sneezes are hot.

Overly indulgent Law dump 😈

Okay okay I can explain!! A few different people wanted Law stuff and I got a little excited, so here's an assortment of misery.

1. Dude absolutely snzes in multiples and usually covers properly. Prone to fits when he's worn out/sick. His crew loves to tease him about it but they really care for him.

2. No excuse for this one... Feverish. Chest out. Tattoos showing. Yes.

3. As you can see I'm a little obsessed with the Hea//rt Pira/tes being sweet to their grumpy captain, so naturally Be/po showed up with a cup of tea. I just wanted to draw him :)

Sorry for the questionable fashion choices. Anyways I spent an embarrasingly long number of hours on these so I hope you enjoy!

DO NOT REBLOG TO NON-KINK BLOGS!

Alternate design under the cut with minor Dress//rosa spoilers!

A slow-burn enemies to lovers story following my college OC's Sawyer Henderson and Harrison Whitaker.

Word Count:6,049

Link to Chapter 1 is: Here

Link to Chapter 2 is: Here

Link to Chapter 3 is: Here

Link to Chapter 4 is: Here

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Chapter 5 - Sawyer's POV

The student center was an assault on the senses at 8AM. Espresso machines hissed behind the counter and the sound of overlapping conversations rose throughout the building. The sunlight shining through the windows made the whole place feel bright and overstimulating. Sawyer sat wedged between two tables near the middle. A few of his fraternity brothers were beside him and a group of sorority girls occupied the remaining chairs. A coffee cup warmed in his hands while Ashley talked across from him. 

Normally Sawyer would have been the loudest person at the table and steering the conversation like he always did, but instead he found himself listening more than speaking. Sawyer had barely slept. The event last night lingered in his bones like a second hangover. The donors, the cab, the look on Harrison’s face; it all replayed in a relentless loop. 

He was halfway through a detailed fantasy about just tipping his chair over and crawling under the table when Ashley's eyes went wide over his shoulder. "Speak of the devil," she murmured. Sawyer followed her gaze and there he was: Harrison had just walked in with three of his teammates. 

They didn’t make a spectacle of themselves, but they didn’t need to. A few heads turned almost immediately. And at the center of it all, Harrison looked like absolute hell. Which was honestly impressive, considering he still somehow managed to look better than most people in the room. His face was pale and his eyes were unfocused and exhausted. The tip of his nose was an angry, swollen red, and the skin around his nostrils looked painful. Sawyer felt a pang of something sharp and protective. He had been wondering if Harrison had actually gone home and rested. If he did, it didn’t appear like it had done him any good. 

One of Harrison’s teammates spotted a familiar face at their table and broke off with a grin. “Tyler, you bastard,” he called and veered toward them. Tyler shot up immediately and within seconds the groups were folding into each other with greetings. 

Harrison approached last. The damage was clearer up close and he looked like he was running on fumes. Sawyer frowned.

The girls at the table, Ashley included, immediately straightened up. Their laughter became a little brighter. “Harrison, you killed it on Saturday,” one of the sorority girls gushed. Her smile was wide and dazzling. Another one chimed in immediately. “That final drive was insane! We were all losing our minds in the stands.”

Harrison smiled and gave a polite nod. “That’s very nice. Thank you.” His gaze moved past the fawning faces and landed directly on Sawyer. The noise of the student center seemed to fade. “How are you?” Harrison asked in a low rasp that cut through the chatter.

How are you? Not “Hey, man,” or “What’s up,” but an inquiry that felt like it was looking for the real answer. An uncomfortable prickle crawled up the back of Sawyer’s neck. It felt like Harrison could see right through his casual facade to the quiet uncertain person underneath. But before he could answer, Harrison’s breath hitched. He turned away and muffled a harsh sneeze into the crook of his elbow. 

“Hah-HAH-HHhhkkMPHH!”

The sound was awful and barely contained by the fabric of his sweatshirt. It was the kind of sneeze that sounded painful enough to make the girls at the table flinch. Harrison stayed turned away as he gasped again more desperately. He barely managed to get his elbow back up before the next ones ripped out of him, heavier and more violent than the first.

“Hhh...hhh…Hah-SHOO! Huh-ISHOOOOO! Hah-HAH-CHOOOOOOOO!”

They echoed in the space of the student center and drew a few wide eyed stares from nearby tables. Sawyer winced and his hand gripped his coffee cup. Jesus. He’d heard Harrison sneeze these past few days, but these were different. These sounded worse, like they were being ripped out of him.

The sorority girls were now staring and their bright attentive smiles were replaced with looks of concerned pity. One of Harrison’s teammates clapped him on the back in sympathy. Harrison straightened up slowly. When his eyes finally found Sawyer’s again, they were dazed. Sawyer found himself fighting an unexpected urge to reach across the table and press the back of his hand to Harrison’s forehead again and force water and tissues into his hands like he had the night before. The impulse startled him. It felt protective in a way he wasn’t ready to think about.

“Bless you,” Ashley chimed in as she leaned forward. “You really should be in bed. Should you even be running drills like this?”

Harrison gave another sniff and dragged the back of his hand briefly under his nose before answering. “Probably not, but I’ll survive.”

“So skip practice,” she said lightly. “I won’t tell.” Her tone blurred between friendly and intimate and Sawyer watched as a sense of amusement rose. He’d seen Ashley work boys like this a hundred times. This was her turning on the charm and it was usually effective.

Harrison finally glanced at her properly, though the look was more polite amusement than temptation. “I think my coach might notice.”

Ashley laughed. “Well if you collapse dramatically during practice I expect full credit for trying to stop you,” she teased.

