#Cleaning Out the Vineyard House

[randomfoggytiger]

X-Files Collector's Fic: Cleaning Out the Vineyard House (Poll Results 2nd)

This list was inspired by this poll-- 1st part here~.

(**Note**: I'll edit out errors later when no one's looking.)

Loose chronological order below~ 

raspberrycoffeecake's Vineyard-Haven

""But he turns back toward the sea, retracts his arms, and wraps them around his knees, closing in on himself.

“I came out here once the year after Samantha disappeared,” he says in an even tone. He’s still looking out at the waves, and she wonders if he’s talking to her or to himself. “It was just a normal summer morning. My father was upstairs in his office, writing letters, making phone calls, ignoring us like he always did. My mother made me a sandwich to take with me to the baseball field, as if there had always been just one child to make sandwiches for. As if Sam was just a dream I had, as if she had never existed. And I finally decided that I couldn’t stand the denial. I couldn’t keep pretending anymore.""

Post Paper Hearts Mulder whisks Scully to Martha's Vineyard. She supports him as he processes his memories; and insists they start a relationship when it won't be based in trauma.

@syntax6's (Gossamer, FFN, Omni) Mulder 1998

""He opened his eyes and looked at her over the flames. "They say the ocean has no memory."

She licked her thumb and scanned the paltry breaking surf. "I guess I can see that. The tide comes in, sweeps everything away and washes out again, only to reappear a few hours later. It makes the ocean seem immutable, as though no outside force can change it."

"And change equals memory?"

"Sure. Every memory changes you.""

Pre-Triangle Mulder sells his father's Vineyard house because of the expenses wracked up during FTF. He and Scully share their beach disappointments; and they compare his height to the former scratches on his childhood wall.

Chimerical1975's Regular People

""Grocery shopping with Mulder was something of an experience. It turned out that he was a creature of immense habit with definite likes and dislikes. Since she'd barged in on him, she offered to cook whatever he liked and he put up surprisingly little resistance to the offer. In fact, he revealed that macaroni and cheese was his favorite thing in the world. But only homemade--he had to be close to starving to eat the stuff that came in the blue box. She was amused that such simple comfort food was something he craved, not to mention greatly relieved because it was something that she actually knew how to make. If he'd wanted ratatouille, she would have been in big trouble.""

AU-- TGTSC Scully's California flight was canceled; so she surprises Mulder at the Vineyard where he is cleaning out his father's house. They whack down yard weeds, move each other with respect and admissions on both their parts-- romantically and not living a normal life together-- and conclude their unresolved romantic tensions.

Folieadeux's Cyclone

""Closing the door behind him, he slid off his jacket and laid it on the hall bench.He'd promised himself that he would not take too much time doing this,that he would be quick and efficient, without unnecessary emotions. Just like she'd do it, like she had done it when it had been her turn.

// He sat in the hallway, his back propped against the wall, watching her. It was late spring and the yearly housecleaning was in full force. The scene was misleading in its normalcy. A woman in an apron and a freshly washed house dress ripping sheets from a little girl's twin bed, shaking puffs of dust in the air that floated in the sunshine before disappearing to wherever those particles went. Her jaw was set tight and her face was determined. Only twin paths of tears betrayed her calm exterior.

He kept silent, a skill he was beginning to hone as the weeks wore on and his sister didn't return. Every day the house grew more and more silent while they all pretended. What they were pretending was something he had yet to figure out. //""

Post Closure Mulder somberly packs up the Vineyard, apologizing to the house while battling morbid memories. He always felt he had to protect his mother: the woman who kept travel books but never traveled.

LuvTheBeez’s (mulderscreek) Packing

""Every object, every possession left in the house had been carefully wrapped and packed away only to spend the rest of its days in a dank storage room somewhere. These boxes contained once precious objects that no longer mattered to anyone, all of them things he'd looked at a million times but had never really seen. Things that had been carefully maintained, fastidiously dusted and polished, each holding a memory that was solely hers, that he could not share.""

Post Closure Mulder packs up Tena's house, frustrated that there were no more answers to be found. Scully drops in with comfort food; and both are glad she hadn't listened to his earlier denials and mild mandates.

OKayVal's 155 Words - Santa Claus, North Pole

""Dear Santa, I have been good. Please bring me a talking Crissy doll. And please bring my brother Fox a model rocket so he will be too busy to tease me. Thank you. Love Samantha Mulder.""

Post Closure Mulder soldiers on, cleaning out Tena's house. Samantha's "Dear Santa" letter guts him with guilt.

xraelynn’s (Gossamer) Illumination

""It’s good to see you, Mulder,” she said softly, taking a sip of her coffee. The smile in his eyes dimmed as he looked away.

“I, uh...I didn’t mean to run out of town on you,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed down on his coffee. “I just thought I...needed some time.”

Mulder’s face was smooth and calm now, but for days she hadn’t stopped seeing his expression of devastation and betrayal whenever she looked at him.

It turned out that she had needed some time too.""

Post Closure Mulder invites Scully out to the Vineyard, needing her company while he processes his losses and revelations.

@bohoartist's (Ao3) Unnamed Prompt

""Let me see!” she pleads, reaching for it, but he extends his arm just out of her reach.

“Oh not at all, Scully, this is way too incriminating.”

She sits back and pouts, sticking out her plump bottom lip and looking up at him through her lashes before quickly changing tactics and lunging at him.""  

Post Closure Scully rescues a picture of little toddler Mulder before her partner can destroy all of his family mementos.

Pattie's Sailor Spooky

""Besides, I wouldn't want to spoil your free time away from me."

His heart sank. He sat on the couch. After a long pause he told her the truth. "I just don't want to be alone, okay?"

Scully stopped filling the coffee maker and approached her partner.""

Post Closure Mulder doesn't want to be alone. Scully assures him he doesn't have to prove anything-- including making himself seasick by trying to bond with her.

@o6666666's (Ao3)

Untitled

""Martha’s Vineyard, he’d said, this weekend, and she’s already teased him that he ever thought it might be a hard sell. His Scully is made for the beach. Not least because her body is pink and freckled and cut from stone, but mostly because the ocean recognizes her at once—a Scully, one of its own—and she opens her heart to it like she does to her mother and small children, allowing her wild laugh and squeaky voice and a sort of space-taking that seems fundamentally opposite to the space-taking she does at work, with clipped tones, and where the littler she speaks, the more powerful she seems.

(By contrast: When he woke up this morning she had all the covers, and her arms were spread out like wings across the whole bed. “You cozy?” he’d whispered, sidling closer. She’d tucked him right in with her with a kiss to his nose. And doing the breakfast dishes together, he’d heard it—this dry little fart. She’d turned to him with wide, guilty eyes and he’d rat-tailed her, lightly, with the dish towel and whistled: “Scul-ly!”)""

Post Closure? Mulder takes Scully on a boating trip to the Vineyard-- and she boats, happily, like a crazy person.

Untitled

""Mulder, I can’t sail.”

He grinned. “Sure you can.” He was sure Scully knew the methodology of sailing. Perhaps Scully could sail like she could drive. When she was a little girl she could sail, and when she was six she accidentally hit Captain Scully in the head with the boom.

AU-- S9 Mulder bought Scully a boat for her 40th. The two go sailing while Maggie watches their son.

@scapegrace74-blog/scapegrace74's Pandora's Box

""He’s been at loose ends since his mother passed away, and she draws an invisible line around him, daring anyone else to cross it and touch his tender heart.  There are a million daily reminders of loss: calls from the family attorney, paperwork to sign, a father’s voice rising from a tour group outside the Hoover Building, “don’t wander too far away, Sam!”

So when he asks her to run this simple errand, she leaps at the chance to help."" 

Post Closure Scully finds an engagement ring in Mulder's things; and the two realize their weaknesses-- fear to take it to the next step for fear of guilt-tripping the other-- pale in comparison to their strengths.

@alienbaby-babymama/ABBM515‘s Potential

""Even though it had only been a few weeks since their partnership became an “official” partnership, Dana Scully would never have to be asked twice to spend a weekend by the water.

Mulder had mentioned in passing that he wanted to get his mother’s house prepared for sale. The place was big, required maintenance, and the memories engrained in the walls and floorboards of the house was not something he wanted to deal with. The property deserved love again. He just wasn’t sure he was the one to give it.""

Mulder and Scully-- still not dating post Closure-- sort out how to use Martha's Vineyard: a rental property so they can subsidize their IVF treatments.

@gabby-msr/ScullytoyourMulder/scullytoyourmulder993's

A Love Captured

""That night was special. In high school, I was the kid whose sister had gone missing. I guess it was some kind of curse. I was a bit of a pariah. Even on the baseball team,” he said, and he saw her frown in disapprobation.  

“But that night, it didn’t matter. We stayed on the diamond celebrating well into the night, the team and other people, too. Some people drank. I didn’t, I still had to drive myself home. People congratulated me.”

"I’m glad,” she told him, squeezing his hand. “I’m glad baseball brought you some happiness.”

“It did,” he said, but there was something sad about the way he said it.

“What is it?”

“My parents - they’ve never seen me play,” he admitted."" 

S8 Monica is trying to understand the late Agent Mulder. While snooping through his office, she finds memorabilia from his and Scully's vacation to the Vineyard post-Je Souhaite. Their trip was about him rediscovering and reinvigorating his past-- all of it: Samantha, his parents, Diana, and everything else-- with a newer, fresher start.

FatCat's Scully Pride

""Where's the car your mom rented? What did she get us, a convertible?" I grinned.

"Uh, no, it's not a convertible. It's over there." Scully pointed up the street toward a Toyota Corolla.

"Scully? A Corolla? I can't fit into a car that small comfortably."

"Uh, no, Mulder. Not the Corolla, the... erm... one in front of it."

I looked again and whistled. "A Cadillac Escalade? Your mom rented a Escalade for us?"

"She said something about it being handy to have with so many guests around." She couldn't meet my eyes. I knew she was embarrassed.

"Scully," I leaned down to force her to look at me. "Your mom told me about your Aunt Maeve. It's okay. I had some relatives just like her so I do understand.""

AU-- Mulder offers the Vineyard to Maggie's snobby relatives, good-naturedly hosting their get-together. The love bomb and a proposal is dropped; and Charlie fights Scully over her initial refusal.

WordsSpillFromMyOpenVeins_89's Weekend At Martha's Vineyard

""Less then ten minutes later, William was fast asleep on the floor and snoring with Ishy next to him.

Mulder pat the back of William's head, ran his hand down is back, feeling the rise and fall of his tiny chest.

"Oof. Don't know how much longer I'll be able to do this, bud. You're growing up", Mulder whispered against his floppy auburn hair.

Mulder reached out his right arm, to brace against the wall before taking the last two steps up to the second level of the Hamptons Style Bungalow.

Mulder carried William up to his bedroom, unlaced his converse sneakers and placed them on the floor, at the foot of the bed. Carefully covering William with the Van Gogh Starry Starry Night bedspread and tucking the edges under him, to keep him warm.""

AU-- S9 Mulder, Scully, Will, and their dog all vacation at Martha's Vineyard. While there, Mulder proposes; and all is chummy and famfic-y.

Enjoy!

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER EIGHT: VEAL

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse, self harm

This is chronologically the eighth chapter in the series. Apologies for the reupload, the first was the incorrect version.

---

You lie in Hannibal’s bed like a bird fallen dead through a window, the back of your hand across your brow, to its fevered heat. The muted rush of the shower sifts under the bathroom door, or perhaps it is only the rain, or both at once, a sonic symmetry.

You feel something of yourself washed away in it, a dune left dry in your defeat. Almost in apathy you turn on your side, thighs closed over the moisture between.

Hannibal returns to the bed in pyjama bottoms, his hair damp, and smelling expensively clean. Rather than meet his eyes, you look at the pictures over the bed— Japanese woodblock prints, you think, the figures rendered indistinguishable by the hearth-lit dark.

“Why did you break into my house?” you ask, as Dr Lecter climbs in under the sheets, beside you.

“I curate all things in my life with ambition to procure their highest quality,” he says. “Frequently this entails a thorough knowledge and familiarity with their origins. I had to be quite certain of yours before I began our therapy.”

You envision him, in the market of life, touching your name in the letter your parents had sent to him for the synaesthesic taste of you.

“Like going to a vineyard to look at the grapes,” you say.

Hannibal smiles, charmed by the observation.

“Quite so. I believe you would make a most excellent wine.”

“Spit me out,” you mutter. “Pour me away. I’ll spoil.”

“Or age into magnificence. You dismiss your latent potential.”

You feel one of Hannibal’s deft hands tracing your back as comfortably as a paramour of ten years’ intimacy, a subtle exertion of dominance. Each stroke is a statement: I am king here, and you will kneel with your lips to my shoe.

You shrug from his touch, carving a gully of mattress between you.

“What makes what you’re doing to me any different from the Silicone Lover?” you ask. “To me, you’re one and the same. What makes you any better than he is?”

There is a practised caution as Hannibal answers.

“An elevated craftsmanship. There is little artistry in his dolls.”

The weather makes an ocarina of the windowpane, so like a scream as to be a cipher of dread.

“You’d murdered people, haven’t you?” you ask, softly. “I can feel it.”

Silence, then, densely impenetrable. You dare not glance over your shoulder, nor take even a breath in the certainty that you have smelled death on this man like a fox.

