Rally beloved it is Mushi... calling you from baked beans land....
Any chance of romantic non smut with nathan ?
MUSHI!!!!! For you? Absolutely anything!
Contents: bad language, Nathan fluff, everyone is a bit sassy, slightly mushi-specific (~1.3k)
Nathan smells it before you even bring the mug into his main lab.
“Don’t you dare bring me Failure Tea,” he shouts through his doorway.
“Stop calling it that,” you say as you walk into the room, setting the huge, steaming cup on his desk. It’s bright yellow with a smiley face on it. “I brew it myself, with love.”
You kiss his cheek.
He looks at the mug like he wants to punch it in the face.
“It’s a mixture to clear your head, help you focus,” you say, rubbing his back.
“It’s the tea you bring me when I fail,” Nathan grumbles.
“When you need a little encouragement.”
“The last time you brought it to me was when I had to erase an entire two days of work because I-“ he stops himself from getting mad again.
He picks up the mug and takes the very tiniest sip. It’s mostly herbal and he pretends he hates it.
He’s grumpy because you’d asked him to help you figure out the prices of things here vs. back where you'd grown up.
It started for fun, but you'd found this online list of things rich people wouldn’t know. Price of a car, how much a Happy Meal costs, that kind of thing.
Nathan was amused when you laughed at him thinking a cup of coffee cost a dollar.
He was a little put out when you’d laughed at him for thinking the average price of a hotel room per night was, "I don't fucking know... 3 grand?"
He stormed out of the room, pissed, when he’d gotten the price of an ice cream cone wrong.
He’d said fifty dollars.
Fair play, cost of living crisis and all. But you'd still laughed.
After carefully noting down his hilarious guesses, you’d brewed him the tea and brought it to him as a peace offering.
Nathan takes another sip and sets the mug aside without a word.
You nudge his shoulder with your nose to get him to focus back on you. He has on a workout tank and his skin is warm against yours.
“I’ve never seen you fail at something before, and it was actually very hot,” you say.
He tries to pull away but you wrap your arms around him so he can’t.
“You’re full of shit,” he says, trying to continue typing and working.
But you’re not deterred. He can’t fool you. He loves your attention and tea and gentle poking to get him to talk things through.
“It wasn’t sweaty-workout hot, but it was hot in a different way.” You chase his face with your eyes, trying to get him to look at you again.
He looks amused. “You find failure hot? That explains the person you had a crush on before you came to live with me.”
“Oh ha fucking ha. From the guy who hadn’t spoken to an actual, real, live woman for years until I came along and took pity on your gorgeous ass.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, sugar lips.”
“Don’t call me that or I’ll color your white patch in with a purple marker while you’re sleeping and have all the robots call you Grimace.”
He scratches his chest. “Your brain is so weird.” He means it as a compliment. His brain's pretty weird too. “Fine, sweetheart. What did you mean, about finding my failure attractive?”
You tilt your head back and forth, unsure how much you want to say. “You’re just, not very normal.”
He looks annoyed by you stating the obvious.
“It was cute seeing you try really hard to figure out how much it costs to go to the cinema,” you say. “It was a stupid game, and I didn’t mean for it to make you feel bad.”
Nathan bristles a little at the suggestion that he has feelings at all, other than annoyance and irritation.
You rub the back of his neck. “You see me struggle all the time, but you never do. It’s like when I ask you to put the dishes in the dishwasher. I don’t say anything when you do it all wrong because I like to see it all wrong. It makes my ovaries perk up and take notice.”
“I don’t fucking understand you,” he says, almost to himself.
“Neither do I,” you smile happily.
“You know that’s all made up shit that’s programmed into you, right? Society programmed you to do all the house work, so your brain interprets me doing below the bare fucking minimum as attractive, because it might offset your unfair workload. Which, by the way, it doesn’t.”
You lay your hands on either side of his face, over his beard. “You are so much fun. Seriously, mansplain the gender gap to me some more.”
He pushes up his glasses. “Sure, but make me a sandwich first.”
“You make me a sandwich.” You lean forward and kiss him.
“How about neither of us does it? Let the robots do the cleaning and the cooking?”
He picks up the mug and takes a drink. He hands it to you so you can share it with him.
He licks his lips. “Except the tea. They can’t do that. Yours is better.”
“Does it taste like failure?” You tease him.
Nathan runs his hand down your arm. “Yeah, but maybe it’ll keep me humble.”
You snort laugh at that. He laughs too, giving up on his sour mood.
“How about this,” Nathan says, settling his arms around you. “You go sit on the deck and I’ll make lunch. I promise to fuck it up really, really badly. You won’t be able to stop yourself from falling in love with me.”
“Is that what you’re after?” You say playfully.
“Maybe it is. Maybe I love you already,” Nathan says too casually. “Look, all I’m saying is that I didn’t ask you to come live out here to do dishes or for your programming skills. I definitely didn’t fucking ask you to constantly knock me down a peg.”
“I’ll peg you if you ask nicely.”
Nathan pinches your butt and makes you laugh. “Shut it.”
“Oh, now you’re silencing women? Tsk tsk, Nathan,” you shake your head mockingly at him.
“How did this get turned around? You’re the one who made fun of me with that rich people game.” He rubs your sides with his hands, an unconscious gesture that's as comforting to him as it is to you.
You laugh. “And you were so bad at it that I’m nearly in love with you already.”
He straightens his glasses, looks over your face. “Nearly?”
You shrug, just to tease him.
“Making me work for it. Okay. I respect that.” He stands up. “Maybe I’ll make you a tea. You have all kinds of dried plants and shit in the kitchen. Can’t be that hard.”
You slap his arm. “I put a lot of thought into the plants I use. You need to appreciate nature more.”
Nathan rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that holistic bullshit, honey, please.”
You clear your throat and point to the mug of tea that he’s picked back up.
“This? I don’t drink your Failure Tea because I think it actually helps. Or, I don’t think it doesn’t help. It doesn’t, not help.” His eyes narrow in frustration. “Is there a tea that makes you less of a smartass?”
“No, but hot chocolate would probably keep me busy for awhile.”
Nathan puts his arm around your waist as you walk out of his lab together. “I’ll make you a huge pot of hot chocolate for lunch. We'll sit outside together and drink it. I like to look at you out in the fresh air. The way your voice sounds with the river running behind it.”
You rest your head on his shoulder as you make your way to the kitchen. “You know I’d love you, even without the hot chocolate.”
“I know.” He kisses the top of your head, rubs your back with his hand. “I might not know what a liter of milk costs, but I'd do anything to make you happy."
