#but i still want there to be an Obvious resemblance beyond just the hair

[mamahoggs]

i keep hopping back and forth on whether i think my first take on prompto is more accurate than my last…. why is this such a struggle

[aquaburst3]

We all know that the boy's negative traits draw from the villains that inspired them. However, the boys take their good traits from various different Disney heroines/heroes. Here they are!

(I'm not adding some characters either because their "good" inspo is obvious or I can't think of any other Disney characters that they resemble. No Kalim or Rook for that reason.)

Ace=Alice: Both are spunky, clever, adaptable and quick-witted. Neither of them are afraid to stand up for what they think is right, even in front of those in power. But at the same time, they are both honest to the point of being blunt and hurtful.

Deuce=Jim Hawkins: Both are former troublemakers with hearts of gold that want to make their moms proud. Both even share similar backstories, even if the "father walking out" is more of a "read between the lines" situation in Deuce's case.

Cater=Cinderella: Both have older sisters that give them a hard time, both view the school (which is a castle) as an escape and hide their pain with a smile and sunny disposition.

Leona=Kovu: Both are jaded guys with chips on their shoulder and their society looks down on them for reasons out of their control. Both also have a wicked dry sense of humour.

Ruggie=Aladdin: Both are "street rats" who are sly, cunning and clever.

Azul=Tiana: Both were ridiculed for things beyond their control. (Azul for being an octopus merman and Tiana for being a black woman in the 1920s South). Both are hard working, capable, resourceful and want to operate their own businesses.

Jamil=Jasmine: Both are smart, quick-witted, sharp tongued, capable, bold and clever. Both are loyal to those dear to them. Both are trapped and desire to be free. They also share some similar design elements like the long, black hair. Jamil=Aladdin: Like Aladdin, Jamil feels trapped in the circumstances of his birth, he longs to be free. He wants to show the world just what he’s capable of and that means improving his social standing. (Though, I think Jamil is far more clever and cunning then Aladdin. I don't ever see Jamil pulling what Aladdin did in the movie.) Jamil=The Genie: Both are men gifted with supernatural powers, who are forced to bow to the whims of those in a position of power. Sometimes an asshole in The Genie's case, and a whole family of them minus Kalim in Jamil's case. Like with the above example, both are trapped and desire freedom to travel and see the world.

Vil=Snow White: Both are hardworking, capable, adaptable, quick on their feet, and at times kind and caring. They strive to help those around them become their best selves. (As a side note, I still stand by the fact that Vil is the better Snow White analog than Neige by a long shot. Vil resembles Snow White personality wise to the point of being like a modernized version, and only his negative traits draw from the Evil Queen. Neige only looks like her, and that's it.) Vil=Prince Adam/The Beast: Vil shares similarities with him, both good and bad. But I want to focus on the good here. They both have moments where they see themselves as a monster, but in reality they aren't irredeemable as people. In fact, they both have their kind side, especially towards those they hold dear. Adam gifts Belle the library and saves her from the wolves. Vil saves Ortho and Grim from the River Styx and genuinely wants to help those around him to become their best selves. (Even if the latter makes no sense and doesn't even fit with how it works in mythology, but I'm not ranting about that rn.)

Lilia=The Three "Good" Fairies: Like them, he tended to Malleus, making sure he was taken care of and provided for him. He is a powerful magic user and is trusted by the queen regent.

Malleus=Elsa: Both are powerful magic users with isolated and sheltered upbringings, being seen as monstrous to some when they aren't. They must keep up a regal and stoic personality as a king/queen despite how emotional they actually are.

Silver=Mulan: They share similar values. Both are deeply honor-bound people and hold family very dear. Silver has similar insecurities as Mulan. He wants to be a good son and retainer but feels unworthy because of his background. Silver=Aurora: They share similar backstories. Both are royalty, who were raised by fae out in the forest. They are unaware of their royal status until they're older. Animals are drawn to both of them.

[asterouslyaesthetic]

do you think, growing up, ash was kind of intimidated by embla because she was so different from askr, who was bright and cheerful and encouraged communication, and embla was grumpy and always sounded annoyed and her kindness was always purposely masked as something else.

so she was always kind of shy, which gave embla the wrong impression, and she was especially shy because it was obvious that askr cared so deeply for her so it makes sense his kid would want to play nice but not know how?

because i've been thinking a lot about the emblaskr family.

because elm is straightforward.

he's the youngest child who fears nothing at first, until his parents divorce and his father leaves his vulnerable mother alone when she clearly needs him, for what he feels are not understandable reasons because he only sees her view of the world, so he devotes himself entirely to her at the cost of hating the rest of his family, but not actually being able to because deep down, he knows he's not giving them enough credit.

and now that they're all back together, askr wants to both bond with him and subtly nudge the two to a more healthier relationship, ultimately with the hope that they might be able to coexist as they once did.

but like, what is embla's relationship to ash? i feel like it's not as defined as the rest of their relationships.

ash sees elm as a twisted mirror and greatly sympathizes with him, wanting to be his friend even, overall acting how her father would want her too; while elm hopes to triumph over her to get acknowledged and probably finds her company secretly pleasant but it is overshadowed by his jealousy that she gets to call askr dad and he doesn't get to call embla mom

elm and ash see their parental figures the same way; askr is just emotionally intelligent and recognizes what he feels for her and accepts her, but embla is not so she makes it seem like she only cares that elm is loyal to her, but never makes it clear that she also thinks of him as askr does to ash (as evidenced by how askr manages to shut her up when elm says he wants to go. beyond a performatory curses! she doesn't say anything else).

and obviously, mama bat and papa cow are obvious. divorced parents still in love with each other who end up going through the same song and dance every few hundred years

and i refuse to believe embla just doesn't have much of a relationship with her, because embla's whole deal is that she misses askr deeply, even if she'd rather slit her throat than admit it. so obviously, someone who deeply resembles him, except the hair which i headcanon he chose to reflect embla's (while elm's hair was chosen because askr off-handedly mentioned how beautiful such a color was and it just lodged in her brain and she didn't want to be too obvious that she was returning the favor)

and they only have like two canon interactions in book 6—and it's lowkey antagonistic and not very representative of what their relationship might've been like.

and in the paralogue, ash's wish is to visit the shrine like this every year, with embla and elm and askr, but she says it very generally and when she addresses embla, she does it as a pair

so obviously she's just very awkward with her mom because she feels like her mom doesn't like her very much, while maybe embla just thinks of her as askr's kid because they both split off from her and elm.

and so i think maybe that's it. maybe embla just misunderstood ash's shyness as being hated, because they visited somewhat rarely. maybe at the death of a king and the crowning of a new one, mostly at very important events, or if they just felt like showing up, but in those cases, they'd leave their retainers at home. because they have very long lifespans and time passes differently for them.

but that also means that embla lost out on some valuable bonding time, while askr probably didn't because elm probably took one look at him and started pouting about how he was taking lady embla's attention away

and it didn't bother the development of the kiddos' friendship because elm is young and the same as ash, so obviously they'll get along way better, especially since elm has a very askr-like tint to his personality. it's kind of easy to get lost in bickering with him but since he spends of his time with embla, he's still very sarcastic, but people will still feel at ease with him more than embla i feel

tldr: i have lots of thoughts on mama bat and baby cow and the whole family.

[kuzann]

Artistic Merit, Chapter 1

I realized that the fic would run a bit smoother if we saw the interaction that made Gepard hate on his own art. Sorry about this being out of order. Second chapter here! Also found on Ao3.

Chapter 1: A Father's Words

Tattered clouds drifted past the imposing bulk of Qlipoth Fort as Gepard briefly lifted his eyes to the sky. There would be no snow today, and so far the weather had followed the forecast. He fidgeted with a sleeve, feeling underdressed in a dark blue turtleneck and gray slacks even so; his armor felt like a second skin with how often he wore it, and he felt exposed to more than just the elements without it. His sturdy black boots, though lighter than his usual uniform pair, at least gave him some comfort in that department.

“Come now, don’t dawdle,” Gepard’s father said with a glance back at his son. People always told Gepard that he took after his father, but beyond the obvious blonde hair and blue eyes he couldn’t see it. His father always had a more rugged appearance about him—despite having retired to the ranks of the Architects before Gepard reached his teen years—and the beard certainly didn’t help any resemblance. The only similarity Gepard could spot when he looked in the mirror and recalled his father’s features were the shape of the eyes.

Gepard picked up the pace, walking just behind his father. Things had been cordial so far. Even so, the subtle sick feeling in his stomach was hard to ignore. He still tried to keep contact despite all their differences. Still hoped that perhaps some progress could be made, that he could forge a stronger bond and even get his father’s views to soften on certain matters. Such as Serval’s ostracization from the family. A small part of him noted that these efforts were likely in vain, but the hope was often loud enough to drown that voice out.

And so when his father had suggested that they visit an old favorite cafe, Gepard had accepted and made it the focus of his next day off. They strolled through the Commerce District, a spoke of Belobog just to the west of the Administrative District and pointing toward the Snow Plains, with only a few bone-dry exchanges to fill the air between them. Questions about work, health, the usual subjects of polite concern. Nothing arduous, and certainly nothing inflammatory.

“What in the world...” Gepard’s father stopped in front of a wall strewn with notices, his attention focused on a wanted poster. Gepard immediately recognized it as his own work, the one he’d made for March 7th, but any explanation he had to offer was cut off by his father’s remark. “What, are they hiring toddlers to make wanted posters now?” he said, his lip curled with disgust as he glared at the poster.

Shame ran icy lances through Gepard’s chest. He froze, unsure of how to answer, and immediately worried that his father might catch on to the truth if he didn’t offer some explanation.

His father turned sharp, icy blue eyes on Gepard before he could think of anything. “Were you aware of this, Gepard?” He gestured at the wanted poster as if it were some offensive drawing someone had scrawled on the wall of his home.

“They were supposed to be taken down,” Gepard replied, words struggling against the tension that squeezed his throat. At once his suspicions about the compliments he’d received before crystallized; they were only made to spare his feelings, rather than true measures of his work’s merit. The awkwardness of the Trailblazer’s comment certainly made sense now. They didn’t really mean it. He stepped past his father and tore the poster down with one hand, leaving only a stray corner stuck to the wall.

“It seems the Guard has gotten sloppy with cleaning up after itself, then,” his father muttered as Gepard crumpled the poster up.

They continued on. Gepard deposited the wad of paper into the first trashcan they came across. Neither spoke, each lost in their own thoughts.

Gepard’s stomach dropped as he spotted a bulletin board ahead, and another one of his posters slapped on it. This was the one he’d made for Sampo, a bit less hastily-drawn than the others, but he was sure his father would have similar remarks for it all the same.

“More of them?” Gepard’s father paused briefly to look at the poster, as unimpressed as he’d been upon seeing the first. “Just how many of these awful things were posted? Such ugly things shouldn’t be allowed to exist in our city.”

Gepard kept his eyes on the pavement as he tore this one down as well. It too met its final end at the bottom of the nearest trash can.

There were, thankfully, no more posters to be found between there and the cafe. Gepard was quiet throughout, giving brief responses to anything his father said, worried that he might give himself away as the true culprit if he said too much. He couldn’t stop thinking about the false compliments he’d received before, of how their authors must’ve been laughing at or pitying him once he wasn’t around to hear. He’d been a fool to believe they were telling the truth.

“What’s the matter?” his father said once they were seated at the cafe, their coffees and pastries laid out before them.

The question snapped Gepard back to the present, and he straightened in his seat. “It’s nothing—”

“I’m aware that managing both the front line and the city was difficult during that little upheaval, but that’s no excuse for growing lax now that it’s over.”

“Yes, father,” Gepard said meekly as he stared down at the table. “I’ll make sure that city matters are taken care of.”

[middleearthpixie]

Promise Me ~ Chapter Eight

Summary: Friends since childhood, Gabriella has long held back her feelings where Boromir is concerned, as she did not want to risk losing his friendship if he didn't feel the same. But, then he is summoned to Rivendell, and the night before he is to leave, he stuns Gabriella by confessing his feelings for her as well. 

But, war is coming and he cannot put off what he knows must be done. All Gabriella can do is wait for him and pray for his safe return. 

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (AU, Boromir lives)

Pairing: Boromir x ofc Gabriella

Characters: Ava, Gabriella, Boromir

Warnings: unprotected intercourse, some fluff, too, though. 

Rating: M

Word Count: 7k

Tag List: @sotwk @fizzyxcustard @evenstaredits @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @emmyspov @finnofamerica @lathalea @ass-deep-in-demons @quiall321 @mistofstars @justfollowtheroad @guardianofrivendell @glassgulls

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here.

The battle might have ended, but there was still so much work that needed to be done. Scores of wounded flooded the infirmary, seriously straining the already limited resources. No matter how she tried, Gabriella simply could not control her penchant for nausea at the worst time. The gore sickened her time and again and she spent more time hunched over a basin than she did actually helping anyone. It finally came to the point where Ioreth ordered her out of the infirmary all together. 

With nothing else to do, she made her way back to the stewards’ House of Healing, stopping at the door to Faramir’s chambers. It was slightly ajar, and when she peered around, it was to find no one there but Faramir.

The door opened silently. He did not stir as she approached him. Gabriella couldn’t recall a time where Faramir was so still. Like his brother, he was a force of nature himself, and to see him so still, so quiet… it unnerved her.

Five years separated Boromir from his younger brother, and yet they were incredibly close. Boromir always looked out for him, was the first to tease him about something, but also the first to defend him should someone else make the unwise decision to tease him. And she knew that no matter what he did or how hard he tried, Faramir could not measure up to his older brother in their father’s eyes. She’d seen for herself Denethor’s favoritism, had seen how uncomfortable it made both Boromir and Faramir. In some ways, it always made her thankful to be an only child. All that was expected of her was to inherit and run the tavern one day. Her parents never pushed her to marry, or to give them grandchildren, and it seemed as if any time she brought a would-be suitor home to meet them, they found a reason to not like him. 

All except for Boromir. They made no secret of their fondness for him and she’d always put it down to basically having an in with the Steward, but now she wondered if they’d seen something beyond friendship between their daughter and Denethor’s heir. 

She came to stand at Faramir’s bedside and without thinking, reached down to stroke his hair, which was only a shade or so darker than his brother’s. The resemblance between the two men was striking, they had the same coloring, the same nose, same jawline. Both were too handsome for their own good, and yet seemingly obvious to it. 

“She cannot figure out what is wrong with him.”

Gabriella jumped at the unexpected sound of Ava’s voice and at Ava’s equally unexpected presence. “What?”

Ava nodded. “She does not know what felled him or how to bring him back. I heard her telling one of her underlings there is naught to be done by the let nature take its course.”

“Oh, no,” Gabriella murmured, turning back to Faramir to take his hand between hers. “Has anyone told Boromir?”

“I expect Ioreth will. Or she will ask you to. You told him of his father’s passing, did you not?” 

“I did, yes. But, how do I tell him he might lose his brother as well?” She looked over at Ava, shaking her head. “That news will kill him.”

“But, he will have you to lean on,” Ava pointed out. “And that will soften the blow.”

Those words surprised her, for she and Ava had never been close friends and in some ways, Gabriella always felt Ava resented her relationship with Boromir and his family to a certain extent. But now? Now, there was no hint of that, or of the tension that had persisted between them in the days between Boromir’s leaving Minas Tirith and his return. 

“Soften it, perhaps, but it will not take it away entirely.” A soft sigh followed Ava’s words. “He has always been a kind man. I’m certain I am not the only one who is genuinely saddened by this.”

Gabriella nodded slowly. Both men were held in high regard by their people, and she didn't doubt any grief that would come would be genuine. A soft sigh rose to her lips. “Will you stay with him? I am going to go see if Boromir is awake and if so, will bring him down.”

Ava nodded. “Of course.” She offered up a hint of a sheepish smile. “Ioreth told me in no uncertain terms I was only in her way.”

“It’s an unpleasant feeling, being useless.”

“It certainly is.” Ava gestured to Faramir. “Go and fetch Boromir. I will stay with him.”

“Thank you.” 

Ava bobbed her head and Gabriella made her way back to Boromir’s chambers. But as she crossed the threshold, she saw his bed was empty, the linen and quilt bunched down at the foot of it. 

Her first instinct was to go and find Ioreth and ask her where he might have gone, but then, as she stood there a moment to think on it, it came to her.

At the far end of the corridor, was the steward’s chambers and when she gently pushed open the door, she saw Boromir, dressed in loose-fitting trousers and dark gray tunic, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the catafalque bearing his father’s body.

“Boromir?” 

She’d barely whispered it, but he started as if she’d shouted at him. Without turning to her, he said, “I had to see for myself. My mind refused to believe it otherwise.”

He spoke so softly, as if in a state of disbelief, and for a moment, she felt as if she’d intruded on a personal moment. 

“Do you wish me to leave?”

He shook his head. “That isn’t necessary.”

“But would you rather I did? It’s all right if you do, you know.”

“No.”

She moved to stand beside him. “As I said, he was devastated by the thought of having lost you.”

“He still had my brother.”

“He did, but—” she hesitated, then finished with a lame, “true.”

“Faramir could never measure up in his eyes,” Boromir said, his voice flat and void of emotion. “No matter what he did, our father found fault with it. Faramir did everything he’d ever asked of him, and without complaint. And yet,” his powerful shoulders rose in a shrug, “it was never enough.”

“He isn’t like you.”

“No. He isn’t at all like me.” A wry, humorless laugh came to his lips. “And I always thought that was a good thing. He had little interest in war and weapons and the like, and he was Gandalf’s greatest audience, always willing to listen to his stories and lore. That drove our father mad. He felt it made Faramir soft. Above all else, a son of Denethor was not supposed to be soft.”

She glanced up at him. “And yet, you can be.”

“He never knew that, though. As far as he knew, I was made of stone.”

“I’ve never seen you that way.”

He peered down. “What?”

��As stone.” She shook her head. “I mean, I know you’re a warrior and all that, but… I don't know if I can explain it… I always thought that, under the right circumstances…” 

She scowled as she tried to find the right words, the best way to phrase what went through her mind. “What I mean is, I don’t see gentle as being soft. And I have seen your gentle side. I know it exists and I think, if Denethor saw it, he—”

“He would think me soft as well.”

“It isn’t soft and even if it was, why is that so terrible? Should men be made of stone? Should they never admit to feeling anything that isn’t anger or war-like? I find that ridiculous.” 

“He wasn't always that way,” Boromir said, reaching out to rest his hand against the flag covering his father’s body. Her throat tightened as he brushed his thumb along the fabric and his fingers tightened about it just so. “Before my mother died, he was… oh, he wasn't so dour and gruff. He laughed more easily and told us fanciful tales at bedtime, regaling us with the glories of those who came before us, fighting to keep Gondor, to keep Rohan and Eriador safe. Those tales were what guided me to be a soldier, what had me dreaming of being the Captain-General of the Guard. Faramir loved the wizard’s magic and lore and I loved hearing Denethor’s lore.

“But then my mother died and it all changed.” He withdrew his hand from the flag and lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. “He grew bitter and withdrawn and there were no more tales of gallantry or heroics at bedtime. He spent more time hidden away in his study, and aged before our eyes. And nothing made him happy where Faramir was concerned, because Faramir was not like I was. Faramir was not, in his eyes, enough of a man.”

“I think he might have proven himself to Denethor after all,” she broke in quietly. “For he was distraught over losing both of his sons.”

“I hope he found peace in his last moments,” Boromir murmured, his voice cracking slightly. “For he had so little before then.”

Gabriella turned her gaze back to Denethor. Because of the extent of his injuries, Denethor had been wrapped in a shroud of white linen, and draped with the flag of Gondor. Despite her sympathy, she found she was angry with him as well—he’d failed his sons, he’d failed his people, and when push came to shove, he took a coward’s way out. She couldn’t imagine Boromir setting himself on fire and throwing himself off the tower. No, he would stay and fight until he was the last man standing. Of that she had no doubt. The enemy would have to cut him down before he cut himself down.

Boromir shifted then and she bit back a smile as he caught her hand in his and linked their fingers. His thumb lightly grazed hers. She gazed up again to find him still staring at his father’s body, his eyes red but dry. With a soft sigh, she leaned her head against his shoulder, and as always, it felt right. 

“He approved of you, you know,” he murmured after a few minutes of comfortable silence. 

“What?”

“He did.” He pressed a tender kiss into the top of her head, one that she felt clear through to the center of her being. “He thought you would be a fine influence.”

“Over you?”

“For me? No.” He shook his head and offered up a bittersweet smile. “For Faramir. He saw you with him instead.”

“What?”

“Do not ask me to explain it, for I cannot, but he did.” 

“And who did he think would be a fine match for you?”

He let out a wry laugh. “He did not think marriage would suit me, that the Guard would become my wife. And for the longest time, I thought he was right. There had to be a reason why any woman I thought might be the one I’d ask never turned out to actually be the one I’d ask.”

Her heart sank at his words, but she tried to keep it from showing on her face. “I suppose.”

He turned to her then, catching her other hand in his free one. “But then I realized something, as I read your letter for the tenth time in Lothlórien.”

Now her heart sped up as his green eyes softened and his thumbs swept lightly along hers. “What was that?”

“It wasn't marriage that wouldn’t suit me, but rather, it was the woman to whom I thought to propose it.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded, leaning toward her. Her belly fluttered, her heart sped up, just as it had the first time he’d kissed her so many weeks earlier. And when his lips met hers, she clasped his hands more tightly.

He released one of her hands to bring his to her cheek, his palm warm and rough as it curved against her face. His lips parted, his tongue dipped between her lips to caress hers in a warm, teasing stroke that made her head spin and her blood rush through her veins. 

His mouth moved gently against hers, and when he slowly pulled away, she whispered, “Take care, Boromir. I might think you’ve gone soft.”

“I don't mind if you see me that way,” he admitted, his voice a husky whisper. “You never need fear me, you know.”

“Why would I? I know how gentle you can be. I’ve seen it, have experienced it, for myself.”

“I know, but sometimes circumstances change abruptly,” he drew back, clouds gathering in his eyes, “and you find yourself doing things you never thought you would.” 

She didn't miss the darkness woven into his words, a darkness she’d never heard from him before, and it had her peering up at him as she weighed both what he had just said and what she was about to say.

“Boromir, when you were with fever, you rambled on about many things. You were searching for someone. Afraid they would think you would harm them. Someone called Frodo?”

The clouds dissipated, and a darkness slid into his eyes as he shook his head. “I know not what you are talking about, Gabby.”

“Who is he? Why would he think you would harm him?”

He stepped back. “I should tend to my father’s funeral, so I—”

“Wait,” she moved in front of him, a hand against his chest, “why won’t you tell me? What happened that you do not want me to know about?”

