Hi, all! 👋 I’m Scatter, this is my sneeze kink blog, and aside from the wav I did that one time, I dabble mainly in writing 😄
Some additional info:
I love asks or friendly messages! Feel free to reach out ☺️
If you interact with me, include your age in your profile so I know you’re an adult ✔️
Below are the fics I’ve written. I'll add more as they come! Thanks! ✨
Original Fiction
Omicron Verse
Best Laid Plans - NSFW
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Epilogue
A secret agent is going undercover for a few days, and his target has a sneeze fetish. The agency’s best engineer has created something to give him an edge.
Crash Course
Two rookie secret agents fall in love. (Or, 5 times Rho makes Delta sneeze — plus the 1 time he gets them back).
Echo Juliet
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 (soon)
Sneezy secret agent gets paired up with another employee for ‘cross-departmental education.’ Omicron can’t imagine a worse assignment.
Fan Fiction
BNHA (Professional Hero AU)
Sinus Deep - Katsuki isn't well. Izuku takes matters into his own hands.
Spotlight - Izuku is a panelist for a merch-signing event at a fan convention. Too bad he came down with an incredibly irritating headcold the day before.
Last One Standing (2/2) - There’s a cold going around the hero agency offices this summer. Bakugou believes his immune system is superior.
Still Standing - (prelude to Last One Standing) There’s a cold going around the hero agency offices this summer. When Izuku catches it, Katsuki has a hard time convincing him to go home.
Shinsou Says - While on a mission, Denki gets himself into a tricky situation. It’s up to Hitoshi to get them out.
Hair Down Kinda Day - Every time seasons change, Shouta catches a cold. Every time, Hizashi helps him through it.
Formal Affair - When pro-hero Midoriya is awarded a national accolade, Todoroki wouldn’t miss the ceremony for anything – especially not for a little cold.
I Do(n’t have a cold) - Denki and Hitoshi attend a wedding. Hitoshi isn’t exactly feeling up to it, but Denki doesn’t need to know that.
Visiting Hours - After a routine operation, Katsuki is high off his ass on pain meds and hellbent on making sure Izuku knows how much he loves him. Izuku suffers.
Breaking News - While trapped in an unpleasant press conference during Hizashi’s allergy season, Shouta permits the man to do them both a favor.
Our Flag Means Death
Lazy Afternoons - Ed naps in Stede’s arms while getting over a cold, and he wakes to the relief he’s been craving.
Stress Test (3/3) - Izzy Hands is a fearsome man, but like anyone, he has quirks he cannot help but indulge.
Strung Out (3/3) - NSFW - (sequel to Stress Test) Stede and Ed discover that Izzy’s tendency to sneeze under duress can apply to stress of a much more pleasurable sort.
Other Fandoms
Second Opinion - [The Witcher] Geralt just wants rid of this bard. Or at least he thought he did.
Dusty Turnabout - [Ace Attorney] Edgeworth had no idea Gumshoe was so allergic. Neither did Gumshoe, for that matter.
Catch a Tiger by the Nose - [Tiger & Bunny] It’s allergy season, and Barnaby believes Kotetsu’s sneezes are most certainly exaggerated.
Paid Time Off (3/3) - [Hazbin Hotel] After Hell’s stand against the angels, Alastor isn’t feeling so well. He could do without an audience, especially with one certain pint-sized King of Hell.
How'd You Do That? - [Venom] Eddie sneezes for the first time since Venom arrived. Venom is curious about it.
someone who doesn’t normally have big sneezes, catches a cold from their partner, which didn’t cause them to have big sneezes, and yet the moment this cold takes hold they succumb to the biggest, most violent, forceful sneezes they have ever experienced. thank you.
happy pride to the asexual snzfuckers who were very confused about how they could be into no one and also snz at the same time! it’s a wild experience, but i love that there are so many of us on here and that the snz community is so inclusive when it comes to asexuality <3
Summary: Sneezy secret agent Omicron gets paired up with another employee for ‘cross-departmental education.’ They both have a lot to learn.
PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 (coming soon)
AHHH, everybody thank you so much for so many sweet comments and reblogs on this story!! ❤️ I'm so happy people are excited to see Omicron again, and I appreciate you all sharing that with me!! 🥰
This was taking so much longer than I wanted it to, so I decided to break this part into smaller pieces! Hopefully this means the next part will come a little faster than this one did haha 😂
These are original characters, all in their twenties and thirties!
After only a week of knowing the man, Omicron decided EJ was more diabolical than he seemed at first glance.
Despite his imposing size, he was approachable. Dauntlessly affable. Generously easygoing. He possessed an infuriatingly disarming presence, uncomplicated in a way that was effortless to exist beside. Omicron refused to be soothed by it, balked at the idea of trusting it, because it was obviously some sort of mask. Who could be so reliably frictionless all the time if they weren’t building up a secret well of resentment that would one day explode?
I’m onto you, he stewed silently as he listened to EJ ramble about something or another. The man talked with his hands; Omicron narrowed his eyes. You can’t keep up the facade forever.
