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writethrough · 1 year

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Hi ;) I don't know if you're currently accepting requests, but if you do, may I request a Malcolm Bright x Reader fic please ? TW : Self-h*rm, anxiety, depression, ED, mental illness.

Reader and Malcolm are very close friends so they both lovingly care about each other. Reader hasn't been answering any of his calls and messages for a few days, which is unlike her 'cause she always picks up the phone when he calls her. He starts to grow more and more worried, especially because he knows about her mental health struggles. So naturally he decides to go check on her. When he arrives he finds her in a very bad state : depression, anxiety, ED and Self h*rm have been hitting her harder that usual. He stays in at her house for a few days to take care of her, which includes reassuring her when she gets panic attacks, telling her that he strongly cares about her and that nothing will make him leave her, laying beside her to help her sleep, hugging her etc. Eventually she starts to feel a bit better.

I know it's very emotionally charged, both with dark stuff and comfort/care stuff, so if you feel like you can't do it, it's totally okay, I understand. Do whatever makes you feel the most comfortable.

Please take care 🤍 Sending you hugs.

To Make It Through

(Malcolm Bright x Gender-Neutral Reader)

Warnings: Insinuations of self-harm, ED, depression, anxiety, and mental illness.

Word Count: 1203

A/N: I wasn’t sure how to begin writing this. The most important goal for me was writing this with respect to those who suffer from self-harm, depression, mental illness, ED, and anxiety. I have never experienced the first four, but I’ve dealt with mild to moderate anxiety, I believe since I was young (I’d like to add, I’ve never been diagnosed by a doctor for anxiety). I have no idea what someone who lives with these struggles goes through. I wanted this to be a comforting story, one that hopefully brings a little light to everyone who reads it.

I didn't want to include too many details that could be triggering or potentially disrespectful to those who deal with the topics above.

And to anyone who is suffering and in need of help, below are different hotlines and resources.

National Eating Disorders Association

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

The Trevor Project

National Institute of Mental Health

Malcolm unlocked your front door with the extra key you gave him.

It’d been three days since he last heard from you—no responses to his texts. No calls or video chats, not even a dumbass meme. And he was worried.

You were religious in your response time to him. Honestly, he had no idea how you could send a text off so quickly.

First, he noticed the dishes on your counter. A few days' worth. Then, the blanket was on the floor instead of folded neatly over the couch. Your curtains were drawn tight, and the couple of plants you had were a little less lively than when he was here last week.

He slowly pushed your bedroom door open so as not to startle you.

It was difficult to see through the darkness, but from what he could tell, clothes were thrown around the room. And he could make out a thin layer of dust on your bookshelf.

He took in your curled state under your comforter. Only the top of your head peeked out.

He didn’t need to ask you what was wrong. You’d known each other long enough for him to recognize the signs.

After slipping his shoes and coat off, he gently lowered himself beside you. He didn’t move the covers or speak, only placed a hand close enough to your back so you could feel him while not being touched.

He didn’t know if you were awake, but that didn’t matter. He’d wait however long it took until you were ready to acknowledge him.

He wondered when you last ate—those dishes were probably older than he thought. He tried to recall if there were any warning signs he should’ve picked up on when he was here last time. But you seemed fine.

You were also very good at hiding it.

About an hour later, you shifted to face him, still beneath the blankets.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

He whispered your name. You didn’t move.

He tried again. “Can I do anything for you?”

You sniffled, and his heart nearly broke.

“Can I move the blanket, honey?” he asked.

The top of your head moved slowly in a nod.

He hooked a finger and pulled down carefully, revealing water-lined eyes with bags under them.

He thought as much. When things worsened, you never slept well.

“What do you need?” he whispered as gently as he could.

You didn’t look at him as your hand emerged to clutch your pillowcase.

“I don’t know,” you mumbled.

He nodded. He couldn’t let you stay like this.

“Then, could you do something for me? I know you won’t want to, but you can come right back. I promise.”

You glanced at him, then looked away. As much of an acknowledgment as he would get.

“Go take a shower. Take as long as you need,” he said.

You didn’t fight him, didn’t argue, and he took that as more of a bad sign than anything.

Once your bathroom door closed, he stripped the bed and threw everything in the washer. After replacing the sheets, he put the discarded clothes in your hamper and tossed any trash he spotted. He kept the blinds closed. Baby steps.

He was finishing putting the dishes away when you walked out in a towel and back into your room to change.

You didn’t ask what he was doing or tell him he didn’t have to do it. You almost ignored him.

You had already returned to bed when he entered. This time, you were against the headboard, staring off into space.

He sat beside you.

Your hands rested above the covers, wrists on display, and his shoulders relaxed.

It hadn’t gotten that bad.

He let you have your silence. Sometimes it was what you needed.

“Why are you friends with me?”

Sometimes it wasn’t.

“Because I need you,” he said.

It was all he thought to say. Superficial compliments wouldn’t stop your mind from spiraling. Hopefully, you’d believe him.

You shook your head. “You deserve better.”

He wanted to shield you from your own words.

“(Y/N), I need you to look at me,” he said. And when you didn’t, he repeated himself. “Please?”

You glanced at him, rubbing the hem of your shirt between your fingers.

“Have I ever lied to you?” he asked gently.

You shook your head slowly, hunching your shoulders.

“I will always always tell you the truth,” he said. “You’re my best friend. That’s never going to change, okay?” He carefully pulled your hand between his. “I care about you so much, (Y/N). You’re never going to get rid of me.”

You sniffled, glancing at him through your lashes.

Tears lined his own eyes, threatening to spill forth.

You were his best friend. He’d be lost without you, and he needed you to know that he’d never go anywhere, that he belonged by your side. You made him feel seen. You made him feel sane.

Whatever you needed from him, he would give.

“Can you…Can you hold me?” you whispered, trying to keep your voice from breaking.

He answered by laying on his back, waiting for you to settle on his chest, hands still connected.

“Get some rest,” he whispered. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

—

Malcolm stayed with you for the next few days. He even called Gil and said he had to take a personal day, much to Gil’s surprise and pleasure. Thankfully, Gil didn’t ask any questions. Malcolm never would’ve broken your trust like that.

Today was the first day you had gotten dressed. Malcolm considered that a massive sign you were starting to feel more like yourself.

“How’re you feeling?” He took in every feature of your face, searching for the most minute twitch.

“I’m…I’m better.” You nodded slowly. “I’m not okay. I know that, but I’m better than I was. Not everything’s as…dark.”

The corner of his mouth tilted up in a sympathetic smile. His fingers found yours, holding them lightly.

“All healing takes time. And I’ll be right here whenever you need me.” His eyes stayed locked with yours, nothing but sincerity in them.

