y’all know what this is

The details didn’t really matter. Infiltrating a villainous mob’s estate, blah blah. Obtaining enough evidence for a proper investigation, blah blah. Do not engage the enemy, there’s not enough Quirk intel, could be packing illegal bio-weapons, blah blah. Subterfuge wasn’t Denki’s area of expertise – he was more of a front-lines, shock-and-run sort of man – but this was Hitoshi’s strong suit and he’d requested Denki specifically on the grounds of his ability to quietly fry security cameras and incapacitate large numbers of people all at once if need be. His electricity Quirk was also so generalized, it would be difficult for the villains to pinpoint his identity off that alone should they be discovered.

Denki preferred to think Hitoshi picked him because he was Hitoshi’s favorite, but Hitoshi had scoffed and rolled his eyes when Denki suggested that logic. He also didn’t react to Denki’s gratuitous winking and finger-guns. All around a huge disappointment.

Sneaking across the grounds eventually got them inside, where they were able to obtain the necessary photos and voice recordings needed for the police and Hero Association. On the way out they had an.. incident. Well, no, wait. Better to start with some context.

+ EARLIER +

“This fence is no joke,” Denki muttered, wrinkling his nose while he eyed the towering, buzzing menace as they crept along the outskirts of the estate grounds. “I know they’re villains and all, but still..”

Hitoshi squinted up at it. “Can you be more specific?”

Over the years, Denki’s sensitivity to electric currents had grown acute; he could feel electrons tingling against his skin, and for that reason alone he knew the electric fence bordering the mansion was serious. “They’ve got at least 50,000 volts circulating, and their amps are way too high.”

“Meaning?”

“If you so much as graze that thing, it’s like instant game over my dude.”

“Lovely.”

Oh boy, it tingled something awful too. Denki sniffed, rubbing both hands over his face and shaking himself all over to try and dispel the sensation.

Hitoshi paused and looked up from where he was clipping on his repelling belt. “You all right?”

With another book-end sniff, Denki nodded and flashed a grin. Winked. Threw in some finger-guns for good measure. If he ever wanted to be on a team with Hitoshi again after this, he had to be perfect. “You bet, bud.”

Hitoshi closed his eyes for a moment, possibly mustering the deep reserves of his patience, before returning his attention to his belt. “Good.”

+ PRESENT +

Listen, hear him out. This wasn’t totally Denki’s fault, all right? They knew about the electric fence coming in, yes, but nobody told them the specs. There were regulations (10k volts MAX and very low amps) to keep fences like this from killing people. Of course, the freakin’ villains wanted a proper person-barbeque. It wasn’t so much the volts that were the issue for Denki – it was the amps. The higher the amps, the faster electricity circulated, and these jerks had it overclocked. With a current churning at this speed, it vibrated in the air. Electrons wobbled out from the epicenter erratically. Even people without proper sensitivity could stand near the fence and feel the atmosphere buzz. For Denki, it was maddening.

So, yeah, when they made their sneaky escape from the mansion and the electrically charged air washed over him in a deluge, his body reacted without thinking. It tingled down to his bones and he sneezed. Loudly. Disastrously loudly.

Hitoshi’s expression had been priceless, wide-eyed and frozen like a startled cat. The sudden shouts from nearby mob-guards, not so much. It was Hitoshi’s quick thinking and capture weapon that secured them a safe spot in a storage chest, tangled together like they were in bed – a really uncomfortable, musty, stressful bed. Denki would prefer Hitoshi on top, but he’d take what he could get. His cheek rested against Hitoshi’s shoulder, the curve of his nose just beneath Hitoshi’s ear, their legs wrapped up in one another’s and their arms carefully braced against the box to prevent any excessive movements or noise. Denki tried to keep himself somewhat elevated so Hitoshi could breathe, despite the tight fit.

A few minutes had passed from Denki’s initial mistake, and neither of them had said anything. Beyond the confines of the box, they could hear voices and footsteps. The Association had been very clear – do not engage the enemy unless you absolutely must, and even then, engage only to retreat. They were far outnumbered and had next to no information on the Quirks involved. The evidence they gathered tonight would help with that, but it did a fat lot of nothing for them right now.

By far, the most ominous thing was the irritation spidering throughout Denki’s nose. They were in close proximity to the fence, able to hear the droning zzzzzz from even inside the box. He knew Hitoshi couldn’t feel the vibrating current like he could, but Hitoshi sure as hell felt the unconscious, rhythmic pulsing of Denki’s nostrils against the exposed skin of his neck. Denki alternated between holding his breath and sucking in measured, shaky breaths between parted lips. He twitched when Hitoshi turned his head a fraction of an inch and whispered feather-soft against his hair.

“Do you have allergies?”

Denki relaxed as much as he was able, which was not much, but still.. phew, that was a relief. He’d thought Hitoshi was angry at him. But he’d heard Hitoshi’s angry voice and this wasn’t it. Much like Aizawa-sensei, he didn’t have a huge range of emotion in his expression, so sometimes it was hard to tell.

“No,” Denki exhaled, panting in another strangled inhale before continuing, “The fence.. elec-.. current gonnahh.. make-.. making me-hh!”

He bit down on his tongue to keep the sneeze from advancing, and it worked – for now. Honestly, this was all futile. Unless they turned the fence off, which yeah, not happening, then his nerves would be tingling and frizzing until they got the hell out of dodge. This wasn’t an itch he could scratch, not a smell he could hide from – this was infused in the very air, and even if he held his breath, it tickled him with a relentless, constant pressure from which there was no escape.

“Hold it in,” Hitoshi whispered firmly. That tone did fluttery things to Denki’s stomach, yet did fuck all for the fluttery feelings in his nose.

And easy for Hitoshi to say, Mr. Silent Stifle. Denki had never stifled successfully in his whole life. When ya gotta, ya gotta, was his nose’s philosophy, even if Denki didn’t always agree. The tingling continued, and in a moment of desperation, he tilted his head to rub firmly against Hitoshi’s shoulder. The man didn’t move a muscle as Denki essentially wiped his nose on him. Shit, this really wasn’t his idea of a romantic cuddle.

“Suhh..m’sorry.”

“Just don’t sneeze.”

Oh, how he wished he could obey that stern command. No matter how much he itched and fidgeted, the stream of stimulation continued at a steady pace. Even burying his nose into Hitoshi’s uniform accomplished nothing (aside from being able to smell Hitoshi’s laundry detergent, which was an intriguing scent he’d enjoy more if not for the dire circumstance). This was going to happen; it was only a matter of when.

Because of their squished position in the box, Denki couldn’t get his hands free. There wasn’t enough room to maneuver without bumping the sides or lid of the chest, which would be an instant giveaway to the enemy. His hands stayed where they were, bracketed palms-down against the wood either side of Hitoshi’s head. He continued scrubbing his nose as hard as he dared against Hitoshi’s shoulder, going rigid when he heard more than felt the wetness gathering around his nostrils as a result of the irritation and subsequent nose-bullying. It was this mortified pause that resulted in his undoing.

“Hhohh god, I-yeee..”

“Quietly,” Hitoshi hissed into his ear. “Denki, quietly- ”

“hHH’MMFFSSSH’UAH!”

Welp. It’s a bummer Denki never could do much of anything quietly. The worst part was he smushed his face into Hitoshi’s armpit to try and muffle it, to absolutely no success. Hopefully a mobster would just come murder him so he didn’t have to live with the reality of sneezing into Hitoshi’s armpit for more than three seconds of his lifetime.

Beyond the confines of their hiding spot, shuffling feet and distant voices paused, then resumed with more fervor. Closer now. And still Denki’s nose tingled. There was nothing to sneeze out, no irritant to banish or a virus to appease. The air around him remained just as infused as it did a moment ago, a continuous assault on every molecule in his body, concentrated particularly on the delicate, nerve-laden linings of his nose. The longer this went on, the worse it would get. He had the brand of sneezes that got heavier and more frequent over time, as stimulation dragged on. Some people got desensitized; Denki just got more sensitized.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered miserably, barely audible as he spoke it against Hitoshi’s uniform. Voices orbited nearby. They had maybe seconds before they’d have to stop talking all together to stay hidden. Hitoshi also understood this, rushing his words out in puffs of air against Denki’s ear.

“Do you still have to sneeze?”

Denki wanted to shake his head, but instead he reluctantly nodded. Yes, he did. Really badly. And soon.

“Can you hold it back?”

Denki wanted to nod, but instead had to shake his head. No, he couldn’t. Not once, and not ever.

He turned to slot his nose against Hitoshi’s neck, hoping that through some miracle the threat of sneezing directly against Hitoshi’s skin might give his nose a little pause before flicking the trigger. From the threatening tickle still humming throughout his body, that didn’t seem likely. He barely kept himself from squeaking when Hitoshi’s hand suddenly shifted to the slight curve of his waist. A beat of silence pressed against them before Hitoshi’s lips once again grazed his skin. Even though the words were barely more than just air, they felt like the heaviest thing Denki ever heard.

“Do you trust me?”

There was no hesitation this time, only relief and a squirmy anticipation deep in his gut. “h-.. Yehhss.”

Fog flooded through his head, crowding out all thoughts save for Hitoshi’s single command exhaled into his ear: “Don’t. Sneeze.”

Yes, sir, Denki thought. Absolutely can do.

This actually wasn’t the first time he’d been Brainwashed by Hitoshi. Once, way back in senior year at UA, Classes A and B took a joint trip to Hokkaido for a young professionals’ rising-hero retreat. Outside of sanctioned events, there was a lot of friendly sparring and not so friendly trickery. Through events Denki could no longer remember, Setsuna and Kuroiro got the drop on him with a very elaborate ghost prank – the horrible memories which kept him up two nights in a row. On the third evening, after a grueling day made worse by sleep deprivation, he complained to Hitoshi about it. Unexpectedly, the boy made Denki a proposition: to Brainwash him and command him to sleep.

He explained that sleep wouldn’t be unnatural or permanent. Denki would just fall asleep instantly, and wake up as typically as he would if he’d fallen asleep on his own. It was actually really sweet to offer, Denki told him, even if Hitoshi seemed weirdly embarrassed about it. At the time, Denki thought he imagined the sensation of a hand touching his hair as he quickly hurtled into slumber. Here and now as grown men, when Hitoshi settled a bracing and protective palm against the back of Denki’s head while they waited out the villains searching for them, Denki realized he hadn’t imagined it at all.

Yeah so anyway, the Brainwashing wasn’t an issue for Denki. He didn’t mind the brain fog, or the sensation of losing control of himself. He hadn’t been lying when he said he trusted Hitoshi; it also helped that he was kinda into this shit. Giving up control, and stuff. He couldn’t so much as blink unless commanded, and something about that thrilled him.

The issue for Denki was while Hitoshi ordered him not to sneeze, the desire to sneeze hadn’t gone away. If anything, that was getting worse. With the Brainwash, he maintained a steady mental block – no hitching breaths, no twitchy nose, no preparation for a sneeze in the slightest. But the sensation endured, compounded, expanded to fill every inch of his sinuses, and Denki slowly found himself going mad with it. Capable thought started slipping away. Awareness began to blur. All he could feel, or think about, was this desire to give in. To just let it happen. The fact he was riding the razor’s edge of a tremendous sneeze (or ten) and could not even have the visceral satisfaction of flaring his nostrils in response was legitimate torture.

And yet.. he sort of loved it? This was the ultimate exercise in denial. It made him wonder what other things Hitoshi could deny him, and wow, he actually had the capacity to be inappropriately horny in a situation like this, go figure.

Soon, even that luxury was lost on him. When the irritation reached critical mass – his nerves just shy of letting loose as they met Hitoshi’s powerful mental block – Denki literally could do nothing but live in that sensation. Right on the edge of a sneeze, every available neuron focused to a laser-point on that feeling. He had no concept of time or what was going on around him. One minute he was in that storage bin with Hitoshi, and the next he was in Hitoshi’s arms bridal-style in the middle of the woods.

There was no build-up, not even enough air to properly fuel the sneeze. Just an immediate, unsatisfying, “-tTSShh!” And then a humongous gasp, and a much more sinus-clearing, “hHHH-! IIHFSHHHH’IUHH!!”

It didn’t even occur to him to cover, a fact that dawned on him only after Hitoshi jerked his head to the side with a grimace. “Guess I should have expected that. Bless you.”

“Oh shit, sorhHEE’TZSSSH’IAH!!”

“Yeah, we definitely would have died if you let these rip back there. Ble- oh, more?”

Denki nodded, enough of his wits about him now that he got the crook of his elbow up to his nose. All of him still felt floaty, and not just because Hitoshi was still holding him like a princess. “God, you have ndo idea how buch it- tih.. h-HH’EEFSSSH’YAAH!”

Hitoshi snorted, flashing Denki one of his trademark toothy grins. “You’ve got such a dorky sneeze.”

“Shuhh..” Denki paused to sniffle against his sleeve, struggling to get ahold of himself. “Shut up.”

“We’re far from the fence,” Hitoshi replied, glancing back over one shoulder into the midnight gloom between the trees. A pinch formed between his brows as he shot Denki an accusing glance. “Are you getting sick?”

“Ndo, ndo, it-.. ugh.” Denki sniffled, then instantly regretted it when it vibrated his sinuses in a parody of what that electric current had done to him. “h-H-H-H’EDZZSSHIAH!”

“Really? Because you never sneeze this much unless you have a cold.”

Still recovering from his last sneeze, Denki snuffled into his elbow and rolled a look in Hitoshi’s general direction. “How would you know?”

“It..” Hitoshi stalled out, sighing long through his nose as if frustrated, and then threw his gaze out into the trees again. “Just. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, dude, I’mb fine.” While he was a little stuffy, it was nothing some tissues wouldn’t clear up. Denki sniffed again and was pleased when the action didn’t immediately catapult him into another sneeze. “Just had to sneeze so bad. Like, I literally couldn’t think about anything else.”

“Huh.” Hitoshi’s irked expression shifted to contemplative. “That tracks. You wouldn’t take any additional commands, but I thought you’d sneeze right away if I let you go, so.. had to grab you like this and book it once the coast was clear.”

“Damn, seriously?” Denki squeaked. He squirmed, nearly to the point Hitoshi dropped him. This prompted the taller man to gently set him back on the ground. Then Denki began flailing in earnest. “I was just dead weight?! Aw, dude, Hito, I’m so sorry, are you okay-?”

Hitoshi held up a hand. “Stop. Explain to me why the hell you didn’t think to mention this..” He extended his hand to flick the tip of Denki’s nose, undercutting some of his sternness. “.. electricity issue you’ve got.”

Denki rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand, sulking ever so slightly about its rough treatment. His nose had been through a lot tonight, okay? No need to abuse it further. He took his time with his words, scuffing his shoes in the dirt and loitering in hopes of another sneeze overtaking him. His nose still tingled with interest, but nothing strong enough to set something in motion. When it was clear no distraction was forthcoming and Hitoshi didn’t plan on dropping it, Denki mumbled his way through an explanation.

“It’s.. embarrassing.”

“It would have been way more embarrassing to get killed by a bunch of half-baked villains in their own backyard.” Some of that was a joke, but Hitoshi drove it home with his serious voice. “This is part of your Quirk. You can’t hold out on stuff like that.”

“I know!” Denki whined, swiping knuckles under his nose again to itch at it. “I’m sorry. I.. was gonna say something afterward, just..” He casted around for words, still rubbing his nose as he worked through his thoughts. “I wanted to do this mission with you. I got worried mentioning it might end up with me benched.”

“So?” Hitoshi demanded, fiddling around in his utility belt. He produced a clean, cotton handkerchief, which surprised Denki. Dude didn’t seem like the type. “There are other missions.”

Denki took the cloth and fiddled with it, wrinkling his nose to itch at it without touching. “Yeah, but.. not with you.”

Hitoshi let that linger in the air far too long, long enough for Denki’s cheeks to start burning. He didn’t want to know what expression the guy was making, so instead he busied himself with his nose. It still tickled, a mix of sneezy and just plain sensitive. He’d probably be fussing with it on and off for the rest of the night and wake up feeling stuffy tomorrow. If he ran his humidifier on high tonight, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. As he nuzzled his nose into the handkerchief, a lancing tickle caught him off guard.

“..iiHFFFZSSSH’IYAA!”

“Bless you.”

Denki lurked a little glance over at Hitoshi, finding the man with his arms crossed and his expression set to unreadable. With his wild purple hair in the moonlight, he looked otherworldly. Beautiful. Ugh. Denki had it so bad. Sniffling, he cleared his throat.

“Thagks.”

He turned away to tend to his nose with more privacy, cheeks still warm. He’d embarrassed himself enough for tonight, thanks so much. At least he hadn’t compromised the mission enough to warrant aborting. They had what they came for, and thanks to Hitoshi, they’d made it out safely. Denki startled when an arm slung over his shoulders and once again, Hitoshi’s quiet voice gusted by his ear.

“I can’t promise we’ll have the opportunity to work missions together very often,” he said, reasonable and blunt as always. Denki kept the cloth tented over his nose and tried not to let himself noticeably slump. But then Hitoshi added, “So I guess you’ll just have to buy me dinner. Right?”

Denki whipped his head around to face Hitoshi properly, nearly nose to nose despite the handkerchief in the way. Blinking wide-eyed at the man, his stomach twisted pleasantly when Hitoshi smiled. Not his usual grin either, but something soft and warm. Denki wanted to reply with something witty, something to make Hitoshi roll his eyes and laugh. Another sneeze got to him first. He caught his breath, eyelashes fluttering, and crunched down between them to aim for the ground.

“hih-! MMFFSHH’IYA!”

In the end, Hitoshi rolled his eyes and laughed anyway. His arm tightened around Denki’s shoulders. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You could,” Anita replied, gaze never straying from her book, “but if he wakes up to you mother-henning him, he’s going to be pissed.”

“I know,” he sighed, and sat back down on the cushy seat to stare forlornly at the Omicron-shaped pile of blankets through the glass of the balcony doors. “I’m just concerned. He’s been sleeping for ages.”

“He had a long night.”

“He was still feverish when he went to bed.”

“And his fever was down this morning.”

The thermometer read 99°F / 37.2°C when they silently pointed the laser sight at Omicron’s forehead (the only part of him exposed from beneath the sheets) a few hours ago. Elevated, but technically within healthy parameters and much better than the night before. Anita suspected it was the last of the virus exiting his system. 

“I’ve never seen him like that,” Delta muttered, fiddling with his empty coffee mug. “His loss of composure with you on the phone was unexpected, but last night.. last night, he was just so..”

Delta struggled to articulate what Anita could have told him. She’d known Omicron since his first day at the agency, and had seen him through all kinds of illnesses and injuries. He was a notorious handful, but given time the man inevitably crumbled under his own pressure — what lay beneath his prickly defenses was soft, weepy, and sought comfort. It was pure kryptonite for the kind-hearted nurturers of the world. 

Unlucky for Omicron that he’d shown it to Delta, who would (in the most kind-hearted and nurturing way) never let him forget it.

“Well behaved?” Anita finally finished the sentence for him, aiming for tact. “I know what you mean.”

Delta sighed again and braced his elbows to his knees, cradling his head in his hands. “He’s going to give me grey hair.”

Anita sighed back. “He gives everyone grey hair, sir,” she said as she flipped another page of her book. “Still, he’s a professional. You can trust him to know his limits.”

From her periphery she saw Delta eye her dubiously and she couldn’t blame him; on this very assignment he’d neglected to admit to the unintended and compromising side effects of her virus. Well, she’d done what she could to defend his competence. Hopefully he could cobble together the rest of his reputation on his own.

As if summoned by their gossip, a familiar sound drifted to them from the crack in the balcony doors.

“-mmfzsh!”

Muffled by the sheets, but unmistakably the overplayed soundtrack of this mission: Omicron sneezing. If he was sneezing, then he was awake; if he was awake, then unless he was still feeling rotten, he’d be grumpy. Based on her previous experiences, the odds weren’t in their favor. Anita resigned herself to a difficult patient.

“-ehTZSHoo!”

A glance over her shoulder to the room found Omicron with his back to the balcony, bathrobe dipping off one bare shoulder, sitting on the edge of the bed. His head tilted in increments, accompanied by gasps they couldn’t hear, with a helpless, snarling expression they couldn’t see. Or maybe a twitchy smile, as he was prone to nowadays. They all waited as he teetered on the edge of a breath, taunt, before hurling himself over his knees.

“-DZSSCH!..” Wrenching, unrelieved, characteristically harsh for this cold. “..h-..hEH-...EH’BZSSH-!” 

He sniffled wildly, announcing another with an expectant HEH! before his breath whisked away from him uncommitted. Omicron groaned, one of his arms routing to his face. Anita suspected he was bullying his nose with the rough cuff of his bathrobe. The bed creaked as he stood up; both she and Delta quickly turned back around to occupy themselves with the balcony view as shuffling steps carried Omicron further into the room. The bathroom door shut behind him.

During the half hour he spent under steaming hot spray, Anita repeatedly reminded Delta not to immediately smother him and so of course the moment Omicron stepped out on the balcony, hair still damp and nose gleaming pink, the senior agent swooped down on him.

“Agent Omicron!” he crowed in greeting. Anita could see the split-second flash in Omicron’s eyes when he considered diving back into the hotel room to escape, but he was too slow. Delta clapped hands on his shoulders. “The man of the hour! Let me have a look at you. How are you feeling?”

Omicron squinted up at him, as if staring into the sun. “I’m fine, sir.”

To his credit, he did sound better. Congestion weighed down the resonance of his words without impacting his consonants, which indicated inflammation rather than mucus buildup. That boded well for her concerns about a secondary sinus infection. His voice was scratchy, but she put that down to his extracurriculars last night over any complications of his cold.

“Glad to hear it,” came Delta’s warm reply. He scrutinized his junior unabashedly as Omicron stood in an awkward parade rest, averting his eyes and shifting on his feet. “And glad to see it. You look much better than you did last night.”

Predictably, Omicron tensed at the reminder of last night. His jaw tightened. 

“I.. apologize for any unprofessional behavior on my part, sir,” he mumbled, stilted and formal. “I wasn’t.. that is, I didn’t expect the distraction to be so draining and I should have-”

“Omicron.” Delta squeezed his arms, smiling down into Omicron’s eyes with overflowing sympathy. “You have nothing to apologize for. In fact, I am very proud of you for leaning on Dr. Voster and I for support. I know vulnerability is difficult for you, so its significance does not escape me.”

Anita watched Omicron briefly preen from the praise, then get torpedoed by Delta’s ‘vulnerability’ comment. He flushed up to his ears, cheeks glowing as red as his nose when it wrinkled with a scowl. A beat too late he realized his expression and tried to rearrange it into something more appropriately grateful, but Delta only chuckled.

“Come,” he said, turning to nudge Omicron toward the glass-top table awash with a spread of confections and finger-foods they room-serviced earlier. “You can give me your debrief over lunch.”

Anita joined them at the table, treating herself to a helping of pasta salad as Omicron recounted the pertinent details of his reconnaissance last night. He spoke crisply, concisely, efficient and professional as he ever was. As she watched him, however, she noted the occasional glimpses of his lingering cold: breathing covertly through his mouth, clearing his throat occasionally, and most damning, the way he tucked his index finger beneath fluttering nostrils. He seemed to have regained his ability to stave off urges somewhat, which was a good sign. 

When Delta finished sharing the accomplishments of their crypto team and briefly left the table to update HQ on a secure line, Anita shuffled her chair closer to Omicron. He regarded her warily in his periphery.

“How’s your nose doing?”

Omicron sniffled at the reminder, but wasn’t immediately overtaken by that preceding, faraway look. Anita took this as a positive sign, and was further reassured to hear him say, “It still tickles, but not nearly as badly as before.”

She slipped her otoscope from the pocket of her slacks, to his glaring dismay. “Let me see.”

“No!” he squawked, shoulders up to his ears. “I’m eating. Leave me alone.”

“Come on, it’ll only take a second.” She moved toward him, and he leaned away. When she tried again, she met the same resistance. It was like trying to feed a child a spoonful of peas. “Seriously, O?”

Omicron snatched up his salad and stood, making his escape with a snide utterance, “I’ve had enough of you meddling with my nose, thanks so much- mmff!” 

He bumped chest first into an unmovable, smiling Delta standing sentry at the balcony threshold, holding the agency STU as he waited for the line to connect. Thus Omicron was summarily frog-marched back to the table, quietly fuming, and subjected to Anita’s ‘manhandling’ as he would put it.

 She coaxed him to lift his chin as she first checked his glands, then used her otoscope for a peek up his nose. What she saw didn’t surprise her. His membranes were swollen and rashed red with reactivity, the pure definition of irritation. She suspected he’d be recovering from his symptoms for the rest of the week. There was a faint, anxious voice at the back of her mind imploring her to keep an eye on him. Given the unpredictable results of the spray, he might face lingering side effects. A stone sunk in her stomach at the thought.

“Still inflamed,” she confirmed as she leaned away, “but that should reduce by the weekend. I’d like to give you another exam on Monday to make sure you’re over it.”

Omicron scrubbed a finger beneath his nose, lingering against his septum as his eyes narrowed. “You’re making too much of it.”

“Well, apparently I didn’t make enough of it at the start, so excuse me for being thorough.” 

Anita tried not to kick herself for not grounding Omicron after that first powerful sneezing spell the day after his infection. Omicron would get his commendation, Anita got valuable data for her continued bio studies, and neither of them would get more than a slap on the wrist for their carelessness. Still, as she watched Omicron blink in irritation and then in distraction, saw his nostrils flutter against the edge of his finger, heard his breath snag, Anita couldn’t help but feel responsible for it.

He caught her looking at him, sparing her a withering glare as his eyes rolled closed. Cutting his losses with the finger strategy, he instead snatched up a napkin off the table. The urge overwhelmed him before he could use it.

“hck’GIZSShu-!”

His eyelids raised to half-mast, lips still parted as his nostrils pulsed subtly with want of another. It was slow to come, and Anita could only imagine the havoc unfolding in the depths of Omicron’s irritated nose. He shut his eyes to concentrate, the fitful twitches of his nostrils growing more pronounced as he dragged in a watery snuffle to egg it on. His eyebrows pinched together, perhaps in response to what tickled him. Anita thought he might lose it again when suddenly his chest lifted-

“hHI’GZZSSHoo!” Omicron pitched forward into his napkin, tilting his head back after for another cutting gasp, “-hhhH!..KZSSHHOO!-uhghh..”

Omicron braced an elbow on the table’s edge as he massaged his nose through the fabric; an air of tired relief hung around him as he muddled through the clean-up. He blew himself dry, itched his nostrils into submission, and then slumped back in his chair. 

“.. Bless you,” Anita offered. 

Omicron took one look at her and scoffed. “Don’t tell mbe you actually feel guilty about this.”

Anita routed her attention to her meal, pushing food around on her plate. She hadn’t said it in so many words, between all the teasing barbs and their collective focus on the mission, but.. “I’m allowed.”

Silence fell between them, broken only by the distant sound of crashing waves. Soft wasn’t really their dynamic, not outside of specific circumstances, so it was a surprise to feel Omicron’s hand rest on top of her own. He stilled her fidgeting, her fork clattering onto her plate when she braved eye contact. He was as serious as he ever was, dark eyes looking brighter in the sunlight before he slanted her a smile. It was a rare expression for him; not entirely gentle but genuine, seldom worn unless he was faking it.

“I’d do it all again, just like this,” he told her. “No regrets.”

“If I’d given you the appropriate dose, you wouldn’t have suffered so much,” she replied quietly.

He snorted, the sound bottled up in his throat from the lingering congestion. His smile grew. “The dose was fine. I’b ndot sure I would’ve endticed Josaline without it. And trust mbe, the only ‘sufferi’g’ I experienced was Delta’s incessant blessings.”

Anita would never admit it because it just wasn’t their style, but his assurances did soothe that fretting voice inside her. Just a little bit. They shared in this soft moment, dragging it out until she felt the self-conscious twitch of Omicron’s fingers over hers and watched him avert his gaze.

Refusing to let him be the first to break the spell, Anita slipped her hand from beneath his own to raise her palm to his forehead, affecting a look of concern. “Are you sure you’re feeling better? You’re being so sweet.”

Omicron’s smile sharpened to a smirk before he dropped it entirely, leaning away from her touch and tucking back into his lunch. “Yes, mby mistake. You’re the worst doctor I’ve ever mbet and I’b suing for mbalpractice.”

“Sorry, what was that? Balpractice?”

Making fun of his stuffy voice was a little below the belt, and Omicron didn’t pull his punches either. He flicked his fork and nailed her in the cheek with a cherry tomato. It got salad dressing on her nice, airy blouse so she snatched up a bread roll with the intention of force feeding it to him when Delta swept back onto the balcony.

“I have great news!” he announced, clapping his hands together and smiling at the two of them. Anita rerouted the roll to her own mouth and ignored Omicron’s smugness. Delta continued, “Headquarters is so pleased with our progress that they’re giving us the rest of the week off. Our resort stay has been extended to the weekend!”

Anita hadn’t had a proper vacation in months, if not over a year, and they could do much worse than an all-star tropical resort. Before she let her excitement get away from her, she clarified, “All expenses paid?”

“Indeed!” chirped Delta.

Omicron was suspicious, as always, and raised an eyebrow over his salad. “.. That’s ndo smball expense. They’re really that happy about the case? It’s ndot like we caught the targets red-handed.”

“No, but we made significant strides for intelligence on this matter,” replied Delta, and then after a moment enduring Omicron’s stare, he sheepishly added, “and I did tell them you needed more time to recover.”

Omicron stood from the table, affronted. “I do ndot!”

Anita tugged him back down to his seat, hissing at him. “If it gets us paid time off at a resort, O, you absolutely do.”

“I’mb the picture of health!” he insisted, glaring between his team members. Anita watched his nostrils flare and he rushed his finger beneath them. He fixed his appeal on Delta, and belatedly remembered to watch his tone. “Sir, I implore you, please indform HQ I’mb ready for mby ndext assignmbent.”

“Omicron,” tutted Delta, hands on his hips. “You need rest. Not only to physically recover, but to take care of your spirit. Emotional wellbeing is just as important. There is more to life than your work. Take this opportunity to relax.”

“But, s-hhir-”

“I won’t repeat myself, agent.”

Caught between his ire and insubordination, Omicron struggled to find an opening. His nose thwarted him before he could achieve any real progress. Once again, his finger trick failed him and he was forced to jerk away from the table with a ticklish,

“-iihTSSHu!”

“Bless you,” said Delta.

Omicron fought to open his eyes, a wet glare just barely out of his reach, before flinching hard enough to rattle his chair. “-iyehDZZSSHoo!”

Delta winced. “Ooh, bless you.”

“hh-..hH’DSSsh!” 

“Bless you!”

“St-hh..” Omicron couldn’t open his eyes, and steadying his voice wasn’t working so well for him either. “Plhheease.. h-HEH!..ugh, please stop siHH!” He grimaced, tickled beyond speech, and trembled through another sneeze. “HIDZZSShoo!”

“Bless you, Omicron,” Delta said, oblivious and aching with sympathy. “I’m sure the sneezing will stop soon. Here, let me get you some tissues, one moment.”

Anita left the two of them to it, Omicron’s helpless sneezing and Delta’s effusive attempts to assist him fading to the background as she cracked open the resort guidebook to plan her vacation itinerary.

✨ THE END ✨

Isn’t it tacky to discuss the parameters of a threesome here?, Omicron thought with an arched brow. He lifted a handkerchief (lended to him by Delta) to dab beneath his nostrils. They’d tried to apply vaseline, then concealer, to ease some of its obnoxious color; of course he’d rubbed it all away minutes after application, teased to distraction by the smell and sensation. Even if Josaline and her husband would appreciate the abysmal state of his nose, he didn’t want to look like a sick, snivelling mess over dinner. He sighed to himself, resigned. Even an ounce of discretion is too much to hope for.

A stop by the host’s podium led to a winding walk through the venue that ended at a spot at the back. The table, he noticed, was a little larger than the rest to accommodate an extra person. It sat against a window for privacy, lit dramatically by the sunset sky and sparkling lamps. A man and a woman sat there — one of them was familiar.

“Nick!” greeted Josaline, in that dark velvet voice of hers. 

She rose from her seat with flowing grace, hugged by a glittering black gown, and even Omicron wasn’t immune to the way her hair spilled over her bare shoulders. Her lips were brighter tonight, a classic red, and they brought out the brilliance of her smile. She met him before he reached the table to take his cheeks in her hands and kiss them one after the other. Her smile fell to a pout.

“Ohh, sweetheart, you feel a little warm,” she said. Anita got his temperature down with reducers, but it had yet to break entirely. Josaline’s thumbs rubbed the apples of his cheeks, and just as he predicted, drank in the burgundy hue of his nose. He was uncertain how she’d feel about a fever, so he funneled the anxiety into his performance.

“Yeah, I’b-.. hkkrm!” He turned away to clear his throat when his voice cracked, then slanted a sheepish smile. “I’mb, uh.. ndot at my best. But I didn’d have your ndumber and wasn’t sure if you’d wandt to cancel, and I did really wandt to see you and mbeet your husband- uh-.. so-”

She silenced him with a peck on the lips; her eyes glittered in the lamplight. “It’s alright. We don’t mind as long as you’re feeling well enough to be here. Thank you for coming.”

For someone who was apparently suspicious of Nicolas Foster, Josaline seemed calm and pleased to see him. It set Omicron on edge. Did she have an alternative plan up her sleeve that gave her confidence? Did she simply not care about the risks of spending an evening with someone who might be trying to apprehend her? He didn’t let anything show on his face as she led him to the table, but nearly faltered when he saw who he was about to meet.

“Nicolas, let me introduce you to my husband,” said Josaline, gesturing. “This is Cristoph.”

Cristoph Meyer. Josaline’s nonconcern over his cover made much more sense. 

Like her, Cristoph was powerful, well-connected, and capable of squashing any slapdash probing from law enforcement. Unlike her, he was suspected of operating one of the most prolific dark web identity rackets in the world. Josaline had the business and brains, but Cristoph had the means. The fact they were together at all was incriminating, but with their combined clout across facets of society and criminal underworld, it practically guaranteed them immunity from investigation.

It was now imperative that their hack tonight was a success, or else the agency wouldn’t have enough evidence to touch these two with a one-hundred foot pole.

Cristoph stood from his chair, hand extended, with a perfectly polite greeting, “Nicolas. I have heard so much about you.”

He matched his wife in height, her platform heels notwithstanding. Fair hair parted to the side, tidy salt and peppered beard, browline glasses with a tweed suit that evoked a professorial style at odds with the criminal Omicron knew him to be. A little bulky in the torso, thinner in the legs, silhouetted like a martini compared to Josaline’s hurricane glass curves. Together, they defined elegance. Omicron couldn’t help but feel embarrassingly outmatched in his slightly wrinkled suit, clutching a rapidly dampening handkerchief, with a nose glowing brighter than any light in this restaurant.

“Probably mbore thand I’ve heard about you,” he jested. There was an awkward beat where Cristoph’s offer for a handshake remained unmet. “I, uh.. sorry, I don’d kndow if I should shake hands while I’b still sdiffling all over the place..”

Considering what they were going to do tonight, Nicolas’ abundance of caution was silly, if a little charming. The crinkles around Cristoph’s eyes told him so.

“Nonsense,” he said, and when Nicolas finally took his hand, Cristoph cradled it with both of his own. “If it’s not too forward of me to say, I wouldn’t mind catching a cold from a man as lovely as you.”

Nicolas flushed, gaping for words, before finally settling on, “Uh! Well- uh, that’s.. thagnks, that’s a relief!”

Josaline smiled at the two of them, the cat who got the canary, before shepherding Nicolas toward the empty seat. He caught a glimpse of her loaded glance at Cristoph, a smoldering exchange, before she swept to her own chair. And naturally, as soon as they all got settled and ready to chat, Omicron’s needy nose demanded attention. Now you want to sneeze? he griped, tucking the edge of his handkerchief beneath his nostrils as they indulged in an indolent flare.

It baited him all afternoon, bringing him to the breathless verge of release and then dancing away just before he could finish. In spite of this, he stayed civil. He didn’t meddle, didn’t try to force relief. He heeded his nose meticulously, minding it’s every demand, no matter how much it wanted to mock him. He did all this with the hope it would behave during dinner.

I’m an idiot, he thought ruefully as the tickle struck its baton on a music stand, commanding a collective ripple of sensation through his nose. It snagged his breath, beat by beat, hitch by hitch, as he pressed the handkerchief more securely over his nose and mouth. Of course it’s going to do whatever the hell it wants.

“..h-h-H..-ih’MFZSSh’u!” One was never enough anymore. And thus, an encore. “..hd’MMPHZzsh!” Before he could be grateful for their manageable size, a ticklish crescendo ripped through him and he gasped helplessly, deeply, to bowl over his lap with a much louder, “-eEH’MBFZSSH!”

At a nearby table, a startled fork clinked against a plate. Ambient conversation paused and cautiously continued. Somehow it didn’t occur to Omicron until this moment how clamorous his sneezing would be in a muted space. When he finally opened his eyes, he found two hungry pairs staring back at him from over the table. 

Josaline spoke first, the words dripping from her lips. “Bless, Nicolas.”

“Mbbgh,” he replied eloquently, before leaning away from the table to blow his nose as quietly as he possibly could. Unfortunately this did next to nothing and he was left no choice but to sniffle most of it back into his sinuses. 

Wrong move. Moisture shifted against alert membranes, and he felt the ramifications all through his nose. The tickle snagged his breath, tugging in, in, in — “.. h-.. hh.. hHT-!” and then it vanished as quickly as it came. In its wake was that awful, unrelieved prickling sensation, lingering like an afterimage. 

He sat back up with dewy eyes and half a smile. “Ugh, sorry about thad.” He waved irritably at his face, the red rosy center of it, and tried to make it a joke. “Tricked mbe.”

Josaline laced her hands and rested her chin there, elbows on the table, shadows on her face from flickering candlelight. “Speaking of tricks, before this goes any further there’s something we’d like to get out into the open..”

“We’re aware you are not who you say you are,” Cristoph continued. Despite his directness, he spoke like he might speak of the weather. “Is it safe to assume you came to this resort because of us?”

Omicron wondered if they might take this route. It was certainly the simplest. He’d been prepared to play mind games all night, adding layer upon layer to his cover as the two of them tried to outwit him into revealing something. Assignments like those got complicated fast. Quiet jazz filled the seconds of silence as Omicron analyzed his options and the likelihoods of their best outcomes. In the span of one congested breath, he made his decision. 

“Ahh, you got mbe,” he said, with a wincing smile and meek rub beneath his nose. “I kdnew Ms. Jewel would be here, but ndot you.” He looked toward Cristoph. “I’mb shocked you let mbe mbeet you, under the circumstances.”

The man chuckled as he picked up a slice of bread from the table’s communal basket, scooting a plate of olive oil closer to swab it in. “I knew the risks, but Josaline insisted. She claims you’re quite special.”

“And you’re a smart man, Nicolas,” she added, and then bent over the table to give him a playful tap on the nose. “I’m sure you can see that between us, you have your work cut out for you.”

He didn’t have to exaggerate the effect of her touch. With his nose on a hair trigger, just the reminder it was there was enough to stir the tickle. Omicron blinked against it, bewitched, as it fluffed up like a startled animal. Knuckling his septum didn’t quite dispel the feeling.

“Youhh’ve g-..” Here he paused, nostrils trembling wide, before they reluctantly relaxed again. He sniffed hard, and the sound was hopelessly stunted. “... ndgh, got mbe there too.”

Cristoph watched them as he took a bite of his bread, savoring it before he swallowed. “I will be candid, so please take me at my word.” He fetched the napkin from his lap to wipe the crumbs and oil off his fingers. 

“We do not care who you work for, or why you came to this resort. What we do care about is having an enchanting evening with you. Would you be open to setting all other motives aside for the sake of a wonderful time?”

Interesting, Omicron mused. He digested the honesty in their expressions. It would be a relief to avoid juggling advanced psychological warfare with a fuzzy head and nose. Under his new directive he wasn’t expected to extract an ounce of information — he only had to keep them occupied and ensure they didn’t catch on. Easy enough, but agreeing too quickly would attract suspicion. 

Nicolas lowered his eyes with a stuffy chuckle, fidgeting with the edge of his bundled silverware. “I, uh.. I don’d thigk that’ll go over well ond mby end.”

“You’ll be returning to your employers empty-handed either way,” Josaline said. He jumped when he felt her foot slide up the side of his leg. “Why not go with a good memory?”

He pretended to give it some thought, but the furrow in his brow deepened when his sinuses twinged. They’d once again grown intolerant of his galvanizing cold. Omicron wrinkled his nose and got his hand halfway to his face when his lungs seized. The sneeze snapped his head down, aimed uncovered at the table and entirely unmuffled.

“-iihPZSSHuu-!..oh, HH-!” He couldn’t even convey his surprise, it came over him so fast. It felt like the inside of his nose was squirming, desperate to get away from the unyielding sensation of something tickling it. “-ht’TZSsh!.. huh.. HD’IZZSshoo!”

He caught the next two against his wrist, uncertain of where his handkerchief was and too sneeze-brained to open his eyes and find it. The usual size wasn’t cutting it, so it was ‘go big or go home’ time. Soft sounds snuck out of him, feeble with desire, each a little higher pitched than the last.

“..uh.. huh... iihh-!”

He could feel it mounting, feel his nose throbbing with want of it, feel the way his body waited for the tickle to overwhelm him completely before he finally jolted into the cup of his hands.

“HIDJZZSSHOO!!-ohhh..” 

That got it. Omicron snuffled muzzily in the tingling aftermath. A few wet blinks cleared his vision, and there was Cristoph holding out not Delta’s weatherbeaten handkerchief, but his own. It was covered with fleur-de-lis, monogrammed with his initials. Omicron took it with a hushed thanks and wasted no time treating himself to a long, gurgling blow. The reproachful stares of other patrons, including some waitstaff, seared into him. Even if this was all for the mission, it was still fucking embarrassing. Omicron funneled his mortification back into Nicolas.

“Jeez, sorry about that,” he huffed under his breath, clutching the patterned handkerchief in both hands. His cheeks burned. “They snuck up on me.”

A soft touch beneath his chin coaxed his gaze to Josaline. Her voice was liquid silk, pouring over him just like the tresses of her hair when they’d kissed behind her sunhat. “Baby, there’s no need to be embarrassed.”

He lurked a glance toward a pair of middle-aged women a few tables over that were whispering and glaring in his direction. “... but this is such a classy place, and the other people who-”

“Fuck them,” Cristoph said bluntly, and moved his chair to block the ladies from view. Then he gave Nicolas a disarming smile. “You’re here for us.”

So he was, and dinner proceeded to that end.

Josaline and Cristoph were in no hurry. The group split appetizers, sampling one of every dish, before ordering a family-style main course with the intent to share plates. His cold and mild fever wore him down over time; at their encouragement, he surrendered to his symptoms and let himself be as noisy as he needed to. The fact he wasn’t actually contagious eased his guilt, but not his self-consciousness. His only solace was that in dining with two very powerful people, no one dared approach the table to complain about him. 

Conversation revolved around boundaries, expectations, safe words, and preferences. It was obvious by the way they talked that the couple enjoyed this sort of thing — planning an erotic evening together to take a third person apart. It also convinced Omicron that despite their rampant cybercrimes against the public, they were exemplary and experienced practitioners. That dispelled any lingering doubt he had about tonight, and by the time they got to dessert, the three of them had cultivated a rapport.

Omicron was blinking sleepily at the elegant menu lettering, mulling over the merits of ordering gelato on the criminals’ dime, when Cristoph brushed elbows with him. He glanced up to find the man closer than he expected, wearing a wolfish smirk.

“So, Josaline tells me you have a unique talent, but I do not believe her,” he said, drinking in Nicolas’ delicate features before his gaze stopped squarely on his nose. It stood out in crimson contrast to the rest of his face and twitched under the scrutiny. “I would like to try it for myself.”

It took a few seconds for the implications of that to break through Omicron’s fever haze, but once it did, his gut swooped. He wants to make me sneeze in front of this entire restaurant.

“Here..?” he asked, eyes darting to other tables. “Now?”

Josaline clucked her tongue at her husband with a smack to his arm. “Cris, you’re incorrigible.”

Recollections of yesterday’s poolside humiliation flashed through his mind. No doubt this ensuing fit would be as bad or worse. Omicron had carefully avoided any ‘suggestive’ mental images leading up to the date to stay clear-headed; walking into this restaurant with half a boner would have been foolish.

“Not if you’re uncomfortable, of course,” Cristoph assured him, looking between his wife and their shared paramour. Omicron could tell he was genuine when he added, “I won’t pressure you.”

Omicron was unprepared yesterday when he stumbled nose-first into a lucky outcome at the pool, but tonight was different. He knew what he was here to do, what the situation required of him, and he knew he wasn’t alone; Delta and Dr. Voster were working hard behind the scenes to support him. They all had their part to play.

It’s showtime, he thought, and sniffled with a shy little smile. His nostrils flared, just once. He’s going to regret asking for this before we get to the room.

“Actually..” Nicolas lifted a finger to his nose and gave it a priming rub, back and forth beneath his chapped septum. His nostrils pulsed with an unsteady warning. “I wouldn’d mbind. Mbight give mbe someb relief.”

That wasn’t a lie in the slightest. Both of them saw first hand how tireless the torture really was. Even right this second Omicron could feel faint, idle irritation like a channel stuck on permanent static. It would make him sneeze eventually, whether he had help or not. Cristoph gave the room a cursory scan, probably assessing the likelihood of a waiter walking up on them.

“You will let me know if you’d like me to stop?” 

“Of course,” Nicolas replied. A hand grazed his knee and he found Josaline, doe-eyed, close on his other side. Her eyes asked the same question, to which he nodded in reply.

The two shared a look, and their smiles darkened. Nicolas swallowed. 

“From the way she described it, you can be influenced by psychosomatic suggestions, yes?” Cristoph murmured, his voice accompanied by the underlay of soft jazz. “Let me see now..”

He glanced around for inspiration and found it on the table with a sound of delight. Omicron followed his gaze: a small, lit candle.

“I suppose it might feel like this tiny flame,” he began. “Glowing deep in your nose. An urge in its infancy. Too weak to give you relief, but too strong to snuff out. So subtle you aren’t even sure it’s there.”

The image filled his mind and the tickle took form — a painless speck of light hovering in his sinuses. It was a less tangible feeling than usual, ghostly and almost as if he’d imagined it. Omicron wrinkled his nose with a stunted sniff, blinking repeatedly.

“Ah, yes. It tickles a little doesn’t it?” Cristoph continued. “Negligible at first, just an annoyance on your periphery. But given time, even something this small takes its toll.”

Omicron sniffled again and again, then tried to lift his hand to rub the edge off his itch. Josaline caught him smoothly, twining her fingers with his as her other hand glided over his thigh. Without relief, his expression pinched. Cristoph tsked at him.

“Ohh, poor boy. When you sniffle it only goads the flame. Makes it flicker. Makes it bigger.” 

His words sunk into Omicron, luring him down into a trance until it’s all he could hear, think, or feel. With each breath the light grew, guttering against nerves worn raw by ceaseless, maddening stimulation. They seemed to recoil from the tickle when it flared, futile as it was — soon there would be no avoiding it. Each time he blinked, his eyes were slower to open again.

“Mm, it looks like that adorable nose of yours is getting upset. Your nostrils are twitching. They’re so red and sore that I can only imagine what the inside looks like.”

The observations would have flustered Omicron if he’d been in a mind to process it. As it was, all he could focus on was the swelling flame of this tickle. It lulled his eyes shut, parted his lips, tilted his brows in hope as it spread like molasses wildfire. Ponderous. Intensifying. Each time the tickle wavered, licking against an ever increasing surface area, he felt a similar, encroaching ache of pleasure ooze through his gut.

Josaline’s hand crept over the tent in his pants. He flinched, and a breathy moan tumbled out of him.

“You like this,” purred Crisoph, barely a whisper as his words melted through Omicron like softening butter. “And it will feel so good to let go, won’t it? You are in luck because that tickle isn’t going anywhere. It just grows and grows.”

Cristoph had no idea how true that was. Ever since Anita sprayed this cold up his nose, he’d lived on the edge of a sneeze. When he finally recovered, he wouldn’t miss the permanent little niggle that stirred his sinuses to anarchy. He would, however, miss the way the tingle in his nose echoed in his groin. Omicron hitched in a knife’s-edge breath, and let it go on a soft, stuffy sigh.

“Tell me how it feels,” the voice commanded. Omicron bit his lip as pressure increased against his hardening erection in one long, continuous line down the shaft. He strived to comply. 

“..feels..h-hhh-..” A shivering inhale preceded a shuddering exhale, punctuated with a sniffle. “..huhh.. like mby dose iihss..h-hH!..hoo, whed I breathe, every t.. t-hhime it’s ti.. it’s t…HHH!” A pause, then the rest delivered on a defeated breath as he slumped against his chair. “-huhhhhit’s ticklig mbe..”

Josaline’s hand inched down his cock. Omicron, eyes cinched closed, nostrils flaring so hard he could feel them stretch, tried to arch into the touch. An iron grip pressed his thighs firmly to the chair.

“That tickle is written into every line on your face.” Fingers found the bridge of his nose and traced down to the twitching tip. “Agony.” The lightest touch circled the diameter of each spasming nare. “And ecstasy.”

A twinge raced down Omicron’s nasal cavity. A tear squeezed through his lashes. Oh, it was close. He could feel the urge becoming critical, nerves stimulated to a burning frenzy.

“.. Nicolas, I can see that it’s making you want to..”

Omicron heaved in a preparatory hitch and lost it in a frustrated groan. “-hUH-!..ngghh..”

“.. that you need to..”

Another surge of tickling coated his membranes like a hot, prickling blanket. He filled - “h-hhHH!” - and emptied - “..HUHhhh..” - his chest with another heaving breath.

“.. that undoubtedly you’re going to..”

The depth of his gasp came as a surprise, rolling through him as an entire body sensation that began in his nose and ended in his dick. When his lungs bottomed out and didn’t empty, the corners of his mouth tugged with the hint of a smile.

“-hhHHHHH..”

“Sneeze.”

“-EEHHDZZSSSCHYOOO-!!”

It crashed out of him like a calamity, uncovered and inexcusably loud. Omicron didn’t care. Felt so fucking good to sneeze that he couldn’t spare a thought for anything but the exquisite ache at his core. It would have taken his breath away, if the next sneeze hadn’t already.

“-HIH’YIIZSSSHHOOO-!!”

There was a small percentage of his brain power devoted to public decency, and it was this shred of awareness that kept him from moaning aloud as a powerful burst of arousal shot through him. Like a boomerang, what little relief the sneeze granted him came winging right back in a rush of furious, nose scrunching tickles. 

“HEH-.. HEHSSSHUHhh-!!”

Omicron jerked his head down, sneezing clumsily over his lap, and clenched his thighs together when his dick twitched in reply. He gritted his teeth against any noises trying to escape, fastening his hands to the bottom of his chair to ride it out because it.. it-

“-H’JZZSSSCHhh!uhh..” Fuck it just kept coming. He sniffled wildly, his nose streaming, and flinched with an itch that billowed up from his nostrils to his sinuses. Omicron threw himself forward. “-BZZSSSHOO!.. hhP’BZSSHYOO!!..” 

Each one caused him to crunch in his seat, hunching lower and lower toward the table, until someone pressed a hand to his sternum to push him upright. Omicron couldn’t even open his eyes to see who it was. His chest pressed into their touch with staggering hitches that slammed into a herculean sneeze.

“..iih-hhH-HHH-HD’DIHZZSSSCH!-hahh!” 

He couldn’t quite muscle down the moaning punch of pleasure. While not very loud, it sent ice down Omicron’s spine and he whisked a fist beneath wet, widespread nostrils. His other hand scrabbled blindly on the tablecloth for any shred of fabric he could utilize. In vain, he tried to speak.

“-hhah..” He pressed the edge of his hand harder to his septum as the pressure swelled. “..hhhangk.. KIZSSCH!... hH’KZZSSCH’UH!” 

The dismay at drenching his hand was outweighed by the savory zap through his veins. His erection ached for friction, and Omicron couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad thing that Josaline had stopped stroking him. He snorted, or rather tried to, but was met with a cemented clog. The strain made him cough, and then in a haze of dread, start to sneeze. It filled the spaces the congestion couldn’t, throbbing with a tickle so urgent he couldn’t have fought it off at gunpoint.

“-oh shihH-.. hH-H’PPZSSSCHH’IYA!”

It was a disaster of a sneeze, with consequences that left him in dire need of a tissue. Someone gently pried his fist from his face and cupped something crisp and fresh over his nose — a promise of relief. He didn’t think about it; he blew his nose immediately and as thoroughly as possible.

It took four big breaths before he ran dry, and a singular, jolting “-ihg’KSSHU!” that added insult to injury. Only then, in the panting aftermath, did it register to Omicron what he’d done. He froze.

Oh god, he thought, mortified. The fire was gone from his nose, now dwelling in his cheeks, neck, and ears. I just blew my nose into somebody else’s hand. 

He forced himself into a teary squint to assess the damage. Cristoph was gone, his seat vacant. The restaurant was dead silent. Omicron did himself a favor and kept his head down, absurdly grateful his back was to the room. A rustle of cloth against his nostrils caught him off guard.

“Bless you, Nick,” sighed Josaline. The sultry tilt to her tone reassured Omicron a tiny bit.

She was still beside him, gently tending to his nose with an unused edge of what he realized was yet another new handkerchief. The idea the couple brought extras for him was almost as embarrassing as his sneezing fit. He let her do it, still numb, before managing a croaky whisper.

“I-.. jeez, Josaline, I’m-”

“I hope what you are about to say is not ‘sorry,’ darling,” she whispered back, giving his nostrils a careful upsweep with the handkerchief. He scrunched his expression when it stung and she tutted in sympathy. “I enjoy this, just as I have enjoyed every moment of this evening thus far.”

“But..” Omicron couldn’t bring himself to look behind him, even as the ambience of the restaurant gradually resumed. “Is Cristoph… did I upset him?”

“Not at all,” she assured. Her warm smile verged toward wicked. “He’s just very eager to pay the check.”

