#Snz kink post maybe?

[suddencolds]

Atypical Occurrence [2/?]

hello!! 10 drafts and (exactly) 3 months later, I am finally back with part 2 of Atypical Occurrence 😭 You can read part 1 here!

This chapter is a little personal to me. I don't tend to linger on writing scenes like this (in part because they are a little difficult for me), so it took awhile to hammer out the dynamic I wanted. That said, here it is at long last!!

This is an OC fic ft. Vincent and Yves. Here is a list of everything I’ve written for these two! :)

—

Summary: Vincent shows up late to a meeting. It just goes downhill from there. (ft. fake dating, the flu, a house visit, and certain revelations)

—

There’s a grocery store that’s a ten minute drive from Vincent’s apartment. Yves picks out ingredients for chicken soup, two different kinds of cold and flu medicine, a new pack of cough drops, a few boxes of tissues, a small thermometer. All in all, it’s less than a thirty minute excursion—something he’s done many times before in uni, where everyone seemed to catch something in the middle of exam season, and a house visit was just a short walk away.

Chicken noodle soup isn’t difficult. He’s made it a hundred times—he’s experimented with a dozen different variations of it. He puts the groceries in the fridge, washes the vegetables, and gets to work.

While the soup cooks, he half watches it, half busies himself with cleaning the apartment—loading up the dishwasher and hand washing everything that doesn’t fit, stocking the fridge and the medicine cabinet with the groceries he’s gotten, vacuuming the floors with a vacuum cleaner he finds tucked behind the fridge.

Then he shreds the chicken, chops a round of fresh vegetables to add to the broth, and waits.

 It’s comfortably quiet. Outside, rain drums steadily on the windowpane. It shows no signs of stopping soon. It’s dark enough outside—the sun fully set, the clouds heavy overhead—that the lit interior of the apartment kitchen feels like a warm reprieve.

Yves likes cooking. He doesn’t actively enjoy doing chores, but there’s something comforting to how mindless they are. It’s an appreciated distraction. 

The rain outside is loud enough that he doesn’t hear the footsteps, approaching, until Vincent clears his throat from behind him.

Yves jumps.

“You’re up,” he says, spinning on his heels to face him. Vincent looks a little worse for the wear—his hair a little messy, his shirt slightly rumpled from sleep, his glasses perched haphazardly in place.

Yves watches him take everything in—the pot on the stove, the chopping board set out on the counter, the empty paper bags from the grocery run flattened and stacked into neat rectangles.

“And you’re still here,” Vincent says.

“I made soup,” Yves says, by way of explanation. “It’s chicken noodle. I wasn’t sure if you’d be up for trying something new.” He reaches over to lift the lid off of the pot of soup. Steam wafts up from it, carrying with it the faint scent of the aromatics he’d added—thyme, bay leaf, garlic, peppercorns. “Actually, you picked a good time to wake up. I just added in the noodles, so it’s almost done.”

Vincent eyes the pot, his expression unreadable. “Did you leave to get groceries?”

“Earlier, yeah. You weren’t kidding about your fridge being empty.”

Vincent frowns. “I can pay you back. Did you keep the receipt?”

In truth, the price of the groceries is the last thing on Yves’s mind right now. He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It must have taken a long time.”

“Soup is pretty forgiving. You just toss everything into a pot of boiling water and wait. It’s barely any work at all.”

Vincent stares at him for a moment longer. Then he says: “That’s an oversimplification.”

“Not really. Besides, I enjoy cooking,” Yves says. “Thanks for letting me use your kitchen—though, technically, I guess I’m asking forgiveness instead of permission. I’ll clean everything up, by the way.” He’s done dishes along the way, so there isn’t really much to do besides rinse off whatever’s left, load up the dishwasher, and store whatever’s left of the soup in the fridge.

“You don’t have to,” Vincent says, before turning into his elbow with a few harsh, grating coughs. “I can clean up. It’s my apartment.”

“If you think I’m letting you do household chores while you have a fever—”

“It’s not that high,” Vincent interrupts, perhaps a little stubbornly. Yves lets out a disbelieving laugh. He leans over the counter, shifts his weight forwards on his feet to press the back of his hand to Vincent’s forehead.

It’s concerningly hot, still, which isn’t a surprise. Though perhaps the way Vincent blinks, a little tiredly, and leans forward into Yves’s hand is a giveaway on its own.

“It’s definitely over a hundred,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll have you know that I bought a thermometer.”

For a moment, Vincent looks surprised. Then he sighs. “That was an unnecessary purchase.”

“Are you admitting that I’m right?”

Vincent just frowns at him, which—Yves notes—isn’t exactly a denial. “Fever or not, there’s not much I can do except sleep it off.”

“You can go back to sleep after you’ve had something to eat,” Yves says. “What was it that you said? That you haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday?”

“...You won’t leave unless I eat, then,” Vincent says. He says it evenly enough that it barely registers as a question.

Yves smiles at him. It’s not a wrong conclusion. “Exactly,” he says.

—

In between the hallway and Vincent’s kitchen is a small dining area, furnished with a high table and two high chairs. Yves waits until the noodles are cooked just enough. Then he turns off the stove, unrolls a placemat to lay out on the dining table, and carries the pot over.

He gets everything he needs: two bowls, two spoons, some of the fresh parsley he’d chopped earlier, for garnish—and lays it all out.

“I can help,” Vincent says, for maybe the third time. 

He’s seated on one of the chairs, which Yves had pointedly pulled out for him, looking like he’s perhaps a few seconds away from getting out of his seat and doing everything himself. It’s just like Vincent, Yves thinks, to offer to help—even at work, aside from all the work he takes on, it feels like he’s always finding some way or other to be useful. 

Yves says, “When you’re not running a fever, you can ask me again.”

When everything is laid out, he pulls up a chair for himself, so he can sit across from Vincent—who is still perched on his seat, though he looks a little less like he wants to get out of it. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” Yves says.

Vincent blinks at him. “It would have been rude to get started on my own.”

“Nonsense,” Yves says. “I made it for you.”

He takes a bite. The soup tastes fine. That is, it tastes the same as every other time he’s made it—light and comforting. It’s just one of those recipes Yves thinks he can make in his sleep. Nothing about it is particularly inventive. Still, he hasn’t cooked for Vincent before—not formally, at least, other than the dish he’d bought to Joel’s potluck—so it’s a little nerve-wracking to watch Vincent take a bite. 

It’s worse, still, to watch his eyes widen by a fraction. For a moment, Yves wonders if he’s done something wrong—if perhaps, it isn’t to Vincent’s taste, after all. He sets his spoon down. “Is it okay?”

“It’s really good,” Vincent says. “I can see why Mikhail said what he said.” 

“What?”

“That your cooking was half the reason why he roomed with you.”

Yves laughs. “So does that mean you’ll forgive me for trespassing?” 

Vincent smiles back at him. “I’ll consider it.” Now, with his glasses off, Yves can see his eyes a little more clearly—they’re slightly red-rimmed, his eyelashes long and dark, his cheeks flushed brighter with fever. There’s a little crease at the edge of his eyes which shows up when he smiles.

Yves is caught off guard, for a moment. The tightness in his chest is nothing, he tells himself. Certainly not a crush that he shouldn’t be allowed to have. 

A crush. That’s new, too. It’s ironic, considering the terms of their fake relationship. He thinks it’s probably supposed to make him better at this—what better way to feign romantic interest than to not have his feelings be so fake, after all?—but instead, he finds himself at an uncharacteristic loss for words, finds himself stumbling over the most basic of pleasantries. 

Of course, he has no intention of acting on his feelings. Vincent is attractive, yes—but he’s also considerate, and attentive, and hardworking enough to go early and stay late, to take on work he doesn’t get credit for. He’s thoughtful enough to entertain Yves’s friends, to have lunch with Yves’s siblings, to fly all the way to france to meet Yves’s family.

But all of that is inconsequential. None of it is going to amount to anything, because Yves knows how to keep his distance. Because Yves needs this—the perks of their fake relationship—more than he needs to indulge in any inconvenient crush. Because he knows enough to know how things would turn out if he were to say something.

That’s the thing. Vincent isn’t cruel. It’s for that reason, precisely, that Yves knows that he’d drop this arrangement immediately if he knew. Vincent would never string him along knowingly, and that’s what makes this so much worse—Yves has gone and gotten himself stupidly attached. 

Now that they’re sitting across from each other, in Vincent’s apartment, having dinner, Yves thinks—a little selfishly, perhaps—that this is the best that he can ask for. It is all that he can ask for. Far better to keep up the pretense entirely, far better to pretend that this is all just for show. When they put an end to this arrangement—someday, inevitably—Yves will thank Vincent for everything, and then they’ll go their separate ways. He already knows how it will go. There is no need to complicate things.

It’s quiet, for some time. Yves finishes his bowl first, heads over to the sink to rinse it off, and positions it neatly in the lowest compartment of the dishwasher. When he gets back, Vincent is spooning more soup into his bowl. Yves allows himself to feel a little relieved to see that he has an appetite.

“It’s been awhile,” Vincent says, after some time. “Since anyone’s done this for me.”

“Made you chicken soup?” Yves says, a little puzzled. “If you want the recipe, I can give it to you. I make it all the time.”

“No,” Vincent says. His expression is unparseable. “Just— since anyone’s looked after me, in general.”

“Oh.” Yves finds his mind is spinning. “How long have you been living alone?”

“Since university. I had suitemates, in my second year. Then I got an apartment of my own.”

“Because you like the privacy?”

“It was just simplest.”

Yves thinks back to his years, rooming with Mikhail—the conversations they’d have to have to figure out groceries, to alternate cooking dinner and doing dishes, to manage transportation. He has a studio apartment now, too, but he’s over at his neighbors’ house frequently enough, or otherwise at home with Leon and Victoire for dinner, so it doesn’t really get lonely.

“You have a pretty spacious kitchen,” he says. “I hope you don’t mind that I used your pots and pans. I’ll wash them, I swear.”

Vincent takes in a small, sharp breath. Yves looks up just in time to see him twist away from the table, tenting his hands over his nose and mouth.

“hhIHh’IIKTS-HHuhh-!”

“Bless you!” Yves exclaims. Judging by the way Vincent keeps his hands raised over his face, he assumes that there are going to be more. He rises from his seat, heads back into the kitchen in search for—ah. Six boxes of tissue boxes, stacked neatly into a block. He tears off the thin plastic film around them, removes a box from the pile, and pulls off the tab.

When he gets back to the dining table, Vincent is ducking into steepled hands with another—

“hhih’GKKT-SHHh-uuUh! hh’DDZSChh-HHuh! snf-Snf-! hhh… Hh… hh-HH-hh’yIIDDzsSHH-hHUH-!!”

The sneezes seem to scrape painfully against his throat, for the way he winces in their aftermath. He twists away from Yves to cough lightly, after, into his shoulder, his eyes watering. “Bless you!” Yves pushes the tissue box towards him. “Here.”

Vincent takes a tissue from the box, blows his nose quietly. When he emerges, lowering the tissue from his face, his eyes are a little watery. He eyes the tissue box. “Did you buy these earlier, too?”

“I did,” Yves says. “I picked up some medicine, too. I didn’t know what flavor you wanted, so I got a couple different kinds. And some other stuff—your fridge was getting pretty empty, by the way—in case you needed it.”

Vincent lifts his head to study him, as if there’s something he’s trying to understand. Finally, he says, “Do you do this for all of your friends?”

“What?”

Vincent frowns, as if the subject matter should be obvious. “Cook for them. Get groceries. Clean their apartment.”

“Sometimes,” Yves says. He’s certainly no stranger to stopping by to help—sometimes with homemade soup, or tea packed tightly in a thermos, or something else. Then again, that was easier to do back in uni, when everyone lived within a twenty minute radius. “It depends on what they need.”

“So this is just a Yves thing.”

“What? Showing consideration for my friends?” 

“Showing consideration is one thing,” Vincent answers. “You could have left after dropping off the files. You would still have been showing your consideration.”

“I guess that’s true. But at that point, I was already here,” Yves says, with a shrug. “It seemed logical to check up on you.”

“Well, now you’ve checked up on me,” Vincent says. “So you can go.”

Yves supposes this is true. 

“Do you want me to go?” he asks.

Vincent says, “It’s late. I assume you have things to get home to.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Yves says.

Vincent says nothing to that.

But Yves gets the message, even without him saying it. If Vincent is the type of person who prefers to be alone when sick, Yves won’t take it personally. He doesn’t want to overstay his welcome—arguably, he’s already stayed for much longer than Vincent had invited him to.

