groundcontrol21

[groundcontrol21]

Ohhh. It's so hard to pick! I love all of these! But I think I'm going to go with Dec 14th: an "unfortunate"gift. 😉😉

It's no longer December 14th, but here is December 14th's prompt, made extra long to compensate for the wait :) Merry Christmas to the wonderful and patient @sniction-fiction, and to the rest of those who celebrate.

In the distance, and above the frigid howl of the wind, the bells of Saint Sulpice chimed a quarter past the hour. D’Artagnan looked to his friends who were gathered at the table with him, still awaiting the fourth friend whose idea it had been to gather at Athos’s apartment before the Christmas feast and exchange gifts. Porthos had taken to tapping the table with his knuckles. Athos was draining the dregs from his third cup of wine. 

Porthos frowned, sparing a glance out the wintry window. “He’s fifteen minutes late.”

“The weather probably delayed him this morning,” Athos said drily, pouring himself more wine. “Where was it this year, Tours?”

“Amiens.” Porthos shook his head. “I think. Or maybe Angers. I can hardly keep track of his ladies.”

“It’s a wonder he can.” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes. “I’d need a roster to help me remember.”

“I think Aramis could use one,” Porthos laughed. “Free up a bit of space in that little head of his.” Porthos tapped at his own skull for emphasis, before turning and wagging that same finger with gusto at the young Gascon. “Hey, maybe that should be your present to him next year. A neat little accounting book, where he can keep a list of his mistresses. Names in one column, gifts they give him in the other.”

Athos hummed in bemused approval, and D’Artagnan snorted. “Is it really that bad?”

Athos and Porthos shared a long, knowing look, before Athos cleared his throat. “I think his record is the year he came home from the newly widowed Lady D’Bouconvilier’s country estate with another horse to carry all his gifts.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes went as wide as saucers and Porthos laughed. “Or when he came home from Rouen with a big bottle of Persian perfume swaddled to his chest–I thought he’d come home with a son!”

D’Artagnan guffawed and listened with rapt intent as Porthos and Athos took turns relaying the details of Aramis’s other Christmas tradition besides the Mass: the week prior to the holiday he spent making a tour of his wealthiest paramours from the year. From the sounds of it, Aramis had hardly bought himself anything in his life; item after item which D’Artagnan had seen the man possess turned out to be gifts, from the saddle on his horse to the knife he used to trim his beard. Porthos was just about to tell the story behind a pair of braes when the door handle turned at last and Aramis slipped inside, shivering in his overcoat and clutching a satchel.

“Well, speak of the Devil, here he comes,” Porthos cried. “What was the gift from the mistress this year, eh?”

Aramis closed the door behind him wordlessly. He dropped the satchel from his shoulder so abruptly that it collided with the floor with a resounding thump that had a note of precarious breakability. For a moment, it seemed as though he had not heard the question directed at him, but the real reason for his silence became apparent when, in one swift and well-honed gesture, he whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his face. “Heh’ETCHHH!” 

Aramis lowered the handkerchief just enough to give his reply. “A cold,” he croaked bitterly, though of course such a resounding sneeze had been answer enough in its own right. “She claimed to be well but… Heh’Heh’KSHHHH!” The handkerchief was back in place, his speech muffled into the folds. “Clearly that was–EHhh’KMPSSHH! Ugh, God.” 

With a miserable sniffle and a wipe, Aramis tucked the handkerchief back away. He dragged a chair back from the table a bit, until its back was flush with the wall, and plopped unceremoniously into it. He slumped, tipping his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes for a long blink. He waved his hand. “Don’t come too close, this isn’t one of the gifts I want to give to you.”

“Rotten gift,” Porthos said, brow furrowed, voice full of gruff sympathy. “Did she give you anything else?”

Aramis blinked his eyes back open. “A lovely tortoiseshell hair comb but–Snf!” He rubbed at his rapidly reddening nose with the back of his knuckles, his nostrils glistening and twitching. “This is the gift which is most memorable. Ihhh’KRSHHHH’uhh!” Aramis dipped forward into his cupped hands, lingering in such a position for a silent, sniffling moment before straightening again. He rubbed at his throat.

 “Ow,” he pronounced clearly. “And which I’m least grateful for.”

Athos poured him a cupful of wine, and Aramis took it gratefully, downing it all in one go with a pronounced wince and a cough. They spoke a bit with Aramis about his travels, asking after the food (lovely), the ride (easy), the weather (horrid), before Aramis shook his head with an airy cough. 

“But I’ve wasted enough time with my tardiness!” he cried, and retrieved his satchel. “Let us not waste any more with such idle chatter. Let us exchange our gifts, now four of us instead of three.”

D’Artagnan smiled, feeling his own bag at the floor between his feet. “Who should go first?”

Athos inclined his head as he set down his cup. “How about Aramis, since he’s already received a gift?”

Aramis flashed a smirk at him. “Funny.” His voice was so occluded he could not help a rather unseemly throat clearing and snuffle combination, but still Aramis brought the satchel to his lap and begin to sift through its contents. His downward gaze created a veritable flood out of his already runny nose, and he sniffled on each breath as he considered what was in the satchel carefully, deliberation over whose gift to give first written clearly across his twitching features. 

At last, he reached decisively into the pouch, but had to abort the action almost as soon as he had done it, for a massive sneeze came over him. The hand came up to hurriedly cup over his nose. “Hh’TSCHHH!“ Hehh’ISHshhh! Oh, excuse me,” he said, voice all congestion, as he pinched and wiped away at his nose. He looked down at his fingers, and blushed. “Could I trouble one of you for a handkerchief? This cold is all in my nose.”

His friends had seen the mess upon his hands as clearly as he, and so D’Artagnan, perhaps just as eager as Aramis to be rid of such a sight, was up and offering his own handkerchief to the man in an instant. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Aramis said, and cleaned up his hand as much as his face. 

“Please, keep it,” D’Artagnan said forcefully as he took his seat again. “Merry Christmas.”

Aramis gave a grateful nod as he buried his nose into it and gave a blow so soggy and forceful that D’Artagnan winced. “Well, since our Gascon has so generously given me a gift already,” Aramis said with a smile, giving the handkerchief a demonstrative wave. “I will start with him.”

