#but also happy bc it's uh. overstayed a bit

[lenreli]

with a glimpse of your teeth [2/2, Dreamling]

[AO3] | [Chapter 1]

Ah yes, more of mafia Dream/bodyguard Hob or, you know, Reacher-ish inspired fun!

After a million years or so. Enjoy~ 💖💖

E, 3.5k.

-

Hob blinks, can feel that he’s definitely going to check for bruised ribs, but, “that’s unimportant,” he frowns as he looks around, going through the dead bodies ― their pockets, more specifically, pulling out some matchboxes and fancy lighters from one with a hum. “We have to go.” 

Dream follows along, blue eyes fixed on him as they climb out the window, landing on the metal fire escape rails outside. Even though they were on the first floor of the mansion, big and sprawling, all brick and mortar, a line of windows in front of them, which does make things handy for him. 

Glancing away, he can see the exit, and a car, much like Dream’s own mansion. This place would have lots of security around it as well. One, maybe two. Three? Frowning, he pulls out one of the matchboxes, lighting it quickly and throwing it into the room they were just in. “Down,” he whispers, tugging Dream down by the arm so they’re under the windows. 

Swiftly, he lights a match ― then throws it in the window, continuing down the line of the escape as screaming starts, and they hide behind some greenery as Hob lights even more, and finding windows to the basement, he opens those and throws more in. 

At this point, the mansion is burning steadily, fire department probably called at this point as Hob puts the matches into his pocket, using the chaos of it all to grab Dream as they walk quickly to the car, doors opening. But turned off, with no key as Hob gets into the driver’s seat. 

Huffing, he opens up the panel behind the wheel, hotwiring the car, the skills rusty, but much like riding a bike, it comes back easily as he crosses wires. “You can hotwire a car?” Dream asks as the car revs to life, the chaos opening the big security gates as he drives them out of the area. 

“Why wouldn’t I know?” He asks in return, adjusting the mirrors to watch their back as a fire engine drives by. Three, he decides as they drive back into the city.

-

Parked in some unassuming street, Hob motions for Dream to get out as he looks at the rows of cars, walking along the street, choosing an older car to take this time. The locked door is easily opened with his butterfly knife, and then he opens the passenger door before he hotwires it. 

“Really? Can’t we just go straight home?” Dream asks, voice pouty as they drive. 

“No,” he is all he says, on high alert as they drive close to the other edge of the city, then doing the same thing ― jacking an older car from a street, Dream getting even more whiny as they enter the third car, which does smell suspect, Dream rolling down his window to breathe in the evening air, the sun making its way down ― which’ll make the next part a bit easier. “We’ll go to a hotel.” 

“A hotel?” Dream at least sounds interested in that, pressing against his side as they drive into the more tourist areas, plenty of hotels along a stretch of road as they get out of the car. Hob starts at the hand on his face, Dream keeping him still as he wipes the blood off it. “Hob,” Dream scowls, not looking happy as―ah, Hob’s mind ticks over as Dream kisses him. Hob’s mind freezes, still in clean escape mode. Dream pouts as the kiss ends. “Really? Nothing?!” 

“Once we’re safe,” he promises, voice flat as they wait outside the front of a hotel, one of the cheaper ones. Hob lifting a wallet from someone who looks rich. “Order a room, one person,” he says as hands the wallet to Dream, who still looks frustrated ― sexually, by the looks of it. 

“This hotel?” Dream asks with distaste. 

Hob rolls his eyes, “ground floor. Just do it.” 

-

Finding Dream’s room is easy, and soon enough Dream opens the window, letting him in as sits on the windowsill. “This one,” Dream says flatly. 

“No,” he says dryly as Dream slots between his knees, expression confused. “Come on,” he says ― though, as he moves to leave, Dream grabs his waist, pulling him in for another kiss. Sighing, he holds Dream’s jaw, taking a moment to appreciate the soft skin as he strokes it with his thumb. “Just a bit longer,” he whispers, pulling himself away, and Dream groans as the kiss ends. 

Blue eyes plead at him before Dream sighs, hopping outside of the hotel. “Now you’re just being cruel,” Dream huffs. 

