thedevillionaire

[thedevillionaire]

Between Lovers, CH4: Tricky

So I have this one finished, just need a quick edit pass before I post the fifth and final chapter and I know I'll say it again but thanks for the support for my OCs, be it Umbral and Wolf or Brant and Alaina (who have more coming, too). There's other OCs in the wings you'll meet someday. ;)

This one is more of a set up / joining piece before the payoff in five, but I do hope you enjoy the banter and character building.

[[TO CH1]] - [[TO CH3]] …

Wolf’s lips pursed, displeased at being called out in such a fashion. “Umbral—”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Wolf?” Umbral said, and fought a grin at Wolf’s sudden amusement. That hadn’t come out half as pressuring as he’d intended it to.

“If we’re questioning whether or not I would not lie to you, the only answer I can give is that I wouldn’t lie to you.,” Wolf pointed out. “If I’m honest, I would tell you that of course I wouldn’t lie to you. If I intend to lie, I would still say I wouldn’t lie to you. Your questioning needs—”

“Wolf, by your gods,” Umbral hauled him closer and kissed him hard enough to dissuade him from talking them in circles again.

Wolf chuckled a bit, trailing off into much more pleased sounds shortly after. Apparently he was willing to let it go, for a price. Odds were good that was exactly what he’d wanted. “Yes?”

Umbral considered his suddenly much more lively, much more talkative, intentionally distracting partner and sighed. “Wolf, tell me truthfully. Did you have any intention whatsoever of telling me you were ill?”

Whatever gods listened to Sith, help him now because it was very clear Wolf had not been paying that close attention to himself. “Please tell me you did actually know.”

“I’ve been out a lot, I thought…” Wolf started, almost sheepishly.

“…it genuinely never crossed your mind, my dear Cipher, that you could possibly have caught this nonsense from me when we had… time together earlier in the week?” Umbral asked incredulously.

“I don’t generally catch things from you,” Wolf defended, though a brush rose to his cheeks. “I’m fine, inconvenienced at best. You, I am concerned with.”

“What’s there to be concerned with?” Umbral said. “And if you dare say my dignity I warn you that I don’t know if I’ll kiss you or shake you.”

“It says something that you thought of that first,” Wolf said, sniffing. He allowed himself to rub at the bridge of his nose and down to the tip now that he’d acknowledged the irritation. But he was watching Umbral still, observing. “I said no such thing—”

“And you will not,” Umbral said firmly.

“But I’m allowed to be concerned,” Wolf continued. “I will monitor my condition. Report on it, should it help in some way. But there’s nothing to worry about at this time… unless you’ve been less than honest about how hard it’s hitting you?”

“I do find it of interest that you went from sneezing a great deal, to not at all,” Umbral said.

“Disappointed?” Wolf asked slyly. “Or jealous, perhaps? You’ve settled a great deal yourself.”

“I have my ways,” Umbral said dryly.

“Until I go to induce you and you utterly lose the battle to that little piece of cord,” Wolf said.

“I can’t help but notice you seem pleased,” Umbral said, allowing the detour — for now.

“What can I say? Watching a man of great power lose control in a way that isn’t inherently dangerous is… appealing,” Wolf said, shrugging. “I’ve told you as much before.”

“I hadn’t realized that counted,” Umbral said.

“I hadn’t expected it to,” Wolf said, shrugging. He shifted his weight and the metal strips on his shoulder bands caught the light coming in through the blinds and glinted.

The tickle moved rapidly from the back of Umbral’s mind to the forefront, blazing a trail in immense irritation through his sinuses, filling his nose with irresistible itching.

Stifling really wasn’t an actual option, not between his general inability and how strong the reaction was. Instead, he found the handkerchief he’d had and buried his face in its folds with a heavily irritated double. It jerked him forward enough that he felt Wolf’s hand on his shoulder, bracing himself against the sudden motion. 

“Your resistance is down,” Wolf observed, petting his hair when he trailed off to unsteady breathing. “Are you—”

“NghSHHUSH!” Umbral chuckled at Wolf’s somewhat startled sound. “Pardon me, I think so.”

Wolf clicked his tongue, shifting back to sit on Umbral’s knees. Even their height difference didn’t really justify the position, but Umbral was strong and the chair was heavy and secure beneath them. They both savored the closeness.

Wolf stroked his cheek with a fond smile. “I should change, if I’m staying.”

Umbral’s hands found their way to his hips. “You’re staying.”

“Yes, sir.” Wolf chuckled. “May I change, then?”

“As you like.” 

When Wolf slipped away and vanished into the master bedroom, Umbral sat back, frowning as he considered what had transpired. There was no way In Chaos’ darkness that Wolf really hadn’t known that he was sick. He hadn’t been so busy to be unaware, surely not. However, he had neither confirmed he intended to lie, nor had he confirmed he didn’t know. Umbral, in his somewhat off kilter state, had assumed.

He’d put words in his mouth. Wolf didn’t have to lie, he didn’t have to do anything. It was an unforgivable slip, to give him that much wiggle room about an important topic. His saving grace was that it was neither a dire topic, nor was this a professional matter. He wasn’t dealing with Cipher N. He was dealing with Wolf. His lover.

It burned, but it certainly wasn’t beyond salvage. However, if Wolf was of a mind to be tricky about it, he’d need to gather his wits about him. He loved and loathed his cleverness. Generally it was pleasing but in times like this…

Umbral grunted, getting to his feet and sniffing sharply at the needling itch in his sinuses where there would be no easy rubbing it out. He applied a touch of healing energy instead and gave it a token rub. Which was a mistake. Sensitive skin protested the rough treatment and his breath caught.

Umbral grunted, getting to his feet and sniffing sharply at the needling itch in his sinuses where there would be no easy rubbing it out. He applied a touch of healing energy instead and gave it a token rub. Which… was a mistake. Sensitive skin protested the rough treatment and his breath caught.

He wavered a little, the adjacent symptoms coming on fast: repetitive sniffles with increasing sharpness, the all-over prickle on the sensitive skin around his nostrils and the tip of his nose and how they flared without his permission. He had a brief thought that maybe he should have sat back down before he dipped into his robe in increasingly desperate hope that he’d find — a yes, a backup handkerchief. Wonderful because he was fairly sure that he was going to… to…

“H’hhuuh… h’hhh… hheeehhuuh…..” A hand raised reflexively as he felt the sneeze tease at him. Frustrated, Umbral tapped at the side of his nose, hopeful that direct stimulation might — “heEAAHHhh!”

And nothing.

Umbral growled softly in frustration, squeezing the tip of his nose as if that would offer any permanent recourse — it did help, briefly, but the moment he released his hold, the feeling returned in full. His breath caught again, a ridiculously high and needlessly dramatic gasp that almost felt like it would finally lead to a sneeze.

It didn’t, but it had certainly felt like it.

“Umbral?” Wolf appeared from the bedroom, no doubt having heard this ridiculous ongoing performance. For a moment he just admired him, lean muscle on display. His frame was too broad to pass as lithe, but he really was slender considering that. All compact muscle that was under such control, it scarcely flexed as he walked back to Umbral. Only when Wolf reached him, when he crossed his arms over his chest, did they flex.

Umbral smiled despite his situation, smiling. “Tired of waiting?”

Wolf shrugged, shoving his hair behind his ear impatiently. At Umbral’s request, he’d grown it out just a bit longer, a few inches past his nape,  and was still adjusting to it in private, though he hid such tells of newness on the clock, Umbral was sure. He wondered what Wolf saw, staring at him in silence, that earned that soft, not quite amused but definitely indulgent smile. Sympathetic, as well. In ways he should have pressed, but—

“H’h! EHH!” His body tensed in preparation for yet another sneeze that didn’t come.

“I think,” Wolf said, crossing the small distance between them, “you need another go with that cord. Unless you think I can persuade you into it.”

Umbral laughed breathlessly. “I don’t think mere conversation would be enough this time…”

“Who said anything about conversation?” Wolf asked, blue eyes keen and knowing, waiting for a predicted reaction. “I meant inducing me first. See how much you can stand someone else getting relief when you’re not.”

He rewarded him with the reaction he was no doubt hoping for, a short little breath in anticipation, a slight widening of eyes. He was sure they had done their part, gleaming in anticipation, the pupils dilated in a pleasure response. A smile curved Wolf’s lips and he knew he’d succeeded. It made Umbral smile as well. “Well, if you’re offering…”

“It’s your call if you want me to fight it, of course,” Wolf mused. With that, he turned back towards the bedroom, heading that way with a lazy saunter that very much showed off some of the raw physical appeal. He didn’t look back, and Umbral was too pleased at his confidence to even begin to be upset at the presumption. Really, presuming his lover would come take him up on that generous offer was merely sense.

And they knew each other well; no public masks stood between them, no political ranks dividing them. It was Umbral and his Wolf now, no more and no less.

Umbral followed him to the bedroom, admiring the mellow lighting that was unlikely to set him off as was — but could of course be brought to a much brighter gleam that would. Well, perhaps. He was… very stuck.

“How do you want me?” Wolf asked, glancing back over his shoulder. He stood by the bed, examining a sleek black case of Umbral’s preferred tools. Sleek brushes with varying bristle types and shapes were generally the go-to, but there were vials of powder and a few other treats that might be of use. Tonight, though…

“On your back,” Umbral decided. “But at a comfortable angle, use the pillows.”

Of which there were many, of varying stiffness and fullness, to be used alone or in combination. Wolf was well familiar and began sorting through them for the ones he wanted. Bigger ones that would fully support the width of his shoulders, firmer to successfully prop him up.

While he settled, Umbral took the kit with a thoughtful hum, tracing the brushes with a fingertip. No powder, not if Wolf really was sick. Something far more temporary but just as effective… he chose a thin, flexible brush with long, ragged bristles, and glanced aside at Wolf before twirling it in his fingers.

Wolf chuckled. “That should do.”

“I thought it might.” Umbral set the case aside, eyeing his lover’s recline on the bed. “Comfortable?”

“And sturdy, I assure you,” Wolf said, his grin turning teasing. “Well, barring anything particularly acrobatic—”

“You use the Force a time or two during sex and you get called ‘acrobatic’,” Umbral said. “I’ll show you acrobatic.”

“Senator’s landing pad, last year, at the gala, you had me half over it,” Wolf retorted at once.

“And it got your adrenaline junkie heart pounding,” Umbral said smugly.

“That’s besides the point.”

“How about this, then — it was not acrobatic,” Umbral said. “It was gymnastic.”

“Don’t be pedantic, you know what I meant.” Wolf looked so very unimpressed Umbral had to laugh. 

“Agree to disagree,” Umbral said smoothly as he turned the brush in his fingers. Nodding to himself, he paused to glance at Wolf, stripped down to sleep pants and largely on display. “…would you rather I change?”

“Unless this is about to be some sort of mock interrogation,  yes,” Wolf admitted.

“You need to say these things.” He set the brush aside and went after his gloves first. This pair were long, reaching under his robe sleeves and mere inches from his elbows. Today had been about appearances and intimidation, so he’d leaned into a more classic Dark Lord styling; a black tunic and pants, both tight, a requirement to have the pants tucked into his knee high boots, black and shined with runes embossed down the outer sides in a golden red. He wore a much looser robe over it, but deliberately so — loose enough to hold things, to make him a harder target,  and of course to flow dramatically as he moved.

No helmet, not with a cold like this, and Wolf had already taken his hair down. All in all getting out of the layer close to skin was the hardest part. He felt faintly chilled as he laid himself bare, but unfortunately it didn’t help with anything. 

Wolf held a hand up, grinning. “The pants stay.”

Umbral laughed, shaking his head. “So be it. With that settled… let’s take care of you.”

[[TO CH5 /fin]]

[thedevillionaire]

if i had wings, part iii

here is the final part! if you enjoy hard characters softening, fevers, sleepiness, caretaking, and of course, snzes, this one's for you (and by you, i mean me)

part i (including plot context if you haven't seen the film) part ii overall cw: mentions of sex, pregnancy/abortion, substance abuse, suicidal ideation

-

part iii

Backstage, Llewyn had to sit down while Jean gathered their things, hands on his knees as sneeze after sneeze wracked his body, bending him almost double. They grew more and more congested, each one rumbling painfully through his sinuses and ravaging his throat further.

“ehhDDZZJJJEEWWhh-eh! Heh’EHHDDZZjehh! Hh’eh’EDDZZTTCHHuhh!”

By the time Jean got them outside and hailed a cab, the sneezing had subsided enough for Llewyn to at least catch his breath, the cold air burning in his lungs. Packed into the back of the taxi with Jean, both of their instruments, his coat draped over his shoulders and a brand new dusting of snow in his hair, he’d gone from hot to freezing, and he could feel his limbs aching with the tension of clenching against the cold.

Jean was pissed at him again, but he was aware of it in almost a conceptual way, as though the physical reality of the night and his failings was not currently accessible to him. All he knew, really, was that she was in the car with him, and that he felt like shit. His body was sore and feverish, his sinuses were on fire, his chest heavy and tight, and he felt like he could sleep for a thousand years. He kept yawning, huge, jaw-cracking yawns, each followed by a violent shiver. He couldn't seem to stop his body from trembling, which he might have found embarrassing if he weren't so dazed.

Jean was watching him with an expression close to panic, and Llewyn knew he should feel guilty that she was in this situation with him. He should’ve been able to handle it on his own. He wished, fleetingly, that Mike was here. Mike was the only person Llewyn had ever truly felt capable of sharing his own burdens with, but maybe that was why Mike was gone. Llewyn had never said it to anyone, and he probably never would, but he had a sense deep to his core that he was not blameless in Mike’s death.

When they pulled up to Llewyn’s building, he managed to shove his trembling arms through the sleeves of his jacket, grabbing the handle of his guitar case with stiff fingers. Jean paid the fare — add it to my tab, he might’ve said, if his jaw weren’t practically wired shut by the cold — and then she was digging in his coat pocket to find his keys. They got up the stairs, Jean’s arm around his back, and inside the apartment, Ulysses jumped down from the sofa and walked up to greet them.

“Hey b-buddy,” Llewyn stuttered through his shivering, holding a hand out for Ulysses to sniff. Jean watched this exchange with an unreadable look on her face, and then she herded Llewyn towards the sofa, pushing him down to sit.

“I don’t need you to s-st-stay,” he told Jean, but she was already putting on the kettle and digging around in his cabinets for tea. He felt a rush of gratitude for her that he had no idea how to express, and so he kept it locked in his throat, carefully bending over so that he could attempt to untie his boots. Once he’d managed that, he sat up, and reached for the blanket that hung over the back of the sofa, yanking it around his shoulders. He took in a wavering breath, feeling his teeth chatter.

“hihh-...ihh-hi-hhiikkSCHH-SCH-SCHHUEHh! KkSCHH-SCHUUuu-uhhh!”

The sneezes were shivery and exhausted, and he pulled his blanket tighter, using the corner to wipe his nose. “Tshh-kkishhSHUE! k-kshhSHUE!” 

“Bless you,” Jean said almost sharply, switching off the stove and pouring hot water into a mug. He looked over at her, watching the way she moved through his kitchen with ease. “You're lucky you're too pathetic right now for me to be mean.”

“Yeah… I think I might be getting sick,” he conceded with a watery sniffle. He knew this would annoy her, but wasn’t sure how else to tell her she had been right.

“Getting,” Jean repeated sardonically, returning with a steaming mug of tea. She set it on the side table and looked down at his feet, where his boots were untied but still on. 

“Sorry, I was trying t-tooihhh-kk-kiiisshhh-SSSSHUE! ihhsh-sh-SHUUUE! Fuckin’ hell…”

“Shut up,” she said without her usual level of malice, and knelt down beside the sofa, yanking his boots off of his feet. “Bless you again,” she added, her voice a little softer. 

He stared down at her and felt an unfamiliar lump lodge itself in his throat. He hated how nice she was being, and he hated even more that it was making him emotional, filling his chest with a cloying sentimentality he was normally quite adept at avoiding. It must have been the fever. He let out a wavering sigh and ran his hands over his face, pushing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw pops of color. “I’m really—” His breath caught raggedly and turned into a yawn, which he tried to speak through but was forced to pause, squeezing his eyes shut as his exhaustion overtook him. “—sorry,” he finished on the exhale. 

“Oh, he has a conscience now?” she replied. That was more like it. He rasped out a chuckle, which turned into a barking cough.

Jean tossed his boots to the side and then stood, looking down at him as he managed to quell the coughing fit before it really got started. Her eyes scanned the length of the sofa. “Wait, have you been sleeping on the couch? You have a bed now, you know,” she said, pointing to the hall, which led to the tiny nook big enough to hold his full-size bed and the side table he’d found discarded on Christopher Street — things Jim had helped him lug up the stairs.

“Yeah,” Llewyn muttered at the tail end of another yawn, rubbing hard at his eyes. “Sleep’s been hard to come by. Guess I’m used to the couch.”

