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[dsnzfb]

AN: 1500 words! WOO!! First part of four, im soooo excited to share this one because i rarely do x reader fics and the reception for a kinda power-play (hesitate to call it d/s) contagion fic was pretty darn good >:) Starring Cam, actor with an ego, and your character/oc/self insert who's playing the romantic lead in a modern setting but with dnd folk in it hehe (Cam's a changeling, he's fey, thats a surprise tool that'll help us later). It's a professional relationship but uh oh, reader with the snz kink, shit gets crazyyyy in the following parts. if you like cheesy dark romantasy this ones for ya

Contains: implied contagion, mess mentioned, not too much in this one but will be on the more raunchy horny side soon.

Here's all the other parts!! uwu will post them within the days after i post this first one)

Act The Part (Ch.1/4 -- "Why are you so sweaty?")

When Cam had an issue, it was inevitably everyone’s problem. At best, his good days consisted of him being professional, great at his work; you know, a real asset to the team, cooperative, if not stern, but one would be lucky to have him on their side. At worst, he was short-tempered and snide, and utterly insistent. Like today…

“Why are you so sweaty?” One of the poor crew members had asked offhandedly. He’d gotten a death glare in response, followed by a passive-aggressive sniff. 

“Stage lights…why else?”

That tone taunted a response, implying that if there was one at all, it would have some kind of repercussion. 

No, it was pretty clear to everyone that the beading sweat at his brow, the hoarse baritone voice and those painfully obvious bags under his eyes were from something else. Changeling blood wasn’t red; it was chrome, and every time someone shot a glance at him, Cam was stained a different shade on his cheeks and nose like a faulty mood ring. 

“Hhhih…hhd—ngKkschhhhuh! Snff!”

He recovered quickly, with a grace that was to be expected. A narrow finger was curled under his sharp nose for a moment before he cleared his throat and lowered it. The rest of the cast was lingering about, stretching, you included. 

The director was standing above the pit.

“You sure you don’t want to…take the day off?” He'd called. Cam shook his head.

“No. What for?”

His sheer presence was an attribute of the fey. Talking back to the stage director of all people, as if asking how he dared to question his choice. Cam had leverage; he was the lead, after all, and honestly, the best talent a company could ask for. After spending years and years digging himself up from playing countless roles as an understudy, a swing, only to utterly dominate the field once he broke out into leading roles, he’d gotten a bit of a reputation. A changeling who could be whatever you needed, whenever you needed, but refuses to change in an act of submission. Completely and utterly self-driven from self succession. 

His dark eyes stared down at the manager challengingly as everyone else waited. 

“No, nothing serious. You just sound a little…under the weather. But if you can make it work-“

“Of course I can.”

And he could. Cam cleared his throat. His pitch shifted. A little higher, with a faint rasp, a voice that sounded almost like his own — an impression of himself. A reminder that he would refuse to let anyone step in, even as a temp. 

“How’s this?” He asked, knowing full well what the answer would be: a nod of apathetic approval. 

You catch the eye of the director. He’s asking you for your opinion…after all, the scene on schedule today involves quite a bit of close contact. Your mind scans through your options in quick succession; it’s no problem, and it really isn’t. In fact, you’d be a bit curious to get closer. Or you could back out and possibly gain the ire of a coworker. At this level of performance, probably best not to; this was a national company, and it would cause a riff.

“It’s no issue,” You answer, “I’m ready.”

“Good. This is act 2, scene 12. I’d like it if we could put you two up here, actually, can we move the marker…”

“—hdt’NNGKXxtt! Huh…”

You caught that from the other side of the stage, in the shadows. Nobody else did. You choose to feign ignorance, seeing Cam draw a handkerchief from his pocket to quietly wipe his nose with.

Isn’t that the handkerchief from the costume? You should alert the department, lest something starts going around. The idea makes your face feel warm, burning under the followspot as you take your place. 

——

Cam’s stature leaves yours in shadow. He listens to the notes as you half listen — oh, there’s no worry, you are just as confident in your own abilities. It would be easier to focus if he weren’t subtly sniffling and swallowing like that. 

“...And for the dip, can we do a little more spontaneity? A bit more punch! Let’s go through it! You four--Joan, yes you, pretend we have the panel ready, and you two, come up a little closer…”

As the director’s attention focuses, Cam looks down at you with his dark eyes to your own. It was like staring into an oil spill…or tar. Either way, you’d get stuck if you stared too long. 

“May I?” He asks quietly, and you nod, taking position. His hands feel for your waist, then there’s a grip as he lifts you, getting a feel of how you two balance, “This sleeve keeps my arm from flexing too much…”

That’s an interesting development, you comment. It’s a new costume, they’d just finished it and needed to see how it worked under the lights. 

“I feel like everything f-from it is going to fall off,” He mutters under his breath, forcing back a scowl, “Hh–hHHd’t-!!”

His expression twists and you can see the internal struggle as he pauses.

“--gh–hDDtzzshhihh!”

Fuck, the sound of relief made your ears burn. He sighs, then rubs the bridge of his nose. 

Before you get a chance to bless him, he holds up a hand and places the other on his hip. A deep, sorrowful sniff interrupts your second attempt. The director cuts you off on your third.

As the scene begins, the lines and choreography come naturally; you could do them while asleep if needed. Likewise to Cam, who subtly rubs his knuckle under his nose as he turns and swings his arms out in a wide gesture. Total focus as you come up to him in perfect sync and force, the beads on his costume rattle. 

Your heart momentarily quickens as he holds your shoulders. It’s a scene that’s been done before, and you knew you had little to worry about in terms of quality on your own part. But he wrangles you this time with a bit more force, and you almost stagger. The dip isn’t far, just dramatic enough to convince an audience. 

His silvery hair is rimmed by the blinding stage lights but the complexion of his face makes it shimmer nonetheless, illuminating each sculpted edge and angle. 

There’s a certain crease at his lip, implying a clenched jaw as he maneuvers you with grace; a stage kiss, practiced at least a dozen times, with his back to the house. You reach the apex in which he has fully leaned in, and your hands trace the beading on his costume’s jacket before cupping his neck. He only had that thing on so the costume department could fit it — god knows how much he despises practicing in costume — you feel a slight huff of discomfort as your fingers grace the embroidered collar at his nape. 

This moment feels like an eternity and not in a good way. He’s straining, you can feel it on his back and the way his hands are slightly pushing into your shoulders before he grabs your waist to keep from tilting. It’s…unnevering. The tinge of colour shifting under his skin, when you blinked briefly to peek, had turned a warm pink, staining the alabaster skin. He was sweating and breathing heavily, the warmth cascading past both your lips. Even the faintest jolt would mean contact, and with it, whatever virus is currently coursing through him. Multiple impulsive thoughts flash in the brief half-second his breath quickens. It shudders. He fights back a sniff. 

It’s a fake kiss. No strings whatsoever. But seeing the way Cam’s brows furrow, and the way his pale, feverish features take on an almost Victorian romantic quality…there’s a momentary pang to your chest. Your gums briefly ache for your teeth to sink into something. 

The moment passes. You inhale, as if stunned by romantic mania. The quietness of the stage is deafening during rehearsals, with no fanfare or applause to ease you back into reality. 

He pulls you back up, eyes still shut, and lets you settle for the second this scene allows. The gesture is so fluid and confident. There’s a wave of calm that washes out the spark of lust as his grip tightens with reassurance. He does his craft well. 

Suddenly, you are jerked slightly to the side as his hands leave your body with haste. 

“hh-HH-!!” His breath staggers,“—hh!hHDT’schHHhtt!shhww…”

The stage light did not help to hide it, but in the smothering of his face against his wrist, a small sliver of mess seemed to have escaped. He blinks away a few tears and hurriedly rights himself. 

“Bl-“

Cam cuts you off, delivers his line, and stares firmly through the pause you took to mentally recover before reciting your own. His voice is hardly faulty, but under that altered timbre, there is the grain of his original state. 

“Save it-” He hisses under his breath once there’s a pause. And you do. He turns his face back to the lights and silently smothers another sneeze against his knuckle. 

Seems like he was still a professional, even at his worst. 

[dsnzfb]

Crash Course

Details: 9.5k, M & NB sneezes, M/NB pairing

Summary: Delta expected challenges when he enrolled in training with the agency, but nothing could have prepared him for his fellow junior agent. (Or, 5 times Rho makes Delta sneeze — plus the 1 time he gets them back).

I’m back with more Omicron Verse! This one’s for the Delta fans out there 🤭 Big shout-outs and thank yous to @ezynse and the Anon who sent in these big-brained asks!!❤️ I was inspired to explore Delta as a rookie agent, alongside a minor character that got a passing mention in the previous story. @minteacutie, thank you also for your awesome Delta character introspections!!

These are original characters, all in their twenties to thirties! This takes place before Best Laid Plans (link) and can be read as a standalone. Thank you for reading either story, if you choose to!!

(Warnings: military/espionage setting, drinking [alcohol], hostage situations [simulated for training, everyone is okay!], unprofessional workplace dresscode [somebody wears a revealing bathing suit lol..], Mess Lite™ [not described in detail], contagion, cringe-worthy schmoop!).

--- 1. 🍾🍾🍾

“Come now,” he counselled himself, palms flat to the bathroom counter as he stared down his own reflection. “You’ve done far more difficult things. It’s only a party.”

On the evening of his first day, fresh off a dizzying campus tour and stripped of his civilian name, newly minted Junior Agent Delta found himself at an after-hours initiation celebration. It was a humble gathering; the Field Intelligence sector rostered only 24 people on the payroll, including himself. This wouldn’t be so intimidating if Delta, as the initiate, wasn’t the central focus of the entire event.

He’d weathered ship-tossing storms and spent months in a tin can hundreds of feet beneath the ocean — he could stand in the spotlighted gaze of two dozen judgemental strangers for just one night! 

Delta’s hands stayed welded to the counter, which was getting warm beneath his clammy skin. 

Yes, it would be unpleasant, but then it would be over. All he had to do was leave the bathroom. And maybe he would have, if not for the sudden clattering above his head. Delta glanced up, then stumbled out of the way just as the ceiling grate above him banged open. 

Something human-shaped tumbled out and landed in a teetering crouch. Impressive, considering they were wearing heels and a floor-length satin gown with a slit up to the thigh. In one hand they held a strange, complicated looking device jerryrigged with scotch tape and exposed wiring. In the other was a bottle of champagne. 

Delta gaped, wide-eyed and speechless, as the figure fluidly rose to their feet. They had a lanky build, with long arms and legs that looked deceptively fragile. Fine, silky hair swished in a shaggy bob around their sharp chin. Wispy bangs grazed their eyebrows and framed bronzed cheekbones. Narrow lips were lined with gloss; beneath long eyelashes were eyes the color of a storm.

“Wow, they should fix the hinges on that one, almost busted my ass,” they complained. Then they turned and brandished the champagne bottle. “Open this wouldja?”

Bewildered, Delta took the bottle and cracked the cap. It was still slick with condensation, chilled to the touch. He held it out and the stranger took it, knocking back a long swig and chasing it with a satisfied sigh. Then they offered it back to him.

“Here, dude,” they said. When Delta just stood there, uncomprehending, they wiggled the bottle temptingly. “C’monnn, I got it for you. You’re the new Delta, right?”

Delta nodded, and then figured he should actually say something. “Yes..” His eyes trailed up to the open grate. “Are you.. also in Field Intelligence?”

“Junior Agent Rho. They initiated me a couple months back.” After flashing a cocksure grin, they shoved the champagne bottle at him again. “They didn’t have the good stuff at my shindig, so I came prepared.”

Despite Rho’s shocking introduction and his reluctance to drink anything bubbly, Delta acquiesced. He’d need some liquid courage to get through the rest of the evening. Plus, it would be rude to refuse a gift.

He drank, hyper conscious of his lips touching the place Rho’s did. The liquid popped on his tongue, carbonated and sweet, cool and refreshing. When he swallowed, it sparkled all the way down. First in his throat, then higher — reaching up and up to the back of his nose where it fizzed. 

Rho winked. “Pretty good, right?”

Delta blinked at them muzzily, becoming drunk on a familiar urge; as he feared, the champagne was going to make him sneeze. He nodded his head with a sharp sniff, offering the bottle back and bringing his wrist to his nose.

“Yes, thank you,” he said quickly, headily, then flipped his hand around to pinch his widening nostrils shut. “..hpt!”

It was a blip of sound — a gulp of air caged in his throat, suppressed in his sinuses. Unfortunately it didn’t dismiss the glimmering tickle still lingering in the farthest reaches. Rho snorted.

“Sorry, excuse me,” Delta said, with another deep sniff and a helpless chuckle. “I don’t usually drink champagne.”

“I can guess why,” they replied, sipping another pull of champagne. “Should’ve grabbed beer instead, huh?”

Before Delta could reply his lungs snagged. He pinned his nose shut between his palms — “..hHpt!” — and quaked in place. His words came out in a sniffling sigh. “Ndo, it’s fine. I appreciate the gesture.”

Then some conscious thought caught up with him. He narrowed his eyes at Rho, keeping his hands hovering at chin height. “.. How did you know I was in here?”

Rho tossed their hair. “I’m a spy, dude. I did some spying. Obviously.”

“Why not just come in through the door..?”

There was a pause while Rho visibly conjured and discarded a few different responses. Delta tried to track their expression, but his eyelids were getting heavy. The tickle continued crackling high up inside his nose, bottled there because he wouldn’t let it out. He could feel his nostrils twinging, and preemptively pinched them shut.

“Okay fine, you got me,” huffed Rho as they thunked the champagne bottle onto the bathroom counter. “I was on my way to the party and wasn’t expecting the vent to be loose. Couldn’t avoid the fall with my hands full. I didn’t actually know you were in here, so lucky break on my part.”

“Whhh..” Delta shut his eyes tightly and shuddered. “— HHpt’ch!”  Even as the swell of the tickle receded, he could feel it bubbling up another attempt. He kept his nose pinched. “Why were you id the vendts?”

“Well, why were you giving yourself a pep talk in the bathroom?” they countered, then sliced a smirk at him. “Big tough Navy man like you feeling shy?”

It didn’t surprise him they knew of his background, considering it was plastered for all to see in the induction ceremony programs. What did surprise him was the champagne bottle being lobbed at him. Delta scrambled to catch it before it could break on the floor. His sigh of relief stirred up the fizzy sensation sloshing in his sinuses and he couldn’t get his hand up fast enough.

“-mMPXT!-huh..”

It squeaked past his lips and nostrils, barely contained, and while it had the benefit of scraping away any lingering tickles it also shoved forward some gathering congestion. He sniffled wildly, rushing a wrist to his nose, and couldn’t cobble together a reply before Rho beat him to it.

“That’s why I brought you alcohol,” they told him. “For the nerves.”

They gave him a double thumbs up, and then with one impressive leap, hooked their hands over the edges of the hole in the ceiling to haul themself up through it. Their bare arms flexed, muscles shifting under skin, and Delta quickly averted his eyes to avoid an eyeful up their dress.

“I’ll see you at the party later.” Their voice echoed in the duct. “Bottoms up, dude!”

They reached and snapped the grate shut. With that, they were gone.

What a bizarre encounter, Delta thought. In the silence, a soft ticking noise drew his attention to the bathroom counter. On the gleaming surface sat Rho’s strange device. The one with all the tape and wires. Did they forget it..?

The ticking became ominous as seconds went by. Surely they wouldn’t leave something dangerous in here.. He crept closer, and jumped when nozzles shot out from the device on all sides. It beeped cheerfully at him. Delta’s eyes widened, just before Rho’s gift went off like a malfunctioning sprinkler.

Then the bathroom door opened, and Agent Lambda discovered his mentee splattered head to toe in paint, standing in the middle of color-streaked ceramic, holding an illicit bottle of champagne and stuttering through attempts to explain how this situation had come to be.

--- 2. 😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️

Because of Rho’s prank, both of them were relegated to organizing storage on the basement floor. Delta’s first month in the program would be stacking musty boxes and digitizing crumbling handwritten files he could barely read. He struggled to find the same amusement in their punishment that Rho did.

“It was a little bit funny,” they insisted.

“Some might disagree,” he insisted back, clinging to his patience. Funny was hardly a consolation prize when they’d spent the last several days they’d spent in a dusty, cobwebbed hell. It was warehouse-like and labyrinthian, annoying to navigate with all the junk strewn about. “The results certainly aren’t ideal.”

“Worth it,” Rho said, from somewhere behind boxes to his left. Delta didn’t have to see their face in the dank, bare-lightbulbed glow to know they were grinning. He could hear it. “It gets boring around here.”

Delta grunted as he hauled another box out of the pile, squinting at the label scrawled in faded permanent marker. It either said ATTACHÉ CASES or MȂCHÉ FACES, which were two very different things in regards to categories. He sighed, and watched his breath kick up a plume of dust.

“I doubt being an agent is boring.”

“It is when you’re in training.” Rho’s voice had moved, coming from somewhere higher up. “It’s a lot of doing stuff like this, believe it or not.”

“Maybe our superiors are hoping to teach us discipline by-” Delta glanced over and caught sight of them sitting at least fifteen feet off the ground, perched on top of a mountain of boxes. “Rho!”

They leaned back on their palms and swung their legs with a smile. “Yeah?”

“That’s dangerous!” he scolded, searching in the low light for a foothold. He’d only known Rho for a week and that was enough to surmise they’d try a stupid stunt on a whim. “Get down, please. Carefully.”

“You wanna catch me?”

