#and Marta to sniff a little in return

[sassysnowperson]

I desperately wish for an after-credits scene for Glass Onion where Marta scolds Benoit Blanc for trusting a billionaires weird shady COVID-B-Gone gun. There's no way that thing actually works, and also then I would get to see Marta.

[cherry3point14]

Cookies & Milk

Pairing: Dean x British!Reader Warnings: Established D/s, mind you don’t fall down the crack Word Count: 2,172. Summary: Dean buys you some cookies. You call them biscuits. Arguments ensue, lines are drawn and restraints are required. A/N: Have any of y’all met @winchesters-meaty-feast? She’s my pal and partner in crime. We have extensive conversations about many a subject but one day the most important topic arose. Biscuits. I’m a dunker, she is not. It almost tore us apart but luckily we’re stronger than that. Anyway, I drabbled this Dom/sub biscuit thing in our chat and the following CRACK is what snowballed from that. (This is meant to be dumb ok. Don’t come for me over this weirdness.) 

Ao3 if you prefer.

You should close your laptop.

In the late afternoon—underground where the time of day doesn’t matter—even then the light it’s emitting is too blue. Sure, you could turn down the brightness but it’s too little too late. Your eyes are already starting to ache from the strain.

You're not even doing anything important. You started scrolling a few hours ago; a news story that might have been something, but turned out to be nothing. Less than nothing, it was mundane. Dull as dishwater, as your mum might say. You would have closed your laptop then if it hadn’t been for that link at the bottom of the page. To another article, this time about an unexpected cold snap. This leads you to look up weather trends in Kansas, which becomes reading the articles on weather.com. Who even knew weather.com had articles? Still, they do and they’re very informative. The problem is that their data all points to it being cold as balls soon (your term, not theirs). So, now you’re shopping, with a pair of snow boots and two winter coats in your basket. And you’re debating a new scarf to put you over the free shipping threshold.

It is really time to shut your laptop before you go ahead and checkout. Dean hates having to pick up your parcels in town. Always complains that you have a problem. Pretty hypocritical considering the number of breweries he keeps in business. Besides he doesn’t even have a reason to complain, Marta loves seeing him, she lights up like a Christmas tree for him. You walk into the post office and you get a ton of side-eye, plus a ten-minute wait, but Dean? Well, he’s always at the front of her line.

You’re so engrossed in shopping that you don’t immediately look up at the sound of the bunker door. It’ll be Dean, you know that much. He’ll have a couple of brown bags from his supply run and you don't want to insult him by insinuating that he needs help.

It’s for the greater good anyway, the longer you sit here the more chance there is of you buying him snow boots too. Maybe he'll let you buy him a hat too.

Once he’s finished stomping his way down the stairs he sets the paper bags down next to you. It just so happens that's the exact moment you finally look up at him. A grateful smile on your face and over the top fluttering eyelashes—to remind him how loveable you are.

He shakes his head at how obvious you are. “I didn’t buy them for just you.” His unnecessary emphasis is all the permission you need.

“Is that smoke?” You sniff the air, one arm sliding inside the nearest bag, “must be the fire in your pants.”

He tries. Bless his heart. He tries to hold out. You can see him chewing the inside of his mouth as your arm moves about inside the bag to liberally finger his goods. The haul from the supermarket anyway. But he cannot resist your lame jokes and it ends the same as always. He cracks. A twitch of his lip, shaking his head and then an eye roll even Sam would be proud of.

“Other bag, Sherlock.”

“Ah-ha!” You grin when you switch to the other bag. Instead of fresh fruits and vegetables, you’re treated to food of the more processed variety. Plastic bags filled with crisps, a pie carton and, oh he really does love you, biscuits.

You slink back down to your screen, tearing the package open with your teeth as you do. Revitalised by the imminent influx of sugar. Dean sighs but doesn’t say another word. He picks up the rest of the groceries and carries them away. Presumably to the kitchen by the distant sounds of him putting everything away.

It’s another five minutes when he returns with a glass of milk that he puts down next to you. With a determined thump of glass on wood, as if the sound is an entire explanation.

“Thanks, but you know I don’t…”

“Take the damn milk.”

Normally you’d be irritated for being cut off mid-sentence, but it’s his exasperated tone that catches your attention. You even deign to look at him again, ignoring the popup that’s offering an extra 15% off if you enter your email. “You ok?”

He scratches at the scruff on his jaw while he tries to internally talk himself down from the ledge. “Nothing, nothing. Drink the milk, please.”

You look from him to the glass and frown at the white liquid. There’s nothing wrong with it per se. It looks like a perfectly good glass of milk, the kind you might see on a ‘got milk’ ad from the nineties. It’s not that you hate milk, you just prefer your biscuits to have a little bite. Dean should know that by now but if he’s forgotten then you are more than happy to remind him. “You eat your biscuits how you want, let me eat mine how I want.”

In your attempt to be rational you have failed to notice the desperation in his, 'please'. And now you’ve managed to tick him off.

“Cookies,” he grinds out.

“What?”

“They’re cookies. Dammit, you’ve lived here long enough to call a cookie a cookie.”

The outburst is not Dean’s fault. He’s not exactly hoarding MAGA caps and asking you to go back to England. No, this outrage is the product of a very specific joke that you might have taken too far.

Ordinarily, you switched back and forth between American and British all the time. As easy as breathing. You’d lived in the good ol’ US of A for long enough that your brain simply picked out the first word it could reach. A lot of the time it ended up being American without much intention, people understood better. 

And then a few weeks back you’d been on the way to a hunt, sprawled in the back seat. Despite the fact that you were still strategizing with Sam you were comfortable. You could have fallen asleep right there if Sam hadn't kept talking. The word had slipped out on a whim. You called Baby’s trunk a boot.

Dean—being an absolute drama queen—had slammed on the brakes and eloquently asked what the fuck you called his Baby. Apparently, it was the first time you’d said that particular British word.