You swallowed. “Thank you.”

He shook his head slightly. “You never need to thank me for doing something I want to do.”

It brought tears to your eyes—how kind he was. Malcolm was the only person you could trust with everything. He knew what it was like to be trapped in your own mind, to hate so many parts of yourself that you want to rip out.

And each time you were on the verge of relapsing, he’d pull you away from the edge. As you’d done for him.

“Why don’t we take a walk? See how many squirrels we can feed,” he said, offering you his arm.

Your face lifted, not a smile, but not so melancholy as it had been.

“Okay.”

Grasping the crook of his elbow, you interlocked your fingers there and let him lead you outside.

The sun's warmth sunk into your skin as Malcolm launched into what his mother was trying to rope him into. And when the first chuckle in a week passed your lips, the darkness didn’t feel so encompassing anymore.

Taglist: @phenomenal-bird

If anyone would like to be added to my taglist, please comment or message me and tell me which character you'd like to receive updates on.

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multifandomfanfiction · 3 months

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I'm Gonna Show You Crazy Part 2

TITLE: I’m Gonna Show You Crazy Part 2 PAIRING: [Malcom/Cassie Lector (OC)] RATING: T CHAPTER: 2/? SUMMARY: Malcom and Cassie have their date and it doesn't go that well.

[A/N - So this a sort-of sequel/continuation of "I'm Gonna Show You Crazy" that I wrote back in 2019. I had a whole series of fics I was gonna write, but of course I never wrote them down so I have no idea where I was going with it. So now we're gonna do something different with the same ending I was planning.]

For their date, Malcom came down to Baltimore. That had at least earned him some brownie points from Hannibal since he was apprehensive of letting Cassie travel all the way to New York City without him or Will.

Sometimes Hannibal’s over-protectiveness bothered Cassie, but she understood. She knew that she reminded him of his little sister Mischa, so naturally he worried about her.

Well that and he was a serial killer, so he knew what kind of things could happen to her. Even though he knew Cassie could fend for herself if needed.

Like she told Dr. Whitly, there had been some…unfortunately accidents. Accidents that Hannibal helped her cover up of course.

It wasn’t like she’d meant to murder people. She blacked out and it had just…happened. Even though she had taken people’s lives, she didn’t crave the blood and violence like she knew Hannibal did.

But every time she did, Hannibal would look at her with such pride. As if she was following in the family footsteps.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Malcom and Cassie met at a coffee shop (of Hannibal’s choosing) not far from the house.

She knew Hannibal would be watching, so she made sure to pick a seat where Malcom couldn’t possibly spot him.

Malcom came in wearing a denim button-up shirt, scarf, peacoat, and dark wash jeans. Cassie couldn’t deny that he was attractive.

She met him at the counter.

“Cassie, good to see you again.”

Cassie laughed. “There’s no need to be so formal, Malcom.”

Malcom smiled and looked down bashfully. “I’m sorry. Growing up…well you’ve met my father.”

“Yeah. Seems a little OCD and wanting things to be just so. Hannibal is like that about some things.” His murders.

They stepped up to the counter and ordered their drinks.

“Do you have any other siblings?” Malcom asked.

Cassie shook her head. “It’s always just been Hannibal and I. What about you?”

“I have a sister, Ainsley. She’s a journalist.”

“Ah.”

They picked up their drinks sat down in some chairs by the window.

“So I did some research into your cousin,” Malcom said.

That statement made Cassie stop drinking her coffee. She should have felt offended by him snooping, but she had done the same thing. She knew what Dr. Whitly was accused of doing.

“He’s my brother. Not my cousin. We may be cousins by blood, but he is first and foremost my brother. I know my brother’s past and it was unfortunate what happened to him and his family. I don’t ask him about what happened and we don’t discuss it. It was a deeply traumatic experience, but he’s grown and moved past it. I’d appreciate if you didn’t bring it up again.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

“Just…please don’t talk about it around Hannibal.”

That was a sure-fire way to get himself killed, which would in turn motivate Martin to retaliate and Cassie wasn’t interested in getting in the middle of two psychopaths.

“Why don’t you tell me more about yourself?”

Cassie smiled and told Malcom of how she had been accepted into art school right out of high school.

“Your brother must be very attached to you to follow you across the country.”

Cassie narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not sure what you’re implying Mr. Bright.”

“He clearly needs you close to him which implies that there’s a level of unhealthy obsession.”

Cassie wanted to snap at Malcom, but she knew why Hannibal wanted her close to him. She was reminded of her first meeting with Will.

There have been many famous Cassandra’s in history, but none as famous as the daughter of Troy,” Hannibal said.

“Of Greek mythology?” Will asked.

“ She was admired by the God Apollo, however she refused his advances so he cursed her. Her prophecies would no longer be believed. She was written off as insane and a liar.”

“I think this meeting is over,” Cassie said. She stood up and stormed out of the coffee shop.

“Cassie! Wait!” Malcom called after her.

Cassie was heading for the alleyway where she knew Hannibal’s car was parked.

Malcom grabbed her arm as she stepped into the crosswalk.

“Let go of me! I’m not going to just sit and listen to you insult the only person who’s ever truly loved me!” Cassie yelled.

“Please. Just come back inside,” Malcom begged her.

“No!”

It happened so fast.

One moment they were arguing in the street, the next she was on her back with Malcom on top of her.

There was the loud honking of a car and the screeching of tires.

Malcom’s bright blue eyes stared into her dark ones. The adrenaline rushing through her body gave Cassie the bravery to do something.

She grabbed the back of Malcom’s neck and kissed him.

#hannibal imagines #hannibal nbc #hannibal #hannibal x prodigal son #prodigal son imagines #prodigal son #malcom/oc #malcom bright imagines #malcom bright #malcom/cassie

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taxinealkaloids · 6 months

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two b-list sons of God and a second-rate resurrection

#tlt #my art #tower princes here pictured shortly after having chopped up a bunch of devil-infested civilians at antioch and burning the bits #which is a thing they did! crazy.#like...between htn and ntn ianthe and kiriona were just. bonding over committing war crimes in the name of imperialism i guess!#i think ppl forget sometimes that they weren't JUST on the mithraeum they were actually at antioch. idk how much they were actually on #the front lines but they were THERE roughing it in the military encampment or w/e. and gideon seemed to have #pretty firsthand knowledge of the devils and their specific disposal methods so. yeah i think she was doing some chopping and burning.#anyway the text in image 1 is the parable of the prodigal son #and image 2 is luke 9:22 (jesus foretells his death) and mark 16:6 (the resurrection)#imagine you practice ninth house religion and your iconography looks like this.