“If you like,” he offers, tugging Dream along by the wrist, walking to another hotel nearby, this one notably fancier, and up to Dream’s standards as they wait at the entrance, Hob lifting another wallet easily. 

“Were you a thief, before?” Dream asks once he’s back to him, and Hob shrugs, looking through the wallet, satisfied. 

“I did have to survive,” Hob says as he leads them inside, booking a room for two.

-

In the elevator, mirrors reflecting them, Hob stares at Dream, mind ticking away from escaping as he grabs onto Dream’s wrist closest to him, fingers pressing into the other’s ever-quickening pulse. Dream’s muscles flex  under his hand, leaning closer to him and Hob thinks about what Lucifer revealed, now that he can think of living another day.

As soon as they’re in the room, Hob pushes Dream against the door, tightly gripping the lapels of the other’s suit jacket as they kiss, and he enjoys the shiver he feels as his body covers Dream’s. Hands hold onto his biceps as they kiss, Dream letting out a moan as Hob puts a knee to Dream’s groin, can feel the arousal building as they kiss. 

Dream clutches him, nails digging in Hob moves down to nibble at the other’s jaw ― and his hands move up, digging his own fingers into Dream’s neck, making Dream gasp from the sudden lack of air. “What else did they do to you?” He asks quietly, thumbnails pressing into the skin under Dream’s adam’s apple. 

There’s more wheezing and spluttering as Hob lifts him, feet off the floor as Dream’s hands move to his wrists. Dream stares at him with wide blue eyes, mouth moving soundlessly as he gapes for air. Pursing his lips, Hob puts him back onto the floor, choked grip loosening as Dream sucks in a breath. Hob watches, feeling Dream’s heaving breaths as he swallows. “Nothing like you,” Dream rasps, voice rough and pleading. 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he says, nosing at Dream’s jaw, can smell the sweat and smoke from their day, thumbs trailing up the soft column of Dream’s throat, fingerprint bruises already showing on the pale skin. 

Dream shudders as his thumbs press in, can feel the bones of him as Dream shudders, eyelashes fluttering as Dream presses against him, fingers scrabbling to his palms, lightly scratching, “fuck, I,” Dream breathes as his he applies a bit more pressure to Dream’s neck, “can’t think. Hob.” 

Hob can feel Dream swallow, bones and muscles fragile under the skin as he lets go and tugs Dream by the jacket lapel to the hotel bed. Dream crawls onto his lap, hands digging into his shoulders as Dream heaves for breath next to his ear. 

“I think,” Dream groans, and there’s a tiny whine as Hob traces the fresh bruises under the other’s jaw, “I remember something.” Hob hums, forcing Dream’s neck up so he can nose at the purpling marks, “they used to record us fucking, and then we would, they’d play the previous video sometimes―” Dream groans, pressing into him as he bites at the marks, making them redder, mind sparking at the thought of having Dream on video like this, “they probably burnt up in the mansion, but, Hob, please,” Dream pleads. 

“Perhaps they did have a good idea or two,” he says, pushing Dream onto the bed, and he grimaces as a knee hits his bruised ribs, distracting Dream from his reaction by tugging off Dream’s clothes, shoes being hiked off before Dream wriggles out of his pants. 

“Hob,” Dream whines as Hob sits between his legs, getting out a small lube and condoms from an inner pocket of Dream���s jacket, “enough about them.” 

“You may have a point,” he says, smiling as Dream gasps and presses down on his finger, the warmth and velvet squeezing around him making his cock ache. Dream rises up to kiss him, pulling him in as Hob licks into his mouth. 

Hob puts more fingers in, making Dream keen, nails digging into his suit, hands desperately scrabbling over his chest, his beard and into his hair, roughly holding onto it as Dream’s hole gets stretched. “Need you,” Dream says, voice cracking. 

-

Unlike Hob’s own room at the Endless mansion, Dream’s bathroom has a large black bathtub ― which is useful for when he wants to relax in it, soaking in just-a-bit-too-hot water. And it’s especially nice to have after some painkillers for his ribs. 

Head resting on the edge, his eyes open at the sounds of doors opening ― Dream, can tell by his footfalls. Shutting his eyes, Hob goes back to clearing his mind as he hears Dream move around his room. The bathroom door opens and he hears Dream let out a breath. “Hob,” Dream says as he opens his eyes, staring at the other man in the doorway, still in the rumpled suit with no tie, “you’re here.” 