Harrison gave another thick sniff. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Conversation then resumed around them and Ashley’s hand settled absentmindedly on Sawyer’s forearm as she spoke. Harrison’s expression was composed, yet something in him tensed. His gaze dipped to where Ashley’s hand was before returning to the group. He smiled at something she said but the smile stopped short of his eyes. Ashley, oblivious, leaned a little closer to Sawyer. Her thumb traced a small circle on his sleeve. She was always touchy-feely with everyone, not just Sawyer. But Harrison didn’t know that. His expression was carefully blank but he was doing a poor job of hiding his irritation. Something was off and Sawyer couldn't quite place it. But he was probably reading too much into it. Harrison was just intense sometimes. That was all…right?

Sawyer's mind raced as he tried to make sense of it. Maybe he was just having a bad day because he was sick. But this felt targeted and personal.

Wait.

Was Harrison Whitaker…jealous? 

The realization landed so suddenly that Sawyer forgot how to breathe for a second. Harrison Whitaker, the golden boy, the stoic, unflappable athlete, jealous? Why would he be? Maybe Harrison and Ashley had something going on? No, that didn't make sense. Harrison had never shown any interest in her.

Sawyer's brain stuttered. The next question then followed. Did Harrison even like women? Was it possible the reason there were no rumors or public girlfriends wasn’t because he was disciplined or private, but because he wasn’t looking at them at all? 

The thought landed and didn’t go away. And what really threw him was how his own body reacted. Sawyer felt a pulse of heat low in his stomach and a slow pooling warmth. He'd had the thought before, the “maybe I'm not totally straight” thought. He liked girls, he'd dated them, he'd done stuff with them. But there were those moments he'd catch himself looking a little too long at some guy in the gym, then feel all confused about it after. It was a file in his brain he never opened. It was untested and therefore unreal. But now...shit. It felt real. A switch had flipped, like someone had turned on a light in a room he hadn’t realized was dark. 

The thought sent a small jolt through him. He’d been intrigued by the mystery of Harrison. But this was something else entirely, something way more interesting. If Harrison was actually jealous for the reasons Sawyer suspected, then this wasn't just some random thought. It meant something was actually happening between them, something neither of them had said out loud. And instead of freaking him out, it intrigued him. He found himself studying the line of Harrison’s mouth as he spoke. He imagined Harrison’s mouth closer, no longer formed around polite conversation but around something that required no words at all.

The moment ended when one of Harrison’s teammates clapped his hands together. “Alright, boys. Let’s roll. Coach will have our asses if we’re late again.”

They started gathering their things. Sawyer watched them go as his mind was still reeling. His eyes were fixed on Harrison. He was about to walk onto a field and push that body even harder. It was insane. Before the smarter part of his brain could stop him, words came out. 

“Are you really going to practice today, Whitaker?”

The question hung in the air. Harrison’s teammates, who had been heading for the door, paused and turned with grins spreading across their faces. One of them stepped forward and clapped Sawyer on the shoulder. “He’s got a point, Whitaker!” he remarked. “When we all had that nasty shit going around, you were the first one telling us to take a sick day. You said we were useless on the field anyway.”

“Yeah, man,” another chimed in, gesturing at Harrison’s flushed face. “You look like death. 

“Whitaker’s a beast,” countered one to his left. “He won’t listen. He’s stubborn. Thinks he’s invincible.”

They were laughing, but it was clear they were on Sawyer’s side, their ribbing a thinly veiled attempt to get their star quarterback to actually take care of himself. Harrison just shook his head as a flicker of annoyance crossed his features. “I’m fine. Let’s go.”

Before he turned, his gaze swept back to the table on Sawyer. Ashley had now leaned into Sawyer with her head resting comfortably on his shoulder. Her blonde hair spilled over his chest. She was distracted and texting on her phone, completely unaware of the unspoken situation unfolding.

For a fraction of a second Harrison’s composure slipped. The exhaustion in his eyes was replaced by something raw and bleak. Harrison looked away. Without another word, he turned and followed his teammates out of the student center. And just like that, he was gone. Sawyer could feel Harrison’s presence receding as he walked away and a strange panic started rising in his chest. He wanted to call him back and say something, anything. But he didn’t. He stayed where he was with the ghost of Harrison’s face lingering long after he left.

***

By afternoon, Sawyer found himself back in his room. He was worried. It was a stupid, unfamiliar feeling. He was concerned about how sick Harrison was. Had he made it through practice? Or had his coach finally sent him home?

The problem hit him immediately. He had no way to contact him. No number. No real address beyond the vague idea that Harrison lived somewhere in athlete housing near campus. Sawyer dropped onto his bed and grabbed his phone. He told himself he was just curious about practice. His thumb moved almost on its own as it opened social media. Harrison’s profile loaded instantly with the familiar blue checkmark appearing next to his name. Sawyer stared at it and before he could overthink it, tapped follow. 

Harrison probably wouldn’t even notice. With hundreds of thousands of followers, one more name sliding into the pile meant nothing. And from what Sawyer had seen, Harrison barely used the app anyway. He followed only a couple hundred people back, most of them teammates, family, or official accounts. Sawyer tossed his phone onto the bed beside him and told himself it meant nothing.

Two hours later his phone buzzed. He picked it up and froze.

Harrison Whitaker has requested to follow you.

A cold knot of panic and excitement tightened in his stomach. Sawyer’s account was private. He’d locked it a while ago after too many alumni and distant relatives started lurking. Harrison wouldn’t be able to see anything beyond his profile picture unless Sawyer accepted him. He pushed himself upright against his headboard and clicked into his own profile for the first time in months with something close to self-consciousness. It was a completely different world from Harrison’s. It was loud and messy and unapologetically alive. There were party pictures where the alcohol was artfully hidden but the evidence was written all over their flushed faces and sloppy grins. 