There’s leftover soup in the fridge—enough to last Vincent a couple days, hopefully through the worst of this—and Vincent’s apartment is reasonably well-stocked now. He has something to take if his fever gets any higher; he has all the basic supplies Yves could think of off the top of his head.

And Vincent is a lot of things, but he isn’t irresponsible. He’s shown himself to be self-sufficient more times than Yves can count. There’s no reason why Yves should have to stay and look after him for any longer—no reason, perhaps, aside from the fact that seeing Vincent ill has left him more worried than he’d like to admit.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll go. But at least let me clean up first.”

He does dishes, leaves the cutting boards and the pot out to dry on the drying rack, transfers the soup to smaller glass containers to store it in the fridge. He returns the vacuum cleaner to the storage closet he found it in. Then, as promised, he gathers his things—not much, just his phone and his car keys—and heads toward the front door.

Vincent follows him to the door, presumably to lock it after he leaves. 

Yves steps outside, lingers for just a moment on the doorstep. The car is parked close enough that he hadn’t bothered to grab his umbrella, but now it’s dark out, and it’s raining just as hard. 

“I left new cough drops on the kitchen countertop,” Yves says, biding his time under the overhang until he inevitably has to get rained on. “The medicine’s in your bathroom, behind the mirror, with the thermometer. Everything else is either on the counter or in the fridge. Don’t come back to work until your fever’s completely—”

It happens in a moment: Vincent stumbles. Yves is looking at him, which means he sees the exact moment when it happens. Yves doesn’t think, just reacts—he reaches out to grab his arm to keep him from falling entirely. 

“Woah,” he says, steadying him. “Are you—”

Vincent’s hand is concerningly warm, even through the fabric of his sleeve. For a moment, he leans into Yves’s touch, though this seems less intentional as it is inevitable. He’s breathing heavily, his eyes tightly shut, his shoulders rising and falling not as soundlessly as usual.

Yves swallows past the alarm he feels percolating in his chest. Had he been about to pass out? Just how high is his fever right now? “Vincent—”

“Sorry,” Vincent manages, through gritted teeth. He makes an effort to regain his balance, to move away. He sways on his feet, and Yves feels the panic in his chest rise anew. 

He reaches up and slings an arm around his waist. “Hey,” he says, trying for reassuring. “I’ve got you.”

Vincent doesn’t say anything, to that. He just stands there, perfectly still, his eyebrows drawn together, his shoulders a little stiff under Yves’s touch. 

Without letting go of him, Yves shuts the front door gingerly behind him, toes his shoes off at the door again. “I think it would be best if you laid down,” he says. “Do you think you can walk?”

Vincent nods, slowly. Yves tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows. 

“Sorry,” Vincent says, again. “I… didn’t expect it to be an issue.”

He’s frowning, hard, as if he’s upset with himself, though Yves can’t quite piece apart why he’d have reason to be. “Hey, no apologizing,” Yves says. “Save your energy for walking.”

Vincent seems to understand that their current arrangement will not change until he’s in bed, so he lets Yves steer him towards the bedroom. It’s a short walk—down the hallway and then off to the left—but Yves spends half of it distracted by how warm Vincent is. Like this, he practically radiates heat.

It’s not until Vincent is settled on his bed, the blankets pulled loosely over him, that Yves allows himself to let go.

Truthfully, the last thing he wants to do right now is leave. But it isn’t about what he wants, and perhaps Vincent would sleep better if he did.

“Are you warm enough?” Yves asks. The words feel heavy on his tongue.

A nod. 

“Do you need me to get you anything else?”

Vincent shakes his head.

“Okay,” Yves says. “I guess I shouldn’t overstay my welcome, then.”

Vincent will be fine, he tells himself. At the end of the day, they are only coworkers, and Vincent is one of the most independent people he knows. If Vincent doesn’t want him here, the best Yves can do is comply with his wishes. He straightens. “Text me if you need anything, I mean it.”

He lets go of the blanket, rises to his feet. Only, then—

There’s a hand on his sleeve, tugging.

Yves goes very still.

When Vincent notices what he’s done, alarm flashes through his expression, and he pulls his hand away as if he’s burned. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, again. And just like that, he’s back to how he always is—his expression perfectly, carefully neutral, in a way that can only be constructed. “I’m sorry.” But Yves doesn’t forget what he’s seen. “You can go.”

Yves’s heart aches. He settles back at the edge of the bed, reaches out a hand, settles it gently at the edge of Vincent’s forehead. At the physical contact, Vincent’s breath catches.

And for a second, Yves wonders if he’s made a mistake—if maybe Vincent doesn’t want to be touched, right now. If he’s misread the situation; if Vincent wants him to go, after all. He opens his mouth to apologize.

But then Vincent shuts his eyes. The tenseness to his expression eases, almost imperceptibly, his eyebrows unfurrowing. Oh, Yves realizes. His head must hurt—Yves suspected as much—but if he’s not mistaken, the expression on Vincent’s face right now is…

Relief. Cautiously, Yves traces his fingertips lightly over the edge of Vincent’s temple, combs them slowly through his hair. Vincent’s eyes stay shut, but the furrow to his eyebrows loosens, and his jaw unclenches, just a bit. The change is minute, almost imperceptible. If Yves weren’t paying close attention, he might’ve missed it.

As if he could pay attention to anything else, right now.

Tentatively, Yves cards his fingers through Vincent’s hair, traces slow circles into his scalp, slowly, carefully.  He does it until the heartbeat he feels thrumming under his fingertips—quick and erratic—slows. Until Vincent’s breathing evens out, until the hurt in his expression dulls. Until the tension in his shoulders eases.

By the time he finally withdraws his hand, Vincent is fast asleep. Yves fetches a new glass of water for his nightstand, changes out the plastic bag lining the trash can, and lines the cough drops and medicine up at the edge of Vincent’s desk. He flips through folder 2-A, assessing.

Then he heads back out to his car to get his laptop, and gets to work.

—

He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

But when he wakes at Vincent’s desk, it’s to an unpleasant ache in his neck that spreads laterally into his shoulders—probably from sleeping with his head pillowed awkwardly against his arms. He lifts his head. 

Behind him, there’s a weak, uncertain breath, and then the sort of cough that makes Yves’s chest hurt in sympathy. It sounds wrong, somehow—too quiet, for its proximity. Muffled.

It’s dark inside, aside from the faint glow of Vincent’s digital alarm clock, the pale green digits cutting into the black. He hears the rustling of blankets, followed by another short, painful intake of breath.

The sneeze that follows is stifled into something. Even stifled, it sounds uncharacteristically harsh—all force, pinched off into a short, muffled outburst which sounds barely relieving, at best.

“hH’ih’iNNGKkk-t!”

Yves blinks. Then he leans over the desk to flick on the lamp. Dull golden light suffuses the desk, bright enough to cast Vincent in form and graying color. 

“Are you okay?”

At the light, Vincent’s eyes widen. He looks—stricken, somehow. Then his expression shutters, and he frowns. “Did i—” he stops to cough again into his fist. It sounds as though each breath he’s taking in is an effort of its own, shallow and unsatisfying. When he speaks again, his voice sounds noticeably hoarser. “—Did I wake you?”

Yves opens his mouth to respond. Before he can think up a convincing excuse, Vincent shakes his head dejectedly, as if he already knows the answer.

“Sorry,” he says. “I was - cough, cough - tryidg to be quiet.”

Quiet. As to not wake Yves, presumably. The revelation causes an ache to settle somewhere deep inside of him, heavy and inexorable. Yves is more than certain that this flu is already miserable enough on its own, even without the added challenge of having to be quiet about it. He wants to say, do you really think that’s what matters to me? He wants to ask, how long have you been up dealing with this on your own?

“You don’t have to be quiet,” is all he manages, instead.  It’s a miracle that his voice manages to come out as evenly as it does.

Vincent looks like he’s about to say something. But before he has a chance to, he twists away to cough harshly into his shoulder. Now that he doesn’t make an attempt to muffle the coughing fit, Yves can hear just how harsh it sounds. 

It’s the kind of coughing fit that just sounds exhausting—forceful enough to leave tears brimming at the edges of his eyelashes, his breaths coming in shallowly. 

“Can I get you anything?” Yves asks, when Vincent is done coughing.

Vincent just looks back at him, unmoving. In the dim light of the desk lamp, he looks perhaps more exhausted than Yves has ever seen him—really, he looks as though he hasn’t slept at all. He’s seated with his back against the headboard with a blanket pulled around his shoulders. One of his hands is clenched loosely around it, pinning the corners in place. 

“Tea?” Yves offers, because it’s better than saying nothing. “Water, cough drops. A cold compress?” Vincent doesn’t say anything, but Yves thinks, a little helplessly, that there must be something he can do. “Extra blankets? Tissues? Ibuprofen?”

“Water… would be nice,” Vincent says, as if it takes a lot out of him to admit it. Yves blinks, surprised—he had half expected no answer at all. At Yves’s split second of hesitation, Vincent’s frown deepens, his grip around the blankets tightening slightly. “...If it’s not too much trouble.”

Yves has never gotten out of his seat faster. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll be right back.” he swipes the empty glass from the nightstand and heads out into the hallway.

It’s dark. There aren’t many windows in the hallway to let in light from outside, but once he gets to the dining room, it gets easier to see. Judging by how dark it is outside, there are probably a few hours left until sunrise. It’s still early, then. Early enough that it’s quiet, around them—no traffic out on the streets, save for the original car, headed to who-knows-where; no neighbors going about their early morning routines; just the steady trickle of rain on the windowsill. Yves rinses the cup out in the sink, shakes it dry, and fills it again.

When he makes it back to the bedroom, it’s unusually quiet. Vincent is still sitting at the edge of his bed, looking like he hasn’t moved at all since Yves left the room.

Yves crosses the room to hand him the glass. Vincent blinks up at him, a little blearily.

“I got you water,” Yves says, unnecessarily.

Vincent takes the glass from him with both hands, as if he doesn’t quite trust himself to hold it with just one. Yves looks away as he drinks.  

When Vincent lowers the glass at last, Yves takes it from him and sets it back into place onto the bedside table. He straightens, turns to face Vincent again. “Any better now?”

Vincent nods. It’s quiet, for a moment. Outside, the rain has nearly stopped—the room is soundless, aside from the thin whirring of the air conditioning. “I didn’t think you’d still be here.” 

Yves hums. “To be honest, I didn’t either.” He stifles a yawn into one hand—he’s still a little tired. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“You must be tired,” Vincent frowns, looking him over. “You came right from a full day of work to check on me. Does your neck hurt?” 

“What?”

Vincent inclines his head towards his desk. “I’ve fallen asleep there before. It’s not very comfortable.”

Yves thinks he shouldn’t be surprised, at this point, that Vincent has picked up on something so subtle. “It’s not that bad,” he says, reaching up with a hand to massage his neck. “My neck would probably be sorer if I’d slept through the whole night. I should thank you for waking me.”

“You could’ve taken the couch instead,” Vincent says, a little disapprovingly. “It would probably have been wiser.”

“I wanted to be here so I could keep an eye on you,” Yves says, because it’s true. “Besides, you sat in a chair while I slept in France. That can’t have been comfortable either.”

“It’s not just about that. You—” Vincent raises a hand up to his face, ducks into his wrist for a sudden: “hh-! hhiH’GKT-sSHuh! snf-!” He sniffles, then presses the wrist closer to his face, his expression shuttering. “Hh…  hh’IIDDZshH’Uhh-!” 

“Bless you!” Yves says, startled.

Vincent blinks, a little teary-eyed, turning over his shoulder to muffle a few harsh coughs into his wrist. “You shouldn’t have slept so close to me. I really don’t want you to catch this.”

He’s frowning, as if it really is a big deal. As if even now, even shivering and feverish, it’s somehow Yves that he’s more worried about right now.

Yves isn’t particularly concerned about that—he has no shortage of  sick time to take off of work, in any case. If he does manage to catch this from Vincent, he’ll just stock up on essentials before the worst of it hits. It would be nothing he hasn’t done before. Still, Vincent looks so—well, so tornby the mere possibility of it that Yves wants to say something to comfort him.

“How about this?” he says. “If you’re so worried about it, you can buy me cough drops next time I come down with something, deal? Then we’ll be even.”

Vincent’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s a terrible deal for you.”

“I’ll get sick at some point in my life, anyways,” Yves says, with a shrug. “If this means I get free cough drops out of it, I’d say it’s a win.”

