#i never have like Thoughts about chilton usually so this is fun | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darling-i-read-it · 4 years ago

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Yakimono

2x07

Hannibal Lecter x reader x Will Graham

Hannibal Re-Write Series Masterlist

Word Count: 3.2k

Warnings: spoilers for hannibal, murder, mental health problems, jail, insinuations to smut

Author’s Note: I am having so much goshdarn fun with this and seeing yalls reactions makes me soooo happy. I love doing this and I really hope y’all enjoy this episode! Also more gifs than usual but I couldn’t pick lmao

I used some direct quotes from the script so some things may seem familiar

Official Episode Summary : When Miriam Lass is found alive, evidence at her rescue site exonerates Will; Dr. Chilton (Raúl Esparza) tries to confide in Jack but is rebuffed.

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director

Tag List (is always open!) : @llperfectsymmetryll @ericacactus @vlightning95

(not my gif)

Will looked at Jack Crawford beside him in the car. He had just left the hospital and was ready to go back home, see his dogs, see you. But first he had to see where Miriam Lass had been found.

“Am I gonna get crap for this?” Jack asked. Will glanced over at him.

“In what regard?”

“From Y/N.” Will laughed and shrugged, nodding a bit but holding back a bit of the laugh. The thought of you beating Jack to a pulp had crossed both men's minds, followed with the realization you would likely not do that. But who knows.

“Hopefully her happiness of me coming home will override the anger,” Will muttered. Jack glanced at him and he couldn’t help but think about when he saw you at Hannibal's the other morning. He wanted to tell Will but figured you must have already told him. Still, he brought it up.

“She’s pretty close to Hannibal for her to believe your accusations,” Jack said.

“So I’ve heard.” Will didn’t like the fact that Jack knew this though. He wondered what he had seen.

“But she loves you,” Jack mumbled. It was true and they both knew it. “She has been harassing me the whole time.” Will laughed and pushed the thought of Hannibal Lecter out of his mind.

“She’s strong willed.”

“She has to be to keep up with you.”

You were buzzing. You haven't been this excited in a long time. You couldn't�� remember the last time you had been this excited. You wanted to jump and down with excitement. You had a couple of texts from Hannibal about Miriam Lass but you literally couldn’t even answer them.

You were happy Miriam was alive. Really. You were happy Hannibal didn’t kill her.

But you were more happy because Chilton had called you this morning saying Jack and Alana had come to get Will. You were mildly annoyed that no one had told you to come but you thought it would be best. You wanted to see Will at home.

You figured Jack had taken him to see where Miram had been held. You figured Will would ask him to. You cleaned the whole house which you usually wouldn’t have even attempted. You were tempted to wash all of the dogs but figured you didn’t have time.

You heard the car pull up outside and held your breath. You had imagined this moment since the second that Will had been put in the hospital. You wanted it to be perfect. You saw Wills’ car which had been dormant since he left. You opened the door and the dogs ran outside to greet him. You stopped at the porch and just watched.

He fell to his knees, petting them, laughing at their happiness to see him. You held back tears as your fingers physically ached to touch Will. Will pet the dogs each a few times and shushed them a few times with a smile.

Finally he looked up at you.

And despite the fact you had been otherwise arguing about Hannibal and the fact you had both attempted to actually kill a person there was an almost sob that you wanted to escape your lips. And Will hadn’t kissed you in so long and the second he saw you his heart lurched.

Love.

You were both in love.

He stood up and you ran over to him. You threw your hands over his shoulders and kissed him. You touched him desperately and he did the same which he never did. His hands were in your hair and on your sides and when you pulled away he kissed you again.

You finally had to pull away for good, despite the wish to continue.

“They let you out this time!” you said with a smile and laugh. He wiped the tears brimming in your eyes and nodded.

“You said they were. I guess you were right.”

“I’m always right. You know this Will Graham.”

He laughed and kissed you again.

“Come inside you idiot,” you whispered laughing. “I got your blanket out. I even set your alarm even though I’m not sure if you have a job or anything.” You grabbed his hand and started to drag him inside. “I thought you lost your glasses, I’m glad that they kept them. I’m also not letting you get a haircut because this length really vibes with me you know.” He shut the door behind him and grabbed the other arm that he wasn’t already holding. “Oh also-”

He cut you off by kissing you. This time you didn't’ move away.

Jack sat across from Chilton. Chilton was shaking.

“Yes, I have an agenda. Living. I should be assigned an FBI escort. Everyone who believed Will Graham about Hannibal Lecter is dead,” Chilton said. Jack pursed his lips.

“Except you. And Y/N.”

“I don’t think Hannibal would lay a finger on her that she wouldn’t want. Me on the other hand?” He shook his head. “I’d like to remain not dead for the foreseeable future.”

The judge was on the ground, stitched into the bodies of the color pallete. You stared down at him and you knew Hannibal was walking around you, even though you couldn’t see him. Suddenly the judge turned into Will and you stumbled forward onto the ground, trying to rip the stitches out.

“I don’t want him to die,” you said and you realized suddenly that you were crying.

“He won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“He won’t die unless we let him.”

You woke up with a start. You didn’t scream this time but you were sobbing, gasping for air. You brought your hands to your face and tugged on your hair in sadness. You didn’t even have the mind to cover your bare chest. The tears kept coming in waves.

Will got up beside you and he almost scared you. You had forgotten he was home.

“Are you okay? Are you crying?” he asked, voice raspy from sleep. He moved your hands away from your face and replaced them with his hands on your cheeks. You sobbed and tried to hold it back, worried about him seeing you this way all of the sudden. He had seen you cry before. But usually you tried so hard to put up a front for him when he was breaking.

“What happened?”

“Nightmare,” you said through a sob. Will looked at your face and felt his heart break. You never had nightmares before. He figured they had started when you killed the judge which meant you had had many nights of being alone, in this very bed, sobbing to yourself.

Unless.

Unless, in his sleep deprived mind Will wondered, you weren’t alone.

Should he thank Hannibal Lecter for helping you sleep? Or yell at him for sleeping beside you?

Either way he reached forward and held you to his bare chest so you could cry some more.

“These are new huh?” he whispered and you nodded. You held each other as you would when he had nightmares. “I wish I could have been here when I wasn’t,” he whispered.

“Not your fault,” you said and it sounded like you were able to pull back a bit. “Just don’t…” You pulled back and looked him in the face. “Don’t leave me.” He put his hands on your cheeks .

“I won’t.” And as much as you believed him you couldn’t help but realize the lack of nightmares you had with Hannibal.

Will didn’t have the superpower.

You got up in the morning and stared at Will’s sleeping face. You had missed that. Peace.

Dewey mornings of peace.

When his eyes opened you smiled a bit.

“Goodmorning Mr. Graham,” you whispered just loud enough for him to hear. He rubbed his eyes.

“Morning Miss. Y/L/N.”

“You’re the only one who calls me that you know. Everyone else just defaults me to your last name.” Or Hannibals. But you didn’t say that.

“We’ll get around to legally changing it one day.” You smiled.

“You going somewhere today?” you asked.

“Going to talk to Miriam Lass. You?”

“Work.” Will scoffed.

“You still work?” You nodded.

“Someone has to pay the bills.” Will didn’t like the idea of you working for Hannibal anymore. He liked it to an extent. The extent that you knew stuff about Hannibal. He could pick your brain. But he didn’t like the idea of you in danger.

“I wish you wouldn’t be so close to him,” he whispered. You didn’t know how to explain to the man that you loved what Hannibal meant to you. But he understood. Will and you understood one another. You looked away from him and moved up to sit against the headboard covering your chest with the sheet, despite the fact that Will had seen everything.

“I know you couldn’t help that you were in jail,” you started but he noticed your voice sounded far away, “and that Hannibal was mostly to blame. But he made me feel less alone.” You paused and he waited. “When I felt like I would never hold you again.” You looked back down at him and he looked up at you with those gorgeous blue eyes.

He didn’t say anything. Instead he just sat up beside you and put his arms around you. You let him hold you.

“I love you Will Graham,” you whispered and you weren’t lying.

“I love you too.” He paused for a moment and thought about his words. “Y/N.” You smiled at his avoidance of your last name and buried your head in his neck.

You walked into work and Hannibal was waiting for you by your desk. You raised your eyebrow and walked up to him.

“How’s Miriam?” you questioned.

“She didn’t identify me as the Ripper.” You pursed your lips.

“I didn’t think she would.” Hannibal didn’t read too much into that, instead he moved forward with the conversation. You knew he had probably messed with Mirams head in a similar way that he messed with Wills.

“How is Will?” Hannibal asked.

“I thought you had separated from him,” you observed.

“I was inquiring into your life. You’re my friend.”

“What a funny word. Friend.” You didn’t push it and neither did he. You leaned into your desk. “How did you sleep?” He shrugged.

“The nightmares seem to be fading.” He paused and looked at you. “How did you sleep?” You shrugged.

“Fine.”

He smiled in the knowledge that you were very clearly lying to him.

That night you were at home. Hannibal walked into his home and Will was waiting for him.

“That same unfortunate aftershave. Too long in the bottle,” Hannibal said as he turned around.

“Out last kitchen conversation was interrupted by Jack Crawford. I’d like to pick up where we left off. If memory serves, you were asking me if it’d feel good to kill you.” Will held a gun up to Hannibal.

“You’ve given that some thought.”

“You wanted me to embrace my nature, doctor. Just following the urges I kept down for so long, cultivating them as the inspirations they are,” Will said, voice steady.

“You never answered my question. How would killing me make you feel?”

“Righteous.”

They stared at each other.

“Did she sleep well last night?” Hannibal asked. “Or did she wake up crying?” The barrel of the gun shook but Hannibal looked past it into Will’s eyes.

“You hung up the judge like a puppet,” Will said simply, ignoring his words.

“If I’m not the Ripper, you murder an innocent man. You better than anyone know what it is to be wrongly accused. You were innocent, Will, and no one saw it.”

“She saw it. She saw the innocence that is no longer there. You saw to that.”

“If I am the Ripper and you kill me, who will answer your questions? Don’t you want to know how it ends?”

Will thought about this. And he stepped away.

“I still can’t cook. I mean you went to jail and I didn’t learn how to cook,” you told Will as you thought about what to make for dinner.

“We can try,” he said. He had been craving some actual food and anything you made would likely make him happy. “I’m gonna take the dogs out.”

“I’m coming.”

You slipped on Will’s shoes and stepped outside. You opened the door and the dogs ran past you as you looked up at the stairs. You locked eyes with Frederick Chilton who was drenched in blood and holding a bag.

“Can I use your shower?”

You crossed your arms.

“I don’t know maybe you should wait until next week,” you said simply. Will opened the door and stood behind you, slowing at the sight of Chilton.

“Please,” Chilton muttered. Will grabbed your arm and you shared a quick look.

“Alright, fine,” you muttered. Chilton rushed past you and into the house. Will pointed out where the shower was and he walked over there. You and Will stood together on the porch.

“Why’d you do that?” you whispered.

“He believes me,” Will whispered.

“You just got out of jail Will!”

“And Chilton is about to go in.”

“Are you calling Jack?” you whispered. He gave you a look and you nodded. He was calling Jack.

Chilton stood in one of the doorways to the house. Will sat on a chair while you leaned against the wall just beside him. You had your arms crossed.

“I have the same profile as Hannibal Lecter. Same medical and psychology background. We are both doctors of note in our fields. Of course it would be me. Hannibal was never going to kill me. I’m his patsy. I have to leave the country. I’m leaving the country.”

“If you run you look guilty,” Will said.

“You didn’t run and you looked plenty guilty. Abel Gideon was half-eaten in my guest room. I have corpses on my property, you just threw up an ear,” Chilton explained as he messed with his getaway bag.

“There’s an APB on you right now. They’ve canceled your credit cards, they’re tracing your phone,” you explained dumbly.

“I have cash and I tossed my phone. Jack Crawford thnks I killed two agents, three agents. You know what tends to happen to people who do that? Shoot on sight.”

“I’m going to prove that Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper,” Will said.

“I know you will. When you do I will read about it from a secure location and reintroduce myself to society at that time. Great plan by the way, getting your girlfriend to sleep with him. Jack told me.” Will glanced at you but you didn’t even flinch. Jack's car pulled up and Chilton saw it through the mirror. “What did you do?”

“You’re an asshole Frederick,” you whispered.

Chilton brought a gun out of his pocket and pointed it at you. Will stood up calmly and Chilton shook. Neither of you showed any signs of distress as Will walked in front of you.

“No. Stay there,” Chilton said. Will almost laughed.

“You’re not a killer, Frederick,” Will said and the both of you walked out the front door. You stood on the porch but Will walked forward to Jack. “Why did you come alone, Jack?”

“Where is he?”

“Why did you come alone?” Will repeated.

“Is he in the house?”

“I told you everything isn’t what it seems. The Chesapeake Ripper is still playing with us. All of us.”

“I’m not playing,” Jack said sternly.

“The Chesapeake Ripper isn't’ playing all of us, Will. He’s playing you.” Jack pointed at you who was standing behind him. “And you.”

“Jack. Wait. Let me bring him out, he’s got a gun,” Will said.

“Good,” Jack muttered.

Jack pushed past both of you into the house and you were then alone on the porch. Will didn’t look at you.

“Did you sleep with Hannibal?” Will asked.

“I did not have sex with Hannibal,” you said. “Jack saw me at his house in the morning. I stayed because of the nightmares,” you admitted. And Will knew that was the truth. Because you didn’t lie to each other.

He nodded.

“I’m sorry you had to do that.” You shook your head.

“I didn’t eat anything,” you promised. He half smiled in the knowledge that you had him and his ideas in mind, even when you were with Hannibal.

You sat at your desk when Will walked into the waiting room. You looked up at him, leaning back from your seat. He looked handsome, hair slicked back, wearing a nice shirt.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Is Hannibal in a session?”

“No.” He nodded.

“I want to return to my regular therapy session.” You raised an eyebrow, very clearly surprised.

“Why would you…” you trailed off and nodded. Will was going to do something he knew he could. And you were going to let him. “Okay.” You stood up and walked around the desk past Will. You put a hand on his shirt and smiled a bit. “I like this shirt.”

You turned around and opened the door to the office. Hannibal looked up at you. “Your appointment is here.”

Hannibal stood up from his desk and walked over to you.

“I don’t have…” he trailed off when he saw Will. “Hello, Will.”

“May I come in? Y/N said you don’t have an appointment. Left my standing appointment open.” You, Will and Hannibal hadn’t been in the same room together in a long time. You stood still as Will walked into the office.

“Do you intend to point a gun at me?” Hannibal asked. You raised an eyebrow.

“What was that?” you asked. Will shook his head, dismissing you.

“Not tonight.”

You looked at both of them. They looked at you. They looked at each other. No one's motives were clear but everyone's motives were clear.

“I’ll see you after the session,” you said.

“Alright.”

“Okay.”

They spoke at the same time.

The door shut between you and them but it didn’t feel like you had been shut out. In fact, you knew you would hear the details of this session from two perspectives.

You were a part of Will and Hannibal indeed.

2x08

#hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter imagines #will graham x reader #will graham imagines #hannibal imagines #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #will graham x reader x hannibal lecter

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welcometothemxdhouse · 4 years ago

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Lectures (pt.3)

I know this took a while i’ve just restarted uni after a year off so it has kinda been chaos. Originally i was only going to make this a three part small fic but i’m actually kinda enjoying thinking about how i’m going to develop Frederick in a timeline outside of the tv show. I want to try and keep his personality as close as possible, and i know there is a dark side to that which i may explore, but mostly this is just me wanting to give him a hug.

Also just a mention; all the words in italics are like internal thoughts.

This is gender neutral except one line which indicates that reader is female. I wanted to write the line because it is important to me but there was no way for me to make it gender neutral-i’m sorry, i hope you can easily skip over it.

Warnings: Actual smut this time lmao. Nothing crazy just basically oral (male receiving). Also mention of an age-gap/student-professor relationship.

Taglist: @feedthemadness-sweetie @prurientpuddlejumper @jonesy201 @madamsnape921 @charlottegrice

Three weeks had been and gone before you were alone with Doctor Chilton again. It was excruciating watching him peacock around the lecture hall twice a week as if nothing had happened-as if you didn't fall asleep every night with the thought of his lips on yours and his hands on your thighs.

You were snapped out of your daydream by the sounds of annoyed groans, disappointed sighs and an exam paper being dropped on your desk. You looked up just enough to spot the grade written in black ink before dropping your head down into your hands. Fuck, you thought, i’ve really gotta work on that. Before you even had time to consider dropping out for the 100th time this semester, the stern voice of your professor muttered what you’d been hoping to hear for almost a month,

“See me in my office after class.”

It wasn’t a question but a demand and fuck if it didn’t shoot electricity straight to your core. You knew there was a possibility he really did just want to talk about the exam but considering the reactions of everyone around you and the way Doctor Chilton was currently giving them a collective telling-off about how “nobody takes the class seriously” and “no one was proving themselves intelligent enough to be in this class”, you assumed he wanted to see you privately for a different reason.

You began to pack your things and followed your best friend out of the hall. Ever since you told them about what happened between you and Doctor Chilton they had stopped being so mean to him with everyone else, unfortunately right now they were clearly too angry to care.

“I worked my ASS off for that exam and what? He just decides i’m too dumb to take his class because I misunderstood one question? Which, by the way, was phrased shitty anyway”, you interrupted them by grabbing their arm and dragging them to a halt, “WHAT?” they snapped in response.

“Chilton wants to speak to me about the exam.” you replied. Your friend stopped and stared at you for a second, the smirk rising on their face matching the blush rising on yours.

“The exam, huh?”

“Yes. The exam”

They freed their arm from your grasp and condescendingly patted you on the cheek before turning on their heels and walking away,

“Have fun!” they shouted from down the corridor. Well...at least they stopped being angry for two seconds.

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

You found yourself, once again, in the corridor outside your professor’s office, only this time the awkwardness of the first meeting was gone. Assuming he wouldn’t have returned from the lecture hall yet you leant against the wall and began mindlessly scrolling on your phone. Your thoughts began to wander to the last time you had been here:

You had just begun to reach down and unbuckle his belt when the sound of a heavy knock on the office door made Doctor Chilton practically jump out of his skin.

Suddenly you became aware of a presence in front of you. You looked up quickly, assuming it was Frederick trying to pull you from your daydreams for the second time today but instead locked eyes with a guy you recognised from one of your classes.

“Hey?” you muttered, trying to wrack your brains for any memory of his name.

“Hi”, he replied, meeting your stare so intently you felt yourself shift uncomfortably on the spot, “I saw you stood here all alone so I assumed you’d want some company”

The actual audacity of men, you laughed to yourself, where the fuck do they get it?

“I’m good, but thanks anyway.”

He lifted himself off the opposite wall and stepped closer to you, crowding you so close that you subconsciously squeezed your knuckles and held your breath for what was to come.

“If you are going to make out, please do it somewhere other than outside my office.”

You whipped your head around to see Doctor Chilton standing next to you both nonchalantly, leaning on his cane with one hand and unlocking the door with his other. When he raised his eyes to meet yours you threw him your best ‘i am two seconds away from kicking this guy in the balls’ face before said guy turned his attention back to you,

“Apologies Professor”, he smiled to himself, “you know my name Y/N, message me.”

You watched the almost-stranger leave before turning back around to meet Doctor Chilton with a sigh,

“I actually don’t know his name.” You whispered, just loud enough for Frederick to hear and you smiled to yourself as he let out a small laugh in return.

Frederick signalled for you to enter his office first and then closed the door behind the both of you. He paused as if he was debating what to say to you before settling on a quiet,

“Are you okay?”

You wondered briefly if he was normally this gentlemanly. If this is what the real Frederick Chilton was like then his strict, obnoxious image was not doing him any favours. You decided you liked this version better.

“Yeah i’m okay. Not to get all feminist on you but it’s nothing every girl isn’t used to.” you paused and dropped your head to look awkwardly at your shoes, “i guess that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with though.”

A painfully long silence followed and you wondered, just like last time, if you’d put him off with your stupid comments. You were just about to apologise when his voice, softer than usual, mumbled

“You can leave if you want, Y/N. I’m not a monster, i’m not going to force you to be here.”

You almost gave yourself whiplash with how quickly you moved to reassure him. You stepped closer to him and rested a hand on his cheek, relishing in the feeling of his stubble scratching your palm as he tilted his head to lean into your touch.

“I want to be here, Doctor Chilton.”

“You can call me Frederick while we’re alone, Y/N”

You reached up on your toes and tentatively pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Okay, Frederick.”

You moved to pull away until Frederick grabbed both sides of your face and pulled you back to him, moaning softly as you lightly bit his bottom lip after a few seconds to deepen the kiss. His hands moved to circle your waist as he walked you back towards the door, reaching behind him and twisting the lock. As soon as you heard the click in the door you detached yourself from Frederick and smiled as you heard him whine quietly at the sudden loss of contact. You grabbed his hand and lead him to his desk, pulling the chair out from behind it and pushing him down to sit. As soon as his legs hit the chair you saw his body stiffen and his eyes began darting around the room, looking anywhere that wasn’t at you. Your stomach twisted in a knot as a million worries passed through your mind within seconds.

“Frederick...? What’s wrong?”

“I just...”, he flicked his eyes back to you and away again, “I don’t do this often.”

Your breath hitched as you realised what the issue was. He was nervous. This handsome, smart, sexy professor was nervous about having sex with you. Damn this man and his adorableness. If your time alone with Frederick so far had taught you anything it was how easy it was to forget this man was your senior by a substantial amount of years. You momentarily wondered what happened in the course of his life to make him have to cover this shy, awkward, sweet personality with the one that makes everyone hate him. You must be so lonely, Frederick Chilton. You walked over to the desk and perched on the edge, the irony not lost on you later that all three of your first encounters began with you on one of his desks. You leant forward and traced his jaw with your index finger,

“If you don’t want this, we can stop.”

“No i do want this, i want you.” He paused again, “i made you wait three weeks...i don’t want to disappoint you.”

He hardly had time to finish his sentence before you surged forward and captured his lips again. The height difference between the desk and the chair meant his neck was exposed to you above his collar as he reached up to match the energy of the kiss. You dipped your head and trailed open-mouthed kisses down his neck and across his jawline, the whimpers and groans that slipped out of his mouth made shock-after-shock fire down to your core. Watching “Professor Chilton” outside of this office would never have given you a clue that he would be as submissive as he seemed to be now. You made a mental note to explore that later on if this ever happened again. Oh this is definitely going to happen again. As you moved off the desk Frederick’s hands instinctively went to rest on your thighs like the last time you were in this position. You, however, had other ideas. You shuffled to your feet then rapidly dropped to your knees. Frederick’s eyes widened and you heard his breath catch in his throat as he realised what you were doing.

“Fuck Y/N” he groaned, looking down and almost coming in his pants at the sight of you with your dishevelled hair and kiss-swollen lips reaching to unbuckle his belt.

“Is this okay...” ,you asked, stilling your hands and peering up from under your lashes, “sir?”

The moan that came out of Frederick as you simultaneously brushed your hand over the bulge in his trousers was positively abhuman and shit it was hot. You undid the button and zipper on his trousers before pulling them down just enough to lift his dick out of his underwear. If you weren’t dripping before then you certainly were now. You had no idea how he could ever be worried about disappointing you with a dick the size of his - your jaw was practically aching just looking at it. With no hesitation you settled back on your heels and began kitten-licking the tip before licking a stripe along the underside of his dick and taking him into your mouth. Frederick grunted and moaned above you as you took him deeper with every dip of your head, eventually gagging slightly when he hit the back of your throat. The sound of that alone made Frederick grasp the back of your hair with both hands and pull you off him in a panic,

“If you keep doing that i’m gonna..” he stuttered, embarrassed. When you looked up at him he was so flustered it was almost sweet. You wrapped one hand back around his dick and reached around to place your other hand on top of his on the back of your head.

“Come for me, sir”

You tapped the hand on the back of your head as a signal for him to push your head back down and you took him in your mouth again, bobbing up and down with even more ferocity, scraping your teeth lightly along his veins a few times. You felt his dick throb against your tongue and you moaned, hoping the vibrations would be what he needed to push him over the edge.

“Shit Y/N i’m...” and with one last bob of your head you felt his come hit the back of your throat and you instinctively swallowed.

You pulled off Frederick with a obscene ‘popping’ noise before meeting his eyes and licking your lips, making sure he knew you’d taken every last drop. You buttoned up his trousers and raised yourself to perch back on the desk-you wanted to revel in the scene in front of you for a second. Frederick was a mess. He was breathing heavy and beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead. His hair was sticking up in every direction and his hands had settled to rest on his thighs as he tried, unsuccessfully, to stop them from shaking. He wasn’t lying, he really doesn’t do this often.

“What is the saying? Take a picture, it will last longer?” he snarled, clearly off-put by your staring.

“Maybe one day i will.” You smiled as you hopped off the desk and nudged his legs open with your knee so you could stand between them. You bent down and pressed a heavy kiss to his lips before walking towards the door.

“See you soon, Frederick”.

#Frederick Chilton #frederick chilton x reader #frederick chilton fanfic #frederick chilton x y/n #hannibal fic #hannibal fanfiction

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prurientpuddlejumper · 4 years ago

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Dr. Chilton Hates Camping [NSFW]

K!nktober 2020 Kink Bingo!: Blowjobs

For @thatesqcrush’s kink bingo!

Because for some reason this picture always makes me think Frederick is packing to go camping, and he would look exactly this miserable if he was.

1,671 words

Feathery tops of pine trees swayed blue-green in a gentle northern breeze off the lake, the late summer air buzzing with a chorus of insects and birds. Golden light cast a hazy glow over your backcountry campsite as the sun began to sink in the sky. It was beautiful and serene. Perfect, even.

For the number of fancy galas and boring dinners Dr. Chilton dragged you to, it seemed only fair that he tolerate going camping.

“Gah! Die, you blood-sucking fiend!” Chilton shrieked, and a smacking sound echoed off the lake. He grunted. Heavy, annoyed footfalls paced across the camp.

That was your first mistake—thinking Dr. Frederick Chilton shared your notion of “fairness” or the ability to tolerate things with fewer than five stars. All day since backpacking to the primitive campsite he complained there were rocks in his shoes. He was tired. His bag was too heavy.

A small fire crackled in the center of a bare clearing in the trees near the lake shore. You dropped a larger log onto the tinder as the flames grew hungry enough to bear it, and excitedly rifled through a stuff sack for the makings of s'mores you’d packed.

There was a hissing noise behind you, and you choked on the bitter chemical air, covering your mouth as Chilton’s nuclear cloud of bug spray wafted over to you.

“Can you not spray that upwind of me, please?” you coughed.

He glared at you miserably and swatted another mosquito.

“This is not a fair trade. The things I bring us to are enjoyable. They are civilized, and... indoors!” Swat! “It is freezing, and—and damp, and these damned bugs want to drain me like a phlebotomist in training!” Swat!

“Sit by the fire,” you suggested. “It’s warm and dry, and the smoke repels bugs.”

“It does a better job repelling my lungs.” He stood taller and temperamentally fussed with the buttons of his wool peacoat (because why would he have worn sensible technical gear when he could look stylish). “If you need me... I shall be inside! Waiting until tomorrow when we can leave!” He turned on his heel and stormed into the small, orange tent, and gave his best effort at slamming the nylon zip-up door.

You speared a fat marshmallow onto the end of a stick and sat by the fire, making a s’more while grumbling to yourself about what a baby he was being. This could have been a nice trip if he wasn’t so—ugh!

By the time you finished the crunchy melty treat, you felt much better. It got your blood sugar up, anyway. Sighing, you followed him into the tent.

Chilton had his reading glasses on and was squinting at the glowing screen of his phone as he held it in the air trying to get service… which clearly was not working. You were way off the grid.

The tent flat unzipping caught his attention, and he gave you such a pathetic look as you ducked inside. His always-perfect hair was droopy where it usually stuck up and fluffed up where it was usually slicked down.

“It is damp and cold in here too,” he whined. “And the floor! The floor is lumpy. How will I sleep?”

Your heart softened at the sight of him. He was just so adorable it made your cheeks burn. Crawling onto the sleeping bag he was sitting on, you reached out and gingerly plucked a twig from his hair.

His eyes widened in mortification, and he quickly patted down his head for any other horrible bits of nature that might have latched onto him. “This is not my idea of fun,” he said.