In lieu of hard evidence, Omicron did what he did best: quietly observed and amassed information. Thus far his dossier on EJ included practical information offered freely when Omicron asked, and a chaotic assortment of facts the man volunteered on his own. Through this he’d catalogued a rolodex of knowledge.
EJ was hired about four months ago with previous experience in facilities. He spent his teen summers as a part-timer learning from the janitorial staff at his high school. Not to mention his considerable experience on his family’s farm, upon which he’d lived his entire life waking at the crack of dawn to bale hay and scoop muck. Omicron clocked EJ as dedicated to his work, gifted with ingenuity, and good with his hands. He spent his free time building tiny plastic robots and reading comic books. He liked sweets, specifically saltwater taffy. Horses were his favorite animal. He missed his family.
Somehow it annoyed Omicron that he knew all this. Most of it he didn’t even ask for. EJ just told him.
There was only one occasion that Omicron found something EJ wasn’t willing to discuss — when he asked why EJ moved here to the city, the man was strangely cagey. He said something about ‘needing a change of scenery,’ and Omicron filed that particular interaction away with the tag SUSPICIOUS.
“Um… Omicron?” came EJ’s voice.
Omicron blinked and pretended very hard like he’d been listening. “Yes?”
“Didja still wanna show me some spy stuff?”
A zing of purpose prickled the nape of Omicron’s neck. This was his opening, the cue preceding what would be a flawless performance. It had to be, after his disastrous series of introductions to this man. Omicron spent several evenings pouring over the E-Impact Initiative requirements to construct the most mind-blowing, impressively arranged presentation of spy-related information he could possibly offer (within the limits of classification clearances of course).
It’s show time. Omicron straightened his cufflinks, tugged his lapels into place, and folded his hands behind his back with a lift of his chin. “Of course,” he said with a pivot on his heel. “Follow me.”
“Oh, where are we goin?” EJ asked, catching up with three long strides. Omicron glanced up and allowed himself just the slightest edge of a smirk.
“My office.”
---
“Whoaaaaa…”
The word washed over Omicron like a beam of sunshine. He tried not to preen, but it was hard to resist when EJ was rubber-necking every square inch of the room just like Omicron hoped he would. His office was the most meticulously curated space he occupied — his pride and joy, far above that of even his own apartment. This was, after all, the place people actually saw and associated with him. It couldn’t be anything less than exceptional.
“It’s like out of a movie,” EJ gushed, running a hand along the smooth wood of Omicron’s desk.
An imported walnut desk to be exact, rich in color and stately in appearance. It was framed by an arching palladian window overlooking the campus green, where the agency’s many employees scurried to and fro. His french press sat on a rolling stand nearby, complete with porcelain cups and spoons. Diplomas, commendations, awards, and certifications framed and arranged in an aesthetic cascade along the wall. All from a life before this one, his civilian name artistically redacted from the paperwork. Towering shelves of hardback books, every spine sporting a title no self-respecting secret agent wouldn’t have read at least once. An air purifier (a peace offering to appease his nose) was placed inconspicuously to the side of the room, the only blemish to an otherwise perfect picture. On the other side sat a small, round tea table with cushioned stools to conduct business.
And most notably, laid out across that table, was a collection of retired tools of the trade. EJ nearly tripped over himself when he noticed them. “Holy moly.. are these..?”
“Spy gadgets,” Omicron affirmed, arms crossed with a straight face even as his stomach fluttered with glee. “I thought you might be interested.”
EJ turned around, peeling his eyes off all the shiny lures to look squarely at Omicron. And then he smiled. Big. Warm. So wide it wrinkled his eyes. “You remembered I wanted to see ‘em. That makes me happy, ya know? Thanks for doin’ this.”
Omicron immediately flushed, a surge of heat coloring his ears. It was the verbal equivalent of being slapped with a fish — shocking, unexpected, and he possessed no prescripted reply. People don’t just say things like hey, this thing you did made me happy. Not without some ulterior motive. Was it another attempt at disarmament? A finessed ploy to lower Omicron’s guard? Flattery. Ingraciation. A long con to whittle down Omicron’s defenses and infiltrate the field intelligence sector to mine for sensitive information.
No, Omicron counseled himself, massaging the bridge of his nose. That’s ridiculous…
He chanced a peek at EJ; the man was already perched on a stool, looking comically large at the tiny table, still wearing that wide smile as his gaze roved over the gadgets. Priority 1, Omicron decided, was to play it cool. He could work out the logistics of EJ’s questionable behavior later. Right now he had a show to put on.
Which is of course the moment his nose decided to twinge.
Omicron froze for half a second, realizing that touching his nose had been a mistake. It had churned up the urge, woken the beast from slumber, after all the trouble he went to this morning to satiate it. He’d steamed his morning shower to tempt his sinuses into an indulgent mood and then let his nose run wild. Deep, slow sniffs of thick air earned him a dragging fit of sneezes he’d heaved toward the floor with full abandon while he braced a palm on the shower wall. As hard and as many as his nose wanted, all in an effort to persuade it into obedience today.
No such luck. Never such luck, frankly. He gritted his teeth. Not now, he informed his nose as he felt it prickle with interest. Not in front of him again.
