hi everyone! you guys can call me fig, i'm 26, i’m bi & i use she/her pronouns. :D i am new to tumblr so pls be patient with me! i have been a shy anon for a while but posting & such is all new to me!
❀ this is a snz kink blog! & majority of the time specifically an anime snz blog!
❀ dni if you're a minor or a nonkink blog plz thx!!!!!
❀ like most others on here, i’ve had this fetish since my first waking memories & have always known & been on the forum but this is my first time interacting with the community!! woo hoo
❀ my main fandom currently is jujutsu kaisen!! satosugu is my beloved<3 i’m a gojo/geto girly (depends on the day LOL) but love readings fics abt pretty much everyone 😆
❀ others shows i like: gachiakuta, inuyasha, soul eater, chainsaw man, hells paradise, solo leveling, death note, attack on titan, witch hat atelier
❀ i will mostly be reblogging & rambling abt kink related thoughts but sometimes i actually do write!
❀ feel free to message me if you want to chat & fangirl abt any of anime's i mentioned! plz don't message me abt exchanging any content/explicits that is not regarding fictional characters. i am married so pls don’t be creepy in my dms lol
i am still learning my own boundaries with being open about my kink online but would love to make friends :)
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Ya'll know damn well I hate doing this, but i'm in a bit of a shit situation in terms of my finances being taken. I'm just trying to make it through the month till my next disability check drops in.
$5 or even just a reblog is great ^-^
series tags: canon-compliant, no explicit spoilers but be careful if you aren’t caught up to chapter 93
sf tags: character with kink, common cold, fever, handkerchiefs, bless you complex
other tags: voyeurism, praise kink, jealousy/possessiveness, desperate pining, doctor stuff, in-universe sociopolitical issues mentioned, unreliable narrator lol
notes: shout out to all the horny people saying qifrey seems like he’d have some crossed wires aka giving me permission to bestow my fetish upon him <3
✵☆✧✵✧☆✵
Word spreads fast among witch society, especially in the Great Hall. The isolation and strict rules make them all bored and restless, which in turn makes them eager to exchange new information with disproportionate immediacy. The more mundane, the better.
This week’s symposium should be rich with opportunities for gossip, given the volume of attendees from across several continents eager to chatter about their collaborative efforts and innovations, not unlike a worse, restrictive version of Silver Eve held entirely underwater. But rather than anything relevant or consequential to the world of magic and all of its ongoing, upcoming changes, the hottest news gripping every witch under the sea is that Olruggio has caught a cold.
Which is really none of their business.
All it takes is an offhand mention at the start of the welcome banquet, an offhanded apology to one of his patrons and a warning not to get too close, and everyone he’s ever met is suddenly very interested in how Olruggio is feeling and how hard he must be working and whether they can get him anything for his throat or sinuses. They’d love that, wouldn’t they, thinks Qifrey each time Olruggio declines. Residents of the Hall are always trying their damndest to take a bite out of him.
It’s hard to watch even on a good day. Olruggio can’t seem to help engaging patiently, which means his trips and conversations take forever unless someone gives him an out. He’s lucky to take a few steps before some client or admirer approaches him to talk about some non-urgent personal trivia. Qifrey would go insane. He’s already going insane from his spot on the periphery, extenuating circumstances aside.
“Just a few days,” Olruggio is telling somebody who asks how long he’s been sick. He bows his head to cough into his fist, looking tired from so much of everyone patting and pulling and making him shout against his sore throat just to hear him shrink from their compliments and make small talk. “Somethin’ going around, I think. Assumed I could fight it off ’til after all this, but…”
Olruggio pauses. From too far away, Qifrey braces himself and watches Olruggio squint against the most devastating symptom of all.
“RGXZSHHHhuh…”
Because despite all of his suffering, Olruggio sounds so, so lovely when he does that.
As the stranger at the table begins to dote on Olruggio with concern and commentary, Qifrey struggles with forbidden arousal and the sad sympathetic fondness he’s used to feeling whenever Olruggio has to work through a cold. It’s all too much for him to feel at once, in public, out of his element when he can’t do a thing to help either of them.
“HGZTSHU!”
While Qifrey has contended with knowing he wouldn’t be able to interact with Olruggio’s sneezing every time, he’s still taken by the sight of him nearby: Olruggio with his arm bent and posture twisted, bashfully unable to control the means of which his cold displays itself. Nobody around him seems to mind at all; in fact, the person he’s talking to only moves closer to touch his arm and bless him again.
“You poor thing,” they’re saying as Olruggio, still bent away to the side, sniffles against his wrist. Did he even bring a handkerchief? Or has he already run out of clean ones? “Sounds like you could do with a good night’s sleep. And a hot drink made with… with, oh, what’s it called? The medical spire has those little herbs on hand sometimes, the white and green ones…?”
It’s millflower, and Qifrey has been serving its tea to Olruggio all week.
“Dunno. I’ll give it a mention if I stop by,” is Olruggio’s hoarse response, comparatively mellow and polite. “You’d do well to pick some up for yourself.”
“Oh, no, I have plenty! You know, we wouldn’t mind bringing some down to your rooms. You’re staying at the castle with your apprentices tonight, aren’t you?”
“They aren’t technically my apprentices. My friend, Qifrey…”
Qifrey takes his cue to tune the conversation out. He can’t handle hearing Olruggio talk about him while sounding stuffy and sweet like that, especially not to one of the many witches in the vicinity who would just love to devour him whole. It’s too much for Qifrey to think about, even privately, so it’s best he hears as little as possible.
He surfs through the blurry clusters of his peers standing in his path to the nearest open doorway, placidly excusing himself with an occasional modest wave at those he does remember. Only a moment goes by before he’s nearly escaped, and Qifrey is one step away before he receives an irresistible summons.
“Oi! Qifrey!” Olruggio is using what must be the last of his voice, just to call out to him. “Quit avoiding us, will you?”
How ridiculous to think he’d ever be able to sneak away from Olruggio.
Once Qifrey makes eye contact and smiles to confirm he’ll make his way back, Olruggio returns a satisfied nod and then bends down to cough. Even drained and subdued, his commanding friendliness manages to soar right into Qifrey’s center.
Olruggio is still getting his voice back when Qifrey gets there, not because it’s gone on for long but because he’d only been a couple tables away. Strange how even a pinch of despair can make such little space seem like treacherous expanses of land.
“Here, Olly.” The handkerchief Qifrey pulls from his pocket is still warm from his own body heat. He passes it to Olruggio before greeting his not-companion. “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“No, but I’ve heard plenty about you!” Unlike Olruggio, this person’s friendliness is shrill. Qifrey is careful not to wince as he takes a seat. “You live somewhere in the countryside, don’t you? You’re a teacher?”
An easy question that prompts a natural smile. “For a few years now. I’ve got four apprentices at the moment.”
“Yes, yes, Olruggio was telling me you’re very good with them.”
It’s not easy to concentrate with Olruggio making these little squeaky snuffling sounds and breathing through his mouth between them. Qifrey is about to fluster him in return with a comment about his kind words, but he devolves from distracted to speechless when Olruggio turns his way and sneezes clumsily beneath his sleeve.
“HAH’GZSHHiU!”
“Bless you,” Qifrey says with an immediate hand on Olruggio’s shoulder, steadying and reassuring, smoothing out a shiver as he recovers. “My goodness, Olly, your poor throat.”
The handkerchief is belatedly put to use as a shield and then as a mop, with Olruggio only straightening up once the thing has nearly gone translucent.
“I know, I know,” he mutters with a gruff swipe of cloth against the skin under his nose. “’S fine. Scuse me.”
“Cold’s got you good, hasn’t it, dear?” says his acquaintance, as though they’re stuck on the topic. How embarrassing, how sexy, how awful, terrible, delightful. Against Qifrey’s recommendation, Olruggio evades having to keep talking about it by calling over a server to top off his chalice with wine.
As the evening continues, Qifrey watches Olruggio’s symptoms progress upward in an inevitable quest to settle right in the middle of his face. That’s how it always goes for him, with chills and a sore throat leading to the congestion setting in for a day or so, and then all of the sneezing starts and compromises them both.