Omicron sat there mulling it over, staring sightlessly at the open dessert menu laying forgotten on his plate. His mind was sluggish with fever, his heart still hammering from the humiliation of causing such a ruckus. Ludicrously resilient, his dick remained erect. And somehow, after all that, his nose still had the audacity to tickle. It came over him swiftly — a couple blinks, a flare of his nostrils, a quiet huffing inhale. Then-

“..ih-TSSHuh!” In spite of its size, he still shook in place. Josaline pressed close to breathe a blessing against his temple. Her teeth found his earlobe after that, a sharp enough sensation that it banished the nebulous itch of another waiting sneeze.

She looped her arm around his, tugging him up from his seat onto unsteady feet. “Come along.”

He felt like he was three steps behind her when he asked, “What about dessert?”

“Oh, darling,” she chuckled, and ducked in to nuzzle her nose to his. “We’re getting it to go.”

+ 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 +

As I suspected, Omicron mused as he felt a warm, slick digit tease his rim. I’m the dessert.

The trip back to the couple’s top-floor suite was a steamy blur smeared with wet lips, wandering hands, and an unsuspecting tourist who had the misfortune of waiting for the elevator when the doors opened. After stumbling into the suite, Josaline unzipped her dress to unveil stark lines of lingerie filigreed over her skin, and while still wearing her T-strap peep-toe platforms, disrobed Nicolas like she was unwrapping a gift.

Cristoph wasn’t far behind, striding into the room with an air of impatience that dissipated once he joined them on the bed. It didn’t take long for the evening’s plan to unfold. He allowed them to arrange him as they wanted, pliant in their arms, amenable to their requests, a little shivery when his bare skin touched silken sheets.

The finger breached him, and Omicron knew for certain now that his symptom relievers were wearing off. Fevers made him sensitive; even that small intrusion was seismic, yanking a whimper from him before he could stop it.

Cristoph paused. “Is this okay?”

They checked on him often, and while the vigilance was reassuring, Omicron had to repress his reflexive annoyance. He wasn’t a particularly amorous person, but he was very competent in bed. He approached it with the same gravity as he would with any other aspect of his job, and it irked him that he wasn’t capable of his best performance tonight. As a result, they were treating him with the delicacy of spun sugar glass. 

This is what I get for roleplaying a persona with virgin energy, Omicron sourly deduced. Not to mention I look like a stiff breeze could knock me over. Stupid, debilitating, super virus from hell.

Nicolas nodded where he lay belly down with his head resting on Josaline’s pillowy chest, snuffling as quietly as he could. “Y-Yeah, just surprised mbe. Didn’t hurt.”

It took a moment for the man to continue, long enough that Omicron nearly reached back there to help him along. His erection from dinner had yet to fade, as constant as the itch in his nose. Between Cristoph’s glacial-pace prepping, Josaline’s occasional arching pressure against his crotch, and his intermittent, uncontrollable sneezing, it was no wonder. Speaking of which..

He dragged in a gurgling sniffle, one that vibrated enticingly against pleading nerves, and his eyelids fluttered closed. As best he could, he used his elbows for leverage and whipped his head to one side. “..H!heh..h’DZSSHuh!” 

By Josaline’s mandate, Nicolas wasn’t allowed anything for his nose — no tissues, no handkerchiefs, no hands. When he’d stammered out the question of what he was supposed to do if he needed one of those things, she’d bestowed on him a smile worthy of an heiress and said she was confident he’d ‘figure it out.’ What he figured out was that she was goading him into sneezing on her and that he was far too embarrassed to do so. He kept his head turned away as his breath jagged again.

“..iyeh-.. iih’KIHSSH’u!” 

Rather than punish him with a single, prodigious sneeze, the tickle strung him along with several smaller ones. It reminded him of a disgruntled customer ringing a reception desk bell deep in his nose; they waited just long enough to give the illusion that they’d given up before.. DING! 

He felt its call keenly, a request for service that he was helpless to deny. Omicron aimed for the blankets - “het’TEHZSHiew!!-mmgg..” - and trembled in the tingling aftermath. 

In lieu of a blessing, Josaline caressed Omicron’s flushed cheek. Each time he sneezed his muscles clenched, and it wasn’t doing Cristoph any favors as he worked on loosening Nicolas up for a second finger. It was an absolute miracle the two of them found this arousing because Omicron felt like a limp rag for all that he was contributing to the process. He should probably make an effort here.

Snuffling up the aftermath of his last sneeze, he shifted his knees to push against Cristoph’s intrusion. The man’s hands were thick, wide-knuckled, and long. Perfect for fingering, even if he was being incredibly slow about it. At the risk of slipping his cover, Omicron cast aside the shrinking violet act to insist, “I can take adother.”

“Oh, can you?” mused Crisoph. He pumped his finger in and out, inch by agonizing inch. “Care to ask nicely?”

So, he was being slow on purpose. And now he wanted the magic word? It was a testament to Omicron’s exemplary professionalism that Nicolas was able to muster a polite reply. “.. Mbay I have adother? Please?”

After a hum of approval, another slippery finger entered him — a split-second icy burn that heated into gut-clenching delight. A stuffy sigh fell from his lips, gusting across Josaline’s chest as she stroked her thumb up the bridge of his nose. Her voice was liquid gold when she purred in his ear. 

“What a good boy.”

Pressed prone against her thighs, his dick twitched. Hard. Fuck. 

She grinned and dipped to kiss him, soft and sweet, teasing out congested sighs that she muffled with her tongue. He lost himself to her, and soon two fingers became three. He snuffled clumsily when he felt the stretch, panting against her lips as he rolled his pelvis for friction. Then Cristoph crooked them to graze the spot that struck sparks behind Omicron’s eyelids. He moaned into Josaline’s mouth. “MMBgghh-!” 

“There we go,” Cristoph growled behind him. He arranged his fingers and presssssssed. “How does that feel, beautiful?”

Hopefully the fact Omicron couldn’t formulate a reply spoke for itself. All he could do was whimper and squirm against Josaline, kiss her senseless, and chase his pleasure with every rock of his hips. Momentum mounted, heat accumulated, his thoughts quieted to nothing but more, more, more. 

And deep in his nose, the bell rang. 

Omicron snapped his eyes open just in time to close them again. It overwhelmed him instantly — a singular, ticklish sweep down the length of his nasal cavity. Nostrils widening, jaw dropping, he only had time to rip away from her lips and jerk his chin down. 

“-eh’GZISSSHoo!”

It was just the one, but that was plenty.

Warm aerosol misted her bare chest. Cristoph’s fingers pulled away. Josaline gasped. Any pleasure he felt from the act shriveled when panic seized him. Before he could gather himself for a profuse apology, she had him by the hair. Kissed the shame from his lips. Fetched a tissue from a box waiting on the nightstand. She wiped his nose for him, then commanded him to blow. He didn’t dare defy her. 

After that he found himself face first in the valley of her long, smooth legs. Josaline snaked a hand down her waist to unhook the side of her thong and peel it away. Her vulva, like the rest of her, was groomed with exacting precision. The dark curls were trimmed to frame her glistening lips, swollen and open to him like a flower. She didn’t need to explain what she wanted. 

Obediently he lowered his head, guided by her hand, and glanced up at her through his lashes when he nibbled the inside of her thigh. Parting his lips helped with his lingering congestion, and he knew from experience the delectable sensation of hot breath gusting across wet skin. Josaline may not have minded (enjoyed..) him sneezing carelessly on her boobs, but he’d rather give her some top quality oral. He had it on good authority that his technique was solid, coveted even, among those he’d pleasured. Thus it was with confidence that Omicron resolved to blow her mind, his cold be damned.

Until he nuzzled into her curls and was slapped across the face with a familiar scent. Josaline saw him hesitate, and he watched in real time as her vulva undulated with anticipation.

“I’m surprised you can smell it,” she murmured, setting her heels against the mattress and arching just enough to skim the tip of his nose with her burning seam. Her words were a wanton sigh. “My gift for you.”

It surprised him too. This was a testament to the power of her perfume that it could penetrate days’ worth of swelling and congestion. Even at this proximity, his eyes began to water. The tickle stretched like a lazy cat twitching its tail, on the verge of getting restless. His nostrils pulsed in unhappy reply. There was absolutely no way he’d manage this with any degree of finesse. 

Josaline had to know that, and she confirmed it when she told him, “Sneeze as much as your nose desires. As many times as you want, as hard as you want, but do not forget what you’re down there to do.”

The way she tightened her fingers in his hair told him he wouldn’t be lifting his head until she finished. Her vulva flexed again, inviting him in. Omicron allowed himself two steadying breaths before sealing his fate. He ducked down to her swollen folds and skimmed the tip of his tongue up her seam. The way she moaned, low and guttural as her head fell back against the pillows, was promising. He got to work.

Oral was a delicate process, but Omicron let experience lead him. Lick with the flat of his tongue; delve into the core of her for a taste; circle her clit with the tip before tracing the lines of her lips. When her folds fluttered around him, expectant and needy, he doubled down on the techniques she liked. He breathed only through his mouth, kept his nose away from her short hair, and did his best to ignore the way his nostrils flared with increasing frequency. Occasionally the tickle fidgeted, disturbed in slumber, and he sipped in a little gasp. Willpower alone helped him sigh down from the tempting high, each time letting his breath pass over her wet folds to hear her mewl. 

She was gripping him hard now, fingers kneading, thighs shaking, breathing heavy. Omicron smirked against her, tongue in her hole, the bridge of his nose barely grazing the edge of her clit, licking against her soft, pulsating walls with the intention of dragging this out until she made him pay for it. That is, until he felt something hot and slick press up against his ass.

In his concentration, he’d missed a couple telling sounds: the rip of a wrapper, followed by the elastic squeak of a lubed condom. Cristoph apparently wouldn’t be sitting idly by while Josaline had all the fun. Omicron had no issue with this, but what he did mind was the ramifications of the surprise.

At the feeling of a cock against his crack, Omicron gasped. With his tongue deep in Josaline, he did this instinctively through his nose and dragged a billowing cloud of perfume into his sinuses. The tickle woke from its fitful sleep and, as expected, flew into an irrational rage. It was a brutal itch, assaulting his tortured membranes with a storm of demanding, sparking sensation. 

Omicron couldn’t get a breath in, let alone jerk away from Josaline, before the first sneeze tripped out of him. “-PBBTHHhsht!!”

It was the least sexy noise he’d ever made, delivered messily into Josaline’s gleaming folds, but nevertheless she arched into his face with a high, breathy whine. Omicron sniffled reflexively and got a noseful of curls and that infernal, floral scent. His eyes rolled back as he hitched, his head ratcheting by increments and nostrils spasming with distress. The tickle hadn’t diminished at all; it remained an unrelenting, dominating force in his nose down to the deepest reaches.

“-MMBSSshh!” He muffled it into her vulva, feeling the way it contracted in reply, hearing how she cried out, and it was fortunate she liked this because he couldn’t do much more than hold onto her thighs and, “-MPHzssh!.. hk-MPHSshh!!”

Josaline’s hips left the bed, her hands forcing his face more secure to her. She was thrusting in earnest now, so Omicron did his best to slip his tongue inside her and meet her rhythm. Each time they pressed together, he angled himself so that his nose would rub against her engorged clit. Each time he eased back, his ass nudged more firmly against Crisoph’s firm cock. Pleasure skittered through him from both ends, sensations warring for control.

On top of all that, the tickle reigned terror. It led an army of irritation through his nasal passages, running roughshod over his worn membranes while they quaked with stimulation. His nose didn’t know what to do with this other than sneeze. The cloying perfume was all he could smell, overpowering even the scent of Josaline’s pleasure.

“-nggshh!.. hh-HGZssh!!huh-hhGXSssh!” 

There was a stuttering anguish to them in the wake of his body’s confusion. Why isn’t this working? his nose cried out. Please, it tickles so much. Makes us have to-

“-ihgGXZSSHT!!”

It was the closest to a stifle he’d ever come, and it scraped out of him with such misery that he decided he couldn’t do that again. Nor could he muscle through another second of this fragrance. Omicron leaned back with a weak huHH! and tried to aim where Josaline needed him most- 

“-hH’EHDSSH!.. h-HA’JZSSHEE!” Oh that was better- “hhHHH’CHZZSSSHHOOO! Fhhuck-!”

The physical recoil of that last sneeze popped Cristoph past his rim. Jeeeeeezus, he was thick. Omicron hadn’t caught sight of his penis, but he could feel the girth as it pushed into him, slick with lube. His toes curled with the stretch. 

“Mmmmm, god you’re tight,” Cristoph groaned, holding onto Omicron’s hips and shaking with the strain of staying still as the smaller man adjusted. “And so damn hot..” 

It was difficult to know if he meant aesthetically, or physiologically. Omicron could feel his fever thrumming through every molecule, heightening sensations, fogging his head, beading sweat along his hairline even as he shivered from intermittent chills. Lost in the feeling of being filled, he almost forgot about Josaline. She was kind enough to remind him by yanking him back down flush with her quivering hole. Given the rough handling, they’d probably realized he was more experienced than he let on. He grinned as he shoved his tongue in, lapping up her juices and moving up to lavish her abandoned clitoris with long, flat licks.

His nose, not to be outdone by either of his partners, reminded him of the scent he’d spent the last few minutes sucking into his sinuses. Breathing through his mouth did him no favors now that the damage was done. He got a second’s notice of buildup before the tickle waged war. 

“-eh’KSSH!.. hK’IISShh!” They toppled over one another in their hurry to escape his convulsing nostrils, his trembling lips, his shuddering chest. “-eHTSSH!-h’IKSH-.. kshh!- h..HIHkshh-! HEH.. KZZSHHOO!”

He’d never sneezed like this in his life. His nose was frantic with them, and not a single one relieved an iota of irritation. Tears broke their water-lines and painted his cheeks. His nose dripped freely. Each sneeze made him clench around Cristoph, who groaned in reply, and he showered Josaline’s spasming, wet core with a regularity she audibly appreciated. She wouldn’t let go of his hair, keeping him where she wanted him.

“-H’KSsh!-eh’SH!-.. hohhbygoh’DZZSH!-hahh..” This wasn’t going to stop until she came, so- “CHZsh- ehCSH!..h-HH’GZsh!!” -he needed to hurry up and- “TZSsshoo!- fugk-” -do something about it.

Omicron buried himself into her, tongue flicking like mad against her clit, swirling and wiggling and licking as fast as he could manage as her moans hitched to higher and higher pitches. Sneezing with his tongue occupied seemed hazardous, but when the first “eHPTTHHeh!” burst from him with no issue, he let the rest come as they pleased. One, two, four, eight, compounding on themselves so that when the ninth lagged behind with a shivery gasp, Omicron dove to suck her clit between his lips.

Josaline bent over him with a shout, nails scratching his scalp as she was struck with powerful, rhythmic contractions. Omicron polished her off with one last lick, loathe that he couldn’t tongue her through the aftershocks, but-

“-HAHZZSSHHOOO!!” 

His nose was pretty angry with him. He panted into the aftermath before roaring another huge, ab-clenching sneeze between her legs. “HEEHHSSSHHOO!.. ugh, huhh..ht!DZZSHHHYOO!”

They exploded from him with such force that he squeezed Cristoph mercilessly. The man leaned over, his huffing chest to Omicron’s heaving back, and reached a hand around to Omicron’s neglected cock. It was so hard it ached, beading precum every time he sneezed. He gasped to the brink of one, and then lost it to a whine when Cristoph’s thumb circled over the tip. Fuck fuck fuck-

“I’b godda-” he choked out, hoarse and out of breath. Cristoph seated himself to the hilt, deep. The tickle writhed in him, deeper. Omicron gasped out a hitchy, “Ghhodda c.. cumb-! uhh-h-HHT-”

“Not yet,” Cristoph grunted, and looped his finger and thumb just beneath Omicron’s cockhead. Then squeezed.

Omicron knew about this type of edging, but had never been on the receiving end. The towering wave of his orgasm hung over him.. and then receded. As did the hovering threat of his sneeze. Both sensations spiraled into nothing, the most unsatisfying thing he’d ever felt, and Omicron shocked himself when he pounded a fist against the bed.

To be fair, they talked about this technique at dinner and declared it fair game for the evening. Foolishly, Omicron didn’t think he’d mind it in bed. It was an unexpected discovery for him to realize he did.

He whipped a glare over his shoulder, and his face — the freshly falling tears, the fever flush, the uninhibited mess leaking from his nose, his furious scowl — did something to Cristoph. He tensed and fell unexpectedly into his orgasm, so unprepared he yelped. Omicron could feel the man’s dick twitching in his hole, but because he was pissed off, he did absolutely nothing to help it along. Just wiped his face on the blankets until Cristoph went boneless on top of him. 

On a better day Omicron would have shouldered the weight no problem, but pleasure and fever made him weak. He floundered, his dick still hard and trapped uncomfortably beneath him, before mustering a stuffy sound of protest.

Cristoph pulled out with a shudder and moments later there were hands on him, scooping him up, cradling him, and Omicron refused to look at anything other than the bedspread. He was angry about the denial, embarrassed by his anger, exhausted and feeling frustratingly fragile as new tears bubbled at the corner of his eyes.

“God, you’re cute when you pout,” Cristoph groaned, burying his face into Omicron’s neck to suck apologetic kisses into his skin. “I’m sorry, love. Had to be done. Wanna see your face when you cum.”

“Let us spoil you rotten,” Josaline crooned, recovered from her orgasm and swooping down to smooth sweaty hair away from his forehead. “After all, you’ve been such a good boy.”

His dick twitched and Omicron bit his lip on a whine. He wanted relief, he needed it, but when he tried to grab himself he was stopped by Josaline’s wrangling hands. The words burst out of him, “Fuck, please, I- I- ndeed to-”

“Shhhhh,” she soothed, kissing the pleas into silence as Cristoph’s big, firm hand came around to grip Omicron at the base. He arched, whimpering, and she ran her tongue along his lips before leaning back. “Listen to me, Nick.”

He laid against Cristoph’s chest, dazed, blinking through sticky eyelashes as the man warmed a handful of lube and applied it to Omicron’s straining erection. Omicron hissed, bucking into the slide, trying in vain to get himself off when he had so little energy. He shook with the effort until he was hushed by his bed partners. They rearranged themselves to settle a shivering Omicron against the soft mountain of pillows at the head of the bed, the other two by his side. Josaline drenched her hands in lube as well, speaking as she warmed it up.

“Relax,” she told him. “Close your eyes.” He complied. “Focus on what you feel.”

First it was just Cristoph’s hand lazily stroking his dick, too slow and light to get him anywhere. Then it was Josaline spreading his legs to sit between them, gliding her touch along his knee, his thigh, until she moved to his empty hole. One finger slipped in, joined by another, and she beckoned his prostate with gentle rubs. He gasped through his nose and mouth, dragging just enough air through his congestion that it kindled the tickle.

After that aborted sneeze, it had sulked in his sinuses for a while. Always present, but for a time immaterial. Just a reminder of something stuck and waiting. His breath emboldened it. 

Omicron’s nostrils twitched, alert to the urges that dwelled within, and Josaline must have seen it because her next words were, “Oh? Got a tickle?”

Always, he thought, but nodded nonetheless. Another tremor from the tickle, and a reflexive twinge of his nose. Someone would probably stop him if he used his hands to rub it, so he turned his head to chafe the ailing appendage against Cristoph’s shoulder. The man denied his orgasm so he deserved it; judging from his hum, however, he didn’t mind.

“I know it’s itchy, sweetheart, but let it come,” Josaline tutted. When he lifted his head he felt the pad of her thumb brush the raw skin of his septum. Her other hand never paused, petting a steady rhythm that she matched to Cristoph’s measured strokes. “Deep breath now..”

Omicron tried to obey, but the effort just made him cough. His membranes were so swollen they throbbed, and the tickle twisted against them with intensifying tenacity. He hiccuped a gasp, sighed it out on a moan, and fidgeted when his other urges escalated as well. Josaline and Cristoph picked up the pace and pressure in harmony.

“What a cold you’ve caught, you poor thing,” whispered Josaline in a honey-soaked voice, “You’re so congested. I bet that sneeze would like some help. It’s gotten stuck so deep in your nose, and there’s not much it can do, is there?”

No, and there wasn’t much Omicron could do either — except ride the electrifying waves of sensation circuiting through his penis, prostate, and sinuses. He was at the mercy of all three of them.

“Do you feel it inside you? Locked away somewhere and struggling. Probably searching for an escape.”

Her suggestions entered him, crawling and prickling as they went. He could see it, this imaginary force that fanned out into feathery tendrils to search the depths of his nose. First it was heedless of the way it lit up his neurons with need. It wasn’t long before it realized its power however, and the irritation was no longer incidental. It was intentional. 

“Yes, that’s right. It will do what it does best and stimulate those susceptible nerves of yours. They must be terribly sensitive. To have something squirming against them at this juncture, I’m sure it’s torture.”

Oh, it was. Hellbent on whipping his nose into hysteria, the tickle was relentless and targeted. The sinuous threads continued to spool, probing his membranes, brushing down his nerve pathways, slowly invading him. Nothing was safe, not his sinuses, not the shores of his nostrils, not anything in between. Omicron turned his head one way and then the other as if he could evade the tickle’s probing touch. The hands around him and inside him responded by shifting up another gear.

“Soon it won’t matter how stuffy you are. This tickle will taunt and tease you, caress those sensitive places only it can reach, entice you and remind you that it will feel oh so wonderful to sneeze until you’re desperate for it.”

Please, he pleaded with himself as he snorted and coughed. Please please sneeze. He could feel each individual tendril dragging against his walls, the stirrings of them deep inside him as they coalesced into an urge looming over him alongside his impending orgasm. He gasped, sighed, gasped again-!, groaned. Arched against the cool, sweat-sheened chest behind him. Dug his heels into the mattress. His head was spinning, nose twitching, on the edge of something enormous.

“Once it starts, you cannot resist. The way you hitch and moan. The way your nostrils pulse with uncertainty and your expression pinches with desire. You ache for it. Crave it. This elusive release.”

Again, the pulsating trio of stimuli doubled speed. The hand on his dick jerked him fast and sloppy. The fingers inside him bore down and swirled. The ticklish threads writhed in his nose, creating waves of irresistible feeling. Soft, yearning hitches became heaving gasps he couldn’t let go of. He felt the scales tip, the first toppling domino, a pleasurable chain reaction with an unavoidable end.

“Your body can only take so much, and I can see you’re at your limit.”

Omicron could only assume he looked wrecked, fucked out, fever-flushed, and splotched with fluids. He strained into their touches and into the unstoppable tickle as they sent him hurtling headfirst into release. It couldn’t come fast enough. Lungs inflated to the brim, throat blocked by waiting air, he couldn’t even beg. Couldn’t think of the words to do so. Could only tremble on the brink with a tiny, broken whimper.

It’s coming, it’s coming I’m-

And then - “Go ahead, my darling. Let it all out.”

His orgasm struck like lightning, followed by thunderous ecstasy. In a singular moment, tension snapped and broke over him in a deluge of powerful, convulsing delight. Omicron couldn’t make a noise, lungs still locked up with an impending sneeze that his body, even in the flood of endorphins, hadn’t forgotten. He was barely through the first spasm of his orgasm when-

“BZZSSHHh-hHUH, ahHH!!” 

It wasn’t the strongest sneeze of the night by far, but it sent a mind-blowing ricochet of pleasure through the core of him. With momentary control of his throat, he managed a short shout before his breath was whisked away on another gasp. His orgasm hovered on pause, building tension and expectation as his body struggled with executive commands. Stymied, it decided to do everything at once.

“H’BBZZSSSHHhuUHHHohgod!!” 

Omicron folded over himself as he ejaculated a second time, and shuddered with another devastating orgasmic rush. His abs clenched, his thighs trembled, he kept one hand on the bedspread to prop himself up as he groaned through seismic waves of sensation. Usually the pleasure centralized to his groin but now it was his entire body, every single inch of him tingling with residual energy.

When he felt his lungs stutter, his nostrils flutter, the come-hither squirm of something in his nose, his eyes widened before rolling closed. His dick twitched, weak but willing. He was helpless against the tickle, didn’t want to fight it, wanted it to tease his nose to insanity so he could sneeze and sneeze and sneeze and sneeze, but the rational side of him knew his head was spinning and his skin was prickling and-

A fittish hitch for every eager moan. “-hh!uh.. hHH!uhh..” 

Omicron’s mind spun, a touch of panic even as he fidgeted with anticipation. I’m so wrung out, I might-

Pressure building. Exhausted, but unsatisfied. “-HHH!uhh!..hHHH!-UH-” 

I might actually black out.

Regardless of the risks, when he felt the surge of sensation finally reach his nostrils flung wide and ready, Omicron smiled into the release. “HH!!- HP’BBBZZSSSHH-!!”

The sneeze reverberated through him like a gong, down to his very atoms. Pleasure overloaded his veins, too much for his body, and he sank down dizzily while he shook through the clenching aftershocks. He had nothing left, but his dick spasmed anyway, leaking what was left of his load onto the sheets. Faintly, he realized he’d never had an orgasm so intense. Probably would never have one quite like it again. It was this thought that made him savor the trembling bolts of brightness that coursed through him as he drifted.

His vision fuzzed at the edges. His heartbeat pounded in his head. I was right, he thought as he watched dark spots overtake his blurry view of the room. Gonna pass out. 

As he faded, he felt soft hands cradle his cheeks and heard a satin voice tell him, “Good boy.”

+ 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 + 🔥 +

Awareness came back in pieces. 

First, tactile sensation — a damp cloth wiping sweat, mucus, and cum off his skin; gentle fingers massaging sore muscles, raking through his hair; clean, dry blankets wrapping him up. 

Next, sound — quiet banter; hushed bustling around the room; a door opening and closing, the comforting drone of a television set to low volume.

Finally, Omicron cracked open his eyes. Turned out to be a terrible idea, as the rest of his body came online to remind him of what he’d just done. His head pounded, there was an awful taste in his mouth, and his rear end stung when he shifted his weight the wrong way. Not the worst he’d ever felt, but coupled with the immovable sinus pressure and overall fever-malaise, Omicron would have preferred more sleep to being conscious.

You shouldn’t have been asleep in the first place, came the conditioned response that he ignored. While it wasn’t exactly advisable to fall unconscious in enemy territory at the hands of international cyber criminals, after the intimacy they’d shared Omicron doubted they tried any funny business while he was out. He didn’t have the strength to berate himself for it.

With much effort, he sat up to an empty room bathed in low lamplight. All the traces of guests were gone, save for a few items on the bedside table: two unopened bottles of water, a fresh-bought bottle of NyQuil, a stack of clean handkerchiefs, and a note written in a looping scrawl. He picked it up and squinted at it.

To our dear Nicolas-

Very sorry we couldn’t stay. Thought it was safest for us to dash.

The room is yours for the week, paid in advance. Get rest and feel better soon.

It’s best if we don’t meet again, but we will miss you terribly.

Hopefully Cris and I will catch your cold to remember you by 😘

Kisses-

J & C

Omicron slumped there for a second, zoning out on the lettering with static on the brain. It was over. He completed the mission. Relief didn’t come because he had no idea how successful he was, wouldn’t know until he hiked back to his hotel room. Aside from feeling like shit, he couldn’t come up with an excuse to delay it.

And so after guzzling down an entire bottle of water, off he went.

If the scramble to Josaline and Cristoph’s room was a blur, the hobble back to his own was a blackout. Omicron couldn’t remember much from the trip, aside from glaring at a graveyard shift housekeeper who clocked his walk of shame. Yes, he was barefoot in a bathrobe, smelling of sex, carrying his wrinkled belongings under one arm. He’d also just been vigorously railed up the ass and had lost half his weight in cum, snot, and tears. Excuse him if he wasn’t in the mood to make pretenses.

When he reached the door, Omicron realized he didn’t have his key card. With a sigh, he let his sweaty forehead thunk against the door — after which he almost became painfully acquainted with the carpet when it swung open a second later. A firm body spared him that fate.

“Omicron!” Strong hands steadied him by the shoulders. He raised his head to find Delta, very awake despite the hour and scanning his subordinate like he expected an injury. “Oh, thank goodness. It’s been hours.”

Omicron squinted, partially because he was so exhausted his eyes were blurring but mostly because he was confused. Of course it had been hours. Then a terrible thought struck him. “W-Was thad ndot edough time?”

His voice was a raspy, gunked facsimile of itself. Delta started shaking his head before Omicron even finished speaking. “No, no, it was more than enough! Don't worry, the hack was a complete success. The crypto team is very pleased, as am I, you knocked it out of the park. I suspect you'll receive a commendation from headq- oop!”

For the second time on this mission, Delta caught Omicron before he could swoon to the ground. The knowledge of a job well done thrummed through his veins. He felt like Atlas letting the world roll off his shoulders; his knees were weak from the strain of carrying it. With one arm anchored around his waist, Delta lifted the other to test Omicron's forehead against his palm. He hissed at the heat he found there. 

“Oh, Omicron,” he muttered, exasperated, and glanced over his shoulder. “He's burning up.”

“Probably overexerted himself,” came Anita's voice, clearer as she got closer. Another hand, colder than the first, cupped the nape of his neck. Omicron couldn’t fight off his reflexive shiver. “Mm. Well, we still have some acetaminophen he can take.“

I'm standing right here, he thought, miffed but unable to marshal an objection. He let them bicker about what to do with him, limp in Delta’s arms, until his stuffy breaths grew shaky. For fuck’s sake, after everything, still?? Omicron groaned against Delta’s chest, eyes pinching and nostrils bucking in preparation for what was assuredly coming. 

Conversation abruptly stopped, and Delta stiffened. “Omicron? What's wrong?”

“heh-..eh’TZSSsh!” His head bobbed and Delta tightened his hold while Omicron blinked in the limbo of another. It came gently, a feathery wind through his tired nose, and he took his gasp in sips. “h-h-hH’TDZSsh!”

‘I'm in charge here,’ he told his cold mere days ago. To imagine he began this journey with such hubris. He was defenseless, drained, devoid of the will to fight the way it twisted his expression. Lassoed his breath. Made his nostrils flutter, his balance suffer, and yet-

“DZZSSh’uu-!”

-they delivered him a visceral satisfaction he couldn’t begrudge. Someone pressed a bushel of tissues into his hands. Logically he knew he should use them, but the tickle kept him immobile. All he could do was lean against Delta, helpless to the thrall, breathing into it greedily with a feeble hope it would give him something strong enough to feel satisfied. 

“..idzh.. h-HH!” It stalled out in his sinuses, and his expression froze in wait. Then-.. it rocked him forward. “..ZZSSH’uu!.. h’EH-” Stuck again. Omicron wavered there as the tickle smoldered, jogging his head back by tiny degrees. Oh, it felt big, then bigger and bigger as his nose wrestled with it. The back of his head bumped Delta’s shoulder before the tickle finally pushed him over the edge. He doubled over, anchored by the arm around his waist. “EEHCHZZSSSHHhhhhaa..”

A momentous sneeze petered out on a fulfilled sigh that dissolved into a muffled cough. He sagged, and Delta’s grip tightened again. As the world came back to him, he realized he’d sneezed freely, possibly catching somebody in the crossfire, but he just didn’t care. He belatedly lifted the tissues to his nose and cringed when they grated like sandpaper. The skin was so tender he dare not do more than blot it.

“Are you injured?” demanded Delta. Omicron shook his head against the man’s chest. No, no injuries. Nothing beyond what’s expected from vigorous sex. Delta asked next, “Do you want a shower?”

That was the politest possible way of saying, You look and smell like an utter wreck and it sucker-punched the tattered remains of his ego. Omicron shook his head again, partly because doing anything aside from laying down might make him cry, but mostly because he couldn’t stomach the idea of needing help from either of them in the bathroom.

Delta hitched Omicron more securely to his side, a decision made. “Alright. Bed, then.”

No, wheedled his sense of duty. I haven’t given my report yet. Omicron could barely keep his eyes open. He mumbled, “But, the debrief..”

“Can wait,” his superior finished. There was a rare sternness to his voice and it brokered no argument. “You need rest. That’s an order.”

Well, the boss meant business if he was throwing around orders. They washed over Omicron with a comforting finality — he didn’t have to worry about anything anymore. Delta would handle it. Responsibility evaporated and it was sweeter than anything he’d felt that evening. Heat welled up behind his eyes, a lump in his throat, and Omicron turned his face into his superior’s shirt.

It was so rare he could drop all his walls and lay himself bare, not on a bed but in life. Trust wasn’t a word in his dictionary, but tonight he wanted to know it. He sought solace in the steady thump of Delta’s heartbeat under his ear. Emotion loosened his congestion, forcing him to repeatedly sniffle as he tucked the sleeve of his bathrobe under his sore nostrils.

“Okay,” he whispered, and surrendered. 

The walk to the bed was slow, shivery, and stumbling, but Delta threw back the covers and lowered him to the mattress. Once Omicron was supine he brought the blankets back up and took care to tuck them in. He’d make a good dad, his fever mused as he watched Delta fetch a fresh box of unscented, lotion-infused tissues for him. He ripped out a dozen to hand over and Omicron gathered them to his nose for a strengthless blow. It didn’t do much for his congestion, but got his nose dry enough that he wasn’t constantly sniffling.

The vibration of his sinuses chased out a sneeze, one that came over him like a misty cloud — foggy, permeating, gentle. His eyes weighted gradually as the tickle filled him up, and he huffed little hitches as it mounted. Someone (Delta) exchanged his used tissues for clean ones. He brought them up to his nose just in time to catch it.

“-heh..TSSsh!” 

He blinked as the cool, tingling conclusion hazed into another declaration. As if it knew how tired he was, the tickle barely tried. It reminded him of the way someone might pet a small animal, with just one finger and very little pressure. Delicately, carefully, like you were scared of hurting it. The tickle was a repetitive, soothing stroke against his frayed nerves. What once wouldn’t have been enough was now plenty, and Omicron relaxed back against the pillows while he let it come. 

“hh!ih.. h.. h…mmbb..” A soft sniffle, a softer sigh, and oh- “.. ih’TZSssh!..” His eyes fluttered open, eyes tilted skyward under heavy lids. His nostrils flared methodically, hypnotized, and his lungs gathered breath with an unhurried hhhhhhh.. before he jolted into his pile of tissues. “TZSSshoo!.. huh..”

His nose tingled pleasantly, and while it would be temporary, Omicron let himself float.

“.. Bless you.”

Delta stood there with a hand on his hip, scrubbing the other back and forth through his cropped hair. There was a look on his face that Omicron couldn’t parse — knitted brows, lips pressed in a line, thoughts racing behind his eyes too quick for Omicron to guess at them. Anita walked up behind Delta’s shoulder, studied him for a moment, and then pinched her nose with a long, silent sigh. Omicron caught her smiling, a tiny, amused slant to her lips, before she stepped up alongside their team leader to give him a hearty slap to the back. 

“I’ve got him, sir,” she said with a grin. He turned to look at her, then back at Omicron, then Anita again. His feet stayed rooted to the spot until she arched a brow. Then scratched his head one last time.

“Alright,” he conceded, though he sounded unhappy. He bent down to Omicron, cupping his subordinate’s shoulder through the blankets, and gave him a genuine smile. “You did a stupendous job, Agent Omicron. Leave the rest to me. All you need to do now is sleep. Do you understand?”

Omicron nodded. The praise of a job well done, so sincerely and deliberately conveyed, sprung instant tears to his eyes. They gathered faster than he could wipe them away. Thankfully Delta didn’t see, already moving for the door with an authority he seldom exuded. 

“I’ll radio ops to update them. Call me immediately if anything changes.” 

It shut behind him, and Anita plopped herself down on Omicron’s bedside. Her smile was warm, not a trace of good-natured mockery, as she reached out to thumb a tear away from the corner of his eye. This wasn’t the first time she’d watched him come apart after a mission, or found him docile because he didn’t feel good. This also wasn’t the first time she’d seen him cry. Because of this, she knew how to handle him when he got this way.

Quiet voice. Yes or no questions. No unnecessary attention drawn to his demeanor. Simple instructions when she wanted something from him, and positive feedback when he accomplished it. She gave him medication, water, and ignored his weak complaints when she insisted on a quick physical examination to ensure the night went as safely as he insisted it did.

And when there was nothing left to do, as Anita stood to give him space, Omicron reached around to hook a hand at the hem of her shirt. She paused. He heard the huff of fondness and felt the bed dip when she sat down again. He closed his eyes when her hand smoothed up the plane of his back through the sheets.

“Until you fall asleep?” she asked. He nodded into the pillows, and sighed when she moved her hand back down his spine. Up again. And down. Steady and reassuring, a sedative that reached for him and escorted him toward slumber. 

But because this was Anita, and because she was the way she was, she couldn’t help but mutter around a smirk, “Why can’t you be this cute all the time, O?”

He grabbed a pillow and lobbed it at her. This time, it didn’t miss.

/tbc!

Omicron: (has mind blowing sex while sneezing his brains out) Omicron: Omicron: this better not awaken anything in me.

There will be a short epilogue to wrap up the story! Thank you for sticking with me this far! 🧡

It took longer than planned to pry himself away from Josaline. She was content to lounge for as long as he’d let her, asking him idle questions and tracing shapes on his chest with the tips of her fingers. All the while, she watched his nose. To Omicron it seemed like she was reluctant to miss even a second of his nasal misery, and she was treated to a fair amount of sniffling, sneezing, and nose blowing while they talked. When he finally managed to extricate himself, he surmised his nose was as red as the sunset. The light painted brilliant streaks over the coastline and reduced distant seagulls to silhouettes as they flew over sparkling water. 

And somehow, looking too long at the birds flapping their wings meant he had to sneeze. Bitterly, Omicron tucked a finger beneath his nostrils. They began to flare, anxious as the tickle took flight somewhere in his sinuses. Indulging this in his hotel room was better than the hallway, so Omicron picked up his pace. He could feel the sensation worsen, his nerves trembling, and soon a whole flock of frantic tickles startled into motion.

“-hhHH-” He flipped his hand up over his nose and increased his power walk to a near sprint.

“-gUH!hhh..HHH-” He skidded to his room door and through tears he scanned the keycard, shoved himself inside-

“HHEH’DZZssch!”

“Oh, here he is. He just got back.”

Omicron eased his eyes open long enough to see Agent Delta with his phone to his ear, frowning at him.

“Bless-”

“-IHCHZSSH’oo!” He flattened a hand to his chest, feeling himself breathe and breathe and- “..hah!-CHIZSSH’uh!.. ngghh..”

Omicron groaned and belatedly nosed into his shirt, at this point a decimated, jumbo-sized rag hanging limply from his hand.

“Bless you.” Delta delivered it firmly, and asked in the same tone, “How are you feeling?”

“Whad?” he asked, muffled at first before he lowered the shirt. “I’b fine.”

The senior agent gave him a doubtful once-over, then spoke to whomever was on the phone. “He says he’s fine.”

Muzzily, Omicron looked down at himself. Then sidelong to the closet door mirror. He stood only in his swim trunks, bare from his hips up with hair made wild by hungry hands and a smattering of burgundy lipstick across his throat. Worst was his nose, just as raw and sore looking as it felt. It twitched as he watched, his nostrils slowly stretching wide. His expression collapsed by degrees, jaw slacking, eyelids fluttering, chin tilting, chest lifting in one long breath.

“hhhhhHHH’ADZSSHiew!!” he sneezed, and threw himself a step forward.

Delta sighed. “Bless you.”

Once again Omicron lifted his shirt late and huffed a frustrated sigh of his own. When the tickle came over him, he couldn’t do more than simply sneeze. His days of diligent etiquette were long behind him now. There was a tap on his shoulder and when he looked up, Delta was standing in front of him with a fresh box of unscented, lotion-infused tissues. Omicron could have cried.

“Thag’k you-” he choked, snatching a handful just before he “-hd’ZZSSCH!-guh..”

He transitioned his groan into a strengthless blow of his nose. Even for how little effort he used, the action was productive — more audibly than he would have preferred. At least the tissues didn’t chafe. It took several rounds, Delta patiently holding the box for him, until Omicron’s sniffling was stuffy but dry. The tickle relaxed as much as it ever did, tracing shapes against his membranes. It reminded him of Josaline. By the time he was finished, Delta had traded the box for the room’s little trash bin. 

“Yes, just a moment..” he said into the phone, then tipped the bin expectantly at Omicron. Meekly, he dropped in all his tissues (as well as his shirt, it was a lost cause) as Delta continued. “Let me speak with him first.”

Omicron tried to cobble together some semblance of professionalism. He straightened his spine and folded his hands into a parade rest to deliver his report. “Sir, there is a new development-”

“Apologies, Omicron, that will have to wait,” Delta bulldozed over him. “Something’s come up.”

A prickle of anxiety raised the hairs at the back of his neck. “… Sir?”

“It concerns your condition,” Delta replied, and his faltering loss of eye contact didn’t reassure Omicron in the slightest. “It’s a.. delicate subject, so I’ll leave this to Dr. Voster.”

Omicron closed his eyes in exasperation. He’d forgotten about her. Shit. Delta passed him the phone, and then very conspicuously occupied himself across the room.

Bracing himself, Omicron lifted the phone to his ear. “Yes?”

“Hi, Agent Omicron,” said Dr. Voster in a tinny voice from the receiver. “You’re a hard man to get a hold of lately.”

“Well, I’ve been a bit busy,” he said, then lifted a fist to his nose. Idle as the tickle was, the incessant, gossamer sensation of it was beginning to bother him. “Forgive me if I don’t have time to shoot the breeze.”

“You think I’d come to you for small talk? I’d have better luck with a brick wall.”

“Noted,” he replied as he glanced around for the tissue box. He found it sitting on his bed. “Are you calling to berate me or is there something you want?”

“If you remember from yesterday,” she insisted with unnecessary attitude, “I’m calling to talk about your nose.”

The tickle twinged, perking up like a dog to a whistling call. The rims of his eyes grew wet. His breath hiccuped. “I’d reahh- hly rather not.”

“Too bad, I’ll cut to the chase: are you getting erections when you sneeze?”

Her words pierced him like arrows, followed by the bleed of heat into his cheeks, ears, and neck. Omicron’s hand froze halfway to his face, tissues hovering. She knows, his mind shrieked. She knows. He whipped his head to Delta, who was faffing pointlessly with his suitcase while pretending to ignore the conversation unfolding across the room. And so does he.

“Your silence is telling,” said Anita.

“No.” His mind was static and his mouth was dry. Words wouldn’t flow. “I’m not.. No.”

The lie was so poorly delivered that it wouldn’t have fooled anyone. Sweat slinked down his nape. Dr. Voster blew a breath over the line, sharp and rueful. “Welp. That one’s on me.”

He darted another glance to Delta and caught the man staring just before they simultaneously turned away. Meanwhile, the tickle followed the path of a twitching nerve with a light, curious touch. Hunching his shoulders and scrunching his face, Omicron mumbled into the receiver. 

“What’s that supposed tuhh.. to mean?”

“Your reaction at the lab was extreme, in relation to the vigor of your sneezing as well as the presence of physiological responses indicating arousal,” she explained, her tone appreciably analytic despite the awkward topic. “Dilated pupils, shortness of breath, difficulty concentrating..”

She suspected it from the beginning? Omicron reeled. It made sense; she was impressively educated and one of the most respected techs at the agency. Her knowledge ranged from biology, physiology, immunology, and beyond. In retrospect, he’d been a fool to think he could ever hide something like this from her. 

“Even so, I couldn’t be sure. It warranted further research and I found something unexpected.”

Omicron pushed a hand through his hair, pressing his thumb into the soft indent of his temple. He’d walked in here with a headache and he could tell this conversation would only make it worse. “Oh?”

“It’s a little known fact that parts of the nose contain the same type of erectile tissue as the genitals, and both are linked to the body’s autonomic nervous system.” 

As she spoke, the tickle feathered a persistent, teasing swirl around a sensitive spot. His inflamed membranes pulsed insistently, as did his chapped nostrils. He tried his damned best to ignore it. “... Pardon?”

“I believe because I gave you a higher dose of viral particles than you needed, the overstimulation of your nasal nerves is causing an echoing effect to the erectile tissue in your penis.”

A dangerous emotion lurched up from Omicron’s stomach and got caught behind his teeth: anger. It warred, then mixed, with his humiliation. Exhaustion eroded his willingness to swallow it back down. 

“This is actually not unheard of. Kinks aside, some people experience this during intercourse, or even from simply thinking about sex, though usually the arousal causes sneezing rather than the other way around..”

Anita blathered on about speculative science, and the bubbling pot of annoyance he’d nursed since the start of this assignment at last began to boil over. Frustration erupted into rage.

“..Still, it’s a variable I completely overlooked. I’m sorry, Omicron.”

“Sorry?” he barked, raising his volume to a throat-scratching degree. “You’re sorry? Are you serious?”

There was a pause over the line. “.. Yes?”

“Sorry isn’t going to cut it.” The ardor in his voice vibrated in his sinuses, heightening the caressing sensations of the tickle, which only angered him more. “Yhh-You told me I wouldn’t b-be comprhhuh-.. hhmised by your stupid experiment!”

“That was before I saw its effects in action. I advised you not to go forward with the mission, remember? I only agreed in front of Delta because you looked so sad. It was foolish on my part. I should’ve grounded you.”

“So that I could suffer for your mbistake??” he demanded. His nostrils shivered and he shoved them with the heel of his palm. Congestion clogged his words. “I’ve waited so long for this mbission, Anita, you kdnow I have!”

“It wasn’t my intention to compromise you, Omicron,” and while she said it with contrition, there was also resignation. “I can’t predict every outcome. It’s just one of those things.”

The pragmatism in her voice only fueled his fire, but before he could assemble his response, the tickle struck. Even in the throes of wrath it wouldn’t leave him be. Its touch seeped through his nose like a spill. His lungs jumped with a single breath, and then Omicron’s head snapped down. 

“DDJZSSsh’oo!”

The sneeze staggered him two steps back and another was fast on the rise. It held him hostage in its grip, but Anita’s curt “bless you” in his ear waylaid the urge. He fulcrumed a finger beneath his nose to buy time. Emotion roared up from his chest and broke out of him in a rambling crash. 

“I get one chandce! One. To prove mbyself and if I fail they’re gonna relegate mbe to archives and filing duties for the rest of mby career!!”

He was peripherally aware of Delta, who’d at some point moved to stand in front of him. There was something in his hand, a gadget Omicron recognized but couldn’t think to name. His vision tunneled, dark at the edges. His heart pounded in his ears. His nose twitched ominously, not to be delayed much longer. 

“I c-.. hhhan’dt lose this case,” he was babbling, quicker and quicker when his nostrils began to flare. The burgeoning sneeze tugged his eyelids shut and stole his breath away. “It’ll- it.. iyeehh…h-HH!hck’KZSShiu!”

Dr. Voster took the opportunity to cut in; she sounded deliberately calm as he sniffled fitfully through a recovery. “Omicron, listen to me, you’re catastrophizing. Slow down for a second and breathe.”

“Ndo, you listen!” His voice cracked and an ugly desperation made itself known. “They’ll really do it, if I’b ndot perfect they’ll write mbe off a’d I’ll end up a cautionary tale, they’ll laugh mbe out of the agency, everythi’g I’ve worked for will be for dnothi’g, I-”

Glowing numbers flashed in front of his eyes. Omicron startled, teetering unevenly on his feet. At first he had no idea what it was, but as his vision steadied the image formed. Delta stood before him, grim, offering the readout screen of an infrared thermometer.

The numbers read 102.4°F / 39.1°C . Omicron squinted at them, uncomprehending.

“... what’s thad?” he rasped.

Delta’s reply was immediate and immutable. “Your fever.”

Omicron blinked. Squinted harder. Read the numbers again even as they started to blur. I have a fever? he asked himself. As his fury ebbed, new sensations emerged: the painful heat radiating from his head, a pervasive chill seeping from his core, the weakness in his knees and the cotton in his ears. He began listing to the side. The phone slipped from his hand.

Oh, he realized. I have a fever.

“Oop!” Delta dashed and caught him before he could swoon to the floor. Together they sank in a controlled descent as the senior agent muttered, “Easy now, easy..” under his breath. Once they were down, Omicron tucked his head into his knees and tried to fend off the headrush.

Indistinct voices floated around him. He could only catch snippets of conversation — “high grade temperature,” and “want you here by morning” — and he gave up on the rest. Instead, he concentrated on the bracing passes of Delta’s broad hand across the span of his sweaty shoulders. It took longer than he liked, but eventually Omicron raised his head with minimal dizziness. He stared into the weave of the carpet.

“Did she hang up?”

“Yes,” Delta said beside him. “She gave me a list of questions to ask you when you’re feeling a bit better.”

Omicron dropped his head back to his knees. “... is she upset?”

“At your outburst?” Delta asked, and his subordinate cringed. “She’s more worried about you than upset, but you wouldn’t be remiss to apologize when she arrives.”

In the aftermath of his tantrum, clarity pricked him like a thorn. This was as much his fault as it was Anita’s. It was true her virus yielded unexpected results, but by concealing them from her, he’d failed in his responsibility as a teammate. She put her trust in him, and he let her down. There were few things more painful for him than owning his mistakes.

Stewing in his shame, he sniffled and said the only thing he could say. “I’b sorry, sir.”

Delta’s smile grew warm at the edges. “I’m not the one you shouted at, but I’ll accept your apology since you lied to me too.”

God, he wished the ground would just swallow him whole. Omicron folded into an even smaller ball, arms tightening around his shins. The position made his nose run, which required frequent snuffling for maintenance, but he’d rather do that than look Delta in the eye.

“I expect honesty from you, agent. Full stop. Not a single lie moving forward, either directly or by omission. Am I understood?”

Omicron could barely force himself above a whisper. “Yes, sir.”

“Not just about the virus,” his superior continued, “but also your wellbeing. You’ve put so much pressure on yourself, Omicron. I had no idea you were under the impression that this assignment would be your only chance to succeed.”

Without anger as a shield, he’d lost his last defense. Delta’s sympathy felt like a punch in the gut. Even worse, his near constant sniffles were going to make him sneeze. He keenly felt each bead of moisture drip down his stressed passages, then skate back up with every subsequent snatch of air. It was unabating, alluring, and it coaxed little sighs from his lip when he exhaled. He didn’t have to wait long.

“..hh’MMPHssh!!Huh..” Omicron muffled it into his knees, his entire body trembling. Then he hurried to respond before he could be blessed. “-but it’s true, righd?”

“Come again?” Delta asked, and when Omicron spoke it again with more volume, he could hear Delta’s brow furrow just from the way he replied, “No, it’s not true at all. Did someone tell you differently?”

With reluctance, Omicron lifted his head and confirmed with a stuffy mumble. “.. Agent Rho did.”

“Rho!” Delta scoffed, as if he could scold the agent from here. His voice lowered to a grumble, and that told Omicron exactly how Delta felt about Rho. “Don’t listen to them. They enjoy scaring less experienced agents.”

(Here Omicron swore a silent, seething vow that he would exact calculated revenge upon Agent Rho for their transgressions against him. Delta continued, oblivious.)

“A reprehensible practice, but between you and I, head office rarely entertains my complaints on the matter.”

Head office… Fuzzy worries came into focus as Omicron muddled through another lazy, slow-to-arrive sneeze. The fog of it clouded his expression as he tried in vain to soldier on.

“Are you goi’g t-.. hih’KIZSsh!” he bobbed his head, then slitted his eyes open only for them to flutter closed again. “..ehKZSSh’uh!... mmbgh..” 

“Bless you,” said Delta, watching Omicron cup a hand over his nose. “Here, use these.”

Delta held out the tissue box, still half-full with soft paper, and Omicron plucked out several. His breath hitched high, voice heady, as he attempted to relay gratitude. 

“Th-hhah.. ah’NKZSSS’hoo!” He crushed it into the tissues, and then flushed with a fresh layer of chagrin when Delta chuckled.

“Bless you, Omicron, you’re welcome.” He waited for the nose blowing to stop before he continued. “You were saying?... ‘Am I going to’ what?”

Oh, right, his question.. With fever, congestion, and the pledge of sneezes crowding his head, holding onto a thought longer than a few seconds felt next to impossible. “Are you going to ground me?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Delta replied. “Considering your condition, I should say yes, but I’d like Dr. Voster’s opinion first. You’re making progress on this case and I’d hate to halt your momentum prematurely.”

That was fair. Uncontrollable boners and a fever on active duty would probably dissuade any overseeing officer from adapting a ‘push through’ mentality. Especially Delta, since the man had the most heavily bleeding heart Omicron had ever known. It would be up to Anita, then; he couldn’t muster the energy to fret about it right now. They sat together while Omicron tended to his fidgety nose, still side by side on the floor, until Delta made a sound of recollection.

“Speaking of the case, didn’t you mention a development? I interrupted you earlier. What was it you wanted to tell me?”

Ahhhh, dammit, Omicron lamented. I forgot about that too.

Even before Anita threw her wrench, he hadn’t been sure how his date tomorrow would go over with Delta. He’d had plans of carefully breaking the news, laying out the variables and working gradually to the big reveal. But now he could barely remember the basic idea, let alone complex and eloquent details. Wracking his boiling brain did nothing but cost him his opportunity; the meandering tickle of his cold stumbled yet again on sensitive territory.

“-Hah…” It lured a dreading sound from his lips as the urge niggled him. Hadn’t he sneezed enough? His count had to be over a hundred by now, and yet his nose wasn’t satisfied. Overworked as they were, his nasal nerves were as ceaseless in their goals as the virus was. “..hiH-.. ngh..”

Omicron cut his losses. Either he ripped the bandaid off or wasted another ten minutes sneezing while his cold tickled him senseless. He took a moment to steady his breathing before saying, “...She has a hus’BEHSsh’oo!”

It startled them both, barreling out of him freely and with an unfortunate lack of cover. Delta flinched away, visibly caught in the crossfire, and Omicron panicked. Both hands jerked up to cover his nose as a whiplash of shame froze him to the bone. 

“Fuck, I’b so siihH-” Oh god, again? His breath wavered at the top of his throat, almost a whimper, and he was so discombobulated from the first one that he couldn’t prepare for the second. “-ih’GXCHHT!”

It ran roughshod, mostly through his nose, and it scraped his sinuses on the way out. Very unpleasant, but fortunately the tickle had to play second fiddle to the stinging aftermath. Omicron hitched down from the high, hands still cemented to his face for modesty and eyelashes sticking with tears as he threw a glance to his superior.

“b’sorry!” he eked out, and he must have looked truly miserable because Delta’s eyes widened.

“It’s alright, it’s alright!” he said earnestly, with a shake of his head and a consoling pat to Omicron’s back. “I’m not upset, I know that was an accident. Don’t worry about it, hm? Here..”

