#rexar fang

The motel had all the charm of a forgotten ashtray. One flickering lamp. A window that didn’t open. Air conditioner growling like it wanted to die.

Rexar sat in the desk chair, long legs kicked up, idly exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke that smelled faintly of burnt maple. The scent was warm, grounding—something human in a room that wasn’t.

Across the room, Vaelyn Hawthorne was already losing a fight with the air.

He sat cross-legged on the bed, surrounded by a battlefield of tissues, dark green hair sticking up like he’d been electrocuted. “Oi,” he muttered thickly, glaring at the ceiling vent. “That thing’s spewin’ bloody sand, I swear—”

His voice hitched mid-complaint. “Hang on—gonna sneeze—!”

“Eishh! Ishh! Ish! ’shh! …hehhHH!—EEIISSHHuhh!”

The last one nearly folded him in half.

Rex didn’t even flinch. “Good lord, man. Sounded like a choir falling down a flight of stairs.”

“Shut up,” Vee croaked, scrubbing at his nose. “S’dot fuddy.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“Been told.”

He barely got two seconds of peace before his nostrils flared again. Another round loaded.

“Ah, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me—Eishh! Ishh! Ish! ’shh! …hehhHH!—EEIISSHHuhh!”

By the time the fit died, his chest was heaving and his eyes were glassy. Rexar leaned over, tossed him a fresh tissue box, and grinned. “You done tryin’ to exorcise the dust demons or you goin’ for round three?”

Vee sniffled. “Shut it, bate. I’b allergic to your fuckin’ existedce.”

“Yeah? Then how come you’re still breathin’?”

“Tragic oversight.”

Rex laughed—low, rasping, real. The sound filled the room, steady as a heartbeat. “You’ve been like this since you were six,” he said. “Remember that summer in Aleda? You sneezed so hard you fell off the dock.”

“I was pushed,” Vee argued.

“You sneezed and flung yourself sideways.”

“Semantics.”

Rex shook his head, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re lucky you can sing, man. Any other job, you’d be fired for this kind of noise pollution.”

Vee blew his nose with a honk that could have woken the dead. “Bugger off. At least I don’t sou’d like I gargle gravel every borning.”

“Better than sounding like a dying accordion,” Rex shot back.

Vee laughed, nose twitching again, but he tried to fight it this time—hand fluttering in front of his face like a one-man semaphore. “Nah, nah, nah—hh’Eisshhuhhh! hh’tsschhhuhhh! hhEhh’EhhESSHHhhuhh!”

“Yeah,” Rex said dryly. “That’ll teach the dust.”

He got up, grabbed one of the crappy motel washcloths, and dropped it on Vee’s chest. “Ice bucket’s still half full. Cool your face before you melt.”

Vee pressed it against his forehead with a groan. “You’d bake a terrible durse.”

“I’d make a terrible lotta things.” Rex leaned on the bedpost, arms crossed. “Lucky for you, babysittin’ your sorry ass is part of the job description.”

“You don’t get paid.”

“Exactly.”

They fell quiet for a bit, the hum of the air conditioner filling the space between words.

Rex watched him, something like nostalgia flickering behind his grin. “You know, you always did this,” he said after a while. “Try to act invincible till your body tells you otherwise.”

Vee squinted at him. “You sou’d like by fuckin’ codsciedce.”

“Nah,” Rex said softly. “Your conscience sounds smarter.”

Vee snorted—and sneezed immediately after. “Ish! Ish! Hh’ish! Shh! hh’TSSHHhhuhhh!”

Rex laughed again, shaking his head. “Still an idiot.”

“Still your idiot.”

“Unfortunately.”

The words weren’t tender. They were familiar—the kind born from years of scraped knees, bad gigs, and nearly getting each other killed more than once.

Vee smiled faintly, rubbing at his nose. “Aye, I’m not ibbortal,” he said, voice rough but wry. “Just irritatingly resilient.”

He gave a wet sniff, eyes glinting with that strange mix of pride and loneliness only Vee could pull off. “Still here. Still breathin’. Mostly sdeehhh—hh’Eisshhuhhh!—sdeezin’, apparently.”

Rexar huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re a damn tragedy in stereo.”

Vee smirked, already half-asleep. “If I die frob this, tell the tabloids I wedt out brave.”

“Yeah,” Rex said, voice low and amused. “Brave, dumb, and full of antihistamines.”

“Perfect,” Vee mumbled, and that was the last thing he managed before the room went quiet again.

He drifted off not long after that, face half-buried in the pillow, muttering something about bad air quality.

Rex stayed where he was, smoke curling around him, the lamplight catching on the edges of Vee’s tattoos. He took one last drag, exhaled slow, and shook his head.

“Dumb bastard,” he said, fond as sin. “The world never deserved you anyway.”

Rexar Fang grinned anyway, undeterred as ever. He leaned against the doorframe with all the languid grace of a man who’d never once been made to wait for anything. He was barefoot, shirtless, a towel slung over his shoulder, glistening from a late-morning rinse. His silver hair was still damp, red bangs dripping down his forehead and catching in his lashes. A coffee mug was cradled in one calloused palm—black, with “FANG 4EVER” etched in fading white letters that Kriia had mockingly gifted him last Solstice.

The steam from the mug drifted up, briefly catching in the lazy spirals of smoke that always curled from his nose. She never should’ve found it relaxing. But she did. Worse still, she missed it when he wasn’t around.

“You look like you haven’t moved in three days,” he said, sauntering in without waiting for permission. “Babe, be honest with me—are you trying to physically become paperwork?”

“Shut up.”

“You know, it’s a tragedy that no one’s discovered the dark and sultry beauty of accounting-core. You could really revolutionize—”

She threw a pen at him.

He caught it between two fingers without spilling his coffee and winked at her over the rim of the mug. “Feisty. Love that. Keep going.”

Kriia slumped further into her chair, dragging her fingers down her face, frustration smudged in streaks of dried pen ink along her skin. “I can’t just walk away from all this, Rex. We’re two weeks behind on invoices, the security systems need recalibrating before nightfall, and someone”—she shot him a sharp look—“fried two of the sprinkler circuits because he ‘felt a sneeze coming on’ and didn’t step back.”

“That’s… barely accurate. It was one circuit. Maybe one and a half.”

She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. Her deep purple eyes did all the scathing.

Rexar approached slowly, setting the coffee down beside her with exaggerated care before crouching to her level. “Listen, gloom queen,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You need a break. You're getting snappier than Remi during tax season.”

“I am not—”

He poked her cheek with one finger.

She batted it away. “Rexar—”

“C’mon.” His voice lowered, crooning. “I already arranged it. My family’s estate up near Blueflame Ridge—you know, the one with the natural hot springs and that terrifying koi pond with the aggressive fish you love?”

Kriia blinked. “Wait—the Ridge property? That’s like three hours away.”

“Not if you take the tunnel.”

Her eyebrow twitched. “You want me to crawl through ancient stone rat-tunnels to go take a spa day?”

“No, no.” He held up both hands. “I had the place cleaned. Fresh sheets. Lavender oil. I even set out one of those ugly bathrobes you like, the one that makes you look like a death cult leader’s sugar baby.”

Her lips twitched. Almost.

He leaned in further, nose brushing hers. “You deserve one day off. I’ll handle things around here. I promise.”

“You’ll burn the place down,” she said flatly, narrowing her eyes like a cat watching a candle.

“Not even a little,” Rexar said, voice smooth as caramel left too long on a warm stove. “I’ve got everything under control.”

Her eyebrow crept up. “You? Control?”

“Mmhm.” He sipped from his mug—way too casually. “I’ve got a whole itinerary. A very responsible, safe, extremely boring day lined up.”

She blinked. “You made an itinerary.”

“Of course I did,” he said, nodding solemnly, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils like the universe punctuating his lie. “Didn’t even use crayons.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Come on, have a little faith.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek, warm and brief. “I’m just gonna handle a few things around the estate. Nothing explosive. Nothing illegal. Nothing that starts with ‘You know what would be a great idea—’”

Her gaze narrowed. “Wait.”

“Yes, my love?”

“What exactly are you planning to do while I’m gone?”

He froze just a second too long. “I mean... estate stuff.”

“Estate stuff?”

“Y’know. The usual. Papers. Books. Maybe finally deal with that one cupboard that keeps muttering racial slurs in the pantry.”

She gave him a long, flat look. “Rexar.”

He smiled back, too innocent, too symmetrical.

“I swear,” she said slowly, “if I come back and find you waist-deep in gutters or crawling around the chimney again—”

He grabbed the sides of her chair, lifted it an inch off the ground as he leaned in close, voice lowered with fond exasperation. “Kriia. Kriia. My feral, suspicious, gorgeous little menace. Do I look like a man who would voluntarily do hard labor while his girlfriend is luxuriating in a magikal hot spring?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, fair. But this time? No chores. No rooftop heroics. Just me, my papers, some snacks, and maybe a few light musical interludes.”

He stood, lifting her chair with him slightly as he cupped her chin. “Do you trust me?”

“Not at all.”

He laughed, full-bodied and warm. “Perfect. That’s the spirit.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering longer than usual. “Go get naked in the woods for a few hours. I’ll be fine.”

She squinted at him. “...You swear you’ll call if something goes wrong?”

“I’ll call if something goes right.”

“That’s worse.”

He beamed. “I know.”

She sighed, bone-deep, but the exhaustion in her shoulders had already started to unknot. She leaned forward, pressing her face against his bare stomach just briefly—just enough for him to rest a hand in her hair.

“I’m still going to check in.”

“I expect nothing less.”

“Don’t you dare sneeze inside the house.”

“No promises.”

She squinted at him, deadpan.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, the tip of her nose, then her lips. “Now go. Before I’m forced to carry you to the tunnel like a dramatic husband in a soap opera.”

She huffed but allowed herself to smile.

Still, as she stepped through the front door a few minutes later, her eyes lingered on him just a moment too long. And Rexar, left alone in the hallway with only the fading scent of her shampoo and the rapidly cooling coffee, finally let his grin drop.

He turned on his heel, reached into the inside pocket of his cardigan, and pulled out a list.

A very familiar list. Covered in Kriia’s handwriting. Her secret list of nightmare chores.

He unrolled it slowly, eyeing it like a knight about to challenge a dragon.

“Let’s do this.”

The instance the door closed behind her and the last glimmer of morning light vanished from the hall, Rexar Fang let out a long, theatrical exhale.

“Finally,” he muttered, tossing his hair back with all the gravity of a stage actor delivering the death monologue of a tragic hero. The rich, smoky scent trailing from his nostrils caught on the cold stone, curling like ribbon down the corridor. “She’s gone.”

He reached into the hidden inner pocket of his cardigan—dark wool, warm, with faint singe marks on the hem—and retrieved the list. The list. Kriia’s long-forgotten, drunkenly-scrawled List of Utter Shit She Refuses to Do.

He unfolded it with a reverence typically reserved for cursed grimoires or concert setlists. A haphazard scrawl of black ink and ash-charred fingerprints covered the page. In the corner was a little doodle of a crying mushroom wearing boots. Rexar smiled fondly.

He remembered the night perfectly—Kriia, half-drunk and fully irate, slouched sideways in the kitchen wearing a stolen Fang family robe two sizes too big, shouting at no one in particular about how “you can’t clean magik with magik sometimes, okay?! Sometimes a girl’s just gotta crawl into the guts of the house and scrub ancient grime off the ass of a rune stone by hand.”

She’d punctuated the sentence by scribbling furiously onto the paper with her pen, naming every disgusting, cursed, labor-intensive job on the estate she had mentally blocked for six months.

He’d kept the scroll like a love letter. Because of course he had.

Now, alone in the silence of the estate’s main hall, Rexar rolled his shoulders, and squared his stance.

“Alright,” he said, to the ghosts and portraits and ominous ceiling. “Operation: Domestic God is a go.”

Chore 1: Under the Deck – The Drain of Doom

Within fifteen minutes, Rexar was shirtless, kneeling in the wet mulch beneath the north-facing deck, elbow-deep in a drain pipe that smelled like swamp rot and ancient regret. The estate’s plumbing was only semi-sentient, which meant it wouldn’t bite, but it might spit if you startled it.

Something squelched ominously beneath his palm.

He hissed, recoiling. “Nope. No. I don’t get paid enough—well, okay, I do, technically, but still—ugh.”

He reached back in. Pulled. A massive wad of half-decomposed leaves, twigs, and a very angry clump of what looked like lichen slurped free with a disgusting schlrk.

“Glamorous,” he muttered. “So glamorous. This is how rockstars die.”

Chore 2: The Stairway to Hell

Next came vacuuming the stairs—an objectively simple task that still managed to feel like penance. It wasn’t hard, exactly. It just sucked. Literally and metaphorically. The vacuum was old, bulky, and had a cord shorter than his patience. Every single stair meant bending, dragging, switching outlets, wrestling with the hose like it was trying to escape him.

Kriia hated this chore. Hated it so much she’d once dramatically declared it “a soul-eroding spiral of despair,” and Rexar was beginning to understand why.

Chore 3: Power-Washing the South Wall (a.k.a Dodge-the-Runeball)

By late morning, Rexar had lugged the estate’s ancient arcane-powered water pressure system to the south-facing stone wall. This part of the estate was built in the Pre-Blood Accord era and was riddled with protective sigils that sometimes malfunctioned when wet.

Halfway through the job, one fired a spark that singed the edge of his pants.

“Okay!” he shouted upward. “Whichever great-great-grandfang enchanted this shit, your layering runes are sloppy!”

A rune fired again. He barely ducked in time.

“Sloppy and bitter!”

The stone glistened under the midday sun, beads of water steaming on the surface, casting rainbow refractions that danced across his back. His skin was flushed, smudged with soot and dried mud, smoke rising a little thicker from his nose now as the heat from his own body began to build.

It was just as he reached the top of the second story—balancing one foot on the rain gutter and the other on a gargoyle shaped like a disgruntled badger—that his phone buzzed.

The screen lit up, vibrating against the strap of his tool belt.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—shit!”

He scrambled to wedge the hose back into the reel on the wall and ducked out of view, brushing his face frantically with the only clean-ish towel he had—unfortunately still covered in leaf gunk from the drain.

He opened his phone, answering the call.

Kriia’s Face: Glorious, Glowing, and Pissed

Kriia appeared on-screen, lounging in the natural hot springs like a fucking goddess. Her skin was dewy, flushed from the heat, crimson hair wet and slicked back, glowing like molten metal under the golden sun. She sipped delicately from a glass of fruit-infused water, condensation sliding down the sides like something out of an advertorial for luxury witch vacations.

Rexar felt something in his brain short-circuit. Then he smiled lazily, head tilted just so.

“Well, hello.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you sound out of breath?”

“Hmm?” He adjusted the angle so that all she could see was an innocuous grey stone wall behind him. “Oh, just... sorting papers. You know. Big boring archive day.”

The phone trembled slightly as it balanced on the overturned paint bucket he was using as a stand.

“You don’t sort paperwork.”

“I do today.”

Kriia took another slow sip. “Why is your hair wet?”

“Um. Shower. Self-care. You are always telling me to hydrate.”

She peered closer. “Is that soot on your collarbone?”

He leaned out of frame just long enough to rub at it.

“Noooope. Charcoal mask. Very detoxifying.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—mercifully—Kriia let it go. She sighed, leaned back into the hot spring, and closed her eyes for just a second.

Rexar stared, unable to help the tiny smile that tugged at his lips.

“You’re enjoying yourself?” he asked, softer.

Her mouth quirked. “...Yes. For now.”

“Good.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “You deserve it, you know.”

She looked at him. Just for a second. And that was enough.

Then the screen blurred out again.

He exhaled, slumped against the wall, and let his head thunk back against the hot stone.

“Three down,” he mumbled, dragging a hand down his sweat-streaked face. “Twelve to go.”

The sky had turned a glassy shade of blue, no longer morning-soft but blazing directly overhead, cooking the slate tiles of the estate’s roof into something approximating a stovetop. Rexar braced himself on a crossbeam, halfway up the western tower, a coil of gutter-hooks slung around one shoulder, the other hand jammed into a leather sack full of citrus-scented de-liming tablets that Kriia had insisted were “more eco-friendly.”

He’d abandoned his shirt an hour ago. Now he was slick with sweat, streaked with soot from the wall washing and something that smelled suspiciously like squirrel piss. His hair curled wildly around his face, damp and silver-white and clinging to his temples. His nose twitched.

