A man wakes up with a terrible cold, and his wife, who happens to have the fetish, is thrilled.
He calls into work while they're fucking doggy style, the gorgeous expanse of her back laid out before him. A soft moan escapes her throat.
“Shhh, sweetheart. I’b on the phode," he says teasingly, waiting for his boss to pick up. The risk of having an audience is a dangerous thrill that pushes them both closer towards the edge.
"Hey, boss. Idt’s mbe." Hopefully his boss takes the dizzy lust in his voice for grogginess instead. A prickling itch builds in his sinuses, and he's unable to cover - one hand busy with the phone and the other wrapped around his wife's hip.
“I don’t… hah… I don’t thigg I-iihh – huh’AEESSSH’UH!” The thick sneeze explodes in front of him, showering his wife's back with wetness. “I dodn’t thigg I cadn cobme in today.”
“Nng!" His wife stifles a breathy moan as best she can. He leans forward to wrap his wide hand gently over her mouth, feeling her hot breath moist against his palm. The tempo of his thrusts quickens, his hips stuttering with need.
“I thigk I just dneed to stay in bed all d-day. Hih… hih’ZZIISHH’iue!" Another harsh, heavy sneeze sprays over her, settling cool on her skin.
As much fun as this is, he needs to end the call quickly. He can tell she's already so close she can barely stand it -
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His hand cupped around the back of her head as he pulled her to her chest.
“What ar-.” She started to ask.
He sneezed freely over her shoulder, she felt the spray mist over her skin. A deliciously soupy sniffle was all he was able to manage before he sneezed again. This one had been wetter and more productive if she had to base it on sound alone. She tried to lean away to check but his hand kept her face pressed firmly against his chest.
“D-don’t look.” He said through hitching gasps before jerking against her. His other hand moved to cover the lower half of his face as he flushed in embarrassment as mess started to leak down and settle in his Cupid’s bow.
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Someone Worth Falling For
Hi hello! Long time lurker in the community, first time poster. I'm not sure how good this is because it's my first snz fic. But practice makes perfect-- even if my writing tends to lean on corny fluff! So I might as well log what I write and hope things get better from here. Enjoy! <3
--
“Htchh'chieww!”
“Bless you.”
“Htch'shhhiew!”
“Ble–”
“Hihh’chiew! Htch'CHIEW! HET’CHHHIEW! Ohhh…”
Lucifer groaned, forcing gurgling blow after blow into his handkerchief. Face glowing gold in embarrassment when he peered up from the fabric to see another pair stare back.
“...Excuse mbe.” He finally rasped out.
“Absolutely not.” Lilith pursed her lips, “Ten times in a row! I've seen less out of fits than sinners allergic to their own feathers and fur. Are you sure you’re alright, my love?”
She'd offered a way out. She'd offered a way out several times. But the response was always so scripted that it bordered on comical. An orderly list that only the Sin of Pride could obsessively memorize by heart.
“Why, there's dothi’g– snff– nothing to tell!” Lucifer beamed between congested sniffles, one armed wrapped tightly around her waist. “I just want to help my wife get ready for her first night off. And a party? My goodness, now why would I pass up such a rare and wonderful opportunity?”
Deflect
“And that’s very sweet of you, darling.” His other half hummed when a string of pearls draped around her neck, “But I’m just as happy to stay home if you’re feeling unwell.”
The demon king’s hand jerked as he weaved a comb from a puff of golden smoke. “Me? Catch a cold? Pfft, what? Like a sinner? Even if I’m fallen, archangels don’t get sick. It’s in our biology.”
2. Pull the archangel card.
“Yes. I’ve been told that holy beings tend to avoid illness– or rather, those who reside in Heaven. Where everything from the sky to the ground is designed to be absolutely perfect. But here, you are victim to the worst torture imaginable. And I believe there’s been a newer Overlord that’s taken a seat at the table– that one you had a meeting with the other day? The one that embodies pestilence.” As her hair was lovingly tended to, Lilith raised her head ever-so-slightly to kiss her doting husband’s jaw. She nearly cooed at the way he melted on the spot.
“As hypocritical as it sounds, I wouldn’t be so quick to ju- …j-juhhdge…” Lucifer froze, quickly rubbing his nose to satiate a tickle. Lilith’s face dropped to something so freely unimpressed because his last tactic was always to
3. Hide his symptoms. Poorly.
“Darling?”
“H-huhhhh…ho-hold on…” Lucifer raised a claw, handkerchief in the other. “I-I’m fine, it must…m-must be…s-suhh-something in…in the air— h-heh! Oh my, ex-excuse– Et’chiew! HET’chiew! HETCHHIEWW!”
“Bless you again.” His wife winced as the comb was unceremoniously dropped to the floor with a sharp clatter.
“Th-thahhnk– hhhHITSH!” Caught in a hitching jag, Lucifer quickly pinched his nose– and to his dismay, the slight buzz became an angry swarm.
“Beloved.”
“Het’Chht!”
“Let me just–”
“HIH’CHH! H-hihhh! HIH’TCH! ‘TCH! ‘TSHHH! I can’t s-st-stohhHT’CHNX’iew! Hih! Hhhih…hghh…nnh…” Lucifer’s ragged breathing slowed, peeping open a watery eye. Kneeled close, Lilith’s finger pressed under his nose, draped against her own handkerchief.
“See? Was asking for help so hard?” She smiled. Lucifer only swallowed, wordlessly taking the cloth in his palm. Silently he made his way to the side of her vanity, hopping on its desk. Eyes downcast, frown tucked behind cotton and smudged lipstick. “Be honest with me. There’s something more to your stubbornness this time, isn’t there?”
“N-no, of course not! I’m. I’m just– it’s…” Empty words trailed off into a muffled whisper.
“I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
“It’s– well–” Lucifer cleared his aching throat, biting back a cough before he lowered his makeshift mask. “It’s…it’s humiliating, that’s all. I trapped you down here with me. You had the opportunity to live in an eternal paradise. And now you have this one night to go out and party and enjoy yourself and I just– I know it’s not even close to that kind of perfection-- but I’d be ruining another chance at freedom all over again! And all because you think that I might have caught a cold? I’m fine! This is fine! I’ve been through worse! I’m just a little…a-a…a little snehh…” He quickly pressed the well-soaked cloth to his nose, trying in vain to hold some control over his next fit.
“Hit’shew! ‘Chiew! Hep’shiew! H’tsh! Heh’TSHIEWW! HA’SHHHIEW! HA’PSHHHIEWW!” He cradled his forehead with a palm, blinking stars from his eyes. “A…a little sneezy. Ugh, ‘scuse mbe.”
All too suddenly his chin was lifted, and his vision cleared to meet a piercing gaze. “Lucifer. Darling. Love of my life. Do you know where I’d be if I wasn’t down here with you?”
“N…ndo?” He muttered nervously.
“With Adam.” Her voice curdled like spoiled milk, “I would trade a thousand rings of Hell just to never see his face again. Taking care of you tonight wouldn’t be a curse. It would be a blessing. In fact, it would be a new opportunity at freedom for me. Now, I can finally repay the favor you gave to me so long ago.”
“Snf! I’m sorry, I– I don’t understand.”
Two strong arms lifted the demon king. “Then let me remind you of the day that we fell together.”
It took seconds too late for the fallen angel to realize what was happening, and Lucifer’s lovesick blush blended with his illness. Before he could even open his mouth to protest he was set gently on the bed, and his wife immediately went to work.
“First,” Well-manicured claws slowly unbuttoned his vest, “Since I was unable to move, you helped me get into something more comfortable until I could dress myself again.”
“I-I did, didn’t I?” A tense smile began to unfurl, and Lucifer allowed his other half to prop him against the headboard, slipping off his boots like he were made of gold and porcelain.
“After that, when I was feeling less restricted, you checked me for any injuries or illness.” A cool forehead bumped softly against something damp and burning, not bothering to worry about smudging freshly applied foundation. “And while I didn’t have a fever, you certainly do now.”
“I–” Lucifer paused, feeling delicate hands intertwine with his own. Slowly he retracted his forked tongue, tasting the bitter words in his mouth. “--I, um. I have to admit, I feel just a smidge under the weather.”
“Well would you look at that! No longer a saint, but you still cast miracles.”
“I do my best.” The fallen angel croaked out a weak chuckle, tired eyes lighting up when Lilith stopped to kiss his knuckles, lips briefly brushing over a golden wedding ring.
“Oh, what was next? Let’s see.” She got up, pacing around the room, “You bandaged my open wounds and wouldn’t let me begin my work as queen until I was off my feet.”
“I still have some mighty big scars from all the kicks you bucked me with.” Lucifer huffed.
His better half looked unashamedly proud, crossing her arms until they locked tight around her chest. “And as I said before, I will do what you have done to me. I’m sure it’ll do you well to give your more inventive powers a rest–” the fallen creator groaned miserably, “--while a servant fetches us some medicine and tea to wash it down with. As well as–”
“Hhhih!” Lucifer’s nose twitched, and he couldn’t help the frustrated sigh that mingled with unsteady breaths. Both handkerchiefs soiled, the demon flicked his wrist and summoned a third, “Oh for the love of– this i-ihhh…is getting rihh-ridiculuh…huhhh..hhh’tsh! Hut’Sshhhieww! Ha’TSHIEW! HET’CH’HHHIEW!”
“--a few tissue boxes. Bless you.”
“...I’b sorry for all the trouble. Snff!” A hacking cough broke through the apology.
“Trouble? Lucifer dear, it’s no trouble at all.” She consoled, sitting by his bedside. “You said it yourself. It’s just a cold. And you seem to forget that, when your caretaking was near its end, you refused to leave me until I truly needed space. You said that if I would permit you to stay, all I needed to do is ask. Well? Would you like me to stay?”
Painted nails fidgeted with the hem of a long cocktail dress and, despite everything that’s happened, Lilith offered a silent prayer to whatever higher power would listen.
Lucifer took a deep breath, “Th-then– um. If you wouldn’t mind lending a hand?”
“I’d be delighted to.” His other half hummed, kissing the red dimples on his cheeks, “You really do have no idea how much you were worth falling for.”
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The Worst Timing | [5/5]
we made it!!! part 5/5 + a mini epilogue (5.6k words) at long last 🥹 (aka the installment in which i remember that h/c has a c in it in addition to the h, haha.) [part 1] is here!
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!
Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)
—
The world comes back to him in pieces—first the wooden panels of the ceiling, the sloped wooden beams. The coldness of the room, the slight, monotonous whir of the air circulating through one of the vents overhead.
He’s leaned up against the wall, seated on the floor in the hallway, and Vincent is kneeling beside him, his eyebrows furrowed.
It takes him a moment to realize where he is. He had been about to head back to the courtyard, hadn’t he? He doesn’t have much memory of anything that happened after, but judging by Vincent’s reaction, he thinks he can probably guess.
“Hi,” Yves says, for lack of a better thing to say.
He watches a complicated set of expressions flicker through Vincent’s face—relief, first, before it turns to something distinctly less neutral.
“You’re awake,” Vincent says. He turns away, for a moment. Yves notes the clench of his jaw, the tightness of his grip—his fingers white around Yves’s sleeve.
“Was I out for long?”
“A couple minutes.”
Yves wants to say something. He should say something. Anything to lighten the tension, anything to get the point across that this is all just an unlucky miscalculation, on his part. It really isn’t something Vincent should have to be worried about.
“I’m sorry for making you wait,” he starts. Really, what he means is, I’m sorry for making you worry about me. “I promise I’mb fine.”
The look on Vincent’s face, then, is something that Yves hasn’t seen before.
“Why do you have to—” he starts, frustration rising in his voice. He sighs, his jaw set. “I don’t understand why you—” He drops his hand from Yves’s sleeve, and it’s then when Yves notices the stiffness to his shoulders, the tension in his posture. He runs a hand through his hair, lets out another short, exasperated breath. “You’re not fine.”
It’s strange, Yves thinks, to see him like this—Vincent, who usually never wears his emotions on his face, looks clearly displeased, now.
“Hey,” Yves says, softly. He reaches out to take Vincent’s hand. Vincent goes very still with the contact, but he doesn’t say anything. “I—”
Fuck. His body seems to always pick the worst time for unwanted interjections. He wrenches his hand away just in time to smother a sneeze into his sleeve, though it’s forceful enough to leave him slightly lightheaded.
“Stay here,” Vincent says, getting to his feet. “Lay down if you get dizzy again.”
Yves blinks. “Where are you going?”
“To tell the others that we’re leaving.”
Yves wants to protest. Dinner is already halfway over. It’s not as if the festivities are particularly strenuous. They’ll probably move inside after dinner, where it’s warmer.
But he thinks better of it. Judging by how exhausted he still feels, how much his head aches, it probably wouldn’t be wise to push it.
“Don’t tell them about this,” he says.
Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “What?”
“Aimee is going to worry if she finds out,” Yves says, dropping his head to his knees. He doesn’t want to look at Vincent, doesn’t want to know what expression is on his face. “Just—let them have this night. It’s—supposed to be perfect.” I really wanted it to be perfect, he almost adds. There’s a strange tightness to his throat as he says it, a strange heaviness to his chest.
He knows what it means. If, after he’s tried so hard to do his part, their evening still ends up ruined on his own accord, he’s not sure if he could live with himself after.
For a moment, Vincent doesn’t say anything at all.
“Okay,” he says, at last. “Just stay here.”
And then he heads down the hallway. The door at the end of the reception hall swings shut behind him. Yves thinks he should be relieved, but he finds that he doesn’t feel much other than exhausted.
—
The ride home on the shuttle is silent. Vincent sits next to him, even though all of the other seats are empty. Yves thinks the proximity is probably inadvisable. He opens his mouth to say as much, and then shuts it.
Vincent sits and stares straight ahead, his posture stiff, and doesn’t say anything for the entirety of the ride. It’s strange. Yves is no stranger to silence—Vincent is, after all, a coworker, and Yves has endured more than a few quiet elevator rides and quiet team lunches at the office, but it’s strange because it’s Vincent.
Vincent, who usually takes care to make conversation with him, whenever it’s just the two of them. Vincent, who stayed up through the lull of antihistamines a couple months ago to talk to Yves, until Yves had given him explicit permission to go to sleep.
Yves tries not to think about it. Through the haze of his fever, everything feels unusually bright—the interior of the shuttle, with its leather seats and metal handrails.
The shuttle stops just outside the main entrance to their hotel. Just before he gets to the doors, he stumbles. Vincent’s hand shoots out, instinctively, to steady him.
“Sorry,” Yves says, a little sheepishly. It’s not that he’s dizzy. The roads are just uneven, and it’s dark. “I can walk.”
But Vincent doesn’t let go—not for the entirety of the walk through the cool, air-conditioned lobby, through the hallways to the hotel elevators. Not when the elevator stops at their floor, not when they pass by the grid of wooden doors leading up to their room.
Before Yves can manage to reach for his keycard, Vincent has already swiped them in, scarily efficient. He slides the card back into his pocket, pushes the door open.
“Thadks for walking me back,” Yves says. “Sorry you couldn’t stay longer. You mbust’ve been halfway through dinner.”
“I already finished eating,” Vincent says.
“Even dessert?” Yves says. “I think Aimee got everyone creme brulee from one of the local bakeries. I was excited to try it. Maybe Leon can save us some.” he muffles a yawn into his hand. It’s too early to be sleeping, but his pull out bed looks very inviting right now.
“Take the bed,” Vincent says.
Yves blinks at him. “What?”
“The bed’s warmer.”
There’s absolutely no way he’s going to let Vincent take the pull-out bed in his place, Yves thinks blearily. He’s spent the past couple nights muffling sneezes into the covers—if there’s anything he’s certain of, it’s that he really, really doesn’t want Vincent to catch this.
“I dod’t think we should switch,” he says, sniffling. “I’ve been sleeping here ever sidce I started coming down with this. I’mb— hHeh-!” He veers away, raising an elbow to his face. “hh—HHEh’IIDZschH’-iEEW! Ugh, I’mb pretty sure I contaminated it.”
“We can both take the bed, if you’d prefer,” Vincent says. As if it’s that simple.
Yves opens his mouth to protest—is Vincent really okay with sharing a bed with him?—but then he thinks about Vincent finding him in the hallway—the stricken expression on his face, then, his eyes wide, his jaw clenched—and thinks better of himself.
Instead, he lets Vincent lead him to the bedroom. The bed is neatly made—the covers drawn, the pillows propped up against the headboard.
“Lay down,” Vincent says, pushing lightly down on his shoulders. Yves sits. He peels off his suit jacket, folds it, and sets it aside on the nightstand.
“Hey, I kdow that was sudden,” he says, in reference to earlier. “I’mb sorry you had to witness it. I… probably shouldn’t have pushed it.”
Vincent says nothing, to that.
Yves lays down, shuts his eyes. “You didn’t have to accompady me home, you know.”
Silence. He exhales, burrowing deeper into the covers. “It’s not as bad as it looks, seriously.”
He opens his mouth to say more. He has to say something, he thinks, to convince Vincent that it’s really not that big of a deal. Anything, to assuage that look on Vincent’s face.
But he’s so tired. He can feel the exhaustion now that he’s finally let himself lay down. The bed is traitorously comfortable, with its soft feather pillows and its fluffy layers of blankets, and Vincent was right—it really is warmer.
He feels the press of a hand on his forehead, feels the cold, unyielding pressure. Feels gentle, calloused fingers brush the hair out of his face.
“Sleep,” Vincent says, firmly.
And Yves—
Yves, already half gone, is powerless, when Vincent says it like that.
—
When he wakes, it’s just barely bright outside. He takes it in—the first few rays of sunlight, streaking through the curtains. The bed, a little more well-cushioned than the pullout bed he’d spent the past few nights on—higher up and decisively sturdier. He blinks.
Beside him, seated on a chair he recognizes as belonging to the desk at the opposite end of the room, is Vincent.
Vincent, awake. Yves isn’t sure if he’s slept at all. He certainly doesn’t look tired, at first glance, but closer inspection reveals a little more. It’s evident in the way he holds his shoulders, stiff, and perhaps a little tired, as if there’s been tension sitting in them all night.
He’s reading a book. Whether he bought it at the convenience store downstairs, or on one of the other days when Yves was busy running errands for the wedding and Vincent was elsewhere, or whether it’d been sitting in his suitcase since the start of the vacation, Yves doesn’t know.
“How’s the book?” Yves says.
His throat is dry, he realizes, for the way it makes him cough, afterwards. Vincent’s eyes meet his, unerringly. He shuts the book, sets it down on the bedside table.
“It’s a little boring,” Vincent says. “How’s the fever?”
Before Yves can answer, Vincent leans forward and presses the back of his hand to Yves’s forehead. His touch is unerringly gentle, and Yves allows himself to look.
Vincent’s eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, and Yves wonders, suddenly, if he’s been this worried for awhile, now. If he’s been this worried ever since he’d walked them both back into the hotel room last night.
“I’m fine,” Yves says.
It has the opposite effect he intends it to.
Vincent’s expression shutters. “The last time you said that, you passed out in front of me,” he says, withdrawing his hand with a frown. “So forgive me if I don’t entirely believe you.”
Yves sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. It’s a fair point. “I’m usually more reliable whed it comes to these things.”
“What things?”
“Kdowing my limits.”
Vincent says, “I think you knew your limits. I think you just didn’t want to honor them, because you decided the wedding took precedence.”
He’s… frustrated, Yves realizes. Still. He’s sure he can guess why. Their fake relationship does not extend to Vincent having to look after him, to Vincent having to drop everything in the middle of a wedding, of all things, to take him home. To Vincent having to worry about all this—the fever Yves knows he has, now, and the bed he’s currently taking up—on top of everything else. As if being in a foreign country, surrounded by people he knows almost exclusively through Yves, who, for the most part, converse in a language he barely speaks, wasn’t already enough work on its own.
And Yves gets it. He hadn’t wanted this to happen, either. He’d told himself that if this—this pretend relationship, this pretense—is contingent upon both of them playing their part, the least he can do is be self-sufficient outside of it.
But now—because Vincent is here with him, and because they share a hotel room—all of this is now Vincent’s problem, too, by extension.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asks.
Vincent smiles at him, a little wryly, as if the answer is evident.
“You gave up your bed just for me to steal it,” Yves says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “It’s really comfortable, and all, but I’mb pretty sure they make these kinds of beds for two.”
“Is that a proposition?” Vincent says.
“Maybe.” Yves thinks it through. “Realistically, probably ndot, until I have a chance to shower.” He’s still dressed in his dress shirt and slacks from yesterday, a little embarrassingly—he should probably get changed. “Speaking of which, I should do that soon, so you don’t feel the need to stay up all night reading—” Yves leans forward, squints at the book cover on the nightstand. “—Hemingway? Somehow, I didn’t expect you to be the type.”
“I’m not,” Vincent says. “Victoire lent it to me.”
“Oh,” Yves says, trying to think of when Vincent would’ve had time to ask her for a recommendation. “Yeah. She’s—” He twists aside, ducking into his elbow. “hHEH’IIDzschh-EEW! snf-! She’s quite the literary reader. Is it really that boring?”
“I can see why people think the transparency of his prose is appealing,” Vincent says. “But I’m fifty pages in, and nothing has happened.”
“Isd’t that the sort of thing Hemingway can get away with, since he’s straightforward about it?”
“In a short story, maybe,” Vincent says. Then: “You are trying to make me feel better.”
Ah.
Yves laughs. “Where in the world did you get that idea?”
Vincent just sighs. “I would be exceptionally unobservant not to notice when I’ve seen you do the same thing all this week.”
“What?”
“Telling people that you’re fine,” Vincent says. “And distracting them when they don’t believe you.”
Yves doesn’t think that’s entirely accurate. It’s not like he was trying to be dishonest. It’s just that it was never the most important thing to address.
“Distracting is a bit disingenuous.”