“Oh, honey...” Jean shook her head, and leant down, reaching for his arm. He looked up at her blearily, surprised by the term of endearment, goosebumps raising over his skin where she touched him. “C’mon,” she murmured, and all he could do now was stand and follow her. He’d resisted giving in to the best of his ability, but he was spent now, putty in her hands.

—

In his bedroom, if you could call it that, Jean got Llewyn to change into a clean undershirt and take off his corduroys, and then she got him situated under the sheets and coverlet, which was no easy feat with how much he was shivering. His skin was still hot to the touch, and she was beginning to wonder if maybe his fever was too high, if maybe she should take him to the hospital. But she knew he had no money, and she couldn’t be bankrolling his recovery when she’d be paying for her own life soon, so she resolved to do what she could for him here.

She made him drink the tea she’d prepared and it seemed to help a little with his coughing, which had returned now that the codeine was wearing off. She took off her own shoes and crawled into bed next to him, feeling the chintzy metal bed frame creak beneath her. “It’s freaking me out how much you're still shivering,” she said, moving closer to him and pulling the bed linens up over her waist. “It's not even cold in here.” She hoped her presence under the sheets with him would generate enough heat to make him more comfortable. 

“Why’re you doing this,” Llewyn said, his voice half slurring with the remnants of his accidental medicinal cocktail. It was hardly a question, more of a statement, the implication being, ‘you shouldn’t be doing this.’

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked, a threat she had no intention of fulfilling, not when she could hear his teeth chattering.

Llewyn huffed a syllable of laughter, a pained expression crossing his face. He was lying on his side, one arm under his pillow, the other hand rubbing at the pressure between his eyebrows. “You don't like me enough to be doing this,” he said then, and though he meant the statement as a matter of fact, she could hear that flicker of melancholy, the same one she saw every so often in his dark, tired eyes. It tugged at her heart, endeared her to him even when he was being the world’s biggest asshole.

“I’m not going to let you die of pneumonia and then have to live with the guilt,” Jean said. Llewyn made a noise, which she assumed was a scoff, but then he sneezed, the sound half muffled as he turned his head to mash his nose into his pillow.

“hmppttSHHihhh! Hih… hihtchHHMFF-ungh!”

“Bless you.”

“Thanks.” With a thick sniffle, he groaned softly and looked up at her. His eyes were fever-bright and glassy, his hair sticking to his temples with sweat. He gave a chesty, painful-sounding cough, and when he blinked, a few tears spilled from his eyes, whether from irritation or the emotional overwhelm of his fever she wasn’t sure. She was only human, though, and she reached out her hand and gently swiped them away from his flushed skin with the pad of her thumb. She'd never seen him cry, and wasn't sure he was capable. This probably didn't count.

She pushed her fingers through the damp curls at the crown of his head, drawing them back from his forehead. He shut his eyes as she combed through his hair, stifling a cough in his throat.

“Jean,” he said in a rough whisper. “I really don’t feel good.”

“I know, Llew,” Jean said. She didn't think twice about the nickname, even though she'd never used it. It was what Mike had always called him.

Carefully, she slid down to lay with him, slipping her arms around his torso. She pulled his body against hers, and Llewyn let out a deep, heavy sigh of relief as he pressed his face into the crook of her neck, his beard tickling her skin. She smoothed her palm over his back in figure-eights, feeling the rattle in his chest with each breath he took. He hooked one arm around her back, his body melting against hers as his shivering finally began to subside. He never would have initiated the embrace, but she could tell, now, how much he needed it.

“Fuck, I have to - hih - hd’sshhEHh-uh… H’kschEEHHh-uh…” She felt his entire body tense in her arms as he released the exhausted, feverish sneezes into her neck, misting her skin. She didn't pull back, simply held him there until the tension in his shoulders unlocked and he settled into her once more. She could feel his hand at her back, holding onto a lazy fistful of her t-shirt. “Fuck… sorry,” he mumbled, his breath a warm snuffle against the hollow of her throat.

“Bless you,” she murmured into his ear. “Just try to sleep.”

He let out a long, slow sigh, then took a breath, pulling air as deep into his lungs as he likely could. His breathing became rhythmic, his hand slackening at her back, and she thought he might've been asleep when he spoke, his voice almost too quiet for her to hear. Almost.

“It should’ve been me.”

“What?” 

He didn’t answer, and Jean pulled back so that she could look at him, her brow furrowed. “What did you just say?”

Llewyn shook his head a little. “Nothing. Ignore me,” he breathed out. “I'm sleeping.”

Jean fixed him with her gaze, but his eyes were still shut.

“It shouldn’t have been either of you,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

His eyes fluttered open for a moment to meet hers, and then closed just as quickly, his dark, thick eyelashes forming little triangles, clumping together from sweat and the few tears he'd shed. “Sorry,” he said. She could feel his limbs beginning to twitch, a sure sign that he was actually drifting off.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve apologized tonight,” she said, studying his face. “What is this, invasion of the body snatchers?”

His answer came in the form of a loud, congested snore. No longer worried about how soft it would make her seem, she pulled Llewyn close again, pressing a kiss to his eyebrow, lingering there for a beat or two. He stirred and mumbled something incoherent, nestling his face closer into her neck, his body like her own personal radiator, the heat coming off of him in waves. 

—

In the morning, Llewyn woke to the sound of a car honking outside. He groaned, feeling, as he gained consciousness, every ailment in his body, from the thick wetness in his lungs to his chafed nostrils, inflamed from blowing his nose into cheap napkins and toilet paper. But he was also cognizant of the warm body he was tangled up in, Jean barely stirring beside him at the sounds of the city beneath them, her arm still curled around his back. He pulled back a little and propped himself on an elbow, looking down at her. Her lips were just barely parted, her breath escaping in little puffs, her hair spilling back over her pillow, bangs sticking up at odd, sweet angles. He reached up his hand and touched the side of her face, his calloused thumb tracing over the soft, smooth apple of her cheek.

He wished he were the sort of person who could make this last.

A tickle shot sharp and unexpected through his nose, and he pulled his hand away from her face in time to pinch his nostrils shut.

“hh-NNXXchh! … Hhh-NNGGHHXXTT-chuh!”

He pulled back and sat up, disentangling his legs from Jean’s as another sneeze escaped him, this time only half-stifled as his head jerked down towards his lap. “hehhEHHH-chhnnxxt!”

Jean’s arms lifted, and she opened her eyes, pushing her hands through her hair as she inhaled deeply. She arched her back, her spine popping.

“CHHIISSHH-huh, TTSCCHHIsh-uh!” He gave up the stifling now that he'd clearly woken her, holding a closed fist in front of his face. “Shit, I'm so fucking tired of ssnnddehhh-HHAIISH-ih! Sneezing,” he groaned with a sniff.

“Morning,” Jean responded, sitting up slowly and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Bless you.”

“I was trying not to wake you up,” Llewyn said, sniffling again and wiping his nose gingerly with his wrist.

“Not hard enough,” Jean said. “But it’s fine, I should get going anyway.” She stretched her arms over her head, and then slid her legs over the edge of the bed, planting her feet on the floor. Llewyn stared at the back of her head, searching for something he could say that would make her stay and coming up empty. This was messy. The more time they spent indulging in this kind of intimacy, the more likely it was that they'd hurt each other again — or rather, that he would hurt her. The reality was that they were completely incompatible.

“Alright,” he said instead, watching as she stood and put on the sweater and jeans she'd discarded on the floor. He'd been so miserable last night that he hadn't even noticed she'd been in her underwear. He allowed himself a moment to appreciate the view.

“Seems like your fever broke,” Jean said once she'd buttoned her jeans, turning around to face him. She walked up to the edge of the bed and leaned over, reaching out to lay her hand gently against the side of his neck, which made him shiver.

“Hm. Not burning up, but you're still getting chills,” she said, frowning as she moved her hand to his forehead.

“I think I'm okay,” he said.

“Forgive me if I don't consider you a trustworthy source.” 

“Touché.”

“Your lymph nodes are pretty swollen,” she said, her fingers pressing into the place where his jaw met his neck.

“My what?”

She gave him a look and pulled back, and he shifted to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the side. He pushed his hands through his hair, fingers looping through to pull at the curls until it hurt a little bit, thumbs pressing into his pounding temples. Then he stood up, following Jean out of the bedroom.

At the door, she gathered her things and shrugged on her coat, and Llewyn leaned against the back of the couch, folding his arms over his chest and watching her. “Sure you don't want coffee or anything?” He yawned, his body giving another shiver. He felt his ears pop.

“That’s okay,” she said, pulling on her boots. “I'm supposed to look at apartments today.”

The thought of her living somewhere other than the place she'd shared her life with Jim, the place he'd spent countless hours at, sleeping on their couch, sometimes their floor, watering their plants while they traveled, begging Jean to let him in over the vestibule intercom — it made him uncomfortable. He shuddered, as if physically repulsed by this information, but the reality was that he needed to sneeze. It seemed rude, though, given what she'd just shared, and he pressed the palm of his hand flat against his nose, trying to quell the itch. 

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Bless you,” she said. 

“HhaaiiiIISSHHHUEeehh!” He sneezed into his cupped palm, then swiped at his nose, wiping his hand on his shirt. He looked up for a moment, his breath hitching several times, then raised his arm, folding his elbow over his face. “H… hhhih… HAAIIISsshhmph! iihhiSHUUHuummph!” He could feel his congestion shifting around in his head, clogging his ears again and making him dizzy. “Fuck me,” he grumbled, dropping his arm with a sniff.

“You should go back to sleep,” Jean said, as she zipped up her boots. “You need rest. Real rest, in your real bed, not the couch,” she added, glancing at Ulysses, who meowed at her. “You'll never kick this cold otherwise.”

Llewyn looked up at her, watching the way she pulled her long brown hair out from the inside of her collar. “Hey, thanks,” he said suddenly, pushing the words out of his mouth before he could pull back from the earnest feeling he was having now. She turned fully to look at him, a little surprised. “For, uh, getting me the gig. And getting me back here last night. And you know, everything else.”

“Everything else?” 

“You're gonna make me say it?”

Jean smiled expectantly.

“For taking care of me,” Llewyn admitted, scratching at his beard. “Like the big dumb kid that I am. I know I'm not…” he trailed off and looked upwards, searching the ceiling for the right word to say out loud. Reliable? Responsible? Discerning? Kind? Deserving? “I'm not like you, and I just…” A long pause. “I appreciate you. You're a good person.”

Jean let out a laugh. He knew what she must have been thinking — if he was telling her she was a good person, she must've taken a very wrong turn somewhere in life. But he didn't laugh with her, just took it, because it was his to take. 

“Llewyn, you are a complete asshole, and an idiot, and a child—”

“Oh, it's my favorite list,” he interjected.

“—but I love you, too — you know that, right?”

She was looking at him with an unfamiliar and almost intolerable softness, and he didn't know how to respond. He'd only ever said it to her once, almost a year ago, back when he thought he'd be shipping out and giving up, but she'd saved him then, too. Still, she hadn't said it back. She'd never told him that she loved him. To be fair, not many people had.

Finally, he nodded tightly, blowing out a sigh. “I know you do,” he said.

Jean crossed the few steps between them and lifted her hand to touch his face, her fingers lingering at his temple. She brushed a curl behind his ear. “Take care of yourself, please.” 

He gave another nod. Jean didn't budge, her eyes sharpening. 

“I'm serious, Llewyn. You were really sick last night. I don't know if you even remember but —”

“Okay, okay, I got it, Jesus. Sleep, bed, tea, et cetera,” he said, not particularly eager to relive his extended moment of weakness. “You’re a real nag, you know that?”

“It's a calling.” She gave his cheek a pat, then turned away and walked out the door.

Once he heard the front door of the building slam, Llewyn walked back to the bedroom and stood in the doorway, looking at the unmade bed, the impressions of their bodies in the sheets, the empty mug of tea on the nightstand. He couldn't quite bear to disturb the scene, so he made the choice to return to the sofa, sinking down into its cushions and pulling the blanket up over his shoulders. 

Old habits died hard.

[thedevillionaire]

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. 

[thedevillionaire]

Still an interesting ask for Cerberus; an absence of information still tells you something. But now I'm curious about Kia's "vast array" of jewelry...?

Heh, yeah. She has...kind of a ton of it, and in a wide variety of styles, too. Much like her wardrobe in general, she has a few staple, basic pieces that she wears regularly, and then there's also a whole lot of other stuff, and that can be very circumstance or mood specific. She may dress fairly casually as a rule, but damn does she love an excuse to dress up, and jewellery is definitely a factor there. I mean, for example, she won't wear a tiara often, but when the occasion calls... Well. Who is she to say no? ;P

[thedevillionaire]

Just curious, are there any items - jewelry, maybe rings or pendants, or crowns / circlets - that are specifically used by Cerberus, and:

any he'd never be without

any he only uses at specific times

any he's ever loaned to others

any loaned to Kia SPECIFICALLY

---- and WHY?

(hit me with the lore pls)

Oooh, dang, if only I had more for this one! Cerberus, though, is very minimal when it comes to jewellery - in fact, there's only one piece that he's never without, and that's his wedding ring. (Pictured below!) But other than that, he has a single ear piercing, right ear, in which he sometimes wears a very simple onyx stud...and that's pretty much it. Oh, and the Leadership crown - as featured in the gorgeous boards you gifted me! - although that's purely for Official Business; he's certainly not wearing it for funsies. (I guess that does count as an "only at specific times" item, though, so, uh...that, then. :P ) Do cufflinks count? Because that's pretty much as close as he's getting here, sorry to say.

Unfortunately, this means there isn't anything of the sort that he's loaned to others at all, not even Kia. Although due to their significant differences in sizing, it'd have to be a necklace or earring/s anyway. (She did heist one of his shirts after their first night together; on her, his shirts are really more of a dress, though lol) And as to why - this is almost entirely down to his personal aesthetic choices. He's meticulously and beautifully dressed, almost without fail, but although a pretty damn reasonable amount of his items of clothing could definitely be considered ornate, when it comes to accoutrements, he opts for a minimalist kind of simplicity. The wedding ring's the only constant. Because it's the only piece that truly matters to him.

[thedevillionaire]

😍😍😍 These are DIVINE. ❣️❣️❣️

@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. ;)

[thedevillionaire]

The Lost Library

Premise: A fabled archive known uncreatively as The Lost Library disappears and reappears once every hundred years in a new location. Not only does the legend of its existence turn out to be true, but an adventuring party successfully triangulates where its next appearance will be and goes there. Seeking a few specific items before the library vanishes again, the party splits up to make quick work of it, and everyone involved absolutely, definitely takes the task equally seriously. contains: m sneezing (dust allergy), fantasy genre, petty bickering, magic malfunction lite

🪸🪸🪸🪸🪸🪸🪸🪸🪸🪸🪸🪸🪸

No one knew for certain how the library’s ceiling had cracked–or for how many hundreds of years it had been that way. Whether it had been an accident or an act of war; If some wayward comet had struck it two materializations ago, or if it had simply collapsed–weary, at last, of the great heave of disappearing and reappearing.

Regardless, open now to whatever air could breach its warbling veneer of magic, the sprawling structure more closely resembled an amphitheatre than an archive. Great shafts of murky light spilled from the ceiling like waterfalls, casting a rippling spotlight on the rich thicket of weeds and lichen that had grown in the exact shape of it–stark, luminescent, and alive in the midst of all this drab desolation. A vivid island adrift on a sea of stone and dust.

In the distance, splintered bookshelves hugged the curve of the chamber, looming solemn and static in the dusk just outside the accidental skylight’s scope. A few white mushroom caps poked out from the cracks between them like stars in the dark–dotting the corners of empty shelves, springing from the telltale gaps in the archive left by looters, scattering far up the stone walls in little constellations–less parched for the muted moonlight than whatever weird flora that had taken root since the collapse. Ivan approached the edge of that uncanny oasis now, finding himself face-to-face with a hollow suit of armor–polished to an almost-blinding sheen, sunk to its shins in glimmering moss (which Ivan was careful to step around). The armor listed to one side. Ivan tilted his head. Emerald ferns and petrified coral filled its helmet completely, curling up and out through the visor, reaching for the light. A few of the tallest tendrils swayed delicately in the updraft. 

Ivan straightened up. 

It left him feeling no less like they had stepped into the glass aquarium of a very wealthy giant. The grey expanse beyond the eerie, moonlit thicket seemed too vast, too quiet to be real, encircling them from an uneasy distance. The space was silent but for the soft clip of their footsteps echoing against the stone and moss, and the hushed wonderment of their companions that carried every so often from the far side of the chamber.

Shielding his eyes against the glow, Ivan could just make out the ruins of a balcony. Most of it still clung to the curve of the wall; other pieces stood alone as fragments–shattered platforms pushed so far from their circuit by some seismic event that only the matching remnants of ornate railings, curled in on themselves like snapped harp strings, signaled their kinship

Beautiful, in a past life. 

Still grand enough to strike quiet awe into Ivan as he felt the blue buzz of the enchanted moss fading at his back. As he stood, blinking, waiting for his eyes to adjust back to the semi-dark, a soft sneeze from somewhere over his shoulder cut through the utter quiet.