“I fear you’ll injure us both.” Delta walked to the other side of the box pyramid and found the path they’d taken — a procession of disturbed dust and dents in cardboard. “Stay there. I’m coming up.”

“Eh, don’t bother,” they said, and shoved a loose box with their foot. It tumbled down the side and landed with a dull thud on the concrete floor. Debris exploded in a miniature mushroom cloud. “I found what I was looking for.”

Delta waved a hand to try and clear the air, eyes watering and voice choked. “Could you please-” He paused to cough into his elbow, ducking away. “-refrain from kicking the packages? You might have broken something. Or blown us up. There were bottles of diethyl ether in one of these, remember.”

The finest particles of dust sprinkled into Delta’s sinuses. While he wasn’t strictly allergic, there were large enough quantities down here to make his nose itch. Turning away toward shadow, he lifted the collar of his shirt to scrub his nostrils and septum. It was far cleaner than his hands at this point.

“Relax, boy scout,” Rho griped, picking their way back down their precarious stairway. “I checked the label first. I’m not an idiot.”

Debatable, but as usual, Delta refrained from remarking that aloud.

Rho clambered to the floor and cracked open the box. From it, they fished out a moth-eaten wig that might have at one time been blonde. With glee, they announced, “Disguises!”

Specks danced in the yellowed light, and Delta wrinkled his nose at the reminder of all the similar specks floating around in his nasal passages. He’d been breathing this filth for nearly a week. Every night he blew his nose and cringed at the color it yielded.

Someone did a terrible job of storing these, he thought, watching Rho unearth garments reduced to rags. It made his skin crawl to think about wearing something like that, seeing the state of it. “Rho…”

He shouldn’t have said anything. They clocked the tone of his voice, his reluctance to get anywhere near the clothes, and became infinitely more interested in him than any treasure they could find in the box. From its depths they unraveled a decaying knitted cardigan, discolored with age and caked in dust. 

“Aw, Delta, don’t you wanna try one on? It would really fit your ‘suburb dad’ aesthetic.”

“I’ll pass,” he said, tensed to run if they came after him with it. Delta would have assumed his fellow trainee was above such buffoonery, if he wasn’t already a victim of one such prank — the prank that landed them here, no less. 

Rho slowly stood, dangling the cardigan with a look of pure delight. Bits of debris fluffed off of it and drifted to the floor.

“Rho.” He held up a hand, like he might use to caution an overly rambunctious dog ready to steamroll him. “Whatever you’re about to do, don’t-”

Cackling, Rho leapt for him, and the chase was on. The result was a complete disaster. They knocked over boxes, disordered their completed piles, kicked up a monstrous amount of filth, and in the end Delta lost track of Rho in the gloom and got lassoed by the cardigan.

It didn’t hurt, given the softness of the garment, but it did foof a revolting amount of dust into his face. The surprise attack, regrettably, made him breathe in. He kept his mouth shut, but that meant the air had only one place to go: Delta sucked up a noseful. Deep.

The sensation made him cough, and he flung the cardigan to the floor before he could afflict himself further. He felt the hazy touch of the powder farther up than any irritant should be permitted to go. His nostrils ticked irregularly, aware of a ticklish invasion and uncomfortable with it. His watering eyes welled shut.

“h-h-H-” He hitched helplessly, unable to stop, and reached up to pinch his nose just before the sneeze could crest. “-hpt!” It was a pulse of sound, tightly contained, and it rebounded immediately. “-nhPT!..-huh..” 

He cracked his eyes open, blinking through tears, stomach sinking with the knowledge that he wouldn’t get any of this out of his nose if he kept stifling. His nostrils fought him, twitching against his fingers in rebellion as he paced his breath carefully through parted lips.

Rho strolled up and fetched the cardigan off the ground. “Dude, did you actually snort dust off this thing?”

Yes, he did. He could feel it. Even without air, the debris stuck to sensitive nasal membranes and teased the urge to sneeze right out of him. He kept an iron grip on his nose even as his eyelids fluttered shut yet again. Gritting his teeth, he shook in place with a “-NDT!..hh..” and then a more desperate “..h-hH-NDTch!”

“Do you always sneeze like that?” asked Rho, very unhelpfully. Delta ignored them and began digging around his pants pockets with his free hand. “Why do you hold them in? I just let mine rip.”

I’m not surprised, he thought. It would be very in character for Rho to sneeze willy-nilly with no regard for volume or personal space. Delta, on the other hand, preferred discretion. In most circumstances he could manage this with resounding success, but inhaling a cardigan’s worth of dust straight into his sinuses was not most circumstances.

Panicked by the onslaught, his nose decreed anarchy. Rapidly accumulating moisture was dammed only by the pinch of his nostrils. Worse, flushing out the irritants triggered a desperate need to sneeze. And worse still, of course his handkerchief was in the one pocket he couldn’t reach. Weighing the risks, there was only one choice:

He switched hands. 

In the split second he let go of his nose, his nostrils flew wide. His expression collapsed entirely, weak to the urge, and while he was well-practiced in stifling he was abysmal at holding back entirely. There was no way he could stop it. Spinning away from Rho, he made the rookie mistake of letting his lungs loudly inflate — “huUH!” — and his subsequent attempt at damage control was poorly executed. “GXKT’shuh!”

It was nasal. And squelched. And productive. This is why he carried a handkerchief. His respiratory system seemed a little stunned after that one, buying him time to gather the soft cloth up to his face. Loathe as he was to do this in front of company, there was no alternative. Delta took a big breath, prepared to blow, and was blindsided by a sneeze that was waiting for ammo. It tingled down the length of his nose with no preamble and all he had time to do was smother himself with the handkerchief as he jerked into it.

“WHFFhhuh!” He didn’t have a particularly effective sneeze, so often one wasn’t enough to satisfy. Delta didn’t dare breathe, just let the feeling recede and build. “WHFF!..” .. Recede, and build. “WHHFF-!..” Recede, and build, and build-.. “h-h-WHFFSSshuh!”

Behind him, Rho whistled. Delta, through great mental fortitude, ignored them and carefully blew his nose. 

Doing it too strenuously popped his ears (sensitive eustachian tubes), so he took his time. First the left, then the right, then both, and after indulgently itching his nostrils with the fabric he performed a test sniff. There was nothing left to blow out, but he still felt a twinge of something fluttering up there.

He balled up his handkerchief into a fist. Straightened his shirt. Turned on his heel with a forced smile. “You’ll have to excuse me, I.. what?”

Rho was just standing there, idly twisting the cardigan with their fingers, staring at him. Delta peered at them in the darkness.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” they chuckled. They tried and failed not to smile. Shuffling on their feet, they tossed an awkward wave in his direction. “You’re just.. so proper. It’s cute.”

The words lit something in his chest, warm like a campfire, and Delta couldn’t think of a reply. His mind was blank. All he could think about was their smile, and how it looked against the soft light and shadow of this quiet, private place under the floorboards.

“And sorry about this,” they said, brandishing the cardigan. To their credit, they did seem genuinely contrite. “I didn’t know you were gonna snort it.”

“Neither did I,” he muttered. He sniffed at the memory, and instantly regretted it when that lagging tickle twitched high in his sinuses. It snagged his breath in little sips, a staggered “h-huh-” that brought the handkerchief back to hover just over his nose. 

When the sensation stalled, rather than be caught unaware he breathed deeply and purposefully through flared nostrils. The tickle waved wildly, a flag in a storm, and he pinched through the cloth. “-hpxT!uh..”

“Hah. Bless you.”

He waited, uncertain if he was done, before letting out his breath on a long sigh with another mindful wipe of his nose. “Thangk you.”

“.. Are you mad?”

Normally, Delta would insist no, of course not. But when he caught Rho’s playful gaze, the mischievous twinkle in their eyes visible even here in the dark, he found he couldn’t. He wanted to be honest.

“A little,” he admitted, and watched their grin grow like they were proud of it. Lifting his chin, he indicated the mess of boxes they’d knocked over in their chase. “And to make it up to me you’re going to fix all this.”

Rho groaned, performative and dramatic, dragging their feet and bemoaning their plight as they wallowed through the task. But as Delta endured their theatrics, intermittently sniffling and scrubbing his nose, he couldn’t deny he was a little endeared by them too.

--- 3. 🪶🪶🪶

Because they were the two freshest faces on the force, Delta spent unavoidable and copious amounts of time with Rho. He regarded his relationship with his fellow trainee first as a necessary evil, and then after some weeks, as an advantageous professional partnership. 

It didn’t cross his mind that it could become more. Not until one deceptively typical afternoon.

It was meant to be a straightforward covert ops simulation: Rho would attend a social event and extract information from a target. They would then relay that information to Delta, who was quietly infiltrating the property from an alternate entrance. Little did they know the lesson was actually about adaptation under high pressure circumstances — unexpected problems arose immediately, and came to a climax once Delta was inside the building. 

His comms cut out and enforcements were waiting. Guards overwhelmed him. They cuffed his hands behind his back, zip tied his ankles, gagged him with duct tape, and bound him with rope to a wooden chair. Then they left him there.

It took less than fifteen minutes for Rho to find him.

“Oh my god, seriously?” they hissed, reaching under their skirt to snatch the pocketknife taped to their thigh. “This is where you’ve been?”

Delta made noise through the gag, but Rho ignored him in favor of slicing the ropes and zip ties. They took advantage of his silence to complain.

“Wasted all that time this morning lecturing me about discretion and then you go and get yourself caught by Lambda and his goons. You’re so lame.”

I’m lame? Delta muffled through the tape, eyeing them up and down. They were in faux leather boots and a cheap flapper dress, complete with an old hollywood feather hat and boa. Rho narrowed their eyes at him.

“It was a costume party, you ding dong.” They paused and raised a brow with a little smirk, mirroring his once-over with a wink. “You know, you don’t look so bad yourself, all tied up.”

This wasn’t the first time they’d bantered with him like this, and Delta willed himself not to blush. Rho was just trying to get a rise out of him. They always were.

Sound broke the tension. Commotion from downstairs. Drumming footsteps. Guards. 

In the time Delta had been held hostage, he’d scanned his surroundings and prepared for this eventuality. Humming to get Rho’s attention, he nodded toward the wall across the room. They followed his gaze, then nodded in turn. Delta stood at the same time Rho grabbed his chair. With a grunt, they threw it with all their might at a nearby window. It crashed through the glass, and the thunder of footsteps doubled. Delta jogged for the wall. Rho joined at his heels.

This was an old building, built sturdily but worn down by training exercises involving physical altercations and at times heavy artillery. Between two wooden boards was a loose nail, a natural hinge that could swing aside and allow passage. Since Delta’s hands were still cuffed, Rho eased it open and carefully replaced it once they got inside the wall. It was a very tight fit, the two of them caged by crusty wood and the smell of mildew. Rho was crushed against him. Their bodies pressed from knee to neck.

The plan worked for a little while. Rho’s distraction with the window prompted forces to split off and investigate. Agent Lambda barked orders, demanding every nook and cranny of the room be searched. Rho and Delta stood sightless in the cramped dark. It would be a waiting game.

Which sounded easy, until Delta breathed in. It was then that he realized Rho’s stupid disguise was an issue. The feathers of their boa fluttered around his nostrils. Some of the tiniest, lightest wisps curled just inside. 

He snorted in reflex. Rho jabbed him in the stomach, a warning. Delta couldn’t lift his head because of the support beam above him. Breathing through his mouth wasn’t possible through the gag. His swimmer’s lungs could hold breath for a couple minutes at a time, but it wasn’t a sustainable strategy. Eventually, he had to breathe again. And when he did, the feathers wavered.

By the third breath they ventured deeper, and by the fifth they felt stuck there. Even the exhales were torture, dragging the fibers down the length of his nasal membranes only to bring them back up on the inhale. His breath began to tremble, faster in and out, and it hastened the need to sneeze. He struggled to keep his eyes open. His chest jumped with another sniff, swiftly becoming a sniffle as his nose started to run in attempts to soothe the itch.

Rho clocked the problem just as Delta filled his lungs with air, filled his nose with feathers, with one long, shaky sniff. Then — “xxT!!hhh..”

Hands free and gagged, it was the best he could do. But not good enough. Rho pinching his hip only delayed the inevitable. He sniffled fitfully, tiny little puffs of air that aggravated the feathers and teased his nose.

“-mxXT!sh..” When the feathers remained inside, still stroking away to the rhythm of his breath, he flinched from the assault. “mGXT’!!sh-..” Not done. It tickled too much, it-.. “GXTish’NN!”

His blood flashed cold in his veins. There had been a touch of voice in that last one, enough that Rho froze beside him. Beyond the wall, activity shifted attention. Closer than before. Delta held his breath in an attempt to waylay any further urges, but a bead of moisture coasted down the length of his nasal passage and tickled nearly as much as the feathers did. He snuffled reflexively, stimulated the feathers which in turn stimulated him, gently but powerfully, compounding that growing pressure deep in his nose.

Oh no, oh no, chanted his panicked inner monologue. At every disadvantage, this next sneeze wouldn’t be quiet. No hands. No means to duck his head to muffle it. His eyes began to roll shut. His nostrils flared round. No-!

Fingers pinched his nose in a firm grip. Delta spared a second to register the touch before he shook in place with a suppressed mpt! that stayed bottled up in his chest. His nostrils flexed against their binds, just as his wrists chaffed against the cuffs. The feathers remained trapped in his nose. 

Unable to breathe and tense from the proximity of Rho’s hand on his face, Delta hovered in a sneezy limbo. He still felt he had to sneeze, a silent alarm flashing at the back of his mind. Sweat stung his eyes. Seconds ticked by — he counted to 78 before the sounds of rustling in the room dimmed, and was over 100 when his lungs started to burn. All the while, his nose unbearably itched. 

Around 110, Rho finally let go. 

Oxygen took precedence over everything else; he snuffled up a deep breath. The feathers shivered inside him, and he shivered in reply. His exhale was a sneeze. “MPXT!!shnn!”

It was entirely through his nose, and he was too dazed to be embarrassed by it. Delta panted through sniffles, cringing through the torture of it but unable to stop with his lungs starved. He was breathing his way up to another big release when Rho ripped the tape off his mouth. Pain grappled briefly with reflex. Jaw dropping open, blinking glassily, nostrils twitching restlessly, Delta finally gasped.

“HEHshuh!!”

Miserably uncontrolled and completely uncovered. Vigorous enough that a bit of sawdust trickled down around them. Heat erupted across his cheeks and down his neck. He tried to jerk a hand up to his nose, but forgot he was still cuffed. He could do nothing but sniffle, which did nothing but tickle, and soon enough he was tripping his way through another hitching buildup.

“..uh-hh!.. HEH-xxstchh!”

At this point, trying to stifle was almost louder than just letting them come naturally. Movement drew his attention, and he was barely able to open his eyes before the feathers slithered out of his nose. It snagged his breath with another desperate need to sneeze, but without further stimulation, the urge festered. He was trapped in its embrace for a solid few seconds, long enough to be led out from their hideaway and into the open air of the room. 

“hh-.. HAHksschh!”

It burst out of him, exclamatory, and while not terribly loud it still made him wince. At the very least, it finally took care of the itch. Something soft touched his face and he leaned away, squinting open wet eyes to find Rho there holding his handkerchief. They must have snuck it out of his tactical belt. They clicked their tongue at him.

“Just hold still, dude,” they said, taking hold of his chin. There was a smile tugging at the corner of their mouth. “You’re kind of a mess.”

Delta was sure Rho could feel the furious blush blazing under his skin. Could hear how hard his heart was pounding as they carefully wiped his nose. His stomach swirled with a mix of mortification and disbelief, but underneath that was a desperate yearning. Something unspeakable. He swallowed down the nonsense that threatened to burst out of him.

They polished off his nose with a gentle pinch and slipped the handkerchief back into his pouch. It felt even more intimate, somehow, to feel them tug on the zipper. Rho moved behind him to start picking the lock on the cuffs, and he cleared his throat, at a loss of what to say other than, “I’m.. sorry about that. Thank you.”

“No worries,” they said, their voice drifting up to his ears as he stared at the shattered glass on the floor. When they spoke again, their voice was quiet, nearly a whisper. “What are friends for, right?”

It should have been a relief, but it wasn’t.

“Right,” he agreed, his heart sinking. “Friends.”

--- 4. 💧💧💧

It took months to admit it, but Delta realized he didn’t want to be friends with Rho. He wanted something else, and didn’t know how to ask for it. Didn’t know if they wanted it too.

Sometimes, he wondered. Every time they reached into his back pocket to fish something out for him. Each article of clothing they “borrowed” without any intention of returning to him. How close they stood to him. How much they smiled at him. When they called him a doof or shoved him or (once when they were a little drunk) jumped on his back demanding to be carried. These things made him wonder, but he couldn’t be sure, and it would be selfish to ask for more than what he already had.

All that said, it was extremely difficult to remember this when Rho was wearing a bikini.

That morning, Agent Lambda told his junior agents to grab their swim gear and report to the campus pool. It wasn’t unusual. They both regularly exercised here, practiced scuba diving here, and once performed an emergency simulation of escaping a car while it sank beneath the water. They did all this in regulation, full coverage swimskin bathing suits. Like the one Delta was wearing right now, where he stood stiffly at the edge of the pool with his goggles and towel.

He knew diddly squat about bikinis. In fact, he didn’t know much of anything right now. All he knew was that Rho looked stunning in emerald green, and the delicate, fiddly strings that kept the garment attached lacked structural integrity. The suit accentuated the jagged angles of their body, the flat slope of their chest, the curve of their hips…

Delta found something interesting on the ceiling to look at instead.