He fished up the tissue box in offering before politely turning away as Omicron cleaned himself up. The mortification nearly crushed him, but still the junior agent reeled with relief. He could trust his superior at his word that he wasn’t upset; it just wasn’t in Delta’s nature to lie, unless it was for his cover. It took nearly the rest of the box before Omicron deemed himself decent, and even then he pinned a preemptive bushel of tissues around his nose in case another sneeze got away from him. Delta was looking at him with such effusive compassion that Omicron delivered his news without preamble, desperate to change the subject.

“I got invited to a threesome with Josaline and her secret husband,” he said from behind his hands.

Agent Delta was gobsmacked. “Wh- Josaline Jewel has a husband?”

Omicron nodded.

“We have no intel to suggest that at all. Are you sure?”

Omicron nodded again.

There was a bewildered pause, then an even more disbelieving, “And you’ve scheduled a threesome with them?”

For a third time Omicron nodded, bleary-eyed over the edge of his tissues. Beneath his hands, his nostrils spasmed around the shape of a sluggish itch. It stalled out somewhere in his sinuses, too present to dismiss but not yet committed to climax. Don’t tease me, he begged with a slow blink. Either hurry up or go away.

“Omicron,” Delta said, a note of wonder in his voice. “I knew you were talented, but this exceeds expectations. Particularly with the knowledge that you did this while contending with unforeseen complications. Well done.”

His heart fluttered weakly at the praise and Omicron squashed any pleased feelings that arose from it. There would be nothing to celebrate if he couldn’t finish the job.

“Th.. hhagk you, sir.”

“When are you meeting them?”

“T-.. Tihh-..” As he spoke the tickle squiggled like a banner caught in a breeze. He rushed the rest on an exhale — “..t-t’mborrow nhhigh..” — heaved in a huge breath, and then- “IDTZSSH’hoo!!”

“Bless, tomorrow night, hm..” Delta rushed the blessing as well, rubbing his chin with a long sigh. “This does complicate things. I doubt we’ll get a chance like this again, but I’m not granting clearance until Dr. Voster takes a look at you-”

“ht-.. HD’JZSS!uuh..”

“-bless you, because that fever of yours concerns me. That side effect wasn’t listed in the literature and it surprised her to hear that you’ve developed one-”

“.. eh-.. eH’TSCHHOO!”

“-bless you. So better safe than sorry. Your health and safety takes priority over any assignment, Omicron, do try and remember tha-.. oh, bless…?”

“.. h-HDT-!”

Omicron waiting on the cusp of another, eyes rolled skyward and lips parted in desire, still cloaked behind his curtain of tissues. He could feel he had Delta’s undivided attention, which made the tickle shy. It shivered inside him, sending his nostrils into a fit of flaring. Stuttered breaths filled his lungs in tiny bursts, emptying again on uneasy sighs, and he-.. he-!..

.. relaxed, defeated, with a groan. 

“Lost it?” Delta asked, then quirked a smile at Omicron’s moody nose-blow. “I’m sure it’s very disappointing. My condolences.”

Because Delta was being very gracious about all this — Omicron’s dishonesty and careless sneezing — he couldn’t summon up any feelings of exasperation. It helped that he was running on empty, too enervated by his fever to do much more than slump with a nod that made his head gently spin. He waited it out and only when he startled to awareness at a gentle touch on his arm did he realize he’d been falling asleep where he sat. He squinted up at Delta who was now standing, smiling down at him.

“Dr. Voster asked me to collect more data on your condition, but that can wait,” he said, and hauled Omicron to his feet. He guided the smaller man toward the bright fluorescence of their hotel bathroom. “Why don’t you wash up? It might help.”

Too dazed to protest, Omicron stood shivering barefoot on the cold tile in his swim trunks while Delta babbled about this and that. A couple blinks later he was holding a set of sweats from his suitcase, his toiletry bag, and a clean pair of fuzzy socks that wasn’t his. Probably Delta’s. He’d seen the man wear a different pair around the room just last night. Juggling the items and mumbling thank-yous, he nudged the door shut with his foot as Delta stated he’d be going out to grab dinner.

And thus commenced his character assassination. 

Omicron laid to rest and mourned what remained of his dignity. He was, in essence, sick on the job with an unseemly cold and his boss was playing nurse. In other words, a nightmare. Never had any of his coworkers seen him T less than peak health, and he hadn’t bargained on Anita’s monster virus turning him into… this. As he shambled through a shower, pajamas, and then curled up into bed, he hoped in vain that his fever would be bad enough to knock him out before Delta got back. No such luck.

Omicron knew how he could look, especially with fresh, fluffy bedhead and sleeves that drooped over his hands. He could only assume this aesthetic was exacerbated by his glowing red nose and glassy eyes. ‘Cute’ was a moniker he’d take to his grave unfortunately, much as it haunted him. He’d never managed to escape it in any disguise, not for all the leather, fake piercings, or platform boots in the world. 

So when Agent Delta turned around and caught sight of him, snuggled in a poofy duvet clutching the tissue box with a little twitch troubling his nose, Omicron beat him to the punch. “Please don’t patronize me, sir.”

Delta’s smile threatened laughter, but he reigned it in with a polite cough and clear of his throat. “I wasn’t going to, agent. I’m just glad to see you’re more comfortable.”

‘Comfortable’ was a generous word that only got further from the truth as the night wore on. Omicron was treated to dinner in bed, complete with a serving tray borrowed from the staff, and the gesture was enough to obliterate any shred of appetite he had for the hot and sour soup Delta brought him. He just wanted to dissolve into the atmosphere and disappear. What he did manage to eat sprung tears in his eyes and a menacing prickle in his clogged sinuses. He spent most of the meal with a tissue held to flexing, leaky nostrils.

The conversation after dinner was yet another exercise in torture. Omicron would have tried choking down more soup if he’d remembered Delta had orders from Anita to question him about his ‘condition.’

Rationally, Omicron knew he shouldn’t be embarrassed. He had sex on the job now and then, and those wild whims he pursued on his personal time were a cure for boredom more than anything. There was something different about this though, the pleasure he felt from sneezing. It felt intimate, self-generated, and to some extent outside of his control. That he might accidentally get aroused without a purpose, beyond that it simply just felt good, was a thought he couldn’t bare to share with anyone. 

“I find it endearing that you are so bashful about this, considering your line of work,” Delta said, understanding yet undeterred, “but as this pertains directly to your ability to perform on the job, I’m afraid Voster and I are on a need to know basis. I promise it will be quick and painless.”

The unyielding furrow in Delta’s brow told Omicron he wouldn’t escape this discussion, no matter how badly he wanted to avoid it. Maybe by some miracle he’d black out and not remember it after.

Once they got started, the questions were mercifully clinical: How often are you experiencing unexpected symptoms? Under what circumstances do they arise? Are you experiencing any unexpected symptoms beyond those already identified? And so on. All the while, Omicron dissuaded sneezes with nose rubs, nose blows, and general nose abuse of that nature. Each ticklish surge that scrambled for a foothold he countered with equal obstinacy. Nothing he did would rid him of the itch, so there was no reason to indulge it.

Yes there is, said the steady drip of tension into his abdomen. Feel that? It was a formless need, faint enough to ignore. For now. Given time the drip would form a puddle, then a pond, and eventually an ocean of want churning in the core of him. And it will feel so good to let go. 

Omicron resolutely ignored that feeling. 

When they finished with the questions, he didn’t even realize it was over; he dozed off while Delta prattled on too long about meaningless things, his voice soothing in its familiarity, and awoke with a start minutes or hours later from a soft touch on his elbow. Just Delta, whispering something about acetaminophen, offering pills and a glass of water which Omicron tossed back wordlessly before hurtling headfirst back into sleep.

He surfaced in and out of consciousness throughout the night, plagued by chills, sweats, and the strange dreams only a fever can cook up. Vivid, nonsensical adventures that ranged from confusing to harrowing, until Omicron eventually found himself spelunking. How he ended up in this damp, drippy cavern eluded him, but he remained committed to his single directive: explore. 

It was an odd place, even in a dream. Rather than rough-hewn stone, Omicron walked barefoot on a soft, plush surface that spanned the walls and even the ceiling. Caves were usually quite chilly, but this one was comfortably warm. Steady breezes cut through the humidity, first blowing one way and then the other, ruffling Omicron’s hair at each pass. He staggered when a particularly strong gust dragged him like an undertow and leaned against the wall to keep his balance. This immediately backfired because the wall was unexpectedly slick. With a frictionless glide, he tumbled to the ground.

“Sheesh,” he muttered, planting his palms to push himself up. When he did so, there was a near imperceptible shudder through the cavern. The rhythmic wind stuttered, stopped, then continued with an unsteady edge. He raised arm against a blast of air. “What-..?”

A light caught his eye, and Omicron glanced down to find a nexus of thrumming veins spidering out from his epicenter. They pulsed with a beautiful glow, casting a red hue across his face and illuminating the cave floor with a pink, stained glass iridescence. Curious, he trailed his fingers along the branching paths and watched the veins spread further. Again the cave floor lurched, stronger this time, and the wind around him escalated into trembling, intermittent squalls. For some reason he didn’t feel afraid, only determined.

Omicron clamored to his feet. He approached the wall where the veins began to climb. They pulsed weakly, wanting, and he felt that he needed to help them. Feeling around on his person, he unearthed something from his back pocket: a feather duster. The feathers waved in the strong breeze, plentiful and downy. How he’d managed to fit this in his pocket was dream logic he didn’t question. 

“Let’s see,” he mumbled, and crouched to sweep the instrument along the wall. It seemed to cringe from the sensation, twitching madly as the veins hungrily advanced. 

Omicron kept it up, dusting as much as he could reach even as the cavern began to shiver in earnest and the wind whipped his hair like a storm. But he couldn’t stop. He just had this feeling that if he lit the cavern completely, it would be a magnificent sight. As the paths flourished, they brought with them a gorgeous backlight to the tender, rose-petal surfaces of the cave. Funny, they looked almost inflamed. Irritated by his influence, intolerant of his presence here. The thoughts didn’t deter him. Omicron raised up on his tiptoes to take a swipe at the ceiling and had his feet knocked out from under him when the world tremored in response. The gale sucked inward with authority, and the feather duster was ripped from his hands.

Something was happening. Around him, the veins fanned out on their own and he’d been right: the radiance of the cavern was incredible with it all lit up at once. Beneath him the ground throbbed contentiously, convulsing, hot to the touch, and for the first time, Omicron wondered if he might have done something he shouldn’t have. No longer distracted by his goal, he became aware of a weird sound. Something deep, rumbling beneath him, the desirous moans of uhh.. uHhh.. uHHh-!... growing in volume, pitch, and power. 

And suddenly, he felt the echo of this urge manifest in his nose. Its vigor sprung tears to his eyes and his jaw dropped open, helpless as it consumed him. His gasps and groans synced up to the wild chaos around him, and he could feel the very nerves he squirmed against crying out for mercy. It tickled insufferably, teased to heights he couldn’t believe — and there was only one way down.

I’m inside my own nose? was his first bizarre realization. The second was, I’m going to sneeze.

Omicron opened his eyes, only to snap them closed again. “-HP’BBSZZCHHHOOO!!!-”

He groaned, arching against the mattress, as the sneeze went straight to his dick. Bleary, barely awake, all he could do was coast through a yearning gasp and “HEEHDZJJSSSZH!Nnngghh-!”

Raw relief tingled through him, shimmering through his nose and groin, and autopilot took over. Omicron plunged a hand down his pants and gripped his morning wood, firm and ready to burst. There was enough precum trickling from his slit and staining his boxers that he could smooth his thumb over the head and ignore the slight burn from dry skin friction.

His nostrils flittered in anguish, and his sinuses drummed with an insatiable itch. Please, they implored him. This tickle tortured us all night long. Do something. And Omicron was happy to serve. 

A monumental gasp - “hHHHHIIH!” - heralded an comparatively monstrous sneeze - “EEHDDZZZCHHH’Uh!!-hoohhh..”

This was so much better in bed. A tidal wave of pleasure rushed through him, from his nose to his toes, and he couldn’t catch his breath. He gritted his teeth, bowing his back as he thrust into the grip of his hand. It was just on the edge of too much; Omicron wasn’t normally so sensitive, but he’d woken with every inch of his skin tingling and thought it had to be the fever. 

The tickle flexed deep inside, and Omicron recalled the striking visuals of his dream. Wet, pink walls. Encroaching red veins. Sensitive nerves, shuddery membranes, the way he’d ignorantly worked himself up to this very fit with a bundle of soft, stroking feathers. He could imagine himself doing it again, deliberately this time, sweeping the inside of his nose deftly and thoroughly, tickling and tickling and fighting to keep his eyes open even as the sensation forced them tightly closed. Coaxing a hitching breath. Making him sn-..

“-hoh fuhhck-.. hh!HUH!. UHHZZSSSHH’iu!-ooh!” His heels slipped on the sheets, straining for purchase, as he panted his way up to another. “-igih.. iH’GISSCCHOOO!-hah!!”

Each one got him an inch closer to orgasm. He bobbed over every wave with surety the next one would break over his head and drown him. Omicron snuffled unsteadily, aware his nose was running without the care to wipe it, and began twisting his wrist when he felt his nostrils blow wide in preparation. 

Yes yes yes, he cheered. Let this be the one.

He hitched through a dazed smile, a deceptively dainty hh-hht-htt! that then curled him up with a bed-shaking, “HAH’TSSDCH’UE!..hh’mmngg-!..” 

Omicron’s whole body clenched, tense with the impending release, but before it could come he was hitching again. His dream self dusted away, dauntless with a single-mindedness to make him sneeze. And he’d assuredly succeed, as his real self shuddered through a fit-and-start buildup.

“-hihg..ihh!hhoh.. HHT-!chhhoo..” 

It wouldn’t come, hovering so close to the brink that whenever he breathed into the tickle he sighed out the approximation of its finale. His hand never stopped, the steady pumps easier now that he was wet enough. Through the haze of fever, grogginess, and arousal, Omicron imagined the dutiful brush of that duster against his quivering membranes. He was a thorough man, never one to leave a job half-finished, and he visualized himself venturing deeper, farther, to a cowering patch of nerves hoping to escape torment. The feathers caressed them, velutinous and inviting.

“.. iih!HHhhh..”

Deeper, to the responsive edge of his sinuses, where he trailed the duster along the border with deliberate care. The tickle’s magnitude tripled, aching in its eagerness. His dick pulsed in reply, hot and heavy in his frantic hand. 

“-HIH!..hh..hgIHH-”

Deeper still, to the end of the line, so far inside his nose he’d never hope to get it out. The feathers touched quivering flesh. With a smirk, his dream self stroked so gently, agonizingly slow, barely a tease and yet it tickled him to an unbearable degree. He could feel every fiber of the agitating feathers, the promise they whispered. 

Come on, he said to himself. You know you want to.

Omicron’s gasp cut the air like a knife, inflating his lungs to capacity, before he roared violently into his blankets. “-iihHHHHH-?!..WRRIZZSSSCHH’IIUHHH!!-mmbb!!”

He turned his head into his pillow to moan through his orgasm, stroking through it as a euphoric, tingling balm spread through his sinuses. It lasted longer than he anticipated, a continuous ripple of ecstasy that had him whimpering, panting, trembling. All his muscles relaxed, every part of him sated, and when the aftershocks ebbed Omicron sunk into the sheets, hand still in his pants, to let sleep call him back into its arms. It’s not like he had somewhere to be. What did he have to do this morning..? Vacuum the apartment..? Get groceries..? Cuddle with his cats?.............wait-

OH NO.

Omicron jackknifed into a sitting position, then immediately regretted it when his head spun. He drooped onto an elbow, coughing, heart hammering, and in a panic he scanned the room. Nobody here. No sounds from the bathroom either. The relief was so intense it sent him into another sickening dose of dizziness. He flopped flat to the mattress and tried to steady his breathing.

I didn’t just jack off in front of my superior officer, he assured himself. Everything is fine. He finally slipped his hand out of his pants and wrinkled his sore nose at the stickiness of his skin and underwear. But I have to clean up.

It took a pitifully long time to do so. Shivers wracked him the moment he crawled out of bed, and every step was a wobbly gamble. He forgot spare clothes and had to backtrack, then couldn’t figure out how to clean up without taking a shower he didn’t have the energy for. All the while his head pounded, his throat stung, and eventually the whims of the virus brought him to the brink of feeble, fallout sneezes.

Finally, with his dirty clothes stuffed into the bottom of his suitcase and most of the sweat wiped off his skin, Omicron zombied his way back to the bed and collapsed face down. Some flailing got him purchase on the sheets, mercifully spared from most of his fluids, and at last he was horizontal. Of course the position dutched the congestion to a new angle. It tickled him.

Omicron huffed weakly, wearily, and  ducked under the cover of his blankets. “-iih’KIZSSH!’iuh…” Only the one. He sighed, rubbing the edge of his sheet beneath his fussy nose. Now, maybe he could just….

From the door there was the sound of a keycard clattering, then the latch lifting, and a boisterous pair of voices entered the room. “Honey, I’m home!”

Omicron buried his head under the blankets.

“Anita, he may not be awake..” That one was Delta. “Shouldn’t he rest?”

“The sooner I examine him, the better. Where-?.. ah! There you are.”

Omicron tightened his grip on the blankets, and was right to do so because seconds later there was a tug from the outside. It was hot and stuffy under the covers, hard to breathe, but he’d rather suffocate than deal with Anita Voster right now. She tugged again and he didn’t budge.

“Oho?” she tittered. “Trying to avoid treatment, mm? You should know better, Agent O.”

He remained tense, blinking weakly against a flutterish niggle. His nostrils flared, nervous, and he would have soothed them with a touch of his finger if his hands weren’t occupied. He scrunched his nose instead, squirming it side to side when the tickle didn’t abate. Dr. Voster was on the move, he’d lost track of her-...

“Anddd.. voila!”

Cold air and light entered his cocoon. She’d rounded the bed and flipped the covers up from the back side, which was a dirty move. A chill swept up his spine, prompting a shudder that shivered into a sneeze. 

“h-hhi’hHTSSsh!-hh..” He flinched his knees to his chest, tucking an arm around himself as he threw the other behind him for the covers. “Gih-..ig’IIZSSH!”

“Bless bless you,” she cooed in a playful tone that made him bristle. Her hand cupped his shoulder and pulled. “Now, let me see… oh.”

Her smile dropped away as she looked at him, lips parting in genuine surprise, her manicured eyebrows marching up toward her hairline. She was wearing an obnoxious summery ensemble, no doubt excited to exploit the mission for a few days at the beach. When no reply was forthcoming, Omicron glared at her. The ferocity of it was undercut when a twinge in his nose prompted a squeaky sniffle.

“.. Whad?” he croaked.

“You’ve never looked so pathetic before,” she said in wonder. “And I’ve seen you faint after getting a vaccine booster.”

It was an open secret that he hated injections as much as he hated the dentist, but everyone kindly agreed not to acknowledge it after that one time. He growled his words, snatching the blankets back from her. “The ndeedle was really big and you said you’d dnever mbendtion it againd.”

“Voster,” chided Delta, hands on his hips. “Please refrain from teasing him when he’s not feeling well. He’s under enough stress as it is.”

As infantilizing as it was as a grown man to have another grown man scold somebody on his behalf, Omicron shot her a smug look that she met with an arched brow. 

“Fine,” she sighed, and crossed to his side of the bed. “I guess I’ll cut him some slack. Omicron, sit up a little.”

There would be no getting out of this. Delaying the process would probably get him another lecture from Delta, so Omicron reluctantly shimmied to a half-reclining position, arms crossed to ward off chills as she sat gracefully on his bedside. She crossed a leg at the knee, reached for his face, and cool hands cradled his jaw. He let her move him as she wanted, wrinkling and wriggling his nose to keep it appeased. 

The sly bullying he expected didn’t come. Dr. Voster was professional when she asked, “Any fluctuations in symptoms since last night?”

“Umb.. ndot really..” Omicron sniffed sharply and swallowed. He considered leaving it there, but his promise to Delta wouldn’t let him. He mumbled through the rest and could only hope she understood what it meant. “.. there was an.. idncident this mborning. That I resolved.”

“Gotcha,” she said, and didn’t press. Omicron relaxed under her handling. She took his temperature (101.3°F / 38.5°C), tested his glands, pulled down the edges of his eyelids, and then at last took a cursory glance up his nostrils with a wince. “I didn’t think it was possible to see a sneeze but the inside of your nose looks like one.”

Apt, since he could feel it forming between his eyes. He leaned away out of her grip, and without any tissues in reach, Omicron shook his sleeves over his hands and tucked into them. “hh!MMPSSH!..” 

“Bless you,” chorused the other two. 

He surfaced briefly as the tickle toyed with him, playing his nerves like batons on a xylophone. Every note vibrated, compounding in harmony, cacophonous as it crested, “..aak’KZSCHue!.. hh?..hh..”

“Bless you,” chorused the other two, again. Anita passed over the tissue box but he could barely keep his eyes open and his breath from shaking. She took pity on him as his hitches became jagged, pitching in his upper register, and she held out a few in his direction just as he- heeee-!

“-ick’SSHIEW?!”

It relieved him, but his shoulders flinched to his ears at the embarrassingly high sound. Delta quickly turned away with a hand to his mouth and Dr. Voster snorted unabashedly.

“Bless yew!” she parroted, and he kicked her off the bed. She rolled with the momentum into a smooth dismount before plopping right back where she’d been. “I’m done, I’m done! But you owe me a couple free jabs after yelling at me yesterday, you know.”

Right. His stomach soured at the reminder, and he stared at the blankets with a sleeved swipe under his septum. “.. I’mb sorry about that. I shouldn’d have taken out my frustration on you. Or lied to you in the first place.”

Dr. Voster softened, the lines of her face smoothing into something genuine. “Mm, I’m sorry for my sloppy science. It’s my fault you’ve got such a lousy cold.” 

Omicron never knew what to say after such sentiments. He considered and tossed out several replies, still boring holes into the blankets with his gaze, until she reached up and flicked the tip of his nose. His inhale was a hitch into the next before he flinched down toward his chest. 

“h-h-H’TZssh!” He brought a sleeve to his nose belatedly, throwing a scowl her way. “Whad was that for?!”

“For lying to me about that other thing,” she said, leering over him with a grin. “... Seems like you really are the man-cold type.”

Omicron hurled his pillow at her, which she dodged and Delta caught one-handed when it soared across the room. His firm voice broke up a squabble before it could begin. “Enough, you two.” He fluffed the pillow and returned it to his sheepish subordinate before looking to Anita. “Well?”

“Either his immune system is reacting to the engineered virus, or somehow he’s caught another cold on top of this one,” she said. Both looked to Omicron, who was trying to blow his nose without popping an eardrum. “If it’s the former, the mission can proceed. If it’s the latter, we bench him. That’s my opinion as his physician.”

“I’b righd here,” Omicron grumbled behind a mask of tissues.

Delta ignored him. “How do we know which is the case?”

Dr. Voster reached for the medical bag on the floor by her feet, which Omicron only just now noticed was in her possession. “By administering a test,” she replied, digging through it. When she found what she sought, Anita presented it to Omicron with an apologetic smile. “You’re not going to like it though.”

He thought it was a syringe at first. Before he could react, she peeled open the thin package to show him what was inside. Somehow, it was worse. Delta hissed through his teeth and Omicron hovered a protective hand over his nose.

“No,” he told her, eyes glued to the offending object. “No, no. That’s not going to work.”

Dr. Voster twirled it between her fingers: a wickedly long plastic rod with a cotton tuft on the end. “A nasal swab is the fastest way, O.”

He shook his head, unable to look away from it. The sight alone caused his nose grief as the tickle found inspiration. Omicron did his best not to imagine how it would feel. “Anita, it’s not possible. I-.. I can’t evehhn.. look at- at it withhou..HH!with.. withhHHAH-”

Omicron jammed a finger beneath his nose and shoved the sneeze back inside. He could tell he’d be on a roll if he started, and while he’d literally just cum he was terrified this impending volley would get him going again. If at all possible, even if everyone was aware of the situation, he’d like to avoid erections in front of his fucking coworkers. He held his breath and waited until his pulsing nostrils quieted before letting it all go on a sigh. Pointedly, he avoided looking at the swab.

“Hmmmm,” Dr. Voster mused. “I wonder if we blindfolded you..”

“Trust me,” he said, knuckling his nose. It wasn’t happy he’d ignored its demands. “That’s not going to help.”

“Rather than hold them back, could you try holding them in?” Delta suggested.

“Absolutely not,” Dr. Voster said. “He’s terrible at it, and I wouldn’t recommend it anyway. Not everyone can be as proficient at stifling as you are, sir.”

Delta’s smile weakened, properly chastised, as Voster tilted her head back and pressed her palms on the bed. Her leg bounced in thought. The three of them sat in a contemplative silence broken only by Omicron’s sniffling before Anita slapped her hands to her knees and stood with purpose.

“There’s nothing for it,” she said. “You’ll just have to avoid sneezing.”

“I won’t be able to,” he told her. His cheeks flushed, and the flash of heat mingling with his fever made him tremble with a chill. Stubbornness alone wouldn’t deter her, so he forced out the rest with emphasis. “And it-.. might cause an unexpected symptom.”

That gave her pause, but only briefly. “When exactly did you last experience the culmination of this symptom?”

This was embarrassing. “... approximately ten minutes before you arrived.”

“And would you expect yourself to experience that again so quickly after the last occurance?”

Somehow, he felt miffed on behalf of his refractory period. “.... I guess not.”

“Then even if you sneeze your head off after this, you’ll be fine,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “If for some reason you’re not, it’s not a big deal. Agent Delta and I will just leave the room until it passes.”

I’d rather chew glass, Omicron thought, than have it come to that. The tickle nestled comfortably against his nerves, weighing his eyelids and prompting a reflexive sniffle. Cheeky bastard. He wouldn’t let it win this time. He grated the rough edge of his sleeve under his nostrils and squared his shoulders.

“Fine.” His flinty gaze locked onto the swab, his opponent in this battle. “Let’s do it.”

The other two exchanged a LookTM and preparation shortly followed. Delta announced he’d received a message from cyber security earlier that morning that required follow up, so he left to wire into the agency’s VPN in one of the hotel’s private conference booths. Voster snapped on some gloves and cracked open a fresh tissue box to place at Omicron’s elbow. He begrudgingly unearthed a wad of them to keep ready in his lap. Better safe than sorry.

Anita watched him carefully. “Would you like to get a few out before we start?”

If she was asking, he probably looked sneezy already. Omicron made an effort to sharpen his gaze and settle the tiny, twitching microexpressions that told plainly of a persistent tickle. “No. I want to get it over with.” He sniffled with a flutter of his nostrils. “Quickly.”

To her credit, Anita didn’t dawdle. “I’m administering a nasopharyngeal swab for the best results. If I can’t get enough from one sample, we’ll have to do the other nostril.”

Omicron nodded, tilting his chin when she stabilized him with a hand to his cheek. He blinked hard against a lurching itch as the swab came closer, hovering just in front of his flushed, prone nose.

“I need to rotate it for ten seconds, and then I’ll slowly remove it,” she told him. “Would it help if I counted?”

He flicked his gaze to the ceiling, hands fisted in the sheets over his lap. “Yes.”

“Alright, the count won’t start until I have it in place.” Dr. Voster eased his head back further, giving him a moment to arrange himself against his pillows before she touched the swab to the edge of one nostril. It pulsed, uncertain. “Here we go.”

This wasn’t Omicron’s first time with this particular type of swab. Normally he preferred it because of how deep it reached, so foreign and uncomfortable that a sneeze never crossed his mind. It was the shorter swabs, the ones that remained inside the borders of his persnickety nasal membranes that caused him agony. Maybe this wouldn’t be as bad as he feared? 

A second later that confidence was swiftly and callously dashed.

This cold was unlike any respiratory infection he’d ever had. It was engineered to inflame every cell of his airways, heighten them to such a state of paranoia that the very act of breathing registered as intrusive. This tickle wasn’t a physical thing; his nasal cavity was affected by such sensitivity that it inevitably itched and twitched and worked itself up into mayhem. Sneeze was the answer to every problem, even nonexistent ones. So to have himself in this state and introduce a material object into the mix was an instant and powerful regret.

The swab burned as it was threaded through his sinuses, razing his nerves as it went, and when the tip of it touched the back of his throat he could feel every millimeter of its length. He slammed his eyes shut. There was a brief moment of shock, as if his nose couldn’t quite believe what had happened. Then the swab began to spin.

His nostrils flew wide. “HHHHHHHH-”

“Shit,” muttered Voster. “Stay with me, c’mon, it’s just ten seconds.. Two….”

Just?! his brain screamed, overwhelmed by nasal panic and frantic to sneeze. Oh, he could feel it. An instant and oppressive demand. None of the usual hitching hesitation, just a massive and mandatory release sitting at the shores of his dilated nostrils. He couldn’t even communicate to Voster that it was coming. 

“.. Three, fight it…”

Omicron pinched himself as hard as he dared by digging his thumb into the pressure point of his other hand. It took the edge off the swab’s insidious stimulation and downgraded the sneeze from automatic to imminent. Lungs at capacity, all the air sat at the top. His body wouldn’t let him exhale without irritation-induced force. A pitiful sound escaped, heady and weak without breath behind it.

“-uuhh-”

“I know, we’re halfway, hang in there.. Six..”

God, this was torture. His nose throbbed with need, the insides puffy and convulsing. Please, they cried. It tickles so badly. Too much. We have to! He hovered just on the verge of the inevitable. Grinding harder into the pressure point on his hand dampened the sensation enough to keep it from progressing, but it never diminished. Just waited an inch from the finish line. Another high, helpless whimper trembled his chest.

“-huUH!-”

“Eight.. you’re doing great, Omicron, nine..” The hand on his cheek shifted to brace him firmly. “.. almost done, try to exhale..”

He couldn’t. His lungs wouldn’t let go. All he could do was live on the brink, tears skating down his cheeks and his features frozen in what he knew had to be a ridiculous face. Yearning or dreading, he didn’t know, but his entire expression flinched when the swab retreated. She was slowly pulling it out, still twirling it. He could feel the thin ropes of his control snapping, the dam crumbling, the glass shattering. An urgent, breathy shout slipped out, pure desperation, and it heralded something enormous.

“-HUUHH--!!!”

The swab slithered out of his nose completely, leaving behind a trail of unbearable sensation. “Okay! Y-”

“--HHEZZSSCCCHHHHUUUEE-!” Omicron hurled himself over his own lap, dizzied by the release, and gasped immediately for more. “-hH-HH!IIHZSSSSHH’UUh!!”

More. “-HH’AADZZSSCHH’HOO-!!”

More. “-HEH’DTSSHHH’HAH-!!”

More still. “ohh-.. HD’DIZZSHHHH’HUH!!”

But the relief wouldn’t come. His nose was so angry by the intrusion, it would give no quarter. Big, heaving sneezes weren’t doing the job, so he found himself next encumbered by small ones. They burst out of him in a row, each igniting a furious itch to prompt the next.

“ihDSH!-.. hck’ISSH!.. uh-HH’TZIshh!.. ugh, god-hHIH!” Omicron fought his eyes open through another gush of tears and caught a blurry glimpse of white. Oh right, the tissues. He gathered them up as his gaze rolled skyward, mouth agape and nostrils vast. It took a couple hitches before the tickle caught again. “h-hHT.. idzz..iiH!..mgh.. aH!KZSSCHH!”

He sneezed through his teeth, then belatedly raised the tissues. His eyes fluttered closed as even the soft touch of them pried another sneeze loose. They mounted in power as his nose, fed up with the lingering tickle the swab left behind, puppeteered him through an increasingly vicious fit.

“-h’ETZsh!... huh.. TZSSCH!ue… h-H!...EHPZSH’Iu!!-oohh..”

At last, a wave of pleasure rushed through his veins. It was faint, but after the hellish holdback and punishing sneezes, Omicron welcomed it. The knowledge there would be more spurred him onward; he breathed into the next ticklish swell with hope.

“uh-HHUH-HESZSCHUUE!” Cool prickles swept through his nose, soothing the frazzled nerves even as they clamored for another. Omicron complied. “heh.. HET’JZZSSSCHHOOO!-nngh..”

He shivered as his skin erupted with goosebumps. A warm, wonderful feeling unfurled in his gut. Head spinning, nose twitching, lungs hitching, he knew the end was close. He breathed deeply, relishing the way it tickled all the way down. Then-

“HEH…uh.. hHP’BIZSSSHHIEW!!-oooohhhh..”

Omicron massaged his nose through the tissues with quiet noises of relief until somebody clearing their throat caught his attention. With wet eyes, he raised his head to see Dr. Voster across the room mixing the swab in a vial with some sort of solution. She kept her attention on it as she spoke.

“Feeling better?”

He paused to cough and swallow. The fit left him raspy. “Yeah.”

“Any unexpected symptoms?” she asked. Fuzzy headed, Omicron looked down at his crotch. There was no tent under the covers, and while he felt boneless, he wasn’t turned on.

“Ndo.”

“Great!” Dr. Voster chirped. “In other good news, I got enough particulate matter on the first try that we won’t have to do it again.” She continued her work, but glanced over to shoot him a smile. “Bless you a dozen, by the way.”

“Thagks,” he huffed, then collapsed back onto the mattress with the solace of a job finished. 

It took a few minutes for him to clean himself up, and as he got his wits about him, he was appreciative that Voster kept herself busy so he could tend to his nose without scrutiny. His pleasant haze dissipated and Omicron realized he was totally spent. His head hurt, as did his throat, and his abs were aching. Once he was huddled under the covers, Anita swung by with a bottle of water and hushed instructions to take another fever reducer, which he did without complaint.

Some time passed. He didn’t know how much. One moment he was nodding off to the tinkling the whirs of Voster’s on-the-go mini-laboratory, and the next he was startling awake to a door opening. For a split second he forgot where he was, what was happening, but then a hand smoothed over his hair. 

“Just Delta,” came Anita’s voice. Tension left his sore muscles and he melted back into the mattress. For once his nose took pity on him, smoldering with a widespread ticklish sensation he could chase away by pinch-rubbing the sides of his nostrils.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to wake you!” was Delta’s contrite greeting. Omicron cracked open dry eyes to see the man coming around the bedside, eyebrows turned up in dismay. “Sorry, Omicron.”

“S’fide,” he replied, voice creaking, and he had to turn his head into the pillow to cough. Fuck, felt like he’d swallowed a sword and left it there.

“Goodness, you sound terrible.” Delta turned anxious eyes to Dr. Voster, who was leaning a hip against her makeshift workstation at the desk by their balcony doors. “Did you get the results?”

“Yep,” she said, cheerfully brandishing the culture sample. “No secondary infection. He’s just having a pronounced immune response to the engineered strain.” Here, she smirked at the Omicron-shaped lump on the bed. “And being very dramatic about it.”

Delta caught the pillow lobbed in her direction before it could knock any lab equipment over. He arranged it back on the bed, then passed his hand over Omicron’s brow. The smaller man let him, closing his eyes as the cool touch moved to his cheek, to his neck, then glided to his shoulder to offer a reassuring pat.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Please be honest.”

Omicron thought of the mission. It didn’t escape him that Dr. Voster confirmed he wasn’t actually sick. His body thought he was, but with proper symptom management he could see this assignment to the end. Josaline would probably love seeing him like this; hopefully her husband would too. 

“Ndot great,” he admitted, and Delta’s puppy-dog expression ramped up tenfold. Omicron rolled his eyes before he could stop himself. “I’b ndot dying, sir. If I get someb rest, I’ll be ready for tomborrow.”

The fact that he’d said all this without even sitting up likely undercut his claims, but Omicron truly believed it. When the time came, he’d rally. He always did. Delta considered him for a long moment before plopping down onto the other bed with a dejected bounce.

“Even if that’s the case, the situation has changed,” he said, lacing his fingers together between his knees. “I got word from Ops that there were attempted hacks into multiple independent identification networks for a ‘Nicolas Foster.’”

Omicron struggled up onto his elbows. 

.. So, they were onto him. At the very least, they were wary of his cover. This wasn’t entirely unexpected. At the agency they explored every outcome, including this one. Josaline Jewel was a suspected cyber criminal. She was rich enough, powerful enough, smart enough to avoid the law. They’d chased her for years. This outcome wasn’t unexpected, but it still ripped a hole through Omicron’s sails.

All this work, he thought, blinking away a sting behind his eyes. For nothing? Because I wasn’t good enough?

“Don’t despair,” Delta commanded. “The hacks left traces and the cyber team is on it. It’s possible they’ll identify a source, and if they do, we can hack them back. This is a victory.”

It didn’t feel like one. Omicron slouched against the headboard, sniffling and sniffling as he compartmentalized any emotions he felt on the matter. Hopefully the others would attribute it to his cold. He nodded at Delta’s words, casting around for his tissue box. He’d knocked it off the bed at some point. Anita silently fetched it from the floor. 

“Intel also shows that they have not left the resort,” Delta continued, gaze glued to Omicron as the man piled tissues under his nostrils. “This suggests they either found nothing dubious in your cover, which I doubt, or…” 

Here, Delta paused and gave his subordinate a little ‘go on’ wave. Omicron flushed, but did as he was told. One big, trembling breath and then a gurgling nose blow. As always, it was much louder than he wanted and yet again he asked himself what unspeakable deed he’d done to deserve this level of karmic retribution. His nose didn’t feel refreshed afterward; rather, it was peeved. He wrinkled the bridge against a dull, undulating tickle.

“Or?” he prompted.

“Or.. they know you’re not who you say you are, but want to meet with you anyway.”

.. Could they be that horny? Omicron mused, swatching the length of his forefinger back and forth beneath restless nostrils. He recalled his time with Josaline by the pool. Yes, probably.

Sniffling, he asked, “Does this chhh..change anything?” 

“They didn’t hack our network directly, so they have no idea what your true identity is or who you work for,” Delta said. “But the nature of the encounter will be unpredictable.”

Red-rimmed eyes tightened at the corners and he gave up on the finger method in favor of tissues. He spoke as he gathered them, his voice wavering into breathier territory as the tickle took shape.

“I c-.. cahhn.. hh..handle unpredict-t.. tahbBBZZSH!” He caught it one handed, not bothering to open his eyes as he lowered the tissues just enough to continue as he contended with an encore. “.. I can handle that.. hhah..” A sharp sniffle. “.. but I doubt they’d t-.. they’d tehh.. hih!PPZSH’uh!.. nguh, tell mbe adythi’g..”

“Well about that, bless you, we need them occupied and away from electronics if we attempt a hack.”

Omicron squinted over his tissues. “So I’d be..”

“A distraction, yes.”

The original mission was to extract incriminating information from the target, but considering the new variables at play, this new directive would be just as effective. Honestly, with this cold, Omicron wasn’t sure he could finesse a subtle interrogation with stellar results. Acting as smoke and mirrors for the cyber team, however.. 

“..hh!uhh.. hHT-”

That, he could definitely do.

“-DZSSh’oo!”

/tbc!

Next up, the big date!! ♨️ Apologies to anyone who was hoping for the threesome this chapter 😅 Had to indulge my rabid desire for hurt/comfort lol. A big huge thank you to anyone reading who’s stuck around!! My next update might be a little slow because of work stuff, but hoping to have it up in a decent time frame. See you soon! 🥰

Firstly, he absolutely could not stop sneezing. It was simply impossible. He’d swaggered to his plushy recliner with hubris and paid for it about 57 minutes later after dutifully repressing every single rising urge that niggled his sinuses over the course of the hour. It grew and grew in him, increasingly worrisome in its size, until the tickle was just too strong to hold at bay. No amount of snorting, nose blowing, or finger rubbing would ward it back.

It forced him at metaphorical gunpoint to the closet-like bathroom, blindly staggering through tears and wrenching hitches, where he dropped to a crouch and then to his backside with almost a dozen cataclysmic sneezes. Each one worked his lungs like a bellows, dizzying him until he saw spots, winding him until he felt breathless. By the end he was wrecked, and clinging perilously to his self control. He realized then that his sneezing wouldn’t bring him to orgasm alone; it could only lead him to the edge and trap him there until he finished the job himself. Which he obviously couldn’t do in the agency’s aircraft lavatory.

So. He gave up on the ‘don’t sneeze until the jet lands’ plan.

Instead, Omicron washed his face, dried his hands, and resigned himself to minding his nose’s whims. His original hypothesis was correct - if he did nothing to deter his sneezes, they’d come at regular, but controllable, intervals. This remained consistent as long as he didn’t make the other critical error.

Which led him to the second issue: if his mind strayed too far toward anything sneeze-related, he armed the tickle with more ammo. His sneezes became unwieldy if he held them back, yes, but they also magnified to arousing proportions if he imagined literally anything tickling his nose. This was the hallmark of Dr. Voster’s virus - the ‘suggestion sneeze.’ So to avoid a case of blue balls, Omicron did his best not to ruminate on the ceaseless, beckoning sensation that lived in him now. This was by far the most trying aspect of his predicament.

And the third and final bit of info was an exasperating realization: Agent Delta was a chronic and committed blesser even in these circumstances.

“H-ah.. DZSshuh!” 

“Bless you.”

Omicron resisted the urge to rub his nose, and instead treated it to a dab from his beleaguered tissue. Any motion more substantial than that would goad it into further misbehavior. He wasn’t interested in another stumbling trip to the bathroom.

“Sir.” He sounded as congested as he felt; his voice was locked up in his sinuses. “You really don’t have to bless me every time.”

Delta patted Omicron’s knee. The two of them sat side by side, despite the sea of empty seats around them. “Aw, Omicron, you keep saying that. I really don’t mind.”

I mind, groused Omicron. That’s why I keep saying it. His gaze drifted to the porthole window and all the little, passing structures beneath. The ground drew closer meters at a time, just as the tickle, yet again, tugged him closer to a conclusion he’d given up fighting. He blinked wetly against the sensation, then let his eyes fall shut. The image of the tiny cars cruising down below lingered, each one speeding undeterred to a destination. They were perpetual. Indefinite. And it was far beyond Omicron’s ability to stop their momentum.

He felt the tickle lurch forward, ripping his breath into a shuddering, “-hUH!hh.. mbb..” Omicron swatched his finger beneath his nose, pausing when the tickle reprimanded him with a lancing spark. “eh-HEH!..hh..”

Hurry up already, he chided with a daring snub to his nose. His nostrils pulsed erratically, aggravated, and another gasp shivered out of him. “h-hh-hh.. HAH-TZSS!sss’uhh..”

“Bless you!” chirped Delta.

It was a particularly unsatisfying sneeze, and ridiculous as it was he felt mocked by his own nose. Omicron sniffled, sniffled again, trying to flare the tickle into action. But it wouldn’t budge. He dug at his eyes with his palms.

“Does your head hurt?” asked Delta.

Omicron dropped his hands and leaned his head back against the seat with another defeated sniffle. “Ndo, sir. Mby head doesn’d hurt.”

“Do you need more tissues?”

His fingernails bit into the palm of his hand. “Ndo, sihHH-”

Unwilling to endure another hygiene lecture, Omicron flinched both elbows to his face and kept his nose there. He heaved through a series of increasingly yearning breaths, light on the inhales, heavy on the exhales, shoulders lifting and dropping each time he thought the sneeze might grant him mercy. In the end it left him wanting. He dropped his arms and panted, eyes still closed, cheeks streaked with tears.

Delta cleared his throat and Omicron lulled his head in that direction, squinting through sticky eyelashes. His superior held a fresh pack of tissues in offering, and Omicron’s cheeks heated. How many of these did he bring??

He didn’t snatch them, but it was a near thing. Delta’s smile tilted with sympathy, and Omicron prickled like a wet cat. “You can vent your complaints to me if you want, I don’t mind.”

“Not sure what you mean,” he muttered through gritted teeth, scrubbing his nose with intentional strength. It stung, but served it right. 

“It’s okay to be grumpy, Omicron.” Delta spoke like he was soothing a startled horse. “I’m sure this is a tricky situation to manage.”

What remained of Omicron’s professional decorum disintegrated, and he snapped with a waspish, “What would you know?”

Delta’s eyebrows flew up and Omicron’s blood flashed cold. He hadn’t meant to say that. 

“P...Pardon mbe, sir,” he mumbled and lowered his tissue with a sniff. “I apologize. That was uncalled for.”

“Yes, it was,” Delta agreed, his tone contemplative. “But it was also very out of character for you. I’ve seen you stay composed during triage for a gunshot wound. Just what about this has you so out of sorts?”

Admitting to Delta that there was more to this than simply sneezing - disclosing the induced erections that were slowly eroding his self control - would be professional suicide. Even if this side effect wasn’t Omicron’s fault, it was his responsibility to manage. This was a chance to prove himself, and if he screwed it up he’d never get this chance again. That’s just how it was at the agency.

He’d have to lie. Lie until he could deflect. 

“Dnothi’g, sir,” he said. “It jhhust tih.. iih..ckles-hh..hH..” Omicron’s eyelids fluttered and he crushed his crumpled tissue to his face. 

Please, please, please, he found himself begging as the itch crawled around behind his eyes. Give me a good one.

Against his better judgement, a smoky silhouette sprung to his mind’s eye. Something lithe and graceful, skulking through his nasal passages heedless of the sorry state of them. It glided across raw nerves, pausing to snuggle against their warmth as Omicron sliced his lungs with a gasp. Then dragged the breath back out on a groan. Fuck, he could feel it. Could feel the dimensions of the tickle as it prowled and pawed, arched and sprawled, coy in its torture. He could feel his nerves recoil, his nostrils spasm - a panicked cry for action.

“h-YEH!hh..oh.. hh-HEH-” 

Omicron panted as the tickle receded, plumeing into an indistinct but irritating mist. Like a phantom it spread through him, coating his quaking membranes as it drifted deeper.. deeper.. deeper still. It filled his nose with a sensation too ambiguous to do much more than hopelessly itch. His hiccuping breaths eased to stillness; he was trapped on this plateau, punished by a tickle that wouldn’t grow. It merely wanted to endure. A bit frantic, Omicron tried to grasp onto a more solid visual. It didn’t matter what it was, it could be anything, just so long as- 

“Agent Omicron?”

The torturous mist evaporated, leaving his nose singed and no longer imminently sneezy. It took substantial restraint for Omicron not to pound his armrest in abject, miserable frustration. He blew his nose in defeat, raked his sleeves over his cheeks to clear the tears, and sniffled. His nose squeaked in reply. 

“.. I don’t think I can adequately communicate how annoying this is, sir.”

“Well, it really must be a bother if it’s making you pout like this.”

Omicron puffed up in offense and casted for a snide reply before he remembered that this was his boss. He bit his tongue, figuratively and literally. “It’s true this is testing my patience,” he said, “but I assure you that it won’t impact my performance. I’ll achieve nothing less than exceptional results. And respectfully, sir, I’m not pouting.”

Then he shimmied in his seat to face the window.

Agent Delta considered him with a skeptical eye, and as someone who knew the extent of his subordinate’s gifts he was right to do so. Deception was something of Omicron’s specialty. Trained in the art of information extraction, he excelled at becoming whomever a target wanted to see: a cautious creative type, a severe and dismissive businessman, the gullible boy next door or the leather-clad motorcyclist your friends warned you about. This ability, among other qualities, landed him this case.

But tricking a stranger he’d researched for weeks and swindling his superior officer were two different beasts.

“As you say,” Delta conceded to Omicron’s back. 

The jet’s landing gear grazed the runway.

+ + +

The destination was tropical, but close enough to a coastline that the heat wasn’t stifling. Their resort hotel was nothing short of opulent, offering amenities such as: a grand carpeted staircase, bellhops in uniform, and over a dozen glittering chandeliers. They’d changed into their civilian clothes before entering to better blend in. Well, blend was a strong word for Agent Delta; he wore Bermuda shorts with an equally garish aloha shirt printed with hibiscus flowers. Omicron doubted it was an officially sanctioned garment. He himself donned something understated - khaki shorts, boat shoes, and a white v-neck t-shirt. A pair of gold aviator sunglasses sat on top of his head.

He’d done what he could for his nose. When he caught sight of it in the jet’s bathroom mirror just before they deplaned, he could understand why Delta kept needling him. The skin was blushed an obscene red, the color deepest at his nostrils and fanning out across his septum, cupid’s bow, and as far up to the bridge of his nose. He also hadn’t been aware of how much it moved on its own, incessantly prodded by the tickle inside. Looking at himself too long just made him feel sneezier, and Omicron had braced his hands on the bathroom counter with helpless hitching until he coughed out a single, underwhelming, ih’BZSch!

Now watching Delta check in at the front desk from across the hotel lobby, Omicron tempered his trembling nostrils with a touch of his index finger. Settle down, he bargained. Stop teasing me.

His phone vibrated against his thigh. It was a burner; he got a fresh phone for every assignment and didn’t keep a personal cell. A glance at the number told him exactly who it was. He lifted it to his ear.

“Make it quick, Doctor,” he said. “I’m onsite.”

“Well, hello to you too, Mr. Grouch!” Dr. Voster trilled. His mood further soured at her enthusiasm. “New phone again, huh? How’d you know it was me?”

“I memorized your number.”

“Because I’m your favorite?”

Omicron wrinkled his nose. “I memorize all my numbers. Don’t get excited.”

“You really know how to make a woman feel special, O.”

“Did you want something?” he asked, eyes on Delta as the man chatted amiably with the clerk. His nostrils twinged and he gave them an appeasing rub. “I’m busy.”

“Just checking in. How’s your nose doing?”

As if to answer, the tickle squirmed. Omicron snorted reflexively and rubbed more sternly against his sore septum.

“You’re calling at..” He checked his watch. “..1:15 in the morning your time to ask about my nose?”

“Your viral load should be pretty high by now,” she replied, sounding wide awake despite the hour. “I want to know how it feels.”

“It feels-” He’d been gearing up for a snarky remark, but it died on his tongue. Between one breath and the next something changed. His nostrils slowly flared, grazing his finger where it rested against his lip.

“… it feels?” prompted Dr. Voster.

To his credit, Omicron tried. “I-hht.. h’tzuh..” 

But then his eyes flickered shut as he became entranced by that incurable tickle. It advanced slowly, enormous in his nose, lumbering forward and promising him a bounty. The swell would have intimidated him if he hadn’t been waiting for the better part of a day. He dropped his finger from his lip and braced his hand against the wall instead. If this was as big as it felt, he’d need it to stay on his feet.

“hUH-… ugh..” A sharp sniff, and a mutter under his breath. “..chhome on.. h-hh-!”

Fuck, it was oppressive. Omicron cinched his eyes tightly shut as he eased a breath through his tingling nose. It didn't hasten the advance, only threw gasoline on a raging fire. The tickle licked at his nasal nerves, which began to spasm in alarmed reply. Suddenly he was gulping down air, hitching so loudly it felt lewd.

“hah!hh.. uHH!h.. HUH-.. HUH-.. HUH-!”

The fire burned on, colossal and all consuming, demanding so much of him that his lungs filled to the brim. He could feel his head ratcheting by degrees, twitching back even when he could take no more air. If he could open his eyes, he’d probably see the shimmer of those fancy chandeliers. The tickle seethed for an agonizing moment. A quiet ache of pleasure twisted his gut. And then-

“WRRUZZSSSSHOOO!!”

Ecstasy. 

“HHHH-!.. RRIHSSSSCH’YUU!”

It scraped through him thoroughly with a crack of throbbing relief. Dazedly, he hitched anew. In, in, in-

“h-hH-HH-” And out in one fell swoop. “HPT’ZSSSCHOOO!!..nnngh..”

Omicron thanked himself for the foresight of leaning against the wall. Otherwise he’d probably be on the ground, or at the very least staggering aimlessly as his sneezes tossed him around. His nose didn’t seem to know what to do, other than grant him another.

“HAH’DIZSSSH’uh!”

And another.

“HEH’YIIZSSCHOO!ohhh..”

He gasped for breath, the hand holding his phone routing to his sternum. He could feel his heart hammering, his chest heaving. Each time he sneezed, his abs clenched. And with each release, a cloying ache spread through his groin. He was probably erect by this point but-

“Hih-.. HIHBISSSH’YAHhh!”

He didn’t want to stop. Omicron breathed deeply into the tickle, feeling it paint the inside of his nose with a swath of sensation. Something speared into his sinuses - the probing tip of a paintbrush, a thin piece of twine, a fiendish little intruder intent on undoing him.

“IIH’TIZZSCH’iu!!”

His lungs emptied and replenished themselves with another single, flowing breath. Despite his light-headedness and unsteady legs, Omicron felt himself smiling. 

“HHHH!.. EHJZZSSHUE!!’hhhooohh by god..”

It resonated pleasantly, like he struck his body with a tuning fork, and the trancelike need to sneeze, gasp, sneeze finally ebbed. The tickle receded, mollifying his nose in its tide. He could still feel it floating around in his sinuses somewhere, sated for now but impossible to fully satisfy. And of course his dick wasn’t satisfied in the slightest. His balls ached terribly. He’d had the good sense to arrange himself before entering the hotel lobby, fully aware he might find himself in this predicament in public. Again.

A voice spoke intelligibly, muffled against his shirt. Oh right, the phone. He put it back to his ear.

“What?” he panted.

“Did those feel good?”

He sniffled and fended off a full body shiver. “Don’d all sdeezes feel good?”

“Mm. Yeah.” Her tone was weirdly stilted. “Well. So. This is awkward, but I might have-”

Omicron tuned her out as he gathered himself. He was in dire need of a tissue, and he’d caught his own shirt in the crossfire of those last few sneezes. A quick scan of the room confirmed that just about every guest and employee saw him letting loose without even an attempt to cover his mouth. Many people were staring, including Agent Delta. The man was agog, but as Omicron stared back, he got the prickling feeling that it wasn’t him Delta was looking at. It was a second after that when he heard who exactly caught his superior’s eye. 

“Bless you.”

He clocked the voice before he turned, which gave him a split-second to prepare his expression. He arranged a look of chagrined surprise and hung up the phone on a still-nattering Anita.

“Oh!” He jumped, and flashed a shy smile. “Thagk you.”

She was taller in person, with legs a mile long and hair falling in thick waves to her waist. She wore burgundy lipstick, accentuating the plush shape of her mouth. A voluptuous woman, her Bohemian ensemble framed her curves and flowed around her like a modern renaissance painting. Her jewelry spoke of wealth, her painted nails spoke of elegance, and her eyes concealed a careful fire. 

She held out a pair of sunglasses. Mine, Omicron realized.

“You dropped these.”

He took them from her with a chuckle. “Ah, jeez, that’s embarrassi’g.” He sniffled and didn’t miss her swift glance at his nose. “I really mbade a spectacle of mbyself. Sorry about that.”