If you hadn’t found his reaction utterly hilarious that would have been the end of it. Except you did find it funny. The way his face soured, that little crease in the middle of his brow, he was so offended by four little letters. It was beautiful.

Now it’s been a few weeks of very purposeful language choices. Asking to borrow his mobile to make a call, or to wear his hoodie. And you’ll admit the ‘pip pip cheerio’ as he left the bunker earlier had been excessive. That isn’t even a real thing people say.

You’ve been torturing the poor guy with British slang. And because this isn’t the first time you’ve taken a joke too far, you’d usually hold your hands up and apologise. You’re good at apologising. He likes when you have to apologise because you always make it worth his while.

The problem is, biscuit had been an honest-to-god slip of the tongue. It had been the most natural word for your brain to conjure and so his anger seems a tad unjustified. Utterly out of proportion.

“It’s a biscuit.” You repeat as you take a bite, noticing the way his left eye seems to twitch at the crunch.

“It’s a cookie. It says right there on the packet. It’s a fucking sandwich cookie.” He points at the ripped plastic on the table for emphasis.

You sigh with the kind of effort that forces all the air from your lungs. “This country can’t spell half the time, why should I trust the packet?”

“Because you’re eating from it.”

He’s got you on a technicality. And he knows it. He knows it by the telling pause before you speak and the flash of panic in your eyes.

“So?”

It’s not an argument that’s going to win world-class debates but you couldn’t go ahead and let him have the last word.

Dean's problem now is he thinks he’s got you on the ropes, so he goes and gets cocky. He puffs out his chest a little and bites back a smirk.

“So? So… cookies and milk is as American as apple pie-”

“Invented by the Dutch.”

“-whatever. It’s a thing. Which means you gotta sit down, shut up and drink your fucking milk.”

You always love it when he does that. Argues his way to a conclusion whether he’s right or not. It’s kind of ridiculously hot.

Or at least that’s how you justify putting your half-eaten biscuit down. Slowly rising from your chair and crawling onto his lap. You lean in, slow enough to tease him, letting your breath settle over his skin as you whisper in his ear. “I know a way we could settle this.”

“What’re you doing?” He manages between teeth that are grinding against each other. The muscles in his arms are tense where he’s pulling at the rope that holds him.

Any other night and you might calm him down at this point. Remind your good boy that he shouldn’t hurt himself. Or depending on the game you’d remind him who he belongs to, who he’s foolishly directing his anger towards. But there’s no soothing touches or harsh reminders bestowed upon Dean tonight. This game is different. This is a battle for dominance, unlike one you’ve played before.

For the first time, he wants to win as much as you do.

There’s no mutual satisfaction in the room because you’re both out for blood. Where blood equals being right about snack goods. And unfortunately for Dean, he didn’t figure it out before he let you tighten the ropes around his wrists.

“I thought that was obvious, baby. I wanted something sweet.”

His eyes flick between the glass of milk he’d seen you carry in and the cookies plated up beside it. Well, you’d call them biscuits but that’s not what this argument is about.

“Don’t you dare.” There’s a threat in his voice.

For a moment it surprises you and you’re quick to counter him, “I’ll do what I like.” Your tone is reminder enough for him to remember his place.

He retreats a little, gives an inch so that you can take a mile. A breath rattles through his chest doing little to calm his tightly wound body. At the very least, he switches anger for desperation. Dean knows you love it when he pleads, “please Princess. Please, I’m begging you. Dunk it.”

Your entire body glows a little when he calls you by your name. The change in his attitude only urges you onwards though, with a smirk turning up the corners of your mouth.

Your hand finds a treat, fingers picking it up with deliberate, delicate movements. His eyes are wide as he watches you hover the biscuit over the glass as if maybe you’ll appease him. The whimper he lets out when you bypass the drink is almost fulfilling enough that you’re no longer hungry. Almost.

The room takes on an eerie silence as you part your lips and take a bite. A loud, crunchy bite. Crumbs fall onto the table beneath you—probably in slow motion— and chewing only seems to increase the volume.

“Son of a bitch.” He mutters as you swallow, “you’re crazy.”

You hadn’t planned on it but you walk across the room then, half a biscuit in your hand and a satisfied smile on your face. He’s slumped in his chair a little. He’s defeated since he knows he won’t defeat the knots keeping him in place.

“Come on, try it for me.”

“Go to hell.”

It's your turn to roll your eyes, “don’t be so dramatic, you’ve been to hell. This can’t be that bad.”

As you reason with him, you slide into his lap again, which will be torture enough because he can’t touch you. Except you also hold the biscuit to his lips.

“Please. For me. Be my good boy.” You coo as if you're not toying with him.

His thighs twitch beneath you at the use of his nickname and, because he’s always your good boy, he opens his mouth.

5eva tags: @divadinag @darthdeziewok @fluentinfiction @witch-of-letters @supernatural-teamfreewillpage @magnitude101999 @alexwinchester23 Dean babes: @thewinchesterchronicles @akshi8278 @bloodydaydreamer

[bigsnzstanacct]

Kn/ives Out - Ran/som fic part 2

Lmao this is like three times longer than I intended for it to be and I REALLY don’t know if the character dynamics will read or not (and I fear the last part was much better written) but... here be sneezing. Lots of it. Part one is here, fic under the cut! (also please note there is an abundance of very important sneeze related italics and bolding currently missing which I will add back in... eventually.)

Oh and obviously I have not the foggiest idea how medicine works. Just... suspend your disbelief, ok?

Marta was in the middle of cooking breakfast for her mother when her phone rang.

For a moment, when Marta saw the name pop up on her phone, her heart raced. Was she late for Harlan’s? She looked at the time for a second before she answered. No, she wasn’t late so… why was he calling nearly two hours before she was due to arrive?

“Good morn—” Marta began, but Harlan cut in before she could finish.

