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freesneezes4every1 · 3 months

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desperate measures

big thank you so much to nosuke who made this headcanons post about those expensive shower cubes that can clear congestion and bring on a sneezing fit. you are a treasure!!! i know you said their effect on geto was “a story for another day” and i hope it’s okay that i showed up to imagine the story :) warnings: character w sneeze kink (gj) pov, some mess, sexual content (descriptions of arousal, no intercourse) tags: common cold, inducing w fragrance, some mess, praise kink, vague bdsm elements

“Satoru,” scratches a ragged voice through the air between the doorway and living room, followed by a thick and fruitless clearing of the throat. Satoru turns around and watches Suguru wince at himself, horrified at his own voice and frustrated by days of hoarseness and fever. “Do you still have those, ah…”

Patiently, Satoru watches with his eyebrows up above his glasses to convey interest. Or active listening, or whatever it’s called. Suguru waves his hand limply, trying to communicate through the buzz of medicine Satoru picked up for him yesterday through Shoko’s prescription. Lots of stuff in the bag, no doubt making him dizzy and a little stupid. It’s cute, kind of like he’s drunk, only he smells a lot better and sounds a lot sexier.

“Yes?” Satoru replies. He lifts his body and spins until he’s facing backwards on the sofa, arms over the backrest as he leans forward. “You can do it.”

But Suguru only sighs. His eyes are sunken from the swelling in his sinuses, shaping defeated shadows beneath them, a purple contrast to the orangey-pink glow of hot cheeks on olive skin.

“I don’t remember what it’s called,” he admits, then embarks on the three-step journey toward the couch. Satoru reaches a hand out in case he stumbles, but Suguru doesn’t use him for balance. He does tap the pads of Satoru’s fingers on his way over for some reason.

He’s clammy, but Satoru doesn’t complain. On Suguru, he enjoys how it’s sort of unbecoming.

Quickly, Satoru readjusts, spinning back around and guiding Suguru over to rest on his shoulder as he says, “Jeez, man. You’re really gone.”

“I wish,” Suguru says. He tries for a sniffle and only gets a low, jagged squeak that reverberates and makes him cough. It’s dry and pathetic, more irritated throat than congested lungs, but his chest will follow his head soon enough. “I’m very much here, unfortunately. Can you pass me that box?”

Even from this angle, Satoru can detect evidence of Suguru’s cold sitting along the rim of his nostrils. It’s crowded up in the middle part of his face, too snug for him to clear out on purpose but too plentiful not to slowly and consistently leak out when it becomes thin enough to fall. It’s cute. It’s also sad. Satoru reaches for the tissues and holds the box out like hors d'oeuvres on a platter.

“You’re just gonna wipe your nose until it gets chapped,” Satoru complains. “You take all the pharmacy shit?”

Suguru blinks, pulls a tissue from the box and says, “Thank you.”

Satoru waits for him to process the question, listening instead to the delicate squelch of soft paper fibers on raw, damp skin.

“Uh,” Suguru says. “Damn it, sorry. Yes. I did. They have something that puts you to sleep – I think it was a black market substance.”

“That pharmacist did seem a little sketchy,” Satoru says with a tap to his chin. “I wouldn’t put it past her. Bet it’d be cheaper on the street, though.”

“What do you know about the street?” Suguru says. He tips himself back up for the leverage of gravity, bowing his head and squeezing his nose with both hands and just a single tissue as a barrier. His brow twitches and he pulls back for air, chest rising as a short gasp rushes past pale lips.

Unabashedly distracted, Satoru says, “Bet I know more than you,” then takes two more tissues without moving his eyes from Suguru’s face.

“hhH’NDXSH-gh! Ah, fuck. Ugh.” A crackly, strangled sniffle follows what was supposed to be a cleansing release. It’s as strong as a good cold-heavy sneeze should be, and set loose like he does only with Satoru around or when he’s feeling especially burdened, but the sound is crumpled up and unsatisfying. Still lovely, but no good for him at all.

