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yuwuta · 10 days ago

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HOW DID YOU GET USED TO THE HAUNTING, THE WILLING, THE MISSING, THE WANTING — YUUTA OKKOTSU

content, warnings. more of the knight yuuta universe yippee. i got an ask about telling him he’d make a good prince and flustering him, and that struck something in me, though this interpretation of that ask is probably a bit darker/more serious than envisioned... i will publish the ask w the other version of this scenario too. unfortunately for everybody involved i was a theater kid and i did listen to cell block tango and the first half of hamilton before i had this idea </3 i’m sorry if you can tell

more notes. set in the same universe as this drabble, which are all set in the same universe as a full fic draft i have and would love to finish some day lol. anyway, say hello to the gojo of this au

You are not ready to be queen. As much as you resent your mother, your father, the elders in the cabinet, the system you were raised in—as much as you wish to be a ruler that creates change and peace in your court and kingdom, you know that you are not ready to hold that position.

It shows now more than ever, with your parents being escorted to a neighboring kingdom for a meeting, and you in charge of the harvest ball. There is china to be chosen, silverware to be polished, candlesticks to be blessed, gowns to be sewn, a menu to be curated, a ballroom to be prepared—and you are sorely behind on all of your duties.

A lackluster princess does not make for a promising queen. And distractions do not help you become anything of yourself.

“I do not have time to discuss the lilies Sir Gojo. I am aware they are drooping and that they are your favorite, but I do not control the weather,” you sigh, handing back a scroll to a maid before turning to your head knight.

“That sounded very queenly, my little lady! You’ve been practicing,” he towers above you, with a growing smile and little care for your position. He bends forward to press the tip of his gloved pointer finger to your nose, “I too mourn the lilies, but I am afraid I agree: we have much more pressing matters to discuss. Come along, shall we?”

You’ve learned to be wary of Sir Gojo’s words over the years. He often leads with a false timbre, or makes otherwise simple conversation into a riddle for his own amusement. Even as you’ve learned when to ignore his games, you’ve also grown appreciative of his light demeanor, and his insistence on speaking to you directly, rather than shielding you away.

You take his arm, looping yours through his, and allow him to lead you down the courtyard steps and into the grand garden. You put your trust in him, allowing your feet to follow the path he sets, and letting your mind wander. You wonder whether you should set the gold or bronze-trimmed plates for the ball, if the curtains should remain closed or open, if the embossed or embellished silverware would leave a better impression on your guests.

“Princess?” your knight calls for you. You focus your attention back to him, apologizing for your lapse in attention.

You expect a smile, perhaps another press to your nose and a light scolding, but Gojo’s expression is much more neutral. “Sir?”

“I said that Lord Hajime is dead. His court will send a representative to the harvest ball, but how would you like to proceed?”

“Dead?” your breath hitches momentarily, “Was he unwell?”

“I do not know. The letter gave no detail. I believe the court sent an apology for not being able to deliver a suitor as promised. The family wishes to keep this private until after the harvest.”

When you look up to him, you see no mischief in his expression. He’s serious, and you feel lightheaded, warm, and icy all at once. “I see,” you say, and pull away from Gojo’s arm, “Excuse me. I—I need a moment to myself.”

“You are sick? So suddenly?” Gojo asks, turning with your body so that his back is never to you.

“No—I… I… I need to be alone,” you confess, wrapping your arms around themselves, curling into your own body. Gojo stands firm, a short nod in understanding. He raises his hand to make a signal; an order for the knights on the periphery who can see but not hear.

You smile, small, grateful for him. “Please, arrange our finest favors, and ask Ieiri for her favorite elixir.”

Gojo’s smile reflects yours, albeit stained with more sympathy. “Of course.”

“And tell the maids that I shall postpone the table placements until tomorrow morning. Should you find yourself with time to spare, let me know if you prefer the bronze to gold trim.”

Gojo nods, taking a half-step to stand in front of you. In times like these, you feel like the little princess under his watch and care from when you were younger. His presence is frightening, overwhelming, and yet, more comforting and welcoming than your own parents.

Carefully, he leans down to whisper, “Yuuta and his fleet have not yet returned, he will not be in the knight’s chambers. I will send him to you when he arrives.” You blink in sudden awe, and Gojo smiles, reaches for your hand and raises it to his lips to press a chaste kiss, “Do not regret too long, princess.”

You hear him before you see him. It’s a bad habit for a knight, you think; you can always hear or feel where Yuuta is, even if you can’t see him. You think he ought to be more stealthy, more secretive, quieter; but then again, you don’t. He reserves plenty of stealth for his motives, stores plenty of secrets in his mind, keeps his words quiet or has a way of keeping other people’s quiet.

The throne room is cold. It’s your least favorite room in the castle, but tonight, you hope it inspires you.

You don’t sit on your throne, you don’t sit on your mother’s or your father’s; you don’t sit at all. You stand, at the top of the stairs, staring at the seats and the tapestry and the paintings of your forefathers that decorate the backdrop. Behind you, at the base of the stairs, Yuuta kneels. You don’t need to see him to know; you can feel it on your palms with your hands behind your back; you can see it in the eyes of your grandfather’s portrait, you can hear it in the way his knee hits the carpet.

“You may stand.”

“I shouldn’t, my lady,” Yuuta replies, “Not here.”

“You do many things you shouldn’t,” you sigh, steady, “Stand, Yuuta.”

You hear the metal of his armor rustle against itself. You can feel when he stands; it feels like he’s right behind you, even though you know he’s ten steps below you.

You inhale, slowly; exhale, slowly. Clench your hands behind your back, and then relax your shoulders the way you’ve seen your grandfather do. Then, you speak. “Lord Hajime is dead.”

You turn, slowly, and wait until your cape has finished its turn, has settled behind you again before you speak again; a tactic your grandmother was fond of. “Lord Hajime is dead,” you repeat, “He is dead, and I asked you not to kill him.”

Yuuta looks up to you. Neck craned, hands neatly behind his back, his helmet on the carpeted floor to his left. He does not look small.

You take a step downwards. “I said this is not how I wanted matters to be resolved.” Another step down, a pause, then repeat, “I said that I do not wish to resort to violence.” Another step down, a pause, “To resort to murder.” Another step down, hurried, “I stood under my balcony,” another step, “and I told you not to murder Lord Hajime. I told you not to kill him,” another step; a pause, hysterical, “And yet Lord Hajime is dead. He is dead because—”

“I did not kill him.”

You pause your descent, four steps above Yuuta. You are only half a head taller than him like this. At this distance you can see the gray of his irises, wide and speckled with brown, without a shred of remorse pooling within them. It makes you sneer.

“You expect me to believe that it is a coincidence that a fortnight after I catch you on your way to murder Lord Hajime, that he dies?” you question, rhetorical, “I am naive, but I am not a fool, Yuuta.”

“You are no fool, my princess, and Lord Hajime was no saint,” Yuuta shakes his head, “He was a tyrant. He took three wives prior and treated them all as whores. He alone was responsible for the destruction of the crops in the north. He had only himself to blame.” Yuuta pauses, and you see something melt behind steely eyes. “It was a murder, yes, but not a crime.”

Yuuta’s lips wobble slightly, but the rest of him remains upright. It always goes like this: first his head, then his heart, then his body following—in everything he does. You blink, slowly, and take another step down; eye-level with Yuuta at this height.

“You did not kill him,” you repeat, leveled with revelation, “You just gave the order.”

Yuuta’s eyelids fall slowly, then his head follows in a shallow nod. He keeps his neck bent, keeps his head hung in front of you. You sigh.

“Who was it this time,” you ask. He does not raise his head; you do not wait for him to speak, you dip your head so that your lips are level with his ears. “Megumi? Surely he would have hated the way Lord Hajime treated his livestock. Maybe Yuuji—he has been impatient to prove himself since recovering from his last injury. Or perhaps Toge, he would’ve done it swiftly in his sleep, without a sound.”

Yuuta keeps his gaze on the floor, keeps his words quiet. “Nobara.”

“Dame Nobara, who strives to replace you as my first blade?” you question, “What, as some kind of test of loyalty to you?”

Yuuta raises his head, eyes stern, brows drawn. “No, princess. To you.”

You freeze. Your anger flares, and then subsides to only weak embers as you understand Yuuta’s motives, and Sir Gojo’s final words to you. You’re careful when you reach forward to brush your knuckle against Yuuta’s cold cheek, only the kiss of a touch between your finger and his face; even, still, he shudders, and you watch him melt from head to toe; from his eyebrows to his eyes to his lips to his shoulders to his knees.

“You are disobedient, and indignant, and ruthless,” you list, voice soft, touch softer as you allow your fingers to graze the top of his ears, adoring the flush that follows, “And kind, and careful, and charming.”

You watch the color stain Yuuta’s cheeks and his ears, you revel in the pout on his lips, and the effort of his breathing. You only wish he were this easy to tame all the time.

Still, he precious to you, so you are careful when you raise your opposite hand to his face, taking advantage of the difference in your status and stature to tilt his head upwards, lean down and press your words against his cheek, “You would make for a lovely prince,” you tell him, “The people would love you. Our enemies would fear you. The soldiers would respect you.” The kisses between your sentences are featherweight, trailed from the high point of his cheekbone to the corner of his lips.

You can feel him quiver when you pull back, moving a palm back to his cheek to pinch his skin between your thumb and forefinger, “If only you knew how to listen.”

Yuuta winces, but he does not pull away. He parts his lips to steady his breath, and then to speak, strained, “Please, princess. Have mercy.”

