sneezing is hot

Upon first arriving, it seemed as though Sam’s insistence on his own well-being was actually genuine. He greeted Milo at the door with clear eyes and a beaming, slightly crooked smile. Feeling like a delinquent for doing so, Milo gave a cursory glance at his nose and found it not even the slightest bit red or raw looking. He tried to temper his disappointment in favor of relief. This was good, actually. If Sam’s allergy meds really were doing their job, this was going to be a lot easier for him to sit through.

Sam threw a lean, muscled arm around Milo’s shoulders and guided him inside. He smelled like fresh laundry and sunshine and was already talking a mile a minute. 

“I think you’re really gonna like the new stuff, Sebastian’s been working on some lyrics that really brought the whole ting together--” he glanced at the tote Milo had clutched under his arm, “Oh shit, you really did bring snacks! I could kiss you, dude.”

They entered Sam’s room—always surprisingly clean for a man so full of boundless energy—and Abigail snorted. 

“Ugh, save it for when I leave,” she muttered, “The three of you can make out on your own time.”

Milo blushed dark red, the freckles on his cheeks nearly dissolving into the pools of color as the heat crawled up his face. Just as his step faltered, Sebastian appeared at his side and snaked an arm around his waist. He pulled Milo free of Sam’s golden aura and cocooned him in his own: velvety and dark and every bit as distracting.

“It was a figure of speech, jeez,” Sam’s cheeks went a little pink too, much to Milo’s delight. The blonde palmed the back of his neck sheepishly while he kicked off his shoes. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Milo caught Sebastian smirking. He never quite knew where the lines between them all existed. He and Sebastian were dating, he was pretty sure of that. But Sam and Sebastian had a thing all of their own too. And for their part, Milo and Sam always seemed to get tongue-tied around one another, a phenomenon Sebastian relentlessly encouraged. 

The only one who could clock all of them from a mile away seemed to be Abigail, who rolled her eyes and snatched the tote away from Milo before retreating back to the couch with it. Cracking open the lid made the room fill with the sweet scent of fresh baked scones. Abigail’s eyes went wide.

“Milo, you outdid yourself,” she gasped.

Milo, who’d just stopped blushing started right up again, and raked a hand through his dark curls.  

“It’s a new recipe.”

“Oh hell yes! Gimme one!” 

Sam darted past and snatched one out of the bin, jamming nearly half of a scone into his mouth with glee. Both Sebastian and Abigail rolled their eyes, but Milo merely watched with unmasked affection. Sam never did anything elegantly. It was all wide-toothed grins, exaggerated movements and unapologetic mirth.

By contrast, Sebastian was more delicate about the whole ordeal. Taking a scone for himself, he held it between his long, pale fingers and inspected the glaze. His dark eyes flickered to Milo.

“Strawberry?” he asked.

Milo nodded, “Picked this morning.” 

Sam had already demolished his first and was onto his second as he stooped down to his guitar case. Scone in mouth, he snapped the latches with his hands and shook hair out of his face like a dog. Milo’s chest squeezed. So cute.

En route to the keyboard, Sebastian stopped and placed a soft kiss on Milo’s cheek. “Thanks, farmer.” His hand strayed to his hip as he passed and pinched at the bone playfully. Milo almost yelped but managed to keep his reaction from emerging. 

He whirled an accusing gaze on Sebastian who merely gave a pointed look over at Sam who now held a half-eaten scone in one hand and was furiously rubbing at his nose with his other.

—

Abigail used to joke that Milo was a captive audience for these practice sessions. But the truth was, there was nowhere in the world Milo would rather be. As music filled the room, Milo sank back into the old couch Sam had dragged in and pushed against the wall.

He couldn’t hold a tune to save his life and he’d never learned to play an instrument, so the best he could offer was a pair of listening ears for Goblin Destroyer’s new material. He tended to think everything they did sounded great, but he at least pretend to offer varying opinions. He mostly just liked being a part of it all. Plus, watching both Sebastian and Sam in their element had a kind of hypnotizing power over him. 

Unfortunately, not hypnotizing enough to distract Milo from the losing battle happening before his eyes.

Sam turned his head against his shoulder and rubbed his nose against his shirt. With both hands occupied by his guitar, it seemed to be his only option, and one made effortlessly casual at that. It was over and done with in a second, having not missed a beat for his efforts, and it seemed Milo was the only one who’d noticed. It could have been a fluke. 

But of course it wasn’t. 

A few moments later, Sam sniffed hard. The sound was lost behind the music but Milo could see it happen clear as day. The bridge of his nose crinkled a few times and then the tip wriggled as he tried to assuage an itch without actually scratching it. Milo squirmed on the couch, wondering what it might be like to help him. To reach up and rub his nose for him while he played, or run his fingers along the bridge of his nose to try and coax out— 

Sam sneezed without warning. A tightly controlled thing, just one bob of his head and a brief shuttering of his expression. It was impossible to say if he’d made any sound or not given the volume of the music, but Milo doubted it. For as inelegant as Sam could be, he’d been suffering from his allergies for long enough that he’d gotten good at suppressing them. Normally he didn’t bother, at least not around them, but Milo supposed these were different circumstances. There was a certain veneer of professionalism here.

Sam sniffed hard enough to wrinkle his nose again and continued playing, unbothered. But Milo knew where this was going. And he was certainly bothered. 

Sam’s fingers never missed their mark on the neck of the guitar as his eyes fluttered and his head snapped forward once, twice, and then a third time with completely suppressed sneezes. His mouth was shut in a tight line, his expression pinched. He shook his head after the third as if to clear the sensation and arched his shoulder to wipe under his nose as he played. 

Milo felt the room turning to molasses around him. Heat crawled up his throat. Worse still, Sebastian had caught that last outburst. A tiny smirk played on the keyboardist’s pale features as he continued to play, his eyes flashing almost wickedly as he met Milo’s gaze. 

His expression seemed to say Told you. 

There were a few moments of peace. Milo tried to will himself not to look at Sam again but his eyes were pulled there like a magnet. He could tell the fit was getting away from him. Sam’s eyes closed and this time his hands paused their rhythm on the guitar as the tickle distracted him. He tilted his head toward the light, a lock of blonde hair falling limp across his forehead, and then whipped to the side after a brief pause. 

“—tiiew!” 

Milo only caught the tail end of the sound over the music, and the resounding-undoubtedly wet-sniffle was swallowed up by Sam falling seamlessly back on beat. He blinked a little groggily as he continued playing. Then, he must have noticed Milo staring, because he grinned sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders at him. 

That slight acknowledgement of it all went right to Milo’s dick. He somehow plastered on what he thought was a convincing smile in return and then had to cross his legs. His heart began jackhammering in his chest. Fuck, was he really about to have to sit here while this happened? Maybe he really was a captive audience.