Despite his extraordinary congestion and increase in sensitivity, Suguru has only been sneezing in sporadic, unrestrained half-stifled radicals for several days. For once, he’s not doing it on purpose. He really is just that stuffed up.

“Oh,” Suguru says all of a sudden, “that’s what I wanted to ask you.”

“My god, you sound awful,” Satoru says, and Suguru knows to take it as a compliment. “Here.”

“Thank you.” He means it for the tissues, but whatever. Suguru pinches them out of Satoru’s hand and sniffles some more instead of putting them to use. It sounds like the stuff in his head is moving up and down, not really going anywhere. “Do you still have those steam responders?”

Satoru has no idea what he means, but it’s a start. Strangely, it almost seems like the sneeze woke him up, even if it didn’t do much to clear his mind.

“What?” Satoru says. “Like the humidifier?”

Suguru shakes his head and coughs. “No, the… that stuff you use for colds that always makes me sneeze.”

Well.

If that doesn’t wake Satoru up all over.

“You’re kidding,” he says.

“Don’t play games. You can come in and jerk off too, if you want, but nothing’s happening if I can’t find them.”

With his hair too heavy and thick to be kept behind his ears and too tight on his scalp if he ties it up, Suguru’s eyes are shrouded by stale black hanging past his cheekbones and partly haloed by coarse frizz. He looks literally bedraggled.

It gives Satoru a chance to exhibit a little tenderness to precede their mischief, tucking it back where it belongs and kissing Suguru on the forehead with his lips flat against the dry, parching skin.

“You’re salty,” he tells him. “I’ll wash your hair when we’re all done.”

After a beat of quiet, Suguru angles away toward his shoulder, with one arm up and the other used to press against Satoru’s thigh, keeping him at bay.

“IHGDXTSHuh!” He’s been wearing that shirt for days, and they’re due for laundry soon anyway, so sneezing into the sleeve is no big deal. “huhH’IGSHhyeu!”

“Ooh. That’s better,” Satoru praises. “Felt good, didn’t it?”

“At least it was two this time,” Suguru agrees. “One sneeze by itself doesn’t do anything.”

Oh, fuck.

Satoru can’t help but shudder, right from the heat in his gut.

So that’s what’s going on. Suguru is trying to induce himself into a fit. What a lucky, fantastically beautiful world to live in.

“You keep saying stuff like that and I won’t make it to the shower,” Satoru says evenly as he stands. He doesn’t mind Suguru seeing his reaction, especially with his dick at eye-level as it dilates fast enough to prompt a head rush. He can feel the cotton of his pants pressing harder against him as it grows. “Hang on. The bergamot one really fucked with you last time.”

“I thought it was the Indigo forest.”

“Eh. I’ll grab both.”

It’s an excellent memory. Suguru hadn’t even been in the shower when Satoru was using it, and it wasn’t a medicinal endeavor either. But his at-home spa night evolved into several rounds of sex anyway. After the heady, floral blur in the air had reached Suguru’s nose in the hallway, and Satoru found himself rinsing off a second time by the end of the evening.

Obviously, Satoru had ordered another stash of the stuff before sunrise the next morning, but they hadn’t gotten a chance to use it given the busy schedules and never ending string of night shifts attached to the inheritance of special grade strength. Regular sex only, sometimes when Suguru’s allergies were bothering him already, but mostly the old-fashioned kind when their days align and give them a moment to themselves.

Well, now Suguru’s cold is finally nasty enough to earn everyone an extra reward. And Satoru isn’t above taking a paperwork day at home for nothing but the sake of his partner’s well-being. And his own subsequent thrill, but that’s never been difficult for Suguru to satisfy regardless of his state or sorrows.

He finds their treasure in the closet and slides open the cover of the hinoki wood box that his toiletries had arrived in, releasing a puff of fine powder and garden scented oil. That’s right; he’d gotten the fragrances combined this time, twice the punch concentrated into one grainy, invigorating block. It’s rich with the promise of erotic success.