He reached into the satchel, pulled out a pair of black leather gloves lined with fur, and leaned forward to pass them to D’Artagnan. “To preserve the warmth of your fragile, Gascon hands against the cruelty of the Paris wind.”

D’Artagnan gaped a bit as he took the gift from his friend, and his mouth dropped open further as he tugged the snug leather over his fingers. He flexed and clenched his fist, examining his gloved hand from all angles. “They fit perfectly, Aramis,” he said in a hushed voice. “How did you know–”

Aramis grinned cheekily. “How soon you forget just how many times I had to reposition those very hands on a musket.”

D’Artagnan blushed crimson at the reminder of his green incompetence. “Thank you,” he said after another long moment spent gazing at the leather. “This is truly a thoughtful gift, my friend.”

“Now I better not hear you complaining of the cold ever again,” Porthos said, cupping his hands over his mouth and blowing into them obnoxiously loudly, a mimic of D’Artagnan’s chosen method of warming and passive-aggressive complaint whenever the wind had the slightest nip to it. D’Artagnan removed one of the gloves and swatted Porthos on the shoulder with it. 

“Careful!” Aramis admonished playfully. “Perhaps you won’t be so quick to violence against your friend once you see what I’ve gotten him.”

This time, Aramis produced a small knife in a delicately patterned wooden casing from the satchel, and held it in an outstretched arm. “Take it, Porthos, I have to–” The precarious waver in Aramis’s breath left no ambiguity to his meaning, and so Porthos quickly snatched the item from him. Aramis snapped forward, tucking his chin to his chest and involuntarily squeezing the satchel close. “HETCHHH!” 

He dug out the handkerchief again and held it hovering just inches away from his quivering, dripping nose as his breath hitched in preparation for another. “Ihhh… Oh…Snf!” Aramis teetered a moment on the precipice. His eyes, glazed and misty, looked nowhere in particular as they fluttered shut once more. “IHHH’KSHHH’uhhh!”

Porthos unsheathed the knife from its casing, and turned it over in his hands, recognizing at once that it was a woodworking knife. It felt instantly more comfortable in his grasp as he mimicked a whittling motion than did his dagger. 

“It’s beautiful,” Porthos murmured. “Thank you, mon ami.”

“So that you no longer have to sully the blade of your dagger when boredom strikes on a mission.” As he spoke, Aramis rubbed his nose with the handkerchief, making slow and squelchy circles, trying to draw out the remaining tickle. “Hehhh’ISHHH’oo!” The sneeze which he had coaxed forth was harsh and wet, leaving moisture behind not only beneath his nose but also his eyes. Aramis huffed an annoyed laugh and scrubbed at his eyes and his nose a couple times with the handkerchief. “Ugh, I’mb leaking.”

The three friends shared a look while the fourth cleaned himself up, but nothing more was said on the matter. Aramis let the handkerchief fall into a sad, sodden bundle on his lap while he retrieved the last item from his satchel. The glass bottle had been the source of the clatter when the bag had hit the floor earlier, but fortunately the wine was undamaged.

“And for Athos.” 

Athos took the bottle reverently, his eyes widening as he realized its contents cost about ten times the amount he usually spent on his vice. “Aramis, this is… expensive.”

Aramis smiled, even as his nose dripped. “Your skills of appraisal are astute as always.”

Athos shook his head. “No, Aramis, I mean it, this is–”

“Heh’KSHHHH’oo! Ehhh’HISHHH!” Aramis gave a clogged laugh as he squeezed his nose between two folds of the handkerchief to wipe it. “See? Snf! Even my nose has no patience for your foolish protestations.”

“Then, I see no other option but to open it and share it with friends.”

Athos uncorked the bottle and poured from it into each of their cups, mistakenly dribbling a bit on the table near where D’Artagnan’s gloves lay. Horrified at their proximity to destruction, D’Artagnan snatched the gloves away and squawked at Athos, who rallied with a calm, choice set of words of his own. Porthos laughed as they squibbled and Aramis, for his part, merely slumped a bit in his chair, unnoticed. 

Porthos opened his mouth to quip something at Aramis, only to find the man had leaned his head back against the wall, screwing his eyes shut and pinching at the bridge of his nose. When Aramis seemed about to stay that way indefinitely, Porthos scooted his chair around the table, closer to his friend. Aramis gave no indication he had heard the move. Porthos frowned and nudged him with an elbow. “Hey, are you feeling alright?” 

Aramis lowered his hand and blinked, a bit heavy and startled as though he’d forgotten where he was. “Yes, I’ve…” He blew out a sigh, and even that sounded stopped to the brim with congestion. “I’ve just got this terrible headache.”

Porthos’s frown deepened. “Just now?”

Aramis’s gaze flicked from friend to friend, as they were all watching him intently now. He sighed again, finishing with a tickly cough. “All day,” he admitted quietly. “It’s only been getting worse.”

“Why don’t you go lie down?” Athos said, voice as gentle as it was firm. “We will fetch you before Reveillon.”

Between the tenderness in his ordinarily stoic friend’s voice and the incessant pounding in his own head, there was little room for resistance to such a sound suggestion, and so Aramis rose gingerly, feeling his muscles sore from the cold, his cold, and all the riding he had done. He gathered his satchel on his shoulder and began to shuffle toward the door, when Athos’s voice stopped him. 

“Where are you going?”

Aramis fixed him with a bewildered expression. “To go lie down?”

Athos huffed, as close to a laugh as anything he ever did. “Surely your brain is not so addled with cold that you don’t remember my bedchamber is that way?” He pointed in the opposite direction. 

Aramis blinked as Athos’s intention broke through the mist in his brain. “Your bed… Athos, no.” He sniffled and coughed. “Not with a cold like this.”

“Well,” Athos said, reclining disinterestedly in his chair, “if you prefer to trudge all the way back to your apartments in the biting wind, I shan’t stop you.”

Aramis chewed at his chapped lip. “Still, I hate the thought that I could pass this along… I hate the thought of giving you such an unfortunate gift. Any of you.”

“We’ve all gotten our fair share of unfortunate gifts.” Porthos chuckled, shaking his head. “Remember when Athos gave me a book before I could read?”

