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cravatsandcolds · 5 months

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1999 (M, cold) Part 2/2

First part is over here

This part is long, plot heavy, but it also gets real pathetic. I really don't know this genre that well so please be gentle, I tried. Thanks to @mimikusu for the excellent prompt about sneezing into one's hand - it's what actually tipped the scales and I had to write the whole damn fic.

Warning - there's a slur here (the g-slur used about Roma people), it's used when a character mocks the police force about the rampant problem of discrimination/racism.

Oh yeah, and people around here remove their shoes when walking into a home, and tissues come in packs wrapped in plastic instead of boxes, like really big travel packs.

: :

Part II

A whole lot of time and money wasted at the club, but not a whiff of that bastard Warbler. No sight of that bouncer who seemed to know him either. Hannes pays for his gin and tonic, and moves to sit at the empty end of the bar, leaning his face into his palm. Fuck.How many times will he have to come back then? Not that he minds, but he can't fucking afford this. Hell, if he doesn't start getting some results, his reputation might not afford this either. A corrupt policeman, dipping deep into the company purse to watch some dancers at an adult club... he can almost see the headlines.

"Do you think we'll survive it?"

No matter how softly the question is delivered, it jolts Hannes awake from his self-pitying stupor. He turns to the direction of that velvety voice, sees the quietly smiling face of a dainty black man, perched on the bar stool next to him wearing a green sequin dress and matching spray glitter in his hair, sipping at a cosmo.

"...what?" Hannes mumbles.

The man gives his drink a swirl with a long, long sparkly nail. "When all the computers go boom! Do you think we'll survive it, as a civilisation?"

"Sounds like a normal day at the office to me."

The man chuckles. Now Hannes thinks he recognizes him, he's just not wearing glasses today and a whole lot of make-up instead, worked behind the bar the other day, mixing drinks, running the show. Well, let's have a try. "A night off?"

"Something like that," he says, lighting a cigarette. So apparently it's allowed at this end of the bar, or perhaps just allowed to him. "Though here I still am. But then, someone needs to see everyone behaves."

"Are you behaving?"

"It might require a bit of cajoling on your part to make me not to."

It's Hanne's moment to chuckle. Cheeky. But in a nice way, unlike some. He takes a sip from his drink too.

A moment of silence. "He's not here, you know."

"Who..." Was he that obvious? "...oh. I thought he would be on tonight."

"Yeah, was supposed to be. But he's home sick, poor darling."

Well darling isn't the first word Hannes would use to describe Warbler, but why not play the part of a love-struck fan. "Oh? Hope it's nothing serious."

"Nah, just a cold. Tried to come in yesterday to a private show, he was a mess, just sneezing his pretty head off. Can't dance like that, can you, not very seductive. Anyway, we sent him back home before he got everyone else sick too, told him to take a couple of days off, miserable bastard."

It's then when something catches Hannes' eye, a familiar figure from the other day, don't you fucking touch him. She's there by the VIP-lounge door, been probably stationed in there the whole time, just out of sight. She's herding some people out, damn but she doesn't even need to touch them even if they're obviously pissed, there's an authority to her that's very hard to deny. That gives him an idea.

"Well, let's hope I get to see him some other day then," Hannes says, turning on his bar stool as he throws back the rest of his drink. "And you too."

The man smiles again, there's something about that smile that makes Hannes uneasy, makes him think he knows a bit more than what he's letting on. "Give it a few days."

Well then. VIP lounge. Perhaps a couple of rounds about, another drink to flaunt, just to not look too obvious. Just a clueless little man, Hannes, not meaning any harm.

...

Stepping into the small room leading to the VIP lounge, not much more than a corridor, Hannes feels a soft carpeting giving way under his shoe. It's dim except for some spots next to the big mirror, and just a little bit to the left, the doorway to the lounge.

He knowingly doesn't even look at the direction of a looming shadow of a bouncer, not even when he hears a stern excuse me from her direction, no, he's a bit tipsy you see, and either too daft to know he's not supposed to be here, or daft enough to think he could slip past her. She cuts him off just when he's about to get in.

"Excuse me, do you have a VIP pass on you?"

"Wait... what?"

"You can't enter without a pass."

"No, see, my friend is over there..."

He can hear from her voice how her eyes are narrowing. "I see. Well I can pass a message. Who are you looking for?"

"Uhmm..." Hannes tries to peak in, swaying a little. "It's that chap with the funny parting right over —"

"I see. Well let's get going then."

He doesn't put up much of a resistance, but just enough to have her bodily escort him out. A bit of a stumble... he feels her grip on his arm. Perfect.

"I need to talk to him," he says.

Her grip tightens. "Do you know. Hell, should have guessed."

"I mean it, I —"

"I know you're a cop, and he doesn't want to talk to you." She stops. "I'd really like to fucking throw you out but —"

So they've talked. "Tino. Tino Ast—"

"Shut up!" she hisses, picking up the pace again, escorting him towards the door.

I'm really getting thrown out now, am I? he thinks. Well, he'd better be. "It's a set-up, DI Vahanen told me before he died that —"

"Shut up I told you and keep walking, I'm really going to throw you out now."

When they step outside, it's remarkably cold, Hannes can see his breath. "You feel sick and want to sit down," she whispers into his ear.

Oh damn but it is embarrassing, a whole long ass line of people at the door can see him stumbling about, then crash to sit against the wall. Well, if there's a co-worker standing there, they'll have some explaining to do as well.

"Hey," she says loudly, "You can't sit there."

"Just resting a bit..." he slurs.

"Fuck that, you need to keep walking."

He tries to get up, then falls back down on his ass. "I don't have my... my jacket."

She hisses with exasperation, raking her fingers through her hair. "You have your token?"

He tries hard to not to be too fast, his heart beating loudly in his ears. "I have myh... my thoken!"

Honestly Hannes has to say, he has never gotten his jacket from the cloakroom so damn fast, though the delivery is less than hospitable. He starts hauling himself up, leaning to the wall, feels her iron grip on his arm again. "Now get fucking going."

"I... I feel dizzy..."

She sighs loudly. "There's a taxi stand just on the next street, I'll point it to you.

And they're walking, finally, her dragging him along, and it's not only for show. They have barely turned the corner when Hannes starts speaking quickly.

"They're prosecuting the wrong man. It's a set-up."

"Well why don't you arrest the right bastard then?" She says, stopping, pinning him to the wall with her gaze alone.

Because the poor boy was involved in more than a bit of unusual nightlife, and because God help us but it looks like someone high up in the fucking anti-drugs police might be implicated! "It's not so simple, I mean, I can't go into the details but..."

"Well don't then!" she says, exasperated. "What do you even care about one dead gypsy anyway, hell, you're even getting to arrest another one for it, how fucking great for you!"

Hannes finds himself blushing, now that hit a nerve. "Well I do happen to care, and it's not fucking great, because the moment this goes into court, hell, probably even before that, I'm telling you, all hell will break loose!"

"Oh come on," she says, practically spits out. "Perhaps you think yourself so different from the rest, but when the push comes to shove, you have the guy you want for whatever corrupt fucking reason you have and that's all that matters."

Honestly, Hannes has to admit he's almost impressed by her entirely justified cynicism. She adds then, a bit more softly, "It's not like any of it will bring him back anyway."