And for the first time in a fortnight you smile, watching splotched skin stain your knight’s cheeks when you soften your hold on him. You pull Yuuta’s head up further, lean yours down for a careful kiss; short, chaste, the kind you know he hates the most.

“Oh, Yuuta,” you coo, grazing your thumb against his face, endeared by his wide eyes and quiet whimpers, “This is mercy.”

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nametakensff · 7 months ago

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Worth It (D/isco E/lysium, M/M)

Okay - this fic follows up just over a month from my 3 part K/im x H/arry series (that you don't need to read, I just ended up accidentally writing my fics as part of a continuous AU...again lol), featuring the aftermath of fetishist H/arry dealing with the slow return of certain memories, his budding romantic relationship with K/im and his past hook ups with J/ean

It ended up at 12.9K 😅 All three of them sneeze but it's mostly a J/ean fic (H/arry x J/ean with established H/arry x K/im, and then some H/arry x K/im x J/ean)

~~~~~

Content:

M/M, M/M/M mentioned and ongoing, H/arry has a sneezing fetish, cold sneezes, contagion, mentions of hay fever, rapid sneezes, spray, sneezing on someone, some mess mentions, nose blowing, audibly wet nose rubbing, masturbation, hand jobs, cumming in tissues, tissues, handkerchiefs, coughing, fever, dirty talk, implied praise kink, embarrassment/humiliation, verbal teasing, fantasies and mentions of public masturbation, graphic descriptions of semen, mentions of anal sex, threesomes, brief phone sex, brief exhibitionism/voyeurism fantasy

CW: mentions of past abuse, mentions of alcohol and drug abuse, mentions of physical violence, toxic relationships, abusive language (this fic has J/ean in it it's unavoidable), H/arry has a brief fantasy about licking cum off his hands and using cum as lube, mentions of J/ean and H/arry fucking at an active crime scene, self-hatred, some dudebro jabs at homosexuality

NSFW - Minors DNI!

Jean had a cold. A miserable, eye-watering doozy of a cold. It had started as a few errant sniffles and coughs here and there, perhaps a slightly more notable weariness when he spoke – but nothing could have prepared Harry for the sheer amount of sneezing he would witness as the illness progressed. Four days in, and Jean was a wreck. He refused to take sick leave, even having amassed a considerable amount of days over the years due to pure obstinance. He pointedly ignored any glances of either concern or aggravation as he sneezed, over and over, either into the protective cover of his elbow or a bundle of damp tissues. Not even Judit could convince him to go home.

��We’re in over our heads as it is, Jude. I don’t have the time to laze around in bed with all of – this waiting to be finished.” He’d gestured with a wide sweep of his hand not only over his own desk, but at the general maelstrom of officers marching back and forth across the bullpen, coming and going in a constant stream of activity.

“We’re wading knee-deep through an endless river of bureaucratic bullshit with an incapacitated workforce.”

“I can hear you, you know!” Harry had piped up, sat at his desk with his head in his hands as the mountainous piles of paperwork loomed over him. Kim shot him a sympathetic look from where he sat at his own new desk.

“I meant you to!” Jean growled, before a sudden teasing gasp had him spinning desperately away from Judit and sneezing fittishly into the crook of his elbow. Harry’s stomach was aflutter with butterflies as he watched. He couldn’t make out a sound, not over the din of the office and with the sheer willpower Jean had managed to exert over keeping the sneezes as locked down as possible. He finished shuddering a few moments later and extracted his face from the protective covering of his arm. He somehow now looked even worse for wear.

“Désolé.”

This was meant for Judit – Harry was sure he didn’t particularly give a rat’s ass about what anyone else in C Wing and beyond thought about these increasingly recurrent sneezing fits. The patrol officer in question squeezed his shoulder, her face a mask of concern and frustration.

“Will you at least go home when your shift is over?”

“Yes.” Jean lied.

Defeated and entirely used to accepting it with grace, Judit withdrew. She was smart like that. Harry had watched Jean watching her leave, waiting until she was out of sight before allowing his expression to waver – a look of total surrender, mouth dropping open and brows lifting high before his entire face crumpled. He’d sneezed against his wrist - five times consecutively, if the rhythmic trembling of his shoulders was any indication. When he lifted his head at last, he was bleary eyed and snuffling most pathetically. It had gone straight to Harry’s dick. Sensing eyes on him, Harry turned and noticed with no small amount of embarrassment that Kim had been watching him watch Jean. Not knowing what else to do, he’d shrugged his shoulders apologetically. Kim had merely raised an eyebrow and smirked at him before returning to his own work as if nothing at all had transpired.

Harry had been grateful for the noisy ambience and Jean’s own stubborn tactics of suppression. As long as he didn’t look in his direction, he could almost – almost! – pretend that his fellow officer wasn’t clenching with a paroxysm of tickly, cold-induced sneezes every five minutes or so. He had actually managed to put a dent, although minimal, in some of the simpler paperwork. More importantly, he had kept most of the blood in his brain and out of his dick.

It also seemed as though the way Jean stifled his sneezes into almost near silence didn’t provoke much ‘sympathetic’ sneezing in Kim, as Harry had come to label it. In typical analytical fervour, he had come to understand the perfect conditions to induce a reaction in Kim. He had deduced the following:

Volume. The louder the sneeze heard and/or witnessed, the higher the exponentiality of sneezes on Kim’s behalf.

Desperation. The more irritated, aggravated or generally torturous a sneeze sounded or appeared, the more likely this bizarre form of nasal sympathy was to occur.

Pre-existing sensitivities in Kim. Exposure to dust, cold air, a general fatigued immune system – an already irritated nose was prone to further irritation.

Naturally, a combination of all three in Martinaise had given Harry the show of a lifetime. He had (secretly, sadistically) been hoping Kim would catch his cold, but somehow he had managed to avoid it, despite having been miserably worn down and concussed by the time they finally completed the case of The Hanged Man.

Harry kept these ruminations to himself, of course. Maybe he would share them with Kim at some point. For now, at least, there had been no major paradigm shift, and Jean’s sneezes, whilst undoubtedly desperate, were lacking in volume, and Kim was entirely healthy and irritation free. That wasn’t to say there hadn't been any response from the Lieutenant, no. Harry had looked over with depleting subtlety more than once, prompted by a soft gasp, to watch Kim shudder into a small fit of his own on the tail end of Jean’s, and damn near bit through his tongue each and every time.

This system of deny and ignore had proven useful only until the night shift began. Normally, the bullpen was busier and the officers replacing those having finished the day shift would more or less keep the building near constantly occupied. Whatever evil god ruled over Revachol had decided that day, however, to summon every gang banger and petty criminal imaginable and enlist them in the sole mission of keeping damn near all officers of the 41st entirely occupied – and, more importantly, out of the office. It also just so happened to be the night that Harry had reluctantly agreed to stay and get through some paperwork, and Jean had in turn stubbornly refused to leave him unattended. Harry was slowly regaining his trust, and in Jean’s defence, he had evidently been awful at staying on top of paperwork pre-amnesia, and just as resistant to completing it in his recovery.

It shouldn’t have been an issue – but with every officer that left, taking both their physical presence and ambient sound with them, it was increasingly difficult to ignore Jean and the steadfast progression of his cold. Whilst his sneezes were apparently on continuous lockdown, he had long abandoned any attempts to blow his nose in relative silence. Every couple of minutes, Harry’s heart raced in his chest as the loud, obtrusive sound of Jean forcing air and mess out of his miserably congested sinuses echoed out in the office space. His nervous energy was manifesting in a persistent shake in his leg, tapping his foot over and over.

Kim had left early, for him, as well. He had made a habit of staying a few hours or more post shift ever since his transfer to the 41st, realising just how much they had fallen behind in administration. Harry admired him for it – paperwork, though sometimes exciting to record in the moment, was undoubtedly one of the worst parts of being an RCM officer, tediously boring at times – and yet Kim was consistently fastidious, conscientious, and perhaps most importantly, punctual. Today, though, he had excused himself almost within a minute of the day’s end.

“There’s a pivotal race in the TipTop Tournée being broadcast tonight at 7pm – I’ve missed the last few. I’m dying to see how it turns out.” He explained in response to Harry’s wounded complaints about abandonment.

“Oh yeah…you did mention that, come to think of it.” Harry recalled that when Kim had been discussing the race, he had been paying too much attention to the way the Lieutenant’s face had lit up in enthusiasm to really retain any information pertaining to the date of the event in question.

“I’m also exhausted – and it looks like the both of you are, too.” He glanced pointedly at Jean. “Don’t stay too late, detectives. Insufficient health begets insufficient policework.”

“I’m fine.” Jean croaked. Neither Harry nor Kim offered a response, though both had winced at the sheer raspiness of it.

Harry looked up at Kim as the Lieutenant pushed his chair under his desk. His big, baleful and truly pathetic eyes signaled quite clearly ‘do not leave me alone with him’. Kim simply looked at him, shook his head almost imperceptibly, and smiled in response. Harry sighed.

“Bye, Kim.” He mumbled despairingly.

“Goodbye, Harry.” Kim replied pleasantly. He tipped his head at Jean, currently recovering from his most recent series of tightly stifled sneezes. “Officer Vicquemare.”

“Lieutenant.” Jean muttered, not even bothering to look up from his paperwork. He looked thoroughly unwell, and Kim’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before meeting Harry’s gaze. The pair of them shrugged at each other, and Kim was out the door moments later.

And so, here Harry sat, not 45 minutes later and already so unbelievably sexually frustrated he had practically eaten half a pencil. It just wasn’t fair. The bullpen was probably the most silent he had ever known it to be in his entire time at the 41st. He knew this in his bones, regardless of solid memories to go off. Besides the sound of the city beyond the windows of the building and the hum of various electronics, the only other noises to be heard were as follows: Harry’s audible pencil consumption. Harry’s tapping foot on the linoleum floor. Harry’s fingers drumming on his desk. Harry’s grunts of frustration. Jean’s throat clearing. Jean’s coughing. Jean’s sniffling, sneezing, nose blowing – every noise imaginable of the miserably congested. And the inexplicably loud clock driving Harry to the brink of insanity as it ticked its way through this test of mental and physical fortitude.

The tail-end of Jean’s latest sneezes caused his sinuses to squeak quite audibly. It was the final straw for Harry – he needed to take a fucking walk. He pushed back his chair and stood up much more violently than intended. Jean cast a weary glance his way.

“Not leaving, just – kitchen. Need anything?”

Jean stared at him a moment longer, leaving Harry to sweat and wilt under his stony gaze, before returning to his work. He cradled his forehead in one hand, closing his eyes for a moment.

“No.”

Harry waited to see if anything would follow. When it didn’t, he strode out of the bullpen and down the hallway, shielding his erection as best he could with what he hoped was a subtle hand in front of his crotch. He walked towards the kitchen, fully intending to grab a sugary snack of some description as a form of distraction, but decided last minute to make his way to one of the several payphones at the end of the corridor.

“Hello?” Kim answered after the third dial tone.

“Kim,” Harry sighed desperately into the handset. “I think I’m dying. Jean, He is - He’s. Driving me insane.”

Harry heard Kim sigh an equally desperate sigh of his own. In his mind’s eye and in Kim’s apartment, the Lieutenant cast a nervous glance towards the clock on his wall. The hands were rapidly approaching 7pm. He was comfortably settled next to his radio with a can of beer. This was not ideal timing.

“You’re not dying, detective.” He offered drily. Harry was undeterred.

“But you see, Kim, I think I am. I have no idea how to deal with this. You know I don’t. You know that firsthand.”

The entire reason he and Kim had fucked in the first place had been because this stupid fetish had rendered him incapable of keeping his dick in his pants. The results had been overwhelmingly positive – they were still fucking now. Regularly. They had even started sleeping over at each other’s apartments. They went on walks and to cafes together. Neither had vocally confirmed it, but it seemed obvious to Harry that they were at least kind-of sort- of dating. Pseudo-almost-boyfriends, one might say. It had been a happy accident, and his embarrassing inability to keep his shit together had somehow – inexplicably - won Kim over.

Jean was not Kim.

Harry’s memories had been coming back incrementally – little pieces here and there with the occasional groundbreaking moments of picture-perfect recollection. He had remembered very little about Jean – had forgotten him entirely with the initial amnesia – and this was evidently, and understandably, an extremely sore spot for the younger officer. It turns out that he was Harry’s bona fide best friend, on top of his partner. More complicated was the fact that they had fucked, many times. This had come to light when Jean had caught Harry kissing Kim in the precinct parking lot.