“Well, I’m happy that you tried it for me. Really, I’m impressed you actually came.”

His eyes darted down to your lips, suddenly aware of how close you were sitting, and one cheek twitched briefly into almost a smile. “You wanted to do this,” he said gently. Of course he was going to come.

You leaned forward to close the distance and kissed him. His eyes shut and he moaned softly into your mouth, his frazzled, exhausted, itchy body locking onto you as source of comfort like a heat-seeking missile.

“You taste like chocolate,” he murmured, lips breaking away just far enough to breathe your air, his forehead pressed against yours.

“Have you ever had s’mores?”

“Of course I have,” he answered, a little offended at the implication. He was not so sheltered and elitist to have never roasted a marshmallow. “Not since I was a child…”

“I can make you one. Or if you come out, we can sit by the fire and make them together.”

He thought about it. You had straddled onto his lap, and your body heat was all the more enticing against the annoyingly wet air and cold floor. He was feeling a little less awful about the whole situation.

“But first…” you purred, hand running down the front of his shirt, continuing lower, “I was wondering how I could thank you. Since you’re doing this for me… maybe I can do something for you?”

He inhaled sharply, Adam's apple bobbing as your hand reached the front of his pants, searching between his legs. His eyes, as blue-green as the pines, fixated onto yours, but then rapidly blinked and darted around his surroundings.

“You want to do that outdoors?”

“We’re inside a tent.”

And yet he could hear squirrels chittering as if they were right inside the tent with them. The thin nylon was hardly a barrier at all, and it all felt a bit shockingly exhibitionist. But then, no one was around for miles apart from birds and squirrels who could see or hear you. The devilish idea stirred him that he could fuck you right out in the open if he wanted, like two wild animals rutting in the woods.

Exhaling a deep, breathy growl, he grabbed your face and pulled you back into a burning, fiery kiss. You grinned as he broke it, eyes still burning into you as he pushed you down to his belt.

He leaned back on his elbows, taking the passive role and letting you unbuckle his pants and slip his cock out of his underwear. He drew a sharp, quick breath in through his teeth as your tongue made contact with the tip of his head, and let it out long and easy and shuddering as the wet warmth of your mouth engulfed him. You nursed his semi-soft cock, enjoying being able to hold all of him in your mouth at once so easily, sucking and teasing it, feeling his arousal grow—his pulse getting stronger, throbbing under your tongue as his cock lengthened.

When he finally reached his full, exquisite hardness, he was too big to take in his entirety without choking. You pumped his shaft with your hand, bobbing in his lap as he let out helpless little whimpers, stroking your hair tenderly. He was always vocal in bed, but especially when he was feeling needy. He really needed to be comforted now, and you relished every shiver and moan of pleasure that told you you were doing a good job.

His fingers spasmed reflexively, pulling your hair as you took him deeper, opening your throat until you couldn’t breathe. Your eyes watered with the effort, but it turned you on feeling how much he loved it. You wanted to please Frederick so much he’d remember this trip fondly for a long time. You worked him with everything you had, twisting your hand around his shaft as you pumped it, flicking your tongue over the underside of his cock, stroking his balls, and hollowing your cheeks as you sucked him into oblivion, listening to his gasps of pleasure grow louder as he came completely undone.

His eyes squeezed closed and he threw his head back. You felt his abdominal muscles tense and twitch, and at last he could not hold his hips still and passive, and they began to jerk up into your mouth, pulsing at a rapid and shallow pace. You matched his tempo, bobbing faster on his cock, and within three shallow thrusts he shook and came with a forceful whimpering cry of your name. His hips kept pulsing and twitching as hot, salty cum flooded your tongue.

He fell back on the sleeping bag, panting. You held him in your mouth until you were sure you had licked him clean, then buttoned him back up.

He watched you lick your swollen, shiny lips with satisfaction, admiring your beauty and your skill at making him feel… amazing. It still surprised him sometimes when he stopped to think about it—that you had chosen him. Out of anyone in the world, he was the one lucky enough to have you. It really was incredible.

“I begin to understand how my primitive ancestors got by,” he hummed.

You laid yourself next to him and he happily made room for you to curl up under his arm, wriggling as you settled beside him. He was so warm, like a furnace. Funny and charming. Overdressed. Wickedly smart. God, you loved him. The woods were the last place he should be, you laughed to yourself at your own foolishness in dragging him there. He was not at all the masculine adventure type. There was no hidden rugged side deep down waiting to spring out. But it made you want to take care of him all the more. Your stuffy, helpless, whiny, suit-wearing, scotch-sipping Frederick, who braved the wilderness just to please you.

You kissed him again, warm and tender in his arms. He smiled, and your heart skipped a beat.

“Come on,” you sat up and crawled to the front of the tent, beckoning him. “Douse yourself in bug spray, and lets sit by the fire, stuff ourselves with s’mores, and watch the sun set over the mountains.”

“I suppose...” he considered it, eyes narrowed cautiously, “it does not sound that horrible.”

#Frederick Chilton #Frederick Chilton x reader #Raúl Esparza #Kinktober #Hannibal #smut #smutfic #my writing #I WROTE NON-BURNED CHILTON FOR ONCE!! YAAAY!#I've been on a bit of an angsty post-canon kick lately eh?#I ALSO!!!#WROTE!!!#A ONE SHOT!!!!#FLAWLESS VICTORY #(not really edited forgive me)#thatesqcrush kink bingo

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hgamesfan · 5 years ago

Text

Unmasked ~ Sixteen

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to @hgamesfan and everyone else who has offered up their inbox for submissions. Please enjoy the sixteenth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 16 ~~

After my talk with my father, I am strangely full of nerves. I manage a bath and change of dress, although given the uproar the house is in, Mary is not available to help me dress, and so I wear an older dress, something simple and loose that does not require a corset. I wrap a light shawl about my shoulders, feeling oddly bare without the undergarment, and spend a few moments in the study, attending to tasks left neglected while Peeta and I were caught in the stables. In truth, the tasks could wait until tomorrow, but I am not certain I wish to be near anyone right now, my head awhirl with so many thoughts and the enormity of the events of today. The tasks do not take long, however, and I then return to my parents’ rooms in time for yet another uproar.

“Really, Kent. We can have dinner brought up to you,” my mother insists.

“Darling, you know I respect your opinion as a healer but this is too much,” my father argues, hobbling from his room with the aid of a cane, garbed in a dressing robe and slippers. “I have been bedridden for months and will continue to be so no longer. It is a simple trip down the stairs and then dinner. Nothing to it.”

“Perhaps some assistance the first trip down the stairs,” I suggest then.

“Pish, child. Will my own daughter now dictate my actions? I am not an invalid any more. Step aside.”

“Kent–”

“Cease your fussing.”

My mother purses her lips and retracts her hands from my father. My throat constricts. I have no memories of my father speaking to my mother or to me thus. With such…anger and annoyance. No memories of them fighting so openly, nor of him scolding me. It is not like him at all.

He approaches the stairs and, for one breathless moment, sways precariously. Gasps fill the air and then Peeta’s there, grasping my father by the elbow to steady him. Father glares at Peeta.

“It changes the balance.”

“Twas not a leg,” my father argues and Peeta nods.

“Do you hold your arms stationary when you walk then?” My father ponders this for a moment and then shrugs.

“I suppose not,” he concedes.

“It takes time to adjust. Which hand do you write with?”

“The right,” my father says.

“That is most fortunate. You’ll not need to relearn writing. Other tasks may require some adjustment, but no matter, they are still possible,” Peeta says as he takes one step, exceptionally slow. “It took me at least three months to learn to walk properly again. Learning again how to ride a horse turned out to be easier, once I could manage to get in the damn saddle. And stairs…well that is a more recent accomplishment.”

“You did not sleep on the ground floor… on a sofa, for months, did you?”

“No, but there are other ways besides walking to ascend and descend the stairs…have you watched a toddler learning to take them? The way they sit and use their arms more than their legs?” At this, my father actually laughs.

“Apologies. I mean no offense,” he says.

“Of course not. Small victories are in truth not such small accomplishments with a missing limb.”

Peeta continues talking as they descend, one step at a time with Peeta supporting my father. Peeta tells another story of the first time he tried to ride a horse after his amputation and my mother clutches at her throat with one hand and my arm with the other as we follow their sedate pace. A concerned footman moves to assist, but Peeta waves the man off as Father laughs again at the image Peeta paints of himself relearning how to walk and how to mount a horse with his tone humorous rather than piteous.

“Then I found Cicero and that changed everything,” Peeta explains, prompting my father of course to ask about Cicero.

Absorbed in their talk as it shifts to horseflesh and how Peeta and Joe trained Cicero, my father and my husband safely reach the landing. My father is intrigued, I can tell, at this idea of training a horse to bow to assist in mounting. Father is short a hand and will need to learn how to mount one handed or make similar adjustments.

He wheezes and pauses at the foot of the stairs, reaches out for Peeta to steady himself.

“I do not recall there being so many stairs in this house,” Father says.

“You should try them with a wooden leg sometime.” My father stares at Peeta for a moment and then chuckles. The sound is wondrous and then he nods, seeming to reach some sort of conclusion.

“Perhaps some assistance into the dining room,” he says. “At least until I am more recovered.”

Two footmen hurry forward and I hear Peeta whisper, “Small victories, Mr. Everdeen,” then he leaves my father in their care. Beside me, my mother releases a heavy breath and my heart begins to beat normally again. We reach the first floor and my mother lets go of me to grasp Peeta’s face. She pulls him down to kiss his cheek and then hurries after my father.

Peeta offers his arm to me and I stare at him rather than take it. I stare until his cheeks turn pink and he lowers his proffered arm. Then I finally ask what I need to know. “Why would he listen to you and not his wife nor his daughter?”

“How often do you use two hands for a task? Eating? Bathing? Dressing? Reading a book? Working in the fields?” My cheeks burn as I begin to understand what Peeta means. “There is no aspect of his life that will be left untouched by this and that is a difficult thing to accept, especially when one has no knowledge of the amputation until much later. You, your sister, your mother, the servants, even Madge, have all known him as an active and independent man. Now he requires assistance or time to relearn simple tasks. He will want to do these things on his own, to prove to himself and to everyone in his life that he is no less of a man.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” His eyes flash in the dim lighting of the hall and I see in them the challenge. The dare to deny that what he says is true. “If you do not believe me, then hold your left hand in your lap tonight for the entire meal. See how well you can slice your meats and wield a knife one handed.”

And the trouble is, Peeta is right. I cannot imagine the amount of pride my father will need to swallow tonight in asking assistance to cut his food, like a child. We could rage about the unfairness of it all, but my father is a man of strong constitution and of strong convictions. He always has been and I know that while the road may not be smooth, I have hope he will travel it successfully. Perhaps with some help.

I loop my arm through Peeta’s then, my fingers curling around his bicep. Angry with myself for not understanding my father’s psyche, yet grateful for how steady Peeta is now, for how quickly he responded upstairs to prevent another disaster. I only wish I had thought to act sooner. I would have thought that concern might be easier to accept from a daughter than a stranger, but then again, perhaps not. Peeta has never known my father until today. Perhaps this is another role tailor made for my husband. Doctor Aurelius has said repeatedly that Peeta’s experience would be invaluable in helping my father adjust. Tonight’s scene must be precisely what the doctor referred to.

“I shall talk to Mrs. Chilton tonight about perhaps adding more stews, dishes eaten more with spoon or just a fork, and tender meats, to the menu for the upcoming weeks. Fish is easily sliced with just a fork is it not?” I say quietly as we enter the dining room. Madge and Prim are already here.

“Yes. Yes it is.”

Dinner is a strange, informal affair. There is father in his dressing robe and slippers, myself in my faded walking dress and shawl. The other ladies of my family have been so absorbed in the excitement over Father’s recovery that none bothered to change from their day dresses. Of our party, Peeta is the only one both freshly washed and formally garbed for a usual dinner.

For months now, our seating arrangement has been fluid and shifting, although Peeta would usually sit beside me. With father back at the head of the table, Primrose has seated herself in her old position, leaving the seat to father’s immediate left open for me. Peeta sees me seated in my old chair, between father and Prim, and moves around to the other side of the table, to sit in between my mother and Madge. I shift in the chair, for some reason unsettled. At least I am not the only one. Peeta appears suddenly ill at ease.

Mother, however, appears to have recovered from our fright on the stairs. She glows brighter than the candles. I have not seen her so happy in months. Primrose is full of stories and news, and thankfully she mentions Rory Hawthorne, which shifts Father’s focus of concern from my romantic interests to hers, as well as to the matter of inheritance.

Otherwise the mood is light as Madge and Primrose swap stories across the table of recent months mingled with those of a more distant past, with stories of our youth, ones that my father laughs at. He even refrains from commenting at his much different meal – a bowl of broth, another of tender cooked apples, and a crust of bread. I am relieved to see him accepting the doctor’s orders at least and the dishes tonight for him do not require a knife.

The stories, however, only seem to push Peeta further into his state of quietude.

My hand in my lap grasps tightly to the folds of my skirt as I eat, blowing gently on my vegetables to cool them before consuming, watching my husband across the table as he withdraws further into himself and wondering if our path together will ever be straightforward.

There is no denying the joy I feel at Father’s revival. His laughter and loving presence have been sorely missed. Several hours ago, I would have given anything to bring him back to us. Now that he has, I wonder if the cost will be what little gains Peeta and I have made in our relationship. Yet, I cannot see why that should be.

“The Doctor says I am not to ride for at least a week, until I gain my strength back a little, but I cannot stay confined to bed. Tomorrow, Katniss, we shall take a cart and you can drive me about the estate. Show me what you have been up to.”

“Are you certain that is wise, Kent?” Mother asks, worry plain in her voice. I should have Peeta speak to her as well and perhaps help explain Father’s mental state.

“I think it necessary. I’ve been abed for months. It is high time I cease being so lazy. Katniss, what say you?”

“Of course, Papa,” I agree immediately, before I realise that the invitation did not include Peeta, and what my father proposes is something that Peeta and I have taken to doing together since…well since my father could not.

I briefly catch Peeta watching me before his eyes return to Madge and he speaks quietly to her, answering whatever question it was that she asked him. I did not hear and I am not sure that I care. There is a sudden tightness in my chest and a sense that he is somehow slipping away from me, just as we had begun to truly understand one another.

The dinner is excellent, and most are in high spirits as we adjourn to the drawing room. My father is ensconced on a settee, my mother fussing over him while he pretends to be annoyed by her attentions. His quick swings between accepting and rejecting help will be difficult to deal with, but we will manage, I tell myself. We must.

Prim sits at the piano and my father asks me to sing. I cannot turn down such an entreaty, and soon become engrossed in the music.

It is after the third song we perform, as my father applauds with enthusiasm, that I realise our audience is short one person. I hadn’t even noticed Peeta slip away. Wherever did he go? When did he leave? Does he find my singing deplorable? I have been told that my voice is quite pleasant, beautiful even.

I am not given a chance to investigate, however as that is when my mother yawns, insisting that she is much too tired for further amusements. I hurry from the room as soon as I see that Father is willing to accept assistance from one of the footmen in escorting my mother to their rooms.

My mother’s protests follow me, but I hear my father’s calm voice halting her objections. “Let her go, dear. They are still sorting through what it all means.”

I shake my head, confused at what exactly my father is referring to. My feet carry me from one room to the next until I find Peeta in the study, bent over the desk and sorting through a stack of parchment.

“Is my singing voice so dreadful to you?” I ask and he startles.

“Katniss!” His hands scurry to order his papers. “I did not hear you enter.”

“Hunter’s tread and soft slippers,” I say as he finally holds the stack behind his back where I cannot see them, not quickly enough, however. I spot the edges of what is clearly one of Peeta’s drawings. “What are you doing in here?”

“Your voice is beautiful,” he says then, finally meeting my eyes and holding my gaze for the first time since we entered the dining room. “The first day I heard you sing…even in your sadness your voice was mesmerising. I think even the birds outside cease their song to listen to yours.”

“That is a pretty piece of flattery,” I say, my cheeks warming as I maneuver to trap him against the desk. “But it does not answer my questions, husband.”

“I did not wish to intrude further on a family evening,” he says. My feet halt as I recall something he once said to me in our bed at night.

I am used to being unwanted.

“I came in here to clean out my mess, make the drawer available again and–”

“And what? Strike your presence from our lives?” Such a question would normally come forth with venom in my voice, but I think I begin to understand my husband and what motivates him, perhaps even the direction of several of his thoughts.

“I am aware that I am no longer necessary to you, Katniss. The only reason you sought a marriage was in case your father should die, and now he is thankfully recovered.”

“Not entirely. You could help him, as doctor Aurelius said.”

“And I will. I shall also endeavor to not cause problems for you. As it turns out, you needn’t have married anyone at all.”

“Tis a little late for regrets and second thoughts now, don’t you think?”

“Yes, well. I told you we should have stopped,” he says. “You should be with your family now, Katniss. Tis a joyful thing, your father returning to you.”

And that for some reason, triggers my anger. The idea that I could celebrate even as Peeta withdraws from me, the thought that perhaps he now regrets what transpired between us in the stables when I cannot, that implications in his words that Peeta is somehow not a part of my family. I reach around him and snatch a handful of papers before he can respond. Several of them are torn from both our grips and flutter to the floor. Peeta makes a sound of protest and grasps at me, but I am too quick and move out several steps out of his reach.

“Are these for the plant book?” I ask. “Why would you hide them?”

“They’re not for the plant book,” Peeta says and his words halt my feet. I watch as he carefully bends to retrieve the rest from the floor.

“Then…what are they?” He sighs heavily and I hold them close to my chest. “May I see them?”

“You may as well,” he mutters and waves a dismissive hand at me. I scowl but glance down at the one on top of the stack.

My heart stops.

Only for a moment as I stare at the drawing in my hand and flip to the next and then it roars back to life.

Me. They’re drawings of me. All of them. Here I am smiling, lounging in the garden, head tipped up to absorb the warm rays of the sun. There I am riding Sagittaria with a serious mein and then with laughter on my lips. Perched in a tree with a book and my skirts draped towards the ground. Another of me with head bent and eyes half closed, lost in contemplation. In my nightgown, feet curled up beneath me in my chair as I gaze into the fire, a glass in my hands. Pouring tea with a scowl on my face. Playing happily with Maysilee. Walking and sharing secrets with Madge. Several studies of eyes and braids and even my hands holding a bow. At least two dozen sketches, all exquisitely drawn with ragged edges on their left side. Torn from a book, I realise.

I am too stunned to speak at first. My upset and jealousy – yes I will admit now that I was hurt and jealous that Peeta seemed to use everyone and everything in his life as a model for his art except for me — is now proven so very wrong and ill founded.

“Why…why would you hide these?” The words stick to my throat like stale bread.

“Things were uncertain enough between us. I did not wish to make you uncomfortable with my obsessive scribbles,” he says, finally catching me as I have not been able to move since looking at the first drawing of me. He reaches for the papers in my hands and I hold them to my chest, out of his reach.

“Why do you draw me like this?”

“Like what?” he asks, and I can hear the frustration in his voice.

“As though you find me beautiful! Or hold me dear to you!”

He laughs then, although there is little humour in it. “Are you mocking me?”

“I think you mock me, sir. All your pretty words about my singing and the things you said to me in the stables today…yet you would hide these from me? Give up on our marriage?”

“I am not giving up on our marriage!”

“But you are withdrawing from it. Are you not? That is what this is about, lessening your presence in our lives.”

“It’s clear that other than assisting your father adjust, I am no longer needed here, and that will only be a temporary requirement. He will get better, and soon. Therefore –”

“You are needed! I need you!”

Peeta is finally silent then. As am I, as the truth of the words manifests in my chest. I have come to rely on him in so many ways I can scarcely take stock of them, not just in helping to care for my father. Our lives have become…entwined. He remains silent as I hand the drawings back to him.

“You made me beautiful,” I accuse again. “I am scarred and you have made me beautiful.”

“I did not. I draw you as I see you. You are already beautiful. Scars could never change that.”

“Then perhaps you need spectacles,” I say as he shuffles the papers together and sets them on top of the desk.

“I assure you, my eyesight is perfect.”

“Really? Such a claim to make when you are blind to what is right in front of you. Circumstances have changed since our betrothal.”

“Yes, I am aware,” he says with frustration and a hand in his hair.

“Therefore I think it time we re-examine the terms of our alliance.”

“Of course, madame. As you wish,” he says, with a slight incline of his head. All business and aloof, perfunctory.

“Grant me patience! You are insufferably noble sometimes.” I grasp his hand and drag him from the room. Up the stairs as he questions what I am doing. I do not stop, nor do I answer him until we are in our chambers.

Mary stands, wide eyed, from a seat by the fire. “Mrs. Mellark, I–”

“Your services are not needed tonight, Mary. Enjoy the evening,” I say, uncaring what sort of servants’ gossip my actions will unleash. She curtsies and races from the room with one astonished look over her shoulder at me. I shut the door in her wake and lock it. There will be no interruptions tonight.

All of my bravado vanishes when I face Peeta.

Despite the fact that we consummated our marriage in the stables today – oh good heavens! I consummated my marriage in a bed of horse food. Father Crane was quite right in calling me a tart when I was fifteen and still running around in breeches. Now my transgressions have taken on a new form and my cheeks burn as Peeta stands there and waits. Clears his throat and watches me expectantly.

“Now what, madame?”

His insolent smirk gives me a conduit for my frustrations and I stand tall, lifting my chin to deliver my next words.

“Now you take me to bed.”

I am left reeling by my own words. That is not at all what I meant to say! and Peeta’s lifted eyebrows reveal that it is not what he expected to hear me say.

“It’s a little early for that. What will the servants say?” I scowl at this, at the knowing look in his eyes that tells me he has determined my dislike for being the topic of gossip in the kitchens.

“I have had a most trying day. How do you know I am not seconds away from hysteria and need to take to my bed?”

“I rather doubt that, Katniss. As you have told me repeatedly, you are not so fragile. Try again.”

“I need a reason to take my husband to bed?”

“I’m not certain that it is a good idea, given–”

“Of course it is. You take me to bed, removing my corset this time. Don’t think I didn’t notice you neglected to remove my clothing this afternoon–”

“I was concerned with being discovered. I thought it wise to leave you somewhat dressed in case we needed to respond with haste.”

“Yes, well that is a fine excuse, but I have locked the door and we are husband and wife. What we will do in our bed is quite expected.”

“Quite expected,” he says and takes a few hesitant steps towards me. He gazes down at me with fire in his blue eyes. “How very…responsible of you, madame. You are playing pious again, hiding behind duty. Or is that what you truly want? The way you were today in the stable, and last night, was that all an act to convince me to consummate this sham of a marriage? To perform my duty to you?”

“No,” I deny, unable to tear my eyes away from his mouth, nor my mind from the memory of what extraordinary things that mouth has done to me, even as my heart aches at his words. “And our marriage is no sham!”

“Then what happens tomorrow morning? What am I to you then? A nuisance?”

“You are my husband, my partner, my…” I gasp out and lift my eyes to his. He seems a little stunned. I fill the silence with words I cannot seem to stop. “I expect you to wake beside me tomorrow and perhaps kiss me before we dress, then break the fast with me. I expect you to plan adventures with Maysilee while we eat and to be there for her as you have been. She has come to love and rely on you and I will not see you break her heart. I wish to work more on our book, as we were…distracted today and did not accomplish much on it.” As I speak, my words gain strength and conviction. “I want you to ride with me, and my father tomorrow, to help me show him how we have cared for our home and to see to any pressing needs. You are expected at dinner and then in whatever family amusements claim the evening. And after all of that, I expect you in this room, in that bed,” I fling my hand towards it now, “With me, where you will sleep beside me unless we choose to not sleep. And I most certainly expect flowers and a drawing from you. You promised them, and I took you for a man of your word, Peeta Mellark, a man with a sense of honor that is unmatched.”

I turn away then, unable to face the possibility that I have read this entirely wrong and just made a fool of myself. He grasps my arm and turns me back to face him. “Our home?”

“Yes, you obstinate bastard. Our home,” I say, although there is no bite in my words, because I can see in his eyes that those two words are precisely what he needs to hear.

Our home. And it has become so, hasn’t it. Just as I can no longer imagine Everdeen without Madge and Maysilee, Peeta too has planted himself firmly into this place. Without him…I do not even want to consider it.

But at the moment, I can see that his fears need assuaging. I see in his eyes the flickering remains of a child whose world was upended first with death then with a simple game played with the wrong boy. But wrong to whom? I see the pain of a boy on the cusp of manhood abandoned by the only person left whom he’d known to love him unconditionally, abandoned for a supposed chance at a better life in the dubious care of those who would spend years making him feel unwelcome, unwanted, inferior, even as they saw him educated and dressed in fine clothes. And I see the ghost of a man who was sent away to the military when his presence could no longer be tolerated, with the expectation that he would not return. The shadows of the man who survived anyways and was then forced to relearn how to walk through a world that did not wish to see him for two reasons rather than one, and most especially I see the man who was coerced into marriage with his brother’s discarded fiancé. I understand fully the sting of that last one. I felt it myself the day we signed our engagement contract.

I can see in his eyes the reflections of a man who was required to be content with the leavings and table scraps, yet has somehow found it in his heart to create a life – a good life – here with me out of what could have easily been a misery. But Peeta has needed to act in this manner nearly his entire life, as a matter of survival, learning when his welcome had run thin and it was time to move on to another sphere or change his purpose to those around him.

No longer. His welcome has not run out here yet and I intend for it to never run out. We shall take the table scraps given us and make a feast.

I slide my hands up his chest then, up to his neck as I press my body to his. “I want you to be here tomorrow, Peeta, and the day after that, and the day after that one, just as you have been. You promised to love, honor, comfort, and cherish me, until death do us part, husband, and I will hold you to those vows. Are those terms agreeable to you?”

“I suppose those will work,” he says, his hands resting on my back, a light touch as he lowers his head towards mine. “You are not disappointed? Now that you are truly and needlessly stuck with the crippled, bastard son?”

“I know exactly who I married, and I am not disappointed at all,” I whisper right before he kisses me. I savour the touch of his lips to mine just for a moment before I allow myself to sink into his embrace, into the depth of feeling and sensation.

There is no rush this time, no frustration or doubt. No fear of being discovered nor interrupted. We both know where this kiss will end and yet neither of us are in a hurry to arrive there. He kisses me as though he has the rest of our lives to do so and yet it awakens a towering need inside me.

I search through fabric until I find the ends of his cravat and slowly untie it. Peeta lifts his head, ending one kiss and resting his forehead on mine as I pull the length of silk free and leave it on the floor.

“The poor valet,” he says with a rueful shake of his head. I laugh and guide his hands to the sash tied about my waist. He understands and grasps one end, pulling until the knot falls apart. We take slow steps towards the bed, leaving a trail of clothing across the bedroom floor as we undress one another. My skin tingles. Alive with the touches of air and Peeta’s skin on mine. Alive in the way one feels after a good, deep yawn, and yet I am not the slightest bit sleepy, despite my eyes drooping. They do so with want. We peel off layer after layer until we are down to my chemise and stockings, his trousers and shirt as we come to stand right beside the bed.

He kisses me again, a language more profound than words, in some ways, his hands gently holding my jaw. We reaffirm territory already explored. The taste of him sparks recognition and comfort as well as desire now. The trailing of my fingers down his neck, down over soft linen shirt, down to his waist, gives rise to such goose flesh and need. His eyes never leave mine as I gather fabric in my hands and lift. Up and up and over his head until I must stand on my toes and then can reach no further. Peeta takes over then, discarding his shirt and standing motionless for me to examine him.

I allow my eyes to roam over the expanse of skin now bared to me, uncertain where to even begin touching him. I step back slightly and take him in – the broad shoulders and chords of muscle on his arms, the burn scars extending down from his face to cover one side of his neck and splay over his left shoulder, like a handprint forever etched onto his skin in flames, the touch of violence and war leaving its visible marks on him. A curved line over his ribs that looks like it was perhaps caused by a knife. The scattered dark blonde hairs on his chest that tighten into a line pointing down, down to his trousers where I cannot see the end but am eager to find it.

“Are you simply going to stare all night, wife?” he asks, and while there is teasing in his tone, there is also a slight thread of uncertainty. I lift my palms and set them on his pectorals, breaking the thread of uncertainty and casting it aside.

