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athousandblessings · 8 days ago

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ostinato

featuring: a broody mercenary (Avery) who made a deal years ago with a neutral evil god of thieves, assassination, and secrecy. The god gives him magic and enhanced strength, but unfortunately it also lives in his head a fair bit of the time now. Stingy bastard won't even pay rent. This time, Avery has drawn too much power from his god, and in addition to sporting a magic hangover from hell, he seems to have managed to catch a cold too. What rotten luck. (also featuring: a tiefling (Dusk) who owns the tavern that he crashes at when he's on missions, so they really only see him when he's sick or beaten to shit. Also sometimes the two of them sleep together, but it's casual, they swear.) { 3.6k words }

OSTINATO (n.) - a short melodic phrase repeated throughout a composition, sometimes slightly varied or transposed to a different pitch. (Encyclopedia Britannica)

There was a faint shimmer in the vision of Avery’s left eye, like a heatwave dancing in the night air. Squeezing that eye shut helped with the dizziness, but it ruined his depth perception, and after bumping into several passersby, he decided it wasn’t quite worth it.

He felt like a wineskin that had been drained dry then crushed underfoot, like a shell scraped out and left to bleach on the shoreline. His shoulders ached, his head throbbed, and his hands were somehow both numb and tingling.

He’d gone too far, he’d pulled too much magic from his god-source. But if the choice was between a several-day-hangover and failing to accomplish his mission, well, that wasn’t really a choice at all. The parcel had been delivered to its target, and he’d fought off six men with bows and cutlasses without getting so much as a scratch in return.

And now he had to stop and briefly lean against an alley wall until the world around him stopped tilting twenty degrees to the left. It would not do to return triumphant only to immediately pass out on the tavern floor.

When he finally made it back, there was a dull rushing in his ears, and the dizziness had turned to dark spots scattered across his vision. Thankfully it was late (or early) enough that the bar was mostly empty, and he slumped into a chair by the fire with what felt like the very last of his stamina.

“Welcome back.”

It was Dusk, because it was always Dusk who managed to see Avery at his worst. They had a mug in one hand and a rag in the other, and the firelight caught along the brass rings on their horns as they made their way over to - presumably - check on him. He knew he looked like a drunkard off the street right now, dirty and woozy, but Dusk was used to it.

“Mmf.” Avery mumbled into his hands. He was trembling all over, small shivers rolling into full-body shakes that made his joints and muscles ache as he clenched his teeth and tried to keep them at bay.

“Well damn.”

Avery’s eyes were closed, but he had a good sense of what Dusk looked like right now. He’d seen it a dozen times – a furrow between their brows, a slight cant to their head, eyes narrowed, nose scrunched in begrudging appreciation, lips parted just enough to show a hint of fang.

Avery removed his hands from his face and coughed, then opened his eyes. Sure enough, Dusk’s expression was a perfect match to the image in his mind. “Some wine, Dusk, please.”

A flash of something like relief crossed Dusk’s face before they rolled their eyes and adopted a long-suffering air. “If you’re bleeding on my floor, you’re going to be the one to scrub it later.”

Avery flapped a hand at them as they left, too drained to explain that no, actually he wasn’t injured this time, because he was sure he looked enough like death that it hardly mattered.

The god in his mind was quiet, fully sated for now by the sheer amount of power Avery had channelled through himself. But instead of it being a relief, Avery just felt hollow.

“Here.”

Dusk was back, and Avery began to reach for the glass in their hands before pausing and raising his arm to his face to catch a heavy sneeze. “EHHSH’uh!”

“Bless you.” Dusk withheld the wine, waiting for the second sneeze that clearly had Avery in its grasp, making him squint and hold his breath for several long moments before it abruptly dissipated. He sighed, deflating, and twitched his nose with a sniffle.

“Thank you,” he said, because it was polite, and because there was always something funny about people blessing a disciple of an evil god.

Not that Dusk knew about his link with the god, because no one did. In fact, Dusk knew very little about Avery outside of the fact that he’d come into town periodically to stay at the inn for a week or two, which was the way he liked it. He did imagine that they knew he was involved in some shady dealings, seeing as they’d found him bloodied and limping and reeking of gunpowder more than was probably normal, but they’d always been good about keeping their mouth shut.

Except tonight, apparently. They were frowning, and the flicker of sincerity growing in their copper eyes made Avery’s skin feel hot and prickly. Or maybe that was the fever.

“Do you want me to call for a healer? I know it’s late, but I know a guy –”

Dusk always knew a guy. Avery was already shaking his head. They frowned deeper.

“Are you sure?”

An oily coolness slunk over Avery’s vision, surprising him – he thought the god had gone, he’d thought he was alone – and briefly giving him a look at himself through the tiefling’s eyes. He looked horrible, pale and sharp-jawed and sweating and shivering in turn, with grey shadows beneath his eyes and a flush on his cheeks. And then Avery was back in his own body, and he winced.

“I’ll be fine in the morning.”

He wouldn’t be; judging from past experiences, the fever would fully set in overnight, and he’d be sore and weak and dizzy. But Dusk didn’t know that, and Avery hoped that he’d been firm enough that they would take the cue to back off. Dusk wasn’t typically one for the mushy emotions of things, which was one of the reasons Avery liked them.

Thankfully, they seemed to understand, and they set his wine on a low table in front of him with a brief scowl, then swept back to their station at the bar.

He should have asked for tea or something else hot, he thought as he reached for the wine and recoiled at the touch of the cool glass. The chill of the god’s magic was spreading deep in his bones like a plant-killing frost, and even room temperature liquid was too cold for comfort. But leaving a drink unfinished would be an even larger cause for concern, and he already disliked the feeling that Dusk was carefully watching him as they busied themself with the few other patrons and with cleaning the glassware.

It was a nervous tic of Dusk’s, cleaning glassware. It gave them something to do with their hands and steadied their nerves. Avery had clocked it within an hour of entering the establishment for the first time, nearly a year ago at this point.

Avery braced himself and took a gulp of his wine, then shivered. Dusk was paying more attention to him tonight than they had in months, and if he wanted to keep the Rusted Toad as a safe haven, he needed to make sure the tiefling stayed off his case.