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raz-writes-the-thing · 6 months

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Science Behind the Madness (Martin Whitly)

Martin Whitly x Fem!Reader 18+ ONLY / requests are open and encouraged

Summary: You're lucky to have a sexual partner so versed in the science behind the female orgasm.

CW: medical play (gloves, patients chair, medical talk), thigh slapping, daddy kink, overstimulation, dirty talk, verbal humiliation. vaginal fingering

Prodigal Sons tag list: (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

“Did you know,” Martin says as he slides one gloved, lubed-up finger across your soaked slit. “The behind-the-scenes of the female orgasm is really quite fascinating.” He’s grinning that killer shark grin that you love oh so much. It’s not cute, that’s for sure, in fact, it’s terrifying. A true darkness lay beneath that grin, those eyes. And yet, despite this, that darkness turned you on like nothing else.

“I-is it?” You stutter, clit already pulsing despite the fact Martin hadn’t even done anything yet.

“Oh, yes,” he said, absent-mindedly fingering at your slit. His eyes didn’t leave yours for a moment. “See, right now? Your sweet little cunt is lengthening, the cells in your vaginal walls lubricating you. That’s called the ‘excitement’ stage. Not an overly scientific name, I know.”

You squirm in the stirrups of the patient's chair, cunt clenching on nothing. Martin laughs, and flicks at your clit teasingly.

“Even that pretty clitoris of yours is starting to swell, isn’t it? How sweet, I’ve barely touched you and you’re so needy for me.” Martin’s tongue flicks across his front teeth, his eyes finally splitting from yours down to look at your pussy. He spreads two fingers across your slit now, splitting your labia apart. Your cheeks flush at the vague humiliation of the act.

“Oh, but not just your clit, hmm? No, your nipples, too, they start to engorge. I’ll bet they’re starting to get perky, now, aren’t they?”

You whimper, chewing on your lip. You’re going to start grinding on his fingers soon if he doesn’t finger fuck you to within an inch of your life in the next two seconds. Martin seems to understand this and tuts mockingly before sinking those two fingers to the knuckle inside you. You groan with relief, that deep ache inside easing.

“Oh, there she is. Look at that. Looks like you’re entering the plateau stage, sweetness,” his fingers start to move, stroking your inner walls and stretching you out before beginning to thrust. You moan openly, to which Martin shushes you with a loving grin. “Now, during the plateau stage, all your other senses are washed away as your brain starts to focus on your orgasm.”

His fingers start thrusting harder, and you struggle to keep your knees from closing. Martin wouldn’t appreciate that, and he’d have to punish you. You weren’t in the mood for a punishment just now. He chuckles. From his angle, he can almost see your clit twitching and pulsing with pleasure.

“Oh I know, darling, you want Daddy to play with that pretty clit, don’t you? Can’t cum without it, I know. It’s very common, actually,” his fingers fuck into you harder as he continues. “I believe it’s something like eighty per cent of women can’t finish without clitoral stimulation.”

Your head drops back into the headrest. You’re panting, chest heaving and sweat beginning to bead along your skin. God, you want to cum. Martin knows exactly how to keep you from doing so, however. He’s got your insides mapped out like a surgical textbook. He knows exactly what spots to hit to make you keen, which spots to avoid that hurt, or which spots to ruthlessly slam into you to make you cum harder than a fountain hose.

Right now, though, he’s making you wait for it.

“Where was I?” His fingers slow, and he rubs his thumb over your clit in soft, thoughtful motions. “Oh, yes, the plateau stage. Do you notice how you’re breathing harder now? That’s part of the plateau stage, darling.”

His fingers start stretching you out again, thrusting back and forth, aiming directly for that spot that makes you see stars.

“Some of the outer parts of the vagina start to engorge with blood,” he continues, completely engrossed by the view of his fingers disappearing and reappearing from your sopping cunt. “Your heart rate, respiratory functions and blood pressure continue to increase as you get closer to that precious orgasm.”

You bite back the moans threatening to slip loose, and your thighs shake with the effort of staying open.

“And when you orgasm, and you will- fucking- orgasm for me, darling, that’ll be a whole bunch of vaginal and pelvic floor muscle contractions. Oh, look at that, so close for daddy, hmm? Such a good girl for me, come on.”

You’re getting so close now, muscles starting to tense, your mouth opening in a silent plea.

“That’s it, oh, look at you. Such a prime example of the female form, hmm? So exquisite. My darling, come for me.”

When you can’t even utter a word, and you seem to just be leaning against that precipice, Martin scowls, flashing a murderously determined look towards you.

“My dear,” he warns. “If you don’t cum for me, you’re going to regret it, I promise you.” He brings his other hand forward, slapping lightly at the inside of your thigh. Your whole body jumps, and Martin tuts. “Come on, little slut, cum for Daddy. Right. Now.”

His words push you over the edge, orgasm ripping through you. Martin laughs, fucking you through the waves of pleasure. Fucking you through those contractions. You moan wantonly, muscles finally giving in and starting to relax.

“There we go, right there, sweet thing,” Martin says, all smiles once again. “That’s the resolution stage. Post-orgasm the blood pumps back through your system and away from your pretty little cunt.”

His fingers had started to slow as your orgasm drained out of you, your clit pulsing pleasurably. It was almost too much.

“Another interesting fact for you, my dear. Males tend to need time to recuperate after orgasm,” he goes on. You whimper as his fingers start to speed back up again, abusing your, overstimulated G-spot. “But women? Oh, they can go over, and over, and over again. Essentially no recuperation time.”

He scrunches his cheeks up teasingly, standing up from his chair to lean over you, his arm pistons back and forth harder now and without mercy. He was going to make you cum whether you wanted to or not.

“Isn’t that just- fascinating? I think so. You’re going to cum for me. One more time. Or two, if I feel like it. Daddy wants to watch you come undone on his fingers. And if you’re a good little whore, daddy will fuck you good and proper later, honey, hmm?”

You nod, head dropping back onto the rest behind you. Your whole body is convulsing with the stimulation. It doesn’t take long at all before you’re reaching that peak again, much to Martin’s visible pleasure.

“Oh, that’s it. Cum all over daddy’s fingers, darling.”

You whine, legs twitching with the aftermath of your second orgasm. Martin pulls the glove from his fingers, tossing it into the bin in the corner of the room.

“See? Now, wait until I tell you all about the benefits of toys, my dear.”

Martin smirks deviously.

“That will certainly be a night to remember.”