“You are tired, little one,” says Hannibal. “Go to sleep.”

He speaks almost blandly, the deflection more terrible than an answer.

“You’re not going to... do it with me again?” you ask.

Hannibal looks up at you from his pillow, his eyes a gelid null. To prise his face, lid-like, from its cistern of penumbra— you would give your heart to do it, eager to part with so useless an object in the trade.

“In the morning, perhaps,” says Dr Lecter. “Not now. Rest.”

As though by the conjuration of some fell magician you do, lying as far from the man as you’re able without tumbling from the edge of the bed.

You dream again of the forest, dirt-drowned and blood-mired in the October deep. The stag-horned man has his spade to your throat, one foot on the blade; only a second figure, a streak of night, coaxes the digger from his mortal blow.

“No,” he says, in Will Graham’s voice. “I want to keep her.”

The nightmare closes on the stag-man’s answer.

“Then, for your sake, she lives tonight.”

*

The light is the blue of Neptune’s morning as you choke awake in Hannibal’s room. Your dream hangs upon you like a mantle of lead. You wait for it to lift, and it doesn’t, for the stag lies beside you, his face made gentle by sleep.

As you lean over to extract yourself from the quilt his hands are at your wrists with an oily quickness, holding them above your head against the pillows. Fear thickens your throat, stoppering the cartilage of all ensuing sound— yet Hannibal is smiling, as he peers down at you, quite playful, a laddish glee about him.

“It’s early,” he says. “Are you so eager to leave my bed already?”

“Yes,” you say. “Obviously.”

Dr Lecter draws back the sheet to look at your body, a hand following his gaze until you are wet around his fore and middle fingers.

“Not so obvious. You welcome me.”

The head of his cock meets its slick mark, and you pull at the fist that restrains you, shamed and flushing against your delicacy in his arms.

You’re as supple as leather against him, the slow wax of his cock in your channel unfairly pleasant.

“I don’t want it,” you whimper even as you ache to ribbon your legs about his hips to lead him in. “Dr Lecter—”

He takes your jaw in his hand, the cup of his thumb against your windpipe recalling his deathly potentiality. You feel his pulse through it, and wonder that such a man can be alive, is not merely a vampiric creature stepped from some crumbled ruin, bloodless, wanting.

“Are you going to murder me, one day?” you ask him, in a child’s plaintive whimper. “If you do, don’t just throw my body away, like the Lover. Send me home to my family. Say it was my fault. An accident. Just let them bury me.”

Hannibal releases your throat, opening his hand, instead, against your heart as though he may rejoin its broken halves with its warmth, a soft, red, clay.

“You must trust that your life is precious to me,” he tells you. “It becomes more so with each day that you are here.”

Were you free of him you’d recoil, but now can only wince and utter your rejection of what is surely a saccharine lie.

Hannibal’s grip tightens on your wrist, and as he thrusts into you again you shut your eyes against the Lyrid shower of orgasm. You sense him leaning over you, pleased that you’re fawning when you could fight.

The Silicone Lover’s victims didn’t resist, and they died for it, floating, forgotten, through the lichenous entrails of the riverbed. You think of your dream, relieved from your grave by the man that first fucked you, and you realise yourself on the cusp of some epiphany, though its nature eludes you in the midst of ministrations.

A telephone rings, shrill in the sapphire room.

Dr Lecter presses an apologetic kiss to your brow and withdraws, still hard, pulling his pyjama shirt around him.

“Excuse me, my dear.”

He picks up the telephone receiver and leaves the room with it, noiseless as a spectre on bare feet.

You lie, prone, hearing your heart thump against your temporal membrane in a tinnitus that returns in times of particular agitation. As a child you’d imagined it as boot steps along some grimy underpass, the approach of some villain without a face you now know to have come.

Hannibal reappears, his expression guarded.

“It seems we are to receive another visitor today. My colleague, Alana Bloom, would like to speak to you.”

You climb out of bed, sucking a breath through your teeth at the cold.

“Really?” you ask. “How come?”

“Jack’s taken a liking to you. He has asked Alana to act as a neutral third party throughout your treatment.”

Though as cordial as ever, you discern a particular coolness to Hannibal’s tone you take as disapproval.

“You know I didn’t really tell Jack anything, right?” you ask, following Hannibal into the bathroom. “He doesn’t know what you’ve done to me. He has no idea.”

“No,” says Hannibal, taking his toothbrush from a cabinet by the sink. “But you’ve given him cause to believe you’d fare better in a specialised unit, amongst your peers. That’s not the impression you’ve given me.”

You think of the competition of inpatient treatment, amongst the women, the ferocity with which you’d starve yourself to shame their ranks with your commitment.

“My doctors used to threaten to send me to Forest Ranch or Six Stream,” you say. “They were like bogeymen for me. Now I... I don’t know. I heard they don’t let you out until you’re weight restored.”

Dr Lecter watches you plucking at your body in the mirror, an unconscious motion you withdraw from as you catch his eye.

“That’s not what I seek to accomplish,” he says. “It would be a predictable outcome in which relapse would be imminent. Here, I only expect flexibility from you, an open mind. Belief in my guidance.”

He pauses to brush his teeth, even this menial act carried out with a dignified grace.

“But Dr Lecter,” you protest. “If someone did what you’ve done here to Will, you’d want him to try and get away, right? You can’t be mad at me for trying.”

Hannibal spits into the sink, and it occurs to you that you’ve witnessed something quite intimate, an act unimaginable of such a sophisticated man.

“Any action that threatens my liberty to act and live as I please will be penalised,” he says. “I value my freedom above all things.”

Except Will, you think.

Aloud, you say, “I value my freedom, too.”

Reaching politely across you to the hand towel, Hannibal comments, “Yet it is hunger you kneel to as your God.”

Stung, you sit down hard on the rim of the bath.

“What would you have me worship instead?” you demand. “You?”

“A dangerous question. Priestesses in many cultures have been known to abstain from sustenance in servitude to higher powers. Likewise, some saints historically starved themselves to imitate the suffering of Christ, or else to demonstrate a miracle.”

Hannibal touches your chin, smoothing its obstinate edge.

“Were you to survive on manna alone would you think yourself relieved of what crosses you bear? Or is it that in evading sustenance you are purifying yourself in order to be worthy of an immaculate God?”

There is something in his words you relate to, though you’d lie on a bed of nails before expressing this to Hannibal Lecter.

“Come downstairs,” he says, into your silence. “I’ll make breakfast. Don’t misbehave, when Alana arrives. I wouldn’t want to be ashamed of you.”

*

There is something in the avocado toast, or else the accompanying orange juice, a medicinal venom. You think of past nights you’d drank yourself into a mirage of vertigo, each ending, moaning, on a bathroom floor as though the liquor had changed you back to the child you’d been in Jekyllian fashion.

You are like that now, gawky and uncoordinated, walking flat-footed in Hannibal’s wake as he makes order of the living room in preparation for Alana’s arrival.

Overfull, you wear your body like an ill-fitting dress, its clinging garments a mile from the outsize sweaters you yourself would have chosen. Shapeless, smothering, warm were your selections, in swatches of Nyx, lacquered nails and canvas shoes to match.

The colour of your dress is of suitable darkness, if not the style of it. Your teenage years remain indelible upon your sense of taste, time seeming to have broken down like an ancient engine in the decade your starving manifesto began.

Today you feel even younger still, a state contrived by Dr Lecter to tighten his control upon you in company, and make an obedient daughter of his embittered victim.

With scarce hope of turning any friend of Hannibal’s against him, you conform to his rigid will. Curling up with your head on the arm of the sofa, you count out seconds into minutes, another childhood habit.

Hannibal turns to you, appraising your ennui with a dry amusement.

“You’ll like Alana, my darling,” he says. “Just as you liked Jack.”

“Would they like you if they knew what kind of man you are, Dad?” you ask, cuttingly.

“They would not. That is why there are many faces I wear, and with them I choose only the most pleasant mask.”

Dr Lecter glances at another of his favoured woodblock prints on the wall, a depiction of kabuki actors in varying guises, and you see with a cold vein of shock that he has, across the house, hung up his soul for all to see, if only they knew it.

“You, too, take pains to manufacture appearance,” says Hannibal. “You play the part of the embittered introvert well, but there is a quarter of darkness, even a malice that is beginning to ascend the oubliette you have built to keep it in.”

Snorting, you shove your face under one arm.

“Wonder why.”

“I saw it in my office. It long precedes Will and I.”

There comes a jaunty little knock on the front door, the sound of a guest entering the foyer.

Dr Lecter smooths his manner into one of welcoming warmth, an alarming opposition to the man that fucked and restrained you to the tragedy of climax but two hours past.

Footsteps tread lightly through the house, with the click of low-heeled boots.

Alana Bloom appears, her hair smoke dark, her narrow eyes the blue of an enchantment, and of Hannibal’s room. Something of winter, in her beauty, pale skin whiter still against a suit of fitted darkness.

As with all women you meet, you analyse Alana, helplessly, finding her slim in the way that suggests health, but not restriction; you would know it at once from the shape of the bones in her hand or shoulder blade, a bloodlessness of the lips, a slow death in her gaze, the fairy-tale of hunger.

Some disorders of eating are invisible even to your eye, of course, thinness being no requirement for the trickster king of starving, but it is one guise it wears, when close to the edge, and the most familiar. Alana, however, is rosy with an undeniable vigour, having the face of a woman that adds sugar, unthinking, to her coffee, and enjoys a beer after a long afternoon.

She is the unachievable: beautiful, and well. You are suddenly, sourly jealous.

As Hannibal casts a mild glance towards Alana you see that there is a comfortable and entirely mutual attraction between them. This woman does not know the depths of Hannibal’s carnality, imagines him an affable eccentric, a sometime lover, nothing more. She returns his look with a crooked smile, and again there is that sanguine pulse of envy through you, turning you almost against her.

“I’ll leave you alone, for a moment,” says Dr Lecter, lightly. “I’m sure you’ll find Jack’s concerns largely unwarranted.”

“We’ll see,” says Alana, then, addressing you, she adds, “Hello. It’s lovely to meet you.”

You watch Hannibal dissipate into the shadows of the doorway, doubting he goes much further than the wall beyond.

“Hi,” you say, at last, quite listlessly.

Your mouth is loose around the word. You’ve never wanted less to speak.

“You know who I am, and why I’m here to see you today?” Alana ventures.

Her voice is soft, level, the tones of therapists the world over. Perhaps she hopes to incur a bond between you, to pierce your ice with a pick of female sensitivity.

“I know about you,” you say. “Dr Lecter told me.”

“Okay. That’s good.”

You see the tension in Alana’s forehead, an attempt to read the glaze in your eyes and coiled skink of your posture.

“You’ve made quite a friend in Jack already,” she says. “Usually he wouldn’t get involved with any of Hannibal’s work outside the FBI, so him asking me to see you means a lot. I want you to understand that. I’d also like you to know that while we’re both close to Dr Lecter, if this situation truly isn’t right for you, we’ll express that.”

Unmoved, you pluck at the edge of a couch cushion, letting Alana wade through the quiet alone.

“I have to admit that I was shocked to hear that you were staying here with him,” she says. “It’s... unusual. I’m still trying to figure out that decision.”

With Hannibal listening, an omnipotent threat, you only blink, rubbing your socked foot against the carpet.

“But,” Alana continues, sitting down beside you, “Hannibal has explained to me that he thinks you’d be unhappy in a facility.”

You edge away from her, trying not to look at her slender wrists, the small, lacquered fingers.

“Well,” you mutter. “I’m not happy here.”

“You weren’t happy at home either, so I’m told,” says Alana, softly. “So where would you be happy?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t felt it in a while, I guess.”

Misery overcomes you, and you begin to shiver, which Alana, with seamless tact, elects to ignore.

“When was the last time you were happy that you remember?” she asks, and you shake your head.

“You won’t like the answer.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Rubbing your eyes with the side of one hand, you say, “It was at my lowest weight. I felt so light, full of, you know, good cheer and kindness towards people because it was just easy to be nice when I felt good about myself. I knew I looked sort of scary, but I thought I looked sort of amazing, too.

“It’s weird. How I hated how sick I was. I hated myself, and I cried all the time, and yet I loved it. I felt like I belonged somewhere— there was this community for people like me, and I fit in. I was one of the best. Then the doctors said I had to gain weight, and it was all ruined. I lost my place, and I was back to feeling awful every minute of the day.”

You take a breath, cursing the childishness of your every mannerism, that you are so much less of a woman than the being beside you.

“Here, Dr Lecter controls everything,” you say. “Not one single thing is my choice, or what I’d do. I don’t even have a TV in my room. Everything I ask, he says no. I don’t have a future. Everything feels grey and pointless, and I wish he’d just leave me alone.”

Something pushes against one of your fists: a subtle square of tissue.

“I agree that there needs to be quite a few changes around here,” says Alana. “Maybe we can start by asking Dr Lecter to set you some short-term goals. Has he discussed any with you yet?”

“He wants me to finish a book,” you say, reluctantly. “The Idiot. Dostoevsky.”

Alana’s low brows rise.

“Wow. That sounds a little intimidating.”

The statement could easily be patronising, but isn’t. Like Jack, Alana has her reservations, and does not conceal them.