"You're alright with an innocent man going to jail?"

She shrugs. "Not my business. I don't want no trouble, and Warbler doesn't want any either."

It's Hannes' turn to be exasperated. He rubs his face, and takes a deep breath, just as he's about to turn on her heels. "Well there's probably going to be another body then, and why not a third, and so on, but what do you care about some dead gypsies!"

Well that got her attention alright, suddenly she's back in his face. "What do you mean, cop?"

"I mean that they're going to link the murder to an old family vendetta, one that was successfully reconciled a fucking decade ago.But if Tino's family now thinks the peace has been breached..."

"Shit..." she sighs, her shoulders slumping.

"Shit indeed."

She seems to consider for a moment, and then comes to stand right next to him, leaning her back into the wall as well. "Give me a cig," she says.

He does, and even lights it for her too. Roots. From this close Hannes can see the roots. Her hair isn't really that dark, she dyes it, almost black. Suits her though.

"The kindling is there," he says, digging up a cigarette for himself too. "And all it requires to light up is a couple of hotheads, and the idea that they won't get justice any other way."

"Well are they getting justice?"

Ouch. That hit a nerve as well. Hannes lights up without a word, a formless shadow of shame suddenly weighing on his shoulders. Wants to shrug. Won't.

She takes a drag, and then, well, smiles, though it's a gloomy sort of a smile. "He never talked about his family... you know, he was fucking seventeen when he slithered his way into the club."

"Seventeen? I thought your age limit was 21? What the hell were the bouncers doing?"

"It was 20 by then. Anyway, he was using a fake ID. He became a regular, cozied himself up to everyone, the tricky bastard. No-one knew before he was promised a job behind the bar, everyone just thought he had such a cute baby face. Fucking seventeen."

"But he did get a job?"

"Yeah, assisting bartenders, cleaning and such, eventually, but he had to wait for a few months to turn 18." A sad sort of a chuckle escapes through her lips with the smoke. "You know, we even threw him a fucking birthday party, with an ass-shaped cake and everything. You know, when he..." her voice trails away, and she throws the half-smoked cigarette to the ground, stomping on it. "Anyway, I have to go back."

"When can I talk to him?"

"Give me your phone," she says. And he does, a Nokia 5110 that has surely seen some better days — always falling out of his pocket, the damn thing. "Warbler's over in my place," she says, writing a text. "appeared behind my door 'to return a dvd', hadn't even watched it because 'the cover was boring', the bastard. Anyway he's crashing on my sofa, nursing that damn cold."

"I heard he's unwell."

"Yeah, I'm warning you, he's a total disaster, just streaming with it. And it doesn't make him any more agreeable either." She gives him his phone back. "That's a pub next door. Come tomorrow, I'll fetch you. Just come before I leave for work?"

"Would, say, 4pm do?"

"That's good."

"Will he talk?"

She scoffs. "When doesn't he talk? But might be you get nothing you actually want out of him. Anyway, I'll try to ease him into it, do you have a card? Wait, not, don't give me anything. 4pm sharp, I'll meet you there. Except if he says no way, which he will, and I fail to turn his head, well don't wait for me longer than for ten minutes or so."

He wants to say something, but then realises this is by far the best deal he is going to get. "I'll meet you there."

...

Twelve minutes past she steps into the pub in her green parka, walks right to him, doesn't sit down. So, on her free time, a cargo pants and hoodie girl. Between the edges of the coat hanging open Hannes can almost pick up a logo... ah, a Pantera fan.

"Are you coming?" she asks.

"You're not having anything?"

She doesn't even grace him with an answer. Hannes gathers his things and gets up.

It's not a long walk, which is relieving because she's not talking, and Hannes has a nasty feeling that making Warbler come around hasn't exactly been easy. He pays close attention as they step into the staircase, 4th floor, there's an elevator but she takes the stairs, perhaps she doesn't want to share an elevator with him, or perhaps she just gets some perverse satisfaction from the fact that Hannes has a bit of a hard time keeping up with her. She opens the door without looking at him, pulls her boots off, and just walks into the living room while removing her coat, leaving Hannes behind.

He notes a pair of beat up Doc Martens' on the floor, not her size, too big, though not by much. She has left her boots next to them, not of any recognizable brand, mid height, probably hidden steel caps judging from the way the leather has creased and worn, naughty girl. Or perhaps bouncers just get their toes stepped on a lot. An equally beat up yet still beautiful vintage biker jacket is laid on the backrest of a chair, a black-on-white keffiyeh spilling out from a sleeve, not exactly her style either, too flashy, though it probably would look wonderful on either of —

"Hd'esssssghuhh!"

The rough sneeze tailed by some equally rough coughing echoes from the next room. So it's true, the hot little bastard really is that sick. Hannes hangs his coat on a doorknob, leaves his shoes, takes a deep breath, and walks in.

The second thing that grabs Hannes' attention is a bookshelf with a row of books like Textbook of Weightlifting or Strength Programming for Coaches. At the top of the shelf, some sort of diplomas, a medal even. Hannes points to them. "Compete in weightlifting?"

"No," she says, having planted herself in one corner of the sofa, feet up. "That was wrestling, junior league. Don't do it anymore. Except sometimes for fun."

Fun. Of course, what would be more fun than throwing people around in a singlet and getting choked. Fun! The first thing he noticed, of course, was the figure of Warbler, curled up in the other end of the sofa, wearing an oversized gray hoodie, can't be his, wouldn't fit under that jacket. So he's wearing her clothes then. A strange relationship, they don't seem to be lovers, but for a friendship it all seems way too intimate, a bit co-dependent even.

On a closer look, Hannes is a bit taken aback by how entirely miserable Warbler looks. It's a little hard to imagine it's the same person as that alluring, incredibly confident, self-satisfied dancer he had on his lap a couple of days ago, making such a fool of him, and whom he later on thought about intensely while alone in the shower. For really, the man doesn't look well at all, breathing through his mouth and his eyes looking so tired, irritated, his beautiful hair lank and a little matted. There's crumpled tissues all about him, on the sofa, a couple on the floor, on the table too next to a pack of fresh ones that's running precariously low, poor bastard, his nose looks so red and raw too.

Warbler’s eyelashes start fluttering shut. "Huh... Hd'gsssshah!" He groans and digs a half-used tissue from one of those big hoodie pockets, blows his nose, it seems to go on forever, loud and wet. Eventually he snuffles, blinks his eyes, stuffs the tissue back to where it came from, and leans his head back to give Hannes an indifferent look.

Hannes takes his cue. "Thank you for agreeing to see me," he says, extending his hand.

"Want to shake hands with a dying man?" Warbler says thickly, not making any attempt at offering his own.

"Just wanted to talk a little, if you don't mind."

"Who said I didn't mind?" He presses his knuckles against his nose with another thick sniffle.

"Well you probably do I suppose," Hannes says with a pathetic grin, "but I'm here now so, let's have a chat."

To Hannes' surprise, Warbler does lift his hand, but instead of extending it to him he just sneezes into it, wet and wrenching. "Ht'djisssshuuh! Oh fucking… Hdjisssssh! ...ugh, yuck," he moans, sniffles again as he looks at his hand, and then offers it to Hannes. "Well fuck you too."

