#specially bearded crumbs

[darlingshane]

Daredevil: Born Again Trailer

[thesamoanqueen]

Christmas cookies

Raiting: 18+

Warnings: smut, fluff.

A/N: I wanted to try writing a one-shot for christmas since I did it last year and @mindofasagittaruis request came at the right time. Enjoy and happy holidays yall~

One boxe at a time he had managed to arrange everything, filling the huge tree base that him and Y/N had decorated together a week before. He knew she would complain, scolding him because it was too much, but Roman liked to spoil her and for that occasion he had really wanted everything.

It was their first Christmas together as a couple and he wanted it to be special. Y/N liked Christmas, was her favorite holiday, she got more excited than a little girl every time and he had promised himself and her, to do everything possible to make sure nothing was missing. They had decorated the house inside and out, planned dinners with family, started watching christmas movies, booked a weekend out fitting it between both of their schedules and Roman had tried not to plan something more to finally give voice to that impulse that was now becoming an urgency.

Admiring his work one last time, he went to the kitchen, where Y/N had decided to spend her afternoon with the most classic Christmas songs, wearing yet another hoodie stolen not too discreetly from his closet. When he crossed the door, there was no corner where she hadn't scattered a little bit of sugar, flour and sprinkles. It was a battlefield strewn with bowls, trays, and baking ingredients that smelled of vanilla, cinnamon and chocolate, the kind of chaos that warms heart and tastes like home.

- What's going on here? – he inquired with a smile and she turned to look at him, hands dirty with who knows what raised in the air, while Roman twisted his arms around her hips to swing her playfully.

- I should ask to you, what was all that chaos back there? – she asked suspiciously, giving him one of knowing looks, but he pretended not to notice, giving her a quick kiss on her cheek and peeking what she was backing.

- Don't know, Santa probably.

- I don't remember I have written a letter to him.

- So these ones are for me? – he asked, pointing the Christmas cookies placed on the marble counter.

It wasn't the kind of food she usually prepared if she decided to get into the kitchen, she was more into salty and spicy recipes, and yet there they were, lots of gingerbread men, trees and cinnamon houses waiting to be decorated.

- It's just an experiment, I wanted to make something special but then I remembered you already have me in your life so I tried with simple things… guess they're not so simple – she reflected pouting, moving a couple of those who she had already tried to decorate.

The shapes were flawless, but icings had mixed together, dripping around and ruining the designs she'd tried to make. Not the kind of result expected from her being a perfectionist and Roman found himself smiling as he watched her look them one by one with her still dirty fingers, until he reached out to take a snowman. It was supposed to be white with a carrot-nose and a scarf he knew it, but the little one didn't have a very happy expression, a bit like her, at least until he swallowed it.

-They taste good – he approved, feeling the aftertaste of spices warming his mouth and he reached out to take another one.

Amazed, Y/N watched him chew the second too, face lighting up, smile emerging again on her soft lips, as she cleaned him from a crumb ended on his beard.

- Really? I should bake them for Santa so. To thanks him for all those gifts no one asked for I guess, what do you say? – she joked, tilting her head.

-I say he can have them, if I can have the chef – he left a kiss on her lips this time, mixing the flavor of Christmas cookies with her own.

He felt her soften without a single thought into his arms, flattening herself almost completely against his chest, clinging to his neck as best she could while avoiding dirtying him with icing and chocolate.

-You taste like cookies – he heard her soft laughing, between one kiss and another, making him groan.

- Yes?

- … uh-huh

He couldn't resist those whispers, even if they were playing, to see her hopelessly happy if they were together. Stealing kiss after kiss, he pulled her onto his body, forcing her legs to wrap around his hips as he placed her on the only empty corner of the kitchen counter. With her warm laughter in his ears, he slid his hands up her soft thighs, climbing higher, until he felt the full texture of that glorious ass, as he stopped kissing her to taste then her neck. By heart, he sucked that point just beyond her collarbone that caused her to shiver, immediately feeling her cling better, squeeze with her laughter which slowly became moans, forgetting about her hands dirty to hug him.

- I hadn’t finished though – she complained, her body seeming to melt like icing from his attentions and Roman slid his hands past her sweatshirt, touching that soft good smelling skin.

- I want my dessert – he demanded seriously and felt her scratching the back of his neck with red nails, drawing a dangerous growl from him that vibrated through the whole kitchen.

Without taking his lips away from her, savoring the inside of her mouth and the soft skin above her breasts, he stripped her of those extra clothes, her hands doing the same to his pants, leaving traces everywhere and making both of them as dirty as the rest. Slowly, Roman took his time to mark her, enjoy everything of that moment, ignoring his already awake boner demanding attention, to dedicate himself to something better, hidden between those infinite legs that refused to leave him. When his long fingers found her, Roman couldn't resist the temptation, dipping a finger into the heat of her perfectly wet pussy to explore the soft, welcoming walls where he wanted to sink until he completely lost himself. Y/N in front of him tightened his grip on his neck, gasping into his arms, gaze fascinated and full of lust as she watched him bring the hand up to lick clean his fingers.

- This one is just for me – he reminded her, feeling her cling to his wrist to place a kiss on the bottom lip, tasting herself too before sliding down with the back to give him all the room he demanded.

Satisfied, Roman helped her lift her thighs, making his way between them, to finally dip himself in that perfect sweet meal, nose sliding between her folds tracing the path before his fat tongue. He took a taste, slow, just with the tip, feeling Y/N's body tremble for attentions and stopped to suck high on that adorable button that made her tremble. Breaths soon became brazen moans and more volume increased, more insistent, hungry Roman became. It was so sweet down there, a bit like that icing with which she had covered cookies but not cloying, it was a flavor that he could no longer live without and that he always tried to milk away, until it dripped down onto his beard, making his mouth salivating. First her button, then that hot entrance and soft walls, puffy, full skin of the lips he loved to kiss as much as the ones up there, running his tongue flat between her, fucking that cave without mercy. Insistently he kept her pressed against his face, choking himself, maneuvering her for more, slow but commanding until Y/N began to delight him with her adorable cries, her back arched and hands trying to grab him for support.

Something next to them fell due to her jerky movements, one of the trays and Roman saw her turn her with a blank look, ending up stretching out his arm, putting the tray and bowl of icing into their place. Y/N smiled, thanking him with a glance and he placed a kiss with devotion on her pussy, his pussy, Roman’s eyes getting darker as he saw Y/N biting her lip as eager as he was at the sight of him now dirty with icing.

- Did you find something for your dessert? – he heard her ask with lust, legs pulling him closer and he grinned.

- I like it with cream on top – he reflected thoughtfully, letting some of the icing on his hand drip between her folds.

He saw her entrance tighten around nothing at the feeling, bewitching and nasty as only Y/N could be with him, only when they were together. Her, who always tried to leave nothing to chance, who controlled every little detail, perfect, impeccable, became something else with him in those moments, stooping to try anything without complaints. She was a dangerous gift, a challenge he had never found in anyone else and that would have brought him to his knees if only she had asked, a power game in which they both had the same hand but used it with complicity.

He ran his fingers between her folds, listening to her mewl, seeing Y/N hold her breath when one of his long fingers slipped some icing inside, mixing it with her juices and the saliva he had already left.

- Ahn… feels so cold mmh – she begged with those eyes that had bewitched him, pushing him to turn his hand, sink a little more to find that welcoming spot that made her cry in absolute bliss.

-Im gonna fill you up – he announced and Y/N squirmed on the counter, between spilled icing and broken cookies, without stopping being finger fucked, because she knew it wasn't with any of those ingredients that Roman wanted to do keep his promise.

Pumping into her opening, he reached down to taste her again, this time licking away the frosting he had spilled, tongue running slowly and hungrily over every inch of her soft, sensitive caramel skin. He sucked on her swollen button, the taste of her body mixing with vanilla, the sweetness of her honey hitting Roman’s mouth along with icing. A beautiful, soggy mess echoing inside his ears, a primal call that made him hungrier and hungrier as his wide mouth tried to devour her alive, kissing and licking her clean.

He loved the choking noise that came from her throat every time his lips sucked one or both of hers down there, the pop wet flesh, nose that ran through her pussy like a credit card ready to be emptied. It was the kind of pussy that had any man tied around a finger, one he would do anything for and it led to devotion, Roman was obsessed with her and looking back he really didn't know how to managed to live without, but it wasn't just that. It was all of her, it was Y/N. She had dangerously become his world even before sharing a house or Christmas together, and it was in unexpected moments like this one that reminded him of it, waking up in the depths of his stomach, inside his head, an impulse that didn't exist even in a ring, with adrenaline running into his veins, cheered by thousands of people. The need with which he had chased her for an entire year, in hotels, arenas and offices, around the country and even beyond the borders, day and night, that grip on lungs of a drowning man.

He kissed her legs, feeling her hands pulling a few locks, knees trembling as she felt him bury himself between those folds, widening that glistening opening with fingers, inserting his tongue to clean her like a mad man until he elicited a scream. Her walls tried to close, to squeeze him, as they would have done with his hard cock and Roman found himself moving his hips aimlessly, seeking relief and refusing to abandon his meal before having reduced her to tears.

He fucked her with his fat tongue, flat and strong, pounding deep into her softness, feeding on that true addicting sweetness, widening his mouth to take in as much as possible, dirtying his beard.

- Plea-aase! R-Ro, Ro! Ah! - he felt her tremble, body struggling on the marble counter, held in his arms in that unnatural pose which Y/N did not refuse to submit to anyway, just to keep her legs on his shoulders to give him everything he wanted.

He knew she was at her limit, but he refused to slow down, craving more, that impulse in his chest that was growing until he felt like was going to explode and pushed him to be savage. He ran his fingers over her button, squeezing it between his fingers to help her and as he licked her again, his tongue flat against the hot opening, Y/N exploded with a silent cry, eyes closed, breath broken. The taste of her was intoxicating, addictive and Roman stood there, as close as possible, accompanying her as she reached her peak, cleansing with dedication. With his eyes fixed on her face, he held her back until her muscles regained some strength, trailing kisses down her flat belly, up her legs, massaging Y/N with his fingers where she still throbbed and only when her shaking hands found him, along with those beautiful eyes, he stood up again.

- I could spend all my life between your legs, babygirl – he admitted menacingly, getting rid of his track that she had already undone and with her breathing still rapid, Y/N invited him, tightening her legs around his hips at the sight of his erection slapping her already swollen center.

- Do what you want, ain't complainin'ahn!-

Sinking until he lost himself, he pulled her to the edge of the counter, fitting into her and giving a long, deep stroke, savoring her warmth and that feeling of constriction, in which she stuck him every time, without giving her time to think again. Oh, he meant to. He really meant it and the thought of her indulging him went to his head enough to push him to speed up without restraint, the slimy sound of their bodies colliding now audible even among the Christmas songs. Head down, holding her open thighs, he watched her honey stain him a little more each time he thrust in, her caramel-colored mountain swelling as his flesh went deeper.

-Mmh… you're so hard – Y/N cried in a soft moan, one hand clinging to his forearm and the other to the counter edge now sticky from the icing and her pleasure.

- I can feel you squeeze around me babe, grab that dick, thats right, let daddy enjoy his pussy, y-yes – he spoke dirty, feeling and seeing her walls sucking him in, abs tense.

- Ooh shit Ro-

More her moans became louder more his hips accelerated, in Roman mind the full intention of wreck her just for himself, drilling in that spot that made her mouth open wide, taking the breath out of her lungs, making eyes close, her belly full. There was just her begging, that gorgeous luscious body of her tense and sweaty, his breath heavy, that fire running up to his mind clouded by the vision of Y/N suffering with pleasure his assault, the hammering of his hard cock. It was an asphyxiating pleasure, a hot and inexorable vice that pulsated around Roman meat, squeezing his flesh and inviting him to go deeper, until he slammed as far as possible to reach complete collapse.

- F-fu-ah! Ah! – he felt her tremble, writhe in spasms and pinned her down, fingers digging into her hips, anchoring her to that place.

- That's it, ah, beg sweetheart, yes, gimme your mess

- pl-leeah! Please!

Groaning, hyping her and himself, Roman pulled one of her legs up higher, slapping a hand into her thigh and Y/N screamed, her head sprawling from side to side, eyes closed and back arching for that new inclination. From there, he could see her moist pearl, the whitish excitement leaking out, dripping onto the marble and down, that wonderful ring that ignited the worst thoughts in him. He felt her walls tighten with more and more insistence, nails digging into his flesh and his belly on fire, while without any warning, already tormented by his attacks, Y/N once again fell apart with a strangled moan.

And so, Roman began to fuck her without mercy, growling, giving vent to every ounce of need in his body and mind, cock sliding deeper and deeper, his hot head pounding inside that sweet cave, taking advantage of her climax and streached walls. Losing all composure, losing himself in a sensation that only Y/N could give him, Roman felt shivers run down his sweaty neck and pumped until muscles burned from the physical effort, once again exceeding the limit, hitting the kitchen counter with his knees.

- Feels so good babygirl, mmmh, so good… - he moaned, while she was still panting and throbbing under him, holding on where she could, letting him go – I'm 'bout to come, lemme fill you up, I need it, I… need… it-ah!