The air was thick with pine needles and the unmistakable reek of old bird droppings. The gutters hadn’t been cleaned in years, judging by the black sludge clinging to the inside edges like wet compost made of regret. At some point, a whole squirrel family had moved in, padding out their nest with shredded snack wrappers, dryer lint, and—somehow—a sock.

Rexar crouched low on the sloped roof tiles, squinting into the muck. “Alright, guys. You’ve got ten seconds to clear out before I start scooping this crap out by hand.”

There was a chorus of chittering from the downspout. One particularly fat squirrel poked its head over the edge, chewed slowly on a zip tie, and stared at him with unblinking judgment.

“Okay, rude,” Rexar muttered.

He dug into his hoodie pocket and pulled out one of Kriia’s weird snack baggies—half a protein bar and a single, lonely almond. He held it up like an offering. The squirrels paused.

Ten seconds later, he was kneeling beside an abandoned nest, flicking bottle caps into a trash bag. “Bribery,” he sighed. “Gets results.”

He dug in with both hands, scraping away pine muck that crunched like wet leather. The smell hit him first. Mold. Old rain. Dust baked into death by too many summers. And then—something worse. Something ancient and floral, like cursed gardenias left too long in the sun.

He sniffed once.

Then again, sharper.

His breath hitched.

“Oh no—”

He tried to twist, duck his head into his shoulder, but it was too late.

“hhih’tchhxSSHHuh!! hah’ESSHH’IUE!! hh'ieXSHHH!”

A short, sharp spray of sparks shot from his nose, singeing the shingles where he crouched. They fizzled harmlessly against his skin—thank the ancestors for pyromancer physiology—but a few danced dangerously close to the dry pine thatch along the edge of the gutter.

He cringed. “Shit.”

The phone buzzed in his pocket.

Rexar fumbled it out with sap-streaked fingers, balancing one foot on a support beam, the other half-sliding on a slick of runoff slime.

He opened the call.

Kriia Appeared—Regal, Relaxed, Ruthless

She was lying on a deck chair beside the springs now, wrapped in a towel. A thick, green clay mask coated her face, two cucumber slices perched perfectly over her eyes. Somewhere in the background, windchimes jingled, and what sounded like a waterfall burbled soothingly.

“Why do I hear wind?” she asked immediately, flat and suspicious.

“You don’t,” Rexar said, breathless.

He was half-hanging off the gutter, one leg swinging into open air. Behind him, a loose tile clattered off the roof and tumbled into the shrubs with a soft plunk.

She sat up slightly, one cucumber tilting off. “Are you outside?”

“Nope.”

A moment passed.

Then his breath caught again. And again. Shit. Shit.

He twisted away from the camera just in time.

“huhh—gkTSHHkxh! hh’tSSHHHuhhh! ...hhuhh’CHSSHHHhht!”

Three in a row, tight and half-stifled against his arm, each one flaring with small but potent sparks. The third scorched the side of a tile, leaving a black crescent burn and the faint scent of maple smoke.

Kriia didn’t speak.

When he looked back at the screen, her eyebrow was raised.

“...Did you sneeze?”

Rexar cleared his throat. “Must’ve been the wind.”

“You sneezed fire.”

“Wind, babe. Spicy wind.”

The call ended before she could answer—because his grip slipped entirely and he dropped, landing ass-first in a haystack two stories below.

“Ow.”

Chimney: Dusty Hell Dimension

The chimney had always been Kriia’s least favorite architectural feature. Ornate as hell, etched with serpent carvings and crowned with a brass smoke-fan that whistled ominously when the temperature dropped below freezing. The inside, however, was a soot-streaked nightmare.

Rexar climbed in halfway, dragging a bristle wand behind him. Within three minutes, he was coughing black dust from his lungs, hair and chest smeared with soot, and vaguely wondering if one of the stones was trying to bite him.

“Why,” he muttered, voice hoarse, “did I think this would be fun?”

He was halfway through re-anchoring a rock in the wall when his phone buzzed again.

“No, no—fuck—gimme one sec—”

He scrambled out of the fireplace alcove, coughing up soot as he ducked behind the nearest curtain—an overly dramatic velvet number in the drawing room that smelled faintly of dust and old perfume. Wiping his face with the back of his wrist, he took a moment to catch his breath and assess the damage: hair wild, cheeks streaked with ash, one sock missing.

With a muttered curse, he smoothed his hair back, tugged his shirt straight, and slapped a bit of water from the nearby plant onto his face. It helped. Kind of. At least he no longer looked like he’d just wrestled a chimney.

The video call came through. He took one last breath, forced on a half-decent smile, and answered.

Kriia. Again. This Time: Steam Goddess Mode

She was in the middle of a steamy stone chamber, towel wrapped snug around her chest, a matching wrap around her head. Steam coiled around her like silk. Her cheeks were flushed. Droplets clung to her collarbones.

Rexar froze.

And short-circuited.

And maybe forgot language for a second.

Her lip curled just slightly. “You look... different.”

“I—uh. Yeah. Just moved into the study. Paperwork sorting. You know.” He was clearly behind a curtain.

She tilted her head. “You’re not... hiding anything from me, are you?”

“No, no.” He cleared his throat. “Not at all.”

Then his nose twitched again. And again.

His shoulders jerked thrice. “huh’tCHhh—! HIIH’NKXSHH! H’KngxsstSH!” He caught them into his hand with an explosive spark and immediately muted the call.

Kriia watched the image flicker.

Unmuted.

Her smirk had grown.

“Bless you.”

“Wasn’t a sneeze,” he said, far too quickly.

“Uh-huh.”

“Dusty archive. Dry air. Airborne mites.”

“Sure, Rex.”

“You look incredible, by the way.”

“Flattery won’t save you if you’re lying to me.”

He grinned, a little breathless. “Wanna bet?”

She sighed, adjusting the towel around her chest. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

“Mmhm.”

She let it go. For now.

The called winked out again.

Rexar sagged back into the wall tapestry, now utterly blackened with soot from his skin. He was drenched in sweat, bruised from the haystack fall, and still had chimney soot in his teeth.

He coughed, and sparks fizzled between his lips.

"Three more chores," he groaned. "Then... the greenhouse."

He had no idea that that was where it would all fall apart.

By midafternoon, the sun burned overhead like a curse, high and unyielding, baking the estate’s fields into golden glass and casting sharp shadows across the wild perimeter of the west gardens. The air shimmered with heat. Distant insects buzzed like badly tuned violins.

And Rexar Fang, shirtless and defiant, stood at the threshold of the greenhouse like he was about to fight a God.

His shoulders glistened with sweat. Not shimmered. Glistened. Rivulets of salt-slick moisture ran down the sharp ridges of his spine, collecting at the dip of his back and beading along the fine trail of silver hair that arrowed from his navel to the waistband of his half-unbuttoned work pants. His hands were filthy. His cheek was streaked with ash. A cut just above his left brow had dried, smudged over from when the damn squirrel bit him.

Still, he grinned.

The heavy glass doors hissed open. Humid, sweetly pungent air blasted him in the face. Floral. Dense. Clinging. The greenhouse was a living beast in summer—overgrown, feral, dripping from every fern and vine like it was breathing on its own.

“Home stretch,” he muttered. “Last one. You’ve got this.”

He stepped inside.

Sunlight pierced the glass roof in tight, hot beams, illuminating floating pollen like a haze of gold-dust fireflies. Something chirped once, deep in the belly of a tropical planter.

Rexar flexed his fingers, tying his shirt around his head like a ragged bandana, shoving his bangs back. His torso gleamed, the smattering of red freckles across his shoulders catching the light like warpaint. Smoke curled lazily from his nostrils as the ambient heat pushed his body into a low burn.

He waded into the foliage.

The grime on the walls was years old—built-up spatter from failed potions, plant vomit, storm silt. He licked a knuckle, pressed his palm to the glass, and began scrubbing.

“Bet she'd get flustered seeing me like this,” he muttered under his breath, amused. “Mmmh... all wet and covered in algae... sweaty arms, panting, shirtless... yeah, she’d want me real bad.”

He chuckled. A smug, nasal thing. He was mid-wipe, elbow-deep in moss when he shifted slightly, bumped a shelf behind him—

—and knocked a small, golden-stemmed plant off balance.

The bloom trembled.

A soft fwump sounded.

The plant exploded.

A full cloud of fine, shimmering pollen burst into the air like someone had popped a glitter grenade right in his face.

Rexar froze.

“...Uh oh.”

His breath hitched immediately.

Not just from the stench—a sweet, overwhelming scent like sugar-dusted clove—but from the instant assault on his sinuses.

He blinked. Twice.

“Don’t you dare—”

“hh’ihhh’tSCHUHHhh! Ehh’TCHSSHHhuuhh!! HuhHh'EGNT’TCHHhhUHHhh!!”

Three. Full force. Sparks exploded from his nose in brilliant arcs, fire flaring in all directions before dying out midair. A nearby orchid went up in smoke before he could stomp it out.

“FUCK!”

He staggered back, eyes watering, nose crimson. “Damn it—no, no, no—fuck, hold it together—”

His phone buzzed.

He growled low in his throat and yanked it open, trying desperately to brush pollen off his face and out of his hair.

Kriia: Suspicious, Radiant, Impossibly Calm

She was seated in a shade cabana now, face freshly scrubbed, her hair damp and curling softly at her jaw. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice was pure frost.

“Where are you?”

Rexar froze for a heartbeat.

Then smiled.

Poorly.

“Me? Nowhere suspicious. Just—uh—not the greenhouse.”

Her brow lifted. “Really.”

“Yup.” He coughed into his elbow. The sound crackled. His nose twitched violently.

“Because it sort of looks like you’re—”

He turned, caught the next sneeze in the crook of his arm.

“hehh’TCHZuhh!! hh’GnXxtCHuh!! n’GCHZZhh!”

Sparks scattered across the glass wall behind him. One of the vines recoiled in alarm.

Kriia’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Rex—”

“Oh no,” he said quickly, tapping the screen. “Bad signal. Some kind of interference? The reception’s... choppy—!”

He cut the call.

The greenhouse was boiling. His sinuses burned, nose glowing red, eyes constantly tearing as more spores floated down from the shattered Sniffle bloom. Every breath was war.

But Rexar Fang did not quit.

“Fuckin’... shadow goblin... goddess of guilt... I’m not stopping now,” he rasped, crouching again to wipe more algae from the window.

His shirt-headband sagged over one eye. He was panting, shirtless and gleaming like some fallen sun deity crawling through jungle hell.

Pollen clung to his curls, smeared along his jawline. His mouth parted with every breath, shaky and uneven.

“huhHuhh—TSCHHHuhh!! hh’GxCHuhh!! Hehh’tSCHH’zzUhh!!”

Three more. Each one worse. Each one setting off sparks that fizzled against his bare chest, the sweat sizzling on impact.

“Steady,” he croaked, clutching the scrub cloth. “Focus. Come on, Fang. You’re hotter than this.”

He pressed a forearm to his upper lip and forced himself upright again.

Another wall down.

Another corner cleared.

The spores thickened in the air.

His body trembled now, feverish from the effort of keeping the flames stifled. His muscles ached. His nose dripped.

And still—he scrubbed.

Another explosion of itch rolled through him and he slammed a shoulder into the wall, bracing himself.

“hehh—hhhehhh-TSCHSHHUUHH!! Nnn’GNT’CHSHUUhh!! hh’HET’TSCHZZHH!”

He let the last one out against the floor, a tongue of fire licking out onto the damp moss tiles, leaving a black scorch mark that hissed before dying.

He stood for a moment, heaving.

Then wiped his nose on the back of his hand and slumped to his knees in the corner of the greenhouse.

Every inch of him itched.

He was flushed, ragged, eyes glassy, sweat running in furious streaks down his spine, and he could still hear Kriia’s voice in his head—soft, warning, fondly exasperated.

She was going to kill him.

He laughed weakly.

Then sneezed again.

“hehh’tSCHHHuhhh!! hhuh’TSCHZZHuhhh!! HhHhh’GCHHssHH!!”

Three more.

Pollen burst up from the floor in retaliation.

The greenhouse stood behind him like a vanquished titan—humid, shimmering, its doors now propped open to let the pollen fog breathe out into the sweltering yard. Rexar trudged across the grass, shirtless, half-drenched, and coated in streaks of wet soot, old grime, and unmistakable golden flecks of pollen dust that still clung to every wild strand of his silver-red hair.

His shirt, or what remained of it, was tied loosely around his forehead like a defeated flag, damp with sweat and warped from the heat. The pollen had seeped into everything—his nose, his throat, the lines of his jaw where perspiration carved glowing trails through the gold dust.

He stopped just before the veranda, dragged his forearm across his face, and leaned on one of the carved banisters.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket.

He stared at it, debated throwing it into the koi pond.

Instead, he pulled it out, thumbed screen, and lifted it to eye level.

Kriia: Cool, Controlled, Clocking Everything

She was reclined again—this time beneath a shady awning of hanging wisteria. Her hair was up, cheeks flushed, wrapped in a deep purple towel that complimented the sheen of her freshly-oiled shoulders. A drink glimmered in her hand, half-melted ice swirling gently.

But it was her eyes that stopped him cold.

Because this time, she didn’t speak right away.

She just stared.

Rexar, by contrast, looked like he’d lost a bar fight with a botanical god.

He sniffled sharply. The sound wasn’t cute. It was wet, raw, and completely incriminating.

Kriia tilted her head.

“Hi,” he rasped. “You look gorgeous.”

“You look like you got into a fistfight with an anthill….”

He grinned, crooked and congested. “Greenhouse humidity. Great for the pores.”

“You sound like a dying frog.”

“Sexy frog, though. Right?”

“You’re glistening.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but his breath faltered. Eyes squeezed shut, chest rising—

“hhuhH’TCHSHHuhh!! hh’tCHHHzzh!! Hehh’TCHHHUUuhh!”

Three again. No escaping it.

He caught them into the crook of his arm, shoulders trembling, then gave a soft, audible whimper.

Kriia’s expression didn’t move, but her lips parted just slightly.

He sniffed again, frustrated, and muttered something under his breath before grabbing the sweat-soaked shirt still tied around his head. He yanked it off with one hand and lifted it to his face, pressing hard as he blew his nose into the ruined fabric. The sound was obscene—wet, full, dragging—and left him wincing.

He dropped the shirt out of frame like a bomb.

Kriia’s eye twitched. Just a flicker.

“You good?” she asked tightly.

“Never better,” he croaked.

“Really.”

Rexar sagged down onto the steps leading into the estate, still visible in frame, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. He sniffled again—shorter this time. “I did your list.”

Pause.

“What?”

“Your list.” He looked up, smiling like it hurt. “The Horrific Horrors of Household Hell. Been working through it all day.”

“...Rexar.”

“Even the squirrel nest.”

“I told you not to—”

“You never really told me not to. You just said you’d die before doing it yourself. So, really, I figured I was performing an act of love.”

She stared at him, stunned. Then her face softened for half a heartbeat. But only that.

“Rexar,” she said again, slowly, “why are you sneezing so much?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Something in the greenhouse definitely didn’t like me.”

Kriia’s eyes narrowed. “Was it yellow and fluffy? Sitting near the orchid shelf?”

He blinked. “Maybe—hh’ECHHhhzzH!! et’CHXIEW!! Fuck!—maybe! Why? Hehh— heT’CHXOO!!”

Her lips twitched. “That’s my Sniffle Thistle. It bloomed last week.”

Silence.

He stared at her.

“You were gonna use it on me?”

“Eventually.”

Another beat.

Then he laughed. A short, broken thing, hoarse and almost giddy. “You were gonna use a weaponized pollen bomb on me on purpose?”

She smiled faintly. “Not today.”

“You maniac.”

“You like it.”

He wheezed another laugh, bending slightly, curls sagging over his eyes as he tried not to combust. “I fucking do, that’s the worst part.”

“You’re going inside,” she said firmly.

“I’m already inside the yard.”

“Shower. Now.”

“Fine, fine.” He stood, groaned as his back cracked, then turned the phone slightly so she could see the trailing smoke from his tear ducts. “But just for the record—if the whole place goes up, it’s your Sniffle Thistle’s fault.”

“You shouldn’t have knocked it over.”

“You shouldn’t have left me alone with it!”

“Shower,” she repeated, though there was a distinct fondness rising in her tone. “And then sit your fiery helpless ass down. I’m coming home.”