Agent Lambda lifted his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose with a long, defeated sigh. “Rho. Why?”

“Couldn’t find my other suit, boss. Was either this or nothing at all.”

Delta swallowed, throat dry. They’re joking. Of course they’re joking. They’d never show up without clothes on..

Lambda, as always, tried to usher past Rho’s shenanigans. “Just get in the damn pool. And if that thing comes off, I’m writing you up.”

“C’mon, Agent Lambda,” Rho sounded imperious. Delta could imagine them cocking a hip, smirking as they said, “Isn’t that a little unfair?”

“Nope. I’d write up Delta too if he showed up in a speedo and gave us an eyefull-”

“Sir!” Delta cheeped, mortified. Lambda continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“-not that he ever would, since he’s the good kid. Now, both of you, in. Surprise endurance inspection.”

Delta got in the pool, grateful it was a little cold. He needed it, after that exchange. He took his time stretching, breathing, clearing his mind, and preparing himself for a rigorous swim. Endurance tests weren’t easy, especially with Lambda, who tended to push his trainees until they were on the verge of collapse.

“Feeling strong today, dude?”

He glanced to his left, and the sight of Rho in a wet bikini was much worse than a dry one. They’d left their hair down too, hanging limp and dripping around their cheeks and in their eyes. They reached up to push strands out of the way; Delta followed the length of their arm with his eyes. Water skated down their skin, back into the pool where he could see the wobbly outline of their body.

“Del?”

His head snapped up, aware he’d been staring and desperate to pretend he hadn’t been. “No!.. Er, I mean, yes. You’re looking great. Feeling great. Me, I’m feeling. Strong, I mean. Yes.”

It was a miracle he was doing this well, honestly, so he tried not to berate himself for sounding utterly imbecilic. Rho didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his response pleased them. He could tell because they chewed the corner of their lip into half a smile. 

“Good, because I’m gonna give you a run for your money, Mr. Navy Man.”

You already are, he thought, staring at their forehead to keep his eyes from wandering. I’ve been running.

Lambda blew his whistle. “Line up, kids,” he said, and continued as his trainees got into position. “Catch-up drills. 50 meters, four sets. 15 seconds rest. Go.”

Gradually they fell into the rhythm of the drills. The warm-up transitioned into a grueling main set. Swimming taxed the entire body — muscles burning, heart pounding, head throbbing, Delta focused on nothing but the next sprint. Lambda stepped out halfway to take a call, probably from another agent. During a rest, arms resting on the side of the pool as Delta tried in vain to catch his breath, Rho swam up beside him.

“What set are you on?” they gasped.

“Five,” he gasped back.

“Shit.” Rho splashed him, and he turned his head to avoid the spray. “How are you always faster than me?”

“Some might call it skill,” he teased, and watched the way the water lifted the fine strands of their hair when they sank beneath it. Beautiful. 

Rho popped back up for an attempt at a surprise splash. He caught their hands, grinning. They grinned back. Shortly after that, training devolved into a splash fight and eventually a chase. 

Underwater, Rho was otherworldly. Their hair danced around their shoulders and cheeks, long limbs graceful as they kicked and dug their way forward. Delta took it slow, in no hurry to end it, and only a little ashamed as he dragged his gaze over every inch of their body. They glanced back at him then, and whatever they saw on his face drove their teeth to their lower lip. Curved their gorgeous lips into a smile. Little bubbles escaped their nose and floated to the surface. 

Something in him, bowing for weeks under pressure, snapped.

Delta sped up. Swimming seriously now, he caught them by the ankle. Rho didn’t try to shake him free, a challenge in their storm-grey eyes. He passed hand over hand up the length of their leg to hook his palm around their waist and pull them close. But he missed, and snagged one of those fiddly little strings by mistake. 

Momentum tore it clean off, and then Rho was bare from the waist down.

They glanced back at him in shock. Delta stared back helplessly, still holding the bikini bottoms, until reality slammed into him like a train. He sucked in a sharp breath — a terrible thing to do while under water. Liquid poured into his airways. He broke the surface spluttering, chest aching, sinuses on fire, blind and deaf to everything but the instinctive urge to cough himself dry.

Rho popped up moments later to escort him to the wall, latching his hand to the edge so he could hang there and hack up a lung. They gave him some patronizing pats on the back. “Isn’t not breathing water, like, the first thing they teach you in the Navy?”

He couldn’t breathe well enough to reply. All he could feel, besides the burn of chlorine through his nostrils and throat, was the weight of their fingers ghosting up and down the line of his back. He wished his suit wasn’t in the way. Through streaming tears, he caught sight of their soft expression. Something fond. Something real. Involuntarily, he choked and snorted water from his nose.

Rho laughed at him, smoothing their hand up his neck and into his wet hair to scrub their fingers through it. “You’re the uncoolest guy I’ve ever met.”

Is that a bad thing? he wanted to ask, but the wicked burn in his sinuses stole his breath away. Another sniffle confirmed there was still water in there, strongly and chemically scented, and starting to tickle. Tightly and hoarsely, he said, “I’mb so sorry, I-.. thatd was uh-hh!”

The sneeze surged while his guard was down, weak and lightheaded from coughing so much. “-xXTssh!” Habit saved him, and he was able to lift a hand out of the water to cradle his nose, waiting for the rest as he battled to speak. “Was ad accide-hhXT!uh.. accidendt.” He sniffled thickly, wincing from the sting, and convulsed again. “EXTsch!”

Rho slanted him a smirk and pushed some of his hair off his forehead, arranging it how they wanted. He let them. 

“I know.” Heedless of his sneezing, they trailed their hand down the side of his head to his cheek. It was a spot of striking warmth against the tepid water. “You’re not the kind of person who’d do that on purpose.”

He sipped in a breath behind his hand, trying in vain to hold their gaze. Usually chlorine didn’t bother him, but then again, he didn’t usually snort it up his nasal cavity. His eyes folded shut as the prickling intensified. Their thumb brushed the edge of one twitching nostril. It flared wide, and he ducked his head to crush his nose in a firm grip.

“-ept!.. hdt!uh- h’NT!..huh..” A one, two, three punch — dizzying, when he was already winded. 

“Bless, bless, bless,” Rho chuckled, and patted his cheek for his attention. When he looked, they nodded toward his other hand. Trapped in his grip where he clung to the pool edge was Rho’s bikini bottoms.

Overwhelmed, Delta spoke his mind: “Oh. Fuck.”

At this Rho broke into laughter that echoed in the room. Through a confusing miasma of arousal and chagrin, Delta felt proud to be the source of it. They got control of themself and pinched his cheek, wrinkling their nose with the force of their smile.

“Didn’t know you knew such a naughty word, boy scout.”

He passed over their bathing suit, staring carefully at the pool wall as they let go of him to shimmy back into the garment and tie the strings. What if I offered to help? he thought, and then mentally slapped himself. That’s insane. What is wrong with me?

Stuck in his thoughts, he didn’t notice another sneeze creeping up on him until the tickle flared like a flash bomb. He snapped his head down with a splash of water when it leapt out of him. “HEHShh!!”

Rho jumped, treading water and still fussing with bikini strings. “Whoa, bless you!”

“Oy!” barked Lambda. They jumped apart from one another as their superior marched up to the edge of the pool, eyes narrowed, a stern frown beneath his bushy mustache. “If you’ve got the energy to chat, you’ve got the energy to swim. Start over. 10 sets. Go.”

The agent blew his whistle, a shrill scream of fury, and Delta took off from the wall. He glanced back over his shoulder at Rho, mouthing off to Lambda as they tried to finish tying their bikini, and wondered what might have happened if they had the pool all to themselves.

--- 5. 🤧🤧🤧

Under only two specific circumstances would Delta allow himself to sneeze freely:

When afflicted by his allergies — the sneezes would come hard, fast, harsh, and in such numbers that eventually he’d become exhausted trying to suppress them.

When he was ill — he suffered from extreme congestion that clogged his ears and sinuses, to the point that it was painful to do anything but sneeze uninhibited.

He took great care to avoid both, but over a year into the agency program, one finally got him. 

It started as an itch in his throat that crept to the back of his nose, where it now lived. Like all his colds did, it pounded pressure against his ear drums and seeped into the sensitive spaces beneath his eyes. Doctors said it was those damn eustachian tubes, making him prone to ear infections or sinus infections and often turning one into the other if he wasn’t careful. Colds made him miserable. He couldn’t work through them, and hated to be seen struggling with one when so many people could carry on as if they didn’t notice they were sick.

So when he woke up with aching ears and a throbbing headache, Delta called in a landmark occasion: a sick day. 

Agent Lambda, floored by the news, asked him if he needed anything. Delta would rather eat literal garbage than allow his superior officer within a mile of him when he wasn’t well. He declined, and he suffered silently for the better part of a day, until somebody broke into his apartment.

“I’m not breaking in, Del, you gave me a key,” Rho tutted, unloading an armful of groceries onto the kitchen counter. They wore sweatpants and one of his own hoodies, made of washed-worn cotton and stamped with a naval emblem. “Say thank you like a normal person.”

“Thagk you..” Delta refused to retreat and lock himself in his bedroom like a coward, so he stayed standing in his fuzzy socks and wool sweater, arms crossed, locking his muscles so he didn’t shiver. At the risk of being rude, he mumbled, “You cad just leave it there ad go.”

Rho guffawed. “Yeah, nice try. I’m not going anywhere.” 

They dumped everything haphazardly out of the bags, and while Delta twitched with the urge to organize it, he didn’t want to get anywhere near them. He couldn’t breathe at all through his nose, but still his itchy sinuses managed to drag him kicking and screaming toward a sneeze. It built slowly, infinitely, bigger and bigger. He hitched each time like it would come, even as it continued to grow.

“..hh.. hhuh-..” Delta lifted a hand to hover at the tip of his nose. “.. uhh-hh.. hHH!” He remembered at the last minute not to pinch, and flinched for his elbow. “EHTSShhuu!”

“Ooh, big sneeze!” chirped Rho.

It swung a hammer to his ears and head — a pulse of pain that dimmed as soon as it appeared. Barely to breathe, contending with inner ear troubles, Delta was so grateful he wasn’t prone to multiples when he was sick. He blinked open swollen eyes to find Rho much closer than he last saw them; they stood in front of him, reaching for his face. 

Delta deflected their hand with a forearm. “You deed to go,” he croaked. “You’ll get sick.”

They melted into a syrupy smile. “Mmm, well, you better buckle up for a hell of a needy patient. I’m talking five-star meals, hot stone massages, wrapping me up in blankets, waiting on me hand and foot...” They looked him up and down. “I know you’re into that shit.”

Already flushed with a low-grade fever, maybe Rho wouldn’t notice him blushing. He covered his face anyway. “... Shud up.”

With some heavy-handed coaxing and man-handling, Rho corralled him to the couch and got him bundled up in a quilt. They shoved a thermometer under his tongue before he could protest. They moved around his apartment with confidence, muttering as they slammed cupboards and checked the fridge; they’d been here before, usually just before or just after training sessions. It was the first time they’d visited for a reason outside of work.

He closed his eyes and breathed quietly through his mouth. Suddenly, there was beeping. The thermometer slipped from his lips. “Mmm,” Rho hummed, assessing. “Not great, but could be worse. How are you feeling?”

Horrible. 

The relentless post-nasal drip was a barbed coating all the way down his throat. His sinuses were so tender it hurt to blow his nose. His ears were muffled, impossible to pop no matter what he did. He’d been floating in a disconnected haze since he woke up, lonely and miserable, wishing as he always did that somebody was here to take care of him. Now that someone was, he had no idea what to do. Couldn’t make himself say it.

In the silence, Rho crouched to sit on the coffee table across from him. They cupped his cheek and brushed a thumb over the puffy skin beneath his eye, pausing when he winced. “Hey,” they said. Their voice sounded muted and so far away. They skimmed their hand up to cradle the side of his head instead, and he opened his eyes. 

Rho was right there in front of him. With him. “It’s okay,” they said. “You can tell me.”

Delta trembled through a thick swallow. Hesitantly, he leaned into their hand. “I feel awful.”

Rho made a noise of sympathy. They scrubbed long, clever fingers through his unkempt heir. “We’ll have to do something about that, then.”

We. Such a small word shouldn’t reassure him so much. They kept petting him, and Delta kept letting them. It might have gone on all afternoon if he hadn’t felt the twinge in his nose. He felt it coming a mile away — a compounding, tickling necessity to which he’d have to submit. Aching and weak, his sinuses could only occasionally muster the strength for defense measures. Because of this, the sneeze was loaded like a trebuchet. Laboriously. Impatiently.

Delta slowly leaned away as his expression weakened. The sensation waxed and waned for long seconds, gathering its strength. He dragged preparatory breaths into his diaphragm, unable to fully exhale before another lancing tickle made him hitch to another high.

“..uhh..” He wrapped the quilt over one hand. “..h-huh..” Lifted his elbow to hover just in front of his trembling nose. His nostrils flexed and held wide. “..hUHH-” Delta sat back, certain it was coming, and blinked teary eyes open when it didn’t come right away. It smoldered, holding him frozen in expectation, before swinging out of him with force.

“HEHDZSShhuu!”

Pain thumped through his head and he groaned, cradling his forehead in one hand. He only looked up when Rho tapped his shoulder to offer him tissues. Delta shook his head, exhausted at the idea of it. Blowing at this stage never yielded results and always hurt. Rho gave him a grimacing smile.

“Yeahhh, trust me, you need them.”

A twitch of his nose alerted him to the slick feeling on his upper lip, and Delta snatched the tissues with more energy than he’d had all day. His nose was so stuffy he couldn’t even feel it when it started to run. That was so embarrassing.

“Ugh, sorry,” he groaned, pinch-wiping his nose until it felt dry. “That was gross.”

“Don’t sweat it, you’re sick,” Rho replied with another couple pets through his hair. They liked doing that, he noticed. “And BLESS you, that was huge. Can’t hold ‘em in today, huh?”

“Ndo,” he sighed. He demonstrated with a sniffle that did absolutely nothing. Just made him direct a couple coughs toward his lap. “Hurts.”

Rho crooned at him, prompting a flush to spread to his ears as they joined him on the couch to hug him close. “Ohh, poor thing. We’ll fix it.”

We. It shot fire through him. Lit him up with a terrifying sort of hope he wanted to ignore but couldn’t. His hands shook as he clutched the tissue tight between them. Then Delta leaned back to look them in the eye. “You.. don’d have to.”

Still with their arms draped loosely over his shoulders, Rho blinked at him. No grins or smirks this time. Just a soft question: “What if I want to?”

Delta’s gaze dipped to their mouth to watch them ask it. It’s okay, they’d said to him. You can tell me. Words he’d guarded for months poured from his heart and past his lips before he could stop them.

“What if I want you to want to?”

Rho bit their lip, a smile slowly growing. Their arms snaked tighter around his neck. Rho’s face got closer and closer as their undertow dragged him off the safety of the shore. “Then I guess we both want the same thing.”

We.

Delta took the plunge. Cast aside the doubt, the fear, and dove headfirst into the tide. He closed the distance and pressed his lips to theirs. Rho tugged him down, down, down into the depths. Tongue in their mouth. Fingers through their silky hair. Their body underneath him as he pressed into the couch. Rho’s nails dug into his back, pricking like electricity. Their legs wrapped around him like a vice. The breath from their nose puffed across his face as they both gradually lost their breath — well, no, it was just Delta actually.

He broke free of the kiss with a gasp. His heart was pounding in his ears. It felt like the room was spinning as he blinked spots from his eyes. He hadn’t been able to breathe at all, but hadn’t wanted to stop. Rho peppered little kisses across his jaw. They said something, their voice just a droning noise as the pressure in his ears shifted.

“Sorry, whad?” he panted. He squinted down at them, trying to focus.

“I said, let’s raincheck,” they repeated. They ran both hands over his trembling shoulders, soothing and reassuring. “We’ll pick this up again when you’re feeling better, yeah?”

Delta willed down the childish urge to throw a tantrum over this. He’d been dreaming about it for ages, and now they had to stop because he couldn’t breathe through his nose. Completely unfair. He dropped his forehead to their chest with a sigh, and Rho chuckled. They wrapped all four limbs around him to hug him close.

“You know I’m right.”

He nodded, still breathing heavily. As minutes ticked by, they arranged themselves into a more comfortable position. Rho hiked up to the edge of the couch while Delta stayed limp between their legs with his head pillowed on their stomach. He drifted to cool hands scritching his scalp and might have fallen asleep entirely if not for the slow dawning urge to sneeze.

It took so long to come that he didn’t bother moving. His nose prickled uncertainly, an undulating sensation that echoed from no specific location. Rho paused when they felt the first of many snags in his breath. Eventually he propped his elbows on either side of their legs to pick his head up and wait. Rho watched him with a little smile.

“Do they always take this long?”

“Whed I’b sick, yehhHH..” Delta gasped through a surge, nostrils twitch-twitching at the powerful sensation. But then he let it out on a groan when it didn’t commit. “.. ungh, yes.”

Rho leaned over to snatch a few tissues from the box and passed them over. He arranged them in the prayer of his hands as he blinked through breath-catching hitches, eyelids fluttering and lips trembling. When it finally did come, he hitched up to the peak — “huhh-uUH-HHH!” — and dangled there for what felt like eons before the rush of sensation washed through him.

“HAHDZSSSHhuh!”

He shook himself, Rho, and the couch with the violence of it, and it was a sucker punch to his sore system. There was a worrisome second when his nose prickled and he feared he might do it again, but the feeling died off as he rubbed his nose to stillness with the tissues.