“So far it’s actually pretty good,” you say. “Sad, though. It’s about this poor guy who’s sort of in frail health, and seems kind of strange, so everybody is horrible to him. Every chapter you hope somebody will understand him or treat him right, and nobody ever does.”

“I see,” says Alana. “Maybe Hannibal is trying to make you be a little kinder to yourself. You’re an intelligent, creative young woman with a future ahead of you. I think Dr Lecter sees that in you, wouldn’t you agree?”

The affection in her eyes is so sure, so wrongly led, that it breaks you like antique glass.

“Alana,” you say. “What if I told you that Hannibal was—”

You remember his presence, suddenly, eavesdropping as you yourself have often done.

Alana frowns, her folded hands stilling in her lap.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

Don’t answer, you think, but your tongue unlatches of its solitary accord to speak.

“I don’t feel safe around Will and Hannibal. I don’t really like... men. There are things that have happened to me. I— I feel dirty all the time. When they look at me, touch me, it’s exactly like that.”

“I promise you that Will and Hannibal are not like that at all,” Alana says, firmly.

“You don’t know that,” you snap. “You don’t. They could lie to you.”

Alana looks at you for a long time before she answers, treading a pinched line between sympathy and duty.

“If something happened to you, I can help you report it. Even if it was a long time ago. Historic cases are a lot harder to prove in court, but it might benefit you to have it on record.”

“And if it was recently?” you ask, with daring abandon.

“Depending how recently, there’s a process you’d follow,” says Alana. “For instance, you could go to a hospital and have a rape kit taken. They’d document the evidence, take photographs, and your statement. It would be thorough and difficult, but it would help you find justice. Is that something that would be helpful right now?”

Forthright and serious, she nevertheless does not—cannot—believe that Will and Hannibal are your injurers, looking back through the tunnel of past at some assailant yet unnamed.

“I was just wondering,” you mumble, and Alana withdraws, realising she cannot get through to you.

“Alright,” she says. “I’m going to have a talk with Hannibal. See if he’s willing to make some adjustments for your comfort. I’ll come and see you again in a week or so to check in on you. It’ll be nice to catch up.”

“Yeah,” you say. “It will. Bye, Alana.”

You look down, seeing the tissue ripped into dehydrated snowflakes in your hand.

Quietly, sensitively, the woman leaves.

It is half an hour before Hannibal renters the room, danger lying, flat-bellied, beneath his affable smile.

“I overheard your conversation, with Alana,” he says, plainly. “The thread of some notion of leaving with her. Of alerting the police. Let it go. I will never leave a trace of myself within you when guests are expected, little one.”

He pauses, seeming to search your face for a response that is not there.

“You don’t expect to see justice.”

You allow the pieces of tissue to fall from your hand, picking off the last damp shreds with the border of one bitten fingernail.

“No.”

“Then your attempts to escape are entirely self-harming,” says Hannibal, in genuine disappointment. “All your life you’ve been looking for someone to take responsibility for the acts that you must do to survive. To be caged, to you, is liberty, for behind such bars you’ll no longer be culpable for shame or failure. Why do you spurn what I would gladly give?”

“It wasn’t given,” you say. “It was forced.”

“By necessity, yes. For you to consent, you would have been made to acknowledge your own sin, and you’re not capable of that, are you, little one?”

Hannibal leans down and kisses a tear from your cheekbone.

“Soon, you will attend a therapy session with me. You will tell me what you were on the verge of offering to Alana.”

*

In the early evening, Will Graham arrives; you see him crossing the driveway from a window, pulling a leaf from one wayward curl with a grimace. Since Alana’s visit you’ve been on the couch in a drugged malaise, but upon hearing him stamp dirt from his shoes on the welcome mat you are taken up by the senseless notion to go to him.

He is not Hannibal. He is the man that saved you from the earth, in your dreams. A beast, but one you may learn to ride, being that, in his rudderless madness, he seeks companionship in the dark.

Certainly, you are not yourself, to think this, are exhausted to the point of insensibility by Hannibal’s slow cruciation of the mind.

Orphaned from logic, you run to Will, catching him as he strolls through the foyer. You behold a startled look of horror before you leap into his arms, unable to articulate yourself beyond a howl of sobbing hurt. He stands, ossified against you, an indurate oblong of disgust.

Then, with the suddenness of resignation, he sags into a nearby chair with you in his lap and rocks you there until you quiet.

His heart is quick under his shirt, his hands at your back quaking, dismayed. Glancing up, you see his mouth is a near lipless line, but then it breaks, and he hushes you, more as though you are a pet than human.

“An unexpected sight,” says Hannibal, looking into the foyer. “I didn’t think you had much liking for our girl.”

Will grinds his teeth.

“I don’t. But I do pity her. I’m afraid that by the time we’re done with this experiment she’ll be dissolved by our cruelty.”

“Like the little mermaid by the sea,” Hannibal comments. “Condemned by love’s rejection. Will you continue to rebuff her, after this?”

“I’ve been participating since the beginning.”

“And so you see that cruelty is often a necessary force. A common occurrence in nature, and in the culinary world. Veal is a biblical evil, for example, infanticide for the selfishness lusts of men.”

“We’re selfish, alright,” says Will, adjusting your weight in his arms. “Besides, doesn’t cruelty affect the flavour of the meat?”

Hannibal laughs indulgently.

“Are you intending to eat her, Will?”

The younger man lifts his chin.

“Are you?”

“Not in the traditional sense,” Dr Lecter replies, with a wicked merriment. “But in the other, we’ve both sampled her, and have no regrets. Do we?"

[xf-cases-solved]

i wrote a fic inspired by this post i made, about how william should have been a girl named samantha and how i will die on that hill with honor. see below, or click this link to be directed to my ao3, if you so desire

Title: the bitter and the sweet

Rating: Gen

Word Count: ~2400

Back on the vineyard, before Samantha had been taken and the four of them had approximated something approaching a family unit, Mulder's mother would make homemade bread on Sunday afternoons.

The process had always fascinated him—the way she could parse out units of flour, sugar, water, and yeast and combine them together into something that, only hours later, would have the whole house smelling of an artisanal bakery, the atmosphere somehow made warm and inviting by the wafting scent of baking bread. When he was really little—when the biggest unexplained phenomenon to him was the Tooth Fairy—baking seemed like magic to him, and his mother was its wielder. 

How else, he'd figured, could she be able to take all those separate ingredients—banal and basic on their own—and turn them into something incredible?

Tonight, Mulder's feeling a little like how he did when his mother would make bread, only on a much, much grander scale. 

He's finding himself believing in magic, and this time, Scully is its wielder. It's no great surprise to him that she's powerful—he's known that from the start—but it wasn't until he'd found her drenched in sweat, tear tracks down her cheeks, blood staining the insides of her thighs, and a tiny child cradled protectively against her heaving chest that he'd learned that she was a magician, too. 

Out of two ingredients, Dana Scully has made a person.

Mulder has seen things in his lifetime that go far beyond the laws of nature. He's seen ghosts and ghouls; monsters, both bestial and human alike; he's seen proof of life outside this planet time and time again; he has died, his body buried six feet beneath the ground for months, and he's come back to life.

And yet, somehow none of that compares to witnessing the miracle of the most basic, fundamental tenet of existence: Reproduction. Something so innate—the instinctive need to replicate oneself so that one's lineage may live on in perpetuity. Hundreds of thousands of human babies are born a day; if he had known, like really known, how remarkable that is, maybe he would have decided that anything beyond it was simply above his pay grade and given up trying to understand the Universe long ago.

He hears the front door click shut as the Gunmen show themselves out, and yet he doesn't move just yet. He has to take a breath first—has to give himself a moment to shake his head in awe. On the other side of this doorway is his brand new life, and it's daunting to know you're about to walk into a fresh existence.

But no amount of anxiety can outmatch his need to see her. To see them. 

He'd had such little time with them before, and there had been so much chaos going on around them that he hadn't been able to appreciate what he did get, and he's trying not to feel resentful about it. The baby's healthy, Scully's healthy, and in the end, that's what matters most, but still, he can't help but feel robbed on Scully's behalf. On his own behalf, too, if he's being honest. 

After everything she has gone through—after the multitudes of hellfires she's walked through since the day she first stepped into his office—Scully deserved a beautiful pregnancy, with an equally beautiful birth. After everything he's gone through—after every chance he's lost to show the breadth of his love to the people who own his heart—he deserved to care for her, from week one to week forty, and to be by her side as she performed magic in a clean delivery room, with freshly laundered receiving blankets on hand, and the reassurance of trained professionals nearby should something go wrong. Something so precious should have never been shrouded in so much trauma.

It should have been different. They had earned different. 

But he's not going to dwell on it, at least not right now. Maybe in a quiet moment, when his family (his family!) is asleep and peaceful, he'll grant himself the space to feel the bitter in this sweet. 

But that's for later. 

Right now, he has to go to them; he can feel their thrall like the arrow of a compass being pulled north by the Earth's magnetic core, and this hallway suddenly feels a lightyear away from where he's meant to be, the space between them and himself a wormhole, where on his end there's the life he's led until now, and on the other side lies a brand new world he can't even begin to fathom the extent of just yet.

So he walks through the doorway, bending time, stepping out of one reality and into the next. He doesn't mourn what he's left behind—everything that matters now exists inside this room.

"How's everybody doing?" he asks, and if she can hear the thread of anxiety rumbling through his words like a shockwave beneath a tectonic plate, she doesn't mention it—merely smiles widely at him, the corners of her tired eyes crinkling. She's already so tiny, but the giant swaddling of blankets and baby in her arms covers half her torso, making her look even smaller. 

Small, but so incredibly, incredibly strong.

"We're doin' just fine," she says, standing up from the edge of the bed, a hand gently patting the baby's back through the cushion of blankets. As she approaches, he knows his face must look ridiculous—his head shaking in disbelief, his mouth slightly ajar, even as his lips are turned up into a smile, and eyes laser focused on them as though if he so much as blinks they'll disappear—but he can't help it. He's witnessing magic; of course he's awed. 

The baby snuffles grumpily at being jostled, as Scully moves the whole bundle into his expectant arms.

"Hey now," he mutters to the child. "None of that."

He gets the baby's head settled into the crook of his elbow, and the amount of protectiveness that swells within him is so sudden and intense that it almost takes his breath away. 

Words fail him; there isn't a language, on this planet or the next, that could ever properly convey the weight of his thoughts, so he just smiles at Scully and breaths a shaky, "Hi," before turning back to the baby, his body rocking to-and-fro gently on its own accord, and that's something, isn't it? That he instinctively knows how to soothe.

He surveys the baby's face with the focus one would use to parse out a magic-eye poster. He's searching for familiar features, and memorizing all the shapes and slopes and colors that have come together to create the breathtaking picture before him. A long time ago, he remembers calling his eidetic memory a curse, and at the time it had felt true, because in his line of work he saw so many horrible, wretched things, and it would have been a mercy to be able to forget them.

He doesn't consider it a curse now. He thinks that, maybe, he was actually bestowed a blessing, and he just hadn't realized it because it had always been meant for this exact moment in time.

This is... this is a lot. 

A lot, a lot, a lot.

Mulder has always known that he has a tendency to love at a magnitude so severe it is almost to his detriment; he knows that his heart has always been his biggest strength and biggest weakness in equal measure. Once, not long after a bullet had cracked his skull, he had found his way to Antarctica, armed with a vial of antidote, an unreliable compass, and a decent coat, and through the force of his love, he had brought Scully home with a clean bill of health, say for a bit of freezer burn on her cheeks. His love is so mighty, it is almost a type of magic in itself.

But he has never felt love like this before.

He's not even sure if it is love, the feeling so foreign and all-consuming.

He wants to cry with the might of it—feels so full of emotion that he could stand in the center of a field and scream it at the sky until his voice goes hoarse, and even then the precarious glass of his heart would still be dangerously close to overflowing. For all the things he's believed in his life, the hardest thing for him to wrap his head around is the idea that he is capable of loving this big.

"What are you going to call her?" he finds the words to ask. 

Her.

Somehow, the simple use of a pronoun tilts the world on its axis. He thinks it has to do with abstractions. Since he returned from the dead, they've only spoken about her in the abstract. "The baby." "This child." A nameless, faceless, sexless concept that they knew would come into existence one day, but they couldn't quite understand what that existence would mean. 

But she exists now, and she's a she. 

Boy, girl, both, neither—he'd had no preferences nor expectations, but the concreteness of the identifier has his pulse thudding wildly. Scully—the magician and, until very, very recently, the greatest love of his life—has done the impossible and created a person and that person is his... well, they haven't discussed that yet, have they? What he's entitled to referring to her as.

But then she says, "With your blessing"—she's quiet and shy about this, but still meets his eyes with her usual amount of confidence—"I wanted to name her Samantha." 

In some magazine a million years ago, Mulder had read about the art of human suspension. It originates as a spiritual practice that is thousands of years old, wherein people suspend themselves in the air by hooks embedded beneath their skin, and at the time he had been, of course, open and respectful of the concept, but did not particularly see the appeal. While he understood it in theory, without experiencing it, he couldn't quite see how one could endure such intense pain and be grateful for it. To feel revived by it. To feel complete. 

There are no hooks in his skin—he's not hanging from any banisters, trying to reach enlightenment—but he definitely has a better grasp on the practice now. In six words, Scully has taught him how to feel honored by pain. 