“Well. I can’t say it isn’t somewhat relieving that an Officer as competent as Lieutenant Kitsuragi has equally as shitty taste in men as I do.”

Harry had barely a moment’s notice to let those words sink in before the vivid memory of Jean writhing underneath him knocked the air out of him. From that moment, he had been inconsolable. Was he in a relationship with Jean? Was he actively cheating on him right now? Had he liked men before Kim?? Jean and Kim had in turn done their best to mollify him, settling him and themselves into Kim’s Motor Carriage to conceal this latest mental breakdown from any passing officers.

Jean had confirmed that they were not in a relationship, and they had done very little fucking, if any, for at least six months, for obvious drug-and-alcohol-spiral related reasons. Harry was a little relieved, but still devastated to have forgotten. He could tell that this gaping nothingness in his brain regarding Jean deeply hurt the younger man, and for that he was truly apologetic.

“It’s fine, Harry.” Jean had spoken to him in the kind of tone one might use to console a cornered animal. “You remembered something just now. You’ll remember more, over time.”

It was the softest Jean had been with him since Martinaise. Harry had felt the tears welling up in his eyes almost immediately.

“Kim wasn’t my bisexual awakening?” He’d asked in a tiny voice, sounding ridiculous but authentically devastated and confused enough that neither Kim nor Jean had laughed at the absurdity of it.

“It’s okay.” Kim had reached out and patted his arm. “It doesn’t change anything. I won’t take it personally.”

Harry had burst into tears anyway. He was still crying by the time Kim’s MC rolled to a stop outside his apartment building, and was only just winding down by the time he was escorted to his flat by both Kim and Jean.

In present day, he leaned his head against the wall beside him. Kim cleared his throat.

“I can’t stay on the phone for long. I’m not sure what to suggest other than finding a means to take the edge off. Actually-“ Harry could hear that he immediately regretted that particular phrasing. “What I should say is, find a way of achieving relief.”

“Kim.” Harry smiled. “Are you, for the second time since we’ve met, suggesting I rub one out during work hours?”

“I assumed it was par for the course with you, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor.” The way his voice dropped an octave with the flirtation was doing nothing for Harry’s erection.

“You’re not helping,” He whined down the phone.

“Probably not. I’m just telling you what I would do if I were you. Find somewhere private and have an orgasm.”

Now that really didn’t help. The thought of Kim masturbating at his desk, head thrown back in ecstasy as he pleasured himself in plain sight made Harry’s cock twitch. He ignored the ‘private’ part, instead picturing the smaller man surrounded by an audience of hungry onlookers.

“Dammit.” He growled into the mouthpiece. He heard Kim chuckle on the other end of the line. “I guess I’m going to have to. But I’m worried he’ll come look for me if I’m gone for too long.”

“Well,” Kim started. Harry could just picture the subtle smirk of his mouth. “It shouldn’t take you very long, all things considered. Maybe you could start now.”

“You know,” Harry breathed out, “I didn’t peg you for a sex pest. Encouraging phone sex on top of it all.”

“Relax, Harry, I’m just teasing you. You’re fun to tease.”

“Fucker.”

Kim just laughed. The sound of it made Harry soft all over.

“I guess I really should go and…take care of myself. I can’t sit there anymore, constantly on the verge of going off in my pants like a fucking teenager.”

“You’re just sensitive. It’s not a bad thing. Extremely impressive for a man your age, and with your history of substance abuse.”

Kim was, within reason, in the habit of putting a positive spin on all of Harry’s flaws and fuck-ups. Harry could see how from the outside this may appear overly mollycoddling, but even if that were the case, it had done wonders for his almost non-existent self-esteem. He drank the compliment in as eagerly as he would have liked to down a double vodka and lemonade.

“I guess, but – I mean, it’s so awkward. I don’t even know if he – you know, knows. About my thing.”

Kim laughed again, uncharacteristically hard for him. Harry blinked and said nothing, letting the younger man compose himself.

“Oh, Harry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh at you. But he most certainly knows. The two of us have actually discussed it in relative detail.”

Harry gaped, almost dropping the phone in shock.

“You Judases! Ganging up on me when my back’s turned-!”

“You’re being dramatic.” Kim drawled. He was clearly enjoying this reaction. “It was a short conversation, one smoke break. I don’t even remember how we got onto the topic. But rest assured, he definitely knows.”

Harry paused, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to probe for more.

“How…does he know. In what way?”

“Let’s just say…that you liked to take advantage of Satellite-Officer Vicquemare’s hay fever – which I’ve come to understand is quite impressive, in full swing.”

Harry’s cock throbbed dangerously in his pants, drooling into the fabric of his underwear.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckkkk…!”

“Mhmm. In fact, I believe you almost contaminated an active crime scene with semen residue following such an exploit. Jean seemed to imply this was the case.”

“God…” Harry muttered. He suddenly felt an overwhelming sensation of loss mingling in with the horniness – not dissimilar to the way he felt when Dora sprung to mind. “I wish I could remember. This sucks.”

“…I’m sorry, detective. I didn’t mean to upset you. For the record, I haven’t disclosed any particular details of intimacy between us to him.” He paused for a moment, sounding genuinely dismayed. Harry knew it hadn’t been his intention to trigger any amnesia-related sadness.

“Okay.” He muttered pathetically, suddenly on the verge of tears. He was slowly realising that even without the withdrawal or presence of narcotics in his system, his default setting as a human being appeared to be overly-emotional and very bad at controlling it. He heard Kim tut affectionately over the line.

“These things will come back to you, sporadically. The hospital has said as much. You don’t need to worry, I promise.”

“…Yeah.” Harry nodded, tears beading his eyes. Kim couldn’t see him, but the motion alone was soothing.

His erection seemed undeterred by this rapid swinging of moods. It felt like he didn’t often give his body time to catch up with his emotions. Either way, it was still there, tenting his trousers in plain view of anyone who might walk past. He glanced around. The building was still eerily empty. That one unearthed memory of Jean squirming underneath him as he pistoned in and out of him danced seductively behind his eyelids every time he closed them.

Kim was waiting patiently for him to speak. Harry knew the race would be starting imminently – he should wrap this up.

“Kim?”

“Yes?”

“I might have to fuck him over this. Would that…be a problem?”

He waited with eyes scrunched shut for Kim’s response. This was…a grey area. Something they hadn’t really discussed. Exclusivity.

There had been one evening – a particularly emotional one, in which Jean and Harry had been working through their past grievances. This involved a great deal of Harry being exposed to more and more news of the complete and utter asshole he had become as his alcohol and drug abuse soared. The pain on Jean’s face at times made him feel physically ill just shy of vomiting. He was disgusted with himself.

Kim had been present, a self-elected referee to ensure neither men whipped each other into an emotional frenzy from which there was no return – or at least to step in if things turned physically aggressive. The whole thing had ended up sort of like a strange counselling session with Kim as the occasional de facto therapist. It was funny, looking back. It felt like they’d made genuine progress together, but by the end of it Harry was exhausted and practically oozing self-hatred. What had started as comfort from both Kim and Jean in the form of a gentle palm rubbing his back here, a reassuring squeeze to the thigh there had…escalated. Quite rapidly. He didn’t even remember who made the first move but fantastically, miraculously, an evening of homosexual group sex had unfolded.

By the end of it, Harry had been physically sated but in a state of near disbelief. He could no longer tell if the amnesia had been the worst or best thing that had happened to him. An orgasmic gay threesome with his fellow police officers was definitely not what he had expected going into that discussion, but he wasn’t about to look that gift horse in the mouth. In a matter of weeks and culminating in this one evening, he had gained a kind-of-sort-of boyfriend and more or less patched things up with his forgotten-best-friend-cum-fuck-buddy. And he’d even gotten to watch them fuck each other on the living room floor when he’d taken a breather for a glass of water.

Nothing of that nature had occurred between the three of them since. Nothing had been awkward the next day at work, not even remotely. Jean and Kim seemed perfectly at ease with each other, at least from what Harry could see. In addition, Jean’s face seemed to light up with hope each time Harry remembered something about him – even the awful things. It was bittersweet, getting to know him all over again. He wanted to do better than before – couldn’t even imagine treating Jean the way he had. He wanted to respect his boundaries and take things slow – if that was what Jean wanted.

Fucking Jean in the office without Kim because all of the sneezing he’d been doing had gone straight to his dick was probably the worst idea he’d had in a while. Not a boundary to be seen – and he would be taking it about as slow as a Mach 5 missile.

Kim broke the silence in a matter of seconds, though to Harry it may as well have been hours, for the agonising anxiety it caused him.

“I…don’t recommend exposing yourself to the virus when your immune system is already so compromised.”

Harry huffed out a dead-pan laugh.

“I think you know that’s not what I mean. Is it…okay? Me and him, without you there?”

Kim hesitated for a moment, then let out a measured sigh. Harry could picture him massaging the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses.

“As much as I like to indulge you, I’m okay with not being sneezed on by Satellite-Officer Vicquemare for now.”

His voice had a playful lilt to it, which was somewhat reassuring, but wasn’t enough.

“I’m serious, you know.” Harry gripped the mouthpiece of the phone tightly, the plastic audibly crunching under the pressure. “I really l-!..like you.”

Fuck. He had almost, almost dropped the L-bomb like a batshit crazy person. He felt himself flushing like a bashful little boy. Kim said nothing. Harry swallowed nervously and continued.

“I want to be with you. Like a boyfriend, I think. I don’t know. I’m not – I’m not very good at this. I’m evidently horrible at relationships.”

“…Harry-“

“And it’s important for you to understand that. Umm. I’m not just using you. For sex.”

“Harry.” Kim said. His tone was warm and patient. Harry didn’t interrupt him this time.

“I like you too.” He sounded genuine, and happy. “If you’re asking me to be your boyfriend, then…yes. I would like to try that.”

Harry punched the air in a silent dance of victory. He managed to swallow the urge to whoop like a lunatic and let Kim finish.

“You have a shared history with Jean. He’s an excellent partner to you, and an exemplary RCM officer. You were never in a romantic relationship, and neither of you have expressed an active desire to pursue one. I trust him, and I trust you. And I really do like Officer Vicquemare…”

Harry listened, sensing more.

“I also liked the way he whimpered when I fucked him up the ass.”

Harry let out the strangest combination of surprised laughter and heated groaning. Kim chuckled in response.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” Harry pushed after a beat. “If it’s an issue – getting my rocks off, with him, like this – then I promise, I won’t so much as look in his general direction-!”

“It’s okay, Harry. Really. Again, despite everything, I trust you both entirely. Maybe I’m completely stupid, I don’t know. I’m still getting…acclimated.”

That was an understatement if there ever had been. Precinct 41 was everything Precinct 57 was not – chaotic, abrasive, action-packed, a clusterfuck of insanity. In Harry’s opinion, though muddled of mind that he was, Kim was doing an excellent job of taking everything in his stride.

“We can talk about what we’re doing when I see you tomorrow. My race started two minutes ago. Go and get sneezed on by your subordinate officer. Or, like I said, don’t. It seems like a particularly nasty cold.”

Harry had been doing a great deal of gaping stupidly over the span of this conversation. He did it again for good measure.

“I…don’t even know where to start. Man…Okay. I’ll…figure something out. We’ll talk tomorrow?” He asked, his heart fluttering in his chest.

“Tomorrow.” Kim agreed. “You’re ridiculous. Turns out, I like that.”

Harry grinned.

“I hope your guy wins.”

“Me too. Goodnight, detective. See you in the morning.”

“Night.”

Harry hung the phone back in its cradle before exhaling a huge breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding. He felt giddy and exhilarated with a hopefulness he hadn’t experienced in what had to have been years.

“What the fuck,” he laughed in the empty corridor. This was insanity, but if there was anything this last month and a half had taught him, it was to go with the flow and enjoy it. He didn’t always need to be fighting tooth and nail for control in a Universe that did what it damn well pleased, no matter how hard he resisted. This acceptance of futility was nothing like the suicidal ideation of his drug-induced spirals. It was paradoxically the most empowering realisation he had come to perhaps in his entire adult life. Whatever happened, would happen. He would accept it with as much grace as he was capable. Which was admittedly not a lot, but hey. Nobody could say he wasn’t trying his best.