It looks like he’ll be in the thick of it tomorrow, when everything overlaps miserably. Qifrey won’t have a choice but to ride through it with him, collapsing within himself over and over, unable to desensitise himself to Olruggio no matter how much of him he experiences. He’s not sure if it’s worse that they’re together this time, or if he’d be better off not having to watch the swarm of strangers putting their hands all over Olruggio and asking him for a dance.
At Olruggio’s request, the two of them leave early. He never finishes his second glass of wine, complaining about it being a waste when he’s unable to taste it, but Qifrey sees it already starting to make his bright eyes heavy and his clever mind slow. It still takes quite a while for the two of them to escape the ballroom as he apologetically says his hellos and goodbyes.
They take the long way through the corridors to their rooms, and the comparatively fresh air, humid and salty as it is, perks Olruggio up enough to keep pace as he sobers up.
His company helps, but Qifrey can’t keep the dread from building in his chest as the reality of the week starts to set. He’d rather spend the night anywhere but the Great Hall, but there’s no getting around the schedule this time. Dust will gather and chores will pile up at home while he grits through the loneliness and lack of privacy that comes with an unpredictable environment full of people he vaguely knows and doesn’t particularly care for. From the first step through the windowway, he itches to turn right back around to the quiet of his own home, where he’s not surrounded by things that don’t make sense.
At least the girls don’t mind it here, so long as they’re together. Solace finds him when he and Olruggio step into the far end of the guest wing and pass by the set of rooms they’d dropped them off in earlier that afternoon.
“Pretty sure this is me,” Olruggio says with his thumb jutting toward the door just across from Coco and Agott’s. He points at the corner room next to it, then tosses a smooth, heavy key for Qifrey to catch. “And that one’s you, if you’d like it.”
“Oh.” Usually they keep those suites reserved, even when nobody’s staying in them. “Did you arrange this?”
“Yup. Nice ’n private.”
I love you, thinks Qifrey, but out loud he says, “That’s very thoughtful, Olly, thank you.”
“Yeah well,” replies Olruggio in a hurry, bristling, hand on his neck, “figured it’d be easier to sync up if we shared a wall.”
Qifrey doesn’t ask him how he managed it. More than likely, he had some sort of connection through work.
“The girls have a key too, just in case.” Olruggio busies himself with unlocking his own door, then freezes in place just before he turns the key. Qifrey tenses along with him, watching as Olruggio twists and leans away from him with a tremendous shudder. “HAHDTSHHiU!”
His body language is so urgent that it reads as protective, like he’s trying with all his might to keep his suffering to himself. But Olruggio’s heart radiates from his sleeve, always earnest whether he likes it or not.
“haAH’YZSHHHhhuh…! Ah, geez…”
How?
How on earth could anyone not fall in love with him?
“Bless you,” Qifrey says with a tempered smile, voice hushed, touching Olruggio only though his robes to guide him inside. “I’d like to get a look at your room, too, if you don’t mind.”
Qifrey finishes up with the lock and opens the door. Heat branches from his ear in a diagonal line downward toward his middle as he listens to Olruggio sniffling behind him.
Someone has already brought their things in for them. A bag of miscellaneous supplies, likely for demonstration, has been set up near the desk by Olruggio’s window, across from the wardrobe and bed. Qifrey notices a petite, rounded gift box sitting atop the bedside table, displayed neatly without its top to showcase the assortment of sweets and remedies inside.
“How nice,” says Qifrey as he picks up a bottle and turns it over in his hand. “Someone’s left you a get-well basket, Olly.”
“Hm?” Even the little hum sounds sore as it resonates through his nose. Olruggio hangs up his cloak and looks to see what’s the matter. “Ah. No use lyin’ to me, Qifrey, I know it creeps you out.”
“You say that as though I’m the one reacting strangely.”
“Just leave everything where it is. I’ll donate it or somethin’ when I get a chance.”
“Are you sure? This one is meant to help with sleep.” Qifrey sets another tincture aside, just herbs and water, nothing medicinal in a way that could get someone in trouble. “Could be worth a try, don’t you think?”
“Sounds more like you could use it, then. I’ve got a couple of things to touch up before tomorrow, so…”
“You’re joking.”
“Besides,” Olruggio adds, “the guy who sent it will probably ask how I liked his gifts, and it’s best if he thinks I was too busy working to take a look through them.”
Jealousy prickles in Qifrey’s hands as they search through the basket for any sort of card or label. “How do you know who it came from?”
“There’s this one guy who always sends stuff like that. Tries to personalise it by askin’ around.” Olruggio begins to unpack the nightclothes he’s brought, voice weary and sighing with the effort of moving about. “He sends things up to get me to thank him and then talks my ear off ’til I volunteer some advice, then he tries to put my name on his work like we collaborated. Rather he’d just send a letter, to be honest.”
“I see.” Qifrey only witnesses parts of Olruggio’s job from home, the parts that make sense for someone being paid to use his hands and mind to solve puzzles. He forgets how much of Olruggio’s work is social, figuring out games and having to dodge them without causing offense. “That sounds a bit sinister, trying to trick you like that.”
“Nah, just got a bit of a head on him is all. He means well.” Olruggio hangs up his cloak, then unloads a couple of handkerchiefs into the miniature washing barrel by the door. “Works mostly for a noble family up north, but he was an apprentice himself barely two years ago. Hey, I’m keepin’ this, by the way. I’ll wash it again after.”
“Oh. Right.” Qifrey sees Olruggio holding the handkerchief he lent him earlier. It strikes him at the core, numb and hot, pleasant and paralysing, reminding him to stay on his toes and hold his mask in place. “I’d assumed you would. You’re going to need it much more than I will.”
Heavens forbid Olruggio runs out of them and ends up a mess, inadvertently inviting someone else to help him out so intimately in a way that they wouldn’t even appreciate.
“For now, maybe.” He folds up Qifrey’s handkerchief and sets it on the table next to the manipulator’s set of gifts. “None of you lot’ve got any inkling of self-preservation.”
“No need for you to worry about me,” Qifrey says as a reminder to them both, then he sets the tincture back after all. “Please do get some sleep if you can, though. I’d feel a lot better seeing to it that you won’t be up at your desk all night.”
“What’s that?” Olruggio grins. “Gonna tuck me in, Qifrey?”
“Yes,” Qifrey answers, satisfied by the pink in Olruggio’s cheeks, “if I must.”
“Go,” grumbles Olruggio. “Get to your own quarters already, costin’ me a fortune…”
I love you, thinks Qifrey again, and he says nothing else this time. Like a tendril of smoke escaping the vent of a furnace, he peacefully waves himself out.
✵☆✧ ⋆.˚ ☾⭒.˚ ᯓ★
The first thing Qifrey learns when he finds Olruggio the next morning is that the walls had been soundproofed. He really does despise the Great Hall.
“Oh, Olly…” he says when they meet at the staircase near their breakfast spot, unable to sound anything but dismal as he soaks up the sight of his friend. “Did you even make it to bed at all?”
Olruggio hangs his head and rubs at the spot above his eyes, letting Qifrey stare at him as though he deserves to. The signs are all there; one glance at him would tell anyone he’s unwell, but the most miserable part is how put-together he looks otherwise. Neat hair, crisp clothes, clean skin, smelling like fancy soap and leather. It means he’s had to sacrifice even more rest for appearances alone. It also means he looks very classically and immediately handsome and sounds very terribly sick.
“I did try,” Olruggio promises, and then he says something unbelievable. “I even took out that sleep dropper you found, but it had me sneezing up a storm for a good hour afterward. You try to lie down properly after that.”
It takes all Qifrey has in him to keep from tumbling down the stairs. “It what?”
“I think it was some sort of aromatherapy,” complains Olruggio. “Point is, I had to give up eventually and take a head start on gettin’ ready instead. Good thing, too. Started up again when I was in the baths, but it was so early, nobody else’d even come down yet.”
What is Qifrey supposed to say to that? Where has his bloody head gone? That’s right, down south is where, and he needs to pick it back up fast.
Olruggio sighs because the conversation is normal to him, and then he gestures at his own face. “One to ten, Qifrey, how bad is it?”
Oh, don’t make me answer that…
They stop at a landing between floors. It’ll be a while before they have this much quiet, empty space again.
“You look like you’ve been working very hard,” Qifrey answers automatically, numbly, as he comes back to himself. He feels his mouth smiling gently and decides it’s fine. This would be easier if Olruggio wasn’t so cute. “And like you might have a fever coming on.”