He moves the desk chair over so he can sit down at the edge of Vincent’s bed. Vincent watches him, uncertain. He looks like he’s resisting the urge to say something—to tell Yves to move further away, probably.

“Relax,” Yves says, reflexively. “It’ll be fine, seriously. I know what I signed up for.” 

He leans forward, presses the back of his hand against Vincent’s forehead. Vincent closes his eyes. A slight tremor passes through his shoulders at the contact, but aside from that, he stays perfectly still.

“Your fever’s worse than before,” Yves says, withdrawing his hand.

“It’s not.” Vincent’s eyes are still shut. “The temperature is just higher because it’s night time.”

The suggestion is so far from comforting that Yves almost laughs. “You know,” he says, “that’s not very reassuring.” The blanket around Vincent’s shoulders starts to slip, so Yves reaches over and snags an edge of it, fluffs the whole thing outwards to lay it neatly around Vincent’s shoulders, like a cloak. Secures it with a loose knot. “Are you feeling any better than before?”

Vincent does open his eyes, now. He looks as though he’s trying hard to figure out how acceptably he can lie. “I…”

“You can be honest.”

Vincent’s jaw clenches. He reaches up with one hand, his fingers curling around the blanket Yves set down around him.

“My head feels heavy,” he says. He screws his eyes shut, his eyebrows furrowing. “And my chest hurts.” He lets out a short, frustrated breath, as if every sentence is a new and difficult admission. “I’m… not used to getting sick like this.”

Yves’s hands still. “Like what?”

“In any way that would necessitate taking time off from work,” Vincent says, looking away. The discomfort sits, plainly and indisputably, in the way he holds himself—his shoulders stiff, his jaw clenched—everything a little too tense, despite his exhaustion.

Yves stares at him for a moment, considering. In the end, it’s the small, impulsive thought that wins out.

He takes a seat at the edge of the bed, next to Vincent. The mattress dips under his weight. 

Vincent has always been taller than him, but sitting down like this, they nearly see eye to eye. It’s a risk, of course, to offer this. He and Vincent haven’t been physically intimate outside of the times where they’ve had to prove their relationship to an audience. But when he thinks back to how Vincent reacted to Yves feeling his forehead, or Yves carding his hands through his hair—if he hasn’t misread, it almost feels like—

Yves opens his arms out in offering, tries on a smile. “I’ve been told I give good hugs. Good enough to cure all ailments, obviously.”

For a moment, Vincent stays perfectly still. Yves has five seconds to overthink all of his actions over the past twenty four hours. 

Then Vincent inches closer, ever so slightly, to lean his head on Yves’s shoulder.

Yves curls his arms around him. There’s the slightest hitch in Vincent’s breath, at the contact. Then the stiffness seeps out of his shoulders, and he presses a little closer—as if he’s allowed himself permission, at last, to let go.

His whole body is concerningly warm. “You’re burning up,” Yves says, softly. He reaches up with one hand to run his fingers through Vincent’s hair.

“...I figured,” Vincent says. The next breath he takes comes in a little shakily. “Whoever gave you the review was right. You are a good hugger.”

Yves laughs, a little surprised. “Careful. You’re going to inflate my ego if you keep talking.”

“I can’t help it if it’s true.”

Yves has hugged a fair share of people in his life. He doesn’t think he’d be able to list them all if he were asked to. It’s different, though, being so close to Vincent—so close that Yves can reach out and let his hair fall through his fingertips. He can lift up his palm and feel the rigid line of his spine, the slope of his shoulders; he could reach out and trace the dip of his wrist, the form of his hand. Vincent’s chin digs slightly into his left shoulder. His nose is turned slightly into Yves’s neck—like this, he is almost perfectly still. Yves can feel the warm brush of air against his neck whenever Vincent exhales. He is so close that Yves is afraid, for a moment, that he might hear how badly his heart is racing.

Would dating Vincent be like this? Would this kind of exchange be given and received as easily as anything? Yves wills himself not to think about it. This is nothing, he tells himself, but a simple offering of comfort between friends. To think otherwise would be disingenuous.

They stay like that for some time. Time slows, or perhaps it expands or collapses—really, Yves would be none the wiser. The whir of the ceiling fan and the light rain on the rooftop a constant. When Vincent pulls away at last, it’s to turn sharply off to the side to muffle a sneeze into his sleeve.

“Hh-! hhIH’IIDZsSHM-FF! snf-!” 

“Bless you,” Yves says, blinking. The sudden absence of warmth is a little jarring. But Vincent isn’t done.

His eyebrows draw together, and he ducks tighter into his elbow, his shoulders jerking forward. “hHIH’iiGKKTsSHH—! Sorry, I— Ihh-! hHHh’DZZSSCHh—uH-!”

“Bless you again,” Yves says, reaching past him to hand over the box of tissues on the nightstand. He holds out the box for Vincent to take.

Vincent turns away to blow his nose. When he returns, he’s a little teary eyed. The flush on the bridge of his nose hasn’t gone away.

“When I asked you to come over,” he says, “I wasn’t expecting you to stay.”

Yves blinks. “Is it so strange for me to be here?”

To that, Vincent is quiet, for a moment. Yves looks out the window, where he can see the skyline, off in the distance, the dark form of the apartment building across the streets, the street in between lit dimly with golden streetlights.

“A little,” he says. “When I was young, if I got sick, it wasn’t really a big deal.”

At Yves’s expression, he amends: “That’s not to say that my family didn’t care, because they did. No one spent too long in my room—better to not risk catching it, if they could help it—but back then, if I didn’t have much stomach room, my mom always cut fruits for me to leave on my desk. Sometimes she made ginseng tea, too.” he shuts his eyes. There’s a strange expression on his face—something a little more complicated than wistfulness.

“We had a habit of keeping the heat off, in the winters, and closing the windows. But if I was running a fever, my brother always made sure to keep the heat on.” His lip twitches, almost imperceptibly. Then: the smallest of smiles. “Sometimes he’d stay outside my door to talk about his day. He was the class lead, back when he was in high school. It was always something inconsequential, like which of his classmates he liked and which ones he held a grudge against, and why. Almost always for the smallest reasons, like someone borrowing a pencil and forgetting to give it back, or someone tossing the ball to him in gym class.”

“Were you and your brother close?” Yves asks.

“Close is relative,” Vincent says. “I never really knew how to—inhabit his world, I guess. When I moved to the states, and when I decided to stay here, part of it was out of some sort of defiance. I didn’t want to have to follow in his footsteps, because then I could only ever be focused on doing things differently.”

He shuts his eyes. “But I felt close to him, then. When he stood outside my room and told me those stories. Even if they were things I wouldn’t have cared about had they happened to me, I guess. It’s strange how that works.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Yves says. He’s always had a good relationship with Leon and Victoire, though that doesn’t mean they’ve always seen eye to eye on things. “Sometimes it’s less about what they say, and more about the fact that they’re saying it.”

Vincent nods. “They all cared about me in their own way,” he says, at last. “I don’t think I appreciated the extent of it at the time. When you’re a kid, you tend to take everything at face value.”

“Do you regret it?” Yves asks. “What?”

“Not appreciating them more, back then.”

Vincent smiles. “I was just a kid. I suppose it’s natural that I didn’t know better.” Yves has a feeling that that statement is perhaps further reaching than Vincent is making it out to be. “I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Do you ever miss being part of a large household?”

“It’s peaceful on my own,” Vincent says, at last. “I usually don’t mind it. I usually have other things to worry about.”

He hasn’t asked if the information is useful to Yves, Yves realizes, a little belatedly. Back then, at Joel and Cherie’s potluck, Vincent had seemed to believe that the only way Yves could possibly be interested in him was if the information could serve their fake relationship, somehow.

The realization settles him. Perhaps Vincent has shared this because he knows Yves cares.

“Your apartment is nice,” Yves says, trying to ignore the insistent beat of his heart in his chest, which all of a sudden seems to want to make itself known. “I can see why you would like living here.”

Vincent tilts his head up towards the ceiling. “It’s not the same, of course. As home. Though that’s a given.” Yves notes the usage of the word: home. Here, instead of home, the clarifier salient, even though Vincent’s done nothing to emphasize it. Could it be that after all these years, Vincent still considers Korea to be home, for him? “When I’ve had people over, it was just for dinner. Not for…”

He looks over to Yves, now. Yves knows what he means, knows how to fill in the rest of the sentence: not for the reason you’re here, now.

“I know I’ve intruded a little,” Yves says, with a laugh.

Vincent frowns at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “I wouldn’t consider it an intrusion,” he says. “You’ve helped me a lot. I just—I’m a little embarrassed that your first time over had to be under these circumstances.”

Your first time over. Yves ignores—well, tries to ignore—the implication that this could be the first out of many. That he might have another opportunity, in the future, to swing by. Vincent hasn’t confirmed anything, and it’s not likely that their fake dating arrangement would warrant another house visit, out of the public’s eye. Yves tells himself that the warmth he feels in his chest is misplaced.

“You don’t have to worry about that. I like seeing you,” Yves says.

Vincent raises an eyebrow at him. “Even bedridden with a fever?”

Isn’t it obvious? “Of course.”

“I’ve been terrible company,” Vincent says. “And even worse of a host. I recall I fell asleep yesterday, only for you to spend two hours cleaning my apartment?”

“Vacuuming is therapeutic.”

“You said that about cooking, too,” Vincent says, narrowing his eyes. “Am I supposed to believe that you enjoy doing all household chores?”

“It’s not like you made me do them. I just wanted to be useful, and your vacuum was easy to find.”

“I’ll be sure to hide it thoroughly next time,” Vincent says, deadpan.

Yves laughs. “It’s like I said,” he says. “I like spending time with you. Even—” To steal Vincent’s words from earlier. “—bedridden with a fever.”

Vincent huffs a sigh, a little incredulously. 

“Though, I promise I won’t intrude for much longer,” Yves tells him. “I’ll probably head out in the morning.” He’s almost done with the work Vincent has on his desk—he’d fallen asleep checking over one of the income statements for discrepancies. A few hours should be enough time to make sure that everything is in order. He still has work at eight—he’ll probably be a little tired for it, considering how late he’d slept, but that’s nothing new.

“I’m sorry,” Vincent says, averting his glance. He frowns down at himself, as if he really is apologetic. “You must’ve had other evening plans.”

None as important as taking care of you, Yves catches himself thinking. He can’t say things like that if he wants to keep this—well, this unfortunate recent development, i.e., his feelings for Vincent—to himself.

“It wasn’t just for you,” he says, instead.

“What?”

“I didn’t just do it for you.”

Vincent blinks at him, a little confused. “Are you going to say you get personal gratification out of seeing my apartment clean?”

“It’s like you said,” he says. “I’ve never seen you this unwell. You said this doesn’t happen often, right? When you didn’t show up at work, I…” The next admission feels a little too honest—but there’s a small, unwise part of him that wants to get it across, regardless. “I was really worried. Even though you said you had everything covered, I wanted to make sure you were fine.”

Vincent nods. “I get it. It would be an inconvenience if I were unfit to be your fake—”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Yves interrupts him. His heart hurts a little, with it. “I wanted to see that you were fine because I care about you. To be honest, I think I would’ve spent the entire night worrying if I hadn’t come.” He laughs, a little self-deprecatingly. “It’s a little selfish, I know.”

Vincent’s eyes are very wide.

“Anyways,” Yves says, with the sinking feeling that he’s said too much, “you should try to get some more sleep.” He rearranges the blankets around Vincent, a little unnecessarily, fluffs the extra pillow that’s leaned up against the headboard, and turns away. “It’s still really early. If you’re planning to be back in office next week, it would be best to keep your sleep schedule intact.”

“Yves,” Vincent says, from behind him.

“Hmm?”

“...Thank you.” 

When Yves works up the courage to look over, Vincent is smiling, unreservedly, as if something Yves has said has made him very happy.

Yves’s heart stutters in his chest. Fuck.

(On second thought, it might not be so easy to live with these feelings, after all.)

—

At daybreak, Yves drives home to get changed, takes a quick shower while he’s at it, and heads off for work. He yawns through half his morning meetings, adds an extra espresso shot to the coffee he snags from the break room.

The text arrives halfway through the day, just before he’s intending to head downstairs for lunch.

V: When I asked you to bring folder 2-A, I didn’t mean for you to complete my work along with it.

Yves smiles. He’d emailed Vincent the completed work from yesterday’s late-night work session before he’d left. Vincent must’ve seen it.

Y: some genie i met told me your wish was to have your work done before the deadline

V: What are you talking about?