“iT’SSiiu–!”

–barely a whisper, not even enough to stir an echo. 

Ivan turned around, briskly. “You better not be starting with that already.”

He found Maren several paces behind with his lapel pulled tightly over his face. One unobscured eye flicked open at the accusation, then narrowed coldly at the very ground beneath their feet. He grumbled from inside his jacket, repulsed, “I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so…”

Ivan grinned, falling back until he caught step with his companion. “Quite so what?” he sneered. “‘Lost’?” he offered along with a gleeful thump on the back. Maren’s eyebrow tweaked irritably in perfect time with the impact. Heat crept to the tips of his ears.

“Just–” Even muffled inside his own jacket, Maren’s voice peaked sharp on the cusp of a threat, then dropped to a mutter as he reeled it back in with palpable restraint. “Just–watch what you’re doing. There.” Still shielding his face, he lifted his eyes and nodded at a strange protrusion straight ahead.

A single bookshelf stood atop an almost-perfect pedestal–pushed neatly as a wooden peg straight up from the ground by some past violence. If it wasn’t for the splintered edges or the unsightly pile of once-bright paint, sloughed off in thick, greying slabs at its feet, the pillar would almost look like an intentional choice. By an admittedly deranged but not untalented architect.

The wooden bookshelf at the top, deceptively plain, was completely intact and mostly full.

“Alright–” Ivan declared, rolling one shoulder in its socket with a soft crack. He turned to Maren with a glimmer of mischief undamped by the low light. “Throw me up!”

Maren stared back at him over the top of his collar–icy and unmoving. Proof that he’d never needed his whole face to flay anyone with a glance.

“Throw me up!” Ivan repeated with shrill insistence, waving his hands impatiently towards the heavens to illustrate.

Maren lowered his arms. His left nostril gave a twitch, but he did not blink. “You are perfectly capable of climbing up there yourself.”

Ivan’s posture wilted. He lolled his head to one side in a loose and longing glance toward the far curve of the chamber. He could make out the faintest flickers of light and movement as their companions trawled their half of the perimeter, looking like fireflies from a distance. “How’d I end up on your team…?” Ivan sulked, before letting his gaze drift back to Maren with a petulant grin– prepared to offer him a list of other allies, past and present, who would have indulged his demand. He found him with his attention elsewhere, though–head turned away, hand drifting uncertainly back towards his collar, eyelashes fluttering, in no position to argue.

“hh’ hhh–!”

Maren’s breath hitched high in his chest and then… nothing. In the instant the urge backed down, he rounded on Ivan with a watery glare, opened his mouth to respond, inhaled. In place of a barbed rebuttal, only a hopeless sneeze. He drew his lapel back up over his face just in time.

“–ht’tSSHHH–! ht’tSHHiu!”

“Bless you.” Ivan made a show of eyeing the ruin all around them–assessing it all in cheeky contemplation. He held out an open hand, stirring some of the glittering motes, turning his palm up like he was testing for rain. “You’re allergic to this place,” he said. “You don’t look like you’re going to last very long in here. Probably best if we don’t drag–”

In a crack of lightning, Ivan stood before the bookshelf. Clamoring to catch hold of the bent railing and steady himself, he knocked a cascade of debris to the ground. The platform was uneven and higher than it had looked–not so high that he couldn’t hear the hiss of discontent from below when he scuffed another plume of ancient dust over the edge and got to work.

Far from the library’s central glow now, Ivan strained his eyes at the rows of bindings in front of him. They all blurred into one hazy, grey monolith. Most of the individual spines were worn threadbare and nameless with age, embossings so caked with dust that they had filled in completely. A few cautious excavations of these with a forefinger confirmed that none were labelled in a language Ivan could understand anyway. He slipped a scrap of paper from his pocket and held it high enough to catch a sliver of bioluminescence from the makeshift meadow. At the right angle, he could discern the vague swoops of an intricate script that would have been illegible to him in broad daylight, impossible to match against some decaying tome in the dark.

Still, he plucked a blocky volume from the shelf and cracked it open. Squinting hard, he could just recognize the dotted lines of a butcher’s diagram and the faint silhouettes of sliced mushrooms. The book fell open easily at the center, guided by the stumps of several pages that had been torn out. So many were missing that Ivan half-expected to find a flask or a weapon concealed in the hollow, but there was nothing. He wondered if the missing recipes were really that good. He wondered if they were anything anyone this century could even stomach.

“What do you see?”

“I can’t see in the dark,” Ivan reminded him, running a finger along the gritty bindings as if a different sense might spring to his aid. “Can I get a light?”

A dutiful orb of condensed sunlight sailed up from the ground floor–greener than usual against the residual turquoise glow from the thicket, grainier with every ancient particle his movements stirred, but bright enough to read by. It hovered close to his shoulder as he pulled a larger book out by its spine and flipped it open: nude drawings in stark charcoal on the first three pages, then the rest were entirely blank. Ivan breathed a reverent “wow”, then dropped the book at his feet with a bang and a billow of dust. Already reaching for the next, he was smiling before the scolding even began.

“What are you doing?” Maren snarled from the ground below. His voice was muffled, as if he’d burrowed back inside his jacket in self-defense. As if the damage wasn’t already done.

“I was just curious what else was up here,” Ivan chuckled. “When am I gonna have another chance…?”

“Well, have some damned respect! Some of those books are millenia old!” Maren sniffed. “Older than your grandparents’ grandparents’ grandparents!”

Ivan toed the drawings to the edge of his perch. “You wanna talk about respect? Here’s what kind of respect your ancestors had.” He laughed, letting the book slip over the edge and out of sight. He heard a swell of magic catch it in a flutter of pages and Maren taking a tense step back without comment.

The next book Ivan tried was much smaller–square, peeled from a nest of cobwebs so dense he recoiled with a sputtering cough as they stretched and finally snapped only once he’d turned the cover all the way over in his hands. It opened to a scrawl of manic calligraphy and stuttery images of wide-eyed, stiff-limbed crowds. He could tell it was a religious text, or trying to be.

When he flipped the page, everything went dark. In a thrill of panic, Ivan dropped the book. His attention snapped to the orb hanging over his head, now flickering like an unsteady candle.

“hh’tSSZHHHuh—!” 

Another sneeze, insistent enough to cast a sibilant echo through the expanse this time. The first one that day that sounded like it had helped him even a little bit. Ivan, at least, breathed a sigh of relief. He stooped to collect the text. “This is–” he started to say, pausing to glance at the light as it strobed again. “Bless you...” he offered preemptively as it stuttered out completely, followed by another sharp gasp from below, followed by a particularly ticklish-sounding:

“htzSCHHih’huh!”

A sniffle.

And an exasperated sigh.

Ivan sauntered to the edge of the pillar. “This is going to take all night if you can’t hold the light steady.”

“hht–! ‘zSSHHhuh! Stop kicking up so much dust, then!” Maren snapped stuffily the second he caught his breath.

Abandoning all pretense, Ivan held the scrap of paper aloft and gave it a little flutter. “Maren, I can’t read any of this,” he confessed soberly. Or intended to–a spark of amusement swept across his face like a lit fuse the moment their eyes met through the dim. He couldn’t help it; Maren looked like an angry cat from up here.

“Of course you can’t,” Maren said impatiently. He conjured a handkerchief from thin air and blew his nose fiercely. “You don’t need to. You are playing a matching game that most children would succeed at.”

“I’m sure your handwriting is perfect and beautiful, but you overestimate how much is left to match…” Ivan countered with a glance back over his shoulder at the book bindings, fused together like a blank, grey wall, even more indecipherable as–he noted fondly– the little light had followed him when he’d stepped away.

“Really?” Maren raised his eyebrows–still sniffling, but alert again, awash with curiosity. “Hmm. Well. The two we’re looking for will be emanating magical energy. You should be able to feel your very blood vibrating with it from where you’re standing.”

“What’s stopping you from coming up here and feeling your blood vibrate? I know you’re not afraid of heights,” Ivan crooned. The orb over his shoulder dimmed again, plunging them both into shadow, then raging back to life, brighter than before. Quizzically, Ivan looked down at Maren who looked up at him–straight-faced, unwavering, except he seemed a little out-of-breath for someone who had spent this conversation standing still. His nose wrinkled at the bridge and his spell blinked into darkness again.

Ivan huffed a shallow laugh. “You have a great poker face!” he said, in earnest.

Maren rolled his eyes then–finally–let them flutter shut as he stepped back and leaned into a hiccuping, “--ht’SHHHh! hihh–iSSHHHue!” caught with the crook of his arm. While he was busy, Ivan crossed back to the bookshelf just to be sure. The light, back to full brightness, bobbed along after him. He held up a hand, hovered his fingertips close to the surface of every binding within reach. Nothing reacted. He felt nothing but the same clingy chill radiating along his bare arms from the stone and darkness all around them. “I can’t feel a thing.”

Maren straightened his posture with a sniffle, clearly unsure whether to trust this claim or dismiss it as nothing more than the latest mischief atop the day’s towering stack of inconveniences. He took a risk and responded with quiet sincerity: “You can’t?”

“I never could. Well–” Ivan shrugged. “Sometimes I can. I’m sure I felt something move when I was over by that moss.”

Maren said nothing for awhile, then gave a little hum of recollection. “You should’ve said something sooner. I know a talented mage in Canthos who could’ve saved you a lot of trouble. Who could’ve saved us all a lot of trouble. It wouldn’t help with your attunement, per se, but certainly in terms of warding–”

Without turning around, Ivan cupped both hands over his mouth. “I don’t care about your famous friends!” he bellowed, pulling another nondescript book off the shelf, turning it over and over, uselessly. “Where are they now? Not helping you. Not saving you from sneezing your head off for the next three days, nor me from having to listen to it!”

He was not sure if Maren even heard him–the light flickered forebodingly, suggesting he was busy doing exactly that, or pretending he wasn’t about to. When it steadied, Ivan said, “If you’re not going to come up and help, you’re just going to have to describe them to me again.”

Maren huffed–annoyed, or still fighting off another sneeze. “One of the items on your list is an atlas,” he said slowly.

Ivan blinked in disbelief when no further details came, stumping back over to the edge of the platform. “And that’s supposed to help me how?”

“You are a sailor!” Maren chirped, hoarse and indignant. “You don’t know what an atlas looks like?!”

Ivan glanced at the ceiling with a smirk. “Been awhile, I guess.” “It’s– it’SSCHHiuh!” Maren’s explanation crumbled to a three-tiered gasp as he ducked helplessly into his handkerchief again. He held still for a moment, then shivered deeper into it. “hihTZSCHHHiuh!”

“It’s a…” Ivan shuffled to sit on the edge of the platform, looping both arms through the railing to rest comfortably. “--book of maps. I know that much.”

Maren started over, confidently–until his breath caught again. “It’s uh– hh–!” He rolled his eyes and turned his back to Ivan, as though he needed to focus–on coaxing the sneeze out or warding it off, it was not clear. His shoulders flinched sharply as he stifled it between his thumb and forefinger.

Ivan leaned over the railing slyly. “Maybe you can act it out for me.”

A snap of white lightning and a sound like a burst ember and Maren stood behind him–blinking rapidly to keep his itching eyes open and in-focus as they dissected the shelf. Nimbly, one book plucked itself from the row, then another. Maren flinched as if to leave, but one more volume sailed off the shelf and tucked itself gracefully into his satchel. Before Ivan’s vision had recovered from the first flash, Maren was already gone–reappearing on the ground below. His satchel closed and latched itself politely as he walked away, unhurried, but purposeful. Without a single glance over his shoulder, he waved one hand in a loose, dismissing gesture and called out, stuffily:

“Find your own way down!”

[thedevillionaire]

Between Lovers, CH2: Concern

This will be at least four parts, but depending on feedback I might well extend it further into some whump / caretaking categories.

[[TO CH1]]

Wolf had been torn between amusement and budding concern at the beginning of the meeting. It wasn’t like he didn’t know Umbral was sick. He didn’t look like he did only three days ago via whatever same illusion hid most of the corruption and scarring that just came with being Sith, but that sort of thing didn’t actually go away just by willpower. Not even a Sith’s.

Speaking of willpower, whatever Darth Imperius had done was clearly still affecting him strongly. To the best of his ability, all Wolf could determine was that she had pulled her Force Lightning back severely, nothing more than a sharp crackle of static.

And then touched him.

With the static at visible strength.

Honestly it was borderline phenomenal that he hadn’t broken out in a full fit then and there. But then, that was Umbral; the man was made of durasteel Will. He was the master of his body the vast majority of the time. Largely, he supposed, because he didn’t get sick often and was prone to pushing harder than he ought to.

Like now, standing on the inner walk by the entry platforms for the Imperial Citadel. But as they were cut through by the sharp wind it gave him an idea.

Wolf sniffed, surreptitiously watching the moment Umbral clearly recognized the sound for what it was, that tiny, brief close of eyes that another man might call prayerful. That dreadfully familiar heady sweetness permeating the air… he took a slow, deep breath and it caught in a quiet, undeniable hitch. As they were as alone as they were getting here, he raised a hand, just above his heart, in a loose almost-fist. As if the impulse were strong enough to overcome his usual hesitation.

Umbral had seen the situation often enough to know what was coming, and the poor man was definitely too far gone to question it now. Not that Wolf was faking it — he was just giving in to it, instead of wrestling it into submission. All too easy when that scent had been inhaled, sharp and deep and inescapable. It wouldn’t take long. In fact, he’d barely had the idle thought that oh, I felt that before another staggered hitch and he was- he-   “hhh… h’t-TSHHIih!”

“Wolf,” Umbral said, voice dropping to a delightfully growled rumble.

“My apologies,” Wolf said with far less sincerity than he hoped it sounded like. “The rain… sniiih… iih!” He turned away, but only in profile. Enough to be polite, but not enough to prevent Umbral from watching. “ihtSCHIH! Snf…hh. That scent…”

“I’m aware,” Umbral muttered, briefly rubbing at the tip of his incessantly itchy nose.

All the more so, Wolf knew, when he had to think about it. Had to hear someone else sneezing without getting relief himself. Clearly that wasn’t quite enough yet. Still, they claimed an air taxi when it was clear.

An invisible hand took him by the belt and steered him to the back seat with Umbral. Perhaps consequences were coming sooner than he’d anticipated.

Umbral settled into the car, shifting a little to be able to maneuver better. He wasn’t planning to do anything, but if he needed to get out, he was going to make sure he hadn’t pinned himself in needlessly. Once satisfied, he put his shoulders back, long hair rustling in the damn breeze. Almost but not quite enough to make him shiver, it still had a tangible effect on his lover.

“Hiiih!” An audible hitching breath and Wolf made a tiny sound that trailed directly into another sneeze. It clearly afforded him no relief, to guess from the unfocused look in his normally alert blue eyes. Another breath, a rare and soundless hitch, led to a more forceful release. “H’hnGSHiih!”

As frustrated as Umbral felt, as much as he could feel that same ominous tickling and none of the relief, as stupidly suggestible as he was, he still felt a mingling of amusement and empathy for Wolf as he straightened at last, blinking with a decisive sniff.

“May whoever listens to Imperials bless you,” Umbral said, an echo of another time, and tucked a bit of hair that had escaped its tail back behind his ear with a gloved fingertip. When Wolf let himself lean into the brief touch, he couldn’t help a small smile, voice dropping low. “You��re maddening, you know that.”

“Your tastes are hardly m-my… ESSHIH!” Wolf blinked with uncharacteristically visible startlement at both the suddenness and the force of it. “…pardon me.”

“I beg to differ, my tastes are precisely that,” Umbral said, gold eyes gleaming. “As you know.”

“You may be in luck,” Wolf said cautiously, a hand raising and very carefully feeling along his bridge.

Umbral arched a brow. “Again?”

“I think… I thiiink so?” He shook his head as if he could just shake the feeling loose.

The anticipation of it made Umbral’s skin prickle with excitement, the moment before a lightning strike and just as brilliant.

Then Umbral realized his own irritation had been left to grow unchecked far too late to even begin to stop it, and gasped far too loudly with too much need and desperation. Without even the time to finish the thought that he’d been careless, he flinched into a reflexive attempt at a stifle, a harsh sort of ‘hnxxgschhu!’ that was nowhere near enough. Another gasp and another “hnngSTCHHIH!” and— “NGHSSHIISCHU! Ngh, Force, excuse me.”

“Bless.”

For a bizarre moment he thought Wolf was going to hug him — not unwelcome but very bizarre timing — only to have a gloved hand dip boldly into his inner pocket and produce his handkerchief. Wolf had the audacity to smile, the cloth dangling from his fingertips.

When Umbral didn’t take it right away, he arched a brow. “I think you need this.”

“Oh do you?” Umbral attempted to channel his annoyance with the whole thing into his voice and might have failed a bit from the sparkle in those expressive blue eyes. It was harder to maintain with that, and even more so as Wolf’s smile spread. Force, but the man was even more handsome when his passions shined through.

“Very sure,” he said. “You look so irritated.”