Olruggio grabs Qifrey’s wrist when he’s halfway to checking his forehead. Qifrey feels Olruggio’s grip tighten as he wrenches to the side without letting go. “hhAH’EZSHuh!”
At least there’s nobody else around to hear him out in the open like this.
“And there’s…” Olruggio relaxes his grip, takes his own hand back and bends deeper at the waist as he turns away fully. “GZZXSHhhuh! …haATZSHHhhuh! …And there’s that, still. Doubt it’ll be stopping soon.”
“I know.” Qifrey pours the intensity of arousal into the natural sympathy in his voice as he watches Olruggio tend to himself with a handkerchief. “You sound awful, Olly, bless you.”
“Damn it. Maybe it’ll give some of the others more incentive to go easy on me,” says Olruggio quickly. Apparently he’s reached his sincerity threshold for the time being. That, or Qifrey’s attention is already making him shy. “I’m sure it’ll be fine after some tea. Think the girls’re up yet?”
They certainly are, and all four of them are waiting in the cafeteria with breakfast already gathered and arranged at a table large enough for six. No; a grouping of three smaller, circular tables pushed together into a triangle so they can all sit facing each other, just like at home. They’ve even arranged the tableware in their usual spots.
Meetings and classes start soon, so they rush through an exchange of plans and commentary. Qifrey’s dear apprentices embarrass Olruggio by setting his place at the table with an entire pot of tea made only for him, and he thanks them before drinking most of it while it's still too hot. Tetia insults him compassionately, comparing the parts of him that look particularly terrible to the parts that are polished for the event. According to Richeh, it’s worse than if he’d let himself go entirely, and according to Coco, that isn’t a very nice thing to say to a sick person. Agott asks to borrow whatever product he’s used in his hair.
Some of them share food, or they trade based on how they feel about the new recipes on their plates. Qifrey focused on cataloguing their preferences as they discover them, and the commotion of traveling witches bustling around them doesn’t seem so noisy.
The meal ends too soon because it ends at all, and then it’s off to meeting number one.
Only witches who have passed test number four and reached a high volume of public service acts were called to attend. The reasoning behind its qualifiers could be anything from proof that one could be trusted with confidential information to a focus on high achievement and good standing. The room is small and in a high tower, lined with multi-seated desks all facing a drawing board up front.
Of course, someone calls to Olruggio as soon as he steps through the door, eager to invite him to sit at their table. Olruggio gets to decline because of his cold, promising that this person will thank him for it when they wake up tomorrow still able to breathe through their nose. Hearing that from him is so erotic that it borders on overstimulating, and Qifrey follows him to a section in the back, where he can sit with the wall on his right side and Olruggio on his left.
“I’m his Watchful Eye,” Olruggio tells whoever it was, as soon as they ask why he’s not as concerned about passing any illness onto Qifrey. “Dunno if he’s got a choice in avoidin’ it like you do. Consider yourself lucky.”
Not everyone is so deterred by Olruggio’s warnings, unfortunately, or perhaps those who choose the seats surrounding him anyway have got perversions similar to Qifrey’s. It’s not so implausible when the state of him is so obvious and obscene.
Stop looking at him like that, Qifrey demands of the other guests silently, ridiculously, just as much as he demands it of himself despite finding it impossible not to stare. He doubts he’ll retain a thing from this morning’s session. Something about volcanic towns he’ll never get to see, and the types of contraptions their villagers are requesting to keep one another comfortable and safe in the case of eruption. It’s the kind of assignment Olruggio could design on his own, likely after talking to the villagers themselves as opposed to a third party team of witches with rewards on their minds.
But instead Olruggio is here, playing nice with them anyway, breathing through his mouth and making cute little clicking sounds by accident when he tries to swallow or clear his throat. His eyelids droop as he tries to stay awake, and every once in a while, he blinks particularly hard like something’s startled him. Soon enough he’s got a half-opened handkerchief in his lap, waiting as he squints forward with his expression vacant.
Like last night at the banquet, he doesn’t have anywhere safe to turn. Unlike last night at the banquet, there’s no real ambiance to decenter any of the noise he’s about to make. All he can do with the sneeze is try his best to smother it.
“MMPXTgh…!” Back up for air, then down again. “AAH’MMPTshhih!”
“Bless you,” murmurs Qifrey amidst the others doing the same. Olruggio doesn’t look at any of them, just ducks his head and waves a hand up to dismiss the attention.
He presses on his septum with the handkerchief, nostrils twitching dampness onto the fabric each time he sniffles, then he pinches and tugs downward as though he’s trying to drain out the irritation instead of blowing his nose in a quiet, well-mannered room.
It would make sense if it worked, but all of his fussing with it is only making the situation harder on him. Olruggio isn’t usually so careful about tempering himself.
“ha’EHZSHhhiu!”
He’s no good at it, either.
Just about everyone in the room is excited to say bless you to him this time, so Qifrey waits for them to have their fun before passing a new handkerchief over and receiving Olruggio’s thanks in the form of a brief, twitchy smile.
Olruggio waits until the moment has passed and the presenter has recaptured the spotlight, then slides an empty page from his notebook to the space on the table between them. He uses his left hand to write while keeping his eyes centered forward.
Let’s leave early
Qifrey makes eye contact to communicate his understanding, then writes his own message.
Would you prefer to step out first, or shall I take the lead? he writes back. As soon as Qifrey withdraws his hand, Olruggio hastily jots his response.
Me
They share another look to confirm. It’s brief; pressure builds behind Olruggio’s eyes before they snap shut for another sneeze.
“EHJZSHhhu!”
Even the speaker up front interrupts their own presentation to throw a prompt, pleasant bless you to him all the way in the back.
bless you! :) writes Qifrey as he watches Olruggio go pink. Beneath it, Olruggio doodles a caricature of himself, looks Qifrey in the eye once more, then scribbles on top of the middle of its face and writes Thanks
When he excuses himself from the room, Olruggio doesn’t bother making a show of it. He leaves all of his things on the table for an impression that he’s planning on coming back, and he holds off on making any significant noise on the other side of the door. Qifrey gathers Olruggio’s pen and notebook as the presentation shifts to a new section, holds still until a guest begins asking a question, then slips away on his own.
They used the same trick when cutting class back in the day, at least before their teachers caught on and began separating them. Whoever follows the other out of the lesson would wait a rough quarter mark first, then find his friend by taking two lefts through the hallway. The logistics worked regardless of the building they were stationed in, and they work now just the same.
Their meeting spot ends up being somewhere dark and empty. Olruggio is leaned up against a wall, easy to find by sound alone as he blows his nose. Qifrey is grateful at least one of them knows their way around, especially so because it doesn’t have to be him.
“Qifrey,” calls Olruggio hoarsely. The echo of his cough is starting to squeak a little in his chest.
“Olly. Seems you’ve forgotten a few things,” Qifrey says as he hands them over.
“Awful nice of you to bring them to me.” Olruggio takes his pages back, playing along. “Sorry for the trouble.”
I love you, Olly, thinks Qifrey, so much I can barely stand it.
“Are you feeling all right?” he asks out loud, because it’s the most he can manage.
“Well, no. That meeting pissed me off plenty.” Olruggio taps Qifrey on the arm and starts walking. “I know that island they were talkin’ about.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. Or I guess I know of it, because nobody lives there.”
“Nobody lives there,” repeats Qifrey. That can’t be right, can it? “That meeting was focused on commission requests from the villagers.”
“Right, but they don’t exist. Some nobles are interested in buildin’ a village for themselves to holiday out there, but nobody nearby will help with it because of the volcano. It’s too dangerous.”
“They left out that first part, didn’t they,” agrees Qifrey sourly. “And do you think it would be possible to accomplish with magic?”
“Maybe. But I’ve got a feeling they’re using the village names to pose their project as a public service for witches, and if nobody bites, to get away with underpaying someone for work they didn’t consent to doin’ in the first place.”
“Sounds like something that happens often.”
“Yeah, plenty. Been tricked a few times myself, but some of my own clients are wise to it.”
“Of course.” It’s much easier for people on the surface to talk about goings on that actually matter, after all. “Do you think you’ll say anything this time?”
