// In the middle of the night, Remi and Levi wake up tangled together under blankets, both running fevers and fighting congestion. Remi keeps accidentally waking Levi with sleepy, half-stifled sneezes, and Levi responds with quiet, steady care instead of frustration. Between soft check-ins, forehead touches, water, tissues, and medicine, they slowly realize they’re both miserable, but safe, because they’re not doing it alone. The night becomes a loop of warmth, shared breath, and gentle reassurance until they finally settle back into sleep wrapped around each other. // 4k words
CW:
Flu/fever and illness caretaking
Sneezing fits and congestion
Nose blowing, runny nose, snot/spit (light bodily fluids)
Mild profanity
The room glowed faintly with the muted lavender of a nightlight tucked somewhere near the dresser, its soft hue barely cutting through the darkness. Outside, wind brushed against the window in slow, sighing currents. Inside, under a pile of blankets that had long since slipped into disarray, Remi and Levi slept tangled together in a knot of fever-warm limbs.
Remi’s body was a furnace behind Levi, heat radiating from his chest and arms in steady waves. Levi, naturally cooler, curled instinctively into that heat, cheek pressed to the hollow of Remi’s shoulder. Their breaths mingled—warm, uneven, thick with congestion.
For a while, neither stirred.
Then Remi shifted, his nose brushing faintly through Levi’s hair. His breath hitched, barely audible at first, like a snagged thread.
Levi didn’t wake to the movement— but he woke to the sneeze.
“Hh’… ihH’ktdSHhh!!!”
Remi nearly managed to stifle it against Levi’s shoulder, but the soft, desperate sound still jolted Levi from sleep, his eyelashes fluttering up in slow confusion.
He didn’t pull away. Didn’t tense. Just murmured, “…Bless you…” in a voice still weighted with dreams.
Remi’s arms tightened reflexively around him, a fever-heavy embrace that trembled almost imperceptibly.
“Mmnn… sorry,” he mumbled, the words gravel-soft and exhausted. “Didn’t mean t’wake you…”
“You didn’t,” Levi whispered, though his voice wavered with how recently he had been asleep. He lifted one sleepy hand and rested it over Remi’s forearm, thumb brushing gently back and forth. “You okay…?”
Remi didn’t answer with words. He simply nuzzled in again—pressing his forehead into Levi’s neck, letting out a warm, shaky exhale that tickled Levi’s skin.
But a moment later, Remi tensed.
His breath hitched again, sharper this time. Levi felt it before he heard it—the sudden tightness in Remi’s chest, the involuntary clutch of Remi’s fingers at his side.
“Hh—hih…”
Levi blinked, realizing what was coming. “Rem…?”
Remi tried to bury the sneeze into the blanket to spare him, but fever had dulled his coordination and instincts alike. He tilted forward slightly, breath trembling.
“Hh’… ngh—’isshh…!”
The half-stifled sneeze puffed warm air against Levi’s collarbone. Remi groaned weakly afterward, embarrassment flickering across his face even though Levi couldn’t see it.
Levi only rubbed his arm in slow circles. “Bless you… again.”
Remi let out a frustrated, congested sound that wasn’t quite a word. His glowing green eyes—dimmed to a foggy, fever-dulled shade—squeezed shut. He tried to relax, tried to settle his breathing, but another tremor ran through him.
“Hh… h-hh…” He sniffed hard, trying—and failing—to stop the rising tickle.
“Remi,” Levi murmured, voice gentle but fondly exasperated. “Don’t fight it.”
Remi’s reply was a rough whisper into Levi’s hair. “I’m tryin’… t’nnnot—hih—wake you…”
“You already did.”
Remi’s breath stuttered helplessly.
“Hh—H'ihhSHHhhiew! iit’shHIEW!”
This time, the sneezes rocked his whole body, curling him forward around Levi rather than away. Levi tightened his arms slightly, steadying him through the force of it.
When Remi slumped back again, exhausted, Levi shifted enough to look over his shoulder. Remi’s cheeks were flushed, brows knotted, his nose pink and running. He looked miserable—and heartbreakingly soft.
Levi brushed a few strands of black hair off Remi’s forehead. “Hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Really.”
Remi pressed into the touch without hesitation, eyes fluttering shut. Fever made him seek warmth unconsciously—made him cling, nuzzle, and breathe softly against Levi’s skin like he was trying to ground himself in the presence he trusted most.
“…Sorry,” Remi murmured again. Softer this time. Less coherent. “Didn’ wanna stop holdin’ you…”
Levi’s heart squeezed, warm and achy. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”
Remi gave a small, sleepy hum in response, his arms drawing Levi even closer. Their legs resettled, tangling naturally, and Levi relaxed fully into the embrace, letting Remi’s fever-heavy weight mold around him.
Their breaths synced gradually— slow, tired, stuffy— their bodies fitting together like they always had a place to return to.
They lay like that for several long, warm minutes.
Until Remi’s breath hitched again.
Levi sighed, already resigned. “Go on.”
Remi barely managed a warning sound before he sneezed once more—small this time, almost delicate compared to the others.
“Hihh’ISSHh!”
Levi smiled into the blankets. “Bless you, Acushla.”
Remi, already half-asleep again, let out a soft whuff of breath, nuzzling into the curve of Levi’s neck with a needy, fever-drowsy affection he rarely allowed himself when awake.
The room settled into quiet once more, dim and safe and warm. And Remi held Levi like he was something steady to anchor him, even through sickness and sleep.
Levi lay still for a few long breaths, letting the fog of sleep settle just enough for him to notice the details he’d missed a moment before.
Remi was burning. His skin was hot, fever heat radiating through the blankets and into Levi’s arms. Levi could feel the uneven rise and fall of Remi’s chest against his back, each breath thick and heavy with congestion. Every exhale came out warm and damp against Levi’s neck, hitching faintly near the end like Remi’s lungs were struggling to keep up.
Levi shifted very slightly, turning just enough to face him. Remi loosened his hold but didn’t let go, his arm slipping from Levi’s waist to rest low on his ribs instead. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, the glow dimmed to a foggy green-grey.
Levi lifted a hand and brushed Remi’s messy bangs away from his forehead. The moment Levi’s fingers touched his skin, Remi leaned into the touch—soft, instinctive, needy in the gentlest way. Like a sick, sleepy puppy searching for the closest bit of comfort.
Levi’s hand stilled for a heartbeat.
“…Remi?” he whispered.
Remi swallowed, gaze slipping unfocused before he blinked slowly back to him. His voice, when it came, was small and quiet in a way Levi almost never heard. A cracked whisper shaped more by exhaustion than breath.
“I feel like shit…”
It wasn’t dramatic. Wasn’t defensive or gruff or couched in curses. Just honest. Soft. Bare.
Levi's chest warmed, even through the fever ache. He shifted closer, pressing his forehead to Remi’s, letting their shared heat meet in the space between them.
“…Me too,” he murmured, voice slow and thick. “But we’ll be okay.”
Remi’s eyes flickered, the faintest spark of relief softening them. His arm tightened around Levi’s waist—just a gentle pull, nothing demanding. He dipped forward a little, breath warming Levi’s cheek.
Then Remi pressed a kiss to Levi’s forehead.
Slow. Barely-there. A feather-light touch of lips that lasted only a second… but felt like something instinctual and tender, nudged out by fever before he could think enough to stop it.
Levi inhaled softly in surprise, a tiny smile blooming across his face despite how sick he felt. His forehead tingled where Remi’s lips had been.
“That tickles…” he whispered, the words brushing against Remi’s throat as he tucked himself back into the circle of Remi’s arms.
Remi let out a soft, exhausted hum. Not a laugh — just a warm sound of acknowledgment, of agreement, of comfort.
Levi rested his cheek against Remi’s chest, listening to the slow, heavy thud of his heartbeat. Remi’s chin lowered until it rested lightly against the top of Levi’s head, their breaths synchronizing again in messy, stuffy unison.
And for a quiet moment, in the dim haze of fever and blankets and shared warmth, being sick didn’t feel quite so terrible.
Because neither of them was alone in it.
Levi lasted all of five minutes before the dryness in his throat became impossible to ignore. His head throbbed with each heartbeat, and the fever fog in his skull made everything feel slow and far away.
He shifted carefully, trying not to jostle Remi as he pushed himself upright.
The attempt failed instantly.
The moment Levi lifted even an inch off the pillow, Remi whined — a soft, broken sound, more breath than voice — and his arm tightened around Levi’s waist.
“Don’t go…” Remi mumbled, eyes still closed, face buried in Levi’s chest. “…you’re warm…”
The vulnerability in his tone hit Levi straight in the ribs. It was rare enough when Remi asked for things outright, rarer still when he sounded small about it.
Levi stroked Remi’s shoulder gently. “I’ll be right back, baby. Just getting us some water.”
Remi blinked up at him, bleary and fever-bright, wearing the softest, sleepiest pout Levi had ever seen on another human being. His lower lip stuck out slightly, his piercings glinting in the dim light, his brow drawn, glowing eyes foggy with confusion and misery.
“…Promise?” he whispered.
Levi leaned down and kissed Remi’s hair. “Promise.”
Remi exhaled, defeated, and let his arms fall away. He flopped back into the blankets with a congested grunt, sniffling thickly as Levi slid out of bed.
The cold air outside the blankets hit Levi immediately. He shivered hard, wrapping his arms around himself as dizziness washed through him. His head felt too light, his sinuses too heavy. Even walking felt like navigating through fog.
Remi watched him through half-lidded eyes, barely visible beneath the blankets he’d pulled to his chin.
“Don’t fall…” he mumbled, voice hoarse and worried in spite of sleep.
Levi gave him a tiny, tired smile. “I won’t.”
He almost did.
Halfway to the kitchen counter, his knees wobbled and he caught himself on the table, breath coming out in a stuffy huff. His nose buzzed sharply—wet, urgent—and he barely had time to cup his hands around his face.
“Hh—Eh’schh’iue!! Hh’…H'ptschu!”
The sneezes bent him forward, and the aftermath left him blinking away tears. His breathing thickened, nostrils flaring in dull irritation.
From the bed, Remi called weakly, “Bless you, kitten…” Then, after a pause: “…y’sure you don’t need help?”
Levi sniffed wetly and shook his head. “I’m good,” he rasped, though his voice didn’t sound convinced.
He grabbed two glasses of water, a box of tissues, and the packet of cold pills. The effort left him winded, and he trudged back to the bed slowly, feet dragging on the wooden floor.
Remi’s eyes followed him the entire way — fever-glazed but attentive, like he was tracking the movements of something precious he couldn’t risk losing.
The moment Levi sat down, Remi reached for him, arms opening just slightly.
Levi barely settled against the pillows before Remi pulled him into a loose, shaky hug. His forehead pressed to Levi’s temple; his breath shuddered warm across Levi’s cheek.
“You’re back…” Remi murmured, relief softening his entire face.
“Told you I’d be.” Levi nudged him gently. “Help me sit up?”
Remi tried — but at the effort of leaning forward, his breath caught sharply. His nose twitched once… twice… then he turned abruptly into the blankets.
“Hh—hihh—! Hh’gdtSSHHh!—hh’DTSH’ue!”
He slumped afterward, dazed, sniffling hard. “Ugh… sorry…”
“Nothing to be sorry for,” Levi murmured, guiding a tissue gently into Remi’s hand.
Remi hesitated—then blew his nose quietly, embarrassed, a soft congested sound that cracked at the end. Levi rubbed his arm through the blankets.
“Feel a bit better?” he asked.
Remi nodded weakly. “A little…”
When Levi eased back into bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, Remi shifted immediately. He turned toward him with a quiet, needy sound and pulled Levi in without hesitation, one arm slipping securely around Levi’s shoulders, the other settling at his waist. Levi was drawn in until his back rested against Remi’s chest, Remi’s warmth closing around him like a shelter.
Remi pressed his face into Levi’s hair, breathing him in slowly, relief evident in the way his hold tightened just a little too much. His chin rested against Levi’s shoulder, his breath warm and uneven against Levi’s neck.
Levi relaxed into the embrace, nuzzling back instinctively, his head tipping slightly until it fit beneath Remi’s jaw. Remi made a soft, almost inaudible sound at the contact, vulnerability leaking through in the way he held on.
Levi reached back to brush Remi’s hair away from his face, fingertips grazing his temple in a slow, careful motion.
“C’mere,” Levi whispered. “Let’s take these meds, then we can lie back down.”
Remi hummed quietly in agreement, the sound vibrating against Levi’s shoulder. He tried to sit up while keeping Levi tucked close, but the effort showed more than he wanted it to. His grip faltered for a moment, his breath hitching.
Levi turned just enough to help, guiding him upright while staying close. When Levi passed him the cup, Remi’s hands shook around it, water sloshing near the rim.
Levi covered Remi’s hands with his own at once. “Hey,” he murmured. “Let me.”
Remi didn’t argue. Not tonight.
He relaxed his grip and let Levi guide the cup to his lips, tilting it slowly so Remi could sip without spilling. Each swallow was followed by a small, congested breath, his nose clearly struggling to keep up—flaring, then hitching as he paused to breathe through his mouth.
Levi waited patiently between sips, never rushing him.
When Remi finally pulled back, he exhaled wearily, shoulders sagging as the effort caught up to him.
“…thank you…” he mumbled, voice thick and soft, consonants blurred by exhaustion and congestion.
Levi reached for the tissue box and pressed one gently to Remi’s nose before Remi could look away. “You’re a mess…” he said softly, without even a hint of teasing cruelty.
Remi’s cheeks pinked a little — a rare sight, even under fever. The blush barely showed through his flushed skin, but Levi caught it anyway. Remi didn’t pull back. If anything, he leaned into the touch, letting Levi wipe his nose with slow, careful strokes.
“Sorry…” Remi muttered.
“Don’t be,” Levi whispered. “Just breathe.”
Remi tried — but the moment he inhaled, his breath snagged sharply.
“Hh… hh—” His nostrils flared helplessly. “Oh… shit—”
The sneeze pulled him forward, chest tightening painfully.
“Hh—hihh—hH’RHH’TSHHH!—hh’rRRTSSHH’uuhh!!”
The wheeze afterward was shaky and desperate, a thin rasp clawing out of his throat as he fought to catch his breath. Levi braced a hand on Remi’s arm, steadying him through the aftermath.
“You okay?” Levi whispered.
Remi nodded weakly, though his eyes were watering, breath still hitching in small, involuntary tremors.
“Hh… hhh…”
“Remi—”
“Hh’RRDTSSHHhh!—gktSSHH’uuh!”
The force of the sneeze drew Remi forward against Levi’s back, his arms tightening reflexively as his breath left him all at once. He slumped there afterward, forehead dropping briefly to Levi’s shoulder with a wobbling, congested sniff. His eyes stayed half-closed, lashes damp.
“Gods… that sucked…” he rasped.
Levi reached back carefully, threading his fingers into Remi’s hair and rubbing slow, grounding circles against his scalp. “I know,” he murmured gently. “You’re okay.”
Remi swallowed, cheeks still flushed, and leaned into the touch as much as he could from behind, pressing his face closer to Levi’s shoulder. The warmth of Levi’s hand, steady and familiar, seemed to anchor him, easing the fever haze just enough for him to breathe again.
Levi opened his mouth to speak, but his breath caught suddenly — a sharp, involuntary gasp. His nose twitched once, then twice, and he barely had time to bring his sleeve up as he bent forward.
“Hh… Hhih’eeshiew!! H’etshhiEW!”
The sneeze was small and breathless, muffled into his sleeve as he leaned away instinctively. He sniffled afterward, a wet, embarrassed sound, shoulders hitching as he tried to recover.
Remi tightened his hold at once, one arm firm around Levi’s middle. “Bless you, kitten… c’mere…” he murmured, voice rough but gentle.
Levi didn’t resist. He shifted, turning carefully in Remi’s grasp until he could curl back against him, settling with his cheek to Remi’s chest. Almost immediately, he nuzzled closer, nose brushing Remi’s shirt as another quiet sniffle escaped him. A small patch of damp warmth pooled beneath his nose, darkening the fabric as he breathed there, unselfconscious now that he was tucked safely away.
Remi adjusted around him, chin resting against Levi’s hair, pulling the blanket up over them both with a slow, deliberate motion. Levi sighed and tucked in closer, forehead pressing lightly to Remi’s sternum, letting himself be held while the night closed softly around them.
Remi lowered his head and pressed the softest kiss into Levi’s hair, lips lingering for a moment as he breathed him in. Levi’s hand slipped beneath Remi’s shirt, fingers splayed against the fever-warm skin of his ribs.
Neither spoke.
The world stayed hushed. Their breaths stayed ragged, uneven, but shared.
And even with sneezes still building in Remi’s chest, even with Levi shivering against him…
There was a softness between them stronger than all of it. A quiet, sleepy togetherness that didn’t need anything but the warmth of the moment.
The room had settled into the kind of quiet that only existed in the deep hours of the night, when even sickness softened into something slow and hazy. Their breathing filled the small space under the blankets—stuffed, uneven, but warm in its togetherness.
Levi shifted just slightly against Remi’s chest. His fingers traced faint shapes over Remi’s ribs, comforting more than searching.
For a long stretch of stillness, they didn’t speak.
Then Levi exhaled a trembling breath and whispered, barely audible:
“I’m glad it’s you…” His voice cracked softly. “Even sick.”
Remi’s heart stuttered—literally, physically—beneath Levi’s cheek. The warmth of his hold changed subtly, tightening for a moment before melting into something even gentler. The kind of softness he only ever revealed to Levi. The kind he didn’t know how to control.
He ducked his face into Levi’s hair, hiding the way the words hit him—too much, too tender, too real. His fever-warm nose nuzzled through the strands, and Levi felt the shaky inhale against his scalp.
Quietly, barely more than breath:
“Me too, kitten…” A pause. “…wouldn’t wanna be sick with anyone else.”
Levi’s fingers froze, then curled into Remi’s shirt. His breath shivered in his throat—half emotion, half congestion. He gave a small, involuntary whimper before the tickle in his sinuses surged up.
“Oh—hold on—”
“Hh… hih—” His body tensed against Remi’s chest.
Then two soft, stuffy sneezes:
“—hah’ESHHh‘uh!! HET’Shhh’eu!”
It muffled into Remi’s shirt, leaving Levi sniffling quietly, embarrassed.
Instead, he tilted his head and pressed a slow, tender kiss to Levi’s temple—feather-light, steady, a promise in the shape of a touch.
“Easy…” Remi murmured, voice wrecked but warm. “Got you, kitten.”
Levi melted under the words, his sniffles softening into slow, steady breaths. He shifted again, burying himself deeper into Remi’s arms until their bodies fit together as though guided by instinct alone.
Remi’s hand slid up Levi’s back, palm warm, fingers gentle despite their fever shake. His breathing evened out behind Levi, still thick, still rough—but grounded now in the closeness between them.
The night wrapped around them like another blanket, heavy and comforting.
And for the first time since the flu had dragged them both down, Levi felt safe. Remi felt steady. And everything—aches, fevers, tickles, misery—seemed somehow softer in the space between their hearts.
The night settled deeper around them, heavy with warmth and the slow lull of shared breathing. Levi felt Remi’s skin grow hotter under his fingertips — fever blooming again across his cheeks, radiating through his neck and collarbones like rising embers.
Remi shifted restlessly, brows pinching. A soft, low sound escaped him — not quite a whine, but something close, a tired plea for comfort he didn’t know he was making.
Levi shifted slightly where he lay against Remi’s chest and lifted one hand, cupping Remi’s cheek with gentle care. His thumb traced slow, soothing strokes along Remi’s flushed skin as he reached up to smooth sweat-damp hair back from Remi’s forehead.
“Shh… I’ve got you, Acushla,” he whispered, voice soft and close.
Remi leaned down into the touch immediately, turning his face toward Levi’s palm like he was drawn there by instinct alone. A quiet, contented hum rumbled in his chest beneath Levi, vibrating faintly against him as Remi’s eyes drifted shut. Each careful stroke grounded him, easing the fever haze and dulling the ache settled deep in his bones.
Levi kept his hand there, cooling Remi’s face with slow, deliberate motions. Gradually, Remi’s breathing steadied and deepened—still thick with congestion, still carrying a faint rasp on every inhale, but calmer now. His arms loosened around Levi’s back, hands relaxing where they rested, fingers slowly uncurling as exhaustion finally pulled him toward sleep.
Little by little, Remi slipped in and out of sleep — blinking drowsily, humming when Levi touched his hair, then fading again.
Levi felt his own body surrender to fatigue. His eyelids fluttered, then drooped, his fingers tangling lazily in Remi’s hair — soft, repetitive motions that soothed them both. Their legs intertwined beneath the blankets, warm breath mingling in quiet puffs.
The rhythm of the room narrowed down to the two of them. Soft. Slow. Stuffy. Tired.
Remi stirred once more, eyes half-opening as his breath caught shallowly in his chest. Levi felt the shift beneath him and tilted his head slightly, cheek still pressed to Remi’s shoulder, listening for the telltale hitch of another sneeze.
It never came.
Instead, Remi lowered his head just enough to brush his lips to Levi’s forehead. The kiss was soft and unhurried, more instinct than intention, lingering for the barest second before he rested his chin there again.
His voice followed, quiet and worn thin by fever, shaped around careful mouth-breathing.
“I love you, kitten…”
Levi’s chest warmed, emotion blooming slow and steady beneath his ribs. He didn’t lift his head, didn’t break the closeness. He only curled in a little more, one hand slipping up to rest against Remi’s collarbone as he whispered back,
“I love you too, Acushla. Always.”
Remi exhaled shakily, relief easing through him as his arms tightened just enough to keep Levi close. His breathing stayed slow and open-mouthed, each warm breath ghosting over Levi’s forehead, damp and gentle with congestion.
Levi closed his eyes and let the sound of it lull him—Remi’s steady breathing, the rise and fall of his chest beneath him, the quiet safety of being held.
They fell asleep like that, Levi tucked against Remi’s chest and shoulder, Remi wrapped securely around him, lips resting near Levi’s hair, the blankets drawn close around them.
The night softened. The world stayed distant.
And in that small, warm space between breath and sleep, nothing else mattered at all.
Summary: When Rexar is summoned away to attend his family's grisly Culling ritual, Kriia finds herself home alone—and rapidly succumbing to a brutal cold. Fevered, sniffling, and miserable, she settles into her usual stubborn solitude, but it’s not long before her discomfort draws the attention of her ever-attentive (and unfortunately very into it) boyfriend.
Rexar, already on edge from the family soul-feeding ceremony, video-calls her just to check in—only to find himself instantly unraveling at the sight and sound of her sick misery. His sneeze kink flares hard as Kriia, sharp as ever even while congested, picks up on the effect she’s having and decides to lean in. What begins as a concerned check-in turns into a slow-burn tease session, with Kriia escalating her sickly behavior—sneezing openly into the camera, whining about her symptoms, rubbing her twitchy nose with pitiful flair—all while playing up the helpless brat persona that drives Rexar to the brink.
Despite being trapped in a ceremonial chamber of fire and blood, Rexar sneaks away into the tunnels beneath the estate to handle himself while still on call. Their video exchange becomes a tangled knot of fevered kink, emotional connection, and mutual obsession as Kriia fully takes control from the safety of her bed. She leaves Rexar completely wrecked—flushed, blissed-out, and absolutely in love.
The story ends on a soft, intimate note. Kriia falls asleep mid-call, curled up in her shadow-wrapped blankets, while Rexar watches from the other end—torn between the fire-soaked legacy he’s trying to survive and the feverish little chaos goddess who owns him completely. Even apart, they are inextricably tethered. NSFW 8.3K words
Kriia sniffled thickly and sank deeper into the oversized nest of blankets cocooning the living room couch. The shifting shadows curled lazily around her, slow and syrupy, echoing her own sluggish energy. One of them slithered up to adjust the heating pad at her lower back, and she let it, grumbling half-heartedly as she clutched a mug of hot tea to her chest like a lifeline.
“Y’know,” she muttered hoarsely, “if I die while you’re gone, I hope you feel so guilty about it.”
Across the room, Rexar Fang stood in front of the enormous fireplace, attempting to zip up his battered duffel bag. It was bursting with ceremonial garb, silver knives, and a poorly concealed bundle of cannabis that he was smuggling to one of his less stuck-up cousins.
He looked over at her with that crooked, boyish smile that always managed to piss her off and soothe her at the same time. His crimson bangs fell into his face, smoke curling gently from his nostrils like he was exhaling stress and affection all at once.
“You’re not gonna die, babydoll,” he said, voice warm with amusement and laced with barely restrained concern. “You’ve had a cold before. You’ve had the plague before. You kicked its ass in like, three days.”
She narrowed her bleary purple eyes at him. “I was younger. More powerful. Less congested.” Her nose twitched. “And not abandoned.”
Rexar laughed, then immediately looked guilty, shouldering the duffel and stepping toward her. “It’s just one night. One dumb, murdery dinner with my dad and a hundred or so of my least favorite blood relatives. I’ll be back tomorrow before you even sneeze.”
Kriia’s lips twitched at that. “Funny you should say that, because—”
She turned dramatically away from him, inhaled with a soft gasp, and stifled a rapid-fire series of sneezes into her sleeve.
“Hh’nxgt! N’chh! Huh…n’gtx! H’nxhh—hh’ngkch!”
Each one was gentle, barely louder than a breath, but they clearly shredded her sinuses. She groaned as she flopped back against the pillows, voice gravel-thick and mock pitiful. “I’m dyiiing.”
Rexar groaned too—but for a different reason. He half-turned away from her, hiding the flicker of flames that licked the edge of his irises for a split second. She caught it anyway.
“Oh no,” she rasped, her tone suddenly smug despite the congestion. “Did I trigger something, Sparky?”
He scowled over his shoulder, freckled cheeks tinged pink just above his piercings. “Don’t start.”
“I didn’t do anything.” She curled her legs beneath her and sniffled, rubbing her nose on the inside of her sleeve with an exaggerated whine. “I’m just a poor, helpless shadow elf with a sensitive little nose and a boyfriend who’s about to leave me for his soul-sucking murder cult.”
Rexar dropped the bag with a groan. “Gods, you can be such a brat when you’re sick.”
She looked up at him from her nest, suddenly sincere beneath all the teasing. “But I really don’t feel good.”
That cracked something in him.
He crossed the space in three strides, falling to his knees at her side. The smoke thickened for a moment as he reached out to cradle her flushed cheek in his fireproof palm. The temperature of his hand was scorching, but it felt good against her feverish skin. She leaned into the touch instinctively.
“I know,” he murmured, brushing his thumb just under her eye. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks,” she whispered.
“I mean it in the most tragically hot way possible.”
She smiled faintly, and then sniffled again. He reached for the tissue box and offered it wordlessly, but she waved him off and curled her fingers into his hoodie instead.
“Can’t you skip it? Just once?” she asked, quiet now, voice small in a way she rarely let anyone hear.
He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. The heat of his breath washed over her face in steady puffs of smoky warmth. “If I skip another Culling, they’ll think I’ve gone rogue. You know what happens then.”
“They throw a dramatic council meeting in an underground wine cellar and gossip about you in Latin for six hours?”
He chuckled, but didn’t deny it.
“Tomorrow,” he promised, brushing her crimson hair from her damp forehead. “I’ll come back early. I’ll bring you that spiced honey you like and the purple cough syrup you pretend not to love.”
She scoffed. “It tastes like grape soap and shame.”
“Exactly your flavor profile.”
She elbowed him weakly and winced. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then another to the bridge of her nose. She melted, nose twitching at the proximity of the smoke curling from his nostrils. She didn’t sneeze—but he definitely wanted her to.
“Text me when you get there,” she murmured, tugging on the drawstring of his hoodie with fever-heavy fingers. “And when you sneak off to smoke. And when you get bored and want me to distract you.”
“I’ll call,” he promised, hand lingering in her hair like he didn’t want to let go.
“You better. Or I’ll send you a sneeze video every hour until you die of frustration.”
He groaned low in his throat, fire flickering behind his pupils. “You’re evil.”
“I know.”
With great reluctance, he pulled away, lifting his bag again. She watched him walk to the front door, every inch of his tall frame bristling with affection and restraint. Just before stepping out into the cold, mist-choked air, he turned back, eyes gleaming red-gold in the dim light.
“I love you, babygirl.”
She blinked blearily at him and whispered, “I love you too. Go do your weird soul ritual and eat or whatever.”
And just like that, he was gone.
The door shut, shadows slid up to lock it behind him, and Kriia flopped backward into her cocoon with a frustrated huff.