Athos’s cheeks blushed the faintest of pinks, but his eyes narrowed at Porthos. “Remember when you gave Aramis what you were convinced was lavender oil, but which made his hands red and blistered and itchy for weeks?”

D’Artagnan shrugged and added, “My cousin gave me a collar for a dog I didn’t even have.”

Aramis gave a congested, but happy-sounding laugh, and coughed wetly into the handkerchief. He smiled tenderly at his friends, who were laughing too, but before he could add to the conversation, a sneeze stole his breath, sending him hitching into the sodden handkerchief. “Hhhh’ehhh’EHHDSKHH!”

“Go lie down, my friend,” Athos said, and Aramis nodded through his snuffling. He raised his hand and the handkerchief it held in a haphazard farewell before crumpling back into it as he shuffled away to Athos’s bedchamber. “Heh’RSHHH!”

The trio who remained turned their gifts over in their hands, discussing them all in subdued marvel. When enough time had passed that the three friends were sure the fourth had fallen asleep, they assembled a tray to leave on his bedside table for when he woke. Sure enough, the congested snores which filled the bedchamber advertised that they had been correct in their assessment, and so they shuffled quietly in, depositing their gifts beside their sleeping friend, bundled beneath the bedcovers. They had left him two handkerchiefs–Athos’s and Porthos’s sacrificed to the cause now just as surely as D’Artagnan’s–as well as a mug of tea and some mint paste Athos had found in his cupboard. They were unconventional gifts for Christmas, to be sure, and likely not exactly what Aramis envisioned himself in want of, but that was no matter. There would be time for more exchanging of gifts when Aramis was well again. 

#answered asks #december prompt fill #christmas sickfic #sick ara/mis #more muskie snz!!! #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #snz fic #my writing

[groundcontrol21]

A shout out post to the wonderful @softsnzstuff -who is not only talented, kind and awesome- but who also organized the snecret Santa exchange and was SO ON TOP OF IT and made everyone's magical snz-mas dreams come true....!

🙂❤🙂💚🙂

You ROCK! THANK YOU!

[groundcontrol21]

3 and 14 for the ask game pls!

Thank you for asking!

3. Do you write fics from start or finish, or jump around?

I write dialogue first! I go straight through writing the dialogue without speech tags, descriptions, or anything, since I've found this to be the way I'm most satisfied with the flow of the dialogue. It feels like the speech comes more naturally this way. Also, it serves as a pretty good outline of where I want the piece to go. Then I just go back and fill in everything that isn't dialogue, et voila! I write all of my stuff, vanilla or snz, this way.

14. If you were stuck on a desert island with only two characters, which would you pick?

Aramis and Anatoly. Between the two of them, I'd say we'd have some good medical and survival knowledge down pat. Aramis could go hunt and gather some food. Most of all, I'd like to see them forced to interact hahaha.

#answered asks

[groundcontrol21]

Behind the Scenes of Fic Writing: 30 Questions for Authors

What was the first fandom and/or pairing that you wrote fic for?

Do you participate in any writing events or challenges throughout the year? If so, what do you like about them?

Do you write fics from start or finish, or jump around?

Do you outline before you start writing? If so, how far do you stray from that outline?

What is the perfect environment for you to write in?

If you’re really concentrating, how many words can you write in a day?

Which part of writing do you struggle with most?

Do you listen to music while you write? If so, share a song that’s been inspiring you lately.

Do you prefer to write AUs, canon divergence, or canon-compliant fic?

Do you enjoy writing dialogue, exposition, or plot the most?

If you could only write angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your life, which would it be?

Is there a trope you haven’t written yet but really want to?

Is there a trope you wouldn’t write if it was the last trope on earth?

If you were stuck on a desert island with only two characters, which would you pick?

A Hollywood producer tells you that they want to film just one of your fics. Which fic would you want it to be?

What is your most underrated fic?

What fic are you most proud of?

What is a line/scene you’re really proud of? Give us the DVD commentary for that scene.

Who is the easiest/hardest character for you to write about? Why?

What’s your favorite minor character you’ve written?

What is the one fic that got away?

Have you cried while writing a fic?

If you had to remix one of your own fics, which would it be and how would you remix it?

How did you come up with title for [x fic]?

Which idea came to you first in [x fic]?

Which part of [x fic] was the hardest to write?

If you were ever to do a sequel to [x fic], what do you think might happen in it?

In [x fic], what is a happy, post-fic headcanon you have about [pairing]?

Send me a word. If it’s in your WIPs, include the sentence and a short summary of the fic.

Tell us an idea for a longfic you want to write in the future.

#my last ask game was fun so #please feel free! #🥰

[groundcontrol21]

Hello! If you haven't yet gotten five requests, may I please request December 18th with maybe... d'Art? Ara/mis as backup char, of course. =) Thank you in advance!

Happy December 18th! Of course I had to incorporate them both in there, bc I can't leave my favorite marksman alone, now can I? Hope you enjoy! This skews a bit book-verse-y in terms of speech and whatnot. CW: contagion (not intentional)

“Heh’TSCHOOO!” 

With a series of grumbles and groans, D’Artagnan rubbed at his dripping nose with his handkerchief. He had long since stopped bothering to tuck it back in his doublet, preferring instead to keep the cloth balled up in his fist for ease of access. And such ease was certainly needed, he noted with a bitter cough, for it seemed his horse could scarcely take two steps forward without some symptom of this wretched ailment making itself known. He shivered, bundling as deeply as he could into the fur tucked around his shoulders.

Ahead of him, Athos slowed his mount and gazed back. “Is Aramis’s cloak not helping?”

The fur grazed his cheek and his sensitive nose as D’Artagnan ducked deeper into the cloak in an attempt to keep himself warm. “It is–heh’KSHOOO!-- helping as much as anything can help a man with a headcold so bad. Ihh’KSHHH!” He sniffled lamentably. The fur-lined cloak chased away the worst of his shivers, but that was a pitiable solace to D’Artagnan whose very face felt stuffed full of mud. “I’m beginning to think I’ll never be well again.”