“I’m so sorry to trouble you dear but—oh gods—”

His voice suddenly cut off, as though he’d taken the phone from his ear. And then she heard over the line something that sounded like a cross between an extremely violent exorcism and the wildly enthuiastic mating call of some exotic mammal.

“Will you cut out that racket for twelve seconds? Maybe then I could get you some relief but…”

And there it was again, an unearthly roar. Only this time it didn’t come alone. There were two, three, four, five. Marta pulled her phone away from her ear. What on earth was hapening at Harlan’s house? At last, the roaring ceased, and she put the phone back to her ear as she heard Harlan.

“Dear, if you could, can you come by earlier than your usual time? And… does that nurses’ bag contain any sort of antihisti—no, no don’t come over here…”

And then another of those terrible eruptions, clearly closer to the reciever this time, so loud Marta yanked the phone away from her ears as a great rush of static and sound came through, came thorugh so loudly she was surprised she didn’t see sparks exploding from her phone. And all at once, she realized she could make out what was happening, although it hardly seemed possible…

“HOOOOOOOORRRRSSSHHHHH!!”

Was it… a sneeze?

“Harlan… is that… is that your grandson…?”

And it wasn’t Harlan who answered, with a weary sniff and a clearly stuffed nose, but Ransom who commanded. “Come here. Now. Bring some a-ahhh.. ahhhhhh… allergahhhhh… hHAHHHHHH…”

She had the good sense to pull the phone from her ear before the eruption this time:

“HHHHAATTCCHHHAAAAAAAA!!”

But unfortunately, she brought the phone back to her ear just in time for a shorter but still impossibly louder:

“HHAAEESSHHH!! Fuck. Come now. Bring allergy mehhhhh…hehhHHHH…HEHHHHHHHH….”

And then she the first screaming start of another “EEYYY—” before the phone clicked silent.

Well, apparently she was heading to Harlan’s. Antihistimines in tow.

—

“Oh thank God, finally. Just… please get him some meds and get him…”

“AAARRRRSSSSHHHHHHOOOOO!!”

“Please shut him—”

“EEYYYSSSSHHHH!!”

“Oh god—”

“AAEEESSSHHHH!! HAAEEEESSSSHHHHH!!”

Walt made some sort of wordless throat sound then, but Marta was very clear that it was intended to convey frustration.

“EERRRRRSSSHHHOOOOOOOOOO!!! FUCK!”

Marta took a moment to make a mental note that apparently Ransom couldn’t yell fuck nearly as loudly as he could sneeze, though he still yelled fuck quite loudly.

“Please, please get him doped up on something. We’re trying to have a meeting about the damn company and every three seconds he’s doing that. Please. I’m on my last nerve and I didn’t have that many to start with, eh? You’re such a lifesaver.” Walt said, and Marta took a moment to wonder how his speech could sound simultaneously so laconic and so hurried, and how he ensured she could get not a single word in edgewise, such that before she could so much as agree to his request, he was heading back towards Harlan’s study. But before he could, Ransom came swaggering down the stairs.

Of course he was gearing up for a sneeze.

“I’m sorry if I’m an inconvenience t-to you… to… huhh… HAARRSSHHHH!! But you have no idea what this is like, no idea, and I’m not going to try to h-hold back and be puhhh… poliiihhhhh… sneeze! AAARRRSSSSHHHHHOOO!! Damnit! That one hurt…”

To Marta, it seemed as though it must hurt

“If I’m gonna sneeze, I’m gonna do it hard enough to get the fucking itch out at least for a goddamned second, and if you don’t like that Uncle Walt then fuhhhh… fuuhhhHHUUHHHH… HUUUUUUUSSSHHHHH-HHOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

He could have finished the “fuck you” he was obviously headed towards, but Marta thought the death metal scream he let out with that sneeze served much the same purpose.

“You,” he said, pointing at Marta. “Upstairs with me, n-nahhh… now.” For a moment it seemed Ransom was going to sneeze again, but he reached up with a wrist and scrubbed at his nose viciously, pulling his thumb across the left nostril harshly before returning to knuckle at the right nostril, as though he were trying to wrestle the sneeze into submission. Still, as they ascended the stairs, clearly headed towards Harlan’s study, it seemed it was a losing battle.

“Guhhh… so fucking sick of sneehh…” Ransom muttered to himself. Marta had to resist the urge to reach up and pat his shoulder. They weren’t close, weren’t friends even. But it sure seemed like he was suffering.

And then all at once he gave up the struggle.

“Ah, fuck.” Ransom said, before stopping on the stairs so abruptly that Marta nearly bumped into him. “huhhhh.. HUUUUuhhh…” he panted towards the next sneeze. Marta was just glad she stopped in time, as she probably would have run smack-dab into his rear end when he doubled over with another bellowing: “HHHAAAAAA-CCHHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!”

“Bless—” Marta started, but she was cut off.

“HUH! HUURRRSSSSHHHHAAaaaahhhh!”

“Bless—”

“EEEYYYASSSSHHHH!!”

“Oh, my bless—”

“St-stop trying to blehh… HEEEYYYYYSSSHHHHhhhoooo!!”

Marta just stood, uncertain of what to say or do.

“Is that it? I think… or… oh fuck, oh fuck. oh fuck I gottaaaaahhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAARRRRRRSSSSSHHHHHH-OOOOOOHHH!!”

He absolutely blasted out what was the loudest sneeze Marta had heard from him yet, very nearly as loud as the “augmented” sneezes he delivered at that dinner.

“God DAMN it!” Ransom exclaimed, and flung his fist out against the wall, very nearly hitting Marta behind him.

“Hey!” she exclaimed.

“What.” He said, whirling on her, face thunderous. But by degrees he seemed to come to himself, his usual grin slowly spreading across his face, though it seemed stretched and thin. “Sorry, I just. Hate these fucking allergies. And sorry if I… spray you or something else disgusting like that just… just do me a favor and don’t say anything, huh? If I do anything really gross I’ll buy you a car or something.”