“My room here doesn’t have this,” he replies, waving a hand above the tub as Dream walks closer in socked feet. And then, Dream steps inside the bath, Hob raising his brows as Dream flops on top of him, fully clothed as the water ripples softly over the edge.

Dream lets out a sigh and Hob can feel as he uncoils, tension seeping out of him as a nose brushes against his neck. A bony elbow brushes against his rib and he grimaces, a hand coming up to stroke Dream’s dark hair. “I was wondering where you were,” Dream says, voice small.

“Relaxing,” he answers, his other arm going around Dream’s back ― then to gently pull Dream up, whose blue eyes are closed as Hob takes off the other’s sopping wet jacket and shirt, the items plopping onto the floor. Dream just hums as his hands go slowly down the other’s pale skin, covered with various bruises and marks, eventually tugging off Dream’s pants and underwear. “How was the reunion?” He asks with a smirk, thinking of his own tiring debriefing with security, then a looking over from the doctor. 

“My siblings aren’t happy that Morningstar’s dead,” Dream says against his chest, hands patting his chest hair, “especially with Burgess’s power vacuum too.”

“Much like when I talked to security,” he hums. “Morningstar and Burgess were known, and now there’ll be more struggles for territory by people, people that aren’t known entities. More people to cut deals with.” 

Dream groans and presses deeper into his skin. “Enough of this.” 

Hob smiles and continues stroking Dream’s hair, content to have Dream’s weight on him as they soak in the water.

-

A week later and early in the morning is when Dream returns to his room, momentarily pausing as Hob sits up from the bed. He should’ve expected it, considering that Dream’s loose black clothes are splattered with orange and red paint. Dream hovers close to him, leaning down to greet him with a kiss, cold hands on his cheeks as Dream crawls into his lap. 

Hob puts his own hands on Dream’s face, and he can feel him shiver at the leather gloves on his hands. Dream lets out a whimper, tongue pressing into his mouth desperately as Hob guides Dream onto the bed. Hob shivers, pleasure slow as Dream arches into him ― and puts a hand into his pocket, fiddling with the remote until he hears the soft whr of the video camera he set up on top of a black set of drawers nearby.

Nibbling at Dream’s jaw, he uses his other hand to put Dream’s head to the side, “look,” he whispers into the other’s ear, making Dream let out a sound at the camera, the red light on it shining. The viewscreen is flipped, showing them on the bed, and Dream whines as they kiss, as Hob tugs off his paint-splattered shirt and pants. 

“Hob,” Dream cries out, pulling him into a rough kiss as Hob’s gloved hands trail down his torso, breath shuddering into Hob’s mouth as pale legs wind around his hips, heels digging into his back. Hob hums, biting at red lips as a hand goes down to stroke Dream’s cock to full hardness. Dream keens, hands scratching up his blazer. “You,” Dream breathes, hands scrabbling around to pull ― ripping off the buttons of his dress shirt, and Hob groans as cool fingers tug at his chest hair. 

Dream squirms deliciously under him as his free hand pinches pink nipples, enjoying the sight of black gloves with Dream’s luminous skin and pink bruising to a darker red. The hand stroking Dream becomes smoother from pre-come, he can feel it as Dream writhes, blue eyes only showing a thin stripe of colour as he brings Dream closer to orgasm. Nosing at the straining neck in front of him, he brings his hand to force Dream’s head back to the camera, keeping a soft pressure, can feel Dream’s throat moving as he swallows, “watch,” he says. 

“Hob,” Dream breathes, desperate as a hand moves from his chest to undo his pants, then belt ― and Dream hisses as the belt comes off, a splash of red on a few of the daggers lined on the inside. Dream’s bloodied fingers come up to caress his cheek, and Hob’s heart skips at the blood, can feel it dripping and smeared on his beard, dragging him into a kiss. “Close.”

“I want you to,” he says, biting down on Dream’s collarbone as he strokes, making Dream shudder and whine around him, hands clutching the back of his suit jacket tightly. “We’re only just starting,” he whispers into Dream’s skin as Dream twitches, and Hob speeds up his hand until Dream comes with a shout, coating his hand with white fluid. 