“Peace, D’Artagnan, you have been ill for two days,” Athos said. Even so, his brow still furrowed when D’Artagnan descended into a raspy fit of coughs (the Gascon had intended for those coughs to be a rebuke of Athos’s wanton disregard for his ill state, but his sore throat took precedence). “Still, we will stop at the next village we come upon for rest and shelter.”

They rode in silence for a while save for D’Artagnan, who held fast to Aramis’s cloak with each sneeze lest it come undone. In time, Porthos rode up alongside him and leaned close, his tone conspiratorial. “You’re a lucky lad, you know. It’s not just anyone whom Aramis will lend a present from an admirer.”

In spite of himself and his misery, D’Artagnan could not help but raise an eyebrow. “An admirer?”

“Of the feminine sort,” Porthos said with a knowing grin before his countenance soured. “He wouldn’t even lend the cloak to me when I was drenched in a downpour! Said I’d ruin it.”

“I’m not deaf, mon ami,” Aramis called. The man was shivering desperately in his saddle; giving D’Artagnan the cloak had left him with naught more than his thin blue cape as defense against the misty wind. “I didn’t lend you my cloak because you had just come inside to sit in front of the fire to dry yourself. Don’t be dramatic.”

“Psh! Details!” Porthos scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Maybe I should get sick just for a chance to wear it. It does look so comfortable and warm.”

“Hhh’RSHHH!” D’Artagnan mopped at his nose with his handkerchief sullenly. “Come any closer and you just might.”

******

They reached a town with an inn, which gratefully had a room with a hearth that was big enough for the four of them to share. Wasting no time, the three friends tucked D’Artagnan into bed, spreading Aramis’s cloak atop the blankets for a final layer of warmth. The comfort of lying down was so blissful after a miserable day of riding that D’Artagnan fell asleep immediately. Athos and Porthos departed in search of an apothecary where they might buy some more herbs to soothe the young man’s symptoms, leaving behind Aramis not only to keep watch and stoke the fire, but also to warm up himself, for he was shivering almost as badly as the ill Gascon. 

Some time later, D’Artagnan awoke to see his friend alone, hunched upon himself as he sat in front of the hearth and prodded at the flames with a poker. D’Artagnan blinked heavily, clearing his occluded throat, and called out to him, “Aramis?”

But though Aramis turned his face to him, it was plainly clear to D’Artagnan that the man could not truly focus on him, nor could he answer, because in that moment his features were overcome with the misty reverie of an oncoming sneeze. He dropped the poker hastily back into its holder, his hands scrambling to his face. “Hhh’KSHHH’uhh! Heh’ISHHH’uhh! Hehhhh’ISHHH!”

“Pardieu, are you alright?” D’Artagnan asked, though the sheer volume and ferocity of his friend’s sneezes brooked only one answer to the question–at least, only one answer which was honest.

A blush rose, creeping up from out beneath Aramis’s collar and into his cheeks. “I think I might–heh…Ehhh’KSHHH!--be coming down with what you have.”

D’Artagnan frowned.

“Fret not,” Aramis said. “It’s to be expected. We have been spending every moment in each other’s presence these past days, riding, eating, sleeping.”

D’Artagnan was sure riding in the cold and damp without a cloak surely did not help matters either. A spark of guilt fluttered in D’Artagnan’s chest as he considered himself, tucked up cosily in bed with the cloak still draped over him. Not so much guilt he would consider parting with the fur-lined warmth, but… An idea came to D’Artagnan’s foggy mind and he sat up, bundling the cloak in his arms and shuffling over to take a seat on the floor beside Aramis. 

“D’Artagnan?” Aramis asked blearily as D’Artagnan set to draping the cloak across both their shoulders. Aramis gave a full-body shiver at the sudden influx of warmth and, seemingly unconsciously, tucked himself closer to D’Artagnan. He sighed gratefully, and D’Artagnan couldn’t help a small smile. 

“It’s your cloak after all.”

“You should…Eh’KESHHH’uhh!” Aramis produced a handkerchief from his doublet and snuffled into it. His nose was already pink, and D’Artagnan wondered just how often he’d blown it while D’Artagnan had been dozing. “You should be in bed.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes at the hoarse-voiced attempt at mother henning. “By that logic, then, so should you.”

“Ahh,” Aramis sighed, a touch pleading, “but it is so much warmer close to the fire.”

D’Artagnan laughed. “My thoughts exactly.”

And so they arranged themselves so that each was as comfortable and as warm as possible, ending with Aramis slumped against D’Artagnan, head pillowed against his shoulder, and D’Artagnan leaning his own forehead against Aramis’s. And such was how Porthos and Athos found the two men upon their return, huddled into their fur-cocoon, their congested snores a soft harmony against the crackling of the fire in the hearth.

#answered asks #december prompt fill #prompt fill #sick d'artagnan #that's a new one #sick ara/mis #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #more muskie snz!!! #my writing

[groundcontrol21]

Thank you to everyone who asked me questions the other day, especially those who asked Mashka questions 😂 That absolutely made my week lol.

Also, thank you to everyone for your continued patience as I figure out just what the hell I’m doing 😂 Especially those of you who have written some fabulous stuff while I’ve been away. I’m still quite busy and struggling, and I’m trying not to push myself too hard on good days :) So that’s why I’ve mainly just been posting prompt stuff I’ve promised and not so much reblogging. 💕

#personal

[groundcontrol21]

Greetings, Anatoly! Could you tell me a joke?

Well, I’ll tell you one Doctor Rosenbaum tells all the time, and it never fails to get a laugh out of him. Out of his audience, though? That is a different story. I’ll let you be the judge:

What did the snail say when he caught a ride on the turtle’s back? Weeee!

(Side note: this was the favorite joke of my friend’s father, who was the real life inspiration for Dr. Rosenbaum. He passed unexpectedly this past October, but I’ll make sure this stupid joke lives on)

#answered asks #ocs: anatoly

[groundcontrol21]

For the sneecember prompts-Dec 16th for Jonathan and Sarah?

You're not the only one who had this request; @perfectpaperbluebirds asked for it too! Hopefully both of you enjoy! Happy December 16th!!

(For context, this is practically how Sarah and Jonathan meet)

“Is the conversation really so boring for you, Lindsay?”