“If I do, it won’t be down here,” sighs Olruggio. They reach a point where the hallway splits, and he stretches his neck toward Qifrey. “Anyway, enough with that for now. You up for a snack?”
The cafeteria is much less crowded mid-morning, but that doesn’t mean they’re safe. Qifrey thinks for a foolish moment that they may get away with taking their food and sitting down unbothered. They’re halfway across when some irritating gentleman offers Olruggio a free set of sweet dumplings, which he ends up paying for and sharing with Qifrey anyway.
“Suppose I should say hi to Sinocia,” Olruggio says as he tucks himself into a chair near the back.
“Check the Medical Spire off your list, you mean?” Qifrey divides the plate in half and sets Olruggio’s portion down in front of him.
“Maybe get an exam so people stop askin’ about it,” Olruggio adds before taking a bite of his food. “Return that thing of medicine, too.”
“Already worn out by your admirers, Olly?”
Olruggio scoffs, rolls his eyes and ignores him. “Come with me. You could use some quiet, yourself.”
“At the Medical Spire...?”
“Got somewhere else to be?”
He doesn’t. Retreating to one’s own dwellings with a full schedule would raise questions and criticisms, which is the last thing their atelier needs.
Qifrey watches Olruggio wince as he swallows, and he takes the opportunity to move the spotlight. “How do you like those?”
Before answering, Olruggio holds his hand out flat, then tilts it side to side like a see-saw. “Fine. Nothin’ like I’m used to at home, though.”
“No?”
“Not even close.” Olruggio nods toward Qifrey’s plate. “Try some.”
Mid-bite, Qifrey realises Olruggio’s sense of taste has got to be gone completely, he’s so stopped up. The thought counts for something, so Qifrey doesn’t bother to mention it.
✵ ☆⋆｡⋆˚꩜｡‧ ᯓ★
The medical spire isn’t far, but certain parts of the Hall are full of staircases that take them up and down for no good reason other than to confuse everybody at best. Today it means even a short distance gives Olruggio trouble catching his breath by the time he’s knocking at the door.
The one who lets them in is Emile, the strapping doctor Sinocia likes. Good. She steps aside into an empty foyer, pats Olruggio on the back when he starts coughing, then takes them to the benches behind the curtain so they’ll have a place to sit.
Sinocia is there setting towels into a basin. She looks over her shoulder and sets her eyes on them, then smiles brightly and spins around.
“I was wondering when I’d see you two!” she says with a wink, tilting her head playfully. “Business or pleasure?”
Olruggio clears his throat. “How’ve you been, Sinocia?”
Qifrey recognises the joke. Witches aren’t allowed social visits with doctors.
“Oh, just fine over here. Busy, though,” Sinocia says. She brings him a glass of water, then hands one to Qifrey as well.
“Thank you,” Qifrey says, making conversation so Olruggio can drink. “You’ve had a lot of visitors, then.”
“Yes, mostly strangers coming in for… Well, for whatever it is happening out there this week. I won’t ask.” She starts to gather something from a cabinet. “Shame we really can’t see each other unless somebody is sick or hurt, isn’t it?”
Someone is supposed to reply in defence of the Pact, something along the lines of Perhaps, but it’s necessary, usually followed by a threatening silence to keep anyone from complaining about it again.
“Yeah,” Olruggio says, still a little breathless. He pulls a satchel from his robe. “If you’ve got some time now, I wanted to check if you might have any use for these.”
“Oh! Let me take a look. I’ll trade you.” Sinocia takes the satchel from him and hands over a tiny metal cup. “Drink that, please. You sound even worse than everybody has been saying.”
“What is it for?” asks Qifrey as Olruggio downs the medicine without so much as inspecting it.
“Just standard cold medicine. Cough, headache, fever, that sort of thing.” Sinocia takes the cup from Olruggio as he cringes with a dry little cough. “Sorry, dear. I know it’s bitter.”
Smoothly, she transitions their interaction into a quick physical exam, palpating the areas Olruggio has been struggling with before he’s even disclosed them. Throat, sinuses, forehead, and right beneath his ears. She takes a look at his eyes, checks his pulse, listens to him breathe. Every once in a while, she’ll hum something to herself or say “that’s not good!” or call him a sweet name out of sympathy. It’s clear she’s familiar with him, and it’s just as clear that he trusts her to treat him properly.
Qifrey likes Sinocia. Her disposition is cheerful and tranquil and her presence is steady; she’s always been kind and professional. It takes a special type of doctor to treat witches, not only in competence but in personality, too. They have to be okay with not knowing, with the relative isolation to their peers on the surface, and with the restrictions on communication between themselves and their patients. Sinocia has managed to be respectful of that without detaching herself, and she’s able to take care of Olruggio in all the ways Qifrey is locked away from.
At least somebody is doing it. And Sinocia hasn’t got an ulterior motive, no reason to care for titles or status. She hardly cares about anything aside from his company and his health. It would be nice for Olruggio to have someone like her for a friend, instead of someone like Qifrey who…
“IHGXSshu!”
…who cares about those things too, but can’t help the rest of his circumstances around Olruggio. Including his own body’s responses to something so… so…
“IHGXZSHHhu! ha–AEZSSHhiu!”
“Aw! Bless you. Oh, don’t worry about— here, honey, just use one of these.”
…so attractive. Sexy. Natural, naive, beyond his control. You’re terrible, Qifrey reassures himself, unable to look at anything but Olruggio, the breath building in his chest, brow taut and mouth open, moisture sparkling at the edges of his features.
“MPHZSHHhhih!”
“All right, you, enough with that,” Sinocia says warmly. “I know you don’t feel good, you don’t have to try and prove it to me. Can I take your temperature, or do you have to sneeze again?”
“Best hang on a few,” is Olruggio’s muggy answer.
“Blow your nose then, dear.” Sinocia gives Olruggio some privacy by looking to Qifrey next. “Usually he staves these things off until after all the work is over, right? I’m curious about what the deal is this time.”
Qifrey crosses his legs. “Afraid I couldn’t say.”
“Have you been well, Qifrey? And the girls? They were in great shape last time they came in. You must be taking good care of them.”
“Think it’s just the season,” interrupts Olruggio. He sniffs and beckons Sinocia back before she can ask how Qifrey has been taking care of him. “Go ahead, Sinocia, give me your worst.”
“Okay!”
Olruggio looks so darling with a thermometer in his mouth, pouting like he does, nose flushed pink from the influx of activity.
“Now, what do we have here…” While she waits, Sinocia has decided to look into the supplies Olruggio brought in. She begins to rifle through the bag without pouring anything onto the counter, holding up and then putting back its contents one by one. “Marktea, pastilles, fancy water, some aromatherapy…? Olruggio, where did these come from?”
“One of Olly’s clients,” answers Qifrey. “He’s supposedly well-meaning.”
Olruggio shifts like he wants to say something, so Qifrey holds his index finger vertically against his own lips.
“The brands in here are really expensive,” Sinocia says. “Ooh, and this one’s been opened already. You didn’t like it?”
The thermometer bounces as Olruggio makes a sound through the corner of his mouth.
“Laceweed oil!” Sinocia laughs. “No wonder you’ve been sneezing like that.”
What in the world does that mean? Is Qifrey even allowed to ask? The reminder of what he missed is going to make him dizzy all over again if he isn’t careful. He keeps his gaze off of Olruggio, just to be safe.
Sinocia closes the drawstrings on the satchel and sets it aside, then takes the thermometer from Olruggio and inspects the number with a frown. “You’re a little warm, but not too bad yet. I’ll give you some tranquileaf to take as needed, okay?”
“Thanks.”
“And this syrup in case your cough gets worse. And a poultice to help you breathe better; apply it before you to go bed.”
“Okay. Sure. Thanks.”
“And… I’ll have to give this back, too. I’m really sorry, I don’t think a hospital can accept something that costs so much.”
“So,” sighs Olruggio, “just take it home with you, then.”
“What?”
“Consider it a gift.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not against the rules, is it,” says Olruggio dryly as he stands up. “It’d be a big help, you know. Keeps me from havin’ to deal with the guy when he thinks I never received it. Probably wanted me to try returnin’ it to him so he’d get a chance to— …Ah. Sorry.”
“Sorry?” echoes Sinocia.
“Forgot where I was.” Olruggio rubs his neck and looks away. “You’d be doin’ me a favor takin’ it off my hands is all.”
