Gesundheit

The tavern was quiet. All the sensible people were holed up at home, already asleep. Jaskier yearned to join them. The thought of his own bed propelled his weary feet forward, walking him straight towards the innkeeper behind the bar.

“We’ll be needing a room for the night.”

The innkeep looked suspiciously towards where Geralt was warming himself by the fire.

“For him?” He cocked a skeptical eyebrow.

Jaskier frowned.

“Yes. I thought that was clear from the ‘we’. As in, he and I.” 

Jaskier was much too tired for this. He was well versed in this particular song-and-dance, far too used to the anti-Witcher sentiment that had driven him out of more than one inn. They ought to go where they were wanted, or at least give the man a talking to. They had just taken care of his town’s necrophage problem, you know. Jaskier gathered himself to make a fuss, but his attention was pulled away from the innkeep by a wracking coughing from the other side of the room- Geralt, still dredging up the swampwater he’d inhaled. 

Tonight, the Witcher didn’t need to hold his bard back from punching the barman, he needed to sleep.

Jaskier sighed, unfastened his purse from his belt, and sat it heavily on the counter. Right now, all he wanted was a room with a fire and a bowl of something warm to eat. And, if his purse permitted, a stiff drink. He couldn’t care less what it would cost, he was going to sleep in a real bed tonight, so help him gods.

The innkeep narrowed his eyes as he quoted the bard a number. 

Jaskier of course knew he was being gauged, but the weather wasn’t quite conducive to comparison shopping, and he hadn’t the energy for haggling. He sighed, fishing around his sopping pockets for a few more coins to meet the hefty price. So much for that drink.

“We’ll take it.”

:::

The short walk up to the single room shouldn’t have been so tiring, but each sluggish step pulled him down as if the swamp was still sucking at his boots. Geralt trudged up behind him, just as exhausted.

The door clicked open to a dreary room. Jaskier couldn’t bring himself to be disappointed at the meagre accommodations. He was overjoyed at the prospect of spending a night off the floor of the marshy forest they'd been trekking through for the past week. Even if the fireplace barely had room to stack a single proper log and the table in the corner was wobbly and the bed was overpriced and understuffed and several inches too short for the two of them to fit in comfortably.

Jaskier dropped his pack to the floor with a contented sigh. He rolled his shoulders and reveled in the weight lifted. For all he complained about the forgone luxuries of traveling light, having only one bag made unpacking the few things not stabled with Roach quick work. He immediately began to strip off his traveling clothes, eager to get into bed and chase away the cold.

Geralt eyed the single bed warily.

“Should probably do something about… this.” He gestured down at his muck-covered clothing. 

Jaskier looked him up and down, then groaned. Damn Witcher. Why did he have to be right?

As much as he appreciated the forethought (he certainly wouldn’t recommend sharing a bed with a Witcher-sized wet dog), Jaskier dreaded the hour a proper bath would put between him and his bed.

Jaskier was ready to protest, but as he looked over at Geralt, shivering even in the warm inn, nose and cheeks an unhealthy wind-whipped pink, he had to agree a bath would do him some good.

He sighed his resignation.

“Get the fire going, and I’ll send for some water.”

:::

Jaskier bathed as quickly as he could. As pleasant as the warmth was, he longed to get out of the water, wrap himself up in a blanket, and finally be dry for the first time since they decided to cut through that wretched bog. The water was still plenty warm when the bard surrendered it to Geralt. 

Geralt eyed the bard warily as he sank into the bath. It wasn’t like Jaskier to rush through his washing. He was usually one to take his sweet time, leaving Geralt to heat another bucket or scrape himself clean in frigid water. Still, the Witcher wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

As Geralt melted into the tub he uttered a sigh that gave way to a heavy cough. 

The sound made the bard’s throat ache sympathetically, and he cooed soothingly as he slid into his nightclothes and made his way to his usual vigil by the head of the bath.

The post-hunt bath had become something of a ceremony over the years, and Jaskier was well-versed in his role. That didn’t stop him from looking longingly at the bed as he lathered his hands and got to work.

Wordlessly, Jaskier began their unspoken routine, carting his fingers gently through the Witcher’s hair, slowly massaging his temples as he started the meticulous work of pulling the mud and grime from his scalp. The hot water would wash away the worst of Geralt’s aches, along with whatever manner of viscera he managed to get doused in. 

Jaskier kneeled beside the tub, compulsively checking him over for injuries he might’ve managed to miss and slowly detangling his hair. The soothing motion of calloused fingertips cradling his head allowed Geralt to let the tension bleed from his taut muscles, and feeling his hands against a very solid, very much alive Witcher was just what Jaskier needed to ground himself after an adventure gone awry. 

Tonight, the aura in the room was fond, but quiet. A late day with too many close calls and a long trudge through a rainy bog was enough to tucker them both out, and there was nothing to discuss that couldn’t be conveyed in their shared language of glances and monosyllabic murmurs.

It would have been perfectly silent if not for Geralt pulling his head away from the bard every few minutes to cough into a fist. Jaskier didn’t like the crackly quality to the fits. He was loath to think what was in that swampwater.

Jaskier’s nose prickled at the thought, reminding him that he’d managed to get knocked into the bog too, though Geralt was the one who’d been pulled under the surface.

The prickle quickly developed into genuine itch, and he barely had time to untangle a hand from the Witcher’s mane before snapping to the side, directing a throaty “Heh-Hurreschchew” into his soap-slick palm.

Geralt winced suddenly, jerking out of Jaskier’s grasp and splashing lukewarm water down the front of his dry nightshirt. Jaskier wiped his hand on the hem. I’d have to be changed again, anyways.

“Geralt?” The worry was heavy in the bard’s voice. Had he missed a wound? Was he pulling too hard on the silvery hair in his hands?

“Wasn’t expecting that.”

That did little to ease the bard’s anxieties. It wasn’t like Geralt to be so skittish. He beheaded a water hag without blinking an eye not three full hours ago. It usually took more than an errant sneeze to get a rise out of him.

“‘S loud.”

Ah. That’s why he was so jumpy tonight.

“Mmm. Head bothering you?”

The Witcher offered an affirmative grunt.

“Why don’t we finish up here and get some food into you, yeah? Then sleep?” 

The Witcher was reluctant to leave the soothing water, but it had gone cool by the time his hair was clean. He might as well get out.

:::

Geralt practically melted into the thin broth the inn sent up to the room for a few more of their quickly-dwindling oren. Jaskier looked over him in the weak light.

The Witcher was shoveling spoonfuls of soup into his mouth mechanically, staring blankly forward, eyes glazed over. He was wincing every time the thunder clapped or the fire popped or he swallowed a piece of meat or potato that wasn’t soft enough. In the firelight, the bard could see that his cheeks were flushed with what he desperately hoped wasn’t the beginnings of a fever. He looked about as miserable as Jaskier felt.

Jaskier would love to leave it for the morning. Really, he would. But if something was really wrong, he’d need to see to it tonight.

He sighed heavily. 

“Exactly how sick are you?”

The Wolf pulled in a breath to insist he was well enough, but instead found himself bent at the waist, hacking violently into his hand. The force and volume of the fit sent a stab of sharp pain though his head, and he bit back a moan. 

That settled that. Jaskier sighed.

“Thought so,” Jaskier tutted sympathetically at his Witcher, pressing a hand to his forehead, trailing it down to his cheek.

“You’re a bit warm, too. Do you have anything you can take? Could I make you some tea?”

Geralt muffled another congested cough into a clenched fist, but shook his head. 

“Just sleep.”

“Then maybe it’s time for some rest?” the bard asked, hopeful. “Here- why don’t you finish the rest of this,” he pushed his only half-empty bowl of broth in front of the Wolf “and I will go make up the bed.”

The Witcher frowned at the barely-touched stew, but before he could coax Jaskier into a few more bites, a soft kiss was pressed to his forehead and the bard pushed away from the table.

:::

Ten excruciatingly long minutes later, and Jaskier was finally ready to climb into bed. Geralt had finished his soup and was stoking the fire when Jaskier came up behind him. The bard took him lightly by the hand and led him to the bed, turning down the covers and slipping the amenable Witcher inside.

Geralt had a sleepy, contented grin on his face as he informed the bard that he was a grown man, and a Witcher at that, and he didn’t need to be tucked into bed.

Jaskier just tutted as he got in bed beside him.

“I’m sure you don’t, my love,” he said as he gently combed his fingers through Geralt’s hair. Jaskier’s light touch against the silvery tresses had nearly lulled his Wolf to sleep in when the bard pulled back with a sudden gasp that startled the sleep from the Witcher’s eyes. 

He tried to snuff out the sneeze, but quickly failed, grinding his nose into the shoulder of his linen shirt to stifle a feathery “Heh-TSCH, ItSCH! TiISH, ITsch, ItSCH! Heh-”

He gasped in a breath at the end of the unsatisfactory fit. “ngh, sorr-ITchsh. Gods. Sorry.”

The itchy outburst was soft enough that it had Geralt’s brow furrowed in concern instead of pain, but the shallow, ticklish sneezes were far from relieving. Jaskier could already feel the prickly feeling starting up again behind his eyes.

“Are you…?”

“Fine. Fine. snff. Just worn out.”

Geralt rolled on his side, tapping the warmed spot next to him.

“Better get some rest, then.”

Jaskier nodded his silent agreement before nestling into the Witcher’s arms. The bard frowned at the congested rumbling of Geralt’s breathing against his back, the gentle vibration wrenching  a ticklish cough loose in the bard’s own chest.

He managed to mostly bite back the fit, but Geralt could feel his shoulders jerking with the effort. The Witcher started to sit up, concerned.

“Jask…” 

“Hush, Geralt. It’s you I’m worried about. Your lungs sound positively awful. You need to sleep.”

Geralt’s sigh was unconvinced, but he settled back down.

:::

The Witcher was out like a light. He obviously needed the rest. Jaskier had no such luck. The on-again-off-again itch in his nose had cemented itself as a constant, faint buzzing, and thick congestion was quickly building at the bridge of his nose.

Jaskier pulled the collar of the soaked chemise he hadn’t managed to change over his nose and blew gently, hoping to shift the congestion enough that he could breathe with his mouth closed. 

The shift in pressure let him breathe, but the first breath of cold air stoked the buzz into a fierce prickle. The bard clasped his hands over the collar to catch the resulting “HehITschew!”

Geralt groaned beside him and mumbled something sleepily.

“Oh! Sorry. Headache. Right. I’ll- uh- keep it quiet, then.” His statement was punctuated by a liquid sniffle, firmly conveying that his nose did not intend to keep it quiet, then.

Geralt hmmed appreciatively and rolled over.

Most nights, the Witcher relegated himself to a few hours of meditation and dedicated the rest of the break to sharpening swords or keeping watch, but after a day of mudrucking and hag slaying, he deserved a proper sleep. Jaskier was not going to ruin it for him.

So, when the niggling itch that had been softly buzzing behind his eyes worked its way to his sinuses, he tried his hardest to squelch the resulting sneeze into oblivion. 

The “Nnhgh-tch” that followed roused the Witcher enough that he sleepily reached across the bed and wrapped his arms around the bard. 

At first Jaskier reveled in the slightly-too-warm embrace, but when the tickle in his nose returned, mounting into an irrepressible itch deep in his sinuses, he suddenly realized he couldn’t move enough in his Witcher’s grasp to bring a hand to his face.

Oh gods. This was not going to work.

“Could I maybe have my arms back?” he whispered. There was no answer. Then, a little louder: “Geralt? Darling? Are you awake?” His answer was a stuffy snore.

The bard sighed and set about extricating himself from the bearhug, but Geralt just growled drowsily and pulled Jaskier closer, ignoring his indignant protests.

“Yes, dear, this is all very nice and all, but I’m…” He cut himself off with a hitching breath as the itch manifested itself. “I’m… heh… I’mgonnasneeze-“ his prediction was immediately confirmed with a wrenching “HehISHschew! Hesch! HurRATCHsch!”.

He tried to pull as far away from the Witcher as possible, but as soon as he could open his eyes, Jaskier was taken aback by the sight curled into the bed beside him. Geralt was panting, calloused hands clapped over his ears, eyes screwed shut. Jaskier’s heart caught in his throat.

“…Geralt?”

He only responded by curling in on himself, wincing further.

“Ooh, dear. See, this is the exact thing I was trying to avoid…” Jaskier tutted in a whisper. “Let’s get you laying back, aye? There we are. Is that better?” Geralt’s tense muscles relaxed minutely as the bard eased him back against the backboard.  

Jaskier could feel the warmth coming off him as he pressed Geralt’s shoulders gently into the pillows. He tsked lightly as he pressed a soft kiss to the Witcher’s forehead, frowning at the steady heat.