It was a long ten minutes, but finally, his glass was empty enough that he could retire for the night. The lamps in the bar were guttering in halos that doubled briefly in his vision, and he could feel every bone in his spine shifting like an unbalanced tower as he flicked Dusk a salute, as he always did, then began the slow climb to his room on the third floor.

–

When Avery woke the next morning, he wasn’t sure that he’d truly awoken at all. Maybe he’d died and gone to the Abyss to suffer for his sins, and this was only the beginning of an eternity of torment.

But then the heavy murk in his sinuses shifted on a breath, and he half-rolled to sneeze blindly towards the other side of the narrow pallet. “hh’ESSHH! Hh–hESHHoo!”

Gross. Horrible. So he hadn’t perished in the night, although that option was seeming far more appealing in the moment, as the motion of the sneeze sent hot lances of pain spiderwebbing through his neck and ribs and shoulders and – gods, did any part of him not hurt?

He lay on his side for a moment, panting through cracked lips - they were beginning to bleed, he could taste it - then squeezed his eyes shut, as if blocking out the sights of the unfurnished inn room would somehow do anything but deprive him of things to pay attention to beyond the signals of pain pain pain flickering throughout his body.

Someone got greedy, didn’t they.

The voice in his mind was as shapeless as smoke, communicating more often in imagery and shades of emotion than words, but what the god was trying to say was never in question. Avery gave a huff of irritation, then quickly regretted it as it turned to a coughing fit that scraped his lungs raw.

Tch. Pitiful.

But the god was pleased. Avery could feel it in the way that the voice curled around the edges of his thoughts, twining and preening like a cat used to being adored.

“Fuck off,” he managed hoarsely, wincing against the bite of the words against his throat.

There was another brush against his consciousness, making something prickle behind his eyes, and he tucked his face towards his shoulder to catch another pair of heavy sneezes triggered from his cold-sensitive nose by even the thought of the god’s touch. “Ihhhh– ESHHuh! h’IESHHiuh!”

The god paused, a sense of curious confusion from it lighting briefly in Avery’s mind, then repeated the ‘motion,’ this time with a more targeted wave of sensation.

Avery’s reflexive gasp felt like he was breaking the surface after a long dive, and he filled his lungs just in time to expel the air again in a desperate rush, trying to scratch at an itch that wasn’t physically there.

“ESHHHhh!” He curled into himself reflexively, tucking his face towards the pillow as if it could help him avoid the god’s touch. It couldn’t. “–ESHHeuu! gh…hh’IESHHuh-ESHHhh!”

Fascinating, the god murmured, and then its presence was gone, leaving Avery breathing hard, sniffling, and light-headed, but mercifully alone with his thoughts…and the pain he’d earned by brushing too close to the limits of the mortal body.

He could feel the heat of his own skin reflecting back from the straw pallet beneath him and the prickle of fever along his scalp, but the heaviness in his lungs, the sneezing, and the lingering, ticklish congestion meant that he truly did have the worst timing in the world, because he’d gone and caught a cold on top of the magic hangover that would already take him days to shake off.

He had to return to Miior to report that the job was done, but the idea of appearing in front of his superiors in his current state made him cringe deeper into his thin blankets. It was common knowledge among his peers that Avery caught chills easily, and every time he slunk back to the guild with so much as a case of the sniffles, it added fuel to the fire and extended the length of the joke. It was light-hearted, at least from most of them, but it still made him loath to show his face.

He dabbed at his running nose with the rough edge of his sleeve, wincing at the abrasive fabric. He had no handkerchiefs, and the last thing he wanted to do (even less than reporting to Miior) was to run errands, but he needed food, he needed water, and he needed to piss, so he needed to at least leave his rooms briefly.

The fever was higher than he’d originally thought, he realized, as he levered himself from the bed and almost immediately lost his balance, pitching to the side and slamming his already-aching shoulder into the edge of the window. It made his vision stutter, graying briefly, and he clutched onto the sill, nails biting into the splintering wood, until he felt more confident that he was unlikely to pass out between here and the doorway.

One step at a time. One dragging, aching step. His bones felt unevenly weighted, like their marrow had been filled with shifting sand, and it made him slow and ungainly.

“ESHHoo!…hh’ESHHeuu!”

And there was also that – the sinus pressure, the sniffling, the ache in his ears and throat that made him flinch when he swallowed. And the sneezing, which, while less uncomfortable than his other symptoms, was the most difficult of them to cloak.

The god had never done that before. It had pressed on Avery’s sensitive spots in the past, dragging his awareness to an injury that he was trying to ignore, haunting him with whispers and shadows, but it had never triggered a direct response from him. It didn’t bode well, and though he knew the god would grow quiet in the light of day, he knew every tickle feathering through his sinuses would bring with it a whisper of anxiety, a remembered ghostly impulse –

“hhESHH!”

He needed to stop thinking about it. He coughed into his fist and began the excruciating process of dressing for the day.

At least it wouldn’t be Dusk downstairs, with the hour that they’d still been working the previous night. That was a small comfort.

It had been four or so months ago that he and Dusk had fallen into bed together for the first time. The god had been haunting Avery’s dreams and making sleep unpleasant, so he’d spent the wee hours of the morning at the bar, where there ended up being little else to do but converse with the tiefling bartender.

He’d also had no leads on his recent missing persons case, so it was one of his rare stays at the Rusted Toad where he hadn’t slunk through the doors bloodied and bruised. Dusk had, of course, made sure to point it out.

“Did you finally get tired of getting your ass kicked?”

Avery had clicked his tongue and taken a sip of his wine. “I don’t always get my ass kicked.”

Dusk had leaned across the bar, their spaded tail lashing slowly behind them. From this close, Avery could almost count the freckles sprinkled across the bridge of their nose. “I beg to differ.”

The sex had been great, and Dusk hadn’t asked about any of Avery’s scars, and most importantly, they hadn’t expected cuddling or a sleepover afterwards. They’d slept together several times since, though Avery’s schedule of only staying at the Toad when he was on a mission occasionally got in the way. But it was all very casual, and a little bit of physical exertion to work off the post-mission adrenaline was often exactly what he needed.