“Are ya sure it’s okay to show me all this stuff?” came EJ’s voice from the table. “Ya said it’s classified, right?”
“These are exceptions,” Omicron replied. He subtly maneuvered himself to lean against his desk, snatching up a handful of tissues when EJ’s attention rerouted back to the table. “Everything here is retired technology. No longer standard issue.”
“Kinda like a spy history lesson, huh?”
Indeed, the arranged items exuded the air of a museum exhibit. EJ asked about every little ‘doohickey’ and ‘thingamabob’ with childlike fascination. Between increasingly desperate pinch-wipes of his nose with crumpled tissues, Omicron explained each one: tiny disc-like microphones that transmitted sound through walls via vibration; a grappling device in a holster shaped like a cigar with a 60-foot microfiber line that could lift up to 250 pounds; a chunky car key fob capable of emitting an EMP pulse that easily disrupted cellphone communications or wiped data transmissions off of hard drives.
By the time they reached the last gadget on the table, Omicron felt drunk on the urge to sneeze. The itch had suffused deep into the walls of his nose, everything inside him squirming now with anticipation. He squelched his nostrils shut in a futile hope of quieting the sensation. It was so distracting he didn’t notice EJ picking up the final tool and turning it in his hands.
“And what’s this one do?”
Omicron knew the gadgets by heart — what they did and which ones he’d selected for display — so he didn’t bother to look. His eyes stayed shut, steeled against the insistent feeling of something soft and enticing behind the bridge of his nose. It was light, maddening, like inhaling a vortex of feathery down. All of it sticking to his slick, trembling membranes, already blushed pink with need. Not enough to make him sneeze. Just enough to make him want to.
“..huhhit’s.. uh.. pen that you can write with, but..” Here he paused to sniffle, the sound wet enough to make him wince. Tears clung to his eyelashes when he cracked open his eyes to find the tissue box. “.. ugh, one’d mbidute..”
Blowing his nose wasn’t ideal but it was better than a sneeze leaping out of him. There was no way his nose would stop at one if he gave in. Omicron evacuated his sinuses as quietly as he could manage, and that was the only reason he heard the soft ffssh, startled gasp, and sudden clatter behind him.
He whirled around, eyes wide over tissues still cupped to his nose.
EJ was pawing at his face, reflexive and urgent. On the table laid the pen, the cap twisted in a way that made Omicron’s heart skip and the urge to sneeze dissolve. He jerked the tissues down to his side.
“Did you activate it?”
EJ squinted at him, struggling to see through a liquid gaze. Omicron catalogued the signs: watery eyes, ruddy patches of irritated skin, nose beginning to run, trying not to cough. Definitely dosed himself. Dammit. Teeth gritted, Omicron snatched the tissue box off his desk and, after a moment of dithering, thunked it on the tea table.
“M’sorry,” EJ rasped, snuffled, and then turned his head to cough into the crook of his elbow. He wiped his eyes, but they immediately teared up again. “.. didn’t know it was.. would—..” His voice tightened around another coughing fit.
“I was going to explain,” Omicron said as he fumbled with distilled water from the carafe sitting beside his french press. After nearly spilling it onto the floor, he wetted a stack of napkins and held it out to EJ, who immediately pressed the sopping wad to his face with muttered gratitude.
Omicron retreated, arms crossed tight to his chest, and continued, “When you twist the cap, it produces a mist that irritates mucus membranes. Similar to pepper spray. The model is so outdated, I didn’t expect the canister to have anything in it. That was my oversight.”
But for the record, fiddling around with tools like they’re toys isn’t the wisest choice, Omicron thought. He almost said it aloud, but an unfamiliar impulse of restraint silenced him. It felt unproductive to chastise EJ, who was still apologizing between coughs and sniffles with a voice muffled by a soggy pile of napkins. At least the potency of the compound waned with age; EJ’s reaction wasn’t nearly as pronounced as Omicron feared it might be.
“Feels like I ate a plate of hot wings without my hands,” EJ choked out around a chuckle. He snorted hard and deep, then swallowed. A month ago Omicron might have recoiled, but lately he wasn’t one to talk — even as he stood here his own nose was beginning to tingle impatiently again.
“It will take some time to subside,” he replied. “You may want to stop by the infirmary for a rinse, if it got into your eyes.”
“Naw, I’mb okay.” EJ sleeved beneath his nostrils again, and then noticed the tissues by his elbow. He plucked several, and without any reservations, blew his nose with a trumpeting force that made Omicron jump. When he finished the man wrinkled his nose, blinking wetly with bloodshot eyes. “It ain’dt too bad.”
“If… you say so,” Omicron replied, the words stiff as his posture. He had the urge to insist in the infirmary, but the awkwardness of doing so made him waver.
He wavered long enough for the siren call of his waiting sneeze to catch up with him. When it teased the tip of his nose, he swiveled his head to disguise a dissuading rub with his knuckle. Only when he looked back did he realize EJ wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. He’d gone still, swollen glassy eyes locked unwavering on the tabletop, and as Omicron watched he saw EJ’s nostrils flare with delicate, wavering uncertainty. A tiny notch appeared between his eyebrows. His lips parted, a sliver of teeth visible between them.