~~~~~

Harry helped himself to biscuits and tea in the kitchen and sat for a while, contemplating his approach. Jean and Kim were very different beasts when it came to the appeal of Harry’s…well, everything. Whilst Kim appeared – and still very much was – quite distant at times, Harry could practically see him opening up day after day like the delicate unfurling of flower petals. Jean had known Harry for years and had both the psychological and physical scars to show for it. Being a pathetic, horny freak had perhaps charmed Kim due to its novelty. Begging Jean for a quick office fuck, from what he could glean, was surely the go-to approach he’d used on his partner before he’d forgotten everything. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go down that route again, especially when Jean was undeniably ill and pissed off about it.

He sighed, dunking his last biscuit in his tea and barely even noticing when half of it sank to the bottom of the mug in a soggy lump. He didn’t want to be overly direct, but he doubted there was any other way to approach the matter. He made up his mind and decided he would prefer any rejection coming from Jean in the form of a quick punch to the face rather than any awkward verbal letdown – the kind of which would inevitably follow any subtle attempts at flirtation on his part.

When Harry arrived back at C Wing, Jean was mid sneeze. Harry watched him from the doorframe and knew with utter certainty that he had to fuck him. It was a primal need at this point.

“hH-Dtch!-Ngxt!-Gkkt! Hh! Dsh-tshh-tsh!”

Perhaps he hadn’t noticed Harry watching him – how could he, as preoccupied as he was sneezing himself stupid. He was stifling a lot less successfully, barely trying at all. His poor sinuses sounded miserably swollen, his inhales when he was given half a chance to take them shaky and exhausted, the poor bastard. Harry wanted his cock buried to the hilt inside of him.

Jean finished at last, sighing from the depths of his being and simply sitting still for a moment. Arms propped up on the desk, he leaned his forehead into his left hand, tentatively rubbing his nostrils with one crooked knuckle of his right. Harry strode towards him and stood before his desk, practically vibrating with energy. Jean lifted his head, cast his bleary eyes towards Harry’s face where they lingered for a moment, before taking in the impressive bulge Harry now made no effort to shield.

“What the fuck are you-”

“You’re driving me crazy. I want to pull my cock out and cum all over the place.”

Jean’s mouth dropped open. It was somewhat pleasing to Harry, to see such an expression on his partner’s face. These days, being most often met with derision, bemusement or melancholy, it was nice to shake things up a little, to know he wasn’t an entirely predictable clich�� to Jean. He also liked seeing that mouth wide open – the suggestiveness of it. He wanted to see that more often.

Once the initial shock seemed to leave his system, Jean glanced around as if to confirm that there was nobody else to eavesdrop on Harry’s relative insanity. The room was as empty as it had remained for the past couple of hours – no other officers magically appeared from behind any furniture, ready to point and jeer. He turned back to Harry, but the older man cut him off before he could start chewing him out for his unabashed brazenness.

“I’m serious, you know. You’re painfully hot right now. I can’t think about anything else.”

He briefly squeezed himself through his trousers for emphasis. Jean’s eyes lingered long enough to make Harry grin.

“…And how would Kitsuragi feel about you touching yourself in front of me, getting off on my misery like the fucking pervert you are?”

Jean’s words were biting but there was no real animosity behind them. His bleary eyes seemed brighter, alert and pensive all of a sudden. Something about the way Harry’s cock throbbed in response to the derision, the ease with which the words poured out of Jean with no hesitation at all made it clear that this was an area of great familiarity for the both of them.

“Oh, don’t worry about Kim. He all but told me to fuck this out of my system.”

That wasn’t strictly the truth, but it wasn’t a lie either. Jean scoffed in response.

“I knew he was a freak but I didn’t take him for a cuckold.”

“Hey, that’s not-“

“Shut up, you presumptuous cretin! I should punch you in the face for calling your boyfriend and asking permission to – what, fuck me? Before you even asked me?”

