curlyq9393's drabble thread!

[curlyq9393]

Hi friends! Here's a new drabble; it's X-Files (what else is new tbh) and it's all feelsy because it takes place during the revival because I categorically refuse to believe that Mulder and Scully would stay broken up.

#47: Wary

Fandom/Original: The X-Files

Characters: Dana Scully, Fox Mulder

Pairings: This drabble takes place during the revival, so they’re learning their way back to each other (I CATEGORICALLY REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT THEY’RE GOING TO STAY BROKEN UP. CHRIS CARTER IS EVIL.)

Fetish: Scully, cold

They are careful around each other now; they are wary in a way they’ve never had to be before.

The new, fragile atmosphere of the basement office stems mostly from Scully, and Mulder can’t say he blames her. He’s aware (painfully, painfully aware) that everyone in her life—her mother, Monica, her brothers, other various friends and acquaintances—have all adamantly and very vocally expressed variations of the same opinion: that she is out of her mind to work with Mulder again. The only person who thinks it’s perhaps a good idea is Scully’s therapist, Kate, who told Scully that it might offer some sort of closure. Bless her.

Mulder knows that he doesn’t deserve this second chance, but he’s getting it, and for that he will be eternally grateful. They’re back in the basement. They’re hunting monsters. The poster is up. They are shining some light into the darkness. For now, it’s enough.

One morning, just as he’s walking into work, his phone dings. It’s a text from Scully (he has her in his contacts with a little alien emoji next to her name, which he hasn’t told her because he knows she would tease him shamelessly).

Not coming in today, it reads, in its entirety.

Mulder frowns, worry instantly blooming in the pit of his stomach. He’s getting ready to send an answer back, ask if she’s okay, when there’s another ding—

I’m fine, Mulder. Don’t worry.

He smiles a little, but the worry doesn’t go away, not really. You a mind reader, Scully? he texts.

Just a Mulder reader.

You’re really okay?

The phone doesn’t ding for a while after he sends that one, not until he’s all the way down at his desk, booting up his computer. He’s wondering if he somehow crossed one of those weird invisible boundaries Scully has erected as of late, or if something is more wrong than he thought, but all the text says is: I have a cold.

It's that bad?

She sends a little skull and crossbones emoji, which makes Mulder laugh out loud. But he’s lonely already, feeling lost and unmoored at the prospect of spending the day without her next to him. Which is maybe a bit ridiculous, seeing as he spent years without her next to him. That’s exactly it, though: they were apart for so, so long, and he ached with wanting for her, in some ways still aches for her, will probably always ache for her.

This is precisely why Mulder finds himself standing at her apartment door at the end of the day, with one bag that’s full of tissues and Vapo-Rub and cough drops and tea and Sudafed; the other bag holds four big containers of egg drop soup, Scully’s favorite when she’s unwell.

It takes her a minute to come to the door, and Mulder—as always—is struck by just how lovely she is. Her nose is so red he almost winces, and her freckled cheeks are flushed in the way they always get when she’s sick, but other than that—she is radiant. She’s wearing a soft, dark blue sweater that darkens her eyes, makes them stormy and wild; grey yoga pants that hug her hips, her thighs. Her hair is loose, tumbling like a reddish-gold waterfall down her back. Mulder is hopelessly and utterly smitten.

Her eyes go wide with surprise at the sight of him on her doorstep, and Mulder—suddenly too nervous to cope, as if he’s never seen her like this before, as if they don’t already know each other inside out and back again—awkwardly shoves his bags towards her. “I don’t have to stay,” he says. “I just thought…since you’re sick—you might need…yeah.” She goes to take the bags from his hands, but then she pauses, a hand fluttering up underneath her nose. "N'gxSHHt-ew! Hiht'ngkSCHHiO! Hih'ETschhhiEO!!"

"Bless you!"

She nods her thanks, hefting the bags into her arms, smiling that mysterious, closed-lip, Mona Lisa half-smile that drove him half insane in their earliest years together. “Thank-you,” she says, her voice a little rough, then she pauses, and Mulder realizes she’s just as nervous as he is. “You can—”

“I don’t need to—”

“But if you want—?”

“What do you want—?”

“I don’t…?”

“Know?”

Scully laughs. “Exactly.”

Mulder briefly weighs his options, considers his chances, and decides to gamble. “We could watch Mystery Science Theater?” he offers.

“No Plan Nine?” Scully asks, with a mock-shudder.

“Nah,” Mulder answers. “I won’t put you through that when you’re already sick.”

Scully opens her door a little wider. “Well,” she says, “it’s a date.”

It’s an open door, it’s soup, it’s bad movies. It’s not enough. But it’s enough.

[lifelove1]

OMG these last two stories are just perfect. Comparatively speaking, it seems like there's so many more Mulder sneezefics out there, so it's unspeakably thrilling that you're writing these! Truly. And the way you've captured their relationship at every stage is spot-on!

I honestly am extremely excited but a smidge apprehensive about the series reboot - thinking of Mulder and Scully in 2015 with smartphones is just strange, but then you mentioned the alien emoji and it feels so right

[Sapphire]

I replied to zakandsara's thread too, but thank you so much for these masterpieces of Gillian Anderson fanfiction. I could read these every day for hours. You've actually inspired me to try writing some of my own as soon as I get some time off work. Keep writing! You're brilliant!