He scrolled further down. There were the shirtless photos too, the ones Sawyer had shamelessly chosen because he looked good that day. Defined abs, tanned skin, sunglasses low on his nose with water beading along his shoulders. Would Harrison look at this and just see another idiot showing off? Would he think Sawyer was exactly what his feed suggested: aimless, loud, shallow, constantly mid-party? 

He had never cared what anyone assumed about him based on social media. In fact, he'd built that image on purpose. It was easier to be read as carefree than complicated. But then Sawyer remembered the donor event, the way Harrison had looked at him like he was seeing past all the noise. He knows me in real life, Sawyer thought as a surprising sense of clarity cut through the panic. This feed wouldn’t tell him anything he doesn’t already know. His thumb hovered over the request for only a second before he tapped accept.

For a moment nothing happened. Just silence and the quiet awareness that somewhere in athlete housing across campus, Harrison Whitaker now had access to the unfiltered version of him.

He forced himself up and grabbed his keys. A distraction. He needed a distraction. The gym was a good idea. The familiar punishing rhythm of weights would clear his head and burn off the restless energy that had been plaguing him since last night. 

An hour later, he was showered and wandering into the living room of the fraternity house. Tyler was sprawled across the couch with a video game controller in his hand. Sawyer dropped onto the armchair. He didn’t speak immediately. He knew better than to jump straight to the thing he wanted. Instead, he leaned back and asked lightly, “You talk to Marcus yet?”

Tyler glanced up from his game. “About what?”

“Didn’t you say you were grabbing lunch with him after class?” Sawyer asked as if the memory had just surfaced.

Tyler nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

Sawyer shrugged as he kept his gaze on the racing cars on the screen. “Just wondering how practice went. They looked rough this morning, Harrison especially.”

"Whitaker didn't even make it through warmups," Tyler snorted. "Coach sent him home."

Sawyer’s pulse ticked up though he kept his expression loose. “Yeah?”

“Apparently he showed up and tried to push through it. The coach wasn’t having it.”

Relief rushed through Sawyer so quickly it almost made him dizzy. Good. He shouldn’t have been on that field in the first place. But the relief suddenly faded. If Harrison had been pulled before drills even started then he must have looked worse than he’d let on that morning.

“Damn,” Sawyer managed. “That’s rare.”

“Tell me about it,” Tyler said as he turned back to his game. “Anyway, you hear about that new party at the Delta house Friday? Supposed to be insane.”

Sawyer nodded but the words washed over him. His mind was already elsewhere. Harrison was alone in his apartment sick and miserable. He went back to his room and picked up his phone. The screen lit up, and there it was: Harrison’s profile, now officially a mutual follow. He hesitated. Sending a DM was different from a follow. It was a deliberate move. Before he could talk himself out of it, he opened the chat.

Heard Coach sent you packing. Figured you were either dying or finally learned how to relax.

He stared at the message. It was a little too Sawyer. He deleted it.

Tyler said you got sent home from practice. You okay?

Better. Still not quite right. Too direct, too…nice.

You still alive over there?

He hit send before his brain could process. It was a perfect blend of his usual sarcasm and genuine concern, a question that Harrison could answer with a simple “fuck off” if he wanted to and leaving room for a real answer if he didn’t. Sawyer tossed his phone onto his desk and paced his room as the minutes passed. He was about to go find a beer when the screen lit up.

Harrison Whitaker: Alive.

One word. So perfectly Harrison. Sawyer felt a grin spread across his face.

Tyler said your coach sent you home. That’s gotta bruise the ego. He let that sit for a second, then added: And how are you feeling since you’re apparently a liability now?

Harrison Whitaker: Like I shouldn’t have gone in the first place.

The admission was small and almost reluctant. There was something about the way Harrison phrased it that felt unguarded, like the truth had slipped out before he could fix it into something tougher. 

Do you need anything?

He almost added something sarcastic to make it sound casual but he didn’t. 

Harrison Whitaker: I’m good.

Sawyer huffed quietly at that.

You didn’t look good this morning, he typed back, and after a second added, What do you need?

There was a longer pause this time as the typing bubble appeared and disappeared like Harrison was editing himself in real time.

Harrison Whitaker: Just low on cold medicine. It’s fine.

Are you out completely? Sawyer typed.

Harrison Whitaker: Yes.

Sawyer leaned back against the headboard and ran a hand through his hair.

I can grab you some.

Harrison Whitaker: You don’t have to.

The response came fast enough that it almost felt automatic, like pride kicking in. Sawyer smiled faintly at the screen.

I know I don’t have to. I want to.

There was a longer silence after that and he imagined Harrison staring at the message, probably debating whether this was a line he was willing to cross. 

Harrison Whitaker: I’m not exactly great company right now. East Building. 4B.

An address. A door being left unlocked in more ways than one. 

I’ll be there in twenty, he sent.

As he shoved his wallet into his back pocket and headed for the door, he imagined Harrison reading that and shaking his head, probably muttering something about how unnecessary this was, about how Sawyer was dramatic or annoying or both. He could see him rolling his eyes. 

Good.

***

Sawyer didn’t realize how quiet the athlete housing complex was at night until he stepped out of his car and closed the door behind him. He stood for a moment with the pharmacy bag in his hand as he glanced up at the building where Harrison lived. The bag rustled when he adjusted his grip and it reminded him how odd the entire situation felt. 

Sawyer followed the numbers along the hallway doors until he found 4B. He knocked once and waited as he listened for movement on the other side. When the door opened, Harrison stood there looking even worse than Sawyer had imagined. Which was really saying something.

