An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Characters: Shiro (Voltron), Keith (Voltron)
Additional Tags: snz, Sneezing, sneeze fetish, SHEITH - Freeform, Established Relationship, keith is a sneaky bastard, shiro’s dreams come true, Masturbation, blowjob
Summary:
Shiro has a secret that he’d rather not talk about with….well, with anyone, really. There’s never really a good time to unpack your kinks when there’s an intergalactic war going on, but Keith….
Well, Keith has never been especially slow on the uptake.
This is an older original fic that I posted on the Forum years ago and just rediscovered. M/F, 18+
—
Maybe it's the dismal grey weather or the sexy bit of the novel she read on the subway or the fact that she’s just spent three nights away from her husband. Whatever the reason, she finds herself dropping her bag and jacket in the front hall in her haste to get up to the bedroom. All day long, Mae has been restraining herself from thinking of the man waiting back home for her and the aching desire to touch him.
The little fact that her husband is fighting a head-cold doesn’t dampen her spirits. Jon has a rather spectacular ability to catch colds (not to mention allergies) and it won’t be the first time they’ve made love while one of them is a bit under the weather.
This technically isn't in order, but I've had to accept that insisting on not posting anything for characters unless in order or until I've finished one thing before another only seems to lead to me not finishing anything for those characters.
This is probably the raunchiest, most NSFW thing I've ever tried my hand at. I've never done this in the past, but I've had to figure out a lot and part of that 'a lot' affected my ability to approach my own sexuality.
The fun part. This fic assumes Bella and Safir both being on the same page on the fetish and, subsequently, experimenting with it. Playing/inducing with perfume and ordered holdbacks/needing permission to sneeze. Some powerbottom themes but the dom/sub play is fairly casual.
Please DNI if under 18 or not a sneezekink blog. Thanks.
"Isn't it counterproductive to have me on top of you for this?" Safir asked, shed of his clothes and looming as she laid back. Bowing forward from where he knelt between her knees to press a trio of kisses to her forehead, her temple.
"Mm, maybe a little." She answered, humming at the contact of his lips. His head lifted to regard her, and she let her gaze roam over the half lidded eyes, the rise and fall of his chest and sculpture of his body. She remembered why she'd wanted him there.
"But I can look at you this way." She flushed deeply, turning to hide her face, still unaccustomed to admitting to this strange side of her sexuality to him. "And I want to see it."
"See what?" Her face burned, heart pounding harder. A coy smile tugged at his mouth. She muttered dismissively, frustrated with herself and how unlike her it was to feel so shy.
"I have to understand to give you what you want." More genuine, sincere. Gently pleading, prying. She took a breath in, made herself talk.
"To see what it does to… your body. How you move." An explorative hand stroked down her flank in just the right way to make her skin prickle, a reward and comfort. The small current it put into her blood momentarily made her forget her embarrassment.
He leaned forward again, a loose strand of hair dragging on her collarbone. The searing touches on her skin and pressing lips below her shoulder lanced down her spine. Heat warmed her rapidly, compelled by it she reached toward his face. Fingers glanced his cheekbone, stroked.
"Hhih–hh!" At once a surprised, uneven inhale shook him, a sound that made her stomach flip. The smallest dab of perfume able to draw an immediate response.
He caught her wrist, pinned it as he rose and fought with his lungs. The tips of his teeth flashed, his eyelids pinched shut. She could see his shoulders jerk and his chest shudder. Scars pulling skin tight as his nose wrinkled and nostrils flared.
Relaxed.
Flared.
His head tipped the slightest bit. But he controlled it, to her disappointment. Slumping back from the upraised position with a sigh as he let go of the held breath. Sniffing and shaking his head back and forth, before peering down at her.
"Not yet." He requested. "I want to savor this first." He pinned her other hand as he hovered over her again.
Savor. Her excitement grew.
He crushed their mouths together for an open kiss. Half in rebellion, and half in search of a way to touch him, she wrapped her legs around his body, anchoring herself until her heels tapped against his thighs. It pulled him forward, closer, brushed him against her. He made an animal sound, parted his lips from hers.
“You are going to make this difficult for me.” He muttered, voice dropped an octave, breath tickling her cheek.
“As always.” She smirked widely, twisting her hands in his grip seditiously. Making a game of the fact he was holding her.
Teeth and tongue punished her sweetly. Made her keen and squirm. But what made her anxious and excited most of all was she could hear the effect the lilac scent was having on him, slowly seeping into his senses. The pauses for an unassuming catch of breath, hearing him sniffle and feeling his nose crinkle and twitch when he buried himself in the crook of her neck.
On her neck, her chest, the teasing lilac. There to torture him in its own way as he tortured her. Reserved for each wrist, however, the potent one, that encompassed and could overtake him in an instant. An arsenal for her to wield.
"Hhhih!" The first full hitch and first of many. He drew away, lashes fluttering as again the perfume teased him. She forgot her awkwardness in the headrush it gave her.
"Does it tickle already?" She asked him, far too innocently.
"Only a little." He managed through uneasy breaths and a deliberate, sharp sniffle. She felt a sense of deja vu.
"But I hardly used any. Is that really all it takes to get a sneeze out of you?" She cocked her head and grinned feral, having far too much fun taunting him even with the anxiousness of unfamiliarity coiling in her stomach.
"You know by now it doesn't take much." Another thick sniffle, too frequent to be natural. He faltered with a sheepish chuckle, despite how abundantly clear it was that he was as eager as she, with the view and access to his body she was afforded. Deliciously visible.
She would not allow that eagerness to falter long, however, curving her spine to lift herself. An archer's back still remained, and her legs were strong from hunts and treks to forage herbs. So these feats of strength made it easy to seat herself precisely where he would respond most quickly.
He did respond, baring his neck and groaning. Pride rose in her chest at the control she held from this prone position, how easy it was to drive him mad. The grip on one wrist released to grab at her hip and pull, whether he was in that moment aware of the consequences of the action or not. She caught an inkling of how great an effort it must have been not to rock, seek friction, when heady eyes burned into her. A desire that mirrored her own.
"Would it please you if I sneezed now?" Her free hand twitched, then wrapped her fingers into the sheets instead, an act of self restraint.
"Very much."
His only answer was a sound of unmistakable hunger as his head dove forward, nearly disrupting her leg lock on him in the process of such vigorous, unexpected motion.
He latched onto her neck as though intending to devour her, inhaling deeply, shuddering and sucking in another hitched breath. Inhaled again, groped her flesh in his hands, moving up as he was seemingly unable to go past the precipice of a sneeze. He caught her ear, kissed, lapped.
"I'm aaahh-hhHH! Almost!" He whispered, hitching, breath chilling against her wet earlobe. The sound sparking in her ear and tingling in the rest of her, the places his lips had touched. She made a sound of her own, yanked the sheets, tossed her head and heard him gasp intensely. He reared up, mouth parted, his head tilting back as his body prepared to relieve the stuck itch.
"IhhkSHHT! Hihhkshhh! Hkkshhiew! Ihh-hah!" It snapped his body forward, unintentionally grinding himself into her as he held her down. A hitch turned into a half moan. Her turn to gasp, though the motion and surprise of it forced her to dislodge her legs.
"H-Hhah-hhhhh! Hair t-tiihhhyy-YyiihksSHieww! Hhksshhieew! Khhshht!" His abs tensed to become visible when his diaphragm flexed to push out the accumulated air. Chest expanding and jumping erratically as he gasped, fought with the buildup to speak. He let go of her hip and scraped his nostrils over the back of his hand ferociously.
"Hair tickled my nose." He explained, cheeks flushing but unable to express much behind a fist and with an allergic response contorting his face. Eyes watering, short of breath.
She would have giggled, both at the embarrassment she'd been able to infer and at the prospect in general. But her head was swimming, drowning in a soup of visual and auditory stimulus. At the thought of her hair tickling him, which only further spurred her excitement. From the way she writhed, the noise that came from her throat without permission, he had to realize it.
And he did, gaze trained on her and taking in the details as he recovered, both curious and enjoying watching her too. Knowing what it was doing to her.
"I hope this is worth it, with how much it itches." He teased, sniffling.
Oh, he absolutely knew what it was doing to her.
She hissed his name, writhing, rolled her one wrist in his grip restlessly. He was quick to offer the comfort of his touch. She had a thought, a need, to hear him talk some more. One she hoped he would indulge her in.
"Describe it to me." The nervousness in her belly burned in her cheeks as she made the request.
His brows furrowed, caught off guard, thinking. When the silence was on the cusp of making her anxious he spoke, "I will try."
He closed his eyes for a long moment, his face and body seemed more relaxed, controlled. Something she'd seen him and the monks do before. He blinked a few times as the tension left him, looking at her. Shifted his knees, then dipped down to kiss and nip at her chest. He paused with his lips on her sternum, breathed in through his nose. For a fraction of a second the inhale snagged, though he kept his breathing at a controlled rhythm.
"It starts around my nostrils, but when I breathe in more of the smell," He did so again, repeating the inhale he'd done before. She felt him suppress a shiver.
"I feel it creep up, a deep tickle that goes to my head and I can feel thiiih!" He nearly lost control, lifting away from her chest for a second to keep talking. "This pressure, as the inside of my nose swells up."
Her heart felt like it would explode out of her chest, she could hardly stand it. Both out of nervousness and sheer arousal.
"Keep going." She asked, voice low. He offered half a nod, breathing getting faster.
"I feel it in the scars, a throb. More so when I s-ssaahh! Hah! Ohh." He moved to rub his nose into her shoulder. She could feel how damp it was, leaving streaks of moisture as he tried to rub the tickle away into her skin.
"I need to sneeze. Even through the trance I can feel it." He begged. She shivered with a moan, goosebumps prickled on her arms.
"Go ahead." She told him, felt him waste no time burying his face into her neck and breathing in, to tease himself into a fit. When his voice trembled in a way she'd grown familiar with he straightened himself, shoulders raising shakily with the strength of that dramatic inhale.
"AahhghkSHHieww! Hahhkshhieww! Ksshht! HhIHH! Ihhkshhht! Hkshhh! Ehkshieew!" They tore through him beautifully, flexing and commanding his nude body in wonderful ways. His expression, the tears spilling unbidden down his cheeks at the strength of the irritation.
Both his hands now held onto her, her waist, her thigh. Seeking something solid to reinforce himself while his body jerked and swayed, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. At her sudden freedom she was tempted, sorely, to break the rules. Dishonor his request and use her hands to pull him into her, let him sneeze desperately there trapped against her breast. But he was doing so good for her, and she'd never found her patience go unrewarded. So she watched, and relished the sight of him.
"Ihiihkshht! Iihhksssh! Ah, I think h-hoooh! Huuh! Hkkshhhieww!" He sniffled repeatedly, eyes wet, nose pinkening already as he worried his head back and forth. "Holding it makes it worse." That gave her several ideas, hopefully at least one of them agreeable to him.
"I see." Her voice was husky.
He glanced at her hands, waiting obediently twisted in the bedsheets. Pink, agitated nostrils flared, as though the thought of her hands coming near was enough to make the allergic itch crawl through them. She took in his muscled torso, a spark of hedonistic creativity as she remembered how powerfully his midsection had tensed and tightened.
"You can touch me now." But she did not move just yet. Now hellbent on putting her idea into motion.