“I do not,” Umbral said at once. He’d have felt if his Force illusion had faltered and it most certainly had not.

“You do,” he insisted, still so close.

To his immense frustration, Umbral sniffed at the same irritation that, while not seen, was unquestionably felt. Softly, but that close Wolf had to have heard. “What part of my appearance makes you think I-I…”

He pressed his lips shut, jaw tight against an urge as irresistible as a yawn. The need to sneeze didn’t creep up on him so much as washed over him like an ominous wave. With no Sith present to be concerned with, he attempted to cleanse the irritation with Force healing. He was making progress when a look of startled irritation cut through Wolf’s smile and he pulled back.

Umbral couldn’t have looked away even if he wanted to, that moment of weakness, the vulnerability, the way his eyes squinted hazily and the startled parting of lips as he took in a sharp breath. The way his nose wrinkled just below his cybernetic implant, twitching just slightly around the tip.

Wolf jerked back with an audible gasp. “Hiitschiih! Ihhshiish! B-blast- ihkksht-chiih!”

An honest blessing was on Umbral’s tongue, impressed and concerned both, but he didn’t get the chance to say so. “Eeehh… ESSHHIISHU!”

His handkerchief hit his shielding hand and he took it gratefully to sneeze twice more and wait anxiously to see if he would be further assaulted by his cold-ridden senses. But no, it seemed the trio was enough, for now. Sniffing softly, he looked back to Wolf. “Are you alright?”

“You’ve come down with a cold that can stagger a Darth and you’re asking me?” Wolf asked incredulously.

“Precisely so,” Umbral said. “I’m a bit under the weather, it’s expected. You?”

“The seal on this air taxi is lacking, some of the damp air is coming in.” Wolf said with an exasperated gesture to the door.

“…I sense no such thing,” Umbral said, frowning. It felt honest, but it didn’t feel true, and he’d gotten good at reading Wolf.

“Oh I don’t feel the wind,” Wolf said dryly, aggressively scrubbing at his nose with his knuckles. “But I can most certainly tell the...th-the effects— ntt’SCHIIH! Ngh. Do pardon me.”

It felt reasonable. It felt honest. It still didn’t feel true. Maybe that was part of the problem, but it wasn’t all of it. He wasn’t so sick that he couldn’t trust his sense of Wolf’s well being. “Of course.”

“Oh not that tone,” Wolf sighed. “I’m fine, Umbral. I’m not so sweet I’ll melt.”

“I did not take a tone with you,” Umbral said. “I just thought—”

The air taxi bobbed to a gentle stop and they locked eyes.

Wolf smiled. “Well. Out we go, hm?”

Umbral swore softly and got out, rounding the car on the landing pad of his building and coming up beside Wolf. The need to touch him was intense, and he allowed himself to brush his fingers over one shoulder blade. It wasn’t enough, not nearly, but it was something and it helped. When Wolf shuddered, Umbral flattened his hand over the same space. He felt the deep inhale, the stuttering hitch, and stayed near for the rather ridiculous yet very appealing sneezes. Sharper than usual, with more force behind them, actually bending the man forward almost enough to make him take a step.

Wolf managed a heavy sniffle that twisted concern and arousal into a troubling knot. “Ugh. So sorry, I don’t know why it’s hitting so hard.”

Suspicion wound around Umbral, the voice of reason whispering exactly why he would be “suddenly” having such issues. It was immediately important to get him in out of the rain, more so than usual, even. They’d had more than one dalliance where they both came back drenched from a warm summer rain but this…

No. “Let’s get inside.”

“Umbrahhhlll— h’tCHHISSHUH!” Whatever he’d been planning to say in disagreement was swallowed up in the abrupt and forceful sneeze. So many truly emphatic releases in such a short period of time seemed to tire him a bit, in the least making him more agreeable.

“Come along,” Umbral said quietly, but didn’t force him to try to move before he’d unlocked his knees. Once he had, Wolf moved well enough on his own, sniffing periodically with lingering irritation, and it was starting to get to Umbral. The irritated sound echoed in his sinuses, reminding him that he very much itched, and hadn’t gotten proper relief himself. A single sneeze was no more than a test drive for the riot going on in his sinuses and it would have to be addressed soon, or it was going to force it.

But he would damn well make it to his apartment first.

Once they were in the elevator, Umbral slid his hand up Wolf’s spine. He kept it open, flush to the base of his neck and made sure not to grab and send the wrong signal. Wolf didn’t need to be treated gently, nor was he always treated gently even by Umbral himself. But he knew too well that if he signaled roughness he would lose the agreeableness that was there between them now, and he didn’t dare.

Despite his best efforts, Umbral was sniffing a bit to stave off the irritation, bargaining with himself if he could go just a little longer, just a bit and he’d let it happen.

Why in all the Corellian hells was his apartment so high up? Sometimes he very much regretted not being on the ground floor.

“Is Killia’s old place really so terrible?” Wolf asked, practically reading his mind.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I’d never rest there for the lingering aura of the horrors performed there. She was vile, even for a Sith.”

“I remember,” he said. “It was so much worse for you.”

“I could sense it clearly,” he pointed out, briefly pressing the back of his hand to his nose. It bought him another moment. “The depths of depravity she indulged in… she and Grathan got along too well.”

Wolf wrinkled his nose in distaste. “I wouldn’t say so, but the world owes Wrath a debt for ridding us of that mad man.”

“Agreed. Even a Sith m-must have standards,” Umbral said, wrinkling his nose with a sharp sniff. He eyed the floor count and made a tiny sound when they reached his floor.

Almost…

To his surprise, Wolf snagged his other wrist as the doors opened and tugged him into the hall before stepping ahead and placing gloved fingertips on the sensor. His fuzzy aura flickered, and the door opened. Normally, Umbral would call him out on ‘showing off’ but he could only be grateful, because he very much needed to sneeze.

[[TO CH3]]

[thedevillionaire]

Hear me out: men with long hair.

sneezing

[thedevillionaire]

Evening Abnegation

so my muse begged me for a magical university set in a castle ( that has nothing to do with the terf, to be clear ) lowkey inspired by the oxbridge aesthetic, & a little bit? riot club?

this was supposed to be just a silly little introductory fic, so i have absolutely no idea how it got this long. it’s about 98% exposition and 2% snz ( and the snz comes pretty late into the fic, my apologies ).

for context this is a small fantasy realm that's still under major construction, but it's a mix of magic and maybe somewhat sci-fi/modern day aesthetic things, kind of like if magic and electricity were both integrated into society. i also haven't quite figured out the magic system, except that magic is something anyone can learn, it's not limited by genetics or blood type or anything (though nythalem univeristy does happen to be a university thats very selective about its student intake ; see, oxbridge coded ), and they have wands - at least for some of the magic. basically this is niche as fuck but i wanted to write it for myself.

terms: kyromancy (ice magic), sorumancy (shadow magic/darkness), wardmancy (ward magic), beastmancy (animals), the san (their medical wing), honeydew (type of beer).

ocs: cal, fourth year kyromancy major, amir, fourth year sorumancy major (best friends, both 24. implied? potential? situationship?). others in their friend group are mentioned but not integral to this fic; risa, nia.

word count: 6k

“this is not something you want to ignore" — or a world where the cold/flu is considered a much worse illness to have, perhaps because of the frequency you can catch it, or the longevity it could have. it’s considered “far too unpredictable” by scholars and academics, as there is only so much one can do to prevent it, magic cannot cure it, and it has far too many possible causes. a world where having a cold is cause to take a time off, and, in fact, actively encouraged.

He doesn’t think much of it at first, the weight pressing down on his shoulder. He doesn’t have to, between the warmth of the fireplace stretching out to greet his ever cold skin, and the soft ambience of the rain soaked evening. 

Most rooms in the castle were self-expanding — to meet the needs of whoever was inside, some form of complex interior ward structure that could, if gone wrong, threaten the integrity of the entire building, or so Risa said. But rarely did they need more than an inch here and there, resting with a faint shimmer of something not quite right, that’s how you could tell; squinting at the shadows that don’t fall in line, jagged over the stone and mostly by the edges. Sometimes it was simply by the way the sunlight hit the glass, a dazzling shimmer like crystallised droplets hanging in the air. 

It wasn’t often necessary, which meant it was almost always noticeable, like the blind spot in the corner of your eye — a chink in the glasswork, rust on gold, it does not have to be a bother, it’s just noticeable. 

There were extensive limitations of course, as with all magics, no matter your stance on whether ‘wards were imposing the substantial quality of the wielding’, as proposed every other week in the Nythalem Herald. Cal had heard the arguments time and time again, everyone knew when the student paper ran out of ideas because there it would be in freshly printed ink. 

Which meant they had to hear Risa’s thoughts on the topic. Multiple times. Cal didn’t mind that either, not really. There was a certain mindfulness to Risa, or perhaps it was disinterest, he was never quite sure, with most things. She pursed her lips and kept her face carefully arranged, offered polite, but impersonal advice, and that was that. 

That was that. 

And then at some point in first year, they cracked it. The Risa Code; chocolate liquor, prawn crackers, and old fashioned jokes that could have come from anyone’s father. She began to let them in after an evening away from University work, ‘letting their cloaks down’, collapsing a little short of sober in a heap on someone’s bed at three in the morning.

But the one thing that really riled her, was the purposeful misunderstanding of wards. So they’d let her vent, because it was nice to see her believe in something other than work. 

His skin tingles with the faint, thinning buzz of a honeydew, hypocrite, his mind whispers, as his eyes blink up at the darkening ceiling. They’d heard it a hundred times over; ‘the exterior linings’, ‘substantial damages’ and ‘impossible to extend more than three inches at a time or risk damaging the actual infrastructure of the damn castle’. The twang comes out then, behind the carefully composed words from the back of her throat, slipping in to deceive the standard tongue, teeth wound into her bottom lip. 

Sometimes they were too alike, him and Risa. Sometimes they burned themselves to the ground before remembering to light the match. Sometimes there was a look, a knowing, that slid deep beneath his bones, and rattled in his chest, like she could see him. Every part of him. 

An inch or two never seemed like much, and it would never last. If it was for official reasons - exams, festives, showcases, graduations - the Professors could control those extra inches. But Cal, unlike Risa, wasn’t studying Wardmancy, and had no idea how they did that, held that control.

Wards like these were heavy, layered, and beneath those layers, were more layers, shiny coatings that veiled the wards themselves, that made you forget they were there, took away the encroaching weight of them. Otherwise they’d dampen all the feeling from the stone, from your body, a slow, encroaching heaviness like a martyr sinking down on their shoulders, til they could barely move at all. 

On their own, they could, technically, move an inch, they’d been taught how to back in their second year of studies by the fifth years, and how to tether it off to something so you weren’t holding the threads the entire time, lest you want to collapse. They weren’t supposed to, but an inch here or there didn’t make a massive difference, if only to make them jump in the middle of the night when the threads finally dissolved and there’s an echoing crunch as the wall slid back into place. 

He’d moved it just an inch earlier that evening, just after classes finished and there were still streaks of sunlight seeping through gaps in the clouds. It just meant there was a fraction more room, and they could extend the table in front of the fireplace to spread their work out. Only fourth and fifth years were allowed to stay in the castle, the others were assigned to the ‘student village’; though it was really more of a large square near down past the stables. It was a ten minute walk from there up to the castle, their consolation prize was that their accommodation backed onto the north-west gates, which could take them directly into an actual village. 

Nythalem Village. Aptly named, when Nythalem University bought the land thirty years ago.

Supposedly it was part of some scheme to extend student learning, they wanted to build another dome of sorts, strictly for practical magic. Instead, nothing happened. Now some of the Professor’s were housed there, with a few shops and a bakery to keep funds coming in, it was a nice place for a walk on the rare occasion it was sunny and there was nothing to do. If they really wanted fun, they’d head down on the wagons into town - but that had to be timed correctly; it was an hour ride there and back altogether and if you lost track of time the wagon drivers wouldn’t wait. On foot the journey back up was twice as long, and in bad weather it could become dangerously unpleasant. 

First year students were restricted to just Nythalem village. Learning the core fundamentals meant they had to focus. Cal could remember that, the intensity, the pressure, and the misconception that if they made it through the first year it would ease it. It didn’t. That was why the Professors were so strict on access, if you flunked first year you’d never make it through the rest of the programme, and Nythalem didn’t offer second chances lightly. 

It worked, whatever their methods, it was strict diligence and he knew many of the others would be lost without it. In some ways he was luckier than most, he knew what to expect when he arrived, others who had no connections were thrown in the deep end of expectations they struggled to meet. By the time you reach third year you assume you know all that can be known about general magics, you’re bored of it, you’re excited to try something knew, that first year restlessness returns to grip you round the throat. 

Controversially, Cal had been dreading fourth year. Now he was in it, almost halfway through, it was okay, they’d settled into a steady pace.

But unlike everyone else, he never really left the comfort of knowing he knew the fundamentals, he wasn’t wrestling with a yearning for more. Ambitious? Always, but he wanted to do it right, he wanted to be careful, if he had something to learn he wanted to understand it fully, in every way possible.

The others were desperate to specialise, even Amir, who never seemed to know what he wanted. These were his last two years, then, if he played his cards right, he’d graduate with an MA in Kyromancy, and be accepted into his field. His fourth year was a single year. Other courses were longer, particularly Sorumancy and Beastmancy, whose fourth year was actually almost two years in length (‘a year and seven months is not that long, Cal’). They wanted to be secure in their teachings, and Nythalem was nothing if not meticulous. 

Fourth years got the rooms in the middle of the tower, they were the larger ones for sharing, two to a room. Fifth years got the top floors, smalerl, but more solitude, single rooms with sound barriers to block out the noise. 

If he’d had to share a room with anyone else it might have been different. Because Cal doesn’t have any siblings, he had his space and he liked to keep it that way.

The first three years were different, because depending on where you were housed decided whether you shared a room with someone. But across his entire University experience, he always ended up rooming with one person. There was some element of choice in that, they were allowed to give names of those in their year they wouldn’t mind sharing with, but he didn’t know how it was picked, or whether it was picked at all - Risa assumed they were using a charm to sift through and organise it all. 

He’s known Amir since they were twelve. The first day of school, it was raining, and everyone else seemed to know each other already. Cal had just moved into the area, hunching down in his seat whenever they called for a break, tracing the words on his paper with his finger for something to do. To at least look like he was busy. Then, if nobody wanted to talk to him, he wouldn’t look like he cared. 

Then the chair next to him pulled back, a slight scrape on the wooden floor that made him flinch, and Amir was stuffing his bag under the desk, brushing droplets of water from his hair. Something about a leak, and for once in his life Cal didn’t look over, three rows behind, to see if there was water dripping through the ceiling.

He didn’t check, he trusted that it was real. 

By sheer luck, or the fact Amir wrote Cal’s name in the five optional spaces on their slips last year, they’d been put together. Again. And he was always going to be okay with that. 

They were all the same; two beds with hangings that were probably as old as some of the tree’s, bare dark blue walls except where the windows jutted out, one on either side of their beds, and wooden floorboards that creaked six inches from any object. Cal was certain that if they stripped back the floorboards all they would find was a thick layer of stone. Apparently enough students complained about the flooring that they fitted wood into all the rooms like carpet, not that Cal thought it made much of a difference.

There was a fireplace, or an arch where a fireplace might have sat, and a cleaned out grate in every room, even when the wall was sealed out. They didn’t really need a chimney or a fireplace for small fires, they were easily contained and easily put out, most of the time. It sat in the wall space between their beds and the door, suitcases at the base of their beds and nothing but dust in between. So they found a low table and an old sofa that one of the Professors was about to throw out and put that in the space instead. 

And now it was plastered with parchment he should be studying, long lines of notes for his half written essay that he planned to have done two hours ago. On any other day he would have it done, teasing at the heaviness of his eyes, prickling in the back of his head, it was right there, within touching distance of finishing and yet. 

Yet. 

There was a head on his shoulder and he couldn’t quite bring himself to move. 

Cal knew tired, he knew tired like the back of his hand, like it was infused into his blood. Sometimes he wondered if it was, genetics, watching the hours trickle down from the thready stars in the sky till his eyes burned and his wrist ached against the parchment.

Sometimes he didn’t bother trying to sleep at all, when he could get his work done in the soft candle light. It was no secret sleep was fight to evade, and his friends had no qualms about making it the topic of many conversations. 

And perhaps that was owed, for all the times he’d wandered too far over the edge, caught in the haze of daytime and decay, heart thudding in his ears till the soothing song of sleep finally pulled him down against the pillows. He did not begrudge them caring, even if it could be for nothing. 

Amir swayed like sawdust between caring too much and not enough. Caught drifting in the wind, choking on his own words like they stick to the back of his throat; he lingers and drifts and keeps his head afloat just enough that their eyes don’t find him. Cal knew Amir as much as he knew tired, and all the words between the things they did not say. 

And he knew when the fumes of exhaustion were catching up. 

Because that was it, really, that was Amir all over. He cared intensely in his nonchalance, but where Cal was used to people assuming he was putting on an act, like his walls were made of iron and yet translucent like glass, the world seemed to forget that Amir was.