The first thing Sawyer noticed was the heat in his face. The light flush from earlier had deepened into fever, spreading across his cheekbones and nose. His blond hair was damp around the edges and fell messily across his forehead with curls sticking slightly where sweat had dried. His eyes looked weary as if he had spent most of the afternoon drifting in and out of sleep.

“Hey,” Sawyer said quietly.

“Hey,” Harrison answered. His voice was rough and congested. He stepped aside to let Sawyer in. 

The apartment itself was surprisingly nice. It wasn’t overly decorated, but it also didn’t have the sterile emptiness Sawyer had expected. The space looked lived in without being cluttered. A dark leather couch sat in the center of the living room facing a tv that currently displayed an ESPN replay. A coffee table held a tissue box surrounded by several crumpled tissues that had clearly missed the trash can. A bookshelf against the wall displayed a few football trophies next to some paperbacks and framed photographs.

Harrison glanced around the room as though seeing it through Sawyer’s eyes and gave a slight grimace. “Sorry about the mess.”

Sawyer followed the direction of his gaze before looking back at him with mild confusion. Apart from the tissues and the medicine bottle the apartment looked cleaner than most places he had seen on campus.

“What mess?” he asked.

Instead of answering, Harrison coughed and shuffled towards the couch. The cushions sank beneath him as he leaned back. Sawyer set the pharmacy bag on the kitchen counter and began pulling out its contents. Harrison was watching him with the unfocused attention of someone running a fever. Sawyer walked back to the couch and sat down at the edge, leaving a respectful space between them. For the first time since he had met Harrison, he felt oddly unsure what to say.

He opened his mouth to ask about practice, but the words died in his throat. Harrison’s expression had changed. His head tilted slightly back and his red swollen nostrils flared wide as if trying to suck in all the air in the room. His entire face was a mask of helpless anticipation.

The sound that tore out of him was just as explosive as ever. “HRAAAASSSHHHHH-HOOOO!”

Harrison’s hand shot out and fumbled blindly for the tissue box. He managed to grab a handful and bunch them together before tenting them over his face just as his body snapped forward again.

“heh-NGSHHHT! Huh-CHOOOOO! HAA-SSHOOO!”

They sounded loud, congested and miserable. His face was pale and slick with sweat and his expression was one of weary resignation. He was clearly exhausted; the sneezes had been brutal. Sawyer winced in sympathy. 

“Bless you,” he said quietly.

Harrison just shook his head, not even attempting to speak. He blew his nose with a wet, gurgling sound that seemed to go on forever. He tossed the crumpled tissue onto the growing pile on the coffee table.

“How are you feeling?” Sawyer asked eventually.

“Like I got run over by a truck,” Harrison rasped as his gaze stayed fixed on the TV where the highlights were playing. “And I hate mbissing practice.” His voice was heavy with frustration. “It’s ndot just - Hh…hh…hhRRRSHHH’OOO!” He sniffed as his reddened nostrils began to flare again. “It’s ndot just about the discipline,” he managed in a hoarse whisper. “It’s…it’s…” 

But the sentence was derailed again. A desperate, pathetic whine built in his chest as his breath hitched violently. 

“Hh…haaah…Hih-KSHHIEW! Hih'KSSHHHHHH! Hah-CHOOOOOO!”

“Dabmn it,” he muttered with irritation. “I cand even finish a sentence.” 

Sawyer watched Harrison blow his nose again. “What’s the big deal with missing? Everyone gets sick.”

Harrison was quiet for a long moment with his eyes still on the game. The fever seemed to have stripped away his defenses. “I don’t like not being in control,” he admitted quietly. “My body, my schedule..I don’t know, everything. When it’s not working right I feel useless.”

The tv continued in the background while Harrison gave a congested sniff and reached for another tissue. He pressed it briefly beneath his nose before dropping it onto the coffee table with the others. Sawyer didn’t answer right away. For once he didn’t have a quick joke or clever comeback waiting. 

His eyes drifted around the apartment instead until it landed on a framed photo sitting on the shelf. It showed a young chubby kid in a football uniform as a smiling man who was probably his dad held him triumphantly in the air. The kid was thick and round, nothing like the chiseled athlete sitting next to him.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Harrison said, noticing where he was looking. A flicker of a smile touched his lips. “I used to be kind of an out of shape, awkward kid.” He scrubbed at his nose with the back of his hand before continuing. “I mean really awkward. I was shy and had trouble making friends.” His voice held a dry note of amusement but it didn’t quite hide the old embarrassment underneath. “But my dad noticed I liked football and signed me up for camps. It helped me get in shape and finally make some friends. I fell in love with the sport.” His voice softened slightly. “It was the first thing that ever felt like mine.”

Sawyer studied the photo for a moment as the pieces clicked together in his mind. “I mean…yeah. That kind of explains a lot.”

Harrison looked over at him with a slight crease in his brow. Sawyer chose his words carefully, aware that he was stepping into territory that felt personal. “I think football gave you a way to figure yourself out,” Sawyer said. “Like some kind of structure or whatever. Once that started working, I’m guessing you just kept leaning into it harder and harder. Because why wouldn’t you, right?”

Harrison’s eyes narrowed faintly as he listened.

“And now,” Sawyer went on as he rubbed the back of his neck, “I’m guessing if you ever feel like you’re slipping on that stuff, you start thinking you’re gonna turn back into that kid. You being kind of psycho about discipline makes sense now.”

Harrison stared at him. For several seconds he said nothing. Then he dragged a hand across his face and let out a quiet breath that sounded almost like a laugh. “Well,” he admitted, “Damn. You’ve clocked me.” He didn’t sound defensive, just quietly resigned to the fact that Sawyer was right.