Sam struggled in vain to keep playing but his nose had other ideas. Surrendering to the tickle, his hands went slack against the instrument again and his upper lip curled over his canine. Milo couldn’t hear the uptick of his breath but he could imagine it well enough, watching the plane of Sam’s chest swelling against his t-shirt. Hh—hh? Hh?

Sebastian stopped playing. And the pause between Abigail’s drumming was just long enough for the first, clear sneeze to strike through the room crystal clear.

“h’h’JIISHZSHh’huu!” Sam gripped the neck of his guitar and angled away from it. Milo couldn’t tell if he was worried about sneezing near it or just using it as a point of stability. He gasped and let his head snap forward with a second, wet, “hh’tiiISChiew!” 

Abigail stopped playing too. Silence descended, to which Sam quickly shook his head. He turned to the others even while his head bobbed between sneezes, eyes struggling to open during the quick cadence.

“N-no, don’t—nNNCH!—stop, I’m—hNGT!—fiii-nnGXT!—hGNT!—I can keep—tschh! TSCH! Going!”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, “Yeah, you sound like it.”

“You know when you hold them in like that it only just makes it worse,” Abigail scolded him.

Milo felt like the walls were closing in on him. He quickly angled himself towards the arm of a couch and placed one of the pillows on his lap as strategically as he could. 

Sam lifted the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth as he geared up for another. “h’Hsshhh-ue!!”  "Bless you," Milo said, his mouth dry.

“I thought you took your allergy meds,” Sebastian sighed.

Sam remained under the cover of his shirt, eyes cinched shut. He gasped wildly and ducked down, “HHh’uPSCHh’ue!” A watery, pathetic sniff followed and Milo could think of nothing else besides the wet mist most likely spraying his own chest. 

As Sam emerged, his nose was pink, nostrils an angry shade and twitching. “I did,” he groaned, “God, I fucking hate sp-sprhiing.” 

Lifting up his shirt again, he pinched the fabric around his nose and shuddered into another, “hh’eSCHh!” 

Milo couldn’t help but notice the slight spot of dampness now forming on the shirt. "Bless you," he said again, trying to keep his voice steady. His eyes were apt to roll back into his head if he wasn’t careful.  "Thagks," Sam sniffed hard.

“Maybe sit this one out,” Sebastian suggested as Sam pawed at his nose, “Abby and I are the ones who have to learn the run anyway.”

To anyone else, it might have sounded like something a concerned friend might say. But Milo could hear the edge of playfulness to it. The slight lilt of teasing that was meant for him, and only him as Sam nodded glumly, shrugged out of the strap of his guitar and made his way over to the couch. 

Milo stiffened, eyes going wide. Sam flopped back, completely oblivious, one arm going behind him around the back of the couch. He dropped his head back, gave a liquid sniffle and groaned. Milo could feel the heat of his arm near his shoulders and chewed on the inside of his cheek so hard he could taste blood.

“Just don’t sneeze all over Milo,” Sebastian warned. 

Milo gave him a desperate look. It must have been really desperate, because Sebastian even laughed and managed to appear a little apologetic. 

“Or the scones,” Abigail added.

Sam gave them both the finger even while turning his face to the side and half-stifling into the open air. The frame of the couch shook softly and his knee brushed against Milo’s as he released it. “hH’NGXtssh!”  He groaned and shifted back. Sam hardly ever looked grumpy, but he was absolutely pouting now. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something else but his arm quickly retracted from behind Milo so he could lean forward. He ducked beneath the safe haven of his shirt again, head dropped and hair falling over his brow as he buried his nose into the fabric. "hh'tscHH!! hhi'zESHhhiyew!"

Milo instinctively reached for him, his hand smoothing over his spine. Sam startled at the sudden contact and bit down the next series of sneezes seemingly on instinct, folding into himself further with each quick set.

"hH'nNNT! nnGSST! nnGXCH!"

"Sorry!" Milo said hurriedly, retracting his arm.

Sam tried in vain to shake his head through and speak through the last of the tickle, "No, my ba-haa'aSScHIEW--bad! Sorry, hh'tssch!--fuck! There."

He'd thoroughly soaked the front of his t-shirt now. Sniffling wetly behind the cover of it, he lifted his gaze with no small amount of bashfulness. A hoarse, weak laugh escaped him. "Bless you doesn't seem to cover it," Milo said, breathless for entirely different reasons.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam continued to apologize, sluicing the moisture from his nose with his shirt.

"Do you not own tissues?" Abigail balked. "My house, I can sneeze where I want," Sam sniffed again before standing up and unceremoniously stripping out of his sodden shirt. Milo blinked, stunned, and could do nothing but stare at the lean muscle on full display as Sam walked towards his dresser. Sebastian cleared his throat and when Milo caught his eye, he was practically grinning. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him look so happy. Milo sank further into the couch and forced his eyes to the floor. "Okay, I think the worst's over," Sam declared as he grabbed a fresh shirt. Though Milo caught his profile just as the telltale hitch of his breath followed the statement. "Hh? Hh!"

His long, blonde lashes fluttered as turned to the side, eyebrows lifting in expectation. Milo watched his bare shoulders swell softly as he inhaled, muscles along his ribs flexing. Sam sniffed and seemed to ignite the tickle fully, directing one last tired sneeze towards his elbow. "hH'tishew!"

The exhausted nature of it did something irrevocable to Milo. His mind went completely blank as Sam sniffled through tossing his new shirt over his head and eventually returned to his guitar.

Vash assured him the next town was only a day's ride through the desert and that they'd meet back up with Roberto and Meryl there. But Wolfwood fucking hates this thing. The bone-deep jostle of its gait is disorienting as all hell and his thighs are already cramping from their position locked around the saddle. He's also pressed up against Vash which, ordinarily he wouldn't balk at the idea of, but the desert is hot and even just having one arm draped around Vash's middle invites heat that makes his head swim. With his chest pressed against the other man's shoulder-blades, he's almost certain he's sweating through both his jacket and Vash's combined but doesn't really care enough to apologize for it. It's Vash's face that got them into this mess. If he's bothered by the sweat, tough luck.

There is, in fact, another aspect of this method of transportation that's bothering him. And it was one he's rapidly running out of solutions for. He's not exactly accustomed to riding these things. So twenty minutes ago, when his sinuses had started to buzz, he assumed it was just on account of all the sand being kicked up. But the longer the tickle persisted, and the farther back into his throat it crawled, it became obvious. This isn't just some mild irritation. He's allergic to the stupid animal.

In most cases, when he felt like he had to sneeze like this, he'd just as soon get it over with. Holding it in always makes it worse and gives him a headache besides. But Vash is in a mood, and given how rare that is, Wolfwood thinks it might be best to just let him sulk for a bit in peace. Maybe he doesn't want to know what Stampede might do if he really snapped.