Maybe because it wasn’t entirely a mask for either of them; Cal was not a cold person, he just found it easy to forget the world existed, between the curve of his writing and the tug of ambition. Tunnel Vision, his guardian called it, like it was some sort of affliction. Amir was nonchalant, as much as he was lost, he swayed because he wasn’t sure where to linger, where to exist, he needed the anchor to find the ground. But he was earnest, intense, playful, when he found the words beyond the pleasantries. 

Perhaps that is why they clicked so fast. Flip a coin, they’d find the side that mattered. 

(“I don’t trust you.” He announces it the only way he knows how, salty and wrong, scraping over his tongue. But he had to say it, he couldn’t not say it, imposterimposterimposter, they couldn’t truly be friends if it’s based on a lie? Why did it feel like a lie. 

“Okay.” Amir answers, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, picking at the grass under their legs. “You don’t have too.”) 

Amir walked in just after five, slinging his bag on to his bed, sheets still rumpled from the morning, raking a hand through his hair. Cal had barely started, tapping the edge of his pen against his notes, he almost hadn’t noticed. 

That was the caveat. 

Noticing things about Amir was like finding a papercut you didn’t know you had. It stung, at the first hint, detached realisation, oh, and then you cannot go back to the sweet bliss of ignorance, it becomes impossible to ignore.

Except usually Cal enjoyed noticing Amir. 

This was more estranged. Hair ruffled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and that in itself wasn’t usually, but he had three buttons undone on his shirt and Amir always stopped at two no matter how hot the weather was.

Mostly, he was a silent sort of whirlwind, a call here and there knocking down the walls of Cal’s tunnelling mind, his presence everywhere, and yet, not disruptive. Not noisy. To him, at least. 

Nia wholly disagreed, particularly after three drinks. 

He was still a whirlwind; but sort of sluggish, untying his sweater from his waist and letting it crumple on the closed lid of his suitcase, rubbing his eyes. And then he stood, as the light fell through the window and stretched over his chest, fiddling with the edge of his cuffs. 

The almost-stillness broke the narrow descent of academia, and Cal found himself leaning backwards against the sofa to stare at him. 

“Long day?”

“Hm?” Amir blinked, half caught in the shadow with his head tucked down, still fiddling with his sleeves. Not that he seemed to do much with them, his thumb running back and forth over one of the buttons. 

“I didn’t see you earlier.” Actually, Cal hadn’t seen him all day. He was gone when he awoke, earlier than usual, and they had classes on separate sides of the castle. That wasn’t uncommon, but it was something. 

“Mmh.” 

Cal inched forwards, setting his notes down on the table.

“Everything okay?” 

Off. That’s how he seemed. 

Three soft ticks of the watch on Cal’s arm, and then he seemed to break forward out of the daze, rubbing his eyes. 

“Sorry, what were you saying?” 

“Headache?” Cal asked instead. Amir was prone to them, most sorumancy students were, in their weird, vague sort of way, where even their modules were fairly ambiguous, and they always seemed to side step the questions; what were they doing? Amir just laughed it off and said their Professors liked the ‘exchange of mystery’ because it ‘matched the darkness’. 

(An Advanced Sorumancer knows how to tether their mind without affliction, but the weight of the mass of darkness can stretch far beyond the naked eye, there is no telling how much flack - a distinctly underwhelming term for such an ordeal - a Sorumancer will be forced to shoulder before they have passed through the tepid barriers. It is the kind of weight that lingers for hours beyond the limitations of the task, once likened to the ashy fumes wavering upon a Pyromancer long after the fire has burnt out. – A quote Cal once spotted from one of Amir’s textbooks)  

“Uh,” Amir faltered, like he wasn’t sure, like he hadn't even thought about it. “No, I don’t think so. Just tired.” 

Cal wasn’t sure how much he believed that. 

For one, Amir still hadn’t moved, hovering in the space between the ends of their beds where the trunks were stacked, not even to flop down on his bed. He just stood there, wavering slightly in the stagnant grey of daylight seeping through the windows. 

“You could take a nap before dinner?” 

His nose scrunched at the suggestion, the way it always did, like the idea of a nap personally offended him. It was almost comical, given that his go to answer for ‘what is your favourite pastime’ back in school for those icebreaker questions to ease the tension, was always sleeping. 

“No need.” 

Cal let it drop, reaching for his wand to light the abandoned old newspaper in the grate with a fresh flame. It was rare newspapers used anti-disintegration ink anymore, but the charm worked just as well, even if it wore down after a while. Although the charm came first, without which they never would have made the ink, it wasn’t a perfect spell, and they ironed out the kinks in the polish a little too well, when it began to resist holding the flames altogether. 

Amir stepped over his ankles to slump down on the other side of the sofa, dragging his satchel with him but made no attempt to actually get his things out. Instead, he shivered faintly, as the flames began to slowly sift the heat forwards, and tipped his head back, eyes shut. 

Perhaps it was a mild strep? That seemed to be going around recently. Or a general malaise, he certainly looked tired enough. Exhaustion might get him an overnight stay in the San but he’d get a dose of the good stuff for it. 

Cal thought Amir might nap anyway, but he didn’t, and after several minutes of silence, began rummaging through his things till he found a textbook.

Dinner was served at seven every evening in the Mess Hall - and Breakfast between seven and eight in the morning - neither of which were mandatory but they were encouraged, specifically for first and fifth years. They took a break then, but Cal could admit he hadn’t made nearly as much headway as he should have done, or would normally have done, too busy noticing Amir. 

Who seemed to have some kind of chill about him and layered on a sweater, dragging the cuffs down past his fingers the moment they stepped outside of their room.

Still, Cal couldn’t explain what he was noticing, except that he was distracted by Amir’s distraction, a frequent wandering mind, and more than once he’d looked up to find him staring off into the distance, pen in hand forgotten. Whatever was causing these bouts of stupor doesn’t make itself known, and Amir seemed to shake it off himself after some time, so Cal decided against asking. 

Mostly because he wasn’t sure Amir was listening. 

They’d returned to their room to continue after, with half a bottle of honeydew, courtesy of Nia, who thought they could do with a ‘pick me up’. And Cal accepted, because he was inclined to agree. 

He’d settled back into his spot, passing the bottle between them - though Amir had shaken his head after three sips, and Cal wasn’t particularly fond of the flavour - for some time, returning to the dregs of his essay. 

Then Amir was sleeping. On his shoulder. And he couldn’t reach forward to do anything without disturbing him. And contrary to everyone’s belief, he did know when to stop. Sometimes. Or at least, this time. 

A soft sniffle, somewhere near his ear. 

Amir had never been a loud sleeper, not like Nia, muttering words all hours of the night. But he wasn’t a still one either. Cal liked to find one position and stay in it, rarely found himself waking up in another way, if he closed his eyes on the hardback book on his bedside table with the shabby spine, he usually woke up that way too. 

Amir moved, a lot. 

It was almost noiseless, shifting in the sheets, tangling up in his legs, and Cal would never understand how he got so intertwined in something so intact. Even still, he never fell out of bed, another miracle it seemed, when somehow his pillow could end up halfway across the room and he was still cocooned under the sheets in the middle of his mattress. 

So he moved, shuffled, sniffled, but he wasn’t noisy, and never on purpose. 

Cal did know from experience that sharing a bed with Amir could be pleasant, unless it was the middle of summer and he was plastered against your skin, entirely unaware of the heat suffocating you. Though in the winter this could become some small mercy, he always seemed to run warm even when he was shivering, and rarely denied anyone a hug when they were.

And yet, overall, Amir wasn’t a particularly physical person. Not with affection, hands sunk in his pockets and his sparkling doe eyes, rocking lightly back on his heels till someone else leaned into him. He didn’t necessarily offer it, but he would give it, with little question, when asked. Even asleep, though always shifting and moving, he rarely imposed on someone else’s personal space if it wasn’t already offered. 

So Cal wasn’t going to move if he could help it, with soft, thick curls brushing lightly against his neck. 

Perhaps if it had been someone else he might be more annoyed; he didn’t like his plans changing, and his skin itches in the way it always does when he has something unfinished, urging him on, daring him to leave it untouched (he can’t he can’t he can’t). But somehow he didn’t mind this, even with the slow stiffening of his shoulder, resisting the urge to roll it and risk dislodging Amir’s head. 

There was a low vibration that forms something like a groan, a gentle puff of air sliding down his collarbone, and a familiar crunch snags into place as the extra inch of space reverts back to normal. It’s not loud, but it does sort of echo, stone grinding on stone, even just for the three seconds it takes to realign. 

It’s enough noise that the soft puff against his neck becomes a shuddering exhale, that breaks over a light cough, and Amir jerks up. 

Cal takes the moment to adjust, a silent sigh of relief as his shoulder is released, letting the blood pool back in, and reaches for his wand to flick the actual bedside lamp on. The clouds had long since given way to the darkness, and the dying flames in the hearth just forced them to squint at the blurry outlines of their work.

The glass lampshade hangs like a bubble over the bulb - just like the old oil lamps, long since replaced with actual electrics (that had been controversial). He’s half expecting Amir to slip back down, eyelashes fluttering sluggishly in the soft glow, warming over the dusting of freckles on his collarbone. 

But he doesn’t, hovering on the edge of the seat, a slight waver in his stature and a shudder winding through his spine. 

“hiH’tshhoo”

Cal blinks. Amir blinks.

Then, a soft sniffle, the edge of his wrist swiping beneath the rim of his nose, still teetering, still holding position. The crackle of the hearth, and he collapses forwards into his elbow, with a second sneeze. 

“Fortunes.” Blessings.

“Thanks.” 

Amir sniffs, finally unwinding the tension from his spine, tucking his leg beneath him as he slides back against the sofa. There’s a tight grit to his tenor, a light rasp, that he must notice too, as he clears his throat with a faint, inquisitive knit of his brow. 

“Was I sleeping?” 

“Must have been.” Cal remarks, with a shrug about as nonchalant as he could manage, because he’s certain Amir would not take well to being observed, and he preferred to be honest. On a regular day he would notice, like the fineprint of the old archives, a footnote at the bottom of a page, Amir always seemed to know when he was holding back. 

But this was a regular day, and the soft brown of his eyes drift away, cloudy with sleep and shadows circling under his eyes, to stare at something near Cal’s knee’s. 

“Right,” Amir clears his throat again, as he rests his arm on the top of the sofa and leans the side of his head against his palm. “On you?”

“A little.” 

“Oh.” Amir hesitates, softly. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine.” 

There’s a moment of silence hanging in the air. It wasn’t awkward as such, just…off. Again. And then, Amir exhales, bringing his hand up to rub the side of his nose, with a light shake of his head. 

“You should have pushed me off.” He decides, with a hint of something more normal, flopping back and crossing his arms over his chest. He seems to debate putting his feet up on the table, and then decides against it, a distraction dancing in the shadows across his face. 

“I didn’t mind.” 

“Come on, snnf, I was keeping you from your-your thing-” He waves a hand towards the sheets still scattered on the table and the book in his lap, but his breath catches, a strange sort of inhale like he’s not expecting it. 

“Thing?” Cal drawls, trying not to focus on Amir's face, the way his eyelashes flutter, something airy and dazed tugging at his features. “This thing is a reflective essay on the chemical reaction between glazed metals and the surface of ice structures-”

“ahtsCHHew!” Amir doesn’t shift forward so much as down, curling into himself, as his chest expands and his eyes squeeze shut. He ducks sharply into the curve of his elbow, dark curls bobbing twice in quick succession.

“ahH’tsSshew! .. it’shHh.. sngff, fuck, sorry. Don’t start talking to me about chem, I hear it enough from Professor Hawking.” 

Cal rolls his eyes. 

“It’s important, Mir, we need the studies to-”

“-to accurately determine chemical vs magical reactions. I know, Cal.” 

Amir sighs, tracking his face with exasperation that doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Still, if I never see another runegraph it will be too soon.” 

Cal was going to remind him that he had another three years of runegraphs and studies; because all magical courses have integrated that somewhere beyond the fundamentals, but something was grabbing at him, like a needle pinching into his skin. 

Something. Something. Something. 

“You’re not going to spend all night doing that essay now, are you? Because we don’t need a repeat of-” Amir smirks faintly, but when he sniffs it’s a touch heavier, like some substantial quantity resides within it, swiping the cuff of his sleeve against his nose. It turns into a rub, seemingly unconscious, raking his hand through his hair. But Cal can hear it now, edging its way into his voice. “...a repeat ofhHh…”

His lips slacken, a faintly rugged expression, as if stepping out of the wind, as his eyes flutter; shiny, glassy, smooth tawny skin caught in the golden glow of the lamplight. Even as he hangs in the balance between the fledgling tickle and exuberant release, he doesn’t quite manage to get his hands up in time, as he lurches forward with a fifth sneeze. 

It mists out beyond the sofa, aimed at least away from the sheets on the table, half formed droplets glistening in the straying light. It’s sort of pretty in it’s own way - nothing like the paintings and statues of gold, where everything is made to perpetuate beauty - but the shimmer has its own transience, and Cal isn’t sure Amir could ever look ugly. 

“Bless you.” 

“Fuck, sorry.” Amir shivers, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I did’t get you did I?” 

His voice held the quality of drowned cotton.

Congestion. Was he..? 

Warm eyes swing desperately to him. 

“Cal?” 

“No,” He assures, shifting forward to place his book on the table. “Not even close.” 

Amir eyes him for a moment, dubiously, and, slightly miserable, in the downturn of his lips and the crinkles at his eyes. Cal preferred when they were laugh lines. But he gives in, ducking his head back down, a flush brewing on his cheeks. 

Another waterlogged sniffle, trying to contain something, and a fresh, sharp urgency claws at his chest. 

“You don’t look…are you okay?” 

“M’fine.” Amir scrubs a hand across his face once more, pushing his fingertips up his temple and into the edges of his hair, before sinking back again. “Just tired, probably.” 

“Just tired.” Cal’s tongue clicks, Amir shoots him a lidded glance that says don’t start.

But he can’t not, now, when its hanging on the edge of concern, because this couldn’t just be tiredness, could it? He looked too haggard for it to be that simple, Cal would know.

“You look shattered, you sound odd, and you keep sneezing…” 

“Cal.” 

“Mir.” 

“I’m fine.” He insists, bending down into the depths of his satchel, rummaging for something. “It’s probably dust.” 

“Dust has never made you sneeze before.” Cal points out, eyeing the tissue he pulls out from a pocket in his bag to blow his nose. It’s quiet, careful, and because he knows Amir hates being perceived like that (‘I don’t know, there’s just something intimate about it, y’know?’...’Not really?’) he makes sure to glance away. 

Amir coughs into the tissue, short, itchy, like it doesn’t belong in his throat, and blinks tiredly, exhaling through his lips. 

“Allergies, then.”

Amir hums, and unnecessarily adds, as if Cal hasn’t known for twelve fucking years now.

“I do have them.”

“It’s almost ten pm.” 

Except, maybe it is allergies? He looks…itchy.

“So? That’s never stoppedhhH-stopped you and l-lavender-”

Oh sure, as if it was some sort of love affair with a flower.

Amir shifts forward, perching on the edge of the sofa. His nose scrunches, lips quivering faintly, eyes drowsy.

“I didn’t know the pillows had been scented.” Cal rebukes, swiftly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“AHH’TSSCHHhew”

It’s rough, forceful, bending over in a way that seems to shudder his bones, and draws the fight from him, like a wilting leaf in the wind, dampened by rain. He’s sagging in a way Cal doesn’t truly recognise - yet familiar, ghostlike, a reflection he’s seen before - but seems to spark a blindingly obvious chord in his head. 

How the fuck had he not thought of this sooner?

“You’re sick.” Not strep, not headaches, not exhaustion, sick. Like a… “Amir, what are you doing?” 

Cal can feel his voice softening in his throat, fighting the brief taste of victorious smugness where nobody seemed to think he could be soft, almost immediately doused in wretched sympathy, sweeping through his skin like the wind. 

It’s so obvious. 

The fatigue, the distraction, the sniffling, the sneezing. 

Amir muffles another itchy-sounding cough into his wrist, and shakes his head. 

“I’m fine, I promise.” 

But no, no now Cal knows, it’s not fine and he can’t not know, because he can’t ever stop noticing Amir. And he wouldn’t want to. Fuck.

He should’ve seen this sooner. 

“No, come on.” 

“What?” Amir sniffles into his sleeve, peering up as Cal clambers to his feet, frowning. “Where are you going?” 

“We are going to the San.” 

His brow crumples in exasperated dismay. 

“Cal this is- I’m not sick.” 

But his voice is raspy, strained, like he’s been yelling all day and Cal knows he hasn’t, so it must be sore. Still, the way the light catches on the side of his face, skewered by his body blocking the light, the worn, tired look in his eyes and the faint flare of his nose, like a deer in the mountains a little bit dazed, and a little more confused. He falters. 

“You sound it.” 

He returns, quiet but firm, uncrossing his arms, wand hanging loosely in his grip. The polished wood nestles between his fingers, cool against his palm, and he drags in a calming breath. 