Vale was working the bar when Avery finally made it down to the ground floor, stopping several times on the landings to catch his breath and wait for his equilibrium to return. She was a cheerful half-elf who co-owned the place with Dusk, and she was far chattier than they were, but fortunately this time of day was busy with the lunch crowd, so Avery could hobble to a table in the corner and settle for a bit before she whisked over to check on him.

“Hello! Dusk said you were staying with us again.” She plopped a sandwich and some water on the table before he could so much as greet her, then grinned when he raised an eyebrow. “They also said you’d be looking like shit this morning, and that if you didn’t come down by the afternoon, I should check your room and make sure you weren’t dead.”

“They talk too much,” Avery grumbled, though he could have cried at the sight of the food and water.

She clapped him on the shoulder, then frowned when she brushed against the bare skin of his neck, her cheerful mien quickly morphing into concern. “You’re really warm. Do you want me to send for someone?”

He leaned away from her to sneeze into his elbow, which unfortunately did not help his case, and resurfaced with a rough throat-clear. “ESHHieu! Hkm. No, thank you. But I do think I’ll take this up to my room.”

Vale was clearly wavering, but there were plates beginning to pile up at the kitchen window, and she had no time to babysit him. “I’ll put it on your tab,” she said after a moment, then shook her head with a sigh. “Please take care of yourself, Avery. Dusk would have a fit if you up and died on us.”

The quiet plea hit him in a way that Dusk’s poorly-disguised hovering the night before had not, and he looked away. “I promise I won’t do so before I pay my tab. Knight’s honor.”

They both knew he was no knight, so that at least teased a smile from Vale before she returned to the other customers.

The dishware was difficult to carry three floors back to his quarters, but it was better than haunting the bar until Vale got fed up and followed through on her threat to fetch a healer.

(She and Dusk didn’t know that Avery could heal a little bit too, which was one of the more pleasant side effects of dedicating himself to the service of a divine being. But healing magic was useless on much beyond physical injuries, and he knew better than to try and treat a magic hangover by pulling more power from his already-depleted stores.)

There was a dull, insistent pressure at the back of his sinuses, which meant he had to sneeze again. Once the food and water had been safely set down, he paused, pulling all of his awareness to his breathing in an attempt to just get it over with, to hopefully satiate the tickle long enough that he could finish his meal and go back to sleep.

But the sneeze was toying with him, shortening his breathing and driving him to irritated distraction but refusing to manifest, and after a few rounds of fruitless hitching he growled to himself and brought the callused edge of his thumb to his nose for a brief, rugged scratch along the already raw skin.

That did it, and Avery hardly had time to get his hand away before he sneezed twice in a dizzying double, then a third that delivered such a wave of relief that he let himself sag back against the wall. His nose was running now, but at least he no longer had to sneeze.

Fuck, he felt like he could sleep for a godsdamned year. He could put off his return to Rushlight headquarters until tomorrow; his cold would be worse, but at least he would more likely be able to climb a flight of stairs without swooning. Travel would be uncomfortable, but facing the questions of his higher-ups would be worse.

He managed a few more bites of the food before it began to turn to ash in his mouth, and he reluctantly abandoned it and returned to his nest of blankets. He’d sweated through them during the night, and crawling under them again made him feel sticky and unclean, but until his fever broke it would be more of the same, so it wasn’t worth asking for others.

He dozed fitfully, caught in the irritating back-and-forth of flipping between freezing and burning up, and when those weren’t keeping him awake, the congestion took its turn. At least the god was quiet, which was an unexpected blessing, but perhaps it had drunk its fill from Avery and was slumbering too.

He didn’t know how many hours passed before he gave up on rest, but night had long since fallen when he rose to glance out the room’s tiny window. The fever still simmered in his blood, and his throat ached enough that he’d started to develop a dry cough, but his head was clearer, which meant it was as good a time as any to start the journey back.

Packing his things took all of five minutes, and he took the room key in hand before making his way back down to the first floor again.

Dusk brightened when they saw him, but they quickly tucked it behind a smirk. “Shit, Vale didn’t lie.”

“Yes, yes, I know. ‘Avery looks like death,’ what’s new.” Avery was undeniably congested at this point, which made him wince internally as he tossed the room key onto the bar and began to dig for his coin pouch. Dusk pocketed the key with a frown.

“You’re leaving? It’s the middle of the night.” And you look like you could use the rest, was the implicit addition, which Avery chose to ignore.

“Yes.” He took a little more care with the coins, pressing them gently to the polished wood, then withdrew. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“This was a quicker stay than usual.” Dusk didn’t touch the coins, but they did pick up an already-dry mug and begin to wipe it with a cloth. “You didn’t even have time to see the sights.”

Their tone was innocent enough, but Avery knew an innuendo when he heard one, and he huffed an amused exhale - or, tried to, but all it really did was shift the congestion and make him spin to sneeze towards the shoulder furthest from Dusk. “h’IESHHiuh! hh…hhh–ESHHoo!”

“Bless you.”

Avery coughed to clear his throat, which made his chest ache. He didn't acknowledge the blessing this time. “It’ll be a few months, but I’ll likely return at some point.”

It wasn’t a promise – he’d never promise anything, even to Dusk – but the admission still seemed to make them relax. They put down the glassware.

“Well, that is our busy season, but maybe we’ll have a room or two, if you’re lucky.”

The Rusted Toad was rarely full, but Avery knew the part he played in this conversation, so he shrugged. “Perhaps I will be. Good night, Dusk.”

“Night, Avery.”

Avery’s back was to them as he turned to leave, but he could hear them catch their breath, then start to say something else, but they seemed to think better of it.

So Avery tugged up the hood of his cloak and let the door close behind him with a solid thud, then made his way into the night.

#OK probs shouldn't have read this like literally as I'm going to bed bc I'm too tired to leave proper comments #but I LOVED this!#got totally sucked into the world #And would definitely love to read more!