This is, he thinks, the utter definition of bittersweet, because god, it's so bitter, but god, nothing has ever been so sweet.

His instinct is to make a joke, because that's what he does when he gets overwhelmed. Maybe make a quip about seeing some of Walter Skinner in this little girl's face, is there something she wants to tell him...? But, unfortunately, it seems that his throat is closing up, so no jokes today, he supposes. Nothing to cover the rawness of his emotion as he blinks the tears out of his vision so that he can see his daughter clearly.

Because that's what she is—Scully just said as much. This is his daughter, named after an aunt she'll never get to meet, but whose memory will live on through her. 

"She deserved so much better than the short time she got," Scully is saying, and although he wants to look at her, he can't because that would mean looking away from his daughter, and that's not possible at the moment. "Mulder, every step we've taken that has gotten us to this point has been because of your love for her. Your search, your passion—everything that brought us together—it's because of her. And through you, I've grown to love her, too. She had no choice in making her sacrifice, but I want to acknowledge it anyway. I want... Mulder, I want our daughter to carry a name that symbolizes enduring strength, and unimaginable bravery, and, more than anything else, infallible, everlasting love." Her hand comes to rest on his wrist. "But only with your blessing, Mulder."

Mulder closes his eyes, a teardrop or two escaping and sliding down the bridge of his nose as he leans forward and presses his forehead gently against his daughter's. He breathes in deep, centering himself and righting his world with the scent of baby powder. Scully waits patiently, her thumb tracing small circles around the circumference of his wrist joint. Finally, he straightens himself out and looks at her.

Once again, language leaves him wanting. 

He settles on a whispered, shaky, "Thank you," that cracks his voice. 

He's thanking her for the in memoriam, certainly, but for so much more than that as well. 

Thank you, he means, for your magic that brought her into this world.

Thank you, for granting me entry into your body so that I could help you make this child, as much as I could.

Thank you, for saving my life, again and again and again and again, so that I can be here to experience true bliss for the first time.

Thank you, for stepping into my office the better part of a decade ago and, against all good judgment and reason, staying by my side ever since.

Thank you, for letting me love you.

Thank you, for loving me in return.

Scully gives a half smile and a nod; he has no doubt that she hears everything he doesn't say, because while all other languages are limited, they have long since created their own mode of communication that only the two of them speak.

There are conversations they need to have. The trauma of Samantha's birth is still shrouded in mystery; the fact that she wasn't taken from them has created more questions than it has provided answers, and that needs to be acknowledged. 

They have to talk about what happens next. What are their roles now? To the world. To their daughter. To each other.

That can all be discussed later, though, when language doesn't feel so useless, and his heart does feel so bruised and battered from all the bitter and all the sweet.

He does the only thing he could possibly do in this moment, and that's lean down and press his lips to hers. She kisses back, one hand holding him by the elbow, Samantha bracketed by their bodies, keeping her safe.

Since he was twelve years old, Samantha has been his driving force.

Today, she still is, but in a different form. A different life.

Mulder loves his baby sister.

Mulder loves his baby daughter.

He thinks he might go into the kitchen tomorrow, and bake Scully a loaf of bread.

[astroismypassion]

Asteroid Kiss (8267) in Cancer, Leo, Virgo

Credit goes to my astrology blog @astroismypassion

Kiss is an asteroid in astrology. This applies to the natal chart. Search up number 8267 on Astrodienst, go to Extended chart selection and under Additional objects put 8267 in Manual entry table and Show the chart. Below your natal planets in signs, there will be Kiss in a particular sign, house and at a specific degree.

It shows your first kiss, how you kiss and kissing style, the person you will kiss for the first time.

KISS IN CANCER 😘

Your kiss is slow, safe, teasing, comforting, soft, gentle, innocent, nostalgic, childlike, sensitive, sentimental and emotional. Your first kiss could happen during your childhood, you might not even remember it well anymore, at your home or your person’s home, during play time, during main summer school vacation/holidays, during cooking, in your own home, while on all-girls trip, your bedroom, on your bed, after shower/bath time, in a vineyard, in a wine cell, in a garden, in front of a fireplace, during Christmas, on the playground, during swimming, under the mistletoe. Your person can be your first love, first crush, someone from the neighbourhood, a family friend, your best friend from childhood, a childhood crush, someone you went to kindergarten or elementary school with, someone you used to play with. You can be emotional, crying or just really in your feelings before or after kiss. You might form an emotional attachment to the person at the time of the kiss. You might have a rule that you only kiss people you are emotionally connected to. You could also have children with this person later. Or start a family with them or you will form a bond that will be family-like, like chosen family. You might also kiss a person who is an important female figure to you. There could be a photograph of you and your person kissing. You like eskimo kisses and forehead kiss. Those protective kisses that are comforting and make you feel safe and secure. You look them in the eyes for a prolonged amount of time. You might tell your mother about this first kiss. You might kiss a virgin. Your person can be younger than you. You could end the kiss in a hug or cuddle. The person that you kiss might have similar traits to one of your parents. This person can also give you a cute nickname before the kiss, like baby, boo, bambi etc.

KISS IN LEO 💛

Your kiss is dramatic, passionate, generous, a bit bossy, performative, rushed, childlike, fiery, attention-grabbing and a bit sexual. Your first kiss could happen on a date, in the movie theatre, during game Truth or dare, at a party, at the theatre, at the concert, watching a movie at home, during a birthday party, celebration, during a performance, in a film, it could very well be in the public, during your free time activities, when you are working on something that interests you or you are passionate about. A lot of people could be around, but you just won’t care and you won’t be scared of PDA, because you will feel like there is only you two. Your person can be your first crush, a well-known person among your friends, a popular person, someone well-liked and very desired by many, someone who romances you, someone you later have a short-term relationship with, someone you end up dating. You will feel like a teenager in love during the kiss. You grab your person by their hair or the back of the neck. Your kiss can feel out of a telenovela. You might be considered a good kisser, almost like you have some kind of Romeo/Casanova status that you excel in kissing. There is something in your kissing style that is almost part of your brand. You might laugh or smile during the kiss.

KISS IN VIRGO 💚

Your kiss clean, slow, light, calculating, present, methodical, step-by-step, cautious, pragmatic, realistic, everyday like, nervous, breathless. Your first kiss could happen at a grocery store, any sort of shop, at a friend’s house, at a library, at a doctor’s office or during doctor’s visit, at the gym, at the zoo, in transportation (on the bus, on the train), during Truth or dare game, on a game night or while playing board games, while traveling (more short-distance), on a field trip, in vocational college. Your person could be your schoolmate, co-worker, gym crush, someone from your study group, someone 2-3 years younger or older than you, someone who has the same vocation/job/profession as you or similar field. You could even start a business with this person. You are a fan of hand kisses. You could be ��prepared” for a kiss beforehand, for example: you eat a mint, chewing gum, you brush your teeth. You could plan the kiss in advance. You could be really aware of the person’s breath. Each time you kiss someone you do it in a new manner, a new way, so it’s very inconsistent kissing style and people don’t know what to expect from you. You could also kiss in a away you just brush or barely touch their lips. You pay attention to the teeth of the person as well. And you absolutely dislike dry lips. You might kiss again immediately after the first try. You will study the person you kiss beforehand, or you will be very curious about them after your kiss together. You might grab their hands, fingers or sigh before or after the kiss. You might murmur your person’s name. You get kissed midst talking. You might write a journal entry about your first kiss. At some point you might just want to get over with this first kiss thing.

Credit goes to my astrology blog @astroismypassion

[johnwickb1tsch]

andar conmigo ~ part 11

A Walk in the Clouds/Don John crossover outline/fic- Paul Sutton x fem!Reader x Don John triangle ~ You grow up at Las Nubes vineyard, and have to go home to your dying father. You take your fake new husband, Sgt Paul Sutton, with you...Your old flame don John does not like this at all. Warnings: don John STILL being himself an asshole, nsfw chapter map

You scream, certain in the span of a blink that he will land on his neck and you will be a widow before you ever got the chance to actually marry the man. 

Paul hits the dirt hard–and your heart with it–but he rolls with the impact, and somehow ends the disaster standing on his feet, looking utterly flabbergasted that he emerged unscathed. His smile is like the breaking of sunshine from behind an ominous cloud. The horse shies to the far end of the pen, stomping indignantly, and the crowd erupts with shouts and whistles for him. Everyone is delighted–except for don Juan, of course, who looks on with the expression of a man who bit into a particularly wretched lemon. 

That is when you are certain Juan cinched the saddle badly–if at all–and deliberately tried to hurt Paul with this escapade. Vibrating with rage, you march over to him, poking him hard in that solid chest of his. “How dare you?” you hiss. 

“Cálmate,” he sneers, batting your hand away. Calm yourself. 

But you have never been so angry in your life, rage filling you like a howling forest fire, and you wind up to slap him. He catches your wrist at the last moment, jerking you close with that iron-hard strength that always takes you by surprise. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says low in your ear, before releasing you to stalk back into the pen. No one paid any attention to your exchange, all fawning over Paul, who has thankfully had the good sense to exit the corral and leave the horse-breaking to the professionals. 

It takes a good five minutes for you to reclaim your temporary husband, everyone crowding around Paul to clap him on the shoulder and rib him for falling off like a circus monkey. You are still trembling by the time he sidles over to you, his joy dampening as he sees you are on the verge of a breakdown. 

“Hey now. I’m fine.”

He is covered in dust, and there’s a scrape on his cheek. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you say, masking the maelstrom inside you with low words. It doesn’t fool Paul for a second. 

“Hey,” he says again, drawing you into the circle of his arms. “It’s alright. Please don’t cry?”

“I’m going to cry,” you inform him, your facade cracking a little with your voice, “And I’d like to not do it here. Will you take me inside?” 

When you frame it this way he slings his arm over your shoulders, leading you towards the house. You notice as you walk together that he’s developed a slight limp. 

Estupido. 

This idiotic, loveable, absolute puppy dog of a man. 

If he’d been seriously hurt…you would have done a lot more than tried to slap don Juan.

“Is anything broken?” 

“No,” he insists, but makes a sound through his teeth as he puts weight on his ankle.

“Lean on me,” you insist quietly, and once you round the wall of the courtyard, he does. 

Once you have him safely bundled in your room and seated in a chair he pays you a sheepish smile that makes you want to forgive him everything. “Guess you’re going to say ‘I told you so,’ huh?”

You give him a look that only makes him grin wider, the scamp. “Do I really have to?”

“Hmm. Well…I think my cowboy days are behind me now.”

Thank God.

“That’s a relief.” You dab at his chin with a wet rag, getting the dirt out of the scrape as gently as you can. “Though…you did very well, considering.” 

His dark eyes sparkle for your reluctant praise. 

“I had some good last-minute advice.” You narrow your eyes down at him, but your annoyance just seems to bounce off this man like rubber. Stranger yet, he seems to enjoy it. “You were pretty worried about me, huh?” 

“Of course I was. Have you ever seen a man turned into a vegetable from a kick to the head?” You shudder, remembering an incident with one of your older cousins when you were a girl. The memory of his dead, staring eyes will always haunt you. By some mercy he only lingered a month, before succumbing in his bed.  

“I’ve seen plenty of terrible things, honey,” Paul gently reminds you, looking down at his hands.  

You freeze, feeling stupid in that moment. He’s seen that and worse, you’re suddenly sure. But then…you are angry all over again. Because he survived all that, just to nearly die for the sake of riding a horse? 

“Then why risk it?” you snipe. “What for? To prove you are a man? To who? To them? To Juan? To me? I already know you’re braver and truer than anyone!”

He looks up at you with those liquid brown eyes, and you feel yourself melt all over again. “Are you saying…I've got something to live for?” he asks hopefully.  

“I should hope so! You have your whole life ahead of you!”

“That’s not what I mean.” 

You make a small, exasperated sound in your throat that causes his lips to twist, trying not to smile. 

“Tell me why you were so worried.” 

“You know why.” 

“Not sure I do…” He pulls you in closer between his spread legs, looking up at you with that pleading dark gaze. You have to close your eyes against the strength of the emotion that fills you at that moment, another round of tremors quaking through your bones. 

This man. 

“You know I care about you.”  

“Uh huh.” He rests his chin upon your breastbone, still looking up at you expectantly. 

“I told you that you’re precious to me.” 

“Yeah.”  

His hands have made it to your waist, spanning your back, holding you to him. It makes you dizzy all over again–you are finding it harder and harder, to imagine life without those hands on you, holding you, comforting you, making you go to pieces…

“Paul…” you whine, begging for mercy he might not be in the mood to grant right now. You’re not really sure how you end up straddling his lap. He pulled you, maybe, or…you just melted into him. More and more, it seems like that is how things have been going. You are helpless as a magnet seeking iron with this man, the one thing you are meant to hold on to. His strong arms wrap around you, holding you to him, and you stay like that together for a long time, your head on his shoulder. 

“You have to promise me to be careful with Juan,” you whisper. “He meant to hurt you today.” 

“Oh. Maybe he hoped, but it was just one of his mean little games.” You marvel that even now, this man can’t imagine that off the battlefield, someone truly meant him serious harm. 