The man in question startled awake, snapping upright from his doze so quickly his knee cracked against the wooden coffee table, rattling it slightly. “Apologies,” he said quickly, rubbing hastily at his eye. “My apologies. Walton’s speech, of course, is as riveting as ever.”

It was clear the others in attendance picked up on the same subtle note of wry sarcasm as Sarah had, for a smattering of laughter rippled through the company seated at the table, before Walton returned to his belabored point with a thin-lipped scowl. Sarah could not say she blamed Lindsay; the day’s article in The Spectator which they were all gathered round to discuss was truly fascinating, but Walton’s round-about loquaciousness could make even the most compelling topic as dull as an unsharpened blade.

Even as much as she did not begrudge Lindsay the soporific prowess of Walton’s discourse, she could not help the little stinging nettle of bitterness which settled within her when she remembered Lindsay had similarly drifted off while she was offering her observations earlier. Though she liked the man, it was less the fact that he in particular had nodded off while she was speaking which bothered her, but rather the fact that any one of these fellows had. Sarah had just started coming to these coffeehouse sessions, all-but dragged there initially by the over-excited Kitty, but she quickly found herself craving the approval of the group more than she cared to admit. She liked, nay, she loved it here, where the men cast aside title and rank and the women spoke just as surely at their turns as they did, and Sarah desperately, desperately hoped that she fit. 

When at last the discussions had concluded for the day, Sarah was stopped before she departed by Lindsay himself, sounding a good deal more awake than he had at any point earlier. 

“Ms. Talbot!” he called to her. “I would like to apologize if I was a bit… inattentive while you were speaking today. I assure you it was no statement on the quality of your observations, which were astute as always.”

Sarah felt her cheeks color a tad and she smiled at the unexpected sincerity of the compliment. “Oh, it’s quite alright. I–”

Lindsay cut her off with a powerful sneeze, barely reigned under control with his handkerchief. “heh’TSCHOOO!” He wiped his nose with a neat pinch and then tucked the handkerchief back in his breast pocket. “Apologies, I’m afraid that’s the reason why.” He sniffled, his nose already turning pink, and somehow managed to make it all sound contrite. “I appear to be coming down with something and it’s making me exhausted.”

Sarah’s heart fell a bit at the admission, and fell still further as she took in the slight pallor of his cheeks, the darkness beneath his eyes, all these subtle signs of incipient illness which she was just noticing. “You certainly look it.”

As soon as the words left her lips, Sarah clasped her hand over her mouth with a strangled little gasp, but Lindsay forestalled the development of her panic with an appeasing hand, outstretched. “Peace, peace!” he said with a warm little chuckle. “I know what you meant. And it’s quite nice, sometimes, to know your appearance matches how wretched you feel on the inside.” He winked. “Gets you a bit of sympathy.”

“And it’s quite the worst when it is the other way around!” Sarah exclaimed, nodding. “Many times I am in such pain and I appear healthy, but I get no sympathy from anyone.”

Instantly, Sarah felt supremely foolish for having been so quick to share information which, by all rights, was the interest of no one else but her, the doctor, and the chambermaid. She opened her mouth to apologize, shame pooling hotly in the pit of her stomach, when Lindsay surprised her again by speaking softly, the corners of his lips pulling down into a unfeigned frown. 

“Well, for that I’m truly sorry,” he said, and he genuinely sounded it. He held Sarah’s gaze intently for a moment more, before his eyelids fluttered and he groped madly to retrieve his handkerchief again. “Heh’RSHHH’uhh! Heh’KSHHH!” The first he missed slightly, but the second he was able to capture primly in his handkerchief. He cleared his throat. “Oh, excuse me.”

“You’re here apologizing to me,” Sarah said with a little smile, feeling bold enough to tease the man a bit, “and yet did you not fall asleep while Walton was speaking as well as me? I haven’t seen you apologize to him.”

Lindsay made a dismissive noise and gave his handkerchief a wave before tucking it away. “It’ll be good for his ego, I think. Make him reconsider that what he says in a thousand words most men can say in five.”

Sarah laughed. “I’m very glad that you and I are of the same mind in that.”

Lindsay grinned and nodded. “Or women,” he added, voice taking on a serious note. “I daresay you and Ms. Longfellow reliably have the best contributions. Concise, and yet full of things to consider.”

“Thank you.” Sarah felt herself blush floridly this time, and she cursed the knowledge that this was the truth of what she had been so desiring from these meetings: to hear that her contributions were not only acknowledged but appreciated. A bit shyly, she added, “I’ve very much enjoyed coming to these past few meetings.”

“And I hope you continue to come,” Jonathan replied before turning to the side to release a sneeze.  “Ihhh’TSCHHH! Oh…” He pressed his handkerchief to his mouth as he gave a few ticklish, rasping coughs. “Though I can’t say whether I’ll see you at the next one.” He sniffled morosely. “I have a bad feeling, what with how quickly this is coming on, I’ll be laid up in bed for at least a week.”

Sarah made a sympathetic sound in the back of her throat. “Well, then, you shouldn’t stay here any longer!”

Lindsay nodded, his eyes going hazy. “Hhh’RSHHHH’hhh! Snf!” When he spoke again, his voice already carried a tinge of gathering congestion. “Always a pleasure, Ms. Talbot.” He gave a slight, courteous bow in her direction, before smiling a bit cheekily and adding, “And if I return from my sickbed and find you absent from these meetings, I will be very disappointed.”

Sarah gave her own smile in reply. “I’ll be here,” she said emphatically. “That I can promise.”“Well then, I hope I see you again sooner rather than l-later. Hehhh’TSHHH!” Lindsay cleared his throat draggingly, with a wince. “For both our sakes.”

#for you historians out there: yes the spectator was a real thing #and yes it was published in 1711-1712 #and YES sarah and jonathan are 1750s #but i play fast and loose with history (sometimes) when it's a snz fic #that said #the world needs so much more historic snz fic #my writing #ocs: jonathan and sarah #december prompt fill #prompt fill #answered asks

[groundcontrol21]

For Anatoly--if you had to choose another career (strictly hypothetical) what do you think you would pursue?