“Gabby, you need—” He paused, his gaze rolling up towards the ceiling as his lips disappeared into a thin white line. He drew in a deep breath, releasing it slowly before continuing, “Frodo was one of the halflings in the Fellowship. There were four of them and they were more trouble than they were worth and if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not discuss them.”

“Boromir, I—”

“I have things needing my attention,” he muttered, stepping around her to stride from the chamber. He slammed the door behind him, the bang echoing mercilessly about the room with enough force that she actually winced from it. 

She stood there, staring at the closed door, for a long moment. Halflings. He’d spoken of them in his delirium, had calling for the one called Frodo, insisting he wouldn’t harm him. What had happened that he was not telling her? What had he done that this halfling needed reassurance Boromir wouldn’t harm him?

What had happened?

Her gaze went back to the catafalque. It was refrain that kept spinning through her mind. What had happened? What had happened to Boromir from the time he’d left Rivendell to the time he’d staggered across Pelennor Fields? 

Boromir strode down the corridor toward his personal chambers, up in the area known as the Citadel. Well, perhaps strode wasn't quite the right word, since he limped more than anything. His left leg throbbed with each step, and if the sutures held, it would only be a testament to Ioreth’s skills, for he was not at all gentle with himself.

He knew Merry was there, in Minas Tirith. As was Gandalf and Pippin. But where were Frodo and Samwise? And Aragorn? Or Legolas and Gimli? What had happened to the remaining members of the Fellowship who hadn’t been felled by fool arrows after attacking one of their own?

Hot shame poured into him as he reached his apartments and threw open the door. Sunlight splashed into the sitting room through the draperies of scarlet and midnight blue, which were his colors. Normally, his chambers were his sanctuary, the one place in all of Minas Tirith, in all of Gondor, actually, that he found peace and where silence didn't unnerve him.

Until now. 

He limped over to the sofa and sank onto it, letting his head fall into his hands. Grief swirled through him, billowing outward like thick black storm clouds. He’d lost his father. His brother hovered in the gray area between life and death. And Gabby—

He swore softly. He’d lashed out at her as well. He couldn’t possibly tell her what happened at Amon Hen. He couldn’t tell anyone. What sort of Steward would he be, if word came out that he’d betrayed one of the members of the Fellowship? No one would ever possibly trust him again, and rightfully so.

But he would never have actually hurt the hobbit. He simply wanted to protect his people.

At least, that was what he told himself.

The truth of the matter was, he wanted the Ring. He wanted to be the one to destroy Sauron. Wanted to be the one to bring peace to all of Middle Earth. 

He wanted the glory and wanted it all for himself. 

How did he tell anyone that?

He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his forehead with one hand, trying to blot out the image of Frodo staring at him with wide-eyed fear. Frodo was genuinely afraid of him at that moment at Amon Hen. It mattered not how he had looked out for the halfling before that, carrying him through the snow on Caradhras, through the mines of Moria. All that mattered was in his one moment of weakness, Boromir attempted to snatch the Ring away from him to use himself. 

His wounds ached, especially his thigh. More than anything, he wished he’d simply kissed Gabby again when she’d teased him about being soft. He didn't mind her seeing that side of him and now, more than ever, he needed her to know that she could trust that he would never show any other side to her. She needn’t fear him. Not ever. He didn't mind being soft with her. She brought it out in him and always had. 

Absently, he scratched at the bandage on his chest as he sat there, staring at the windows along the far wall while seeing nothing beyond them. As he’d been on his knees amidst the crushed leaves and debris of the woods surrounding Amon Hen, staring up at the arrow that Lurtz was aiming to put between his eyes, all he had been able to think about was Gabby. All he’d wanted was to finish what he had to do with the Fellowship and return home to her.

Now, he was there, and he was fairly certain he was on the verge of ruining everything with her. 

It would serve him right, actually. He didn't deserve her.

The gentle knock at the door made him jump, and he planned to simply ignore it as he got up to go into the kitchen, only to have his unwanted visitor knock again. 

“Leave off!” His voice echoed throughout the apartment and the knocking ceased immediately.

“Boromir?”

He paused halfway to the kitchen at Gabby’s silvery voice. With a low sigh, he turned to go back to the door, and when he opened it, she said, “If you wish me to leave you in peace, I will, but I’m worried about you, is all.”

“You needn’t worry about me,” he told her, more gruffly than he’d meant to. “For I am fine.”

“Are you, truly?” She looked up at him, her eyes swirling pewter as they met his. “Because you are not yourself, you’re not the same as you were the last time I saw you.”

“No,” he shook his head, “I’m not, Gabby. Nothing is as it was and why would you expect me to be as I was before all of this happened?”

As soon as he’d said the words, he wished he could take them back as her face fell and she just stared up at him for a long moment before saying, “I—I don't expect that. But you… you…” she paused, then drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and said, “If you wish me to leave you be, as I said, I will.”

As she turned to go, he lunged for her, caught her by the wrist and said, “No, I don't want you to go, Gabby. Please…”

She glanced down at his hand about her wrist, and then back up at him. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine. Or, I will be, in time.” He gave a gentle pull on her arm. “Come in.”

He drew her into his apartment, pushing the door shut behind her with his free hand. She gazed up at him, her eyes wide and silver now and he was powerless to resist her. He bent to her, capturing her lips in a fiery kiss as he pressed her up against the door.

She melted against him, winding her arms about his waist, her hands coming flat against him, her fingers splayed across his back. Her lips parted at his urging and when her tongue grazed his, he shivered against her. He couldn’t hold back the ferocity in his kiss, and he didn't even try. He needed this with her, needed to feel her against him, to feel her lips against his. Death and destruction were all around him. He desperately needed the contact, the reassurance that life did go on and was not about to leave him behind as well.

Perhaps she felt the same, for she slid her hands along his sides, around to the leather lacings of his tunic, and with a not-so-gentle tug, loosened said lacings. Her fingers curled into the lower half of his tunic, the backs of them brushing his skin as she yanked it upward, the air cool against his bared back.

Gabby melted against him once more, her arms tight about his middle, her hands beneath his tunic, splayed against his shoulder blades. Her fingernails just grazed him, but his response to her touch was both swift and powerful. A shiver raced along his back, his blood raced lower still. Everything inside him tensed, twisted into fiery knots that had him arching against her, his hips rolling slowly into hers. He heard her breath hitch, felt her body tremble against his, and it spurred him on. 

He broke the kiss sharply to sweep his lips along her jaw, down the soft creamy expanse of her neck, which bowed beneath his caress. Her pulse beat faster beneath his lips, and when he gave into the urge to gently nip her, her fingernails bit into his back. The sting swirled through him, urged him to rock against her once more, that gentle, increasing pressure enough to offer a hint of relief to the desire billowing through him.

Her sigh was a caress against his ear, growing heavier and lustier as he slid his hands along the curve of her waist, to the hem of her tunic. She offered no resistance as he slid it upward, and whisked it over her head. 

He drew back then, smiling as he let his eyes feast on her. He knew she’d be beautiful, but had no idea how hard it would hit him until that moment. She wore no corset, but only a chemisette and heat swept through him as he caught the pale blue ribbon lacing it and tugged.

The linen bagged away from her and when he gazed back up, it was to find her watching him intently, her silver eyes almost sparkling as she whispered, “You’re staring.”

“I cannot help myself,” he whispered back, hooking a thumb into the chemisette’s neckline to draw it to the side. Heat filled him as he leaned close to sweep a kiss along the slope of her neck, then down across the skin he’d just bared. A hint of lavender rose to tease him, and as he drew the chemisette further to the side, he got his first glimpse of her bared left breast and the sight stole the breath from his lungs. 

He smoked a kiss along that inner curve, smiling as she slid an arm about his neck and thrust her fingers up into his hair. Those fingers twisted. Tugged gently. He pulled away just long enough to carefully whisked both tunic and chemisette over her head, but then bent to her once more and kissed his way toward the tight bead of her nipple. When he reached it, he paused to sweep his tongue over the nub, then closed his lips about it to draw it deep.

Her gasp was music to his ears and made him forget every last one of his discomforts. They receded to the furthest depths of his mind, his blood smoking through his veins to ignite his arousal, to set a spark to kindling in igniting a desire so fiery and powerful, all he could think about was making her fingers twist harder into his hair and wrap her body completely around his. 

He swirled the tip of his tongue about that taut bead, drew it deep into his mouth. He teased it, using her sighs as his guide. And as he did that, he cupped her free breast with his free hand to knead, as he’d imagined doing so many times before now. His name rose in a breathless whisper on her lips, her fingernails just barely danced along the back of his neck, but it was enough to make him sigh against her as he moved lower. He swept down, feathering kisses along her belly, and gingerly sank to his knees before her, feeling only a slight twinge in his left thigh as he did so, and that twinge was nothing compared to what whipped through him as he lifted his eyes to meet hers. Silver locked with green and Boromir found himself struck dumb at the sight of her. She was just so utterly beautiful to him… and he was so utterly unworthy of her. 

Her hand curved against his cheek. “What is it?” she whispered, her thumb sweeping lightly along his skin.

He couldn't possibly tell her what he was thinking and so shook his head as he replied, “Nothing. I suppose I’m waiting for you to tell me to stop.”

A hint of apprehension fluttered across her face. “Do you wish to stop?”

“No.” He shook his head, reaching for the lacing on her trousers. “That is the last thing I wish.”

“Then continue,” she said with a smile.

That was all he needed. He leaned in to brush a kiss along the soft curve of her lower belly as he unlaced her trousers and hooked his thumbs in the waistband. 

The fabric skimmed along her legs, his blood bubbling hotly through his veins as he drank in the sight of her. She stepped out of the trousers as if without a care and he could barely breathe as he let his gaze roam over her. 

He smiled and rose to lean into her. As their lips met, he forgot his pain, forgot his guilt, his shame. All that mattered was he was there with her at last. Her hands slid lightly along his back, sending a rush of tingling heat through him, more powerful than anything he’d ever felt before. And when she dragged her fingernails back down over his skin? He shivered from the sensations she sent rippling through him. 

She slid her hands up again, this time dragging his tunic up in her wake, which suited him just fine, as the room seemed warmer than it had only moments ago. The breeze wafting in through the windows was anything but warm, as winter still stubbornly clung to it, but as it swept across his overheated skin, he welcomed the caress. 

Her hands came around to his stomach, where she gripped his tunic in both hands and pulled. He broke the kiss, smiling as she smiled and whispered, “Help me?”

He carefully dragged the garment over his head and let it fall atop his bed, then looked down to find her gazing at him, her eyes silver and wide as they moved slowly over him. “What is it?” he murmured as her gaze met his. “Is something wrong?”

Slowly, she shook her head. “Not at all. I—I’ve thought of this moment so many times since you left, but I never thought it would actually happen.”

Without thinking, he caught her face in his hands. “As did I, Gabby.”

To his surprise, her eyes grew shiny and red. “I thought I would never s-see you again, Boromir.”

“I am here now, and I am not going anywhere.”

Her eyelids lowered and her bottom lip trembled. He let his thumbs sweep against her cheeks, then tilted her face to his and brushed a kiss over her lips. “I promise you, love, I am not going anywhere.”

She nodded, then opened her eyes. “I feel as if I’m dreaming, that any moment, someone will knock on the door and this will all dissolve before me.”

“It’s neither dream nor nightmare.” He slid his hands along her neck, down to her shoulders, and then around behind her, to the ribbon holding her hair back in its plait. Her hair was like spun gold silk, soft as gossamer as he unwound her braid. Her hair spilled free, tumbled almost to her hips in a wavy fall and just as he’d imagined so many times, he gathered the thick mass in his hands and savored the feel of it against his skin, the scent of lavender familiar and erotic to him now.

He pulled back to drink in the woman who stood before him and his mouth went dry at the sight of her. She was stunning. Absolutely, utterly stunning. If someone had asked him his name right then, he’d have been hard pressed to remember. He had imagined this moment for so long, only to find it was far better and ever more breathtaking than his mind could conjure.The light danced along her hair as it tumbled about her shoulders, over her flawless pale skin. He let his eyes feast on her, on breasts that were far fuller than he’d ever imagined, just large enough to fill his palms, on the soft stomach with its adorable curve, on her tapered thighs. She was far more beautiful than he’d imagined. So very beautiful, indeed.

“Boromir?”

Her soft voice broke through his reverie and he started, laughing when she did. “I beg your pardon, of course, but you are just—” he brought his gaze back up to meet hers—“you are so very beautiful, Gabby.”

Her smile grew shy, her cheeks flushed as she dipped her head. “Thank you.”

He stepped closer, catching her beneath the chin with one finger to tilt her face to his. Then, he leaned in and captured her lips in a soft, lingering kiss that quickly deepened. He couldn’t help it, could no longer resist her and did not wish to try. 

Her lips parted and as her tongue swept along his, every fiber in his body tightened, flooding with heat that had him rolling his hips slowly against her. He couldn't help it, instinct demanded it and he was powerless to resist, just as he was powerless to resist her. He released her chin to wrap his arms about her and as their kiss deepened, he took a deep breath, braced for the pain, and carefully swept her up into his arms.

Perhaps it was the fiery desire billowing through him that made her seem almost weightless. Perhaps it was the delicious pleasure of her warmth cradling him that made him impervious to any pain. He neither knew nor cared. All he knew was that was her legs closed about his waist, fire shot through him the way the orc’s arrows did, only this time, there was no pain at all. She was so light in his arms, felt so perfect wrapped about him the way she was, that all he could think about was spiriting her to his bed, only steps behind them. 

So he did just that.

She clung to him as he bent to press her down and as she sank into the featherbed, he settled perfectly between her thighs and couldn't hold back his low moan as they made contact. 

“Boromir?” She broke the kiss with her breathless whisper. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, love,” he whispered back, a smile playing at his lips. “That was not pain. Trust me.”

She returned his smile. “If you’re certain?”

“I am.” He bent to her again, captured her lips in a fiery kiss, and carefully settled against her. Tension wound through him now, his blood almost boiling as it swept through his veins to rush south. His trousers grew tighter as his body responded to hers, and he ignored the twinges in his chest, his thigh, as she slid her fingers into his hair and her tongue into his mouth and sighed so softly as he gave a slow, steady thrust against her. 

As he did, her fingers twisted harder into his hair and her hips arced toward his, the pleasure hot and sweet as it swirled through him. It chased away any and all remnants of pain and left only sparkling pleasure in its wake. He’d waited for her for so long now, and for the first time in his adult life, he knew he was with the woman he was meant to be with. 

He broke the kiss to sweep his lips along her jaw, down the front of her neck, down along the soft skin of her upper chest. He kissed along the inner curve of her right breast, toward the enticing bead of her nipple and when his lips closed over it, her gasp was the sweetest music he’d ever heard. 

He teased her. Swirled his tongue about the hard nub, caught it with gentle teeth to flick his tongue against. With each caress, she rocked harder into him, her breathing ragged about the edges, her fingers twisting harder in his hair. 

A hint of lavender teased his nose, as heady as any musk, since he would forever associate the scent with her. It fired his lust even further, and he moved lower, feathering kisses down the middle of her stomach, to the fluff of pale gold between her thighs.

He trailed his fingers along the curve of her waist, her skin soft and supple beneath his roughened hand. He moved down over her thigh, smiling as her breath hitched and looked up to find her just watching him with silver eyes and a slight smile on her lips. 

“I love you,” he whispered. “I have always loved you, Gabriella… that’s what kept me from giving in, what kept me moving when I thought all was lost. I was keeping my promise to you because I have been in love with you since I was sixteen years old and it took me this long to work up the courage to finally tell you.”

“You saw me as only a friend when you were sixteen.”

“Because you were too young for me at the time, if I recall.”

She reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair, drew it away from his face in a gentle stroke. “I was thirteen. You were too old for me.”

“Not any longer, though. And we have much time to make up for,” he whispered, unable to get his voice any higher than that. He’d waited so long to tell her how he felt, to be able to share this moment with her, and the enormity of it washed over him like a mighty wave. “I love you.”

With that, he dipped his fingers into that pale gold fluff. Her eyes softened, her teeth catching her bottom lip as he slid a finger inside her and bit back a sigh of his own. The dampness of her arousal made each stroke silken and so he took his time exploring her, teasing her, watching her pleasure play out on her face, in the way her eyes grew heavy-lidded and how the flush in her cheeks spread through her entire body. Just the sight of her was enough to make him ache with desire, with wanting her, with needing her. 

She reached for him, slid a hand down along his chest, over his stomach, to the fastenings of his trousers and he tensed as she opened them and eased a hand in. 

He sucked in a hard breath as her fingers curled gently about him and she offered up the most silken of caresses. He shivered at her touch, his eyelids heavy, his heart racing, his breath even harder to catch now.

He bent to kiss her once more as her fingers tightened about him. The sensations were fiery and sweet as they ribboned through him, his head spinning as the need for release took root. Heat filled him, gentle at first, but then sharper and far more demanding and he had to catch her by the wrist and draw her hand from him before she sent him over the edge.

He carefully pulled away and rose to shed his trousers. She watched him the entire time, and he thought he might actually melt at the sight of her. He’d never seen a woman as beautiful as his Gabriella and as he covered her once more, she whispered, “I love you, too, and I am ever so thankful you’ve come home.”

Their lips met and he reached down to position himself. Then…

He couldn't hold back his moan as he filled her. She was tight and hot and slick and wonderful and as she yielded to him, he thrust. And that was it.

Her legs tightened about him and she moved with him in perfect rhythm. He gazed down to find her still watching him, and he smiled as he moved inside her, each thrust more powerful than the last. That heat grew, created knots of sensual pleasure that twisted deep inside him. Gabby hummed around him, her thighs tightened against his sides, and then he felt it—she tightened about him, as if afraid he’d pull free of her. As if he’d be so stupid. 

He caught her hand in his, lacing his fingers with hers, and pressed it into the bed as he bent to capture her lips once more with his. The end bore down on him now and there was no slowing down, no going back, there was only surrender. 

The knots grew tighter, urged him to thrust harder. Faster. Deeper. The choice was no longer his, as fiery pleasure tore through him. Everything tensed in the most delicious way. Gabriella’s head fell back, his name a breathless cry on her lips that spurred him even harder. White lights burst before his eyes, thunder rolled up from the depths of his being and he teetered on the precipice between reality and madness.

He went over the edge engulfed in flames, his body cradled by hers, his climax mingling with hers as she pulsed around him and her fingernails dug into his shoulders. He arched hard and white starbursts of light erupted before him as he surrendered to the fiery bliss that refused to be ignored. 

His head spun as he shuddered against her, and when peace reigned again, he sank against her, his head cradled by one of her perfect breasts, and he fought to ignore the burning pain that returned to scorch through him once more. Sweat prickled along his back. His eyes refused to remain open. His breath refused to be caught. 

Gabby wrapped him in her arms, her fingers moving gently over his hair as she whispered, “Boromir…”

His heartbeat slowed to its normal rhythm and without thinking, he brushed the inner curve of her breast with a gentle kiss. Nothing could have prepared him for this moment. Nothing at all. There were no words to describe the peace he’d found with her, the sanctuary he’d discovered in her arms. There was where he belonged and there was where he’d stay until his days drew to a close. 

“Are you all right?” she murmured, pressing a kiss into the top of his head. 

“I’m fine,” he managed as the spinning in his head slowed as well. He lifted it, gazing down at her and smiled. “Are you all right?”

“You’re here, alive and in one piece,” she whispered, her eyes growing shiny again. “So, yes. I am wonderful.”

He shifted, easing from her, and carefully stretched out on his wide bed. Then he reached for her, gathering her in his arms as she came to lay alongside him. “I am not so sure I’d describe myself as in one piece just yet.”

She snuggled against him, tucking her head in the apex of his shoulder and chest. “You are, mostly.” Her hand came to rest on his chest, just below his wounds. She traced small circles across his skin.

“What is it, Gabby? What weighs so heavily on your mind?”

“Nothing, really. I simply… I still feel as if this is a dream, as I said before. That I will wake up to find you really are gone.”

“This is no dream, love,” he told her softly, tightening his arm about her shoulders. “I promise you, it isn’t.”

They lay quietly entwined, the sunlight splashing across them and for Boromir, he’d never known a moment as perfect, as peaceful, as this. The rest of Middle Earth could burn, for all he cared.

Gabby’s breathing slowed, a deep, peaceful caress against his bare chest and he peered down to see she’d fallen asleep. Little by little, that tranquility, the one he so desperately sought and fought to hold onto, slipped away. The guilt returned. The anger returned. The peace shattered even as he gazed down at the woman sound asleep in his arms, the only woman he ever wanted to sleep in his arms, and he wanted to savor this peace for as long as he possibly could. 

[hopeymchope]

Thoughts on MDA: Rain Code so far as I approach the end of Chapter 2

(...which is the game's third full-length chapter...)

I'll start with SPOILER-FREE thoughts before shifting into SPOILER MODE after the cut.

Yuma is so spineless and unable to stand up for himself or his own sense of what's right/wrong that he gives me some "Early Part of V3" Shuichi vibes. The poor bitch... I feel like this might come to bite him in the ass before he'll manage to toughen up.

However, it's really other characters I've met who remind me the MOST of specific Danganronpa characters. Of course the game is still in its early going, so there's plenty of time for most characters to get more development/focus. But right now, THE EXAMPLES: Take Sonia Nevermind, but imagine a woman from a powerful noble family who is even MORE clueless about reality because she lives in even MORE of her own insular bubble, and that's Fubuki Clockford. She's Sonia²,if you will. Zilch Alexander? He's reminiscient of Byakuya "Twogami" — he starts off giving you the snobby egotism of real Togami before swiftly displaying that surprisingly kind undercurrent of the Imposter's version. And one particularly weird example is Vivia Twilight, who is giving me strong echoes of a Danganronpa spinoff character. To be specific, Vivia strongly resembles the, er, "public face" of Takumi Hijirihara from Danganronpa Gaiden: Killer Killer. Y'know... the super-lowkey almost-sleepy guy who is constantly cramming himself into tight spaces that he finds comforting?

Panels such as this could easily be describing Vivia Twilight. They're even both detectives!

3. As has been pointed out by others, Rui Komatsuzaki really just straight-up gave Halara Nightmare the same face and hairstyle as Chiaki Nanami. At least Halara has a different hair color, I guess? And I suppose a lot of Komatsuzaki's characters share similar faces, which isn't uncommon among Japanese manga/anime-style artists. But it's still pretty striking to see Tall, Stern Nanami stroll up if you're familiar enough with the DR characters.

Beyond this cut, there will be spoilers for Master Detective Archives: Rain Code Chapters 0 through Chapter 2.

But nothing beyond that.

