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sneezingfetishftw-fics · 5 months ago

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Why is it Always 1/8 of a Sex Thing?

Blitz and Striker fic is finally up! This is chapter 1, I'll probably do more chapters eventually but it takes a long time cause this is my first time writing fight scenes (hopefully all the googling paid off lol).

Story is set some time after "Oops" (season 2 episode 6) and before "Full Moon" (season 2 episode 8).

Warning: The following fic contains graphic violence, strong language, sexual themes (no explicit sex), as well as rampant messy sneezing... so yes, it's intended for mature audiences.

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When Blitz opened the door to the warehouse, he locked eyes with a certain cowboy who’d been lying in wait. Blitz’s amused smile met Striker’s menacing grin, and for a moment, neither spoke.

This certainly hadn’t been on Blitz’s agenda for today. No, he was just stopping by to pick up some bullets because IMP’s supplier in Wrath was “understaffed”. Whether that was a ruse or an unfortunate accident, Blitz was beginning to think Striker had something to do with it. Striker bared his teeth, but didn’t attack immediately.

He was savoring the moment, basking in the anticipation. Blitz had defeated him one too many times and he would not stand for this humiliation. This was going to be the end of this stupid fucking feeling of incompetence. Or was it? Until the fight started he was both winner and loser. And he needed to be only a winner. He pulled out his guns, and in an instant Blitz was mirroring the movement.

“You again?” Blitz laughed at the cowboy. “You’re wasting your time, we both know how this ends.” “You don’t know shit,” Striker taunted, lassoing the imp and pulling him closer. Blitz raised an eyebrow. “What, you’re gonna tell me I got it wrong and you’re actually here to make out with me?” Striker growled as Blitz wriggled free of the rope, but before Blitz managed to go anywhere, Striker dipped the point of his tail in some powdery substance and stuck that point up Blitz’s nose.

A split second of confusion flashed across Blitz’s face, quickly replaced with a smug smile. “Ooh, not a commonly chosen hole, I gotta give you points for creativity! But really, if you wanted inside my holes so bad, you coulda just asked!” “You won’t be laughing for much longer. I reckon that stuff should kick in about 3…” Blitz gripped his gun and looked around, no obvious signs of danger. “2…” He did a mental scan of his body, no obvious signs of poison. “1.” “Heh’tsschew!”

Striker smiled, and Blitz rolled his eyes. “Look, I love a good release as much as the next guy, but I’ve got places to be, so let’s wrap this up.” He pulled out his gun and aimed at Striker, but before he could pull the trigger his focus was thrown off. “Hit’schhhue!” The shot went wide, and frustration flashed across his face. Striker chuckled. “Now you’re getting it.” “If by it, you mean fucked in a new hole, then yeah! You know, they say a sneeze is 1/8 of an orgasm. Wanna find out?” He winked. Striker sighed. “Seriously? You’re gonna make this one a sex thing too?” Blitz laughed. “Come on, you should know by now,” he said, aiming his gun again. “I always make it a se… eh… eh’TSCHEW! I always make it a sex thing.” Another missed shot, but this time Blitz didn’t let his smile slip. “I’m 3/8ths of the way there! Aren’t you getting excited?”

“Just shut up and let me capture you already, bootlicker!” “Oh, you wanna add some more kinks in there huh? I hope you know that costs eh… eh… eh… extra,” he said, holding off long enough to actually hit Striker this time. It was only his non-dominant arm, which didn’t seem to deter him much. But still, that was at least closer to target. Wait a minute, what was that about capture?

Blitz felt the lasso pulling him closer again. He was about to try wriggling out when he suddenly had a better idea. “HEH’TSCHIEEEW!” Striker recoiled in disgust as Blitz drenched his face, providing Blitz the opportunity to escape. “What the fuck?” “What, don’t wanna get a little wet? I thought that was the point?” Blitz said, flashing a grin as he leaped away.