Hi I was wondering if you can write about Anselm and Birdie meeting various Oscar Isaac characters. Just like you did with Santiago and multiverse. I really want to know how would Anselm react to them especially they flirting with Birdie. Especially Leto cause of his beard 🙈 and if possible Jack I want to see Anselm's reaction to him calling brother 😂 if possible that is. ☺️
🥲 Congratulations, friend, you are officially the oldest ask in my inbox. THANK YOU for your patience. It’s extra long (for your pleasure) and noncanon for Anselm & Birdie, but I had to make it ridiculous!
Contents: No smut, gun violence, language (~3.5k)
You play with the edge of the business card in your hand. The sharp-beaked red bird of the Atreides logo stares back at you.
You call Anselm, who’s on his way from another meeting across town.
“I’ve been sitting in a gigantic, empty conference room for fifteen minutes. Who the fuck does this guy think he is?” You say, tapping your fingers on the table.
“He runs the largest private army in the world and his weapons R&D makes your video games look like flintlock rifles.” Anselm sighs. “He’s also feuding with his cousin over a resource-rich desert. So, he’s preoccupied. I’ve also heard he’s quite attractive. Perhaps you’ll take pity on him.”
You hear the road noise. You know Anselm’s not here. Still, you catch sight of Anselm’s beard out of the corner of your eye and you stand, ready to hug him. But you stop.
Observant brown eyes watch you, flicking between your face and the phone you hold.
“I gotta go,” you say, almost dumbstruck. He looks… a lot like Anselm.
“I’ll see you soon. Kisses to you.” Anselm hangs up.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Leto Atreides.” At least he doesn’t have Anselm's accent.
Usually, when a man shakes your hand all soft and gentle, you hate him immediately for treating you like the weaker sex. But when Leto does it, he turns your hand in his and kisses the back. Zero complaints there.
It's something Anselm does often, his mustache and beard tickling your skin. It tickles all over, wherever he kisses.
His hair isn’t nearly as curly and wild as Anselm’s, but you see how it could be, if he let it. Leto has the kind of steadfast control that could command an army with a mere nod.
His steady gaze takes you in. “Not that I mind us staring at each other all day, but we’re both busy people. We should talk business.”
And yet, he makes no move to sit down or stop looking.
“Maybe we could have our meeting over lunch. Dinner. I hope you’re free,” he says. His face is serious, but his eyes are warm and inviting.
You swallow, mouth dry.
Leto's like a stern prince charming. Every one of your weaknesses.
His hand comes up and settles over his beard, an Anselm-like gesture. It snaps you back to reality.
“Sorry, I’m not. Free. Or, I’m not interested. Maybe I’m interested. But only because I’m married, and he looks like you. Or you look like him. Holy shit, I need to get ahold of myself.” You rub your forehead with your fingers.
Leto smiles. He doesn’t look like Anselm so much anymore when he does that. It lets you breathe easier.
“It’s okay. Let’s sit down,” Leto pulls your chair back and takes your arm to help you sit.
Leto licks his lips, letting you gawk at him. “Are your husband and I really that alike?”
You nod so hard you almost snap your neck. You take out your phone and show him your lock screen.
Leto cocks a dark eyebrow, the corners of his mouth a faint smile.
It’s a picture of Anselm making a kissy face at your camera.
You look at it. Then at Leto. “Maybe this photo isn’t a good example, but trust me, the resemblance is uncanny.”
He pours two glasses of water from the carafe on the table. “Will that make these negotiations easier for me?”
You shrug. “Probably. He's distractingly handsome. Sometimes I just like to watch sunlight hit his hair and face.”
Leto takes a sip of water. His hand rests on the table, just barely touching yours. “I’ll go stand by a window, then. I have a beautiful view of the city from my office. It’s more private. Why don’t we…”
The conference room door opens and Anselm walks in, alone. He has a big smile and an outstretched hand.
You jump up out of the chair. “Hi, honey.”
“Cousin Leto,” Anselm says.
“Of course he is,” you mutter.
Leto shakes Anselm’s hand and nods.
Anselm kisses your cheek, his beard lingering over your skin. He scrutinizes your face. “How are the negotiations going, my dear?”
“Um, we were just talking. We didn’t start. Nothing’s happened.” You shut your lips tightly.
Leto looks infinitely amused. “I’m sorry, Anselm. Your wife is captivating and I couldn’t help myself. Had to try my luck.”
“No need to worry. If anyone understands my Birdie’s appeal, it’s me.” He brushes his knuckles over your jaw. “And I’ve always said, whatever she wants, she’s very welcome to have. Or, whomever she wants.”
Your head swivels slowly to look directly at Anselm. Your face feels so hot you think it might be melting off your skull.
Anselm winks at you from behind the cloudy lens of his glasses.
“Stop,” you whisper to him, knowing he’s embarrassing you on purpose. Even though he has actually said that. But surely Anselm wouldn’t be giving you the go-ahead so blatantly like this. Right?
“Interesting,” Leto says. “In that case, my opening offer has changed.”
The back of your neck starts to sweat at the way he says “opening offer.”
You pick up your purse. “You know what? Anselm, let’s give Leto his asking price for the special guards we need to hire. Just, let him have whatever he wants.” You push aside the chair. “Or not, like, whatever he wants. The contract, I mean. Not other things. Just money.”
You take Anselm’s arm. You’re seriously losing it. Why are they both standing so close to you? It’s turning your brain into melted ice cream. All that brown eyes and curly hair and- and-
Anselm’s chuckling at you, his eyes absolutely wicked. Leto’s deep laugh follows.
Anselm squeezes his arm around you. “Forgive me, my dear. Leto and I have been mistaken for each other, on occasion. I knew he was your type. I asked him to flirt with you. You’re very adorable when you’re flustered.”
You give Anselm a sharp look, then Leto. You shake your head. Your face is still burning.
"I'll wait in the car." You mutter to yourself on the way out. "Unbelievable. Stupid handsome, bearded rich guys on a power trip.”
*****
Anselm is still laughing on the way to the airport. You’re still trying to restart your brain.
“And you,” Anselm laughs, “you looked at me like I’d caught you on your knees with your mouth around him. But you were just talking. Almost stuttering.”
You fold your arms and look out the window.
“Like a schoolgirl at a strip club.” Anselm heaves one, final laugh, and swipes his fingers under his glasses.
The car stops in front of the stairs to the plane. You get out of the car quickly, needing a change of scenery. And you definitely get one.
Whoever this guy is, he’s not a bodyguard. And he’s too menacing to be part of the flight crew. He holds a black briefcase with both hands, a flat cap low over his brow.
“How ya doing?” He asks, a glint in his eyes. “I have some business with your husband, but if he’s not around, I wouldn’t be disappointed. Give us time to get to know one another.”
You hear Anselm’s door open, the squeak of his brace as he walks around the car.
“My dear, meet an associate of mine, Jake Lockley,” Anselm says.