He is so warm and solid, like a stone kept in fire to heat and soothe in the coldest of winters. His breathing lifts his chest and my hands in unison, and with a quick glance at his eyes to ensure that I am not overstepping, I run my hands over him, learning the shape and the feel of him beneath my palms. Up to his shoulders then down his arms to his wrists where my fingers tickle slightly before venturing back up to his shoulders.

I trace the outline of fire branded into his skin, watching my fingers as they skim over ridges and crests. We are both of us marked by flames. A pair of beasts forged in fire and branded as unwanted. A scarred should have been a spinster woman, and a crippled bastard man. I can feel tears in my eyes as I think on the pain I endured and how such pain exists in his past as well, perhaps tenfold with his leg. I flatten my palm over the scars and lift my gaze to his.

Without a word spoken between us, I somehow know that we understand one another in ways few others can. So I continue learning his body. My palm skimming over heated flesh, curving over the scar on his ribs, meandering down to his abdomen.

As in the stable, certain muscles of his flinch and contract, but he remains planted where he stands and allows my exploration. I step forward and slide my hands around his waist to his back, finding that expanse to be much the same. Warm, solid, responsive to my touches. I cannot look at him as a curiosity takes hold and I press my mouth to his skin, just at the edge of one scar. He sighs and finally moves, lifting one hand to my hair. He plucks pins from my tresses as I kiss him. They fall discarded to the floor with each caress of my lips over him until my hair hangs loose down my back.

Peeta buries one hand there, cradling my head gently as I explore with my lips as I did with my hands. He lifts his other hand to caress over my shoulder, to move aside my chemise and mirror the touches over my own scars. When my lips reach the barrier of his trousers, though, his hand tightens in my hair and he brings me up to stand before him again.

“Now your turn,” he whispers with a smile so beguiling, I can forgive the interruption of my exploration. Especially when he first joins our mouths in a heated kiss that soon has me clawing at his chest and his neck, bending my body to bring myself as close to him as possible. I feel the hard proof of his arousal against my belly so that when he grabs fistfuls of my chemise, I eagerly lift my arms for him to remove it, shivering only slightly as the removal of the fabric, warmed from its hours spent so close to my body, leaves me slightly chilled and standing before him in naught but my stockings.

Peeta takes my hands in his then and lifts my arms out to my sides, his eyes taking their turn in roaming over me, their blue depths lit with an unmistakable flame of desire. I cannot hold such an intense gaze and drop my eyes, only to see the effect I already know our kisses and touches have had on him in the tenting of his trousers.

I look away then, focusing on the candle set beside our bed as he steps closer. Then his lips brush over my skin, on my shoulder. Higher until he reaches scars. I hear a soft sigh, ripe with longing and wonder if I am responsible for such a sound or if he is.

“Katniss,” he murmurs, his fingers scarcely touching me as he caresses over my body. He traces round my navel, down to tease dark curls, then back up to circle nipples, with such reverence that I am tormented, burning and yearning yet not ready to move on from how this feels.

“Draw me like this?” I gasp and he laughs, the sound light yet somehow tortured.

“Not now?”

“No, of course not,” I say. Then something occurs to me as I cling to his shoulders and my knees quake with the kisses he paints over my neck, the way his fingers barely seem to connect with my skin as he traces over shoulder blades then down my spine to my hips, arcing over swells and curves, teasing hidden places. “Would I have to pose for you?”

“Not unless you wish to, my love. You are now etched permanently in my memory. I do not think I will ever forget the way you appear right this moment.”

“Oh,” I say, more in response to his kisses than to his words. They leave me aquiver in a most delicious manner.

“I would have to hide that drawing in a very secure place, for I do not wish to share you in this state with anyone else.”

“Nor I you,” I murmur. His lips gift me with sweet, indulgent kisses, sensual licks and suction that makes my eyes roll back in my head and my knees weaken to the point that they buckle and he has to hold me upright. “Oh God my thoughts were quite right about you that day we met.”

I have to step out of his embrace and sit on the bed, moving to the center, away from him before my brain is turned completely to slush and my skin burned away to ash.

“Oh?” he asks, a smile playing about his lips.

“You have a sinner’s touch,” I say and he laughs, his cheeks turning pink.

“You make it sound like I am a rake.”

“Well, it is twice now that you have gotten me into bed and failed to remove my corset…”

“You weren’t wearing one tonight,” he says, his voice dark and delicious. “And we weren’t in bed earlier.”

“Details,” I say with a flippant wave of my hand and then wait for him to proceed. He does not at first, and I decide to give him some encouragement.

“Go on then,” I motion towards his lower half and bite my lip.

He shakes his head, smiling slightly as he begins to unfasten his trousers while my teeth bite deeper. My pulse spikes once or twice in anticipation. I’ve never seen all of him, not even this afternoon in the stables, my skirts and our bodies blocking my line of sight. His eyes stay on mine, perhaps searching for doubt or regret, but he will not find any, for I feel none.

He turns and pushes the garments down. I am gifted with a brief view of taut buttocks and narrow hips before he sits to finish removing his clothes and his false leg. Then I am given the chance to truly admire his back and shoulders and the strength so readily apparent in them. I’ve already experienced that strength, plucked from the mud with such ease, like a dandelion after it has gone to seed.

Bracing one hand on the bed, he turns to face me, halting on his knee and the truncated end of his left leg and spreading his hands to his sides for my examination, one eyebrow quirked and his head cocked in question.

I am leisurely in my perusal of him, his thick thighs of which I am already somewhat familiar, the thin trail of hair that I can now see fully, leading all the way down to a thatch of more cradling the source of my curiosity and many a maid’s anxieties. Yet I can no longer feel anxious, now that I already know how it feels to be joined with Peeta and that he will take care with me. It is a good thing too, otherwise I might be concerned that he would not fit. I am fortunate to already know that he fits quite well. There is, however, one detail that inflames my cheeks and teases my desire to new heights.

“Are you blushing, husband?”

I refer to the pink shade of his engorged flesh, so striking set against the rest of his fair skin. He glances down and blushes in truth, his cheeks and neck turning a matching, ruddy color.

“I suppose in a way I am. Not out of embarrassment, though, I assure you madame.”

“Hmmm, I should think not,” I tease and rise to my knees, crawling upright on them towards him until I can feel the warmth of his skin radiating onto mine. I glance down then and reach out to watch my own motions as I touch him. Peeta sucks in a sharp breath and rests his hands on my elbows in a light touch. “I am not hurting you, am I?”

“No,” he says through a strained laugh. “Though I may expire from this.”

“Is it not acceptable for a wife to touch and discover what pleases her husband? You did for me,” I whisper and he sways but does not stop me. I marvel at the heat of him, the weight in my palm and the contrast of softness and rigidity.

“It is perfectly acceptable.”

“Am I doing this wrong then?”

“God no,” he says with such vehemence. “Your touch is… so pure.” If I were not already blushing, that would turn me bright red. Then something terrible occurs to me. A brief image of another woman touching my husband thus. A woman who knows how to please him where I am only just beginning to learn, and perhaps the purity of my touch is not a compliment.

“Have you been married before?” I ask, my grip tightening in reflex as the cursed words leave my mouth. I never thought to ask before now. Peeta groans and sets his hands over mine. He leans towards me and begins kissing my ear.

“No, Katniss. I have never been married before, and before you ask again, I have lain with two others before you. One was due to the stupid impetuousness of youth, the other lasted only one night and happened because I was feeling sorry for myself, certain that I would die alone a crippled soldier. They were both well over a year ago, nearly five years ago in the case of the first.”

“Oh,” I say, a strange lightness lifting my spirits as our eyes meet, my hands still full of him. “Did you remove their corsets at least?”

He laughs then, full and hearty. “I honestly do not recall enough of either encounter to remember such details. I was not in a fair state of mind… to be frank, I was drunk.”

“A tactful answer. Will you forget me then and blame the wine?” I say and he glances down at where I have him in hand. My eyes follow his for a second before meeting his blues once more.

“I am not exactly in a position to anger you and limp away unscathed, madame.” I blush furiously at that, but there is something in his eyes that makes me feel bold and empowered, rather than chastened or cowed. Somehow I know, Peeta is enjoying both our banter and our touches as much as I. He leans forward and brushes his lips over mine. “And I am completely, blissfully aware of everything we have done today. It will not be easily forgotten.” His words flow through me, intoxicating like wine, and warm. Mollified, I am able to tease him further.

“Are you not going to ask me how many men I have lain with?” A smile curves his lips and mine mirror the action. I tilt my head and shoulders in what I hope is a coy expression.

“God do I love your spirit,” he whispers as he cups my jaw in his palms again and kisses me. “How many men have you lain with before me, Katniss?”

“None, and I shall thank you to never ask me such an insulting question again, husband,” I say with false superiority and no bite to my words. I could not summon any if I wanted to. My lips are consumed with kissing him and my hands with touching him, learning him. In between kisses, he whispers to me. He whispers words of guidance and promises. Such delicious promises that make me eager to hand the reins back to him, but not before I am completely familiar with his body.

It is not long before his breathing turns ragged and his eyes hazy. His head tips back and he bites into his lip. The sight of him thus makes me think of what he did with his mouth in the stables. Surely there must be an equivalent act for me to perform for him. I kiss the hollow of his throat and am working up the courage to try loving him with my mouth when his hands drop to mine and pry my touch away from him.

“Stop. You have to stop.”

“Why do I?” I ask, confused and hurt.

“Because if you do not, I will spill all over your hands and the sheets.”

“Oh,” I say and let go of him. Then I was doing well, I think with a small thrill of pride.

I’ve no chance to ask him though, as his kisses have turned insistent. Passionate and deep as he shifts us both so that our naked bodies press together. I moan into his mouth, the sound undignified and desperate, but I cannot control the way his heat feels, engulfing me in a sensual embrace like nothing I have experienced before. The intimacy of flesh to flesh unparalleled in my memory as I cling to him and match his kisses as best I can, with every ounce of fervor I feel for him.

I know a moment of unsease as he lays me on my back and covers me, but then his mouth and his hands touch everywhere. I relax beneath his almost reverent kisses and yet I am strung tight as a bow, ready to spring. His hands precede his lips, and soon I am quivering on the sheets. Desperate so much so that when his hand curves around my hip, down to cup one thigh, I open my legs without question for him to settle between them.

His mouth returns to mine then and something slender slides inside me. “Oh mercy. Katniss,” he groans to the space between my parted lips then kisses me again, rough and fast before lifting his head to gaze down at me. “You overwhelm me.”

I cling to his arms as he touches me and finds hidden patches inside me that make me shudder and moan and beg. I can no longer draw a decent breath and plead with him, gasping his name and writhing against his hand, a sinful tart drawn to his touch.

“I wish to be inside you when you climax,” he whispers then bites gently on my ear. I give a breathless agreement and wonder to myself if he will be able to last. My only experience thus far is the stable, when he finished before and without me. Granted there was the way he kissed me to completion before that—

His fingers find the small patch of need his tongue worshipped in the stables and I cry out, the sound sharp and loud in our room. His mouth covers mine and our breaths make ragged music in the night as I plant me feet on the bed and let my hips move freely, seeking and aching for those rolling waves of release.

My muffled sounds crescendo against his tongue as I draw tighter and closer. My fingers rake bars of delight into his skin. I cannot get close enough and then he rolls on the bed, taking me with him so that I am sitting on his stomach, straddling him. My body aches, denied the pleasure it so desires, right on the cusp.

“What are we doing?” I ask, uncertain of his plans. I have no scullery tales, no whispers of maids nor cooks, nor even Madge to place what is happening as he pushes my hips up and back so that I hover over his erection.

“You are going to ride me,” he says and I sputter at that.

“What like a horse?”

“With a few noticeable differences but yes. Very much like a horse,” he says with a laugh and a cheeky smile. “More like bareback riding. And do not try to convince me that you’ve never ridden a horse bareback, you hoyden. I shan’t believe you if you try.” His words carry no insult, and so I take none, only desire and wonder. His hand caresses up my thigh then, back to my sex where he resumes what he was doing just seconds ago until I am mindless in my arousal and unable to hold still. “Yes, like that my pearl. Open for me.”

I vaguely feel him again, sliding past my entrance as his fingers leave me. A growing fullness and his low, elongated moan until my hips are flush with his and I am dizzy with the need to move, although I do not know how until Peeta rests his hands on my hips and guides me in a slow circle over him. I make an incoherent sound. My fingers dig into his chest and my head rolls back, hair brushing my back and his thighs. I find a rhythm and surrender to it, riding after the spreading pleasure that warms me throughout.

“Wait! Wait!” Peeta gasps and grasps my hips, holding me still on top of him. Frustrated, I growl and stare down at him, annoyed with the interruption, since there’s no good reason for it.

“What about…” he swallows before finishing his question. “…what about children?”

I glance around the room and growl again. “There are none here.”

“No,” he says with a slight laugh and a shake of his head. “No I meant the possibility.” He flattens his hand on my belly and I stare down at it. His fair skin almost pale against my darker tone. “Of… our children.”

My eyes meet his again as it registers, what he’s asking. “You want to discuss this now?”

“Admittedly my timing is poor.” His eyes drop to where we are joined and he makes a small whimpering noise as I shift my weight on him. “And I realise that I am also late raising this issue. Given what transpired this afternoon, but there are precautions we should take if you do not want children yet or at all…” he trails off as I laugh. I laugh and rest one elbow on his chest, leaning down onto my hand.

“Yes, I know. My mother is a healer after all. There was a tea she would give to women who did not wish more children. She tracked cycles on calendars to advise them on when to abstain.”

“I see,” he says. “So then you’ve had some of this tea recently?”

We remain motionless, joined together, prepared to copulate as I consider his questions. In an instant, I live a thousand moments with him by my side. Birthdays and holidays, every season and every harvest. A parcel of children in a motley mixture of our features crawling across the rug, clamoring for his attention, climbing into my lap for kisses and cuddles. Peals of potential laughter and the echoes of future joy bring tears to my eyes, an unbearable overflowing in my breast. If it feels this way to merely consider children, what would it feel like to carry them? To nurse them and raise them? To bestow all of this love I now feel surging through me upon them?

Exquisite. That is how it would feel.

For years I had never considered my own desires where children were concerned. Romance and marriage and family seemed such an unlikely possibility after the fire. Who would want a family with an unbiddable, scarred and surly hoyden? But as Peeta gazes up at me, his eyes shining in emotion, and I think on those sheets upon sheets of his hand forever capturing me on paper as someone beautiful and intriguing, I know. He would. I ask him despite this growing certainty, if only to hear him say it.

“Do you wish to have children, Peeta?”

“Perhaps some day. If you wish to,” he whispers but his hand caressing my belly, the rasps of longing in his voice, and the feel of him throbbing inside me speaks volumes. He is too wonderful with Maysilee. If there were anyone in this world that I would wish to have children with, it would be Peeta.

My body hums with the need to move, to love him and relieve his body if it’s seed, to accept him into my womb. I can feel a content smile curling over my lips then and the widening of his eyes as I lean forward and kiss him, our chests brushing together as I feel heavy with want, with need.

“Then there is no need for precautions tonight or any other night, husband.” To prove it to him, I begin to move again. His hold on my hips loosens, though he does not fully release me, only loosens his hold enough that I may once more move freely. I am glad of his touch, the flex of his fingers on me and the additional connection keeping me grounded to him.

“Take what you want, my love. See what feels best for you.” His whispered words barely register as he cedes control to me and I move my hips, my entire body over him as I test first one movement then another. Some create a slow, melting pleasure. Others cause bright bursts of it that are nearly unbearable in their strength. Still others coil as pressure low inside me. I recognize those feelings and follow them, bracing my hands on his chest and shoulders as I feel the need to move with more urgency and strength.

“What about you?” I ask at one point and he smiles at me.

“Your pleasure pleases me.”

Through it all, Peeta’s eyes remain fixed on me – on my eyes or my body as I move over him – but even when I look away for a moment to close my eyes and focus on the feel of him stroking inside me, against me, or of his hands spreading loving touches over my body, whenever I open my eyes, his are there to meet me again. And I can see in his gaze, the way he looks at me now, that his drawings are no lie at all. Moving over him thus, I feel exactly as he depicts me – beautiful, powerful, desirable, spirited.

We are unguarded in expression and I cry out for him to not stop when he takes one breast in his mouth, the heat and suction unleashing a torrent of mirror sensations as it builds and builds until I think that I can stand no more.

Then he rises up slightly, setting one hand behind him as he joins me in movement, bodies gyrating together. He caresses over my back, down to my buttocks where he flattens his palm on me and pushes me to ride him harder. His soft words and groans spur me on and I chase the rapture until it bursts inside me, an explosion of sensation.

I know that I scream. I know that I lose control of my limbs and my hips as I continue to move erratically. I know that Peeta grasps my hips with both hands, his hips rising up into me and his hands controlling my motions in bouncing on him in a handful of rapid pulses until he shouts into my neck.

As we lay there after, both of us heaving to gain control of our lungs, his fingers trace over me. The touch is gentle and sensuous, through the coat of perspiration dotting my skin and the gooseflesh arisen from his touch and the cooling of the air breathing over my naked skin. When I am able to look up at him, he is smiling. I shift to kiss his jaw and curl my body closer to his, although I am not certain it is physically possible. His lips press a kiss to my forehead and he begins to run his fingers through my hair.

“Satisfied?” He whispers to me.

“Not until you put my pictures back in your sketchbook where they belong,” I say, barely getting the words out before a yawn takes over.

“I will do that tomorrow then.”

“Now I am satisfied, husband,” I murmur and he chuckles softly. His fingers still comb gently through my hair as I fall asleep.

To be continued…look for chapter seventeen on the blog of @katnissdoesnotfollowback

#unmasked #m #everlarkficexchange #prompt 88 #everlark fic exchange #spring 2019 edition #so excited #but I have no time to read it today!#but I wasn’t going to keep it from you!#thank you m!#submission

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lovelylogans · 5 years ago

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where you lead, i will follow

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warnings: food mentions, complicated parental relationships, mentions of transphobia and homophobia, verbal fighting, top surgery mention, classism, deceit

pairings: moxiety, logince

words: 8,974

here’s how they fell in love:

so, patton’s always been at least fond of virgil, because virgil was the first person he met in sideshire and the first person since he’d given birth to logan to treat him like he knew what he was doing and to offer comfort without being disdainful about it, but logan’s first three years of life were crowded with colic and teething and learning how to walk and talk and all the stuff a baby and then a toddler does, and working extra hours at the inn to justify their tenancy in the inn’s pool house and juggling the sudden bursts of homesickness and intrusions that made him sort of revile home, plus getting back on t and top surgery and getting his ged and figuring out how to budget things for the first time in his life and—

and it was a lot, basically, he didn’t even have time to have a sit-down meal most days unless virgil or maria, the former manager of the inn, forced him into it, much less figure out that cupid was repeatedly striking him with arrows.

he can’t pinpoint an exact moment where he looked at virgil and thought oh, i’m in love with him. it was a slow, quiet realization, over the breadth of night shifts and dragging himself to virgil’s for a cup of hot cocoa/coffee before dawn, over making birthday cakes and helping wrap christmas presents and virgil gritting his teeth when he mentioned his parents, being defensive without being venomous, over logan toddling his first steps on the floor of the diner as patton held his arms out for him and cried when he fell safely into his arms as virgil recorded and whooped, over virgil learning how to make jam tarts when logan began his lifelong love affair with crofters, over fake squabbles about vegetables and fruits and protein servings, over slightly more real squabbles about virgil sneakily giving him the freshly invented friends-and-family discount without telling patton about it and patton only realizing he was getting a discount when he started trying to budget and thereby tried to cut his spending down at the diner, over logan saying his first word ("papa, book," he'd said complainingly when patton was taking too long to pick out a bedtime story, as if he'd said it a hundred times before) and patton knowing the first person he wanted to call, over patton clumsily knitting him scarves and mittens for christmases he couldn’t afford to get him something nicer that virgil always wore even though they practically unraveled themselves if virgil touched them wrong, over virgil coming over to help insulate the inn’s poolhouse when patton kept getting chilblains and logan kept getting colds and refusing to move into one of the inn’s rooms because that would mean lost business but sending logan for fun (read: warm) sleepovers with the princes or at the diner and virgil and maria both had to intercede to make him see sense, over virgil laying out every single pro and con of potential apartment buildings when patton spread the courant’s classifieds over the diner’s bar, over virgil saying while they watched the sun rise together, dead on their feet one morning after he came over to the apartment over in the middle of the night to help talk down logan’s perfectionism-related anxieties the night before he would enter the school-wide spelling bee as the second-grade representative, that i know that logan’s yours but i always kind of thought he was a little mine too.

it was a bit like the sunrise that morning, the realization that patton was in love with virgil.

⁂

so, virgil hasn’t been in love with patton since he met him, because patton was sixteen and virgil had been twenty-two and he’s not a fucking creep, thanks, but he can pinpoint when he realized he’d fallen in love with him.

virgil had been helping make logan’s birthday cakes ever since his first birthday, and patton called him in a panic because “ovens aren’t supposed to do that right, virgil???? virgil??? are ovens suPPOSED TO DO THAT???” and virgil had tactfully taken over with a double chocolate fudge layer cake, the kind that patton liked. during the birthday party of three people, logan had mostly just happily slobbered all over his jupiter-shaped teething toy and slammed his hands eagerly into the top of the cake, splattering icing everywhere. anyway, virgil mostly picked the cake based on what he and patton liked, since logan was a literal baby, so sue him.

logan’s birthday cake of preference changed over the years into the birthday cake he’s been making for years now: yellow cake with jam between each layer, iced with vanilla icing interspersed with the same jam.

anyway, it had been logan’s sixth birthday (patton now twenty-two, virgil now twenty-eight) and patton had insisted that he help virgil make the cake, and virgil didn’t have the heart to tell him no even though he’d probably be more of a hindrance than a help.

(okay, this is when he realized he was in love with him, okay?)

but he had been instructing patton to mix together the batter, because even disasters in the kitchen could manage an electric mixer, right?

incorrect.

logan, from where he had been scribbling all over the courant in red crayon, yelped and dove under the table for cover, even as patton squawked in surprise and attempted to lift the mixer out of the bowl to minimize damage, which made it even worse. virgil and patton were splattered with most of the bowl’s worth of batter by the time virgil managed to yank the plug.

(shame, too. virgil had really liked that flannel button down he’d worn.)

there had been a few moments of silence as virgil surveyed the surroundings: logan under the table like some kid in a fifties-era duck-and-cover video, patton’s kitchen covered in yellow cake batter, patton’s face and shirt and pants speckled generously with the stuff. virgil could feel where it was sinking into the fabric of his clothes, into his skin, and it was Not Pleasant.

a drip of batter came off from the frame of patton’s glasses and landed on the floor.

patton’s lip trembled. twitched.

and then patton burst out into the most adorable giggles that virgil had ever seen, that then blossomed into him laughing so hard he was crying, and had to sit down on the kitchen floor because he was losing his breath from all his giggling snorts, and he looked up at virgil with his hand over his mouth and his eyes shining brightly, and—

and oh no.

⁂

meanwhile, logan is trudging from lucy’s parlor to the prince studio, heart racing inexplicably quickly for the very little amount of exercise he’s doing. maybe it’s the few mouthfuls of coffee he’d had while waiting for the milkshakes from lucy’s. that’s probably it.

he juggles the carrier that’s holding his coffee from virgil’s plus the two shakes from lucy’s and the bag of fries and tarts from virgil’s, before he knocks on the prince’s door. (they live in the apartment above the studio, and logan’s known where they hid the key to let him up to the apartment door since he was five, so.)

a woman squints up at him. logan has been terrified of ms. prince since he first came over to the prince’s apartment at age five. most of the town is terrified of ms. prince. she is, to paraphrase roman, about thirty feet of badass former prima ballerina crammed into a five-foot-three body and should be treated accordingly (ie feared. logan knows how badly pointe can fuck you up. this woman made not one but two livings off of dance—performing and teaching. have you ever crossed a dance teacher in your life? never make that mistake.)

“um,” logan says. “hello, ms. prince.” (she is ms. prince to everyone. that is how she likes it.) “is roman home?”

she squints at him a little more.

“i’d like to talk to him?”

she sighs, before turning to shout a string of spanish over shoulder, and he hears an answering stream of spanish in a familiar voice, and even though roman’s probably still mad at him he feels his shoulders relax a little.

ms. prince slides out of the doorway, and roman slides in, scowling.

“i, um,” logan says, suddenly tongue-tied at the sight of roman, in a tank top and shorts, clearly just finished teaching a class or working out in some way because he’s still a little sweaty and his hair is damp. at last, he shakes himself, and lifts up the carrier and to-go bag. “i brought lucy’s? and fries and jam tarts from virgil’s.”

roman surveys him in continued silence. it freaks logan out. usually they’re conversationally flooring over each other all the time.

“can we talk?” logan says. “privately.”

roman looks him up and down, and frowns. “why are you dressed fancy?”

“oh,” logan says, glancing down at himself—right, he was wearing a blazer and tie and pocket handkerchief. “um. dinner at my grandparents’ house.”

roman frowns more. “it’s not a holiday.”

logan laughs dryly. “tell me about it,” he agrees.

roman hesitates, before he turns to call out, “mom, i’m going for a walk with logan!”

“be back by curfew!” she shouts.

logan takes a moment, briefly, to consider how ms. prince might genuinely throttle them both if she ever found out about how often they snuck out.

roman steps out, and they shuffle down the stairs in silence, before roman props open the door to the studio so that they can sit in the summer air, legs stretched out ahead of them, town gazebo lit up in the distance.

logan takes a breath in, lets it out, and says, “chilton and my future are important to me, that’s true. but i thought it was obvious that you’re important to me. i shouldn’t have hesitated, but i was confused as to how you could have possibly come to the conclusion that you weren’t. aren’t.”

roman looks at him. just looks at him.

“i didn’t realize that you might have been—upset,” logan says. “that i’m leaving. but i’m not leaving sideshire. not yet, anyway. i’m still going to do homework on the pews while you deal with screaming children, and i’m still going to get lucy’s with you, and we’re still going to sneak out to the gazebo. you’re still going to be my best friend. i’m just going to a different school. that’s the only thing that i want to change. i was—”

“scared,” roman suggests, and logan looks down at his shoes and swallows.

“yeah.”

roman sighs, before he leans against logan so that they’re pressed flush against each other—shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, knee to knee.

“i’m going to have to keep you updated on all the high school gossip so that you can put in the paper,” he says mournfully, as if he isn’t leaning into logan’s side so hard they might tilt over.

“gossip does not constitute news,” logan says huffily, as if he isn’t leaning just as hard into roman.

“for the courant it might.”

“ugh. i should just have rudy’s job at this point, really.”

“does, um. does chilton have a gossip paper?”

and logan knows he’s been forgiven.

“it’s actually funny that you mention that,” logan says, smiling. just a little. “there’s, um. there’s two student papers at chilton, actually. one official and one unofficial: the franklin and the jefferson. it’s this whole rivalry thing going on. it started because they didn’t get on the staff of the franklin because they were too focused on things like who’s dating who or what teacher did what, but then they kind of embraced that and...”

roman’s uncapping their milkshakes as logan explains, and fishes out logan’s maraschino cherry, grinning at him, a white flash of teeth around the bright red, and logan’s stomach swoops.

⁂

logan spends most of the last weekend of summer in the prince studio or the apartment, or roman’s at his house, which patton figures he should have expected. that’s the way it goes after logan and roman fight: they sulk, they make up, they spend enough time together to make patton kind of want to check that they haven’t joined at the hip.

logan actually makes roman quiz him over the chilton student handbook and the chilton school song, in english and in latin, for hours. his son is a nerd. it gets to the point that roman proceeds to literally wrestle the study materials away from him and pin logan down while yelling for patton to order a pizza and put on big hero 6 it’s a movie night EMERGENCY!!!!!! your SON will NOT STOP STUDYING it’s summERTIME PATTON WE HAVE TO STOP HIM BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE—

logan made a few token wriggling attempts to get away, and complains a little, but his cheeks go a light shade of pleased pink, so patton figures that he’s okay with roman interceding. just this once.

anyway. the night before his first day at chilton, it’s just the two of them for dinner, trying to clear out some of the leftovers from the fridge. patton had suggested virgil’s, or al’s pancake world, but logan had said leftovers, so leftovers it was. it made sense that he kind of wanted to maximize on introvert time before meeting a ton of new people, though. so they sit on the couch as logan works his way through leftover pasta from virgil’s, and patton handles the chicken fried rice from al’s, patton’s feet beside logan’s hip and vice versa. they’re sharing a blanket. there’s a documentary on in the background.