His escape was short-lived, however, as he soon found himself frozen in the throes of another sneeze. “Heh’heh’hetschue! Itschh! Hah’tschew! Hit’SHEW!” That was enough time for Striker to tie him up and drop his gun to the ground, so Blitz resorted to his usual methods. “Ohhhhhhhh! Oh God that feels so good! I guess it really is true!” Blitz writhed and moaned underneath the rope.

And honestly? It did kind of feel good. Not the sneezing, necessarily, though he didn’t hate it. But the thrill of the fight. One doesn’t get into the business of assassination without some appreciation for the adrenaline rush. And his opponent had given him a new toy to play with—a challenge. It seemed like a detriment right now, but was there a way he could use it to his advantage? This would be fun.

“I don’t think you’ve had enough,” Striker said, dipping his tail once again. Blitz did a spit take that had far too much actual spit (and snot) for Striker’s liking. Striker shook himself like a wet dog and poked the powder-coated tail into Blitz’s other nostril. Blitz gasped. “Deeper!” Striker pulled out with a glare. “Shut yer trap,” he drawled. “Make me,” Blitz replied, sticking out his tongue. “I already did,” Striker said, his arms crossed. “Heh’tschh! Heh’itschuu! Hah’TSCHIEEEW!” “Kind of hard to talk when you need your breath for something else,” Striker retorted, smirking.

“Ok, are you sure you’re not trying to flirt with me?” Blitz asked. “Cause you seem pretty determined to insert some innue… eh… eh’tschieu! Innuendo.” Striker sighed. “Flirt with you? I’d rather fuck a cactus.” “Ooh, you like it rough, huh?” Blitz was contorting himself in all sorts of positions, trying to find an angle that would let him get at the knife in his boot.

Striker rolled his eyes, which meant his focus was diverted just long enough for Blitz to get that knife out… except it wasn’t there. Fuck! When did he lose his knife? Had Striker somehow taken it when he was distracted? Was Blitz really losing his edge that badly? Ugh, he should have listened to Moxxie’s pitch for the kind of knife that was built into the boot instead of just a pocket. And with that reverie, Blitz had lost his opening. Striker began pummeling him.

One hit for every time Blitz had hurt him. One hit for every time Blitz had wounded his body, or his pride, or… just a lot of hits, okay? And some kicks too while he was at it. He wanted this man bruised and bloody, but just conscious enough to remember how he’d lost. To remember who really was superior. Those rich assholes and the ones who supported them needed to remember their fucking place. Blitz wasn’t worth the dirt he walked on.

Blitz groaned, his mood as dark as the new bruises that were forming. He was going to need a new escape route. As he took in Striker’s ferocious grin, he remembered that sharp teeth could be quite good at cutting things. After a few chomps on the (disturbingly mucus-covered) rope, he realized this wasn’t going to get him out any time soon. Especially given that he had to keep pausing to sneeze. No, he would have to be smarter about this.

“Hey, cowboy! You haven’t seen my knife, have you?” “Oh, you mean this knife?” Striker waved his tail, brandishing the knife with a smirk. “Yeah I’ve seen it alright.” “Thanks!” Blitz replied cheerily, slipping out of his now cut ropes. “What the hell?” “You must be in love with yourself, cause you sure are blind!” Blitz chuckled. He knew he could count on Striker’s ego to overlook the obvious consequences of holding a knife close enough for Blitz to press the rope against it.

No, this wasn’t happening. He was Striker, goddammit! Fearsome assassin and skilled cowboy and whatever other shit that annoying little band liked to sing about him. He didn’t make mistakes. And he wasn’t going to lose! Certainly not to a pathetic little pissbaby like Blitz.

Blitz reached for the knife, but Striker had already backed out of arm’s reach, continuing to put distance between them as he resumed shooting. Blitz picked up his gun in return. The same gun that was trembling with every hitching breath. Fuck. How the hell was he supposed to aim like this? He ducked down for another sneeze, which worked out rather conveniently as another shot from Striker sped through the air where his head had just been.