4. At the risk of stating the obvious: Yuma totally entered his pact with Shinigami because he wanted a "Forte" power, right? That's where that part of the backstory is obviously going.

5. We're still a long way from understanding Yuma's backstory and/or how he got into this contract with Shinigami, but we have a few hints at least. We know Yuma found a book in the WDO headquarters taht contained Shinigami, and it's been implied that maybe she's contracted with detectives in the past. But despite how their pact is core to the gameplay loop of Rain Code, I don't think it's going to turn out being a good thing for Yuma. Lil' Cocoa-Head keeps getting himself cornered in situations where he or someone else will die unless he can solve a mystery right fucking now, which means he keeps relying on Shinigami to save his ass, which means we KEEP KILLING THE CULPRITS by the end of each chapter, which is a really fucking bad trend that is going to eventually bite us in the ass for sure. The natural, obvious result of this is that Yuma will become the prime suspect for the extremely sudden deaths of all these killers. But I think it might go even harder than that... because what if, by the game's end (or maybe in a future sequel), we have to direct Shinigami (or some other spirit if we play as a different character later on/in a later game) to reap Yuma's own soul for his crimes? I feel like that's the obvious endgame here — Yuma is so incredibly complicit in these killings that he could be argued to be their murderer, and that's going to come full circle on him. But I guess we'll need a lot more time to tell on that front.

6. The loss of the Chapter 0 characters still kinda hurts, because so many of them were fascinating. Pucci Lavmin in particular was unlike any other character we've ever seen in Kodaka's ouvre, and it sucks that she was taken out of the mix without us getting any chance to develop or explore her further. My hope is that eventually we'll see some kind of AU side-story DLC or game that lets us dive deeper into even the deceased characters... I mean, Danganronpa always did that, and Rain Code DOES have its own Season Pass after all :P

7. I really thought for a while there that Chapter 2 would end with us having to accept that the real culprit was the very person we were attempting to exonerate and free from the Peacekeepers' sinister clutches. It doesn't go that route, but I feel like that's a twist that could (and SHOULD) come up in the future. Before this game is over, I expect to see a chapter where the real culprit is the very person we're trying to prove innocent. Can't wait to see how wrong I am! :P

[hvnyz]

 if you’re hearing LAKE EFFECT KID by FALL OUT BOY playing, you have to know SANTIAGO ESPINOZA (HE/HIM;CIS MAN) is near by! the 38 year old POWER HITTER FOR THE ROCKIES has been in denver for, like,TEN YEARS. they’re known to be quite INDULGENT, but being BENEVOLENT seems to balance that out. or maybe it’s the fact that they resemble CARLOS MIRANDA. personally, i’d love to know more about them seeing as how they’ve got those WARM SUNKISSED SKIN, THE CRACK OF A BASEBALL BAT, FIVE O’CLOCK SHADOWS AND LED ZEPPELIN ON A RECORD PLAYER  vibes. and maybe i’ll get my chance if i hang out around the LAKERIDGE DISTRICT long enough

pinterest ||connections and wanted connections

BASICS

FULL NAME: Santiago Emmanuel Espinoza NICKNAME(S): Santi, Tiago AGE: 38 DATE OF BIRTH:  May 4th 1985 PLACE OF BIRTH:  Syracuse, New York CURRENT LOCATION:.  Lakeridge District ETHNICITY: Nicaraguan GENDER: Cis Man PRONOUNS: he/him SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Bisexual RELIGION:  raised christian, not as strictly, but still practicing. OCCUPATION:  Power hitter for the Colorado Rockies FACECLAIM:  Carlos Miranda

PHYSICAL TRAITS

HEIGHT: 6'0 WEIGHT: 187 pounds HAIR COLOR: Brown  EYE COLOR: brown PIERCINGS: no piercings TATTOOS:  just this one on his hand SCARS|MARKS: one small scar on the left side of his head, just near his hairline, and another healed gash on his right knee. SIGNATURE SCENT: Jazz Club by Replica

PHOBIAS AND DISEASES

MENTAL ILLNESSES: n/a PHYSICAL ILLNESSES: N/a PHOBIAS: n/a

RELATIONSHIPS

MOTHER:  Alma Espinoza (nee Rivas) FATHER:  Cesar Espinoza SIBLINGS: none, he is an only child. RELATIONSHIPS: tba PETS: a bulldog named bear

PERSONALITY

ZODIAC SIGN:  Taurus MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral Good FAVORITE FOODS: his grandmother's vaho, picos, a hot dog from the guy at the stadium FAVORITE COLOR: burnt orange LIKES:  laying on the beach on a warm day, the smell of onions and garlic cooking, a cold citrus radler after a game, morning runs with bear. DISLIKES: sweet tea, horror films HOBBIES: beach volleyball, boxing, board games.

HEADCANONS

Santiago loves history and will watch the history channel or read history books in his free time. Gets his best sleep on airplanes. truly believes a late-night run with his favorite playlist will cure any negative emotion he has. calls his abuela every Sunday after she gets home from church, he hasn't missed a day since he moved out at 18. She was one of his biggest cheerleaders growing up, and he always confides in her. She is his safe space. Santi is a nice guy generally, but has a bit of an ego, years of being told you were a star will do that to you.

BIOGRAPHY

tw death

PAST

Santiago Emmanuel Espinoza is the first, and only child of Alma and Caesar Espinoza. Born in May of 1985 in Syracuse, New York, Santi came from fairly "normal" beginnings. His mother worked nights as a nurse, and his father during the day as a mechanic.

On the weekends in the summer, Santi and his father would go to Yankees games. Sitting in those seats, watching the game play out, sometimes well after sunset with a hot dog and a soda, those are some of Santi's fondest memories.

The obvious course was little league, when he wasn't watching a game, he was playing one, running around with his peers getting dirty and having a good time. What else was there to a perfect summer? Santi can still remember the taste of the vanilla soft serve ice cream after a long game.

When Santi's coach realize that there was a talent in him, more talent than was expexted out of his seven year old body, they suggested extra training. 'He could be something', he remembers his coach saying to his father, and Santi will never forget the look on his father's face. The pride he held that day, it was a rush.

Santi threw himself into it, baseball consumed him, even from such a young age, he knew that if he did well, if he lived beyond his potential, then he could make his family proud, and in turn, makke himself proud.

He played baseball through out middle school, and high school, and eventually, it got him into college, Vanderbilt University offering him a full ride to play for them. His mother cried the day he was offered his scholarship. His father hugged him for the first time in a while.

Tennesse was a big change compared to Syracuse, and initially, Santiago didn't adjust well. He felt like a small fish in a big pond. All of those boys on the team were recruited for a reason. It wasn't like high school where he was a standout player. He would vent his troubles to his abuela every Sunday morning over a cup of coffee during their weekly phone calls.

Eventually, things got better. Santi was able to prove himself to be worthy of his spot, and his teammates soon became some of his closest friends. His studies were fine, he kept his grades up enough to be able to play ball, the only class he was really enthusiastic about was history, his grades stayed consistently good for that one.

Santi's rise to fame wasn't effortless, no matter what anyone tells you. He worked hard, but from the outside, he looked like his scholarship, and then, his getting into the major leagues, was handed to him. He figured by then he had proved himself, but in the midst of him getting asked to play for the Chicago White Sox, he lost a few friends who thought they deserved it more.

Santi was young, and fresh faced when he began to play for the Sox, and although being the new kid was humbling, the notariety that came when he was able to prove how good he was got to his head just a little bit. People were showing up to games just to see him. People flocked to him at bars for dates or nights together. It all felt good, he felt like he was on top of the world.

| TW DEATH | It would all come crashing down when he had to take a year off because his father died in a car crash. Santi went back home, and he helped his mother, and his abuela, rebuild their lives with out their husband and son. He reconnected with his roots, and promised them both that he'd continue to make them, and his father proud. |END OF TW|

He was welcomed back to the team with open arms, but he wasn't sure he was fully in it. He wasn't sure he could go back. It wasn't until his first game, everyone cheering his name, the city skyline lit up ahead of him, that he knew he made the right choice in coming back.

PRESENT

Santi has been a power hitter and a star player for the Colorado Rockies for the last ten years. He loves the game, and his life, but he isn't sure how much longer he wants to play. Retirement is looking like it's somewhere near on the horizon. But who will he be when he's not playing? What will he do? All of these questions have been weighing on him since before the season even started.

Santi lives in the Lakeridge District with his bulldog named Bear.

[runnerfivestillalive]

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Loki pulled out of Thor’s arms, taking the warmth of his body with him, and sat up, on the edge of the bed.

“I’m not.” Thor rolled toward him, hands following him, and snaked an arm over his hips. He wasn’t really getting up, was he? It was too cold, outside the blankets. “I think we should talk about it.”

Loki had been paused on the edge of the bed only while he combed his hair into something resembling order. That achieved, he pulled impatiently away. “About what?”

“The future. In general. But this in particular.”

Loki made a scoffing noise, and though his back was turned as he slid his clothes back on, Thor could as good as hear the eye roll.

Thor hurried to get up as well, since Loki was clearly intending to flee this conversation. “What’s wrong? Do you not want to have children?” With him?

Loki sighed, and though he seemed to be trying not to look hurried, he was now dressing so quickly he stumbled over trying to get his shoes on. Ha. At least Thor’s simpler outfits had some advantage! “I’m sure it will happen eventually. We fuck often enough.”

Thor frowned. “Do you not want it? I’m a fertility god, brother, I can ensure-“

“That’s not the point! It will happen or not! You don’t need to ruin a perfectly good mood with your ridiculous planning!” He said the last word with angry disdain.

“Brother…” Thor moved quickly, and caught Loki’s arm before he could make it to the door. “We don’t have to talk about it now, if you don’t want to. But this is important. Planning for the future-“

Loki jerked his arm away, with an angry noise, and Thor was so startled he forgot his words. “I knew you were a fool, but not an idiot! Don’t tell me you believe in that nonsense!”

Thor frowned, thinking back through his words. “…Having children? Loki, I assure you, we can have children.” Ah. Perhaps that was why Loki was upset. Thor, as a god of fertility, had felt Loki’s readiness rising from him as clearly as music. It was so obvious for him he took it as a given. For Loki, who had been in his male form for several years now, it had perhaps come as a bit of a shock.

Loki scowled. “No, ‘planning for the future’.” He made a face of disgust. “Don’t tell me you fell for that fairytale.”

“What?”

“Stability and a predictable future are myths parents tell children to give them a reason to study hard and eat their vegetables. Nothing beyond the short-term intentions of a child ever actually goes to plan. Surely you’ve noticed?”

Thor had had enough assumptions crumbled beneath his feet these last years to give that some thought. But… “Not exactly, I suppose, and not every time. But it’s not as if there’s no point planning for the future.”

Loki made a frustrated sigh. “It is, though! People are always getting attached to this future in their heads, that they think they’re going to have, and then they get outraged when it doesn’t happen! Constantly! Surely you’ve noticed? Plans are always in ruins, futures are always gone, and everyone acts shocked, every time!” Loki started pacing in agitation. “They get so attached to these made up futures they ‘planned on’, and then they go to pieces when that’s not how it turns out!”

Understanding began to creep into Thor’s mind, and it made him feel cold.

“Look at everyone here, all still in shock over Asgard being destroyed! It’s as if they think Odin calling it ‘the realm eternal’ actually made it so! I’ve never heard anyone talk about their plans for the future except when they were either just ruined or about to be ruined, but people keep… making them! They insist on setting themselves up for disappoint! And then they make things worse, trying to cling to futures that never even existed!”

Thor had a sudden cold memory of a time when they’d been captured by enemies and sentenced to execution in the morning. Loki had looked so unconcerned that Thor had been able to push down his own panic, thinking that his brother had a plan to escape. When Loki had indeed managed their escape, he’d been impressed by his brother’s clever planning.

He realized now, looking back at the memory, that Loki’s escape hadn’t been cleverly planned, it had been cleverly improvised. Loki hadn’t looked worried when they’d been sentenced simply because it had been for the next morning. To Loki, a future as distant as the next morning simply didn’t exist in any predictable way.

“Loki… brother, you are the god of mischief. Of chaos.”

Loki sighed, coming down from the peak of his rant. “Yes, I suppose that might be why I’m able to handle it better. But really, Thor. Surely people have noticed that nothing ever goes to plan!”

Thor couldn’t quite meet Loki’s eyes. “They do when you’re not around.”

Loki’s pacing stopped. “What?”

“Not… all the time, of course. But mostly… For most people, days end where they expected them to when they woke up. Schedules are mostly followed. Plans… plans mostly go through as intended.”

Loki made a noise of disgust. “Really? And when have you ever seen that?”

Thor swallowed. He forced his eye to Loki’s, then flicked away again. “When you’re not around.”

Loki was silent.

Thor barreled on, feeling a sudden need to fill the silence. “Think about it. Take… take shopkeepers in the market! The market depends on being a reasonably safe place people can go to buy and sell predictable amounts of goods. It wouldn’t work if it wasn’t predictable enough for people to feel safe going there, day after day.”

Loki shook his head, and cut the air sharply with a dismissive hand. “People are better at adapting than they think they are! The market is always being destroyed or-“

“When you’re there.”

Loki’s mouth shut so quickly Thor heard the click of teeth.

“And people sentenced to execution are usually executed, and strategies usually get followed and go more or less as they were predicted to go, and planted crops usually get harvested, and… and most plans just happen as intended.”

“When I’m not around.”

“It makes sense.” Thor offered the words, trying to make them sound light. Soothing. “You’re the god of chaos. Of course things wouldn’t go to plan around you.” He took a step toward his brother, and tried to pull him into an embrace. “I never thought about how that would effect how you thought of the future!”

Loki didn’t speak.

Thor plunged forward, desperately. “But Loki, I promise you, there is such a thing as stability! We can plan for the future! New Asgard is getting settled, and we could have children, if you want, and raise them here, and it could be safe!”

“If I’m not here.”

“What? No! I meant- I just mean that you don’t see it, but we can plan for the future we want! And it can happen! Truly, I promise you, we can-“

“If I’m not here!”

“No!” Gods. Norns. He was a fool, just like Loki had said. This conversation wasn’t going at all how he’d planned.

Just like Loki had said.

Loki pulled away, and headed for the door. “Stay here, then, with your stability. Build your predictable future.”

“Brother, wait!”

As the door swung shut, Thor saw tears in his brother’s eyes. “Find someone else to have your children!”

[kootiepatra]

#FFxivWrite2022 - Day 21 Prompt: "Solution"

Taking some artistic liberties with the 6.1 dungeon to gently roast our beloved Scions.

===============

The party exhaled a collective breath of relief as the last of the mimics fell motionless, Keimwyda’s arrow still wobbling from the momentum of having struck the final blow.

“I cannot say I expected that,” she said, lowering her bow to her side.

“‘Tis no great loss,” Estinein shrugged. “There is treasure enough here without those handful of chests.”

Keimwyda smirked at him. “I was more referring to the fact that they came to life and attacked us. But your point is a fair one too, I suppose.”

“Concealing automaton defenses in the guise of the treasure itself—an ingenious ploy,” Urianger mused. “Mine opinion is conflicted, however, as to whether I wish to entrust such a concept to the Loporrits.”

Y’shtola nodded as she re-holstered her staff. “I can appreciate your kindness in helping our little friends make their moonship interesting. ‘Twould be a shame to inadvertently counsel them on how to make it deadly.”

“At least these manage to be both at once,” G’raha ventured. While survival was of course top priority in this mission, and recovering funds for the people of Thavnair a near second, it was obvious to anyone that the red-haired Miqo’te was enjoying himself immensely for reasons all his own. It was not just an adventure, but one that led them through a relic of history. It was practically custom-built for his preferences.

“Is everyone all right to continue?” Keimwyda asked. All five Scions were unharmed, so they pushed forward into the winding halls of the vault.

The opulence of the hoard was difficult to fully comprehend. Even aside from the sheer mass of riches, there was the facility itself. The ornate colors and patterns on the walls clearly echoed the common design sense of Radz-at-Han. The fact that this place was built under the sea was already impressive—the fact that it had breathtaking views out into the ocean depths seemed almost a laughable excess.

“Perhaps someone should have informed this Alzadaal that a sturdy stone hole in the ground would suffice,” Estinien muttered.

“Oh come now,” G’raha grinned. “Where would the fun be in that?”

“Must you say such things out loud?” Y’shtola sighed—just before the sound of a mechanical trigger snapped in the walls.

Keimwyda readied her weapon and shot a teasing look to G’raha. “Now look what you’ve done.”

A few moments, and a half-dozen smashed automata later, the group proceeded on their way. Urianger made some note or other about the timing of the activation of traps.

Their path led them to a hallway, which was barred halfway down by a gate. The gate was, unsurprisingly, highly ornate, wrought out of heavy iron, fitting exactly from floor to ceiling. The curling patterns of the bars were far too narrow to hope to fit through, but wide enough to see through to the room beyond—it was as overflowing with treasure as those they had already explored.

In the middle of the gate where each door fit together, where one might expect to find a keyhole, there was instead an elaborately carved frame, housing a series of tiles in a grid. The five-by-five arrangement sported a variety of colors, and each tile was engraved with a distinctive glyph. The scholars gathered around it, while Keimwyda and Estinien stood back to give them room.

“Now look at THIS,” G’raha marveled. “Is it a puzzle?”

Y’shtola tried to concentrate on any aetheric components, to see if she could follow where they led. “Most like. Although I suppose it may want for a simple code, rather than some sort of riddle. Those markings are unfamiliar to me—are they a language? Or some sort of sigils? What do you think, Urianger?”

He rubbed his chin. “Tis not a language known to me in my studies. Yet it doth bear some passing resemblance to Hannish alchemical signs. Mayhap the older parlance explaineth the difference. Seest thou any hints in the aether as to what each tile portends?”

“They all have trails set into the walls,” Y'shtola replied, pointing her finger along one such path, “but this place is a veritable web of aetherically-woven enchantments. I shall need to get closer to follow any one thread properly. They lead further down the hall.”

G’raha put his face as close to the frame as he could, squinting one eye shut to try and get a better look at its topography. “These tiles—are they buttons or triggers? Or should we rather be seeking to slide them around, or even remove them?”

“Do not touch it,” Y’shtola cautioned. “As I said, I cannot tell where their trails lead, not from here.” 

Urianger took a step back, looking down at his notes, and then up at the designs set into the walls and ceiling. “Should it be a code, mayhap there is some manner of key in the iconography.”

G’raha looked doubtful. “Alzadaal clearly went to great lengths to keep this wealth out of any hands but his own. Would he really leave would-be thieves instructions for access right there on the walls?”

“For want of a clear indication, we must needs consider all possible options,” Urianger answered mildly.

The three discussed among themselves, postulating theories and assessing risks.

“Would a frog fit through there, Y’shtola?” Keimwyda asked, after a moment of thinking to herself.

“Ha,” she laughed in reply. “Perhaps. But I was under the impression you did not care for that form.”

“Oh, do not mistake me, I don’t,” she said quickly, a slight blush rising to her cheeks. “But if there is no other way through, I might be able to at least scout ahead. And I shall certainly be of more use doing that than trying to decipher this lock.”

Y’shtola smiled wryly. “Let us consider that a last resort. I am loath to send you into gods-know-what in such a—well, squishable condition.”

“Fair point,” Keimwyda replied. “In that case, I rescind my offer.”

Minutes passed. The discussion went on.

Perhaps there was something to the order of the alchemical symbols—according to their weight? Their place on an ancient chart? Their perceived monetary value? This symbol was almost certainly gold, and that one meant fire, but this one was unrecognizable. Yes, we tried looking out the window to the sea, and no, there’s nothing there but fish. Would the trap really trigger if a singular wrong button was pushed? Are we sure those even are buttons? No, do not touch it yet. If Alzadaal truly visited other worlds, perhaps some symbology originates there. But how would we know?

Keimwyda was a naturally patient person, but even she found her mind wandering. She was mostly following what her Sharlayan comrades were discussing, but some of it was genuinely beyond her, and none of it was within her ability to meaningfully contribute. She shifted her attention to keep watch down the hallway they had already cleared, not really expecting to see anything. At least it gave her something to do. 

Estinien did not shift from staring at the gate, brow furrowed, eyes hard.

“We must try something eventually,” G’raha was saying. "What if we..."

Estinien spoke up, cutting him off. “I have an idea,” he said. “Stand back.”

The Scions parted as if on instinct, before Y’shtola’s face registered recognition. “Wait…”

But it was too late. With a surge of red energy and the distant, aetherial roar of a dragon, Estinien spun his lance out of its holster, leapt up nearly to the ceiling, and dove at the lock, weapon-first.

The Scions ducked and covered their heads. The crash was deafening.

When nothing else happened, they all slowly turned to see a scattering of twenty-five tiles on the floor, and a gate hanging slightly ajar. 

“We were getting there!” G’raha protested in dismay.

“You could have triggered a trap and killed us all!” Y’shtola admonished, anger in her voice.

“I have solved it,” Estinien replied cooly, gesturing to the open gate with a bow. “Shall we?”

The group filed through in assorted stages of amusement or irritation. Urianger made yet another note.

[greanbean88]

Chapter 8: Silence

He moved swiftly down the dimly lit hallway, his footsteps nearly silent on the polished floor. Shadows clung to the corners, and the faint hum of distant machinery filled the air, but he kept his focus sharp, avoiding the gaze of the few who still wandered the corridors at this late hour.

As he approached the exit, he quickened his pace, though his heart pounded in his chest. The speeder, waited just beyond the threshold, but as he neared it, a sudden clatter echoed through the hallway—his boot had brushed against a loose panel. The sound louder than he had hoped. He froze for a fraction of a second, breath held, before deciding to walk forward.

Reaching the speeder, he engaged the thrusters, and the vehicle shot forward, cutting through the silence of the night like a blade. The city’s lights blurred around him as he sped off, the tension in his muscles slowly easing as the distance between him and the prying eyes grew.

—

The lawless city, hidden away underneath the elite Coruscant society flourished in the late night. Bounty hunters, gangsters, and other criminals prevented from a civilization occurring. Illicit drugs and other illegal activities were prevalent in day to day lives as a form of work, or enjoyment.

Anakin parked his speeder behind a danky building which made his nose wrinkle up in disgust. The bar had dull neon lights shinning down dirty alleyways, flickering every few seconds. It was the height of most of the crimes committed in the lower levels.

When Anakin entered he realized how out of place he was. It was loud and rowdy. man individuals were sitting at the bar for some relaxation and amusement. But Anakin was only there for peace. Silence within his mind.

He approached the long bar stool and sat at a seat, then called over a drink. Anakin glanced around to the people next to him analyzing the type of people he was about to confront. One of them would be selling what he wanted. He just needed to approach them properly.

“What are you looking at boy?”