“I don’t get it,” Vincent says, with a frown. “You’re so insistent on putting yourself last, even when you were obviously—” He sighs. There it is—that expression again, the one that makes itself evident through the furrowed eyebrows, the tense set of his jaw—frustration, and maybe something else. “You’re surrounded by people who care about you, so why not just—”
“There are plenty of things more important than how I’mb feeling,” Yves says.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
But of course it is, Yves thinks. A wedding is a once in a lifetime occurrence. An illness is nothing, in the face of that.
“I promised I’d be there,” he says, because when it really comes down to it, it’s true. He had no intention of going back on his word. “I didn’t want to be the one to let them down. Is that so hard to believe?” He reaches up with a hand to massage his temples. His head aches, even though he’s slept for long enough that he feels like it ought to feel a little better, by now. “It’s already bad enough that I had to drag you into this.”
“You didn’t drag me into this,” Vincent says. “I came on my own volition.”
Yves tries a laugh, but it’s humorless. “I made you leave halfway through the wedding dinner.”
“I’d already finished eating.”
“Ndot to mention, you practically had to carry me upstairs.”
“Because you’re ill.”
“That’s no excuse.” Yves wants to say more, but he finds himself beholden to a tickle in the back of his throat—irritatingly present, until he concedes to it by ducking into his elbow to cough, and cough.
When he looks up, blinking tears out of his vision, Vincent isn’t looking at him.
“You should get some rest,” he says, simply.
Yves can tell—just by the way he says it—that there is no argument to him, anymore. Just like that, Vincent is back to being closed off—poised and perfectly, infuriatingly unreadable, just like he is at work, his face so carefully a mask of indifference, even in the most stressful presentations, the most frustrating disagreements. Yves wants none of it.
“Hey,” he says. A part of him itches to crack a joke, to change the subject—anything to take away this air of seriousness. A part of him wants to reach out, again—to take Vincent’s hand, entwine their fingers; to reassure him, again, that he’s really fine.
“I’m sorry,” he says, instead. Maybe it’s the fever that loosens his tongue. Maybe it’s just a combination of everything.
He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him, still. Vincent has always held a sort of intensity to him, a quiet sort of perceptiveness. “I’m not sure I follow,” Vincent says.
“This visit was supposed to be fun for you,” he says. “And now you’re here, stuck in the hotel room because of me, even though today was supposed to be for sightseeing.”
It doesn’t feel like enough. What can he say to make it enough? There’s a strange ache in his chest, a strange, crushing pressure. Yves is horrified to find his eyes stinging. He’s held it together for so long, he thinks. Why now? Why, when Vincent is right here?
But a part of him knows, too. Of course traveling to a different country would be more involved than going to a party, or spending an evening at a stranger’s house. But there was a time when he thought this could really just be a fun excursion for the both of them—half a week in his family’s home country, with someone who he thoroughly enjoys spending time with.
And now, because of this untimely illness—or because of his own short-sightedness in managing it—it isn’t. He didn’t get to stay through dinner, didn’t get to wish Aimee and Genevieve a good rest of their night, like he’d planned to. He has no idea if things went smoothly in his absence. To make matters worse, Vincent is here, having endured a sleepless night, instead of anywhere else.
And really, when he thinks about it, who does have to blame for all of this, except himself?
“I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” he says. “So I’m sorry.” He resists the urge to swipe a hand over his eyes—surely, he thinks, that would give him away.
He turns away. It’s convenient, he thinks, that the embarrassing sniffle that follows could be attributed to something else.
“You’ve been nothing but accommodating to me, this whole visit,” Vincent says. “If anything, I should’ve insisted that you take the bed earlier. You haven’t been sleeping well, have you?”
He says it with such certainty. Yves opens his mouth to protest this—or to apologize, for all the times he must’ve kept Vincent up, including but not limited to last night—but Vincent presses on.
“You spent all of yesterday morning helping everyone get ready, and when I got back, you apologized for not being around—as if the reason why you weren’t around wasn’t that you were so busy making sure everything was fine for everyone else.” Vincent pauses, takes in a slow, measured breath. Yves is surprised to hear that he sounds… distinctly angry, in a way that Yves is not used to hearing.
“And then you showed up to the rehearsal and the wedding, even though you weren’t feeling well. And you still think you have something to apologize for? Are you even hearing yourself?” Yves hears the creak of the chair as he stands, the sound of quiet footsteps. Feels the dip of the bed as Vincent takes a seat at the edge of it.
“You know, after you left the dinner table, Genevieve was talking about how much she liked your speech? Do you know that yesterday morning, Solaine told me how grateful she was that you helped her with fixing her dress? Do you know that when I got lunch with Leon and Victoire, they told me how much time you spent preparing for everything—the speech, and the wedding, both?”
Oh. Yves hadn’t known any of those things, and he knows Vincent isn’t the kind of person who would lie about this sort of thing.
“I don’t get it,” Vincent says, sounding distinctly pained to say it. “How could you possibly think that you haven’t done enough?”
Yves finds himself taken aback—by the frustration in his voice, by the fact that Vincent has noticed these things in the first place, by the fact that he’s deemed them important enough to take stock of. He makes it sound so simple.
“I don’t know,” Yves says, at last. He shuts his eyes. “If it was enough.”
“I’m telling you that it was,” Vincent says.
But Yves knows that he could have done more, if the circumstances were different. If he hadn’t been so out of it during the wedding. If he’d taken the necessary precautions to avoid coming down with this in the first place. If he’d been able to stay through dinner, at least; if he hadn’t needed Vincent to accompany him home.
“You don’t believe me,” Vincent says, with a sigh.
Yves doesn’t say anything, to that.
“I can’t speak for anyone else,” Vincent says. There’s the slight rustling of the covers as he shifts, rearranging one of the pillows at the headboard. “But I had fun.”
Yves’s heart twists.
It’s sweet, unexpectedly. “You don’t have to say that just to make me feel better,” Yves says.
“When have I ever said anything just to make you feel better?” Vincent says, with a short laugh. When Yves chances a look at him, he’s smiling down at himself. “I mean it. Meeting your family has been a lot of fun. It’s not often that I get the chance to be a part of something like this.”
Whether he’s referring to France, or the wedding and the festivities, or being surrounded by Yves’s large extended family, Yves isn’t sure. But if Vincent is trying to cheer him up, it’s working.
“I can see why you like France so much,” he says, turning his gaze out the window, though the view outside is filtered through the semi-translucent curtains. “It’s beautiful.”
“Today was supposed to be the last day for sightseeing,” Yves says, a little regretful. “But you’re stuck here.”
“In a sunny, luxurious hotel room, with a view of the pool and the garden?” Vincent says, with a scoff. “I could think of worse places to be.”
Staying up all night, just to check up on Yves, more accurately. Vincent must be tired, too—yesterday was already tiring enough. And now it’s morning already, and he hasn’t gotten any sleep.
“Reading Hemingway,” Yves adds.
Vincent looks a little surprised. Then he laughs. “Yes. I guess you’re right. Perhaps it’s an agonizing experience after all.”
The yawn he stifles into his hand, after that isn’t half as subtle as he tries to make it.
Yves feels his eyebrows creep up. “Are you sure you don’t want to get some sleep? There’s plenty of room.” He scoots a little closer to the edge of the bed, just to make a point.
Vincent peers down at the space beside him, a little hesitant. “At 10am?”
“It’d be, what, 4am, back in Eastern time?” Yves says. “By Ndew York standards, you’re supposed to already be asleep.”
“That’s not how it works,” Vincent says, but he dutifully moves a little closer to Yves anyways. He’s changed out of yesterday’s wedding attire, more sensibly, but now he’s wearing a knitted cardigan which Yves thinks looks unfairly, terribly good on him. Yves finds himself marveling at the unfairness of it all. How can someone look so good wearing something so casual?
Vincent smells good, up close. When he lays down next to Yves, pulling the covers gingerly over himself—leaving a careful amount of room between them, but still dangerously, intoxicatingly close—Yves feels his breath catch in his throat.
Vincent is right there, less than an arm’s length away from him, closer than he’s ever been, and Yves—Yves is—
“See,” Yves says, as evenly as he can manage to, in his current state, as if his heart isn’t practically beating out of his chest. He swallows. His throat feels dry. “This bed definitely fits two.”
“I suppose it does,” Vincent says. “Now you can tell me if I’m a terrible person to share a bed with.”
“After everything I’ve put you through,” Yves says, “I think I’d honestly feel reassured if you were.”
Vincent smiles, again, as if he finds this humorous. “Are you sure you’re going to be fine?”
“Positive,” Yves says. “You should sleep. I’ll wake you if I ndeed anything.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.” Vincent shuts his eyes.
It’s not long before his breathing evens out, not long before he goes perfectly still. He must really be tired, Yves thinks, with a pang.
Yves, for some reason, finds that he can’t get to sleep. He stares up at the ceiling for what feels like minutes on end, shuts his eyes, all to no avail. Maybe it’s because he’s already slept far more than his usual share. Maybe it’s the jetlag. Maybe it’s merely Vincent’s unusual presence—the strangeness of having him so close, in an environment so intimate.
But when he allows himself to look, he sees—
Vincent, his eyes shut, his eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks. From the window, the filtered light gleams unevenly across the crown of dark hair on his head. There’s almost no movement to him at all, aside from the even rise and fall of his shoulders.
And Yves knows what the feeling in his chest is. He’s regrettably, intimately familiar with it.
He just isn’t sure he likes what it means.
—
Vincent—despite falling asleep so quickly—is up before him. When Yves wakes, next, it’s to a hand to his forehead.
“Hey,” Vincent is saying, softly. “Yves. You have a visitor.”
Yves opens his eyes.
He’s feeling—a little better, remarkably. Still feverish, still a little unsteady, but leagues better as compared to yesterday. When he looks over, he sees—
He doesn’t jolt upright, but it’s a close thing. “Aimee!”
He barely has a chance to ask before she’s crashing into him, encircling him in a tight hug. “Yves!” she exclaims, pulling back from him. “How are you feeling? Oh my gosh, when I heard you left early because you were unwell, I was so worried…”
Yves grimaces, turning away. “Sorry, I had every idtention of staying until the end—”
“You came all the way out with the flu!” she says. “I honestly can’t believe you. The fact that you still took the trouble to attend with a fever—”
“It—” Yves starts, but he finds himself twisting away, lifting an arm to his face. “hhEH-! HEEhD’TTSCHH-iiiEEw! Snf-! It’s fide, snf-! I’mb practically recovered already.”
“I should’ve told you not to push yourself when you told me you were coming down with something,” Aimee says, shaking her head. “And you stayed and gave such a lovely speech, even though you weren’t feeling well? When I was talking to Victoire after, she mentioned that you’ve been sick for days and Genevieve—you should’ve said something.”
“I’ll say somethidg next time,” Yves says, a little sheepishly. “Did the wedding go okay?”
Aimee visibly brightens, at this. “It was more than okay,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “It blew every expectation that I had out of the water.”
Aimee fills him in on everything that happened after he left, last night—dessert, the first dance, the cake-cutting; her favorites out of the photos they’d taken after the ceremony (a shot of Genevieve braiding her hair during the cocktail hour; a shot of them leaning in close, for the dance, tired but smiling; a shot of the cake with its multiple tiers, the frosting strung like banners across it; another where both of them are holding onto the cutting knife together and Genevieve looks like she is trying not to laugh; a shot of the bouquet toss, the flowers suspended in mid-air). She tells him about the conversations she and Genevieve had with others about marriage and their futures and their plans for their honeymoon.
Then she lectures him on how he should worry about his health first, next time. She tells him, in no uncertain terms, that she’s fully prepared to give him a piece of her mind the next time he tries to pull something like this. She insists that his health is more important than anything. Vincent stands off to the side the entire time, his arms crossed, passively listening in, but when Yves looks over helplessly, mid-lecture, he definitely looks a little smug.
All in all, she doesn’t seem disappointed in him at all. And, more importantly, she seems happy. Yves finds himself relieved, at this.
Genevieve stops by, too, a little later, to thank him for the advice he’d given her the day before the wedding. She hugs him too, and she leaves him a bag of tea that she promises “is practically a cure to anything—I hope it makes your flight home tomorrow a little more tolerable.” Victoire stops by, with Leon, and Yves resigns himself to more lecturing from the both of them. It’s humbling, a little, to be lectured by his younger sister and his younger brother, though he concedes that perhaps this time, it might be at least partially warranted.
Then Leon opens their hotel fridge to show him the two creme brulees he and Vincent had missed out on, packaged nicely in small paper containers. (“Vincent told me you were interested in these,” he says, and Yves finds himself slightly mortified—but perhaps also a little endeared—that whatever it was that he’d said last night, offhandedly, Vincent had deemed it important enough to text Leon about.)
Later, after Yves showers and gets changed—when he and Vincent eat the creme brulees at the table in the living room, and Vincent tells him that he’s finished the book, perhaps a little masochistically (“it doesn’t get any better,” he says, sounding a little spiteful)—Yves finds himself smiling.
He’s happy, he realizes, despite everything that’s happened. Even with the slight headache, and the lingering congestion, the fever that hasn’t quite gone away entirely. The revelation comes as a surprise to him, at first. But when he thinks about the people he’s surrounded with, he thinks perhaps it isn’t all that surprising.
—
EPILOGUE
“Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” Vincent asks.
“Yes,” Yves says. It’s not a lie.
This time, he’s seated right next to the window, and Vincent is in the middle seat. Yves had offered to take the middle seat instead, but Vincent had insisted(“If you wanted to sleep, you could lean against the window,” he’d said, and Yves had accepted only because it would be better to fall asleep against the window than do something embarrassing, like fall asleep on Vincent’s shoulder).
“It’s just the annoyidg residual symptoms, now,” he says. “I—”
God. He always has the worst timing. He veers away, muffling a tightly contained sneeze into his shoulder.
“hHEH-’IIDDZschH-yyEW! Snf-! I’mb — hHhEHh’DjjsSHH-iEW! Ugh, I’m fine. I feel better thad I sound.”
“Bless you,” Vincent says, leaning over to press his hand against Yves’s forehead. “No fever,” he says. “That’s good. But you should take another day off when we get back.”
Yves doesn’t think taking another day off is necessary. “I spedt the entirety of yesterday sleeping,” he says. “I think I’ve rested enough.”
Vincent just raises an eyebrow at him. “Need I remind you that someone very wise told you to take it easy?”
“Since when has Aimee been your spokesperson?”
“She made a lot of good points,” Vincent says, deceptively unassuming. “I think you should consider taking notes.”
Yves looks at him for a moment. “You’re laughing at me.”
This time, Vincent smiles. “Maybe.”
Yves leans back in his seat, reaching up with one hand to massage his temples. The changing cabin pressure is not exactly comfortable—his head still hurts a little, but he’s flown enough times to know that it won’t be as much of a problem once they finish their ascent.
“Thadks again for coming,” he says, unwrapping one of the small, packaged pillows the airline has left on their seats.
“You invited me,” Vincent says, blinking. “All I did was show up.”
But that isn’t true at all, Yves thinks. Vincent is the one who spent time learning basic French, who met Yves’s family and who spoke with everyone with genuine interest, who bought Yves medicine and water, all while being careful to not be overbearing. Vincent is the one who left the wedding early to walk Yves back to the hotel, who stayed with him the entire day afterwards.
“That’s such a huge understatement I don’t even kdow where to get started,” Yves says. “Thanks for meetidg my family—they love you, by the way. They’re going to be askidg about you every summer from now on, I just know it.”
He can already picture it—June, this year, after busy season is over, if their fake relationship lasts that long. Another flight where they’re next to each other. Another dozen conversations about how they’d met, about what it’s like dating a coworker, about what their plans for the future are.
Perhaps it’s wishful thinking. This was never meant to be a long-term arrangement in the first place. But something about this—about being here with Vincent—just feels so unthinkingly easy.
“It’s no problem,” Vincent says. “The feeling is mutual. I’m glad I got to meet them.”
“Thanks for looking after me, too,” Yves says, with another apologetic smile. “I’mb sure being stuck in a hotel room all day wasn’t how you were planning on spending your last day of vacation.”
“I don’t mind,” Vincent says, sounding strangely like he means it. “I like spending time with you.”
Yves nearly drops the pillow he’s holding.
When he looks back at Vincent, Vincent looks faintly amused. “Is that so surprising? I think I’d be a terrible fake boyfriend if I didn’t.”
“You make a really good one, as it stands,” Yves tells him, sincerely, and Vincent smiles.
Yves looks out the window—where the city beneath them begins to resolve itself into miniature, where the sky stretches where he can see Vincent reflected faintly back at him, from the glass—and finds that he feels impossibly light.
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M Allergies, 1.6k words
I'm back with another fic gang. This time featuring two high society exes reuniting at a fancy gala. In proper prohistamine fashion this one features allergies, a character with the fetish, and fun power dynamics.
Be warned! somewhat explicit sexual content and general unforgivable horniness
“Lovely of you to come, truly I’m so glad to see you both.” Lorna shook the minister's hand in hers, firmly and warmly. A handshake practiced a thousand times over. “Ms. Windsor arrived a few minutes ago I believe, I’m sure she’d be delighted to catch up on your party's substantial victories in the recent election.”
As he turned away Lorna selected a flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and took a healthy sip. She’d need it to get through the rest of the night. She turned towards the door, ready to resume her assessment of each new guest as they arrived, but when she saw the man who’d just walked through the doors her stomach dropped. His dark hair was shorter than the last time she'd seen him, falling in waves around his face. He looked smug as ever, and when he caught her eye he started walking her way.
“Colin,” she murmured through gritted teeth, “I didn’t think you’d be caught dead here.”
Colin grinned thinly. “Ah well, you would assume I’d choose to be petty, you always thought the worst of me.”
She scoffed. “That is a charitable way to describe two years of you repeatedly lowering my expectations.”
“Now Lorna, can’t we put the past behind us? What is it we always said, not to let pleasure interfere with our business?”
“Stirring up unnecessary rumors will interfere with business. Don’t you think it’s a bit soon for us to be speaking in public? The dust has barely settled, people will talk.”
“‘Oh the worst fate!” he said in mocking horror, “to be the victim of gossip! Do you think we’ll make it out alive?”
“Oh of course, because you're so above petty politics. I’m the one who’s obsessed with gossip and you just let it roll off your back.”
“Do you think you could say that again for me? Maybe I can get it on tape.” He smiled and rubbed at his nose absentmindedly.
“You know what? I’m glad you came. I really missed that familiar little headache you gave me. It's this sort of… gentle throbbing at the base of my skull? I’m just not the same without it.”
“I knew you missed me. I missed the exercise I got from our conversations, we should really make a habit of it.” He rubbed his nose again, with more intention, and was she imagining it, or was the motion accompanied by the faint sound of wetness?
“Are you just here to flaunt your ability to get yourself out of bed?” Lorna asked, “ Because if so, point proven. This is kind of an important night for me.”
“Ah well, I’m glad you recognize my presence as the achievement it is, but I do have something to-” he cut himself off with a sniff and a scrubbing at his nostrils, “something to discuss. I have to ahh- hehh-” Lorna recognized the face he was making immediately, the far away look in his eye, the crease between his eyebrows. His buildup was, as always, dramatically long before he snatched his handkerchief out of his pocket and sneezed into it twice “AaaSCHU! AaaeSTCHU!” As always, there was no attempt to stifle his violent outburst. He looked up at her blearily, “Ah, pardon me.”
There was a faint smirk in his tone. Lorna scowled. Of course this would happen, just what she needed when she was already struggling to maintain her composure.
“Bless you.” she managed to say, intent on keeping her voice even. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of having a reaction.
“Thank you I- oh there's- Aaah- ahh- AhGHSHUU! AESHTEW! AEGHEEW! Huhh. There were more.”
Despite her frustration, the familiar heat was rising in Lorna’s stomach and traveling down between her legs. Composure be damned, she leaned forward and hissed into his ear.
“Are you doing this on purpose?”
He chuckled. “Oh that would have been brilliant. I’m not that cruel, I'm afraid, or that creative. It must be the floral decorations. I’m desperately allergic, you see.”
Oh he was fucking loving this.
“People will stare you know. You’re embarrassing yourself.” She was looking for any way to take back power in the conversation, and she realized she’d been sloppy the moment she spoke.
“Embarrassing myself?” he asked smugly, “Oh you’d love that wouldn’t you.”
“I’m leaving.”
“C’mon now Lorna, I do have something important to discuss. How about we go out onto the balcony to talk. No worries about prying eyes, and the fresh air will be good for my nose.”
Lorna cast a glance at the large glass doors leading out to the south balcony. They had fabric drapes in front of them, placed intentionally for anyone desiring a conversation away from the eye of the press. Regardless of the privacy they’d have once they got there, people would be sure to notice the two of them leaving together. The smart decision would be to tell him she wasn’t interested in talking, but she desperately wanted a break from the crowd, and, pathetic as it made her feel, she wasn’t sure she could pass up the chance to continue watching him sneeze. It had been months since she’d had the pleasure, and she was beginning to feel like a woman starved.
“Fine.”
“Marvelous.” he said, words slightly muddled with congestion.
They made their way across the room, no doubt incurring the whispers of several guests.
Once they’d stepped outside and shut the doors behind them, Lorna turned to Colin only to see his face skewed in preparation for another sneeze.
“Hehh- Hhh- HhhSTCHU! HaAGHSHEW- I ha- hhh hhASHEW! I haahh- hadn’t realized it was …it was-” he held the handkerchief in front of his face expectantly as he struggled through the sentence, head tilted back as he gulped in air to fuel the fit, “ATZSHUU! ASHEWW! R-realized it was so… ahh- AschUUu! so cold out here.”
