#geezieanswers

[aller-geez]

Different anon here! Have you ever written about Krexar finding out they both have the fetish? I'm obsessed with them at the moment and am reading anything and everything that has them in it!

Hey there Nonny!

Thanks for your request! honestly I LOVED this idea and had so much fun writing it~ seriously been living for the Krexar love lately 🖤

hopefully you enjoy reading it just as much as I did while writing it~

Nothing To Sneeze At

written & illustrated by: allergeez

Summary: Moving in together is supposed to be an exciting step, but for Kriia and Rexar, it quickly turns into a sneezy disaster. Between the dust in Kriia’s childhood home and Rexar’s lingering cold, their first day as cohabitants is filled with congestion, teasing, and way too many sneezes. Rexar, ever the affectionate and over-the-top boyfriend, keeps commenting on how cute Kriia’s sneezes are—so much so that she starts to get suspicious. Did he find something while helping her move? Is he messing with her?

As Kriia struggles to keep her very inconvenient attraction under wraps, Rexar, completely oblivious, only makes things worse. His relentless sneezing, casual flirting, and shameless praise send her into a downward spiral of secondhand embarrassment. But when Rexar finally drops a bombshell of his own—so casually it nearly sends Kriia into orbit—she realizes that maybe she wasn’t the only one keeping a secret 6.3k words

Content Warnings!

Mild Illness/Injury: Frequent descriptions of cold symptoms, fever, and congestion.

Fire/Involuntary Magic: Rexar’s sneezes produce fire, though it is not used violently.

Embarrassment/Shame: Characters struggle with admitting a personal kink and fear of judgment.

Sexual Themes: The story revolves around a sneeze kink, though it remains playful and non-explicit.

Strong Language: Frequent swearing and teasing profanity between characters.

Mentions of Grief/Loss: Brief references to Kriia’s father passing away when she was young.

The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty windows of Kriia’s childhood home, turning the floating particles in the air into shimmering gold. Boxes were stacked along the walls, the last remnants of a life she was finally—nervously—leaving behind. She should have felt relief, excitement, maybe even the kind of heart-racing thrill that came with stepping into the unknown. But right now, all she felt was—

“Hh‘gsch!! Nngch! H’tshhkt!! —ngsh!”

—completely incapacitated by a relentless sneezing fit.

Kriia barely had time to suck in another breath before the next one tore through her, sending her doubling over against the packed-up box in front of her. Dust. Of course it was the dust. It clung to every surface, stirred up into the air with every box she moved, thick enough that she could feel it curling into her sinuses with every inhale. She groaned, knuckling at her nose in frustration.

And right on cue—

A deep, familiar voice rang out from the front door, far too loud for the quiet house.

"Knock, knock, princess! You ready to ditch this place or what?"

Kriia barely had time to compose herself before Rexar strolled in like he owned the place, all easy confidence and broad shoulders, his crimson-freckled face split into a familiar, cocky grin. He had a box tucked under one arm, the other braced against the doorframe as he leaned in, surveying the stacks of her life packed away.

"Geez, babe, what the hell is in these?" He hoisted the box in his grip, pretending to struggle under its weight. "Bricks? A full-grown person? Your secret collection of stolen silverware?"

Kriia rolled her eyes, still sniffling, her voice hoarse from sneezing. "You’re so dramatic."

Rexar just grinned, stepping closer. “Yeah, but you love it.”

Before Kriia could fire back, Rexar’s broad shoulders suddenly hitched—his cocky expression faltering as his breath caught.

“Hihhh—! Hihh’EXTSH’ue! hH’EISCH’iiew!! hah’ESSHH’IUE!!”

He snapped to the side with a forceful triple, his freckled nose scrunching as he gave a thick sniff, rubbing at it absently with the back of his wrist. "Ugh. Man, I am struggling today," he groaned, shaking his head before sending her an easy grin. "Hope you don’t mind living with a guy who sneezes literal fire every time he gets a cold— and every other time. No refunds, by the way. You're stuck with me now."

Kriia’s stomach did something complicated.

Because here he was, her ridiculous, loud, endlessly affectionate boyfriend, casually joking about something that was making it really hard for her to keep a straight face. She had been trying—really trying—not to stare, but every time he snapped forward with another sneeze, her eyes betrayed her, drawn to the way his nostrils flared, the irritated pink flush dusting the bridge of his nose, the way those damn red piercings of his caught the light—

No. Nope. Not going there.

She quickly looked away, trying to shove the thoughts down before they could form into something dangerous.

Rexar, of course, had no idea. He was already hoisting another box into his arms, sniffing thickly, completely oblivious to the fact that his girlfriend of four months was currently fighting for her life.

"Alright, let’s load up the last of this stuff and get you moved in," he announced, still congested but grinning, ever the picture of carefree confidence. "Unless you wanna stay here and die in a pile of dust, which—" He paused, glancing at her, brow quirking. "Actually, speaking of, you good? You’re lookin’ kinda… sneezy."

Kriia felt her face heat.

Oh, he had no idea.

Kriia cleared her throat, attempting to play it cool despite the way her entire body was still buzzing from the fit she’d barely recovered from. She sniffled lightly, brushing her wrist beneath her nose before straightening up, forcing herself to meet Rexar’s gaze without combusting.

"I’m fine," she lied, voice still slightly breathless.

Rexar, ever the skeptical one, narrowed his tired, red-rimmed eyes at her. “Uh-huh. Yeah, sure, you sound fine, and I’m the King of Scrila.”

Kriia huffed, already making her way toward the last few boxes. “If you’re the King of Scrila, does that make me your Queen?”

Rexar grinned, a lazy, knowing thing that made something flip low in her stomach. He adjusted the box under his arm, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“Babygirl,” he drawled, voice a little rough from congestion, “you’ve always been my queen.”

She rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw the back of her skull, but—dammit—the warmth in her chest still bloomed anyway.

And just when she thought she was in the clear, ready to put a little space between them before she could make a fool of herself—

Rexar’s breath hitched again.

Kriia froze, box half-lifted.

She watched, wide-eyed, as his crimson-flecked nose twitched, his nostrils flaring slightly as his jaw went slack. His brows pinched together, his breath catching on the precipice of another release.

Kriia’s stomach twisted into a tight, impossible knot.

“hIH’IKTSHhh’uuh! Hh— Hhih—! Het’CHXIEW!! hih’ESCH’iew! ”

Rexar snapped forward again, twisting at the waist, the sheer force of the sneezes rocking him slightly on his feet. A few stray embers flickered in the air for half a second before sizzling out harmlessly.

“Ugh—damn,” he groaned, straightening with a thick sniffle, rubbing the heel of his palm under his nose. “This cold is out to kill me.”

Kriia couldn’t answer.

Because she was staring. Again.

Because every single time—every single time—he sneezed, it did something to her that she couldn’t rationalize, couldn’t explain, couldn’t shove into a neat little box and ignore.

And worse?

She had a sinking feeling that if she didn’t keep herself in check, Rexar would notice.

So she quickly turned back to her boxes, focusing way too hard on taping up a stray flap. “Sucks to suck,” she muttered, attempting to sound unaffected.

Rexar let out a congested, wheezy chuckle, clearly amused.

“Babygirl I’m suffering,” he complained dramatically, rubbing at his nose again. “You’re just gonna let me die like this?”

Kriia snorted. “Rex, it’s a cold, not the plague. You’ll survive.”

“Mm, debatable,” he sniffled thickly, before reaching for another box. “Anyway, let’s get this last load in the truck so I can take my sick, sneezy ass home and move in with my super hot girlfriend.”

Kriia shook her head fondly, still trying to ignore the lingering heat creeping up her neck.

It was fine.

They’d get out of here soon.

And then, hopefully, she could shake whatever this was and just focus on settling into their new place together.

But of course—life had other plans.

The next sneeze took her out like a train.

One moment, Kriia was fine, making a final sweep through the house, checking drawers, closets, making sure nothing was forgotten—

And the next, she was suffocating in a cloud of dust.

The second she pulled open the old linen closet, a plume of dust exploded into the air, settling over her like a curse.

Her breath hitched.

And hitched again.

And then—

“K’tchh! Nnch! Nkch! Ktch! Nkcht! Hh‘gsch!!”

They came so fast, she barely had time to brace herself, body snapping forward helplessly as another rapid-fire fit overtook her.

Her hands shot up, grasping at anything—her sleeve, the collar of her hoodie—before she gave up entirely and simply pinched her nose between two fingers, trying desperately to stop the endless sneezing.

Kriia barely managed to stop the sneezing fit, pinching her nose just in time to smother the last few desperate spasms before they could escape. Her breath hitched a final time, then steadied, though her entire body still trembled from the lingering ticklish burn in her sinuses.

She exhaled shakily, eyes fluttering open, finally regaining control.

And that’s when she saw him.

Rexar stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching her with a look so utterly smitten that Kriia’s already overheated face burned even hotter.

“Oh. My. God.” He grinned, his voice thick with congestion but no less teasing. “Princess—was that you?”

Kriia groaned, immediately looking away, still holding her nose as if that would somehow save her from this exact conversation.

Rexar took a slow step forward, his red-grey eyes practically glowing with adoration. “No, no—babygirl, you don’t understand. That was, like, insanely cute.”

Kriia let out a small, exhausted noise of protest.

“Like, stupidly cute.” Rexar continued, voice dropping into something almost soft, despite the amusement laced in every word. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything that tiny come out of someone before.”

Kriia, still refusing to look at him, muttered something under her breath, but it was lost to the congestion still heavy in her voice.

Rexar, clearly enjoying himself, took another step closer, reaching up to brush a few stray strands of hair from her face.

“You good, babydoll?” he murmured, his teasing tone softening into something gentler.

Kriia finally, finally unpinched her nose, dropping her hand—but before she could so much as formulate a response—

Rexar leaned in.

And kissed her.

Not on the lips.

Not on her cheek.

But—

Right on the tip of her still-pink, irritated nose.

The kiss was featherlight, barely more than a press of his lips, but it stunned Kriia into absolute silence.

She stood there, completely frozen, heart stuttering in her chest, as Rexar pulled back just enough to grin down at her.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice warm, fond, hopelessly smitten.

“That was the cutest fucking thing I’ve ever seen in my entire damn life.”

For a long moment, Kriia could only stand there, blinking up at him, her brain still trying to catch up.

Rexar, ever the tease, simply grinned, unapologetic and utterly delighted with himself.

Kriia exhaled sharply, shaking her head as she finally pulled away.

“You’re so annoying.”

Rexar snorted, stepping back to scoop up the last box near the door. “Yeah, but I’m cute, though.”

Kriia sighed, grumbling under her breath as she grabbed her bag and followed him out the door, carefully locking it behind them.

The air outside was crisp and cool, the sky an endless stretch of deep, twilight blue as the sun dipped toward the horizon. The house—the only home she’d ever really known—stood quiet and still, untouched by time.

Her stomach twisted.

It felt… weird.

Like she was leaving something behind, even though she knew it was time to move forward.

Rexar, as if sensing her shift in mood, didn’t say anything at first.

Instead, he simply stood by the Hummer, waiting for her, his usual loud, teasing energy mellowing into something softer.

When she finally turned toward him, he just smiled—warm and easy, like a silent reassurance that she wasn’t doing this alone.

Something in her chest unraveled.

And without a word, she stepped forward, letting him pull her into a brief, steadying hug.

“Ready?” he murmured.

Kriia inhaled deeply, then exhaled slow.

“…Yeah.”

And with that, they climbed into the car, the engine rumbling to life beneath them, the road ahead stretching long into the night.

The engine of Rexar’s absurdly large Hummer rumbled like an idle beast beneath them, its low, steady growl almost enough to lull Kriia into something close to relaxation. Almost.

Because no matter how much she tried to focus on the road, her traitorous eyes kept straying back to the driver’s seat.

To Rexar.

To his nose.

It was pink. Very pink.

More than usual, at least. The twin red barbell piercings at the bridge only made the irritated flush stand out more, drawing her gaze like a magnet. It twitched almost constantly, nostrils flaring subtly with each congested breath, and Kriia hated how much she noticed it.

She swallowed, forcing her gaze out the window—only for her ears to betray her next.

Rexar sniffled, loud and thick, dragging a knuckle beneath his nose with a soft, grumbly sound of annoyance.

Kriia stiffened, gripping the seatbelt across her chest.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—

Her head turned.

Damn it.

Rexar, oblivious to her turmoil, grinned lazily, though it came out more as a half-smirk, half-winced grimace.

“Ughhh, man.” His voice was hoarse, thick with congestion, but still way too chipper for someone actively dying of a cold. “I am so sexy right now, princess. You don’t even understand.”

Kriia blinked, caught between horrified and vaguely impressed.

“…Huh?”

“I mean, look at me,” he continued, sniffling hard, waving a vague hand in the air. “I’m the picture of health. The peak of Fang evolution. Hell, I might as well be a god.”

Kriia finally managed to tear her gaze from his nose just long enough to give him the flattest look known to mankind.

“You’re literally dripping, Rexar.”

“Exactly.”

She stared.

He grinned.

“…That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Oh, sure it was.” He cleared his throat, though it barely helped the roughness of his voice. “You just don’t wanna admit how devastatingly attracted you are to my sniffly, pathetic ass.”

Kriia, actively fighting for her life, turned back toward the window.

“You’re strange,” she muttered.

“And yet, you wanna kiss me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

Kriia slammed her forehead against the cold glass.

The worst part?

He wasn’t wrong.

Unfortunately, her suffering wasn’t over.

Because not even a second later, another sharp, ticklish prickle flared to life in her sinuses, and she barely had time to gasp before—

“H’NgXt! Hh‘gsch! k’gnsh! Ngt’chh! hptt’CH! h’gTShhHh!”

The sneezes burst out of her in rapid succession, snapping her forward so violently that her seatbelt locked up.

A small, utterly miserable whimper escaped her as she fumbled to wipe her nose against her wrist, her head still spinning.

She had exactly half a second of peace before—

“Oh my fucking god, babe.”

Kriia froze.

Her stomach dropped.

She turned her head just enough to see Rexar watching her, utterly mesmerized, like she’d just done something groundbreaking.

She blinked at him, still half-dazed.

He grinned.

“That was the tiniest, cutest shit I’ve ever heard.”

Kriia groaned, shoving her sleeve over her face. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said immediately, voice thick with congestion but no less smug.

She sniffled sharply against the fabric, eyes watering as the relentless tickle still lingered, making her nose twitch.

Rexar, clearly thriving off her misery, chuckled warmly, keeping one hand on the wheel as he reached over with the other to rake his fingers through her hair.

“You good, babydoll?” he murmured, teasing, but undeniably fond.

Kriia grumbled something incomprehensible, which only made him laugh again.

But the moment she finally pulled her sleeve away from her face—

“Hh‘gsch!! Nngch! H’tshhkt!! ngsh! Heh’n’gtx! Huhhh.. n’gtx!”

Another breathless fit tore through her, making her jerk forward with each desperate sneeze.

“Geezus Christ, Kriia!” Rexar barked out a laugh, turning his head just enough to look at her in pure, awestruck amusement.

Kriia, sniffly and red-faced, glared weakly at him.

“Oh, don’t start,” she groaned.

“I didn’t even say anything!” Rexar grinned, but his expression was so utterly delighted that Kriia immediately narrowed her eyes.

Because suddenly, she was starting to notice a pattern.

Every time she sneezed—every time—Rexar had something to say about it.

And not just something.

Something specific.

Something way too gushy, way too doting, way too over-the-top.

Her stomach twisted.

Slowly, suspiciously, she narrowed her eyes.

“…Why do you keep calling me cute?”

Rexar, who had absolutely no reason to be this cocky while visibly dripping from the nose, arched a brow.

“Because you are?”

Kriia stared at him.

Rexar, utterly oblivious, sniffled thickly and ran a knuckle beneath his irritated nostrils.

Kriia’s stomach tightened.

Because suddenly, the paranoia hit all at once.

What if…?

What if he knew?

What if he found something while they were packing?

What if, somewhere in the depths of one of those old boxes, he came across something that gave her away?

What if—oh god—he was actually making fun of her?

Her face burned.

She crossed her arms, stiffening. “You’re messing with me.”

Rexar, clearly confused, let out a hoarse, sniffly chuckle. “What? Princess, no—”

“No, you’re messing with me,” she accused, whipping around in her seat to squint at him.

Rexar, still so clearly out of the loop, simply gave her a lopsided grin, shifting in his seat. “Why the hell would I— hhet’tCHOO!! hah’ESSHH’IUE!! Hhih—! heT’CHXOO!!—fuck—mess with you?”

The sneezes rocked him forward, and Kriia barely held back a flinch at the sheer force of it, her breath catching at the way his nostrils flared in the aftermath.

She immediately looked away.

Rexar, sniffling thickly, sighed and gave his nose another harsh rub.

“God, I feel like a bag of dicks,” he groaned, voice rough as gravel.

Kriia huffed. “You deserve it.”

“Wow. Rude.”

“Maybe if you let me drive instead of insisting on being a martyr, you’d have time to rest.”

Rexar snorted, but it immediately turned into another sniffle.