#martin whitly #martin whitly imagine #martin whitly x reader #prodigal son #prodigal son imagine #michael sheen #martin whitly x you #dr whitly #dr. whitly x reader #prodigal son x reader #michael sheen x reader #x reader #martin whitly x yn #martin whitly x y/n #smut #prodigal son smut #martin whitly smut #doctor whitly

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brightmalcolm · 1 year

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Ainsley Whitly + TV Tropes [insp]

#prodigal son #prodigalsonedit #ainsley whitly #prodigal son fox #halston sage #*#I miss her imagine what she would have done in season 3

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kat-rose-griffith · 1 month

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One of the more upsetting things about prodigal son getting cancelled is that we never got to see Malcolm become JT’s kids weird uncle

#prodigal son #jt tarmel #malcolm bright #imagine how much Malcolm and Jessica were going to spoil that kid #plus JT’s reaction would’ve been priceless

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multifandomfix · 9 months

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Imagine Martin Whitly kidnapping you.

Well dressed. Warm smile. Easy charm. How had all that come to this?

You woke to a dim light above you, your head pounding and the same man you’d considered to be such a catch was standing in front of you with a grin.

“M-Martin,” you stumbled, finding hard to speak over the fogginess of your mind.

His smile dropped to a more serious expression. “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on Dr. Whitly now. You will be undergoing surgery and I think it’s best to keep things professional.”

You couldn’t quite make sense of what he was saying, finding his words hard to follow in your current state, but you hadn’t the energy to ask for clarification.

As he prepared surgical tools at a table several feet off, you began to piece things together. Dr. Martin Whitly wasn’t the man you thought him to be and you were overwhelmed with the sudden urge to preserve your own life.

“I could prove useful to you,” you said.

“Could you now,” Martin asked, clearly amused at your offer.

You didn’t have a plan for where you were going with this, but the fog was beginning to lift, so you pressed on. “I know people, young women, who won’t be missed. No family, flighty with friends, looking to make a little extra cash. I could bring them to you.”

“And what exactly would you get out of this?”

“You.” This answer seemed to surprise him. “You’re an easy man to fall for, Dr. Whitly. I don’t just want my life or my freedom. I want you.” It was a play on his vanity, but it was the only thing you could rely on, and prior to today, the complete truth on your part.

“Prove it and my answer is yes. Deceive me, and I will hunt you down.”

For anon

Forever Tag: @baubeautyandthegeek, @ghostsunderstoodmysoul, @immyowndefender, @valencethefriendlychangeling, @crimsonwidow666, @rebelbossheart, @thedailyspiritualist, @orangeisnttheonlyfruit, @woman-simp, @aperol-with-izzy, @leonoralessoem, @ellepossum69, @lakita-fisher, @nclgsticore, @ayanthegreat28, @analuw, @luvlesavyy, @rukia-28, @malfoyfeed

Martin Whitly: @locke-writes

#martin whitly #martin whitly imagine #martin whitly x reader #prodigal son #prodigal son imagine #request

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writethrough · 2 months

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The Prodigal Son Collection

The Collections

I do not permit anyone to copy, repost, and/or share my work anywhere. However, please feel free to like, comment, and reblog!

All rights to the media and characters below belong to the original creators and writers.

Hum Me Something Soothing (Malcolm Bright x GN!Reader) ⊹ When Malcolm's night terrors reveal themselves at the office, you're there to guide them away.

I'll Watch Over You (Malcolm Bright x GN!Caregiver!Reader) ⊹ You're young Malcolm and Ainsley's caregiver when the Whitly's are away. And you can't help feeling protective over the boy who's taken a liking to you.

Little Parts (Malcolm Bright x Fem!Reader) ⊹ With a serial killer on the loose, you join Gil and his team to try and apprehend her, growing closer to a certain consultant in the process. When you're put in harms way, Malcolm does everything he can to save you.

So Be It (Malcolm Bright x GN!Reader) ⊹ Taking care of a sick Malcolm is no simple task, but with everything you've been through together, there's no place you'd rather be. In his moment of vulnerability, he opens up like never before.

Sunny Side (Malcolm Bright x GN!Reader) ⊹ Malcolm tries to surprise you with breakfast, and it may not go so well.

To Make It Through (Malcolm Bright x GN!Reader) ⊹ It's all been hitting you hard. Sometimes it's all just so exhausting. Malcolm sees the signs, and he wants you to know he'll always be there.

#Malcolm bright #prodigal son #malcolm bright oneshot #malcolm bright angst #malcolm bright fanfiction #malcolm bright x reader #Malcolm Bright fluff #malcolm bright x gn!reader #malcolm bright x gender neutral reader #malcolm bright x female reader #Malcolm Bright x fem!reader #Malcolm Bright one shot #Malcolm Bright x you #malcolm bright imagines #malcolm bright imagine

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addiemilfgomery · 7 months

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jess: *breathes*

gil: *touch*

#gil arroyo #jessica whitly #prodigal son #no bec seriously he's so tactile???#renew prodigal son #need him to touch her more #IMAGINE THEM HOLDING HANDS OR CUDDLING #i'd die

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raz-writes-the-thing · 6 months

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Kisses (Martin Whitly Drabble)

Martin Whitly x GN!Reader / requests are: open and encouraged

Summary: You really want to cover Martin in kisses. What a shame his guard is distracted.

CW: possessive behaviour, alluding to murder, fluff, soft shit fr

Prodigal Son tag list: (send an ask to be added to a tag list!)

___ ___ ___ ___ ___

“I desperately want to kiss your face right now,” you sigh sadly, toes kicking at the red line on the floor of Martin’s cell.

"Do you just? Hmm, I can't say I'd complain, darling," Martin arches his brow at you suggestively. You chuckle and check to see if his guard is watching. He's not, and you cross the red tape to straddle his waist in his office chair.

You cup his cheeks with your hands and press kiss after kiss all over his face. Cheeks, chin, forehead, neck. Any skin that was visible was now covered in kisses. Martin was sighing with pleasure, his cuffed hands brushing at your lower belly softly. It was the only part of you he could touch like this.

Martin nudged at your chin with his nose, grabbing your attention. He leaned his face up towards you, pressing a loving kiss to your lips. You melted against him, arms wrapping around his neck and fingering at the back of his cardigan.

"I wish I could touch you, my darling," he whispers, pressing a few slow kisses down the length of your jaw. "Hold you. Perhaps we could get married. Then we could get conjugal visits, hmm? Wouldn't that be something?"

You chuckle, nipping softly at the shell of his ear. This made him grunt.

"Not the most romantic proposal I've ever received," you say thoughtfully, sitting back on his lap. Martin laughs and then furrows his brows.

"How many proposals have you gotten?"

You flick at his nose and wink. He screws his face up in mock irritation before trying to catch your finger in a playful bite.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Well, I would, actually. I need to know how many people I need to hunt down when I get out of here. You're mine, darling. Do not forget it."