Marta wasn’t sure how seriously to take that; he probably didn’t have the funds to buy a car on his own. But she was familiar with the noblesse oblige of this family. If he did sneeze on her, which, by the fact that he mentioned it suggested he’d done such a thing before, he probably would at the least send her a very nice poorly explained fruit basket, or some concert tickets. The latter might not be bad. At least she could resell them.

“And stop trying to bless me.” He further instructed, though he was obviously trying for jocular or conspiratorial. The gruffness of his voice meant that he missed it by a mile, but he tried.

“Trust me you’ll run out of bless yous before I run out of snehh… oh fuck not agaahhhh… again… AAASSSSHHHHHhhhuuhhhh!!”

“Bless—”

Ransom just looked at her, and raised a weary eyebrow.

They had reached Harlan’s study, and he even opened the door for her as she entered. “Thanks.” she said quietly.

“Don’t worry about it. Just… get me those shots as quick as you can.”

“I thought we’d start with tablets, I have something prescription—”

“Shots. Now.” He interrupted as he flung himself down on Harlan’s couch, limbs akimbo, one leg on the coffee table, one arm slung over the back of the couch. Marta couldn’t help but notice the bulk of him. He wasn’t remarkably tall, and he didn’t immediately read as the body builder type but… he had very broad shoulders, and a broad chest. A body probably built by years of expensive personal trainers. Ransom was the type of man who probably always wanted to be the most beautiful person in the room. If muscles were part of that, he’d get muscles. If it was fashion, he’d buy fashion. Attention, without asking for it, was the goal.

“AAASSSHHHHHOOOOO!! Fuck, hurry up, hurry I feel more comin… hehhh… damb dogs…”

“Of course.” Marta said, rifling through her bag.

“So I take it you use a strong antihistimine on a regular basis? I’m not—”

“HEEEAASSSHHHHH!! EEEEASSSSSHHHH!! aahhhhhh… HHAAEESSSHHH! Jesus, y-yes I tahh… take allergy shots, yes I kn-know this isn’t a suhhh… substitute for my prescription, I juhhh… huhhhh…. just n-need somethihhhh… somethiihhHHHHH… something NOW…” he said, knuckling and pressing under his nose again, scrubbing so hard Marta almost thought to tell him to move his hand and just let himself sneeze, she didn’t mind, she’d seen plenty of sneezing, but something told her that for all he talked about his allergies, he’d much prefer she keep her commentary to herself.

“hhheeeeyyYYYYAAAAAAAASSSHHOOOOOO!!” he erupted, with a huge sneeze that made his limbs all fly forward, keeping his seat on the couch while the rest of him stretched out and nearly collapsed into a ball before he unwound from the sneeze, letting his head fall back onto the couch arm with a heavy sigh.

“God. Damn.” He grouched. “ARGH.” He huffed. “Stupid fucking…” he cursed.

Clearly he needed a sympathetic ear. Marta honestly wasn’t sure that she really wanted to listen to Ransom whine—poor little rich kid, acting like allergies were the worst thing ever to happen to a person—but she took one look at him, looking pissed, petulant and pitiful on the couch, and she couldn’t help but take some pity.

“Sounds like you’re really suffering over there.” Marta said gently.

As expected, this opened the floodgates: “God, you have no fucking idea, pardon my French. this is why I take the damn shots in the first place, I’ve just been… I’ve been busy and I haven’t had time to go to damn doctor and… I thought I had more time, I really did. But the damn allergies just go from zero to fucking sixty, and it’s worse at Harlan’s… of all the times for my fucking allergies to go nutso, it has to be while I’m here, when I crash overnight at my grandfather’s, cause it was close to… well it doesn’t matter what it was close to, but… listen, uh uh… don’t tell me…”

Was he… was he asking for her name?

“Marta?” she said, almost incredulous that after all this time, years, that he’d been around her, he didn’t know her name?

“Yeah, listen, Marta,” he plowed on, as though he hadn’t just asked for the name of a person he’d known for years, “I… like sneezing, you know? Who doesn’t like an excuse to randomly shout. Plus, you saw, the way my family reacts, it’s funny… oh shit, I shouldn’t have talked about… I’m gonna… I… HHEEESSSHHHHHHOOOoooo! Ah, fuck. Big one.” He pawed around in his pockets, pulling out a clearly bedraggled set of tissues and blowing his nose before he continued. “Sneezing is fine. But this… I’m a fucking mess. And it doesn’t help that Walt is down there bitching about some damn meeting… like I can help it! So I’m a little loud when I sneeze! My fucking face is staging a rebellion, my goddamn nose wants to fall…”

Marta turned towards him then, as he trailed off suddenly, and then wished he’d provided his usual warning when he screamed out a surprisingly high pitched “AAAHHHHHHHSSHHHTTCHHHH! God damn it, it just… it fucking itches…” He set to his nose again, squishing and rubbing and pressing and downright attacking it as though that would prevent further sneezes, when on present evidence it was clear it wouldn’t. He pulled out the tissues again and gave a loud, honking nose blow into one that almost rivaled his sneezes in volume.

“Jesus. I can’t stop sneezing, Marta. And it sucks.”

“Well,” Marta cut in, syringe in the solution she needed, “this should help. Just roll up your sleeve, I’ll inject your right arm.”

“Ah, fuck, thank you. You’re my hero.” He said, and even with his red nose rubbed raw and red-rimmed eyes, she could see how he could be a hell of a charmer, when he wanted to be.

“Just uh… I need you to not sneeze while the needle’s in your arm, so… do you feel one coming now?”

“I always ‘feel one coming’.” He said, a little gruff. But his tone softened a bit as he added, “I can usually fight it off, don’t worry.” He sat up on the couch and rolled up his sleeve as he spoke, revealing a slightly tanned, extremely toned bicep.

“Alright, here we go then.” Marta said, giving it a second, just to make sure his face didn’t scrunch with a sneeze. She cleaned the arm quickly with an alcohol swab and then inserted the needle.