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athousandblessings · 13 days ago

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"Human, after all" - Xaden (Fourth Wing)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

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

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

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

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

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

“But-”

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

“I hope you didn’t want this back,” he says, voice muffled, “I’m pretty sure I just ruined it.” I walk back to the bed, plopping the stack of soft clean cloths on the bedside table, “Don’t worry,” I say, smiling softly, and trailing my fingers through his hair, “plenty more where that one came from.” He leans into the touch, closing his eyes, and what’s left of my heart melts into a puddle of goo on the floor. The heat emanating off of him shakes me out of my mental daze. I lean down to tug his still-untied boots off his feet, “Now, clothes off, under the covers. I’m going to get a wet cloth for your fever, and see whether I have some herbs in my personal stock for that headache.” I lean down to kiss him but he turns his head so my lips land on his cheek instead, “Violet!” he exclaims, outraged. “I SAID I didn’t care, didn’t I?” I give him one last playful nudge before locating my own boots and heading out into the hall for the washcloth before he can say another word. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ...thanks for reading if you made it this far! There....maaay be more?

#This is the sort of thing I always WISH for in vanilla books 😅#Romance + hottie catching a cold #So I thank you for the wish fulfillment!!#i enjoyed this a whole lot #their banter was very cute too #ps I really like the spellings you chose!

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athousandblessings · 13 days ago

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Seeking Refuge - Grimm/Taisho

Just a short hurt/comfort thing between two warriors. The magic that keeps Taisho's demonic side in check doesn't work so well in the human realm. After a nasty encounter with an enemy, a short transformation renders Taisho weak and nearly incapacitated.

With Indigo away at an important conference for his editing business, Taisho chooses to seek help from a fellow warrior instead.

And this is where their own bond begins to take hold. __________________________________

Taisho struggles back into consciousness, the ache of his body like dull knives attacking bone with unrelenting vigor.

Too long. It had been too long.

In this realm, there were no safe havens, no places meant for recovery from such things, aside from human hospitals, which reeked of chemicals and impending disease. Why did they build such towers for healing, but boasted only death?

But he could not concern himself with human peculiarities. Safety was the priority and there was only one being who would commence to help him without question.

With the last of his strength ebbing away, he barely manages to knock upon the door to Grimm’s wooden house, willing the man to hear him somehow. Which he does after a minute or so, checking whatever manner of surveillance he has before opening the door.

“Taisho?” the man queries, despite knowing full well that it is he.

WIthout full use of his voice, Taisho can only nod once, clinging to the tattered shreds of his robes with as much grace as he can manage.

“Holy shit.” Grimm grabs his wrist, glances around the porch with a quick darting of eyes, and pulls him inside. “What the fuck happened to you?”

He has not seen himself yet, not knowing the full extent of his disarray, but it must be quite a sight, given Grimm’s incredulous expression.

“Demon,” Taisho manages.

When Grimm tilts his head with a wrinkled brow, Taisho points to himself indicatively, as if this somehow explains things.

Regardless of if Grimm understands or not, he leads him into the central part of the house with careful guidance, but Taisho’s reserves have vanished, his body rebelling against orders to walk or stand. He slides to the floor in a heap of shredded silk and tangled hair and Grimm is instantly beside him, his demeanor unlike Indigo’s fervent worry, but more so a stoic form of instantaneous duty.

Yes, he had made the right decision, to come to Grimm rather than his beloved catastrophizer. Indigo was a talented and concise healer, but this was not something his abilities could touch. A guardian was needed, one that would not falter under his rather wretched circumstance.

One pale hand reaches for him and Grimm drops to one knee beside the stricken Astral, the tips of Taisho's fingers swallowed in his grasp.

“Senshi.” The soft depth of Taisho's voice is a shadow of itself, little more than a whisper.

“Tell me what to do,” Grimm says.

Taisho's hand trembles with the faintest flutter of fingers and Grimm squeezes it with reassuring pressure.

“Blanket,” Grimm surmises. “Hang tight.”

Taisho has no idea what “hang tight” means, nor does he know just how Grimm anticipated his need, but he has. The man returns swiftly with the promised item and a pillow as well, first draping his body in heavy fabric before seeing to it that his head is no longer resting on the floor.

He makes an indicative gesture towards the fireplace with a half-hearted flick of his wrist and Grimm’s eyes track the movement, sending him into action.

Attentive. Uncannily observant. And apparently, quite good with kindling and matches.

He rests the tips of his fingers against his lips and Grimm merely nods, retreating into the kitchen and returning with a glass brimming with cold liquid. Again, Grimm says nothing, but merely raises his eyebrows in inquiry and Taisho nods, allowing Grimm to help him struggle into a sitting position.

The glass is cool between his palms, beveled and easy to grip, as if Grimm has made certain that he can do this himself. Which he does manage for the most part. While his throat is still raw and his voice a hoarse rendition of itself, it does give him some agency over his own speech, although he chooses not to use it.

Not yet.

Instead, he touches the leather strap which binds his hair away from his face with one hand, setting the glass beside him with a shaky release of fingers. Grimm fiddles with it for a moment and sits back with a frown, reaching into his pocket.

Is that . . . the hilt of a knife? Why only the hilt of–

A blade springs forth from an unseen edge and Taisho sits back just a touch. Humans certainly made some . . . interesting . . . weapons.

Nevertheless, Taisho inclines his head enough for Grimm to saw through the strap with one swift slice, sending his hair tumbling around his shoulders in a curtain of tangled white, draping both the pillow and the flooring behind him.

“Well, damn,” Grimm says.

A smirk pulls at the corner of Taisho’s mouth. Yes, his mane of hair was a rather impressive sight, he supposed, especially if one had not seen it unbound.

Grimm’s touch, however, is reverent. Gentle. He combs through the absurd length of hair with methodical diligence, untangling snarls with careful fingers, combing from crown to tips until it has become soft and manageable.

“Hey.” Grimm traces the line of his jaw with the softest brush of fingers. “Let’s get you out of this crap.” He tugs at the remains of the tattered kimono. “I have to pick you up. Might not feel too good.”

Taisho nods once. One arm slides beneath his shoulders and the other, under his legs as Grimm gathers him against his body with as much care as he can manage.

Pain arcs through his entire being, but Taisho does not flinch or groan, only the slightest wisp of a gasp escaping him. If Grimm notices, he says nothing, carrying him up the protesting creak of wooden stairs with ease until they have reached the sleeping quarters where is gently deposited atop the bed, supine and once again trembling with cold.