Anakin did not realize, but he had been staring at this woman next to him while he was deep in thought. Her hair was a tangled mess, strands sticking out in various directions as if it hadn’t seen a comb in days. The dull brown color was streaked with gray, adding years to her already worn face. Her eyes, slightly bloodshot, were dull and foggy.

Anakin leaned on the bar table and sipped his alcohol. “Got anything?” He said sharply.

The woman eyed him carefully. Realization then dawned on him. “You’re that Skywalker boy. Hero aren’t ya’?” She taunted. Others scattered around the bar glanced towards him with suspicion.

Anakin sighed and swirled his drink. He wanted to avoid unwanted attention not attract it. Pulling his hood over his head should have a given. “So what? You gonna tell on me?” He questioned.

“Nun’ my business. How do you want it?”

“Pill.”

The woman reached into the inside pocket of her coat and pulled out a bag of pills. Each different color. She raised a brow in exasperation. “Well, what are you looking for?”

“Something… to calm me down.” Anakin said carefully, not to realize too much information.

“Ah, I see.” The woman then put her small bag of mixed pills back into her pocket and took out another one. They resembled crystals and were a faint light blue color. She then placed the baggie on the table and pushed it towards Anakin. The jedi then reach out his hand to grab it, but the criminal retracted the bag and chuckled.

“You’ve never done this before have you?”

Anakin stiffened in his seat. It was pretty obvious this was his first time.

“How much do you want- for the bag.”

The woman smiled crookedly. Showing her yellow rotting teeth. A reminder to Anakin of Palpatine. “50 credits. No- double. For me to keep my mouth shut of course.” Anakin grimaced and pulled out 100 credits he was carrying with him. and pushed it forwards on the bar table. The woman’s eyes lost their fogginess and filled with excitement. She pushed her bag forward and collected the credit’s quickly.

“Nice working with ya’.”

Anakin put the baggie inside his robe and threw his hood on. Walking out of the bar swiftly, leaving his half empty drink on the table.

—

Anakin moved quickly through the temple grounds, the baggie now safely hidden within his robe. The early morning air was cool against his skin. As he approached the speeder bay, he noticed a few Jedi already beginning their morning routines. Nearby, a group of Knights engaged in quiet conversation, their low voices barely audible over the hum of the city beyond.

Anakin pulled his hood lower over his face, careful to keep his pace casual. He couldn't afford to draw any attention to himself, not now. Slipping into the shadows, he made his way to the speeder parking area. Anakin maneuvered his speeder carefully, avoiding the main pathways where he might be seen. The last thing he needed was for someone to ask why he was returning a speeder at such an odd hour.

—

As he navigated the narrow service corridors, his mind raced. If anyone questioned him, he would need an excuse, something believable but not too detailed. He couldn't afford to slip up now—not with the package hidden in his robe, burning a hole in his conscience. He moved swiftly through the temple, keeping to the quieter passages where few ventured at this hour.

Just a little further, he told himself, his gaze fixed ahead as he approached the hallway leading to his quarters. He quickened his pace, hoping to reach the safety of his room before anyone noticed his unusual behavior. Finally, he reached his door, the relief washing over him as it slid open with a quiet hiss. Anakin stepped inside, the door closing softly behind him. Safe, at least for now.

[lifehealed]

thread wishlist:

some of these might be repeats/threads ive already done but i cant remember :') i just wanted to get some thoughts down since i feel like it can be helpful to have preestablished ideas!!

amaryllis revealing that she cant heal anymore - ive probably touched on this in a thread but its been so long that i want to have this on the list anyways. a dead giveaway to this would be the fact that she utilizes first aid instead, despite in the past having nine times out of ten used her powers instead due to the convenience and success rate. this is something incredibly shameful to her, and its something she's kept bottled up inside since she's woken up to the modern era. the weight of it is absolutely killing her, but she doesn't know what to do about it/who to confide in. this would probably be the most emotional by far and its not even close.

amaryllis showing her new arms - she hides them with gloves at all times to avoid unnecessary stares/looks in public. a woman with pale blue arms (that which resembles xerneas' antlers no less) is quite the unusual sight. she lacks a lot of confidence in herself both due to this and from the lack of her healing abilities. this could also lead into her divulging just what exactly happened to her, and where she was for all those thousands of years.

someone from modern times recognizing amarllyis/knowing who she is - through historical texts from kalos' warring era, amaryllis is named in full and is referenced a few times. history buffs that hear her name or know of the legends surrounding her via these texts would be in for a shock to learn she exists in these modern times, despite the legends stating she had gone missing (and presumably was dead). she can give firsthand accounts of certain things, and fill in missing blanks of said texts and legends.

more threads set 3000 years in the past - this is a more difficult one and is probably reserved for ancient muses that were alive back then.... but i know there's some of yall roaming around still, so come HERE. its a super fun era to explore and flesh out further, especially given amaryllis was such a different person before. she had much more confidence in herself, but also was inundated with the horrors and reality of war.

amaryllis traveling outside of kalos - she should probably get a bit more acclimated with all of the changes that occurred IN kalos itself before she sets off for other places, but that's okay! in my obsession with throwing all of my muses into area zero for whatever reason (i just think its neat i guess), her winding up there somehow would be SO COOL. i dont know how it would happen really given the high security entrances, but i know it would be a place of utter awe for her. the overall feeling/vibe of the place would be incredibly ethereal to her, and she wouldn't be able to get over how stunningly beautiful it is. also, i need her to have a paradox mon of Some Sort. it would follow her because it likes her :) another place of interest would be galar's glimwood tangle, for obvious reasons. being part fae herself, she would feel so at home and at ease there. it would remind her of xerneas' domain, in a way.

amaryllis regaining her healing powers - this is something that i want to do a bit later down the line (after getting some of the above items taken care of) but her regaining her powers/being able to heal again would be a really fun thread. im still not sure what would cause her powers to manifest again (a moment of peril or something similar?), but they would absolutely be far stronger than they were 3000 years ago thanks to xerneas' aura inundating her own.

amaryllis revealing her fae heritage - there's some strange things about amaryllis, such as some strands of her hair shining iridescently in both the sunlight and moonlight, the fact that iron hurts her, and other qualities that aren't quite human in a sense. this is why fairy pokemon absolutely adore her, beyond the fact that xerneas' aura is now present in her own. it's always been that way, ever since she was a child. fairy pokemon were often seen around the dubosque home in general thanks to her family's fae blood.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Alien and a Cannibal

Hannibal Lecter x venom!plus size reader

Hannibal Masterlist | Main Masterlist

A curious new investigative reporter becomes Hannibal the Cannibal’s new interest, and maybe dinner, but her heart is just as dark as his.

Warnings: DARK THEMES, cannibalism, murder, both Hannibal and reader are morally grey/dark, implied smut, violence, swearing, making out, dead bodies, mentions of rape, assault, serial killers, all the typical Hannibal stuff, blood, french dishes, implied blood play

WC: 2.6k

Minors DNI

Freddie Lounds was the absolute bane of Hannibal’s existence. Her blatant disregard for basic human decency and rude behaviour had forever corrupted his view of investigative reporters. As much as he would love to have her for dinner, her disappearance would be noted and considering his long and rocky history with her, he would be considered a suspect.

Will had dragged him to yet another crime scene, claiming he needed help. Hannibal knew it was just because he wanted Jack off his back while he worked and having his therapist there is a good distraction.

The bright yellow police tape was almost hidden amongst the throngs of people trying to get a glimpse of the undoubtably grizzly murder that lay just beyond, the head of red hair standing out among them. Will quickly darted through the crowd, intensely focused on the white sheet wrapped over what looked to be a headless body.

“Interesting.” The doctor muttered as he looked over Will’s shoulder at the body. “Crime of passion?” Will was becoming more insecure, interesting. “Look at the cuts, they are too precise. Almost like teeth.” He knelt down beside his patient, his long fingers pointing out the insidious around the base of the neck which closely resembled a shark bite.

Another set of footsteps approached, the cheap dress shoes of Jack Crawford came into view. “We’ve got an ID on the vic. Michael Thomas. 35. 5 felony convictions, aggravated assault, 2 counts of rape, and two attempted murders. He broke his parole last week. This is the third beheading like this that we’ve found.”

Hannibal stood, looking over at the collection of onlookers, but one stood out. She was standing beside Lounds, taking an obvious displeasure with the woman but still indulged her chatter, clearly trying to get some kind of information from the journalist. Her e/c eyes seemed dulled slightly, something swimming behind them. He couldn’t help but observe her body. Thick curves hidden behind a grey v-neck and black skinny jeans with a too-large leather jacket. Thick thighs, wide hips, large stomach, heavy breasts.

Oh, she looked delicious.

“Hannibal.” He reluctantly turned away, tearing his amber eyes from that divine meal. “The other two vics were also convicted felons with pretty long rap sheets. Rape, stalking, murder, all the good stuff. This could be a serial killer.” Will avoided eye-contact, more insecurities. “A serial killer targeting people who escape the law. This person is obviously helping the authorities, they’re doing your job better than you.” Jack’s face scrunched in annoyance, eye twitching. Hannibal smirked. “But who’s to say he won’t begin to escalate to killing innocent people.”

“Why do you assume a man did this? It could’ve just as well have been a woman.” Will sighed. “But statistically speaking, most serial killers are men and this fits more with a male profile. Violent, messy.” “That’s quite a sexist view. Women are just as capable as men.”

The FBI agents gave each other a look. “I don’t think now is an appropriate time to be discussing gender equality.” “Well if you’ve figured it all out Agent Crawford, I do have a practise I must get back to.” He turned his back and began to walk away, adjusting his suit jacket, brushing away some non-existent dust from his shoulder. Hannibal slicked back his hair but was disappointed when he noted the woman had disappeared. “We should have a little chat soon Will, I’ll book you in for next week.”

He just huffed and moved back to the body, ignoring Freddie’s calls for an interview. “Doctor Lecter! What can you say to the rumours that this is a new serial killer!” She began to follow him as he moved through the small crowd of people. Just as he reached for the silver handle of his car door, she darted in front of him, shoving a small tape recorder in his face. “A statement please Doctor Lecter.”

A growl rumbled through his chest. “Ms Lounds, I would ask that you step away from my car. I have no comment for you. I’m sure that the FBI will release a statement soon.” “We both know the FBI is totally incompetent. I know you’ve got a theory already so why not tell me and I’ll do a little digging of my own. Bring this freak to justice.” At this point, Hannibal was fantasising about what meals he could turn her into.

“Interfering with a federal investigation is a crime Ms Lounds.” She huffed. “I won’t be interfering, I’ll just be… helping them along.” “Yes, like you helped when you broke into my office to steal my patients’ files. So I recommend you move before I have one of those very nice agents come over here. Have a good evening.” The car door slammed shut behind him and he clutched the wheel tightly, his knuckles going white. Clearing his throat, Hannibal composed himself, driving off.

Y/N Y/L/N. It had taken him weeks and another murder but he had found her. An investigative reporter like Freddie but far more reliable. She even worked with Eddie Brock for a time before they both fell off the radar. No family, only one or two friends. He approached her outside the fifth crime scene.

“You seem quite intuitive. What do you think is happening?” She pondered for a moment before turning to him, her e/c eyes meeting his golden ones. “Well the police say it’s randomised attacks, one person did one beheading and now there’s copy-cats.” “Yes that is what the police say but I was asking you.” She smirked, eyes sparkling. “A vigilante, someone taking out the trash.” He towered over her, leaning towards her. “I thought the same. Doctor Hannibal Lecter.” She took his outstretched hand.

“Y/N Y/L/N but I’m guessing you already knew that, didn't you Doctor Lecter?” “I must admit, you did catch my attention ms Y/L/N.” “Y/N please. But I shouldn’t take up anymore of your time, it seems that someone is waiting for you.” She gestured to Will who was dashing around madly, eyes wide. “I suppose I must attend to that. But I would love to have you for dinner. Feel free to give me a call.” He handed over his card then ducked under the yellow police tape with a wink.

Hannibal received a very frantic call from Alanna around two in the morning. Apparently Will had gone missing and the good doctor couldn’t find him. So quickly pulling on some street clothes from the back of his closet, he drove into town, figuring that Will’s sleepwalking might’ve gotten him this far. Parking on a side street, Hannibal stepped from the car to begin his search.

The coppery scent of blood permitted his senses. With furrowed eyebrows, he turned the corner. “Will?” “Seriously man I didn’t do anything! Leave me alone!” He could practically smell the fear coming from further down the alley. Sticking to the shadows, his back pressed tightly against the brick wall, he creeped forward, catching sight of a huge black mass standing over a man who’s arm was bleeding profusely.

You know what you did. Killing all those women just because of their job. “They deserved it.” And so you deserve this. It growled before a huge hand curled around the man’s throat, lifting him into the air, stepping further into the light. Glossy black skin only offset by silvery white veins and huge milky eyes. Its mouth unhinged almost like a snake’s, long pink tongue tracing over the razor sharp teeth.

Then, the face shot out and bit his head clean off, dropping the body on the dirty concrete, the grey being stained crimson. The beast licked it lips than jumped straight up onto the roof of the opposite building, disappearing from view.

Interesting.

Soft music floated through the lavishly decorated halls, Hannibal humming along as he went through his box of recipes, selecting the perfect one for his delicious little reporter. Of course, the meal he was preparing for tonight was already in the oven, waiting for her to arrive. He just couldn’t wait to have a taste of her. Sure, it would be a waste of her capabilities but he just couldn’t help himself, she was by far the most beautiful creature he had seen.

He supposed devouring her would be a way of worshipping her. Giving her death value, a piece of her existing within him. He would make her into something glorious, something divine that perfectly reflected her own divinity. But he wouldn’t share her, no, she would be all his, for eternity. He had already picked out the wine he would serve with her. A gorgeous 1945 Château Mouton-Rothschild. He had bought it on a whim, paying far too much money for it but now he knew it was perfect for her.

A knock broke him from his thoughts, a large smile appearing across his chilled jaw. Y/N was standing on his front step wearing a black knee length dress. It was classy, showing just enough skin to be enticing, a little slit along her left leg teased what was hiding beneath the fabric.

“Y/N, come in. I’m glad you could join me.” Once again, he took her hand, looping it through his arm as he led her deeper into the house. “Thank you for inviting me Doctor Lecter, it’s not often I get invited to a nice house by a handsome doctor and given free food.”

He chuckled. “It’s always wonderful to have a beautiful woman in my home. But please call me Hannibal, Doctor Lecter feels too formal for our situation.” “I have to say, I was surprised that you wanted me to come over. You don’t seem too fond of reporters.” She gracefully sat in the chair he pulled out for her. “I am not fond of one particular reporter. But I do enjoy your work, it is quite comprehensive.”

“You flatter me Hannibal. First you approach me at a crime scene, chat me up, invite me to a very expensive dinner, then compliment my work. If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re trying to seduce me.” She took a long sip of the vintage red he poured for her, having already slipped a sleeping drought in it that should kick in after the main course was served. “You seem to have discovered my plan. You are a beautiful, intelligent woman. You can’t blame me for wanting to have you to myself. Now if you’ll excuse me, dinner is about to be served.”

“Tête de veau en sauce verde.” Two perfectly plated dishes were placed in front of Y/N. Swirled meat and large bones filled with marrow were paired with incredible greens and a large white rose. “I am aware that the red rose has more romantic meanings but I find the white to be more beautiful and pure.” He refilled her wine glass, his calloused fingers brushing against hers. Their eyes met across the table, a burning tension between them.

Y/N’s e/c eyes fluttered shut as she took a bite of the meat, moaning at the richness. “I don’t see why you continue to be a psychiatrist when this food is absolutely divine. You could easily become a chef or a house husband.” “Well I’m sure if the right spouse came along, I could be swayed.” She giggled, taking another sip of wine that seemingly had no effect on her.

“So tell me Hannibal, who are we eating?” “It’s cows head my dear.” Her utensils were placed back down as she leaned forward, breasts pressed against the table. “That isn’t what I asked.” The doctor froze, looking up at her, panic beginning to rise in his stomach and he subtly adjusted his grip on the sharp steak knife. “What makes you think we are eating someone?”

Eyes narrowed, she answered. “Don’t take me for an idiot. So tell me who are we eating. I’ve eaten humans before, I know how they taste.” “And how would you know that?” He raised a greying eyebrow at her. “I would’ve thought you figured it out by now. I guess I overestimated you. I certainly figured out who you were before we met.”

Hannibal launched across the table. This wasn’t the plan but if he was quick enough, he wouldn’t damage her too much. He buried the knife in her chest, blood slowly dripping down the blade to the handle. She grunted but gave no other indication of pain. “I was really hoping that this night would end differently. I even wore my best lingerie but now we should have a chat.” Black tendrils shot out from her back wrapping around him and pinning him back to his seat.

“You see,” she winced, pulling the knife from her skin, ramming it into the table, “I need to consume a certain chemical in order for my little friend to survive. We can, of course, find the same chemical in chocolate but it’s just less practical and far more expensive than hunting people down and eating their brains. We had hoped, considering our similar interests, that we could work together. It’s such a shame we’ll have to kill you now.” Y/N settled in his lap, her crotch hovering over his own, fingers playing with his surprisingly silky hair.

“Who is this we?” “We are Venom.” Hannibal watched with fascination as her eyes bled into a complete white, veins of obsidian rising from her s/c as she bent over and licked up the length of his thick neck. “You taste delicious, maybe we should savour you, keep you around for a while.” “You’ve been killing those people haven’t you.”

Little nibbles were placed on his neck. “Very good Doctor Lecter. Venom and I have a deal, he can eat as many brains as he wishes as long as it’s someone bad. And you are oh so bad.” Can we eat him now? I don’t like when you seduce people. A floating head came out of her back. “Patience my love, it’s my time to have some fun.” She lifted her dress higher, thick legs locking against his hips, Hannibal smirked, smelling her arousal. “So this Venom lives in your body and feeds off of people. I don’t see much benefit for you.”

A tendril pulled down the front of the dress, stopping just above her nipples to expose the place where he had stabbed. The skin was flawless, no indication that he had attempted to kill her. “Fascinating.” He bent forward as much as he could while still being restrained and rubbed his nose against her. God, she was so intoxicating.

Her head fell back as she sighed, hand keeping his head in place. “Venom heals me, protects me. It also helps that he can get me into places I normally couldn't, which is extremely helpful for my job.” Plump lips mouthed at the fatty flesh of her chest, groaning at the salty sweetness. “A woman after my own heart.” Y/N moaned as she ground herself against his hardening length, a brief lapse in her concentration allowed Hannibal to grab her and lay her on the table, her head landing right next to the knife.

“I thought you didn’t have a heart Hannibal.” “Oh I do my dear and it can be yours. Let me provide for you, let us be partners. I have plenty of recipes I’m sure you both would enjoy.” A large hand cupped Venom’s cheek, fascinated with the feel of the slick skin. You wish to feed us? Venom seemed genuinely curious now. “I have never met anyone like you two. I must admit, I was planning on killing you tonight. You would’ve been my most transcendent meal yet. I would've shared you either, you would be just mine.”

His lips reattached to her throat, making Y/N sigh. AS LONG AS YOU GIVE US CHOCOLATE, YOU MAY HAVE HER. “Thanks buddy. Don’t you have anything to say about the fact he wanted to eat us tonight?” The alien paused. Don’t hurt my nibble again. Then disappeared back into her shoulder.

“I do have a request though my love.” “Anything.” He hovered over her, their lips barely brushing. “Let’s kill Freddie Lounds first.” The cannibal smiled broadly before crashing their lips together in a passionate kiss. She wound her arms and legs around him, rolling her hips up into his own. “Now, I do wish to eat you this evening but not in the way I originally planned. Perhaps we should move this somewhere else.”

“God yes please. But promise me that when we do kill her, we make love in her blood.” Hannibal growled, the vibrations rumbling through his chest like a predatory animal. “Oh you are dangerous love.” “Take me to bed Hannibal.”

Six months later, Freddie Lounds was dead and Hannibal stole Y/N away to elope. When they returned, matching rings on their fingers, they worshipped each other in her blood, their vows spoken while painted red in some unholy ritual, binding themselves to each other for eternity, Venom tying them together as they became one.

Nothing could stop them. Their hunger devoured all who stood in their way.

Taglist

@im-a-slut-for-fluff

[wardenparker]

Starting Over - Chapter 11

Marcus Pike x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst​

Recently arrived in Texas and only slightly removed from his divorce, Marcus finds himself smitten with the women at the housewares store that is helping him furnish his new Austin condo. It becomes a more complicated situation than he could have expected, but Marcus has never been one to shy away from a challenge when love is on the line. ✨This fic takes place *before* the events of The Mentalist.✨  

Rating: Mature Word Count: 14k Warnings: *Blanket warnings for this fic will include divorce, past abusive relationships, deceased mothers, father issues/family trauma, unplanned pregnancy.* Cursing and food mentions, unplanned pregnancy, pregnant reader, discussion of divorce and adultery, *false* domestic abuse allegations, angst and anger, lots of drama. Summary: An initially unwelcome visitor turns out to be the answer to your biggest problem, but it won’t happen quietly or easily. Notes: We have one more chapter and an epilogue after this! Thank you all so, so much for coming on this journey with us 💖 This story has been such a labor of love for us and we have loved having all of you with us every week!

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10

On the first day this week that Amanda hasn’t been at work with you, things are a little easier and the weight on your shoulders is a little less. There have been a few enthusiastic comments about how everyone seems to like her that you have just smiled and nodded during, not wanting to be the one to point out that she’ll show her true colours soon enough. She always does. But for now, you’re out on the sales floor with your team, fluffing pillows and straightening in between helping customers and assisting with customer service issues. It’s just a normal day and thank god for that.

Walking into the store, Andrew Packard looks around, taking in the scene. It hadn’t been hard to get a complete background history on you and where you work. He even has a recent picture, so he knows what you look like. His heart hurts, knowing he might not have ever known beyond social media since his son wants nothing to do with him. However, he wants to know you. To meet you without prejudice and he needs to help Marcus get out of this mess. Several people look up, but he spots you and starts making his way towards where you are fiddling with displays without being too obvious that you are his target.

“Is there anything I can help you with today, sir?” There’s something familiar about the tall older man with the salt-and-pepper hair that you can’t quite put your finger on, so you brush it away and give him a beaming smile. He’s probably just an infrequent repeat customer or he loosely resembles some actor on a tv show. Either way, you slide the pillow that was in your hands back onto the shelf and turn to give him your full attention.

In person, Andrew is immediately aware of what had drawn his son in. You – despite being perfectly professional – radiate warmth and kindness. It’s not just an act for you. Nearly sixty-five years on this earth and most of it working to maintain a changing company, he’s well versed in reading people. “Yes, I—” He gives a look around the store. “I am looking for a wedding present.” He decides.

