hi, it’s nell! over 18, she/they, lesbian etc. this is a blog for my writing/ocs/the slightly less unabashedly horny side of my fetish — unadulterated sexy content and general incoherent lesbianism can be found at @cravatsandcolds-afterhours.
byf: it should go without saying, but minors dni! blogs that don’t indicate at least age range in their bio will be blocked. please don’t reblog any of my content to non-kink blogs. general dni criteria apply; twats will be blocked.
my writing
you can find all my general writing under the tag #mine. more specific fics/ocs will be added here as they come. it’s well worth checking out the tags as well as linked fics because i don’t usually link ficlets/art/answered asks!
Evelyn and Arthur | tag
An Introduction to Evelyn and Arthur (bios)
One Evening in June
All Quiet on the Western Front (Part Two)
Bolthole
Tidings of Comfort
Aftershocks
Francis | tag
Told You So (snippet)
A Little Nibble (snippet)
The Oak and the Ash (snippet)
He Who Is Without Sin (NSFW)
Oxford
A Losing Battle (NSFW) (Part Two)
The Interrogation
An Experiment in Fashion (Part Two, NSFW)
Exquisite (NSFW)
Spy Vs. Spy (collab with the amazing @sickromancer!)
Mateusz and August | tag
Honour in the Time of Birch Pollen (Part Two)
Moments
Ok but what about the handsome, kind (or handsome, nasty?) regency gent who spends his summers at the manor house of a rich aunt or great aunt in the middle of meadows and pastures and lush gardens and he has massive hayfever...
...and he is both mortally embarrassed and turned on by it. And turned in by the embarrassment and embarrassed of how turned on he is.
Starting every morning with a ludicrous sneezing fit, sneezing as he gets up, just sits on the bed and sneezes and blows his nose for a good while, conscious of the fact that he's being heard through the door by anyone who happens to pass by and so embarrassed by the thought. Another guest knocking the door and asking if he's alright, he blushes up to his ears. "Don't mind!" he pipes with a stuffy voice, and sneezes. "Thank you!"
And he's embarrassed by the fact that the servants have obviously been told to keep his nighstand stacked with neat piles of handkerchiefs because he has a streaming hayfever. His hayfever is accounted in how the household is run. Embarrassed, and shamefully turned on.
Perhaps he's adamant about dressing himself because he can't just sneeze all over a manservant first thing in the morning. Or perhaps he just holds a handkerchief to his nose through the whole process, switching hands when needed.
And then there's the breakfast to get through, all the comments, the inquiries about his health, the gentle frowns from the women and jokes from the men, friendly or crass. The smartass cousin who will bless him as she's leaving: "Bless you times thirty-eight" because she counts to vex him. What she doesn't know is that she's also getting him painfully hard.
The well meaning chaps trying to arrange him a meeting with a lady in the garden. Just generally being constantly perceived and commented, though sometimes it's even worse when he's alone, fully gives in to sneezing and blowing his nose, then remembers how easy it is to hear him through the door.
And that one time he stays for a visit during winter he immediately comes down with the worst cold.
And the handkerchiefs appear neatly stacked on the nightstand again. Everyone must be thinking he's just always sneezing. Mortifying. (So turned on...)
Ok but what about the handsome, kind (or handsome, nasty?) regency gent who spends his summers at the manor house of a rich aunt or great aunt in the middle of meadows and pastures and lush gardens and he has massive hayfever...
...and he is both mortally embarrassed and turned on by it. And turned in by the embarrassment and embarrassed of how turned on he is.
Starting every morning with a ludicrous sneezing fit, sneezing as he gets up, just sits on the bed and sneezes and blows his nose for a good while, conscious of the fact that he's being heard through the door by anyone who happens to pass by and so embarrassed by the thought. Another guest knocking the door and asking if he's alright, he blushes up to his ears. "Don't mind!" he pipes with a stuffy voice, and sneezes. "Thank you!"
And he's embarrassed by the fact that the servants have obviously been told to keep his nighstand stacked with neat piles of handkerchiefs because he has a streaming hayfever. His hayfever is accounted in how the household is run. Embarrassed, and shamefully turned on.
Perhaps he's adamant about dressing himself because he can't just sneeze all over a manservant first thing in the morning. Or perhaps he just holds a handkerchief to his nose through the whole process, switching hands when needed.
And then there's the breakfast to get through, all the comments, the inquiries about his health, the gentle frowns from the women and jokes from the men, friendly or crass. The smartass cousin who will bless him as she's leaving: "Bless you times thirty-eight" because she counts to vex him. What she doesn't know is that she's also getting him painfully hard.
The well meaning chaps trying to arrange him a meeting with a lady in the garden. Just generally being constantly perceived and commented, though sometimes it's even worse when he's alone, fully gives in to sneezing and blowing his nose, then remembers how easy it is to hear him through the door.
i feel obliged to put out a snzblr psa: google is apparently rolling out default ai search as of today. change your search engine (e.g. to ecosia) to avoid it!
(and better still, switch to firefox, as i’m the process of doing in a righteous rage)
I’m thinking about an arrogant bastard who insists with a cocksure grin that he can handle the pollen count, when he’s already sniffling after a minute outside.
I’m thinking about a rakeish Lothario who shamelessly propositions you as if he’s a dominating force of nature and not a sad, pitiful little man with a streaming headcold. Like he’s going to fuck you right and not just lie limp against the pillows as you pleasure him.
I’m thinking about smug, duplicitous men who know exactly what they’re doing to you when their breath stutters like that, when they squeeze their eyes shut and rear back, when they stutter through their sentences while hitching fruitlessly, and play it up just to fuck with you.
Reblog if you have a sneeze kink and you're from the UK!
Hands up if you're British with a snz kink? It can be hard to find each other in such a small group, what with all the Americans and all *shakes fist* There must be a few more Brits with this special interest. So if you’re part of the sneeze kink community and you’re based in the UK, please reblog this post 😊
inspired by @coldexposure's excellent post. i don't know where these two came from, but this prompt was too good to resist! early 20th century, artsy, libertine, international crowd, imagine something similar to the bloomsbury group. m/m. as usual for me, too much exposition for my own good.
(i was also intrigued to discover, after some cursory research, that medicinal cigarettes actually worked in some cases, even to the point of the benefits outweighing, in the moment at least, the inflammation caused to the lungs by the act of smoking. it seems counterintuitive, but the more you know!)
Lounging around after sex was a most agreeable occupation, Llewellyn thought – particularly when the sex had taken place mid-afternoon, a fair amount of energy had been expended by both parties and the bed was the well-worn double that took up almost all of Willem's attic room.
He stretched, relishing the feeling of cool sheets on his skin, and rolled over. With his chin propped on a hand, it was the perfect position in which to ogle his companion.
Willem was a lovely creature when clothed; he was even more divine stretched stark naked amongst a rumple of bedclothes, sunlight spilling through the window to limn the languid curve of his hip in gold. Moles were scattered across his body, silent instructions, kiss me here, and here, and here. They formed a trail that led up to his throat. Llewellyn was not by nature a possessive man – willingness to share was a virtue in their circles – but something about seeing his friend like this, a glimpse inside a locket that was usually kept tightly shut, made him want to set a guard by the door.
"Htsshhuhhh!"
There was also that.
Dragging himself upright, Willem rubbed the tip of his nose. It was as lovely as the rest of him, straight and perhaps a touch too large for his face. Currently it was also red, particularly around the quivering nostrils, and glistening slightly on its underside. His eyes were the same, red-rimmed and leaving shiny tear-tracks down his flushed cheeks. Most everything set Willem off, from Llewellyn's cologne (which he had foregone) to the lush, yellow-dusted catkins of the tree outside his window. It was mid-May, and the room was unbearable with the window closed, but Willem was suffering for it. The catkins, and his most delightful sensitivity: the tendency to sneeze when aroused.
"Verdomme..." Willem muttered. He tilted his head back so a tear ran off his dew-damp eyelashes and down his face, lingering on his jaw. A hand went back to his nose, rubbing it thoughtlessly. The action made it run, and he sniffled hard, but he'd done so much sniffling and sneezing while they fucked that his sinus were audibly packed tight, the sound a painful, blocked squelch. It seemed to provoke his nose again; he snapped forward: "Ht'issshhuhhh! Itsschh! Snff!"
Llewellyn inched up the bed and caressed Willem's thigh. "You sound awfully bunged up."
"It's the damned... trees..." Willem gestured towards the window while blinking rapidly, red, twitching nostrils glowing in the light. "Huhhh... hhiHH'Huhtssch! Atschsshh'uhh..!"
There was a catch to the last sneeze, a slight wheeze in the gasp that followed it. Llewellyn sat up more and studied Willem closely. Since last winter he'd been unable to dismiss his friend's asthma as easily as Willem clearly wished everyone would.
As if he could sense his thoughts, Willem gave him a look. Llewellyn tilted his head meaningfully; Willem sighed, but there was a rattle in the sound, and he reluctantly fumbled on the bedside table for a handkerchief.
"Here." Llewellyn passed him the one that had been under a pillow, but had been put in as much disarray as the rest of the bedding by their activities.
Willem sat forward to blow his nose; from the sound of it, he was putting more effort into it than he was getting relief. He folded the handkerchief and coughed into it afterwards. Llewellyn's hand went to his shoulder, steadying, instinctually, which meant he felt the tremors as Willem's chest began to jerk again –
"Uhhh... hhiHhh... ohHh, for God's saHhh-Atsschh! Ehhtschhh! Atsschh!! Huhh... EHhhhtschhh!"