But not for long. Grimm’s actions are swift, stripping away the remains of his garments and cloaking him in a thick, velvety robe far too large for his countenance, but blissfully soft, far warmer than what he would have chosen for himself.

Before he can consider expressing his gratitude for Grimm’s careful and quick assistance, darkness claims him, his consciousness slipping into the abyss.

___________________________________________________________

It is not the natural release from sleep that awakens him many hours later, but the thick strands of daylight streaming through the curtains.

Like a knife to his already delicate sinuses, piercing deep into vision with a blinding, fierce sharpness that drags a heaving breath from his still-aching body.

“Iiihh. . . ! Ihh’SSSSHeeh! HuuhiiihSHHHH-eeh!” Taisho winces, moisture clouding his vision and threatening to trickle down one cheek. “Senshi. Curtains.”

“Hmm? Curtains?” Grimm’s groggy voice is muddled with confusion for a moment before he snaps to his senses.

He hops to his feet with surprising agility and pulls the heavy drapes shut. “Daylight got ya?”

“Mmmn,” Taisho murmurs in affirmation as Grimm returns to his side. His breath hitches with a tenuous breach of control. “Nnh’GKISSSSH-eeh!”

A low sound of discomfort escapes him and Grimm pulls the blankets to cover their heads, creating instant and total blackness.

“Bless you,” he says in that habitual, dutiful tone so often heard with Indigo.

“Arigato.”

The fabric of Grimm's shirt muffles his voice, but he cares not. The man is a warm, compelling energy, soothing to his absurdly sensitive senses.

His fingers curl in a slow cinching of material and he turns his face into the sleeve of the borrowed robe. “--iihSSHHEEEh! Hkk–ISSSSHT! Hnnnhh. . .”

Grimm splays a hand between his shoulders. “Bless you.”

Concern weights his words, not emphatically, but as an undercurrent.

It is. . .nice.

“Domo,” Taisho says.

“Mhmm.” Grimm presses himself closer rather than drawing Taisho against him.

It is a simple act of consideration for the dull throb that still consumes his entire being, but one that is appreciated nonetheless.

Grimm has not questioned his sudden appearance upon his doorstep in the deep hours of eveningtide, but he shall tell him. Perhaps after a longer period of rest, when his consciousness has stabilized and his words are more coherent. But for now, he keeps the details of such a thing to himself, choosing instead to relax into the warmth of Grimm’s embrace. The steady rhythm of his heart is a soothing pulse, the rise and fall of his chest a slow counterpoint to his own.

Fingers comb through his hair with measured, gentle precision and the simple act of attentive affection lulls him into complacency.

“Go back to sleep,” Grimm says.

And so he does.

#Oh this is really beautiful!#I could picture all of it #awful confession time from me.... I have a hard time with polycules #I know I know I know another dumb thing about me and it's so ridiculous but! leaving that! aside!!#This was just so LOVELY and TENDER #And the writing so well done #It was wonderful

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athousandblessings · 18 days ago

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Imagine someone catching the last few sneezes of a fit into a tissue (or tissues). They have to blow their nose, but they can tell it’s going to be more than the current tissues can handle. Instead of discarding them, they simply reinforce the current barrier with a couple extra tissues before blowing vigorously.

#I can definitely go for this #Mmm

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athousandblessings · 20 days ago

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@thedevillionaire, this is for you - Cerberus and Kia, displayed as bast as I knew how. I thank you again for your patience providing pics, and also for letting me in, to get to know them some. When my fic finally releases my brain, I have a LONG reading list ahead.

The top is a combined board because I designed them as the complements they seem to be. But, for your viewing pleasure, the individual boards are

CERBERUS

and KIA

Wonderful, vibrant characters you've really breathed life into. I look forward to getting to know them better, of course, and hope I did them justice. Looking forward to when you see this. ;)

#OMG how GORGEOUS!!#Oh I am going to stare at these forever #I adore these two and adore this!#What a lovely thing to do also 💕

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athousandblessings · 27 days ago

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Cane Napoletano (M, historical, 1/?)

I know, it’s been ages since I last wrote fic… apparently these two were enough to break my dry spell. This fic is set in Rome, 1492, during the Papal election following the death of Pope Innocent… and for all that grand summary, it’s mostly about two spies annoying each other and the people around them. This is mostly an introduction, lots of exposition, somewhat minimal snz, but I have fun things planned…

For the third time this morning, Isabetta snaps the nib of her quill.

She glares at the mangled thing. It has been re-cut twice already, and is probably beyond saving, so she tosses it down and opens a drawer in her desk. Preparing quills is a process she has always found calming; with everything that has happened in the past few days, there is a plentiful bundle of them.

The Pope has had the audacity to die. Or the good sense. Cardinals from far and wide have gathered for the Conclave. There is much work for a woman of her talents, and she has not left her study since the sun rose.

The room is the perfect expression of her position: bluntly, the bastard of one of those cardinals. When her father, Giuliano della Scala, had these apartments refurbished, he had the architect add a small concealed room behind his study, invisible everywhere except on the floor plans. Unofficial, inconvenient, yet he kept it — and her — close. As a child, it was her playroom, where she escaped scoldings and hid things her nurse forbade her from having. For her thirteenth birthday, her father had a fine walnut desk placed in it, and she truly felt grown-up. Having no sons, her father educated her as he would one: in languages, philosophy, theology, and the art of knowing more than she should. She keeps an eye on the goings-on in his study through a crack in the fresco that looks no more than incidental to the unsuspecting eye, and passes unseen through a door disguised in the hallway panelling.

And now is her chance to repay her father’s investment.

Selecting a new quill, Isabetta returns to her table. Avowed friends in the College in one column, neutrals in another, enemies in yet one more.

The click of a door latch makes her jump, and her quill disgorge a black glob across the page. For the Blessed Virgin’s sake — only a handful of people know about the door in the first place, and only one is presumptuous enough to knock —

“Cesare,” she says coldly when the door opens.