Her lips split with a smile that he appeared to recognize, and anticipate. Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. The interruption the sneezing created for his physiological responses remedied quickly, something she confirmed with a coquettish downward glance. He liked her toying with him, as much as he liked seeing her enjoy doing so.
"Would it make you sneeze now, if I brought my hands close to you?" She was using that voice. Dark, syrupy with false sweetness and perverse promise. The voice that demanded his attention and made his hair stand on end.
"Yes." He spoke like his mouth was suddenly dry.
She brought a playful, conniving finger to draw circles on his chest. The small gust of air from the motion had carried a hint of the scent on her wrists to him, from how his nose suddenly crinkled, nostrils pulsing rapidly.
"But that's no good, Safir." She chided falsely.
He was only able to peer at her through watery, squinting eyes. A tremendously shaky breath. She waited.
"Wh-hh! Why? Hhh!" He extended a curled finger to rub at the side of his nose, crushing the itch into obeisance.
"Because I want you to hold it for me." She purred, sweet enough as to be poisonous.
His eyes widened at the request. Mouth twitched into an almost smile as he understood. But coy as ever in his own way, he acted excellently for her.
"But I'm so - hhhH! So allergic. I can't!" He sniffled pointedly, pathetically.
"Surely you can hold it just a little while." She said, blushing and smirking wider at the game they'd created. She propped herself up on one elbow, preparatory.
"There's hardly any, but my nose already tickles so much. Any more and it'll make me – hhhiiIIH!? Make meeehh!" She'd reached up to bring her wrist to hover a foot from his chin.
"Make you sneeze?" She wondered, voice drenched with feigned innocence.
The man was rendered utterly incapable of answering, coyly or otherwise. His eyes clenched and he pinched his wildly twitching nose between his thumb and forefinger, anything and everything needed to endure the proximity.
"Hhhihh! Aghh-hahh-hh-hh!" His spine curled as he tried to move away, turning his cheek to her, anything to control himself under the torture of her most effective tool.
Was he forcing himself into a trance, his only viable means of adhering to her request? Or had that option been taken away from him already, leaving him completely open to every physical signal his body was throwing at him? Both possibilities thrilled her. The challenge of seeing if she could bring the control of that trance to break, or being pitted against only the simple defenses he could come up with to quell the itch. To combat the invasive perfume.
"Hhh-hh-hh-hh! Hih! IhhHH-Hhh-hh!" Rapid, hopelessly desperate breaths. She frowned at the twinge of concern that crept in for a moment, pulling her wrist back to give him space, fresh air.
Regardless of whether he was in a trance or not, he could hardly be expected to hold back for long on his own, with the object of his torment held indefinitely in his face, and she didn't want him to hurt himself. It would be pointless to set him up only to fail what she'd asked of him.
Well, pointless so soon that is.
"Hhh! Huhh! Uhhn." He made a soft, anguishing sound, eyes opening a sliver, though his chest still rose and fell to the rhythm of frantic breaths. On the cusp of a sneeze with merely his willpower to say otherwise. She bore her weight on both forearms, lifted herself like before to wrap herself tight around his midsection. He grunted as the anchor of her body weight pulled him down, shifted him. His hitches were less rapid, he'd regained some control. She reached up again.
"Hhh-hh! Hiihnkh–! Ahh!" He nearly failed when her wrist returned to its original place, barely turning the lunge of his head into a false start. It flexed his torso, the ridges of his abdominals a welcome surface for stimulation. Her throat vibrated in delight.
"So close." She pretended to be haughtily amused, but the rasp in her voice betrayed how hopelessly, madly aroused she was. It was doubtful he could hear her, no room in his head for any thought beyond the unbearable urge from how he was retreated from her wrist, into the shield of his hand.
"Huhh-hhheh! Hhhh! Hihh-hhh! C-ca-c-can't! Caahh-hhHHH!" He started, barely intelligible from the hitching and how his nose was held tightly shut.
"Can't hold it?" She purred, breathless, letting her body move against him in the instinctive way.
"Hhh-hhh-hhHEhhk-!" Another false start rocked them both, to her pleasure.
"That's okay." She cooed, sickeningly sugary as she pulled her wrist away. Knowing it wasn't what he asked.
"N-Nhuuh! Huh-hhh-hh-hh!" He grimaced at the effort to catch his breath, forced his eyes open to look at her blearily, pleading. "No! N-need toooh! HhhHH!"
"You really need to sneeze already? Even if I keep my hands away?" It was too much fun to make him wait, and the way the desperate build up ground his body on hers felt too good not to.
"Ghh-gonnaaahh! AhhKKGh-!" He visibly pinched harder to stop it this time, muscles flexed like a bed of slate, as the reaction grew more insistent despite the source of irritation being removed.
"Alright. You can sneeze." He let go of his nose at once, rearing up as his lungs filled. Sadistically, in one swift motion, she replaced his hand with her own.
"IiihkXXt! GxXT-KxxT!" The stifles bent him forward into her palm and provided wonderfully violent friction as she was squeezed against his torching abdomen. She let go after that first set, gripping the sheets to hold on.
"HiiehKSHHT-KssSHH! KHxxSHH! HhUH!" But his body had already registered her presence. The fact he'd sneezed almost directly into the allergy causing substance contaminating her skin.
"HhkXXt-Kshht-HkSHhUH! Hihhkxxieww! Hkshhtt!" They couldn't spill out fast enough, tumbling over each other back to back.
Connected now by her vice grip, both had no choice but to ride it out. Though for her, the ride proved literal. She loved every second and made no secret of it, whether he could hear her or not.
"Iihhkshht-KXshh-Kxxt-HksSHHT! Ahh-Huhhh!" A particularly rapid volley that paused only for a deep, full-bodied gasp for air. One that made his frame shudder as his head tipped far, far back. Nostrils wide, quivering. Her stomach wound tighter from the mere anticipation.
"HUHKXSHHIEWW!" It threw him forward from the waist up, forceful enough she felt her back drag along the bed as he shoved her forward in the process. Spray misted her stomach, her leg. The fact a sneeze could demand so much out of him physically felt just as good as the next jump of his abdomen as he inhaled again.
"Hhhihh! Ihhkxxshh! Kshh-Kxshhiew! IhkXXSHhieww!" He was rubbing and scraping at his nose desperately now, even as he hitched for another.
"I-ihh! I can't staahh! Hahhkshhht! Ihkshht-Kshh-Ihkkshht! Hhkshhhiew! Ohh!" He gained a moment to suck in a breath, but appeared to forget what he'd been saying, panting.
"It just keeps -hhh! Keeps goingggghIIH!" But the message he managed to convey meant the same thing. She braced herself, stiffened in anticipation of the next. Even with only the blunt surface of his midsection, she still felt like she was going insane with how much she wanted him. How the heat in her blood raged and made her ludicrously sensitive.
"Ihhkshhht! Khxxsht! Iiehhkshiewww!" She could finish from this, she realized, after the bout of sneezes drove him into her again. Rapidly approaching a cliffedge as she climbed toward her limit.
"Ihhkshhiew! Hihhkxshh! Hihh! Kxshhhieew!" Yet the fit was slowing down, at least a little. No longer the rapid back to back sets that tripped over each other. She hoped she could fall headfirst over that cliff before he stopped.
Though he did look a mess already, she admitted to herself. Cheeks puffy and shining from his eyes overflowing. The skin around his scars flushed, and Hel, his nose. The appendage gone from pink to a bright red at the base, creeping around his nostrils and up the bridge. Skin around his scars bordered by a pink line, inflamed with a deep irritation he was trying desperately to sneeze out.
"Ihhkshhht! Hehhkshht! Iihkshh! Hhh! Huh! Ihhkshht! Hkkshhht! Hhehh-ihhkshhiew!" But what a beautiful mess he was.
A few more sets as the fit burned out, each hitching breath, every twitch and contortion of his features, the jittering jumps of his abs sweetly pushing into her, until finally he had her just right there. Trembling, dripping, waiting for that final volley to throw her over the edge.
"Hhhih!" He blinked, sniffling, as the hitch died without bearing results. She groaned, need screaming in her head as she slipped away from that border she desperately sought.
"One more! Please one more time!" She keened, her turn to beg him. Even through the haze of exhaustion he understood. Graciously, a finger reached up to pass over the wing of one facial scar. Followed it until his fingertip found that particular, sensitive spot where the bridge of his nose went crooked.
"HhhHH! Ihhkshhht! Khshht! Hehkshhhtt!" She writhed, clenching her legs harder, and he was doing it again, another flick of his finger as he lowered his full weight into her, to loom over her chest.
"Hhh-Hiihkshhieww!" That final jerk of his abdomen as he sneezed onto her exposed breasts sent her howling as the coil in her stomach snapped, bucking her hips aimlessly, vaguely aware of the two sneezes that followed the first. Completely out of her own head as she came harder than she had in her life.
The world faded to a distant plane, her muscles adopting a mind of their own, the intense rush of pleasure conducting her movements instead of her. At her peak the slightest touch was so sharp to her senses as to be painful. Gradually, she came down, still not fully processing everything. Lowering herself back onto the bed with shaking limbs, arms and legs adopting the structural integrity of jam. They ached, she noticed, from holding herself up and grinding her hips for so long.
Through the fog in her head she remembered her lover, felt him shift and withdraw. He had the back of one hand acting as a dam for his flooding nose, snuffling incessantly.
"Are you alright?" She asked, still out of breath. His eyes flicked to regard her. She suspected he might have blushed at the question from the way he stiffened, but it was impossible to tell with how red in the face he was now.
"Somewhat." His voice rasped past an undoubtedly sore throat, horribly congested, reaching urgently for the cloth that had been left on the nightstand. Pressed it quickly to his face and turned his back to blow. She giggled a little.
"What?" He looked over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, cloth still covering half his face.
"It's funny that you can still be shy about blowing in front of me, after what we just did." He coughed what seemed to be meant as a chuckle of agreement, turning away to continue the process of clearing his sinuses.
She rose to do her own self-care, legs still precariously unstable. Wet another cloth in the wash basin to scrub the perfume from her skin, with only a little regret. He had endured enough already on behalf of her pleasure.
Though she would hardly complain, were there a few more sneezes left in him.
The thought ran down her spine, a tiny spark of warmth igniting again as she looked at him. Down, specifically, at the destination she had in mind. Observing with delight that his own lust had apparently not been entirely extinguished. Interrupted, momentarily suppressed, but that was solved easily enough.
She'd just finished, and already she wanted him again. For him, she was easy.
"I'll need a rest first." He broke the silence and her train of thought, fixing her with a knowing expression. Folded cloth hanging from his fingers as he sat on the side of the bed.
"A rest before what?" She feigned ignorance, smirking, scrubbing at her neck.
"You aren't subtle." He reminded her of this fact, bringing a corner of the square piece of cloth up to his nose again.
She watched him rub with the cloth, let the desire the image spurred show plain on her face, in her body language. It affected him too, hunger tugging on his facial features. She made a show of looking down again, very obviously, and despite himself that part of his anatomy visibly acknowledged her appreciation.
"Neither are you." Her voice was smug with victory and giddiness. Immeasurably pleased at how she could stoke the fire in him quite literally with a glance.
She set the wet cloth back where she'd retrieved it. Dried her hands and pressed her wrists to her own face to ensure she had gotten everything off, before approaching him. Swung her legs over either side of him, nestled comfortably in his lap as she reached up to play with his hair. Massaged her fingers over his scalp. He leaned gratefully into the affectionate touch.
