Please Snez on me

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!!!! this is witch hat kitchen horny yearning after hours….. 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 paths before me writing fetpov. truly life changing stuff I owe you everything

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

“Been holdin’ out on me, ‘ave you, Qifrey?” Olly’s voice lifts Qifrey up and blankets him with warmth as he settles onto the rug before him with a deep, contented sigh. The hour is late, and after a long stretch of late nights and lonesome dinners (to be expected during busy commission season), Qifrey feels starved for Olruggio’s evening company, grateful to have him here and eager to keep him for as long as he can manage to do so, means lying within reason.

Qifrey smiles, “Perhaps I have! I stumbled across it on my last trip to Kalhn with the girls, but I suppose I was waiting for some time that felt appropriate to surprise you!” Olruggio’s burned the candle at both ends this week on a tight deadline to finish and deliver a new contraption to a client. As of several clock marks ago when he returned from his delivery journey, he’s finished, and he’s home, and that’s a cause for celebration if there ever was to be one - for Qifrey, at least. After supper was eaten and the girls had scattered to their rooms for the evening, he presented Olruggio with a fine wooden box, laughing away all the protest that arose before he even removed the lid. Olruggio is not particularly choosy when it comes to his alcohol; bottom shelf Silvernectar would have done just the trick, but this bottle caught Qifrey’s eye (and something deep in the back of his throat) on his venture to secure Olruggio’s typical fare.

Olruggio picks up the bottle and examines it briefly, eyebrows stitching together a knot as he twists it in his hands. 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. Olruggio doesn’t ask what it cost, not that Qifrey would tell him if he did. Qifrey studies him as he studies the bottle, appreciating the lean expanse of his legs as they spread apart underneath his skirt, the silky flop of his hair as Olly’s head lolls in his direction. “This’s a bit highbrow for my tastes, love, but I suspect you know tha’ already.” 

“Hm!” he smiles again, of course he knows, love, with a chuckle this time. “Well, I do hope you’ll enjoy it anyway!” 

“By the stars, Qifrey… I’ll enjoy it.. only if you’ll be ‘aven some with me, though,” Olly says, though Qifrey was planning to all along. He procures a waiting pair of loop chalices from one hidden palm of his hand, the bottle is opened with little fanfare - a golden stopper, Qifrey? y’cant be serious - and they’re sharing their first sips together, equally delighted by the pleasant sweetness and gentle burn of the drink. Despite his rather delicate tolerance, Olruggio imbibes at a rate triple that of Qifrey, and a bright red flush quickly colors his cheeks to show for it. Qifrey, as if his focus could possibly be drawn elsewhere, notes that Olruggio’s not even managed through a full glass before he starts to sound distinctly congested, and as soon as he starts a second he begins to lose his composure completely. 

With little warning, Olruggio draws his sleeve and pitches forward with a grating, ““hHRR’USHhhuih!” He’s not timely enough to catch the brunt of the sneeze; instead the dying firelight behind him bathes the aerosol release in a soft orange glow, a billion tiny dying stars glittering across his wrist. My... how radiant, is all Qifrey can think.

“guh, ‘scuse me,” Olly’s congested baritone strikes a chord that thrums a warm, pulsing heat all the way through Qifrey, settling down with a twitch between his legs. It feels like he’s being electrified, equal parts throbbing and aching and numb. He clears his throat before speaking in a vain effort to even out his voice- 

“Bless you, Olly!” It still comes out breathy and stilted, breaking over Olruggio’s name. 

“Thank’y, Qifrey,” Olruggio sighs, lifting his palm to his nose and swiping it sideways - obscenely, even more so as his name comes out of his mouth - snorting before lifting his glass to his lips and finally doing away with what’s left of his second glass. Qifrey wishes he could unsee the glistening streak it left on the back of his hand, wishes he could unharden the tightness swelling in his breeches, wishes he could unwind the knot tightening in his abdomen. 

“S’metimes this fancy stuff gets t’me,” Olruggio says, chased by a heavy liquid sniffle that threatens to undo Qifrey entirely. His composure is winding the same downward slope as Olruggio’s, it seems. 