[curlyq9393]

Hey y'all! I have an update and it's CHRISTMAS THEMED! Yay! It's pretty sappy and way longer than the average drabble because I get all soft-hearted and sentimental during the holidays. Sue me.

#80: Joy

Fandom/Original: The X-Files

Characters: Dana Scully, Fox Mulder

Pairings: this takes place during the era of The Unremarkable House, so the msr is very, very, very real, friends

Fetish: Scully, cold

“Hiya, Rudolph. Enjoy your long winter’s nap?”

Scully scowled at Mulder from behind her bouquet of tissues. “Don’t tease me,” she croaked. “I’m dying.”

Mulder pouted at her from over his shoulder as he placed a few last minute ornaments on their tree. “That’s going to tip over if you add too much more to it,” Scully said, then flopped down onto their squashy thrift store sofa and noisily blew her nose.

“I think it looks festive,” Mulder defended himself, appraising the tree, which, if he was being honest, was a bit over-decorated. Really, the whole house, new to them still, was a bit over-decorated. Mulder, in true Mulder fashion, had gotten carried away with the task at hand, and had taken Scully’s request for “some garlands, a couple of poinsettias, a pretty tree, nothing fancy” and turned it into “New York City Macy’s at the height of the holiday season.”

Scully loved it.

Their track record for good Christmases wasn’t exactly stellar, and she’d spent most of December quietly getting increasingly excited as she’d pondered the notion of having a true happy Christmas with Mulder—no dead children or dead fathers, no ghosts, no haunted houses, no racing from town to town under the cover of night, no grief, no demons, no fear. Just the two of them and some wine and a few gifts and the old Frank Sinatra holiday records going on the player Mulder had found at an antique shop.

But then all of the sudden it was Christmas Eve, and Scully what Mulder had deemed The Cold from Hell, and as stupid as it was she felt like bursting into tears at the unfairness of it all.

“N'gxSHHt-ew! Hi'nKgSCHHHiEE!! Heh'EEktSCHHHiiEO!!”

“Bless you!”

Scully said nothing in response, only sniffled and sighed and curled closer into herself on the sofa. She spent a few minutes scooching around and switching from lying on one side to the other; she threw a blanket off, started shivering, and then got back underneath of it. She sighed again, louder this time. “Poor Scully,” Mulder said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head as he walked past the couch.

“Poor me,” Scully echoed weakly, catching a few rattly, congested coughs in her elbow. Mulder, after bustling around in the kitchen for a few minutes, came out carrying two cups of hot coco and to found Scully having abandoned her huddle on the sofa; she was sitting right in front of the Christmas tree, her knees drawn up to her chest, a sad and pensive look on her face. Mulder frowned, then joined her on the floor. “Hey,” he said, edging one of the mugs towards her, bumping his arm against hers.

Scully turned and sneezed a quiet double into her shoulder. “Hi,” she said wanly. She picked up her mug and held it tightly in her hands, then pressed it to her cheek, craving its warmth.

The twinkling lights of the tree were reflected in Scully’s wide, luminous eyes. Mulder took a sip of his coco waited. She’d talk when she wanted to.

His mug was nearly half-empty before she started. “I wanted this to be a nice Christmas,” Scully said, and her voice was wavery in a way that Mulder suspected was unrelated to her cold. “That’s all.”

“It’s still nice, Scully.”

Scully laughed humorlessly. “Oh yeah,” she said, then sneezed, “Hih'kntSHHH! Hih'tnSCHHeOO!! I’m a lot of fun tonight.”

“I think you’re kind of cute when you’re all,” Mulder waved a vague hand at her, “sniffly and pathetic.”

“Really?”

“No, you’re hideous.”

“Ha ha,” Scully deadpanned, finally cracking a genuine smile.

They both took long sips of coco and fell silent for a few long, lovely moments. Scully was beginning to shiver, and Mulder pulled her closer to him; she lay her head on his shoulder and he ran his hands absently through her hair. They didn’t need to talk. They’d been in this exact same spot too many times to count, in too many places to count. It was familiar and it was frightening and it was beautiful and it was theirs.

“Hey,” Mulder said suddenly, “remember the Christmas we had in Arkansas? It was, what, 2003? 2004? And we were staying at that god-awful motel, the one with all the spiders, and it was Christmas but both of us forgot until it was practically midnight anyway—”

“But I went out and managed to find a place that stayed open all night and bought those microwavable potpies,” Scully jumped in, her voice drowsy and contented.

“Right, and the evergreen shaped air freshener—”

“And some paperbacks—”

“A John Grisham, I think, and a Stephen King?—”

“And I gave you the Grisham—”

“And you kept the Stephen King—”

“Then we traded, and I said—”

“‘As long as there’s a gift exchange, it counts,’” Mulder finished, grinning.

Scully, who was no more than about 5% awake, murmured into Mulder’s neck, “You know, it really wasn’t so bad.”

“Nah,” Mulder agreed. “And neither is this.”

Scully sighed contentedly and snuggled even closer to Mulder. “Merry Christmas, Mulder,” she said, congested and sleepy and sweet.

“Merry Christmas, Scully.”

[Sapphire]

Ohhhhh, I adore this entirely, but the banter at the end about Christmas in Arkansas is so perfect, and I heart the phrase "The Cold from Hell."