Dream gasps and arches into him, shouting turning into a groan as Dream thrashes, only taking a breath once his hand is off Dream’’s dick, now soft and oversensitive. Hob swallows, own cock throbbing and still confined, but he just ignores the feeling of it, focusing on sucking marks onto Dream’s shoulder as he reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket with his come-covered hand, pulling out a small bottle of lube. 

Moving to sit in the middle of Dream’s legs, he sits up, taking note of the other’s glassy eyes and red lips, still watching the camera ― which Hob forgets about once more as he wipes clean his glove on the jacket, then takes it off, picking up his belt with it and throwing them onto the floor, daggers making a brief metallic sound as Hob considers his clothes. 

He did take off his weapons and shoes in preparation, aside from the belt, so he just shrugs and takes off his shirt, pants and socks, leaving only the gloves as the rest joins the clothes on the floor. Dark blue eyes stare at him as he puts some lube on his fingers ― then Dream gasps as two fingers go inside his hole. Hob sucks in a breath at the tightness of it, the way Dream keens, throwing his head back as he feels resistance, the gradual loosening of Dream’s walls. 

Hob passes time by the slow, languid way he stretches Dream open, counting minutes by the way Dream moans as he eventually adds another finger, putting his other hand on Dream’s hip to stop him from moving too much. “Hob,” Dream strangles out, twitching into his fingers ― then away as they press into prostate, making him shudder. 

Soon enough, Dream’s cock hardens again, twitching and leaking as Hob puts in a fourth finger, Dream grabbing onto biceps as he’s fingered into a second orgasm, Dream panting into his ear as come shoots up to his neck. 

Hob’s fingers press in more, making Dream beg, though Hob can’t tell whether it’s for more or less with the way Dream says his name, so Hob continues. Pulling his fingers out makes Dream whines and pout, legs winding around his hips again. Huffing, Hob looks between their bodies, putting more lube on his cock ― and Dream gasps, nails scratching into his back as he easily reaches the hilt, the slide inside Dream smooth. 

Biting down on Dream’s collarbone so he doesn’t come immediately, Dream continues to dig his nails into him. “Move,” Dream breathes. 

Everything else falls away as he slowly builds up a rhythm, eventually feeling Dream’s arousal once more, though with almost no pre-come compared to before as he slowly fucks Dream into a third orgasm, lost in the way Dream whines and shudders against him, a hand tugging his hair as he stays inside Dream’s loose warmth, their bodies sweaty and covered in come. 

The fourth orgasm he pulls from Dream is slow ― and painful, Dream boneless, on top of him as Dream keens, still leaning into his touch as Hob guides Dream up and down by his hips. 

When Dream comes, it’s dry and he can only tell by the way Dream wails, walls squeezing around his dick until he also orgasms, the relief making him gasp as Dream lies boneless over him. Patting Dream’s hair, he reluctantly slips out, Dream whining as he does, though Dream does seem to be very unconscious by this point. 

With Dream on the bed, he leans in to press a kiss to a cheekbone as he gets up, wiping his gloves on the sheets and taking them off before going to the bathroom so he can wipe Dream and himself down with a wet towel. Looking around, he blinks at the camera, still rolling, then gets up to stop the recording, putting it on the bedside table as he picks up his dagger-lined belt to clean off the specks of Dream’s blood in the bathroom. Wiping off the blood on his face, Hob also checks Dream’s fingers, finding only shallow cuts on a few fingers as he wipes them clean.

Groaning, he lies down on the bed, Dream curling himself around Hob as soon he lies down, arms around his shoulders and Hob only manages to pull up the sheets before he falls asleep. 

-

Two small knocks at the door wake Hob up, though not Dream as he carefully extricates himself from the other man and puts on his pants, as well as getting out a spare dress shirt from the spare outfit he keeps in Dream’s drawers. Opening the door, he raises an eyebrow at Death as he closes the door behind him. “Yes?” 

