sit on big noses

heh.. didn’t think I’d be back with more so soon but well here we are ^_^ ok let me dish for a second. its pretty much impossible for me to imagine one singular night passing in the atelier where these fools aren’t wrought with incredibly sickening sexual/emotional tension!!!! i couldn’t stop thinking of olruggio having a sensitivity to wine that he under no circumstances lets dissuade him frm drinking it ^_^  then my head said… would it be better if qifrey (with the kink) was forced to bear witness to this, or if olly (with the kink) was forced to struggle?? Well. i wrote both to try to find out! you can choose your own sneeze-venture here and let me know which one of them you think S fetish looks better on….. thanks to you geniuses who paved the path before me writing fetpov. truly life changing stuff n I owe you everything. xo

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Once he’s seen the last of Qifrey’s apprentices up the stairs to bed (sleep tight, Tetia! he calls up after her) Olruggio slinks back into the quiet kitchen of the slumbering atelier. He’s been away for a handful of nights to install and deliver a contraption to a client, but returned earlier this afternoon. Now that he’s home, free of responsibility if only for the very moment, Olruggio is in search of drink and the easy companionship of his oldest friend, an after-supper mission he’s oft known to embark on. Olruggio pauses in the doorway for a moment, watching Qifrey as he flits down the length of the counter, tidying up the small mess of leftovers and putting order to whatever he needs for the next morning’s meal. He clears his throat, trying and failing miserably to project an air of nonchalance. 

“Sooooo…. did’ya bring me tha’ wine I asked for?” He brings one hand up to sheepishly scratch at the back of his head as he pushes his weight against the doorframe. 

Qifrey startles at the sudden interruption, but softens quickly, warming at the sight of him. 

“Ah, Olly! Indeed I did! Give me but a second- I’m almost done with the washing up.” 

His word holds true as he finishes up quickly, swiveling around to face Olly with his hands clasped together and a charming smile lighting up his face only moments later. Olruggio loves when he gets giddy like this; so eager to share whatever he possibly can. He endlessly adores being on the receiving end of Qifrey’s generosity, loath to admit it though he might usually be. Qifrey strides to the pantry door and pulls down a thick black bag from one of the taller shelves inside. He clears his throat as he holds out the bag to Olruggio, mirroring the man’s sheepish expression from minutes before. Olruggio takes the bag from him hesitantly, all but glaring as he pulls a fine wooden box out of the bag. He stiffly slides the lid off of the box and blanches first at the velvet lined interior, a rich, deep purple, and again at the golden bottle lying inside. 

“I’m sorry, it’s not-” 

Olruggio protests before Qifrey has a chance to finish. “What’ve you gone’an got this for, Qifrey?! All I asked for was a bottle of Silvernectar!” he  exclaims, wide-eyed, almost incredulous. 

“.. quite what you asked for…” Qifrey finishes, even and amused, the slightest bit wry.

It is a Silvernectar elixir after all, Qifrey informs him, but its age is twice that of anything Olly would’ve reached for himself - it’s some sort of special honeytree hollow stock, limited edition, likes of that. Gah, Qifrey. Death o’me. The bottle is covered in hundreds of tiny delicately gilded stars, spilling down the neck and over the shoulders of the bottle, wrapping it in light. He doesn’t want to know, not in the slightest, how much Qifrey spent on this and he sure as hell doesn’t ask. Olruggio couldn’t drink it at all if he knew.

“..But, it caught my eye last time I traveled to Kalhn with Coco. I suppose it just made me think of you. And tonight seems as good a night as any to celebrate!” 

The busier Olruggio’s schedule is, the more doting Qifrey tends to become, filling in the gaps in his sleeping and eating schedules and overriding Olruggio’s general neglect of his health by plying him with special treats targeted to whatever ailments spring up to trouble him. Headache, uneasy stomach, restless sleep; Qifrey’s got an elaborate concoction for it all. Olly never asks and Qifrey certainly never tells just how it is he always seems to know. Regardless, it’s become custom that a busy week in the workshop makes for a rather spoiled Olruggio and he’s long since given up protesting, relishing now the buttery feelings it greases his heart with. Qifrey’ll do as he pleases, Olruggio knows that much. 