Jake touches the brim of his cap to you. “Ma’am.”
You almost roll your eyes. “Ugh. You’re the guy who brings back artifacts from God knows where. I wish you wouldn’t encourage him. I don’t know how you sneak half of that shit into the country.”
Jake grins. “Let’s just say, I fly myself from place to place. Mr. Vogelweide, the rare books you requested.”
Anselm takes the case and hands it off to one of the staff, who walks it onto the plane. He doesn’t even bother looking inside. Usually, Anselm trusts no one.
Jake’s eyes harden as he looks at Anselm. “And you have what we agreed on?”
“Yes, the statues. Of course,” Anselm says.
He gestures to his bodyguards and they open the trunk of the car. They’re two huge guys, but they strain under the weight of the crate. It lands on the ground with a thunk.
“You won’t be offended if we take a look?” Jake says, sauntering over to the case.
“Not at all.” Anselm says.
Jake waves away the guard with the crowbar and uses his leather-gloved hands to pry up the top himself. Given that it’s nailed shut, he must be stronger than he looks.
He carefully takes the gloves off and tucks them in the back pocket of his jeans. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply.
“Cheers,” he says. He crouches down and paws through the padding. He picks up a bronze statue, Egyptian looking.
“Oh, she is a beauty. Look at that, my word. The craftsmanship's gorgeous, even after thousands of years.” Jake says. He smiles with wonder, and…
“Anselm, is he British? He didn’t sound like that before,” you whisper.
“He’s among the very strangest of my contacts, but he always gets the job done,” Anselm says.
Jake’s eyes rest on you. He smiles. “Hi there. I’m Steven. Very nice to make your acquaintance.”
You smile back, completely confused. He sets the statue back in the box and puts the top back on.
“I hear you and I have similar taste in books,” he says, thumping his fist on the box to secure the lid.
“I just started collecting. Anselm’s library is almost all sexual and sometimes, I’d like to know about history without the orgies,” you say.
Steven laughs and rubs his hands together. “Well, have Anselm give me a ring the next time you need something. I threw in an extra volume or two that you might enjoy.”
“Very kind,” Anselm says. “And tell Marc that his passport shouldn’t draw attention at the Canadian border. I’ve taken care of it.”
“You can tell him yourself,” Steven says with a smile. His eyes go wide as his body language stiffens. His eyes look you up and down, assessing you.
“Jake?” You ask.
“Marc,” he says, grimly. His eyes stay on you, but he speaks to Anselm. “Thanks, A. I’m driving over the border tonight. I’ll let you know when I arrive.”
Anselm starts to turn away, but you stay, looking at Marc.
“You look familiar,” you say to him.
Anselm’s head tilts toward you. “He didn’t look familiar before now?”
You shake your head. “No, he didn’t. Marc… Spector?”
“Shit,” Marc grimaces and looks away. He takes off the cap and runs a hand through his dark, wavy hair. “Yeah, how’ve you been?”
“You mean since you left halfway through our blind date like, a hundred years ago?” You ask.
“What?” Anselm says, his voice dropping.
“He left without a word. A friend of a friend set us up.” You point your thumb toward Marc, who looks darkly at you. “He’d just gotten out of the military. My friend said he was a little odd, but bananas hot. Both true.”
Anselm gives Marc a cold look.
“I’m sorry,” Marc says. He holds his hands up and does a bad job of trying to look harmless. “Obviously, you two weren’t together then. There’s no reason to be jealous.”
“Jealous?” Anselm says, his voice dripping with anger. “Certainly not. I’m insulted. Enraged. You had the opportunity to romance this woman, this perfection, this beauty? You didn’t try sleep with her? Didn’t even say goodbye? Left her alone in a restaurant? You’re a fucking imbecile.”
You back a few steps away and put your fingers in your ears.
Anselm takes out his gun. Marc just stands there.
Your body jumps out of instinct as Anselm shoots Marc twice in the chest. You close your eyes.
By the time you open them, Marc’s standing back up. Brushing himself off.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” You say, staring at Marc’s bizarre, gauzy outfit and cape. Not at all like the jeans and shirt he had on before.
You rush over to him, your hand on his chest. He should be bleeding out. Instead, there’s a shiny, metallic crescent moon where there should be entrance wounds.
“Long story,” he says. He looks at Anselm. “You done throwing a tantrum?”
Anselm nods.
Marc puts a hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay. I get shot all the time.”
You look back and forth between them, but neither offers an explanation.
Marc’s knuckles under your chin draw your face back toward his.
“You were perfect that night. Easy to talk to. You made me laugh,” Marc smiles. “You deserved something better than me. A normal life.”
You cover his hand with yours, rubbing your fingers over the fabric of his glove.
“I’m married to Anselm Vogelweide and run his family’s criminal empire,” you say.
The softness in Marc’s eyes turns almost playful. “Yeah, I guess ‘normal’ is a relative term. But it looks like it all worked out for you.”
You look back at Anselm, who’s wiping down his gun with his handkerchief. He reholsters it in a practiced movement.
“It did,” you say. “It was good to see you, Marc.”
He nods. He lets you go and bends to pick up the crate.
“Do you need help with that?” You ask, looking around for his car.
“I got it.” He looks up at you with a smile, a hood appearing out of nowhere over his face. His eyes glow white and he picks up the crate like it weighs nothing.
And then, he flies away with it.
*****
A few hours later, you and Anselm land (in a plane, like regular people), outside of Los Angeles.
You’d been reading the books Anselm had hired Steven to get for you. But you hadn’t absorbed a word. Strange kind of day.
You trade your coat for a pair of sunglasses and walk down the plane steps. California sunshine will do you good.
The pilots nod to you, having done their checks and just waiting to say goodbye. You pause and push your sunglasses up.
“Not your usual co-pilot, Frankie,” you say.
They smile.
“No, ma’am,” the taller one says. “This is Poe Dameron. Fresh out of the Navy. He just started working with us. He’s the best pilot on Earth. No joke.”
“I’d be the best pilot in the universe, if they gave me something I could fly through space,” Poe says with a charming smile.
You shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” You look at Frankie. “I hope you’ve warned Poe not to piss of Anselm.”
Anselm walks down the stairs. “You know as well as I do, Francisco, there are recommended limits to the aircraft, and there are the actual limits.”
“I don’t like to take chances, sir,” Frankie says, smiling at you from under his mustache. “Your wife told me not to. She’s the boss.”
Anselm looks over Poe. His perfectly coiffed hair and open-necked button-down. “I hope you take orders as well as your friend, here.”
“Yes, sir,” Poe says, looking Anselm in the eye. “Unless they’re dumb-ass orders.”
Frankie elbows him hard. “He’ll be fine, Anselm. A little cocky, but we’re used to that around here.”