Harry cringed a little. This was actual, legitimate anger now – and when Jean put it like that, he really did seem like an asshole. A selfish part of him loved hearing his partner refer to Kim as his boyfriend, but he buried it for the moment. He may be a presumptuous cretin but even he knew if he started giggling like a love-struck teenage girl right now he really would be getting a fist to the face.

He paused for a moment, taking in Jean’s ire and the way his pale eyes pierced into his own. And then he opened his mouth.

“Don’t take this out on Kim. You seemed perfectly fine letting us double team you a few weeks ago.”

Jean made a strangled sound and flushed so hard he looked almost purple under the shitty, fluorescent lighting.

“That was different, you moron! We weren’t in an office, for one. It just happened. And I could breathe out of my fucking nose then.”

Harry couldn’t help the little twitch of pleasure his cock gave at both the memory of their sex and Jean bringing attention to his current, miserable condition. He peered down his nose at him, happy the younger man was sat down whilst he stood. It gave him a little leverage, the illusion of domination, to be towering over him right now.

“I doubt we’ve never done it here before. And Kim told me that you told him – behind my back, by the way – that we’ve fucked at crime scenes too!”

Trying not to think about the grossly teenage sounding 'he said, she said' turn of phrase, he initially omitted the part about Jean’s hay fever before hesitating, reconsidering and adding:

“And from the sounds of it, you couldn’t breathe through your nose then either. And you still wanted it, Vic.”

Jean blinked at him, looking a confusing mix of sheepish, perturbed and aroused. Harry realised he’d called him ‘Vic’; it felt familiar, rolled right off his tongue. That nickname on top of the damning accusation of his willing participation seemed to have rendered his partner temporarily speechless. Whilst it was pretty fun, it also felt a little too much like bullying. Harry sighed, and dropped to his knees, resting his chin on the desk and peering up at Jean with big, watery eyes. He hoped that the shift in positioning would make Jean feel better, even if it made him look pathetic.

“Please?” He batted his eyelashes up at the younger man. “Getting off will help me focus on these cases.”

Jean scoffed, again, and scrubbed his animated nostrils with one crooked finger. Harry zoned in on the motion, biting his lip as an audible squishing noise filled the air and Jean’s finger came away slightly shiny.

“You want to get off? Go jerk off in the bathroom and quit bugging me.”

Harry growled, gripping the edge of the desk on either side of his chin and staring up at Jean, who was no longer pink with embarrassment but staring daggers at him all the same.

“But – don’t you want to watch me cum for you? Because of you?” He scrambled to his feet again, leaning over the desk and hovering his face right in front of Jean’s. The younger man’s breathing seemed laboured, and not strictly because of his cold. He was turned on by this. Harry decided to go for gold and flashed him the sexiest version of ‘The Expression’ he could muster. Jean looked pained.

“Harry…” He breathed against Harry’s lips, leaning subconsciously towards him. “You can make things up to me by doing your goddamn work.”

“That’s…that’s kind of putting the cart before the horse, though.” Harry mumbled. Jean likes horses, he remembered. Maybe he’d find that turn of phrase endearing.

Harry watched him take it all in. He could practically visualise the process of Jean’s thoughts as he worked through resistance, indignation, and then – at last – reluctant acceptance.

“God fucking damn it.”

He stood, pressing a finger underneath his red-raw nostrils as if another sneeze was imminent. Harry hoped that was the case. He staggered backwards, excited grin plastered to his face and heart pounding in his chest.

“Don’t look so fucking pleased with yourself.” Jean muttered, walking in the direction of the copy room. Harry continued to look pleased as punch, trailing after Jean’s purposeful stride with a slightly more awkward gait. The zipper of his trousers strained against his burgeoning erection, growing impossibly harder now that there was promise of relief.

Harry slammed the door shut behind them, locking it for good measure just in case the station inexplicably flooded with life. Jean was leaning back against the printer when Harry turned to face him, muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. In this stance, he could really appreciate the results of the many hours the younger man spent working out to an almost pathological degree. His biceps strained against the cotton of his shirt, and the way his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, leaving his hairy forearms exposed…Harry fought back a sudden pavlovian deluge of saliva at the sight of him. The way Jean was regarding him with a mixture of irritation, arousal and amusement was doing nothing to calm the throbbing between his legs.

Harry walked the few steps towards Jean and stared back. When Jean made no move, said nothing but offered a congested sniffle in response, Harry tilted his head a little in confusion.

“So, umm…?”

The older detective motioned with his hands, a distinctive ‘what gives?’ motion. Jean just smiled derisively at him.

“What? I thought you came in here to jerk off. So jerk off.” Even though the cold had left him pallid and drained, Harry didn’t miss the way his pale eyes glittered as he spoke.

“But, can I? I mean, aren’t we-?” Harry floundered slightly. This was not what he had had in mind. He realised suddenly he wasn’t entirely sure what he expected from the interaction. He’d only really been thinking about having an orgasm. But Jean had lead him here – surely that was an invitation for – what, a quick fuck? Hand jobs, blow jobs, mutual masturbation? Just. Something…together.

Jean’s amusement visibly increased with every passing moment of Harry’s braindead confusion. Sadistic bastard, Harry thought. His dick twitched in earnest.

“Use your words, shitkid.” Jean smirked at him, rounding off his command with a waterlogged sniffle that sent a shiver down Harry’s spine. He didn’t give Harry so much as a chance to do so before continuing.

“I came in here to sneeze in privacy – you followed me. You thought I was going to drop to my knees and suck your dick?”

Harry visibly wilted, mouth dropping open in dismay. This was revenge. Petty, mean-spirited revenge. Sure, Jean hadn’t actually agreed to do anything – Harry had just followed him of his own accord but – but! The implications!

Jean watched his face as these thoughts whirled round his brain. Apparently, he must have looked about as pathetic as he felt, and Jean started to laugh. It was a nice laugh – a genuine laugh, maybe a little endearing and at odds with the spiteful way he had been addressing him moments earlier. Harry waited for him to finish, and he soon did, clearing his throat a little as if embarrassed at his own naked display of amusement.

“It’s okay, shitkid. You can take your cock out and enjoy the show. But I’m not touching you – I feel like fucking shit.”

Harry listened to him speak, watching his face intently. This was the first time Jean had admitted out loud to feeling unwell, even if it was blatantly both visually and aurally obvious to everyone else around him. It seemed he’d tired himself out with the domineering bravado, slumping a little against the copy machine, no longer having the energy to maintain his upright posture. His nostrils were also twitching, a surefire sign that he was about to start sneezing, and soon.

“Fine. Okay.” Harry muttered, already feeling the heat gathering and pulsing outwards from his groin at the mere promise of what was to come. He managed to extract his hard cock from the confines of his trousers, narrowly avoiding catching the delicate skin in his zipper, and wrapped one sweaty, spit slick palm around it. It immediately felt incredible, and he swore as he started to stroke it. This would not take very long.

Looking up from the tantalising sight of his own hand working his cock – a huge cock, a cock he was pathetically proud of – he focused his eyes back on Jean, and was glad he had done so. He stared as the younger man shuddered with a round of desperate, tickly little sneezes, all successfully stifled into silence against an outstretched pointer finger. Fuck, Jean looked good like that, cringing into that tight, pained expression as he bit down on every sneeze. His nostrils looked so lovely and so red in sharp contrast with the rest of his pale complexion. Harry wanted those nostrils pressed up against the shaft of his cock. He thought about Kim doing the same, willingly teasing him with sneezes and making him cum embarrassingly quickly, like the way he had done last week as they fooled around on his couch. His cock drooled precum.

Jean had a moment’s reprieve before he was scrambling in his trouser pockets for a tissue, extracting one at last that looked entirely worse for wear – balled up into no more than a lumpy mass, completely past the point of usefulness. All the same, Jean was bringing it up to his poor, flaring nostrils, giving Harry just a moment to take in his creasing eyebrows, the grimace of his open mouth as the tickle crested and he sneezed fiercely into it.

“Hn’tshh!! TSH’iew! Nd’Tsh! Tsh-Tshht!!”

He gasped, an intensely desperate sound that had Harry gasping too. And then the cycle repeated.

‘Ddtsh! Tsch’uu-TShht!! Hgk’Tssht! Huhd’Tishh-Tissh-‘Ddtshieww!!”

Harry was in pure, fetishistic ecstasy, squeezing and stroking his cock for all he was worth to those gorgeous little sneezes. It was so erotic, that such a gruff, muscular man was rendered entirely helpless by such proportionately tiny releases. His own huge sneezes were a lot more appropriate for a man his size, he thought, but the contradiction only seemed to turn him on even more than if Jean had sneezed with equally gigantic proportions. It was endearing, if one could describe something as such even whilst it resulted in an erection the hardness of which titanium couldn’t hold a candle to.

Jean paused for a moment, nose still buried in the pathetic knot of tissue, breath scissoring in and out of him. Harry steeled himself for more, slowing down his stroking so that he wouldn’t topple over the edge just yet. He wanted to cum so badly, but he wanted more. He wanted to watch Jean’s face completely unobstructed by hand or tissue alike. He wanted to see the way they would overwhelm him without the interference of suppression. He bit his bottom lip, trying not to whimper as his subordinate officer hitched, and hitched, and hitched -

“Please,” he gasped out, the sudden raspy outburst a lot louder than he had intended. It was evidently loud enough to throw Jean off balance, huffing in frustration as his sneeze failed to culminate past a desperate, vocal “Huhhdt-!!”. Harry groaned in response, felt his dick throb in his grasp as Jean’s face pinkened in embarrassment over the aborted release.