A sufficient chill had settled in the air since the sun had set, something Lorna hadn’t even considered. Colin was wearing nothing but a simple suit jacket, and he’d always been incredibly sensitive to changes in temperature. Just going outside in cold weather usually caused him a small fit, and the combination with his fall allergies was having quite the effect. He blew his nose into the folds of his handkerchief and then geared up for more.
“heeSGHEW! EESGHEW! HESHEWW!! Hehh- haaahh- ahh- ASHEW!” He was bending at the waist now with the force of them, and reached blindly to his left in search of the balcony railing, which he leaned on for support once he found it.
“Huhh-hhhh-hhoh god- heeehSHUUH! EESHEW! HEERGHSTEW! ESH-ESH-ESHU!!
The fit was punctuated by three violent little sneezes that tripped over each other to be released.
Since the moment he’d first sneezed, Lorna had felt like she was putty in Colin’s hand. His intimate knowledge of just what his allergies did to her gave him a maddening and tantalizing power over her. However, as he desperately wrenched forward with sneeze after sneeze, one hand shakily clasping a handkerchief to his face and the other doing its best to keep him upright, it was hard to see him as holding any kind of powerful position. For the first time that night she felt a twinge of pity for him. The feeling both frustrated her, and, of course, only served to further arouse her.
His fit finally subsided, and he slumped against the railing, gasping for breath.
“Sorry,” he managed, too exhausted to sound properly smug.
“Don’t be,” she couldn’t help but reply, her voice high pitched and obvious. She was so wet that she was worried it might actually start dripping down her legs. They both stood there for a moment in silence.
“So,” he started, still somewhat breathless, “about the election-”
“Colin-” she interrupted him, “I appreciate the effort to resume our professional relationship, but I don’t think I can listen to you talk about politics after that performance.” She knew she had admitted defeat, but in the face of his sniffling, shivering frame she found she no longer desired to one up him. What she really desired was to fuck him, to ease him open with her fingers and fill him up until he couldnt see. That or be fucked by him, bent over and begging for it as he held her by the hips with his big hands.
“I understand,” he said, “another time then. Perhaps then, before we go inside, I could talk to you about something expressly unprofessional.”
“Have at it Colin,” she said, trying not to sound like she was begging for it.
“There's something I’d like to show you. I warn you, it’s somewhat inappropriate.”
She felt her heart flutter in her chest, “I can handle that.”
He took a step toward her and then took her wrist. He guided her hand forward, lowering it beneath his waist and then pressing it between his legs where an erection was straining against the fabric of his dress pants. She moaned audibly at the surprise.
“Do you see what you’ve done to me?” he murmured into her ear, “this is what happens to me now, every time I sneeze. I can’t help it.”
“Colin,” her voice was strangled.
“How am I going to explain this to future lovers? You know how I get in the spring, I’ll be hard constantly. What will I say if they notice my cock twitch every time I sneeze? Every time they sneeze?”
Lorna’s clit was throbbing. Colin gave a liquid sniff, and she moaned again, body shuddering against his. Her hand closed slightly around his cock and he gasped sharply.
“My nose still itches terribly,” he murmured, accentuating the statement with another sniffle, “It would feel heavenly to rub it on something soft.”
“Please,” she begged him.
He leaned down slowly, placing a hand firmly on her hip, and dragged his nose across her shoulder, rubbing it in the nape of her neck. She trembled at the feeling of his soft nostrils, shifting as they rubbed against her, leaving her skin slightly wet.
“Fuck, that feels nice,” he said softly. She could do nothing but whimper in response.
She let it go on for a moment, their bodies intertwined, her hand on his cock and his nose buried against her. It took everything in her not to pull him into a kiss. Instead she stepped back, and wiped her shoulder with her hand.
“Thank you,” she said, wrangling her voice back to her well-practiced professionalism, “for that stimulating conversation on politics.” She took a moment to compose herself, taking a long deep breath and then continuing, “I have a gala to host, and you have one to attend. I think it best we continue this conversation later, after the guests have left. Perhaps in my personal chambers. You’d have to be discreet about staying behind of course, we wouldn’t want my guests to suspect we’re doing something illicit.”
Colin looked taken aback, and then broke into a wide grin, “Of course ma’am.”
She turned towards the door and then, before opening it, turned back towards him. “This does not mean I forgive you, " she said sternly.
Colin’s eyes sparkled. “Of course not.”
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It's Manual Fucking Labor (Luci/fer)
Been working on this one for a bit. I love the delicious rivalry between Al and Luci, so I toyed with that a bit and made it spicy with some snz. I also am really enjoying the text flair I'm getting to play with for all these characters, so I hope yall are liking that. Ahaha. Enjoy!!
“That one needs to go over here!” Charlie points as she heaves one of the freshly slated planks of wood for the hotel revamp. “Can you cut three more for us, dad?” she smiles sweetly at Lucifer who sits crosslegged in front of a pile of wood.
He nods, dragging the back of his arm across his forehead. “I, uh, I’ll go head and do that, sure.”
Her eyes are bright and full, like the sun he never saw. “Dad,” she beams at him, “thank you for this.”
He tilts his head, “For what, Char Char?”
“For helping. For putting in so much effort. For,” she pats one of the planks, “for wanting to do it this way.”
Lucifer’s brows rise. “Th-this way?”
Charlie strides off before he can ask her to elaborate. His eyes flick back to the uncut wood and his lips tip down in a pout.
“Problem?” A staticky trill sends Lucifer’s hackles up.
“What?” Lucifer snaps, grabbing one of the slabs of wood, dragging a sharp claw deftly down the middle and cutting it as if it were a razor saw. Small fluffy flakes snow the air around him, making his cheeks fuzz. “Hhhfff…” his brow scrunches and a flush spreads from the circles on his cheeks. “Hieh--HiSFFH!”
Alastor skips over, peering down in amusement as sawdust skitters all around the fallen angel.
“Hm, quite shoddy,” the Radio Demon observes, tapping his cane against the plank with a squeal of feedback.
Lucifer finishes cutting the planks and coughs, wringing out his hands. “It’s manual labor, Alastor. I doubt you’d understand how to even do it.”
“Ooooh I see.” Alastor leans dolefully on his cane, “bonding with our dear Charlie with handmade projects?”
Lucifer sniffles, scrubbing his face with his whole fist. “Mh-hyep.”
The smugness surges by 60%. “Ohh, are we having trouble??”
“No! Of hh-c-course n--” Lucifer’s voice starts to pitch higher and higher, “Hig’Sshieu!”
Alastor lets out a keening laugh.
“Fuck off, Alastor, before I make you,” Lucifer growls.
Alastor tuts at him. “No need to be cranky, your highness.” He pulls out a red and black handkerchief, but Lucifer waves it off with a cool huff.
“I don’t need your hanky panky.”
A whistle of radio silence whines in their ears. Lucifer cocks a black eyebrow.
“What? What’d I say?”
Alastor sighs and tucks the cloth back into his suit pocket. “Not that you’d use it without a nose, anyway.”
“Hey!” Lucifer snaps, fangs glinting. “It’s complicated!”
“Far be it from me to inquire how your…extremities manifest.”
“You--snf--you--hieh!”
Alastor cups a hand over his ear, patiently waiting for the rest of the sentence, nothing but sass in his daggerlike smirk.
“I-I’m gonna--hhg’HGx’SHIeu!” This time, several puffs of flame escape from between his fangs, and Charlie finally realizes something is going on with her dad.
She hurries over after setting down what she was working on. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
Lucifer palms the spreading flush on his cheek and gives an unconvincing bray of a laugh, “Noh-huh-thing! Nothing at all! Perfectly fine!”
Alastor hums, lifting one of the smaller slabs of wood, his stance casually askew. “Of course he is, Charlie!” he saunters toward Lucifer, ever the helpful little elf. “He was just about to get started on--oh, my, let me just…” the Radio Demon scrapes his hand across the wood, brushing the powder from the last sawing off of it and directly into Lucifer’s fucking face.
“There we are! Oh dear…” Alastor feigns concern as small spirals of smoke begin to coil out of Lucifer’s snarled lips.
That fuck! He did that on phhh-pur-hhh!
His face scrunches, fangs peeking, rimmed by an orange glow as he lets out high pitched whines, “Ieh hiiih! HIP’CHSS’IEψ!” flames mist like aerosol, catching the flakes of wood shavings and motes of dust in its heat, cooking them into flakes of gray ash. The hellfire rejoices but the King sighs.
He wipes away fresh tears and lets a vague chuckle out. “Ah, Charlie, sweetie, perhaps we could speed up the process? I could just, ah,” he angles his elbows and dances his arms, “Zap a bap!” he does a little finger gun shot. “Yeah?”
“Ah, poor, Charlie,” Alastor clucks his tongue, fingers drumming across her shoulder, “I know how excited you were to do this by hand with your father--what was it you said? A bonding moment?” his voice is anything but altruistic. “But if he can’t handle it, I suppose it would be best to do things the easy way…” his teeth clack caustically.
Lucifer seethes. his teeth warping and curling. “I’m fine,” he decides, fighting back a throatful of air.
“A-are you sure, dad?”
Lucifer flaps his hand dramatically. “Absotively! Don’t w-Huh! Worry!”
Charlie doesn’t look one hundred percent convinced but if he says he’s fine, and wants to continue, then they’ll continue. She gives him two more boards to cut and hurries off to work on another section.
Lucifer turns back to the unfinished planks, his shoulders simmering with translucent fog. Alastor continues to observe in silent amusement.
“Are you going to help at all?”
“Maybe.”
Rrgh. Lucifer throws himself to a standing position, muttering under his breath. I swear to me, if Charlie didn't like that guy I would…
Well, there’s a lot he would do. Especially if he were…”Hiiet--”
Fuck me to here!
He needs to get a handle on the fucking fire. “Hgk…” Lucifer gulps the throatful of heat, his body taut with a shiver. His fingers squeeze the plank he’s holding and… ”Hi-ih-IEH⛧GHSHHIEUψu!”
Instead of flames, five feathers pop out and flit around the short King, catching the breeze and running off into the wind. A couple of them float near Alastor who looks irritated at them, waving them away with a chop of his hand and a staticky, “How very uncouth…”
Lucifer’s pride flares and his grin grows wicked.
“Weelllll,” he unfurls his six wings, exaggerating them with a flex. “I better get this installed up there.”
Lucifer quakes his wings and smacks them down, clouding the ground below his knees with dust and shavings. He shoots into the air, spinning away from the source of his allergens as he rubs at his teary eyes and flushed cheeks.
Fuck Alastor, that prick. He deserves a bit of karma. Would Lucifer really be at fault if he were flying and he just happened to lose a few feathers? If they just by chance were to fall into that jackass’s face??
As Lucifer flies, a few feathers wilt from his wings--by accident of course! And, as predicted by divine oracle, they just happen to float down near the red haired Radio Demon, currently distracted while helping Charlie with something frivolous, Lucifer is certain.
The feather drifts…soft downy catching the dying light in a soft pink glow. Slow, deliberate. It coils, totally by accident of course, right down beside the Radio Demon, and nudges the left side of his nostril. He blinks, now distracted from his work. His crimson eyes flit up but another brush of the cottony down makes his lids ripple shut.
“Hh-hh!”
His shoulders spike and he thrusts a hand up to shoo away the feather, “Ss٨ﮩﮩZH! Hgk٨ـﮩﮩ”
“Alastor!” Charlie spins in surprise when his mic clatters to the ground.
He gives a feeble attempt to wave her away but she puts an arm around him comfortingly.
“Are you alright? Maybe you should sit down. You just recovered after all--”
Lucifer watches with an indignant pout as his daughter comforts the wrong person. He doesn’t miss the not-so-subtle flash of Alastor’s smug grin as he allows Charlie to lead him away, leaving Lucifer to finish the rest of the work by himself.
God fucking dammit.
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Demon-to-Demon Ch.1/5 : Ha//zbin Ho/tel
Warnings: Contagion, some mess
Word count: 3,763
I have no self control and wanted to smack a bunch of my favorite characters with the sick stick at once, so here's chapter 1 of my self-indulgent large-scale contagion fic, enjoy!
@onetrickponi Since I promised I'd tag when it was finished ^^
Alastor knew good and well that the day’s meeting would be trouble when he heard the audible strain in Ms. Carmine’s voice when she pointedly cleared her throat to get the other overlords’ attention.
There was a grating, almost painful-sounding quality to it that made Alastor’s ears twitch, it reminded him of the hoarse undertones one would normally hear from a seasoned smoker.
The group of chattering overlords fell silent, turning their gaze toward Carmilla and awaiting the start of the meeting.
“I just-” Carmilla paused, shutting her eyes and clearing her throat a second time, “-just wanted to apologize in advance for my voice. I’ve been fighting a sore throat since yesterday.”
“You’re losing,” Velvette laughed from the opposite end of the table, rotating in her office chair and scrolling through her phone, her smug smile showing off her pearly white fangs, fangs made brighter when contrasted against her shimmering black lipstick.
“I am aware, but thank you for that keen, mature observation, Velvette,” Carmilla spat back, swallowing and trying not to wince before blowing a tendril of her hair out of her face.
“You’re very welcome,” Velvette replied, twirling a strand of her hair around her index finger.
Alastor flashed Rosie a knowing look with lowered eyelids, before redirecting his attention to Carmilla.
“We are meeting today to discuss the recent ‘smog’ problem, there appears to be a red mist lingering in the air in the Doomsday district, and it is approaching the district borders,” Carmilla announced, “Zillia?”
“Uhm… nobody seems bothered by it, to be honest, but I can’t figure out where the hell it came from, it just appeared, and it isn’t goin’ away either,” Zillia explained, “Nobody’s complained about having trouble breathin’... or seein’ really, it’s just kinda weird.”
“So there’s just a blanket of red mist hangin’ in the air, but it isn’t causing any trouble?” Rosie inquired, raising an eyebrow, “Nothin’ at all?”
“Nope! It even smells nice,” Zillia replied, resting her head in her palm.
“It does, I was visiting the district the other day and its fragrance is oddly pleasant…like freshly-picked flowers,” Carmilla said with a wistful sigh, wincing through another dry swallow only to smile when Odette handed her a glass of water, which she eagerly finished in three gulps.
“So we’re here to talk about a non-problem?” Velvette asked, not even bothering to look up from her phone.
“ ‘Twould be a wise decision for thou to refrain from such idle chatter whilst the adults are speaking,” Zestial hissed from his seat, staring at Velvette with unblinking eyes.
Velvette complied, returning Zestial’s jab with a raised middle finger and a well-researched bite to the thumb.
Zestial held back a gasp, “Insolent girl,” he grumbled under his breath.
“Dusty fuckhead,”
“Senseless wretch…”
“Spindly geezer,”
“Overgrown infant!”
“Senile shitstain!”
Zestial and Velvette’s escalating squabble quickly died down, both turning to glance at Carmilla, who had two of her large fingers pinching the theoretical bridge of her nose, an area that had quickly flushed an irritated pink. She sniffled twice, before holding both hands over her mouth in a futile attempt to silence a hoarse, rough-sounding cough.
A minute passed, and Carmilla fought every bone in her body to keep from flushing with embarrassment.
“Carmilla?” Zestial inquired, only to receive an anxious glance in return.
Velvette snickered, sliding a travel-sized package of tissues across the table and leaning back in her chair, “Have at it, old bird, sounds like you need one.”
“Th-thank you,” Carmilla replied, her consonants sounding noticeably muffled as she picked a tissue from the package and held it up to her face, noisily blowing her “nose” until she had to pause to take a deep breath, “Excuse me…”
Alastor’s ear twitched, and he nervously drummed his fingertips against the table, shooting Rosie another knowing look, practically blinking at her in morse code.
“What’s eatin’ you?” Rosie whispered, “Quit battin’ your eyelashes at me and spill.”
“We should leave,” Alastor whispered back through clenched teeth.
“Why?” Rosie inquired, only to be interrupted by Carmilla loudly blowing her nose a second time, soaking another tissue and closing with a loud honk, which made Rosie giggle.
“Unless you want that to be you, I suggest we make our exit,” Alastor whispered, his eyes looking desperate and frightful in spite of his wide grin.
“Oh hush, don’t be so dramatic,” Rosie argued, playfully tugging at one of Alastor’s ears.
“Uch… Clara, what else were we supposed to discuss? I’ve lost my train of thought,” Carmilla asked, the center of her face and the underside of her eyes looking pinkish-red and puffy from the irritation.
“There’s nothing else on the agenda, Mom,” Clara said in a hushed voice, showing her mother the empty clipboard.
“Oh for the love of-” Carmilla groaned, massaging her temples with her large fingers, “This is…ih… i-ih…”
Alastor’s stomach dropped, he knew that sound, that sound may as well be the click of a pin being yanked from a grenade, the beeping of a volatile time bomb, the-
“Ih’ktshhhiew! Ih’tshhew! Ih’ktschiew! IH’KSHHHUH!”
A dense cloud of infectious droplets sprayed into the open air through a wide gap in Carmilla’s fingers, stretching across the entire table, if not the room.
Alastor’s mind flashed with images of ailing neighbors and frazzled doctors, of boarded-up storefronts and oxygen-starved soldiers lying on tarps in the grass. It was a rough two years… a rough three, frankly.
“Alastor, snap out of it,” Rosie whispered, gently tapping on the back of Alastor’s head.
“Yes, thank you,” he replied, trying and failing to tune out Carmilla’s sniffling in the background as he thought about scrubbing himself down with lye and dunking himself in a tub of boiling water.
“Ih’tschhhiew! Hnk’tchew!... My apologies, I just- Ih’ktschhiew!- I didn’t think this would happen,” Carmilla said, her voice hoarse and exhausted as she wiped the watery underside of her eyes with her thumb.
“Gesundheit! Don’t sweat it, sweetie, but I think you should get some rest,” Rosie said, managing a knowing smile at Carmilla, who weakly smiled back.
“I think so too… meeting adjourned- Hi-iih…HIH’TSCHHIEW!- ‘Scuse me…” Carmilla announced, loudly blowing her nose as she turned to exit the room with her daughters.
Alastor hurriedly gestured at the door, begging Rosie to follow him, not wanting to breathe in the poisoned air of the meeting room for a second longer.
“Alright, I’m coming, I’m coming, calm down,” Rosie chuckled, grabbing hold of her umbrella and following Alastor outside, “Goodness, a few sneezes and you turn into a maniac!”
“Apologies, when you spend a year working as a volunteer ambulance driver in 1919, you learn not to be quite so relaxed when there’s germ-riddled moisture all over your face,” Alastor rambled, feeling a chill run up his spine at the damp fur on his ears, “E u ch!”
Rosie rolled her eyes, “Go home and wash your ears, silly, I’m sure you’ll be fine,” she said with a nonchalant grin, twirling her umbrella in her hand as she headed back to Cannibal Town.
Alastor sighed, vanishing into his shadow and resigning himself to heading back home. He needed to take a bath in some turpentine and light his clothes on fire, knock back a few bottles of rubbing alcohol, anything to keep whatever Carmilla sprayed across the meeting room out of his body.
Hours later, Husk jumped out of his skin when his “keeper” appeared out of his own shadowy mist in front of the bar, grumbling to himself with an iron grip on his microphone.
“You’re just too fuckin’ good to walk anywhere, huh? Poofin’ out of the shadows is just too easy… whadda you want?” Husk asked, cleaning a beer mug while he awaited Alastor’s response.
“I need a shot of whatever you use to clean off the counter,”
Husk blinked.
“I’m sorry… what? Not that you can’t handle your liquor… but I don’t think I’d trust you with anything’ harder than a couple whiskey neats,”
“Hand me the bottle,” Alastor muttered through clenched teeth, twisting the safety nozzle of the spray bottle of disinfectant that Husk kept behind the bar. He spritzed both of his eyes before liberally spraying the back of his throat, knocking back the residue with a harsh swallow before sliding the spray bottle back in Husk’s direction.
“... The hell is wrong with you?” Husk asked.
“Absolutely nothing, nothing I’d concern myself with telling you, anyways,” Alastor replied with narrowed eyelids.
“Well then… suppose I’ll have to keep lemon disinfectant around for the next time you’re feelin’ adventurous,”
Husk’s little comment and the laughter that followed irritated Alastor, and the radio demon considered beaning the cat in the back of the head with his microphone, only to be wrenched out of his thoughts by a sudden itch in his sinuses, forcing him to raise the back of his hand under his nose.
‘Come on Alastor, you’re better than this, fight it, fight it, fight it-’
“Hnk! Hnk’tshh! Hhk’tshh!”
Husk’s ear twitched, and his face stretched into a knowing smile as he zeroed his focus on Alastor’s nose, “You know-”
“Shush,”
“I don’t think I’ve ever-”
“Quiet.”
“Ever-”
“Husk,” Alastor hissed, preparing his arm to reach for Husk’s throat, only to be stopped in his tracks by his itchy nose, “H-hihh…Huhh…h-huh..”
“Heard you sneeze,” Husk whispered, knowing that he’d caught Alastor off guard, “Until now, anyways.”
“Hu’hktschoo! Huh’ptshhhoo! Hnk’TSCHOO!... Huh….HUH’PTSchhiEWWW!”
Husk grinned as he watched Alastor blearily pat around on his person for a pristine red handkerchief that was tucked into his front pocket, pulling it out and pinching it around his nostrils before letting out a dense, gurgling blow.
“I take it that is what the disinfectant was supposed to prevent,” Husk laughed, “Whatever it is you managed to catch, it sounds nasty…shit.”
“I could kill you with my bare hands,” Alastor hissed, pantomiming the act of strangling Husk, only to be caught unawares by another itch, “HNK’TSsschHIEWW! Hnk’Tschhiiew!”
“I’m aware, but maybe put it off a few days, I’d rather not have snot on my corpse’s face,” Husk teased.
“You are a mbiserable drunkard, and I hate you- Snff!- I really do,” Alastor replied, blowing his nose a second time and struggling not to scowl at how damp his handkerchief was beginning to feel underneath his fingers.