And because Omicron saw this expression on his own face at least a dozen times a day, he knew exactly what he was looking at: a sneeze was brewing. The discovery germinated a sense of weary relief — For once, it’s not me — that grew into vindication — It’s him this time — and at last bloomed into thorny, juvenile schadenfreude.
I want him to feel embarrassed in front of me for a change.
Years of discipline smothered Omicron’s smirk before it could form on his lips. He busied himself with tidying up the gadgets, keeping EJ in his periphery with the steadiness of a sniper scope. The man looked lost inside himself, listening closely to a sensation still echoing in Omicron’s own traitorous nose. It was a game of endurance now. Seeing the slow creep of a sneeze sink through EJ’s expression made Omicron’s nose hungrier, eager for its own relief. He cemented a fist beneath his septum like he was laying a brick. His nose twitched, irritated to be denied. Omicron squinted, watching. The tickle paced, waiting.
The furrow between EJ’s brows deepened from confusion into concern. His nostrils peeked open. Wide, then wider. His eyelids grew heavy. His breath snagged.
And then EJ shoved away from the table so quickly his chair nearly toppled. It scared Omicron’s sneeze away; the tickle retreated far into his sinuses with a sting that promised its return. EJ surged to his feet, one hand hovering in front of his nose and mouth as the other steadied his chair and snatched up his satchel.
“Actually I should.. I gotta hit the infirmary, I think,” he said, already moving for the door. His nose wrinkled behind the loose curtain of his palm, his entire expression scrunching with restraint. “Still, uh.. burnin’ kinda bad.”
That’s a load of shit, Omicron wanted to snip, because he was trained in statement analysis and knew when someone was talking out of their ass. He took a breath to reply, to detain EJ long enough that his sneeze would squirm free, but the man turned at the doorway to give him a watery, wobbling smile.
“.. Thanks again for..hh- doin’ this.” He spoke around the urge, his expression weaker by the second before he rushed his sleeve up to scrub his nose into submission. His parting words were rushed, muffled by fabric. “Sorry seeya round!”
“Wait-”
Gone.
Omicron, hands fisted at his sides, stomped up to the door and glanced out to watch EJ’s hulking frame sprint down the hallway at an impressive speed. Not in the immediate direction of the infirmary either. Omicron’s eyes narrowed. Suspicion mingled with the sour, petulant disappointment of seeing this man slip away rather than endure the indignity of sneezing in front of Omicron when Omicron himself has done nothing but humiliate himself with outbursts on every occasion.
Case in point, his sneeze impatiently barged forward. He didn’t even get the courtesy of a build up. Omicron gasped, held tighter to the doorjamb, and staggered over the threshold with an echoing, “-ig’GIZZSCHue!!”
It was loud enough that someone from a neighboring office called out a startled ‘bless you!’ Omicron barely suppressed a growl as he knuckled his dripping nose, still glaring down the mouth of the hallway where EJ disappeared.
You’re not what you seem, he thought with a sniff. And I’m going to find out why.
/tbc!
Thanks again for reading and sticking around! 💕 Hope to see you again soon at Part 3 ^w^
a slender finger poised delicately underneath rapidly-pinkening nostrils - a polite reflex that only makes them more aware of how wide their nostrils are flaring.
a knuckle, pressing insistently up on the underside of a nose in an attempt to quell a fierce tickle that’s been making their eyes water for the last ten minutes.
a palm, rubbing hard and violent against an itchy nose - up, down, side to side, anything to get rid of the annoying itch.
gentle fingertips, massaging the bridge of a nose that’s chapped and sore from a stubborn, lingering cold, giving the swollen mucus membranes some slight relief but in the process shifting some congestion that’s bound to tickle their sensitive nose into yet another sneezing fit.
a fingernail, scritching + tracing circles around a pink, quivering nostril rim, teasing out a sneeze that’s been building for the entire day.
two fingers, pinching a nose as hard as they dare and still only ever managing to half-stifle the sneezes - they’re too strong, too desperately loud, to silence completely.
one finger, held up as a clear warning for an impending fit - as if the glazed eyes, flushed nose and hitching inhales weren’t a clear enough indication for what is to follow.
Hey guess what… I have another commission done! Thank you so so much to @opposedsnz for commissioning me! I have no idea who this character is except his name but I like him! DM me if you’d like to commission! Thank you so much you guys. More to come soon ..;)
Two ladies getting it on and Lady 1 is almost there when she needs to sneeze but the pleasure is distracting her enough that the sneeze won't come and the sneeze is distracting her enough that she can't come
Fandom: J/JK
Pairing/AU: N/anaH/igu, AU where a lot of bad things didn’t happen lol
Spoilers: none
Length: ~3.6k
contains: sneeze fetish content, character with the fetish, allergy sneezing
Summary: N/anami runs into H/iguruma at a bar. He’s immediately drawn to him for one reason in particular.
Notes: Several of you have been asking for h/igun/ana and I can only hope this meets your expectations!!! It’s admittedly by no means the craziest thing I’ve ever written, but I did my best to channel my inner pervert through N/anami and I hope it comes across as intended LOL. :)
Fic Masterlist
He isn't looking for anything tonight.