Poe insists on opening your door for you. He helps you in. Anselm rolls down his window and gives Frankie and Poe a wave as the car drives away.
“They’re very handsome,” he says, his eyes sweeping back toward you. “I think we should make them wear uniforms. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“They're fine in their regular clothes. If you drop it, I promise to play slutty stewardess for you on the way home.”
Anselm closes the window. “What do you call road head if you’re blowing a pilot at altitude?”
You snuggle closer to him in the car. “Let’s never find out, okay?”
But Poe Dameron is kind of cute. And Frankie always stares at your ass when he thinks you aren’t looking.
“Actually, maybe the uniforms aren’t such a bad idea,” you say.
*****
When you arrive at the L.A. house, to your great surprise, someone is already there.
He’s sunning himself by the pool. Pink speedo and a drink with a little umbrella.
“The lady of the house,” he calls out to you as you down look at him from the balcony above. He stands up and bows to you with a flourish. “I hope you don’t mind my making myself at home. I’ve just come in from the desert, and I was parched. Please, call me Jack.”
Anselm walks over to stand next to you. You try to place Jack’s accent, but it’s probably from some holler in Tennessee you have no hope of ever locating.
“Brother,” Jack says enthusiastically, walking up the stairs to join you two, “you are a sight for sorry eyes.”
Anselm shakes his hand. “How the devil have you been?”
“I have been the devil, yes, as well we both know,” Jack says with a laugh.
It all sounds friendly enough, but there’s a tension you don’t like. The way Anselm’s positioned himself almost between you and Jack, his hand curled around your waist.
Jack reaches out and touches Anselm’s beard. "Wonder how I'd look with one of these."
Anselm swats his hand away.
Jack grins. “I was disappointed in your message. You know I can’t be bought, brother. Your money is the one thing of no use to you here.”
Anselm makes a tut-tut sound with his tongue. “That’s not true. You shouldn’t let petty feelings keep you from reaching your full potential. Our different circumstances are mere accidents of birth.”
Jack scratches his fingers over his shaved head. “Good with words, brother, you always were. Always were.”
He smiles at you. It makes you uncomfortable.
“How do you two know each other?” You ask them.
“Brother,” Jack says.
“Half,” Anselm corrects.
Jack smirks. “Brother, it looks like your lady didn’t know about our father’s wandering hips. I’m almost hurt.” He lays a hand on his chest, a sarcastic, theatrical frown on his face. “No, my dear Frau Vogelweide, my father provided for all of his illegitimate offspring until the age of 25. Except me. My mother, in her infinite crack-pot wisdom, stole me away to these parts when I was a boy. I never knew I was of such noble lineage until my brother here tracked me down some years ago.”
“I’ve been trying to rectify things ever since,” Anselm says, frowning.
Jack looks up and blinks at the sunshine and blue sky. He smiles at you. “I hear you’re the one who sits on the throne these days. Sister.”
Anselm’s hand very subtly inches closer to the gun you know he has beneath his jacket. Jack doesn't seem dangerous to you, though. He just likes to push people's buttons. Get a reaction.
“If you don’t want money, then what do you want?” You ask Jack.
He rubs the stubble on his chin. His nails are bitten short, and still dirty from the desert sand.
“I don’t think we share many common interests, sister. You see,” Jack says, “I’m, to put it very humbly, what you might call, a serial killer.”
He smiles at you, his eyes narrowing.
You wait, but he doesn’t say more. “Oh. Is that all?”
His smile falters.
You look at Anselm, but he only shrugs. He puts his hands in his pockets, more relaxed now.
“You’ve inherited the Vogelweide flair for the dramatic,” he says to Jack, “and our moral ambiguity.”
Jack seems off balance, probably a new feeling for him. You lay a hand on his forearm.
“How many people have you killed, sweetie?” You ask him.
He pauses for a moment, looking at you. He grins. “Seven.”
You sigh in relief. “Thank God. I thought it was going to seven hundred.”
Anselm looks pleased. “That’s fine, then. No problem at all,” he says.
“Brother, what exactly is going on here?” Jack says, his eyes are so narrow they’re just slits on his tanned face.
You put your arm around Jack’s shoulders, his skin warm from the sun.
“If you don’t want our money,” you tell him, “maybe you’d let us hire you for your skills.”
Jack almost laughs. “As much as I would love to breathe in your delicious scent, be crushed under your designer heel, and make myself available to you in every way, I’m a certified genius with a chip on my shoulder and dead aim. I don’t think your privileged world has room for anyone like me.”
You smile reassuringly. “You sound a lot like my husband. And if there’s room for one in the family, then there’s room for two. Let’s go inside the office here, get you a robe, and we’ll talk.”
Anselm walks beside you as you lead Jack inside.
“You have such a good heart, Birdie,” Anselm says. He kisses your cheek lovingly.
“He’s family,” you say. “Earlier today, I met Leto Atreides, also family. You’re right, sometimes people are victims of their circumstances. You and Leto had opportunities that Jack didn’t.”
Jack sits his pink swimsuited bottom on the desk, watching the exchange.
“Atreides?” He growls. “Brother, that stick-up-his-ass has been fighting over the very stretch of desert that I call home. Been trying to run me off for years. Even deigned to come out there himself once and almost shot my head off.”
Jack grins at you. “You’re prettier than a picture. No offense, brother, but now that I’ve met my sister-in-law, I believe that it’s time to come back to the fold. So to speak.”
Anselm gives you a wry look, his beard twitching in his effort to hide a smile. He holds his hand out toward Jack, like he's an exhibit in a museum. “Sometimes, my dear, bloodlines are stronger than circumstance. In this case, a genetic a fondness for gunfire and an attraction to you.”
Anselm Vogelweide masterlist :: main masterlist :: Join My Taglist
I just quickly wanted to pop in and let you know that I'm still thinking about your Nathan fics 😭. You're writing is incredible and you capture him just perfectly!!
And yeah, since reading The Empty Room I have been thinking about how Nathan would behave if reader did get pregnant. I just feel like he'd experience sympathetic pregnancy (experiencing the same symptoms as the pregnant partner) and complain significantly more than you. And he'd somehow find a way to blame you for everything lmao. Whatever you come up with, if you decide to write a next part (pregnancy or not), will be just fantastic. And I'm so excited for it!
I just want you to know that I'm out here thoroughly enjoying your writing 🤍 And that you've changed my brain chemistry lol 🫠
Thank you!!!!
And omg you are so right.
Nathan Bateman would be the baby, while his baby was growing….
—Sympathy— (~1k)
Contents: A little silly, nothing smutty, but language and sex talk
------
Nathan flops down on the couch with a container of chocolate gelato and two spoons.
“Ugh,” you say, “please get that away from me.”