“Right back atcha,” Husk said, poking Alastor’s nose with a sly grin, watching his boss’s nose twitch helplessly.
“Nghh…Gh-hhuh…H-Huhh- HNK’TSCHOO! H-uh’tzZZShhOO! Huh’ktSCHEW! H-huh’TSCHOO! Hnk’TschhhiEW!” Alastor sneezed, only able to hold his hands loosely in front of his face, paralyzed by the fit.
Husk winced, wiping off his face and wiping down the bar counter, “Fuckin’ hell, remind me to drink the rest of that disinfectant when I’m done cleanin’ this up, might be too late for you but I like breathin’ through my nose,” he grumbled.
“Snff-snff! Uch… I don’t think I’ve ever felt this… slimy or disorganized in mby entire life- Snfff!” Alastor said, blowing his nose again and trying not to think about how loose and wet it sounded, “I have no idea where all of it is even coming from.”
“Well, make yourself scarce, I’m not trying to find out,” Husk replied, pausing and turning to the front door of the hotel upon hearing it swing open, “Welcome back, Princess.”
“Hii, I’m so excited for some quality bonding time now that Cherri is staying with us! I haven’t been able to just relax and watch a movie in years,” Charlie said with a smile as Vaggie snuck behind her to head upstairs, “Is Angel back yet?”
“Nah, he’s still at work, but he said he’d try and make it here in time,” Husk stated, checking his phone to see if Angel had texted him anything new, “How’d the recruitment effort go?”
“Uhm, better! Some people seemed interested and actually kept the pamphlets I gave them, but a lot of people said they didn’t wanna touch my hand or get too close because they weren’t feeling well… which was surprisingly considerate for a huge group of sinners,” Charlie explained, rambling as she leaned against the back of the sofa in the parlor, “Half the people I spoke to either mentioned they thought they were sick or they looked sick… I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many sick people in one day.”
“Really?” Husk asked with a knowing smirk, “Somethin’ must be going around…”
“I guess so, yeah,” Charlie replied, “Alastor! How was the overlord meeting?”
“Oh it was alright- snff- a bit shorter than expected. Don’t think I came away with anything of note,” Alastor responded, holding his damp handkerchief behind his back and wrestling with the urge to rub his nose. It was so itchy.
“I can think of something… ” Husk muttered playfully, seemingly unbothered when Alastor whipped his head around to stare daggers at him.
“Has everyone thought about what movie they’re gonna suggest for movie night tonight?” Charlie asked, grinning and bouncing on her heels, “Because I have, and I’m so excited!”
“Ooo! I did! I did! I’m so excited, I haven’t been able to see it since I was alive!” Nifty exclaimed, dropping from the ceiling onto Alastor’s shoulders, clutching a feather duster. She was so preoccupied with thinking about which movie she’d picked, she didn’t notice her feather duster brushing against Alastor’s nose.
“HUH’PTSHOO! Huh’ptschiew! Hhn’ktshew! HHN’KTSHIIEW! Huh’PTSHHIEW!.... Oh mby goodness…snf-snf!...Ndiffty…” Alastor groaned, wetly blowing his nose and trying to avoid Charlie’s concerned gaze, “Don’t look at mbe like that.”
“Sorry- not looking, not looking,” Charlie replied sheepishly, averting her gaze from Alastor by staring at the carpet, “That just sounded… uhm… a teeny tiny bit-”
“Gross!” Vaggie called from upstairs, “The word she’s looking for is ‘gross’!”
Husk flopped onto his back behind the bar, struggling to contain his laughter.
“I was going to say ‘wet’... but I guess that works too,” Charlie said, shooting Alastor a nervous glance, “You feeling okay?”
Alastor narrows his eyelids, his grin still stretched across his face in spite of his angry eyebrows and puffy, miserable-looking eyelids to match his irritated and streaming nose, “Would you believe mbe if I said yes?” he asked knowingly.
“Not really, no, you sound awful,” Charlie admitted, quietly gesturing for Alastor to lean down, reaching out a hand and pressing her palm to the Radio Demon’s forehead when he reluctantly complied, “You feel warm, too. You probably just caught whatever’s going around, don’t worry!”
“I’ll try mby best not to,” Alastor replied, blowing his nose again and wincing at how wet the fabric was getting, “Snff-snff! Pardon me…”
Charlie looked at the sniffling overlord with concern, before getting back her typical kind smile, “You should take a hot shower and change into something more comfortable if you’re sick! By the time all of us get ready, Angel and Cherri will probably be back, and we can pick the movie for tonight!”
Alastor considered arguing, considered vanishing into a puff of shadowy smoke and reappearing in Cannibal Town to crash with Rosie, considered sprinting out the door and going into hiding… but he’d been found out, and all of the sneezing he’d been doing was definitely catching up to him, he was exhausted.
“Alright, I’ll be back down,” Alastor said with a nod, vanishing upstairs, but not before catching a sharp “Hnk-Tchoo!” with his handkerchief.
“I’m gonna go get ready, too,” Charlie said, turning to Husk, “You coming?”
“Nah, Angel just texted me on his break, I’m gonna ask him how the shoot’s going for a little while, I’ll catch up,” Husk replied, leaning against the bar counter and tapping slowly at his phone, shooting Angel a message and waiting patiently for a reply.
[Don’t forget about tonight… almost done filming?]
On the opposite side of Pentagram City, Angel stared at his phone, attempting to think of a response, only to peek over at his boss from the other side of the cameras.
Valentino was working through a plot hole that Travis left in the script- while lecturing Travis about it- and it was taking longer than expected. While they spoke, Valentino was also busy moisturizing and straightening Velvette’s hair to get her ready for an auction she was heading to that night.
Velvette typically had her assistants help with her hair, but she wandered downstairs to the porn studio because she had a headache and the vibrant lighting in her studio was making things worse.
Angel stared at the pair of overlords in silence while he tugged his underwear back on and tidied up his fluff with a hairbrush.
“Y’know what? Fuck it, nobody’s gonna notice the inconsistency anyways, if they’re watching porn for the plot, they’re doing it wrong,” Valentino conceded, rolling his eyes at Travis and taking a deep drag from his cigarette, smiling at the hit of nicotine before blowing out a large heart-shaped plume of smoke, his smile fading when he heard Velvette start to cough from her position in front of his legs, “Oh shit, sorry pequeñita, I forgot you hate the smell of these.”
Valentino took a second puff, blowing his next plume of smoke at the ceiling, only to stop upon hearing Velvette’s cough again: a persistent, hacking cough that forced Velvette to draw deep breaths in between bursts. Ashing his cigarette, Valentino used one of his hands to pat Velvette on the back.
“Fuck, Vel, you good?” Valentino asked, his attempts to help dislodge what he assumed was just something stuck in his colleague’s windpipe getting more intense.
“S-stop it,” Velvette wheezed, tucking her head into her knees and letting out a heavy barking cough that made her entire body vibrate, but seemed to alleviate the ticklish feeling in her throat, “Fuck…”
“That was a rough ass cough,” Valentino said, running his fingers through Velvette’s freshly-straightened locks and wincing at the searing heat he felt upon touching the side of her head, “-Shit, Vel, why didn’t you tell me I burned you?”
“You-” Velvette clenched her teeth to smother another coughing fit, “- you didn’t burn me…” she replied.
“You sure? It feels so hot right here, I just thought…wait a second…” Valentino paused, pulling off one of his gloves and pressing his bare palm against Velvette’s forehead, “Yeah… tienes fiebre, I think the auction is gonna have to wait for another time… how do you feel?”
“My head hurts, my throat hurts, I’m tired, and every time I breathe I feel like I need to cough,” Velvette complained, leaning back against Valentino’s legs, “This is horseshit…Hh’tshh! Hhn’tshh! Hnk’tshh!”
Valentino frowned, running his fingers through Velvette’s hair, “Okay people, that’s a wrap for tonight, see you tomorrow!” he announced, clapping to dismiss the film staff and the actors before gathering Velvette in his arms and turning on his heel to leave the studio, “Let’s get you something hot to drink and some comfy clothes, hm?”
“Put mbe down… Hnk’tshh!... I’b a grown woman,” Velvette hissed, pushing away from Valentino’s chest, only to lean against his shoulder after only a few seconds of protest, “Actually, nevermind…snff!... I’b too tired to walk. Fuck it.”
“Mmmhm, that’s why I picked you up,” Valentino teased as he walked, eventually vanishing down the hall and leaving Angel in the studio alone.
“Hell yes,” Angel cheered, hurrying to put on the rest of his clothes and texting Husk that he’d be home earlier than expected.
A couple of hours later, the group was gathered together on the sofa in the parlor, all cozied up in their pajamas.
Charlie and Vaggie reclined against one another, Angel stretched out across Husk’s lap, Niffty was seated in front of the sofa on the carpet, Cherri was sat in the armchair on the right side of the sofa, and Alastor was reclined in the armchair on the left.
“So, who gets to pick tonight’s movie?” Angel asked, petting Husk between his ears, listening to his partner’s satisfied purring.
“We drew straws, and Niffty won, so we’re watching…” Charlie began, turning to Niffty to wait for her selection.
“Singin’ in the Rain!” Niffty cheered, clapping her hands quietly, “It’s one of the last films I saw before I died!”
Charlie nodded, pressing play on the chunky CRT television in the parlor, and leaning against Vaggie as the film began to play.
Alastor blew his nose into his handkerchief, glaring at the wet fabric and conjuring himself a dry one out of thin air, moving to put it away before feeling a familiar building itch.
“Hnk’TSHH-iew! HNK’TShhiew! HNK’Tshh-iew! HNK’Zzzt!”
Charlie peeked over from her spot on the sofa, mouthing ‘Bless you’ at Alastor before returning her attention to the movie.
Alastor returned the gesture with a quiet nod, straining to avoid rolling his eyes at the idea of letting himself be so… vulnerable around these people. The Radio Demon silently thanked his lucky stars that Lucifer was on a brief whirlwind tour through the rest of Hell to get back in touch with the other sins, meaning that he wouldn’t be around to bear witness to Alastor’s embarrassing misery.
“HNK’Tshh! Hh’kzzhht! Hh’Kshoo!”
Alastor shivered, leaning back in his armchair and attempting to focus on the movie to take his mind off of the throbbing sensation in the back of his throat, or the incessant tickle in his sinuses. He couldn’t wrap his mind around why he suddenly felt so cold.
Lost in his thoughts, Alastor barely noticed it when something warm and soft was draped over his shoulders, and a bundle of warmth gathered in his lap. Upon regaining focus, Alastor noticed that someone had draped a blanket over him, leaving his arms free, and that KeeKee was curled up in his lap, purring softly.
Resigned to his fate, Alastor simply began stroking KeeKee’s back, the soft static in the background of the film and the cat’s blissful purring beginning to make him drowsy.
“Ooo! This is my favorite part! Alastor, look, this is the actor I said you looked like when we met!” Niffty whispered, eagerly tugging on Alastor’s pant leg to get his attention, only to be met with silence, “Alastor?”
Niffty looked up only to see Alastor relaxed and fast asleep, his back pressed against the armchair and his usual grin reduced to a soft, toothless smile. Congestion rumbled in his sinuses as he snored, his nose twitching every so often to fight the constant tickle threatening to disturb his slumber by making him sneeze.
“I’ll show him later,” Niffty whispered, hugging Alastor’s ankles and going back to watching the movie, “Maybe he’ll feel better tomorrow…”
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Nobody asked for this, but it's my OC Elliott. Have fun!
----
"Hehh!!-- Ihh- ihh- IHHH-- HIIISSHHH'HUUEE!! Ohh… sdf!-- HH'JSSCHHUuee!!"
Elliott sniffled - a thick, viscous sound reminiscent of sludge far too packed to flow through the pipe it currently resided in - and winced at the 'bless you's' which echoed through the garage. Taylor spoke up first, as always, with a blow to Elliott's already fragile ego.
"Jesus, you plan on stopping any time soon? I only have so many fingers to keep count!"
Though a part of Elliott, a large part, wanted to beam his co-worker with an allen wrench, he knew that the comment was at least partially warranted. Ever since arriving to work, Elliott had been sneezing on and off; and that wasn't even including the sneezing before he'd gotten to the auto shop.
Pausing to cough into his elbow, the brunette decided to opt for non-violence - and instead threw up a not-so-friendly gesture towards his fellow mechanic.
"Maybe if you actually focused on working instead of counting my sneezes, you'd leave on time for once," With another forceful, snorting intake of air, Elliott laid back down on the bench beneath his back. It felt cold and rough beneath his aching muscles, the skin shivering every so often, sticky with sweat. He was genuinely surprised he hadn't soaked through the entirety of his shirt already.
Despite his malaise and slight dizziness, he continued working on the car's suspension.
A few minutes in, he blinked blearily, before a panicked, albeit hazy expression settled onto his face. No no, not again, he was almost done! Rosy nostrils fluttered as his chest rose with a sharp inhale.
"Ehhh--!! EHH'JSSCHH'HIEW! HH'RRRSCHH'HIIEW!!Ohhh…"
The sneezed threatened to bolt him entirely upright, and he barely managed to restrain the strong expulsions from doing so. Still, his nose still got it's vengeance: glistening trails of mess clung to his upper lip, along with a heavy spray settling onto his face and shirt. Elliott swore under his breath, then went rigid as Taylor piped up again.
"Thirty-six!"
Fucking hell. He'd probably beat his record at this point, and it was only... 11:30am.
Today was gonna be long.
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unnecessary things
man this is SO LATE but i finished writing a b-day snz fic for W/anderer!!!
word count: 1k
“Hh-hH’Nxt!!”
Aether froze mid-step, looking over his shoulder at where the Wanderer was standing behind him, avoiding eye contact.
“...Was that a sneeze?” Aether asked, turning around fully to face him. The Wanderer tsked, tilting his hat down so that Aether couldn’t see his eyes.
“You must be hearing things… maybe you should go get your ears checked.” He said, “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m nothing more than a puppet. I don’t do such unnecessary things.”
“Oh, really?” Aether started walking towards the other, smirking a little when the Wanderer took an instinctive step back. “Then surely you wouldn’t mind if I tested a few things, would you?”
“And just what gives you the impression that I’m going to let you do that?”
“Because if you don’t, then I’ll know for sure that you were lying to me just now.”
“...Tch. Whatever.” The Wanderer slowly moved to sit down on the ground. “Have your fun. You’ll soon see that this is pointless.”
“We’ll see about that.” Aether kneeled down in front of him, rummaging around in his bag for something to make the other sneeze, but… hm. Now that he was thinking about it, what would make a puppet sneeze? The Wanderer was definitely capable of sneezing, Aether knew that what he had heard had not just been his mind playing tricks on him, but what had even set him off in the first place? Had it just been random?
“We don’t have all day you know.” The Wanderer said, tapping his finger on his knee impatiently, seemingly bored already. “Hurry up and get this over with.”
Huffing out a breath, Aether abandoned the useless contents of his bag, and decided to pick one of the longer pieces of grass surrounding the two of them. The Wanderer smirked.
“Seriously? A plant? Need I remind you that I was almost a god, a strand of grass isn’t going to affect me.”
“Oh, just shut up already.” A piece of grass wouldn’t have been Aether’s first pick either, but it was the best thing he had right now. Reaching out, he gently grabbed hold of the Wanderer’s chin, tilting the other’s head to have a slightly better angle. Surprisingly, the Wanderer didn’t protest this motion, instead remaining silent as Aether began to swish the piece of grass back and forth.
After a few minutes or so of no reaction, Aether let out a slightly frustrated noise, briefly pulling the grass away in order to lightly flick the Wanderer’s nose.
“You do realize that refusing to breathe implies that I was right, right?” Aether asked. The Wanderer blinked- seemingly surprised at having been caught, before glaring at him. Aether didn’t rise to it, instead waiting patiently, blade of grass at the ready. After a moment of prolonged eye contact, the Wanderer reluctantly let out a breath.
It hitched soon after.
Aether’s face lit up as the Wanderer’s glare darkened.
“Don’t think that means anyth- hIH- h-hey!” The Wanderer’s expression started to twist into something else altogether as Aether immediately got right back to work, gently tilting the Wanderer’s head from side to side as he tried to find just the right angle. “W-wait- hiH… hEh…”
Aether stuck his tongue out slightly as he focused, twisting the grass back and forth. He must have briefly hit some sort of spot, if the way the Wanderer’s hitching breaths had momentarily pitched up was any indication, it was just a matter of finding that spot again. The Wanderer’s hands slowly lifted up-
“If you rub your nose or stop me, it means I win.” Aether deadpanned, and the Wanderer’s hands froze in place. From the way they were trembling slightly, it must be taking the Wanderer some effort to keep them from moving any further. Aether let out a small laugh. “Although, I’ve practically already won, considering you so obviously need to sneeze.”
“HihH- N-no I don-hH- hiIH-”
“Of course you do, listen to you!” Aether continued, “You can’t stop hitching like ‘heH’ and ‘hAH’-”
“Hh’nNxti!!” The Wanderer abruptly forcibly pulled away to stifle a sneeze into his hands. Aether paused, briefly shocked, before coming to a realization as the Wanderer’s breath hitched again.
“Wait, hold on-”
“S-shut, hEH-, shutup- hiH-”
“Did you sneeze just because I mimicked it?” Aether asked, watching in fascination as the Wanderer’s ears slowly turned a faint shade of red. “You did, didn’t you.”
The Wanderer shook his head in the negative, unable to speak as his breath hitched desperately.
“Hh- hEH’xNtiu!! Hh’Nxtii!!” He stifled two more sneezes into his hands. Aether let out a disapproving sound.
“C’mon now, don’t stifle, it’s bad for you.” He said, reaching out and grabbing hold of the Wanderer’s wrists. The Wanderer startled, leaning back-
Tilted off balance, the Wanderer went tumbling backwards, Aether being slightly dragged with him. Aether let out a small yelp, quickly reorienting himself, blinking to discover that the Wanderer’s hat had fallen off in the brief movement-
And that he currently practically had the Wanderer pinned to the ground.
…Hm. Well, actually… he could roll with this.
“Get off of me.” The Wanderer managed to hiss out- seemingly practically biting his tongue before his breath could hitch again.
“Nu-uh, I don’t think I will.” Aether smirked as the Wanderer choked back another hitching breath. “Don’t hold back on my account. Or, maybe, do you need me to teach you how to sneeze?”
“D-don’t-”
“You already have the ‘hiIH-’ and ‘hEH-’ part down, now you just need the-”
“Hh- hiH’IsHKiu!!”
“There you go!” Aether laughed despite the strong surge of anemo energy, leaning into his geo affinity to remain unaffected. “Now was that so hard-”
“Hh’shKiu!! Hih- hEH’inKshii! F-fuck- hH’iKshiu!!”
“Bless you!” Aether let go of the Wanderer’s wrists, getting off of him as the other sat up, breath still hitching. “Maybe this was a bit too much, huh?”
“Hh’NxTtii!!” Attempting to stifle again did the Wanderer no favours as his next hitching breath reached a much more desperate pitch. “HhEH- hH’iSHiu!! Heh’ShKii!! H’eshii!! Hh- hIH- hhEH’inKShiu!!”
Aether watched in silence as the Wanderer sniffled, rubbing his nose against his sleeve.
“So…” He started, after a significant number of seconds had passed without another hitching breath from the other. “What was that about not needing to do ‘unnecessary things’, again?”
The Wanderer paused in the middle of retrieving his hat to give him a glare. (With his hair mussed up from both the tumble and the sneezing fit though, Aether couldn’t help but imagine a hissing kitten.)
“...Shut up.” The Wanderer muttered, before pitching his voice louder. “If you’ve finished amusing yourself with childish games, we have stuff to do.”
“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Aether rolled his eyes, “Just know that I will be remembering this.”
The Wanderer said nothing in response, walking past him, but Aether couldn’t help but smirk as he noticed the faint blush on the other’s face.
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panic! at the drugstore (j/jk, nanami)
hiiiii @ezynse merry xmas, happy new year, happy day. <3
im ur secret santa. <33 i hope u like this fic. ily. i want u to know the j key on my keyboard is challenged so i wrote "Goo" by accident sm ToT
(sorry for the title i dont even rlly listen to them i- )
please keep this to sneeze kink blogs only! 18+ only!
Summary stuff:
Fandom: J/JK
Characters: Nan//ami, Go/jo, Ijic/hi, Yu/ji,
Pairings: slight nana/go. in the way la croix has flavor
Good future AU (no bad stuff, everyones an adult. set in 2023)
As soon as Nanami detected Gojo’s presence, he should have turned on his heel and left. Instead, he’d gone into the drugstore, reasoning that the necessity of his trip outweighed the aggravation it’d cause. He wasn’t naive enough to hope he’d get out of here without any additional psychic damage but maybe he’d luck out and Gojo would—
“Nanami!” Gojo sang from a few aisles over. This was starting to play out like one of his nightmares. Verbatim. “Wow, you shop here too?!”
“Not anymore.”
Gojo laughed easily and brushed off the obvious rejection with a wave of his hand. “Oh, don’t act like you’re not happy to see your best buddy!”
“I have no such thing.” Nanami sighed and drew out a cough in the process which he managed to muffle into the sleeve of his jacket. Anyone else would have read the room and left him alone, but Gojo continued to chatter on at a volume unfit for the public space they were in. If only he’d move back a few centimeters so Nanami could escape without having to push past him and potentially causing a bigger scene than they’re already causing. He’d already used up his energy—both cursed and otherwise—at work today and he was quickly fading.