Qifrey shrugs when Sinocia looks to him for explanation, so she shrugs easily and brightens right back up.
“If you insist! Thank you, Olruggio, that’s very generous.”
“Like I said. It’s mostly a favor to me. Share it with someone if you’d like, put the bounty to use.”
“Hmmm…” Sinocia’s eyes dart to Qifrey and then up at the ceiling as she taps her chin with one hand and places the other on her hip. “I know! I’ll accept your gift so you can do a favor for me too, and be a less troublesome patient.”
“Much easier said than done,” Qifrey reminds her.
“He’s one to talk,” Olruggio says. “At least I see a doctor when the time comes. I have to drag this guy by the scruff to get him to go at all. Lucky he’s usually too weak to fight me by then.”
I love you, thinks Qifrey. He watches Olruggio gather his prescriptions and tuck them away neatly, like a good patient does.
“Yes, I know,” Sinocia says. “So since I’ve got you both here already, I’m not letting you leave until you’ve slept a clockmark or two. It’ll be much worse on you, Qifrey, when you catch this cold because you haven’t been sleeping either, and then I’ll really have my hands full.”
“Whether that’s true or not,” Qifrey says, as though he wouldn’t love anything more, “I’m not sure we can get away with skipping just to have a nap.”
“Sure you can! Doctor’s orders,” declares Sinocia. “I’m sure whoever you’re standing up would be happy to meet in private later or relay necessary information to you some other way, right?”
“Up to you,” Olruggio adds. “I’m takin’ a cot either way.”
What else is Qifrey meant to do? He follows the both of them to a quiet space down a half-flight of stairs and clenches all the muscles he can access, feeling like a stone falling to the bottom of a water well and scraping the sides of it on the way. He mirrors Olruggio’s crooked smile, perches stiffly on a hard wooden chair and wonders how long he’ll pretend to sleep.
The little twitch of someone’s nose while they’re trembling, on the very edge of a sneeze - their eyes watering, hands cupped gently in front of them to catch it when it finally, blissfully comes. Their breath, stuttering in their chest, too itchy to breathe out without it shaking, hitching miserably. If only they had just a little something to push them over the edge into release-
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Too Sneezy to Drive
Being Driven Home - Too Sick to Work
Having to Pull Over due to a Sneezing Fit that just. Won’t. Stop.
Sick on a Road Trip
Allergic to Something inside the Car and Can’t Stop Sneezing!
guys i want to post another fic but they all become too self indulgent 😭😭😭 like plz can i be normal (ok not normal but the ability to write a plot would be nice)
I love @snzity's headcanon that Dabi rarely sneezes because the receptors around his face are damaged. And I add that, he is incredibly susceptible to chest infections due to his injuries and burn trauma.
This is my first ever published sneezefic. It is over 5.5k with very little snz pay off, sorry :(
Content warning: illness, sneezing, nudity, sexual themes and implications
Keigo had been tasked with infiltrating the League of Villains about seven months ago, yet he was barely any closer than when he started. He was yet to have earned anyone’s trust, and still hadn’t met anyone except Dabi, Twice, and Spinner.
Communication was incredibly rare. Physical interactions, even less so. All Keigo had was Dabi’s burner number and an incomplete mission report that was looking smaller by the day.
Frustratingly, he met with Dabi the most. Even the bastard’s voice got under Keigo’s skin. Like maggots eating beneath the flesh of a corpse. A wriggling, writhing sensation that buried deep into his chest.
Dabi would request information, at the order of someone else (likely Shigaraki but Keigo wasn’t supposed to know that name yet), and Keigo would provide it to him. It went like this each time, the meetings never lasting more than a few minutes. Not nearly long enough for him to get any useful information.
Tonight, they’re meeting in an alleyway - Dabi’s idea. In the middle of the night - also Dabi’s idea. So that Keigo can give him a highly confidential security file - Probably not Dabi’s idea. It was just Keigo’s luck that it started to pour around sunset, and the sky has shown no signs of stopping.
Keigo wore three layers of clothing, on top of a thermal shirt, and still shivered to the meeting spot. The rain racketed against his umbrella like bullets, only muffled by the beanie pulled so far on his head it reached down to his neck.
He rounds the corner into the alleyway, walking past the large rubbish bins to see Dabi. In a drenched hoodie; Thin pants; Completely soaked.
Is he serious? He’s going to freeze to death.
Keigo doesn’t voice his concerns– nope.
Keigo doesn't voice his thoughts aloud. Even in the rain, Dabi is a formidable villain when pushed, and Keigo doesn’t feel like adding fire burns to his frostbite tonight.
Dabi spots him, hands in his pockets looking miserable beneath his hood that is dripping thick droplets of water onto his face.
“What, too cool for an umbrella?” Keigo teases.
Dabi narrows his eyes. “Shut up. Do you have it?”
Keigo noted how Dabi’s voice sounds rougher than usual. If he couldn’t see that Dabi’s hands were empty, he would assume the guy had smoked just before he arrived.
“Always one for pleasantries,” Keigo mutters, blanketed by the sound of the rain. He pulls out a thin file from his coat and holds it out. “Yes, I have it.”
Dabi steps under the umbrella, forcing Keigo to step back and expose his neck to the downpour. He shivers but Dabi pays him no mind, opening the file to the first page, avoiding getting the pages soaked beneath the thick polyester.
Keigo can feel the heat radiating from Dabi’s body as they’re pressed almost against each other. He wonders if it’s the guy’s quirk that makes his body run that hot. The scent of smoke and debris cling to him like a layer of skin, the aroma drying Keigo’s throat even with the damp rain.
Now that he’s looking, Dabi’s pale skin is flushed by the cold. Beneath his eyes, before the scar tissue takes over, the colour looks pink and tender. Dabi clears his throat and sniffs, adjusting his hold on the file to allow one hand to raise up and rub his nose.
Keigo goes rigid. Stop. No. Whywhywhy? The sound of the sniffle from Dabi echoes in his head. The slight wetness, the clicks of congestion as he scrubs at his nostril. Keigo feels his face flush as he begs his body not to react.
All of which, unfortunately, doesn’t go unnoticed by Dabi, who looks up with a raised brow.
Shit. Dabi’s knuckle is still under his nose, squishing against pink rimmed nostrils. Keigo could die right here.
“Um.” Keigo clears his throat when his voice comes out thin and croaky. It’s fine. He tells himself. Dabi will just think it’s the rain. “Everything look okay?”
Dabi looks at Keigo’s hand clutching the umbrella, knuckles white. He then turns his attention to the distance Keigo has tried to put between them. He grins, “Uncomfortable being this close to a villain, huh? You didn’t seem to mind last time.”
Right, last time. Keigo was handing over a microchip to Dabi at a bar two weeks ago. They had a few beers, and one thing led to another and Keigo was on his knees in the back alleyway between Dabi’s legs.
They hadn’t talked about it since. Keigo thought maybe they’d just forget it ever happened. He certainly wasn’t going to include it in his report to the Commission.
At worst: A momentary lapse of judgment from the alcohol. At best: a way to establish a deeper connection and uncover more about Dabi’s identity.
Dabi flicks the file shut, unaware of Keigo's dilemma that was getting harder to hide with each second he spent looking at Dabi’s perfectly flushed face.
“Everything looks good.” Dabi says, tucking away the file and passing Keigo with a pat to his shoulder. “Looks like you’re still of some use to us, Number Two. Till next time.”
Keigo waits for him to disappear into the downpour. His heart is beating a million miles an hour, and now that he’s alone in the alleyway, the blood in his body has settled in a rather unfortunate place.
His body shudders. From the rain. He tells himself.
It’s dark. It’s raining too hard to see more than a few feet in front of him. He would probably be safe walking the four blocks back to his apartment without anyone witnessing his predicament.
(He stayed in that alleyway another twenty minutes before getting the courage to leave.)
The next time he meets with the League is a week later.
He was messaged to meet at one of their smaller bases on the outskirts of the city to discuss another trial. One step further to gaining their trust and meeting Shigaraki.
He expected mindgames, and annoyance, and Dabi’s smug face. What he didn’t expect was Spinner and a blonde teenage girl to be waiting for him.
He looked around the small room. Cold brick walls, cement floor. “Where’s Dabi?”