"Bless you, love." Llewellyn squeezed Willem's shoulder while he tried to blow his nose again. He got much the same result, and resorted to squeezing and wiping it while snuffling uselessly, knuckling at one eye. "Are you sure your head isn't going to fall off?"
"Sorry..." Willem said faintly. "I think I need to..."
He went back to the bedside table, this time fumbling a cigarette from a small red carton. Had he a lighter to hand, Llewellyn would've offered it; instead he revelled in the sight of Willem's eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he looked down in concentration, lighting the cigarette.
The first drag made him cough; a distinctly herbal, medicinal scent, like a menthol cough drop, reached Llewellyn's nostrils. He was amused to notice Willem's twitching frantically almost immediately.
"Oh dear," he murmured, smiling. Willem scowled at him, pulling on the cigarette more deliberately, but the next smoky exhale had already sealed his fate:
"Etschh!" It burst from him with no prelude, snapping him forward, so itchy it sounded unfinished. "Huhh'Etschhuhh! HahhHh- Tssch! Ihhtssh! Etsschuh! Hhih... ihHh... Itsschh!! Itsschh! Itsshh!!'tsshh!'tsshh!"
Llewellyn's hand was still on Willem's shoulder throughout the convulsive fit, and he could feel every shudder, see the the muscles in his stomach tense over and over again as he curled in on himself. Despite it all, the cigarette burned undisturbed between Willem's fingers; it was somehow that maddening display of elegance that made arousal pool in Llewellyn's stomach.
"Good God, that was quite a production," he said, with a nonchalance he certainly didn't feel.
Willem unfurled and blinked up at him. His eyes, bloodshot around deep brown irises that always reminded Llewellyn of a baby deer, were streaming. As was – oh. His nose was running over his lips; moving as if in a dream, he brought the handkerchief to it and gave a long, liquid blow. A gasp of relief followed it that was almost obscene; Llewellyn had to wrestle down the urge to kiss this delightful man. Not least because he'd probably suffocate him.
After a few more blows, and an awful lot of rubbing his nose through the fabric, Willem emerged, scrunching his irritated eyes and sighing. His cheeks pinkened as he took another drag of the cigarette.
"Sorry," he said again. "It's a bit dramatic, but it's the only thing that clears my head."
"So I see." Llewellyn grinned as Willem lightly hit him in the arm with the hand his handkerchief was balled in. "Don't apologise; I should be sorry for the part I played in getting you to that state."
"No, you should not." Willem leant in, looking up at Llewellyn through his lashes in a puckish way, and he really couldn't resist pressing a kiss to those parted lips. Just a fleeting contact. He could almost taste the medicinal cigarette.
"Htsshhuhhh!!" Willem barely managed to move, sneezing freely into the space between them. Some of the spray ghosted over Llewellyn's thigh. "Oh god..."
"Spring really isn't your season, is it, love?"
Willem glared. Then he let his head rest against Llewellyn's shoulder with a long sigh.
It's year 1999, he's a stripper, she's a bouncer (and a former Greco-Roman style wrestler). She has a nasty neck cramp from going ham on neck bridges. He's getting increasingly sneezy. They're smoking pot.
750 words, modern AU Warbler and Tehana/Tea. There's substance use and some NSFW though not very explicit.
The song referred to is "Rooster" by Alice in Chains. I recommend giving it a listen, a very loud one. It's really good.
Ain't found a way to kill me yet
Eyes burn with stingin' sweat
Oh fuck it bites. She tenses up and fights the almost overpowering urge to cough. Where does he even get this awful stuff? She lets the smoke out and passes the joint back to him, leaning deep into the sofa, relaxing... a bit too much, a twinge in her neck reminding her why they're smoking in the first place, doesn't seem to help much though.
Here they come to snuff the Rooster
"Fuck..." she sighs, it's always so good, this song, one of the few things they can really agree on. Usually Warbler has such a shit taste in music.
Yeah, here come the Rooster
Gives her chills, every time. She watches the stream of smoke pluming out from between his lips, so beautiful like that, with the stupid drowsy look in those big, pale eyes, he hasn't washed his hair and it hangs lank around his face, spilling over his shoulders. Dirty beautiful.
"Can't," he says, sniffs, nudges his nose with his wrist as he relaxes into his own end of the couch. "Too high."
She can't help feeling amused and probably smiles.
He sniffs, sniffles, again and rubs his nose with the back of his hand, frowning. Then harder, like to punish.
"Starting early this year," she says. He's been sneezing here and there through the day, rubbing his nose, it isn't catastrophic yet but it's obviously his hayfever.
"No it isn't yet —" he starts, freezes in place, and sneezes. "Htkssh! Htkssh!-snff! ...H-Htkssh! ...Kshh!"
Oh now he's done it. It sounds... it just sounds so fucking... Ohh her neck!
He shoots her such a hurt, annoyed look, still rubbing his nose. "Don't laugh, it's... Htkssh!-snff! Kshh-Kshh!" He moans and rubs his nose with abandon, while she can't stop the giggles rising from her belly.
"Don't do that," she pleads with a shaky voice and draws a hiccuppy breath. "My neck, oww my..."
"It's dot fuddy!" he says, so irked, and blows his nose loudly into a half used tissue. "And you wouldn't hurt so if you had any empathy like a normal — Htkssh! Htkssh!"
Oh fuck... it hurts so much to laugh...
His eyes narrow, and there's the teeth, a shaky breath. "You..." he titters, "your neck is so fucked!"
He laughs, leaning his head back like to offer his throat. What a fucking bastard. Sneezes twice. Cusses and laughs more through the cussing.
--
Well, in the end the neck did relax somehow. Even without those pills he had offered her, just muscle reaxants, got them from one of the Russian guys. Yeah, she has seen him down some with gin and juice and then go out like a light, and she had to carry him to bed, looked so uncomfortable passed out on the couch like that. Next morning all pale and woozy, smeared mascara on his cheeks.
"Yeah, that's the... oh yeah..." she moans. Somehow she has ended up lying on the thick old rag rug next to the couch and he's sitting on top of her, giving her a back massage. He's so good at it, he has strong hands. But why does he have to squeeze her so with those fucking porn star thighs of his, and she could swear...
"You have a hard on," she notes.
"Yeah," he says.
"You're such a pervert."
"Agreed... perhaps you should throw me."
"You'd break your neck."
"Worh..." he gasps. "Worth it," he says on an inhale, and starts sneezing again. "Htkssh! Htkssh-Kshh! ...snff ...H-Htkssh! Htkssh!"
She can feel him roll off her, still sneezing in that ridiculous way, like an angry cat. She sits up as he is blowing his nose, it's getting pink already around the nostrils. When he leans his head against the couch and looks at her his eyes look teary and unhappy.
"Poor bastard," she sighs, and in a fit of probably misguided pity she puts her fingers on his cheek.
He immediately leans against her hand. "I think I'm going to die of it this year," he breathes. So dramatic.
"You always think you're going to die of it."
He sniffles. "Have come close."
"And you still have a hard on."
He doesn't say anything, just turns his head and pushes her hand with his so her palm presses against his lips.
She curses herself silently, for being taken in so easily by those big sad eyes, letting her guard down. It's going to happen again isn't it. Against all her better judgement, it's going to happen, they're going to do it, right here on the crappy old rug. God help her, this is becoming a problem.
Summary: S/hane and I/lya do a press conference together where I/lya has an allergic reaction. Afterward, they hook up and discover he’s also allergic to S/hane’s cologne. Kink!S/hane has a wild evening. Set pretty early in their situationship. NSFW!
*
R/ozanov is sniffling.
This isn’t unusual; in the months that S/hane has known him, he seems to always be sniffling. Or touching his eyes, or rubbing his nose, or doing those little allergic coughs that sound way too tiny and cute to be from I/lya R/ozanov, aggressive star center of the Raiders.
Shane grimaces a little as he makes his way up the stage to sit at the table in front of the press. Half of the grimace is from the thought of dealing with the press; the other half is that he can hardly believe he just thought of Rozanov as “cute”. Hot, sure, sexy, yeah, but “cute”? Rozanov would probably kick his ass if he heard that. And Shane much prefers the other things Rozanov does to his ass, thanks very much.
He wipes the grimace off his face quickly, though, because he doesn’t want the press to think he’s unhappy to be there, even if he is. He can already hear his mother on the phone later, lecturing him for not controlling his face. She had called earlier, reminding him to mention the cologne that’s recently started sponsoring him. He can’t even remember the brand name; something fancy and expensive. Shane prefers something a little more understated, but he had reluctantly dabbed some on his wrists and neck, if only so he can reassure his mom that he did so when she calls again tomorrow.
Shane gives Rozanov a nod as he takes his seat. He can already hear the press whispering, trying to decipher the meaning behind that little gesture. Is there real respect between the famed rivals, or is it just a show for the cameras and they loathe each other behind closed doors? Neither, he thinks, just a little friendly ass play in discreet hotel rooms. But of course he could never say that out loud.
Rozanov nods back, seeming distracted as he rubs the bridge of his nose with the center of his palm. “We get started, yes?” he asks shortly.
Shane shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he watches Rozanov rub at his pink, irritated nose. It’s already hard enough to be around Rozanov, without thinking about… that. He just hopes Ilya doesn’t start—
“hh’KNXSHTT!”
Shane flinches, unable to help himself from a visible reaction to Ilya’s first sneeze. It’s crushed into Ilya’s knuckles, painfully stifled.