“I am not helpless,” he mumbled.

“No,” she said. “You’re Superman. And you just got your ass kicked by a flower.”

“...Yeah. Fair.”

The front door creaked open with all the melodrama of a haunted house—mostly thanks to the shitty old hinges that no one had oiled in years. A gust of cool evening air swept into the overly warm house, cutting through the lingering heat like a breath of fresh sarcasm.

Kriia stepped over the threshold, barefoot and glowing from the inside out. Her hair was freshly brushed, loose and soft against her shoulders, the wisteria scent of her post-spa oils clinging to her like shadowed perfume. She wore her comfiest oversized hoodie—his hoodie, technically, one that still smelled faintly of smoke and sweat and old cologne—and a pair of tiny, black shorts that peeked out only when she moved fast enough.

She did not announce herself. She didn’t have to.

Rexar's scent was everywhere—smoke and sugar, singed pine and something warm, familiar. It led her down the hall like a trail of invisible breadcrumbs. She followed it past the scorched curtain in the drawing room, and into the great room—

Where she found him.

Sprawled sideways across the velvet chaise like a goddamn fever dream.

He was bundled in a maroon robe that had slipped open at the thigh, one arm flopped dramatically off the side like a swooning duchess, hair still damp and curling, faint trails of steam lifting off his skin. His nose was red—cartoon red—and he clutched a crumpled towel in one hand like it had wronged him personally. The fireplace behind him crackled gently, casting flickers of gold over the length of his long, stretched-out body.

And he was sneezing.

“hhuh’TCHhhuhh!! hhuh’gSCHhhzz! Hhhuhh-hh’TSCHHUHH!”

Each fit rocked him slightly. His whole torso jerked, then slumped again as he groaned into the towel.

“Oh my gods,” Kriia breathed, a hand flying to her mouth, “you look like a tragic romantic painting.”

Rexar squinted one bleary eye open. “Welcome home,” he rasped. “The plants won.”

Kriia walked in, soft-footed and slow, crouching at his side. “Did you shower?”

“Yes.”

“Did you moisturize?”

He squinted harder. “I... rinsed.”

“Did you at least wipe the soot off your back?”

“Define ‘wipe.’”

She reached up and ran her fingers gently down the slope of his spine, and sure enough, a faint smear of black came away on her hand.

He smirked. “See? Souvenir.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Adorable.” He sniffled, loudly, and lifted the towel to his face again. “huhh... hhuhHh... hh’TCHHHuh! hhHH’KtCHZZhuhhh! h’HhhTSCHHuhhh!! ughhhhh...”

Kriia’s lips twitched. “That’s six in the last five minutes.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

She dragged the sleeve of her hoodie across his forehead, brushing his curls back as she smiled. “Only when you’re this pathetic.”

“I’m very pathetic right now.”

“Mmhm.”

He leaned into her hand. She cupped his cheek, letting her thumb brush the edge of his red nose. He whimpered.

“You're flushed,” she said softly.

“I always flush when you touch me.”

She laughed. “Shut up.”

He closed his eyes again, nuzzling into her palm, but his breath hitched mid-snuggle.

She watched, delighted, as his whole face crumpled.

“hhuhhh—hh’KTSHHHzz!! Hhuh’kGHHTZhh!! NhhTSCHHuhhh!!”

“Nine,” she said sweetly.

He groaned. “It hurts to exist.”

“That’s what happens when you go twelve rounds with a Sniffle Thistle.”

He coughed once, then sniffed again. “You really were gonna use that thing on me?”

She smirked. “Only if you misbehaved.”

“Babe. I always misbehave.”

“Exactly.”

He tugged her closer by the sleeve, pulling her half onto the chaise with him. She let him, settling against his chest, careful not to smother him—too much.

“You’re gonna get pollen all over me,” she warned.

“I am pollen at this point.”

“Gross.”

“Sexy.”

“Grooooss.”

He nuzzled her neck. She squeaked when his nose brushed her skin—still warm, still wet.

“Rexar,” she warned. “Do not sneeze on me.”

“I would never.” He sniffled thickly. “huhhuhhh—hhuhhh’TSCHHhhuhhh!!”

Right beside her shoulder. A small spark singed the air.

“Rexar!”

“Sorry!” He grabbed the towel, face red, eyes fluttering. “They sneak up on me, I swear!—hhuhh-hhhuhh’TCHHHzzh! hhEHh’tKSSCHHhhuh!!”

She melted a little every time he did it. She hated how much she did.

“You’re the worst,” she murmured, kissing the tip of his flaming nose.

“You’re in love with me,” he croaked.

“I’m infested with you.”

He smiled, dazed, snotty, completely smitten. “Still wanna marry me?”

“Ask again when you’re not leaking.”

“Romance is dead.”

She curled up against him anyway, dragging the blanket over both of them, planting a kiss in the damp space under his jaw where his skin tasted like smoke and salt.

And Rexar, still sneezing intermittently, still too warm and too soft, exhaled with the sort of contentment that only comes from a job horrifically well done and a girlfriend who would probably kill him for it later—but snuggle him first.

“Hey babygirl?” he whispered, half-asleep.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not doin’ that fuckin’ list again.”

“Mm.”

“…Unless you ask real nice.”

“Shut up.”

And he did. Eventually. Right after one last set of sneezes.

“huhh’TSCHHUhh!! hhuhHh’kTSCHzzh!! hhuhh’CHHSHhhuhh!!”

She kissed the crown of his head.

“Good boy.”

A few hours later, Rexar woke up tangled in too many blankets, one leg shoved halfway off the side of the couch, his robe bunched at his hips and his hair stuck to the side of his face like wet kelp. The fire had long since dimmed to a low, soft glow. His nose, however, was still bright red and twitching like a live wire.

He barely had time to register the moonlight trickling through the heavy drapes before—

“hhuh’TSCHHHuhh!! Hh’Huhh’TCHZZhh!! HhHh—CHHhhuhhh!!”

Three, ragged, each one yanking his abs tight and dragging a sleepy moan from his throat.

From the doorway, Kriia leaned against the frame, arms crossed, eyes dark.

She was in one of his t-shirts again. Just his t-shirt. It slouched off one shoulder and clung to the soft curve of her thighs. Her legs were bare, skin still sun-kissed from the spa, and her purple eyes were fixed squarely on him like he was both a masterpiece and a walking fire hazard.

He sniffled.

Her fingers twitched against her arm.

“You look like you’ve been mauled by a flower.”

He grinned, bleary but sharp. “Still handsome, though?”

She tilted her head. “Somehow.”

Rexar pulled himself upright with a groan, scrubbing at his hair, stretching his arms until his back cracked audibly. He sneezed into his elbow again—sharp, stifled, the sparks barely escaping the velvet of his robe.

She watched, silent.

“You’re staring,” he rasped.

“No I’m not.”

“You’re trying not to enjoy it.”

She scoffed, but her thighs pressed together just slightly.

“Am I... snuffing out your denial?” he teased, rising to his feet and padding barefoot across the hardwood toward her.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Kriia?” he purred, voice like smoke slipping through keyholes. “Don’t come closer?” Another sneeze overtook him, twisting his face just before he made it to her.

“hhuh’TCHHHHuhhh!! Huh’gCHHZhhuh!! hh’TSCHCHhhuhh!!”

His nose brushed her shoulder mid-fit, heat blooming on her skin.

She shuddered.

“I hate you,” she murmured, lips twitching.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You’re soaked.”

She smacked his chest. “I am not—”

He slipped his hand between her thighs.

“Oh,” he said, reverent. “You are.”

Kriia froze. Just a second. Long enough for the truth to settle under her skin like heat from a slow-building fever.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he asked innocently, even as his fingers flexed slightly, pressing the heat of his palm tighter between her legs. His thumb stroked—just once, feather-light through the cotton of her underwear—and her hips twitched.

“Rexar—”

“You’ve been staring at me all night,” he murmured, crowding in close again. His breath was hot against her cheek, still carrying the edge of congestion, the ghost of a fire just behind his voice. “Pretending it wasn’t driving you crazy… the sneezing, the mess, the way I’ve been barely holding it together while still getting your entire list done—”

“You were not—”

“et’tCHOO!! hah’ESSHH’IUE! huh’TSCHHHuhhh!!”

He sneezed mid-sentence, stifled low into her shoulder as his hand ground up between her thighs. The sound made her gasp, sparks pricking faintly along her skin.

She shoved him.

He didn’t move.

Instead, he kissed her neck—slow, open-mouthed, his breath catching against her collarbone. Another hitch. Another trembling breath. He groaned.

“I’m still itchy,” he whispered, congested and low, as if she didn’t know. “My nose is gonna run all over you if you don’t stop me.”

She bared her teeth. “You say that like I’m supposed to flinch.”

He chuckled hoarsely and pulled her in tighter, hand now slipping beneath her waistband. Her breath hitched this time, a sound sharp and traitorous.

“You’re dripping,” he groaned, kissing the corner of her mouth. “So sensitive. What, the sneeze-kink kicking in now? Or just me being a sweaty, pollen-covered disaster?”

“I hate you.”

“Liar.”

Then he picked her up.

Not a bridal sweep. Not a reckless grab.

Just both hands at the backs of her thighs, lifting her up with that quiet, reverent strength he never showed unless he was about to do something utterly filthy in the softest way possible. Her legs wrapped around his waist automatically, one arm gripping the back of his neck, the other twisting in the collar of his robe.

He carried her.

Through the hallway, slow and focused, one kiss at a time up the length of her throat. Sneezed again into her shoulder mid-stride, breath stifled, one-handed as his other arm held her tight.

“hhuh’tCHHHzzuh!—ngh, fuck—sorry.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“I really, really am not.. Hihhh— Hihh’EXTSH’ue! hH’EiSCH’iiew!!”

He bumped the bedroom door open with his shoulder and set her down in the middle of their ridiculous velvet-covered bed. The sheets were half-askew from earlier. The pillow with her initials stitched in silver thread still carried the faint print of her cheek from the morning.

He took a moment to look at her. To drink her in.

Then he peeled her shirt up and off with both hands, dragging the fabric slow over her arms, her chest, her head, until she sat bare in the amber glow, flushed and goosepimpled and already breathless.

She lay back slowly, her thighs falling open, her hair a halo of red against the pillows, and stared at him with half-lidded eyes.

He let the robe fall off his shoulders.

Then knelt between her legs.

He had her spread across the bed, thighs parted, every inch of her flushed and glistening in the amber light. The window was cracked just enough for the wind to breeze through, teasing her nipples to stiff peaks, stirring the scent of flowers and smoke from his skin.

Rexar knelt between her legs, panting, trembling slightly with each building sneeze he fought back. His nose was twitching, breath hitching again—

He nuzzled against her inner thigh. “Fuck, babe… ‘m gonna… hhuh’GXTCHHHuhh!! Huhh… hh’GCHHzzuhh!! Huh’TCHHHHHuhhh!!”

Three more. Each one fired into the sheets, chest jerking, sparks dying against the damp heat of her skin. She whimpered, fingers curling in the sheets.

“Gods, Rex—”

“You like that?” he murmured against her slick heat, nose dragging along her folds. “Like how itchy I am for you? How fuckin’ full my nose is from that damn thistle you left blooming for me?”

Her hips bucked.

He grinned, and sneezed again—right into her, catching it low into her inner thigh, sparks sizzling against the dampness there. She choked on a cry.

“Breathe through it,” he whispered, voice ruined and hoarse and so goddamn loving. “Let me wreck you.”

She tried. She really tried.

But he had his mouth on her then, tongue sliding up through her folds with unbearable slowness. Every kiss was shaky with congestion, with suppressed breath, and every few seconds he paused—

“hhuh’GCHHHuhhh!! hh’TSCHCHuhhh!! Hehh’kGTCHZzuhhh!!”

—and her whole body lit up when the sparks ghosted over her slick, trembling skin. She bit her knuckles, trying to hold it in.

“Stop pretending you don’t love this,” he murmured, mouth wet with her. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, babygirl, and you’re twitching every time I sneeze—”

She let out a sobbing laugh. “I’m gonna kill you.”

“No,” he said, licking again, voice gone breathless and raw, “you’re gonna cum for me.”

She did.
Hard.
Her whole body curled, thighs squeezing around his head as he sneezed again, stifled into her core this time, sparks flickering like a climax of their own.

She gasped, choked, tried to push him back, but he stayed there—tongue still languid, still lapping at every aftershock like he hadn’t just been dragged under by her tremble. One hand anchored on her thigh, the other smoothing soothing circles into her hipbone.

“Babe—fuck—Rex—too much—”

He growled, hoarse and sweet and utterly devoted. “No such thing.”

His nose rubbed up along the swollen, oversensitive skin again and her entire body jerked.

“huh’TCHHHuhhh!! hhuh’NGCHZZhhuhh!! hhuhHh’kTSCHzzh!”

Another set. He barely lifted his face in time. The wet heat of each stifled sneeze splashed between her thighs, glowing sparks fizzing harmlessly in the slickness still coating her skin. She whimpered and twitched.

“Still sensitive?” he murmured, nuzzling her hip, sniffling shamelessly. “You’re shaking.”

She tried to glare at him. “And you’re still fully clothed.”

“Easily fixed,” he croaked.

He kissed up her belly, slow and reverent, dragging his stubble across every line of tension. Then up—sternum, throat, mouth. She pulled him in with both hands, kissing him filthy, still tasting herself on his tongue. His nose rubbed against her cheek, still twitching.

He rolled his hips forward against her thigh. She felt the heat, the pulse, the twitch behind the cotton. He was burning up. Sniffling. Twitchy. Holding back.

Not for long.

“Inside,” she growled. “Now.”

He didn’t argue.

He reached down, shoved his underwear low with a shaky hand, and groaned as he pressed the tip against her entrance. Her walls were still fluttering, still soaking. She could feel the thickness of him, the gentle quiver of his muscles as he lined himself up, the hitch in his breath—

He buried his face in her neck and sneezed hard, one hand braced beside her head, the other gripping her thigh with reverent desperation. Sparks danced across her shoulder, and then—he pushed in.

Slow.

Thick.

Stretching her open with maddening control.

He was inside her now, slow and deep, his hips grinding in that maddening rhythm she could never fully prepare for. His chest hovered over hers, hot and damp and flexing every time he sneezed—

“hhuh’TCHHHuhhh!! hhhh’nkCHZZhhuh!! hhuh’ETSCHHHHhhuhhh!!”

—right above her, into her neck, his voice cracked and reverent as he buried his face there.

“I’m trying not to burn the sheets,” he gasped, every thrust making her tremble.

“You won’t,” she panted, fingers tangled in his hair.

“I will,” he moaned, nuzzling her collarbone, voice so sweet it shattered her. “You’re too fuckin’ pretty. It’s distracting.”

She clenched around him at that.

He groaned so deep it shook her.

“You feel that?” he murmured, sniffling as he rocked into her again. “That heat? That’s me, Princess. That’s all me.”

Her hips rose to meet him.

“I can’t—” she gasped, “Rex—Rexar—”

He leaned in, forehead pressed to hers, nose flaring again.

“hhuh’TSCHHhhuhhh!! hhhH’TCHSSHHuhhh!! Hehh… Hhuh’tCHZZhhhuhh!!”

He barely caught them in time, twisting just enough to stifle the burning edge into the pillow beside her, fire crackling harmlessly across her shoulder in faint, dying sparks. She felt every jolt of it—his breath shaking, muscles clenching, body flushed and twitching over hers like he was coming apart at the seams.

And then—he kissed her.

Desperate. Open-mouthed. Hot and trembling. A kiss like he was trying to breathe her in, like her mouth was the only steady thing he had left to hold onto. His nose brushed hers, still twitching faintly, his chest rising in that shaky, rhythm-breaking way she was starting to recognize.

She barely got the breath to whimper before he thrust into her again—long, hard, a full-body push that made her cry out, hips jerking, fingers fisting in the sheets as her whole body fluttered around him. He gasped her name into her neck, his voice wrecked and thick and reverent. She felt him surge, the ragged rhythm falling apart as he spilled inside her with one final, guttural exhale—

“hhuh’GCHHHuhhh!! H’eSTCH’iu!— Hh—! Hahh—! HaH’tTSCHhiew!!”

The next few seconds blurred—slick heat, tangled limbs, and his chest trembling with aftershocks. And then—

He was still inside her.

Still moving.