Spinner rolls his eyes. “None of your business.”
He only gets an answer hours later, when Spinner leaves to take a call and Keigo is left with the girl - Toga, so he can be ‘surveilled’.
She is young, and annoying, but extremely chatty. So Keigo tries his luck once again, “So where’s Dabi?”
“He’s too busy being sick and miserable in his room,” Toga says, kicking her feet on the barstool. She continues talking about something else, but Keigo’s head is stuck on two words.
Dabi. Sick. They play in his head like a record, spinning round and round till he’s dizzy on the idea. Was it because of the other night in the rain?
Later, in the privacy of his own apartment, Keigo pulls out his phone to the familiar number.
Hawks
21:54 >> You’re sick?
Dabi
Read at 22:34
No reply. Honestly, Keigo wasn’t really expecting one.
It was a few weeks until he saw Dabi again. This time, the message came in the early afternoon on his day off.
He had just finished the final set of his workout, an episode of a trashy reality show playing in the background while he enjoys the serenity of the calm evening.
Dabi
19:05 >> Meet me at [[XX]] in an hour. This time I have something for you.
Keigo stared at the message, ignoring the excitement in his chest at the prospect of seeing the arsonist.
(He lingered by his door longer than he'd like to admit, eager for the time to pass and for him to make his way to the location.)
Turns out, Dabi had messaged him the address to a small bar in the middle of the city. Only a few minutes walk from Keigo’s apartment, which he was thankful for as goosebumps rose on his arms from the nighttime wind.
He walks down the stairs into the dimly lit space, spotting Dabi in the back booth almost immediately. The man is dressed casually. Gone is the long coat, replaced by a loose gray shirt rolled up to his elbows. A dark face mask is pulled down to his chin, exposing the scarred skin below his eyes to the warm lighting. Keigo can’t help but notice the slight pink around his nostrils.
Keigo stands above him, placing a hand on the table. “Long time no see, stranger.”
Dabi glares at him. “Just sit down.”
Keigo laughs, “So what’s this about?” His eyes land on the two beers on the table, one placed directly in front of him. “A friendly drink?” he guesses.
“More like a final chance for you to slip up and expose your secrets, hero.” Dabi says, taking a sip from his pint with a small sniffle. “The boss has finally decided he wants to meet you, so consider this a final test of sorts.”
Keigo eyes the drink. “You didn’t spike this did you?”
Dabi's smile grows wide, the staples on his cheeks click with the movement. “Would you believe me if I said no?”
Probably not. Keigo thinks, but he decides to take the risk anyway. Dabi has had hundreds of chances to drug him over the months, and never has he (even after all the threats) done anything that actually seriously put Keigo in harm's way.
The drink is cold going down his throat. He’s still careful of any strange taste or consistency.
“So the boss, huh?” Keigo asks, “What can you tell me about him?”
Dabi shrugs, his biceps stretch under the thin fabric of his shirt. Keigo takes another sip of the beer to avoid looking. “He’ll want to introduce himself.”
“Still as secretive as ever, hot stuff.”
Dabi shrugs again, another sharp sniffle permeates the heavy space.
“Are you ever actually going to tell me anything about yourself?” Keigo pries, leaning back against the booth. “We’ve been meeting for months, and I still know shit about you.”
Dabi laughs, “Careful, birdie. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re trying to interrogate me.”
The jukebox behind them stalls, and the music cuts as a blonde woman changes the song. It’s much slower, and melodic. Keigo closes his eyes, saying “I thought maybe we could become friends.”
“You don’t want to be friends with me.”
With his eyes closed, Keigo can almost imagine Dabi as someone else. That he would open his eyes and across from him would just be an ordinary civilian that he was drinking with. Somebody he could walk next to on the street, without face masks and hoodies. A real friend.
In another universe where Keigo wasn't a hero, and Dabi wasn’t a villain. A universe where Keigo didn’t know manipulation tactics to get information. Where he could get to know Dabi, really get to know Dabi. Without deciding what he was going to put in his report, and what he was going to keep to himself in a locked vault in his mind that he refused to admit was there.
He opens his eyes, “How about we play a little game then? You get to ask me any question you like, and I have to tell you the truth.”
Dabi expression pinches wearily. “That doesn't sound much like a game. What do you gain from–”
“For every question I answer, I get one in return,” Keigo offers, taking the final sip of his drink. The slight buzz is hitting the tips of his fingers and lips.
He holds the empty glass up to the bar, making eye contact with the bartender and motioning for two more to be brought to the table. The dark haired man across the room nods while Dabi grunts, “Nice try. But no.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“I said no.”
“Here, we’ll start simply,” Keigo says, paying Dabi’s hesitation no mind. “What’s your favourite colour?”
“Really?” Dabi snorts. Keigo can hear slight congestion in the sound.
“Really.”
Dabi sighs, two pints are set down in place of the empty glasses and Dabi takes a long drink before answering. “Black.”
Predictable. Keigo thinks. “Boring.”
Dabi doesn’t miss a beat, “My turn. Why do you want to join the League?”
“I’ve already told you this,” Keigo says. And it’s true.
Since starting his mission, it’s been one of the most asked questions. Which makes sense, the League of Villains isn’t exactly in a position to be trusting the word of the Number Two Pro-Hero (and rightfully so considering his actual motivations). Still, Keigo wonders what Dabi is trying to gain from asking it once again.
Maybe Dabi thinks with a little alcohol in him, Keigo’s answer may change. He knows he can lean into that to benefit him.
“Then you should have no problem answering,” Dabi says.
Hawks blinks heavier than he needs to, he takes a long look at his glass and pretends he can’t see Dabi watching him in his peripheral vision. “The Hero Commission’s corrupt.” He shrugs. “They churn out little soldiers to do their bidding and use them to keep people in line.”
Keigo tells himself he’s saying what Dabi wants to hear. But what he doesn't want to admit, even to himself, is that the truth and lies are blurring together the more time he spends on this mission - the closer he gets to Dabi. “Besides, despite what you guys call yourselves, you’re not villains. You’re doing what you think is right for everyone. You want to…” he hesitates on the words, “Help people. I want to help people too.”
Dabi glares at him, letting the silence hang in the air for a few seconds while the song plays out. Another one begins, almost drowning out the arsonist's voice. “We do want to help people. But don’t get it wrong, we’re villains.”
“Not to me,” Keigo says.
If he wasn’t looking for it, he would have missed the surprise in Dabi’s face. The slight widening of his eyes. The twitch of his fingers. The flare of his nostrils.
Dabi sniffles another time, taking a sip of his drink. Keigo is done pretending he’s not noticing it.
Not sober enough to hold his tongue, Keigo perks up. “My next question.” He motions his hand to Dabi’s face. “What’s with all the sniffling?”
This time, nothing in Dabi’s expression could hide how taken off guard he was at the question. He sniffs again, then blinks like he didn’t realise he was doing it. He pushs the back of his palm to his nose, wiping beneath the steadily darkening nostrils. “Nothing.
“That’s not how this works,” Keigo insists. “You’re supposed to tell the truth.”
“It is the truth,” Dabi defends, lowering his hand.
Keigo studies the man's face. The flush of Dabi’s cheeks that had been there long before the embarrassment had settled on his face from Keigo pointing out his nasal plight. The way his nose scrunches under Keigo’s watchful eyes. The slight dampness around his upper lip.
Fine. If Dabi wants to play this game. Keigo was going to play dirty.
He relaxes into his seat. “I guess we’ll just sit here in silence until you do it again.”
“Wha–”
“Uh uh! Silence. Come on.”
Dabi furrows his face in displeasure. Keigo relishes in the almost arousing enjoyment it brings him to see the villain squirm in his presence. Something about taking Dabi off guard and drawing his attention to an involuntary bodily function is incredibly erotic to Keigo’s inebriated mind.
A few seconds pass. Dabi’s nose scrunches, and he brings his hand up to rub the itch away.
However, not fast enough to stop Keigo grabbing his wrists and holding them to the table.
“What the hell are you–”
“Nope. Come on.”
“Get off me.”
Keigo ignores the heat radiating from Dabi’s hands. He knows he won’t do anything with so many witnesses. And a few burns on his hands was far from the worst pain Keigo had ever experienced.
What does keep his mind occupied however, is Dabi’s face. Or, more accurately, his nose.