It’s kind of funny. He’s never seen Ilya try to stifle before. On the ice, he usually just aims off to the side. Same with when they’re having sex afterward. Luckily, Shane having a boner isn’t very out of place when they’re having sex and Ilya starts sneezing. When they’re on the ice, on the other hand…
Shane resists the urge to cross his legs and reminds himself that the tablecloth is covering him from the reporters’ hungry eyes. “Bless you,” he mumbles, wildly uncomfortable just saying the words out loud.
Ilya waves a hand—the hand he’d just stifled against—dismissively. “Not dyig. Just allergic.” He sniffles and rubs at his nose again. The tip of it is starting to turn pink even under the makeup, Shane notices, swallowing hard.
“What are you allergic to, Ilya?” A brave reporter calls out. The mics must be picking up their words.
Ilya glares, seemingly unaware of all the cameras and reporters taking in his every microexpression. Or, more likely, he just doesn’t care. “Canada, apparently,” he says, with a waving gesture to encompass the entire nation.
The crowd of reporters obediently lets out a rumbling laugh, but Ilya doesn’t look like he’s kidding. His nose twitches, and he looks like he barely has time to shield his face before he’s ducking back into his knuckles with two barely-stifled, much wetter-sounding sneezes. “hh’GNXXSHHT! heh’DSSHHHT!”
Shane can feel the tips of his ears burning red. Is he blushing? God, he hopes not. He needs to take control of the conversation and redirect it. “The birch in Canada isn’t for the faint of heart,” he says with the fakest laugh he’s ever done. Maybe that will be enough to get the press to be satisfied and move on, he hopes.
Instead, one reporter calls out to Ilya, “Think all that sneezing will distract you from the game? Are you worried about winning tomorrow?”
Ilya is rubbing at his nose fiercely, but he manages to wink at the reporters in a way that seems effortless. “No, I never worry about beating Montreal,” he says lightly.
“Maybe you should, given how Boston’s been doing against us lately,” Shane bites out. His eyes lock onto the way Ilya is rubbing at his nostrils, all red and shiny and irritated. He can’t help himself from looking for a too-long second, before he finally is able to drop his eyes.
The reporters “ooh” obediently at the chirp and start asking Shane a question about his prep for tomorrow’s game. It’s easy enough to answer. He’s heard the same questions a dozen times before.
But he can’t keep himself from noticing the way that Ilya is watching him, from the corner of his eye. Like Ilya is studying him. Seeing the things that Shane would rather keep hidden.
*
After the press interview, Shane almost holds out. Almost resists the urge.
“Almost.” Who’s he kidding? He books it for Ilya’s hotel room, which had been texted to him this morning, as soon as he can. He doesn’t even change out of his suit first. The idea of Ilya tearing it off him has major appeal, anyway.
Ilya is slow to open the door, looking hazy and itchy. For once, Shane doesn’t scold him for making him wait in the hallway, too absorbed in studying the delicious discomfort that’s obvious on Ilya’s face. Now that the makeup is scrubbed off, it’s obvious that he’s been rubbing his nose nonstop all day. It’s all red and irritated-looking, and he can’t stop scrunching his nose as if to fight off a tickle.
“Couldn’t wait, no?” Ilya teases dryly, a hint of congestion in his voice.
Shane is on him like a puck bunny going after a clueless rookie. Ilya makes a surprised noise into Shane’s mouth mid-kiss, then cups the back of his neck and licks into his mouth. Their hands are everywhere, rubbing, squeezing, touching, impossible to keep track.
Shane finds his hands drifting upward, and he cups the other man’s face. He strokes a thumb across Ilya’s left cheek.
Ilya breaks the kiss and tears away from Shane, his face twitching. He starts to say something, breaks off with an insistent hitch, and sneezes violently into hastily-cupped palms. “hih’HETSSCHH!”
The sneeze sounds harsh and itchy. Shane swallows hard and steps closer. “Bless you,” he offers up, tentative. He can feel his face burning.
Ilya waves a hand at him dismissively, eyes watering as he continues to hitch. “S-sorry… s’just… fuck,” he stumbles over his words. Before he can say anything else, he sneezes two more times into his hands, both sounding as rough and unsatisfying as the first one. “Hh’ESSCHHHTT! heh… heh’IISSCHHTT’uhh!”
After a few seconds of sniffling, Ilya looks up at Shane awkwardly. “Sorry. This, um… ‘birch’ thing is killing my nose. Is not so sexy, right?” he cracks a self-deprecating smile.
Shane feels like his brain is broken. His dick is fine, though. He steps closer and, taking one of Ilya’s damp hands, presses it to the tent in his pants. “I really need you to fuck me right now,” he says earnestly.
Ilya grins.
Within seconds, he’s got Ilya undressed, barely resisting the need to get down on his knees and blow him. It’s very tempting, but he’s holding out. Still, he can’t resist licking a wide stripe on his palm so he can wrap a hand around Ilya’s cock and start to pump it, slow and agonizing.
Ilya barks out a laugh, half from sheer surprise and half from lust, and tips his head forward into the crook of Shane’s neck, enjoying the lazy handjob. “You are… enjoying my torture this evening,” he says, the words coming slow in English. “I like it.”
“Do you?” Shane murmurs. He feels overdressed, still in full suit and tie, but there’s something unusual in him being fully clothed while Ilya is naked. A change in their power dynamic that he’s very open to, tonight.
Ilya makes a noise of assent, then sniffles into Shane’s neck. “Gah, you smell different,” he says, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. “Like… trees?”
“Some kind of cologne deal my mom made,” Shane says, wanting to address any topic involving his mother as quickly as possible while he has his hand on another man’s dick. “I don’t remember the… oh.”
Ilya’s sniffles have progressed into heavy, unsteady breathing, and he rubs his nose side-to-side in Shane’s neck. “Itches,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t lift his hands off Shane’s hips, content to use Shane’s skin as his tissue. “Sorry, I… hih! I need…”
Shane tries frantically to think of what a normal person would do or say in his situation, instead of moaning over Ilya’s perfect, beautiful red nose. “Um, are you okay? Do you need, like, a Benadryl or something—?”
His question gets cut off by Ilya’s sharp inhale, and then Ilya is trying desperately to back away. Their bodies are tangled together, though, and Shane doesn’t catch up quickly enough to let go of Ilya. Ilya’s hands come up to cover, a hair too late, and he sneezes helplessly, openly, over Shane’s chest. “huhh… hhrr’IISSSHHH’uhh!”
The spray is sparkling in the hotel room lamplight, and Shane feels a cool dampness on his jaw. He feels himself freeze a little with shock, before abruptly coming back to himself with Ilya’s next loud hitch.
Desperate to cover, Ilya lurches forward and buries his nose into Shane’s tie, the closest thing available, before he can stop himself. With a needy hitch, he lets out a wet, strong, uncontrolled sneeze into the fabric. “hh’DJSSCHHH!”
Shane’s heart abruptly stops, then starts pounding in his chest again.
Ilya rears back and scrubs at his nose, trying to push back the next explosion, but Shane can already tell that that will be a failure. He looks too needy, too desperate. It’s driving Shane fucking wild. His hands drop from Ilya’s back and dick, and he brings them up to—what? He doesn’t even know.
He ends up pulling Ilya’s hands away from his face, and Ilya squints at him through watery eyes, breathing uneven. “What?” he asks, sounding annoyed. “Stop, I… heh! I don’t want to sn—” He doubles over, spraying a thick, wet sneeze toward the carpet to avoid getting Shane. “hh’DSSSCHHHTT! Ugh. Fuck! I don’t want to sndeeze on you againd, Hollander.”
His last name sounds so congested coming out of Ilya’s mouth.
Shane’s mouth is so dry. He keeps Ilya’s hands trapped in his own, stepping forward into Ilya’s space where he can’t duck away. “Don’t worry about it.”
Ilya gives him an “are you crazy” look and sniffles, barely damming back the encroaching explosion. “S’gross. Can’t stop fucking sndeehh—snf! Sndeezing.”
“Really not a problem right now,” Shane says, too turned on to be worried about how he’s presenting himself right now. “I want you so bad. You are so fucking hot tonight.”
Ilya’s eyes dip down, caught on the tent in Shane’s dress pants. His eyebrow raises for half a second, then he sniffles again, catching Shane’s eyes. “You like this?”
“…I like you,” Shane says eventually, not sure how to answer that. “Even when you’re gross. Can we fuck now, please?”
Ilya smiles, a little unsurely, then nods his head down at their joined hands. “Will need my hands, yes?”
Shane lets go of Ilya’s hands, feeling embarrassed for some reason. “Sorry. Are you like… okay?” he says, feeling like he should ask. “Do you need a break? A tissue?”
Ilya lets out a hoarse laugh, then takes the opportunity to scrub at his face. His nose looks so irritated. It makes Shane want to… what? Take care of him? Ridiculous. Not to mention impossible.
“No tissue, no break,” Ilya says after a moment of rubbing his face. “Will not help. Besides, I have your tie, yes? Is good tissue.”
Shane’s face goes hot. He looks down at his tie, visibly wet from its stint as a tissue, then looks back up at Ilya. He lets out a slow breath, and goes for cool. “Depends. Are you gonna keep me standing here, fully dressed, all night?”
Ilya makes a face, unimpressed. “Smooth. Get over here and let me rip your clothes off.”