Still falling apart in the most controlled way imaginable.

Slow and deep now, maddeningly so, his hips rolling with that familiar rhythm that always wrecked her, grinding down in lazy, claiming strokes that made her head tip back against the pillow. His chest hovered just over hers, broad and sweat-damp, flexing with every breath, every hitch—every time he failed to fully smother the itch clawing through him.

The sneezes tore from him helplessly, each one jerking through his body, forcing his hips deeper every time he lost control. She moaned under him, soft and broken, each sound pulled out of her with every sudden thrust, with every trembling exhale he tried to bury in her skin.

Her hands roamed over his back, nails skimming over the ridges of sweat-slicked muscle, over the faint shiver that ran down his spine as he tried—gods, he tried—to keep it together. But it was slipping. She could feel it in every ragged breath, every shaky grind of his hips, every desperate mutter of her name between fits.

And she loved it.

He was trying to hold it together for her, as always. But his breath kept hitching, his rhythm faltering with every wet, pollen-torn inhale.

Still, he moved. Deep. Steady. Worshipful.

Their bodies met in slow, rhythmic rolls, the slick heat between her thighs welcoming every inch of him, drawing him deeper with each stroke. The friction was perfect. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist, heels digging into his back as he pressed flush against her, their bellies slick and sliding together with each grind of his hips.

“Fuck, Kriia,” he rasped, his voice frayed and needy. “You feel—hhuh’tCHSSHHuh!—so fucking good.”

She moaned beneath him, dragged her hands through his curls, brushed the damp fringe from his forehead. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t gonna,” he groaned. His thrusts grew harder for a moment, his control briefly buckling under the weight of her voice. “Not ‘til you fall apart again.”

She clenched around him at that, and he felt it—gasped into her throat and bucked, nearly losing it right then. His body was fire and velvet and trembling devotion, every movement driven by how she sounded, how she felt, how her nails raked down his spine and how her breath hitched every time his nose brushed her cheek.

“hhuh’TCHHHuhhh!!”
Right into her neck again.
Sparks danced over her collarbone.
She gasped, hips jerking up to meet him.

“Rex—!”

“I know, I know,” he panted, nose twitching again, red and swollen and running. “Just hold onto me. Wanna make you—fuck—hhuh’GKCHHzzuhh!—wanna make you come so hard you forget your name.”

Her eyes fluttered. Her body was already shivering, already close.

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can. For me, baby. One more.”

His hand slid between them, thumb pressing against her clit, stroking in tight circles as he kept fucking her through his own wheezing, sneezing fits, sparks flying in tiny bursts every time he lost control of a breath. The overstimulation made her twitch violently—pleasure gathering in that sharp, slow-coiling place inside her, the one he always found like he had a map written in her skin.

She was whimpering now, soft and breathy and utterly undone, mouth open in helpless little cries as he kept murmuring, kept thrusting, kept praising.

“So good for me… fuck, you’re perfect… hhuh’TSCHHHuhh!—gonna make me come if you keep squeezing like that—”

She cried out as it hit her.

Her back arched. Her legs locked. She shook beneath him, every nerve ending lit and drenched, voice cracking as the orgasm tore through her. He caught her with both arms, held her down as her body bucked against his, thrusting deeper into her with every pulse of her climax, every flutter of those tight inner muscles drawing him in like they knew he belonged there.

He didn’t last a second longer.

His rhythm stuttered once, then broke completely as he groaned her name and spilled into her in hot, endless pulses. His whole body trembled, chest pressed to hers, sweat dripping from his nose as he buried his face into her neck again.

He sneezed one more triple—“hhuhh’TCHhhzzh! hehh—! Hihh’EXTSH’ue! HIIH’NKXSHH!”—as he collapsed gently over her, mouth still panting against her shoulder, body twitching with aftershocks.

They stayed like that for a long time.

Not speaking. Not moving. Just breathing.

Her fingers combed slowly through his hair, brushing sweat-damp curls from his temple, dragging down his spine in lazy strokes. His arms cradled her close like she was something precious, something fragile even though she’d just taken him apart with nothing but her thighs and a breathy curse.

Rexar sniffled.

She kissed his forehead.

“Still with me?” she whispered.

“Mmm…” He half-laughed, half-moaned. “Just barely. My soul is in the Sniffle Thistle now.”

She snorted. “Dramatic.”

He nuzzled into her breast, voice muffled. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

He smirked against her skin. “I love you.”

She froze for a moment—just a breath—and then tucked his face tighter against her chest.

“…I love you too, dumbass.”

He exhaled. Content.

Then sneezed again. Soft. Muffled against her skin.

“et’tCHOO!! hah’ESSHH’IUE! huh’TSCHHHuhhh!”

She ran a hand through his hair again. “Bless you.”

His reply was a barely-audible: “For you babygirl… always.”

She smirked and crawled up over him, straddling his hips without letting their skin meet. Her thighs bracketed him perfectly, heat radiating downward but still not touching—not yet. She sat back on her heels, hands resting on her own knees as if she were preparing to meditate. Her eyes never left his.

“Ready?” she asked carefully.

He nodded. “Do it.”

She leaned sideways and took the candle from the table, reaching for the matchbook next to it.

But Rexar lifted one hand lazily, sparks flickering from his fingers.

The wick ignited with a crackle.

The flame flared—too tall, too sudden—and then softened into a steady burn. Clove and cedar erupted into the room with intoxicating fullness now, hot and smoky, clinging instantly to skin and throat.

Kriia inhaled once and blinked slowly.

Then sniffled.

Just once. Subtle.

But her eyes gleamed.

“You really want to start like this?” she murmured, cocking her head as the first tickle bloomed gently behind her nose.

Rexar’s lips curled, his eyes following every motion she made like he was watching a spell take shape. “I want to see what it does to you.”

“Mmm.” She rolled her hips forward just enough to make him twitch. “You’re a glutton for chaos.”

“I’m a glutton for you.”

Her breath fluttered. Not quite from arousal. Not yet. From that slow itch curling inside her sinuses like a candle of its own.

She sniffled again, knuckle brushing beneath her nose, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Oh,” she whispered. “That’s a strong one.”

“It’s the new blend,” Rexar replied, voice still calm but body already taut. “Cedar. Clove. A little powdered starglass.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He grinned.

“I’m your asshole.”

“You’re about to be covered in sneeze spray.”

“Promise?”

That earned him a low chuckle.

Kriia rocked forward slightly, letting her thighs press against his hips. Still no contact at the core—but close. Enough to make him inhale sharply.

She placed her palms on his chest, fingers splaying across the ridges of muscle, skin warm beneath her hands. Then—slowly—she leaned down.

Her breath grazed his sternum.

Her lips followed.

One kiss. Just below the collarbone.

Then a second, near his shoulder.

Then a third, just above the pulse at his throat.

Each one wet, lingering, reverent. Not rushed. Ritual.

Rexar’s eyes fluttered shut.

“This is your fault,” she murmured against his skin.

“I accept responsibility,” he whispered back.

Kriia dragged her nose lightly along the edge of his collarbone, sniffled, then paused.

“Starting to tickle…”

“Yeah?”

Another kiss. This time under the curve of his jaw.

Her breath hitched—just slightly at first—then again, deeper, shakier. Her lips parted around a silent gasp, and her nostrils flared with a telltale twitch. She hovered close, letting her breath ghost over his chest, warm and uneven, sharp with the promise of release that never came.

Rexar's entire body tensed beneath her.

The anticipation was unbearable—watching her hover, her face scrunched in struggle, lashes fluttering, the tip of her nose brushing faintly across his skin. Each sniffle sent a jolt through him. His fists clenched in the sheets as his eyes tracked every microexpression.

Then, without warning, her expression smoothed out. The sneeze backed off.

She gave a teasing little sigh of false relief.

And instead of pulling away—she dragged her tongue slowly up the center of his chest. A long, wet, sinuous line from the base of his sternum to just beneath his throat. Her nose nuzzled faintly alongside it, breath still trembly, her smirk growing with every inch.

Rexar groaned, hips bucking beneath her.

Kriia sat back on her heels with maddening slowness, breath shallow, nose twitching again—like she could start the cycle all over.

“You’re going to lose your mind,” she whispered.

He already was.

“Gods,” Rexar breathed, already fully hard and twitching beneath her.

“You’re twitchy,” she teased.

“You’re divine.”

“Mmm. Not yet. Soon.”

The candle sputtered briefly, throwing light across her face—glassy eyes, flared nostrils, flushed cheeks. Her lips glistened.

Rexar’s voice dropped, a whisper between awe and hunger. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me tonight.”

Kriia sniffled again, thicker now, breath fluttering.

She grinned.

“Oh, Sparky. I haven’t even started.”

Kriia moved like smoke—slow, fluid, curling downward without force or rush. She kissed along Rexar’s collarbone with a deliberate patience that made the air between them thrum. Her lips were soft but never tentative. She wasn’t here to seduce him.

She was here to worship.

Rexar breathed in sharp through his nose as she found the hollow just beneath his throat and nipped there, the soft press of her teeth drawing a twitch from his thigh.

Kriia smiled against his skin. Her breath was already heavier. More effortful. Not from arousal—not entirely.

The candle was working.

The scent had grown thicker, heavier, humid with clove and cedar and the sweet, acrid burn of resin. It coated her tongue, filled her lungs, and curled with slow heat in the back of her sinuses. Her nose twitched again, just enough to crinkle.

Rexar noticed.

“Already?” he murmured.

“Mmhmm.” Her voice was velvet-slick, thick with promise. “Didn’t take much, did it?”

He shook his head slightly, barely breathing.

Kriia sniffled—wet, subtle, involuntary—and then dipped down again, lips dragging just to the left of his sternum. She paused there, letting her breath ghost across his skin. Rexar arched faintly, his fingers twitching by his sides, still obeying the no-touch rule she hadn’t had to say aloud.

Another kiss. Then a long, slow lick that traced from the underside of his pec to the dip between his ribs. Her tongue left a hot trail, and her breath—already catching—made it worse.

Kriia’s nose flared subtly, and she pressed her cheek to his chest for a moment, eyes fluttering. “Hhehh… Rex…”

His eyes flew open. “Babygirl?”

“I thh— think I’m gonna—” She drew in a sharp breath, mouth parting, nose twitching with desperate little flutters—then exhaled.

“...Nope.”

The tickle backed off.

Rexar groaned, hips lifting impatiently. Needy.

Kriia laughed, her voice raspy and breathy as she kissed along the underside of his ribs.

“Poor thing,” she whispered. “Thought I was gonna shower you already?”

“I hoped,” he admitted, eyes wild. “Gods, you’re so fucking mean.”

She flicked her tongue against the edge of a muscle and let out a congested chuckle. “And you’re so easy.”

Another sniffle. This one wetter. She didn’t wipe it. Let it hang in the air between them like a shared secret.

She moved slowly down his body, deliberately skipping over his nipples. Her lips hovered just above them, warm breath teasing their sensitivity—but she didn’t touch. Not yet. She licked down the space between them instead, letting her chin graze faintly over each peak like a hint of contact without release.

Rexar was shaking now, a fine tremble from tension.

“Fuck, babygirl… Please,” he whispered.

But Kriia just sniffled again, rubbing the back of her wrist lazily under her nose as she moved back up along his sternum. Her face was pink now, eyes half-lidded and glassy, and her breaths came with that fluttering edge of desperation.

She tilted her head to the side and nipped him again, right beneath the collarbone.

Then moaned, soft and broken. “Mmmnnh… I’m gonna fall apart on you, Sparky…”

Rexar’s breath hitched.

“Right over your chest,” she added, voice trembling with the coming storm. “So messy. So helpless…”

He groaned, body arching helplessly beneath her.

She kissed lower again. One long drag of her lips just under his nipple.

His hips jerked.

“Your nipples are so fucking cute,” Kriia murmured, voice hoarse and sin-sweet. “All pink and tight and waiting…”

“Princess—” His tone was warning, half-begging, hips twitching as he braced for something—anything—but it didn’t come.

“But not yet,” she said, all honeyed malice.

Her lips trailed lower. She kissed beneath his ribcage, slow and soft. A reverent line of licks followed, each one damp and dragging. She nipped beside his navel—sharp, just enough to make him flinch.

Rexar’s hands balled into fists in the sheets, his jaw clenched. His cock jerked helplessly against his stomach, flushed dark, pulsing against skin that hadn’t even been touched yet. He was already gasping, ruined by her restraint.

Kriia’s breath hitched again.

This time, for real.

Her whole body locked for half a second, her nostrils twitching visibly.

“Rex—Rex, I think I’m gonna…! Hhhehhh…”

He braced beneath her, muscles seizing.

“Here we go,” he whispered, anticipation curling tight in his gut.

“Huhhh… hahhh… n-no…”

Her breath collapsed in on itself.

The tickle retreated yet again—cruel, smirking.

Kriia sniffled hard, loud and thick, blinking watery eyes down at him.

“Tease,” Rexar growled, voice shredded. His thighs were trembling now from holding still. “You’re such a—gods—tease.”

“You lit the candle,” she reminded him, lips quirking into a congested grin. “You asked for this.”

“I asked to be drenched,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Not edged like this—fuck…”

She moved back up his chest slowly, dragging her cheek across his skin with open affection, breath stuttering the entire way. He could feel it—her heat, her congestion, the helpless flutter of her breath rising and falling over his body.

“I’m so itchy,” she whispered, shivering with the rising tickle. “It’s building again… it’s right there. Right at the edge…”

She hovered above his nipple and pressed her mouth over it—not sucking, not licking. Just a soft seal of heat. Her breath quivered against his skin, and the tip of her nose brushed over the hardened bud.

It was hell.

Rexar bucked hard. “Fucking—Babygirl, I’m—”

Her breath caught sharply. She stiffened. “Here it comes…”

Rexar’s fingers clawed at the sheets.

Then—Kriia exhaled, congested and shaky, right across his nipple. No sneeze. Just a warm, rattling release of tension.

He groaned, boneless, crushed under the weight of almost.

She pulled back with a slow, smug grin.

“Now you’re just being fucking mean,” he whispered, voice utterly wrecked.

“That was hot,” she corrected, her eyes glittering through allergy-haze.

He couldn’t argue. Not really. His cock throbbed untouched against his stomach, flushed and slick with precum. Every inch of his skin felt sunburned with want.

Kriia sniffled again—wet and forceful—and her breath hitched violently. Her whole expression shifted, pupils blown wide, lips parting in desperation.

“It’s c-coming…” she gasped. “It’s—hhHhh… fuck, I c-can’t—”

Rexar growled low in his throat, one hand reaching to her hip, the other gripping the back of her thigh.

“Let it happen,” Rexar breathed, voice low and fraying. “Please—right here—use me.”

Kriia whimpered, congested and desperate, eyes fluttering shut as she leaned in. Her breath hitched audibly, her whole frame trembling with the strain of holding it back. She dipped her head slowly and brought her twitching nose down to his chest.

Then—deliberately—she rubbed the tip of her nose in slow, teasing circles over his nipple.

Rexar gasped.

The soft, wet drag of her breath against that sensitive skin sent shivers straight through him. Her nose twitched again, gently grazing the bud—back and forth, barely a touch, just enough to stir sensation. Her inhales were shallow now, chest heaving, mouth parted as she chased the sneeze down.

“Just—nnnhh—need a little more,” she moaned. “Rex, it’s right there—”

He was panting beneath her, fists clenched tight in the sheets, every nerve waiting for the break.

She gave another slow rub—up, over, around the hardening peak—her nose flushed pink, twitching harder with every pass. Her breath began to flutter in rhythm with the motion.

“Hhhuhhh—hh’hihhh—nghh—!”

She gasped sharply.

And then it hit.

“Hh’NgktCHhh!!—Hhh’tKTCHh!!”

The first sneeze burst out of her mid-rub, no resistance left. It snapped her forward, spraying hot and wet across his chest. A second came instantly, even messier, her breath catching on the release.

Her body rocked with the force of them—hips grinding down helplessly into his.

Rexar moaned aloud, eyes wide, undone.

“Fuck, Princess—yes—”

She groaned against his chest, sniffling thickly, and pressed her face into the sticky warmth she’d left behind.

“Feels so fucking good…” she mumbled. “I could keep going… let me ruin you…”

Rexar moaned.

He swore he felt it deep in his spine, like his nerves had lit from the inside out.

Kriia collapsed forward with a gasp and another stifle, mess landing warm and glistening across his sternum.