"I'm yours," you agree. "Utterly."

Martin hums thoughtfully.

"Does that mean..."

"No," you clarify. "Not yet. Ask me when you get out."

Martin chuckles darkly, though his eyes are the softest you've ever seen them.

"I'll hold you to that, my dear."

You'd be disappointed if he didn't.

#martin whitly #martin whitly imagine #martin whitly x reader #prodigal son #prodigal son imagine #michael sheen #martin whitly x you #dr whitly #dr. whitly x reader #prodigal son x reader #michael sheen x reader #x reader #martin whitly x yn #martin whitly x y/n #prodigal son fic #prodigal son fanfic #prodigal son fanfiction

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littlebatpup · 2 months

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(GIF isn't mine) Martin Whitly x Reader Summary: AU where you and Martin met during med school (reader being a few semesters behind because they started later), set before he's put in prison. Word count: 995

You were sitting at your desk, studying for exams like you had been for the past weeks. But as of recently, it felt like a drag. You were wondering why you were doing what you were doing. If it was worth it. If you could keep up with the speed of things, with the competition. If you deserved to be studying at University. It was a spiral you fell into more and more often lately. You didn't notice the door of your apartment open nor that your Boyfriend Martin stepped into it. He knew that you had upcoming exams and suspected you'd be sitting at your desk studying. That's exactly where he found you after he had taken off his jacket and shoes. However, he didn't expect you to mindlessly stare out the window. You also didn't seem to have heard him enter your room, which made him worry cause you usually heard every little sound. He carefully walked closer to your desk to not scare you. "Love?" he asked quietly, making you whip your head around in your chair. Staring at him for a second as if he were an alien. Once you realized it was him your gaze softened though it still held some sadness and fear caused by the endless spiral of what-ifs that almost constantly occupied your brain. "Oh uhh hi Martin. What are you doing here?" you asked. He told you that he thought you two could maybe spend a nice evening together, cook something, watch a movie, or something. Something about the way you looked irked him though. This wasn't how you usually looked, not the happy eyes that usually looked up at him. Something was up he knew that. "Darling, you look like you're almost about to burst into tears. What's wrong?" Martin asked, concern laced in his voice. "And don't tell me it's nothing, I know something's up." he added in a serious tone. You let out a big sigh, he wasn't wrong but you also didn't wanna unpack everything. It all felt too small to be a 'real' problem like it wasn't something you should feel so worried and upset about. Martin stepped even closer to you, turning your chair so that you were directly opposite him. He lifted a hand to your cheek and let his thumb softly glide over your skin. You leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth of him seep into your skin. Knowing you couldn't stop him from asking until he had an answer you told him. Told him about how you were stressed about exams and the competition, and how you were questioning why you even studied. However, you left out the aspect of whether you deserved to study or not. Martin knew you in and out so he knew you were keeping something from him. He looked at you with a stern but concerned face, prompting you to tell him the rest as well. You closed your eyes before you told him the last bit. "I feel like I don't deserve this, don't deserve studying." You teared up after this statement. Martin just lifted you up from your chair and pulled you into a tight hug, which in turn made you cry out everything. Martin stroked your back in comfort and whispered words and phrases of reassurance. Once your crying had calmed down to sniffles he pulled you from his chest so that he could look at you and hold your face with both of his hands. "You deserve studying, darling. You deserve to be a student. You deserve everything that you have." he told you. The earnest in his voice was clear as day and he hoped that it seeped into your mind. Pulling you into him again, you two stood there, in your room, wrapped around each other, for a little while longer.

"Now I don't think I can really take away the stress about competition or the thoughts about you deserving to study or not. However, I think we can do something about feeling stressed out in general." You looked at him with curious eyes while he smiled slightly.

"What do you say about comfort dinner and then a movie after. I can cook or we can cook together. We can cuddle up for the movie and you can just turn that smart brain of yours off." "Mhmm cooking together and movie night sounds good." So off you went into the kitchen to collect the ingredients you needed and started cooking. Whenever Martin wasn't occupied by preparing something for dinner he walked over to give you the occasional kiss or hug, knowing that the physical contact would help you feel better.

After dinner, which you and Martin thoroughly enjoyed, you got settled on the couch. You were sitting next to him, head somewhere between his chest and shoulder. Martin had given you the choice of movie, which meant your favorite movie was just about to start. You snuggled deeper into him and he put his arm around you, holding you as tight as possible.

You enjoyed the movie – with the occasional comment from either of you here and there – up to about the halfway mark, at which you felt the sleepiness creep in. You changed position so that now your head laid in his lap. Not long after his hand found its way into your hair, playing with different strands of hair and occasionally scratching your scalp too.

“You comfy down there love?” Martin asked in a soft voice, one that was reserved for the quiet times you two spent together. You only hummed a confirmation; you were too comfortable and sleepy to answer properly right now.

At this very moment, in this place, being so close to Martin, you felt safe, loved and so content with everything. Your head being quiet for once. You fell asleep not long after, the last words you heard were Martin’s soft whispers, “Goodnight my dear, have a restful sleep.”

#martin whitly imagine #martin whitly x reader #prodigal son #so self indulgent #based on authors feelings #sfw

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make-me-imagine · 1 year

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Cozy Winter Evening

12 Days of Christmas: Day 5

Plot: You and Malcolm take a break from crime and death to have a cozy Christmas movie marathon.

Pairing: Malcolm Bright x Gn!Reader

Warnings: None~

Words: 768; short and sweet

"Got the cookies?" Malcolm asked as he stirred the hot cocoa.

Setting the cookies onto a small dish you grinned "Yep, and they're perfect." You looked over at him and smiled "Ready?"

He smiled and nodded, following you back into the living room. Malcolm smiled at your obvious giddiness as you set the cookies down.

You had been looking forward to tonight for over a week. It got pushed back due to a murder case, but now you finally had your evening to relax and watch Christmas movies.

Sitting on the couch, he chuckled as he lifted the pile of blankets you brought with you "Think we have enough?"

"Not nearly" You said jokingly as you sat beside him, grabbing the blankets and lying them across you.

As you cuddled into Malcolm's side, he stretched his arm back across the couch behind you. The fireplace was crackling nearby as the rain pattered lightly outside.

Grabbing the remote you hummed "Alright, which one first?"

Malcolm shrugged "Home Alone?"

"Or Elf? Which I cannot believe you have never seen."

He shrugged his head "Eh, I wasn't too into Christmas at the time."

"That's fair" You commented before you looked over at him "Elf, Home Alone, and then How the Grinch Stole Christmas?"

"What about Die Hard?"

You tilted your head "We're not watching Die Hard, Malcolm."

"It's a Christmas movie!"