Death gives him a scrutinizing look as she crosses her arms, “I wanted to talk to you,” she says, dark eyes boring into him. “If you hurt him―” 

Hob tilts his head, thinking at Death’s unfinished sentence, “I’ve only hurt him in ways he wants to be hurt,” he offers, a smug sort of happiness at the way Death scrunches her nose, not wanting to think of her brother like that. “Why now? Surely you could’ve done this before your parents died?” 

Death’s lips, “well, I had to do it eventually. And even with your―skill, you won’t be able to hide from me,” she says, voice steady and powerful, and Hob believes her. 

“Okay,” he shrugs and Death scowls at his lack of reaction. Death leaves, boots stomping down the corridor as Hob goes back into the bedroom. There’s quiet moans, Dream’s face hidden by the camera as he watches what’s been recorded. 

“Who was it?” Dream asks, voice croaking and raw as Hob sits on the edge of the bed. 

“No-one important,” he says, pressing a kiss to Dream’s temple as Dream hums, eyes on the viewfinder as the sounds of last night fill the room. “What do you want for breakfast?”

“Water,” Dream asks, the video sped up lightly. “And toast. With jam. And fruit. And something for you.” 

Hob nods and gets out his other spare clothes, putting his jacket on and finding his belt in the bathroom, then his shoes near the bed. “Painkillers?”

Dream shifts and grimaces, then nods. Knowing Dream, he’ll most likely stay in bed for the rest of the day ― while making eyes at him, wanting more. 

Hob’s hand is on the door handle when Dream speaks, stopping him. “You didn’t,” Dream stops and swallows, voice barely there, “you could’ve continued, after I was unconscious,” Dream says, blue eyes big. Hob shivers, arousal blooming quickly, and he licks his lips as he considers. 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

[Fin]

[mongooseblues]

Bless You Father for I Have Sinned (Fleabag, Hot Priest) 1/1

Did anyone watch Fleabag and/or want to read about a hot priest sneezing?

This works just fine as a standalone if u haven’t seen the show but for context: Hot Irish prob alcoholic “cool swear-y” priest and recovering sex addict and all-around hot mess main character (who doesn’t have a name) strike up a “friendship” that is just a poorly veiled excuse for spending time with someone they want very badly to fuck but can’t bc priesthood vow of celibacy and whatnot.

Here’s ~2k words in which I continuously get off on the idea of blessing a priest and unresolved sexual tension I also don’t resolve.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

“Fuck you, calling me Father like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it…”

It happens for maybe ten minutes before it starts to stick out to her. Because it’s cold, as it always is on early-spring nights in London, and while they’re both fully dressed (unfortunately), neither is probably quite dressed enough to be out in a garden at this hour. And they’re a bit drunk—not that drunk, they’re both pretty practiced—on the G&Ts he’s so fond of for whatever reason. He specifically likes the kind you get already mixed in a can, which are especially shit, but it’s almost endearing that he likes those in particular. Well, very endearing actually. Goddamn this man—or… hmm, poor choice of words.

It doesn’t really grab her attention until he combines the sniffling with pinching his nostrils together.

“You alright, you’re quite sniffly?”

“I know, I dunno what’s going on,” he says, and punctuates it with a harsher sniffle than the ones previously unacknowledged, “Think ‘m just cold.” He zips his sweatshirt up a bit as if to illustrate.

“We could get you a blanket and swaddle you up like baby Jesus.”

He laughs. She extracts from her coat pocket a pack of cigarettes, takes one herself and angles the carton toward him in offering. Mostly because she wants him to scoot closer to her on the bench as she flicks the lighter for him. The flame illuminates the angles of his face in orange, the back of his fingers grazing her hand by happy accident, and yes, it’s a little pathetic that this momentary skin-to-skin contact is as erotic as it is to her, but that’s what you get when you fancy a priest isn’t it?

“They’re always describing him as being swaddled. Odd word, swaddled. Sounds kind of violent.”

“It does kind of,” he agrees, leaning back against the bench and exhaling a stream of smoke into the night air. Her plan worked, he’s ever so slightly closer to her now, post cigarette exchange, close enough that when he sniffles she can feel the slight vibration of his shoulders through the loose fabric on her coat sleeve. It unites them like an accidental spark of electricity she can sense just faintly enough to feel jumpy. Or turned on. Or both.