“What is it? You distracted me. Fuck, it burns!”

He proceeded to scrub at his poor nostrils with the sodden tissue, nudging the tip of his nose from side to side. Harry could tell he was genuinely tiring of the persistence of the tickle. Vague memories suddenly skimmed his brain of Jean at the tail-end of spring and over summer, bullying his nose with the knuckles of his hand when a pollen-induced sneezing fit lay just out of reach. Come to think of it, they were coming up to May very soon…god. Harry sighed, squeezing his cock to these happy thoughts and watching as precum beaded at the head. Fuck, this felt so good.

“Sorry, sorry, just please - don’t use the tissue. And don’t hold them back. Please? You’re so fucking hot.”

Jean’s blush deepened – whether in frustration or arousal at the compliment, he couldn’t be sure. Either way, it went straight to his cock.

“What? Fuck you. You don’t get to tell me how to sneeze.”

He was a little pissed, his accent thickened in overly performative and righteous indignation at the suggestion of catering to Harry’s specific whims. If Harry wasn’t mistaken, and his gut assured him he was not, it seemed like defensiveness against the fact that he would very much like to be told what to do. This felt, again, familiar. It made Harry harder to hear the way his loss of composure elongated the vowels in the word ‘sneeze’. He stroked himself a little faster.

“Come on, Vic. Do it for the station. I need to cum and clear my head so I can finish all that pesky paperwork. Please?”

He batted his eyelashes again. It wouldn’t have worked on just anyone, no – the sight of a 44 years old, recovering alcoholic police officer, wild-eyed and desperate with cock in hand, begging for his subordinate officer to sneeze uncovered so he could shoot his load. But this was Jean – normal rules did not apply.

“We’ve been through this, you prick. You should fucking do your paperwork without the promise of orgasm because it’s your fucking job!” Jean spat, raising his voice a little more than his irritated throat could take. He coughed harshly for several moments into a raised fist before sighing miserably, glancing up at Harry with a look of surrender. Harry shivered a little, resumed squeezing the head of his cock where he had temporarily abated in nervous concern at the voracity of the coughing. He ended up letting out an embarrassingly high-pitched whimper, bucking into his own grip. Jean sighed.

“Fine. I need to sneeze again, don’t distract m’hh-! Me…”

His breath started to softly hitch. To Harry’s delight, he shoved the soggy tissue back into his pocket and let his head fall back ever so slightly, allowing him to get a perfect view of his crumpling, desperate expression. Jean didn’t think he was a good-looking guy, but Harry wholeheartedly disagreed. He wasn’t one to preach the importance of self-love when he himself struggled to look in the mirror knowing how attractive he’d once been, only to squander it – even if recently, it was getting a little easier to do so. Bravado and charisma masked his discomfort – Jean’s buffer was merely rudeness and aggression. But either way, as he gasped his way into another fit of cock-throbbingly desperate sneezes, Harry had hardly found him more desirable.

“Hhd’Tschht!-D’tshh!! Hh! Hagk’Tisshhiew!! Hgk’Tschh! Hupt’TISHhhiew!! Ihgk’TSHhiew! Higk’TZSCHhhh!...‘DDTSH’uuu!!”

Jean shuddered, gripping the surface behind him as the force of the releases threatened to topple him. Each sneeze sounded positively ruined, as if his body could barely handle the cold-induced tickle that flared again and again. The first two Jean had stifled out of habit, before he’d remembered Harry would very much like to be sprayed with every single one of them. By the time he’d finished, his eyes and nose were leaking, and Harry’s legs were starting to shake with the effort of holding himself upright, a mind-numbing orgasm looming and sapping him of motor control.

“…You’re going to fall down if you don’t hold onto something. We don’t need a repeat of you nearly braining yourself on the edge of a table.”

Jean brought this up so readily, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. As if Harry should easily remember this fact, the fact that he and Jean had fucked around enough that he had (embarrassingly) injured himself falling to his knees in orgasm before. And he should remember. Why couldn’t he remember?

“I…don’t remember anything like that.” Harry confessed, throat tightening a little.

“I know. It’s okay.” Jean softened immediately, opening his arms up to Harry. “Come here.”

He shifted forward until he was stood between the protective embrace of Jean’s spread thighs, sighing a little as the younger man reached out to place both hands on his waist, steadying him. Harry himself reached out with his free hand past Jean’s waist to press against the sturdy surface of the copy machine. He watched as Jean took a moment to scrub at his nose with the wad of used tissues. It was such a handsome nose – prominent and strong, perfectly suited to his face. Watching it twitch and wriggle and hearing the soft clicks of moisture the motions created as Jean bullied it made his cock throb. He so desperately wanted to replace Jean’s hand with his own and play with it himself, but before he could even move to do so, Jean was dropping his hands right back to Harry’s waist and sneezing all over his chest.

“AEGK’Tssch’uu!! Higk’TSschTtt! ‘TSCHh’uu!! Hh’TISH’ieww!!”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Each sneeze sounded so incredibly desperate, so exhausted yet so overpowering, accompanied by a burst of thick spray. Harry’s cock drooled over his knuckles and he whined, low and loud. By the time the fourth sneeze had completed, Harry could feel (and see) the fabric of his shirt sticking to his chest, discoloured where the spray had dampened it. Jean’s tongue reflexively licked his bottom lip clean, thoroughly soaked by the force of his expulsions. He peered tentatively at Harry before his face eased into a relieved smile.

“You really do still like it. Getting drenched by my sneezes.” He was smiling – salacious and assured all at once.

“Yeahhh…Yeah, I really fucking do,” Harry sighed, staring at Jean adoringly as he worked over his cock with a renewed vigour. “Bless you.”

He all but purred the blessing out. It turned him on just as much as any dirty talk, he realised; it was a phrase that encapsulated his adoration, gratefulness and arousal all in one. Jean seemed to enjoy the attention, as well – his breath hitched in a decidedly non-sneeze fashion, and Harry smirked at him.

“Thank you.” Jean practically purred back, gently rubbing his thumbs against Harry’s sides. He stared back into Harry’s eyes, pupils blown so wide the pale irises were almost swallowed by black. “My nose tickles so fucking much. I just want to crawl into bed and sneeze until I fall asleep.”

Oooh, he was good at this. He had an undoubtedly extensive history of saying equally as specific things to Harry. The image of Jean curled up in bed and sneezing all over himself and his bed sheets was a potent one. Harry shivered, biting his lip hard as his knees quivered and struggled to keep from bending.

“Fuckkk…”

The arm he had leant against the copy machine was shaking too, elbow caving inwards and causing him to lean closer into Jean’s space. He didn’t seem to mind, nosing at Harry’s jawline and sniffling noisily. Poor fucking thing – he sounded so congested.

“Poor baby…” Harry breathed out, pressing a kiss to Jean’s cheek. If it was too intimate or too forward, the commotion of his impending orgasm made it very hard to give a fuck. The way Jean’s breath hitched and his solid build seemed to shiver a little at this crooning told him he was probably in the clear.

Jean suddenly pulled his face back from where he had been pressing a kiss to the underside of Harry’s jaw, frantically enough that Harry leant back himself to watch the inevitable unfold. Jean’s breath hitched again, this time due to the merciless persistency of his cold. His nostrils flared, damp and pink, threatening to overflow and make a mess of his moustache. Everything about his tortured pre-sneeze expression was a joy to behold. Harry could understand why he’d taken advantage of it many-a time before. His hand was a blur over his dick; he simply could not stop stroking and squeezing himself to the spectacle of it all. His brain conjured up the image of Kim, watching him watching Jean the way he’d done earlier that day, and he whimpered like a bitch in heat.

“KISHH’uuu!! IhGgKk’TSChhHU! ‘TShhiewww! Fucking h’hell…! hhAGK’TZShhiew!! ‘DZT’shieww!! Ihk’TSsschhttt!!”

Harry almost swooned as the sneezes caught his chin and the exposed column of his throat. He was hot, so fucking hot, even hotter with Jean’s too-warm body so close to his own. He could imagine the delicate aerosol of spray immediately sizzling and evaporating where it kissed his boiling skin.

“Ohh, fuck. Bless you, god, shit. M’gonna cum, gonna shoot…!”

“You make a mess of my uniform, you fucking die.”

Harry groaned through clenched teeth. If Jean didn’t want that, the last thing he should be doing was growling insults at Harry in that stupid, sexy voice of his. His cock throbbed, a decisive pre-orgasmic tremor of pleasure.

Jean seemed to realise any scolding or death-threats on his part were useless – he’d no doubt learned that, right on the brink of orgasm, a hoard of rabid zombies could be seconds away from attacking them both and Harrier Du Bois would be cumming his brains out even as the mauling commenced. Harry felt something press up against the head of his cock, moaning stupidly the second he realised it was the sodden tissue Jean had sneezed and snorted into. His body jerked with the first spasm of orgasm.

Through the roaring onset of his pleasure, he felt Jean wrap an arm round his waist whilst the other clamped the tissue to the spitting head of his cock. Both hands occupied, the younger man was pressing his face against the collar of his shirt, rubbing his nose frantically against him. Harry heard the deep groan he was making as the pleasure started to really crest, so fucking good, hours and hours of tension draining out of him with every blissful twitch of his tortured dick. When Jean’s breath started to hitch, he could feel the in and out of his expanding diaphragm, hear every minute snag in his breathing.

When Jean sneezed, an oh-so desperate triple, audibly and tangibly wet against his collar and bursting across his neck, he all but yelled as his orgasm sky-rocketed from pleasurable commotion to earth-shaking rapture.