“what was it like?” logan says abruptly. “for you, at chilton. you almost never talk about it.”

“oh, gosh,” patton says, digging his chopsticks deeper into the rice. “well. i mean. it was pretty different for me than it’s gonna be for you.”

logan blinks at him blankly. patton smiles at him kindly.

“i’m pretty sure you aren’t gonna be the first openly trans student who drops out a year later to have a baby, kiddo.”

logan flushes, just a little. “oh. right.”

patton shrugs. “the kids weren’t the best, but people are more accepting of lgbtq people now, so that’s something, i’m sure. and academically it was pretty tough, but you love that stuff.”

“right,” he says. “just...”

“you’re gonna do great,” patton says firmly. “and even if the kids aren’t, you know, the best, you still have friends here. i am telling you now that it is incredibly unlikely that you won’t make one friend there. i’d say impossible but then you’d be telling me all about statistics.”

logan nods.

“wanna hear about how i’d have morning sickness between algebra and biology in the haunted bathroom?”

“dad. there is no such thing as a haunted bathroom.”

“oh, my sweet naive son,” patton teases, “the things you’ll learn at chilton!”

logan throws a pillow at him.

they spend the rest of the night watching documentaries, and then logan tries to execute his plan.

this plan has several steps. he will go to bed at a reasonable time. he will wake up early. he will dress in his new uniform. he will herd his father to virgil’s, where virgil will send them off with coffee and a healthy, filling breakfast that will prevent his stomach from rumbling embarrassingly. he and his father will drive to school and get to chilton twenty minutes early, because he will probably have to fill out several forms. he will make a good first impression on his teachers and classmates.

he’s stuck at the “he will go to bed at a reasonable time” part.

logan hesitates, fidgeting. he hasn’t done this since he was little. it’s foolish. it’s stupid. he’s nearly sixteen now. in many cultures he's already perceived as an adult. he doesn’t need his dad to tell him everything would be okay.

...okay, he might a little.

logan sighs, before pushing open the door to his dad’s bedroom.

“dad.”

no response. he should have expected that.

“dad,” he repeats, pokes his father in the shoulder.

“l’gn?” he murmurs, scrubs a hand across his eyes. “s’not mornin, s’it?”

“no, i just—i couldn’t sleep.”

“ah,” he says, and pats the space beside him in bed. logan scrambles gratefully onto the bed, and then under the covers. his cheeks are heating up. it was probably childish that this was making him feel a bit better.

he doesn’t care.

“first day jitters?” his dad mumbles.

“yeah,” logan admits.

“you’re gonna be great,” patton murmurs sleepily. “first day’s always syllabus day, anyway.”

“...syllabus day?”

“yeah. teachers gotta run through their syllabus, s’a school rule. like disclaimers on toasters. you’ll hear the ‘don’t cheat or we’ll kick you out so hard you’ll be paying hospital bills until you’re forty-seven’ speech.... how many classes do you have again? that many times. and classes’ll be shorter than usual anyway, because there’s an assembly to be all, you know, ‘welcome back, welcome freshmen,’ et cetera.”

“oh,” logan says, secretly relieved.

“they might do a ‘here’s the starter material’ or run over summer coursework, but it’s nothing too bad. no massive tests on the first day. by the end of the first week, maybe, if they’re really mean. but not the first day. you’ll be fine.”

logan nods, absorbing this. his dad yawns audibly.

“sorry i woke you up.”

“no, hey, it’s okay. always wanna know if you’re worried ‘bout something, i’m always here to listen. it was way worse than you had colic, at least now i can stay horizontal. you never went to sleep unless—”

“unless you were moving. i know.”

“got calves of steel from how often i had to walk around bouncing you,” patton finishes sleepily. “you think you can get to sleep?”

“i won’t even force you to walk around,” logan tries to joke.

“you can always wake me up if you want to talk. okay?”

“okay, dad.”

“you’re gonna do great, kiddo. eight.”

“okay, dad. sixteen.”

“i mean it.”

“i know. go to sleep.”

“mkay. you too.”

“okay.”

⁂

the alarm clock goes off at six. logan sits up immediately even as patton whines, rolls over, and pulls his pillow over his ears.

it’s his first day at chilton. it’s his first day at chilton.

logan pokes his dad hard in the shoulder, and patton squints at him, face between his pillows, looking like he's wearing the world’s biggest pair of earmuffs.

“i’m taking first shower,” he says.

“mkay,” patton says.

“don’t fall back asleep.”

“won’t.”

“dad.”

“i’m up, i’m up, i’m up,” patton sighs, flopping onto his back. “turn on the light as you go?”

logan, in answer, pads out of the door and flicks on the light switch on his way out.

logan takes what is, quite possibly, the most careful shower of his life. he is careful to scrub everywhere. he is careful to apply so much deodorant that he could not possibly ever smell like sweat. he uses enough but not too much hair gel, the way roman taught him. he puts on his collared shirt and ironed slacks and belt and tie and blazer. he’s flattening his hands over everything and tightening his tie and trying to make sure That One Strand Of Hair stays in place for once and—

“knock knock?”

logan takes a breath, and opens the door, and patton puts a hand over his mouth for a second before he puts it over his heart.

“oh, god, please do not cry,” logan says hastily, because he recognizes that look.

“you look so grown-up, kiddo,” his dad says, choked.

"ugh,” logan says, secretly pleased that that’s his reaction.

“okay, okay, i’ll take the shower,” patton says. “budge.”

“you said you were wearing the blue shirt and the black blazer and a tie, right?”

“right,” patton says, blinking obviously at him. “we talked about it.”

“dad.”

“oh, shoot, right,” patton says, but logan waves it off because he knows how forgetful his dad is, especially in the morning without any caffeine.

“i’ll grab it for you,” logan says.

“lifesaver,” his dad says, and shuts the door behind him as logan heads for his dad’s room again. and puts the hanger on the doorknob to the bathroom. and also maybe puts a specific pair of shoes and socks that will actually match and not be silly socks, for once. logan feels like it’s a strange role reversal that he’s the one laying out his dad's outfit for his first day of school, but whatever. his dad would live in pajama pants and sweatshirts if he could. he’s just making sure he makes a good first impression, that’s all. he then doubles back to his room to make triply sure that all his new school supplies and the student handbook is in his backpack, as well as lunch money and a water bottle and the discreetly printed floorplan of chilton he’s already highlighted with all his classes and—

no, he is not anxious, obviously. shut up.

his dad hops down the stairs, pulling on his shoes at the same time. logan is repacking his backpack for the third time.

“okay, all approved?” patton says, holding his arms out and spinning when he finally finishes jumping down the stairs. he is indeed wearing the same blue shirt and black suit jacket and black trousers that logan laid out for him. the only concession that logan was willing to make was the tie with little collies on it that he figured would make up for the lack of crazy socks. it looks professional in that odd, preppy way that people at chilton probably wore on their “relaxed days” if his grandparents were any indication.

“approved,” logan says. his dad’s hair is messy but it’s literally always messy. patton would probably say it’s part of his charm. it does kind of make his dad look like an overeager puppy. in a nice way? did chilton prefer its students to be nicer? should he work on being nicer in order to advance his academic career? he should work on being nicer.

“okay, we’ll pack into the car, get breakfast at virgil’s, drink our coffee, head to chilton, sound good?” patton says.

“great, now let’s—”

“wait,” patton says. “before all that, pictures!”

“no,” logan complains. he was hoping patton would forget this year.

“yes! first day of school pictures!”

“you have,” logan says, glowering, “five minutes.”

“ten!” patton chirps, holding up his phone. “okay, by the stairs, now, here we go, big smile...”

logan forces a grin that is more like a grimace.

patton takes pictures. lots of pictures. so many pictures. logan does not know how someone could possibly want to have so many pictures of him in the same outfit, in the same place. he has been subject to this since he started going to preschool, though, so.

patton drives them to virgil’s (usually they walk, so this is odd) and the bell jangles familiarly when they walk in.

“hey, here’s the private school kid,” virgil says gruffly from behind the counter, and patton grins as he and logan go up to the counter.

“he looks grown up, right?” patton says, taking his seat.

“yeah, what the hell,” virgil says, setting two mugs before them, full of what logan is sure is hot cocoa/coffee. “you were literally just a baby three days ago. stop getting older. you’re giving me a crisis.”

“you’re always having a crisis.”

“who taught you to have an attitude?”

“no one here, i’m sure,” patton murmurs, smiling around his mug, and grins at virgil unapologetically when virgil shoots him a playful glare.

patton’s the one to keep chatter going through breakfast, which isn’t exactly abnormal, but logan usually chimes in or takes over with an immediate rant of “HOW DO YOU DO BASIC FACT-CHECKING SO TERRIBLY” after finding something wrong in the courant. logan’s conspicuously quiet, but he’s eating his eggs with the kind of studious persistence most people use when they’re, like, cleaning out their attic, or something.

the bell jangles, and a voice declares, “good, i was hoping i wouldn’t miss it.”

logan’s lip twitches up into a smile that he’s quick to tamp down before he turns to look at roman, who’s swaggering his way up to the counter. “miss what?”

“the opportunity to make fun of your uniform, obviously,” roman says, taking his seat beside logan. “you look like a knockoff hogwarts extra.”

“you look like a background auditioner of a chorus line who got eliminated in the first verse of the opening number,” logan rebuffs, and roman looks a curious combination of pleased and offended.

“good,” he says, “i’ve trained you well enough that you’ll be able to snap back at any snooty chilton kids on instinct.”

a beat.

“however, i will say that i can’t believe you’re so hopelessly clueless, the seventies look is totally coming back, ralph bore-en, and also i’m a dance instructor how dare you imply that i’d be cut first, do i look like headband???”

they fall into bickering, logan looking happier now he’s got something to distract him. patton rolls his eyes fondly and meets eyes with virgil, like, can you believe them? virgil shrugs, shakes his head, and pointedly nudges the little side of cut up fresh fruit closer to patton. patton obediently spears a chunk of pineapple.

(sometimes, a family isn’t a mom, a dad, and a kid. sometimes a family is a useless gay dad, a useless gay kid, the useless gay grumpy owner of a diner who has basically adopted said kid and is hopelessly in love with the dad, and an overdramatic teenage dance instructor who is, you guessed it, a Useless Gay.)

virgil hands over a lunch he’s packed for logan (”just this once,” he says sternly, and logan takes it without comment, even though he knows that statement is a lie) and roman pitches in so that virgil tosses in an extra jam tart, as if virgil has not already packed him three, and eventually logan impatiently herds his dad out of the diner when it looks like people will start Having Emotions.

“i’m just going to a new school,” logan grumbles, as if he isn’t pleased that they’ve all shown up to support him. “it’s not a big deal.”

“it’s an enormous deal!” roman protests.

“it is a pretty big deal,” virgil says grudgingly.

“we’re very proud of you—"

“we’re going to be late,” logan complains, but accepts one last awkward pat on the shoulder from virgil and a hair correction from roman before he loads himself into the car.

they drive, mostly in silence. patton puts on npr to help set logan's nerves at ease. it works, a little. they get there, they park, and logan is staring at it mutely.

"i remember it being smaller," logan says.

"you'll find your way around soon," patton says, putting some pep into his voice. "you look great. you are an amazing kid who has earned this. you're gonna go on in there and show them what smart really is, okay?"

"...okay."

"i love you."

"ugh."

"loo-gaan," patton croons, "i loooove you."

(if his son is annoyed at him, he can't be too nervous about school at the same time, right? flawless logic.)

"dad."

"c'mon. do you want me to continue this when we're in there?"

"i love you too," logan says hastily, and opens the car door, bailing out before patton can have any more emotional moments. patton grins at himself in the mirror before he gets out, too.

"ambroise building, right?" patton says, glancing over at the handout logan's clutching.

"yes."

"great," patton says. "on we go, then."

"you remember the way?"

"ah, me and headmaster charleston go way back. i wonder if he's still here?"

"how do you mean?"

"have your grandmother's lectures to me taught you nothing?" patton offers, opening the door for him. "you weren't my only act of rebellion, you know. i've been saving some of those stories till you're older."

logan looks intrigued. (another great way to distract his son: offer him a mystery.)

they walk down the hallway. patton tries his best to act like the massive, fancy door to the headmaster's office doesn't still intimidate him, and opens the door to them before he can really think about it. it's like just being at chilton again is turning him back into a teenager. logan steps through, and they walk up to a desk.

"um, hi?" patton says, mentally sighing in relief. new receptionist, good. he hadn't made the best impression on the old one. "i'm patton sanders, this is my son, logan. is the headmaster in? he said he wanted to meet us before the school day started."

"one moment," she says briskly, and strides away. patton lets out a little breath.

"you cannot seriously still be nervous about the headmaster's office," logan murmurs.

"shhhh," patton whispers back. "like i said. i've been waiting till you're older."

"what, even fifteen isn't old enough? you were fifteen when i was—" logan waves a hand, attempting not to think of the word conceived, because, you know. gross.

"nope, i was newly sixteen," patton says. "i'm a january baby, you were born ahead of schedule in november, remember?"

logan's about to whine about it, because ugh, dad, GROSS, when the door opens.

"headmaster charleston will see you now."

patton thinks a naughty word.

he thinks an even naughtier word when they walk in and see his mother on the couch.

"grandma?" logan says blankly.

"i came to wish my grandson good luck on the first day of school," she says, sweeping past patton. "logan, you look wonderful in that uniform!"

"wow, mom," patton says, trying not to sound like the recalcitrant teenager that headmaster charleston surely remembers, "you didn't have to come all the way out here!"

"oh, it gave me a chance to make sure that hanlin here takes good care of logan."

hanlin, patton thinks in confusion. if there was ever a teacher that patton would have believed slept in the school and did not exist outside of the hours of 7:30-3:30 within the months of august-may, it would have been headmaster charleston.

"hanlin's wife and i are on the symphony fundraising committee together," his mother continues.

"wow," patton says. "that's great."

where were all these friendly gestures when i was in school???

"your grandfather and i are golf rivals," charleston says, to logan. ignoring patton. probably the best course of action. "we're still fighting it out to see which one is worse."

"oh, yes," his mother says, after a (rehearsed) polite chortle. "we're all old friends."

"well, it's like they say," patton says, trying his best to project put-together-adult-and-definitely-nothing-like-the-teenager-you-knew-once, "you can't make new old friends!"

there's an awkward silence. logan is giving him a dad. look. patton considers hiding under the fancy leather couch.

"would you like to have a seat, ah��?"

"it's patton, now," he says quickly, lest he get deadnamed on the first day of school and his son makes a horrible first impression by punching him in the nose.

"right," he says, and they all sit down.

"hanlin," his mother says, "did you know that logan has a 4.0 grade point average?"

"and he got published in the local paper at the age of seven," patton adds.

"i'm sure he knows that, dad—grandma," logan says, and patton hopes his mother didn't catch the momentary hesitation there. "it was in my file."

"this is a very special boy," emily says fondly. "you take good care of him."

"we'll do our best, emily."

"logan's not going to be a problem," patton blurts out. "he's very, um. low maintenance. it's like all the troublemaking got stuck to my generation, or something."

more awkward looks. darn.

"well," his mother says quickly. "we shouldn't take up any more of your valuable time. it was lovely to see you. give bitty our love."

she kisses the headmaster's cheek. logan takes the moment to give patton a help look. patton shrugs helplessly, like, you saw what I just did, how do you think i'll be a benefit here?!?

"tell richard i'll see him at the club on sunday."

"have a wonderful day, logan, i want to hear all about it," she says. "patton, walk me out?"

double-darn. he's not gonna escape a lecture.

"it's so nice to, um, make your acquaintance again," patton says, and shakes hands with the headmaster. he limits himself to just squeezing logan's shoulder, instead of kissing him on the cheek and squeezing him into a million hugs like he really wants to do. "have an awesome day, okay? you're gonna be great."

a little smile, like he knows. "thanks, dad."

"okay," patton says, and follows his mother out into the hall.

"what tie is that," she hisses.

"logan picked it, actually," he retorts, and she falls silent. "what are you doing here?"

"i came to put a good word in for logan."

"well, thanks, mom, but some warning would have been nice."

"i'm not allowed here, is that it?"

"i did not say that," patton says, hoping that none of logan classmates can see him. that would be a great way to have logan's first day go well, wouldn't it?

"i'm allowed to pay for it," she continues to seethe, "but i can't actually set foot on the premises. how about the street, can i drive down the street? maybe i should just avoid the neighborhood altogether. my doctor is just down the block, though, should i call you to get special permission if i'm bleeding?"

"oh, my god, mom," patton says. "i didn't say you weren't allowed. i was just surprised to see you. i'm sorry if i made it sound—bad."

"well," she sniffs. "i thought it was important for this school to know they had a sanders among them."

patton sighs. "yeah."

"and that some sanders know how to conduct themselves."

"right, on that note, i'm going," patton says.

"dinner on friday!" she calls after him, and patton tries not to roll his eyes. god. this place really did turn him into a teenager again.

⁂

back in the office, logan is trying his best to project cool-confident-and-ready-to-succeed-almost-adult. he's not sure how well he's doing.

"you're obviously a bright boy, mr. sanders."

"thank you."

"good grades, teachers like you... not a lot of extracurriculars, though."

"like my father mentioned," logan says, trying not to overemphasize father except he does a little, "i work part-time for the sideshire courant. i help at my father's inn. i'm one of two members of the school's poetry appreciation club."

"what are your aspirations?"

"i want to go to an ivy league," he says, "preferably harvard, to study journalism."

"on your way to being..."

"bob woodward or carl bernstein," he blurts out. "or nellie bly. or upton sinclair. or ida b. wells."

"that seems like a varied selection."

"they're all investigative," logan says.

"and that's what you want to do. investigate."

"i want to report on what's going on. i want to bring attention to important issues." a pause. "the debate team might also be missing from my file."

the headmaster stands. "i've known your grandparents for some time."

"i know."

"in fact, i was at a party at their house just last week where i had the most delicious lobster puffs i've ever eaten. i'm very fond of them."

"that's... nice."

"i also know your father."

logan's fists tighten. "both of them, i assume."

"yes," he says, and begins to walk around the office. logan doesn't turn his back to stare. "chilton has one of the highest academic standards of any school in america. you may have been the smartest boy at sideshire, but this is a different place. the pressures are greater, the rules are stricter, and the expectations are high. if you make it through, you will have received one of the finest educations one can get. and there should be no reason why you should not achieve all your goals. however, since you are starting late, and are not used to this highly competitive atmosphere, there is a good chance that you will fail. that is fine. failure is a part of life, but not a part of chilton. understand?"

for a split second, logan thinks about his dad. about how dropping out with a pregnancy would have almost certainly been regarded as a failure. he wonders, now, if charleston sees him as a remnant of that choice, instead of his own person. as the grandson to his grandparents. as the product of a failure. logan balls his fists so tight his knuckles go white. he'll prove them wrong. about him. about his dad.

but all he says is "yes, sir. i understand."

"take this to miss james in the administration office across the hall." he says abruptly, handing him a folder, and sits back down. "the back-to-school assembly starts in ten minutes."

logan stands, takes the folder, nods, and escapes, trying his hardest not to grind his teeth.

(after logan fills out his forms, after he takes a seat for the assembly, unnoticed by most, a student will slink in late. he'll have snatched the folder, and read all about his latest adversary. oh, he loves a challenge.)

⁂

by the time patton has pulled back up to his house, he puts his head on the steering wheel for a second, just to huff out a breath. ugh. it'd taken him almost the whole ride, full of happy-go-lucky pop music to calm him down. at least he had until friday to prepare to come to face all that again.

his cellphone buzzes. patton looks at the screen display name, turns his eyes to the heavens, and (not for the first time) wonders who it is up there who has it in for him.

"hi, mom," he manages to say in a fairly pleasant tone.

"you should answer the phone more professionally—"

"caller id, mom."

she says, "i'm going shopping this afternoon and i thought i'd pick up a few things for logan."

patton blinks, lifting his head off the steering wheel. "like what?"

"a couple extra slacks and tops for school."

"oh, i already took care of that," patton says, opening the car door and deciding if he was gonna have this conversation, he would have it flopped starfish-style on his comfy, hideous rug. "i got him three slacks and a bunch of tops."

"but there are five days in a school week."

"mom, three pairs of slacks are fine," he says wearily, unlocking the door. "thank you for the offer, but don't bother."

"what if he gets a pair dirty?"

"he has two backups." patton says, and flops onto his rug. it is bright orange and clashes terribly with the rest of his kitschy decor. however, it is also the softest, plushest rug he has ever laid down on, and he's kind of an expert in laying on the floor.

"what if he gets all three dirty?"

"we have washing machines in sideshire too, mom."

"what about socks?" she presses. "chilton has these special logo socks, logan should have them."

"logan hates crazy socks. he has all the same brand of socks just so he doesn't have to bother with matching them when they're fresh out of the dryer."

"they aren't crazy, they're dignified," she sniffs. "and what about a sweater? he might want that. there's a sweater vest, and a bookbag—"

"mom."

"logan should have these things," she frets. "he'll be the only one that doesn't."

"he's got what he wants, mom."

"i'm at least getting him the chilton coat," she says. "what size is he?"

"mom, please."

"this is a simple question, patton."

"look, i see what you're trying to do, mom, and it's very sweet," patton says. "i understand that you want to provide for him, but you've done plenty, okay? the tuition is the biggest thing, and you've taken care of all that. if logan wants anything else for his uniform, i'll get it for him."

a pause.

patton sighs. "he's a medium, but i'd get him a large for when he grows. he's about to hit a growth spurt."

"well, when he does, i'll buy him another."

"okay, then, a medium is great," he says. "i gotta get to work, mom. bye."

he hangs up before she can add in any other requests, and rolls over to mash his face into the rug, and stops immediately when the smell of feet hits him incredibly overwhelmingly.

"—and while french culture was the dominant outside cultural influence, especially for russia's monied class, english culture also had its impact, which we will be discussing next week."

logan is taking notes. no one else is. he tries to be unbothered by that.

"in the first week we'll be discussing these two literary masters, tolstoy and dickens."

a bell rings. "class dismissed." there's the rush of students packing up their bags, and over the rush, logan can hear a murmur.

"looks like we've got ourselves a matthew," someone mutters, and there's a few titterings of people around him. logan shoves his notes into his bag, and flits out into the hall.

or, at least, he means to, until he nearly runs face-first into someone waiting for him. he's smiling wide, his white teeth a contrast to his dark skin, the vitiligo on his cheek looking almost scaly. one of his eyes gleams yellow.

"logan sanders, of sideshire. i know who you are."

"wonderful," logan says dryly, and tries to step aside. he steps into logan's path again.

"are you going to go out for the franklin?"

"i don't see how that's your business."

"i'm gonna be editor next year."

"is that confirmed?"

"i'm also top of the class," he says, ignoring logan's comment. "i intend to be valedictorian when i graduate."

"again. is that confirmed?"

"you'll never catch up," he says, savoring the words. "you won't beat me. this school is my domain, the franklin is my domain. you'd do well to remember that."

he turns and strides away. logan wonders where on earth in the handbook it had said that students were allowed to wear bowler hats.

"—sir, i completely understand—"

"oh, do you?!" the man demands. "because this is a brand-new car."

derek, one of the teenage part-timers, is hanging his head, face bright red.

"he brings up the car and it's scratched!"

"i just backed the car up," derek tries.

"i'd know if my car was scratched before i parked it or not!"

"okay," patton says, in his best soothing voice. "how about we calm down? sir, why don't i have your car looked at tomorrow, i'm sure there's a way we can resolve this. in the meantime, i would love for you to have lunch here, on the house. dessert is a must. our homemade ice cream is delicious, anything you try. life as you know it will never be the same, what do you say?"

"i think i will, thank you."

"oh, thank you," patton says, and turns to derek once he's out of earshot, about to calm him down, but—

"patton, i swear, i didn't scratch his car," derek says, on the verge of tears. "if you thought i was unreliable or a bad driver—"

"oh, derek, hey, hey, it's okay," patton says soothingly.

"i can drive—!"

"i know you can, honey, you're okay," patton says. "we can take it over to the mechanic's tomorrow and have the guys buff it out for no cost, okay?"

he punctuates this with a gentle squeeze to the shoulder, and derek nods, head still hanging.

"in the meantime, how about you go on into the back and tell sookie that you get a nice, calming hot cocoa and whatever pastry you want, on me. take a second to calm down, okay? i know it's never fun to get yelled at by those kinds of guys." patton says, and squeezes his shoulder again.

"okay," derek says, and takes a shuddering breath in. "thanks, patton."

"hey, anytime, kiddo," he says. derek's barely walked off by the time shelly from the from desk is hovering at his side.

"patton, call for you."

patton takes a second to huff out a breath before answering, in his most chipper tone, "sideshire inn, this is patton speaking, how may i help you today?"

"well, at least you answer this phone professionally," a familiar voice sniffs, and patton hangs his head in a mirror image of derek before he straightens his spine.

"mom, i'm working."

"i just wanted you to know that i just bought a parking space for logan at chilton."

"you what?"

"they are very hard to come by," she says, sounding pleased with herself. "but i pulled a few strings and it's all his."

"mom, again, that is very kind, but there is one huge gaping problem in that gift," patton says in a rush, "and that is that logan doesn't have a car."

"no, but he has his sixteenth birthday coming up soon."

"mom. you are not buying logan a car."

"why not? he's a smart boy, he's responsible."

"mom, seriously, i'm putting the dad foot down on this one. logan and i agreed that he's going to save up anything he makes from the inn or the courant to get a car, okay? it's about teaching him the value of hard work and how to effectively manage his money. you love those kinds of lessons."

"well, he has to have a way to get around!"

"everything in sideshire is in walking distance, mom."

"he has to have a way to get to school!"

"he's taking the bus."

"i hate that he's taking the bus," she says. "drug dealers take the bus."

"mom, what?!" patton demands, trying to follow whatever kind of rich, privileged logic that was. "i—no, okay, we're talking about this later, i have a job to do."

"fine."

patton hangs up and hands over the phone to shelly without saying goodbye.

"tough 'rents, huh?" she asks, popping her bubblegum.

"you have no idea," patton sighs, and considers following derek on to the kitchen so he could get some kind of dessert pick-me-up too.

logan hesitates, before he sends a text to his dad. I want to take a closer look around at things today, so I'll be coming home on the later bus.

a brief pause, and then, okay, have fun!! i'll be at virgils and i wanna hear all about the first day!!! love u <3 <3 <3

logan slips his phone back into his pocket.

"have a good afternoon, matthew!" someone sneers.

"the name is logan," he huffs, and sets a steady pace for the library.

it doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for, and managed to find an over-stuffed armchair, conveniently alone, conveniently out of sight of the librarian. logan sits with his two books, and begins to page through the elder of the two.

it's a (well-designed) jumble of text and images, filled with articles and beautiful photographs, and logan's deliberating going back into the index until—

As they go all-out for Couples Day, freshmen Christopher Hayden and—logan covers the deadname with his finger—Sanders dress as Joe Bradley and Ann "Smitty" Smith from the 1953 film Roman Holiday.

logan stares. his dad has long hair in the picture, though it's pin-curled back away from his face, in a collared shirt tucked into a long, high-waisted skirt, with a scarf tied around his neck. his other father, dressed in a dapper suit, is jokingly clinking a glass of something with his dad, both of them clearly hamming it up for the photographer, though there's something pinched around his dad's eyes that hasn't changed with age. it's the same face he makes in photos with his parents. it's the smile he puts on when he wants people to think he's happy.

logan continues paging slowly through the yearbook. it's strange to see his dad with long hair, to see how the chaotic curls look a bit more tempered with length. it's strange to keep seeing him and his other father, side-by-side, in almost every photo they're in, or at least in the background. patton's eyes narrowed in concentration in the knitting club, his other father patiently holding the skein, keeping it from getting tangled. his other father making a shot in basketball, a barely visible patton cheering in the bleachers. side-by-side in assemblies. side-by-side in class. but every time, it seems, patton has that pinched look on his face.

logan sets it aside when he sees the portraits, his dad grimacing delicately in pearls, and takes out the other yearbook, immediately flipping to the portraits page.

yes. there he is. short hair, relieved smile, coat-and-tie. clearly, blatantly out. but logan frowns to see the deadname still underneath it. he flips back to the index to see the other, candid photos.

still side-by-side, except now his other father had the pinched look when patton was juggling trays for some bake sale, when patton was holding up his hand for a high-five as his other father was jogging off the court, ignoring it.

less than a month from that photo, if logan's calculating this right, his dad would have told him he was pregnant.

in that photo, his dad might have already known.

he shuts the yearbook with a snap, feeling abruptly like he's intruded on something private.