“Gosh, sorry,” he coughed, piling the tissue with the others on the edge of the table. “Thad was loud.”

“You’re fine, bless you,” Rho said, watching him cringe and wince his way through a sniffle. With a pat to his head, they declared, “All right, let me up. It’s time to get you on the mend.”

Delta flopped down on top of them before they could make much progress, and stayed dead weight even as they started huffing and shoving. “This is actually helpi’g a lot. Mbaybe you should just stay here.”

“Solid strategy, but I’m not falling for it,” Rho grunted, wiggling under him. Clearly they didn’t want to be rough while he was sick. Delta was betting on it, since they weren’t going to make much progress without shoving him off the couch.

And even after several minutes when they actually did push him onto the floor, Delta laid there on the carpet while Rho stomped off to the kitchen and thought to himself: Worth it.

--- +1 💊💊💊

The following Sunday, Delta tried to stir soup without spilling. The limpet attached to his back was making it difficult. For as weak as they claimed to be, Rho’s arms were iron bands around his waist while they scrubbed a tickly nose between his shoulder blades.

“I’b dying,” they bleated in a pitiful voice, laden with congestion and sore from coughing. “I’b dyiggggg…”

“I promise you’re not,” Delta replied, then jolted when they snaked their cold hands up under his shirt and poked him.

“Stop endjoying mby misery, you sadist.”

Delta tongued his cheek to try and stop smiling. He hadn’t stopped since he arrived this morning and Rho met him at the door, draped in a blanket and acting clingy. He couldn’t help it; they were very cute, and as they surmised last week, he adored taking care of people he loved.

.. Liked. He meant liked.

Rho sniffled near his ear and crushed their nose to his back, rubbing back and forth. He could hear the wet state of their nostrils and sighed. “Do you need a tissue?”

“Ndo,” they breathed, then coughed. Delta put the spoon down.

He reached to loop his hands around their wrists and pried their grip just enough to spin around so they were face to face. The red-rims around their eyes, the pink splotch across their damp nose, their unruly bed head — the picture made his heart pinch. 

“You should wipe your nose,” he suggested gently. Rho leaned against him, groaning.

“Too tired,” they whined. “Do it for mbe agaid..”

With a huff, Delta unearthed a handkerchief from his back pocket. This wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last, that they made this request of him. He tilted their chin up on the tips of his fingers and meticulously blotted the spots beneath their nostrils. When he held the cloth there, they screwed their eyes shut and blew into it. He should find it disgusting, but he couldn’t because it was Rho.

After he finished he pocketed the handkerchief and took a moment to stare. Sometimes it made his stomach flutter just to look at them. Rho looked back, blinking blearily and wrinkling their nose with a sniff. As Delta watched, those lovely eyes fluttered shut. Their sleek lips parted. Their head tilted back by little increments, and then they snapped forward to release — completely uncovered — a patently obnoxious sneeze across his chest.

“EEEYISH’hoooyy!!..”

Delta flinched. It also wasn’t the first time that had happened, but so help him it better be the last because he had to draw the line somewhere. “Rho!”

“Ugh, sorry, whatever, why do you care, I caught this shitty cold fromb you,” they griped, sleeving beneath their nose to wipe up the mess and then latching back onto him before he could get away. They fixed him with a squinty glare. “Ndow, bless mbe.”

After a long and fond battle of wills, he knew he couldn’t deny them. His arms wrapped around them, bringing them back close to his chest. “Bless you,” he murmured into their hair. Rho melted into him with a stuffy sigh.

He squeezed. They squeezed back.

/THE END!!

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Adventure, whenever it calls (3/6)

When Donovan Bell is given a map from his long-dead parents, he is sent on a seemingly pointless goose chase across the snowy countryside. He has no idea what he'll find, but he does know that adventures are hardly easy.

Chapter One, Chapter Two Chapter Three

Multichapter fic featuring my OC's from Rookery Port! Read the previous oneshots to meet the characters!

No Beta, no crying.

CW | Colds, cat allergies, sympathetic snz, angst, contagion, swh, light adventure violence,

Chapter 3 

It was the first time Donovan ever saw ice picks hanging on the walls of a barbershop. He shuddered to think what they were used for. 

He was shuddering quite a bit. The cold had now settled in his chest, stuffing up his breath. He woke up that morning coughing terribly and worried it was pneumonia. The weather certainly didn't help matters; it was an icy walk to the barbershop, the three of them practically slipping the entire way. 

It reminded Donovan of his first day of teaching at the university. He was substituting for a sick professor, ironic as he had been sick himself that day. He'd taken a terrible tumble, only to be helped up by the ever-cheerful Prof. Langley. God, had he forgotten to tell Langley he'd be gone? As soon as Langley had given him the letter, he bolted. Donovan quietly cursed himself for being so unprofessional. 

"Steady your wrist now." The old barber grumbled. He gripped the old bone-saw with steady precision, serrated edges noisily cutting through the metal. Herb and Fog watched with intensity, their breath held until the handcuff finally gave way. 

"Ah! Wonderful, thank you-" Donovan raised his elbow and coughed raggedly into it. 

"Of course. Just uh, erm. Give me a minute, will you? Just a minute." The barber was looking intently out the window, a rise of urgency in his voice. He left the room still fumbling with the saw, looking troubled. 

"Freedom at last!" Fog rubbed at his wrist, released from the handcuff. "What a truly dreadful sleep last night. Just look at the state of my clothes!" 

"You had a rough night? My damn neck hurts from the cot." Herb groused. 

 "I offered to share the bed. You refused!" 

Herb reddened. 

"Yeah, well-I—" 

"H'PTSHHHOO!! Uh-UHPHSHHH!!—'scuse me." Squeezing his nose with his handkerchief, Donovan felt like his head was ready to pop from the pressure. His ears were fully clogged, and all the sneezing wasn't helping. 

"Ugh, Donovan.. you do not sound well. Bloody awful really." Fog sniffed.

"You don't sound great yourself." Donovan shot back. He wasn't being petty. That morning, he caught the sound of Fog sniffling and blowing his nose. By the time they arrived at the barbershop, his voice had taken a muffled quality, one that sat high in his head. Donovan guessed the proximity of the tanner shop just across the street had something to do with it. Animal fur did not agree with the man. 

Or perhaps, Donovan was sharing more than just the map with Professor Fog. 

"The kid's right boss, you do sound stuffy. Wonder if this place has a shop cat." 

Fog's nose flared at the suggestion. 

"I'm fine, Herb. Just exhausted and grievously disheveled." 

"You look fine, Boss." Herb uncapped their flask, taking a modest sip. "..you always do." 

The sound of angry voices rumbled outside. The sound of panic from the villagers and the stamping hooves of many horses upset the quiet of the winter morning. The peace of the town was being unsettled, and its energy carried on a foreboding wind.

The barber stumbled back in with a frantic look in his eyes. Someone had him roughly by his shoulder. 

"He-he's in here. Please don't hurt me." 

A tall, older woman in a long coat and fur hat towered behind the barber. Flanked by two heavily armed men who looked like they stepped out of a pirate storybook. Upon seeing Donovan, the stern woman's scarred face brightened with a smile. 

"Donno! It's been too long!" 

"…Marnie??" 

Before Donovan knew it, he was wrapped up in a pair of familiar arms. Memories flooded him with the familiar smell of cigars and brand. Fuzzy memories of being a child and watching his mother sharpening her collection of knives with her slightly older, and slightly scarier, sister. 

"You- know Mad Marn??" The barber gasped before being pushed roughly aside by one of Marnie's intimidating friends. 

"Oh, it's been years. Look at you. Always took more after your father," She pinched at Donovan's cheek, "Tsk, oh dear. You feel warm, you ill?" 

"Marnie, what are you doing'd—snff—here?" 

"Oh, you know, me and the boys. Running around, doing our thing. Then one day a birdie tells me that my favorite nephew has a map. Very strange, sending the letter to you instead of me." 

Marnie linked her arm with Donovan's and began to casually stroll him out of the barber shop and into the street. As warm and friendly as the reunion was, dread crept up along Donovan's spine when he saw the fleet of rough-looking men in furry coats, hats, and boots standing at attention. The streets were empty. The townsfolk had fled. Behind, Fog and Herb were being pushed along by more of Marnie's men. 

"You still working at that stuck-up university?" Marnie asked. She still kept her arm hooked around Donovan's. 

"Yes…you still doing the um'b…mercenary thing?" 

"Adventuring, dear Donno. Adventuring. Like what you're doing right now, just with a lot more people and a lot more ammo." Auntie Marnie sighed, exasperated. "You're just as uptight as your mum. Really, what is the difference between what they did and what I do, eh?" 

One of Marnie's soldiers spat on the ground. 

"Bell, can you please tell this Aunt of yours to call these ruffians down!" Fog grimaced, pulling away from one of the soldiers. "I don't enjoy being handled-" 

Marnie whistled. A sharp and quick whistle. Her soldier responded and swiftly kneed Fog in the stomach. The wind knocked out of Fog's body, and he crumpled to his knees like a rag doll. Herb shouted in horror and tried to reach for him before being roughly pulled away by another soldier. 

Marnie wasn't smiling anymore. 

"Okay. Family time is over. Donno, give me the map." 

Donovan's eyes widened, forgetting how to speak. 

"It's wasted on you. Murial should have known that." 

"She… stopped talking to you for a reason Marnie. She told me. She said you'd gone wrong."  He was panicking, trying to say something, anything that would give him enough time to escape. 

For a moment, he thought he saw someone on the roof of the barbershop, someone in a coat and hat. Another blink and they were gone.

Sighing tiredly, Marnie put out her hand and looked at Donovan expectantly. 

"You're not like us Donno. You're no adventurer. Give me the map, and you can go back home to your cushy life." 

It was tempting. Marnie was right, he wasn't like his mother. Or his father. He was just Donovan Bell, the professor who loved to read, sip warm cups of tea, and wake up late. His hand reached for his pocket, a part of him aching to wake up from this uncomfortable nightmare. 

"Come ooon. I derailed a whole train for this. Give it here." 

He saw the figure on the roof again. This time, the figure held something in its hand. It was like a ball, but sparkling like—

"Bomb! Look out!"  One of Marnie's soldiers cried. 

Donovan's vision was suddenly blinded by smoke, and he fell to the floor in shock. Coughing and spluttering, he crawled through the snow on his hands and knees, his head bumping into someone else's. It was Fog. 

"Bell! We have to—" Fog coughed. "—Get out of here!" 

One of Marnie's soldiers pulled Donovan off the floor, trying to drag him away. But his attacker was felled to the ground with a swift punch from Herb.

"Come on!" Herb choked, their knuckles bloody from the blow. Scooping up Donovan with one arm, and Fog with the other, Herb carried the pair away. Ducking between blinded soldiers, dodging boots and bodies, the three tumbled out of the fray and into a pile of snow. 

Donovan could almost hear Marnie shouting in the background. She sounded furious, and a memory of her shouting at his parents rattled him. Twisting around, he found that they had stumbled over a small bridge, the stream frozen, buried in the snow, and overgrown with brambles. Bones aching, Donovan crawled under the cover of the bridge, burrowing himself amongst the sharp, icy branches. Herb and Fog joined him, still coughing and hacking up smoke-powder. 

"You have a very interesting family, Bell." Fog was holding his abdomen, wincing in pain. "No idea you were related to the Mad Marn." 

"I didn't know either. I knew she'd gone off, mixed with a bad crowd. Didn't realize how bad." 

"God..I think—I think my bloody rib is broken. Shit!" 

"Boss! What is it? You alright?" There was a tremble in Herb's voice, bordering on emotion. They gently put a hand over Fog's. 

"—my jetpack! I left it at the inn!" Sniffling, Fog tried to sit up more before sinking back into the bramble with a groan. "We have to go back and get it…" 

"..Boss. We are not going back for your bloody jetpack! We're being hunted by Donovan's crazed relative and a smoke bomb-throwin' stranger in a jacket!" 

"Shh! They'll hear us!" Donovan hissed. His eyes were streaming from the smoke, his throat on fire. There was a grit to the smoke, he could feel it at the back of his tongue. His sinuses were thoroughly wrecked from it, and his nose ran freely. He was pained to discover he'd lost his handkerchief in the scramble, and so was forced to use a sleeve instead. Horrible. 

"Snff—damb—smoke bomb. Cheap one too, from the taste of it." Fog wrinkled his nose and coughed. But he kept his voice low. Even someone like Francis Fog knew when they were in danger. 

Herb sat between them, the snow turning red from the drip of their bloody knuckles. Donovan saw that one of their eyes was blackened as well. Herb had fought their way out. 

The brambles pricked horribly, but they made for a wonderful cover. Above, the approach of hooves, boots, and voices made everyone go still. Even Fog stopped fidgeting. 

"You think it was the Boar Tusks? They've been on our tail for a while." One of the voices said, they stopped for a moment to cough up smoke powder. 

"Nah, couldn't be." 

"Hurry up, we gotta find 'him, Mad Marn will be furious." 

With every step the mercenaries made, the bridge creaked and rained chunks of sludge and ice. Donovan sank deep into the brambles, despite the prickling of the branches, and willed himself to be invisible. 

Please, leave, please, leave, please—

"..hiiiih.." 

Donovan whipped his head around at the sound of a shivery, desperate inhale. He could see Fog. The man's wavy hair caught and tangled in a halo of brambles, one arm wrapped tightly around his abdomen. The man's jaw trembled as he held the weak inhalation before letting it out again with a sigh, eyelids drooping. 

A wave of rage passed over Donovan, and he clenched his fists. Of course, Fog was going to sneeze. Between the smoke, the horses, the bramble, and no doubt the cold he caught, there was no way he wouldn't. The ridiculous man just had to be the noisy center of attention, even if their lives depended on it. 

But worst of all, he felt his own nose tingle. 

He turned away. If he watched Fog's overly expressive face quiver with the need to sneeze, it would tempt his own reflex, already buzzing to life from the cold and the smoke. He dared not move his arms and rustled the bramble, so he bit his lip and tried to focus on anything other than sneezing. Which was hard to do, with Fog so close by. 

"—eh..igh..hhh—" 

He was so loud. How the mercenaries didn't hear his nasally hitches was beyond Donovan. The inhalations were bad, but the exhalations were worse. Tickly, whimpering little sighs, some almost sound like a "shiieww." But not quite. Donovan's nostrils pulsed, ticked by the sound. 

Looking over his shoulder, Donovan saw Herb had the back of their finger tucked against Fog's upper lip, pressed up just enough to expose a bit of his front teeth. It would have looked ridiculous if the situation hadn't been so dire. Every time Fog sucked in another gasp Herb would see-saw their finger, massaging the sneeze into submission. 

Donovan shouldn't have looked. He gasped, tears streaming down his face as he felt a sneeze building. He felt so stupid, so weak. His aunt was right, he really wasn't fit to be an adventurer. 

Can't even hold a sneeze in. 

He felt a sudden pressure under his nose, and the sneeze eased off with a burn. He managed to open up one fluttery eye to see that Herb had their arms crossed over their chest, with one finger under Fog's nose, the other now under his. Herb's neck was splotchy and red with what Donovan assumed was sheer exertion. Herb looked horrified. 

Donovan and Fog hung in a tickly limbo, gasping and hitching like fish on a hook.

"Hf-hffff—hhhh—" Donovan tried to keep his mouth closed as tightly as possible, his nose flaring wide, trying to take in air. He felt Herb's finger massage his septum, rubbing up-up-up against it with every shaky breath.

Despite everything, the sounds of hooves and angry chatter left. And Herb tentatively lowered their fingers…

And both Donovan and Fog sneezed. Very nearly, simultaneously. 

"Heh-"

"HIH!'"

"UPT'SHHOO!!"

"AH'PDTTCHIEW—Owww, fuck!!" 

Fog grabbed his torso in pain, gritting his teeth. 

"Oh God, boss. I think that bastard did break yer rib. We gotta get you to a doctor.." 

"Ndo-not—UP'tShHhooh!!—yet. Wait until—snff—the town'd is cleared out." Donovan could barely talk past the congestion. His wrist was the only shield from a truly embarrassing display. 

For once, Fog agreed. Though he was more pliant than usual due to the pain. The pair waited the hours sniffling and coughing in the snow, while Herb did their best to look out for the pair of very sick and very tired men. 

They didn't move from their hiding place until nightfall. 

——————————————

The inn wouldn't let them stay. Word of the infamous Mad Marn's now-infamous nephew spread like wildfire through the town, and they were not about to let this nephew stay for another night. Neither would they let the nephew's strange friend convalesce at their hospital. The most charity that was given to the three was packs of camping supplies, bandages, and the odd clunky device the strange friend referred to as a "jet pack," whatever that was. 

And so the three were cast out, sent trudging down the long winter's road. Sick, broken ribs, and bruised eyes. 

It would be a day's journey on foot until the next village. 

And it just began to snow. 

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CW: contagion

A has a really bad, lingering cold, which is turning into a sinus infection. They're feverish, sneezy, achy, miserable. Their partner B has miraculously evaded catching this, and they're both fairly confident that A isn't contagious anymore. This is all secondary crap. Bacterial, not viral. Right?

Then A notices that B is huddling up a little too close to their fever-burning body, prompting them to ask "are you cold, honey?"

"A little," B admits, but it's more than a little. They're practically shivering, and A's fever-hot body feels so warm and cozy to snuggle up with.

"Uh-huh," A mumbles and pulls the blanket over B too, really engulfing them in their feverish body heat.