She was miserable. And congested. And maybe—just maybe—a little excited to see what would happen when he finally
The silence that followed Rexar’s departure settled over the estate like a thick, damp blanket. It wasn't the peaceful kind—more like the suffocating quiet you get before a storm, heavy and full of things left unsaid. Kriia sniffled pathetically into her hoodie sleeve, then groaned and tossed the empty tea mug onto the coffee table where it clinked loudly against three others. She had no idea when she’d finished it. Time felt syrupy and disjointed, her fever fogging the space between moments.
The living room had dimmed without her asking—shadows drawing in tighter like sympathetic pets. A few of them pulsed sluggishly near the windows, absorbing the overcast grey light bleeding in through the frost-laced glass. Normally, they were sharp and reactive, moving in tandem with her breath or her moods. Now they just hovered there—lethargic, dull, sick like their mistress.
“Great,” she rasped, voice shredded by congestion. “Even my powers caught the damn plague.”
She reached for the game controller on the ottoman, wincing when her bangs brushed her oversensitive nose. It twitched immediately, sparking a sudden, flaring tickle that bloomed behind her sinuses like someone had dusted the inside of her skull with pepper and regret.
“Ughh…h-hhhuhh…”
The build-up hit her out of nowhere—vocal, sharp, and unpredictable. She wrinkled her nose against it, breath fluttering with frustration.
Each stifle was tighter than the last, barely muffled against her palm before the next snuck up on her. She blinked, dazed and bleary-eyed, and then groaned again, wiping at her nose with the cuff of her sleeve.
“Freakin’ ambush sneezes... I swear to gods…”
The shadows rippled a little at her irritation but did nothing to help. Useless.
She tossed the blanket aside in a dramatic flourish and grabbed her headset. If she couldn't breathe and she couldn’t taste anything and even her shadows had abandoned her for a nap, then she could at least shoot something in the face. Virtually.
The console booted with a cheerful chime that grated against her migraine. Kriia narrowed her eyes at the screen, gripping the controller with clammy hands. Ten minutes later, she’d died seventeen times, most of them to absolutely stupid shit—like walking off a cliff or trying to reload in the middle of a boss lunge.
“Fuuuuuuck yoooou,” she groaned at the screen, dragging her voice like syrup. “This game is rigged. I’m a goddess of darkness and I just got body-slammed by a skeleton with a rake.”
She sniffled again, hard, wincing at the raw scrape of it through her throat. Her nose twitched traitorously, not done tormenting her.
She sagged forward, controller sliding to the floor. Her whole face throbbed, sinuses aching behind her eyes like someone had taken a crowbar to her skull.
“Should’ve let Rexar baby me,” she mumbled bitterly. “Stupid, soft, overgrown fire prince. Would’ve wrapped me in seven blankets and spoon-fed me soup if I’d let him.”
The thought made her lips twitch. She could see it—Rexar bustling around the kitchen shirtless, one hand holding a steaming bowl, the other trying not to set the dish towel on fire. He’d kiss her nose between sneezes and wouldn’t grumble when she wiped snot on his hoodie. He’d light scented candles even though she couldn’t smell anything, and hum some trap-metal melody under his breath while holding her against his furnace-hot chest.
“Wouldn’t have minded,” she muttered to herself. “Not this time…”
A flush burned through her cheeks, and not from the fever.
She flopped back onto the couch and stared up at the ornate ceiling, eyes tracking the familiar carvings of swirling flames and vines that lined the molding. Rexar’s family had no subtlety. Even the woodwork screamed power and legacy and death-by-fire. But they’d made this mansion theirs. Kriia had insisted on shadow-dampening the lights, adding blackout curtains, bookshelves stuffed with worn paperbacks, her worn-down bong collection, and a fuzzy purple rug that Rexar hated but let her keep.
“Bet he’s all stiff right now,” she muttered, imagining him standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his grim-faced siblings in some underground temple room, listening to hymns about fire and righteous consumption of souls. “Poor thing. Surrounded by murder nerds and horny ghosts.”
She grinned, then sniffled, then groaned.
Her stomach growled. She ignored it.
The shadows pulsed sluggishly again and coiled half-heartedly toward the kitchen.
“Don’t bother,” she told them. “The stove scares me when I’m like this. And I’m not about to microwave that mushroom rice he made. It smells like despair.”
Instead, she reached for her phone.
Rexar’s name was pinned at the top of her messages. Their last thread was mostly memes, selfies, and a video she’d made the last time she was sick—a dramatic montage of her sneezing into a tissue and whispering “this is your fault, you plague-ridden bastard” between fits.
She smirked and tapped record.
The front camera flicked on. She looked rough—hair a mess, face flushed, her facial tattoos standing out stark against her pale skin. Her voice was shot, but her smirk was devilish.
“Hey, Sparky,” she whispered. “Just wanted to let you know your girl is suffering. Miserably. Sniffly. Pathetically.”
She paused, scrunching her nose theatrically as another tickle crept up. Her eyes fluttered half-shut.
Each one hit sharp and quick, her breath hitching prettily between stifles. She let the last one linger, groaning softly as she wiped her nose on her sleeve again.
“Hope you’re having fun with the soul buffet,” she whispered, voice cracking. “But if you were here, I might have let you cuddle me. Might’ve even let you hold the tissue box. Too bad you’re not.”
She blew him a kiss, then hit send.
Ten seconds later, she regretted nothing and everything.
She curled up again, tissues and shadow-blankets gathered around her like the world's most dramatic fevered elf girl. Her body ached. Her nose was running again. Her powers were barely a flicker.
But deep down, in the part of her heart that she'd never admit aloud—not even to herself—she knew she didn’t just want him there because he’d help. She wanted him there because when she was this sick and miserable and exposed, he made her feel safe.
Like she didn’t have to pretend to be tough all the time.
Like maybe, just maybe, being vulnerable wasn't such a bad thing.
Another sneeze snuck up on her while she was thinking too hard about that.
“Huhhh… HnngCHhh!—ng’tchh! Huhh… kTChhh!”
She sighed, face buried in the curve of her elbow.
“Miss you, you big smoky idiot.”
The shadows tightened gently around her, cocooning her like arms she could almost pretend were his.
Kriia’s phone buzzed beside her on the nightstand, cutting through the haze of fever and television static. She blinked blearily at the screen. Incoming call: Rexar 🔥🖤. The profile photo—a ridiculous close-up of his face—made her snort, which turned immediately into a congested groan.
Still, her fingers reached for it.
The screen shifted, brightening to reveal Rexar’s face, framed by the dim, red-hued glow of one of his family’s ceremonial rooms. The camera angle was slightly tilted—he must’ve propped it on a table or altar—and his familiar mop of curly white-and-crimson hair was tousled and slightly damp. He had that look in his eyes, the soft haze of fatigue layered under a stubborn grin.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite little plague rat,” he drawled, voice already thick with restrained amusement.
Kriia didn’t even try to look good. Wrapped in a tangle of blankets with her nose twitching under the haze of her fever, she lifted one hand lazily in greeting. “I hate everything,” she croaked.
Rexar chuckled, adjusting his position. “You look like you hate everything. Damn, babygirl. That cold is kicking your ass.”
“You should see what I did to the Kleenex box,” she mumbled, voice ragged and nasal. “It’s in mourning.”
Rexar’s lips curled into a grin that was too fond. In the background, flickering candles and smoky incense glowed on stone pedestals. Occasionally, a voice chanted something indistinct—ceremonial, formal, faintly ominous.
“You’re literally surrounded by murder priests,” she muttered. “And I’m the pathetic one.”
“You’re hot when you’re pathetic,” he said immediately. Then paused. “Okay wait, that came out wrong.”
She sniffled and coughed a laugh into her sleeve. “I’ll allow it.”
He leaned in closer to the screen, and she saw it: the shift in his expression. The subtle flicker in his red-grey eyes as he watched her rub at her nose, the tiny dip in his voice as he asked, “How bad is it?”
Kriia’s hand stalled just under her nose. Her breath caught.
That look.
That look.
Rexar, trying to play casual, forced his attention elsewhere—adjusting the scarf on his neck, pretending to fiddle with something just off-camera—but she’d seen it. The flicker of fascination. The simmering beneath the concern. And suddenly, Kriia remembered everything.
That first day they moved in. The endless barrage of “so cute,” the nose kisses, the tip-off confession that still made her stomach flip whenever she thought about it.
She narrowed her eyes at the screen.
“You alright, flameboy?” she asked, pushing her sleeve to her face, deliberately slow. Her voice dropped, teasing. “You’re staring.”
“I always stare at you,” he muttered, distracted.
“Mmhm.” She rubbed under her nose again, slower this time, just to see if he’d flinch.
He did.
Only slightly—but enough. His fingers twitched in his lap. His eyes darted, once, to the corner of the screen where her hand disappeared under the blanket.
Kriia grinned. Then, without warning—
“Hh’NgXt! Hh‘gsch! k’gnsh! Ngt’chh!”
She stifled the fit rapid-fire into the collar of his hoodie she was wearing. When she looked up again, Rexar had visibly swallowed. The hand that was resting on his thigh curled slightly, as if to resist the urge to reach through the screen.
“Gods,” he rasped, voice dropping. “Bless you, babydoll.”
“Thanks,” she sniffled, eyes narrowing wickedly. “But you don’t have to say it every time, y’know.”
“Yes, I do,” he said too quickly.
In the background, a voice called something like “Et parae, in tenebris vitae.”
Rexar glanced over his shoulder with a sheepish grin. “We’re invoking the judgment clause or whatever. Don’t worry, no one’s being disemboweled yet.”
“Tragic,” Kriia muttered, flopping sideways on the couch. “You look like you’re dying to be somewhere else.”
“I am,” he said immediately. “Like, with you. Under all those blankets. Probably being strangled by your nose.”
Kriia choked on a laugh. “You are so disgusting.”
“You say that,” he said, dragging a hand over his face, “but every time you do that little sneeze-sound—it’s like, I don't know, the gods are punishing me and rewarding me at once.”
Kriia blinked, caught between embarrassment and delight.
“Are you seriously flirting with me while your whole family is soul-feeding in the next room?”
He whispered back, “They’re soul-feeding quietly.”
Kriia grinned, sniffled again—loudly this time—and caught his expression just as he bit the inside of his cheek. His eyes fluttered half-shut for a second. His breath came a little shallower.
“Ohhh,” she breathed. “There it is.”
Rexar’s smile was lopsided now. “No clue what you mean, princess.”
“I sneeze one more time and you're gonna have to excuse yourself, aren’t you?”
He groaned low. “Don’t tempt me. This robe isn’t flameproof.”
“And whose fault is that?”
They stared at each other.
The room on his side seemed darker now—more intimate, the flickering shadows giving the illusion of privacy. In the distance, the low chanting continued, but Rexar didn’t look away. Not once. His attention was pinned to her.
To her flushed face. Her twitchy nose. Her messiness.
“You remember when you first told me?” she asked quietly. “About this?”
His breath caught.
“Gods, yeah. You were moving boxes, covered in dust, half-sneezing yourself into the floor.”
“And you just—said it.”
“‘I have a sneeze kink, babygirl,’” he quoted back with zero shame.
She rolled her eyes. “Most people would, like, ease into it.”
“I tried,” he said, grinning again. “I complimented your sneezes like ten times before that.”
“And I thought you were just into being a menace.”
“I am that too.”
Kriia laughed, then coughed, then rubbed her nose again with a tired sigh. “I don’t even have the energy to keep teasing you properly.”
Kriia’s gaze flicked toward the camera, slowly. Her breath hitched.
“I feel one coming,” she whispered.
Rexar visibly inhaled. “Fuck.”
Kriia let the build-up take its time—let it drag through her expression, her eyes fluttering, nose scrunching, hands slow to react as she waited just long enough to let him react.
Then—
“Huhhh… h’n’gtx! Hh‘gsch! hptt’CH!—n’gtx!”
She sniffled, voice hoarse: “You still with me, flameboy?”
But the screen had shifted.
Rexar had moved—camera tilted down now, showing the vague impression of a stone hallway. Somewhere private.
She heard him murmur, “One second,” followed by the sound of a door closing. Then nothing but the glow of low torchlight and the sound of him breathing—
Heavy.
Low.
Shaky.
Then—
“Ohhh, babygirl…”
Kriia’s grin widened as she curled deeper into her blankets.
She hadn’t even started yet.
The camera flickered as Rexar settled somewhere new—somewhere quiet, dim, clearly carved into the stone heart of the Fang estate. The sharp gothic edges of the ceremonial chamber had given way to dark brick and a low-hung torch glowing faintly behind him. His face filled the screen now, flushed and taut with restraint.
“Okay,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, “I’ve got like five minutes before they send a blood-soaked cousin to drag me back. Use it wisely.”
Kriia’s voice came through soft, hoarse, and syrupy with congestion. “You mean abuse it wisely.”
Rexar blinked, breath catching faintly. “Kriii…”
She sniffled, delicately. The camera on her end tilted as she adjusted, blankets rustling. Her nose twitched as she rubbed a finger under it, voice dropping just enough to make his pupils visibly dilate.
“I still feel awful,” she murmured, eyes wide with mock innocence. “My nose won’t stop tickling…”
Rexar’s jaw flexed.
She sniffled again, breath fluttering—just slightly exaggerated, just long enough to tease.
Each stifle was light, high-pitched, barely muffled by her wrist as her body shuddered with the gentle, rapid fire rhythm. She lifted her gaze slowly, finding the lens again with glassy purple eyes.
“Ughhh,” she breathed, congested and miserable-sounding. “They’re getting so bad.”
Rexar’s throat worked visibly. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“I’m not doing anything.” Her voice went up in an exaggerated whimper. “I’m sick, remember?”
“You’re evil,” he corrected.
Her lips twitched as she brought her hand back up and gave her nose another slow, deliberate rub. “You think I’m faking it?”
“No,” he muttered, leaning forward, eyes hungry and half-lidded. “That’s the problem.”
“Ohhh fuck me,” Rexar rasped, shifting in his seat. The camera wobbled slightly. His hand disappeared from frame, likely bracing on his thigh. Or lower.
“Can’t breathe through my nose,” she added pitifully. “And I’m all warm and achey and—hhihh… hehh…—nn’ktschh! k’chh! Nxt!”
Rexar’s breath hitched, and this time she heard the faintest rumble—a stifled groan that leaked from the back of his throat.
“Babygirl,” he breathed. “I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”
“Don’t do that,” she teased. “Not until I’m better. You still owe me soup.”
Rexar’s laugh was breathless. “Kriia, I swear to gods—”
“I wish you were here,” she whispered, letting the moment drop into something just a little softer. “My whole body’s so sensitive…”
She let that hang.
Watched it land.
Rexar swallowed again. The hand reappeared briefly in the frame, dragging across his mouth before vanishing again. When he next spoke, his voice had dropped nearly an octave.
“Say that again.”
She tilted her head. “What, that I wish you were here?”
“No,” he said immediately. “The other part.”
Kriia gave him a look. “You want me to say my body’s sensitive?”
The way he exhaled—shaky, low, through his nose—set her stomach fluttering.
So she said it again. Slower.
“My body’s… really sensitive.”
Rexar closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the wall, and let out a slow, unsteady breath that came dangerously close to a whine.
“You’d be touching me so much,” she added, voice rough from the cold but soft with intention. “You’d be trying to help. And I’d be all sneezy and needy and whiny…”
Rexar’s fists clenched.
“I’d be curled in your lap,” she continued, letting herself imagine it aloud. “And you’d keep petting my hair and kissing my forehead—and every time I sneeze, you’d just melt.”
“I am melting,” he rasped, cracking an eye open. “Krii, I’m—I’m gonna have to—fuck.”
She didn’t let up. Her hand fluttered to her face again, pressing lightly against her twitching nostrils as her eyes fluttered shut.
The fit was longer, wetter, her breath fluttering between each stifle as she shifted under the blankets, clearly breathless by the end.
Rexar looked wrecked.
Face flushed.
Smoke leaking from his nose in thicker, steadier curls.
He stifled a noise into his fist that might’ve been a gasp. Or a groan. Or both.
Kriia raised her brows at him, eyes glinting. “Are you okay?”
He was not.
“Babydoll,” he croaked. “I—fuck—I can’t…”
“You’re in the murder basement of your family estate, calling your sick girlfriend while you’re supposed to be eating souls,” she said sweetly. “You’re doing this to yourself.”
“I had to call you,” he argued, breathless. “You looked so fucking sniffly and adorable—I couldn’t not.”
“Mmhm,” she hummed. “And now I’m making your life difficult.”
He pressed the heel of his palm into his thigh. His voice was tight, bordering on wrecked. “You’re making it impossible.”
“You poor thing,” she crooned, voice full of syrupy mock-sympathy. “You’re all flustered and helpless and alone in some dark hallway, and I’m here sniffling and whining and—huhh…!”
Rexar cursed softly under his breath, fingers tightening visibly as he shifted out of frame.
She could hear the rustle of fabric. Could feel the tension vibrating through the screen.
“Do you need a break, Sparky?” she whispered.
He exhaled shakily, clearly struggling to focus. “What I need is a stronger soul and a cold shower.”
“You’ll get neither,” she said, relishing the way his face twisted with tortured delight. “So you’ll just have to sit there and listen.”
He let out the most broken little laugh. “Gods, I love you.”
“Yeah,” she said, sniffling again. “I know.”
She shifted on camera, blankets slipping to reveal her shoulder—red X tattoos vivid against pale skin, flushed cheeks, and the hoodie still hanging loose from her frame. Her nose twitched again.
“Think I’m gonna sneeze again,” she whispered.
Rexar let out a small, strangled sound.
Kriia gave him the slowest, most delicious pre-sneeze buildup imaginable. Her breath hitched. Her brows drew together. Her lashes fluttered.
She sagged back against the pillows, flushed and sniffling.
“Ohhhhhh gods,” Rexar whispered, his voice so hoarse she barely recognized it.
His camera shifted again—blurring out briefly as he angled it just off his lap. One of his hands was still visible at the edge of the frame, curled tightly, knuckles white.
“I should hang up,” he said, but it didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like begging.
Kriia smiled.
Then fake-whined, soft and desperate: “Baaabe, I feel so yucky…”
That broke him.
She watched it happen—his eyes fluttering shut, breath catching, nostrils flaring slightly as he let out a barely contained groan.
“I want to hold you so bad,” he whispered. “You’d be such a mess in my arms.”
She sniffled, then murmured, “I’m already a mess.”
He whimpered.
And for a second, Kriia forgot the ache in her body, the fever, the rasp in her throat. Because right now, she was winning.
Rexar Fang, descendant of murder-pyromancers, beloved soul of the underground music scene, six-foot-four menace of chaos and fire—
—was a stammering, undone wreck for her sneezes.
And she wasn’t about to let him forget it.
The sound of stone beneath Rexar’s boots echoed low and quiet, muffled by the thickness of air that hadn’t been touched by light in decades. The tunnel he’d ducked into stretched deep beneath the Fang estate—an ancient hall of carved obsidian, once used for rituals long since banned by the High Circle. It was colder down here, the walls damp with condensation, lit only by faintly pulsing glyphs scrawled across the stone.
He kept one hand on the wall, guiding himself deeper into privacy, the other holding his phone tight in his grip like a lifeline.
“I can still hear you breathing, y’know,” Kriia said on the other end, her voice like honey-dripped static through congestion. “Even when you run off like a scared little schoolboy.”
“I’m not—” Rexar broke off, dragging a hand over his flushed face. “I’m not scared. I’m trying not to catch fire in the middle of a death chamber, thanks.”
A breathy laugh filtered through the speaker. It was wet. Hoarse. Wicked. “Mmm. So dramatic…”
Rexar didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He could barely think.
His body ached—not just with heat and the rising storm of tension clawing its way through his gut—but with guilt, too. Somewhere two floors up, his brothers and cousins were performing a ritual centuries old. Flames. Incantations. The devouring of damned souls. A necessary evil in the world the Fang family had built and one Rexar hated with every bone in his body.
He was supposed to be participating. Should’ve been cleansing the next sacrificial vessel. But instead, he was in a tunnel—palms shaking, breath catching, painfully hard in ceremonial robes that still smelled like ash and incense—because his sick, sniffly girlfriend couldn’t stop teasing him.
“You sound a little out of breath,” Kriia murmured. “Everything okay down there?”
Her image was still framed perfectly on his screen: blankets around her like a plush throne, hoodie collar rumpled around her collarbone, hair tousled from fever-sleep. Her nose twitched subtly as she sniffled, lips parted around shallow, tickly breaths.
“Krii, please…” he whispered, voice raw.
“Please what?” she asked, all wide eyes and mock innocence. “Please stop describing how I feel like my entire body’s melting from the inside out? Or should I keep talking about how raw my throat feels? Or how I’m so dizzy and achey I can’t even sit up straight without—hhihh…—hehhh… h’Nxgtchhh!”
She collapsed forward with a breathy stifle that hit all at once—perfectly timed, utterly devastating, her breasts bouncing slightly with the force of it.
Rexar let out a sound that could only be described as a strangled whimper.
Kriia straightened slowly, blinking at him with glassy eyes. “Still with me?”
He stumbled, catching himself on the wall.
“Rexar,” she said, softer now, teasing giving way to curiosity. “Are you actually okay?”
“No,” he whispered. “Not even a little.”
“Then why are you still holding back?”
His throat moved as he swallowed.
“Because this is wrong,” he said, breathless. “I’m literally underground while my family’s performing a soul ritual and you’re—you’re making me…”
“Making you what?” she asked.
Rexar groaned. His hand disappeared from frame again, this time bracing against his thigh, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.
“Say it,” she whispered.
His nostrils flared. His smoke was thick now, curling up the camera lens. “You know what.”
“You like this,” she purred, voice hoarse but filled with smug glee. “You love this. Sitting in some haunted hallway, body burning, while your poor, congested girlfriend makes those little sick noises you lose your mind over…”
She sniffled again—loud, wet, intentionally exaggerated.
Kriia adjusted her position on the bed, shadows shifting around her like velvet tentacles responding to her mood. She looked into the camera with glassy, half-lidded eyes and a flushed nose twitching gently, deliberately exaggerating every motion as she reached up and rubbed her palm in slow circles beneath her nostrils.
“You still watching me?” she asked, voice like cracked honey.
Rexar, sitting hunched in the tunnel, nodded silently.
“Remember what you said that first night?” she crooned. “How you wanted to tie me up in a blanket cocoon, lay me in your lap, and keep tissues tucked into your waistband so you could wipe my nose for me every time I sneezed?”
“I—fuck—I didn’t mean it like—”
“Yes, you did,” she said with a sly smile. “You do want that. You want me feverish and soft and needy. You want me to look up at you with teary eyes and beg you to make the tickle go away.”
Rexar’s camera tilted slightly as he shifted, trying to hide the way his hips bucked forward. His breathing had fully changed—shorter, sharper, his voice caught somewhere in his throat.
“Say it,” Kriia whispered. “Say what you want.”
“I want you,” he finally gasped. “Sick and squirmy and fucking helpless. I want to take care of you until I can’t stand it anymore.”
Kriia grinned, slow and dangerous. “And then what?”
His next breath was guttural. “Then I want to ruin you.”
She gave a soft moan—half a congested groan, half breathy giggle—and tilted her head, pretending to sniffle innocently. Her fingers crept up to press beneath her nose again.
“Ohhh, Rexar… I feel another one coming… what if I can’t hold it back this time?”
“Don’t,” he begged. “Let it happen—please—”
She fluttered her lashes, breathing building in theatrical little hitches.
She didn’t cover it. Let the mist glint in the screen light again. And when she recovered, panting lightly, her voice went syrupy again.
“Bet you wish you were here to clean that up.”
Rexar groaned so deeply it echoed.
“Gods,” she whispered. “You get like this every time, don’t you? The second I sound a little stuffy, you forget all about fire rituals and soul feasting. All you want to do is—what? Babysit me? Pin me down and pet me until I sneeze all over you?”
“K-Krii,” he stammered, voice low, breath shallow.
“You’re so easy,” she purred. She leaned in toward the screen, just enough for her camo bra to peek out again as she pulled her hoodie collar down slowly. “Every little sniffle I make, you get hotter. Your fingers start twitching. You forget how to speak.”
He swallowed audibly.
“You want to help me, don’t you?” she asked sweetly. “Tuck me under the blankets, rub my back, kiss my forehead while I—hhuhhh… hh’nkkTCH!—huh’Nxtchhh!—hiihh... hhh’tchhh!”
She collapsed forward again, breath catching so prettily between sneezes she sounded winded by the end of it.
Rexar was on the edge. His breathing had gone shallow, one hand now flat on the floor beside him for support as he practically trembled with restraint.
“Princess…”
“I’d be whining for you,” she continued softly. “Nuzzling against your chest, rubbing my little stuffy nose into your shirt…”
“Babygirl,” he begged.
“And you’d love it,” she whispered. “You’d tell me how cute I sound. How helpless. How bad you want to—”
“Don’t,” he snapped—but the way he said it wasn’t angry. It was desperate. Like he needed her to stop just as much as he didn’t.
She tilted her head at the screen. “You’re making that face again.”
“What face.”
“That starving face.”
“I’m not—”
“Your eyes get all shiny,” she murmured, licking her lips. “And your nose twitches. And you get this little tremble in your voice, like you’re fighting every urge in your body not to lose it.”
He said nothing. He couldn’t.
So she delivered the killing blow.
“You’re so good at pretending to be composed when you’re turned on,” she whispered. “It’s adorable.”
Rexar snapped.
He dropped the phone briefly as he leaned his head back against the wall and groaned—loud. The screen went black for a second, muffled by fabric, before tilting sideways to capture only the edge of his jaw and the heavy fall of his red-tinted bangs.
His voice came through ragged. “I’m not gonna make it back to the ritual.”
“Don’t,” Kriia whispered. “Stay with me.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“But you will.”
He didn’t argue. Couldn’t.
He stayed there, slouched on the cold stone floor, ceremonial sash twisted around his waist, breath shaking, hips subtly shifting as he tried to ground himself. His smoke curled higher, denser, glowing with embers that shimmered with every ragged exhale.
“You’re wrecked,” Kriia cooed. “All because I’ve got a head cold.”
“Not just that,” he breathed. “Because it’s you.”
Kriia smiled—soft and real this time. “I’d kiss you if you were here.”
“Even if I was sweating through my clothes and leaking smoke?”
“Especially then.”
He laughed—a rough, low sound. Then: “You are evil.”
“I just know what you like.”
“You’re what I like.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then—quietly, almost sheepishly—Rexar said, “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna—”
“Then don’t stop,” she interrupted, voice raspy with congestion and control. “Don’t stop anything.”
He exhaled so hard it sounded like his whole chest was collapsing.
“I can’t even touch you,” he rasped, one hand dragging across his jaw. “And I’m still closer than I’ve ever been.”
Rexar’s grip on the phone was white-knuckled, jaw clenched so tightly his temple ached. The flames of his family’s ritual still danced somewhere above, but down in this carved-out sanctum of obsidian tunnels, all he could see—all he could feel—was her.
Kriia.
A flushed, sniffling, sick mess on the screen. And she was glowing.
Not literally. Not like him. But in the dim lamplight of their shared bedroom, she looked lit from within—cheeks ruddy, nose pink and twitching, lips parted with every ticklish breath. She had that dazed look she wore when fevered, half-feral and fully dangerous.
She gave a hoarse little giggle, rubbing under her nose with a knuckle. “Still watching me fall apart, flameboy?”
“I can’t not,” Rexar groaned, barely keeping the tremor from his voice.
“Good.”
Then—slowly, theatrically—she lifted her shirt just enough to show off the curve of her camo bra. The motion sent her hair spilling messily over one shoulder, her breath visibly hitching.
“I think I feel another sneeze coming…”
Rexar couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.
Kriia’s build-up was torturously slow. She let her breath flutter in ragged, uneven waves—head tilting, nostrils flaring delicately, lashes fluttering. “Hhhihhh… hiihhh… hhH’NG’tchh! K’tchh! H’ngCHhh! Huhhh… nn’KXshhh!”
She sneezed openly at the camera—wet, head-snapping fits that misted faintly in the dim light.
Rexar whimpered offscreen.
Kriia sniffled and tilted her head at him. “You still breathing?”
“Barely,” he rasped.
“Gods, you’re so easy,” she whispered, voice thick with amusement—and congestion. “You get hard so fast. Bet you’re already stroking yourself under those robes, aren’t you?”
Rexar’s head hit the wall behind him with a quiet thunk. “Don’t. Start.”
Kriia smiled—languid, sly, eyes half-lidded. “You want me to stop?”
He didn’t answer.
So she leaned in closer, let the camera catch every detail of her flushed, glistening expression. “I’m still burning up,” she whispered. “My skin’s so sensitive I can’t even lie still. And my nose just won’t stop.”
Another sharp inhale.