On second thought, maybe Blitz didn’t need to aim at all - he didn’t need all the shots to hit, just one of them. He tried shooting more rapidly this time. The bullets were coming close, but not close enough. And he still had to keep leaping out of the way and hoping his nose didn’t betray him and give his opponent an opening. That exact betrayal happened a moment later, keeping him frozen for just long enough for a bullet to graze Blitz’s shoulder before he was moving again. Another shot from Blitz missed, but this time it gave him an idea. The shot went just over the top of a crate, one of many in the room.

“If you were half as good at shooting as you were at sucking blue-blood dick, you’d be out of here by now!” Striker sneered. “Pathetic.” “Says the man who had to level the playing field by fu… uh’tschh! Fucking me in the nose,” Blitz retorted, sniffling. This stuff was really strong. “Also, did you just compliment my blowjob skills? Are you sure you’re not hitting on me?” Blitz asked, clambering up the shelves. Striker hissed and continued shooting, but Blitz had squeezed himself in behind a box that proved to be surprisingly bulletproof.

How were Millie and Moxxie getting on? Blitz wondered as he took shelter. He thought back to earlier in the day when he’d told them he was going to pick up the shipment. They’d offered to come with him, but Blitz had insisted it was his job alone as the boss. “Just… stay home and fuck or something,” he’d said. Millie gave Moxxie a look, and Moxxie melted, nodding silently. Blitz hoped they were having fun without him. He’d find a way out of this eventually. He didn’t need anybody else.

Striker grabbed the box with his lasso and pulled, but it was heavier than he’d anticipated and it didn’t quite fall. Taking advantage of this momentary lapse in judgement (and Blitz’s momentary lapse in symptoms), Blitz executed his carefully planned shot. The box may have been invulnerable to penetration, but it was still affected by the momentum of a shot at point-blank range. The box hurtled through the air with alarming speed. Striker was so shocked by the absolute absurdity of it that his reaction was just a hair too slow. He jumped back and narrowly avoided being bludgeoned, but his guns weren’t so lucky.

Blitz chuckled. “I was hoping to crush your body,” he said, leaping down to meet his opponent again, “but crushing your spirit’s not bad, either.” Striker scanned the warehouse. There had to be more guns nearby, if he could just get to a crate…

Sweet victory, with everything I do. With each step he repeated the mantra in his head, trying to make it stick. He was a winner, nothing else. He would succeed. He was almost to a crate and by god, he was going to get those fucking guns.

Just as he took his last step to the crate, Striker felt the slam of Blitz shoving him into the shelving units. The knife dropped out of his tail from the force of the impact and slid across the floor. It seemed grabbing another weapon wasn’t exactly a viable option right now. No, that would have been too easy. But a little challenge would make the victory sweeter, he liked it hard. “I’m sure you do,” Blitz replied. Wait, had he said that last bit out loud?

Any revulsion or embarrassment Striker might have felt was pushed aside by the overwhelming sensation of Blitz pressed against him, wrists clenching with each hitching breath. Striker prepared his head to dodge, in case Blitz tried the same trick again - the cowboy was definitely not looking for a repeat spray.

What he hadn’t expected was for Blitz’s head to pitch so far forward that his horns dug right into Striker’s chest. As he felt his blood mix with mucus, he was seriously beginning to regret his life choices. He cursed his weakness as the disgust kept him paralyzed long enough for Blitz to rake his claws over his arms.

After a long and slimy struggle, Striker finally managed to tear free. Tear was definitely the operative word. Those gashing wounds were nothing to sneeze at (not like that would stop his opponent, though). Much as he wanted to lunge into a counterattack, he needed a moment to lick his wounds. No, not lick - he shuddered at the thought of how that would taste. But he needed to stop the bleeding somehow.

His expression soured even further when he realized what he had to do. He needed to stop the bleeding, and there were limited options available. He flung off his jacket. Blitz gave a long whistle that was cut off abruptly by a vigorous series of sneezes. As the imp tried to clear the irritant from his system, Striker removed his shirt and wrapped it around the wound in his chest. That still left his bleeding arms, though.