With his freehand that isn'tt wrapped around Vash's torso, he palms at his nose. As if beckoned, the buzzing way back in his sinuses surges to the forefront of his face and blooms out from the center. Shit, he's going to--

He wrenchs his head to the side, turning his palm to cover his mouth too.

"H'EEdsZhchu!"

Vash actually jumps. Wolfwood feels it because he'd grabbed at his middle a little harder while lurching into the sneeze, mostly so he didn't topple off the damn bird in the process. The iron feeling of muscle in the man's abdomen ripples under his fingers as Vash settles.

"Bless you!" he says, still clearly surprised.

"Sorry," Wolfwood sniffs, "Snuck up on me."

"I-it's okay."

They go back to silence. Wolfwood blinks irritated tears from his eyes and swallows back a groan. All right, not his best work. But one sneeze isn't terrible. If he can just control himself from here on out, he's got a shot.

But already, he can feel another one mounting. He pinches his nostrils shut and massages his fingers up and down the length of his nose in earnest. Fuck. He really needs both hands for this, one to massage the space beneath his eyes to alleviate the prickling and one to scrub his nose raw. His breath catches. He clenches his entire fist around his nose, hearing the squelch of wetness, and stifles as best he can.

"Hnnt!"

Those never satisfy though, and in the space of a second he needs another. "Hh-hhngt!"

They're quiet enough that he might have gotten away with it on volume alone, but what he can't control is the way his body jerks against Vash. Each sneeze makes him tighten his grip around the other man for a brief instant and knocks his chest against his shoulders.

But some of that can be blamed on the bumpiness of the bird's stride, he supposes. He pops open a bleary eye, hand still clenched around his nose, and waits for Vash to say something.

He doesn't.

Smug, Wolfwood lowers his hand and gives a delicate sniff. It's a mistake. Shit. Eyes cinching shut, he actually gasps this time, that's how strong it comes on.

He grabs onto Vash's shoulder with his freehand this time just out of instinct and sneezes violently down into his own lap. "AAAEESCZ'scHHUh!"

"Bless you, Wolfwood."

He lowers his head further, pressing the crown of it into Vash's spine. His lips curl back and his nostrils flare as another takes ahold of him.

"DZZYIsshue!" His hand flexes against Vash's shoulder and the other one along his abdomen retracts slightly, almost apologetically.

"Fuck," he says, still not lifting his head.

"Bless you," Vash says, and the Tomas dips to the left a bit before straightening back out. Wolfwood notes this as he picks his head up and watches the scenery smooth out in front of them. Huh, weird. Granted, it's probably not easy to steer an animal while you've got someone sneezing in your ear every few seconds. Wolfwood knows he hasn't got the quietest sneeze either, and he's already spooked Vash once. "Sorry," he mutters again, "I'll try to give ya some warning next time." Vash's voice sounds a touch higher than normal when he speaks, "It's fine. You okay?" "M'good. Think I'm just allergic to this fuckin' thing." Wolfwood adjusts in the saddle again and releases Vash's shoulder. Sniffling, he wraps his arm back around his torso, his fingers straying at his opposite hip. Secure once more, he turns his head to the desert and squints out at the sun. "To the Thomas?" He's surprised Vash is actually talking to him. The ride has been so uncharacteristically quiet this whole time, it's kind of a relief to hear him engage. Normally he can't get this kid to shut up. "Yeah," Wolfwood sniffs heartily again and mashes his nose with the base of his palm, "I guess." Vash sags slightly, "I'm sorry, Wolfwood. I didn't--" There he goes again. Where does he put all that misplaced guilt anyway? Wolfwood clicks his tongue. "Tch, don't beat yourself up about it, Blondie. I didn't even know, how are yhhh-hhhold on--" He knuckles at his nose in vain, words spilling out in a rush before the sneeze steam rolls them completely, "I'm ghhonna sneeze ah-aghain--ih'eyzSSCh'uh!" He grips Vash tighter and turns his head as far as he can from him, angling the spray nearly over his own shoulder as another sneeze follows on the first's tail. "ISSHYYAh!" This time, the Thomas dips to the left, hard. Wolfwood yelps and snaps back against Vash as the blonde rights the animal. Wolfwood's hands clasp at Vash's stomach to keep himself from flying off the side. "Steer the damn bird!" he snaps, an errant liquid sniff interrupting his scolding, "The hell's wrong with you?" "Sorry!" Vash squeaks. "I fuckin' warned you that time, didn't I?" Wolfwood huffs. He frees an arm from around Vash to press his sleeve up against his still twitching nostrils. Vash doesn't respond. Hmm, back to being moody then? Fine.

--

Vash, for his part, is barely holding it together.

It's not like he hasn't heard Wolfwood sneeze before. But there's a big difference between hearing it and experiencing it. His fingers white knuckle around the reigns of the Thomas as he tries to focus on anything but the wet sniffling behind him coupled with the feeling of Wolfwood's thighs locked around him. This is torture. And he's not doing a very good job of hiding how it's effecting him either. Namely because he can't figure out how to steer and be debilitatingly horny at the same time. Now, he's pretty sure he's pissed Wolfwood off --or at the very least, alerted him to the fact that there's something else going on. If he would just stop sneezing, Vash could get ahold of himself. But it seems like that's not in the cards for him. Wolfwood doesn't warn him this time. Either because he's being petty, or because he simply doesn't get enough of a warning himself. A sharp inhale whistles in his ear before Wolfwood's body rocks against his and his arm tightens around Vash's middle like a vice, "h'RRSCHH'uh!" Vash closes his eyes. He can't help it. All he can do is picture Wolfwood's snarled expression, the dampness of his long eyelashes, the way his nostrils are probably flaring-- "hh'aEESCHH'yue!" Wolfwood's forehead actually knocks against his spine with that one. Vash suppresses a moan and realizes his eyes have been closed for a few seconds too long. The Thomas is going off on its own again without a guide, and once more, he has to course correct with a quick jerk to the side. "Alright, what the fuck?!" Wolfwood's slightly congested-sounding outcry makes Vash grimace. "You really gettin' spooked every time I sneeze?" Wolfwood asks incredulously, "You want me to drive?" Vash felt him adjusting behind him. His arm dips low as he scoots up on the seat and Vash doesn't have time to stop what happens next. Wolfwood's forearm brushes against Vash's indisputable erection. Wolfwood freezes. Vash freezes. The Thomas continues on, unbothered. "Huh," is all Wolfwood says. Vash feels heat building in his chest and flushing over his throat and cheeks. He's sure he's as red as his jacket now. "Wolfwood I--" "Question for you, Blondie." He swallows, "Yes?" "Is that frhh--fuuck hh'nnGXT!" He cuts himself off mid sentence, smothering a sneeze into what sounds like his fist, and then another, "hh'hndHHDT! Shit, sorry." Vash bites his lip and is unable to stop the full body shiver from cracking over his scalp and racing down his spine. Wolfwood offers a low chuckle in response. "Nevermind. Question answered." "I'm sorry," Vash says reflexively, "It's--" "Shut up." Wolfwood's hand slips along his chest, fingers splayed out over his sternum suddenly. His other drifts along the strained fabric of Vash's pants. Vash whimpers. "This really does it for you?" Wolfwood asks, sniffling. He almost sounds impressed. Vash nods helplessly. Wolfwood hums. "Cute."