For the first time, he wished he could focus on the bubblegum pop blasting through the speakers with its sentiments of Sakura blossoms and old times; it would beat trying to follow the embellished story Gojo was telling. He pinched the bridge of his nose. To make matters worse, the temperature change had caused the congestion that had mostly settled by the end of the train ride over here to return with a vengeance. His nose threatened to drip and he risked a small sniffle. Immediately, he recognized it as a mistake when the lingering prickle sharpened and traveled deeper into his nose.
As if he hadn’t sneezed enough today.
“And after all that I got some wagashi at this great place near the hospital, Great Luck right? And haha it was! Anyway, the point is… I got some stuff for Yuji, but then I got hungry waiting for the car so I figured I’d better make up for it.”
Nanami made a point of checking his watch as a last ditch effort for a polite departure, less for Gojo’s sake and more for the sake of everyone else in this godforsaken store. But most of all for his own sake, considering he’s quickly losing the battle against the pertinent tickle up his right nostril. “I don’t have time to talk,” he said evenly, breath only wavering once he’s gotten the last word out.
Unfortunately, Gojo clasped his shoulder, refusing to let him leave. “Did you take the train here? We could carpool instead, Ijichi is—”
“ht’KKxt!” Nanami interrupted with a poorly restrained sneeze directed into the sleeve of his jacket.
“Bless you!” Gojo’s head lolled to the side; he had the decency to release him, but otherwise didn’t move out of his personal space. Nanami nodded and turned away. “Wow, that sounded painful. You okay?”
It was. “hGNXt’ch! h’kKt…chh.” Damnit. “Hh- kmpht’Chhh!” He might not have been able to see Gojo’s eyes, but he sure could feel them on him. This tickle just wasn’t going to quit until he let it out, and he’d rather end this as soon as possible. “h’eSCHh!”
“Oh bless you.” Gojo, ever uncaring of displaying any decorum, took zero steps away from him. He examined him from a few different angles, tapping his chin as he hovered. “Bet I can guess why you’re here today!”
“Excuse me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed small circles all the way into the inner corners of his eyes and tried to ignore the heat that had risen to his ears. His head pounded even harder than it had before.
“Always so formal, huh?”
Always so inappropriately casual, huh? Nanami glanced at Gojo’s basket and its contents: strawberry shampoo, bags of candy, winter apple body wash, face masks, moisturizer, cotton candy flavored lip gloss, and more items he couldn’t quite make out, but surely none of them were essential enough to inconvenience Ijichi in the way Gojo was. Everything he’s learned about Satoru Gojo has been against his will, and now he’s horrified that his brain was wasting the time wondering if he’s one of those people who can’t go to the store and truly buy one item.
“So, how was your—”
“I don’t have time to talk. Excuse me.” Risking a shoulder check, Nanami walked towards the aisles. He tried not to sniffle more than strictly necessary and tried to ignore the extra set of footsteps behind him. Key word was tried.
“Oh wow, you really sound terrible.” Gojo said sympathetically, continuing to haunt Nanami all the way to the cold and flu aisle. “How long have you had that cold?”
Why did it have to be Gojo?
“Stop following me.”
“You forgot your basket, though.”
So he did. “I don’dt need that much.” It was true, but Nanami accepted the basket anyway from the pouting man.
“Mm, really? You kinda sound like you’re dying, y’know.” Gojo wandered around the aisle and picked up a box of medicine that he held up to his blindfolded eyes. “No offense.” A man started walking in their direction, took one look at Gojo, and immediately turned around. Nanami released a small forlorn sigh through gritted teeth.
“I’ll be finde.” he said, clearing his throat. He could curb the hoarse quality his voice had taken on, but the congestion was something he’d have to live with for now. “You mentionded Ijichi is waiting?”
“Yeah, so hurry up, Nanami!”
“I will n’dot be ri-ridi’hhgg wih—” He’d gotten distracted and hadn’t noticed that the itch from before had been slowly respawning. Gojo gave a questioning hum as Nanami his knuckle to his nose, sniffled sharply, and cleared his throat again. “I will not be riding with you.”
“Aw, not with me?”
Nanami shot him a glare. All of his efforts were in vain because the urge to sneeze returned with a vengeance and demanded his attention in a way that put Gojo’s efforts to shame. The prickle spread like wildfire through his sinuses, and in spite of his efforts in snuffing it out, he’d allowed himself to get distracted enough to give the enemy the advantage. “Hh-!” He inhaled sharply before shoving the back of his wrist up to his nose. “nGhthsCH! hh’NGXTCHh’ueh!” That last one had been particularly loud but had been just as unrelieving as its predecessors. “hehH’TSChhiuh!”
Gojo patted his back. There was a warmth to his palm that Nanami could feel even through the layers of fabric acting as a buffer between them. “Bless you.” Using only his free hand, he easily broke the seal of a travel pack of tissues on the shelf and nudged a few tissues into Nanami’s palm.
“You’re supposed to pay first.” In spite of the protest, he fixed his glasses that were in danger of falling off his face and accepted the tissues; by noon, his handkerchief had become unusable and he’d already gone through the tissues he’d accepted at the train station this morning, so his options were limited. He turned away for a moment to blow his nose. While his efforts were productive, they did little to kill the taunting buzzing in the back of his nose. He pinched his nostrils shut from behind the tissue and willed the tickle to recede.
“Not yet! Hey if I buy your stuff will you ride with me? Wouldn’t you get back sooner that way? Oh, bless—”
“hh’MPHtchh!”
“—you again!”
He took a moment to massage the bridge of his nose in a silent apology to himself for the poor attempt at stifling before clearing his throat and bringing up sodden tissue to wipe the lingering moisture from the red rims of his nostrils.
No amount of free cold medicine would make spending his free time with this absolute menace in a small enclosed space worth it, but at the same time it’d be less aggravating for him to just go along with it in the long run. Gojo’s already made it clear he has no intention of leaving him alone. He gave half a nod and picked up the first bottle of cold medicine that he saw and a bag of face masks and took a few steps in the direction of the check out.
“That’s all you’re buying?” Gojo asked. His lips formed an exaggerated frown and his forehead wrinkled as if he was bewildered by Nanami’s shopping habits.
Nanami was too busy fighting a losing battle against the threat of another sneeze to tell Gojo to stop adding more items to the basket, but he managed to shoot him a pointed glare before his expression crumpled. “Hh- hehhH- …mPHTtshhiuh! Pardon,” he said more out of habit than anything and wiped his nose again, “I have more than enough now.”
“So frugal.”
He supposed the cough drops, vicks, lotion tissues, vitamins, and nasal spray wouldn’t hurt, especially if accepting them will get Nanami out of here faster. Since he’d already opened the tissues, he figured he might as well put on one of the masks in the pack. His glasses immediately fogged and he tucked them into his inner coat pocket.
After they’d approached the register Gojo told the cashier they would be paying together and nuzzled his cheek against Nanami’s shoulder in an intimate way. He’d smack him later.
The cold pierced through Nanami’s coat as soon as they opened the door. As annoying as this situation is, he can’t say he’s upset that he won’t have to walk back to the train station. They turned a corner and Gojo pointed out the car.
“I know, I know.” Gojo opened the door to the passenger side and abruptly wrapped an arm around Nanami’s shoulder, yanking him into the field of vision as if he’d run away. “That took a little longer than I said, but look who I ran into!”
“Nanamin!” Itadori called out from the back seat with a cheery wave. Nanami is just as surprised to see him, though he’d mostly tuned out Gojo’s story. “No way, what a coincidence!”
Nanami shot Gojo a withering look and gave a slight bow to Itadori. “Itadori-kun…”
“Think fast!” Gojo called out and threw a bag of candy at Itadori.
He caught it easily. “Wow, thank you, Gojo-sensei!”
“Gojo-san, we were meant to be back over a half hour ago—“
“Ijichiiii, you need to relax. Seriously, you’re already getting frown lines, that’s no good. Look, I even got something for you. Tadaaa~” He dropped a pack of instant udon into his lap and a face mask and made himself comfortable in the passenger seat. “Can you drop Nanami Kento-kun off first?”
“Don’t call me that.”
Ijichi sighed and took a moment before he half-heartedly thanked Gojo for the gifts. Then he turns to look at the backseat. “Of course, Nanami-san.” He and Nanami shared a quick glance as the cause of their stress tore into his own pack of candy and ate it noisily.
“Oh, why are you wearing a mask, Nanamin?” Itadori asked as Nanami sat next to him and put on his seatbelt. “Do you have a cold?”
“It’s alright,” Nanami assured him and cleared his throat, “just a mild one.”
“I dunno if mild is the right word there, Nanamin.” Gojo interjected as Ijichi finally started driving.
Itadori’s face fell and Nanami sincerely considered kicking the back of Gojo’s chair, though he was too busy pinching his nose shut over the fabric of the mask to stifle a sneeze that had nearly escaped his detection. “hGXxt’chshh!- excuse me.”
“Bless you. I hope you feel better soon.” Itadori frowned and offered him a piece of candy. Nanami shook his head and Itadori shrugged and ate it himself.
“You’re gonna pop an eardrum like that,” Gojo chastised, clicking his tongue.
All of this was past the point of the nightmare he’d thought he was having earlier and was starting to veer into the fever dream category. Perhaps in more ways than one. Gojo flicked through the radio stations until he found what he was looking for and started singing along with a pop song. Itadori joined him and they pointed at each other while Nanami reflected on his life choices and folded his arms more tightly over his chest.
Nanami glanced at Ijichi’s GPS. Twenty minutes of this felt like a death sentence. His limbs had started aching a few hours ago and now that the adrenaline was long dead and he was sitting again, he felt it in full force. The sudden urge to lean his temple against the foggy window arose and he indulged in it, ever so slowly pressing his forehead to the window.
While Gojo was especially pitchy, the noise at least took the focus off of Nanami as he muffled a series of throat-tearing coughs against the crook of his arm. His lungs gave a slight whine as he regained his breath and he could feel the silent attention the other three men were giving him.
“Can you breathe okay, Nanamin?” Itadori asked, patting his shoulder. If it were anyone else, Nanami would have batted the hand away, but doing that to Itadori would feel like kicking a puppy and it's not like he was heartless. While most people become hardened and jaded after living the life of a jujutsu sorcerer, Itadori remained as kind and genuine as ever over the years.
Instead he nodded. “Yes. Don’t worry.”
Itadori gave him a thumbs up. The singing continued and he pitied Ijichi for how long he’s had to put up with Satoru Gojo today.
To Gojo’s credit, he toned down the singing, but Nanami almost wished he’d go back to his caterwauling, because his nose had chosen that moment to betray him yet again. It itched like mad and putting pressure on the tip of his nose did nothing to chase the feeling away. He did his best to muffle it into his sleeve anyway, hoping the extra layers would do anything to make it less intrusive than he knew it would be. “Hh- hgzt’SChhiuh! heHMPHhshh’ieuh!- pardon me.”
“Aw, bless you,” Gojo chimed in, stretching out his seatbelt as he turned his body around to face him. “Do you want my jacket, Nanamin?” He puckered his lips.
This time he let his shoe dig into the bag of Gojo’s chair. “No.”
Ijichi quietly turned up the heat. “Give him a break, Gojo-san,” he said tiredly.
The rest of the ride quite literally blurred together as Nanami fought to keep his eyes open. With the heat on, his chills were kept at bay, and it was easy to drift off to sleep. He jolted and shook himself awake at least three times before the familiar building came into view, and the third time, it’d been because Itadori was saying his name to get his attention. Ijichi pulled up closer and stopped the car. Nanami thanked him for the ride and held up a hand to stop Itadori from offering a side hug.
“Get well soon, Nana—”
Nanami shut the car door and ignored the rest of Gojo’s sentence. Getting into the apartment was a blur, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d come home in rough shape, relying on autopilot. He immediately hung his jacket and loosened his tie, and then he removed his face mask, cringing as he pinched away the lingering moisture from his nostrils. He’d done his best to avoid rubbing his nose all day, but his efforts seemed to be in vain considering how sore it still was.
As much as he wanted to just collapse into the couch, his discipline won out and he managed to undress. Though, not without challenge. “huhh…HGSCHh’uh!” He sneezed all over his chest, too slow to cover in his exhausted state. Undeniably, it was a relief to be able to sneeze freely in the privacy of his bedroom. “hh-...hDJtSchh’euh! hhaH’DTzSHhh’ih!”
He found the tissues from the bag and blew his nose, letting out a slight hum of relief as some of the congestion came free. His eyes still ached and with a quick dose of medicine, he was ready to close them. He laid in bed with the extra throw blanket atop the comforter and waited for the chills to die down so he could sleep.
It was restful for the first few hours. As he’d anticipated, he woke up in the early hours of the morning coughing, hair clinging to his forehead with sweat, and his mouth bone dry.
3 AM.
It was too early for this. He forces himself into the kitchen to fill a tall glass with water and to find a few more items from the bag. He took the cough drops out and put one in his mouth and placed the rest of the bag on the bedside table.
Somehow knowing that he needed as much sleep as possible hindered him from doing so. He drifted in and out of sleeping for the entire morning, occasionally walking up mumbling something incomprehensible.
He was finally asleep until his phone went off a few minutes past 6 AM. It wasn’t his alarm, but an obnoxious ding.
Gojo:
heyyy nanamin~
… Nanami clenched his jaw as he watched the animated ellipses bubble and waited to see what could possibly be so important to disturb him.
Gojo:
good morning! 🌞hope u get some rest today hahaha :D you sounded awful 🤒dont go dying </3
Typically jujutsu sorcerers have about as much paid sick leave as he would’ve had at his former company: basically none. What kind of fucked up—
Nanami frowned, realizing he’d missed some other notifications, including the ones canceling his mission for the day. It’s easy to put the pieces together. He had to put the phone down to sneeze a few times, and it continued to ding throughout his fit.
Gojo:
we’ll have to go out when youre better!! next friday?? theres a new barcade i wanna try and then KARAOKE!!!!!! :DDD
Gojo:
Nanamiiiiii D:
Gojo:
don’t leave me on read
Gojo:
bless youuuuu :3
Gojo:
no i cant hear u im just guessing
Gojo:
was i right?? o.O
Nanami silenced his phone and went back to sleep, deciding to address the new situation, along with the strange feelings that’d started coming up, later. For now, at least he could relax.
Nanami:
Thank you.
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Happy Halloween! (a snz fic)
Male - cold, mess!, implied future contagion
~*~
He wakes up to sinuses that are absolutely packed with congestion. He’d gone to sleep last night with a tickle in his throat and a bit of a headache, but he certainly didn’t expect to wake up to this.
His nose starts streaming the second he sits up in bed, setting off a tickle deep in his nose. Still hazy from sleep and a head that feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton, he only manages to get his hand halfway to his face before erupting with a thick sneeze – “heh-nnggK’SHO!” that forces the gunk that had accumulated in his sinuses out, covering his hand in mess, the rest escaping into the air. He’s left with twin trails of clear liquid coating his upper lip as he shivers, dazed.
Leaning over to the nightstand, he thanks his past self for keeping a box of tissues stocked there as he pulls out several of them. He buries his face in the soft cotton and lets out a truly ill-sounding blow. The sound of it crackles through the air as more snot is dislodged, filling the bundle and soaking through to his hands.
He throws the ruined tissues to the floor and grabs the box, setting it next to him on the bed and pulling out fresh ones. His breath scissors in his chest before he snaps forward with a violent – “huh…ha-AHH’EEHGGSHH’IUE!” that explodes out of him.
He doesn’t dare remove the tissues from his face, groaning as he feels the wet mess of it against his skin. He gives a damp, clearing blow, strong enough to shift the pressure in his ears. He’s forced to breathe through his mouth as he crumples up the Kleenex and tosses them to the side.
I’m going to go through the whole box by noon, at this point, he thinks, flopping back onto his soft pillows. He rubs his knuckles against his itchy nose, already well on its way to becoming pink.
It fucking had to be today, he laments, allowing himself a small pity party. It’s Halloween, and he’d been planning on spending the day making treats for the party later tonight, as well as handing out candy to the trick or treaters. He’s just going to have to power through. Maybe it just seems worse because it’s still early and his body hasn’t had time to wake up yet.
As soon as he thinks it, his nostrils flare and he’s surprised by a wrenching double – “ha’GSSHH’IUE! Huh..ha’NGGSSHH’uh!” At the mercy of his own body and unable to cover in time, the viscous spray of it mists the sheets in front of him. “Ugh… oh god,” he groans, swiping at the mess on his face with his hand.
Remembering the box next to him, he pulls out a fistful of Kleenex and releases a gurgling, cold-ridden blow into the waiting tissues.
“Fugg, I don’t wadda be – heh… ha’ERRSSHH’IUE! – SNF. I don’t wadda be sigg today.” Noting the squishy pressure that still clogs his sinuses after so many clearing sneezes, he resigns himself to the fact that he most likely has come down with the cold from hell.
Yet, determined as he is, he’s not going to let it stop him from going on with his plans. He can still make the food for the party tonight, he’ll just have to be very careful about washing his hands and covering his sneezes. If he has to make them one-handed while holding a tissue to his dripping nose the whole time, then so be it.
He should be able to hide his illness enough that no one will be worried. Hopefully he’ll be able to hold it off enough so they won’t take one look at him and decide it isn’t worth the risk. Hell, the way he sounds, even just being in the same room as him might be risky enough. But he can’t let his friends down, and he doesn’t want to miss the party.
Pulling more tissues from the box, he catches a harsh, scraping – “uh…huh…ha’NNGGGSSH’ah!” into the bundle, containing all of the dense, contagious mess that his nose is constantly trying to force out of him. He gives one last marshy blow before getting up to start the day, box of tissues in hand. If he can just keep his nose under control, everything should be fine.
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Late Night Tickle 2
A non-canon Snz Fic Remi x Levi Sequel
⚠️Content Warning⚠️
Messyish SnzFet, Smut, Drunk Sex
Author’s Notes: Mmmkay so by popular demand you guys said to allow Geez to pick a prompt and she chose the sequel to Late Night Tickle! Which was originally inspired off a prompt! So here we are hope you all enjoy! 😊 as always @aller-geez owns Remi, and did the cover art.
Description: Based loosely off this prompt with a smutty twist~
“HAHA!! No cause that’s so fucking true!!” Levi could be heard laughing loudly outside the door with a pair of muffled voices. Stumbling into the early morning of 3am was the small cat and his best friend Draeko, and his sister in law, Meeko.
“I know it is!!!” Draeko lazily slid against the other male as they shared their laughter, Meeko giggling along side them but starting to look more at her phone as the leopard struggled with the keys on his snow leopard printed lanyard.
“I had so much fun you guys, we have to do this more often…” Meeko smiled gently at the both of them before she continued “but I def gotta get back home to my partners…” the ginger haired woman winked before bumping Levi with her shoulder. “Have a good night you two!” Waving them off before she turned to walk toward her house on the large property they shared with Levi and Remi.
“Dijuwanna come in and watsh sum tv or you’re free to crash in the guess roomb, Drae,” Levi slurred extensively as he managed to push his front door open after seemingly struggling with the lock. The problem was he never had locked it. So he went to unlock it, but locked it, then had to unlock it. He was drunk. This took about 8 minutes while Drae hummed before shaking his head.
“Nah, Imma have Al come get me, cause Imma convince him to convince Nai into a 3 some tonight…” winking suggestively in the direction of his equally drunken friend, the two of them sharing a look of amusement before tossing into giggles.
“Hmmmm speaking of…yeah just make yourself comfy while you wait for Al, I’m, going to go do just that as well…minus the third party,” they both shared yet another good chuckle as their scuffling feet carried them through the threshold, and the mutt found his way to the couch.
“Word, good luck in there, night Lee!” Draeko threw up a peace symbol with his index and second finger before making himself comfortable, and scrolling through his phone.
“You too, D!” “….Now….wheres that big bad wolf at….” He snickered lustfully under his breath, his feet making light as they tip toed through the home, up the stairs and into the bedroom he shared with his lover, Remi. He eerily started to creak the door open steadily. His thin body slipping through the crack. Once inside he noted, long before entering, it was dark, but also, that Remi was fast asleep in bed, with his breathing at an incredibly audible decibel. Levi knew that sound. He was mouth breathing. Which could only mean one other thing, his lover was feeling a tad bit under the weather, or maybe allergy season, either way he could hear the subtle wheeze behind his exhales.
“Oh my poor lover….” The freckled, drunken man clicked his tongue sadly. ‘I leave for a few hours and suddenly…his immune system crashes…,’ he shakes his head, talking to himself inside the safety of his own head. Least Remi wake up to him having a conversation to himself. Slowly the smaller of the two, began to strip himself of his night time attire, the blazer, the tshirt, the tie…left with just his snow leopard print boxer briefs. He slowly slipped into bed, and instinctively the wolf opened up his limbs and then gracefully trapped his mate inside. Grunting weakly as he did so.
Levi bit his lower lip and tenderly closed his eyes, although, finding it to be a struggle while his head spun a million miles an hour. However, his hands searching and discovering Remi's and threading their fingers lovingly together he couldn't help but feel immediately comforted. His spins subsiding enough to allow him to peacefully close his lids once again. Yet, just when the cat was blissfully slipping away into dream land, he heard a soft, gentle, snuffle coming from behind him. Remi's hot, opened breath ghosting over the sensitive surface of his neck, his body shuddered.
The wolf was still clearly asleep and he was grasping tighter to the leopard while his body suddenly began to twitch, and spasm. His nose tickling, Levi could feel the wolf twisting and stretching his nose to avoid it taking over. He could also hear the shallowness in his breath, and each exhale sent goosebumps down his arms. "R-Rem?" he whispered behind his nerves as he tempted to see if the other was stirring in consciousness.
He wasn't, he didn't answer and the sound of his breathing only got more labored as time passed. "H--...Hih'...." Levi heard from behind him. Could it be? He held his own breath, his cerulean eyes staring into the darkened distance with anticipation. "hh'….!" Remi was fighting against them, pushing his leaking face against Levi’s shoulder, forcibly stretching his nose against the other’s moistening flesh as each second passed. It helped, but it didn’t cure. He snuffled, and continued to keep himself restrained. Until he felt it fighting back against him.