"Not a cozy night on the couch Christmas movie" You laughed.

He pouted playfully and you rolled your eyes.

"Fine, we can watch Die Hard, if, we watch a Muppet's Christmas Carol too."

Malcolm tilted his head back as he stared at you for a moment, contemplating your offer. Letting out a soft smile he nodded "Deal."

You grinned as you turned back to the tv "But we're still watching Elf first."

He chuckled as he looked at you adoringly, "Fine with me."

Three movies, Chinese take out, and too many eaten Christmas cookies later, you stretched as you stood up from the couch as the credits rolled.

"Die Hard next right?"

You looked down at him before placing out your closed fist "One round. Winner get's to pick."

Malcolm eyed your hand and smirked "Alright."

Reaching out his own fist, you locked yes before you began moving your hands, and speaking in sync.

"Rock, Paper, Scissors, shoot!"

Seeing Malcolm's fist remain closed, as your fingers shot out, you let out a groan as he fist pumped "Yes!"

"Alright alright, Die Hard next" You said with a pout, but your tone gave away your amusement. "I'm gonna get some more cocoa first, do you want some."

Handing you his mug he smiled "Yes please."

Walking towards the kitchen, your eyes passed over the window. Stopping, you let out a soft gasp "It's snowing!"

Malcolm looked over at you before looking out the window, seeing the soft snow replacing the previous rain drops.

Getting up, he walked over to where you were now in front of the window. The small flakes melted as they hit the street below, but you still smiled brightly at the sight of them.

"First snow of the season." Malcolm said softly.

"Now it really feels like Christmas" You said with a smile.

Malcolm looked over at your face, seeing the obvious glee in the wrinkles at your eyes. No matter how many winters you saw, you always loved the first snow.

Malcolm really took in how he was feeling for the first time as he watched you. At first he did not feel the Christmas spirit, after everything that had been happening in his life. But you came bustling into his house with decorations and a tree. Even bringing decorations for Sunshine's cage.

You made him cocoa, and cookies and made him watch Christmas movies, and he loved every minute of it. In between the uncertainty and drama in his life, there was always you. And just as you looked at the first snow in awe, he looked at you the same way.

Reaching over, he rested his hand on your back as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

After another moment of watching the snow in silence, he finally broke the silence with an amused smile. "Okay, now go get the cocoa, John McClane is waiting."

You let out a soft laugh as you stepped away from the window "Alright, alright, sheesh. You and your Die Hard." You finished jokingly under your breath as you headed into the kitchen.

Malcolm watched you for another moment, with a grin on his face., before he returned to the couch and your ridiculous amount of blankets.

xx End xx

General Taglist: @criminaly-supernatural, @imaginesfire, @onuen, @witchygagirl, @alexxavicry

Prodigal Son/Malcolm Taglist: @locke-writes, @malindacath, @cosplayingwitch, @spuffyfan394, @starship-argo, @gatefleet,

#Malcolm Bright #Prodigal Son #Malcolm Bright/Reader #malcolm bright x reader #prodigal son x reader #prodigal son/reader #prodigal son christmas #malcolm bright imagine #malcolm bright drabble #12 days of christmas #day 5 #christmas 2022 #prodigal son imagine #malcolm bright x gn!reader

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bi-bard · 1 year

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shout out to tumblr. for flagging one of my Malcolm Bright gif imagines from 2020 for... sexual themes...

what?

anyway, it was a gif imagine about Malcolm hallucinating and then getting hot chocolate after because I was 17 and was trying to show my fav some comfort.

#imagine #fanfiction #x reader #malcolm bright x reader #malcolm bright imagine #malcolm bright fanfiction #prodigal son x reader #prodigal son imagine #prodigal son fanfiction

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apple-grass-and-smiles · 4 months

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i get along without you some nights

Summary: Spending the holidays without someone you love is a strange, surreal, scary situation. Everyone handles it differently, everyone wonders about a different world, and, eventually, everyone makes it through the holiday. And then the next. And the one after that. And so on and so forth until things get at least a little better.

Six different characters, six different holidays, and six different ways of approaching not having someone they love to celebrate with.

OR: A Secret Santa gift for @y3ll0w-b3ntl3y! I hope this piece brings you some happiness/joy/laughter. You can either use the AO3 link above or read the fic below the read more!

A/N: Hello, my friends! Long time no see! This is a piece for y3ll0w-b3ntl3y as part of the Prodigal Son Secret Santa that whats-a-terrarium organized. Hopefully it’s a good gift! The title is adapted from “Almost (Sweet Music)” by Hozier because I was so desperate for a title that I actually googled “Hozier lyrics loss”.

This idea has been floating through my head since mid-November and has had a few different iterations. I lost a very, very close family friend this summer and have been thinking a lot about how people get through their first holidays without someone they love and this was born from that. The vignettes are roughly saddest first and they get more hopeful from there. JT’s vignette is just texts, which will hopefully be clear but if not, now you know.

TW: Mostly canon-typical things. Alcoholism, some depression. Jessica’s is the most graphic/intense and can be skipped as needed.

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The Christmas tree was already up when Martin was… (Jessica was still trying to find the polite term for it, trying different ones on) taken away. Normally Jessica insisted on no hints of Christmas in the home until the Thanksgiving dinner had been cleared from the table, but Malcolm had campaigned valiantly to put it up early. As per usual, Ainsley had joined in, asking Jessica to make an exception to her rule and then Martin had given Jessica that look, the one that had been crumbling her resolve since the day they met.

The tree was decorated as part of Malcolm’s family birthday party. Great aunt Mildred and Birdie and all the other Miltons covered the tree in ornaments from Chanel and Tiffany and made snide comments at the humble Hallmark ornaments Martin produced from his own meager collection. (Jessica had joked to Martin as he held her in his arms that it was not worth it to use an ornament hook to kill her family members. The irony was not lost on Jessica, no matter how much wine she drank.) The final result had been the definition of a Milton Tree. Nothing but matching ornaments, the kids’ handmade ornaments hidden in the back of the tree or so close to the trunk so as to appear invisible. The tree was perfect from the gold star to the Hermes tree skirt.

Jess hated it.

So she and Martin let the kids stay up well past their bedtime so as to un-decorate and re-decorate the tree, making it their own. Laughter had filled the home as Martin lifted Malcolm to put ornaments at the top of the tree and Ainsley skipped around the room with her fourth (fifth?) cookie, singing “Jingle Bells” at the top of her lungs. Jessica tried to capture the moment, to bottle it so she could reminisce on and sip at it like a fine wine.