"Not too grueling, I hope?" He hummed in thought for a moment, enjoying her idle fingers a few seconds longer before he answered.
"No. Exhausting, and the perfume always makes my head hurt." Her fingers pressed to his temples at that admittance, rubbing in small circles. A tender, apologetic kiss to his forehead.
"But as an occasional indulgence, I don't mind it." She felt a tension leave that she hadn't realized was there. It went quiet a short while, aside from the errant sniffle.
"You might not have much control over the occasion, once spring comes." She voiced the thought with a blush, an excited tingle in her stomach. He chuckled hoarsely, planting kisses on her fingertips.
"Or rather it would stop being occasional." He admitted, though his eyes sparkled slyly as he then added, "But if it makes you this wild every time…" He weaponized a well placed sniffle for good measure.
She turned away bashfully, unbecoming, as she remembered a few minutes ago. The sounds she'd made, the begging, not to mention what she'd said to him.
"I won't promise anything." She squeezed the words out. Another hoarse laugh. Would she ever get over feeling shy about this, outside the heat of the moment? It wasn't as if she was shy about any other aspect of their sex life. Far from it.
"I find it very healthy for my ego, to make you cum with so little effort." At this she gawked at him, brows raised and lips parted with disbelief, cheeks blazing crimson. He moved his head away before she could rebuke him, gingerly rubbing at his swollen nose. It put a hiccup in her heartbeat, reminded her that she was very much sitting on him, in his lap.
"Still?" She shifted on top of him, anticipating.
"No. Just itches." He wriggled his nose, ran a finger over a facial scar and cringed a bit. At the moment not appearing to intend the actions to tease her. "The talking, I think."
Right, the scars. Talking likely pulled at them, agitating the tissue there. Or maybe the vibration was what did it? Both prospects excited her again. She felt his body notice, stirring.
"Disappointed?" The hoarseness in his voice had increased, but for a different reason.
"A bit. I had other ideas." She confessed, a bombardment of dirty little fantasies and thoughts running through her head of how she could put another fit to use. Eagerly pulling his head in so his lips could attend to her rapidly heating flesh.
"You are coming up with far more ideas than I can entertain in one evening." He murmured into her skin. The feeling of him rolling his hips upward succeeded in obliterating any further thought, for several seconds. She shuddered, a soft gasp and exhale as she collected herself.
"Speaking of which– Ah!" His fingers darted between her thighs, toying more than seeking any real pleasure. "I happen to know a convenient remedy for headaches."
"Do you? I suppose you are my doctor."
She coiled a hand behind herself, lifting to make room and wrapping a palm around the part of him pinned beneath her. Already slippery with both their secretions, twitching eagerly at the contact.
"I just have to make you forget about one head." She snorted, despite herself, at how terrible it sounded. The movement of his fingers stilled, he balanced his chin on her shoulder with a hoarse chuckle.
"That was awful."
"But it is true."
She kept her hand moving, half to please him, half to shut him up. He didn't fare any better than she had under his fingers, with how long he'd waited. His hips responded on reflex, air hissing past his teeth.
"If you do too much of that…"
"You? Impatient to cum?"
She aimed him against her, able to feel his appetence for it with the rapid pulse of his heartbeat. His hand repositioned, making room for himself, cunning fingertips dragging over one sensitive point of interest instead.
"Very."
He pushed upward with his hips, enough for steady pressure. The air in her lungs evacuated in one shuddering, ecstatic heave as he began to breach her.
Speech was a near inconceivable chore as she couldn't help pushing herself down now, drawing him in a little at a time. She felt a rush of hot breath on her neck as he groaned, arching upward instinctively to bury himself. Her fingernails pinched into his shoulderblades, finally resting on his lap with everything he had to offer.
"I had hoped to see what it felt like, if you sneezed while inside me." She whispered, panting, before she could think not to. She was so full of him now, there was nowhere else for the thought to go.
"You may still find out." The suggestion made her whine desperately, needy.
She did have to reward his efforts, and would take great satisfaction in doing so.
Another cross post of one of my stories. A Mage experiments with unconventional ways to use magic and learns something new and interesting about their live-in Maid. A wooden nose is involved!
In the tower’s dim candlelight, the Mage’s tongue poked out from between their lips as they sanded the last of the sawdust from their finest work. A pert, wooden nose rested lightly on their fingertips, a pinnacle of precision and meticulous study: from the slightly upturned tip, to the raindrop-shaped nostrils, to the near imperceptible crease on the bridge. Picture perfect, of course. This wouldn’t work, otherwise.
Nevertheless, they stared at it a moment longer, cross-referencing their cedar creation with the image in their head. The Mage twisted it this way and that with one hand, while the other snaked down to a drawer by their side, emerging with the second component of their experiment. A tiny doll rested in the palm of their gloved hand, proportionate limbs filled with cotton and dressed in carefully stitched black silk with a little white square tied around the waist with gossamer string. The doll ended at the neck, a gaping absence where a head should normally be.
The Mage passed their gaze over the carved nose one last time. Yes, it would deem satisfactory. The enchantment itself was relatively simple, even if modern mages had never used it in this fashion. Well, none who recorded it, anyway.
Words passed through parted lips in an indiscernible susurrus, quiet enough that not even the raven stirred on its perch over the desk. From a pocket deep within their dark robes, the Mage withdrew a single ringlet of jet black hair. The hair pressed to the top of the nose, which then in turn pressed to the top of the doll, and the whole contraption glowed a slight orange as the binding enchantment took effect. Months of work, accumulated in a doll barely the height of their hand, but if the Mage’s experiment bore fruit then it bode well for… other possible applications.
Which brought them to the test run.
The Mage stood, crossing their tower in long, smooth strides to stand in front of the floor-length mirror. Carved creatures of myth curved and writhed along its border in tangles of fur and fangs and scales, and a thousand tiny wooden eyes rolled to the Mage as they approached. A fingertip came to rest on the mirror’s surface. “Reperio.”
The reflection of their room vanished in a ripple of silver, replaced with a vision of a lower level in the Mage’s tower. The vision followed a young woman from the front as she traversed the halls. Her dress of black silk, scandalously short for respectable company, was a larger version of the doll’s (though with significantly more lace, the Mage could only do so much with rudimentary sewing skills). Her black curls bounced along with her steps, dark eyes and heart-shaped lips set in a cheery expression, ignorant of her invisible audience.
Their work was perfect, but the Mage held the doll up to the Maid’s face, just to compare. It was like looking in a mirror.
The Maid turned a corner, and the walls on either side disappeared behind bursting bookshelves. Ah, the library, wonderful. It would at least make the experiment a little less… obvious.
The Mage reached into their robes and withdrew a pristine black feather. The raven hadn’t been too pleased to be parted from its plumage, but all in the name of magical discovery! One eye fixed firmly on the doll and the other trained on the Maid, the Mage started slow by pressing the flat of the feather to the carved wooden nostrils.
The reaction wasn’t elaborate, not yet. Just a quick, reflexive sniff from the Maid, her nose scrunching at the bridge. While they hadn’t expected much more, the lack of sensitivity raised concerns. Perhaps, as impossible as it may be, their woodwork was… sub-par. Maybe the wood selection had been wrong, or perhaps they hadn’t deepened the nostrils enough, or a trait had been missed…
Or (and this was more likely) they hadn’t been trying long enough.
The Mage repeated the action, but held the feather to the Maid’s nostrils for several seconds and increased pressure, the shaft bending at her septum. Here was more what they expected in a reaction, one finger coming up to swipe at the mysterious new sensation, coupled with another cute little scrunch. The Maid lowered her hand, only to raise it for a second, harder rub as the feathery feeling refused to be satiated at the first. She looked, cross-eyed, at her nose, as if accusing it of something horrible.
To the Mage’s surprise, her voice floated through the mirror, clear as crystal. “Don’t you start, you can at least wait until I’m back in my quarters.”
The Mage tilted their head in an action curiously similar to their raven. All the months under their employ, and they’d never known the Maid to speak to herself like this. Or, rather, to her nose like this, for surely she couldn’t be aware of their scrying?
She busied herself tidying the tomes the Mage had left laying around the night previous, surrounded by bright shafts of sunlight streaming in from the library’s stained glass windows. Motes of dust danced through the light, tiny ballerinas that vanished as they passed through into shadow. For a moment, the Mage let the Maid’s nose settle, just so she didn’t become suspicious, and studied her in the meantime.
She approached her work with a sense of vigor, humming quietly to herself as she reshelved books according to their system. There was a certain… joy about her, but not the innocent joy of children. No, the Mage hadn’t yet sensed anything suspicious from their employee, but something unsaid simmered below the surface just the same. As she hadn’t tried to kill them yet (an unfortunate problem with a past employee), the Mage was content to let her see to her duties as she saw fit and deal with secret-stealing or assassination attempts as they arose.
Though it was difficult to imagine nefarious plots coming from the woman who spun through sunbeams like a ballerina in her own right.
Too good an opportunity to miss, the Mage slid the feather into the Maid’s left nostril as soon as she opened her eyes into the light.
“Ahhh—”
The gasp came, sudden and involuntary, and the Mage withdrew the feather in a snap. A finger shot up to clamp under the Maid’s nose, which flared once, twice against her finger before calming again, the affected nostril flushed a light pink.
Curious, the Mage set a finger against its wooden twin. Even through their glove they could detect a gentle heat. Interesting. The bonding spell was stronger than they’d expected.
They knew it reacted well to the feather now, so it vanished back into their robes. How well would the spell react to different stimuli? Could they affect the flesh themself from this distance, despite their unmalleable link?
A hand approached the wooden nose, hesitated. They needed to be subtle, at least for now. “Augeo.” The image in the mirror tightened until only the Maid’s face remained, pinked but unperturbed. From this vantage, the Mage could see the birthmarks on her jaw, the length of her dark lashes, the baby hairs escaping her tight ringlets. Their hand closed the distance, a fingertip hooking under the right nostril and slowly, precariously, guiding it outwards.
Their theory proved correct as the Maid’s corresponding nostril widened without any apparent influence, and a slim-fingered hand raised to paw at it again. “You really are being a terror today,” said the Maid, but the Mage caught the smile in her voice. “Guess that means later will be enjoyable.”
Another odd thing to say.
“Procul,” the Mage turned to their desk as the image widened again, the Maid’s whole body in frame. They scooped a bit of sawdust into a tiny wax seal spoon before returning, trailing in their wake a cedar scent so heady even their own nose gave an impertinent twitch. They brought the doll to the spoon, barely an inch apart, and waited.
Scents appeared to work as well, as the Maid stopped dead in her tracks to give three heavy hitches, chest heaving against her uniform. “Hihh… haahh… hAAHHH—” The blasted finger made a reappearance, though her nostrils continued to flare worryingly. Now her nose deepened to a vibrant red, the heat pulsing palpably through the Mage’s glove.
While the Maid finally talked down the impending sneeze, she continued to sniffle lightly against her finger. Her unwillingness to lower her hand meant nothing, she’d have to return to work eventually, and the Mage could be patient. It gave them more time to prepare.