She snapped forward with a wet, breathy “Hh’NgxtCHhh!—uhhh…”
This time she moaned a little after, drawing her sleeve slowly across her upper lip. “Still there, Sparky?”
Rexar’s voice broke: “Fuck, yes.”
He shifted the camera slightly. She caught a glimpse of his hand—finally sliding beneath his robe, slow and unsteady. His face was flushed deep crimson now, lips parted, breath shallow.
“You’re touching yourself,” she breathed.
“I had to,” he muttered, like it physically hurt to admit. “You—you’re too much.”
“Poor thing,” she cooed. “You’re down in your murder basement, getting off to your girlfriend’s sneezes while the rest of your family’s out sacrificing souls.”
“I know,” he hissed, stroking himself now in slow, shuddering movements. “It’s so fucked.”
She smirked, letting out a fake-cute little cough. “You love it.”
“I love you,” he choked. “That’s worse.”
She giggled again, rubbing her nose between forefinger and thumb. “What if I just… kept going?”
He twitched. Visibly.
So she pushed.
“Ohhh, babe… I feel soooo yucky,” she mock-whined. “I need someone to take care of me. Rub my back. Hold me while I—hhuhhh!—Huhhh’nGTCHhh! k’tCHhh!”
She shuddered with the release, mouth parted, breath panting just a little harder.
The wet sound of his slicked strokes reached her through the speaker.
“Ohhh my gods,” she murmured. “You’re really doing it.”
“You’re making me do it,” he growled.
She tilted her head. “Good.”
“Touch yourself,” he ordered.
Kriia blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “You sure you can handle me doing that?”
“Try me.”
She didn’t hesitate. One hand dipped under the blanket, just past the camera’s frame. Her body shifted, hips rolling slowly as her fingers found heat.
Rexar moaned.
“I’m so sensitive,” she whispered. “My skin’s all hot and I keep flinching every time I sneeze. Everything tingles. Even this…”
She stroked herself gently, breath catching.
“Fucking hell,” Rexar growled, speeding up.
“I’m gonna get messy,” she moaned. “All sticky and flushed and red—and still sneezing.”
She let out a wet sniffle, the sound obscenely timed, dragging her hand higher for one deep rub.
“Say it,” she panted. “Say what I do to you.”
“You make me crazy,” he gasped. “You make me fucking feral. I want to bury my face in your pussy while you’re feverish and begging.”
“Mmmn,” she moaned. “You’d hold me tight, right? While I can’t stop sneezing into your chest? Your shirt soaked in it, and you’d just groan every time—”
“Hnnngh—Kriia!”
She gasped too, working herself harder now under the covers, her chest rising with every fevered breath. “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you? Just from hearing me like this?”
He nodded, frantic. “Say my name.”
“Rexar,” she purred.
Again—more desperate: “Say it.”
“Rexar,” she moaned. “Flameboy. S-Sparky. I’m gonna—hhuhhh… HHH’KTCHhh!—Ahhh! Gods—”
She came with a gasp and a sniffle, hips bucking beneath the blanket, every part of her trembling with overstimulated sensitivity.
Rexar came seconds after, breath shattering into raw, incoherent groans. His hand kept moving for a moment as he rode it out, hips arching, until he slumped back against the wall—completely undone.
For several seconds, neither of them said a word.
Kriia laid there in the dark, chest rising and falling, a lazy, satisfied smirk curling across her lips.
Again, after several seconds, Rexar finally reappeared on camera—hair mussed, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and shining in the soft firelight of his hidden sanctuary. His skin glowed faintly red from exertion and residual magik, lips parted as if even breathing took effort now. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate rhythm—every inhale still tinged with the heat of his undoing.
He looked wrecked. And wholly satisfied.
He stared at the screen, drinking her in as though the image alone could sustain him a moment longer. Kriia was still lying back in her fevered nest, her shirt back in place, hoodie slightly askew on one shoulder. Her nose was still pink, twitching faintly now and then, and she dabbed at it lazily with a tissue, face soft with post-teasing contentment.
When Rexar finally spoke, his voice came out gentle, half-broken with awe, “You are fucking lethal.”
Kriia barely glanced up from blowing her nose, the sound wet and unbothered. She tossed the tissue aside with dramatic flair and exhaled tiredly. “Still worth it.”
They grinned at each other through the dim, wrecked glow of their devices.
“Okay,” Rexar finally muttered, “I need to go find a cold fountain. Or die.”
“Don’t die,” Kriia said, burrowing into the blankets. “Just come home soon.”
“Tomorrow,” he promised. “And you’re not moving. I’m gonna take care of everything.”
Kriia yawned, shadows curling up around her again. “Good. I’ll be sneezy and pathetic. Just for you.”
Rexar’s grin softened into something near worshipful.
“I love you, plague rat.”
“I know,” she mumbled, eyes already closing. “I love you, hotshot.”
There was silence for a moment—thick with shared heat, sickroom intimacy, and the kind of charged calm that came only after surrender.
Then Rexar laughed, breathless, and whispered, “Only you could get me to do these kinds of things.”
Kriia’s lips curved. “Who else but Kriia?”
She didn’t need to say anything else.
The next few minutes passed in a lull, peaceful but heavy with afterglow. Neither of them said much. Rexar rested his head against the wall, occasionally glancing down to check his camera, as if afraid she'd disappear if he blinked too long. Kriia sniffled once or twice but didn’t speak. Her eyes began to flutter closed as her breathing slowed. The teasing was done, the game complete. Now she was just tired.
She shifted deeper into her blankets, hoodie tugged up to her chin, shadows gently coiling tighter around her limbs like velvet vines. Her last visible motion was a twitch of her nose and a soft sigh as she turned onto her side, the screen dimming slightly as the camera auto-adjusted to the dark.
Rexar watched it all.
The rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers curled loosely around the edge of a tissue. The slight hitch in her breath as she sank from playful mischief into deep, medicated sleep.
He didn’t say goodbye.
He didn’t need to.
Instead, he let the image burn into him, let the stillness settle, and whispered so softly that it might not have even made it through the speaker:
“Sleep tight, menace.”
Her shadow shifted in reply—just the faintest ripple—and then stilled again.
It was nearly two in the morning by the time the Fang estate fell silent.
Above ground, the halls still carried the residue of the ritual: a low thrum of residual energy, the smell of scorched air and sanctified ash. The Culling was complete. The ceremonial fire had gone out. The others had retired to their chambers or slunk off into the snow-drenched hills beyond the estate to hunt or smoke or meditate, as they always did after devouring something eternal.
But Rexar stayed in the tunnel.
Slumped against the wall, robe half-undone, face still flushed, he watched his phone screen with the quiet intensity of someone who'd just survived a holy war. Not because of the Culling. Because of her.
Kriia had fallen asleep on the call.
He hadn’t wanted to hang up. Couldn’t bring himself to. Even now, her camera stayed open, her screen dimmed just enough to blur her features into dreamy softness.
She was curled under her mountain of blankets like a fevered empress, cheeks still ruddy, breath shallow. Her shadows coiled lazily around her shoulders and chest like a living scarf, weaving gently with each inhale, reacting even in her sleep.
Rexar watched her for several minutes, chin resting against his knee, a small crooked smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His body still tingled—warm, drained, soul-deep content like he'd been wrung out and left glowing.
Then the screen went dark.
He blinked.
No warning. Just—Call ended.
For a second, he sat in stunned silence.
And then: buzz.
New Message from Kriia.
hey sparky, you’re probs a melted pile of smoke rn but… just in case you’re still in one piece: i miss you. even more than i wanna sneeze on you. maybe. 😛
A second later, another buzz. A voice memo this time.
He hesitated, then pressed play.
Her voice came through rough, raw with congestion, quiet like she didn’t want to wake herself up.
“Hey. Um. Sorry I ended the call. My phone tried to overheat and combust. Wonder why…” soft congested laugh “You’re probably still glowing, huh? All sweaty and pretty and ruined.” pause, long inhale “I feel gross. Still. But… I dunno. That was nice. You made me feel like I wasn’t alone, even if I was a snot-monster in a blanket cave.” pause again, soft shifting of sheets “So yeah. I miss you. And I love you a lot. Come home soon. Or I’ll find a way to sneeze directly into your next family gathering.” sniffle, softer now “...Night, Sparky.”
Rexar bit back a groan that was half love, half ache, all need.
He opened the text reply bar and hovered for a moment before typing:
You are the most beautiful snot-monster in history. I am, in fact, still glowing. I miss you so bad it’s making me stupid. You can sneeze on me tomorrow. I’m not even kidding.
Then, almost as an afterthought, he snapped a picture with the front-facing camera.
His hair was a mess. His face flushed. Eyes still heavy-lidded, and the firelight behind him painted him in deep oranges and shadowy reds. He looked wrecked. Soft.
He captioned it: “You did this.”
Hit send.
Then closed his eyes.
Let his head fall back against the obsidian wall. Let the chill of the tunnel wrap around him like a counterpoint to the heat still singing through his blood.
“Gods,” he whispered into the dark, to no one and only her. “I miss you.”
Back in their shared wing of the estate, Kriia lay cocooned in warmth.
The shadows wrapped her like a velvet cocoon, responding to her every breath with tiny pulses of inky motion. The fire in the hearth had died to coals, and her fever had dipped just low enough to grant her lucidity without totally robbing her of the sick haze that made the world feel softer.
Her phone buzzed gently on her chest.
She cracked open one eye and peeked at the screen.
The selfie made her laugh out loud—a breathy, tired chuckle that caught in her throat. Gods, he was such a mess. And it was so obviously her fault. The thought alone made her cheeks heat.
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she whispered to the shadows, too soft for words, and they responded—curling tighter around her like arms, warm and thick and heavy. Almost like him.
She let her eyes fall shut.
Still smiling.
Six hours later, Rexar slipped in through the back entrance of their estate, covered in snow and ash.
The room was dark.
Silent.
He peeled off his robe, hung it over the rack, and padded quietly through the hall. When he reached the bedroom, he stopped.
She was still asleep. Curled up under their blankets. Nose pink. Mouth open. One arm flopped over the pillow, the other clutching a tissue box like a stuffed animal.
She sniffled softly in her sleep.
Rexar melted on the spot.
He tiptoed closer, reached down, and brushed a lock of red hair from her cheek. Her skin was cool now, no longer burning. Her shadows flicked toward him lazily, then relaxed. Accepting. Welcoming.
I figured it’s been a while since posting any Vaelyn content, so BEHOLD — a Rex and Vee Drabble~
Side note, it’s been so long since I’ve posted any Vee fics, you may notice he now has an Australian accent. Just pretend he’s always had an accent, okay? 😂
Side note part two, the shirt Vee is wearing along with a bunch of cheap Toad Biscuit merch can be found at my store! And you can listen to Toad Biscuit on all streaming platforms! Spotify, Apple Music, SoundCloud, YouTube Music, Pandora, TikTok, etc!
The motel had all the charm of a forgotten ashtray. One flickering lamp. A window that didn’t open. Air conditioner growling like it wanted to die.
Rexar sat in the desk chair, long legs kicked up, idly exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke that smelled faintly of burnt maple. The scent was warm, grounding—something human in a room that wasn’t.
Across the room, Vaelyn Hawthorne was already losing a fight with the air.
He sat cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by a battlefield of tissues, dark green hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted. “Oi,” he muttered thickly, glaring at the ceiling vent. “That thing’s spewin’ bloody sand, I swear—”
His voice hitched mid-complaint. “Hang on—gonna sneeze—!”
“Eishh! Ishh! Ish! ’shh! …hehhHH!—EEIISSHHuhh!”
The last one nearly folded him in half.
Rex didn’t even flinch. “Good lord, man. Sounded like a choir falling down a flight of stairs.”
“Shut up,” Vee croaked, scrubbing at his nose. “S’dot fuddy.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“Been told.”
He barely got two seconds of peace before his nostrils flared again. Another round loaded.
“Ah, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me—Eishh! Ishh! Ish! ’shh! …hehhHH!—EEIISSHHuhh!”
By the time the fit died, his chest was heaving and his eyes were glassy. Rexar leaned over, tossed him a fresh tissue box, and grinned. “You done tryin’ to exorcise the dust demons or you goin’ for round three?”
Vee sniffled. “Shut it, bate. I’b allergic to your fuckin’ existedce.”
“Yeah? Then how come you’re still breathin’?”
“Tragic oversight.”
Rex laughed—low, rasping, real. The sound filled the room, steady as a heartbeat. “You’ve been like this since you were six,” he said. “Remember that summer in Aleda? You sneezed so hard you fell off the dock.”
“I was pushed,” Vee argued.
“You sneezed and flung yourself sideways.”
“Semantics.”
Rex shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re lucky you can sing, man. Any other job, you’d be fired for this kind of noise pollution.”
Vee blew his nose with a honk that could have woken the dead. “Bugger off. At least I don’t sou’d like I gargle gravel every borning.”
“Better than sounding like a dying accordion,” Rex shot back.
Vee laughed, nose twitching again, but he tried to fight it this time—hand fluttering in front of his face like a one-man semaphore. “Nah, nah, nah—hh’Eisshhuhhh! hh’tsschhhuhhh! hhEhh’EhhESSHHhhuhh!”
“Yeah,” Rex said dryly. “That’ll teach the dust.”
He got up, grabbed one of the crappy motel washcloths, and dropped it on Vee’s chest. “Ice bucket’s still half full. Cool your face before you melt.”
Vee pressed it against his forehead with a groan. “You’d bake a terrible durse.”
“I’d make a terrible lotta things.” Rex leaned on the bedpost, arms crossed. “Lucky for you, babysittin’ your sorry ass is part of the job description.”
“You don’t get paid.”
“Exactly.”
They fell quiet for a bit, the hum of the air conditioner filling the space between words.
Rex watched him, something like nostalgia flickering behind his grin. “You know, you always did this,” he said after a while. “Try to act invincible till your body tells you otherwise.”
Vee squinted at him. “You sou’d like by fuckin’ codsciedce.”
“Nah,” Rex said softly. “Your conscience sounds smarter.”
Vee snorted—and sneezed immediately after. “Ish! Ish! Hh’ish! Shh! hh’TSSHHhhuhhh!”
Rex laughed again, shaking his head. “Still an idiot.”
“Still your idiot.”
“Unfortunately.”
The words weren’t tender. They were familiar—the kind born from years of scraped knees, bad gigs, and nearly getting each other killed more than once.
Vee smiled faintly, rubbing at his nose. “Aye, I’m not ibbortal,” he said, voice rough but wry. “Just irritatingly resilient.”
He gave a wet sniff, eyes glinting with that strange mix of pride and loneliness only Vee could pull off. “Still here. Still breathin’. Mostly sdeehhh—hh’Eisshhuhhh!—sdeezin’, apparently.”
Rexar huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a damn tragedy in stereo.”
Vee smirked, already half-asleep. “If I die frob this, tell the tabloids I wedt out brave.”
“Yeah,” Rex said, voice low and amused. “Brave, dumb, and full of antihistamines.”
“Perfect,” Vee mumbled, and that was the last thing he managed before the room went quiet again.
He drifted off not long after that, face half-buried in the pillow, muttering something about bad air quality.
Rex stayed where he was, smoke curling around him, the lamplight catching on the edges of Vee’s tattoos. He took one last drag, exhaled slow, and shook his head.
“Dumb bastard,” he said, fond as sin. “The world never deserved you anyway.”
The lamp buzzed, the air conditioner wheezed, and somewhere between all that noise, the room felt like home.
When Levi drags Remi out for a simple errand, what should’ve been an easy afternoon turns into something far more chaotic—and unexpectedly intimate. Between sharp banter, small disasters, and moments of quiet care, the two of them stumble through a day that tests patience, pride, and the strange comfort of being seen, even at your messiest.
Levi sat cross-legged on the couch, glaring at the bottle in his hands like it had personally betrayed him. The stupid little nozzle dangled half-snapped, a thin smear of cologne slicking his freckled fingers. He gave it another stubborn shake and pressed down, earning nothing but a wheeze of air and a pitiful dribble that barely reached his wrist.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, nose wrinkling as he wiped his hand on his jeans. “Didn’t even get to wear it more than twice. Figures.”
He set the bottle down on the coffee table a little harder than necessary, as though spite might coax it back to life.
Across the room, Remi was slouched in a battered armchair, one ankle hooked over the other, a cigarette dangling unlit between his fingers. He turned it absently, tapping the filter against his knee, glowing green eyes flicking toward Levi with that half-bored, half-amused look he’d perfected.
“So what,” he drawled, voice rough from smoke and sleep, “you want me to drive you across town just so you can feed your little obsession again?”
Levi’s head snapped up, freckles scrunching as he shot Remi a flat look. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Remi’s mouth twitched, betraying the smirk he tried to suppress. “Could be worse, I guess. Least you don’t stink like the rest of this dump.” He gestured vaguely at the cluttered living room with his unlit cigarette.
Levi rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t fall out of his head. He leaned back against the couch with a dramatic sigh, one hand thrown across his forehead in feigned despair. “Spare me your anti-capitalist cologne lecture, wolf. You act like you’re not gonna cave anyway.” His grin crooked sly as he peeked over his arm. “You always do.”
Remi grunted, feigning indifference as he slouched further into the chair. He tapped the end of the cigarette against his knee, sharp, restless. He’s not wrong. Levi always got his way. Remi couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually told him no and meant it. And he hated the part of himself that didn’t even want to. Yeah, I always do.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, raking his messy hair back with one hand. The strands fell forward again instantly, stubborn as their owner. “Don’t get cocky about it.”
He pushed himself out of the chair with a groan and snagged his keys off the counter, the clatter loud enough to cover the softness sneaking into his chest. He swung them around his finger, trying for casual. “Fine. But you’re buying me dinner after. And a beer. I’m not your damn chauffeur.”
Levi’s face split into a grin so bright it undid every ounce of Remi’s pretense. He bounced once on the couch like his excitement needed somewhere to go, then leaned forward with his elbows braced on his knees, eyes shining. “Knew you loved me.”
Remi froze halfway to the door, cigarette still dangling loose from his fingers. He turned just enough to cut Levi a sharp sideways glance, but the smirk curling his lip gave him away.
“Shut up,” he said, but his voice lacked its usual bite. It was lighter, roughened with something almost warm, something Levi always managed to drag out of him no matter how hard he resisted.
Levi leaned back, smug as a cat who’d stolen cream. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”
Remi’s glow flared the faintest bit brighter before he shook his head, muttering under his breath as he jammed the cigarette into his pocket. Pathetic. One grin and I’m already on the hook.
He rolled his shoulders and stalked for the door, jingling keys loud in his fist. Levi hopped up to follow, still humming under his breath, the faint trace of cologne clinging to his skin even though the broken bottle hadn’t given him more than a smear. Remi sniffed once, hard, irritation tugging sharp behind his nose. He shoved it down, dismissing it as nothing worth comment, and pushed out into the night air.
The truck coughed to life beneath his hands, a low growl of an engine that rattled the rearview mirror and set the loose change in the cup holder jingling. Remi leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand steady on the wheel, the other flicking ash out the cracked window before he remembered he hadn’t even lit the cigarette yet. Figures.
The cab reeked of his usual vices—stale smoke, motor oil, the faint metallic tang of old blood he still hadn’t scrubbed out of the floor mats. To anyone else, it probably smelled like hell. To him, it was home. Levi didn’t seem to mind much either, though the way the leopard immediately rolled down his window told Remi his definition of “tolerable” was looser than most.
“Gods, Remi,” Levi said, wrinkling his freckled nose. “Ever heard of an air freshener?”
Remi grunted, adjusting his grip on the wheel. “Ever heard of minding your own damn business?”
The banter was easy, automatic. It always was with Levi. Still, it grated against the low throb already starting behind Remi’s eyes. His sinuses prickled with the faint, irritating burn that usually meant trouble was coming, though he refused to give it the dignity of acknowledgment. Just a little dryness in the air, that’s all. Nothing Levi needed to notice.
He sniffled hard, once, dragging the back of his hand across his nose. It didn’t do much. His head felt stuffed, like someone had packed his skull with damp cotton and was waiting for the whole mess to rot. He flexed his jaw, hoping the pressure would shift. It didn’t.
Levi glanced over, sharp as ever. “You okay?”
Remi kept his gaze fixed on the road, lips twitching into a humorless smirk. “When am I ever okay?”
Levi sighed, but didn’t push. Smart of him. Remi hated being pressed—hated being caught out when his body started betraying him. Weakness had been beaten out of him years ago, or so he liked to think. But all it took was one sniffle, one twitch of his nose, and suddenly he was reminded that for all his strength and grit, he was still at the mercy of stupid little human frailties.
The air blowing from the vents carried a faint mustiness from the filters he hadn’t replaced in… hell, years. Every breath felt like it scraped his throat raw, left his chest heavy. He thought about pulling over, lighting that cigarette, and letting the smoke scald the sensation into something more familiar, more controllable. But Levi was humming quietly beside him, legs bouncing with restless energy, and Remi found himself gripping the wheel tighter instead.
“Dinner, remember,” he muttered finally, the words breaking the silence that had stretched too long. “If I’m wasting an afternoon sniffing chemicals with you, you’re buying me something greasy and fried after. And a beer.”
Levi grinned, turning to look at him, eyes bright with amusement. “You say that like you don’t actually like spending time with me.”
Remi cut him a sideways glance, smirk curling sharp despite the congestion building in his head. “Don’t push your luck, kitten.”
Another sniffle clawed its way out of him before he could stop it. He pretended it hadn’t happened, dragging his sleeve across his nose as if it were nothing. Levi didn’t comment, though Remi caught the way his eyes flicked over, sharp but silent.
The rest of the drive passed in fits of quiet—Levi’s restless humming, his knee bouncing against the dash, and Remi’s fingers drumming on the steering wheel in rhythm with the low growl of the engine. Each breath pulled heavier than the last, catching on the edges of something he couldn’t quite shake. The closer they got, the more the faint chemical tang of cologne from Levi’s hands seemed to cling, settling in the cab like a ghost.
Remi gritted his teeth and rolled down the window, letting the night air rush in. Cold relief cut through the haze, though it left his throat raw. He told himself it was nothing—old filters, dry air, maybe a scratch coming on. Definitely not anything Levi needed to notice.
The truck groaned into a parking space, brakes squealing. Levi hopped out before the engine even cut, bright with anticipation, while Remi dragged his sleeve over his nose one more time, muttering a curse under his breath.
The automatic doors groaned open, releasing a wave of air that smacked Remi in the face like a chemical punch. Gods above, it was like walking nose-first into a funeral home and a nightclub at the same time. Too much sweetness layered over rot, suffocating and heavy, crawling straight down the back of his throat.
He grimaced, dragging the sleeve of his hoodie under his nose. “Smells like somebody bottled regret and slapped a label on it,” he muttered.
Levi ignored him, practically buzzing at his side. The leopard moved with restless energy, slipping through racks of overpriced sweaters until they hit the fragrance section. Too-bright fluorescents glared off mirrored displays, glass bottles lined up like little soldiers, each promising “freshness” while already making Remi’s sinuses ache.
He could feel the prickle blooming deeper now, that hot, crawling irritation that clung like static to the inside of his nose. He sniffled hard, rough and wet, but it only spread the burn further. His neon eyes flickered low, like coals dulled under ash.
Levi picked up the first tester, spritzed it onto his wrist with a practiced flick, and grinned. “Okay, tell me what you think of this one.”
Remi opened his mouth to protest—think of what? It all smells like poison—but before he could speak, Levi shoved his wrist under his nose.
He drew in a reluctant breath, already bracing for disappointment. The scent hit sharp, citrus layered over a heavy musk, and it was like sandpaper dragging through the rawest parts of his sinuses. The tickle came fast—needle-fine at first, then blooming outward, a hot, crawling burn that seized his whole face. His nostrils flared helplessly, twitching with each shallow gasp, his upper lip curling to bare his teeth like he could snarl the sensation away.
His eyes narrowed, watering instantly, lashes clumping together as the glow of his irises guttered like dying coals. A furrow carved between his brows, sharp and desperate, before his whole body lurched forward.
“hhEhh-! HhEHh’iiTShh’iiEW!!”
The sneeze tore through him, violent and uncovered, spraying the polished tile. His head snapped down, messy black hair falling forward in tangled strands, his lip rings clinking faintly against his teeth as his mouth slammed shut after the release.
Levi jumped back, startled. “Remi—!”
But the fire hadn’t burned out yet. Another deep hitch clawed up from his chest, unstoppable. His jaw went slack, nostrils flaring wide, eyes squeezed half-shut with streaming tears.
“ihH’ktdSHhh! hiiih’ISHHHh—uhH!!”
The second and third sneezes doubled him over, back curving, shoulders shuddering with the force. The sound cracked through the perfume aisle, loud enough to draw a chorus of side-eyes and one muttered complaint from a nearby shopper.
Remi didn’t give a damn. His sleeve was already dragged under his nose, snuffling wetly, eyes blurred with irritation and shame he’d never admit out loud. The itch still lingered, deep and unsatisfied, a cruel reminder that this was far from over.
He straightened with effort, voice rough and wrecked as he muttered a sharp chuckle. “Maybe… not that one…”
Levi bit back a laugh, concern and amusement flickering in equal measure across his freckled face.
The feline hesitated only a moment before grabbing the next bottle, like maybe it had just been bad luck with the first one. He spritzed the air above his wrist and waved it to dry, his expression bright with anticipation.
“Alright, try this one. Might be better.”
Remi wanted to tell him don’t bother. His nose already felt rubbed raw from the inside, the burn clawing deeper with every breath. But Levi was looking at him with that eager, open face—the kind Remi never seemed able to say no to. So he leaned in, jaw set, nostrils flaring as he forced the breath.
The moment the scent hit—something sweet this time, cloying vanilla mixed with smoke—the tickle roared back to life. It dug sharp talons through his sinuses, dragging hot pressure down into his throat until his chest bucked. His upper lip curled, lip rings flashing as his face twisted in helpless prelude.
“hh—hEhTXSSHhh’ih! Hd’IZTSsHHhhh’ih!”
He pitched forward, bracing one hand against his thigh, shoulders snapping with the force. His green eyes squeezed shut, lashes spiked with tears. He barely had a second to gasp before another ripped free.
“heh’iTTSHH’iEW! ihh- ih’TTSSHH! hih’iiiSSHHHuu!”
By the third, his sleeve was soaked, breath hitching in jagged bursts that rattled in his chest. His head pounded with the pressure. He snorted hard, trying to force a breath through swollen passages, but it only came out wet and useless.
Levi hovered nearby, fretting, one hand half-raised like he wanted to help but didn’t know how. “Maybe that one’s a no too,” he said, voice caught between apology and nervous humor.
Remi dragged his sleeve under his nose again, growl muffled against the fabric. Yeah, no kidding.
Levi still didn’t give up. He reached for a third bottle, spritzed it onto a card this time instead of his skin, like that would somehow spare Remi.
“Last one, promise.”
Remi gritted his teeth, nostrils flaring against his will. The scent wafted over, harsh spice and cedar. His whole body rebelled instantly. His eyes went wide, brows arching, jaw going slack as his breath stuttered helplessly.
The fit rolled through him, sneezes cracking off one after another until his chest ached from the force. He stumbled sideways into the counter, gripping the edge to keep upright, his hair plastered damply to his face. His glowing eyes were almost dull now, dimmed to a pale flicker through the tears.
Other shoppers stared openly now, one woman muttering under her breath about filthy animals. Remi didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. He’d heard worse. He just bent forward, dragging in another hitching gasp as the tickle refused to let go.
“Hh'IISHH!—hd’ISCHhh!! —h’dtTISHh! —hhh’ISCHih!”
Levi winced with sympathy. “Rem… I think maybe this was a mistake.”
Remi leaned heavy against the counter, sleeve pressed to his soaked nose, voice shredded to a rasp. “No shit.”
The wolf pressed his knuckles hard against the bridge of his nose, grinding as though sheer force might smother the itch. His chest still heaved with the aftershocks of the last fit, breath tearing out ragged and uneven. His eyes burned, raw from the tears that refused to stop streaming, glowing dim as gutter embers.
Every hitch that jerked his frame felt like a humiliation. He could feel people staring, whispering. Normally he’d meet their looks with a glare sharp enough to gut them, but right now? He just wanted to vanish. His lip curled at himself. Look at you. Big bad wolf, undone by body spray.
He straightened with effort, sniffled thickly, and forced a smirk he didn’t feel. “Am I getting punked right now?” he rasped, voice low and shredded. The words fell flat when another helpless gasp broke through his chest, nose twitching.
“hh'IETSH’UE! HIHH—! HI’DTSCHIEW!”
He folded into his sleeve, shoulders trembling.