Two days later, Jessica Whitly stood next to the tree while officers asked her questions and her husband became a stranger to her and she watched her children’s childhoods begin to melt away and all she could do was say no, I didn’t know anything over and over and over. The whole time the Christmas lights her husband had strung so lovingly around the tree with the precision of a surgeon (and The Surgeon) shone just to the right of her face.

Two weeks after the arrest and eight days before Christmas, Jessica was drunk because that was all that was left to do. Her kids were broken, her husband was the monster who broke them, she was the useless maiden who watched as it all happened and did nothing, and now she was spending more money on alcohol than anything else. Every happy moment she’d bottled up of her time with Martin and her children was ruined. And standing there, completely unchanged despite Jessica’s life having crumbled to ash, was the Christmas tree. It mocked her. Mocked her desire for a family, a partner, a happy life. It had to go. And her cocktail provided insight into what to do with the stupid tree.

It was only midmorning when Jessica began her drunken battle against the tree. Ornaments were thrown to the ground and shattered. She rubbed her hands raw trying to get all the pine needles off of the branches. She took a pair of scissors to the tree skirt until there was no hope of ever saving it. Custom ornaments celebrating her engagement, her wedding, Malcolm’s birth, her 5th anniversary, Ainsley’s birth were all crushed under high heels. For the grand finale, she pushed the tree to the ground and poured a generous helping of liquor for herself before dumping the rest on the tree. She had the lighter in her hand when Malcolm’s trembling voice cut through the haze, “Mom, don’t; not in the house.”

Jessica turned to see her children huddled together on the stairs, watching her. Ainsely was mostly hidden behind her brother but both looked at her with expressions she recognized from that horrible night. Expressions that showed surprise to discover that their parents were capable of such violence and destruction. And part of Jessica was broken that they would think that of her and another part was furious because how dare they compare her to the man sitting in a cell with more pending charges than she cared to count. Martin had always been the fun parent, the one who encouraged them to pester Jessica about breaking perfectly good traditions, like waiting to set the tree up until December first, and now, right before Christmas when there was supposed to be joy and peace in the world and her children were supposed to have not a care in the world, he was the lowlife who left Jessica to clean up after him.

She’d clean up after Martin, make the kids go to school in January, be sure their clothes fit, tell the chef what to make for dinner, go to the charity events so it was clear her family was thriving. She would get along just fine and make sure her children did too. But first, the tree had to go.

Jessica sent her children to their rooms. Then she set the tree and everything it symbolized ablaze.

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Dani’s 17th birthday was on the three-month anniversary of her dad’s death. She had just started to get to the point where she could go a day or two without crying and she had finally stopped setting the dinner table for the whole family. She had even remembered to ask for four tickets at the movies instead of five. Her heart was still a gaping wound but it wasn’t as raw.

Then her birthday rolled around, bringing with it a promise that her father would never be able to keep.

Her father had been taking her and her sisters on special father-daughter dates for their birthday for as long as she could remember. According to him, gifts were good but experiences were excellent. When she was five, he’d taken Dani to a carnival and let her ride the carousel as many times as she wanted. For her 10th birthday, he took her to get her ears pierced and let her pick out earrings that she knew were above her family’s price range, revealing the extra cash he’d been saving just for that occasion. For her 16th birthday, her last ever one with him, they dressed up in their nicest suit and dress, washed his dingy old car until it shined, and drove to the fanciest place they could find. They hadn’t even ordered appetizers before they decided that no place had a right to charge $100 for a house salad and snuck out to eat at the greasy spoon a couple miles away. Dani had spilled ketchup on her pale purple prom dress and she, her dad, their waitress, and the cook had spent 15 minutes getting it out. It had been perfect, an absolutely fitting end to a tradition Dani looked forward to throughout the whole year.

This birthday there wouldn’t be a father-daughter outing to the beach like Dani had planned. Instead she sat through a calc test where she knew none of the answers, ate a truly pitiful cafeteria attempt at spaghetti and meatballs, and hid in bathroom stalls to cry. When Dani had been out of her fifth period class for far longer than her bathroom hall pass allowed, the school counselor was dispatched to find her. Dani had never spoken to the counselor before her dad died but at this point they were on a first name basis. (Dani saw it as a good sign when the older woman introduced herself as Elle, short for Danielle. Something about their names fitting together like puzzle pieces made her feel safe.) Dani finished the day in Elle’s office, completing work that could have been written in Greek for all Dani knew.

Before her dad died, going home after school was usually a relief. Now it felt like walking into his funeral over and over. Her mom had tried her hardest to bring the Powell house back to life, adding colorful art with motivational messages and insisting on opening the windows to let in fresh air, even when it was raining and the humidity made Dani’s hair resemble a lion’s mane. But she had to go home, couldn’t dream of scaring her mom by being late, and at least at home she could sleep until tomorrow rolled around and it wasn’t her birthday anymore.

Even 10 years after her 17th birthday, Dani won’t be able to remember what happened after school that day. Pictures indicate that she had cupcakes and she had sat through her sisters and mom singing “Happy Birthday”. She doesn’t remember anything else. In fact, the rest of that school year and most of that summer are lost to Dani. Her therapist will say it’s a common way for people to manage grief, that the depression will ease with time, that all of it is completely and utterly normal. Dani figures it was her brain’s way of ignoring that her dad wasn’t there. Dad couldn’t be missing from her memories of her birthday if she had none.

Every birthday after that one hurts in some way, sometimes for the full 24 hours and other times for only a split second. Her 18th is full of anger at her dad for not being there. Her 21st involves her bawling while drunk in some random bar about how she wishes she could be with her dad, even if it meant not being around anymore. She writes a seven-page letter to her dad on her 27th, updating him on every detail of the last decade as if he were still alive. Her 32nd brings a sense of acceptance, of knowing that as much as she misses him and wishes he could be there as she blows out her birthday candles, she wouldn’t trade the life she has for anything.

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Edrisa had never spent the Fourth of July in the US until she was 26. Summer was the ideal season for her parents to do research in far off lands, which meant it was the season where Edrisa packed a couple bags and left home to follow them on their travels. But this year she couldn’t make the trip. Or, more accurately, she was purposely not invited on the trip. It wasn’t surprising that she had been excluded, but it still hurt.

She had always been closer to her parents than anyone else in the world. Friends were few and far between and even when she did manage to make one, she never felt as comfortable in her skin with them as she did in a hut in a random country with her parents. (And, yes, maybe she wasn’t giving her friends a chance to get close to her and, yes, maybe she wasn’t trying her hardest to make connections, but still.) The comfort meant she kept going on research trips long after she turned 18, kept running back to the safety of the trio that made up her family.

But then she told her parents she was hoping to be a medical examiner instead of pursuing internal medicine like she had originally planned. She hadn’t realized how much that original plan meant to her parents but her announcement led to a debate that grew into an argument before becoming a full-blown, knock-down, drag-out fight. That had been over her spring break in April and she and her parents hadn’t spoken since and it was tearing her apart.