Remi, still not fully conscious or aware of his surroundings, felt as if the leopard next to him in the bed was asleep, and he was struggling to make sure he didn’t disturb the cat. Little to his knowledge that the male was just simply unable to rest in the first place. “H’GXNT!!” Remi shoveled his face into the crook of his boyfriend’s neck, muffling the sound, but putting himself completely on blast. There was no hiding it.
So when the feeling came back with its vengeance, the wolf had to blow the top of his lid completely off. “Huh'GDTS'ue!!” the dark haired man sneezed directly into the crook of the other's neck once more, slickening it with mess and sick. Though half expecting it, half thinking it was a waste of time to wait up for....Levi was startled by the sudden sound echoing in the canals of his hearing organs. Yet, unlike usual, his eyes rolled back and the feeling of the saliva raided areas cooling with each passing second, only brought him closer to sin.
"Bless you baby..." he whispered languidly, before rolling his hips back in a flirtatiously slick fashion. This caused the larger to stir and grunt, his hips instinctively moving to match Levi's motions. His opened maw only produced more hot air that was sending the cat into an almost frozen state of horny paralysis. He couldnt help it with the other at his neck like that.
"—hd'ISCHhh! Hh'iSHH!" Certainly this time the wolf would be awake from the insistent flood of onslaughting sneezes. Levi’s shoulder wet, decorated in the man’s spit and other misc ick he was sure. Typically something like this would make the smaller cringe and immediately wake the wolf from his slumber. Yet, another powerful wave of pleasure rolled through his spine.
“Rem…” he sighed outwardly, now finally turning around to actually face the other whose eyes gently peeped open at the movement of his partner.
“Hn?” He grunted once, looking lazily at his boyfriend in front of him now.
“You sick baby?” Levi asked gently within the darkness of their room.
“Juss…aller…g—hdt’ishhhh!” Now directly into the leopard’s face, leaving the wolf to blush profusely and bringing a corner of the blanket up to wipe off the mess he made. “I’m so sorry…” he winced, almost like he was expecting the other to get mad, but he didn’t. Levi simply giggled and pressed his forehead to the other’s and looked at his lover with hooded eyes.
“S’ok baby…bless you,” kissing the tip of Remi’s leaking nose, before dusting a few strands of hair from in front of his tired emerald eyes. Oh , it was starting to make sense why the other wasn’t cringing and trying to clean himself up immediately.
“You drunk?” Remi asked, smelling the extensively strong scent of alcohol between them.
“Mm’spossible,” he returned with yet another crinkle of his nose and a short snort before wrapping his arms around the other’s strong neck. “I missed you….” Nuzzling the tips of their noses together. Remi couldn’t help but melt under his adorable partner. How is he so extra cute when he’s drunk? The wolf wasted no time, wrapping his arms tightly around the other’s thin waist and pulling him tightly to his chest.
“I love when you’re drunk…sndf,” he snuffled lightly into the side of his mate’s neck again. Levi inhaled sharply, his lips pulling into a careless toothy smile, licking his lips as he felt the other’s chest up against his own.
“I love you!” He giggled kissing the side of Remi’s unsuspecting face, who could only laugh in response, but quickly he found himself under attack. Like a bursting flame through a pipe, he felt the sensation trickle down the base of his nose.
“I love you mo— Hah'ISSchuu!!” At the very least able to crook his head sharply to the left into the direction of the pillow, the sound still loudly audible.
“Bless you, Handsome~” Levi purred leaning over to nip, and lick at the other’s jawline. He pulled himself back enough to bring his thumb up to wipe below the other’s nostrils, swiping away the slickened mess there. Bringing the hand back down to wipe it across their sheets. He could wash those later.
Afterwards, playfully, his hands came up to entangle and thread through the other’s strands of raven hair. Remi shuddered, sniffling loudly afterwards to rid himself of the possible onslaught of slickened ick that was still inside him, despite the other’s help.
“Kitten….you’re playing with fire again…” he warned the small male that he was getting to his limit. Between his partner being half nude pressed up against him, being so sweet and specifically horny for his vulnerable state of being, he was finding it harder to return to his last state of relaxation. He needed Levi and he was getting closer to just taking it.
“I wanna get burned,” the leopard whispered with a huskier undertone than he had previously speaking. The wolf growled low in his chest, his hands around the other’s waist now trickled down to grip aggressively at each of Levi’s rear cheeks.
“Yeah?” Remi questioned the other teasingly, pushing him closer yet again, more or less just bumping their bodies together.
“Yeah,” the white haired male responded with an innocent sparkle behind his diamond eyes while his gaze switched between Remi’s still open breathing maw, and his glossy emerald eyes.
“Aren’t you just— tch’ISSH! iit’shHIEW! Fuck…” trying to remain an air of Dominance, but only being completely and utterly derailed by the explosions of irritant. Truthfully, it wasn’t anything within the usual, it was their first year out in Alaska, and this time of year a particular weed grew on the property. Levi hadn’t realized he made it worse coming home.
“Fuck…” Levi whimpered as he witnessed his suffering partner blast another short series of messy sneezes across their pillows. He bit his lower lip, his eyes lidded and Remi couldnt help but smirk seeing the display of arousal.
“Yeah? You like that?” Bringing a hand up and pushing it under the leopard’s neck, slipping his hand behind the other’s head and taking a gentle fistful of hair, tilting Levi’s skull upward.
“I do..” his thin pierced lips parted with anticipation as he watched Remi’s darkened expression deepen into his own.
“So fuckin naughty…” his nose twitched, Remi swiftly pushed and was suddenly atop the gapping cat, his fist still gripping his hair. “Ready?” His mouth pulled tightly closed as he encouraged his nostrils in a circular motion using centripetal force. Trying to trigger the unwanted pollen inside to slip through the ticklish sensors.
“Ready..?” Slightly confused by the question before he started to eventually realize what he was in for and his eyes widened.
“Open your mouth…H’hih…,” Remi demanded of his smaller partner, struggling against letting it out too soon, his malicious glowing greens making it practically impossible for the cat to deny.
“Re-,” it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try though, was he truly ready to expose himself to be such a slut ? He hesitated, almost sobering up, but the drunken devil inside his head picking at the insistent itch within.
“Open your fucking mouth,” there was no denying the man his request, that was being made extremely clear as the hand in his hair tightened substantially. Remi’s voice threatening and cold.
“Yes sir,” Levi dare not disobey his lover, so, obediently, the leopard opens his mouth and waits patiently as his eyes gaze over to see Remi, indulging while he tickled and tempted his nostrils by stretching and swiveling across his own face.
“H—hH…-h’dtTISHh!!” There it went, a mistral spray of ick and wet came flying at Levi’s open lips. It landed gently onto his flesh what one could assume TV static felt like in small doses. Levi whimpered and his whole body flinched upon impact but, the buldge in his boxers flexed and pushed up against Remi’s. “S’right, eat it, slut,” Remi hissed behind his gritted teeth while he bared down his hips and pushed their clothed lengths together roughly.
Levi shuddered with his entire being, his glossy cerulean eyes rolling in the back of his head as he licked his lips clean of Remi’s mess. “I love watching you lick up my sneezes off your own face,” he smirked shoveling his legs in between Levi’s, who instinctively wrapped them around the eager, still sniffling wolf. His nose and throat vibrating as they tickled deep within his sinuses. Trying his best to overpower the sensations as well as his mate.
Remi sat up a moment enough to bring his hands at the leopard’s boxers, making quick work of them and himself, spitting in the palm of his hand. “Tell me you like being my tissue,” he glared down at the wiggling and whining cat who looked at him with hooded eyes.
“I love it….” The sound was strained and it wasn’t done with enough passion for the wolf’s liking.
“Hm? I can’t hear you…And to whom are you addressing, Kitten? Don’t forget your manners,” Remi clicked his tongue in a condescending manner, tsking the smaller male with slight disappointment, which made Levi whimper in response. The wolf violently ripping their boxers clear off their bodies, taking his hands now and spreading his boyfriend’s ass apart to see his wanting hole puckering at him.
“I love being your tissue, Mister Connors….” It almost came out as a whine, the way it sounded. It went straight into Remi’s cock, hardening the inpatient organ.
“That’s what Daddy likes to hear,” spitting directly now across Levi’s spread open hole, legs pushed up to his delicate sternum. “Keep your mouth open, and your eyes on me—…Hd’IZTSsHHhhh’ih!!” Sliding his thick rod inside of the other, Levi’s dangling against his body, crying out, but meeting his lover’s demands before a waterfall of misted saliva fell down upon his face. “Just like that….HI’DTSCHIEW! -h’dtTISHh!!” As the larger wasted no time burying himself deep inside his lover’s hole, he spread and exposed his allergen attack sneezes across the smaller once more. He cared not where it landed, how it landed, the density….Levi let out a pleased hum, trying not to sound too desperate but his body continued to meld and match with each rough thrust inside himself as he was slickened by his mate.
“Re-Remi….” He gasped with a weakened mewl, reaching his hand down, he waited patiently, open palm in between the two waiting desperately for more of the wolf’s allergen triggered explosions.
“That’s my good—..Hh—hEhTXSSHhh’ih!! ih’TTSSHH!! Boy…” his praise interrupted by another shot of spattering saliva that came cascading across Levi’s bare stomach, but also the hand that was out stretched waiting. Once it was slickened the smaller made quick use, and brought it to his already leaking length. “Yeah baby? Am I making you that horny? SnDfF…” as the male hovered the other, he sniffled obnoxiously, trying to keep himself from dripping snot into his lover’s unsuspecting face. Luckily he could keep it down.
“Yes, Baby…I can’t stand it, you’re gonna make me…fucking cum….” Levi panted between each heavy, and aggressive thrust. It was almost enough to send the wolf into a bloody rage but he swallowed the pools that collected under his tongue. Knowing he’d get stuck with the cleanup. Instead, he drilled his cock into Levi’s tightening hole, all the while he could feel the younger getting closer to his limit.
“I can feel you….kitten…you’re getting so close aren’t you? —‘izTSHH!!” That one sneaking up from behind him as it took him by complete surprise, and Levi as well. The sneeze splashed the leopard across his unsuspecting features, and between the rough strokes, relentless usage, and assault of his prostate the cat was just unsuited for holding out any longer. He came hard over his stomach while the wolf shoved his hands down onto each side of Levi’s head, hooking himself forward and in as he rushed to his own orgasm, trying to follow closely behind the leopard.
“Fuuuuuckking shit….Remi…” He whined under a clenched jaw, his claws ripping the sheets underneath his grasp, and his other hand milking his spraying length. “Please.. baby…please I want to feel you fill me….” He sounded anguished as his hips continued their motions of meeting each hardened thrust.
“Shit that’s gonna do it….” Remi releases a hot steaming load inside the other’s ass, filling him with his seed. “Riiiiiight there….” He hissed. Shortly after he spent himself inside the cat, they both went limp and Remi collapsed ontop of his sweet boy. Levi wrapping his arms around the man’s strong, sweating shoulders. “I feel so much better…” he whispered breathlessly into Levi’s equally sticky and clammy flesh.
“Good…” Levi couldn’t help but notice he felt a hell of a lot more sober than he had before, and slightly grateful for it because it meant sleep would be much easier to obtain. “Me too….” They both gasped with labored breaths, their hands clasping around forearms, shoulders or necks just to feel grounded in someway. So nobody would float away.
“Sorry to mess you all up right when you get home…” Remi chuckles loosely as he looks up to hopefully meet eye contact with his boyfriend. Levi stretched his neck enough to look down at his mate, smiling back before shrugging without hesitation, he responded quickly.
“It was a benefit to us both, darling, like always,” running his thin fingers through the wolf’s blackened strands.
“I love you,” Remi let out a gentle sigh, exhaling through his mouth, as his nose was still blocked up from his previous fits in the night.
“I love you, more,” Levi giggled from under him, Remi’s head snapped up to look in his mate’s direction and dead in his eyes with the world’s most serious expression.
“Don’t,” he said shortly, followed slowly by a sarcastic toothy grin.
They both laughed together, the sound like wind chimes blowing in the wind, before silence fell amongst them and they wound up crashing in this strange position of the much taller male sleeping half on top of the other’s small body. Content, they still clasped each other’s arms as if forever reaching for one another.
The End 
Author’s Notes: I know it’s kind of shorter than I usually write? But I hope you guys enjoyed it 😭 I know y’all are on a hell boys kick so I hope this isn’t a Remi x Levi P.2 that goes unloved. LOL Expect the AlxKoxNai series next!!!
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Ambrosia to Go
@here-for-the-sick-fics Hi hello! I broke rather early, so thanks for the request! I'm not sure if it's what you had in mind, but I liked the challenge and I like Huskerdust! So! Here! You go! Enjoy!
Part 1
--
As the local bartender, Husk was very aware of what made the Hazbin Hotel tick. And unfortunately, that did not stop with how they handled illness.
Charlie was not one to hide it, but she would play it down and throw endless hours into her work until she collapsed. A rumor had started around the hotel that their bartender had thrown a blanket around her shoulders when she passed out at the counter. And he'll keep saying 'no, that didn't happen' until he's blue in the face because well, no one was there to prove it, were they?
As far as he can tell, he knows Alastor can get sick. Sort of. Kind of. A sniff here, a cough there. Even if, by rare chance that an overlord gets sick, he can hide those little details-- and hide them well. It would take only God themself to even catch him sneezing more than once.
When Lucifer gets hit, he gets hit hard. Denying it is somehow his go-to strategy even when the slightest cold knocks him down. Last time he'd seen the king sick he'd been working on some pretty important documents and, by the end of one of his many fits, he'd sneezed so hard that he breathed fire through the entire stack.
Niffty doesn't get sick. She's never gotten sick once since they started working together. He knows this. She knows this. It's incredibly unsettling and he'd rather not talk about it.
And today, he’s unfortunately left with...
"Angel Dust." Husk raised a bushy brow, "I'm cuttin' you off. You look like you're gonna pass out any second now."
And there sat the demon of the hour, famous porn star beloved by millions, plastered out of his mind and clutching a glass of what he calls his 'medical ambrosia'.
"Lissen! Lissen. Iii..." Angel's nose scrunched, and quickly covered it with a tissue-- which Husk nudged slightly to the left for accuracy's sake. "Hep'shhh! HET'shhhiieww. Ugh, gross."
The owlcat winced, fighting back the guilt he'd stuffed down for hours now. "Ange, I--"
"Shaddup!" Four accusatory fingers pointed, "If I had a cold I'd have it! And if I had your previous cold I'd say shhhhhaddup! Because you're-- snffff! you're a real nice guy, y'know that?"
"But--"
"Shhhhhhh!" Angel squinted, "All...all four of ya shut yer traps. You were worth it and don't you forget it. 'Kay?"
That speech was way too sincere. Oh God above he has to care again, doesn't he? Rolling his eyes with a groan, Husk swept the half empty shooter from the swaying patron’s grip.
"Hey! What gives?!"
Wordlessly he tossed Angel’s ambrosia down the drain, jumpstarting the closing time routine.
"Don't be like that Whiskers! We were just...g-gettin'...g-gettin' intehh...hih!" Angel hitched, fanning himself desperately before--
"HEP'shhhh!" He pitched forward, caught by a tissue in helping paws. The bartender sighed– then repressed a shiver when the sickly spider blew messily into cheap paper.
"Yer lucky you're cute." Husk grumbled.
"Whassat?"
"Nothin'." Tossing the soaked through tissue in the wastebasket, he snaked an arm around Angel Dust's waist. "C'mon sickie, let's get you to bed."
As he pulled Angel off the stool, it took a few seconds for his mind to buffer before sobering up a little and– here we go. Right on cue.
"Y'know this’s just allergies, right?"
"Mmmhm." Husk nodded mechanically, inching up one velvet step at a time.
"An' really, when ya think about it-- snff! Niffty's been slackin', y'know?"
"Sure." Second floor.
"I mean, missin' an hour of cleanin' today and for whuhh- what? Fightin' more roaches?"
"A shame, really." Third floor, second door on the right.
"And I...I-I..." Angel wobbled, breath hitching. Without even glancing Husk held a claw up to the spider’s nose. "Snff! Ugh. Thags."
"Shut up." Husk swore as they stumbled into the room. Purple fluorescent lights rained down on a plush bed, vanity close by. Thankfully with tissues, because he knew what was coming next.
"Id's cold id here, isn't it?"
"Yup." Husk grunted, leaning to grab a piece while balancing Angel with the other arm. "Pretty-- ugh-- chilly."
"I mbean geez! Sub-- snff! someone should really turn up the thermos-staahhh-hheh-hihhHIHH'ATSHHHHH!" Angel pitched forward again, and Husk spread his wings to keep balance, pressing a cloth to his face before he could get sprayed. "Guh..."
"Gesundheit." Husk deadpanned. The finger under the nose trick can only work so well when it literally and figuratively backfires a few seconds later. "Alright, let's lay you down before--..."
He tugged, but his patient wasn't moving. He was busy staring into the mirror.
"Angel?" A paw squeezed his bicep.
"...I can't wear the robe."
"What?"
"I can’t wear the robe. He's gonna kill me." Angel Dust repeated, turning pale. "I-I…we have this scene tomorrow with this sexy lingerie bathrobe lookin' thing and-- and I look like a wreck. I sound like a wreck. When I get sick I get messy and I'm gonna sneeze all over the stubid thi’g--"
"Angel--"
"And thed Val's gudda see how gross I mbade it--"
"Hey, hey, easy." Gently guiding Angel to the bed, he mourned at the way his fluffy frame shook. “Let’s sit you down before you fall down, okay? We'll take this one step at a time. And I won’t drop you, promise."
"...I-I kndow." The patient shot him a shaky smile. Shivering and unsteady, Husk tucked the tissue box beside him and draped the comforter over his shoulders.
"Okay." He took four gloved hands in one of his own, other reaching to help Angel Dust wipe his eyes. Then moved to his nose. "Blow."
"Wh-- I cad't let you do that! It's disgustig--!"
"Good to know, ‘cause we've done this all night."
"We have?! Oh, Husgk..."
"Trust me, I've cleaned up worse at the bar."
Pink cheeks glowing red, Angel rid himself of the muck as quickly as possible-- relieved sigh quickly replaced with panic.
"It's alright." Husk kneaded patterns on the other's thigh, glancing a knowing look. "Like I said, I'm not gonna drop ya."
Understanding, Angel scooped the tissue up and pressed it to his nose. "Et'SHHHH'iiew! ep'shhhh! Ghuhh..." With another honking blow he tossed the wadded ball on the desk, flopping face first into the pillowy mattress. Husk's eyes traveled everywhere but to his partner...in...crime? Ugh. Still not sure. Instead his attention lay on Fat Nuggets while he waited, little menace snoring softly in the corner.
"...I'm gross." Angel Dust rasped, muffled through satin and lace.
"I can see that."
"Forget what just happened. I was actin’ stupid, freakin’ out over nothin’."
"Nah." Claws threaded through tangled hair, "Fuck your boss. You should sneeze in his face."
Angel Dust snorted. Husk smirked. "Yeah. Really make 'im squirm. He wants messy fluids right?"
Slowly moving to lean against the headboard, the spider brought his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he stared. Pupils shrunk to pinpricks like he was at the climax of a horror movie.
"...What? I'm right." A pointed ear flicked irritably.
"Nope. Nuh-uh. Shut up. Did you just make a sex pun?"
Husk blinked in surprise, forgetting himself. And only smirked wider.
Alright, new plan.
"Me? Do somethin' like that? C'mon Legs, you're grasping. All I'm sayin' is ya gotta take a few tissues and get real passionate with 'em."
"Hhhhholy shhhhit."
"Then stuff 'em in his chest fluff or something. He can use 'em as padding."
"Are you real?" Angel gasped teasingly.
"What? You said you were gross. If he's not lettin' you call in, you might as well snee--"
"Hp'shhhh! HT'SHHHH'hhoo! Unh..."
"Yeah. Like that."
Pausing to let his patient give a gurgling blow, the tail end of a miserable groan broke into a soft giggle. Giggle breaking into another hitching mess until--
"Hih'TSCHHH! HTCH'shhhiew! H-hih-hhhHHITSCHHHH!"
"Alright, alright, that's enough excitement for one night." Husk quickly got to work, grabbing the required fluffy sweater and pajama pants. Ignoring the disappointed pout between pulling the top over Angel's stomach with a satisfied tug.
"Aw Husk–snfff! Really? Pants? I don't wannaaaa."
"Yes, pants. I thought you said you were cold."
"But they're such a paiiinnnn."
"Do you wanna get more sick?"
"...No."
"Then I'll go back to my room so you can slip those on."
A single step and--
"Wait!" Angel blurted.
A pause filled the room, save for a few coughs dragged out by the sudden burst.
"...Need something?"
"I, uh. I'm not ready."
"Christ Ange, are you still drunk? Jus’ put on your pants one leg at a time–"
"No! What?! No! I don’t want you to leave!" An aching voice broke. Tired eyes squeezed shut. Suddenly feeling rather small, he forced his gaze down to his gloves, peeling them off one by one as he spoke. "I…I-I know it's late, so you can always say no. I just…I don't wanna be alone right now."
Another pause. “...Please.”
A sharp sigh immediately cut any creeping tension, listening to a winged back thump against the wall. "I get it. Bein’ sick is…a lot. You don't need to write me an essay. And I don't pick favorite customers, but I gotta admit. I'll keep the bar open all night if it means I get to talk to Anthony again. Just once, that’s all I need."
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The Worst Timing | [3/?]
part 3 (6k words)!! you can read [part 1] here! (it gets worse before it gets better). this chapter is more character-centric (sorry again 🙇♀️). i wanted to post this before work eats me alive this week T.T
this is an OC fic - here is a list of everything I've written w these two!