It seemed as soon as she did his face scrunched, and she was surprised he didn’t jerk his arm. His left hand came up to his nose, and he went into his routine of itching and rubbing. Marta quickly wrapped up the shot, and even had time to apply a bandaid before he shot forward to his feet with a huge “HHHEEEEAAAATTSSSCCCHHHHooooo! Ah fuck, you have no idea how bad I needed that.”

Whether he was talking about the shot or the sneeze Marta wasn’t sure, but before she could ask he was already sneezing again.

“EEEEYYYASSHHH! AAAAAIIISSSHHH! AAASSSSSHHH!”

“Are you okay? You’re sneezing more now than you were before?”

“No I always sn-sneeze for a while right… s-sorry—HAAAEESSHHH! YEASSSHHHH! hhaahhhh… HOOOOOOSSSHHHH! Fuck. -sniff- I always sneeze a ton right after the shot, just on and off. I’m sure it’s working.” He was outright panting now, and she could barely tell the difference between how his chest heaved in the aftermath of a sneeze and how it heaved in preparation for one.

They sat in silence for a bit, Ransom having pulled out his cell phone, Marta going through her bag, setting up for Harlan. They didn’t talk anyway, though any silence they might have had was punctured by Ransom’s sneezes. But they already seemed to be getting further apart, Ransom a bit more respite in between sneezes, though he seemed to sneeze more in a row when they did hit.

At length, he looked over at Marta and spoke: “It’s Harlan’s fault I sneeze so loud, you know.”

“Hm?” She was curious how exactly this could be blamed on Harlan. She’d heard him sneeze before and it wasn’t the quietest thing in the world, but Marta didn’t know if all the heritability in the world could explain Ransom’s one-man-orchestra of a sneeze.

He must have noticed her skepticism, because he rolled his eyes and straightened up on the couch a bit, having spread out again. He made eye contact, sniffed heavily and knuckled at his nose again, but when he spoke he had a warm, engaging tone. “No, really. It’s Harlan. When I was younger, I had these really bad allergies. And my nose would get so bunged up with snot—I know that’s gross, sorry—but the point is, it would run and shit and then I would sneeze and it would make a huge mess and my dad would complain and my mother would try to make apologies for me but that was worse because it was so obvious I’d shamed her just cause I couldn’t control my stupid nose. Well, anyway long story short Harlan doesn’t exactly have the world’s quietest sneeze either, and one day he took me aside and told me how when you sneeze, you can kinda just… push it through your mouth? And it’s really loud but it doesn’t make nearly as much mess. Plus,” he flashed a classic Ransom smirk, “like I said, it’s an excuse to yell in public. And nobody can even get mad because aller… shit. A-allergehhhh.. hehhhhh… fuck, it’s cuhh… huhhhhh… HUUUUUUHHH…

HAAHH-HHOOOOOOOOOOOOORRSSHH!!”

It was a full on cartoon sneeze buildup, Ransom’s shoulder’s hiking up higher as his breath hitched in more and more air, his face contorting into a desperate grimace before he blasted out the sneeze, true to his word mostly just a roar of air out of his mouth, though he couldn’t help a bit of messy-sounding splash from escaping his nose at the end. His allergy sneezes really were nearly as loud as the ones he screamed out on purpose. Sometimes he exaggerated them, but Ransom clearly was in possession of a truly violent sneeze reflex. Maybe they didn’t have to be so rocketingly loud and there was certainly a lot of performance that attended his sneeze, but it did seem like trying to stifle or choke back one of those monsters would be painful.

“I get it. I had allergies too.” Marta surprised herself by saying. “I uh… obviously didn’t find the same solution as you but. When I first moved up here—”

“To America?” Ransom asked, without looking at her.

Marta couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “To Massachusetts!” she barely restrained herself from adding “you idiot” on the end there, but she caught herself at the last moment. “I was born in California.” He just shrugged in response. “And the pollen is different there,” she continued, “I came up here and for the first few years, every spring, it drove me crazy.”

“I’m allergic to basically everything. Pollen, dander, dust, you name it. I get heavy duty antihistimines on top of my monthly shots, but they haven’t renewed my ‘scrip. Hey, can you help me? I bet I got the name of the medicine on my phone somewhere…”

As he said that, Harlan came through the door, smiling.

“Well, our little miracle worker. I think we went ten minutes without the air raid siren going off.”

Ransom just waved off Harlan, still stretched out across the couch, while Harlan took a seat in a large chair. Marta noticed he was smiling.”

“I’m just up here to check on you two. And to get away from your uncle,” Harlan added winkingly. “I don’t think he could make those meetings duller if he were actively trying. Plus he’s on edge because of… this morning.”

“Ah fuck him,” Ransom chimed in.

“I’m not blaming you Ransom. It’s not your fault you have allergies.”

“Yeah, it’s not.”

“But Walt certainly blames him. I can’t say I’m glad per se,” Harlan continued, looking at Marta now, “But it was certainly the least boring that damnable meeting has been in months. Mabye years!”

Ransom sniffed, “Harlan, did you—” he sniffed again, hard, and shot up straight. “Fuck, were you playing with the d-dogs?”

“Oh, yes the dogs were with us downstairs…”

“Dammit, you’re probably c-covered in… fuck I’m gonna sneeze… I… HHAAEEEEESSSHHH!! You’re probably covered in dog fur, oh geez that’s really gonna make me sneeze…”

“Ah, sorry, I can leave—”

“No point now. Shit.” Ransom was sitting up now, looking anxious. “I was hoping this wouldn’t happen til I left, or I could avoid the little bastards.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much, that antihistimine shot I gave you is pretty strong…”

“No, you don’t understand, it never works, it takes like two hours before it stops and that whole time it’s like… there’s not as much but when I do sneeze…”

“He’s likely to blow your ears out.” Harlan intervened.