Cesare di Notte, one among many reasons why God could not have created Naples. Veleno, Isabetta should say; di Notte is nothing but a pomander of audacity to mask the stink of a birth even lower than hers. He’s a big mastiff of a man, dark curls and olive skin and a mole almost on his lip that infuriates her. A dog that never answers to the same master for long, but funnily enough those masters always seem to be her enemies. She detests his infuriating insouciance, the way he romps through life without a care for collateral. She detests his inability to take anything seriously. Most of all, she detests his talent for always showing up when she least wants to see him.

“I thought you were exiled from the city,” she says, going back to the table. The blot has wiped out all the names in the enemies column.

“I was.” It’s been at least a year, but she doesn’t remember Cesare’s voice being so hoarse. “I got bored. The thing about exile is, like most ‘rules’ in this city, it doesn’t stick if you know the right people.”

“Who paid your fine this time? The Orsini? The Colonna? I hope they know they’re fools.”

Cesare flops into a chair like a tomcat who owns the place. He sniffles, clears his throat and knuckles at his nose. Against her will, Isabetta’s stomach tightens. She has… certain tastes. No worse than any of the petty lusts the cardinals indulge in behind closed doors, but Cesare, damn him, has a large, aquiline nose, a touch crooked from fistfights past.

“They are fools,” he snorts. Then he lowers his voice. Almost a whisper, it’s even rougher. “I’ve heard your cardinal-father has ambitions. He and my master are evenly-matched.”

Isabetta sets down her quill and scowls. “Spying for a rival. Again. What makes you think I’m not going to have you arrested?”

He stretches out. A little frown crosses his face, and he knuckles at his nose again, sniffling more liquidly. “Turns out my master’s a fool too. He’s got it into his head that paying me is optional.”

Isabetta scoffs. “You wouldn’t know loyalty if it pissed in your wine.”

“And you wouldn’t know want, madonna della Scala,” Cesare snaps. She detects the sniffle at the end of the sentence. He clears his throat once more. “You’re scratching down names in a ledger while your father is being outmanoeuvred. I hahh— huh…I havehhh… huh’dzschhuhh!”

The sneeze rocks him forward, sending a little jolt of electricity through Isabetta. There’s something animal in the way he just gives in to it, not trying to suppress or stifle it; he mutters a Napolitano gutter-curse afterwards, taking a crumpled handkerchief from his sleeve and blowing his nose as if she isn’t there. Ill-mannered imbecile. Her mouth suddenly feels drier than before.

“I have information,” Cesare says, as if nothing happened — but his consonants sound just a little dulled now, and a close examination reveals the redness around his nostrils. “Are you interested?”

Isabetta sighs. She can already feel the headache that Cesare’s presence brings. He might be bluffing. Might be — probably is — exaggerating the value of whatever he has to tell her. Her baser urges are purring like a pack of panthers, and nothing good comes when she allows them to make her decisions. Still — if he does have useful information, and she ignores it —

“Fifteen florins,” she offers.

Cesare grins wolfishly. Isabetta hates that grin.

“There’s a plot to swing the vote for a Spaniard. Rodrigo Borgia.”

The short, sharp laugh bursts from Isabetta before she can stop herself. “That lecherous bull?”

“Come now, he only has two children more than your father.” Cesare sniffles sharply, frowns, and sniffles again. He looks like a perplexed hound when there’s an itch buzzing in his nose that he just can’t quell. “He… ugh, snf! He’s promising lands, positions, gold, apparently with no regard to his counting house. Your father is outmatched.”

Isabetta considers. Cesare is being very forthcoming; there must be some kind of catch. Always is, with him.

She crosses her arms. “And you’re offering to help me take him down?”

“Oh, well, if you’re paying me.”

“Fifteen florins,” she reminds him.

“That was for the information.”

“That’s more than a labourer earns in a year!”

“Calling me a labourer, don’t you know just how to flatter a — h’aaesschhuhh!” It comes without warning this time, doubling him over, even wetter and more wrenching than the first. Isabetta notices that he hasn’t put the handkerchief away, just crumpled it in his hand, and he wipes his nose with it, rubbing his septum through the cloth. The ensuing sniffle is long and liquid. Does he — look nervous? Just a slight crack in his charisma, but Isabetta is attuned to searching out such cracks. He looks away. “There could be a sort of… quid pro quo. I help you with Borgia, you help me with a… small issue of my own.”

“The cold in your head?” Isabetta’s tongue supplies before her brain can cage it. “I’m not a nursemaid.”

That makes Cesare bark out a rough laugh. The tail end of it becomes a cough, and she sees the faintest glisten of one nostril running, which he hastily wipes away. There is a cold settling in his head indeed, and it sounds like it’s going to be a bad one.

“No one would make that mistake, my dear serpent. No — someone tried to kill me yesterday.”

Against her better judgement, that makes Isabetta sit up straight. She gets up and lights a second candle, filling the room with warm, dancing light once more.

“Tell me,” she says, perching on the edge of her desk.

“Last night, I was meeting a courier from Naples. Once I’d picked up the message, snf!, a monk brushed passed me in the alley. He dropped this into my hand.”

He tosses a small, jet-black rosary at Isabetta. She catches it, examining it.

“It’s just a rosary. Perhaps he knew your soul needed saving.”

“Count the beads.”

She did. “Thirteen.”

Cesare nods grimly. “The thirteenth has a needle hidden in it. Poison-tipped, I assume. The bastard was gone by the time I turned around.”

And he just threw it at her — Isabetta frowns. “As far as assassination attempts go, that’s a poor effort. I don’t think they meant to kill you; only warn.”

Cesare swallows uncomfortably, using the excuse of rubbing his nose with his balled-up handkerchief — another stunning display of poor manners — to break eye contact with her. “All being equal, I’d rather be sure. I enjoy continuing to draw breath.”

But not through your nose right now, Isabetta thinks. She has to practically smack the thought down; perhaps it’s seeing him squirm that has got her so… activated. It’s a detriment to the task at hand, and any amount of involvement is a detriment to her future when it comes to Cesare.

“Very well,” she says all the same. “I help you find your poisonous monk, you help me deal with Borgia. I suspect we’ll find information about both at the Villa Medici tonight.”