“Huh’NGXCHh!—k’tchhh!—hh’NGXT!”

Each sneeze bent her forward, spraying his chest with visible mist. The first was massive, the second tight, the third sudden and dripping with relief. Her mouth parted after, panting hard.

Rexar shuddered. “Oh my gods.”

She licked a droplet from his collarbone with lazy indulgence. “Mmmh. Messy.”

“You are.”

“I know.”

She pressed her cheek against his chest again, breathing fast and wet and satisfied.

Rexar’s hands moved on instinct—gliding up along Kriia’s thighs, following the slick heat of her skin until they reached her waist. He gripped her there, trembling, trying to pull her down, to guide her hips, to take back just a little control.

Kriia didn’t allow it.

With one sharp shift of her weight, she pressed his wrists flat against the mattress, pinning him hard, her palms warm and commanding.

“Aht Aht Ahhh…,” she whispered, her breath thick with congestion. “You lit the candle. You’re mine until I say.”

Her hips resumed their rhythm, slow and sinuous, grinding against the thick, flushed line of him with devastating friction. Each pass left a new streak of slickness across his skin, coating him, marking him. Her breath came in open-mouth gasps now, interrupted by sniffles and hitched, ticklish inhales.

Rexar writhed beneath her, sweat beading down his temples, chest slick with mess from her earlier fits and the ghost of more to come.

Kriia lowered her face over his again, breath hot and staggered, just close enough for her twitching nose to brush along the sharp line of his jaw. She nuzzled there, tender at first—then exhaled slow and heavy, a teasing drag of heat that mimicked the build-up of a sneeze.

Rexar growled, the sound buried in his throat. His jaw clenched, body arching up into her, straining for more.

“Fuck, Babydoll…” His voice was wrecked—hungry, reverent, almost furious with need.

Her laugh cracked through the air, ragged and wet. “You thought I was gonna… didn’t you?”

He met her eyes, wide and dark with worship. “I don’t care. Just do it. Do whatever you want—just keep going.”

She purred, low and sharp. “Oh, I will,” she rasped.

She let go of his wrists, but Rexar didn’t stay still out of surrender—he stayed still out of devotion, letting her do what she wanted, needing her to finish it. His hands hovered at her hips, tight with restraint, every muscle coiled and ready to worship the second she let him.

“Drench me,” he breathed. “You’re a fucking goddess like this.”

Her eyes glittered.

She moved lower again.

And he offered himself.

She sat upright, rolling her hips in a torturous rhythm, letting every part of her body rub against his—slick, fevered, trembling with effort.

The candle’s scent was thick enough to taste now.

Clove and cedar, twisted with resin and heat and sweat. Her nose twitched sharply, uncontrollably.

Her breath stuttered mid-grind.

“Hhhihhh—H’ngKTCHhh!”

She sneezed suddenly, explosively, the wet spray misting down over his chest. A second followed fast:

“NngKTsh!”

Rexar groaned, his hips jerking upward hard.

Kriia laughed breathily, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, smearing the mess down her forearm.

“Gods, that got you.”

“That got in my mouth,” he panted.

Her smile turned wicked. “Did it?”

“Yes. Gods, yes.”

She leaned in, dragging her tongue across his lower lip. “Good.”

She was losing control. They both felt it. Her breath was shallower now, more labored. Every little movement made her nose twitch. Every grind of her hips drew out a sniffle, or a gasp, or the threat of another fit.

Kriia moaned as she ground herself harder into him. “Still t-tickling… I cahh—n’t stop it now…”

Her breath hitched again.

Rexar felt her thighs tense, her muscles tighten around him. And then—

“H’ngCHhh! K’tchh! Hh’ngchh!”

The force of it doubled her forward, her hips rocking in a sudden jolt that made him cry out. Her sneezes came mid-thrust, timed with every motion of her body, spraying his neck, his chest, his mouth.

She groaned, voice thick. “I can’t even hHehhh—hold them b-back anymore…”

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t even try.”

Her rhythm stuttered now, no longer perfectly controlled. She moved in erratic rolls, chasing her own breath, riding the edge of the next wave. Every few seconds, her breath would catch, and then:

“NgkTCHh!—K’pttchh!—hh’gTShhh!”

His face was wet with it.

And he wanted it.

Her hair stuck to her cheeks, her nose running now without pause. She rubbed it messily against his throat, letting the congestion smear as she moaned and bit him lightly in the crook of his neck.

Rexar grabbed her hips and held tight, guiding her rhythm now—but not in dominance. Not fully.

In desperation.

“You’re incredible,” he gasped.

“I’m disgusting,” she laughed, voice slurred with congestion.

“You’re perfect.”

She kissed him, sloppy and wet, breathless and raw.

Then broke the kiss with another fit, right against his cheek.

“H’Nxtchh!—Hh’gSCHhh!”

Rexar’s fingers dug into her thighs.

She growled, low and hot. “You gonna cum just from this?”

“I—I think so—fuck—Krii…”

She started grinding faster now, chasing friction with abandon. Her breath came fast and shallow, her moans blending with half-hitched build-ups.

Every few seconds she’d pause—nose twitching, brows furrowing—and let out another sneeze mid-movement:

“Hn’KCHhh! K’tshh! NnkCHhh! Hh’Ngsh!”

The unpredictability drove him wild. The wetness, the mess, her stuttering loss of control—it all built and built and built.

He bucked up harder, chasing it.

Kriia’s voice was barely a whisper now, heavy with arousal and allergy haze. “I’m gonna r-ride you through it—gonna c-cum on you, cover you—hhn’CHHkktt!”

The sneeze broke her words, made her hips stutter. Her skin shimmered faintly with sweat in the dim candlelight, hips rocking in slow, teasing circles against his.

Every motion made his cock twitch beneath her—slick, trapped between their bodies, painted with heat and mess and shadowlight.

“Still with me?” she murmured, voice hoarse, her nose brushing the underside of his jaw.

Rexar’s fingers dug into her thighs again, less from force now, more from anchoring. “Barely.”

“Good,” Kriia whispered. “Stay right there.”

She kissed him once—slow, open-mouthed, deep with adoration. Her lips tasted like salt, like want, like the last hour of teasing and torment and surrender. She shifted up, bracing herself with one arm beside his head.

Then—without fanfare—she lowered herself onto him.

Rexar choked on his breath.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t quick.

She took him inch by inch, wet and flushed and utterly intentional, letting every curve of her body mold to him like shadow over flame. Her head tipped back as she settled fully, the warmth of him seated deep inside her. A slow groan spilled from her throat, thick and low, and her hips gave a gentle, involuntary twitch.

Rexar’s mouth fell open.

“Ff—fuck, babygirl…”

Her eyes were heavy-lidded, glowing slightly in the candlelight. “I can feel you,” she murmured. “All of you. Every pulse…”

He could only nod.

She sat there for a moment, hips pressed flush to his, letting their bodies memorize the shape of each other—letting the moment draw long and slow. Her breath hitched again, this time unplanned, and her nostrils twitched mid-exhale.

“Ohh… mmnnh, fuck… I c–can’t stop it now…”

She tried to grind again, slow and steady—but her breath caught halfway through, and her body jolted as a sneeze ripped free without warning.

“Nng’tchh!”

It rocked them together.

Rexar gasped.

Kriia let out a half-laugh, half-moan, then braced herself better.

“I warned you…”

She moved again—rocking forward—and another sneeze wracked her, snapping her body into his.

“K’tchhh!—ohhh gods—ng’CHHhh!”

The momentum of each sneeze jolted her hips, shoved Rexar deeper into her, the messy pressure overwhelming him in flashes of pleasure and helplessness. His hands balled into fists the sheets now, voice gone breathless.

“Princess—I can’t—gods, I’m gonna—fuck—”

She exhaled sharply and moved harder.

Her rhythm wasn’t smooth now—it was unpredictable, ruled by breath and reflex. She’d grind into him, her pace erratic, her body jerking every time the next fit bubbled up inside her. Her nose was running openly now, flushed bright pink, and her breath trembled constantly.

She whimpered against his throat. “Can’t… can’t even f-fight them…”

And then—another burst:

“Nk’chh! Hh’NGchh!—NgKCHh!”

Rexar sobbed, a sound caught between a cry and a moan. “Yes—babygirl, fuck—please—don’t stop—”

She didn't.

She rode him in frantic fits and starts, every movement accompanied by sniffles, shallow moans, and the tension of buildup that never got a chance to resolve. Her voice cracked around every word.

“This is… hhhahh—so filthy—g-gods, you feel—hhuhh—so good—”

Each sneeze sent her crashing forward, bracing on his chest, her hair falling around their faces like a curtain.

“Nchh! H’tsshkT! NnK’tchh!”

Some sprayed his chest. Some his neck. One landed directly across his cheek—and instead of flinching, he moaned, nearly bucking off the bed.

“I’m gonna—Babygirl, I’m gonna cum—please—”

“Together,” she gasped.

She clutched his shoulders and moved faster—raw, desperate. The slick mess between them grew unbearable, friction melting into fire. Her breath was nothing but hitching now, fit after fit crashing into her in erratic bursts:

“Ktchh!—Nkt’chhh!—hh’gSsshkkkt!!—ffuck—Rex—Nn’gTCHHh!!”

Their bodies met again and again, soaking each other in pleasure and ruin, scent and sweat and sound.

When it came—it was everything.

Rexar’s back arched, hips driving into her as his body gave out in a wave of pulsing, hot release. He growled her name, voice cracked and reverent. His hands clung to her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Kriia shattered seconds later.

Not quietly. Not gently.

Her orgasm hit between sneezes—explosive and deep—her thighs tightening around him, her entire body pulsing with it as she uttered a near-pornstar-esque moan, half-laughed, half-sobbed into his throat.

She sneezed through it.

“Hh—! H’NNgtchh!—aAAHhh—fuhhhckk—hh’GSCHH!!”

And still she moved, wringing every last second of pleasure from both of them, hips slowing only when they could no longer do more than twitch.

She collapsed against him.

Their bodies stuck together with heat and slick and breathlessness.

Neither spoke.

They couldn’t yet.

Only the candle spoke now, soft and steady in the dark, its smoke curling gently above them like the last thread of ritual incense.

The only sound was the slowing, syncopated rhythm of their breath—Rexar’s chest rising beneath Kriia’s cheek, her soft sniffles echoing in the candlelit silence. Their bodies were sticky with sweat, smeared with every spasm of pleasure and mess, and absolutely motionless. Melted into one another.

Kriia exhaled, a lazy puff of warmth across his ribs.

Rexar shifted just slightly beneath her, his arms curling around her bare back like a cocoon. His palms were still trembling—barely—but he pressed them to her skin as if grounding himself to her was the only thing keeping his soul from wandering.

Kriia was the first to move. Slowly, languidly, she rubbed her nose—still twitching—against his sternum and let out a sleepy, gurgling sniffle. Then, with no ceremony, she wiped her face against his chest, smearing the wetness she’d left behind further across him like the world’s most intimate signature.

Rexar huffed a breathy laugh, more air than sound.

“That,” he murmured, voice still shaky, “might’ve been the filthiest thing we’ve ever done.”

Kriia just hummed, congested and content. “You say that every time we do this.”

His hand came up to brush damp hair from her face, fingers gentle, reverent. He cupped her cheek in his palm, his thumb stroking the edge of her jaw.

“You get prettier every time it happens,” he said softly. “it’s not fair.”

Her lips curved against his skin. “Even like this?”

“Especially like this.”

Her nose twitched again. “Gods. I still f-feel it.”

“I can tell. Here.” He leaned up and kissed her forehead—slow, soft, and lingering, before reaching out with one hand and stuffing the lid of the candle over the flame, snuffing out the culprit. Her skin was fever-warm, her breath catching under his lips. “Still tickling?”

“Mmm,” she sniffled, eyes half-lidded. “Like it settled in now. Deep.”

“Then we definitely did it right.”

She groaned in mock horror and curled into him tighter, throwing a leg over his hip. “Stop. No more compliments. My soul’s melting.”

He smirked against her hair. “Next time, I’m lighting two candles.”

Kriia shoved at his chest with a pitiful little whine. “Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, I dare.”

“I will explode.”

“You already diiiiiid.”

She giggled softly and coughed into his neck. Her voice was barely a whisper now—raspy and exhausted, but warm. “You’re such a menace.”

He just held her tighter. “You’re my chaos.”

They lay like that for a long time. Not speaking. Not moving. The scent of the candle had settled into the sheets, into their skin, woven into every lazy breath they took. Rexar pressed little kisses to her temple, her cheek, her shoulder. No urgency. Just reverence.

Kriia purred, her hand trailing slow spirals over his chest. “Didn’t think it’d be that good.”

“I did,” he said simply.

Her lips twitched. “Cocky.”

“No.” He turned her chin gently so she was looking at him. His voice lowered. “I just know what happens when you let go.”

Her throat bobbed.

He kissed her again, softer this time. Almost shy. “You’re so fucking beautiful when you fall apart.”

Kriia’s lashes fluttered. Her fingers curled around his wrist.

“You’re not bad at worshipping, you know,” she whispered.

“I had a good teacher.”

“Mmm. You’re still mine, you know. Next time, I want to edge you with just breath. No hands. No hips. Just me sniffing and sneezing until you beg.”

His eyes fluttered shut with a shiver. “Gods.”

“And you’re lighting the candle again.”

He groaned. “Thought you said you’d explode.”

“I will. That’s the fun.”

He kissed her again, a smile against her lips. “Then I’ll hold you while you do.”

Her eyes drifted shut again, slow and heavy. The adrenaline had worn off. The shadows in the room stretched like long arms, curling slowly over the bed, wrapping them in quiet warmth.

Kriia sighed into the silence. “We should shower.”

“Mmm.”

“Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he echoed.

She coughed once, a soft sound in the hush.

Rexar smoothed a hand down her spine, slow and loving. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she murmured. “Just floaty.”

“Good floaty?”

She nodded against his shoulder. “Perfect floaty.”

He pulled the blanket up over her slowly, covering the mess instead of wiping it away. “Stay right there.”

“I wasn’t planning to move.”

The candle flickered again, the shadows deepening.

Kriia nuzzled against him, her fingers still resting against the center of his chest where she’d pressed her nose earlier. “You’re disgusting.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

They lay in silence, heartbeats aligned. No more teasing. No more words. Just two kinksters, spent and tangled, adoring and adored, held in a sacred ruin of their own making.

And when Rexar was finally able to catch his breath, Kriia was already half-asleep in his arms, snoring softly with a stuffy nose.

Rexar kissed her hair one last time, fingers stroking gently through the damp strands tangled around her sharply pointed elven ears.

“I love you, menace,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath.

Kriia made a sound in reply—low and congested, but unmistakably fond.

“Love you more,” she rasped, thick with sleep and aftermath.

A quiet stillness settled between them. Not empty. Just full.

The kind of silence that came after worship, after ritual, after bodies had been bared in every way that mattered. Kriia’s shadows curled around the edges of the bed like a barrier, like a spell meant to preserve this moment for just the two of them.

A faint trail of smoke still lingered in the room, mingling with sweat and shadowfire and the warm, fading scent of clove.

Rexar didn’t sleep right away. He watched her—her features soft in sleep, her breath catching slightly with the last traces of congestion, her brows twitching faintly in some half-dreamed memory of chaos. He ran his thumb across her cheekbone, kissed her temple, and tucked her tighter against him.

Only then did he let himself drift.

Time passed without measure.

Somewhere between night and not-quite-morning, Kriia stirred.

A soft, restless groan pushed from her lips as she blinked awake, sluggish and fuzzy, nestled in the shelter of Rexar’s arms. Her head felt heavy and warm, skin damp and sticky beneath the blankets, and her sinuses still buzzed faintly from the aftermath.

She sniffled once, then again—wet and involuntary—and gave a pathetic little whimper.

“Mmh.” She buried her face deeper into his chest, voice muffled and thick. “I’m gross.”

Rexar stirred, still half-asleep, and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“You’re ethereal,” he murmured, voice low and full of sleep.

“Ethereal and snot-covered,” she mumbled, sniffling.

“Exactly.” He sat up slowly, sweeping strands of damp hair off her cheek. His touch was feather-light. Devoted. “Which is why it’s time.”

Kriia cracked one bleary eye. “Time?”

“For your royal bath.”