“Let me guess, you harassed Ijichi until he told you where I was again,” Nanami said without turning around as he’d sensed the presence before seeing the distinct silhouette of his shadow casting over him.

“What, you don’t think I can just track your residuals?”

Nanami’s expression didn’t budge from its stony disposition as he walked away. 

“Well, it was a bit of both,” Gojo said with an obnoxious laugh, following him closely, giving him a flat in the process. Nanami paused only to fix his shoe and try to retract the vein that always stuck out when Gojo decided to, well, be himself. “But that’s what happens when you don’t answer your phone!” 

“That’s not what should happen.” 

Gojo clapped his hands. “Well, anyway. There’s a crepe place I wanted to try.“

Nanami sighed. He’d been on his way home. Apparently, this was no longer the case

“C’mon, my treat. They have savory ones too.” He slung an arm over his shoulder and held his phone in Nanami’s line of sight. He stiffened even more.

“Stop.”

“I’m not even touching you,” Gojo whined, “It’s the infinite space between—”

“Fine. Let’s just get this over with.” He reasoned suffering would end quicker if he just went along with it rather than get sucked into whatever Bugs Bunny bullshit Gojo would probably pull if he didn’t. So that’s what he did. 

“That’s the spirit.”

They walked for a  few moments, Gojo occasionally making inane comments. Maybe they should stop at this shop or that stand, at least it was finally warm outside, he was planning on playing a juvenile and likely traumatic prank on his students. He was such a motor mouth that when he’d stopped, Nanami took a moment to properly revere the silence, not questioning it until the extra set of footsteps stopped entirely. When he turned to look, he saw he’d moved away from the path. There was a glossy sheen on his parted lips, and his brow was furrowed like he was concerned.

“What’s wrong?” Nanami asked, glancing around the area for anything suspicious. 

“Oh, nothing,” Gojo said, lips curling in amusement. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingertips brushing his undercut. “I thought I was gonna sneeze.” 

“Ah.” Nanami did his best to look unbothered. 

“You ever get stuck? It’s like edging but for your nose,” he complained. 

Nanami gave him a long-suffering look and shook his head. It didn’t matter what he said, he knew Gojo wasn’t going to change the subject, and giving him the reaction he was looking for would, uh…well. Absolutely not.

“Hah, really? It’s been driving me crazy,” Gojo said, thumbing at the side of the nose. Now there was a visible crinkle just at the space where the bridge of his nose touched his blindfold. “h-Hihh-! eh-!—just a second. Sometimes when I look at a bright light it makes me sneeze, so…have you ever heard of that?”

“No.” Yes.

His thumb hooked underneath his blindfold and lifted it enough to allow a beam of sunlight to enter his vision. He only had time for a sudden gasp before he was suddenly sneezing and bending at the waist, spray glistening in the sunlight as he loosely covered it with his wrist, bending at the torso with a set of surprisingly harsh sneezes, “hhH-! hySHHhiew-! hGtzSCHhu!” 

“Bless you.”

“hptShhuu!” He sneezed again.

Nanami waited to see if he was finished. 

He wasn’t.

“H’ihshhu-! ihSHHHiew-! hehDtzshhh’iewwh~!” Whew…” When it finally seemed to subside, Gojo sniffled and rubbed his nose, pressing his knuckle upwards into the sensitive skin so hard that it turned pink for a few seconds afterwards. 

Nanami tried to ignore the molten heat rapidly amplifying in his groin for a moment. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I thought I was gonna hit like ten there,” Gojo said breathlessly. Then while sporting an unapologetic smirk, he sniffled and added, "It's not true what they say, by the way.” 

Nanami flushed at the implication. Even though he’d never outright admitted his kink, there was no getting anything past Gojo; the man could see air molecules, of course he’d notice Nanami’s obvious boner. Or boners. Or moans when he sneezed that one time they’d hooked up. He had to stop wearing light colored pants.

“I think someone doesn’t want crepes anymore.”

“I didn’t want them in the first place,” Nanami reminded him. 

“Righttt,” Gojo chuckled, “Guess you’re not craving anything savory either, hm?”

Nanami froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking—“

“Heh’tshh-! Itshh-! KSHh! hih- Ihptshh-!” Gojo interrupted him with a series of more typical, small fittish sneezes. He sniffled a few times and actually managed to look a little sheepish. “Wow, excuse me. I think I’m getting a cold. For real.”

Nanami gritted his teeth, anything to keep the noise he wanted to make at the new information from escaping. “Really?”

“Yeah, sucks. Too bad I don’t know anyone who will take care of me, huh?” 

“Damnit,” Nanami hissed, willing his dick to go down, only because they were still somewhat in public enough, even if nobody 

was in direct earshot.

“How about a love hotel, then some crepes, hm?” Gojo suggested, already flicking through his phone to find one nearby, “Pretty sure, if I sneeze one more time, someone is gonna y’know—” 

Nanami cursed under his breath. “You’re paying for it, though.” 

Gojo hummed and sniffled again, face looking more flushed now that Nanami was looking closer. That along with the lack of 

a hooker joke had Nanami wondering if he was also just generally looking for company. 

“Iih-EKGtschu!”

“Bless you,” Adrian repeated.

“God won’t bother,” Eddie said.

True, but Adrian had a sort of trained-in trigger with the phrase. Fallen angel and all that mystical bullshit. 

“We can move,” Adrian said.

Eddie shook his head. “Can’t see the window anywhere else. I’ll deal.” 

Maybe he would, but Adrian wasn’t sure he could take hours of Eddie’s nasal prowess less than a foot from him. Not because the other man was annoying him. Damn, he wished it were annoyance. Too many years of Earth-bound kink had really done a number on what got his rocks off. Or maybe that was too many threesomes. He and Eddie always liked to share things . . . weapons, bloodshed, women–

“—hXGzzsht!” 

“Christ, Eddie.”

“Fuck. Me.” 

Yep, and that was the whole problem right there. Adrian had a whole lot of what-the-hell torture going on in his jeans, which wasn’t going away any time soon unless Eddie knocked it off with the pissed-off sinuses antics. Which didn’t seem like a possibility as long as they were surrounded by purple sprigs of floral hell. It also wasn’t like Adrian could just take a walk to the other side of the hedge for a little private time to solve the problem. The “problem” would have to quit sneezing every fifteen fucking seconds.

“—HhGgnsschxt!”