“Taking a break, huh?” Blitz taunted. “I knew you wanted to fuck me!” Striker growled, partially in response and partially in dread of what he was about to do. He dropped his pants, and Blitz’s eyebrows rose so high it looked as though they would launch above his head. Was he actually…?

Striker split the pants and wrapped one leg around each arm. Walking out of here at the end of this was going to be awkward. But he had more important things to focus on right now. He ripped open the nearest box in search of a gun, but it was only bullets. And there was no telling how long the powder would last—in his tests it seemed to vary quite a bit from person to person. He’d need to act quickly.

Blitz made a run for his knife, but Striker had gotten a head start. The cowboy pinned him to the floor. That same cowboy who was half naked. “So, did you bring lube or what? Hit’schhew! Never mind, I’ve got enough for both of—” Blitz’s remark was interrupted as Striker’s teeth dug through his neck. He avoided the throat, though. As much as he’d love to kill that bastard, Striker reminded himself that Blitz was of far more use to him alive. And besides, wasn’t the real goal to make his enemy suffer? He would say he was trying to humiliate his opponent, but that was rather hard to do with someone as shameless as Blitz. Still, seeing him helplessly sneeze over and over again did give him a certain sadistic satisfaction.

Striker forced himself to remember that as helpless as Blitz might appear, he was still a skilled opponent. He felt the imp’s body threatening to break free and knew he needed to raise the stakes. Striker stopped playing with his prey and moved the knife to hover over Blitz’s neck. His claws were nearby, ready to stop any attempts at an escape.

Blitz froze, trying to quell the hitching breaths. If his head pitched forward with a sneeze, he would be done for. Surely Striker had realized that, which made this threat an even higher risk. Was Striker genuinely prepared to kill him for this? Something about it just wasn’t sitting right with Blitz. Of course the cowboy had good reason to hate him, but would he really gain more from Blitz’s death than any other outcome? And if not, then why would he take the risk? “Ooh, that’s some nice edge play we’re getting into now! Real kinky today, aren’t we?” He fluttered his eyelashes seductively, but his body took the cue and his breath caught as the tickle he’d been holding back returned with a vengeance. Not yet, please! He just needed to hold out a little longer until Striker got bored or otherwise decided to change tactics.

Striker kept unwavering eye contact with his enemy. Fuck the plan. Fuck the bargaining chip. He wanted this man gone. It would be so easy. He was clearly powerless to escape in his current state. So then why hadn’t he slit Blitz’s throat yet? Why did the very idea feel so hollow? He would be happy to wipe Blitz from existence. But something was missing. Ah, right, the suffering. Death just wasn’t humiliating enough. And the possibilities for capturing Blitz were quite attractive: he could think of at least one person who’d gladly put himself in harm’s way to get his little “Blitzy” back. So, it was settled then.

Just as Striker had made up his mind to let Blitz live, Blitz’s neck got distressingly close to the blade. He could hold back the sneeze no longer, but the result surprised both of them. Instead of a knife coated in blood, Striker was instead holding a knife coated in mucus. Blitz must have taken the time during the buildup to figure out how to aim even with this strange angle. Striker somehow resisted the urge to drop the knife in disgust, but it didn’t matter. The knife was so slippery as to be impossible to control. Blitz leapt up and bit Striker hard in the shoulder. Striker shuddered from the unholy mix as Blitz sneezed directly into the wound. “I hope you get something real nasty, you piece of shit!”

This was not the plan. Goddammit! This was not how this was supposed to go. Blitz should be fully incapacitated by now, or at the very least writhing in agony. Instead, he was making a mockery of Striker. Even in what should have been his most helpless moment, he was continuing to fight back, finding new ways to inflict pain and humiliation.

This was not the plan. Christ on a fucking stick! This was not how he’d wanted his day to go. Blitz should be back at IMP headquarters by now, getting ready to blow humans’ heads off, or at the very least putting the merchandise away. Instead, his nose was making a fool out of him. He wasn’t quite helpless just yet, but his stamina was waning. There was no way he could win a war of attrition in this state, and yet he was grasping at straws to land a decisive blow.