“I think your fever has gone up a bit, dear. You need to sleep.”

He did need to sleep. And Jaskier knew that he wouldn’t be able to if he was sharing a bed with a sneezy bard. So when Geralt finally relaxed enough that his steady breath faded into congested snoring, Jaskier eased himself up from the warmth of his Witcher’s side, cast a final longing look towards the bed he desperately wanted to curl up in, and pulled on his boots.

:::

He was already far from warm, but the jaunt from the inn door to the relative shelter of the stable left Jaskier freezing cold and soaked to the bone.

The stable boy had long since locked up shop and headed to bed, and Jaskier reveled in the privacy of the dark stalls, taking the opportunity to violently scrub at his nose away from the prying eyes of worried Witchers. 

The familiar scent of fresh hay and molasses and leather mingling in the air soothed the mind he was now certain was at least a bit fevered.

The stable was quaint, but thankfully fully enclosed. Not many strangers were looking to dock their horses this far off the trade routes, so it was easy to find the stall where Roach was untacked. Jaskier was relieved to see she hadn’t quite settled in for the night yet. At least he wasn’t disturbing her sleep. It’d been a long day on the Path for her, too.

Roach greeted her visitor with a worried nickering and a gentle nudge to his shoulder.

“I’m alright, girl.”

She snorted her dissent.

Jaskier melted onto the dusty floor and curled up in the corner of the stall, letting his heavy head loll backwards onto the wall.

The puff of thick dust and old hay he kicked up was enough to tip his hypersensitive nose over the edge. At least out here, he didn’t have to muffle the exhausted “huh… hurISHchiew” that ensued.

He wished he’d had the foresight to grab a handkerchief from his pack. As it was, he wiped his running nose on his sodden sleeve.

“Gods kill me now,” he whispered, throat too sore to give the Almighty a proper cursing out. Instead, he settled for pulling a spare threadbare saddle blanket around his shaking form and coughing into the shoulder of his rain-drenched chemise.

Sleep did not come easily to the bard. He was too uncomfortable to settle down. The blanket was itchy and rough and too thin to be of much use. The wall of the stable was harder against his back than the straw-padded floor, but if he laid down flat his nose would clog completely and the cold air would burn the back of his throat and set him coughing. It was too cold, and then halfway through the night it was suddenly too warm. Then it was freezing, more so even than the rain had been earlier.

At least he was soothed by the thought of Geralt getting a solid night’s sleep in the relative warmth of their room. It was that warm thought that finally settled him enough to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

:::

With his bright white hair mussed into a tangled halo, a sheathed sword thrown over his bedclothes, and his cat’s eyes scanning wildly, Geralt looked half madman, half monster. Hardly the sight Jaskier expected to wake up to. With the way the Witcher had practically knocked down the stable door, however, staying asleep was not much of an option.

Jaskier sat up groggily, trying to preserve what little dignity a man who’d slept in a pile of hay could. 

“Oh. Hello there. What brings you to these parts?” Jaskier’s voice was scratchy and thick as he feigned nonchalance. Geralt was having none of it.

“Gods Jaskier. What were you thinking? I had to find out where you were from the barkeep! What are you doing out here?”

“Didn’ wanna keep you up. Did you sleep well? Feel better?”

“Did I- Melitele’s fucking tits, Jaskier, did I sleep well?”

Jaskier smiled up at Geralt from his makeshift straw mattress.

“Sound better.”

“You certainly don’t.” He really didn’t. The congestion had settled firmly in his head overnight, dulling his ns and ts, and his throat was roughened. It sounded painful.

“You shouldn’t be out in this. It’s freezing. Come on. Up with you.”

The Witcher pulled his bard to his feet, but the sudden shift left Jaskier reeling. The pressure in his head felt unbearably heavy. He stumbled forward a step before Geralt caught him by the shoulder.

“Jaskier? Are you alright?” His voice was as soft as a Witcher’s could be, the poor attempt at soothing that was usually reserved for calming a spooked Roach. Instead of answering, Jaskier wilted into his grasp, clinging to his side like a drunken limpet. He moved his hand to the back of Jaskier’s neck, frowning at the warmth there. It was damp, too, so either Jaskier had been sweating through this fever for a while, or he’d slept in a soaked shirt. Probably both. 

“Come on. March. We need to get you into a proper bed.”

Jaskier made no attempt to assist Geralt, instead pawing at his chest like a child.

The Witcher sighed, but obliged. He gathered up the bard, wrapping him in the saddle blanket and holding him against his chest, and carried him back towards the inn.

Lucky for Shane, one of his best talents is masking everything that’s happening inside his head and setting on a polite face.

Unlucky for Shane, he has no ability to control the way his other head twitches when Ilya turns around, shuts the door like an afterthought, and says, “You have allergies?” 

“No, I don’t –” 

“You are sneezing so much.” He eyes Shane suspiciously. 

“Are you getting sick? Is this sabotage, Hollander? I am leaving for pre-season and you have this evil plan to infect me?” 

Holy shit. Ilya wants to fucking kill him. 

“No. Shut up.” Shane tries his hardest to remain casual. He sits at one of the stools at their kitchen island to hide the evidence from Ilya, who is still studying ingredients.

“Something’s bothering me, I guess.” Truer words have never been spoken. 

It’s not even the sneezing that is making him so hard. It’s the fact that he’s sneezing and Ilya is watching – even though he’s not really paying attention – and hearing everything. It’s that he’s present for every bit of Shane’s unraveling. 

It’s that Shane can’t control this unraveling as it happens. He’s trying, really fucking hard, to control it. He doesn’t want to sneeze. And that’s even worse because all the blood is rushing from his brain straight to his cock the longer he tries to tamper down the itchy feeling in his sinuses. 

He watches as Ilya fixes himself dinner. Shane had offered to make him something, when he’d arrived, but he had insisted on fending for himself. It’s off-season. I will find my own combination of foods I want to eat from Shane Hollander’s rabbit kitchen.

He scrubs at his nose. It’s still testing him. 

Ilya had arrived at their cottage and immediately swept Shane up in his arms. These arms included a bone-breaking hug and a forceful, hungry kiss. 

Shane had been all in, until he registered that Ilya was wearing something new on his skin. Whatever scent he had on had, unsuspectingly, made its way from his boyfriend’s pulse points and up into the recesses of his nasal cavity. And it had fucking burned. And itched. And… 

All this to explain why he’s been struggling ever since. A stifled fit into his boyfriend’s shoulder as they embraced had been the start. And now, three more itchy sneezes pinched between his forefinger and thumb — he understands why Ilya took notice. 

“Shane.” 

“Ilya.” 

Ilya sets down the spoon and leans against the counter, arms crossed. The evil-scented fabric of his shirt pulls across his muscular shoulders. Shane’s nose twitches traitorously as he tries to hold the gaze 

“Is it me?” Ilya asks. He doesn’t sound offended. He sounds more curious. A little careful, in the particular way he gets when he’s working something out.

Shane’s brain runs a very quick cost-benefit analysis. Cost: I have a weird kink. You’re going to chirp me about it forever. No, I can’t explain it. Benefits: My dick is so hard it hurts and I need you to touch me right now. Please. And maybe you’ll sneeze for me sometime. 

“It – hh – whatever you’re wearing,” he says. “I think I’m sensitive to it.”

Something shifts in Ilya’s face. He reaches his wrist to his nose and takes a deep, thoughtful sniff. 

“My cologne?”

“I think so.” Snf. 

“Hm. It is new. Test?” 

And Ilya is shoving his wrist under Shane’s nose before he can react. 

Shane’s mouth falls open with an involuntary moan because this just pushed a hidden button inside him. He claps a hand over it and shifts back in horror, but not before he gets a huge noseful of itchy musk. 

“Ehh’IkKh’SHhUu!!” He follows this up with three more desperate attempts at stifles. It’s so tickly, the scent, forcing its way into the back of his sinuses and activating some deep trigger. He’s been fighting it off, but to have it presented like that, so strongly. Like a hit of smelling salts.

Wetness leaks from his eyes and bursts between his tightly-clenched fingers at the tip of his nose. 

He needs to get out of here now. He will as soon as he can catch a breath. Ilya’s staring, he knows this for certain even with his own eyes screwed shut and free hand steepled over the lower half of his face. 

He gasps, head flicking up in an imitation of rage and giving his best glare to his boyfriend between irritated, watery eyes. He’s not where Shane had last seen him  – he’s standing beside Shane with a damp paper towel in his hand. 

“Sorry котик, I just rinsed my arms, okay?” He sounds genuinely regretful as he goes to wipe under Shane’s eyes, then all of a sudden stops with a jolt. His hand is half-raised to Shane’s face, but his gaze is down at — 

“Huh,” is all Ilya says, so quiet Shane almost misses it. He resumes wiping at Shane’s face. As if that isn’t ominous.

As the damp paper towel swipes under Shane’s nose, it triggers another sneeze. His immune system has been thrown into overdrive and is reacting on a hair trigger. 

“H’h’E’shz’ieWWw, hh!, hh, sor— eh’zS’CHEIWw!” And it’s right against Ilya’s large palm.

An itchy, desperate outburst of relief, freeing him from the violent building in his nose. It’s possibly the hottest thing he’s ever experienced. And also the most mortifying. He gasps out an apology between desperate, liquid sniffles, but he’s becoming even more distant and floaty. 

He’s so fucking needy. Ilya saw his visible arousal and ignored it. This never happens. So it’s a game for him, then. A game that Shane really wants to lose. 

He thinks Ilya is onto him and he’s being gentle about it. He wants him to call him out, to pin him up against the countertop and embrace his every filthy desire. 

“I…” his eyes are streaming, burning irritated red at the sides, and he wipes a wrist over the moisture, sniffling, “I…”

Suddenly, Ilya forces in. He flicks his tongue at his cupid's bow, collecting up wetness Shane hadn’t known was there. He moans involuntarily at the contact, words falling away. Ilya licks around his nostrils and sucks a wet kiss at his philtrum. He should, really, force him off. But he’s beyond high off the feeling, and Ilya is always his drug of choice. 

“You are sneezy from my cologne?” Ilya asks, as if his tongue hasn’t been making Shane crazy.

His whole body is on fire as he groans; and, finally, allows himself to palm at his own dick. Sparks tingle across his whole body with the contact. He might need aftercare just from this. 

“F-fuck. Yes. It’s – uh, shit. Touch me, please. I like it. When –” He can’t articulate it, but Ilya stops him with a primal, biting kiss to his lower lip. 

“You like to sneeze?” Ilya asks, voice lilting, yet sincere as he pulls away and runs a hand down Shane’s waist. His other hand thumbs at his cheek and moves towards the edge of his nostril. 

“No. I don’t think it’s –” he’s panting, floating in ecstasy; his eyes are still closed as he pulses with pure, unadulterated want. 

“I think maybe you do, no?” His boyfriend squeezes a hand over his dick and he moans with want. Moans. He feels the need for him rise up behind his eyes, splitting into bursts in his aching sinuses.

“It’s weird,” Shane complains with a careful sniffle, finding himself. He forces Ilya’s hand away from his leaking cock. “Fuck off.” 

“Is hot, too. If you like it? I will want to make you…” Ilya, the dirty bastard that he is, lets his voice trail off and licks his lips as he pauses for emphasis, “sneeze?”

“Fuck off.” He tingles, whole-bodied. Ilya is completely right, of course. Because there’s no way Shane would have ended up with anyone except someone who can read him completely. His brain is going static-y, like an unreachable channel.  

Ilya darts his tongue out to the tip of Shane’s nose and he gasps, shoving him off. 

He squeezes his nose between two tightly-held, flat palms as he stifles, once, twice, expression pinching as he shudders with the feeling. 

“I think you like that,” Ilya teases. He palms at Shane’s dick again and he shudders, moans, “but I will shower, okay?” 

If he insists, then Shane will wait. Even as he's so hard that he's seeing spots.

Pirates aren’t good at apologies.

It’s something Stede’s been trying to get used to, being rather the opposite by nature. He’ll use apologies as placeholders in conversation, as ways to ellipse between one thought and the next. It’s quite a bit different with other pirates, who tend to treat apologizing like one would treat the idea of cauterizing a wound.

In this case, like cauterization, it’s necessary but painful. In the few days since they’ve reunited, Edward has apologized to the crew (particularly Lucius) for the way he treated them during his “Kraken Period”. They’re wary but not unforgiving, although Stede knows it’ll take more than pretty words to earn back trust.

He’s said as much to Ed over the last couple of days, which is probably why this is happening right now.