Y: he also told me you were very stubborn about not redistributing your assignments to anyone else  Y: so you can’t blame me for taking matters into my own hands

V: Yves.

Y: feel free to check it over for errors :)

[clovesnz]

I just feel like sneezing is such a sweet kink, cause it’s like each sneeze is this lil gift that’ll make a snzfuckers insides light up. I can’t stop imagining being on top of a sweet, flustered snzfucker and just watching them be so completely engulfed in anticipation, their eyes twinkling with excitement, as they wait for me to sneeze again. I just really love the “again, do it again” aspect of it. Like how it’s quantifiable, it’s something that can build. It’s like little bolts of electricity and you just want another zap. Or a magic spell or something, like there’s been occasions where someone sneezing sent more physical sensation to my body than I’ve felt being touched

[sapphicsnzs]

thinking about sleepy sneezes while cuddling. the whispered blessings. the murmurs that sound like a thank you. all while tucked in close to the person you care about. SWOON.

[ccherrybloom]

Ashtrays & Antihistamines Pt. 2

oc, m, hayfever + cigarette smoke, wc: 2.6k

Part 1

CW: foul language, hints of religious trauma, crappy/absent parents, smoking

~~

a.n. + summary: …i have no excuse. i busted this bad boy out fast as hell. this chapter includes the men hitting up a local pub, shooting the shit around some drinks, memories of a crappy childhood, and Peter sneezing himself silly. i originally also intended to include Peter’s first night trying to sleep in the motel room and keep quiet, but i felt the pub shenanigans ended in a good spot, so i’ll just include that at the beginning of the next chapter instead. anyway, hopefully you guys get some enjoyment out of this! my boys are stupid, lol.

~~

The four men trudged their way down the cobblestone streets of Cork, hands shoved deep into their pockets as a light misting of rain left small droplets splayed across their clothing and blurred the frames of Peter’s glasses. By the third time the guitarist had to pull them off to wipe them clean, he was more than fed up, instead choosing to take them off fully and hook them to the front of his shirt. He’d deal with the stupid things when they reached the pub.

Unfortunately for Peter, the fresh rain was doing more than just dirtying his glasses. The spring shower seemed to only enhance the earthy smells around them, doing nothing to help the persistent allergy-induced tickle lingering in the back of his nose. The damp air clung to everything, amplifying the scent of wet stone, fresh-cut grass, and budding flowers – all of which seemed to be conspiring against his sinuses. He could feel the beginnings of the stupid itch growing deep within his nose, constantly teasing him with the threat of a sneeze.

Thankfully the pub they were heading to was only a few blocks from their motel, meaning he wouldn’t have to deal with the overpowering outdoor scents for much longer. He sniffled quietly to himself as they rounded a corner, the pub coming into view despite his blurred vision.

“‘Bout damn time.” Peter grumbled mostly to himself. Realistically, they hadn’t been outside for long at all, but the light spring rain and the setting sun were leaving all four men a bit chillier than any of them had anticipated. It felt as though the cold was seeping into Peter’s bones, and he shivered involuntarily. Maybe heading to the pub had been the wrong idea after all, he thought, as his already annoyed mood worsened when another sharp itch prickled tauntingly within his nose.

Peter was the first to reach the pub’s door, pulling it open and gesturing for the others to file in one by one. The warm light spilling out from inside coupled with the familiar chatter of an Irish pub was a welcome contract to the chilly evening. As the others moved their way past him, the guitarist felt his nose twitch, the persisting itch travelling from the base of his nostrils up into his sinuses like an electric shock.

He turned his face away from the door slightly and scrunched his nose, bringing his free hand up to scrub a knuckle into it uselessly. He could feel his breath beginning to hitch and his eyelids start to flutter as he tried his best to keep the oncoming sneeze at bay. Just as the last of the men passed into the pub, Peter felt his control begin to slip.

Acting fast, the guitarist twisted his head away and into his shoulder as he attempted to stifle the itchy sneeze, only being half successful as it forced its way out of him.

“hH’nXGt’Shhiue!” The sneeze was sharp and wet, leaving a tingling sensation in its wake that he recognized as a sign that there would surely be more to come. He shook his head pathetically, trying to will away the lingering itch.

When he raised his head, he was surprised to see Maurice, who had been the last to enter, staring back at him with an unhappy look on his face. The blonde’s hazel eyes narrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he had something he wanted to say but couldn’t. Peter just rolled his eyes and trudged inside, giving Maurice a shove to keep moving before giving his glasses a thorough wipe and slipping them back on.

The inside of the small pub was cosy and inviting, a welcome change from the chilly spring shower. The place was lively but not overcrowded, the atmosphere filled with the sounds of drunken conversation, occasional boisterous laughter, the clinking of glasses, and a light beat of Celtic music. Although Peter had never visited Cork previously, the inherent Irish-ness of all the sights and sounds surrounding him left the musician with a warm sense of belonging deep within his chest. Although Maurice wasn’t Irish himself, Peter still wondered if the singer might also feel the same way as he did, considering the Frenchman had practically grown up in Dublin.

The four men quickly made their way to the bar to order their drinks before finding an unoccupied booth towards the back and sliding in side-by-side. Once seated, Peter wasted no time taking a long sip of his stout beer, relishing in the bitterness as it bubbled down his throat. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, enjoying the smalltalk of his bandmates and the way the alcohol warmed his body and made his head swim. But the momentary break was short lived. The dampness clinging to his clothing combined with the indoor air, slightly musty from the age of the pub, was starting to coax out that all-too familiar tingle in his nose.

The guitarist did his best to ignore it, instead attempting to turn his focus towards Chris who was telling some animated story about a fight he got into a few months back. Unfortunately, Peter could barely concentrate – the itch in his nose was back with a vengeance, causing his nose to involuntarily twitch. He tried taking another sip of his drink, hoping he could simply will away the feeling, but it was getting considerably harder to ignore.

Just as Chris was reaching the climax of his story, Peter’s breath quietly hitched, and he rubbed his nose as subtly as he could, desperate to try and stave off the inevitable. Maurice, who was seated beside him, glanced in his direction, immediately clueing into the other’s struggle. Peter caught his eye in return and gave his head a discreet shake, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but soon realised it was no use as he sucked in a wavering breath.

“HINg’Gsch!” Peter whipped himself away from Maurice and stifled hard into the back of his hand, trying his best to muffle the sound as his breath abruptly caught again. “hH’RRSHhiue!” The second one burst out of him unstifled as he attempted to twist himself away further, crushing his nose harder still, feeling the cold metal of his nose rings dig into the skin of his hand.

“Cheers to that,” Geoff teased as he raised up his glass and clinked it gently against Peter’s. “Alright there, Pete?”

“Fuck, -snf-, shit. Yeah, I’m fine.” He affirmed with a nod, his hand still pressed tightly against his nose. Despite his attempts at reassurance, the annoyed expression plastered on his face told his bandmates otherwise.

“Let’s order some shots.” Suggested Chris with a playful smirk as he tilted his drink towards Peter’s. “Maybe gettin’ pissed will cure you.”

Peter snorted, but it quickly morphed into a sniffle. “Wouldn’t that be lovely.” He grumbled before grabbing his beer and taking a large gulp.

“Maybe ya should get some fresh air, instead.” Offered Maurice, his tone more serious.

“You jokin’, Murry?” Peter scoffed, shooting the singer an unamused look. “Damn ‘fresh air’ is what got me into this mess.”

“Then maybe ya should swing by the chemist and pick up some antihistamines or somethin’.”

Peter opened his mouth to argue, but another sharp tickle in his nose cut him off, his breath immediately catching in his throat. Maurice just rolled his eyes.

“HAT’SHhhiuew!” Peter sneezed hard into his elbow, letting out a loud, irritated groan immediately following. With a frustrated shake of his head the guitarist took a final swig of his drink before slamming the empty glass down and gesturing aggressively for Maurice to stand up, kicking at his feet slightly from under the table. “Move yer arse, I need a damn smoke!”

Maurice huffed, defeated, and slid out of the booth so the other could stand — he wasn’t in the mood for another argument. Practically leaping from his seat, Peter muttered something under his breath before skulking his way towards the exit.

As soon as he pushed open the door he was immediately hit with the cool, damp air which brought instant relief to the allergic and embarrassed flush that had begun to dance across his cheeks. His nose was still annoyingly itchy, but being back outside made him feel much less on display, which he was grateful for.

He pulled a beat up pack of Marlboro out of his jacket pocket and fished a cigarette out quickly, sticking it between his lips and lighting it with an expert crack of his old, worn Zippo.

The first drag was heaven, and he savoured the way the smoke filled his lungs, the hit of nicotine immediately taking the edge off of his frustration and easing the slight tremor in his hand. He hadn’t realised how desperately he’d needed this.

As he allowed the smoke to drift lazily out of his mouth into the damp evening air, he couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to his early childhood in Belfast, back to a time when his hayfever was much, much worse. The memories flooded his mind, as vivid as if he were standing back in his childhood bedroom staring out the window at the vast fields of overgrown grass and wildflowers that surrounded their run-down countryside home.

He recalled the suffocating, ever-present itch that would take root in his sinuses from spring through to summer, turning his life into a mess of incessant watering and itching. It had always been worse in the mornings, when the dew still clung to every blade of grass, and the pollen seemed at its most potent. He’d lie in bed for as long as his mother allowed it, dreading the moment he’d have to step outside and walk to school, knowing full well that he’d be fucked by the time he got there.

Of course Saoirse, his mother, never offered him much sympathy. In fact she seemed much more inclined to view his suffering as just another one of his many shortcomings; another thing about her son that she resented. Peter could still hear her cold, nagging voice in his head.

“Stop yer whinin’, Peter. God only gives us what we can handle. If this is His plan for you then you’ll just have to deal with it.”

And so he did. The guitarist learned quickly not to expect help, not from Saoirse, not from anyone. When his eyes were on fire he’d scratch them, when his nose ran incessantly he’d wipe it, and when he’d sneeze his way through a Sunday sermon he’d deal with his mother’s reprimanding with a stoicism much too well-practised for an eight-year-old. There was just no point in complaining — it wouldn’t change anything. Saoirse would just turn up her nose and tell him to toughen up, or throw a half-hearted prayer his way if he would be so lucky. The worst part was easily how little she even seemed to care. It made him tougher in some ways, though he often wondered what his life would’ve been like if he’d had a mother who offered him more than just indifference and disdain. Perhaps things would’ve been different had his father stuck around, whoever that man may be.

Peter took another drag of his cigarette, the nicotine pulling him back to the present as the tickle in his nose flared back up. The combined scents of wet earth and pungent tobacco were like a one-two punch straight to his irritated sinuses. He leaned himself against the pub’s stone wall, his cigarette dangling loosely between his fingers as he slowly felt the sensation begin to build. Initially, he tried to fight it, breathing slowly through his mouth before taking another drag. The itch, however, was relentless, and crawled deeper into his sinuses with every passing second. Before long his eyelids had begun to flutter and his breath hitched in anticipation.

“hH’NGSCHh!” Peter stifled hard into his shoulder again, the residual smoke held in his mouth shooting out of his nostrils with the sharp expulsion. This, of course, sent the tickle in his nose into overdrive and he immediately sucked in another breath through clenched teeth with a newfound urgency.

“hiH’ISHHhiuew! ‘ISSHhhiue! ‘ISHhhu! ‘tIsh!” The sneezes toppled over each other as they forced their way out of him, leaving no room for breath in between, each one forcing him to curl deeper into himself before his head rose back up with a sharp gasp of air. “hHeHh! HET’DSHhhHiuEw!” The final sneeze shook his lean frame and caused his cigarette to slip from his fingers, landing onto the ground with a wet fizzle.

“Fer the love of Christ,” Peter cursed, trying to catch his breath as he picked back up his cigarette, flicked the ashes, and took another sharp drag, more out of stubbornness than anything.

“That was quite the spectacle.”

Peter couldn’t help but jolt in surprise as he turned his head to find Geoff standing in the pub doorway, his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“Jaysus Geoffrey don’t go sneakin’ up on a man like that.” Peter scoffed, taking one final drag of his cigarette before dropping the butt to the ground and crushing it beneath his boot. “Nearly shit meself.”

Geoff laughed at this and stepped over to his bandmate, leaning against the wall next to him.

“You alright?” He asked. “I mean, really.”

He nodded, blowing out the last of the smoke from the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, grand. Was just tryin’ to have a smoke without sneezin’ me fuckin’ head off.”

“And how’d that fair for you?”

“Go fuck yerself.”