Striker responded with a bite to Blitz’s hand, a decision that filled his mouth with snot and his mind with regret. He spat it out and hissed. “Ooh, somebody’s enjoying the bodily fluids! I got another one I can add to the mix for ya,” Blitz said with a wink as Striker raised his fists. He tried not to dwell on how the effort of smiling was actively draining. Instead he looked for an irritated reaction from Striker, taking that as his opening to flee.

As Blitz raced to the door, his mind replayed the fight. Why the fuck had he been so stubborn? Sure he could hold his own in a typical fight but this wasn’t a typical fight. As much as he’d love to wipe Striker’s smug smile off of his face and take him permanently out of commission, he needed to remember his primary objective: getting the fuck out of here. After all, what good was getting revenge on the one who hurt his friends if Blitz couldn't be there with his friends? So he kept running and running and running… god, this warehouse was huge! He hadn’t even made it out of the room and he felt like his lungs were going to give out. Sure, he was athletic for work, but it’s a bit different when your lungs are constantly focused on taking gasping breaths and forcefully expelling over and over and over again. Eventually, he had to catch his breath.

In the relative silence of his labored breath, his dulled senses picked up on a persistent beeping. He thought back to Crimson’s warehouse with Fizz and his breaths became shallow as panic set in. The realization came too late, for the forklift had already made contact with a shelf. As everything came crashing down, Blitz had one last thought: this sneezing was really fucking annoying.

#snezbin hotel #no beta we die like my dignity #this took forever but i'm happy with it so hopefully you guys like it #but like also if you have constructive feedback i am open to it cause if i write more of this i want to do even better lol

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gaywiththesauce · 1 year ago

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This is It

RenGiyuu, 1.1K

TW: mcd, attempted suicide, depressing thoughts, blood

Giyuu opened his eyes. It was midnight, a time he knew too well. He was laying on a roof somewhere he couldn’t recognize. He wasn’t alone. Kyojuro was sitting on the roof with him. He looked over at Giyuu with a soft voice, “Hey, good morning. How do you feel?”

Giyuu sat up slowly, “Where are we?”

“Not far,” Kyojuro answered, waving his hand in some direction. He looked at the lights of the small city ahead of them. “You didn’t answer my question, Giyuu.”

Giyuu hummed as a response. If he was to be honest, he felt awful. His head was groggy and he felt tired despite the nap. He shook his head, “I’m alright.”

Kyojuro looked over. His smile was brought down by the sadness in his eyes. “Okay,” he muttered, and Giyuu realized that he was caught in his lie. Neither of them elaborated further.

Kyojuro changed the subject, “I’m glad you’re awake, either way. I was worried that you might not wake up.”

Giyuu met his eyes, trying to see why Kyojuro would be worried about that. He looked over himself, missing the signs of blood or broken bones. Nothing. He was perfectly fine physically. He looked back at Kyojuro again, “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” Kyojuro looked back at the lights, “Maybe it’s for the best. I’d rather you not remember.”

Giyuu didn’t understand why.

Kyojuro sighed and slid closer to Giyuu, “Can I ask a personal question?”

Giyuu nodded.

Kyojuro looked into the dark blue eyes of his lover, “What’s one thing that you’ve wanted the most in life?”

Giyuu gulped. There was no easy answer. There were so many things he wanted throughout his life. Acceptance, love, care, understanding, compassion, better speaking skills, friends, someone to talk to; all easy examples. Somehow, Kyojuro gave him all of those. He shrugged. “You?”

Kyojuro smiled and chuckled, “You flatter, but I appreciate it. I know it’s not true, however.” Kyojuro looked away, avoiding Giyuu’s concerned gaze. He continued, “You want him back, don’t you?”

Giyuu tried to see who he was talking about. They were the only two on the roof above the dead street. Despite the bright lights that made Tokyo look like daylight, the walkways were barren of any passerbys.

Kyojuro glanced at Giyuu’s hand, “You’re holding him now.”