“Ahem- I do hope you enjoy it!” 

“Well, by the stars, Qifrey… I’ll only enjoy it if you’ll be ‘aven some with me,” he scratches at the hair on his chin and a boyish grin stretches wide across his face, the butterflies in his belly charmed into a stir. 

“Of course, my friend,” Qifrey says, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, and leaning close, a fleeting gesture as he wraps behind him to the other side of the kitchen. Olruggio’s breath starts at the touch, involuntarily, instinctively. He doesn’t flinch away, it’s the opposite, in fact; he turns into it, and feels the absence as profoundly as he feels the primitive need to feel it over and over and over again when Qifrey’s hand is gone as quickly as it came. Hm. “I’ll meet you by the fire - let me fetch us some glasses,” Qifrey says, turning on his heel and leaving Olruggio hovering in the doorframe.

Olruggio takes the cue and plods to the kitchen with the wine in tow. He feels like he’s floating, wondering if every night he spends with Qifrey is meant to burn him up more than the last. The space between them has begun to feel cavernous as of late, but Qifrey always seems to loop him back in, if only to hold him just at arm’s length. He supposes he could live to never close the distance and it would be alright, as long as it meant he got to be this close at all. But hell, does it smart, knowing that there’s so little he can do to bridge the expanse. He’s brought both box and bottle along with him and sits them on the far right edge of the couch while he takes the middle, forcing his own hand along with Qifrey’s. It’s easier to keep the distance when the girls are around, some proxy for his stilted affections, but he can never manage to keep the walls high enough when it’s dark and late and he and Qifrey are burning beside one another. Sometimes he doesn’t even try to make it easy to do so. 

Qifrey follows behind him not long after he’s settled in, two loop chalices dangling from his middle and pointer fingers. He takes the seat available to Olly’s left and Olruggio bites the inside of his cheek as Qifrey condenses himself into the corner of the couch. 

Olruggio gingerly picks up the bottle and runs his fingers over the indentations, observing the distorted portrait of his visage reflected back to him a hundred miniscule times over from inside each one as the glint of the firelight passes over them. Something heavy sticks in the back of his throat as he swallows. Wine is a weak point of his, in more ways than one. 

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on your gettin’ the first pour, Qifrey,” Olruggio teases, trying to coax out the rising knot before it can fully take root. In lieu of a cork there’s a shiny metal stopper, and Olruggio twists it gently to open the bottle, filling first Qifrey’s loop chalice with a pour of the celebratory liquid, then his own. He swirls it around, inhaling the notes before he takes his first sip. He’s no snob and he’s certainly no connoisseur, but for Qifrey’s sake he’s decided to savor this. 

He clinks his loop against Qifrey’s - cheers to another job well done, Olly! - and they lift the glasses to their lips in synchronicity. The first sip is rich and earthy, a heady sweetness coats Olruggio’s tongue and the walls of his throat as it washes down. Of course, it’s delicious. He takes another sip, swilling it over his tongue and swallowing roundly and slowly before telling Qifrey as much. 

“Well done, Qifrey! A treat indeed…” Olly lauds, saccharine. He doesn’t even altogether mean to be, but once his first wall falls, the others are generally quick to follow. He clears his throat gently and lets his eyes meet Qifrey’s fully. 

“Hm, yes… I agree!” Qifrey laughs - quietly, full and delighted, and a blush settles in hot over Olruggio’s cheeks. “I’m glad you like it, Olly.” Olruggio decides he won’t be the first to look away, and indeed, Qifrey is the first to fold, turning his eyes towards the cup in his hands. Olruggio clears his throat again, accidentally, instinctively, and whets his frayed nerve endings with another generous swig. 