As Geoff threw his head back to laugh, it dawned on Peter how much the bassist looked like his mother. The same fiery red hair, the same bright blue eyes, the same freckled face. Hell, the man was pure-blood English but somehow looked more Irish than he did. His mother had always told him that he was the spitting image of his father, just another reason for her to dislike him, his black hair and green eyes always misplaced amongst her side of the family. But as Geoff’s laughter fizzled, Peter couldn’t help but wonder if his mother would’ve liked him better had he came out looking more like Geoff.

“Anyway,” Geoff started, wiping away a tear. “I just came out to see what was taking you so long. You know Maurice. He’s all in a tizzy.”

Peter rolled his eyes.

“He just worries.” Geoff added with a grin, slapping a hand onto Peter’s shoulder as he took a breath of the cool evening air. “But he might be onto something about picking up antihistamines, mate.”

“Don’t you start with that shite too.” Peter shot back, though it was clear his initial resilience was beginning to peeter out. He shoved Geoff’s hand off of his shoulder. “Besides, it’s not like I can pop into the chemist at this hour.”

Geoff pulled up his sleeve and glanced down at his watch, humming in agreement.

“But if it means gettin’ you two eejits off me back, then I’ll go in the mornin’.” The guitarist added, shooting the other an annoyed look. “Alright?”

“Alright.” Geoff echoed with a small smile as he patted Peter on the back. “The pub’s closing soon. Let’s head back in before the others think we’ve run off.”

Peter nodded, giving his nose a quick scrub before stuffing his hands back into his pockets. As much as he hated to admit it, the idea of picking up some allergy meds was starting to sound pretty damn good. Perhaps after one more drink they’d head back, and he could worry about it again when the sun rose.

[peach-princess-snz]

Whenever I see people posting observations, I pay attention to the details in a vain hope that maybe... perhaps... by chance... it could be about my husband (couldn't be about me because of my mental block)

And that would mean there was a snzfucker in my community, maybe somebody I know, maybe they even thanked me for shopping at Walmart yesterday, who knows... I'd be freaking out 👀

[cinderdust-snz]

you know you're too far gone when you find yourself waking up from a full-on animated h/azbin h/otel snz song dream.

i haven't watched h/azbin h/otel.

[suddencolds]

insatiable appetite [1/?]

sooo... this is one of the thirstiest things i have written—and also one of the only times i've written a character with the kink, ever T.T warnings in advance for mess, character getting sneezed on, implied contagion, possible ooc-ness, & me writing this entirely with my d instead of my head

ivan and till are from al//ien sta//ge (a very fun watch which will only take 30 mins out of your life; i really recommend it!!). that said, this fic takes place in a modern au setting, so feel free to read it without any prior context :)

special thanks to @6pmsoup for sending me a very cute alnst doodle of these two which altered my brain chemistry permanently

—

Summary: Till shows up to a dinner outing with a brewing cold. Ivan suffers. (est. relationship, kink!Ivan, ~2k words)

—

For all Till tries to hide it, Ivan can tell immediately.

There’s this: Ivan has been paying attention to Till for most of his life. A full decade before they’d gotten together officially, and some more—this is how long Ivan has had to observe his tells. Always from the sidelines, always with a detached air of indifference that, in reality, was anything but.

All the signs are there the night before. Till, turning up the thermostat a couple degrees higher than he usually keeps it. Spending a little too long in the shower and using up almost all of the hot water. Clearing his throat one too many times in the morning before Ivan leaves for work, his smile distracted, the rasp of his voice nearly indistinguishable—but only nearly.

Now, Till is here for dinner—it’s a dinner they’ve had plans for a couple weeks now, at one of the nicer restaurants downtown, in celebration of Till’s recent promotion. Ivan had booked the reservation a couple weeks in advance.

When Till arrives, stepping out of a taxi cab, he’s wearing a scarf, even though the weather is too warm for it. Ivan steps up to meet him. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Till says. “Traffic here was the worst I’ve ever seen it, swear to god.”

“Was it cold outside today?” Ivan asks, a little pointedly, tilting his head towards his scarf.

Till looks at him, his expression unreadable. Then he nods. “Colder than usual, for this time of year.”

“Strange,” Ivan says, just to be difficult. “But the weather forecast says it’s the same temperature today as yesterday.” 

“It’s probably just windier today,” Till says, readjusting his scarf around his neck. His face is a little flushed.

“Your voice sounds a little off, though.”

Till clears his throat with a scowl. “You must be imagining it,” he says. “It always sounds like this.”

No admission, then. That’s fine. Ivan will get the truth out of him at some point. He lets Till guide him into the restaurant.

It’s a nice restaurant—worth the hassle of the reservation, Ivan thinks. Each table is set with flowers arranged tastefully in long glass vases, empty wine glasses turned on their heads. The server—who leads them to their table in a small, private booth—is wearing a suit.

It’s a shame, really. Ivan has a feeling that he won’t be able to pay attention to any of that tonight.

They sit. Ivan looks down at the menu, picks out something at random in a matter of seconds. Truthfully, he can hardly think of anything less worth his attention right now. He turns his attention to Till instead—Till, who’s seated directly across from him, the scarf still around his neck, obscuring the lower half of his face. 

Till sniffles, reaching down to turn the page, and oh. The sniffle is terribly liquid—has he been sniffling like that all afternoon? Perhaps it’s a good thing that they work at different offices—Till at a law firm, Ivan as a senior manager at a consulting company—because Ivan certainly doesn’t think he’d be able to get any work done with Till sniffling like that. 

It’s not two minutes later that Till is reaching up to wipe his nose against the back of one knuckle. All in all, it’s discreet. Just a quick brush of the fingers against his nose, which is still hidden under the scarf. Though, the look of sheer ticklishness that passes over his features for a brief moment there is...

“What are you thinking of ordering?” Ivan asks.

“I can’t decide,” Till answers. He turns the page again. “It’s between the ribeye steak and the… snf! The pork belly. Is this the kind of place that skimps on the portion sizes?”

“Not from their Yelp reviews,” Ivan says. “You know, if you really can’t decide, I can flip a coin.”

“I’ll pick,” Till says. “Why? Hungry already?”

He looks up, now. His eyes are a little watery. There’s a faint flush over the bridge of his nose. Ivan thinks that if he reached out and touched him, he’d probably be running warm. The thought is almost unbearable.

“Your taxi did take forever to arrive,” Ivan says, by way of explanation. 

“Did you really wait that long?”

He looks uncertain, for a moment. Ivan says, “Not at all. But you know, I’m always impatient when it comes to you.”

Till rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “There was a meeting that ran late. I wasn’t avoiding you.”

“Is that also a part of your new position?” “I guess so, yeah.”

“I can see why they were eager to promote you, then,” Ivan says. “How productive can late afternoon meetings be, anyways?”

Till snorts. “Not that important. It definitely could have been an email instead. I was about ready to doze off.”

He sniffles again. “Okay. I think I know what I want.” The way he says know betrays the slightest hint of congestion. 

“At long last,” Ivan says, just to be a little bit of an ass. “I’ll call over the waiter.”

He flags their waiter down, waits for Till to order first.

“A spiced apple cider,” Till adds on, at the end, with the slightest of coughs. “Hot, if you can.”

That’s new, too. Till seldom orders hot drinks at restaurants, though he’ll drink tea without complaint if it’s offered. Perhaps his throat hurts, then, from the cold that has clearly started to settle in his system. Subtle, still, but Ivan is familiar with colds like this. He knows it will probably only be a few hours before this deceptively “small” cold turns into…

Ivan orders, too, and thanks the waiter, who leaves with a curt nod. When he looks back over to Till, there’s a… strange something to Till’s expression, a slight distractedness. Irritation.

Ivan swallows hard. He should look away. 

He should, but then, Till’s breath hitches. He pulls the scarf higher over his face preemptively, as if he anticipates having something to have to cover for. The sharp intake of breath that follows is breathy, though Ivan can hear Till’s voice in it. He should really look away.

Instead, he takes the scene in, painstakingly, little by little, as Till’s shoulders jerk forwards. As Till presses a hand to the scarf, presses the fabric closer to his face, to muffle a sneeze into his fingertips:

“hhH-Ih!! hiHH-’IESCHH-eew-!”

God. It sounds utterly miserable, the harsh release of it scraping against his throat, the spray tearing into his scarf. It’s the kind of cold sneeze that is undeniably telling: this is going to be one hell of a cold. It’s not very quiet, either, even muffled into the fabric.

For more reasons than one, Ivan is glad they’re in a private corner of the restaurant, not somewhere more public.

“Bless you,” he offers, once he can trust himself to speak. It’s a good thing that Till is too distracted to look up at him right now. Ivan isn’t sure he can keep what he’s feeling off of his face.

Truthfully, he isn’t sure he’s going to be able to endure a whole night of this.

The problem here is that Till—Till, of all people; Till, who Ivan has been pathetically in love with for almost as long as he can remember—has no idea about Ivan’s… relatively niche interests. That is to say, he has no idea what effect it has on Ivan when he does that.

“Thanks,” Till says, a little stuffily. He sniffles again, lowering his hand. 

Ivan can’t help it. He knows he shouldn’t pursue this line of questioning, but he can feel his self-control dwindling by the second. “Don’t you think it would be better to take off your scarf, now that we’re inside?”

Till freezes. “Y-You know what,” he says evasively. “It’s pretty cold in here.”

Ivan tilts his head in question. “And just how do you plan on eating like that?”

“I’ll take it off when our food comes.”

“I can ask the waiter to turn the temperature up, if it’s a problem,” Ivan says. 

“It’s not a problem.”

Ivan rises from his seat. Till watches him, perplexed, as he heads to the opposite side of the table, where Till is seated.

When he gets there, he stops. Stands, unmoving, so he can study Till from above. 

“What are you—”

Ivan reaches out, settles his palm across Till’s forehead. As expected, it’s warm. Not quite feverish, which is a good sign, but warm enough to be notable. 

“Just how long were you intending to hide this?”

Till stares back at him, wide-eyed. “Hide what?”

Shouldn’t it be obvious? “The fact that you have a cold.”

“I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” Till says, slowly.

“Hmm.” Ivan drops his hand to his side. He is a little concerned, now. “We could’ve called a rain check.”

This time Till really does roll his eyes. “For the reservation we planned weeks ahead?” he sniffles again. “That just sounds completely and utterly unnecessary. Are you the type of person to call things off just over a little cold?” 

Ivan leans over, tugs down the edge of Till’s scarf. Till bats his hand away just a moment too late, cups his other hand over his face to shield his face from view. For a moment, he looks faintly mortified.

Then his expression settles into something more disgruntled. “What are you doing?” he hisses.

So uncooperative. “Let me see,” Ivan says. Slowly, gently, he pries Till’s hands away from his face, and then—because the restaurant is dimly lit—tilts Till’s face up slightly so that it catches more of the overhead light. 

Till’s nose is redder than usual. He’s probably been rubbing it all afternoon, if the redness that percolates into his cheeks is any indication. There’s  a damp, liquid sheen on the underside of his nose.

“What’s there to see?” Till says, a little crossly.

“Your face, since you’ve been so intent on hiding it under that scarf,” Ivan says, leaning in to get a better look.

Till scowls at him, but there’s no heat to it. “You see my face every day.”

“On the contrary, I don’t see it nearly enough,” Ivan says. “And you hardly ever get sick. Is it so wrong for me to be concerned?”

Without looking, he reaches behind him with one hand to grab a couple cocktail napkins. The other hand he keeps held up to Till’s cheek. 

But then, Till’s breath hitches. “Wait,” he says. Panic flashes through his face. “Ivan, move, I—”

Oh. Well, seeing as there’s no way he’ll be able to get the napkins over in time, it looks like he’ll have to improvise. If Till wants to cover, Ivan can help with that. He moves his hand to cup it loosely over Till’s mouth. Not a second too late, it seems. Till jerks forward unceremoniously, his nose twitching, his eyes squeezing shut.

“hHheh-! HHh’EIITShHh’yYiew!” he gasps sharply. Two? “Hh-! hHiiH’DSSCSSHh-IIew!”  

The jolt of the sneezes is practically electrifying—all of that force, brought to an abrupt halt behind Ivan’s waiting palm. He feels the expulsion of air against his skin, the warmth of Till’s breath, feels the slight dampness behind his hand as the spray mists over his fingertips.

Ivan swallows, hard. Thank god it’s so dark here, otherwise Till might notice what this is doing to him. 

“Bless you,” he says, withdrawing his hand at last to wipe it on one of the cloth napkins. It comes out slightly raspier than he intends it to, though perhaps it’s a miracle that he’s still able to talk at all. “Some cold, hmm?” Belatedly, he hands Till the stack of napkins.