“I really did hate it,” he admitted after a moment. “I mean…at the time I didn’t have the words for it. I just knew I was the slow one, the kid nobody picked first for anything.” His eyes drifted toward the ceiling as if the story was easier to tell when he wasn’t looking directly at Sawyer. “Football changed that,” he continued quietly. “I started getting good at it. Not amazing right away, but good enough that coaches noticed, and once coaches start noticing you, other kids suddenly start paying attention too.”

Sawyer studied him for a moment. “So you found the thing that worked and never let it go.”

Harrison nodded. “I didn’t really see a reason to stop.”

Sawyer glanced once more at the photo on the shelf before looking back at him. “But…you know that kid’s gone, right?” Sawyer said.

Harrison didn’t answer.

Sawyer gestured vaguely toward him. “You’re 6’4, built like a tank, and half the campus worships you.”

Harrison snorted softly. “You’d be surprised how little that matters in your own head.” 

Sawyer leaned forward. “Dude, that’s the thing. It doesn’t matter in anyone’s head. Literally no one has it figured out. We’re all just walking around pretending we know what the hell we’re doing and hoping nobody calls our bluff.” 

Harrison didn’t respond to that. He just reached for another tissue slower this time, like he was buying himself a second to think.

“I’m serious,” Sawyer insisted. “You’re more than just your achievements. Your teammates like you and it’s not just because you’re good. I’ve seen you after a game. You’re the first one to point out who made a good play. You share the spotlight. A guy who was just in it for himself would be hogging the camera and not praising a freshman lineman. That’s not the awkward kid from the photo. That’s you.”

Sawyer’s tone softened as the teasing edge gave way to something sincere. “Look, it’s cool that you’re driven. But it’s also okay to fail. It’s okay to get sick and feel like crap for a few days. It doesn’t make the other parts of you go away. You’re not just football, man. You’re the guy who loves his dad enough to keep a dorky photo on his shelf. That stuff doesn’t just vanish because you miss practice.”

Sawyer nudged his foot lightly against Harrison’s leg.

“And for the record,” he added more casually, “Being sick doesn’t make you useless. It just makes people around you deaf.”

Harrison let out a rough congested laugh as he wiped at his nose.

“Shut up,” he muttered.

Sawyer grinned. “Make me.”

Harrison studied him for another moment before shaking his head slightly in quiet disbelief. “You know that’s a gift, right?” he said. “Being able to read people like this.”

Sawyer immediately felt uncomfortable under the praise. “Or maybe you’re just delirious from the fever,” he muttered.

“It’s not..” Harrison started, but was cut off by a desperate inhale. He gasped and hitched, pulling more tissues from the box with a strangled “Hh’NGKXT’tshh!”

It was an unsatisfying sneeze. He groaned in frustration. “God…” he breathed, his voice thick and congested. He tried again.“You really don’t-” He stopped talking and scrubbed furiously at his nose. The itch was clearly driving him insane. “Oh no…not agaid…” he moaned. He pressed the tissue to his twitching nose. “Hh…hih…HAAH-SHOOOO! HAAAAA-CHUUUU!”

The force of it rocked him forward and Sawyer winced. Harrison slumped back and gasped for air. “Sorry,” he rasped. He blew his nose and took a few shaky breaths and then opened his eyes as he found Sawyer’s again. “It’s not the fever,” he whispered hoarsely. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Sawyer gave a small shrug as he tried to act casual. “It’s not that impressive. You’re not exactly subtle.”

A small breathy laugh escaped Harrison. “That’s not what I meant.”

Sawyer rubbed the back of his neck and suddenly wished the conversation would wander back to something easier. Harrison drew in a breath like he was about to speak but it caught in his chest instead. He coughed into his fist once, then again, and then the whole thing turned into a rough fit that seemed to drag up from somewhere deep in his lungs. By the end of it his face was flushed across his cheekbones and his eyes were glassy with the effort.

Sawyer frowned and crossed the room without thinking. He pressed the back of his hand against Harrison’s forehead. The heat beneath his skin confirmed what he had suspected. “You’re still a little warm,” Sawyer murmured.

For a moment Harrison simply looked at him. A damp lock of blond hair had fallen across Harrison’s forehead again and was sticking lightly to his skin. Sawyer brushed it aside on impulse and his fingers lingered for a second too long. The sudden intimacy felt like a step too far and he started to pull away.

But Harrison’s fingers closed around his wrist before he could move away. The grip was a little clumsy but it was firm enough to stop him. Sawyer froze and his gaze dropped to the hand around his wrist before lifting back to his face. Up close, the sickness had worn down Harrison’s defenses, leaving behind an expression so raw and unguarded it was almost painful to witness. 

Something in Sawyer’s chest tightened and he stepped closer. His free hand lifted and settled against the side of Harrison’s face as his thumb brushed lightly along the warm line of his jaw. Harrison leaned into the touch. Sawyer could feel his own pulse beating in his throat. He had always been able to appreciate aesthetics; a good looking guy was a good looking guy, same as a nice car or a well made drink. It was something you observed and moved on from.

This didn’t feel like that.

This was the heat of Harrison’s skin against his palm and the scratch of his stubble brushing his thumb. A jolt shot straight down his spine. Oh shit. It wasn’t a feeling he could fully form yet and not something he could neatly put into words, but it was there all the same and pressing in from every direction. He’d felt pieces of this before, maybe. Moments he’d brushed or laughed off and never really stopped to examine.

This time he didn’t brush it off. All he could hear was the frantic pounding of his own heart and one crystal clear thought: I want to kiss him. So bad.

“Wait,” Harrison breathed. He turned his head to the side and averted his gaze. “You…you shouldn’t be so close.” He cleared his throat roughly. “I’b a mess.”