Which so obviously wasn’t going to happen. Not to mention the whole mind-reading thing Eddie did. Then, Adrian was going to be fucked. Or maybe choked unconscious. Eddie wasn’t the violent type, not with that whole long-haired-hippie-but-really-a-biker thing he had going on, but fuck. Fuuuuck. 

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Adrian turned his head to find himself staring into those red-brown eyes that creeped most people out. Well, Adrian wasn’t most people. 

“What’s your damage?” Eddie’s voice was low, threaded with congestion. Goddamn it, now the motherfucker couldn’t even talk without making Adrian’s balls tight. 

“Nothin’.”

“Don’t lie.” 

Shit. 

Window. He was going to concentrate on the window and empty his mind of everything else. Blue trim on the window. Even better.

Eddie’s eyes narrowed. Either the curtains in the house were giving Adrian one serious stiffie or something else was going on. And dammit, his nose was threatening one hell of a sneeze intervention before he could needle Adrian about it some more.

“—ISSCHuh!” Fuck, he was so over this. “—GiiSSCHu!” Goddamn it. 

The thick rope of braided hair that ran the length of his back slid around to drape his shoulder. He thought about tucking the thing into his shirt, but it was too damn long to be comfortable. Instead, he left it there tickling the top of his knee as he crouched beside his partner, trying to figure out just what was doin’ in that head of his without having to pull out the mind reader card. 

Because Adrian was definitely lying.

“—nh…hGXzsSCh!” 

Son of a bitch.

“Bless you,” Adrian said. 

Fucker was done staring at the window now. He was staring at Eddie. 

“Sorry,” Eddie said. “Guess this shit’s got me worse than I thought.” He flicked a branch with his hand. Fucking lilacs. 

“Not your fault,” Adrian said.

The other angel’s voice was tight, as if he were trying a hell of a lot more to convince himself than Eddie. Okay, what the fuck. Eddie was a patient guy, more patient than most. Talked way less than his counterpart, too. But Adrian’s silent act was getting old fast, especially when he was one of the mouthiest bastards Eddie knew.

And more silence. Yeah, this was starting to piss him off.

“You gonna tell me or what?”

Silence.

Eddie drummed his fingers against his thigh. “You really wanna do this the hard way?” He pressed a hand beneath his nose. “HhgNTXch! Fuck.” 

“Bless you,” Adrian said. For the tenth time.

“You don’t have to say it,” Eddie grumbled.

“Yeah. I do.” 

And he meant it, too. Like, really meant it. As if it were some kind of vitally important sentiment that he couldn’t help repeating for some kind of emphatic obedience. Eddie furrowed his brow which was about as much of an expression as he ever bothered to show to anyone other than Adrian.

“Talk,” Eddie said. “Last chance.”

“No.”

Fine. The guy wanted to play hard ball? Eddie was the goddamn master. He gripped his partner’s wrist in an iron vice of fingers. Shit like this was always easier with skin-to-skin contact. Not that Eddie really wanted to go probing around Adrian’s mind, but if the fucker wasn’t going to talk, then he’d just have to—

“Ek'NGgtSSChu!”

Sneeze. 

Again. 

In his grip, Adrian’s body went all stone statue. And his line of thinking went direct feed into Eddie’s mind. The angel blinked once. Slowly.

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh?” Adrian looked like he was torn between laughing his ass off and demolishing a small city. “You pull that fucked up shit out of my head and all you can fucking say is ‘oh?’ Christ, Eddie.” 

Adrian raked a hand through his obnoxiously perfect black hair which fell right back into place as if were trained that way. The bastard must have owned stock in Paul Mitchell to keep it like that.

“Come on,” Eddie said.

Adrian looked down at Eddie’s hand, which was still clamped around his own. “And do what? Who’s gonna watch the window? It’s not just gonna watch its--”

An image of something he’d considered a few times but never without a female in the middle clamped down on his mind and settled in for a stranglehold on his cock. 

Goddamn. And Eddie was looking at him. That way.

“Oh,” Adrian said.

Eddie was half-dragging him past the hedges, but hell, he could do that easily. The guy looked like he could bench press a cadillac. One stubborn angel wasn’t much to handle, really.

“Eddie, hey . . . look, uh . . .” 

Shit, he was usually so good at this. With women.

The other man’s hands were in his hair. Gently. Almost reverently. Adrian wet his lips. “Fuck,” he said.

“You could have told me,” Eddie rumbled.

No. He really couldn’t have.

“Yeah fucking right,” Adrian said. “What was I gonna say? Hey, man . . . I’ve been looking at your tight fucking ass for over four hundred years. Wanna fuck?”

Eddie arched an eyebrow. “That works.” 

Adrian growled something that sounded suspiciously like “fuck me sideways.” Yeah, that could be arranged. 

Eddie slid his hands to cup his partner’s face. The man had a hell of a lot of piercings, bottom lip, left nostril, tongue, ears. Women found that shit sexy, the other angel had said. Eddie stuck with the strong, silent, my-hair-is-longer-than-your-whole-fucking-arm approach.

“Hgkt'SSCH'u!!” he sneezed into the arch of his shoulder. And looked at Adrian. “Good?” he asked.

“Fuck, I don’t know,” Adrian said. The straining bulge against his jeans suggested otherwise.

Eddie slid a hand around to his back, splaying his big fingers there. 

“What the hell are you doing now?” Adrian asked.

“Kissing you,” Eddie said.

“Is it. . .  just lilacs?” he asked. 

For a minute, Adrian considered winging it into the sky to the other side of Egypt or something. Anything to get the hell out of there. But the instant the fullness of Eddie’s mouth pressed against his own, all lines of thought took a vacation. The guy had the softest lips. Adrian hadn’t expected that, nor had he expected Eddie to run his tongue over the ring in his bottom lip, to tease the stud in his tongue. Fuck, the bastard was a great kisser.

Adrian gave up on the I-don’t-really-want-you act and kissed him back. Thoroughly. Eddie backed him against a stone wall he didn’t remember seeing on the way in, pinning him there with one arm because the other was busy stroking his . . . cheek? The labor-roughened pull of Eddie’s thumb down the curve of his jaw was almost more erotic than his tongue. Others didn’t touch his face. They just didn’t. 

“I’m all fucked up,” Adrian said. More like warned.

Eddie dragged a heavy thumb over his bottom lip, worrying the little ball in the hoop for a moment. “I know,” he said. The corner of his lip lifted, flashing a hint of teeth. “HhkgzTSSCH!” He managed to avoid giving Adrian an impromptu baptism by turning his head at the last possible second.

Adrian practically groaned. Fuck. Why the hell was that so hot? He was hard as a motherfucker. He sank his teeth into Eddie’s roving thumb, not hard enough to hurt him, but hard enough to leave an imprint of his canine in the weathered flesh. 

What the fuck kind of lame-ass sex talk was that?