Strictly hypothetical, you say? Well, I'd have to say a musician. Since this is a hypothetical, we are supposing I have the talent for it. Haha! I took lessons at school for the violin as a child and I loved every minute of them, even though my playing surely made a rusty engine sound harmonious by comparison. I think music is a beautiful way of connecting with and helping others, much like practicing medicine, only the latter I actually have a bit of a knack for.

#answered asks #ocs: anatoly

[groundcontrol21]

Anatoly, how do you like to spend your free time? If you had a long vacation and money wasn't a concern, how would you spend it or where would you go?

In what free time I have, you can nearly always find me reading. What a world, so completely full of things to learn, is right at my fingertips with a book or three! Liza says I'm boring, but by far my favorite books are encyclopedias and other non-fiction things. Perhaps, though, a crime novel might be a better discussion point than suspension bridge infrastructure...

There's a whole world I would like to see, but I think where I'd like to go most is back to the Black Sea with Mama and Liza. Before my father died, we spent a few childhood holidays there, and those were the happiest times of my life.

#answered asks #ocs: anatoly

[groundcontrol21]

Anatoly, what do you look for in partner and are you currently searching for one 😏?

Ahh, being asked this is just like being at home with Mama and Liza... It’s almost enough to make me homesick for their constant nagging about it!

To tell the truth, I suppose I’ve always had an excuse not to look. To be fair, though, there aren’t many young people looking for love in the rural village where I practice, so at least my excuse has some validity now (are you listening, Mama?). But it makes it even harder when you’re... picky like me, I suppose I could say.

Liza is always trying to set me up with her girlfriends, but I never feel comfortable around them. I’ve been on dates here and there back in university, but that was mainly to appease Mama. I did have one person in university whom I’d have loved to have gone on a date with but... for various reasons that couldn’t work out. But I still find myself wishing it had, somehow.

Perhaps that sort of life is not for me, eh? I’ve certainly got enough to keep me busy for the time being.

#answered asks #ocs: anatoly

[groundcontrol21]

Mashka, what do you think of Anatoly aka your servant?

Meow, meowww, etc. etc.

Translation: I was very displeased when he moved into my house and invaded my space, but I suppose I’ve begrudgingly warmed to him. He can be a bit obstinate at times (like when he ruins my progress in learning the engineering marvels of these windows!) and loud (when he has a cold I wish I could run for hills), but all in all I suppose he’s not bad. And much as I wish I could be the sole focus of his attention forever, I do think it would befit him to find a human partner...

#mashka is popular!!! 😂😂😂 #answered asks

[groundcontrol21]

Mashka, what do you think about this nice legth of string I'm dragging slowly and so seductively across the floor?

Meow, meow, meow meow. Translation: Tempting to be sure, but I’m more interested in fiddling with this little lever on the window over here...

(I just about PEED myself laughing when I saw this ask 😂😂 so thank you for that)

#answered asks

[groundcontrol21]

Ask My OC Anything

Ask my OC any question you want! Any question at all, and they will answer it. I can even promise they’ll probably answer honestly. 

Go ahead - ask my OC!

#wanting to reintegrate here slowly #people seem to be doing non-snz replies too #so i think i’ll give it a try 😊

[groundcontrol21]

Sneezecret Santa Post!! 🎄🎉

So I took part in the Secret Santa exchange orchestrated by the illustrious and wonderful @softsnzstuff . I wrote for an anonymous snz fan. Anon, I unfortunately was very unaware of the fandoms you like, but since you also like character A/B/C stories, here's one of those! I tried to make it extra heaping on the fluff for you 🎅🎄Happy reading!

A pushes the front door shut, and it barely clicks on its hinges before they are bending forward with a harsh sneeze. They groan, fishing in the pocket of their trousers, their voice rough and gravelly. 

"I... I'm so stuffed up. Jesus,” they moan, loudly but to no one in particular. A’s breath hitches, and they bury their face in the crumpled wad of tissues as they sneeze again and again. Once they’ve finished clearing the worst from their sinuses for the moment, they blink away the rheum in their eyes and realize, that’s right, they’re spending the night at B’s flat tonight instead of their own. The light is on, and the television is whirring softly. The flat’s, well, not-emptiness is just as healing as any medicine. 

"I... I'm home,” A calls hoarsely, then adds a mumbled, “Finally.” Their breath hitches again, sending them back to the tissue wad. “Oh this cold—my head's stuffed to the brim..."

Their partner, B, looks up from where they lounge, crocheting on the couch. Their brow furrows in concern. “I guess I shouldn’t even ask how your day was?” 

A snorts, then sniffles and rubs their nose with the back of their wrist. "I... it was fine. I guess.” They sigh. “Just had a lot of students come in with colds, so I'm not surprised I got it, too.” 

A sniffle and a sneeze catch them roughly off guard. “Oh, man,” A mutters. They sneeze and cough again, rubbing at the ache in their throat.  Not surprised, given the colds making the rounds at the university where they lecture, but certainly not happy about it, either. They swallow thickly. “How’s the crochet coming along?”

Something about the way the swallow grated so raw against their sore throat made tears spring to A’s eyes, and they sniffle and wipe them away. 

B looks up with a playful smile. “Does it really look that bad?”

A runs a hand along the length of their face, even as an exhausted smile shows through. “Of course not,” they say emphatically, even though they both know B was joking. A has always been impressed by their partner’s hobby; something about the intricate work is so mesmerizing, even calming. 

A sniffles again. “I'm just so stuffed up it feels like someone dumped a bunch of cement up there." They tap their aching, swollen sinuses for proof,  trying and failing for a deep inhale through their nose. "I... I can't breathe. Feels like my brain's swelling and... God, this is terrible."

B pats the couch cushion beside them, moving aside the ball of yarn. “Why don’t you sit down and watch me, hmm? I know how much you like it.” 

At the thought of resting their aching body after a day of lecturing, A moans with such relief it sends a shiver coursing through them. "Mmm—Oh, please..." They shuffle over to the couch and slowly lower themselves down, sinking into the cushions and resting their head against the backrest. "Christ, I feel so sick... You've got some cold medicine, don't you?"

“I do.” B leans forward and presses a kiss to their forehead. “You just rest here while I get it for you, alright?” 

"Mmm..." A mumbles inelegantly. "Don't be long..." They whimper. "P—please..."