This being the scene before him: Ed, dragging Izzy into the captains’ quarters by the short hairs on the back of his neck, then standing over the man with a confident smirk. And Izzy, kneeling at Ed’s feet without complaint, grimy and damp and exhausted. He’s sniffling and coughing and avoiding Stede’s eye with everything in him.

“What,” Stede says, finally breaking the heavy silence, “is this?”

“It’s an apology gift,” Ed says, grinning merrily and pressing a hand down on Izzy’s shoulder. The man doesn’t protest the touch, and Ed leaves it there. “Thought you might like to take the punishment out of the bastard’s hide yourself.”

Stede arches a brow and looks down at Izzy, who’s snuffling into the cuff of his sleeve and staring blankly at the floor beneath him. He looks filthy, with his hair an oily mess that hangs over his eyes and smudges of dirt on his face. He looks… helpless, but worse than that, resigned. It’s unsettling.

He hasn’t seen Izzy, really, since Ed took Stede and the crew back onto the Revenge. He hadn’t even thought to ask about him, he realizes, startling himself. “Where have you been keeping him?”

“The brig,” Ed answers. “Put him there once I realized how he’d messed with my head. Plus, I figured at least down there, none of the crew will want to kill him as bad. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that.”

“I… see.”

“You could make him walk the plank if you like? I know you’ve always wanted to do that,” Ed suggests. He looks down at Izzy, then makes a face. “We’ll have to fish him back out afterward, though. Can’t kill him. I mean, I get it if you want to, but he is a pretty good first mate, treason aside. Plus, nobody else can read my handwriting.”

Stede shakes his head, feeling oddly like an unnerved master whose proud puppy has brought him a mauled rodent. He looks down at Izzy, too: pathetic, filthy, submissive. “I don’t want to kill him,” he says softly.

Izzy makes a noise at that, although it’s hard to tell if he’s feeling relieved, scared, pissed off (the most likely of the bunch), or something else entirely. He still doesn’t look up from the floorboards of the ship.

“Well,” Ed says, confused and a bit relieved, “what do you wanna do with him, then? I can’t keep him in the brig forever. The crew needs to see that he’s been well-flogged. For all of it: selling us out to the Brits, being a lousy temp captain, pushing me past my… past my limits,” he finishes lamely, clearly conflicted about how to label his behavior as the Kraken. He looks away, shamefaced.

Stede glances at Ed, his heart beating faster. “Does it have to be public?” he asks, alarmed. “I don’t think I can… can whip anybody in public, or anything like that.”

“Doesn’t actually have to be whipping,” Ed clarifies, to Stede’s immense relief. “Or in public. Crew just needs to know it’s been dealt with. That seniority’s established, and bad behavior’s not allowed. Whatever you’re comfortable with doing, love.”

Izzy shivers under Ed’s hand at the endearment, even though it wasn’t directed at him. As if to distract the conversation entirely, he shivers again, harder, then crushes a thick, stifled sneeze into his shoulder. “hih’hgNSCHH!”

The silence afterward rings. “Are you cold?” Stede asks, addressing Izzy directly for the first time.

He doesn’t answer, looking steadfastly at the floor. After a few seconds, Ed nudges Izzy’s thigh with a boot, not quite hard enough to be called a kick. “He asked you a question, dog,” Ed barks. “Answer him.”

Izzy shifts uncomfortably, still trembling a little with cold and damp. “…yes,” he says finally, not looking up.

“‘Yes’, what?” Stede repeats, mocking him before he even consciously decides to do so. He’d been feeling almost piteous of Izzy earlier, but he’d forgotten just how much Izzy’s belligerence and attitude excites the dominant in him.

The man’s nostrils flare with lingering irritation, and Stede notices for the first time just how angrily pink they are. “Yes, sir,” Izzy bites out, then shudders forward with a viciously held back, snotty sneeze. “hahh—! hpp’TSsGHXXT!”

The spray that’s escaped glints in the candlelight of the captains’ quarters, and Stede is grateful for the mostly-dark of the room when it hides the faint burning in his cheeks. “Good dog,” he responds, watching Izzy sniffle. “‘Sir’ is what we call our betters. Now, would you like to be absolved?”

The look Izzy gives him when he finally, finally looks up and meets Stede’s eye is unreadable. Does he understand? Does he want it? He shifts against the floorboards, his knees surely protesting the rough treatment. “Do what you want,” he mutters eventually, looking away again like Stede’s seen too much in his eyes. “Y’can throw mbe back in the brig. Toss mbe out when we reach a port.”

His eyes, when he can’t resist flickering them up to catch sight of Stede again, are some strange mix of exhausted, bewildered, afraid, and defiant. Izzy in a nutshell, then.

Ed’s hand tightens on Izzy’s shoulder. “Just said we weren’t getting rid of you,” he reminds him forcefully. “I need you here. But you’re gonna make things right with Stede first, d’you understand?”

Izzy clenches his jaw and lets out a huff through mostly-blocked nostrils. “Finde,” he mutters stuffily. “Do whatever you have to, just… ndot in front of the crew. Ndot like this.”

It gives away more than he wants to. Stede studies Izzy for a moment. Not like this? What can that mean?

He sees the dirt and grime, yes, but no pirate really cares about that. He sees the way Izzy slumps under Ed’s touch, but Izzy’s never been bothered by his codependence-slash-hero-worship of Blackbeard, even in public.

But then he sees the way Izzy’s nose scrunches and wrinkles with irritation, the same tickle that hasn’t left him alone since he got dragged into the captains’ quarters. He sees the way Izzy’s nostrils are red-rimmed and raw from too much forceful rubbing. He sees how Izzy shivers, still damp from his time down in the wet, frigid brig. The dazed brightness in his eyes and flush to his cheeks— it almost looks like—

“Caught a cold down in that drafty brig, eh, Israel?” he asks, stretching out a leg and nudging Izzy with the toe of a shoe until he reluctantly looks his way. “Answer me.”

Izzy stiffens at his full name and then sniffles, the sound near-deafening in the cold silence of the cabin. “Yeah,” he finally mutters. “Sir.”

Well. That changes things a bit, doesn’t it? Stede makes a show of moving around the cabin, surveying Izzy from the sides and the back, getting a good look at him. He looks miserable, stuffy and exhausted and dirty. He needs a bath, a bed, and a hot meal—a bowl of soup, from the looks and sounds of him.

But it isn’t Stede’s job to baby him. Moreover, right now Izzy wouldn’t let him if he tried, and Ed would probably laugh himself hoarse at the prospect of it.

No. It’s Stede’s job to punish him.

That word catches in his thoughts like a sword in a wooden mast, and suddenly he understands the conflicted look on Izzy’s face. Izzy doesn’t want the absolution, the release from the weight of his actions. No, he wants something much more flagellating. The way he looks up at Ed, heart in his eyes and obviously hating himself for it, confirms that well enough. He wants—

“You want to be punished, don’t you?” Stede asks. “You want to feel the weight of what you’ve done, taken out of your flesh. Hm?”

Izzy is very careful not to look at him. His jaw tightens just the tiniest bit.

Right. “Ed, get my hairbrush, please,” Stede says, without looking away from the sickly little man sprawled on his floor. When Ed’s footsteps echo throughout the cabin, he jerks his head in a pointing motion for Izzy. “You, lay over the arm of the couch.”

Izzy looks up at him, and it strikes Stede then that Izzy looks like a grimy Renaissance painting: all sharp angles and soft light and fierce, broken eyes. “Fucking make me,” he spits out.

Instinctually, Stede looks over at Ed, who’s standing at his desk, the wooden hairbrush in hand. Ed raises an eyebrow, as if to say, You’re in charge. What are you gonna do about it, then?

That look pushes and steadies him all at once, giving him a new source of bravery he’s not sure he’s ever felt before. He grabs Izzy by the back of his collar and yanks, tossing him halfway across the room. Before Izzy can scramble back onto his hands and knees, Stede strides over, heels clicking on the wood ominously, and grabs him again, this time throwing him over the arm of the couch.

Izzy grunts, face buried into the seat of it, and manages to lift his head up as Stede approaches, squinting. Before he can really start in on him, though, his nostrils flare and his eyes struggle to remain open. “You fucking—fuhh—hh’IXTCHSH!” he sneezes, stifling it into the fabric of the couch. His inhale, when it comes again, is sharp and desperate, unrelieved. “huh… huh’GXTshh!”

“Hush,” Stede says firmly. Before Izzy can struggle anymore, he reaches forward and tugs down the man’s breeches, exposing him from the swell of his ass down to the very tops of his thighs. Without hesitation, he holds out his hand expectantly. “Ed?”

Ed presses the hairbrush into his hands, then takes a step back, letting Stede keep control.

“Thank you,” Stede says, rotating the wooden brush so that he can use the flat back of it. Then, before Izzy can prepare himself, he gives him an abrupt, fierce smack.

Izzy’s surprised; that’s probably the only reason he flinches. When the next smack comes, he’s careful to remain taut, unyielding, which only makes Stede want to hit harder. He starts in on a series of hits, making sure to thoroughly spread the spanking across Izzy’s ass and thighs.

Smack, smack, smack. He goes fast, alternating where each hit lands. Smack. Smack. SMACK! For unmeasurable minutes, this goes on, with Stede carefully but thoroughly layering hits to Izzy’s poor, sensitive flesh. The skin of Izzy’s ass and thighs quickly turns into a mottled, angry pink, nearly matching the state of his nose.

Speaking of which. Izzy shivers under a particularly resounding spank. It’s unclear if it’s because he’s cold or because of the pain, until he ducks into the couch with another frightfully stifled, “hh’gttSSCHH!”

This one sounds thicker, messier. Stede stops for a moment, long enough to peer down at Izzy in the candlelight. He looks… drippy, in a word.  Mess, thick and sluggish, clings to his nostrils and upper lip; stifling is clearly doing him no favors. Slick spray dots his jaw from the sneezing. But also, Stede can’t help but notice the streaking tears, cascading from the rims of Izzy’s eyes, down his nose and cheeks.

“Oh, you are pitiful,” he murmurs, and Izzy tries to scowl up at him but has to bark out a cough instead, hoarse and wet. “Doesn’t it hurt, to hold them back like that?”

“He’s always done it,” Ed answers, some strange mix of nostalgia and mockery coloring his voice. “Given himself a fucking sinus infection every time he’s been sick in the past twenty years. Stupid bastard.” That last part is almost fond.

Izzy squirms over the arm of the couch. “Why,” he pants out, looking frustrated to the point of more tears, “have you fucked stopped?”

Not letting himself overthink his actions, Stede brings down the brush to strike with firm precision, one strong slap to the upper thighs to make Izzy jerk uncontrollably. “I didn’t tell you to speak,” he says harshly. “You will take your punishment in whatever way I see fit. Do you understand, Israel?”

A beat of silence, and Izzy sniffles. “Yes, sir,” he says thickly, through tears and snot.

“Good dog,” he says coldly, ignoring the thrill of warmth that chases through him when Izzy shivers at those words. He rests a possessive hand on Izzy’s ass cheek, throbbing and red—a gesture of ownership. “Oh, you are a dog, aren’t you? Poor little pup. Bad dogs have to be punished when they make a mess, and you’ve made an awful mess of yourself and everything else, Israel.”

Izzy whimpers. Unconsciously, he gives an undignified jerk backwards, pressing himself into Stede’s palm as he begs wordlessly to be hit again.

Stede pulls back instinctively, temper flaring. “What did I just say?” he demands. “I set the terms of this punishment, not you. If you’re going to misbehave, I’ll just have to alter the spanking to suit my needs. Sit up.”

As soon as Stede starts speaking, Izzy flinches forward into the couch, then freezes when he’s commanded to move. Stede barks out, “Up!”, taking his hand off Izzy’s ass cheek and pulling Izzy up by the back of his shirt. Izzy staggers backward a little, his back pressing into Stede’s front with a feverish warmth, and he lets out a choked moan.

For a moment, Stede almost feels guilty. He almost wants to check in on Izzy, to stop this. Instead, he steps away and goes around Izzy to settle down in the middle of the couch. Izzy looks at him hesitantly, still bent forward the slightest bit at the waist to avoid irritating his bruising flesh with movement. “Come over here,” Stede says calmly, patting his own thigh. The hairbrush, held tight in his other hand, glints in the candlelight.

Izzy hurries to comply, standing in front of Stede with a baffled, dazed look. He has tears streaking down his face, leaving clean lines in the grime and dust that coat him from his time in the brig. The mucus and spray still dot his mustache and beard, making him look oddly messy and even more vulnerable than the crying had, and Stede finds himself reaching out a gentle hand. “Come here.”