"I really wouldn't touch that if I was you," Tea says. "I think he has the plague."

"I do, don't I?" Warbler whines, then shrugs, and starts rummaging around the pockets of his, or her, hoodie. "Oh fuck, I need anotheh... another tiss-SHUuuush!" He can't seem to find anything usable, just another balled up thing, so he shoves it against his leaking nostrils, sniffles and moans. Hannes wants to be mad at him, but it isn't exactly easy, the bastard is just too fucking pitiful. He picks up the pack of tissues and holds it out.

"Thagk you" Warbler mumbles, takes one, shakes it open, and proceeds to clean his nose.

"That's quite a cold."

Warbler just shrugs, having lost his taste for niceties again.

There's a chair, probably brought out from the little kitchenette, and Hannes hopes it's for him — he needs to at least pretend to himself he's a little bit welcome. He pulls it a little closer to the sofa and sits down. All's still well, or at least he hasn't been kicked out just yet.

"I'm not sure how much she told you," Hannes says.

Warbler just looks at him from underneath those heavy eyelids, not making a gesture to help him out. Hannes clears his throat.

"I told him," Tea says suddenly, oh bless her. "About Tino, and the set up and so on."

"Yes, so, I trust you understand why it's important I get to the bottom of this, and quickly."

Warbler finally speaks. "That has nothing to do with me."

Well of course he says that, exactly as described, isn't he. "I'm not so sure about that, DI Vahanen, rest his soul, was adamant on this, that you would —"

Warbler interrupts him with a raspy chuckle. "Oh Vahanen, that old pervert, I hope he died choking on a dick and I say this because I actually did like him. Man knew how to tip." He wrinkles his nose with a sniffle. "Just shame it wasn't mine."

It takes all of Hanne's self control to not simply go the fuck off.

Beautiful, an asshole, light brown hair past shoulders, sharp features, slender but athletic, will royally piss you off in less than a minute if you let him get under your skin. Smarter than he looks, way smarter, fluent in four languages, including Russian, an university drop-out. Be careful with him. You'll try to appeal to his conscience first, but it won't work, let me tell you that one has no conscience, I should know, it's hard to imagine from someone with such a pretty face, when you feel his sweet breath on your skin, but listen, Hannes, he's dangerous, I gave him a handgun - You WHAT?! - well I fucking did and the bastard knew his way around it, never got it back, no it won't lead to me, if all else fails you can arrange a search, bring him in for unlawful possession, one round has been fired, or that much I know about, though might be you won't find it, he's a treacherous bastard and a paranoid one too, try something else first, ask him about St. Petersburg, December, don't try to let him simmer or play his nerves because it won't work on him, nerves, that bastard has some alright, surprise works best, ask about an island called —saari, pretty sure he has visited, just keep your wits about you, like I said, he's sharp little fucker. And remember — never, ever trust him to do the right thing.

"Fuck off Warbler," Tea says, earning a sharp look, and then another shrug and a sniffle. "Sorry about him, but like I said, he might just disappoint you."

"I see," Hannes says, the veneer of pleasantness wearing thin on his voice. "Well then. I suppose I could ask —"

"Ht'gsssshiih! ...snd-sndff! ...Hd'jyisssshuh!" He coughs as he's digging up another tissue, his nose visibly running, blows for a good long while, and then whines — God but that sounds pathetic, really just whines like a sad dog or something, who ever does that?

"Your nose is peeling," she says.

"I kdow," he whines with a soupy sniffle, giving her such a pleading look, like she was in the position to help.

"You should look after it, it looks so damn sore."

"It is sore." He snuffles with an exasperated guhh, reaches for a tin of vaseline, on the table next to a couple of half empty mugs of tea and a thermometer, takes some and starts spreading it on his chapped nostrils, a couple more coughs escaping his chest. "I think I might have fever, too."

She frowns and sits up straight, leaning towards him, and puts the back of her hand on his forehead, then tries both of his slightly flushed cheeks as well, one after another. "Might well be."

There's something about the way he closes his eyes and leans into her touch that shows such willingness, or even eagerness to be vulnerable, it's like he has forgotten already that someone else was there, obediently offering his face. Surely they are lovers? Or about to be?

Hannes clears his throat. "So you've visited St. Petersburg."

"Who hasn't?" he says, and leans back again. "I fucking love Aivazovsky."

"You don't give a shit about Aivazovsky, you just loved the cheap booze and shit."

Usually Hannes wouldn't think much of it, but the way Warbler's eyes suddenly flick to Tea must be the first truly honest thing coming out of him today, well in addition to the sneezing. Could it be... was she with him? Perhaps...

"No," he drawls. "Admit it, your tastes are just so fucking peh..." The word pedestrian comes out as a breathy gasp as his mouth turns into a snarl. "Hd'gssshiih! ...this fucking cold!" he moans.

Don't let yourself get distracted. "Look, I have no interest in your more intimate dealings with my former superior, but he had a reason to think you either know something or could at least help me to know something... it's the owners of the club, right, I bet you saw something, heard something." I bet you did something for them, actually I'm more positive about that by the minute. Another question is, was she in on it too?

"And what makes you think I want to fuck with them, if they're that dangerous?" There's almost a challenge to his voice, his brows knitting. Perhaps it's the cold, perhaps it's this annoying little man pestering him, perhaps he has a headache, but this Warbler, he's getting irked.

"Yes, dangerous," Hannes says. "The real ones, not the decoy but her brothers in law, and it all connects back to the goddamn St. Peterburg gang, and you know that, honestly I didn't assume you did because I didn't take you for someone that well informed but now I'm positive, at least that much has been gained."

"Well why are you talking to us if you know so much already?" she says.

Us. He didn't like hearing that word, did he, doesn't like her involving herself one bit. Perhaps the protectiveness isn’t as one sided as he wants him to believe. And who knows... it’s just a hunch, but right now Hannes wouldn’t be surprised if the gun was actually right here.

"And then there's —saari," Hannes continues, "some nice development right there, must have taken quite a bit of money, a heliport and everything, must be a beautiful place, shame someone like me can't visit, but for you it's not a problem, Vahanen thought you've been there before, honestly I don't even care. But I do know you can get there, you can get to these people —

"Probably could," he says loudly, measuring Hannes with his gaze, like he's only now starting to understand what a pest he, or she, has let in. "Sure, but I'm not interested.

"Well I'm interested," she interrupts. "Like I said, I don't think you're going to gain much by talking to him, mister, but if I can, I'll help, we owe it to that poor kid, and his family, and I'm also starting to get the feeling I don't like the people benefitting from this set-up much."

This Warbler is an expressful little fuck, and it's very attractive for sure, but it also means that when his face goes blank like that, not showing any emotion one or another way, there must be a real turmoil there. It's like that, isn't it, thinking you're so untouchable, but you're sitting there in her hoodie, you keep doing that, don't you, crawling to her in your moment of need, that look you gave from the cab window, well perhaps I'm going to crawl some too, and you can't stop her, can you, can't control her, you wouldn't love her if you could, can't control whose call she answers and whose not. Well, Hannes, let's roll the dice, let's breath into that flame.

"Thank you," Hannes says, turning to her, "I appreciate it. I hoped he would come around too but still, I'm sure we can work something out."