Summary: Yves invites Vincent to a wedding, in France, where the rest of his family will be in attendance. It's a very important wedding, so he's definitely not going to let anything—much less the flu—ruin it. (ft. fake dating, an international trip, downplaying illness, sharing a hotel room)
—
It’s fine, until it isn’t.
—
Yves gets home, showers first (only after Vincent insists that he shower first), heads out into the living room, and shuts off the lights. The lights in the bedroom are still on, bleeding in from the doorframe.
His head hurts. Every part of him feels cold. He burrows deep into the covers on the pullout bed, rearranges himself until he finds a sufficiently comfortable position, and shuts his eyes.
Tomorrow, he’ll be away for most of the afternoon—with the wedding rehearsal, and then the rehearsal dinner with the rest of his family—and Vincent will grab dinner and drinks with some of Genevieve’s friends in the meantime. Yves will probably be home late. They won’t see each other for the entire day—at least, until he gets back from dinner some time in the late evening.
Everything for the wedding is ready. His suit jacket is ironed, his shoes polished; his speech has been written for weeks and rehearsed first alone, and then in front of Leon and Victoire, who’d told him how to make it funnier (Leon) and more concise (Victoire). Two days from today, Aimee and Genevieve will be married.
All he has to do, now, is just see it through.
—
Yves wakes up coughing.
He feels distinctly wrong. His head is throbbing. His limbs feel strangely leaden, like they’re weighing him down, like it’d be a considerable inconvenience to move them—he isn’t sure if he’d be able to sit up properly.
He presses a hand to his forehead, in an attempt to gauge whether he’s running a fever. It’s no use—his hand is warm and clammy. He can’t tell.
Fuck. This is not good.
One wrong breath leaves him coughing, harshly enough that the coughs seem to reverberate through his frame. His throat burns. He reaches blindly through the dark in an attempt to find one of the waters he’d bought yesterday night, at the convenience store. Had he left a bottle on the nightstand? Or had he gotten rid of the one he’d drunk from last night? His breath hitches, so sharply that he has practically no hope of holding back.
“Hhehh’YISHh-CHHiew! hhHEHH’iIDTSSHh-iiEW!”
The sneezes tear through him with little warning, leaving him flushed and shivering. It’s not warm enough in the living room. He doesn’t know if it’s the air conditioning in the room, or the relative thinness of the blanket he’s under, or if perhaps the window is open just a crack, or if perhaps he just hasn’t been moving enough to get warm. He’s not sure he could pinpoint the cause if he tried.
The only thing that seems evident to him, now, is that he feels immediately, uncomfortably cold. He could get out of bed and look for something to wear—he hadn’t packed any thick jackets, because Provence in March isn’t especially cold, but even one of the dress jackets would be better than nothing, so long as it’s one of the ones which can withstand getting a little wrinkled.
But when he sits up—or, rather, when he attempts to sit up—he feels the world tilt, uncomfortably. He braces himself on the frame of the couch, propping himself up with one arm up on the armrest.
He definitely has a fever, even if there’s no way for him to verify that right now. Otherwise, it would be strange for him to feel so cold. Even now, only half-vertical, he finds himself shivering so hard he can barely move the blanket back up to sit comfortably around his shoulders.
One wrong breath sends a painful twinge down his throat, and he finds himself coughing, gripping the armrest tightly to keep himself upright. He should get out of bed. He should find water, put on a jacket, make an attempt to get back to sleep.
For now, all he can do is muffle the coughs as best he can into a cupped hand. His chest aches with every cough. Every breath he takes in feels like it only manages to irritate his lungs further.
Through the haze of his exhaustion, he thinks he hears footsteps. The knowledge that he’s keeping Vincent up is the last thing he needs, right now.
Through the crack under the doorframe, he can see the line of light from the hallway, which is lit even at night. Maybe if he’s going to be up anyways, he should spend the night out in the hallway—at the very least, he’ll be a little quieter out there.
Someone presses a bottle of water into his hands.
“Drink,” Vincent says. “It’s uncapped.”
Yves brings the water to his lips and takes a short, tentative sip, and then another. His throat is sorer than it had been yesterday—the water burns against the back of his throat as he swallows.
Vincent steps past him, past the edge of the couch, to do—something. Yves doesn’t know what. He hears a click, and the lamp on the cabinet by the sofa flickers on, floods the living room with dim yellow light. Vincent regards him carefully, his expression unreadable.
“Sorry,” Yves says. The next breath he takes in exacerbates the tickle at the back of his throat, and he twists away, muffling cough after cough into a tightly cupped hand. “I didn’t mbean to wake you.”
Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. He looks… upset, somehow, though the light is dim enough that his expression is hard to make out. Yves tries to think of what else he should say, but his head feels heavy.
He tries to re-cap the bottle of water, though his hands are shaky enough to make it a little difficult. Vincent takes the bottle from him and screws the cap tight in one fluid motion. Yves tries and fails to think of something to joke about.
Vincent presses a hand to his forehead. His hand is comfortingly warm, and a little calloused. It’s strange, how good it feels to be touched—he knows and knows well that it means nothing, but the gentle press of Vincent’s fingers to his skin—when he’s spent the past few days trying to keep his distance from everyone—is strangely comforting. Yves leans into the contact, despite all logic.
Vincent pulls away, too soon. “You’re—”
“Warm?” Yves finishes for him.
“Feverish,” Vincent clarifies, with a frown. “Did you already know that?”
“I had a hunch,” Yves answers, honestly.
Vincent just stares at him, for a moment, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. Yves repositions the blankets over his shoulders, a little self-conscious. “It’s fide. I’ll take something for it,” Yves says. “You should go back to sleep.”
“We slept early,” Vincent says. “I’m not tired.”
“What time is it?”
Vincent glances at his watch. “5:34.”
“That’s still early enough that you should be asleep.” Yves sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. His head hurts, and there’s a prickle in his nose again. “Sorry. I can be quieter.”
His breath hitches. In a frantic attempt to keep his promise, he lifts the blanket to his face and stifles—or, rather, attempts to stifle—the sneeze into the fabric.
“hh—! hhEHH’NGKTSHCH-iiew!”
It’s still not very quiet, despite his best efforts, and the attempt to stifle leaves him coughing a little. It’s a good thing they’re not sharing a bed, he thinks. He hasn’t exactly been careful about keeping this illness to himself.
“Bless you,” Vincent says, rising to his feet. He ducks into the bedroom, only to be back a moment later with a box of tissues, which he tucks into the crook between the pullout bed and the sofa armrests, conveniently in reach. “Was it like this last night?”
“What?”
“Were you unable to sleep last night?”
It’s not an accusation, but Yves freezes at the question, nonetheless. For a moment, he worries—that Vincent knows precisely how little sleep he’s gotten since they landed in France. That Vincent was awake last night—or worse, that Yves was the one who kept him up—which is why he’s asking this question now.
But if he knew, wouldn’t he have said something about it yesterday?
“I slept fine,” Yves says.
There’s a cold breeze coming in from somewhere—from the hallway, or from one of the air conditioning vents, he can’t say. Yves tries his best to suppress a shiver. He can tell, by the change to Vincent’s expression—the way Vincent’s eyes linger on him a little too long—that he doesn’t do it well enough.
“You should really have taken the bed,” Vincent says, with a sigh. “It’s warmer.”
“It’s warm here too,” Yves says. There probably wouldn’t even be a problem if he weren’t feverish—it’s just the relative temperature difference that’s making him shiver. “Are you goidg to stop interrogating me ndow?”
“If you stop giving me reasons to be worried,” Vincent says plainly, “Then I will.”
Yves sighs. He’s cold, and exhausted, and he wants this argument to be over. He doesn’t want to have to justify all of this to Vincent, who should be enjoying this vacation instead of worrying about Yves and whatever cold-slash-flu he’s managed to pick up this time. “This is not the first time I’ve been under the weather,” he says. “I—” he veers away to face the opposite direction from Vincent, pulls the blanket up to cover his face. “hHeh-!-hHEHh‘nGKTTSHH-iiIEw!”
“Bless you.”
“—I kdow what I’m doing, snf. I don't even feel that—hh… hHheh'iiDDZZCHH-iIIEW!” The sneeze comes on too quickly for him to stifle. “—that udwell,” he finishes, sniffling, though that’s not entirely truthful. He lifts an elbow to muffle a few coughs into it, blinking through the tears that are surfacing, irritatingly, in his vision.
“So you’ve said,” Vincent says.
“Yes,” Yves says. “You can trust me on this.”
Vincent looks at him for a moment. For a moment, Yves waits for him to refute this, waits for him to point out just how unprepared he is, just how little of a plan he has aside from sticking this out until he has the chance to crash and burn.
“What do you need?” he says, instead.
Yves blinks at him. It’s not the question he expects Vincent to ask.
“Nothidg,” he says, honestly. “Seriously. It’s just a cold. I’ll take somethidg for it when I wake up.”
“Cold medicine?” To Yves’s nod, Vincent says, “I can get it for you, if you want.”
“No need. I’ll probably just — hhEhh-! HhEHh’IITShh-iiEW! Ugh… I’ll pick somethidg up from the codvenience store on the way to breakfast.”
Vincent turns aside to muffle a yawn into a cupped hand. Yves is unpleasantly reminded that he’s probably the sole reason why Vincent is awake right now.
“You should sleep, seriously,” Yves says, insistent. “Maybe you’ll be able to squeeze in a few more hours of sleep before sunrise. I’ll be okay.”
Vincent blinks at him. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay,” Vincent says, softly.
Then he stands, sets the bottle of water on the cabinet by the sofa, switches off the lamp, and heads back into the bedroom. Yves listens as his footsteps recede. His sinuses are starting to feel like they’re slightly waterlogged, and the pressure from behind his eyelids is back, throbbing.
The tickle in his nose heightens, momentarily, and he finds himself muffling another set of sneezes into the bedsheets. He desperately hopes it’s quiet enough to not be disruptive. It’s hard to be fully quiet when whatever he has leaves him sneezing so forcefully, but he’s determined to try.
The coughing fit that follows leaves his throat feeling like it’s been nearly scraped raw. He clears his throat quietly, though that hurts, too. He takes another small sip of the water, though it goes down his throat with such difficulty he finds himself coughing again.
Two more days. He just has to make it through. He’ll grab a pack of cold and flu medication from the convenience store downstairs—the kind that’s supposed to smother all the symptoms—and then he’ll be good as new, he’s sure.
Yves shuts his eyes, turns to the side, and tries his best to get comfortable. He’ll be less disruptive if he’s asleep. It’s just getting there that’s the problem. He’s exhausted—that fact only seems to become more evident the longer he stays awake—but every time he finds himself drifting off, he’s jolted awake by another untimely sneeze which wrenches him back into consciousness.
In college, whenever he was up unreasonably late for some reason, Erika used to tell him to Stop worrying, Yves, I can hear you overthinking from the other side of the room. Ask anyone else and they’d say that Yves has his life reasonably put together—being the eldest of three does that to you. He’d spent his formative years growing up trying to be the sort of person Leon and Victoire could lean on—the kind of person impervious to the sorts of stressful situations he’d gotten regularly thrown into—and for the most part, it’d worked.
He’d learned, early on, that it is not really that difficult to keep things from people. He likes to think of himself as reliable, even if that means that whenever something does come up—something that feels frustrating and insurmountable—it doesn’t really hurt any less when he goes through it privately.
Erika had always been good at seeing through his bullshit. It was one of the things he liked about her—that he could lean on her if he needed to, without worrying that it’d take its toll on her. That she’d take a look at his problems, which always felt so all-consuming in the moment, and make them seem simple and solvable and almost trivial.
It’s hard not to miss her, now, when he’s alone in the dark, devoid of any and all distractions. Or maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was just having someone he didn’t have to hide from.
Yves wonders, faintly, what Vincent would’ve said if he were more honest with him. He and Vincent aren’t actually dating, but he thinks maybe Vincent would understand. He thinks that they’ve been getting along well, as of late—he might even consider them friends.
But then again, hasn’t Vincent agreed to do all of this—lying to Yves’s friends and family, falsifying their relationship, letting Yves drag him from one celebration to the next—because it’s easy? Because he is willing to tolerate going to a party, or a housewarming, or a wedding, where there are no strings attached, when after the night is over he can drop the act cleanly?
It’s a lie that they’re telling, but it’s a self contained one. The moment they step foot out of whatever event they’re attending, there’s nothing left to pretend. Yves can go back to living his own life, and Vincent can go back to living his. Would Vincent really have agreed to do any of this if that weren’t the case?
It’s going to be fine, Erika would have said. Just breathe. She’s not around to tell him this, now, but he still tries.
The medicine will be enough to get him through today, and the day after. It has to be.
—
When Yves falls asleep, it’s the kind of restless sleep that sits somewhere in between unconsciousness and wakefulness. He dreams in fragments of scenes—him at Aimee and Genevieve’s wedding, the details hazy and illogical and unusually bright, the weddings he’d been to in the past all superimposed into one.
When he wakes up to the sound of his alarm, it’s to a pounding headache and what he’s certain must be a fever. He can’t seem to stop shivering. It’s already bright out—the curtains in the bedroom are pulled shut, but light streams in from the sliver of space between them.
He feels too cold and somehow entirely devoid of energy, though he doesn’t remember doing anything particularly tiring. Sitting up makes the throbbing pain in his head sharpen, so painfully that he has to grip the side of the couch to steady himself, blinking against the dizziness. If Aimee saw him right now, he thinks, she’d send him straight home—he’s in no state to attend a wedding, and he’s not sure if he’s in any state to pretend that’s not the case.
He breath hitches. He raises an arm to shield his face, habitually, even though there’s no one here to witness—
“hhEhh-’iZZSSHH’Iew!” The singular sneeze is, unfortunately, far from relieving. The tickle in his nose is irritatingly persistent, even when he reaches up to rub his nose, which is starting to run. “Hh-! hhEH-!! HEHh-’IDDZSCHh-yYew! hHEHH’iDDSCHh-iEWW!hhEhH-! H‘IIDzZCH-YIIIEEew! Ugh…” The sneezes scrape unpleasant against his already-sore throat, leaving him hunched over as he muffles cough after cough into his arm.
There’s a small packet of cold medicine on his bedside, along with an uncapped bottle of water, and Vincent is nowhere to be found. The medication is a relief. It’s strangely thoughtful—a part of him is a little worried that Vincent’s only gotten this for him out of a sense of obligation—but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless.
It’s exactly what he needs. Surely if he takes something for this, his symptoms will be, at the very least, tolerable enough for him to function as usual.
He picks up the packet, squints down at the instructions. The text is inconveniently small, and he’s always been better at speaking French than he is at reading it, but he gets it eventually. It’s supposed to last six hours. If he times this right, he can take a dose that will last him until the end of the rehearsal dinner tonight, and then—if he’s not feeling better by tomorrow—take another before the wedding starts.
It will be fine. He uncaps the bottle by the cabinet, downs two pills, squeezes his eyes shut, and sits there for a minute, forces himself to breathe, waits for the uncomfortable pressure in his temples to subside.
Then he shoots off a quick text—
Y: thanks for the cold meds :)
Y: sorry i essentially left you with some strangers (again)
Y: this seems to be a theme for me huh
Vincent texts him back just a few minutes later:
V: No problem. I hope you feel better soon
V: Leon and Victoire invited me out for lunch
Yves blinks. That’s a little surprising. But come to think about it, Vincent’s plans with Genevieve’s friends aren’t until dinner time, so it makes sense that he’s out doing something else.
His second thought is: he is definitely in for an earful from both Leon and Victoire.
Y: jealous! have fun!
His phone buzzes not long later with Vincent’s response.
V: I considered waking you, but I figured you could use the sleep
V: Do you want me to bring anything back?
Sure enough, when he checks his unread texts, Leon has texted him, are u alive????? And then, a few minutes later, ur sick? dude worst fucking timing ever 😦, to which Yves types back, thanks for your glowing reassurance
Victoire has sent him, vincent told me you’re sick :((( and, feel better soon (preferably before 3pm tomorrow!!), to which Yves says, thanks, fwding this to my body. hope it gets the message ✌️
Then he sends back to Vincent:
Y: i’m good, but thanks for asking! enjoy lunch
Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that, which means that he’s probably busy. Yves makes a note to thank him in person later. And again, much later—when all of this is over.
He just has to get the next day and a half to go according to plan.
—
The wedding rehearsal is mercifully uneventful. They walk twice through the processional, and then twice through the recessional. Yves picks a seat near one of the back rows, shivers through thirty minutes of run throughs, and tries to cough as discreetly as he can. He stifles every sneeze into a vague approximation of silence—he’s never been good at stifling—and does his best to ignore the mounting congestion in his sinuses, the persistent ache behind his temples.
It's easy enough to ignore all of those things in his excitement. He’s happy to be back—here, in France, surrounded by his whole extended family A part of this still feels unreal to him. He’s really here, in a place that feels familiar and simultaneously so novel, to watch someone who’s influenced him so fundamentally get married.
They’re all dressed for the spring weather. For the wedding rehearsal, Yves picked out a gray blazer over a dress shirt, chinos, and dress shoes. It’s not quite as formal as what he’s planning to wear tomorrow—the shoes are the only item he’s planning to rewear—but he finds himself distinctly grateful for the blazer jacket when the wind threads through the trees, knocking his tie slightly out of alignment.
It’s not unusually cold out—this would probably be considered temperate weather here, in March—but the wind is cold enough to offset the otherwise agreeable temperature.
The cold medicine helps, too—it keeps him feeling well enough to stay upright, which is already an accomplishment. He’s congested—his sinuses hurt a little, like everything’s a little waterlogged—but at least he isn’t sneezing as much as he was last night. His head still feels heavy, but the pain is a little duller, a little more muted; he’s tired, but he thinks right now he could stay awake on pure adrenaline alone.
“Dude, you sound awful,” Leon says, after the rehearsal ends.
“Thadks,” Yves says, muffling a fit of coughs into his elbow. “You always kdow just how to flatter me.”
Leon looks him over with a frown. “Are you sure you’re good for tomorrow?”
Yves doesn’t know. “Let’s hope so,” he says. “I don’t have any contingedcy plans for if I’m not.”
“I’m sure Aimee would understand if you told her.”
“I’m sure she would.” Yves looks over to where Aimee’s standing—she’s in the middle of a conversation with Yves’s parents and some of the adults on Genevieve’s side of the family. He’s too far to make out what she’s talking about, but she looks happy—she’s gesturing animatedly, her eyes bright. Every so often, he sees her flash a smile at Genevieve, as if to make sure Genevieve is following along.
Leon seems to understand that Yves has no intention of telling either of them, because he sighs. Yves changes the subject before he can say anything. “How was ludch with Vincent?”
“I like him,” Leon says, brightening at the question. “He’s surprisingly pretty funny. I hope you guys stay together.”
“Just because he’s funny?”
“That certainly doesn’t hurt,” Leon says, grinning. “But you work with him, right? If he’s a nice person while he’s looking at like, tax forms, or whatever, he’s probably a great person when he’s doing anything else.”
“Yves! Leon!” someone waves them over. When Yves turns, he sees it’s Roy, one of his younger cousins from his dad’s side of the family. “Pictures!”
“Coming,” Leon shouts back.
Yves has no idea why there are pictures happening today when the wedding is tomorrow, but he fixes his tie hastily and heads over to join them both.
—
When dinner rolls around, Yves finds he has no appetite, but he eats what he can and spends the rest of the time making conversation with some of his aunts and uncles. He’s always found this kind of small talk to be more enjoyable than it is tedious. They ask about his job, about his workload, about life in the states, about his parents, about Vincent—all things that he knows intimately, and has no problem speaking on. He thinks that speaking in French makes him a little more deliberate with his answers, partially because he has to spend some time formulating the sentences when they get more complicated, and he likes that, too. It has all the camaraderie of a family gathering—warm and crowded, welcoming, a little chaotic.
He finds Genevieve after dinner, sitting out on the steps.
“Hey,” he says, in French. She looks up, and he motions to the steps beside her. “Do you want some time alone before you get swamped with codgratulations tomorrow, or can I crash your alone time early?”
She smiles up at him. “You can sit here,” she says.
He takes a seat on the steps—a few feet away from her, because he doesn’t want to risk passing whatever he has onto her. He doesn’t know Genevieve very well. He knows her best through Aimee—through the stories Aimee has told about her, through the way Aimee’s entire disposition seems to change around her—but he’s exchanged very few words with her outside of that, all over the summer during their yearly family reunions in France. His extended family is large enough and the family reunions hectic enough that he can probably count the number of conversations he’s had with her in person on one hand.
“So,” he says. “How are you feelidg before the big day?”
“Do you want the good answer, or the honest answer?”
“The honest one,” Yves says. “hit me with it.”
For a moment, Genevieve doesn’t say anything. Yves zips his jacket up a little higher, just to have something to do. Genevieve pulls her legs in towards her chest.
“I’m terrified,” she says.
“You think somethidg might go wrong?” Yves asks, surprised. “You guys have planned this all out so thoroughly.”
“It’s not that,” she says. “It’s more like—this is probably going to be one of the most important things I’ve ever done,” she says. “You know, when something is really important to you, so it’s just that much more crucial that you don’t mess it up?”
“You’re the bride,” Yves says, clearing his throat. “I don’t think you can mess up. Unless you like, hheh-! hHheh… HEH’IIDZschH-YIEEW! snf-! Unless you get cold feet and say no when you’re supposed to be saying your vows. I wod’t forgive you if you do that, by the way.”
She laughs. “God, no. I’d never do that. It’s just—there’s all this perceived… I don’t know. Like, fragility around the moment. Like you’re just waiting for the moment to crystallize, and once it sets, it will be like that forever, so you have to make sure that it crystallizes right.”