“No, Paul. He cinched the saddle too loose. I’m certain of it. He hoped the horse would kill you for him.” Paul is quiet in your arms as he digests this, not dismissing your accusation again. “Maybe…we should go, before something terrible happens. I can take you back to San Francisco.” 

His powerful body shudders with laughter beneath you. “You’re gonna escort me home, huh?” 

You sigh, knowing it sounds ridiculous when he puts it like that. You just…can’t shake the need to protect him, when it seems for some reason no one else in the world ever has. 

He kisses your temple. “Sweetheart, you are my home right now. I’m not leaving you.”  

You lift your head to brush his lips with yours. “I’m scared,” you admit. You wish the two of you could just steal off into the night, much like the first time you fled this place. 

He nods, and it means the world to you, that he doesn’t outright dismiss your fear. He’s the only man in the world you know who has actually listened to you. You comb your fingers through his hair at his temples, looking at him from so close, your heart so full you think it might explode. You almost feel as though you are watching from outside your body, as you gather your breath and gird your loins, ready to tell him how you really feel. “Paul…I lo–” 

There is a knock on the door. The interruption makes you jump as though you’ve been caught. “Y/n?”

You get to your feet, reluctantly answering the door when you recognize Esmerelda, the head housekeeper’s voice. “Sí, Esme?” 

You crack the door to find the older woman looking despondent on your threshold. “You need to come quickly. Your father…has taken a turn.” 

You shoot an apologetic look back at Paul, who nods with understanding even though you know for all the world he wants to hear the rest of the words you’d had for him, right on the tip of your tongue. “I’ll be right there.”

“Thank you, Esme.” 

With a sudden feeling of dread in your heart, you close the door behind you, and you run. 

[milkywayan]

As I rewatch all the historical farm docus again (i looove them so this is not a critique of hate but of love), there is something I think I have to point out, especially for people who are not as obsessed with this stuff as I am

They are talking about the british perspective.

Many things they say are correct for their geographical area, but not true for the rest of europe. and i have to say, sometimes they do get stuff about the rest of europe wrong (e.g. Ruth talks about the possibility of a woman having her own business in medieval england, saying that was not the case in the rest of europe, which is factually wrong as we, for example, have sources of women inheriting and running their own business in medieval vienna, and having important positions in guilds)

Also, they also once state that wine was expensive and a luxory, not adding 'in britain' and stating it as a fact, while this is of course not the case for a lot of regions with a lot of vinyards. going with the vienna example again, which is in a basin surrounded by low hills which are covered in vineyards since probably roman times (they still are today). there was even a ban of brewing beer comercially within the city to have people drink wine. it was generally not expensive

they also state people in the medieval times did not wash... which is also wrong. idk about england, i am not an expert, but we have a lot of german sources of paintings showing people in baths (not only nobles), there were loads of communal bath houses in medieval cities that show up in documents and in archaeological finds, there are references in literature (e.g. Parzival from the late 12th century, he is taught that he should wash every time after taking off his armour and he is full body washing himself regularly). They were not as cleanly as we are today, sure, but they knew with dirt came disease, they thought that bad smells carried disease, so why on earth would they not clean themselves?

so yea, i am of course speaking from a different geographical area, i focus on central europe/german sources and idk a lot about britain. but it is important to not just lump 'medieval europe' into one big pot

[mangoshorthand]

Hii againn, first off I seriously love love LOVE the lucky fucking pillow you did from my first request thank you 🫶 I think this counts as my second request? (I hope it's okay to req again🥺) fluff rather than a smut hehe, this happens after five retired and they live together and reader comes home with a senior cat she decided to adopted (bc it reminded her of five) then he soon comes to love it so much, and up to you! pls a bit of angst. THANKIEE SMM I really enjoyed my first request!! 🩷🩷🩷

You're welkiee again! You can request as often as you like (but I am on hiatus after posting this to work on one or two longer projects). I've saved this one for a bit because I really wanted to do it justice. Sorry it took so long.

Two Old Men | Five Hargreeves / GN Reader Words: 3.3k, rated G

At last, retirement suited him. 

He tried first when he was fifty eight and his body was in its teens, but destiny pulled him kicking and screaming back into the chaos. After all that was all done, he tried again, but it didn’t take.

As it turned out, people don’t retire just because they’re mentally tired, they retire because they’re old, and Five’s body and brain tissue being physically young had left him too full of energy to live a life of idleness.

But now, with his body in its early fifties and his consciousness well into its nineties, he felt the body slowing down enough to allow him to take it easy

So, a year ago, you and he bought a few acres of land in Tompkins County. Five was someone who didn’t like to gush- in fact, he tended to find fault if there was any- but even he had to admit it was perfect: it was near enough to Ithaca to access all the restaurants, shops and bars you enjoyed together, and rural enough to satisfy him in his insistence that you retire somewhere where nightfall brought a view of the cosmos unspoiled by city lights.

The farmhouse was small enough to mean it would be easy enough to keep clean as you both aged, but commodious enough to play host to two or three family members at a time.

For New Year, you actually managed four, but that had involved Klaus staying on a blow-up. He'd insisted that his powers kept his body in tip-top shape but it became apparent the following morning that he'd been talking out of his ass: his elderly back could no longer tolerate such treatment, and Five had wrenched his own in pulling him off the mattress.

No, Five couldn’t complain: he had a couple of project cars to tinker with in the barn, and next year you were planning to try planting a little orchard and vineyard to try your hands at making organic wine. His days were filled with pleasant walks, naps and hobbies, and his nights were spent warm in bed with you: what more could a man want from his retirement?

Now, he stretched out on the veranda, hat shading his eyes and sun warming his limbs. He wondered vaguely whether it was worth adding just one more bedroom. He sort of missed having a house full of guests. Or, even better, maybe he could build himself a better place for the cars (his precious Corvette was vulnerable to rust in the barn right now), and then convert the barn into its own little self-contained-

“Five?”

Your shout came to him on the breeze. He put down his book entirely and squinted at your approaching figure, returning from your afternoon walk. He’d left his glasses inside, so he could only see an indistinct shape in your arms. Your gait seemed unusual. Were you hurt?

“What’s up?” he called back, ignoring the slight twinge in his pelvis as he stood. 

“Look what I’ve found!”

Not hurt: just slightly urgent. He approached curiously, walking off the little stiffness caused by the twinge. He knew there would probably be a point when it was easier to blink to his feet than heave himself up- he could sense it coming the last time his body was in its fifties, but he was damned if he’d do that until his joints were at least pushing eighty.

You came into view.

Apparently, you were wrestling with your sweater.

It writhed in your arms, wriggling and snarling so fiercely that you nearly dropped it on a couple of occassions.

“What the hell?”

“Open the door for me. I found a cat.”

“A cat?" he said, as if he'd never heard of such a creature.

And, sure enough, a pair of bright green eyes glared out from where their owner was bundled up in the sweater: a tightly- wrapped burrito with murder in its heart.

“I don’t want that thing in the house!” he said, as the burrito gave a threatening growl.

“He’s ill, Five.”

Thirty years together had taught him when you meant business. Your tone was conclusive, so he reluctantly opened the front door.

“Put it in the laundry room,” he said, resentfully, “I don’t want it pissing on the furniture.”

“He, Five.” you said, pointedly.

“Yeah, wouldn’t wanna misgender a goddamn cat,” he mumbled, but he opened the laundry room door and stood aside so you could enter before closing it behind you both.

“Okay- stand back,” you said, lowering the writhing sweater onto the tiles. 

Five did step back. He liked dogs, but cats he had no interest in. Let alone one that sounded like it intended them both serious bodily harm. Its constant growls and furious yowls made him feel like he was in the presence of a live grenade. 

For a moment, the bundle wriggled, throwing itself around until the cat finally extracted himself. His long fur was a dark gray black, and those jade eyes peered out threateningly from underneath weeping mange-sores. Immediately, he backed off into a corner, fur all on end and spitting at you both with hackles raised. Though he was doing his level best to appear larger, he was rather small and skinny.

Five looked at you, incredulously. There you were, eyes glistening in adoration as you looked down at the brewing hurricane of claws and teeth. It was the same face he fell in love with. You were slightly older than him physically, but you didn’t look it, especially now that your eyes were filled with an excited gleam: you looked young again. 

“Look at him, Five!”

Suppressing a loving smile, he looked back at the cat, now growling again.

“He’s kinda gross.”

“No he isn’t!” you said, indignantly, “he's an old man and he’s sick.”

You paused for a moment. 

“A bit like you, actually. You’re a sick old man if ever I met one.”

You eyed him knowingly with a little twitch of your eyebrows. Five scowled, but you continued, laughing, as the parallels came upon you one by one.

“He is like you! That must be why I had to bring him home! He’s tiny and old and grumpy and-”

As you said it, the cat let out an indignant, snappish ‘Nyaah’.

“-and he even sounds like you!” you finished, grinning. 

“I’m not tiny,” Five said, grumpily, “I’m only an inch or so shorter than average.”

“Look!” you said, pointing between him and the cat, “you’re pulling the same face.”

“God, I married an idiot,” Five replied, schooling his expression back into neutrality. He looked back at the cat with its teeth bared in a silent hiss.

“It looks like it wants to tear our throats out.”

“I know!” you said, rapturously, “he’s so cute!”

Five shook his head at this absurd non-sequitur.

“Whose is it?”

“I found him near the old Montgomery place. I think he must have belonged to Judy.”

His mouth pulled downwards. Five had known Judy to wave to. She was a nice old lady who lived a few farms over. He’d been sorry to hear of her death.

“That means he’s been surviving on his own for two months,” you said. 

He looked down at the cat, looking rapidly around itself for a route of escape and finding none. It seemed to try to line up a jump onto the counter, but looked wobbly on its back legs as it did so, so it gave up and went back to eyeing them with those lamp-like eyes.

He really was old.

“Well,” Five said, begrudgingly, “you’re gonna have to take him to the vets. See if he’s chipped and get that shit on his face sorted out.”

“Okay!” you said, brightly, looking around the laundry room with a thoughtful look, “can you blink and get me some twine from the kitchen so we don’t have to open the door.”

“Twine?”

“You just watch.”

***

With many claw marks on your forearms but still smiling like an idiot, you drove the cat to the vets with it trapped in a plastic laundry basket with an identical one on top secured with twine. Five watched you down the drive with a fond shake of the head and returned to his book. There was still a good hour or so of warm, early-afternoon sun before he’d have to go inside and get a jacket.

He spent the afternoon peacefully, sipping a cold beer and occasionally letting his book rest on his chest while he watched the thick cirrocumulous cloud cover crawling gradually by.

When he was forty, he only barely lived through the worst apocalyptic winter. Fuel was low, and he'd been prevented from finding more or seeking shelter elsewhere by the deepest snow drifts he ever experienced.

Out of one of these, he’d dug himself and Dolores a little snow-shelter. He distinctly remembered trying to dry his soaking gloves over the smoldering embers of his last burnable supplies and looking down at his red fingers.

'If I survive this,' he thought then, 'this will all be a memory one day. I can look back on this when I’m warm and comfortable. I can sit in the sun and remember how lucky I am to be there. This is good, actually, because it’ll teach me to be grateful.'

And, although he’d only thought that way to get him through that night, it had actually worked, because Five remembered it now. He remembered the pain in his joints from the physical labor and the burning of his frostbitten fingers and toes. He took a moment to glory in the contrast between then and now.

Back then, he’d only been thinking about surviving until the thaw or the following summer, but now he had more happiness and more comfort than he ever dared to imagine then. He was warm, he was safe, he was home, and he would fall asleep tonight held tight in your arms. 

With a warm feeling in his chest, he closed his eyes. 

He only awoke from the slight doze at the sound of the car pulling up.

“Hey,” he said, without opening his eyes, “is it all done with? Cat at the shelter?”

“Nyyaaahhh!”

The truculent noise was more than enough to answer his question. Damn cat couldn’t even meow right.

He opened his eyes to see you standing there with the cat in a brand new carrier and a huge bag from the pet store in another.

“Woah, hey!” he said, dismayed, “We didn’t talk about this!”

“Please, Five,” you said, wheedling, “he has nobody else. They read his chip and he was Judy’s. The vet said he’s too old to get adopted and he’d probably die at a shelter.”

“No, I am not keeping that thing in the house,” he protested, “I got this strange liking to having both my eyes!”

He relented slightly at the sight of your pout.

“Fine. He can stay, but he can live in the barn.”

“You go live in the barn,” you said, resentfully, taking the cat and the supplies into the house despite his protestations.

An argument ensued, an argument that didn’t settle down until you both turned in for bed.

When the cat was shut downstairs for the night, fed, bedded and given the run of the kitchen and laundry room, you slid into bed beside Five without acknowledging him. 

Five sat there for a minute or so with his arms folded and a scowl on his face. At last, he spoke:

“Fine,” he said, “he can stay in the house, but I got two conditions.”

You gave a small squee and kissed him full on the mouth, squashing his mustache with your fervor. You knew that the thin end of the wedge was embedded. Whatever Five’s conditions were, the cat would find his way around them in time.

“All right, all right,” Five said, from between your hands on his cheeks. Though he was trying to sound stern, suppressing his smile was difficult.

“Number one,” he said, holding up a finger, “he doesn’t get to go beyond the kitchen. I don’t want him ruining our stuff. We’ll get a cat door and he can go out and do whatever cats do during the day, and he can sleep and eat here.”