"I can give you an email, is that good?" she asks.

He has sat up straighter. "You sure you want that, Tea?" he says, runs his chuckles under his nose, eyes suddenly so alert. "You don't owe him shit. Don't need to do it now either, you can think on it."

"You're not getting the stakes at all, are you?" Hannes suddenly snaps. "It's not just about one dead body and another life ruined for no fucking fault of his own, but I swear, if there's going to be more bodies because you wouldn't lift a fucking finger unless it was to stick it into someone's wallet, that blood is on our hands too, your fucking hands, Warbler."

Warbler's head whips around to face him, and truly, he's irked now. "Look, if you expect me to cross a gang run by a bunch of old fucking KGB bastards for the goodness of my heart, you're sorely mistaken. So if you can't pay me as much as they would and a little bit of extra for fucking forfeiting my life, better start digging some serious dirt on me because you're not getting any freebies." His cheeks are entirely flushed now, a clear glint of fever in his eyes, and he has started to cough harshly, can't stop. "Stingy bastard," he wheezes, coughs more.

"You've worked for them before, haven't you," Hannes says slowly.

Meanwhile, Tea has gotten up for a glass of water, is holding it for him to drink from, won't let go, like she was afraid he would drop it, her hand on his back.

"I'm bored with you, and bored of this discussion," he eventually croaks, wiping his mouth into the back of his hand. "So if you want to continue you'll better have a reason to drag me into your little station, piggy."

"That's enough," Tea says, loudly enough to make both of the men fall quiet. She rakes back her hair with her fingers."Yeah, like I said I care about what really happened to Tino, but I won't have you fucking bullying him under my roof. So back off. Understood?"

"Ah, I'm sorry," Hannes says with a nervous laugh. Getting thrown out by her again, is he...

"But I mean it, I want to see this one through."

Well no-one is happy about this outcome, really it's a hard guess who is more bummed, Hannes, or Warbler. The latter has sunk back into his own corner of the sofa, fever glowing on his cheeks, tired, sulking. But when she absentmindedly puts her hand on his leg, giving it a little caress, his face lights up a little.

Surely they at least fuck, right? Right?

Hannes slaps his hands to his thighs and gets up. “Well then. I’m happy to see I didn’t just waste everyone’s time.” He offers his hand.

Unlike him, she takes it.

#OOOOH #the plot here is so delicious just like last time #the verbal sparring… hannes can be a tricky bastard when he wants to!#but god warbler’s pathetic cold makes the verbal sparring so much better #the bit where he starts coughing after his little outburst… 🥺🥺#i also adore getting an outside perspective on his and tea’s relationship #that sort of observation is one of my favourite things to read and write #there are so many good details #like tea’s roots. or the docs. or the bit about warbler can’t control her but he loves her and that can fuck you over sometimes #this fic is brilliant!!

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cravatsandcolds · 5 months

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the concept of rubbing someone's temples FOR them

hunched over a desk, hand propping up their cheek, half asleep with a sinus headache and their friend/partner comes over and coaxes them into laying down properly by trying to help relieve their headache

#THIS #sorry i’m still thinking of [redacted] and facial scars fucking up the sinuses #sinus headaches are so good and this prompt is so sweet #in [redacted]’s case there are a LOT more problems than just fucked up sinuses but hey. a nice thing to think about.

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cravatsandcolds · 5 months

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1999 (M, cold) Part 1/2

Alright, I finally wrote a sneezy male club dancer.

This fic centers around an imaginary queer af strip/adult club in Helsinki. It's year 1999, jeans are low and hopes are high; a mobile phone doesn't connect to the internet; and DI Hannes Friberg is trying to make contact with a certain dancer, for there is a crime to solve.

This fic is shamelessly plot-heavy. There are a couple of characters here that will look familiar to those who have read my fics: yes, I'm using Warbler and Tehana for a modern setting, though she is getting a more realistic name.

The song playing in the dance scene is Madonna's Human Nature from 1994 - I'm linking it here, it's a lovely song

: :

PART I

First of all, it is so very loud.

This is to be expected, of course, it's a club after all. But to be honest, Detective Inspector Hannes Friberg has never been that big of a clubber. A pint in a pub on a Friday night, shooting shit with mates, well that's very nice, especially if the said mates are doing most of the shit-shooting, as they tend to be a lot more fun than Hannes himself, though he has his moments, like last New Years when he sang that song Daisarit in the karaoke, that was a good show alright.

Hannes weaves his way through the crowd as he can. It's one of those situations where it pays to be a somewhat slight man; yes, people might walk into you and step on your toes left and right because they are often looking past you and just as often right through you, but if you have quick feet like Hannes does your toes will be mostly safe, and you can use your size and general ignorability to your benefit, like he is doing right now, slipping through the cracks in the mass of sexually frustrated patrons of various ages and genders and states on inebriety, like a little lizard between rocks, desperate to get to the bar.

Why bar? It's not like he came here to drink. But it's also not like he's not going to drink, goodness he just needs a little something before daring to approach the stage. He takes out his credit card, then stuffs it back into his wallet and takes out a 100 mark bill instead. Thinks about ordering a beer, wants a beer, thirsts for a beer, but when he opens his mouth he realises he might not be able to take his drink with him where he goes, orders some jallukola instead (cut brandy mixed with coke) and slinks off to down the drink as quickly as it deserves while puffing through a cigarette, fingers shaking.

Get a grip of yourself, man! After all, a detective inspector now. Not like this was the way he would have wanted to get his promotion, no, he had dreamed of proving himself, had dreamed of that damn grouchy prick of an inspector Vahanen seeing his value and commending him and then somehow the career path of his dreams opening up before him with Vahanen's comforting shadow still always engulfing him, not the old bastard just up and dying on him. Hannes sticks his hand into his pocket, the pen is still there, good, would have been terrible if he lost it. And suddenly it strikes him in all its petty misery - well of course it hadn't happened that way, because the truth was that he was not ready, isn't ready no matter how desperately the old man was making his case to him in that small, stuffy hospital room. He's the only lead I can give you, Hannes, don't fuck this up, do you hear me, don't fuck this up!

"This table is non-smoking area," a woman says, loud, more bored than angry. She's tall, and not just tall but built more like a bull than a woman, damn but judging from those shoulders she could probably bench press more than him, with Hannes himself perched on the bar.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I..." He notices her finger pointing towards some tables that are way more crowded than the ones around here. A bouncer then, clad in black from head to toe, dark hair worn in a tight braid, face as unsearchable as unfriendly, though her narrow eyes seem to be looking past him, fixed on something more interesting than him or at least more potentially troublesome. Hannes nods and downs the rest of his drink while he walks over to stump his half-smoked cigarette into the nearest ashtray.

Well then, you'll be sayin' no no no no no, when it's really yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah, now isn't that a little presumptuous of you, lady? Though to be honest, this one could make a nice song for karaoke! Shame there probably isn't any equipment. But oh well, that isn't why he's here in the first place, is it. Time to see some dancing.

...