“Maybe getting out of the house would help? I don’t know if your outdoor allergies are as severe…”

“What the fuck? What are you gonna do kick me out of the house for sneezing? It’s not even your house.” Ransom groused.

“That’s not what I meant at all—” Marta began, but she was stopped short by Ransom raising a hand.

“Ah fuck,” he said, and though his voice didn’t quaver, the sudden scrunch of his nose and the sharp breath he snatched in told Marta what he was going to say before he could. “Here it comes. I’m gonna sneeze, I mean really…” his voice started to shake then with the oncoming sneeze, “gonna fuuuhhcckin… sneeehheeze…” he said, breath curling in his voice as he launched into a wild, gasping buildup.

“Warning, Marta,” Harlan said, finally seeming to enjoy himself somewhat, if only because now at least he had a fellow-sufferer in Ransom’s allergic bombardments, “I’d listen if I were you: when he says he’s really gonna fucking sneeze, he’s *really* going to fucking sneeze.” Despite the chortle in Harlan’s voice, Marta decided to take his advice more seriously than his tone. She clearly didn’t want to be in the blast zone for this one.

“YEEEASSSSSHHHHHH!!!” the first sneeze was a wild, raucous thunderclap that sent Ransom diving double so hard that he nearly stumbled off the couch, catching himself to stand at the last moment before he fell, only to double back over with another roar: “AAARRRRSSCCHHH! hehhhh… HHEEEEASSSSHHHHHOOOooooo! eeeEEYYYAASSSHHHHHHHOOOooooo… HEEEIIISSHHH! EIIISSHH! ESSHHH! ESSSHH! ESHHH! ESSHHH! yyyyEESHHHH! ha… HHAA-EESSHHH! EIIISSHHH! AEEESSHH! AEESSHHHHuuuhhh! AEESSHHHhhuuhhh! hhh-hhAAAAAAEESSSHHHHHH-OOO! aaaaAAEEESSHHHH! huhhh… huhhh… h-holy ffuuuuuhhHHHHHHAAEEEESSSHHHHH! yyYYEESSHHHaaaaa… eeEEEYYYEEASHHHHhhhhhhaaa… YYAAAIIIISSSSHHHHHHH!! Goddammihhhhh… I st-still gotta… gottahhHHHEEEHHHH…” The sneezes veered between the splashy, desperate roars of the first few to tight, sharp, painful-sounding barks that surely must have scraped his throat coming out,. The barks were quieter, perhaps because he didn’t have time to get a full breath in before they tumbled out, on each others heels, practically blended together. And then when he had a second to take a breath in… well, Marta was glad she’d gotten the warning. She certainly had never heard such an expressive allergic reaction, Ransom’s sneezes seeming to communicate his frustration, anger, even rage. She couldn’t imagine he enjoyed being at the mercy of his allergies like this. Marta couldn’t imagine anyone enjoying that, including anyone within a hundred feet of the Thrombey house.

“Don’t try to talk Ransom, just sneeze it out.” Harlan offered, though the end of what he said was lost as the fit resumed with a sneeze that even Ransom seemed frightened of, if the look of utter, hangdog dread on his face as he wound up to the almighty release was any indication.

“HUHH-HHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!” That one was pure, desperate scream, a gnarled, throaty sound that sounded as though it were ripped directly out of his broad chest. Marta could imagine that chest cartoonishly swollen with air, deflating as the sneeze went on, with a visible rush of air as he pushed the sneeze out. She half thought if there were any magazines or papers on the coffee table—he bent over so far his face nearly smacked it—he would have blown them off with the sheer power behind that sneeze. Of course that couldn’t be true, but if any sneeze could have such an impact, it would be one with the vigor and violence of Ransom’s.

Of course, even such a masterpiece of a sneeze, if such a thing could be said to exist, couldn’t be sufficient to purge the allergic demands made upon Ransom’s overloaded sinuses. He went into another round of those itchy, violent barks: “AASSHHH!! ESSHHH! HESHHH-EESHHH-ESHSHHH… huhhhh HESSHH! EEESHHH! YyyEESHHHH! YYAAASSSHHH-ASSHHH1-EEYYYYEESSHHHH!!” the sneezes ran together now, tumbling out one behind the other without so much as a breath or a pause… “hhhhAASSHHHOOOO! ehhhhhHHH… EEYYYYYYYAASSSSSHHHOOoooo! ASSSHHHOOO! AIIIISSHHH!! YIIIISSHHH! IISSHHHH! HIISSSHHHHHHUuuuuhhh!” The sneezes slid higher and higher in pitch, though they lost nothing in volume for that, if anything growing louder, great hollering screams, though after a moment it seemed the attack was finally starting to taper off, with long, drawn-out sneezes that seemed to take everything out of Ransom, so that Marta couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy. “hhhhhhhHHHHAASSHHHHHOOOoooo… AAASSSHHHHHHHHHHOOoooo… huhhhh… ohno… huhHHHHH… HHEEEAAASSSHHHHH-HHOOOOOO!! HUH! HUUURRRRRSCCHHOOOOoooo! URRRRSSSHHHHHOOOOOoooooo… f-fuuhhhh… fuckwhywon’tit… ihhhhhh… hiiiieeehhhh… iiieegghhhh… iiieeeeeEEAAAAAAYYYYYYAAAASSSHHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! huuuuhhh… HHHHAAAADDDDSSDDDHHHUUUUHHH!! FUCK! HUUUHHhhh… HHHATTSSCCHHHHUuuuhh! HAAADDDDSSHHHUUuuhhh! AAAAAHHHHTTTSSSSHHHHUUUUHhhh… hhhaaDDDDIIISSSHHHHHOOOO!! GGGGGGIIISSSHHHHhhhooooo… ahhh… ahhhhhhh… AHHHHHHHH…. HHAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH… HAHT-CCCCHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAA-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSHH!!!”

Clealry she was wrong about his allergy sneezes being nearly as bad as his performance sneezes. When he really sneezed, they were worse.