And he does, rough with tearing off Shane’s suit in a way that Shane loves. Ilya is still sniffling a little, his nostrils flaring, but he doesn’t seem on the edge of a fit anymore. He’s too focused on getting Shane naked.
Once the suit has been laid carefully over the back of a chair—he may be out of his mind with need, but Shane is still a creature of order and habit—Ilya throws him onto the bed, then crawls in after.
The sheets are already messed up, and Shane finds himself wondering if Ilya took a nap here before the press interview. Were his allergies already bothering him? Did he stifle a fit into the pillows, rub his nose against the comforter? He swallows hard at the imagery.
“You were hot for me in the interview,” Ilya murmurs lowly. “Yes?”
Shane rolls his eyes. “Enough teasing, just fucking, please.”
Ilya taps a finger into Shane’s chest. “Impatient.”
“Yes!” Shane steals a kiss, ducking in and out before Ilya can stop him. “So hurry up!”
Ilya laughs and gets to work.
Within a few minutes, they’re laying on their sides. Ilya is inside Shane, rocking slow and steady while they get used to the rhythm. For all his desperation earlier, Shane feels content like this, in no rush to orgasm. Once they’re done, he’ll be expected to leave Ilya’s hotel room and pretend this never happened. He’s not really ready for that yet.
Ilya hooks his chin over Shane’s shoulder, so that they can almost make eye contact. His front is plastered to Shane’s back, firm and sweaty and perfect. He strokes his fingertips over Shane’s dick, teasing, and laughs when Shane curses at him for it. “Okay?”
“Yes, god, okay. You?”
“Yes,” Ilya says. He ducks his head down and rubs his nose into Shane’s shoulder. “I think, though, this cologne your mother picked out. It does not agree with me so much.”
Shane groans and thrusts himself backward onto Ilya’s cock. “I’ll throw it out! Please, Jesus, just fuck me already.”
“I will think about it,” Ilya says mockingly, but his movements speed up, both of them ready for the endgame now. He fists Shane’s dick, the way Shane likes it, and presses open-mouthed kisses to the side of Shane’s neck.
After a moment, the two of them are both close, moaning and whimpering in a way that has Shane wondering who Ilya’s hotel neighbors are tonight. It’s probably fine. Normally he would never allow for sex in a hotel room, they’re too loud, but tonight he feels out of control, burning up from the inside out with the way that Ilya’s breathing staggers with every tickle.
Ilya takes his hand off Shane’s dick, and Shane whines, low and needy. “Sorry, sorry, I…” Ilya sniffles and rubs his nose against the back of his hand. “Is itchy again.”
“Rozanov, put it back or so help me God—” Shane arches into a thrust and groans. “I will never let you fuck me again!”
Ilya puts his hand back and strokes Shane’s dick. In the light, Shane catches a glimpse of wetness on the back of Ilya’s hand, and it drives him fucking crazy. He fucks himself back onto Ilya’s cock, crying out. “Rozy, I’m gonna come I’m gonna come I’m—!”
Ilya’s rapidly hitching breath stops him short, and Ilya only has a second to decide what to do before he buries his face into Shane’s shoulder to sneeze. The sneezes come muffled and quieter, but undeniably strong, wet against Shane’s skin.
Shane almost screams when he comes. A second later, Ilya groans and goes boneless behind him.
Ilya sniffles through the aftershocks, rubbing his nose helplessly into Shane’s back and neck. His hands remain at Shane’s sides, holding on for dear life even though they’ve both orgasmed. Still, his nails dig into Shane’s skin as he holds back another sneeze.
Eventually, Shane’s haze lifts enough that he can sense what’s going on. “Just sneeze already,” he murmurs, bringing a hand back to cup Ilya’s curls. The angle is uncomfortable but worth it. “S’not like I mind.”
Ilya chuckles, and something about that must loosen the tickle, because he ducks into Shane’s back with a sudden, loud, “hh’IISSHHOOHHH!”
“Bless you,” Shane says. He can feel a smug smile forming on his face. “Feel better?”
“It’s not hers, it’s a product endorsement contract—“
“hh’ESSSHHH’uhh!”
The sneeze is cool and wet on Shane’s skin, and he shivers a little. He turns over in Ilya’s arms to face him. Ilya looks itchy, still pink-faced especially around the nose, but content. Like the orgasm drove the urgency out of him when it came to sneezing.
Shane brings up a hand and drags his thumb over Ilya’s cheek. The movement makes Ilya sniffle, but that’s all. “So sensitive. It’s kind of cute,” he says with a low laugh.
“I am not cute. Russians, we do not do this,” Ilya says with a growl, but it’s teasing, and he kisses Shane, fierce and needy.
Shane breaks off the kiss, still panting a little from the sex, and digs his fingers into Ilya’s curls. “Very cute. Especially when you’re allergic.”
Ilya lets out an irritated sigh and ducks his head under Shane’s chin, cuddling into his chest. “Is very annoying. I sneeze ever since plane touches down this morning. Is like burning in my face and it will not go away. Very frustrating.”
Shane cups the back of Ilya’s head and resists the urge to kiss the crown of his forehead. That’s not something they do. “Poor baby,” he teases. “Want me to kiss it, make it better?”
“If you kiss my nose, will definitely end with me sneezing on you.”
“Again.”
Ilya groans and buries his face into Shane’s chest. His hands come up to cup Shane’s tits, one of his favorite spots to hold. “Embarrassing.”
“You don’t get embarrassed,” Shane says. “A few weeks ago I watched you sneeze all over the ice in the second period. Like you didn’t even notice.”
Ilya shakes his head, rubbing his face into Shane’s chest. “Is not the same. You are not ice. You are pretty, pretty man with freckles who does not want to be human tissue.”
Shane laughs. “I don’t know about that.”
He’s too loose from the experience to care about his words, about Ilya learning way too much about him from this encounter. And so what if Ilya knows about his… more unusual tastes? They already can’t tell anyone about this. It’s as safe as it can ever get.
Ilya snuffles into Shane’s chest, inhaling sharply before abruptly sneezing and muttering a curse in Russian. “hh’ISSSHH’uhh!”
“Come on,” Shane says fondly. His smile is hurting his face. “Let’s take a shower. Get all that cologne and pollen off of you.”
Ilya groans and squeezes Shane tighter. “Five more minutes.”
I know, it’s been ages since I last wrote fic… apparently these two were enough to break my dry spell. This fic is set in Rome, 1492, during the Papal election following the death of Pope Innocent… and for all that grand summary, it’s mostly about two spies annoying each other and the people around them. This is mostly an introduction, lots of exposition, somewhat minimal snz, but I have fun things planned…
For the third time this morning, Isabetta snaps the nib of her quill.
She glares at the mangled thing. It has been re-cut twice already, and is probably beyond saving, so she tosses it down and opens a drawer in her desk. Preparing quills is a process she has always found calming; with everything that has happened in the past few days, there is a plentiful bundle of them.
The Pope has had the audacity to die. Or the good sense. Cardinals from far and wide have gathered for the Conclave. There is much work for a woman of her talents, and she has not left her study since the sun rose.
The room is the perfect expression of her position: bluntly, the bastard of one of those cardinals. When her father, Giuliano della Scala, had these apartments refurbished, he had the architect add a small concealed room behind his study, invisible everywhere except on the floor plans. Unofficial, inconvenient, yet he kept it — and her — close. As a child, it was her playroom, where she escaped scoldings and hid things her nurse forbade her from having. For her thirteenth birthday, her father had a fine walnut desk placed in it, and she truly felt grown-up. Having no sons, her father educated her as he would one: in languages, philosophy, theology, and the art of knowing more than she should. She keeps an eye on the goings-on in his study through a crack in the fresco that looks no more than incidental to the unsuspecting eye, and passes unseen through a door disguised in the hallway panelling.
And now is her chance to repay her father’s investment.
Selecting a new quill, Isabetta returns to her table. Avowed friends in the College in one column, neutrals in another, enemies in yet one more.
The click of a door latch makes her jump, and her quill disgorge a black glob across the page. For the Blessed Virgin’s sake — only a handful of people know about the door in the first place, and only one is presumptuous enough to knock —
“Cesare,” she says coldly when the door opens.
Cesare di Notte, one among many reasons why God could not have created Naples. Veleno, Isabetta should say; di Notte is nothing but a pomander of audacity to mask the stink of a birth even lower than hers. He’s a big mastiff of a man, dark curls and olive skin and a mole almost on his lip that infuriates her. A dog that never answers to the same master for long, but funnily enough those masters always seem to be her enemies. She detests his infuriating insouciance, the way he romps through life without a care for collateral. She detests his inability to take anything seriously. Most of all, she detests his talent for always showing up when she least wants to see him.
“I thought you were exiled from the city,” she says, going back to the table. The blot has wiped out all the names in the enemies column.
“I was.” It’s been at least a year, but she doesn’t remember Cesare’s voice being so hoarse. “I got bored. The thing about exile is, like most ‘rules’ in this city, it doesn’t stick if you know the right people.”
“Who paid your fine this time? The Orsini? The Colonna? I hope they know they’re fools.”
Cesare flops into a chair like a tomcat who owns the place. He sniffles, clears his throat and knuckles at his nose. Against her will, Isabetta’s stomach tightens. She has… certain tastes. No worse than any of the petty lusts the cardinals indulge in behind closed doors, but Cesare, damn him, has a large, aquiline nose, a touch crooked from fistfights past.
“They are fools,” he snorts. Then he lowers his voice. Almost a whisper, it’s even rougher. “I’ve heard your cardinal-father has ambitions. He and my master are evenly-matched.”