At least the music is nice enough, and the dancers, well, manoeuvring on that pole must require quite some strength and skill. Yet Hannes finds himself unable to really enjoy the show, no matter how pretty everything is, in that sexually provocative and all around...non-conformingway he isn't exactly used to, but would of course to be expected in a place like this. Also, there's a really group of men sitting right next to him, quite inebriated, shoving rustling money into skimpy little briefs and thongs and whatnot when such things come close enough.

He had to bribe the man sitting on this chair with drinks to get a good spot, and all he really has is a pen he received from Vatanen in the breast pocket of his shirt, as visible as he dares, and a vague description. And he's getting rather nervous - perhaps he has missed him somehow?

There's a new man now coming on stage, can't see that well yet, not that tall but those ridiculous heels he's wearing make his legs look impossibly long. He has just grabbed the pole when someone from the audience shouts something at him, can't quite catch what it was but it gives the man a pause, he leans back, a bright row of teeth flashing in the lights, and then he sticks out his tongue. Someone he knows perhaps, there's laughter. Though the exchange is cut short by the man hoisting himself up in the air, really like he was light as a feather, a bit of a kick to give himself some spin. Oh but he's good at this, really a right athlete, and Hannes can't help wondering why he ended up taking up dancing instead of, well, gymnastics or pole jumping or something, he could have gotten into the olympics that's for sure. But perhaps one day they will have pole dancing in the olympics, who knows. Or skateboarding, or competitive speed strip-tease or something.

Though it's becoming clearer now why the man has chosen dancing instead of those other pursuits, and especially this kind of dancing, because he's not only athletic but his movement is so smooth, graceful, yet staggeringly, titillatingly sleazy. He has landed on the stage again - in quite a memorable pose too, lovely ass by the way - and is now moving a bit closer along the stage. Hannes gets a better visual now, he's probably in his mid twenties, something like that, it's hard to say when he's so heavily made up. He's wearing a crop top and tight little micro shorts, damn but how do those tiny things even stay up, they're just so low, are they glued on or something? Taped? At least the fishnets are held up by suspenders, their dark inviting lines disappearing under the shorts.

Wait... that could actually be him, right? Now when he gets even closer, Hannes goes once again through the description he received in those lasts moments: beautiful, an asshole, light brown hair past shoulders, sharp features, slender but athletic, will royally piss you off in less than — oh hell, is the pen even visible enough, or has it slipped? Hannes finds the thing, fusses with it, searches for an eye contact. But the man is busy dancing and flirting, getting money shoved into his stockings and under his waistband, silky hair rippling down his back when he arches it so deliciously.

Fuck! He's been noticed now. And what eyes! Big and pale above wide, high cheekbones, the expression in them almost bored as he approaches, self-satisfied, divine. And those parted lips, they look so very...

The man steps his toes on the edge of the chair, right between Hannes' thighs. Hannes finds himself frozen solid, wants to loosen the collar of his shirt, suddenly so tight, but doesn't dare to move. A little worried on the behalf of the nuts too, that was close. But he can only watch as this creature squats down, touch of his hands on Hannes' shoulders, and then just like that, nimbly as a damn cat he's sitting across his lap, facing him, and all Hannes can think is how beautiful his eyes are, and the rest of him too, and that he's sitting there, right across his lap, with whatever is covered by those little briefs so close to his crotch, god help him, what is he to do.

Oh, right.The pen. It was visible, right? Regaining the use of his muscles again, Hannes reaches for his breast pocket, but his hand gets grabbed, gently but firmly, like a caress that could crush. He feels a hot breath against his ear, some of that silken hair touching his face.

"You keep fiddling with your little... pen."

Express yourself, don't repress yourself,whispers another voice through the music, right into his other ear. Hannes clears his throat. "You recognize it, don't you?"

"I'm working... which means you'd better be paying me."

Ah, yes, of course, money. Where... oh of course, it goes into his pants; how nice of him to guide his hand like that.

"It's not yours," the man says.

"Vah—" He starts, then gasps. It's not exactly easy to appear professional when such a beast is moving on his lap like that; if this is called dancing, Hannes must say his first girlfriend back in secondary school was quite the dancer. "He's dead," he croaks through a shiver.

A pause. "Shame, he wasn't as stingy as some."

Suddenly the creature - Warbler, yes, that's the stage name he uses, according to Vahanen - snaps to the side, gripping Hannes' arm for balance. A sneeze. Crushed against his elbow, but from this distance clearly quite forceful even when somewhat contained, and when he straightens up, blinking his eyes, he definitely has the unguarded, strangely vulnerable expression of someone who has just sneezed.

The moment doesn't last for long though, and he smiles, smoothing back Hannes' hair, like to make up for the interruption.

Hannes seizes his chance. "I want to talk to you."

"That's not what you're paying me for, sweetheart."

But it's obvious his nose is still bothering him, a bit of a faraway look in those big, now a little shiny eyes, and he ducks to the side to sneeze again.

"Bh... bless you! You alright?"

Warbler pinches the tip of his nose with his fingers, giving it a wiggle, and then grins, again smoothing back Hannes' hair, touching his shoulders, like to sweep off some dust. "Someone went a bit wild with the cologne, huh."

No, can't get carried away now, this is his chance after all. "It's about about Tino, it's —"

Warbler’s expression changes, he doesn't exactly flinch, but more like a lightning flashing behind his eyes. "Do you want a dance or not?"

Hannes swallows. "I need to ask you about —"

"Leave me the fuck alone."

And just like that, the chance to fish for the information he's here for slips from his fingers as Hannes feels the weight of the dancer shift away from his lap, sees the man hop back on stage, all smug flirt again, basking in the desiring looks and less than respectful calls directed his way.

"I... I'm not wearing any cologne," Hannes stammers, though no-one probably hears.

...

Well, it's not like all is lost. For Hannes has done his homework, and has his car neatly parked on the other side of the building, with a clear view to a gate that leads to the inner court where the backdoor to the club is. And he knows that is the route the staff and especially the dancers use to slip out without attracting too much attention, another tidbit gained from that damn Vahanen who got him saddled with this whole thing. No, not the nicest way to approach someone who doesn't want to talk to you, sneaking on a lone club dancer who clearly doesn't want to talk to you, but he has to try.

Hannes breathes into his hands. He hasn't drank much, but still more than he would usually be comfortable with when driving, getting pulled over and having his licence revoked is not exactly the way he would prefer to end the night. But he's still thankful for having taken his car, for the weather is cold, just on the threshold of the freezing point, damp, and waiting out there until the club closes would have been just miserable.

And sure enough, eventually a familiar figure steps out of the gate, in those ridiculous heels, wearing a big, fluffy faux fur coat that makes him look like he's not wearing pants at all, which is not far from the truth. Hannes closes the radio. Isn't it dangerous to move about like that though, especially carrying money? But then Hannes spots another figure, close in height if it wasn't for those heels, a woman in a vintage German army parka, hair worn on a tight braid. Well fuck, it's that damn bouncer isn't it, just his luck, though the good part is that they are coming his way.

They stop. Or it's the man who stops first, snapping forward with what must be another sneeze. She puts a hand on his shoulder like to stabilise him, there's a short exchange, she goes through her pockets as he's rubbing his nose, eventually she just shrugs, they resume walking. Meanwhile Hannes is considering how much of a surprise would be a good effect, doesn't want to scare them but doesn't want to give too much warning either, but just when he's considering opening the door, he feels a pair of eyes burrowing into him through the windshield. It's the man, he's been noticed, been recognized. No option but to get out into the street.