Sawyer could see it right there in Harrison’s eyes. He wanted to pull Sawyer closer but that stubborn sense of responsibility was already pushing back.

“I don’t care,” Sawyer said softly. “If I get sick, I get sick.”

Harrison glanced at him with wide searching eyes. He seemed to be looking for any sign of hesitation or hint that Sawyer was just being polite. But he found none. His fingers tightened on Sawyer’s wrist in a quiet, desperate pressure. That was all it took and Harrison leaned in. 

Harrison’s lips moved against Sawyers with a desperate hungry urgency. And then Sawyer met him with equal intensity, pouring all his own unspoken questions and tension into it. He wasn’t just kissing Harrison Whitaker, the star quarterback. He was kissing the vulnerable, stubborn, complicated guy he’d been secretly trying to figure out for weeks.

Harrison’s eyes fluttered open. They were dazed but the need was still there, mingled with something else…maybe relief. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at Sawyer and then tugged gently on his wrist and pulled him back down.

Sawyer let himself be pulled. The second kiss was slower than the first. Harrison’s hand slid from Sawyer’s wrist to the back of his neck, holding him there as if he might disappear if he let go. For a second Sawyer forgot about the apartment, the game on the tv or the fact that Harrison was sick. All he could focus on was the hand at the back of his neck and the way Harrison kept pulling him closer.

And then something shifted. It felt right. In a way that nothing had ever felt before. All his previous experiences felt like static. But this was real. The realization hit him like a physical blow. Oh fuck. This is what it feels like. The thought was immediately followed by a wave of pure panic. This is too much. He was in way over his head. He’d never kissed a guy before, and he’d definitely never kissed anyone he actually liked, not like this, not in a way that made him feel stripped bare and completely exposed.

Eventually Harrison’s grip loosened. When Sawyer pulled back this time, neither of them moved right away. Up close, Harrison’s pupils were still wide and his breathing was uneven. A flush had spread across his cheekbones that had nothing to do with his illness. 

Sawyer suddenly became very aware of how close they still were.He leaned back a few inches and his hand slipped away from Harrison’s jaw. The shift broke whatever fragile stillness had settled between them. Harrison blinked as if the movement snapped him back into the room.

“Uh-” Harrison started. Then he stopped and cleared his throat roughly. “Sorry,” he muttered hoarsely, though it wasn’t entirely clear what he was apologizing for.

Sawyer let out a short breath that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so tense. He straightened up from the couch suddenly restless, like his body had too much energy. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced toward the door before looking back at Harrison again.

“You should probably…actually get some sleep,” he stuttered.

Harrison pushed himself upright a little, blinking like he was trying to focus through the fog in his head. “Yeah. Probably.” 

Another small silence slipped between them. Sawyer cleared his throat. “I should go.”

Harrison nodded automatically, then hesitated like he might stand up too. Instead he just leaned forward slightly with his elbows on his knees.

“Right,” he coughed.

Sawyer grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and pulled it on quickly. When he reached the door he glanced back once more. “Get some rest,” Sawyer murmured. He then stepped into the hallway before either of them could say anything else. His pulse was still running faster than it should have been as he headed down the stairs. He told himself it was just the adrenaline. But the feeling followed him all the way home.

Wooowww would you look at that, I actually wrote a thing. This begins my attempt to actually get the things that pop into my head down onto “paper”. Might as well share them with you. I’ll do my best to match the style and tone of whatever fandom I’m tackling, but in the end…meh I dunno wtf I’m doing. …guess I need to now go look up how tf to make a master fic list and start tagging things. Anyway..for now, here ya go! Hope someone enjoys!

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Title: “Human, after all” Fandom: Fourth Wing Characters: Xaden (pronounced Zay-den) & Violet - Set during the second book, when Violet is trying to resist Xaden and her love for him while simultaneously being…you know hopelessly in love/lust with him. They’re visiting each other every week or so (he has already graduated and is stationed several hours away) The basics: Fourth Wing is set in a fantasy world where there are dragons as well as elite soldiers who learn to bond with, and ride and fight with dragons. Xaden and Violet’s dragons are a bonded pair, forever linking the 2 of them together. There’s also the fantasy element of telepathy in the books, meaning riders can mentally speak with their dragons, and because Xaden and Violet are bonded to a mated pair, they can speak telepathically too. I don’t really include any of that in this story…but just in case it comes up if I write more…now you know! The "violence" isn't a typo btw, it's his nickname for her. Oh and Violet has a condition that is never named outright but is clearly Ehlers Danlos Syndorome. This is just plotless fluff for the most part, cuz…it’s so hard to imagine Xaden’s character sick…so of course I couldn’t resist doing just that! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This time I was more alert, so I sensed his presence earlier, far down the hall before the door to my room was even in sight. So I was prepared when I swung open the wooden door to see Xaden lounging against the headboard of my bed, boots carefully propped on the chair instead of my clean sheets, and head resting against the wall behind him. Was he…taking a nap? His eyes flutter open, one corner of his mouth lifting in the barest hint of a smile, “About time.” His voice is slightly rough, as if he’d really just woken up. I’m too surprised to take the teasing bait, “Were you…sleeping?” “Just resting my eyes. Got bored waiting.” Okaaay, now I’m irritated. Crossing my arms with a huff, I say, “You know you could have just come to the gym to watch the challenges for some free entertainment if you had nothing better to do.” His gaze turns hard, “And watch some idiot try their level best to kill you while I have to sit on my hands and do NOTHING?” 

“I can handle myself.” He clears his throat roughly, “I know you can. Doesn’t mean I want to watch it. Which is why I stay away.” I pause for a moment to really look at him…shadows underneath his eyes, which look tired and slightly red rimmed, his posture less upright than normal, his voice still sounding sleep-roughened even after a few minutes of talking, “Are you all right? You look exhausted. When was the last time you slept, as in horizontally, for a full night, in a bed? Have you even eaten today after that ride?”