He takes the top off and sticks the spoons in. He puts his thumb in his mouth to lick off a smear of chocolate. “What do you mean? We’ve been eating this every night for like, two months. Ever since you started showing.”
You rub your stomach, trying desperately not to inhale and smell it. You'd just gotten over your morning, afternoon, and evening nausea and you couldn't even think about- gag- chocolate. “Nathan, I’m serious, close it.”
He puts the top on the container, looking hurt. He throws it on the coffee table. The spoons go flying onto the floor.
“Well, what the fuck?” He says, pushing his glasses up.
You blink at his overreaction. “You can still eat it. Just please do it in the kitchen. I don’t have that craving anymore.”
“Well I still do,” he says, clearly grumpy. He leans forward, forearms on his thighs and hands rubbing over one another.
You do a double-take at him.
“We’ve had this ritual, right?” He holds out his hands, then claps them together, hard, “and you’re fucking destroying it. You didn’t even ask me.”
“Nathan-“
He pushes up off the couch, rubbing his hands over his head. “You don’t have any sympathy for me," he spits out.
You're dumbstruck. Nathan Bateman and sympathy do not belong in the same sentence. This is clearly not about gelato.
“Honey,” you say.
“Don’t fucking call me that. Condescending.” He mutters and turns away from you. “It’s fucking hot in here. Are you hot?”
“Nathan, don’t jump down my throat okay, but are you having a panic attack?”
He’s usually so in control, so calculating, but his back is taut and you can tell from his shoulders that his breaths are shallow and sharp.
“Oh my God.” You get up from the couch. “Hey, hey, are you crying?” You lay a hand on his back softly and he jerks away from you.
You see him wipe his hands under his eyes, smudging his glasses.
“I feel like-“ he stops himself and looks at you, sniffling and recomposing his face.
You narrow your eyes at him. “Nathan, what’s going on? What did you do?”
He sighs. You can see him weighing his words carefully. “You said we were in this together. So I wanted to know what it was like.”
“Did you make yourself pregnant?”
“That would be fucking stupid. No.” He says. “I’m just making myself feel pregnant.”
You rub your fingertips over your forehead.
“You said we were doing this together,” Nathan said. “Unless you didn’t mean it. You want to fucking leave? You want me to leave?” His voice is rising.
“Slow down, please,” you say.
“I feel like you don’t even want me right now,” he says.
“Um...”
“I feel like you did this to me.”
“Nathan, you very literally did this to yourself.”
His face crumples.
Not only has he started multiple sentences with ‘I feel,’ which you’d been trying to get him to do for months (and he’d mocked you mercilessly), but he is now crying.
You put your hands on his arms, rubbing them up and down. “It’s okay, Nathan. I’m sorry.”
He puts his hands on the gentle swell of your stomach, sniffling and taking a breath.
“Does that make you feel better?” You ask comfortingly. “Yeah?”
He nods. “I made this.”
“You did. You wanted me to get pregnant and bam! Pregnant. Knocked me up first try.”
“I did,” he says, calmed down now, “and it was fucking easy.”
You pull him in for a hug. “It was. Because you’re a genius, remember?”
He nods. “Thanks, babe. I just feel gross sometimes, and it's so uncomfortable, and my nipples are sensitive, and I just don’t feel very ...mpphffhhff.”
“What was that last part?” You ask.
He’s quiet.
“Nathan, you can tell me.” You rub his back some more, like you're trying to pacify a wild animal. “Please?”
You feel his jaw tense on your shoulder, his words are reluctant and tight. “I don’t feel very pretty.”
You have to bite your lip. “Mmm-hmm,” you say, “well, you look pretty. You’re very pretty.”
You stroke your hand over his head, lean back to run your fingers through his beard.
“Will you fuck me?” He asks. His brown eyes are a little harder, more like they usually are, but still red at the rims and especially big as they look at you.
You smile. “I’d love to.” You touch the waistband of his shorts, but he backs away from you.
“No, let’s go to bedroom so you can ride me.” He slings his arm around you shoulders. “And I want you to really get it up in there. Not going to be able to do it for much longer. You’re going to be too fat.”
You slap his arm. “I’m not fat. I’m pregnant.”
“Whatever. The point is, I’m going to have to do all the work soon.” He looks you up and down. “You know, if I had to do what you’re doing, for real, I’d put myself in a fucking coma until the baby was born. You're tough.” He kisses you hard on the cheek. "And pretty."
"Thank you." You smile, taking his hand and laying it on your stomach as you walk down the hallway.
Nathan always finds ways to show you he appreciates you, but he almost never says it out loud.
“It’s not bad all the time,” you say “I hope whatever you did to yourself gave you some of the good feelings too. What exactly did you use for this?”
“It’s something experimental that I synthesized in the lab. It’ll wear off in a couple hours,” he dismisses it. “I’m not even going to bother going in and logging any data. There’s no commercial market for it. Could be good for torture.”
How would the moon boys take care of the reader if she was sick?
One word, three men: Competency. These guys are problem-solvers and do-ers of things.
Headcanon Moon Boys w/ sick reader
Jake
Jake will make you soup. He will ask every little old lady he knows for recipes (and he knows every single one in the neighborhood and they’re all in love with him).
If you have pills to take, or haven’t eaten in awhile, he will hand feed you the soup he’s made, very sweetly telling you how well you’re doing the entire time.
He'll watch whatever movie you want, and will keep his mouth shut during the parts when he usually complains. And when the credits roll, he'll start it over again from the beginning, without you even asking.
He’ll wrap you in a soft, new blanket or give you a new stuffed animal or a candy you love, whatever your thing is, and you have no idea how he's getting these things for you this b/c he hasn’t left you once.
Steven
Has no fear of getting sick. Will cuddle you, even when you’re sticky and sweaty and coughing and nauseous. He will be as still as a statue if his movements would bother you.
Tells you how beautiful you are to him even now, which you know is ridiculous, but still feels nice.
Does not leave your side the entire time.
He will read to you. A funny book if you need to smile (he’ll do voices). Something informative if… well… that’s just one he’s reading through about the geological properties of the stones used to make the Great Pyramids and he’ll just read it aloud if you want to hear his voice. You’ll fall asleep. Win win.
Marc
He gives great massages. He will perfectly massage your achy body back into shape and carry you to the bathtub.
He’ll get in the bath too, rubbing his big warm hands over you and washing your hair.
He’ll dry you and carry you to bed.
If you’re on medication, he’s made a timetable for it and organized them in a pill container.
He’ll let you pick the music for the apartment the entire time you’re sick.
Cedes making tea to Steven, even though you know it was Marc’s idea. And the plate has your favorite cookies on it, from Jake.
And here are some fic recs!