“No,” said Eddie. He stroked a hand down Adrian’s side, untucked his shirt, ran his finger over the fine hair that trailed from just below Adrian’s navel into his jeans.

“What else?” Adrian heard himself ask the question and really wanted to backhand his own damn mouth.

“Not sure,” Eddie said. “But I hate spring and she hates me.” He slipped a finger into the waistband of Adrian’s jeans, pulling the denim away from his skin. 

Adrian was commando beneath the fabric. Eddie probably wasn’t surprised. Before he could work some one-handed magic on the button and zipper, he had to pause to catch another sneeze against the back of his free hand. “HngKxxTst!”

“Don’t,” Adrian said.

Eddie shrugged one massive shoulder. “Can’t help it.”

“No, I meant don’t . . .stop them like that.” Adrian’s hands rested on the other man’s hips, fingers hooking through the leather hoops there as if he wasn’t exactly sure just where the fuck his hands should go in the first place.

“Okay,” said Eddie. He brushed a lock of Adrian’s thick hair away from his forehead, a crooked smile curving one half of his mouth when it promptly fell back into exactly the same spot.

Adrian’s hands slid up the other angel’s chest, resting there. Man, he so fucking wanted this. Bad. So what the hell was stopping him?

“Wait,” Adrian said. 

Eddie waited. He stood still, except for the hand on Adrian’s jaw, the thumb sliding over the curve of it. He was a patient bastard, the most patient being Adrian had ever known, just standing there all cool, calm, and understanding, waiting to see if Adrian was going to flake the fuck out. 

Which he was trying to do. And failing.

Okay, so now what? Adrian sighed, shoving a hand through his hair. “I can’t,” he said. Goddamn it. 

Eddie worried the metal hoop between his teeth, tugging the breath out of Adrian’s lungs in a shivering rush of air.  The other angel’s body arched against his own, one hand coiling the thick rope of hair around fisted fingers.  As often as Adrian teased the fuck out of him for having “no game,” he sure as shit leveled the playing field in this arena.

Eddie’s hand didn’t drop. Adrian didn’t even realize why until he realized he’d trapped it against his face himself. And there was Eddie, watching him with all that ancient patience, knowing he was full of shit.

“Goddamn it,” he grumbled.

Adrian’s head had been a fucked up mess since the she-demon had gotten her claws into him. Literally. She had worked him over, stripped him to the soul, and raked more than just the flesh from his body. Sure, it had been necessary. It had bought enough time to win, enough time to save a man’s soul from eternal damnation, but Adrian had written a reality check he wasn’t sure his mind could cash this time. Nothing helped. Not women, not battle, not booze, nothing.

“Hhih…! --IKgxSSCHu!”

Well, almost nothing.

“Bless you,” Adrian said with a sigh.

“You liked that one,” Eddie said.

Yeah, he did. He liked all of it. “I’m fucked up,” he said again, as if Eddie hadn’t heard him the first time.

“I know,” said Eddie.

The hand slid around to grasp Adrian’s wrist, climbing his arm and reeling him in closer until he was surrounded by well over two-hundred pounds of protective angel. Oh yeah, Eddie knew, alright. He knew from fucking first hand experience just what that demonic bitch did to man’s soul and Adrian had given himself up for the greater good of whatever-the-fuck more than once.

“Nothing helps,” Adrian mumbled into his partner’s chest.

A hand slipped into his hair, gripped the thickness of it. “I know,” Eddie said again.

The big bastard was so gentle. So fucking gentle. Adrian gripped his shirt, balled up handfuls of the material in his fists. He wasn’t small  by any stretch, but up against Eddie, an oak tree was small. Or at least, that’s how it felt to Adrian. Beneath his fisted hands, Eddie’s chest heaved and Adrian froze. The hand that was entangled in his hair relented, the other man’s breath hitching in a slow, torturous way that made just about everything in him from the chest down clench into wrenching fire. If the angel did that while they were so close, Adrian was going to lose his shit. And Eddie would know it, the mind-reading fucker.

“Hh’NnGtiSCH! . . . .hiih!” Eddie’s breath wavered, cracked . . . and didn’t do a goddamn thing after that. “Fuck,” he grumbled.

“Sonofabitch,” Adrian hissed.

“Sorry,” said Eddie. “Couldn’t help it.” 

Adrian kissed him. Hard. To hell with finesse. He was all kinds of urgent need in about a thousand different ways at once and unable to vocalize any of it. Eddie would just have to read his damn mind. Which he was sure was next to impossible not to do at the moment anyway, considering they were practically joined at the hip with the way Adrian was pressed against him.

Impossibly large hands rested on his hips, steadying him, the kiss melding into something slower and more tactile as Eddie teased the metal bar in his tongue with a flick of his own. The same calloused thumb slipped into his shirt, rubbing the hoop in his nipple in firm, achingly slow circles. It wasn’t until the unbuttoned garment slid from his shoulders enough for Eddie to replace his thumb with his mouth that Adrian really gave up the whole pretense of I-can’t-do-this. He didn’t have a choice.

His tongue traced a heated path down Adrian’s torso as he dropped to his knees, feathering kisses just above the waistline of his jeans.  Eddie didn’t need to read the angel’s mind.  The bulge that strained against the distressed denim fabric was a blatant invite for more of the physical. 

Instead of prying open the other male’s pants with his teeth, he slid a finger beneath the beltline again, scraping a nail along the pale flesh until Adrian all but quivered.

“Fuck, Eddie,” the angel panted.  “Would you just--”

A strangled gasp escaped him as Eddie’s teeth grazed the hard length of flesh through the denim.  Adrian’s fingers plunged into all that hair, probably loosening the top of the braid all to hell, but he suspected Eddie gave less than a single fuck.  His hips betrayed any last hope of “no, stop that” that he had left to give.  Not to mention the steady pulse of a groan that ebbed from somewhere deep within his chest.

Capable fingers made short work of his jeans as Eddie knelt in front of him, a position he never thought he’d bear witness to, much less experience first hand.  Part of him wanted Eddie to take his time as he did with all the females they shared, but the urgency of his desire wasn’t a patient beast.  He wanted – no, needed---Eddie to just fucking–

Adrian’s breath caught in a high, choked hitch of sound.  Something ancient and foreign rolled from his tongue, his ability to speak the common mortal vernacular a distant fog of memory.  Eddie’s tongue cradled the tip of his cock with a brush of wet heat before those full lips closed over the entirety of him, ring and all.

He scraped his back against the concrete wall, his free hand fisting his own hair, hoping to hell and back that his legs didn’t suddenly forget they had to support his tensely trembling body.  Fingers dug into thighs, steadying him.  Eddie’s tongue was erotic sin, tying his core in knots of desperation.

That was, until the other angel suddenly stopped.

Adrian cracked an eye, giving the fist-and-twist  routine  in his hair a reprieve.