Or at least, nothing other than a seat at this bar, solitude, and whiskey. No work. No overtime. Friday night, done right.
Nanami loosens his tie an inch more, runs a hand through his hair. Everything is amber, warm, and yet lively, with busy streets outside shifting past the windows. A hotel resides directly above, adding extra foot traffic of guests coming and going. There's a general air of noise, glasses clinking, people chattering, but it's all mellow on his ears.
He touches a glass of honey liquid to his lips, taking a slow sip. It's warm in his mouth, and then warmer in his throat, burning pleasantly just below his chest.
That hits the spot.
Nanami closes his eyes. Not-so-distant memories of exorcised curses turn fuzzier yet. Often grotesque at their most tame appearances, the responsibilities of a Jujutsu Sorcerer required repeated confrontation with curses– and they're often the stuff of nightmares. He had become acclimated to it enough that most days, Nanami didn't think twice about it. But some days, like today, the imagery haunted him.
Nothing a good drink can't fix, though.
As he opens his eyes, there's a heaviness that clings to his eyelids. This should be his last glass, he thinks, his bed turning steadily more enticing than any other vice to indulge.
Suddenly, there's movement in the corner of his eye. The two women seated to his left pass money to the inner edge of the countertop. They stand, still idly chatting and giggling over the latest gossip of their evening together. Only two empty wine glasses remain on the granite countertop, and Nanami takes advantage of the open space to lean back and stretch.
That's when he notices another thing left behind. A man, seated two spots down, previously blocked from Nanami’s view.
Nanami’s brow raises, just slightly. Everything around him drowns for a few seconds as his attention sinks itself onto the man’s face. Only one feature of it, in fact.
What a nose…
It's big. Really big, and extraordinarily aquiline– anyone is sure to notice it at first glance, but Nanami especially. He only vaguely notes his dark hair, sunken eyes, monochrome clothing. Nothing could fully tear him away from the masterpiece sticking out from his face.
Nanami adjusts his grip on his nearly empty glass. Perhaps this won't be his last drink after all.
For a night where he wasn't looking for anything, it seems something found him after all.
He's careful in how long he risks his eyes on him, at it. Head tilted forward, his eyes dart hungrily to the side and linger. Nanami let his mind wander, weighing on all the things he'd like to do with it. Or what he'd like to simply observe of it, like how it looked, how it sounded when he–
Suddenly, there's movement. The man scrunches his nose, that nose. It's not a subtle motion, lip curling up in a snarl to match the contortion of his flesh. Again, it twitches, affirming to Nanami that he didn't just imagine it in a hopeful haze.
Something remains unresolved in the man's expression. One hand fidgets on the countertop, also uncertain. Nanami holds his breath without meaning to. Was he…about to…?
“hH–!” His wrist tucks under his nose, eyes fluttering. His posture turns rigid, and that wrist becomes an elbow in the nick of time. Nanami’s own breath catches when he suddenly ducks down, shoulders jolting into a sneeze. “hheH-RHHMPFf–!” One. His chest heaves, then, “hehH-MPFFSChh-ih–!” Two.
A knot settles under Nanami’s stomach. Like a scratched record, he runs through the sound, the visual, over and over. What detail he's able to recall of his expression before he tucked it away is erotically ticklish, needy.
Change of plans- this drink is absolutely not going to be his last.
As if on cue, the bartender sidles up to where he's seated.
“Can I get you another?” she asks, smiling.
“Please.”
“Suntory, neat, right?”
Nanami dips his head again. She takes his empty glasses and pulls a fresh one.
Like an arrow shot straight to a target, his eyes instantly lock back onto his target. And– oh, shit.
He's looking right at him. Eyelids low, pupils like black coal within a sea of white, burning right through him.
He saw him staring. Shit, he saw him. He’d been caught eating him up with his gaze like a fucking pervert. Nanami mentally kicks himself, the heat of swallowed whiskey crawling back up his throat. What the hell was he thinking?
Nervously, Nanami sets his eyes down to the bartop. Only for the other man to speak.
“Sorry. Couldn't help but notice you order the same as me.”
He holds up his glass before tilting it to his mouth. Nanami blinks. The liquid in his glass is of the same honey orange.
Same drink. They’ re having the same drink. That’s all.
Nanami only nods at first, struggling to catch up under his relief that he hadn't been pinned as a creep. Which he certainly wasn't, in most any circumstance. Except tonight.
“Same brand and all. Suntory,” he adds.
Yet again with impeccable timing, the bartender sets a freshly poured glass in front of Nanami. “Thanks,” he says quickly, pulling the glass closer.
“You here alone?”
Nanami meets the man’s gaze again. “Pardon?” He shakes his head, his brain finally collecting itself enough to understand spoken language again. “Sorry, I- yes.” What does he mean by that…?
“Ah. That makes two of us, too,” he says. He raises and tilts his glass just slightly, in a toast of sorts.
Nanami dips his head a little lower. “What's the occasion, then?”
The man sips his drink, the tip of his nose twitching against the rim of the glass. Nanami wonders if he'll get to see him do that again. He hopes so.