Hesitating, Izzy looks between Stede and his outstretched hand, then takes it. His own hand is rough and hardened compared to Stede’s uncallused palm, signaling a life of harshness and violence.

And here he is, crying over a little spanking and a cold. “Pathetic,” Stede says softly, then yanks Izzy down so that he lands, ass over teakettle, in Stede’s lap.

In the half-second it takes for Izzy to realize he’s facedown in the couch, with his exposed ass balanced on Stede’s thighs for best viewing, he’s already struggling. Stede is forced to use his free arm to pin Izzy’s legs so that he can’t kick away. “Now, now,” he scolds. “Bad dog!”

The glancing smack of the hairbrush against flesh is loud but ultimately unsatisfying, and Izzy lets out a sudden, desperate sob at the lack of sensation.

“You’re teasing,” Ed observes quietly from across the room, his eyes glinting wickedly in the candlelight. “Iz likes a bit of pain, actually.”

“Oh,” Stede grins, “I’m aware. But he’s not exactly behaving, is he?”

Izzy wriggles in Stede’s lap and gives a low whine.

“Hush,” Stede tells him, pressing the wooden back of the brush against the overheated, pulsing flesh of Izzy’s ass, teasing him with the pressure of it. He smirks when Izzy lets out a plaintive whine, begging for more. “My pet, what did we say? I’m the one setting the terms for this, remember?”

Izzy nods, frantically, thrusting back against Stede and with his face well-hidden in the fabric of the couch. “Wh-whatever you want,” he pleads. “J-just don’t stop.”

“Pretty little whore,” Stede says fondly. He runs a hand through Izzy’s unkempt hair and listens to the other man sniffling. “I will continue the spanking you so richly deserve if, and only if, you let yourself sneeze. None of that stifling, it isn’t good for you. Not to mention, I think it will be quite humiliating for you to be forced to let them out,” he adds. “Are we agreed, my pet?”

Izzy’s gone still against him. “C-can’t,” he croaks, then sucks in a shattering breath and lets out an absolutely soaking stifled sneeze. “hgg’GXSSHH!”

“I think you can,” Stede croons, stroking stinging, oversensitive flesh at the juncture between Izzy’s ass and thighs. Izzy whines and makes a concerted effort to back into Stede’s hold. “Stop wriggling, pet. Edward?”

Ed brightens at the mention of his name. “Yeah?”

“Why don’t you come and help.”

Beaming, Ed crosses the room in a flash and, at Stede’s direction, finds himself seated right next to him. Izzy’s face ends up resting on his crotch, sniffling thickly against his leathers.

“Give him a taste?” Stede suggests. “He might just need something to do with his mouth.”

Ed nods eagerly. He opens his trousers one-handed while he uses the other to hold up Izzy’s head. “Ready?” he asks.

Izzy’s eyes are some stage in-between starstruck and dazed, and he’s looking at Ed with pure, feverish worship. “Y-yes, captain,” he says, clearing his throat and snuffling with the mess that threatens to cascade down his lip.

“Good boy,” Ed nearly growls, and then he shoves Izzy down on his cock.

Izzy’s forced to swallow him down whole, unless he wants to be impaled, and for a moment Stede worries that he’s going to choke. But they must be well-practiced at this, him and Ed, because in the end Izzy only closes his eyes and starts to suck, blissfully, like a puppy at its mother’s teat.

“So fucking pretty,” Ed murmurs, watching Izzy suck contentedly.

“Mm,” Stede agrees, reaching to grab Ed by the collar and bring him into a rough, passionate kiss. Mindful of the man in their laps, he shifts a bit, slotting their mouths together and dragging his teeth along Ed’s bottom lip. “You both are,” he breaks off to whisper against Ed’s mouth. “So fucking lovely.”

Ed groans and kisses him again, biting and sucking. When Izzy does something new in his ministrations to Ed’s cock, Ed will shudder into Stede’s mouth, clutch harder at his shoulder. Stede struggles to remain unaffected, to see this through to the end.

Ed’s getting close—a rising tension in his body, a telltale stiffening in his limbs—when Izzy pops off with a gasp, dribbles of precum clinging to his lips. He heaves for air, once, twice, before crashing down and spraying Ed’s lap with an uncovered, heaving, “hhK’SCHHHIEWW!”

For a second, there’s silence. Ed shivers at the cool mist settling on his cock, then gives a wide grin. “Iz?”

“Fuckin’—tickled,” Izzy chokes out, evidently fighting off another sneeze.

Stede is grinning merrily. “You did very well,” he promises, feeling how Izzy goes taut at the praise. “Letting it out like that. Which I believe means that you deserve what you asked for.”

“I—” Izzy starts, but he’s interrupted by the resounding, satisfying SMACK of the hairbrush against his ass. He reacts instantly, nearly jolting facefirst into Ed’s still-hard dick, and lets out a high whine of pleasure. “…fuck— hihh—”

“Again?” Stede asks, pleased.

“heh-hehHH—!”

He brings down the hairbrush twice, for two concentrated slaps to Izzy’s cheeks, as an encouragement and a punishment all in one. “Good boy.”

“HEH-HETCHHSHhh!” he bursts, a damp, thick sneeze. His head comes down to rest against Ed’s hipbone, his eyes glazed. “Fugck.”

“Suck me off again,” Ed orders, but Izzy’s too focused on the continuing tickle in his nose. He cups a hand around the back of Izzy’s head. “Iz.”

The touch makes Izzy shudder, and he sniffles against the indelible tide of snot cascading down his face. “Cand’t,” he says hoarsely.

The defeat in his voice makes Stede lean in and examine him. “He’s so fucking stuffy,” Stede murmurs, sounding almost appreciative. He looks up at Ed. “Don’t think he can manage to suck you off and breathe at the same time, love.”

Ed rolls his eyes good-naturedly, then pulls Izzy’s head closer to his cock. “Still got a tongue, don’t you, Iz? Be a good dog. Lick,” he commands.

Tentatively, Izzy goes back to working at Ed’s cock, laving him with tiny, kittenish licks. Ed’s hard-on regrows under the attention, and he writhes a little under it, until it’s clear that he’s having to actively resist the urge to fuck into Izzy’s poor, stuffed-up face.

Meanwhile, Stede is running his hands over Izzy’s body, pinching and squeezing at abused, reddened flesh. He takes both cheeks in his hands, enjoying the pulsing heat of the beaten, fevered flesh, and digs his fingernails into the skin. He feels a wash of satisfaction come over him every time his touch causes Izzy to give a snotty gasp, interrupting his cocklicking session for however temporarily.

But it all comes to a head—literally—by the time Ed cums. With Stede having switched one hand to brush idly through his hair, and Izzy paying such gentle but undeterred attention to his cock, Ed soon grows overwhelmed. Jerking under Izzy’s tongue, he lets out a soft cry and thrusts upward, decorating Izzy’s face and throat with cum.

The sight of Ed like that—eyes closed, lips parted as if waiting for a treat—nearly sends Stede over the edge as well. He groans and digs his nails into Izzy’s ass cheek, then picks up the hairbrush he’d set to the side. “Shall we finish this, Israel?”

Izzy’s panting against Ed’s softening cock, as though the sight has him similarly affected. “Please,” he whines, actually whines, with no hint of disobedience or reluctance. He writhes in Stede’s hold, though this time it’s recognizably due to the raging hard-on he’s got buried in Stede’s lap.

Stede can relate. He teases the teeth of the hairbrush, harsh and smooth all at once, against the tender flesh of Izzy’s ass. When Izzy cries out from this, jumping in his lap, Stede uses the moment of surprise to switch sides and bring down the flat back of the hairbrush, hard.

“You did well,” he says, loudly enough to be heard over the barrage of smacks he lays down against Izzy’s ass and thighs. “And good dogs deserve a treat, don’t they?”

Izzy lets out a cry, high-pitched and agonized, and digs his dirty fingers into the couch. “Haven’t,” he manages to choke out, gasping and sobbing for air. Tears glint at the corners of his eyes, and he sniffles thickly. “Hav-havend’t beend good.”

Stede exchanges a look with Ed, who’s come out of his post-orgasm haze enough to give Stede an encouraging nod. Buoyed by their agreement, Stede hands Ed the hairbrush and uses both arms to pull Izzy upright.

Bewildered, Izzy lets him, sinking easily onto his knees on the floor in front of where they sit. “What’s going on?” he mumbles, and gravity sends the tears down his face. He brings up one hand to investigate and stares at the clear wetness on his knuckles, seeming surprised to find that he’s crying again. His chest hitches with what’s either a buildup or a sob, revealed to be both when he flinches forward with a vocal, scraping sneeze. “heh—! hehh’EISSHH’ahh!”

“You were bad before,” Stede says lowly, in a controlled tone, once it’s clear that Izzy isn’t about to sneeze again. He doesn’t react when his words makes Izzy shudder. “You betrayed me and Edward. And you hurt him terribly. You caused such a lot of pain.”

The tears come faster, but Izzy doesn’t shy away from the telling of it. He only blinks away the tears obstructing his vision and listens, a kind of self-induced penitence. “I know,” he rasps, his voice breaking. He bends his head low and his shoulders shudder, the acknowledgment forcing the tears to come even harder. “hihh’ISSCHHSH! huh… huh’TSSCHHSHOO!”

“But,” Stede says gently, causing Izzy to freeze, “I know you are capable of being good. You’ve been so good for us, here. Hasn’t he, Ed?” he turns to ask.

“Oh, yes,” Ed replies quietly. “He’s been very good.”

Stede starts to reply, but he can’t continue—the sound of sobbing interrupts him.

Izzy’s crying loudly now, his shoulders shaking with each heaving exhale, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m— I’m—”

Stede raises a brow and exchanges a glance with an equally uncertain Ed. Though they’ve pushed Izzy very far tonight, Stede didn’t think he’d react quite so openly, or so remorsefully. He thought that would take more than one session. But maybe Izzy really is just that desperate for absolution, despite what he said before. Maybe he just wants to belong again. To two captains, this time.

“You’re what?” he decides to ask, tone gentle, prepared for whatever Izzy might say.

“I’m sorry,” Izzy sobs bitterly, rivulets of tears and mucus streaming down his face. His eyes are sticky-shut with crying, so he doesn’t see Stede bend down to take his chin in hand.

But he must feel the fingers cradling his jaw, and then the press of Stede’s lips against his forehead, a kiss of benediction. “You are forgiven,” Stede murmurs, his touch light, gentle.

Izzy cries even harder at that.

Ed’s hand comes down, warm and weighing on Izzy’s shoulder. “Just breathe,” he soothes. “There you go, hard part’s done, love. You did very well.”

For a few minutes after that, there’s just the sounds of crying, soft and weary and gasping. Izzy seems to need it, and the tears act as a release for all of the pent-up emotions of the last several months. Neither of them move to wrap him up in an embrace—they don’t want to scare him off. Though perhaps, Stede thinks, that isn’t as much of a threatening possibility as it was before tonight.

“You’re ours now,” he says quietly, once Izzy’s crying has slowed to hitching breaths and frequent sniffles. “Mine and Ed’s. You belong to us. And there will be no running away, no betrayal, no hurting each other.” He pauses. “Emotionally hurting, I mean. I will be using the hairbrush, if and when your behavior merits it.”

Izzy’s looking up at him with those big, wet, dark eyes, those Renaissance-painting eyes, and he says nothing but he’s gone very still. After a long moment, he takes in a quick breath and lowers his gaze, finally letting himself speak, though his voice catches on the word. “Yours?” he asks.

“Ours,” Stede promises. “No torn loyalties. The three of us, together. If you want it.”

Ed leans down to run a hand down Izzy’s back, a motion meant to calm him and show ownership all at once. “If you want it, sweetheart.”

Because he’s all cried out, Izzy doesn’t tear up again, but he does slump into Ed’s touch. When Stede tentatively runs his own fingers through Izzy’s hair, Izzy goes completely slack, chin coming to rest on Stede’s knee. “Yes,” he mumbles. “Please.”

Stede grins and exchanges a quick kiss with Ed. “Good,” he says softly. “Ed, would you mind getting some hot water from the kitchens? I think the poor dear needs a bath. Wipe all that grime away, you know.”

Nodding, Ed stands. He rests his hand on Izzy’s head for a moment, fingers digging into his hair possessively, before he lets go and steps out of the room.

Izzy stays, sagged against Stede’s legs, and he barely reacts when Stede dislodges him to stand up. He sits up on his own, but just barely, wavering with bone-tiredness.

When Stede sinks down into a crouch in front of him, at eye level now, Izzy gives him a look that’s too exhausted to be curious. When Stede’s hand slips under Izzy’s trousers and closes around his cock, which is just as hard as the rest of him is limp with weariness, he gives a little shiver, which leads directly into a tiny, fatigued sneeze. “hh’tshchh!”