“I’ll go to bed.” Amir bargains, sniffling congestedly. “You can finish that thing, I’ll get some sleep, no one needs to go anywhere. Look it’s probably just stress or something, I’ll be fine tomorrow.” 

Cal stares. 

“This is not something you want to ignore, Mir.” 

“I know that.” A familiar eye roll helps soothe the jagged urgency freshly sparked under his skin with each denial. “I’m not you.” 

An arrowhead spinning through the darkness. That was aimed, and it made its target, shards splintering into his chest. That wasn’t fair. Or maybe it was. They’d all had something to say about it, several lectures twice over and many promises he was trying to keep - sleep more, eat better, stay afloat. But he had never meant for that to happen, tunnel vision, he just couldn’t bring himself to stop. So it stings like tugging stitches and the words to repair the threads die in his throat. 

Their eyes meet. 

Amir looks away first. Guilt laid bare kept them intertwined at their heels, they always crumpled beneath it. Silver linings bleeding where only the moon can reach them. 

“I didn’t mean that.” 

He searches for those eyes but they stare resolutely into the shadows. Cal swallows. Yes you did. 

“I didn’t mean for it to get that bad.”

Pneumonia. The others laugh about it, call it Cal’s Chronicles. Not Amir. They don’t talk about it. 

“I know.” Amir mumbles, with a raspy shiver.

“I am trying.” 

“I know.” He repeats softly, and still won’t look at him. 

Cal frowns, teeth scraping over his bottom lip. 

“Tomorrow. You’ll go to the San if..” 

Amir exhales, whirlwind, little hurricane, tension returning to his shoulders even as his rubs the nape of his neck. 

“Fine.” 

It doesn’t sound fine, not with the grit in his voice or the stuffiness that bleeds into the ‘ne’, rounding off to an articulation that wasn't quite right. It doesn’t sound fine, when it’s clipped and careful, still not looking at him, and Amir jerks forward, shoving his things in a heap into his bag. 

For a brief, blinding second, Cal thinks he might leave. 

(and sleep where?) 

Instead, he gets to his feet, joints clicking, stiff and slightly stumbling, rubbing a hand over his face as he rounds the back of the sofa - rather than just passing by Cal to his bed, directly behind him - and rakes a hand through his hair. 

He dumps his bag down beside the end bedpost, coughing lightly into his elbow, and searches the crumpled sheets for his nightwear.

Just as Cal thinks the cracks are widening in the silence that weren’t there before, large gaping wounds ripped between the metres between their beds, Amir pauses. 

“You should…snggf go to bed too.” 

His half finished essay lies woefully untouched on the table. He should finish it. He could finish it. There were hours ahead of them of nighttime where he wouldn’t be disturbed, it made so much sense to just get it done…

“Okay.” 

Their shoulders brush, as Cal closes the distance towards his bed. 

He can feel those eyes on him. 

I’m trying. 

“I won’t fall asleep on you next time, promise.”

Amir casts him a tight, hesitant smile, a peace offering, that dissolves into something a little more real, as Cal murmurs;

“I want that in writing.” 

He doesn’t. But it’s there the next morning, a piece of torn parchment folded up on the bottom of his bed when his alarm goes off. For once he wished it had been a hard night, so he could know for sure, whether Amir’s moving was natural or discomfort, so he could be awake before he disappeared to be sure nothing was amiss. 

No sleeping on the job, again. Promise.

Sorry. A. 

The Common Cold was nothing to mess around with. No matter how many times they caught it - for its absence was never permanent - it always left a lingering tasteless worry in his throat.

Was it hypocritical? Completely, with all the times Cal had caught it, how could it not be. But in the twelve years they’d know each other, Cal could hardly remember the last time Amir had caught the cold.

He was allowed to be worried.

[thedevillionaire]

Fic: Washed Up

Inspired by this excellent scenario of @mimikusu's about noir settings, laundrettes, and handkerchiefs. And also by Raymond Chandler - whose writing is easy to imitate and impossible to surpass. Featuring a hard-boiled detective last seen here.

[An aside, this is set c.1945 and obviously I got half way through before I checked when the invention of the coin-operated laundry was. It's 1957. I was so annoyed...]

I got two things from uncovering which of the clerks at Bristowe, Gardner, and Long was siphoning away money from the client account: a cheque large enough to cover my rent and expenses for the next six months, and a lousy head cold.

I got two things from uncovering which of the clerks at Bristowe, Gardner, and Long was siphoning away money from the client account: a cheque large enough to cover my rent and expenses for the next six months, and a lousy head cold.

A head cold is almost inevitable if you’re stupid enough to pursue a suspect thigh deep into the Los Angeles river in the dead of night in November, which I was. If the clerk had drowned himself in the river, they’d have been no way of retrieving what was left of the clients’ money, and my money depended on at least some of that money being found. I wasn’t going to let my payday float into the Pacific along with the rest of the city’s dirt, and cold was hardly the worst thing that I’d been left with after a job.

Give old Herb Bristowe his due, he sent his private doctor over to see me the next day. The quack drove a Rolls that had clearly never before been driven onto the same page of the city map as my apartment; he kept glancing out of the windows in between taking my temperature and listening to my lungs to check that his prized possession was still waiting for him.

“So how long have I got, Doc?” I croaked, as I buttoned up the pyjamas that I hadn’t bothered to change out of. “Don’t sugar coat it; I can take the bad news.”

“Not long, I imagine, in your line of work.” He managed to tear his eyes off his car long enough to cast a meaningful glance at the bottle of cheap scotch that stood open, and next to an empty glass a good while before noon. “Even less, if that’s your usual breakfast fare.”

“Only when I’m dying of cold. No use wasting the good stuff when my head is as congested as the freeway.” I blew my nose to prove the point, and Doc winced. Clearly, the more money that doctors earned, the less illnesses they saw.

“Dying – probably, but not of your cold. I’m just amazed that’s the only thing you caught from your swimming expedition. Do you know how filthy that river is?”

“I try not to think about it,” I said.* “So you’re gonna give me something to cure it?” He laughed out loud at that one. Really ought to have put some work into his bedside manner. “Surely Bristowe’s paying you enough for this visit.” 

“Now I’m here, I’m not convinced that he is.” The doctor began to pack up the instruments with which he’d been prodding me like a Christmas ham. “Even if he was, there’s no cure for a cold at any price. All I can recommend is rest, aspirin, and camphor rub.”

“hht’JISHhhhuu!... hh’YISHH-uuu!”

 “And plenty of handkerchiefs,” he added, as I clutched the one I had to my nose, like a life-raft in a shipwreck.

I didn’t bother seeing him out.

The doctor might have been a rude son of a bitch, but he wasn’t wrong about the handkerchiefs. Perhaps to remind me, as though I needed it, that no good deed goes unpunished, this cold wasn’t the type that you could ride out quietly in a feverish and semi-drunken haze. Not the type that lets you gently lose half a week to the strange state between sleep and wakefulness, to pulp magazines, and chess problems. And not the type where you can pass unnoticed as a visitor in the land of the sick as you visit drugstores or Italian delis or the medicine shops of Chinatown for whatever cure-all you choose to put your faith in this time around.

No, mine was the type of cold that was going to make itself known - to me and any other poor bastard that happened to cross my path.

My nose was either leaking like tenement faucet or stopped up like a wine bottle. I’d found some camphor rub at the back of a bathroom shelf, but it didn’t help much. By the second day, the congestion was so bad that speaking more than a few words set me coughing. So I saved dialogue for essential matters, like telling Bristowe’s secretary where she could mail my check when she rang to confirm the details.

“Oh, you poor dear,” she said, pity oozing down the telephone line. I remembered the shade of scarlet on her fingernails, and I thought about how her pretty hands might look feeling my feverish brow. Probably not as lovely as that sort of thing did in the movies. Besides, the noise she made when I sneezed into the receiver as she confirmed the street name suggested that her sympathy operated best at a distance.

And it was the sneezing that was the worst of it. Mostly because it didn’t stop. With a head cold, there’s a level of sneezing that’s almost satisfying; a set every couple of hours that mutes the buzzing behind your sinuses, and lets you breathe though your nose again. But this wasn’t like that. I sneezed when I woke up, when I got a glass of water to take the aspirin the doc had recommended, and when I changed one sweat-soaked undershirt for another. I sneezed six times between my apartment and the bodega on the corner when I went to buy canned soup – a trip I immediately regretted. I sneezed when I tried to forget my cold by reading a novel, and sneezed when I gave up because I couldn’t concentrate between the sneezes. And when I wasn’t sneezing, I was fighting off sneezing, or noticing that I hadn’t sneezed for half an hour – a thought that was guaranteed to leave me crumpled into my handkerchief, smothering another fit of two, or three, or four.

Considering I’ve seen newsprint thicker than my apartment walls, my neighbours must have wondered when the fusillades were going to end.

It wasn’t surprising, then, that on the third day, after waking up – and sneezing – I reached for a clean handkerchief, and realised that it was the second-to-last one I had left.

I’d never before considered that handkerchiefs could be a finite resource, like gold bullion, or a woman’s patience. God knows I lost enough of them – to preserving evidence, binding wounds, and widows’ tears. But there always seemed to be enough to throw them with the weekly laundry that I dropped off with Hector Benitez at his serviced laundry on 59th and State, and collected a few days later. Hector was the only proprietor who never complained about the blood stains. They got replaced when I bought new shirts, and that has always been enough, until this cold had gotten me sneezing a hurricane that seemed in no hurry to pass over.

By my calculations, these two handkerchiefs would be useless by lunchtime, which was not enough time for Hector to do a service wash, even if I trusted myself to drive the fifteen minutes to his joint, which I didn’t. I needed something faster and closer, and preferably as devoid of life as the tar pits by Hancock Park. I remembered a self-service laundromat two blocks away.

“h’Djhh’Shhhuu!-h'Djhhh'shhhuu!!... hhhT'SHHhheuh!!”

The sneezes made up my mind for me. Grabbing the laundry bag, I headed down to the street.

As always, my timing was impeccable. Seconds after I walked out the front door, the rain came down with such viciousness that it seemed like a punishment. I hadn’t brought anything as useful as an umbrella, so my hat had to do its best against raindrops that pummelled me like a heavyweight who wants to finish it in the ninth. My coat faired even worse. Turning the collar up did nothing to stop the rain from soaking into the suit that I’d put on to face the outside world. The water on the pavement soaked through the shoes that I should have got resoled before winter began.

I smothered another heavy hhh’RRrUshhah! into the sodden sleeve that clung to my wrist, hoping that at least the handkerchief I’d placed in my trouser pocket would stay dry. The only bright side was that I couldn’t catch my death of cold when I’d already got it.

The laundromat was a block further than I remembered, but it was open and, better than that, it was empty. It was one of those coin operated ones where the owner cases the joint twice a day to collect the takings – never the same time, in case the petty thieves get wise – and so there was no one behind a counter to comment on the way that my damp hair clung to my forehead, or the squelching sound when I threw my useless overcoat onto the bench. 

“h’hhh… hh’uh’uh-Tschhuu!!”

My last handkerchief had survived the rainstorm, but it probably wasn’t going to survive my cold for long. On top of that, the joint had no heating because the dryers did that for them, and because they didn’t want people hanging around. I had no intention of doing that. I walked over to the nearest machine and started to empty my bag. I’d finished loading and was walking over to the detergent dispenser, when the door opened, and a dame walked in.

Of course, she’d remembered an umbrella, so when she lowered it, the blonde waves of her set were still perfectly preserved. They glimmered in the halogen strip lights as she placed a small leather suitcase next to the central bench and surveyed the scene – which included me. I nodded a greeting, trying not to sniffle.

This Madonna of North Hollywood took in my powder-blue suit, darkened by the rain at the collar, cuffs and turn ups of the trousers, and my hair that was still dripping down my neck, and she smiled. On another day, I might have been pleased to be the person she was smiling at, but even in my cold-fogged state, I could tell the difference between pleasure and amusement.

“All right,”  I said, wincing at how thick my voice sounded. I tried to clear my throat. “Whatever joke you’ve got, get it over with.”

“No joke,” she replied, though a glint in her ice blue eyes said otherwise. “Just wondering why you jumped in the river on your way to the laundromat.”

“You’re a funny girl,” I told her, turning back to the soap dispenser and fishing in my pocket for a dime.

“That’s what they tell me,” she said. Her eyes fell onto an empty machine, and she picked up her suitcase, adding, “But you really ought to take that jacket off before you catch a cold.”

I must have turned the dial of the dispenser with a little more force than necessary, or perhaps the machine had been jammed, because the soap flakes hit the bottom of the paper cup hard, and a puff of soap powder rose upwards like a ostrich feather, right underneath my nose. A nose that was as twitchy as a snitch in a cell block, and needed no excuse at all to make its presence felt.

Pressing my cuff to my septum bought me enough time to place the cup on the dispenser and stop myself from spilling soap flakes when the sneezes struck.

“hTschhh!’uhTSchhh!’UHH’tschhh!!!” They crashed out of me like machine-gun rounds. My eyes were watering too much for me to see anything, but I could hear the blonde stop loading her laundry. Doubtless she had paused to look at the spectacle I was making of myself. “yiih’Dsjhhh!’Djishheuu!!” Turning my back to her and steepling my handkerchief over my nose, I steeled myself and forced in a deeper breath, hoping that a stronger sneeze give me the relief I wanted. “hh’hh!...hhrrh’TSCHhheugh!!”

The sound rattled against the metal of the machines and echoed off the tiled walls and floor, painfully loud even to my own ears. But it did the job. I blew my nose and took a tentative breath in.

“Jeepers! Bless you!”

Reluctantly, I turned back to her. She had, indeed, stopped half-way through her laundry to appraise my sorry state. Maybe it was because I was looking over at her through eyes blurred with tears, but she almost looked sympathetic.

“I guess it’s too late for you to avoid a cold. Didn’t your mother tell you to always carry a umbrella?” she asked.

“She also told me to stay away from beautiful women,” I replied. “I guess I’m not great at following her advice.”

She smiled knowingly before turning back to her laundry. For a moment the damp seemed to lift from the wool of my suit. And then I sneezed again.

“That’s come on awfully fast,” she said, not looking up from the clothes she was sorting into whites and colours. From over my handkerchief, I watched the folds of fabric slip through her painted fingertips: a pale pink blouse, a cotton nightdress, an artificial silk slip.

“It’s not from the rain.”  I poured the soap flakes into the machine, and tried not to breathe in as I did so.

“Sure… You just happened to get soaked to the skin and start sneezing your head off all at the same time.”

“No, it was just like you said – I jumped in the river. ”

That did get her attention. Even if it meant that she looked at me like I was crazy, as well as sick.

“Now you’re being funny,” she said.

“Scouts honour. Spent last Friday night up to my waist in it. Not an experience I’d recommend.” I sniffed, only little theatrically. Maybe she was the type that wanted to play nursemaid. Some dames were like that. If so, it wouldn’t hurt to play things up a little. Not that I could look much more pitiable – soaking wet, with red eyes and nose, sneezing like it was going out of fashion.

“Why would smart guy like you do a thing like that?” she asked. By way of reply, I reached into my pocket and handed her a business card.  “Christopher Sidney, Licensed Private Detective,” she read. “And that’s you?” I nodded. “Christopher Sidney. It doesn’t sound like a PI’s name. You don’t look like one either.”

I could see what she meant.

“I don’t always have a… hdj’USHHhhhuuh!... Have a head cold,” I replied. The odds of my handkerchief lasting the hour were getting slimmer by the sneeze.  

“You outta sit down,” she said, more kindly than she might have done. “And then you can tell me all about how you ended up in the river.”

In fact, once I’d filled her in with the barest facts about the clerk and the safe-switching, and the showdown in the river, she was the one who did most of the talking. Probably she realized that my voice wasn’t up to it. I didn’t mind. As it turned out, she was a funny girl. Her name was Gloria. Like every other blonde in Hollywood, she was an actress, though she was currently playing the part of an operator at the telephone exchange. She told me about her roommate, and their landlord, and the girls at work, and the men they were dating. It was nice to hear a few stories that didn’t end up with someone dead and someone else in prison, as most of mine did.

“I hope you’ve got a spare one of those,” she said, nodding towards my handkerchief, as I sneezed for what must have been the fiftieth time since she’d arrived. She was right; it was in almost as bad a state as I was.

“Thad’s – hdjtshhh’UUuu! – why I’m here.” I nodded towards my laundry, which was spinning a tornado in the dryer. “Ran out of handkerchiefs this morning.”

“Well you should have said something.” She rose from the bench and crossed back to the purse that she’d left on her machine. Freeing the clasp with a click that echoed off the tiles, she reached inside and pulled out a folded and pressed, white cotton, men’s handkerchief. “Here you are.”

I must have been giving that handkerchief the same look that a man lost in the Sahara Desert gives to an oasis. I wanted it to be real, and I couldn’t understand how it had appeared from nowhere.

“You were just carrying this?”