She really shouldn’t be this shameless about trying desperately to corrupt a man of the cloth she wants to get under. Maybe she’d feel properly guilty if she wasn’t quite so fucking horny.

“So you did read more than just the passages I marked for you?” He asks, at once surprised and pleased and maybe nervous, grinning but also looking away for a moment as if he could disguise all of that.

“Not really, just the birth of the ol’ lord and savior. It seemed like it’d be climactic.”

“Was it?”

“Can’t say I climaxed reading it, no,” she says with a cheeky look that elicits the laughter she’s looking for, “No offense but it’s really quite boring, this book you love so much.”

“Yeah… that’s a tragically common sentiment among reviewers.” He’s scratching at his nose with the back of one wrist with such intensity it’s unmistakeable how much it’s bothering him.

“Don’t care much for the writing style either, I have to say.”

If the irritation could be resolved with a mouse-like scrunch of the nose he’d have figured it out by now, and clearly he hasn’t because he still has to shrink into his crossed arms like an accordion with a fairly high-pitched, vocal and thus somehow Irish-accented, “Hehh-ishhYUE!”

“Bless. The only way I was able to get through it was by imagining you in every speaking role.”

It’s a sentence meant to provoke him, not unlike most of her sentences, and for a minute as her eyes are on her own exhaled smoke and he fails to respond, she wonders whether it sounded even weirder than she meant it, but as it turns out he’s just about to sneeze again — squinting into the distance and bringing an arm to his face in slow motion.

“Mmff-SHOO!” He blinks in surprise as he resumes his previous position on the bench, now shifted just a bit farther away from her. Damn.

“Ugh, sorry. Every speaking role?? Ohfuck— ahh-ishSHEU!”

“Jesus.”

“You imagined me as Jesus??”

“No I mean Jesus, are you okay, did you catch something?” Of course she imagined him as Jesus.

“Ooh I hope not,” he says with a nervous look, “that’d be lousy timing.”

“The lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Thuh-that he does—” A sudden inhale, a crooked arm rising at a much hastened speed. It begins in a manageable way, somewhat controlled, but then it seems to get away from him.

“Hh… hehd’SHHUE!”

“Bless you, Father."

He mumbles a thank you bookended by soft snuffling.

“Maybe he’s sent you a plague of sneezing. He does that sometimes doesn’t he? Send plagues?”

His face just scarcely conveys amusement before it’s hijacked again by the same expectant expression, but he still attempts to talk through it, even as irritation becomes evident in every feature. “S-sometimes…”

She thinks about saying bless you in advance but decides instead to just wait for him to succumb to it. A flicker of lashes, a reveal of the very tips of canines, his entire face crinkles around his visibly twitching nose. It pulls him downward and then forward in that order, as he collapses into a crooked arm as if stumbling despite being seated.

An especially desperate, “hehhSCHOO!” that begins quietly but certainly doesn’t end that way.

“God bless you, Father, again.”

“Wow,” he says with a sniff, knuckles swiping under his nose in a single smooth motion, “Maybe I’m allergic to you. My body’s having a reaction.”

“Is it?”

An eyeroll and a grin, and then he goes back to scratching at his aggravated face in a manner that’s becoming aggressive.

“Well stop manhandling your nose that’s clearly not working.” Before she can think better of it, she takes his elbow to pull the offending arm away from his face. She can feel his muscles tense with the movement, but when she looks up at him there’s only a blurry-eyed smile chased by a nervous huff of a laugh. Another line she can’t uncross but doesn’t particularly want to.

The therapist hadn’t needed to point out that her all-consuming attraction to someone she couldn’t have was probably a healthy coping mechanism of her recently adopted abstinence. She hadn’t really expected this though — for her advances to not be rejected entirely. She hadn’t planned for hope to cease feeling like such a daft, one-sided notion.

“Should I even be blessing you or is that overkill? Or am I even qualified to bless you? Can one bless a priest if they’re not like, anointed or something?”

“You can bless me,” he confirms, looking like he’s barely got a handle on controlling his own eyebrows. Or lips for that matter. God, that mouth, those lips. Parting by accident the way she’d like to make them open on purpose.

“Little greedy of you. You’re not blessed enough as is?”