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Well, if getting off work early for once is worth celebrating…” He grimaces in a way Nanami would recognize anywhere. It's the face of a man for which getting out early- or getting out, in general- is always worth celebrating.
He knows a thing or two about that. Nanami has seen that face in the mirror far too many times, some of them recently.
“I'll say,” Nanami finally responds. “I'm here on similar terms.”
The dark haired man raises his brow. He turns his body to fully face him. In one breath, Nanami mourns the disappearance of his well endowed side profile, only to infer more about him. A history of stress wore on his features, work related, if he had to take a guess by now. His eyes were naturally hooded, further exaggerating any touch of exhaustion he carried. He had something of a “resting bitch face,” as Gojo would (rudely) call it.
Nanami knows about that from looking in mirrors too.
“What do you do?”
Naturally, he would ask him that. Nanami pauses for longer than he liked. Answering that question with honesty isn't exactly something he should do. Something about his piercing gaze makes him want to be honest though…
But, no. Telling a stranger you're a Jujutsu Sorcerer without good reason isn't part of the deal.
“I'm a salaryman. At a finance firm.” Not completely untrue, at least. He'd done it for enough years prior.
“Ah.”
“Keeping rich people richer. The most important job in the world, right?” Nanami says, sarcastic.
The man huffs a laugh. “So I've heard.”
“Really competent boss, too,” Nanami adds. “And co-workers that could never give you a headache.” Okay, that part was aimed at his present day job. Now he looks equal parts amused and sympathetic to his plight, and Nanami cracks a smile as he sips his whiskey. “What about you, though?”
“Not much better.” He sips his drink too. Then, his answer: “I'm a defense attorney.”
Whoa. Nanami nods. “Long hours?”
“That would be an understatement. One hundred hours weekly is the norm, sometimes.”
Nanami all but physically recoils. He remembers late nights at the old office, some of which he decided sleeping there was a better option than even bothering to go home. A towel over his face to sleep, dark circles under his eyes the following morning.
100 hours, though…
“Wow.”
“It's worth it. Sometimes.” He pauses, as if deciding whether that much is true. “I'm kind of known for taking on dihhficult- clients- ihh–!”
Nanami opens his mouth to speak, but his words catch. The man’s expression flinches, and he knuckles at his nose. He's staring off distantly at nothing, and the tension doesn't leave his face. Nanami feels a fresh flicker of heat graze his insides.
It jolts inside him when he twists to shove his face into his sleeve, towards him rather than away. “ihH’DZZCHih–! EH’SHeuhh–!” His shoulders tense, tremble, tremble harder, and then relax. He sniffles, eyelashes wet as he blinks his eyes open again. “Exguse mbe.”
Nanami tries again- and fails- not to stare as he squishes his nose into a napkin. A napkin that looked too small to be effective. Christ.
“Bless,” is all he musters to say, seconds later than he should.
The man nods, not seeming too shy about the increasingly repetitive occurrence. “Sorry, what was I saying again?”
Beats me, Nanami thinks.
“Oh…! Honestly, the trial today ended favorably. But this...” He gestures at his face, at his nose. “This made it extremely annoying.”
Nanami swallows. Oh… oh, God. A lawyer, an extremely competent one at that, apparently, upholding his professionalism and stature while struggling with… a cold? Allergies? Both at once?
Nanami shifts his legs. That's a fantasy he'll have to entertain later.
The silence begins to stretch, and Nanami finds himself fidgeting again. “I sympathize,” he blurts out, finally. Something awful stirs in his chest. Did he just confidently announce his allergies to a stranger?
Bold was his nature tonight, apparently.
“Oh? Does the air bother you at this time of year too?”
So it is allergies. Noted. Heavily noted.
“Year-round, honestly. Spring is the worst.” Nanami stifles a grimace. What the fuck kind of conversation did he just walk himself into? Or better question: why the hell was this guy entertaining it?
Then again, things such as this were mere small talk for normal people. Nanami isn't normal.
“Summer for me, if you couldn't tell.” He looks a tad sheepish, nostrils flaring in a sniffle again as if to prove his point. “Sounds as though we have plenty in common… What's your name, anyways?”
“…Nanami.” He never gives that name out on the first meeting. Kento would be most proper, after all. The chance of hearing something so intimate spoken in his voice is too much to pass up, though.
“Nanami,” he echoes. Oh, he was right. It's like honey, dripping past his ears.
”And you?”
“Higuruma.” He holds out a hand, which Nanami meets with his own. Higuruma’s palm is pleasantly warm against his, and he hesitates to let go.
Meanwhile, there's a gentle smile shining in his eyes, that is until Higuruma’s expression flinches. His hand twitches in Nanami’s grip before he jerks it away. “Ehhxcuse me—!”
Nanami remains fixed on him, processing the movement in slow motion. Another napkin, too small, haphazardly grabbed and barely catching the sneeze. “hehhH’DT—huh!” Or the first sneeze, rather, as his expression only tightened, nostrils hiking a little higher. “heH’DTSHh—! ehH’ZSCHhihh—!” Higuruma shakes his head, blinking tears from his eyes before rolling them, annoyed. “Oh, God, hh- hhH–!”