Levi winced but still grinned, trying to soften the edges. “Can’t remember the last time something set you off this bad. Been a while since your nose hated me this much.”
Remi huffed, tugging his sleeve down to glare at him, though his damp lashes ruined the effect. “Don’t flatter yourself. S’not you—it’s your damn obsession with smelling like a bakery fire.”
Another thick sniffle dragged through him, his nostrils flaring helplessly, hitch caught deep in his chest.
“heh’iTTSHH’iEW! ihh- ih’TTSSHH! hih’iiiSSHHHuu!”
The fit bent him nearly double over the counter. His sleeve came away wet, his pride worse. He shifted sideways to grab at a tissue box on display, missed, and clipped the edge of a stacked row of tester bottles instead.
Glass clinked together, one toppling. Levi lunged to catch it, quick reflexes saving the thing from shattering.
“Gods, Remi,” he laughed, shaky with nerves. “Careful—you’re gonna bankrupt us both.”
Remi’s jaw tightened, humiliation stinging sharper than the cologne haze. He hunched his shoulders, sleeve pressed hard against his dripping nose, muttering between gasps, “Maybe… we should get the hell out of here…”
Levi’s smile softened, guilt threading in now. “Yeah,” he said quietly, reaching a steadying hand to the back of Remi’s neck. “Think we’ve tested enough.”
Remi didn’t resist as Levi steered him away. He just let himself be led, each hitching breath betraying him on the way out.
The perfume haze thinned as they neared the doors, but the damage was already carved deep into his skull. Remi’s breath rasped in uneven pulls, every inhale catching on a fresh needle-prick of irritation that promised more. His sleeve was damp, clinging cold against his mouth and nose, and he knew he must’ve looked a wreck—eyes rimmed red, hair stuck to his temples, shoulders hunched like he was bracing against a storm no one else could feel.
Levi didn’t say anything right away. He just walked close, steady hand still pressed at the back of Remi’s neck, thumb absently dragging against the edge of his hairline. It should’ve been grounding. Instead it made Remi’s chest twist with something he couldn’t name—something he didn’t want to.
Another hitch ripped through him, jerking his head forward with a soundless gasp. He clenched his jaw, fighting it back, but his nostrils flared wildly, traitorous.
“Hihh’ISSHh! ihH’ktdSHhh!!! iH’tSSH’iew!”
The sneezes burst free anyway, loud enough to echo off the glass doors. A couple of leaving shoppers flinched, giving them wide berth like he was contagious. Remi’s lip curled automatically, baring teeth in a half-snarl at their backs, though shame burned hotter under his skin than anger.
Levi glanced at him sidelong, his grin small but warm enough to cut through the haze. “Could’ve fooled me about being fine, wolf.”
Remi dragged the heel of his hand under his nose, snuffling thickly. His mouth tugged into a crooked smirk, even as his lashes fluttered with the next hitch. “Yehh—hh—hEhTXSSHhh’ih! Hih—! Hd’IZTSsHHhhh’ih!”
The double bent him forward, hair falling into his face. He came up groaning, eyes wet and glowing faint, but his smirk still lingered. “See? Perfectly fine.”
“Uh-huh.” Levi caught the door open for him, voice soft with amusement. “Picture of health.”
Remi gave him a mock scowl, ruined by the wet shine of his eyes and the hitch still trembling in his chest. “You’re a pain in my ass,” he rasped, but the words came with a breathless chuckle.
Levi only hummed in response, guiding him out into the cooler air.
The breeze hit, mercifully clearing away the thick perfume fog, but it also cut sharp through Remi’s raw sinuses, setting off another tickling wave that burned at the edges of his nose. He tilted his head back, jaw slack, eyes wet and gleaming faintly as he fought it down. For once, he didn’t want to give the watching world another show.
They walked the short stretch of asphalt in silence, Levi’s hand never leaving him, Remi’s pride fraying thinner with each uneven sniffle.
The slam of the truck door shut him in with himself. The sudden quiet should’ve been relief after the store’s brightness and perfume haze, but it wasn’t. The cab was hot with old smoke and grease and the faint iron tang that lived in the seats no matter how many times he wiped them down. The air was thick, unmoving, and his nose—raw, swollen, streaming—rebelled instantly.
He barely had time to drag his sleeve up before it hit him again.
“hiiih’ISHHHh—uhH!! HAHH’IKKTsh—uhh! h’dtTISHh!”
His whole frame buckled, shoulders shuddering against the seat, hair falling into his face in damp strands. The sneezes tore out so violently they left him gasping, chest burning with effort.
“Shit, Rem…” Levi’s voice was quiet, low with guilt. He twisted in the passenger seat, digging in his bag until he pulled out a crumpled tissue packet. He pressed one into Remi’s hand.
Remi took it but only half-heartedly, swiping under his nose once before crumpling it in his fist. His pride howled louder than his sinuses. He slumped forward, elbows on his knees, muttering through shredded breaths, “Told you—I’m fine.”
A rough sniff dragged through him immediately after, undermining the words. His glowing eyes were pale and dim, watering so badly he could barely keep them open. Another sharp hitch seized him, his chest jerking.
“H'ihhSHHhhiew! ihH’ktdSHhh!!! iit’shHIEW!”
The tissues were soaked useless in seconds. He cursed under his breath, balling them in his fist and throwing them onto the floorboard. His frustration rose in his throat, bitter as bile. Pathetic. Ruined by fucking air freshener. Some wolf.
“Hey, Acushla.” Levi’s voice cut through, calm and steady. A hand landed between Remi’s shoulder blades, rubbing small, grounding circles. “Don’t push it. Just… breathe a bit. We’ll wait until it settles, yeah?”
Remi huffed, chest still jolting with half-formed hitches. His jaw clenched, more from the effort of keeping himself together than anger. He leaned into the touch before he realized it, shoulders sagging under Levi’s palm.
“…Tch. My bad,” he muttered, voice rough around the edges. He held up the useless wad of tissues like evidence, lip quirking faintly despite the redness in his face. “Didn’t mean to turn your shopping trip into a sneeze meltdown.”
Levi’s mouth curved, faint but warm. He didn’t move his hand. “Not a problem. Just allergies.”
Remi gave a small, reluctant snort, dragging his sleeve under his swollen nose with a thick sniff. His eyes narrowed, wet and sheepish, but humor flickered there too. “Yeah. Allergies. Lucky you—front-row seats.”
The next hitch caught him off guard, clawing high and cruel in his chest, leaving his breath shuddering.
The sneezes cracked the cab, leaving him panting, head tipped back against the seat. His damp hair clung to his temples, throat raw, eyes blurred with tears. He stayed slumped there, too wrung out to bother with bravado, while Levi’s hand stayed steady at his back—the only calm anchor in the storm.
Levi pulled another tissue from the pack and pressed it against Remi’s arm until he took it. “Guess I shouldn’t’ve made you come in with me,” he said quietly. “Didn’t think it’d be this bad.”
Remi blew his nose, rough and half-hearted, then crumpled the tissue into the growing graveyard on the floorboard. His mouth tugged into a crooked smirk, though his eyes were still glassy, glow dimmed. “Relax. I’d’ve found a way to embarrass myself either way. This just saved me the trouble of tripping over a display.”
Levi huffed a laugh, the sound warm despite the worry still etched in his face.
Another sharp hitch snapped through Remi’s chest, cutting him off mid-smirk. His nose twitched, his jaw went slack—
He slumped forward against his knees, tissue mashed to his face, breath tearing raggedly between sneezes.
“See?” he rasped thickly when he surfaced again, voice shredded but trying for playful. “Multitasking. Can crack jokes and implode at the same time.”
Levi shook his head, lips twitching despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah, well,” Remi sniffled, tilting his head back against the seat with a grimace, “you knew that when you asked me along.”
Levi’s hand stayed steady at his back, rubbing small circles as Remi’s chest jolted with another half-formed hitch. They sat like that for a stretch, waiting it out, the storm still working its way through him—but quieter now, with Levi’s presence anchoring the edges.
The truck had fallen into a heavy quiet, broken only by Remi’s ragged sniffles and the occasional wet blow into another tissue. His head tipped back against the seat, hair sticking damply to his temples, throat raw from sneezing until it ached. His green eyes glowed faint, dulled almost to grey with the weight of it.
“Godsdamn ridiculous,” he muttered hoarsely, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. “Whole store full of poison. Should’ve just let you go in alone.”
Levi’s expression softened, guilt flashing bright. He dug into his bag, as if to change the subject, and pulled out a small, familiar bottle—its nozzle snapped, the glass still glinting almost-full. He smiled ruefully, holding it up. “Well, at least I still have this one. Not totally out of luck.”
Remi cracked an eye, unimpressed. “Yeah, congratulations. A bottle of misery.”
But Levi was already dabbing it against his neck, more out of habit than anything. The scent hit the cab instantly—sharp, heavy, clinging.
Remi’s breath stuttered. His nostrils flared wide, face twisting as the irritation exploded in his skull, hotter and harsher than anything in the store. The hitch dragged out of him raw and helpless.
He folded forward violently, one hand braced against the dash, the other mashed over his soaked tissues. His chest snapped with each convulsion, throat tearing with the sound.
Levi’s grin vanished. He stared at the bottle, then at Remi, then back again, realization dawning slow and horrified. “Wait… this? This is what’s been setting you off?”
Remi tried to rasp something—anything—but another cruel hitch seized him, dragging him into another fit.
Levi shoved the bottle away like it was cursed, wide-eyed, and pressed a hand back to Remi’s shoulder. “Shit, Rem—I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
Remi sagged against the seat, tissues crushed in his fist, eyes streaming, voice wrecked to a gravelly rasp. “Told you. Misery.”
The worst of the fit burned itself out, leaving Remi slumped against the seat, chest heaving, tissues crushed and useless in his fist. His throat ached raw, sinuses clogged to the point he could barely drag in a breath without hitching on the edges of another sneeze. His eyes glowed faint, dulled down to a tired ember.
Levi pressed another clean tissue into his hand, his touch lingering. “I’m tossing this,” he said firmly, nodding toward the cursed bottle now abandoned on the dash. “Don’t want it if it does this to you.”
Remi blew his nose with a rough, honking sound, then muttered around the tissue, “Don’t be dramatic. Just… don’t wear it around me.” His voice was sandpaper, but his mouth twitched into something crooked, embarrassed.
Levi shook his head, lips curving soft. “Why would I, when I like your scent better anyway?”
Remi froze, caught off guard. His face flushed hot beneath the congestion, and he tried to smother it with a snort, tossing the balled-up tissue toward the floor. “You’re so damn cheesy.”
Levi only grinned wider, leaning his temple against Remi’s shoulder. “Maybe. But it’s true.”
Remi huffed, but the sound was more laugh than sigh. His hand lifted—hesitant, but real—and settled against Levi’s knee, heavy and warm. His eyes slid shut, exhaustion winning out, and the glow softened brighter for the first time since the store.
Written & Illustrated by allergeez ✨ originally written at @sniffli-danni ‘s request for more rexar 🖤
Wasn’t originally going to write smut but it just came out and I’m not sorry 😩😩
Summay: When overworked Kriia Thomas takes a much-needed spa retreat, her chaotic pyro boyfriend Rexar Fang insists he’ll handle things at home. What begins as a secret mission to surprise her by tackling her most loathed household chores spirals into a day of magikal malfunctions, domestic disasters, and one catastrophic allergic encounter with a cursed plant. As pollen fills the air and Rexar struggles to keep his powers in check (and his sneezes from setting the house on fire), Kriia begins to suspect he's up to something. What follows is a hilariously steamy unraveling of secrets, stamina, and increasingly congested seduction. A blend of magikal slice-of-life, romantic mischief, and erotically charged chaos, Pollenageddon proves that nothing says “I love you” like vacuuming stairs and suffering through supernatural hay fever. 8.8k words + NSFW
Content Warnings:
* Explicit sexual content: Includes detailed, graphic depictions of sex with strong kink themes.
* Sneezing fetish / allergy kink: Central to the erotic tone; repeated and emphasized throughout.
* Mild D/s dynamic: Playful domination, power shifts in romantic context.
* Body fluids: Includes messy, snotty sneezing, wet sounds, and explicit use of bodily reactions for erotic effect.
* Light humiliation / teasing: Especially related to vulnerability and messy sneezing.
* Mild injury / physical strain: Nothing severe, but includes minor bruises, splinters, overexertion.
* Swearing / profanity: Throughout..
Kriia Thomas had been staring at the same infernal piece of paper for the last hour and a half. It wasn’t that the ink was fading—though it was, in streaks that bled into each other like dried blood—but that her eyes simply refused to process another damn syllable. The sun hung over the far end of the estate's east wing, filtered through panes of aged, greenhouse-glass that she still hadn’t gotten around to cleaning. Light pooled on the table like honey left too long in the cold, sticky and slanted, warming her knuckles as she wrote.
Or rather, as she glared at the page, the pen frozen between her fingers, smudging her left pinky with ink for the seventh time today.
A ripple of shadow curled around her ankle of its own accord. She flicked it away with the casual irritation of someone swatting a familiar gnat. “Don’t start with me,” she muttered.
From behind, footsteps padded softly over the hardwood. Plush, unrushed, annoyingly confident. She didn’t need to look to know who they belonged to. The familiar scent of toasted marshmallow and something darker—burnt maple wood, ever-present and subtle—reached her first, followed by the telltale curl of warmth that always hit when he entered a room.
“Working hard or hardly—”
“Don’t you finish that sentence, Rexar.”
Rexar Fang grinned anyway, undeterred as ever. He leaned against the doorframe with all the languid grace of a man who’d never once been made to wait for anything. He was barefoot, shirtless, a towel slung over his shoulder, glistening from a late-morning rinse. His silver hair was still damp, red bangs dripping down his forehead and catching in his lashes. A coffee mug was cradled in one calloused palm—black, with “FANG 4EVER” etched in fading white letters that Kriia had mockingly gifted him last Solstice.
The steam from the mug drifted up, briefly catching in the lazy spirals of smoke that always curled from his nose. She never should’ve found it relaxing. But she did. Worse still, she missed it when he wasn’t around.
“You look like you haven’t moved in three days,” he said, sauntering in without waiting for permission. “Babe, be honest with me—are you trying to physically become paperwork?”
“Shut up.”
“You know, it’s a tragedy that no one’s discovered the dark and sultry beauty of accounting-core. You could really revolutionize—”
She threw a pen at him.
He caught it between two fingers without spilling his coffee and winked at her over the rim of the mug. “Feisty. Love that. Keep going.”
Kriia slumped further into her chair, dragging her fingers down her face, frustration smudged in streaks of dried pen ink along her skin. “I can’t just walk away from all this, Rex. We’re two weeks behind on invoices, the security systems need recalibrating before nightfall, and someone”—she shot him a sharp look—“fried two of the sprinkler circuits because he ‘felt a sneeze coming on’ and didn’t step back.”
“That’s… barely accurate. It was one circuit. Maybe one and a half.”
She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. Her deep purple eyes did all the scathing.
Rexar approached slowly, setting the coffee down beside her with exaggerated care before crouching to her level. “Listen, gloom queen,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You need a break. You're getting snappier than Remi during tax season.”
“I am not—”
He poked her cheek with one finger.
She batted it away. “Rexar—”
“C’mon.” His voice lowered, crooning. “I already arranged it. My family’s estate up near Blueflame Ridge—you know, the one with the natural hot springs and that terrifying koi pond with the aggressive fish you love?”
Kriia blinked. “Wait—the Ridge property? That’s like three hours away.”
“Not if you take the tunnel.”
Her eyebrow twitched. “You want me to crawl through ancient stone rat-tunnels to go take a spa day?”
“No, no.” He held up both hands. “I had the place cleaned. Fresh sheets. Lavender oil. I even set out one of those ugly bathrobes you like, the one that makes you look like a death cult leader’s sugar baby.”
Her lips twitched. Almost.
He leaned in further, nose brushing hers. “You deserve one day off. I’ll handle things around here. I promise.”
“You’ll burn the place down,” she said flatly, narrowing her eyes like a cat watching a candle.
“Not even a little,” Rexar said, voice smooth as caramel left too long on a warm stove. “I’ve got everything under control.”
Her eyebrow crept up. “You? Control?”
“Mmhm.” He sipped from his mug—way too casually. “I’ve got a whole itinerary. A very responsible, safe, extremely boring day lined up.”
She blinked. “You made an itinerary.”
“Of course I did,” he said, nodding solemnly, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils like the universe punctuating his lie. “Didn’t even use crayons.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Come on, have a little faith.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, warm and brief. “I’m just gonna handle a few things around the estate. Nothing explosive. Nothing illegal. Nothing that starts with ‘You know what would be a great idea—’”
Her gaze narrowed. “Wait.”
“Yes, my love?”
“What exactly are you planning to do while I’m gone?”
He froze just a second too long. “I mean... estate stuff.”
“Estate stuff?”
“Y’know. The usual. Papers. Books. Maybe finally deal with that one cupboard that keeps muttering racial slurs in the pantry.”
She gave him a long, flat look. “Rexar.”
He smiled back, too innocent, too symmetrical.
“I swear,” she said slowly, “if I come back and find you waist-deep in gutters or crawling around the chimney again—”
He grabbed the sides of her chair, lifted it an inch off the ground as he leaned in close, voice lowered with fond exasperation. “Kriia. Kriia. My feral, suspicious, gorgeous little menace. Do I look like a man who would voluntarily do hard labor while his girlfriend is luxuriating in a magikal hot spring?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, fair. But this time? No chores. No rooftop heroics. Just me, my papers, some snacks, and maybe a few light musical interludes.”
He stood, lifting her chair with him slightly as he cupped her chin. “Do you trust me?”
“Not at all.”
He laughed, full-bodied and warm. “Perfect. That’s the spirit.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering longer than usual. “Go get naked in the woods for a few hours. I’ll be fine.”
She squinted at him. “...You swear you’ll call if something goes wrong?”
“I’ll call if something goes right.”
“That’s worse.”
He beamed. “I know.”
She sighed, bone-deep, but the exhaustion in her shoulders had already started to unknot. She leaned forward, pressing her face against his bare stomach just briefly—just enough for him to rest a hand in her hair.
“I’m still going to check in.”
“I expect nothing less.”
“Don’t you dare sneeze inside the house.”
“No promises.”
She squinted at him, deadpan.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, the tip of her nose, then her lips. “Now go. Before I’m forced to carry you to the tunnel like a dramatic husband in a soap opera.”
She huffed but allowed herself to smile.
Still, as she stepped through the front door a few minutes later, her eyes lingered on him just a moment too long. And Rexar, left alone in the hallway with only the fading scent of her shampoo and the rapidly cooling coffee, finally let his grin drop.
He turned on his heel, reached into the inside pocket of his cardigan, and pulled out a list.
A very familiar list. Covered in Kriia’s handwriting. Her secret list of nightmare chores.
He unrolled it slowly, eyeing it like a knight about to challenge a dragon.
“Let’s do this.”
The instance the door closed behind her and the last glimmer of morning light vanished from the hall, Rexar Fang let out a long, theatrical exhale.
“Finally,” he muttered, tossing his hair back with all the gravity of a stage actor delivering the death monologue of a tragic hero. The rich, smoky scent trailing from his nostrils caught on the cold stone, curling like ribbon down the corridor. “She’s gone.”
He reached into the hidden inner pocket of his cardigan—dark wool, warm, with faint singe marks on the hem—and retrieved the list. The list. Kriia’s long-forgotten, drunkenly-scrawled List of Utter Shit She Refuses to Do.
He unfolded it with a reverence typically reserved for cursed grimoires or concert setlists. A haphazard scrawl of black ink and ash-charred fingerprints covered the page. In the corner was a little doodle of a crying mushroom wearing boots. Rexar smiled fondly.
He remembered the night perfectly—Kriia, half-drunk and fully irate, slouched sideways in the kitchen wearing a stolen Fang family robe two sizes too big, shouting at no one in particular about how “you can’t clean magik with magik sometimes, okay?! Sometimes a girl’s just gotta crawl into the guts of the house and scrub ancient grime off the ass of a rune stone by hand.”
She’d punctuated the sentence by scribbling furiously onto the paper with her pen, naming every disgusting, cursed, labor-intensive job on the estate she had mentally blocked for six months.
He’d kept the scroll like a love letter. Because of course he had.
Now, alone in the silence of the estate’s main hall, Rexar rolled his shoulders, and squared his stance.
“Alright,” he said, to the ghosts and portraits and ominous ceiling. “Operation: Domestic God is a go.”
Chore 1: Under the Deck – The Drain of Doom
Within fifteen minutes, Rexar was shirtless, kneeling in the wet mulch beneath the north-facing deck, elbow-deep in a drain pipe that smelled like swamp rot and ancient regret. The estate’s plumbing was only semi-sentient, which meant it wouldn’t bite, but it might spit if you startled it.
Something squelched ominously beneath his palm.
He hissed, recoiling. “Nope. No. I don’t get paid enough—well, okay, I do, technically, but still—ugh.”
He reached back in. Pulled. A massive wad of half-decomposed leaves, twigs, and a very angry clump of what looked like lichen slurped free with a disgusting schlrk.
“Glamorous,” he muttered. “So glamorous. This is how rockstars die.”
Chore 2: The Stairway to Hell
Next came vacuuming the stairs—an objectively simple task that still managed to feel like penance. It wasn’t hard, exactly. It just sucked. Literally and metaphorically. The vacuum was old, bulky, and had a cord shorter than his patience. Every single stair meant bending, dragging, switching outlets, wrestling with the hose like it was trying to escape him.
Kriia hated this chore. Hated it so much she’d once dramatically declared it “a soul-eroding spiral of despair,” and Rexar was beginning to understand why.
Chore 3: Power-Washing the South Wall (a.k.a Dodge-the-Runeball)
By late morning, Rexar had lugged the estate’s ancient arcane-powered water pressure system to the south-facing stone wall. This part of the estate was built in the Pre-Blood Accord era and was riddled with protective sigils that sometimes malfunctioned when wet.
Halfway through the job, one fired a spark that singed the edge of his pants.
“Okay!” he shouted upward. “Whichever great-great-grandfang enchanted this shit, your layering runes are sloppy!”
A rune fired again. He barely ducked in time.
“Sloppy and bitter!”
The stone glistened under the midday sun, beads of water steaming on the surface, casting rainbow refractions that danced across his back. His skin was flushed, smudged with soot and dried mud, smoke rising a little thicker from his nose now as the heat from his own body began to build.
It was just as he reached the top of the second story—balancing one foot on the rain gutter and the other on a gargoyle shaped like a disgruntled badger—that his phone buzzed.
The screen lit up, vibrating against the strap of his tool belt.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—shit!”
He scrambled to wedge the hose back into the reel on the wall and ducked out of view, brushing his face frantically with the only clean-ish towel he had—unfortunately still covered in leaf gunk from the drain.
He opened his phone, answering the call.
Kriia’s Face: Glorious, Glowing, and Pissed
Kriia appeared on-screen, lounging in the natural hot springs like a fucking goddess. Her skin was dewy, flushed from the heat, crimson hair wet and slicked back, glowing like molten metal under the golden sun. She sipped delicately from a glass of fruit-infused water, condensation sliding down the sides like something out of an advertorial for luxury witch vacations.
Rexar felt something in his brain short-circuit. Then he smiled lazily, head tilted just so.
“Well, hello.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound out of breath?”
“Hmm?” He adjusted the angle so that all she could see was an innocuous grey stone wall behind him. “Oh, just... sorting papers. You know. Big boring archive day.”
The phone trembled slightly as it balanced on the overturned paint bucket he was using as a stand.
“You don’t sort paperwork.”
“I do today.”
Kriia took another slow sip. “Why is your hair wet?”
“Um. Shower. Self-care. You are always telling me to hydrate.”
She peered closer. “Is that soot on your collarbone?”
He leaned out of frame just long enough to rub at it.
“Noooope. Charcoal mask. Very detoxifying.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then—mercifully—Kriia let it go. She sighed, leaned back into the hot spring, and closed her eyes for just a second.
Rexar stared, unable to help the tiny smile that tugged at his lips.
“You’re enjoying yourself?” he asked, softer.
Her mouth quirked. “...Yes. For now.”
“Good.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “You deserve it, you know.”
She looked at him. Just for a second. And that was enough.
Then the screen blurred out again.
He exhaled, slumped against the wall, and let his head thunk back against the hot stone.
“Three down,” he mumbled, dragging a hand down his sweat-streaked face. “Twelve to go.”
The sky had turned a glassy shade of blue, no longer morning-soft but blazing directly overhead, cooking the slate tiles of the estate’s roof into something approximating a stovetop. Rexar braced himself on a crossbeam, halfway up the western tower, a coil of gutter-hooks slung around one shoulder, the other hand jammed into a leather sack full of citrus-scented de-liming tablets that Kriia had insisted were “more eco-friendly.”
He’d abandoned his shirt an hour ago. Now he was slick with sweat, streaked with soot from the wall washing and something that smelled suspiciously like squirrel piss. His hair curled wildly around his face, damp and silver-white and clinging to his temples. His nose twitched.
The air was thick with pine needles and the unmistakable reek of old bird droppings. The gutters hadn’t been cleaned in years, judging by the black sludge clinging to the inside edges like wet compost made of regret. At some point, a whole squirrel family had moved in, padding out their nest with shredded snack wrappers, dryer lint, and—somehow—a sock.
Rexar crouched low on the sloped roof tiles, squinting into the muck. “Alright, guys. You’ve got ten seconds to clear out before I start scooping this crap out by hand.”
There was a chorus of chittering from the downspout. One particularly fat squirrel poked its head over the edge, chewed slowly on a zip tie, and stared at him with unblinking judgment.
“Okay, rude,” Rexar muttered.
He dug into his hoodie pocket and pulled out one of Kriia’s weird snack baggies—half a protein bar and a single, lonely almond. He held it up like an offering. The squirrels paused.
Ten seconds later, he was kneeling beside an abandoned nest, flicking bottle caps into a trash bag. “Bribery,” he sighed. “Gets results.”
He dug in with both hands, scraping away pine muck that crunched like wet leather. The smell hit him first. Mold. Old rain. Dust baked into death by too many summers. And then—something worse. Something ancient and floral, like cursed gardenias left too long in the sun.
He sniffed once.
Then again, sharper.
His breath hitched.
“Oh no—”
He tried to twist, duck his head into his shoulder, but it was too late.
“hhih’tchhxSSHHuh!! hah’ESSHH’IUE!! hh'ieXSHHH!”
A short, sharp spray of sparks shot from his nose, singeing the shingles where he crouched. They fizzled harmlessly against his skin—thank the ancestors for pyromancer physiology—but a few danced dangerously close to the dry pine thatch along the edge of the gutter.
He cringed. “Shit.”
The phone buzzed in his pocket.
Rexar fumbled it out with sap-streaked fingers, balancing one foot on a support beam, the other half-sliding on a slick of runoff slime.
He opened the call.
Kriia Appeared—Regal, Relaxed, Ruthless
She was lying on a deck chair beside the springs now, wrapped in a towel. A thick, green clay mask coated her face, two cucumber slices perched perfectly over her eyes. Somewhere in the background, windchimes jingled, and what sounded like a waterfall burbled soothingly.
“Why do I hear wind?” she asked immediately, flat and suspicious.
“You don’t,” Rexar said, breathless.
He was half-hanging off the gutter, one leg swinging into open air. Behind him, a loose tile clattered off the roof and tumbled into the shrubs with a soft plunk.
She sat up slightly, one cucumber tilting off. “Are you outside?”
“Nope.”
A moment passed.
Then his breath caught again. And again. Shit. Shit.
Three in a row, tight and half-stifled against his arm, each one flaring with small but potent sparks. The third scorched the side of a tile, leaving a black crescent burn and the faint scent of maple smoke.
Kriia didn’t speak.
When he looked back at the screen, her eyebrow was raised.
“...Did you sneeze?”
Rexar cleared his throat. “Must’ve been the wind.”
“You sneezed fire.”
“Wind, babe. Spicy wind.”
The call ended before she could answer—because his grip slipped entirely and he dropped, landing ass-first in a haystack two stories below.
“Ow.”
Chimney: Dusty Hell Dimension
The chimney had always been Kriia’s least favorite architectural feature. Ornate as hell, etched with serpent carvings and crowned with a brass smoke-fan that whistled ominously when the temperature dropped below freezing. The inside, however, was a soot-streaked nightmare.
Rexar climbed in halfway, dragging a bristle wand behind him. Within three minutes, he was coughing black dust from his lungs, hair and chest smeared with soot, and vaguely wondering if one of the stones was trying to bite him.
“Why,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “did I think this would be fun?”