Isabetta sets down her quill and scowls. “Spying for a rival. Again. What makes you think I’m not going to have you arrested?”
He stretches out. A little frown crosses his face, and he knuckles at his nose again, sniffling more liquidly. “Turns out my master’s a fool too. He’s got it into his head that paying me is optional.”
Isabetta scoffs. “You wouldn’t know loyalty if it pissed in your wine.”
“And you wouldn’t know want, madonna della Scala,” Cesare snaps. She detects the sniffle at the end of the sentence. He clears his throat once more. “You’re scratching down names in a ledger while your father is being outmanoeuvred. I hahh— huh…I havehhh… huh’dzschhuhh!”
The sneeze rocks him forward, sending a little jolt of electricity through Isabetta. There’s something animal in the way he just gives in to it, not trying to suppress or stifle it; he mutters a Napolitano gutter-curse afterwards, taking a crumpled handkerchief from his sleeve and blowing his nose as if she isn’t there. Ill-mannered imbecile. Her mouth suddenly feels drier than before.
“I have information,” Cesare says, as if nothing happened — but his consonants sound just a little dulled now, and a close examination reveals the redness around his nostrils. “Are you interested?”
Isabetta sighs. She can already feel the headache that Cesare’s presence brings. He might be bluffing. Might be — probably is — exaggerating the value of whatever he has to tell her. Her baser urges are purring like a pack of panthers, and nothing good comes when she allows them to make her decisions. Still — if he does have useful information, and she ignores it —
“Fifteen florins,” she offers.
Cesare grins wolfishly. Isabetta hates that grin.
“There’s a plot to swing the vote for a Spaniard. Rodrigo Borgia.”
The short, sharp laugh bursts from Isabetta before she can stop herself. “That lecherous bull?”
“Come now, he only has two children more than your father.” Cesare sniffles sharply, frowns, and sniffles again. He looks like a perplexed hound when there’s an itch buzzing in his nose that he just can’t quell. “He… ugh, snf! He’s promising lands, positions, gold, apparently with no regard to his counting house. Your father is outmatched.”
Isabetta considers. Cesare is being very forthcoming; there must be some kind of catch. Always is, with him.
She crosses her arms. “And you’re offering to help me take him down?”
“Oh, well, if you’re paying me.”
“Fifteen florins,” she reminds him.
“That was for the information.”
“That’s more than a labourer earns in a year!”
“Calling me a labourer, don’t you know just how to flatter a — h’aaesschhuhh!” It comes without warning this time, doubling him over, even wetter and more wrenching than the first. Isabetta notices that he hasn’t put the handkerchief away, just crumpled it in his hand, and he wipes his nose with it, rubbing his septum through the cloth. The ensuing sniffle is long and liquid. Does he — look nervous? Just a slight crack in his charisma, but Isabetta is attuned to searching out such cracks. He looks away. “There could be a sort of… quid pro quo. I help you with Borgia, you help me with a… small issue of my own.”
“The cold in your head?” Isabetta’s tongue supplies before her brain can cage it. “I’m not a nursemaid.”
That makes Cesare bark out a rough laugh. The tail end of it becomes a cough, and she sees the faintest glisten of one nostril running, which he hastily wipes away. There is a cold settling in his head indeed, and it sounds like it’s going to be a bad one.
“No one would make that mistake, my dear serpent. No — someone tried to kill me yesterday.”
Against her better judgement, that makes Isabetta sit up straight. She gets up and lights a second candle, filling the room with warm, dancing light once more.
“Tell me,” she says, perching on the edge of her desk.
“Last night, I was meeting a courier from Naples. Once I’d picked up the message, snf!, a monk brushed passed me in the alley. He dropped this into my hand.”
He tosses a small, jet-black rosary at Isabetta. She catches it, examining it.
“It’s just a rosary. Perhaps he knew your soul needed saving.”
“Count the beads.”
She did. “Thirteen.”
Cesare nods grimly. “The thirteenth has a needle hidden in it. Poison-tipped, I assume. The bastard was gone by the time I turned around.”
And he just threw it at her — Isabetta frowns. “As far as assassination attempts go, that’s a poor effort. I don’t think they meant to kill you; only warn.”
Cesare swallows uncomfortably, using the excuse of rubbing his nose with his balled-up handkerchief — another stunning display of poor manners — to break eye contact with her. “All being equal, I’d rather be sure. I enjoy continuing to draw breath.”
But not through your nose right now, Isabetta thinks. She has to practically smack the thought down; perhaps it’s seeing him squirm that has got her so… activated. It’s a detriment to the task at hand, and any amount of involvement is a detriment to her future when it comes to Cesare.
“Very well,” she says all the same. “I help you find your poisonous monk, you help me deal with Borgia. I suspect we’ll find information about both at the Villa Medici tonight.”
Cesare blinks. Perhaps insouciant, but then his eyelashes — too long and dark for a man — flutter and his breath starts shuddering and — “Huh’esschhuhh! Sfaccimma,” he swears, shaking his head like there’s a flea in his ear. His breath jumps again, but he forestalls it by blowing his nose at long, bubbling length. “I… happen to be banned.”
A little grin of satisfaction threatens to show on Isabetta’s face. “Not if you come as my escort.”
“Not your ricuttaro?” Cesare asks, lightning-sharp, and cackles when Isabetta can’t help flushing at the vulgarity. It doesn’t help that a small but vocal part of her brain is imagining him kneeling before the desk, rubbing that sniffly nose against a thigh before his tongue gets to work on her throbbing —
Enough, woman! She digs her fingernails into her palms and reminds herself what happened the last time she worked with Cesare.
“If you don’t get your mouth out of the gutter, the deal’s off,” she says, with great effort. What a virtue, self-control.
“Then I’ll try to dust off my manners.” Cesare gets up, giving her a short, ironic bow. The speed at which he wipes his nose afterwards suggests just inclining his head upset a delicate equilibrium in his nose. “Until tonight, madonna.”
“Until tonight,” Isabetta says, and wonders what exactly she’s let herself in for.
***
Neapolitan swear words: sfaccimma is a general imprecation, like ‘fuck’ or ‘shit’; ricuttaro is a vulgar word for a male prostitute
I know it’s been a while, but we’re back with the second part of this! In which Isabetta takes Cesare to the Villa Medici, further information is revealed, a deal is struck, and masquerade masks prove to be less than convenient with a cold.
The Villa Medici rises out of the evening sky, an alabaster colossus, columns and carved lions flanking its entrance. An ‘informal gathering of minds’, this evening’s entertainment is supposed to be, but it is plainly more of a masquerade party, figures gliding in and out of the gardens in velvet and silk and glittering masks. Music and laughter drift from the windows.
Isabetta lingers at the edge of the gardens, fiddling with her cuff. She’s wearing a silver cioppa over a dark blue gamurra, the sleeves of which are embroidered with silver thorns. It was probably part of her mother’s bequest of gowns, before she entered the convent; it slips her memory now, but she has certainly never had something so fine made for herself. Her father raised her to be his shadow, not some prancing madonna with fifteen men tripping over themselves to fawn over her. The idea of being looked at for too long makes something under her skin squirm. Her mask, simple black velvet, is a small comfort.
Cesare is late. This is not a surprise, but it is an annoyance. Isabetta has just made up her mind that if he doesn’t turn up in the next five minutes she’ll go in without him, when —
“Hhuhh’dzzchiuhh!”
Oh.
Almost against her better judgement, Isabetta turns around. Cesare is sitting on the low garden wall, blowing his nose, a thick, bubbling sound. Straightening slowly, he tilts his head back, scrunching his nose and flexing his upper lip, until a trail of watery snot runs from his right nostril and he brings his handkerchief up, rubbing his nose through the cloth with a frustrated growl. When he lowers it, it’s with a series of long sniffles, then a congested sigh.
He seems so lost in his own world that it feels rude to stare, but Isabetta couldn’t tear her eyes away if she wanted to. It’s been less than a day, and his nose is already far redder than it was this morning, colour beginning to gather under his nostrils as well. Already noticeable by virtue of its size — usually it makes him look like a bird of prey, a big, fine, arrogant goshawk — now it practically screams bad head cold.
Cesare is just about to shove his handkerchief back up his sleeve, but he sneezes again, so forcefully he almost slides off the wall, crashing into the crumpled fabric.
A knot tightens itself in the pit of Isabetta’s stomach.
“You’re late,” she calls out, annoyed at her body’s betrayal; to his credit, Cesare does not exactly jump, just looks up and slides off the wall with alacrity.
“Better late than never,” he says, flippant, but she can truly hear the cold in his voice now. Heat shivers to her cunt.
It possibly doesn’t help that, for a man with the manners and breeding of a street dog, Cesare wears his night-blue velvet doublet well. A mask dangles by its ties from his left hand, white and blue, painted to look like a fox.
“Put that on,” Isabetta snaps.
“Yes, madonna, just give me a moment —” he turns away slightly, blowing his nose at purposeful length, then sniffling once, twice, thrice. Only then does he put on his mask, and she understands — it covers most of his nose. Conceals its coldish redness, but makes it difficult to keep in check. “There. Let’s go in.”
With that, which sounds rather like he’s trying to convince himself, Cesare offers her his arm. Isabetta takes it, grip rather tighter than it ought to be.