Two more sneezes tear out of him. The napkin is soaked, containing nothing at all. Nanami has no idea whether he manages to say a blessing, or how many times. His lips moved, but nothing other than the sound of his sneezes reached his brain.
The napkin a lost cause, Higuruma’s hands steeple over his nose in an attempt to contain himself. He leans back a little further in his chair, head tilting back with a louder, shakier gasp. “heHH’DZZSCHiehh—!” It's followed by a louder sneeze to match, chased by a note of finality that signals the end of the show. At least Nanami hopes so, because if he's subjected to much more of this, he'd be excusing himself to the restroom– but not to go to the bathroom.
“God, I’mb so sorry…” Higuruma whines, slumping forward. The already saturated napkin returns, rubbing into his nose with the same uselessness as before. “They just sndeak up ond mbe sometimes.”
“D-don't sweat it,” Nanami assures, although his voice cracks in a way that's anything but reassuring. With little more than the essence of a conscious thought, he retrieves a clean handkerchief from his pocket. Nanami holds a hand out, averting his eyes. “Here. Those napkins suck.”
“Are you… sure?”
“It can be washed. Don't worry about it.” Nanami sucks a breath in. It's just a handkerchief, which happens to have his initials embroidered in the corner. Nothing weird about this. Absolutely nothing.
That's before he hears him, emptying his sinuses noisily, productively, into a cloth so familiar to him.
Nevermind, Nanami thinks. Higuruma should just burn it after this.
This remained his sentiment as the night went on, frequent sneezes dampened into the handkerchief as they talked, and drank, and talked, and talked. Nanami had shifted seats to be closer to him at some point, a slight flush gathered at the high point of his cheekbones. Whiskey-fueled blessings fall from his lips effortlessly whenever Higuruma interrupts himself to sneeze, having lost his nerves by this point.
A warm, boundless energy lingers in the air between them that Nanami becomes steadily more aware of. Chemistry, maybe, but what kind? Were they just two men seeking like-minded company? Someone to commiserate with about the shitty parts of his job?
But Higurum leaned in when he laughed. And a hand gradually drifted closer until it was touching Nanami’s thigh. It couldn't be the alcohol making him slip, as Higuruma had slowed significantly in that regard, and he doesn't read to Nanami as a lightweight.
Nanami feels his chest tighten with anticipation of… something. Something more than the anticipation already present for every pre-sneeze gasp.
He just… really hopes tonight won't be the last night he sees this man.
Another glass of whiskey down, which he mentally declares his last, Nanami casually seeks the greater part of the bar for a restroom. He nearly finds it, except-
Wait. Was that…?
There's a man across the bar with dark hair, extremely long and layered, partially tied up in a bun.
Suguru Geto. Nanami would know that face anywhere.
He looks his way for a second too long. Geto catches his eyes when he turns, and his expression lights up from afar.
Nanami gets tense in his seat. Shit. Shit.
“What's the matter?” Higuruma notices the sudden demeanor change. Very little gets past him, it seems.
Nanami sets his jaw. Geto isn't the problem. Rather, the person with him-
“Nanamin!”
And there it is. A hand enthusiastically pats his shoulder. Nanami forces a neutral expression as he turns in that direction, certain that Higuruma is reading every inch of him on the way.
Brilliant blue gleams from behind the dark lenses perched on Gojo’s nose. A bottle clearly labeled “NA” is in one hand, and he's dressed in street clothes, not much unlike Geto. “Fancy seeing you here, Nanamin.”
The teasing lilt in his voice grates on him. “How many times do I have to remind you not to call me that…?” he says, mostly under his breath.
Gojo drops into the seat closest to him, and he leans an elbow onto the bar, tilting his head. “C’mon, you let Yuji do it all the time,” he whines.
Nanami shakes his head. “What're you doing out, anyways?”
“Had the night off, for once. Suguru wanted to go out.” He nods over his shoulder, and Geto raises a hand to wave. “You were on a mission earlier, weren't you? How did it– oh–”
Nanami shoots him a glare harsh enough to stab him, subtly sliding a finger across his neck in a cutting motion. Not the right place and time.
Gojo’s about to ask what the deal is before he sees Higuruma- or rather, hears him next to Nanami.
“heH-eh’SCHHihh–!”
Nanami’s fingers twitch. Gojo eyes the handkerchief tented between Higuruma’s hands, colored a print he might assume was a coincidental match to Nanami’s. The embroidered initials, however…
His heart skips a beat when Gojo squints at him. It's only a second, but a second long enough to let him know he's being read like a magazine spread open onto a cold, hard table.
Gojo knows more about him than is good for Nanami, or anyone really.
“Someone you know?”
Nanami opens his mouth, only for Higuruma to introduce himself, “Sorry. Higuruma.”
“Gojo. Co-worker,” he says, nodding towards Nanami.
Nanami dares to finally turn and exchange a glance with Higuruma. He looks… mildly amused. Not put off, thank God.
Gojo prattles on, “Nanami, I didn't know you went out with anyone other than Shoko or Suguru. When did this happen? Don't tell me you're on a date?” His eyebrows raise. He's talking more than loud enough for Higuruma to hear.