While Satoru situates the shower for its services, he hears Suguru sneeze in the other room.

“EH’GTSHUE!” Powerfully, too, and crisply pronounced. Satoru swipes a cloth along the bench next to the tub and hurries back, listening to the sad noises of Suguru attempting to blow his nose.

His wide, pointy shoulders are still hunched tenuously forward when Satoru returns. He makes himself known and Suguru doesn’t startle, but he does make a needy, uncharacteristic sound from the top of his throat.

“Come here,” he says to Satoru, beckoning him with the same hand that holds a crushed and sodden tissue. Satoru would cringe at the sight if it were anyone else, but for Suguru, he softens and complies.

“Need help getting up?” he asks.

“No,” Suguru says. When Satoru is close enough, Suguru latches their hands together, then presses Satoru’s fingers on his forehead. “Ah, there’s something… hhHH… something…”

The wrinkle of Suguru’s skin pushes against Satoru’s fingertips as his eyebrows contort with effort. Satoru stares, enraptured and confused, until Suguru launches over his own lap and toward Satoru’s thighs with a flourishing sneeze.

“HH-AGTCHH’YU!” His tissue-hand flings forward much too late, and his hand shakes from the intensity as it leaves his forehead, shivering Satoru’s fingers in his grasp. “Oh, fuck. Sorry. My god.”

The rest of Satoru shivers, too.

“C’mon, let’s save those for after you’ve got your shirt off,” he responds. No doubt Suguru can see his arousal now, unless he really is too medicine-high to notice what’s right in front of him. It’s definitely possible. “Here. Try this again.”

After Satoru reminds him of the fresh tissues right next to him and Suguru blows his nose, he resumes uselessly squeezing and wiping around his septum as he explains himself.

“When you touched my face before,” he says, heaving himself off the sofa, “something about the pressure set me off. I thought we might be able to skip the shower, but it’s back to just one at a time now.”

Ironically, Suguru would be grateful for that if they were anywhere but home, when he’s determined to hold them in despite his lack of aptitude for it. He can manage it twice, three times at best, and his cover is blown if and when his body dares to continue with the process. The self-imposed power struggle drives Satoru crazy from the first silent, subtle flinch.

But now his system’s all messed up, and he hasn’t even tried to suppress them since his sinuses started their tantrum two days ago. Suguru hasn’t been this sick in a while.

“Where the hell did you get a cold like this, anyway?” Shoko had asked him on the phone yesterday, after she told him not to bother coming in for an examination. She explained that she’d rather keep her office free of germs, just like a real doctor would. “You sound awful. I haven’t even heard your real sneeze in forever.”

“No clue,” was Suguru’s sexy, sniveling answer. “I got a sore throat after we went out on Saturday. I thought it was just the smoke or maybe an allergy acting up.”

It was at that point when Satoru began to consider reporting them for dirty-talking on a company line. Unbelievable, those two.

“You’ve been under the weather for that long?” Shoko asked next, and Suguru’s response was to set the phone down and cough into his fist, as though the memory itself was irritating him. “Well, nobody else is sick, so. Must be a you-problem.”

“Yeah, must be,” said Suguru, always talented at resisting her bait.

“Try not to stress so much,” Shoko counseled next, flat-voiced with awareness that her request was futile. “I’m writing you a script for a couple of really strong powders. Drink them all and I’ll allow you in for a flu test if you’re still feeling bad by the weekend.”

Today is Thursday, and as Satoru recalls eavesdropping on their conversation, he wonders whether Suguru will be up to following the doctor’s orders. Shoko probably knows what she’s doing, even if she can’t reverse-curse away the sniffles. And while Suguru is usually good at answering directions if he agrees with them, Shoko doesn’t know about the power of imported herbal perfume. Perhaps that’ll be enough to get him through the rest of his cold.