He was halfway through re-anchoring a rock in the wall when his phone buzzed again.
“No, no—fuck—gimme one sec—”
He scrambled out of the fireplace alcove, coughing up soot as he ducked behind the nearest curtain—an overly dramatic velvet number in the drawing room that smelled faintly of dust and old perfume. Wiping his face with the back of his wrist, he took a moment to catch his breath and assess the damage: hair wild, cheeks streaked with ash, one sock missing.
With a muttered curse, he smoothed his hair back, tugged his shirt straight, and slapped a bit of water from the nearby plant onto his face. It helped. Kind of. At least he no longer looked like he’d just wrestled a chimney.
The video call came through. He took one last breath, forced on a half-decent smile, and answered.
Kriia. Again. This Time: Steam Goddess Mode
She was in the middle of a steamy stone chamber, towel wrapped snug around her chest, a matching wrap around her head. Steam coiled around her like silk. Her cheeks were flushed. Droplets clung to her collarbones.
Rexar froze.
And short-circuited.
And maybe forgot language for a second.
Her lip curled just slightly. “You look... different.”
“I—uh. Yeah. Just moved into the study. Paperwork sorting. You know.” He was clearly behind a curtain.
She tilted her head. “You’re not... hiding anything from me, are you?”
“No, no.” He cleared his throat. “Not at all.”
Then his nose twitched again. And again.
His shoulders jerked thrice. “huh’tCHhh—! HIIH’NKXSHH! H’KngxsstSH!” He caught them into his hand with an explosive spark and immediately muted the call.
Kriia watched the image flicker.
Unmuted.
Her smirk had grown.
“Bless you.”
“Wasn’t a sneeze,” he said, far too quickly.
“Uh-huh.”
“Dusty archive. Dry air. Airborne mites.”
“Sure, Rex.”
“You look incredible, by the way.”
“Flattery won’t save you if you’re lying to me.”
He grinned, a little breathless. “Wanna bet?”
She sighed, adjusting the towel around her chest. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re gorgeous.”
“Mmhm.”
She let it go. For now.
The called winked out again.
Rexar sagged back into the wall tapestry, now utterly blackened with soot from his skin. He was drenched in sweat, bruised from the haystack fall, and still had chimney soot in his teeth.
He coughed, and sparks fizzled between his lips.
"Three more chores," he groaned. "Then... the greenhouse."
He had no idea that that was where it would all fall apart.
By midafternoon, the sun burned overhead like a curse, high and unyielding, baking the estate’s fields into golden glass and casting sharp shadows across the wild perimeter of the west gardens. The air shimmered with heat. Distant insects buzzed like badly tuned violins.
And Rexar Fang, shirtless and defiant, stood at the threshold of the greenhouse like he was about to fight a God.
His shoulders glistened with sweat. Not shimmered. Glistened. Rivulets of salt-slick moisture ran down the sharp ridges of his spine, collecting at the dip of his back and beading along the fine trail of silver hair that arrowed from his navel to the waistband of his half-unbuttoned work pants. His hands were filthy. His cheek was streaked with ash. A cut just above his left brow had dried, smudged over from when the damn squirrel bit him.
Still, he grinned.
The heavy glass doors hissed open. Humid, sweetly pungent air blasted him in the face. Floral. Dense. Clinging. The greenhouse was a living beast in summer—overgrown, feral, dripping from every fern and vine like it was breathing on its own.
“Home stretch,” he muttered. “Last one. You’ve got this.”
He stepped inside.
Sunlight pierced the glass roof in tight, hot beams, illuminating floating pollen like a haze of gold-dust fireflies. Something chirped once, deep in the belly of a tropical planter.
Rexar flexed his fingers, tying his shirt around his head like a ragged bandana, shoving his bangs back. His torso gleamed, the smattering of red freckles across his shoulders catching the light like warpaint. Smoke curled lazily from his nostrils as the ambient heat pushed his body into a low burn.
He waded into the foliage.
The grime on the walls was years old—built-up spatter from failed potions, plant vomit, storm silt. He licked a knuckle, pressed his palm to the glass, and began scrubbing.
“Bet she'd get flustered seeing me like this,” he muttered under his breath, amused. “Mmmh... all wet and covered in algae... sweaty arms, panting, shirtless... yeah, she’d want me real bad.”
He chuckled. A smug, nasal thing. He was mid-wipe, elbow-deep in moss when he shifted slightly, bumped a shelf behind him—
—and knocked a small, golden-stemmed plant off balance.
The bloom trembled.
A soft fwump sounded.
The plant exploded.
A full cloud of fine, shimmering pollen burst into the air like someone had popped a glitter grenade right in his face.
Rexar froze.
“...Uh oh.”
His breath hitched immediately.
Not just from the stench—a sweet, overwhelming scent like sugar-dusted clove—but from the instant assault on his sinuses.
Three. Full force. Sparks exploded from his nose in brilliant arcs, fire flaring in all directions before dying out midair. A nearby orchid went up in smoke before he could stomp it out.
“FUCK!”
He staggered back, eyes watering, nose crimson. “Damn it—no, no, no—fuck, hold it together—”
His phone buzzed.
He growled low in his throat and yanked it open, trying desperately to brush pollen off his face and out of his hair.
Kriia: Suspicious, Radiant, Impossibly Calm
She was seated in a shade cabana now, face freshly scrubbed, her hair damp and curling softly at her jaw. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was pure frost.
“Where are you?”
Rexar froze for a heartbeat.
Then smiled.
Poorly.
“Me? Nowhere suspicious. Just—uh—not the greenhouse.”
Her brow lifted. “Really.”
“Yup.” He coughed into his elbow. The sound crackled. His nose twitched violently.
“Because it sort of looks like you’re—”
He turned, caught the next sneeze in the crook of his arm.
“hehh’TCHZuhh!! hh’GnXxtCHuh!! n’GCHZZhh!”
Sparks scattered across the glass wall behind him. One of the vines recoiled in alarm.
Kriia’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Rex—”
“Oh no,” he said quickly, tapping the screen. “Bad signal. Some kind of interference? The reception’s... choppy—!”
He cut the call.
The greenhouse was boiling. His sinuses burned, nose glowing red, eyes constantly tearing as more spores floated down from the shattered Sniffle bloom. Every breath was war.
But Rexar Fang did not quit.
“Fuckin’... shadow goblin... goddess of guilt... I’m not stopping now,” he rasped, crouching again to wipe more algae from the window.
His shirt-headband sagged over one eye. He was panting, shirtless and gleaming like some fallen sun deity crawling through jungle hell.
Pollen clung to his curls, smeared along his jawline. His mouth parted with every breath, shaky and uneven.
He let the last one out against the floor, a tongue of fire licking out onto the damp moss tiles, leaving a black scorch mark that hissed before dying.
He stood for a moment, heaving.
Then wiped his nose on the back of his hand and slumped to his knees in the corner of the greenhouse.
Every inch of him itched.
He was flushed, ragged, eyes glassy, sweat running in furious streaks down his spine, and he could still hear Kriia’s voice in his head—soft, warning, fondly exasperated.
The greenhouse stood behind him like a vanquished titan—humid, shimmering, its doors now propped open to let the pollen fog breathe out into the sweltering yard. Rexar trudged across the grass, shirtless, half-drenched, and coated in streaks of wet soot, old grime, and unmistakable golden flecks of pollen dust that still clung to every wild strand of his silver-red hair.
His shirt, or what remained of it, was tied loosely around his forehead like a defeated flag, damp with sweat and warped from the heat. The pollen had seeped into everything—his nose, his throat, the lines of his jaw where perspiration carved glowing trails through the gold dust.
He stopped just before the veranda, dragged his forearm across his face, and leaned on one of the carved banisters.
His phone buzzed in his back pocket.
He stared at it, debated throwing it into the koi pond.
Instead, he pulled it out, thumbed screen, and lifted it to eye level.
Kriia: Cool, Controlled, Clocking Everything
She was reclined again—this time beneath a shady awning of hanging wisteria. Her hair was up, cheeks flushed, wrapped in a deep purple towel that complimented the sheen of her freshly-oiled shoulders. A drink glimmered in her hand, half-melted ice swirling gently.
But it was her eyes that stopped him cold.
Because this time, she didn’t speak right away.
She just stared.
Rexar, by contrast, looked like he’d lost a bar fight with a botanical god.
He sniffled sharply. The sound wasn’t cute. It was wet, raw, and completely incriminating.
Kriia tilted her head.
“Hi,” he rasped. “You look gorgeous.”
“You look like you got into a fistfight with an anthill….”
He grinned, crooked and congested. “Greenhouse humidity. Great for the pores.”
“You sound like a dying frog.”
“Sexy frog, though. Right?”
“You’re glistening.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.”
He opened his mouth to retort, but his breath faltered. Eyes squeezed shut, chest rising—
He caught them into the crook of his arm, shoulders trembling, then gave a soft, audible whimper.
Kriia’s expression didn’t move, but her lips parted just slightly.
He sniffed again, frustrated, and muttered something under his breath before grabbing the sweat-soaked shirt still tied around his head. He yanked it off with one hand and lifted it to his face, pressing hard as he blew his nose into the ruined fabric. The sound was obscene—wet, full, dragging—and left him wincing.
He dropped the shirt out of frame like a bomb.
Kriia’s eye twitched. Just a flicker.
“You good?” she asked tightly.
“Never better,” he croaked.
“Really.”
Rexar sagged down onto the steps leading into the estate, still visible in frame, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. He sniffled again—shorter this time. “I did your list.”
Pause.
“What?”
“Your list.” He looked up, smiling like it hurt. “The Horrific Horrors of Household Hell. Been working through it all day.”
“...Rexar.”
“Even the squirrel nest.”
“I told you not to—”
“You never really told me not to. You just said you’d die before doing it yourself. So, really, I figured I was performing an act of love.”
She stared at him, stunned. Then her face softened for half a heartbeat. But only that.
“Rexar,” she said again, slowly, “why are you sneezing so much?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Something in the greenhouse definitely didn’t like me.”
Kriia’s eyes narrowed. “Was it yellow and fluffy? Sitting near the orchid shelf?”
He blinked. “Maybe—hh’ECHHhhzzH!! et’CHXIEW!! Fuck!—maybe! Why? Hehh— heT’CHXOO!!”
Her lips twitched. “That’s my Sniffle Thistle. It bloomed last week.”
Silence.
He stared at her.
“You were gonna use it on me?”
“Eventually.”
Another beat.
Then he laughed. A short, broken thing, hoarse and almost giddy. “You were gonna use a weaponized pollen bomb on me on purpose?”
She smiled faintly. “Not today.”
“You maniac.”
“You like it.”
He wheezed another laugh, bending slightly, curls sagging over his eyes as he tried not to combust. “I fucking do, that’s the worst part.”
“You’re going inside,” she said firmly.
“I’m already inside the yard.”
“Shower. Now.”
“Fine, fine.” He stood, groaned as his back cracked, then turned the phone slightly so she could see the trailing smoke from his tear ducts. “But just for the record—if the whole place goes up, it’s your Sniffle Thistle’s fault.”
“You shouldn’t have knocked it over.”
“You shouldn’t have left me alone with it!”
“Shower,” she repeated, though there was a distinct fondness rising in her tone. “And then sit your fiery helpless ass down. I’m coming home.”
“I am not helpless,” he mumbled.
“No,” she said. “You’re Superman. And you just got your ass kicked by a flower.”
“...Yeah. Fair.”
The front door creaked open with all the melodrama of a haunted house—mostly thanks to the shitty old hinges that no one had oiled in years. A gust of cool evening air swept into the overly warm house, cutting through the lingering heat like a breath of fresh sarcasm.
Kriia stepped over the threshold, barefoot and glowing from the inside out. Her hair was freshly brushed, loose and soft against her shoulders, the wisteria scent of her post-spa oils clinging to her like shadowed perfume. She wore her comfiest oversized hoodie—his hoodie, technically, one that still smelled faintly of smoke and sweat and old cologne—and a pair of tiny, black shorts that peeked out only when she moved fast enough.
She did not announce herself. She didn’t have to.
Rexar's scent was everywhere—smoke and sugar, singed pine and something warm, familiar. It led her down the hall like a trail of invisible breadcrumbs. She followed it past the scorched curtain in the drawing room, and into the great room—
Where she found him.
Sprawled sideways across the velvet chaise like a goddamn fever dream.
He was bundled in a maroon robe that had slipped open at the thigh, one arm flopped dramatically off the side like a swooning duchess, hair still damp and curling, faint trails of steam lifting off his skin. His nose was red—cartoon red—and he clutched a crumpled towel in one hand like it had wronged him personally. The fireplace behind him crackled gently, casting flickers of gold over the length of his long, stretched-out body.
“That’s what happens when you go twelve rounds with a Sniffle Thistle.”
He coughed once, then sniffed again. “You really were gonna use that thing on me?”
She smirked. “Only if you misbehaved.”
“Babe. I always misbehave.”
“Exactly.”
He tugged her closer by the sleeve, pulling her half onto the chaise with him. She let him, settling against his chest, careful not to smother him—too much.
“You’re gonna get pollen all over me,” she warned.
“I am pollen at this point.”
“Gross.”
“Sexy.”
“Grooooss.”
He nuzzled her neck. She squeaked when his nose brushed her skin—still warm, still wet.
“Rexar,” she warned. “Do not sneeze on me.”
“I would never.” He sniffled thickly. “huhhuhhh—hhuhhh’TSCHHhhuhhh!!”
Right beside her shoulder. A small spark singed the air.
“Rexar!”
“Sorry!” He grabbed the towel, face red, eyes fluttering. “They sneak up on me, I swear!—hhuhh-hhhuhh’TCHHHzzh! hhEHh’tKSSCHHhhuh!!”
She melted a little every time he did it. She hated how much she did.
“You’re the worst,” she murmured, kissing the tip of his flaming nose.
“You’re in love with me,” he croaked.
“I’m infested with you.”
He smiled, dazed, snotty, completely smitten. “Still wanna marry me?”
“Ask again when you’re not leaking.”
“Romance is dead.”
She curled up against him anyway, dragging the blanket over both of them, planting a kiss in the damp space under his jaw where his skin tasted like smoke and salt.
And Rexar, still sneezing intermittently, still too warm and too soft, exhaled with the sort of contentment that only comes from a job horrifically well done and a girlfriend who would probably kill him for it later—but snuggle him first.
“Hey babygirl?” he whispered, half-asleep.
“Yeah?”
“I’m not doin’ that fuckin’ list again.”
“Mm.”
“…Unless you ask real nice.”
“Shut up.”
And he did. Eventually. Right after one last set of sneezes.
A few hours later, Rexar woke up tangled in too many blankets, one leg shoved halfway off the side of the couch, his robe bunched at his hips and his hair stuck to the side of his face like wet kelp. The fire had long since dimmed to a low, soft glow. His nose, however, was still bright red and twitching like a live wire.
He barely had time to register the moonlight trickling through the heavy drapes before—
Three, ragged, each one yanking his abs tight and dragging a sleepy moan from his throat.
From the doorway, Kriia leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes dark.
She was in one of his t-shirts again. Just his t-shirt. It slouched off one shoulder and clung to the soft curve of her thighs. Her legs were bare, skin still sun-kissed from the spa, and her purple eyes were fixed squarely on him like he was both a masterpiece and a walking fire hazard.
He sniffled.
Her fingers twitched against her arm.
“You look like you’ve been mauled by a flower.”
He grinned, bleary but sharp. “Still handsome, though?”
She tilted her head. “Somehow.”
Rexar pulled himself upright with a groan, scrubbing at his hair, stretching his arms until his back cracked audibly. He sneezed into his elbow again—sharp, stifled, the sparks barely escaping the velvet of his robe.
She watched, silent.
“You’re staring,” he rasped.
“No I’m not.”
“You’re trying not to enjoy it.”
She scoffed, but her thighs pressed together just slightly.
“Am I... snuffing out your denial?” he teased, rising to his feet and padding barefoot across the hardwood toward her.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what, Kriia?” he purred, voice like smoke slipping through keyholes. “Don’t come closer?” Another sneeze overtook him, twisting his face just before he made it to her.
His nose brushed her shoulder mid-fit, heat blooming on her skin.
She shuddered.
“I hate you,” she murmured, lips twitching.
He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re soaked.”
She smacked his chest. “I am not—”
He slipped his hand between her thighs.
“Oh,” he said, reverent. “You are.”
Kriia froze. Just a second. Long enough for the truth to settle under her skin like heat from a slow-building fever.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asked innocently, even as his fingers flexed slightly, pressing the heat of his palm tighter between her legs. His thumb stroked—just once, feather-light through the cotton of her underwear—and her hips twitched.
“Rexar—”
“You’ve been staring at me all night,” he murmured, crowding in close again. His breath was hot against her cheek, still carrying the edge of congestion, the ghost of a fire just behind his voice. “Pretending it wasn’t driving you crazy… the sneezing, the mess, the way I’ve been barely holding it together while still getting your entire list done—”
“You were not—”
“et’tCHOO!! hah’ESSHH’IUE! huh’TSCHHHuhhh!!”
He sneezed mid-sentence, stifled low into her shoulder as his hand ground up between her thighs. The sound made her gasp, sparks pricking faintly along her skin.
She shoved him.
He didn’t move.
Instead, he kissed her neck—slow, open-mouthed, his breath catching against her collarbone. Another hitch. Another trembling breath. He groaned.
“I’m still itchy,” he whispered, congested and low, as if she didn’t know. “My nose is gonna run all over you if you don’t stop me.”
She bared her teeth. “You say that like I’m supposed to flinch.”
He chuckled hoarsely and pulled her in tighter, hand now slipping beneath her waistband. Her breath hitched this time, a sound sharp and traitorous.
“You’re dripping,” he groaned, kissing the corner of her mouth. “So sensitive. What, the sneeze-kink kicking in now? Or just me being a sweaty, pollen-covered disaster?”
“I hate you.”
“Liar.”
Then he picked her up.
Not a bridal sweep. Not a reckless grab.
Just both hands at the backs of her thighs, lifting her up with that quiet, reverent strength he never showed unless he was about to do something utterly filthy in the softest way possible. Her legs wrapped around his waist automatically, one arm gripping the back of his neck, the other twisting in the collar of his robe.
He carried her.
Through the hallway, slow and focused, one kiss at a time up the length of her throat. Sneezed again into her shoulder mid-stride, breath stifled, one-handed as his other arm held her tight.
“hhuh’tCHHHzzuh!—ngh, fuck—sorry.”
“You’re not sorry.”
“I really, really am not.. Hihhh— Hihh’EXTSH’ue! hH’EiSCH’iiew!!”
He bumped the bedroom door open with his shoulder and set her down in the middle of their ridiculous velvet-covered bed. The sheets were half-askew from earlier. The pillow with her initials stitched in silver thread still carried the faint print of her cheek from the morning.
He took a moment to look at her. To drink her in.
Then he peeled her shirt up and off with both hands, dragging the fabric slow over her arms, her chest, her head, until she sat bare in the amber glow, flushed and goosepimpled and already breathless.
She lay back slowly, her thighs falling open, her hair a halo of red against the pillows, and stared at him with half-lidded eyes.
He let the robe fall off his shoulders.
Then knelt between her legs.
He had her spread across the bed, thighs parted, every inch of her flushed and glistening in the amber light. The window was cracked just enough for the wind to breeze through, teasing her nipples to stiff peaks, stirring the scent of flowers and smoke from his skin.
Rexar knelt between her legs, panting, trembling slightly with each building sneeze he fought back. His nose was twitching, breath hitching again—
He nuzzled against her inner thigh. “Fuck, babe… ‘m gonna… hhuh’GXTCHHHuhh!! Huhh… hh’GCHHzzuhh!! Huh’TCHHHHHuhhh!!”
Three more. Each one fired into the sheets, chest jerking, sparks dying against the damp heat of her skin. She whimpered, fingers curling in the sheets.
“Gods, Rex—”
“You like that?” he murmured against her slick heat, nose dragging along her folds. “Like how itchy I am for you? How fuckin’ full my nose is from that damn thistle you left blooming for me?”
Her hips bucked.
He grinned, and sneezed again—right into her, catching it low into her inner thigh, sparks sizzling against the dampness there. She choked on a cry.
“Breathe through it,” he whispered, voice ruined and hoarse and so goddamn loving. “Let me wreck you.”
She tried. She really tried.
But he had his mouth on her then, tongue sliding up through her folds with unbearable slowness. Every kiss was shaky with congestion, with suppressed breath, and every few seconds he paused—
—and her whole body lit up when the sparks ghosted over her slick, trembling skin. She bit her knuckles, trying to hold it in.
“Stop pretending you don’t love this,” he murmured, mouth wet with her. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, babygirl, and you’re twitching every time I sneeze—”
She let out a sobbing laugh. “I’m gonna kill you.”
“No,” he said, licking again, voice gone breathless and raw, “you’re gonna cum for me.”
She did. Hard. Her whole body curled, thighs squeezing around his head as he sneezed again, stifled into her core this time, sparks flickering like a climax of their own.
She gasped, choked, tried to push him back, but he stayed there—tongue still languid, still lapping at every aftershock like he hadn’t just been dragged under by her tremble. One hand anchored on her thigh, the other smoothing soothing circles into her hipbone.
“Babe—fuck—Rex—too much—”
He growled, hoarse and sweet and utterly devoted. “No such thing.”
His nose rubbed up along the swollen, oversensitive skin again and her entire body jerked.
Another set. He barely lifted his face in time. The wet heat of each stifled sneeze splashed between her thighs, glowing sparks fizzing harmlessly in the slickness still coating her skin. She whimpered and twitched.
“Still sensitive?” he murmured, nuzzling her hip, sniffling shamelessly. “You’re shaking.”
She tried to glare at him. “And you’re still fully clothed.”
“Easily fixed,” he croaked.
He kissed up her belly, slow and reverent, dragging his stubble across every line of tension. Then up—sternum, throat, mouth. She pulled him in with both hands, kissing him filthy, still tasting herself on his tongue. His nose rubbed against her cheek, still twitching.
He rolled his hips forward against her thigh. She felt the heat, the pulse, the twitch behind the cotton. He was burning up. Sniffling. Twitchy. Holding back.
Not for long.
“Inside,” she growled. “Now.”
He didn’t argue.
He reached down, shoved his underwear low with a shaky hand, and groaned as he pressed the tip against her entrance. Her walls were still fluttering, still soaking. She could feel the thickness of him, the gentle quiver of his muscles as he lined himself up, the hitch in his breath—
He buried his face in her neck and sneezed hard, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her thigh with reverent desperation. Sparks danced across her shoulder, and then—he pushed in.
Slow.
Thick.
Stretching her open with maddening control.
He was inside her now, slow and deep, his hips grinding in that maddening rhythm she could never fully prepare for. His chest hovered over hers, hot and damp and flexing every time he sneezed—
He barely caught them in time, twisting just enough to stifle the burning edge into the pillow beside her, fire crackling harmlessly across her shoulder in faint, dying sparks. She felt every jolt of it—his breath shaking, muscles clenching, body flushed and twitching over hers like he was coming apart at the seams.
And then—he kissed her.
Desperate. Open-mouthed. Hot and trembling. A kiss like he was trying to breathe her in, like her mouth was the only steady thing he had left to hold onto. His nose brushed hers, still twitching faintly, his chest rising in that shaky, rhythm-breaking way she was starting to recognize.
She barely got the breath to whimper before he thrust into her again—long, hard, a full-body push that made her cry out, hips jerking, fingers fisting in the sheets as her whole body fluttered around him. He gasped her name into her neck, his voice wrecked and thick and reverent. She felt him surge, the ragged rhythm falling apart as he spilled inside her with one final, guttural exhale—
The next few seconds blurred—slick heat, tangled limbs, and his chest trembling with aftershocks. And then—
He was still inside her.
Still moving.
Still falling apart in the most controlled way imaginable.
Slow and deep now, maddeningly so, his hips rolling with that familiar rhythm that always wrecked her, grinding down in lazy, claiming strokes that made her head tip back against the pillow. His chest hovered just over hers, broad and sweat-damp, flexing with every breath, every hitch—every time he failed to fully smother the itch clawing through him.
The sneezes tore from him helplessly, each one jerking through his body, forcing his hips deeper every time he lost control. She moaned under him, soft and broken, each sound pulled out of her with every sudden thrust, with every trembling exhale he tried to bury in her skin.
Her hands roamed over his back, nails skimming over the ridges of sweat-slicked muscle, over the faint shiver that ran down his spine as he tried—gods, he tried—to keep it together. But it was slipping. She could feel it in every ragged breath, every shaky grind of his hips, every desperate mutter of her name between fits.
And she loved it.
He was trying to hold it together for her, as always. But his breath kept hitching, his rhythm faltering with every wet, pollen-torn inhale.
Still, he moved. Deep. Steady. Worshipful.
Their bodies met in slow, rhythmic rolls, the slick heat between her thighs welcoming every inch of him, drawing him deeper with each stroke. The friction was perfect. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist, heels digging into his back as he pressed flush against her, their bellies slick and sliding together with each grind of his hips.
“Fuck, Kriia,” he rasped, his voice frayed and needy. “You feel—hhuh’tCHSSHHuh!—so fucking good.”
She moaned beneath him, dragged her hands through his curls, brushed the damp fringe from his forehead. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t gonna,” he groaned. His thrusts grew harder for a moment, his control briefly buckling under the weight of her voice. “Not ‘til you fall apart again.”
She clenched around him at that, and he felt it—gasped into her throat and bucked, nearly losing it right then. His body was fire and velvet and trembling devotion, every movement driven by how she sounded, how she felt, how her nails raked down his spine and how her breath hitched every time his nose brushed her cheek.
“hhuh’TCHHHuhhh!!” Right into her neck again. Sparks danced over her collarbone. She gasped, hips jerking up to meet him.
“Rex—!”
“I know, I know,” he panted, nose twitching again, red and swollen and running. “Just hold onto me. Wanna make you—fuck—hhuh’GKCHHzzuhh!—wanna make you come so hard you forget your name.”
Her eyes fluttered. Her body was already shivering, already close.
“I—I can’t—”
“Yes you can. For me, baby. One more.”
His hand slid between them, thumb pressing against her clit, stroking in tight circles as he kept fucking her through his own wheezing, sneezing fits, sparks flying in tiny bursts every time he lost control of a breath. The overstimulation made her twitch violently—pleasure gathering in that sharp, slow-coiling place inside her, the one he always found like he had a map written in her skin.
She was whimpering now, soft and breathy and utterly undone, mouth open in helpless little cries as he kept murmuring, kept thrusting, kept praising.
“So good for me… fuck, you’re perfect… hhuh’TSCHHHuhh!—gonna make me come if you keep squeezing like that—”
She cried out as it hit her.
Her back arched. Her legs locked. She shook beneath him, every nerve ending lit and drenched, voice cracking as the orgasm tore through her. He caught her with both arms, held her down as her body bucked against his, thrusting deeper into her with every pulse of her climax, every flutter of those tight inner muscles drawing him in like they knew he belonged there.
He didn’t last a second longer.
His rhythm stuttered once, then broke completely as he groaned her name and spilled into her in hot, endless pulses. His whole body trembled, chest pressed to hers, sweat dripping from his nose as he buried his face into her neck again.
He sneezed one more triple—“hhuhh’TCHhhzzh! hehh—! Hihh’EXTSH’ue! HIIH’NKXSHH!”—as he collapsed gently over her, mouth still panting against her shoulder, body twitching with aftershocks.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Not speaking. Not moving. Just breathing.
Her fingers combed slowly through his hair, brushing sweat-damp curls from his temple, dragging down his spine in lazy strokes. His arms cradled her close like she was something precious, something fragile even though she’d just taken him apart with nothing but her thighs and a breathy curse.
Rexar sniffled.
She kissed his forehead.
“Still with me?” she whispered.
“Mmm…” He half-laughed, half-moaned. “Just barely. My soul is in the Sniffle Thistle now.”
She snorted. “Dramatic.”
He nuzzled into her breast, voice muffled. “You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
He smirked against her skin. “I love you.”
She froze for a moment—just a breath—and then tucked his face tighter against her chest.
“…I love you too, dumbass.”
He exhaled. Content.
Then sneezed again. Soft. Muffled against her skin.
“et’tCHOO!! hah’ESSHH’IUE! huh’TSCHHHuhhh!”
She ran a hand through his hair again. “Bless you.”
His reply was a barely-audible: “For you babygirl… always.”
Summary: When two lovers with a taste for control, ritual, and sensory surrender retreat into the privacy of their shared space, the night becomes a carefully orchestrated dance of breath, fire, and tension. In a world where shadows bend to will and heat answers devotion, Kriia and Rexar push each other to their delicious limits—testing patience, power, and how far desire can go before it breaks them both.