“Not at all,” she said. Her voice was dark velvet, soft and sophisticated. “I’m sure you couldn’t help it.”

Omicron juggled his phone and his sunglasses, keeping his eyes on her as he unearthed a half-empty package of travel tissues. He kept up his sniffling, in part for her benefit and also because his nose dripping onto his shirt was an imminent concern.

“Yeah, I’b kind of a mbess todahhy..” He tried to keep his eyes open even as they fogged with emergent tears. His voice scratched against a tender throat, tremoring around little hitching hiccups. “I do-hh!T huh.. don’t eved doe where th.. hh-hH!..mbghh, where all thad came fromb I-hhH!.. ndormally don’d sdnee-”

It overpowered him suddenly. He just barely rushed a tissue to his nose in time.

“hiH’TISsh’oo!” Back to the regulars, and just one didn’t quite cut it. Omicron huffed his way to a second. “..uh.. hck’KSSH’u!.. ugh..”

“Bless you,” she said.

That took care of the itch (for now). He wavered on his feet, fawn-legged from his earlier fit, and muttered a guttural “Pardod be” as he ducked away to noisily blow his nose. It took several tissues before he deemed himself presentable and by the time he got all the used ones shoved into his shorts pockets, he turned back around to see his sunglasses being offered to him again. 

Omicron chuckled hoarsely as he took them from her. “I should probably start carrying a spare pair, at this rate.”

There was an amused tilt to her lips. “Perhaps.”

He shared in her smile until the pause between them stretched a little too long. Then he jolted into awkward conversation. “Ah, um- where’s my manners, jeez, I’m Nicolas.”

Nicolas Foster, his cover for this operation: an under-the-weather tourist in town for a destination wedding.

She inclined her head to him gracefully and held out her hand. “Josaline.”

Josaline Jewel, his target: business mogul of the fashion world with a clothing line, makeup brand, and lucrative designer bag collection all sold exclusively online. The agency suspected her of extensive cybercrime; Omicron’s job was to uncover any signs of money laundering, malware manufacture, or identity theft.

“I’d shake your hand,” he said with a self-conscious scrub of his palms against his shorts and another self-deprecating laugh, “but I’ve been sniffly all morning, I’m sorry.”

“Oh?” Again her gaze flashed to his nose when he wrinkled it with a sniffle. “Are you not feeling well?”

He sniffled again as he fiddled with his sunglasses, bashful. “I’m still hoping it’s the jet-lag, but it feels like I’m coming down with something, yeah.”

He punctuated this with a wrist swipe beneath his warm, chapped nostrils. They flared to caution him against further meddling. Josaline crooned in sympathy.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Doubt it, he thought to himself as he offered a warm smile. “That’s really sweet of you to say. Thanks.”

Omicron researched sneeze fetishes as thoroughly as he cased intel on Josaline Jewel. Operatives observed her engaging with unfamiliar men at industry events or galas, escorting them off the dancefloor and into private quarters. All these men had two things in common: they were shorter than she was, and they were at the time afflicted with sneezing. Though she didn’t seem deterred by illness, the agency lacked further details. To fill his void of knowledge, Omicron dove headfirst into a world of niche kinks; he read and watched a towering amount of sneezy content, some of it about fictional characters he’d never even heard of. But he left the experience a more educated man, enlightened and prepared to perform. Now it would be a game of discerning Josaline’s preferences.

“What brings you to town, if I might ask?” Josaline asked. She took a hesitating step in her peep-toe wedges and Omicron followed the cue to walk with her.

“A friend’s wedding,” he said, and it became obvious that his increasingly wet sniffles required maintenance. He sighed as fished around for his last clean tissue. “He’s an old college buddy, super nice guy. The wedding’s not until next week, but I had some time saved up at work and the flights were cheaper on weekdays, so..” Tissue acquired. “..I guess it worked out pretty well.”

“Do you enjoy traveling alone?” she asked, setting a sedate pace across lush carpet and spotless tile. “I find it invigorating, but it can be a little lonely now and then.”

He blotted gently at his nostrils. They fussed at the treatment, jerking and fidgeting against his fingers. Yes, that’s right, Omicron goaded. Tickle me. Go on. The virus humored him, unfurling and sauntering forward with ambition. Instantly his eyelids got heavy, and his voice grew heady.

“Oh, I couldn’t afford this place by mys-.. mys-hhelf..” He kept the tissue tucked to his face this time, muffling his voice and obscuring her view of anything but his fluttering eyes. “I’m hhuh-” 

The tickle got to work, trailing feather-light fingers along his nasal walls. They writhed, trapped and helpless to the whims of a persistent itch. It stroked sensitive places, unhurried and secure in the knowledge he could do absolutely nothing to stop it. He tried to speak around the buildup, each breath a little blip or sigh he couldn’t repress.

“Ho, sorry, I’m rooHH-!.. uh.. rooming with another frihhend whose… als-uHH’h..H-H!” 

He paused as the tickle escalated, now lounging indulgently as it guided him to a gasping high. Its approach was always rhythmic, an everlasting titillation that magnified as the tolerance of his nose diminished. Omicron shot Josaline an apologetic glance over the edge of his tissue and found her looking right at him. For the first time she lost composure, and hurriedly ducked behind a lock of her hair.

“.. Are you alright?” she asked, staring at the floor as they continued to stroll.

Omicron cringed through another playful swipe of the tickle, like fingers made purely of fluff skimming up the length of his nose. He gasped hugely, certain it would come, but then let it out on a near-moan. “..ohhh, sorry- it’s this cold, I-.. Iyyiieee..HH! iG’GZZSCHhu!”

It was a little stronger than he thought it would be. Instinctually he flashed a hand out and anchored his grip to whatever was nearby. The tickle gave him another long, firm stroke and his nerves begged mercy. 

“HIH!PPSSHh’oo!” And another lancing tickle, like washing your car with a sponge, running your hand along a cat’s back, a frictionless glide but it was malicious in its softness and it agitated his nose into rebellion. With one hand, Omicron sealed the tissue more tightly over his nose and mouth. “MMPPHSssh!”

He emptied his remaining air in a desperate blow. His nose tingled with temporary relief. The single, brave tissue did its best, but he’d absolutely need to wash his hands and find another fresh package as soon as possible. Picking his head up, he balled up the trash and knuckled his nose with his fist.

“Sorry, that was gross, I’m-” Genuine anxiety prickled in him as he looked up and realized his other hand was clasped firmly to her upper arm. That was an accident. Omicron flinched away and clung white-knuckled to his disguise. “-SO sorry, oh jeez, I really didn’t mean to grab you like that, I wasn’t- I just, I had to sneeze and then it felt like it was gonna be a big one so I-.. guess I reached for whatever was around, I wasn’t thinking…”

Josaline stood and silently let him run out of steam. A molten heat pooled in her irises. A rose tint glazed her cheeks. She lifted her purse, an understated but expensive clutch with a golden chain, and popped it open.

“Not at all, Nicolas.” Her words melted from her lips. “I truly don’t mind.”

She slipped a swatch of white fabric from her bag and shook it. It unfurled like a flag of surrender, and she held it out with a coy smile. He lifted his finger once again to his nose to graze it just beneath his itchy nostrils and felt a telling touch of moisture. His ears flushed and her smile grew.

“Oh gosh, sorry, that’s..” Cupping one hand over his nose, he reached with the other. “Thank you, Josaline.”

Omicron took the handkerchief and paused when she didn’t let go. Their eyes met.

“I do hope this won’t be the last we see of one another,” she told him. 

Just behind her, the elevator dinged. He blinked, only just noticing where exactly they were. She stepped back into the gilded lift, leaving him with her handkerchief and one last view of her burgundy smile. Then the doors closed. Omicron dropped his shoulders and blew a slow breath from his cheeks. Initial contact: not a catastrophe. Step two: arrange a serendipitous rendezvous.

Agent Delta appeared beside him. Omicron was certain he’d watched it all from a covert corner. He spoke softly, so as not to be overheard. “This is going swimmingly. Well done.”

Omicron ignored his heart’s little leap at the praise. He didn’t like to count chickens before they hatched. His mind raced to assemble all that he’d learned, the pieces of what intrigued her. “Thank you, sir.” 

“Nicolas.” Omicron looked at him, and resisted shooting the man a withering glare when Delta brightly grinned and said, “Your nose is running.”

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Omicron snipped. “I’m aware.”

He tucked into the handkerchief. It was a balm to his sore nose after so many cheap tissues. The cotton was of superb quality, probably with a thread count higher than his bed sheets back home. Omicron nuzzled into it to snuffle and blow; seconds later, he realized with dawning dread that this was the wrong thing to do. For while this handkerchief was freshly laundered, it was also steeped with an overpowering perfume.

The tickle took umbrage with this. It bristled in his nose like a startled cat, sinking claws into his tender membranes and whipping its tail angrily against the sensitized border of his sinus. He couldn’t even suck a breath in before-

“Tssh! Ih’TSsh!.. HSH’u!” He ripped his nose away from the handkerchief, holding the cloth away from him with revulsion. “Hih’KSSh!.. h’KZSh’iu! Ugh!”

“Ooh, bless you, bless you.”

The handkerchief disappeared, and without any other options, he buried his nose into the prayerbook of his hands.

“IHPsh!.. h’PZSsch!.. fugk, ednough, plhHE- HH!BZSSh!”

“Bless you!”

At last it abated. He could imagine the tickle huddled far back in his nose, growling low as it continued to lash its tail. Omicron sniffled behind his hands and coughed from the effort.

“It’s impossible to say whether she doused this intentionally or not,” mused Delta, studying the handkerchief. He tried to pass the offending item back to Omicron, who shrunk away from it. He didn’t want it anywhere near his nose. “She couldn’t have known you were allergic.”

“I’b dnot allergic,” Omicron argued through gritted teeth. Delta gave him a look that plainly said, I don’t believe you, but I’ll humor you because you’re irascible and sneezy. Omicron fantasized about strangling him with a garrote. 

They took the elevator up in silence. Delta passed over another package of tissues and Omicron plowed through several of them. More garbage to add to his pocket collection. He’d have to unload once he got to his hotel room, and used tissues weren’t the only load on his mind. His erection had yet to flag. It was easy to ignore during his conversation with the target, focused as he was on his work, but with nothing to distract him Omicron was getting tense and eager for alone time.

Which is why he balked when Delta tried to follow him into his hotel room. Omicron stopped just over the threshold. “Is this your room?”

“It’s our room.”

Omicron’s grip tightened on the doorknob. He’d been lying when he told Josaline he had a roommate. That was his cover story, yes, but not the actual plan. “I thought we were bunking separately.”

“I’ve reconsidered,” Delta replied, and while his tone was light there was a finality to his tone. “Sharing a room will reinforce our cover, and given this is your first high stakes case I’d rather stick close to support you on the ground.” He fixed Omicron with a pointed stare. “Unless there’s a reason you’d rather not share?”

Oh, you bastard, he seethed. You know what I’m going to say. Delta was already suspicious - giving him anymore ammo would just worsen things for Omicron. His hand slid off the knob. “Of course not, sir.”

There were so many reasons Omicron would rather not share a room with Agent Delta. He preferred solitude over company, silence over noise, and Delta was the opposite. The senior agent prattled about nonsense while awake and he snored very loudly while asleep. He hovered around Omicron all evening and compulsively blessed his sneezes and bullied him into watching crappy reality television shows. The hotel room was excellent, but small; there was no opportunity for privacy. The silver-lining was that there were two beds so they didn’t have to share.

After unpacking, discussing tomorrow’s plans, and sharing an array of delivery boxes from Panda Express while they watched some inane matchmaking show, Omicron collapsed into bed with a heavy head. All the congestion settled behind his eyes, and both nostrils were blocked as soon as he reclined. He jammed the charger into his phone with stuffy grunts of exasperation and then noticed the flurry of missed calls and text messages from Dr. Voster lighting up his screen. They were hours old, most of them berating him for hanging up on her and demanding that he call her back.

But it was late, he was tired, and surely by now she was asleep. He’d catch up with her tomorrow.

+ + +

Steamy hot water fell around him, sliding warm down his skin and thickening the air. Omicron tilted his head back. He hitched a single breath, and shuddered it out on a voiced sigh. “..huh..”

He braced his hands more securely against the shower walls and steadied his feet beneath him. He woke this morning with post-nasal drip and a too-big tickle in his nose. Just as Delta said before, it stockpiled power in his sleep and by the time he came to bleary consciousness, he could feel the itch in every nook and cranny of his respiratory system. It wanted out.

The tickle scuffled with his weary sinuses and his lungs snagged with a sharp gasp, “Hih!” and another slow, yearning sigh. “..hhuhhh..”

His prick throbbed and he brought a soaped-up hand down to grip the shaft. He was rock-hard, woke up that way, too muddled with arousal and tickling misery he could do nothing but stumble to the shower. Another grungy sniffle roused the tickle to action; it shimmied in the confined space, touching every nerve with its feathery borders. It was such an overpowering sensation that he couldn’t actually sneeze. Only suffer.

“h-H-HH!” Both he and the tickle waited, but to no avail. He deflated with a moan. “.. hhh-uuuhhhh..”

Omicron stroked himself, stepping forward to press an arm to the cool tile wall and lean his forehead there as he lost himself to the climb. Sneeze or no sneeze, he was going to come. Muggy air coaxed a dry cough, a snuffling breath, another flexing fidget from the tickle. It didn’t settle afterward, but instead began to twist and turn. Thrash and flail. His nose shuddered helplessly in the onslaught. Yes, yes, yes, chanted Omicron as his nostrils pulsed. That’s it. Tickle me.

He smoothed his thumb over his slit, arching forward. He panted hot breath against the sweaty tile. Water pounded down against his shoulder blades, muscles shifting beneath skin as the tickle wriggled and wormed against its prison. His nose frazzled at the attention, and Omicron’s parted lips flinched up with a little grin. He heaved with breath, whining his way through a monstrous buildup. All the while he pumped his hand at an increasingly feverish pace.

“..uh... hhUH-hh!.. HUH!’hh.. HAH-H-” His voice reverberated off the walls with obnoxious volume. The sound of wet skin squelching mingled with the patter of water on the shower floor. He gasped at the bolt of pleasure sparkling below his stomach. “-H-Hhh’oh-hh.. h’H-uhh..”

The arousal broke his momentum. He thumped a fist against the wall with an abysmally soupy sniffle. With warring sensations, neither could win. Omicron lifted his head to the shower spray to wipe his face and paused to chafe his index finger beneath his flitting nostrils. He slowed the rhythm of his other hand. You can do better than that, he challenged the tickle. C’mon, let me have it. He snorted, feeling his sinuses vibrate with the strain. Make me sneeze.

Wish granted. With a loss of sensation down below, the tickle rushed in to fill the void. It consumed him in an instant. Omicron inhaled as if the shower water suddenly turned to ice.

“HHHHH!! IIHDDZSSSCHHYOOO!!”

It was finally out, the start of what felt like a dozen. His whole body trembled, including his dick, and Omicron dazedly picked up the pace as his nose cramped with another powerful swell. Another butter-smooth gasp.

“HIIIIH!! EHTZZSSHHH’EH! Mmmbb-!”

A beautiful ache bled through his abdomen, mirrored in the tingling clarity of his nose. Fuck he didn’t know when Delta would be back from his morning run, but.. “nnnggh..HAAASCHHYUU!-uuooh..”

He’d never been a quiet man in bed and these sneezes were some of the best he’d had so far. His membranes twitched in relief each time, as did his prick, before another storm quickly gathered. Omicron instinctively sped up the tweak of his wrist as he rocked into each stroke. He wouldn’t last much longer; he’d been edged long enough. His flaring nostrils flew wide.

“h’YIZZSSSH’Iyuh!! hooh-.. hh.. H-HIISSCHH’OOO! hhhAH-!” 

The orgasm hit like a truck. It rippled through him, wrenched him forward, and it would have been perfect if the shower floor wasn’t so damn slippery. As he shook his way through the aftershocks, the tickle snuck up on him.

“iiGGXSHH’TT- AAH-” Nothing about him was prepared. It exited roughly through his congested airways and upset his equilibrium. His feet went out from under him and rolling with the momentum spared him a concussion from the slick tile. It didn’t spare his pride however when he heard a voice from the other side of the door.

“Bless you, Omicron! You okay in there?”

Fuck, cursed Omicron, back flat to the tile as the shower pelted water into his eyes. When did he get back?

“Fine!” he barked back. The slip-scare soured what remained of his orgasm and the inside of his nose ached with raw exhaustion. He touched a knuckle to the tip. Before Delta could ask, he added, “I dropped the shampoo!”

“Well, be careful,” Amused, now that he knew his subordinate was alright. “Sounds like that nose of yours means business today!”

Omicron covered his face with his hands and sighed.

+ + +

Sunshine coated the simmering pavement. People kept their sandals on as they milled about for fear of burning their feet. Couples cuddled together in upholstered loungers around the pool’s perimeter. Loners relaxed with books on couches sheltered by giant, colorful parasols. A dual walk-and-swim-up tiki bar bustled at the far end of the pool, surrounded by wading, tipsy tourists. This was an adult-only area, so aside from the group of trust-fund college grads squealing and shoving one another off the diving board, it was quiet and classy. 

Nicolas ignored wandering eyes as he maundered the water’s edge. 

After his ill-fated shower, Delta informed him there was surveillance of Josaline Jewel in this area and it was time for a fated meeting. He’d put on a pair of colorblock swim trunks and a thin cotton cream shirt he left unbuttoned over a waxed chest. He was not a big man, but his work kept him toned. Defined abs, firm pecs, broad shoulders with muscles that rolled across his back when he moved. He’d use them all to his advantage.

Deep in his sinuses, the tickle swelled. His nostrils weakly complained and he hushed them with a quick back-forth sweep of his finger. He’d use this too, when the time came.

An arm draped over his shoulders, dragging him in for a chokehold hug. “The whole team should take a vacation sometime,” Delta said fondly. “This is fun.”

Speak for yourself, groused Omicron. Irked as he was to have Delta here, it would help his cover. Acting with a partner provided an opportunity that single performances couldn’t. Besides, jerking off in the shower took the edge off his temper, so Omicron weathered the affection without complaint. He only pressed an elbow to Delta’s chest when his own expanded with a fast-rising urge.

“G-Gonnaahh-” He hiccuped a hitching breath. Experienced now in dodging, Delta leaned away as Omicron pitched haphazardly into his opposite arm. “hih’DZSSS’ooh!”

“Bless you,” muttered Delta, and mercifully didn’t complain about the distinct lack of vampire-sneeze etiquette. Some of these sneezes just got away from him, no matter how slow or quick they came on.

They both paused for more, but after a couple uneasy breaths, none arrived. Omicron checked the damage: no shirt stains, a slight drink spillage but not on himself or anyone else, and Delta wasn’t caught by collateral. Insufferable as his senior officer could be, Omicron would perish if he accidentally sneezed on him. 

Delta lowered his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose. “See her anywhere?”

Omicron scanned as they walked, swirling his stemless wine glass before he took a sip. “Not yet.”

“Maybe she left before we got-”

“Hello.”

They whipped their heads to the left and there was Josaline. She wore the widest brim sun hat that Omicron had ever seen, black with a dramatic dip, and streaked with a white ribbon that matched the chic blacks and whites of her asymmetrical one piece suit. She still wore heels, toes painted to match her nails, ankles crossed. Her smile peeked at them from under her hat and designer sunglasses.

Nicolas roused himself and gave her a helpless smile, as if he hadn’t meant to stare. “Hi.”

“Were you looking for me?”

He fished a hand at the back of his neck, flushed to his ears, and Delta playfully tightened his grip. “Yeah, he couldn’t stop talking about you.”

Nicolas elbowed him with a hiss under his breath. “Harry!”

“I’m Harry by the way,” Harry told her, swooping in to offer his hand. Nicolas wrestled out of his hold in the meanwhile, straightening his shirt with a huff. Josaline raised a hand to her mouth to hide her widening smile.

“You must be the friend Nicolas mentioned. The one he’s rooming with?”

“Oh, he told you about me, huh?” Harry smoothed back his hair and waggled his eyebrows. “All good things I hope.”

Nicolas took another sip of his drink as they chatted, wrinkling his nose to one side and then the other. A quick, strong sniff flared his nostrils wide. He let the breath go on a sigh. Josaline tilted back the brim of her hat.

“Feeling any better?”

“Ndot really,” he conceded, then moved to sit across from her on an empty lounge chair. His shirt fell open to frame his sculpted chest and she curtly inspected the view. His pecs jumped with a brisk sniff, then another. He knuckled more aggressively at his nose. “But I’mb dnot gonna let it spoil mby vacation, if I can help it.”

Feeling lousy wasn’t actually a lie. Omicron woke up in the thrall of the tickle, yes, but when he had the ability to think afterward he realized he wasn’t at his best. His throat stung when he swallowed, scraped sore from all his harsh sneezing. His abs felt like they’d been through a ruthless core workout. And there was a disconcerting malaise settling over him, a woozy feeling that he refused to acknowledge in hopes it might just go away. 

“Forgive me saying so, but should you be drinking in your condition?” she asked, nodding to his glass. He took a breath to reply but Harry interrupted with a booming laugh and an amiable slap to the smaller man’s back.

“That’s just lemon tea and honey,” is what he told Josaline and that was also true. He did lie to Delta about it just being a prop for his cover story though. In actuality, it took the edge off his aching throat. Harry carried on, unaware. “I told him to try a hot toddy but he’s a little goodie two shoes when it comes to nursing a cold.”

Nicolas narrowed his eyes, blinking as they began to glass over. All the while since he woke, the tickle in his nose continued to haunt him. Contrary to Dr. Voster’s claim to Delta, the sensitivity hadn’t diminished at all. He bodily turned from the conversation with his drink held far away from him. His other arm tucked snugly around his nose as he sucked in a shuddering breath. Then quaked in place.

“.. hik-.. iH-GZSShu!”

“Bless you,” chorused the other two. 

He picked his head up by hesitating degrees before giving it a sharp shake. More sniffling, a thick clearing of his throat. His gaze darted to Josaline, who glanced away when he caught her looking. “Pardod mbe.”

“You know what? Try not to ruin my vacation either,” Harry griped at him, then looked to Josaline. “Nobody wants to get within five feet of me with him around. He’s like a walking cold medicine commercial.”

Omicron’s eyebrow twitched. “Well at least I don’d snore.”

Delta shot him a look that Nicolas met with innocence and a sip of his drink. Omicron shouldn’t push his luck, but he refused to pass up the chance to take pot-shots at Delta while he could get away with it. Josaline giggled.

“I can tell you’re old friends,” she said as she looked between them. “Do you see one another often, outside of events like this?”

This spiraled into deeper discussion. Delta and Omicron rattled off fake trivia to all her questions, and asked about her in turn. She was vague about her work but fairly open about her personal life. Almost all of it was useless small talk, aside from a compelling instance when she told them she created the software for her website’s security certificate herself. Her competency in coding wasn’t something Josaline Jewel advertised to the public. 

Dr. Voster called him exactly three times during the chat, and each time he dumped her to voicemail. She knew he was working. Whatever she needed to ask him could wait, or ideally, be an email.

Soon the sun was past its apex and Omicron was running out of tissues. Mortifyingly, a passing poolside waiter brought him a little bin for him to toss his trash so he didn’t have to keep walking off to a garbage can. Over the course of their conversation Josaline’s attention gravitated squarely to Nicolas and both men took this as a cue.

Harry slapped his hands on his thighs and stood. “Alright, I’m gonna check out the casino. I’ll catch up with you later, Nick.” He winked. “Have fun.”

Nicolas waved him off with one hand and tended to his unruly nose with the other. His nostrils pushed against his fingers, pulsing irritably. The tickle seemed to get worse over the course of the day, and his sneezes were coming with frustrating regularity if he didn’t waylay them. He tried to strike a balance between holding back and letting go, observing Josaline’s reactions all the while. She definitely wanted him to sneeze as badly as he did, which is why he chose to press the flat of his forefinger hard against his septum until the urge receded. He huffed away the gasp he’d gathered.

“.. huh-hh, sorry, I’b probably ndot great combpadny right ndow..”

He opened his eyes to find Josaline staring at him from under her lashes. She’d taken off her sunglasses some time ago. “On the contrary, I find you captivating.”

Nicolas laughed, ducking his head to cough. “Really? Thad’s a relief. I was worried all… this,” here he gestured to his nose, “would put you off.” 

He punctuated with a sniff, the sound purely liquid, and rushed a hand to cup his nose while he tried to free the last of his tissues from the pack with the other. “Ugh, sorry-”

“Did you lose the handkerchief I gave you?”

Omicron feigned surprise, as if he hadn’t been waiting for her to ask. “Umb.. so-.. hah.” He scrubbed his finger under his nose, subduing his wavering nostrils. “I did use it, but I thig’k you had someb kinda perfumeb on it?..”

Her lips parted in shock, and Omicron knew at once that the scent on that cloth wasn’t intentional. Maybe it was a habit of hers, dousing her handkerchiefs in perfume, but she didn’t know it would actually make him sneeze. There was a faint, petal-like blush spreading across her cheeks and her thighs tensed more tightly together. Well, well.

Nicolas blinked wetly, as if the memory of the handkerchief was enough to make his nose tickle. Granted, literally anything was enough. “As soon’d as I-.. as I-yee…huh-” He blinked again, and again, each time a little harder and with more moisture in his lashes. With a swallow, he tried to hurry through the rest, “As I used ihht I.. st- st..”

He pressed a hand to his sternum as his chest jumped with a little sip of breath. The tickle fluttered in him, enticing. Omicron gave in for just a moment, letting his eyes fold shut, relaxing into the sensation of it. Sometimes the virus felt mechanical, automatic, indifferent to him and his reactive nose. Like a machine chugging ever onward, so did the tickle continue to toil. Tickling.. and tickling.. and tickling… Blind to his convulsing nerves, deaf to his snagging breaths, just carrying on with its function with no regard for the consequences.

Unable now to open his eyes again, Omicron spoke around compulsive gasps and breathed his words on the exhales. “hH!S’made be-.. h-HH!Bade be-uhhh.. snd’HIH!.. sdeehEEZZSSHOO!”

Nicolas snapped forward, sneezing over his lap, and belatedly raised a hand to his nose. It was running copiously. He wouldn’t get the job done with what was left of his tissues, unfortunately. He squinted against another hopeful tickle, begging himself now to keep it together. He really didn’t want to sneeze again like this.

A flash of white caught his eye. Josaline, her gaze boring into him with palpable weight, offered another handkerchief. He swallowed. It was identical in every way to the first, and Omicron suspected it smelled the same too. But this was what she wanted, and he was a professional. He would deliver.

He took it from her and began to unfold it with both hands to give her an uninhibited view of his face. As he began to wind up for another sneeze, he gave the tickle full control over every micro-expression. The fitful flare of his nostrils. The crease of his crow’s feet. His quivering, parted lips. The way his nose gathered grimacing wrinkles at the bridge when the urge became undeniable. His voice bled into his heaving exhales, unintentional but not unwelcome.

“H’uhh.. iIH!hhh..h-h-!hohh.. mbbggh..”

This was the worst part, when it crested to a peak but couldn’t quite get him high enough to tip him over. Throwing caution to the wind, he lifted the aromatic cloth to his face and breeeeeeeathed-

“KZZSSSCH!”

Rough, wrenched out of him in fury. As the methodical tickle gave way to a fierce burn, Omicron had just long enough to wonder if Delta was right: he might actually be allergic.

His eyes rolled closed and he shuddered helplessly into the handkerchief. “iih’TZSsh!” A tight breath and then, “iik’KISHH!... hd’IZSSH!.. Tshh! it’TZSH!”

There wasn’t time for anything else. No wavering gasps, no bleary moment of respite before the next volley. It was a quick trigger release, too itchy and ineffective to do anything but wind him. “-DSSH’uu!.. hd’DZSSH’oo!! ohh..HH!”

He heard Josaline stir in her lounge chair, and then felt the jostle of his own when she sat down beside him. A hand smoothed up and down the line of his spine, pausing to feel his back expand with a single, catching breath. 

“-ig’GEZSC’Hoo!.. GZSShuu!.. Chshh-IH’chzssh!.. HIH!chzsch! Ugh!” He finally managed a shaky blow into the folds of the handkerchief. A couple desperate hitching breaths and then he quickly committed to another. It cleared away most of the mess; he was able to free his nose for air.

His eyes were still locked shut, but he could feel his nostrils twitching like a rabbit’s. Rushing a finger beneath them did nothing. He sneezed against his hand. “iihpssh!... h’TZschh!h- hIKssh!! TIZSSCH’u!”

It felt endless, and nothing like the big, bad wolf sneezes that the tickle cooked up. No, these didn’t help anything. Each sneeze just somehow itched him more. “..hah-..hh.. hH’ZSSCH’yah!”

He nearly lifted the handkerchief back to his face and caught himself at the last moment. Loathe as he was to do it, he used the collar of his shirt instead. He had nothing else. Omicron lifted the corner to his nose, his nostrils so warm to the touch they felt feverish, and muffled what he could.

“MMFZSSH!.. hg’ISHH!..” At least it was slowing down. He sniffled, feeling muzzy, and finally cracked his eyes open. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He closed them again with a jumpy, “hih- IH!-..MMPHZSSH!!”

Omicron waited, tense, for the next one. It sizzled in his sinuses for a solid few seconds before dissipating in a wave of prickling dismay. It left his nose wary, on guard for the next attack, even as the virus insidiously labored away inside him. His shirt was a lost cause, so he shrugged it off and used it to blot at his face as he snuffled and hitched his way into presentability. Holy hell, that was more than he bargained for.

“Bless.”

A touch alighted on his bare arm. Nicolas picked his head up, squinting through puffy eyes and already cringing with apology. “Sorry,” he croaked. “I thigk I mbight be allergic.”

“Yes, so do I,” she breathed, and smoothed her touch to his back again. Without his shirt in the way, her palm glided up and down his skin. Her other hand thumbed a tear from the corner of his eye. “You poor thing.. I didn’t realize that’s what you were trying to say. Forgive me.”

They were both lying to each other now. Nicolas shook his head, both his hands coming to hold one of hers. “Ndo, ndo, it’s ndot your fault! I couldn’d explain itd well.” He gave her a pitifully tearful smile. “Had to sdneeze too bad.”

The tone shifted. Omicron could feel it keenly. Josaline squeezed, then let them go. Her hands lifted instead to cradle his cheeks, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I need to confess something.”

He blinked at her, wide eyed. “... Codfess whad?”

“I’m not the sort of woman to be repelled by all... this,” she said softly, with an equally soft graze of her thumb against one of his chapped nostrils. It flared in response, and Omicron fended off the visceral need to rub it. Josaline stroked him again, and his nose twitched away from her. The tickle bristled and he leaned out her hands, racked with fittish hitches. He jammed his finger beneath his septum, barely catching himself before a sneeze tumbled out. 

She watched him avidly as he battled back the urge, one eye squinted shut in a lopsided wince. Her attention honestly flustered him; Omicron never liked attention when he sneezed, and her gaze in particular stripped him bare. He lowered his finger reluctantly, and kept his hand hovering at chest level. The sneeze was stalled but certainly not gone.

He sighed his words. “S-uh.. Sorry, I-.. hooh, I bight.. I-ihhm godda-HH!” He wiped his head to the side. “iih’DZSCH’iew!! ugh, b’sorry..”

Her voice wavered. “Please don’t be sorry.”

“I-hhuh.. hkrrm!” Omicron cleared his throat, bringing the edge of his shirt up to his nose to blot and then, with great disgust, blow. He was going to burn this thing when he got back to his room. When he finished he looked away from her, painfully embarrassed. “I’m seriously so gross right now, I’m sorry-”

“Nicolas..” She slid a hand up his arm, splaying her fingers on his shoulder. Her other arm came around to rest at the juncture of his neck so she could toy fingers at the short, fine hairs on his nape. “I want to be clear. I’m not put off at all by your cold. Frankly, I think it looks very good on you.”

He frowned at her as the gears turned, then perked up when they slotted in place. “.. Oh!”

Josaline smiled wide enough to show her teeth, humming a little laugh. “I would like to kiss you. Is that alright?”

She drifted into his orbit as she spoke, her smokey stare flicking between his eyes and his lips. He nodded, and met her halfway. As their mouths met, she tugged down the brim of her hat to hide them from view. They kissed behind a black veil, his hand reaching to cup her jaw as she pushed a palm up the plane of his bare chest. With his nose so completely packed, Nicolas gulped air between passes of her tongue and chuffed soft, stuffy breaths against her skin.

Something about Omicron. He was suited to his job in many ways, one of which being his attitude toward infatuation and sex. Romance made his skin crawl, and physical intimacy was to him nothing more than a nice dessert. Delicious? Yes. Mandatory? No. He desired sex as much as he desired bubble baths or a night at the opera. He never let it distract him from his mission, even when at times it was his mission. It was a point of pride for him.

She eased him onto his back, kissing him deeply into the plush of the lounge chair. The new angle wasn’t great for his nose, shifting congestion in his head like tetris blocks until he whimpered against her lips. She finally let him up for air and he heaved in a breath, snuffling squeakily and then coughing when the air bottled up in his sinuses. He belatedly turned his head, and flushed up to his hairline.

“- guh, suh-sorry,” Nicolas whispered, his voice gravelly. “Can’d breathe through by dose at all.”

“Stop apologizing,” Josaline whispered back. She nudged the tip of her nose against his, nuzzling him even as she bit down on his lower lip to mumble around the flesh. “Can I help?”

He didn’t get a chance to reply before her tongue was back in his mouth. It was dark beneath the shade of her hat, with bits of sunlight dancing through the weave. While it was no mystery what they were getting up to under there, it was as subtle and as tasteful as public displays could get. She leaned more of her weight against him, pushing the planes of her palms up the span of his chest until he made another pleading sound.

Again she leaned back by an inch and again he tried to catch his breath. His nose fizzed with a wicked tickle. Sinuses immobile. Couldn’t agitate his nose with air. It would have to be something else, another method.. 

A bolt of inspiration struck.

“Josah-H!.. Josalind,” he mumbled. She was passing time sucking a bruise on his neck. “hah.. Josalind, cad you-”

She blew a puff of cool air over the patch of wet skin and smirked as he shivered. “Can I what, baby?”

“Hhhelp,” he gasped, and arched when she laved her tongue over his collarbone. His neck was sensitive, and Omicron resolutely continued even as he arched his back. “I’ll breathe better if I cad sdneeze, bud.. huh..” He sniffled in vain. The attempt ended in another disappointed cough. “.. id won’d combe.”

It was like he said the magic words. Josaline lifted her head and refocused her attention on his nose. It looked pitiful, so raw from rubbing and snubbing that the skin shined a brilliant red. His nostrils flared like a beacon, irregular but frequent. Nicolas gazed up at her, blotchy and half-lidded. She skimmed her pinky finger up the bridge of his nose, watching his eyes fall closed and his brows crunch and his nose wrinkle up beneath her touch. She sighed, besotted.

“I can certainly do something about that, but I’m not sure I should do it here,” she murmured. Fingers threaded through his hair, scritching lightly at his scalp. “I have things in my room-”

He slivered his eyes open. “Whhee.. cad d..” They fluttered closed again as he breathed, breathed!... And then sighed out a groan. “-ohh..We cad go to your roomb-h-H!.. hiiff you w-wand.. but..huh-”

Unable to help himself, one of his hands routed from her waist to his nose to grind beneath his throbbing nostrils. Just enough to take the edge off so he could finish what he was saying. His entire expression scrunched as he worked his nose, but he plowed onward.

“..I usually don’d ndeed buch,” he clarified. “Jusd thinking about id is edough to.. to…” He dropped his hand and snatched in a gasp so deep, his chest lifted Josaline where she lay across him. “HHHUH-!” But nothing came. He growled, his first real display of frustration in front of her. She comforted him with another rake of her fingers through his hair.

“Truly?” she asked, and when he fought his eyes open to look at her she seemed awed. “No.. external stimulation at all?”

Omicron knew of the methods to which she alluded, but Nicolas didn’t. He gathered his eyebrows together. “.. Ndo?”

“How do I help?”

“You cand just talk.” He anchored his hand back to her waist, his gaze glassing over. “About how buch id t.. tiihckles..”

She pressed her lips together, her cheeks beginning to darken. “.. could you demonstrate?”

Not the response he expected. He figured she’d want to take the lead, but Omicron was nothing if not flexible. “Yeahhh..h!IH-.. I usually thig’k about fhheathers or.. flowers or.. sombthig like..” He closed his eyes and conjured an image. “Like a little bug, crawli’g around up there.”

And just like that, it’s what the tickle became. Small, at first so unobtrusive as to be barely of notice but over time the irritation compounded. Omicron hauled in a hearty sniffle, coughing for his trouble, but the endeavor cleared up some of his consonants.

“It doesn’d know what it’s doing, but it’s tryi’g to escape and the luhh.. lohhnger it searches the.. huH!ohh.. the mbore unbearable it becomes.”

He could feel it zipping about, uncaring and unaware of how it stirred his haggard nose into motion. As it scampered along the length of a nerve, the membrane flushed and quivered. As its glossy wings grazed the tender pink walls, they shuddered. Another sensation pulsed further down; heat began to pool into his abdomen.

“And it’s tiih.. tiHII-!ckling mbe, but it doesn’t know that and I can’t tell it to stop and at this p-hhoint I don’dH! wantHH!- hhihht to..” 

The little presence adventured in the wrong direction, into more sensitive depths, so deep in his nose he didn’t know it could tickle there. Omicron moaned at the honeyed ache in his groin. He desperately wanted friction, but common sense kept his hips welded to the lounge chair. He felt the tickle flutter, then flit, and then begin to panic. It realized this wasn’t the exit.

“Ahhnd th-then.. it starts freaki’g out. It’s buzzing all around and maki’g my ndose itchier and itchier, and I’m st.. start-HH!h’ingHH!!h-to.. IIH!”

Omicron imagined the wet, cavernous expanse of his tortured sinuses, every inch of it undulating in agitation all because of one little tickle. And that tickle persevered even now, darting around in the abyss of his nose unceasing. A smile flickered across his lips as another pang of pleasure swirled through him.

“.. and I just want it to keep..HHHH!” He huffed a momentous breath and his chest jumped under her hands. Words carried on his pining exhale. “.. -want it to mbake mbe-HHHHH!” Tingles trailed down his spine as he uttered the last few words in a high, airy voice. “.. make mbe snhheeze… HHDZZSSSCCHH’OOO!!”

Sparks popped behind his eyelids and Omicron moaned helplessly through a wave of carnal delight. He didn’t come, but the sneeze was paradise. He hitched gratefully up to the next one in line. “HH! HH! HHHH-” Something billowy and soft tucked over his nose and he pitched into it. “EH’JZZSSHHH’IUU!”

He groaned into fabric, stretching restlessly on the lounge chair as his cock twitched again. It was confined to the tight pressure of his swim trunks, a problem Omicron couldn’t think clearly enough to solve as he huffed and puffed his way toward another humongous sneeze.

“-ah.. haH.. HAAASZZSSSH’UE!” And still his nose craved more. Who was he to deny it? “-iihHHIIZZSSHEW!! mmbb..” Once they started, they felt too good to stop. “.. uhTZSSSSCH!!iuuhhhhh..”

Omicron keened, muffled by the cloth snugged over his nose. The break afforded him a chance to snurfle into its folds and reach up to brace his hand over the one that held it there. Deep in his nose, the tiny intruder buzzed brainlessly against nerves flayed raw. They were defenseless, vulnerable and so, so very sensitive. His chest rose and fell with an increasingly staccato rhythm, his expression frozen with need. He needed t-to.. He hhhad to-!

“ehhHPBBZSSCCH’IIYUU!”

He seized into the cloth and collapsed back to the chair. Heat surged through his veins, wondrous but left wanting as his erection strained against the front of his shorts. But at last the attack on his nose abated; the tickle retreated to the dark, hidden place where it liked to bide its time. Omicron mustered through a long, alleviating blow into the sturdy fabric. Sinus pressure dissipated from behind his eyes, just enough to take the sharpest edges off his encroaching headache. Then he just laid there panting and steadying his hazy vision when he finally opened his eyes.

He noticed a few things.

Nearly everybody in the vicinity was looking at him, sunbathers and staff members alike. Josaline was not an exception. Her hand rested lax in his, where she’d held his shirt to his face as he sneezed. And blew his nose. And he had a visible erection, blocked mercifully by Josaline’s position to the wider crowd but absolutely not hidden from Josaline herself. And for the first time, Omicron thought, Oh shit. I might actually be compromised.

“Um-..” he squeaked. All he could hear was a rushing noise, like standing in a wind tunnel, his heart banging against his ribs. Cold sweat broke out over his skin. “Um-..”

Josaline was similarly speechless. Paralyzed, even.

Did she not like it? Was it the bug thing? Fuck, he should have gone with pollen or something, that was more mainstream or at the very least, comparatively less weird. What was he thinking?! He thought this ‘sneezing untouched’ method might entice her, but a hell of an idea that was. Dr. Voster and her ridiculous pursuits. ‘Sneezing by suggestion,’ his ass. Now he was sprawled out here on display with a cock harder than diamonds and he’d just blown his nose into his shirt and practically into her hand-

Don’t panic, he counseled himself through shaking breaths. This is salvageable. Just play it off with a laugh, apologize for everything, then tactically retreat, regroup with Delta, fess up, come clean, apologize AGAIN-

“I-I’ll go,” he said, barely present as he gathered his shirt and held it in front of his crotch to stand. “I’m really sorry, very sorry about this. I just… um..”

Delta will be so pissed that he’ll take me off the case and the agency will put me on probation and I’ll be sorting files in the office for the rest of my career and they’ll never let me live this down, I’ll be the laughing stock of the force, I’ll-

A hand caught his wrist. He looked down and there was Josaline, coaxing him with soft, careful touches to sit back down. She smoothed hair off his sweaty brow.

“Relax,” she told him. “No one knows. They only looked because you were loud, and nothing more.”

If she meant that to be reassuring, it didn’t help. Everybody and their neighbor just watched him obnoxiously sneeze and moan for what might have been several minutes. So much for subtly, which was his entire job description as an agent. He was a disgrace to the force. Omicron buried his face in one hand, elbow propped on his knee. Nebulous plans to cut his losses and find a new job stalled at the sound of her chuckle. 

“And didn’t I tell you to stop apologizing?”

He shrunk inward, painfully embarrassed and hissing a whisper into his clammy palm. “Yeah, but that was-”

“It was incredible.” 

Omicron snapped his head up, blinking the blur out of his eyes. Josaline’s flushed cheeks and smile came into focus. She scooted closer to him, pressing her bosom to his arm and tucking her head in the crook of his neck. She raised the edge of his shirt, still piled between his limp hands, to dab beneath his nose. Omicron startled, recognized the feeling of something wet on his upper lip, and lost what remained of his composure.

“Could I not be a disaster for just five seconds? Please??” he demanded of the universe, of the virus, of anyone, and turned his head away to clean himself up without help. Sniffling and scuffing his nose prompted retribution. It tickled like a dangling string. Omicron ducked forward. “..h’HIDZssch!!”

Josaline swayed with him and pressed a kiss to his throat. She trailed her lips up and up even as he rushed to wipe his nose. “Listen, Nicolas,” she said against the corner of his mouth. “There is something else I need to confess to you. I want to introduce you to someone.”

Omicron’s nostril wrinkled as it was bestowed a kiss. “.. intro..hh.. duhhce me to someone?”

“Yes.” Silken breath glossed over the bridge of his nose. “To my husband.”

Everything grinded to a halt. 

It was a good thing she expected him to be floored by that news. Husband? Husband?? The word echoed around in his head, immaterial; he couldn’t grasp the concept. There was no intel about a husband. Nobody mentioned a husband. She’s married? How can she be married!? His eyes jerked to her left hand, bare of a ring. She followed his gaze with a charming smile.

“Neither of us wear one,” she explained. “We married for practical reasons, and we aren’t interested in exclusivity. He and I consider ourselves free to explore as we like.”

She’s… married. The fact churned sluggishly in his mind, untethered and unexpected. She’s married. So..

“..uhh..” Omicron contributed intelligently. “Uh, s-so.. huh-” 

Oh for fuck’s sake. He fought tooth and nail to keep his eyes open, watching Josaline bite her lip as the last sliver of light disappeared. Now the tickle was just kicking him while he was down. It snagged him by the lungs and hurled him forward over his lap.

“-eHTCHZSS’hoo!”

“Bless you,” Josaline purred, stuck to him from shoulder to hip.

Omicron tucked his fist beneath his nose with a couple convalescing sniffles. “-nguh, thagk you..” Another sniffle, sharper, and a crinkling blink to disperse the dark spots floating in front of his eyes. “So, you want me to.. meet him?”

“While my husband and I have similar tastes,” she continued delicately, “we find it more gratifying to seek pleasure with others than with one another. However..”

Here she guided him to look at her with a single finger to his chin. 

“.. very rarely, one of us will meet someone special. Someone who would please us both. Together.” 

This conversation was going at light speed while Omicron was still floating in space. He nodded, buying himself time, trying to gather more than just the word husband. So his mortifying sneeze-fit failure was actually a success, to the extent that Josaline wanted him to meet her husband, who also had the hots for sneezing? Presumably? Possibly? But wait, nothing in the files ever mentioned a husband, so that meant this was a secret husband..

“Do you understand?” Josaline asked. “What I’m proposing?”

Ménage à trois, his strategic mind supplied. Ménage à trois with the suspected cyber criminal’s secret husband. 

Suddenly, and Omicron truly didn’t know how, everything was turning up aces. Not only did he have intel on a secret husband but he’d get to meet the guy. Talk to him. Learn more about Josaline through him. Find some incriminating indication that she actually was a white-collar mastermind screwing thousands of people out of hundreds of thousands of dollars. And then he’d get his ass kissed by everybody at head office and they’d crown him King of Spies and give him only the coolest assignments henceforth. Maybe he’d get a fancy company car.. or a commissioned self-portrait in a tuxedo.. or..

Omicron jolted, as if coming awake from an impromptu nap. Shit. He rubbed both hands over his face, dismayed when they came away sticky. The humidity must be getting to him. Moist air always made him groggy. 

“Nicolas?” Josaline looked a little uncertain now.

“I’d love to,” he blurted, then ducked his with a sheepish sniffle. “Ah, I mean.. if that’s-.. if you’re offering..?”

“If you’re comfortable?” she asked back. Nicolas nodded, maybe a little too quickly because his head felt like it was on a string five feet in the air. Josaline broke into a toothy smile, reaching to smooth thumbs over the puffy skin beneath his eyes. “Really?”

“Well, I-... as long as you’re both okay with it,” he replied. His nose creased at the bridge when she nuzzled the tip of hers to his. Omicron hiccuped a breath, and huffed it against her lips. “I-hhah..”

“Dinner tomorrow night,” she promised him, watching avidly as his expression contorted. Omicron squirmed his nose in a bid for it to behave, but Josaline wasn’t having it. She kissed just beneath his nostrils as they flared against her own. Lurking in the recesses of his sinuses, the tickle emerged. “I’ll ask him.”

Then she sealed her lips over his as he contended with the damage in her wake. His nose felt full of fuzzy bits, and with his nose as his only source of oxygen, Omicron was forced to keep stirring them with air. Each inhale swept them in a wind, sending them spinning against every inflamed atom of his nerves. They moved deeper, joined by more, an escalating infestation drifting deeper into his sinuses until he was dizzy with it.

“mmm!” he hummed into her mouth. Both her hands sunk into his hair, holding him still, keeping him locked to her lips as the tickle grew and grew. He sucked a hitching, shaky sniffle that whipped all the fuzz into a storm. Omicron whimpered again, higher and sharper. “-MM!”

Only when he set hands on her shoulders did she part from him with a soft sound, and even then she did it reluctantly. By now Omicron was lost to his gasping ascent. “hih-..hIH!h.. IHT-!” On the cusp, he whirled to the side and rocked with a perfunctory, “-DZSHH’iew!!”

She draped her arms around him, tugging him into her side as he fussed with his nose. Nicolas topped backward with her to the lounge chair. “Bless.” 

“Ugh, thagks,” he snuffled and shifted in her arms to see her better. “Had to sndeeze, I’m sor-”

Josaline pressed a finger to his lips to silence an impending apology, and when she was sure he’d gotten the message, she trailed her painted nails along his bottom lip. “It’s a date, then?”

Nicolas smiled. “It’s a date.”

/tbc! 

I know what happens next, I just have to write it! Thank you so much to everyone who’s stuck around for part 2, I really appreciate you!💗Hope to see you again at part 3 ^w^

“Similar to allergies?”

“Yes, if you were allergic to air.”

Omicron sighed. He wasn’t in the business of complaining, but this was going to be challenging. He crossed his arms, trying not to fidget. “How long does it last?”

“Just long enough to see you through the mission. Your symptoms should abate by Thursday.”

So he’d be sick the entire time, essentially. Great. His leg started to bounce.

“Will this slow me down?” he asked. Dr. Voster arched a look over her safety glasses. He clarified himself. “Am I going to feel like shit?”

She smirked at him. “Are you one of those man-cold types?”

Heat swept over his ears and burned the back of his neck, and her smile only widened. He crunched his brows with a glare. “No, I’m just being thorough. If this will compromise my performance in any way, I want to know about it.”

“It won’t,” she chuckled, and he tried not to get defensive at the amusement in her voice. “Like I said, the primary function of this virus is to make you sneeze. You’ll be contending with some nasal congestion, but aside from that you’ll be fine.”

That was easy for her to say. She wasn’t going undercover into enemy territory. He tensed as she snapped on a pair of gloves and looped on a face mask. When she uncapped the bottle, he cleared his throat. “The paperwork said something about me being more ‘suggestible?’ What does that mean?”

She huffed at his air quotes and yanked down her mask. “It means you’ll be vulnerable to psychosomatic triggers. In other words, if you think hard enough about sneezing, you’ll prompt one.”

“That sounds unlikely.”

“We have testing data to support it,” she chastised, and yanked her mask back up. “It was a goal for the formula. We thought you might find it handy to take matters into your own hands if a sneeze wasn’t forthcoming.”

“For.. what? Tactical measures?”

“Yes, strategic options. Now, tilt your head and relax.”

He reluctantly settled back into the cushioned chair, sniffing in preparation. One of her latex hands moved to cradle his jaw and keep him still as she nudged the applicator up the right side. It was wide enough to graze the sides of his nostrils, and he felt them flare in response.

“Okay, deep breath..”

Swallowing, he breathed slowly, deeply through his nose. A fffssh from the bottle yielded a mist of curiously warm aerosol that instantly coated the skin. He flinched a wrist up to his mouth to cough in response. It felt suddenly like his nose was running, so he sniffed, sniffed, and sniffed again. A strong flavor coated the back of his throat.

“Why is it salty?”

“Well, we didn’t intentionally flavor it,” she said, already moving to his left nostril. “Probably the saline. We used it as a base. Now, give me another big breath.”

He did as he was told, and again a warm puff of wetness invaded his nose. And another. And another. They performed this three times for each nostril, alternating sides, and the last one rubbed him wrong. A tiny tickle ignited. Omicron warded Dr. Voster back with one cautious hand as the other routed to his nose. He anchored his forefinger beneath his nostrils, pressing deliberately against his septum as he parted his lips to breathe. Voster snorted at him as she set the bottle aside.

“I thought that only worked in cartoons.”

“And on me,” he mumbled in a heady voice. 

It took a moment of concentrated effort, but the urge passed. He sniffed, a little wetter this time as he blinked away tears. Agent Omicron was an old hand at holding back sneezes. Sudden, uncontrolled outbursts weren’t great for business when he was out in the field. That, and he generally didn’t like to draw attention to himself even in civilian life. He caught Dr. Voster smiling at him and his brows trenched.

“What now?”

“I’m not into sneezing,” she told him as she capped the bottle, “but that was pretty cute. Your target won’t stand a chance, Mr. Honey Pot.”

He replied with a scowl and one more see-sawing rub beneath his nose. “When does this kick in?”

“Give it twenty-four hours,” she said, and snapped off her gloves. “I’ll check on you then to make sure it took.”

He stood and slipped back into his jacket, straightened his tie. “Isn’t this cutting it a little close? I’m flying out tomorrow.”

“Maybe, but we didn’t want your poor nose suffering anymore than it has to,” she cooed, and punctuated this with a little tap of her knuckle to his septum. He swatted her away.

“Stop.”

“Oohhh,” she pouted, leaning a hip against her workstation. “Always so serious, Agent O.”

Omicron lurked a warning glare her way as he adjusted his sleeve cuffs and shirt collar. “I’ll be back in 2400.”

---

And he was, though he dragged his feet most of the way.

Omicron believed Dr. Voster when she said this nasal spray contained a virus that would cause his nose some hell, but he didn’t quite understand just how.. intense the experience would be. 

He sniffled, a necessary indignity since he woke up this morning, and the slow, deliberate flare of that ever-present irritation beckoned him toward an unavoidable conclusion. Still, Omicron shoved the hard edge of his finger beneath his nose and tilted his head back for another whip-crack sniff. It flared the tickle dangerously, but the steady breakwater against his septum kept him in the clear. His nostrils twitched and he pinched them, rubbing rubbing rubbing until he heard the embarrassing squelch of something wet in his nose.

Another strong sniff, and a weak huhh on his exhale. Shit. He wiped his hand on the side of his pants with a grimace. He’d have to start carrying tissues.

“There he is!” Dr. Voster greeted him with a disarming smile, but he could see the hawklike way she zeroed in on his nose. He tried not to sniffle. “How’s my magnum opus treating you?”

It’s bullying me, Omicron thought, but as he laced his hands properly behind his back, what he said instead was, “It’s working.”

“Oh, is it?” she said. She wasn’t even trying to mask the delight in her voice now as she crowded him back into her exam chair. “Let me take a look.”

He stared hard at the ceiling as she slipped on gloves and wheeled forward on her stool, leaning over him like a dentist. He hated the dentist. A warm trickle of wetness prompted an automatic sniff, and a huffing exhale when that far-back tickle teased him.

“Runny nose?” she chirped, using her thumb to gently coax his nostril open. She held an otoscope with her other hand, using the little light to peer up his nose. Omicron tried not to shrivel in embarrassment as she crooned with sympathy. “Oooh, poor thing. You’re so inflamed..”

“Wasn’t that the idea?” he sighed, and sniffled again. A spark somewhere in his sinuses caused him a hard blink.

“Yes, but it must tickle so much..”