Everything around him seemed to go silent for long minutes, only Y/N and her whispers were still there, her soft eyes that never lost sight of him, full of what he wished was love, that tired smile that widened into a perfect "o", while Roman pressed her against him, letting the fire that had burned him slide into her canal, making his nuts dry and cock throbbing. In an animalistic growl he froze inside her, emptying himself with mind suddenly white, feeling her hands pull him down, making his head rest against her breast. Silently, he gave two final, drunken thrusts to make sure there was nothing left with Y/N trying to push his hair back and leaving heated kisses on his temples. Clinging to her, he waited in that position to catch breath, music slowly starting to make sense again.

- I guess I'll have to start from the beginning... - Y/N complained with an amused breath after a while and Roman looked up, observing the mess they had created and then her, who was distractedly tasting some of the icing that had fallen on the counter.

- Need help? – he asked seriously, very seriously and Y/N stopped with a finger still on her lips, a smile growing like something else in him, once again.

A year earlier he had done everything possible to convince her to stay during holidays. Now that she was finally here, now that they were together and with no one and nothing chasing them, he was going to make the most of every second. Santa had his North Pole and later he would have his cookies, but on the Island of Relevancy was him who dictated times.

Tag squad: @sunnyfleur23 @racerchix21 @alyyaanna @reignsangel444 @romanreignsdefencesquad @romanstheory @claymorexpunisher @keybladeofsteel @msbigredmachine @nayys-world @gobbersworld @utika151209 @cumxxslutt @civildawn @romanmydaddy @triscillal @papireigns-05 @helensanders92 @love-islike-abomb @darqchilddaydreamz @meggylynnloves @unfriendly--blvck--hottie @nicolewoo @reignsx @reigns-central-blog @kianaleani @daguenoire @extra-11 @thedonsfactory @snowpanda18 @brattyfics @mzv11 @romanreignseater @tribalchiefdaily @2baddies2furious @vebner37 @gomussy @depressedneedingrevenge @cyberdejos2 @usosthetics @jxtina-86 @harmshake @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade

[gnostichymns]

We may not know where our wishes will end up. But together, they will light up the night sky and turn it as bright as day.

ABUNDANCE:

[NEW YEAR MARKETS] - With so many vendors setting up shop, now is the best time to purchase a trinket as a reminder of the new year, or to get some much needed errands done.

[WANMIN MEAT CART] - Despite how short a trip it is, Chef Mao has some classic recipes right on the water, along with some brand new cuisines just for the Lantern Rite. Try some classic Mora Meat pastry, Dragon Beard Noodles, or his latest: Rex Lapis’ Delight! 

[XINYUE KIOSK DESSERT CART] - If sweet treats are more your thing, just a few spots down is a stand specially reserved for Xinyue Kiosk’s brilliant desserts! Buy one dessert, get one free “New Moon Cake,” with not one, not two, but SEVEN original fillings.

[TEA TASTING] - Third-Round Knockout is offering a rare, once a year opportunity to personally taste test some of their newest flavors. Jasmine Pearl, Dragon Cinnamon Oolong, Aged Golden Dawn, Phoenix Fire Oolong, why not indulge in some of the finer things in life?

ELATION:

[DRAGON DANCE] - Join the Lantern Rite parade! With so many dragon puppets needing twice as many hands, join the show and dance until you drop.

[MAHJONG] - How about one of Liyue’s quickest games? Mahjong, known for its lightning rounds and fast-paced gameplay, is a classic this time a year. Surely you won’t be here all night…

[SHADOW PUPPETS] - Puppet shows are quite popular this time of year, using lights and small paper designs to convey thrilling tales. Comedies, Romance, Tragedies, woe, these poor hearts will be forever changed.

[DRESS UP] - Red and gold, the colors of each festival this time of year, are absolutely stunning. Glimmer and shine for the kamera, dress up and serve on the runway.

BEAUTY:

[LANTERN MAKING] - Each year, we send up glorious lanterns with our thoughts, prayers, and hopes for the future, and what makes them so special is that no one lantern is the same. Create your own work of art to carry on into the vast expanses of the night.

[CUSTOM FIREWORKS] - Art is passion and desire, fleeting as it is eternal. With brilliant dyes, light up the night in a wondrous explosion for just a moment, and create those lasting memories.

[DRAGON CHARMS] - Representing good luck and strength, creating a little charm of the dragon itself can often inspire hope while passing into the next year. Though, many Adepti now have become popular faces of such ornaments.

[JADE TALISMAN] - Pure and indestructible, jade is the embodiment of virtue and benevolence. Taking days to etch at a time, these talismans are truly a rare and valuable gift.

HARMONY:

[WORSHIPPING ADEPTI] - The protectors of Liyue are often secluded and forgotten about per their distance, though for the Lantern Rite, small shrines of each prominent Adeptus are made. With incense burning, make a prayer or offering to the illuminated beasts.

[PROSPERITY TOSS] - A common tradition to signify the end of the year and the birth of a new one is to create a bowl of fruits, vegetables, fish, and other fresh foods, and to feast. Many restaurants host these during the Lantern Rite to bring us together.

[RED ENVELOPES] - Though much more common, a sign of good faith and friendship often comes in the form of a red envelope. Containing a small sum of mora, each envelope is a gesture of amity.

[FEED THE KOI] -  Koi represent harmony and wealth in Liyue, and a common tradition is to visit when the moon is at its highest. A small sacrifice, in the shape of some crackers or bread crumbs will often please these simple creatures.

[littlemisspascal]

Rockford & Roan Pt. 3

Pairing: Tim Rockford x Female Reader/OFC ‘Roan’

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary:  "I’m an empath, not a mind reader. If you really want there to be no secrets between us then we’ve got to start actually talking to each other. Beginning with why the hell you have a murder map in your office.”

Rating: T 

Warnings: Language, Reader has a dog, Reader has military background, Superpower AU, They Were Roommates AU, self-esteem issues, soulmates-ish, original characters, worldbuilding, references of dead bodies + suicide

- Reader has no first name and no physical traits described in detail except for being shorter than Rockford

Author Note: Thank you so so much for all the kind support 💗

Special thanks to @beecastle for beta reading and encouraging me 💜💜💜

Series Masterlist

The Office

You’re spitting the last remnants of toothpaste from your mouth when Banjo shoots down the hallway, a brown blur in your peripheral. Last you’d seen him, a mere few minutes ago, he was curled up on his memory foam bed in your room, ready to retire for the night. You stick your head out the doorway, wondering what’s got him riled up.

The little mutt sits outside Rockford’s office, pawing at the wooden door. Since moving in, the two have developed a close bond of their own (although you have a sneaking suspicion based on the crumbs you keep finding in Banjo’s beard, treats from the bakery below might be at least partly responsible), and it isn’t unusual to find Rockford lying on the living room floor scratching the dog’s belly or carrying him around like a small, furry child. 

“He’s gone, bud,” you tell Banjo, a sympathetic frown on your lips. Despite the light beneath the closed office door, you’d heard Rockford leave the apartment shortly after you slipped into your pajamas. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to either. The slamming of the front door was enough of a clear indicator he wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

A twinge of something sharp pulls at your chest, sour on the back of your tongue, but you shove it down. Banjo’s still pawing insistently, softly whining even as you draw closer with a disapproving tutting sound.

“There’s nobody in there, Banjo. C’mon, it’s bedtime. Let’s go to sleep, lil doggy.”

Usually Banjo’s well-behaved, following basic commands without issue, but every once in a while his stubbornness rivals a fence post, refusing to comply until you give in to his wanting.

Exhaling a quiet sigh, you reach for the knob, anticipating it to be locked so then Banjo will see nothing else can be done. 

Except the knob twists in your grip with ease.

Huh. You blink dumbly at your hand for a second, then make the mistake of looking down at Banjo’s body wiggling with excitement, tongue lolling. Great, you heave another sigh, knowing he won’t let you sleep until he sees inside.

Still, you hesitate to open the door. You’ve never been in Rockford’s office, never wanted to interfere with whatever it was he was working on. It feels like an invasion of privacy to go in when he’s not home. But…You bite your lip, curiosity prickling in the back of your mind. A little peek wouldn’t hurt anybody. For the sake of your sleep schedule, you have to prove Rockford isn’t there.

The hinges elicit a squeaky groan as you push the door open. Banjo takes advantage of the smallest of gaps to beat you into the room, too impatient to wait for your cue. 

Maybe that’s why you’re slow to register what’s on the pinboard at first. Eyes too busy sweeping the floor for Banjo, finding him snuffling at the edges of Rockford’s roll top desk as if the oakwood and scattered documents provided the answers to Rockford’s whereabouts. You shake your head at the scene, endlessly amused at both your little mutt’s antics and your roommate’s inability to keep his personal items tidy.

Well, that’s not exactly fair, you reassess your opinion while taking in more of the office. There are still too many books than the shelves will allow, piled up in a tilting stack one heavy sigh away from toppling over, and there’s a family of dust bunnies beneath his leather chair—but the pinboard with its crisscrossing red strings connecting article clippings to sticky notes and crime scene polaroids of dead bodies is proof Rockford can be organized. 

It’s also proof there’s still a helluva lot left to learn about him.

Your mouth goes dry, thoughts tripping over themselves and smacking around the inside of your skull in their mad attempt of providing a logical explanation of what the hell this thing is. Because it looks like an evidence board, like a prop straight out of a police drama with photos of actors and fake blood for the sake of fictional storylines.

Except everything on this pinboard is real. You don’t need Rockford’s confirmation to be certain—you’ve seen enough dead bodies to disturb your sleep for decades, immediately recognize the dim lifelessness in their eyes with one look. Like a burnt out bulb. There’s no faking that. 

And being real makes the question why this pinboard’s in his office all the more unsettling to wonder.

You don’t know how long you stand there, looking between the disturbing newspaper reports detailing a string of suicides unfolding sporadically throughout the city over the last eight months and the even more disturbing photos of the victims. Could be minutes, could be hours. Banjo sits by your leg, yawning, but you can’t bring yourself to tear your gaze away, unable to make sense of Rockford’s scribblings on pink and yellow sticky notes. 

It’s not the handwriting itself—in comparison to Dr. Odair, Rockford’s got the penmanship of a god, every stroke precise and purposeful—but rather, his staunch belief that there’s a connection to be found linking all the incidents together despite the total lack of evidence suggesting one exists.

Just when you think the man can’t get any more strange…

The sound of the front door opening yanks you out of your thoughts. Banjo barks happily, racing out the open door to greet Rockford, and you can feel the precise moment your roommate realizes where the dog has come from, that his office door is now open. You expect the ping of surprise, but what you don’t expect is the easy wave of acceptance following afterwards. There’s not even the faintest buzz of annoyance at breaching his privacy. 

His footsteps draw closer, murmuring quietly to Banjo about it being past the pup’s bedtime. Your hands subconsciously curl into fists, tension digging into the meat of your shoulders in defiance of the calm mood. You’re self-aware enough to know you can’t go to sleep without answers, can’t pretend you’re not freaked out by the pinboard and all its darkness.

Swallowing thickly, you turn to face the doorway. 

You have to know the truth. 

And the only person who can provide it has just walked into the room, brown eyes bright and crinkling as he laughs at your dog. 

The Truth

“I’m surprised to see you’re both still awake,” Rockford says in lieu of greeting, toeing off his shoes and kicking them in the direction of his desk.

You’re thrown off by the neon glow of his yellow socks. Are they always such bright colors? Seriously, they could be used to land planes.  “...what?” 

“Usually you’re out like a light by ten thirty.” There’s a ripple of something then, bright and tactile, rubbing up against your mind-gift like an overly affectionate animal. It’s gone before you can determine its name, vanishing in the wake of a sudden spike of concern so intense it grates against your nerves, pushing the air out of your lungs. “Did something happen while I was out?”

You watch his eyes dart about the office, lines of mild alarm creasing his forehead. Your shoulders remain tense, awaiting an outburst from the man about sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong, but when his gaze finally locks onto yours all you can see, all you can feel is concern. 

“Roan,” he prompts, clearly worried by your lack of response.

“I was getting ready for bed, but then Banjo decided he couldn’t rest without seeing you one last time. He thought you were in here and I knew you weren’t but still–” you flap a hand at the dog, silently conveying he’s a stubborn little furball. The same hand then awkwardly scratches at the back of your neck, fighting back a grimace as you continue, “And well, the door wasn’t locked so–”

“It’s never locked,” Rockford interjects, frowning now. 

Your mouth hangs open for a beat, searching for words before at last managing a quiet, “Oh.”

One of his eyebrows lifts, a perfect arch expressing the confusion you sense muddying the waters of his mindscape. 

“You did know that, didn’t you?” he asks the question slowly. Asks it like he already knows the answer and is dreading hearing it confirmed.

You clear your throat, gaze briefly dropping towards his socks again. “Not really, no.” 

“Oh,” he echoes, brown eyes losing some of their shine. “Really? I thought you…” he shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Doesn’t matter what I thought. What matters is you know now, my office has never been and never will be off limits to you or Banjo.”

“Are you always this open with people?”

“Not with people, no. Just you.”

“Because we’re matched?”

He nods. “Way I figure it, if we really are two halves of the same whole, then it doesn’t make much sense keeping secrets.”

That elicits a scoff before you can stop yourself. “Uh-huh, right.” You point an accusing finger at the pinboard. “Then at what point were you going to bring that up?”