Olruggio knows he is taking up far too much space on the couch. He sinks in a little further on a fool’s errand to take up more, spreading his legs apart until one knee bumps against Qifrey’s. It’s not a shock to his system until Qifrey moves his leg away; again he feels a void gape open where the contact is lost. It makes his head spin, his stomach churn, though he’d have a difficult time putting words to why it’s so upsetting. He’s a loser at his own game yet again, it seems. The heat borne from such close proximity to Qifrey is nauseating, more intoxicating than the wine. His fortifications are crumbling quickly and he has to divert course lest he take a path that’s sure to ruin tonight, maybe even a few after. He’s not long for the night if he doesn’t make it off the couch soon. A move to sit on the rug is, though not incredibly surreptitious, effective enough to tamp down some of that unchecked heat. Nowhere to go but down. He turns his attention to his own glass now and tends quickly to what remains. 

Olruggio thrusts his loop in Qifrey’s direction, hoping to be topped off, when he feels a delicate itch bloom across the bridge of his nose, flaring his nostrils with urgency. He redirects his head into the crook of his elbow and sneezes harshly, unrestrainedly, hardly enough forewarning to do anything else. 

“hHRR’USHhhuih!hh! -‘scuse me,” he says with a softness that’s seemingly more distinct in the wake of the rough expulsion. He stifles the next one into silent submission, grinding his nose hard against the worn linen of his sleeve. Oh? Two? He’s in for it now. 

“Goodness, bless you, Olly!” 

Oh, hell - Olruggio hazards a sniff and it’s liqiud - damn, damn; he nods a silent thanks to Qifrey without looking him in the eyes, unable to risk any sort of that earlier contact as a sick heat begins to pool in his belly, dripping slowly down to his groin. Fucking hell, he feels it in his fingers and his toes and the tip of his dick. He’s suddenly incredibly lightheaded, it’s the heat and the embarrassment and the drink all at once and it’s too much-

So he holds his glass back out to Qifrey, and gets his refill without interruption this time. He clears his throat again and tries to ignore that the blush has begun to bleed down his neck. Tries not to keep sniffling, tortured by the moisture he feels persisting in his sinus cavities. 

Olruggio hasn’t even started drinking from the fresh glass before he feels the need to sneeze return, much less delicate and much more insistent. This time, though, it comes with enough notice for him to batten down the hatches: two hands would be ideal, but he employs the use of the one he’s got free, bringing thumb and forefinger up to roughly pinch at the appendage. Olruggio takes care to angle himself away from Qifrey now, only tight, shaking shoulders visible as he snaps toward his lap with a nearly silent stifle and a not so silent breathy exhale. 

“HH’T’!tuhh…

hH’PT’!tuhh..” and another.. 

“N’KT!uhh…” andddd another. He strains with the effort of it, and he’s met with the packed resistance of congestion as he pitifully inhales in the aftermath. 

“Oh, bless you again!” Qifrey’s voice is soft, lilting up at the end with a hint of concern. Fucking blasted fuck, something shrivels up and dies inside of Olruggio, reborn in an unrelenting current of arousal that splits him down the middle. Doesn’t he know he’d just as soon sneeze properly if he wanted to be blessed? Olruggio longs to say as much, as if he could say the words out loud, as if they’d deter Qifrey in the first place. As if what he wants is even for him to stop; the attention curdles his stomach like spoiled milk, lingers thick and latent between his legs. 

“Are you alright, Olly? Not catching cold, I hope!” He says it so casually, so tenderly; the simple words out of his mouth are enough to send Olruggio’s heart plummeting into his stomach. He recalls the last time he caught cold - Qifrey’s cool hand ghosting his forehead, the taste of rocklodge ginger, tender ministrations and a throbbing desire to close the space, seeking, seeking… Gracious, it’s a good thing his back’s turned. The thought alone renders him painfully hard and he’s not sure how good a job he can do of hiding it in this state.