“I’m very proud of you, dear,” Stede says simply, running his thumb along the head of Izzy’s cock. He presses in, slightly, with the nail—just enough to cause a little pain. “You’ve been so good.”

With a hoarse cry, Izzy shudders forward, his face coming to rest in the crook of Stede’s neck as he cums into Stede’s hand. After, he’s left panting and sagging, unable to keep himself upright. It’s all right, though. Stede’s happy to hold him up.

Ed returns with the water. Together, he and Stede carry Izzy to the bath, where it’s just warm enough to keep him from shivering too much. Stede washes Izzy’s hair and face, taking care to clean up the mess left there, including the dried jizz, while Ed wipes Izzy’s body clean with a handcloth.

It’s gentle and quiet, none of them speaking, only interrupted by the sounds of splashing water and Izzy’s sniffles. He lets out a few soft, damp, exhausted sneezes into the crook of his arm, which only forces Stede to clean his face again, this time with a handkerchief.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Ed says, half proud and half possessive, when he and Stede towel Izzy dry and examine him, clean and bare, in the candlelight.

“Yes, quite lovely indeed,” Stede agrees.

Izzy’s gone pink under his beard, and he avoids their eyes. “Fuck off,” he mutters congestedly, but there’s no anger in his tone, only embarrassment. “hh’dschh!”

Stede clucks his tongue. “Let’s get you into bed, where you can blow your nose and go to sleep,” he orders. “You need rest before that cold turns to pneumonia.”

“Yes, Captain,” Izzy murmurs tiredly, not even seeming to notice the title he’s bestowed upon Stede, though Ed and Stede exchange a glance of surprise. He lets them escort him into the bed, where Ed crawls in ahead of him and Stede behind, and they wrap around him like determined octopi until he, rather quickly, falls into a heavy, cold-ridden sleep.

All in all, Stede thinks, quite a productive session. “Turns out some pirates can say sorry after all,” he whispers into the darkness, after he’s blown out the last candle.

Able to hear him over Izzy’s faint, stuffy snores, Ed chuckles. “Wouldn’t expect to hear it from him again. Might be the first time he’s said sorry in his life,” he says, squeezing an arm round Izzy’s middle affectionately.

Izzy mutters something wordless at the pressure and resumes his snoring.

“Worth it,” Stede decides. “He was quite pretty when he was saying it.”

“Gorgeous crier, Iz,” Ed says agreeably, a quiet murmur accompanied by a yawn as he starts to drift off to sleep himself.

Stede lays there, awake, for a while longer, feeling how Ed holds his hand across Izzy’s body, how Izzy curls up between the two of them like he’s desperate for the touch. He’s never behaved like that before in his life, taking control and spanking people and all that, and yet it felt amazing. And the three of them, each for their own different reasons, seemed to need it.

“What do we have here?” The man of the duo asked, arms open in an inviting sense. Thalin eyed his huge biceps, gaze following the planes of his well-toned forearms to the woman beside him. Drow as well, with hair a fine pink which he suspected might be dye recovered from underdark bioluminescent mushrooms. She had freckles, like his own, and a warm smile. She seemed to notice his slight hesitation and spoke first instead. 

“Nym,” She introduced, and gave a shallow nod, “And Sorn. A pleasure.”

“Ah. Thal-“ Hell, he was with those who share a common tongue, “Z’Thalylin. I…admittedly did not know I was in a brothel,” Thalin said with a laugh, “But I am not one to pass up the opportunity either. A nice establishment...”

Speaking now, he could take in the sight of this man. It was like he was too worried to look, in fear he might fall in too deep. Just his type. Strong, sturdy, squarish jaw. Medium-length white hair that flowed in shallow waves. Reminded him of a certain someone. Multiple someones. It was like a mixture of the most attractive men he’d ever met. His eyes landed on the barbed mantle over his broad chest. 

“Really?” Sorn’s voice waved away his distraction. It was light in tone, low in pitch. “Well, an opportunist like yourself must have something in mind already. You could spend time with me, if you are looking for something indulgent..! Or perhaps a bit of a softer touch, with my compatriot here? You strike me as a romantic…”

Thalin glanced between them again.

“Oh, guilty,” He answered with a hum and glanced over his shoulder. Wasn’t there some kind of heroic world-saving he was supposed to be doing? Instead, he was falling into the old habit of ogling some bare-chested man, “I do like the sound of you both.”

“Is that your partner with you?” Nym asked, “What a dashing couple...! Perhaps…some sort of agreement could be made?”

“N-no! Not a couple, but, ah, I would not be opposed. If there is time,” Thalin quickly answered, “Business. Business only.”

“Oh, a shame. Well, should you still be interested, we would both be happy to join you, Mr…Z’Thalylin.”

Nym’s hands graced his lapels. Flashes of his twenties came back in a rush. Underdark parties like none other. Evenings spent tangled in the limbs of fellow students of the arcane. 

“I can’t help but notice you are not in a rush to leave,” Sorn leaned in, “Indecisive? Please, take your time, though I must vouch for my, ahem, portfolio. No request is too absurd, no fantasy too challenging. Whatever you could think of, someone has asked for it. Any pleasure, it could be yours for if not just a fleeting moment.”

Thalin’s lips pursed. This man…he had a dorkiness to his demeanour at that moment which went straight to his dick. He could practically hear the eye rolling from his gaggle of adventuring mates just outside the curtain. 

“Oh, stop, he’s going to start announcing his 'Menzobaranzzen love trick',” Nym teased with folded arms. 

“I don't mean to brag, it's a good one. You wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“My interest is piqued,” Thalin totted his head, “And, I cannot say I have enjoyed a companion in a while. Your services, I can request something niche?”

“Why certainly. I am hoping to try one I have never heard of,” Sorn answered. Confidently, Thalin noted. 

“And…does that extend to you?” He turned to Nym. 

“Now you have my interest piqued instead. Something niche with the both of us?” 

“If it’s not too much to ask for.”

“Not at all. If you have the coin, for formality. Shall we?”

Thalin gave a nod. The look in Sorn’s eyes and the touch of Nym’s hand on his jacket made his collar feel tight. Of course, he could afford it. He didn’t have to justify this! Weeks of being on the road, adventuring left, right, centre, without a moment of peace in a lush mattress with clean sheets! He deserved to spend! 

“Yes- we should-“

Thalin staggered past his party, coin purse being hurriedly untied from his belt as he followed the two upstairs. One could practically hear his gold-plated heels clatter on the floorboards as he shut the door behind him. 

—————

Now in the privacy of the ‘Underdark Pleasures’ (a name Thalin did his best to keep from poking fun at), he felt a terrible sense of ego rushing over him. What was he doing right now? A little side adventure to fulfill his own pleasures? Seemed like he was using valuable time. Old habits die very hard, he realized, already undoing his coat. 

“Now, very curious, where does a man like yourself hail from?” Nym was sitting on the bed, motioning him to come over so she could speak to him more softly. Sorn was helping him out of his coat, “Can’t help but notice a lack of an accent. You’re not from the Underdark?”

“Afraid not. I am from the coast, if you could believe it. It is what intrigues me about this love trick you are speaking of. I feel like I ought to know, should someone be so lucky to ask me to perform it.”

“In due time..!”

He felt the heaviness of his coat leaving his shoulders, and what remained was the thin frilly poet shirt underneath. It hung off his narrow shoulders, ensuring he could feel Sorn’s whole palm as it rubbed over his arm. 

“Now what is it we can do for you?” Nym took his hand, and he noticed her perfect nails, “A bit of conversation? Attention?”

“I do like attention…”

“Does a man from the coast fancy himself a captain? You seem to call the shots for your group,” A finger danced playfully with the cords of his shirt before letting them dangle. “Those responsibilities do not bear weight here. If you want to let it all go, you just ask.” 

“I…suppose. Perhaps once we actually start,” He hummed, getting a nod from them both, “Can I be frank with you both?”

“Certainly.”

“Yes.”

“I have this…hm, the word is- what is it? A…paraphillia.”

“Go on,” Sorn’s brow raised. His head tilted in intrigue as he leaned in from Thalin’s right. 

“When-“ He folded his hands. Nothing to be embarrassed about, these are professionals, “Wh-when I used to indulge in snuff and other- hm- stimulants, you know, alcohol, sex, I somehow developed an attraction for the…the sneezing. That came with it.”

His teeth grit hard enough that he could feel his fangs ache. It would hardly be the first time he’d asked this service, being over a century old, but it was definitely not something he paraded. Especially outside the comforts of his own home, where he would decidedly have more of a grip on its discretion. 

“I suppose it is rather harmless, compared to the majority of peoples’ interests,” Thalin added before there was a chance to respond. He could feel their gaze shifting to him and then to each other, “I have regular interests too, more your style, based on your fashion. Rope, binding, being handled-! We can certainly do either, and I would be very satisfied!”

“Either? Why not both?” Sorn leaned forward so Thalin’s avoidant gaze could catch him in its peripheral. He was smiling, “In fact, all the better. I can happily take care of that.”

When he stood, Thalin spotted a series of leather tools tucked away in the decorative bedding. Belts, straps, silken rope. A hand on his cheek guided him back. 

“Tell me more about this, I’m so curious,” Nym asked. Her smooth nails dragged against his cheek before tracing the bridge of his nose, “What is it you enjoy? All things considered, it’s quite the charming kink, really, no teeth at all. Lest I am mistaken?” 

Thalin let her hand rest there, taking a slow inhale as he contemplated his thoughts. She smelled so fine, like a rich wine. He found his lips drifting to her palm, soon to be her arm as it travelled around to his nape. To be on his back, lavishing someone, it was like a high he sorely missed. When she pulled him down on the mattress, he felt a weight lift from his chest. 

“Perhaps a bit of darkness, though, that hardly becomes relevant with you, I’m sure,” Sorn hummed. Thalin looked past Nym’s draping hair to see his hands wrapped with a luxurious rope. The room’s lights had dimmed, faint glowing orbs that hovered around the lanterns, “But- do answer her. I am most intrigued about your answer.”

No pressure, he could have added. Thalin held his hands up, getting a little surprised nod from Sorn, who was about to offer him the rope as a courtesy.

“What can I say? Where do I start? I think of it much like a release. That much is simple,” Thalin hummed, turning over so he’d be lying on his stomach. His heels dangled off the edge of the bed, and he put his hands on the small of his back, wrists crossed. There was a soft ‘ah’ of understanding, before he felt Sorn’s fingers undoing the knot of the rope to bind him. 

“Someone’s presumptive…” He scolded lightly.

Thalin continued, “I suppose the actual feeling of sneezing is nice. I have not found anyone who would disagree with me thus far. The look on a companion’s face. Do you understand if I called it a great equalizer? It’s quite hard to hide your lack of control from someone when you’re about to sneeze. Better still if the person is…well put together, which I am very lucky to be and be in the company of.”

“Alright, flatterer. And an eloquent one, too, I was right pinning you as a romantic-" Oh, to be pinned, Thalin thought as Sorn spoke, "Peculiar, but so very stimulating. Is that a look I should be expecting to see tonight?” His broad hand traced the noble's narrow jaw and nudged it to the side so he could look. Thalin’s hair was already out of its neat comb as he had buried his forehead into the sheets, “Or shall I give you the pleasure?”

“…perhaps,” He answered hopefully, “If I must indulge myself, seeing as I may very well be adventuring myself to death by morning…as you had said, why not both?”

“Aha! How perverse."

“I can picture it on your features nicely,” Nym added, helping to tuck his tied wrists up against his spine, “You have lovely brows. I’d love to see them twisted with desperation…there. You just tell me if you’re feeling a bit too tense, yes? Not too uncomfortable?”

“Just the right amount, thank you,” Thalin answered. He turned his head, sighing as his face settled on the mattress. She was looking with such fondness in her eyes, “Ah, I realize this might be a bit unconventional, my hands being tied, but I have methods, I assure you. I’d like to be handled as much as possible– hmm…”

“Something else you want to add to this little fantasy before we start, darling?”

He breathed in again. Yes, actually. How could she tell? Just from the sigh? These guys were good.

“Could I ask–” Thalin cleared his throat. He was still helming this ship. May as well sneak in one more request before he was rocked onto this bed. He was spending indulgently, and their company was promising. He didn’t dare let the pause grow, “Perhaps…I’d…like to take you from behind and you from the front? Just– ugh, for that matter, go rough! Tear my pants off, actually!”

“My word! I knew you had that spark in you!”