He glances at it, brow furrowing. “You mean my murder map?”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Did you seriously just call it your murder map? What the hell?”

“I don’t understand why you’re upset.” Rockford’s head tilts, eyeing you up and down. “Unless…” Realization sparks and fizzles followed by a sheepish look crossing his face. “Unless this is something else I never mentioned before?”

“No, Rockford,” the pitch of your voice borders on shrill causing him to flinch, “owning a fucking murder map never came up!” You force yourself to take a deep breath, cooling some of the fire prickling along your skin. “I’m an empath, not a mind reader. If you really want there to be no secrets between us then we’ve got to start actually talking to each other. Beginning with why the hell you have a murder map in your office.”

A long, painful pause follows.

You hate it, but you’re not going to be the one to break it. You’ve spoken enough, now the ball’s in his court. Except he’s just looking at you, mood so torturously still. Every second ticks by at a snail’s pace, and something an awful lot like panic is squeezing your heart, and you start to think you’ve screwed everything up, pushed too hard, crossed a line that can’t be forgiven–

Rockford moves closer, looking you straight in the eye, nearly toe to toe, and you try your best not to shrink. “You’re right,” he says at last, a quiet confession wrapping around you like a warm blanket. “For as much as we talk, we rarely actually…talk. And that’s my fault. I’ve been on my own for a long time. Long enough I’ve forgotten how to be known by someone else.”

It takes a second or two to remember how to make your lips move, how to form words. “I–” you take a breath, and try again. It has to be just right for him to understand. “This is all new territory for me too. We both have room for improvement.”

He cracks a wry smile at that, inclining his head close enough to note a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. “Two halves of the same whole, yeah?”

Some of the tension drains from your frame, offering him a small, crooked grin of your own.

“To answer your earlier question about why I have a murder map,” Rockford continues, stepping around you to gently run a finger along one of the red strings, pausing at the end where a thumbtack holds a photo of an alleyway in place. “I’m a consulting detective.”

“A…consulting detective?” you repeat confusedly. You’ve never heard of such a job. Your eyes narrow, a bit shrewd, and start to ask, “Is that even–?”

“Yes, it’s a real job.” He rolls his eyes with a huff, apparently having heard such skepticism before. “When the police struggle putting together the pieces of a particular case, they call me to help solve it. My gift, it enables me to perceive things others miss.”

“Is that how you knew about me?” you ask, thinking back to your first meeting. 

“No, Banjo’s quite the chatterbox,” he says, snickering when the mutt’s ears lift at the mention of his name.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, finding it funny how Rockford failed to mention his terrible sense of humor as one of his annoying traits. Hilarious, really.

Correctly sensing you’re not in a mood for jokes, he sobers up quickly, expression settling back into a serious one. “When we first met, I asked you if you were a psychic or empath? These mind-gifts tend to be hypersensitive when they’re unstable and in need of a match. This also sometimes results in them zoning out when triggered by somebody, such as a total stranger in the middle of the library. From there it was easy to deduce you had to have one of the two.”

“And the rest?”

“The way you stand, shoulders back and spine straight, never quite able to fully relax, that told me military,” he says decisively. “There’s no ring on your finger and you didn’t automatically turn down my offer of living together—meaning there was no current romantic partner or roommate you’d have to check with. No close family nearby either or you’d be living with them because it’s common knowledge empaths suffer when in solitude. You also would have hesitated if you’d merely been on leave, reluctant to change your living situation so drastically before returning to combat, so I knew you must’ve been discharged then.”

“You knew about my psychologist too,” you murmur, head swimming.

“A discharged soldier in Fox Leap with a mind-gift lacking a match?” He crosses his arms loosely over his chest, shrugging. “Wasn’t that big of a logical jump to make that you’d experienced a lapse of control. Happens to about thirty or so soldiers a year, majority of those possessing mind-gifts. Dr. Odair’s practically the first number on the military’s speed dial, of course they’d send you to her.” 

Your lips purse. Put like that, it really is an easy jump to make. 

“And from the reviews I’ve read, Dr. Odair deserves her prestigious reputation. Her coping techniques and methods are top notch, but the best treatment an unstable gift needs is to find its match. She would have informed you of this during your very first session.” Rockford’s on a roll now, words loud in the otherwise silent atmosphere of the office. “In the military, events unfold fast. Battles to be won, tasks to be completed. You would have started looking immediately, intent to find what was yours. However, you ended up adopting a pet, an emotional creature—that says your lack of results was beginning to wear on you. If you couldn’t find your match, at least you had a substitute for your mind-gift to bond with...”

He trails off after a glance at your face, mouth shutting with an audible noise, and you honestly have no idea what expression you’re even making. You don’t have any idea where your thoughts are either, they just seem to be floating aimlessly around in your brain. 

You aren’t sure what you expected from Rockford, but it definitely hadn’t been this—a detailed breakdown of his gift’s assessment of you, like you weren’t a person anymore but one of the crossword puzzles he solves every morning. 1 Across: friendless. 5 Down: at wits’ end. Bonus Word: goodbye emotional privacy. 

He knew all of that, all your flaws, all your issues, and still he offered you a home. Even as your match, there was no requirement to live together. No law forcing him to eat breakfast with you every morning or buy treats for Banjo or give you open access to his emotions. That was all Rockford.

“You,” you say at last, and something interesting happens in the pause between words. Rockford stiffens, watching you closely, tremors of apprehension he can’t quite fully suppress rattling your mind-gift. “...are amazing.” 

Rockford’s eyes widen, looking—and feeling—abruptly dumbstruck. “Really?”

“Really really,” you confirm. A shadow of apprehension persists though, a black cloud you’d like to wipe from his beautiful mindscape forever. “What’s wrong?”

“Amazing isn’t what people normally say when I use my gift on them.”

“What do they normally say?”

The corner of his mouth curls up, a tiny, rueful thing that doesn’t suit his handsome face at all. “Fuck off.”

And it’s funny, the strange way such a mean response makes him even more endearing to you. But it’s something so personally relatable, another link in the chain binding you to one another. 

“Idiots,” you say after a beat, pleased at the snort of amusement it garners. “Their loss is my gain.”

“I’m glad it was you, too, Roan,” Rockford replies, and there’s not a single spot of darkness staining his mood. Just ocean waves and sunshine as far as your mind-gift can reach—and a hint, the faintest of traces of that unnamed feeling from before. 

Something soft. Something fond.

Something you could feel everyday for the rest of your life and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Maybe that’s why it’s so easy for you to say, “So are you gonna tell me what’s up with this case or not?”

[wavytam]

Regarding your recent comment about SP having a high chance of being canon, it got me thinking if I had been deluding myself too much that SN will happen. Like you said, it's true Nami never confirmed her feelings for Sanji but I feel that Oda has been giving us so much SN crumbs over the years. It almost feels cruel to just turn the ship so late in the series if there is to be a ship at all. Am I overthinking all this? Probably yes.

I'm currently still catching up on the manga but I have taken a few peaks at the recent chapters and haven't noted any reference to Pudding from Sanji's side since they left WCI. Almost like he didn't think about her anymore after he left. I did see references to Nami which is no surprise since they are crewmates. Did I miss something? It feels like if Oda made SP endgame it would really would feel like all those years of SN hints had been all for nothing. Am I crazy to be feeling this way? Anyway trying to be realistic with expectations since OP is not about romance and I know none of us fans really know what Oda is planning.

I really enjoy your SN and general OP insights so I appreciate hearing your thoughts on this.

I don't think you are overthinking, let alone crazy. Like you said, Oda did give us a lot of SaNami moments. And, although ambiguous, they can be interpreted as romantic. The simple fact that Oda chose to make Sanji interested in Nami (even if he states he wants no romance amongst the crew) is... weird.

Instead of making Sanji get over his feelings for Nami early on, Oda chose to show us again and again that she is special to Sanji, more than any other woman.

To make matters worse, having Purin inserted in the story so late and still not letting Sanji know she loves him so he can move on from Nami is also a weird choice.

Does Oda want to keep SP as an endgame? Maybe. But again, Nami also does not know about the extent of Sanji's feelings for her and has been kept in the dark for years. Why? Wouldn't her knowing and (presumably) rejecting him so he can actually find his love partner be the better option? Wouldn't it actually help Oda skip the romance he so eagerly wants to avoid amongst the crew?

And yet, here we are. Right now, things are as confusing as many other plot points in the manga.

The thing is: we might only find out during Sanji's last development or once the manga is over.

I really understand you, and I don't think you're crazy at all for seeing that. This is all really strange, and we can only guess. But there is a reason for the SaNami fan base to be so big and have so many people see them as a great couple.

Now if you ask me what I think all of this is about, I'd say there is something Oda is preparing for Sanji that will have to do with his feelings for Nami.

It's not a coincidence he chose to make their first interaction be about Sanji admitting he would turn into the "devil" for her.

And I agree that it would be a bit sad if Oda is just planing to make Sanji like Nami for the entirety of the manga without any other purpose, besides making her reject him in the very last chapter or something.

What you said about Purin is also weird: Sanji seems to have moved on from his entire experience with Purin the moment he left Whole Cake.

Oda could have used the opportunity to develop a small crush from Sanji's side so their (possible) reunion in the future could be even more interesting. However, in their last interaction (aside from the heart eyes moment after she kissed him), he was very cordial towards her and seemed ready to conclude everything with her in a friendly, peaceful note. Nothing more than that.

Oda could have at least made Sanji think about Purin once after WCI, and it would be enough. But my guess is that he will only remember her when he finds out she was kidnapped by Black Beard.

Not to tell that, if Oda knows how he will end the manga for a long while now, why didn't he foreshadow Purin more in earlier chapters? Doesn't he like to leave hints about characters, their deaths, and future arcs all around the manga and colorspreads? I don't recall Oda ever making hints specifically about her. Big Mom, yes, but not Purin.

Take Hancock, too, as an example. We have sketches of her from as early as 1999. Or even Sanji's brothers: the fact that Sanji's name has the kana for 3, already hinted that he had at least two other siblings. Oda planned that.

But I don't recall anything about Purin specifically and I doubt Oda wouldn't have at least thought about Sanji's endgame romance from the very beginning (as I said, love is a key factor in Sanji's storyline specifically, just as Luffy's is freedom and Zoro's is strength).

On the other hand, we have a lot of colorspreads, cover pages, and number/word plays that Oda used to adress Sanji, Nami and their dynamic - and we obviously have a ton of interactions directly from the manga as well.

As I said, my guess is that Oda wants to use that for a major moment later on in the manga, and I think he planned that from the beginning. Whether it makes SaNami canon, it's up to debate, but I do not think it's too far-fetched to think that they have a chance of happening.

In conclusion, please, don't think you're crazy. I think Oda is clearly leaving weird hints here and there, and he just doesn't say why because it might spoil our experience as readers.

I will choose to see this as romantic because I do think that Nami would be perfect for Sanji and vice versa.

I will keep on shipping!! And there's a lot that can happen yet.

Also, thank you so much for your kind words and for reading what I have to say! Whenever you feel like it, feel free to leave as many messages as you want!

[just-another-star-47]

Auror Special Force

💠 Get a Christmas tree (completed) somehow

"Oh, shit..."

It was this sentence, coupled with the loud clanging and banging, that made Sebastian put down the weights and step out of the gym.

"We've got everything under control,"

MC hastened to assure him as she repaired the window pane with a spell before any more snow could blow inside the base. Waving her wand in the air with one hand, she held the top of a fir tree with the other, at the other end of which two of her comrads were standing, trying to manoeuvre the trunk between tables and chairs.

Eyes wide but silent for the moment, Sebastian watched the spectacle before him, his gaze travelling the length of the tree before falling on the snow and earth that had been dragged in.

"I don't know where to start with my questions..."

"Just ignore us, sir..." as she tried to play down the situation, MC almost tripped over a chair and then climbed over it, half-hidden between the tree's branches.

"To the left... a little more to the left!"

The scraping of table legs and crashing of a chair falling over filled the room, causing Sebastian to finally speak a word of command.

"Stop, all three of you!"

He stepped closer to MC and bent a few of the branches aside so he could look her in the face.

"Where, by Merlin's beard, did you get this tree?"

"From the forest south of here, sir."

His gaze lingered on her face for a moment: "The forest is at least a day's march from the base."

"That's why we flew."

His eyes flew from her to the two Aurors still holding the trunk of the tree, now stepping from one leg to the other with their heads bowed.

"You flew with the brooms and the tree?"

She nodded.

"Without telling me?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise, sir."

His eyes narrowed, and he grabbed the tree stump, wresting its weight from her grasp.

"Or perhaps you simply feared I would not approve of such an action, recruit?"

Convulsively, she tried not to take her eyes off his face and ignore the fact that he was standing in front of her, shirtless after his sports session, his arm and shoulder muscles tense from holding the tree, the dark needles of the fir tree pressing against the skin of his chest, which was still glistening with sweat.

She drew in a sharp breath as she realised the betrayal of her eyes, "The tree suits you perfectly, sir."

He stared at her, and she knew immediately that she had gone too far.

"You remember where the cleaning supplies are, recruit?"

"Yes, sir..." She looked down at the floor and clasped her hands behind her back.

"Before bedtime, the floor and the entire room will be free of every crumb of dirt and every little needle."