“Slow down, Violet” (--god I love the way he says my name, and the extra roughness makes it even-NO. I stop myself right there, mentally shaking myself and checking my mental shields) “I’m fine,” he says, “It’s just been a long day.” “Mmmhmm…I’ll take that as a no to my last question then-” I’m cut short with a hiss of pain as the step I take toward him starts my knee screaming. Before I even register the movement, he’s standing in front of me, one hand providing gentle support so I can take the pressure off the aching joint, “You’re in pain. Did you get hurt during your challenge?”

I laugh, short and dry, “I’m in pain after EVERY challenge. I’m fine.” 

He’s not amused. “Was anything else tweaked beside your knee?” I sigh, too tired to hide it, “I subluxated my left shoulder. It’s back where it should be now, but…well, I’ll feel it for a good few days.” He glances at my shoulder, looking angry…well, angrier than usual, and clears his throat again. He’s been doing that a lot. “Heat will help,” he says. “You need to take a hot shower, then we can get your knee wrapped and your arm stabil-” I cut him off, “And YOU need to eat. So here’s the deal. I’ll let you help me wrap my knee and stabilize my arm IF you go get some food first. Uh-uh - I know what you’re going to say, yes, I need to eat too. So, grab something for the both of us and bring it back here. I’ll take a quick shower while you're gone.”

He looks like he’s about to argue, but I glare at him until he nods, “Be back in 20.”

“Don’t forget to grab something sweet” I tell him, letting a small smile break through my fatigue. I can’t help it, I’m just so happy that he’s HERE. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Right on time, 25 minutes later, Xaden has already wrapped my knee (he refused to let me do it myself, “You’re down an arm, don’t be stubborn!”) and is now working on securing my shoulder. He’s tying the last strap on my sling when he breathes in suddenly, turning away from me with a faraway look in his eyes, I assume getting some important intel from Sgaeyl. I open my mouth to ask him what’s wrong, but he’s already turned back toward me, back to the strap. “Let’s eat,” he says. 

We settle down on the floor in my room, bowls of soup resting on pillows in our lap. The meat is tender and the broth is rich and…wow. I take a moment to breathe in and out, take a sip of ale. Did someone’s hand slip with the spices? Across from me, there’s a sudden movement as Xaden places the pillow, soup bowl balanced atop it, on the ground and twists away from me with a wrist raised to his face, “Heh-NGXT” a shaky breath before another follows, “NGXT-shhuh” 

Oh. That was…unexpected. Everything we’ve been through, all the time we’ve spent together, I’ve seen a lot of Xaden. His temper for sure, the tenderness he reserves for me, the fear in his eyes when I’m hurt, even his brief moments of openness in bed, but…well I’ve NEVER heard him sneeze before. It’s so…human. 

“Bless!” I exclaim, unable to hide the surprise in my voice, “are you-” He’s already turned around, “I’m fine, Violence. Just breathed in some of the steam.” He gives his head a tiny shake, returning his makeshift lapdesk to its spot on his lap. “I was going to say, It’s SPICY today!” I can’t help but let out a small laugh. Obviously I’m not the only one who noticed. We make it through the rest of the meal without incident, though Xaden is sniffling throughout. And why is such a tiny sound warming me this way? It’s just so rare to see him at any disadvantage, anything other than perfectly composed and - frankly, terrifying. The little damp, helpless sounds are just so unlike every part of him I’ve known until now. I wanted to offer him a handkerchief right after the sneezes, but I knew he’d brush me off. By the time we’re almost done with the meal though, my own nose is running and I need one myself. I take advantage of the moment, setting a second handkerchief in front of him without comment as I tend to my own nose with a small blow. He takes it, wiping his nose, and then surprises me by pocketing it. “I’m going to go shower,” and just like that, he slips out into the shadows of the hall again. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

I’m not sure how long I’ve been out when something stirs me. I only know that my sleep was deep and free of nightmares for once, which really only ever happens when Xaden sleeps beside me. But I feel a draft on my back and when I reach my hand over to the pillow beside me, it’s empty. I turn slowly beneath the covers, shifting my weight carefully and a little awkwardly due to my sling, and ah- there he is, sitting on the very edge of the bed, shirtless of course (and gods, will that ever become less distracting??) leaning forward with his elbows braced on his knees, and the borrowed handkerchief held tightly to his face. He bobs forward with a near silent stifled sneeze…and another, before letting out a slow and shaky sigh. I can’t quite see his face from this angle, but that sigh alone has me furrowing my brow in worry. Instinctively I try to reach out to him with my left hand, but am stopped short because…oh yeah, the sling. “Xaden?” I say instead, still half asleep. 

His back goes rigid, “damnit…go back to sleep, Violet, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

But I’m already sitting up so I can reach out to him with my good arm, “Come back to bed. You’ve got goosebumps-” I’m cut short as soon as I touch his shoulder because, despite the raised hairs on his arm, his skin is warm. Too warm. “You’re sick,” I say, realization dawning. How could I be so stupid? I should have noticed right away. But for some reason, it seems impossible for the great Xaden Riorson to be ill, ridiculous really. …why, though? He is human, after all. Something in my heart clenches, and there’s that warm-all-over feeling again. Talk about ridiculous. I can see the denial coming before it starts, see it in his body language as he pulls away, “I’m fi-” but I’m saved the effort of cutting him off when his own body does it for me, and he wrenches to the side with another, less contained stifle, “NGXXT!” I can see his expression now as he straightens, eyes squeezed shut and brow furrowed. “Bless you. Stop holding them in like that, you’re making your headache worse.” His eyes snap open, “How do you know-” I can’t help but roll my eyes, “I’ve spent my entire life masking pain, I can spot the little tells pretty easily.” I wrap a hand around his forearm, pulling him back a little closer while surreptitiously trying to get a feel for his temperature, “How long have you felt bad?” 