[Xsneezelover3932]

OMG you're killing me with these amazing x-files stories! So good!!! Totally spot on. I can't get enough. Love that you're featuring Scully as the sneezer as that is my preference to read. Please write more!!! Soon!! ☺

[curlyq9393]

Have y'all seen Carol? If you haven't, please go do it immediately. Basically, it's about two women--Carol Aird (Cate Blanchett), who's older, and Therese Belivet (Rooney Mara), who's younger--who have a chance meeting in a department store where Therese works, and fall in love. They go on this amazing cross country roadtrip and flirt and there's hella gay sex and it's literally the greatest movie I've ever seen in my entire life because WOMEN LOVING OTHER WOMEN, AMIRIGHT????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, these next two drabbles (and a third I'm working on) take place in the Carol universe and do have spoilers, so just be aware of that. Anyway, onwards!

#46: Enraptured

Fandom/Original: Carol (2015 film)

Characters: Carol Aird, Therese Belivet

Pairings: Carol/Therese (or, if you please, Carese, which sounds very close to “caress” *wink emoji*)

Fetish: Carol, cold

It was a quarter to seven when the lock clicked and the door swung open.

Therese looked up from the photos she was developing in the dark room and smiled quietly to herself. Carol was home.

It had been eight months since Therese had left the party; eight months since Elyseè; eight months since she had chosen Carol. Eight months since Carol had chosen her. Sometimes Therese felt as though she were living in some sort of fairytale, that perhaps a witch had placed a spell on her, or that she’d fallen asleep in an enchanted field. That one day, she would open her eyes and she would be back in her old tiny apartment with the squatty icebox and frigidly cold wooden floors. Or, worse even still, back in Waterloo, in the big bed all alone—the fading warmth on the mattress and the faintest whiff of perfume the only reassurances that someone she adored had been lying next to her mere hours ago. Once upon a dream.

But it wasn’t a dream. There was a soft knock on the darkroom door. Therese blinked, covered her smile with an uncertain hand.

“Coming,” she called out quietly.

And there she was.

The corners of Carol’s mouth curved upwards in that mysterious half-smile; one blonde eyebrow quirked just a bit higher than the other. She had already shed her fur coat; she was wearing a soft blue sweater and slacks. Therese had watched her pick her clothes that morning. It was Therese’s favorite sweater of Carol’s; angora, incredibly soft.

“Darling,” Carol said, and opened her arms.

Therese fell into them and for a moment felt very nearly afraid, as she always did; nearly afraid of being granted such a scandalous privilege, the permission to be pressed up against this lovely creature who smelled of coffee and jasmine and cinnamon and furniture polish.

“Hi,” Therese breathed, eyes closed. “I’ve missed you.”

Carol had pressed her face into the top of Therese’s head, and Therese felt her gently teasing laugh. “You’re very silly,” she said, and there was something odd in her voice, Therese vaguely noted, something…throatier. Rougher. Perhaps she’d talked more often than usual throughout the day.

“Therese?”

“Mmmhm?” Therese picked her head off of Carol’s chest. “Sorry. Didn’t catch that.”

Carol rolled her eyes fondly and cupped Therese’s cheek. “I’d no idea,” she said dryly. “I asked you—” but then she stopped, a queer look passing over her face.

Therese knitted her brow, curious and concerned both. “Carol—?” she began, but her question was answered before it was even voiced.

“Hihh'ntchht! Hih'nkxCHH!! Hih'NGshhht!”

“Oh, bless you,” Therese said, half-laughing as Carol sniffled her way back to composure.

Carol pulled a delicate white handkerchief out of the pocket of her trousers and quietly blew her nose, looking slightly unsure as to whether or not she were done. “Thank-you,” she said, and it dawned on Therese that she sounded a bit stuffy, tired even. “I’ve had a bit of a tickle all day. Quite annoying, really.”

Therese pouted and ran her left pointer finger softly down the bridge of Carol’s nose. “Poor thing,” she said to Carol, and then admonished the nose. “You do better.” Carol laughed out loud and finally pulled the handkerchief down to kiss Therese on the mouth, sweet and languid.

“Shall we have some dinner?” Carol asked, absently brushing a lock of hair out of Therese’s face.

Therese flushed with pleasure and fought off the most ridiculous impulse to cry. “Yes,” she said instead. “That sounds heavenly.”

#50: Gentle

Fandom/Original: Carol (2015)

Characters: Carol Aird, Therese Belivet

Pairings: Carol/Therese

Fetish: Carol, cold

The next morning, Therese awoke with the sense that something unusual was happening.

She was awake before Carol, but that wasn’t the unusual thing. She almost always woke before Carol, because Carol loved sleeping late. Really, what she loved was someone making coffee and breakfast for her, though she never really admitted it. But Therese knew, and was more than happy to oblige.

Therese watched the milky late-winter sunlight filter in through the half-open blinds and tried to puzzle out what felt strange. Nothing had been moved. Rindy was due to come later that day, but Therese knew she wasn’t arrived yet. The phone wasn’t ringing. No one was knocking. All was quiet. Not quite satisfied but still not totally sure what she was even searching for, Therese lay back down on Carol’s pillow, snuggling up closer to the sleeping woman and threading her hands through her soft hair as she listened to her breathe.

And after a moment, she sat back up. There it was; the unusual thing. There was something off about Carol’s breath. It was faintly wheezy, as though she were breathing through a sponge lodged somewhere deep inside her chest. Therese frowned; it was not a healthy sound in the slightest. Therese propped herself up on an elbow and gazed down at Carol’s face. It was difficult to judge in the early morning light, but Therese thought she looked paler even than usual, and her nose was faintly pink. “You’re sick,” Therese sighed, lightly tracing a finger down Carol’s cheek.