“Oh, fantastic!” Fiddling with your own engagement ring a little makes your smile grow, and you’re still trying to figure out why this man looks so familiar to you. “Does the couple have a registry with us? If they don’t that’s okay, I’m just going to ask you a few questions about them instead.” After years and years with the company, you’re fairly decent at reading relationships from your customers, and this guy feels like an emotionally distant relative if ever there was one. Probably a workaholic. He’ll either be stingy because he doesn’t know them well or overspend out of guilt - you just can’t tell which yet.

“I don’t actually know.” Andrew admits, reaching up and scrubbing at the back of his neck. He’s not dressed in his normal business suits, having decided that this would be better as a causal thing, and it’s almost as if he’s missing a vital piece of armor. “I must admit that I don’t have the closest relationship with them.”

“That’s okay.” Nailed it, you give yourself a mental pat on the back and give your customer an encouraging nod. “Do you prefer to give functional gifts or indulgent ones?” Leading him toward the housewares department, you’re fairly confident that you can help this guy pick out a nice gift with ease. You’ve done it hundreds of times before, after all.

“Functionally indulgent?” Andrew jokes, enjoying the way that you are treating him as if he were no different from anyone else. Something that would not happen if you knew his name, he is sure. “Something that they wouldn’t be able to just throw away.”

“Sounds like some quality cookware or maybe a machine?” You wonder if he has any idea at all if this couple he’s buying for cooks for fun. “Not just a set of champagne glasses that will sit in the cupboard.”

“Machine.” Andrew decides. “Something that someone would want and not buy for themselves?” He turns to you. “What would you want but never buy for yourself?”

It’s actually a question that you get more often than one would think. Customers use you and your coworkers as sounding boards for their ideas and ask for your advice all the time. Sometimes you’re dead honest about it, sometimes you’ll point people towards your favourite gadget, and sometimes you try to steer the customer toward an ‘old reliable’ style purchase. Nobody ever got mad at getting a KitchenAid mixer as a wedding gift, right? There’s something about this particular man that edges you toward dead honesty, though, and you chuckle a little. “For me personally? I’ve worked here long enough to have bought myself most of the kitchen toys that I truly want,” you admit. “The thing that’s been calling my name lately and that I think I’m going to start saving my pennies for, is one of our new pizza ovens. I just can’t think of anything more fun than turning pizza night into something fun and personal, especially if you’ve got a growing family.” If it sounds like a sales pitch, it’s only because you’ve been hyping yourself up for a few weeks now. The price tag on these suckers is extremely high but you know that you and Marcus would love it.

“Really?” Andrew raises a brow and is impressed by the way you pitch it. “Would you show me the one you are saving for? I’m sure you want the one with all the bells and whistles.”

“It’s actually kind of basic.” The outdoor entertaining and barbecue display on your sales floor is fairly big considering you’re in Texas and people cook outside all year long, but you show him the specific display with the pizza oven set up to be inspected by curious customers and all the various manufacturer-branded accoutrements like a cookbook, pizza peel, digital thermometer, and heavy duty pot holders. “My fiancé and I like to cook together, and pizza is definitely one of our favourites.” Even talking about Marcus to a perfect stranger makes you beam a little, and your thumb moves to play with your engagement ring again unconsciously. “And you can see from the price tag that it is a bit of a splurge. But this is top of the line.”

Andrew softens at that tiny morsel of information. It’s nice to know that his love of pizza had never waned. “That’s nice that you enjoy cooking together.” He hums, and nods. “Will you show me a bit about this?”

“Oh, of course!” The ins and outs of the machine are fairly easy to explain, and you end up pulling out the cookbook to show your curious customer a few recipes that you’ve been particularly enamored with and then getting into other things you can cook in a pizza oven besides just pizza. “We made this dip last week,” you flip open the book to the desserts section where it displays a very basic recipe for a cast iron skillet full of chocolate and peanut butter then covered in a layer of marshmallows, meant to be eaten with pretzels or Graham crackers. “We made it in our standard oven so of course it took longer than doing it in the pizza oven, but it was amazing.” Sharing personal stories is part of how you make your biggest sales, you’ll never deny that, and it’s been effortless since you met Marcus. Anything he loves, you’re more than happy to talk about.

“For you or for your fiancé?” He asks with a grin, remembering the times he wound take Marcus to the beach and build a fire in the sand to make s’mores. Back before he started to hate Andrew, of course.

“We’re both s’mores addicts.” You admit with a laugh. “It’s nice to have simple things to share.” The Pike-ette had also appreciated it, seemingly forgoing your usual bout of nighttime morning sickness as a thank you for chocolate and peanut butter.

Andrew smiles, not mentioning how you have reaches down to stroke your belly several times. It was an action that Marcus’s mother had frequently done while she was carrying him. It makes his heart clench, remembering the amazing woman that he had honestly loved. He knows Marcus doesn’t believe that, but he had. “I have a bit of a sweet tooth myself.” He admits. “Stuffing strawberries with chocolate and dipping into the marshmallow stuff before roasting is my favorite.”

“That sounds amazing.” Your eyes widen almost comically before you can catch yourself. “I, uh…” it really does make you laugh, the way you nearly groaned at the sound of it, and you shrug. “Chocolate has been a pregnancy craving. I’m lucky it’s nothing too weird. But that sounds fantastic.”

Andrew pretends surprise, glancing down at your stomach, the one holding his grandchild and beams. “Congratulations.” He murmurs. “My wife –” he’s not talking about the woman he’s been married to, but Marcus’s mother, “she craved sweet and salty.” He laughs. “There was one day she wanted soft pretzels dipped in chocolate!”

“She’s a very smart woman.” Nodding sagely makes you grin again, and you glance down at your own belly under your loose shirt. You’ve gotten a little off point with this customer but that’s okay, it happens from time to time. “Don’t mind me. It’s new, still, so I get a little excited. Did you have any other questions about the oven, or want to take a look at other gift options?”

“No, I think that this is it.” Andrew tells you with a smile, happy to have gotten a chance to talk to you like this.

------

Marcus opens the door to the store, frazzled and honestly upset. Doing his best not to show it, he walks up to the counter and asks the associate there, someone that he remembers seeing a few times in here before, to page you.

The voice in your ear is very clear, snapping you back into reality with a harsh kick to your backside. It had been such a nice day before now. ’Hey boss, your fiancé is here and he looks upset’. You turn to your customer with a forced smile. “I’m sorry, would you excuse me for just a moment? I’m being paged, but I will have that pizza oven brought to the front counter for you. Excuse me.” You don’t even wait for him to reply, just turn and make the least frantic-looking dash to the front counter that you can manage. Marcus looks more upset than you think you’ve ever seen, and your arms go around him instantly. “Honey, what’s wrong?”

Marcus nearly cries when he sees you, reaching out and holding tight to you, as if you are his life preserver in a roiling ocean. “I— I’ve been sent home.” He murmurs in your ear. “Pending an internal investigation into accusations of domestic violence.” Turning in his gun and badge to the sympathetic but resolute director had been humiliating and soul crushing.

“What?!” You reel backward, searching his face for any trace that this is some kind of horrible joke. This has Amanda’s vengeance written all over it, you just can’t figure out how she intends to make those accusations stick. “That’s completely insane. Oh my— Jesus, baby, I’m so sorry.” You cling to him in that moment, willing yourself not to get angry on the sales floor in view of dozens of other people. “She’s not here, but I don’t know if she’s at home. Do you want to sit at my desk for a little while? I can see if I can leave early since I’m not the only manager here.”

His eyes close and he gives a pathetic nod, knowing that if she is there, he might actually do what she accused him of. “I—” his eyes open and shift behind you, his face immediately turning into a scowl. “What the hell is he doing here?” He demands, dropping his hands from your waist and stepping back.

“Who?” He is instantly on his guard again and you look behind you to follow his eyes but only find your customer standing a few feet away. “I was just working with a customer…?”

“Marcus, I—” Andrew steps forward, knowing that this could very well be the worst thing that could have happened, especially since he knows that particular look on his son’s face.

Marcus gives a small, dry chuckle. “That’s not a customer.” He tells you. “That, unfortunately, is my father.”

“Shit.” Shutting your eyes is more of an act of resignation than anything else, chastising yourself for being chatty and offering up information about your life to a stranger. Normally it’s a great way to make a sale. Today? Today it accidentally gave too much away, you fear. “I didn’t know,” you murmur to Marcus, just praying he believes you. You had never bothered to look up Andrew Packard’s photo. Why would you, when Marcus wants nothing to do with him? “You two, come with me.” Though you can’t bring them both back to your office - company rules - you can certainly force them back into your store’s habitually abandoned bath section so as not to be overheard.

Marcus follows, back straight and Andrew sighs before he too, follows. He had hoped this wouldn’t happen, but now there was nothing else to be done but face the music.

“You looked me up, I take it?” The question for Andrew is maybe harsher than it deserves, but considering the way he was just playing the jolly stranger with you, you’re not feeling to excited about meeting the man who is technically your father-in-law. “Did morbid curiosity bring you out from California?”

“No.” Andrew shakes his head and reaches into his pocket to pull out his phone. “I came because of the disturbing conversation and texts I received from Amanda.” He admits, opening the phone and handing it to you. “Deciding to meet you without you knowing who I was is wrong, but I wanted to see an unguarded version of the woman my son loves.”

“I hope it was worth it.” None too pleased with being deceived, you look down at the army of text messages he had received from Amanda for the last few days and have to appreciate his curt replies. As little love as Marcus has for his father - understandably - it’s clear that Andrew Packard isn’t mucking around in Amanda’s bullshit. “Shit…” The pictures are what get to you, and you hand the phone to Marcus. “When she left the house on Monday night, I guess she was busy learning how to give herself make-up bruises.”

Marcus looks at the photos that had been send to his father and blanches, instantly knowing that this issue just got even worse. “I swear I never—”

“If I know one thing,” Andrew interrupts Marcus. “It’s that my son did not put bruises on that woman.” He hesitates for a moment but reaches out and clasps Marcus’s shoulder. “You aren’t that kind of man.”

“I’m going to take a half a vacation day so we can go home and figure out what to do about all of this.” Looking between the two men, it’s a little startling that you didn’t recognize the resemblance before. Marcus has his father’s profile and hair almost exactly. “If I leave you two alone for a few minutes to speak to my manager, do you promise to behave?” The question is really more for his father, you know Marcus would never cause a fuss in your store.

Andrew is slightly insulted by the question, but he nods. “I’m here to help get this witch out of your hair.” He promises you and Marcus. He’s done his research and spoken with his lawyers.

“I’ll be right back.” Reaching to squeeze Marcus’s hand tightly, you offer him the most reassuring smile that you can and hustle for the Employees Only door that leads to your office. Though your manager isn’t pleased about losing coverage, he agrees to let you go for the rest of the day using a little vacation time and you grab your things from your desk before bolting back out to the sales floor. Marcus and his father are right where you left them, barely speaking but occasionally nodding to one another. “Okay.” You slip your arm around Marcus’s waist when you reappear. “Let’s go home.”

Marcus turns to his father. “Did you rent a car or have someone bring you from the airport?” He asks, honestly unsure of why he is here. He didn’t ask for him to come and he doesn’t know how he could possibly help unless he offers to pay Amanda off and he’s not going to let him do that.

“I rented a car,” Andrew smooths one hand down his shirt before stuffing it in his pocket. Without his suit as armor and here with his son, he would never admit it out loud, but he feels a little insecure. “And already checked into a hotel. I didn’t think you would want me staying with you.”

“At this point I would welcome it if it meant Amanda wasn’t in my spare room.” Marcus huffs, his hand on your back as he starts guiding you towards the door.

“Let’s see if we can’t achieve that for you.” He offers, knowing full well that his son will be skeptical of any help he intends to provide. At this point, though, it’s very clear that Marcus needs someone with a bit more bite in his corner.

“You might as well know, since you are here, that Amanda contacted the FBI too.” Marcus tells Andrew as the three of you leave the store and start walking out to the parking lot. “What she doesn’t know is that I’ve got cameras in the house. So, the entire thing was on video.”

“You’ve been recording your home?” Andrew looks suitably impressed, not having thought that Marcus would go that far to gather evidence. But it’s a good thing that he has. “This might be less difficult than I thought, if you have footage of whatever happened at home during the time she claims you hit her.”

“I do.” Marcus nods and he sighs, tugging you just a bit closer to him, his hand tightening his hold on you. “Plus, evidence where she threatened to kill my pregnant girlfriend on the stairs.” He hadn’t said anything to you, but he had been enraged when he watched the video. It had taken every ounce of undercover training not to reveal that he knew that.

“I—” You sigh, looking down at your feet as you cross the pavement as you walk. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to worry. She was just extra pissy because we were about to leave for the trip and I…” Taking a deep breath, you shake your head in resignation. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Marcus leans in and kisses your cheek. “I just hate the thought of her trying something.” He had turned the video over to his lawyers but hadn’t heard anything about it yet.

“We’re okay.” That’s something you can promise him absolutely. You and the baby are just fine, aside from the stress of Amanda’s brand-new accusations. “Looks like we’ll have a little caravan,” you observe, seeing Marcus’s car parked beside yours in the lot and Andrew pulling out a key that clearly matches the luxury SUV parked two spaces over.

“Amanda is at the house.” Marcus groans, rolling his eyes. “Are we— what is our plan?” He’s talking to you, but he’s also curious as to why his father is here. At this point, he’s just exhausted and unwilling to fight.

“We can go to my old place.” Naomi insisted that you keep your key for emergencies, and Marcus had made her one for his place for the same reason. “Just so we can have a chance to make a plan before dealing with her?”

Marcus nods and looks over at his father. “I’m sure you have the address.” He tells the older man before he opens the door for you to get into your car.

“I’ll text Naomi that we’re taking over her living room.” Leaning over the car door, you give Marcus a quick kiss before getting behind the wheel. Your best friend and her now live-in boyfriend are both at work, so you won’t be interrupting anyone. It’s just good that you have somewhere else to talk.

Marcus closes the door and turns to look at his dad for a moment. Wanting to say something and even opening his mouth before he shakes his head and turns to go get into his own car.

“I really am here to help, Marcus.” Andrew places his hand on his son’s car door, hoping the younger man won’t just slam his fingers unrepentantly. “I know asking for your trust is a lot, but you’re still my son.” Even as much as Marcus despises that fact, it is true. “Will you give me the benefit of the doubt just for a little while?”

Marcus wants to, just for a moment. But instead he snorts. “Andrew, the last benefit of a doubt I gave you was the day that you told me that it would be easier to pay someone to live with me after my mother died.” His jaw clenches and he shakes his head. “So please forgive me if I don’t exactly trust your version of ‘help’.”

“I have a lot to make up for, Marcus.” He knows that. He feels it in his bones every day, and the older he gets the more he aches with it. “I know that. That’s why I’m here. If—” He sighs, a gruff sound despite himself. “If not for you, then just hear me out for your child’s sake.”

“I’ll be honest,” Marcus knows that you are watching the tense exchange, but he wants to let the man who sired him know exactly where he stands. “The only reason I’m willing to even entertain you being here is because I don’t want the woman I love giving birth to my child before I can marry her.”

“I know that.” Andrew doesn’t doubt that the hatred Marcus has for the way he was raised has informed a great many of his choices when it comes to you, and he nods solemnly. “I know that’s what you want, and I really am trying to help you achieve it. Otherwise I would have just told Amanda to stop contacting me and kept my nose out of it.”

“I’m honestly surprised you cared enough to come.” He admits. “Business trip?” There is a bite of animosity in the question, the excuse he used when he was with them and away from his ‘real family’.

Andrew sighs, knowing he deserves the question, but squares his shoulders as he shakes his head. “No.” He tells his son flatly. “I told your stepmother exactly where I was going and why.” The shock on Marcus’s face is immediate, and warranted, and Andrew just nods again. “I have a lot to make up for, Marcus. I know that. But I do want to try.”

He couldn’t say anything if he wanted to. Instead, he just nods at his father and gets into his car. Honestly not sure if the damage that had been done years ago could ever be repaired, but there was a more pressing matter to deal with right now.

Once you’re back at the house, you could nearly cry out of sheer relief to see Amanda’s car absent from the driveway. Whatever she’s doing on her day off, she’s not at home and that is going to make things much easier. You and Marcus pull your cars into the garage leaving Andrew to park in the driveway, and you envelope your fiancé in the biggest, tightest hug when you both climb out of your cars behind the closed garage door.

“I can’t believe he is here.” Marcus would never admit it to Andrew, but he’s nervous. Nervous that the life he’s built with you will be looked down on by the man who he had been at odds with for so long.

“He seems to actually want to help.” You could hear what they were saying to each other even with your car door closed and to an outside observer – not knowing their dynamic more intimately – it seemed encouraging. “Maybe we can hear him out? Just listen to what he has to say?”

Marcus blows a raspberry and sighs. “I can’t make any promises.” He murmurs, hugging you tightly before letting you go. “He’s spent years perfecting the art of lying.”

“I know.” Nodding against his chest, you leave a kiss over Marcus’s heart. “But I think we might need all the help we can get.”

“I just – domestic violence?” He sounds shocked, bewildered. Because he is. “Why does she hate me so much?”

“You have something she wants.” Unfortunately, it really is that simple. As disgusting as it is. “Apparently there really is no low she won’t stoop to.”

“I hate her.” Marcus admits quietly, voicing that for the first time ever. “I think I hate her worse than – than anyone. Ever.”

“I do, too.” Giving him another tight hug, you lean back and look him in the eyes. “But we are going to get through this. You’re going to be able to go back to work with your head held high, I’m going to get her the hell out of my store, and she’s going to go back to Portland with her tail between her legs and nothing to show for her efforts but a whole lot of wasted time and money. We are going to be okay.” You’re not sure how, but you know that what you aren’t willing to do is give up.

He wants to believe that. “We better get inside and open the door for Andrew.” He tells you. “Find out what he thinks he can do.”

Marcus’s home is small by the standards Andrew is used to, but the condominium is well decorated and neatly furnished with a feminine touch that he can only assume is yours. The art on the walls, though, he knows Marcus must have chosen. It stung when his son had elected not to pursue the family business, but at the time he had been convinced that the boy’s madness was temporary and that he would come around. Now, however? Now he looked for Special Agent Marcus Pike’s name in police reports and federal cases with pride. Not that his son would ever believe it if he said so. “You’ve made a house a home.” He observes, looking around the living room after you let him inside. “It’s very nice.”

“All her doing.” Marcus will readily admit. “She helped me pick out everything. Best furniture shopping day of my life.” There is that stupid, small surge of pride when it receives the Andrew Packard seal of approval. Marcus hates that he likes it so much.

“Best day of my life, period.” You beam at Marcus from across the room, already headed to the kitchen to grab drinks for everyone. “Except for maybe the day you proposed. That one might take first place now.”

“Then it will the day we get married.” Marcus predicts. “And the birth of the Pike-ette.”

“Pike-ette?” Andrew’s head cocks in amusement from where he had been inspecting a framed photo of the two of you on the wall.

“It’s our nickname for the baby.” Since Marcus is the one who mentioned it first, you don’t see any real harm in explaining its meaning. “Lemonade okay for everyone?”

“That’s perfect.” Andrew doesn’t say that you shouldn’t bother, it would be ignored as it seems you like to entertain. “Thank you.”

Reappearing a moment later with a pitcher of the raspberry lemonade from the Chestnut House Inn and three glasses on a tray, you set them down on the coffee table in the middle of the living room and nervously smooth your sweaty palms down your sides in an attempt to be discreet.

“Do you know the sex yet?” Andrew asks, nodding slightly toward your middle. The shirt you’re wearing hides any little bit that you might be showing, but he can’t for the life of him remember how far along you have to be before you can find out. He might not have ever known, come to think of it.

“Not yet.” You pour out a glass for each of you before you sit back with your drink in hand. “We have a few more weeks to go before we can find out for sure.” The name list definitely doesn’t reflect that, though. You and Marcus walked away from your weekend in DC with some new favourites.

“Do you know why Amanda contacted you?” Marcus asks, jumping right into the meat of one of his larger questions. “Did she ask for money to go away? Because I don’t want you to give her a dime.”

"The only thing I plan on giving her is a ride to the airport to get her out of your hair." Obviously the time for small talk is over, but Andrew appreciates the fact that you are willing to give him any kind of morsel of information about your lives. The fact that he has not been there for so much of Marcus's life is a source of not inconsiderable shame as he gets older. "She contacted me for sympathy. She intends to make an ally of me, thinking I might take her side when the divorce goes to court." He shrugs his shoulders a little and clasps his hands in his lap as he sits in the armchair across from the couch. "Which will never happen."

“I can’t fucking believe this.” Marcus snorts, shaking his head and leaning back in his seat. “I want to know why the lawyers are dragging their feet.” He huffs. “I’ve given them days of video from the house.”

"I have every intention of having her packed and on her way back to Portland by the time I leave." There isn't likely to be much more of a welcome for him in this house than there has been for the first Mrs. Marcus Pike, and Andrew knows that. Sitting back in the comfortable chair, he surveys the two of you for a moment before directing his attention at Marcus. "What she wants is the trust. We know this. She hasn't exactly been coy about it. But what neither you nor she knew before now is that that trust is what is called a revocable living trust. It is not simply something that I set up when you were born and put money into to forget that it existed." He softens slightly when Marcus doesn't bite back at him. "It is a living and growing entity. I have added to it over the years. Possessions and heirlooms as well as money. Some of...some of your mother's things, as well as a few Packard family pieces that I wanted to make sure went to your family. But because of the nature of a living trust, it also means that I – as the grantor – can change the parameters of the trust. In other words, I can make sure the trust is iron-clad against Amanda."

“I— why didn’t I know that?” Marcus chokes out after a moment, shocked that Andrew had been adding to it. And that there were some of his mother’s things in trust. “I thought you got rid of her things.” He admits quietly. When he had come back to visit from his first semester of college, there had been a strange family living in the house he had grown up in. He had assumed his father had sold the house. He had gone back to his college apartment and never really spoken about it. Just denying any visit Andrew had wanted to make.

"If I told you honestly that losing your mother hurt too much to talk about for many years, would you actually believe me?" He knows what his son thinks of him, and decades of retrospect have forced him to admit that he deserves some degree of the treatment that he has been given. "I know that I handled things poorly, but the things she loved and treasured most were kept for you. They're in an atmosphere and temperature controlled storage pod in California that you'll be given access to soon. It can just be shipped here if that's what you want. You don't have to come out there or see me again to have it all."

“You were good to her.” Marcus begrudgingly admits. His mother had died believing that Andrew had loved her, despite Marcus’s belief to the contrary.