Though that last one seemed a bit put on. Maybe it was the only way he knew to cap off a fit. Drama seemed to be in the guy’s blood after all. The way he collapsed back down onto the couch, spread out and panting, suggested much the same.

“Think you sneezed for seven minutes straight, kiddo. Might be a new personal best!” Harlan said cheerily, obviously trying to cheer his grandson up. He reached out to pat him on the shoulder, but Ransom roughly pushed him off, expression stormy.

“Fuck off old man. It’s your fault and those fucking dogs with their fucking hair all over the place, that’s why I’m… why…” his voice again, and Marta thought she saw in his eyes genuine fear that he’d start sneezing again. But luckily he purged the urge in a lusty, “hheEEEUUUURRRSSHHHHHHhhhoooo!”

“Fuck. I gotta get the fuck out of here before it fucking starts again.” He said, face red and puffy with allergies and anger alike. His movements sharp, his eyes darting angrily, he roughly grabbed his jacket and stalked off towards the stairs, muttering under his breath, “damned old man and his maid—” Then Harlan’s face grew stormy as well, and Marta was reminded he could match Ransom hot spark for spark. “Now you get back here Ransom and stop acting like a spoiled child. At the very least say thank you to Marta, my nurse, for—”

Ransom stood stock still in the doorway, then swayed side to side for a moment, as though rolling his eyes required his whole frame to sway with it, but then he didn’t move, didn’t speak for a second until again… his shoulders suddenly raised, he took a great breath in, and released: “AAAAAAAAAAAAHHH-SSSHHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAYY!!” Back to the big performance sneezes. Well, clealry Ransom had recovered sufficiently from his colossal allergy attack to respond to his family with sneezes instead of words again. He stalked off downstairs without another word.

Of course, they still heard him sneezing until he was out of the door, and beyond, AAAYYYYY-SHHOOOOOOO!s echoing up the stairs.

“Well,” Harlan said after a while, “thank you, Marta, for seeing to my grandson. He can…” he took a moment to choose his words, “he can be a bit sensitive about his allergies. Especially when he gets out of control like that.” Marta nodded, and Harlan beckoned her over to sit at the couch with him. “Still, I apologize for his rudeness. You helped him, he ought to show some gratitude.”

“HHHEEIIISHHOOOO!” It was faint still, but still audible as she heard the racket of his ostentatious sports car starting.

“It’s fine, Harlan.” Marta said.

“No, it’s not, but. Well, take my apologies for him.” Harlan smiled a bit. “In any case, perhaps a game of Go?”

“EEEEIIISSHHHOOOO!!” Perhaps Marta was deceiving herself that she’d heard that one over the sound of the engine as he drove off. Perhaps not.

“Of course, Harlan.” Marta said simply, and after the disruption of Ransom, they fell back into their routine, Harlan getting out the pieces for Go, Marta pulling supplies from her bag, the day continuing as usual.

[alixsgardenofnope]

Home

More writing time.

[Warnings: Some alcohol consumption and a bit of swearing, but not much otherwise.]

With this in mind, please proceed at your own discretion.

.

. . . . “Ya know,” Sung hums, “I wasn’t expecting Far Moon to look like something out of a fairy tale... It has a lot more giant mushroom houses and literal tree houses than I imagined it would.” 

Meouch snorts, “Well, this is only part of this place, there’s a whole city a couple miles from here that looks like if you took all the weird stuff out of New York and Tokyo and smashed ‘em together. Lot more modern out there, but this...” he gestures vaguely, “Pretty much as close to the countryside as you can get ‘round here.”

“Please tell me you live in one of the mushrooms.” Sung says, eyes big and bright.

Meouch shakes his head and sighs, “Nope, just a simple house made of stone. I mean, it’s a weird shape compared to what you’d see on Earth, but here? It’s pretty much the plainest building in the area.”

Sung’s shoulders slump slightly, but he still seems curious, pausing to look back at the others, “Wow... Havve and Phobos are really struggling on those stairs...” he laughs, watching as the two stragglers hesitantly help each other climb down the absurdly steep stairs leading down into Meouch’s neighborhood. The sight of Havve clinging onto Phobos’ arms for dear life isn’t something he’ll be forgetting any time soon.

“So...” Sung whispers, his overall demeanor turning more serious, “You gonna be okay here, or...?”

Meouch sighs, recalling why they’re even on Far Moon to begin with, “I’ll be fine, Marta invited me, and I don’t wanna let her down by running off after promising I would be here... ‘Sides, this ain’t about me, this is for Ma.” he replies resolutely, “If coming to her birthday party will make her happy, of course I’m gonna do it.”

Sung sniffs a little and smiles, “Ahh~ Meouch is unexpectedly a big ol’ softy when it comes to his mama, huh?” he teases, elbowing him slightly.

“Of course, she’s the fucking greatest.” Meouch says without even an ounce of embarrassment, “Knowing her, she’ll probably try adopting you guys the minute she meet-”

“Hey!” a voice calls out, interrupting Meouch’s train of thought, “Jazzlan!”

Meouch startles as arms wrap around his midsection, his feet leaving the ground, and he’s crushed into a bear hug. Lifting his head slightly from where he’s squished against his captor’s chest, he blinks and murmurs, “...Marta?”

“The one and only!” his sister chuckles, setting him down and brushing off his clothes a little, one hand resting on his shoulder, “Man, Phobos was right, you’re still short~”

“Oi, I’m taller than that bread basket!” Meouch huffs, it still bugs him that the reason he’s back in touch with his family is because Phobos made friends with his little sister, but hearing the little indignant noise his friend makes as he nearly trips on the final step makes up for it.

“So... uhh... is everyone already here except for me?” Meouch asks, scratching his cheek awkwardly, “Would’ve been here sooner, but, ya know... had to make a couple stops along the way and...” he trails off, and Marta smiles.

“Everyone except for Nayara showed up, but I didn’t really think she would to begin with...” she says sadly, but when Meouch opens his mouth to ask, she just holds up her hand, “We can talk about it later. Party first, drama later.”