Carol stirred at the faint touch, which meant she must not have been sleeping very deeply. She sniffled thickly and groaned sleepily; shivering, she pulled the blankets tighter around herself. Her eyes—puffy from sleep and, Therese supposed, illness—blinked slowly open. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Therese murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

Carol drew in a shuddery breath and her eyes closed again; she just managed to bring a hand up to her face before she convulsed with a surprisingly strong, “Heh'IKtschhOO! He'tnSHHHeOO!! HppsuhcCHOO’oo!”

“My goodness, bless you,” Therese said sympathetically, rubbing her thumb against Carol’s temple.

Carol brought the hand back down and sniffled some more, staring confusedly and pathetically at Therese. “I’ve caught the plague,” she croaked, then curled up halfway in Therese’s lap.

“Just a cold, I think,” Therese said softly, running a soothing hand through Carol’s hair. “But it d0es sound like a bad one.”

Carol whined slightly in agreement, then waved vaguely towards the bureau in the corner. Therese raised an eyebrow. “What?” she asked. “What do you need?” Carol mumbled something incoherent and sniffled a bit desperately. “A handkerchief?” Therese prompted, a laugh in her voice, and Carol nodded weakly, still not moving her head from Therese’s thigh.

Therese deftly maneuvered herself out from under the warm, exhausted weight of Carol and walked quickly over to the bureau. “Which drawer?” she asked.

“Top,” Carol said, voice breaking, and then succumbed to a worrisomely violet fit of coughing.

Therese heard the delicate hitch of Carol’s breath and she grabbed the first handkerchief she saw—old, soft, red flannel, possibly even leftover from Harge—and not a moment too soon; Carol grabbed it from Therese and just barely had it unfolded when she snapped forward with a tremulous, “Hah'tngSHHHiiO! Ha'KEtSCHHieOO!!”

“Bless you,” Therese said and absently felt Carol’s forehead for fever. She thought it might be a bit warmer than usual, but she couldn’t be quite sure.

Carol flopped back against her pillows. “Leave me here to languish,” she said, throwing an arm over her eyes.

Therese’s mouth trembled with the impulse to smile. “My, what a drama queen you are,” she said.

Carol huffed a laugh that turned into a small sneeze. “But I’m your drama queen,” she said, voice heavy, already halfway back to sleep.

“Yes,” Therese murmured, caressing Carol’s faintly flushed cheek. “You are mine, indeed.”

[Winged]

GASP, not ONE but TWO Carol drabbles??? What in the world have we done to deserve this beautiful gift, oh lord.

Your writing was beautiful and so matched the tone and feeling of the film, which is magnificent, and I adore how you write these two. I'd love to potentially see Thérese coming down with Carol's cold, since they did kiss? beautiful work friend, thank you much.

[curlyq9393]

Oh my goodness, thank you for the kind words! You're so sweet. I was worried capturing in words the feel and aesthetic of such an elegant film would be hard, but I just finished reading the book, which I think definitely helped. Mostly I just tried to sound as fancy and fifties-ish as humanly possible.

[Bruyere]

I have been waiting to comment on these until I saw the film last night and OH MY HEART. :heart: It's been a while since I cried so much at a film that had a happy ending. (Honestly I could babble about this film all day and I keep thinking about that final shot of Carol and tearing up all over again because Oh My Heart.)

Or, worse even still, back in Waterloo, in the big bed all alone—the fading warmth on the mattress and the faintest whiff of perfume the only reassurances that someone she adored had been lying next to her mere hours ago. Once upon a dream.

The corners of Carol’s mouth curved upwards in that mysterious half-smile; one blonde eyebrow quirked just a bit higher than the other. She had already shed her fur coat; she was wearing a soft blue sweater and slacks. Therese had watched her pick her clothes that morning. It was Therese’s favorite sweater of Carol’s; angora, incredibly soft.
“Darling,” Carol said, and opened her arms.
Therese fell into them and for a moment felt very nearly afraid, as she always did; nearly afraid of being granted such a scandalous privilege, the permission to be pressed up against this lovely creature who smelled of coffee and jasmine and cinnamon and furniture polish.
“Hi,” Therese breathed, eyes closed. “I’ve missed you.”

Oh, you write these two beautifully. And I know you said you were worried about capturing the feel of the film but I think you do it perfectly here. The little details of Carol's wardrobe and her perfume and Therese's hesitation were just perfect.

Carol pulled a delicate white handkerchief out of the pocket of her trousers and quietly blew her nose, looking slightly unsure as to whether or not she were done. “Thank-you,” she said, and it dawned on Therese that she sounded a bit stuffy, tired even. “I’ve had a bit of a tickle all day. Quite annoying, really.”
Therese pouted and ran her left pointer finger softly down the bridge of Carol’s nose. “Poor thing,” she said to Carol, and then admonished the nose. “You do better.” Carol laughed out loud and finally pulled the handkerchief down to kiss Therese on the mouth, sweet and languid.

So cute. And I love the idea of Carol looking unsure about anything but especially sneezing. And Therese is so sweet and playful here.