"She was the love of my life." He admits that freely now, and can only hope that Marcus believes it. Andrew Packard has never been a man who believes in tears or sentimentality when it comes to most of his life, but change is inescapable. He just wishes the change had been sooner, and for the better. "And I regret the way I handled everything. Especially when it comes to you."

There is a bitterness to Marcus’s smile, a small huff of amazement. “You mean that it’s not a good idea to basically abandon a teenager who just lost their only stable parent to live by themselves with someone you paid because it was more convenient for you?” Okay, it might have come out extremely sarcastic, but right now, he doesn’t care. Andrew might have loved his mother, but he hadn’t shown Marcus much compassion after she had died.

"Marcus, I don't expect you to forgive me." Though it's what he wants – what he wishes for – he doesn't consider it a realistic option. There are too many years' worth of bad blood, and Marcus inherited Andrew's stubbornness. "But I am the person who can fix this for you, if you let me."

“God, you can never just admit that you were wrong.” Marcus shakes his head. “It’s ‘I regret the way I handled things’ or ‘there is a reason I did that’. Never just saying ‘sorry, I fucked up’.” Marcus holds his hand up and stops Andrew when he goes to say something. “How does dear ol’ dad plan on fixing things for me? Do tell.”

"Goddamnit, Marcus, I was wrong." Andrew shakes his head, not having wanted to cause an argument in front of his son's pregnant fiancée. There seems to be no way to avoid it, though, and he wipes one hand down his face like it might do anything at all to calm him. "I'm a miserable old man with three children who despise me and a wife who prevented me from marrying the woman I loved because of money, and I don't want you to turn out like me!"

“You could have divorced her.” Marcus scoffs, leaning in and narrowing his eyes. “Like I’m desperately trying to do so I can marry the woman I love. But you didn’t. You treated us like the dirty little secrets we were. Only to be given attention when your real family could spare the time!” The news that his father’s daughters wanted nothing to do with Andrew surprised him. He had never viewed them as sisters, but they had always been the golden heirs to the Packard empire and treated as such.

"I signed a prenup." Back then it hadn't been something anyone talked about. It was business only, when he had agreed to marry the wealthy socialite who would provide him the opportunities, finances, and place in society that he needed to get his business really moving. Andrew exhales deeply, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before going on so he doesn't shout. "The new technology that our company was working on was built on Jeannie's father's designs. If I divorced her, I lost everything that I had ever worked toward. The entire future of the Packard brand." He pauses again, trying to pretend he doesn't see the way you're staring at him in shock. "There was...there was a clause in the agreement that allowed Jeannie and me each one affair. Whatever children came from the affair would be taken care of. Provided for. I could give your mother money and put a roof over your head and food on your table, but if I tried to divorce Jeannie it would all be gone. I—” It makes him ache, the decision that he made, but he can't undo it now. It's far too late for that. "I should have done it anyway. I should have left and rebuilt my life with you and your mother. But I was afraid, and I made the wrong decision." When he looks at Marcus again, it's all he can do not to choke on the words. "I was wrong, Marcus. And I don't expect you to forgive me. Or even believe how sorry I am. But if I could take back the decisions I made, I would."

Marcus is struck dumb for a moment. Learning things that he had never known, information he had never been privy to. Information that might have helped him see his father in a different light. Or at least eased some of the anger he had towards him. “And when mom died?” He whispers. “Living with you wasn’t an option? Because of the agreement?” Being abandoned after her death had really been the nail in the coffin. He hadn’t really cared for his father beforehand, but that act had cemented the idea that Marcus was just a byproduct of an affair and not really important to Andrew for him.

"It would have been a violation of the prenup." Andrew nods slowly, glad to see Marcus is actually absorbing the information instead of letting it wash over him as another thing out of his father's mouth to be ignored. "Jeannie has a third daughter living in New York. She's...a lawyer, I think. The father was one of my business associates for many years, and I held my tongue because the same rules that let them sneak off on their business trips also let me take time away to see you and your mother."

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Marcus climbs to his feet and paces around a small area in front of the coffee table. “And mom – she – she knew about all of this, didn’t she?” He asks his father, looking over at him as he paces with his hand on his hip and his other rubbing his temple.

"We agreed that it was too complicated to explain to you when you were younger." He huffs a little at that, rubbing the side of his head in exactly the same way as his son without realizing it. "She wanted to protect you, and I wanted to protect myself. She—would joke that she was too good for me, and that was why I couldn't leave Jeannie." Even the smallest memory is enough to have him choked up now, but he shakes it away.

“You should have told me.” Marcus declares. “Especially after—” he shakes his head, remembering all the hateful things he had said, thought about this man. “After I didn’t want to see you anymore.”

"Yes. I should have." He can agree to that, at the very least. "And I'm sorry that I didn't."

“Jesus.” Marcus closes his eyes, biting his lip as he feels his own guilt welling up. “I owe you an apology.” He’s enough of an adult, and nuanced enough to understand that the situation had been far more complicated than a rich man keeping a mistress and a bastard child on the side of his perfect family. He was a man who admitted his mistakes. Opening his eyes, they lock onto his father. “I’m sorry.”

Locked in silence on the sofa, you can only watch as Andrew Packard puts his hand out to his only son, only for Marcus to actually take a step forward to hug his father. You don't actually know if they've ever shared a moment before – surely it hasn't been since Marcus was a child if they ever have.

"You had every right to be angry." Andrew murmurs, one hand gently patting Marcus's shoulder as the two men separate. "But I'm here now to help. Hopefully you can believe that now."

Marcus takes a moment, emotions thick but he nods. “I- what are you going to do?” He asks gently. “What can you do?”

"I can change the wording of the beneficiary of the trust." When the two men sit back down, Andrew picks up his glass of lemonade, glad for the chance to do anything other than cry in front of his grown child. "Instead of simply saying that it is payable to you upon such and such conditions, I can tie it up so that it is payable to both you and your fiancée specifically – using her legal name, of course – upon the birth of your first child. And that any attempt to distribute the contents of the trust to anyone besides the two of you and your child will result in the immediate dissolvement of the trust. Of course, it means you literally cannot use the money for anything except yourselves and your family, but that's a problem for another time."

Marcus immediately frowns, his immediate refusal on the tip of his tongue. The insistence that he would never use the money ingrained in him. Instead, he bites off the urge and turns to you, wanting your input. “Babe?” He asks before he turns back to his father. “What is the trust worth?” He asks, never having paid too much attention to it at all and the idea that his father had kept adding to it make him wonder.

"Currently?" Andrew flips open an app on his phone and hums for a moment while something loads before looking back up at his son. "A little less than thirty-five million, plus your mother's things and a few family heirlooms that probably add up to another two or so million between them."

"Jesus." You shake your head a little. Absorbing everything has been a little bit of a hustle, but you're keeping up as best you can. "If you tie the trust up like this, can we still use it for things like buying a house or putting the kids through school? I mean that's what it was originally intended for, right?"

"Correct." Andrew nods, glad to see that you're sharp enough to keep up. "You'll be able to use it to make payments by cashing assets or moving funds into your personal account, and then using it as you see fit. But you will not be able to do things like sign a portion of the assets over to say...your child's spouse when they marry. You would have to set up an entirely separate trust for that."

Marcus swallows and searches his father’s face. “Why— why do you want me to have Packard heirlooms?” He asks. “I’m not a Packard. Shouldn’t they belong to your daughters?” He’s not trying to be cruel; he’s wanting to know why it’s important he receive those things.

"There are plenty of things that went to your sisters." He knows that Marcus has never thought of Elaine and Ariella as family, but they are. They are his blood, if only by half. "But despite the fact that I could not give you my name, you are a Packard by blood. And there are some things that I wanted you to have for that reason." There is a list, of course, all things like this have very detailed lists. "In your case, there are a few paintings, a few pieces of jewelry, and a furnished house."

“A house?” Marcus looks over at you and sees how wide your eyes have gotten. He doesn’t know why that surprises him, but it does.

"If you choose to sell it, that's up to you." He can't quite admit that it would break his heart a little, but given the strain in his relationship with Marcus, he would understand if the sentimentality meant little to him. "But when you decided to go into the FBI, I added it to your assets. A home already waiting for you in Washington seemed helpful." He sips his drink again, actually finding that he likes it and isn't just drinking it to be polite. "It's the house I grew up in. Your grandfather bought it from the original owners in the 1930s and I've been renting it to a family for the last ten years or so. Their youngest is in college now and I doubt they'll want to stay much longer."

Marcus can’t help but laugh. “She wants to go to Washington.” He tells his father, pointing at you. “I proposed there.” It’s oddly touching that he had been given consideration and well, a house in Washington. It would help if he did transfer there.

"Oh?" Andrew raises an eyebrow at you.

"I—" You fluster slightly, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden. "It's my favourite place," you admit with a shrug. "I went to college there and there's this inn I love, and...and that's there Marcus took me last weekend. They made us a picnic and he proposed on the Mall."

"Well," Andrew can't help but smile. "I hope you choose not to sell, then. It's in Georgetown. I can— I can have the trustees send over photos of the house, if you want."

Marcus nods. “For now, we are here in Austin, but I have a feeling D.C. will be our home before too long.” He admits with an indulgent smile towards you.

"Does this mean that you're willing to let me help, then?" In his view, it would be foolish and stubborn not to accept his offer to change the terms of the trust – and technically Marcus couldn't stop Andrew if this is what he decided to do. But Andrew Packard had promised himself that he was done bullying and steamrolling his son.

Marcus sighs, reaching for your hand. The little squeeze of encouragement is all he needs before he’s looking back at his father. “Yes.” Marcus nods. “I would appreciate your help.” He bites his lip. “Dad.”

Leaning over, you press a kiss to Marcus's cheek and rest your head temporarily on his shoulder before you blow out a sigh. "I can't believe there's an end in sight."

"Oh, I think it will be a very quick ending." Andrew nods to Marcus, well aware of the haze in his eyes at actually having his grown son call him Dad without sarcasm. "I'll be happy to sign a statement for the Bureau swearing absolute knowledge that the domestic violence allegations are false, if Amanda retracting her accusation isn't good enough on its own."

“That won’t be necessary.” Marcus shakes his head, knowing that there is no way that Andrew would honestly know that. “I have all of the video. It’s not pretty, but the only thing I did was yell and throw a cup at a wall. Nowhere near her. And it has audio.”

“Good, then.” Andrew blows out a breath with the air of a man who has had the weight of the world lifted from one shoulder but the woes of a lifetime still pressing on the other. “I’ll call the trustees and have the wording updated immediately.”

“We’ll give you some privacy.” It’s not as though the condo has an office or study you can let him use, so you nod to Marcus in the direction of the kitchen, thinking he might need a chance to breathe as well. The last hour has given him a hell of a lot to think about.

“Let me know if you need anything.” Marcus stands and quickly follows you to the kitchen and the moment he’s out of sight from his father, his knees nearly buckle as he sags against the counter. “Fuck.” He manages.

“How are you holding up, baby?” Your arms are around him instantly, encouraging him to use you for support and comfort as much as he possibly can. The man just had his entire perception of his father knocked on its axis and it can’t be easy to handle.

“I— I don’t know.” He admits, burying his face in your neck and closing his eyes. His breathing is labored and almost panicked. “I— he – it was –” He chokes out a sob and the tears that he had held back since he was a boy, the hurt and the pain at feeling unimportant by the man who had fathered him comes pouring out.

“Oh, honey…” It’s all you can really do not to cry with him, with the volatility of the moment so pervasive in the air. But you gently rub one hand in circles on his back, softly encouraging him to let all of it out. “That was…a lot of information…”

Marcus isn’t ashamed to cry. He’s never been one to believe that to ‘be a man’ meant that he couldn’t express real emotions. He knows that it’s healthy. Right now he’s crying for himself - all the anger and hate he had carried for Andrew, for his mom - who had loved a man who was caught in a situation with no good ending. For his dad - who had loved them and been unable to fully show it. “I— I d-d-didn’t know.”

“I know, love.” With one hand traveling in his back, your other holds him tight against you while he lets out every ounce of frustration and confusion he has. “You couldn’t have.”

Several more long minutes go by until the tears slow down and stop. Your shirt is soaked, but he knows you don’t care. Quieting down and finally just clinging to you, Marcus reevaluates his life, his entire perspective and knows that you are what is keeping him from going insane right now.

“Everything’s going to be okay.” Now, more than ever, you can honestly say that with confidence. There is a reason to say it. And even though the source is highly unlikely, you aren’t worried that it will fall through or backfire. This is Marcus’s father atoning for his own sins, and if that is what it takes to end this nightmare, you welcome it.

“I was starting to worry.” Marcus admits with a harsh chuckle. “Was afraid that it wouldn’t happen before you were giving birth.”

“I, um…” Wiping his damp cheeks, you press a kiss to Marcus’s forehead and shrug, like you’re not sure what else to say. “I think he’s at least earned himself an invitation to the wedding, don’t you?” Even if things are never more than polite between him and his father, you would hate for there to never be an olive branch.

Marcus huffs out a laugh and leans in to press his forehead against yours. “Yeah.” He breathes out. “I think he can come to the wedding.”

“I’m so glad that some of your mother’s things were saved.” A kiss to his cheek this time, as the last of his tears dry and he starts to breathe normally again. You fully understand how precious his mother was to him, and to not have lost all of those memories of her is an unlooked for blessing.

“I am too.” He admits softly. “I always regretted not taking the photo albums with me when I went to college.”

“We should ask if they’re in storage.” Andrew had been vague on which things belonging to Marcus’s mother were included in the trust, and you don’t want Marcus to be disappointed if something isn’t there.

“We can do that.” Marcus nods, imagining being able to see pictures of his mom again. He had only had a few that he had brought with him when he had left. They were precious to him, but only wallet sized.

“I love you.” Whispered as it is, just for him, it still lights you up in a way that nothing else really does. “I’m so sorry that today has been hard – that the last few months have been hard – but I love you and everything’s going to be okay.”

“I love you too.” Marcus whispered, cupping your cheek and leaning in to kiss you softly. “It’s going to be okay.” He breathes out like he’s actually believing it for the first time. Because the end is finally in sight. “We are going to get through this. I’m so fucking lucky to have found you.”

“I didn’t do a thing.” Your hands on his arms squeeze softly and you give him a lopsided grin. “Except accidentally tell your father about our s’mores dip and get a really good idea for chocolate and marshmallow covered strawberries in return.”

Marcus’s eyes widen and he bites his lip, smiling slightly. “I had forgotten about those.” He murmurs softly.

“I think we’re going to have to make some.” The smile on his face is everything, and you could just melt at how nostalgic he looks. “For the baby. Obviously.”

“Obviously.” Marcus squeezes your hip and straightens. Letting go of you so he can walk over to the sink and wash his face from crying.

“What do you say to me making dinner for everyone?” It seems like the kindest gesture you can put forward, even if you’re not quite the gourmet cook that Andrew used to. A family meal meant everything to you growing up and it still does now. “Maybe we can talk a little bit more with your dad before the Wicked Witch comes home?”

“That –” Marcus is about to agree when Andrew walks into the kitchen, his phone sliding into his pocket. Turning to him, he wonders if it might just be that easy to get rid of Amanda.

“Everything’s being processed now.” Andrew tells you both, actually smiling a little. Amanda has made life hell for his son and he’s happy to make it hell for her in return. “The paperwork will be finished and filed before the end of business today.”

“God, just like that?” Marcus shakes his head in disbelief. “I’ve been trying for months to get her to just sign the damn papers. That I’m not giving her that trust.”

“She’ll have no reason not to sign now.” He notes the redness to Marcus’s eyes and the damp patch on your shirt but says nothing. It isn’t as though there is a door to your kitchen that could have kept him from hearing his son cry. “I’m—” he huffs a little, not used to the words or sure if they’ll be welcome. “I’m proud of you for not giving in to her, Marcus. A lesser man would have.”

“It wasn’t mine to give.” Marcus gives a small shrug. “Technically the money isn’t mine at all. I haven’t had a child, and I’m not the right age yet. I honestly never planned on touching it.” He admits, looking his father in the eyes.

“Well.” The older man rocks on his heels for a moment, steadying himself when he hears the front door open. “Hopefully it won’t be a sore subject for you any longer.”

“Shit.” Marcus wishes there were a few more minutes before she crawled in from the bowels of hell, but of course that couldn’t be the case. He turns to watch as Amanda walks through the door.

“Amanda.” Stepping out of the archway that leads into the kitchen, Andrew’s eyes narrow on her like a hawk spotting prey. “What remarkable timing you have. We were just talking about you.”

“Andrew!” Her eyes widen slightly, immediately adopting an innocent expression as she looks at him, barely noticing Marcus behind him as all three of you come into the living room. “I didn’t expect— you came all this way to make sure I was safe?” She simpers slightly, clutching her chest and finally looking at Marcus, smug when she notices his red rimmed eyes. “I am grateful to have the best father-in-law.”

There is a split second where you could swear that Andrew nods at you and Marcus, before he steps forward with a sympathetic coo in his voice. “Poor thing,” he intones, reaching like he’s going to cup Amanda’s cheek where the false make-up black eye hampers her usual flawless complexion. Instead of showing tenderness, though, the second she is in reach he swipes his thumb through the layers of foundation and color under her eye, smudging the make-up irreparably and holding up the digit to her gaze. “I came to make sure that you recant your story, sign the divorce papers, and leave. It’s a shame that you chose to prey on my son. Maybe you’ll choose a wiser target next time.”

Amanda gasps, jerking back with her eyes shooting daggers at Andrew. “How dare you touch me!” She screeches.

“Upset that I smudged your makeover?” He shakes his head. “I’m sure you’ll live.”

She looks around at the three angry faces. “Good luck proving this.” She sneers, tossing her head defiantly and pointing at her eye, “I’ve already made reports. The ball is rolling and there’s nothing saying that the bruises don’t ‘heal’ by the time everything is investigated.”

"I would say that the camera footage of the actual incident, as well as you admitting to me in this moment that the bruise is false – also on camera – should do a great deal to convince the Austin police department as well as the internal review board at the FBI that the report was falsified." Andrew sneers right back at her, wondering how a little viper like her ever managed to fool his son. "But you've forgotten one very important fact while you have been running around conducting your circus, Amanda. Marcus isn't in charge of the trust until the baby is born. I am."

Amanda narrows her eyes for a split second, having forgotten that part. “So what?” She asks. “The trust has been done for years. You can’t take money out of it.”

"Incorrect." He's so pleased with the fact that she's wrong that he practically chuckles, making the sound that follows the word a little foreboding. "The trust has existed for years. But it is a living, growing entity. Or it was, until about four minutes ago. Now it is set in stone. Accessible only by Marcus and his fiancée. Any attempt to sign over as much as a penny to any person besides their children will result in the immediate dissolvement of the entire trust."

Realization and fury fill Amanda’s eyes and she lets out a scream that is shrill enough that Marcus flinches in pain. “See if I fucking divorce you now!” She screams. “I’ll make sure your child is a bastard – just like you!”

"That's fine." Marcus and Andrew's heads both whip around to look at you in disbelief when you open your mouth, hearing those words come out. "This isn't Victorian England. Legitimacy doesn't mean anything, because our child is loved and wanted. Just like Marcus."

Marcus swallows and nods. “Our baby is wanted.” He tells Amanda.

Andrew nods, disgusted with the way she would try to emotionally manipulate his son. “Marcus was planned.” He informs her, much to Marcus’s shock. “I know that my son labored under the misconception that he was the byproduct of an affair, but he was not. His mother and I knew the exact date he was conceived.”

“Staying married won’t entitle you to a thing.” You tell Amanda point blank, sounding much braver than you feel. “You’ll just be lonely and miserable without any chance of being able to restart your life because you’ll have dug your heels too hard into ours.”

“I’ve wasted too much money on this to walk away empty-handed.” Amanda looks over pointedly at Andrew.

“What a shame.” Andrew laments dramatically. “Nothing is all you’re getting.”

Growling in frustration, Amanda throws her hands up and whirls around. “You’ve not won!”

“I will make you one deal.” Andrew offers, after a chilling pause. “Pack up your things, call your job and quit, and I’ll drive you myself to the Four Seasons Austin to spend your last week bothering my son staying in a luxury hotel. I’ll drive you to the lawyer’s office and to the police department myself tomorrow so that everything can be handled properly. As soon as you have dotted your last ‘i’, I will put you on a one-way flight back to Portland and you will never contact any of us again.” The business side of Andrew Packard is chilling, knowing no compassion or compromise as he stares her down in the living room. “This offer will be made only once. If you take it, we will not file a restraining order.”

Amanda clenches her jaw, looking from Marcus to you and the back to Andrew. “Fine.” She spits. “The decor is ugly and uncomfortable anyway.” She sniffs, glaring at you and Marcus. “You both deserve one another.”

Watching her storm upstairs is like watching a thunder cloud move independently through the skies, and Andrew’s eyes follow her with concern. “One of you should come with me to watch her pack. To make sure she doesn’t take any of your things.”

“I’ll do it.” Marcus volunteers, turning to you and pulling you against him. “I don’t want her to actually try to push you down the stairs in retaliation.”

“Agreed.” Andrew sets one hand gently on your shoulder. “Why don’t you decide where you and the Pike-ette would like to have dinner tonight. A celebration. My treat.”

Marcus looks at you when you turn your eyes on him, nodding slightly. “That sounds good.” He says. “Anywhere you want to go.”

“I’ll do a last purge of the kitchen while she packs.” Being able to toss out one last batch of all off those foods that have been making your life that much more miserable will be incredibly cathartic.

“Okay baby.” Marcus nods and kisses your forehead. “We are getting rid of her.”

“We can pick a wedding date.” Did you mean what you said earlier about still being with Marcus and loving your baby if you were never able to be married? Of course. But without Amanda standing in your way, the path to happiness lies open and waiting for you.

“Yes, we can.” Marcus beams at you, his grin wide and happy. “You decide if you want the wedding before the baby is born and talk to the inn and see when we can do it.”

“I’ll email Alana and see what dates they have available.” You rope your arms around his neck to press an earnest kiss to his lips. “Go on. I’ll be right here when she’s done.”

Marcus smiles and keeps smiling as he and Andrew make their way upstairs. Hearing her slam around in the room she has been squatting in. “I refused to put furniture in the spare room.” Marcus admits as they walk up the stairs. “So she had to sleep on an air mattress.”

“Will it be the nursery now?” Andrew distinctly remembers painting the nursery walls in the little house where Marcus grew up, loving the shade of blue they chose and how it seemed to radiate happiness when the sun hit it just right.

“Yes.” Marcus nods quickly, unable to keep from grinning at the prospect of finally being able to prepare for the baby. “Everything we’ve bought so far has been stuffed in our room. Afraid she would destroy it.” Marcus steps up on the landing and turns around to look back down at his father. “We’re planning on having four.”