“Hh’AHTTt’SHiewww!! KTSh’Schuu!! AEGKk’TSSHhh’uu!!”

His fingers spasmed uselessly against the copy machine, knees all but given out – Jean had had the right idea to hold him up. He was slumped against him, chest to chest, breathing as laboured as a bulldog as the final tremors of orgasm pulsed through him. He just leant there, propped up against Jean like a ragdoll and waiting for his body to cooperate. Jean was slowly rubbing his twitching, damp nose against his neck – it felt electric even in the aftermath of release.

“I never understood,” Jean started, speaking softly into the crook of his neck, “Why you ever felt the need to drink and do drugs the way you did when you can cum like that.”

Harry didn’t know what to say, his brain still a veritable puddle of goo. He’d like to know himself, but he was certain that this sudden resurgence of sex beginning in Martinaise with Kim had followed a relatively lengthy period of LDS – i.e. Limp Dick Syndrome. If he’d been having orgasms, they hadn’t been this fucking good. That he was certain he would have remembered.

“Hah,” He breathed out an awkward, monosyllabic laugh in lieu of anything even halfway intelligent. He smiled and panted, open-mouthed, at the sound of Jean’s responding scoff. He continued to lean there against the warm embrace of the younger man’s body until he felt him shifting in discomfort under his weight.

“Harry. Get off.”

He sighed, pushing himself off of Jean one-handed. He looked down between them, dick in his own hand whilst Jean’s patiently held the snot and cum-filled tissue in place as it threatened to overflow.

“Umm. Fuck. I think I have a handkerchief somewhere, hold on…” He started to root around in his blazer pockets, ignoring Jean’s glare as he unearthed one and started to wipe his hand and cock on the fabric.

“You had that the whole time and you let me use my last tissue to soak up your cum?” Jean rasped. Harry paused for a moment at how unwell he sounded.

“Sorry.” He flashed an apologetic grin at Jean, too blissed out to offer up any kind of excuse. He was getting sick of saying that he’d forgotten things, even if it was true.

“Whatever. Fuck.” Jean tossed the pulpy tissue into the nearby bin, following the trajectory with his eyes and looking pleased with himself when it landed on target.

Harry folded the handkerchief over, offering the clean surface of it to Jean, who took it wordlessly. He tucked his sensitive dick back into his pants, resisting the urge to start coaxing it back to full hardness as the sound of Jean’s lengthy, crackling nose blow forced a pathetic little twitch out of it in response.

Jean snuffled into the handkerchief, massaging his sore, red nostrils, seemingly perfectly content to stand there watching Harry. The older man noticed the prominent outline of the Satellite Officer’s erection, unattended to, straining against his trousers. He looked down at it then up at Jean again, wanting to broach the subject, but then paused, noticing the way Jean was frowning towards the general vicinity of his shoulder.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Jean swiped the handkerchief one last time under his nose before folding it over again and leaning forward.

“Hold still.”

Harry did so, obediently standing in place as Jean scrubbed at the collar of his shirt. He smiled like a dope as he realised his partner was attempting to clean away the prodigious results of that last triple.

“Messy boy.”

“Shut your damn mouth.”

“Is there even any clean fabric left on that handkerchief?”

“Shut up, Harry.”

Harry did. He felt like he was dangerously at risk of swaying in place, the endorphins and release after all the teasing and buildup leaving him far too loose and carefree. Jean pulled back at last, pocketing the handkerchief and rearranging Harry’s shirt collar and necktie. He looked up at Harry, catching him in the act of staring at his face, at the way his dark eyelashes fanned over his cheeks as he worked to smooth Harry out in an almost mechanical fashion. He flashed a little smirk his way, then yanked his tie just so.

“You’re lucky I didn’t use this hideous thing to clean up my mess.” He purred, the raspiness of his voice only adding to the allure. Harry swore under his breath.

“Are you trying to work me up for round two?” He whined. Jean dropped his tie.

“Absolutely the fuck not. Are you going to do your fucking job now?”

Harry sighed. What a fucking buzzkill.

“Yes. Yes I’ll do my job, you win. Although…” He leaned forward, pressing his mouth right up to Jean’s ear and murmuring in a low voice, “I’d like to do you first.”

Jean shivered and huffed a little laugh.

“That was fucking awful, oh my god.”

But he didn’t push him away. He wrapped his arms round Harry’s shoulders instead, humming in approval as Harry kissed his neck and trailed one broad hand down his torso before draping it across the bulge in his pants. He sighed, a gorgeous little exhalation of pleasure that sent shivers down Harry’s spine as he started to unzip his pants.

“Do you want this?” He asked even as his hand collected the moisture from Jean’s tip and spread it down his shaft, stroking him firmly.

“Hahh…Yeah. Mm’fucking tired though. So forgive me for – hah!” He cut himself off with his own frantic moaning. He didn’t bother to elaborate; Harry imagined he really was exhausted if his mouthy self was starting to economise his own verbosity.

What Jean lacked in words was more than made up with by the sweet, continuous stream of moans he let out next to Harry’s ear as he wrapped himself around him, resting his head on his shoulder as the older officer kissed and licked the shell of his ear, whispering words of encouragement and praise. His hand moved instinctually over Jean’s length – at least the easy muscle memory, built up over years of fucking, remained where his active memory did not. He clenched his teeth, pushing back the bitter thoughts and focusing on Jean’s gasps and sighs, the little “Ohh fuck”s and “Like that”s he would occasionally choke out as Harry stroked and teased. His own cock was hard again, but he ignored it, speeding up his pace as Jean’s hips started to buck arrhythmically.

He pulled back to watch Jean’s face as he fell to pieces – a different kind of vulnerability twisting his features into a mask of pleasure, though it wasn’t all that different from the irritated expression a pre-sneeze tickle would take. It was achingly familiar – a face he’d no doubt been made to make hundreds of times before at the mercy of Harry’s hands, his mouth, his cock. He’d watched Jean cum when the three of them had fucked, but this was different – just the two of them together in god knows how long, for the first time since the drugs and booze and misery made him an utterly reprehensible waste of skin. Watching those dark eyelashes flutter like that made his chest tight.

“Harrier, fuckkk…gonna cum-! Fuck!”

Jean started to convulse almost immediately, a shuddering gasp wrenching itself out of him as he trembled in Harry’s grip. Harry caught the spurts of semen with his free hand, a moment too late as the first spasm painted a white stripe over the yellow fabric of the thigh he’d pressed between Jean’s legs. He was too blissed out to care, kissing the corner of Jean’s open mouth as he continued to orgasm, mewling as the pleasure overpowered him. He ejaculated into the cage of Harry’s fingers a couple more times before he sagged in exhaustion, clinging to Harry and moaning, blushing face pressed firmly into the shoulder of his blazer. His voice broke on that last, whimpering vocalisation and Harry’s heart ached for him.

He stood patiently as Jean caught his breath and clung to him like a lifeline. One hand awkwardly closed around the dripping mess of Jean’s orgasm whilst the other loosely gripped his sticky, softening cock. He’d have to wait for Jean to unlock the door of the copy room first, holding both sticky hands upright until he located the nearest sink to wash them off. He supposed he could lick them clean – cum wasn’t the worst taste in the world – but the depravity of it would just make him horny all over again. He may as well just take his own cock out and use Jean’s cum as lube.

He was pulled out of this particular train of thought at the sensation of Jean trembling several times against him. The realisation that he was muffling a series of tiny little sneezes into near silence against his shoulder was doing absolutely nothing to keep the blood out of his insatiable cock. He closed his eyes and pictured his paperwork instead.

“Sorry…” Jean muttered, sniffling as he extracted his face from the makeshift covering.

“It’s okay.” Harry murmured, kissing his cheek. He frowned; Jean’s skin felt even warmer under his lips than before. “You’re burning up, Vic.”

Jean sighed.

“I figured as much.”

He unwrapped his hands from around Harry’s shoulders, looking queerly at him as if he didn’t understand why Harry was still stood there with a hand on his wilting cock until he realised the older man’s predicament.

“Oh, uhh…I’ll get you some paper towels. Wait here.”

Harry waited, eyes closed and replaying Jean’s sneezes and his orgasm over and over in his mind, opening them only once he felt the younger man gently wiping his hands clean. He smiled weakly at Jean, and Jean smiled back at him – shy, boyish. At odds with the lines of stress and exhaustion that marred his face, aging him beyond his years.

“I never meant to hurt you.” It was pouring out of him before he had a chance to think twice. Jean sighed, working on Harry’s other hand.

“Harry. You never meant to do any of the things you did, or so you keep telling me. I don’t need to hear this again. Not right now.”

His smile was replaced by the regular hard line of his everyday frown. Harry could have kicked himself.

“I’m sorry, Jean. I really am. I can’t understand why I did the things I did to you. Will you look at me?”

Jean hesitated, then peered up at him under eyelashes dampened by tears. Harry leaned forward and kissed each of his eyelids, lips coming away salty and damp.

“I never want to put you through any of that again. And I won’t.”

Jean’s lips quirked into a tiny, defeated smile – one that said he didn’t really trust him, but wanted to believe in him more than he ever had before. Harry considered it a success, and pressed their foreheads together for lack of anything better to do whilst his hands were still sticky, though notably less so than before. Jean uttered a soft little hum.

“You just jerked me off and this is somehow even gayer.”

Harry laughed.

“Fuck you, man. You’re ten times gayer than me.”

He kissed Jean for all of five seconds before the younger man couldn’t breathe, ducking into Harry’s shoulder and coughing all over his blazer. Harry winced – the dreamy haze of afterglow was beginning to fade and Jean did not sound good.