⁂

"—and then she tells me she's going to buy logan a car, virgil. a car!"

"a car's a big deal," virgil says, listening dutifully as he wipes off the counter.

"i know," patton says, and pauses his impassioned rant to take a gulp of hot cocoa/coffee. "like, i get that she's trying to provide for him. i get it. it's almost sweet, if you look at it a certain way. but—"

"but you're his dad and should have the final say in those kinds of things?"

"exactly," patton sighs, slumping onto the counter, but stopping himself before he sprawls completely. "neither of them are here yet, are they?"

"no, you're good," virgil says. "i'll warn you when i see your son's boyfriend walking up, the bus isn't due for five more minutes, plus the walk."

patton finishes his sprawl. virgil pats his curls gently.

"did i tell you about the part where she insisted the bus is for drug dealers?"

"oh my god, what?!"

"i know!" patton says hotly, popping up from where he sprawled. "i don't even know how she twisted it around in her head like that! it's the bus!"

"every time i think i understand rich people, you come back from some kind of family dinner with that kind of comment," virgil says with a shake of his head. "also, look out, roman incoming."

patton hastily straightens up from where he's slumped over, and just to look normal, he takes a gulp of hot cocoa/coffee.

there's the ding of a bell, and patton swivels in his chair, smiling. "hey, kiddo."

"hi, mr. sanders, and yes i know i'm supposed to call you patton, my mom lectured me about it the other day so i'm at least making it look like i'm putting in the effort," roman says before patton can issue any correction. "hey, gordoom ramsay."

"i'm charging you extra for any snack you get today," virgil says in response.

"joke's on you, patton will inevitably demand it's added to his order even when i tell him i can pay," roman retorts.

virgil looks to patton. patton shrugs.

"kid's got me down pat," he says, and then does an air buh-dum-tsh. virgil really wishes he was at a point in his life where that wasn't adorable.

"i'm groaning on logan's behalf," roman informs him, and then heaves his best, logan-ish sigh. "where is he, by the way?"

"you're not subtle," virgil informs him.

"just get me a jam tart," roman huffs.

"he should be getting here any second," patton says over whatever virgil's response is to that. "how was school?"

"i noticed other kids for the first time," roman says, and tilts his head. "they're a lot less opinionated than logan, but."

"miss him?"

"...yeah."

"i'm sure he missed you, too," patton begins, but then the door dings, and a familiar, exasperated voice demands, "why is everyone calling me matthew?"

patton nearly chokes on air. "oh, wow, they still do that?!"

"you don't look anything like a matthew," roman says, and logan looks vindicated, nodding at him.

"my point."

"still do what?" virgil cuts in, dropping off two jam tarts.

"oh, god," patton says. "um, them calling you a matthew, like. it just means they think you're a know-it-all, or you look like a goody-goody."

roman frowns. "why matthew, though?"

patton waves a hand. "like, biblical matthew. originally he was a tax collector who was literate, and stuff. they give a ton of people nicknames, i should have warned you."

"did you have one?" logan asks, and a bitter smile touches patton's lips.

"mary magdalene," he says with a shrug, before taking a measured sip of his hot cocoa/coffee, and virgil winces.

"like," logan says, frowning, before his (admittedly sparse) biblical knowledge comes rushing back to him. "oh."

"yeah," patton drawls. "if i was just a mary, it would've been the, you know. goody-goody thing. like the virgin mary."

"ugh," roman says. "chilton sounds terrible."

"i might have a nemesis," logan adds, perking up.

"on your first day?" patton says, a little gobsmacked.

"is he terrible?" roman asks.

"he wears a cape and a bowler hat, which is somehow not a uniform violation," logan informs roman, and roman shakes his head.

"he sounds like a disney villain."

"he warned me against joining the franklin or trying for valedictorian. he said the school was his domain."

"so?" patton prompts, frowning, because no one goes after his son.

"well," logan says, "obviously i have to prove him wrong, don't i?"

that's my boy, patton thinks, with no small measure of pride.

#text #sanders sides fanfiction #moxiety #logince #my fic #wyliwf

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iamnathannah · 6 years ago

Photo

So...I got this review on ff-net for "Longing" this morning. Usually I love reviews because they give me encouragement...this ain't one of them, though.

If you don't want to read through it, in summary...

"Great story, but it seems like you hate men and the direction of society. Why isn't Dean just the bland fella presented in the show? Why is he violent and a cheating asshole who's rich; that's Logan y'know? Love the story as I said and Madeline and Louise are great, but I'm done with it."

Yeah, a lot to unpack here if you're not in the GG fandom like I've been since near the beginning, along with the basic concept of fanfiction.

"It's a well-written story with good characterisation of Rory and Paris but...there's a lot of anger in it."

When I started the story in 2003, the sky was the limit, and Paris and Rory were on their way to great lives bereft of any issues with men and so much potential for women in the world. Fast-forward to 2019...where we have a lying cheat of an asshole in the White House, merely disagreeing with a man is enough to bury your Twitter mentions in hate, and LGBTQ+ rights are being attacked at every turn.

Then we have the aftermath of AYITL, which dynamited Rory's future into being completely dependent on men (aka Logan), took away her entire drive and reason for being, and left her as a homewrecker having a kid she probably never wanted. And Paris is in a loveless marriage with a completely underwritten Doyle whose character traits went from 'being a loving and supporting boyfriend to a neurotic Jewish girl with the entire world upon her shoulders' to 'wink-wink Danny Strong writes Empire and Oscar-winners; Doyle can't raise kids let's just write that Doyle's that now since we threw out the Doyle notebook in our post-S6 burning of all our character notes'.

Yeah, over sixteen years, you tend to write for your reality, and the reality right now? Totally sucks.

"Some of it seems to be directed at society, some of it at the show, with a disproportionate amount of it being taken out on mostly male characters who bear only a passing resemblance to their on screen portrayal..."

Once again...AYITL hasn't aged well. Society hates journalists. It hates driven women (see my last post taking down that asshole who hates Brie Larson). Males are pretty damned well responsible for most of it. And I haven't had the best male figures of my life and have been mostly around women. I'm probably not going to write a positive view of some men; it's bias, and I own up to it here.

And yeah, my men don't match up to how they are on screen. Because, fanfiction is...

'Fiction written by a fan of, and featuring characters from, a particular TV series, movie, etc.'

Speaking of which...

"...Which seems to have got worse as I suspect you liked the show less and less."

You're reading my story. A Gilmore Girls fanfiction. My Twitter bio declares that I've loved it a decade and a half before the Gilmore Guys started their podcast. A show where I literally follow nearly main actor on the series into every future project they've had and watched loyally, for the most part. I buy every movie the girls have been in. Fanfiction isn't defined as 'a random person writing hate screeds against a particular TV series, movie, etc.'. You're not going to ever see me write even a drabble about how much Kevin Can Wait should be called Kevin Can Burn In Hell Because He's a Ghoulish Sexist Fuckface Who Celebrated His Wife's Death To Move On With His Former Hot Wife From Another Show.

Still love Gilmore Girls in full. But being a fan doesn't mean I have to like every single decision the writers and ASP ever made.

That is the fun of fanfiction. If I disagree with canon...I can disregard it, in part, or in full. I have never been able to find a fellow fan that agreed with every plot point the show has ever made. I hope I never will, because that's definitely not why anyone should ever be a fan of the show.

And excuse my language here...but I've written over a MILLION WORDS for this story. 27 chapters have been posted. I have an eventual endgame planned for the story that has been in my mind since the day I posted chapter one. Why the fuck would I write a million words about something I hate?!

"Dean has gone from a good first boyfriend who just wasn't right for Rory long-term to a violent thief who cheated on Rory throughout their relationship and never loved her anyway. And now, incredibly, seems to be just another entitled rich kid? It feels like you really want to bash on Logan but can't find a way to have him in the story, so you've turned Dean into him."

Oh reviewer...dear reviewer...oh, you don't know what you've gotten yourself into.

I have ALWAYS hated Dean. Always. Since January 2001 when I caught up on the backlog of episodes I missed because I only started watching during the two back-to-back night Christmas episodes, the only positive thought I've been able to spare for him was that Jared Padalecki (no attacks on him here, just the character) got a good living playing a completely underwritten bore who has nothing redeeming going on and a backstory that I would call 'existent'.

The show claims he's from the south side of Chicago in a neighborhood near the Dan Ryan that has 5% white people going by the zip code of his mail from there (the show's basic research department blew it there). Most white people from Chicago are in the Gold Coast, the northwest suburbs, or the North Shore. I have been adjacent to the Chicago market my whole life. He's from the North Shore, no question, judging from how his parents seem to have good enough wealth and how every white guy Chicago teenager story is drawn from a kid from the North Shore.

He literally punched Jess out three times!

He made Rory fear violence for merely losing a bracelet he gave her and for being near Tristan for a school function (LOL, Dristan...that burn still causes me to laugh at inappropriate times about how dumb it was, and I'm sure Tristan has it as one of his constant bon mots).

He called her home phone nearly a hundred times a day and drove her to the edge of madness with a 'must watch every day' love of Lord of the Rings that compares unfavorably to my four year-old nephew only loving Frozen, PJ Masks and Daniel Tiger. That isn't anyone any person has to tolerate in a relationship.

Dean’s only reaction to Rory trying to prove a point with her Donna Reed night was just she looked hot and he learned nothing about how women hate being confined to being solely homemakers and sexual receptacles.

He dumped her because she didn’t say “I Love You” like it was the goddamned bonus round in Wheel of Fortune and she didn’t get the solution out before the buzzer.

Dean’s shambles of a gift, that piece of shit car? It almost killed Rory and Jess. It looked like it didn’t have seatbelts. I’m surprised we didn’t get an episode where Dean ended up homeless because Richard sued his cheap ass into the fucking ground.

He decided to make her go back to him in front of the entrance of Chilton, where Rory would have looked like the biggest b***h in history if she didn’t return an ‘I love you’, and goddamned well knew it. Any good person would have done this in fucking private, like a considerate person.

He never respected the Chilton side of her life. At all. If it was up to him, he would’ve made up a bomb threat and had his friend imitate Rory’s voice to get her kicked out of the school she spent her young life trying to get into. If it was up to him, Harvard would have never even been a possibility, and if not for Jess coming in, he would have intimidated her into pushing off her dream entirely to stay in the kitchen.

His origin story was never mentioned outside 'he moved from Chicago and had a girlfriend in the past, Beth'. Fanfiction allows you to examine the holes in stories and go from there, and I just worked with them because the thing with moves to new locales? You can have a brand new image with people, and they will never know what you did in your old place. Judging by his violent/stalkerish tendencies, he has a pretty good case for having Imposter Syndrome that eventually reset itself in the Hollow.

Over time he went from a guy who seemed to like good literature to hyperfocusing on the 'it' media property of the time. Likely he started out liking fine literature, but once he fell in with the imbeciles of his friend group in the Hollow, that proved to be a lie.

He had a thing about being close to Lorelai. So much that around that time, there were so many more people shipping Lorelai/Dean than Rory/Dean as a romantic couple. If not for his later flanderization, that fangroup would still be strong.

HE CHEATED ON HIS WIFE!

**HE. CHEATED. ON. HIS. WIFE!

***HE! CHEATED! ON! HIS! WIFE!

****And outside losing his home and some stuff being damaged (rightfully fucking so) by Lindsay, both her and Rory took all the brunt of the damage his wandering dick did between all of them. Lindsay was guilted by her parents for checking out on her marriage and was never heard from again (I assume she's in a convent now because ASP's writing outside of Lorelai and Rory [or Paris, Sookie and Lane on a day she wasn't angry at the world for not pressing her hat right] for women was 'they are the enemy'). Rory had to find her way back to her old self (and she never did going by ending up with Logan). Dean? Welp, good thing "Supernatural" started at that time to save ASP the bother of having to explain what a dumbass Dean was.

*****Justice for Lindsay Lister! I hope she didn't go to a convent, but flipped off her parents, squealed out of town and is killing it in a career where she's respected, with a partner who loves her deeply.

The scene where he cornered Rory into sex in her house and said he didn’t love Lindsay was sexual assault and gaslighting. ASP intended it to be romantic, but instead created a nightmare scene that would be completely passe in a Lifetime movie. Rory’s first time was her being forced to give up her sexual agency for the pleasure of only Dean. And it’s exactly why the Paris/Rory scene I wrote on the yoga mats was intended to be the exact reverse of that trash.

He hoped to get ahead in life on a hockey scholarship. That's...not a life plan. And he paid for it by being stuck doing construction.

He hated Paris. He hated that Rory had her as a friend. He wanted a life with Rory that never involved Paris.

Paris is a strong-ass lady for daring to step to him and lie through her teeth about wanting Jess to stop the Great Stars Hollow Homicide of 2002 By The Coward Dean Forrester from ever being a thing.

LOL Logan is Tristan Lite and always will be.

About ten chapters back I mentioned how the girls consider Logan terrible already from a distance based on the New York media scene. Trust me, he's in this story (he may be a little more in this story later).

"There is a lot to recommend in this, like the slow burn set-up (although you've made up for it since!)..."

#backhandedcompliment (Also, what's to recommend? Love to know what you did like, but you spent all that time saying 'I'm mean to men', so I guess you ran out of time on that)

"...and turning Madeleine and Louise into three-dimensional characters..."

You sent me a flame, but didn't expand on what you loved about this? Thanks for the lack of feedback (and for misspelling Madeline’s name).

"But there are several reasons why it's not been an easy read so I won't be hanging out for an update, I'm afraid."

You basically said that you consider me a man-hater and that because I choose to have the ladies present their views in the story, you don't like that I'm drawing real life into their motives, mores and decisions. And you said I hated the show when most of my friend circle was formed through bonding through it, and we still love it, even if we think Rory needed to do better in life and ASP's writing weakened as each season went on.

I don't need readers like you, seriously. There are many other Rory/Paris stories you can read out there. As I have said in many other flame responses;

I am not the be-all end-all of Paris/Rory fic. PLEASE, read other writers. Enjoy their stuff. But don't whine at me or them because we choose to show that even in fictional worlds, people are against LGBTQ+ issues and people. We're not going to get equality by sugar-coating or whitewashing our way past those issues, and if you can't handle what I consider light attacks against entitled men, you should probably find something else to read.

#longing #paris x rory #review #review rant #fanfiction rant #gilmore girls #longing with a cherry tomato on top

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especially-heinous-ada · 6 years ago

Text

Dr. Chilton’s Date

“Anonymous Request:

I just discovered your stories and I *love* them! Could I get a fluffy Chilton story based off the prompt "Just pretend to be my date"???”

I loved this idea and started writing immediately. Dr. Chilton doesn’t get enough love, in my opinion, so it was fun to think about how he might actually catch a break, for once. Lol.

Anyway, before I give away too much about the story, here we go!

There Dr. Chilton stood, his eyes scanning the room. Analyzing the aggregate of the guests attending Dr. Lecter’s most recent soiree. Positively boring, the whole lot. Then again, he tended to find all people who didn’t wish to kill him rather dull. He let out a single chuckle at the thought.

When did I become such a masochist? He thought, raising his glass to his lips and taking a sip through the remnants of his smirk.

“Enjoying yourself?” Dr. Lecter addressed Frederick with a droll smile. Frederick nearly choked on his drink, he was taken so off guard. Hannibal Lecter had a way of sneaking up on people that Dr. Chilton found to be completely unparalleled. Then again, Dr. Lecter was unparalleled in nearly every regard, Frederick thought resentfully.

“Ah, yes.” He responded once he’d taken a split second to regain his composure. “Quite the party you’ve got going on here.”

“I haven’t seen your date.” Dr. Lecter observed, cold eyes trained on Frederick with a pitying expression. It was then that Frederick remembered he’d RSVP’d that he would be bringing a plus-one. It wasn’t so much that he thought he’d have a date as it was that he refused to let Dr. Lecter know he’d be attending yet another of his parties solo.

“Neither have I.” Frederick laughed halfheartedly. “She must be running late.” He felt the cold eyes continue to examine him for a few powerful moments before Dr. Lecter’s expression lightened with a smile.

“Well, she’d better hurry, or she’ll miss dinner.” He winked. As Lecter walked away, Frederick felt himself exhale. There was a certain intensity that he exuded, which Frederick couldn’t quite explain. It always put him on edge. He downed the rest of his drink and approached the bar, knowing he’d need some more liquid encouragement to make it through the rest of the night.

To be honest, Frederick wasn’t entirely sure why he kept coming to these things, he admitted to himself as he reached the bar, carefully measuring another glass of red wine, filling it to the brim.

“Now that’s how you pour a glass of wine.” Said a woman’s voice from beside him. She chuckled, and irritated, he turned to face her. When his eyes fell upon her, he froze. She was positively divine. He took half a beat to recover his thoughts and cleared his throat.

“Yes, well, I need it to get through a party as pretentious as this one.” He said bitterly, before taking a large gulp. The woman laughed again, and the sound was so pleasant, it had an almost musical quality to it.

“I agree.” She said, accepting the bottle from Frederick as he offered it to her. It made an amusing glug-glug-glug as she quickly emptied the remainder of its contents into her glass. She turned to the crowd to people-watch. It was her favorite part of any party. “Anyone interesting here tonight? Because I’ve seen not-a-one.”

“Neither did I, until you showed up.” Frederick offered as a subtle flirtation. Or perhaps, it wasn’t so subtle. What if she was put off by it? He regretted his choice of words almost instantly. She offered no verbal response, but a small smile tugged at her lips and her gaze fell upon him from the corners of her eyes.

“Sweet of you.” She responds. “I’m Ana. What should I call you, Mister…?”

“Doctor.” Frederick corrected. “Doctor Frederick Chilton.” He offered her his free hand.

“Ooh, a doctor.” Ana said, eyebrows raised. There was a lilt to her voice when she said the word ‘doctor,’ and it made Frederick unsure as to whether it was intended as flattery or mockery. “What kind of doctor?”

“Doctor of psychiatry. I’m the administrator for a hospital for the criminally insane. The criminal mind is fascinating.”

“Mmm.” Her voice had that same lilt to it, and she took another sip of wine. He cleared his throat.

“Yes, well. It’s not as impressive as it sounds.” He replied hurriedly, not wanting to seem too infatuated with himself.

“You don’t have to seem so modest.” She interjected. “With an important position like that, you’re allowed to brag.” The pace of Frederick’s heart quickened. She was an unusual woman, indeed. Usually, women found him rather pretentious. He turned his head, looking across the room for some sort of idea of how to respond and saw that Dr. Lecter was headed in his direction once more. He quickly whipped his head around and looked at Ana. His eyes darted to the wine glass in her left hand. No ring on her finger. Perfect.

“I know we’ve only just met, but can I ask you to do something for me?” He muttered hurriedly. Ana’s brow furrowed in confusion, but she nodded.

“Sure. Within reason.”

“Could you just…pretend to be my date?” Ana’s eyes darted to where Frederick had gazed off across the room just prior to his request. Quickly, she noticed Dr. Lecter’s form approaching, and she understood.

“Just follow my lead.”

Frederick nodded gratefully.

Suddenly, she threw her arms around his shoulders, running her hands through his hair. Then, she leaned into him and pressed her lips to his. Shocked, it took him a moment to realize that he should kiss back, but he recovered smoothly. He kissed slowly, tenderly. Like he’d been in love with her his entire life. She, however, slipped her hands down, then pulled him closer into her by his necktie, and her tongue slipped into his mouth. Taken aback yet again, he moaned his reaction, though it was muffled by her enthusiastic kisses. At once, it was as if nothing else in the world existed but the two of them, and the sensation of his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

That feeling didn’t last long, however, as a man cleared his throat nearby. Ana slowly released her grip of Frederick’s necktie and smoothed down the front of his suit jacket before she stepped aside, turning to face the source of the intrusive noise. One hand slipped across his low back and rested itself on his waist, and she smiled brightly.

“Sorry, am I hoarding Frederick’s attention all to myself? I just can’t help myself, sometimes. He’s such a busy man, I find it hard to spend enough time with him!” She gave a shy little chuckle, but she knew exactly what she was doing. Frederick found himself in awe of her performance. He tore his eyes away from her to look at Dr. Lecter. Beside him stood Will Graham and Jack Crawford, who had apparently just arrived. Late, as always.

“You’re Dr. Chilton’s date.” Said Jack, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

“Oh, my goodness. Has Frederick not told you about me?” Ana asked, turning to him and giving him a frown of indignation. He opened his mouth once to say something, but before he could come up with anything, she turned her head back to the three men in front of them. She reached out and grasped Jack’s hand firmly, giving it a shake.

“I’m Ana. And, yes. I am his date.” She met his eye and spoke with confidence. Frederick grew fascinated by how easily and convincingly Ana was able to lie to people she’d never met before. She was a force to reckoned with, that was for sure.

“Jack Crawford.” Jack introduced himself. He seemed satisfied at her solid handshake, and she turned to Will, in much the same manner.

“Will Graham.” He introduced himself quietly. Then she turned to Dr. Lecter.

“And you’re our host, if I’m not mistaken?” She asked, grasping his hand firmly, as well.

“You’re certainly not mistaken.” Dr. Lecter responded with a charming smile, though it didn’t reach his cold, calculating eyes. His smiles never did. “I must confess, when I received Dr. Chilton’s RSVP saying he’d be bringing a plus-one, I assumed he was only bluffing to save face.” Frederick made a fist at his side, then released it, sliding the hand to rest on Ana’s hip.

“Well, as it turns out, you’re not right about everything.” He said smugly, lifting a self-satisfied brow as he watched Dr. Lecter’s expression grow darker. God, it felt good to prove him wrong, just once. The smile returned to Lecter’s face nearly as quickly as it’d faded.

“It appears you’re right about that.” He conceded with false humility, before turning and walking away.

“It was nice to meet you, Ana.” Jack said with a smile and a nod, before following Dr. Lecter. Will simply gave a single wave and did the same. After the group was out of earshot, Ana turned to Frederick.

“How was I?” She asked with a bright smile and a chuckle. Frederick put a hand on each shoulder and beamed with happiness.

“You were amazing.” He said gratefully. “You’re a great actor.”

“Obviously.” She said, rolling her eyes playfully. “I meant my kissing.”

“Oh.” Frederick responded, a blush rising in his cheeks. “Um, very great.” Ana stepped closer to Frederick, smiling knowingly at his bashful response. She took his necktie gently in her hand once more.

“You wanna do it again?” She looked up into his eyes, tweaking a brow suggestively. He stammered nervously for a moment before finally being able to muster a quiet ‘yes.’

As Ana’s lips pressed against his once more, Frederick felt grateful, for the first time, that he’d been invited to one of Dr. Lecter’s parties. He’d have to send him a thank you card later, he thought, smirking, before kissing her back deeply.

#frederick chilton #dr. chilton #my oc #request #hannibal #fill

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writer-or-whatever · 6 years ago

Note

I'm the anom from the Coffee one, your fic was sweet and amazing thank you very much Rory/Paris: Rory tries to be more sophisticated in one the Weller galas for Paris sake with hilarious results.

Hi, yes, I saw this and was like I know what I’m gonna do and then I proceeded to write all 3,253 words of it instead of reading my middle age lit for tomorrow because i really was not in the mood for old English, tbh.

Also, just a note, I may have taken the “with hilarious results” and sort of… chucked that bit out the window. I really didn’t mean to; I had a nice, funny, fluffly, fic planned out and then I got to writing it and I was about three quarters of the way done writing it and I was like what if, instead, I have angst and so I did.

Oops.

Anyway, enjoy (or cry your heart out, either way):

[Read on AO3 or FFN]

“Grandma, could I talk to you for a minute?” It was an odd request, not because Rory and her grandmother didn’t get along, but because she hadn’t once, in the two years of Friday Night Dinners, ever asked to talk to either of her grandparents alone. That was usually her mother’s thing, and, at least with Lorelai, it never meant anything good. Her grandmother, however, didn’t ask questions, merely nodded and followed Rory into her grandfather’s study, the closest private space she could think of.

“Rory, is everything alright?” Her grandmother looked concerned, and Rory felt kind of bad for worrying her over something that wasn’t even a problem. Well, something that wasn’t a huge problem, anyway. Just the little issue of her secret girlfriend asking her to come to her family’s super important, super formal, Hanukkah celebration that she had absolutely no idea how to act for.

No big deal, not at all.

“Everything’s fine, Grandma. I was just wondering if maybe you could help me with something?”

“Of course, Rory, but why are you asking me in here and not at the dinner table if nothing is wrong?” Ah, just another aspect of the problem at hand: not only did Lorelai not know that she was dating Paris, but she would be mocked endlessly if she knew that Rory wanted grandma’s help to act like a proper lady and impress Paris’s family, even if they didn’t know that Rory was their daughter’s girlfriend.

“Well, see, a friend from school invited me to an event and I don’t really know how to act at those sorts of things and I thought that you would know but you know mom, she’d mock my desire to learn about proper etiquette until the day she dies, possibly longer. You know how mom is when she sets her mind to something, nothing will stop her, not even death and-”

Emily interrupted her rambling before it could go on for too long, “Say no more, I completely understand. Now this even, when is it?” Her grandma’s interest was clearly piqued now that there was a chance to teach Rory something that was clearly important to her without Lorelai. The fact that it was about etiquette, Emily Gilmore’s specialty, just made it that much better.

“It’s on the seventh.”

“The seventh? Well, that doesn’t leave us much time, but it’ll be alright. So, who invited you to this, again?”

“Just a friend from school.” Rory really, really, hoped that she wouldn’t push any further because they were treading on dangerous ground here as it was.

“Someone whose family you want to impress by showing them that you’re a proper Gilmore? A boy you like, perhaps? Of course her grandmother would push, it’s Emily Gilmore, she’s the queen of pushing for information.

“Something like that.” There, hopefully Rory provided just enough to placate her grandmother’s need for information without actually confirming if there was a boy, which there most certainly was not.

“Alright, well, I’m glad you’ve moved on from that Dean, clearly to someone more suitable since they attend Chilton. How about you come over here a few days this week and we’ll have you all ready for next Sunday in no time.” With that, her grandmother lead the way back into the dining room, quick as you please, leaving behind a slightly grim looking Rory who could only nod her head and think about how, if her grandmother found out about who all this was for, she might actually prefer Dean.

Back at the table, she came face to face with a very curious Lorelai Gilmore, to whom she could offer no sturdy excuse for her talk to grandma.

“So, what was that,” she waved her hand between Rory and Emily, “all about?”

“Oh, you know, just asking grandma if I could come over here a couple of days next week and get a ride to the Hartford Library to get some books for school.” She could tell, before the entire excuse was even out of her mouth, that it would not hold up against her mother.

“What’s wrong with Stars Hollow’s library?”

“They don’t have the book I need, I looked.”

“And what book is that?”

Oh boy.

“I, uh, don’t remember off the top of my head.”

“You, Rory Gilmore, girl who actually likes school and studies for more hours than she sleeps, don’t remember something about school? About books?!” Her mom was in fine form tonight, both dramatic and relentless about something Rory would much rather not talk about.

Great.

“Well, I can’t be perfect all the time, right? Give someone else a chance, eh?” She could tell her mother wasn’t buying it, but, thank God, her grandfather changed the subject to his upcoming business trip to Utah. Her mom went with it, asking what else could there possibly be to insure in Utah other than cows, but Rory knew that this interrogation was far from over.

Mid-afternoon on Sunday the seventh of December found Rory in her grandmother’s house hiding in the kitchen on the phone with Paris. It’d been nine days of hiding etiquette lessons with her grandmother from her mother and hiding the person that was the reason for said lessons from her grandmother. Frankly, it was exhausting and Rory just really wanted to see Paris, formal event and etiquette be damned.

“I can’t believe you accepted her offer.” Paris was laughing at her, which, if it were anyone else trapped in the Gilmore house hiding from Emily and her personal stylist, she would be laughing too. But, it was Rory and Rory would just like some support from her girlfriend, thank you very much.

“Well, to be fair, when she offered it was less like an offer and more like an order.”