A story of slow torment, sacred trust, and worship through ruin, this is not just sex—it’s ritual. And they wouldn’t have it any other way. 6k words.
WARNING, NO PLOT, ONLY SMUT — This story contains explicit sexual content featuring consensual kink dynamics, including erotic sneezing (inducing and response), sensory play, edging, body worship, powerplay, and allergen-related overstimulation. Elements of filth and mess (non-hygienic, fetishized) are present throughout, as well as light degradation, ritualistic themes, and intense emotional dependency expressed through physical acts. Reader discretion is advised, especially for those sensitive to bodily fluids, breath play implications, or nontraditional kink expressions.
The bedroom was dim, cloaked in velvet shadow and amber flicker. Only a single candle sat ominously on the bedside table. It wasn’t even lit yet, and still the scent of clove and cedar was already thick in the room, curling through the air like an incantation. It carried weight. Intention.
Kriia stood beside the bed like a priestess before the altar.
Her skin gleamed faintly in the low light, a pale canvas framed in crimson lace and black thigh straps. Her hair, red with streaks of soft shadow-ink, hung loose around her shoulders, damp at the ends from steam or sweat. A single bead of moisture rolled down the inside of her thigh and vanished into the hollow of muscle above her knee.
Rexar lay waiting.
Flat on his back across the thick black bedsheets, completely bare to her, his body was a map of heat and reverence. Every line—every scar and mark and smudge of old smoke—seemed etched there by want. His arms rested loosely at his sides, but his hands twitched every few seconds. Not from nerves. From restraint. From knowing exactly what was coming.
And what wasn’t yet allowed to start.
“You’re already glowing,” Kriia murmured, stepping one knee onto the mattress. “That’s cheating.”
Rexar’s voice was low and slow. “You’re already wet. That’s cheating twice.”
She smirked and crawled up over him, straddling his hips without letting their skin meet. Her thighs bracketed him perfectly, heat radiating downward but still not touching—not yet. She sat back on her heels, hands resting on her own knees as if she were preparing to meditate. Her eyes never left his.
“Ready?” she asked carefully.
He nodded. “Do it.”
She leaned sideways and took the candle from the table, reaching for the matchbook next to it.
But Rexar lifted one hand lazily, sparks flickering from his fingers.
The wick ignited with a crackle.
The flame flared—too tall, too sudden—and then softened into a steady burn. Clove and cedar erupted into the room with intoxicating fullness now, hot and smoky, clinging instantly to skin and throat.
Kriia inhaled once and blinked slowly.
Then sniffled.
Just once. Subtle.
But her eyes gleamed.
“You really want to start like this?” she murmured, cocking her head as the first tickle bloomed gently behind her nose.
Rexar’s lips curled, his eyes following every motion she made like he was watching a spell take shape. “I want to see what it does to you.”
“Mmm.” She rolled her hips forward just enough to make him twitch. “You’re a glutton for chaos.”
“I’m a glutton for you.”
Her breath fluttered. Not quite from arousal. Not yet. From that slow itch curling inside her sinuses like a candle of its own.
She sniffled again, knuckle brushing beneath her nose, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Oh,” she whispered. “That’s a strong one.”
“It’s the new blend,” Rexar replied, voice still calm but body already taut. “Cedar. Clove. A little powdered starglass.”
“You’re an asshole.”
He grinned.
“I’m your asshole.”
“You’re about to be covered in sneeze spray.”
“Promise?”
That earned him a low chuckle.
Kriia rocked forward slightly, letting her thighs press against his hips. Still no contact at the core—but close. Enough to make him inhale sharply.
She placed her palms on his chest, fingers splaying across the ridges of muscle, skin warm beneath her hands. Then—slowly—she leaned down.
Her breath grazed his sternum.
Her lips followed.
One kiss. Just below the collarbone.
Then a second, near his shoulder.
Then a third, just above the pulse at his throat.
Each one wet, lingering, reverent. Not rushed. Ritual.
Rexar’s eyes fluttered shut.
“This is your fault,” she murmured against his skin.
“I accept responsibility,” he whispered back.
Kriia dragged her nose lightly along the edge of his collarbone, sniffled, then paused.
“Starting to tickle…”
“Yeah?”
Another kiss. This time under the curve of his jaw.
Her breath hitched—just slightly at first—then again, deeper, shakier. Her lips parted around a silent gasp, and her nostrils flared with a telltale twitch. She hovered close, letting her breath ghost over his chest, warm and uneven, sharp with the promise of release that never came.
Rexar's entire body tensed beneath her.
The anticipation was unbearable—watching her hover, her face scrunched in struggle, lashes fluttering, the tip of her nose brushing faintly across his skin. Each sniffle sent a jolt through him. His fists clenched in the sheets as his eyes tracked every microexpression.
Then, without warning, her expression smoothed out. The sneeze backed off.
She gave a teasing little sigh of false relief.
And instead of pulling away—she dragged her tongue slowly up the center of his chest. A long, wet, sinuous line from the base of his sternum to just beneath his throat. Her nose nuzzled faintly alongside it, breath still trembly, her smirk growing with every inch.
Rexar groaned, hips bucking beneath her.
Kriia sat back on her heels with maddening slowness, breath shallow, nose twitching again—like she could start the cycle all over.
“You’re going to lose your mind,” she whispered.
He already was.
“Gods,” Rexar breathed, already fully hard and twitching beneath her.
“You’re twitchy,” she teased.
“You’re divine.”
“Mmm. Not yet. Soon.”
The candle sputtered briefly, throwing light across her face—glassy eyes, flared nostrils, flushed cheeks. Her lips glistened.
Rexar’s voice dropped, a whisper between awe and hunger. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me tonight.”
Kriia moved like smoke—slow, fluid, curling downward without force or rush. She kissed along Rexar’s collarbone with a deliberate patience that made the air between them thrum. Her lips were soft but never tentative. She wasn’t here to seduce him.
She was here to worship.
Rexar breathed in sharp through his nose as she found the hollow just beneath his throat and nipped there, the soft press of her teeth drawing a twitch from his thigh.
Kriia smiled against his skin. Her breath was already heavier. More effortful. Not from arousal—not entirely.
The candle was working.
The scent had grown thicker, heavier, humid with clove and cedar and the sweet, acrid burn of resin. It coated her tongue, filled her lungs, and curled with slow heat in the back of her sinuses. Her nose twitched again, just enough to crinkle.
Rexar noticed.
“Already?” he murmured.
“Mmhmm.” Her voice was velvet-slick, thick with promise. “Didn’t take much, did it?”
He shook his head slightly, barely breathing.
Kriia sniffled—wet, subtle, involuntary—and then dipped down again, lips dragging just to the left of his sternum. She paused there, letting her breath ghost across his skin. Rexar arched faintly, his fingers twitching by his sides, still obeying the no-touch rule she hadn’t had to say aloud.
Another kiss. Then a long, slow lick that traced from the underside of his pec to the dip between his ribs. Her tongue left a hot trail, and her breath—already catching—made it worse.
Kriia’s nose flared subtly, and she pressed her cheek to his chest for a moment, eyes fluttering. “Hhehh… Rex…”
His eyes flew open. “Babygirl?”
“I thh— think I’m gonna—” She drew in a sharp breath, mouth parting, nose twitching with desperate little flutters—then exhaled.
“...Nope.”
The tickle backed off.
Rexar groaned, hips lifting impatiently. Needy.
Kriia laughed, her voice raspy and breathy as she kissed along the underside of his ribs.
“Poor thing,” she whispered. “Thought I was gonna shower you already?”
“I hoped,” he admitted, eyes wild. “Gods, you’re so fucking mean.”
She flicked her tongue against the edge of a muscle and let out a congested chuckle. “And you’re so easy.”
Another sniffle. This one wetter. She didn’t wipe it. Let it hang in the air between them like a shared secret.
She moved slowly down his body, deliberately skipping over his nipples. Her lips hovered just above them, warm breath teasing their sensitivity—but she didn’t touch. Not yet. She licked down the space between them instead, letting her chin graze faintly over each peak like a hint of contact without release.
Rexar was shaking now, a fine tremble from tension.
“Fuck, babygirl… Please,” he whispered.
But Kriia just sniffled again, rubbing the back of her wrist lazily under her nose as she moved back up along his sternum. Her face was pink now, eyes half-lidded and glassy, and her breaths came with that fluttering edge of desperation.
She tilted her head to the side and nipped him again, right beneath the collarbone.
Then moaned, soft and broken. “Mmmnnh… I’m gonna fall apart on you, Sparky…”
Rexar’s breath hitched.
“Right over your chest,” she added, voice trembling with the coming storm. “So messy. So helpless…”
He groaned, body arching helplessly beneath her.
She kissed lower again. One long drag of her lips just under his nipple.
His hips jerked.
“Your nipples are so fucking cute,” Kriia murmured, voice hoarse and sin-sweet. “All pink and tight and waiting…”
“Princess—” His tone was warning, half-begging, hips twitching as he braced for something—anything—but it didn’t come.
“But not yet,” she said, all honeyed malice.
Her lips trailed lower. She kissed beneath his ribcage, slow and soft. A reverent line of licks followed, each one damp and dragging. She nipped beside his navel—sharp, just enough to make him flinch.
Rexar’s hands balled into fists in the sheets, his jaw clenched. His cock jerked helplessly against his stomach, flushed dark, pulsing against skin that hadn’t even been touched yet. He was already gasping, ruined by her restraint.
Kriia’s breath hitched again.
This time, for real.
Her whole body locked for half a second, her nostrils twitching visibly.
“Rex—Rex, I think I’m gonna…! Hhhehhh…”
He braced beneath her, muscles seizing.
“Here we go,” he whispered, anticipation curling tight in his gut.
“Huhhh… hahhh… n-no…”
Her breath collapsed in on itself.
The tickle retreated yet again—cruel, smirking.
Kriia sniffled hard, loud and thick, blinking watery eyes down at him.
“Tease,” Rexar growled, voice shredded. His thighs were trembling now from holding still. “You’re such a—gods—tease.”
“You lit the candle,” she reminded him, lips quirking into a congested grin. “You asked for this.”
“I asked to be drenched,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Not edged like this—fuck…”
She moved back up his chest slowly, dragging her cheek across his skin with open affection, breath stuttering the entire way. He could feel it—her heat, her congestion, the helpless flutter of her breath rising and falling over his body.
“I’m so itchy,” she whispered, shivering with the rising tickle. “It’s building again… it’s right there. Right at the edge…”
She hovered above his nipple and pressed her mouth over it—not sucking, not licking. Just a soft seal of heat. Her breath quivered against his skin, and the tip of her nose brushed over the hardened bud.
It was hell.
Rexar bucked hard. “Fucking—Babygirl, I’m—”
Her breath caught sharply. She stiffened. “Here it comes…”
Rexar’s fingers clawed at the sheets.
Then—Kriia exhaled, congested and shaky, right across his nipple. No sneeze. Just a warm, rattling release of tension.
He groaned, boneless, crushed under the weight of almost.
She pulled back with a slow, smug grin.
“Now you’re just being fucking mean,” he whispered, voice utterly wrecked.
“That was hot,” she corrected, her eyes glittering through allergy-haze.
He couldn’t argue. Not really. His cock throbbed untouched against his stomach, flushed and slick with precum. Every inch of his skin felt sunburned with want.
Kriia sniffled again—wet and forceful—and her breath hitched violently. Her whole expression shifted, pupils blown wide, lips parting in desperation.
“It’s c-coming…” she gasped. “It’s—hhHhh… fuck, I c-can’t—”
Rexar growled low in his throat, one hand reaching to her hip, the other gripping the back of her thigh.
“Let it happen,” Rexar breathed, voice low and fraying. “Please—right here—use me.”
Kriia whimpered, congested and desperate, eyes fluttering shut as she leaned in. Her breath hitched audibly, her whole frame trembling with the strain of holding it back. She dipped her head slowly and brought her twitching nose down to his chest.
Then—deliberately—she rubbed the tip of her nose in slow, teasing circles over his nipple.
Rexar gasped.
The soft, wet drag of her breath against that sensitive skin sent shivers straight through him. Her nose twitched again, gently grazing the bud—back and forth, barely a touch, just enough to stir sensation. Her inhales were shallow now, chest heaving, mouth parted as she chased the sneeze down.
“Just—nnnhh—need a little more,” she moaned. “Rex, it’s right there—”
He was panting beneath her, fists clenched tight in the sheets, every nerve waiting for the break.
She gave another slow rub—up, over, around the hardening peak—her nose flushed pink, twitching harder with every pass. Her breath began to flutter in rhythm with the motion.
“Hhhuhhh—hh’hihhh—nghh—!”
She gasped sharply.
And then it hit.
“Hh’NgktCHhh!!—Hhh’tKTCHh!!”
The first sneeze burst out of her mid-rub, no resistance left. It snapped her forward, spraying hot and wet across his chest. A second came instantly, even messier, her breath catching on the release.
Her body rocked with the force of them—hips grinding down helplessly into his.
Rexar moaned aloud, eyes wide, undone.
“Fuck, Princess—yes—”
She groaned against his chest, sniffling thickly, and pressed her face into the sticky warmth she’d left behind.
“Feels so fucking good…” she mumbled. “I could keep going… let me ruin you…”
Rexar moaned.
He swore he felt it deep in his spine, like his nerves had lit from the inside out.
Kriia collapsed forward with a gasp and another stifle, mess landing warm and glistening across his sternum.
“Huh’NGXCHh!—k’tchhh!—hh’NGXT!”
Each sneeze bent her forward, spraying his chest with visible mist. The first was massive, the second tight, the third sudden and dripping with relief. Her mouth parted after, panting hard.
Rexar shuddered. “Oh my gods.”
She licked a droplet from his collarbone with lazy indulgence. “Mmmh. Messy.”
“You are.”
“I know.”
She pressed her cheek against his chest again, breathing fast and wet and satisfied.
Rexar’s hands moved on instinct—gliding up along Kriia’s thighs, following the slick heat of her skin until they reached her waist. He gripped her there, trembling, trying to pull her down, to guide her hips, to take back just a little control.
Kriia didn’t allow it.
With one sharp shift of her weight, she pressed his wrists flat against the mattress, pinning him hard, her palms warm and commanding.
“Aht Aht Ahhh…,” she whispered, her breath thick with congestion. “You lit the candle. You’re mine until I say.”
Her hips resumed their rhythm, slow and sinuous, grinding against the thick, flushed line of him with devastating friction. Each pass left a new streak of slickness across his skin, coating him, marking him. Her breath came in open-mouth gasps now, interrupted by sniffles and hitched, ticklish inhales.
Rexar writhed beneath her, sweat beading down his temples, chest slick with mess from her earlier fits and the ghost of more to come.
Kriia lowered her face over his again, breath hot and staggered, just close enough for her twitching nose to brush along the sharp line of his jaw. She nuzzled there, tender at first—then exhaled slow and heavy, a teasing drag of heat that mimicked the build-up of a sneeze.
Rexar growled, the sound buried in his throat. His jaw clenched, body arching up into her, straining for more.
“Fuck, Babydoll…” His voice was wrecked—hungry, reverent, almost furious with need.
Her laugh cracked through the air, ragged and wet. “You thought I was gonna… didn’t you?”
He met her eyes, wide and dark with worship. “I don’t care. Just do it. Do whatever you want—just keep going.”
She purred, low and sharp. “Oh, I will,” she rasped.
She let go of his wrists, but Rexar didn’t stay still out of surrender—he stayed still out of devotion, letting her do what she wanted, needing her to finish it. His hands hovered at her hips, tight with restraint, every muscle coiled and ready to worship the second she let him.
“Drench me,” he breathed. “You’re a fucking goddess like this.”
Her eyes glittered.
She moved lower again.
And he offered himself.
She sat upright, rolling her hips in a torturous rhythm, letting every part of her body rub against his—slick, fevered, trembling with effort.
The candle’s scent was thick enough to taste now.
Clove and cedar, twisted with resin and heat and sweat. Her nose twitched sharply, uncontrollably.
Her breath stuttered mid-grind.
“Hhhihhh—H’ngKTCHhh!”
She sneezed suddenly, explosively, the wet spray misting down over his chest. A second followed fast:
“NngKTsh!”
Rexar groaned, his hips jerking upward hard.
Kriia laughed breathily, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, smearing the mess down her forearm.
“Gods, that got you.”
“That got in my mouth,” he panted.
Her smile turned wicked. “Did it?”
“Yes. Gods, yes.”
She leaned in, dragging her tongue across his lower lip. “Good.”
She was losing control. They both felt it. Her breath was shallower now, more labored. Every little movement made her nose twitch. Every grind of her hips drew out a sniffle, or a gasp, or the threat of another fit.
Kriia moaned as she ground herself harder into him. “Still t-tickling… I cahh—n’t stop it now…”
Her breath hitched again.
Rexar felt her thighs tense, her muscles tighten around him. And then—
“H’ngCHhh! K’tchh! Hh’ngchh!”
The force of it doubled her forward, her hips rocking in a sudden jolt that made him cry out. Her sneezes came mid-thrust, timed with every motion of her body, spraying his neck, his chest, his mouth.
She groaned, voice thick. “I can’t even hHehhh—hold them b-back anymore…”
“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t even try.”
Her rhythm stuttered now, no longer perfectly controlled. She moved in erratic rolls, chasing her own breath, riding the edge of the next wave. Every few seconds, her breath would catch, and then:
“NgkTCHh!—K’pttchh!—hh’gTShhh!”
His face was wet with it.
And he wanted it.
Her hair stuck to her cheeks, her nose running now without pause. She rubbed it messily against his throat, letting the congestion smear as she moaned and bit him lightly in the crook of his neck.
Rexar grabbed her hips and held tight, guiding her rhythm now—but not in dominance. Not fully.
In desperation.
“You’re incredible,” he gasped.
“I’m disgusting,” she laughed, voice slurred with congestion.
“You’re perfect.”
She kissed him, sloppy and wet, breathless and raw.
Then broke the kiss with another fit, right against his cheek.
“H’Nxtchh!—Hh’gSCHhh!”
Rexar’s fingers dug into her thighs.
She growled, low and hot. “You gonna cum just from this?”
“I—I think so—fuck—Krii…”
She started grinding faster now, chasing friction with abandon. Her breath came fast and shallow, her moans blending with half-hitched build-ups.
Every few seconds she’d pause—nose twitching, brows furrowing—and let out another sneeze mid-movement:
“Hn’KCHhh! K’tshh! NnkCHhh! Hh’Ngsh!”
The unpredictability drove him wild. The wetness, the mess, her stuttering loss of control—it all built and built and built.
He bucked up harder, chasing it.
Kriia’s voice was barely a whisper now, heavy with arousal and allergy haze. “I’m gonna r-ride you through it—gonna c-cum on you, cover you—hhn’CHHkktt!”
The sneeze broke her words, made her hips stutter. Her skin shimmered faintly with sweat in the dim candlelight, hips rocking in slow, teasing circles against his.
Every motion made his cock twitch beneath her—slick, trapped between their bodies, painted with heat and mess and shadowlight.
“Still with me?” she murmured, voice hoarse, her nose brushing the underside of his jaw.
Rexar’s fingers dug into her thighs again, less from force now, more from anchoring. “Barely.”
“Good,” Kriia whispered. “Stay right there.”
She kissed him once—slow, open-mouthed, deep with adoration. Her lips tasted like salt, like want, like the last hour of teasing and torment and surrender. She shifted up, bracing herself with one arm beside his head.
She took him inch by inch, wet and flushed and utterly intentional, letting every curve of her body mold to him like shadow over flame. Her head tipped back as she settled fully, the warmth of him seated deep inside her. A slow groan spilled from her throat, thick and low, and her hips gave a gentle, involuntary twitch.
Rexar’s mouth fell open.
“Ff—fuck, babygirl…”
Her eyes were heavy-lidded, glowing slightly in the candlelight. “I can feel you,” she murmured. “All of you. Every pulse…”
He could only nod.
She sat there for a moment, hips pressed flush to his, letting their bodies memorize the shape of each other—letting the moment draw long and slow. Her breath hitched again, this time unplanned, and her nostrils twitched mid-exhale.
“Ohh… mmnnh, fuck… I c–can’t stop it now…”
She tried to grind again, slow and steady—but her breath caught halfway through, and her body jolted as a sneeze ripped free without warning.
“Nng’tchh!”
It rocked them together.
Rexar gasped.
Kriia let out a half-laugh, half-moan, then braced herself better.
“I warned you…”
She moved again—rocking forward—and another sneeze wracked her, snapping her body into his.
“K’tchhh!—ohhh gods—ng’CHHhh!”
The momentum of each sneeze jolted her hips, shoved Rexar deeper into her, the messy pressure overwhelming him in flashes of pleasure and helplessness. His hands balled into fists the sheets now, voice gone breathless.
“Princess—I can’t—gods, I’m gonna—fuck—”
She exhaled sharply and moved harder.
Her rhythm wasn’t smooth now—it was unpredictable, ruled by breath and reflex. She’d grind into him, her pace erratic, her body jerking every time the next fit bubbled up inside her. Her nose was running openly now, flushed bright pink, and her breath trembled constantly.
She whimpered against his throat. “Can’t… can’t even f-fight them…”
And then—another burst:
“Nk’chh! Hh’NGchh!—NgKCHh!”
Rexar sobbed, a sound caught between a cry and a moan. “Yes—babygirl, fuck—please—don’t stop—”
She didn't.
She rode him in frantic fits and starts, every movement accompanied by sniffles, shallow moans, and the tension of buildup that never got a chance to resolve. Her voice cracked around every word.
“This is… hhhahh—so filthy—g-gods, you feel—hhuhh—so good—”
Each sneeze sent her crashing forward, bracing on his chest, her hair falling around their faces like a curtain.
“Nchh! H’tsshkT! NnK’tchh!”
Some sprayed his chest. Some his neck. One landed directly across his cheek—and instead of flinching, he moaned, nearly bucking off the bed.
“I’m gonna—Babygirl, I’m gonna cum—please—”
“Together,” she gasped.
She clutched his shoulders and moved faster—raw, desperate. The slick mess between them grew unbearable, friction melting into fire. Her breath was nothing but hitching now, fit after fit crashing into her in erratic bursts:
Their bodies met again and again, soaking each other in pleasure and ruin, scent and sweat and sound.
When it came—it was everything.
Rexar’s back arched, hips driving into her as his body gave out in a wave of pulsing, hot release. He growled her name, voice cracked and reverent. His hands clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
Kriia shattered seconds later.
Not quietly. Not gently.
Her orgasm hit between sneezes—explosive and deep—her thighs tightening around him, her entire body pulsing with it as she uttered a near-pornstar-esque moan, half-laughed, half-sobbed into his throat.
She sneezed through it.
“Hh—! H’NNgtchh!—aAAHhh—fuhhhckk—hh’GSCHH!!”
And still she moved, wringing every last second of pleasure from both of them, hips slowing only when they could no longer do more than twitch.
She collapsed against him.
Their bodies stuck together with heat and slick and breathlessness.
Neither spoke.
They couldn’t yet.
Only the candle spoke now, soft and steady in the dark, its smoke curling gently above them like the last thread of ritual incense.
The only sound was the slowing, syncopated rhythm of their breath—Rexar’s chest rising beneath Kriia’s cheek, her soft sniffles echoing in the candlelit silence. Their bodies were sticky with sweat, smeared with every spasm of pleasure and mess, and absolutely motionless. Melted into one another.
Kriia exhaled, a lazy puff of warmth across his ribs.
Rexar shifted just slightly beneath her, his arms curling around her bare back like a cocoon. His palms were still trembling—barely—but he pressed them to her skin as if grounding himself to her was the only thing keeping his soul from wandering.
Kriia was the first to move. Slowly, languidly, she rubbed her nose—still twitching—against his sternum and let out a sleepy, gurgling sniffle. Then, with no ceremony, she wiped her face against his chest, smearing the wetness she’d left behind further across him like the world’s most intimate signature.
Rexar huffed a breathy laugh, more air than sound.
“That,” he murmured, voice still shaky, “might’ve been the filthiest thing we’ve ever done.”
Kriia just hummed, congested and content. “You say that every time we do this.”
His hand came up to brush damp hair from her face, fingers gentle, reverent. He cupped her cheek in his palm, his thumb stroking the edge of her jaw.
“You get prettier every time it happens,” he said softly. “it’s not fair.”
Her lips curved against his skin. “Even like this?”
“Especially like this.”
Her nose twitched again. “Gods. I still f-feel it.”
“I can tell. Here.” He leaned up and kissed her forehead—slow, soft, and lingering, before reaching out with one hand and stuffing the lid of the candle over the flame, snuffing out the culprit. Her skin was fever-warm, her breath catching under his lips. “Still tickling?”
“Mmm,” she sniffled, eyes half-lidded. “Like it settled in now. Deep.”
“Then we definitely did it right.”
She groaned in mock horror and curled into him tighter, throwing a leg over his hip. “Stop. No more compliments. My soul’s melting.”
He smirked against her hair. “Next time, I’m lighting two candles.”
Kriia shoved at his chest with a pitiful little whine. “Don’t you dare.”
“Oh, I dare.”
“I will explode.”
“You already diiiiiid.”
She giggled softly and coughed into his neck. Her voice was barely a whisper now—raspy and exhausted, but warm. “You’re such a menace.”
He just held her tighter. “You’re my chaos.”
They lay like that for a long time. Not speaking. Not moving. The scent of the candle had settled into the sheets, into their skin, woven into every lazy breath they took. Rexar pressed little kisses to her temple, her cheek, her shoulder. No urgency. Just reverence.
Kriia purred, her hand trailing slow spirals over his chest. “Didn’t think it’d be that good.”
“I did,” he said simply.
Her lips twitched. “Cocky.”
“No.” He turned her chin gently so she was looking at him. His voice lowered. “I just know what happens when you let go.”
Her throat bobbed.
He kissed her again, softer this time. Almost shy. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you fall apart.”
Kriia’s lashes fluttered. Her fingers curled around his wrist.
“You’re not bad at worshipping, you know,” she whispered.
“I had a good teacher.”
“Mmm. You’re still mine, you know. Next time, I want to edge you with just breath. No hands. No hips. Just me sniffing and sneezing until you beg.”
His eyes fluttered shut with a shiver. “Gods.”
“And you’re lighting the candle again.”
He groaned. “Thought you said you’d explode.”
“I will. That’s the fun.”
He kissed her again, a smile against her lips. “Then I’ll hold you while you do.”
Her eyes drifted shut again, slow and heavy. The adrenaline had worn off. The shadows in the room stretched like long arms, curling slowly over the bed, wrapping them in quiet warmth.
Kriia sighed into the silence. “We should shower.”
“Mmm.”
“Eventually.”
“Eventually,” he echoed.
She coughed once, a soft sound in the hush.
Rexar smoothed a hand down her spine, slow and loving. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she murmured. “Just floaty.”
“Good floaty?”
She nodded against his shoulder. “Perfect floaty.”
He pulled the blanket up over her slowly, covering the mess instead of wiping it away. “Stay right there.”
“I wasn’t planning to move.”
The candle flickered again, the shadows deepening.
Kriia nuzzled against him, her fingers still resting against the center of his chest where she’d pressed her nose earlier. “You’re disgusting.”
“You love it.”
“I do.”
They lay in silence, heartbeats aligned. No more teasing. No more words. Just two kinksters, spent and tangled, adoring and adored, held in a sacred ruin of their own making.
And when Rexar was finally able to catch his breath, Kriia was already half-asleep in his arms, snoring softly with a stuffy nose.
Rexar kissed her hair one last time, fingers stroking gently through the damp strands tangled around her sharply pointed elven ears.
“I love you, menace,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath.
Kriia made a sound in reply—low and congested, but unmistakably fond.
“Love you more,” she rasped, thick with sleep and aftermath.
A quiet stillness settled between them. Not empty. Just full.
The kind of silence that came after worship, after ritual, after bodies had been bared in every way that mattered. Kriia’s shadows curled around the edges of the bed like a barrier, like a spell meant to preserve this moment for just the two of them.
A faint trail of smoke still lingered in the room, mingling with sweat and shadowfire and the warm, fading scent of clove.
Rexar didn’t sleep right away. He watched her—her features soft in sleep, her breath catching slightly with the last traces of congestion, her brows twitching faintly in some half-dreamed memory of chaos. He ran his thumb across her cheekbone, kissed her temple, and tucked her tighter against him.
Only then did he let himself drift.
Time passed without measure.
Somewhere between night and not-quite-morning, Kriia stirred.
A soft, restless groan pushed from her lips as she blinked awake, sluggish and fuzzy, nestled in the shelter of Rexar’s arms. Her head felt heavy and warm, skin damp and sticky beneath the blankets, and her sinuses still buzzed faintly from the aftermath.