"Understood, sir." Her voice softened, her gaze fixed on the floor.

She felt his eyes on her back as she disappeared from the common room and made her way to the storeroom, letting out a frustrated sigh when she was out of earshot of the troop leader.

Unconsciously, Sebastian returned the sigh as he shook his head, only taking his eyes off her when she stepped through the door and out into the corridor of the base.

"I'll get to you two later," he turned his focus to the other two Aurors, "first, let's get this monstrosity to a suitable place."

❆⋆❆⋆❆⋆⚔⋆❆⋆❆⋆❆

LOGBOOK: All missions here.

[herbertwest]

Happy Birthday Felix Yusupov!

Happy birthday to Prince Felix Yusupov! In honor of the occasion, I have written a short story (which contains the infamous 76 word, 14 comma sentence I was talking about the other day). For those of you unfamiliar with Yusupov, he is the man who assassinated Rasputin, as well as the reason all movies have the 'all people depicted are fictional' disclaimer. He is also my favorite historical figure. Now then, on with the story!:

March 23rd was an auspicious day. True, it was the Saints Day of martyrs Victorinus, Victor, Nicephorus, Claudius, Diodorus, Serapion, and Papias, (or perhaps it was actually the Saints Day of monk-martyr Nikon and his one hundred and ninety-nine disciples - who could keep track of the calendars these days?), as well as the day Tsar Paul I was murdered in 1801, but, if you asked Prince Felix Yusupov, one more, even more portentous, event took place on that date: his birthday. In 1887 the world had been graced with his presence, and he had no intention of depriving it anytime soon. While he had been forced to flee Russia when the revolution struck, he had managed to find his feet in London (though he would soon move to Paris), along with his wife, Irina, and daughter, Bébé. He was now going to subject London to a party it would never forget.

Yusupov had several special skills: party planning, assassinating mad monks who were dragging the monarchy into ruin, and wasting money. He was going to apply two of the three wholeheartedly to the birthday bash he was throwing himself. He would have drinking, dancing, music (including some of his own performances), and a veritable feast. The cream of London and Paris would be invited, alongside the Russian nobility who had made good on their escape at the same time as Yusupov.

The invitations were sent, the acceptances poured in (for Yusupov’s parties were legendary), and finally, the day arrived.

Pomp and circumstance! Glitter and glamor! Flavor and flair! Yusupov moved through the crowd, dispensing a quip here, a (probably unwise) word of advice there, recounting his adventures, or reminiscing on the past. Everything was going swimmingly until…

Yusupov glimpsed a face in the crowd, an impossible face. Burning eyes that had haunted his dreams lingered in afterimage across the room. The noise of the party faded away, leaving Yusupov standing in a silent crowd. They still spoke animatedly, but he could hear nothing. “It’s been a while, eh, Felix?” The voice came from behind him, an all too familiar voice. Yusupov whirled around, heart racing. Standing by the hors d’oeuvres, munching on a canapé, was Rasputin. Since Yusupov had assassinated Rasputin in 1916, this was rather impossible. “What, no greeting for an old friend?” asked Rasputin. “You have an interesting definition of ‘friend,’” replied Yusupov. Rasputin looked in fine form, which meant that he was probably a ghost and not physically undead. Yusupov had not left him in the best shape. “Perhaps, but what else can we cling to in this world?” asked Rasputin, taking another canapé. “Nations crumble, fashions change, but here we still are.” “I’ll drink to that.” Yusupov snagged a champagne flute from a nearby tray and took a swig. “I assume now is the part where you either haunt me into an early grave or strike me down where I stand.” “No, no, I’m not here for that.” “Why are you here then? I know the canapés are good, but I wouldn’t have thought them quite good enough to crawl out of the grave for.” Rasputin laughed, spraying crumbs down his beard. “I’m just here to wish one of the last remnants of a dead regime a happy birthday. From one ghost, to one who might as well be a ghost. We’ll go down in history together, just you wait and see.” He plucked the glass out of a nearby partygoer’s hand and inclined it towards Yusupov. Yusupov tapped it with his own glass. As the glass rang, Rasputin began to fade. “One more thing before I go,” he said, and pulled a small box out of the pocket of his robes. He handed this to Yusupov. “Happy birthday.” And Rasputin was gone.

The sound of festivities returned, chatter and laughter. It hit Yusupov like a cold wave, and he shivered. In his hands he held a box, wrapped in yellowed newspaper that related the story of Rasputin’s death. He tore it open. Inside was a keychain with Nicholas II and the royal family embossed on it. Yusupov began to laugh, louder and louder, until he was nearly doubled over and everyone was staring at him. Irina ran over. “Is everything alright?” she asked. “Fine, everything’s fine,” replied Yusupov. “Who wants to hear a song?” His guests, who had passed the point of ‘tipsy’ some time ago, cheered. Yusupov slipped the keychain into his pocket and went to fetch his guitar. As he struck up a folk tune, he let his mind wander to the future, the new world spinning out of the old at a speed impossible to harness; a new era dawning that would bring untold wonders and unimaginable tribulations. Whatever unfolded, it would be spectacular.

[koskela-knights]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/53380903

I know no chill. Here, throws out my Rose & Koskelas fanfic AU where the brothers are werewolves. Read it here or on ao3!

Once a month, Rose opens the diner much earlier than the usual. Not 7 AM but 5 AM. Obviously, it’s not for her average, regular customers. She groans as she gets out of bed. She goes through the motions of having super early breakfast, getting cleaned up in the bathroom, brushing her teeth and then getting dressed. Because her special guests don’t really care about any formalities, she puts her uniform in a bag and dresses in a simple top and jeans. At least, she allows herself to be a tad more comfortable while going to work two hours earlier than usual. Once she arrives at the diner, she immediately gets cooking. Beef patties on the grill, fries sweating away in the fryer, eggs sizzling in a pan with bacon. The coffee is getting prepared as well. All smells come surprisingly well together and it puts Rose in a good mood. She is humming along with the radio she’d put on. What she is doing today, is almost a ritual. Just as she expected, when the clock shows it’s 05:45 the food is ready and there’s a knocking at the entrance door. “Coming!” she yells. And yes, there they are. The Koskela brothers. Both in remarkably unfitting and oversized plaid shirts and messy jeans with some rip and tear around certain areas. Rose opens the door for them and they all get inside, quickly taking a seat at the nearest spots available.

 “Rough night?” Rose asks with a sly smile on her lips as she stares them down.

Ilmo looks particularly beat up. His left hand is roughly bandaged up, blood still peaking through. “Do I look that bad?” he snorts. The waitress considers to stay quiet but since he asked, she replies: “Honestly, you look like shit.” She pinches her nose and adds: “You smell like it too.” Jaakko Koskela can’t hide his chuckle even if he wanted to try to. Rose attentively but playfully taps the older brother’s hand with her spatula. “Hey! You’re not far away from stinking up this place!” Jaakko subtly growls but Rose remains unfazed. Honestly, she had dealt with worse than two hungry shapeshifters in her diner.

 “Anyways, I’ll get you your food.” She swiftly turns around and gets back to the kitchen. She can still hear the younger brother joke about Jaakko always looking like a wolf with that beard of his. She rolls her eyes at herself and gets the plates with steaming hot food. Almost as soon as she puts the plates in front of the Koskelas, they attack the food. She takes a few calculated steps back and observes them chew down aggressively.

Rose remembers the night she had encountered the brothers in the wild. Large furred beasts with glowing eyes. One of them was devouring a poor you-know-what that had made the mistake to cross their path. Had it not been for the shards of blue plaid, she wouldn’t have known it was Jaakko Koskela. Then another monster had emerged from the shadows and in a reflex, Rose had shot at it. The following morning, she had a wounded Koskela brother ordering food in the diner. She had immediately dragged him to the back of the diner, scolded him first for trying to claw her face off and then tried to patch him up with the skills she had learned from her nursing job. Then they’d struck a deal.

Grease splatters fly around their table together with bread crumbs and pieces of fries. Jaakko ploughs into the fries with his fork, trying to impale as many fries as possible. Meanwhile, Ilmo realizes cutlery doesn’t provide enough so he just uses his hands. He stuffs his mouth with bacons and eggs like a hamsters. In-between chews, he splutters his gratitude to Rose for providing with the much needed calories to gain back their energy after a long, tiresome night. “As long as you two help clean up this mess once you’re finished,” she says as she begins to prepare the restaurant for the other customers. It doesn’t take the Koskelas long before everything she had cooked up for them was gone. Rose can’t help but cringe when Jaakko outs the loudest burp ever. Gross.

 “You two are dogs,” she exclaims.

Ilmo chuckles as he wipes his mouth and beard clean with some paper tissues. “Actually, we’re wolves.”

 “Well, not at the moment. Now get your ass off those couches and help me out!”

“But we just ate all this food, lady. It also burns some off our energy,” Ilmo fake laments. Rose isn’t having it, though. Puppy-eyes or not, this table isn’t going to clean itself. She crosses her arms and stares the younger brother down.

 “We’ll go help,” Jaakko gives in first. He gets up and moves to the back to clean his hands and face. Ilmo follows, hunched over like a kicked dog-, or rather wolf.

 “We really appreciate your support, Rose,” Jaakko declares while they’re manually washing the dishes.

“It’s the least I can do. And trust me, I kind of know what it feels like to not be yourself once a month.”

 “I wouldn’t say those two things are comparable but-,” Ilmo gets cut off by his brother.

“Shut it, Ilmo. We owe Rose a lot.”

Once they’re done cleaning, the waitress gives the two brothers a final look. No injuries or hints at their previous night, except for the baggy clothes. “I’ll see you later today?”

 “Yup,” Jaakko says.

“I’ll bring in the new coffee bland around noon,” Ilmo promises. After the two men are out of sight, Rose locks the door again. She exhales and gets to the office room to quickly change into her usual outfit. It’s almost time to open the diner. She chuckles to herself. If only Alan knew what kind of life she led now. Fighting monsters in the night, being a waitress and nurse by day and every once after a full moon, stilling the wolfish hunger of two brothers.

[dreamsandroots]

Pan of the Infinite Realms

To sing in mourning: bittersweet.

Occasionally during these weeks following his passing, I have found myself struck, in contemplation of the father as mythical being, by the image of Pan, rustic God of the wild, goat-horned satyr, famed piper and, by all accounts, general mischief-maker. In spite of Pan’s status as an outcast from the snowy-peaked heights of Mount Olympus—a figure who categorically refused the pomp and grandeur of Zeus’ impetuous brood—the wild God’s unimposing presence was epic, even if only for its tacit reach. There’s something of Pan in the attention to proximity: of being aware of the boundaries between self and those in orbit that plays out through this self-distancing, a recurring displacement of the shapeshifter as he moves along the parallax gap between a retreat into ostracism and the act of caring from afar. Pan: everything, anything, and perhaps especially all those things you hadn’t altogether noticed. Frederick, my father, was, to me, the epitome of the unspoken imperative, quite in contrast to the loud souls surrounding those types of men I’d observe who couldn’t keep their words, their habits or their worldviews contained. 

Frederick was never loud, in my recollection. There was a song-like cadence to the inflection of his words, even in those rare instances when he’d engage his booming voice—for there are times when, no matter the family dynamic, the semblances of a father’s authority is demanded. When he spoke, it would often border on the mumble, such that one was inclined to strain in order to hear the words being said. To the uninitiated, this might have seemed the behaviour of the anxiously unsure: of one whose emotions had gone cold, held back and kept tight under guard. It’s true that Fred was not loud in his emotions or his moods, but he showed his love for family and community through his actions. He was generous in his attention, even if it only ever emerged from the outliers. He’d always ask how you were getting on, always eager to hear what you’d been up to, and especially what you thought about the secret whispers of existence or the ways you navigated the various folds of the space-time continuum. His presence, though soft, or at least one that was registered only with a deceptively light touch, became important for those of us who knew the value of having someone to watch over the situation with careful and sympathetic eyes. Someone who made the effort to see you.

Pan was said to be the ugliest God. Well, I think I’ll let that specific part of the constellation skip over into incoherence, unless I wish also to implicate myself and my dear siblings, my fellow autochtha, in this charge of unsightliness. But I can say that there was perhaps some evidence of an aversion to beauty as an ultimate value in Fred, if by ‘beauty’ we mean the type embodied by magazine spreads or movie screens. And if ‘aversion’ is too strong a term here, perhaps ‘indifference’ will do more aptly. In their wedding photos, both Frederick and Veronica (who, among many other things is the mother of his children) look stunning, so it’s not as if he couldn’t lean into, or be swayed, by the gravity of the aesthetic. But in his later years, and personally, for me, in his most handsome of forms, Fred would let his face grow wild until his big bushy beard would catch crumbs. He’d eat heartily without regard to the shape of his tummy. He’d sometimes let the cobwebs grow and the ‘bits’ on the carpet meander at his apartment in Parramatta. When I helped Veronica clean his cottage late ‘22, when he’d been admitted to Campbelltown hospital with the double threat of a UTI and Covid-19, I marvelled at the community of spiders he’d left prospering on his top window by the front door (which was actually his side door, but that's a longer story).