It was difficult to judge in the early morning light, but Therese thought she looked paler even than usual, and her nose was faintly pink. “You’re sick,” Therese sighed, lightly tracing a finger down Carol’s cheek.
Carol stirred at the faint touch, which meant she must not have been sleeping very deeply. She sniffled thickly and groaned sleepily; shivering, she pulled the blankets tighter around herself. Her eyes—puffy from sleep and, Therese supposed, illness—blinked slowly open. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” Therese murmured. “Go back to sleep.”

Siiiiiiiiiiiiigh. This is exactly the sort of thing I love in fic. I might live here forever.

Carol flopped back against her pillows. “Leave me here to languish,” she said, throwing an arm over her eyes.
Therese’s mouth trembled with the impulse to smile. “My, what a drama queen you are,” she said.
Carol huffed a laugh that turned into a small sneeze. “But I’m your drama queen,” she said, voice heavy, already halfway back to sleep.
“Yes,” Therese murmured, caressing Carol’s faintly flushed cheek. “You are mine, indeed.”

And then I died and was dead. Seriously, these were both (two, two Carol drabbles! what did we ever do to deserve this?!) so, so good.

Also on an unrelated to this but still slightly relevant and on topic note: I finally got round to watching The Fall as a result of your drabbles! Such a good and creepy show. Totally worth it for Gillian Anderson and Archie Panjabi's gorgeousness though.

[Evilduckling108]

Carol drabbles?! I cannot believe you wrote Carol drabbles this is amazing!! That movie has skyrocketed to the top of my favorites list. I can't remember the last time a movie with a happy ending made me cry like that and I honestly didn't expect anyone on here to write it, so this is such a nice surprise! You did such a lovely job matching the tone and I am just absolutely in love with these! And your X-files/The Fall drabbles are awesome as well. I'm a new X-files convert and I haven't quite gotten around to watching The Fall yet, but I'm here for anything Gillian Anderson, you know? Can't wait to read anything else you write!

[PropertyofCora]

I feel like every amazing holiday has converged all at once to give me this beautiful gift of finding TWO Carol drabbles. I haven't even read them yet but I already know they're amazing. I'm trying to prepare myself by letting you know I love that you wrote them before I'm rendered incoherent. Carol is my all time favorite everything.

[Sneezy123]

You're a phenomenal writer! Please, please, please, write more Marvel drabbles! Be it Clint and Pietro, or more Tony or Steve! I need more because it's giving me life and I am going to cry. <3

[Xsneezelover3932]

I am dying for more X-Files drabbles, pretty please?!? 

[curlyq9393]

Update time! It's some The Fall goodness (yay!) because, y'know, Gillian freakin' Anderson. The first one is rated T for some mild sexual references. Also: Reed's daughters are named Soni and Diana; Soni is the oldest at eight, and Diana is six. Also also, I'm apparently incapable of being concise and writing *actual* drabbles but I do what I want, yo.

#21: Pollen

Fandom/Original: The Fall

Characters: Stella Gibson, Soni Smith, Diana Smith

Pairings: implied Stella/Reed
Fetish: Stella, allergies

 

So this is what she gets for trying to be a good person.

Sweet-talked by Reed into babysitting Soni and Diana for the afternoon, Stella was further sweet-talked by the girls themselves into a brief tea time excursion to the park. “Please, Stella,” they’d cooed, blinking enormous, long-lashed brown eyes. “Pretty please! It’s ever so lovely outside and it’s never this nice in Belfast. Please say you’ll take us, Stella, please please please!”

Ordinarily, Stella was able to remain detached in life as she did in her work, but who, save a literal witch, could say no to such a request, to those eyes? Soni and Diana of course had their mother’s eyes, which didn’t help. And it really was gorgeous out--warm and sunny and breezy, a rarity in chilly Belfast. On an average day here, a certain line of Dickinson played on loop through Stella’s mind: the sky is low, the clouds are mean.

About 15 minutes after arriving, though, Stella’s nose and eyes started to become ominously itchy and drippy. She’d blinked and sniffled and tried to grin and bear it for the girls’ sake, but it’s been a half-hour and she can no longer ignore what’s threatening to become an all-out hayfever attack.

Stella has a rapidly disintegrating tissue clasped to her nose and is trying as hard as she can, under the circumstances, to teach Diana how to swing properly on her own. “You pump your legs,” she says, turning to stifle a trio of tickly sneezes {“Hih’KNtsCHHiiiEO! Hiht’ngkSCHuoo! Ngx’tchoo!!”} into her shoulder. “Push them backwards and then forwards, to provide yourself with momentum.”

“What’s momentum?” Soni yells from her perch atop the playscape.

“The motion of a moving body,” Stella says, blowing her nose and dabbing daintily at her eyes, “as measured by mass times velocity.”

“What’s mass?”

“How much of you there is.”

“What’s velocity?”

“The speed of something moving in a given direction.”

“So what’s the difference between momentum and velocity--?”

“I can’t do it,” Diana cries, and tries to drag her feet along the ground to stop herself but finds that her legs are a few inches too short. “I’m always too little.” Stella grabs one of the chains with her tissue-free hand and slowly edges the swing to a stop.