Crack. It's the sound of his relief snapping in two.
Nanami could've died right then and there. Is it a date? He's still not sure of that yet, but any possibility assumes Gojo isn't about to completely ruin it for him. “Gojo–! Gojo, can you– just–” He bites his tongue before he says something unpleasant. Getting snappy isn't going to help the situation any further.
Flustered, he turns to Higuruma. “Um– sorry, could you just excuse us for a moment?”
And again, his eyes are warm, forgiving. “Go on.”
“Yeah, pop over! Suguru wants to say hi, I'm sure,” Gojo pipes up as Nanami stands, finally.
His demeanor does cool, just slightly, at Geto’s presence. Gojo instantly pegs him with more questions though. “Seriously, what's going on? Are you on a date?”
Nanami’s eye twitches. “Maybe. As long as he doesn't find out I already lied to him about my career.”
Gojo holds up his hands defensively. “Hey, I seriously didn't realize. My bad.” Then, leaning in closer, “What is the deal though? He's not a sorcerer, clearly. Where'd you meet this guy?”
“We just– I met him here, tonight.” A sound breaks out just a touch higher than the greater ambience of the bar, a sound that could only be another sneeze. Gojo’s eyes look past Nanami’s shoulder, and he smirks.
“Well, he really seems like your type, Nanami.”
Nanami almost frowns at him, but he can't help but follow his gaze to Higuruma, who had buried that beautiful nose of his into his handkerchief again. Yes, his handkerchief.
His ears go hot. “Some thoughts should remain inside thoughts, Gojo,” he finally says, pinching between his eyes.
Gojo laughs. “Yeah, yeah, all right. Look, we’ll leave you to your little date, okay?”
“I'll make sure he's kept in check, Kento.” While Geto wore a look of amusement, there's a sincerity that came across his words, and Nanami’s shoulders loosen.
“You better come hang with us later! Assuming you don't leave with this guy,” Gojo smirks.
“Shut it.”
Nanami manages to break away from his colleagues then, heaving out a heavy, nervous sigh. He does finally retreat to the restroom as originally intended.
At the sink, he stares into the mirror, and the mirror stares back. Over and over, he runs through the motions of how to ask this man for his number. Or something like that. Any kind of phrasing to indicate he was interested, but not desperate… even if he was a little desperate, truthfully.
He was giving off signs he was interested too, right? Right. Maybe.
Nanami sighs again as he fidgets with his hair. Ugh. This nervousness. He loathes it, and yet it's a feeling he hasn't faced in far too long. His heart rate quickens.
The worst he can say is no, that he isn't interested. It’s fine. He can take that.
Nanami pushed the bathroom open with steeled nerves. They don't last, though.
It tears itself apart bit by bit the longer Nanami looks across the room, further and further troubled as he realizes… he doesn't see him. Finally, he sees it, the chair he was definitely sitting in before, and…
Not there. No Higuruma in sight.
Nanami’s heart sinks. And then it burns, with an urge to ring Gojo's neck because he desperately needs to blame this on someone other than himself.
Deflated, Nanami settles back onto his chair. He briefly entertains if maybe he was also in the restroom, but it had been empty when he walked out. No, he'd really left. The bartender catches his eye, and Nanami can't hide the mixture of confusion and disappointment clouding his gaze.
She smiles at him though, as though she's been waiting for him. “Ah, there you are! The gentleman next to you asked me to pass this along.”
Nanami raises his brow. His heart soars back up into his chest where it belongs as he recognizes a number scrawled neatly into a napkin. Swallowing thickly, he brings the napkin up closer, reading what the rest of it said:
Nanami–
I'm so sorry. Something came up.
And then, underneath his number:
Can we do this again?
P.S. - Thanks for the handkerchief. I'll give it back next time.
Nanami nearly swoons, fighting the urge to bring the paper and tuck it gently to his chest. Relief washed over him in an embarrassingly strong wave.
He looks back to the table where Gojo and Geto are seated.
Okay, Gojo. You're safe this time, Nanami thinks.
Next time, he'd written. Next time. The phrase writes itself over and over behind Nanami’s eyes through the rest of the night, all the way up until he finally opens his phone and taps Add New Contact.
Gotta love when someone's like "I'm not allergic to that! Here, I'll prove it!" and then sticks their face into/inhales a big sniff of it and they are, in fact, allergic to it.
A 'celebrity' who became famous for their gigantic sneezes and their long-suffering handler who must keep them from indulging the whim to blast away any minor inconvenience at the drop of a hat.
Thankfully, their staying hand is the only one that can prevent their boss from causing any real damage.
withering glare at the remark “aww, you’re all stuffed up!” bc the slight exaggeration wounds them, considering their speech still occasionally produces clear-sounding m’s & n’s, but they can’t argue the specifics in case the ‘not’ involved there comes out the traitorous way
I'm so into apologetic sneezes. Like the excuse me, pardon, sorry something really tickles in my nose, so sorry I really can't help it. It just gets to me. It's so hot and so adorable at the same time, it drives me nuts.
sickie who is super insecure about being sick and looking and sounding gross x caretaker partner riddled with guilt at being so excited about getting to be the one to look after them in this state