Pan was a much loved piper. I remember how special I felt to be a part of the band at Sadlier at our little church close to our home in Ashcroft and the school I attended. Well to be honest, just between you and me, I wasn’t really part of the band per se, I was really just sitting at the back with the rest of the band, singing along. But I’d go to the rehearsals each week where at least a couple of siblings would be strumming guitars and Fred would play flighty green melodies on his flute. And as far as Fred was concerned, I was part of the band, same as anyone.

In his image, I’m reminded of talk about the fruit freshest from the vine. By which I think I mean to say that even in his advanced age there was something young and carefree to his presence. Being the youngest, I made a particular point of contrast with the oldest member of the family, even if only in our respective ages. I think there was something in me that embodied the audacity and recklessness of youth: the freedom to take the fool’s role and the rebel's cause. It may just be my imagination but I always felt that Fred appreciated my sense of mischief, and perhaps encouraged it to a degree, if not outright endorsing. I mean, he’d never tell directly if he did. Fred was 38 years old when I was born so I never had the pleasure of knowing him as a younger man. In many of the photos we have of his earlier life I notice how broadly he used to smile. When I look at these photos I imagine in the moments of their taking, he’d felt a sense of self-purpose and that he had faith, either in himself or something beyond to which he was connected, and that he held the ideas he brought into the world passionately, close to his heart. As his youngest child I can only smile in the hopes that I can continue this legacy. That we all can.

The man I knew may not have smiled as openly or as vigorously—or at least not for those pointing cameras at him—but humour was never far from his grasp, his bag of tricks always ready at hand. His impish joy would shine brightest in those moments when you were the only one to catch his underhanded joke over the busy dinner table, and he’d smile just as broadly when you passed the same joke back to him ten minutes later. Even once his health began to slide, over these past few years, he was never despondent, never faithless. He was the type who'd crack jokes to the nurses as he limped, blood trickling down his face, and looking as if he’d just barely scraped through a minefield.

Various stories abound regarding Pan’s ancestry and progeny. Some place him as the son of Hermes, others that he was the foster-brother of Zeus, and thus Hermes’ uncle and teacher in music. Other tales have him being older than Zeus, a son of Cronus and Rhea. It’s hard not to think, in this tangle of identity, of those generational traits and recurring faces that are familiar to any who are part of a family tree that takes particular stock of their ancestors’ tales, and holds them close. In this sense, Pan becomes something quite personal, taking on a specific form and imbued with a particular emotional intensity.

Pan, to me, is the spirit of a quiet, smiling face or a particular high-pitched tenor to the questioning voice. Or sometimes he’s a mood: a restlessness that borders on nervousness which, in the end, drifts towards the gentle silence that can emerge between careful minds. He's an inclination to pull the brightest light close to the soul in order to reflect, but not close enough to hinder its flight-path. An idea that comes to you as if from nowhere, before realising that even all of those sweet secret moments in which the ‘self’ reveals its ‘self’ had been, in part, passed down to you along the river's flow. Pan is everything, the interdimensional Möbius loop as well as the tangled mess of phone cords you keep in an old drawer.

In Plutarch, a story related by the historian Philip, tells of Thamus, an Egyptian sailor bound for Rome who had heard a divine voice proclaim that “the great god Pan is dead!” In his compendium, The Greek Myths, Robert Graves writes that Pausanias, while touring Greece roughly a century after this declaration was recorded, had “found Pan’s shrines, altars, sacred caves, and sacred mountains still much frequented.” Perhaps it’s only in this way that we know the value of the wild: once it has been all-but purged from our hyper-aware state of self consciousness.

Perhaps the death of Pan struck such a chord to those in this time of Thamus because it was more than the story of the death of a God, it was also the death of a way of thinking about ‘The Gods,’ which over aeons had shifted, from the rustic ideals of nature as life-giving, passed down through our various oral, aural and psychical transmissions had mutated into the icons of those grandiloquent beings that stood beyond reach as if looking down in judgement from above. If a God could die, it meant that the Gods were like us after all. Let them die to let them live. Let us honour the Gods as being like us, rather than placing them on a pedestal of worship. In this, Pan was perhaps closer to Gaia and Hades than he ever was to the self-assured Zeus. Not transcendental—in the sky—but of the earth below.

I’m not going to pretend that Frederick had any particular inclination towards the Greek gods, or at least he ever shared it with me if he did. He was more into the druidic mysteries and his runes, the teachings of the elders of the Navaho, and the stories of the carpenter of Nazareth than he was in the usual classical fare of ancient history as conceived in ‘the West.’ As such, I should point out that this is in part my picture that I paint over the outline of the father, in the hopes that he won’t mind too much me placing him there, and in fact might find himself at home with the figure of Pan who I have come to love and respect, two archetypes blending.

For the love of the father, his kindness and his gentleness and all of the ways that he shined in his own way I offer three silent cries to the dead God: Pan of the infinite realms. Long may you return to us, and especially in those moments in which we forget what we’ve forgotten.

[sonxofxgondor]

@ofthevanyar asked: come sit down. have a brandy with us.

Casablanca (1942) Prompts

Draped in the colors of Aragorn and his Arwen, from the windows and across the arches of walls, the fabrics of the returned king decorated the ancient dining hall. Tapestries and textiles dedicated to he. Bold silvers and vibrant lilacs - threaded work that spanned stories - breathed life into the once abandoned room. Dust from the wooden floorboards cleaned, until the mahogany sparkled, the scarlet woven carpet that rested above made soft to the touch. Centuries of gross and grime scrubbed free; the table at the center was dressed in pristine ivory cloth, runner of gold turned immaculate, plates and cups akin more to valued treasures than means to eat and drink. Apples and grapes stacked into ceramic bowl of blue, roasted pig served hot onto bronze platter, and baked breads with fresh cheeses presented on flat cuts of oak, the spread of the meal was a divine sight. Able to cause the mouth to water and the stomach to growl; Boromir drawn to it from first notice, the moment when doors were pulled open and scents flooded toward, the call of his beloved Amarie the final coax.

Adornments kept simple and understated, for the dining hall was still without the pieces of old grandeur, the keepsakes of past kings, physical resplendence was instead replaced by courtesy. Shadows of framed portraits all that remained on the stone walls, memories that took to shape in war-garb and battle-swords put away, stored someplace else. Years of peace and prosperity to be found in Gondor, no more was there to be reminders of loss, of the selfishness of Man or the deaths that pure evils delivered. So many good taken, so many brave and valiant buried in the graveyards, Gondor was reborn. Under the careful hand of Aragorn and his bride, Arwen tender to the fates of those she ruled, noted even as they eat their share of fruits and meat, sipped their drinks and smiled warmly. Unlike anything witnessed before, all the troubles that were endured were finished with, never to be seen again. Boromir was spectator to dreams come true; all that he had wished for, all that was prayed for, found, finally.

Taking the chair closest to Amarie, the delicate scrape of dark maple onto floor as he did so, upholstery stitched in combination of rich oranges and muted tawny, Boromir made himself comfortable. Shifted on the cushion until content, the plush filling still stiff, never used before, grabbed a plate for himself and made his pickings, the slab of pork with the most fried fat sliver, the thickest slice of bread with the thickest slice of cheese, pungent and with hints of nut. A cup of brandy taken for himself also, subtle cinnamon to the tastes, savored from the first sip.

Mouth corners wiped with napkin tip, the bits of pork and bread that clung to, crumbs of grain and flecks of smoked skin, before another bite was devoured, Boromir grasped Amarie's hand and lifted it. Held her slender bone within his larger, admired how they married so well together, pressed a kiss to her flesh, lingered. Breathed in her fragrance - ethereal and refined, sunshine and goodness - poured all his love for her into the caress of his lips, the tickle of his beard as it graced her. Gray eyes lost in the world that was Amarie's; what Boromir would live and die for, his purpose and happiness, his forever love.

Boromir whispered, so that only he and her ears could hear. "Hello, my beautiful."

Delicate in his lips' release of her, Boromir parted from Amarie, returned to his feasting but kept one hand upon hers still, the other busy with the efforts of shinny fork. Beneath the table where neither Aragorn nor Arwen could see without strain, onto Amarie's gown-covered lap, a special affection just for they and none else.

Boromir asked with closed mouth smile, pork grizzle chewed and swallowed as if it were the mightiest of beasts, a gulp from the throat, "my friends, may I inquire about your gathering? When the housecarl mentioned I would find you lot here, I was surprised! Aragorn, Arwen, it is so often that you are found together outside for your luncheons. I can't recall a time when I did not see you two underneath the shade of the White Tree! Something about this meal feels very, well, mischievous. Do tell, is there a plan in the works, a scheme that you all have plotted? And, my Amarie! You have a look about you! Please, as your faithful and devoted man, do not leave me in the dark. I promise, I'll not tell a soul whatever is you three have cooked up. But, my sweet, won't you spoil some of the details? I hate to be left in suspense! Especially when a good adventure is in the works!"

[ladysunbite]

"So do you," Orianna's gaze slipped across his frame, looking for any wounds. The temerian looked well and...brooding. As usual. Another blessing under a skin of a monster. "You can shed your wolfskin, I am not going to hurt you," the refined vampiress arched an eyebrow. Was it truly necessary to make her underline all the simple truths again? "Eat and listen. Until the very end." storytelling was her guilty pleasure, she took a special pride in it, and her children coaxed stories out of her with more fervour than they begged for sweets. However, a freshly cut throat limited the pleasure. It seemed the wolf, the man was getting his desire for once. But not before she would get her little bite of revenge set the scene properly. To comment on her age with nary a shame, what a crude way to greet a friend!

"Francis Bedlam is one of my children. I suppose you have already guessed that," the basket was opened, painstakingly slowly. The tartan was set on the ground, below the tree, under the glittering gaze of the moon. The refined vampiress took another chunk of time, before she dropped another crumb, stretching the pause as she was setting out the golden dishes with the meat, cooked bloodied, goblets of wine, forks and knives, fresh gem-like grapes and baked trifles in an intricated pattern, as if a figure in a dance, viewed from above. "My charges do not usually kill the young, or mothers. The perks of upbringing, you may call it." Another crumb. "Something in your story did not add up. And yet I know you for being brutally honest."

And another.

A leaf of thyme was placed upon the chunk of meat and, satisfied at last, she had beckoned the werewolf closer. Why he shunned that form was still beyong Orianna, he seemed to control it well and looked as mangy as with his beard. "My bedridden state allowed me to have a proper talk with my...with the King of Beggars, as you call him. You see, he returned to Toussaint with a company. A small girl, whom he begged to be placed in my care, for he had a very good memories of the orphanage and deemed it to be the safest place for the child, whom he felt obliged to protect for the reasons unknown to me." Orianna poured the words languidly, drop by drop, as if it was a strong drink, the same way she poured the rich, dark wine into their goblets. It looked black under the moon, just like the ribbon that snaked around her throat.

"You know where I am leading to, don't you? She curses just like a soldier, although she looks very little like you, to my eye."

A complete and utter cluster fuck without a shadow of a doubt, that he had dropped the ball with Orianna and caused so much issues and drama, because he had thought for the moment, that the best course of action one could make would be to carve her head from her body to make it a more simple task to transport her with him and seek out the target he was hunting, unaware that Orianna.

Was truly a creature that was beyond his wildest dreams and not something to be fucked around with, the old saying ringing true, fuck around and your going to find out.

What was time to him now.

Losing track of it and going into hiding then and leaving Orianna, to keep himself as far from the unseen as possible, he didn’t understand the inner workings of the higher vampire culture, but someone like Orianna, had to have a master and had to answer to others, if he had no hope within hell of ever truly killing Orianna, what chance did he have of doing it to the one who created her, the one she kneels before, the one she calls master, so he went to the mountain and he would go into hiding.

Waiting for her.

“You are alone.” Indeed, he caught her scent on the winds, only one person would be able to make it this far up the mountain, through the snow and winds to reach this spot, he had expected knights, or hunters, something, anything, but it seems that Orianna has spun another story once more to twist and turn things to how she wished for them to be.

“You look younger, don’t lie to me, you would have cut my head off as well, only difference is, I cannot heal from such a thing.” As he made his way closer to her, and circled her, looking her up and down and making sure, that Orianna was not here to kill him, then again, if she had, she would have came to the cave when he was sleeping, killed him in his sleep, or waited for him to die of the elements and lack of food, seeing as what little was here, Orianna had pointed out, he had killed it all and eaten it in his wait these months for everything to settle down.

“Speak Orianna.” As he spat out, no games, no bullshit, if she came all the way here for news, it better be fucking good, he was less than thrilled with her as well, look at him, this is what happens when he was around her, he submits, she gains a loyal dog and he is trapped until her tasks are done and all he wished for one time, was for Orianna to fucking do something for him, instead, he is saving her ass, killing for her ass, serving her ass and getting nothing other than complete and utter grief.

“Make it fast, you have a long trip back down tonight.”

[theredwritingwitch]

The Turkey Pig

Pairing: Marcus Pike x fem!reader

Summary: As Hanks-giving approaches, you realized you needed a bottomless pit guinea pig...and one FBI agent will do.