Cesare blinks. Perhaps insouciant, but then his eyelashes — too long and dark for a man — flutter and his breath starts shuddering and — “Huh’esschhuhh! Sfaccimma,” he swears, shaking his head like there’s a flea in his ear. His breath jumps again, but he forestalls it by blowing his nose at long, bubbling length. “I… happen to be banned.”

A little grin of satisfaction threatens to show on Isabetta’s face. “Not if you come as my escort.”

“Not your ricuttaro?” Cesare asks, lightning-sharp, and cackles when Isabetta can’t help flushing at the vulgarity. It doesn’t help that a small but vocal part of her brain is imagining him kneeling before the desk, rubbing that sniffly nose against a thigh before his tongue gets to work on her throbbing —

Enough, woman! She digs her fingernails into her palms and reminds herself what happened the last time she worked with Cesare.

“If you don’t get your mouth out of the gutter, the deal’s off,” she says, with great effort. What a virtue, self-control.

“Then I’ll try to dust off my manners.” Cesare gets up, giving her a short, ironic bow. The speed at which he wipes his nose afterwards suggests just inclining his head upset a delicate equilibrium in his nose. “Until tonight, madonna.”

“Until tonight,” Isabetta says, and wonders what exactly she’s let herself in for.

***

Neapolitan swear words: sfaccimma is a general imprecation, like ‘fuck’ or ‘shit’; ricuttaro is a vulgar word for a male prostitute

#Oooh this was fantastic!#Super fun and also hot #Got me looking for sure

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athousandblessings · 29 days ago

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something about a breathless "sorry-" uttered right between the last sneeze they've barely finished, and the next they're already starting to hitch for~

#Ooooh

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athousandblessings · 1 month ago

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I think you should come talk to me about your long term OCs.

The ones you've had consistently for a while (months? a year? several years? decades?) or in the least you're invested in telling their story. Small groups are welcome but please keep "groups" below five and otherwise put them as separate asks.

Not sure where to start?

Physical description

Personality

Themes (including things like colors and creatures)

Things you associate them with

Snz commentary if you want

A link to the tag of where they first appeared, or (preferably) a master tag for works they're in.

As well as clearly answering "can I ask you questions about them in turn?"

But really anything. I've gotten encouragement from a couple people re: my stuff (you know who you are, pls come here and let me return the favor!) and I don't know... understandably there's not a whole lot of attention given to plotty sections even if they're bracketed in snz. I am just one mooncat but I woke up in a mood to be positive and want to support people.

So. Hit up my ask or submit, yeah?

#signal boost!#What a cool idea!#I don't have OC's myself but I sure do LOVE some!#An OC archive sounds so great

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athousandblessings · 1 month ago

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Duty, pt1 - Ridiculous

//AN: I have a longer story coming once I iron out some bumps, but this one should be fun in the meantime; 5000 words and counting. Not 100% snz all the time, but it sure starts out that way.

“uhh-kscht!”

Alaina drifted awake to a curl of warmth below and her husband shivering faintly with his little stifle. Unfortunately for him she had a feeling—

“ih-kt! iih….ksggch!”

— that he was going to keep it up so long as he could, or try to leave the bed if he couldn’t. His chest expanded involuntarily.

“h’hhSHHT! Snf, nh damn…”

He was curled around her, his bare chest to her bare back, and his hand smoothed over her waist, light skin against her deeper tan. She had his arm pinned, she realized; it curved around her, elbow at her waist with her body weight on it. He couldn’t move without waking her. And apparently her usually astute husband hadn’t realized he already had.

“n’gkksh! h’hhkSHT!”

Alaina bit her lip, shifting just a little to pull her legs together. He wasn’t stopping, and she worried she was right; he wasn’t going to be able to without getting some actual relief, and apparently didn’t prioritize it over waking her, judging by the wrenching stifle he attempted to muffle in the pillow.

“h’NGKT!”

Warmth and worry suffused her and she spread a hand over his own. “Dearheart, don't stifle.”

“Alaahhh… h’haaa…” He sniffed sharply, and gave up on trying to talk. “H-hh…. AESSSHHIH!”

Alaina squeaked as he pulled away immediately with an audible gasp, and turned to get a better look at him. Brandt was always an expressive man and this moment was no different. Irritation was broadcast in every line of his body. How he laid on his back, with one leg pulled up for balance and a hand half raised towards his face. Long, loose black curls fanned out over the pillow, at least that out of the way. She bit her lip, watching intently as the elegant line of his nose wrinkled up. His nostrils flared, quick and irritated as he sniffled. The almost sleepy cast to his eyes told her that all that restraint was on the edge of ruin.

Sitting up, she nabbed a handkerchief off the side table and tucked against him, watching intently. “Here, no, let me love—”

“H’hh… hehh…. ESSSSHUu!” He jerked a little, then melted back against her with a few soft, itchy-sounding sniffles that assured her he wasn’t done. He yielded to her anyway, head tipping towards her. His smile was a bit dazed, but his honey-hazel eyes were sly. “Good m-morning?”

“Well, at least one of us has,” she said. “What’s gotten into— ah, wait.”

She shifted to hold the handkerchief for him as his breath caught. He managed a strangled sort of gasp and an entirely useless stifle. “h’nTCH!”

“Brandt,” she warned, but was cut off by a sharp inhale, wavering and desperate that went straight to her core.

“HEESHHIIIH!” Brandt groaned in sheer relief and finally curled into her with an absent sniffle against her shoulder.

Alaina stayed put, rubbing his back and listening as his breathing evened out. “Yes… good morning.”

She would very much have liked to just pounce him, except for one thing. Brandt was not a man given to waking up sneezing, and absolutely not in multiples. It was early spring and the doors to the balcony were shuttered. It most definitely was not allergies and the implications, while normally a lovely little surprise at home, were the last thing she wanted to hear when he was about to spend the next few days away abroad in guise.

“Ngkt-shu!”

“You’re going to hurt your neck turning away like that,” she said, finger combing through thick black hair. “You know I don’t mind.”

��My apologies,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “Might get a second chance.”

“We are well beyond ‘second’, dearest,” she said, working her way down to the base of his neck, feeling out tension. His bare skin still held the warmth of their bedding, supple and relaxed. “Brandt, my darling…”

He hummed, nuzzling against her shoulder with a sharp sniff, quite possibly a mix of need and a desire to distract her. She would not be distracted.