Her snort turned into a congested cough. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m reverent,” he corrected. “And you, High Priestess of Wrecked Temples and Allergic Destruction, are overdue for a cleansing.”

She groaned as he lifted her bridal-style from the mattress, ignoring the stickiness between their bodies, the mess streaked across their torsos, and the still-lingering scent of clove and cedar that clung like incense after ritual.

The bathroom was already dim-lit—Kriia’s shadows moving ahead of them, curling fluidly around knobs, adjusting the water, guiding steam up into the air like ritual smoke. The scent here was different. Clean, soft, herbal. Something calming. Free of clove.

“You planned this,” Kriia accused, resting against his shoulder with a lazy smirk.

“Always,” Rexar said simply, the low flick of fire still simmering in his hands as he kissed her hair.

He set her on the tile like she was made of glass, one hand steady at her waist as he pulled off what little she still wore—bra, thigh straps, the remnants of her god-tier persona now drooping with moisture and aftermath.

The water was perfect—hot, but not scalding, steam rising in long fingers as he coaxed her beneath it.

Kriia let out a choked sigh as the first jets hit her back. Her eyes slipped closed, and her shoulders sagged.

“Mmh gods, yes…”

Rexar moved behind her without a word, reaching for a cloth and soaking it in the streaming warmth. He started with her shoulders—gentle, slow circles—wiping away sweat, stickiness, candle smoke remnants. Then her back. Down her spine. Across her hips.

Every motion was quiet worship.

He kissed the nape of her neck, lips trailing to her shoulder as he worked. “You’ve never looked more ruined.”

“Flatterer,” she whispered, congested but melting.

Then came her arms. Her thighs. Her calves. He touched her like she was something sacred, not just his lover but his altar.

“Turn,” he said softly.

She did.

Her eyes met his—glassier than usual, rimmed pink, but still sharp with the faded edge of mischief.

“You’re a mess,” he murmured, brushing his thumb gently beneath her eye, catching the smudge of tears and exhaustion.

“Feel like one,” she rasped. “Those damn candles hit hard…”

“Let me take care of it.”

He lifted her chin with reverence, then leaned in and kissed her—slow, soft, nothing hungry. Just contact. Just breath and closeness, like a balm whispered across raw skin.

Then he reached for the shampoo.

She gave a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re gonna wash my hair?”

“Yes.”

“Like, hands in it and everything?”

“Especially that part.”

“You’re serious?”

Rexar smiled. “I’m Rexar Fucking Fang. You think I’m letting you go to sleep with a sinus-triggering allergy nest in your hair?”

She laughed harder—wet, sniffling, amused. “Gods, you’re absurd.”

And then she closed her eyes, sighed, and tilted her head back in surrender.

“Okay then, Sparky. Make me feel like royalty.”

So he did.

His fingers slid into her hair with reverence, working through the knots, massaging her scalp with gentle, rhythmic motions. Bubbles bloomed between his hands, thick and aromatic, carrying away sweat, smoke, and the last whisper of the candle’s evil magic.

Kriia moaned.

Soft. Happy. Almost drowsy.

“Don’t stop.”

“Never,” he said.

He rinsed the shampoo in slow, soaking waves, watching the lather flow down the curve of her back. Then came conditioner, and he took his time, rubbing it through strand by strand, careful to avoid tugging or pulling.

When her hair was clean, he turned his attention to her face.

“Can I?”

She blinked at him. “I must look a disaster.”

“You look like a goddess who just conquered a continent.”

She snorted again. “Sure. Conquered it with snot.”

He smiled, so tender it made her breath catch.

“Let me take care of you.”

She nodded once.

He wet a fresh cloth and cupped her jaw in one hand, dabbing around her nose, her lips, her cheeks. Cleaning what her sneeze fits had left behind. She didn’t even flinch. She let him. Let herself be seen. Be cleaned.

“Blow,” he whispered.

She did, a productive blow gurgling thickly into the cloth with zero shame.

He kissed her temple as she finished.

“You’re perfect,” he said against her hair.

“I’m disgusting.”

“Both can be true.”

Her smile faded into something softer.

“Why do you like this part so much?” she asked quietly. “The mess. The chaos. Me, like this…”

He paused, letting his hand rest against her cheek. “Because it’s you unfiltered. Because every twitch, every sneeze, every breath—it’s you letting go. Giving yourself to me.”

Her eyes welled up—not with allergies this time.

“I do give myself to you,” she whispered.

“I know.”

She leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his neck, and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder. He hugged her back, warm water cascading over them both. Her shadows flickered along the tiles, curling close.

They stood like that until the steam began to cool, until the moment had stretched long and full and whole.

Then Rexar reached out with one hand and turned off the water.

“Bed?” he murmured.

“Mmh. Blankets. Cuddles. Praise.”

“All of it.”

He lifted her again—this time wrapped in a thick towel—and carried her back through the dimly bedroom. The scent was almost gone now. Their bodies had been purified, the shadows receding, the ritual closed.

He laid her gently on the bed and crawled in beside her, tugging the covers up around them both.

“Comfy?”

“Like a queen.”

He tucked her in tighter, curling himself around her back. “My queen.”

She sighed, boneless.

“Rex?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For the mess. And the bath. And… everything.”

He pressed a kiss behind her ear. “Always.”

Each one was gentle, barely louder than a breath, but they clearly shredded her sinuses. She groaned as she flopped back against the pillows, voice gravel-thick and mock pitiful. “I’m dyiiing.”

Rexar groaned too—but for a different reason. He half-turned away from her, hiding the flicker of flames that licked the edge of his irises for a split second. She caught it anyway.

“Oh no,” she rasped, her tone suddenly smug despite the congestion. “Did I trigger something, Sparky?”

He scowled over his shoulder, freckled cheeks tinged pink just above his piercings. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t do anything.” She curled her legs beneath her and sniffled, rubbing her nose on the inside of her sleeve with an exaggerated whine. “I’m just a poor, helpless shadow elf with a sensitive little nose and a boyfriend who’s about to leave me for his soul-sucking murder cult.”

Rexar dropped the bag with a groan. “Gods, you can be such a brat when you’re sick.”

She looked up at him from her nest, suddenly sincere beneath all the teasing. “But I really don’t feel good.”

That cracked something in him.

He crossed the space in three strides, falling to his knees at her side. The smoke thickened for a moment as he reached out to cradle her flushed cheek in his fireproof palm. The temperature of his hand was scorching, but it felt good against her feverish skin. She leaned into the touch instinctively.

“I know,” he murmured, brushing his thumb just under her eye. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“I mean it in the most tragically hot way possible.”

She smiled faintly, and then sniffled again. He reached for the tissue box and offered it wordlessly, but she waved him off and curled her fingers into his hoodie instead.

“Can’t you skip it? Just once?” she asked, quiet now, voice small in a way she rarely let anyone hear.

He closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to hers. The heat of his breath washed over her face in steady puffs of smoky warmth. “If I skip another Culling, they’ll think I’ve gone rogue. You know what happens then.”

“They throw a dramatic council meeting in an underground wine cellar and gossip about you in Latin for six hours?”

He chuckled, but didn’t deny it.

“Tomorrow,” he promised, brushing her crimson hair from her damp forehead. “I’ll come back early. I’ll bring you that spiced honey you like and the purple cough syrup you pretend not to love.”

She scoffed. “It tastes like grape soap and shame.”

“Exactly your flavor profile.”

She elbowed him weakly and winced. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then another to the bridge of her nose. She melted, nose twitching at the proximity of the smoke curling from his nostrils. She didn’t sneeze—but he definitely wanted her to.

“Text me when you get there,” she murmured, tugging on the drawstring of his hoodie with fever-heavy fingers. “And when you sneak off to smoke. And when you get bored and want me to distract you.”

“I’ll call,” he promised, hand lingering in her hair like he didn’t want to let go.

“You better. Or I’ll send you a sneeze video every hour until you die of frustration.”

He groaned low in his throat, fire flickering behind his pupils. “You’re evil.”

“I know.”

With great reluctance, he pulled away, lifting his bag again. She watched him walk to the front door, every inch of his tall frame bristling with affection and restraint. Just before stepping out into the cold, mist-choked air, he turned back, eyes gleaming red-gold in the dim light.

“I love you, babygirl.”

She blinked blearily at him and whispered, “I love you too. Go do your weird soul ritual and eat or whatever.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The door shut, shadows slid up to lock it behind him, and Kriia flopped backward into her cocoon with a frustrated huff.

She was miserable. And congested. And maybe—just maybe—a little excited to see what would happen when he finally

The silence that followed Rexar’s departure settled over the estate like a thick, damp blanket. It wasn't the peaceful kind—more like the suffocating quiet you get before a storm, heavy and full of things left unsaid. Kriia sniffled pathetically into her hoodie sleeve, then groaned and tossed the empty tea mug onto the coffee table where it clinked loudly against three others. She had no idea when she’d finished it. Time felt syrupy and disjointed, her fever fogging the space between moments.

The living room had dimmed without her asking—shadows drawing in tighter like sympathetic pets. A few of them pulsed sluggishly near the windows, absorbing the overcast grey light bleeding in through the frost-laced glass. Normally, they were sharp and reactive, moving in tandem with her breath or her moods. Now they just hovered there—lethargic, dull, sick like their mistress.

“Great,” she rasped, voice shredded by congestion. “Even my powers caught the damn plague.”

She reached for the game controller on the ottoman, wincing when her bangs brushed her oversensitive nose. It twitched immediately, sparking a sudden, flaring tickle that bloomed behind her sinuses like someone had dusted the inside of her skull with pepper and regret.

“Ughh…h-hhhuhh…”

The build-up hit her out of nowhere—vocal, sharp, and unpredictable. She wrinkled her nose against it, breath fluttering with frustration.

“Hhhiih’NGkt! Nn’chh! Hihhh… Hh’ngxshhh! Huhhh…k’nGXT!”

Each stifle was tighter than the last, barely muffled against her palm before the next snuck up on her. She blinked, dazed and bleary-eyed, and then groaned again, wiping at her nose with the cuff of her sleeve.

“Freakin’ ambush sneezes... I swear to gods…”

The shadows rippled a little at her irritation but did nothing to help. Useless.

She tossed the blanket aside in a dramatic flourish and grabbed her headset. If she couldn't breathe and she couldn’t taste anything and even her shadows had abandoned her for a nap, then she could at least shoot something in the face. Virtually.

The console booted with a cheerful chime that grated against her migraine. Kriia narrowed her eyes at the screen, gripping the controller with clammy hands. Ten minutes later, she’d died seventeen times, most of them to absolutely stupid shit—like walking off a cliff or trying to reload in the middle of a boss lunge.

“Fuuuuuuck yoooou,” she groaned at the screen, dragging her voice like syrup. “This game is rigged. I’m a goddess of darkness and I just got body-slammed by a skeleton with a rake.”

She sniffled again, hard, wincing at the raw scrape of it through her throat. Her nose twitched traitorously, not done tormenting her.

“Hhhuhhh… Hn’gktch! Tschhkt! Huhhh’nkxt—Hhh’tCHHkk! Ahh…”

She sagged forward, controller sliding to the floor. Her whole face throbbed, sinuses aching behind her eyes like someone had taken a crowbar to her skull.

“Should’ve let Rexar baby me,” she mumbled bitterly. “Stupid, soft, overgrown fire prince. Would’ve wrapped me in seven blankets and spoon-fed me soup if I’d let him.”

The thought made her lips twitch. She could see it—Rexar bustling around the kitchen shirtless, one hand holding a steaming bowl, the other trying not to set the dish towel on fire. He’d kiss her nose between sneezes and wouldn’t grumble when she wiped snot on his hoodie. He’d light scented candles even though she couldn’t smell anything, and hum some trap-metal melody under his breath while holding her against his furnace-hot chest.

“Wouldn’t have minded,” she muttered to herself. “Not this time…”

A flush burned through her cheeks, and not from the fever.

She flopped back onto the couch and stared up at the ornate ceiling, eyes tracking the familiar carvings of swirling flames and vines that lined the molding. Rexar’s family had no subtlety. Even the woodwork screamed power and legacy and death-by-fire. But they’d made this mansion theirs. Kriia had insisted on shadow-dampening the lights, adding blackout curtains, bookshelves stuffed with worn paperbacks, her worn-down bong collection, and a fuzzy purple rug that Rexar hated but let her keep.

“Bet he’s all stiff right now,” she muttered, imagining him standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his grim-faced siblings in some underground temple room, listening to hymns about fire and righteous consumption of souls. “Poor thing. Surrounded by murder nerds and horny ghosts.”

She grinned, then sniffled, then groaned.

Her stomach growled. She ignored it.

The shadows pulsed sluggishly again and coiled half-heartedly toward the kitchen.

“Don’t bother,” she told them. “The stove scares me when I’m like this. And I’m not about to microwave that mushroom rice he made. It smells like despair.”

Instead, she reached for her phone.

Rexar’s name was pinned at the top of her messages. Their last thread was mostly memes, selfies, and a video she’d made the last time she was sick—a dramatic montage of her sneezing into a tissue and whispering “this is your fault, you plague-ridden bastard” between fits.

She smirked and tapped record.

The front camera flicked on. She looked rough—hair a mess, face flushed, her facial tattoos standing out stark against her pale skin. Her voice was shot, but her smirk was devilish.

“Hey, Sparky,” she whispered. “Just wanted to let you know your girl is suffering. Miserably. Sniffly. Pathetically.”

She paused, scrunching her nose theatrically as another tickle crept up. Her eyes fluttered half-shut.

“Uhhhn…heh…Nhh’tchkk! Hh’ngxchhh! …Huhhh'n’kSHhh!”

Each one hit sharp and quick, her breath hitching prettily between stifles. She let the last one linger, groaning softly as she wiped her nose on her sleeve again.

“Hope you’re having fun with the soul buffet,” she whispered, voice cracking. “But if you were here, I might have let you cuddle me. Might’ve even let you hold the tissue box. Too bad you’re not.”

She blew him a kiss, then hit send.

Ten seconds later, she regretted nothing and everything.

She curled up again, tissues and shadow-blankets gathered around her like the world's most dramatic fevered elf girl. Her body ached. Her nose was running again. Her powers were barely a flicker.

But deep down, in the part of her heart that she'd never admit aloud—not even to herself—she knew she didn’t just want him there because he’d help. She wanted him there because when she was this sick and miserable and exposed, he made her feel safe.

Like she didn’t have to pretend to be tough all the time.

Like maybe, just maybe, being vulnerable wasn't such a bad thing.

Another sneeze snuck up on her while she was thinking too hard about that.

“Huhhh… HnngCHhh!—ng’tchh! Huhh… kTChhh!”

She sighed, face buried in the curve of her elbow.

“Miss you, you big smoky idiot.”

The shadows tightened gently around her, cocooning her like arms she could almost pretend were his.

Kriia’s phone buzzed beside her on the nightstand, cutting through the haze of fever and television static. She blinked blearily at the screen. Incoming call: Rexar 🔥🖤. The profile photo—a ridiculous close-up of his face—made her snort, which turned immediately into a congested groan.

Still, her fingers reached for it.

The screen shifted, brightening to reveal Rexar’s face, framed by the dim, red-hued glow of one of his family’s ceremonial rooms. The camera angle was slightly tilted—he must’ve propped it on a table or altar—and his familiar mop of curly white-and-crimson hair was tousled and slightly damp. He had that look in his eyes, the soft haze of fatigue layered under a stubborn grin.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite little plague rat,” he drawled, voice already thick with restrained amusement.

Kriia didn’t even try to look good. Wrapped in a tangle of blankets with her nose twitching under the haze of her fever, she lifted one hand lazily in greeting. “I hate everything,” she croaked.

Rexar chuckled, adjusting his position. “You look like you hate everything. Damn, babygirl. That cold is kicking your ass.”

“You should see what I did to the Kleenex box,” she mumbled, voice ragged and nasal. “It’s in mourning.”

Rexar’s lips curled into a grin that was too fond. In the background, flickering candles and smoky incense glowed on stone pedestals. Occasionally, a voice chanted something indistinct—ceremonial, formal, faintly ominous.

“You’re literally surrounded by murder priests,” she muttered. “And I’m the pathetic one.”

“You’re hot when you’re pathetic,” he said immediately. Then paused. “Okay wait, that came out wrong.”

She sniffled and coughed a laugh into her sleeve. “I’ll allow it.”