“You’re going to show up here looking like a proper seventy year old woman.” Paris was still laughing. “Oh, this is going to be great. You’ll really liven up my spirits; it’s the perfect Hanukkah gift.”

“Keep it up and I’ll bring her along to give you a last minute makeover. Then we’ll match. Won’t that be fun?” Paris stopped laughing, she was pretty sure Rory was serious.

“You’re not serious about that are you?” Oh, she did think Rory was serious.

“As a heart attack.” She still sounded serious, but just barely.

“I take it back,” and, with those words, Rory let out the laughter she had been holding in since she first threatened Paris with an old lady makeover. “Are you laughing, Gilmore?”

“I might be.” Not even two seconds after those words left her mouth, her grandma came into the kitchen. “Uh, gotta go, talk to you later,” and then she hung up on Paris, a thing that was basically a cardinal sin in the guide to dealing with Paris Geller.

“Who was that on the phone?” Her grandmother was looking at her with that look, the one that meant that she knew that Rory was talking to “the gentleman,” as she’d taken to calling the nonexistent boy that Rory was doing all this for.

“Just Paris, I needed to double check about the pages for the reading for history is all.” It wasn’t completely untrue, it was Paris on the phone, just not for information on the history reading.

“I see,” her grandmother said in a way that made Rory fairly certain that she believed that Rory was telling her it was Paris as a cover but didn’t want to pry, “well, now that you’ve cleared that up let’s finish getting you ready, shall we?”

When Rory left her grandparents’ house, she looked like an illustration pulled straight out of a modern retelling of Cinderella, tiara and all. She cannot believe she let her grandmother dress her like this, but there was nothing for it now. She approached the Geller’s house, which made the Gilmore residence look like a humble home in comparison, and rang the doorbell, secretly hoping that the butterflies in her stomach would take flight and take her with them. She was so nervous, what if Mr and Mrs. Geller didn’t like her? After all, they were not the most affectionate people in the world. What if they found out about her and Paris? What if Rory embarrassed herself? There was so much that could go wrong. Thank God the maid answered the door, took her coat, and ushered her inside.

She wasn’t even ten steps into the house when a hand grabbed her from one of the closets in the foyer and pulled her in.

“What the hell?! Let go of me,” She was yelling and twisting away from the hands that were on her arms in the dark closet.

“Gilmore, chill the fuck out. And stop yelling.” It was Paris. Of course it was. She came to see her in her own house at her invitation and she was still getting pulled into closets.

“Oh, hi.” She turned to face what assumed was Paris’s face, though it was too dark to see anything.

“Hi,” She flipped the light on as she said it, revealing the two of them and about four coats in the small space.

The butterflies were back, but this time it wasn’t because Rory was nervous, it was because Paris was fucking gorgeous. “You look nice,” she reached up to grab Paris’s hands from where they rested on her upper arms.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” not only did Paris look nice, but Rory really wanted to kiss her. Unfortunately, Paris chose tonight to actually wear a lipstick that would be very noticable if it were both smudged and on Rory.

“You do too, not at all like a grandmother.” Paris was smiling when she said it, very clearly holding back a laugh over Rory’s early hysterics over being turned into an old lady by her grandmother’s stylist.

“Thank you,” Rory did a little curtsey as she said it, just adding to the princess illusion.

“My very own princess charming, what do you know,” And Paris was leaning in, and, yeah, lipstick be damned because they were kissing and Rory was fairly certain that it was magical and that fact had nothing at all to do with her fairytale appearance and everything to do with the fact that it was Paris that she was kissing, being in love will do that to you. Not that Rory was in love with Paris or anything. Or, at least, not that she’d admit. Yet.

When they broke for air, Rory decided that she needed to point out the flaw in their kissing plan, “What are the odds that we’ll be able to make it to a bathroom to fix this,” she gestured to her lipstick smeared mouth, “without running into anyone and outing ourselves?”

“Very high, the maid knows and there’s a bathroom that’s for the staff three doors down from this one. She’ll give us a knock when all the other guests are here,” and, with her worries cleared up, they were back to kissing.

This lasted for about five more minutes before there was a knock on the closet door, clearly from the maid, since Paris pulled away and straightened up. “After you, her majesty, your public awaits.”

“Har de har har,” but Rory followed Paris out of the closet and into the bathroom anyway.

They got cleaned up and slipped into the midst of the party without anyone noticing, much to Rory’s relief. It wasn’t that difficult of a night, she remember to stand up straight, which fork was used for the salad, and how to politely exit a conversation every time someone asked her if she, a nice young lady, was seeing anyone.

It was all going fine, or at least it was, until the other guests had left and it was just Paris and her parents.

She was going to leave with everyone else, but Paris had asked her to stay for the lighting of the last candle on the Menorah, something that she typically just did with her family. It obviously meant a lot to Paris that Rory be there, and, if she was honest, it meant a lot to Rory to have been asked to stay. They lit the candle, followed the traditions, and everything was fine. Her parents were leaving, on their way to their separate wings of the house, when it happened. Paris turned to her and whispered, “I love you, thank you for coming. And thank you for staying.”

Rory was just about to return the sentiments when, faster than Rory would think possible for the large man, Mr. Geller was there and he was not happy. “What did you say? You love her? She’s a girl, Paris. You were raised better than this. You were raised to bring greatness upon the Geller name, not shame.”

“She’s not bringing shame, Mr.Geller. She’s being who she is, someone who is wonderful and ambitious and driven and intelligent and you should be ashamed of yourself for thinking such a thing, let alone saying it to your own daughter on a night that is supposed to be special and about celebration.” Rory couldn’t help it, she jumped to Paris’s defense, snapping and merciless, even though she knew Paris was completely capable of defending herself.

“It is a shame and she is not welcome in this house until she realizes it.” He turned away, resolute and hard in his decision, while Paris’s mother simply looked on.

“Good. There’s nothing here for me anyway, with parents that love their family name and money than they ever could me.” Paris was angry, and she certainly sounded it, but Rory could also see from the set of her jaw that she was moments away from crying.

“Let’s go, Par. Come home with me.” Rory’s arm was around Paris and guiding her over to the door where they both got their coats and a kiss on the forehead from Paris’s nanny, who Paris promised to call tomorrow.

They drove to Stars Hollow in silence, Rory driving Paris’s car and Paris glaring resolutely out of the passenger side window.

When they pulled up to Rory’s house, Paris finally spoke, “So, how are we going to play this? Poor Paris needed a night away from her parents so she’s spending the night at her friend, Rory’s, house?” Paris basically spat the word friend with more venom than she’d ever heard her use before, even back in their sophomore year when they were enemies and Paris didn’t spend a free minute not tormenting Rory.

“No. I’m going to tell her. I’m going to go in there and say ‘mom, this is my girlfriend, Paris, whom you’ve met, and I love her very much and she’s had a very rough night, can she please crash here?”

“You love me?” The hard edge left Paris’s voice, leaving a soft vulnerable whisper in its wake.

“Yeah, I do. And I’m so sorry that your parents are such homophobic assholes and I know that this won’t make up for it, but I do and I want you to know that.” Just as the last word left her mouth, Paris was kissing her, and it was salty and wet and sad, but it was Paris.

“Okay, then,” Rory said, getting out of the car and heading around to Paris’s side to open her door, “let’s do this, shall we?”

When they got into the Gilmore household, it was dark, but there were lights and sounds coming from the living room, so the tv was clearly on. And, when in the Gilmore house, where you can find a movie, you can find Lorelai, so the two girls made their way into the living room, divesting themselves of their heels in the process.

“Hey, Rory, how was the thing?” Her mom was very caught up in the movie, Casablanca, and hadn’t yet looked at Rory and so she didn’t see Paris, either.

“Not so great.”

“No? Nothing a little classic love triangle can’t fix.” She was still absorbed in the movie, despite having seen it approximately one thousand times.

“Not this time, mom.” That got Lorelai’s attention, alright, because, in the world according to Lorelai Gilmore, there was very little that could not be fixed by Casablanca. She was clearly surprised to see Paris standing there in her living room along with Rory, both of them disheveled and clearly upset.

“What happened?” She made her way off the couch and over to the two girls, Rick and Ilsa completely forgotten.

“Um, well, I went to the party at Paris’s, like I said, and it was fine until after everyone else left. I stayed to watch them light the Menorah because Paris asked me to and then, well, her parents found out about me.”

“Found out that you were there? Didn’t they invite you? Strange people, those Gellers.” At any other time, Rory really would have appreciated her mother’s attempt to make light, but not tonight.

“No. They found out that I am Paris’s girlfriend.” There, she said it. Now all that was left was to see how it went over.

“Girlfriend? Like friend who is a girl or…”

“The or option. Girlfriend as in hold hands, kiss, go on dates, kind of girlfriend.”

“Okay. So they found that out and what? They weren’t happy with it?” Lorelai sounded like she was teetering on the edge of the dangerous kind of angry that she only got when someone did something to hurt her kid, which, in a way, the Gellers definitely did.

“Definitely not.” Rory wasn’t really sure how much more Paris wanted her to say.

“They kicked me out.” Paris, apparently, had no qualms about telling Lorelai the whole thing now that it had been established that she didn’t care about the fact that they weren’t straight and were very much together.

“What’s your address, again, Paris? Tomorrow I’m going to go over there and give them a piece of my mind, I think. In the meantime, you’re more than welcome to stay here.”

Rory couldn’t help it, she practically leapt forward to hug her mother and whispered, “thanks, mom” into the embrace. Hugging one girl clearly wasn’t enough for Lorelai, since she pulled Paris into a hug as well.

Later that night, when Paris had gone to bed in her bed because Rory wouldn’t let her take the couch, Lorelai sat down on the arm of the couch by where Rory’s feet where, as she lay sprawled out on the couch under about four hundred blankets. “So, is this why you and Dean didn’t work out? I thought it was about Jess, but was it because you don’t like boys?” Her mom was quiet, something rare for her, which meant that she was trying to really understand, not make light.

“No. Dean and didn’t work out because I had feelings for someone else, but it wasn’t Jess. It was Paris.” She took a deep breath, “I really did love him, you know. I just wanted him to be happy, but, after a while, I wanted to be happy too. I hated hurting him, but it wasn’t because of Jess. I mean Jess is a great friend but that’s really all he is.”

“So, you like boys and girls?”

“Pretty much.”

“How lucky for you.”

“What?” She didn’t expect her mom to be made about it but lucky? What the hell was that supposed to mean?

“You’ve got twice as many fish in the sea, kid.”

“Oh my god.”

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#ask response #rose writes #Rory/Paris #rory/paris fic #Gilmore Girls #gilmore girls fic

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kitgilmore · 6 years ago

Text

SEVEN / CINNAMON'S WAKE

Delight danced across as Kit's face as they sat at the immaculate table, the duck they were having was particularly delicious. The conversation had turned from how was school' to Nazis and that when Kit stopped paying attention to the blue nail polish she'd only been wearing on the weekends. Chilton did have a strict dress code, even though she'd seen a few upperclassman bend those rules daily. Kit was still the new girl and she didn't want to cause any more unwanted attention between Paris and her minions, Tristan the village idiot and Rory's audition for America's most crazed student the school was feeling crowded.

"Oh wait - Rudolph Gottfried." Their grandmother said.

"Another cousin?"

"No, a Nazi that we knew. I'd forgotten. We stayed with him once in Munich. Nice old man. Interesting stories."

Taking a sip of lemonade to stop herself from chocking at her Grandmothers comment, she took another to stop herself from outright laughing as she noticed the glint in her eye.

"Mom you socialized with a Nazi? That's despicable! That's heinous!" "No, dear, that was a joke." She smirked causing the twins to chuckle.

Kit could hear Rory before she entered the kitchen messenger bag slung across her shoulder.

"All of the parents pitch in so this is really really important. You know that, right?" Rory screeched.

"Your sister isn't freaking out.." she said as Kit grabbed a cup of coffee. "Why aren't you freaking out sweetheart"

"Because you can't bake!" She said taking a seat next to her mother, wondering why her sister was playing Rancid this early in the morning.

"You see one of the perks of having a mother who runs an inn is that it comes with a brilliant chef who makes the best sugar cookies."

"Smart child..," she said to Kit before turning to Rory.

"I try"

"I have it covered! Get your stuff and hit the stereo - we're late."

"It's not me." He sister said crossing the kitten to her bedroom. Opening the Gilmore saw a small Korean dancing.

"Where does your mother think you are?" Lorelai asked as Kit grabbed her blue peacoat, thanking God it was Tuesday so she didn't need Cello as much as she loved it lugging it to and from on a bus was becoming challenging.

"Oh, on a park bench contemplating the reunification of the two Koreas." Lane said. Their small best friend had been working her way through the catalogue of rock since 6th grade when she heard Metallica for the first time. If it wasn't for Lane Kit never would have found her love for Blondie, she would have stuck with Bach or YoYo Ma.

"So not skanking to Rancid?" Kit smirked.

"Wouldn't be included."

"School!" Their mother called out.

Saying their goodbyes to Lane as she ran off towards Stars Hollow High, they themselves ran into their neighbours Babette and Morey walked by pushing their cat in a carriage which honestly wasn't the strangest thing she'd seen them do it should have been though she sure of it.

"Wow, Cinnamon, riding in style," Rory commented while Kit just whistled along.

"Yeah, Morey made it. Cinnamon's not walking well these days but she still likes her passeggiatas. That's Italian for 'a nice walk.'" She short woman said of her overtly tall husband.

"Passeggiata," Morey said rolling his tongue in an Italian accent.

"Oh God, he makes it sound so sexy." Rory and Kit shared a look the couple was truly adorable.

"Come on."

"What's that?" Their mother asked pointing to the enclosed space in the gold covered wagon.

"Oh, it's Cinnamon's private area." She told them as if it was obvious.

"Sometimes she likes to be alone. She's just like Morey in that sense." She said before turning to her husband and asking.

"Say passaggiata again."

"I can't do it on command, Babs." He says, shades on cool as anything.

"Oh, he's blushin'. God, I love a man that blushes!" She says before they walked away pulling their cat in a wagon behind them.

"I love them" Kit smiled before kissing her mother goodbye.

"Okay, our town is just weird," Rory commented.

"Thank God."

"Bye," the girls said.

"Bye"

"I'll see you later at school," Rory said her voice a touch higher in her worried state.

"For what?" Joked their mother acting as if she didn't know what her sister was talking about.

"Mom, the bake sale!" Rory yelled, her eyes wide, her forehead creased.

"Ha! I got the vein in the forehead. Whoo!"

"Sadist," Rory called after her. Readjusting her bag, Kit grabbed hold of her sister's shoulders, pulling her towards their destination.

"Come on you little worrier or we're going to miss the bus." Her sister turned her, frowning before saying

"That's not funny!"

It took the twins about 45 minutes to get to Hartford from Stars Hollow. Seating on the bench at the bus stop Rory was reading one of the 3 books she always carried with her while Kit was nearing the end of Crime and Punishment, the Russian edition was a lot easier to read that she'd thought once she got into it, she did have to stop herself from skimming some of the longer passages but Dostoyevsky was beautiful in its original language. When the bus arrived the twins got on usually Kit stood up in order to lean against her cello but today she sat next to her sister, lucky the bus wasn't too crowded.

"Hey."

"Yблюдок" Bastard. "Aah! Morning." The twins yelled at the boy behind them.

"Good book?" He asked

"Sure"

"I don't know yet," Rory told him, Kit smiled at her sister as she blushed a little.

"I saw you standing in line so I thought I'd say hello."

"Hello," Rory said sheepishly.

"Hi, I'm Kit," she said offering him her hand over her seat which he shook "This is my twin sister Rory, which I'm sure you knew."

Rory was holding her bag tightly, not looking at either her sister or the boy.

"Yeah."

The conversation paused as the bus started to move, Kit watched as Rory blushing reached her ears.

"So how do you know Rory..?" Kit asked turning to face him. "Wait what's, what's your name?"

"Dean." He answered looking back at Rory who had yet to move.

"Oh, she helped me get a job at the store. I mean it's not a career or anything but it's got me solvent."

"Solvent's good." Rory finally added.

"Your the new boy" Kit said, not quite meaning it to come out as an accusation.

"Yeah, uh, are you always this serious?" He asked Rory, Kit smiled as she returned to her book.

"No" "Yes" she muttered under her breath.

"So, uh, how long does it take you to get to school?" He asked.

"Um...forty minutes if the bus driver's focused but longer if he's trying to win something on the radio," Rory said.

"Hey, this bus is going to Hartford!" she yelled.

"Yeah, I know."

"But you go to school here. You have to get off the bus!" Rory began to panic before calling out to the driver "Hey, he has to get off the bus!"

"Wait. You're forgetting something." He said leaning closer to her.

"Buses make stops. Good-bye Lorelai Gilmore." And with the cute boy in the leather jacket got off the bus.

"Oh god." Kit said unable to contain her smile. "You like him."

"No, I don't," She told her twin, shaking her head with a smile that was about to reach her eyes.

"You do, you did before.. you were all... I don't wanna got to Chilton, who needs read books when I can stare his cute face all day" she impersonated, as poked and prodded her sister's sides.

"I did not," Rory told her sister firm, blushing a little more than Kit had ever seen as she smoothed out her school uniform.

"He cute.." Kit told her trying back to Dostoyevsky "...he obviously likes you." Which caused the sides of her sister's smile to increase.

The school day passed relatively fast and before they knew it was bake sale time. Kit was a little surprised when she found out a school like Chilton was going to have a bake sale. The courtyard was littered with tables with a variety of different selection of cakes on them.

"OK- we've got our French fantasies" Sookie started "American treats and our Italian taste sensations. Well, what do you think?"

"Amazing."

"Brilliant"

"Incredible." The Gilmore girls commented.

"It is good, isn't it? Well, final touch." She smiled pulling out a blow torch to light the swan-shaped dessert on fire.

"Oh, can I do that?" Rory asked

"Whoa, honey, this is a more delicate procedure than you might think, OK?" Sookie told her lighting the torch.

"Ok" she replied, while Kit went in search of something with peanut butter in it.

"It takes an expert hand." she heard Sookie say as she turned around, walking backward a voice behind her called.

"Is that your mother"

"Eh, the one pouring lemonade on the desserts.." she said looking towards her mother and Sookie.

"Yeah that my mom.."

"So are your parents here?" She asked the shorter girl.

"No.. my father is in London and my mum lives in Chicago," Hazel told her. Kit and Hazel had become friends over the last couple of weeks. They only had one class together but it was nice having a companion in the orchestra.

"So. Are home alone?" Kit asked her as they walked past tables filled with deserts that didn't quite look homemade.

"No my brothers with me." Kit paused.

"You have a brother." She asked looking around.

"No... he doesn't go here. He has been kicked out of a few too many schools to go here." She told her.

"Oh... is he your only brother?" Kit asked. Once they found a table with what seemed to be peanut butter brownies, Kit brought three and one for Hazel.

"Yes.. we have same parents but I have 4 half sisters and a step-sister."

"Wow." Kit said.

"Yeah, my parents are worse than Ross Geller when it comes to marriage."

"That's good... or not" Kit said handing her a brownie.

"My mum has a set of twins."

"Really."

"They're identical though... so they have this whole creepy shinning thing going on." The freckled girl told her, playing with the bracelets stacked on her wrist, her shirt sleeves pulled up the elbow.

"We've done that.. it was fun.. well not fun but we got to scare Kirk." She said as they laughed their way back to her sister, Sookie and her mother.

"Whose Kirk?"

"He's.. unexplainable."

Lying across her bed, listening to Beethoven's Cello Sonata no. 3 she was putting off her chemistry homework. The afternoon light dancing across her bedroom floor, when Rory burst through the door. Kit sat up rapidly and shot her she looked at her with confusion.

"I brought a lettuce."

"Rad"

Kit blinked twice and was about to asked her sister why she brought a head of lettuce with such urgency when they heard a siren coming up the drive. The twins shared a looked before they raced to the window, trying not to disturb the small plant she kept there, as they opened it to get a better look. Out the window, a van from the Stars Hollow veterinarian clinic pulls up next door.

"Go get mum she's at Luke's." Kit asked her.

Inside Babette's house, Cinnamon's body lay covered with a sheet while the vet examined her. She had just finished when Rory and Lorelai arrived Kit was sitting with Morey.

"Oh, Lorelai. Rory Come in, come in." The small blonde told her mother as she adhered them inside.

"She's gone. Cinnamon's gone."

"I'm so sorry."

"Is there anything we can do for you, Morey?" Kit asked trying to comfort the fellow musician as Rory sat next to her.

"This is life, Girls," he told them "It breaks your heart." The girls both hugged him while Babette told them what happened to Cinnamon.

"She looked like she was sleeping. I thought she was asleep so I nudged her and she didn't wake." She told them getting more and more upset.

"I gave her a push and she rolled off the couch and since I waxed the floor she went shootin' across the room and then she knocked over the lamp and she still didn't move. I knew it was over." When she cried "Oh, God, my baby." Lorelai hugged her to comfort her.

"Tell me it wasn't the -." He started before clamming up with grief.

"Oh, Morey, don't do this to yourself. He thinks it was the clams."

"She saw me eating them and she gave me that 'hey, man, what's up?' look and -."

"It wasn't the clams. Morey, in human years this cat was 260 years old." The vet told them.

"That's a good, long life." Their mother told them

"Listen, why don't you let me take her out to the van and then I'll get out of your way." The vet suggested.

"Oh, no, stay," she said before turning to the rest of them

"All of you, please stay. Cinnamon would want you here.

"We'll stay as long as you want," Rory said.

"I'll never eat clams again."

"Me either." The twins said.

A funeral for a cat may not seem that strange, if you are eight and have need to say goodbye to your first pet but its more often than not a private affair in the backyard next to the oak tree, however in a town such as Stars Hollow with a Cat like cinnamon a wake is required. The Gilmore twins were trying to keep themselves occupied while their mothers organise ed greeting the mourners, calling both Luke and Sookie and comforting Babette. Kit was trying very hard not to think about the chemistry homework she had put off in favour of relaxation. What a stupid teenage mistake because you never know when your neighbour's cat will die, and you'll have to put it off in favour of a wake for said cat. She wondered briefly if 'my neighbour's cat died" was on the same par as 'my dog ate my homework. How did that phrase even start, Kit wondered who was the first to start it, was it a movie or a book. She swore to look it up later as she's pulled out of her thoughts by Lane who said

"They said that they rolled her body into a lamp." as they walked through Babette barn style house, Kit pursed her lips as Rory nodded in answer.

"Did you laugh?" Kit had to concentrate on not laughing at this moment, it not that she thought it was funny, Its just tragedy plus time equals comedy and one day this will be funny, probably sooner rather than later. Her mother had a terrible track record with pets including two hamsters and a turtle. How she killed a turtle Kit will never know. Rory being far more polite than her sister just shook her head at her best friend.

"Did you want to?" Kit sniggered at her, her hand quickly finding her mouth as she composed herself, Rory gave her a sharp look only for it fall into a smile as she nodded yes.

"But it's sad," Rory told them, as they walked into the living room.

"Yeah, it's sad."

"So sad." Kit said.

She lost Rory in the crowd of people, after a short conversations in which miss Patty informed her that birthday kissed are a special kind of magic, and only after Kit promised to always remember that she left the dance teacher in search of her sister and a mug of hot chocolate, if she played her cards right she could have it spiked with peppermint, because it never too early for something festive.

"Do you know him?" she heard her mother ask, Rory's ears flushing in the way they seemed to when leather jacket boy was around. Kit found her mother looking in the direction of the kitchen where he was headed, a creates of soda bottles in his arms.

"No"

"Yes." Kit said joining the conversation, Lorelai looked between her daughters one blushing, one smirking.

"Well, he goes to my old school, so I see him there sometimes," Rory told them quickly.

"but I.. we go to Chilton now." Kit giggled at her sister's misfortune.

"Thanks for the update."

"You're welcome."

When their mother left the leather jacket boy suddenly returned, before Kit could save her sister from her flustered lack of conversational skills, their conversation was over, when he smiled sweetly and said

"Oh, sure, ill see you later."

As she watched her sister watch him leave she pulled on her shoulder and said.

"Okay, we need to make a plan, otherwise that boy is never going to know how many triple word score words you know...I'm thinking step 1. Talking." It wasn't untill she was ready to click her finger in her sister's face that she noticed just what she was staring at, like Rory all words seemed to fail her, as her mother returned. It was Rory who asked.

"Mom? Isn't that -"

"Oh, no."

"That's Mr. Medina." Kit said as she pointed to towards the dark haired man standing on their front porch.

"Tonight's Thursday!"

"You were expecting him." Kit asked looking towards her mother.

"Well, am I in trouble? is Kit. Did the school call or something?" Rory asked just as confused by the sudden appearance of their English teacher.

"No, no you're great. Both of you" Lorelai started. She paused trying to find the words. "I - um - let me just come back in just one second."

"Wait - what's going on?" Rory asked.

"Let me tell you in a minute."

"Tell us now." Kit all but demanded.

"Max is here -"

"Max?... You're calling him Max." Kit staggered.

"Max is here to pick me up."

"Pick you up.." Kit repeated.

"Pick you up for - oh."

"I'm gonna go talk to him real quick and I'm gonna be right back." Both the girls walked inside faces far more appropriate for the occasion.

"Are we alright with this?" Kit asked her sister, as she was being pulled through Babette house and out the other door into the garden, Kit giggled as Rory sat amongst the circle of red-hatted garden gnomes as if she was conducting a meeting of the UN.

"Are we," she answered, Kit let out the breath she was holding and thought about it. Unable to come up with a quick conclusion she too sat down and joined the meeting.

The conversation had been laps with neither teen quite sure how they felt about the possibility of their mother dating their teacher, but more importantly, their mother who shared everything, too much some would say didn't tell them until he was standing right in front of them. In fact. She hadn't told them anything at all. Kit couldn't help but think about all the ways in which this could go wrong, they were new at Chilton, she just wanted to keep her head down and get through this semester not be known as the girl who mother is dating her English teacher.

"Hey." A voice called behind them, Kit watched as Rory jumped, a little startled herself. As soon as she saw who it was, a smile appeared.

"Jeez, you scared me."

"You just keep popping up, don't you." Kit said, as she picked up one of the gnomes, wanting to give them some privacy but now ready to leave the circle just yet.

"Yeah, uh, look. I just wanted to say that I'm sorry."

"For what," Rory asked.

"Well, I've been kind of bugging you lately. Uh, I thought - I don't know." Kit attention was now on the pair of them not they noticed.

"I thought that maybe you liked me. But it's obvious that you're not interested so I just wanted to say that I get it and I'm not gonna bother you anymore."

Rory looked hurt as she glanced at her sister in desperation, Kit eyes widen as she silently told her to say something, anything as he started to walk away.

"Wait! I AM interested," she yelled as she jumped up. Maybe not that Kit thought.

"You are?"

"Yes. I gotta go." And with that Rory bolted towards the house leaving her sister, the boy in the leather jacket and her meeting of gnomes. Putting the gnome who looked like he was named Samson back in his position the tall teen stood up and said to the boy watching her sister leave with a smile on his face.

"She's better when she had the chance to write a second draft."

"Goodnight leather jacket boy."

"Oh! Finally. I've been looking everywhere for you." Lorelai said as she found the girls on the front porch.

"Well, you found us." Kit snipped.

"Listen, I have some explaining to do. OK. Okay." she started.

"So sit down in that tiny little bench and I'm gonna do it right now." the twins looked towards each other and silently agreed to listen to their mother. They squeezed together on the little bench and waited for an explanation.

"That man on the porch was your teacher." she started.

"Fully aware of who he is Mom, we have him for an hour of English, 5 days a week."

"So?" Rory added.

"So - um - he and I were going to sort of hang out together," she told them

"On a date," Rory asked.

"No, on a" Kit raised her eyebrows at her mother

"Something that could appear like a date to the untrained eye."

"You mean like your daughters or the guy at the bank, or to anyone. Really." Kit added, the brand of sarcasm she only reversed for her parents dating choices, their father only slightly worse than their mother when it comes to the length of time their relationships last.

"It was a date." she defeated.

"How long have you been dating him?" Rory asked, her eyebrows doing their 'trying to be as sassy as her sister' thing.

"I haven't. This was gonna be the first time."

"Right." Kit mumbled trying to wrap her head around this.

"And when were you planning on telling us about this - your wedding?" Rory asked.