With his hands bound, a drop of moisture falls from his nostril to his upper lip. With no way for him to wipe it away, Dabi sniffs sharply.
Taking the win, Keigo let go of the man's wrists, and watches him rub his nose into submission.
“Fuck you, bird brain.”
“Are you sick again?” Keigo asks. “Is that what this is about?”
He could understand if Dabi was being closed off because he wasn’t feeling well. What he couldn’t understand was why Dabi would ask him out for drinks if he clearly wasn’t at his best. There was no reason for them meeting tonight, no information to exchange, just the promise of an evening in each other’s company.
Dabi clears his throat behind his hand, rubbing his knuckle a final time against his nose. “If you have to know, yes.”
“Why did you come out for drinks then?”
“I’m not here for the pleasure of your conversation.”
Oh. Keigo realises. Oh.
He plasters a grin onto his face. He won’t pretend he’s not interested. But he will pretend he’s not curious. “You sly bastard. You know you can just ask right? I have a nice cozy apartment five minutes from here we could have met at. You don’t have to wine and dine me first.”
Keigo’s far from an idiot. He was certain Dabi knows where he lives. It’s probably why he chose this bar over the other hundreds of others in Fukuoka that are much closer to the League’s base.
Still, he gives Dabi the decency of ignorance as the man looks at their finished glasses on the table, then looks at Keigo. “Five minutes, huh?”
Keigo already has bruises on his hips before they make it inside his apartment. They clumsily make their way in the dark to the bed, Keigo’s clothes being discarded along the way, replaced by Dabi’s warm breath and tongue.
Dabi’s mouth moves down Keigo’s chest as he settles against the bedframe. He feels Dabi’s weight over his hips as the arsonist unbuckles his belt and kicks his pants onto the floor hastily, mouth and body eager to please.
The sensation of tongue and teeth are erotic to Keigo. He grips Dabi’s hair as the man’s warm, rough fingers pull down his boxers. At least, until the grip falters, and Keigo’s hand lets go of Dabi as the man abruptly sits up.
Keigo opens his eyes to Dabi dropping his weight onto him. The man's legs either side of his hips as his breath catches, face scrunched.
Keigo sits up slightly, “You okay?”
Dabi raises a hand to his face, turning his head away. His abs clench on top of Keigo in anticipation, his body flickering with a rapid inhale, “Fhihine~”
Keigo’s ears perk at the hitch, his dick twitches at the sound. But as soon as it appears, it leaves Dabi unsatisfied. Keigo watches the arsonist curl his nose and sniff heavily before turning back, his lips already re-finding their place on Keigo’s neck.
And if Keigo gets off twice as quickly listening to Dabi’s wet sniffles in his ear, nobody has to know.
Keigo wakes up alone the next morning. The space next to his bed is cold and empty.
Keigo stops looking for it after a while. The flare of Dabi’s nostrils, the slight hitch of his breath. Dabi recovers from his illness and months go by without Keigo seeing the man so much as sniffle.
It’s fine. It’s not like Keigo pictures Dabi’s scrunched up face, his dark lashes fluttering, eyes watery and red, nose on the brink of release on top of him. The feeling of warm, sweaty biceps clenching. Nope. Not at all. It’s not like he had been profusely masturbating to Dabi’s almost sneeze for months after.
But he can’t help it. With Dabi’s no allergies and no sensitivities, he gave Keigo’s interest very little to work with. He was bound to be a little pent up. Especially now since they’ve been hooking up more regularly. But nothing got him off like imagining Dabi, straddling him and sneezing messily onto his bare chest.
He doesn’t know when he stopped looking at other people. Sure, the barista at the coffee shop near his agency is still hot. But he didn’t lean over the counter and flirt with her every time he went to order anymore.
Nor did he wink at the cute interviewers who batted their lashes and licked their lips between questions. Or banter with the interns who would bring him his paperwork wearing deep cut necklines and short skirts.
What was originally a ploy to get closer to Dabi, had shifted. And Keigo found his stomach genuinely fluttering when he received a message from him.
It felt a little too real. Which wasn’t at all helped by Dabi getting sick again.
Hawks
19:32 >> Usual time?
Dabi
19:58 >> Not tonight.
19:59 >> I’m sick.
Keigo stares at his phone for a minute. Fingers hesitating on the screen. He’s sick again?
Keigo wonders what could have brought it on this time. It hadn’t rained in Fukuoka in weeks. In fact, the weather had been nothing but clear skies and warm sun. Sure, a few people got summer colds, but Keigo wonders how Dabi is that susceptible to picking up illnesses.
What’s stranger, is that Keigo still wants to see him. Sex or not. Plus, he isn’t going to lie that the thought of Dabi, shivering and shaking, wasn’t at least a little enticing.
Hawks
20:06 >> Come over anyway.
Dabi
20:09 >> Why?
Hawks
20:24 >> I have something for you.
Dabi didn’t respond to that. And enough hours pass that the sun has long since set and Keigo wonders if he’s coming at all.
But just before midnight, the familiar sound of Dabi landing on his balcony hits Keigo’s ears. A little more sluggish and heavy than he was used to hearing. Being a villain, Dabi had mastered moving stealthily. But upon seeing him, Keigo could understand why that wasn’t the case this evening.
Dabi shuffles through in a thick hoodie and sweater, a scarf covering the lower half of his face, but not enough to hide the angry red below his eyes and at the tips of his ears. There is sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, and his hands are flushed and splotchy like he has held them in snow.
As always when it came to Dabi, Keigo didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Warm enough, hot stuff?” He teases.
Dabi glares at him, pulling off his scarf to expose his pale lips and pink rimmed nose to Keigo. He clears his throat, which does nothing for how dry and painful his words come out, “You’re the one who asked me to come over.”
If his appearance didn’t betray how bad he felt, his voice definitely did. Keigo can hear the illness settling in the back of his throat, and the way his words click around phlegm and inflammation. He listens to Dabi let out a few rattling coughs into the back of his hand and feels a slight pang of guilt for asking him over.
“Shit, Dabs. That sounds bad.”
Dabi unzips his hoodie, revealing another warm layer beneath, and a line of sweat at the neckline. The warmth of the room must shift the congestion in Dabi’s head, as Keigo watches him bring a hand to his nose, groan, and wipe at it. “Ugh, do you have any tissues?”
Keigo forces himself to look away from the frankly erotic sight of Dabi squishing his nose back and forth. He focuses on grabbing a box of tissues and not listening to the quiet squelching and whistling noises in Dabi’s breaths.
“Yeah, here.” He holds out the box. Dabi grabs two and blows his nose loudly. Balling the tissue in his hand and pressing it a final time to his nostrils before tucking it away in his pocket. “So, what did you have for me?”
Only then does Keigo double guess himself. As nice as it is (and it’s really nice) seeing Dabi in this state, he doesn’t actually have anything to give him. Well… apart from–
Keigo steps to the side, showing off the kitchen table. “I have dinner?” He tries.
Dabi blinks at the table, then at Keigo. He sighs, which leads into another round of wet coughs that he catches in his fist. “Seriously, birdie? You made me come all the way out here for nothing?”
“In my defense, I didn’t think you would be this bad,” Keigo says, making his way back to the kitchen where he’d packed everything away into his fridge hours ago. “But now that I see you, you definitely shouldn’t leave. Come on, sit down and eat. I made soup.”
It’s strange seeing Dabi sitting at his kitchen table. It’s the first time the arsonist has been over and they hadn’t immediately moved to the bedroom. The only time Keigo can think that Dabi has been in the kitchen, is when they got a little too wasted and he bent him over the counter.
He notices Dabi shuffling in his seat while he reheats the soup, looking around the apartment like he was seeing it for the first time, and not the dozenth.
“There’s no way you’re comfortable in that,” Keigo says. Capturing Dabi’s attention and pointing to the heavy layers of clothing Dabi was still bundled into. “I’ll turn up the heating if you take off some layers.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Dabi raises an eyebrow, but begins unbuttoning one of the thick sweaters.
“Yeah, you look so sexy like this,” Keigo says. Not for the first time, using sarcasm to mask the truth in his words.
Dabi takes off his top layers, going down to a shirt and sweatpants. His face is somehow more flushed the more exposed it gets. His cheeks have settled to a rosy pink, spreading up his cheekbones until they reach the charred skin below his eyes. And his lips and underside of his nose are red and puffy like he’s been scratching them with something rough.