In response to her words, another spark snapped inside him. Like striking flint to burn kindling. Another reflexive sniffle. His eyes began to water. 

“It must feel like something fuzzy is stuck up there,” she was saying, rubbing her thumb softly against the quivering edge of his nostril. “Every time you breathe, this fluffy thing, lodged in place and too far for you to reach..”

The frantic efforts of the virus continued, tenacious now in its purpose. The fuse caught, as did Omicron’s next inhale. His chest hitched with a stutter. He tried to reach up, finger extended and ready, but Voster caught his wrist and pinned it back down to the chair arm.

“It must be new for you, to be so out of control. This thing inside you, tickling so sweetly, growing unbearable, and there’s nothing you can do but submit.”

That tantalizing feeling got worse. The line of gunpowder trailing through his pulsing nostrils lit up with an unstoppable blaze. It raced through him, and Omicron couldn’t do anything but give it fuel. He gasped hugely, his chest straining against the buttons of his shirt. The exhale crashed out of him clumsily, unrelieved.

“H-HUHhh..”

Dr. Voster leaned away, but set her otoscope aside to pin his other wrist when he reflexively raised it to ward off what was coming. “Don’t fight it, Omicron. That tickle nestled in your nose was built for this. Listen to it. You two are a team, remember?”

Omicron couldn’t even open his eyes, the sensation held him so powerfully. It felt alive, calculated, somehow vying for control. He snatched in another soft breath, breathed it out on a moan, and then gasped again. His lungs strained to accommodate as that demanding tickle wanted more.. more..

He huffed out another helpless groan. “HHUHhhh..”

His hands flinched toward his face, but met resistance. A tear surfed down his cheek and dripped off his chin. He gasped- gasped-! “.. hH-hiIHH-!”

The sensation crested, and finally, overcame him.

“HHZZZSSSCHOOO!!”

The force of it threw him forward. It was the loudest, strongest sneeze he’d ever sneezed, but somehow it didn’t feel big enough. Cool, tingling aftermath quickly gathered a second storm. This time, Omicron didn’t do anything but breathe into it.

“..hhHI’JJIZZSHHUE!”

Another uncharacteristically enormous sneeze. His wrists were free, but he didn’t even bother to cover his mouth or muffle into his elbow. Usually he’d rather disintegrate than sneeze freely even in his own home, but.. this tickle.. he just wanted to let it.. let it do.. 

“HEH’CHIZSHOoo!”

.. do whatever it wanted. And what it wanted was complete and utter domination. Omicron sniffled helplessly, half-aware he was leaking out of more than one orifice but too punch-drunk to do much about it. His breath caught fitfully in his throat and he-.. 

“-idzhih.. HID’ISSsshoo!.. huhh..”

Omicron leaned over to press hands over his eyes, his palms coming away wet. He was normally a one-and-done guy, with fairly normal-sized sneezes; this many at this size had him light-headed. His breath hitched again, quick like the strike of a viper, before he let it go on a sigh. And another, just the same. It felt like hiccups. He didn’t dare touch his nose, too wary of setting off the wrath of this thing deep inside him. Instead he just sniffled pitifully, catching his breath.

There was a tap on his shoulder. He glanced askance to a sheepish looking Dr. Voster who was offering a box of tissues. He snatched several, still too dazed to be properly embarrassed as he blew a wet, crackling sound into the wad of them. It took a few rounds, but when he finished he cleared his throat and blinked at her with teary eyes.

“What the fuck, Anita.”

“Sorry,” she winced, and she actually did seem sorry. “I wanted to test the ‘suggestible’ variable and you reacted more strongly than I anticipated. Also, um.. bless you, by the way.”

He sat back against the seat with a stuffy sniffle, arms crossed, and now that he was more aware of himself, valiantly fighting down the urge to blush. “Yes, well. You were just doing your job, so I can’t be mad.”

She hedged a nervous smile. “Can’t be, or shouldn’t be?”

He gusted a long sigh, reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose when somehow even the rumble of his own voice stirred the residual dust of another sinus-deep tickle. “Do you need to test anything else, or can I go?”

His voice had lost most of its resonance from the sneeze attack as the congestion set in -- not yet enough to blunt his consonants but enough to dull the overall sound. Moisture skated down the side of his nose and Omicron wrinkled it with another snuffle that moved nothing at all. How could his nose be both dripping and completely blocked? He indulged a rub this time, soothing his nostrils to stillness with the tempering back-and-forth of his index finger.

The doctor’s voice broke the quiet. “How does it feel?”

Omicron peered up at her, finger still held to his upper lip. “Pardon?”

“Your nose,” she clarified, but not by much. “How does it feel?” He scoffed and stood to leave. She stood to stop him, holding both hands out as if to placate him. “I’m not teasing you. I really do need to know. Are you in pain?”

“No,” he said, chest lifting with another short sniff. He pressed harder against his septum, rubbing in earnest now as the tickle began gathering momentum. It stalled against the wrangling touch, but didn’t back down. “No pain.”

“But it does tickle?”

“I believe we’ve estahh..hkrrrm!” He cleared his throat to steady his voice. “.. established that, yes.”

She eyed him, her gaze trailing down to the finger glued beneath his nose. “You shouldn’t try to hold them off, Omicron. It might be why your sneezing earlier was so extreme.”

All this talk of sneezing was just emboldening the tickle. It’s like the sensation was surging forward, eager to answer to the call of its name. His eyes fluttered closed and he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth to try and waylay another gasping breath. His nostrils pulsed against his finger, prompting him to pinch them instead, but still they tried to flare against his grip. He heard Dr. Voster sigh.

“I don’t know why they picked you for this mission,” she muttered, just loud enough to be heard. “If you’re too shy to sneeze, you’re going to lose your target pretty much instantly.”

His eyes sliced open, as defiant as his nose still squirming between his fingers. His voice was bottled back in his throat completely. “I’b dnot shy, I’b.. I’b jhhss.. hooh..”

The tickle hijacked his voice, tremoring it on a snatchy inhale. It prickled ominously behind his eyes, insistent, and Omicron stayed perfectly still in an effort to tame it. Even with his nose plugged and his fervent attempts to rub the sensation away, the tickle persisted. It dragged another breath in on a soft gasp, out on another dreading utterance.

“.. H-Ihih!.. ohh..”

“You’re so stubborn,” said Dr. Voster, and he could hear her rolling her eyes. He’d known her for years, and while he tried to rise above her goading taunts, there always came a point when she got to him.

Omicron let go of his nose and took as long and deep of a breath as he could through his trembling nostrils. The tickle welcomed it, greedily advancing, and rather than prolong the fight Omicron simply braced his hands on his knees to keep his balance as the sensation built inside him. As Dr. Voster so strangely asserted during his last volley, he and this virus were a team. He wouldn’t see the success of this mission without it.

It was this thought that compelled him to breathe again, a sniff that coasted directly into a gasp. He waited, hovering on the edge of it, but the sneeze backed away just before he could snatch it. Omicron squinted up at Dr. Voster, who was watching him with bald interest.

“Iihhff… hoo..” He sniffled, abandoning all dignity as he snubbed the wet edges of his nostrils against the sleeve of his suit. “If I let this tiH.. tiihckle ha..uuHUhh.. have its way ev..” 

His eyes fluttered closed, and he snatched in a series of chuffing breaths. Each was a shrill gasp followed by a bleating exhale, utterly beyond his power to stop. The crescendo carried him into increasingly higher and faster octaves, before the sneeze ripped out of him with gusto.

“HAH’CHIZSHOO!-ohhhh..” He swayed on his feet, panting at the ground, and was shocked to find in the tingling aftermath how good that felt. It made it easier to let the next one swell and crash out of him. “..HIH’SSschoo!- fuck mbe..”

Omicron rarely swore aloud, but the power and sheer abandon of these sneezes were so unlike his usual that he couldn’t help it. Through the haze of another rising tickle, he tried to hurry through the rest of his thoughts before he completely forgot what he was saying.

“If I let it have.. hahve it’s wayiiiiee..ig’GIZZSCHue!!-hah... I’ll be sdnee.. sdiizz.. HIZZSSSHOO!!..ughh, sdeezig for..fuh! UH!hhh.. for days.” He finished on a sigh, unrelieved, one hand now holding desperately onto the chair so he didn’t end up on his knees.

Dr. Voster didn’t immediately speak and when he finally blinked away blurry tears, he found her biting her lip with a worried crease between her eyes. “.. Do you always sneeze like this when you catch a cold?”

Even the very word caused his nose to buzz. His willpower was all but shredded, so he clamped onto the chair with his other hand and threw his head down with a body-shaking, “IID’DZZSSSSSTTH!!”

It was an unfortunate sneeze, one that painted his tie and the seat of the chair with its aftermath. Omicron didn’t have the energy to blush about it; honestly, this was all Anita’s fault so if he happened to catch her furniture in the crossfire of his helpless sneezing fit he.. heeeeeeee-

“HEEZZZSHOOO!!” He stumbled forward into a suspended tray of implements that crashed to the ground in a tremendous clatter. Omicron paid it no mind, tilting his head back to the fluorescent lights in an effort to keep his running nose at bay. “Ugh, won’t it st.. uh.. ohh.. hH!”

A bridge of pressure appeared beneath his septum, pressing firmly against it. He cracked his eyes open to find Dr. Voster beside him, her finger fearlessly anchored beneath his flaring nostrils. They threatened another revolt, under the tickle’s full command. That enduring, swelling force inside Omicron begged again for release and he gasped loudly against Dr. Voster.

“..hihHIT-!”

“Nope, nope, nope,” she muttered, pressing even harder against his nose. “Work with me here..”

Omicron had no idea if she was talking to him, or the virus, but both struggled to comply. The maddening prickle became tortuous. His nose cried out for relief, as the tickle played his sinuses like a fine instrument. Holding it back now seemed impossible. And to be frank, he was still a bit irked with Anita. He flicked his gaze up to the lights, sensitive enough that the bright flash of them set alight the simmering fuse inside him.

And, because he was a gentleman, he did try to warn her. “.. caahh.. cahhdd..”

“O, don’t you dare. I know you have more control than this, just-”

He heaved his way through an ominous buildup, letting the tickle dictate the pace of his breath until it brought him to the brink. His chest inflated, pressing against Dr. Voster as she fought to the end to keep him together. She pressed hard enough that he half-wondered if his nose would bruise, but no amount of pressure could tide it back. He threw both of them forward with a sneeze scraped up from the depths of his lungs.

“HAAAZZSCHHOOOO!!-ooohhhhh..” 

His knees felt a bit weak after that one, but for the first time since he’d woken up that morning, his nose tingled with welcome relief. It would be brief, he was certain, but he’d take the reprieve while he had it. The satisfaction of the fit filled his head with a pleased emptiness as he teetered his way around the edge of the chair and dropped to sit there. He tried to catch his breath.

“Agent Omicron, I swear to god,” groused Dr. Voster. He cracked his eyes open to see her ripping out more than a dozen tissues to throw at him. “You did that on purpose.”

He gathered them up and groaned wetly into the white bouquet. His voice was an achy croak. “I had no control over that, I promise you..”

Dr. Voster washed her hands at the sink and joined him on her stool when she finished. By that time, he’d managed to make himself somewhat presentable. His suit was a bit of a lost cause, but with luck the stains would dry into something less noticeable before his flight.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, and there was a serious quality to her question. “Do you always sneeze like this when you catch cold?”

Omicron shook his head, bringing another bunch of tissues to his face to blow. ‘Sore throat’ may not have been an intended symptom, but it soon would be if he kept shouting sneezes on the hour. He massaged his sinuses through the thin paper, already hopelessly stuffed up as he tried to suck in a sniffle. It just made him cough.

Dr. Voster was muttering beside him. “.. may have hit you harder than intended..”

“Whad was that?” he asked. He didn’t bother masking the reproach in his tone. She sighed and adjusted her glasses.

“I said, I may have underestimated how reactive you’d be,” she admitted. “You rarely sneeze, so I thought your sinuses weren’t sensitive.”

“I have to sdneeze all the time,” Omicron admitted in turn with a sawing rub beneath his nostrils. “I’b just good at holding themb back.”

Dr. Voster stared at him a moment, then bent over her knees with a sound of pure frustration. “Omicron. You should have TOLD me that in the INTAKE INTERVIEW.”

Omicron startled in his seat, sputtering with insult. “Are you tryi’g to make this mby fault? I answered all your questions honestly!”

“I asked you if you sneeze a lot when you’re sick and you said no!!”

“Thad’s because I DON’D!” 

His throat didn’t take kindly to the treatment and he turned away to cough. He yanked out more tissues, determined to free his consonants with a noseblow. Nothing moved, and all he got was another threatening jab from the tickle for his trouble. Oh, please not again, he thought, blinking at the sensation.

“Then what do you call this, O? Are you sneezing for fun?”

Anita’s voice called him briefly back to his ire. “I almost never sneeze this much when I’m sick! In fact I sdneeze more when I’m well, I-..”

He stopped, and Dr. Voster watched him with bare worry as he wrestled with what could be another punishing sneezing fit. Omicron learned his lesson from before, and he didn’t try to fight it at all. Just gave himself over to the feverish tickling until it snagged his breath in one fell swoop.

“H-ih.. TZSshoo!” 

He waited briefly for another, but none came and Omicron could have wept with relief. That was far closer to what he’d expected at the start of this experiment. He wiped his nose with a tissue and was unsurprised to find the skin was already getting sore. His skin was prone to chafing with too much friction, which was just as inconvenient as it sounded.

Dr. Voster frowned at him. “Was that..?”

“My usual, yes,” Omicron verified with a sigh. He was numb to the embarrassment of discussing this by now.

“Okay.” Dr. Voster folded her hands in her lap and with a deep breath, marshaled herself. “Okay, okay. This.. is salvageable. I just have to create an antidote, or maybe a diluting agent, and then maybe I can administer a weaker dose before..” She glanced at her watch and hung her head in defeat. “.. you leave in less than an hour.”

Omicron gave her a half-lidded stare over his tissues. “You didn’t create an antidote?”

Dr. Voster threw her arms up and shot up from her chair to pace. “No, Omicron! No, I didn’t. It’s a cold. It’s a harmless, nose-oriented cold at that. Barely a case of the sniffles. But apparently you have the most delicate sinuses of all mankind because my dose was too strong and now you’re-”

She glanced over at Omicron to find him in a state of sneezy limbo, no longer listening as his nostrils twitched their way to a consuming finale. He stuttered a few breaths, each exhale a sound of unwitting surprise when the sneeze didn’t come. It took longer than Omicron wanted, but he finally got it.

“DZSSSH!” Another pitchy gasp, the corners of his mouth flinching upward in the barest hint of a relieved smile as he vented one down on his lap. “TSSschoo!! ahhh, tha’g you..”

Omicron wasn’t even sure who he was talking to, the tickle or his nose, but each succinct release felt wonderful and left him spent in a way that relaxed him. It seemed if he didn’t try to stop them, they would come in much more manageable waves. Hmm.. maybe that meant if he held them off, he could get another one of those punishing volleys when he needed one. It would depend on the target’s preferences.

“Omicron, are you listening?”

He glanced up to find a fretful Dr. Voster, her hair loose from her ponytail and lab coat a little askew. He sniffed. “No, sorry. What did you say?”

“I’m going to recommend we ground you,” she said. Omicron froze, uncertain if he heard right, but jumped to his feet when she snatched up her phone. “We can’t risk this compromising you.”

He tried to grab her phone from her, but she dodged. “What are you talking about? I thought that was the point.”

“The point was to give you a reliable way to sneeze,” she clarified, quickly typing something out with her thumbs. “Not make you a liabilit-HEY!”

Omicron managed to liberate her phone and held it high above to keep it out of reach as he tried to reason with her. He sniffed again when he felt his nose begin to run, and blinked against the throbbing reply of his nose-tickle. “Listen, Anita, I’ve been training for this mission for months. It’s our only chance t.. to..”

Her eyes narrowed as his fluttered. “You have to sneeze right now, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, but I’m telling you I’m hh!UHhh..” He sniffled again, fighting for composure. “.. I’m learning to work with it, alright?”

“If you can go thirty seconds without sneezing, I’ll believe you.”

Omicron swallowed. Thirty seconds yesterday would have been nothing, but today? His nostrils flared at even the suggestion. If he wasn’t certain viruses had no capacity for thought, let alone emotion, he would claim this tickle had a mind of its own and a chip on its shoulder. It was always simmering somewhere in the recesses of his sinuses, but the moment he committed to staving it off, it surged forward with pure intention.

Somehow, he could tell he’d be in for another seismic sneezing fit if he tried any tricks to keep it back, so he let his eyes fold shut. Rather than increments of jumping breaths, this sneeze was a smooth slide into fruition. He drew in a dreamy breath and felt his nostrils ease wide. Then-

“HETZChuu!” It was cleansing, a reset that cleared his mind. He welcomed another. “h-hHEH!h.. ohhH!hh..” 

The urge abandoned him, and of course the moment he wanted to sneeze, he couldn’t. Clearing his throat, he realized with a measure of chagrin that when he sneezed, he hadn’t done more than turn his head. Where had his manners gone? The urges were so immediate, he could scarcely think of anything else.

Dr. Voster snatched the phone from his hand. “That wasn’t even fifteen seconds! I’m calling HQ.”

“Anita!” he growled, and darted forward. The two of them ended up in a spontaneous spar. While Dr. Voster was rarely on the field, she was trained in hand-to-hand as well as he was. They exchanged a series of blocks, strikes, kicks, dodges, and by the time Omicron wrestled her into a hold on the linoleum, they were both breathless. Splayed out on her back, he huffed heavy breaths into her hair. The silken strands ruffled in the gusts.

She threw him a dirty look from the corner of her eye. “Let me go, Omicron.”

“Not until you let go of this notion that I’m incapable of fulfilling this mission, Anita,” he leveled back at her. “It’s unlike you to worry like this.”

Her glare darkened; she didn’t like his choice of words, but didn’t deny it. “I oversensitized you. It will be my fault if you collapse in an uncontrollable sneezing fit and get captured by the enemy.”

He scoffed. “Is that all? I didn’t sneeze once during our spar and, in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got you in a lock on the ground. Not to mention the mission is information extraction. If I attract unwanted attention, that would be my own mistake.”

She said nothing in return, which prompted Omicron to slide off of her. Together they sat up, still sitting on the floor together. She tucked hair behind her ear, refusing to look at him. He sighed. “Anita..”

She shot him a side glance. “.. are you seriously going through with it?”

“Of course,” he replied, twitching his nose to one side. The tickle rippled, and he sniffled in response. Out of habit he reached up to rest his finger beneath. “If the target enjoys this as much as sources claim, th-h!.. then it’ll beeeeh-”

He tucked his finger more tightly to his septum, only realizing his mistake after the tickle churned restlessly against the tender, tortured edges of his sinuses. “Oh, fuck mHH-.. HIH!hh.. uhh… UH..”

Dr. Voster made a noise of exasperation and he caught the sound of tissues getting snatched from the box. As he gasped and groaned his way through another incredible buildup, a flurry of softness enveloped his squirming nose. He cupped his hand over hers as he flinched forward into their shared grip.

“iiiIHH’GGZSSCHOO!..oohhh, uhduther-..” He caught his breath in a desperate gasp, straight from the bottom of his belly. When he crunched forward, he heard a couple seams rip in his shirt. “AAHHDZZSCHOO!!”

“I guess I should said bless you,” grumbled Dr. Voster. She wiggled the tissues around his nose, which remained twitchy. He had yet to open his eyes. “Are you done?”

He shook his head.

“One more?”

He paused to consider, then nodded. And after another terrific gasp, the force of his doubling-over wrenched their hands down toward his lap. “EEHTTZZSSSCHOOO!!.. ohhh, wow..” 

Omicron nearly shivered at the pleasant, tingling aftermath. Why did they always feel so good? The bigger the better, even if they winded him. Dr. Voster left him with the tissues as he muzzily blew his nose. He kept his head down for a moment to let the dizziness ease, so he was still facing his lap when he opened his eyes.

Oh. That was new. Side effect of the virus, perhaps..? 

Omicron darted his eyes to the doctor, but she was already up on her feet and brushing off her coat. She hadn’t seen - his first and only stroke of luck today. Because if she thought his violent sneezing was grounds for calling off the mission, his sudden sneeze-induced half-chub would definitely warrant a mortifying and career-destroying advisory call to HQ. He rushed to adjust himself as she turned away, and then both of them jumped when the door opened.

“ - yes, yes, just tell them to fax it,” Agent Delta was saying, attention still focused on someone else in the hall. Omicron scrambled to his feet, standing at attention as Dr. Voster filed beside him, just as Delta turned to them both. He clapped his hands together. “Ah, there they are! Case 28947!”

That was the case number to which they were assigned, and the very case that would see Omicron leaving for the airport in the next.. his eyes flew to the clock on the wall.. twelve minutes. That’s probably why Delta was here. 

“How’s our experiment? A success?” He strolled over to Omicron, over whom he held a few inches. Omicron stood his ground, resolving not to drop his eyes when Delta jovially scanned his features. His gaze lingered on Omicron’s nose. “Looks like it was.”

“It was.” Dr. Voster and Omicron briefly locked eyes before she continued. “It’s.. functioning as intended.”

“Really?” asked Delta, impressed. Dr. Foster preened under that look, in spite of the circumstances. The senior agent looked between the two of them with a polite smile. “I suppose you wouldn’t mind me testing it as well?”

Again Omicron and Anita met eyes. This time, Omicron cleared his throat and nodded his reply. “If you wish, sir.”

Delta scratched his cheek thoughtfully, studying Omicron in silence until the shorter agent couldn’t help but sniff. He also couldn’t help the need to briefly wrinkle his nose afterward. Delta grinned.

“From how it was described, it must tickle pretty bad in there, huh?” he said, nodding to Omicron’s nose. It must be blushed pink by now, if not darker. He waited for Delta to continue, and then realized that his superior was waiting for an answer.

Much as it humiliated him to say it, he replied, “It does, sir.”

“Mmm,” Delta hummed thoughtfully, and to the man’s credit he sounded a little sympathetic. “It must feel like.. hm, how did your poetic literature put it, Doctor? What was it?.. Liiike..”

Dr. Voster, who was busy putting her hair back up into its customary ponytail, darted an apologetic glance toward Omicron. Well, it wasn’t her fault. Omicron knew what literature Delta referenced and it was only part of protocol for her to write something thorough for their records.

“Like feathers.”

“That’s right, like feathers,” Delta continued, shifting on his feet in front of Omicron. His eyes never left his subordinate’s face. “Constantly and tirelessly petting the inside of one’s nose.”

The words seemed hypnotic to Omicron because he could feel it. He could feel those feathers, stroking so gently and repeatedly against the far depths of his sinuses. Somewhere deep, somewhere too far to scratch. They were careful with the fragile nerves there, but dauntless in their purpose. To make him sneeze. And sneeze.. And sneeze…

Omicron’s eyes fluttered shut, his breath deepening as his nostrils flared softly to the siren call of those thoughts. His hands remained firmly clasped behind him.

Delta continued as if he didn’t notice. “Yes. An ever-present irritation in the most sensitive depths, coaxed to greater and greater strength by your breath. Isn’t that ironic? That you yourself are the catalyst to this growing fire inside you, cursed to fan the flames even in sleep.”

Did it start while I was asleep last night? Omicron wondered. Because when he woke, it was to an itchy nose. So itchy in fact he snorted, sniffed, and rubbed it with such single-mindedness he nearly forgot he was due to Dr. Voster’s lab today. He breathed now, a slow and reverent inhale that squeaked around his blocked sinuses and added speed to the stroking sensation of those silken feathers.

His lips parted, his chest jumping with a sudden breath. He sighed it out, the ghost of a moan carried on his exhale.

“And once it starts, it is nigh impossible to stop. That tickle won’t let you. No matter how badly you might want a reprieve, those feathers are mindless. You can’t reason with them. They’ll just keep at their work, teasing and teasing that aching flesh until..”

The tickle buoyed him through a catching gasp. Omicron sighed again, his voice carrying, wanting. Another cresting gasp, the wave of something reachable, and then he fell short again. His nostrils pulsed plaintively, begging what dwelled inside to give him relief. But Omicron didn’t mind this limbo, this torture. He knew what came after would be well worth the wait.

“.. agitating.. working you over.. beckoning you with a relentless tickle.. until you can take it no longer.”

His chest swelled, and what he thought might be another forsaken gasp turned into the exclamation of climax. “HAH-.. BBZSSSSCHHUUHH!”

The first one came, because of course there would be more, and he snatched an arm around his middle when there was a strong, delicious undulation of pleasure deep in his gut. He groaned, his voice deep and gravelly and unfamiliar to his ears.

“Whoa!” came Delta’s exclamation. He sounded shocked. “That sure was something. Omicron, bless-”

“HEH-.. BBZSSSHHOO!.. nnnnghh.” 

These were smooth as butter - one big, long, scooping breath and then a knee-shaking release. He sniffled thickly, wetly, with his eyes shut in concentration. Omicron wanted another, and this time the tickle delivered. Those invisible feathers rustled like wheat in a windstorm, and he caught himself grinning as he gasped another huge breath. 

“HHHH!.. EHDZZSSSHUUE!!”

He swayed forward as another cramp of ecstasy swirled in his gut, and Omicron felt a strong hand brace his shoulder to keep him from tipping over.

“Is he okay?” was one faint voice.

“Yes, just-” came another.

Omicron sneezed.

“HIIH!.. IIHTDZZSSSHHHTT!! .. fuck.”

That one was particularly wet, fired haphazardly at the floor like the rest. It also contracted in a burst of stars behind his groin so intense that Omicron became instantly and fearfully aware that he would actually come in his pants if he kept this up. And holy shit he didn’t want that to happen. Not here. Not now. 

He jerked his free hand out, holding it expectantly toward the voices. With tremendous effort, he tried to be understood. “Tiih.. Tiizzusss.. HUH-”

“One second, one second!!” he heard Anita’s tempering assurances over the rush of blood in his ears. 

And the rush of ticklish sensation through his nose. He couldn’t get the visual of feathers out of his head. Delta, damn him. All Omicron could see behind the dark of his wet eyelids was a field of pristine, white, downy feathers positioned diabolically against every inch of his nasal walls. The tips of them wavered each time he hitched a stuttery inhale, and huffed a helpless exhale. They were devoid of life beyond that which he gave them, breathing intent into them as they swayed against swollen, irritated flesh. He could picture his nasal membranes flinching helplessly against the onslaught, crying out to him for relief. And he would give it-

“hH-.. uHH’TZZZSSSHHOOOO!!”

The feathers fluttered wildly and his nose calmed with a prickling balm, sated. Until he sniffled against the slogging block of congestion in his nose and what little air there was eeked through and-.. the feathers trembled, dragging their soft tips gingerly against his quivering flesh, an endless torment, so subtle yet compounding in its simplicity because he could feel the echoes of that tantalizing sensation all through his nose and as he snuffled against the feeling, the feathers trembled again as if in eagerness, excitement, their tendrils tracing long worn paths on fraught nerves as the aching pressure built and built in his nose, deep inside, and oh-.. ohh-

“hHHHHH-”

“Oh no you don’t.” 

The sudden presence of a hand over his nose surprised him, frightened the sneeze away, and Omicron felt an irrational pang of frustration when his gasp escaped from him with a gutteral hhuhh unrelieved. He realized in retrospect that the voice was Dr. Voster, and the hand belonged to her too. He also realized, in a wash of cold sweat, that he was achingly hard where his prick was tucked into his belt.

“Blow your nose, Omicron.”

He struggled to comply. A hitching breath got out of his control, only emboldening the tickle, and again he thought of the feathers. They were everywhere, impossible to blow out, and they’d just keep… keep-

“RRZZSSSSCHH’HOO!”

It tore out of him with a passion, and the pleasure washed over him so fiercely he would have gone to his knees had Delta not stepped in to catch him. Omicron panicked, bursting into motion to put distance between himself and the others. They let him go, only for him to stumble backwards onto his ass. The impact shook an impending sneeze out the queue, and Omicron had a moment to collect his bearings.

He quickly got to his hands and knees, trying to keep his crotch pointed to the floor. He was still painfully hard, but thankfully he hadn’t managed to sneeze himself into orgasm. Now that he had his wits, he realized he still had the wad of tissues in his hand. He brought them to his face and blew as hard as he could, concentrating only on the act of getting something out rather than thinking too hard about what was happening inside.

Adrenaline and humiliation were quick and quiet boner killers; any residual arousal swirling in his thoughts extinguished as he assessed his situation. He was somewhat sweaty, stained with a few of his own sneezes, and his damn nose still tickled. Omicron threw caution to the wind and rubbed it with fast, punishing pressure against his septum, as if to admonish it. Rather than chance a sniffle, he breathed only through his mouth as he climbed to his feet.

Both Dr. Voster and Agent Delta regarded him warily. Omicron straightened his vest, his jacket, and smoothed back his hair where it had fallen into his eyes. 

“Pardod be,” he rasped, still breathless. He coughed into his fist to clear his throat.

Delta’s features eased into genuine concern. The man’s flippant nature notwithstanding, he did care about his people. “Agent, are you alright?”

“Of course,” insisted Omicron. He cleared his throat again. “Just fine. Why?”

“Well, that just..” Delta looked over to Dr. Voster, who was refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. “.. it seemed very intense, don’t you think? Doctor?”

The doctor startled at her name, then reached to adjust her glasses. She looked now at Omicron, her expression as hard and firm as her voice. “Yes, I agree. And I would recommend..”

Here, Omicron bit his tongue. If Anita really did want to rat him out, he’d only dig his own grave if he tried to deflect. But then her eyes softened.

“.. that Agent Omicron desist from triggering the suggestion impulse until this initial sensitivity wears off.”

Tension left his shoulders. He closed his eyes briefly in relief.

Delta rubbed the back of his neck, contrite. “Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realize it was an issue. You should have told me!”

“I wasn’t aware it was a pattern until you tried it, sir,” said Dr. Voster. She crossed her arms and nodded toward Omicron. “And with all due respect, sir, you should really apologize to Agent O.”

Delta turned to him with dewy puppy-dog eyes and Omicron wanted to evaporate out of embarrassment. He didn’t do well with anything sentimental and at times his superior was pure sentimentality. “Forgive me, Omicron. I hope I didn’t cause you any distress. I’m sure that wasn’t comfortable.”

On the contrary, thought Omicron, but admitting anything even close to the truth made his tongue wither. His cheeks burned, and to add further indignity, he sniffled. The brief, tickling swell prompted him to thumb the end of his nose to encourage good behavior. 

“Not at all, sir. Please don’t trouble yourself over it.”

Delta clapped him companionably on the shoulder, and when he turned toward Dr. Voster, Omicron leaned around him to throw a scathing look her way. She only smiled. That prompted apology was likely just her getting some revenge. To be frank, the new complication of sneeze-induced arousal would absolutely complicate the mission, but Omicron begged to be given a case like this for months. More than a year, even. He’d take the risk rather than give this up.

Besides, it wasn’t his fault his nose couldn’t calm down. He didn’t conduct a half-baked intake interview and design an overpowered tickle virus, so why should he be the one to suffer the consequences? Beyond those he was already suffering, he supposed.

Once again, thinking too much about it summoned the tickle forth. Omicron refused to get stuck in another self-perpetuated sneeze-cycle, so he focused only on the wall as the urge lapped at the edges of his sinuses. Oh, the ones that made him wait were the worst.

“.. to it that we grab your luggage on the way to the jet,” Delta was saying. He still had his hand on Omicron’s shoulder and squeezed when he got no response. “You already packed right?”

Omicron took a breath to reply, but it hitched in his throat. Then rushed out with a soft uhh that he couldn’t suppress. Gone were the days when he could quietly build up to a sneeze; it seemed this virus wanted everybody to know as soon as his nose started to tickle. He fought to keep his eyes open, and his ears from flushing red.

“.. yeh..hssirr..”

Delta’s smile tilted back into concerned territory, and he rubbed Omicron’s shoulder. “Looking a little sneezy, Agent. Try not to knock yourself down this time.”

Omicron huffed a laugh that trembled into a gasping inhale, a fitful exhale, an even more urgent inhale-.. “-uUHH!” and then left him on a frustrated sigh. He rubbed his face with both hands. “Fuck,” he mumbled. Then his head shot up in alarm. “Oh-.. ah, sir-...”

Agent Delta only laughed, booming and cheerful as he slid his arm further across Omicron’s shoulders to give him a jostling side-hug. “Don’t worry, Agent. These are extenuating circumstances, I’ll let that it slide.”

Omicron nodded as he was jerked around by Delta’s strength, reaching up to push his hair back when it fell out of style again. His nose was still tingling, unrelieved, and he scrunched it with exasperation. Sneeze or don’t sneeze, won’t you? 

“Off we go!” crowed Delta, escorting Omicron toward the door while still under his arm. He looked back to Dr. Voster. “I’ll be with him on the flight, so we’ll let you know if there are any case developments.”

He tightened his hold when he said this, and Omicron fought down a flash of annoyance that Delta probably meant any developments with Agent Omicron’s nose. Speaking of which… 

Omicron let his eyes roll shut as Delta led him into the hall, their footsteps echoing down the corridor. He was saying something, probably about the jet, but Omicron let the words wash over him just as he let the tickle wash through his nose. Wary of what might happen, he strayed away from thinking too much about feathers. Instead, he thought of dust motes. A dandelion seed. Something small and irritating and hopelessly stuck somewhere deep inside him. Whatever it was, this thing wanted to escape. It squirmed and twisted, fluttered its wings or flicked its tail. The throbbing urgency of Omicron’s tender pink membranes wouldn’t deter it, neither would the gradual unsteadiness of his breath. He exhaled, yearning.

“..uh-..”

The invader redoubled its efforts, writhing against his most sensitive places. He couldn’t-.. he..

“.. huhh-..”

If only he could reason with it, but on a baser level, Omicron didn’t want to. He wanted it to flap and struggle, tickle and itch, uncontrollable and impossible to satiate. Fan the flames of this urge so feverish that he couldn’t do anything but-

“HAH-!”

Omicron found himself smiling again, delirious as he breathed into this unstoppable force. He was completely helpless to its thrall. This thing in him, nuzzling and ruffling and bothering his nose so fervently, dotingly, sweeping him up with its caress. He.. oh-.. oh-!

“S’combi’g-” He gasped out, if only just to himself. The breathy word preceded an absolutely euphoric sneeze. “WRIZZSSSSHUUU’uoohhhh…”

Omicron stayed as he was, one hand cupped to his nose and the other bracing his middle. Another dagger of pleasure had stabbed him through, but it was fast to dissipate as he sniffled into his palm. The way his nose tingled signaled a temporary relief. Omicron couldn’t decide if he was disappointed by this or not.

“Goodness, bless you!” Omicron jumped. Delta stood beside him, both hands in his pockets now, looking amused. Omicron had forgotten he was there. “That was a big one! Sounds like you worked your way up to it.”

Why was Omicron cursed with the chattiest superior Agent in the force? He snuffled again behind his hand, by habit searching his pockets for a handkerchief or a restaurant napkin, anything. He paused when Delta extended a travel pack of tissues. 

“Thought you might need these, so I brought a few packs along.”

“.. Tha’g you.” 

Omicron took it with grace, turning around so he could use both hands. He blew his nose yet again, dismayed with the sheer amount of moisture he was capable of producing. At this rate he’d need to stay hydrated. Once he finished up, he turned back to Delta to find him extending a small bottle of hand sanitizer. He eyed the other man.

“You can’t actually catch this, sir.”

“I know, Agent, but the public won’t know that,” he said, as carefree as ever. “And even if you’re not actually sick, better to keep your hands clean, mm? And maybe try the vampire trick too.” Here he demonstrated by lifting his elbow and tucking his nose in. 

Omicron burned with the embarrassment of having his lackadaisical sneezing addressed in such an obvious way. Normally he was very thorough with his hygiene practices. He sneezed into his elbow or better, a handkerchief if he had one. He washed his hands frequently and properly. Something about this tickle just emptied his head of all sense when it came over him. It was a miracle he’d managed to even cup a hand to his mouth just now. He didn’t remember doing that.

So he could only nod, his cheeks burning, as he took the bottle and copiously applied. The stringent scent bloomed in the air. Delta could probably tell he was upset because he gave the shorter agent a lighthearted slap on the back. “You’re usually very conscientious. Just a gentle reminder, agent.”

Omicron nodded again, this time with a yip of surprise as his eyes slammed closed. Suddenly his nose was frenzied, filled to the brim with that strong, alcoholic smell. It burned, so sharp it brought tears to his eyes as he rushed his elbow to his face. Unlike the other sneezes of this morning, this itch wasn’t indulgent. It was almost brutal. 

“Chssh-! Tschh!” Even without muffling into his jacket, they would have been small. Smaller than his normal sneezes, even. They were fittish, barely letting him up for air. “Itschh! HHtschh!.. uh-.. TSSH’hee!!.. fucking hell..”

It only lasted seconds, over as suddenly as it began, and Omicron picked his head up blearily. He sniffled, coughing again at the remaining scent on his hands as he fished out another tissue and nursed his nose. Stupid thing was so needy now, he couldn’t even use hand sanitizer without a complaint. Belatedly he realized he’d cursed in front of his superior again.

When he looked at Delta, the man was regarding him thoughtfully. Not his usual fond musing sort of look either. The kind of discerning expression that awarded him the rank he currently held. Omicron’s blinked at him, wide eyed over the edge of his tissues.

“S-Sorry for sweari’g, sir..”

Delta stirred from wherever he’d been, and dropped into a polite smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s alright, Omicron, I honestly don’t mind. But, I’ll ask this again: are you alright?”

Omicron blinked at him again, owlish. “Me, sir?”

Delta chuffed an airy chuckle. “Yes, agent, you. You’re sure this..” He warred over his words, trying to pick the best ones. “I know you’ve been waiting a long time for this opportunity, but are you sure? About this?”

Omicron bristled, and he was certain Delta could tell. He finished up with his nose, balling up the tissue and foregoing hand sanitizer this time. “Respectfully, why wouldn’t I be sure, sir?”

“This science isn’t exact,” Delta told him. His voice was lower now, the proper tone of a superior officer. “Dr. Voster is a genius, but this is the first time we’ve tried something like this. There’s bound to be a margin of error. So I’m asking you again, Agent Omicron..” Here he fixed his subordinate with a firm stare. “.. are you sure about doing this right now, as you are, in this state?”

Omicron didn’t have to think about it. He merely drew himself up to a force-standard posture and looked Delta in the eyes without flinching. “Yes, sir. Very sure.”

Delta held his stare, but when Omicron didn’t buckle, he sagged where he stood. With a long sigh, he once again patted Omicron’s shoulder. “Alright, agent. But if you change your mind or if you become compromised, you must be honest and tell me immediately. Am I understood?”

Omicron just barely managed to resist twitching his nose; he could feel it wanting attention, but didn’t want to give Delta any reason to doubt him. “Of course, sir.”

Delta gave him a jaunty thumbs up, back to his usual lofty cheer. “Grand! I’ll take you at your word.” He turned away, beginning to stride down the corridor with expectation Omicron would follow. “Now, we ought to get a move on. They’ve got the jet idling and you know how they are about the fuel budget..”

Agent Delta carried on, blind to his subordinate keeping step behind him. Omicron absently, then more purposefully, rubbed his nose. The skin was starting to sting, no doubt ready to peel by tomorrow like sunburn. The tickle stretched languidly, lazily working Omicron up to another toe-curling sneeze. The hedonist in him wanted to welcome it.

However, he had nearly twelve hours on a jet to contend with, surrounded by other personnel. And he was certain now after that little conversation with Delta that the man would be watching Omicron carefully from here on out. If he noticed anything suspicious, he’d ground the mission and take Omicron off the case without remorse. He couldn’t let it happen, not after how hard he’d fought for this.

His nostrils flared against his finger, a premature warning to what was brewing. But Omicron knew, and he was prepared for the impending battle. It wouldn’t be easy, but he fully intended to negotiate with his nose and keep sneezing to nil on the flight. Almost nil, if he couldn’t hold out. Again his nostrils flared, as if playfully chiding him. You’re not in control, his nose seemed to say. I am.

Well, thought Omicron as he stepped out of the jet bay and into the sunshine. The jet sat waiting on the tarmac, a flurry of activity around it. We’ll just see about that.

/tbc??

I’m not sure if I’ll continue it, but I hope you had fun reading!! Part 2 is in the works!

However, there was one member of the crew Stede voluntarily ignored: a certain first mate, Israel Hands. They’d never gotten on well; the only thing they could possibly agree on was how awful it was to be in proximity to one another. Stede saw no reason to fill his valuable headspace with Izzy, of all people. Neither did the vast majority of the crew. His attempts to menace them into tasks fell flat more often than not because Izzy listened to Ed, and Ed listened to Stede, and Stede would never permit any sort of corporeal punishment against his crew. With no means of asserting his station, Izzy lost any ground he’d gained on The Revenge. It was a little bit funny, and a little bit sad, but mostly funny if Stede was honest.

The only person on the ship who afforded Izzy respect was Edward. Stede noticed. Stede saw how Ed depended on Izzy, conferred with Izzy, trusted Izzy, cared about Izzy, in a special way only the two of them had. At times it made Stede feel a bit left out, on the fringes of a history spun between two men over the course of a shared life at sea. And in those times, Stede supposed he could understand why Izzy hated him so much – an interloper, swooping in like a storm and wrecking the steady waters ‘Blackbeard’ had with Izzy back on the Queen Anne. It wasn’t a life that Edward wanted anymore, so Stede had no regrets, but still.. he could almost understand.

One evening shortly after Izzy delivered the day’s report (with some not-so-veiled criticism toward Stede’s crew..) and left the captains’ cabin, Stede asked Ed what it was he liked so much about Izzy.

“Watch him when he thinks he’s alone,” Ed had suggested, taking a long swig off his wine glass. “You’ll see it.”

-

Stede took Ed’s advice. It was a little unfair of him to ignore Izzy, given he was technically Izzy’s captain (even if the man would deny it vehemently and threaten to gut Stede if he even tried to claim as much) and Izzy was a contributing member of the crew. After only a day or two of observation, Stede realized with some chagrin that he was a prolifically contributing member; compared to literally everyone else, Izzy did a sizeable amount of the work. It was easy to overlook, since the rest of the crew was quite good at looking busy, but upon closer scrutiny it was clear who was actually pulling the weight.

Outside of those moments of yelling at the crew or attending quietly to Ed, Izzy worked doggedly to keep the ship afloat. He scurried up the rigging with the dexterity of a man half his age. He was the first to move after a change in the wind. He didn’t drink much, didn’t eat more than his fill, and was actually very unobtrusive when he didn’t feel the need to verbally assault someone. He slipped away during group morale activities, but always found a task to attend to in the meantime. Izzy was simply never idle. Only those times when Stede plainly couldn’t find the man were moments when he assumed Izzy slept.

Along with these epiphanies swiftly came another.

Either this particular oddity was something else Stede blatantly overlooked, or it just started recently. Observing Izzy from a distance, he had not noticed. Probably wouldn’t have ever noticed if not for stealthily trailing Izzy down into the cargo hold to ferret out what he was doing. Turned out the first mate was consulting ledgers Stede didn’t even know they possessed, tallying boxes and ticking marks on a scrawled list. Embarrassingly, Stede hadn’t known Izzy could read.

Not long after Izzy began this task, he began to.. flinch, a bit. At first Stede had no idea what was happening, leaning silently around a stack of crates to see better, as Izzy did it again. If he listened closely, tuning out the creak of the ship and the ever-present drone of ocean noise, Stede discerned the slightest sound.

“—xxt!’uh..”

Something like a snort, like Izzy’s throat was seizing up as a little burst of air forced its way out. The breath afterward was a mix between a sigh and a groan, involuntary if Stede had to guess; Izzy would not actively choose to make such a weak sound. In fact, all of it sounded involuntary. Stede peered from his hiding spot, growing a little concerned at the persistent frequency. They trembled Izzy’s shoulders, caused him to duck his head, each time with that guttural sound. Even so, Izzy worked through them with a dismissive air, ignoring each one without slowing down or losing focus.

“—xxt!’uh..” Izzy flinched. He breathed in sharply, and then shivered again in short order. “—Xxt!’uhh..”

They were well past ten of those little outbursts now. Izzy turned to another stack of cargo, his profile now in view. Stede stayed perfectly still and peeked around the edge of the crates, feeling a sense of deja-vu as he recalled Izzy standing half in shadow in the captains’ quarters the night of the fuckery. Izzy frowned pensively over the ledger, squinting up at the boxes and then down again, sneering at whatever he saw there. His unhappy face translated easily into a tighter snarl, and he tucked his chin down to his chest.

“—xxt!’uh..” His whole body shook. Izzy blinked, waited, and then did it again. “—XXT!’uh..” Reaching up to knuckle his nose with the edge of his leather glove, he growled to himself as he tucked his head down again. “Fuck’s sake-.. chhsh’uh!”

Stede perked up at that one, and abruptly realized what was happening. “Ah, bless you!”

Izzy startled violently – much more violently than any of his sneezes shook him – and had a musket trained on Stede a second later. Stede immediately jerked his hands up in surrender, wide-eyed, and Izzy looked similarly surprised before his expression collapsed into its usual glower. The glower he reserved for Stede, specifically.

“You fuckin’ ponce,” he griped, which Stede elected to ignore in favor of the immediate relief at seeing Izzy holster his gun. “What’re you creepin’ around in the hold for?”

Watching you would not go over well, so Stede attempted to improvise. He conjured a suitable excuse. “I was.. looking for Ed.”

“And just what the fuck would he be doing down here?” Izzy asked around a sniffle, sounding tired of the conversation already and turning his attention back to the ledger. Stede crept a little closer to try and peer at what was written there. Izzy noticed and jerked it out of his view. “Haven’t seen him, so fuck off.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hands, for that information,” Stede grumbled, stepping closer to once again eye the ledger. Now that Izzy didn’t want him to see it, he was curious as to what was on it. “What are you doing down here?”

Izzy scoffed and swiped a firm, gloved hand beneath his nose, irritated in more ways than one. “What’s it look like? M’tallying your fucking – xxNT’uh!”

The sneeze (Stede could now see clearly that’s what it was) came over Izzy with such immediacy he could do nothing but lock and tremble in place. It was more like a hiccup in that respect – none of the wet, braying drama of Ed’s sneezes, or Stede’s hitchy productions. However, either by nature of Izzy’s biology or the act of repressing them, his sneezes came with a frequency that obviously frustrated him. He tried to talk through them anyway.

“Can’t even be arsed t-to.. xXT’uh! – know what’s bloody going on in his own.. his- xXNT’ugh! – SHIP, my god, Bonnet I’m g- I will- ngh.. h-chssh’uh!”

Despite the softness of the sound, it was strong enough to stagger Izzy forward a step. Had Stede not feared getting his arm cut off on the spot, he would have reached out to steady the man. The first mate looked bleary around the eyes, the surface of them wet and his hair a little out of place from his capitulations.

“Gracious, Izzy,” he interrupted instead, now with some real concern. “Bless you. Are you all right?”

“FINE,” Izzy gritted out between clenched teeth, and then sneezed furiously down at the floor. “ – ndXT!’uh!”

“It’s not good to hold them in you know,” Stede tutted, watching Izzy’s face glow a brighter and brighter red in the gloomy lantern light of the hold. “And bless you.”

“St- nXT’uh! – Stop fucki’g blessi’g me and clear out so I can do m-my fffhh.. chSSH’iuh!.. my job!!”

Upon hearing the damp sniffle Izzy fought through afterward, Stede flapped about for a handkerchief to offer. He took too long and found himself staring down the barrel of Izzy’s musket again instead. Nothing more needed to be said; Stede abruptly decided it was time to leave, though not before offering one more blessing, followed by a tight, contained volley of sneezes and cursing.

-

“Ed, I believe we have a problem,” Stede now fretted up on the deck, wringing his hands where he stood beside the other man out on the aft as Buttons corrected their course under Ed’s supervision.

“Problem?” Ed echoed, glancing his way with a pinch of his brows. “What problem?”

Stede took a moment to approach it, feeling a bit awkward as he clarified. “With Izzy.”

Ed sighed, turning back to the sea with a beleaguered expression. “Ah, what’s he done now? He smashed one of Roach’s cakes again?”

“No, thankfully not,” Stede said, with genuine honesty. That had been a difficult afternoon, post cake-smashing. “It’s.. he’s-.. er, well..” He dithered, prompting another concerned look from Ed. Finally, Stede blurted out, “He’s sneezing.”

Stede expected Ed to look at least a little confused with so little information, but instead his concern turned into contemplation. He got the same look when he studied the clouds to predict the weather. “How much?”

“Erm.. a lot?” Stede said, fairly certain that anything over fifteen sneezes in one sitting qualified as ‘a lot.’

“What’d they sound like?”

Now it was Stede’s turn to look pensive, in addition to bewildered. If Edward was asking, it had to be important. “Little, fittish things. I couldn’t even tell what they were at first. Didn’t seem all that troubled by them, honestly, but once I blessed him he couldn’t seem to stop.”

There was a slight smirk tugging at Ed’s mouth now, nearly obscured by the beard. Stede could see it in his eyes. “Uh-huh. And what was he doing?”

“Something with the cargo? I.. actually I’m not sure, but he had a ledger of sorts, so perhaps inventory?” Stede tried not to flush at his own ineptitude, not knowing what was going on aboard his own ship.

But Ed didn’t chastise him, only hummed thoughtfully as if that explained everything. “Mm, okay. I’ll talk to him about it, then. Thanks.”

Ed turned back to Buttons while Stede stood staring at him, feeling the conversational equivalent of tripping on a stair. When Ed began walking further down the deck and sensed Stede’s eyes still on him, he looked back, eyebrows up. “Somethin’ else on your mind, mate?”

Stede scurried up to him, keeping his voice low. “Just.. well, do you-.. could he be ill?”

“Oh!” Ed’s voice brightened with realization. “No, no. Iz gets the sneezes when he’s stressed out. Probably anxious about the inventory. No biggie, I’ll ask him about it.”

Even with the explanation, Stede still felt rather lost. To clear up confusion, he asked, “Izzy gets the.. ‘sneezes?’”

“Yeah, s’kinda cute,” Ed replied with the typical affection Stede had come to expect when Edward talked about Izzy (when Izzy wasn’t doing something repugnant, and even then, sometimes when he was). “Gets himself all worked up over one thing or another and can’t stop sneezing. Always been like that.”

Izzy blustered around the ship in a perpetual tornado of spite and vitriol, but this was the first time Stede had caught him sneezing. So, while the man permanently appeared high-strung, apparently he wasn’t quite to the level of ‘stressed out’ at all times. Did that mean Izzy spitting venom and curses left and right was him being relaxed? Or was he just good at hiding this particular habit?

“I see,” he said neutrally, uncertain as to what to do with the information but compelled nonetheless. “Has this been happening often?”

“No idea,” Ed shrugged, staring out at the sea as Buttons tipped the wheel. “Not any more than normal, I guess. He’s Iz, so it’s not like he’ll admit if his nose had a go. Just’ll tell me whatever the problem is if he can’t solve it himself.”

Hm. Curious. Stede had to wonder just how much sneezing Izzy had actually done since boarding The Revenge.

“Now that I think about it, Izzy has been tryin’ real hard to play nice lately,” Ed said with amusement, seeming to read Stede’s mind. “Poor bastard’s nose probably tickles all day.”

Stede offered a smile and folded that information away for closer scrutiny later. Izzy wasn’t his favorite person, but his heart pinched in sympathy. He didn’t want the man to suffer here, even if he might have deserved it. On second thought, he definitely deserved it for stabbing Stede. Perhaps some suffering was in order after all. Either way, he planned to keep this little tidbit to himself. Little did he know it was already too late for that.

They all quickly discovered that pissing Izzy off was not the same thing as stressing him out. Angry was Izzy’s default state but anxious required some finesse. Trial and error got them a load of Izzy tantrums involving a lot of yelling, swearing, dagger waving and gun toting, deck stomping, and literal fist-fighting between Jim and Izzy that ended with Olu and Wee John prying the two apart. This culminated in Stede reminding the crew not to antagonize Izzy, as the man in question antagonized Stede for saying so. Edward offered no opinion on the matter other than, ‘Don’t mouth off to Stede, Iz, he’s your captain too,’ and ‘Also remember, don’t kill anybody.’ Presumably that left maiming on the table to some degree; the crew hastily decided to revise their strategy to something less overt. After weeks of no progress, people mostly forgot about it.

Then fittingly enough it was Lucius who won the bet, with a little help from the Swede, completely by accident.

“Christ,” Izzy muttered, leaning over the gunwale one afternoon as he gazed down at the wake of choppy water around the hull. One hand braced the edge and the other, his ungloved hand, held tight to a line of standing rigging. He spoke loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “When’d you lot last careen this damn thing?”

The Swede, who was nearest to Izzy by nature of not paying attention until now, glanced around for any help with the matter. All he got were wide eyes and zipped lips. Swallowing, Swede looked back to Izzy and found the man sneering at him. After a beat of silence, Izzy tilted his head expectantly.

“I asked a question, dog,” he growled. “When’d you last careen?”

After a breath, the Swede began delicately, “.. I am not sure I know?”

Heaving a bottomless sigh, Izzy jerked his attention to the crew at large. “Do any one of you fucking idiots remember how long it’s been since the last careen?”

More silence ensued, paired with blank looks and a curled lip from Lucius. Izzy briefly closed his eyes, stretching his neck and shifting his feet in a way that usually proceeded a tongue-lashing, but he stopped when Swede spoke up again with a tentative, “.. what is a careen?”

At this Izzy froze, blinked at Swede and then at the rest of the crew. His voice was deadly quiet, like a flash of lightning before earth-shaking thunder. “You.. have never careened this vessel?”

Darting his eyes to the others, Swede shook his head a little. “..I don’t think so?”

“How long have you been at sea?” Izzy asked, his voice wheezing barely above a whisper.

“Mmmmmm, like.. eight months?” Lucius piped up from where he leaned against the mast by the stairs, when it was clear everyone else either didn’t remember or was too scared to speak up even if they did.

Izzy stared at Lucius, lips parted, tight wrinkles around his eyes, as if he couldn’t comprehend the words. Lucius raised his brows, lip still curled, bemused. And then all at once, Izzy’s eyes fluttered and he shook in place with a sharp, utterly unexpected, “ –xxt!’uh!”

Swede, who was closest to the detonation, startled backward like Izzy had fired a gunshot at him. Izzy recovered immediately to erupt into a tirade.