They sit like that for a while, watching a movie (and A is sneezing and blowing their nose repeatedly, not bothering to apologise anymore; B has gotten very used to this the past week and even longer).

Suddenly B gasps and sneezes violently, unable to even cover. Before A can even say anything, a second, throaty, spraying sneeze explode out of them. A gives B a tired smile and hands over the tissues.

"Congratulations, I think you finally caught it."

B sighs and takes a tissue. A is probably right.

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A Little Tied Up at the Moment 🤧🫡🎀 [N§FW 🔞]

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tenna forgoing a much-needed sick day and then getting ‘lightheartedly’ chastised about it by spamton like “what kind of host goes on air this sick? the audience doesn’t want to see that!” and tenna obv not taking that the way he intended and shrinking so small that the thermometer he was about to use won’t work with the size, so spamton has to check his temp with the pad of his finger instead (while rummaging around in his brain for reassurances that are Actually reassuring this time)

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ANON UR FIC IDEA IS DELICIOUS...!!!!!!

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hi, do u take fic requests? loved ur nu carnival fic! <3

Omg anon??? I've had a day of it so this has rly cheered me up 🥹

What were u thinkin....

I'm in a bit of a slump writing wise atm so mayhaps this could be a good exercise for me....

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a prince and his guard who is like a brick wall. Tall, broad, stoic, and constantly over-serious. he has never seen his guard falter.

…except when he accompanies his highness into a field of flowers. they walk for a while, and when the prince turns back he sees his guard standing stiff, eyes and nose red and damp, struggling to remain in parade rest.

it’s not long before he’s trying to stifle hitches, pressing his knuckles to his nose. but as they continue, he begins to sneeze over and over, trying to stifle. they burst out of him anyway, leaving him teary-eyed and breathless. he looks disheveled. undone.

the prince looks at him and thinks… oh. I would like to see more of this.

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my fellow t/enna and/or s/pamt/enna fuckers. ARE YOU SEEING THIS POST. ARE YOU SEEING THIS FUCKING POST!?.?;?;!

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a tall person holding a tissue box out of reach of a short person, getting scaled for it, and perhaps being sneezed on in the process 

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Hate F*cking in the Hammam (NSFW!) 1/1

Happy Friday! I come bearing filthy snz porn with no plot. This fic will hit a lot harder if you read the previous sections in their story which can be found here. However, this is just an enemies to lovers snz porn at the end of the day, so reading extra is not necessary to enjoy this fic.

Summary: 5k words. OC m/m. Prince Bellamy hate fucks Nass in the Hammam.

*Hammam is an Arabic style bathouse and are extremely erotic places lol! I mean, just look at them, photo, here. Also, I recommend listening to this song while reading this fic!* EXPLICIT CW & TW!: All characters are adults in their mid 20's. All sexual acts described are completely consensual. EXTREMELY NSFW (18+)! Contains, voyeurism, lingering illness, consensual contagion, character with the kink being sneezed on, mess, being ill and having sex in a pubic place (though nobody is around), swearing, bdsm vibes, anal sex, orgasms, AND LASTLY some tender sweet loving stuff because these two have finally hooked up! Please read at your own discretion.

__________________________________________________________

Nass is not, by nature, a calm person.

But even he, sitting naked in the University's Hammam — the Arabic-style bathhouses popular across Yekiti — observes that, for once, his chattering mind is quiet.

He isn’t quite sure what he owes his clear head to. The fact that exams are over, maybe. Possibly it’s because he and his sister finally made up after their fight at the king’s banquet.

Or maybe it’s really because he hasn’t had to worry about Bellamy for three whole days.

Bellamy hadn’t shown up to any of his final exams. And Nass was pleased to hear — through Anha — that Bellamy had finally relented and seen a university healer. One Anha works under, someone trustworthy. That idiot has actually been resting, his exams are behind him, and the baths are practically empty.

Life is good.

In front of him the Hammam is half shadow, half mist: low hot pools sink into black marble, mosaic pillars rising from the water in tiled swirls of blue, jade, and purple. Hanging lanterns flicker low light onto the arched mosiac walls, painting the steam in front of him in amber and gold. Every breath he takes in through his nose smells of citrus and eucalyptus, cutting through his lungs.

He drops his head against the wall behind him, staring up at the dazzling domed ceiling. The Hammam has always been one of his favourite places on campus. Everything about it reminds Nass of home.

Maybe it’s the way everyone — save for a few stiff Northern students — goes nude in the baths. Or the communal atmosphere, where friends chat and soak for hours. Or maybe it’s the small rituals: scrubbing your skin clean with Southern salts from the basins, lying flat on the warm stone, dunking clay cups into the fountain that endlessly bubbles mint tea instead of water.

Now, in his final year of study, Nass doesn’t come as often. But when he’s homesick or stressed, the Hammam is still the first place he goes.

From far off in the distance, he hears the stone doors creak open. Nass scoops a palmful of water and drags it down his face. Maybe he’ll stay here all evening. Maybe he’ll even come back tomorrow.

Maybe he’ll —

Steam curls as someone slips through the entry curtain, footsteps light on the stone steps. A group of younger students sitting near the exit to the hot pool murmur, then swear.

Nass freezes as the footsteps draw closer. He doesn’t have to move from where he sits at the far end of the pool, half concealed in shadow. He knows who it is. He can feel it, his presence like a pressure drop.

Bellamy.

He can just make out Bellamy’s tall silhouette through the steam and shadows, the familiar mop of dark curls. But what gives him away — unmistakably — is the sudden coughing fit that seizes him, echoing up the domed ceiling.

Nass winces.

The cough sounds better than before — less wet, less violent — but the Hammam’s steam and eucalyptus are notorious for pulling out whatever’s left in the lungs. University healers even prescribe visits down here for students on the mend.

Bellamy coughs again.

Fuck. Fuck. Don’t come in this pool. Don’t come in this —

There is a splash.

Then —

“Your Majesty,” One of the younger students says in a frantic voice. “We are just leaving.”

“Oh,” Bellamy replies in that maddeningly polite voice. “No need to leave on my account. There is plenty of space.”

It’s as if none of the younger students hear him.  Or simply don’t want to. The group of them are already on their feet, wading up the steps, around the trickling mint fountain in the center of the bathouse.

“Please,” Bellamy tries again, voice laced with thinly veiled hurt. “Enjoy the baths. You do not need to leave because I amb here. I am simply here to —.”

Another cough, this one harsh, pulls his sentence away as it spirals into a full on fit.

“It’s fine, Your Highness,” one of them squeaks out, practically bolting. “You should have the baths to yourself.”

Nass winces again. Not because of the coughing — though it sounds exhausting — but because of the way the students flee, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them.

Before he really knew Bellamy, Nass had relished how students avoided the prince like the plague. Now, watching it happen makes his stomach twist.

He understands the avoidance — the monarchy is more hated than ever, and Bellamy is seen by most as either a spoiled bastard son or believe him to be a neurotic tyrant like his father.

But still.

It must be lonely. So utterly lonely, to be some awful cocktail of admired, resented, and feared.

Nass stays still, tucked against the wall like stone. He wonders — is Bellamy naked?

Northerners usually don’t strip all the way down in places like this. But he could be. Standing over there, totally bare ass naked.

And Nass should — should say something. Go over there and make his presence known. Instead of sitting in the corner veiled in shadows like a creep.

He should —

He hears Bellamy’s coughing finally sputter out, fading to a ragged gasp — then:

Hh! Hh-AGHZ’TISHH’Yueh!”

Nass bites his lip as the sound explodes through the bath, loud and wet and encompassing in the domed heat. His dick stiffens. Heat floods up his throat.

Oh gods.

He hears Bellamy sniff and then let out a very frustrated sigh — the kind you only make when you think no one’s listening. There’s the splash of his body sliding into the water. Then a soft thunk — his head meeting the tile behind him.

Now. Now is the chance.

Nass shifts to move — just as Bellamy’s breath begins to hitch again.

“hih -  hiD- hh!! H-aH!

Gods, Nass is going to kill that motherfucker.

“hih! hh-hh–! hhAATCHSHhh’UYEh!!

The sneeze is so needy, so loud that it splits the air like a gunshot. Nass has never heard the prince sneeze so unrestrained, so self-indulgent, and it makes all the blood in his body rush south. The fact that Bellamy is over there, possibly naked, likely sneezing uncovered into the open air in front of him is dizzying.

He hears Bellamy sniff wetly, the action immediately sparking a third throat scraping:

“hih! hh-hh–! Huh’EhSHhhY’EUGiHh!”

The spraying wet sound echoes up the tiled arches, so obnoxious and vulnerable, that Nass nearly sees stars.

“My gods,” Bellamy moans out in the aftermath. “Please, let this end.” He sniffs, clearly just as frustrated with his sinuses as Nass is.

Nass swallows. His dick is so hard that he thinks if Bellamy sneezes one more fucking time, he is going to cum sitting right here.

And he could very gladly sit here in the shadows against this wall, listening to Bellamy sneeze his head off. But if the prince moves so much as a few meters to the right Nass will be compromised.

And he would rather cut off a limb than have Bellamy discover Nass… spying on him.

No. He is going to have to say something. He has too. And somehow hide his massive erection.

It won’t be that difficult — right? The lighting in the Hammam is so low, one’s vision obscured even more by the heavy steam.

He hears Bellamy sniffling again. It’s a wet squelching sound. The steam is surely doing its job and making his nose run.

Nass swallows. Then —

“Are you going to live over there?” he says.

He hears Bellamy make a startled gasp. “N-Nassim?” He chokes on his name, the sharp inhale immediately sparking a coughing fit.  

As Bellamy coughs Nass moves through the water towards him, stopping at a distance where he can see Bellamy but far enough away where the prince can’t possibly spot Nass’s massive erection lurking just below the surface of the water.

Bellamy recovers much faster from the coughing fit than days earlier, thumping his chest. The low lightening basks his broad form in red light, just bright enough for Nass to make out the look of horror on the prince’s angular face.

“What the absolute fuck, Nass?” Bellamy’s eyes narrow. He presses a wrist to the underside of his nose.

“Have you beend — sndff — sitting there the whole fucking time?” Bellamy’s voice still has that gravelly, slightly congested undertone of someone on the mend. Though his voice is far less hoarse than it was three days ago.

“Why the fuck did you not say anything earlier?” he demands. “Fuck.”

“Well, I was going to say something,” Nass quickly says. “And then you started sneezing so loud that you wouldn’t have heard me anyway.”

Bellamy’s mouth opens to say something — though nothing comes out. He closes it, blinking hard. If there was better lighting to see, Nass is sure he’d find Bellamy’s cheeks crimson. He can practically feel his embarrassment, as palpable as the steam rising between them. It sends more heat rushing to the lower half of his body.

“No need to be embarrassed, Your Highness,” he says, voice syrup-thick with satisfaction. “Everyone needs to let loose sometimes. Especially you.”

Bellamy makes a sputtering sound.

“I. Am. Not. Embarrassed. Nass.” Bellamy says, raising a finger. “You startled me, that’s all.” He wipes his nose again, before straightening his posture against the wall — as if that will distract Nass from the fact that it seems to be running profusely.

“Right. You’re not embarrassed.” Nass rakes his gaze over Bellamy’s form, to the water clinging to the muscles in his chest, toned from years of training. He can’t tell if Bellamy is fully nude from the way he’s sitting but his dick twitches at the hope.

"I'm notd," Bellamy's eyes narrow.

“Like I said earlier," Nass shrugs, goading him a little. "Your poker face is not as good as you think it is, Your Highness.”

Bellamy’s nostrils flare at this, clearly trying very hard to keep his voice even as he says.  “And you think your poker face is any better, Nass? Stand up.”

Nass’s heart beats so hard it feels like it’s going to explode out of his chest and into the water.

“What?” he manages to get out.

“You heard me,” Bellamy sniffs. “Stand. Up. Nassim.”

Nass stares at him. Though Bellamy, that asshole, could probably win a staring contest with a cat. He remains unmoved, glaring at Nass with such direct eye contact he nearly feels dizzy.

A heavy silence descends upon them. Nass can’t exactly say how long it goes on for, but it feels like hours. Below the water his dick is practically throbbing, so needy and hot with desire that Nass can’t take it anymore.

He stands up.

He hears water splash off his body, feels it snaking down his legs in rivulets. But all of it fades beneath the burning knowledge that Bellamy is looking. Really looking at him.

Bellamy stares at his naked body, with rapt unwavering attention, his eyes narrowing at the stiffest erection Nass has ever had in his life.

“Wow,” Bellamy arches a dark brow. He tears his attention away from Nass’s cock, a sly smile curling his lips. “At least one part of you is happy to see me.”

Nass forces himself to breathe. There is no turning back now.  

Bellamy sniffs again and it’s such an irritated, erotic sound that Nass goes rigid.

“Has that been happening all year?” Bellamy motions to Nass’s erection, tilting his head. “While teaching together? Sparring together? In the canteen? Because I feel like I simply must apologize for inconveniencing you in such a  —”

“Shut. Up. Bellamy.” Nass growls.

Bellamy gives him another slow look. “And why on earth would I do that, Nass? You clearly like me loud and… what did you call it? Loose.”

Nass makes a noise at this, low in the back of his throat.

To his utter astonishment, Bellamy turns his head left then right. Then, as if confirming they truly are in fact alone, he slowly rises to his feet. Water rushes off the prince’s lean body, splashing into the low pool beneath them.

It isn’t like the other day where Nass had sponged Bellamy's naked body down as he shook with fever. This time, Nass really looks. He drags his eyes down slowly, like he’s savouring a meal, first to Bellamy’s toned chest, past his tattoo, to the small white loin cloth tied loosely on his hips. Nass gaze slides further to Bellamy’s generous bulge against the white fabric.

A shock pulses through him at the sight. After the way he’s treated Bellamy, he didn’t think Bellamy would — could — feel the same way. Because when Bellamy had said “maybe in another life we could’ve been something,” Nass had believed him.

But maybe it would be in this life. His heart thuds against his ribs.

Because clearly, Bellamy wants it —him — too.

“I amb on the tail end of this…” Bellamy brings his elbow up to his face, coughing, “wretched cold. Perhaps we can arrange something next week?”

So fucking formal, that little shit. Nass can’t wait until next week for a dick appointment. He doesn’t even think he can wait one more minute.

Nass takes a step toward him. Then another. He feels precum pool at the tip of his cock.

“N-Nassim,” Bellamy’s eyes widen, his composure cracking just a little. “Seriously I am stilllhh…'

"Hh’AEHDZZSSCHh—YuEH-!”

Bellamy shudders into his elbow with an irritated sneeze, his whole body rocking forward with the force. It takes every ounce of Nass’s restraint not to make a noise, to not start stroking his dick.

The prince sniffs, bringing a hand to rub the tip of his long nose. It makes a squelching sound that draws Nass’s shoulders up to his ears.

“I amb still a little ill,” he finishes, with another perfunctory sniff.  “Sorry. The eucalyptus is really bmaking me sdneeze.”

Nass doesn’t answer — can’t. Bellamy might as well have said come fuck me. All he can do is take another step towards him, splashing through the hot pool.

“Nass!” Bellamy takes a step backward, right into the wall behind him. His chest rises and falls in quick breaths. “Really, I — I don’t want you to catch this. I’d feel terrible.”

Nass nearly laughs. Was Bellamy so out of it last week that he’s forgotten all that’s transpired between them? All the times Bellamy accidentally sneezed near him or on him — in a far more contagious state than he is right now?

Still, Bellamy’s concern for his health is disgustingly thoughtful.

“I’ll take my chances,” Nass growls, voice low and dangerous, stepping closer, until the space between them is nearly nonexistent.

“Nass!” Bellamy’s holds up a hand, palm trembling. “I can’t let you do something so foolish! A-and that is an order! From your prince!”

Nass takes another step, closing the small gap between them. They are both breathing hard as if they’d run a marathon. Bellamy’s head thuds against the wall, breath sputtering as Nass presses his erection into him. Nass pauses, dragging a hand across Bellamy’s chest, then up to his face. The prince shivers at the contact, inhaling sharply.

For a moment their eyes meet, an icy blue against Nass’s dark brown, and in Bellamy’s wide eyes he sees the desire, the confirmation Nass needs to continue. Nass reaches up, tangling his hand into Bellamy’s dark curls. He’s so close to him that he can smell lavender that he’s come to associate with the prince.

The world stands still.

Then —

“To hell with your orders,” Nass snarls.

Then he brings Bellamy’s lips crashing down onto his.

Colour explodes behind Nass’s eyes: hot amber, shivering violet, flashes of blue. Bellamy’s hand fists into Nass’s lower back, yanking him so close their hips snap together. Nass did not know what he expected Bellamy to kiss like — he never thought he’d ever find out— but it is the opposite of the polite, polished, restrained royal mask he wears for the world.

Because Bellamy’s mouth on his is hot, slick, wild, hungry. Nass meets him with an equal ferocity, their mouths clashing in a blur of heat and want. Bellamy’s hands roam Nass’s body like he’s been waiting all year to touch him like this. And Nass lets him, until they are nothing but a tangle of limbs and hot ragged breaths.

When Bellamy suddenly pulls back to gnaw on Nass’s lower lip, Nass moans, digging his nails into Bellamy’s shoulder. The prince tastes like lavender and mint, and something else he can’t place but wants so badly it hurts.

Nass opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, tilting his head and slipping his tongue in between Bellamy’s teeth. Bellamy groans, low and guttural, hips jerking forward in a desperate grind. The prince snakes his tongue around his, their lips moving against each other like a dance.