He leaned in closer to the screen, and she saw it: the shift in his expression. The subtle flicker in his red-grey eyes as he watched her rub at her nose, the tiny dip in his voice as he asked, “How bad is it?”

Kriia’s hand stalled just under her nose. Her breath caught.

That look.

That look.

Rexar, trying to play casual, forced his attention elsewhere—adjusting the scarf on his neck, pretending to fiddle with something just off-camera—but she’d seen it. The flicker of fascination. The simmering beneath the concern. And suddenly, Kriia remembered everything.

That first day they moved in. The endless barrage of “so cute,” the nose kisses, the tip-off confession that still made her stomach flip whenever she thought about it.

She narrowed her eyes at the screen.

“You alright, flameboy?” she asked, pushing her sleeve to her face, deliberately slow. Her voice dropped, teasing. “You’re staring.”

“I always stare at you,” he muttered, distracted.

“Mmhm.” She rubbed under her nose again, slower this time, just to see if he’d flinch.

He did.

Only slightly—but enough. His fingers twitched in his lap. His eyes darted, once, to the corner of the screen where her hand disappeared under the blanket.

Kriia grinned. Then, without warning—

“Hh’NgXt! Hh‘gsch! k’gnsh! Ngt’chh!”

She stifled the fit rapid-fire into the collar of his hoodie she was wearing. When she looked up again, Rexar had visibly swallowed. The hand that was resting on his thigh curled slightly, as if to resist the urge to reach through the screen.

“Gods,” he rasped, voice dropping. “Bless you, babydoll.”

“Thanks,” she sniffled, eyes narrowing wickedly. “But you don’t have to say it every time, y’know.”

“Yes, I do,” he said too quickly.

In the background, a voice called something like “Et parae, in tenebris vitae.”

Rexar glanced over his shoulder with a sheepish grin. “We’re invoking the judgment clause or whatever. Don’t worry, no one’s being disemboweled yet.”

“Tragic,” Kriia muttered, flopping sideways on the couch. “You look like you’re dying to be somewhere else.”

“I am,” he said immediately. “Like, with you. Under all those blankets. Probably being strangled by your nose.”

Kriia choked on a laugh. “You are so disgusting.”

“You say that,” he said, dragging a hand over his face, “but every time you do that little sneeze-sound—it’s like, I don't know, the gods are punishing me and rewarding me at once.”

Kriia blinked, caught between embarrassment and delight.

“Are you seriously flirting with me while your whole family is soul-feeding in the next room?”

He whispered back, “They’re soul-feeding quietly.”

Kriia grinned, sniffled again—loudly this time—and caught his expression just as he bit the inside of his cheek. His eyes fluttered half-shut for a second. His breath came a little shallower.

“Ohhh,” she breathed. “There it is.”

Rexar’s smile was lopsided now. “No clue what you mean, princess.”

“I sneeze one more time and you're gonna have to excuse yourself, aren’t you?”

He groaned low. “Don’t tempt me. This robe isn’t flameproof.”

“And whose fault is that?”

They stared at each other.

The room on his side seemed darker now—more intimate, the flickering shadows giving the illusion of privacy. In the distance, the low chanting continued, but Rexar didn’t look away. Not once. His attention was pinned to her.

To her flushed face. Her twitchy nose. Her messiness.

“You remember when you first told me?” she asked quietly. “About this?”

His breath caught.

“Gods, yeah. You were moving boxes, covered in dust, half-sneezing yourself into the floor.”

“And you just—said it.”

“‘I have a sneeze kink, babygirl,’” he quoted back with zero shame.

She rolled her eyes. “Most people would, like, ease into it.”

“I tried,” he said, grinning again. “I complimented your sneezes like ten times before that.”

“And I thought you were just into being a menace.”

“I am that too.”

Kriia laughed, then coughed, then rubbed her nose again with a tired sigh. “I don’t even have the energy to keep teasing you properly.”

“That’s okay,” Rexar murmured, voice dropping again. “You’re killing me anyway.”

Kriia’s gaze flicked toward the camera, slowly. Her breath hitched.

“I feel one coming,” she whispered.

Rexar visibly inhaled. “Fuck.”

Kriia let the build-up take its time—let it drag through her expression, her eyes fluttering, nose scrunching, hands slow to react as she waited just long enough to let him react.

Then—

“Huhhh… h’n’gtx! Hh‘gsch! hptt’CH!—n’gtx!”

She sniffled, voice hoarse: “You still with me, flameboy?”

But the screen had shifted.

Rexar had moved—camera tilted down now, showing the vague impression of a stone hallway. Somewhere private.

She heard him murmur, “One second,” followed by the sound of a door closing. Then nothing but the glow of low torchlight and the sound of him breathing—

Heavy.

Low.

Shaky.

Then—

“Ohhh, babygirl…”

Kriia’s grin widened as she curled deeper into her blankets.

She hadn’t even started yet.

The camera flickered as Rexar settled somewhere new—somewhere quiet, dim, clearly carved into the stone heart of the Fang estate. The sharp gothic edges of the ceremonial chamber had given way to dark brick and a low-hung torch glowing faintly behind him. His face filled the screen now, flushed and taut with restraint.

“Okay,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, “I’ve got like five minutes before they send a blood-soaked cousin to drag me back. Use it wisely.”

Kriia’s voice came through soft, hoarse, and syrupy with congestion. “You mean abuse it wisely.”

Rexar blinked, breath catching faintly. “Kriii…”

She sniffled, delicately. The camera on her end tilted as she adjusted, blankets rustling. Her nose twitched as she rubbed a finger under it, voice dropping just enough to make his pupils visibly dilate.

“I still feel awful,” she murmured, eyes wide with mock innocence. “My nose won’t stop tickling…”

Rexar’s jaw flexed.

She sniffled again, breath fluttering—just slightly exaggerated, just long enough to tease.

“I think I’m gonna—hhihh… Hhh-n’ktchhh! Hh’gschhh!—n’nxtch!”

Each stifle was light, high-pitched, barely muffled by her wrist as her body shuddered with the gentle, rapid fire rhythm. She lifted her gaze slowly, finding the lens again with glassy purple eyes.

“Ughhh,” she breathed, congested and miserable-sounding. “They’re getting so bad.”

Rexar’s throat worked visibly. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I’m not doing anything.” Her voice went up in an exaggerated whimper. “I’m sick, remember?”

“You’re evil,” he corrected.

Her lips twitched as she brought her hand back up and gave her nose another slow, deliberate rub. “You think I’m faking it?”

“No,” he muttered, leaning forward, eyes hungry and half-lidded. “That’s the problem.”

Kriia giggled—then coughed, sniffling thickly. “My throat hurts…”

“Ohhh fuck me,” Rexar rasped, shifting in his seat. The camera wobbled slightly. His hand disappeared from frame, likely bracing on his thigh. Or lower.

“Can’t breathe through my nose,” she added pitifully. “And I’m all warm and achey and—hhihh… hehh…—nn’ktschh! k’chh! Nxt!”

Rexar’s breath hitched, and this time she heard the faintest rumble—a stifled groan that leaked from the back of his throat.

“Babygirl,” he breathed. “I’m gonna spontaneously combust.”

“Don’t do that,” she teased. “Not until I’m better. You still owe me soup.”

Rexar’s laugh was breathless. “Kriia, I swear to gods—”

“I wish you were here,” she whispered, letting the moment drop into something just a little softer. “My whole body’s so sensitive…”

She let that hang.

Watched it land.

Rexar swallowed again. The hand reappeared briefly in the frame, dragging across his mouth before vanishing again. When he next spoke, his voice had dropped nearly an octave.

“Say that again.”

She tilted her head. “What, that I wish you were here?”

“No,” he said immediately. “The other part.”

Kriia gave him a look. “You want me to say my body’s sensitive?”

The way he exhaled—shaky, low, through his nose—set her stomach fluttering.

So she said it again. Slower.

“My body’s… really sensitive.”

Rexar closed his eyes, tipped his head back against the wall, and let out a slow, unsteady breath that came dangerously close to a whine.

“You’d be touching me so much,” she added, voice rough from the cold but soft with intention. “You’d be trying to help. And I’d be all sneezy and needy and whiny…”

Rexar’s fists clenched.

“I’d be curled in your lap,” she continued, letting herself imagine it aloud. “And you’d keep petting my hair and kissing my forehead—and every time I sneeze, you’d just melt.”

“I am melting,” he rasped, cracking an eye open. “Krii, I’m—I’m gonna have to—fuck.”

She didn’t let up. Her hand fluttered to her face again, pressing lightly against her twitching nostrils as her eyes fluttered shut.

“Hhhihhh… snf—N’gtxchhh! hh’ptTshh! Hehh… hihh—huhhh’nkkT!”

The fit was longer, wetter, her breath fluttering between each stifle as she shifted under the blankets, clearly breathless by the end.

Rexar looked wrecked.

Face flushed.

Smoke leaking from his nose in thicker, steadier curls.

He stifled a noise into his fist that might’ve been a gasp. Or a groan. Or both.

Kriia raised her brows at him, eyes glinting. “Are you okay?”

He was not.

“Babydoll,” he croaked. “I—fuck—I can’t…”

“You’re in the murder basement of your family estate, calling your sick girlfriend while you’re supposed to be eating souls,” she said sweetly. “You’re doing this to yourself.”

“I had to call you,” he argued, breathless. “You looked so fucking sniffly and adorable—I couldn’t not.”

“Mmhm,” she hummed. “And now I’m making your life difficult.”

He pressed the heel of his palm into his thigh. His voice was tight, bordering on wrecked. “You’re making it impossible.”

“You poor thing,” she crooned, voice full of syrupy mock-sympathy. “You’re all flustered and helpless and alone in some dark hallway, and I’m here sniffling and whining and—huhh…!”

Her eyes fluttered shut again.

“Hhhihhh—hh'n'gtx! Hh’gchh! k’tchh! h’pttshh! Nnxtch!”

Rexar cursed softly under his breath, fingers tightening visibly as he shifted out of frame.

She could hear the rustle of fabric. Could feel the tension vibrating through the screen.

“Do you need a break, Sparky?” she whispered.

He exhaled shakily, clearly struggling to focus. “What I need is a stronger soul and a cold shower.”

“You’ll get neither,” she said, relishing the way his face twisted with tortured delight. “So you’ll just have to sit there and listen.”

He let out the most broken little laugh. “Gods, I love you.”

“Yeah,” she said, sniffling again. “I know.”

She shifted on camera, blankets slipping to reveal her shoulder—red X tattoos vivid against pale skin, flushed cheeks, and the hoodie still hanging loose from her frame. Her nose twitched again.

“Think I’m gonna sneeze again,” she whispered.

Rexar let out a small, strangled sound.

Kriia gave him the slowest, most delicious pre-sneeze buildup imaginable. Her breath hitched. Her brows drew together. Her lashes fluttered.

“Huhhh… hehh… hiihh… Hh—n'ghkkT! hh’tchhh! hihhh…NnngCHh!—uhhh…”

She sagged back against the pillows, flushed and sniffling.

“Ohhhhhh gods,” Rexar whispered, his voice so hoarse she barely recognized it.

His camera shifted again—blurring out briefly as he angled it just off his lap. One of his hands was still visible at the edge of the frame, curled tightly, knuckles white.

“I should hang up,” he said, but it didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like begging.

Kriia smiled.

Then fake-whined, soft and desperate: “Baaabe, I feel so yucky…”

That broke him.

She watched it happen—his eyes fluttering shut, breath catching, nostrils flaring slightly as he let out a barely contained groan.

“I want to hold you so bad,” he whispered. “You’d be such a mess in my arms.”

She sniffled, then murmured, “I’m already a mess.”

He whimpered.

And for a second, Kriia forgot the ache in her body, the fever, the rasp in her throat. Because right now, she was winning.

Rexar Fang, descendant of murder-pyromancers, beloved soul of the underground music scene, six-foot-four menace of chaos and fire—

—was a stammering, undone wreck for her sneezes.

And she wasn’t about to let him forget it.

The sound of stone beneath Rexar’s boots echoed low and quiet, muffled by the thickness of air that hadn’t been touched by light in decades. The tunnel he’d ducked into stretched deep beneath the Fang estate—an ancient hall of carved obsidian, once used for rituals long since banned by the High Circle. It was colder down here, the walls damp with condensation, lit only by faintly pulsing glyphs scrawled across the stone.

He kept one hand on the wall, guiding himself deeper into privacy, the other holding his phone tight in his grip like a lifeline.

“I can still hear you breathing, y’know,” Kriia said on the other end, her voice like honey-dripped static through congestion. “Even when you run off like a scared little schoolboy.”

“I’m not—” Rexar broke off, dragging a hand over his flushed face. “I’m not scared. I’m trying not to catch fire in the middle of a death chamber, thanks.”

A breathy laugh filtered through the speaker. It was wet. Hoarse. Wicked. “Mmm. So dramatic…”

Rexar didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He could barely think.

His body ached—not just with heat and the rising storm of tension clawing its way through his gut—but with guilt, too. Somewhere two floors up, his brothers and cousins were performing a ritual centuries old. Flames. Incantations. The devouring of damned souls. A necessary evil in the world the Fang family had built and one Rexar hated with every bone in his body.

He was supposed to be participating. Should’ve been cleansing the next sacrificial vessel. But instead, he was in a tunnel—palms shaking, breath catching, painfully hard in ceremonial robes that still smelled like ash and incense—because his sick, sniffly girlfriend couldn’t stop teasing him.

“You sound a little out of breath,” Kriia murmured. “Everything okay down there?”

Her image was still framed perfectly on his screen: blankets around her like a plush throne, hoodie collar rumpled around her collarbone, hair tousled from fever-sleep. Her nose twitched subtly as she sniffled, lips parted around shallow, tickly breaths.

“Krii, please…” he whispered, voice raw.

“Please what?” she asked, all wide eyes and mock innocence. “Please stop describing how I feel like my entire body’s melting from the inside out? Or should I keep talking about how raw my throat feels? Or how I’m so dizzy and achey I can’t even sit up straight without—hhihh…—hehhh… h’Nxgtchhh!”

She collapsed forward with a breathy stifle that hit all at once—perfectly timed, utterly devastating, her breasts bouncing slightly with the force of it.

Rexar let out a sound that could only be described as a strangled whimper.

Kriia straightened slowly, blinking at him with glassy eyes. “Still with me?”

He stumbled, catching himself on the wall.

“Rexar,” she said, softer now, teasing giving way to curiosity. “Are you actually okay?”

“No,” he whispered. “Not even a little.”

“Then why are you still holding back?”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“Because this is wrong,” he said, breathless. “I’m literally underground while my family’s performing a soul ritual and you’re—you’re making me…”

“Making you what?” she asked.

Rexar groaned. His hand disappeared from frame again, this time bracing against his thigh, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths.

“Say it,” she whispered.

His nostrils flared. His smoke was thick now, curling up the camera lens. “You know what.”

“You like this,” she purred, voice hoarse but filled with smug glee. “You love this. Sitting in some haunted hallway, body burning, while your poor, congested girlfriend makes those little sick noises you lose your mind over…”

She sniffled again—loud, wet, intentionally exaggerated.

Kriia adjusted her position on the bed, shadows shifting around her like velvet tentacles responding to her mood. She looked into the camera with glassy, half-lidded eyes and a flushed nose twitching gently, deliberately exaggerating every motion as she reached up and rubbed her palm in slow circles beneath her nostrils.

“You still watching me?” she asked, voice like cracked honey.

Rexar, sitting hunched in the tunnel, nodded silently.

“Remember what you said that first night?” she crooned. “How you wanted to tie me up in a blanket cocoon, lay me in your lap, and keep tissues tucked into your waistband so you could wipe my nose for me every time I sneezed?”

“I—fuck—I didn’t mean it like—”

“Yes, you did,” she said with a sly smile. “You do want that. You want me feverish and soft and needy. You want me to look up at you with teary eyes and beg you to make the tickle go away.”

Rexar’s camera tilted slightly as he shifted, trying to hide the way his hips bucked forward. His breathing had fully changed—shorter, sharper, his voice caught somewhere in his throat.

“Say it,” Kriia whispered. “Say what you want.”

“I want you,” he finally gasped. “Sick and squirmy and fucking helpless. I want to take care of you until I can’t stand it anymore.”

Kriia grinned, slow and dangerous. “And then what?”

His next breath was guttural. “Then I want to ruin you.”