Till practically snatches them from him, turns aside to blow his nose wetly into the top few. The way he sniffles afterwards suggests that his nose is still very much running. 

“Do you have no self preservation? It’s as if you want to catch this,” Till says, drawing back with another sniffle.

Oh, Ivan thinks, fighting back a shiver. That would be far from the worst thing.

[cloudcatssniff]

Having a fun experience where I keep sneezing randomly cause of like, dust or pollen, and it’s so itchy ;-; my poor nose, I blame the new fauna around me

[sky-snz]

hey, what's up? I'm sky and I migrated here from the blue forum (Skylacticon ✌🏼). I decided to check out the snz kink community on tumblr and it seems lovely, so I finally got around to making a snz blog.

I may post some stories and art on here with my oc's, and maybe even fan stuff. I will say I generally don't talk a lot, but feel free to send me an ask or message if you want. It's cool to be here. :)

-Minors DNI-

[cinderdust-snz]

me: hmm there aren't enough silent stifles in wavs... there should be more representation!

me, a few minutes later: ..........ohhh maybe there's a reason for that 💀

[slightlyunconventional]

PLEASE MAKE SNZCANONS FOR WRIOTHESLY AND NEUVILLETE PLEASE PLEASEEEEEE

HI ANON HI HI HI HI HI i am so excited about this ask w/rio is my FAVOURITE RIGHT NOW AKSJAJDJS

i will be so biased towards this post honestly.. the way i literally have an extremely long post in my notes app of snzcanons for this loser. i feel like its gonna put my other hc posts to shame… oh well ! w/rio and n/euvi for you lovely anon

also should preface by saying i love these two as a pairing so there might be some shippy stuff or whatever, also i have some Thoughts about potential kink!n/euvillette but theyll be right at the bottom if that isnt anyones cup of tea so you can skip :)

w/riothesley

has 100% been said before but him having spent so much time in the fortress of m/eropide away from the entire outside world he has definitely got some awful hayfever

↳ i see him as the ceo of allergy denial too. he has no problem admitting when he’s sick but as soon as it comes to allergies its like talking to a brick wall “are you sure youre okay” “*very very obviously not okay* yep”

↳ will be denying until every subsequent snz has his head spinning

unless its someone(s) he’s properly comfortable with, he will be stifling in front of people

↳ …even though stifling is kind of a Task. i imagine it starts to hurt after a few

normally he will snz in doubles exclusively unless he does stifle then that will take it up to maybe four at once, nothing too excessive

↳ not hugely loud? but definitely not quiet. theyre pretty heavy too with a decent amount of force behind them, as such: “hhuh’dDJSHhh! …’djiISHHh’uh!”

↳ stifles into a fist, regular snz into his elbow and he grips the elbow w his other hand

↳ i also have this really specific thought that after he stifles a couple of times, the next snz gears up immediately after and he has this gasping, stuttery buildup before the last snz that will be very much harsher and ultimately unstifleable: and i spelled it out too! “hh’nNGt! ‘GKKts! -ahH! h-hhaaHh’GKSHHh’uh!”

(these headcanons are literally getting princess treatment im so sorry to all the other characters. my bias is showing)

aside from above though, (and allergic snzs) his buildups are next to nonexistent. he has a few tells, if you look closely you’ll see his brows draw together, nostrils flare and maybe a fluttery blink before a single hitching breath and then he’s off

colds 💭💭💭 when he’s sick i feel like he gets tired a lot, but he kinda ignores it and wont sleep any more than he usually does (which probably isnt a lot)

↳ although if someone were to insist that he take a break, he would 100% be passed straight out the second he was horizontal

↳ think he has such a gorgeous sick voice… LMFAO - its just slightly deeper and with the tiniest gravelly quality + those kind of rounded out consonants… yeah

definitely isnt particularly kind on his nose, especially when it comes to allergies.. he knuckles at it with way too much force

↳ i think partly because being just itchy would bother him to no end, doesnt let him concentrate on anything

i have a whole thing in my head about him fighting in p/ankration or whatever and getting a bloody nose, whether it be when he’s sick or allergies are just particularly bad but hes just sneezy about it … yeah

↳ broken/injured nose = no touching, so he can’t stifle for a while. because of this he ends up hovering a hand awkwardly in front of his face like a shield (blood everywhere, most likely.) also he cant rub it in this state, so his nose will most certainly be scrunched up (which hurts just as much, but he finds being itchy is more annoying than being in pain)

↳ some other thoughts idk. he’s trying to clean up a wound on his face but the alcohol reaaallly gets to him; eyes are streaming and hes sniffling so bad and he has a three second window to get it done before he’s sneezing lmfao

something to do with the dog/wolf motifs of his character, he definitely scrunches up his nose when its irritated

↳ maybe an involuntary little head shake/twitch after a particularly harsh snz

has a habit of turning fully away to snz, obviously to be polite to anyone whos there but he also does it when hes alone. just turns around lmao

i see him as slightly photic, again just because he spends so much time in the dingy ass fortress so there’s probably a bit of light sensitivity there

↳ however i feel like its never enough to actually make him sneeze, it just tingles a bit and is generally annoying… but it DOES prove useful for coaxing out a stuck snz

probably anti-holdbacks until he has a raging headcold with an awful throat so even breathing hurts, so he’ll try his best to stave sneezes off

n/euvillette

stifles all. the. time. i know this

↳ they’re basically silent, pinched between two fingers, but occasionally the tail end will slip out so there’ll be a bit of a “kssh!” to be heard

↳ singles usually with the occasional double that honestly catches him off guard, he never expects more than one

↳ probably takes a lot of convincing to get him to Not stifle. unstifled snz i think isnt super vocal in sound, and is decently forceful and kinda wet: “ehH’tchSHHhh!” something like that

i think dust and particularly potent fragrances make him sneeze - he isnt allergic per se, just sensitive

↳ for this reason he likes to keep his space very clean and tidy and without perfume or whatever. an outsider’s perspective might see it as plain but he does it for his own benefit

↳ probably had to tell w/riothesley to stop wearing cologne when he visits

doesnt get sick very often, he probably has a good immune system and this paired with being nonhuman probably means hes not susceptible to colds

↳ HOWEVER. on the off chance he does come down with something, you absolutely know about it. it’s very clear in his face - eyes and nose both rimmed red, and he just looks pretty tired in general.

↳ colds for him are probably very sneezy too,, poor guy lmfao

↳ also, with the thing where it rains when he’s sad… being the hydro dragon and all the weather probably turns pretty foul until he’s feeling better (puts a whole new meaning on the phrase “under the weather” hahaha)

↳ obviously continues to work through it who do you think he is! even if he has a court case, he’ll stay through the whole thing even if his head is pounding and he’s stifled enough to burst a blood vessel

↳ in court if anyone notices the obvious congestion in his voice nobody dares make a comment lmfao - this makes him think he’s got away with it even though its blatant he’s unwell

↳ the people close to him finding out he’s sick for the first time definitely involves a lot of “wow, i didn’t know you could even get sick”

handkerchief user ….. he really just seems like the type

dutifully blesses other people but gets lowkey flustered if anyone else says bless you to him

alright. here’s my kink!n/euvillette thoughts with w/riothesley so skip this part if that isn’t your thing :)

- is definitely one to comment on w/riothesley’s snz, and kind of challenge him when he denies being allergic to things… such as “that was five back to back, are you quite sure it’s nothing?”/“that sounded like it hurt”/“i’ve never seen you sneeze that many times in a row”

- would have a vase of rainbow roses or something on his desk completely nonchalantly when “professionally” meeting with w/riothesley. neither of them comment on it whilst n/euvillette watches w/riothesley try his damnedest to keep composure knowing full well he’ll never admit the flowers are bothering him

- n/euvillette definitely becomes a totally different person when its anything to do w the kink,, like he’s the last person you’d expect for it but he will literally be making an absolute wreck of w/riothesley

- something about dragons and “needs” or whatever….. i have no knowledge about monsterfucking or dragons or anything but there’s probably something there right??? someone who knows more might inform me do dragons have heat

thats all i have !!! ahhhhhhh anon ur awesome thank you for requesting my favs 😭❤️ i loved making this post im so so fixated on these two so i hope you liked these hcs :) sorry the post is kinda really long uh. blame the autism for that one

[sherbet-shivers]

A Minor Malfunction Part 1/3

We need to ignore that this is 6 years late ashgdahls (I only just got to play D/etroit: B/ecome H/uman and my love for sweet baby boy Co/nnor is alive)! Also figured snz is still snz, so even if you don’t care for the fandom you might enjoy the main course anyway lol

**Please do not share to non-kink snz blogs — no need to drag vanillas into this! This is also my first time posting to tumblr at all, so formatting tips are always welcome <3**

Blurb: Connor suffers a little virus (Part 2 here and Part 3 here)

Characters: Co/nnor R/K800 (-centric because he’s babygirl) and H/ank A/nderson

Length: 4k+ words

TW: cursing, minor robot discrimination; no spoilers

“You’re quiet tonight, Connor,” Hank observes between sips of his drink. His name triggers the Android to lift his head and meet his partner’s gaze, which studies him conspicuously.

Connor smiles a bit stiffly. “You usually prefer me quiet, Lieutenant.”

His investigative partner groans. “Yeah, when you’re barking up my ass,” he scoffs, though his voice lacks any hints of malice. The two had been working a handful of Deviant cases together and Hank’s introductory disdain had subtly been reduced to something warmer. Teasing had become their shared language, which was a preferred change of pace from where they’d started; not to mention a great way to lighten the mood between all the rumors of homicide and an Android uprising. Still, in spite of their growing closeness, Connor doubted Hank considered him a true partner, let alone a friend, but at least the two were no longer arguing like they had been a few weeks prior.

“So,” Hank starts again, “what’s going on with you?”

Connor makes a face, even tilting his head a bit before glimpsing side to side. “Nothing, as we’re currently idle in a bar.”

“No shit, smartass. I mean what’s going on, as in why are you acting all funny?”

“Funny?” Connor sifts through his memory, trying to recall a recent instance in which he’d been humorous by Hank’s standards. To no one’s surprise, he comes up empty. “I don’t recall acting funny. Why? Do you want to hear a joke?”

“Wha-? No! Christ, nevermind; just forget I said anything you weirdo,” Hank dismisses.

Connor didn’t mind the rejection (nothing was personal to machines), but he was programmed to follow orders; thus, he re-quiets, following Hank’s lead.

However, just because he’s silent, doesn’t mean he’s inactive. An Android’s life was rarely dull given there was a full 24 hours in day to take advantage of. As much as Hank said he loved naps, Connor couldn’t imagine wasting precious work hours to sleep.

Even now they were technically “freed” of their investigative duties, but Connor still had plenty of personal maintenance to attend to. It was the daily obligation of an RX800 model like himself (all AI models really), and so he promptly runs a survey of his internal diagnostics. Aside from making his masters happy, it was an Android’s priority to ensure that everything about them is up to date and code — ranging from their adaptive software to the state of their hard drive.

At the same time, he decides to trace through the entirety of his memories, still determined to figure out what Hank meant when he said “acting funny”. Funny…the word repeats in Connor’s head. Human emotions and terms were somewhat difficult to diagnose on his own, though Hank’s recent company had introduced Connor to a wide collection of colorful language. So many terms denoted so many different meanings, many of which were subjective and therefore wildly confusing to a purely calculative mind. So when Hank said Connor was “acting funny”, what exactly did that mean? His type of humor was unique (and apt to change given his BAC), so maybe what he found funny wasn’t what Connor had originally filtered for. Or maybe…the term meant something entirely different altogether? But, then what did that mean? Questions like these are what made humans so fascinating and troubling according to Connor’s programming. He could run himself in circles for hours asking the same questions, constantly seeking meaning, searching for answers, decoding Hank’s unusual phrases-

Suddenly, an alarm goes off in Connor’s system, alerting him to some kind of error in his software. It’s honestly startling, catching the Android surprisingly off-guard for once. This…hadn’t ever happened before; at least, not while he was without a suitable guardian or engineer nearby. Thankfully he’s already wired to know exactly how to respond, and thus promptly performs a system-wide scan to diagnose the error in question. Within seconds, his answer is received, though to his misfortune, it’s little more conclusive.

Code: C5Y0091-24BC. Classification: Unauthorized Bio-Component Breach By Unknown Digital Error. Software Virus Suspected. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. CyberLife has been automatically contacted. Expect an update within 24 hours.