"No - by the rehearsal dinner at least." Their mother joked. Neither twin was amused.

"He's our teacher." Kit said after a beat of silence.

"I know."

"He teaches us things every day in a very small classroom with a lot of other kids who probably won't be high-fiving us when they find this out," Rory said as she stood up, her hands letting go of the sleeve of her jean jacket.

"I know, sweetie, and I told him this was one of the things I was concerned about," she told them.

"And?" Kit asked.

"And he thought we could be discreet."

"You do realize we're in high school. You remember that it was that thing you meant to be doing when we were conceived" Kit snapped.

"Are you mad?"

"Should we not be."

"Yes," Rory added.

"Alright. Because I'm dating him?"

"A little. I think." Kit said standing up, as she leaned against the house, she waited for Rory to speak.

"Because you lied to us."

"I kept information from you." She said, unable to meet her eye.

"Information that we should have had." Kit told her, standing next to her sister, her arms folded.

"Information that would have come out eventually," she said her hands waving in front of her as she tried to dismiss this issue, in a true Gilmore fashion. "Like the Iran-Contra scandal."

"So you're Oliver North." Rory huffed.

"No, I'm Fawn Hall."

"Mom"

"Well, she was much prettier." she joked.

"I just can't believe that you didn't tell us about this." Kit said, sitting back down, trying to work out if she was okay with her mother dating her English teacher and whether in the end, it mattered.

"Why wouldn't you tell us?"

"'Cause I thought you were going to take it bad. Thank God I was wrong."

"Its pretty justified." Kit snipped.

"OK, OK. Listen, I'm sorry. I won't date him. I promise."

"I'm not saying that you can't date him. It's just.." Rory started.

"Weird... It's weird." Kit finished.

"Yeah, I mean - there's a million guys in this world and you end up with Mr. Medina," Rory said.

"You think I don't get the weirdness factor? Believe me, the last thing I intended to do was date your teacher."

"I believe you," Rory said while Kit kept quiet.

"I really like him, girls. I can't help it. And it's been a really long time since I've felt like this. You can't always control who you're attracted to, you know." Their mother told them unable to control the smile on her face.

"I think the whole Angelina Jolie/Billy Bob Thronton thing really proves that. And I know you don't understand this now but you will someday. You'll meet some great guy and he'll make your head all foggy and you won't know what to do with yourself."

"Oh, girls, I won't keep anything from either of you again. OK? I promise. From now on every aspect of my life is an open book to you both."

"That's alright." Kit mumbled.

"Really, I'm not even going to get dressed until I tell you what I'm thinking of wearing."

"Fair enough."

"OK, tomorrow I'm thinking the purple tiger top, the black leather skirt, the panda bear underwear."

"Please. Stop."

"But of course I'm totally open to suggestions."

"Here's one: get some help." Rory integrated.

Once the goodbyes where said the girls made their home, the phone started ringing as soon as they opened the door. Their mother reached for it, while Kit stripped off her mustard sweater, as she listened to her mothers conversation.

"Hello."

"Mom?"

"Hi."

"But someone hasn't."

"There we go."

"Well, there are no messages on the machine, Mom."

"At a wake."

Both Kit and Rory looked at their mother with annoyance, shaking their heads and all but waving their arms.

"A wake...a funeral."

"It was for the neighbours -"

"-cat." Kit smacked her hand against her head, her mother looked at her and mouthed 'What', to which the girls just shocked their heads.

"Mom?"

"I just wanted to be honest with you, Mom. Silly me."

"Yeah, a cat. It was a cat's funeral." she continued.

"Not my cousin, mom. My father's grandmother's sister's girl who I've never -" the girls left their mother to her own mother.

"French and then Chemistry." Kit told Rory when she asked what Homework she had.

"Plus English."

"Plus English, which ill leave for last I think. I should probably start with Chemistry." Kit moaned as she filled the coffee filter.

"Aaagh! She's working for a sedative manufacturer. Keeping that demand sky-high." Lorelai moaned in the same tone as Kit as she entered the kitchen.

"You shouldn't have told her," Rory said, pouring herself a glass of lemonade.

"Well, I don't know what to tell and what to hide."

"Yeah."

"So we never did quite settle the whole dating-your-teacher issue." their mother started. Looking between her two teenagers as they stood on either side of the room.

"You're a grown up. You can date whoever you like."Kit said before turning back to her coffee.

"It's whoever we like."

"Well I'm certainly not going to go out with him 'cause that would be really weird," Rory said.

"But I mean it. I won't see him if you don't want me to."

"Huh." Kit mumbled as she poured her coffee.

"You know, if there's anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, big or small, then he's out of there."

"Good to know," Rory stated.

"Because you know it's not like I'm desperate. I mean, there are plenty of other guys out there."

"Plenty."

"And it's not like I have to ask permission from my teenager daughters. I mean, this is a courtesy."

"Thanks." Kit said as she reached the stairs.

"OK, so I'm going to be up for a while if you want to get back to me on this," Lorelai yelled so both she and Rory behind her closed door could hear.

"Got it." Kit yelled down the stairs as she reached her bedroom, put the cup of coffee on her messy bedside table, and fell on to it only for a second before she reached for her school bag and pulled out her homework.

#Kit Gilmore #The Adaptation of Kit Gilmore #Gilmore Girls #Gilmore Girls OC #Rory Gilmore #Lorelai Gilmore #CINNAMON'S WAKE

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darling-i-read-it · 4 years ago

Text

Su-Zakana

2x08

Hannibal Lecter x reader x Will Graham

Hannibal Re-Write Series Masterlist

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: spoilers for hannibal, murder, mental health problems, insinuations to smut, murder, dead bodies, manipulation

Author’s Note: This took so long and it is super long and I am very tired but I really hope you guys enjoy!!!

I used some direct quotes from the script so some things may seem familiar

Official Episode Summary :Will helps investigate the case of a woman's body found inside of a horse; Alana worries about Will's intentions toward Hannibal; Will and Hannibal rush to protect a witness they believe to be in danger.

I don’t own these characters. They belong to author/director

Tag List (is always open!) : @llperfectsymmetryll @ericacactus @vlightning95

(not my gif) (this was one of those episodes where i’m like WILL IS PRETTY ALL GIFS OF WILL)

“Where are you off to?” you asked, looking up at Will. You were amazed at how compused he had been since arriving back from jail. You weren’t going to lie, it was attractive. But also semi worrying. Ever since he had sent someone to kill Hannibal he had been this way. Maybe it was just because he was more sure of himself now. Either way, you liked this Will more than the one who seemed to be breaking at every touch.

“Fishing.”

“It’s snowing,” you pointed out.

“Ice fishing.”

“Are you going alone? Should I come?”

“No, I’m going with Jack.” You scoffed and Will smiled. It was nice to see some things would never change and your distaste for Jack Crawford was one of those things.

“Alright, have fun then. Be safe!”

“I’m a good fisher Y/N,” Will promised. You shrugged.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t tell you to be safe.”

You sat at Hannibal’s dinner table. It was odd to be back here. Sitting beside Will, across from Jack, near Hannibal. It reminded you of the times before your boyfriend was wrongly put in jail but then again, mostly everything did these days.

Hannibal placed the fish down on the table and you were happy to see the pieces of it and know Will had caught it.

“Truite saumonee au bleau with vegetables and broth, served with hollandaise sauce on the side. Beautiful fish Will,” Hannibal started to dish up each plate and place them in front of everyone. Will gave a strained smile.

“It was my turn to provide the meat,” he quipped and you chuckled a bit at that. Jack gave you a look but you couldn’t care less what he thought.

‘More flavorful and firm than farmed specimens. I find the trout to be a very Nietzsche-an fish. Trials of hsi wild existence find their way into the flavor of the flesh.” Hannibal sat down. “I hope ‘providing the meat’ doesn’t mean you still harbor doubts about what I serve at my table.”

“No doubts, Dr. Lecter. Only the wounds ew dealt to each other before we got to the truth,” Jack explained.

“Speak for yourself Jack,” you said, cutting harshly into the fish on your plate. Hannibal had to admit how distinguished you and Will looked beside each other once more. Like all was right in the world.

“Which is why we need to move past apologies and forgiveness. Chilton has many victims besides the dead,” Hannibal countered. “We will absorb this experience and it will change us. We are all Nietzsche-ian fish in that regard.”

“Makes us tastier,” Will said and you couldn’t help but smile. Funnier then he had been before. Hannibal and you shared a secret glance.

“None of our actions were personal,” Jack said.

“I tried to have Hannibal killed. Isn’t personal?” Will inquired. You wanted to tell him that he was on fire tonight but bit your tongue.

“No because you did not succeed,” you said, pointing a fork at Hannibal. “Clearly.”

“You thought I was a killer,” Hannibal said.

“I don’t blame Miriam Lass for shooting Frederick Chilton. I wanted to kill him myself.” Jack looked away from the three of you. The situation itself was so odd to him. He didn’t understand where you stood with the boys and how the boys stood with themselves.

“Greatest crime now would be to walk away from what we’ve shared and suffered. In many ways, we need each other. We’re the only ones who will know what this feels like,” Hannibal said simply. Will took a bite of the dish.

“This fish is delicious.”

You snuck a smile

Jack got up and left before you and Will. You glanced out the window behind where Hannibal usually sat. It was snowing steadily. You heard the door shut, Jack had been gone. You turned back, your hair falling on your back. Will and Hannibal walked inside the dining room.

“It’s snowing,” you whispered. They both smiled but the smile was different. Will smiled at you because he had seen this bit of you. The part excited by the snow. He smiled at a piece of you he knew. Hannibal smiled because he felt like you never showed this piece of you.

“Looks like it,” Will said. “We should go soon.” You nodded and moved away from the windows.

“Yes we should. It’s getting late.”

“Actually I was hoping to run something by the two of you” Hannibal said. You raised an eyebrow.

“Yes?” Will asked, back stiffening.

“If you are pursuing working with Jack perhaps,” Hannibal said which made you narrow your eyes. You hadn’t talked with Will about that yet. “I was hoping to have Y/N come with us.”

Will looked at Hannibal hard. He tried to figure out this angle. To an untrained eye it was likely because Hannibal wanted to spend time with you. To Will, he wondered if you coming along was to keep both of them in check. Perhaps it was something entirely different.

“I would love to. Especially if Will decides too.” Hannibal nodded.

“Then it’s settled.”

In the car you looked over at Will as he drove back to your home. The snow was coming harder but you could only tell by the headlights.

“Are you really going to go back to working with Jack?”

“I don’t know.” You looked out the window, not being able to look at him.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” Will nodded.

“I know you don’t.” He glanced at you. “You’ve always been against it. But I can handle it now. It might even help me.”

“But if it breaks you…” you trailed off.

“It won’t.” He grabbed your hand and squeezed it. You nodded.

You sat at your desk, fiddling with your pen when the appointment came in. Margot Verger. She was a pretty thing, someone you could probably be friends with. She approached you with a sense of cool confidence.

“Verger?” You nodded.

“Right on time. He’ll come when he’s ready,” you promised. She nodded and sat at one of the chairs. You watched her for just a moment before she caught you. What an interesting lady.

Alana stood across from you. She had come to Hannibal's office to see you while Margot was in.

“Can I help you Miss. Bloom?” She had a stiff back and you could tell whatever she wanted to talk about was not something you wanted to hear about. You had been distant from her since Will tried to kill Hannibal.

“I’ve been talking with Hannibal,” she said simply and the way she said it made you wonder what the talking insured. “I want to know how Will is.” She paused and you didn’t answer her, looking up at her from your desk chair. “I want to know if he’ll hurt Hannibal again.”

You paused a second longer as you studied her.

“Are you and Hannibal...sleeping together?” you asked, laughing a bit. She looked straight at you. You felt semi betrayed. You couldn’t tell by who.

“Is he safe?”

“I don’t know Alana.” Your voice was cold, calculated. “Is he?”

The door opened and Hannibal stepped out. He raised an eyebrow at the two of you. You hadn’t slept together but you thought there was something there, something unspoken. Something with Will, something different. You must have been wrong.

“Hello Alana,” Hannibal said. You stood up.

“I have to go home,” you said simply. Hannibal shook his head.

“I was hoping to speak with you alone. Can you excuse us?” Alana then seemed semi betrayed by the both of you. Served her right. You nodded and grabbed your jacket, showing him that you weren’t going to be staying long. You walked into the office and Hannibal shut the door right in Alana's face.

You stepped in further and walked to your regular seat on his desk. You leaned against it, following him as he walked in.

“Yes?” you asked, a touch of annoyance in your voice. You knew it was unfounded but you ignored it for the moment.

“Do you know why Will tried to kill me?” Hannibal asked. A tough memory for both of you but you ignored the emotions.

“Because he thinks you're the Ripper,” you stated dumbly. Hannibal walked over to you and leaned against the desk beside you. His hand landed on yours but neither of you addressed it.

“It wasn’t to avenge Beverly Katz’s death. It was to prevent yours. He was protecting you. The only way he felt he had left in him.” You thought about this a moment. You looked down at the floor and nodded.

“I’m afraid he’s opened a door in himself that won't’ close again,” you muttered and looked over at Hannibal. “And knowing I had a hand in opening it makes my stomach churn.” Hannibal smiled weakly.

“I don’t believe you were truly the one at fault.”

You shared a long look and then you got up.

“I hope Alana has fun tonight,” you said slowly. “I know I will,” you told him as you opened the door to the office.

Despite the fact that you were only able to see Hannibals face for a moment you knew that your comment had hurt him. You were beginning to understand that Hannibal didn’t want to be Alanas. He wanted to be Wills. He wanted to be yours. He wanted to be part of the two of you and telling him, so blatantly, that he wasn’t was a power move.

You passed Alana and were no longer bitter.

She was being used.

You stood at the stables beside Jack. Will was inside one of the doors, doing his thing. You and Jack were alone outside.

“I’m annoyed that he’s here,” you said. “For the record.” Jack nodded.

“I’m annoyed you’re here. I suppose no one got what they wanted.” You looked over at Jack. How oblivious that man was.

Will stepped out.

“It’s a coffin birth. Decomposition builds up gasses within and putrefied the body and pushes the dead fetus out of its mother’s corpse. It’s really more of a prolapse than a birth,” he explained.

“Not to whoever did this,” Jack said.

“Whoever did this knew the horse. Knew she was dying because her foal was born dead. Knew Sarah Craber. He’s familiar with the stables. He knew when he wouldn’t get caught. He works here or maybe used to. He has medical knowledge of animals, but isn’t a veterinarian. He considers himself a healer.”

“How is he healing?” Jack asked.

“Sarah Craber was reborn. And a mother and her child are finally on the same side of life. This wasn’t a murder.” Will looked over at the two of you and away from the corpse. “This was grief.”

“Peter Bernardone?” Jack called. You stepped inside a small place, filled with metal cages containing small wild animals. Will walked closely beside you. The fact that you were there did leave him with a certain level of comfort. He was surprised how that made him feel.

A wild looking man was in the house, scrambling around. He wouldn't focus on you or Jack or Will. Instead he focused on the animals and the things around him.

“You don't seem curious who we are,” Jack pointed out.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Agent Jack Crawford. FBI. This is Will and Y/N Graham. We’d like to ask you about someone you might have had contact with when you worked at Blackbriar Stables. Sarah Craber. Her body was found recently in very unusual circumstances,” Jack explained.

“I heard.”

“There was a bird in her chest. Did you hear about that?” Will questioned.

“Is the bird alive?” Peter asked. Will looked taken aback and curious.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Who’s taking care of it?” Peter asked.

“How well did you know Sarah Craber?” Jack asked and you thought that was rather rude.

“I didn’t know her.” He was so skittish, his mind in so many different places.

“Would you mind looking at a photograph for me?” Peter shook his head and then turned around, murmuring something to his animals.

“I know who she is, I just didn’t know her.”

“Just to be sure,” Jack said. He handed Peter the photo. Will watched him closely, as did you. Peter glanced wildly around and when he did look at the picture it was very briefly.

“Peter, you had a head injury when you worked at the stables,” you said gently. Jack looked annoyed that you were speaking.

“I was kicked by a horse,” Peter explained.

“It’s an atypical motor response. Peter’s ability to look and touch can only happen as separate events,” you explained a bit.

“Aggravated by stress, isn’t it?” Will asked. He nodded, surprised the two of you had gotten it so on the nose.

“Are you feeling stressed?” Jack asked.

“I’m worried about the bird,” Peter explained.

“A woman is dead, Mr. Bernardoen. And you’re worried about a bird,” Jack said bluntly.

“I’m sad for her, I’m sad for the horse. But I can’t help them. I can help the bird.”

Therapy for Will was still hard for you. You didn’t like it. You didn't’ like not knowing what was going on in the room beside you, if Will was being hurt, if Hannibal was being hurt. You were usually told about it after but sometimes things were left out or forgotten.

Will sat on your desk and you looked at him.

“If I wasn’t doing this as an official session then I would let you come in,” he said gently.

‘I don't’ want to invade your privacy like that,” you explained. “I just wish I knew he wasn’t hurting you.”

“Do you think he’s going to hurt me?” he asked. You shook your head.

“I think you might hurt him.”

“Are you worried about that?” Will asked. You shrugged.

“I don’t know.”

Hannibal opened the door.

After Will talked to Peter some more alone he came up to you. He was stiff, like something was bothering him.

“I’m getting Alana to talk to the social service man assigned to Peter,” Will stated. You nodded.

“I’m sure that’ll help something.” You paused. “Why?”

“Because someone wronged that man as much as I was wronged,” Will explained, voice barely audible. “I want to see him held accountable.” You nodded. “I want you there while Alana does it. Hannibal and Jack will be there too but I want you there.”

You couldn’t tell if he wanted you there to witness it or to be a crutch. Either way you nodded.

“Anything you want.”

You sat in the back seat, Hannibal driving and Will in the passenger seat. The night was dark as you drove to the stables.

“You look like a man who has suffered an irrevocable loss,” Hannibal pointed out.

“I’m trying to prevent one,” Will explained.

“Do you think if you save Peter Bernardone, you can save yourself?” Hannibal asked.

“Save myself from who, Dr. Lecter?” Will asked.

“From who you perceive me to be.”

“I’m afraid I need to be saved from who you perceive me to be. And for the record, I’m not the only one who sees you that way,” Will said.

“Ah yes. Because you share in his beliefs don’t you Y/N?” Hannibal asked, looking in the rearview mirror at your face.

“Yes I do. Well truthfully I dont’ think Will’s ever been wrong about anything so I have to believe him. It’s my code,” you said simply.

“Even with all you know me to be?” Hannibal asked. He was referring to the nights you spent together.

“After all Alana Bloom and I know you to be,” you quipped. Hannibal smiled a bit. He deserved that one.

“Everytime you think about it, it stings, doesn't it? Wondering if I could be right about Will.” He was talking to both of you at this point. “Many troublesome behaviors strike when we are uncertain of ourselves. Peter Bernardone lies in the same darkness that holds you Will.” Will looked straight ahead.

“I’m alone in that darkness,” Will said.

“You’re not alone, Will. I’m standing beside you. Y/N stands closer,” Hannibal said and you nodded.

“He has you there.”

Will walked beside you and Hannibal into the stables where Peter waited. You were the first to see him as you were the first in the stables piece where he was. You were all silent however until Will spoke.

“Peter...is your social worker inside that horse?” Peter nodded. You almost scoffed at the absurdity of the question.

“We are hardwired to see human beings everywhere. Every animal. Every life. We’re all human,” Peter explained but he looked disheveled, bad.

“Every God is personified,” Hannibal stated simply.

“He couldn’t see that. He forfeited his humanity. I forfeited mine. I used to have a horrible fear of hurting anything. He helped me get over that. Feels so abnormal.”

“An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior,” you whispered.

“He deserves to die,” Peter said.

“But he didn’t deserve to kill him,” Will stated. You felt his heart then. You wondered perhaps if Will could feel your emotions how easily you could feel his. “I want you to come with me, Peter.”

Peter stood and allowed Will to lead him away. You gave Will and look, a look of worry. Will gave you a look of comfort back. He was in control. He was okay. You stayed with Hannibal.

“Happy I suggested you tag along?” Hannibal questioned. You both walked over to the sheep that were there and started to pet them a bit.

“Actually, yes. I want to see what Will goes through.”

“Always his savior.” You glanced at Hannibal.

“Is Alana yours?” He chuckled but thought about it for a moment.

“Curiously enough I think you might also be my savior as well. In a way, differently than Will.” You were satisfied with that answer and you had to be because the horse started to move. The stitches ripped open and the social worker you had seen talk to Alana stepped out.

“Mr. Ingram,” Hannibal said, stepping away from the sheep. Ingrahm stood up. “Might want to crawl back in there, if you know what’s good for you.” You scoffed and nodded. Hannibal stepped aside and Will held up his gun to the man. You wanted to swat it away from him. For a moment you recognized the ease he held while he pointed the gun, the almost attractiveness he held.

“Officer, I’m the victim here,” Ingram said. He got on his knees and Will pointed the gun at his head.

“I’m not an officer. I’m a friend of Peter’s.” You walked up to Will but didn’t touch him. You and Hannibal shared a look.

“Peter’s confused.”

You had been raising a hand before Ingram said then. You dropped it just as quickly as you had raised that. You had heard those words spoken to you about Will countless times. All three of you realized that.

“I’m not,” Will said sternly. “Pick up the hammer.”

“Will,” Hannibal said.

“Pick it up.”

“It won't’ feel the same, Will. it won’t feel like killing me,” Hannibal said.

“It doesn’t have to. I know what it will feel like. It’ll feel good,” Will said. You watched his face. A focus came over him that you barely recognized.

“You did the best anyone could do for Peter, but don't do this for him. Not for Mr. Ingram’s victims or their many friends and relatives who would love to see him dead. If you’re going to do this Will…” he paused, “You have to do it for yourself.”

“Please don’t,” Ingram whispered.

“Shut up,” you muttered.

“This is not the reckoning you promised yourself, Will.”

Will was so close to pulling the trigger. You could see his finger shaking. The trigger clicked but it didn’t hit. Hannibal took the gun swiftly from Will’s grasp and put his hand on the back of Will’s head.

“With all my knowledge and intrusion, I could never entirely predict you. I can feed the caterpillar, whisper through the chrysalis, but what hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me,” Hannibal whispered. He let your boyfriend go and you walked over, grabbing Will’s arms as he stumbled into your embrace. Hannibal watched the two of you, Will still shaking from adrenaline.

He watched as you brought a hand up and grabbed Hannibal, hugging him too.

Finally you pulled away from both of them and looked at the social worker.

“What do we do with this guy now?”

2x09

#hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter imagines #will graham x reader #will graham imagine #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #will graham x reader x hannibal lecter #hannibal imagines

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kiss-my-freckle · 4 years ago

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3x13 Rewatch: The Wrath of the Lamb

They open the episode with Francis testing Reba. He gives her the house key and tells her to lock the front door. "Don't try to run. I can catch you." Like Will later in the episode. "Don't run. I'll catch you." She tries to escape. Will lying in season two, the wrong thing being the right thing to do was too ugly a thought. Francis leaves Reba to burn. Hannibal leaves Will to bleed. "I wish I could have trusted you. I wanted to trust you. You felt so good." Hannibal puts his broken heart on display. "Probably saved some lives." Like Will. Hannibal left everyone to live, then tried to keep the peace in Italy. "You didn't draw a freak. You drew a man with a freak on his back." Will understands. "I know there's nothing wrong with me." But he’s unable to differentiate. She drew Francis, he drew Hannibal, so she must feel what he feels. "In making friends, I try to be wary of people who foster dependency and feed on it." Something he spoke about before. "You're fostering co-dependency." Hannibal responded with a question. "Is that what I'm doing?" I think Will views it that way because he's unable to separate himself in his associations.

He informs Hannibal that Francis committed suicide. "Only consolation is Dr. Chilton. Congratulations for the job you did on him. I admired it enormously. What a cunning boy you are." I love it when he nibbles on Will’s ear. "Are you accusing me of something?" Like he did with Bedelia, Will tries to deny that part of himself. "Does the enemy inside you agree with the accusation? Even a little bit?" Hannibal knows the lion agrees. He can't even look at Alana without seeing shards of mirror. "When life becomes maddeningly polite, think about me. Think about me, Will. Don't worry about me." Worry about Molly, since Will imagines killing her over and over. Associating prior to understanding. "I love you, and I miss you, and you're doing the right thing." Let me just reiterate that line... the wrong thing being the right thing to do was too ugly a thought. "You turned yourself in so I would always know where you were. You'd only do that if I rejected you." He turned himself in because Will wouldn't run away with him. If Will ran away with him, he'd have no reason to surrender. That's why he hasn't tried to escape, “We’re waiting for Will.” He lies to Hannibal, it was good to see him, but he's ready to go home now... to do what he did three years ago.

He returns to his motel room, where Francis knocks him out cold, then wakes to water being splashed in his face. I love this scene between them because they both want from each other, that’s why Francis isn’t torturing him. He's gonna find out for himself who Will is. He tells him to sit up, wants him to see that he didn't break his back. "Your face is closed to me." Because Will is cut down the middle. Able to hide, he's been doing it for so long. He already got into a cat fight with Bedelia, now he's looking at a man who could very well replace him. If Will goes home without a word, it'll be over. Francis will have the man he loves, and he'll be stuck with Molly... the wife he imagines killing over and over. Tried to replace Will with Bedelia in Italy, now he’s back at it with Francis. I mean... the man has been waiting for him for three years. “Hannibal said those words... to me.” lol!!! You’re just a temporary fill, Francis. Feel the competition now. There will be no sharing Hannibal with anyone. Big brother hands little brother everything he needs. "I shared with Reba a little, in a way that she could survive." Reba and Molly, Reba and Will. What makes Will different from Reba and Molly is the lion within. "I chose not to change her. I'm stronger than the Dragon now." What Hannibal spoke of when he thought Francis committed suicide. "Then he wasn't as strong as the Dragon after all." If Francis is stronger than The Dragon, Will is capable of being stronger than The Lion. No need to fear becoming Hannibal. Bedelia is funny. That kind of strength for Will would allow him Godly powers as a righteous, merciful, loving, empathic, and compassionate being. Downright dangerous. Like Hannibal, killing and sparing whenever he chooses. "Saving lives is just as arousing as ending them. He likes to play God." That's why I love Hannibal's conversation with Jack. I could totally see Will baiting his enemies into a church and collapsing its roof just to impress his murder husband. "Hannibal Lecter is who you need to change." Will is ready to become. Like Reba, he shared with Molly enough.

Then Will shows his ability to manipulate. Doesn't tell them he met with Francis, but allows them to learn he's alive through the autopsy. "The Dragon could absorb him that way, engulf him, become more than he is." He’s not gonna tell him The Dragon wants to meet Hannibal because he's the one who put it in his head. He knows very well that Hannibal would draw The Dragon, and I wouldn't be surprised if Will kept in touch with him after their meeting to let him know when the escape would happen. He makes sure to tell Jack the same thing he plans to tell Hannibal because it's based on the Chinese symbol in the tree.

With Jack, allows him to believe it's their best shot at Francis. "The character also appears on a mahjong tile. Marks the Red Dragon." With Hannibal, informs him Francis will be helping them escape. "You hit it. An expression sometimes used in gambling." This scene plays well off Hannibal's surrender.

Gamble everything for love, gamble everything.

"We assign a moment to decision. What you propose is so thoughtless, I find it difficult to imagine that moment exists." This ties in Will's previous conversation with Jack. "Not all of our choices are consciously calculated." Choices aren't, decisions are. "No. But our decisions are. You remember when you decided to call Hannibal?" Will tells Bedelia, "Decisions are made of kneaded feelings. They're more often a lump than a sum." Will's kneaded feelings because he never stopped wanting to run away with Hannibal. I love how he uses "lump" after talking about “kneaded” feelings. Sums can be separated by their individual parts unless they’re lumped together like dough. His feelings can't be separated individually, so he can't cut out that part of himself that will always want to run away with Hannibal. "I don't intend Hannibal to be caught a second time." He wasn't caught the first time. Will doesn't intend for Hannibal to surrender a second time. "What you are becoming is pathological." I swear she's talking about herself here. "Extreme acts of cruelty require a high degree of empathy." Will is hilaroius in this scene, I love it. "You've just found religion. Nothing more dangerous than that." Will found the best religion. Love. There’s nothing more dangerous than that. "I'd pack my bags if I were you, Bedelia. Meat's back on the menu." Foreshadowing what's to come, and Bedelia is pissed.