“I won’t,” B promises, and true to their word they are back with a bottle of cold medicine in hand before A had really registered they had left. 

A’s expression is a bit pained as they take it from B; their head is suddenly pounding with a vengeance. "Thank you.” A fumbles with the cap, fingers feeling wholly uncooperative. The bottle is new, and they struggle to turn the cap and break the seal, their hands unusually clumsy. The intense and prolonged period of leaning downward to open the bottle has caused their nose to run anew, and they sniffle miserably. 

 "Hnggh... God, it feels like my entire face is swollen.” Wordlessly, B takes the bottle from A, who smiles sheepishly. “I—I don't know what I'd do if I didn't have you. "

B opens the bottle easily and smiles. “You wouldn’t have any cold medicine, for a start.” 

A gulps down a capful of the medicine, wrinkling their nose ever so slightly at the taste, but even that proves too much for the sensitive appendage. They bend forward with two full, wet sneezes. 

A feels that they have been messy, and their face scrunches in abject repulsion. They don’t even know where that sad bunch of tissues has gone, not they they would do much good in such a soaked state. Instead, A rubs their fingers over their nose to collect the worst of the mess. 

"Oh my God, B,” they groan. Then, after some more deep, loud sniffling in a futile attempt to regain control of their sinuses, they remember how gross they must look right now. "I'm... I'm so sorry,” they say desperately. “That was disgusting. I’m disgusting. That's... that's—you didn't deserve that."

“You’re sick, sweetheart,” B says simply, stroking A’s hair a couple times. “It’s alright. Let me get you some tissues, though.” 

"I'm such a mess!" A cries. They cover their face with one hand and groan. "Ugh, I'm so sorry I'm such a mess right now..." They press down on his forehead as though they could force some sort of sense into his swollen mind. "I... I feel like hell.” They break off to sneeze, and sneeze again. “Like my head could explode at any second... oh..."

B returns with the tissues and hands them to A. “Hence why you should try blowing a bit of that gunk out, hmm?” 

"Mmm..." A hums, holding the fresh tissue against their nose, relishing in its softness before blowing a few times. They sniffle liquidly.  "That's not all... “ A cuts themselves off with a sharp sneeze. “That's not all of it, but it… it helps some. Thank you.” A coughs and clears their throat with a wince. "God, I feel awful... I feel so cold and hot at the same time..."

B frowns. “That’s my cue to get a thermometer then, huh?”

A groans and coughs again as B stands up to retrieve the thermometer.. “My throat feels so sore it’s hard to swallow.”

B comes back, and slips the thermometer gently between A’s lips. A’s eyes drift shut and they don’t open them when the thermometer beeps, too tired to even consider looking to see for themselves what the number reads. B caresses’s A’s cheek and takes the thermometer out to read it, making an unhappy noise. 

A murmurs in a gravelly voice, swallowing down a cough. "Is it bad? Tell me it's not bad..."

“It’s not terrible,” B says, “but it’s certainly not healthy. I think you’ve got the flu, my dear.” 

B takes a seat on the couch again next to A, who promptly flops against them bonelessly. “At this point, nothing surprises me.”

B clucks their tongue sympathetically. “Why don’t you just rest here on the couch with me while I crochet?” 

A’s eyes drift shut for a brief time, but the pulsing ache that throbs through their very bones keeps them from sleeping as they wish they could.  "I'm so tired,” A moans, opening their eyes again, muttering as their breath begins to hitch. "I can't rest, B... I can't…” They sneeze helplessly. “I'm so—*sneeze*—so blocked up I can't even catch my breath and these sneezes..." A groans, clutching at their face. "Christ...."

B sets aside their crochet needle and begins to massage A’s achy shoulders. “Just do your best to relax, honey.”

A flinches a little as their tense shoulders are kneaded and they release a relieved moan, their breathing already beginning to slow and deepen. "You're... you're so kind..." A says, sighing and nuzzling their head against B’s chest. "I don't know how I'd do it without you..."

“Good thing you’ll never have to, huh?” B says, and presses a kiss behind A’s ear. “I’ll be here for you always.” 

A’s body slouches so deeply into B that they're nearly lying on top of them, and they give a soft, happy sigh as B’s lips press to their skin. "Mmm… I love you so much..." A sneezes a few times, too exhausted to consider moving, and then nuzzles their face against B’s skin, closing their eyes as their breathing slows.

B smiles to themselves as their stuffy-nosed partner begins to snore, then resumes their crocheting once more. It isn’t long before A is fast asleep, and his peaceful, easy breathing is the perfect lullaby to accompany B’s handiwork.

#my writing #kb's secret santa

[groundcontrol21]

Hmm... Kind of in the mood to write about an incorrigible dandy with a violent case of main character syndrome catching a cold and refusing to take care of himself because he's too busy trying to win back the heart of his erstwhile mistress who left him for a viscount (or something) and eventually his other incorrigible dandy friends have to force him into a hot bath and it's surprisingly homoerotic until he starts feverishly composing bad rhyming couplets about mistress again

#was this not actually a scene in the three musketeers? #aramis core x10000

[groundcontrol21]

Oo, for the December prompts please do Unwilling Patient with Anatoly. I don't care if he is the doctor or the patient lol.

And then if you don't get other requests... I would also love to see Sleepy Sickness with either Anatoly or Jonathan and Sarah.

Happy holiday writing!

Thanks for the request! As promised, it is Unwilling Patient Day, so here's a fill. Perhaps not what's explicitly expected from the prompt, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Stay tuned for December 16, as you're not the only one who asked for that exact prompt with Jonathan and Sarah :)

The first thing Anatoly was greeted with as he entered the cold examination room was a scoff. Supposing it could have been a cough and wanting to give the patient the benefit of the doubt (there was a cold going around after all, that Anatoly himself could personally attest to), he took his time drawing the curtains shut for privacy and adjusting the cloth mask over his face. He sniffled, and sent up a silent prayer that the cold, sterile air of the room wouldn’t make his nose run too badly. Or his throat too much more prickly than it was. 

Then he turned to the middle-aged man seated in the examination chair, who promptly shook his head viciously. “Oh no,” he said, and proved that the sound was indeed a scoff. “I’m not being seen by you.”