The rims of the wooden nostrils had performed admirably, but now to explore the depths. The Mage had carved deep caverns into the nose, although not deep enough to emerge through the back. Hopefully it would still be enough to cause a reaction. Their empty hand glowed with a soft green light and in their palm grew a long-stemmed orange flower, petals no larger than a gnat, but potent nevertheless. The Mage wasted no time guiding the flower into the right nostril until the stamen pressed gently against the sanded interior.
The Maid nearly dropped her stack of books in effort to staunch the rising sneeze. As little as her finger helped now, she rubbed and pinched and massaged valiantly, the tiny flower inciting a torturous tickle farther back than she could hope to soothe. Dark eyes flickered back and forth between peering down her nose and rolling sneezily to the ceiling, lashes fluttering. “Ahh… *sniff* huh-haaahhh… haaaAAAAHH… huh huh HUH—” Her breath came in unsteady little gasps constantly now, the curve of her breasts swelling dangerously against her low-cut neckline (not that the Mage noticed, no no, their mind was focused solely on the success of their experiment). “Hihhhhh hiiihh haaAAAHHH… o-oh go-huuuuhhhds… HUHH…” Her knees softened, weak with the desire to sneeze, but the experiment wasn’t over, not yet.
The Mage withdrew the flower, and ghosted her distant finger with one of their own, rubbing firm circles over the wooden nose’s hot nostrils in soothing repetition.
For a tense second, as the Maid hitched and gasped sneezily against both their fingers (physically present or not), the Mage thought they might have gone too far too fast, too excited with the spell’s success.
“Huhhhh… I-I need tuuuuhhh… need *sniff*… hahh HAHHH… need to sn-snuhhh… sneeeeheeeze…”
The Mage paused in their ministrations. The desperation was there in her wavering voice, yes, they’d often felt the same with a stuck sneeze, but the… longing… that was a new one.
They leaned closer to the mirror, closer to her arched nostrils, her eyes glistening with unshed sneezy tears, they saw the eagerness. Anticipation. The Maid was waiting for something wonderful. But what?
Perhaps her post-sneeze face would reveal more clues. As her frantic, heady breaths slowed from necessity to simple possibility, the Mage once again withdrew the raven feather. Time to end the experiment. It wouldn’t take much, not anymore, not with the way her body surrendered to the sensation, sneeze practically bursting from every seam (especially at the bust no stop looking at that).
They gave the feather a quick swirl, just dusting the rims of her nostrils, eyes trained on the Maid as the last nail hammered into the figurative coffin. For a beat, a sense of tranquility overtook her flushing features. Then, her nose twitched massively, jaw hanging open, the beginning of the end.
“Ahhhh *sniff* ohgodshereitcomesaaaahHHHHHH…”
Against all logic, the Mage’s throat dried as they watched their employee force words through her spasms of twitches and flares, nostrils dancing as the dust had not five minutes prior. Somewhere (far in the back of their mind) the Mage wondered how much of her reaction was their own influence, and how much was a result of her environment.
They couldn’t expect a single maid to keep the library dust-free, after all, it was unrealistic.
A larger part of their mind was occupied drinking in as much hitherto unexposed skin as possible as the Maid’s lungs filled to bursting, hitching with a power that shocked even them. Her nostrils expanded impossibly wide, and still the finger tried its absolute damnedest to turn the tide. It had about as much as effect as a twig would have containing a waterfall.
The heat threatened to burn their hand, and elsewhere.
“AAAAAHHHHH-XIHHEEWWW!” The Maid rocketed double, spray arcing through the sunbeams (and for one glorious second the Mage caught a glimpse of the dark valley between her breasts) before she snapped upright in preparation for a second explosion. “UUUHHH-SHEWWWWWW!” The second, harsher than the first, powerful enough to lift one foot which stomped back to earth as the Maid charged a third. “Ahhh… AAHH-CHIEEWWW!” Higher pitched, this, with a hesitation at the beginning. Were they becoming painful? The Maid’s unflappable finger scrubbed wildly at her nostrils as she reared back again, “huhhh… HUHHHH… HAAAAAAAHHH—”
Nothing happened.
“H-huh? Huuhhh huuuh-HAAAAAHHHHH—”
Another false alarm. The Maid reached up with her other hand to massage the bridge of her nose, not talking down the fickle sneeze this time, but rather encouraging it. She sniffed harshly in time with her hand, desperate for stimulation.
The Mage could do better. They flicked the feather lightly against her septum.
Her watering eyes slammed shut, one final, giant gasp inflating her chest before one final, giant sneeze.
“hih-HIIAAAAAAAAAAAHHH-XCHEEWWWW!”
Silence reigned in the aftermath, the only sound her quiet panting breaths as she came down from her fit. Her face took on an expected relief as the persistent tickle in her nose was finally vanquished, but under that lay something not quite so expected. A kind of resignation? No, a bliss.
Realization hit the Mage at the same time the Maid uttered a happy sigh. They stared dumbly at the mirror as their employee picked up her stack of books and continued sorting, none the wiser while the Mage felt their world had shifted two degrees to the left.
Oh.
That experiment had certainly turned out successful.
Oh, didn't I mention there was a part two? Wherein, the Mage concocts a few more experiments with their wooden nose... and it's flesh replica.
The Mage found themself reading the same passage in their book for the fourth time, and couldn’t even find it in themself to be upset about the interruption of their studies. After all, how could one concentrate on magical theory when a far more interesting experiment brewed not one aisle over.
Even the vast, dead air of the library, thicker and quieter than a fresh snowfall, failed to muffle the sporadic, mind-blanking sounds emitted from the Maid as she reshelved the many piles of books the Mage left out (possibly for this reason. Possibly not.) Stifled, quiet, like she was attempting to hide her reflexes and the resulting secrecy only made them more potent in the silent tower.
“snff… hihh…”
No, today would not be a day of contemplation. The way things were shaping out, it would barely be a day of higher thought.
Hopefully, if they’d done their calculations correctly, they wouldn’t need to wait much longer.
The Mage had just started the fifth futile read of the passage when movement caught their eye, and they clamped down on a guilty jump as the Maid passed into their line of sight. She kept her dark eyes downcast, submitting to the appropriate level of humility when in the presence of a Practitioner. They were used to this, of course, it came with the position, but for the first time the Mage found themself wishing she would raise her head so they could better see her nose.
For the sake of the experiment, of course.
“I’ve finished my duties for the evening, my Entranced.” Was it just their imagination? Or did her voice skew towards airy breaths this most fine evening?
A beat too late, the Mage remembered themself, forcing their attention back to their tome. “Very well. On the morrow.”
“On the muh-morrow.” She answered, and the Mage displayed unparalleled self-restraint by not combusting that very second. Only truly herculean amounts of discipline kept them in their chair until her footsteps faded away down the curling stone steps, and in a heartbeat they were taking their own staircase upwards three steps at a time. Studies be damned.
On any other day, the trip up to their workshop at the top of the tower would be a slow one, used for solidifying new concepts and basking in the natural light that flooded in though even-set windows lining the stairwell, but today the climb seemed too long, too slow. By the time they skid unceremoniously into the warm, ever burning candlelight, hat askew and chest heaving, an eternity had passed. They made straight for the window, one hand out to draw back the heavy velvet curtain, when a sudden hesitation stayed their movement.
The Mage was not one to leave experiments unfinished. They reveled in the unexpected, the disastrous, the kinds of magics that pushed boundaries, yet for some reason the thought of seeing this one to the end set an uncertain tremble in their fingertips. They wanted to know. They didn’t dare. But they needed to.
Slower now, more reverently, the Mage drew back the curtain to reveal their prize. On the windowsill, held sturdy with a stone and a bit of twine, sat the little Maid doll, unchanged in its crude black silk dress save for one imperative detail: secured with a bit of tree gum, a downy white feather hovered just inside one cavernous nostril, equidistant from every edge so only a hairsbreadth of distance separated the trembling fibres from the walls. The single black ringlet attached to the perfect wooden nose swayed slightly in the breeze, and with it, the white feather brushed, ever so gently, against its wooden snare.
The Mage had rigged this up in the early morning, the most effective way they could imagine to incite a kind of extended, torturous tickle deep in the nose of their employee, and the theory had bore fruit. All day, she’d been sniffling and sighing and rubbing at her nose, attempting to soothe a phantom itch as impossible to staunch as the wind itself. Once, it had crescendoed into a long, gasping hitch that left the Mage inching forward at the dinner table, thighs tight with anticipation, but that damn blasted finger of hers ensured the quivering throes had never strengthened into a full sneeze.
Nearly thirteen hours of continuous torture. That had to be enough.
Gently, the Mage removed the doll from its perch, taking great care to ease the feather out cleanly. They could perhaps use it again, but better this experiment be thorough.
Like the torture trap, the Mage had prepared other elements in preparation for this evening long in advance: their soft armchair sat in front of their scrying mirror, a small table on both sides. To the right, an empty notebook sat open, a fresh quill at its side, waiting patiently to be filled with many detailed observations.
At the left, the table was filled with far more interesting items: feathers of all sizes, a collection of fine dust, spices from far off lands, and an intriguing mixture of the Mage’s own design. The edges of their own hawklike nose flared in recollection of creating that formula, finally stumbling to throw open a stained glass window as they sneezed and streamed and gasped and sneezed some more.
They had deemed it very promising indeed.
The Mage’s legs shook as they lowered themself into their chair, and it wasn’t nerves, of course not, it was the anticipation of a theory correctly confirmed. Still, they flexed their hand once, twice, before setting a finger against the glass. “Reperio.”
And there she was. In her quarters on her bed, the Maid’s appearance had shifted radically from how she walked the halls, and a whole new world bloomed in the Mage’s mind as a flush bloomed on their neck. Gone was the black silk of her uniform. They’d allowed her to pick the style she liked (it made no difference to the Mage, as long as she could clean equally well in a sack or a scrap) and she’d selected something daring for even the modern woman, but her sheer white sleep shift left nothing to the imagination, neckline dipping lower than the heat in the Mage’s stomach. Her black ringlets hung loosely around her shoulders, no longer pinned up in her cap, her bare feet tucked underneath her where she sat demurely on her bed, eyes trained downwards like when she’d spoken to them not moments before. This time, however, she did not defer. She studied, far more intently than anything the Mage had been able to accomplish today, and the source of her focus drew all thought from their head.
Spread along her bedsheets in a neat, organized line, were tools much like those that sat to the Mage’s left. Though not quite as elaborate, their intention was immediate and obvious.
The Mage had not predicted this was to be a part of the experiment.
The Maid sniffed harshly, scrubbing back and forth underneath her nose with a finger, and for a heart-stopping moment the Mage thought they might have missed their opportunity. The Maid spoke, “my nose has been itching and tickling and teasing me all day, the cheeky thing.”
She spoke like this to herself? The Mage might have briefly questioned her sanity if the words hadn’t been instilling a whole new feeling in their core. Then the Maid turned slightly, and a shadow moved at the edge of her bed.
The cat. They recalled specifically telling her to get rid of the mangy, scrawny thing, fighting back an allergic fit as they did so, but there it was. At home in their tower. Sneaky devil. At her words, the creature opened one baleful orange eye before purposely shifting to lay with its back to her, not participating in the conversation.
She continued, unperturbed. “I’m afraid I’ve been fighting back sneezes all day and I simply ca-hahh… can’t take it anymore.” Surely she was playing up her symptoms? The feather was no longer in her twin wooden nose, she should not still be feeling the effects. They made a mental note to check the binding spell to make sure nothing had gone wrong.