When they step into the main hall, the air is warm, clinging to Isabetta’s skin. Light flickers down from candles that seem to float from the ceiling, suspended by near-invisible threads. There are musicians in one corner, keeping time for a few dancing couples, but the largest part of the throng is just mingling. Half of Rome’s great and good, all dancing attendance on the Duke of Florence. He has a taste for Roman sculpture, and several marbles stand throughout the room, interspersed as if they too are guests, their white stone contrasting with the red robes of several cardinals. Isabetta watches those men as closely as he can with Cesare sniffling at her side. The vote is still undecided. No doubt each will be pulling every string he can before they enter the chapel again.
“There’s a familiar face,” Cesare whispers in her ear. She follows his gaze — sure enough, one of the cardinals, the one talking to the Duke, is della Rovere, her father’s bitter rival. Her grip on Cesare’s arm becomes vice-like.
“Isabetta,” Cesare says, suddenly urgent. He tries to tug his arm out of hers, but she’s distracted by della Rovere’s thin, insinuating smile, still gripping tight — “Haehh’tzsschh! HihhhH- Hhih’tzzsschhuh!”
Mother of God. Her mouth is dry; she felt every jump of chest, felt the shudder of his powerful body as it tried to contain the sneezes. All he seems to have accomplished is setting both nostrils running onto his upper lip. He coughs a bit as he pulls out his handkerchief and mops under his nose.
Isabetta’s insides curdle a bit in horror when she sees the state of the cloth. Crumpled beyond belief, it also seems utterly saturated, and when Cesare removes it, there’s still enough wetness on his philtrum to glisten in the candlelight.
“Do you not have another handkerchief?” Isabetta hisses.
“I didn’t expect to pack for a cold when I was summoned,” Cesare grumbles. Subbo’d, a truly terrible word to say with a stuffed-up nose. He folds his handkerchief, turning it over in a fruitless search for a dry spot, then presses it to his nose again anyway, snuffling liquidly.
If anyone with an ounce of sensibility sees — Isabetta wants to hit him. She wants to tie his hands behind his back and ride him until —
She clenches her jaw and produces her own neat, untouched handkerchief.
“Use this.”
It’s hard to judge expressions in masks, but she flatters herself to think he’s almost grateful. He half-unfolds it, then seems to remember that he can’t blow his nose, but raises it anyway —
“Hhuhh’dzzchiuhh! … Mammà Maria e tutti i santi,” Cesare mutters thickly, giving two long, liquid sniffles. The second ends as half a snort that suggests his head is packed tight, and he doesn’t remove the handkerchief. Damn him, it makes Isabetta’s cunt twitch.
“They say della Rovere is marshalling the vote for Borgia,” he says, giving his nose a final wipe and trying to sniffle again.
“He will have sold his support for a high price,” Isabetta murmurs, wishing she’d been informed of this before they came. Wishing she wasn’t hearing it from Cesare, from Cesare in this state. She can see her table in her mind, mentally underscoring della Rovere’s name in the column of enemies. To cross him off would be a victory. “Do you see the man talking to him?”
“The bald one who looks like a bulldog licking piss off a thistle?”
Despite herself, Isabetta almost laughs. “That’s Pietro Araldi. He’s a poisoner, loyal to Borgia.”
Cesare sniffles, hard, and clears his throat. “Do you think he made the rosary?”
“Maybe, but I doubt it. There’s someone else here who will know, though.”
Isabetta tugs Cesare through the crowd, their progress only broken when he stops, wavers, tips his head back like a dog about to scratch his ear, and crashes into her folded handkerchief with another sneeze. It seems to loosen something in his head, allowing him to sniffle loudly, liquidly and at length, trying to recoup all the snot that sneeze expelled. By the grace of God, no one passes comment.
Their destination is a marble alcove. The statue next to it is of a woman and two children cowering in terror, the woman’s hand trying to shield the child that clings to her leg. Niobe and her two remaining sons. Surveying the room from within the alcove is an older woman with the mask of a lioness, her green gamurra trimmed with pearls and threads of gold. Flaxen hair, shot through with wires of grey, runs down her shoulders under a pale green veil. Once, she was the closest thing Isabetta had to an aunt. That was before she realised everyone in Rome, however friendly they seem, can only be trusted the distance of their hand from their purse.
“Lady Bianca, may I present Cesare di Notte. Cesare, Lady Bianca Orsini.”
A faint smile plucks at Bianca’s lips. She sets down her wine glass. “So this is the infamous boy from Naples. I expected something more noticeable.”
“Madonna, I left the peacock plumage at home,” Cesare says, as if he’s anything but a hound plucked off the street. Bowing with a flourish, he kisses her hand — but he’s careful not to let his nose touch her skin, and his hand still has Isabetta’s handkerchief in it. When he straightens, he sniffles, flexes his upper lip and scrunches his nose, but the light is just right so that even behind his mask Isabetta sees the itchy tears in his eyes —
“Hhahhh… huHHhh— hhuHH’nxgt’schhuh!” He tried his best to fight it, then stifle it, but in the end it’s only a bigger production, his broad shoulders shuddering and a curl falling onto his face. Glistening runniness was forced out of both nostrils; Isabetta is momentarily transfixed by the horror discernible beneath Cesare’s mask when he realises he’s going to do it again. “Haehhschhiuh!”
“I stand corrected, that was noticeable,” Bianca says, sipping from Venetian glass. “I bet you would be a sight in feathers.”
Even as he wipes his nose, Cesare grins. “You have no idea, madonna.”
“Lady Bianca hears everything whispered in the city,” Isabetta cuts in, anxious not to let either of them get in their stride. “She’ll know —”
“Haeh’dzzschhh!” Cesare bursts helplessly, crushing Isabetta’s handkerchief against the underside of his nose. He emerges from it with a bleary look still in his eyes.
“She’ll know who sent the rosary,” Isabetta continues, valiantly ignoring how Cesare’s breath wavers as he rubs the tip of his nose with the balled-up cloth, making a wet sound.
“I might.” Bianca’s gaze is clearly fixed on Cesare, who finally gives up the fight and tips his head back, gasping, gasping, before crashing back into the handkerchief with a forceful Hhh’rrsschhuh! — “But I want something in return.”
Cesare groans; whether because of Bianca’s words or the messiness of that sneeze, Isabetta can’t tell. He tries to pinch his nose and blow it under his mask, but only achieves a wet snort that sounds like it added to the mess. After much thorough wiping, he finally lowers the handkerchief and speaks, voice even thicker: “Of course she does.”
Mother Mary, he deserves to be smacked.
Bianca merely raises an eyebrow and drains her glass. “Isa, my girl, do you remember the Spanish envoy? The one who dances like a drunken bear?”
Isabetta’s stomach does a nasty flip. Of course she knows him. She nods mutely.
“He’s keeping a girl hidden in his villa. I want her name.”
“Why?”
“Because a certain Juan Borgia has been paying for her upkeep, and the walls have heard him complaining that he doesn’t even get to fuck the girl for his pains. She’s a witness to something, not a mistress. I want her free.”
Witness. Borgia. Isabetta wills her insides to calm while she imagines her ledger again. Loath as she is to do anything for Bianca, if Borgia is paying for the girl — if she knows something about him that would blacken his name in the College — it might be worth trying to rescue her. Besides, despite all appearances to the contrary, and despite her own efforts, there is a small, shrivelled thing akin to a heart in Isabetta’s chest. Charity is a virtue, and there is a column in her mental ledger for kindnesses to others. She knows what the ambassador is like. No girl, even under Borgia’s ‘protection’, is safe in his house.
“The price of the girl’s name is the identity of whoever sent the rosary,” Isabetta says carefully. “And we won’t bring her to you.”
Bianca shrugs. “You can keep her if you want. I only want to know what she saw.”
Isabetta glances at Cesare. He seems to be occupied wiping under his nose once more.
“We’ll do it,” she says.
Later, they escape into the gardens. No sooner does his boot crunch on the gravel of the garden path than Cesare undoes the tie of his mask, seeming not to notice when it falls to the ground. A thrill goes through Isabetta at the sight of his nose, red and wet, with two pink trails down to his upper lip. He finally shakes out her handkerchief fully and dives into it, giving a long, gurgling blow. It just keeps going, almost making him stumble, and at some point Isabetta realises he must be enjoying it, utterly ruining her handkerchief. The animal.
“You deserved to be banned,” she hisses.
Cesare just shrugs, folding over the handkerchief and blowing his nose again. The way he holds it makes it obvious how heavy with mess it is. When he lowers it, it’s with several forceful snuffles.
“I don’t do rescue missions,” he says.
Isabetta looks away. “This isn’t a rescue mission. It’s your quid pro quo.”
A strange look passes over Cesare’s face. He looks down, sawing his hand beneath his nose. It leaves a glistening trail.
He shrugs again. “Alright. Tomorrow night, on the new moon. I’ll need time to find some tools. I trust you know the place?”
“I’d rather I didn’t,” Isabetta says bitterly, and doesn’t look back to see him frowning at her as he rubs his nose.
At long last… consider this something of a gift for @sickromancer , who gently chivvied me into finishing (or rather, to my shame, starting) this next instalment of Isabetta and Cesare’s adventures. In which a house is broken into, a secret is discovered, and Isabetta makes an impulsive decision.
It’s a moonless night, lit only by the stars that glint in the firmament like pricks made with a celestial pin. On a rooftop half a mile away from the Villa Medici, on the edge of the Trastevere quarter, Isabetta and Cesare crouch, watching the Spanish envoy’s villa.