“Belonged to an ex of mine; he left it when he did. I keep it in my purse for emergencies, and this seems like an emergency. It’s clean,” she added, because I still hadn’t let myself reach for it. “Take it, won’t you? No use making your poor nose any more red than it is.”

I hadn’t needed to sneeze until I held it in my hand. But the relief that promised in its thick, soft folds was too much for my nose to resist. The instant I had it, as though I'd needed to sneeze all day - the buzzing that starts at the corners of your eyes, creeps down the back of your nose like a trailing vine, until it consumes you, and you're unfolding the handkerchief like a prayer book, and gasping for air like a drowning man.

"hehh!he-eh-eh... eh'hh!-Djjishhhh!...eh'hhh-DjjIShhhh!!... heht'SHHHEUHh!!!"

“There you go,” she said, with another one of those smiles that could make a man do dangerous things. “And now you’ll have to track me down to return it. Think you can do that, Mister Private Detective?”

As it was, she found me – in my office, five days later, where was I shaking off the end of the cold and shaking down some clients who were late to pay.

“You come back for your handkerchief?” I asked, as I brought her through from the waiting room.

“I’d forgotten all about that.” Her voice was more hesitant than I remembered, and her gaze less steady. “Is your cold better?”

“Pretty much, thanks for asking,” I told her, though the roughness of my voice said otherwise. “So what brings you here, if you’re not recovering your property?”

Her hand shook as she drew back the chair in front of my desk, and it continue to shake as she clutched her purse in her lap. I reached over for the decanter of whiskey on my desk; she looked like she needed to calm her nerves.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” she began. “But I can’t get it out of my head – what I heard on Thursday night, I can’t get it out of my head. And I know the police won’t believe me, and you were the only other person I thought might be able to help.”

“Help with what?” I asked, pushing the drink towards her. She took it, drained the glass, and then looked me straight in the eye.

“Mr Sidney,” she said, “I think I overheard a murder.”

[thedevillionaire]

so I've just been thinking on this, and spoken to a few people who all have differing opinions, soooo~ (snz kink incase it's unclear)

please feel free to elaborate in tags/comments/anything, I'm really interested in knowing what people on here feel about this!

(personally, op sits on the 'maybe -> no side of things, not entirely against it, but not really looking for it/wanting it either~ something about feeling inferiority with the amount of snz I can reasonably provide them, versus what I'd be wanting/craving, would always feel like a bit of a disappointment/let down~ as well as, there's something a bit special to me about a partner who doesn't have this kink indulging you because they like how you react/think it's cute/hot, etcetc~)

[thedevillionaire]

Someone deciding to take a nap while sick with the hope of recharging, but then they wake up feeling so much worse.

[thedevillionaire]

Duty pt 3 - Darwin

This is story heavy and dips into worldbuilding and some character building, some things you really should know going forward (I take questions!) about him and about the world in general unless you're skimming for snz. There's a shorter post prior explaining more about Darwin and others you would do well to read as well, for a quick explanation / reference.

Might do some clarifying posts... it also features Brandt/Darwin's allergies rearing their heads up... perhaps a bit of foreshadowing for later parts...

[[Go to Part 2]]

Darwin was the first guise that Brandt had created himself that had stuck around long enough to become something of a person in and of himself. What had started as a shallow shift from his own original appearance, not even a huge shift just a little to the left as it were — his light skin skewed both darker and warmer by several tones; his hair was still black, still short and as it had been when he was first brought to life, with only a little wave; his eyes were still hazel, but closer to a yellow-green than a yellow-gold; he was a little shorter, but much broader and more muscled — but really the big changes were to his personality. 

All that to say, Brandt had taken a look at himself, looked at the role he was aiming to fill, and shaped Darwin accordingly. What they had in common was warped in potency; Darwin had the worst temper of them both, or rather could afford to express it more than Brandt could. Freeing, that. It had become a hobby, over the years, giving him the depth of a real, unique person. There were others — Sage, Archemyst, Thamasin — and they all played uniquely useful roles that were by and large interesting if not always fun to play. 

But now was Darwin, summoned by the King Over Kingdoms himself. Even had Marek not been a personal friend, he would have come simply because he was only summoned when he was truly needed and neither Brandt nor his alternate personas were inclined to abandon friend nor ally in a time of need. Not even at his own expense. 

There was a full length mirror in the corner of their bedroom. Brandt spared a moment to put on pants and a tunic anyway. He stomped into his boots, fixed a belt about his waist and tucked gloves into one of the pouches on it. He took a step towards the mirror and stopped.

Don’t give them a reason to fuss.

With an exasperated sigh he went back to collect two vials of medicine. One for a reinforced pouch where he’d have rather put a healing draft instead of a curative, and one to down quickly. It wasn’t that it tasted… bad per se? But it was very, very green with a sharp spike of ginger in the aftertaste and he wasn’t at all fond.

But he’d taken the damned medicine. Moving on.

Brandt met his own gaze in the mirror, honey-hazel eyes narrowed as he assessed his current appearance. Fair skin, loose curls of dark hair somewhat tamed with a few passes of his hands over it… there was a bit of irritation on the bottom rims of his eyes, and his nose was undeniably pink. No flush to his cheeks, no signs of any worrisome illness, he was just thoroughly irritated. If he had to, he could pass it off as allergies or some other sensitivity, gods knew he had plenty.

It didn’t matter, though. As he watched, his features and form rearranged themselves. Shorter-broader-darker… and for effect, there was a dusting of blue-gray under his eyes, a tell of fatigue he didn’t yet feel that would insist any increase in fatigue was stress and not illness.

Brandt-Darwin wrinkled his nose, unshaded by irritation even though he could still feel the tickling; changing forms didn’t actually change his symptoms, so much as aiding in hiding them.

Pretending.

Darwin smiled thinly, gloved fingertips brushing his goatee before he checked he hadn’t overlooked anything in his manifestation. Nothing seemed to be missing, including a handkerchief in his sleeve and another in a belt pouch. There was always a need for it, even when he wasn’t sick.

He considered saying something to Alaina, but shook his head. He’d said goodbye and he loved her, and he was starting to get testy. He hated snapping at her, she deserved better. Most definitely time to move on.

He reached to his shoulder, a thick blue cord shimmering into existence. Chunks of smoothed rock, cool metal, and polished gemstones were knotted into the cord, and his hand moved to a chunk of off white stone. His gloved hand rasped softly against it, his thumb bracing it against two fingers. He threaded his energy through it. The imprint of the building it was from was strong. This had come from a chunk of Marek’s palace, in the back courtyard where the palace bumped up against a garden, on the side with the natural spring.

He closed his eyes, picturing it clearly. It was one of the few spells he still spoke that were not spells of power, but sometimes you had to be very, very clear.

“By spell through stone, move blood and bone,” he whispered, “anchor in hand, return to its home.”

The image of the palace fuzzed before his eyes and the stone grew hot. For a moment there was resounding silence, then the thump of his pulse in his ears.

Then the air was sweet on a whistling breeze, water bubbling in the distance, and he took a slow, deep breath.

“EEKSSSCHT!” No buildup, no warning, just a sudden sneeze and a fierce tingle threatening more. Darwin blinked rapidly and his eyes focused on a variety of flowering plants decorating the garden with dismay. Normally ‘pretty’ flowers were not the bigger problem. But in sheer abundance… “h’h—EKSHU! ikkshu! Eh-eehhh… E’KSCHHU!”

A powerful mage, one of his few peers here; he knew who it had to be. Darwin straightened with a single sniff. “Interesting choice of decoration.”

“Bless,” Marek said with an air of apology. “You’re early.”

“I was hoping to get a head start,” he said simply, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “Not knowing what I was called for, only to assume it couldn’t be carried by summon call.”

“I don’t like to touch off rumors.” Marek said, shrugging.

They looked at each other for a moment, a silent check-in, knowing words were so much easier to fake.

Well, perhaps not when one was speaking with a shapeshifter.

Darwin sneezed again, and when Marek arched one white-blond brow, he was suddenly quite grateful for the opportunity he’d walked into. He sniffed sharply, rolling eyes and making a gesture to the flowers. “I don’t know what you expected.”

That earned a chagrined smile, suspicion seeming to wash away. “My apologies. Honestly, I didn’t think about it. I could—”

“Marek don’t change your whole garden layout because I have a chance to be back here the one season out of four and get a bit sniffly. I’ll be fine.” Darwin chuckled. “A mere in… inconvenience.”

Marek grinned. “Is that so.”

“Don’t give me that l-look,” he complained, leaning into the excuse.

“Mmhm. Come along, then, no use in making it worse,” Marek said. He turned with a flutter of his cape, gesturing for Darwin to follow.

Darwin did, though he gave another pause and a softly audible inhale for one last point in favor of allergies. “EK’SHT!”

“Bless you,” Marek called, looking back just as Darwin was putting his hair back to order from the abrupt bend forward with the stifle. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“I have hurt myself doing many inadvisable things, Marek,” he admitted. “But never that.”

“What, you’re waiting to check it off the list?”

Darwin gave him a withering look and Marek simply smiled and turned back to the direction they were going.

“Why is your anchor point in the garden, anyway?” Marek asked.

“Well it wasn’t a garden some twenty years ago, was it?” Darwin pointed out. “I don’t move an anchor just because it’s suddenly somewhat inconvenient.”

“‘Suddenly’,” he said, amused. “It’s been there at least five years.”

“Mmm.” He hesitated to start talking again, feeling the dangerous ripple through his sinuses, those few breaths of pollen having apparently done more damage than he’d realized. “What’s five years to you?”

“We’re talking about you,” Marek pointed out. When their eyes met again, there was a moment of agelessness, of seemingly infinite time, in his intense blue violet eyes. He had been a ‘young man’ when they had met, Brandt a child and Darwin an afterthought.

Nearly thirty years later, he was still a ‘young’ man.

Darwin made sure not to push the issue. “What’s five years to me, then? It only becomes less the more t-time… time passes… n’kSH!”

“Bless,” Marek said, a small smile curving his mouth. “Again.”

“Snf. You have to admit, that was an abundance of flowers,” Darwin said.

“It was indeed an abundance of flowers,” he agreed. “I still don’t quite understand how you haven’t manifested there over a span of several years.”

“It’s not my only anchor point, it’s just my… my most convenient—”

“It doesn’t sound convenient,” Marek said, coming to a halt just as Darwin did.

A deep, persistent itching that had nothing to do with allergies and everything to do with the cold making itself comfortable aggravating his sinuses was very seriously about to— “hKSHT!”

“You do realize you’re just—”

“EKKSHEH!”

“— going to make yourself sneeze again, gods bless, Darwin.” Marek sighed.

“Don’t start,” he warned, allowing himself a single, relieving sniffle before straightening. “Now. First order of business?”

“Feeding you,” he said dryly. “And then medicating you. You’re not going to want to be dealing with that when the topic of the day is addressed.”

Darwin glanced aside to him as he came up level with him. He wouldn’t have in ‘public’ but knew that ‘respectful two steps behind’ drove Marek mad. “What did you summon me for?”

“Mediation at a peace summons,” Marek said idly, only pausing a few steps later when he must have realized Darwin had stopped. “Mm?”

“What kind of peace summons last three days?” He asked warily. A day sometimes, for little matters; a week more likely, for something two parties just need settled, or in a case where Marek himself had forced the discussion, even a month, but with no real in between options.

“The kind where I talk and they listen,” he said flatly, a there-and-gone hint of something more than annoyance in his eyes.

“Oh you’re angry,” Darwin realized, sinus struggles forgotten in the interest of this revelation.

“The Peaceful King does not get angry,” Marek reminded him.

That had to be one of the more ridiculous titles Darwin knew he had. He established peace in the midst of what was nearly a world war. And it had not been a ‘peaceful’ process getting there. Which made him realize… “But I do.”

Marek smiled thinly. “You do.”

“How handy,” he said, and very much meant it. “Well then. Let me have at them.”

“Breakfast and medicine,” Marek insisted, but his smile was pleased. “Even my Minister of War must break his fast. And you look very much like you’re considering sneezing again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Darwin demanded.

“We eat for fuel,” he shrugged.

“That’s not—” something twinged in his sinuses with abrupt pressure that itched terribly. Given the out, he let it happen. “H’hRRSHT!”

“Bless you.”

[[Go to Part 4]]

[thedevillionaire]

Hey, so I want to get into your writing soon -- I mean, I've read some of it, but I'm talking about reblogging with tags / reactions in the notes, *properly*. And I was curious, do you have anything... headcanons, perhaps, unposted plotty goodness, setting notes... something you think it would be beneficial for a reader to know before diving in? TLDR: I'd like to know your characters and their world. Snz is nice, not necessary.

Oh, wow, this is an EXTREMELY cool unexpected pleasure and delight! ❣️And, uh...yeah, I have a lot of stuff. Like, a LOT. My characters and world have existed in my head, and in vanilla, for a long damn time now. It's one of the things that held me back from posting here for ages, actually - the "how do I make it make sense without the need for a fuckton of backstory/exposition?" issue, mostly. But as far as my snzfics are concerned, a decent amount of their content doesn't need too much Underworld context, so...here we are, heh. I usually point to snzfic Surrender as the place to start with my stuff - it's got a bit more character description and whatnot in it - but if you're after more backstory than that...my vanilla sideblog has C&K's romance arc, starting with their first meeting here. And some other stuff, too, depending on how dedicated you're feeling about it lol Anyway! Due to the whole "it's a lot" factor, I'll put a micromini overview of the Underworld under a cut, and if you're interested in anything else, or have any questions, please feel more than free to inbox me about it! It's a total amazingness to me; thank you SO much for your time and interest. And I'm looking forward to immersing further in your world/s too! xx

The Underworld itself, then, in Very Brief:

Not actually under the world; it’s another dimension entirely. Undeath is not the same as it’s usually known, either. Residents are corporeal; entering into it via Inception is a transmogrification of sorts and the Underworld is not an end – you can die in it, you can feel, suffer, get ill, etc. Undeath here is probably more accurately described as a variant form of life. But there are some distinct differences, the primary one being you won’t age. And any magickal arts, supernatural skills, psychic abilities and the like are vastly strengthened and/or enhanced. Also, a lot of commonly accepted mortal lore about the Castes here doesn’t hold – eg, Vampires are not affected by crucifixes or holy water, garlic does nothing, they do have reflections, and blood is not their only source of nutrition, Demons are not affected by Christian constructs (or any organised mortal religion, come to that) other than psychosomatic results due to prior-held beliefs, Sorcerers aren’t compelled to hold to Wiccan creeds or the like. Oh, and you can die in the Underworld – the usual next in line place is called Dritten – so although you’re technically immortal, you’re definitely not indestructible.

I don’t come here for the logic. :P

[thedevillionaire]

Duty, pt2 - When You Go

This absolutely did not go where I thought it was going to go. It's long for a post of mine (around 2400 words) and it has snz and teasing like I thought and then emotion happened because Brandt is a lot bit prideful and out of sorts because he's sick. Leaning into plot / the longer story so a reminder of more things to come. I hope you enjoy.

[[Go to Part 1]]

They lay together in peaceful silence for a bit, before Brandt felt Alaina begin to comb through his hair. No doubt the shoulder length strands were in full disarray; his hair was just curly enough to be called curly, not enough to hold a consistently neat form.

Well, not through a round of indulging his beloved. Given her concerns, he wasn’t sure if he should be done or not… well, given any honesty at all he was most certainly not done, he knew how he was with a cold like this. There was still a low-level tickling remaining, and Alaina, his darling of decades, knew it just as well as he did from those same past-to-now predictions.

It wasn’t anything terrible, he could hold off. And really should, because the more he got wound up the harder it was going to be to stop for any length of time.

And he had his duties, even before counting service to the King over Kingdoms the next few days. His mind turned it over like a puzzle.

“I have to leave around lunch,” Brandt said, thinking aloud.

“Time enough,” Alaina said, working her nails down to his scalp.

A little breath of a pleased groan escaped him, and he let himself simply savor a moment before belatedly asking, “Time enough for what?”

“To make sure you know damn well what you’ll be missing when you go,” she said.

Brandt laughed, startled and far more pleased than he ought to be. Gods, but he adored his queen’s fire. “And what am I missing, Sunrise?”

“My presence,” she said, her magic stirring like a lake just barely disturbed and his power reached for hers at once. The energy tangled loosely, like a balm on his soul. “My voice. My touch…”

She caressed his face and he leaned into it, tipping his head into her palm and kissing her fingers. “All good points.”

“The gentle care you need,” she insisted.

It was a gamble, they both knew he could be obstinate. He opened his eyes to look up at her, then let them close since he couldn’t make out much of her where he lay tucked against her with his head on her shoulder.

“Dearest,” he said gently. “You have to know I would prefer your care.”

“However,” she muttered.

“However,” he agreed, rolling over onto his side and looping an arm around her. “I have a duty. And I am not a man to set that aside if I don’t have to.”

“You’re ill,” she insisted.

“I am, but it’s the beginning of a cold. Just because I had a few fits doesn’t mean I’m that sick. I’m that sensitive.” He nuzzled at her. Sniffled, and felt her tense slightly. “I’ll mirror you every night. And you know what?”