After this experiment, of course.
She surveyed her tools, soft sniffles floating through the mirror surface as she weighed her options. Idly, the Mage found themself matching the sawing movement of her finger over the wooden replica, unwilling to let the experiment end before it began. “Naughty little thing. I’m sure my Entranced thought me quite the sniffly fool today.”
Her Entranced had not.
The Maid raised her head, exposing her twitching, pinkened nostrils perfectly to their vision. The wooden nose might be a perfect replica, but the Mage mourned its inability to adopt that pink dusting, the tiny flares of a brewing tickle. Some things flesh simply did better. “Oohh… the urge to sneeze has died some, of course, that’s just my luck. I’ll need something to coax it out.” The Mage held their breath as she reached forward and plucked a long, dusty gray feather from the impractical duster she so enjoyed using. Was it for this sole purpose? “This will do. Nothing riles me up more than a beautiful feather.”
The Mage’s mouth dried out as she raised the tip to her flushed nose, the contact barely enough to bend the shaft as she twirled the thing around the very edges. They understood now, this was an endurance game. Very well, they could play by those rules. They ghosted the feather’s tip with their finger, soothing the tickle as soon as she created it.
“Oh, you’re usually suh-so helpful,” she bemoaned. “Perhaps the tickle has rehh… retreated deeper.” With reverent care, she slid the tip of the dusty feather into her left nostril and it arched sharply at the tickly intrusion. “Muhhh-huuuh… much better…”
The subtle twitches of her nose expanded into irritated pulses, tortured to insanity by her own ministrations, and her breath caught to match the rhythm. “Hahhh-hahhhh… o-oh yes, thahh… that feels wonduhh-huhh… wonderful.”
Something sparked in the Mage’s mind, a spell learned long ago for preservation. It froze the object in time, stagnant, unable to proceed or retreat, and was simple enough to cast numerous times in quick succession. This was the point of these experiments, surely no other Practitioner had dreamed of using the spell to keep a stuck sneeze hovering at the edges of a tickled nose! The Mage whispered the spell, a ribbon of purple light encircling their wooden nose like a chain before vanishing in the candlelight.
She liked to play the long game? They would assist.
From their own table of tricks, the Mage selected a similar feather (though cleaner and more taught than her well-used duster). As she was tending to the left nostril, they slid their tool into the right.
The Maid’s head jerked back with an alarmed snort, nose scrunching against the feathery intrusion, before her jaw fell slack. “Huhhh?? Hahh-hih-haaAAHHH… suhhh… suhhddnly I feel so snuhh-snuhhhh… so snuuhhh-huueezyy…” Her hand fell, limp in the shadow of sensation, and the feather fluttered to the bed with it as her breath caught, head tilting to the ceiling once more. The Mage watched, enthralled, as her nostril writhed and squirmed around the phantom feather, felt only physically through uncaring wood yet no less potent as they worked the sharp tip around the rim of her nose, careful not to push too deep too quickly.
The Mage was nothing if not skilled, and while the Maid sat and hitched and heaved and built, the preservation spell ensured no sneeze would draw near. When that became evident, the Maid took to scrubbing at her tickled nose with what the Mage was convinced was her favourite finger. “Ihhihhh… I nehhhhh-hehhh… HIIHHH… need tuh-to sn-snuuhh… to sneehhhh…”
She hovered at the edges of a precipice, but not a divide between hitch and sneeze. No, she lay between hitch and hitch, and theories deserved to be tested. The Mage withdrew their feather slowly, gently, leaving plenty of itchy sensation behind for her to attempt to rub or sneeze away. With a quiet word, they ended the first preservation spell.
The effect was immediate, the Maid’s nose deepening from early sunset to a deep red rose. It jumped wildly, as if it had a mind of its own, and the Maid could only give it one confused, cross-eyed look before she surrendered to its relentless need. Her back arched, shoulders drawing up, and every deepening, uneven breath brought her one thread closer to bursting out of her shift. Her breasts, more of them than the Mage had ever seen, glowed milk white in stark contrast to her flushed face, and bounced gently in time with her sneezy hitches.
The Mage waited. There, when surely another gasp would lead to sweet release, they pressed a finger underneath the wooden nose, massaging the tickle not to stillness, but to agitation. And on the cusp of her next breath, they repeated the spell.
The Maid sat arched, head back and arms limp and chest (so much chest) heaving as the sneeze locked in the depths of her nose. No advance, no retreat. While her nose remained active with its efforts to expand past her face, her eyes remained lidded with the same expression they’d seen upon the first attempt: bliss. She enjoyed the kind of torture that would break any other man. What must she see in the helplessness, the unmet desire, walking the edge of sweet release and choosing not to tip over?
Maybe the Mage’s next experiment would have to be a little more personal.
But one at a time.
How long would it take to break her? To make her beg for release? Would she ever? Another hypothesis. The Mage gently manoeuvred the doll’s wooden nose so the nostrils could lay flat, set it upright in the dish of dust, steepled their fingers and waited.
Instead of even, timed gasps, the Maid’s breath took a stuttering quality, clouds and clouds of misplaced dust sucked into her nostrils with every ticklish sniffle. Was it just the Mage’s imagination, or could they see fine gray puffs encircling her twitching nose, hovering around the now cavernous nostrils like mist over a mountain. “Hehh-HEHH… hih-HEEEHHHHH… ahh… aahhhhhhhhhhh-HAAAHHHH—HA-HAAAA…” She snorted and wheezed and snuffled as the dust teased every inch of her reddened nose. A shimmery glisten started at the base of one nostril, trailing a clear line down the curve of her lip, its run interrupted with every contortion of her desperate, sneezy expression.
The Mage wondered if this was what true beauty looked like.
“Whaahhhh-hAAHHH… whuhh-huhhhy cahh-hhaahh-HAAHHH… can’t I sn-snehh-sneehhh-SNEEHHH—Sneeze?”
Why, indeed?
Their preservation spell ensured the Maid’s brewing nasal explosion would never climax, but surely there was no better time to test their new powder mixture than with a captive audience. The Mage removed the wooden nose from its dusty cradle, brushing the last few clinging particles off the nostrils and inciting another bout of (glorious, revealing) hitching from their employee.
“Guhhhh-hhaAAAHH—HAAAHHHH—snff sn-uhHHH… oohh, the tea-hee-heeehhh… the tease…”
It was about to get worse. The Mage had experience with the potency of their brew, but even as they took the tiniest pinch onto the tip of (what was becoming their favourite) a taught black feather, a tendril of gentle prickles buried themselves deep into their own long nose. “Uhhh—” their chest jumped in a sneezy inhale of their own, but they clamped down on the sensation, unwilling to miss the end of a very promising experiment.
Sniffling lightly, the Mage rested the tip of the feather against the bottom of the wooden nose’s right nostril, where the glistening river of mess originated in its pulsating twin. Slowly, reverently, they dragged the tip up the inside curve until it hovered against the upper point of the teardrop shape, painting a half-circle of shimmering, powdery torment.
The Maid’s breath stuttered alarmingly for a moment. Was there a way a strong enough reflex could break a simple spell like the preservation charm? Could biology overcome magic? “HaaAAHHH… HAAAAHHHH… p-plea-hihh-hease, I n-need tuhhhh-huuhhh… to snaAAHHHHH—”
There was the break, the beg, but the Mage found themself too occupied with other matters to enjoy it: the lingering tickle from their concoction as well as extended exposure to the Maid’s tortured commentary had bloomed into a series of their own heady hitches. Desperate to quell the growing sneeze, they placed a gloved finger under their quivering nose. If it worked for her, it might work for them.
Except for one tiny fact. They hadn’t let go of the coated feather in the process.
So close to their face, the mixture brought a second, overwhelming wave of irritation, and the Mage’s nostrils flared only once against their finger before all was lost to the incoming sneeze. “Uhh-huuuhhh… huuHH-HAAHHHH—NGGXHEEWW!!”
With the relief of release came a smaller sense of the same, as their lapse of control shattered the preservation charm. Too busy talking down the next ticklish itch to reset the spell, the Mage could only watch through welling eyes as the Maid’s day-long torture finally came to a gasping, heaving end.
The bliss on her face was no less evident through her sneezy tears, nose bright red and dancing wildly as her climax begun. “Thaahhhh-hahhh… there i-ihht ihhh-hiiiihh HIIIIIHHHHH—” Unlike during the first experiment, she didn’t bother attempting to staunch the need with her persistent finger, arms slack next to her as she arched back with hitch. “HIIHH—HIH-HEEEEHHHHH—” Her breasts bounced in earnest now, the neckline of her shift pulled so tight she practically bulged out the top. So much life, so much movement in the simple action of a sneeze, the Mage found themself eagerly drinking in every detail and suddenly they realized they could no longer equate this to the simple interest of an experiment.
At the tipping point, the Maid paused: mouth and nostrils gaping, every exposed inch of her tight with desire and flushed like a blushing bride. She was so radiant that the Mage nearly forgot about their own build-up, caught in the throes of her ecstasy like a ship in a storm. If they could freeze this moment forever and lock it in their memories, they would do so in a heartbeat. As it was, human reflex had other plans.
“hhhaaaHHHHHH—HAAAAASCHEEWWWWW!!” The Maid pitched forward, spraying openly over her bedspread with the first release before snapping back for a second. “Ahhhhh-HHHCHOOO!” A third, a fourth, a fifth. “Huh—CHEWW! HAH-CHIEUU!! Uhh… uuhHH—SHEEWWW!” She gave a few rapid sniffles, building up to a final, nose-clearing conclusion, tenting the pinkened nose with her hands. “aahhhh… haaaahhhh… guhhh-HHAAAHHHH—XIEWWWW!!”
With the sound of her relief, the Mage could take it no more. They stammered and hitched up to their own ticklish explosion, a finger under their pulsing nostrils all the while. Admittedly not as impressive as the Maid’s, their sneeze was no less desperate. “Uhh-huuHHH… HUUUHHH—SCHAAAAAHHH!!”
As the Mage sat, boneless and basking in the Maid’s pleased sounds filtering through the mirror, they thought they might have figured out what all the fuss was about.
ok so! heres a little fic i wrote abt the new ocs! if you havent been here watching me lose my mind in real time, heres the gist: its the 70s in southern cali and a weird little repressed dude with a sneeze fetish has come into a sudden inheritance and married a knockout hottie trophy wife with a big nose and a big rack and just so many fucking allergies which is both a dream come true and a living nightmare.
what do you do when all your dreams have come true? apparently, go shopping for handkerchiefs.
(thanks to @terrestrialyarn for, perhaps inadvertently, putting this scenario in my head lol)
--
The man must not have moved a muscle in at least five minutes. This being after the new hire called Donna over from her post at the jewelry counter, refusing to give any explanation, saying only, “I just don’t know what to do about him!” in an exasperated whisper.
“You see?”
“Did you ask if he needed any help?”
“Jeez, Donna, of course I asked! He just about jumped out of his skin and looked at me like… well I don’t know what like.” She stomped her kitten heeled pumps on the linoleum and huffed. “I even asked a second time after that but he just shook his head and muttered something, real creepy stuff. He had kind of a look on his face, you know? What if he’s, like, some kind of pervert or something.”