In deference to practicality, not to mention disguise, Isabetta is in the garb of a serving lad, her hair wrapped in a crown of braids around her head under a felt cap. Cesare wears his usual shadow-dark blue doublet and cloak. If she had thought he was cold-ridden at the masquerade — even in the semi-darkness, his red nose is unmissable as a beacon, now with twin trails down to his abused cupid’s bow. His voice now has the strained, slightly hoarse edge of someone trying to make himself heard around a sore throat and an immovable wall of congestion. The more constant soundtrack, though, is his perpetual squelching snuffles.
“Two guards at the gate,” he murmurs, peering over the edge and running a hand under his nose. Despite it all, and his disdain for ‘rescue missions’, he seems absurdly game for a night’s gallivanting. “Three patrolling the inner courtyard, and probably more inside. Are you sure about this?”
Isabetta rolls her eyes. “You can’t back out of this now.”
“Not at all. Just wondering whether you’re up for a fight.”
“There won’t be a fight if you do your job properly,” Isabetta growls. “Let’s go.”
They split. Cesare disappears over the edge of the roof, while Isabetta pads to where the roof they’re standing on juts so close to that of the envoy’s villa that she can jump across. It takes her a moment to pluck up the courage to do so; she tells herself it’s because of the drop to the cobbles below. She still gets to the villa’s upper terrace before Cesare.
He arrives panting hard, and holds up a hand for her to wait while he braces himself against the wall with the other. A few coughs defy his attempts to suppress them, setting his nose running. His breath jumps in his chest; Isabetta scowls at him. The last thing they need is to be discovered by an ill-timed sneeze. Yet he seems unwilling, or unable, to fight the itch, and to her incredulity she finds herself playing lookout while he smothers one sneeze, then another into his handkerchief —
“Hhheh’tzsschh! Hhihd’zzschhh! Nghhh…” Cesare blows his nose as quietly as he can, which plainly gives him little relief, despite the bubbling sound of snot being emptied into the cloth. Isabetta is furious with the heat that pools in her stomach at that sound. Rubbing his nose through the fabric, Cesare scowls, then shakes his head like a dog with a flea in its ear. “That was cheating.”
“You were just slow, you disgusting brute.”
Cesare cocks his head. “I’ll be slow more often if it gets me scolded by a beautiful woman.”
Those words pin Isabetta in place momentarily. She wants to smack him for them.
“Just get on with it.”
“As you wish, madonna.” Clearing his throat, Cesare sidles up to a window. With a constant stream of soft snuffles, he jams a pry bar down the side of the casement and levers it until the latch breaks off. He holds the window open for her ironically. “Satisfied?”
She doesn’t deign to answer him, slipping inside instead. The villa’s upper floor is dark and cool, painted in the blue-grey shades of night, save where torches flicker further down the corridors. The air smells of old incense and lemon oil — or perhaps that’s just her memory, for her stomach begins to twist in a way that has nothing to do with her arousal. It’s a perverse, grudging comfort to hear Cesare sniffle liquidly, as if aggrieved at his sinuses, beside her. Somewhere below them, a lute plays softly: someone entertaining the envoy, perhaps, or more likely providing musical diversion for a different kind of entertainment.
They move silently down the corridor, until —
Isabetta stops, lifting a hand.
“Did you hear that?”
“What?” Cesare hisses. “My head’s so fucking full, my hearing’s gone dull.”
It comes again: a faint sound that could be a sob.
“In here.” Isabetta turns left, following the sound to a heavy wooden door. Cesare arrives at her shoulder and frowns at it. “Can you pick the lock?”
“Give me a—” he whirls away from her all of a sudden, shuddering into his handkerchief with a sneeze that probably would’ve resounded off the walls if he wasn’t trying so hard to stifle it. The effort means he’s powerless to resist the coughs that tear through him in its wake. Isabetta is taut, straining to hear if they’ve given themselves away — and not focus on the way Cesare’s big, powerful body shudders as he tries to suppress the coughs.
Eventually he manages to get himself under control, albeit with his cheeks slightly flushed. There’s no sound that indicates their discovery. Isabetta exhales, while Cesare kneels next to the door and pulls a set of picks from his boot. He presses his ear to the door, cursing under his breath and jiggling the picks in the keyhole. Isabetta is almost about to tell him to give them to her when he hauls himself to his feet and opens the door.
Holy God. The room has shoddily been converted into a prison cell, with bars on the window and a chain wrapped around one leg of the heavy oak bed. Its other end is clamped to the ankle of a girl of perhaps fifteen. She has flaxen hair and a round, sweet face — or it would’ve been sweet, if she didn’t have two black eyes, a badly split lip, and blood encrusted around her nostrils. There are other bruises on her bare arms. Whoever is keeping her hasn’t bothered to provide her with more than a bloodstained shift.
Cesare swears fiercely. The girl’s eyes widen, and she crawls back on the bed, drawing her knees up to her chest.
“Are you devils?” she whispers.
“No, child.” Isabetta finds herself speaking as if in a daze, until she finally manages to uproot herself from the spot and go to the girl, gently touching her shoulder. It makes her squeak. “Shh, it’s alright. We’ve come to free you.”
Cesare kneels by the side of the bed.
“Give me your ankle, and I’ll get that shackle off.” His voice is as gentle as Isabetta has ever heard it.
The girl looks up at Isabetta with wide, terrified eyes.
A sudden thought: Isabetta removes her cap, so her braids are plain to see. “It’s alright. You can trust me, and I — I trust him. You’re in safe hands.”
With a trembling nod, the girl offers her ankle to Cesare. He gets to work with the picks. The angle makes his nose run onto his parted lips, but he seems too absorbed to notice. It’s Isabetta who notices his red, raw nostrils quivering —
“Hhuhhd’zssscjhuhh! Uhhh…” He sneezes, forcefully and totally uncovered, into his shoulder. Isabetta can’t see his face, but she could hear how messy it was. The girl yelps and pulls her foot away.
“It’s alright,” Cesare says thickly, pulling his handkerchief out of his sleeve, briefly inspecting it for a dry spot and, on finding none, mopping his nose with it anyway. He dares a quick, one-handed blow, and suddenly he looks utterly wrung-out. “I just have a beast of a cold, don’t mind me. That beautiful witch over there likes to work me into the ground.”
The second time he’s called her beautiful in a single night, and patently not the time for it.
“Hurry up,” Isabetta snarls at him, and, gentler, to the girl: “The quicker he gets that chain off you, the quicker we can get you to somewhere safe.”
The girl stares dully at Cesare’s hands while he works. “He’s not going to let me go. I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. A cardinal — and a boy. Dead in the river.”
Isabetta freezes. Cesare looks up, and their eyes meet. Lady Bianca hadn’t informed them of this — and it could destroy a member of the College. Perhaps even Borgia himself.
The lock clicks. Chains fall away. Isabetta is thrumming with nervous energy to get the girl somewhere where they can hear her story.
“Come,” she whispers, shrugging off her cloak and wrapping it around the girl. “Let’s leave this place.”
The girl’s eyes widen, looking at something over Isabetta’s shoulder, at the same time as Cesare says, warning, “Isabetta —”
Five guards. The first steps forward, a short-bladed sword gleaming in his hand.
“Step away from the girl,” he orders.
“I told you we’d be in for a fight,” Cesare says cheerfully, drawing his dagger.
--
Fight, they do. Isabetta is relieved that the disparity in numbers is negated somewhat by the fact that the guards’ swords are unwieldy in the tight space. You’d expect a big bulldog of a man like Cesare to be just as useless, but that would be a big bulldog of a man who didn’t spend his life getting into scraps in back alleys. He slams a guard into the wall with his shoulder, keeping him pinned there long enough to stab him thrice in the stomach, then wheels around for a high parry of another’s thrust. Isabetta has one arm wrapped tightly around the girl, the other fending off short swords. She kicks a guard in the groin, narrowly avoiding getting her foot slashed, and notices Cesare has made a gap.
They pelt through it. In the corridor, Isabetta seizes the girl’s hand and pulls her towards the servants’ stairwell, heart hammering in her ears. Behind her, a crash that she hopes indicates Cesare has knocked another guard against the wall. Isabetta remembers —
“Left!” she shouts over her shoulder. “The wine cellar leads to a storm drain, if it hasn’t been sealed!”
“If it is?” Cesare’s voice, hoarse and thick, sounds behind her.
“You were the one who wanted a fight!”
The wine cellar is dark and rank, filled with dusty barrels. Isabetta almost chokes on the stale air. Her heart is still skittering, and the memories —
Cesare bulls over to the rusted grate at the far end of the cellar. He yanks it open with both hands; the hinges scream vengefully. The girl flinches, trying to cover her ears.
“No time for stopping!” Isabetta barks, and shoves her into the tunnel behind Cesare.
They crawl through the damp stone tunnels, half-blind, soaked in filth and sweat. The sounds of Cesare snorting and coughing resound against the arched roof; at one point they both pile into him when he stops to sneeze. There’s no time for him to blow his nose, and by the resultant desperate, liquid snuffles, it wasn’t a pretty one — albeit Isabetta is too busy chivvying the girl along to be aroused by it.
At last, they tumble out onto the filthy riverbank. Isabetta sits back on her haunches, gasping. Cesare — Cesare is slumped with his head between his knees, panting and coughing, the kind of deep, convulsive coughs that are fuelled by every breath he tries to take. One hand presses into his temple, as if it hurts; when he lifts his head, his brows are furrowed in pain. Sweat glistens on his forehead in the starlight.