Qifrey’s only had one glass and he already feels tipsy. Though he might normally be able to drink his friend under the table, tonight he feels flushed and dizzy, lightheaded. Drinking more is very unlikely to help anything at all, but he feels an urge to refresh his glass, to keep going until the raging wildfire can be blamed on something else, something innocuous, something simple, like the wine, like the radiating heat of the fireplace. Not like Olruggio hitching again, not like Olruggio fanning a hand in front of his face, not like Olruggio cradling his left elbow with his right hand and sneezing into it with a force only mildly blunted by the fabric. 

“hhH’H’IDDJJSHHIiuu!! hhH’REhsCHUuihh!”

Olly is so close- he’s begun to lean forward without even realizing it, rapt in attention as the man’s lips part over another inhale. He pauses as it crests, and pitches forward into his sleeve again as it breaks. 

“hhh..hHH’MPHSShieww!” This fit affords no visual display, all tucked away into the worn linen of Olruggio’s shirtsleeve, but Qifrey feels viscerally aware of their productivity all the same. 

Olruggio draws his head back with a groan and a thick sniff; the firelight glints over the dampness concentrating above his cupid’s bow, the mustache hairs underneath his nostrils slickened with the residual mess. “Heh.. Bless me, since’y ain’t gonna,” Olruggio jeers, sniffling again, dragging the frilled cuff of his sleeve along the underside of his glowing nostrils, taking a moment to seesaw it back and forth. 

Dear heavens. Qifrey’s blood reaches a boil underneath his skin. What should constitute a normal response to this? He’s been silent for too long, apparently. He’s uncertain if he’s still even breathing. He’s seen Olruggio sneeze many times before, unavoidable intertwined as their years have been, and the effect has always been a largely similar wrench in his gut, but there’s something about the way his inhibitions are dissolving, his guard is slipping, something about how beautiful he looks as the fire paints him orange and red, that propels Qifrey’s arousal forward exponentially and painfully. Maybe there’s something else about how desperately he wants all of the things he cannot have. He doesn’t know how much more he can take. 

His voice pitches up as his far too delayed reply arrives: “Sorry- ahem,” he tries to laugh but just ends up choking on the words as they come out.  “Bless you, Olly!”  Olruggio levels Qifrey with a calculated look, but presses no matter in favor of attending to his nose. 

“Are you alright, my friend? Not catching cold, I hope,” he says, forcing another laugh and lying through his teeth in his best attempt to sound detached from the outcome of the question. There’s a much more selfish, much less generous version of Qifrey who does, in fact, hope desperately for Olly to catch cold, for Olly to fall victim to some ultimately harmless ailment, to get to be the one to nurse him back to health. How cruel.

“Oh, no, m’fi-ihh-hn’NDSCHH!iuuh..” He turns his head to the side and the room glitters again, spray kissing his knees and dusting the rug as it dissolves in the space between them. He paws at his nose and Qifrey feels an acute pang of guilt for watching. For enjoying it so much. “M’fiiiiine... This fancy stuff jus' sorta gets t’me sometimes,” he says with a laugh that is also a huff, a noble and ultimately futile effort to catch his breath. "Doesn’t bother me though. Kinda feels good, actually.”

An admission like that is enough to turn Qifrey to stone. If his breath hadn’t left him fully before, it surely has now. His shock must be evident, but Olruggio does seem rather occupied with his nose, now pushing it around in irritated circles with the palm of his hand as he leans back, stretching himself across the mantle like the brushbuddy sprawls over a freshly drawn seal. Olly is always a sentimental drunk, but he’s so rarely this self-indulgent that Qifrey briefly wonders if he’s just imagining the whole thing. Could it be some sort of cruel trick, a smoke sculpture? An apparition in the shape of his oldest (his only) friend, set out to wrest from him every last dreg of his meager self-control? 

“Could use a-hh– hH’IDD’djsSHhhuh!..ahh-a kerchief if y’ve got one, though,” he says, snuffling into his hand all the while, turning back into it with another “Hhh’RRSSchHuhhh!! eiiiIDJJSCHHhh..!” as if to emphasize his need. 

Qifrey’s molten insides concentrate into a heady throb between his thighs, solidifying his apparently imminent ruin. He does indeed have one, and he holds it out to Olruggio with a wry smile, composure hanging on by a bare, bare thread.

"Here, please, take it..." Olruggio does, immediately bringing it to his nose and blowing into it, hard and wet. 