Giyuu looked at his hand. It held onto Sabito’s side of the haori tightly. He let go. Kyojuro commented, “You miss him. Do you want him back?”

Giyuu nodded while he stared at his blood-stained hand, “Of course.”

Kyojuro put his soft hand against Giyuu’s cheek to guide his avoiding gaze to those burning embers of eyes.

“More than me?”

Giyuu froze. What kind of question was this? It felt like a trick. It felt unfair. Kyojuro was making him choose? Why? It was impossible. He loves Sabito and Kyojuro. They helped him through everything. Giyuu would be no one without them. He couldn’t choose, he couldn’t choose.

Kyojuro hummed. He was disappointed, but he couldn't understand it like Giyuu could. “Why do you keep it?” Kyojuro put his hand on Giyuu’s green and yellow shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

“You do,” Kyojuro squeezed, “You don’t have a grave to mourn at, do you?”

Giyuu didn’t know how Kyojuro knew that. “I don’t.”

“What if you did? Would you stop wearing it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can mourn at my grave. Will you wear mine?”

“I don’t know.”

Kyojuro sighed again, knowing that he wouldn’t get another answer.

Giyuu held his breath, “I’ll miss you.”

Kyojuro looked at him, “Hm?”

Giyuu avoided his eyes, “If you die.”

Kyojuro glowed like an angel, “When I die, you mean. Death is guaranteed, Giyuu, and I miss you too.”

Giyuu felt tears stab at his eyes, “Will you wait for me?”

Kyojuro smiled out of the corner of Giyuu’s blurry vision, “There is no waiting, Giyuu. This is it.”

Giyuu looked up at him for the last time. Kyojuro’s smile was beautiful, open, and accepting.

It was his whole world.

It was over.

Giyuu blinked.

It wasn’t midnight anymore. He opened his eyes to somewhere different. The first thing he saw was the white that distorted his vision. He blinked away the tears and stared at the white snow on the ground. The ground was cold. Everything was so cold that it was warm.

Something touched him. He shook at the force, but couldn’t move at all.

“Oh, thank- Over here! He’s alive!” a feminine voice called out through his clogged ears. He was touched more. The snow was brushed off him and he was rolled on his back.

Shinobu’s face was in view. For once, she looked concerned. “Tomioka-san! Can you hear me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She worked on his stomach, doing something just out of his vision.

His vision narrowed, and the darkness bit away at the vision of the white clouds. Shinobu talked about something medical. Something about blood, about cold, and about living. Was Giyuu dying? The pain in his stomach hardly compared to his blue fingertips or his toes.

Giyuu rolled onto his side at the push of burning hands, eventually falling back onto something that wasn’t cold and red. The snow beneath him was bloody. It was his blood. In the corner of his eye, he could see his bed clothes stained with blood. So much blood, so much blood, the amount that’s when something pierces the solar plexus and goes straight through it. Huh. Giyuu didn’t know where that thought came from.

Giyuu’s head was held to view the sky. He saw something else, though. His sword hilt. It was pointing to the sky, held by a dainty hand. The leather of the straps was stained red. Why was it above him? With much more effort than he anticipated, he lifted his head enough to see where the blade was.

It was covered in blood. Everything was covered in blood. It was in his stomach. Seppuku, his mind reminded him.

“Stay down!” Shinobu shouted, pressing her fingers against Giyuu’s forehead as if he wasn’t already falling back. His head lulled to the side when she let up but scolded him further.

Another color caught his attention aside from the bleeding red and the rippling blue. Silver and gray, he could barely make out the symbols carved into the stone.

Here Lies Rengoku Kyojuro

Proud Brother, Dedicated Son

The Greatest Flame Hashira

Oh.

He remembered what happened now.

It was his turn to save Kyojuro just as he saved him.

“You seem shy! That’s okay, my little brother is the same way! Tomioka-san, do you know anywhere close by where we could eat!”

Kyojuro saved him from loneliness. It was Giyuu’s time to return the favor.

I’m coming to save you.

I’ll save you, Kyojuro.

I’ll save myself.

I’ll save you.