“Neh—neverhurts…” He pitches sidewards with a slurred, tellingly tipsy, “hehh-ESHHyoooo!”

“Bless you…”

“Thank you,” he sniffles with embarrassed necessity, bringing the back of a sleeve to his nose.

“Hold on, I think I have some tissues,” she says as she feels around in her bag in the darkness, “Well, cocktail napkins at least.” Another knuckle brush as she hands them to him. How arousing. How pitifully arousing. She really should come up with ways to hand him things more often.

“Ahh you were holding out on me,” he says, and then after a gentle blow, “Sorry.”

“You are coming down with something aren’t you?"

He thinks about it, bringing the napkin away from his nostrils with a final follow-up dab. “I dunno, maybe?”

“Do you feel ill?”

“Mostly just very itchy.”

How many other chances will she get… She reaches a hand to gingerly press the back of her fingers against his forehead. He blinks a few times in response, rapidly and reflexively, and swallows back a smile. There’s a burning in her stomach that’s neither pleasant nor unpleasant.

“Um, you feel okay I think?” She says, attention course-corrected back to the cigarette crumbling in her hand, but still glancing at him to measure the aftermath of the relatively bold gesture and they lock smiling eyes in the process.

If he really wanted to ward her off he’s doing a phenomenally shitty job of it. She knows he wants her. God if only that was enough, to know he wanted her.

“I think you’re right I’ve been sent a plague of sneezing. Probably trying to tell me something.”

“Something about how your new friend could take care of you?”

He grins with half of his mouth. “Or something about how I probably shouldn’t be drinking G&Ts in the middle of the night with my new friend who I like a little too much.”

Oh he… really shouldn’t have given her that.

“ExxSHHUE!!” He shakes the whole bench with this, then straightens back up, not looking entirely recovered, and says almost to himself, “And about how I probably shouldn’t tell my new friend that I like them a little too much.”

“But you did anyway and he hasn’t, I dunno, smote you down yet.”

Irritation is still etched into his features, his chest slowly swelling with air, hastily fiddling with the napkins.

“Are you actually going to sneeze again? You haven’t finished?”

He shakes his head as his eyes close and seizes into a rushed, “hehESHHyue!"

“It’s a plague I can’t stop! Snf, it’s out of my hands."

She knows the night’s over, she does. She gets the sense that she’d been invited to overstay her welcome, but it’s getting past that point now. Whenever she leaves after being around him her face hurts from smiling like an idiot the whole time and she comes away aching in more ways than one. That ache is starting already, another sign they’ve stretched this interaction too long once again.

However, alcohol. “If you tell me to leave and you sneeze again perhaps we’ll know whether or not it was divine intervention.”

“He might just be punishing me now anyway,” he sighs, remembering a cigarette he may not have taken a single drag from, neglected and foreshortening in his fingers.

“We haven’t done anything we’re just talking. I’m a—what is it, parishioner?”

“That is a word, yes. Snf! Though it implies someone who’s actually going to church to, you know, practice their faith."

“I’m a parishioner here to…” she’s not even sure what to say, she still doesn’t know shit about Catholicism aside from the fact that it’s a massive cockblock, “seek your… counsel? Guidance? Guidance counseling.”

He puts a hand over part of his face, tired but amused. “You can’t act innocent even when you’re trying your best, can you?"

She almost snorts. Is this what he thinks trying her best looks like?—No, don’t actually say— “Who said I was trying my best?”

Why can’t she stop herself from saying things like that to him? The only thing that’s going to stop her now is a ‘no’ that’s actually firm enough not to give way when she presses against it relentlessly. He honestly needs to just get it over with before he really gives her too much to hold onto. She’s not going to win out over God, the guy’s pretty fucking stiff competition.

Goddamnit, just break her heart already, what the fuck is he waiting for? This should have ended ages ago, and now it’s getting dangerously close to too late.

Was it unfair to assume he’d be stronger than her? Or is he trying to hurt himself too? A duetted exercise in masochism, mutually assured destruc—

“—ESSHHYUE!” He looks at her through wet lashes, bleary and sheepish and drunk and cute and fuck.

She sighs loudly, looks skyward and says, “Right, you’ve made your point! I’m leaving!”