Their domestic routine is wash, rinse, repeat for a reason; Qifrey’s got no choice but to keep it that way, no choice but to force the hand and play it regardless of a fixed inability to win. If he were going to walk away, give it all up, quit playing altogether, he’d have done so years ago. By now, the ache is comfortably familiar, a proxy for pleasure in the only twisted sense his conscience will allow for.

The bottle is barely half empty, but as Olruggio crumbles into another fit that breaks a record five, Qifrey considers cutting him off. For which of their sakes exactly, he’s not entirely sure.

"Olly, I-I don’t..quite know that you should drink any more of this...” His voice wavers as the words come out, his body betraying his own disbelief.

“Are y'kiddin? Y'got this special for me and y’think I’d leave ‘alf a bottle to waste? Just means you're the one who's gohho--otta’hHRRISchhuuuu!.. gotta’ pick up the slack.. hESSHhhuu!”

They’re directed into the handkerchief, but loosely, and Olruggio sends more stars flying across the room. Heavens. Great fucking heavens. Olly sniffles loudly, and blows his nose with a pathetic, incredible, beautiful groan. 

Qifrey buzzes with an intensifying static electricity as Olruggio rises from his place on the floor, tops off his glass, and joins Qifrey on the couch. Being so near to Olly, so near to olly like this, is a heady rush, moreso than that of any drink. Qifrey's afraid of how much damage just one more glass could do. The guilt of it all is a wellspring in the back of his mind, flowing ever-eternal. 

At least Olly seems to be enjoying himself. Stars, he must be out to drive Qifrey wild. Olruggio takes a long sip and levels Qifrey again. The effect is shockingly instant, and before his eyes, Olruggio is scrambling for the handkerchief, missing the mark by a mile.

He directs one over his shoulder, “hHRRSHIuhhh!” still patting around his person with little success. Being beside Olruggio means that Qifrey feels each and every sneeze as it tears through him, the secondhand impact muted through the cushions of the couch. The aftershock ripples through Qifrey all the same like a stone skipped across a lake; beat, beat, beat, beat. He’s painfully erect, stock still, scared to death of how close they are to touching. He’ll burst into flames. The static builds into complete white-hot noise and a fuzzy, aching need encompasses him from the inside out.

Olly bends over his lap with another “EIIDDSHHhuuH!” realizing the handkerchief is lying on the mantle, accidentally abandoned in favor of a refilled glass. He grabs for it in the hazy aftermath, sinking back into the couch with a groan that could only be categorized as profane. 

“Qifrey, y-y’hhforgot t’bless me agaiiin…” Reaching through oblivion, Olly’s hand closes around his knee and squeezes hard. The static clears as Olruggio pitches forward with a sneeze so needy, so wet, so radiant, there’s him and there’s only him - hhh...hHHZiSSHHUhh! - Qifrey holds in a breath that stills every part of him. The ache reaches an unbearable pinnacle, a bright flush of pressure, a pounding in his heart, his head, his cock. 

“hHDJzSSHhuuhh!” His hand tightens around his knee, tandem pressure applied with the force of the sneeze, enough to rock Qifrey forward along with him. Olly’s hand is so warm, so dangerously, dangerously close. It's too much. He'll finish. Untouched. Right here. Stranger things have surely happened. There’s nowhere for him to go and the privacy of their home suddenly feels suffocating. 

Does he know what he's doing? Does he know how mad he's driving Qifrey? There’s no way he’s that oblivious to Qifrey’s intense and unmistakable bodily reaction, drunk or not. Qifrey still hasn’t moved or spoken, Olruggio’s hand on his leg being the only external stimuli his body is able to process. He chances a glance at Olruggio, a blessing on his parted lips, but he can only freeze as Olruggio’s eyes are already waiting to meet his, a lopsided, boyish grin spread across his lovely face. Beat, beat, beat, beat. 

“Oh- Olly, I-” he falters over the words and can’t help feeling like he’s been caught red-handed in some act of obscenity. “Bless you..?” it comes out like a question, though he doesn’t really mean for it to. He supposes it’s apologetic enough, though not the least bit surreptitious. There's little of him Olruggio can’t root up if he tries. He knocks back what’s left of his drink, but it tastes acrid as it slides down his throat. 