“Nah, babe, I got this. I’m—hhHh—! fuck— totally fine.”

Kriia rolled her eyes.

But despite herself—despite everything—her gaze kept drifting.

Kept falling back to him.

To the way his breath kept hitching, never quite catching before dropping back into thick, sluggish sniffles.

To the way his nose kept twitching, his pink nostrils flaring slightly every few seconds like he was constantly on the verge of another sneeze.

To the way his brows kept pinching together, his lips parting subtly every time the irritation built up too fast, only for him to sniffle sharply and push it back down.

And with every single one of her own sneezes, came another adoring, overly affectionate comment.

Every single one.

At this point?

Kriia was starting to spiral.

The drive to the Fang estate stretched on, but the tension in Kriia’s chest refused to ease.

The whole thing felt too pointed.

Rexar, completely oblivious sniffled thickly, rubbing a rough knuckle beneath his pink, irritated nose before clearing his throat with a hoarse little grunt.

"Damn, babe, you sure you don’t wanna make out right now?" he rasped, his voice shredded from congestion but still undeniably smug. "'Cause I feel like I’m at peak attractiveness."

Kriia just stared out the window, gripping the door handle like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

Because she still couldn’t shake the feeling that Rexar was messing with her.

The way he kept commenting on her sneezes—how cute they were, how tiny they sounded, how much he loved them—it was too much.

Too frequent.

Too pointed.

Had he… found something while moving her stuff?

Had he seen something he wasn’t supposed to?

Her stomach twisted uncomfortably.

Because if he had—if he knew—and he was making fun of her for it—

She swallowed hard, jaw tightening.

No. No, he wouldn’t do that.

Rexar was loud, obnoxious, and a relentless tease, but he wasn’t cruel.

But still—the comments.

The constant, unrelenting praise every time she sneezed.

It was like he was pushing it.

Like he was waiting for something.

Kriia risked a glance at him—only to immediately regret it.

Rexar was leaning back in the driver’s seat, one large hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other rubbing idly at his nose, which was still twitching faintly from the aftermath of the last monstrous fit.

His nostrils flared slightly with each sniffle, his breath still uneven, the congestion so thick she could practically feel it in her own chest.

And the worst part?

The smug little smirk on his lips.

Like he knew something.

Like he was waiting for her to say something.

Kriia’s fingers tightened around the door handle.

She needed to be normal about this.

She needed to stop staring at his goddamn nose.

She forced herself to look away.

Forced herself to breathe.

Because if she wasn’t careful, Rexar was gonna figure out exactly what was going on.

The thought made her stomach twist.

By the time they pulled up to the estate, she still hadn’t spoken a word.

And if Rexar noticed her sudden shift in mood, he didn’t say anything.

With a deep, exhausted sigh, he shut off the engine and shoved open the door, stretching with a dramatic groan before immediately sneezing into his elbow.

“Hhhh— hIH’IKTSHhh’uuh! et’CHXIEW!! Hhih—! hih’ESCH’iew! Ugh. Babygirl, we should just go ahead and set the place on fire. It’ll really bring out my natural musk.”

Kriia rolled her eyes, snatching a box from the backseat and stomping toward the front door without a word.

Rexar blinked after her, sniffling thickly.

"Uh. Princess?"

Still no response.

"...You mad ‘cause I sneezed? Damn, I know they’re powerful, but I didn’t think I’d actually offend you."

Kriia still didn’t answer.

Because if Rexar was messing with her—if he was somehow making fun of her—she’d rather drop dead than react to it.

By the time they started hauling boxes inside, Kriia had mostly recovered.

Mostly.

The Fang estate’s empty, cavernous halls echoed their every step, and it took a concentrated effort not to get completely overwhelmed by the sheer size of everything.

Rexar, however, seemed completely unbothered, effortlessly carrying three boxes at once despite actively dripping congestion like a leaking faucet.

“Hey babygirl,” he sniffled thickly, pausing as they dumped the first load in the entryway. “Did you see me just now?”

Kriia, still avoiding his advances, barely glanced up. “Uh. Yeah?”

Rexar sniffled dramatically, tilting his head back with a grin so self-satisfied it could have powered the entire mansion.

“Strongest sick guy ever.”

Kriia let out a slow, weary sigh, eyeing him with pure exasperation.

But just as she opened her mouth—ready to roast him into next week—her gaze caught on the box in his hands.

Wait.

Was that—?

Her medicine cabinet.

Or, at least, the box she had kept all her meds in since she was a teenager.

Finally.

Rexar was too damn stubborn to stop for a break, but maybe if she could quickly swipe some antihistamines, she’d at least survive the rest of this dust-ridden nightmare.

"Oh—thanks, babe, I’ll take that one," she said quickly, reaching out to take the box from him.

Rexar, oblivious, just grinned and handed it over.

Kriia flipped the lid open—

And immediately realized her mistake.

It wasn’t her medicine cabinet.

It was a box of old books.

A box of very dusty old books.

The cloud of dust that erupted from the box was so thick it was visible in the sunlight.

Kriia barely had time to react.

Her eyes widened.

Her breath hitched.

Rexar, mid-sniffle, immediately turned.

“Oh? Oh, babe—are you gonna—?”

Kriia twisted away, barely managing a strangled noise of protest before the fit overtook her.

She barely had time to suck in a gasp before the sneezes began tearing through her, one after another, unstoppable, breathless, overwhelming.

"K’tchh! Nnch! Nkch! Ktch! Nkcht! Hh‘gsch!! Nngch! H’tshhkt!! ngsh! H’NgXt! Hh‘gsch! k’gnsh!Ngt’chh! hh’ihhh!!— Hhihh—! "

They just kept coming.

Kriia stumbled backward, bracing herself against the edge of a half-unpacked box, her head snapping forward helplessly with each desperate, ticklish release. Her nostrils flared wildly, eyes squeezed shut, unable to do anything but succumb to the fit consuming her.

Rexar, who had been struggling through a sneeze of his own just a moment ago, blinked in mild disbelief, then let out a hoarse chuckle, shaking his head.

"Shit, babygirl," he sniffled, swiping the back of his wrist beneath his nose, "I think we’re officially the sneeziest couple in Hiraeth. Gonna have to start charging people for the show."

Kriiabarely managed to glare at him between sneezes.

He grinned, but it faltered when she kept sneezing.

And kept sneezing.

And kept sneezing.

His expression shifted from amusement to mild concern as Kriia desperately tried to stop the fit, fumbling to pinch her nostrils shut just like she had at her dad’s house earlier.

It didn’t work.

Her nose twitched violently against her grip, the congestion thick and unrelenting, her breath still hitching, her body still locked in the relentless, breathless cycle.

"Hey, hey—Princess…"

Rexar stepped in front of her, voice softer now, the teasing lilt replaced with something gentler.

And then—without hesitation—he reached up, catching her twitching nose between his thumb and forefinger, pressing just firmly enough to hold it shut.

Kriia let out a shaky, muffled noise, her entire body jerking at the sensation.

The tickle surged beneath his grasp at first, flaring wildly, making her breath hitch so sharply she thought she might combust—

But then—

Slowly—

Finally—

It faded.

Rexar watched her carefully, his fingers still steady, still holding her nose shut, the congestion there making the softest squelching noise as he adjusted his grip.

"Like this, yeah?" he murmured, tilting his head slightly, waiting for her to confirm.

Kriia exhaled shakily against his palm, her eyelashes fluttering as her body sagged forward in relief.

It worked.

It actually worked.

Rexar held her there for just a moment longer, thumb pressing lightly against the bridge of her nose, before slowly releasing his grip.

Kriia froze.

Her stomach dropped.

Her heart skipped an entire beat.

Oh.

Oh.

She stared at him, stunned, mortified, and still slightly dazed from the fit—blinked up at him, her mind racing.

Because there were two possible explanations for this.

Either—

One: He somehow found out about her thing—her little, barely-admitted, never-acted-on-in-her-entire-life kink—and he was making fun of her.

Or—

Two.

He had one too.

The silence stretched just a second too long, and Rexar’s teasing grin finally faltered.

Slowly, carefully, she searched his expression.

Really searched.

Looking for any sign of amusement. Any hint of mockery. Anything that would suggest he was messing with her.

And—

There was nothing.

Nothing but genuine affection in his red-grey gaze. Nothing but fondness in the curve of his half-smile.

…Oh my God.

Kriia swallowed hard.

“…Why do you always have to comment on my sneezes, Rex?” she asked self-consciously, voice quiet, testing him.

Rexar did not hesitate.

His grin snapped right back into place—warm, shameless, entirely unbothered.

“Because I love them?” he admitted, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

And then—just to make sure she really got the message—

“I do have a sneeze kink, babygirl...”

So casually.

Like he was commenting on the weather.

Like he was saying, hey, it might rain later.

Kriia’s entire brain short-circuited.

She stared at him.

Rexar blinked.

“…What?” he asked, like she was the one acting weird.

Kriia opened her mouth—then closed it.

Opened it again.

Closed it again.

Then, finally—

“No, you do not.”

Rexar snorted, sniffling thickly. “Babydoll. Yes, I do.”

“No,” Kriia insisted. “I—I would remember that.”

Rexar’s brows pulled together slightly, like he was genuinely confused.

“Wait,” he muttered, tilting his head. “I swear I told you about it months ago?”

Kriia let out a disbelieving laugh. “You did not.”

“Are you sure?” Rexar rubbed his nose absently against his sleeve, sniffling again. “Because I feel like I did.”

“You didn’t!” Kriia cried, flustered beyond belief. “Believe me, if you had, I would have—”

She cut herself off.

Too late.

Rexar’s grin stretched wider.

His red-grey eyes gleamed.

“You would have what?” he asked, way too amused.

Kriia went rigid.

She stared at him.

The only sound was the distant echo of the house settling around them, the wind shifting outside the windows—

And Rexar’s damp, stuffy sniffle as he dragged his sleeve across his nose.

And then—barely above a whisper, stunned, mortified, and still very much recovering from what he had just said—

“…I do too.”

Rexar froze.

Kriia wanted to die.

Her face burned.

Her entire body burned.

For a long, painfully drawn-out moment, neither of them spoke.

The words still hung in the air, raw, unfiltered, and Kriia could feel her own pulse thrumming in her throat, loud and insistent.

Rexar just stared.

His red-grey eyes, still glassy from fever, blinked once—slow, unfocused. Then twice.

And then—

He sniffled, hard, dragging the back of his wrist beneath his still-twitching nose again.

“Wait.” His voice was hoarse, thick with congestion, but undeniably incredulous.
“Run that back for me real quick.”

Kriia swallowed hard, immediately regretting every single life choice that had led her to this moment.

Rexar’s bleary stare did not waver.

“‘Cause it kinda sounded like you just said,” he continued, rubbing at his nose with the back of his knuckles, his grin slowly creeping back onto his face—“that you, my hotass, gorgeous, absolute smoke show of a girlfriend, have a sneeze kink.”

Kriia could have died right then and there.

Instead—against her better judgment—she clapped a hand over her face and muttered, weak, mortified, barely above a whisper—

“…I did.”

Silence.

Then—

A slow, deep, thoroughly congested inhale.

And a wheezy, unrepentant, utterly delighted laugh.

Kriia groaned, loud and suffering. “Oh my God, Rex—”

“Nah—nah—” Rexar rasped, grinning so hard it had to hurt. He sniffled sharply, shaking his head like he needed to make sure he was hearing her right. “So you’re telling me—”

“No.”

“—That this whole time—”

“Rexar—”

“—While I’ve been walking around sneezing my literal lungs out like a damn flamethrower—”

“Rexar Fucking Fang.”

“—You’ve just been out here silently losing your mind?”

Kriia’s entire body was burning.

She turned away sharply, refusing to meet his gaze. “I—shut up.”

“Oh, this is amazing.” Rexar scrubbed a hand down his exhausted face, still grinning like a lunatic. “My hotass, perfect, badass Scrilian girlfriend has been hiding her sneeze kink from me.”

Kriia, officially planning her own funeral, let out a frustrated noise and tried to walk away.

Big mistake.

Because before she could escape, Rexar—still visibly feverish, but apparently not weak enough to miss an opportunity—reached out and snatched her up by the waist.

He reeled her right back in.

And, to her absolute horror, he nuzzled—nuzzled—his fever-warm face against her shoulder.

Like some kind of needy, oversized, fire-breathing kitten.

Kriia froze, her brain short-circuiting between two equally strong instincts:

1. Shove him away immediately before she lost her entire mind.

2. Sink into his warmth like a touch-starved idiot.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me," Rexar murmured dramatically, hoarse and wrecked, his words thick with fever and congestion.

Kriia flinched, her hands hovering uselessly at her sides.

"Rexar, what the—" she started, scrambling for literally any argument, because she absolutely could not let him see how much she didn’t actually mind.

She opened her mouth—
Paused.
Floundered.

…Because she couldn’t exactly complain about him being sick.

Not when she was—
Not when that was—

Nope.

Absolutely not.

So instead—her traitorous mouth blurted out the next best thing.

"You're so damn heavy."

Rexar snorted, but it immediately dissolved into a thick, miserable sniffle.

"Nuh-uh, nope, you’re stuck with me," He rasped, barely intelligible through congestion, clinging to her despite his ridiculous lack of energy. “Can’t believe you didn’t tell me, babygirl. We coulda been sneezing on each other this whole time.”

Kriia made a sound that was not of the mortal plane.

"Do not phrase it like that."

"But it’s true," Rexar sniffled pathetically, blinking up at her with red-rimmed, fever-hazy eyes. "Think of all the missed opportunities. We could’ve been livin’ the dream. I could’ve been sneezing on you, for you, because of you."

Kriia whimpered.

"Rexar, please, I’m begging you to stop talking."

"And you—" he ignored her entirely, "—you coulda been sneezing all over me. Just a little sneezy princess and her fire hazard of a boyfriend."

"I’m going to throw up."

"You’re gonna have to now, babydoll," he grinned, voice pure evil. "Cause I’m gonna be so annoying about this."

Kriia let out a strangled noise.

Rexar—still sniffling thickly, still clinging to her like a furnace-warm barnacle—just laughed, weak and hoarse, and nuzzled further into her neck.

"I love you, babygirl," he muttered, half-delirious with fever, but full of warmth, his breath still slightly hitching like he wasn’t done sneezing yet.

“I love you, too, butthead…” Kriia groaned again, not sure whether she wanted to kiss him or throw him directly into the sun.

Maybe both.

For a long moment, Kriia just stood there, caught in the ridiculous fever-warmed gravity that was Rexar Fang.

The weight of him, the heat of him, the utter lack of shame as he clung to her like an overgrown child with separation anxiety—

She let out a slow, measured exhale, her eyes fluttering shut as she attempted—tried, really—to mentally reset.

Okay.

This was fine.

This was just her life now.

Her big, ridiculous, fire-breathing idiot of a boyfriend had just casually admitted to having a sneeze kink, was actively melting against her with fever, and was now nuzzling into her neck like he was trying to burrow into her soul.

Totally normal.

Totally fine.

Nothing to freak out about.

Kriia sucked in a breath, willing herself to find the strength—the patience—the sanity to deal with the creature currently latched onto her like an overgrown koala.

"Rex," she started, voice dangerously steady.

"Yeah, princess?"

His words were thick with congestion, his hoarse rasp vibrating directly against her neck as he nuzzled in even further, like he planned to just fuse into her body and live there forever.

She gritted her teeth.

"Let. Go."

Rexar hummed, considering.

"Nah," he finally decided, his grip tightening, his voice a touch too smug for someone who was actively falling apart at the seams.

Kriia huffed out a breath through her nose, eyes narrowing.

She could do this.
She could handle this.
She could—

Rexar sniffled sharply, his entire frame shuddering, and Kriia barely had time to process the warning signs before—

"hh’KTSHH’uhhh!! HaH’tTSCHhiew!! Hhih—! hhhh’HIXTTSHH’ieu! "

A trio of unrestrained, harsh sneezes tore through him, rocking his entire oversized frame against her, his grip momentarily loosening as he snapped forward, his breath catching and stuttering even as he tried to recover.

Kriia, officially having seen enough, took the opportunity to wrench herself free.

Rexar made a pathetic noise of protest, still sniffling as he blinked up at her with hazy, dazed, red-rimmed eyes.

"Princess, wait, come back, I’m fragile—"

"You are not fragile," Kriia snapped, aggressively brushing herself off, like she could physically shake off the effects of his existence.

Rexar gave her his best pitiful look, rubbing a shaky knuckle under his pink, irritated nose.

"But I could be," he muttered. "If it means you’ll cuddle me again."

Kriia closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath.

When she opened them, he was still looking at her like that.

Like she had personally handed him the greatest gift of his life.

Like she wasn’t seconds away from throwing him out a window.

And then—because apparently, she hadn’t suffered enough today—

His breath hitched again.

His red-grey eyes fluttered, nostrils twitching, before—

"hh’NGXSHhh!! Hhah—! hIH’IKTSHhh’uuh! HAHH—! HAHH’IKKTsh—uhh!"

Another messy, fire-laced fit ripped through him, sending embers scattering onto the already scorched floorboards.

