! hn’xjt! hh—kng’tuh! — he perked up immediately.
“Something bothering you, Mrs. Sneeze?”
“It’s dusty in here,” she replied in a clipped tone. “You should clean.”
He bit his tongue. “Well, bless you, anyway.”
Then he returned to his paper, and Sophie to her book. Only, five minutes later, she was sneezing again. Her poor nose had not been satiated.
“ih’djSH—!” Then she pinched it off, head bobbing into her hand, and emerged with a breathy, “-guhh…”
He put his newspaper down. “It’s incredibly hard to read with you making so much noise. There must be something bothering that big nose of yours. A cold, perhaps?”
She glared at him, then stood from the table. “I’m going out.”
He all but leapt to his feet, rattling the furniture and their breakfast laid out before them. Out? She couldn’t go out. She was sick!
“You’ll make your cold worse,” he protested.
His wife left the kitchen, to the front door. He followed. “I don’t have a cold,” she said. She gathered her shopping basket and her hat.
“Oh, you—“ he wagged his finger at her. “Your shining dishonesty will not be your salvation. I have never met someone as pig-headed as you, wife.”
“That’s odd,” Sophie mused, “as you often gape at yourself in the mirror several times a day.”
This woman was a master at stroking his ire, and she was in top-form today.
“Admit that you’re ill!” he screeched. He stood in before the front door, blocking her. “You have caught my cold, and you feel terrible, and you need your husband to look after you. Admit it.”
Sophie looked like she was ready for a fight, as always. A light breeze fluttered through the open window beside them and rustled her pretty hair. It was a beautiful day outside, the air fresh from spring rains, and she was determined to do her shopping, even if she felt run-down and cold-ridden.
“Not everyone is as miserable and useless as you when they’re sick. Which— hih…“ She paused, suddenly, and turned to the side. Her features pinched up and he heard her breath hitch.
But, to his disappointment, she overcame whatever sneezing spell she was about to suffer through, and she continued, just as obstinate as before.
“— which I am not. Move aside. I need to go to the market so I can make a spell for Lettie.” His wife sniffled and Howl felt a protective heat boil inside him.
“Bother Lettie, you are sick—“ But before he could keep rattling on at her, she ducked past him, and charged forward into the beautiful spring day outside. She wasn’t even wearing a jumper!
He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the front door. His mind raced with evil, nefarious solutions to break his wife’s iron-clad will.
“Don’t do what I think you’re going to do, Howl,” Calcifer chimed in from the hearth. “She won’t like it. A scorned witch is a dangerous witch.”
“Bother you, too. I’m tired of everyone acting as though they know better than me,” Howl growled. “That woman does nothing by halves except think.”
Then, he closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose, concentrating.
Magical energy began to thrum through him like a war drum, beating faster and faster in line with his ever-racing heart. His skin tingled. Calcifer gave a frustrated groan and sunk deeper into his logs.
“Here we go again,” the fire said.
Outside, dark, ominous rain clouds formed across the beautiful blue skies. Lightning cracked and thunder boomed as rain suddenly began pouring down in sheets.
Howl opened his eyes and smirked. It wouldn’t be long now.
He began to count. Three, two, one…
And the front door opened again, presenting a dripping wet, hard-breathing, sniffling Sophie Hatter.
He was pleased his plan had worked. Now she would feel just as awful and cold as he did, and beseech her husband for a hot drink, and he would tend to her in bed and remind her of what a good, kind man he was, and then he could tell her off for ever thinking she could get the better of him.
She began to squeeze water out of the bottom of her skirt, then sneezed — “h’iCHhhu…!” — quietly, softly, behind her hand.
“Oh, get a bit damp out there did you, Mrs. Plague?” Howl taunted. He leant down until he was (large, angular) nose to (small, straight) nose with his wife. “Perhaps you should go lay down, before you make your cold wors—“
He was at once cut off when Sophie shoved her way past him, stomped up the stairs, and slammed the door. He heard drawers flying open in their bedroom. Some more stomping followed by even more politely muffled, feminine sneezes.
Then, his wife emerged from the stairwell in a new dress and his trench coat, holding a great big umbrella over her shoulder. He was worried she may hit him with it. It was the one he took when he went golfing with his sister’s husband, larger even than Sophie. It was heavy, and bulky, and how she would manage with it and all her shopping, he had no idea.
“I promised Lettie I’d get her this spell by tonight,” she explained. “I’m going out, Howl, no matter how hard you try to stop me.” Then she was gone out the door, leaving only the echo of the bang.
“I told you so,” said Calcifer. He would be the only one saying it.
Howl kicked over a chair. “Curse everything! Why does my heart belong only to the most stubborn of women? Imagine if I had married someone docile as a lamb, how easy my life would be! Instead I married a tigress, and I am constantly paying the price,” he moaned, and picked up the chair.
Despite the storm still raging outside, he shoved on his rain coat and, with a sweep of his hand over his body, conjured himself into a cat.
Following his wife was much easier as a feline. He could scope walls and rooftops, watching her from afar. He became drenched from his own thunderstorm spell, though he cared little, as at least Sophie was dry beneath the umbrella.