I love Chilton's scene, in the chamber like Georgia was. Fire in, fire out. He's able to confront them for what they did, even though he's just as much to blame. "What Hannibal is capable of. What Will Graham is capable of. What you are capable of. You were the roper. Too bad there was not enough rope for you to hang yourself with. Just enough to hang me." Chilton was the one trying to rope everyone while they were recovering in the hospital, wanting them to catch Hannibal so they could put him in his hospital. I love it because of what he says to Alana. “Your face did not change at all when you first looked at me. Shock, in seeing me, is usually delayed.” Like Will saying her face changed because she knew he was hearing things. Alana meets with Hannibal to propose their deal. "Was it Will's idea?" He already knows it was, but he doesn't know if Will plans to kill him. "Yes. That worked out so well for Frederick Chilton." He knows his wrath is coming, he already warned Jack. He and Alana seem blinded by those three years they spent apart, they don’t think Will has reason to run away with him. "Your wife... your child... they belong to me. We made a bargain for Will's life, and then I spun you gold." He's the one who milked Mason with a cattle prodder. I believe this storyline would've played out a little bit had the show continued. I think Hannibal would've wanted to give Will another non-biological child. All opposite from their first meeting in 3x9.

Cut to Will, Jack, and Alana. He uses the same concept from his conversation with Bedlia. He told her he put his hand on Chilton for authenticity. Chilton's face, now Jack's career. For authenticity. Because "Someone has to be close. When the Dragon comes." Such a fun episode, it's got everything. "We kill Dolarhyde. And then... we kill Hannibal." Laughing at Jack for being dumb enough to believe Will would allow them to kill Hannibal. He takes another trip through the chapel. So much change in his eyes, love in a lovely scene. He continues to cover up his meeting with Francis, being specific in front of the orderlies. He told you, not me. "He told you he wanted to meet you. Maybe that was a serious invitation." Hannibal has yet to learn he and Francis met, he thinks Will learned he’s alive through the autopsy. “You hit it.” Francis is coming to help us, Hannibal.

A flash to the museum when they met on the elevator, the double symbolism. "You know, Will, you worry too much. You'd be much more comfortable if you relaxed with yourself." This is his last chance to walk away, his last moment of decision. He stays, he can claim they were ambushed and return to his life. Jack loses his lamb. Alana loses her Verger castle. The last family Francis killed was the transport team.

Cut to the cliff. "You and I are suspended over the roiling Atlantic. Soon, all of this will be lost to the sea." One could easily survive it so long as the water is deep enough for their speed. World record cliff jump is 192 feet. "You're playing games with yourself in the dark of the moon." It's after their conversation at the edge of the cliff when I believe the fisherman thinks about faking their deaths. "Wasn't surprising that I heard from the Great Red Dragon." He knew Jack put their faces in the paper and The Dragon would reach out to him instead of Will. Because Alana took his comfort, he didn't have access to TattleCrime. He only knows Will caught up with The Dragon because he helped them escape. "Was it surprising when you heard from him?" Will tells him yes and no. “And you... You wanted to surprise me.” This gives him reason to ask if Will plans to watch The Dragon kill him. "My compassion for you is inconvenient, Will." I like how he downplays his feelings when Bedelia already told Will how he feels about him. Will is super-cute. "If you're partial to beef products, it is inconvenient to be compassionate toward a cow." Quiet in comparison because he's sorting things out in his head. "I don't know if I can save myself. Maybe that's just fine." Hannibal doesn't want to think about Will not being able to save himself. He just spent three years without him. He thinks Will is about to lay down his life for Jack. This entire scene plays off their 2x13 scene. Hannibal said he gave him a rare gift, but he didn't want it. Will wanted it, and he wants it still. He's about to give Hannibal a rare gift...

“Bella used to say your face was all scars, if you knew how to look. There's always room for a few more. How much room does Will have, Jack?"

Let’s paint each other black.

“If this pilgrim feels a special relationship with the moon, he might like to go outside and look at it, before he tidies himself up. If one were nude, say, it would be better to have outdoor privacy for that sort of thing. One must show some consideration for the neighbors.”

“Have you ever seen blood in the moonlight, Will? It appears quite black."

“Blake's Dragon stands over a pleading woman caught in the coil of its tail. Few images in Western art radiate such a unique and nightmarish charge of demonic sexuality.”

Let Molly and Walter have the dogs, Will.

“I like my life there.”

“That life is an anchor streamed behind him in heavy weather."

Abigail and Miriam... you faked their deaths.

“And the bluff is still eroding."

“Sometimes at night, I leave the lights on in my little house, and walk across the flat fields. And when I look back from a distance, the house is like a boat on the sea. It's really the only time I feel safe.”

The same unfortunate aftershave, Will.

Hannibal, the only thing that smells good on me, is you.

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prurientpuddlejumper · 4 years ago

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Parental Advisory [18+]

K!nktober 2020 Kink Bingo!: Ass Worship

Summary: You bring Frederick Chilton to meet your parents over a weekend. Chilton is rude them. You do him in the ass at your parents’ house.

This oneshot stands on its own, but it’s also a side-story from the A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss universe, which has a gender-neutral reader. So this is either pegging or penis depending on how you’re interpreting the reader! (And since even I am not sure, it’s going for the Ass Worship square in @thatesqcrush’s Kink Bingo instead of pegging or anal)

*There is no weird parent voyeurism or whatever, the walls are thick in this house OK? They’re just there for the awkward social interaction of bringing home a pompous douchebag XD

5,059 words

“That went quite well,” said Dr. Chilton, voice smooth and velvety with confidence as you settled into the guest bedroom upstairs.

You grimaced, and quietly shut the door behind you. When you didn’t answer, he looked over to see a teeth-gritting expression plastered on your face. He raised an eyebrow. You tried to coax your face into a genuine smile, but only succeeded in stretching the corners of your mouth more tightly until you looked like some kind of face-eating killer-clown monster.

“Did it not go well?”

“Ummmm...” you stretched a long vowel and scratched the side of your neck to fill the pause as you made up your mind on exactly how to explain this to him.

His velvety confidence broke and he closed the distance between you in a quick stride, taking your shoulders and searching your eyes with worry etched into his brow.

“Tell me.”

“Frederick, you can’t just tell people it’s obvious they come from dirt because of the length of stitches in their hem!”

“That is not what I said—I observed the indications of working-class design popularized by the—”

“Frederick!”

“I was showing interest in their cultural heritage.”

“And you thought that was the way to do it?!”

He quieted. “They were not fond of me, then?”

“As first impressions go, it was pretty bad.”

“Shit.” He sank down onto the edge of the bed—a floral lavender comforter matching the rest of the room, tucked crisply around the sides as if it had never been slept in before, which it hadn’t. Frederick rested his elbows on his knees and let his forehead sink into his hands.

He was worried. He had only been dating you for a year, but you were different than his usual flings. For one thing, you had stayed with him for an entire year. You were affectionate and honest. You didn’t care about money. If he made a snipe about you being a hot mess, you would mock him right back for caring too much about appearances. It was, he eventually discerned, because you hadn’t come from a wealthy family, and never envied those who did. You were actually happy with who you were and scorned the idea of status symbols—like his car, his watches, his house, his Montblanc pens—whose only purpose was to display wealth. It annoyed him at first, but then he wondered, if you were not after him because he was a wealthy doctor, what did you see in him?

He was still figuring that out. If possible, he would like to spend a lifetime figuring it out—he even planned to ask you to move in with him—but he may have just ruined that.

***

Dr. Chilton’s poor impression began hours before he even met your parents. Since you were just going home to family, you wore a plain t-shirt and jeans. Despite your specific instruction to dress casually, he wore a suit. And so, the first thing your parents saw when they opened the front door was a pair so mismatched, it looked like an illicit student-professor affair.

He then handed them a very expensive bottle of wine as a gift—but, as was Frederick’s habit, it was too opulently out of your parents’ price range to be interpreted as anything other than boasting. Your father grumbled, “Thanks,” in a way that Frederick seemed blithely unaware meant “fuck you.”

After that, Chilton began observing things like bargain-bin Sherlock Holmes, and generally being Chilton. He mentioned that their entire house could fit inside his garage. After a few minutes of stilted conversation he said, in not a flattering way, that he could “see where you got it from now.”

You hadn’t expected the first meeting between your elitist doctor boyfriend and your down-home parents to go well, but you had hoped he might lean more toward the charming side of his charming asshole spectrum, just for today. He had a way of getting under everyone’s skin at first, including yours. But he was sweet, underneath his WASPy upbringing, and you were sure they would see that.

When Frederick excused himself to the bathroom, your father immediately let out the complaints he had been barely containing for the last hour. “So that’s not going to last much longer, is it?” he snorted, leaning forward in his La-Z-Boy recliner. “How do you stand it? Did you hear him correct me about searing steak? As if that dandy would know the first thing about grilling.”

“He’s right, you know,” you said. “Searing doesn’t lock in juices, it just adds flavor. I Googled it.”

“Now he’s corrupting my own child!” your dad shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “You gonna be a know-it-all now, too?”

“As if I wasn’t already,” you challenged, hand on your hip. Your dad wasn’t wrong, though, so you laughed it off and shook your head. “I know, I know. That’s just how he is. Once we got into a disagreement about how ‘pajamas’ is pronounced, and he wouldn’t let it go until... Well, I just started using the word sleepwear.”

“And he wears double-breasted suits,” your mother chimed in behind her hand.

“Oh? What about it?”

“They’re so sleazy!” she cried.

“They are?” If this was some sort of well-known fashion knowledge, your parents never passed it down to you. You always thought Frederick looked good in whatever he wore.

“I don’t know what you see in that pompous little twerp,” your dad sighed heavily, then grinned. “I bet I could pick him up with one hand and toss him out the window.”

“Dad!”

“Bet he screams like a girl,” your father roared with laughter, slapping his knee.

“Oh, he does,” you said with a cold, tight smile. “And if you lay a hand on him, you’ll be singing like a girl, you get me?”

The laughter stopped, and you found yourself in the most intense familial staredown since Thanksgiving 2008. Your father’s eyes silently growled, “You would threaten your own father?!” and yours narrowed and hissed, “I will if you threaten my boyfriend!”

Your mother broke the silence with a patient, pleading voice. “I get it. He’s rich, and he’s not bad looking. But you know you don’t have to marry for money. Your father and I have enough, and I thought you were doing well for yourself working with the FBI.”

“You really think I’d be with someone for money?” you said, mouth agape with bewilderment. Sometimes you wondered if these people knew you at all. “He’ll grow on you, trust me. Just… try to ignore the condescending shit that comes out of his mouth. It becomes endearing eventually.” Footsteps creaked on the second floor, announcing Frederick’s imminent return. You put on your sternest kindergarten-teacher face and pointed across the living room at your parents. “Both of you, behave!”

***

You stood beside him and tenderly ran your fingers through his thick brown hair—a gesture he adored, reserved for evenings at home and mornings before grooming so as not to ruin his perfect coif. He closed his eyes and leaned into the comforting sensation, grateful that you were, at least for the moment, not upset with him.

“I was trying to be friendly,” Frederick explained, his voice sounding as much like a whining child justifying why he had tracked dirt into the house as it did like a man.

Your gentle fingers clenched tightly in his hair and tugged down on the back of his head with enough force to make him look up at you, eyes opening wide with surprise. You narrowed yours.

“You weren’t trying to get them to like you, you were trying to prove that you were superior to them. It’s what you always do,” you growled.

He stared back at you for a few beats, trying to decide whether to be offended, chastised, or turned on. With your fingers curled roughly in his hair, controlling his head with a firm grip, he knew you were not truly angry. You were slipping into character, playing a game at ‘punishing’ him, which he could stop in a word if he wanted to. But the evening would be more fun if he gave you more to punish him over.

“I did no such thing,” he huffed. “If your parents confuse intelligence and culture with condescension, that is hardly my fault!”

Your lips crashed down on his with a snarl, shutting him up as your tongue invaded his mouth to stop his from wagging. The kiss was bruising at first, an act of dominance, but his loud, muffled moans into your mouth and his soft, yielding lips coaxed you to slow down and enjoy it. Your grip in his hair grew softer again, turned into gentle caresses, and your kiss grew deeper and more passionate. Fuck if you didn’t love it when he was bratty. When you finally broke away, his face was flushed and there were stars in your eyes. You slowly sucked the mingled saliva off your lower lip while you appraised him.

“You are a very rude boy, Frederick,” you said, a long, predatory smile slowly slanting over your lips. “Aren’t you?”

He swallowed, obediently staying seated but leaning forward with anticipation. “Yes.”

You threw a leg across his lap, straddling him, and pushed the center of his chest until he was lying flat on the bed. You followed him halfway down, caging him in with your arms and staring down at him with mock anger. His cock was already twitching under your thigh, and a wave of arousal washed over you, making it hard to keep up your performance. But you wanted to see him squirm.

“Rude boys need to learn their place.” You lowered your mouth to his, but stopped an inch before kissing him. He tried to tip his head to meet your lips, but you sat up, grinning with the feeling of power over him as he whimpered with disappointment. “Nope. You were a bad boy today, Frederick. You haven’t earned another kiss yet.”

“What can I do to make it up to you?” he asked, his voice already heavy with lust.

You thought about it, stroking your chin. “You always act like you’re so much better than everyone,” you observed, reaching between your legs to idly stroke his growing bulge through his pants. His hips jerked, pushing his cock into your palm. “What would your high-society friends think if they saw you with your ass in the air, begging for a lowly commoner to fuck you?”

His adam’s apple bobbed sharply. He liked the idea. He liked it a lot.

“I want you to strip for me,” you ordered in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. “Then I want you on all fours.”

Normally he wouldn’t have hesitated, so when you looked down and saw tension, not arousal, in his eyes, you were concerned.

“Will your parents hear us?” he asked, a blush creeping up the sides of his neck. “I was hoping to walk away with at least a neutral review from your family, and I assume being overheard in the throes of passion will not result in favorable points.”

You smirked devilishly. “Then you’d better be quiet.”

***

After a few minutes for each of you to shower and prepare, you had Frederick just as you’d asked. Naked and on his knees. “That’s my good little slut,” you praised, running your hand over his ass and giving it a light smack—not enough to make much noise, but the light contact was enough to make Frederick whimper softly with need. “Such a beautiful ass.”

“Touch me more,” he breathed.

“Good boy, telling me what you want, but you have to be more specific. Where do you want me to touch you?”

“Anywhere,” he whispered with such honesty it was heartbreaking. He really didn’t care, so long as you were touching him. It made you want to forget everything else, hold him as tight as you could, and never let him go… but this was punishment.

“I see,” you tutted. “First you’re rude and arrogant, and now you can’t make up your mind.” You let your hand trail off, and he whimpered louder the moment you broke contact. You stalked a circle around the bed, taking your time to just enjoy the sight. It was only a double size bed, so unlike the monstrosity Frederick owned, you could easily prowl around the entire thing as you appraised his form like he was displayed on a pedestal. “You really are handsome,” you purred, eyes gliding over his broad shoulders and muscular arms, bulging with thick veins bulging all the way down to the backs of his hands. He wasn’t especially tall and seemed so bookish in his suits, but those biceps could crack your head like a walnut, and you’d let him. But he glanced up and met your eyes with a pathetic, questioning look that told you he didn’t really believe you. You could tell him over and over again how perfect he was, but for someone with such a big ego, he was remarkably insecure. Then again, maybe the two went hand in hand.

You finished your circuit and finally stepped up to the edge of the bed behind him, welcomed by the sight of his shapely ass with his tight hole eagerly waiting for you, his weighty balls hanging below, cock already standing in rigid defiance of gravity.

“Now that’s a pretty picture,” you let out a throaty growl of appreciation, and couldn’t resist running your hands down the rounded curve of his ass cheeks. “I can’t wait to fuck this perfect ass,” you moaned.

He breathed deeply, shuddering as you climbed onto the bed behind him, the front of your thighs pressed against the back of his. “Thank you. Thank you,” he whispered as your hands roamed over his back and sides. You dipped one down his soft stomach, smoothing over the raised scar and fine hairs that grew coarser beneath his belly button until you found his cock. It was already rock hard. You took its velvety skin in your hand and gave a few lazy strokes just to hear him choking on his breath, to feel his body tense and go slack at the same time. You brought your fingers to your mouth and tasted his salty precum, closing your eyes as it sent blood surging between your thighs. You licked each finger with a loud wet noise, and hummed as you savored it to be sure he knew what you were doing. When his hips shifted, trying to grind against you, and he whimpered a lusty, “Please,” you knew it had worked.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” you asked, voice thick with arousal.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, shifting back to grind his hips against yours.

“Say it then, Doctor Chilton. I want you to tell me what you want me to do. Tell me what will make you feel good. I want to hear you beg for it, remember?”

“Please?” he whined more desperately. You didn’t give an inch.

“Please what?”

He groaned miserably, and didn’t answer. As strong as his need was, he hated being vulnerable enough to ask for what he wanted out loud, and it didn’t help that you had goaded him earlier about begging. Now he was going to deliberately be stubborn. But you were patient. Before the night was over, he would beg.

“You know,” you pondered aloud, spreading and kneading his thick cheeks, “if you have one thing to feel superior about, it’s this ass.” You gave it another light smack, and he jumped. “It’s so big, and I love—” you cut yourself off, ducking down and kissing the inside of his thigh. You kissed all the way down to his knee, and all the way up until you were moving his balls aside, gently toying with them in one hand so you could press your lips to the juncture of his leg and hip. His breathing was coming out harder, more erratic, but he was still managing to control his voice until you switched legs and gave a sharp nip to his thigh that made him yelp and clap a hand to his mouth. You teased and marked his thighs until they were shaking, then dragged your teeth up his buttocks and gave him a firm nip. Now you really got into it, moaning as you sucked on his flesh, leaving stinging red marks all over his pale ass cheeks. He groaned with pleasure, but stubbornly kept his hand over his mouth, denying you what you wanted—hearing him beg for more. It was a battle of wills he could only win for so long.

“Too bad,” you pouted, dragging your fingers slowly up the sensitive flesh between his balls and his ass. You licked a broad swathe along the same path, and his muffled whimpering and the writhing of his hips was like music, spurring you on. “I really want to finger that perfect ass of yours, but if you can’t tell me that’s what you want...” The tips of your fingers found his tight entrance and circled it slowly.

A long whine came from deep in the back of Frederick’s throat, and finally he panted out, “I… would like you to—please.”

“To what?” you asked, feigning innocence.

He snarled with frustration, squeezing his eyes closed as he answered, “F-fingers!”

“That’s not a very polite way of asking, but it will do for now.” You poured lube over his ass and worked it in until everything was nicely slippery and circled his entrance again, teasing circles that slowly spiraled toward the center, finally pressing a fingertip inside him.

“More… please…” he whimpered. You complied, building up slowly, sinking one finger into him, then once he was babbling frustrated demands for more, stretching him open with two. Pumping your fingers, you curled them down toward his stomach to stroke that tender bundle of nerves that made him cry out with pleasure, toes curling, when you found it.

“Quiet now,” you warned, pressing a chaste kiss to one of the hickeys you’d left, “You don’t want anyone to hear.” The strangled sounds he made into the mattress as he struggled to keep quiet were almost enough to send you right over the edge. Even though you were focusing entirely on his pleasure, it was a turn-on for you, too. “You feel so good, taking me like this,” you cooed, your voice only cracking a little. “So tight.” Wet noises filled the room, and the huffing of his breath came harder. You reached between his legs and barely touched his burning hot cock when his will broke.

“Please—please fuck me,” he panted, ragged and hoarse like he would die if you didn’t. “I want you to fuck me. Oh, god, oh, god. Please!”

“What a good boy, begging so pretty for me.” You slowly removed your slick fingers from his core, and he looked back at you, eyes pleading for you to fill him again. You raised your eyebrows at him expectantly, almost stern, on the cusp of complete victory and he knew it, but was too lost to care anymore. The urgent flames of his arousal burned every muscle in his body, and he would say everything he knew you wanted to hear if it meant he could come.

“Please, please fuck my ass. I am sorry for being rude. I was bad. I know I am rotten and do not deserve you, but please, I am begging you to fuck me.”

An aching pang twisted your heart and took you out of the moment and any desire to torment him. You bent low, pressing your body over the length of Frederick’s back, grasped him by the chin, and twisted his face to lock eyes with you. “You deserve me, Frederick,” you said, voice steady and serious. “You are not bad. You are wonderful, and I love you. I wasn’t trying to… I wanted you to feel humble, not undeserving. You deserve to be loved. Do you understand?”

He nodded, and leaned all his weight onto one arm so he could draw your head down closer and kiss you, fervent and warm. It was a little quick and desperate, all wet tongues and sliding lips, but with a loving softness to it that melted you. “Please,” he urged, “if you make me repeat positive affirmations now before you will fuck me, I swear—” He glowered petulantly, though it was a thin performance. It didn’t escape your notice that he cut his sentence short, as there was no actual threat to fill in the blank of what he swore. He would patiently endure any torture you threw at him, and you both knew it.

You chuckled at his adorable defiance, kissed him lightly on the nose, then ruthlessly pushed his shoulders down into the mattress. He fell with a satisfied moan of anticipation. “Look at this,” you pronounced, as if you’d just walked in on the scandalous scene. “The great Doctor Chilton with his ass in the air, begging to be taken by some nobody. How shocking, simply shocking,” you teased, elongating each syllable the way Frederick did when he was being particularly snobby.

“Please, please fuck me,” he pleaded, voice pitifully small and helpless, half-smothered against the mattress, playing his part as if his depravity were on display to his peers.

Your voice dropped a quarter octave and took on a hungry edge. “I could never turn down such a desperate request from such an esteemed gentleman.”

Frederick had been waiting a long time, and moaned loudly as you finally pushed inside of him, not bothering or not aware enough to control his volume. The pace you set was deep and steady, not punishingly hard, but not languid and easy, either. Sliding in and out of his tightness, you gripped his hips, and angled yours to hit the sweet spot inside him. You knew the moment you’d found it—suddenly, he could barely contain his whimpering and moaning, babbling nonsense as he began to fall apart.

“You were trying to prove you were better than everyone today, weren’t you?” you leaned over him and hissed in his ear as you thrust.

“Yes,” he admitted, his voice strained and panting, so close to his release. He was drooling onto the blanket.

“What have I told you about being humble?”

“To… try it?” he struggled to answer, voice jostling as you thrust into him harder, his hips rocking to push against your thrusts, deepening the penetration.

“That’s right. Because you’re not better than anyone else, are you?”

“…No,” the answer tore from his throat in a shameful gasp.

You sank your teeth into his shoulder, and he cried out with pain and pleasure. “You’re a dirty slut who likes to be dominated, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes.”

“And you’re perfect just as you are and don’t need to prove anything to anyone, aren’t you?”

“Ye—” he almost answered, but then his hips stuttered in their movement and stopped.

“I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he breathed. His hips began to move again as his confusion cleared, meeting yours as they crashed against his muscular ass.

“I think you’re perfect,” you smiled, feeling his muscles tense as his climax neared. “And you would never contradict me, would you?”

“Never.”

“Good.” You sat higher again to get a better angle on his prostate and took his dripping cock in your palm, stroking in time with your thrusts, overwhelming him with sensation. His whole body convulsed beneath you. He shoved a pillow into his mouth just in time to keep the entire house from hearing his lung-shattering wail, his back arching as he painted his seed over the pristine lavender blankets, coming so hard he nearly came on his own face. You slumped down over him, and he reached for your hand, his fingers laced with yours.

His back rose and fell with each panting breath as he slowly came down from the high, both of you exhausted and sweating and pleasantly sleepy. You rolled over into a more comfortable position to spoon him. The hairs on the back of his neck were soft and ticklish against your nose as you nuzzled him, pressing gentle kisses all along his neck and under his jaw, feeling his pulse surging hot beneath your lips. He groaned softly in the aftermath, melting in your arms. Longing to have more of you to hold onto, he flipped over so he was facing you, wrapping his powerful arms around you snugly, burying his face under your chin. His hair was a mess, partly stuck to his forehead with sweat with one giant cowlick on the side he had pressed against the mattress, and you couldn’t resist running your fingers through it to muss it up more. More happy noises came forth, and a few wet, sucking kisses clung to your throat.

“I love you,” he murmured, and the sound vibrated up your neck.

“Fuck, I love you so much,” you whispered back, wrapping a leg around him to pull him even closer, his spent erection pressing into you. You could feel the stickiness of his release smearing over your leg, but at this point, you were both going to need a shower anyway. “I love you.”

For several minutes you just lay there recovering, warm in each other’s embrace, softly whispering praises. Finally, he pulled back, an ocean of green eyes gazing back into yours with a question in them. He pondered it for a long while, and finally, instead of asking, declared, “Tomorrow, I shall correct my mistakes. I run an entire hospital of psychopaths; I can manage to make your parents like me.”

“Why are you so worried about what they think?”

“I do not care what they think. I worry about what they think and tell you. They… are important to you. If they disapprove, it may sway your feelings. Not right away, perhaps, but that familial bond will gnaw at you day by day, like a rat chewing through bone, until you share their negative opinion, and…” he shrugged, his eyes glassy, “…I will lose you.”

You caressed the side of his jaw and neck, thumb stroking his cheek, and peppered his face with kisses. Smoothing your palm down his shoulder, you pulled yourself close until your forehead knocked against his. “Nothing is going to change the way I feel about you, Frederick. Nothing. I love you. I don’t care what they think. It’s not like I’m just now discovering that you rub people the wrong way,” you chuckled. “That’s part of what makes me love you. You can be… officious. It takes time to get to know you. But I have never regretted a single minute of it. They’ll come around.”

His surrounding arms tightened around you possessively, quietly affirming that he understood.

Circling your hand idly over his back, still damp with sweat, you admitted something you hadn’t told him. “I was more nervous about what you would think of them,” you said, and he pulled back to pin you with a stare demanding an explanation. You squirmed under his gaze, cheeks heating up. “I didn’t want you realizing I’m complete born-and-bred trash.”

“I was already well aware of that, darling.”

A low growl stirred in your chest. “Still rude,” you snarled gleefully, rolling him onto his back, pinning his shoulders down, and biting his neck. He yelped and scrambled into a sitting position, taking you with him until you fell off his lap to the side.

“S-sorry!” you gasped, afraid you had bitten him too hard for him to balk so dramatically, when he was usually willing to play along with anything. A split second later, you realized it wasn’t pain on his face. His lips were curled as if he had stepped in something slimy. Or rather, rolled in it. Which he had.

“Eeuughh!” he shuddered.

“Since when are you so squeamish?” you asked with a sultry look to remind him of all the times he had licked himself off of your fingers.

“It was cold,” he shot back.

And kind of everywhere. He came a lot. And none of it had been intercepted by any orifices, so his full load was painted across the blanket like a Jackson Pollock.

You thanked your lucky stars that the guest bedroom had its own half bath stocked with washcloths, so you didn’t have to venture into the hall while sticky with sex. But after cleaning yourselves up and changing into sleepwear, you stared with dismay at the floral-patterned blanket you and Frederick had ruined.

“I do not accept responsibility for this,” Frederick said. “Having sex in your old bedroom was your idea—I cannot be held accountable for ruining your childhood memories.”

The speed at which Frederick shifted to weaseling out of blame overwhelmed your ability to keep a straight face—you smirked, snorted, and gave in completely to a belly-shaking laugh. He raised an eyebrow and glanced at you sideways.

“Frederick...” your shoulders bounced, “Does this look like a childhood bedroom? My parents moved after I graduated college.”

“Ah.” The tips of his ears turned red with embarrassment. You recalled how impersonal his own bedroom—and entire house—was, and your heart ached to think that he couldn’t even recognize that an ordinary childhood bedroom would be cluttered with forgotten toys and old posters. “That would explain the lack of baby pictures.”

“You can ask my parents to show you the photo albums,” you said offhandedly, and smiled at the way he perked up with genuine interest.

“I have been curious what species of gremlin you evolved from...” he smirked.

“My parents would love it if you let them show you the family albums. I will be mortified, but they’ll love you for it.”

“The key to their hearts, as it were?”

“You know, yeah. It might actually tip the scales. It might even make up for this,” you gestured at the blanket which the bodily fluid and lube stains were definitely never washing out of.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed and covered his face with his hands. “Fuck.”

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

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