Get Well Soon fic- Steven x reader- @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction
Cough Syrup fic - Steven x reader- @romanarose
Steven w/ sick reader fic- @ominoose
The System w/ chronically ill reader hc- @soonknight
Could I request headcanons for Peter Roiter and Vincent Caldwell?
Note: Case 63 au (no pandemic); our boys are in it for love
Contents: non-explicit sex and f receiving oral, past dv & death
----
Peter Roiter
You meet Peter when he rings your doorbell.
A weekday morning. You’re usually at work, but there’d been a flooding incident from a leaky pipe and the whole place had closed.
Peter, of course, knew this.
He's handsome, curly hair and dark eyes. A flash of a tattoo under the short sleeve of his t-shirt.
He tells you something from your childhood. Too personal for you to have ever told anyone.
Peter says you’ll tell him the story, 5 years from now.
The day after you two get married, when you’re on your honeymoon. The Isle of Skye in Scotland.
You’ll wake up together, in a rental cottage you’d seen on Pinterest.
A photo you’d looked at for years, whenever you needed a mental vacation.
A little place out in the middle of rolling green fields with white, weathered clapboard and old, wavy glass in the windows. Sheep grazing behind it. Cuillin mountains in the background.
Peter had found it and surprised you, two whole weeks. Just the two of you in that exact cottage.
"Do you know the one?" He asks.
With shaky hands, you take your phone out of your pocket. It’s your background.
You’d just seen the photo for the first time, minutes before he’d shown up at your doorstep.
Peter knows he’s changed the timeline by coming back to see you.
He had to come back, though, because before you meet him and fall in love, you meet a man who will eventually kill you.
A man who sees your wedding announcement in the paper.
He finds you when you come back from Scotland.
You and Peter don’t even make it to your first anniversary.
Peter can’t let that happen.
He sounds crazy, you shouldn’t believe him.
But when he shakes your hand, you can’t let go.
He hugs you and starts crying.
You let him stay.
He’s funny. Brave.
And patient. Lets you take as long as you need to fall in love with him. He's not going anywhere.
Loves to listen to you obsess over things, hear your mind digging deeper and deeper into something.
Peter needs to be with you almost every minute of the day, to be sure you’re safe.
Sometimes he sits bolt upright in the middle of the night, short of breath, dreaming you’re still gone.
Stays awake until the sun comes up, just looking at you.
Possessive during sex, a holdover from watching you be ripped out of his life.
Passionate and desperate, Peter tells you over and over that you’re his.
He kisses you deeply, his body heavy on yours, hands gripping you so tightly it almost hurts. "We're going to feel this way forever. *Feel that?* How deep I am inside of you? Every single part of you. Forever."
Lays claim to every place on or in your body that he can touch and taste. Memorizing you.
Like he can fuse your skin with his through sweat and heat. Never separated again.
Driving you to the edge over and over, until you beg him.
Until you feel as desperate for him as he remembers feeling for you, when he thought he’d never see you again.
*****
Vincent Caldwell
You’re his patient, assigned to him because he happened to be there the night you admitted yourself.
The hospital he works at is hours away from your house, but it’s the one you felt compelled to drive to.
The nurse brings him up to speed as he makes his way to see you for the first time.
She says you’re inconsolable, plagued by dreams and things you know aren’t true.
You go on and on about how you can’t tell reality from fantasy.
You ask about your husband and daughter, but then insist you’re single. Something about playing a piano. Going to Europe. But you don’t know if any of those things are true.
You’re sitting in a hospital bed, covering your face with your hands.
He greets you as he enters. Your hands drop.
You look at each other.
Vincent with a smile and a white doctor's coat. His hair pushed back neatly from his face. A clipboard in his capable hands.
The man from your dreams. Your fantasies.
In another life, he’s yours.
Vincent isn’t so easily convinced. But he’s drawn to you. Feels like he knows you.
The things you say feel familiar to him too, even though they’re not real.
He takes a sabbatical from the hospital. Patiently helps you separate your life, and his life, from whatever shared delusion you two have.
He’s not sure it’s a delusion anymore.
He introduces you to his daughter.
The 3 of you fit together like parts of a whole, a family.
You stay.
Sex with Vincent is where the veil lifts, between reality and whatever else draws you together.
Memories of being with him thread through every touch. Your future, other lifetimes, you both feel it.
He kisses down your ribcage, and you know he’s done the same thing, at some other time.
His tongue buries itself inside of you. You both remember the time you were leaning against a bathroom sink.
Vincent was on his knees. Hidden under your wedding dress, eating you out like you were the cake and champagne toast that was being delayed while everyone looked for you two.
He made you come twice, turned you around so you could both watch in the mirror as you had sex for the first time as a married couple.
Vincent ran warm water and wet a hand towel. He cleaned you up gently, kissed you softly.
You both laughed at the absurdity of it.
Hiding like teenagers. You heard people calling out for you.
The reception had been damn expensive, and you two were busy having sex in the bathroom.
Neither of you cared. You were happy.
Here, in bed, now. Laying in others’ arms. Both of you bask in the memory.
The memory that never was.
You’d just moved into Vincent’s house. You weren’t married. He hadn’t even asked. Yet.
Things like that shouldn’t be normal.
But Vincent isn’t unsettled by it.
He feels lucky.
He gets to experience those amazing, precious memories before they even happen, if they ever happen at all.
Like a gift that makes him appreciate you even more.
Anselm loves intimidating people and I think having a partner who bakes and cooks brings a whole new level to it if you're down to be a part of it. Like, imagine he has people tell him a person's favorite food and dessert and have you make it when they're over.
And the person is struggling with the paranoia of if the food is poisoned, but also that Anselm will take offense to them not eating what you made, ie "I have my love make you food and you won't eat it. You wasted their time and effort.", and kill them for that. Meanwhile, the food is fine the whole time and it's all just a psych out.
Summary: Anselm appreciates your baking, and everyone else should too... or face the consequences.
Contents: no smut, no sex, food, eating, violence, murder (~1.3k)
--------
Anselm has taken to carefully arranging a plate of your beautiful bakes under a glass dome on his desk.
He keeps a container for himself in his right-side desk drawer. The henchmen all have their own batch on the coffee table by the couches. But the desk display isn’t just for show. He likes to offer them to people.
First and foremost, so he can brag. He does love when people appreciate you.
But it’s become a kind of test for the person sitting on the other side of his desk.
Do they like dessert? Do they have good manners? What wins: their suspicion of poisoning or their love of sugar?
The last time this particular associate had visited the house, a woman who owns a series of convenience stores and laundromats that are all entirely fronts for forgery of all kinds, she had particularly liked your mille-feuille. It had pleased Anselm, how much she’d gone on and on about them.
So, the next time the woman comes over for a meeting, you make a whole batch, putting them on Anselm’s desk yourself, double-checking his calendar to make sure you have the timing right.
