a 19th century edition of Rabelais which I bought for £1 from the Last Bookshop. Antiquarian books in foreign languages (except Latin) are surprisingly cheap around here, probably marked down on the basis nobody can read that language anyway.
I haven’t found a date, but the editor. Louis Moland, appears to have been active from the 1870s through to the 1890s.
This was supposed to be a 5 sentence drabble using “cuddle” for @driftingthroughtheskies and an anon, then it was gonna be smut fir @whatfallsaway and then it got a little bit muddled in with an idea from Sunday’s rewatch chat which was (I believe) pioneered by the Jens, @claricex-woman and @startwreck…. whatever it is… it got away from me rather!
MSR || Casefile || Undercover || S6 || Currently PG, will be NC-17 || Part Two Here
When Mulder got the call it had seemed a fairly benign request, far less dangerous than the New Spartans and much less likely to mess with his head than a loan out to Behavioural Science. Of all the favours he’d been obliged to do to keep The X-Files open, a weekend in New York, reconnecting with an old Oxford classmate was by far the simplest and so he’d said yes. He hadn’t even told Scully he was going on a case; she had some family arrangement and he would be back Monday.
Except he wasn’t.
From that first night, the staged meeting at an exclusive party and the trip afterwards to the kind of club that you need a password and a Bentley to get into, Mulder had found himself swept back into a world he hadn’t even realised how glad he was to have escaped. Jasper Hammond’s circle had more money than morals, a sense of entitlement that had only grown with age and a decisively cruel streak. He had welcomed Mulder with open arms, calling him Fox as he poured him endless Laphroaig, and seeing the wealthy, rakish American who had sometimes helped him with his essays at Oxford instead of the tortured man the Bureau knew. It had been beguiling for all of an hour, easy to forget his task in the face of the moneyed hedonism, but then there had been the private club, the drugs and then the girls offered to him whose faces were painted brightly to mask their youth and their terror, who disappeared into private rooms with uncaring men and were whisked away afterwards.
Mulder remembered in that instant why he had run. Why he had become a government employee rather than a hedge fund manager. Many of his former set saw the world as an enormous shop, where nothing was beyond their grasp for enough money with the right people. And it seemed Jasper Hammond was right at the heart of it, smuggling not only the drugs Mulder had been sent in to find, but anything that people would pay for: weapons, secrets and people just lines on his wicked ledger.