Kriia stared.

Rexar sniffled, wiping his sleeve under his nose, and then—

Grinned.

"Bet that did something for ya, huh?"

Kriia malfunctioned.

Her entire system shut down.

Rebooting…

Rexar laughed—hoarse, exhausted, and way too pleased with himself as he latched his lanky frame around her again.

"Oh, babygirl," he teased, voice thick with congestion and amusement. "We’re gonna have so much fun living together."

Kriia groaned again, shoving at his shoulders weakly. "Rexar."

"KrIiA." he mimicked, his face again smushed against her neck, his voice a rasp of congestion and exhaustion.

"You’re burning up," she muttered, trying and failing to untangle herself from his grip.

"’m fine," he sniffled, immediately contradicting himself as his breath hitched sharply.

Kriia felt it—the sharp tremor in his chest, the way his broad frame tensed against her as another fit took hold.

"Oh, for fuck's sake—"

"hhHh’ESHHh’uhh!!— HIHH—! hihh’KXXtsh’chhu!!—hh'ieXSHHH’UEHH!!"

Fire. Heat. A blast of fevered warmth against her shoulder as flames flickered against the air, tiny embers skittering to the floor before burning out.

Rexar let out a long, miserable groan, scrubbing at his nose.

Kriia just stared.

Her brain was actively buffering.

"…D-did you just—"

"Princess," Rexar croaked, tilting his head up to blink blearily at her. "You cannot tell me that wasn’t the hottest shit you’ve ever seen in your life."

Kriia gaped.

"Rexar, you just sneezed actual fire on me."

"Yeah, and?"

"And—" she flailed. "—AND? You just set me on fire a little bit!"

"Okay, but hear me out." Rexar sniffled, completely unbothered. "That was objectively sexy as hell."

"You’re objectively an idiot."

"And you’re objectively into it."

Kriia whimpered, violently covering her face with both hands.

Rexar’s grin was devastating.

"This is the best day of my life," he announced, fully congested, barely keeping himself upright, still somehow the cockiest man alive. "This is even better than the time Thorne got stuck in a tree."

Kriia peeked at him between her fingers. "…Why was Thorne in a tree?"

Rexar shrugged. "I dunno, I think he was mad about something? Nyx said she was testing his ability to adapt under pressure."

"…And?"

"He adapted by climbing a tree like an idiot and refusing to come down for six hours."

Kriia blinked.

"…Your family is unhinged."

Rexar snickered but then immediately winced, scrubbing at his nose again as the tickle flared back to life.

Kriia, despite her exhaustion, despite the fact that her entire worldview had been forcibly rearranged in the last ten minutes, couldn’t help the way her stomach flipped in anticipation.

And Rexar, because he was the most annoying man on the planet, clocked it immediately.

"Oh-hoh, babydoll," he sniffled, tilting his head like he was actively having the time of his life. "That’s a look."

Kriia went feral.

"Shut up," she snapped, stepping back, but Rexar was already following her, lazy, sniffling, all fever-warmed amusement.

"Nuh-uh," he grinned. "Now that I know? Now that we know?" He leaned in, all heat, all mischief. "Sweetheart, it’s over for you."

Kriia was in hell.

And the worst part?

She might have loved it.

The End ✨

[aller-geez]

Send me more of these? 🖤🖤🖤

Still working on a few, but still~

✧ 𝓐𝓼𝓴𝓼 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓢𝓷𝔃 𝓞𝓒𝓼 ✧

- Reblog to get questions in your inbox! This is an 18+ only ask game. Thank you! -

👃 Does the character have an interest in snz? Do they prefer sneezing, or seeing others sneeze, or both?

🎼 Loud sneezes, or quiet sneezes? Is their voice high or low pitched? What does it sound like?

💯 How many sneezes in an average sneezing fit?

🌸 Do they have any allergies?

❄️ How frequently do they catch colds?

😖 What cold symptom is most bothersome for them?

😳 Are they embarrassed about sneezing in front of others? In front of someone they like? Why or why not?

😑 Is it easy or difficult for them to admit to being sick?

🙊 Do they tend to stifle?

🛏️ Are they willing to stay in bed when they’re sick?

🌡️ Would they be good at caring for a sick person, or would they be a little lost?

🍜 How do they like to be comforted when they’re sick? Or, how do they like to comfort others?

🤧 Do they carry a handkerchief/tissues?

💞 Do they want company when they have a cold or do they want to be left alone?

❤️‍🩹 Do they get emotional when they’re sick?

🖤 Have they ever been shamed or neglected for being sick, or have they always been well cared for?

❤️‍🔥 What’s something they would admit during a fever/illness they wouldn’t admit at any other time?

❤️ How sexual are they outside of snz?

💧 How stoic or openly vulnerable are they overall?

💗 Are they a top, bottom, or switch?

🫦 Do they have any other kinks?

[aller-geez]

hi! could you please make some more Rexar content? like literally anything. I love him with my whole heart and his combustible snzes are to die for! (if not just ignore this lmfao) - xoxo, Rexar's number one fan aka Daniel

Thanks so much for this req! (You get all the brownie points for liking my firey chaotic boy, Wreck-xar 😈)

Honestly, I will never NOT have time for rexar content 😩😩

So please enjoy this snzy rexar cover, as well as this 8k+ Rexar sickfic of Kriia trying to take care of a sick Rex, who’s being a menace the entire time and teasing her for enjoying his sneezes and misery 🤤🤤

Hot Mess Express

Written & illustrated by allergeez ✨

Summary: A blizzard traps flame-wielding Rexar Fang and his sharp-tongued partner Kriia inside a snow-buried estate—but it's not the cold that's the problem. When Rexar catches a fire-fueled fever, complete with uncontrollable sneezing fits that spark literal flames, their cozy lockdown turns volatile fast. Kriia insists she’s just taking care of him... but Rexar knows better. Between scorched pillowcases, smoldering towels, and some very suspicious flinching, secrets start to unravel. A slow-burn (literally), kink-laced sickfic where heat meets snow, and denial goes up in smoke.

The capital city of Scrila, Glacivryn, pulsed like a frozen jewel beneath a blanket of thick, falling snow. Skyscrapers rose in gleaming tiers, their glass faces lit by the violet blush of dusk and the constant hum of neon signage. Holograms flickered across skyrails, static-kissed advertisements stuttering into place like ghosts. In the far distance, beyond the city’s volcanic ridgelines, a plume of smoke curled lazily from Mount Rhaskorr’s glowing crown—its massive silhouette a constant reminder that Scrila was always half a second from chaos.

But inside the Fang estate—one of many Rexar’s family owned, and the only one currently occupied—there was nothing but stillness and heat.

The great hall roared with warmth from a hearth as tall as Kriia herself, the crackling logs giving off a heat she’d coaxed from the shadows herself, tucked beneath the kindling to encourage the flames. Pillows and throws blanketed the sunken seating around the firepit, and in the middle of it all lounged Rexar Fang, shirtless, smirking, and entirely too pleased with himself.

“Y’know,” he drawled, raising his glass of dark rum to the light, “for a place made of snow and concrete, this joint has excellent acoustics.”

Kriia rolled her eyes from her corner of the low, velvet couch, draped in one of Rexar’s oversized hoodies and nursing her own drink—a glittering cherry cordial with something a little dangerous in it. Her crimson hair was braided back, a few tendrils sticking to her flushed cheeks from the heat. “It’s not the stone, hothead. You just like hearing yourself talk.”

Rexar grinned, sharp and lazy. “I do have a great voice.”

“You’re full of shit.”

“And you love it.”

She snorted, but the way her nose scrunched said yes, maybe, and Rexar leaned back against the cushions with the smugness of a man who’d just been proven right.

The moment hung sweet and slow between them, steeped in heat and liquor and the soft crackle of fire. Snow whispered thick against the tall windows behind them, glazing the city skyline in frost. Their estate overlooked the east district—hazy towers of light blurring into the dark clouds above, the faint glitter of trains streaking between glass bridges.

And then—

“Snff.”

The tiniest, sloppiest sniff broke the spell.

Kriia blinked.

Rexar blinked back.

“What,” he asked flatly, “was that look?”

“Was what look?” she said, innocently swirling her drink.

“That ‘I just heard something you’re not admitting to’ look.”

“You did sniffle.”

“I did not.” His voice cracked slightly and he cleared his throat in response, which absolutely did not help his case.

Kriia’s eyes narrowed, playful but sharp. “Rex.”

He lifted his rum like it was a shield. “Maybe a little. The air’s just dry.”

Her brow arched slowly.

“Babygirl,” he smirked, eyes glowing a little too bright. “I literally control fire. My sinuses don’t get cold. I'm fine.”

“Right.”

“Swear on my pyre.”

“You sneezed in your sleep last night.”

“That was a fluke.”

“It singed the pillowcase.”

“…I plead the fifth.”

Before she could toss another remark, the wall display above the hearth buzzed to life, shifting the mood with a quiet urgency. A crisp, automated voice filled the room:

“ATTENTION: Glacivryn residents are advised to remain indoors. A Category-5 snowfront is moving in from the northwest, with expected accumulation of two meters and sub-zero wind conditions. City-wide travel restrictions will begin at 0400. Secure all exterior vents and emergency systems. This is not a drill.”

The screen dimmed back into silence, casting eerie blue shadows across the floor.

Rexar swirled his drink once. Took a slow sip. “Dramatic.”

Kriia was already sliding her legs off the couch. “We should seal the terrace doors before it ices over. I’ll make a list of things to charge overnight. Did you start the backup generator last week or should I—”

“You’re so serious,” Rexar interrupted, grinning as he dragged her back down onto the cushions beside him. “Babydoll, It’s a snowstorm. Not the apocalypse.”

She thumped him lightly in the chest, but didn’t move away. “This isn’t Aleda. Your ass is gonna find out real quick that Scrilan snow doesn’t care how hot your blood is.”

He leaned in, bumping his forehead against hers, breath warm. “I’m tougher than some snow.”

Just as he said it, another, wetter sniffle slipped out—this time followed by the barest flare of heat across his cheeks.

Kriia just smirked. “Sure you are, hothead.”

And outside, the blizzard began to howl.

The storm arrived just after midnight.

By then, the city of Glacivryn had disappeared beneath a white veil. Lights shimmered dimly behind frosted glass, traffic ceased, and rooftops turned to ghostly shapes under the thickening weight of snow. The skyline looked dreamlike, distant. Silent.

Inside the Fang estate, however, silence was elusive.

Kriia stirred in the dark, her lashes fluttering as her senses roused one by one. The blankets tangled around her legs were too warm. The air, humid with heat, tasted… off.

Then she smelled it—smoke. Familiar, but wrong.

Not the usual lazy maple-sweet scent that clung to Rexar’s skin and trailed in lazy coils from his nose. This was thicker, sharper. Acrid and slow-burning, like scorched syrup and candlewax. It curled beneath her nose like a warning.

She blinked her eyes open and rolled onto her side.

Rexar lay sprawled beside her, chest bare, the blankets pushed down to his waist. His broad frame heaved with uneven breaths, sweat clinging to his collarbones, turning the dips of his skin into glowing bronze shadows. His head lolled slightly to the side, brows drawn, and his mouth hung open, breath rasping against the dry air. But her gaze locked, as it always did lately, on his nose.

It twitched. Smoke, darker than usual,was pouring from it.

Not dramatically—nothing that screamed fire hazard—but the thick, curling wisps escaped steadily from both nostrils, dark and lazy. It hazed in the low moonlight coming through the stained-glass windows, turning amber against the deep blue shadows. Kriia pushed herself up on one elbow, squinting through the haze. "Shit…" she whispered, barely audible.

And now, without a doubt, Kriia knew—this wasn’t just a flare-up.

He was sick.

Not just a passing chill or a sniffle from Scrila’s brutal winds. Not this time. The signs were all there—the heat bleeding off him unevenly, his breath raspy, nostrils twitching constantly in his sleep like he was still fighting the next sneeze.

Her chest tightened. This wasn’t her indestructible, showboating firestarter anymore.

His freckles glowed faintly in the dark, and the tip of his nose twitched sharply.

A pink flush bloomed high across his cheekbones, painting over his freckles like fever-blushed constellations. The tip of his nose twitched again once—twice—before a long, ragged inhale hitched deep in his chest.

“Hhhihhh… et’CHXIEW!!—heT’CHXOO!!—et’tCHOO!!”

Gods above.

Three in rapid, forceful succession. Even unconscious, his body obeyed its rhythm. Each sneeze burst from him like a cannon, jets of orange flame shooting out past the crook of his arm, scorching the foot of the bed and licking briefly at the edge of a fur throw before dying out.

Kriia's thighs pressed together without permission. The sound was beautiful as always—raw, forceful, unrestrained. His whole body curled, and with each sneeze, flames shot from his face like violent kisses. The heat danced in the dark air, scorching the foot of the bed.

She flinched, but not from fear. No—what she felt was something far more dangerous.

Fascination.

And that fascination only deepened as the fit continued, his nose twitching, breath faltering again—drawn deep into his chest before another triple burst exploded out of him.

“Hhhuhh… hhh—et’CHXIEW!!—heT’CHXOO!!—et’tCHOO!!”

He’s gorgeous, she thought. And then hated herself for it. He’s sick. Pathetic. Burning up. And I want to—what, study him? Listen to more? Gods, what is wrong with me?

She shook herself mentally, dragging the covers up, her face burning almost as much as the scorch marks.

His breath rattled softly in his throat, and his nostrils gave a faint, twitchy flare.

He was far from done.

As she adjusted the covers over his fever-hot frame, his brows knit tighter, his nose twitching with a telltale shudder. His breath caught sharply, chest expanding with a shaky inhale.

“Hhhuhh… hh-hihh’EXCHhh!!—hH’ieCHHH’uuh!—et’tCHOO!”

All three erupted in quick succession, each one harsher than the last, and even in his sleep, Rexar only barely turned his head in time. Thin jets of flame burst from his mouth and nostrils with each violent sneeze, scorching the air above the bed and briefly illuminating the high ceiling with a flickering orange glow.

Kriia winced, yanking the blankets up higher over him and muttering a curse under her breath.
His head lolled back, and a thick sniffle broke the silence as he shifted restlessly against the pillows.

Outside, the wind had picked up. The storm’s lullaby was turning into a roar, snow slamming against the stained glass windows like it was clawing to get inside. Shadows danced across the vaulted ceiling as the fire in the hearth sputtered and popped, almost like it was responding to the unrest in the bed.

Kriia exhaled slowly, gathering her thoughts. Her fingers curled tighter around the blankets.

She could wake him. Ask him directly. Tell him to take something now, before it got worse.

But…

Rexar Fang didn’t do “sick.” Not in his mind. He let her be the vulnerable one. He made the tea, held her tissues, rubbed her back through flu-season nightmares. He was the heat in her coldest months—her reckless, volatile, fiercely loyal furnace.

He didn’t do the best with being cooped up, especially when it involved not catching things on fire…

So instead, she slipped quietly out of bed, the chill biting her bare legs as her feet touched the stone floor. She padded across the room to grab an extra blanket from the armoire, tossing it gently over him with practiced ease. He shifted but didn’t wake, sighing into the pillow with a low congested murmur.

“Dumbass,” she whispered with a quiet smile, brushing a curl of damp hair from his brow. “You really thought Scrila wasn’t gonna win eventually, huh?”

He didn’t answer.

But his breath hitched again—sharply this time, with a tremble that rolled through his chest like a brewing storm.

Kriia barely managed to grab a tissue from her bedside before—

“Hihhh’EXTSH’ue!!—hH’EiSCH’iiew!!—H’eSTCH’iu!!”

Another three more brutal sneezes tore from him, one after the next, bursting into open air. Flames lanced from his nose and mouth, the tissue in Kriia’s hand instantly igniting in a flash of gold-orange before she could even bring it close. His whole body jolted with the force of the fit, broad shoulders curling forward, heat rippling off his skin like a forge out of rhythm.

She cursed under her breath, swatting at the air with the ruined scrap of tissue.

Definitely fevered. Probably flame-logged.

Absolutely, undeniably sick.

She stood there in the flickering dark, snow screaming against the glass, and sighed.

“Well,” she muttered. “Guess I’m on fire patrol now.”

And from the bed, Rexar groaned hoarsely, still half-asleep—
“…Wasn’t gonna say bless you anyway…”

Kriia snorted.
Yeah. He was gonna be great to deal with tomorrow.

By morning, the entire estate was swallowed in snow.

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the great hall revealed little more than a blank wall of white, ice crusting the lower panes. The roads in Glacivryn had vanished, streetlights buried, skyrail lines shut down for the foreseeable future. Somewhere out there, beneath five feet of snow, the capital city pulsed in slumber. And within the ancient Fang estate, the only movement was the warm golden flicker of the hearth—and the slow, uneven shuffle of one (1) extremely stubborn pyromancer.

Rexar Fang was up.

Barefoot. Shirtless. And absolutely determined to pretend like he wasn’t seconds away from combusting every time he inhaled.