Meouch nods and takes a deep breath, softly clapping his hands together, clearly nervous.

“We’re gonna go in the back way so that we can surprise Ma, Tamir and Javi are distracting her and Dad while Ezra gets the gifts ready.” Marta says, pointing down a narrow alleyway along the side of the house.

“Should we slap a bow on Meouch?” Sung jokes, snorting when Marta seems to genuinely consider the idea for a moment.

“No time for that.” Meouch pipes up immediately, “Let’s just hurry up and get inside.”

Marta nods and the group heads around to the back door.

---

The inside of his parents’ home hasn’t changed much during the time that he’s been gone, Meouch discovers as they slink in the back door, the only real difference is the number of photos his mother has plastered to the walls, some of which, to his absolute horror, are candid shots of him from not long ago.

He looks at Phobos pointedly, frowning when his friend smirks at him.

“Wait here.” Marta says, slipping through the hallway into the adjoining dining room. Meouch can hear cheerful chattering, which lowers a bit when Marta mentions something about a “small gift”, he mouths ‘hey’ at that, in the kitchen.

Meouch tenses slightly as he hears the sound of a chair scraping on the wood floor of the dining room, and moves to hide behind Havve, but finds himself being pushed forward instead.

“Oh, honey, what is it?” He can hear his mother saying as Marta leads her into the kitchen with her eyes covered, “Please not another dog, your father will-”

As she uncovers her eyes, his mother pauses almost immediately as he gaze falls on him, and he can’t help but tear up at the sight of the dawning realization on her face.

“Jazzy!” she cries, running over to him and pulling him into a warm hug, “It’s my Little Paws!”

Meouch stands there with his arms out to his sides for a moment before returning the hug, lifting his mother up like Marta had done to him only a little while before, “Hey, I’m not so little anymore. I’m at least taller than the counter now, ya have to give me that.”

As he sets his mother back down, she pulls back slightly to get a good look at him before noticing his friends behind him, “Oh goodness, look at this! Jazzy, you brought friends along.”

Meouch looks back at the guys, “Moral support.” he half jokes, and his mother lives an amused huff.

“Well now, you’ll have to introduce me...”

---

As the party winds down, and the initial shock and surprise of Meouch’s sudden appearance wears off, he finds himself standing on the back porch with Marta, beer in hand, it’s still so new and weird seeing his sister all grown up and drinking like this, talking about everything that’s happened since he left. They skip over some of the less pleasant parts, not wanting to completely sour the mood.

“...You mentioned Nayara earlier.” Meouch says, broaching the topic carefully, “What, uh, what happened there?”

Marta takes a sip of her drink and sets it down on the railing, folding her arms.

“Where do I even begin...?” she scoffs bitterly, before shaking her head, her expression slipping from anger into mild frustration and sadness, “...You weren’t the only one who left without saying goodbye.”

Meouch frowns, “...Ah, she...”

“Yeah...” Marta nods, “Except, with you...” 

“What?”

“Ma was sad when you left... when Nayara left, she was... I’ve never seen Ma so angry before.” she says, brows furrowed.

Meouch’s eyes widen, “Ma? Angry? What?”

“It was crazy.” Marta says, picking her drink back up, “...To be fair to Ma though... Nayara was kind of... Towards the end, she just didn’t... I don’t know how to word this other than she was a royal bitch.”

“Whoa, language, young lady.” Meouch teases, “...Sounds like Nayara though.”

Marta hums, and swirls her glass a bit, “Ma got over it a lot faster than when you left though.”

Meouch sighs and downs the rest of his drink, “Did Ma ever... ya know... tell you guys why I left?”

Marta shakes her head, “She just said you had something you had to do.”

“...I...” Meouch begins, but bits his lip instead, “...I... um...”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me if you’re not ready to.” Marta says, leaning against the railing.

Meouch nods. He’s really not ready to have this conversation yet.

“Let’s move onto something a bit less...” he makes an uncertain noise in the back of his throat, “Umm... so, you’re a captain now?”

“Been one for about a year now.” she says with a grin, “What about you, ‘commander’?”

Meouch groans, “That was Sung’s doing in part, he decided that since I help pilot the ship and all, that I had to have some kinda fancy title... Don’t entirely hate it though...”

---

Three days into their stay on Far Moon, Meouch decides it’s time to head home, much to the great disappointment of his friends, who had grown attached to his family, particularly his mother, who had been stuffing them full of local sweets and been crying about how she wanted to adopt them all. He admittedly feels a little guilty when he sees Phobos receiving a farewell hug that seems to drag on just a little longer than the rest, his mom has always had a good radar for who needs an extra bit of attention. 

“C’mon, Ma, ya gotta let him go or else he’ll wanna stay forever, and Dad already said no more dogs.” He huffs, watching Phobos reluctantly release himself from her embrace.

“Oh, it’s fine, I’m sure I could replace Ezra, Javi or Tamir with him-” there’s a small chorus of disgruntled sounds in the distance and she laughs, “Ah, but it’s probably better if I don’t.”

“It... It was good seeing you, again, Ma.” Meouch whispers as the guys head off towards the stairs, “I’m sor-”

He feels a gentle slap against his cheek and blinks as he sees his mother staring up with him with a serious expression on her face, “You never need to apologize to me for doing what’s right for you, Little Paws.” she says firmly, “I already told you a long time ago that I understand your reasons.”

“I know, but...” Meouch’s vision grows clouded and he wipes his hand across his eyes quickly, scrubbing away the tears as they fall, “I made you sad.”

“Oh, honey...” his mother sighs, “You’ve made me happy now though, so that more than makes up for it.”

“I...” Meouch begins, but is cut off by another gentle pat.

“None of that.” she smiles, “If you keep talking like this, you won’t be able to catch up with your friends. Now, one more hug for the road and then get your butt home safely!”

Meouch sniffles, “Okay.”