"Excuse me but —"

"Didn't I tell you to leave me the fuck alone?" Warbler snarls.

"Who the fuck is this?" She asks, positioning herself between them, like some bodyguard or something.

"I don't know, some fucking pervert who wouldn't... Ht'gsssshiih!" Warbler sneezes, right into his hand, and then sniffles behind it.

The woman turns to him instead. "Right. Didn't I tell you you have a cold?"

"It's just my hayfever," he whines with another wet sniffle.

"Nope," she says. "You have hayfever in the summer, but it's no goddamn summer now."

"Hd'jyisssshuh!" He whimpers, sure enough it does sound like a cold, poor bastard, and then asks with a surprisingly soft, a little embarrassed voice: "Would you… happed to have a dissue?"

That was for him, right? Hannes sticks his hands into his pockets and rummages around, luckily there's a half used travel pack in one of them. He takes it and holds it out, stepping closer. "Please. Be my guest."

"Thank you," Warbler says, accepting the offering.

The woman looks like she can't quite decide which one of them she's disapproving of more, makes a little tsk at the wet, bubbling sound of Warbler blowing his nose. "Not good for your cold getting chilled like this either, I should get a cab." She starts looking around.

Hannes clears his throat. "You know I'm here because he asked me," he says, stepping a bit closer still. "On his deathbed, I swear, I can't just ignore that." He reaches to touch Warbler's arm, ready to beg if needed, but to his surprise, feels a steel grip on his own, and this time it's hers. Not just grabbing his arm, but yanking it so hard he stumbles a little bit and feels himself pushed, his back hitting the wall.

"Don't you fucking touch him!"

Oh hell, he's made her really mad now, hasn't he?

"Easy, Tea," Warbler says. "I don't think he's dangerous."

"Well that doesn't make any fucking difference, does it?" There's a slight blush on her cheeks. "Just don't like them treating you like they can do whatever they want just because they stuck a bit of cash into your panties."

"It's alright," Warbler sighs, and Hannes feels a hand patting his shoulder. "But you should be careful." He suddenly chuckles, the grin he saw before can be heard in his voice. "I think she's a bit protective of me, just a few months back he beat up a guy something mean, he really should have pressed charges but —"

Her cheeks are glowing bright red now. "Well he didn't, because he's a goddamn pusher and he was selling you stuff, what should I have done then, you're quit, aren't you? Are you?"

Warbler has started coughing, and Hannes can't help wondering if he really has that much of a cough, or if it's just a handy way to get away from the obviously quite unpleasant turn in the conversation. Nevertheless this Tea has wrapped an arm around his shoulders and is hailing a taxi, and when she walks him to the car, helping him in and looming there scanning the surroundings like really some sort of a bodyguard, Hannes can't help wondering where the hell did she even work before becoming a bouncer. Truthfully, he's becoming almost as interested in her as in this Warbler.

While she's walking around to her own seat, Hannes catches a glimpse of a smug smile through the cab window, obviously aimed at him, like to say: that's right, to get to me, you have to get past her.

And then they're gone. Well, he'll just have to try again. Though tomorrow Hannes can have a rest, set his head straight and develop a bit of a strategy if he can, as there will be no dancers at the club.

#YESS #it’s finally here!!!!#first of all i really love hannes as a narrator #that ‘lizard on rocks’ bit was perfect. he’s a great mix of average and exceptional #the tidbits of backstory are so tantalising i almost forgot this is a snzfic #and the star of the show… warbler!!!!#with his slutty heels and obnoxious faux fur coat!!!#jesus i can see why hannes was flustered #his pathetic cold is so hot too #i fucking adore tea’s protectiveness of him #when she puts an arm around him to hail a cab!#i also love her army parka. that’s a very her garment to wear #this is such a delight

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cravatsandcolds · 7 months

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Variations of peppermint tea — I always start my day with a cup of tea and that’s what I’ve been going for lately.

Hello you perverts who enjoy the whole aesthetic that goes with colds, cold season etc. Let's discuss for the fun of it: what's your favourite tea this autumn?

#have discovered i really don’t like chai #or at least the vile iced chai latte i had the other day #when i was sailing over summer i had ‘nothing’ tea #ie english breakfast tea no milk no sugar #because the fridge was a hole in the countertop so it was rather inconvenient to get the milk out #so just easier to go without #and sugar in tea is a cardinal sin

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cravatsandcolds · 8 months

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#unsurprising if you know anything about francis #but i LOVE dizziness and weakness #and generally being out of it

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cravatsandcolds · 8 months

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On the topic of a balled up handkerchief or a tissue:

One hand pinching the balled up handkerchief/tissue, vigorously rubbing their damp, red nostrils with it, squinting their eyes, their mouth in an itchy snarl

Two hands! Pinching the tightly balled, entirely soggy thing from the sides, there's so little room for their fingers so their hold is a little awkward. Wiping their red, leaking nostrils with forceful sweeps, from the base of their nose towards the tip

Same but wiping one nostril first, and then the other, because their nose is leaking terribly and is just so unsightly

One hand holding the thing against their streaming nostrils, too stuffed up to sniffle though they do try, producing no effect but all kinds of gross, wet sounds. Holding it there hoping that the snot will soak into the fabric/paper while going about whatever they're doing, but the material is so saturated already that thin, watery slime just pools on top of it, they try to turn the balled thing around for a drier spot which gets the tips of their fingers slimy too, and all the time they can feel the wet, cool sensation of their own snot against their nose.

Former but they're changing hands as need dicates, and also separating the bunched up thing from their nose every now and then to see if they can fold it better, blinking their eyes, sniffling wetly, in that time their nose manages to run on their lip. Switching to two hands when when they feel a sneeze coming, pressing the soggy thing against their nostrils hard, hoping it would work like a lid or a stopper.

All this in turns

#SCREECH #🔥🔥🔥🔥

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cravatsandcolds · 8 months

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Terrible for Business (F)

This is honestly one of the horniest fics I have ever written, left hand only. I apologize for all the factual- and grammar errors, but I am in a horny haze.

Based on this prompt by @hockeynoses Summary: A travelling merchant in the 1950s US is trying to do business with a hot housewife. She has a ghastly cold. ~2950 words. Warnings: This becomes a little nsfw (f/m) by the end, but not too graphic. And her cold is messy.

: :

With his suitcase full of delicate merchandise held by his gloved hand and the autumn sun gently warming his shoulders Mr. Handsey rings the doorbell, and waits.

Nothing happens for a while, except a dog has started barking across the street. He glances behind him, and can't help thinking that all these almost identical houses and lawns creates a scenery worthy of a postcard, if one was to make a postcard out of sleepiest of suburbs, that is. And why not, for what the view communicates is nothing but serenity, order and safety, now, what is there not to like, Mr. Handsey thinks to himself, and is almost too lost in his appreciation to notice that the door is being unlocked. He quickly turns around, tugs at the hems of his jacket while rolling back his shoulders, and takes on his most pleasant, orderly, trustwrothy smile.