The hot water has misted nicely through the air when they step into the bathroom, but despite the warmth of humidity, Suguru still frowns when he takes off his shirt. His arms become rigid and the coat of dark hairs pricks up with goosebumps.

Satoru steps up, snagging a robe from its hook on the door. He takes Suguru’s wrist and uses it to lift his hand through the sleeve. Suguru accepts the guidance and finishes sliding into it on his own.

“Just sit here while the steam runs. We don’t need to waste energy getting your hair wet today,” Satoru says. “Can’t have you catching a chill.”

“Mmm. Heaven forbid,” Suguru says. He pours himself onto the bench with his robe open and legs spread out, slouching so prominently that he can rest his elbows on his knees and head in his hands. His hair tumbles with it, and Satoru gathers the front section and tritely tucks it out of the way once more. “Where were you keeping that spa kit thing?”

He’s still difficult to understand with his cold in the way, but when Suguru sniffles, there’s so much damp, burbly movement that Satoru can picture the improvement without having to look. The steam alone is starting to do the job.

“Oh. Yeah. Wait a sec.” Satoru is nearly speechless with indecency, the whole of his body beginning to burn. He wants more than anything to touch Suguru everywhere, to feel the way he breathes, to comb his hair and soothe him and forego himself if that’s what it takes. His head is beginning to fog up in tandem with the mirrors on the opposite wall. Sex or no sex, he’ll be happy with this. “I got one out already. Give me a second to drop it in, okay?”

Suguru sniffles again and says, “Sure.”

It’s a blessing that Satoru’s arms are long enough to reach the aromatherapy unit on the farther side of the bench and drop it beneath the water. He can already detect the sharp, warming scent as the cube dissolves, a nostalgic luxury of high-grade aloeswood and dried flower petals. Perhaps those are the culprit in this case. Satoru doesn’t exactly understand how that whole thing works.

A moment passes, and then Suguru breathes in and coughs.

“Wow,” he remarks. “I know it’s there, but I can’t smell it.”

Oh no. “Do you think it’ll still work?”

Rapidly and urgently, Suguru nods. His abdomen stretches as his chest rises with a slow, indulgent inhale.

Another breath builds on top of it, and when Satoru looks down, he can see Suguru tensely squeezing his own knee. Suguru floats his hand up, a flat and restrictive buffer between his face and Satoru’s gaze while his overachieving lungs continue to prepare.

Well, that’s no fun. Satoru gently pushes down his defenses by capturing Suguru’s hand and kissing the top of his palm, sliding his lips until they wrap around a sturdy knuckle. Suguru stalls.

“Satoru,” he says.

“Can’t believe you think you get to be modest right now,” Satoru replies, and Suguru’s body deflates as he sighs out through his mouth. Satoru returns his partner’s whine. “I wanna see.”

Suguru looks frustrated for a moment, but then he grins.

“You don’t get to watch if you interrupt me,” he says. “I’m sick, so be nice.”

“So am I, and you’re never nice to me,” Satoru says, two goading lies in one.

“Oh stop that. You know that’s not— hah-HH’IGK’SHYUH!”

Wow, indeed.

“My goodness. Bless you.”

The surprise of it had not only flung him forward, but it hadn’t given Suguru enough time to aim himself somewhere dignified or consider that Satoru had still been holding his hand and gripped him tighter out of defiance in case he tried to let go. Suguru blinks, sniffs, and doesn’t bother surveying the damages.

“…Ah, fuck’s sake. Sorry.”

Turns out the interruption was helpful, distracting Suguru from the needy anticipation that couldn’t seem to find any breath big enough to be worthy of release. But the surprise had Suguru pulling his hand back out of reflex, and that turned out to be…

“Very good,” Satoru decides aloud. For reassurance, he loosens his hold on Suguru’s hand and then grips it tighter in an emphatic squeeze. “Hmm? Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed.”

Suguru rolls his eyes, though. Bad idea for a days-old headache that even a double dose of eve tablets couldn’t touch.