“Four?” Andrew chuckles at his son’s enthusiasm, but slaps him on the shoulder in that sort of ingrained act of encouragement that all fathers show. “Do you have names yet?”

Marcus laughs and, if possible, his grin gets even wider. While he wouldn’t say everything with his father was fixed, he wasn’t going to continue to shut the man out. “We’ve got a notebook of names.” He bites his lip and asks, “who chose Marcus?”

“Your mother did.” They stand at the top of the staircase, sentinels making sure that Amanda keeps packing every second that she’s in that room. “I liked Mark, but she thought Marcus sounded better.”

“What you said – downstairs…” Marcus shuffles slightly and glances back at his father. “About being planned…was that for her sake or was that true?”

“That was true.” Andrew’s head bobs on a resigned sigh. “We talked about it so much – what it could be like to have a real family – until ultimately we decided that having you was more important than whether or not we were married.”

Marcus sighs, echoing his father almost exactly. "I wish I had been told all of this." He murmurs quietly, frowning when he remembers something else that Andrew had said. "You said all your children hate you." He reminds him. "What's the deal with that?"

“We were going to tell you…” he knows it isn’t enough, but it’s the truth. “When you turned eighteen. When your mother died before that I couldn’t—” He couldn’t bring himself to sully the perfect memory that Marcus had of the woman who cherished him more than the world. “I wasn’t strong enough to do it myself. But the girls? They…” He shrugs, not quite knowing what to say on that account. If he was ever looking for proof that he was a lousy father, it lay in the fact that none of his children wanted anything to do with him. “I focused my entire life on provided for my kids. When that’s your focus, you forget to be there for things like dance recitals and homecoming games. They become less important in your mind, but they’re not, Marcus. Don’t ever miss out on what is important to those four kids of yours once they’ve arrived. Because while you’re busy looking at the broader strokes, the little things are already cemented in their minds.”

"I'm not." Marcus promises, knowing for a fact that his relationship with his children will be far different from the one he had with his father. Although he can acknowledge that it's also because of his own attitude towards Andrew that caused the rift and the stoic man's refusal to bend the rules that apparently his parents had put in place when he was young concerning the knowledge of what was going on behind the scenes. "I plan on being a very hands-on dad." He sighs when he hears another slam inside the bedroom and glances towards the closed door. "Although I'm pretty sure that the kids will be spoiled by their grandfather when he comes to visit."

“What’s her father like?” Andrew can’t deny the sting that comes from knowing that your father will be allowed to have a relationship with his grandchildren when he will not – but he burned this bridge a long time ago. He knows that now. And Marcus may have apologized for his harsh attitude over the years, but it was far from displaced.

"I— I've never met him actually." Marcus admits sheepishly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "He's a farmer in upper New York." He chuckles after a moment, realizing that his father didn't understand what he had been trying to subtly say. "So I'm anticipating vacations to the farm more than he would come to them." He shrugs and looks at the man who really does embody what Marcus can expect to look like in another thirty-five years. "Their other grandfather would be the one that travels a lot."

“Oh.” Andrew nearly stumbles, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he moves to lean on the railing at the top of the stairs. “Any time, Marcus.” He promises, without hesitation. “Say the word and I’ll be there.”

"Well, first we have to get through the wedding." Marcus tells him casually. "It'll be in Washington D.C. That little inn where we stayed. She's in love with it and honestly? I am too." He opens up, offering his father details that he never would have before. He doesn't know if his father cares about information like that, but it's his way to extend an olive branch. "And then there's the birth of the baby. Have to be there for it."

“What’s the inn?” Marcus hasn’t willingly opened up to him like this in nearly twenty years and Andrew will be damned if he doesn’t grab the opportunity to learn all he can when his son is willing to share. “She strikes me as the homey and historical type.” He had gotten a few glances at your ring in the last few hours, too, and was impressed to see that you had chosen style over carat number - the opposite of what Amanda wore.

“She is.” Marcus grins, proud of you and everything to do with you. “The Chestnut House Inn.” He tells his dad, hearing another muffled curse from the closed door of the spare room. “Coincidentally in Georgetown too.”

Andrew hums for a moment, thinking intently, before he nods. “Big old converted mansion, right? They used to have dances there and your grandparents liked their restaurant a lot.” He chuckles, shaking his head at the coincidence. “It’s maybe two blocks from the house. You’ll be able to go and visit any time you like. I think they stopped doing afternoon teas in the summer, but my mother loved those.”

“If it was ever on the market, she would want to buy it in a heartbeat.” Marcus can’t believe that Andrew knows about the inn. “She majored in hospitality.”

“Really?” That surprises him. That you’re not working in the field you had wanted to. But times are tough even for the well connected, in terms of the job market. “For the right price, I think the current owner could be persuaded to part with it, don’t you?” It would take almost no work at all to find out who owns the place and if they’re inclined to sell. He could have the information from his business manager in under an hour.

Marcus shrugs, having left the majority of his own business dealings and investments alone. Maybe just a bit of a thumbing towards his father since business had been his entire life. “I honestly don’t have a clue what something like that would cost.”

“It depends on how well it’s doing and how satisfied the owner is with their staff, usually.” Andrew’s phone is out and in his hand, quick keystrokes getting him the information he needs, until a moment later he’s nearly laughing in disbelief. “You know,” he looks up at Marcus. “If you think she would really be interested, and be good at it? I know the current owner. He’s a son of a bitch, and a greedy one. He would sell if there was a profit to be had.”

Marcus knows you will be fantastic at it. “She isn’t the problem.” Marcus tells Andrew. “She would be amazing at it. But I don’t have that kind of money and I don’t know if, or when, we will be in D.C.”

“I have that kind of money.” Andrew reminds him, not shy about the fact that he would want to be the one to do this. “If and when you get word about DC? You just let me know. It would be a hell of a surprise for her, if you wanted it to be.”

“I’ll let you know.” He doesn’t want his father to expend hundreds of thousands of dollars on his behalf, even if it wouldn’t personally hurt his wallet.

“Do.” Andrew nods. He’ll buy the property anyway, keeping the staff in place, and gift it to you and Marcus on the correct occasion. It’s no less than what the current owner is doing, he’s sure, and he’s a better businessman than his so-called friend. But he doesn’t want to lose the thread he has with Marcus, so he quickly picks up the conversation again. “Have you talked about the honeymoon yet?”

“Vague ideas.” Marcus admits. “It’s been hard to plan when we couldn’t set a date. Somewhere private. Maybe a tropical island.”

“You’re welcome to use our place in the Caymans.” Glancing over at his son, Andrew is perhaps extra aware of the privileges that he can offer if Marcus is willing to let him into his life. Not that he ever forced his son to struggle – he actively worked to provide for him – but the advantages are definitely exaggerated right now. He wants to give Marcus, and you and the baby, the world.

Marcus frowns and furrows his brow. “The Caymans…” he tilts his head. “That vacation to the beach when I was seven? Eight? Was that?”

“That was the Caymans.” Andrew nods, pleased that Marcus at least has some good memories of him left.

“That was a good vacation.” Marcus muses. “You helped me make sandcastles and you and mom would stay up late and dance.” He remembers watching when he was supposed to be asleep.

“I loved her.” Andrew murmurs, turning his eyes on his son again. “As well as I knew how. And we—we both love you so much. She would be so proud of you.”

“I’m sure we have a lot to catch up on.” Marcus murmurs, feeling warmer. “Do you—” he hesitates for a moment. “The photo albums she had, do you have them in storage?” He asks quietly.

“I have them, but not in storage.” The albums that Rachel had kept so meticulously to document Marcus’s early years occupy a shelf in the safe of Andrew’s home office, where they have sat for years, waiting to become part of what is effectively Marcus’s inheritance. “They’re yours when you want them.”

“Where are they?” His answer is suddenly very important to Marcus. He’s had a lot of judgements against his father, but he needs to know this.

“My safe.” Andrew barely glances at the door to the spare room when a storm of frustration is heard from inside. “In my office at home. They’re yours, of course, but I—I’ve appreciated being able to see your mother from time to time over the years.”

Marcus chokes up slightly and blinks rapidly, realizing how much that Andrew must have missed her and being denied the child that he created with her must have twisted the knife deeper. “Maybe we can make copies?” He offers. “So we can both have the memories of her?”

It takes a moment, but Andrew manages to hold back an overly emotional reaction, nodding instead. But a crack in his voice gives him away anyway. “I—I’ll keep the digital copies. You should have the albums.”

“Whatever you think is best.” Marcus tells him right as the door to the bedroom opens and Amanda curls her lips at the two men. “This is touching and all, but someone needs to help me with my bags.”

While it would be delightful to force the woman to make several trips on her own, Andrew wants her out of Marcus’s hair pronto. “Come on,” he huffs, all but rolling his eyes when he sees three more bags sitting on the mattress in the spare room. “The sooner you’re out of here, the happier everyone involved will be.”

She snorts and huffs as she shoulders her purse and levels a withering look at Marcus. “It’s a good thing, I guess.” She tells him. “You were horrible in bed and boring.”

“Oh now see, Amanda, that’s just not true.” At the bottom of the stairs, you’re standing with a trash bag full of her awful foods all tied up and ready to send away with her. “Because I’ve fucked both of you, and you were worse by far.” Thrusting the bag into her hand as she practically stumbles down the last step to you, you just smile brightly. The eager, victorious, unwavering smile of a woman who is finally going to be free of torment to live the life that makes her happy. “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.”

“Fuck all of you.” She hisses, looking like she might attack you for a moment before she stalks to the front door and flings it open. “Let’s go!”

“Bye bye now!” The sound of the door shutting behind her might be the best thing you’ve heard since Marcus asked you to marry him, and you practically slump in on yourself watching her go. Andrew calls out a promise to come back soon and then it’s nothing but blissful, magical silence inside your house.

“Holy shit.” Marcus slumps down and closes his eyes. “I can’t believe that it might actually be over.”

“There’s still paperwork to sign and making sure she retracts her statement to the police, but at least she’s not in the house.” Wrapping both arms around Marcus, you bring him tight to your chest and press a kiss to his hairline. “And we gotta make sure she quits her job, so I can have my work back.”

“She’s quit.” Marcus chuckles and presses a kiss to your hairline. “My father will make sure of it.” For the first time since he had woken up to the banging on the door, he feels like he can breathe.

“How are you feeling about having him around a little?” For such an enormous arrival outside of thin air today, Andrew Packard has certainly made an impression. And not the one you thought he would.

“I don’t…hate it.” Marcus admits quietly. “Surprisingly.” He rubs your back and decides to tell you. “I may have told him that he needed to be around for his four soon-to-be grandkids.”

That surprises you probably as much as it surprised him to say it, but you melt a little in his arms and let one hand cradle the underside of your belly. “I’m proud of you, love. It’s not easy to except help from someone you’re at odds with, and you did far more than just accept today.”

“I— learning the specifics of their entire…thing – it changed a lot of things for me.” He tells you quietly. “Especially since we’ve been in our own situation.”

“Maybe we can learn a little more while your father is still here?” Tangled around each other, the tension of the last few months loosens from your joints and starts to drip from your shoulders. “He did something enormous for us today. It would be nice if we could keep building good memories.”

“I can’t believe that he did this.” He sighs out. “I can’t be upset at him for coming. He did something amazing for us. And he has the photo albums.”

“Your mom’s albums?” He’s mentioned them more than a few times - how he wishes he had those photographs from his childhood to share with you and with your kids. “Seriously?”

“They aren’t in storage.” Marcus whispers. “He’s got them in his personal safe.”

“Would he let us make copies?” You know how much it would mean to Marcus to have memories of his mother back again, and you would do anything to help him make that happen. “I can make a digital replica for us to keep.”

“The photo albums are mine.” Marcus whispers, still amazed that his father had said that. “He wants to make a digital copy for himself. And let me keep the originals.”

“Oh, honey.” You’ll blame the tears in your eyes on pregnancy hormones, but either way you squeeze Marcus tight to your side. “That’s amazing. You’ll be able to see her whenever you want now.”

“I know.” He closes his eyes and leans in to kiss you again. “I think this is going to be good for both of us. I’m going to try. To at least be polite, but I’m going to try.”

“I think it could be really good.” You won’t push, of course. You have never pushed Marcus. But it seems clear to you that Andrew wants a relationship with his son and is willing to put in a hell of a lot of work to make that happen. Humming softly when he kisses you again, you grin against his lips. “Alana is sending me a list of available dates for the rest of the year. We could have a wedding date picked out before we even go to bed tonight.”

“I invited him.” He announces. “Or maybe he doesn’t realize I did, but I mean to.” Inviting him to a wedding he had helped move up was the least he could do.

“We’ll make sure he gets a real invitation sent through the mail and everything.” It’s too much to ask if he might want to try to talk to his sisters, and today has already been a bit overwhelming, so you leave that out of the conversation for now. “Out of everything…I can’t believe he’s just…giving us a house…”

He can’t help but chuckle, shaking his head. “That’s what you are impressed with?” He can’t help but swing you around slightly and kiss you again, so fucking happy that the end is in sight.

“I’m taking it in one thing at a time!” You defend, laughing in his arms as he reels you in again to crush tightly against his chest. “I don’t even know how to process a number like thirty-five million, and it’s not going to really hit me that she’s gone until we wake up in the morning to no loud noises and no awful smells. So yes, I zeroed in on the house.”

“So you love me for my money?” Marcus teases, winking at you even though he’s shooting you a playful pout. “Although my father is impressed with you, adding you to the trust.”

“Marcus Pike, I would love you with nothing but dirt under your fingernails.” After all, you are a farm girl. “I would marry you with no ring and no roof and barely the clothes on our backs. I will work every day of my life to help provide for our family and make our lives happy.” Squeezing his hand in yours, your smile turns teasing. “But it’s a lot easier to plan for four babies when we know we won’t be struggling to feed them.”

“No. We won’t be struggling to feed them.” Marcus smiles and rubs your stomach with his free hand. “Especially since he just also maneuvered us into using the trust.” He chuckles. “Crafty bastard.”

“It’s a change we’ll reckon with.” Especially if he and his father are going to repair their relationship, which seems likely in light of today. “If using the trust means gaining your memories of your mother, then I’m all for it.”

“I can’t believe this.” Marcus shakes his head. “This is not what I expected to happen when I walked into your work today.”

“And thank god for that.” You lean your head on his shoulder. “Because the day we almost had was going to be hell.”

He basks in the silence for a moment before he flashes you a sly smile. “Want to go deflate the air mattress?” He chuckles sinisterly. “Although I hate wasting things, I feel like it’s contaminated and should be thrown out.”

“We’ll find somewhere to donate it.” Waste isn’t in either of your vocabularies when you can help it, but you’re not keen to keep the bed Amanda had been sleeping on, either.

“We can clean it up and start setting it up for the baby.” Marcus rubs your stomach again and sighs, relieved by being able to actually do something rather than dream. “I’ll go get the cleaning stuff, you can just watch or start stripping the air mattress. You know she didn’t.”

“We’ll get everything cleaned up and we’ll paint first thing. Get the room feeling completely different then when she was in it.” Popping up, you lean over to kiss Marcus before heading for the stairs. “It’s gonna be great.”

Marcus watches you, just admiring the way that you are buoyed by the change in circumstances. The pep in your step a delightful thing to see and he hopes that there is nothing but smooth sailing from now on. You are right, it's gonna be great.

______

Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @hardc0rehaylz @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri

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My Masterlist!

[thot-writes]

first up i wanna dedicate this fic to the handful of followers i have that always, without fail, like my shit. shoutout to smol-mimi, echos-chamber, hella--horny, yanashee, and queenondeezmatatas. i see u queens, and i love u. if there’s anyone i missed i’m sorry i love u all sm u mean everything 💕

it’s time for megumi tentacle porn! also i decided to make the jujutsu schools more like college or finishing schools, so first-years are 18-19.

adventures in tentaculum: scene II — Megumi Fushiguro (18+ NSFW);

you are an imaginary cursed spirit. over 1,200 years ago, you were an infamous pirate born from a small fishing village. throughout your adventures, people began to spin legends of you as a vicious demoness of the sea— as beautiful as you were fearsome, and able to take on many aquatic forms.

Within the realms of jujutsu and spirits and sorcery, even you are considered an anomaly. You can hardly consider yourself vengeful — actually, that’s not true, you do tend to target the rich and privileged, but the vast majority of people have little to fear from you.

Japan is one of many countries you’ve ventured to in your time as a cursed spirit— or perhaps it‘s where you came from? Your memory of your human life has grown unfortunately foggy over the centuries. Regardless, it’s where you’ve been for some time, and where you intend to stay for the foreseeable future.

Because you’ve curiously grown rather attached to a human sorcerer.

The school of jujutsu in Tokyo is one you’ve had some contact with — mostly with Gojo. Despite being a sorcerer’s natural enemy, you’ve been known to be quite approachable and even human-like with your disposition. Of course the higher-ups want your exorcism and disapprove of Gojo’s willingness to talk to you, but they’re pathetically weak so they don’t register as a threat.

You met Megumi on one of your “meetings”, for lack of a better term, with the white-haired sorcerer. He was awestruck as he came face-to-face with you. You stand taller than the average human, almost a head taller than Gojo, and exude impossible amounts of cursed energy. Your aura is ethereal as well, your haunting beauty something far beyond a simple person’s and equally as strong as the sense of dread that lurks beneath the surface.

It was obvious to him, as it was to anyone that could see you, that despite resembling a human you most certainly were not one.

You ended up talking to — and befriending — Yuji. You were intrigued by his story of becoming Sukuna’s vessel, and you got along surprisingly well. Nobara was a classic whack-job too, just the way you like them. They would’ve fit in terrifically on your ship had they been alive at the time. Megumi seemed to be the only person that remembered you were a dangerous curse and not just someone to kick it with, but his protests were drowned out.

Eventually, you won him over.

So well in fact that he developed feelings for you. He absolutely refused to acknowledge them at first, banishing the thought to the depths of his mind, but like always your persistence paid off.

Your relationship today is still on the down-low. No one else knows a thing. How long has it been since it became official now? Time is so fuzzy to you. It’s either been three days or three months. Maybe three years?

No, wait. If it was three years he wouldn’t be in school anymore. One of the other two then.

Maybe you should get a watch. You don’t know the first thing about technology, though. Even a clock is too high-tech for you — how do those little things move? Cursed energy? Insane!

Megumi was trying his best to teach you about modern inventions (bless his heart) since it’d be much more convenient if you knew. You often would visit his dorm room and absentmindedly watch him fiddle with doodads and whatsits and doohickeys of all kinds. With each explanation, your questions only grew.

Today was one such day, though he’d all but abandoned his efforts and opted for watching a movie instead. His laptop is positioned at the foot of his bed whilst you two sat at the head, your long limbs entangled in his as you cuddled in a mess of blankets and pillows. His head is rested comfortably on your chest, the absence of breathing or a heartbeat perturbed him at first, but he’s come to like the stillness.

“So how can the people fit in the— what’d you call it? Laptop?” you ask him, chin nestled in his hair as your ancient mind ponders the logic of it all.

You hear him sigh. “They’re not actually in there. It was made beforehand. Imagine a play that was preserved forever, that’s what a movie is.”

“I remember plays.” You nod knowingly. “I killed a nobleman while he was attending one. I would’ve stayed to watch but the actors didn’t appreciate me beheading an audience member.”

“Really...” he muses in a flat tone. “I can’t imagine why.”

You point at the computer screen. “So if this is like a play, does that mean every time you watch it the actors have to perform it for you?”

Megumi closes his eyes in silent contemplation. He can’t believe you haven’t absorbed any of the lessons he’s taught you. Slowly opening them again, he says, “No.”

“How novel! And what is this thing we’re looking at again?”

“Laptop.” His voice has gained a curt edge to it as the last of his patience wears thin. “Maybe we shouldn’t watch this, you haven’t even being paying attention.”

“I wanted to!” you protest. “But then I couldn’t stop thinking about the tiny actors inside, I mean surely there can’t be enough air for them, right?”

He sits up and slams the laptop shut, groaning in annoyance as he puts it away. You frown at his back, you didn’t mean to bother him but clearly your technological illiteracy was too much. You were quite dumb, after all. Peasants oft were in your time, no matter what they became later in life. You put a hand on his shoulder soothingly.

“Sorry, I’m really hopeless at this kinda thing.”

He rests his hand atop of yours and shakes his head. “No, that’s okay. I should’ve picked something we could both enjoy doing.”

You shuffle over to him, your features darkening as not-so-innocent thoughts start coursing through your mind. “I can think of something we’d both enjoy...”

Curiously, he looks to you. The way you’re biting your lip and undressing him with your eyes, he quickly gets the message. His face heats up and he looks away, but you catch his chin and steal a quick kiss from him.

“That’s against the rules...” he murmurs, gaze fixed on your lips as you pull away just a touch. “You can’t just suddenly do that.”

“Are you saying you don’t want to?”

He remains silent and inhales your scent, citrusy and fresh, invigorating like a sea breeze and something he wishes he could smell all the time. He’s tried looking for candles that smell like you so he can burn them when you’re gone, but they never truly capture the magic.

When you make love, one of his favourite things to do in the aftermath is to luxuriate in the enticing aroma that is just you lingering in his sheets.

His mind starts to spin as he inadvertently leans forward so your lips are touching, only just, and sending a delightful shockwave throughout his body. “I do want to...” is what he finally manages to say.

You kiss him again, harder this time, and cradle his face in your hand. He loses himself in the kiss, the sweet taste of your mouth, the sensation of your tongue on his, the softness of your lips, he’s committed it all to memory. It’s hard to pinpoint when exactly this happened, but Megumi has fallen hopelessly, distressingly in love with you.

And the feeling is wholly mutual.

His hands find your hair and he pulls you closer, deepening the kiss as a trail of saliva drips from your mouths. His blood aflame, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, his thirst for you only intensifies while his pants form a tent from where his excitement is growing.

“Mmnh..” He can’t stop himself from moaning your name into your mouth. He really is far too cute for his own good; you haven’t even touched him yet.

You break the kiss but he, in a daze, tries to follow you. You spawn a tentacle from the small of your back and slip it around his neck, gently holding him in place. He gives a bewildered look, his hands falling to his side and his dark doe eyes fixed on you.

You press a finger to your lips and smirk. “Patience, sweet thing. There’s more I want to do to you.”

Your hand massages over the growing bulge in his pants and he whines. He watches your hand and bites his lip, savouring the sweet sensation of your warmth through the fabric of his clothes. You unzip and unbutton his trousers, giving you better access to slide your fingers into his underwear and stroke his throbbing cock. It twitches at the contact, and Megumi holds his breath.