“Okay,” you said, though with no intention of sticking to this agreement. 

Five put up a second finger.

“And two, I get to name him.”

“He already has a name,” you said, bemused, “Judy called him Mr Cuddles, I think.”

“That’s a dumb name,” Five grumbled, “I’m calling him Timothy.”

“Timothy?”

“Timothy.” he said, decisively, “take it or leave it.”

“Can we call him Tim?”

“Nope,” Five said, obstinately, “Timothy.”

***

Timothy didn’t like to be touched. It took him six weeks to tolerate you petting him without tensing up, though it was clear he didn’t really enjoy it. Being picked up was still an absolute no-go, as that would necessitate touching his tummy. That, you were learning, was a guaranteed bite. 

Despite this, things had improved for Timothy since he arrived. His mange was gone and he’d grown in confidence, greeting you each morning with a polite ‘Nyah’, and even conferring the odd friendly chirrup upon you now and again.

You spent hours in the kitchen with him, just sitting there, drinking tea and tempting him towards you with treats. You were getting on fine, and Timothy clearly already felt like he owned the place, coming and going as he wished and sunning himself on the veranda.

You were besotted, and Five was happy for you, (anything that made your eyes light up that way was fine by him), but mostly he ignored Timothy, carrying on just the same as ever. 

One afternoon, however, Five was in the barn, lying on his mechanic’s creeper under his jacked up 1967 Pontiac. There was a worrying leak coming from somewhere, and, having got so far fixing her up on his own, he was hoping to avoid having to take her into the shop in town.

So intent was he on inspecting the engine bay, he didn’t notice that he wasn’t the only one beneath the car until Timothy was less than an inch from his face. 

“Nyaaah?”

Five startled, dropping his flashlight and cursing. 

“Shit!”

Timothy’s ears flattened against his head, and he backed off rapidly, stopping a few feet away before hissing at Five, ill-naturedly.

“Stupid cat,” Five muttered, composing himself and returning to the job at hand. 

As he continued to work, he stayed aware of Timothy stalking around the car. At one point, he heard a small flump that meant he’d jumped through the Pontiac’s open door. 

“Watch the the interior,” Five grumbled, “that’s the original naugahyde. You know how much I paid for her?”

“Nyah.”

“Yup,” he said, “and if you scratch up or pee on any of it, I’ll replace it with catskin. Understood?”

“Nyah,” Timothy repeated.

“Good.”

He became absorbed again, listening to Timothy’s paws pattering around on his precious upholstery. The leak was hard to identify. He chewed at his lower lip and considered before muttering to himself.

“It was brown, so that’s gotta be transmission fluid, right? Maybe brake fluid? Hell, maybe it’s just oil.”

“Nyah.”

“Could be a lube oil leak, I guess,” he said, as if Timothy had suggested this, “but it doesn’t smell bad.”

Timothy landed with only a slight stumble when he jumped down. Five felt the cat butt up and rub himself against his feet where they stuck out from underneath the car. 

He tinkered for another fifteen minutes to no avail. He could feel his joints starting to stiffen, so he wheeled himself out from under the car to find Timothy watching him, sitting neatly in a shaft of sunlight at the barn door.

He gave Five a slow blink. 

Five wasn’t au fait with cat communication, but the gesture seemed friendly, so he nodded slightly awkwardly at him in acknowledgement. 

***

Over the next week or so, Timothy honored Five with his company whenever he worked on the Pontiac.

Five supposed it was a hangover from his life with Dolores, but he found he worked better when he had a presence with him to talk to. Verbalizing his thought processes nearly always helped him problem-solve.

It took him a few days to identify the problem and, just as he was starting to fix it, a sound like an idling Harley Davidson made him look around confusedly for the source. He thought for one, wild moment that the key had been turned in the Pontiac’s ignition but apparently not: as it turned out, this was just how Timothy purred.

He was sitting a few feet away, watching Five work under the car and purring in the warmth of the sunlight. When he saw Five looking, he gave another of those contented slow blinks.

That night, Five didn’t shut Timothy in the kitchen when he went to bed.

***

It was a balmy summer afternoon. You and Five were sitting on the veranda on the twin loungers, drinking iced tea and talking in an idle fashion about building another bedroom. 

You favored converting the attic, while Five wanted a full barn conversion.  He talked convincingly about how nice it would be to have his niblings and their families over to stay for a few weeks at a stretch, but you suspected it actually had much more to do with the opportunity to build himself a proper mechanic’s shop on the property. He talked about how nice it would be to spend more time with the kids, but you could see the ghost of a hydraulic vehicle lift behind his eyes: there would be no more lying uncomfortably on the creeper then.

But, the decision left unmade, Five had talked himself into a nap. His hand had long since dropped from where you’d been holding it between the two loungers, and he was now sound asleep with his hat over his face.

You were engrossed with a book, relaxed and listening to Five’s soft little snores. It was good he was having a nap now, you thought. Tonight, you’d planned to wait up until it got dark out and stargaze on a rug spread in the back field, like you did when you were younger.

“Nyaah?”

Timothy padded into sight, piercing green eyes x-raying you with assessment. This was another similarity to your husband: even after all these years, Five regularly looked at you as if he were still making up his mind about you. 

You patted your thigh, hoping to encourage Timothy onto your lap, but he declined the offer and wandered over to sniff Five’s empty glass instead. Apparently finding nothing to his liking, he looked up at Five.

You watched, shocked, as Timothy first gauged the jump, then decided it was within his capabilities and finally shuffled backwards to line himself up. In a mildly ungainly fashion, he made the leap and walked confidently along Five’s chest until he reached the softer padding of his belly. There, Timothy kneaded him gently before he settled down, turning around and around in a circle before curling up neatly.

This was just typical, you thought, as Timothy began to purr loudly. You’d worked your ass off to get this cat to like you and he still barely tolerated you petting him. All the while, Five had treated Timothy with indifference bordering on dislike and this is how he responded?

As you watched, trying hard not to feel slightly offended, Five stirred and muttered something in which only the word “cat” was discernible. His arms came sleepily up, his fingers laced together and his hands laid themselves across the cat’s abdomen. 

Timothy stiffened and made a small, slightly unhappy noise at the unexpected touch, but, after a moment of evaluation, apparently decided to tolerate it. He lay his head back down and closed his eyes.

For a moment, you shook your head and watched the two crotchety old men sleep. Then, smiling, you returned to your book.

Request masterlist >> HERE

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed): @thebearmage, @nevbrooke-555

Megalist

Request info + rules

NOTE:

I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See request info + rules for request status and more.

[fantasy-relax]

Ineffable plan

Part 4

In order to collect information, you needed to approach the women who decided to stay in the castle despite having finished the time stipulated in the contract, understandably they were also the ones who had higher-ranking positions in the castle.

Greta, 58 years old the head maid and Lady Dimitrescu's personal maid, in the months you have been there you have known her as a serious, severe and strict woman. However, her efficiency was undeniable, the castle was enormous and it was her duty to keep it clean and impeccable, you admired her ability to coordinate a tremendous amount of staff and carry out the matriarch's orders.

Jenica, 37 years old, was in charge of the vineyard and just as Greta lived under a lot of stress, she was always locked in Lady Dimitrescu's office or with Lady Bela.

Why stay here when they had more than enough money to retire without problems in the town? Furthermore, the responsibility was enormous as well as the stress, you had seen women of their respective ages with less gray hair than them.

Dorotthea, the 49 years old Chef and person in charge of the kitchen area, almost as strict as Greta, you didn't blame her, the kitchen team was the smallest in the castle, however the one that was most watched by the Dimitrescu. The kitchen helpers not only suffered from severe training to enter, they were also disowned by the other maids because the food prepared for the lady of the house and her daughters was made of human flesh that in many cases came from colleagues who broke the rules on too many occasions or were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

In her case you could understand why she would stay, the rumors fly, you doubted that she could have a peaceful life after handing over her neighbors on a silver platter (literally).

Relia, the 47 years old master carpenter, relaxed with everything except her work, her passion for her craft was so much that she also was in charge of instructing the lumberjacks and checking the wood that was delivered. If it did not meet her standards, she did not hesitate to return it something the perfectionist Lady Dimitrescu let her do.

While she would face some disdain for being a woman, her experience would be very useful in the village as it needed serious improvements to increase the quality of life, the creation of fences and more resistant houses was a matter of life and death, they had to accept her help.

Alana the 35 year old gardener was... peculiar she was always mumbling while she ate, while she drank while she walked she was always whispering about the plants in the garden or the vineyard. She wasn't rude or anything, but it was hard to strike up a conversation with her that didn't involve plants.

She was intelligent, but her eccentricities would cause her problems in the town.

Soreana, the 38 years old stable manager, she was gentle but it was easy to see how she preferred being with animals to being with people. You didn't understand why you had seen the beasts that were called horses that carried Lady Dimitrescu's carriage, they terrified you as much as the lycans.

How could you approach them so you can ask their reasons?

-------------------------------------------------- ---------------------

“Do you wish to work as a specialized maid?” Miss Greta's voice showed a hint of curiosity.

“Yes, but I can't decide in which area in particular, you see, I have done various jobs in the village, I have had my hands stained with ink and dirt, so it is a bit difficult for me to decide where to go” You used the merchant skills that you had acquired after so many meetings and business with the Duke. “So I wanted to know if it was possible to spend a day in each area to experiment and see which one suits me best.”

The woman seemed to think about it before speaking with a tired tone. “There is a lack of personnel in all areas, the workers in recent years have been problematic and consequently have been... discarded.”

You swallowed, knowing well what she meant by that.

“I'm going to see what I can do, for today follow your normal schedule.”

You nodded, afraid and curious about what awaited you.

-------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------

The next day while you were getting ready for work you heard someone knock on the bedroom door, something strange since to avoid conflicts due to your peculiar biology you woke up much earlier to be able to use the bathroom with privacy.

You opened the door only to be met with an irritated Greta.

“Already in uniform? Perfect, follow me” the woman didn´t wait for a response, walking quickly, almost stumbling, you closed the door and followed her.

“Excuse me, ma'am, but what happened for you to come pick me up so early?”

With a voice full of annoyance, she answered you. “A group of maids destroyed the window and part of the wall of the Hall of Joy” How?! “I still have to investigate where they got the explosives from” Again, how? “Lady Dimitrescu wants it fixed today” Daniela surely had something to do with that request “You said you knew about carpentry, right? “

“Yes ma'am, I also know a little about construction.”

Your response made the woman stop and grab your shoulders with a look that you can only describe as manic even if her voice was even as always. “Did you work with bricklayers?”

“A friend of my father is, sometimes he took me with him when they had work together” Maybe your father considered you a phenomenon, but if you could be useful to him, he was capable of taking you to hell.

“That will be helpful, Relia is the only one who knows anything about masonry, so your support would be more than good for her.”

So your research has begun.

[cloggedarteri]

♡imagine the auditore kids sitting around the villa bored out of their minds unable to come to an agreement on what to do with their day. there are sure to be chores around the house — cupboards that need organizing, bookcases and shelves that need dusting, floors that need cleaning — but neither of the siblings is particularly interested in doing that kind of work. despite their boredom, they aren't particularly interested in doing anything and, as the kids watch their father stroll along the vineyard the two try to throw out ideas, "wanna throw some rocks," marcello suggests. "see how far we can skip em, maybe." "lake is too far," flavia says. "don't feel like carrying you when you get tired" "could find some glasses...see who has the better aim"  "no...we already got in trouble for hitting bottles"  "you got in trouble for hitting a window" "but it was your fault for putting the bottle so close so you're partly to blame" "not my fault you're blind" "i hate you"

♡the auditore kids who silently despair the eventual loss of their free day before being drawn to the screeching of an eagle perched on their villa roof...now thats an idea. "you see what im seeing sorella?" "yea...GO!"

♡the auditore kids who take their competitions incredibly seriously. these two are willing to trip and scratch and pull at one another as needed to win but have come to the agreement that anything is fair game as long as they don't kill each other. the two siblings scramble to the barrels, to the windowsill and shutters, to the handing flower pots, trying to grab onto anything that could give them purchase. the two are so incredibly close but flavia manages to be a second faster than her brother and once atop the roof the siblings see that where there used to be the eagle lays a single feather.

♡the auditore kids who upon getting closer to the feather hear a resonating hum and once pocketed are met with the vast and peaceful view of the Tuscan countryside. imagine this is the kid's first "synchronize" moment and the two just get lost in it all. but most mesmerizing of all was the sky.  ♡the auditore kids who are taken out of their daydreaming when they hear their father's voice calling out for them, the volume steadily growing more agitated the longer they do not answer his call. the two scurry to the edge of the roof and call back.  "WE'RE UP HERE PAPÀ!"  "WHY—HOW DID YOU TWO GET UP THERE?!"  "umm...WE CLIMBED?" "IS THAT A QUESTION?" "umm..." 

♡the auditore kids who move away from the roof's edge to coordinate their stories but when they take a quick glance back at ezio, he's long since moved from his still position next to the field and is instead found climbing his way up the roof. a fierce rush of panic flows through the two siblings, enough panic for them to forget that the man they're worried will fall off the house is the same that'd been bathed in the blood of numerous templar conspirators for 3 decades and is all too familiar with climbing. "NO PAPÀ GET DOWN!/YOU'RE GONNA FALL PAPÀ!" "i'll be fine. this is nothing"

♡ezio who finally makes it up to the roof with little (ok maybe a little) effort and takes a seat between his two children. now that panic has calmed it's time for answers, "why'd i catch you two up here?" "race!/feather!" "so you raced to the roof to catch a feather?" wordlessly the two nod in acknowledgment. "it's special!" "special...may I?"