Nass feels the flush rising up Bellamy’s neck, feels the prince’s light stubble brush against his face and he wants — needs — more.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Nass knows that someone, anyone, could come down into the baths at a moment’s notice, and find the prince of Yekiti with his tongue down Nass’s throat.

But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if it gets him thrown out of the university for this and —

Abruptly, Bellamy tears his mouth away, panting hard. His face is flushed crimson, lips shiny and kiss-bruised, a trickle of moisture sliding from one nostril, pooling under his glowing red nostrils. He sniffs hard, swipes it away with his wrist — but Nass sees it. Sees how undone he is.

Then, in one fluid movement, Bellamy crashes forward, burying his face in Nass’s neck. His nose presses hot and wet into Nass’s skin — feverish, running and twitching.

And then he’s trailing kisses up the hollow of Nass’s throat. Slow, reverent kisses that leave Nass gasping.

Up his neck. Along his jaw. Until—

His lips graze that soft, electric place just behind Nass’s ear.

He opens his mouth to say something just as Bellamy’s hand slides down to grab the base of Nass’s cock. He abruptly closes his mouth at this, biting down on his lip so hard he draws blood. Bellamy strokes up and down his shaft rhythmically, massaging his thumb, now slick with Nass’s precum, against his head.  Meanwhile Bellamy’s tongue traces the skin around his ear, breath hot and stuffy against Nass’s neck. And gods — he’s still sniffling. The sound is wet and congested, betraying the lingering illness in his sinuses.

Nass shudders violently, a broken sound ripping from his throat.

“You’ve wanted this all year, haven’t you? Wanted me?” Bellamy purrs, sucking on Nass’s earlobe. Down below he strokes his dick faster and faster.

“I - I hate you,” Nass groans, curling his fingers deeper into Bellamy’s hair like he can anchor himself there, in the chaos of him.

Bellamy laughs, mouth slick. “Right.” His voice is thick with amusement. “Sure feels like you hh — hate m’buhh…me— hh!”

The stuttering hitch of Bellamy’s breath ghosts right into Nass’s fucking ear. Oh gods. He sounds like he’s going to —

“h’IEGHkSsH’hueHh!”

The sound tears through Bellamy and shreds through Nass like a lightning strike. He moans—an involuntary sound—just as Bellamy’s grip tightens around his cock, steadying himself mid-collapse, before twisting away with another:

“Huhhh’EhSHhhY’uYeuh!!”

Another noise of delight rips from Nass’s throat, that is mercifully drowned out by the full-bodied expulsion that tears out of Bellamy.  

It is by the grace of the gods, that Nass does not come right there and then into Bellamy’s hand.

Nass pants, trembling, trying not to fucking fall apart. Meanwhile Bellamy’s shoulders rise and fall with ragged breaths, head twisted to the side, sniffling hopelessly. One hand comes up to paw at his nose, the other still wrapped around Nass cock like he owns it.

Bellamy turns back around, flushed and wrecked, nostrils quivering, eyes blown wide and dazed. There are tears running down his cheeks from the force of the sneezes. His nose, twitching and red, promises another outburst.

Nass can’t look away.

The sight of Bellamy, on the precipice of another sneeze, while still holding firmly on to his dick, does something crazy to him.

He shoves Bellamy against the wall, one arm to his chest, rough. Not to hurt, but to make him stop. Bellamy lets go of his cock with a startled gasp, lips parting, pulse fluttering beneath Nass’s palm.

“Stop doing that,” Nass hisses, eyes burning. “Just—stop it.”

Bellamy can’t sneeze again. If he does, Nass won’t be able to hide his… like for them and the prince simply can’t have that much power over him.

Nass won’t stand for it.

Bellamy’s breath trembles. “W-whahh part hh! Eh-exactly?” His grin is wicked, even through the haze. “This?” He grabs a hold of Nass down below, stroking him slow and deliberate.

“No,” Nass bucks hard into his hand. “Sneezing. Stop fucking sneezing, Bellamy.”

Naming the act is a mistake.

Ah-EhDTSSSY’H’iew!”

Bellamy jerks away again, to avoid sneezing in Nass’s face, but they are so close that Nass feels the great shuddering inhale that rips through Bellamy’s chest. Hears the audible sigh in relief he makes on the recovery.

Nass groans — he can’t help it. He’s never wanted anyone like this. Felt anything like this.

So wrapped up in the raw ache of arousal, Nass barely registers Bellamy shifting—until he’s grabbed, spun, and pinned. Nass’s chest slams into the cold mosaic tile, stealing the breath from his lungs, and then there’s Bellamy’s cock, pressed hot and heavy against his ass. A heartbeat later, Bellamy fists a hand in his hair and yanks. Nass’s head wrenches back, exposing his throat.

“You tell me to stop but you like it,” Bellamy’s breath is hot as he leans in to whisper. “Me sneezing. I don’t why but I know you dooo hh- HA! Hh’AEDTSSCCH’HY’uee!”  

A vicious sneeze sends Bellamy flying forward, the prince’s erection grinding into him. The sound echoes up the dome, ringing in Nass’s ears, shredding the last vestiges of his restraint.

Nass so badly wants to say no, to deny Bellamy’s claim, but the words don’t make it out. Instead, he makes a guttural noise low in his throat and gasps out: “Let me fuck you, Your Majesty.”

“No,” Bellamy’s grip tightens in Nass’s hair, his voice a low command. “You are outranked, Nassim. Bend over.”

“Here?” Nass chokes, stunned.

He’s no prude but he was thinking of doing this maybe in Bellamy’s room or —

“Yes, here,” Bellamy orders into his ear. “Bend over. Now.”

Nass bends over. He lets Bellamy guide him to the nearest pillar, lets him place his hands on the slick tile. His breath stutters when Bellamy moans behind him—an eager sound—and slaps his ass.

“Mmh!” Nass whines as Bellamy enters him, hissing when he pushes deeper. He feels Bellamy’s long fingers on his hips, angling his body in place.

 “Never thought you’d be fucked by a Northerner, did you?” Bellamy says as he begins to aggressively press into him.  

Skies, the prince is thick.  

“Gods, Bellamy,” Nass hums out in pleasure.

“This is for making my entire semester miserable,” Bellamy growls. He fucks into Nass like he’s trying to exorcise the last four months of history out of him.

“Say you’re sorry,” Bellamy jerks his hips. “Say it, Nass.”

Nass moans. He will not be ordered to say sorry. He will not be ordered to do anything. But every buck of Bellamy’s hips, every press of his curved dick sends Nass shooting towards the edge.

“I’m g-going to k-kill you!” Nass sputters out instead.

Bellamy yanks on his hair again. “That’s not sorrhh —! Not sorrh —H’IEGHkSsH’sYEw!”

Nass sees white, eyes rolling back. The sneeze blasts warm spray down his spine, hips jerking as Bellamy surges even deeper from the force of it. Below them, the shallow pool sloshes with his thrusts.

Gods. Bellamy’s sneeze is wet, the steam curling around them is wet, the pool is wet — everything is so fucking wet.

Bellamy swears in Northern tongue, and Nass, even though he has no idea what he’s saying, hears the panic in it, especially when Bellamy sniffs, sparking another urgent: “AEHD’SSCHhyeuh!”

More spray rains down on his shoulders, the nape of his neck. It’s so loud, so needy, and very clearly an accident because he hears more panicked swearing.

“Don’t stop, Bellamy!” Nass moans, waves and waves of pleasure building low in his gut like a tsunami. “Both things — don’t stop!”

““Hp’NGGgSCH’YuH!" Bellamy gasps in answer. It seems like the prince can’t stop sneezing even if he wants to.

Bellamy gasps out hitching breaths, cock jerking into Nass, at the mercy of his irritated sinuses:

“Hih-! heH’SCHEUGHih-!”

He takes a deep, shuddery inhale, before another monstrous— "Hh-! hUH’ HEH’DtZSSCHhhY’IUH!”

The sound is so savagely loud it partially covers up the sound of Nass moaning, as he pulses through the best orgasm of his life. His vision explodes in a rainbow of colour as he spills himself onto the pillar, decorating the slick mosaic tiles in thick white ribbons.

The world clicks back into focus in slow, dizzying waves of clarity. Behind him he is dimly aware of Bellamy, savagely fucking him and still, very clearly, struggling with his nose. His shoulders are covered in a constellation of Bellamy’s cold.  

Bellamy rides him faster and faster, a sudden — “hiH’TSCHH’Eeuh-!” bursting out of him in between shallow pants. Though even as the sneeze rocks him, he doesn’t stop moving, taking one hand off Nass’s hips to curl in his hair.

“N-Nassim!” Bellamy moans as his own orgasm rocks through him. His grip tightens in Nass’s hair, yanking. And then the prince is gasping out in pleasure, spilling himself onto Nass’s already ruined back.

It’s only when Bellamy stumbles away, does Nass finally peel himself off the pillar. His legs give out, splashing him into the shallow pool with a dazed thud.

He hears Bellamy sneeze again. More swearing and sniffling rings out from behind him but Nass can barely process anything. Vaguely, he feels the sting of where the tile scraped his chest, the sting in his ass, feels the sweat, the steam, Bellamy’s orgasm on his skin. His whole body hums with the shock — the electrifying shock — of what just happened.

He just got fucked by the Prince of Yekiti.

Nass looks up as Bellamy wades toward him, slow and steady. He’s holding the white cloth that had been slung around his hips. Bellamy crouches, surprisingly gentle, and starts wiping Nass’s back clean with it.

A charitable use of the cloth, considering Bellamy’s nose is still a disaster.  The steam and eucalyptus are doing quite the number on him— Nass watches fresh mess trickle down his upper lip, gather at his cupid’s bow, and slide down his chin. Bellamy sniffs, drawing his wrist to his face, then quickly wiping the evidence away with the white fabric.

“Are you alright?” Nass finally asks, voice raw.

Bellamy’s face is flushed, glowing with the haze of sex, but needles of irritation linger— his furrowed brows, his streaming eyes, his nose an absolute war zone.  

Bellamy gives him a sideways look. “Shouldn’t I — sndff — be asking you that?”

Nass flushes as Bellamy splashes over to the pillar, casually wiping Nass’s come away with a sweep of the soiled cloth.  

“I didn’t know you were such a freak, Your Highness,” Nass mutters, watching Bellamy toss the ruined cloth safely on the ledge.

He never — never — would’ve guessed that the soft-spoken, polite, court-perfect prince had this in him.

Bellamy whirls, wading back towards him, dropping into the water where Nass kneels.  The eye contact is so intense, so direct, that Nass forgets to breathe. Bellamy’s watery blue eyes bore into him, amused.

“You’re one to talk,” he says with a crooked grin. “Right Nass?”

“Shut up,” Nass breathes, leaning in to kiss him.

Unlike before, the kiss is less hungry, less explosive but Nass feels a different side of Bellamy in it. Bellamy moves against him with a rhythm, as smooth as his water magic. It’s so encompassing, so all consuming, that Nass hardly registers when Bellamy’s stiffens. The prince pulls away breath snagging, frantically flinching down in the space between them with a sudden:

“iIH’SSsCCH—h’iEW!"

Warm spray bursts against Nass’s neck, mingling with the mist rising around them.  Nass instinctively steadies him, one hand curling over his shoulder.

Bellamy’s eyes are squeezed shut, face curled in irritation, caught in the throes of a harsher,—hh-hhh-HA! Hh’AEDTSSCCH’HY’ueeHh!”

The sneeze rocks through them both, a ragged, throat scraping sound. Though Nass doesn’t even need to hear it to know how violent it is. He feels the violence in the spray that bursts against his chest, in the way the prince shudders against him.

Bellamy gasps on the recovery, finally gaining control over himself enough to bring an elbow up to his face. He twists away to cough not once, but three times, and the end of it has Nass rubbing his back in sympathy.

With the fervour of their sex Nass had nearly forgotten Bellamy is still a little ill.

“I amb so sorry,” Bellamy claps a hand over his face — surely concealing a sizeable mess. “I didn’t mean to —,” He sniffs. “Gods. Thatd was an accident.”  

He gestures vaguely at Nass’s speckled chest.

It’s absurd, Nass thinks. Bellamy just fucked him right over there in this public bathhouse. Sneezed all over his back during sex. But now, he kneels here in front of him — apologetic and embarrassed, hiding behind his hand.

It’s contradictory. It makes no sense. And it’s so — so — human.

Nass studies him, and something unspools in his chest.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Nass says. He tucks a wild curl behind Bellamy’s ear. “And bless you, Bellamy. My gods, you’re sensitive.”

There’s a pause. Bellamy lowers his hand a fraction, though not enough to reveal the mess underneath.

“And I — I like it,” Nass admits, eyes dropping to the water lapping between them. “You know I do, you observant prick.”

He still has no idea how Bellamy figured it out. His fetish. He must not hide it nearly as well as he thought — and that’s mortifying.  

Bellamy snuffles behind his hand, his energy a tad bashful.

“But even whend I — I —,”

He can’t say it out loud. Just gestures again to Nass’s chest.

“Yes,” Nass murmurs, stomach flipping. “Especially when you do that.”

Bellamy laughs but doesn’t lower his hand from his face. Nass watches the blush creep into his cheeks. His sudden shyness is almost more disarming than the sex. It’s too much — too tender. It makes him feel nearly drunk with something far more dangerous than just arousal.

“Your nose is — is —,” Nass starts, before he can stop himself.

“Runningd,” Bellamy finishes. “Profusely.”

Nass was going to say beautiful.  

“And I am saving you the horror of the sight,” Bellamy adds dryly.

Nass wants to scream. What the fuck is wrong with him?

This was supposed to be just sex. Nothing more. It’s bad enough that Bellamy already knows his deepest sexual desires. He can’t go around acting on these other feelings — like thinking any part of Bellamy is beautiful.

Because being in love with the prince of Yekiti is complicated and Nass has had enough complicated to last him a lifetime.

Bellamy sniffles again. “I should like to leave here with a shred of dignity, even if the steamb is — sndff— doing its best to destroy it.”

He sounds so tired, Nass thinks. And like he desperately needs to blow his nose.

It’s just sex. It’s just sex, it’s just —

“Come on,” Nass says, standing before he can talk himself out of it. He offers a hand to Bellamy. “Let’s get you out of here. To bed.”

“For another round?” Bellamy teases, letting Nass pull him upright with his free hand.  

“Not until your better, Your Majesty,” Nass says, grabbing the soiled cloth from the ledge.

“If you liked what I did to you while ill, just imagine what I can do to you in good health,” Bellamy says as they exit the hot pool.

Nass chokes, almost trips on the stone steps. His dick twitches at the sheer promise in it.

God, he’s fucked, he’s royally fucked.

“I don’t doubt it, Your Highness,” he manages.

And as they move past the bubbling fountain, behind the curtain, and up toward the change rooms, Nass knows one thing for sure:

He’ll never be able to look at that pillar the same way again.

[dsnzfb]

Hate F*cking in the Hammam (NSFW!) 1/1

Happy Friday! I come bearing filthy snz porn with no plot. This fic will hit a lot harder if you read the previous sections in their story which can be found here. However, this is just an enemies to lovers snz porn at the end of the day, so reading extra is not necessary to enjoy this fic.

Summary: 5k words. OC m/m. Prince Bellamy hate fucks Nass in the Hammam.

*Hammam is an Arabic style bathouse and are extremely erotic places lol! I mean, just look at them, photo, here. Also, I recommend listening to this song while reading this fic!* EXPLICIT CW & TW!: All characters are adults in their mid 20's. All sexual acts described are completely consensual. EXTREMELY NSFW (18+)! Contains, voyeurism, lingering illness, consensual contagion, character with the kink being sneezed on, mess, being ill and having sex in a pubic place (though nobody is around), swearing, bdsm vibes, anal sex, orgasms, AND LASTLY some tender sweet loving stuff because these two have finally hooked up! Please read at your own discretion.

__________________________________________________________

Nass is not, by nature, a calm person.

But even he, sitting naked in the University's Hammam — the Arabic-style bathhouses popular across Yekiti — observes that, for once, his chattering mind is quiet.

He isn’t quite sure what he owes his clear head to. The fact that exams are over, maybe. Possibly it’s because he and his sister finally made up after their fight at the king’s banquet.

Or maybe it’s really because he hasn’t had to worry about Bellamy for three whole days.

Bellamy hadn’t shown up to any of his final exams. And Nass was pleased to hear — through Anha — that Bellamy had finally relented and seen a university healer. One Anha works under, someone trustworthy. That idiot has actually been resting, his exams are behind him, and the baths are practically empty.

Life is good.

In front of him the Hammam is half shadow, half mist: low hot pools sink into black marble, mosaic pillars rising from the water in tiled swirls of blue, jade, and purple. Hanging lanterns flicker low light onto the arched mosiac walls, painting the steam in front of him in amber and gold. Every breath he takes in through his nose smells of citrus and eucalyptus, cutting through his lungs.

He drops his head against the wall behind him, staring up at the dazzling domed ceiling. The Hammam has always been one of his favourite places on campus. Everything about it reminds Nass of home.

Maybe it’s the way everyone — save for a few stiff Northern students — goes nude in the baths. Or the communal atmosphere, where friends chat and soak for hours. Or maybe it’s the small rituals: scrubbing your skin clean with Southern salts from the basins, lying flat on the warm stone, dunking clay cups into the fountain that endlessly bubbles mint tea instead of water.

Now, in his final year of study, Nass doesn’t come as often. But when he’s homesick or stressed, the Hammam is still the first place he goes.