“Why . . .”  He licked suddenly dry lips.

Words.  Yes, he had to make words. 

“ . . . did you . . .” 

Goddamn short-circuiting brain-fuck.

However, one look at Eddie forecasted a twitch-worthy reason for the pause.  The other angel pressed a knuckled fist beneath his nose, brow knitting, teeth clenched.

“Eddie, goddamn it–!”

Adrian’s warning was nine kinds of pleading with a hefty side order of I-don’t-really-mean-it. And Eddie knew it.  With his hand still touching the other angel’s hip, Adrian’s emotional state was clearer than the finest crystal and just about as fragile.

Eddie’s breath hitched and Adrian mirrored the action with a flinch of his body.  The corner of Eddie’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.  Oh yeah.  Adrian was so done.

“HhkgSSSCH’uuh!”  

The hand still holding fast to Adrian’s hip clenched, transmitting the shudder of his shoulders to the other male with lethal perfection.  

“Goddamn it, Eddie!” Switching his earlier words around didn’t help. “Are you just trying to fuck me up on purpose or what??”

Ah, so the pierced bastard could talk.  Eddie almost snickered at the outburst.

“No,” Eddie said.  

He sat up a bit straighter, wrapping skilled fingers around Adrian’s arousal with a definitive stroke. 

The harsh scrape of concrete through his shirt barely registered as Eddie worked that piercing with a wicked combination of tongue-flicking, biting, and tugging that damn well sent Adrian into a frenzy.  His hips jerked, knees threatening to betray the weight of his body.  This was the edge . . . the tipping point.  And he wasn’t just falling over it.  His body kamikazied into the abyss on a haphazard suicide mission. 

So much for fucking stealth. 

Adrian moan-growl-panted his way through the strangled language of what felt like seventeen different kinds of release, the loudest of which was some stammering rendition of Eddie’s name. God, had time fucking stopped? Because he was definitely straddling the line between suspended animation and full-on implosion.  

His stance wavered, legs trembling, entire body caught in the electric fusion of such a violent-as-fuck exonaration.  Eddie was on his feet, bracing him against his massive body, hand splayed across his back like a physical order of protection.

Everything was a haze of flickering images and streetlight shadows, a jigsaw of earthly amalgamations.  The only clarity was the steady rise and fall of Eddie’s chest against his own, the slow pressure of his fingers kneading absent reassurance against his skin. 

The other angel had even pulled up his goddamn pants, too.  Why in the absolute fuck was that somehow the most ridiculously considerate shit ever?

“You good?”

Eddie’s dark voice was a silken rumble against his ear.

“The fuck . . .” Adrian managed to say in some kind of half-sigh, half-swearing growl that was trying to call itself language. 

“We’ll get to that later.”

“Christ, Eddie.” 

That is, until Grimm's guffaw comes to an abrupt halt. He squints at the horizon, gaze unfocused. 

“Huuh….hhh! UH'CHISSH! –CHISSHuh! UH’IKSSSCChu!” 

“Bless you, Grimm,” Indigo says with far less venom than before.

Despite Grimm's antics, he does sound as if he's begun to tire. 

“Thanks, Indy.” Grimm’s sniffling is thick with allergic nonsense. “Hey, I'll be right back.”

He reaches across the table to pat Indigo’s hand before rising to his feet. Walks ten feet away. Pauses.

“Hhih’UHHCHISSSHHUu!” 

Gods, the way the man nearly doubles over into that positively wrenching sneeze and just. . . keeps walking afterwards is infuriating beyond measure.

Moreso because Indigo was not privy to his expression beforehand.

Indigo snatches the vase from the table and relocates it elsewhere, stands in the middle of the random chairs for a moment, and follows Grimm's path into the restaurant.

He needn't guess where Grimm has gone. 

As he approaches the bathroom, he can hear him.

Sneeze after desperate sneeze, complete disregard for any shred of decorum.

Indigo hesitates before grabbing the door handle and creaking it open, locking it behind him with a flick of his hand as he steps inside.

And there he is, both hands up on the counter, regarding his allergy-ridden countenance in the gilded mirror.

A sly, provocative smile etches his lips as he watches Indigo's approach through the mirror, rather than turning to face him.

“Miss me already?”

The great bastard.

Indigo stalks towards him, intent on–well, something–and stops just short of grabbing his arm and shaking him.

But it is Grimm who does the grabbing, his reflexes quicker than Indigo can track. His back connects with the edge of the counter as Grimm holds him captive, nudging his feet apart so that he can better invade Indigo's space. 

“You want somethin’, Indy?” His voice is a dark, rumbling purr, further deepened by all of that allergic nonsense.

The man's pink-rimmed nostrils and eyes are certainly not helping matters, either.

“I want nothing of yours,” Indigo lies so terribly, he nearly rolls his eyes at himself. 

“Uh huh.” Grimm leans closer, those teasing lips precariously close to his own. “Then why’d you lock the door?”

Oh, damn it to hell.

Grimm runs a hand up his arm and the touch electrifies his entire being, prickling not only his skin to attention, but the tiniest flare of blue fire.  Fingers light upon his cheek with a gentle brush of skin-to-skin contact, Grimm’s thumb tracing a path across his bottom lip.

“You’re so goddamn pretty, Indy.” The hand slides into Indigo’s silver waves of hair.  Lips brush his temple, his cheek, the underside of his jaw.  “Kiss me.” 

What in the name of the gods makes this man so irresistible to him?  Aside from the fact that Grimm himself is quite possibly one of the most rugged yet strikingly attractive men Indigo has ever encountered, Grimm is uncouth, rough around the edges, and blunt to a fault. 

But Indigo craves his touch, craves the man himself.  He slips his arms around Grimm’s neck and Grimm draws him close, brushes Indigo’s lips with his own.  Teasing. Taunting.  Gods, how on Earth would he survive consummating this bond?

Indigo kisses him and energy surges between them with an almost audible crackle. A short gasp escapes him, one which Grimm responds to with a dark purr of sound.

Just as Indigo feels as if his body may sizzle out of existence, Grimm breaks the kiss with a gasp of his own for an entirely different reason.

“Hhnn . . .hhhuh–CHISSSH! UHSSCCCHHu!”  He has no time to so much as consider covering in some way, no time to release Indigo from his embrace.

Instead, he turns his head and sneezes against his arched shoulder.  Or at least, he tries.

The way Grimm’s body shudders and heaves against his own is more exquisite than anything he could have imagined, the involuntary squeeze of his arms out of pure reflex a delightful shock.

“Bless you,” Indigo says like a breathless fool.

Before Grimm can so much as formulate a reply, Indigo practically climbs him to continue the heated frustration of that kiss. Dinner is a forgotten affair.  There are far more enticing things.

“Wanna get out of here?”  

Indigo cannot suppress the shiver that runs the length of his spine.

“Yes.”