♡ezio who handed this "special" feather and realized admittedly it was nothing special. its looked about the same as any other feather he'd picked up during his travels but as a dedicated father he's unwilling to kill the joy of his children so, yes. this is a special feather. and as he rolls the stem of the feather between his thumb and index finger he beginnings to reminisce. how could he ever forget the lengths he'd gone to collect these very same feathers to comfort his catatonic mother after the murder of half her family and even years after her recovery. how could he forget the lone chest that held the remaining feather he and claudia had shared between them in remembrance of their mother? yes, these feathers were special indeed.

♡the auditore kids who watch their fathers longing stare at the feather he twirls in his hand. "you could keep it if you want papà" offers flavia. "we can collect more for you" marcello says.

♡ezio who brings his children into his arms and smothers them with hugs and kisses because he has such intuitive, empathetic, kind kids and truly he wonders where he'd be without the family he'd made. they have no idea how sweet of a gesture it was to part with their feather. marcello tries to push away from him but as he keeps his hold on them they both sink into his body. "you two ready to go back inside? "can we watch the clouds a little longer? " of course...of course"

♡ezio who by the end of the day is complaining about a sore back because he knew damn well he shouldnt be climbing and jumping around but he refused to be shown up by his kids and now sophia has to listen to him complain (🥺i love ezio so much imma make him live forever)

[randomfoggytiger]

Collector's Edition: Fic Niches and Polls

My favorite niches ranked by the people, all in one place.

Poll Results Fic: 1st Place- Injured but In-Charge Scully

Poll Results Fic: 2nd Place- Cleaning Out the Vineyard House

Poll Results Fic: 3rd Place– Tithonus Mother Hen Mulder

Poll Results Fic: 3rd Place– IVF Successes 

Poll Results Fic: 3rd Place– IVF Success, Addendum

Poll Results Fic: 4th Place– Requiem AUs– No Pregnancy, Finding Out Before Requiem, and Bad Endings

Poll Results Fic: 4th Place– Requiem AUs– Mulder Didn’t Leave

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[byenycfm]

March 20th;

After leaving the Wexley in search of his sister two weeks ago, Roman Drake eventually reunited with her and the pair ventured to one of the city's previously guarded check-points in the North. Investigating further the siblings discovered that no one was guarding the check-point from the outside either. They found abandoned cars and empty houses, likely ordered to evacuate sometime near the beginning of the outbreak. Driven by a need to understand what was happening in the outside world the pair continued forward through the Bronx, Yonkers, New Heaven.

What they saw was reminiscent of the city they'd left behind, signs of life few and far between. The dead likely had little interest in the area with the living having pushed further inland.

Now outside of the signals that had been preventing communication with the outside world Roman and Birdie managed to contact their family and gather some information.

The United States has fallen.

What is left of the government and military have taken refuge and control in a vast swatch of The American Rocky mountains, last reported to be taking in immune survivors.

After the initial outbreak in New York City, pockets of outbreaks started to break out all over the country within the following hours and days.

Planes landing or crashing full of fresh chompers, Greyhound buses spilling their new bite hungry innards into the country side, etc.

Those that had escaped New York unwittingly carried with them a delayed response and the virus actively infectious in their saliva, spreading it outwards from the city like spittle.

Canada was last rumoured to be fairing better due to it's sparsely populated nature. Mexico had been doing it's best to hold out at the borders, and there were small town pockets all over the country rumoured to be holding out aided by their desolate locations.

Government updates stopped altogether nationwide on January 1st, 2024 leaving only local wavelengths open.

Rumour has it the Canadians are taking in immune refugees but this is unconfirmed and there are conflicting reports that the Canadian border patrol is shooting any and everyone on sight that even gets close.

They also learned that Roman's ex wife and daughter were stuck on the coast, floating aimlessly in the ocean after the ship they'd taken from Martha's Vineyard had run out of gas. Any attempt to dock was a death sentence as there was a band of raiders waiting to strip them of the supplies they still carried, sadly, none of which were food.

Roman and Birdie were able to coordinate with a small group of survivors and get them to shore in a raft, while the boat continued to sit in the ocean with its treasure of supplies and a handful of survivors. Birdie was tasked with taking the survivors from the raft back to the Wexley and informing them of the situation. Roman's hoping someone will be up to the task and willing to deal with the raiders. He's remained near the coast preparing for what may come.

This event will begin on Thursday 10/10/24.

Please note in the replies which, if any, of your characters are interested in assisting the survivors/supplies back to the Wexley and dealing with the raiders. We will group them and do discord threads as per the previous supply run event.

New neighbors will be joining us in the Wexley. Several NPCs from the ship will be listed on the directory; suites who belonged to characters who have passed or gone missing will be cleaned out and reused (unless asked not to).

NPC suggestions are welcomed and appreciated! Do you think one of them is a world renowned neurosurgeon? Sure, that could be helpful! Maybe one of them is a bee keeper and will be providing us with fresh honey.

Characters who remain at the Wexley will be dealing with their own surprise; something nasty has found its way into the building through the destroyed lobby, lured in by the still buried dead bodies decomposing there.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

wallflower 36

Warnings: age gap, creepin’, slow burn, stepdad-adjacent, possible noncon/dubcon, abuse, violence, self-harm, manipulation, panic attack, dissociation, gaslighting.

Character: silverfox!Thor

Your mother meets a new man, but he doesn’t seem very interested in her.

Note: <3 Another erratic drabble series. Appreciate any and all feedback. Love you all. And I didn’t expect this chapter to go this way or to be a bit longer than usual.

Thrud is glowing, her cheeks rosy, her eyes vibrant, her hair lustrous and full. You feel like a shadow next to her. In awe of her beauty as she takes a crystal glass and pours dark wine into its depths.

She fills a second and clunks down the bottle heavily on the round table at the centre of the room. A room surrounded by several others in a small villa outside the main house of the vineyard. She hands one to you and eagerly draws from the brim. You sip daintily, the taste acrid as it singes your tongue.

You swallow, nearly choking as she takes her phone and thumbs at it carelessly, tossing it back on the table as she sticks her tongue out, "boys."

"Uh, yeah," you laugh nervously and pick at your dry lip, stopping yourself as her eyes catch the movement. "Sorry."

"Oh, hon, you don't have to be sorry," she shrugs as she sits on cushioned divan, "why don't you chill out, girl?"

You tiptoe to her and sit carefully with your glass, hers sloshing obliviously as she angles it to her mouth again. She slurps with zeal and pops her lips as she pulls it away. You look around anxiously, uncertain. She's so nice. Well, so is Thor so you guess you shouldn't be surprised.

"You ever been to Spain before?"

You shake your head and make yourself drink the wine. It's sweeter the more you sip. You cradle the glass gently and look at her again. She's gorgeous. You wish you were like her.

"Oh, wonderful, I'll have to show you around. There's a pool... indoors. It's a bit too cold out to be that wild!" She giggles, "oh, and the cellar! You can have your choice of any bottle. I'm my uncle's favourite so you don't need to worry about that."

"That's nice," you look down into the dark wine, "I don't drink much, though."

"Quiet thing like you, of course not, but you've got a friend now. You don't have to be stingy for these old men."

"Um," you give a goofy smile, not sure how to reply.

"Relax, I mean it. You're much better company than my dumb brothers. They always end up breaking something. Oh! There's this club near here, I used to sneak away in high school, don't mention it to daddy, but it's so nice and the men. They'll buy you a drink just for a smile. They like foreigners."

"Men?" You utter and shake your head, "I don't..."

"I'll do the talking. Ah, oh," she covers her mouth, "I'm terrible for it. I gab away and no one gets a word in elsewise. Well, please, I want you to tell me everything."

"Everything?"

"About you!"

"Me? Well, I'm not interesting."

"You must be if you're here."

"I... I dunno, my mom... it was just me and her and then---"

You gasp as the glass slips from your hand. You squeak and stand as it spills across the wood and you touch your cheeks. You don't know what you were doing, not paying attention. God, if your mother was there she'd holler and howl until you cleaned it up. You stare down at the puddle and sway, searching for anything to wipe it up.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you sniffle, "I'll clean it up. I don't know how-- I didn't mean to," you babble, "please don't be mad."

"Relax," she rises breezily and puts her empty glass aside, sweeping across the room and through a doorway. She returns with a towel but ignores your reach. She squats to mop up the mess, "it's not very much."

She sops it up and even gets a few drops from your feet. You step back shyly and hug yourself, "I'm so clumsy--"

"Hey, the glass didn't even break," she says cheerily as she lifts it, "no harm, no foul. It's all good." She smiles and goes to the table, "just means we need to get you a nice clean glass."

"Maybe I've had enough," you suggest.

"Enough, you just need to loosen up," she trills and stops, "but if you really don't want anymore, you don't have to."

You look her in the face. She makes you feel easy, like the world might not be that scary. You don't even know her but she feels familiar.

"Thank you," you try to smile, "I'm sorry. I just... don't have any friends."

"You don't have any friends?" She says without a hint of sarcasm, "well, I'd love for you to be mine so... wine or water, hon?"

You chew your lip and real curve takes over your lips, "I'll try some more wine, if that's okay."

🌻

You feel fuzzy and bubbly. Like you could float or even fly. Music pulses in the air, beats you've never heard before, a melody that has you twirling around. Thrud dances around with you in the space of the villa, her laughter mingling with yours.

You've never felt like this, free. It's as if all your troubles are gone, as if you're not you, as if you were never sad or mad or anything else.

You stumble over your own feet and she catches your arm before you can tip over. You giggle again as both of you nearly collide with the table.

"You are wild," she growls at you, "who knew the little mouse had it in her?"

You roll your eyes at her, "I always wanted to be fun."

"You are!" She slurs, "trust me."

"No one lets me be fun!" You pout and turn away from her, reach for the bottle. It's empty as you tip it up. "God. Fuck!" You cover your mouth guiltily and let the bottle roll across the table, "oh my."

She laughs and you can't help but join in, ripping your hand away from your mouth, "fuck, shit!"

"Oh god, stop it," she clenches her sides.

"I never, I never swear," you whisper, "it's... so cool."

She laughs again and shakes her head, "I won't stop you. Jeez, sounds like you've been living in a convent."

"My mother," you hiccup, "she's an old nun. Never let me swear or... wear anything pretty... or-- or--" you feel it all brewing to a boil. You fall onto a chair and clutch your head, "she didn't love me. She doesn't love me."

It goes silent as you hunch over and hold your head. Thrud comes to you, her hand resting softly on your shoulder as she coos at you, "I'm sorry, hon, please don't think about it now. Not like this."

"I'm sorry," you sit up and swipe your fingers over your lashes, "I'm stupid."

"No, no," she gets to her knees beside you and rubs your arm, "you've been hurt. That's all, baby."

"I'm grown, I just needa suck it up."

She scoffs, "suck it up? I hope that's not what my uncle's been telling you."

"No, no, no, he's so nice. He... he listens to me," you wiggle your nose, fighting the tide of tears, "he's too nice to me. He's..." you smile a little, "he's a good doctor."

"Good," she says, "that's very good."

"It's Thor," you eke out and quickly swallow up your voice.

"Thor? Dad?" She wonders, "what do you mean?"

You blink, long and hard, then look at her. You want to say it all. He's scary, he's confusing, he's suffocating. But she's his daughter and she loves him. And he loves her. You can't say it because it might not even be true.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"He saved me," you shrug, "from mom."

"Oh," her hands brushes down your arm, "that's good."

A sudden pounding comes at the door and you feel it in your chest. You whimper and knot your fingers over your chest, letting out a high-pitched squeal. Thrud looks up, her eyes smoky as she stands and wobbles around the chair.

She crosses the villa and grabs the iron hand, pulling open the heavy wood door. Her father waits on the other side, as if summoned by your mention. You cower and refuse to look at him.

"You two, it's late--" he stops short, "Thrud, is she..."

"She's okay, daddy, we're just having fun."

"How much have you given her?"

"Daddy, get out, we're young, we're just--"

"Thrud, you don't understand, she can't drink that much on her meds."

"Oh, uh, I didn't know--"

"You didn't give me time to explain, did you?" He snaps.

"Alright, you don't have to be so rude," she whines drunkenly.

"I should take her to her villa, look at her--"

"She can stay here, I'll keep an eye on her--"

"You're drunk too."

"Daddy, I said get out," she stomps her foot and latches onto his arm as you finally glance over.

"You don't underst--"

"I understand, just fine. I can take care of my friend," she insists, "hon," she inserts herself between you and Thor, "do you wanna go or do you wanna stay?"

You look between them. Thrud sways slightly, cheeks flushed, and lashes drooping, but Thor stands with a dimple in his cheek and a tick in his jaw. That same anger that lingers just under the surface. You hang your head and sniff, "I wanna stay."

"See, daddy, now good night!" Thrud says, "ugh, you always spoil the fun."

"K--" Thor begins and stops himself, "alright, fine. Just... no more. And go to bed."