“It’s easier to forget about shame when we’re bothhhhh HUHDZSHH’yeu! Both hard and about to have sex,” Suguru says. His voice is so lovely. Thick and drippy, like it has been and will be for who knows how long. He angles toward his shoulder with another gasp. “IH’hh-GHZSHieu!”

“How’s it feel?” Satoru asks.

“It…” Fluttering eyelids, a gasp, a terrific shudder. “HUH-! IHGXDSHhh’dyh! Mm. Honestly, it’s pretty good. You?”

“Good,” Satoru repeats, willing himself against clearing his throat. All of the steam in the world couldn’t combat the dryness that comes over him when he and Suguru are alone like this. He’s never seen anything so breathtaking, he’s sure of it.

Through watering eyes and the incessant twitching of his breath, Suguru still manages to have the upper hand when it comes to composure.

“Let me see you now,” he says, and then he envelops Satoru’s patient erection with his clammy fingers and rubs.

Softly and instantly, Satoru gasps. Suguru feels along the whole of him and doesn’t stop.

“My god, Satoru,” he breathes, pretending to admonish.

“I don’t know what you expected,” Satoru responds, pretending to take offense.

“Really?” Suguru says. “When I’m this sick and…?”

Out of necessity and likely not intention, Suguru sniffles. It does sound unpleasant, to be fair, but he should know better by now than to think there’s a condition in which Satoru wouldn’t want him. Satoru looks around and passes him a washcloth.

Suguru accepts, his expression still suspicious. Curious. “Thank you.”

“Go ahead and destroy that with your little cold, see how much I mind when you’re ‘like this’,” Satoru says. Suguru moves his fist up and down, rough skin making friction where Satoru is most sensitive, watching with fond interest. Satoru counterbalances to cover a base. “Hey. You don’t have to, though, if you aren’t feeling it.”

“I know,” Suguru says. “I’m… I’m—”

In Suguru’s hand, Satoru throbs and aches, growing and creating pressure against his palm. Suguru jostles him by mistake.

“HET’jjsHHYUE!” He sneezes onto the square of fabric without actually pressing it to his face, then offers Satoru an apology squeeze and tries to harness himself. “jjySSHH’YUE! HUH’gyFF’ZSHIUH!”

Thickly, he sniffles over and over, and Satoru takes pity.

“Blow your nose, dear,” he says, fingers on top of Suguru’s as he uncoils them from himself and gives Suguru permission to clean his own face easily with both hands. “I’ll take over down here.”

“hh’hh’HH – AHDT’SHYEU! You know,” Suguru begins as he lets go in compliance, then begins squeezing and pulling on his nose and making all sorts of filthy sounds, “it’s hard to focus on sneezing when I have to keep talking to you.”

Satoru shrugs. “Doesn’t seem to be a problem, actually.”

“Well I’m suhhh– supposed to be enjoying it, too,” Suguru argues. He glides his gaze down Satoru’s upper half, stopping at the groin as he watches Satoru begin to jerk himself off like he suggested back when he had his clothes on. “Although it’s not hhH! not hahhh—”

“Okay, okay. We both want the same thing,” Satoru says. “So just—”

“ehHDDZSHYEU!”

“—relax, and do what you came in here to do.”

“You too.” Suguru clears his sinuses into the hand towel at last, adorably bashful as he moves his eyes to the ground and releases. Not even the plushiest, softest, thickest Turkish cotton can muffle the wet sound of miserable relief as it rushes out of him. He looks concentrated, but with so much less strain than before. It takes a few tries before he’s satisfied enough to pull away and wipe the residuals from under his septum. “Sorry.”

Perhaps he hadn’t realized that Satoru still goes for the satellite effects of a sneezing fit in addition to the initial show.

“Don’t be,” he insists. He’d say the same even without a kink to pad the tender sympathy of his feelings. Why apologize for being sick? “You’re extra hot like this. I like it.”