______________________________________________

”Gerald,” Indigo says. “Close the partition, please.” 

The heavily tinted window between driver and passenger slides into privacy mode and Indigo turns to Grimm sans glasses, the plush softness of his abundant hair framing his face in a wild, silver halo.

“I cannot believe that you did this to me.”

Grimm chuckles. “I didn't put that vase on the table, ya know.” 

“Regardless of that fact, the fault remains,” Indigo says.

Grimm rubs at his pinkened nose with another wet sniffle. “Come here, Indy.” 

A hand closes over his forearm and Indigo's gaze darts to it with the indignation of a feline being stroked against its will.

But he allows Grimm to pull him close just the same.

“Fuck, I'm still itchy as hell.” Grimm rubs at his eyes with his free hand and winces. “Hhuhh….! UH'CHISSH! UHSSSCHHU!” 

“Bless you,” Indigo says in that heat-addled, ardent way that makes him want to end himself. 

“Thanks,” Grimm says, his voice thick with congestion. “Hey, Indy. Think you could do that handkerchief thi–”

Indigo murmurs the appropriate Latin and thrusts the thing at him without looking up, eliciting a chuckle from his partner. 

However, the magic proves to be just in the nick of time as Grimm buries his nose in the cloth to capture the most hideous disaster of a sneeze Indigo has yet to witness. Vocal. Raw. Excruciatingly exhausted and fraught with congested relief. 

He sits up, his treacherous body suffused with heat and softened by compassion.

“Oh, Grimm.” He slides a hand over the other man's cheek, his voice rife with a mix of desire and true concern. “You sound. . .” 

“Like shit?” Grimm offers with a laugh.

“Well, yes.” Indigo chuckles himself. “But I–” 

Speak, you fool. . .

The words dissolve in his throat as climbs into the other man's lap, cupping his face with both hands, practically straddling him.

The kiss he imparts to Grimm's mouth is suffused with need and domination, searching in a way he cannot verbalize. And the way Grimm yields to it with a dark, purring sigh positively inflames him beyond all measure. 

“Fuck, Indy.” Grimm rolls his hips in such a provocative, unconscious way that Indigo nearly loses himself right then and there. “You're gonna make me come.” 

*As you should.”

“What the f–?”

Indigo silences him with another kiss, fingers sliding into the soft deception of Grimm's hair and gripping tight handfuls within his fists. 

Hands clamp down upon Indigo's hips, fine tremors translating through his fingers. 

Gods, Grimm is practically trembling beneath him. Indigo's own control threatens to shatter, but he forces his body into tight obedience. 

Grimm tips his head back with a groan, breaking the kiss and arching himself against Indigo with such a needful shiver that Indigo feels the cracks in his control verging on shattering.

“Indy. . .” Grimm’s voice is thick with passion and other things. “I've gotta fuck you. Right now.” 

He snatches the edges of Grimm’s collared shirt and jerks him closer. “Have me, then.” 

Not exactly the romantic bonding one would expect, but the need between them has grown desperate. Urgent. 

Perhaps for the better.

Grimm flattens him onto the seat of the limo, all but tearing Indigo free of his pants. Given how. . . excited. . .his partner is, there will be little to quell his need other than this. 

Which is more than amenable to Indigo as Grimm jerks his own pants down and–

–pauses?

Oh. Oh no.

“S-sorrryyhhhh-huuuh—! Hhhh….! NKGGKT-shuh!” 

Grimm’s poor attempt at stifling is a rough, clenching failure of sound that sends Indigo into an unexpected frenzy.

“Grimm, if you do not fuck me this instant–”

“Goddamn, Indy-”

“Grimm–!”

There is no prelude, no foreplay. Grimm has him, sprawled there on the expensive leather, primal and without gentility, until Indigo claws at his back with a sound he doesn't even recognize as his own voice.

Quick. Violent. Carnality at its utmost core.  A part of Indigo revels in this, relishes it like something rare and exotic, an uncommon delicacy amidst a buffet of banal expectations. Grimm is savage and tender, unrestrained and yet, in complete control.

It is foreign, yet familiar. Feral, yet sustaining.

It is . . .bliss.

Grimm is a panting mess of a man, dark hair plastered to his forehead and clinging to that ridiculously attractive stubble. And Indigo fears he may appear far worse for wear himself.

 Several long moments pass before they collect themselves into haphazard order, if one could call it that.

“Fuuuuck.” Grimm drops his head back against the seat with an almost comical thunk. 

Indigo runs a hand through the silver disaster atop his head. “Indeed.” 

A dark chuckle rumbles from the depths of Grimm’s chest. “Guess I don't have to ask if that did it for you, huh.”

Indigo delivers a half-hearted smack to his chest with the back of one hand. “Do shut up.” 

Grimm’s laughter booms through the back of the limo and Indigo allows himself to echo the sentiment, although not as raucously as his companion.

“Hey.” Grimm’s hand closes over his upper arm. “Come here.” 

Indigo does not protest when Grimm tugs him into an encompassing embrace, holding him against his chest, arms draping his body.

Protective. Secure. Like . . . a Shield.

Gods, what has he gotten himself into with this man?

The remainder of the ride back to the aging Victorian hellscape is damn near unbearable between Grimm's damnable sniffling and the occasional exhausted sneeze. 

Once Gerald has deposited them beside the crooked steps, Indigo turns to his companion, who is currently digging for his keys. 

“Well, then.” He attempts to run a hand through the tangled mess of his hair and instantly quashes the idea. “Would you care to join me for a bit of tea before bed?”

Grimm waves a dismissive hand. “You know I'm staying, right?”

Indigo lays a hand upon his forearm. “I rather hoped you would.” 

“Can't do this Shield shit from my place.” He captures Indigo's fingers with his own and pulls him close. “Besides, I ain't finished with you yet.”

Indigo grabs the collar of Grimm’s shirt with a forceful jerk of fabric. “And I have further plans for you.” 

If Grimm’s eyebrow could arch any further, it would certainly disappear into his hairline.  “Oh yeah?” He tilts his head.  “There’s a dirty motherfucker in there.”

A sly smile curves Indigo’s lips. “Perhaps.”  

"Hmn." Grimm strokes the edges of his chin, as if trying to choose between eating him or ravishing him right there on the porch. "Okay. I'm all yours."

Indeed.

Character Profiles: Grimm Indigo

Daggers and Deception (Grimm and Indigo) - 1 2 3 4 5 6 7

Detestable Misery (Indigo) - Part One Part Two

First Contact (Grimm)

Damn Lilies (Grimm) - Part One Part Two

Astralis and Aurora (Indigo's parents) - Untitled One Shot (Astralis)

Oleander (Indigo)

Lights, Leather, Action! (Grimm) Part One Part Two Part 3

The Great Ginger Retaliation (Indigo)

When Royal Protocol Goes Awry (Grimm)