He felt a pair of strong hands grab him by the waist, the hem of said pants. It could be either of them, not that he bothered to look. Someone’s palm pushed his head into the bedding as the button of his riding pants gave way to a yank. Thalin instinctively let out a moan to the utter delight of Sorn behind him. 

It took little time, but Thalin felt his body flush as he was stripped to the boots. Nym had a harness which tightened with these thin leather strips. When she fastened it to herself, it struck his back thigh and stung like a crop. A welt appeared over his freckled leg. 

“Tell me, Z’Thalylin,” Sorn had lifted him from his restraints before helping him to his feet. Thalin looked down at himself: heels wobbling, his pants gathered just below his knees where his boots tightened, shirt hanging loose over his exposed cock. Sorn took his spot on the bed and casually folded his legs. Underneath the fine silk tabard, something stirred, “You wish to ‘take me from the front’? Big talk, I hope you know what you’re readying yourself for.”

“He can do it, can’t he?” Nym urged, pressing up against him. There was something between her legs. It felt like warm glass, firm…ridged. The flesh-like quality of leather rubbed up on his thigh. Thalin groaned quietly at the thought of her flush against him, “He can practice.”

She bent him over until he was draped over the bed before sticking her fingers in his mouth. 

“I have an idea,” Sorn offered. He slid down, head resting on a burly arm. Thalin’s eyes widened slightly, muffled by those smooth nails on the surface of his tongue. Meeting eye to eye, he realized now Sorn was holding a quill. He was probably not the first to ask for some feather-related experience. His response was quick but incoherent, and he only got a word in as Nym removed her fingers from his drooling mouth.

“I-I cannot- aagh-kh!use my mouth and-”

“No, no,” Sorn tutted, “You stay where you are. I’m talking about me.”

“Ahh-?” 

“It would be nice. I’d like to see what it does to you,” Nym leaned down. Thalin felt her fingers trace his chin. Her body pressed into his, her bare chest on his shoulder blades, “Where shall we be aiming, hm? Here?” Her lips on his neck. Then tracing down to his shoulders, “Or should we turn you around?”

“A-anywhere,” He answered, feeling his ears burning.

“Not picky, I like that,” Sorn tilted his head back, “Here we go. Hm, you have to excuse me if I do poorly, I don’t think I’ve tried this before.”

The quill was smooth and traced the angular bridge of his nose like a paintbrush to a canvas. Thalin’s eyes zeroed in. It wasn’t just the visual but the anticipation of things to come. He felt his dick throb against the bed. 

“Curious,” Those dark lips parted as he tilted his head back to wiggle the feather underneath his nose instead. Against his septum, over his lip. It wasn’t until the tip of it poked at the inside of his nostril that he fully shook his head. Surprise was written all over him, “That might work.”

“You’re flushing pink,” Nym teased softly. Her hand reached Thalin’s mouth again, and he received it with a groan. Her other hand was slowly massaging his back, pressing firmly into him as the pressure between his legs grew. 

“HeeH!HH!!…oh-“

“Mmgf—“

“J-just a secohHddts’ssSSHHihh!!”

Gods, the sound that came from Thalin’s lips surprised all in the room. Why was that so visceral? He felt like he’d been electrocuted. It was wet, and he felt the slightest bit of it hit his shoulders. Sorn recovered with a surprised sniff, brows unfurrowing with a curved finger under his nose. 

“Oh my,” He held a fist to his chest with a quick set of blinks, “Excuse me. That was enjoyable, but it seems like you had a lot more fun than I…!”

“From just the one,” Nym mumbled, “I wonder…you said snuff helped get it going? We happen to have some.”

“As do I…” Thalin whined once she had removed her hands again. His body felt a little limp as Nym’s fingers pressed to his tailbone. Her palms massaged the meat of his thigh, up to his hips, over his curves (what little he had.) The pressure of warm glass with her slick hand made him shudder, “H-Hold on, I can—“

His fingers flexed, tugging at invisible strings in an artistic series of movements. Within seconds, a spectral hand appeared in the corner of the room to root around in his bag. It brought out a silvery vial and brought it dutifully back to the bed. 

“How divine. I should have figured you were some sort of arcanist,” Sorn picked it up to look it over, still lying on his arm. His muscles looked firm as he adjusted his cheek and chin to rest on his bicep, “Just a bit, then? If you could spare it to help?”

“U-uh huh…!” 

He undid the cap with one hand and rolled up Thalin's frilled shirt to his neck. There, he made a careful pile on his shoulders. It wasn’t a lot, but the sensation was ticklish, and Thalin couldn’t help but squirm. 

“We will try some more later. My goodness, you are excited,” Sorn teased, playfully tugging at the hem of his shirt, “Let’s keep this up, you shall get your fill..!”

He raised the feather to his nose again with a more purposeful exhale to ruffle its soft bristles. Meanwhile, Thalin felt Nym’s hot breath on his shoulders and a quick sniff, followed by a hum. 

“My, such a lavish spender..! Ih—iht’s of good quality—hh’yiisscHH!! Oh! That was rather quick, I—“ Her hands pressed on his hips. Thalin tensed again, “HhIHYsschheww!!”

It was a pitchy sound, full of vocality. The intonation tugged at a cord within him. Thalin sighed again as he felt moisture hit his back. 

“Hih! HIHH!IIHschh!! Hah…sorry darling, just another-“ She sniffed again, and another quick reaction left Thalin writhing under her grasp, “Ihhschhihww!! Hahh…iISCHhhhwww!…goodness, it itches. I do like this scent, though. Roses?”

Thalin nodded. There were fingers in his hair. Sorn. These two were so damn touchy, how was he expected to keep from finishing right then? 

He bit his lip with a whimper as Sorn angled his head to look right at him. His features exaggerated with a look of neediness, irritation. The feather still danced around the entrance of his nose as each gasping breath brought his pitch higher and higher. 

“HEH!!hH!…hUH!HH’uUDT’sschhHHihh!…hHHEHsschhhuhhhww!!”

A deliberate kind of sneeze, one that felt intentional, eager even. The kind that forces an itch out. He opened his eyes with a slightly teary blink, nostrils flaring. There was a low hum, similar to one after a good meal. Sorn’s tongue ran over his lips. Thalin didn't have time to comment before another sneeze from behind rocked him into the bed. 

“HHISsschhhihhww!!” 

His body burned. His dick ached. Gritting his teeth revealed his fangs, a gesture he'd be most ashamed to have done in the presence of anyone else.

“You ought to see the way you are looking at me. Carnivorous, I must say,” Sorn said with another sniff, “I think he’s deserving of a little reward for being patient, wouldn't you agree?”

“My goodness, yes— hHIH!…juhst need thH-to-! HHIhhschiewww!!”

Thalin turned his head with a burning sensation on his cheeks. The sheets felt cool on his feverish skin. Nym wiped her nose and lip delicately with her fingertips before doing the same to her chest, where the supple flesh of her cleavage shone. The moisture was illuminated in the dim light.

A sudden amount of wetness coated his entrance and the top of his legs as her hands traced over them once more. An oil, he figured: magical in nature, he was familiar, and used often in sexual encounters. Very slippery. 

“Relax, relax…” Sorn urged, “I can see you're impatient. Tell me, what do you enjoy the most?”

The gentleness in his voice coaxed Thalin back into that languid state. He moaned, wholeheartedly, feeling the smooth glass of Nym’s toy sliding in. Just the right amount of pressure pressed against the inside of him. 

“Ohh-“ He whimpered slightly. His pupils were blown out, not just from the darkness but from pleasure, “Wh-what?”

“Is it the sound? The rawness of the act?” The feather toyed around once again. He had to answer, lest Sorn be set off again. It was like he was threatening him, that there'd be too early a release. An inconsequential time limit, but his body told him it had to be answered. 

“I like how breathy it sounds. It’s forceful,” Thalin stammered out as Nym began to move, “I-It— you h-have a strong demeanour that goes away when you lose control like that…”

The compliment bolstered him, as between the slight gasps, Sorn had smiled. 

“Fl-flahh…HAH!! HAAttschhhihhww!! Flattering…” He answered with another sniff. A slight redness began to show on his eyes, and he rubbed the ball of his nose with a delicate press of his knuckle, “N-now…my dear, would you say you can handle being on your feet?”

Thalin nodded with a shaky moan. He had meant to answer, but all that came out was whines of pleasure as the shifting around pressed the toy right up against him. His nerves felt like they were on fire. 

“Easy, careful now…”

Sorn cupped his cheek, holding him up with burly hands as he was pivoted to lean against him. Nym’s hands held tightly onto the rope, making sure he would be level with the tension alone. He was upright, bent over at the hips, held aloft only by Sorn’s grip on his jaw and Nym’s grasping of his binds like they were the reins of a horse.

He was drooling like a hungry dog. When the tunic was swept aside, he only grew more anxious to start. 

“Agh…my nose is running…” Sorn mumbled, looking to the ceiling with a sniff, “Suppose you are ready to witness me from a different angle?”

“P-please…”

He only nodded. One hand left Thalin’s jaw to wriggle the feather to his nose again. A warmth shot into Thalin’s chest, seeing his nose running and he parted his lips once again. 

“It gehHt—gets easy after the first few…gHh-HH! HhARShhhwww!! HHRSHHhhuhww!”

Thalin chewed on his lip and stifled a whine. Gods above— he was staring right at Sorn’s twitching cock. Every time he sneezed, it would react. His own was hard as ever, free from the pressure of his weight on the mattress, he could swear he was already dripping. Nym tutted behind him as she rocked her hips against his. That toy was positively filling him. 

“Excuse me..! Bit harsher than I had meant, but it seems you like a more gruff type, don’t you?”

Another sniff. Thalin swore he felt mist settle on his back. 

“Y-yes…please do it again…”

“Don’t mind if I do…”

He opened his mouth as a greedy invite, which was promptly answered. Filled from either side. Spit roasted like the prissy, spoiled, nobleman he was. Utterly lavished by these two.

“HhHrrSSCHHHhehww!!…my word-“ Sorn’s gritted teeth spoke volumes. Thalin felt his cock move in his mouth, the warmth on his tongue; completely thrilling. A soft, low murmur of affirmation came from above, and he fell silent for a moment just to enjoy it. Each groan sent a thrum through his lips, and that sensation seemed to be received with utter delight. 

“Doing so good…” Nym’s voice coaxed him into another soft moan as he lapped hungrily. He had pulled slightly back so he could properly run his tongue along his man’s generously sized cock. Extra care was given to the tip. His mind clawed around to his faded memories; being on his knees in the dark dormitories, his study partner with his pants around his knees. A lasting thought, as Nym’s gentle voice seeped back in, “I’m afraid the snuff has worn off for me, but I feel much more focused on this. You are quite the ride! So pliable and ready to take me in!”

Thalin bobbed his head, unable to really answer in his state of utter wantonness. What could he possibly say? That this was the most outlandish day of his sexual experience to date? Was that even true? Definitely up there. He let out a sharper cry as Nym’s hand wrapped around his weeping cock. He noted, for just a second, that it was still slightly slick. Either from his own saliva or- or from all the mess she had wiped off from her lip, chest— his back…

He cussed silently as pre dribbled out onto her fingers.

“HHd—!” He was interrupted. 

“Ff—haah! Oh my gods-“ He moved back to exclaim.

“Is this alright? I didn’t want to leave you aching and trembling while doing all that hard work,” She had yet to move her hand. Thalin immediately nodded, frantic. The pressure of her fingertips had his body shaking. Her voice felt like molten honey dripping over his ears. He moaned against Sorn’s cock as she continued to whisper, “You’ve gotten so wet-“

“HUH!”

“-Just from a few fits? What a positively difficult position you are in, no hands of your own. Forced to listen.”

Fangs…fangs on his ears. Her lips, her lipstick that left marks on his skin. He swore his throat was going to start aching if he moaned any more. 

“Heeh—“

“I-I might—“

“HHHRSHHhhiiehw!! HHRSChhhuhww!!”

The visual of Sorn’s dark lips barely parted flashed across his mind. How strong his features were, that jaw, slightly clenched, and his nose, so angular. A perfectly painterly look as the air burst from his nostrils and past his lips.

Thalin felt himself grow weak as he came. It was sudden and hard. The feeling of wetness hit his nape, the motion of a twitching dick just under his lips. It was too much. The feeling of strong hands on his shoulders kept him from buckling as Nym pulled away, the glass toy leaving him with a satisfying feeling of being spent. Cum was dripping to the floor, likely over Nym’s hand too, as she ran her thumb lovingly over the full length. 