The woman beside him, his wife, if the way she clung at his shoulder was any indication, hissed something into the man’s ear and dug her nails into his jacket so firmly her knuckles turned white. Something perhaps like chagrin flitted across the man’s features for a moment, before his face hardened again. Anatoly supposed a moment was better than no time at all. 

The woman clutched at her scarf with her other hand. “Oh, forgive him please,” she said earnestly, turning her wide eyes on Anatoly, “he’s ornery when he’s–”

Her husband did not let her finish. He narrowed his eyes until they disappeared behind his bushy eyebrows. “What are you, twelve?” he spat. “You’re a little boy.” He shifted a bit, as if trying to rise from his seat. “Oh, I knew this would be a waste of my–”

Anatoly bit back a sigh as he read through the papers he had been given by the nurse. He cleared his throat with a dragging sound, grateful that the mask hid the worst of his wince (though clearly not the worst of his youth). “Mr. Malinin, I assure you I am qualified for your care. As a matter of fact, I am thirteen. Fourteen this month.”

“Sense of humor, eh?” Malinin grumbled, crossing his arms, but Anatoly could see some of the harshest lines ease from his face. The mask hid the worst of Anatoly’s self-satisfied grin, too. 

He set aside the papers once he had noted the complaint for which Malinin had come: a gash to the leg near the ankle. A sneeze, however, took Anatoly off guard before he draw near enough to begin the examination.

“Eh’KRSHHH! Heh’KSHHH! Snf!” Fortunately, the sneezes were not so wet as to soil the cloth mask, but rather unfortunately they merely shifted the congestion in Anatoly’s sinuses such that the dull ache in his head became a pulsing throb. It was a good thing he had taken the scratchiness in his throat that morning as an omen to don a mask with his patients today at the clinic, for he was certainly coming down with a cold. 

Evidently, Malinin could tell, too. “Oh, he’s sick?” The man threw up his hands, and it was only the wobble in his injured ankle which gave his wife enough time to prohibit him from flying fully to his feet. “Oh, no.”

“It’s just a bit of a cold, Mr. Malinin,” Anatoly reassured, pity (albeit regrettably tinged with malaise-induced irritation) tugging a bit at his stomach. He indicated the sink at the wall, past the curtain. “I have washed my hands thoroughly before coming here. I will wash them again, if you’d like.”

Malinin stared at him wordlessly, and Anatoly took this to mean that the man, indeed, would like if he did just that. Anatoly slipped past the curtain to wash his hands, and above the running of the ice-cold water he heard Malinin mumble something that sounded distinctly irascible.  Anatoly shivered, and cursed both the cold temperature and the cold virus for making him course with agitation as well. How many testy patients had he had, and Malinin was by far not the worst of them. 

In reply, though, came Malinina’s voice high and clear. “Don’t be so mean. He’s doing his best.” 

Anatoly smiled to himself, pausing as he heard an answering grumble, though a bit milder this time. 

Malinina spoke again, even louder. “Eh? Not any more his fault than it is your fault that the metal came loose on the wheelbarrow and cut you.”

Anatoly slipped back past the curtains. “A wheelbarrow, eh?” Malinin twisted in his seat, now looking suitably chastised. “A formidable enemy for anyone.” Anatoly allowed himself a brief sniffle. “Can you show me the damage?”

He waited for the man to lift the leg of his trousers before kneeling beside him, taking in the extent of the cut and the unfortunate extent of the dirt surrounding its ragged edges. “Was there any rust on the wheelbarrow that you recall?”

His wife answered for him as Anatoly carefully prodded the skin surrounding the wound. “No, it was new.” 

“Too new,” Malinin groused. “I told you it would be a bad idea. The old wheelbarrow never had a single problem and one week…” Malinin held up a finger for emphasis and shook his fist at the sky. “One week after we replace it….” He gestured to his injury with a bitter flourish.

Anatoly closed his mouth around a cough and straightened, ignoring the twinge his muscles gave as he did so. “The good news is, it’s not deep enough to require stitches.”

He should have expected the way Malinin would turn to his wife, eyes gleaming rabidly. “See? I told you–”

“But,” Anatoly said firmly, forcefully, “I am still glad you came, because it needs to be cleaned and bandaged to prevent infection. Have you cleaned it?”

“No.”

He supposed he should have expected that too.

The sigh Anatoly clamped down upon bubbled into a cough instead. “Well, I will do it for you here, and send you home with some supplies to keep it clean, alright?” Suddenly, Anatoly’s breath hitched, and he stumbled back a few steps, turning his head to his shoulder. “Heh’TSCHHH! Ihh’TSCHH! Heh’TSCHHH’ooo!” 

Those had not left the cloth blessedly clean. Anatoly gave a clogged sniffle, and knew instantly it was not enough. “Excuse me,” he said, a bit hoarsely, and turned away further to blow his nose into his handkerchief. He wiped his nose a few times before folding the cloth and tucking it back in his trouser pocket.

 “Don’t worry,” he said. “I will be washing my hands. Eh’KSHHHH!”

Anatoly scrubbed his hands hard, harder perhaps than he should have, but returned to the Malinin’s with gauze and iodine in his slightly pink hands, and went to work bandaging and cleaning the wound. Once the task was all finished, he sent the Malinins home with the rest of the near-empty bottle and the gauze, and a hastily scribbled schedule of cleaning instructions. 

Malinin took the supplies and darted from the room as though he had been lit on fire, but his wife lingered just a moment longer. “Thank you, Doctor Kulyakov,” she said, before looking around conspiratorially and leaning in, dropping her voice. “He’s scared of doctors, so he really didn’t want to come…”

Anatoly nodded. “No apology is needed.” His irritation ebbed away (no doubt aided by the departure of its source), and he swallowed down any guilt at its existence along with a set of increasingly painful coughs. His eyes watered, and his voice sounded terrible as he added, “I’m glad he has you to help him. Heh…Eh”RSHHH!”

He was still blinking blearily when he felt a small, warm hand on his shoulder. “Feel better,” Malinina said gently. “I hope you have someone to help you.”

Anatoly wished he could say he did. 

#not sure how i feel about this fic but #here it is #my writing #ocs: anatoly #snz fic #sick fic #prompt fill #december prompt fill