“A pervert,” she repeated incredulously. “He’s shopping for a handkerchief.”
“He’s not shopping, that’s the problem. He’s standing around and staring and not doing anything.”
“If he’s not doing anything what do you expect me to do about it?” In spite of her nonchalance, she couldn’t deny there was something slightly offputting about the situation, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. And anyway it wouldn’t do to egg her on.
The counter girl grabbed the sleeve of her blouse. “He’s moving. Look, he’s moving.” She tugged. “What’s he doing? Can you see?”
“You have the exact same view I do, honey.”
The customer, a plain little man with dark hair and a pale, pink oval of a face, was sampling the feel of a silk handkerchief between his thick fingers. A sheen of perspiration was gathered around his temples. Maybe that’s what he wanted it for. He was certainly taking his time making a choice however, Donna thought. Their selection wasn’t so overly large: a couple rows of unadorned cloths folded into crisp triangles and arranged by color on the shelf below the ties and scarves, along with a few more decorative options with lace or a touch of floral embroidery around the edges. Not rocket science.
The strange man tested the weight and weave of each option in turn. Sometimes he would pick up one in each hand and seem to be comparing them, nearly reaching a conclusion, only to set both down again with a shake of his head.
“Do you think we should do something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, call security? It’s beyond suspicious. How often do you see a man like that shopping alone in a place like this anyway?”
It was true he didn’t give the impression of a man who invested much thought in the latest fashions. Donna had seen his type before, but typically they just grabbed whatever was on the center display table in the men’s section, stopping only long enough to check the size and frown at the price tag before beelining to the check out.
“Maybe he’s shopping for someone else. His wife or girlfriend or something.”
The other clerk gave her a disbelieving look, but Donna was saved from having to continue the conversation by the chime of a bell summoning her back to her post.
“Duty calls! Good chat, hon. Now don’t hold that face, you’ll give yourself worry lines.”
“Wh- but- you can’t leave me!”
Donna stepped back behind the jewelry counter with some relief. The shopper who’d rang for her was a tall, redheaded woman, cinched into her designer dress with a thick leather belt below her… exemplary bust.
“Finally! I’ve been waiting for-ev-er,” the socialite sighed. Donna was well acquainted with her type as well, ever since transferring to the new shopping centre in the hills. A practiced smile lifted her cheeks and smoothed her features into an expression of plasticine serenity. Let’s get that commission.
“My apologies, ma’am. How can I help you? I see you’ve been taking a look at this year’s spring-summer collection. Everything in this display just came in and, if you don’t mind me saying, this pendant with the round cut diamonds would just look perfect with-”
Her spiel was interrupted as the woman suddenly jerked her head to the side and sneezed. “hhitshCHEW!” To her credit, she did at least try and raise her arm to cover in time, but with the weight of several shopping bags already weighing her down she’d clearly overestimated her own reaction speed. Donna grimaced as a burst of aerosol settled on the glass of the display case. Still she managed to pull herself together before the customer recovered with a blink and a sniffle.
“Snf. Ohh god bless me. Think I wandered a little too close to the pehh… the pehrfuhhiehh…” she stammered. “Snff! Excuse me. The perfume section. Oh this happens every time.” She punctuated the statement with a giggle and a shrug as if to say, “well, what can you do?”
“Ah, gesundheit. Yes, I guess it’s a bit of an occupational hazard. I had a coworker once who had just the worst time with it. Had to quit in the end, poor thing.”
Just like that she was back in the groove; a smile here, some casual banter there. Chat, flatter, coax, show off a few more items here and there, and she’d be leaving with a pretty new piece on her neck or her wrist. Except,
“Phew, ho-ohh-ld on a sec.” She set down an armload of bags and began fanning her face with her free hand. Her lips parted around a wavering breath. “heh… ih… ohhh…!”
“Ma’am? Are you alr-?”
“uuhuhtCHOO! asshhHEW! ah? ahah… hahhISHHIEHoo!”
“Bless you!”
“Uhf, gawd, I can’t- hhhIEHHHSHHOOO! uhngh…“
As the fit tapered off, the woman straightened her back and tugged up the neckline of her dress before any more of herself could spill out of it. She patted her pockets, her underbust, then opened up her pocketbook and began rummaging around in there as well. No luck. She sniffled, annoyed and still vaguely itchy, before returning her attention at long last to the clerk who had been awkwardly waiting in the wings of her one-woman performance.
“Buh-less me!” she annunciated cheerfully. “You wouldn’t happen to have a kleenex back there, would you, sweetheart?”
“I-I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t think so.”
“Oh well.” She itched her index finger against her septum. “I’ll take the earrings, those cute ones over there.” She pointed, still blinking and so watery-eyed Donna wondered how well she could even see the pair she’d chosen.
Get it together, it’s none of your business. “These are actually part of a set. Were you interested in the matching necklace?” She directed her attention to a double banded diamond choker.
“Hmmm, it’s not my usual style… Oh what the hell. I’m sure I can find a use for it. Not like anything doesn’t suit me anyway. Snrrf.”
“Of course, ma’am. Let me wrap those up for you.”
While she was handing over her purchase, from the corner of her eye Donna noticed the peculiar man from earlier walking their way. He was clutching a small gift bag close to his chest. So he had bought something after all. Donna half wished she could’ve seen that interaction at the check out.
“Ohhh hubby,” the woman suddenly called out in a sing-song. “There you are, Herschy! Did you find something you wanted after all?”
The small sweaty man- her husband, apparently- squeezed the package tighter. “Yes- well, no, not quite.”
His wife’s eyes lit up with catlike curiosity. “Herschel, you are too funny! Is it something for me? What is it? Show me, pet, show me. I can’t wait.”
Herschel blushed from his neck up to the roots of his hair. “When we get home, my beloved.”
“Oh, so it’s that kind of gift,” she purred, and seemed as though she might go on (having apparently forgotten about the poor store clerk’s presence entirely) but instead she gasped and whipped her head to the side in a cloud of perfect curls. “ihihh-! ihttsSHIEWWw!”
Her husband’s face, if possible, went even redder.
“Bless you,” he mumbled, and turned out the contents of the bag: a pressed triangle of shimmering pink satin, simple but clearly precious in the palm of his outstretched hand. She cooed at him, albeit drippily, and accepted the gift.
“What a man I have,” she said. Donna wasn’t sure if she was talking to her or to herself. Not that it mattered. With a toss of her head she shook her hair back into proper order and pressed her prize gratefully to her nose. She handed over her bags to her hubby and flounced away with the man trailing obediently behind her.
What an odd pair of individuals. Well, she thought as she wiped down the moistened counter, perhaps in some strange way they were suited to each other.
When you’re out in public at a table with someone when they suddenly have to sneeze…so they do the polite thing and cover their nose with one hand…and grab your inner thigh with the other hand st the same time.
idc that it's november 1st, halloween is a LIFESTYLE
and i am still very much tempted to draw that halloween snz comic I've been meaning to draw, of a werewolf, B, detransforming back into a human and awakening, still chained up, in their bed, now covered with fur that they had shed.
With a fur allergy.
and the more they struggle, obviously the more fur it kicks up.
A, their partner waiting downstairs as usual, and the way A can tell that their lycanthropic lovely is back to normal, is by the sounds of clattering chains and fits of desperate sneezes and little pleas for help...
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Additional Tags: Old Work, Old Lovers, Werewolf, before I knew J.K.Rowling was a bigot, Sneezing, sneezefic, sneeze fetish, Early Work
Summary:
War is always more complicated than we might wish, and human souls are always less perfect. But some things survive it all.
Summary: N/anami treats G/ojo to dinner for his birthday, but Gojo is looking for a little more than a nice meal to satisfy his wishes.
cw: snz kink content feat. allergic n/anami, g/ojo has the kink, public snz stuff, references to petplay dynamics (I guess?), no explicit sex but very suggestive
Based on this ask:
Notes: Humbly beg and you shall receive, anon! It's been a while but here is a little something (if 5k is little…lol) based on your scenario. Yippee!! Honestly this idea is right up my alley, and I’ll welcome any opportunity to mess with N/anami… he’s so My Main Guy rn. <3 If you’re still out there and reading this, I hope you like it!
I actually wanted to post this for G/ojo’s bday considering it would’ve been very fitting, but then that came and went lol. It’s still his birthday month though so I say it still counts. 🎁✨ Fic under the cut!
Fic/Art Masterlist
It’s with a warm flutter in his chest that Gojo spots him across the restaurant. He’s not hard to pick out from the crowd, of course. Not with his current attire. It’s plain, professional, but that tie is hard to miss; Gojo would know that leopard print anywhere.
Nanami sees him almost simultaneously, as though feeling the other man’s eyes on him. Hard to miss those too, obnoxiously blue and big even from a distance. He raises one hand in acknowledgment, and his stride takes on more urgency.
“What kept you so long? You’re never late.”
“Traffic.” Nanami leans down, kisses him too briefly for Gojo’s liking. It’s always too brief. Nothing is ever enough, really, for the man’s needy appetite.
He always wants more of whatever Kento Nanami has to give.
The fashion with which he dips into the chair across from Gojo reads with exhaustion, and the sigh he exhales is much the same. “Leave it to the higher ups to call me out on a mission last minute when we have plans,” Nanami huffs.
“Well, you can relax. You’re here with me now.” Gojo grins.
Nanami bites back a sarcastic remark. He barely tolerates Gojo at best. Except… that isn’t exactly true anymore. He’s grown unfortunately fond of him, and that almost frustrates him just as much as it pleases.
“I would’ve been on time, if not for the damned traffic,” Nanami huffs. “For all the effort I put in to not go into overtime, something else almost always gets in the way.” Contrast to how tight his voice remains, he loosens his tie, and his shoulders slump down. It’s clear, despite anything indicating otherwise, he is actually relieved to be here now, with Gojo.
One hand runs through his hair, over and over until it’s subdued to its usual blonde sweep. Gojo fights the urge to reach across and ruffle his perfect styling. He knows Nanami will scold him.
All the more reason to do it. Any attention from that man is good attention. Even his tendency to get irritated with him feeds Gojo’s captivation. His hand twitches, ready to commit…
Then, Nanami stops and his eyes settle on him. So much for that.
No matter though. If things go his way tonight, Gojo will have plenty of chances to rile him up.
“How was the mission?” he asks instead. His hand slides across the table, prompting Nanami to inch his own close enough for Gojo to touch. “Not bad I hope?”
“The unregistered grade one would’ve been nice to know about.” Nanami’s hand flattens under the other man’s palm, except his thumb, which emerges to brush over the top of Gojo’s in a gentle, stroking motion. Those elegant, long fingers fit perfectly into Nanami’s. Like tree roots, so unlikely and yet born of the earth’s intent.
“Those unregistered curses are popping up a lot lately…It’s getting to be a pain in the ass.”
The edge of Nanami’s lip curls. “Hm, sounds a lot like someone I know.”
Gojo’s smirk is much less subtle. “Really? Wonder who that could be.”
“Ever looked in a mirror?”
Ooh, he’s gotten good at comebacks. “Nanamiiii, you’re so meannnn,” Gojo whines in exaggeration. “I miss when you used to huff and just tell me to shut up.”
“Shut up, then.” Nanami’s face is flat, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes. It perfectly reflects the one in Gojo’s. Even if one of them won’t admit it, they both enjoy the banter. It’s constant.