“You useless fucking sods mean t-to- nXT’uh! – tell me that in the EIGHT M.. h’XXT!’nuh..­ – you’ve been at sea, yuhh- y-XXT’huh! – you- hh, fuckin..-XNT!!’uh!” Here, Izzy paused to snort deeply in hopes the grating inhale might reset his sinuses, before forcing out the rest of his words. “You haven’t ONCE careened?!”

“Uh, what’s happening right now?” Frenchie asked the group at large from where he sat comfortably on one of the cannons playing cards with Wee John. “You good, mate?”

“Oh my god,” Lucius breathed, mesmerized, a grin spreading across his face. “It’s happening. His thing. The sneezing thing.”

All idle eyes on deck swiveled Izzy’s way. The man regarded everyone furiously, though any intimidation he might have wielded was decimated by his hazy gaze and pulsing nostrils. Couldn’t fault him for trying though – wouldn’t be Izzy if he didn’t. Stubbornly he continued dragging them over the coals with profanity-littered accusations, interrupted frequently with wrenching sneezes.

“This is-ss- nXXD’tuh! – fuckin’ DISGRACE of a c- of- hDXT!’uh – a crew! You have any-an- h'XXNT'tuh! - idea how fuckin' reck- xXDT'ngh!! – less it is to skive off for eighhh-h'XND'uh!! – eight m.. months-NXSCH'ugh!!"

Meanwhile, the crew kept up thoughtful commentary.

“They’re so quiet,” Roach remarked from where he’d popped out from below deck at the commotion, nodding with an impressed air. “I thought he’d shout them.”

“He looks stupid when he does it,” added Jim.

“Mm, yeah, kinda,” hedged Oluwande, with a slight wince. “Everyone looks stupid when they sneeze though. Sort of part of it.”

“Blackbeard doesn’t,” Pete argued. “His are scary.”

“Okay, but like, we can agree Izzy’s are actually adorable, right?” Lucius asked, eyes still locked on the struggling first mate. Everyone murmured in agreement, some more reluctantly than others.

“Et’s like eh wolf,” observed Buttons from up at the helm, as Izzy continued to flinch and whip his head down with those violent, momentary expulsions, shaking himself in place while he continued trying to shout at them. The others nodded consideringly, approvingly.

“Maybe more like a bull dog though?” Wee John suggested, eyebrow cocked.

“I was thinking..” Frenchie pinched his fingers with a grin, “.. a little terrier.”

“Aww,” Swede cooed, prompting smiles and affirmative sounds all around.

By now, Izzy had left this plane of existence and ascended to the next, for how great his anger was with them all. His body was tense as wind-battered rigging, faintly quivering with the strength of this embarrassment. His nose remained ticklishly occupied, made all the worse by having a spotlight turned on him as remarks from the peanut gallery continued. With his gloved hand he pinched his nose, pressing hard on either side to massage the bridge as he snorted again, gave his head a harsh shake, trying to knock the clockwork reflex out of alignment.

“ –XXT!’uh!” Like a tide, the itch receded and swelled again, such an instantaneous feeling that Izzy scarcely got breaths in before they shook him. “ –XXND!’uh!” He couldn’t even get words out anymore. The longer his fits went on, the harder they were to contain. “ –XNDT!’uh!”  His sinuses began to ache, as did his throat. His head wouldn’t be far behind. “–CHSSH!’uh!”

“Got yourself in a tizzy, Izzy?” asked Lucius, his voice dripping with teasing sympathy. “A little stressed?”

Izzy’s gaze snapped to Lucius, fighting back the quick-trigger urge as he glared with all the fury he could muster before his eyes fluttered closed. “–JZIESH!’ugh!”

That one came out more squeakily than Izzy preferred, prompting a ripple of good-natured laughing from the crew. His cheeks burned, and with his hand still on his nose in a vice-grip, Izzy turned and stormed off the deck and down the stairs, shouldering Roach harshly out of the way. This wouldn’t stop until he calmed down; standing around being mocked by Bonnet’s merry band of imbeciles wasn’t helping. So naturally, because nothing could ever go right for Izzy, he smacked straight into the lead-lunatic himself at the bottom of the stairs.

“Good god man!” cried Stede, stepping back to smooth his shirt and straighten his cuffs. “I’ve made it clear to everyone upon this ship how I feel about running on the stairs – ”

“–h’JZSSH!’uh!”

“ – bless you, dashing down them on land is dangerous enough, let alone a tumultuous sea! What if I’d been holding something?”

Izzy clenched his teeth, but couldn’t even open his eyes to glare at the twat. He sneezed into his glove. “–hi’CHZZSCH’uh!”

“ – Bless you! Oh.” Stede paused as Izzy choked through another sneeze, and another in short order. Taking a second step back from the man, Stede sized him up. “Are you ill?”

“Shutdup,” Izzy growled, stepping to the side to brace a shoulder against the wall of the ship and slump there. It opened enough room for Stede to move past, should he desire, but Stede stayed where he was. Tightening his hold on his nose, Izzy ducked his head. “–h’MPXXT!’tuh!”

Stede winced at the scraping sound. “Stifling is a terrible idea, especially with a cold in your head.”

“I’b d.. dnohh- h’MPXXD!’ngh!” Here, he briefly let go of his nose to sniffle throatily. “ – not sick!!”

“Well, you sound awful!”

Izzy’s snatched out to grip Stede’s shirt front. He hauled the captain forward to throw him at the stairs, sending Stede stumbling to all fours. “Fff-hh-H’GXXT’Tuh! – FUCK off, Bonnet!”

“Izzy!”

Both Stede and Izzy looked up and down the hall, finding Edward standing there with a pinched brow. Izzy quickly looked away, leaving the blonde to stand up and huff and smooth down his shirt yet again. Ed glided toward them; Stede noted how Izzy shrunk a little against the wall, his gloved hand snapping up to cover his nose again. It didn’t even look like he was breathing. Asserting himself between the two men, Ed stared down at Izzy with a firmness in his eyes.

“The fuck’s going on here, man?”

Izzy held his captain’s gaze, wide-eyed, and then after a set of spastic blinks he trembled in place with a, “ – NXXT’hh!”

Stede leaned toward Ed. “Just a little collision. Izzy was off somewhere in a hurry, probably because he doesn’t feel well.”

This earned him a scathing glower from Izzy, the effect ruined slightly by his teary eyes. Stede met it with a prim, chin-jutted look of his own. Ed ducked between their eyelines, fixing a quelling look on his first mate. Izzy dropped his eyes down and to the side, then trembled with another viciously stifled sneezed. When it was over, his expression remained tightly scrunched. Ed sighed and reached out, didn’t pause as Izzy flinched, and slotted his hand securely at the nape of the smaller man’s neck.

“Alright, mate,” he said, voice low and rumbling as he crowded up toward Izzy, boxing him in. “Relax for me, yeah?”

Stede stood awkwardly to the side, undecided if he should stay or go. He always felt like an intruder in these moments between Ed and Izzy. But then Ed glanced over his shoulder to assess Stede, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.

“You’re okay?”

“What?” he asked, and then recalled Izzy manhandling him. “Oh! Yes, just fine. My shirt is a bit wrinkled, but no harm done. I can steam it out later. We’re all very fortunate, actually, I considered carrying a platter of molasses gingerbread cookies leftover from tea up to the crew, and they would have been goners – ”

Then, suddenly, he realized what was actually happening. His eyes slid to Izzy, who still had his eyes tightly closed as Ed lightly massaged the back of his neck, looking small up against the expanse of Ed’s chest. Lowering his voice to whisper, he gestured.

“Ah, is this the.. ‘getting the sneezes’ issue you told me about?”

“Yeah,” Ed replied, his thumb pressing tight little circles just beneath one of Izzy’s ears. “He’ll say he’s sorry once he settles down.”

 “ – nXT’uh!” Izzy shivered in place, and then sniffled thickly, finally muttering something in what Stede thought was a rather petulant manner. “Mb’dot sayi’g sorry t-.. t’xXT’uh! – that – ”

“Izzy.”

Izzy shifted his jaw, tilting his head and closing his eyes and working himself up to the grievously unpleasant task before spitting a congested, “Fine’d.. I’b sorry for wr- h..h’CHish’ih! – wrink’lig your ugly fucki’g shirt.”

“Izzy,” Ed said again, more seriously.

“.. and for tossi’g you up the fucki’d stairs,” Izzy added through gritted teeth. He was speaking so quietly, with such a stuffy and growling voice, it was almost hard to understand him. “ – chssh’uh!”

Stede saw Ed turn to him with imploring eyes, and Stede marshalled some patience of his own. “I.. suppose there was no harm done,” he conceded. After a moment he added, “And bless you.”

Ed beamed with pride at the two of them. Stede felt a little patronized, and judging from the mottled reddish hue of Izzy’s face, so did he. Or maybe that was just from all the sneezing. He’d slowed down considerably, looser and less angry than he’d been moments ago. There was a distance in his eyes that Stede first suspected was another, slow-dawning sneeze but in fact turned out to be a plot of escape. Izzy shrugged suddenly away from Ed’s touch and moved for the hall when Ed caught him by the collar.

“Ah, ah, ah, not so fast,” he said, hauling the man back. If Stede tried the same maneuver he’d probably lose an arm. “What’s got you sneezy, Iz?”

Izzy wouldn’t look at him, his hackles up again as he reached up to scrub punishingly at his nose. “Edward, please, ca’d we skip this part id frodt of..?”

Ed blinked, filling in the blank as he glanced between the two men. “Who, Stede? It’s okay, Iz, he knows.”

“Yeah, and he fucki’d- ff- XXDT!!’tuh! – told the rest of his idiotic crew!!”

It was now Stede’s turn to be a little nervous as Ed turned narrowed eyes on him, a mix of shock and annoyance in their depths. “Come on, man. I know I didn’t say it was a secret, but really?”

“No! I would never!” Stede squawked. Because despite his frustrations with Izzy he could see this was obviously a touchy matter. “As a captain, it would be unprofessional to share our discussions of crew members with their peers!”

That assuaged Ed, but not Izzy, who’d egged himself up for another fit. He stood in the middle of the hall now where the light could reach him, and truly he looked rather miserable. His eyelashes were gummy with tears, his hair out of place from its usual style, with a nose as bright and blushed as a man with a torturous cold. It was all his rough handling, the pinching and swiping and whatnot. Even now he held fast as he tried to muddle through the next wave.

“ – gXT’uh!” He trembled tightly in place, swiftly turning away from them both to angle himself down the corridor as he hissed another sneeze that caused Stede to grimace. The man’s poor throat. “– MXXT’ugh!”

“Sorry, Iz, might’ve overheard us talkin’ then,” Ed asked, a note of real apology in his voice that might not have been there before Stede came into his life. “Did they give you a hard time about it? We could.. talk it true- ”

“Through,” Stede helpfully interjected.

“ – through as a crew?”

Ed gently used Izzy’s shoulder to swivel him back round to face them. The first mate had both hands over his nose and mouth now, lurking a look at Ed that said plainly how he felt about that idea. He snuffled behind the cage of his palms, a gurgling sound, and Stede tutted as he began searching in his coat pockets.

“Honestly, Izzy, not a shred of manners on you is there?” he muttered before presenting a perfectly folded, powder blue handkerchief. “Take this, please, for the sake of everyone.”

Even with half his face obscured, Stede could tell Izzy was sneering at him and it was probably only Ed’s presence that dissuaded him from doing something particularly mean-spirited. As it was, he eyed the handkerchief with obvious hatred until a new thought seemed to come over him. He snatched it out of Stede’s hand, cupped it over his nose, and promptly emptied out a bucket’s worth of accumulated mess without a shred of further hesitation.

Stede assumed Izzy realized this was a perfect opportunity to soil Stede’s finery without getting reprimanded by Edward – thus his sudden enthusiasm.

Stede recoiled at the sounds but Ed was pleased, clapping Izzy on the shoulder and slipping his hand back to that spot on his neck. To Stede he said, with genuine warmth, “Thanks, mate.” And really that made the offer worth it.

“Head to captains’ cabin,” he commanded of Izzy, scritching his fingers at the edge of Izzy's hairline. “We’ll talk about it. Just us.”

He didn’t need to say it twice. Izzy gave a single terse nod and was off, stopping only once to bottle back another sneeze before he disappeared around a corner. Ed let out a long sigh.

“He’ll probably need a lie down.”

“From sneezing?” Stede scoffed with a smile. Really, it was all a bit dramatic and Stede realized that if he was the one insisting something was dramatic, then that was saying something. Ed didn’t smile though, and his eyes got softer.

“Yeah. If he goes at it too long, gives him a killer headache. Laid himself out for two days once because of it.”

“Really?” Stede frowned, eyes shifting to the empty corridor where Izzy had disappeared. “Maybe he ought not to hold them in as he does. It sounds dreadful.”

“Can’t help it,” Ed shrugged. “He doesn’t mean to. Trust me, mate, he wouldn’t fuck about with somethin’ that could take him off duty unless it was unavoidable.”

Having spied on Izzy’s work ethic the last several weeks, Stede had to agree. Ed smiled at him, stepping in to press a slow, warm kiss to Stede’s forehead. He’d need to sort Izzy out alone; otherwise, the little maniac wouldn’t settle down properly. Stede understood, and besides, he had some settling of his own to do – namely, with his trifling crew.

It was their first storm weathered as a crew aboard The Revenge, striking only two days after a brief shore leave in Port Royal. Naively, Stede thought they would be fine. Reality settled in as quickly as the heavy clouds did. Izzy began sneezing when he noticed the winds change, an on-and-off barrage of little, twitchy things he tried to ignore as he barked orders. He got teased, more fondly than with any real maliciousness, but the crew realized around the same time Stede did that this situation was no laughing matter. Izzy wasn’t the only one who was stressed – Ed was too.

And they had every right to be. The storm was harrowing. It rocked the boat like a toy in a tub, the waves at times twice the height of the hull as they swelled. Rain sheeted across the deck in curtains, impenetrable as fog. Voices couldn’t carry over the wind as everyone shouted desperately to be heard. The creaking of the ship was ominous, and even worse were the harsh, dull cracks of wood that suggested something was splintering. One by one, members of the crew were sent below deck to avoid accidents – the last thing they needed was someone pitching overboard and their lack of expertise proved more of a liability than an asset. Soon, only Izzy and Ed remained on deck. Stede didn’t have to see them working to know that they were chiefly the reason everyone survived.

The storm raged well into the evening, and ended just after midnight. The crew, huddled together in the Jam Room, tentatively wandered their way up to the deck once the winds quieted down. Fang and Ivan took point on surveying damages, though it appeared there was nothing that couldn’t wait until morning to address. Stede didn’t care to see the state of his ship right now; he’d rather see the state of Ed, who looked water-logged and weary as he approached.

Stede ushered Ed into the captains’ cabin, eager to pamper him after such a rough evening. He’d been utterly useless during the storm – at the very least, he could offer comfort in the aftermath. Stede filled the silence with inane chatter, a basin of steaming water already prepared to help Ed warm up and wipe away the salty grime. Only after he was properly dry and changed did Ed manage to get a word in.

“Asked Iz to stop in,” he said on a sigh. “Let him warm up, wear something comfy, relax a bit.” At Stede’s dubious look, Ed added, “He’s exhausted enough to behave.”

Given Izzy’s impressive level of disdain for Stede, let alone Stede’s opulent quarters, he must be quite exhausted indeed. The news was mollifying in spite of his qualms with the man as he followed Ed to his auxiliary closet.

Stede watched him pick up, consider, and discard garment after garment. He doubted Izzy would be satisfied with anything except his own clothes – namely, the black ensemble he always wore – but Ed knew him best. Stede silently tidied up behind him, folding and replacing and rehanging anything Ed deemed unfit for the first mate. It seemed to take ages, Stede finding himself a little exasperated by the end of it, before Edward took inventory of the bundle in his arms and nodded with satisfaction.

Sighing, Stede scooped up a big fluffy bath towel off a stack in the corner. “Well, if he’s as tired as you say, I hope he isn’t coming down with something. He seems like he’d be an unpleasant patient.”

“Coming down? Yeah. With something? No.”

Ed moved for the door, Stede right behind him and then stopped. When he didn’t move, Stede leaned around him to get a peek at his face. He looked thoughtful.

“Izzy hates storms,” Ed finally said, paused just on the threshold of the closet where the clothes still dampened the timbre of his voice. “I think he got caught in a really bad one before I knew him, and never forgot about it. Takes him a while to settle afterward, faster if he’s not left alone.”

“Ah,” Stede replied, sobering at the knowledge. So he was ‘coming down’ from his nerves then, and serious ones at that. “I understand.”

With a smile, Ed stole a kiss off Stede’s lips. It might have turned into more if not for the muffled sound of the cabin door opening and closing. There was a faint flurry of choked-back sneezes, by now a familiar backdrop of the evening, before a bit of sniffling and clearing of the throat. Izzy didn’t call for them, evidently planning to just wait there until someone appeared.

Ed turned to the closet door and paused, then turned back to point a stern finger at Stede.

“Try not to coddle him,” he warned in a whisper, and Stede sputtered in affront. "He'll get worked up."

“Me? Coddle him? Edward, honestly.”

“I know what Iz looks like after a storm, all soaked and small-looking and sneezy, and I know you, mate. You’ll be all over him if you aren’t careful.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” Stede huffed, eyeing Ed as he slipped by and took strides into the main room. In a loud, chipper voice, he held out the bath-sheet enticingly and announced, “Mr. Hands, I have a towel for you here!”

Izzy stood just in front of the main door as if unsure if he was welcome further inside, puddling the floor beneath him as rainwater skated down his leathers. His skin was still dappled with it, hair slicked tightly back and darkly shining from the deluge he’d taken on deck. Stede caught him just as he was pinching and kneading the spot where his bridge terminated between his eyes, either warding off sneezes or a headache. He shuffled on his feet and hurriedly linked his hands formally behind his back. Pale from the cold, the brightest part of him was his red, chapped nose which soon wrinkled. He grimaced and tucked his chin to his chest. Then quaked.

“—xxt’uh..”

Even his sneezing sounded wrung out and miserable. Vaguely pained. Stede’s smile softened with sympathy. “Bless you.”

“Don’t,” Izzy snapped through a wet sniffle, lacking energy in his voice. While hoarse on the best of days, now he sounded raspy. He scowled when Stede unfurled the towel. “It’s the size of a fuckin’ sail.”

“Then it should do the job just fine.”

Izzy’s eyes narrowed caustically, clearly unsure if that remark was meant to be a jab at his physical stature, but Ed came ducking out of the closet before they could exchange more words without him.

“Come on, Iz, outta those wet things. Got you some good stuff.”

“I’b not gonna wear,” Izzy insisted under his breath, “a single scrap of Bonnet’s- ss..—nnXT!’guh.. stupid wardrobe.”

He complied to the order despite protests and worked off the buttons of his waist-coat. Stede watched Izzy’s fingers, the way they trembled slightly from the cold or lingering nerves, prolonging the task. He half-expected the man to sling his stinking, wet leather onto the finery and smile cruelly about it but Izzy just stood there holding it and squinting around for any clear indication on where it was actually supposed to go. He blinked a few times in quick succession, his expression further souring, and then –

“—xNT!’huh..” A cascade of droplets sprinkled off the ends of Izzy’s hair. Stede barely managed not to bless him again. Instead, the sound was what he needed to realize processions had stalled; he startled into motion.

“You can change behind the screen, just there,” he said, gesturing to an ornately patterned folding screen partitioning a corner of the room from view. Izzy sneered at it, snorting back some congestion. His voice had gone a bit thick.

“I said I’b dnot wearing any of your gowns, you-”

“These are mine, Izzy, don’t fuss,” Ed told him breezily, and dropped a pile of clothes into Izzy’s arms. The man fumbled to catch them, and Stede took the opportunity to drape the towel over one arm and slip the leather waistcoat from Izzy’s grasp. Upon closer inspection, Stede noted that a vast majority of those offered clothes were actually Stede’s, but he refrained from commenting on it.

“Let’s hang your leathers by the fire to dry,” he offered with a smile, holding Izzy’s waistcoat as he used to hold his children’s full diapers. “I’ll get it rustled up.”

“Huge open flame on a wooden ship still st– xxt!’uh, stands as one of your most idiotic choices in décor, Bonnet.”

“Once you’re no longer shivering because you’re sitting in front of it, we’ll see if you change your tune.”

Izzy glared and clenched his jaw, tensing every muscle in his body now to keep any wayward trembles at bay. Edward plucked the bath-sheet from where it lay over Stede’s arm and tossed it over Izzy’s head, beginning to scrub his hair dry with an exaggerated strength that might have knocked Izzy clean off his feet if the man didn’t lash an arm out to brace against the door with a frustrated sound.

Stede glanced over as he laid Izzy’s waistcoat on a drying rack at the hearth. “Oh, Ed, do be gentler with him.”

“Nah,” Ed said, half-grinning. “He likes gettin’ scuffed around now and then, don’t you Iz?”

Izzy, who’d grown more animatedly fed up with Ed’s ministrations, managed to flail out of his grip and rip the towel off his head. His hair was completely askew, chest heaving with deep breaths. Ed’s grin didn’t falter, and with one last, lurking glare at the two of them, Izzy stormed off behind the screen to change. Ed nudged Stede with a nod of approval: step one was a success. Now for all the rest.

As Stede coaxed a fire to burn, Ed set about steeping tea like Stede taught him. They worked in tandem, in peace, warming and cozying the space until the two of them retired to the sofa to bask in the glow of the fire and lantern-light. Occasionally there was a burst of stoppered sneezing from behind the screen but neither of them paid mind. Well, they did, but they didn’t say anything. Stede knew from experience now that it only tended to worsen the condition.

It seemed to take ages for Izzy to finally emerge, somewhat swallowed by the clothing. His trousers were baggy, and the night-shirt slid loosely toward one shoulder. His feet were bare, as were his hands, save for the ring from his cravat now slipped onto the middle finger of his left; Stede tactfully didn’t ask. Though he couldn’t help but notice this was the most of Izzy’s skin he’d ever seen, and cream cotton suited him. Izzy stood there with the rest of his soaked leathers and wet towel, looking lost and angry about it, before Stede nodded to the rack he had posed in front of a roaring fire. Izzy slapped the sopping clothes onto the rack and dropped down into one of the chairs with his arms crossed tightly, tense as a bowstring, to scowl into the flames of the hearth. Try as he might, he couldn’t fully suppress his shivering.

Ed and Stede shared a brief look before Ed scooched over and patted the spot on the sofa beside him. “Over here, Iz.”

Izzy didn’t even look at them, squinting into the fire, snorting against a gurgle of congestion and swallowing after. (Stede winced). “I’b good where I amb.”

“Wasn’t really asking, mate.”

That got Izzy’s attention. He rolled a look over at Ed, at Blackbeard, jaw tensing and shifting as he seemed to weigh his options. His lips parted on a rough sigh, another thick sniffle, and then he shoved himself up again. Izzy edged toward the end of the sofa on Ed’s other side, as far away from the both of them as he could get, but Ed lunged forward and snatched him round the middle. With an indignant squawk, Izzy fell into the center of the couch – namely, on the shared space of Ed and Stede’s laps – and Stede also squawked.

Izzy offered up a fight, but true to Ed’s word, the man was too tired to keep the effort up. There was a burst of stuffy swearing, of elbows and jostling and Stede doing his best to avoid spilling his tea all over the upholstery, but soon Izzy gave up. They got him wedged between them, rather than sharing the seat of their thighs, and Ed’s hand was once again cupped at the nape of Izzy’s neck, gently massaging.

“I’m fuckin’ glad today’s over with,” he said, casual as anything, as if Izzy Hands wasn’t dressed in Stede Bonnet’s night clothes smushed between them on the couch. He let out a long, satisfied breath and sunk further into the cushions. “Now? Time to relax.”

Izzy didn’t look relaxed at all, his arms tightly crossed and his gaze locked heatedly on the fire. To Stede, it looked like the man might crack his teeth from how hard he was clenching his jaw. He was warm and solid against Stede’s side; he smelled faintly of gunpowder and smoked oak, even after all the rain. Out of the corner of his eye, Stede watched Izzy’s eyes narrow, flutter, and then his expression crumpled. He tucked his chin down to his chest.

“ – xxD’uh!” Izzy trembled with it. Stede felt the way it rattled through his body, rocking him forward a few degrees. Izzy didn’t even catch his breath before he flinched forward with another, “ – ngxT’tuh!” and unexpectedly followed it up with a brief stint of coughing.

Ed sighed, pressing his fingers more firmly into the taunt muscles of the man’s neck. “C’mon Iz, I said relax.”

“We albost died,” Izzy growled, teeth gritted. “Nearly lost the ship. Forgive mbe, Captain, if I’b dnot feeli’g too relaxed righd now.”

Stede blinked wide-eyes at Ed over Izzy’s head. Dear lord, had it been that dire? Ed tilted his head from side to side, expression scrunched in a way that communicated, Kind of, but not THAT bad. He took a sip of his tea and kicked up his bad leg to rest it on the table as Stede quietly poured another cup for himself. When the prickly silence endured, Ed heaved a sigh.

“We’re fine, man,” he said, gesturing to the perfectly intact cabin. “Masts are still up, rigging’s intact, yeah we lost some cargo, but- ”

“We wouldn’d have if this FUCKI’G crew wasn’d so FUCKI’G IDCOMPEDANT!!”

Izzy’s quiet anger roared quickly to a boiling height. He surged to his feet, whipping around to stand over the two of them, fists clenched, eyes wild, all of him trembling in rage. And in fear, Stede realized, as he watched Izzy shout at them. He’d seen Izzy spitting mad before, but never with the flavor of terror he could see in him now.

“I’ve told you, Edward, I’ve told you f-for wehh- xxT’uh! – WEEKS, that Boddet’s pathetic excuse for – h’XXT!uh – pirates would be the death of us and.. fuhhckXXD’ngh!!”

Izzy jerked a hand up to his face, hurriedly hiding the evidence of that unfortunately nasal sneeze. Stede considered himself a gentleman first and foremost, so in spite of Izzy’s tantrum, he magnanimously produced and offered a fresh handkerchief. Izzy snarled at him, snuffling and swiping a sleeve beneath his nose to mop up rather than accept help.

“I’b DNOT guh’uh.. xDT!’uh! – goi’g to fucki’g drownd out hhh-.. here, mbark by FUCKI’G whh-IGXT’uh!! – words!!” he continued, the force of his voice swallowed routinely by hitching breaths and a croaking quality that sounded like it was getting worse. Probably from yelling over the wind, Stede thought. He jumped when Izzy suddenly jabbed a finger in his direction. “D’not for th-thisss.. hh- hck’CHSSH-!”

The force of that sneeze snapped his head down, staggered him where he stood, and Izzy rushed a hand back up. Not to his face this time (though from the glittering moisture Stede could see under Izzy’s nose by the firelight, he did need to clean up) but to his head, hissing as he cradled it with a palm. Ed took the opportunity to snag Izzy round the middle again and sling him back onto the couch. Stede barely avoided a flailing arm to the face in the process. Izzy might have fought up onto his feet once more if not for the painful-looking feedback loop he’d fallen into.

“ –XXD!’uh!” Each one struck him like a slap, instantaneous and more forceful each time. “ –XXNT!’uh!” He’d buried his nose into the book of his hands, hunched over his lap, quivering. “ –XNDT!’tuh!”  The breathless noise after each sneeze gradually turned into a weary groan. “–CHSH!’uhh!” Izzy’s shoulders remained hunched around his ears, the sneezes coming with precision-like clockwork “–CHZSH!’iuhh!” until soon he wasn’t groaning but instead nearly whining for a reprieve. “–JZISH!’iyuhh!” He could barely catch his breath between them “–DZSSH!’uhh!!” and Stede could see what Ed meant now “–GSSCH!’iihh!” about Izzy not consciously holding them in “–CHISH!’uughh!!” because even a man with his level of restraint “–CHSSH!’huhh!!” would surely have stopped by now “–CHZSH!’hguhh!!” to save himself the head-pounding pain of it all. “–TZSSH!’hihh!!”

“Jeezus, Izzy..” Ed’s arm tightened around the man’s waist, tugging Izzy snug to his side while his other hand came up to smooth back Izzy’s damp hair. It had fluttered around his face during the jackhammer ferocity of his fit. “Shh, man, easy. Just chill out for me, yeah? Gonna pop a blood vessel or something.”

Izzy’s response was another sneeze, his head so far down over his knees that Stede couldn’t see his face at all. He sat quietly, awkwardly, while Ed brought Izzy down from a stressful high. The sneezes slowed down, becoming sporadic rather than routine, smaller and exhausted, though still with that edge of a whimper at the end. With a bracing hand on Izzy’s shoulder, Ed sat him up. He coaxed Izzy’s hands from his face, holding his free hand out toward Stede. It took Stede a moment to realize Ed wanted his handkerchief, and he scrambled to hand it over.

Poor Izzy looked punch-drunk. He was puffy and swollen with a hazy gaze, his eyes sticky with tears and everything down from there sticky with other things. His lips were parted to breathe. None of it phased Ed, who simply capped the handkerchief over Izzy’s nose and braced his hand on Izzy’s back.

“Big breath and blow.”

To Stede’s shock, Izzy did. Closed his eyes tight, took a huge breath, and blew his nose without a fuss. He'd known Izzy to be blindly obedient at times for his Captain, though this was a more intimate example Stede had yet to witness. Ed made a pleased sound and wiped his nose for him, folding and dropping the handkerchief on Izzy’s lap for later use. Izzy, looking utterly wrung out, just sniffled and dropped his head against the back of the couch to slip a hand back up to his forehead and knead his temples. Probably one of those headaches Edward mentioned before, Stede realized with a pinch of sympathy.

“Listen to me,” Ed said. There was a firm enough edge to his soft voice that both Stede and Izzy perked up to follow the order. “Nobody’s gonna die. Stede and I are not gonna let that happen. And you haven't let that happen. I get what you’ve been sayin now, Iz, and ‘m sorry I didn’t listen before.”

Izzy dropped his hand and tilted his head in Ed’s direction, eyebrows drawn together. From what Stede could see of Izzy’s expression, the man was a little bewildered. Perhaps because there hadn’t been many occasions to ‘talk it through’ with so much empathy and apologies in the past, but things were different now on The Revenge. Stede blinked when Ed’s eyes drifted to his, holding his gaze with kindness but also with purpose.

“We gotta train up this crew, so we can trust ‘em to handle nights like tonight. Leave that to Stede and I.” Izzy tensed, and as if Ed could read his mind, he shook his head and placed a hand back on Izzy’s neck to add, “Not because you can’t handle it. Because you shouldn’t have to. You did great, Iz. Now just trust your Captains, mm?”

After a few moments of thick silence, Izzy swallowed and nodded.

“Good,” Ed told him in a low voice. He lightly squeezed Izzy’s neck and the smaller man shivered. They could all blame it on him still feeling chilled from the rain, but also, they all knew a little better than that. Edward didn’t let it linger. “So, how ya feelin?”

Izzy turned his head back to the ceiling, glaring at it as he crossed his arms over himself and suppressed another shudder. “Like shit,” he croaked. He sounded annoyed again, and Stede was surprised to find he was relieved by this.

Ed chuckled, and then sighed. He shifted his leg, the one with the bad knee, and winced. “Yeah, me too. Not young enough to be dicking around in the rigging during a storm anymore.”

“Would you both like a blanket?” Stede asked, already moving to retrieve one.

“No.”

“Yeah, would love one.”

Izzy ended up with a blanket anyway because both Stede and Ed wanted one, and Izzy was still sandwiched between them. Following Ed’s example, Stede pretended to ignore how Izzy subtly burrowed into it once they’d arranged it. With the crackling fire as a backdrop, Edward and Stede fell into their usual evening chatter. They steered clear of conversation regarding the storm, instead speaking quietly about their next choice of port. Izzy stayed so quiet, if he hadn’t been between them, Stede would have forgotten the man was there. Once his shivering abated, he broke his silence with his soft sniffling now and again. He employed Stede’s handkerchief without encouragement, touching it to his nostrils to blot and rub but never to blow.

However, Stede did take notice of a few extra details. There was a permanent squint to Izzy’s eyes, a tightness to his jaw, and a repeated flinch when he swallowed. Being a natural caregiver (his one remarkable skill as a father and husband), Stede couldn’t stop his eyes from straying to Izzy when he was so obviously plagued with a headache and sore throat.

“Izzy?” he asked before he could lose the nerve.

He’d caught the first mate in a vulnerable moment, tending to his nose again. With a rough pinch-wipe he tucked his hand back beneath the blanket. His voice was a ghost of what it usually was, and Stede got the feeling he would have hummed dismissively instead if he wasn’t so stuffed up. “What?”

“May I get you some tea?” He avoided the words ‘would you like some’ as well as any allusion to the man’s poorly condition, lest he incur Izzy’s typical wrath.

Either he’d phrased his question well, or Izzy was just so worn down he didn’t care. “Alright, fine. Thagks.”

Stede almost commented on Izzy’s uncharacteristic manners, however minimal, but caught himself in time. Ed smiled at them both with glowing pride, but Izzy didn’t appear to notice. He was staring into the flames with a muzzy absence in his eyes – thinking, maybe? As Stede added peppermint (for the headache) and honey (for the sore throat) to Izzy’s teacup, he watched the pensive expression grow gradually more troubled. Was he remembering something important he forgot?.. Stede poured the tea and Izzy’s eyes drifted shut. It wasn’t until his breath caught and his chapped, bright red nostrils flared fitfully once, twice – that Stede realized what it was: Izzy had to sneeze.

This made Stede frown in turn. He’d thought between himself and Ed, they’d created a rather calming atmosphere here. Perhaps it was impossible for Izzy to truly relax when he was so close to Stede, which was understandable, but then why would Ed insist on Izzy sitting in the middle? Finished with pouring the tea, Stede sat there with it and patiently waited while Izzy sorted himself out. Unlike every other sneeze Stede had ever seen the man perform, this one seemed to be taking a rather long time. Izzy was too caught up in the urge to notice eyes on him, his breathing irregular and nostrils twitching. Edward was similarly occupied, focused on lighting his pipe as he carefully struck a match for the tinder.

Sighing, Stede looked to the fire. Mm, maybe he should add some more kindling. The flames were getting a little low. Beside him, Izzy hitched a handful of nearly soundless breaths – possibly the gentlest sound Stede had ever heard him make – and then he followed it up with what was certainly the loudest.

“AIIESSHHH’iuu!!”

Stede nearly screamed, and proceeded to spill Izzy’s tea all over himself. “Good gracious!!”

Ed barked with laughter, which he immediately tried to smother when Stede shot him an affronted look. He tucked into his pipe while Stede hurriedly snatched a cloth napkin from the table to dab at the tea stains. From where he’d doubled over his knees, Izzy slowly sat up with foggy awareness, thickly sniffling as he began digging around under the blanket. Probably for his handkerchief, which in Stede's opinion he should have found already, considering the ample warning he'd gotten with the build of that last sneeze.

“Bless you, Iz,” Edward offered, puffing on his pipe and still looking frustratingly amused by it all.

Izzy didn’t reply and when Stede glanced at him, he realized why: the man had to sneeze again. It was another of those lengthy affairs. Parted lips, fluttering nares, stuttering breaths, a yearning snarl – yes, certainly it was coming. Izzy had retrieved his handkerchief from the depths of the blanket but made no move to bring it to his face as his gasps deepened. Stede looked between Izzy’s nose and the handkerchief with increasing alarm as the sneeze reached its apex. At the risk of losing his hand to Izzy’s ire, he grabbed the man’s wrist and forced the cloth to his face just as he jerked forward with the same gusto as before

“AAIEZZSSHH’iyuu!!”

“Izzy, my goodness, bless you!! You don’t need to shout them!” Stede fussed, his nerves a bit shot. “What happened to those polite little sneezes from before?!”

“I don’d have ady fuckid say id it, Boddet, piss off,” Izzy groaned, finally with a modicum of control over himself as he jerked away from the other man’s touch. He took a big breath and blew his nose productively. Stede huffed, heart still hammering.

Meanwhile, Edward was scrutinizing Izzy with a sharper eye than before, watching his first mate sniffle and lightly cough from his congestion as he cleaned himself up. With furrow to his brow and a considering tone, he mused, “Hm, might be down with a little something after all.”

Izzy regarded Ed as he wiped his nose, trying to parse that nonsense, and abruptly gave up. That wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last time his Captain said something completely bizarre. Stede, however, blinked as his mind flew back to an earlier conversation:

I hope he isn’t coming down with something.

Coming down? Yeah. With something? No.

Oh, dear. So Izzy was catching cold. He wasn’t as pleased as he’d thought he might be at the news. Despite the first mate’s cantankerous attitude, he’d kept all of them safe today and taken ill in the process. In fact, every day he worked tirelessly to ensure their survival, the future of The Revenge, as invested in its success as the rest of them. Izzy was viscerally unpleasant, yes, but he was also other things. Devoted. Dependable. Loyal.

And currently, in need of some tea. Stede poured a fresh cup, passing it over to Izzy who took it carefully with a dubious look at the teacup and saucer. He didn’t look like he’d ever held a teacup in his life and had no earthly idea how to operate it. Stede pretended not to notice Izzy sneak a look his way to mirror his grip on the handle, and he also pretended not to notice the way the man melted into the couch cushions at the taste. Izzy closed his eyes as he swallowed, soothed by the temperature and texture, and tucked his head down to cough weakly into his arm.

And then Stede sighed, fraught with a sudden, strange rush of fondness and concern for the angry little man on his settee. Before he could say anything, Ed caught his eyes over the top of Izzy’s head and raised his brows meaningfully. Stede cocked his head. In reply, Ed darted his eyes between Izzy and Stede, then waggled his brows and smirked. Stede remembered the rest of that conversation as well.

I know what Iz looks like after a storm, all soaked and small-looking and sneezy, and I know you, mate. You’ll be all over him if you aren’t careful.

Stede pursed his lips haughtily, and Ed smirked wider.

Izzy looked between them, glowering over the edge of his teacup. He sounded like he couldn’t muster the energy to be annoyed when after a sip he asked hoarsely, “.. the fuck are you two doi’g?”

“Nothing you’d want to know about, mate,” Ed teased in a low, loaded purr. Stede interjected a scolding ‘Edward!’ as Izzy’s expression scrunched up immediately in an itchy snarl.

“Ohh, my god, Edward, you’re goi’g to fucki’g start mbe up agaihh-..”

He sniffled deeply, harshly, trying to fend off a raging stress-tickle induced by the suggestion Ed and Stede were eye-fucking each other over his head right now. It didn’t work, the tiny paroxysms shaking through him with a steady rhythm but not with so much speed he couldn’t complain in between. They sounded just as tired as he looked.

“–chssh’uh! There’s dno f-fuhhcki’g way I’b godda sit here an-..–a’chshuh! And watch you two bake eyes at-.. heeachother–jzsh’uh! I’d rather fucki’g s-.. chssh’ih!”

While faintly amused, Stede still gave Ed an admonishing look as he carefully took Izzy’s teacup from his hands; there would be more tea on the rug than in Izzy, at this rate. Ed was laughing, but sobered when Izzy tried to stand up and stumbled. He reached up and grabbed Izzy’s shoulder, thunking the man back onto couch.

“Alright, alright, man, I’m sorry, I was joking, c’mere.”

He bundled Izzy back under the blanket while Stede passed back his tea. It took another few minutes of dwindling sneezing and neutral conversation before Izzy settled down. He drank two cups of tea, sneezed another one of his monstrously loud sneezes, and his blinks got longer and longer until eventually his eyes stayed closed. The most shocking development of the evening was that when Izzy fell asleep, his head tipped onto Stede’s shoulder and stayed there. The warmth in Ed’s eyes heated Stede up from the inside.

“He likes you more than he lets on,” he said, nodding to Izzy. Stede scoffed, but was careful not to do anything to jostle the slumbering weight against him.

“Well, he doesn’t let it on at all.”

“That’s just his way.” Edward stared at the two of them a little longer, his smile getting softer and softer. Then he moved. “Here, he’s gonna mess his neck up if he sleeps like that.”

Ed leaned down, grabbed Izzy by the ankles, and proceeded to begin manhandling him. Stede protested in a hissy whisper, “Ed! He just got to sleep, you’re going to wake him- ”

“Nah,” Ed replied. His voice was low and smooth as he arranged Izzy gently, but without hesitation. “He sleeps really heavy, specially when he’s sick. S’why he’s really particular about where and when he goes to bed. Easy to get the drop on him.”

After a couple minutes of maneuvering, Ed now had Izzy lateral. The man’s head rested on Stede’s lap, and Ed plopped down on the couch to arrange Izzy’s feet in his. It was bizarre to have Izzy Hands so still and pliant, warm and lax where he lay. Cautiously, Stede lowered a hand to Izzy’s head and brushed fingers through his hair. It was coarse, just as Stede suspected it might be, weathered from salt and sea winds.

“You see what I mean?” Ed asked suddenly, in a quieter voice than before. When Stede glanced over questioningly, Ed nodded to Izzy. “What I like so much about him?”

Stede returned his gaze to the man on his lap and took him in – the congested squeak to his breathing, the unguarded expression he wore as he slept. The way he turned just slightly toward Stede’s hand as he smoothed his fingers through Izzy’s hair. Stede found himself smiling.

“I think, perhaps, I’m starting to.”

Shockingly, months later, Stede still found he meant it. A real marvel, considering Izzy’s repeated and dramatic attempts to shake his resolve. Underneath the bile and ire was a man of admirable talent – reliable, economical, methodical, meticulous, painfully devoted to his station. He was also, patently, an enormous dickhead. He was a prickly menace with the crew, a horrific brat toward Stede.. Edward, the lucky darling, was the only one who got the gift of Izzy’s obedience. It was at times a sulky, somewhat whiny brand of obedience, but compared to his usual hellish behavior, Izzy was an angel for his captain.

And Stede could admit, at first only to himself and then bashfully to Ed when pressed, that Izzy was very.. appealing when he was feeling particularly docile. Over time, Stede studied and memorized the conditions for these occasions. He had thus far discovered three distinctive circumstances when Izzy Hands was tame:

After a harsh scolding from Edward (Not uncommon, but equal parts exciting and worrying to watch).

When he was deep in his cups (Stede had Ed’s word on this one, as he had yet to see it happen).

In times when he felt ill (This was rare, only the once and it hadn't lasted long).

So, it was difficult to disguise his eagerness when four days after shore leave in Tortuga on a breezy afternoon, Ed stepped up next to him on the prow and said, with a heavy sigh in his voice, “Got a problem, mate.”

With Edward, ‘a problem’ could mean anything between ‘we’re about to be attacked’ to ‘we’re out of marmalade.’ Stede tried not to panic prematurely. “What sort of problem?”

“An Iz Problem.”

Stede wilted, glancing to try and find a spot of inky black stomping about on deck somewhere. “He hasn’t followed through on that threat about shredding the boy’s sketchbook, has he?”

“No, no,” Ed assured, waving off the concern. Then he amended, “Well, he might still do that, but that’s not the problem. Problem right now is he’s sick.”

A flash of Izzy from months before, soft and asleep on his lap, flickered through Stede’s mind. He swallowed and tried for a nonchalant, “..Oh? Really?”

“Yeah, as a fuckin’ dog too,” Ed said under his breath, close to Stede so they could chat without being overheard. “He’s got this shit habit of carrying on until he drops. Literally.”

“D-Does he?” Stede hedged, the both of them now furtively scanning their sightlines for hide or hair of Izzy. “But he was so..” He searched for the least incriminating description. Pliant and vulnerable, seemed too overt. “.. willing to rest, last time. I recall he recovered quite quickly.”

Ed smirked at him like he knew exactly what Stede wasn’t saying. “Yeah, we got lucky. Caught him early and made him sleep it off before it got bad. Usually gotta strong-arm him into bed before he gives up.”

“Of course,” Stede huffed. Certainly that was more on brand for Izzy. And speak of the devil..

“AIIEZSHHH’iu!!”

What followed that familiar, booming sneeze was a raucous clattering noise and a shriek of “Fuck!!” from what sounded like Lucius. Both Stede and Ed shifted attention toward the sound and found the source further down the deck. Izzy braced the gunwale, recovering his balance as his other hand stayed hovering loosely in front of his face. Lucius kneeled on the planks gathering apples and tossing them back into a crate he’d presumably dropped.

“Izzy, shitting hell, please stop doing that, it’s worse than all your yelling.”

Stede could not discern Izzy’s expression this far away, but the man had yet to move even an inch. Well, he did manage to flip Lucius off. Beyond that, he was silent and still. Ed sighed, a mixture of fond and exasperated. There was a titter of laughter among a few of the crew on deck, smirks exchanged and heads shaking with amusement. They’d all gotten much better about teasing the first mate about his sneezing habits – particularly after Izzy worked himself up so badly after a careless incident with the topsail rigging that he (as Ed warned) laid himself out with a debilitating headache for three days afterward. But these huge, blistering sneezes were not his usual and had the added hilarity of frightening some of the jumpier crew members half to death.

From down on the deck, Stede heard Lucius ask, “You’re going to do it again, aren’t you?”

As if he’d been waiting for an opening, Izzy whipped to the side and sneezed over the railing of the ship, out at the open sea. “AIIEHZZSHH’iyuu!!”

“Oh bless, Jizzy!” came the faint call of Frenchie, somewhere out of Stede’s sightline. “Was that you? Thought Wee John set one of the cannons off.”

“Shut your fucki’g mouth,” Izzy growled, his voice so low and raspy that Stede could hardly hear him, “or I’ll shove your damnb lute straight up y-..”

He’d been leaning slowly away from the rail, his body language communicating uncertainty, but suddenly rushed himself back over. Izzy doubled against it so violently, Stede fretted for a second that he might accidentally toss himself off the ship.

“IEHAZZSCHH’iyuh!!”

Another chorus of giggled blessings sporadically issued from the crew. Izzy took a moment to face the sea in relative privacy, snubbing and knuckling his nose in profile until he could turn back to the deck with some measure of dignity. Immediately he set about barking orders; his determination to shout with a sore throat was painful to hear. It seemed his only advantage at present was the crew’s reluctance to be anywhere near him; if he suspected them dallying, all he had to do was charge toward them and off they went.

From beside him, Edward leaned in and spoke directly against Stede’s ear. "If I get him into bed, could you look after him?"

Stede jumped, half from the request and half from Ed’s breath tickling him. For a moment he could only gape before words came to him. “What, me? Wouldn’t he prefer you?”

“Nah, not really,” Ed replied. He sounded a little glum when he added, “Iz gets all squirrely when I try and dote on him like that. Stresses him out. He relaxed real nice for you that one time though.”

‘That one time’ was never too far from Stede’s mind, try as he might to suppress it. The weight of Izzy’s head, the coarse texture of his hair, his habit of occasionally rubbing his cheek against the pillow of Stede’s lap as he curled up more tightly to ward off a chill. Commanding permitted power over Izzy Hands was intoxicating; he understood why Edward insisted on keeping him as a subordinate all these years. A chance to have that again, in spite of the unpleasantness that would no doubt accompany it, was tempting.

Ed, the cad, knew it too. His voice lowered to a purr, a big grin audible through his beard. “Without me around, he might behave better than you think he will.”

“Edward,” Stede admonished in a whisper, a light flush heating his cheeks. “We both know that’s the opposite of established tradition.”

“Mm, yeah, but when he’s sick..” Ed leaned into him and smoothed a hand across his flank. “.. all bets are off.”

“HAEEZZSCHH’uh!!”

Both of them whipped their heads toward the nearby stairs, finding Izzy at the top of them, one hand still clenched to the railing. The other – his gloved hand specifically – pinched and scrubbed his nose as he took the last few steps toward them. When he stopped, he was quick to lace both hands behind him and stand at a parade rest. Stede noted, with a curious mix of pity and surprise, that Izzy kept himself several paces away. No doubt to spare them both his plague. He did appear just as Ed promised: sick as a fucking dog.

Bruised eyes, bullied nose, an unhealthy pallor beneath his skin that only accentuated the high spots of heat in his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes. They were bluer today than Stede had ever seen them. Izzy carried an air of strain about him almost all the time, a jaded quality to his calmer interactions that suggested he had seen it all and didn’t think much of it. Today he looked exhausted.  

“Boss,” he addressed Ed, and then without really any vitriol he nodded to Stede as well, even as both captains stood practically intertwined in one another’s arms. “Bonnet.”

Dear lord, Stede realized, a sense of worry sweeping over him. He doesn’t even have the energy to complain about Edward and I flirting on deck.

“What’s up, Iz?”

“Dutch Fleut, five leagues south-east,” he replied with a sniffle. While his consonants were just barely spared, the dullness of congestion darkened his voice. “We’re well-stocked for m-munitions.. and have room fhhor.. for s-.. fuck me.”

Izzy swiveled away, turning in profile and breaking his stance to raise an arm toward his face. He rolled his eyes skyward, toward the noon sun, perhaps to try and hurry it along. The glare did nothing for him; the tight gather of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes didn’t change, even as his beaten nose flared like a warning. Edward looked to Stede, and in his eyes was a question – the question from before.

If I get him into bed, could you look after him?

Stede glanced toward Izzy, now sniffling and giving his head a shake in impatience. He turned back to them just as Stede nodded, just once, the movement barely perceptible.

Izzy, oblivious and more stuffed up than he was a second ago, continued, “We have roomb for-”

Ed clapped his hands, startling the man into silence. “No raids today, Izzy! Come on then.”

Izzy frowned, an expression that got weaker and more pronounced as his cold tickled him again. It dawned gradually, powerfully, and despite a few seconds of hangtime, Izzy still didn’t manage to turn away. He barely coordinated himself enough to tuck his face into his sleeve, bracing his other hand on his knee for a back-bending, “AIIESSSCHH’uh!!”

There was a faint chorus of blessings from around the ship, accompanied this time with Stede’s quiet offering and Ed’s more insistent, “Bless you, Iz,” before he stepped forward and intercepted Izzy before he could get himself fully upright. Ed didn’t even entertain conversation – simply threw an arm around Izzy’s shoulders and began bodily hauling him belowdecks despite the man’s confusion. It was casual enough to appear friendly, as if Ed had come to him in camaraderie for a jovial chat, but Stede was sure the crew could see it for what it was: the captain simply didn’t want to waste his breath on convincing Izzy to rest. Instead, Ed was just going to make him. If Izzy had been in better form, he probably would have caught this ploy before it was too late.

“Well,” Stede muttered to himself, straightening his jacket. Anticipation bubbled inside him. “Best prepare for my turn.”

From the captains’ cabin he fetched items that would aid him in his quest to properly care for a tiny raincloud of a man: one of his thicker downy blankets, a canteen of fresh water, a stack of clean handkerchiefs, and a small basket of expensive tinctures. He walked the corridors of his ship until he found himself in front of the little cupboard First Mate Hands claimed as his own. Edward darkened the doorway with the offhanded dominance Stede always found so enticing. His arms were crossed, all his weight leaned onto his good leg as he propped himself against the frame – undoubtedly to prevent Izzy from slamming the door on him.

Ed beamed through his beard at Stede’s approach, before he whistled low at the assembled healing armada in his partner’s arms. “Stede’s really pulled out all the stops for you, Iz.”

Beyond Ed, creaking faintly and venomously from within the small room, Izzy spat, “So help me Edward if you let that toff adywhere ndear mbe I will be properly fucki’g cross with you.”

Since Izzy was cross nearly 90% of the time, it was admittedly daunting to consider what ‘properly cross’ might look like for him.

“He’s a bit tetchy,” Ed explained with a wince of apology.

Stede sighed, beleaguered but determined. “Well, I suppose it’s relieving to hear he has enough energy for an attitude.”

“I have ednough energy to skewer you to the mbast againd too,” came Izzy’s raspy threat. It’s lackluster volume, congested state, and the fact Stede couldn’t even see him deliver it diminished its potency.

“Iz, don’t even try it, or I will be properly cross with you,” Ed grumbled, looking over his shoulder to glare into the room. There was no answer, Ed’s stern stare lingering there until Stede stepped close to touch his shoulder. He offered a mollifying smile, and surprisingly it wasn’t forced.

“I’m sure that’s just his foul mood talking,” he said quietly. Stede didn’t have any sincere fears concerning his safety. If Izzy still intended on killing him, he would have done so long before now. “I’ll be fine. Besides, with him in such a state, I’m certain I could best him at swordplay.”

He spoke that last part loudly, and from the explosion of complaints that rose up from behind Edward, Stede deduced that Izzy heard him clearly. Ed’s smile returned and Stede’s widened, but both were wiped away as a chorus of wheezy coughing overtook Izzy’s protests. Immediately Ed ducked into the room and Stede wasn’t far behind him, pausing at the threshold to momentarily absorb the space. Izzy’s quarters were compact, efficient, orderly – much like himself. While he possessed barely anything by way of personal belongings, the few he had were organized fastidiously: a chest of linens at the foot of his cot, a writing desk with a carefully stacked pile of papers and ledger, a lantern hung by the door. There were no windows, not even a porthole, and the guttering orange cast of the flame gave the impression of a gloomy night rather than the bright, clear day that it was.

Izzy braced himself with a hand against the back of his rigid wooden chair, his other pressed palm down over the center of his chest. Stede heard a touch of weight in his lungs, something wet, and Izzy’s throat was no doubt raw from the exertion of chronic coughing. Edward stepped in to smooth a hand along the line of the man’s spine, but Izzy shied away from the touch. He curled further into his fit, a movement meant to appear natural that was anything but. Ed let his hand fall away with a conflicted frustration in his eyes. Izzy, as he finished up and cleared his throat, wouldn’t look up from the ground. Stede’s gaze narrowed. Hm.

“That’s a nasty cough you have there, Mr. Hands,” he remarked, striding into the room with more confidence than he felt. Izzy shot a scowl his way, but at this proximity Stede could see the fever-sheen in his eyes and faint quiver to his limbs. “Into bed with you.”

Izzy sniffled, blinking wetly to try and gather his focus. “I’d like to see you fucki’g mbake mbe, B- ”

Stede stepped into Izzy’s space, cupped one hand at the man’s slender waist, another on his chest, looped an ankle around behind Izzy’s heels, shifted him, and shoved. The man collapsed onto his cot with a whuff of air, so dazed by the turn of events he laid there staring at the ceiling in silence afterward. Edward looked similarly stunned – he wore the same look on his face the night Stede set fire to an aristocratic vessel with only the art of passive aggression in his arsenal, and Stede had grown a lot into pirating since then.