His nose was raw—pink and glowing faintly beneath a bridge of congested freckles. His dark lashes were damp, his breath a crackling mess, and his hair stuck out in a dozen different directions as Kriia stood in the doorway, watching him slump over the kitchen counter like a man in denial. He sniffled wetly, rubbed his nose with the back of his wrist—again—and she had to swallow the tiny sound that wanted to escape her throat.

Kriia leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and expression flat. “You look like a sneeze in a blender.”

“M’fine,” Rexar muttered, thick and low and completely unconvincing. He didn’t look at her—probably because his eyes were still half-swollen from the sinus pressure. His voice was scorched to ash, barely more than gravel wrapped in smoke. “Just need food.”

“You need a medic.”

“I am a medic,” he rasped with a playful smirk.

“You failed that class.”

“On purpose.”

“Rexar.”

She rolled her eyes, but her attention kept drifting to his nose. Raw. Pink. Constantly twitching. Like it was teasing her. Like it knew.

He lifted his head and flashed her a grin that might’ve worked better if his nose hadn’t twitched violently mid-smirk. He froze. Eyes fluttered. His breath hitched—

“Ehhh’NGXX—et’CHXIEW!!—heT’CHXOO!!”

Another three in a row, violent and blazing. Fire burst in a tight arc from his mouth and nose, incinerating a kitchen towel and catching the corner of a fruit basket. The flames licked up the backsplash tile for all of three seconds before Rexar waved one hand, muttering a congested apology.

He blinked blearily at the mess.

“…Well, shit,” he mumbled.

Kriia sighed. “You sneezed directly into the bananas…”

“They were fake anyway.”

“They were ceramic.”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t care. Already made pancakes.”

He motioned to a plate sitting off to the side—stacked high with perfectly golden, still-steaming pancakes, topped with a melting knob of butter and fresh syrup. Kriia stared at them, then at him. Then back again.

“Wait—you made those like that?”

“Still got it, babygirl.”

And damn it, he did. Kriia had no idea how someone with such a fever and a nose like a leaky volcano could pull off diner-level perfection, but there it was—fluffy, golden, divine.

She took the plate from his hands, trying to stay focused on the meal—and not on the man who made it. But gods, it was hard not to stare.

Every sniffle from him was like a tug on some invisible thread inside her, tightening low and hot. She tried to breathe through it, tried to think about anything else—but the way his nose twitched had her pulse fluttering like wings against her ribs.

Rexar looked like hell. A flushed mess of tangled curls and bleary eyes, his usually golden-tan skin blotched with fever, and his nose—gods, his nose—was an absolutely tragic shade of pink, glowing raw at the tip with every sniffle. It twitched constantly, as if the fire inside him was smoldering just beneath the surface, fighting to burst free at any second.

She couldn’t stop watching it. The delicate flare, the subtle pre-sneeze hitch of breath—it was maddening. Erotic, even, in a way that made her stomach flip. She bit down on her lip and pretended it was just concern. Not that she wanted to see it again. Not that she was already imagining what it would sound like when he finally—

And he was still smiling like a smug little shit.

Gods, he knew. He had to know.

Kriia bit the inside of her cheek.

Her thighs pressed closer together under the counter.

She was not going to think about how cute he looked when he was sick. Not going to let the way he kept rubbing at his nose with the back of his wrist distract her. Not going to melt every time his voice cracked on a word and he coughed softly into his shoulder like he didn’t want her to hear it.

Definitely not going to replay that last sneeze in her head like it was some kind of forbidden melody.

Nope. Not today.

Except her breath had already gone shallow, and she couldn’t stop waiting—listening—for the next telltale hitch of breath.

She gave herself a mental slap, steeling her face as she turned to take a bite of the pancakes—diverting her gaze just in time to avoid getting caught staring at him like he was a kicked puppy with flame-licked sinuses.

Gods, his sinuses. That glow, that twitch—was she actually flushed from the firelight, or just from imagining the sound he’d make when—

Rexar, for his part, either didn’t notice or didn’t have the energy to call her on it. He grabbed his own plate, mumbled something about syrup, and shuffled out of the kitchen.

And she nearly groaned, disappointed, watching his back retreat without another sneeze.

And then it happened.

“Hihh—hh-hihh’EXCHhh!!—hH’ieCHHH’uuh!—et’tCHOO!!”

It hit her like a punch—hot, raw, beautiful. His body jolting forward, the flames curling out in ribbons, the sound deep and perfect and wrecked. Her breath caught. Her knees wobbled. Gods, she was the worst.

Flames shot out of him as he sneezed directly into his own pancakes. The top half of the stack ignited with a whoosh, curling black at the edges, smoke trailing up toward the ceiling vent.

Rexar stared at the plate, shoulders slumped. Sniffled wetly.

“…Well. Shit.”

Kriia took a bite of hers, chewed slowly, and said nothing.

“I can’t even taste them anyway,” he muttered, defeated, watching syrup bubble into ash. “Snffk. Probably just gonna burn my tongue…”

She swallowed, still not speaking.

“…Still good effort, right?”

He turned, blinking at her through swollen eyelids and the haze of his own residual heat.

Kriia raised an eyebrow.

“Okay,” she said. “Go to bed.”

“I’m not that sick,” Rexar croaked, turning to drop the flaming wreck of his breakfast into the sink. “Just need to keep mov—Hihhh’KNGXSHHH!—hH’EKSCHhhuuh!—nXGtCHhh!”

Another triple hit him mid-turn, and this time the force staggered him into the counter. Sparks flared from his nostrils, leaving faint singe marks on the backsplash. His knees buckled slightly, and the groan he let out afterward was nothing short of pathetic.

Kriia didn’t move.

“I’m—snffk—fine,” he rasped again, grabbing a paper towel and wiping soot off the counter like that might fix it.

She took a long, slow sip of coffee. “Is that why the toaster’s smoking?”

He blinked toward it.

Sure enough, the toaster behind him was glowing faintly at the edges.

“…Oh.”

“Bed,” she repeated, firmer now.

“No—wait, I haven’t—hh-hold on—Hihhh-’ESSHH’IUE!!—hh'ieXSHHH!—Hxxtschhh!”

The fire this time was smaller, but it left a new trail of scorched air behind his staggered frame. Kriia had already moved forward, grabbing him gently but decisively by the elbow.

“Nope. That’s it. We’re done.”

He tried to pull back with a smirk, even as his knees wobbled. “Babygirl, you can’t just manhandle me into—”

She tugged.

He stumbled.

“Okay, okay! I’m going—geez, shadow demon strength—!”

“Save it.”

“You like my firepower—”

“You’re banned from the kitchen until you stop using your nose as a blowtorch.”

“Rude.”

He sniffled wetly. “Okay, in my defense…”

“You sneezed on the bananas.”

“They were decorative.”

“They were ceramic.”

He blinked blearily at the half-melted fruit basket, then rubbed his wrist under his nose with a pathetic little groan. Kriia's jaw tightened at the sound. She looked away—too late.

“Uh huh,” Rexar drawled, lips curving. “There it is.”

“There what is,” she snapped automatically.

“That little flinch.” He stepped closer, voice smug through the congestion. “That tiny breath you take every time I so much as twitch.”

She tried to ignore him. Bad idea.

He sniffled again—sharper this time, wetter—and then tipped his head back with a groan.

“Ehhh’NGXX—et’CHXIEW!!—heT’CHXOO!!”

The triple ripped through him like thunder, fire crackling from his nostrils, singeing the corner of the countertop. A puff of smoke drifted lazily upward.

Kriia didn’t move.

But her thighs pressed together. Just a little.

Rexar smirked.

“Gods, you are so easy.”

She scowled. “Don’t.”

“What? I can’t enjoy a little kink appreciation now and then?”

“That is not what this is.”

“You literally flinched like I slapped your soul.”

“You set the bananas on fire!”

“You gasped.”

“It was involuntary.”

“So was that little noise in your throat.”

She turned to leave, and he stepped in front of her, blocking the doorway. He sniffled again—deliberately this time—and leaned down so his voice brushed her ear.

“You like it when I sneeze,” he whispered, voice raspy, low, burning. “You like it messy. Loud. Desperate.”

She pushed at his chest, but his warmth soaked through her fingers.

“Rexar, I swear—”

“You like the way it sounds,” he murmured, nose twitching again as if on cue. “The way it Hh—builds. The way I can’t stop it. You want to watch it.”

“Get out of my way.”

“You gonna help me blow my nose later, babygirl?” His smile was sinful. “Wanna hold the tissue for me again?”

She shoved past him, face on fire. “You are the worst.”

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

“You’re gonna sneeze-flinch in the hallway too, or should I save it?”

“Try it and I will dunk your entire face in a snowbank.”

“I’ll sneeze all over it.”

“I know you will!”

Behind her, he sniffled wetly, deliberately, and called after her:
“Hope you brought the good towels, sweetheart. I’m feeling extra flammable today.”

She didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

But gods, her knees were weak.

And Rexar grinned, rubbing at his nose with a satisfied hum.

Rexar had insisted he wasn’t dying, but from the way he collapsed into the couch like he’d just fought a battle, Kriia wasn’t so sure.

She’d never seen him like this—his usual molten confidence tamped down to soft embers, barely glowing beneath a mess of tissues and matted hair. He was flushed, sniffling, and clearly trying not to look as sick as he sounded.

And gods, he sounded terrible.

The congestion in his voice made every word a gravelly rasp. He sniffled constantly, half-heartedly trying to keep up with the tissues Kriia had stacked beside him in a ceramic tray she usually used for incense. His head leaned against the back of the couch, neck exposed, jaw slack as he breathed through parted lips—because his nose was completely useless.

Kriia had turned the great hall into a makeshift infirmary. She pulled in every blanket she could find, layering them in soft stacks until Rexar looked like some feverish prince of pillows. A kettle of tea steamed nearby, surrounded by herbal sachets and jars of honey. The air was heavy with moisture from the humidifier she’d set out to cycle with the room’s dry heat. A cold compress lay across his forehead, and the scent of eucalyptus filled the space.

Kriia was focused. Mostly.

The humidifier hissed. Herbal tea steeped. She replaced yet another damp cloth on his flushed forehead while carefully ignoring the way his breath kept hitching beneath her fingers.

"Gods, you really went full mom mode,” Rexar croaked, peeking at her from under the towel. “You got an apron hiding under all that sarcasm?”

"Shut up and drink your tea,” Kriia said, adjusting the compress on his head. “You're lucky I don’t lace it with a sleeping draught.”

“Wouldn’t stop my nose from tr—trihhh… hhehhH’NXGTCHhh—huhh’IISHXhh!—hah’ESSHH’IUE!!”

Three fiery sneezes burst from him like cannon blasts. Even muffled into the thick towel she’d pressed against his face, the sound shot straight through her.

Kriia flinched—again.

Rexar peeked at her through bleary lashes. “Three for three,” he croaked. “What do I win?”

“A new nose,” she muttered, reaching for a fresh towel.

He let his head fall back with a groan. “You twitch every time, you know that?”

“I do not.”

“You flinch. You stare. And then you pretend you didn’t hear anything.”

He sniffled again, miserably, then muttered, “At least the fireworks are free.”

“Mmhm,” she said, not looking at him as she wrung out a fresh cloth and pressed it against his flushed cheeks. “You sneeze one more time near the curtains and I’m dunking your whole head in the bath.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t already.”

Rexar smirked faintly, but it faded quickly as his breath hitched again. His nostrils flared, and his eyes squeezed shut.

“Hhh—huhhh-H’KNGXSSHhh!—nXGtCHhh!—ehhh’NGXX!!”

Kriia moved without needing to be told, bracing his shoulder with one hand while catching the flare of heat with a damp towel in the other. She watched as the fire curled harmlessly against the steam still rising from the towel.

“Ughhh,” he groaned, voice muffled. “This is hell. I am hell.”

“You are hell,” she agreed, reaching for the jar of vapor rub. “Now sit still.”

He sat up slightly. His eyes widened. “Wait—is that—?”

“Yup.”

“You’re gonna rub that under my nose?”

She scooped two fingers into the jar.

“Oh, babygirl,” he whispered, smug through the congestion. “That’s cruel and unusual kinkplay.”

“It’s literally VICKS, Rexar.”

“Do you know what that does to me?”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Ohohohohh, you minx—”

Before he could say another word, she leaned in and smeared the salve under his nose.

His body jerked.

“Don't—hehhh—Kri—hhhhhuhhh—Hh’GNNXXSHhh!!—eh’TCHXOO!!—hhHH’IESSHHhh!”

The fit slammed out of him with brutal force. His entire frame curled forward into her shoulder, barely missing her arm with the final burst of heat. She held on until it passed, pressing a cloth to the edge of his mouth before anything could smolder.

“Gods,” he rasped, voice shredded. “I’m like, weaponized right now.”

Kriia laughed under her breath, brushing soot-flecked hair back from his forehead. “Yeah, and still trying to act cute.”

“Don’t have to try.” He sniffled, wiping his nose lazily on a corner of his blanket. “Look at me. Red nose, leaking like a faucet, setting shit on fire. Irresistible.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“Crazy attractive,” he mumbled, dazed, blinking slowly through the mess of fever and phlegm. “Bet you’re swooning.”

“Still think I’m trying to seduce you?” she asked, adjusting the towel without looking at him.

He gave a wrecked laugh, voice hoarse. “You’re literally kneeling over me, pressing things to my nose and whispering threats.”

“It’s called care. You’re sick.”

“It’s called foreplay.”

She shoved a fresh pillow behind his back. “You are the most infuriating patient alive.”

“And you’re the horniest nurse this couch has ever seen.”

She froze.

“I am not—”

Rexar gave her a lazy, ruined smirk. “I could sneeze again if you asked nicely.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“One little sniffle? A teasing hitch of breath?”

“Rexar.”

“A slow build-up… your fingers hovering under my nose…”

“I will smother you with that pillow.”

He winked. “Promise?”

Kriia’s face was flushed. Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she reached for the kettle to pour more tea, mostly so she didn’t have to look at him.

But Rexar’s teasing didn’t last long.

Kriia watched him carefully as he shifted, slumping further into the cushions. His usual bravado flickered, paling beneath the weight of the illness. His eyes were distant, glazed with fever, and for the first time since dragging him out of the flaming kitchen, she saw the honest exhaustion settle in his bones.

Rexar exhaled slowly, voice gone small.

“I feel like shit,” he said, almost a whisper. “But you’re still looking at me like I’m not falling apart.”

Kriia froze.

Then, gently, she touched his cheek—cool fingers brushing against burning skin. “Because you’re not.”

He laughed once, low and humorless. “Tell that to the couch.”

She shook her head. “I’m serious. You’re allowed to fall apart. You’re allowed to be sick. You don’t have to set yourself on fire trying to impress me.”

His breath hitched again, but he fought it back. Not another sneeze—just a breath. A fragile one.

“I don’t know how to not be… on,” he admitted. “It’s easier when I’m lighting something up. Not when I’m just… leaking and pathetic and loud.”

Kriia leaned down, resting her forehead against his. “You’re always loud. You’re just now also leaking dramatically.”

He snorted. Coughed. Winced.

And then, through his wrecked voice—“If I sneeze again, you gonna catch it?”

She lifted her brows. “Catch what? The plague?”

“My soul.” He gave her a dazed smile. “You already caught the kink.”

“I did not—”

“Oh, come on,” he groaned. “At this point, I could sneeze in your coffee and you’d still drink it.”

“I would set myself on fire first.”

“Hot.”

Kriia bit her lip to keep from laughing. “You’re a menace.”

He nestled deeper into the pillow. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and let his head fall against her chest. His body radiated heat—barely contained flame just under the surface—but it wasn’t dangerous now. Just weary.

“Then hold my hand,” he whispered, “so I don’t die dramatically.”

She rolled her eyes—but she took his hand.

“You don’t have to perform with me,” she said softly, stroking his hair. “Just breathe. Let me handle it.”

Rexar closed his eyes.

And for the first time since the blizzard hit, he let go.

The snow had buried Glacivryn to the eaves. The world outside was still white noise and wind—but inside, the heat flickered low, blankets piled high, and Rexar lay in the soft heart of it all. Half-asleep, flushed, and finally not actively setting things on fire.

His breath wheezed unevenly. His nose twitched once, twice. A soft, pathetic sniffle broke the quiet.

Kriia turned the page in her book—upside down. She hadn’t actually read a word.

Rexar stirred, head lolling slightly toward her lap. His voice cracked. “You’re still watching me.”

“I’m making sure you don’t ignite another pillow.”

“Mmm.” He blinked up at her, lids heavy with fever and smugness. “You say that like you don’t want me to.”

Kriia shot him a look.

“I swear,” she muttered, “the moment you can stand without falling over, I’m hurling you into the snow.”

“Foreplay again,” he rasped. “You gotta pace yourself, babygirl ”

He sniffled wetly—very wetly—and her hand twitched in her lap. His lashes fluttered.

“hh’HXXSHhh!…huh’TSCHHH!…ehhh’ETSHhhhue!”

The sneezes rocked through him with worn-out force. No fire this time—just heat, just trembling. Kriia moved fast, tucking a towel under his chin, then smoothing a clean cloth across his nose like it was muscle memory.

He didn’t pull away.