There’s a lull that follows, wherein Gojo is happy to bask in Nanami’s attention. Well, for a little while, at least. He’s really waiting for his attention to move somewhere else now that he’s settled in. Don’t make me say it…
As if on cue, Nanami’s eyes break and sweep over the table. Two menus are set aside, seemingly untouched.
“Did you order already?”
“No. I wanted to wait for you.”
Nanami is about to pick up a menu, but he pauses. The vase innocently placed off center is unassuming, or at least it is at first. The longer he observes the tables surrounding them, the more suspicious it becomes. Families and couples of all kinds are seated at tables around them, but there’s a lack of such a centerpiece at every last one. Nanami tilts his head, calm as he settles his attention on Gojo again.
“Interesting that this is the only table with a bouquet in here.”
Gojo smiles. There it is. “Oh, those? I might’ve made a special request~” he says, playing the part of ignorance only half well. The glee on his face is only barely contained.
“A special request, huh?” They lock eyes. The intensity, though unseen, could surely have struck lightning between them, if it were possible. “I wonder why.”
As if he doesn’t know.
“It is my birthday.”
“Tomorrow. It’s your birthday tomorrow,” Nanami corrects.
Tonight was the best option; Gojo’s students insisted they do something special for him on the evening of, likely an idea of Itadori’s, and neither of them could argue with that. Sentiment for the students is one thing they always agree on.
“We are,” Nanami confirms. “But it’s your birthday, is it not? I should be the one getting you flowers, shouldn’t I?” Another tilt of his head, suspicious.
“It’s a gift to myself.”
How very true. They are a gift to himself, yes, but the flowers aren’t the real gift. They’re just a means to get the real gift.
And Nanami can see right through him.
Some part of him wants to roll his eyes- and he does. He fears though that silky, sweet voice of his is far too much for him to resist. And it’s rude to deny the man a birthday wish when he’s behaving well enough to deserve it, isn’t it?
…Ugh, how the hell did he get romantically caught up with such a fiend?
Now it’s Gojo tilting his head at him, trying to read him. “I can have them removed, you know,” he says.
It’s doubtful his words hold any actual concern. It’s all a subject of perversion to him, all of it.
“No. I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”
“Hm, good. Would hate for them to go to waste.”
“I’m sure you would.”
It’s just more colorful banter, of course. They both know it will be a problem in this vicinity, be they at the center of the table or a little closer to him.
A little closer certainly doesn’t hurt, though. Gojo casually nudges the vase closer to the center, a few inches over to Nanami’s side of the table. There’s a tremble in his hand he manages to suppress. So giddy, so quickly.
Nanami follows his hand and examines the vase closer. It’s daisies, mostly, and peppered among them are clusters of tiny purple and white flowers. Lavender, no doubt, and the white ones are baby’s breath, if he had to guess.
“Did you pick these out yourself?” Nanami asks.
“Maybe.” Gojo rests his cheek against his palm. His eyes sparkle above his lenses, flirty. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a hunch.” Nanami’s eyes remain trained on the flowers. Aesthetically, it’s a nice combination, but it doesn’t matter what’s in the vase. Most anything would have the intended effect. Nanami knows this, and he loathes it a little, except for that the knowledge of this happens to hit Gojo’s buttons. Every. Single. Time.
But he’s certain there’s a reason for the combination he chose. It’s not just for looks. No, everything in the vase has a certain something in common: potency. Gojo doesn’t need assurance they’ll hit their mark- they will, but rather that they’ll hit it hard, regardless of how much Nanami will pay.
Leave it to his birthday to make a man extra greedy.
Perhaps greedy of Nanami too though, to so willingly bend to Gojo’s will. Suffer as he might, the free entertainment stretches both ways. Seeing Gojo try not to lose his mind over even the potential for a few sneezes doesn’t get old.
And in the public eye too. Bold.
Said entertainment may be premiering sooner than either of them planned, as Nanami catches himself swiping a knuckle once, then once again under his nose. He clears his throat, hesitantly.
Gojo notices. “Something the matter?” His eyes are hungry, and no longer just for the meal they’d come here for.
“Fine, thank you.” Except he clears his throat again, which isn’t fine. The itch that settled there feels all too sudden. Perhaps it had been there all along, and only now, after simply acknowledging the reason for it is he unable to deny it.
The current proximity surely plays a part though. The fragrance, dominated by the lavender’s sweetness, is a touch more invasive to his senses now. And even a touch more is enough. He knows it’s only a matter of time before the nagging in his throat creeps into his sinuses, where it forces him to put on a show for his lover.
As Nanami starts finding the will to distract himself from it, their waitress appears. She greets them before requesting their drink orders.
“A dry martini, please. And a water.” A near transparent layer of congestion clings to Nanami’s voice. He hears it, of course, but so does Gojo, ears fine-tuned to notice even the slightest change in quality.
“A Cinderella, thank you.” Gojo’s usual, when he isn’t drinking.
The waiter nods her confirmation before trotting off. Nanami and Gojo are alone again, with a charge of tension striking back between them.
“Not even drinking at your birthday dinner?”
“Mm, I’d like to keep my clarity intact tonight,” Gojo says, and he smirks at him. “You know it doesn’t take much, and I’d hate to miss this.”
Smug bastard. It might be for the best though. There’s a chance Nanami won’t be holding together very well by the time they leave, although it has nothing to do with what’s poured in his glass. Unlike Gojo, he can actually handle his booze.
Rather, it’s likely he’ll be losing a certain microscopic-level battle by then. Better he doesn’t have to drag a potentially drunk and stupid Gojo out of here on top of it.
And while Gojo ensures there won’t be any dragging of anyone to be had, he does want to ensure the other part of Nanami’s dread. He wants to ensure it sooner rather than later, too. It’s early in the night, but his impatience rapidly climbs with the typical, tall arch of his desire. He gives Nanami enough time to pull a decision from the menu before he prompts his next move.
“Nanami,” Gojo says, reaching and plucking a daisy from the vase. He passes it under his nose. “You should really smell them. They’re lovely, you know.”
“Are they?” Nanami says. Gojo’s eyes silently challenge him. In a smooth motion, Nanami pulls the vase towards himself, where the flowers are merely hovering under his chin.
It’s with a brave lack of hesitation that he ducks down and takes a first, quick inhale. Gojo isn’t wrong- they are lovely, though the lavender overpowers everything else. Nanami opens his eyes, making direct eye contact with him as he inhales through his nose again, but slower, deeper. So intentional.
He relishes in watching Gojo subtly squirm under his gaze from that simple act alone, pupils visibly dilating over the rims of his glasses. He’s too fucking easy…
Nanami sits back, then, and pushes the vase back to rest. While his appearance feigns stability, those couple breaths dragged enough pollen into his sinuses to seal his fate. A feather light itch seats itself just above the rims of his nostrils. It’s lazy, happy to remain still for a moment before beginning its evil climb. Nanami sniffs, gently, and then again, deliberately enough to scrunch the bridge of his nose.
The glee is scribbled all over Gojo’s face. Unconsciously, his grip over Nanami’s hand tightens. “Did you take anything today?”
“At this time of year? No.” Well, not usually, anyways. Regardless, drowsiness isn’t worth risking on a solo mission.
“Yeah?” There’s a fluttering in Gojo’s stomach. It takes so little for his composure to trip onto a slippery slope. Just the mere confirmation Nanami had exposed himself without an ounce of defense is enough.
When Nanami sniffs again, it’s stuffy with evidence of swelling nasal passages. His consonants would be crushed under the weight of it when next he spoke, he’s sure.
And both Gojo and Nanami know all too well how the rest will follow. Congestion hits him first, and it’s only a matter of time before the full weight of misery follows suit. Nanami isn’t keen on rushing it along though. Gojo, on the other hand…
He’s staring at him the way a dog might at the door after its owner leaves. Calm and still on the surface, behaved. Underneath though, he’s liable to jump, bark, wag his tail at the first dull thud of feet outside the door.
But he hasn’t heard that cue, not yet.
Nanami keeps his hands still, one on the table, the other in his lap, even when his eyes begin to itch and perspire. The only indication of any struggle is the subtle knitting of his eyebrows. Gojo almost doesn’t catch it; the man wears his face with stress so often it’s easy to miss.
His determination to remain stoic cracks and breaks down further and further from there though. It’s his nose that gives him away in the end. Already a prominent feature on his face, it only becomes more striking when it takes on a life of its own.
Gojo’s enraptured with the way his nostrils pulse open in an erratic pattern, a shiver seeming to run down the bridge. “Doing okay? You look…itchy,” Gojo purrs.
The power of suggestion threatens to break him, but Nanami shakes his head dismissively. His silence speaks volumes to how he actually feels, however. It’s taking all his concentration just to think straight. Nanami turns away from Gojo, blinking mist from his eyes. A tight breath parts his lips, but nothing more.
“Cat got your tongue?” Gojo’s eyes gleam vexatiously above his lenses.
“…I’m fine.” Nanami’s voice is strained. He’s fighting, and he’s fighting hard. If Gojo could just get him to keep talking…
The opportunity ends up walking right up to him in the form of their waitress. She sets their drinks on the table. Gojo thanks her, and Nanami can only nod and offer a watery smile.
Oh, you’re so screwed, Nanami.
“Are we ready to order?” the waitress cheerfully asks.
“I think so. Nanami, why don’t you go first?”
Nanami's expression remains civil, but Gojo feels the frustration burning from his eyes across the table. He knows exactly what he’s up to.
Nanami clears his throat in a last ditch attempt to dissuade the urge trying to claim him. “I’llhhH…!” His attempt to speak dissolves almost immediately, and he twists away from the waitress. Gojo’s heart skips a beat.
His napkin is still neatly wrapped around a set of silverware, so he opts for his inner elbow instead. “Nh-GTCH’iew-! hH-NGTchH’iew-!” The sneezes fall back to back, impressively stifled from his usual volume. But it’s unsatisfying. Nanami bites his tongue to chase away another sneeze, or maybe more. More that would’ve felt so good, damn it. The sigh that follows is erotically uncertain, and Gojo bites his lip.
“Oh, bless you!”
Gojo envies the waitress’s ease in so casually uttering that phrase, but only briefly. He’s easily distracted by the dusting of pink visible on Nanami’s features upon emerging. “Pardon me,” he says, quietly. He delivers Gojo a healthy dose of side eye before he remembers what he’s supposed to be doing.
“Right, sorry. I’ll have the tenderloin plate. Medium rare, please.” Gojo doesn’t even register his choice of sides and salad. He’s too focused on how deliciously congested the man sounds to register any words.
When the waitress trains her attention on Gojo, Nanami takes the opportunity to paw at his nose and sniff. And then sniff again. Maybe once more will bring some relief? But the dull buzzing just sticks. It’s fruitless.
“Actually, that all sounded wonderful,” Gojo chimes. As far as she knows, he’s referring to his meal choices, but with the eye contact he maintains with Nanami, he’s clearly complimenting something else. “I’ll take what he’s having. Exactly the same, yes. Thank you~”
Off their waitress goes again, unaware the situation before her lacks innocence.
Nanami quickly unfurled the napkin withholding the set of silverware on the table. He stole his other hand back from Gojo, tenting the fabric over the lower part of his face and rubbing indulgently at his nose. “I’m starting to think you wanted to go here just to torture me.” he comments from within the fabric, voice muffled.