“I can take it from here,” he said to Ed, reaching up to cradle the man’s cheek. “I’ll send for you, should I need any assistance.”

“R-Right, yeah,” Edward muttered, and soon turned his head to press his lips into Stede’s palm. He spoke quietly against the skin. “Thanks, love. For doing this.”

Stede gave him a doting smile, letting his fingers trail through Ed’s beard as the man pulled away. “Of course.”

Izzy roused from his stupor at the sound of the shutting door, but shockingly, made no attempt to fight his way out of bed. It was as if with Ed’s departure, all of Izzy’s strength went with him. His stubborn urge to posture wellness and resist evaporated swiftly and from there it was a fast downhill slide. Stede could actually observe the weight of Izzy’s illness come over him in waves, bearing him deeper into the depths each time he weathered a swell. And pitiful as it was, the worse Izzy felt the easier he was to manage. Frighteningly easy, in fact. In mere minutes, Stede had assisted the man out of his outermost garments and got him tucked properly into bed.

“There we go,” Stede soothed, placing a damp rag over Izzy’s burning forehead. “That’s nice, isn’t it?”

Izzy, pale and propped up by pillows to ease his breathing, shivering with chills beneath the fluffy duvet, glared tiredly at the wall with arms crossed as much out of petulance as they were for a chance at warmth. He didn’t react beyond a silent, single-shouldered shrug as he breathed through parted lips and clenched teeth. While worried by his compliance, Stede also tried not to be too obviously delighted at seeing him this way – finally worn down enough to accept a measure of coddling.

“What I’m sensing is that it could be better.” With flair and perhaps a tad too much cheer, he slipped a small corked bottle off the laden tray beside him to brandish. “Which is why I have this!”

Izzy didn’t even look at what he was holding. His voice was threadbare from coughing, even reedier and smokier than it was usually. “Fuck off with that tripe.”

“You really ought to give it a chance,” Stede said, but Izzy wasn’t listening.

Even with the onset of his fever, the man’s nose continued to be the most vocal about its upset over this cold. Customary of his ailing sinuses, they complained and then abandoned him in a torturous limbo. Izzy kept his eyes serenely closed, focused on the sensation, tracking its progress from the inside even as his nares telegraphed its arrival clearly to Stede. He tried sniveling and only got a stoppered sound for his trouble. Though what little air actually made it through must have done the trick; a second later, he barked a sneeze carelessly over his lap.

“AAIESCHH’uh!!”

“See? Now this is precisely what I’m talking about,” Stede insisted, wiggling the bottle enticingly. “Surely you feel miserable enough that indulging a cold remedy is an acceptable solution.”

“I don’t ndeed your fancy fuckin’ rebedies, Boddet,” Izzy mumbled, snubbing his nose with the heel of his hand as he recovered. He directed a bout of coughing into his sleeve, and when he finished, he sounded exhausted for such a small effort. After a moment, he eyed the bottle in Stede’s hand. “.. whadever it is.”

“It’s eucalyptus oil!” Stede chirped. “It will open up those pesky sinuses of yours. Now! I’ll – oh. Need another go?”

Once again, Izzy’s expression had fallen slack. Once again, he made no attempt to do anything about it other than let it come. He’d been charitable on deck, likely concerned that the tenuous balance of the ship would unravel completely if a cold swept through the ranks. Here, in his own room, he tipped his head back to let the sensation wash over him and then crunched forward with another enthusiastic, “AIIEZZSHH’iu!!”

“Bl- ”

Izzy snagged another sudden breath, still bent over his lap, and shook his cot with a lusty follow-up. “H’AIIEZZ’SHu!!” When the itchy haze of his expression didn’t quite dissipate, they both waited to see if there would be more. None came, and Izzy pinched the bridge of his nose with a pained sigh.

“Bless you. Now!” Stede began again as he shifted his chair closer to the bed. “This will also help your headache, and there’s no reason not to give it a try. Lay down for me? Just.. yes, there’s a lad.”

Sufficiently beaten down by Stede’s insistence, Izzy unfolded himself from his defensive huddle and shimmied to lay properly on the mattress as Stede arranged the sheet. The change in Izzy’s position caused his respiratory tract to rebel and he turned his head toward the windows to cough again, choked by the cemented state of his sinuses.

“I daresay it will do a little something for that cough of yours too,” Stede chattered while Izzy settled his lungs and caught his breath. “You’ll breathe better after an oil massage.”

“Mbassage?” Izzy rasped, blinking up at him. His eyes shined like dark marbles as he shivered and Stede briefly pressed a hand against Izzy’s cheek to track the spike of his fever. Izzy didn’t even jerk away from him, and this, more than anything, told Stede how rotten he was feeling. Poor dear.

“Oh, yes, a massage. I’ll need to work the oil into your chest and back, over your lungs.”

The smaller man groaned at the news. “Fuck mbe.. are you serious?”

“I certainly won’t do it if you are uncomfortable with it,” Stede told him honestly. He wouldn’t pretend nor presume to hold the same privileges as his co-captain. “I’m sure Ed would happily give you a massage, if you’d prefer him instead.”

Izzy looked briefly scandalized by the suggestion before schooling his expression into a more typical scowl. Silence stretched between them, just long enough for Stede to remember Ed mentioning how ‘squirrely’ Izzy got when Ed did any measure of the caretaking role. Then Izzy (rather dramatically, in Stede’s opinion) threw an arm over his eyes and gave in with a growling sigh.

“Fine! Fuckin’.. fine. Get it over with.”

Ah. Now Stede understood.

In Izzy’s view, it would be a blistering disgrace to have his Captain, a man he respected above all others, see him in such a piteous state. Stede however was nothing more than scum on Izzy’s boot and Izzy knew that Stede didn’t care much for him either. There would be no lost respect between them because there was none to begin with. To put it frankly: Izzy didn’t give a damn what Stede thought of him, and that was just fine, because the feeling was mutual. Mostly. Nearly mutual.

After heaving a huge, steadying sigh, Stede smiled. “Grand.”

And so a quarter of an hour later, they were well along in the proceedings. Eucalyptus oil acted as a decongestant and cough suppressant, as well as slight pain reliever. Case in point, soon after the massage began and the awkwardness faded, Izzy started to breathe easier, cough less, and relaxed himself little by little into the mattress. As the oil began to take effect, he at last put the fresh handkerchiefs to use with a long stint of nose-blowing that left him considerably less stuffy (if more rosy-nosed and light-headed) by the end of it. Throughout the session he kept his gaze alert and stubbornly away from Stede, but as tension bled from his body and his breath deepened, his eyes eventually closed.

Meanwhile, Stede firmly ignored the soft feeling of Izzy’s chest hair beneath his hands as he worked the oil into the man’s skin. At least, he tried to. Izzy was hairier than either Ed or Stede combined, a revelation that occupied Stede’s attention more than he was willing to admit. Scars of the slash, stab, burn, and scrape variety were peppered across Izzy’s skin, each telling a story Stede had never heard. There was a second swallow tattoo just below Izzy’s right clavicle, as well as a third on the side of his ribs. He was a trim man, fit for his size, and so utterly docile beneath Stede’s hands. As his gaze wandered lower, Stede caught himself and shook off the urge to stare. Time for a change of scenery.

“Izzy?” Stede implored, his hands lightly resting on Izzy’s fever-warm chest and his voice barely above a whisper. He was wary of breaking whatever calm trance had fallen over the cantankerous man. “I need your back now, darling.”

The endearment slipped from Stede’s lips before he could stop it, and a cold drip of panic plinked in his gut as Izzy roused. How would Izzy respond to darling? He cracked his eyes open and frowned blearily at Stede, his gaze still glassy with fever. While he looked as grouchy as ever, he didn’t protest the pet-name.

“.. m’back?”

“Your back,” Stede confirmed. He smoothed one of his hands to cup Izzy’s bare shoulder and squeezed. “Roll over, please.”

To Stede’s immense pleasure, Izzy did. He was a little clumsy in execution but obeyed without any sass or hesitation. Stede tucked the blankets once he was settled and doused his hands with another dash of oil while he spoke. There was something in the air between them, a hushed tension that encouraged Stede to keep his voice low.

“Thank you, dear,” he said, and as he settled his slick hands upon Izzy’s shoulders he added with a soft smile, feeling a little giddy and hoping it wouldn’t bite him in the ass, “You’re being so good for me.”

Izzy’s answer was a shudder so strong it prompted Stede to shush him, adjust the blankets, and slide his hand up to check his fever again. His oiled palm folded over the blazing bare skin of Izzy’s nape, a place Edward routinely touched. He seemed warmer than he had been since the last time Stede checked; it put a furrow in Stede’s brows. In contrast, Izzy melted heavily against the mattress, letting out a shaky sigh at Stede’s touch. And then his breath hitched in a very familiar way.

Stede leaned preemptively away from Izzy but instead of a sneeze, the man let his breath go in an unrelieved huff. Stede waited a beat, and when nothing else came, he chuckled.

“Lost another?” he asked as he slid his hands up the expanse of Izzy’s back. His skin was rough and uneven from various scars, bumpy beneath Stede’s hands. He gently pushed his palms along its surface, starting low and gliding up. When Izzy suddenly gasped, Stede first mistook it for a gasp of pain. He froze, hands still resting carefully against Izzy’s feverish skin.

Before he could ask, Izzy gasped again and jostled himself with a sudden, “ – chssh’uh!”

Oh, he hadn’t lost it after all – though it was a bit atypical, compared to Izzy’s usual. The sneezes from his cold were slow-dawning monstrosities that scared the life out of everyone unsuspecting in earshot when they finally crashed their way out. This was.. considerably smaller, more akin to the fittish things Izzy suffered while stressed, but it was a little too slapdash in its release and all on its lonesome. Usually it took several choked-back stifles for Izzy to let one squeeze past unhindered. Odd.

Also, it’s odd that I know Izzy’s sneezing habits so intimately, he thought to himself, and resolved to let it go. And he would have, if Izzy hadn’t done it again less than a minute later. Again, Stede felt Izzy take a teasing breath and again, he stopped the massage. And yet again, Izzy lost the sneeze only to have it resurface once Stede’s hands were back at work.

“ – hck’tsshuh!”

There, another one of those strange sneezes again. Stede frowned as he worked, smoothing his hands over the tightly wound muscles of Izzy’s back and trying not to think too much about how firm everything was. God, this man was every bit as sculpted as Stede suspected he’d be, underneath all that leather. He worked so much, constantly in motion; all his muscles were well defined. Especially his back. More defined than his chest, actually. It did fuck all for Stede’s ability to focus on more appropriate matters.

Izzy’s little reactions exacerbated the problem. He sucked in another abrupt breath, then let it out in a wavering sigh. Squirmed a bit on the bed. Balled a fist in his blankets as Stede carefully increased pressure against a particularly hard knot just below Izzy’s shoulder blade. It didn’t budge, so Stede leaned into it a little more. And a little more. He shifted to press the knob of his elbow against it, nearly digging into the skin, and Izzy punched a helpless sound into the mattress. The utterance fluttered in Stede’s stomach, as did the contrastingly weak catch of Izzy’s breath as soon as he inhaled again. This time there was none of the shy starts.

“ – chzssh!-uhh..” Another deep breath that ballooned his back against Stede’s hands, and then “ – jzssh!-uhh..”

They began with trembling ferocity and ended with something soft and breathy. If Stede mentally eliminated the first part, the latter half would nearly be a moan. Izzy hitched an inhale that skipped like a stone, then hovered at the cusp of it before he indulged a particularly exclamatory, “ –ahTZSSH!-uhhh..”

He was properly fitting now, up to three in a sitting, and while it was a conservative number for Izzy that still meant nothing good. Stede shook off untoward thoughts and (very reluctantly) stopped his work on Izzy’s back. He knew better by now than to bless Izzy’s stress sneezes, as that only tended to make it worse. Instead, he merely gave the man an apologetic pat and then moved to clean up. Izzy perked up with a snuffle when he heard Stede tinkering with bottles.

“What, that’s all?” he demanded, voice nearly a whisper by now, and Stede huffed with a slight smile.

“Well, yes,” Stede replied. “I was under the impression you weren’t enjoying it.”

After an incredulous pause, Izzy demanded, “The fuck gave you that idea?”

Stede’s gut twisted deliciously. What a treat to have Izzy so tame that he didn’t even try to pretend he hadn’t enjoyed a massage by the hand of his most hated Bonnet. Still, clearly his nose hadn’t liked it so much. For the sake of clarity Stede gestured to it, just Izzy’s nostrils twitched again.

“The sneezing, of course.”

Izzy’s brows crunched, his jaw slack, as he gave Stede one of those looks – specifically, the look that meant he thought Stede was even more colossally stupid than he’d originally thought. “My fucking sneezing? In case it escaped your notice, Mr. Bonnet, I’ve got a cold.”

“Obviously, Mr. Hands, but those were not cold sneezes just now, they were of a stressed nature, and I don’t want to be making you worse.”

Izzy snapped his jaw shut, and Stede got the impression that somehow, he’d check-mated Izzy in a single move at a game neither of them realized they were playing. He was up on his elbows, belly down on the mattress, shirtless and shining with oil, and honestly Stede was feeling a bit check-mated himself as he watched Izzy’s muscles move beneath his ragged skin. Refusing to meet Stede’s eyes, the smaller man protested under his breath as he glared down at his pillow.

“What are you on about? Whatever’s the cause, it’s all sneezing, so why does it maahhtter..?”

He trailed off at the end, and Stede’s gaze eventually wandered from the peeking slope of Izzy’s stomach to Izzy’s face instead, finding it wreathed with a recognizable expression. His brows drew up, almost pleading, as his nostrils pulsed arrhythmically. A cruel tickle plagued him now, cold-borne and irritating to his delicate, taxed sinuses, requiring concentrated force to vent it out. Izzy climbed his build-up and snapped his head down toward the pillows when he proverbially tumbled over the edge. In this span of time, Stede managed to pluck up, unfold, and secure a clean handkerchief over Izzy’s nose to catch the coming sneeze.

“AIIESSHHH’iuu!!”

The cloth didn’t muffle it in the slightest. Since he was expecting it, Stede managed not to startle. “There now, that was a cold sneeze. Oh- and another.”

A punch-drunk aftermath quickly mounted into a second attack. Izzy didn’t even open his eyes between, his expression caving helplessly as the tickle queued him up for another blast. Stede felt his nostrils twitching in the cloth before – “AIIEZZSHHH’iuu!!”

“Never quite satisfied with one, are you?” Stede pinch-wiped Izzy’s nose before the man could fully gain his bearings. “Bless you.”

Izzy belatedly jerked his head away from Stede’s touch, before snatching the handkerchief himself for a relieving blow. Stede was pleased to hear the crackling congestion so loose, unsticking easily from Izzy’s nose and leaving relatively unobstructed airways behind. He looked winded afterward, flopping unceremoniously onto his stomach and letting out a long, low sigh.

“Just fidnish your fucking mbassage, Bonnet.”

Stede raised his brows, still in the process of wiping his hands free of the oil. “.. are you sure? This is supposed to be stress-relieving, not stress-inducing..”

The rough quality of his voice lent a particularly gravelly quality to Izzy’s voice when he griped, “Don’d flatter yourself. As if your foppish ass could stress mbe out in the first place.”

Magnanimously, Stede did not point out he had in fact vexed Izzy to the point of sneezing on more than a few occasions. It also didn’t escape his notice that the poor man was already stuffing up again; a more thorough massage would no doubt help him sleep better. But if the act caused him stress, was it really wise to continue? Stede bit his lip as he thought and dithered long enough that Izzy spoke up.

“Does it bother you?” he asked. Stede’s gaze snapped to him, finding the man glaring up at him with his face still down on the mattress and one of his eyes cracked open. At Stede’s silence he clarified with a withering, “The sneezi’g?”

“No, of course not-”

“Thed get ond with it, you twit.”

Stede had half a mind to refuse on the ground of Izzy being a rude asshole, but as another feverish shudder coursed through the man’s body, Stede could not have denied him even in jest. Here was Israel Hands, one of the prickliest men on the high seas, offering a show of trust to a captain he professed to despise. The concept itself was intoxicating, made even more so by the soft groans that started up again once Stede eased back into his massage. He intuited that Izzy preferred a firmer touch, so he did not shy away from employing his elbows or pressing with more of his weight when the situation called for it.

And with each knotted muscle he released, so too came a wave of those pitchy sneezes. As if each was just another sound dragged out of him as Stede worked. His easy vocality was both surprising and intoxicating; for all his shouted orders on deck, First Mate Hands was a withdrawn and soft-spoken person most of the time.

Stede circled his elbow against a particularly stubborn knot near Izzy’s spine, carefully exerting pressure, and Izzy sighed out a truly filthy sound. His voice, ruined from his coughing, cracked midway through. Stede tried to ignore the heat in his gut, going from a steaming simmer to a bubbling boil. Helplessly, Izzy caught his breath on the next inhale, a vocalized hitch of breath, and twisted the bedding in both his fists.

“ – ih’tssch!-ohhh my god-..”

Stricken by the utterance, Stede froze wide-eyed. Southward in his trousers, he felt himself twitch. Oh lord. Izzy squirmed against the steady press of his elbow, either trying to fall deeper into the sensation of the massage or rouse himself from it entirely. Swallowing, Stede asked, “Feels good, does it?”

“Mm..” Not much by way of reply, and anything else Izzy might have said was lost in another groaning sneeze. “..heh – heh’chzssh!-uuhhnnn..” He sniffled wildly, speaking in a low grumble. “Ngh, what do you think?”

Stede rolled his eyes even as he shifted to get better leverage on Izzy’s back. “Too stubborn to admit it even now. It’s almost adorable.”

“Who the fuck are you call- hhnggh..”

Whatever Izzy had been about to say carried off into a breathy grunt as Stede dragged his elbow down toward the base of Izzy’s spine. He had to toss the blankets back a bit and crawl up onto Izzy’s creaky mattress for a more advantageous position, but it hardly mattered. Not when Stede was wringing noises like that out of the most repressed man he had ever known. And it wasn’t just the moans anymore either.

“hh-.. h’tzsch!”

Stede smoothed his palms up over Izzy’s rough skin, reaching the man’s shoulders and squeezing. He felt more than he heard the sudden intake of breath beneath him.

“hhh-!..”

They both waited, Stede’s hands remaining tantalizingly still as Izzy wheezed out a tremulous, unrelieved sigh. With barely any pressure, he kneaded his thumbs against the whipcord muscles of near Izzy’s neck. The smaller man hitched another breath and lost it again. And then again, when Stede increased the pressure for just a moment before returning to a soft rub. Izzy wriggled, turning his head to itch his nose against the firmness of his mattress.

“Something the matter?” Stede asked. He barely managed to keep the smile out of his voice.

Izzy looked toward him, his expression faintly fuzzy. “Oh, fuck ohhff..”

Stede pressed his thumbs hard for a moment, just long enough for Izzy to gasp once in surprise and then twice in preparation, before he eased off again. Izzy let loose a growling sigh, again unrelieved, and he lifted a hand to his nose to rub, rub, rub all around his nostrils and eventually all the way up to the bridge of his nose, as if he was chasing whatever itched him far into the recesses of his head. After a strong sniffle and clearing of his throat, Izzy glared back at Stede with eyes considerably damper and a nose notably redder than before.

“Don’t play coy, Bonnet.”

Stede widened his eyes in innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”

Izzy only narrowed his eyes in reply. At first Stede thought this was simply displeasure, but then Izzy’s nose twitched a little to one side and his back stuttered under Stede’s hands. The knowledge steeped through Stede like a warm tea; poor dear still had to sneeze. Well, he had an idea of how to help with that. He slipped his hands further down Izzy’s spine, delighting in the elegant dip and swoop of his lumbar leading toward what Stede noticed was a.. surprisingly pert little bum. Not that he would be doing anything with that right now.

Or.. ever. Of course.

He slipped his fingers onto uncharted territory, at the sides of Izzy’s trim waist, and moved slowly southward as his thumbs pressed increasingly harsh circles into Izzy’s skin. Eventually, he reached the sacral dimples and followed those ligaments up again. All the while he watched Izzy, how the man’s expression twisted and his breath caught and his nostrils fluttered depending on the strength of Stede’s massage. His fingers ghosted over Izzy’s ribs and the resulting shudder finally shook something loose from his sinuses.

“— eh’tssch-!”

Izzy huffed twice toward another and then lost momentum. He gave his head a quick shake, like a dog trying to rid himself of a scent, and Stede smirked fondly. It still wasn’t quite clear what had Izzy sneezing this way – his cold? Psychological stress from the massage? A reaction to the eucalyptus perhaps? Whatever the cause, it very endearing and oh-so-fun to exploit. He listened to Izzy’s uneven breath, his frustrated huffs, felt him squirm and shiver now and then. He also felt, as well as heard, Izzy’s gravelly, reedy voice as he griped again about Stede’s slow pace.

“I said..” Here, he paused to sniffle and moodily knuckle his flaring nostrils. “.. fucki’g stop with this coy shit-”

In a sassy and impulsive reply, Stede curled his fingers and dragged his nails down Izzy’s back. Not too hard, just enough to leave little pink stripes behind, but Izzy gasped like he’d been doused with cold water. And then, in short order, he began to sneeze.

“hEH’JZSssh-!”

And sneeze.

“—eh’CHSshu-!”

And.. sneeze again. And again, good lord.

“—iHHSSHhu-!nn.. fuH’KZSsh!-uhhh..”

They weren’t quite so punishing as Izzy’s usual fits, thankfully. They didn’t bottle back into his throat or sinuses, nor did they come with such ferocity that they would herald a worse ache for his head. Neither did they blast through him with so much gusto that he might break something, like when he sneezed from his cold. These sneezes were a bit slow to come, and seemed to leave him foggy-headed and dazed, stuck in a limbo of waiting for them or recovering from their wake once they passed him by. Right now he looked caught on the cusp of one, his nostrils glittering with wetness and his chapped lips parted in want of it. His eyes were serenely closed, yearning, and after a few panting breaths it came over him strongly and left him boneless afterward.

“—ah’TISHIUU!”

“Izzy, darling, bless you! My goodness!” Stede fretted, feeling strangely guilty for the whole thing. He wasn’t even sure why Izzy was sneezing like this, but still, it seemed as though it was Stede’s fault. “Here now, roll over again for me, take a little weight off your lungs..”

“Whh-Wait-!..”

Stede was sure he’d never heard Izzy so vulnerable than in that moment, a mixture of worry and a waiting sneeze thickening his voice. Abruptly, it was clear why.

Izzy had an erection.

It tented the bedsheet proudly, not bothered at all by its reveal, though Izzy looked terribly pale and thoroughly mortified. For a second, Stede was honestly more surprised by his expression of honest emotion than his erection. Though.. well, of course his erection was interesting as well. Stede was a gentleman, however, the Gentleman Pirate in fact, and managed not to stare as they sat in silence. Izzy’s sneezing, as if shocked right out of Izzy’s body, had suddenly stopped.

Now, this was awkward, but it was not unsalvageable. Actually, Stede anticipated the possibility of this happening. Erections could happen during a massage, and there was nothing to be embarrassed about. He hadn’t warned Izzy ahead of time because the man had been reluctant about this to begin with, so he took a breath now to explain and offer reassurance. Then paused when he noticed Izzy’s haunted gaze trained on him. Specifically, on his lower half. He blinked, glanced down, and saw the issue immediately.

Stede also had an erection.

He could not say how long they stared at one another, absorbing the situation. Both of them had erections, and now both of them were now painfully aware of this fact. Despite his understanding that Izzy might end up this way, his own erection was so far from anything Stede anticipated, he struggled to mentally overcome that hurdle. It was an unexpected outburst from Izzy that jolted them both into motion.

His wide-eyed, horrified expression abruptly began to weaken. Stede could see him trying to fight it off to absolutely no avail. The corners of his eyes pinched, his nostrils flared, and in one breath he tucked his head down toward his chest.

“—xxt’uh!”

“Sorry!” Stede dashed for the door, nearly tripping over the overflow of duvet slumping onto the floor by the cot. “Oh god, I’m so sorry! This was- I didn’t intend- it was an accident, Izzy, please know that, oh GOD-”

He threw himself out of Izzy’s quarters, turning briefly to shut the door, and caught the split-second glimpse of Izzy rolling onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow, and shuddering with another fretful little sneeze. Stede slammed the door shut and practically sprinted for his cabin; he crashed into the door before he managed to open it. From where he lounged on the settee, Edward regarded him with faint alarm as Stede hurriedly shut the door and leaned against it, panting.

“Fuck, mate, it was that bad?” he asked, and then his gaze drifted south. He did a double-take, and then a triple-take, as his eyes darted from Stede’s notable erection up to his flushed face. “Holy shit, it was that good?”

“No!” Stede crowed, and at Ed’s answering expression, he revised his testimony. “Well, yes! But not intentionally! It was mortifying and Izzy no doubt detests me even more than he did before!!”

He crossed the room and threw himself into bed, unwilling to exist under the gaze of anyone right now, even someone as precious as Ed. The thickness of the following silence gave away Edward’s intentions, so Stede shot a firm look in that direction with a stern, “We’re not talking about it right now,” and snapped the curtains shut before the other man could get a word in edgewise.

“Yes, well, that’s not quite the first impression I’d hoped for,” Stede grumbled, all tangled up in Ed’s arms and pouting. “I exploited him on his sickbed. That’s monstrous.”

“Stede, mate, you gave him a massage and you both popped stiffies. It’s not the end of the world.” Edward sighed, a touch forlorn. “Wish he’d relax that much around me. He gets all sneezy when I go soft on him.”

Stede knitted his brow, puzzling over Edward’s testimony. That sounded familiar. “Sneezy how?”

“You know, his usual. Those cute little fits he gets when he’s worked up.”

“Worked up..” Stede mused over this before squirming in Ed’s arms to properly look at him. “He did quite a bit of sneezing during his massage, but got fussy with me when I stopped.”

“Yeah, m’sure his cold was giving him hell-”

“No, no, not those blustering things,” Stede said with a shake of his head. “The ones he gets when he’s stressed. He couldn’t stop sneezing, yet insisted I continue the massage, and I could tell he was enjoying it.” Clearing his throat, Stede continued with flushed cheeks. “Which.. contributed to my.. reaction, I will admit.”

Ed blinked at him, eyes wide and intent, before he turned to frown in thought. “.. he was sneezing his fuckin’ head off and still told you not to stop?”

Stede too began to piece together the evidence into a gradually appealing picture. “Yes. Moaned all the way through them too..”

They turned to one another in awe. Edward looked as though he’d discovered they’d been sailing in space this whole time, rather than the sea. “Hold on, so with me, do you think when he gets all sneezy, he’s.. actually..?”

“Well of course, dear, he’s madly in love with you.”

“….. he’s what?”

Stede continued undeterred as Edward reeled from further shock at the proclamation. “And prone to sneezing when aroused, it seems. How unexpectedly charming! Perhaps inviting him into our dynamic won’t be as difficult as we thought.”

“… he’s in love with me??”

“Edward, obviously, everyone on the crew knows that, and judging from his willingness to go forward with the massage he might tolerate me to some degree, yes I think this could work-”

“Why did no one tell me fuckin’ Iz was in love with me?!”

Suffice to say there would be some conversations required before they got down to brass tacks, but Stede was relieved to know that his attraction to Izzy wasn’t entirely one-sided. And perhaps this far-fetched dream of he and Edward sharing the man between them would be possible after all.

What Stede couldn’t know in this moment was that it would take nearly until the dinner bell to work through the ‘Izzy is in love with you, Ed, you silly goose’ conversation and it would be an additional three days before Izzy was not only feeling better, but also literally anywhere to be found. Even with all the crew on alert, it took concentrated effort to catch him, and Stede assumed this was because the man was avoiding everyone on purpose. Pete finally found him hiding under the bowsprit under the guise of gumming the wood, and delivered the orders.

First Mate hands, please report to the captains’ cabin.

-

And so Izzy went to the captains’ cabin, dragging his feet every step of the way.

Life aboard The Revenge was a joke and a half at his expense, even before he’d let Captain Dandy get his soft, dainty hands all over him. But now it was worse because he had to exist with the knowledge that stupid fucking Stede Bonnet managed to get Izzy’s rocks off, however unintentional. He hadn’t been in his right mind; he’d been delirious with fever (at least as far as anyone needed to know). He’d only agreed to the massage to shut the idiot up and from there things had spiraled.

To add insult to injury, Izzy hadn’t quite managed to get his boner down without.. addressing it. He couldn’t actually remember the last time someone had touched him like Bonnet had, and the ghostly warmth of his hands lingered on Izzy’s skin long after Bonnet fled the room. He tossed and turned, fever-sore with a cock harder than diamonds, and finally lost patience. It took less than a dozen strokes, his hand greasy with what was left of the massage oil, and when he came it was with the force of a crashing wave. Izzy succumbed to sleep not long after and slept long through the day and night. He woke at dawn the next morning, ravenously hungry, with sweat-damp sheets and a clear head. And dried cum on his hands.

Stupid fucking Stede Bonnet and his stupid fucking remedies.

Izzy loathed to admit it, but he felt better for it. He was still sniffly and somewhat fatigued, but overall on the mend thanks to that cursed massage. Though he had no interest in ‘talking it through,’ as Bonnet wanted to do. Turns out he didn’t have much of a choice. He reported to the captains’ as instructed for Bonnet’s drivel and nearly fled the room when he realized it was not Bonnet waiting for him, but Edward.

With no idea of what to expect, Izzy anticipated the worst. Exile. Swordfight to the death. An anchor tied to his ankles. He’d seen what his Captain could do to men who touched his pretty things, and Stede was his prettiest thing now, cherished above all else, blameless and incapable of wrongs. It would of course be Izzy at fault for the whole massage debacle. He gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders for punishment, but that’s not what came.

Instead, what came was a lot of words, confessions, clarifications, cussing (Izzy), sneezing (also Izzy), tears from multiple parties (everyone but Izzy), and it ended with somehow not Izzy alone on a dingy but Izzy tightly sandwiched between Ed and Bonnet on their window-side bed. Izzy was sweaty, one of his arms had fallen asleep in this position, and he had a million and one things he was supposed to be doing on deck but..

Fuck. And again with feeling, fuck. It was nice. He hated that it was nice, but it was.

He would take this over talking about more feelings because that talk had nearly convinced him to hurl himself over the gunwale and into the drink. Izzy and Edward never talked about what was between them – something unnamed they started together before Ed became a Captain and Izzy his first mate. Whatever it was shifted over the years, tarnished and twisted, but never really went away. Izzy was convinced it had when Bonnet arrived, but no. What he and Ed had was still here, somehow reinvigorated by this blonde twit who could barely row a boat or shoot a gun straight.

The ‘Iz and Stede’ part of the discussion had been remarkably shorter and much more unpleasant. Bonnet professed that he found Izzy ‘titillating when he was vulnerable’ and after much coercion and stern demands from Ed not to strangle Bonnet, Izzy conceded that the ponce wasn’t completely repulsive. And that he gave a passable massage. Edward took pity on them both and called and end to their chat not long after.

Since then, they’d been doing.. this. Izzy refused to call it cuddling. He shifted on the bed again, restless but unwilling to leave. Not yet. Not when he’d only just been allowed this place in this bed. He’d prefer Ed in the middle, honestly, though he took his opportunity to elbow Bonnet in the gut a few times and make it look like an accident. Well, apparently not enough like an accident because Ed made a low noise and swatted Izzy on the flank with just enough force to show he meant business.

Izzy’s nose tingled ominously in response. Shit.

Sneezing for Izzy was always a fucking production. When he was stressed, he was cursed with pitiful little bursts of air that came over him like a twitch. They barely tickled before they were out, bottled back in his throat, in direct contrast to the loud, uncontrollable force of his sneezes when he was sick. Those threw him around indiscriminately, consuming him and mounting with sinus-prickling torture until they were finally out. Neither were particularly satisfying. The only sort of sneeze that felt good was one he didn’t often indulge, one that Blackbeard had never questioned and one he prayed Bonnet wasn’t clever enough to dissect despite what transpired during that stupid fucking massage..

He scrunched his face where it was tucked near Ed’s chin, trying to itch his nose hands-free. Ed still hadn’t removed his hand from Izzy’s thigh, one of his thumbs softly stroking there, just like he did when he cupped Izzy’s nape to calm him down. The tingling grew stronger and a flicker of warmth smoldered to life at his core. No way was he about to get hard in bed with Blackbeard. And fucking Bonnet, for the second time. With Ed alone, it would be embarrassing and with Stede alone it would be horrifying but together? It would be a waking nightmare.

Behind him, Bonnet shifted and the ghost of his breath silked across Izzy’s exposed skin, ruffling his hair. He felt hypersensitive to any movement, their body heat, their proximity to every part of him. How close Ed’s hand on his thigh was to other places nearby. His nose twitched, and he knew his dick wouldn’t be far behind. When Ed’s hand slid up to his waist, catching on the edge of his shirt and meeting the flesh beneath, Izzy hitched a sudden breath – and got a nose-full of Ed’s beard.

He whipped his head away with a snort of protest, one hand jerking up to rub and pinch before he could think about it. When he finished, he realized he had both Ed and Stede fucking Bonnet’s eyes on him. He mustered a watery glare.

“What?”

“Is this stressing you out, mate?” asked Ed, as he lifted his hand away. Izzy grabbed it and slapped it firmly back down on his waist. He was well aware how dangerous of an idea this was, but when faced with that or no longer having Ed hold him, the answer was easy.

“No, just got your damn beard up my nose,” Izzy sniped, and gritted his teeth when the other two snickered about it. “Shut up, you twats.”

The danger in Izzy’s choice presented itself immediately in the way Ed’s eyes darkened, softened, and his voice lowered to a purr Izzy had heard but never for him before. “Mm, so you like me holdin’ onto you, then?”

Izzy swallowed, averted his eyes, shifted his legs, tried mightily to ignore itch in his nose that was far too deep for him to scratch. “S’whatever you want.”

“No, my dear,” piped Bonnet, and even he couldn’t ruin this when Ed’s eyes stayed unrelentingly on Izzy. “It’s whatever we all want, including you. What do you want?”

What did Izzy want? Fuck, nobody ever asked. It wasn’t something Izzy thought about, outside of ‘I want to throttle every last imbecile on this ship’ or ‘I want to kill Bonnet’ and so forth. Here, now, in this bed, what did Izzy want? Edward’s hands on him, primarily, with less clothing and more teeth. He wanted Bonnet to fuck off, but then again, those manicured nails dragging lines up his back had been-.. oh fucking hell-

This is why he didn’t think about shit like this outside of the privacy of his cabin. Because inevitably that cloying tickle would stop playing coy and it would finally.. it would f..

He tucked his chin to his chest and brought an arm up to catch it. “—eh’CHSshu!”

Miraculously, it was only just the one. Izzy never felt quite ‘done’ with an itch like this until he’d taken care of the itch down below, but he was used to it. The tickle faded into background noise, floating through his nose like a phantom, and Izzy blinked away the vestiges as he tried to ignore it. Ed’s got a glint in his eye though and in Izzy’s experience, that’s never a good sign. He’s more alarmed to discover Bonnet’s got the same glint in his eye too.

“Bless ya, Iz, now answer the question,” Ed pressed in that low purr. His fingers crept under the edge of Izzy’s shirt, barely brushing bare skin. “What do you want?”

The words may as well have been punched out of him. “Touch me.”

Edward did not make him ask twice. His hand, big and hot like a brand, pushed up under Izzy’s shirt and spread across his chest. One of his fingers caught the edge of Izzy’s nipple, and he sucked in a gasp as his core and sinuses pinched in symphony. The tickle surged through him like a breeze, not quite strong enough to make him sneeze, and he shook his head to rid himself of the fuzzy aftermath. When he opened his eyes, Ed was smiling down at him.

“Been a long time since we’ve done somethin’ like this, yeah?” he whispered, trailing his fingers down to Izzy’s stomach. The muscles there fluttered at his touch, and Izzy squirmed. “I missed it.”

Ed shifted on the bed for better leverage, freeing his other hand to tangle into Izzy’s hair and lightly tug. He bit back a moan, breath hitching against the swelling tickle in his nose. As before, it calmed before it could properly catch. When his eyes fluttered open, he caught stupid Bonnet in his periphery. The man was flushed, and his gaze skittered away when he realized Izzy saw him staring. He’d arranged himself carefully, a scant inch of space between them so they weren’t touching, and Izzy rolled his eyes. He reached back and hooked a hand around Bonnet’s wrist; if he was here, he might as well go all in. It would make Ed happy too, no doubt.

Stede gaped at him, tripping over his words. “Is this-? That is, are you sure about-?”

“Yes, Bonnet, don’t make me regret it,” he grumbled, and tried to angle Bonnet’s hand to the edge of his shirt. The man quickly got with the program, thank fuck, and both his soft, gentle hands smoothed up the length of Izzy’s bare back. He tried turning his sigh into an annoyed huff, but wasn’t sure how well he pulled it off.

Izzy preferred to be in control on deck. In bed, he liked to be pressed into the mattress at the mercy of someone he trusted. Loathe as he was to admit it, he trusted Stede Bonnet. Not as a captain, not yet, but he would not have let the man see to him while he was ill if he didn’t trust him at all. And there was no question he trusted Ed – he trusted the man with his life and always would.

With four hands exploring him, it was not long before Izzy lost his shirt. Pants stayed on. Mouths got involved, with teeth, just like Izzy hoped. He felt Ed nibbling at the junction of his neck and shoulder while he chased Stede’s tongue with his own. All the while the tickle in his nose simmered, as it always did in times like this, causing him to suck in unsteady inhales through his nose and exhale tremulously against Stede’s lips. Then Ed bit down harder than Izzy expected and he had to whip his face away, barely managing to bring his wrist up in time to-

“—tzsh!.. eh’TISHu!”

“Bless you, dearest,” came Stede’s voice as Edward’s tongue dragged a hot stripe up to his neck. Between the endearment and whatever the hell Ed was up to, Izzy could barely get a breath in before the next volley. It tickled too fucking much. He cupped both hands over his face and let them come.

“HEH’sshu!-nnn..” Fuck, but they felt good. His dick twitched and he shivered as the next few crested. “h’tzsch!.. ah’CHSshuh-!.. HEH-”

Another rose right to the cusp, his lungs filled with it, before it receded with a low, growling sigh. Izzy sniffled and knuckled his nostrils, chasing what remained of it to the back of his nose. Face burning, he wiped his hands on his pants.

“Bless you,” Stede said again, with emphasis. Izzy cleared his throat and gave a nod, the closest this clown of a captain would get for a thank you, and moved to kiss him again. But Stede leaned away. “You’re a bit sneezy. Any reason for that, Izzy?”

“No,” he grunted, and leaned in again. Stede pressed a hand at his throat and held him back with force. Izzy felt his nostrils flare. Unable to escape Stede’s grip quickly enough, he shot a hand up to cover his mouth. “ – ih’tssch!”

“Oh, come now,” he said, and there was a twist to his voice that sounded just past the edge of dangerous to Izzy’s ears. He could feel his own pulse speed up, pounding a rhythm against Stede’s careful grip. “Don’t lie.”

Then he nearly shot out of the bed when Bonnet – Stede fucking Bonnet – cupped his dick and balls over the fabric of his pants and squeeeeeezed. Izzy gritted his teeth with a hissing groan, and his sinuses tingled so intensely he couldn’t actually get a sneeze out. The itch just sat there, huge enough to weaken his expression but too big to be moved. Stede’s voice was a hum by his ear.

“Be a good lad and answer honestly,” the man breathed, and Izzy could feel the strain of Ed’s erection against his thigh as Stede spoke. “What has your nose in such a state?”

Now that Izzy wanted to reply, he couldn’t. His sinuses quaked powerfully with the urge, stalled because of its size, and Izzy fought to hold still while Stede had him by the throat and balls. He could do nothing but fight against the flutter of his eyelids and flare of his nostrils, breathing in fits and starts. Edward took pity on him, waving one of Stede’s hands away and ducking in to suck a kiss against Izzy’s neck. One of Ed’s hands, hot and heavy, blazed up Izzy’s chest to cup one of his pecs. A finger and thumb found his nipple and pinched.

“Come on, Iz.” Ed’s voice was like dark velvet. “Tell us.”

Unlike Bonnet’s pleas, Ed’s orders hit Izzy’s body with a force he couldn’t help but obey. He sucked in a breath to speak, but what came out was a sudden, whiplash -- “EHT’tzssh!..”

It wasn’t nearly enough to relieve him of the itch, but with one out, others could follow. Izzy tried to jerk a hand up to his face to cover, mortified, but someone caught him by the wrist. His dick twitched in Bonnet’s steady grip. He breathed dazedly, unable to do much but let this tickle do as it pleased with him.

“HAH’sshu-!..” He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love this part, when he couldn’t stop, helpless to do anything but surrender to himself. “hih’tssch! eh’CHZShuh-!.. HEH’TZSSHoo!”

He cracked open his eyes, sticky with tears, but they rolled closed again a moment later when he realized both his hands were bound, held tightly by the wrists. One for each of the other men currently leaning over him, watching him fall apart. He panted through a buildup, vocal on the exhales, and nearly moaned through his sneeze when it finally came.

““—iHHSSH!-huhhh, fuck mbe..”

With no way to cover or clean up, Izzy was left to sniffle back whatever he could, cheeks burning furiously. He blinked up at the other two, blurry for a moment until he could clear the tears away. His chest jumped as another sneeze threatened, but he sighed it away. Edward only had to raise one brow, with an answering squeeze from Stede’s hand still wrapped around his balls, and Izzy choked out an answer.

“Y-You!”

They both waited for the rest, but there wasn’t anything else. That was the answer. Izzy sniffled again, trying to twist his head to wipe his nose on Bonnet (because he couldn’t even bear the thought of trying something like that on Edward), but to no avail. He settled for his own shoulder, using the edge to itch at his tingling nostrils and chase that itch as far up into his head as it would go.

“Us what, darling?” asked Stede. His sweet tone was a honeytrap, as much of an act as it ever was. Izzy continued itching his nose, still unsatisfied, until Edward reached up with his free hand and took Izzy by the chin to face up forward with force. Izzy didn’t need to the order to elaborate.

“You fuckers are mbaking mbe sdneeze,” Izzy huffed out, and sucked back a gasp immediately after. It went nowhere, simmering in his sinuses, and Izzy squirmed. Then gasped all over again when Stede shifted his grip.

“And just how are we doing that?”

“If you hh..had half a brain, Boddet, I thihh..thingk you would know.”

“Be nice, Iz,” came Ed’s routine admonishment, though his tone turned thoughtful. “Back in the day, you told me it was allergies, but I thought it was bad nerves.”

To this Izzy said nothing. How badly he was blushing under all this attention should be evidence enough for Edward. He drew the line at admitting anything else aloud. Ed could likely tell, since he only smiled and leaned in to nibble his way down Izzy’s chest.

“Thought I had ya figured out but you fooled me, mate,” he praised, a fond warmth in his voice, probably mulling over the few times they’d laid together in their younger years when Izzy couldn’t stop sneezing, just like this. “That never happens. Well done.”

Izzy had only a moment to revel in this, in the way it made his prick twitch in Bonnet’s hand and his nose twinge, before Ed wrapped his lips around one of his nipples and then he was hauling in a breath that hollowed his lungs. He couldn’t quite manage a sneeze before Bonnet loosened his grip and began kneading his erection, creating enough friction to burn just enough to feel incredible. It was all so much, the sensations warring for his attention, and then Stede’s mouth found his again and Ed dug his nails in, and Izzy couldn’t do anything but feel every little thing they were doing to him. His nose stung. His dick throbbed. It was perfect.

So perfect, Izzy barely lasted two minutes of it before he came like a rocket in his fucking pants. If he had a shred of dignity left, he might have been embarrassed by that, but as it was his nose was running, he’d moaned his way through at least half of this entire encounter, and it had been a long fucking time since he’d last had anybody’s hands on him – let alone his Captains’ hands. Not just one of his Captains, but both of them. And somehow thinking of stupid fucking Bonnet as one of his Captains was even more embarrassing than everything else combined.

All this had less than a second to drift through his mind, hazy with pleasure, before his nose took over. It waited patiently for his orgasm to wrap up before buzzing needily, incessantly, and Izzy was hitching his way up into a sneeze before he realized it was upon him.

“ – iIHYSSHH!!” He flinched up with the force of it, the slight scrape of his throat sending a shudder down his spine. Someone let go of one of his hands, but he didn’t move it to cover, he just.. he- “h’TZSSCH-!.. h-AH’DSHH!-hohh fuck be-IIH’KZSSHu!”

Aftershocks flooded through him each time, echoes of his climax, and fuck it felt amazing. Always did. Sometimes his sneezes annoyed the hell out of him and he wouldn’t admit it even under the pain of death, but in times like this, he wouldn’t fucking trade it.

“HEH’chzssh!-uhh.. HUH-!” He gasped clear to his toes, his body prickling all over in goosebumps, and shook the bed with the next furious sneeze. “EHZSSHHHUU!-ffffuck.. uh-.. hUH-”

“Izzy, my goodness, here..” That was Stede nattering some nonsense. Izzy couldn’t even open his eyes to glare at him, caught in another wavering buildup. Something soft wrapped around his nose and he pitched up into it with no further encouragement. “.. h-IH’MSSHH!-uhh.. hAH’GISSHoo!”

It was a handkerchief, Izzy realized muzzily, and he shakily reached up to press the hand more tightly against his face as another prickling wave washed through his sinuses. It was almost meditative as the euphoric glow of them began to fade. Their strength went with it, waning until he could properly blow his nose. Somebody smoothed hair out off his forehead. When he managed to crack open his eyes, he realized it was Edward holding the handkerchief to his nose. Stede was smoothing his hair.

He could only look at them a moment before another sneeze came, pulling his eyes shut and drawing air into his lungs for an exhausted “CHSsh’uh!” that sounded as tired as he felt. Ed pinched his nose and wiped, with enough playfulness behind the gesture that Izzy turned his head away as soon as he could breathe. He twitched his nose, sniffling, and scrunched his face up when Stede came at him with his sleeve to dab around his eyes.

“Bless you, gracious, that really was something..”

“Fuck off, Bonnet,” he muttered. Izzy gave up dissuading the man shortly after, too wrung out to try and bat him away. Another straggling sneeze caught up with him, fluttering through him like butterfly wings. “.. h’TISsh!”

Ed snorted at the state of him. “Can’t believe I went this long not knowing getting your rocks off gets your nose off too.”

“Shut up, Edward,” Izzy growled, throwing an arm over his eyes to hide his blush. “That sounds so fuckin’ weird.”

“S’your nose mate, not mine.”

“Ed, don’t tease,” Stede chided, and to Izzy’s deep embarrassment, he appreciated the man deflecting attention. He sniffled against swollen sinuses and reached up to scrub his nose with the heel of his hand, relaxing when at last the lingering itch dispelled for good. Fuckin finally.

Both fortunately and unfortunately, he was the type to fall asleep shortly after sex. He could hear Bonnet going on about changing clothes and then Ed complaining about his own untended erection, but Izzy honestly couldn’t be assed to do anything about it. He could hear them talking over him, their heat around him, and for now that’s all he needed. He’d deal with the rest, whatever came after all this, when he woke up.

Evening clouds and the patter of rain were enough to keep most people indoors. While some were enjoying a relaxing dinner or allowing the rhythm of waterdrops to serenade them into slumber, others took the opportunity to study. In the privacy of his bedroom, Dorian Florenzia sat at his desk, examining a mystical tome with such focus that it could almost be called fervent. The book was a gift—well, a reward, really—from his patron, Iofrith, a newer yet promising fey who only recently began involving themself with the Material Plane. While they belonged to no court or coven, they did still find primary ideals to pursue: lust, passion, levity, and curiosity.

Though his wizard companions might laugh at the thought, it was almost difficult to grasp how much power and opportunity could be held in mere words, runic symbols, and illustrations. Stranger yet was that such power and opportunity were held in his hands at long last. Despite having worked under the patronage of a devil for a few years prior to entering into a pact with Iofrith, some things never quite got old. Especially since most of his other abilities felt… less earned, in a way. 

His vampiric powers as a dhampir were granted to him by mere chance and without any effort on his part other than surviving the bite. Hells, he only achieved his previous pact by tagging along to a summoning ritual performed by a much more adept colleague. The demonic boons granted to him were bestowed while he slept, sweeping him away into fitful nightmares to later awaken with newfound power in the light of dawn. Many a bad night’s sleep was surely worth the strength to fell most enemies he encountered.

But this pact was different. Iofrith was mischievous, yes, but surprisingly gentle. They were more benevolent, holding an appreciative curiosity for mortals rather than malice. Many a humanoid would still fear the semi-incorporeal fey, though Dorian felt wholly comfortable. He often allowed them to observe him when their eagerness to learn was piqued, and simply locked the figurative door in his mind when he wanted privacy. It was never painful to be their warlock. And every ability he obtained felt earned and chosen precisely for his interests and goals.

So, of course, on this particular night, he was utterly engrossed in his study of new arcane rituals inscribed into a tome that was… not quite so new, to put it mildly. In fact, its cover and pages were coated in a thin layer of dust, even after multiple attempts to brush it off. Every time he flipped one of those pages, it dispersed a misting of dust into the air. With the book barely more than a foot away from his face, it was starting to get to him. The bridge of his nose wrinkled a few times and he scrubbed a hand impatiently against his irritated nostrils. Still, despite his best efforts, his lips slipped open and his eyes unfocused from his texts. Perhaps one day he would realize that he was actually allergic to dust, not just reacting normally to it.

“Hh-hehh…” His breath stuttered slightly in his chest. After a few seconds, his body seemed to change its mind on when—not if—he would sneeze, so he returned to his study, hoping he could keep the distractions as minimal as possi—

“What is it you were doing, Dearest Dorian?” Iofrith’s melodic voice echoed through his mind like ripples in a pond. Well. Fuck.

“Oh, good evening, Frith,” he answered out loud, sitting back in his chair a bit. “I’m just looking over your latest gift. Very interesting read, if you ask me.”

“I will ask you if you so desire,” the fey replied.

“Ah, no, it’s another figure of speech,” the dhampir explained, smiling fondly at the misunderstanding. “There’s no need to actually ask any questions, it just means that that’s my opinion. Thank you for offering all the same.”

“You are welcome. Though your reading is not the behavior I inquired about. You were behaving strangely,” Iofrith clarified, curiosity evident in their soft voice.

“Was I?” he murmured somewhat absentmindedly as he traced a set of runes with his index finger. “What caught your attehhh—” he trailed off, hitching, before stubbornly pressing the back of his gloved hand up against his nose until it calmed down sufficiently. “Attention?” he finished, enunciating more than usual as if that clarity would balance out the previous lack of composure. He cleared his throat, feeling his cheeks warm with a rosy blush in embarrassment. He had a hunch where this was going…

“That behavior.” The one time he didn’t enjoy being right. “You seem oddly distracted compared to your usual dedication to ongoing tasks and goals. Your breathing seems impaired. You wince as if you are in pain. Is something causing you harm, Dear One?” 

“No, no need to worry. I’m just, um… feeling a bit s-huhhh-sneezy, that’s all. The dust is making me need to sneeze,” he clarified, gesturing vaguely towards the book in front of him. Feeling their curiosity through their connection—as an opened door may be traversed in either direction, albeit that the two paths may vary in difficulty—he continued. “Mortal reflex to expel irritants from one’s nose. It doesn’t hurt or anything like that.”

“Fascinating… It was my understanding that most mortal reflexes were executed quite swiftly. Why is this one so lengthy?”

“Honestly, that’s a very fair observation,” Dorian mused with a slight chuckle, going through a mental list of other reflexes. “I think I can put it in terms of three reasons: Firstly, the timing of this particular reflex varies naturally, to much annoyance.”

“So, it is an inherent quality. Continue.”

“Secondly, the, er… catalyst I suppose? It isn’t quite strong enough… to have an immediate or notably dramatic effect. If there were more dust in the air,” he paused to slam the book shut in demonstration, only to hesitate further as he immediately regretted this motion.

Dazed from the sudden intensity of the prickling sensation in his sinuses, he blinked and his eyebrows drew up together. A beat of silence passed, Dorian feeling his patron’s presence press closer in anticipation, before a small, shaky breath escaped his lips once more. “Nhh-hehhh…” Somehow even his sniffling sounded ticklish now.

He cleared his throat sheepishly before continuing, “But, thhhhirdly and most—hih-huhhh!—most, um, importantly…” He rubbed his wrist roughly against his pinkening nostrils, letting out a soft “ugh, gods” under his breath. Leaving his wrist pressed against his nose proved effective, allowing him to keep his breathing in check for the moment. “There’s one very simple reason, dear Frith.” That intermittent shyness spread into a self-satisfied, fanged grin as he looked in the mirror to the pair of strawberry pink fey eyes behind him, his own reflection nonexistent as a vampire.

“I’m just a stubborn bastard.” And with an amused, almost apologetic shrug, he reopened the tome—gently, as to not shake any more dust off the damned thing—and returned to his work with nonchalance.

“I see… but, if it is a mechanism for your well-being, why would you desire to resist it?” Iofrith inquired slowly, attempting to understand the apparent contradiction. In doing so, their head tilted to the side quizzically, further than most mortals’ necks would allow.

“Because I want to focus, snff, on reading this,” the warlock insisted, “You’ve really outdone yourself, you know. It’s… hihh… r-riveting stuff.” He muffled a small cough into the sleeve of his maroon poet shirt.

“I am glad that you are pleased with it,” they hummed pleasantly. “Then… sneezing would not benefit you in this moment?”

“Oh, no, no, it probably would make me feel a bit better. My sinuses are really starting to, snff, itch like mad and I’d probably be able to stop sniffling so much. But I’m ignoring that, snfff, in favor of immediate arcane knowledge,” he waggled the fingers of his free hand in a halfhearted flourish. “One of the most universal lessons about mortals you could possibly observe: we don’t always, snff, act in our own best interests.” The second half of the statement was muttered at best, which only intrigued Frith more.

“That is when,” the fey began, stepping into a semi-corporeal form as if they were merely descending down a staircase. So gently that one could wonder if it was ever really there, they placed their hand on his shoulder, careful to not harm him with their delicately-groomed claws. “Your care rests in the hands of those around you, does it not?” In one fluid motion, their hand twirled upwards to cup his cheek. The sound of worn pages flipping finally halted, leaving in its absence an anticipatory silence. “Especially those you hold dear.” Golden eyes met their rosy counterparts and softened.