As soon as he gets relief from the coughing, he wipes his wet hands on his hose and fumbles his handkerchief out of his pocket, giving his nose a long, relentless blow. After a certain point, it’s clear he’s too congested to get anything out, despite trying again and again. Or maybe his handkerchief is too sodden to take much more abuse; there’s still wetness glistening on his philtrum when he lifts his head and knuckles at his nose tiredly.
“Haehh’tzsschhuhhh! Ughh, sfaccimma.” He sneezes freely towards the ground, gives a squelching, block sniffle, and just wipes his nose on his cuff, coughing into his sleeve.
Isabetta’s nerves are taut as bowstrings, and it takes her a moment to realise the girl is sat between them, knees drawn up to her chest, silent tears running down her cheeks.
Damn it. Isabetta can feel her own jagged edges: she’s never had siblings, never truly been friends with other girls, and never had need for the kind of softness that would allow her to comfort people. She has to try, at least, so, feeling deeply awkward, she touches the girl’s shoulder.
“What’s your name?”
Hiccupping, the girl looks up at her with wide, bloodshot eyes. Cornflower blue.
“Lia.”
“How did you end up at that villa, Lia?”
The girl’s voice is raw with crying. “I— I worked at the palace kitchens. I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. A man took me to the envoy; they said— they said I had to disappear.”
Cesare met Isabetta’s eyes, and shuffled closer, as carefully as he would approach a beaten dog.
“Do you remember what you saw, dolcezza?” he murmurs. His voice is beginning to sound like he swallowed broken glass.
Lia nods. “Two men. One was a cardinal. The other was young. They were arguing by the river. I was on my way back from the baker’s, hiding from the guards so they wouldn’t punish me for wandering.”
She swallows, looking down at her own bare feet, now scraped and bloody from running. “The cardinal pushed the boy. He fell and hit his head on the stones. The cardinal looked around, then shoved him into the river. I think… the boy was his lover.”
Cesare sits back.
“Hhih’dzzsschhuh!” The sneeze is wrenching, but it does little to diminish the sudden glint in his eyes. “Well, madonna…”
“If Juan Borgia was paying for Lia’s upkeep, the cardinal in question must be one of his father’s supporters. Or perhaps someone he wants to support him, and is trying to win over.” Isabetta’s brain is running like a turnspit dog. “With this information, we could destroy a campaign. Or crown a Pope.”
“Only if we keep Lia safe long enough to testify,” Cesare says. He hauls himself to his feet, weariness inscribed in the movement, and holds out a hand to the girl.
—
They take Lia to the old convent on the Aventine Hill, where Isabetta’s mother is abbess. Sister Maria Domenica listens to Isabetta’s instructions, then hustles Lia down the cloister to a bath, a hot meal, and a bed she won’t be chained to. Isabetta takes the opportunity to change into the spare set of clothes Sister Maria Domenica keeps for her for just these occasions, for it wouldn’t to be seen gadding about in a doublet in daylight.
She returns to the cloister. Dawn is stretching over the eastern sky; the city is cast in grey light. Isabetta leans against the cool stone wall and takes stock of herself. Her heart is still hammering. Her skin feels like little bolts of static are skittering across it. Thoughts and memories chase each other’s tails in her head: they have what they need to damage Borgia’s campaign. Possibly to target della Rovere. Everything scrawled in her mental ledger. They did — a good thing tonight. Something that will, perhaps, be inscribed in a more heavenly ledger. That poor girl. She was the same age as Isabetta had been when —
That had only been a party gone wrong, she tells herself, as if it means anything. Her hands are shaking. She clenches them into fists.
The sound of a gurgling, hopelessly congested nose-blow jolts her out of her thoughts.
Cesare.
In truth, she’s surprised he’s still on his feet. He does look like he could fall asleep on them. His big, dark eyes are heavy-lidded, and for the first time she notices how long and fine his eyelashes are. There’s a sweaty flush on his cheeks. Grinding his nose into his wrist, he snuffles, then runs a hand over his face, pressing down on his sinuses with a pained sigh.
The stupid, infuriating lug. Isabetta is forced to admit that he did prove useful tonight. She despises gratitude. Her skin is still tingling.
He called her beautiful twice, because he is a terrible fiend.
“Cesare—” she says, and only realises what she’s asking once the word has left her mouth.
He cocks his head. A faint, weary smile plays at his lips.
To her intense, humiliating gratitude, she doesn’t have to speak again. He drops to his knees in front of her, pushing her more securely against the cloister wall — the cloister wall, she must be deranged — and lifting her skirts.
“Are you sure?” she gasps out suddenly.
He glances up, putting a finger to his lips, and despite it all there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. Damn him. He will be damned for this, and may devils pinch his skin with red-hot pincers.
Isabetta allows her legs to be pushed apart. Cesare’s hot breath puffs on her thigh; her skin prickles more with each thick snuffle. She can’t help but make a noise aggravatingly close to a whimper when his sizable, cold-ridden nose bumps against her folds.
The cloister wall. The convent. Hating her recklessness, Isabetta puts one hand over mouth — but the other has to grab a window ledge for support as Cesare nudges her legs further apart and starts licking her cunt. Little gasps, sighs and snuffles are constant, but his attentions are no less constant, and every time his tongue goes down her folds his nose nudges against her clit; the sensation is as if someone had touched a firebrand to the bundle of nerve endings.
She hears him snuffle again, and his gasps turn airy —
“Hhuhh- hhihh— madonahhH— snff! — please —”
Even if it means betraying herself, she absolutely cannot countenance him withdrawing.
“Just keep going!” she hisses, muffled by her hand.
Her thighs jerk desperately when Cesare presses his nose into her thigh and rubs with reckless abandon. It leaves a warm, wet trail, and it’s doing absolutely nothing to relieve the itch, judging by the way his nostrils keep flaring.
“Oh fuck — Hhuh’dzscjhhh!” he bursts, helplessly spraying her thigh. Isabetta squeaks against her hand. Some distant part of her brain says she’s going to fall over if he keeps this up. Certainly the muscles in her legs are trembling. She hears his groan become another hitching inhale and has just enough time to curse in her head before — “Hheuhh-Hheuh’djjsschh! Hhihp’tssscjchh!”
Cesare freezes in place, panting. Isabetta doesn’t dare imagine what she’d see if she lifted her skirts — or what one of the sisters would see if they happened to walk this way. She hopes fervently that they’re all in chapel for Matins. Certainly there’s no reasonable explanation for why she has a man under her skirt, sucking in long, gurgling sniffles. His head leans against her thigh while he coughs a bit.
“Hhuhh’dzsschhuh!” He sounds miserable, and the sneeze gave him absolutely no warning. Isabetta’s head is spinning. Her skin feels like it’s on fire; hellfire, perhaps. Cesare returns to licking her, this time focused on licking and sucking her clit, and she can tell by the sudden cool wetness that he hadn’t even bothered to mitigate the mess of that sneeze.
She’s teetering on the edge, gripping the windowsill as if trying to choke the life from it. A hot, stuffy groan against her cunt, and then he just sneezes, spraying right across her folds —
It is perhaps embarrassing to come when his mouth isn’t even on her. She should certainly apologise for the way her legs clench, holding him in place, while she bites her hand and tries not to make a noise while fireworks burst behind her eyes.
“Oh…” Isabetta sighs, releasing Cesare and pushing away from the wall a bit. Her legs feel like jelly, but they manage to hold her upright.
That was… ill-advised. A loss of self-control she wouldn’t usually countenance. Now that it’s over, and her thighs are sticky with her own wetness — not to mention his snot — she’s annoyed with herself. Allowing her emotions to get the better of her to the point where she lets Cesare di Notte under her skirts is an indulgence she cannot afford. It’ll only make her weaker.
Cesare himself emerges slowly. He looks as if someone has smacked him out of his senses, and his nose is streaming. He coughs into his fist, pressing the heel of his other hand into his eye as if a headache is pounding behind it. Once he’s dragged himself to his feet, he pulls his crumpled, sorry-looking handkerchief from his sleeve and wipes his nose into it. It’s clear he’d love to blow, but the fabric is already saturated beyond use.
“I hope madonna is satisfied,” he says, going for arch, but by now his voice sounds painful and tired. Clearing his throat, he looks at her through soft, heavy eyes.
Madonna is livid — with herself for being so weak, and him for being so impertinent — but even she can’t find it in herself to snap at him.
For the second time in as many days, she finds herself holding out her handkerchief.
“Take this. Get a few hours’ rest, if you can. I’ll see if I can ascertain which cardinal Lia saw, and tell my father.”
Oh and another bad cold thing I've been thinking about (again) is someone soundlessly pinch stifling sneeze after sneeze into a handkerchief that's wet enough to be somewhat translucent. This is a historical setting thing btw. Possibly while sitting in some sort of a salon, trying to make themself as unnoticeable to others as they can. Not only do they have this entirely bleary congested look, but their cheeks have a deepening flush, like not picturesque little touches of blush but they look like their whole cheek would be warm to touch if cupped.
I've been thinking a lot recently of someone with a bad cold, and while one side of their nose is stuffed up in that entirely immobile way, the other is streaming, and them constantly sniffling back the leak to keep their nose from running down their face causes a weird pressure imbalance in their sinuses which makes their eyes water.
And of course, the sides get repeatedly switched through the day.
something about a polite "you'll excuse me", a phrase somewhere closer to a demand than a plea, followed by a sneeze so desperate that it's somewhat closer to a demand in and of itself~