“Oh dear, someone’s looking a bit rattled,” He could hear the teasing past his thumping heartbeat. Before he knew it, he was being laid out on the bed with his hair being brushed from his face. Every touch made him feel like static, and he had to close his eyes to avoid looking at either of them out of sheepishness. 

“Stunning work,” Nym’s lips met his cheek. Her voice was still a little hoarse, a bit stuffy. The look of slight itchiness on her companion’s face made Thalin’s whole body throb. That was exhausting, “I think you need a moment.”

“That was tiring…” He muttered, “But I feel like…I—hah…oh, nevermind. I was going to say something poetic.”

“I’m understanding the appeal more and more…” Sorn had said with another sniff. He twirled the quill and, with grace, wiped the lingering bit of moisture off his lip, “Quite the release. You do this often? To yourself, I mean. I can see it easily in place of a more…traditional method.”

“Sometimes…” Thalin admitted. Easy to be loose-lipped now that he was…loose all over. He felt so confident he could say just about anything without a shred of shame, “It is like a stress reliever.”

“Indeed, it is. My nose is more sensitive than I had known it to be…shall we switch? I would hate to deprive you of the experience yourself while you are here.”

Thalin let himself be silent for a moment longer. There was no rush to respond. A few seconds in, he felt the smooth caress of a hand on his cheek and a cloth on his legs. Nothing extravagant, they were just making him look a bit more presentable.

“I would not be opposed at all,” Thalin finally answered. He saw Sorn twirling the quill between his fingers; deftly, like a pen. His abdomen felt all tingly, “I do enjoy having my hands out of the way. For once, it feels like I do not have to manage a bunch of fools carrying weapons.”

“A hands-off approach, I like it!”

“Hands off might be a bit tricky for you,” Nym teased, “I could feel your fingers clench while I had you in my hands. The reaction was instantaneous. But I do like a man who knows exactly what he likes.”

She kissed his forehead with a certain amount of tenderness, and he forgot what he was doing for a moment. 

“How about this, then? We get you tidied up, all dressed and proper,” She said, bringing out the small vial of snuff again, “You keep your hands out of the way. The challenge would be to keep that fancy coat of yours tidy. And I won’t be of any help, quite the opposite.”

“Proposing a challenge. I think this is the sort of thing our guest enjoys, hm? Something tells me he enjoys a trial of wit rather than blades,“ Sorn continued. Thalin could see him trying to withhold a sniff. The redness on his face when he realized he was caught was endearing, and Sorn relented.

“I…would like that.”

“You can ask for our help anytime you wish,” Nym said, beginning to undo the toy. It was just the straps now, boldly framing her hips under the robes, “It’s a matter of pride, I would hazard to guess.”

Thalin was helped up, and he caught sight of himself in a mirror not too far from the bed. He looked a little dishevelled. 

“You said snuff helps?” Sorn gestured for the vial to be tossed over to him, and he promptly uncorked it to pour into the space between his thumb and his first knuckle. He extended it towards him. 

Thalin glanced back at the mirror. He watched himself take a sniff off the hand of a stunning man, who then held his face and rewarded him with a quick “well done!”

“Now-“ Sorn continued, “I have another quill around here. Had a wizard once with the most peculiar pension for writing utensils…”

“You look hazy already,” Nym’s fingers playfully pinched at his nose. She carded them through his hair and went to retrieve his pants.

“T-takes a moment…” He muttered, “I fear I use it for recreational purposes enough to have—hhAVe a small tolerance.”

“Perhaps I ought to join in. Sorn, would you mind..?”

She was promptly given a feather pen. It had such a soft shape to it. To Thalin’s surprise, Sorn moved behind him and held him by the arm. His shoulders hiked up. The binds on his wrists felt strained. Good gods. The man had muscle. He still sounded a bit sniffly from before, too. Held aloft like a pirate's captive, an old, amateur fantasy he often returned to.

“No hands of your own shouldn’t be an issue. As long as you can hold still, let her admire you, the nobleman that you are. Such lavish living has made you comfortable with admiring eyes,” Sorn said slowly. He moved the feather just under Thalin’s nose, making him shake his head. The soft barbs traced down his chin and over his collarbones. When they reached his nipples, he shivered. Back under his nose, where it remained.

“Hold still,” Nym touched his chin with the tips of her fingers to tilt his head back. He could feel his nose starting to run, each breath expanding his lungs and rocking him against Sorn’s bulging chest. A single barb of the feather poked at the edge of his nose.

“S—ssiIHH’hhtzzsscHHiiehww!!”

“Oh-! Goodness, bless you.”

“HHIH! Ihh!hhzzsshhHIHww!” 

“Someone’s easy…”

Thalin gave a slight wince as his head was moved upright, held by fingers gripping his hair tightly. He barely had a chance to open his eyes and witness a feather wriggling aggressively under his nose and against the narrow but flaring rims of his nares. 

Rather…two. 

He felt a thrum of pleasure throughout his body. Sorn teasing him from behind, arm wrapped around him with a feather in hand, and Nym up front and in full view, a feather of his own. Her smile was so gentle yet teasing, like a meanness was just behind it. Her laugh all but secured that, perhaps performative, but it made his dick twitch. He gasped again, and the following sneeze brought tears to his eyes while thoroughly misting his chest.

"--'tzzSSHhhhhih!!hhuhh..."

“Let’s…get that coat back on. Hold it in, won’t you?”

Nym pressed the feather’s spine against his nose and held it there. The fibres clung to him with the moisture and every wavering breath.

“HhIIHzzsshihwww!! S-sorry-“ One more escape past his gritted teeth, blowing it back for a moment before he managed to settle and catch his breath. Mess clung to the feather’s edges as he breathed, almost a pant, and found the strength to settle. 

Once he calmed down, she finally moved it away and went to grab his garments. 

“You have a nice shampoo…” Sorn said softly as he lowered Thalin’s arms. His nose nuzzled into his neck, and Thalin felt another pang of arousal, “If you don’t mind me saying such things. It’s a bit flowery, you might just set me off again.”

“Gods, please…don’t tease him,” Nym cut in, sliding the jacket over his shoulders and letting him slide his arms in. She did the first button but left it as is.

“I’m just saying, perhaps springtime allergies would be good for something after all…”

Thalin gasped again as the feather from Sorn’s idle hands came up to brush the tip of his septum. He instinctively tilted his head back, but got a disapproving tut. 

“Not while she’s doing up your buttons. That is no way to treat someone’s fine hospitality,” Sorn’s hand slid over his head. It felt so secure, holding it steady as the feather continued its assault. It stirred the lingering snuff which buzzed around his sensative sinuses. The tip twisted around his nostril, poking at the reddening edges. The gasping grew sharper as Thalin struggled to keep his eyes open. 

Three buttons down. 

“Ihh—I caHH! Cuh-“

“Can’t? Can’t what? Trying to talk is so bold of you.”

Five buttons. Thalin gasped rather sharply, and the feather quickly pulled away to be replaced by a knuckle pressing firmly to his septum. He gave a halfhearted moan as the itchiness dissipated. 

“Didn’t think that would work…” Sorn muttered, “How queer.”

“Almost there…just hold on a moment longer.” 

“Hhf–”

She left the bottom half of his coat alone as she slid his belt into the loops of his pants. A firm yank had him instinctively gasping, and the feather’s nimble barbs brushed against his cheek as Sorn moved his finger away. 

“This must be so uncomfortable, poor thing…” Nym sighed, firmly sliding the leather belt through its buckle. She cupped her palm between his legs and let him squirm as the quill twisted against his septum. The itch felt like a burning, spreading to the very edge of his nostrils, up the bridge of his nose. Like a tingling feeling from allergies or spices, one that brought tears to the corners of his eyes. 

Thalin gave a weak groan before a deeply unsatisfactory sneeze managed to sneak out. 

“--tssCChhuehhwww!!...kkhh—kff, hhUh!Hih! HHh’iiTTsccchihhww!!” Better, but he was still gasping. Fuck. If only he weren’t being groped and fondled. He felt her hand momentarily tighten, his mind was being pulled in every which direction and– “HhETSSchhHIEeeww!! Unnh- my gods..!” 

“Had enough?” Nym teased, “Oh-” 

Answer what he could, Thalin only nodded with a shivering gasp as he felt his legs give out. His head felt light; no surprise there, he could feel every pulse and throb. The sudden warmth that spread through him was followed by a slight twinge that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Huh…first time for everything. Go figure. In over a century and a quarter, he hadn’t come while standing and fully dressed in a brothel.

Sorn lifted him from the arms. Like a god damn muscle-clad leather-bound angel…

“Are you alright?” Nym’s voice hushed. She was fiddling with the last of his buttons as he lying limp in Sorn's arms. Something arcane ran over him, and he quickly assessed it as prestidigitation to restore the state of his clothes. Thank the gods. His head met the mattress, then his back.

“Mhuh…mhm.”

“Just need a moment, hm?” She smiled, sitting beside him. Her hand caressed her cheek, “I’ll join you…”

The mattress on the other side of him sank down as well. “As would I.”

“Ah…” Thalin glanced up at the ceiling. All these hands on him; he was going to have trouble articulating. His mouth felt dry and his words came out breathy and sluggish, “I have been spending weeks in the wilderness on the ground in a tent! The only person I have had sex with is armed to the teeth, I have to carry weapons everywhere, and I am climbing in the woods in heeled boots! I eat rations every day! This is the most luxurious I have felt in ages— I think nearly blacked out at the end!”

“Sounds like you need to relax,” Sorn had tugged his finger at the frilly bit of his shirt. He managed to get his hands onto a handkerchief from his coat pocket and delicately wiped at Thalin’s nose, “What I am hearing is a nobleman who misses the pampering he used to have. You have two of us at your disposal, ready to heed your beck and call, should you wish to come back again.”

“I have always fancied a knight. Or a pirate,” Thalin thought aloud, “Strong, burly, adventuring type who could perhaps put me in my place. Which...you have. I like playing damsel in distress to you both...is that too bold to say?”

“Well, I can assure you I make quite the swashbuckler. Give me some rope, and I can tie up knots you haven’t even dreamt of. Another time, though, right now you need to lie down.”

“Another time. Hopefully soon…potions of healing are expensive, it bleeds my coin purse dry...”

“God bless you,” May said, reaching around Alfie to lay a gentle hand on his arm. “Is it the sunlight?”

He shook his head, already fervently trying to hold off the next one. Christ, but he could smell the fragrant floral scents, from that garden around the corner of May’s house that she was so fucking proud of, and it was driving his nose crazy. The light made him sneeze sometimes, but never so much, or with such desperation. Usually, he had to hitch and force his way towards release; these sneezes, now that he’d started letting them out, kept coming one after the other before he could stop them.

“S’h-hehh… hihht’shhoo!” he burst, then groaned and looked up at his two lovers with pink, watering eyes. “Hayfever.”

Alfie clicked his tongue, as close to sympathy as he ever got. “Suppose this is a bad time to tell you that May planned us a luncheon in the gardens, hm? Was meant to be a surprise.”

“We’ll move it,” May said hurriedly.

But he could see the faint disappointment in her eyes. This relationship was a lot of things—they were all three often casual with each other, and didn’t care much if some feelings got trod on in the name of business—but heaven knew that Alfie and Tommy both hated to disappoint her. “No, it’s fine,” he said thickly.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be sneezing anyway,” he muttered in annoyance, thinking of all the greenery he’d been exposed to already, and sniffled. “But I don’t suppose you have a handkerchief or anything I could use?”

May beamed. “I’ll have the butler bring one to the table.”

The setup in the gardens was nice, Tommy had to admit, even if he could barely see it through his streaming eyes. He knew by now that his face would have that irritated, pink flush to it, especially around his nostrils, where he’d been rubbing fiercely all morning. By the time they had the food served, he was breathing more unevenly than not, and keeping the handkerchief he’d been given permanently held up near his face. He was only praying that he wouldn’t lose control completely.

“So, hayfever,” Alfie said with a snort, once he and May had gotten through most of their food. Tommy had picked at his, as per usual. “You’ve always had it? Can’t have made caring for horses easy, growing up.”

He shrugged, embarrassed to even be discussing it. His brothers had made so much fun of him for it growing up, and he wasn’t often in a situation now for it to be relevant. “S’not a big problem in the city. No trees to grow, no fl-flowers.”

Tommy glanced around, then, as if reminding himself of where they were. May’s garden was impressive, to be sure, but it was also torturous. Pollen hung heavy in the air, lending a golden sheen that he could practically see drifting in the sunlight. The wallflowers and the sweet pea were in full bloom, and just seeing how the flowers opened wide, with bees buzzing around them, made his nose itch even more fiercely.