“What makes you say that?” Nanami’s nose is a deep shade of pink when his hands fall away. His nostrils are damp and irritated at the edges, visible even from across the table. Lovely.
“You clearly never even looked at the menu.”
“As far as you know. You just have good taste, really.” Gojo talks in a tone that could only convince the most gullible of people.
And Nanami isn’t gullible. Not at all. His stupidly gorgeous partner is full of shit, as usual.
Nanami dismisses him with another eye roll, knowing it’s not worth arguing with him. That’s when he feels something under the table brush his ankle, and then brush it again, more intentionally. His eyes narrow. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The tip of Gojo’s shoe catches the hem of his pant leg. His eyes, half lidded, are full of a blue fire, even more brilliant than their usual shine. And he can’t hide it. Without that blindfold, his excitement has never been more obvious.
Although… even if his eyes were concealed, what he’s pulling under their table spells his mood out plainly enough.
Nanami bumps his own shoe back against Gojo’s ankle. It’s halfhearted, yet still draws a grin from the other man.
“Pace yourself. We'll end up having to get out of here before our food arrives, at this rate,” Nanami warns.
“Oh, I have no plans to leave any time soon. Unless you can’t hold out?” Gojo catches the top of Nanami’s shoe under his own, pressing down hard enough to pinch.
“I’ll manage, thank you-” Nanami wriggles his foot away with little effort, and he lightly kicks Gojo’s leg back, lest he decides to go too far.
He takes his success in wrangling Gojo’s neediness down to finally tend to his drink. The martini glass is filled with clear and icy liquid, and garnished with a strip of lemon peel, elegantly curled. It’s fiery in his throat and chest, a burn far more pleasant than the one still crawling through his sinuses.
Speaking of that…
Nanami unsteadily sets the glass back down on the table. “hh-hdh…!” The tickle crests, and his expression wavers. In the middle of sipping his own drink, amber and intoxicatingly sweet in contrast, Gojo lowers it to tune in.
His shoulders jar violently when the first one comes, followed by another he smothers into his napkin. “nh’gtCHh’iiew-! hHMFpf’SChh-! Hh…!” His head tilts a little higher, chest swells a little larger… ”ehH’GTSHh’ieyh-!”
Gojo’s insides melt, and then jolt excitedly on the third one. Could it be that they’re already proving difficult to contain?
They sound wet too, and the inner fold of the napkin confirms it, with dark, damp spots visible in the fabric when he unfurls it. Gojo is graced with only a brief glance of the evidence before it’s tucked away back in his lap. Silently, Nanami thanks fate for the heavier fabric. A plain paper napkin would surely not have survived.
And he’s far from done, worst of all.
Lucky, lucky Gojo.
He’s lucky too, that Nanami has shed his earlier determination to play it off. His misery is obvious now, and Gojo is free to drink in every bit of it. Much like his beverage, the taste is sweeter than sweet.
With one hand, Nanami’s fingertips trace over his eyelids, and his lashes, stealing away the unshed moisture clinging so stubbornly to his water line. And then goes down, knuckling at his septum. His touch is careful and light, carrying worry that the wrong type of pressure may set him off again sooner than he’d prefer.
The desire to reach out and replace Nanami’s touch tingles in Gojo’s fingertips. He wouldn’t be so careful with that nose of his.
Shame they’re in public, otherwise Nanami might actually allow him the chance…
As he quietly relishes in his fantasies, Nanami manages to pull himself together to some small degree. It’s only a moment later that two fresh salads are plated before them, already coated with light, citrus dressing. At the center of their table, a basket with warm bread and butter is placed.
Gojo can’t hide the amusement on his face seeing Nanami go for the bread as soon as their waitress departed. For a man that could be difficult to read, some of his quirks are far too predictable. Of course he goes right for it; it’s his favorite form of carbohydrate, and thus the perfect distraction from his plight.
As he swallows a bite, Nanami catches Gojo’s eye.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. Just you,” Gojo says.
Nanami just frowns at him. If he says something, it’ll only invite Gojo to tease him further.
Neither of them speak again until they’ve both had a moment to make progress. Gojo is reaffirmed in his decision to come here; it’s better than he remembered, and they both manage to lose themselves in the food.
It’s only when his plate is clean that Gojo talks again. “Hey, thanks for taking me out, Nanami.” His tone is genuine, sober compared to before they’d been served.
Nanami pauses to swallow before he speaks. “I’m happy to.” He wipes at his mouth with the corner of the napkin, which is then swapped for his drink. He tilts it towards Gojo in a toasting fashion.
Gojo picks up his own glass and taps the rim to Nanami’s with a sharp clink. “Cheers.”
“Happy BirthhH-Hh…!” His expression crumples suddenly, violently. So does Gojo’s subdued mood. In one swift, haphazard move, Nanami sets his glass down without managing to spill, and replaces it with the napkin off his lap. One hand squeezes over his nose, and the other over Gojo’s hand to steady himself.
Fuck. Gojo feels fire run up the nerves of his arm from Nanami’s touch. It races to his chest, forcing a shuddering exhale from his lips, not unlike the one Nanami gasps through before he succumbs.
“hiH’NGxtT’shiew…! Ah…!” The suppressed force feels heavy, uncomfortable in his chest. Nanami hovers the fabric under his nose in expectation, brows pinching tighter into a desperate arch. The next one would not be stifled, and he knew better than to try, relaxing his grip. “hH’NGSSHHh’iew…! Birthday…” he finishes pathetically.
“Happy Birthday, indeed.”
Each sneeze is deliciously itchy in quality, especially so when breaking free of Nanami’s control. His composure seems to be slipping away almost as quickly as Gojo’s now. A shame for him, if actually had the capacity for anything remotely close to sympathy.
The sniffle that chases the sneeze is a futile squeak. “Ugh…” His sinuses are so swollen they nearly ache, and yet, he swears he can still smell that fucking lavender…
Gojo shifts in his seat. He really needs to try not to savor this too much, or else they will have a problem by the time they leave.
But how can he not? It’s an entire, luxury meal for his eyes, and they aren’t even on the main course yet.
He wonders how long it will be before he sneezes again.
Answer: not long. Long enough to have their plates taken, drinks refreshed. But not long enough for Nanami, who wanted to catch a break, and too long for Gojo, ever the impatient and watchful.
His eyes are faintly red, watery, and he pinches the bridge of his sizable nose. The prickle lingering in his sinuses only rises higher, buzzing. Nanami fights not to breathe, only faintly aware of Gojo’s foot poking at his own under the table again.
“Nanami…”
He knows Gojo isn’t saying his name to prompt him, not in that tone. There’s a floatiness to his voice that only ever serves to egg him on. It’s just to remind him that his attention remains fixed on Nanami as he finally-
“hH’DZSCHHh’yh-! hH’TSCHHhh-!”
And they’re getting away from him.
“hH…! hAH’EHSCHHhheh-!”
Make that really getting away from him.
He can see and feel several pairs of eyes on him, and he can’t blame them. The volume practically demands attention, whether Nanami wants it or not. The low buzz of conversation around them doesn’t swing in volume, thankfully. He can’t imagine how exposed anything closer to silence would leave him.
The attention on him quickly dissolves, with the exception of one person. Gojo is still staring, of course he is.
“Fuck, Nanami,” The words fall from his lips like silk in a hushed tone, silver and shiny. “Done holding back?”
“I can’t,” Nanami says, honestly.
“Skill issue.”
“Oh, shih-! Shuddup, hH…!” His vocal annoyance is crushed under the certainty of another disruption. So certain, and yet he fights it back until it isn’t, nose pinched tightly, breath frozen in his lungs. Safe for now, but it’s sure to return and haunt him, eventually.
He hears Gojo curse under his breath another time. He looks ready to jump Nanami right then and there. And he worries he just might, by the way his foot has climbed up his leg. It rests at his thigh, rubbing over the seam close to his knee.
Damn his long legs.
Nanami shoots him a look across the table. “Down, boy.”
“Hm, you gonna put me on a leash too?” Gojo dares to say. His foot continues its prodding, careful to avoid jostling the table cloth which serves as the only thing concealing the act.
“Maybe I should.” Nanami is only half kidding. Gojo is insatiable.
Nanami fails again to properly sniffle behind the fist hesitantly curled and hovering near his nose. His eyes are squinted, distant. What he initially held off is rearing its head, far sooner than he hoped. Damn his allergies.
He ducks down behind that fist, aiming towards his elbow. “nH’GNXCh’iew-! hiH…!” Trying to suppress one only strengthens the next, evident by the deeper gasp that follows.
Gojo slouches in his chair, stretching his leg to touch him but not quite reaching. Such a shame. He wonders if he would be able to feel his abs clench through the rubber under his foot, if he could reach his waist.
“hiH’DZSCHH’ih-!”
Ah, but Nanami’s legs definitely clench, thighs tensing and grabbing at his ankle with another wrenching sneeze.
“heH…! hH’RSCHHEUHh-!”
And no wonder. These are as forceful as they get. There’s more eyes on their table, and Gojo finds himself blushing under the weight of it. This is surely mortifying for his other half, knowing him.
Nanami’s a mess when he lifts his head, eyes streaming. He fluidly tucks his face back into the napkin, fidgeting until he feels he might look semi presentable. If not for the redness of his nose, eyes- his whole face, really- he might actually pass.
Under the table, Gojo’s toying recedes. The vase does too, he’s surprised to see. Gojo tugs it close to himself, pushes it to the side.
“Wow, taking mercy on me?”
Oh, he’s beyond congested…
“Maybe. Although it’s not so much for your sake.” Gojo leans in like it’s some kind of secret. “You’re a little loud, you know.”
“Don’t remind me.”
Gojo idly stirs his drink. “I figure you should at least enjoy your meal uninterrupted though, too.”
Nanami’s glare on him softens, and then shifts down to the flowers, now at a safer distance. It’s a kind gesture, but…
It’s far too sudden. Such mercy from a man as ravenous as Gojo- especially on an occasion where he can so easily get away with it- always comes with a price.
“What’s the catch?”
The straw continues its stirring motion, ice cubes clinking against each other. There’s a glint in Gojo’s eyes as he tilts his head. “I’ll be taking them home, where you’ll be spending the night as we planned,” he says.
But Nanami is willing, if only to see Gojo unravel to the furthest extent.
Apparently also pondering his future plans, and proving Nanami’s intuition right, Gojo’s foot is back at it again almost as soon as it receded. “Hm, maybe I’ll even skip dessert just to get us out of here.” His sweet tooth tendencies immediately rebel. “Or maybe I’ll take it to go,” he corrects.
Nanami rolls his eyes. “You’re the strongest sorcerer alive, and yet you wouldn’t know impulse control if it hit you in the jaw.”
“What’s that? Can’t hear you over all that congestion.” Gojo smirks.
“Tch…” Nanami’s nostrils flare in frustration. And then they flare a little differently, urgently, as his brow knits.
Nanami grits his teeth, tongue to the roof of his mouth. “hH…! hH’ngtt’SHEUHh…!” Still too loud.
“Did moving them away not even help?”
“It can only help so much at this point.” Nanami pinches between his eyes again. “It’s gonna be a long night.”
Gojo can only smile. “All according to plan.” He takes a long sip of his drink, and sighs. “You really are the perfect gift, Nanami.”
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