"Umm, hello, mister..." The woman who has opened the door is tall, taller than Mr Handsey, and fine featured in that sharp way the starlets on celluloid are fashioned in. Stunning, actually, very obviously stunning, even when wearing quilted coral pink robe instead of a supple nightgown, and when instead of having been fashionably teased and curled her hair is held back by a sheer blue scarf, tied into a big, sloppy bow.

And right now when she stands there, her glassy, sleepy eyes narrowing as she pulls a handkerchief out from her sleeve (white with small pink flowers, comfortably feminine), Mr Handsey's attention is simultaneously drawn to two things: the way that thick robe is cinched at the waist with a belt, leaving very little room for imagination when it comes to the considerable curves underneath, and to the look of her nose, not only strikingly straight and narrow, but even more strikingly and entirely... red.

"EHTSss-chew!" she sneezes as she's holding the crumpled handkerchief to her nose. "Huh.. ESSSCHIEW!" The sneeze bends her forward from the waist, forcing Mr. Handsey to avert his eyes as the weight of her breasts strains on the neckline of her robe. She gives her nose a short but entirely waterlogged blow.

He clears his throat. "Bless you. Name is Handsey, Harry Handsey, a travelling merchant, at your service, madam. I —"

"Oh? What are you selling then?" she asks, still scrubbing at her nostrils with the handkerchief, and he can now tell her voice is thick with what must be a truly rotten cold. Drat.

"Hosiery, madam, and not just any kind of hosiery, but the finest quality stockings picked by our experts at Penney & Penney fine hosiery company, making every —"

"EHTsssschiew!" she sneezes again, red, visibly damp nostrils stretching and flaring as she's looking for a usable spot in her handkerchief, her eyes narrowing as her brow knits again. "Eh... ETTSSCHEWH!" The sneeze is followed by a couple of light coughs, and then she blows her nose with a loud, snotty honk. "Cobe idside," she says, blinking her eyes. "It's getting chilly standing here."

Mr. Handsey swallows. Yes, he is a merchant selling ladies' hosiery, and he prides himself for his long standing loyalty to his employers whom he admires for building such a success story of their company after the trials of the war, but... damn, it shames him, but this time he would rather have been turned away, for he truly doesn't wish to catch that ghastly cold, no matter how attractive the source.

He clear his throat. "I can now see madam is not well, and I wouldn't want to —"

"It's alright, just step in so I can close this door," she says with a wet sndrff of a sniffle. "I'm bored, and I also could use some new stockings."

Well, looks like it's unavoidable now, as no self respecting travelling hosiery merchant could ever turn down an invitation of a lady in need, even if it comes on the side of the plague. So clutching the handle of his tan leather suitcase with one hand, Mr. Handsey takes his hat into the other, and steps in.

...

"I'm sorry about the clutter," she says, putting on a kettle. "My husband is on a business trip, and I haven't done much besides trying to sleep off this coh— sndrff! this coh— cold!" Her breath catches, and with her face crumbling into some kind of an irritated snarl she bends down to sneeze towards the floor. "EHTSss-chew! ...heh... ...ESSSCHEW!"

Goodness gracious but her nose has ran on her face. She digs out her handkerchief with a soft, tired moan and blows her nose.

"Gesuh... bless you, madam."

"Thagk you," she says, still wiping and dabbing at her nostrils. "I really need another hankeh-ESSTCHhew!"

"Bless you. That's quite a cold."

Obviously her need is too urgent for her to have time to thank him, so she walks straight into the drawing room instead, and with one hand still holding the balled up handkerchief to her nose she picks a fresh one from a case left open on the coffee table. She shakes the cloth open (green window pane checks on white, very sensible but still not too manly) and blows her nose once, twice, three times, loud and gurgling, finishing off with another snotty honk.

"I will have to wash some handkerchiefs soon," she says as she walks back to the kitchen, and opens a cupboard to take out a teapot and two mugs. "My nose has been streaming since... ugh... snrdff!" She wrinkles her nose, trying and failing to sniffle back the trail of thin snot making it's way out of her right nostril. "...what day even is it?" she says, but before he can answer, she blows her nose again. He wonders if she'll burst an eardrum doing that, for the sound is really just so thick and loud.

"Wednesday, madam."

"Mbhh, makes sense," she croaks, and clears her throat. "I started sneezing on the day my husband left, and boy haven't I been sneezing eveh... ever since!" He breath has started to hitch, and for a moment he can't help staring at the sleek, damp, angry red ovals of her nostrils flaring wide. "Huh... hh!"

Finally he manages to shake himself free from his stupor, and gets up. "I can take over here," he says softly as he goes to her, daring to lead her from her elbow with one hand as the other lands on the small of her back, barely touching. "You'd better sit down." Damn but the woman is tall, he barely comes up to her chin.

Her ample chest is still heaving as he guides her onto a chair by the table, her eyes squeezed shut and hands clutching her handkerchief. "Hih... hi-ETSSSCHEWH!"

His blessing is drowned out by another gurgling, honking blow, but that's allright, the poor woman really should be in bed, he thinks, as he's spooning tea leaves into the pot.

"So what kind of stockings are you selling?" she asks, still rubbing his nostrils through her handkerchief.

"Many kinds, madam, but let me assure you the quality is nothing short of excellent across the selection," he answers, while picking up the teapot and the cups. Perhaps the tea can brew while he's giving her a tour.

"That is nice," she says with a sniffle. "It's not easy to get good stockings around here."

"And that is exactly why I'm here, madam," he beams as he's placing the cups and the pot on the table, lifts his suitcase on top of a chair and opens it to reveal his treasures. "Let's see. First and foremost, I could recommend these from Charnos, 15 deniers. 100% nylon, perfect for everyday wear."

"I could use some of those," she says. "The lady across the street has a dog with such viciously sharp nails, always trying to climb up my leg and... sndrff!" She lets out another stuffy sigh.

"Dogs can do that," he agrees, "especially the small and cute ones, for we have no heart to tell them to stop. Now, if you want to go for durability, we have these micro mesh nylons from Hanes in three different shades. The pattern is so fine you can barely see it, but it is there!" He slides a hand inside a beautiful tan stocking he keeps unpackaged just for this purpose, and spreader his fingers, bringing his hand closer. "See?"

"Wait..." she says, and leans forward to see better. But it doesn't take long before she starts to sniffle. "Uhh... sndrff! Sorry, my nose runs," she says, first trying to just wipe the said runny nose, but then resigns herself to holding the scrunched up handkerchief against her nostrils while she inspects the stocking.

"The price of 67 cents a pair might sound steep, but according to our surveys these can last up to three times as long as the regular stockings."

"I do want to try these, perhah... eh... EHTSss-chew!...oh, dear sir I'b so sorry!" she cries, the handkerchief still mashed against her nose. "I almost sneh... sneezed on you! Heh— HESSSCHIEWH!"

"Bless you! And pay no mind," he says jovially, removing his hand from the stocking and carefully folding the thing up. It's not like everything around here hasn't probably been liberally sneezed on, madam, so I believe I am doomed anyway, he leaves unsaid, for uttering such things would surely be terrible for business. Though truth to be told, he probably could have said what he was thinking without her hearing much, as she's too busy cleaning her nose: gurgle, gurgle, gurgle-honk! The poor woman has clearly fallen into a pattern.