He scrubbed at his nostrils through the handkerchief and picked up a strawberry from his plate. They were sweet, at least. May always had the best of everything… which was why her picking the two of them for her lovers was the biggest surprise of all.

“Poor little city boys,” May said cheerfully, almost affectionately. She laid her hand over Tommy’s from across the table and stroked his palm. “Surprised you aren’t affected as well, Alfie.”

He shrugged. “M’made of iron, love.”

Tommy rolled his eyes, then abruptly pulled away from May and clasped the handkerchief over his nose, hitching madly as the tickle crested and peaked. “hh… hhHH… huh-huh-hUHH—!”

But the sneeze didn’t come. He waited for it, his eyes closed in preparation, only to deflate. Uncharacteristically, he groaned, exposing his frustration to his audience.

Oh, Christ, his audience. He cracked one eye open, certain of what he’d find. Ah, yes, the both of them staring at him, both smiling with a little amusement at his predicament. “Shuhh… shut the fuck up,” he growled, feeling his ears burn with embarrassment as he kept tripping over his words. With every breath, it felt like it was coming, and every time, it didn’t.

“Poor lamb,” Alfie said, voice dripping with mock sympathy. For once, he wasn’t wearing his hat, and Tommy could see properly into his eyes and know that the man was making fun of him. He leaned forward and put a hand, broad and warm, over Tommy’s thigh. “Can’t quite get it, eh?”

“Don’t tease him,” May said with a laugh. “We should help him!”

“Should we?” Alfie said in a low rumble. He leaned over Tommy, breath hot in his ear. “I don’t know if he deserves it. Has he been good?”

Tommy swallowed, feeling his legs go weak in his chair. “We… are in public,” he gritted out. Never mind that they were only on May’s lawn, and she had no neighbors; everybody knew that servants were the worst gossips of all. And the three of them had rules about not engaging in play where anybody could see them. Nobody needed to know that, in private, the great Tommy Shelby wanted to be on his knees and begging for it.

May shook her head. “I dismissed the servants for the day after the butler brought out the food.”

“I didn’t hear.”

She smirked. “You were too busy sniffling and sneezing to hear me, sweetheart.”

The pet name, and the dash of humiliation, had him stifling back a moan. It was strange—just a moment ago, he’d been overwhelmed by the heady misery of his hayfever. Now, though, he could feel the sudden surge of desire coursing through him, making him hyperaware of every move his lovers made. Right now, for example, May was standing up from the table and making her way over to him. He’d had his chair half-turned away from the table—it made it easier for him to avoid spraying the food, in case he started sneezing again—so she was able to stand directly between his legs

She stood in front of him, holding his chin in one hand and pulling his face up to look her in the eye. “Poor dear,” she said with saccharine sweetness. “Can’t quite get that sneeze out, hm?”

From somewhere behind her, Tommy could hear Alfie chuckling. “Now who’s mocking? You said we ought to help him.”

“And we will,” May promised. Her other hand came up, running her fingers delicately along Tommy’s face. She stroked along his cheekbone, which made the tickle in his sinuses perk up. As he hitched, she ran her thumb down the bridge of his nose. “He just needs a little… encouragement. Look at the flowers, Tommy.”

Reluctantly, he cast his eyes on the rows and rows of blossoming flowers. Her roses, the pride of her garden, were only several feet away, and the pink and red blooms were enough to make him feel like he could lose control.

“Uh-uh,” she tutted when he gasped and clutched at the handkerchief in his lap. “I’m not done, love. Do you see the flowers?”

He nodded, looking with teary eyes up at her and Alfie, who was standing by the side and smirking with satisfaction.

“You see how delicate and soft they are?” May murmured, circling her thumb against the leaky red rims of his nostrils. “I could pluck a petal and just rub it against your face, couldn’t I? I bet it would be so soft. I bet it would be torture. No, don’t sneeze yet, love. Don’t you want to earn your reward?”

He nodded up at her breathlessly. “hh-hhH…” he braced himself for the sneeze, sure he was about to break her rules, only to find his nostrils pinched together. With the sneeze gone, he swallowed, and May slipped her fingers off his nose.

“I’m sorry, pet,” she said in a soft voice. “I couldn’t let you go just yet. You need to keep looking at the flowers. Look how they’re swaying in the breeze. That yellow film of pollen on them, dancing up in the air, drifting over to the three of us. It’s like the entire world is trying to make you sneeze…”

“HAAEESSSCHHEEWWW!”

May and Tommy both startled, surprised, at the violent, gigantic sneeze that had shattered the quiet. Her grip on his chin slackened so that he could turn his head just enough to see the interruption.

Alfie withdrew his face from his elbow, his face still caught in the vague sneering look he got when his sinuses were irritated, and he gave them both a slightly embarrassed shrug. “Sorry, my dear,” he addressed to May, and ran his sleeve under his nose as he sniffled. “S’pose you’re doing a better job at provoking than I planned.”

The sound of a huge, satisfying sneeze had driven Tommy wild, and he was panting breathlessly in May’s hand. “Please,” he said, looking up at her reverently. “Please, I need to…”

“Do you?” she asked with mock surprise. “Do you need to sneeze, too?”

“hihHhh…”

“Poor, helpless city boy,” she continued, not even acknowledging his sharp, hitchy breathing. “He can’t even sneeze on his own. Alfie, come help me.”

He appeared behind her, a dark, sniffly shadow, but the look on his face was all glee at seeing Tommy in this position. If he didn’t want to sneeze so badly, Tommy would be resentful. As it was, he was too desperate to be.

“Alfie, bring us a flower,” May said. “A rose, I think.”

He did, pressing the pink blossom into her hands silently. After, he swiped his wrist back under his nose, trying to head off the lingering irritation that was still bothering him.

May held the rose out to Tommy, who looked up at her. “Get on your knees,” she ordered him, stepping back so he could.

His slacks were thunking onto the warm English grass before he could even give a thought to disobeying. “What else do you need from me?” he choked out, horrified to find that the tickle had lodged in his nose so firmly that he now sounded congested.

She gave him a mock pitying look. “Oh, my love, haven’t you guessed?” she asked. “You’re going to stay there, on your knees. Perfectly still. And Alfie and I are going to use this,” she held up the rose, “for your handkerchief.”

For a moment, it didn’t process. “For a—” he started incredulously.

But May interrupted him. “You’ve utterly ruined that handkerchief there, my love,” she gestured to the one that had fallen from his lap to the ground. “You’ve used it so much, all sniffly and sniveling since you got home, and now it’s soaked and useless. You need something… a touch softer.”

With that, she brought the flower up to his face and began to stroke. The flower was gentle and soft, and, in a dreamlike quality, Tommy didn’t even really care for a moment that it was being used on his face. May ran the petals under his nose, using it to swipe away the traces of mess, then brushed it over the tip of his nose to tease him.

“hihHH-huh…” his breath caught, and he turned his head away from the petal.

She caught him by the chin again, grip vicious. “Does someone need to hold you still, my dear?” she asked sweetly, though her touch was fierce. “I think I’ll do that. Alfie, your turn.” She extended the flower to him.

Alfie took it, approaching Tommy wordlessly and resuming the work. Because he had both hands free, he used one to trace the flower all along Tommy’s face—forehead, cheekbones, the edges of his streaming eyes—and the other to rub underneath Tommy’s nose. The patient, rhythmic rubbing of Alfie’s callused, rough finger pads left Tommy helpless and desperate, eyes near-rolled back with allergic need. And the petals against his skin were soft, but they made him feel so itchy… he panted, only just barely keeping his hands at his sides, where May wanted them.

“You do need it, don’t you, love?” Alfie murmured after Tommy gave an impressive series of hitches. “May, what say we give it to him?”

May pondered for a moment, then nodded with a sharp smile. “I think we should. He’s suffered enough,” she said with her grin. “And he deserves a little release. Don’t you, Tommy?”

He nodded, and the forward motion made the fierce tingling in his sinuses even more insistent. “hUHH…”

“Yes,” May said softly, and she loosened her hold on his jaw. “I think we ought to let him. Go on, Tommy.”

He sniffled thickly, beyond the point of embarrassment, and felt the touch of Alfie’s rose once again as it flicked against his nostrils, teasing. The touch was too much. His hayfever was too much. Gasping, feeling the tickle crest, he gratefully gave in.

“hih-hHH-HIH… IIISSCHHH-uhh!” he bent forward, a harsh, tingly sneeze escaping him with a bellow. He didn’t even have time to sniffle; his hayfever had waited long enough, and it was determined to get it all out, in larger sneezes than he was used to having. “IISSHH-hoo! huh… hUH’ESSCHHHOOO!”

He was spraying all over himself, he realized dimly, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He reared his head back, prepared to build up to sneeze again, and was stopped by a delicate touch.

The rose petals wrapped around his face, covered his nose and a bit of his mouth. May’s voice was delicious and low in his ear. “I told you this would be your handkerchief, and I meant it,” she told him. “Now use it.”

Helpless to avoid it, he burst, drenching the petals. “HIISSHHOOO! uhh… HESSCHH’shoo!”

The petals against his nostrils were slick and soft, and he moaned. “Please,” he managed to say, and his hands, without his meaning to, came up to her skirts to fist into the bunches of fabric. “P-please, I… ESSHHH’shieww!”

The sneezes had now soaked the rose beyond the point of use, and May withdrew it with a raised brow. “Very well,” she said, extending it back. “We’ll dispose of it. Alfie, could you—?”

But Alfie was shuddering and gasping too much to respond. Overwhelmed by Tommy’s display of allergic frenzy, and feeling a touch sensitive himself to so many flowers—not to mention May’s verbal torture, which had only spiked the tickle in both men’s noses—he could no longer hold it in.

“huhH-HUHH-HUHH… HURRSSCHHSSHHOO!” he exploded wetly into the palms of his hands. He’d been holding back the insistent tickle for so long, trying to focus on Tommy in their play scene, that his nose was finally rebelling. He wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon, he realized with half-dread and half-relief. He sniffled and lurched forward again. “huhh… HURRUSSHHHOOO!”

“EHHTT’schieww!” Tommy sneezed immediately after. The sound of someone else sneezing was only spurring his sinuses on, and he found himself desperate for a handkerchief, something to catch the sneezes and contain the spray forcing itself out of him. “M-May,” he managed to get out, already holding back another, “p-please, I need a—hah—”

May looked at the men as they both sneezed yet again, this time in tandem—“HIHHT’schoo!” “HERRUSSHHIEWW!”—and seemed overwhelmed, for a brief moment. But her expression smoothed, and she stepped closer to Tommy, allowing him to bury his face into the folds of her dress.

“Go on,” she murmured.

Tommy shuddered into the fabric, releasing a half-stifled, “hgnxt-SCHIEWW!” into it. His hands came up, clenching into the dress. It was a nice outfit, meant for wearing out to the races and such, but she had no doubt that the staff could get out any stains. After all, they’d seen worse.

With that in mind, she extended a hand out to Alfie, who was valiantly holding back another explosion. “Come here, my love,” she said gently, and Alfie, who was usually so stubborn, went wordlessly.

He didn’t collapse to his knees to join Tommy—that would be too close to surrender for a man like him—but he came to her side and buried his nose into the shoulder of her dress. She could feel the wetness he left in that spot even better than she could at Tommy’s position on her waist.

“HIHHT’SSHHOO!” Alfie burst, this one a bit weaker and more congested than his previous sneezes, and snuffled thickly, his breath hot on the back of her neck. His hands came up to clutch at her waist, holding her tight against him and keeping her in place for him to shield his wet, messy sneezing. “HIHGGH’SSHHH!”

Tommy rubbed at his nose using her dress, overwhelmed with the tickle that was making his nostrils flare wide and keeping his eyes clenched shut. He clenched her dress in his hands, feeling the tempting softness of it against his face. Christ, but this dress was probably covered in a sheer layer of pollen. All of them were, at this point, inevitably. Fucking springtime. He sniffled and the tickle peaked once again.

“huh-hHH-HUHH… HETSCH-SCHIEWW!” he sneezed helplessly, feeling the itch only rise in his nostrils as he stayed outside, in this pollen-infested nightmare of a garden. His face felt like he could claw it off from the buzzing and the itching, and he could already feel another relentless sneeze building. He curled forward into her skirts. “HESSCHHSHOO!”

May smiled with satisfaction. This had gone even better than she’d hoped. “My poor city boys,” she said lightly, placing one hand on Tommy’s head. She reached behind her and put the other on Alfie’s thigh. Possessive like this, they couldn’t move from her grasp, though she doubted they wanted to. “As soon as you can both stop for more than a moment, we’ll go inside.”

“HUHHTSSHHOOO!”

“IISSHHH-uhh! …uhh’USSCHHOOO!”