Word Count: 5.5 K

Warnings: Cursing, marking but with permission, alcohol, fade to black sex, holiday fluff, consumption of food

Ratings: M

Appetizers

A guinea pig was needed. Anyone would do, but you needed someone with an appetite for anything and everything as well as a bottomless stomach. Thanksgiving was on its way and you were this year's host for your friends’ special holiday of Tom Hanks-giving. Not everyone had family near to spend the holiday with, so you and your friends made the time up together: eating food, playing games, and binging on many Tom Hanks movies. Your own family lived across the country and were spending the holiday with your sibling, promising to see you for the Christmas break. So your holiday was freed for celebrating with close friends, and this year you volunteered to host. Unlike other years, you wanted to try out new recipes which meant you needed a helping hand or rather an open mind and stomach! Your sights were set on one handsome and friendly FBI agent.

Marcus Pike and you had become fast friends when he moved into your apartment building. He was heartbroken and lonely, and you had a gorgeous recipe for nutella crepes that would cure any broken heart syndrome. The poor man came stumbling home from a long night at work, and found himself attracted by the smell of breakfast and sweets. He had seen you taking up your laundry, following you down the hall past his own apartment. As you opened your door, the smell of an alluring aroma flew to Marcus. After delicately asking you what you were cooking, Marcus accepted your invite to a late breakfast for dinner. Ever since that late night brunch, he hadn’t been able to stay away from your culinary habits. 

It also helped that you had a solid crush on the art crimes agent. The man was easy on the eyes, and on the ears. He knew all the right things to say, what movies to recommend, music to listen to, and advice to give. It was simple too easy to become heart eyed at Marcus when he jabbered on about old films, classic art, and random trivia knowledge. In your opinion the agent was a real renaissance man, he seemed to have an interest in a great many things, all of which he loved to share with you. And you loved to listen, he had a way to become truly animated when he spoke, always including you in the conversation. The man always had a way to grab all your attention. 

But you had a way to grab his attention as well. Which was crucial in your current predicament. You were a heavy believer that food was the way to a man’s heart. Maybe a part of you was hoping to have yourself something of a guinea pig but perhaps even something more? 

Tonight was no different from the other nights you had with Marcus; you knew the agent was home and knew he would never turn down a question for help. Because that was Marcus, he was a knight in shining armor. The man jumped at the thought of helping and aiding you or anyone in need. Just one of many reasons you were falling in a hopeless crush for the man. You had asked for his help on many other occasions and the reward for his help was always the same, an offer of free food. Scraping up a plate of stuffed mozzarella and bread crumb mushroom caps, you knocked a happy tune onto Marcus’ door. You had made these stuffed mushrooms before for Marcus, and knew you could easily lure the man right where you needed him.

Right on cue to your pondering was the man of your eye. Still dressed in his trim work suit but with some ruffled hair that matched his scruffy beard, Marcus smiled from ear to ear as he took you in. Posing with the plate of food right in front of the door, you gave Marcus a dazzling smile.

“I need a favor.”

Marcus grabbed a mushroom instantly and bit down, humming as a few crumbs fell to the plate and as the mozzarella stretched from his mouth. You watched him keenly as he licked his lips and reached out for a second mushroom.

“Anything for you,” he gushed as his eyes sparkled with mirth to the plate of food he was slowly coaxing out of your hands.

You laughed and batted him away, taking a few steps back towards your apartment, “Well seeing as Thanksgiving is right around the corner.”

Marcus acknowledged your comment and took a few steps towards you, closing his door behind him.

“And I’m staying here for Thanksgiving, which means it will be a Friendsgiving for me,” you continued back to your door.

“I’m familiar with the holiday.”

“Are you familiar with Tom Hanks-giving? Because that’s actually what we’re celebrating.”

Marcus laughed as he lunged for a mushroom, “I can certainly get behind that holiday.”

“So can my friends and I, but here’s the catch, I’m hosting and that means I’m cooking.”

“Your friends are damn lucky,” he groaned into a bite.

“Well you can be lucky too if…you be my guinea pig,” you offered him the whole plate.

Marcus looked up to you with wide eyes, “You mean I can eat more of your food?”

“Yes, as in I need to try out some new side dishes, pies, potatoes, stuffing—”

“When do I start?” Marcus interrupted you in a dead series tone.

You bit your lip with glee, “You already did start! Today you will be taste testing appetizers!” 

“Today? As in, this is going on for a couple of days?”

“Yep I’ll have dinner ready for you when you get home Agent Pike,” You gleefully explained as you entered your apartment.

“Doesn’t seem like much of a favor when I’m the one getting rewarded…” Marcus trailed off as he took in the feast before him. Letting the door swing close behind him, he oohed and aahed at the selection that you had laid out. 

Handing Marcus a bubbling orange cranberry mimosa, you went on to explain to him the menu. Starting with a simple caramelized onion dip to a vibrant cranberry whipped feta dip, both served with your homemade cracked pepper chips. Finally you served him cheesy green bean & mushroom tarts as well as caramelized onion & goat cheese bites. For his part in the deal, Marcus slurped and chewed everything down that he could. He licked the spoon clean of cranberry sauce and popped the bits of goat cheese into his mouth all to flush it all down with another round of mimosa.

For your part, as hostess and chef, you seemed to lose yourself in the quaint atmosphere the two of you found yourselves in. Conversing and eating under the warm lights of your kitchen as the sun went down was a homey daydream you had in your head for way too long. There was something so familiar and cozy about Marcus that made you want to just simply rest your head on his shoulder to be enveloped in his arms on the couch, maybe even being sunken into a bed as he pushed you further into the mattress with his…

“So honest answers only?” Marcus questioned you as he jarred you out of your quiet staring. 

“Oh yes, honest answers only!”

“I have no idea what you’re going to be serving at this Hanks-giving,” he paused as he eyed your fading smile. Leaning towards you, he continued, “Cause everything tastes amazing and I can’t figure out what was the best.”

You laughed and pushed his arm away from you.

“That’s cruel Marcus, you almost made me think you hated everything.”

“First off, nothing you have ever made has ever tasted bad,” he pointed a spoon at you. “Second, I'm serious. Everything is great, I can’t decide what is best.”

“Maybe I’ll just make everything.”

“Sounds a tad exhausting.”

“Yes but I could make a little bit the day before and the rest the next day.”

“That’s an idea,” Marcus sympathized while taking apart the tart and throwing the pieces into his mouth. “If you need a helping hand, I’ve got two.”

“I can’t ask you that, you’re a guest. Guests don’t cook or clean. When you're here on Hanks-giving, I want you to be relaxed, not working.” you chimed as you grabbed plates to place them in the sink. You desperately needed a distraction so you could stop watching his mouth.

Marcus paused his movement, “I’m invited?”

“Of course you are! I can’t make you my guinea pig and then not let you see the end result!”

A giant smile graced his face as Marcus stood to bring more plates over to wash, “Thanks,” he quietly said into your ear as he leaned over to grab a towel to dry the dishes as you washed. 

Your stomach fluttered when his arm brushed against yours as the two of you quietly chatted about the rest of the meals you would serve in the coming days.

Vegetables’n Potatoes

Marcus definitely had a pep in his step now. Work always dragged around the holidays; everyone would go on and on about getting out of work early to go be with family. Marcus understood the feeling well, he used to be like that. Back when he was married, he looked forward to having time off. He loved spending long mornings in bed and late nights cuddled up near a fire. He found himself wondering what the holidays would look like with kids running around the home or even fur babies running amok. That was before the divorce of course. 

These days Marcus listened with envy as his coworkers jabbered about their own traditions, where they were traveling to, and silly family remedies that they could never stop laughing at. He had that once; he even almost had that again, until the engagement was called off. Even a year after the broken engagement and years after the divorce, Marcus still felt the sting of loneliness pinch him. 

But then you came in. 

It wasn’t easy to admit that he was interested in you. You were friendly, interesting, and beautiful. Before he would have jumped at the chance to take you out on a date, but he had jumped at the chance to enter relationships quickly before and those all ended in disaster. He learned his lesson, several times over, and decided to take things slow. Too damn slow his heart would beat at him. But he had to take things slow, he couldn’t take the hurt again. And honestly he was having fun with you. He loved the way you talked to him, so easy and smooth. He was fascinated in the way you moved, specifically in your home when you were in your element. But what Marcus loved most was that you were so invested in him. You asked about work, about his plans, about his past, what he wanted or needed. You wanted to know his thoughts and feelings about things both mundane and important. Honestly you had become the first person he would talk to about any sort of news, small or big, you were the first person to pop in his mind and you seemed to hold him in the same esteem. Out of all the relationships he had in the past, you were the first to make Marcus feel important. 

The man adored you to say the least, your amazing cooking skills were a bonus. For the first time in many months Marcus was excited for the holiday, partaking in the office water cooler talk about coming holiday plans and memories. He knew it wasn’t a big deal to be a guinea pig for your food prep, but he wanted to reassure you and help. Even as he practically skipped down the hall to his own door, just to quickly put his bag away and round his way to your apartment, he could feel the flitter and flight of childish giddiness in his stomach. 

As always, you appeared with a smile for Marcus, one that he mirrored. 

“Just in time, turkey pig!” you beamed, opening the door for him to enter.

Marcus chuckled as he engulfed you in a quick hug, “turkey pig?”

“Guinea pig seems off.”

“Right, I was fine with guinea pig, but turkey pig feels like an insult,” Marcus joked.

“Well I’ll make up for it by ravishing you with heaps of food,” you presented Marcus with another full table, this time it was loaded with potatoes and vegetables.

Marcus deflated as he looked longingly at the buffet, “At this rate, I’m gonna need to stop wearing belts.”

Your laugh rang in his ears as you ushered him to sit and eat up. Spooning a load of creamed brussel sprouts onto his plate with a helping of toasted garlic mashed potatoes, Marcus listened as you described the near disaster you had earlier with the mixer. He laughed and clutched his sides as he ate up the corn casserole. You divided your own share of the green bean casserole from the mashed sweet potatoes as he recounted some of the tales that his coworkers told at work about their own holiday traditions. Leaning back in his chair, he played with his serving of balsamic roasted baby carrots and medley of holiday roasted vegetables around with his fork, but declined to touch the baked sweet potato.

It was late into the evening that the conversation finally drifted off into a comfortable silence. Marcus studied you as you slowly packed away some leftovers. He watched as you slowly swayed to the music that softly hummed through the air. Quietly standing up and patting over to the kitchen, where you danced, he found himself unable to stop his feet from mirroring your movements. He found himself wishing to step in and take you in his arms as he would slowly rock the two of you in a steady motion together. 

He wondered what you would do, if you would join him and take the lead. If you would let him take care of you. Or maybe you would just jump out of his arms and smack him in the face. But maybe this was his chance, to take this a step forward and make all those dreams of his come true. But it could be a step back, this could be the end of a friendship with no chance of repair. He spun when you spun. He stepped when you stepped. He even mimicked your shuffle and tiny shake you did to the soft beat. But not once did he step closer to you. Not just yet he voiced to his heart, we need to be patient. 

But one finally twirl soon put an end to that as you twirled right into Marcus’ open arms. Colliding with the man who stumbled to stop you from falling to the floor with a bowl of mashed potatoes. Staggering back with you held, or rather clutched, in his arms, Marcus paused to take in this moment. Alarms rang in his head that this is what he had been waiting for, what he wanted. But as quickly as the moment happened, you quickly spun him out of it as your laughter echoed through the apartment.

“Shit, did I almost take the both of us out with my crappy dancing!”

Marcus smiled at your laughter, “I don’t think it was that bad.”

“You're being nice, I’m awful,” you shouted as you stood up on your own and walked to the refrigerator, still laughing and smiling. 

He watched as you walked out of the moment he was having but mirrored your smile as soon as you turned back to him. The poor man couldn’t help but smile when you smiled. “Not as awful as those sweet potatoes,” he gave a wink to your astonished face.

Your giggle soon traveled through the apartment again causing Marcus to join in. He could never not join in your laughter. 

“Yeah, I suppose sweet potatoes are completely out. I don't even know why anyone likes those things!” you rubbed your face as your nonstop laughter had started to hurt your face.

Marcus couldn’t help himself anymore. He walked up to you and took your hands away and replaced them with his. Slowly he rubbed small circles into your muscles, watching your wide eyes stare back at him. Holding his own breath as he looked for any signs of discomfort, he continued to ease your eyes closed. 

“Tonight was great, I can’t wait to see what you have prepared for tomorrow,” Marcus whispered into your temple which he followed up with a kiss and a smile. Grabbing his work jacket, Marcus exited your apartment, leaving you dead silent. With a hop and a skip to his apartment, the agent was rapidly putting together a plan and he needed some time to prepare for tomorrow. His heart pounded with joy.

Pie

The wood flooring of your apartment was wearing away as you ran a steady track around your dinner table. Flour, chocolate, bread crumbs, and pecans were thrown about the kitchen. The sink was full to the brim of bowls and utensils, and even some more used measuring cups set aside. The turkey samples, stuffing, and pies were all done and set, really the dinner table never looked better with the mass assortment of desserts. But the mess alluded you, not too long ago you had tried to quell the horde of dirty dishes but found yourself too fidgety as your eyes jumped from the dishes to the door to the hallway. Marcus was running late and you were about to explode. Last night he had stepped so close to you, he was a mere inch from your face. With his arms entangled around you, cradling you from falling, you got a whiff full of the sweet and delicious smell that was Marcus. You were so close to dropping the bowl of food and throwing yourself on him, that you quickly spun out of his arms to get away and not embarrass yourself. But Marcus, that affectionate and beautiful man, just had to step back into your space. He just had to calm you, be with you as he messaged your temple. And then that damn kiss. You could have fainted. You nearly did after he left. And now here you are running in circles, trying to escape your mind and wash dishes, but you flinch with every noise coming from the hall. Giving up on the hopeless mess of dishes, you closed the door to the kitchen, hoping to forget it all. Unfortunately you didn’t know what to do with your time now.