"Nightttttt," Thrud sings as she ushers him to the door, snapping it shut at his exit, "I hate when he does that."

[nycnomad]

We went to California for my work trip, and it really was great leaving from our little airport with its 7 gates down here in Florida. (I didn't get groped by TSA!) We spent 4 days in Napa, visiting the vineyards where we're members, drinking so much great wine, and eating so much great food, then my work event went great, and then we went back home to NYC for two weeks for Thanksgiving with my husband's family and to see all of our friends.

It was a little peek into what our life might be like if we lived in Florida full-time and just went back to NYC now and then. We went to our usual bar trivia and some movies at our favorite theater, but then I also went to a 2 Michelin star $700pp tasting menu with one of my co-workers (work paid, don't worry!) and we went to one of the holiday markets with my husband's sister who was in town from Poland. So, partly everyday things and partly NYC-specific things! I'm a little jealous of our friends back there hanging out without us, but I'm also very happy right now to not have any social responsibilities and to be able to eat a little lighter and focus a little on my YouTube channel (that's been growing!).

Anyway, I was inspired to post because I woke up this morning and the sun was shining in through the balcony doors, and I stood in front of them and watched the ocean waves hit the beach as I put on some pajama pants. And I love waking up in my NYC apartment, too, but there's something special about walking around with no pants with my wide open windows and knowing that no one can see me! 🙂

Also, we bought our first-ever air fryer, and because my husband loves a gadget, he's almost exclusively been the one to use it. And because it keeps setting off our smoke alarm, he's been obsessively cleaning it. He does a ton around our house in NYC, but cooking and washing the dishes is usually my domain! It's been a nice break for me.

And one more thing: I need to renew my passport, so yesterday we took my photo and then went to Walmart to get a money order to send with my application, and then we went to Office Depot to print out my application, and then we went to CVS to print out the photo, and then we went to the post office to mail everything. And everywhere we went, people were SO NICE. Employees went out of their way to help us at every store, like they were just INTERESTED in us and doing their jobs. People said hello to us when we walked into the stores. There are of course amazing employees in some NYC stores, but a lot of people act like saying hello to you even when you're literally standing in front of them at their register is just out of the realm of possibility. I don't know if people outside of NYC just have better manners or are just less tired because they don't have to deal with as many customers, but it is REFRESHING.

Okay, enough of my blathering, off to read your posts!

[trulybetty]

oct' 15 x first wine

Prompt: first wine Pairing: sequins!joel miller x gn!reader Word Count: 885 Warnings: questionable outfit choices, lost luggage, wine drinking, joel being his sequins self (slightly ooc? who knows this is no outbreak joel) unbeta'd here and barely read through, playing fast and loose with actual season dates of wine production - mistakes are my own. Summary: first of all thanks to @rhoorl for inspiring this with this picture - so imagine that being your Joel on vacation in Tuscany, exploring wineries in celebration of Vino Novello

x. masterlist

The hotel suite was lush, two bedrooms and a spacious living room area with floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city. The Ponte Vecchio was framed through the windows so that when the sun hit the water in the late afternoon it framed the old brick bridge and the tourists that flock to it in a soft glow. You’d spent the night before on the balcony with a glass of wine, a blanket pulled from the bed wrapped around you as read your book, everyone else sleeping off jet lag. 

The historic hotel had an air of old worldly charm with modern amenities.

“Look, I love you. You know that right?” You bit your lip, “But I’d promise to do whatever it takes for you not to wear all of this ensemble all at once.” you pleased.

Joel held his arms out and looked down at his outfit, “What’s wrong with it?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“What’s right with it?” Sarah shouted from where she lay across the plush sofa where she was scrolling through her phone.

You had warned him several times to pack an outfit in the carryon, just in case you’d told him. It’ll be fine he replied, what could go wrong? Well somewhere between the stop over in New York and the flight to Rome, his suitcase had gone AWOL. Not the start you’d anticipated for this family vacation, an invitation to celebrate your parents anniversary alongside them.

At the airport dressed only in the t-shirt and sweats he’d travelled in for almost twenty hours you’d left him to his own devices to navigate the airports stores to see if he could find any clothes that would make do while you navigated putting a claim in for the missing luggage.

You hadn’t been prepared for what he’d brought back.

Joel gave a playful glare in Sarah's direction, adjusting the rim of his hat slightly. The ensemble, consisting of a plain white t-shirt (the concierge had arranged for a fast turnaround on the dry cleaning of the clothes he’d arrived in), vibrant green and blue patterned shorts, paired colourful striped socks (a gift from the past fathers day from Sarah) and the white runners he left the house in the day before.

“Dad, you look like a dad. Like, the epitome of a dad on vacation,” Sarah teased, her head now poking over the back of the sofa as she suppressed her laughter, hands over her mouth.

Joel mockingly pouted, “Well, I am a dad. And I am on vacation, so…”

The first wine of the season celebrations were underway. Harvest season started in August, and followed through until October. In Italy crowned as Vino Novello, it marked the end of the harvest and translated as young wine. Grapes that had been picked at the start of the harvest and fermented for twenty days before being bottled and sold, young wine.

Your parents had insisted that Sarah spend the day with them taking in as many tourist attractions as they could, and would be with them throughout the night, per their eager request. As snowbirds living much further away than Austin, they wanted to spend as much time as possible with their only grandchild, and Sarah was equally enthusiastic.

You’d barely been able to take in the vastness of the winery and its stone villas before a glass of wine had been offered. Both you and Joel had accepted, and with your arm in his, you meandered through the vineyard, feeling the soft earth beneath your shoes and the warmth of the Tuscan sun on your face.

By evening, the both of you were slightly tipsy, having tasted some of the finest wines the region had to offer. Somewhere through the afternoon, you had procured Joel’s hat which was now perched atop your head, slightly askew. The Tuscan sun painted the sky in hues of orange, pink, and deep purples as it began its descent, casting long shadows over the rolling hills.

Joel leaned in, his arm across the back of your chair, his breath hot on your ear and you could smell the sweetness of the white wine from dinner.

“I think I recall you saying something about doing whatever it takes for me not to wear this outfit again.”

You giggled, feeling light and carefree. “Did I say that?” You leaned into him, basking in the warmth of his presence.

Joel chuckled, his fingers trailing down your arm, “You did indeed promise darlin’.”

You rolled your eyes with a smile, despite only having yourself to blame for the predicament you were presented with. However you laughed, taking another sip of your wine. It was a fruity red, and it left a warm sensation in your chest.

“How about this,” his voice husky in your ear, your knees feeling weak and thankful for being sat down, “I’ll take off one offending item for whatever it is it’ll take to get it off of me.”

You raised an eyebrow, while your heart skipped a beat at the suggestion, “Is that your final offer Miller?”

He picked up his wine glass and settled back into his seat. His eyes darkened, and he leaned back in to make an amendment to cashing in on your promise. “Shorts will be the last to go.”

[ratsoh-writes]

Kas giggles and leans into the kisses.

Kas: Hmm, I have to say I am rightfully seduced~

Kas proceeds to lean forward and kisses his cheek.

Kas: You wanna stop here or do you plan to seduce me further~

Kas wanted to make it clear that he wasn’t being forced to do anything and they can stop if he wants.

Cider: WANNA TAKE THIS TO MY ROOM?~

At your eager nod, cider stands up, placing his hands under your bum so he can walk with you still wrapped around his waist.

The house thankfully seems empty as he walks down the hall, finally stopping at a dark wooden door. Cider lives in the family compound on the vineyard. A series of houses line the road leading into the grape fields, all quite large. His room is on the first floor of this home.

He does regretfully have to put you down so he can have a hand free to open the door. Ciders room is simple but cozy. The walls are cream with a wooden trim matching the floors and doors of the house. The bed has a dark blue comforter. In the middle of the room is a circular table with the boxes of the board games he loves along with one still out and open

Cider looks a little shy now

Cider: UH I SHOULD’VE CLEANED A BIT MORE, I HOPE ITS OKAY-

There is a pair of jeans on the floor, and his work boots aren’t put away, but aside from that and the board game boxes, it really isn’t that messy

[con-gee]

heavy eyes, shimmering lights | robert fischer x reader

summary: "i had all and then most of you, some and now, none of you." (1k)

tags/warnings: song fic ish, canon-divergent, ambigious plot about reader, ehh pretty angsty, there's definitely some yearning, dreaming, pretty boy rich boy robert fischer from the movie inception (2010), half proofread, i havent been writing this is pretty rusty a/n: shoutout to chris nolan and his college years lucid dreaming

The nights are longer than the days, surprisingly for Robert.

In the office, it's all just consistent frigid conference rooms with tepid conversations about a stakeholder's status. A dry joke accompanied by dry laughs. Leaving fingerprints on the glass table. Reading the same corporate vocabulary on screens and prints. Drinking the same brew of coffee on the same mug. The same headache at around 3 o'clock.

Maybe it changes once in a while, Uncle Peter coming in and opening the whiskey that's only ever touched by Uncle Peter. Robert gives in and drinks what's poured in his glass, he leans back on his chair, he watches and listens to his uncle on the apparently ergonomic sofa. Something about the investment on earth elements.

Robert gets one last cup of coffee for the day, but this time on a to-go cup, and leaves the building as the sun sets. His driver greets him and he greets back. He arrives at his penthouse's building. Robert thanks and bids the driver goodbye for the day.

There's not much he does once he's home for the day. He lives alone, he doesn't have a pet, he doesn't have anyone to call nor to come over. It's quiet and empty.

Robert changes into softer clothes, much softer in comparison to the thousand dollar, special tailored suits. He cooks himself dinner. He eats the said dinner on his nice couch and turns on the grand television. He stops flicking through the channels when he stumbles upon the National Geographic, an episode about domesticated cats, it seems. Robert likes cats, he thinks, he's pretty sure he isn't allergic. He should maybe get a cat.

He forgets that he almost did get a cat, once.

The dishes are clean, the kitchen is kept tidy, he disregards the bottle of wine that's sitting on the counter he recently got as a gift from a distant aunt. Something about a dream vineyard and Maurice.

He stays in the living room and grabs one of the books on the coffee table. That coffee table with a few books scattered on it is one of the only unwinded parts in his house, anywhere else you look you'd think it's a new purchase from a real estate magazine. Robert attempts to read a few more after his third page, but his eyes are growing heavier and heavier.

Next thing he knows, he's in the shower.

The water runs through his body but he's aware of the steam clouding the bathroom. The glass walls are fogged, and his hair is thoroughly rinsed. Robert turns off the shower and steps on the rug, reaching for his towel. He messily dried off his hair as he heard a voice from outside the bathroom door.

"Bobby! The popcorn's ready, come on!"

The towel is wrapped around his waist as he goes on to step outside the bathroom, flicking the lightswitch off on his way. He calls out, "Coming, sweetie!" as he quickly put the clothes that were laid out on the bed. Robert smiled to himself.

He makes his way down to the living room. The only light sources were from the city beyond the glass walls and the big television. Robert sees you on the couch, bundled up in the adorned fleece blanket with a bowl of popcorn on your lap. You lift the blanket up for the space right next to you, beckoning him to sit exactly right there.

"Missed you, cuddlebug." You say. He smiles.

"Missed you more, darling." It slips out so naturally from his lips, the sweet pet names. He feels his chest narrow, for some reason.

Robert takes the space beside you, his hips and thighs touching yours. He crosses his legs under the blanket and puts his arm behind your back, his hand reaching your right shoulder. You rest your head by his collarbone as you press play on the remote. He naturally presses a kiss on your forehead.

"You smell nice." You cozy up to him, eyes set on the screen. The colors illuminate against your faces, and Robert can imagine how your eyes would glimmer in the brightness.

"Used your soap." He hummed as he heard the crunch of popcorn. You only let out a sound of amusement as you continued watching the movie.

Robert looks down and reaches for your free right hand. He caresses the back of your hand with his thumb. The softness made him warm all of a sudden.

An ambulance's red and blue lights were bright enough to catch Robert's eye. He follows it through his vision as it traverses to a farther place. A sudden movement against his lap takes his attention back to what's in front of him.

You set the bowl of popcorn on your side as the white cat stretches across his thigh and yours, and you coo. "Hello, sweet baby." You pet the back of its ears. Robert then also pets the cat on its back, feeling its soft, white fur.

"You have me, don't you Robert?" You say without looking at him, continuing to give the cat your attention.

It catches Robert off guard, furrowing his brows. "What was that?"

"I mean," The white cat curls up on your lap and closes its eyes. "You have some of me." You turn your head to your left, though not meeting his eyes and kiss the side of his neck. He didn't feel tickled, he's surprised.

"What?" He's confused and looks at you, meeting your eyes. They're looking right back.

"Do you have me, Robert?" He first thought that it felt weird that you were calling him Robert.

"Robert?" You put your hand on his cheek—

His eyes open and feels an abnormal pulse on his chest. There's sweat on the back of his neck and goosebumps against his soft sweater. The sky is still dark and the lights of the city shimmer against his eyes. They still feel heavy.

The book rests by his abdomen, leaving some pages creased. He picks it up, correcting the pages to normal and closes the book.

A small white paper sticks out from the edge.

"You have me, Robert. I love you." It has written.

He had you, he remembers. But now, it seems that he doesn't anymore.