"I would recommend this shade for you," he says, picking up a package. "How many pairs would you like?" "Perhaps two pairs," she says, "and two of the Charnos. And perhaps... if there would be something suitable for evening wear? George and I will be attending a gala when he comes back. ...EHTSss-chew! ...sndrrrff! ...if I manage to stop sneezing before that."

"Surely you will soon feel better," Mr. Handsey says, while absolutely not believing that at all, and then remembers the tea. "Let me pour you a cup." "Yes... thank you."

And he must admit that despite his qualms with being doomed to what must be an absolutely miserable bout of stuffy nose and sneezing, she looks quite disarming as she's sitting there in her quilted robe, red-nosed and dishevelled, cluthing at her cup of nice, warm tea, the handkerchief spilling out from under her right hand.

"Right. Well, I will need to inquire your shoe size, madam."

"Size eight."

"Eight it is then," he says, and finds the right packages while she's sipping her tea, and places them on the table next to her, save for one. "Well then. For a formal outing, I would recommend this luxurious pair from the house of Dior, a blend of silk and nylon. A bit on the expensive side at 79 cents, but still a price worth paying for true glamour."

Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle-honk! The image of her long, most likely shapely legs adorned by Christian Dior stockings is quickly chased away from his mind by the sound of her blowing her nose. "I would like a pair of those too then, in black."

"Black, yes, of course. It is for evening wear after all. So one thing more. These stockings, being of truly exceptional quality, come in two different lengths per size above 7; the regular length, and the somewhat longer one for for especially long legs. The measurements are here," he says, indicating a table of numbers.

"I don't know," she says, blinking her hazy eyes. "Do you have a meauring tape with you?"

"Yes, I do, madam, but I —"

Without waiting for an answer she stands up, putting her cup of tea on the table. "My garter ends about here, I think," she says, pointing at her thigh. "Could you measure me?"

"Yes, madam," Mr. Handsey almost squeaks, and rummages around the small compartments of his suitcase for the seldom used but still essential tool of his trade. "Just a moment."

"Should I remove my slippers?" she asks as he's crouching down on the floor.

"Yes," he says, "pehaps if I..." He grabs the pink silk slipper, perfect match for her robe, with his ever so slightly shaking fingers, and slides it off the foot. And what a foot! A strong, proud foot for a tall proud woman! Such magnificient shape, the arch of it like a miniature cathedral of vigorous American femininity! But there's no time to admire it too much, sadly, so Mr Handsey diligently places one end of the measuring tape to the floor, and then starts measuring, traveling carefully up towards that point her finger is pointing at.

"Ehh-ESSSCHIEW! ... ...oh, but mister Handsey!"

The exclamation following the sneeze has most probably been caused by the fact that thrown about by the force of her sneeze, her body has unexpectedly moved forward in a way that has landed Mr. Handsey's face right against what must be a very intimate spot on her person, separated from his nose only by the luckily quite sturdy robe.

"I am terribly sorry," he hurries to say, face flushed all the way to his ears. "Madam, I —"

"It's alright," she says, and then adds, a bit quietly. "Mr. Handsey?"

"Yes, madam?"

"Are you married?"

"No, madam."

"Well I am married, as you know, but my husband is a very, very busy man."

"That... sounds terribly unfair, to both of you."

"I wonder," she says, and stops to sniffle. "...if you would like... to have a taste of married life?"

"Yeh... yes," he gasps, not daring to look up, but it is just as well, as he can see well enough her robe being unfastened.

Now, while he doesn't have much experience, sadly, Mr. Handsey has done his reading on female anatomy, and seen some films too. And what's even better, he can feel her hand in his hair, giving his head a caress, and then guiding him into that same spot with no robe in sight. This is it, this is his moment, this is worth any cold imaginable! Mr. Handsey lets go of the measuring tape, and reaches to grab her lovely, proud, vigorous buttocks.

"Yes, like that," she whispers, as he's busying his mouth at the apse of this magnificient construction of femininity. She has stepped a foot on the edge of a chair to provide better access, and her hips are gently rocking, more by involuntary reaction to pleasure than design. "With you tongue... yes, good man. Like... just like that... like a married cream sucker."

He can barely hear what she's saying though, as he's way too concentrated on all the other senses, his member getting so stiff he wonders if he'll have to do some laundering of his own tonight as well.

"Oh..." she cries softly. "Oh... yes, oh... hh— EHTSss-chew! heh... ESSSCHIEW!"

He can almost feel the spray from those terrible sneezes landing on him as her hips are thrusting against his face, but he is truly past caring, past caring about anything.

"Oh yes, yes, Mr. Handsey! Yeh... ETTSSCHEWH!" The last sneeze is mixed with a cry as his face is suddenly soaked by the warm sweetness of her pleasure, both of her hands grabbing his hair as she almost topples over him.

"Oh, my darling!" he mumbles as he plants kisses on the insides of her thighs, he wants more, he wants...

Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle-honk!

Ah, of course, a married woman, better he not get too carried away.

"I feel a bit light-headed," she suddenly says, and when he stands up, he can't help noticing how pale she is, save for the red nose, and perhaps a slight flush on her cheeks. And now when he thinks of it, she is shivering a little too.

"Perhaps madam should lie down? Please..." He grabs her elbow, with confidence this time, and walks her into the drawing room as she's sneezing miserably into her handkerchief.

She has gone rather quiet, and when he shakes open a throw to tuck her in some, he wants to try her forehead for temperature, yet stays his hand.

"Thank you Mr Handsey," she says sleepily, eyes drifting shut. "You are a very sweet man."

"Just doing my job," he croaks, realising his throat is dry. "Let me get you your tea."

"I think... I might fall asleep a little," she sighs.

When he's in the kitchen, it all hits him at once, the whole sweet terror of it. A married woman! Whom he just... just like that! He leans into the table, feeling a little light headed himself. And the pressure in his crotch, it's maddening! With shaky hands, he places the tall girl size 8 Christian Dior stockings at the top of the pile, rubs his face, and then firmly closes his suitcase. It's time for him to leave, he has done his part, and he has no reason to go back to that gorgeous, terrifying creature now dozing off on the sofa. No, he might not be experienced, but Mr. Handsey has read many things, and met many kinds of people, and developing the kind of fever, the kind of mania he sees looming in his near future unless he mend his ways is not good for his professional future. He grabs his coat, his hat, and his suitcase, and marches out without looking back, or even a word.

It is outside on the street and in sun when the images of her warm, inviting body sprawled out on the sofa clear from his mind enough to let in other thoughts, namely... that he forgot to take his measuring tape with him, it must still be there, abandoned on the kitchen floor. He stops.

Drat. What is even worse is that he completely forgot about the payment. Double drat! What should he do? Go back? Does he dare? With that creature of absolute temptation slumbering there? Accept his losses? And there's also a stinging feeling on his leg, like small nails burrowing through his flannel suit trousers. Mr. Handsey turns his head slugglishly towards the source of this sensation.

A fluffy white pekingese, humping his leg.

#my god this is a masterpiece #i love mr handsey and his internal monologue #and this is SO HOT #the ‘married cream-sucker’ bit made me giggle #and the dog!!a #and the the whole sexy messiness of it all #1000/10 🔥

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