She sniffled once, then again—wet and involuntary—and gave a pathetic little whimper.
“Mmh.” She buried her face deeper into his chest, voice muffled and thick. “I’m gross.”
Rexar stirred, still half-asleep, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.
“You’re ethereal,” he murmured, voice low and full of sleep.
“Ethereal and snot-covered,” she mumbled, sniffling.
“Exactly.” He sat up slowly, sweeping strands of damp hair off her cheek. His touch was feather-light. Devoted. “Which is why it’s time.”
Kriia cracked one bleary eye. “Time?”
“For your royal bath.”
Her snort turned into a congested cough. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m reverent,” he corrected. “And you, High Priestess of Wrecked Temples and Allergic Destruction, are overdue for a cleansing.”
She groaned as he lifted her bridal-style from the mattress, ignoring the stickiness between their bodies, the mess streaked across their torsos, and the still-lingering scent of clove and cedar that clung like incense after ritual.
The bathroom was already dim-lit—Kriia’s shadows moving ahead of them, curling fluidly around knobs, adjusting the water, guiding steam up into the air like ritual smoke. The scent here was different. Clean, soft, herbal. Something calming. Free of clove.
“You planned this,” Kriia accused, resting against his shoulder with a lazy smirk.
“Always,” Rexar said simply, the low flick of fire still simmering in his hands as he kissed her hair.
He set her on the tile like she was made of glass, one hand steady at her waist as he pulled off what little she still wore—bra, thigh straps, the remnants of her god-tier persona now drooping with moisture and aftermath.
The water was perfect—hot, but not scalding, steam rising in long fingers as he coaxed her beneath it.
Kriia let out a choked sigh as the first jets hit her back. Her eyes slipped closed, and her shoulders sagged.
“Mmh gods, yes…”
Rexar moved behind her without a word, reaching for a cloth and soaking it in the streaming warmth. He started with her shoulders—gentle, slow circles—wiping away sweat, stickiness, candle smoke remnants. Then her back. Down her spine. Across her hips.
Every motion was quiet worship.
He kissed the nape of her neck, lips trailing to her shoulder as he worked. “You’ve never looked more ruined.”
“Flatterer,” she whispered, congested but melting.
Then came her arms. Her thighs. Her calves. He touched her like she was something sacred, not just his lover but his altar.
“Turn,” he said softly.
She did.
Her eyes met his—glassier than usual, rimmed pink, but still sharp with the faded edge of mischief.
“You’re a mess,” he murmured, brushing his thumb gently beneath her eye, catching the smudge of tears and exhaustion.
“Feel like one,” she rasped. “Those damn candles hit hard…”
“Let me take care of it.”
He lifted her chin with reverence, then leaned in and kissed her—slow, soft, nothing hungry. Just contact. Just breath and closeness, like a balm whispered across raw skin.
Then he reached for the shampoo.
She gave a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re gonna wash my hair?”
“Yes.”
“Like, hands in it and everything?”
“Especially that part.”
“You’re serious?”
Rexar smiled. “I’m Rexar Fucking Fang. You think I’m letting you go to sleep with a sinus-triggering allergy nest in your hair?”
She laughed harder—wet, sniffling, amused. “Gods, you’re absurd.”
And then she closed her eyes, sighed, and tilted her head back in surrender.
“Okay then, Sparky. Make me feel like royalty.”
So he did.
His fingers slid into her hair with reverence, working through the knots, massaging her scalp with gentle, rhythmic motions. Bubbles bloomed between his hands, thick and aromatic, carrying away sweat, smoke, and the last whisper of the candle’s evil magic.
Kriia moaned.
Soft. Happy. Almost drowsy.
“Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he said.
He rinsed the shampoo in slow, soaking waves, watching the lather flow down the curve of her back. Then came conditioner, and he took his time, rubbing it through strand by strand, careful to avoid tugging or pulling.
When her hair was clean, he turned his attention to her face.
“Can I?”
She blinked at him. “I must look a disaster.”
“You look like a goddess who just conquered a continent.”
She snorted again. “Sure. Conquered it with snot.”
He smiled, so tender it made her breath catch.
“Let me take care of you.”
She nodded once.
He wet a fresh cloth and cupped her jaw in one hand, dabbing around her nose, her lips, her cheeks. Cleaning what her sneeze fits had left behind. She didn’t even flinch. She let him. Let herself be seen. Be cleaned.
“Blow,” he whispered.
She did, a productive blow gurgling thickly into the cloth with zero shame.
He kissed her temple as she finished.
“You’re perfect,” he said against her hair.
“I’m disgusting.”
“Both can be true.”
Her smile faded into something softer.
“Why do you like this part so much?” she asked quietly. “The mess. The chaos. Me, like this…”
He paused, letting his hand rest against her cheek. “Because it’s you unfiltered. Because every twitch, every sneeze, every breath—it’s you letting go. Giving yourself to me.”
Her eyes welled up—not with allergies this time.
“I do give myself to you,” she whispered.
“I know.”
She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder. He hugged her back, warm water cascading over them both. Her shadows flickered along the tiles, curling close.
They stood like that until the steam began to cool, until the moment had stretched long and full and whole.
Then Rexar reached out with one hand and turned off the water.
“Bed?” he murmured.
“Mmh. Blankets. Cuddles. Praise.”
“All of it.”
He lifted her again—this time wrapped in a thick towel—and carried her back through the dimly bedroom. The scent was almost gone now. Their bodies had been purified, the shadows receding, the ritual closed.
He laid her gently on the bed and crawled in beside her, tugging the covers up around them both.
“Comfy?”
“Like a queen.”
He tucked her in tighter, curling himself around her back. “My queen.”
She sighed, boneless.
“Rex?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For the mess. And the bath. And… everything.”
Figured since everyone enjoyed Glow In The Dark, I would write a follow up piece! This is not the follower milestone fic yet! Side note, yes, the cover has nothing to do with the fic but I already did this Art of Remi so I used it 😂
5.4k words // Summary: Late morning finds Remi and Levi still tangled in bed, the worst of the flu lingering instead of lifting. Neither of them is truly better—just awake enough to notice it. As the day stretches on, they move slowly through heat, congestion, sore throats, and fatigue, trading small acts of care without keeping score. Remi struggles with needing more than he’s used to, Levi pushes through his own weakness to steady him, and the quiet intimacy between them deepens in the in-between moments: shared warmth, interrupted breathing, and choosing to stay put together. The story lingers on softness, vulnerability, and the way love shows up when neither of them has much left to give.
Content / Trigger Warnings
Depictions of illness (flu)
Frequent sneezing and congestion
Coughing and sore throat descriptions
Fever and physical weakness
Mild caretaking and dependency themes
Late morning crept in without ceremony.
Light pressed against the half-drawn curtains, stronger than the nightlight had been, a pale wash that turned the edges of the room soft and indistinct. The air felt warm and unmoving, heavy with the faint tang of fever and the lingering closeness of sleep that hadn’t quite let go yet. Nothing had properly started—not the day, not waking—only drifted closer.
They lay where they’d collapsed hours earlier, blankets tangled around legs and hips, bodies angled together by gravity rather than intention. Not quite cuddling. Just… there. Touching because there hadn’t been the energy to move apart.
Levi surfaced first, not all at once, but in pieces.
A sore throat announced itself before his thoughts did, dry and raw, followed by the dull ache behind his eyes. His head felt heavy, like it had sunk too deep into the pillow and forgotten how to lift itself again. He swallowed, winced faintly, then let himself stay still.
Breathing came next.
Not his own—at least, not at first.
Warm air brushed the side of his neck in uneven pulses, damp and shallow. Levi registered the sound of it before the meaning: mouth-breathing, slow and tired, the kind that came when noses gave up hours ago. It was close enough that he could feel it, each exhale ghosting over his skin.
Remi.
Levi didn’t open his eyes yet. He shifted his awareness instead, cataloging the way Remi’s chest rose and fell behind him, the weight of an arm slung low across his waist. It was loose, slack with sleep, but still there—anchoring, even unconscious.
Heat bled through the blankets.
Too much of it.
Levi frowned faintly and tilted his head just enough to register it properly. Remi was burning up again. Not the gentle warmth from earlier, but the kind that radiated, seeped, made the air between them feel thick. Levi could feel it along his back, along his shoulder blades, soaking through fabric and skin alike.
A quiet sniffle sounded behind him.
Soft. Wet. Almost swallowed before it finished.
Levi’s eyes fluttered open a fraction.
Remi lay close, face pressed somewhere near Levi’s shoulder, dark lashes resting against flushed skin. His nose was red, irritated at the tip, the bridge faintly pink like it had been rubbed too many times already. His lips were parted, breath coming through his mouth in small, tired huffs, the corners of his mouth slack with sleep.
Another sniffle followed a few breaths later, thicker this time.
Levi stayed still, waiting.
Remi shifted restlessly, brow drawing together as if whatever sleep he was clinging to had turned uncomfortable. His arm tightened without warning, pulling Levi closer by instinct rather than thought. Levi felt the tug at his middle, the quiet insistence of it, and let himself be drawn in.
Remi made a low sound in his throat—half whine, half breath—pressed directly into Levi’s shoulder. It wasn’t a word. Barely even a noise. Just something miserable and unconscious, leaking out of him as he sought warmth.
His breathing stuttered.
Not fully—not yet.
Levi felt it before he heard it: a hitch at the end of an inhale, a subtle tension pulling through Remi’s chest. The arm around Levi tightened again, fingers flexing weakly at his side.
Remi’s nose twitched.
Once.
Then again.
A breath pulled in, sharper than the others, chest lifting as if bracing for something that didn’t quite arrive. Levi felt the pause stretch—too long, fragile—the edge of a sneeze hovering undecided.
“Hh—” Remi’s breath snagged, caught high and thin.
Levi held his own breath without realizing it.
Nothing followed.
The tension broke instead into a shaky, stuffy exhale that puffed warm air against Levi’s collarbone. Remi sagged with it, shoulders dropping as the effort drained out of him. A faint, frustrated sound followed—more breath than voice—as if his body had expected relief and been denied.
He sniffed again, congested and quiet.
Levi shifted just enough to turn his head, careful not to jostle him. His hand slid back automatically, resting over Remi’s forearm where it lay across his waist. The skin there was hot—too hot.
“Hey…” Levi murmured, voice rough and low from sleep. Not meant to wake. Just… there.
Remi didn’t open his eyes.
But he pressed closer anyway, forehead nudging against the back of Levi’s shoulder, mouth-breathing deepening as if the contact alone made things easier. His arm tightened, possessive in the loosest, sleepiest way, drawing Levi flush against his chest.
Another sniffle. Softer this time.
Levi let his eyes close again, adjusting just enough to fit better against him. The closeness settled, inevitable and slow, not sudden or startled—just the natural answer to where they already were.
Late morning light continued to creep across the room.
And Remi, burning and half-asleep, held on like letting go hadn’t even crossed his mind.
Levi tried to shift.
It was barely an attempt, more a thought than a movement, the idea of rolling his shoulder or lifting his head just enough to breathe easier. The effort stalled halfway through, turning into a quiet, involuntary groan as his body reminded him exactly how bad an idea that was.
His limbs felt heavy, like they had been filled with sand. His throat scraped when he swallowed, dry and sore, and a pulse of dizziness washed through him the moment he tensed his core.
Behind him, Remi reacted instantly.
His arm tightened around Levi’s middle, no hesitation, no thought, just reflex. The loose, sleepy hold from before turned firm, pulling Levi back against his chest like a magnet snapping into place.
“Don’t…” Remi mumbled, voice thick and wrecked, the word barely making it past his lips. His face pressed harder into Levi’s shoulder, nose nudging clumsily as he burrowed closer. “…stay.”
Levi stilled.
He hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t warned him. Hadn’t even moved enough to justify the response, and yet Remi had felt it anyway. Tracking him through sleep and fever and congestion like letting go simply was not an option.
Levi exhaled slowly, the resistance leaving his body. “Okay,” he murmured hoarsely. “I’m here.”
Remi made a small, satisfied sound in response, more breath than noise. His grip loosened just a fraction, enough to settle back into something exhausted rather than urgent. His face stayed tucked against Levi’s shoulder, mouth-breathing warm and uneven, each exhale damp against Levi’s skin.
A wet sniffle followed.
Then another, sharper this time.
Levi felt the subtle tension creep back into Remi’s chest, the way his breathing changed when his nose decided to make things worse. His arm tightened again, not around Levi this time, but at his own side, fingers flexing weakly like he was bracing.
“Hh… hhh…” Remi’s breath hitched, low and frustrated.
Levi didn’t move. He just waited.
Remi inhaled shallowly through his mouth, then tried, unsuccessfully, to draw a breath through his nose. His nostrils flared, red and irritated, the sound of it thick and blocked.
“Shit,” he muttered faintly, half-asleep and already annoyed.
The sneezes came without much warning.
“Hh’… hh—hEhTXSSHhh’ih! Hd’IZTSsHHhhh’ih!”
They were tight and congested, forced through swollen sinuses, snapping his head forward just enough that his forehead bumped Levi’s shoulder. He froze for a second afterward, breath stuck, then slumped back with a rough, embarrassed sniff.
“Fuckin’ A,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked, like the effort of the sneezes had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit.
Levi didn’t say anything at first. He just shifted closer and rested his hand over Remi’s where it lay against his ribs, thumb brushing once in a slow, grounding stroke. He smiled at him—soft, understanding, fond in that way that didn’t need words.
They lay there for a moment, neither of them moving, the room filled with the sound of their breathing. Levi became aware of his own symptoms again in the stillness, the ache in his joints, the pressure behind his eyes, the faint buzz in his nose that promised trouble if he tried too hard to ignore it.
He exhaled slowly, the truth settling into him without resistance. “We’re clearly still not better yet,” he croaked, voice low and worn thin.
Remi didn’t argue. He didn’t even open his eyes. If anything, his body eased, the tension in his shoulders loosening as though the words had given him permission to stop holding himself together. He pressed closer, nose nudging into the warmth of Levi’s shoulder, breath heavy and uneven but calmer now.
“That’s okay,” he murmured, barely more than breath.
Levi tilted his head slightly. “What do you mean, ‘that’s okay’?”
“Means we don’t gotta get up,” Remi mumbled, words blurring together.
Another sniffle punctuated it, quieter this time, followed by a tired mouth-breathed exhale.
Levi reached back and threaded his fingers gently through Remi’s hair, feeling him melt at the touch. “Yeah,” he murmured. “No work. No plans. Just bed.”
Remi’s grip tightened once more, not desperate now, just content. His breathing evened out as much as it could with a blocked nose, warm and steady against Levi’s neck.
“Don’t have to convince me,” he whispered, already drifting again.
Late morning light continued to spill into the room, unhurried.
And both of them stayed exactly where they were, sick, exhausted, and quietly agreed on one thing.
Today could wait.
Levi shifted carefully, testing his own balance before he moved any further.
His head still swam, and his throat burned every time he swallowed, but Remi’s heat against his back had climbed from warm to concerning. The kind that lingered too steadily, too intensely, like it had no intention of breaking on its own.
“Hey,” Levi murmured, low and close. “Rem.”
Remi made a vague noise in response, something between a hum and a grumble. His arms tightened reflexively, drawing Levi back in like he hadn’t meant to let him go at all.
“Stay,” Remi muttered, nose brushing Levi’s shoulder. His voice sounded thicker than before, congested and dull. “M’fine.”
Levi turned just enough to face him, careful not to jostle his head. Up close, the signs were impossible to miss. Remi’s cheeks were flushed deeper than earlier, his skin hot and faintly damp. His nose was red at the tip, irritated and shiny, and every few breaths he sniffed quietly, like he was trying not to draw attention to it.
“You’re not,” Levi said gently. Not sharp, not teasing. Just certain. “I need to check your temperature.”
Remi cracked one eye open, then squinted at him. “Did already,” he mumbled. “Last night.”
“And it’s morning now.” Levi brushed his thumb along Remi’s jaw, grounding. “C’mon, Acushla.”
The nickname landed softly, familiar and steady. Remi’s resistance faded almost immediately. He sighed, long and tired, and loosened his grip enough to let Levi move.
“Don’t like it,” Remi grumbled as Levi reached for the thermometer on the nightstand. “Makes my mouth dry.”
“I know,” Levi said, calm and patient. “It’ll be quick.”
Remi let him guide the thermometer from the nightstand under his tongue with minimal fuss, lips closing around it obediently. He settled back into the pillows, eyes drifting half-shut again, one hand finding Levi’s sleeve and curling there like a tether.
For a few seconds, everything was still.
Then Remi’s nose twitched.
Levi noticed immediately.
Remi did too.
He froze, breath stalling halfway in, shoulders lifting just a little. His nostrils flared, red and irritated, the sound of his breathing turning thin and careful as he fought to keep the thermometer in place.
“Hh…” His breath hitched quietly through his nose, then he switched to his mouth, cheeks hollowing slightly. His brow furrowed in concentration, frustration flickering across his face.
Levi rested a steady hand against his chest. “Easy,” he murmured. “Almost there.”
Remi nodded faintly, jaw tense around the thermometer. His breathing grew shallow, controlled, like he was counting seconds in his head. Another tickle danced along his sinuses, obvious in the way his nose wrinkled again.
“Hh’… hhh…” He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting it, shoulders trembling.
The thermometer beeped.
Remi yanked it out immediately and turned his head away, breath snapping in sharp and helpless.
The sneezes burst out tight and congested, snapping his head forward before he could stop them. He groaned afterward, dragging the back of his hand under his nose with a miserable sniff.
“Fuck,” he muttered hoarsely.
Levi smiled faintly and pressed a tissue into his hand. “Bless, Acushla” he said. “I’m impressed you held it back.”
Remi blew his nose quietly, embarrassed, then sniffed again. “Didn’t wanna spit it out,” he admitted, voice rough. “Figured you’d make me do it again.”
“I absolutely would have,” Levi said mildly, checking the reading.
Remi watched his face, eyes heavy and unfocused. “How bad?”
Levi hesitated just a fraction. “Still high,” he said honestly. “A little higher than last night.”
Remi closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the pillow. “Figures.”
Levi set the thermometer aside and climbed back into bed, pulling the blankets up around them again. Remi immediately turned toward him, pressing close, forehead resting against Levi’s collarbone as if drawn there by instinct.
“…Feels weird,” Remi said quietly after a moment.
Levi stilled, listening.
“Not bein’ the one,” Remi continued, voice low and unsteady. “Not… holdin’ everything together.”
The words were barely there, more confession than complaint. He didn’t look at Levi when he said it. Just breathed against him, warm and uneven.
Levi wrapped an arm around his shoulders and held him firmly. “You don’t have to,” he said softly. “I’ve got you today.”
Remi’s breath shuddered out of him, relief easing through his posture. He nodded once, small and tired, and tucked his face into Levi’s shoulder again.
“Okay,” he murmured. “Just for today.”
Levi kissed his hair and let him cling.
Outside, the late morning light held steady.
The day made everything louder.
Not in sound, exactly, but in sensation. The room had warmed with the sun climbing higher, the stale air growing thick and close, clinging to skin and lungs alike. Even the light felt heavier now, pale gold spilling across the bed and catching on dust that had no business being there.
Remi shifted restlessly beneath the blankets.
His nose had been bothering him for a while now, Levi realized. Not all at once, not dramatically, but in the small ways that always came first. The faint redness at the tip. The way he kept breathing through his mouth between shallow sniffs. The barely-there wrinkle of his nose every few breaths, like his body was arguing with itself.
“Hh…” Remi sniffed, frustrated, rubbing his nose once against Levi’s shoulder before stopping himself. “Damn it.”
Levi lifted his head slightly, eyes half-lidded. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Remi said automatically. Then, quieter, more honest. “No.”
His breath hitched without warning.
“Hh’… hih…”
Levi felt the tension coil through him, the way his chest tightened as he tried to hold it back. Remi turned his face slightly into the pillow, shoulders lifting as he braced.
“hh'IETSH’UE! Hhh—! HI’DTSCHIEW!”
The sneezes snapped out of him, tight and congested, barely clearing anything. He groaned softly afterward, sniffing hard.
“Shit,” he muttered immediately.
He barely had time to breathe before it happened again.
“Hh’… ihH’ktdSHhh!!”
This one made him jerk forward slightly, hand flying up too late to be useful. He sniffed again, wet and irritated, then scrubbed at his nose with the heel of his palm.
“Sorry,” he mumbled, more reflex than thought.
Levi frowned and shifted closer. “Hey. Stop that.”
Remi blinked at him, bleary. “Stop what?”
“Saying sorry.” Levi reached up and brushed his thumb gently under Remi’s nose, grounding. “You’re sick. You don’t need to apologize for existing.”
Remi huffed a weak laugh that turned into another sniffle. “Hard habit t’break.”
The warmth in the room did not help. If anything, it made the congestion swell tighter, heavier. Remi’s nose twitched again, sharper this time, and he let out a low, warning sound.
“Oh no…”
“Hh’… hih—hih—”
Levi stayed still, letting him ride it out.
“Hh'IISHH! —hd’ISCHhh!! —h’dtTISHh! ”
The cluster hit fast, three quick sneezes back to back, both short and miserable. Remi sagged afterward, breathing through his mouth, eyes squeezed shut.
“Gods,” he muttered hoarsely. “That’s gettin’ old.”
Levi smiled faintly and handed him a tissue. “You’re doing great.”
Remi took it, blew his nose quietly, then sniffed again to check. “Liar.”
Levi chuckled, but the sound faded into a soft cough he couldn’t quite suppress. He turned his head away instinctively, coughing again, dry and shallow, like his throat was scraped raw.
Remi noticed immediately.
“Hey,” he murmured, concern cutting through his fog. “You’re not doin’ great either.”
Levi shrugged weakly. “I’m fine.”
Remi gave him a look that said he did not believe that for a second. He shifted carefully, wincing as the movement sent another tickle through his nose, but he pushed through it anyway.
“C’mere,” he said quietly.
Before Levi could argue, Remi adjusted the pillows with deliberate care, propping them up just right. He eased Levi back against his chest instead, reversing their positions with surprising gentleness. His arms wrapped around Levi slowly, intentionally, like he was afraid of jostling him.
Levi sighed as the new position settled, the weight off his own aching body. “Rem…”
“Shh,” Remi murmured, pressing his face briefly into Levi’s hair. “Your turn.”
He held him there, careful despite the tremor in his hands, one arm snug around Levi’s middle, the other resting over his chest. His breathing was still thick, still congested, punctuated by the occasional sniffle, but he seemed calmer like this.
Another tickle flickered through his nose. He scrunched it, sniffed once, then managed to suppress the sneeze with a quiet huff.
“M’Sorry,” he started again, then stopped himself.
Levi smiled into his chest.
Remi exhaled and leaned down just enough to press a soft kiss to Levi’s temple. No comment. No hesitation. Just warmth, and choice, and care given on purpose.
They settled there together, daylight heavy around them, sickness loud in small ways, and love louder than all of it.
The quiet that followed felt earned.
Not empty, not heavy—just settled. The kind that came after effort, after deciding not to push anymore. Sunlight warmed the edge of the bed, and somewhere beyond the room a day was happening without them. Neither seemed particularly interested.
Levi shifted carefully, starting to reach for the thermos on the nightstand. The movement was slow and deliberate, like he didn’t quite trust his body to cooperate if he rushed it.
Remi noticed immediately.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice rough and thick. “Don’t, that’s been there for hours.”
Levi paused and glanced back at him. “I was just gonna get some broth.”
Remi shook his head once, already pushing himself upright. The motion made him wince, shoulders slumping forward as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“I’ll heat you up some soup from the fridge,” he said, stubborn even through the congestion clogging his voice.
Levi frowned. “Rem, you feel awful. You don’t need to get up.”
“I know,” Remi replied. He sniffed hard, then rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, irritation flickering across his face. “Still gonna.”
He stood slowly, pausing for balance. The room seemed to tilt just a little, enough to make him breathe out through his mouth and steady himself against the bedframe.
Levi watched him with concern written plainly across his face. “You really don’t have to.”
Remi glanced back over his shoulder, eyes dull with fever but steady. “Your throat’s wreckin’ you,” he said quietly. “Soup’ll help. Just stay.”
Levi hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. But if you start feeling worse, you come back. Deal?”
Remi gave a vague nod and shuffled toward the kitchen, shoulders hunched slightly as if the air itself felt heavy. The fridge light washed over him as he opened it, blinking against the brightness. He pulled out a container of leftover soup, sniffed once, then turned his head sharply away.
“Hh’… hih—”
He barely had time to angle himself aside before the sneeze tore out of him.
“hhh’ISCHih!”
It snapped his head forward, tight and congested. He groaned quietly afterward, rubbing at his nose before sniffing again, thick and irritated.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
He straightened, poured the soup into a bowl, and slid it into the microwave. As it hummed to life, he leaned back against the counter, eyes closing briefly. His chest rose and fell unevenly, mouth-breathing the way he had been all morning.
Another tickle built too fast for him to ignore.
“Hh… hhh…”
He turned away again, sneezing once more, “iH’tSSH!”, shorter this time, followed immediately by a rough, chesty cough that doubled him over slightly. He braced himself on the counter, coughing into his fist until it eased, breath rasping when it finally stopped.
By the time the microwave beeped, he looked exhausted. Flushed, nose red, eyes glassy. He stirred the soup slowly, waiting for the steam to settle, then carried it back toward the bedroom with careful steps.
Levi was waiting, propped up against the pillows, watching the doorway like he’d been holding his breath the entire time.
Remi set the bowl down on the nightstand and sat beside him with a tired sigh. “Told you,” he murmured. “Easy.”
Levi reached out, fingers brushing Remi’s hand. “You okay?”
Remi shrugged faintly. “I lived.”
Levi smiled, soft and grateful, and leaned in to take the spoon. The warmth hit his throat almost immediately, easing the ache there. He looked up at Remi after the first bite.
“Thank you.”
Remi nodded once, already leaning back against the headboard, eyes closing as he listened to Levi breathe a little easier. Despite how miserable he looked, there was something settled in his posture now. Like doing this had been worth the effort.
He reached out and rested his hand against Levi’s knee, grounding himself there.
“Eat,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
And for once, Levi didn’t argue.
Remi watched closely, brows knit in focus like this was a critical operation.
“Too hot?” he asked.
“It’s perfect,” Levi said. He took another bite, then paused to huff a content sigh. Only then did Remi relax back into the pillows, eyes drooping.
Levi turned the bowl slightly and held up a spoonful. “Your turn.”
Remi hesitated. His nose was still red, breathing thick and uneven, and he sniffed before leaning forward.
He took a small sip from the outstretched spoon.
The steam hit his face just right.
“Oh—shit—”
His breath hitched sharply, shoulders tensing as he froze mid-sip, trying desperately not to spill or choke.
“Hh—hih—”
Levi stilled instantly, steadying the bowl, his other hand already bracing Remi’s shoulder.
The sneezes tore out of him, sharp and wet, broth sloshing dangerously close to the rim as his head snapped forward. He groaned afterward, breath ragged, nose running immediately.
“Dammit,” he muttered hoarsely. “Sorry—”
Levi didn’t say anything.
He set the bowl aside without fuss, reached for a tissue, and wiped Remi’s face gently, catching the mess with practiced ease. His touch was slow, unhurried, like this was the most natural thing in the world.
Remi went very still.
Levi dabbed under his nose, wiped his upper lip, then brushed his thumb lightly along Remi’s cheek. Only then did he speak.
“You okay?”
Remi nodded, throat working as he swallowed. “Yeah.” A pause. “…Thanks.”
Levi picked the bowl back up and held out another spoonful, this time guiding it closer. “Small sips,” he said softly. “I’ve got it.”
Remi let him.
He leaned forward just enough, letting Levi tilt the spoon, taking a careful mouthful this time. It took him a second to swallow, congestion making everything harder, but when he did, his shoulders dropped a fraction.
“There you go,” Levi murmured.
Remi made a quiet, noncommittal sound that might have been a complaint if it didn’t come paired with him leaning closer, resting his forehead briefly against Levi’s shoulder. He didn’t pull away right away.
“You’re enjoyin’ this,” he grumbled weakly.
Levi smiled, just a little. “Maybe.”
Remi didn’t argue. He stayed there, breathing through his mouth, eyes closed, letting Levi hold the bowl and the moment and him.
When Levi offered another sip, Remi took it without protest.
And afterward, when Levi set the bowl aside and eased him back against the pillows, Remi didn’t fill the quiet with jokes or apologies. He just stayed close, overwhelmed in the softest way, fingers curling into Levi’s shirt like he needed to anchor himself to something solid.