You gently roll your fingers around his tip, precum already starting to peak out, and his voice quivers. You grab a handful of his sweater and stuff it into his mouth. He’s always the one saying he’s not ready to be out about your relationship, yet here he is, not even trying to mask how vocal he is. His blue eyes meet yours and he bites down on the fabric. He leans back on his hands and spreads his legs apart while you work his cock painfully slowly. He wiggles his hips in an attempt to get you to touch him more, and you can’t hold back a smile.

“So needy for me... You’re this frustrated already?” you purr.

He nods his head, suddenly remembering the tentacle wrapped around his throat as it restricts his movement. He remembers you telling him that they were sensitive, so he strokes a hand along the length. The feeling of his soft, large hand on your tendril almost makes you sigh, you always loved how he feels.

And as a second tendril wriggles it’s way into his undergarments, you ruminate on one thing you love feeling even more than his hands.

The tip of your tentacle teases his entrance and he yelps. Due to the malleability of your tentacles, lubricant is scarce a necessity when you decide to use them like this. Your finger tracing one of the pulsating veins of his cock, you squeeze the tentacle inside and shudders rock your body. Megumi, practically eating his sweater at this point, squeezes his eyes shut and moans.

His insides feel hot and tight on your tentacle, gripping it just right and making you breathe out a shaky breath. “Fuck, Megumi, you feel so good. How do you like it?”

You don’t actually need to ask. His whole body is quivering and his voice still manages to leak through his clenched teeth and sweater. “Kkh... s’good. Feels good.”

You duck your head down and push his sweater up further, exposing his cute pink nipples. You take one of them into your mouth and continue easing your tentacle inside him, he clutches his hand around the one on his neck and curls his toes. He arches into your mouth and throws his head back, lips falling open into a sob and letting go of the shirt.

You curl your hand around his cock in a vice-like grip and start to pump, his precum flowing freely and coating both it and your hand in the sticky clear substance. His eyes roll back and his cries grow louder, but you’re too focused to care about covering them.

Megumi’s taut, spongy insides send heat coursing through you, your arousal pooling in your panties as you thrust in and out of him. God, it feels like just doing this could make you cum.

Overcome with an intense want, you use the tentacle on his neck to yank him down harshly on the bed and he looks up at you in surprise, hands holding the tendril that’s practically crushing his windpipe. You’ve brought out your other tentacles and use them to slide his pants off his legs and fling them aside, same with his underwear.

You grab one of his hands and bring it to your pussy, and he swallows thickly. He wants you on his face, but you want to hear him. His fingers slip into your panties and clumsily work at your clit, rubbing it in circular motions and he drools at the feeling of your wetness.

Two of your tentacles hold his legs apart, leaving coiling red marks on his thighs as you fuck him senseless. He inserts his long, slender fingers and curls them in your pussy, pressing up against your g-spot. That combined with the sensation of his tight ass squeezing you so well is enough to bring you to your orgasm. You thrust your tentacle in deeper and gasp, while Megumi sloppily but hastily fingers you as you ride it out.

He brings his soaked fingers to his mouth and licks the cum from them, murmuring a barely audible “delicious” as he does so. Invigorated by the sight and your orgasm, you tighten the grip on his neck and pick up the speed.

Your hands busy themselves playing with his nipples as you fuck him, and he cries your name like it’s a holy mantra. His body jerks and writhes as his own orgasm bubbles in his core.

Digging his nails into the tentacle coiled around his throat, his cheeks splotchy pink and stained with tears, he hiccups and moans. “Aah-haah I-I’m c-c-cumming. It—s c-coming o-out-haa aah!”

Thick strings of cum shoot out from his cock and land on his stomach, chest, and face. He’s definitely going to have to throw out that sweatshirt now, it’s impossible to get cum stains out of black fabric. You keep fucking him as he thrusts his hips into you and his wailing fills the room.

As his motions slow down, so do yours. You slowly release him from your the grip of your tentacles even as droplets of cum continue to weep from his dick. His chest heaves as he takes in uneven breaths, eyes fluttering closed in long, languid blinks.

You brush some of his hair out of his face and smile at him. “How’re you feeling?”

He nods half-heartedly. “Good... I’m feeling sleepy... but good.”

“I’m glad,” you chuckle. “I’ll get you cleaned up then we can nap together, ‘kay?”

“Yeah,” he answers simply. You can tell he’s one blink away from passing out. He’s trying his best to stay awake though, poor thing.

You hop off the bed and grab some tissues, wiping him clean then tossing them away. You decide to take his sweater off too, it’s far too messy to sleep in now. Megumi almost falls asleep as you do this, but he desperately wants to spend as much time with you as possible so he continues to fight it with what little strength he has left.

For you, changing clothes is far easier. You’re a cursed spirit after all, you kind of don’t even exist. You simply generate a clean pair of panties and slide back into bed with him, tucking him into the blankets and cradling his head in your lap. He’s lulled into a calm, peaceful sleep with your hands running through his hair and your soothing scent permeating the air.

You gaze at him as he sleeps, trailing your finger along the contour of his jaw. Truthfully, he’s the most beautiful creature you’ve ever laid your eyes on and you often tell him so. He always tells you to stop, but you can see he’s hiding a blush. You’re suddenly pulled out of your thoughts when there comes a knock at the door.

“Oi, Megumi! You alive in there? I heard yelling from down the hall, so me and Nobara came to check on you. Can we come in?” It’s Yuji. Damn it.

Your eyes flicker from the door down to the still-sleeping (and stark naked) Megumi. They don’t even know you were here! If they see you like this they’ll know for sure about you two! What do you do?!

Suddenly, the doorknob jiggles. They’re trying to come in. The door’s locked, but it’d be no match against Yuji’s monstrous strength. You stare hopelessly at the door, silently wishing for some kind of miracle.

“...Shit.”

[sanguineterrain]

Brooklyn Honey - Bucky Barnes x Reader

(Repost!) Hello, this is for the lovely @wkemeup​’s 9k writing challenge. I decided to go with the song prompt “Life in the City” by The Lumineers. It really reminded me of 40s Bucky.

Title: Brooklyn Honey

Summary: Life in the city ain’t always so pretty, but you’ve got Bucky and he’s got you.  

Pairing: 1940s!Bucky Barnes x female!reader

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings: nah

***

“That’s so not how you do it.”

“Sorry, I must’ve missed the day you wrote the manual on how to put up curtains.”

“You sure did, and I can tell you as an expert, the nails aren’t supposed to resemble a mountain range.”

“Smartass. C’mere.”

Bucky’s palm opened and you took a nail, carefully tapping it into the wall.

“Or is it the skyline you’re going for?”

“You’re pretty mouthy for an assistant.”

“I keep it interesting, doll.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“James Barnes, what on earth are you doing in there?!”

Your eyes went wide and you hurried to scramble off the chair you were standing on. Bucky put a hand on your back, shaking his head.

“Buck—”

“I got it, don’t worry. Keep hammering.”

“But—”

“Honey, don’t you trust me?”

“Absolutely not.”

More knocking, faster and louder this time.

“Coming, Mrs. Anderson!”

Bucky buttoned up his shirt, smoothing his pomade-slicked hair back, and went to answer.

You stepped down from the chair anyway, daring to peek around the corner. 

He had his arms up, trying to fill the entire door frame and hide the obnoxiously yellow curtains you probably weren’t supposed to have. Mrs. Anderson, Steve and Bucky’s busybody next door neighbor, was a small, shriveled, old woman with a perpetually pinched face that looked like it had been stored in a jar of formaldehyde for the last twenty years. She kept trying to look over Bucky’s shoulder but he wouldn’t let her, moving when she did.

“—could’ve sworn I heard hammering coming from this apartment.”

“Oh! You must’ve heard me fixing my bike.” 

“You don’t have a bike, James.”

“Did I say my bike? I meant Steve’s.”

“Steve rides a bike?”

“Absolutely. Keeps him fit.”

“I don’t recall seeing him ever—”

“Well, bye, Mrs. Anderson! Always a pleasure to see you, ma’am.”

She gave another stern look before shaking her head, walking away.

You sighed as Bucky shut the door with his foot, a too sly smile on his face.

“Didn’t I tell you to trust me?”

“I think you might be a worse liar than Steve.”

“Well, ouch, doll.”

“First of all, who’s ever heard of needing a hammer to fix a bike?”

“We can be the first.”

“Next time, I’m answering the door.”

You clambered back onto the chair, returning to knocking in the nails. 

“I still don’t understand why you wanted curtains in the first place.” 

“It adds a homely touch, doll. Aren’t you the one who’s always complaining about how drab this place is?”

“Of course, but it’s not my apartment.” 

“It could be, with how often you’re over,” Bucky said sweetly. 

“Keep dreaming, Barnes.” 

“I will,” he assured with a smile that could melt butter. 

You shook your head and returned to focus on the curtains. True, the first one was beyond help in terms of nail placement, but the least you could do was try and make the next one even. 

Bucky had offered at least ten times to do it himself but there was no way he was getting his hands on a hammer after what had happened when he’d tried to install some shelves last winter. 

Besides, you were better at decorating when it came down to it. At least, that’s what Bucky kept insisting, letting you do essentially anything you wanted to the apartment. 

The chair suddenly groaned under additional weight and you startled as you felt the side of a body press against yours. 

“How’s it goin’?”

“Bucky, this chair really isn’t meant for two people.” 

“You sure? Seems pretty sturdy to me.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

Bucky wrapped an arm around your waist and you fixed him with a look. 

“What? Don’t want you to fall.”

“How valiant of you.”

“Ain’t it?”

He hopped off before you could scold him further, grinning up at you. 

“Beer?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Bucky disappeared and returned a minute later with an open bottle for you, holding it so you could sip safely while still perched on the chair.

Then you kept hammering, eyes narrowed as you focused on not hitting anything other than the nail.

Bucky watched from the floor as you did so, leaning back on his hands.

“What’re you looking at?” you asked after a while, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

He shrugged, a gentle smile on his face.

“The city.”

***

“Honey, I’m home!”

“What did I say about that, Barnes?”

“You said… you’ll love me for all eternity because you’re as sweet as honey?”

“I think it was more along the lines of, ‘don’t call me honey unless you mean it.’”

“I always mean it, Y/N.”

And that was a little more sincerity than you were willing to explore, so you pointed to the bag instead.

“What’s that?”

Bucky grinned, setting a giant paper sack on the counter.

“Lemons.”

“What?”

“Lemons. You know, the little yellow fruits that make you do this?”

Bucky puckered his mouth and smacked his tongue, eyes screwed shut.

“Lemon’s not a fruit.”

“It sure is! Fruit got seeds. Read that in a book about agriculture. We produce a lot of corn, did you know that?“

“Okay, Bucky, the presiding question still remains: why do you have every lemon in the city?”

“There was a good deal at the docks. Dirt cheap for produce. Some guys told me they were takin’ some home for their wives. Didn’t want you to feel left out.”

“I’m not your wife.”

Bucky just grinned. You rolled your eyes.

“I don't know who taught you this, but the way to a girl’s heart is not twenty pounds of lemons.”

“Think of all the lemonade we can make.”

“Unless you’ve also got FDR and his cabinet in those bags, we’re gonna have a lot of leftovers.”

“Look at it this way: no vitamin C deficiency. One less thing to worry ‘bout.”

“Bucky.”

“They’re not all lemons, doll. I got other stuff too. Tomatoes, cabbage, snuck some cucumbers, even bananas.”

You sighed, smiling tiredly. This ration was taking its toll on everyone. You knew Bucky was doing his best, had seen the vegetables and thought of you and how much you missed having cucumber salad and tomato sandwiches like you used to.

“Thank you, Bucky, really. I appreciate you.”

You brushed past him to begin preparing the excess vegetables you three wouldn’t eat this week to pickle. Salt and sugar was going to be hard to gather, but you’d manage. You always did.

“Welcome, doll.” 

He beamed, eyes full of warmth as he watched you. 

“You gonna stay for dinner?”

“I dunno. Seems like Steve’s gettin’ kinda tired of me,” you laughed.

“Never. ‘Sides, even if he was, doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, really?”

“Nope. ‘Cause you stay for me.”

“And where did you get that idea from?”

He shrugged.

“Seemed kinda obvious, doll. You’re smitten, admit it.”

“Oh dear, you’ve got me all figured out. However did you know?”

“I’m a bright fella.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You ain’t saying no…”

“Really, I have to say no? Can’t you tell I only stick around for the great deals you get on produce?” 

“But it’s me that gets the great deals, so really, you’re still staying for me.” 

Bucky was against the counter now, shoulder to shoulder with you. 

You sighed, hand on your hip as you stared at the table. 

“What the hell are we going to do with all these lemons?” 

“We’ll figure something out. Always do, don’t we?”

You hummed, leaning your head on his shoulder, aware he was talking about more than the lemons. 

“Yeah. We always do.” 

***

Steve had been home for a while, wordlessly letting you in when you’d shown up an hour ago. You didn’t have to explain anything to him anymore. 

The record player was on, crooning gently. Steve was in the corner, drawing, away from the window after the breeze had whipped his papers around one too many times.

“Can’t believe they’re building another skyscraper down on Lawrence.”

Steve frowned.

“Really? Won’t be able to see the sunset now.”

“Yeah. And Brooklyn’s not exactly known for its scenery to begin with. Saw a rat and a pigeon fighting over a pretzel this morning.”

Steve chuckled from the floor, shaking his head.

“Times are tough. Even for rats and pigeons.” 

“Sure are.”

“Nice curtains, by the way. I like the color.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Did Bucky ask—?”

“No,” he answered, smile evident in his voice. “But that’s alright. I know he’s just tryin’ to gauge what you like.”

“What?”

“Yeah, after the war’s over and all, he’s gonna try and buy a nicer place.”

“And he wants my furnishing tips?”

Steve shrugged, gaze soft and knowing.

“Guess so.”

You cleared your throat, pushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Want some lemonade?”

“Jesus, there’s more? I thought we’d run out of bushels.”

“You’d think, right? I put ‘em in the icebox so they won’t spoil so fast.”

“Sure, yeah. Thanks, Y/N.”

You were in the middle of stirring the pitcher when Bucky came in.

He didn’t greet you or Steve immediately, like he usually did, instead setting down his keys, then slapping the mail onto the table. 

“Well, hey there, mister. Fancy a drink? Today’s special is sour lemonade, your favorite.”

Bucky looked up, startled, and glanced at the pitcher before nodding, attempting a half smile.

“Sure, doll. Thanks.”

“Everything okay, Buck?”

He nodded, slipping away to the bathroom with a sigh.

You turned to Steve, who shrugged.

“Long day at the docks, I guess.”

***

June twelfth. That was when Bucky was being shipped out, somewhere in Europe, too far from you. This entire year you’d been holding your breath, hoping, needing the draft to leave him alone. 

Now they were taking him away from you in less than a week. 

You were in the apartment, lying on the floor, on Bucky’s second to last day. That’s how he found you upon coming home. 

“Trying to count all the cracks in the ceiling, doll? You’ll be here all night.”

You had a glass of lemonade by your head, spiked with a bit of rum. It was already warm, because it was summer and things were supposed to be warm in the summer.

The curtains danced in front of the window, yellow like sunshine and all those goddamn lemons in the freezer. The only respite from an otherwise colorless world.

“This city is so ugly.”

Bucky looked up at the sound of your voice. He walked over, crouching by your arm.

“Think so?”

“Yeah. Can’t find a single pretty thing in the city.”

“I can.”

“Can you?”

“Sure. She’s looking at me right now.”

“That was sappy.”

“Yes it was.”

Bucky lay down, rolling onto his side next to you, taking a sip from your glass.

“But I ain’t mean it any less.”

You hummed, closing your eyes.

“Well, for what it’s worth then, I think you’re handsome.”

“Oh, yeah?”

You could hear his proud smile.

“Don’t make me take it back.”

“No, I’m just surprised to hear it is all.”

“Surprised, huh? I’m certain I ain’t the first one to call you handsome.”

“You’re the only one I wanna hear it from.”

Something fluttered in your chest.

“What d’you say then? You and I, think we can take on a city as ugly as ours?”

He smiled.

“With you, doll?”

“Yeah.”

“With you, of course.”

“Good. I’m gonna hold you to that.”

Bucky propped his head up on his elbow. It was quiet again, with only your occasional sighs and his quiet breaths.

“What’re you looking at?” you breathed, opening your eyes.

“You.”

Bucky flicked a drop of lemonade from the tip of your nose.

You turned, now face to face.

And oh, Bucky’s blues. Those had been your color even before the curtains.

“I’m gonna miss you,” you blurted.

He smiled a little sadly.

“Gonna miss you too, Y/N.”

You pushed your lips together, taking a deep breath.

“You were right, you know.”

“‘Bout what?”

“That day when you brought home all those lemons. You said that I stay for you.”

Bucky’s lips quirked, gaze fond like it always was.

“All those times I stayed for dinner and pretended to know what I was doing putting up those curtains. I stayed for you.”

You wiped your nose quickly, sniffling.

“And I’m gonna keep staying.”

“Yeah? What if the bridge collapses tomorrow?”

“I’ll swim.”

“Even in the winter?”

“I’ll get myself a pair of ice skates.”

“You don’t know how to skate, doll.”

“That’s right. So you better come back safe and teach me.”

Bucky leaned in, nose brushing your cheek. He rolled over and carefully straddled you, holding his weight.

“I’ll be there, honey.”

“Now what did we say about that?”

Bucky’s eyebrows pinched in thought.

“Don’t say it if I don’t mean it?”

You hummed, pulling him closer, arms around his neck. Bucky’s lips were a millimeter from yours, breath fanning over your chin.

“Mm, I think it was something about eternity.”

Bucky was soft, tangy and sweet. His scruff scraped your cheek and your fingers curled into the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.

He slid his hands under your back and turned so you were on top, head on his chest. You lay like that for a while, listening to his heartbeat, arms strong around you. 

Yellow fluttered in the breeze, tacked unevenly onto the wall, catching your eye. 

Bucky glanced to the side, chuckling.

“Don’t let Anderson take our curtains away.”

“Of course not. I spent a weekend on those. She’ll have to fight me for ‘em.”

“Good God. Now I gotta worry about you brawling with old ladies and Steve getting into alley fights while I’m gone?”

“Nah. Steve’ll help me.”

“Oh, great.”

You reached up, brushing his jaw with your knuckles.

“Call me honey again.”

“Honey, honey, honey.”

You reached up to get just one last kiss, except it definitely wasn’t going to be the last. It couldn’t be.

“They’re not gonna take you away from me.”

Bucky shook his head, kissing you much slower this time, trying to memorize you before time ran out.

“Never. ‘M gonna think of you and I’ll be back ‘fore we know it.”

You nodded, wishing hard, hoping somebody was listening. 

“Then, when I come back,” he whispered, promise riding on the summer air.

“We’re gonna make the best damn lemonade you’ve ever had.”

And maybe this city could take away your sunsets, your tea and jams, even your summer.

But if there was anything that was yours and yours only, it was the lemon pulp on Bucky’s lips and the undissolved sugar on your own, as bitter and pretty as home.

[catacomb231]

Come & Go|Dabi x Adult! Reader

TW:Mentions/showing of mental and physical abuse and manipulation, angstyyyyyyyy, angst to (SLIGHT) fluff (so yeh pretty angsty for once)

Sum: It's been about 8 years since Dabi was arrested and went to Tartarus after the awful things he did to you. Although, you weren't expecting him to show up randomly at your door after so long. And HE didn't expect a small surprise that was with you...

It was such a long time ago.

8 years to be exact!

Yet you still remember it like it was yesterday. Every little detail.

You used to date, or more accurately, FORCED to date Dabi!

He kidnapped you a long time ago and you couldn't escape. Even if you tried, he would teach you a lesson. Which is what got you the permanent burn mark on your left shoulder.

But the worst part was when he forced you to have a baby with him so you two could start a family.

But shortly after your child was born, you managed to escape AND was found by a hero just I time! Securing yours and your baby's safety. Even the police and hero agreed to make sure any records of your child that showed he was related to Dabi and the Todoroki Family was kept secret or was gone.

And probably a normal person would end up hating their child, as they're the blood of the villain. But you couldn't bring yourself to hate or even hurt him! That wouldn't make you any better!

So you two got a nice small apartment and a nice job, and you vowed to make your child's life a happy one! One without his father.

Even when he asked about it, you didn't tell him he was a villain, and just told him he hurt you and left you all alone. That caused your son to hate his father and that made you pretty happy as you hated him too.

But it wasn't like this forever...

One nice Thursday, it was your day off! So you were playing with your son and his Linking Logs.

"Look mommy! Now the cow is in his pen! And now the farmer can take care of him!" Kai says, pointing to the toy cow. "That's neat, Kai!" You tell him.

He was probably only about 6 years old now, but you still loved him to death. The good news is, since Dabi normally had his hair dyed black, you didn't see a resemblance between him and your son's white hair! And he had your e/c eyes! It also helped he didn't have the scars!

That's when a knock is heard at your door. "I'll be back, Kai!" You tell him, getting up and leaving the living room, walking down the hall to the front door.

You open it up and your gaze is met with the icy blue eyes that still haunt your dreams.

Your eyes widen with horror and shock as Dabi stood in front of you. He had a hoodie on so it was obvious he had just broken out.

"We need to talk." He tells you. You would've said no, but he didn't have any sigh of hostility in his eyes. So you were going to take a chance.

"What do you want?" You narrows your eyes, ready to use your quirk if necessary. "I'm sorry." He states plainly, which completely catches you off guard.

"I'm sorry for the pain I caused you, the hurt, that burn on your shoulder, all of it."

You thought he was joking, but the sincerity in his voice told you otherwise. But it didn't fool you. "Sorry doesn't cut it, Dabi. You did awful things that were beyond a sorry!" You remind him, and he nods.

"Mommy? Who is it??" You hear Kai call from the other room. Dabi's eyes widened a bit as you shouted, "No one, honey!" Over your shoulder.

"Is that our son..?" Dabi asks, earning him a glare from you. "MY son." You correct him. "You believed that what we had was "love" when in reality, you were just obsessed with me and I was forced to go along with it otherwise you would've hurt, or worse, killed me! And you think you have the right to call the child in there OUR son??" You continue.

"I know.. but surely you must've felt some sort of connection between us!" He asks of you. "Not even in the slightest." You reply bluntly.

"I just... Wanted to make up for everything I did to you.." He mutters, police sirens in the distance, growing closer and louder.

"Well it's too late for that." You reply.

The police arrive and take Dabi away once again, just like before. You felt arms wrap around your waist and you look down at Kai.

"I'm scared mommy.. why was that man at our door?" He asks as he watches the police put Dabi into the back of their car.

"Don't worry sweetie.. he won't hurt us anymore. I promise.."