“Hiih… hitSCHIH!” Brandt sniffled with a decidedly needy edge and she shifted a little at the answering bloom of heat in her. He raised his head, lips just barely parted and eyes nearly closed, the picture of expectation of the inevitable.

But he didn’t sneeze. His breathing came shallow and shaky as he pushed up on one arm to put some distance between them.

…so maybe she was slightly distracted. Alaina narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

He pressed the back of his hand to his nose, wetting his lips. He blinked rapidly, fighting back the urge. She could tell he didn’t have much time even to put it off that way. “N-nnooooo?”

“Liar,” she said fondly. “Lower your hand.”

Brandt hesitated, knowing as well as she did that was not going to work towards his goals. He also had to know, knowing her as well as he did, that she was going to move if he didn’t. He lowered his hand, breath immediately catching before he fought to will it under control.

Her beloved had fought off enemies personally, ended battles and wars with strength and wit, survived wounds that ought to have killed the man and been back up far sooner than he had any right to…

“Hiihhh…” his eyes squinted, faintly watery in sheer irritation

…however, despite the many things he had overcome…

“ehhHEEHH…” his lips parted, and all at once his expression collapsed. “HtSHUu! ehhISSHU! heEEH-HESSHHIHSHu!”

…he was absolutely helpless in the grips of sneezing fit. Despite her very real concerns, her skin prickled. “Brandt my darling… is there something you want to tell me?”

“Snf. No.” He grabbed up the handkerchief, dabbing cautiously under his nose. This time, it only made him sniffle.

She touched his knee. “Anything you need to? I seldom hear you fit like that unprovoked.”

“You’re welcome?” He offered a rogue’s grin, and when she didn’t immediately give him the reaction he wanted, wiggled his eyebrows.

“You’re ridiculous,” Alaina informed him, chuckling despite her efforts.

“Also devilishly handsome and I think that ought to count for something,” he said. He stretched and her eyes couldn’t help but trail the ripple of muscle, evidence of strength she knew well.

Distracting.

“Oh you’re quite handsome,” she agreed. “In fact, should you stay here with me, I’ll see that you’re well reminded of my regard.”

His smile melted into something soft and apologetic. “You know I can’t do that.”

“You are ill.” No more dancing around it, not if he was going to be stubborn about this.

“Perhaps,” he said, which was more than he usually gave her. Then again, seldom had his body given itself away so thoroughly right before they discussed it. “But I have been summoned, and I don’t shirk my duties because I’m a little off.”

“A little—” Alaina put her hands firmly on his shoulders. “I would like it to stay little, thank you. So help me, if you go out there for three days and get that much worse I will send Adrian after you.”

Brandt wrinkled his nose, this time in dismay. “That’s unnecessary, don’t you think? It’s three days, ‘laina. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re not,” she said warningly, “you are going to suffer and I won’t feel bad at all.”

That made him laugh, a rich, full sound. “Little liar, I know better.”

She narrowed her eyes at him and thwapped his shoulder. “You absolutely shameless—”

He caught her hand in his, kissing her palm tenderly. His voice, when he spoke, was just as soft and gentle. “I’ll be careful. I’ll be mindful and take care of myself. It’s just three days, sweetheart, I’ll be fine. I’ll come straight home to you and let you tend me as you see fit. There’s no need to worry about any of that.”

“I always worry,” she said. “Someone has to have a care for your health and it’s never been you.”

“Guilty as charged.” A slow, clever smile curved the corner of his mouth as his free hand came to stroke her cheek. “You’re flushed.”

“I can’t imagine why,” she said. Definitely another distraction to keep her from pursuing the topic. So be it; it was nearly impossible to resist that smile. That promise.

“Mmmm. Do you need a reminder, then?” He asked, wrinkling his nose with a sharp, provoking inhale. “Because I… I-iiihhhh…”

Alaina bit her lip. “You’re terrible.”

“But I— hn’ktch!” He blinked, appearing to be genuinely startled that it had come on so swiftly. She should have worried about that, but the creeping daze in his eyes, the way his lips parted, was a delicious segue into a more diverting scenario.

“It caught you off guard, did it?” She asked, just to see if he had the breath to talk. He’d certainly try.

He nodded hesitantly, taking a slow, shivery inhale. “A bit.”

She pursed her lips, trying not to laugh at the breathy squeak his beloved tenor had barely managed. “You don’t say.”

He gave her one of his trademark mischievous grins, but even that faltered, a little almost nervous sound heralding an involuntary hitch, then a second, and a third, his broad chest jumping with them.

So close… she wanted to hear it, powerful and unrestrained, with all the force he’d denied himself. His eyes slid shut and Alaina tipped him over into the bedding, earning a startled sound and a watery squint mere seconds before the break in his concentration hit him like a freight train.

“h’eeEEEHH! ‘Laiiinaa…. I… I— iidjsshhu! ntshu! Ehh… ehhiIIHH… hyehh’ISHHHUH!” He blinked heavy eyes at her, expression gone slack with the irresistible urge to sneeze until the tickle was sated.

She supposed she might have expected him to spare his last plotting for her, but she was stunned beyond words when he hauled her onto his lap. She felt the tremor of tense muscle with every panting breath, the heat of his breath on her shoulder, a little nudge of his nose just under her ear, where surely there wasn’t any remaining perfume and yet—

“HIIH’RRSSHH!” he echoed her groan, if for very different reasons. “‘laina, I… iiiht tickles, snf, o-oh… h’SSHTCHU! Nnnhhh… ‘laina I n-need…”

“Tell me.” The well honed tone of a queen who would not be accepting any other outcome earned her a heated look. “Or I will make you.”

Brandt tipped his head up in playful challenge. “Go on then. Snf. Make me sneeze, Alaina.”

That was wholly unfair but she wasn’t going to argue it. There was something deliciously intimate about his allowing this, and she was ever eager to take advantage.

And she did.

Oh, she did.

#Ohhh I'm definitely looking here!#He's got my attention for sure #And i do love a devoted couple #Mmm yes!

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