Levi wrapped an arm around him and held on.
Something warm, at last, settled between them.
Remi stayed quiet longer than usual.
It wasn’t the peaceful kind of quiet that came with settling or sleep, but something tighter, more aware. Levi felt it in the way Remi’s arms stayed wrapped around him without loosening, in how his grip adjusted every few breaths like he was checking to make sure Levi was still there.
Eventually, Remi let out a breath that sounded like it scraped on the way out.
“Feels like I’m… takin’ up too much space today,” he murmured, voice low and worn thin. Not a joke. Just an observation. “Can’t stop holdin’ onto you. Can’t do much else.”
Levi shifted slightly, enough to meet his eyes. He didn’t rush to contradict him.
Remi sniffed, frustration tightening his jaw. “S’posed to be better than this,” he added quietly. “Instead I’m just—” He faltered, mouth pressing into a thin line as he searched for the word. “Heavy.”
His arm loosened, not pulling away entirely, just easing like he was giving Levi the option to leave if he wanted it.
Levi noticed immediately.
He caught Remi’s wrist with gentle certainty, thumb pressing into the warm skin there. “Hey,” he said, calm and steady. “Stay.”
Remi blinked at him, unfocused. “I’m not—”
Levi leaned in before the thought could finish forming, resting his forehead against Remi’s. Their breaths mingled there, warm and uneven, close enough that Remi had to breathe through his mouth.
“You don’t have to disappear just because you’re sick,” Levi said quietly. “Or because you need me.”
The words landed without force. Just truth.
Remi’s breath hitched. His shoulders sagged, the tension bleeding out of him in a slow collapse. He didn’t argue. Didn’t deflect. He just nodded once, tired and small, and let himself lean forward until their foreheads pressed more firmly together.
“…Feels safer like this, anyway,” he admitted, voice barely there.
Levi didn’t hesitate. He shifted closer, sealing the space Remi had almost given up.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”
Remi let out a breath that sounded like relief finally finding somewhere to land. His arms tightened again, not frantic, not desperate, just sure. He stayed there, breathing through his mouth, nose pressed lightly against Levi’s cheek, eyes closed.
They didn’t rush the moment.
They didn’t need to.
Outside, the day continued on without them. Inside, wrapped in warmth and sickness and trust, Remi stayed exactly where he was.
Levi didn’t realize how bad he was getting until his body reminded him all at once.
It started with a shiver.
Not a dramatic one, just a subtle tremor that ran through him as he leaned into Remi’s chest, like his muscles had forgotten how to hold warmth on their own. He inhaled to steady himself and felt the scrape in his throat flare sharply in protest.
He swallowed.
Winced.
Remi felt it immediately.
“Hey,” he murmured, voice still thick but alert now. His hand slid up Levi’s back, rubbing slow, grounding circles between his shoulders. “What’s goin’ on?”
“I’m—” Levi tried, then stopped when the tickle bloomed suddenly behind his nose. He barely had time to draw a breath before it hit.
The fit slipped out small and quiet, muffled directly into Remi’s shirt where Levi had leaned forward without thinking. He froze afterward, embarrassed, breath hitching as he sniffled softly.
“Sorry—”
Remi tightened his arms around him at once.
“Hey,” he said gently. “Bless you, kitten.” His hand kept moving, steady and warm. “You okay?”
Levi nodded, though his nose buzzed uncomfortably now, congestion creeping in to join the ache and fatigue. He coughed a little, shallow and dry, turning his face away instinctively.
Remi followed him without complaint, shifting just enough to keep Levi supported. He rubbed Levi’s back more firmly now, the motion deliberate despite the tremor in his own hands.
Another shiver ran through Levi, stronger this time. He curled closer without meaning to, shoulders tucking inward as he tried to contain it.
Remi noticed.
Without a word, he pulled the blankets higher around them, tucking them in with surprising care. He pressed his chin lightly to the top of Levi’s head, mouth-breathing warm and steady, sharing what heat he could.
Levi coughed again, a little rougher.
“Sorry,” he rasped automatically.
Remi huffed softly. “Nope. Not doin’ that.” He tipped Levi’s chin gently, just enough to keep him from curling too far in on himself. “You don’t apologize either. You hear me?”
Levi smiled faintly, exhausted. “Right.”
He sniffed again, quieter this time, understanding his body’s limits a little too late. His breathing grew heavier, slower, fatigue settling deep in his bones.
Remi held him through it all.
He kept rubbing Levi’s back, murmuring small, steady things under his breath—nonsense words, encouragement, quiet reassurances meant more for rhythm than meaning. Every so often, he pressed a gentle kiss into Levi’s hair or temple, grounding both of them.
He sagged into Remi’s chest, breathing shallow but calmer now, letting the warmth and the touch hold him together. Remi adjusted instinctively, arms firm but gentle, cradling Levi like this was exactly where he belonged.
Neither of them said anything about fairness.
They didn’t need to.
Care moved back and forth between them without being counted, without being questioned. One breath, one touch, one quiet moment at a time.
And together, sick and tired and held, they stayed exactly where they were.
The afternoon didn’t announce itself.
It simply kept going.
Light shifted across the room in slow, patient increments, the sun climbing just enough to warm the foot of the bed before drifting higher. The air felt different now, less tight, less oppressive, like the room itself had decided to loosen its grip. Outside, something moved faintly, wind or distant life, but it never pushed its way in.
They hadn’t meant to sleep.
It happened anyway.
Levi’s breathing was the first thing to change. The shallow hitch in his chest softened, the dry scrape in his throat easing into something steadier. Each inhale came slower than the last, his shoulders gradually losing the tension they had been holding onto all morning.
Remi noticed.
He always did.
His fever hadn’t broken, not fully, but it had eased enough to leave him clear-headed in brief stretches. Enough to register that Levi’s weight had gone slack against him, that the restless fidgeting had stilled. Enough to shift carefully, adjusting without waking him.
Levi ended up half sprawled across Remi’s chest, one leg tangled with his, cheek resting just below Remi’s collarbone. It wasn’t neat. It didn’t need to be. Remi draped an arm around him instinctively, palm settling warm and sure against Levi’s back.
His breathing stayed open-mouthed, soft and slow, brushing gently over Levi’s hairline with each exhale. It stirred the fine strands there, a steady rhythm that grounded them both.
Levi stirred faintly, then settled again.
His fingers moved without thought, tracing slow, absent shapes along Remi’s arm. Circles. Lines. Nothing with meaning beyond the comfort of motion. Remi felt it and didn’t interrupt, only leaned his cheek lightly against Levi’s temple, eyes drifting closed again.
The room grew quieter.
Not empty, just complete.
Light crept higher along the wall, then slid away as clouds passed, the warmth shifting with it. Time blurred into something gentle and unimportant. They existed in the space between breaths, between moments, held together by heat and weight and the simple fact of choosing to stay right where they were.
Remi’s arm tightened once, just enough to reaffirm the hold.
Levi didn’t wake, but he leaned in closer anyway.
And in the soft drift of afternoon, with sickness still lingering but no longer loud, they rested there together, choosing each other again, quietly, without needing to say it out loud.
Hi Geezie, I'm so so so glad you are back, I've missed you so much. Don't you mind if I ask some Meeko snz stuff which doesn't mentioned in her profile (like fun fact or whatever you like)? It's just been a while since her last appearance, missing this cutie pie 😅.
Hey there Nonny! Good to be somewhat back! 🖤
Here’s a short story based on a new fun fact about Meeko just like you requested 🖤
fun fact:
Meeko is an herbal apothecary who is sensitive to many of the plants she works with, but she refuses to acknowledge them as allergies. Her sneezes are loud, unmistakable, and frequent when experimenting with new recipes, yet she insists it’s “just the herbs being strong.”
Homegrown Healing
written & illustrated by allergeez 🖤
Summary: In the quiet warmth of her apothecary, Meeko sets out to brew a rare lung tonic from an old herbal tome, confident in her skills and stubbornly convinced she knows her limits. As dust, pollen, and powdered plants fill the air, her body starts to protest in increasingly obvious ways, even as she refuses to admit there’s a problem. What follows is a cozy, comedic spiral of sneezes, denial, and reluctant self-care, exploring the irony of a healer who is meticulous with everyone else’s safety but recklessly dismissive of her own. At its heart, the story is about stubborn resilience, inherited bad habits, and finding humor in listening to your body a moment too late. 3.7k words
Content Warnings
Repeated sneezing and allergy reactions
Congestion, runny nose, nose blowing
Herbal dust, pollen, and irritants
Mild profanity
Light physical mishaps (falls, dropped objects)
The apothecary woke slowly, the way living things did.
Early morning light slipped in through the front windows in pale gold bands, catching on floating dust motes and turning them into drifting sparks. Shelves crowded the walls from floor to ceiling, packed tight with jars, corked vials, folded cloth packets, and bundles of herbs hung upside down from twine. The air was thick with scent, dried leaves and crushed roots, sharp citrus peels and something bitter underneath it all.
Meeko moved through it barefoot, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, the sleeves so long they swallowed her hands entirely. She padded across the wooden floor in socked feet, humming to herself as she went, a quiet, cheerful tune that bounced lightly off the walls. Her bright red hair was twisted up into its usual twin space buns, the long length of it tucked away, white bangs falling into her eyes as she leaned over her workbench.
An old book lay open in front of her, its spine cracked and its pages yellowed with age. The ink was faded in places, the margins crowded with notes written by hands long gone. Meeko had copied the recipe down twice already, once carefully into her notebook and once more onto a scrap of parchment she’d tucked beside the mortar and pestle.
A lung tonic, according to the book. Rare, experimental. Meant to soothe inflammation, ease breathing, calm the chest. The irony of it wasn’t lost on her, but she smiled anyway, excitement buzzing through her as she lined up the ingredients.
“Okay,” she murmured to herself, tugging one sleeve back with her teeth so she could measure properly. “Easy. Simple. I’ve got this.”
She worked with confident hands, crushing dried roots into fine powder, measuring petals by weight, pinching small amounts between her fingers and sprinkling them into the bowl. Each movement was practiced, gentle, precise. This was her space, her craft. Healing came naturally to her, as instinctive as breathing.
The first hint of trouble was easy to miss.
A faint tickle brushed the bridge of her nose as she leaned closer to the mortar. She blinked once, then twice, eyes watering just slightly before she rubbed at them with the back of her sleeve. Her nose wrinkled, a tiny twitch she didn’t consciously register.
Dust motes thickened in the light as she ground the roots finer, powder puffing up in soft clouds before settling again. The scent in the room shifted, sharper now, biting faintly at the back of her throat.
Meeko paused, straightened, and sniffed once.
Then again.
Her fingers drifted up automatically, brushing her septum ring. She flipped it lightly, rolling the metal back and forth between her thumb and forefinger, a nervous little habit she’d never quite broken. The cool touch grounded her, gave her something to focus on.
“It’s not allergies,” she muttered under her breath, more reflex than thought.
She bent back over the bench.
The tickle lingered, teasing now, sliding deeper. Her eyes stung faintly, lashes clumping together with moisture. She blinked hard and flipped her septum ring again, a little more insistently this time.
“It’s just strong,” she said aloud, as if the shop itself needed convincing. “That’s all.”
She scooped the powder into a small bowl and reached for the next ingredient, dried leaves so brittle they crumbled at the slightest pressure. The moment she touched them, they broke apart, releasing a fine haze into the air.
Meeko froze.
Her breath hitched, barely audible. Her nose twitched again, sharper this time, and she squeezed her glowing yellow-green eyes shut for a heartbeat. Her fingers tightened around the leaves, knuckles whitening beneath the oversized sleeves.
She flipped her septum ring down, then back up.
“I work with this stuff every day,” she insisted quietly, stubborn warmth creeping into her voice. “I’m fine.”
The shop smelled brighter now, harsher, the air thick with powdered plant matter and steam from the kettle warming on the stove behind her. Sunlight caught the particles drifting lazily through the room, and for just a second, Meeko stood very still, breathing shallowly through her mouth.
Then she exhaled, shook it off, and went back to work.
Confidence settled back into her posture, shoulders straightening as she reached for the next step in the recipe. The book lay open, waiting, its ancient pages whispering promises of healing and relief.
Meeko smiled down at it, unaware of how her nose twitched once more as she leaned in, or how her fingers lingered at her septum ring just a little longer than before.
The shop hummed softly around her, warm and alive.
And somewhere beneath the herbs and the sunlight and her quiet humming, trouble was already stirring.
Meeko should have stopped ten minutes ago.
Instead, she leaned closer to the workbench.
The mortar was warm beneath her palms as she ground the dried roots into finer and finer powder, the pestle moving in steady, practiced circles. Each turn released another faint puff of dust into the air, pale and almost glittering as it drifted upward through the sunlight.
She didn’t pause. Didn’t open a window. Didn’t even hold her breath.
She reached for the next ingredient: a bundle of pale blossoms, dried but still dangerously fluffy. Pollen clung to them stubbornly, coating her fingertips as she pinched them apart.
The moment she crushed them, the air bloomed.
Meeko’s throat prickled instantly, a dry, itchy sensation that made her swallow hard. Her eyes stung, moisture gathering at the corners as she blinked rapidly, lashes fluttering.
Her nose twitched.
Once. Twice.
She froze mid-motion, pestle hovering above the bowl.
“…Mm,” she hummed, low and uncertain.
Her fingers drifted up again, flipping her septum ring with a practiced flick. The metal clicked softly as she rolled it back and forth, grounding herself while her breathing turned shallow.
“Okay,” she muttered. “Okay, that’s—”
She sniffed.
It was a mistake.
The scent hit sharper this time, bright and green and invasive, crawling straight up into her sinuses. Her nose wrinkled hard, twitching again and again like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to do.
“Hih—” She sucked in a breath through her mouth, eyes squeezing shut. “…Nope.”
The sensation lingered anyway, coiling higher, tighter. Her breath hitched once, then again, chest rising sharply.
“Hh… hhh…”
She stood there, shoulders tensed, waiting for it.
Nothing.
The tickle slipped away at the last second, leaving her blinking in frustrated disbelief.
“Oh come on,” she whispered, flipping her septum ring down, then back up. “Don’t do that.”
She went right back to work.
Next came dried leaves—thin, brittle things that shattered at the slightest pressure. They disintegrated in her hands, collapsing into a cloud of fine dust that puffed up around her face.
Meeko squeaked softly as she waved a sleeve through the air, eyes watering now in earnest.
Her throat itched worse. Her nose buzzed, full and sensitive. Her breathing went uneven.
“Hh… hihh…” she breathed, voice wobbling.
She bent forward slightly, bracing one hand on the counter as the build-up teased her mercilessly. Her lips parted, breath trembling as it climbed and climbed—
“Hih—ih—”
Nothing.
She let out a small, frustrated whine under her breath, blinking rapidly as tears spilled over.
“Rude,” she muttered.
She wiped at her eyes with her sleeve and sniffed again, thick and wet this time. Her nose twitched so hard it almost hurt.
She hesitated only briefly before opening the next jar.
The scent that escaped was sharp and unmistakable, green and musky and wrong. The reaction was immediate.
“Oh—oh no—”
Her breath snapped in sharply, chest tightening.
“Hh—hih—hihh—!”
She barely had time to straighten before the sneeze tore out of her.
“HA’AETTCCCHH’uh!!”
The sound cracked through the apothecary, loud and startling, echoing off the shelves. Meeko jerked forward with the force of it, completely uncovered, the blast sending the mortar skidding across the counter.
It clattered to the floor, rolling away.
Meeko froze.
Then she sniffed loudly, blinking at the sudden silence.
“…Wow,” she said faintly.
She rubbed her nose with the back of her sleeve, cheeks already flushing. “Okay. That was a little much...”
She sniffed again, nodded to herself.
The apothecary remained thick with pollen and powdered leaves, sunlight still catching the haze she’d kicked up.
Meeko bent down to retrieve the mortar, her nose twitched once more.
She smiled stubbornly to herself.
And kept going.
Meeko knew.
Logically. Clinically. Academically.
She knew that certain plants irritated her sinuses. She knew that pollen-heavy blossoms made her eyes burn. She knew that anything even adjacent to feline herbs sent her nose into open rebellion.
She also knew she was not, under any circumstances, allergic.
Sensitive, maybe. Reactive. Dramatic, if you asked Remi. But allergic implied weakness, and Meeko Cheyenne Connors did not do weakness. She healed people. She fixed things. She made remedies that worked.
For everyone else, she was meticulous.
For herself, she did none of it.
She wiped her nose with the back of her sleeve, sniffed hard, and leaned back over the counter.
“Okay,” she told the open book. “Round two.”
The next jar came down from the shelf with a soft thump. Fine, pale powder coated the inside, clinging stubbornly to the glass. She tipped a measured amount into the bowl, and the air bloomed again, thick and unmistakable.
Her throat itched immediately.
Her eyes watered, lashes sticking together as she blinked fast, breath catching high in her chest.
Her nose twitched so hard it almost made her dizzy.
“Hih—” She sucked in a breath.
“…No,” she whispered firmly.
The build-up coiled anyway, tightening behind her nose, tugging insistently.
“Hh… hihh… hih—”
She bent forward, one hand braced on the counter, shoulders rising as the breath climbed and climbed.
“Ah—hih’KKSSSHHHuh!”
The sneeze tore out of her, loud and ringing, snapping her forward. She barely stayed upright, the force of it knocking a small jar off the edge of the counter.
It shattered on the floor, bursting open in a soft explosion of powdered petals.
“Shit,” Meeko said faintly.
She barely had time to inhale before it happened again.
“Hiiih—HA’AETTCCCHH’uh!!”
The second sneeze echoed off the shelves, sharper than the first. Powder puffed up around her ankles, rising into the light like smoke.
She sniffed hard afterward, eyes glassy with tears, nose bright pink.
She crouched to clean up the mess, sleeves dragging through the powder as she swept the broken jar aside. Her fingers came up dusted white and yellow, coated in the fine residue of crushed herbs.
Without thinking, she wiped her nose again.
The sensation hit immediately.
Powder smeared across her upper lip, dust clinging to her septum ring as she flipped it nervously back into place. The tickle exploded outward from the center of her nose, sharp and invasive, lighting up every nerve along her septum.
“Oh no,” she breathed.
Her breath snapped in, shallow and fast.
“Hh—hih—hihh—!”
She barely made it upright before the fit hit her.
“Hih’AESSSHH’ue!!”
She lurched forward, completely uncovered, the sound bouncing off the walls. Her hands flew up too late, sleeves flapping uselessly as she sucked in another desperate breath.
“Hiiih’AETTCHHuh!!”
The third sneeze came hard on the heels of the second, rocking her on her feet. She staggered back against the counter, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving.
“Hh—hih—”
“Okay, okay, okay,” she gasped, voice wobbling as she sniffed thickly.
She flipped her septum ring again.
The powder smeared further.
The tickle intensified.
“Oh come on,” she whined, breath hitching helplessly. “I’m not allergic, I’m just… hih—”
“Hih’KKSSSHHHuh!!”
She sneezed again, loud and unrepentant, the sound echoing through the shop. Another jar rattled on the shelf above her, teetered, then fell.
Powder everywhere.
Meeko slumped against the counter, chest rising and falling, nose streaming, eyes red and watering. She sniffed hard, wiped her face with both sleeves, and laughed weakly at the sheer absurdity of it.
“I’m just enthusiastic,” she declared hoarsely to the empty room.
She looked down at her hands, now thoroughly dusted with powder, and flipped her septum ring one more time without thinking.
The tickle sparked again, immediate and vicious.
“Hh… hhh…”
Her shoulders tensed.
“…Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
The shop waited.
And Meeko, stubborn to the core, stayed exactly where she was, surrounded by herbs, dust, and undeniable proof that her own craft was winning this fight.
The kettle began to steam.
At first, it was gentle. A low hiss, barely audible beneath the quiet clink of glass and Meeko’s uneven breathing. Then the steam thickened, curling upward in lazy white ribbons that carried the sharp, green bite of crushed herbs with them.
The air grew warm.
Too warm.
Meeko leaned over the brewing pot, hoodie sleeves pushed up just enough to keep them from dipping into the liquid. She stirred carefully, eyes narrowed in focus, even as her nose burned and throbbed at the center of her face.
Her voice, when she spoke aloud to the recipe, came out rougher than before.
Her throat scratched painfully as she swallowed. Her nose felt swollen now, packed tight, the earlier tickle compressed into a dense, miserable pressure that made breathing through it nearly impossible. She sniffed, the sound thick and wet, and immediately winced.
“Hhh—” She inhaled, breath catching halfway up her chest. “…Don’t.”
The steam brushed her face, carrying particulates straight into her sinuses. Her eyes watered harder, lashes clumping as she blinked rapidly. The sensation crept upward again, slower this time, heavier.
“Hh… hhh… hih…”
She froze, spoon hovering over the pot.
Her breath hitched. Her shoulders rose. Her mouth opened—
Nothing.
The sneeze stalled, stuck behind the congestion, leaving her trembling and frustrated.
“Oh, that’s bullshit,” she snapped, slamming the spoon down onto the counter. “Either do it or don’t.”
She sniffed sharply, hoping to force it.
The result was worse.
Her nose flared helplessly, pressure spiking as the sensation twisted tighter.
“Hh—hih—hh—!”
She bent forward, hands gripping the edge of the counter, breath shuddering.
“…Please,” she whispered to the empty air. “Just—one good one.”
The elixir bubbled softly, steam rising thicker now.
The tickle crested.
“Hh—hih’KK—!”
The sneeze burst out half-formed and miserable.
“—tSSHHh!”
It was tight, unsatisfying, barely clearing anything. Meeko groaned, frustration breaking through as she sniffed hard, nose still buzzing angrily.
“Oh, come on,” she whined, flipping her septum ring again with powder-dusted fingers. The metal scraped faintly, reigniting the irritation along her septum.
Her breath snapped in again immediately.
“Hh—hih—no—no, wait—”
She staggered backward as the sneeze took her by surprise.
“HAA’AETTCCCHH’uh!!”
The sound cracked through the shop, loud and sudden. The force of it knocked her off balance, and she yelped as her heel caught on the edge of the rug.
“Whoa—!”
She landed hard on the stool behind her, wood scraping loudly against the floor as it tipped. She clutched the counter to steady herself, chest heaving, eyes watering freely now.
“Hh… gods…” she panted.
Her nose streamed openly, congestion thick and relentless. She wiped at it with both sleeves, leaving faint smears of powder behind, and sniffed again, sounding utterly defeated.
She slumped forward, elbows on her knees, steam curling around her like a taunt.
“…Okay,” she said quietly, voice hoarse and rough. She paused, swallowed, then sighed. “…Okay, maybe a little allergic.”
The admission hung in the warm, herb-saturated air.
The elixir bubbled on behind her, victorious and unapologetic.
Meeko sat there for a moment, breathing through her mouth, septum ring resting untouched for once as she glared at the pot like it had personally betrayed her.
Her nose twitched again.
“…Don’t,” she warned it weakly.
The shop, unbothered, smelled like trouble.
The shop went hazy around the edges.
Steam still curled from the pot, but Meeko no longer had the energy to glare at it. Her eyes burned too badly, lashes soaked through as tears kept spilling no matter how hard she blinked them back. Her nose ran freely now, congestion packed tight behind it, making every breath through her mouth feel thick and unsatisfying.
She sniffed again, wet and sharp, then stopped herself with an irritated huff.
“Nope,” she muttered hoarsely. “That’s it.”
She turned away from the counter and immediately had to brace herself against it, palms flat on the wood as her head swam. The pressure in her sinuses pulsed dully, heavy and unyielding, like her face was packed full of damp cotton.
Meeko slumped forward, forehead resting against her crossed arms.
Her nose dripped.
She squeezed her eyes shut, shoulders rising with a shaky breath, then reached blindly for the box of tissues she kept tucked under the counter for customers. She pulled one free, hesitated for half a second, then blew her nose hard.
The sound was loud in the quiet shop.
She winced immediately, groaning under her breath as the pressure shifted but did not fully ease.
“Ugh,” she grumbled, voice thick and congested. “Gross.”
She dabbed at her nose, cheeks flushed darker now, then blew again more carefully, sniffing afterward to test the damage. It helped a little, just enough to make breathing possible without feeling like her head would split.
She stayed slumped there for a long moment, eyes watering, breathing through her mouth, septum ring untouched for once.
Eventually, she pushed herself upright and shuffled toward the stove.
The tea kettle was already warm, something she had set aside earlier for a customer who never showed. She poured herself a mug with trembling hands, the steam fogging her vision. She carried it back to the counter and wrapped both sleeves around it, letting the heat seep into her fingers.
“Not an allergy,” she muttered automatically, even now. “Just… a sensitivity.”
She took a cautious sip, sighing softly as the warmth settled her throat. Her voice was nearly gone at this point, roughened by sneezes and mouth breathing.
She reached into the drawer beneath the counter and hesitated.
Inside, tucked away and rarely used, was a small charm wrapped in twine. Protective, grounding, meant to soothe inflammation and calm the body. She made them for other people all the time.
Meeko stared at it for a few seconds, then clicked her tongue in mild annoyance and picked it up.
“Don’t get used to this,” she told it, tying it loosely around her wrist. “This is a one-time thing.”
She leaned back against the counter again, tea cradled in her hands, and let herself breathe.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden.
Remi had taught her how to be tough. How to keep going. How to grit her teeth and power through things that hurt. He had taught her that stopping meant weakness, and weakness got you hurt.
He had also taught her, accidentally, how to ignore her own limits.
She sniffed again, quieter this time, eyes still glassy.
“Yeah,” she murmured, mostly to herself. “That tracks.”
The shop was still warm. Still full of herbs. Still hostile to her sinuses.
But for the moment, Meeko stayed exactly where she was, wrapped in a hoodie, clutching a mug of tea she had not meant to drink herself, breathing through her mouth and pretending very hard that this was all perfectly manageable.
Just a sensitivity.
Nothing more.
The elixir finished brewing without asking her permission.
Meeko watched it from her perch at the counter, eyes narrowed, nose red, tea cooling forgotten in her hands. The liquid in the pot had settled into a clear, softly glowing green, steam finally thinning as the herbs surrendered whatever magic they’d been hoarding.
Annoyingly… it smelled good.
She sniffed, experimentally. The pressure in her chest eased just a fraction, breathing coming a little less tight. The itch in her throat faded to a dull echo.
Her nose, however, remained deeply offended.
“Of course,” she muttered hoarsely. “Works perfectly. Just not for me.”
She stood, wiped her hands on her hoodie, and moved on sheer muscle memory. Bottles came down from the shelves. Corks lined up. Labels already written in her careful, looping script. She worked through a lingering haze of congestion, pausing only to sniff hard or wipe her nose with the back of her sleeve.
Powder still coated her fingers. Herbs still littered the floor. The shop looked like it had lost a fight with a pollen bomb.
She didn’t care.
She ladled the elixir carefully, corked the last bottle, and set it aside with a satisfied nod.
Then her nose twitched.
Once.
Twice.
Meeko froze, bottle still in hand.
“…No,” she warned it quietly.
The sensation climbed anyway, sudden and intense now that the worst of the pressure had loosened. Her breath hitched, sharp and unavoidable, chest lifting as she barely had time to straighten.
“Hh—hih—hihh—!”
She sucked in a breath, eyes squeezing shut, septum ring flipping reflexively as her fingers brushed her nose.
“Ah—HA’AETTCCCHH’uh!!”
The sneeze exploded out of her, loud and uncontained, echoing off every wall in the apothecary. The force rocked her forward, knocking a stack of dried herbs off the counter in a cascade of leaves and petals.
She staggered, caught herself, and immediately inhaled again.
“Oh—oh no—”
“Hiiih—AETTCCCHH’uh!!”
Another one followed, just as loud, snapping her head forward. She wheezed afterward, blinking through tears as her nose ran freely.
“Hh… gods—”
She barely had time to breathe before the third hit.
“Hih’AESSSHH’ue!!”
The sound rang through the shop, final and emphatic. Meeko bent over at the waist, hands braced on her knees, breathing hard as the fit finally broke.
Silence settled.
Herbs lay everywhere. Powder dusted every surface. Steam curled lazily from the pot like it had won.
Meeko straightened slowly, sniffed, and wiped her nose with her sleeve.
“…Bless me,” she said automatically.
She looked around the wrecked shop, at the finished bottles gleaming neatly amid the chaos, and smiled—small, stubborn, deeply satisfied.
“Worth it,” she decided.
She nudged a fallen bundle of herbs aside with her foot, flipped her septum ring one last time, and glanced toward the door.
“Next time,” she added, voice still rough but amused, “I’ll wear a mask… probably.”
The apothecary glowed softly around her, tiny and warm and completely unapologetic.