Keigo sets the soup in front of him, placing his own serving on the opposite end of the small table. “So, you get sick a lot?” He asks.
Dabi shrugs, taking a cautious sip. “Something like that. My immune system’s shit cause of… well, you can guess.”
Right. His injuries. Keigo doesn’t know why he thought the burns wouldn’t have a significant effect on Dabi’s health. Of course, as a Pro-Hero he knew all about injuries, fire trauma, and long-term health risks, but for some reason he never saw Dabi like that.
He always seems so much larger. So much more powerful. Not somebody who can be brought down by the shortcomings of their own body. And not for the first time, he wonders how Dabi got his scars.
He doesn’t ask. Part of him thinks he does it because he’s a kind person. The other half of him knows that he wants a reason not to answer the Commission's questions. If he doesn’t know who Dabi really is, he can’t betray him.
But it scares him how much he wants to know the man.
“Is it always this bad?” Keigo asks instead.
Dabi laughs, then coughs. It’s thick and rattles in his chest. “Sometimes it’s worse. I’ll be fine though.”
“Does anything help?”
Dabi looks up. “Like what?”
“I don’t know?” Keigo tries to think of his own remedies when he’s sick. But with his immune system he’s drawing a blank. “A hot bath?” He suggests. “Steam therapy?”
Dabi looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “The League doesn’t exactly have a five star bathroom, bird brain.”
Before he can stop himself, Keigo offers, “I have a tub?”
Dabi looks over to the bathroom door. Keigo watches a thousand thoughts cross his mind. Frustratingly, he can’t place a single one of them. “Look, birdie. I’m flattered, but I don’t think I’m up for–”
Oh. Nonono.
“I’m just offering you a bath, hot stuff,” Hawks laughs, shaking his head. He opens his eyes to Dabi watching him skeptically, and winks. “Nothing more. Scouts honour.”
“You weren’t a scout,” Dabi grumbles around the phlegm in his throat. “...No strings attached?”
“No strings attached.”
Keigo watches Dabi hesitate, before the arsonist's body wracks with an involuntary shudder, ‘Fine.”
Keigo has to fight his instincts not to watch Dabi strip down in his bathroom. He promised him no strings attached, and he plans to stick to it. No matter how aroused it made him to think of Dabi, naked and shivering in his bathtub.
His skin flushed from the warm water, hair sticking to the back of his neck. The droplets of condensation running down his exposed skin, mixing with sweat and sickness that drips off him.
Keigo starts the dishes to keep his mind off it. He’s drying the bowls when he finally hears it. Followed by a round of wet coughs and splashing water.
“hH’EyYESSShhh!!”
Hawks stops what he’s doing, feeling exposed in his own house.
The sneeze was loud, sounding like it came from the back of Dabi’s throat. It was scratchy and rough, and didn’t sound satisfying in the slightest.
Keigo cranes his ears to hear sniffling. Wet snorts and the sound of Dabi clearing his throat take over his entire apartment, and Keigo imagines his face.
The slow buildup. Hours, maybe days, of the teasing itch. Always sitting too far back in his nose to bring any relief. Being teased out by warm soup, and thick stream, bringing the tingling sensation to the brink until his breath catches in his throat.
Keigo closes his eyes, picturing the scrunch of his strong nose. The squint of his dark eyes, how his lashes would clump from tears and bath water, the splash of the tub with the final desperate release.
Keigo hurriedly finishes the dishes. Finding a comfortable shirt and pants and knocking on the bathroom door.
“Combe in.” Dabi’s voice sounds heavy. But the painful roughness from earlier has subsided.
The bathmat and floor are soaked, as the arsonist shows little concern to contain the water to the tub. It almost overflows the rim, hot enough that steam rises in the humid room.
Dabi lifts his head where it is leant back on the porcelain tub. His face and skin are flushed a deep red. From the cold, or the water. Or both. His eyes are bleary when they land on Keigo, and his nose runs with the movement of his head.
He sniffles thickly, wiping his nose with a wet knuckle, “I could gedt used to tdhis, bhirdie. sngkff!”
Oh. Keigo likes that a little too much. How the stupid nickname Dabi uses to get under his skin sounds around the congestion in his sinuses.
“Uh– I brought you these,” he says. Setting the clothes down on the bench.
Dabi looks at them, wiping at one of his eyes that has started watering with his running nose, “Whadt’s wrogng width my clodthes?”
“Nothing,” Keigo shrugs. Fighting to keep his eyes from lowering to Dabi’s bare chest and… other exposed body parts.
Dabi blinks, he sniffles again. This time much harsher as he sits up and pinches the moisture from his nose with his fingers. Spilling bath water across his upper lip and forcing an erotic image of a wet faced Dabi to the front of Keigo’s mind.
He watches Dabi’s nostrils flare with the contact, his ears and dick twitching at the thick squelching sounds. “Ygou tryna trabp mbe indto sdtayigng?”
Keigo almost short circuits. “I’m just saying it’s late. There’s food in the fridge for breakfast, a warm bed, and I don’t mind if you don’t want to go all the way back.”
Dabi gives him a final look over before dropping his hand from his nose. Thank God. Because Keigo was doing everything in his power not to get erect at the sight of a naked, fever induced Dabi slowly rubbing nose to a deeper shade.
The scarred skin on Dabi’s hands working only to further rub his nose raw. Keigo can see his septum is now a chapped, wet disaster.
“Fidne… sngkk,” he sniffles quietly. “But only begcause of tdhe breagkfhast.”
Keigo sighs, “Of course.”
He is about to leave when it happens again. This time, Keigo sees it all.
Dabi inhales suddenly and sharply, with no time to prepare as his breath catches on an inhale and his head jerks forward. His hands have no time to catch the outburst as his face crumbles, thick lashes fluttering close as his nose gives a final twitch towards its ticklish release.
“eyHD’ZZZASshh!!”
The bathwater splashes with the force of the sneeze, a sheen of spray trickles in the steamy air.
Dabi groans, lifting a wet hand to his nose way too late to cover anything, and sniffles back the congestion that was knocked loose.
Keigo’s mouth goes dry, and his brain stalls.
He saves the image of a wet, shivering, post-sneeze Dabi in his mind for later.
Dabi is grumbling, a thick mess dribbling down his chin, the spraying residue on his hand. “Ugh, gross.”
Keigo excuses himself before the man could notice his reaction, offering a quick, “Bless you,” over his shoulder.
He doesn’t let Dabi respond before he closes the door behind him and sits on the edge of his bed.
He can hear Dabi sniffling once again in the tub. The humidity and steam loosening the stuffiness in his head and draining out the fluid through his nose one ticklish and illness induced outburst at a time.
It doesn’t sound like he’s making any movements to get out of the tub, however. Which is probably good for Keigo as he looks down, gnawing at his bottom lip.
I’ll make this quick. He tells himself, pulling down the waistband of his pants.
… I hope y'all liked it. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’ve been a lurker for a few years. Suuuper nervous about posting for the first time!!
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currently kind of obsessed with the idea of someone sneezing at a tissue/handkerchief rather than into it.
maybe it’s an accident. maybe it’s carelessness. maybe the snz came on too urgently or desperately for them to cover properly. regardless, it is hot lol
I can’t get the idea of someone who is sick and keeps having false starts is still super sensitive enough that maybe their partner doesn’t even have to used a rolled tissue, feather, or q-tip to induce. The pad of their finger softly grazing over their red, twitching nostrils and scrunching nose bridge is enough to get all those tickly sneezes spilling of their nose (with whatever else flows out as well)
okay ALL of this, let me raise you; the sick person is almost asleep, settled on their partners chest, who has been stroking their hair as they drift off, waiting for the medication to kick in. only, they notice the twitch of their red nose, the scrunch of their brow, the way even as tired as they are, their poor partner can’t quite drift off because there’s a lingering tickle in their stuffed up sinuses.
and really they aren’t thinking about it all, drawn to the fluster of their partners nose. they’re dragging the pad of their thumb lightly down the length before they’ve even realised they’ve done it. and their partner’s groggy, answering inhale proves it, with a sharp breath that quivers in their chest, erupting in a spraying sneeze that cascades into the air.