From far off in the distance, he hears the stone doors creak open. Nass scoops a palmful of water and drags it down his face. Maybe he’ll stay here all evening. Maybe he’ll even come back tomorrow.

Maybe he’ll —

Steam curls as someone slips through the entry curtain, footsteps light on the stone steps. A group of younger students sitting near the exit to the hot pool murmur, then swear.

Nass freezes as the footsteps draw closer. He doesn’t have to move from where he sits at the far end of the pool, half concealed in shadow. He knows who it is. He can feel it, his presence like a pressure drop.

Bellamy.

He can just make out Bellamy’s tall silhouette through the steam and shadows, the familiar mop of dark curls. But what gives him away — unmistakably — is the sudden coughing fit that seizes him, echoing up the domed ceiling.

Nass winces.

The cough sounds better than before — less wet, less violent — but the Hammam’s steam and eucalyptus are notorious for pulling out whatever’s left in the lungs. University healers even prescribe visits down here for students on the mend.

Bellamy coughs again.

Fuck. Fuck. Don’t come in this pool. Don’t come in this —

There is a splash.

Then —

“Your Majesty,” One of the younger students says in a frantic voice. “We are just leaving.”

“Oh,” Bellamy replies in that maddeningly polite voice. “No need to leave on my account. There is plenty of space.”

It’s as if none of the younger students hear him.  Or simply don’t want to. The group of them are already on their feet, wading up the steps, around the trickling mint fountain in the center of the bathouse.

“Please,” Bellamy tries again, voice laced with thinly veiled hurt. “Enjoy the baths. You do not need to leave because I amb here. I am simply here to —.”

Another cough, this one harsh, pulls his sentence away as it spirals into a full on fit.

“It’s fine, Your Highness,” one of them squeaks out, practically bolting. “You should have the baths to yourself.”

Nass winces again. Not because of the coughing — though it sounds exhausting — but because of the way the students flee, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them.

Before he really knew Bellamy, Nass had relished how students avoided the prince like the plague. Now, watching it happen makes his stomach twist.

He understands the avoidance — the monarchy is more hated than ever, and Bellamy is seen by most as either a spoiled bastard son or believe him to be a neurotic tyrant like his father.

But still.

It must be lonely. So utterly lonely, to be some awful cocktail of admired, resented, and feared.

Nass stays still, tucked against the wall like stone. He wonders — is Bellamy naked?

Northerners usually don’t strip all the way down in places like this. But he could be. Standing over there, totally bare ass naked.

And Nass should — should say something. Go over there and make his presence known. Instead of sitting in the corner veiled in shadows like a creep.

He should —

He hears Bellamy’s coughing finally sputter out, fading to a ragged gasp — then:

Hh! Hh-AGHZ’TISHH’Yueh!”

Nass bites his lip as the sound explodes through the bath, loud and wet and encompassing in the domed heat. His dick stiffens. Heat floods up his throat.

Oh gods.

He hears Bellamy sniff and then let out a very frustrated sigh — the kind you only make when you think no one’s listening. There’s the splash of his body sliding into the water. Then a soft thunk — his head meeting the tile behind him.

Now. Now is the chance.

Nass shifts to move — just as Bellamy’s breath begins to hitch again.

“hih -  hiD- hh!! H-aH!

Gods, Nass is going to kill that motherfucker.

“hih! hh-hh–! hhAATCHSHhh’UYEh!!

The sneeze is so needy, so loud that it splits the air like a gunshot. Nass has never heard the prince sneeze so unrestrained, so self-indulgent, and it makes all the blood in his body rush south. The fact that Bellamy is over there, possibly naked, likely sneezing uncovered into the open air in front of him is dizzying.

He hears Bellamy sniff wetly, the action immediately sparking a third throat scraping:

“hih! hh-hh–! Huh’EhSHhhY’EUGiHh!”

The spraying wet sound echoes up the tiled arches, so obnoxious and vulnerable, that Nass nearly sees stars.

“My gods,” Bellamy moans out in the aftermath. “Please, let this end.” He sniffs, clearly just as frustrated with his sinuses as Nass is.

Nass swallows. His dick is so hard that he thinks if Bellamy sneezes one more fucking time, he is going to cum sitting right here.

And he could very gladly sit here in the shadows against this wall, listening to Bellamy sneeze his head off. But if the prince moves so much as a few meters to the right Nass will be compromised.

And he would rather cut off a limb than have Bellamy discover Nass… spying on him.

No. He is going to have to say something. He has too. And somehow hide his massive erection.

It won’t be that difficult — right? The lighting in the Hammam is so low, one’s vision obscured even more by the heavy steam.

He hears Bellamy sniffling again. It’s a wet squelching sound. The steam is surely doing its job and making his nose run.

Nass swallows. Then —

“Are you going to live over there?” he says.

He hears Bellamy make a startled gasp. “N-Nassim?” He chokes on his name, the sharp inhale immediately sparking a coughing fit.  

As Bellamy coughs Nass moves through the water towards him, stopping at a distance where he can see Bellamy but far enough away where the prince can’t possibly spot Nass’s massive erection lurking just below the surface of the water.

Bellamy recovers much faster from the coughing fit than days earlier, thumping his chest. The low lightening basks his broad form in red light, just bright enough for Nass to make out the look of horror on the prince’s angular face.

“What the absolute fuck, Nass?” Bellamy’s eyes narrow. He presses a wrist to the underside of his nose.

“Have you beend — sndff — sitting there the whole fucking time?” Bellamy’s voice still has that gravelly, slightly congested undertone of someone on the mend. Though his voice is far less hoarse than it was three days ago.

“Why the fuck did you not say anything earlier?” he demands. “Fuck.”

“Well, I was going to say something,” Nass quickly says. “And then you started sneezing so loud that you wouldn’t have heard me anyway.”

Bellamy’s mouth opens to say something — though nothing comes out. He closes it, blinking hard. If there was better lighting to see, Nass is sure he’d find Bellamy’s cheeks crimson. He can practically feel his embarrassment, as palpable as the steam rising between them. It sends more heat rushing to the lower half of his body.

“No need to be embarrassed, Your Highness,” he says, voice syrup-thick with satisfaction. “Everyone needs to let loose sometimes. Especially you.”

Bellamy makes a sputtering sound.

“I. Am. Not. Embarrassed. Nass.” Bellamy says, raising a finger. “You startled me, that’s all.” He wipes his nose again, before straightening his posture against the wall — as if that will distract Nass from the fact that it seems to be running profusely.

“Right. You’re not embarrassed.” Nass rakes his gaze over Bellamy’s form, to the water clinging to the muscles in his chest, toned from years of training. He can’t tell if Bellamy is fully nude from the way he’s sitting but his dick twitches at the hope.

"I'm notd," Bellamy's eyes narrow.

“Like I said earlier," Nass shrugs, goading him a little. "Your poker face is not as good as you think it is, Your Highness.”

Bellamy’s nostrils flare at this, clearly trying very hard to keep his voice even as he says.  “And you think your poker face is any better, Nass? Stand up.”

Nass’s heart beats so hard it feels like it’s going to explode out of his chest and into the water.

“What?” he manages to get out.

“You heard me,” Bellamy sniffs. “Stand. Up. Nassim.”

Nass stares at him. Though Bellamy, that asshole, could probably win a staring contest with a cat. He remains unmoved, glaring at Nass with such direct eye contact he nearly feels dizzy.

A heavy silence descends upon them. Nass can’t exactly say how long it goes on for, but it feels like hours. Below the water his dick is practically throbbing, so needy and hot with desire that Nass can’t take it anymore.

He stands up.

He hears water splash off his body, feels it snaking down his legs in rivulets. But all of it fades beneath the burning knowledge that Bellamy is looking. Really looking at him.

Bellamy stares at his naked body, with rapt unwavering attention, his eyes narrowing at the stiffest erection Nass has ever had in his life.

“Wow,” Bellamy arches a dark brow. He tears his attention away from Nass’s cock, a sly smile curling his lips. “At least one part of you is happy to see me.”

Nass forces himself to breathe. There is no turning back now.  

Bellamy sniffs again and it’s such an irritated, erotic sound that Nass goes rigid.

“Has that been happening all year?” Bellamy motions to Nass’s erection, tilting his head. “While teaching together? Sparring together? In the canteen? Because I feel like I simply must apologize for inconveniencing you in such a  —”

“Shut. Up. Bellamy.” Nass growls.

Bellamy gives him another slow look. “And why on earth would I do that, Nass? You clearly like me loud and… what did you call it? Loose.”

Nass makes a noise at this, low in the back of his throat.

To his utter astonishment, Bellamy turns his head left then right. Then, as if confirming they truly are in fact alone, he slowly rises to his feet. Water rushes off the prince’s lean body, splashing into the low pool beneath them.

It isn’t like the other day where Nass had sponged Bellamy's naked body down as he shook with fever. This time, Nass really looks. He drags his eyes down slowly, like he’s savouring a meal, first to Bellamy’s toned chest, past his tattoo, to the small white loin cloth tied loosely on his hips. Nass gaze slides further to Bellamy’s generous bulge against the white fabric.

A shock pulses through him at the sight. After the way he’s treated Bellamy, he didn’t think Bellamy would — could — feel the same way. Because when Bellamy had said “maybe in another life we could’ve been something,” Nass had believed him.

But maybe it would be in this life. His heart thuds against his ribs.

Because clearly, Bellamy wants it —him — too.

“I amb on the tail end of this…” Bellamy brings his elbow up to his face, coughing, “wretched cold. Perhaps we can arrange something next week?”

So fucking formal, that little shit. Nass can’t wait until next week for a dick appointment. He doesn’t even think he can wait one more minute.

Nass takes a step toward him. Then another. He feels precum pool at the tip of his cock.

“N-Nassim,” Bellamy’s eyes widen, his composure cracking just a little. “Seriously I am stilllhh…'

"Hh’AEHDZZSSCHh—YuEH-!”

Bellamy shudders into his elbow with an irritated sneeze, his whole body rocking forward with the force. It takes every ounce of Nass’s restraint not to make a noise, to not start stroking his dick.

The prince sniffs, bringing a hand to rub the tip of his long nose. It makes a squelching sound that draws Nass’s shoulders up to his ears.

“I amb still a little ill,” he finishes, with another perfunctory sniff.  “Sorry. The eucalyptus is really bmaking me sdneeze.”

Nass doesn’t answer — can’t. Bellamy might as well have said come fuck me. All he can do is take another step towards him, splashing through the hot pool.

“Nass!” Bellamy takes a step backward, right into the wall behind him. His chest rises and falls in quick breaths. “Really, I — I don’t want you to catch this. I’d feel terrible.”

Nass nearly laughs. Was Bellamy so out of it last week that he’s forgotten all that’s transpired between them? All the times Bellamy accidentally sneezed near him or on him — in a far more contagious state than he is right now?

Still, Bellamy’s concern for his health is disgustingly thoughtful.

“I’ll take my chances,” Nass growls, voice low and dangerous, stepping closer, until the space between them is nearly nonexistent.

“Nass!” Bellamy’s holds up a hand, palm trembling. “I can’t let you do something so foolish! A-and that is an order! From your prince!”

Nass takes another step, closing the small gap between them. They are both breathing hard as if they’d run a marathon. Bellamy’s head thuds against the wall, breath sputtering as Nass presses his erection into him. Nass pauses, dragging a hand across Bellamy’s chest, then up to his face. The prince shivers at the contact, inhaling sharply.

For a moment their eyes meet, an icy blue against Nass’s dark brown, and in Bellamy’s wide eyes he sees the desire, the confirmation Nass needs to continue. Nass reaches up, tangling his hand into Bellamy’s dark curls. He’s so close to him that he can smell lavender that he’s come to associate with the prince.

The world stands still.

Then —

“To hell with your orders,” Nass snarls.

Then he brings Bellamy’s lips crashing down onto his.

Colour explodes behind Nass’s eyes: hot amber, shivering violet, flashes of blue. Bellamy’s hand fists into Nass’s lower back, yanking him so close their hips snap together. Nass did not know what he expected Bellamy to kiss like — he never thought he’d ever find out— but it is the opposite of the polite, polished, restrained royal mask he wears for the world.

Because Bellamy’s mouth on his is hot, slick, wild, hungry. Nass meets him with an equal ferocity, their mouths clashing in a blur of heat and want. Bellamy’s hands roam Nass’s body like he’s been waiting all year to touch him like this. And Nass lets him, until they are nothing but a tangle of limbs and hot ragged breaths.

When Bellamy suddenly pulls back to gnaw on Nass’s lower lip, Nass moans, digging his nails into Bellamy’s shoulder. The prince tastes like lavender and mint, and something else he can’t place but wants so badly it hurts.

Nass opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, tilting his head and slipping his tongue in between Bellamy’s teeth. Bellamy groans, low and guttural, hips jerking forward in a desperate grind. The prince snakes his tongue around his, their lips moving against each other like a dance.

Nass feels the flush rising up Bellamy’s neck, feels the prince’s light stubble brush against his face and he wants — needs — more.

Somewhere in the back of his mind Nass knows that someone, anyone, could come down into the baths at a moment’s notice, and find the prince of Yekiti with his tongue down Nass’s throat.

But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care if it gets him thrown out of the university for this and —

Abruptly, Bellamy tears his mouth away, panting hard. His face is flushed crimson, lips shiny and kiss-bruised, a trickle of moisture sliding from one nostril, pooling under his glowing red nostrils. He sniffs hard, swipes it away with his wrist — but Nass sees it. Sees how undone he is.

Then, in one fluid movement, Bellamy crashes forward, burying his face in Nass’s neck. His nose presses hot and wet into Nass’s skin — feverish, running and twitching.

And then he’s trailing kisses up the hollow of Nass’s throat. Slow, reverent kisses that leave Nass gasping.

Up his neck. Along his jaw. Until—

His lips graze that soft, electric place just behind Nass’s ear.

He opens his mouth to say something just as Bellamy’s hand slides down to grab the base of Nass’s cock. He abruptly closes his mouth at this, biting down on his lip so hard he draws blood. Bellamy strokes up and down his shaft rhythmically, massaging his thumb, now slick with Nass’s precum, against his head.  Meanwhile Bellamy’s tongue traces the skin around his ear, breath hot and stuffy against Nass’s neck. And gods — he’s still sniffling. The sound is wet and congested, betraying the lingering illness in his sinuses.

Nass shudders violently, a broken sound ripping from his throat.

“You’ve wanted this all year, haven’t you? Wanted me?” Bellamy purrs, sucking on Nass’s earlobe. Down below he strokes his dick faster and faster.

“I - I hate you,” Nass groans, curling his fingers deeper into Bellamy’s hair like he can anchor himself there, in the chaos of him.

Bellamy laughs, mouth slick. “Right.” His voice is thick with amusement. “Sure feels like you hh — hate m’buhh…me— hh!”

The stuttering hitch of Bellamy’s breath ghosts right into Nass’s fucking ear. Oh gods. He sounds like he’s going to —

“h’IEGHkSsH’hueHh!”

The sound tears through Bellamy and shreds through Nass like a lightning strike. He moans—an involuntary sound—just as Bellamy’s grip tightens around his cock, steadying himself mid-collapse, before twisting away with another:

“Huhhh’EhSHhhY’uYeuh!!”

Another noise of delight rips from Nass’s throat, that is mercifully drowned out by the full-bodied expulsion that tears out of Bellamy.  

It is by the grace of the gods, that Nass does not come right there and then into Bellamy’s hand.

Nass pants, trembling, trying not to fucking fall apart. Meanwhile Bellamy’s shoulders rise and fall with ragged breaths, head twisted to the side, sniffling hopelessly. One hand comes up to paw at his nose, the other still wrapped around Nass cock like he owns it.

Bellamy turns back around, flushed and wrecked, nostrils quivering, eyes blown wide and dazed. There are tears running down his cheeks from the force of the sneezes. His nose, twitching and red, promises another outburst.

Nass can’t look away.

The sight of Bellamy, on the precipice of another sneeze, while still holding firmly on to his dick, does something crazy to him.

He shoves Bellamy against the wall, one arm to his chest, rough. Not to hurt, but to make him stop. Bellamy lets go of his cock with a startled gasp, lips parting, pulse fluttering beneath Nass’s palm.

“Stop doing that,” Nass hisses, eyes burning. “Just—stop it.”

Bellamy can’t sneeze again. If he does, Nass won’t be able to hide his… like for them and the prince simply can’t have that much power over him.

Nass won’t stand for it.

Bellamy’s breath trembles. “W-whahh part hh! Eh-exactly?” His grin is wicked, even through the haze. “This?” He grabs a hold of Nass down below, stroking him slow and deliberate.

“No,” Nass bucks hard into his hand. “Sneezing. Stop fucking sneezing, Bellamy.”

Naming the act is a mistake.

Ah-EhDTSSSY’H’iew!”

Bellamy jerks away again, to avoid sneezing in Nass’s face, but they are so close that Nass feels the great shuddering inhale that rips through Bellamy’s chest. Hears the audible sigh in relief he makes on the recovery.

Nass groans — he can’t help it. He’s never wanted anyone like this. Felt anything like this.

So wrapped up in the raw ache of arousal, Nass barely registers Bellamy shifting—until he’s grabbed, spun, and pinned. Nass’s chest slams into the cold mosaic tile, stealing the breath from his lungs, and then there’s Bellamy’s cock, pressed hot and heavy against his ass. A heartbeat later, Bellamy fists a hand in his hair and yanks. Nass’s head wrenches back, exposing his throat.