Anselm uses a short-hand in his calendar that you’d never bothered to learn. You knew who was coming, and approximately what time of day, but not why. He put your name down with a heart (obviously), but the rest of the names and meetings all had various other shapes. Circles, squares, diamonds, squiggles.
And the woman’s name has squiggles next to it. All the same to you. Whatever.
The woman is very professional when she arrives, until her eyes light up at the sight of your sweet treats on Anselm’s desk. She’s extra friendly.
“Oh, you are a lucky man,” she says as she sits across from Anselm.
“Mmm, yes,” he smiles, looking down his nose a bit at her. “My personal life has become the thing I live for, whereas I used to live only to work. For example, two years ago, I would have noticed you stealing from me in an instant. Whereas this year, it took me almost three weeks to see you’re a weasely little shit.”
He leans forward and the woman tenses. But he only lifts the cover off the beautiful glass display, his eyes hard and smile sharp.
“Care for a treat?” He says.
Her gaze flits back and forth, Anselm to dessert, dessert to Anselm. She reaches out her hand, but hesitates, her smiles as brittle as the puff pastry layers she loves so much.
She delicately picks one up and sets it on a linen napkin laid out on the desk.
Anselm’s eyebrows raise. “Well? They were made especially for you. They took the love of my life a very long time to make. Please,” he puts the dome back down, “have a bite while we talk.”
She picks it up, trying to casually look it over. She raises it slowly to eye level, thinking maybe it’s okay.
“Do you ever think about the Roman empire?” Anselm asks.
The woman starts to lower the pastry to her mouth. She shakes her head.
“Halotus, for example, suspected of being responsible or at least complacent, in the death of the Roman Emperor Claudius,” Anselm steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. “Halotus was the food taster for the Emperor. Made sure the food was safe to eat. Not poisoned.”
The woman’s hand stops, her mouth open with the pastry already partially inside.
“Don’t worry,” Anselm smiles. He flicks his hand over his hair to smooth it. “I’m not allowed anywhere near the baking process. I’m a businessman not a baker.”
Nevertheless, the woman sets the mille-feuille back down, untouched.
Anselm’s gaze narrows. He pushes it slightly towards her. “I used to think about the Roman Empire a lot. Many times a day, really. Now, I only ever have one thing on my mind. Are the people around me trustworthy? Because, if they are, then I can trust them to do their jobs, while I spend my time doing what I love best.” He taps the glass of the dome. “Spending time with the slice of perfection who made these.
“How do you think I feel? I, Claudius, and you, the two-faced succubus feeding off of my empire for years, the very Halotus who would see me poisoned.”
“Anselm,” she says shakily, “it’s not what it looks like. Well, it is sort of. But I had to. I had all this gambling debt-“
Anselm draws in a sharp breath. “Eat the fucking pastry. It’s very rude not to.” He says loudly. “Do you want to insult the love of my life as well as insult my intelligence by thinking you could get away with any of this?”
The woman picks up the sugary dessert and sticks half of it in her mouth, cream spilling out, flakes of pastry falling on her shirt and lap.
She tries to speak, but her mouth is too full.
“Poor manners,” Anselm frowns. “A sign of weak character.”
She chews. Anselm’s bodyguards quietly walk up and flank her on both sides.
He smooths his tie, smiles slightly. “How is it? As good as you remember?”
The woman manages to swallow the gigantic bite down. She wipes the crumbs off her face nervously. “Not really, no.”
Anselm’s face goes deadly still. “Explain.”
Her eyes go wide. “It’s lovely. It’s a really tasty, um, whatever.” She pushes the other half aside so she can lean forward toward Anselm. “I’m so sorry about the money. I had a plan to replace it. You’ll get it all back in three months, I promise.”
But Anselm isn’t looking at her at all. He’s looking at the discarded, half-eaten treat you’d lovingly baked this morning.
“I don’t care about the money,” he says lowly. “I was going to suggest you take care of a little problem I was having with the owner of a series of racehorses in Europe. Your debt would have been forgiven. But there is no way to make up for this.”
He looks sadly at the mille-feuille.
“What?” The woman asks, completely confused. “Is this about a stupid fucking cake?”
His nostrils flare. “Now I wish it had been poisoned. Ungrateful piece of,” he mumbles to himself as opens the top drawer of his desk and takes out a gun.
The two bodyguards each lay a hand on the woman’s shoulders.
He cocks the gun. “Please know that I’m not shooting you for business reasons. That, we could have come to an agreement on. But you’ve personally insulted the honor of my very dearest, very sweetest,” he sighs, out of ways to express it, “well, what’s done is done.”
He shoots her in the chest, twice for good measure.
With a sigh, he puts the gun away and reaches into his desk drawer, taking out a brownie from yesterday and happily eating it in one bite.
“Hey boss,” one of the burly bodyguards says, looking at the glass dome longingly, “would you mind if I had one of these? Only, I’m going to have to skip lunch to take care of the body and um, these things are my favorite.”
Anselm smiles hugely, glad someone appreciates your hard work. He picks up the dome himself and encourages the man to take two.
Anselm smiles and puts a few squiggles down in his calendar next to the guard’s name.
The shape system is designed so he can keep track of who likes which of your bakes. He only wants to share them with those who will appreciate them the most.
If he had to put a shape by his name, he’d have just used an infinity symbol. He never got tired of trying out your creations. And he would never tire of using them to scare the weaker of his associates.
I'm a really clumsy person when it comes to my knees and feet, for some reason I either hit my knee or toes especially the last two fingers turning purple 😅. I was wondering how Anselm, Nathan and Moon boys react? And what they would do?
I relate. I am a clumsy person- easily startled, easily bruised.
Contents: this is just fluff!
MK Boys
Steven gets what it's like to be a little awkward by nature, but your pain stresses him out.
Marc tries to keep an eye out for you, but knows he can't be there 24/7, holding your hand like a guide for a blind person.
Jake suggested keeping you tied to the bed and he'd just bring you everything you needed, and carry you everywhere. You said sarcastically that he might as well put you in a wheelchair, and we all know how he feels about those...
They don't like to see bruises on you. So, they each do their bit.
Marc squares up the furniture so it's easier to walk around the flat. Shifts some of the clutter to one of the storage facilities he rents.
Jake's job is to keep the place tidy. He was doing that anyway, but you have a habit of leaving laptop cords across the floor, or your water bottle next to the couch, a pile of clean clothes where you'd sat on the floor to fold them. He makes all of those things disappear back into their proper places.
Steven's solution is simple, but brilliant. Near the bases of the columns and built-in shelves (all hazards that they can't move), he puts piles of books around them. He knows you'd never kick a pile of books and risk damaging the pages or bending a corner. Problem solved (Also, he had to find a use for the books or Marc would have taken them to storage and we can't be having that.).