Instead, he let her tend him, breath still hitching faintly as she wiped gently along the raw edge of his nostrils. Her fingers lingered a second too long.

He noticed.

“Soft hands,” he rasped. “You sure you’re not enjoying this?”

She flushed instantly. “You’re delirious.”

“Mmm. Thought that was your problem.”

“Keep talking and I’m switching to alcohol wipes.”

He laughed—weak, cracked, and beautiful. The kind of laugh that fizzled behind her ribs like heat lightning.

By the second day of the blizzard, Kriia had learned Rexar’s sneezes like second nature.

There was a rhythm to them—like thunder rumbling before the storm broke. His nostrils would flare just slightly, a faint flicker of gold sparking in the freckles across his nose. His breath would stutter once, twice, and then—

“—Hh’GXSHHhuh! hh’HXTCHoo!! heh’ESSCHhh!”

Fire, always. Not dangerous anymore, not with the wet towels and dampened linens and careful planning Kriia had wrapped around him like protective charms. The pillowcases got scorched, sure. But only once per hour or so.

When he leaned back after one particularly fierce fit, looking dazed and bleary and somehow still defiant, Kriia didn’t flinch. She reached for another clean cloth, replaced the pillow he’d ignited with one from the reserve pile, and smoothed it beneath his head with the ease of someone who’d accepted her role as caretaker of a cranky, fire-prone prince.

Rexar groaned, voice ragged and low. “That one got away from me.”

“I noticed,” she said, tossing the scorched pillow into the stone hearth where the flames would finish the job. “That was a silk case, by the way. Imported.”

“Tragic. Deduct it from my inheritance.”

Kriia snorted, then dipped a cloth into cool water and pressed it to his neck. The flush on his cheeks had worsened, creeping toward purple. She could see the tension in his posture even as he reclined—shoulders held tight against the chill that clashed with the heat roiling under his skin.

“You’re shivering,” she murmured.

“I’m not,” he muttered, even as his teeth chattered once.

Kriia rolled her eyes. “You are. You’re just too stubborn to admit the snow finally beat you.”

He huffed, half laugh, half cough. Then his expression twitched—eyes fluttering, nostrils flaring again. Kriia moved instantly, cupping a soft cloth in her palm and gently guiding it to his face.

“Here,” she said. “Let me.”

He didn’t argue.

She held the tissue steady as he blew, awkward and congested and miserable. It wasn’t graceful, but it didn’t need to be. She was careful. Gentle. When he slumped back with a groan, she smoothed his curls away from his forehead and kissed his temple without thinking.

“You’re not going to tell me I look hot right now?” he rasped.

Kriia grinned, settling beside him with a cup of cooled tea. “I was too distracted by the smoke coming out of your nose.”

He laughed, then winced—cupping his chest as the motion triggered a cough.

But when the moment passed, he looked at her with something soft behind the haze. “You’re… really good at this,” he said. “Like, suspiciously good.”

“Being sick?” she teased.

“Taking care of someone. Me, specifically.”

Kriia shrugged, but her throat tightened. She hadn’t realized it until now, but there was something grounding about this—checking his temperature, pressing cold cloths to his skin, replacing scorched towels and guiding his hand to water. She wasn’t helpless, or in the way, or trying to tough it out alone like she always had to.

She was needed.

And gods, that meant more than she expected.

“I guess I don’t hate it,” she said quietly.

Rexar turned his head, blinking sleepily at her. His voice dropped to something warmer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her fingers brushed his, lingering there without thought. “You’re usually the one charging into the chaos. It’s kinda nice being the one to catch you for once.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a tiny nod, as if tucking that truth somewhere deep. Then his breath caught again—sharp and urgent.

Kriia didn’t pull her hand away this time.

“Go ahead,” she murmured.

Rexar squeezed her fingers.

“Hhh-HH’GXCHuhh! Hh’tSCHhhoo! Hhuhhh…eh’TSCHuuuh!”

He bent forward into the cloth she guided to his face, flames curling harmlessly against the damp towels she'd laid out earlier. His body trembled with the force of it. But her hand stayed steady in his, anchoring him.

And when the fit passed, and he sagged back against the pillow, exhausted but calmer, he didn’t let go.

Neither did she.

The room was quiet again, save for the soft hum of the humidifier and the crackle of fire from the hearth. Outside, the snow still fell—a world of white sealed tight around the estate like a spell. But inside, beneath the blankets and scorched linens and low golden light, something warm settled in Kriia’s chest.

She wasn’t scared of Rexar’s fire.

She never had been.

And now, she realized, she wasn’t scared of needing him—or of being needed—either.

The wind howled through the ancient stone arches of the Fang estate, a low, bone-deep sound that made the stained-glass windows shiver in their panes. Outside, Glacivryn was buried in silence and snow. Drifts had crept high enough to blanket half the front door. The city lights were barely visible—dim smudges behind layers of frost and storm.

But in the cocoon of the fire-warmed great hall, the only sound was the slow, broken rhythm of Rexar’s breathing.

He lay curled in Kriia’s lap, head pillowed against her thigh, curls damp with sweat, his fever high but holding steady beneath the second round of cold compresses. His hand—broad, calloused, still warm—lay draped across her leg, twitching now and then like a dream was pulling him somewhere he didn’t want to go.

Kriia stroked his hair, slow and rhythmic, her other hand resting lightly on his upper back. He hadn’t stirred in nearly an hour. Hadn’t spoken since the last round of sneezing had left him breathless and wrecked.

He muttered something under his breath—barely audible.

“…don’t wanna go back…”

Kriia blinked, fingers pausing. “What?”

Rexar’s face scrunched, the lines between his brows tightening. His eyes didn’t open. He was deep in it—some half-lucid space between sleep and thought. A dream he wasn’t fully in control of.

“…too cold here. I—I’m not built for it…”

She didn’t answer. Just kept her hand moving, slowly, rhythmically, through the wild strands of fire-warm hair.

“…dad said… said the Scrilan air would put out the flame,” he breathed. “Maybe he was right. Maybe I can’t—can’t burn right here.”

Kriia swallowed, the ache in her chest flaring to life. She hadn’t known he was carrying this. Not like this. He nevertalked about his family—at least not seriously. Not without bravado. But now, fevered and curled up in her lap, his voice was stripped raw.

“…walls melt. People look. Never like I belong.”

“You do,” she whispered, not even sure if he could hear her. “You do, Rex.”

He shook his head gently, the motion more a spasm than a decision.

“…and you…” His lips twitched upward in a broken half-smile. “You’re not real. You’re too good. Probably… just a dream. A really loud, bossy, beautiful hallucination…”

Kriia huffed a shaky laugh, blinking fast. “You’re the hallucinating one.”

But his voice went small again, wrecked with exhaustion and fever. “If you are real, I’m sorry…”

She paused. “Sorry?”

His breath hitched suddenly—shallow, fluttering. His nose twitched against the blanket pooled in her lap.

She had just enough time to grab a towel.

“HhhH’KSHHT! Huh’GNXTchh! Hh-ihhh… Hh’gTSCHhh!”

Three ragged sneezes burst out of him, muffled into the thick towel she pressed instinctively to his mouth. The heat curled around her wrist. His body jolted—just slightly—against her.

And gods help her, Kriia felt it everywhere.

She didn’t even breathe until he slumped again, face softening, fingers curling slightly against her leg.

Then, muffled against the fabric of her blanket—

“…sorry…”

The apology was fragile, barely audible. It wasn’t about the sneezes. She knew that. It was about everything else—the mess of him, the fears he didn’t voice while awake, the heat he couldn’t control.

Kriia’s hand hovered over his cheek, trembling slightly before she touched him again.

“I’ve got you,” she said quietly, brushing sweat-damp curls from his temple. “Even if the walls come down.”

Rexar murmured something unintelligible and went still again, his body heavy with fever-sleep.

Kriia didn’t move.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the floor. The humidifier hissed softly beside them. The storm outside howled louder than ever, like it was trying to find a way inside.

But all Kriia could hear was her heartbeat—and the slow, uneven breaths of the man she cradled.

She looked down at him, at the way his expression softened under her hand even in sleep. His freckles were damp and faded, his raw nose twitching faintly even now, and his chest rose with every labored inhale like he was still fighting to keep the fire alive inside him.

And gods… she loved him.

Not just the Rexar that grinned through danger, who burned bright enough to draw eyes in every room. Not just the boy from a powerful family with too many secrets and too many names.

She loved this Rexar, too.

The one who apologized into her lap mid-dream. The one who sneezed fire into their pillows and scorched the damn couch. The one who curled into her when he was too tired to joke, who reached for her hand during every fit because he didn’t want to feel alone in it.

She bent her head low and kissed the top of his hair.

“You’re not falling apart,” she whispered. “You’re just letting me in.”

His fingers twitched in his sleep. A faint smile ghosted over his lips.

And Kriia didn’t fight the warmth blooming in her chest this time.

The storm outside had only grown stronger.

Wind slammed against the tall stained-glass windows with the fury of a world locked in ice. Snow whirled in glowing drifts beyond the glass, obscuring the skyline of Glacivryn and burying the estate deeper under its weight. But inside, in the firelit cocoon of the great hall, everything had gone still.

Except for Rexar.

He stirred with a soft groan, the rasp of it catching in his throat like flint against stone. His arm curled tighter around Kriia’s legs where his head still rested, and he buried his face further into the blanket pooled in her lap.

A breath, then a wetter, messier sniffle.

She looked down just in time to see his nose wrinkle, his brows knit in foggy discomfort. “Still with me?” she whispered.

He nodded—barely.

“Mmmph,” he mumbled hoarsely. “You smell like mint tea and defiance.”

“You smell like scorched flannel and denial,” she countered softly.

He snorted—then winced at the ache that followed. “Not wrong.”

Without a word, she reached for a soft cloth and dabbed gently at his nose, careful not to press too hard. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t protest. He just closed his eyes and leaned into her hand with the weight of someone who’d finally decided he didn’t have to fight gravity.

“You’re burning up again,” she murmured, checking his forehead.

Rexar didn’t respond right away. His body was heavy with fever, his breathing shallow but steady. Outside, the storm screamed. Inside, he was quiet.

Then, with surprising softness: “I didn’t know if I could do this.”

Kriia blinked. “Do what?”

“This place. Scrila.” His voice cracked. “The cold. The quiet. The way everyone looks at me like I’m… too much, or not enough.”

She didn’t rush to fill the silence. Just let it settle, the way snow did—soft and weighty.

“I wanted to be strong for you,” he continued. “But I’m not built for this kind of weather, Kriia. Not really. I overheat. I get tired. I can’t even sneeze without starting a fire. And today I couldn’t even make breakfast without—without burning it down.”

“You still made pancakes,” she said.

He huffed, nose wrinkling again. “Pancakes don’t fix the way I feel.”

Kriia tilted his chin gently so he’d look at her. His eyes, hazy with fever, searched hers like he expected to see disappointment waiting there.

Instead, she smiled.

“You’re not less,” she said. “You’re Rexar Fang. And I love you—even when you’re sneezy and pathetic and smell faintly like burnt toast.”

A huff of laughter escaped him, ragged and quiet. “You’re gonna marry me just to save on heating bills.”

She tucked a piece of hair behind his ear. “No. I’d marry you even if you sneezed sparks for the rest of your life. I’d just invest in a lot of fireproof sheets.”

He reached up, slow and uncoordinated, and laced his fingers with hers.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, almost too quietly to hear.

She squeezed his hand. “Good. That means you’re still fighting.”

They didn’t speak for a while after that. Just sat in silence as the fire burned low and the storm screamed louder, both of them clinging to the small, flickering warmth they’d built between them.

And this time, when Rexar drifted back to sleep, he did it with her hand in his—and no apologies.

The storm had passed.

The pale morning sunlight stretched across the high ceilings of the Fang estate, soft as silk, filtered gold through frost-laced windows. Long icicles hung like chandeliers from the carved eaves, casting prisms on the floors as they caught the light. Outside, Glacivryn stirred beneath a blanket of white—still hushed, still heavy—but no longer buried. The worst of it was over.

Inside, warmth lingered like an afterthought. The hearth was low, the air damp with the final hiss of the humidifier, and Rexar blinked slowly at the ceiling above his bed, dazed but… better.

His nose twitched.

“Snffk…hhhhh…”

Still congested. Still sneezy. But the pressure behind his eyes had eased, the tremble in his limbs dulled to a manageable throb. Someone—obviously Kriia—had cocooned him in every blanket in the estate. He shifted experimentally, buried up to his ears in thick layers of faux fur, silk, and linen.

He sniffled again, groggy. “Kriia?”

No answer.

Rexar slowly peeled himself from the nest, dragging three comforters with him as he stumbled to his feet. One was wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. Another trailed behind him like a train. The last he clutched in his arms like a giant stuffed animal.

The air in the hallway was chilly, but not biting. The power was still on. Somewhere, faintly, he could hear music and the low sizzle of something on the stove.

He shuffled into the kitchen, blanket-draped and sleep-rumpled, only to pause at the threshold.

There she was.

Kriia, barefoot, glowing in the morning light, flipping pancakes like a goddess who knew she was being watched. Real ones, not scorched ones. Her crimson hair was in a messy bun, and her sleeves were rolled up. The whole place smelled like cinnamon and citrus and warmth.

She glanced over her shoulder and smirked when she saw him. “Morning, fire hazard.”

He sniffed again and gave her a lazy, half-lidded smile. “You made pancakes.”

“Someone has to do it without lighting them on fire.”

He stepped forward, still dragging his blankets, and leaned against the doorframe. “Missed you.”

“I was in the next room for twenty minutes...”

“That’s twenty too many.”

She rolled her eyes, but her grin softened. “Tea’s steeping. Sit down.”

He obeyed—slumping into the bench beneath the windowsill, letting the pale light wash over his blanket-swaddled frame. She joined him a few moments later, two mugs in hand. They sat shoulder to shoulder, watching the city slowly come back to life beyond the glass.

Plows groaned in the distance. Drones hummed overhead. The shimmer of neon signs began to glow again beneath layers of snow.

Kriia took a sip of her tea.

Rexar sniffled. “Hhhhuhhh…”

She turned just in time to see his eyes flutter shut, his shoulders stiffen beneath the heap of blankets.

Three sharp sneezes burst from him in quick succession—
“Hhhhuhhh… eh’TCHXIEW!!—huhh’ETSCHhhhuuh!—ihh’TSSHH’IUE!!”
Each one ripped through him, head snapping forward with exhausted force, sparks fizzling out from his mouth and nose like fireflies too stubborn to die.

Kriia didn’t even blink.

She reached for a tissue with one hand and slid it across the table with the other—calm, practiced, already bracing for the heat still radiating off his flushed skin.

“Bless you, inferno,” she said, voice a little too steady.

Rexar groaned and blew his nose—loud, unapologetic, and definitely more dramatic than necessary. Then he peeked up at her, bleary-eyed and glowing, still cradling the tissue to his raw, twitchy nose.

Kriia exhaled and leaned in—fighting the war inside her chest with every inch—and pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of his flushed, overworked nose.

He went still.

Blinking. Blinking again.

And then, with a smile that bloomed like slow heat across his fevered face:
“You’re gonna kiss it better now?”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice betrayed her—soft, fond. “Your nose is a flamethrower.”

“Exactly.”

“Coward.”

“Menace.”

He sniffled again and leaned closer, curls haloed in the morning light. His breath tickled faintly at her collarbone. “You sure? One tiny kiss for the champion of sneeze survival? I’d call that a heroic arc.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t dunked your whole face in snowmelt.”

He sighed theatrically, draping an arm over his head like a suffering prince. “So cold. So cruel. And yet, somehow, you kept me warm through it all. Almost like you care.”

“Not if you torch another pillow.”

He grinned into his tea, steam coiling around his face like a crown. “You liked that one. Don’t lie. You looked at me like I’d cast a sex spell when I scorched the silk case.”

Kriia bit down on her pancake like it might keep her face from catching fire. “You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” He licked syrup from his thumb with lazy, criminal precision, eyes locked on her like he knew exactly what it did to her. “You gonna keep pretending? Even now?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, sweetheart…”

He sniffled again—wet and drawn out—and her breath faltered. He saw it. Tracked it. Savored it.

“You’ve been so brave this whole time,” he murmured. “All those little flinches. All those tiny gasps. The towel-fumbling. The eye contact avoidance.”

“I was trying to survive.”

He grinned. “You were trying not to moan.”

“I—Rexar!”

He laughed. Coughed. Winced—and still looked smug as hell.

Then smiled at her with something quieter beneath the grin.

“I meant it, y’know,” he rasped. “You’re really good at taking care of me.”

Kriia exhaled, tension bleeding out just a little. “Someone had to.”

He reached for her hand, thumb brushing her wrist.

“You didn’t have to enjoy it.”

Her pulse jumped.

He grinned again—tired, smug, wrecked.

“Thanks for indulging me.”

“I didn’t—”

“I know.”

And he let her have the silence. Let her sit there, lips pressed thin, face warm, while he sniffled again and leaned back against the window to bask in the light.

No more pushing. Just presence.

But when he sneezed again—soft and breathless—

“Hhuhh’ihhhKTSCHhh!”