Diana tumbles clumsily out of the swing’s seat and stomps over to the far edge of the playground. She sits down in the mulch with a huffy sigh, and Stella tries not to think of how dirty she’ll be when Reed gets home from the hospital. That’s a problem for later (and, Stella selfishly thinks, for Reed). Her breath hitches in her throat, and she catches another volley of sneezes-- “N’gxSHHt-ew! Hi’nKSchhhhtEW!! Hi’nKgSCHiiee!!!”-- into her now totally wasted tissue. They don’t make her feel any better; if anything, she feels even worse, all flustered and shivery. Her head is stuffed up, her nose is embarrassingly pink, and she’s uncharacteristically tired for 4pm. Really, all she wants to do is stomp her feet and cross her arms and demand that she be given tea and some antihistamines and perhaps even a good cuddle, but that’s not a possibility at the moment, and of all stupid things it’s making her want to throw a complete tantrum. She swipes at her teary eyes, which she knows are beginning to become swollen. It’s quite tiresome, really.

She goes over to Diana all the same, though, because she knows it’s what Reed would want and--really--she did volunteer for this, albeit in a state of warm post-coital bliss. Reed knew exactly how to persuade her to do almost anything by now.

Stella kneels to join Diana in the mulch and tries to pretend that she’s not getting a £380 silk skirt covered in playground grime. There are more important matters at hand, but she does so love Prada. She places a tentative hand on Diana’s back, and in response, Diana rests her head on Stella’s shoulder. Stella starts slightly and very nearly pulls away on instinct, but then cautiously relaxes into it.

“I’m sorry you’re upset,” Stella says, her voice congested and a bit over-formal.

Diana shrugs a single shoulder, a gesture that’s oddly grown-up and out-of-place on her six-year-old form. “I’ll get over it,” she sighs mournfully, and Stella bites back a laugh.

And then she sneezes. "Hm'ngXtch!"

And again. “Hi'KtESCHHiiEO!!!”

And some more after that. “Hehhh...he’EEshtchhhOO!!! Hih'EYtsCHHHeOO!!”

Worry clouds Diana’s round face. “Stella, are you ill?”

“No, Diana, I’m not.” She sniffles, promptly undermining her argument.

Diana opens her mouth to speak again, but before she can Stella hears another sweet high voice from behind them. “Are you getting sick, Stella? Because I’ve got tissues in my purse, see?” Soni indeed pulls a little rectangle of tissues out of her orchid-colored handbag, onto which she appears to have affixed a few clovers with scotch tape. Another problem for Reed.

“I’m not,” Stella repeats, but reaches for the tissues anyway.

“Suuuuure,” Soni whispers, and crouches down beside them. When she sees her sister’s tear-streaked face, it is she, not Stella, who thinks to take out one of the tissues and dab the younger girl’s cheeks dry. Stella immediately feels guilty.

“Hey girls, I’ve an idea: how about ice creams on our way back home?”

They jump up, elated, and suddenly they can’t wait to leave the park. For someone who regularly plays mind games with serial killers, the immediate and absolute efficacy of her little scheme is making Stella a bit too pleased.

Stuffing a couple of Soni’s tissues into her coat pocket and handing the pack back, Stella takes a deep breath. Then she sniffles resolutely, boldly grabs both girls by their hands, and marches them out onto the street in the direction of the nearest ice cream parlor.

 

#13: Care

Fandom/Original: The Fall

Characters: Stella Gibson, Soni Smith, Diana Smith, Reed Smith

Pairings: Stella/Reed

Fetish: Stella, allergies

 

“I’m home!”

Reed drops her keys into the fish-shaped ceramic bowl and kicks off her shoes. The house is oddly quiet--no high pitched children’s pop music is blaring, no stampeding feet, no cartoons on the television. Reed’s brow furrows. Her girls aren’t whirling dervishes, of course, but they’re also never this...well...quiet.

“I’m home!” she tries again, rounding the corner towards the family room. “Girls--!”

“Shhhhhhhhhh!”

The hushing admonishment comes from somewhere around the middle of Reed’s abdomen. She looks down. Diana is standing in front of her, hands planted on her small hips, glaring up at Reed. “Excuse me,” she says bossily, “you need to be quiet.”

Reed raises her eyebrows. “I need to be quiet? In my home? That I own?” she asks, though the sarcasm is largely lost on her earnest younger child.

“Yes, you do,” Diana says firmly. “Stella is sleeping.”

Reed’s eyebrows go up even higher. “She’s sleeping? Whatever for? Is she ill?”

“I’m not ill.”

Reed frowns at the sound of Stella’s voice, hoarse and terribly congested and sniffly. She rushes into the family room proper, where she finds Stella lying prone on the couch, a damp washrag covering her eyes. Soni hovers near her, looking hilariously doctorly and purposeful.

“Hello, Mummy,” Soni says briskly. “Stella took us to the park but she has dreadful hayfever. Did you know that? We didn’t. I didn’t count all of her sneezes at the park but I did count fifteen of them and she’s sneezed sixteen times since we got home and she was a bit wheezy for a while and her eyes were all red and swelled up but I got her a cool washcloth and lots and lots and lots of tissues and she seems to be better but she’s still blowing her nose all the time and sneezing some and it’s definitely not good but I’m taking excellent care of her.” She announces all of this in a single breath.

Reed pouts down at her Stella, rumpled and red-nosed. “Poor thing,” she sighs. “You’re all stuffed up.”

Stella clears her throat and props herself up a bit. She takes the washrag off her eyes, which are indeed awfully swollen and red. “Stuffed up,” she confirms, “among other things.” As if to punctuate this point, she sneezes.