“You’re kidding.” Suguru folds the towel back up and looks at him. It only takes a glance. “You’re not kidding.”

Satoru shrugs and peers closer, observing the way his partner’s chest twitches with his fragmented, sweet little sniffles and its bare skin showing the persistence of his fever as it rises, tricking his body into bristling against the delusion of chilly air. He’s definitely not getting over this by the weekend.

The robe’s lapel is even softer than the towels are, plushy and silken as Satoru takes it in his hand and pulls it closed over Suguru’s chest, concealing the goosebumps that gave him away.

“Y’know how someone’s cheeks get red, and they keep on panting after they come?” he says as he begins to tie the sash around Suguru’s waist. “It’s basically the same thing.”

Desperately, he touches Suguru’s velvet-sheathed abdomen as it expands with a rippling inhale. Suguru turns his head and captures a hasty sneeze in the clean half of his washcloth.

“NGYDSHh’uh! Ghh…” A congested sigh sinks out of him, then a sniffle as he wipes his nose, deciphering the information until he’s reassured, pleased, flattered. “I would have never thought of that. I— oh. What are you doing now?”

“You should stay covered up,” Satoru says. He adjusts the robe around Suguru’s shoulders so it won’t drop or wrinkle the next time he tries to move away so quickly. “You’re cold, aren’t you? Your temp’s up.”

“I’ll be all right,” Suguru answers dismissively. “I think I can breathe well enough now if you want me to—”

“Nah,” Satoru stops him, because a blowjob would be stupendous but also impossible. Suguru is too sick to service anyone comfortably, or do much other than sit there and let Satoru stare at him as he tries to get better. It will make him just as happy. “I wouldn’t do that to you. It’d be hell on your throat, anyway.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Suguru says. “Offer won’t be good for long, either. I’ll probably go back to bed after this.”

“And then you’ll be stuffed up again,” Satoru adds, frowning. “Such is the cycle, huh?”

“Curse of the common cold,” Suguru agrees. He swivels on the bench so that his back is facing Satoru’s chest, and he reclines until Satoru catches him, arms around Suguru’s neck and chin on his shoulder. Cheek to cheek, each of them warm for differing, complementary reasons. “Guess we’ll have to do this again when I wake up.”

“Huh?” Satoru says.

“You did order more than just one of those ridiculous steamer blocks, didn’t you?”

Suguru’s cheek is sticky as Satoru peels his face away so that he can make eye contact and confirm his understanding. It takes some self-control not to balk.

“You must be too sick to remember who you’re talking to,” Satoru says. He backs up and taps Suguru on the shoulder, prompting him to slide the other way and free him to turn off the water and end their session. “I’ve got two boxes in the linen closet. Cost a king’s ransom, by the way.”

“Then we better get our money’s worth.” Suguru stands and tightens the sash on his robe, then neatly sets his defiled washcloth in the laundry basket with the other used towels, responsible and tidy even in his dysregulated haze. He takes in the sight and says, “We should run a cycle soon.”

“I’ll handle it. You’ll spill the fabric softener, sweetheart.”

“And you’ll forget to use any at all.”

“So supervise me then.”

Satoru takes his partner’s arm to guide him back to the bedroom, wobbly legs, waxy hair and all. A low ponytail might be comfortable if he can’t sit up long enough for Satoru to weave him a braid. The robe stays on, because Suguru isn’t going to be warm enough bundled under just their blankets, and if he sweats out his problems then Satoru can deal with it later.

He’ll call a laundry service tomorrow, once they’ve depleted the stack of clean towels that had been sitting atop the world’s finest essential oils and absorbing the improvisational medicine nearby.

Before Suguru can lapse into bed, Satoru kisses the soft spot near his temple and smells the ghost of woody botanicals in his hair. With careful regard, he uses his fingers to massage along Suguru’s scalp, aware of the danger there as he gently pushes the unruliness away from his face.

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