A single blink has Connor back in reality, surrounded by the musky odors characteristic of the many bars he and Hank frequently hopped. Hank is muttering something about the game with Jimmy’s bartender, but Connor hardly hears them.

Virus? Malfunction? How could that be possible? Connor had experienced software issues in the past, but many were easily patched or otherwise resolved by his masters, sometimes within seconds! So this was…unusual to say the least. He’d been warned of course to stay vigilant against hackers, obvious glitches, chain mail, pirated sites, FaceBook and other shady threats — it’s why he ran diagnostics multiple times a day. So how could this have happened? How could he have been so negligent to have missed something?

At least CyberLife had been notified, which meant he’d only have to wait a few hours for his orders on how to proceed; but until then, what was he expected to do? He was hesitant to trust himself, especially after being branded by his own system as potentially defective.

Malfunction. The word echoes through his system and encourages Connor to continue searching his recent stored memories. He weaves through the past effortlessly in search of anything that could stand out or explain his current predicament…and that’s when he’s reminded of what Hank said not more than two minutes ago. Funny. Had he really slipped up so poorly even he hadn’t noticed something but Hank did? What did it mean if a trained AI couldn’t catch a mistake while a human so easily could?

Connor chooses not to answer that question as he comes across a particular gap in his memory — one he hadn’t noticed until now. It was short — a blackout lasting no more than four seconds — but that may as well have been an eternity if it meant there was an absence of crucial information. Rewinding prior to the lull in time, Connor revisits a particular scene during he and Hank’s investigation earlier that same day.

The two of them had been assigned to a Deviant case involving an unnamed MJ100. The dog sitter had been out walking two corgis, both belonging to its owner when it was confronted by a group of six human protesters. After being cornered, the Android was jumped, pushed to the ground, and kicked repeatedly, enduring damage to its left ocular component and minor denting targeting its knee attachment on the same side. Its gait was consequently deemed unstable as it tried to pick itself up. As it could not recalculate its balance, it was knocked down a second time; and on its third attempt, the Android had defied its programming and resorted to fighting off its aggressors using heavy handed tactics and a nearby blunt object (presumably one of the protester’s sign boards). It then attempted to flee the scene but made it less than a block away before being tackled and deactivated by a local officer.

Weirdly enough, the next few details are a bit scrambled within Connor’s hard drive. All that is clear is that while investigating the Android’s body and calculating the damage, Connor’s vision goes dark — particularly after coming into direct contact with its bio components. It’s a startling discovery, and his vision only seems to return a few seconds later after Hank snaps at him to answer a question he’d claimed to have repeated once before.

Following that instance, minor things that should’ve caught Connor’s attention had gone completely unnoticed. His temperatures were running high and low interchangeably by several degrees, his system wasn’t adequately flushing out debris causing congestion within his gears, and even his processing speed — which usually ran above peak performance — was barely keeping up with that of a model two series back.

How had he missed all that? Surely he would’ve recalled Hank repeating himself, if not the obvious lull in time and all the issues impairing his components. Why couldn’t he put together a simple sequence of events? Just how damaging was this virus? What happened to him within that lost period?

“Hey!”

Connor glimpses at Hank, who is snapping in his line of sight. The old detective snorts once he realizes Connor has come to.

“Jesus, I guess even robots can be space cadets now, huh?” He muses as he slaps a wadded up stack of bills onto the counter and slides them over to the standing bartender. “I’m heading home to feed my dog. You’d better go back to the station and recharge yourself, Blinky. That fucking disc in your temple is going crazy.”

Without any further pleasantries, Hank takes off towards the door and exits the bar through a cloud of cigarette smoke. Connor meant to pay for his drinks and a ride home, but he supposed that’d have to wait until tomorrow. For now, it was probably best he follow his partner’s commands. After all, he was made to heed directions, and eager to run another diagnostic scan undisturbed.

Going in the opposite direction of his partner, Connor starts his way back to the police station downtown, occupying his walk by fumbling with the trademark silver coin he carries in his pocket. Hopefully all he needed for a fresh start was an overnight rebooting.

…

Connor Model Prototype RX800 — Serial Number: 313 248 317. Functionality: Below Average. Code: C5Y0091-24BC. Classification: Unauthorized Bio-Component Breach By Digital Error 2B9YD77158G. Software Virus Confirmed. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Self-Repairs Update Initialized. Time Remaining: 62 Hours, 58 Minutes, And 23 Seconds. System performance is being automatically monitored by and reported to CyberLife HQ.

The alert rouses him from his sleep mode. It wasn’t the best news to start the day with, but then again, neither was this creeping sensation bothering his nose and tickling his chest. He attempts another scan to source out the cause, but is immediately interrupted by a sudden, involuntary gasp. The reaction quickly proves out of his control; because in spite of trying to fight and diagnose it, his efforts prove futile as his chest inflates, mouth parts, and he’s bent at the waist with an unexpected-

“Ah’HTSHh’iew!” And another? “Iihy’YDTZSH’shH! Hh-?!” And another?? “hK’SCH’uh!”

He shakes his head and sniffles instinctively, more than a little surprised and uneasy following such an aggressive series of outbursts. He didn’t like that one bit, and could only assume that a reflex like that attested to the true extent of his malfunction. Not only that, but the annoying fluttering feeling in his face hadn’t been remotely relieved; if anything, it’d been stirred and hurled through his system like a shock of irritating static. He wasn’t familiar with automatic overrides to his manual settings, and didn’t wish to experience that again if he could help it.

Straightening his back, he ignores the blank gazes from his fellow policing Androids, who are similarly parked in their charging stations in rows running to his left and right.

“Excuse me,” Connor murmurs, not that any of his companions could feel offended by his unusual behavior. He’d only said it out of sheer obligation, though perhaps somewhere deep in his system he was also preventing being viewed as a threat…as unfortunately impaired.

A malfunction.

For the sake of preserving his public image, he would commit himself to being as discreet as possible. He wasn’t a malfunction, and he would set himself to prove it. He just had to get through the next two days without drawing unwanted attention or affording any more hiccups. He could do that.

Right?

…

For the first time since his creation and introduction to the public eye, Connor was experiencing…doubts. The virus he’d contracted was proving to be more difficult to supersede the more hours that went on. The rate of his degradation was…less than optimal, to say the least. For one, his bio-components (as predicted) were suffering unfamiliar glitches all over. His movements were sluggish despite a full night’s charge, and his data processing was running at a measly 73% speed — even slower than last night. His internal temperatures were rising and falling like a seesaw; the balance constantly tipped between too hot and too cold. It was starting to affect his bio regulators, which couldn’t decide if he needed to start letting off steam or shiver through the morning. Thankfully, these ailments weren’t too difficult to hide so long as he was diligent in monitoring them and constantly tracking their progression. As soon as something was apt to change, he was quick to process a solution in order to appear as normal and high functioning as possible.

What he couldn’t predict nor control was the sudden influx of outbursts.

It’d only been a handful of hours since he “woke”, and even less time since the station opened up to its human staff; and already, Connor was slipping up here and there. As an Android, people paid him little attention (which actually worked in his favor), but that didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned over being reported by a fellow Android or a stray, observant human. After all, he’d discovered that no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn’t do much to prevent-

“Iiy’aASCH’hiEW!”

That. He despised the act itself, and grew frustrated every time it took him by surprise. Why was it so difficult to challenge or prepare for? If he had just a little more notice, he could stop himself or at least attempt to override its command. However, every time he tried, he just couldn’t. He was being outplayed by an infraction, a glitch — a minor one at that! — and that only added to the frustration gnawing at his senses.

As if the lack of control alone wasn’t bad enough, he was also starting to tire of the persistent, crawling itch tracing his nose and teasing at the inner cavity. It was terribly irritating, prompting him to pinch and rub at his face, or sweep a knuckle under the sensitive (and offending) appendage. But doing so often only relit the flame, like a match reigniting a fire so close to dying, but reluctant to fade out. Even now, just as he earns some relief thanks to a series of sniffling and scrubbing, he feels that ember kicking up again; tickling and teasing against his inner sinuses until he’s forced to-

“eE’SHYIU’Uui! ‘dSHH!…ha’hh-! uH’-!”

The final one teases him, so much so he isn’t even certain it’s the last one. He’s aware he must look ridiculous — an Android caught in a hysteric limbo, interrupted by a dysfunction that it’d never succumb to before, let alone conceived. He tries desperately to fight it — to prove he can use sheer logic to overcome his own reflex, but the itch is just too overwhelming, causing his eyes to squint and lips to quiver. So after a few good seconds of rebelling against the inevitable, he hastily pardons himself to the station’s supply closet, locks the door behind him, and surrenders to his system.

In his clumsy haste however, he had managed to knock over a few spare broomsticks, and even rattled a small tower of cardboard boxes. His vision was immediately clouded by a puff of gray, but he didn’t have much time to observe or clean up the mess since he was already too busy-

“ae’ESHHEW’ww! Aa’KSCH’yIEW! T’tdSSH’yiEW!”

Was it getting worse?! Between hitching breaths Connor struggles to perform another scan. He interrupts himself twice, but ultimately the result comes back, reading out in bold text: Environmental Irritant Level: High. Bio-Receptor Reactivity: High. System Override: Automatic. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 57 Hours, 22 Minutes, And 19 Seconds. System performance is being automatically monitored by and reported to CyberLife H-

“HHh’ITSH’hUuii! Ahh…h’ah-! H’-! H’PTzsSH’IEWw!”

They were stumbling out of him in pairs and triples now, every fittish burst triggering glitches in his sight and sending shivers down his core. He tries to keep them quiet by smothering his nose into his palm, but air manages to slip out anyway, making hisses of noise he’s starting to find…embarrassing? Perhaps shameful was a more accurate term, on second thought.

Still caught between sneezing or not sneezing, he squints through bubbling gasps and hones in on his immediate area. His specs focus in on the particles of dust scattered around him; no doubt disturbed by his sudden entrance. His system classifies the debris as a common irritant. Ah. So that’s what was setting him off worse than before.

He shakes his head and scrubs at his nose with a free knuckle. Here he thought he’d finally found some reprieve only to cause himself another problem. He should’ve expected this or pre-calculated the chances of this happening, but of course little was working in his favor with a bugged out tactical unit.

“Hih’PTSHH’ieew! Ah’haaH-…!”

Seriously? How long did this usually last?

“h’H-…! Nnng…oH’H-!…oh…”

Connor lets out an artificial sigh, his nose twitching aggressively and mouth uncurling from a snarl. The itch hasn’t quite dissipated, but at least the urge to sneeze has retreated for the time being. As he scratches at his face and sniffs testily, he makes a mental note-to-self to avoid any more stale or dirty areas over the next two days.

He had to get out of here, before someone noticed he went missing or worse, caught him in the act of hiding. Reluctant to get dragged into another fit but eager to escape, he raises his arm and buries his nose against his sleeve — a courtesy he believes humans are commonly accustomed to when they suffer similar ailments. He then tends to the supplies around him, returning them to their exact state before he’d made a wreck of things. Once adequately tidied (both he and the closet space), Connor tentatively unlocks the closet and exits the shroud of its privacy.

The immediate change in lighting is too fast for his eyes to process, causing a temporary blindness that stings his circuits and scatters pixels across his vision. He grimaces unconsciously as he heads towards his desk, and to his surprise, the commanding officer is waiting for him when he approaches.

“There you are RX800. We’ve got a new report about a Deviant downtown. I want you to pull Hank from wherever the fuck he is and go investigate.”

The chief slips a manilla folder into Connor’s hands then readjusts the belt around his gut. Connor busies himself with downloading the walls of text in his hands, then blinks up at his boss with an automated smile.

“Of course, Chief Fowler. I’ll be sure to retrieve Mr. Anderson, and we will investigate the scene immediately.”

His response is somewhat obvious, but still, the chief approves of his confirmation, nodding as he starts to brush past the bot. Connor glimpses down at the data in his hands again, when suddenly, his captain pauses and waves for his attention. Promptly, Connor swivels on his heel.

“You look different, RX,” the officer acknowledges, more skeptical than worried. “More…,” he ponders for the words, eventually settling on, “blue.”

Blue? Connor couldn’t tell what his commander meant, at least not with his processing unit so slow to react. Did he mean sad — as in the human emotional equivalent of blue? Taking a guess, Connor puts on his best smile in spite of his state and shakes his head.

“I assure you I’m normal, Captain. Fully functioning and eager to follow your directives!”