It had been a long night, and a long day, in anticipation of what might happen tonight. You still felt the ghost of Marcus’ hands on you, even felt the linger of his eyes to your lips. There were always hints here and there in the past, but last night was like you were slapped in the face with a turkey. He had told you stories of the dates he had taken past partners out on. Picnics under stars, museums trips, rock concerts, and stay at home dates. It seemed so dreamy to you. And recently you felt like all that gushy lovey stuff was within reach. Marcus Pike, your cozy and humble neighbor turned friend, seemed within reach.

Especially when you received a knock at your door. Jumping from your couch, you practically ran to your door, stopping only to pause so you could compose yourself. Calmly opening the door, you came face to face with a bouquet of flowers, all your favorite. Marcus pulled the flowers down, revealing his glowing smile that elated you.

“I thought that since today is the final test day, your turkey pig could show his gratitude,” Marcus softly divulged to you.

Taking the bouquet and allowing him in, your finger grazed his as you took him in, “You didn’t have to do that. Your honest opinion was enough.”

“No it really isn’t enough,” Marcus grinned as he paused and lifted a box into his arms from the hallway. You didn’t pay any mind to the box since Marcus was known to bring files from work home with him. He closed the door behind him and placed the box on the ground again, “You’ve made my day a thousand times better this last week, I wanted to give you something as beautiful as these nights have been.”

“Marcus…” you sighed out as you placed the flowers in a large vase and centered them on the table amongst the food, “That’s…that’s so sweet.” A gentle smile graced your face. “I’m glad you feel that way cause I feel the same way,” you continued as you turned towards him.

“We should do this more often, not as a favor or as a guinea pig, but as a date. That is if you want that,” Marcus looked hopeful to you.

“I think that’s a great idea.”

“Good then forgive me for thinking that this, tonight, should be our first date.”

“Tonight? But I…” you trailed off as you looked over at the dishes of food set out.

Marcus laughed and squeezed your hand, “Don’t worry, you just sit and I’ll set it up.” He winked at you as you sat and he turned to the box that he had brought in with him earlier.

Flipping the lid off, Marcus brought out a portable record player that was in the shape of a briefcase. Opening up, he grabbed a record from the box and placed it on the player, allowing the music of one of your favorite artists to flow through the air. He then placed and lit several candles around your apartment and on your table. Lowering the intensity of the lights in your apartment, he then returned to the box and brought out two long flute glasses with a deep red wine to pair with them. Pouring you and him a share, he then grabbed the back of the chair you were sitting in and scooched you closer to his chair, chuckling as you let out a small squeak. 

Marcus placed a quick kiss to your head before sitting down beside you. His hand lingered on your knee as he grabbed his wine and lifted it to you. Obliging him in his toast, you lifted your wine as well. 

“A small toast for happy times, homey nights, and hopeful wishes,” Marcus’ eyes crinkled as he admired you.

You smiled wide at the man before you, “I’m surprised you didn’t just say horny night.”

Marcus busted out laughing. Leaning forward to you as you squeezed his hand, he considered you for a short moment, “We’ll save that toast for later, I promise.” 

You sipped your wine before jumping in to dish out portions, just as you had done the past two nights. Before the two of you were small portions of turkey and stuff, all different in taste and style, all glowing in a warm delicious splendor. But Marcus, always strung along by his sweet tooth, looked on to the pies. You laughed as he grabbed your hand and pulled you over to the desserts, catching you in his lap as you knocked into him. With his arm around your waist and his head perched on your shoulder, you squirmed only slightly as you went to describe the variety of pies.

You pointed out the classic apple, pecan pie, and pumpkin pie that sat before him, feeling his hands rub up and down your waist and hips, making you lean into him. The sweet turtle cheesecake was next, dribbling with chocolate that made your mouth wet just as Marcus’ fingers slid down to your legs and quickly returned up to your waist. Your breath hitched to his movement, stopping you from continuing your speech, which then stopped his own roaming. You started again on the next dessert and he started with his roaming. You huffed to yourself, this son of a bitch knew what he was doing. As you described the pecan pie cheesecake next, Marcus nuzzled into your neck just as his hands glided down to your thighs again. Firmly you instructed him on how hard it was…to bake and whip up the bright pinkish cranberry pie, flattening your hands on his to keep them firmly on your thighs. The apple butter pie was next, a delicious pie that was the sweetest with a crunchy crumb top, one that you decided you could dine on for the rest of your life just as Marcus decided to widen his hands so his thumbs brushed the inside of your thighs. The last dessert, mini piecakens, was good for travel, you advised him as you squirmed your ass against Marcus’ tenting pants.

“Which should we try first?” his husky voice heated your ear.

“This,” you said firmly as you turned to him and slotted your lips to his.

Turkey’n Stuffing

The dinner table was not a comfy spot, but it was where Marcus laid you out and devoured your neck. It all happened so quickly, but it was obvious the two of you wanted this to happen badly. In a blink of an eye you were kissing your neighbor lying underneath him. As soon as you had started kissing him, he had returned the favor in kind, holding you tight to him as roughly kissed you back. He wrapped one arm around your waist and the other knotted into your hair, holding your head to his as his tongue ran across your lips. Opening your mouth wider, Marcus’ tongue plunged into your mouth just as a moan erupted from you.

You felt his hands shift to your hips, moving under your shirt in a tight grip that held you up in the air and then brought you down to grind you down onto him. Another moan broke through the air, this time from Marcus as bucked up to you when you tangled your hand into his hair. You quickly went to attack his neck with your lips as he gasped out and quickly moved his hands under your ass, hauling you up to his chest as he stood and quickly pushed several of the foods aside to place you flat on the table.

“I’ve dreamed of having you like this so many times,” Marcus whispered as he crawled on top of the table, hovering above you. His imagination had gotten away from him on many different occasions as he thought about what it would be like to dine on you. Now he was getting his chance. Slowly he trailed his nose against yours, lightly brushing his lips to yours. He soon brought his lips down to your jaw, nibbling down to your neck where he finally paused and looked back up to your closing eyes. His own eyes looked concerned and pleading as he posed one of the most desirable questions you had ever heard, “Would it be ok if I left a mark?”

“Fuck yes Marcus,” you huffed out and stretched your neck out to him. He placed a quick kiss to your throat and then attached his lips and even his teeth to your skin. You felt hot all over your body as the man didn’t let up. You felt the heat of his mouth, the heat of his breath on your sweet skin. You even felt the heat of his body crowding you to the table with his own large frame. But it was the heat building at your core that was most prevalent in your mind. And you so badly wanted Marcus to feel it as well.

Steadily you rocked your hips up to the man, gliding one leg over his hip and pulling him down to you. His hand gripped your leg, securing you to him as he sucked harder at your neck. He only released your neck from his hold when you ran your nails down his back, letting the sound of nails on fabric ring through the apartment.

“Fuck I really want to feel you honey.”

“Take your shirt off,” you commanded Marcus who in turn quickly ripped the work shirt off, displaying his chest to you for a second before he bent his head to the other side of your neck, making sure it would match the previous side. “Can I mark you too?” you asked between breaths as only a mumbled yes came from the busy man.

Red marks ran down Marcus’ back causing him to grind down on you. Every long mark down his body, or clutch of his hair made the desperate man moan and grind down hard on you and to the wood table below the two of you. You on the other hand, were fairing no different. His devotion soon left your neck and traveled down to the opening of your shirt, where his eyes pleaded for you to remove the offending garment; you gladly did.

Marcus’ marks didn’t stop at your neck, the man was on a mission to leave marks all over you as he put his full attention to each one of your breasts. If he wasn’t sucking on one, he was squeezing and massaging the other. Your chants of his name were rewarded with praises.

“Knew from the moment I first moved her I would find someone as special as you.”

“Knew you would taste so sweet, just like your baking.”

“Knew you were so beautiful.”

The man couldn’t stop his mumblings into your skin, even as he finally rip his and your remaining close off, nipping and kissing the rest of your skin, before you finally pulled him back to your mouth with a satisfying, “Fuck me.”

He was happy to comply.

Soup, Sauce, ‘n Sides

Just a week later was the Hanks-giving dinner. In your opinion, the week went by too fast. Marcus had stayed at your place many nights, and on the nights he wasn’t at yours, you were at his place. The two of you texted during the day, called for lunch, and jumped into each other's arms when you both got home. You would come home to “Honey, sweetheart, baby.” His belly was always full just as his heart. The two of you fit together perfectly, especially at night when you and Marcus would be in a tangle of limbs.

On the day of Hanks-giving, you had introduced Marcus to the wonders of monkey bread, gooey and sticky caramel rolls that he happily chowed down. After a long walk together hand in hand around the neighborhood, Marcus graciously helped you prepare the grand meal. Splash played on the TV in the background as you spent long hours in the kitchen. Following your instructions to a T, you and Marcus made quick effective work.

A long flowing rust colored cloth covered the clean table, decorated with small tall candles and flowers that Marcus had bought the previous day. On a separate table near your living room, were dishes full of caramelized onion & goat cheese bites as well as cranberry whipped feta dip with your homemade chips. On the dinner table were two baskets of golden rolls, one porcelain gravy boat full of heated gravy, and a large bowl of vibrant cranberry sauce sat at various spots on the table. Mixed in with the side dishes were the vegetables that Marcus diligently worked on the green bean casserole and the honey balsamic glazed brussels sprouts. While he was busy with the veggies, you worked away on the cornbread stuffing and the roasted garlic mashed potatoes. At the center of the grand table was the roast turkey, glowing all in its beauty. 

Your friends had gathered around the table, with glasses of cranberry mimosas in hand. You and Marcus sat at the head of the table, right next to each other. The two of you were close enough that he leaned over from time to time to rub his hand up and down your leg. The beautiful man even whispered praises into your ears as you hummed and fed him bits of your own food.

The dinner went extremely well, and you and your friends spent the rest of the evening watching Forest Gump and The Terminal. Settling for the classics, your guests complimented the two of you on your pumpkin and apple pies. Everyone spaced themselves throughout the living room in various places of cozy and comfort; you and Marcus claimed a large chair to tangle in as the movies play. Marcus dotted your nose with some of his own homemade whipped cream that decorated his slice of pie. He smiled at the giggle you released. Leaning into you, slowly placing his lips to yours, he felt you happily give the smile right back to him back. Pulling back he smiled wider as you giggled louder at the dot of whipped cream that now decorated his face.

“Well how was your Hanks-giving, Agent Pike?” you asked as you scooped the cream off his nose and sucked it off your finger.

Marcus watched you with a raised eyebrow, “The best one I’ve had in a long time, and I think it’s only getting better.” 

You agreed as he leaned into you again, smothering you in a heart stopping kiss as Sleepless in Seattle started to play next.

[twelvemonkeyswere]

but my feelings about Stede touching Ed's beard in the snake scene!!!!

previously we had seen Antoinette the French noble woman touching Ed's beard while he's eating, and he immediately and frightfully flinches away. it's obvious she's doing that because she thinks he's an "oddity," something "exotic" that amuses her and that she can treat at will. it's disgusting and objectifying, and of course it startles him and the whole situation obviously hurts him and makes him feel unsafe, so he chooses to walk away *first*, and it's not until when he feels safer, back with Frenchie and Stede, that anger kicks in and he decides to retaliate with rigthful violence. Stede realizes how unwell Ed is and how over his head he feels, so Stede offers to intervene, and Ed allows him to take over the situation, resulting in Stede burning up the ship and destroying the lives of these assholes which proves, as others have pointed out, that Stede is more than willing to betray and attack the people in his own social class (white and rich) in order to support and protect Ed.

but it doesn't end there!!!!

afterwards there is the snake scene, which is set up in direct contrast to that scene in the boat. the set up is, again, a meal, just they're not eating fancy food this time, they're eating snake on the ground with their bare hands. it's a moment of genuine connection. they're talking and having fun and it's just them and Lucius, and it feels real. and then Stede points out the crumb on Ed's beard, and it's not until when he can't take it off that Stede offers to remove the crumb himself to make it easier, and waits until Ed leans over (that is, he consents, and allows him to take over) to touch him. the genuine concern and gentleness of the act - the easy, marvelous trust that Ed shows Stede - is to me so important. because Ed feels seen. few people actually see and treat Ed like a person, which makes Stede pretty darn special in Ed's eyes. and given the way they get along so well and they respect each other and lift up each other and take care of each other, it's easy to see why Ed falls in love with the bizarre little man who thinks he's wonderful--not because of the things Ed's done, though that's part of it, but because he's Ed. and Ed sometimes has crumbs on his beard. and the bizarre little man's happy to remove the crumb, if so Ed wishes, just to help out a bit, and no other reason.

idk man it's just every tender. that's love right there.

[gaitwae]

Heyyy! I have a Loki x reader fic request. Both of them being the mischievous duo casually causing mayhem, finally Odin/Frigga catching them red handed and getting their ass handed to them 💜

Warnings: None!