“Thank y’very much, Qifrey. Was startin’ t’get a mite worried there for my eternal soul..” Olruggio sniffles, resort to snorting when it’s not enough to do the trick. He folds the handkerchief in half and renders it useless with a heavy blow, though none of it’s enough to quite clear his head. Qifrey can hear the congestion coating his every word, his name, and he’s so close that he can feel Olly’s hot breath coast over his shoulder. Every part of him is taut, stretched thin like an elastic band, and he’s really, truly about to snap. 

There’s no hope for a clean getaway. The damage has been done. 

“Olly, I’m terribly sorry that the wine.. gave you so much trouble.” God, he feels so awkward. His neck is blistering, hot and dry with shame and guilt and longing and loathing. He’s bound to be leaking through his pants now; the words just won’t come. “Listen, I know there’s um.. There’s still a bit left, but I- I think I must really be getting to bed now.” He doesn’t even bother with an excuse, fat lot of good it'd do him, just tries to hide his erection the best he possibly can as he hurries out from under Olly’s grip and off the couch. 

Olruggio takes the opportunity to lie back and stretch the length of the couch as soon as Qifrey leaves, already pulling down the blanket that rests over the back, preparing to sleep it off. He’s so damn smug. The grin hasn’t left his face. He knows. He knows. Whatever. 

“S’alright, Qifrey, go on, g’night…” the words drip out stuffy and saccharine. “Guess I’ll just have t’finish it up on me own.. Thanks for the drink anyways. I enjoyed it.” Olly holds up his glass to Qifrey, a mock cheers that he mirrors with a wooden smile and nod - Goodnight, my friend - before he turns disappears up the steps. 

Olruggio is under no false pretenses on how the next few weeks are going to go, so he's been quick to finish up his ongoing commissions and just as hasty with his polite refusals of new ones, citing, “A time-sensitive project that needs my attention before I accept any new commissions. I appreciate your patience and thank you for your patronage” as the reason behind his reticence.

In actuality, it's been people rather than objects that have been taking up much of his time in recent days. Their atelier had been touched by illness, a simple cold that made its way through Qifrey's apprentices before settling down in their master. The ailment hadn't been dangerous, though it had been rather severe, and Olruggio had found his hours outside of his usual commission work occupied by trips to the healers for supplies, warming and cooling spells, and a new magical object that concentrated steam in a round shape to allow their little witches to momentarily ease their congestion.

To his and Qifrey's relief, the girls had healed rather quickly, as youths are wont to do, though their atelier is still bathed in a calm quiet as their master works through achieving the same outcome and their Watchful Eye struggles through the beginnings of his own inconvenient ailment.

Olruggio rubs firm circles into Qifrey's back as the witch doubles over into a handkerchief with productive, chesty coughs. Nearby, the girls are clinking around in the kitchen, adding some final touches to a soup that they had been saving for a day like today. Qifrey wipes at his mouth with a congested sigh, sending a tiny, grateful smile Olruggio's way.

“Tetia's got the tea on,” Olruggio says, taking his hand from Qifrey's back and returning to his sketches that are spread across the floor. “That'll hopefully soothe yer throat.” It's a quiet midday in late fall, cool outside but warm inside, and they've all accepted that it'll be a subdued next couple of days.

“Here Olly,” Qifrey croaks, handing Olruggio a fresh handkerchief produced from somewhere beneath his leisure robes. He feels warmth dust his cheeks as he accepts the handkerchief, dabbing it under his leaky nose. He had dripped a little onto his sketches to make Qifrey offer up one of the precious, clean cloths, and it's equal parts embarrassing and truly that dire.

Unfortunately, the dabbing causes a tickle to radiate through the congestion in his nose, and he sniffs sharply to abate it. Screw it, he might as well blow his nose. It's not like it would be the most unsanitary thing to happen in the atelier this month. He tents the handkerchief around his nose with firm hands and blows best he can. His sinuses are simultaneously congested and drippy, which means that his nostrils are an irritated red from being wiped at and his attempt at emptying them ends with a sad, crumpled-sounding HONK.

Quick glances of sympathy come from everyone in the room, which make his cheeks heat again, but he knows better than to hide in his quarters. Without anyone to make Qifrey rest, the master would run himself ragged and make his recovery time twice what it should be. Plus, the girls couldn't be left unsupervised in the kitchen, and he has to admit that the spot on the floor by the fire that he and Qifrey had set up their spellbooks near is comfortable and warm. Much better than– and he would admit this only if threatened– spending the entire day alone. The only thing worse than being miserable is being miserable by yourself.