—Kriia didn’t even hesitate. She passed him the tissue, reached up, and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.

Still silent.

Still pretending.

But her fingers lingered.

And Rexar’s smirk said everything.

The End ✨

[aller-geez]

If you're still looking for fic reqs could we maybe see either Remi hiding a horrible cold from Levi who is mad at him because he feels like he deserves it because he knows he's fucked up, or sick Elex in that scenario?

Hey there Nonny!

Here’s your fic with sick Remi hiding his cold from a pissed off Levi! ( @thekinkyleopard owns 🖤)

Hopefully this is what you were looking for, but I very much could have misinterpreted your request at the end, and if so I’m sorry 😭😭

Cold Shoulder

Written & illustrated by: allergeez ✨

Summary: Remi and Levi's relationship is tested after a heated argument leaves them emotionally distant and struggling to communicate. As Levi asks for space, Remi silently battles feelings of regret, isolation, and an increasingly severe illness that he hides from Levi. The tension between them grows deeper, characterized by silence and unspoken longing. Eventually, both must confront their fears and insecurities to bridge the emotional gap and rediscover the meaning of support and affection in their relationship. 5.4k words

Content Warnings:

Emotional conflict and interpersonal tension

Depictions of illness (fever, congestion, intense sneezing, coughing)

Themes of self-isolation and emotional neglect

References to anxiety, guilt, and depressive episodes

Explicit descriptions of sneezing and illness-related symptoms

“You never talk to me, Remi!” Levi’s voice cracked mid-sentence, part from anger, part from something far more fragile underneath.

Remi stood stiff in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. His shaggy black hair hung in his eyes, glowing green and dim—like low coals barely containing their heat. “I do talk to you, Levi. Just not in the way you want.”

“That’s not fair and you know it.” Levi’s hands trembled at his sides, fingers curled tight, like he was physically holding himself back from throwing something. “I ask you if something’s wrong and you brush me off. I try to check in, and you disappear into yourself until you think I’ll stop asking. You can’t keep shutting me out every time you get in your own head.”

Remi looked away, the muscle in his jaw ticking. “It’s better than dumping all my shit on you.”

“Oh, so now I’m just a liability? Thanks.”

“No, that’s not—” Remi ran a hand over his face, voice strained. “That’s not what I meant. I just… I didn’t want to make it worse. You’ve been stressed, and I didn’t want to add to it.”

Levi laughed, sharp and humorless. “You didn’t want to burden me? God, Remi, do you even hear how that sounds?”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of everything neither of them was saying. The tension pressed against the walls, brittle and cold.

“I just need some space,” Levi said finally, softer now, but no less final. “Just for a while.”

Remi didn’t fight it.

He just nodded once, stiff and quiet, and stepped back out of the kitchen. The sound of his boots retreating down the hall was too loud in the silence that followed.

Levi stayed rooted to the tile, arms wrapped tightly around himself, already wondering if he was going to regret asking for that space.

Neither of them noticed the faint, stifled snfkk! Remi muffled into his sleeve as he disappeared into the dark.

The sun barely filtered through the heavy drapes of the living room, casting a pale, gray-tinted light across the floor. The space was quiet—too quiet—and far colder than it usually felt.

Remi stirred from the couch with a low groan, one arm draped over his eyes. He hadn't even bothered changing out of yesterday’s clothes. The hoodie clung to him, the collar damp with sweat, but even still, he couldn’t stop shivering.

His head throbbed, each pulse of pressure behind his eyes syncing up with the distant ringing in his ears. His throat felt scraped raw, and every breath through his nose came with a wet, reluctant snffkk.

He sniffled again, louder this time, and winced as the congestion refused to budge. He wiped his nose roughly on the sleeve of his hoodie and sat up slowly, the pounding in his skull intensifying the second he moved.

He blinked blearily at the empty space in front of him. Levi wasn’t there. Of course he wasn’t.

The echo of last night’s argument hovered at the edge of his thoughts, clearer now than it had been in the heat of the moment.

You never talk to me.
You shut me out.
You didn’t want to burden me?

Each word hit harder than the last. And now—on top of everything—his body had decided to fall apart too.

“Hhhuhh—hiiih’ISHHHh—uhH!! Snnffhh!”

The sneeze exploded from him with no time to catch it. He turned his head just barely, spraying into the open air with a helpless sniffle afterward.

His nose dripped instantly, and he scrambled for the tissue box on the coffee table, only to find it empty. He cursed softly under his breath, grabbing a wrinkled napkin from last night’s leftover takeout bag instead and blowing his nose into it with a miserable, wet honk.

He should tell Levi. He should say something.

But Remi just leaned back on the couch, eyes half-lidded and burning, and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

Levi needed space. That’s what he’d asked for. And Remi wasn’t about to crawl back into their shared room coughing and sneezing like a kicked dog just for sympathy.

He already felt like a walking pile of regret. He could handle a little head cold.

Probably.

His stomach turned. His head pulsed. His sinuses burned. And his throat ached with every shallow swallow.

Totally fine.

“Hhhuhh—hehh… hh'IETSH’UE!! snfffffffhh— hhuhhhhh— HI’DTSCHIEW!”

The next two sneezes snapped him forward with force, and he slumped sideways, panting through his mouth, wiping his nose uselessly on the napkin again.

The space between him and Levi had never felt so wide.

Remi lay half-slumped against the arm of the couch, legs stretched out haphazardly, one arm draped over his aching stomach. The other hung limply at his side, fingers still clutched weakly around the crumpled napkin he’d already destroyed with half a dozen nose blows. He needed to get up—needed more tissues, water, anything—but he couldn’t make his body move.

His sinuses throbbed with a swollen, pressurized ache that refused to let him breathe properly. Every inhale through his nose whistled and gurgled, a disgusting symphony of congestion and rawness, but his mouth was too dry to keep doing all the work.

And worst of all… the sneezing. Or rather—the lack of sneezing.

That maddening tickle had nested deep inside his sinuses, clawing its way through every nerve ending, teasing and prickling at the edge of relief like a cruel joke. His nostrils twitched endlessly, his breath hitching in shallow, helpless gasps as the sensation threatened to crest again and again.

“Hhhuhh… hhihhh… hhh-hh’ihhh… snffkk!”

His head tilted back, eyelids fluttering, mouth parting with a soft, pre-sneeze whimper—only for the feeling to vanish at the last moment, like smoke slipping through his grasp.

He sniffled hard, the wet sound miserable and ineffective. “F-fuck’s sake,” he rasped, rubbing at his nose with the cuff of his hoodie, only for the tickle to flare again, sharp and urgent.

“Huhhh-hhhEHh’t—hhihhh!… hh-HHhuhh—snffhh… ughhhh…”

He hung there, trapped in a purgatory of near-release, his whole body tense and expectant, every breath shaky and unsatisfying. The prickling itch climbed back into place, crawling along the bridge of his nose and curling up beneath his sinuses like it knew what it was doing.

Then finally—finally—one slipped free.

“hhEhh-! HhEHh’iiTShh’iiEW! Snngkkt!!”

It was harsh, messy, uncontained. The force bent him forward at the waist, leaving a damp shimmer across the front of his hoodie and a ringing in his ears. It didn’t help. It didn’t clear anything.

Another swelled in its wake almost immediately. His breath hitched again, harder this time, chest rising sharply, muscles locking tight in anticipation.

“HhhUHhh... hhuhhh-HHhhuh—hh’IEHHHt’SHHHhhkk!! Hhuhhh-Hnkt'KNXTuhh!…snnrkkk…”

This one he tried to stifle, purely out of reflex—but the pressure in his head exploded behind his eyes like a hammer, and the stifle only made his skull throb harder.

He groaned aloud, dragging both hands up to cradle his forehead. His skin burned with fever, clammy and tight. Every nerve behind his sinuses pulsed like his body was punishing him for the build-up. And still... he could feel more hovering, teasing just out of reach.

His glowing green eyes were bleary now, dulled with exhaustion and thick tears he couldn’t wipe away fast enough. He swiped at his face with his sleeve again, damp and useless, but the tickle refused to stop. It lingered, wicked and insistent, burning just high enough to taunt but never low enough to let go.

“Snfhh… huhhh... h-hhuhhhHh… oh god—just—f-fucking sneeze already—hh’kKTSSCHhh!!”

He coughed afterward, deep and chesty, curling into himself with a moan. His hoodie clung to his overheated skin, his body trembling with the sheer exhaustion of fighting against every sneeze, every breath, every aching limb.

But still, he didn’t move.

He just sniffled again, throat dry and raw, and closed his eyes as he let his head fall back against the cushion.

Somewhere far away, he thought he heard the creak of the hallway floorboards. But it was probably just his own heartbeat pounding through his ears.

Remi had never been good at apologizing. Not with words, at least.

He wanted to say something. To fix the raw look that had been on Levi’s face the night of the fight. But every time he imagined walking into the room to try, all that came out was a rasped-up, barely intelligible grunt—and the bitter knowledge that Levi probably didn’t want to see him anyway.

So he gave Levi the space he’d asked for.

And if that space just so happened to involve Remi getting steamrolled by a brutal head cold, well... that was his own damn fault, wasn’t it?

He slept on the couch, curled into a ball far too small for his broad frame, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands like a kid trying to disappear. The blanket was too thin, the cushions too stiff, but he didn’t dare venture back to their shared bed. Not when he was this gross. Not when Levi still hadn’t looked him in the eyes since the fight.

The sneezes never came in ones. They dragged through him in doubles and triples, clawing up from deep in his sinuses, tearing through his chest, leaving him gasping and sniffling and soaked with fever sweat.

But Levi never heard them. Not once.

Remi made sure of that.

He’d press his face into a balled-up towel, practically biting down on it as the sneezes tore through him. When he needed to cough—which was often, wet and painful and rattling—he turned on the shower and let the water run, trying to time each fit between bursts of steam.

He flushed the toilet when he blew his nose. Opened the window in the kitchen when he heated soup, so the smell wouldn’t carry. Not that he could taste anything. His sense of smell had packed up and left two days ago.

Tissues were never left out in the open. He kept a stash rolled into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, pulling them out discreetly and stuffing the used ones deep down in the trash so Levi wouldn’t see.

When Levi passed him in the hallway—which was rare—Remi straightened up, cleared his throat, and offered a lazy “Hey.” Short. Normal. Cool.

Levi would nod, maybe say something neutral in return, then disappear into another room.

Good.

Better this way.

He didn’t need Levi worrying about him, not while he was still mad. He didn’t need pity. He didn’t want to force sympathy. He could take care of himself until Levi forgave him—or decided he wasn’t worth forgiving.

The hardest part wasn’t the sneezing, or the aching, or the fevers that left his skin clammy and his limbs too heavy to move. It wasn’t even the bone-deep fatigue that made walking down the hall feel like a hike through molasses.

It was the silence. The space. The absence of Levi’s voice in his day, of Levi’s fingers raking through his hair while they watched something dumb, of his laughter filling the corners of the house like sunlight.

He curled tighter on the couch and pressed his face into a cold pillow. His chest rattled with a breath he tried to keep quiet. His nose ran. His throat burned.

But still, he didn’t go to Levi.

He’d made his mess. Now he’d lay in it—and sneeze in it—until Levi was ready.

At first, the silence felt justified.

Levi had needed space—no, demanded it. And Remi, for once, hadn’t argued. He’d just backed off, cool and quiet, like he always did when the conversations got too deep or the feelings got too big.

At first, Levi told himself it was fine. He needed time to cool down, to think. To stop hearing Remi’s voice in his head with that infuriating mix of logic and avoidance.

But after a day, the silence didn’t feel empowering anymore. It felt empty.

He noticed it when he went to grab tea from the cabinet and realized Remi hadn’t touched the coffee in over 24 hours. Not once. Not even for a dramatic, sleepy entrance into the kitchen followed by his usual lazy grumbling about mornings.

He noticed it when he passed the bathroom and saw the light was on—but the door was closed, locked, and the sound of the shower running had been going for too long. Too quiet in between.

He noticed it when the couch cushions remained uneven, the blanket in the living room stayed rumpled for three days, and the familiar, low murmur of Remi’s favorite music didn’t echo through the floorboards.

And worst of all, he noticed it in Remi’s absence.

Not the physical kind—Remi was clearly here, somewhere. But emotionally? Remi had vanished.

He wasn’t showing up in Levi’s space. Wasn’t peeking into the kitchen with a smirk. Wasn’t making a half-hearted joke to break the tension, or pretending nothing had happened to coax a reaction out of him.

Remi was quiet.

And Remi was never quiet like this.

Levi curled his hands into the sleeves of his hoodie as he stood in the hallway, staring at the closed guest room door. His chest ached with something he didn’t want to name.

Had he pushed too hard? Said something too far?

He was angry—still angry—but now the silence didn’t feel like a boundary. It felt like punishment.

And it wasn’t Remi who was doing the punishing. It was himself.

Levi wiped his sleeve across his nose—dry, irritated—and exhaled shakily. His throat burned, but not from a cold.

He missed Remi. He missed his stupid, stubborn smirks and the way he curled his hand behind Levi’s neck when no one was looking. He missed his glow-in-the-dark eyes blinking sleepily over the lip of a coffee mug. He missed having someone there—even if they weren’t saying the right things. Even if they weren’t saying anything at all.

His eyes burned.

“God,” he whispered, swallowing hard. “What if I asked for space when he really needed me?”

The thought hit him like a stone to the chest.

Remi had a way of making himself invisible when he thought he was a problem. He’d done it before—physically there, emotionally tucked out of reach, like he was hiding behind a wall no one could climb.

It started with a sound.

A subtle one, muffled, easy to miss if he hadn’t been walking down the hall at just the right moment.

“Shhffhh—snrrkkk... snfffhh.”

Levi paused mid-step, brows drawing together. He turned his head slightly toward the bathroom door. It was closed—but not locked. The fan wasn’t on, and the sink wasn’t running.

He waited. Listened.

“Snfhhk.”

Another thick sniffle, like someone was trying to clear a nose too congested to budge. Then… silence.

Levi’s eyes narrowed.

He almost knocked. Almost called out.

But something held him back. He straightened, turned on his heel, and walked away instead, jaw tight. Guilt sulking, he told himself. He probably wants attention. Probably trying to make it look like he’s suffering just enough for sympathy, but not enough to be obvious. Classic Remi.

And yet...

Later that afternoon, while grabbing clean towels from the laundry room, he saw it: a single, crumpled tissue sitting on top of the washing machine. Not a paper towel. Not one of their backup napkins. A tissue.

Levi stared at it for a long moment.

He picked it up with two fingers, tossed it in the trash, and tried not to let it gnaw at him.

He passed Remi in the hall the next morning.

They hadn’t been making eye contact much—just awkward nods and brief, one-word exchanges—but Levi noticed, this time, that Remi’s hoodie sleeves were pulled down lower than usual. His shoulders were more hunched. His steps were slow, dragging like every movement took effort.

And just as Levi opened his mouth to say something—anything—Remi turned his head sharply to the side.

“Hhh’IISSHhh!… hHh’tSSCHuhh!”

Two violent, congested sneezes bent him at the waist before he could stop them. He stumbled, one hand bracing against the wall, the other pressed into the crook of his arm, shaking from the effort.

Levi froze.

Remi didn’t even look at him.

He just sniffled—wet and low—and muttered a broken, “S’cuse me,” before practically vanishing into the bathroom. The door clicked shut behind him, locked this time.

Levi stood there, heart pounding, throat dry.

That hadn’t been a man sulking.

That was someone sick. Really sick.

And he had let Remi suffer like that.

It started with a sound Levi couldn’t ignore.

He was halfway down the hallway, balancing a mug of tea in one hand, when he heard it—sharp, muffled, desperate.

“Hhh’IISSHHHhh’uhhh!!”

The force of it seemed to echo through the closed bathroom door, followed by a gasping inhale and another violent, stifled attempt at control that utterly failed.

“HHRR’tSCHHHuhhh—!!”

Levi froze, his brow furrowing, heart instantly kicking up a notch.

That wasn’t the quiet kind of sniffle he’d overheard earlier in the week. That was full-body, raw sneezing—unrestrained and pained.

He stepped closer to the door, listening.

“Snnkkggfffhh—huhh… Huh’GDSHHhh’ihh! hhuhhh-hhuh Hd’IZTSsHHhhh’-uhh!!”

Each one slammed through Remi with increasing desperation. There was no space between them—just breathless recovery before the next hit, as if holding back for so long had finally snapped something open.

Levi’s stomach turned.

The muffled, wet rustling of tissues came next. A groan. The scrape of something heavy against tile—maybe Remi slumping down to sit against the wall.

Then:

“hhuhhh’uhhHHH—hh’HGDSCHhh!! … hhuhh’DZSCHhhh!

—f-fuuhhck— hhuhh-hhehh’HhETSCHhhhuh!!”

Levi stepped up to the door and pressed his free hand against it gently.

“Rem?” he said, voice careful. Steady. “You okay in there?”

A long pause.

Then a croaked, soaked voice from the other side: “’M fine.”

It was laughable. He sounded like he was gargling gravel, breath catching, sinuses completely shot.