“Oh, your clothes probably still have pollen all over them,” Reed fusses, helping Stella up from the couch and leading her towards the stairs with a hand on the small of her back. “Go upstairs and take a lovely long shower; you can borrow pajamas from me, yes? I’ll get the girls settled with a movie and be up in just a bit.”

And Stella--Stella Gibson, who often gives instructions but never takes them, who regularly bosses but is never bossed--for once in her life does exactly as she’s told.

[zakandsara]

I love almost nothing in this world as much as I love when you write Stella and Reed. I want one million more just like this, plz.  You're amazing! 

[queenie]

Well, okay then, I guess I'll just... set up camp here.

[Xsneezelover3932]

Loved these!!! Loved the 'dreadful hayfever' bit. Your drabbles never disappoint! Keep them coming please!

[Sapphire]

Sorry for bumping your thread, but I have to express my gratitude for your updates. Thank you, thank you, thank you!! 

[curlyq9393]

Just something short and sweet on a warm afternoon!

#3: Frightened

Fandom/Original: The Fall

Characters: Stella Gibson, Reed Smith

Pairings: Stella/Reed

 

"Stella, are you alright?"

"I...no," Stella's breath hitched irrepressibly again, effectively cutting her sentence short. She pressed a hand beneath her nose and held her breath, then took it down a moment later with a frustrated sigh. She sniffled.

"Ah," Reed nodded wisely. "You need to sneeze."

Stella nodded quickly, uncharacteristically frazzled.

"Well, lucky for you, I'm a doctor. I know just the thing," Reed winked. "Come along." She took Stella by the hand and led her out of the office, presumably towards the break room. Stella was too distracted by her watery eyes, twitching nose, and uneven breaths to truly wonder about where she was being taken. Besides, she trusted Reed.

That is, right up until Reed scared the absolute shit out of her.

"BOO!" Reed cried, suddenly turning to face Stella.

"Heh'EHktsp--chhhiuOOOO! The force of the long-awaited for sneeze nearly knocked the ordinarily composed blonde off her feet, and she teetered backwards in her high heels. Reed caught her just in time and braced her against the wall of the hallway before she could fall.

"Bless you," Reed murmured, biting her lip much the she had in the bar that night at the HIlton.

"Thank-you," Stella stage-whispered into the shell of Reed's ear, before brushing past her and back down the hall, leaving a trail of spiced jasmine perfume in her wake.

[Xsneezelover3932]

On July 8, 2016 at 2:18 PM, curlyq9393 said:

Just something short and sweet on a warm afternoon!

#3: Frightened

Fandom/Original: The Fall

Characters: Stella Gibson, Reed Smith

Pairings: Stella/Reed

 

"Stella, are you alright?"

"I...no," Stella's breath hitched irrepressibly again, effectively cutting her sentence short. She pressed a hand beneath her nose and held her breath, then took it down a moment later with a frustrated sigh. She sniffled.

"Ah," Reed nodded wisely. "You need to sneeze."

Stella nodded quickly, uncharacteristically frazzled.

"Well, lucky for you, I'm a doctor. I know just the thing," Reed winked. "Come along." She took Stella by the hand and led her out of the office, presumably towards the break room. Stella was too distracted by her watery eyes, twitching nose, and uneven breaths to truly wonder about where she was being taken. Besides, she trusted Reed.

That is, right up until Reed scared the absolute shit out of her.

"BOO!" Reed cried, suddenly turning to face Stella.

"Heh'EHktsp--chhhiuOOOO! The force of the long-awaited for sneeze nearly knocked the ordinarily composed blonde off her feet, and she teetered backwards in her high heels. Reed caught her just in time and braced her against the wall of the hallway before she could fall.

"Bless you," Reed murmured, biting her lip much the she had in the bar that night at the HIlton.

"Thank-you," Stella stage-whispered into the shell of Reed's ear, before brushing past her and back down the hall, leaving a trail of spiced jasmine perfume in her wake.

?? Ahh, I finally remembered to check this and yay, an amazing update!!!  That was awesome! And unexpected! I didn't expect Reed to scare the sneeze out of her, but that was great!! Thanks for the update!!

[Sapphire]

So many lovely parts to this last update: 

--scaring the sneeze out is such a cool, creative scenario 

--the spelling of the sneeze is great; I totally imagine what it would sound like

--the detail of Stella being rocked by the sneeze and Reed's having to brace her against the wall-- beautiful to envision

-- Reed's shattered ear drum is very cute 

and on a side note, I want some jasmine perfume now

[zakandsara]

I can't believe we get to live in a world where you continue to write these. Obsessed obsessed obsessed with your update (and also everything before and everything you've ever done.) Thanks a million. You're a real gem. 

[Bruyere]

On 7/8/2016 at 7:18 PM, curlyq9393 said:

The force of the long-awaited for sneeze nearly knocked the ordinarily composed blonde off her feet, and she teetered backwards in her high heels. Reed caught her just in time and braced her against the wall of the hallway before she could fall.

"Bless you," Reed murmured, biting her lip much the she had in the bar that night at the HIlton.

I love Stella almost being totally unbalanced by her sneeze. And the reminder of her lethal high heels is always welcome too.  (I still haven't forgiven Reed for saying no that night. Who turns GA down? No-one. No-one.)