He hopes his summery tone is enough to dissuade his captain’s lingering stare — which it ultimately does — however, instead of looking appeased, his commander only looks more confused before resuming his strut in the other direction. Connor shuffles uncomfortably where he remains, glimpsing side to side self-consciously in case other people have witnessed his untimely encounter with the chief. Thankfully nobody seems to notice, but in the midst of his search, Connor manages to catch a glimpse at his own reflection against Hank’s black computer screen. He leans a bit closer to get a better look at himself, and what he finds puts his erroneous state into further perspective.

His hair is disheveled, the corners of his eyes tainted with faint webs of static, and his cheeks and nose are dusted a blue color eerily similar to that of his Thirium — his blue blood. That’s probably what Fowler was talking about; and if that wasn’t already damning enough, Connor could only imagine what Hank would say (or think) when he fetched him.

Connor smooths back his hair and pats at his cheeks. He’d have to be extra cautious with Hank if he wanted to dodge his attention. It’d be a difficult task given the detective had already picked up on his mild dysfunction the night prior, but Connor was always committed to giving his best effort. Sure, it may slow down his rate of update, but likely by a negligible amount.

Confident in his ability to disguise his condition, Connor tucks the Chief’s folder under his arm and heads down the nearest hallway towards the station’s south exit. This would work, and it would be worth it.

Anything was worth it if it meant sparing Hank’s judgment.

…

By the time Connor reaches Hank’s house, he’s damp with rainwater. He’d made longer treks in the rain in the past, but this time, he’d failed to take into account how the weather would affect his weakened system. Currently his internal temperature sat at an unusual low of 57 degrees Fahrenheit, and his whole body was shaking to make up for the cold. In the short amount of time that had passed, optimization had dropped to 66%.

The only positive was he’d somehow managed to relieve the blue tint in his face, and the repeated fits of sneezing had died down significantly now that he was surrounded by fresh air. If he was fortunate, that’s how it’d remain for the next several hours.

The Android climbs the front porch, then knocks at Hank’s door (always in threes). As usual, he’s first greeted by Sumo’s barking followed by the muffled sounds of Hank cursing out his unexpected (but still somehow predictable) return visitor.

“Goddammit, not today you walking nuisance!”

At least he knows it’s him.

“Apologies Lieutenant, but I’ve been given direct orders by Chief Fowler to come get you. He wants us to investigate another Deviant case immediately.”

There’s no response. Connor didn’t usually grovel, but he had work to do, and it was starting to get pretty cold out there in the rain.

“P-Please,” Connor pleads, unintentionally stuttering thanks to the shivers wracking his system. “You know I can’t do this without you, Lieutenant.”

There’s another pause of silence, only this time it’s followed by a characteristic groan and the sound of footsteps approaching the porch. Right on cue, Connor takes a step back just as Hank flings open the door and motions him inside.

“Get your ass in here and give me fifteen minutes, huh? I need to change and sober up a bit.”

Connor nods as he follows Hank inside, getting no more than a few feet into the living room before he’s bombarded by Sumo, who licks at his shins and threatens to knock him over given his massive size.

“Sumo down!” Hank orders as he heads towards his bedroom, though the friendly Saint Bernard pays his master no mind.

Connor giggles as he kneels to Sumo’s height and proceeds to pet behind his ears. “Good boy, Sumo,” he consoles. Freeing one hand, Connor fishes in his pockets until he comes across a particular texture, revealing a hidden stash of spare treats he carries solely for occasions like this. He palms the biscuits over for Sumo’s pleasure, and smiles fondly as the hound licks them from his grasp.

“You better not be feeding him again, Connor!” Hank calls from the other room.

“Of course not, sir!” Connor answers, cooing as Sumo’s tongue tickles his fingers. The more he visited Hank’s home, the more he looked forward to seeing Sumo’s goofy smile. He was starting to see why humans adored animals — especially good boys like Sumo.

“Riiiight,” Hank drawls in return. He’s been a detective for over 20 years, so why an Android attempted lying to him about his own dog, he seriously didn’t know. “Hey, Connor!”

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Remind me later to tell Fowler to kiss my ass next time he sends me out into the rain. Swear that fucker doesn’t ever need me until the weather is shit,” he adds beneath a grumble.

“Will do,” Connor answers, still mildly distracted by the fluffy lump of love curled by his feet.

After a few more minutes, Hank emerges from his bedroom, dressed in a darkened leather coat, distressed blue jeans, and boots well past their wear. It complimented his grizzled aesthetic, which Connor was starting to find charming the more time they spent together. Hank must catch the way he’s staring, because he furrows his brows and gnaws at his bottom lip; a habit indicating some level of self-consciousness.

“What? I got something on my face?” Hank asks. It wouldn’t be the first time he left the house with pizza stains and booze clinging to his beard.

“No,” Connor replies, frankly. “I like your outfit. You look handsome, Lieutenant.”

Hank looks more perturbed than complimented, but regardless he says nothing but “Christ” under his breath as he brushes past Connor and swipes his house keys off his computer desk. As he does, the faint blush of his cheeks are exposed by the soft glow of his laptop’s LED. Connor smiles, rising to his feet and reaching for the door handle. Swinging it open, he beckons for Hank to lead the way.

Hank obliges the kind offer, but halts midstep just as he’s about to pass the pseudo-doorman.

“What’s on your face?” he asks after glimpsing Connor up and down.

The Android shuffles in place. “I-I don’t know what you mean,” he answers somewhat meekly.

Hank doesn’t believe him for a second, that much was obvious with the way he stiffens his jaw and narrows his eyes. Still, he chooses not to elaborate, and simply relents to looking back at Sumo, who has sidled up against his leg as a goodbye gesture. Hank gives the pup one last parting pat on the head before stepping out into the morose outdoors.

“Hold down the fort, Sumo. This won’t take long,” Hank sighs. “I’m not wasting more than four hours out in this goddamn shit.”

He starts down the front steps while Connor turns to close the door behind them. As the Android does so however, a dreadfully familiar tickle takes him by surprise, gracing him with barely enough time to tuck his nose into his collar — a sloppy and hurried attempt to suppress a mini fit.

“iihH’MFFSH’ui! ih’zZSHH! dtsSH’yiew!”

He sniffles carefully as he rises from his jacket and shakes his head free of the bothersome itch.

“Connor! The Hell are you doing?” Hank calls from the sidewalk.

“Nothing; sorry! I'm coming, Lieutenant!”

Sumo whimpers at the Android and paws at his leg, as though he senses something is wrong with his second best friend. To relieve the dog’s distress, Connor cups Sumo’s chin and scratches it one last time.

“I’m alright, Sumo. Be a good boy, okay? I promise I’ll bring Hank back home soon.”

With that said, Connor closes the door, tugs the handle to make sure it’s locked, then races after his Lieutenant. As he closes in on his side, another alert crowds his interface, reading: Functionality: Moderately Impaired. Code: C5Y0091-39BC. Result: Bio-Component Defects And Malfunction. Risk Of Shut-Down: Low. Self-Repairs Update Ongoing. Time Remaining: 55 Hours, 50 Minutes, And 50 Seconds. System performance is being automatically monitored by and reported to CyberLife HQ.

He sniffs discreetly and steals a final pinch at his nose. For one of the few times since they’d met, Connor agreed with Hank completely.

Hopefully this is all over soon.

[spooky-ghost-123]

Hi, I'm Ghost, 31 male (he/him) from UK. I've been lurking around the snz community for a while but just started being more interactive.

You know the drill... this is a sneeze fetish/kink blog, minors DNI, if you're not from a snz-related blog please don't repost / follow.

I sometimes write stuff, maybe if I get a bit bolder I'll post some of it one day.

[snzinthewild]

I found this in my notes app, I wrote this prolly 2 years ago.

Just random OC

I have another writing of Leo and Jax, I also wanna post but I wanna improve that one.

I liked this one how it was

CW: mess, snot

Mars, Dan, Sarah, and Jax are waiting in the lobby to their typical dinner spot.

"Are table is ready" Dan says as he approaches the group.

"Wheres Leo" Sarah turns to face Jax.

"Their coming from work, ill hang back and wait for them".

The groups follows the waiter to their table, Jax scrolls on his phone to Leos contact. But as he is about to call, his love walks though the first set doors looking rather dachevaled.

"I was about to call you, to see where u were" jax walks though the second set of doors to the vestibule, he sees the state that his baby is in.

Leo is crying and shaking. "Imb here i-im here... *sniffs* imb here" there breathing is heavy and fast.

Jax heart breaks at the sight of Leo. Their face flushed and cheecks rosey, pale sickly skin. "Baby shhh....your shaking, take some deep breathes. Shhh shhh" jax wipes away the tears rolling down leo cheeck. Leo breathing slows down back to a more normal rate. Jax moves the few strands of hair out of leos eyes and tucks it behind their ear. "Why didnt you call me"

Leo sniffs thickly "i thought i was fine, i guess i was wrong"

"Baby" jax gives leo a sympathic look "im taking you home, here" he gives leo his keys to his car.

*sniffle* "What about my car" leo wipes their nose of their sleeve leaving a wet spot.

"Im going to ask Dan if he can drive it back, okay baby" leo nods in response, takes out his keys and hands them to jax and then walks out the doors to the parking lot. Jax heads inside the restaurant to find the group.

"Jax over here" Mars waves from there table in the corner of the resturant. Jax sees and walks over

"Where's Leo" Sarah ask as Jax appoarchs

"So leo isnt feeling good. Im going to take them home, Dan can you drive leo's car back"

"Yeah of course" Dan grabs the keys from Jax hand

"Awww poor thing, tell them we hope they feel better" sarah touches the back of jax arm "your such a good boyfriend" sarah and jax smile at each other. Then Jax says goodbye and heads out of the restaurant to meet Leo who is waiting in the car. Leo is mid sneeze when Jax opens the driver side door

"H'SUISH haaa ahhh HEE'CHIEWWWW....ahhh ehhh HEEETUISH i aahh eehhh *sniffles* i i needb a tissu ah AHH HAAP'SSUIEWWW" leo is a snotty messy. Their nose is red and raw from them blowing all day. Theres a string of snot from their nose to the mess growing in their hand with each wet sneeze. The pressure in their sinuses is building along with the presisent tickle in their nose. Jax opens the glovebox and pulls out some take out napkins, he hands some to Leo just in time as their about to unlease another serveral messy sneezes into the napkins, which are destroyed by the force of their sneezes. Leo groans and blows their nose. Jax grabs more napkins and wipes off leos nose and hands. "Bless you, when did you start feeling bad baby" jax rubs his thumb over leos cheeck and moves his hand up their forehead "You feel warm" jax takes his hand away and puts his seat belt on and drives out of the parking space.

"I um dont know, this morning maybe" leo lays his head back agasint the seat and let's a loud sigh and groan.

"This morning baby why didnt you tell me" jax puts his right hand out for leo to hold. Which they do and then lean agaisnt his arm.

"It wasnt that bad, i didnt want to worry you" leo sniffles

"Baby im always gonna worry about you" jax rubs leo hand that hes holding.

#snz kink #mess #sneezing fic #snz fic

[thedevilsdom]

Hiiiiii, I know you’re not on this blog that much anymore but I think you’ve given me a sneezing kink. And this comes from someone who was not at all very interested in the concept in anyway. I’ve not read any of ur snz stuff in a long time too.

I got stoned this weekend and I couldn’t stop sneezing and every time I sneezed I thought of you and your writing and the sneezing made me clench and then I got really horny and I was stuck in this cycle of sneezing and crying and trying not to cum in my kitchen from sneezing it was rly overwhelming and I think you would have rly liked it … I think a large part of me reads your writing bc I really like you and the way your present yourself rather than the boys I’ve not played om! In like a year haha.

Anyway just wanted to let u know that I have a big fat crush on you and quite desperately want to be your good boy, kisses, mommy xxx 😊 🥰 🐶

awww, thank you, darling! you sound very adorable~

truthfully, i haven't posted anything here solely because i've fallen out of touch with the om! fandom and i just haven't picked up anything i've really been horny for ^^; by all means, recommend me stuff to look at and maybe ill get interested enough to come back! i'd love to have the horny inspiration to write again hehe~

[prettysnzy]

uhhh long time lurker finally making an intro :3

-ermm so this is a snz kink blog (if that’s not ur thing than either be respectful or leave pls 😭)

-minors dni (must have age in bio or i’ll block u cuz this is a kink blog)

-18

-I go by kat

-Bisexual

-not sure what I plan to post maybe scenarios, ideas, snz fics and thoughts. Possibly wavs? (idk how I feel about that yet lmaoo)

-anyways comment if u wanna be moots :p