“You tell me to stop but you like it,” Bellamy’s breath is hot as he leans in to whisper. “Me sneezing. I don’t why but I know you dooo hh- HA! Hh’AEDTSSCCH’HY’uee!”  

A vicious sneeze sends Bellamy flying forward, the prince’s erection grinding into him. The sound echoes up the dome, ringing in Nass’s ears, shredding the last vestiges of his restraint.

Nass so badly wants to say no, to deny Bellamy’s claim, but the words don’t make it out. Instead, he makes a guttural noise low in his throat and gasps out: “Let me fuck you, Your Majesty.”

“No,” Bellamy’s grip tightens in Nass’s hair, his voice a low command. “You are outranked, Nassim. Bend over.”

“Here?” Nass chokes, stunned.

He’s no prude but he was thinking of doing this maybe in Bellamy’s room or —

“Yes, here,” Bellamy orders into his ear. “Bend over. Now.”

Nass bends over. He lets Bellamy guide him to the nearest pillar, lets him place his hands on the slick tile. His breath stutters when Bellamy moans behind him—an eager sound—and slaps his ass.

“Mmh!” Nass whines as Bellamy enters him, hissing when he pushes deeper. He feels Bellamy’s long fingers on his hips, angling his body in place.

 “Never thought you’d be fucked by a Northerner, did you?” Bellamy says as he begins to aggressively press into him.  

Skies, the prince is thick.  

“Gods, Bellamy,” Nass hums out in pleasure.

“This is for making my entire semester miserable,” Bellamy growls. He fucks into Nass like he’s trying to exorcise the last four months of history out of him.

“Say you’re sorry,” Bellamy jerks his hips. “Say it, Nass.”

Nass moans. He will not be ordered to say sorry. He will not be ordered to do anything. But every buck of Bellamy’s hips, every press of his curved dick sends Nass shooting towards the edge.

“I’m g-going to k-kill you!” Nass sputters out instead.

Bellamy yanks on his hair again. “That’s not sorrhh —! Not sorrh —H’IEGHkSsH’sYEw!”

Nass sees white, eyes rolling back. The sneeze blasts warm spray down his spine, hips jerking as Bellamy surges even deeper from the force of it. Below them, the shallow pool sloshes with his thrusts.

Gods. Bellamy’s sneeze is wet, the steam curling around them is wet, the pool is wet — everything is so fucking wet.

Bellamy swears in Northern tongue, and Nass, even though he has no idea what he’s saying, hears the panic in it, especially when Bellamy sniffs, sparking another urgent: “AEHD’SSCHhyeuh!”

More spray rains down on his shoulders, the nape of his neck. It’s so loud, so needy, and very clearly an accident because he hears more panicked swearing.

“Don’t stop, Bellamy!” Nass moans, waves and waves of pleasure building low in his gut like a tsunami. “Both things — don’t stop!”

““Hp’NGGgSCH’YuH!" Bellamy gasps in answer. It seems like the prince can’t stop sneezing even if he wants to.

Bellamy gasps out hitching breaths, cock jerking into Nass, at the mercy of his irritated sinuses:

“Hih-! heH’SCHEUGHih-!”

He takes a deep, shuddery inhale, before another monstrous— "Hh-! hUH’ HEH’DtZSSCHhhY’IUH!”

The sound is so savagely loud it partially covers up the sound of Nass moaning, as he pulses through the best orgasm of his life. His vision explodes in a rainbow of colour as he spills himself onto the pillar, decorating the slick mosaic tiles in thick white ribbons.

The world clicks back into focus in slow, dizzying waves of clarity. Behind him he is dimly aware of Bellamy, savagely fucking him and still, very clearly, struggling with his nose. His shoulders are covered in a constellation of Bellamy’s cold.  

Bellamy rides him faster and faster, a sudden — “hiH’TSCHH’Eeuh-!” bursting out of him in between shallow pants. Though even as the sneeze rocks him, he doesn’t stop moving, taking one hand off Nass’s hips to curl in his hair.

“N-Nassim!” Bellamy moans as his own orgasm rocks through him. His grip tightens in Nass’s hair, yanking. And then the prince is gasping out in pleasure, spilling himself onto Nass’s already ruined back.

It’s only when Bellamy stumbles away, does Nass finally peel himself off the pillar. His legs give out, splashing him into the shallow pool with a dazed thud.

He hears Bellamy sneeze again. More swearing and sniffling rings out from behind him but Nass can barely process anything. Vaguely, he feels the sting of where the tile scraped his chest, the sting in his ass, feels the sweat, the steam, Bellamy’s orgasm on his skin. His whole body hums with the shock — the electrifying shock — of what just happened.

He just got fucked by the Prince of Yekiti.

Nass looks up as Bellamy wades toward him, slow and steady. He’s holding the white cloth that had been slung around his hips. Bellamy crouches, surprisingly gentle, and starts wiping Nass’s back clean with it.

A charitable use of the cloth, considering Bellamy’s nose is still a disaster.  The steam and eucalyptus are doing quite the number on him— Nass watches fresh mess trickle down his upper lip, gather at his cupid’s bow, and slide down his chin. Bellamy sniffs, drawing his wrist to his face, then quickly wiping the evidence away with the white fabric.

“Are you alright?” Nass finally asks, voice raw.

Bellamy’s face is flushed, glowing with the haze of sex, but needles of irritation linger— his furrowed brows, his streaming eyes, his nose an absolute war zone.  

Bellamy gives him a sideways look. “Shouldn’t I — sndff — be asking you that?”

Nass flushes as Bellamy splashes over to the pillar, casually wiping Nass’s come away with a sweep of the soiled cloth.  

“I didn’t know you were such a freak, Your Highness,” Nass mutters, watching Bellamy toss the ruined cloth safely on the ledge.

He never — never — would’ve guessed that the soft-spoken, polite, court-perfect prince had this in him.

Bellamy whirls, wading back towards him, dropping into the water where Nass kneels.  The eye contact is so intense, so direct, that Nass forgets to breathe. Bellamy’s watery blue eyes bore into him, amused.

“You’re one to talk,” he says with a crooked grin. “Right Nass?”

“Shut up,” Nass breathes, leaning in to kiss him.

Unlike before, the kiss is less hungry, less explosive but Nass feels a different side of Bellamy in it. Bellamy moves against him with a rhythm, as smooth as his water magic. It’s so encompassing, so all consuming, that Nass hardly registers when Bellamy’s stiffens. The prince pulls away breath snagging, frantically flinching down in the space between them with a sudden:

“iIH’SSsCCH—h’iEW!"

Warm spray bursts against Nass’s neck, mingling with the mist rising around them.  Nass instinctively steadies him, one hand curling over his shoulder.

Bellamy’s eyes are squeezed shut, face curled in irritation, caught in the throes of a harsher,—hh-hhh-HA! Hh’AEDTSSCCH’HY’ueeHh!”

The sneeze rocks through them both, a ragged, throat scraping sound. Though Nass doesn’t even need to hear it to know how violent it is. He feels the violence in the spray that bursts against his chest, in the way the prince shudders against him.

Bellamy gasps on the recovery, finally gaining control over himself enough to bring an elbow up to his face. He twists away to cough not once, but three times, and the end of it has Nass rubbing his back in sympathy.

With the fervour of their sex Nass had nearly forgotten Bellamy is still a little ill.

“I amb so sorry,” Bellamy claps a hand over his face — surely concealing a sizeable mess. “I didn’t mean to —,” He sniffs. “Gods. Thatd was an accident.”  

He gestures vaguely at Nass’s speckled chest.

It’s absurd, Nass thinks. Bellamy just fucked him right over there in this public bathhouse. Sneezed all over his back during sex. But now, he kneels here in front of him — apologetic and embarrassed, hiding behind his hand.

It’s contradictory. It makes no sense. And it’s so — so — human.

Nass studies him, and something unspools in his chest.

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Nass says. He tucks a wild curl behind Bellamy’s ear. “And bless you, Bellamy. My gods, you’re sensitive.”

There’s a pause. Bellamy lowers his hand a fraction, though not enough to reveal the mess underneath.

“And I — I like it,” Nass admits, eyes dropping to the water lapping between them. “You know I do, you observant prick.”

He still has no idea how Bellamy figured it out. His fetish. He must not hide it nearly as well as he thought — and that’s mortifying.  

Bellamy snuffles behind his hand, his energy a tad bashful.

“But even whend I — I —,”

He can’t say it out loud. Just gestures again to Nass’s chest.

“Yes,” Nass murmurs, stomach flipping. “Especially when you do that.”

Bellamy laughs but doesn’t lower his hand from his face. Nass watches the blush creep into his cheeks. His sudden shyness is almost more disarming than the sex. It’s too much — too tender. It makes him feel nearly drunk with something far more dangerous than just arousal.

“Your nose is — is —,” Nass starts, before he can stop himself.

“Runningd,” Bellamy finishes. “Profusely.”

Nass was going to say beautiful.  

“And I am saving you the horror of the sight,” Bellamy adds dryly.

Nass wants to scream. What the fuck is wrong with him?

This was supposed to be just sex. Nothing more. It’s bad enough that Bellamy already knows his deepest sexual desires. He can’t go around acting on these other feelings — like thinking any part of Bellamy is beautiful.

Because being in love with the prince of Yekiti is complicated and Nass has had enough complicated to last him a lifetime.

Bellamy sniffles again. “I should like to leave here with a shred of dignity, even if the steamb is — sndff— doing its best to destroy it.”

He sounds so tired, Nass thinks. And like he desperately needs to blow his nose.

It’s just sex. It’s just sex, it’s just —

“Come on,” Nass says, standing before he can talk himself out of it. He offers a hand to Bellamy. “Let’s get you out of here. To bed.”

“For another round?” Bellamy teases, letting Nass pull him upright with his free hand.  

“Not until your better, Your Majesty,” Nass says, grabbing the soiled cloth from the ledge.

“If you liked what I did to you while ill, just imagine what I can do to you in good health,” Bellamy says as they exit the hot pool.

Nass chokes, almost trips on the stone steps. His dick twitches at the sheer promise in it.

God, he’s fucked, he’s royally fucked.

“I don’t doubt it, Your Highness,” he manages.

And as they move past the bubbling fountain, behind the curtain, and up toward the change rooms, Nass knows one thing for sure:

He’ll never be able to look at that pillar the same way again.

[dsnzfb]

A few days ago, I made a post about a character getting ragweed stuck up their nose - so I decided to make Sherri bear this cross (sorry for furrifying yall) (he got a bit of a redesign too, black hair and red eyes now, though these colours aren't exact, this was a sort of watercolory test) ignore that that looks more like goldenrod

If you like my art and are able and willing to do so, please consider donating via ko-fi☕! You're not required to do so, but every little bit helps me to continue drawing and living safely and I appreciate anything at all greatly!

[dsnzfb]

In Which a Royal Wizard Catches (Another) Cold

I saw a post from @sickficluvr about a h/owl’s m/oving c/astle fic and I simply could not resist…. I love that sneezy Welsh man so much. this follows more closely with the actual book (I’ve never read anything other than the first book, but I know Howl and Sophie get married and Sophie ends up being a powerful witch, so enjoy a slice of their married life and Sophie using her witch powers to subconsciously make Howl sneeze!) it’s quite short, and rushed, and I literally wrote it in 30 mins

Sophie was not entirely convinced that her husband, the remarkable wizard Howl Jenkins Pendragon, was in fact on death’s door, as he so ardently professed to her.

“Sophie,” he whined, like a petulant child, from where he lay prone in bed, “mby dearest… You dod’t understadd. I’b— I… hh-hh—ihh!! h’hyiiZzSCHhue!— Hhy’bzSCHCHhHue!! Guhh… sndffgk! Dy’igg… I bay odly have a few hours lehh… lefffhhyhh… leftTH’SHHHhzzIEW!— hh—aahh…! AhSCHHhyii—HIEW! Sndff—!” 

Then, when she didn’t bless him and instead rolled her eyes, he added, “You’re by wife. You should be bore — SNfFF! Sybpathetig…” 

Without a moment to spare, he buried his large, pink nose into a handkerchief, and blew it until he had no air left in him.

She could only sigh. He was the most pathetic wizard in the world, that was for sure. 

“At this rate, you’ll sneeze yourself hoarse, Howl,” she chided, fixing one of his many decorative pillows to help him sit upright. 

“If it awards mbe eved a droplet of compassion frob your icy heart, so be it,” Howl muttered. He settled back against the pillows with a congested cough.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if her husband lost his voice. Choosing to ignore him, Sophie felt his forehead and tsked her tongue at the warmth beneath her palm. “How did you even come down with such a bad cold?”

“I told you,” he said from behind a navy blue handkerchief that he magicked out of thin air. “Everytibe I go to Wales, I get a blasted cold.”

“And why did you go to Wales?” Sophie simply could not make sense of his faraway home. It was a strange place, with strange people and buildings and rules, and she did not like going there, not even when Howl once dragged her along for a “rugby” match. What a strange game that had been. 

Howl sneezed again, three times in rapid succession, as if the very mention of Wales was enough to make him sneeze. The bedframe croaked under him. She could think of no one else who sneezed as much as him when he had a cold.

“H’igCHU! HhH’izSHhu!… hh’aah… hAHCHhu! Ugh. It was—“ he paused to blow his nose, then sunk down further beneath the blankets. “Saidt David’s day.”

“And who is Saint David?” That was a funny name. Sophie moved about the room and gathered the endless half-empty mugs of tea Howl had been drinking since last night. “Is he a friend of yours?”

“Heavens, no. It’s a ndational holiday id Wayyhh… WayyhelsSHZSSHiew!! Oh, hell.”

He cursed again in a different tongue, the language that Sophie was only just beginning to understand as Welsh, and coughed heartily.

Sophie hummed. “I see. You went to see your family, I suppose?” Then, feeling mischievous, and thinking how funny it was that he seemed to sneeze at all this talk of his hometown, she added, “In Wales?”

The effect was immediate— she may as well have blown a plume of pepper in his face. Howl’s long, angular nose twitched, and his perfectly plump lips screwed up to reveal white canines, and he forwent the magicked handkerchiefs all together and sneezed — loudly, wetly, and directly — into the quilt Sophie had laid over him.

“hh!HUH!… H’BbYZSCHhhhhYyIEWwhh!!!”

The sneeze scraped the very front of his throat, sounding awfully painful, and Sophie could not help but feel a little bit guilty. Perhaps him sneezing at the mention of Wales was her fault, a secret magic spell that she had unconsciously brought to life, simply by thinking it. That sort of thing seemed to be happening more and more lately. 

Still, despite the fact that she felt slightly at fault, Howl saw the merriment dancing in her eyes and scowled at her with a fiery vehemence. 

“I understand, ndow. Mby deteriment amuses you. Dod’t vex mbe so much, wife, or I wod’t spare you so much as a cursory glance whed you catch mby terrible cold. Maybe thed you will kdow how dreadful I feel!”

Then he pouted, appearing genuinely put out, and pulled the multi-patterned quilt dramatically over his head.

“Oh,” Sophie cooed, laughing despite herself. Perhaps she’d taunted him too far. She abandoned the mugs of tea and sat beside him on the bed. 

“Howl, come out.” She patted his hip, but he did not reveal himself. 

His only reply was a poorly stifled sneeze — “hIGKtt—guh…” (small, sad, pitiful) — like he was trying to hide the very fact that he was under there. His entire body jerked with effort beneath the blanket.

Sophie ran her fingers down his side. Even with the quilt covering his very ticklish skin, he jerked away from her touch like he always did when she tickled him, and growled at her. 

“Quit,” he grumbled.

“Come out so I can take care of you properly.” Sophie tried to peel back the blanket, but he kept it firmly trapped in place, and moved further away from her.

He was going to be difficult, then. Fine. She stood from the bed, brushed off her skirt, and then walked in place, placing her weight more lightly towards the end, to really make it seem like she was receding down the hallway.

It worked like a charm. Howl mumbled something about only falling in love with difficult women, sneezed once, twice, three times, then four times more in earnest, and then emerged from the blanket with his raven hair askew. He gasped when he saw his wife still standing above him. 

“Sophie!“

“You’re not so hard to fool, are you? Now come here, you ridiculous wizard, and let me look after you.“

Smiling, she leant down, kissed his forehead, and joined him in bed. He eagerly invited himself to lay his head upon her chest, locking their limbs together as though they were a natural puzzle. He had clearly been waiting for this sort of attention ever since he felt the beginnings of his cold (he believed his wife’s touch to be better than any medicine, after all).

Sophie began to pet his hair, Howl practically purring beneath her touch. He pressed his lips to her neck and said, “I cannot believe you used your magic to mbake mbe sdneeze. It’s a horrible waste of your powers.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” He scrubbed his nose against her hemline. “I, for one, would ndever do such a thing. I love you too much.”

“How sweet,” she said, scratching her nails across his scalp. He sighed contentedly. “Almost as sweet as those cakes you brought back for me from—“

“Dod’t you dare.”

“— Wales.”

He sputtered, his beautiful nose twitching once again as he fought against the magic settling over him. But even a royal wizard (especially one with a cold as insufferable as his) was no match for her spells.

“Oh, you rotten… you intolerable… you… hh— you…hh-HDT!!!—… Woman…—!! hhIH!!-HUH! HIH’YIIZSSSH—HYIEWHHh!”

[dsnzfb]

A person trying desperately not to sneeze

VS.

A clueless person misunderstanding their desperation and trying to help them sneeze.

“Here, these always get me going! Just take a deep sniff…”

“Nghk! I…d-don’t…haHAH-!”

[dsnzfb]

Well?