“Shh! Shh!” Loki shushed you, still laughing and giggling in the dark. You had both planted a cake above the throne with a contraption to release it upon resting on it. This was going to be a perfect prank; after all, who could prank a king but you two? “You’re going to ruin it!”

“I’m not the one who’s laughing!” you whispered. You put your hand over your sweetheart’s mouth. “Your father will hear you before me, you blasted baritone.”

Loki pushed your hand off. “Well, then we better stop talking.” His shoulders kept bouncing with glee. He pulled you further into the shadows as Odin stepped into the throne room. You both held your breath batedly. Any second now, and the Allfather would be doused with cake crumbs...

The king looked around, wary. The month had been filled with pranks, before, all minor. All miniscule. A missing sword, a helmet painted with glitter, perhaps a braided beard when he awoke. So far, both you and Loki have had tight alibis. Everyone was suspicious, as well, but you thought you had lied fairly well. If you could get away with this, you and Loki would win the prank war once and for all.

Who didn’t love to be a warrior victorious?

“This is so exciting,” you breathed, lacing your fingers with Loki’s. “My chest feels like there are golden lights rushing through it.”

“Mine, too.” He pecked your head. His eyes never left his victim. You couldn’t wipe the grin off of your face.

“You’re a genuis, darling,” you praised, resting your head against his shoulder.

“Oh,” Loki began, watching Odin climb up the stairs to his throne. He took his staff from a cupbearer and gave them a tight, dismissive smile. Loki snaked his arm around you to show you his path, despite the fact you were already watching. “Oh, look! He’s going for it!” 

“Going for what, exactly, my son?” a feminine, maternal voice snapped. You both jumped and whipped around. 

“Mother!” you both gasped. Loki, thankthfully, didn’t release you from his embrace, but now stared up at his mother. You gulped a large lump from your throat. 

“We, erm, we may have... set up a trap for Father...,” Loki confessed, giving the Allmother a shy, bashful smile. “A cake drop, to be exact.”

“A cake drop,” she repeated. With a smirk, she held up the pastry Loki had specially picked for this occassion. “With this, perhaps?”

Tag List: @make-me-imagine @bwemph @myraiswack @rorybutnotgilmore @loki-snape-our-hero @wolfish-trickster @lucywrites02 @mostly-marvel-musings @winterfrostsarmy @superheroesandstardust @castiels-majestic-wings @geekns @naterson @cozy-the-overlord @megthemewlingquim @whatafuckingdumbass @thebookbakery @delightfulheartdream @twhiddlestonsstuff @lokistan @the-emo-asgardian @itscomplicatedx @sophlubbwriting @darkacademicfrom2021 @lilyofthesword @xlehukax @electroma89 @joucebox @high-functioning-lokipath @lokislittlesigyn @funsized-mimi @i-beg-your-pardon-laufeyson @kingix-the-confused-earthling @nilavey @superfangirl-romanogers @moumouton4 @marvelouslovely @thewindandthewolves @theaudacitytowrite @lostgreekgod

[silverhallow]

So... could we see a glimpse of baby Sophie turning 4 years old in France? Her bossing shit up at her birthday party?

I'm pretty sure the photo is of Julia Berolzheimer, not 100% sure but I'll look into it haha

France was home for Esme, it is the place she felt comfortable but in recent years that shift had started to move to Hampshire with Richard and their tiny princess Sophie. 

Esme had begged Richard to come to France to celebrate their daughter’s birthday and have a little pre-wedding celebration with her family and friends in France that weren’t able to make the wedding.

Reims was the place Sophie had been born, it had been a hard birth for Esme especially being by herself with only her mother for company, Richard back in the UK with no idea Sophie had been born.

But this was in the past, their future was set in front of them and they’d marry two weeks after their princess’ birthday and the entire family had made their way to France for a big celebration.

“Sophie ma petit… where are you?” Esme called out looking for her newly 4 year old daughter. Sophie was quite adept at hiding but whenever Esme called for her, she’d giggle. 

She heard the tiny giggle coming from one of the cupboards and a rustling of a bag “Sophia Ma Petit… if you have the crisps that are for your party, Mama is going to be very upset”

“But MAMA Papa gimmed them!” Sophie’s little voice came, muffled with the sound of crunching.

“Sophie!” came Richard’s voice entering the kitchen as he looked at his soon to be wife who had an amused look on her face “it was supposed to be our little secret!” he said opening the cupboard and lifting his little girl from the cupboard she’d begged to be let to hide in.

“But Papa you said lying is naughty!” Sophie said, crumbs covering her entire body as she gave her Papa a toothy grin.

Richard sighed as Esme chuckled and walked over to her daughter “Oh mon amour she has you there” Esme grinned before seeing the state of her daughter.

“Oh Sophie… everyone will be here soon and you have crisps in your hair… how?”

Sophie decided to show her Mama how by putting the crisps packet back on her head “it’s a crown for princess Sophie”

Richard burst into laughter and Esme groaned “I swear, the children at nursery are such a bad influence on you ma petite”

“I think the birthday princess needs to have a bath before all her guests arrive” 

“Noooooo no bath’s on my birthday!” Sophie squirmed in her father’s arms

“Sophie you need a bath before you can have cake” Esme said as she took her wriggling daughter.

“NO BATHS” Sophie yelled as she burst into tears “waters hurts my eyes” she said through great big sobs

“Mama will be very careful ma petite and if you are good Mama has a special surprise for you after your bath” Esme said placatingly.

Sophie sniffled and pouted sadly but let her mama carry her off and bathe her. Sophie liked that her mama managed to make the water all bubbly and let her wear a bubble beard and crown whilst she was having her hair washed.

Sophie was wearing her little bubble beard and crown whilst Esme dashed out of the room to get the surprise for Sophie.

Sophie was splashing in the water happily with her toys ducks as she was quacking and giggling. Esme smiled at the noises coming from the bathroom as she grabbed the dress that was hanging up, and her own and dashed back into the bathroom “so since you’ve been a big brave girl Ma petite… Mama got you a special birthday party dress” Esme smiled brightly as her little girl stared at her, her little green eyes alight with happiness.

“A pretty dress like Mama???” Sophie squeaked

Esme showed Sophie the little Silvery grey dress and showed her own in a similar shade with flowers on “just like mama” Esme said

Sophie screamed excitedly and burst into happy tears “BESTEST DAY EVVVVER” she sniffled

“Are you going to let Mama wash and dry your hair without sad tears” Esme said

“If i can wear the dress! Yes!” Sophie squealed happily with her happy tears in her eyes and didn’t complain at all as her Mama washed her hair and even sat still as Esme combed her hair once she was out of the bath.

She sat very still whilst Esme put her hair into two plaits and beamed toothily as her dress was put on and she started spinning happily on the spot giggling. “Princess Sophie!”

Richard knocked on their bedroom door “everyone is here my love and waiting for the birthday princess and her Queen” he grinned brightly.

Esme chuckled “we’re just ready now mon amour” she smiled as Richard opened the door.

He gasped when he saw Sophie “well look at you all grown up and looking like Mama!”

“I match Mama!” sophie said with a bright toothy grin on her face.

“I can see, do you want to walk down or does the princess want a carry?” he asked

“I can walk!” Sophie beamed and rather than walk she skipped her way downstairs into the garden. Because the weather was so lovely they had decided to have the party and celebration in the garden.

“Can Papa take some photos of Sophie?” Richard asked as he held the camera up.

Sophie nodded and permitted her father exactly two pictures before she turned around “I can hear Mamaw and Nonna!!!” she squealed excitedly “and Ali!!!!!” she said, turning around quickly and pointing towards the path that led to the back garden just as Richard snapped one last photo. 

“LETS GO PAPA!!!!” Sophie squealed and ran off and made her way into the party with Esme following chuckling and shaking her head 

“Our little princess loves a party” Esme said

“She just likes being centre of attention” Richard chuckled

“She gets that from you” Esme said, blowing her husband a kiss and following her daughter into the party.

He had meant to take more during the party but between his family, Esme’s friends and Sophie he didn’t have the time and it turned out, the photo of Esme and Sophie heading into the party would be the last ever photo he would take of his Princess and his Queen.

[fanficsandfluff]

Being the Tickler

can we pretty please normalize casual discussions of tickling???? this is so special for me in fics, i rarely see it. it's always 'don't wanna say the word' and I'm kinda sick of that trope. enjoy! (this is for @bigirlgiggles ! i hope you accept this crumb of serotonin!)

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Characters: Bruce Banner, Thor

Words: 921

"You don't enjoy it?"

"What? Me? No," Bruce Banner flattened the hair on his arm after rolling up the sleeves of his buttoned shirt.

Thor eyed the man, head tilting in a type of admiration.

Bruce felt the eyes on him and he glanced Thor's way, squinting in the evening sunlight, "What?"

"Nothing," Thor chuckled into his word, reclining himself on the lawn the two shared, riverside, in this busy outskirt of the city they were missioning in.

"No, what? You think that's weird."

"Not weird. Just..." he sat up again, "I enjoy it. The act, the feeling, the experience. And based on people I've interacted with, they seem to like it, too," he saw the confused look on Bruce's face and he added, "Or not mind it, rather."

"I think it's like a losing control thing for me."

Thor nodded. On a top list of fears for the decorated doctor, he would've put losing control up there.

"What about the other side of it?"

"Being the tickler?"

Thor nodded, observing in deep interest as Bruce seemed to ponder the idea.

"I don't know. I guess maybe? I haven't really done it before."

Thor was smiling now, "Try it out."

"On you?"

Another nod. Now Bruce laughed. It was short and maybe a bit condescending, but it came out. When Thor wasn't also laughing, Bruce realized the god meant it.

"O-Oh..." Bruce cleared his throat.

Within the silence, a few children could be heard screaming and giggling down by the river, in the very far distance.

"You're afraid."

"Am not."

Now Thor giggled, "Oh, I see. You need some instigation. I can provide," he cleared his throat in an overly dramatic way and Bruce was already grinning despite himself, "You can't do it."

"Thor, this isn't going to work--"

"On the contrary, doctor, I see it already taking root. So, go on. Prove it to me."

"You're ridiculous," Bruce adjusted the glasses on his face, smiling at this lovable hunk of a guy.

Thor squeezed Bruce's side when he leaned over to further pester, and Bruce jerked away, "Hey!"

"You need provocation! Go on! Get me back!"

"I just told you I hahate--Thor!" Bruce chuckled and batted away the god's fingers from reaching his stomach.

"You never said hate, Dr. Banner. I won't tire of this, you know that, right?"

Bruce wasn't laughing, holding back much of the reactions he was sure Thor was looking for. But... I mean, the guy was asking for it, wasn't he? Like literally asking for it? What crime would it be to not give in? Hmm...

Bruce tackled the god. And Thor actually felt fear running down his spine for a split second. He didn't know what Bruce would feel like. He's experienced his mother's, his brother's, Jane's, and some other Avengers' tickling before, but Bruce appeared a very formidable force on the outside. It's just never actually come to fruition.

"Woah! Ohoho--!" Thor was already laughing, mostly exclaiming in surprise.

Bruce leaned over him knees planted in the grass on either side of Thor's torso. He didn't need to be the Hulk to exude power at this moment.

"Still like this?" Bruce asked as his hands fit the meat of Thor's sides and pinched, fondling the skin in them. That quickly switched to a pulsating of fingertips along the back bottoms of Thor's ribs.

The God of Thunder arched his back and threw it back into the ground in repeated up and downs, "Nohohoho wahait!"

"Switched that quick!?" Bruce beamed.

"No I wasn't-- hahaha! I wasn't saying no!" Thor spit out, giggling some more when Bruce scraped his fingers on his belly, "You're cruel!"

Bruce chortled, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He used one hand to plant a finger in Thor's shirt-covered bellybutton while his other tossed his glasses to the side. He really didn't want to get new frames. Not again.

The scientist in Bruce took in every ounce of Thor's reactions to being tickled because it fascinated him to no end. How could someone not fight back to the tickling sensation? It's literally proven that the body reacts in defense to it. We clamp up, curl inward. Maybe because he's a god... maybe the nerves are different. Bruce watched as Thor moreso clutched his hands to his chest than try to push Bruce's away, laughing loudly and openly. He was squirming back and forth. He welcomed this.

Bruce's fingers danced up the god's very prominent ribs and Thor's laughter jumped to a squeak for a half a second.

"You gonna let me in there?" Bruce was poking around Thor's closed-off armpits.

"Sh-Shohould I?"

Bruce shrugged, "I dunno, you're the one who wanted this."

Thor was catching his breath during this conversation, where Bruce pulled his hands back to rest on his own thighs.

"Got an answer yet?" Bruce poked both of Thor's hips a few times. Thor jumped and giggled again, "Come on, I don't have all day."

"Yes," Thor answered quickly now, smiling like a big bearded puppy, "Since it makes you happy."

And that's when Bruce Banner blushed. He did kinda like this side of the tickling. Probably because of who he was doing it to. Yeah, that definitely helped.

"I don't have all day, doctor," Thor cheekily teased.

Bruce's face split into a grin and he tickled his way up Thor's ribs into his armpits, booming laughter resounding once more. Bruce was chuckling with the god, finding out that yes, he preferred being the tickler.