“You’re so getting this now. I hope you’re happy.” Jean muttered, wiping his mouth dry with the back of his hand.

“If you think for one second I regret doing any of that, you are sorely mistaken.”

“Hm. Whatever you say, superstar.” Jean drawled, tossing the soiled paper towels into the bin alongside the shredded remains of tissue. “Now, move it. You need to wash your hands and do your fucking work.”

Harry sighed and followed him out of the room, casting one quick glance back over his shoulder to assess the damage. Nothing, thankfully. Just the spray on his shirt and the cum on his leg.

~~~~~

Jean had gone home shortly after their excursion in the copy room, leaving Harry unsupervised. He had done some paperwork, but he had also called Kim from his desk phone when he was sure the race had ended and relayed the entire turn of events to him. He’d also jerked himself off again reliving it all, moaning stupidly down the receiver as he came. He was happy to hear the Lieutenant’s own groan of completion, and he’d ended the call, promising to talk again tomorrow. And not a moment too soon – the bullpen was suddenly flooded by a stream of Junior patrol officers, returning amidst a blessed lull in criminal activity.

The next few days at work had been uneventful. Busy, but monotonous. He’d gone out to dinner with Kim, and they’d fucked. Jean had miraculously allowed himself a solitary sick day, surprising them all. He’d returned the following day, still sick but markedly improved. And that had been that.

Until Jean’s cold finally caught up to him and Harry became a sneezing, sniffling mess almost overnight. He’d dragged himself to work and had hardly had 15 minutes free of sneezing since he’d arrived. He’d figured that Jean’s general nasal sensitivities had been the main cause of the sheer number of times that he’d been sneezing with the same affliction, but no. It was easily one of the tickliest, sneeziest colds he had ever encountered – even worse than his cold in Martinaise.

He wanted to lie around and sneeze in bed, away from the scorn and watchful eyes of his fellow officers. But no dice – he had to work, he had to get through this fucking case and oh – oh god. He had to sneeze.

“IIIEEEEESSSSSHHHTTTTttt!!!”

The sneeze had been cunning and entirely malevolent, not giving him the dignity of even a short buildup before the tickle spiked sharply and it was bursting out of him. It hadn’t been messy, thank god, but it had been wet, and his paperwork had taken the brunt of it as the force propelled him over his desk. He groaned, rubbing the underside of his sore, tickly nostrils with the back of his hand. The files were dappled with moisture, the ink of his chicken scratch handwriting bleeding across the page where the worst of the damage had been done.

Nobody had been passing within range of the spray this time, at least. The surrounding area of Harry’s desk had now been dubbed the less than subtle title of ‘The Splash Zone’, following McClaine’s misfortune to be making his way across the room and in front of Harry the second a particularly violent sneeze worked its way out of him – and all over the younger officer’s blazer. Harry had apologised, but in all honesty didn’t feel the least bit sorry for him – or his ugly, checkered jacket.

He snuffled thickly, wiping his runny nose across any remaining dry skin to be found on his arm and wrist. This fucking sucked. He had known the risks. He had willingly exposed himself to Jean’s cold for the sake of a nut. He had nobody to blame but himself. But it didn’t mean he couldn’t feel utterly, miserably sorry for himself. He cradled his forehead in his hands, doing nothing for the preternatural nasal drainage but feeling too rotten to care.

A shuffling noise prompted him to glance towards the source of the disturbance. Kim was using a pen to nudge a tissue box, half-emptied by Harry this morning alone, closer to him and into his line of vision. Harry peered over in bemusement as Kim, mission accomplished, settled back down into his own chair, looking back at Harry with a mixture of exasperation and concern.

“You really should cover your mouth, Lieutenant Double-Yefreitor.”

Harry sighed, helping himself to a bundle of tissues.

“Sorry. I know. They’ve been sneaking up on me, is all.” He finished before blowing his nose with a resultant sound so thick and crackling that all other noise in the office seemed to dim in comparison.

“Oh, believe me, I’ve noticed.” Kim muttered, returning to his own work with a resigned sigh.

Harry knew he was referring to the way he had been sneezed on this morning, lying in bed as they shared a kiss. It had absolutely destroyed any chance of morning sex and earned Harry one of the iciest looks he had ever received from Kim. He counted himself lucky that Kim was not one to resort to physical violence when slighted, and that his blubbering, heartfelt apology was entirely successful in transforming Kim’s anger into a wilting, stony-faced acceptance.

“I really do have no means of avoiding this illness, now.”

For as bad as Harry had felt about the whole thing, he couldn’t deny that that admission of defeat and the mere thought of Kim catching his cold – this ridiculously sneezy cold – made his cock feel hard enough to cut glass.

A folder of documents was slapped down on his desk with a sudden, resounding slap, making Harry jump and swear behind the tissues. He peered up at Jean, looking almost radiant with healthiness compared the to the state he had been in several days prior.

“From the Boogie Street Stabbing case.” He smiled down at Harry, looking cocky and amused.

“You look like you’re feeling better.” Harry spat, dropping the soiled tissues on his desk and tossing the folder to the right with the rest of the ‘to be returned to’ pile. Jean smiled even wider.

“Apparently the best way to get over a cold is to give it to someone else.”

He directed his best shit-eating grin at Harry, eyes brighter and more focused than they had been in days.

“Wonderful.” Kim grumbled almost inaudibly to the side. He really wasn’t looking forward to getting sick, and Harry could sympathise. He made a mental note to spoil Kim rotten the second he started to feel under the weather. Jean didn’t seem to have heard him, and if he had, he was staunchly ignoring him and favouring bothering Harry the same way a bored child would tease a grumpy old dog.

“Don’t you have anything better to do than rub your health in my face?” Harry snuffled emphatically.

“You’ve rubbed much worse in mine. Consider this pay back.” He turned to leave, but at last minute turned around and deposited another folder – a thick, evil looking dossier on some mob boss or other – on Harry’s desk. “And this, too.”

Harry gaped at him in dismay.

“You’re cruel and unusual!” He groaned after a retreating Jean. His partner merely smirked and flipped him off. It was aggravating, but mischievous and about as light-hearted as Jean was currently capable of. Harry felt, through the weariness of his progressing sickness, a sense of relief. He flipped the bird right back at him, hoping he didn’t look too paradoxically gleeful as he did so.

Jean didn’t seem to notice this capriciousness, just patted his pocket to check for his carton of cigarettes and angled his head towards Judit.

“Jude – smoke break?”

“You shouldn’t be smoking anything – you should still be in bed.”

She followed him outside all the same, more to keep an eye on him than anything else, ready to provide medical attention should he suddenly cough up a lung. Harry envied her immune system – it seemed having kids constantly bringing bugs home was a truly effective form of inoculation to just about anything that was passed around the bullpen.

He watched them leave absentmindedly – before yet another cruel, bullying sneeze tore its way out of him.

“HAAAAEEISSSHHHhh!!...HUH! HAHHHGGGTTSSSSSHHh’uuu!!”

And it brought a friend along with it. A messy friend. Harry clapped a hand over his mouth several seconds too late, muttering an exhausted ‘fuck’ and snuffling into the cage of his fingers. Not getting any warning was incredibly inconvenient but the force of the sneezes, how they sent shivers of pleasure down his spine…that he could appreciate.

“Say it, don’t spray it, Mullen!”

That was Mack, shouting across the bullpen and earning a couple of sniggers in return. He was a meathead, and it was a juvenile, unoriginal and otherwise comically cliché comment. It wouldn’t have bothered Harry in the least had his sneezes been intentionally intrusive, but the fact that he was totally at their mercy brought a light flush of shame to his cheeks. He just wanted to go home and jerk off. He flipped the bird in Torson’s general direction and reached for another tissue.

Kim beat him to it, pressing a bundle of fresh tissues into his palm. Harry looked up and flashed him an appreciative glance, replacing his hand with the tissue. The Lieutenant stood next to his desk, a file underarm, ready to be submitted to Captain Pryce.

“Bless you.” He offered quietly. Harry tried as hard as he could not to visibly squirm. Kim smiled at him. “Was it w-worth...!”

Harry stared adoringly up at him, thanking all his lucky stars for Kim and his ridiculously suggestible nose. If he had a tail, it would be wagging back and forth in a veritable whirlwind of excitement, thumping against the back of his chair.

Kim’s nostrils flared violently and his gaze unfocused, even as he valiantly fought to prevent his eyes from closing. It’s too late, Harry thought. My paradigm is infallible. You’re going to sneeze. He was right, of course; within seconds, Kim’s expression was cinching tight and he was sneezing convulsively into a handful of tissues, plucked frantically from the box on Harry’s desk just in time.

“NGxtt! Hh’NGxt’tzschu!! Hh! hhdt’Tszchhuuu!! Fucking hell…”

In much the same way as Kim had been unable to fight the natural reflexes of his body, so too had Harry. His cock twitched in his pants, filling with blood in an instant. Even if Kim didn’t catch his cold, his own sneezing was an inevitability – which meant so too was Kim’s. Fuck, but he was going to have even more fun with this.

“Bless you!” He offered back, heart thumping so hard in his chest he could hear his pulse in his ears. “And honestly? I think it was worth every second.”

He laughed as Kim tossed his balled up tissues at him and strode irritably out of the room.

#this fic was fighting me but i NEEDED to finish it. just HAD to #i have like....1 1/2 finished K/im fics i didn't want to post before i finished this one as well lol #nametakenfic #d/isco e/lysium #sneeze fic #sneeze kink #snz fet #snz kink #snz fucker #snzblr #sneeze fucker

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