Nathan
It's distracting to him, you hurting yourself. It puts him on edge. He can't have it.
He winces and almost jumps whenever he hears you say "ow, damn" because he knows you might have taken a toenail off jamming it against one of the many concrete walls in the house.
So, he does what he feels is the most logical thing. He builds a waist-high robot to follow you absolutely everywhere. It has low-lights to highlight corners and stuff on the ground. It has sensors that beep.
It has a speaker. Nathan has one of his security feeds tracking you, up on his desktop all day. Sometimes you'll be wandering around, mug in hand, not paying attention, and hear: "Watch the first step." "Table." "You're gonna hit the fireplace with your elbow."
Anselm
Wouldn't say anything outright, but you'd notice him kissing your bruises and scrapes, paying extra attention to them. And then... all of the furniture in his house gets... softer. Little by little.
The shin-height coffee tables go away. The pathways between furniture get a little wider. The big wooden feet on his four-poster bed have little cushions around them.
Being you, you find a way to still stub your toes on the chairs in his office and the next day they're gone. His minions are sitting, knees up around their ears, on huge beanbag chairs.
You know you should tell Anselm to stop, that you don't need him to pillow-fy everything in the house. But... it is funny, seeing his huge bodyguards all squished down on neon-colored beanbags.
Hi, I'm the goth from the other ask that rambled in your inbox about Anselm.
I just know Anslem would take the skull of someone he killed, clean it, and then give it to me as a gift for my collection of weird things. He's fucked up like that.
Hi!!!!! First off, my inbox ate your original Ask.
So, just a PSA: I love hearing from you all and talking about weird shit! If I don’t answer you, or you don’t see anything from me within a week, PLEASE send me another note b/c maybe I never got it!!!!
And now, my dear, dark Nonny- Please barge up in here anytime b/c yeah… absolutely, Anselm would wonder where goth had been all of his life as soon as you started introducing shit to him. The guy clearly has no aversion to blood, is kinky af, and would shoot anyone who looked at it sideways.
Below is a little something that pertains to the above ask you sent… the one about the skull.
——————-
— Romance and Death — (~900k)
Contents: no smut, a smidge of blood play, murder and bones, mentions of sex, completely separate from Dear Birdie, but yeah, Anselm’s into goth
——————-
“You make the staff nervous,” Anselm says.
“Is that supposed to be my problem?”
He grins as he walks into the bedroom. You’d woken up awhile ago, but had started reading and lost track of time. Anselm has already been working and has probably had time to ruin several people’s lives by this time of the morning.
“Just an observation,” he says. “I’m not sure if it’s the fact that you live in complete darkness, or the beautiful way you’ve redesigned my life.”
He sits on the edge of the bed carefully, his brace creaking slightly. You set aside your book.
“You were halfway there already, Anselm. Black suits. Blood everywhere. I just added more beautiful, dead things.”
“Do you mean your collection of specimens or yourself?” He smiles.
You shrug. “It wasn’t really a collection until you started buying them for me.”
“I can’t help it. You look so beautiful among them. And I’d never tried to woo anyone as discerning as you.”
“Woo? Even for me, that word’s a little old-fashioned.”
“What would you call it? I had dozens of unique specimens preserved in glass globes for you before you would even have dinner with me. Beautiful oddities. Isn’t that romance?”
“I can’t argue. It clearly worked.” You gesture to yourself, lying in the bed you share, the room you share, the house you share. He was right, though, he’d had to work a long time to earn your trust, but the rewards for both of you were worth it.
“Ah,” he snaps his fingers, “yes, that’s why I came in here. I wanted to show you something.”
“Is it something I’ve seen before?” Your eyes graze the front of his pants.
“Save that for afterward. You can look as closely at that as you like. In fact, I insist. No, this is something else. I think you may be the only one who would appreciate it.”
“I swear, if you built another sex room…”
“It’s not that. Although I am having another installed. Very black lace and velvet. I hope you don’t think me cliche, but I am new to this. I think you’ll enjoy the contrast of texture. No, my love, this is something I’ve never shown anyone.”
He clears his throat loudly and one of his assistants brings in a box, wrapped in brown paper and tied with black ribbon. He sets it on the bed next to you before he leaves.
Anselm looks at you expectantly as you pull on the ends of the ribbon.
The paper falls away. It’s a human skull, on a black, cloth pillow, in a deadly looking glass case.
You trace your finger along it. The edge is sharp enough to make a shallow cut in your skin. Anselm takes your hand, gently bringing your finger to his mouth, laying his tongue along the thin line of red that blooms on your skin.
He kisses your finger and sets your hand back down.
“This is the skull of the first person I ever shot.” Anselm says matter-of-factly. Not bragging, not sad. Like a docent at a museum.
“Forward-thinking of you to have it cleaned and displayed like this.”
“Oh no, unfortunately, I can’t take credit for that. Being I was so young, I had the body buried in an inappropriate place and a gardener happened upon it and the police were called. It was quite the mess. I had to have the entire skeleton stolen from the coroner’s office just to make it go away. The rest of the pieces were, of course, disposed of.”
“But this part, you kept.”
“Yes. I’ve questioned why I did so for many years. Until I met you.”
You smile.
“I thought maybe I kept it out of guilt, although the man deserved it. Thinking I wouldn’t notice that he was siphoning off money and drugs like a squirrel hiding nuts for a lonely winter. But, no, my love. I think I kept it because there was something about the gruesomeness that I enjoyed.”
“It’s not gruesome,” you say.
“You understand, then.” He kisses you, a faint and familiar taste from a smudge of your blood on his bottom lip. “I’d like to make a gift of it for you. Although, please, don’t display it here in the bedroom. I can still see his lying, cheating face in my head and even I couldn’t achieve an erection thinking about that.”
“Maybe by the front door." You pick up the case and look at it. “We’ll see it every day, and it might be a good reminder to people.”
“As genius as you are beautiful. Come, we can decide on our way out. I feel like taking a walk. I’ll get your parasol. Oh, and I’m having the pool demolished next week, apologies for the noise.”
You get dressed, then tuck the glass case carefully under your arm as you walk out, hoping his staff see you carrying it and become even more confused.
“I think filling it in will make room for something else I’m having created for you,” he says. “A toxic plant garden.”
“Now that is wooing at its finest.”
“I look forward to fucking you in it. The moonlight on your skin,” his fingers trace along your neck as he thinks about it. “We’ll have to be very careful though, I’d hate to accidentally die because I fucked the wrong flower.”
You lay your hand on his arm. “If the worst happens, then please know that I’ll keep you with me always.”
“Yes, my love, in your heart.”
“No, Anselm.” You lift the box from under your arm to show him what you mean. “Literally.”