“A… very fair observation,” Dorian murmured, echoing the words from a few moments prior. “All right, then. I suppose I can, snff, indulge your curiosity a little further,” he agreed, pulling out a ornate maroon handkerchief embroidered with a border of white roses. “May I borrow your wing for a moment, Frith?”

“You may. Does this relate to—” they responded, pausing as he gently guided one of their wings such that its tips rested just against the underside of his nose.

“Hahhh! Heh!” His eyes began to slip shut already, features screwing up in anticipation.

“You said that this process is not painful, correct?” Iofrith checked out of concern.

“Y-hhh yeah, it’s nohhht dangerous, don’t w-worry about it! It just… hihhht!… just overwhelms you for a little bit. Fair warning, I’m g-gonna… really try to make myself sneeze now, snff. Don’t be scared by the sudden noise.”

“I will prepare myself.”

“Good, good.” With that, Dorian began to brush the fey’s wing back and forth against his twitching, pink nostrils. Back and forth, and his lips parted, revealing his sharp fangs. Back and forth, and his damp eyelashes fluttered shut. Back and forth, and as the soft—magically soft—feathers stroked his already sensitive nose, a few even slipping just inside his nasal cavities, the prickling sensation in his sinuses igniting into a deep, all-consuming need. Letting go of their wing and bringing his handkerchief to his face, he hurriedly murmured, “Yeah-hih-huhh! I think I gohhhht it. I-I’m gonna—hihhn’tschuu! Ahh-huh! Ehh’tshhk! Hihhhht-tschhhh! Ugh, gods.”

“Fascinating,” Iofrith hummed, bringing their hand up to his face to study it, tracing his cheekbone lazily.

“Usually people just say ‘bless you’ or the like,” the warlock informed with a soft laugh.

“I see. Then, bless you, Dear One,” they replied, running their fingertips over the sides and bridge of his nose, noticing how the skin wrinkled and twitched beneath their touch.

It could be a frightening thing, to have such sharp claws only a millimeter from one’s face. Surely, it would be a contradictory thing, to have a creature exponentially more powerful and dangerous than a mere mortal immersed in genuine observation of him, careful and respectful when they could have utter control. Perhaps it was the strangest thing of all that there was enough mutual trust and understanding that the mortal did not fear the fey in the slightest; no whim of theirs would ever intend to bring him harm.

But it no longer felt frightening, contradictory, or strange—it was safe and gentle. It had come to make perfect sense, to be expected. It was familiar and fond.

“H-hehh…” Dorian’s breath caught on his next inhale. Seeing his patron’s hesitation, he reassured, “Still doesn’t hurt. That area’s just, um, sensitive at the moment. Your touch is just making me want to s-uhhh… s-sneeze again…” He scrunched up his nose itchily and his eyes unfocused.

“It makes you want to sneeze?” they echoed, considering the thought. Their fingertip drifted slowly down his septum.

“O-Oh gods, c-huhhh… careful there, I really might, hehhh, sneeze ohhhn… you—” he warned, eyes slipping shut and irritated tears threatening to spill from them.

“Would you clarify, please?” the fey asked in the same level-headed tone as always, tracing the rims of his nostrils in figure eights. “You said you wanted to sneeze, no?” They brought their other hand up to cup his cheek and brush their thumb back and forth over what seemed to be a particularly reactive area on the side of his nose. They didn’t realize that they weren’t even allowing him a chance to respond, as he was quickly overwhelmed by their actions.

“I—a-anhh… huhh-huh-hiiih!!” Each breath jumped in pitch and vocalization, which would have embarrassed him much more if he wasn’t utterly lost in the sensation. “Hahhh’tsssch’uu! Hh-hih-tchhh’uh! Ktsssh!” As he had worried about, he couldn’t quite get himself away from them in time, their hand holding his head in place a bit. So, the first three sneezes lightly misted the fey. He finally pushed their arm down with one hand and ducked away from them into his handkerchief in the other hand. “F-Fuck, I’mb sor—ihh’tchshhh!! S-Sorryyy-hhh… hehh… heht-!!…” 

“Apologies are unnecessary, unless it is more comfortable for you to do so. I am not bothered by this circumstance,” Iofrith dismissed with an unfazed blink. “However, I must ask to ensure clarity—you seem displeased with the reflex I provoked and hectic to remove my touch. Did I misunderstand your desire to have that reflex or cause you any discomfort?”

“N-no, it’s f-huh!! F-fine. I juhhhst was—heh-hihh!—a little caught off guard. And most people would likelyhhhh feel extremely uncomfortable or disgusted if they were snehhh… hehh! Hiiiih…?… Nine fucking hells… if they were sneezed on, so I felt guilty that I—hihh!—did that to you on ahhh-accident,” Dorian reassured, the poor man scrubbing at his dust-irritated nose with his hand, fruitlessly attempting to settle the damn thing down. “Gods, I would actually… a-actually… hihh!! Love to sneeze again,” he admitted, starting to fan at his face delicately with both gloved hands to coax the sneeze out since he failed to simply suppress the need. Disappointingly, even that didn’t seem to work. “My body just c-can’t—hahh!—can’t seem to decide if I need to or not. This happens sometimes, especiallyhhhh to me.”

“Shall I assist you?” they offered.

“Honestly, p-please do, Frihhhth,” he agreed eagerly, desperate to relieve the tension his body tormented him with.

“Certainly,” Iofrith hummed in response. They cupped his cheek tenderly with one clawed hand before beginning to brush both of their soft, feathered wings ever-so-slowly across their little warlock’s twitching nostrils. The fluff tickled like mad and teased relentlessly at every single millimeter of quivering, sensitive flesh beneath it.

“A-ahhh… hahhh…”  Dorian’s breath stuttered dangerously in his chest. He sniffled somewhat pitifully as his nose threatened to run, but it pulled the feathers’ bristles deeper inside the damn thing, causing him to immediately let out something in between a small vampiric hiss of surprise and an overwhelmed moan as the prickling sensations intensified sharply for a moment. “Gods…”

“Will this be sufficient?” Frith checked in gently.

“M-mayhhhbe, it is making me f-feel… pretty sneezy-hihh!” the warlock answered, his gaze turning hazy and dazed. “Could you go just a little bit fahhhster?”

“I will try,” they replied, switching their approach to swifter swirls and circles and spirals with only one wing. They saw his face scrunch up in desperation and heard him take in a sharp, vocal gasp, showing his fangs once more. “There we are.”

“Hinhhh!!” Turning away from the fey, he buried his face into the wine red handkerchief held firmly by both his hands, just before his features crumpled and he sneezed over and over again until all the irritation and tickliness were gone. “Hahh’kdtschhh’uh!! Huhhhhdt’schiew!!—tschhhiew!—khtschhhh! Huhhh-uhh-hept’dschhh’ah! Ugh, fuck, that’s so much better!” He sighed in relief heavier than he had expected to and leaned back against his chair in exhaustion.

“Blessings.”

“Thangks,” he murmured in response, sniffling for a few moments before blowing his nose softly into his handkerchief.

“You seem tired, Dear One,” Iofrith observed. “Perhaps rest would benefit you.”

“Maybe in a little while,” came the immediate dismissal.

A suspicious murmur, a head tilt in inquisition, and they finally asked, “… Is it the dreams?”

“No, I just…” Dorian remembered that he didn’t have to lie—that he didn’t really want to lie to them. He was still getting used to them being the one person he ever truly let his guard and all his walls down around, the only one who almost never got a show or a mask or a half-truth from him, just genuineness. Maybe someday he’d be as open as he liked to pretend he was. He sighed and met their gaze. “Yes, it’s the nightmares. They’ve been… unpleasant again.”

A parting gift from his previous patron: the nightmares he used to experience as he was granted magic during sleep remained, now without boons. He brought his hand to cover the fiendish sigil seared in black on the back of his neck that was always hidden by his long hair—a symbol of the power still held over him in both a mystical sense and an emotional one. Sometimes he wondered how much of the torturous dreams was from the curse itself, and how much was really from the scarring memory of so many hellish nights spent under that curse. He was confident that it was some mixture of the two, just not about the specific ratio.

“I would rid you of them if I could,” Io promised wistfully, absentmindedly braiding a section of his hair as they were apt to do when deep in thought.

“I know.” And he did. It was a nice thing to know. A warm, fulfilling truth to hold.

“Perhaps one day, if my own arcane abilities can become powerful enough to remove the fiend’s mark.” The longing to protect the one dearest to them was evident, as was the slight disappointment and frustration that they really were not strong enough to keep him safe from all the harm he did not deserve in their eyes.

“We can hope, at least.” His tone was bittersweet, but his eyes were full of warmth.

“Always.” The soft smile in their voice was contagious. 

“For now, though, maybe you could… stay here for a little while?” he requested, looking up into the cherry pink eyes above his own as Frith finished braiding that lock of his hair. “It helps, sometimes.”

“Then I would be glad to do so.”

Notably more sluggish than when his patron had first arrived, Dorian unlaced his poet shirt, slipping out of his clothes and into a lovely long robe, the color of the last flutters of violet at dusk. There was no shyness or awkwardness to as simple an act as removing clothing with Iofrith around—after all, they specialized in lusts and passions. It was no more taboo or risqué than holding hands.

The dhampir climbed into his wide bed, adorned with far too many pillows according to at least half of his fellow party members at their traveling inn, and sank down beneath the soft blankets and sheets. His specter was close to follow, and soon he was resting comfortably in their arms as they sat against the headboard.

“Hmmm. It has never been an intention of mine to tempt you into the benefits of overwork, since the costs are undesirable,” Iofrith mused after a short period of silence.

“Oh, no, no, please don’t worry yourself, beloved,” Dorian insisted with a sympathetic click of his tongue, “You haven’t done anything wrong and I really must assure you that I’m quite all right.”

“I see. If I may make a request to you, would you take more time to rest tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? I… yeah, I guess I’ve been burning the midnight oil a bit much, as of late,” he admitted, punctuating the statement with a yawn. “I’ll take it easy.”

“I am glad. Thank you.” Their voice was warm with contentment, tinged with relief that their concerns were abated.

“No, I should really be the one thanking you,” he retorted with a slight laugh in surprise.

“The two sentiments do not have to be exclusionary,” Iofrith reminded patiently.

“No…” Considering the meaning of those words, his gaze flicked back and forth as if reading. A touched smile spread across his features. “I suppose they really don’t.”

Alex straddled his hips, effectively pinning him to the bed, one hand still mysteriously tucked behind his back, the other cupping Sol’s jaw as they kissed. 

“Pretty little thing.”

Sol glanced at him, half-lidded in the morning sun, grinning slightly at the compliment. 

Alex’s thumb grazed over his septum ring, drawing him back to consciousness. 

“But prettier when you’re helpless.”

Then Sol was pushed back into the mattress, one-handed, Alex successfully trapping both legs and the taller man’s right arm with the free limbs he had available. 

His nose itched. 

It wasn’t just the touch, right? He wasn’t even close to being as sensitive as his boyfriend, the tap on his piercing shouldn’t have done-

Alex brough his hand out from behind his back, and let the contents come to rest delicately on Sol’s chest - a medium gray-and-white striped feather.

That bastard.

Feathers had always been Sol’s worst allergy, and Alex knew that- was this revenge for the little perfume stunt he’d pulled the other day?

He’d begun to itch before even seeing it, but now knowing its proximity to him, his nose began to react, and he’d have twisted away if Alex hadn’t been holding him down.

“Hihh-hh…wa-ihh-t…I ca-ca-hh-n’t tehh-!”

Alex traced the feather down his body - away from his face, but no less tortuous. “Hiihh-hh-”  

Alex’s eyes had overtaken with lust, and he leaned into Sol, semi-grinding against his hips. “Shoulda thought of that before what you did, hmm?”

The feather hadn’t even passed Sol’s collarbone, and he was sure he’d already fallen apart more than Alex was expecting, given the pressure the shorter man was putting on his lower half. 

He wiggled his arm free to rub away the itch, but the mistake came when Alex’s feather-holding hand was the one that moved to pin it, the offending object whipping by Sol’s face, far closer than he’d wanted. “Hhhh-!” 

A gasp for breath, and a tingle that died out in his nose. Fuck.

“Oh, you weren’t kidding, huh?” Alex’s voice, gone dark with arousal, hand trembling slightly where it had pinned him, “You really are that allergic.”

 A pause, as the tickle persisted. 

“You sound so itchy…” Alex pressed further into him, a soft brush against his sternum and a twitch in his nose telling him the feather was returning. “...but you haven’t actually sneezed yet, have you?”

“I-hhh!...I have t-to…” He was certain it was still nowhere near his face, but he could still feel it , wispy edges clinging to the insides of his nostrils. “A-ahhh-lex…hhh…it tihh-…”

A choked moan from above him, and a slow grind against his hips would have made him grin, had Sol not been focused on how tremendously itchy he was. He was growing hotter now too, something about a shared kink -ihhH and knowing his pahh-artner was coming apart from just this-

“HihhhHH-!”

“Your nose is all pink, and I haven’t even touched it yet,” Alex observed, the grin audible in his tone. “I wonder what happens if I…”

Something horribly soft brushed against Sol’s lips, and the allergic itch increased tenfold. 

His nose crinkled, and

“HhhiHHHKCIIUU!...hhhHHiiHHH..HECHHHuuU!”

His body jerked against Alex’s hold. “Heuhhh…”

“T-that was fast,” Composure and arousal fought in the older man’s voice, his expression indecipherable through an eyeful of allergic tears. Sol ground up against him regardless, the startled moan enough of a sign that his suffering was definitely having quite the effect.

“W-hhh!-what’s the-hhahhh…ihh…th’matter?”

He knew it came out more desperate than cocky, laced with hitches, but Alex threw all his weight onto Sol’s shoulder, flattening him in the sheets. “You’re- You’re gonna be the death of me, Angelo.”

He was close already, Sol could hear it in his voice, and it was proven seconds later by the feather back up in his face, tracing along his nose, across his septum, the fibers catching as they went, the pink irritation deepening with each swipe. 

“F-hhHH-HHiihh-ck-..you ca-hhHHAhn’t just-”

The delicate tip of the feather caught the inside of his twitching nostril, finally, and it was over.

“HehhhEIIIISH!! HAhhHKCIIUU!!..hhHHEH! Hh-hh-ihh-HEIIIISHHUU! HAHH-EISHHOOOh!! EEIISHHH!! HACHEIIICCKHHHHH!!” 

“F-fuck-! I’m gonna-” 

He felt Alex lose control over him, the feather forgotten, nails pressing into his arm. He couldn’t do much but sneeze for a minute, but eventually opened his eyes to his boyfriend leaning back on his heels, flushed and gasping for air in a much different way than he was. 

Hot.

Alex’s head dipped to the side, grinning down at him. “S’pose it’s time for me to take care of you now.”

Sol scrubbed harshly against his nose as Alex reached into his pants, knowing the tickle wouldn’t be gone for a while - hell, he could feel the next fit starting deep in his sinuses - but they could at least make use of it while they were here.

“Suppo-hhihH-suppose it is.”

~End~ 

-Cider

The choices are to A) scream until he goes properly hoarse, at which point the crew will still disrespect him by talking back, and he won’t even be able to yell in return, or B) lash someone, like they would on a proper pirate ship. However, while it might make the crew settle down, later it would make Stede very cross, which in turn now makes Ed very cross, even though he’d been fucking fine with lashings back on Queen Anne. Izzy’s given up on making sense of Ed’s near-overnight personality changes, as little sense as they make to him.

Izzy makes the only decent choice left to him, which is to C) make a strategic exit before he loses his temper entirely. He turns on his heel hastily, figurative steam pouring from his ears as he stalks his way across the deck and down below.

“What do we do now?” he hears one of them call after him plaintively. He has to throttle the scream that builds up in his throat, which just causes his throat to burn.

After he slams the door shut in his quarters, he barely has time to pace and take a few deep breaths—to try and calm himself down a bit, like the tiny voice in the back of his head is saying he should do—before there’s a knock on the door. He flings it open, snarling, “For the love of God, what?!”

Wee John raises an eyebrow at him but doesn’t offer the sass that he normally might. “Cap’n’s wantin’ ye.”

“Tell that lily-livered son of a—”

“That’ll be Cap’n Blackbeard.”

“—oh.”

“Yeahhh.” John squints, taking in the bareness of Izzy’s quarters and the slackening rage on Izzy’s face, looking both mildly terrified and vaguely bored. “’Kay, can I go now?”

Izzy barely represses the urge to bring a hand down his face in exhaustion. His neck aches from how high he has to strain to meet John’s eye—the man is too goddamned tall. Everyone on this godforsaken ship is too goddamned tall. “Go the fuck away.”

“Gladly, mate,” John snorts, bustling out. “Ye’ve been in a right state for days. Maybe the cap’n’ll sort you out.”

John beats a hasty retreat, leaving Izzy standing utterly still in his quarters, the words echoing in his head like a suddenly-realized prayer. Maybe Blackbeard will sort him out.

The thought leaves him abruptly breathless and wanting, desperate for the kind of treatment he used to get on Queen Anne whenever he misbehaved too much. Not the public dressing-downs that Wee John had probably been imagining—though he’d enjoyed those a bit too—but the private ones. Private sessions in the captain’s quarters where Edward would make him kneel like a dog, or take a beating, or act as a passive cockwarmer for hours while Ed sat at his desk, studying their maps. It didn’t truly matter what Izzy was doing, the key was being forced to submit. To give up control.

It’s been a while since their last session, but—but maybe Ed wants to do it again? Maybe he’s tired of Stede, poncey pretty precious Stede, and he’s missing what he’s had all along: someone he can use.

Izzy likes being useful. He needs it, if he’s honest. To be useful. To be used.

Izzy’s cock thuds in time with his heartbeat, abruptly swollen and aching inside his trousers, and he has to make himself swallow and breathe, try to relax a little. Once he’s calmed enough, he moves quickly, avoiding the other crew as best he can on his way to the captains’ quarters. He lifts a hand, hesitates for the barest second, then knocks.

“Enter.”

The voice scrapes through the air, oh so familiar and beloved—and definitely not Stede’s cheery cadence—and Izzy nearly lets out a sigh of relief. He pushes the door open instead.

Ed’s sitting at the desk that Stede rarely uses, feather quill in hand as he scratches at the maps they’re using to track ships to plunder. He flicks a hand up carelessly, not even looking away from his task. “Shut the door.”

Izzy steps inside and closes the door. His hands clasped behind his back, he waits to be acknowledged.

Ed takes his time looking up, letting Izzy stand there restlessly while he taps his quill against the maps. When he does look up, though, his eyes rove over Izzy hungrily. There’s a touch of Blackbeard in there, still cruelly indulgent and indulgently cruel. One side of his mouth ticks up. “Hear you’ve been actin’ a right brat lately, Iz. Crew’s complained.”

“They lost that goddamn ship after two days of—” Izzy starts up automatically, but Ed raises a hand, cutting him off.

When it’s clear Izzy isn’t going to continue, Ed lowers his hand, eyes steely. “I expect you’ve needed a bit of discipline. Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Not deserved. Not earned. Hell, not even wanted, though that part’s true, too. Needed.

’Cause he does need it, is the thing. And they both know it. And they both want it.

Izzy nods, throat gone bone dry. “Yes, sir.”

“Right,” Ed says pleasantly. He stands back from the desk, quill still in hand. As he stalks over, his voice drops, adopting that husky, vicious tone he only uses when Blackbeard’s come out to play. “On your knees, dog.”

He nearly gets a splinter, he drops to his knees so fast. There’s plenty of pillows stacked up high on Bonnet’s bed, but they won’t be using them for a cushion. Izzy likes his piece of rough, and Ed likes making him like it.

“I expect you want me to be harsh with you,” Ed says. “Some sort of punishment. A little smacking around? A little torture? Maybe I make you suck my cock until your jaw feels like it’ll fall off, and then I leave you to rut against the floors, flopping like a fish until you get yourself off? No hands, of course.”

Ed watches him intently for several long seconds, and Izzy realizes with a start that he’s still expected to answer. Usually, he drops into passive silence and takes what he’s given during their scenes, but not this time. “Whatever you want, boss,” he says hoarsely, feeling his cock stir at the thought of him being left to rut against the wooden floorboards, like an animal in heat.

He’s being honest. The best part of their time together is that he doesn’t have to make any choices. Nothing depends on him, not really, just his body. His mouth, his hands, his cock.

Now that he’s thinking about it, though, Ed’s got his eye on a specific appendage. Smack dab in the middle of Izzy’s face—not one of the usual ones. Ed looks down at the feather quill, still in his hand, and grins wickedly. “Whatever I want, then?”

Izzy nods, still looking up at him through his eyelashes, feeling the ache already settling into his knees. He’s not a teenager anymore, after all. “Of course.”

“Hm,” Ed muses, pretending to think about it, like he doesn’t already have a plan. “Whatever I want… what I want, Izzy, is to make you suffer. Something new. Something unexpected.”

Really, “suffer” was all he had to say. “Please,” Izzy gasps out, feeling grateful that he’s trained his body to be obedient. He doesn’t want to think what Ed might do if he moved his hands to his cock right now, which is where they want to go. But his hands stay where they’re supposed to be. He can be a good dog. He can.

“So polite,” Ed croons gently, bending down and holding Izzy’s jaw in one hand, his grip firm. His voice goes smooth and sweet like honey. “All you have to do to turn Israel Hands from a heinous moody bastard to a melted puddle is promise him a little pain. What a trade secret I have. I think I ought to tell the crew about it one of these days. We’ll make it a—what does Stede call it?—ah, yes, a ‘crew bonding experience,’” Ed quotes.

His voice has gone husky now, imagining. He continues, murmuring lowly into Izzy’s ear, “We’ll let them pass you around on-deck, slapping you and stuffing you full of themselves, knowing all the time that you’re getting off on the pain. Let them use you as just a couple of holes for their cocks, ’cause that’s all you are, mate. Down your throat, up your arse, till you’re so full you’re gonna be spitting out cum for weeks. Would you like that, puppy?”

Izzy moans. The thought is humiliating, getting passed around like a bottle of whiskey by the crew that he spends his days barking at and dressing down. But some part of him wants it—the often-quiet, needy part of him, the one that takes over when he gets on his knees like this. The part that just wants to please. Ed, ideally, but also anyone who crosses his path. He shudders a little to think of the crew coming across him like this, but the shudder’s half-fear and half-anticipation.

“But not now,” Ed concludes, dropping Izzy’s jaw and stepping away. “Right now, I want you all to myself. And I think, this evening, we’re going to be gentle.”

Gentle? He can’t have heard right. His head snaps up, watching Ed study the feather quill in his hand. “Boss?” he asks.

Ed makes a decision, then, unknown to anyone but himself. He looks down at Izzy, eyes firm and playful all at once, and he smirks. “Yes, Izzy. It’ll still be torture, don’t you worry. Just… not quite what you’re used to.”

Izzy doesn’t know how to respond to that—gentle torture, is there such a fucking thing?—so he stays silent. But he trusts Ed, as much as he’s ever trusted anyone, so he tilts up his chin, baring his throat submissively.

This seems to please Ed, and he steps forward again, raking one hand through Izzy’s hair, taking delight in messing up the styling. “Good dog,” he murmurs, low and throaty. “Good dog, you let me do what I want to you. Maybe you’ll even get a reward.”

If Izzy had a tail, it would be wagging. The praise settles in his head, overtaking his brain and leaving nothing but a cloud of hazy contentment. “Yes, boss.”

“Now, close your eyes and don’t. Move.”

Izzy closes his eyes, nothing if not obedient. He expects a slap, a kick, maybe even a cock shoved in his mouth. What he gets, though, is… a tickling sensation?

The feather is soft, a little stiff at the edges, and tracing lightly over his cheekbone. He feels his face twitch a little, confused by the sensation, and he opens his eyes again to find Ed staring down at him, utterly entranced by the motion of the quill’s feather against his skin.

“You look lovely like this, Iz,” Ed breathes.

He nearly bristles. He’s never lovely. But when Ed says it like that, praising him… he almost wants to be.

“Look at that…” Ed brings the feather up, over the firm arch of Izzy’s eyebrow, then back down to the curve of his jaw. “How’s it feel, hm?”

Izzy struggles to find a word. It feels… mostly like nothing, honestly? He’s spent his whole life measuring pain, not… tickling. “It’s… soft?” he tries.

Ed clicks his tongue. “You’re not impressed?”

He’s never been a good liar. “It’s—no, I’m…”

“Don’t worry, mate,” Ed murmurs. “This is just the foreplay.” He shifts the feather ever so slightly, so that it’s slowly stroking down the bridge of Izzy’s nose, then brushing the very tip.

It’s fucking electric. His spine stiffens, without his permission, and he knows Ed’s noticed that. “Fuck,” the word slips out through gritted teeth.

What he thought was “tickling” before? Was fucking nothing. The sensation of the feather on his nose makes him want to writhe like a fucking eel on the deck. He resists a shiver, resists the urge to lean back from the feather’s touch. This, for whatever reason, is what Ed wants.

Ed, as proof of that, has a new gleam in his eye as he watches Izzy struggle. “And how’s that feel, Iz?” he mocks.

“It iihhtches,” he forces out. God in heaven and the devils below, that’s a fucking understatement. The tickle’s still faint, but that only makes it worse, the way it’s so delicate and soft and irresistible. He wants to claw his fucking face off. He wants to… to…

With a smirk, Ed moves the feather, ever so slowly, from side to side. His smile deepens as Izzy’s breath catches in a hitch. “Gotta sneeze, love?”

Normally, the pet name would make him squirm with both delight and discomfort, but he’s already squirming with how damned tickly he’s feeling. “I…”

Ed, with a flourish, brings the feather to rest gently against the soft underside of Izzy’s nose, right against the curve of his nostrils. “Yes?”

“I— hih! hih! hih…” he can’t stop the hitching gasps interrupting him. He doesn’t know what the hell he’d say even if he could get through a syllable without those uneven, itchy inhales. “Ihh—!”

“Izzy,” Ed murmurs, almost lovingly, and he rubs the feather from side to side again, now against the sensitive underside of Izzy’s nose. The itch only intensifies at the soft, stroking sensation.

He can’t hold it back any longer, not for anything. Still, he tries, because he’s Izzy Hands and that means being stubborn until death. “I’ve… I—! hih… HIHH—!”

Ed pulls the feather away, just in time to shield it from the spray.

“hH’NGGH’SHHIEWW!” he sneezes, half-stifled. The tickle’s blindingly itchy, leaving him desperate for release, and he doesn’t even have time to fully stifle like he normally does. The resulting sneeze is therefore surprisingly strong and loud, especially for him, and it makes his whole body quake. He has to move his hands from behind his back to catch himself on the floor before he hits it face-first.

“Don’t hold back,” Ed says softly. “Don’t you dare.”

He needs to follow orders. And already, he has to sneeze again. He takes a shaky inhale, the itch burning in his sinuses, and immediately snaps forward again, making a conscious effort not to stifle again.

“hih-HIH—! heh’ESCHHIEWW! EHHT’SCHHIEWW!” They come out heady, desperate and wet, and he’s already drawing back for a few more. “hih—! EHHTSHOO! ESCHH’SHOO! Uhh—!”

Before another one can hit him, Ed’s pressing a finger against his nose, where he’s wet with spray and his nostrils are still flaring with the need to explode. “Christ, mate,” Ed says hoarsely, helping him hold back, “that really sets you off, don’t it?”

He has to work hard to control his breathing, to fight off the tickle that still begs to be satisfied, but he does it because he really, really doesn’t want to sneeze on his captain’s hand. (He doesn’t think he does, anyway. Hard to think right now—he’s all lightheaded.)

“Yessir,” he rasps, when he’s got the tickle a little under control.

Ed lets out a huff of a laugh, just under his breath. “Fuck me,” he says, more in wonder than with any passion. “Just think what I could do to you with a whole pillow-full of these,” holding up the feather quill.

He has to squint to see it through his watery, bleary eyes, and the sight of the damned thing only makes the itch in his nose spike, thinking of how it bristled against his sensitive skin. “Sih-sir,” he agrees, voice warbling with the need to sneeze again. His hands lift, prepared to catch any mishaps.

“Hands back behind you, Iz,” Ed says, firmly but gently, having noticed. “Wouldn’t want you covering. Your humiliation is mine to watch, remember?”

The degradation of it all does start to burn, then, as Ed points it out. He clasps his hands at the small of his back again, feeling how his ears and throat start to go hot with a powerful blush. “Yes, sir,” he mumbles back, eyes dropping.

“Fucking delicious, mate,” Ed says, sounding pleased with himself. He removes his finger, and both of them are a little surprised when Izzy doesn’t immediately lose control. He smirks, proud. “You look so good like this. M’gonna keep going, okay?”

It’s a check-in, rather unusual for their playtime, but then again, this is an unusual scene for them. He’s giving Izzy an out, just in case.

The thing is, Izzy doesn’t think he wants one. “Sir,” he breathes, exposing his throat again.

Ed catches his jaw in one hand, holding up the feather in the other. “S’gonna be intense,” he warns.

He swallows. “Sir,” he repeats.

“Right,” Ed chuckles, “I forgot, that’s like a tease for you, isn’t it? Hang on,” he says, and then he’s abruptly pushing the feather up Izzy’s nose.

For a moment, he doesn’t even inhale, such is his surprise. When he does, he can feel the feather inside, caressing the sensitive inner skin of his left nostril. Its soft particles vibrating against the unbearably tender, unbelievably ticklish skin there. It’s overwhelming. It’s incredible. He can’t last out against it.

His nose explodes.

“HEISSHHH’UHH! ISSCHHUHH! ihh-IHH—! AEISSCH’SHUHH!” Izzy sneezes repeatedly. Huge, helpless, utterly desperate outbursts, beyond his control or any hope of containment. He doesn’t even manage to duck his head in the hopes of spraying downwards; he knows immediately that he’ll have got Ed with some of it. He cringes a little at the thought, more embarrassed than afraid of Ed’s reaction, but his nose is too busy rebelling to let him contemplate it for long.

“uhh… UHHSSHHOOO! ihh’ISSCHHOOHH! issch’SHOO!” he loses control again. He sucks in a huge breath, feeling the featherlight, itchy tingling sensation of the foreign object still lodged up his nostril. He snorts a little, helplessly, his body’s way of trying to get rid of it.

As he gears up for another sneeze, though, he’s surprised by the sensation of the soaked feather being pulled out of his nose. Unexpectedly, this only encourages the tickle even more, and he can feel his facial features collapsing with need, his nostrils flaring wide, and he gasps and hitches his way into another buildup—

A finger presses firmly against his nose again. “Fucking Christ, Izzy. Want some more?” Ed’s voice asks. He sounds a little breathless, with surprise, with desire.

He can’t open his streaming eyes enough to see. He nods, sniffling hard against the finger at his nose. “Please,” he begs. Izzy Hands is so, so good at begging when wants to be.

Ed takes a second to think about it. “Okay. But.”

Izzy nearly whines at the prospect of a condition on his release.

“You’re gonna warn me before you go off,” Ed says firmly, having decided on his caveat. He gets down in a crouch, to have a better view.

“I c-cahhn’t—”

“You will, or I’ll stop,” he threatens.

All of the tension in Izzy’s body loosens, going slack with urgent need. “Please,” he moans again. I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I’ll be good…

Ed removes his finger, cradling Izzy’s jaw delicately just long enough for a pair of dry lips to smack against Izzy’s forehead in a rough, brief kiss. At the same time, Ed’s other hand appears at Izzy’s trousers, cupping the heat of his length through the leathers; Izzy gives a high whine in response. “Good dog,” Ed whispers. “Talk to me.”

“M’gonna… gohh…” Izzy starts, but he has to stop near-immediately to fight off an insistent sneeze. “I have to— to—”

“Hm?” Ed asks playfully. “You have to what?”

Izzy’s nearly choking on it now, fighting back the tingling itch that’s overtaken his whole fucking face. “Hah-have to… to sn— to sneeh…” he gets as far as he can before his breath catches, and he knows he’s lost.

In the moment that his breath hitches, reaches its peak of desperation, Ed reaches up and taps the end of one finger against the curved tip of Izzy’s nose. “Good boy,” he whispers. “Let go.”

It’s too much. “HHEIISSHHIEWW! huhh… HUH’TISSCHHOOO! HEPP’SCHHIEWW!” he sneezes, so loud and wet and harsh that he can feel them fucking scraping at his throat.

They’re violently spraying, too. Droplets catch on the crotch of Ed’s leathers, where he’s already straining hard at the fabric. With a groan, Ed reaches down inside his trousers to hold himself, stroking hard and fast. “That’s it, Iz,” he says, spilling hot into his hand. “Oh, Jesus fuck, yes.”

“hehh… HDT’SCHHIEWW! HETSSCHHIEEWW!” he bursts, viciously loud. He hitches again, huge and unsteady, and nearly topples forward into Ed’s arms with the last of the fit. “ih-hih-hih’ITSCHHOO! ISSCHH! ISSH-choo!”

For a minute, Ed lets Izzy lean against him, still panting for breath and praying that the tickle’s died down for good. Then, he’s undoing Izzy’s pants, setting his painfully-hard cock free and stroking his dirty, cum-streaked hand down the length of it, from root to tip. “Come, Izzy,” Ed tells him.

He’s still shaking off the headiness of the last of the sneezes, barely even able to comprehend the order. “S-sir, I,” he manages, before Ed gets impatient.

“Izzy,” he says, softly but with a hint of danger to it, “if you don’t follow orders, I’m gonna be very cross with you. You’ve been so very good today, don’t ruin it. Now, be a good dog and come.”

He’s been good, he thinks, good for his captain. With a choked-off cry, he cums into Ed’s hand at the thought, mixing their seed together. His head drops onto Ed’s shoulder as he rides it out, the sheer overwhelming wave of pleasure-pain-itch-relief, and Ed lets him stay there.

When both of them have calmed their breathing a bit, Ed presents his soiled hand for Izzy to lick clean, which he does dutifully. “You did very well today, pet,” Ed murmurs. “I know that was a different kind of discipline, something new for you, but you were excellent. So well-behaved. What would you like for a reward?”

Izzy’s firmly in his post-scene haze now, the one where his filter is wholly gone, the one where he says what he actually wants without thinking about the implications. He sniffles, nose still twinging a bit, and the thought spills out of him before he can stop it. “Maybe we could… do this again?”

Okay, so maybe he’d liked this more than he thought.

There’s silence for a beat, and then Ed barks out a surprised laugh. “God, you are perfect, mate,” he murmurs, using the pad of one thumb to wipe away the mess sluggishly trailing down Izzy’s upper lip. The touch is rough and warm and perfect. “Fucking perfect. Yeah, that can be your reward if you want. We’ll do it again sometime. See how slowly I can take you apart with nothing but a feather quill.”

He shudders, exhales a broken moan. He wants that, more than he expected to ever want anything from their time together that wasn’t outright pain. He arches into Ed’s touch, smearing his snot against Ed’s thumb, scrabbling for this bit of post-orgasmic intimacy. “Yes, boss, please, I want it…”

At that moment, the cabin door opens and interrupts them. Izzy’s too dazed, too euphoric with the scene’s afterglow to snap his head around, but he can tell by the way that Ed relaxes that it’s Bonnet. Funny, Izzy feels so good just now that he doesn’t even much mind that it’s that twat.

“Erm, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Stede says delicately, but his curiosity must win out. “Um… what’s going on?”

Ed clears his throat, standing upright and half-dragging, half-carrying Izzy to a nearby settee, where Izzy immediately curls up like a dog ready for a midday nap. “Well, mate, it turns out our Izzy here,” said Ed, half-fond and half-mocking, “has quite the sensitive nose. I was just… taking advantage.”

“Oh?” Stede asks, sounding only a little surprised. Maybe he’s had exposure to this more… unusual aspect of Ed’s tendencies before. “And how was it?”

“He’s a fucking gem,” Ed grins, tilting Izzy’s chin up with one hand. “All right there, love? Need anything? Tea, a blanket?”

Izzy shakes his head, already half-asleep. He always sleeps his best after a scene, when he’s fucked-out and exhausted in the best way. Even sitting curled up in a chair, with his knees aching from kneeling so long on the hardwood floor, isn’t stopping his eyes from closing. He’s vaguely aware, then, of Ed stepping away, crossing the room to embrace Stede.

As he drifts off, he can just barely catch the two of them talking, at barely above a whisper. “How long were you at the door then, eh?” Ed asks.

There’s an embarrassed mumble from Stede. “Oh, from the beginning, I rather think. I, uh, enjoyed myself, too. Didn’t want to interrupt until it was done. Thank God for keyholes, hm?”

The sound of a kiss, wet and long. “Glad you liked the show,” Ed says, abruptly hoarse. “Maybe next time you and he could pair up instead, put on a show for me.”

Stede makes a delicate sound, one that definitely isn’t a no. “He is rather lovely like this, isn’t he? All tortured and everything.”

“Dunno if it counts as torture, for Izzy,” Ed replies. “Was bein’ pretty gentle with him, after all. Ruined your quill, though, sorry.”

“Darling,” Stede says with a soft laugh. “Don’t worry about the feather—it sounds like you put it to good use. Besides, look at the shade of pink his nose is. He’s going to be ticklish for hours yet. That’s a torture, even if he’s been through worse in the past. It’s just one where, afterward, he looks… what did you call him, ‘delicious’?”

Ed snorts. “Yeah. He is, isn’t he?”

“He most certainly is.”

Izzy hears footsteps, then feels two pairs of hands pull a blanket over him. It’s one of the nicer ones, with ridiculously soft material, and he buries his face in it instinctively, inhaling the smells of Ed and Stede mixed together. He likes it more than he wants to admit.

Well. Maybe it wasn’t quite discipline the way that he’s used to it, but he certainly got the bad mood fucked out of him. His tolerance of Stede’s presence—dare he say more than tolerance, even—is proof enough of that.

He falls fully asleep, shortly afterward, to the sound of his captains drifting throughout the cabin, murmuring to each other and watching after him while he rests. Just before he drops off, he picks up on snatches of words and phrases here and there between Ed and Stede: “feather,” “gorgeous,” “plans for next time.” He lets the edge of his mouth tilt up, the tiniest bit, before he gives in to contented sleep.

“It's the change in the weather,” he croaks, sheepishly, “Always gives me a...hehhh...”

Yennefer's thighs involuntarily clench when he drags in a ragged gasp. She leans forward, in spite of herself, fascinated by his sudden twisting expression. It's so needy. Gods.

“Heh...”

His head tips back, his nostrils flaring wide, his entire face trembling on the precipice of what is certain to be a room-shuddering, body-wrenching-

“Hhh...ugh!...fuck...”

Geralt slurs a frustrated curse, scrubs a finger under his nose. He casts pleading eyes at Yennefer, and she schools her features into what she hopes is something more disdainful. Thank the Gods he can't read minds.

“Maybe you wouldn't get such ailments if you didn't constantly sleep outdoors like an animal,” she said, sitting back.

Geralt grins, in spite of his misery. His smile is all the more gorgeous for his pale, sickly face, the fucker.

“Is that an invitation?”

“I don't want a sick Witcher in my bed,” she says, feeling the flush slowly rise up her neck. Geralt tilts his head. Her heart beat must betraying her, so she adds some harshness to her tone: “What is it that you want, Geralt? You know I can't just wish illnesses away at my will. You're wasting your time and mine.”

The smile fades and he rubs again at his nose. The edges of it are so red, it's like he's been attending it with a burlap sack. Knowing Geralt, that's probably not far from the truth.

“I can't smell,” he says, “it's a problem.”

“And,” her voice dips lower, “what can I possibly do about that?”

“Do you think you could...heh!..” His mouth drops open and he hitches, desperate. “Hehh! IhhHH-!”

He pitches forward-- no release. Dejected, he slumps back in his chair.

“...If I could just sneeze,” he says, with misery. “I think that...I think that would help.”

Her mouth is suddenly quite dry when she swallows.

“You want me,” she clarifies, “to help you... sneeze?”

“It's been days,” he groans.

Yennefer is not one to turn down an unexpected pleasure. She is not about to do so now.

“...I may have an idea,” she says, “do you trust me?”

“No,” he huffs.

“Good. Smart.”

She stands, hikes up her silky skirt, and crawls into Geralt's lap. She brackets his hips with her knees, and peers into his face -he's clearly baffled, but not complaining. Not yet. His skin is feverishly hot to the touch where her thumbs brush his jaw. He can only breath out of his mouth and she can feel each slow breath blossom over her lips. She strongly desires to suffocate him with a long kiss but that's not what he asked her for. No, he wants her help.

From thin air, she conjures the long stem, the familiar purple buds, and holds it up. Geralt's eyes widen when he sees what it is.

Silver is for monsters. Lavender is for Witchers.

Yennefer knows this particular weapon is one of Geralt's more secret sensitivities. His poor nose twitches at just the sight and he ducks his head, wary.

“Yen,” he says, “That makes me-”

“I know it does,” she purrs. “...But isn't that what you want? To rid yourself of all that congestion so you can once again breathe?”

He braces himself. Nods. But his eyes remain rooted on the little innocent plant in her hand.

Yennfer uses one long finger to tip his head back, just a little. Just enough. He goes willingly, of course. Ever willing, her Witcher.

Then she holds the lavender to her mouth and blows on it gently, aiming towards his flaring nostrils. He jerks once a moment later, beneath her weight, when the invisible grains of pollen must hit his tortured sinuses. His upper lip snarls silently up, then again, higher.

She rolls the flowering edge over the irritated red of his nose, tracing the outside of each flaring rim with a barely-there touch. He arches back but she persists, sketching just the tip over the fine line on his skin between his nostrils. Moisture beads almost immediately in both sides, quivering in those dark spaces, threatening.

“...hehh...”

She more feels than hears that first hitching breath. His chest expands against hers, stutters, then deflates.

“..Hheh...”

The next one a vocal rasp as well, a warning of the impending. She mercilessly drags the the buds beneath his nose, following the path that his rubbing fingers must have taken a thousand times with this cold, for how abused the flesh is.

His nostrils weep now, a sticky gloss coats the petals, her knuckles, the divot of his cupid's bow.

“Heh!..HEH!...”

He paws blindly for her wrist to stop her, or to perhaps somehow cover the inevitable, but it's too late.

“HH'RRRHSHSHHH!”

It crashes out of him, with no where to go but down, -down the front of himself, and down her. She gasps as the spray hits the bared skin of her cleavage, leaves spatters on her silk bodice.

His breath baits again, he rears back and soaks the side of her neck instead, the shoulder of her dress. He's too trapped in his reaction, so far gone into allergic paroxysm for any kind of chivalry, courtesy, containment.

“H'RHSHHHSHH! Hh! H'RHSHHSH!”

She grasps for him, twisting her fingers into his silver hair, and directs his dripping face towards her chest. Geralt doesn't fight, let's himself be pressed between her breasts, even wraps both strong arms around her and presses her harder to him as he blasts again, muffling into her skin.

“ --HRRRRMMMFFFTTT!”

She moans at the wetness that explodes down between her bosom, down her to her stomach, beneath the fabric of her dress. She arches to meet him as he sneezes again, and again, and again, and again.

“-H'RMMMFFTT! HHH'RRRMPFFFT!...hhH!..Hhhuhh!...hhh...”

When it finally dies down, leaving only ragged hitching in it's wake, they are both panting. She's thrumming with want, sure he can sense it, the heat of her in his lap, the galloping of her heart, the goosebumps that have risen all over her exposed skin.

“Wipe your nose, you beast,” she says and he must know he's the cause of her unraveling because he purposefully rolls his streaming nostrils first over the swell of one breast and then over the other, sniffling as he goes.

“Yen,” he murmurs into her flesh and she clenches her fist in his hair. His hands are already pulling loose the laces at her back, eager.

“Well,” she says, imperiously, “did it work? What do you smell, witcher?”

“Mmm,” his lips rove over her. He gives a very wet sounding sniff for show.

“Lilacs,” he kisses the word into her skin. “Gooseberries.”

“Anything else?...”

He pauses, his breath catches, then breezes out over her wet collarbone.

“I...”

Another sharp inhale, tickling exhale. She delights in the scrape of his teeth as his mouth opens a little wider to grab another deeper, damning breath.

“,,,heh...”

“That's right,” she says, when he muzzily lifts his head. Gods, he's a mess, as much a mess as her expensive dress, but she needs to kiss him and so she does. He tries to kiss back, hitches again into her mouth.

“Hhheh...” She smiles, devilishly, pulling back to be nose to glorious nose.

“Do you smell, perhaps,” she says, “the lavender soap I used this morning?”

The last available room in this drafty inn. A single small bed barely large enough to comfortably fit one fellow, let alone two. Recovering from a slash to his leg from the wyrven's tail, Geralt was in no condition to meditate at the hearth and so the whole bulk of him was crammed between the wall and Jaskier's back.

Jaskier closed his eyes and tried very hard not to think about the warm press of Geralt's chest against his shoulder blades. His huffing breath against the back of his neck.

Suddenly, a wet sniffle.

“Hhh..”

A full body shiver; a quivering breath. One large hand drifted to Jaskier's arm, bracing. The bard swallowed and felt the grip tighten.

“Heh...d-hh-dust in your...your... hehh... hair...”

Geralt's hand slid over Jaskier's belly, drawing him back towards him. He dug his generous nose into Jaskier's shoulder, and sneezed hard-

““HH-RRRMPFFTT!”

A massive dampness erupted into the back of Jaskier's nightshirt, cold against his skin. The bard gasped when Geralt dragged him impossibly closer, wrapping both arms around his waist, the larger man smashing another muffled explosion into already wet fabric.

“Hhh...HHH-RRRMMMFFT!”

Geralt's breath was still unsteady but he raised his head, his nose drawing a cold wet path up the side of Jaskier's neck. He did not release him as he had in the cave.

The bard fought to keep his voice steady and failed, trembling in spite of himself.

“Geralt, I'll have you know, this is...was...my last clean nightshirt...”

He felt Geralt's feral smile against his ear, a low chuckle that was interrupted by another hitch. One of Geralt's hands slid southward, drawing an involuntary moan from his companion, and the white wolf growled against his throat.

“Pity. Then take it off.”

Geralt is looking, has been looking. Jaskier is a disaster - his eyes puffy and leaking a bit at the edges, his perfectly-combed hair askew, his nose as pink and soft as a wet cherry blossom. He looks fucking adorable, is what, and Geralt would like to devour him right now in this not-so-hidden corner like a fucking pastry but he doesn't say so. Instead he says:

"...Lilies."

Jaskier sniffles hard, rubs at his irritated nostrils with a grimace, and peers up at Geralt through fluttering lashes.

"Well, they are murdering me. Gods, do you have...hHhh!...have a handkerchief, by any chance? This is a very expensive piece of clothing that I'm..hehh!-soaking-heh! Hh! H'KTChsh!"

He hitches up, up, up in pitch and sneezes an inelegant wet burst against said doublet sleeve, into a growing dark spot on the plum silk. He's terrible at covering when he's like this and Geralt feels a hint of the spray graze the exposed skin of his neck. He suddenly longs to be rid of his itchy borrowed shirt. Instead, he un-tucks it from his pants and gestures with the hem.

"Use this," he says.

“That's my shirt, Geralt,” Jaskier whines, “I loaned it to you so you'd look present-ahh! HhH! H'KTChsh! -”

Even though he has plentiful warning – that delightful, desperate arpeggio of a build-up– he somehow manages to sneeze over his steepled hands. Geralt catches it fully in the jaw, the wash of it feathering his cheek. Geralt feels a rush of warmth from that spot to the soles of his boots.

“-Presentable,” Jaskier finishes, mournfully. “Oh, I am so sorry. I sneezed right on you, didn't I? I am a complete and utter...-”

Geralt presses into his personal space, lets his body speak of want when his mouth will not.

“Huh,” Jaskier says, after a moment.

“Huh,” Geralt confirms.

“Oooh,” Jaskier says and his slick face brightens, “Oh, oh oh. I forgot...you rather like it when I'm...when I-”

“Yes,” Geralt says, in a breath.

“Well, in that case,” Jaskier grins, “perhaps it's not your beautiful, borrowed shirt you'd like me to defile, really but, ah, you, dear, is that it then?”

Geralt hums.

The bard sniffles, loudly, purposefully.

“Luckily for you, I am very, very affli-hh-afflicted this evening, and I don't think I will stopping be any time soon,” Jaskier says, “I feel another...ahh- another already-hh! HhH!-”

Geralt surges forward and captures his trembling lips in a kiss. The momentary distraction stalls his gasping, and for a few seconds, Jaskier reacts in kind, throws his arms around the witcher's neck, melts into him with a barely audible moan.

Then- hehh..-a hitch delivered against Geralt's mouth. Jaskier pulls away, just a little, eyes pinched closed- hhh!- and Geralt grabs his face in both hands and kisses him hard again.

“Mmph...G-ger-hhalt...” he murmurs, panting, kissing, hitching, relentlessly hitching, “...let..l- hhh!-let me..please let me sn-hhH! HhH!- let mehHh! sn-sneeHH!”

Geralt releases him, and Jaskier rears his head back, giving him a glimpse of flaring nostrils, a glimmer of wetness, tears in his eyes, and then he collapses in a resounding, bone-deep – HHH'AATTCHSh! – that catches Geralt fully on the lips as it's own sort of kiss.

“hHH!AATtchsh!!”

A second sneeze barrels after the first and as Jaskier gears up for a third, Geralt takes pity and gathers him towards his shoulder.

“H'KTPCHsh!...oh...!”

“Blessings,” Geralt rumbles and feels Jaskier's little chuckle.

“Ndow I definditely ndeed to take you up on your offer...” he says with a syrupy sniffle, “I'mb a mess...”

Geralt swallows as Jaskier slides to his knees before him, looking up at him as he goes. He fingers Geralt's shirt hem, hesitating there for a moment, then he ducks his head to slowly rub his running nose over the bulge in Geralt's trousers instead. Geralt makes a cut off noise, braces both hands on the wall.

“I think...I think I hhh- have to...”

Jaskier rubs harder and Geralt nearly loses his senses entirely. The bard hitches against him, and he can't resist reaching down to tangle his fingers in his hair, to press him ever closer.

Jaskier laughs but – heh!-- a gasp interrupts him. HhH!-A third. And then-

“-H'KTSChsh!”

The sneeze is muffled by fabric but Geralt feels the dampness explode against him there and growls out a mangled “Fuck.”

“Oh, my darling,” Jaskier snuffles, with a feral grin, “Absolutely.”

A small pool of yellow light entered the study, accompanied by light footsteps. Even lighter footsteps followed, and something called out:

“mrrwl?”

“Shh, Tom, you know I can’t let you out at this hour.” a feminine voice replied. Its owner was keeping her tone low, as though she too was about secretive business.

Grey heard the cat tap his paws reproachfully against the glass of the French windows a couple of times and then, with a sense of trepidation, watched a large, pale ginger cat round the corner of the desk, no doubt to inspect his strange smell. It was a terrifically fluffy creature, probably a Persian or Angora, though Grey had never studied the breed.

With an effort, and causing too much sound against the desk for his own liking, Grey freed a hand enough to offer it to the beast for inspection. “Tom” sniffed around him and seemed satisfied. Grey gave the cat a small scratch behind the ears. Good boy, go away quietly, now?

Partially obeying the thief’s silent plea, the cat stretched and leapt up onto the chair tucked close up to the desk. He padded soft circles on the seat for a few moments before settling, his face against the chair back. His enormous tail whipped back, striking Grey across the face and leaving him with an unexpected hair on his tongue.

He managed to scrape away the hair and kept his mouth tightly sealed as the tail came back for a second, lazier brush across his face. It was soft, but the long fur seemed to get everywhere and try to attack all the most sensitive parts of his face. Grey closed his eyes tightly against the assault, but was without the means to close off his nostrils. He could only try not to breathe in at the same time that the tail pressed its fluffiness across them.

He wondered if there were any means to induce the cat to move, but even as the thought crossed his mind-

“Good boy, Tom. You rest awhile.”

Grey watched a small, calloused hand appear over the edge of the desk and begin to pet the cat’s head. That was all he saw, before the tail was in his face again.

This time the brushing of that long-haired tail against his nostrils was distinctly ticklish. Grey wrinkled his nose in protest, but that only seemed to grant the tail-hairs a more effective angle from which to bother it. Even as the tail withdrew, a distressing ticklishness remained, which pressing the tip of his nose against the inner panel of the desk did little to alleviate.

Back it came again, despite his best efforts to pull his head further back beneath the desk. The tail whisked quickly across his face, leaving a tingle in his nose then- quite before he was ready- returned for another slow pass, pushing soft but insistent little hairs deep into his already-tickling nose.

And now Grey was in a real fight. His nose was determined- quite naturally- to respond to this persistent tickling with a sneeze. He found himself drawing breath despite the obstruction and only increasing the urgent, fluttering need.

But silence was all that stood between him and real danger. If Grey was to have a good chance of making it out with the jewels, he must not sneeze. He wedged his tongue hard against the roof of his mouth and, as the infernal tail withdrew again, fought to hold that traitorous breath until matters might be a little calmer in his nose.

Had any invisible observer been likewise crouched in the gap between desk and study wall, they would have been amazed by the contortions of Grey’s face in the short moments that he wrestled with that sneeze. His lips twisted, half-parted, then closed again. His nose quivered. His complexion grew redder with each heartbeat, such was the colossal effort with which he sought to restrain himself.

Whether or not he might have managed it, unmolested, he did not get that chance.

Almost as though the cat sensed the finely balanced state of affairs behind him, his extravagant tail swept gently back, its long, graceful hairs delicately brushing against Grey’s helpless, trembling nostrils.

“h’GHSSSCHHhhah!”

It was a loud, wet, ugly sneeze. The kind of sneeze a man only sneezed when it really couldn’t be avoided.

The cat sprang away from the chair. Grey heard the woman gasp and take two hasty steps back. With nothing else to be done, he unfolded himself from under the desk, grabbing at it for support as his knees protested their recent harsh treatment.

The woman in the middle of the room was dressed like a housemaid. In one hand she held a small leather-bound book. She raised the other hand, trembling with shock.

“Wh- who the hell are you?”

Grey moved around the desk, feeling a brief flash of relief as the woman instinctively took another step away from him. That left him able to step between her and the French windows, which he knew were still unlocked.

“Just another trespasser.” he said, making that step.

He had hoped to gauge from her reaction whether her presence in this room was enough of an indiscretion to buy a few minutes of silence, but the words weren’t even fully out of his mouth before the urge to sneeze came over him again, brooking no resistance.

“ah’hSSSCHHhah!”