“I’m guessing you’re ndot a fan of, like, pottery,” Yves says. He tries thinking about what other kinds of art carry the same lack of tolerance for backwards revision. “Or sculpting.”
“I haven’t tried either of those things,” she says. “Though I would probably be bad at them.”
Yves looks off into the distance, towards the countryside, the rows of verdant green hills which unfurl before them, the white cobblestone paths, the houses lining the winding roads all the way to the horizon.
“I think you don’t have to be so concerned about what it’s supposed to be,” he says. “You can give yourself permission to just—live it. Enjoy it, free of expectations. Who cares what you think about it after, right,” he says. “You’ll have a ring on your left hand. That’s good enough to offset any—well, awkwardness, or clumsiness, or anything, because as the bride, you are sort of incapable of doing anything wrong, by default.”
“I guess,” Genevieve says.
“It’d be a disservice to Aimee if you spent the wedding worrying about how to get things right idstead of like, just living,” Yves says, turning to face her. “What’s the worst that could happen? Like, you spill your drink during the wedding toast, or your mascara smears a little, or you trip on your wedding gown and you have to be helped up by the woman you love most? I think that almost makes it more romantic,” he says. “Because however the moment crystallizes, it’ll be you.”
“Did you learn all of this through pottery and sculpting?” Genevieve asks, wiping at her eyes. She looks a little better than before—she’s sitting up straighter, and the tension in her shoulders is less pronounced.
Yves grins at her. “I have a younger brother and a younger sister,” he says. He clears his throat again, though it doesn’t really do a good job at making his voice sound less hoarse. “It’s exactly as bad as you think it is. I have to be the one to talk them out of their stage fright like, all the time.”
Genevieve laughs. “It must be lively,” she says. “Your whole family is very accommodating.”
“They’re certaidly a handful,” Yves says, with a laugh that tapers off into a short cough. “I love them to death. And I’ll be happy to have you as part of them.”
She smiles at him. The evening light strikes the windblown strands of her hair gold. “Thanks for this.”
“Yeah,” he says. “No problem.”
They sit for awhile in silence. Yves crosses his arms in an attempt to conserve warmth and tries his best not to shiver too visibly.
“How did you kdow it was her?” he asks—a sudden, impulsive question.
As soon as he says it, he feels the urge to take it back. Genevieve is already stressed out enough about the wedding without him asking her difficult, abstract questions the day before the ceremony. He opens his mouth to apologize.
“There was never any doubt,” she says.
When he looks over at her, her expression looks a little wistful.
“Like, one day I woke up and I realized that whatever future I imagined for myself—in Marseille, or elsewhere; as a copywriter, or a journalist, or a director, or something entirely different—she would always be there.” Yves understands that—back when he’d been dating Erika, he’d felt like that too. That she was going to be the last person he’d ever date. That there was no conceivable future for him that didn’t involve her.
“Those kinds of revelations would come at the most insignificant of times,” Genevieve says. “I’d look over her halfway through morning coffee, or I’d watch her pick groceries from the aisle, or I’d watch her fiddle with the radio as she drove, and then it would strike me.”
“That you wanted to be with her?”
“That I was happy.” Genevieve tilts her head back to face the setting sun. “I’m really happy. It sounds like such a simple thing, and it is, but even a few years ago I’m not sure if I could’ve told you that that was true. And I think that finding someone who makes you feel that way—like they’d guard your happiness under any circumstance—is really something special.”
“You were the one who proposed to her,” he says. He remembers Aimee texting him about it, the night after it’d happened, remembers how he’d excused himself from dinner somewhere or other, ducked out of the room to get on call with her. She’d sobbed recounting it, the engagement ring on her finger.
“I was,” Genevieve says. She smiles. “I knew that if I gave up this chance I’d be kicking myself for it for the rest of my life.”
—
When he gets back from dinner at last, it’s late.
The cold/flu medicine he took from earlier is starting to wear off. His whole body aches—spending the evening outside in the cold probably didn’t help with that—and even in the relative warmth of the hotel room, he finds that he can’t stop himself from shivering.
He takes a hot shower, which feels pleasantly indulgent in the moment, but not long after he shuts off the water, he finds himself shivering again. The absence of the hot water makes him a little dizzy—he finds himself gripping the tiled wall, pausing for a moment behind the shower curtain to catch his balance.
His head really hurts. It’s the kind of sharp, throbbing pain that makes him all too aware of his heartbeat. He gets changed, towels his hair dry, and steps out of the bathroom.
Vincent is sitting on the bed, reading something. He must’ve gotten back at some point while Yves was showering. At the sound of the door, he puts the book down and looks up.
“How was the wedding rehearsal?” he asks.
“Great,” Yves says. He clears his throat, but clearing his throat irritates his throat enough that he has to muffle a few coughs into his elbow. “How was dinner with Genevieve’s friends?”
“They were very nice,” Vincent says.
“Ndicer than my friends in New York?”
“I felt less like I was being evaluated,” Vincent says, with a smile. “But if they were to express their disapproval of me in French, I would be none the wiser.”
Yves laughs. “I’mb sure that even if you learned the ladguage in full, you wouldn’t hear any disapproval from them.” He takes a seat on the couch, if only because he can’t quite trust his legs to keep him upright for the entire course of the conversation. “What did you guys talk about?”
“Lots of things. Life in France,” he says. “Life in the states. Individual freedom and the formal institution of marriage.”
“Do you believe in mbarriage?”
Vincent looks at him. “I think I believe in it just as much as everyone else does,” he says. Then, after a moment: “It worked out for my parents.”
“The busidess competition proved to be a good edough reason?”
Vincent traces a finger down the spine of the book, over the gold lettering. His shoulders settle. “They weren’t in love when they got married,” he says. Hearing him state it so plainly comes as a surprise to Yves. “Strictly speaking, I’m not sure if they ever were in love. But I think they came to love each other eventually.”
“What about you?” Yves asks. “Do you think you’ll fall in love someday?”
“Is that really something I’d choose?” Vincent says. “It either happens or it doesn’t.”
“Sure, but there are plenty of ways you can seek out love actively.”
“If I found something worth pursuing, I’d go after it,” Vincent says.
Yves laughs. “That’s very like you.” he wonders what kind of person Vincent might be drawn to enough to see as worth pursuing. Wonders if, after all of this is over, he’ll even be in Vincent’s life for long enough to know.
His head hurts. The slight prickle of irritation in his sinuses is already tiringly familiar.
“hHEh… HeHh’IIDZSCH-yyiEW!” The sneeze snaps him forward at the waist, messy and spraying. He reaches for the tissue box Vincent left him this morning, still nestled into the crook of the couch, and grabs a generous handful of tissues. “Hh… hehh-HEh-HhehHh’IIzSSCH-iEEw! Hh…. HEHh’DJSCCHh-IEew!”
The sneezes leave him coughing, afterwards. His throat feels raw and tender—he raises the tissues back up to his face to blow his nose.
“You sound worse than you did last night,” Vincent says, with a frown.
Yves opens his mouth to speak, but he finds himself coughing again. He can feel Vincent’s eyes on him. It’s embarrassing, he thinks, to be seen when he’s like this by someone who’s usually so well put together. “I’b a little prone to losidg my voice when I’m sick,” he admits. “It’s pretty incodvedient.”
“I’m probably not making it any better by talking to you,” Vincent says. That might be true—Yves is half sure that any time he does lose his voice, it’s because he typically makes no effort to converse any less than usual—but Yves likes talking to Vincent. Besides, they haven’t talked all day.
He opens his mouth to say as much, but then Vincent asks: “How are you feeling?”
“Good as new,” Yves says. When Vincent raises an eyebrow, at that, he amends: “Good enough for tomorrow, at least. The ceremony doesn’t start until three, but I’ll probably be up earlier to see if there’s anything else Aimee and Genevieve ndeed help with.”
Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “If anything comes up, I can help.”
“It’s fine,” Yves says. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
“You don’t have to ask. I’m offering.”
“I can handle it on my own. Even if it doesn’t seem like it, I— hHHEh’IDJZSCHh-yyEW! snf-! I’mb really fine. I swear.”
“Yves—”
“I’ve done this before,” he insists, which is true, too—he’s certainly been through worse. It would be wrong to put himself first, to take things easy when he might be needed still. “It doesn’t have to be your problem.”
For a moment, there’s something there, to Vincent’s expression—a flash of something that looks suspiciously close to hurt. Then it’s gone. When he blinks, Vincent’s expression is carefully neutral, as usual. He wonders if he’d imagined it.
“Okay,” he says. He sets the book gingerly on the bedside counter, and pulls the cord on the lamp. Darkness engulfs the bedroom. “You should sleep soon, if you’re able to.” A pause. The rustling of sheets. “Goodnight.”
Yves wants to say something. He has a feeling that he’s messed things up, somehow, though he’s not entirely sure how.
But what can he say? He just—he just wants, desperately, for all of this to be okay. He wants the wedding to go just as planned, wants to be as present and as reliable as Aimee deserves for him to be. All of that responsibility falls on him and him alone, doesn’t it?
“Goodnight,” Yves says, instead.
[ Part 4 ]
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Undesirable Presents: Le/vi Acker/man
for @nametakensff and @kawaii-kushami's snzblr secret santa event <3
Tags: aot/snk-canonverse, allergies (pollen), cold, contagion mention, spray, mess, language.
Word count: 2000 (and counting)
A/N: I have several apologies to make about this fic >-< First of all, I am so sorry that it is so late! Secondly, I apologize for being unfamiliar with the other fandoms requested, I couldn’t help but feel guilty for writing for my fav. Third thing: just so I can have something out sooner rather than later, please consider this a part 1 that will be edited, updated, and self-reblogged upon completion. Finally, this fic may be too indulgent, but I am crossing my fingers that it is enjoyable anyways ~
If Levi had his way, he would have spent the day in solitude.
His ideal birthday was simply his ideal day. In the warmer months, it would have been a sunrise run followed by a cold shower, his warm sweat and clingy pollen swirled down the drain. Then, his civilian clothes and a walk to the brick cafe at the edge of town. Black tea, white croissant, yellow pages of his favorite novel. Head ducked down and buried in his book, anyone who recognized him - for better or for worse - received the message: leave him be. He would sip until the porcelain ran dry, would stay until his stomach rumbled. With the last hours of daylight, he would stop at the butcher stand and purchase a few ounces of meat. It was about all he could afford on his military salary, but with rare optimism, he preferred to say it was all he cared to buy. Steak dinner for one. Lights out by dark. It was his way.
But Levi hardly ever had things his way.
He was a December baby, as Hange so mockingly put it, who loathed winter cold and winter colds. Instead of that morning jog and downtown stroll, he shuttered himself in his room with intermittent napping and tidying. Some considered his celebration traditions pitiful, but he could not complain. In ways as weighty as a family to visit or write to, yet also in aspects as miniscule as a good night’s sleep, Levi had been cheated in most realms of life. In time, he had come to live with it, found comfort in little joys, and wished the others understood that. That wish was most wanted on his own birthday, for everyone else seemed to celebrate it more than the man himself.
In the depths of his heart, he knew they cared about him. The yearly plethora of visits all accompanied with gifts should have proven that, but he loathed the treatment he received. Perhaps the early symptoms of the annual cold were to blame for that. No matter how hard he tried to avoid it, contagion made quick work of the barracks. Sooner or later, it would catch up to him, and that onset always seemed to hover around his birthday. On occasion, he wondered if he would be better off facing that inevitable infection head on rather than repeating the futile delay, but his train of thought was always cut off one way or another. A pang of headache, a harsh cough, a runny nose, or a sudden sneeze. This time, it was a knock at his door, the first of the day, one of many sure to come.
Levi swung his legs over the side of the bed. Bright rays reflected off the metal buckles of his gear and reflected into his eyes, garnering a wince and dawning thought: just how late did I sleep in? Standing up, he immediately noted how his shoulders felt heavy, his breaths labored. If he had to guess, his cold would take hold of him before the 25th was over. Lucky him.
Hand clamped down hard on the handle, startling the two on the other side just before he creaked his door open. The tall couple cast shadows over him: Nanaba and Miche with -
Shit...
Levi braced himself for their scream, but instead, they spoke calmly, handing over the bouquet with a pair of matching smiles, “Happy Birthday, Levi.”
He startled, not because he was surprised by their presence, but intimidated by their present: a bundle of bright-red poinsettias, pointed with specks of pollen he doubted they had noticed. They were far too innocent to have purposefully gifted him such a slew of allergens. Others, however, he was less sure about.
Instead of reaching out to grab them, Levi crossed his arms and tipped his tongue in refusal - refusal of their gift and refusing to indulge in the sneeze he already felt budding. Speaking quickly, he aimed to rush them out before they could witness his unravel, “I don’t want them.”
“C’monnn, Levi!” Nanaba pleaded, bending at the knees and shooting up again quickly. In her eager bounce, his eyes widened as he watched the petals flutter with her. His arms instinctively flinched before him as if he could block the microscopic wave. “Miche and I stood outside for hours in this freezing cold -”
Great, two more patients upcoming.
“- waiting for the flower shop to open.”
“First in line,” Miche added. “Do you know how popular these things are at this time of year?”
Levi’s stance remained unchanged, Nanaba saw his disinterest and felt compelled to play it up, selling the present rather than gifting it. “They smell good, too!”
Miche, on the other hand, preferred the path of insistence. Snatching the stems from his partner, he thrust them to Levi’s face, nearly touching, “Go on, smell them, you’ll see for yourself.”
He held his breath, reluctant to inhale as long as those were within reach. Aiming for subtlety, he feigned to nonchalantly scratch his nose with his wrist, “If you like them, keep them.”
“Someone’s ungrateful…” Miche teased, unhurt by the shorter man’s attitude, but never passing up an opportunity to rag it. “Y’know, most people would say ‘thanks’ or something…”
Levi frowned, he wasn’t ungrateful. Deep down, he was touched. On the exterior, though, he was objectively irritated, and could understand why they misread him. With a pang of guilt, he sought to correct the miscommunication, but that pang was miniscule compared to the burn of his nostrils, a flame that the leaves were now fanning.
“No, it’s just…” his face scrunched as he attempted to fight it off, just until he could finish the sentence, at least? “It’s… just…”
However, that bouquet was set on denying him. Throwing in the towel, a rare occurrence for humanity's strongest, he whipped around and buried his nose in the crook of his elbow, “Hah’AESCH-ihh!”
Fuck, all three parties unknowingly shared the same thought. For Levi, the nature of his curse was multifaceted. Foremost, the unexpected harshness of that sneeze, the wind knocked out of him first thing in the morning. From that, the daunting notion that this was the first of many sure to come, either from allergies or the cold. Finally, the flush that flooded his cheeks. That outburst had shown enough vulnerability already, Levi lingered behind his arm and remained turned away, waiting for the blush to disappear as well.
Yet, even after those awkward seconds of silence, neither Nanaba nor Miche could erase that image from their mind: his tan coat spotted brown, the mist that shot from beneath his elbow and faded into the room’s sunlit atmosphere. With the captain turned, they allowed their faces to contort with disgust. When his audible sniff confirmed what they thought they saw, they looked to each other and cringed, agreeing that this birthday visit was over.
His comrades did not put the dots together, that the sneeze was a symptom of his allergies rather than the cold that was notably floating through the halls. Fearing for their own immune systems, they retreated several paces, but not before Miche thrust the flowers in Levi’s grip and snapped his hand back, no chance of handing them back now.
By the time Levi turned himself around, arm still bent at his nose, the pair was already a distant blur.
Nanaba waved over her shoulder, “Feel better soon! Don’t come near us until you do!” A joking-not-joking singsong to her departure.
“Have fun with those!” Miche cupped his hand around his mouth, allowing his bid to beckon from down the corridor, “You can thank us later!”
Levi dropped his arm, prepared to call back. Doing so, however, meant that his guard was let down, and he should have known better, that his assailant would be quick to take advantage. With the distance, Levi did not turn or cover - not that he had the time for that - and instead ducked his head down, sneezing onto his own torso. “Hnn’kkshu! Heh-ISHhew!!”
Unfortunately for him, the height at which he landed placed him adjacent to the very bouquet that set him off. A dire proximity, each inhale killed every second - any hope - of relief.
The mess was not only audible, it was tangible, piercing the threads of his button-up and sinking through to his undershirt, summoning a shiver. The clean freak could not bear the sight, nor was it his habit to. After each sneeze and before opening his eyes, he assessed the tickle. If it remained, his lids likewise remained shut until his system managed to kill it. The first attempts at regular breaths informed him outright: you’re not done yet. Levi kept his head down, bangs intercepting his eyeline with each jolt. “Heh’tchew! Kk’shuu!!”
Once again, he paused to survey his own state. Although he beckoned for a break, his body merely mocked him. That all you got? Clearly unsatisfied, with frustration, he submitted to its demands, exacerbating the expulsion as best as he could, aiming to please. “Hah-ESHhew!! HIH’kit-chew! Hah…Hah-AEshih!!”
His intakes had been audible even from those meters away, his fit an early alarm clock for all still asleep in the vicinity. Dammit. As an insomniac, he was especially remorseful to have been responsible for waking anyone on the weekend. Even redder now, he tried to convince himself it was not his fault, that they should have known better than to shove those flowers in his face. However, as his voice crescendoed, it became more of a stretch to blame the gifters rather than the receiver, the inducer over the screamer.
The burn in his sinuses was unbearable, he decided to look to the windows behind him, hoping to coax relief. Before he could lure his gaze that way, though, he caught a glimpse of pity on his teammates, and somehow, that was what bothered him the most.
Fuck, this has to stop. At this point in the fit, breaths were hard to come by, and his life-or-death experiences had molded his mindset to meet his most urgent needs first. Perhaps counterintuitive, Levi understood that defeating the irritant meant battling with it. Working through rather than around. Meeting their eye contact, Levi yanked their gift to his face and took a deep, deliberate intake, figuring that his unconventional strategy could get two messages across: he was allergic to their gift, but at least it was good for something. And maybe they’ll remember this scene come next year.
Indeed, they would, and Levi would be lucky if the memory remained confined to those two. The finale was a sneeze that made them cover their ears and made the last few sleepers snap up in panic. For him, the aftermath resembled the end of a workout: tire and exhaustion, yet inexplicable relief. For them, it read like a newspaper headline: steadfast, hardass germaphobe of the branch soaked in his own saliva and other unspeakable substances. The tight-lipped, ever calm captain engaged in the toughest battle of his life: no titan in sight, but tiny irritants also impossible to see. Screaming the barracks awake, he would have been the last culprit anyone suspected. Only true friends would keep this episode a secret, maybe he shouldn’t have been so terse with them.
Vengefully, and with the slightest bit of told you so, Levi motivated himself through the end with the anticipation of seeing their guilty faces, but by the time he opened his eyes again, they were long gone, either cowering from contagion or gossiping already. Around here, viruses and rumors spread like wildfire.
Worked up and let down, Levi released a shaky exhale, wiped his face with his sleeve, flung the door shut behind him, and tossed the bouquet onto his bed.
One down.
tbc!
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Okay! so I saw this art of Kaveh and Al Haitham on twitter and IMMEDIATELY wanted to write something for it. My brain instantly saw the potential to include snz, so I did lol. These 2 will have a forever grip on my heart istg 💚
Al Haitham and Kaveh are sat together on the couch. Haitham is sitting upright, Kaveh is laying against the arm of the couch, legs draped over Haitham's. They're conversing, but Kaveh is doing all of the talking, and using sign language nonetheless. Haitham had a rather overstimulating day at work and needed to come home and recuperate, headphones off and all. Kaveh goes in and out of vocalizing some words because he just can't help it, but most of the conversation is done in complete silence. He starts by explaining how he dropped his pita pocket on his way to a consultation this morning, and then how one of his clients was completely delusional for wanting to build their house right in the middle of the desert.
'Oh my god, he never shuts up,' Haitham thinks to himself, but with the sweetest smile on his face. Kaveh learned sign for him, and even knows immediately when it needs to be used. No questions asked, just the most willing and effortless accommodation for his love.
Kaveh, still signing, is going on and on and on and on about other various little troubles he encountered throughout the day, when he suddenly pauses. His hands stop moving and actually hover closer to his face. Haitham notices, but just keeps caressing his legs as he's been, waiting for Kaveh to continue but aware of what's about to happen.
"Hhi-!tzshu!-IShu! HHha-! HI'NGXT-shiew!"
He let's out 3 small(ish) and clearly subdued sneezes, throwing them into his elbow and away from Haitham.
"Snf! Guh, sorry," he semi-whispers.
"Bless you," Haitham signs and speaks, then goes back to just signing.
Why did you hold those back? It sounded like it hurt.
You've had a rough day, I don't want my sneezes to add to that.
His normal sneezes are ridiculously loud and Haitham can't deny that. He smiles to himself, Kaveh noticing.
What? Kaveh signs.
"You're so good," Haitham says, very matter of fact. "To me, to those around you. Very accommodating and attentive."
Kaveh pauses, not expecting to have heard that from Haitham. It sounds too good to be true.
Well, I try to be. Kaveh signs with a rather proud look on his face, soaking up this rare praise.
"But don't do that again. Not only is it bad for you, but holding back and stifling make your sneezes specifically ten times worse. I'd rather you blow my eardrums out now than over the course of the entire evening."
Kaveh, who is now visibly fuming, angrily signs and speaks.
"You! Just when I thought I'd finally received genuine praise for being so mindful of you, you pull this! Everytime!"
"That was genuine praise. You can't deny what stifling does to you, though. Any second now and-"
"HA'GTZSH-UH!"
. . .
"Don't-"
My point exactly.
"HAITHAM!"
Haitham then takes Kaveh's left hand, brings it to his face and kisses it, making him blush and shutting him up immediately.
"Thank you, Kaveh."
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