[curlyq9393]

So this one doesn't really have a prompt that inspired it because my girlfriend wrote it for me, but isn't it so perfect? {much like my girlfriend.}

 

Stella is soaking her cares and aches away in Reed's deep claw footed tub. The only problems are that a) her nose won't stop running and when she reaches for the tissues they get wet before she can blow her nose on them, b ) her nose is so stuffy that she can't even fully enjoy the smell of the lavender bath salts she's used, and c) she left her glass of wine on the vanity counter, but getting out of the tub to go get it would mean leaving the warm water and shivering wet and cold for the few steps across the bathroom.

"Reed!" she calls out, her voice croaky and a bit thick. 

A few seconds pass, but then the door opens and Reed peeks around the edge of it. "Stella?"

Stella sniffles. "Could you hand me my wine glass, please? I left it on the counter and I thought about getting it myself, but--"

"You didn't want to get all cold and shivery?" Reed interrupts, smiling knowingly. Stella nods, a bit sheepish.

Reed hands Stella her glass and sits at the edge of the tub, absently trailing her hand on the top of the bath water. It's such a privilege, seeing Stella like this: her long hair piled on top of her head, her face clear of make up, her soft breasts and stomach just barely visible under the rippling water. Stella looks up at Reed, her nose pink {bordering on red} and her eyebrows raised. "Can I help you?"

"Just looking," Reed says hurriedly, and she immediately realizes how silly she sounds, like a kid caught looking at her dad's secret magazines, and now she's blushing. 

Stella giggles and sniffles a bit, her eyes sleepy but still twinkling a bit with teasing for Reed. 

Reed continues blushing and, without making eye contact, makes to stand up, but Stella grabs her hand before it's even fully out of the water and slowly kisses each of her fingers. 

Reed's blush fades but her eyes grow wide. She's trying to figure out what to say that would sound even half as seductive as Stella's unthinking actions when suddenly the bathing woman jerks her face away from the hand she's still holding and lets out a shrill "Pheh'kptchoooo!!!"

"My goodness, bless you!" Reed exclaims. "Poor thing."

Stella has been in the bath for some time, and though Reed is quite sure it was probably practically scalding when Stella first got in {that is her wont, after all} it's now tepid and lukewarm at best. Stella isn't fully submerged, either; her shoulders and the top of her chest are exposed, and she's beginning to shiver.

"Time for you to get out, I think," Reed murmurs, and when she extends a hand Stella doesn't even argue, just languidly accepts it, and that's how Reed knows Stella isn't feeling well at all.

Reed helps Stella dry off with her fluffiest towel, and though Stella had set out her periwinkle silk robe {which Reed adores}, Reed bypasses it in favor of her own cozy flannel robe, which--though perhaps a bit less becoming--is much warmer. Then again, this is Stella, and indeed she somehow manages to make the worn plaid flannel garment look chic, lovely, and even a bit sexy. Of course she does.

Once they're in bed--Reed in her usual tee and leggings and Stella in her less-usual stolen tee and leggings of Reed's--Reed can hear the faint whistle of Stella's breathing through a stuffed up nose. She doesn't say anything, knowing that Stella will be more likely to accept her care if the reasons she needs that care go unacknowledged, but instead pulls open a bedside drawer and, from behind some pens, a book, some everyday meds and a few pouches containing...private bedroom accoutrements, she retrieves a small blister pack of NyQuil. She hands it to Stella along with the glass of water from her own bedside. Sighing dramatically but saying nothing, Stella reluctantly {gratefully} swallows the caplet. 

A few minutes later, Reed turns off the light. In the safety of the nearly-dark bedroom, Stella wordlessly snuggles up next to Reed, and though she's too congested to really smell anything, she pretends she's breathing in Reed's particular and particularly lovely scent: cinnamon and jasmine and something like home. Reed kisses the still-damp crown of Stella's head, and Stella hums like a small warm animal. 

"I like wearing your clothes," Stella murmurs, half-awake at best. "They smell like you."

Reed snorts. "As though you can smell anything right now, my sweet sickling."

Stella turns her face up and pouts with heavy lidded eyes that Reed can just make out under the glow of the small nightlight across the room.

"I'm not a sickling," Stella insists, though the small sneeze that immediately follows her sentence rather negates it.

"Mhmmm," Reed says. "If you insist."

"Could a sick person," Stella whispers, "do this?" She lifts up Reed's shirt and kisses her three times on her stomach, then immediately collapses into giggles.

"The NyQuil is working already, I see," Reed says, giggling herself. 

"Mayyyyyybe," Stella says, flopping back onto her side of the bed but quickly deciding it's too cold over there and scooting back over onto Reed's side. "Maybe I just love you."

Reed almost stops breathing. Stella has never said those words to her before. Keep calm, Reed. Nonchalant. Do nothing to break the spell. 

"Well, maybe I love you too," she says softly, almost a whisper, and promptly kisses Stella on the mouth goodnight before she can say anything else to acknowledge the step they've just taken. 

When Stella doesn't roll back over to spoon her, Reed begins to worry that she'd made it too real too soon. Turning slowly onto her other side, she peers down at Stella... whose nose is twitching and breath hitching, and she says "Stella, are y--" just as the violent "Hi'NKschtEWWWWwwww!!!" wracks her small, pale body.

"Bless you!"

"You too," Stella says sleepily, and turns over, taking Reed's arm with her so as to wrap it over her body for snuggling purposes. 

"You too," Reed repeats, but she means something different. She smiles as Stella's breathing slows and becomes less labored. She feels warm and safe. She feels lovely. She feels loved.