Levi’s throat tightened.

“You don’t sound fine,” he said softly. “Remi, open the door.”

There was a shuffling noise, followed by a congested, miserable cough and the telltale flutter of a tissue being torn from the box. Then another thick blow.

“I—snfkkk—didn’t wadda... y-you were mbad,” came Remi’s hoarse, barely audible voice. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Levi closed his eyes, pressing his palm harder to the door. “You’ve been hiding this for days?” he whispered, not trusting his voice to stay even.

“I was trying not to bother you,” Remi said again, but his breath was already hitching helplessly.

“hhHhh’IEHH’TSSCHHhh!—ehh’GKTSSHHhhue! huhhh-uhhh—hhNTSCH’uhh!”

The rhythm of the fit stole any chance at conversation. It was pure reflex now, violent and constant, and Levi could hear the misery radiating from the other side of the wood.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

“Okay,” he murmured, stepping back. “That’s enough.”

He gave the door a gentle knock. “I’m going to get the humidifier, some meds, and a fresh box of tissues,” he said, voice warm but insistent. “When I come back, I’m sitting on the other side of this door until you open it. You don’t have to say anything. Just let me in when you’re ready.”

There was a pause. Another congested breath. A small sniffle. And then—so quietly Levi almost missed it:

“…Kay.”

Levi exhaled shakily and turned, moving down the hall with purpose—but his heart ached with every step.

Remi hadn’t just been sick.

He’d been hiding.

And Levi had missed every single sign.

Remi sagged against the cold tile wall, the sleeves of his hoodie soaked at the cuffs, his breath coming in hot, shallow pants. The tissue in his hand had completely disintegrated at this point—too many sneezes, too wet to be of any use—and the trash can beside him was overflowing with a nest of damp, crumpled extras.

He hadn’t meant for Levi to hear him.

Hadn’t meant to lose it like that, trapped in the bathroom, no longer able to muffle the sneezes that kept tearing out of him like they were trying to drag his ribs out with them.

“hhuh- -hd’ISCHhh!! -h’dtTISHh! hhh’ISCHih! !! Snrkkkkff— hhuhh’TSSCHHh-uhh!”

The last one doubled him over, nearly knocked his head against the sink. He braced one arm against the counter, the other shielding his nose as another sneeze clawed up fast behind it.

“HhhiIHH— HI’DTSCHIEW!!! Huhh- hhuhhh… hHAHH’IKKTsh—uhh!!!”

His head swam. Each sneeze left him reeling, gasping, the congestion in his sinuses thick and relentless—like every blow should’ve cleared it, but none ever did.

His nose burned. His eyes watered constantly, not from tears but from sheer overstimulation. And his throat—god, his throat—felt like it had been scraped raw with sandpaper.

He sniffled hard, a sharp, wet sound that only half-worked, and hissed softly as it made the pressure behind his eyes throb. He wiped under his nose with the heel of his palm, vaguely aware of how gross he probably looked, but too tired to care. He caught his reflection in the mirror and winced.

His hair clung to his face in damp strands, cheeks flushed dark red against pale skin. His nostrils were pink and chapped from friction. Even his eyes looked dim, the usual radioactive glow dulled to a tired glimmer beneath heavy lids.

He was a mess. A stupid, stubborn, sneezy mess.

And Levi had heard it now. All of it.

Remi groaned, burying his face in the crook of his elbow as another fit clawed through his sinuses with ruthless precision.

“hhuhh—IHH’EKTSHHHhh!… hhuhhh… h-hh—hEhTXSSHhh’ih!!! snfhhk— hhuhh’ESSHHHuhhh!”

They just kept coming.

He couldn’t even finish a damn thought without another hitting him like a truck. Every word he might’ve said—“I’m sorry,” maybe, or “I didn’t mean to shut you out,” or “I missed you”—was swallowed in the sharp, helpless rhythm of his own body breaking down.

He slumped to the floor again, hoodie pulled tighter around him, body still quivering with post-sneeze tremors.

Remi’s hand trembled as he reached for the lock.

His body ached. His sinuses were an active warzone, and the effort of just getting upright again had left him winded. But through the misery fogging his thoughts—through the congestion, the heat, the rawness of his throat—he could still feel Levi’s presence just outside the door.

Quiet. Patient. Still there.

He leaned against the cool wood for a second, forehead pressing gently against it, and let out a slow, ragged breath through his mouth. Then, with a soft click, he turned the knob.

The door creaked open.

Levi was seated right there in the hallway, back against the wall, legs crossed, a glass of water in one hand and a box of tissues balanced on his lap. He looked up immediately—and whatever expression had been on his face softened into something unspoken the second he saw Remi.

Remi didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His voice was shredded, and the lump in his throat wasn’t all from the cold.

Levi rose to his feet slowly, setting the water and tissues aside.

His eyes moved over Remi—taking in the sweat-dampened hair, the flushed cheeks, the hoodie sleeves bunched around trembling fists, the completely ruined look on his face—and his jaw tightened slightly.

Not with anger. With hurt.

“Remi…” he whispered, voice thick. “God, you look—” He stopped himself and stepped forward, hands open, not touching, not assuming. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Remi blinked slowly, eyelids heavy and aching. He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a small, helpless sound as his breath hitched again—an apology derailed by another building sneeze.

“hhuhh-hhhHhh… ihH’ktdSHhh!!! ! hHI’DTSCHIEW!—snfffh!”

He managed to turn away just in time, half-catching it in his already-damp sleeve before groaning and sagging against the doorframe.

That did it.

Levi stepped in, wordlessly slipping an arm around Remi’s waist to steady him, the other coming up to cradle the back of his neck.

“Come on,” he said softly. “You’re burning up. Let’s get you to the couch.”

Remi didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He just let Levi guide him, leaning into his touch like gravity demanded it. His legs ached. His nose was still running. His chest felt like it had splintered from the inside out. And yet, for the first time in days, something inside him began to settle.

The guilt still burned. But Levi was here.

Helping him stand. Holding him up.

And somehow, that was enough to let the walls fall.

He sniffled again, thick and miserable, and croaked softly, “I’b sorry.”

Levi’s eyes were already shining when he turned to look at him.

“I know,” he whispered. “But you don’t have to hide when you’re hurting, Rem. Especially not from me.”

Levi eased Remi down onto the couch like he was handling something fragile.

Which, honestly… he was.

The wolf’s usual strong, confident frame looked so much smaller curled into the cushions—his hoodie swallowed his shoulders, his flushed face was slack with exhaustion, and his glow-dimmed green eyes barely stayed open.

Levi tucked a blanket over him, gently adjusting it to cover Remi’s legs and half his torso, then reached over to pluck the tissue box off the coffee table and set it within easy reach.

Remi groaned softly and shifted, letting his head loll against the armrest. He looked completely and utterly wrecked. His hair was sweat-damp and tangled, his cheeks were glowing red under pale skin, and his nose was raw and twitching, never quite calming for more than a few seconds.

Levi knelt beside the couch and ran a hand through Remi’s messy black hair, combing it back from his forehead, then pressed the backs of his fingers against his burning skin. “You’re so feverish Acushla,” he murmured, his voice full of gentle exasperation. “You poor thing.”

“Snffhhk—d-dod’t say it like that…” Remi croaked, attempting a smirk that collapsed halfway in.

Levi chuckled under his breath. “What? Like you’re not pitiful right now?”

Remi sighed miserably and gave a congested sniffle. “Feels like… there’s a drill press… behi’d by eyes…”

“Your sinuses?” Levi asked, already sitting down on the edge of the couch cushion near Remi’s chest. “Cheekbones feel tight?”

“Yeah…” Remi breathed, his voice fading to a whimper. “They’re… throbbi’g. And that damnb tickle—snrggkk—wod’t leave. Feels like I’b godda sdeeze every five seco’ds…”

Levi gave him a warm, knowing look and reached up with both hands, thumbs poised just under Remi’s cheekbones.

“May I?” he asked softly.

Remi blinked at him blearily, caught off guard by the offer. “You… wadda bassage by face?”

Levi smiled. “Light pressure helps relieve sinus pressure. I read about it when I had that awful spring cold, remember? Plus…” He tilted his head with a soft look. “Might take the edge off that stubborn tickle, yeah?”

Remi let out a groggy, congested snort that was half a laugh. “God, you’re a derd.”

“You love that I’m a nerd,” Levi said, then leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Remi’s burning temple before gently beginning to rub small, slow circles beneath his cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs.

Remi melted.

The sigh that left him was deep and shaky, like he’d finally been able to release some hidden tension. “That’s… hhhnnnh—snfffhh—really dice…”

Levi kept the motion slow, mindful. “Just breathe through it, okay?” he whispered, watching Remi’s eyelids flutter.

The wolf’s breath kept hitching, his poor nose trembling beneath Levi’s fingers. But with the gentle pressure, the sneezing urge began to fade, retreating just slightly from the edge. His brows unknotted. His shoulders sank.

“Better?” Levi murmured.

“…Yeah,” Remi breathed, voice raspy but sincere. “Still gross, but like… slightly less cursed.”

Levi laughed softly and leaned down to nuzzle into his hair. “You’re my gross,” he murmured. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Remi let his eyes close fully, sinking deeper into the couch as Levi continued the massage, his fingers warm, precise, and full of care.

For the first time in days, the ache behind Remi’s face finally eased.

And with Levi’s hands on his skin, whispering sweet nonsense under his breath, Remi didn’t feel sick and alone.

He just felt loved.

Remi’s face felt like it was made of steam and static and ache, but Levi’s touch… it was Magik.

The slow circles of his thumbs under Remi’s cheekbones were gentle but firm, chasing the pressure away little by little. And Levi knew exactly where to press—how to angle his thumbs to ease the throbbing behind his sinuses without making the lingering tickle in his nose worse again.

Remi didn’t even realize he was breathing through his nose for the first time in hours.

Levi didn’t stop the gentle pressure behind Remi’s cheekbones until he felt the other man’s body begin to truly relax. It wasn’t dramatic—just a gradual uncoiling of tension. The subtle slump of his shoulders. The slight parting of his lips as he began to breathe deeper, slower, the fight draining out of him like the fever had finally loosened its grip.

Remi’s lashes fluttered against the tops of his flushed cheeks, and a sleepy, hoarse sound escaped his throat—a noise halfway between a sigh and a congested hum.

Levi smiled faintly, brushing his thumb along the corner of Remi’s nose where it twitched slightly.

“Still itchy?” he whispered.

Remi didn’t answer. Not with words.

Just a faint sniffle, a slow blink, and the barely-there shake of his head before he tucked himself deeper under the blanket with a gravelly mutter of, “Jus’ keep touchin’ my face… s’nice…”

Levi chuckled under his breath and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the edge of Remi’s jaw. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmured. “You’re lucky I’m a sucker for a sneezy disaster.”

A breathy huff of laughter escaped Remi—half-asleep now, barely there.

His body slackened into the couch. His lashes fluttered. His glowing green eyes, dulled by fever and exhaustion, finally closed.

He heard Levi's voice, soft and soothing and close, somewhere above him. “That’s it. Just rest. I got you, Acushla.”

Remi huffed a weak, stuffy breath that sounded like the ghost of a chuckle. “You always say that…”

“Because it’s always true,” Levi murmured, brushing a few stray strands of black hair from Remi’s damp forehead. He grabbed a tissue and gently wiped the edges of Remi’s nose with that same steady touch, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Remi didn’t even protest.

His pride was too tired.

His nose twitched again, and for a second, Levi thought he might be about to sneeze, but instead Remi just let out a soft, congested sigh, lips parting slightly as he finally allowed his body to give in to rest.

Levi tucked the blanket higher up around him and adjusted one of the throw pillows beneath Remi’s head. He watched the wolf’s breathing even out, slow and rhythmic, broken only by the occasional snuffly exhale or faint, unconscious sniffle.

The warm humidifier Levi had set up earlier hissed quietly in the corner, mist curling into the air like a lullaby.

Levi sat beside him on the couch, one arm gently draped along the top so his fingers could still trail through Remi’s shaggy hair. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

He just stayed.

Every now and then, Remi’s brow would crease in his sleep, and Levi would run a knuckle along his jaw until it smoothed out again. Every few minutes, Remi let out a hoarse little cough, and Levi would whisper, “It’s okay,” even if Remi couldn’t hear it.

He didn’t need to. He’d feel it.

The fight, the silence, the guilt—none of it mattered.

Levi reached for the cool glass of water he’d brought earlier and set it on the coffee table within reach. Then he tugged off his hoodie, draped it gently over Remi’s chest, and eased himself down onto the narrow space of the couch beside him.

It wasn’t graceful. Remi grumbled a little as Levi carefully maneuvered until his head found a place on Levi’s shoulder, tucked under his chin, arms still folded tight around the blankets.

Levi smoothed his fingers through the tangled, sweat-damp hair at the nape of Remi’s neck.

“Sleep, Rem,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

And this time… Remi did.

His breathing evened out, still a little snuffly, still punctuated by the occasional congested snore, but peaceful. Content. Safe.

Levi stayed awake a while longer, one hand in Remi’s hair, the other resting lightly over his blanket-covered chest, feeling the slow, warm rhythm of his mate’s heartbeat beneath his palm.

Maybe he hadn’t been there right away.

But he was here now.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

The End ✨

[aller-geez]

I don’t know why but I’m in love with Sven lately..so if you can and if you like the idea of course could you draw a Sven been struggling to sneeze because he’s been having trouble to sneezing so Elex needs to help him to finally release that sneezes please? ✨🫢

Hey there Nonny!

I seriously am LIVING for everyone being so feral for my Sven lately 😩😩

I may have gotten overly ambitious and made a comic for ya~

Hope this is what you were looking for! 😈

[aller-geez]

Sinces will not be a sneeze from Meeko in the game, can you do a sneezy Meeko for this little anon? I like her so much.

Hey there Nonny!

Never fear, there still might be a snz or two from Ms Meeko in FLUttering Hearts, you never know! (;

But regardless, have a little spicy Meeko as a treat (;

Thanks so much for the request 🖤🖤

[aller-geez]

Hiya!

Just out of pure ~curiosity~ how would our poor Sven look if he was completely bedridden with a dreadful cold that hits him out of nowhere on top of an allergic fit?

-Anon who's really loved Sven right now ;)

Hey there Nonny! I’m living for your Sven love right now, cannot lie! 😈😈

Thanks for your request! This time I included @thekinkyleopard ‘s badger boy keeping an eye on poor Sven, and I hope this is what you were looking for~ 😈😈

[aller-geez]

hii, saw your last reblog, the bronchitis scenario, and now i need a svelex fic/art about it 🙏🙏

Hey there Nonny! Okay I literally love you sm for this req, bc usually I don’t write dramatic fics, (and granted, this might not be exactly what you were looking for, but I digress…)

But oh my god, this is definitely my favorite Svelex fic to date, although @thekinkyleopard may disagree whenever she comes back and reads the 300 fics I’ve written since she’s been online 😂

It’s not technically a snzfic cause the prompt was about bronchitis, but definitely very whumpy at least •⩊• so I hope you enjoy it!

I also was so excited to post it that I didn’t really draw a cover, I just slapped some text on a gif so there’s that ˙ᵕ˙ 2.5k words

⤹ The prompt nonny is referring to is this one ⤸

This was supposed to be a kind of a follow up for Live, Laugh, Lose Consciousness found here, but doesn’t actually have any context so do with that what you will~

Elex had never been good at handling emotions. Anger? That was easy. Frustration, violence, resentment? Second nature. But this—this tight, twisting feeling in his chest as he sat on their couch, cradling S7en’s overheated, miserable body against him—this was something else entirely.

The kid was burning up, fever pressing into Elex’s skin through the thin, sweat-damp fabric of his hoodie. His hands, calloused and rough from years of fights and harder living, felt clumsy as they adjusted the nebulizer mask over S7en’s flushed face. The mist curled out from the edges, visible in the dim glow of the TV’s silent menu screen. He didn’t know how long they’d been sitting here, but his legs were going numb under S7en’s weight—not that he gave a shit.

The wheezing was bad. Worse than bad.

Every breath S7en managed to pull in rattled through his lungs like broken glass, thick and wet and wrong. It was the kind of sound that made something animal deep in Elex’s gut tighten in instinctive dread. This was bad. Too fucking bad.

S7en stirred against him, whimpering softly in his sleep before a cough wracked through him, convulsing his thin frame so hard Elex had to tighten his grip to keep him upright. The coughing fit went on longer than it should have, deep and raw, until S7en made this awful little sound—like he was drowning. Elex clenched his jaw, shifting his mate just enough to rub slow, grounding circles against his fevered back.

"Easy, dumbass," he muttered, voice lower than usual, almost gentle. “Breathe through it.”

Not that S7en had much of a choice.

His breath hitched weakly, another wheeze scraping its way out before he slumped heavier against Elex’s chest, boneless and exhausted. His head lolled to the side, cheek pressing into the crook of Elex’s shoulder, mouth falling slack with hoarse, congested snores that were barely distinguishable from his wheezing.

Elex swore under his breath.