Qifrey didn't seem to believe that. Since their childhood, he'd always tried to endure alone, which is why Olruggio finds it as easy as breathing to drag him along when he's ill and force his friend to the inconvenience of his company. Sometimes he knew that his constant fretting frustrated Qifrey, but it was worth it for every private smile and grateful side glance.

“You're warm,” Qifrey says softly, his palm suddenly pressed to Olruggio's forehead. The hand travels to his cheek, cupping it briefly so that Qifrey can turn Olruggio's head towards him. Whatever he's looking for in Olruggio's eyes, he must find, because he gives a small, regretful smile and lets go, instead clasping Olruggio's free hand that isn't occupied with his nose and the handkerchief. “I'm sorry for passing my illness to you.”

Olruggio has time to remove the fabric from his nose and open his mouth before he's hurriedly covering both again, barrelling forward to catch his spraying sneezes. “Hn… h'ngtchh! —HRRAAHHT'chht!”

“Bless you,” Qifrey squeezes his hand.

Olruggio just shakes his head, sniffling and panting raggedly into the cloth before losing two more sneezes to it. “HNnt'chihh! ih'YISHhieew! Snft!”

“Goodness, bless you again. That sounded like it hurt.”

Blowing his nose with one hand isn't something he's well practiced in, but Qifrey's grip on his free hand is stronger than ever so he gives it a go. He can feel how much he's failed when the handkerchief isn't enough fabric to hold the mess he's made, which is simultaneously mortifying, fascinating, and disturbing. Qifrey seems to realize the problem right as he does, and lifts the handkerchief he had coughed into to assist in Olruggio's cleanup. He doesn’t let go of his hand.

“Let's just…here…” Qifrey's voice is soft and private, eyes focused as he gently wipes at the sides of Olruggio's nostrils. He's leaned in to get a closer look, his lips parted to make up for the fact that he's probably as stuffed up as Olruggio is right now and can't use his nose for basic functions like breathing. “Your kerchief is a bit obsolete, Olly, would you mind terribly moving it aside?” Qifrey looks amused as he asks, likely knowing exactly why Olruggio hasn't done so yet. He gives the man a halfhearted glare as he sniffles wetly into the handkerchief one more time in a futile attempt to snort up the majority of the mess that the kerchief can't contain, but based on the way he can feel the coolness of the air interact with his damp nose and upper lip, he hasn't really succeeded.

Luckily, Qifrey is quick with cleanup duty, pinching off Olruggio's nose with a wet sound that makes him wince, but Qifrey doesn't even blink. It's as if taking care of Olruggio is as natural as drawing spells to him. Qifrey gives a satisfied smile as he dabs at Olruggio's philithrum one last time. “There. All– oh– aADTSSCHHeUH!!” Qifrey is just quick enough to bring the handkerchief to his face. The same one that he had just used to mop Olruggio's face with.

“Bless. We make a right disgusting pair, don't we?” Olruggio remarks, making Qifrey choke on a laugh that quickly becomes a cough.

“Master Olly, is Master Qifrey okay?” Coco asks with concern, checking in on them between tea and meal preparation. Qifrey is turning a bit red from the effort of coughing, but still seems to be breathing.

Olruggio nods to her. “He'll be alright. Even better if we could have some o' that tea.”

She straightens. “Right! Right away!” and disappears again.

Qifrey's eyes are amused, sparkling in a way Olruggio hasn't seen in a few days due to his misery. “Good girls,” Qifrey remarks, voice slightly hoarser.

“I suppose we're a bit fond of ‘em,” Olruggio allows with a sniffle. He glances back at the spells littering the floor, a wave of exhaustion moving through him. His headache, which has been slowly getting worse throughout the morning, is pounding after his small sneezing fit.

“I've decided. We'll drink Tetia's tea, and then you'll have a nice nap before dinner.”

Olruggio raises an eyebrow at him. “Will I?”

Qifrey nods. “I know for a fact you didn't get much sleep last night.” Qifrey, alongside everyone else in the atelier, were probably almost as disturbed by Olruggio's nighttime misery as he was. He tries not to feel too mortified by the thought of them all hearing his miserable sneeze attacks. “So take a nap, just a quick one. It's warm and lovely, right? We'll keep your soup warm for when you wake.”