Blast it, is he drunk already? Some brew, he thinks. He gives into a timid sniffle, but it does little to clear the lingering itch or the nasal congestion beginning to fill up his head. He feels Qifrey’s eyes burning holes into the back of his head, and the sensation of being watched as he unravels sends a blistering curl of heat down through his belly again. 

“Nohp, m’fine Qifrey,” Olruggio turns back around, one wrist returned to scrub at his nose, the other set to patting down his person in search of a handkerchief, without which the process of his coming undone is sure to magnify exponentially. “S’mtimes the fancier stuff eh… sorta gets t’me,” he says, and the blush now feels more like a rash, itching and spreading as the shame pulses hard through his every vein.

Of course, the more apt truth is that every kind sort of gets to him, but he’s usually able to time his drinks in order to coax the histamine response into a few manageably stifled sneezes, a touch of congestion. That, and he goes to great lengths to relegate himself, drunk and alone, to the worst of it once Qifrey’s gone to sleep, all for the sake of avoiding the commentary being spurred on at this exact moment. It’s not terribly often that Qifrey drinks alongside him, after all. Olruggio aches for a modicum of control, he aches for Qifrey to investigate something else. 

Qifrey, eternally conscientious of Olly's struggles as he is, produces a handkerchief from somewhere on his person and passes it to Olly. He’s making some lighthearted barb about Olly’s inability to tolerate the finer things in life being chronic, but it hangs in the air as another tentative sip ignites a desperate itch that sends Olruggio hurriedly ducking into the folds of the fabric. 

“hh’Hi’DD’ntch! K’NXGt’chuhh!” They’re coming too quickly for him to stifle now, and he resents the apparent lack of authority he possesses over his bodily functions.

“Bless you, Olly, my goodness! So… it’s.. the wine?” he asks, and Olruggio feels a fresh swell in his pants from the outburst and the resulting concern that positively saturates Qifrey’s voice. 

“hMPP’chhuh!” He pinches off another sneeze before assuring Qifrey that everything’s alright. “Yeah, yeah, but m’fine, m’fine - I…, I-” his voice is thick with congestion, consonants blunted, and it’s getting hard for him to hear himself keep talking. He turns again, this time to make reluctant use of the handkerchief. He doesn’t dare blow his nose, but he pinches and dabs at it in a futile effort to wick away the moisture that still threatens to escape. 

“M’sorry Qifrey.. I promise ya m’enjoyin it..” And it’s true that he is, in wretched ways he could only dream of explaining to him. A watery sniff punctuates the end of his sentence, lending it less credibility. 

“Oh, Olly, I don’t care about the wine… the last thing I want is for you to feel unwell at all-”

“Ahhh, it’s alriighhttt,” he drawls, nothing like a little false bravado for Olruggio of the torch. High time he start shoring up his defenses. He’s felt unwell from the second he saw that damned box. “...s’just a little… hem.. jus’ a little sneezin’,” he says, the word feeling incredibly like an obscenity as it leaves his lips. A glutton for punishment if there ever was one, when the mood strikes him. “Look, we’ve almost finished the bottle, anyhow.” 

He knew better, he really did, and he always does, but he’ll sleep so much better after the raw ache of shame later licks him clean. After he comes into his hand, alone, desperately conjuring image after image of what Qifrey’s would feel like instead. Of Qifrey’s silken voice, ardent in his ear, instructing him to let go, there you go Olly, I’ve got you, let it out for me, darling. Oh, to forever be the locus of his concern - 

He tents the handkerchief in his hands and folds into it, turning fully away from Qifrey this time. He’s wracked with a fit of sneezes - all stifled into utter silence yet Qifrey still has the nerve to bless him. He’s too far gone now for it to make any difference, so he chances the softest blow his nose can manage. 

“Bless you, I- I’m not so sure you should have any more of this?” Qifrey says, like it’s a question, asking Olruggio if he’s ready to stop moreso than he’s telling him to. “It’s really alright if we don’t-” 

“Ease up, Qifrey! One more glass won’t hurt…” Ragged congestion weighs down the beginnings and the ends of his words and seems to dull his point.