This was not just bronchitis anymore. He’d seen S7en sick plenty of times—hell, the guy caught everything like a damn sponge—but this? This was the worst yet. Every inhale sounded like a battle, and every exhale took just a little too long to come.

Elex wasn’t a doctor. Didn’t know shit about medical stuff, other than how to patch up a knife wound or pop a dislocated shoulder back into place. But he knew what it looked like when someone couldn’t fucking breathe.

His fingers found their way back into S7en’s sweat-drenched hair, combing through the tangled mess with slow, deliberate motions.

“Geezus fuck,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “You really don’t do shit halfway, huh?”

S7en whined softly in response, shifting just enough to bury himself further against Elex like he was seeking out his warmth. Elex let him.

He’d let him do whatever the fuck he wanted, as long as he just—kept—breathing.

The badger was out of his depth.

He could handle a lot—had handled a lot. Fights. Crime. The constant weight of hiding who he really was. But this? Watching S7en struggle just to breathe in his arms, his chest barely rising before another wet, strained wheeze forced its way through his lungs—this was worse than any fight he’d ever been in.

The nebulizer wasn’t helping. The mist curled and dissipated into the thick air of their apartment, but S7en’s breathing wasn’t getting any easier. If anything, it was getting worse.

Elex gritted his teeth, eyes darting down to the weak rise and fall of his boyfriend’s chest. Too slow. Too shallow. Every inhale was a war, every exhale a desperate, failing attempt to clear the congestion that clung like tar in his lungs.

And he wasn’t winning.

"Hey." Elex shook him gently, trying to rouse him. "S7en. Wake the fuck up."

Nothing.

S7en barely reacted—just a sluggish twitch of his ears, a pathetic little whimper as another round of coughs rattled through his fragile frame. His head lolled heavier against Elex’s shoulder, burning hot and damp with sweat, his body boneless in a way that sent a bolt of pure panic through Elex’s chest.

No. No, no, no. This was bad. So fucking bad.

He pressed his fingers against S7en’s ribs, feeling the sharp, stuttering way his breath refused to move properly, how his body worked too hard for air that just wasn’t coming.

"Fuck," Elex hissed under his breath, his grip tightening.

He should’ve seen this coming. The second that fever started climbing, the second the wheezing didn’t ease up after the first treatment—he should’ve done something. But he’d let S7en convince him it was fine, that he’d been through worse, that he didn’t need to go to the damn hospital.

And he believed him.

Like a fucking idiot.

Another strangled noise clawed out of S7en’s throat, half-cough, half-miserable gasp, and his body jolted weakly against Elex’s chest. His breath hitched. Then hitched again.

And then—stopped.

For one horrific second, there was silence.

Elex’s blood ran cold.

"Sven—!"

A choking, rasping inhale suddenly tore through the quiet, and S7en shuddered hard against him, sucking in air like a drowning man breaking the surface. His hands jerked where they were limp in his lap, weakly gripping at Elex’s hoodie like he was trying to ground himself.

The breath wheezed out of him in a shaky, half-conscious moan of pain, his chest rising in uneven, frantic movements as his body fought violently to breathe again.

"Shit, shit, shit—stay with me, kid, come on—" Elex muttered, shifting to get a better hold on him, his own heartbeat a rapid-fire thud in his ears.

S7en was barely clinging to awareness, his lashes fluttering against fever-flushed cheeks. His lips, normally some shade of cocky smirk, were pale—too pale.

Elex had seen enough.

Fuck stubbornness. Fuck whatever argument S7en was gonna put up when he got dragged into the ER. They were going.

Now.

With an iron grip, Elex hooked an arm under S7en’s legs and lifted him like he weighed nothing—because right now, in this state, he did.

S7en groaned weakly at the sudden movement, head lolling against Elex’s shoulder. His tail, usually flicking with irritation or mischief, just hung limp.

Elex’s jaw clenched.

"Yeah, I know," he muttered, adjusting his hold as he strode toward the door. "But you don’t get a choice, kid."

And with that, he kicked the door open, disappearing into the cold, night air, S7en burning fever-hot against him the whole way down to his car.

Elex barely registered the sound of the car door slamming shut behind him as he maneuvered S7en into the passenger seat. His grip was too tight, too urgent, his fingers digging into S7en’s burning skin as he wrestled the seatbelt across his trembling frame. His breathing was still so wrong—fast and shallow, like his body was trying to compensate for what his lungs refused to give him.

“Stay with me, kid,” Elex muttered under his breath, fumbling with the belt buckle before finally clicking it into place. S7en didn’t respond. His head lolled against the window, his fluffy ears twitching slightly but otherwise unmoving.

Elex didn’t like that. He didn’t fucking like that.

His breath was coming fast, sharp through clenched teeth, but the only sound he was really hearing was the wheezing. The sick, labored pull of S7en's breath, like a fucking broken accordion barely holding together.

“Fucking hell,” Elex snarled under his breath, slamming the door shut hard enough to rattle the frame before bolting around the hood of the car and throwing himself into the seat. The keys shook in his hand as he shoved them into the ignition—too hard—the metallic clang echoing through the car before he twisted them with a forceful jerk. The engine roared to life, but Elex barely heard it over the pounding of his own heartbeat.

A string of curses tumbled under the badger’s breath as he slammed the gear shift into drive and tore out of the driveway, the tires shrieking as they lurched forward. He wasn’t supposed to be driving, but fuck that. Fuck everything.

He wasn’t about to let this stupid, stubborn cat die on him.

His hands were white-knuckled on the wheel. His eyes kept darting between the road and S7en, glancing over every few seconds to make sure he was still breathing.

His chest still rising? Yeah. Okay. Fuck.
But how long could he keep that up?

"Just hold on, S7en," Elex muttered, foot pressing harder on the gas. "We're almost there."

S7en had been so still, so out of it, that when he suddenly sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath and jolted forward with a strangled choke, Elex nearly swerved off the road.

"Geezus—!"

S7en gasped again, curling in on himself, his orange ears flattened completely as his claws scrabbled weakly across the fabric of his seatbelt. His breaths were shallow, coming way too fast, way too wrong.

Panic.
He was panicking.

"Hey, hey, hey—Sven—!" Elex reached over without thinking, resting a firm hand against S7en’s chest, feeling the uneven, frantic rise and fall beneath his palm. "You're okay. You're alright, just breathe, babe. Breathe slow."

S7en blinked blearily, his pupils blown wide in the dim glow of the dashboard. His chest stuttered with another ragged breath before he whined, soft and miserable. "Elex…?"

"Yeah, yeah, I got you," Elex said quickly, eyes darting back to the road for a split second before locking onto him again. "We're going to the ER."

S7en’s expression barely shifted, but the little furrow between his brows made Elex know the argument was coming before the hoarse words even left his mouth.

"’m fine," S7en rasped, his voice barely audible over the sound of the road beneath them. "Don’t need the—"

"Bullshit."

The word came out sharper than he intended. But Elex was done pretending this was fine, that this was something they could just ride out.

S7en flinched at the tone—then slumped back into the seat, squeezing his eyes shut.

He tried again, weaker this time. "Elex—"

"You can’t breathe, S7en."

Silence.

S7en coughed, a horrible, wrecked sound that rattled through his frame and left him panting for air. When he finally opened his eyes again, something had changed in them.

Realization.

Defeat.

And finally—reluctant, unspoken acceptance.

Elex swallowed hard. His grip tightened on the wheel.

S7en didn’t argue again.

Elex was driving like he stole the damn car, which—okay, he had stolen plenty of cars in his life, but S7en’s wasn’t one of them. Still, right now, it felt like he was outrunning something worse than the cops. He was pushing the speed limit, weaving through empty streets with white-knuckled fists, but no matter how fast he went, he couldn’t outrun the rasping, strained breaths coming from the passenger seat.

S7en’s head lolled against the window, his half-lidded, fever-glossy eyes barely tracking the streetlights as they flashed by. His mouth was parted, sucking in shallow gasps of air that weren’t nearly enough, and Elex could hear the congestion rattling thickly in his chest. Every breath sounded wrong. Too much and not enough at the same time.

Elex tried, just once, to lighten the mood. “Y’know, you bitch at me for my driving, but you’re real quiet right now,” he muttered, flicking a glance over at S7en in the dim glow of the dashboard. “Guess that means I win.”

It was meant to be teasing. Just a distraction.

But then S7en let out the weakest huff of amusement—and it shattered into a coughing fit so violent that his whole body pitched forward, his spine arching against the seatbelt. His face went red, scarlet, as he gasped and choked, his shoulders trembling with the force of each ragged hack. The sound was awful, wet and shredding, like it was scraping raw against his lungs.

“Shit, breathe—” Elex yanked one hand off the wheel, blindly reaching over to rub circles into S7en’s back as he choked. It wasn’t doing anything. It wasn’t helping. Elex gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. “Almost there, kid, just hold on—”

They skidded into the ER parking lot a minute later, Elex slamming the gear into park without even turning off the engine. He whipped around to look at S7en, bracing for a complaint about his driving, about whipping the car around like it was some GTA getaway.

But S7en didn’t say anything.

He just slumped weakly against the window, his usual sharp, Cheshire grin nowhere to be found. His pupils were blown wide, dazed from fever, his breaths shallow and barely moving his chest.

That was not right.

“Fuck—no, fuck that—” Elex was out of the car in a flash, yanking S7en’s door open and hooking an arm around his waist, practically hauling him out of the seat. S7en barely reacted, his legs almost folding under him the second he was upright. His tail drooped, heavy and limp, barely twitching.

That scared Elex more than anything.

He half-carried, half-dragged S7en through the sliding doors of the ER, his heart slamming against his ribs. As soon as they stepped inside, the nurses at the front desk immediately jumped to action.

“S7en? Again?” One of them—Lillian, maybe?—was already reaching for a nebulizer before Elex could even say anything. “What are we working with this time?”

“Bronchitis—maybe pneumonia, I don’t fucking know—” Elex snapped, gripping the back of S7en’s hoodie so tight his nails almost tore through the fabric. “He’s burning up, he can’t breathe, he—”

“We’ve got him.”

That was the only thing they had to say before taking S7en out of his hands, guiding him toward a room like this was routine. And, fuck, it was routine. S7en was in here so often that nobody even blinked. They just got to work.

Before Elex knew it, he was sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair beside S7en’s bed, watching the nurses slip a nebulizer mask over his boyfriend’s face.

The first few minutes were tense—S7en sat there, glassy-eyed and swaying, chest still rattling—but after a while, the mist started working its way into his lungs. His shoulders slumped, his body slowly unwinding, like his muscles had been clenched so tight for so long that he forgot how to not be in pain.

Elex sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at him in silence. Just waiting. Watching.

S7en’s ears twitched first. Then his tail. Then his orange eyes—bleary, but focused—flicked toward Elex, catching him staring.

“…y’look like you’ve seen a ghost,” S7en murmured, voice still wrecked but a little stronger.

Elex scoffed, raking a hand through his green hair. “…Yeah, well. You weren’t exactly breathin’ a few minutes ago, dumbass.”

S7en blinked slowly, processing. Then, to Elex’s absolute horror, his lips curled into a soft, lopsided grin.

“Worried about me?”

“No.”

S7en hummed, tipping his head back against the pillow, eyes slipping shut. “Liar.”

Elex didn’t dignify that with a response. He just exhaled, leaning back in his chair, his shoulders finally losing some of the tension they’d been carrying for hours.

For now, at least, S7en was breathing.

Elex would deal with whatever came next.

The end 🖤

[aller-geez]

hey! i love your art sooo much 🫶 i would love to see vaelyn on the couch, all miserable, messy and feverish with a lot of tissues and medicine around him, he's so precious 🥺

Hey there Nonny!

You’re so sweet, thank you so much! 😭 I cannot front like he hasn’t completely taken over my head the past month and I’m very glad after the handful of fics and art I’ve posted of him that he isn’t played out already 😭😭

I cannot lie, I definitely forgot the medicine, but hopefully poor Vee trying to watch tv in the middle of the night because he doesn’t get a break from his nose, with a piece of tissue stuffed into the stubborn incessantly drippy nostril while he mouth breathes under the pile of used tissues cluttering around his body does the trick for you~

[aller-geez]

Feel so shy to ask😅... But I'll ask in case you said that you want to draw them😅

All of your girls are so cute 🥰

Maybe Kriia (it was a pretty hard choice, all of your girls are so sweet😅) being sneezy and using the handkerchief her boyfriend gave her (as a gift) like red with black polka dots or something, cuz it's nicely matching her hair etc.

I know that's not really close to OC ask post, and I was about to ask 🤧"Do they carry handkerchief/tissues" but it's kinda banal I guess...

Hope you don't mind it, cuz it's, as I said, not really related to ask post.

Best wishes

*running away and hiding under the stone*

Hey there Nonny!

Ahhh, my girls all say thank you!

& Thanks so much for your req! That’s okay that it’s not an ask per say, since I always love getting req 🥹

I hope this answers your question! 😈

Kriia doesn’t usually carry a handkerchief or tissues with her as her sneezes are usually mess-free,

…. Unless of course she comes down with a particularly snotty cold that she’s still trying to hide from Rexar so he doesn’t try and baby her like he always does 😈 Kriia hates being taken care of, and even if Rex blesses her one too many times, or gives her too much of an empathetic expression, she starts to get defensive. So he always has to strategize meticulously whenever she comes down with something first.

[aller-geez]

since you're in your sven (🩵💚🧡) kick i literally can't stop thinking about him having a bad 'one of those days' on top of being sick..

Hey there Nonny! Thanks so much for your request! Seriously living for all the Sven love 😈😈

I see you are a person of culture as well! 😈

When sick, Sven’s sneezes are extremely congested with extra enunciation on the first syllable. He usually has desperate, gasping vocal build ups, but typically will only sneeze once or twice at a time. Every cold turns into bronchitis or pneumonia due to severe asthma and lung problems from when he was a kid.

But with his allergies, they’re very rapid, gentle, kitten like fits of 6-12 sneezes at a time that can completely take him off guard.

“One of those days” mixed with the chest cold from hell, and poor Sven would be an absolute mess. His downtrodden body wouldn’t even know what to do with those itchy sneezes or the lack of oxygen afterward 😩😩

[aller-geez]

Pls pls pls send me these? :3

Sneeze K!nk Asks

Decided to make my own list of asks just for funsies in case anyone is interested. Feel free to send any :)

⏰ How long have you had the kink?

🫣 Have you ever done anything embarrassing because of the kink?

👃🏻What is your favorite word to describe a tickle?

🧠 What’s a fantasy you have in regards to it? (Can be spicy or not)

📺 Is there a movie or show that either awakened you or makes you cringe because of a specific scene?

🚫 Least favorite thing about the kink??

🗣 Have you/Would you ever tell anyone about it?

🤧 Favorite word to describe a sniffle?

💕 Have you seen your fave celeb sneeze?

⚖️ ___ or ____? Why?

🦠 What are your feelings about being around sick people?

🎼 Do any songs remind you of the kink?

🥫What is the best soup for a sick day?

📘 Did you all bookmark chapters where people sneezed or am I weird?

🫱🏽‍🫲🏻 Shoutout another blog or two that you think your followers would like!

⚔️ Is there a symptom you really DON’T like?

🤒 Do you prefer being the sickie or the caregiver?

[aller-geez]

Can we have more content of sneezy Kriia pls?

Hey there Nonny!

Thanks for your req! it’s been so long since I’ve gotten one, I was so excited to do it 🖤

I had fun playing with her reflection, but I hope this is what you were looking for~

…….pssssttt… I even included some vanilla 🌶️🌶️🌶️ Kriia I did recently under the cut~

[aller-geez]

Did Meeko try to stifled or holdback her sneezes while her partner is sleeping next to her?

Hey there Nonny! Thanks so much for your request!

Im so sorry this took a little longer to finish, but I swear I’ve been working on it!

But to answer your question,

When Meeko first started dating @thekinkyleopard ‘s Connie, she was mortified of her startlingly loud dad sneezes. if faced with a sneezing fit, she would do anything possible to hold them back 24/7 (not stifling, since she’s even worse than Remi at stifling when her sneezes are so big) afraid that her new silent girlfriend would be extremely put off by her….

However, when they both began to date Biziil around a year or so later, including him into their polycule, she didn’t have the same problem with him, instead bonding with him over both of their dad sneezes…

If her partners are sleeping, of course Meeks will try to hold them back if possible to avoid waking them up….. she’s not usually successful though, but both Biz and Connie are always right there to help her through each jarring sneeze~

[aller-geez]

This started out as me finally getting to the gif I promised @sally-sneez a bit ago, but horny brain definitely took over at some point….

I definitely might have gotten a little too horny over Remi sneezing in a gothy leather jacket and some combat boots and this gif was born and I’m not even a little sorry about it ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧

Literally love the way the text effects came out in this one ૮꒰⸝⸝> ̫ <⸝⸝꒱ა

every time I make a new gif, they keep getting better than the last one I did and I’m pretty proud of my progress ngl •⩊•

[aller-geez]

might be self indulgent, but... kriia sneezing in something sexy, please?

Hey anon! We always love a little self indulgence here 🫠 sorry this took so long!

How about a still from a video she took for Rexar while he was away? ;3