He sighs, shoulders dipping as he gives in, “I started feeling off on the flight over, but I assumed it was just the fatigue setting in. It’s been nonstop, between juggling the deliveries, my patrol duties, the attacks on the border…worrying about you.” I move closer to him, wrapping an arm around his bare waist. But he’s stiffening again, and when I look up, his expression is going hazy, though I note with slight amusement that it’s also heavily tinged with frustration. He gives his head a little shake, a small growl escaping him. I give him some space, pulling back slightly, rubbing a hand up and down his arm, “It’s okay…” He stands, taking a few steps away from me, handkerchief back in place. But this time, though he still turns away, he bends forward at the waist with a full-bodied, “Huu'RESHHuuuh!” And that…well…wow, the warmth coursing my bloodstream intensifies. It reminds me…well it reminds me of the rare moments I see him vulnerable and losing control during sex. So open and raw and unguarded. I shake my own head as Xaden straightens, muttering a string of colorful Tyrrish curses under his breath. I have GOT to get it together. “Bless! Hey- what are you doing?” He’s reaching for his shirt and tugging it over his head. Now he’s looking around gathering his pack and weapons. All the while he’s sniffling, and when he speaks I can hear the congestion taking hold, “I should never have combe to see you. I should have grabbed the ndext shipment, givend Tairnd and Sgaeyl whatever timbe they ndeeded, and headed straight back.” He’s pulling on pants now, and turning for his boots. But now I’m mad, “And avoided me altogether? Why? And what are you going to do now, make the 8 hour flight back with a heavier pack, feeling even worse? I know you have a fever, by the way. How will it help anyone, especially me, if you work yourself to death instead of taking this one chance to actually REST??” He pauses for a moment before sitting down to pull his boots on, “I’ll be finde. Brenndand cand mbend mbe whend I get there.” I let out a humorless laugh, “As if you’d actually ask him. And even if you would, what if he’s off on a mission when you get there, OR what if your fever spikes in the middle of the trip and you get delirious and lose your seat.” That stops him in his tracks. He levels me with his trademark glare, “Dond’t indsult mbe.” Some of the effect is lost however, when he sniffles and has to pull the handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his nose. This stubborn man. 

I take a deep breath, and meet his eyes, trying a different tactic, “Okay, okay. Just slow down, Xaden. Explain to me why you’re suddenly in such a hurry to fly through the night, sick and feverish. What’s going on in that head of yours that you’re not just telling me??” He breaks the eye contact and looks away. And, gods, he looks almost bashful. “You have endough to deal with Violet, endough danger, endough paind. I dond’t wandt to mbake everythi’g worse by getti’g you sick. Gods, I’ve already exposed you to whatever this is, and I ndever get sick, so I hate to thingk how hard it mbight hit you.” He’s pacing now, boots on his feet but still untied, laces trailing behind him as he walks little circles around my small room, eyes brighter than usual and face ever so slightly flushed. Ok…so feverish Xaden gets a little frantic, noted. Gods, why is that so cute?? I stand, intercepting him and reaching out with my one available hand to stop his pacing. I wait for him to look into my eyes, “Xaden Riorson, I do not care if you get me sick. I’d catch a plague every single time if it meant I just got to spend 24 hours with you.” 

“But-” 

“But nothing. If I get sick, I get sick. Maybe you can return the favor and tuck me into bed next week but for now, tonight-” I stop as he twists away, taking a couple of steps and, “H’rrESHHooo!” he starts to turn back toward me, but is forced to backtrack, “H’rrSCHuuh!” He stays there for a moment, handkerchief raised, tense and expectant, before his shoulders fall. He lets out a tiny groan that twists my heart, “This is ridiculous.” “You’re right,” I let sarcasm drip from my words, “You trying to fly through the freezing night when you can barely go 30 seconds without sneezing your head off…IS ridiculous.” I give him a gentle nudge toward the bed and he acquiesces, backing up until the backs of his knees hit the mattress, and plopping down. He sniffles, the sound hopelessly clogged and wet, face still hidden behind the kerchief. “Now, blow your nose, I feel stuffy just looking at you. Then take off your boots and clothes and get. back. into. bed. Decision made, argument over, I don’t want to hear it.” I hear him mutter something about me being “bossy” as I turn toward my dresser, removing several more clean handkerchiefs from the bottom drawer. My back is still turned when he finally blows his nose, the productive, crackling sound earning him a wince of sympathy. 

Last year I rebloged this post and guess what? I’m falling in love again (I’m so fucked) and it’s a guy who stifles his sneezes.

Istg I must attract these men because there’s no way. Every single time dude. Fuck me. Like I’m not complaining but fuck.

Also a little ob, this weekend I went to his place and we went to his room so naturally I started snooping (in front of him lol), and there was like this huge bag filled with meds and guess what? It had a ton of allergy meds inside. I made a comment about it like “wth you have a a lot of meds you’re like worse than me” (I’m a serious hypochondriac lol) and he was like “I like being prepared”.

He’s sneezed a handful of times in front of me and stifled every time 😩. One time while I was laying on HIS CHEST. Like I could feel every part of him move.

And the thing is, I can’t even figure out why he does it. Like the man is practically a golden retriever (I seem to attract those too) and I’ve never seen him embarrassed or anything. He actually seems to enjoy getting attention? Why does he stifle every time then?

YEAH SO