She gave a soft moan—half a congested groan, half breathy giggle—and tilted her head, pretending to sniffle innocently. Her fingers crept up to press beneath her nose again.

“Ohhh, Rexar… I feel another one coming… what if I can’t hold it back this time?”

“Don’t,” he begged. “Let it happen—please—”

She fluttered her lashes, breathing building in theatrical little hitches.

“Hhhuhhh… hhhH’NGSHhh! h’tchhh!—huh’Ktchhh! Ahhh…”

She didn’t cover it. Let the mist glint in the screen light again. And when she recovered, panting lightly, her voice went syrupy again.

“Bet you wish you were here to clean that up.”

Rexar groaned so deeply it echoed.

“Gods,” she whispered. “You get like this every time, don’t you? The second I sound a little stuffy, you forget all about fire rituals and soul feasting. All you want to do is—what? Babysit me? Pin me down and pet me until I sneeze all over you?”

“K-Krii,” he stammered, voice low, breath shallow.

“You’re so easy,” she purred. She leaned in toward the screen, just enough for her camo bra to peek out again as she pulled her hoodie collar down slowly. “Every little sniffle I make, you get hotter. Your fingers start twitching. You forget how to speak.”

He swallowed audibly.

“You want to help me, don’t you?” she asked sweetly. “Tuck me under the blankets, rub my back, kiss my forehead while I—hhuhhh… hh’nkkTCH!—huh’Nxtchhh!—hiihh... hhh’tchhh!”

She collapsed forward again, breath catching so prettily between sneezes she sounded winded by the end of it.

Rexar was on the edge. His breathing had gone shallow, one hand now flat on the floor beside him for support as he practically trembled with restraint.

“Princess…”

“I’d be whining for you,” she continued softly. “Nuzzling against your chest, rubbing my little stuffy nose into your shirt…”

“Babygirl,” he begged.

“And you’d love it,” she whispered. “You’d tell me how cute I sound. How helpless. How bad you want to—”

“Don’t,” he snapped—but the way he said it wasn’t angry. It was desperate. Like he needed her to stop just as much as he didn’t.

She tilted her head at the screen. “You’re making that face again.”

“What face.”

“That starving face.”

“I’m not—”

“Your eyes get all shiny,” she murmured, licking her lips. “And your nose twitches. And you get this little tremble in your voice, like you’re fighting every urge in your body not to lose it.”

He said nothing. He couldn’t.

So she delivered the killing blow.

“You’re so good at pretending to be composed when you’re turned on,” she whispered. “It’s adorable.”

Rexar snapped.

He dropped the phone briefly as he leaned his head back against the wall and groaned—loud. The screen went black for a second, muffled by fabric, before tilting sideways to capture only the edge of his jaw and the heavy fall of his red-tinted bangs.

His voice came through ragged. “I’m not gonna make it back to the ritual.”

“Don’t,” Kriia whispered. “Stay with me.”

“I shouldn’t.”

“But you will.”

He didn’t argue. Couldn’t.

He stayed there, slouched on the cold stone floor, ceremonial sash twisted around his waist, breath shaking, hips subtly shifting as he tried to ground himself. His smoke curled higher, denser, glowing with embers that shimmered with every ragged exhale.

“You’re wrecked,” Kriia cooed. “All because I’ve got a head cold.”

“Not just that,” he breathed. “Because it’s you.”

Kriia smiled—soft and real this time. “I’d kiss you if you were here.”

“Even if I was sweating through my clothes and leaking smoke?”

“Especially then.”

He laughed—a rough, low sound. Then: “You are evil.”

“I just know what you like.”

“You’re what I like.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then—quietly, almost sheepishly—Rexar said, “If you don’t stop, I’m gonna—”

“Then don’t stop,” she interrupted, voice raspy with congestion and control. “Don’t stop anything.”

He exhaled so hard it sounded like his whole chest was collapsing.

“I can’t even touch you,” he rasped, one hand dragging across his jaw. “And I’m still closer than I’ve ever been.”

Rexar’s grip on the phone was white-knuckled, jaw clenched so tightly his temple ached. The flames of his family’s ritual still danced somewhere above, but down in this carved-out sanctum of obsidian tunnels, all he could see—all he could feel—was her.

Kriia.

A flushed, sniffling, sick mess on the screen. And she was glowing.

Not literally. Not like him. But in the dim lamplight of their shared bedroom, she looked lit from within—cheeks ruddy, nose pink and twitching, lips parted with every ticklish breath. She had that dazed look she wore when fevered, half-feral and fully dangerous.

She gave a hoarse little giggle, rubbing under her nose with a knuckle. “Still watching me fall apart, flameboy?”

“I can’t not,” Rexar groaned, barely keeping the tremor from his voice.

“Good.”

Then—slowly, theatrically—she lifted her shirt just enough to show off the curve of her camo bra. The motion sent her hair spilling messily over one shoulder, her breath visibly hitching.

“I think I feel another sneeze coming…”

Rexar couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

Kriia’s build-up was torturously slow. She let her breath flutter in ragged, uneven waves—head tilting, nostrils flaring delicately, lashes fluttering. “Hhhihhh… hiihhh… hhH’NG’tchh! K’tchh! H’ngCHhh! Huhhh… nn’KXshhh!”

She sneezed openly at the camera—wet, head-snapping fits that misted faintly in the dim light.

Rexar whimpered offscreen.

Kriia sniffled and tilted her head at him. “You still breathing?”

“Barely,” he rasped.

“Gods, you’re so easy,” she whispered, voice thick with amusement—and congestion. “You get hard so fast. Bet you’re already stroking yourself under those robes, aren’t you?”

Rexar’s head hit the wall behind him with a quiet thunk. “Don’t. Start.”

Kriia smiled—languid, sly, eyes half-lidded. “You want me to stop?”

He didn’t answer.

So she leaned in closer, let the camera catch every detail of her flushed, glistening expression. “I’m still burning up,” she whispered. “My skin’s so sensitive I can’t even lie still. And my nose just won’t stop.”

Another sharp inhale.

She snapped forward with a wet, breathy “Hh’NgxtCHhh!—uhhh…”

This time she moaned a little after, drawing her sleeve slowly across her upper lip. “Still there, Sparky?”

Rexar’s voice broke: “Fuck, yes.”

He shifted the camera slightly. She caught a glimpse of his hand—finally sliding beneath his robe, slow and unsteady. His face was flushed deep crimson now, lips parted, breath shallow.

“You’re touching yourself,” she breathed.

“I had to,” he muttered, like it physically hurt to admit. “You—you’re too much.”

“Poor thing,” she cooed. “You’re down in your murder basement, getting off to your girlfriend’s sneezes while the rest of your family’s out sacrificing souls.”

“I know,” he hissed, stroking himself now in slow, shuddering movements. “It’s so fucked.”

She smirked, letting out a fake-cute little cough. “You love it.”

“I love you,” he choked. “That’s worse.”

She giggled again, rubbing her nose between forefinger and thumb. “What if I just… kept going?”

He twitched. Visibly.

So she pushed.

“Ohhh, babe… I feel soooo yucky,” she mock-whined. “I need someone to take care of me. Rub my back. Hold me while I—hhuhhh!—Huhhh’nGTCHhh! k’tCHhh!”

She shuddered with the release, mouth parted, breath panting just a little harder.

The wet sound of his slicked strokes reached her through the speaker.

“Ohhh my gods,” she murmured. “You’re really doing it.”

“You’re making me do it,” he growled.

She tilted her head. “Good.”

“Touch yourself,” he ordered.

Kriia blinked, then raised an eyebrow. “You sure you can handle me doing that?”

“Try me.”

She didn’t hesitate. One hand dipped under the blanket, just past the camera’s frame. Her body shifted, hips rolling slowly as her fingers found heat.

Rexar moaned.

“I’m so sensitive,” she whispered. “My skin’s all hot and I keep flinching every time I sneeze. Everything tingles. Even this…”

She stroked herself gently, breath catching.

“Fucking hell,” Rexar growled, speeding up.

“I’m gonna get messy,” she moaned. “All sticky and flushed and red—and still sneezing.”

She let out a wet sniffle, the sound obscenely timed, dragging her hand higher for one deep rub.

“Say it,” she panted. “Say what I do to you.”

“You make me crazy,” he gasped. “You make me fucking feral. I want to bury my face in your pussy while you’re feverish and begging.”

“Mmmn,” she moaned. “You’d hold me tight, right? While I can’t stop sneezing into your chest? Your shirt soaked in it, and you’d just groan every time—”

“Hnnngh—Kriia!”

She gasped too, working herself harder now under the covers, her chest rising with every fevered breath. “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you? Just from hearing me like this?”

He nodded, frantic. “Say my name.”

“Rexar,” she purred.

Again—more desperate: “Say it.”

“Rexar,” she moaned. “Flameboy. S-Sparky. I’m gonna—hhuhhh… HHH’KTCHhh!—Ahhh! Gods—”

She came with a gasp and a sniffle, hips bucking beneath the blanket, every part of her trembling with overstimulated sensitivity.

Rexar came seconds after, breath shattering into raw, incoherent groans. His hand kept moving for a moment as he rode it out, hips arching, until he slumped back against the wall—completely undone.

For several seconds, neither of them said a word.

Kriia laid there in the dark, chest rising and falling, a lazy, satisfied smirk curling across her lips.

Again, after several seconds, Rexar finally reappeared on camera—hair mussed, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and shining in the soft firelight of his hidden sanctuary. His skin glowed faintly red from exertion and residual magik, lips parted as if even breathing took effort now. His chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate rhythm—every inhale still tinged with the heat of his undoing.

He looked wrecked. And wholly satisfied.

He stared at the screen, drinking her in as though the image alone could sustain him a moment longer. Kriia was still lying back in her fevered nest, her shirt back in place, hoodie slightly askew on one shoulder. Her nose was still pink, twitching faintly now and then, and she dabbed at it lazily with a tissue, face soft with post-teasing contentment.

When Rexar finally spoke, his voice came out gentle, half-broken with awe, “You are fucking lethal.”

Kriia barely glanced up from blowing her nose, the sound wet and unbothered. She tossed the tissue aside with dramatic flair and exhaled tiredly. “Still worth it.”

They grinned at each other through the dim, wrecked glow of their devices.

“Okay,” Rexar finally muttered, “I need to go find a cold fountain. Or die.”

“Don’t die,” Kriia said, burrowing into the blankets. “Just come home soon.”

“Tomorrow,” he promised. “And you’re not moving. I’m gonna take care of everything.”

Kriia yawned, shadows curling up around her again. “Good. I’ll be sneezy and pathetic. Just for you.”

Rexar’s grin softened into something near worshipful.

“I love you, plague rat.”

“I know,” she mumbled, eyes already closing. “I love you, hotshot.”

There was silence for a moment—thick with shared heat, sickroom intimacy, and the kind of charged calm that came only after surrender.

Then Rexar laughed, breathless, and whispered, “Only you could get me to do these kinds of things.”

Kriia’s lips curved. “Who else but Kriia?”

She didn’t need to say anything else.

The next few minutes passed in a lull, peaceful but heavy with afterglow. Neither of them said much. Rexar rested his head against the wall, occasionally glancing down to check his camera, as if afraid she'd disappear if he blinked too long. Kriia sniffled once or twice but didn’t speak. Her eyes began to flutter closed as her breathing slowed. The teasing was done, the game complete. Now she was just tired.

She shifted deeper into her blankets, hoodie tugged up to her chin, shadows gently coiling tighter around her limbs like velvet vines. Her last visible motion was a twitch of her nose and a soft sigh as she turned onto her side, the screen dimming slightly as the camera auto-adjusted to the dark.

Rexar watched it all.

The rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers curled loosely around the edge of a tissue. The slight hitch in her breath as she sank from playful mischief into deep, medicated sleep.

He didn’t say goodbye.

He didn’t need to.

Instead, he let the image burn into him, let the stillness settle, and whispered so softly that it might not have even made it through the speaker:

“Sleep tight, menace.”

Her shadow shifted in reply—just the faintest ripple—and then stilled again.

It was nearly two in the morning by the time the Fang estate fell silent.

Above ground, the halls still carried the residue of the ritual: a low thrum of residual energy, the smell of scorched air and sanctified ash. The Culling was complete. The ceremonial fire had gone out. The others had retired to their chambers or slunk off into the snow-drenched hills beyond the estate to hunt or smoke or meditate, as they always did after devouring something eternal.

But Rexar stayed in the tunnel.

Slumped against the wall, robe half-undone, face still flushed, he watched his phone screen with the quiet intensity of someone who'd just survived a holy war. Not because of the Culling. Because of her.

Kriia had fallen asleep on the call.

He hadn’t wanted to hang up. Couldn’t bring himself to. Even now, her camera stayed open, her screen dimmed just enough to blur her features into dreamy softness.

She was curled under her mountain of blankets like a fevered empress, cheeks still ruddy, breath shallow. Her shadows coiled lazily around her shoulders and chest like a living scarf, weaving gently with each inhale, reacting even in her sleep.

Rexar watched her for several minutes, chin resting against his knee, a small crooked smile playing at the corner of his mouth. His body still tingled—warm, drained, soul-deep content like he'd been wrung out and left glowing.

Then the screen went dark.

He blinked.

No warning. Just—Call ended.

For a second, he sat in stunned silence.

And then: buzz.

New Message from Kriia.

hey sparky,
you’re probs a melted pile of smoke rn but… just in case you’re still in one piece:
i miss you.
even more than i wanna sneeze on you.
maybe. 😛

A second later, another buzz. A voice memo this time.

He hesitated, then pressed play.

Her voice came through rough, raw with congestion, quiet like she didn’t want to wake herself up.

“Hey. Um. Sorry I ended the call. My phone tried to overheat and combust. Wonder why…”
soft congested laugh
“You’re probably still glowing, huh? All sweaty and pretty and ruined.”
pause, long inhale
“I feel gross. Still. But… I dunno. That was nice. You made me feel like I wasn’t alone, even if I was a snot-monster in a blanket cave.”
pause again, soft shifting of sheets
“So yeah. I miss you. And I love you a lot. Come home soon. Or I’ll find a way to sneeze directly into your next family gathering.”
sniffle, softer now
“...Night, Sparky.”

Rexar bit back a groan that was half love, half ache, all need.

He opened the text reply bar and hovered for a moment before typing:

You are the most beautiful snot-monster in history.
I am, in fact, still glowing.
I miss you so bad it’s making me stupid.
You can sneeze on me tomorrow. I’m not even kidding.

Then, almost as an afterthought, he snapped a picture with the front-facing camera.

His hair was a mess. His face flushed. Eyes still heavy-lidded, and the firelight behind him painted him in deep oranges and shadowy reds. He looked wrecked. Soft.

He captioned it: “You did this.”

Hit send.

Then closed his eyes.

Let his head fall back against the obsidian wall. Let the chill of the tunnel wrap around him like a counterpoint to the heat still singing through his blood.

“Gods,” he whispered into the dark, to no one and only her. “I miss you.”

Back in their shared wing of the estate, Kriia lay cocooned in warmth.

The shadows wrapped her like a velvet cocoon, responding to her every breath with tiny pulses of inky motion. The fire in the hearth had died to coals, and her fever had dipped just low enough to grant her lucidity without totally robbing her of the sick haze that made the world feel softer.

Her phone buzzed gently on her chest.

She cracked open one eye and peeked at the screen.

The selfie made her laugh out loud—a breathy, tired chuckle that caught in her throat. Gods, he was such a mess. And it was so obviously her fault. The thought alone made her cheeks heat.

She didn’t reply.

Instead, she whispered to the shadows, too soft for words, and they responded—curling tighter around her like arms, warm and thick and heavy. Almost like him.

She let her eyes fall shut.

Still smiling.

Six hours later, Rexar slipped in through the back entrance of their estate, covered in snow and ash.

The room was dark.

Silent.

He peeled off his robe, hung it over the rack, and padded quietly through the hall. When he reached the bedroom, he stopped.

She was still asleep. Curled up under their blankets. Nose pink. Mouth open. One arm flopped over the pillow, the other clutching a tissue box like a stuffed animal.

She sniffled softly in her sleep.

Rexar melted on the spot.

He tiptoed closer, reached down, and brushed a lock of red hair from her cheek. Her skin was cool now, no longer burning. Her shadows flicked toward him lazily, then relaxed. Accepting. Welcoming.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

She didn’t wake.

But she smiled in her sleep.

And that was enough.

The End ✨