“What?” She asked carefully.

“I’ll tell you allllll about it,” he said, grinning wickedly. “Every tickle, every catch of breath, every hitch and hold, every moment where I had to fight back sneeze after sneeze…”

“Brandt Archian.”

He laughed, light and free, and sniffed again, sharper. It took no more effort than that to rouse that light, frustrating tickling back into being. “Do you need a reminder?”

“You absolute fiend,” she said. “Now? Shouldn’t you be trying to calm down?”

“What can I say, I don’t mind a little torture if it’s you,” he said, voice the deeper, dark silk that he knew made her shiver. Did make her shiver. It was immensely satisfying. “I’ll be fine, love. One more round before breakfast? Get it out of my system for a while…”

She snorted inelegantly, as aware as he was that that simply did not happen. For her, sure; two, three sneezes at a time at most unless she’d been thoroughly irritated, and then she’d be good. He would be dealing with the impulse all day. If he were being honest, probably the better part of a week with a cold like this.

Alaina was watching him, and he knew that look because he’d elicited it often. Wary. Concerned. On the cusp of a justified ‘no’ but oh, so very tempted otherwise.

He propped himself up on his elbow, pressing the back of his hand briefly to his sensitive nose, then replacing it with a bent knuckle to test and see that… ahh yes. The sensitivity was ready to bear fruit. He grinned sharply, eyes full of mischief. “It would be so easy, Alaina. You don’t know how much control I’m already using. How easy it would be to just… let go, find blessed relief for us both.”

“Don’t make it about me,” she warned, but her voice lacked conviction.

“My life centers around you Sunrise,” he said. “I rise and flow around you, turned in like a flower towards the sun.”

“Like the blue ruffles you wouldn’t let me remove around the gardens?” She said, biting her lip when he wrinkled his nose.

They were… decently pretty wildflowers, but they didn’t specialize in pretty — they specialized in pollen, early spring through mid summer, and were the primary offender when it came to any allergic distress he dealt with at that time, at home.

There were others elsewhere in places he did not have his Alaina to indulge and that was wholly unfair.

More importantly, just the thought, the memory of that cloying smell and the silver-white dusting of pollen on the ruffled blue petals, made his nostrils flare. It wouldn’t have been nearly so bad if he didn’t already have a tickle very much embedded in his sinuses, if he wasn’t already feeling suggestible, but he was.

“Going to sneeze, love?” Alaina asked, her gaze fixed on his face.

She’d told him more than once he was expressive. Had she realized that she had inadvertently taught him what tells to repress — or play up?

“Maybe,” he said, sniffling. He let his eyes unfocus, lips parting just enough to pass the tip of his tongue between them as if with nerves, then blinked his eyes back into focus with a sharp sniff. Already, she was fixated. He smiled charmingly, but let it wobble at the corners. “You’d like that, wh’hh…wouldn’t you.”

“You’re so much trouble,” she breathed.

“Snf. Am I?” He grinned then, seeing he almost had her. “I think you like that nffft… snf… h’hh...”

“Already so irritated,” she said, a hand raised before she pulled it back towards her.

“Touch me.” Brandt said, tipping his head up, nose wrinkling. He was beginning to really feel it now, as if simply repeating his usual signs was enough to make them count. It felt like the tickling was filling his nose the longer he went without relief, and with no intent to stop. If it got to his sinuses he was going to be indulging her thoroughly whether or not she was asking for it aloud.

Flushed from cheeks to chest, lips richly red from being thoroughly kissed, and her pupils dilated, she wanted, and who was he to deny her?

“You only have… only have s-so much time before…” he trailed off, dark brows knitting together, not in dismay but in need. His chest expanded with a sharp breath, and he raised a hand towards his face, not to provoke but to hope to put off the inevitable long enough for Alaina to say something—

She didn’t say. Instead, a hand curled over his and she gently pushed his down. When she leaned, long red hair —a little wild, like her— fell around him like a curtain, and when she shifted her weight a few strands whispered over his face.

It was too much.

“AeSSSHHT!” One hand gripped the bedding, trying so hard not to touch his face. Not that he thought he was likely to stop it now; once it got this far he just had no choice but to let go, but a little pressure to soothe, to take the tickling down a notch, was a reflexive desire. “H’hhh… hehhiiih…. HehhiiIIH!”

Nothing.

Alaina’s hand slipped into place instead and he sniffled earnestly, nuzzling against her fingers. His eyes squinted without any predetermined desire to tease her, just the raw need to get that tickling out as soon as possible. Either of the two would be nice.

“So slow this time, is it love?” She smiled, settling into a better position, though she gasped a little when his hand slid down and squeezed her thigh.

“Oh yes,” he said, grinning unsteadily. He tipped his head up, inviting touch, and she ran her nails through his hair, over an ear and down his jawline to his chin. Brandt kissed her fingertips as they passed over his lips, and nudged his nose at her palm when she was near enough.

“Impatient, are we?” Alaina teased.

“I might be currently coming down with the sneeziest cold in my life and IIIiiiieeh—” Brandt ducked his head with a useless false start.

“Might—? you have already caught cold, no ‘coming down with’ anything,” she informed him.

“One can pre— ehhNTCH!” Oh, there- “ESSSHH! Hy’eESSHHUu! h’hhTSSHHCHIH!”

“Bless you,” she said, voice warmer than perhaps she’d meant it if she’d intended to scold him. “You are sick. With a cold. A very evident cold.”

“’Lainaaaaaa…” He’d meant to protest, but of course she had an unfortunate point. He sneezed again; abrupt, itchy, and punctuated with a sharp gasp at the end that threatened more.

She found a handkerchief somewhere and dangled it between them. “Now what were you saying?”

He didn’t need it. He knew he didn’t need it. It would feel very nice, because he was very sensitive and irritated, but he didn’t need it.

But he knew his need drove her wild and he had no issues playing things up. “Alaina.”

“Tell me,” she said, waving the square of fabric in a gentle motion. “What were you saying?”

Brandt sniffed sharply and rubbed his nose cautiously against his knuckles. For all he loved teasing her, there was a point of no return he couldn’t afford to cross, having business beyond the bedroom later. He wasn’t there yet, but it could happen if he wasn’t mindful.

“I was saying,” he said slowly, “one can pretend.”

She leaned back, absently tossing her hair over her shoulder to gather at her back and out of the way. “Pretend.”

“And I’m very good at it,” he said, watching her with a wicked smirk. She didn’t want to like it. Didn’t want to let him win, not for not having enjoyed the game of it, but because if he could recover his control after everything she lost a powerful counter to convince him to stay home.

(If he agreed that easily she’d think he was dying, but they always played this game anyway.)

“Pretend what?” she asked, calculating.

“That I’m well,” he said simply.

“Then you admit you’re ill,” she said, a pale victory considering where the ‘argument’ was at now.

“I do appear to be, don’t I?” He sat up, brushing the backs of his fingers along her cheekbone and following it to the shell of her ear, tucking her hair back. That had not gone where he’d meant to, but it was what he had. He sighed. “My sweet Sunrise. You hate this.”

“You’re leaving,” she said, tipping her head into his hand and fixing him with eyes the color of the clear, clean waters she called home. There were depths and it was only fitting she showed them, but they weren’t dark save for a thin, barely noticed ring around her iris.

“I am,” he agreed. “A half day today, two days after, and the morning after that. It’s not terribly long.”

“You’re ill,” she stressed. “This will make it worse. Inevitably, it will make it worse. And you know that.”

“Not so much worse I can’t cope with it,” Brandt soothed.

“You’re going to bottle it up to deal with later,” she said. “And you will be affected by that pressure. You’re going to fold the minute your guard’s down whether or not you want to, like to, or can even ‘afford’ to..”

“I most certainly will not,” he said, a little offended. The second as he was speaking that he saw her realize her mistake sat sour on him. Because she’d meant that. Every bit of it. “Do you have so little faith in my control, Alaina?”

“There are some things,” she said carefully. “That no one can control. That doesn’t make you weak, it makes you mortal.”

“Well, jury’s out, I’ve never stayed dead before,” he snipped, rising.

“Wait, Brandt—” she hurried to get up as well, all five foot flat of her standing before him, a hand touching his bare chest in hopes to stay him by emotion since she hadn’t brought the power to bear to force it. “Please, think about this.”

“I thought about it,” he said. “I’m going.”

“At least have breakfast? Medicate?” She urged.

“It’s not that bad,” he said dismissively.

“If I didn’t know better I’d say it was early spring and you’d planted your face in a field of wildflowers,” she said, a hint of impatience edging her voice.

“That can be fixed,” he said, voice dropping low.

She stilled. “Brandt.”

“Alaina, my heart, light of my life, I will kiss you goodbye,” he said. He never left of his own will without kissing her, without telling her he loved her — even when he was angry, he never left the palace without that much.

He’d barely finished speaking when Alaina got up on the bed and pulled him into a searing kiss without so much as a ‘by the way’. He steadied her with his hands at her hips.  A kiss of loving passion, of ‘I’ll miss you’ and ‘I could strangle you’ all in one. This was not a new combination. They’d work it out by his call that night.

“I love you, Sunrise,” he said softly as soon as she gave him space to regain his breath.

She sighed and dropped her head on his shoulder. “As I love you, starbright. Now go be an idiot, so you can come back to me.”

Brandt made a little annoyed sound. “I’ll be fine.”

“You had better be,” she said.

“I think we’d best end this here,” he said, aware of the slow rousing of his temper despite his efforts. He hated being angry like this. Anger had its place, but this was petty irritation stirring up in his illness. That had no place here, not with her.

Of course, she was not without pride, temper, or frustration herself.

“Hmph.” She vanished into the ensuite.

He supposed it didn’t matter if he got tidied up so much when he’d be in guise. What did it matter what your true form looked like when you weren’t wearing it?

[thedevillionaire]

Morning Shenanigans with Three Bastards

Like the title says.

Grimm and Taisho have some morning "issues." Indigo is caught in the middle of things. Literally.

____________________________________

The first hints of a graying dawn illuminate the edges of the curtains, promising a dreary, unpleasant start to the morning. 

But not for Indigo.

To his right are Grimm’s tattooed arms encircling one of his own, his massive frame pressed against Indigo's side, and to his left, an abundance of white hair draping an exposed pale shoulder, elegant fingers splayed upon Indigo's chest. 

Surreal and sublime warmth courses through his entire being, the sigh that escapes him the very essence of contentment.  Never in wildest dreams could he have imagined such a fulfillment, such absolute bliss, such-

Beside him, the slow, tensing hitch of Grimm’s breath is indicative of one very common morning “ritual” he knows all too well.

“Uh’CHISSH!--h’RISSSCHiiuh!”

The shudder of Grimm's broad shoulders translates through his own body and a soft moan escapes him.

Oh. Oh yes. 

“Bless you, love,” he murmurs.

Grimm fights through another series of hitching, stammering breaths and muffles a violent, “UHHSSCCCHu!!” into the pillow.

Hmm, just the one for a follow up?  How disappointing.

Taisho's hand relocates to Grimm’s arm for a brief squeeze. “Odaiji ni, senshi.”

“Thank you,” Grimm says with a thick sniffle.  

He props himself up on one elbow and plants a gentle kiss upon Indigo's lips.  “Mornin’.” 

It never fails, the way Grimm’s gravelly voice elicits delicious, rebellious responses from his entire being.  “Good morning, my darling.” 

A smile curves Indigo's lips when Grimm and Taisho rise to meet above his chest to share a kiss as well,  providing him with a fine view.

“Mornin’, redhot bastard,” Grimm rumbles in his deep, sleep-roughened voice.

“Ohayō gozaimasu, dākuyuri.” 

The way Taisho’s tone drops into a darker, more sensual version of itself prickles Indigo’s skin to rapt attention.  And to think he had harbored concerns over just how his two bonded partners would manage not only with himself, but with each other.  

Taisho’s lips find his own for a passionate, lingering kiss and his tone shifts to something softer, warmer somehow. “Good morning, tsukihana.”  

Indigo slides a hand over one fair cheek. “And to you, my dear one.”  

They settle on either side of his body, their hands entwining atop his chest, ensconcing him in warmth and a level of security he had not imagined possible.  

Fingers card through his thick mass of waves, the tips of Taisho’s nails tickling his scalp whilst Grimm strokes his bare arm with a slow drag of his hand.

“If the two of you do not stop, I shall lie here all afternoon.” 

His voice is a hazy rendition of its usual crisp tone, the edges of his speech slurred and muted. What a wondrous thing to be cared for in such a manner as this, to be cherished by not one, but two.  Such sublime contentment, such lulling comfort, such–

The hand tending to his hair withdraws with an abrupt curl of fingers and Taisho shrinks back with an almost gasping catch of breath, that back of that same hand now pressed beneath his nose.  Indigo does not miss the way the tips of those fingers tremble with the slightest flick of motion. Even after centuries apart, such a thing shall always be his complete and utter undoing. 

“Iiihh–! IhhSSHHHeeh! IHH-SSSHHeeh! IihSSCHt! –GISSSSHeeh! Hhiih-EIISSHHeh!”  

Gods, why does it always seem as if the sneezes are far too complex for proper expulsion, and yet without a means for complete escape, as if the effort required cannot possibly exist?  

“Bless you,” Indigo says in that obnoxiously breathless voice that he so despises.

Like some helplessly besotted maiden.  Great gods. 

“Show off,” Grimm says from the opposite side of him. 

Taisho chuckles against the ridge of his fingers before dropping his hand, albeit cautiously. “Thank you,” he says to Indigo. His gaze flicks to Grimm with an air of amusement. “I do not do this with purpose, senshi.” 

“Yeah, yeah.”  Grimm waves him off and turns his scrutiny to Indigo, leaning in to gather a deep whiff of his hair.

“Whatever are you doing, Grimm?” 

The other man is sniffing him like some manner of police dog, intent on finding an illegal substance. 

 Indigo shoves at his shoulder.  “Stop that this instant!” 

“Uh huh.”  Grimm’s smile widens to something wicked and nefarious.  “You didn’t ‘accidentally’ wash your hair with that lavender shampoo of yours, did ya?”

Indigo blinks. Is the other man honestly accusing him of such sabotage??

“I most certainly did not!”  Indigo grabs at his hair and sniffs it himself, as if doing so will somehow change his feelings on the matter.

“Suuure you didn’t.” 

“By the gods, I did no such thing!”  Indigo sits up and pushes his way past Grimm’s position, flinging the sheets aside and flouncing towards the bathroom.

Of all the audacious, absurd, insulting suggestions . . . !

________________________

Grimm watches as his partner storms away like some super pissed-off girlfriend hellbent on proving a point.

“He is filled with anger for no reason,” Taisho says with a sniffle.

“Nah.”  Grimm reaches across the nightstand and hands over several tissues.  “I put some in his new shampoo.” 

Those pale eyebrows shoot up faster than a rocket launch.  “You did. . . ?”  A low, barely suppressed laugh.  “Senshi, that is evil.”   

“Yeah.” Grimm grins like a goddamn Cheshire cat.  “It is.” He beckons to Taisho with a crooking finger. “Hey. Come here.”

Taisho obliges him and Grimm brushes the shortest layer of his white hair aside. 

“You would like for me to kiss you,” Taisho says.

“Uh huh. I would.” 

Taisho grabs his shoulders and dives in for a salacious lip lock before Grimm can fake any kind of smoothness, pinning him against the massive headboard with a thunk of furniture-meets-wall.

Shit, the guy is otherworldly strong, despite that willowy, elegant stature.  Ain't no way Grimm is gonna move unless Taisho lets him, either. A bass-level, rumbling growl ebbs from his throat and nails dig into his skin. 

“Do not forget.” Taisho drags his tongue down the most fragile part of Grimm’s throat and nips at the spot where his pulse throbs. “I am also evil.” 

That smile is all teeth and wicked sincerity, eyes gleaming bright.

Oh. Oh fuuuu–

“Hmmn,” Grimm grabs the edges of his sheer kimono-robe thing and jerks him closer. “That's hot.”

From somewhere in the depths of the bathroom comes a series of frustrated huffs, followed by one very accusational “Grimm!!!” 

He pauses in unbelting Taisho’s robe and cocks an eyebrow.  “Guess he figured it out.” 

Indigo stalks into the bedroom like a whirlwind of pissed off cats, a bottle clutched between his fingers.

“Grimmwolf Amadis!  I know that you–!!”  His voice trails into nothingness, the indignant rage vanishing in an instant to be replaced by a rather amused tilt of the head.  “And just what, praytell, is happening here?”

The breadth of Grimm’s wicked grin is nothing short of nefarious.  “Nothin’ much.  Sensei here is about to fuck me.  Or eat me.  Maybe both.” 

“Well, then.”  Indigo sets the bottle on the nightstand and offers a sly smile of his own.  “I suppose I should assist him.” 

________________

Ohayō gozaimasu, dākuyuri - Good morning, dark lily. tsukihana - Moonflower Odaiji ni - Take care