Entry tags:
oh hey i wrote a thing
so i was flipping through my writing notebook and found old writing prompts morghan had given me, only a couple of which i had completed, and two of which i had not. one of these uncompleted prompts included "blue, naked, and coddle" -- or "cuddle," i couldn't tell which i'd written. so from that prompt came this, where i tried to tread between "cuddle" and "coddle," just in case.
A thump startled her awake. Awareness was slower in coming, and Aspasia lifted her head gingerly. A soft groan escaped her as she realized her head was somehow spinning, swimming, and pounding all at the same time. Memory of her sinus infection, recently diagnosed along with severe bronchitis, penetrated as she suppressed a cough and slumped bonelessly back on her pillows. The warm weight pressed snugly to her back shifted, and Sin snuffled against her neck.
“You all right, love?” he murmured.
“Nngh,” she replied.
A comforting hand ghosted over her hip, leaving warmth in its wake as he kissed the nape of her neck. “Can I get you anything?”
Her response was cut off by another thump. This one was followed shortly by a distant giggle, a portent of doom. She winced.
“What are your children doing, Sin?”
“My children?” he grumbled good-naturedly, beginning to sit up. “Why is it they’re never our children when they’re—oh, sweet Mary, mother of God.” Sin’s abrupt silence indicated many things—shock, awe, disbelief—none of them good. With great effort, Pacie heaved herself upright and waited for her head to cease its swimming. And blinked, then blinked again.
There, in the doorway of the bedroom, stood their young children, the pair of them, stark naked and dripping with blue paint. She sighed and, patting Sin’s shoulder, slumped back against the pillows. “Your children.”
A thump startled her awake. Awareness was slower in coming, and Aspasia lifted her head gingerly. A soft groan escaped her as she realized her head was somehow spinning, swimming, and pounding all at the same time. Memory of her sinus infection, recently diagnosed along with severe bronchitis, penetrated as she suppressed a cough and slumped bonelessly back on her pillows. The warm weight pressed snugly to her back shifted, and Sin snuffled against her neck.
“You all right, love?” he murmured.
“Nngh,” she replied.
A comforting hand ghosted over her hip, leaving warmth in its wake as he kissed the nape of her neck. “Can I get you anything?”
Her response was cut off by another thump. This one was followed shortly by a distant giggle, a portent of doom. She winced.
“What are your children doing, Sin?”
“My children?” he grumbled good-naturedly, beginning to sit up. “Why is it they’re never our children when they’re—oh, sweet Mary, mother of God.” Sin’s abrupt silence indicated many things—shock, awe, disbelief—none of them good. With great effort, Pacie heaved herself upright and waited for her head to cease its swimming. And blinked, then blinked again.
There, in the doorway of the bedroom, stood their young children, the pair of them, stark naked and dripping with blue paint. She sighed and, patting Sin’s shoulder, slumped back against the pillows. “Your children.”