In between desperate, cold-ridden sneezes, she struggled with the umbrella here and there, especially when it blew opposite in the wind. When he’d finally had enough of watching her plight, he magicked the umbrella to float obediently beside her so she didn’t have to hold it.
She seemed shocked when it simply began floating above her. But he knew his wife very well, and if she didn’t immediately suspect it was his doing, she would attribute it to her own unmanageable powers. With the umbrella bobbing beside her, she was able to finish her shopping, and Howl raced back to the castle so he would arrive home before her.
Changing back into a man, he installed himself in front of his hearth with a book. Calcifer crackled in front of him but did not rise to greet him. Perhaps he was sleeping, or thought it better to hide from whatever war Sophie and Howl might wage next.
The wizard felt Sophie’s aura approach before he actually heard the door open. He stood from the couch just as she came bustling into the castle. The thunderstorm still rampaged outside, a cacophony of splitting lightning and howling winds.
Behind her, the umbrella tried to come into the castle, but it was too large and bounced helplessly against the door frame, eager to follow its master. Howl snapped his fingers behind his back and it fell to the cobblestones with an empty clatter.
“Did you find your ingredients, my dear?” he asked politely, coming round to help her out of his much-oversized trench coat. He took the basket from her and kissed the crown of her head. Playing nice might save him from facing her claws.
“Yes,” she said. Her anger seemed to have subsided on her walk home, for which he thanked all the gods above. “I have everything I need for the… um…”
He did not miss the way she rubbed at her nose, pinching the tip as she did so. It was pink, and damp with moisture.
His entire body thrummed with excitement. Yes, here it was, she would sneeze, and then admit to him how awful she felt, and then his stubborn as a mule wife would let him take care of her, and he could proudly declare, “I Told You So!”
Howl waited patiently, grinning. “For the…?”
“… the…” Her breath hitched. Once, twice, her breasts rising beneath her blouse. Howl magicked a handkerchief discreetly behind himself. “ahh-hh…”
Here it came. The bridge of her freckled nose scrunched up, and it was so adorable that he found it hard to keep his heart from melting just a bit.
She brought up a hand to cover her mouth, but he was faster. He grabbed her (regrettably, he thought) cold hand and pressed the tissue to her nose.
“hyiiSCHhiew! —THhyiew!”
“My goodness, bless you, Sophie.” He couldn’t help but consider how cute her sneezes were. Feminine, soft, and perhaps a bit damp, where a cold was concerned. It endeared him to her even more, if such a thing was possible.
When she recovered, she snatched the handkerchief from him, scowled, and pushed past him again, leaving him standing by the door with her shopping.
He’d gone too far with the thunderstorm, he knew. If he was going to get his wife to finally relax, and perhaps let herself be looked after, he would have to try a different approach.
“When does your sister need this spell by, again?” he asked as Sophie began to unravel scrolls on their work table. He brought the basket to her.
“Tonight,” said Sophie. She sniffled and unpacked the basket. “It’s very urgent.”
“I see.” Howl touched his wife’s red-gold hair. It was still damp from the rain.
“Let me help,” he offered guiltily.
Sophie eyed him curiously but did not object. Together, they finished the spell, and Howl sent a raven to deliver it to Lettie. Sophie was pleased they had finished it so quickly and busied herself with making a cup of tea.
By this time, it was early afternoon, and Howl gave a dramatic stretch and a yawn before telling his wife, “The rain is making me feel very tired. I think I shall have an afternoon nap, if you would be so kind as to join me,” and then retired upstairs.
It worked like a charm. While he pretended to sleep, his wife eventually followed him. In the washroom, he heard her gargling water, sneezing again (soft, and cute as a mouse, he thought), before she emerged dressed in her nightgown. She joined him in bed.
Howl pulled her to himself, her back flush to his chest. She was warm and shivered when he kissed the back of her neck. Fever-sensitive skin, then.
Like this, with only the soft patter of rainfall on the window, he could hear her gentle breaths. With his arms around her waist, it was even easier to feel when her breath suddenly began to hitch, and she sneezed again.
“…hih…! hh—…. hhihCHshu! — ihhjSCHhh’Yue!” Then she sniffled, and turned towards him in his arms, seeking his warmth.
“Poor heart, bless you,” he said. He did not like to see his wife so poorly, and he realised he had let his ego win again. He hadn’t wanted to tell her, “I told you so” at all — he had just wanted to take care of her.
You stupid old sod. He thought to himself. Later, he’d make her tea, and bring her sweet cakes in bed as an apology. For now he simply brushed her hair back from her forehead, admiring her pretty red eyelashes, the freckles on her nose. She was winsome even with a cold.
“Do you know,” Sophie croaked after a moment, “in the market, I saw this odd ginger tomcat watching me from afar. He had the same colour eyes as you. I thought it very strange.”
Then she kissed the space where his neck met his jaw, closed her eyes, and fell asleep with soft, congested snores.
And Howl had been outdone, once again, by his wife, the extraordinary witch Sophie Hatter.