Edrisa prided herself on her resilience though and so she planned to make the most of this first Independence Day in her home country. And if that distracted her from her parents’ radio silence, then that was a nice bonus. Edrisa had accepted every invite she got from various colleagues and coworkers, crammed her schedule full of pancake breakfasts, barbeques, block parties, and firework shows. She saw the same few scenes of Independence Day in four different places. She ate no less than five hot dogs throughout the day. By the end of the day, she had spent a total of 160 minutes watching fireworks. But no amount of hot dogs or fireworks or dramatic speeches could dull the voice in the back of her head that was wondering what her mom and dad were doing.

Had Dad gotten sick from sketchy water yet because he didn’t let it boil long enough? Had Mom found the scarf she wanted to buy to add to her collection? Were they seeing souvenirs and thinking of her? Which coworkers were they with? Darrell? Synthia? Nasir? That guy with the cool tattoo sleeves whose name Edrisa could never remember? Did they remember that it was the Fourth of July?

Edrisa arrived back at her tiny apartment far past her usual bedtime, Edrisa curled up on her couch, skipping between TV channels for something she could fall asleep to. By the time she stumbled on the fifth channel playing Independence Day (always that one speech; surely there was more to this movie than this one speech), she had accepted that the universe had clearly determined her entertainment for the night.

Edrisa settled in to see how the movie ended as one guy (the President? He was in a suit giving a speech and that seemed like enough of a context clue for Edrisa) delivered his, admittedly very moving, speech. “And should we win the day, the 4th of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day when the world declared in one voice, we will not go quietly into the night. We will not vanish without a fight.”

Maybe it was the actor’s delivery or the music or fate, but Edrisa found herself ruminating on the same line over and over: “We will not vanish without a fight.” It seemed absurd to compare her fight with her parents to humanity fighting off aliens, but good advice was good advice. Edrisa didn’t want to give up on her family. If she wanted to patch things up, to help her parents see why she didn’t want to work with living patients, to not have to suffer through another Fourth of July block party where she didn’t know anyone, she was going to have to put up a fight. And so she pulled up her e-mail as Will Smith did heroic things and wrote to her parents. She poured all the feelings she’d felt that day, all the melancholy and anger and grief and longing, into the e-mail, took a deep breath, hit send, and turned off her TV. (Edrisa will be well into her 60s before she actually sees Independence Day all the way through. She did have the President’s speech memorized more than 25 years before that.) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

February 14th, 2010-

Tally: Happy Valentines babe <3 <3

JT: Love you!

Tally: How likely is it that your sergeant is gonna let you off early today?

JT: -1000%

Tally: Did you try the “it’s my first valentines with my wife” angel?

Tally: Angle!

JT: Salazar isn’t going to budge. No seniority, no chance of going home early

Tally: But you’ll try anyway right…? (:

JT: Only because I love you. If you don’t hear back from me it’s because Salazar has sentenced me to work overtime for the next month.

Tally: Fingers crossed!

Tally: Anything?

Tally: It’s been 10 minutes, are you alive?

Tally: JT ANSWER ME OR I’M POSTING YOUR FULL NAME ON FACEBOOK!!!!!!!!

JT: He laughed me out of the room

JT: And now I’m on parking violation duty for the day

Tally: Sorry babe…

JT: Wish I could be with you ):

Tally: Maybe I could go and violate some parking laws…? What do you say, Officer Tarmel?

JT: This is why I married you

Tally: That and the fact that I’m nice enough to wear those heels you love to go and get a parking ticket

JT: your my dream girl ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Thanksgiving had always been Jackie’s holiday. Ever since their first Thanksgiving together, Gil and Jackie had agreed she would handle Thanksgiving and he would put together Christmas dinner. Jackie had taken immense joy in her perfect Thanksgiving dinners. As if by magic, she made sure the food was done cooking all at the same time, the turkey was never dry, and she had an apple pie so good she would print the recipe to hand out to guests.

The last two Thanksgivings before Jackie had passed away had been pale imitations of the ones they used to have. The first one, Gil ate some Chinese food while Jackie curled on the couch and nibbled at saltines because the chemo made her too nauseous for anything else. The second was spent in the hospital, discussing funeral plans because Jackie wanted to make sure Gil knew exactly what she wanted. The first Thanksgiving after Jackie died, Gil offered to work so another officer who had just had a baby could be home for the holiday. Gil worked a 13-hour shift, finding reasons to stick around long after he could have gone home. The second Thanksgiving, he went to DC to see Bright, hoping that being in an unfamiliar city would help stave off the sadness that he would never have a Thanksgiving with Jackie again. Bright had gotten called in for an emergency and Gil had spent the day wandering through the city by himself.

Gil runs out of ways to avoid Thanksgiving the third year. He has too much overtime so work is a no-go. Bright is back in New York. Gil doesn’t particularly want to travel at Thanksgiving again and definitely not by himself. He considered helping at a shelter but apparently the rest of the city has had the same idea because Gil was informed that no additional volunteers were needed.

He plans to approach the dreaded Thursday like any other. He’ll make a normal meal. He’ll watch a football game he had missed earlier in the week instead of the Thanksgiving games. He will close his curtains so that if a balloon from the parade somehow magically makes its way to his part of town, he won’t see it.

Gil’s in the middle of heating up canned tomato soup and making a grilled cheese when there’s a knock at the door. He opens it without looking through the peephole, hoping it’s the turtleneck he ordered to replace one that Bright destroyed earlier in the week. The shipping e-mail had said it should be arriving that day. Instead, he finds JT and Tally with four food containers. “It’s just the sides. We were going to bring some turkey but Tally says it’s inedible so…” JT shrugs as he places the food on the table and explains what is what. There’s creamed corn and mashed potatoes and Gil’s stomach rumbles despite his best efforts. The visit is very brief (Tally’s family is headed to their apartment and they need to clean up before anyone gets there) and the food is wonderful. It’s not Jackie’s, not by a long shot, but it’s different enough that it feels odd to compare them and that’s a blessing.

Gil has just gotten through half of his mashed potatoes when there’s another knock at the door. Again, he hops up, hoping to find his turtleneck on the other side. Instead, he finds Bright, smiling, with Ainsley and Jessica standing behind him. Gil has experienced a Whitly Thanksgiving once, many years ago. It’s just one step down from a black tie affair and Gil had spent most of the four-hour meal prepping to break up a domestic dispute between the various Milton relatives. It had been one of the most unpleasant holidays he had ever experienced and he had spent dozens of holidays working as a police officer, which always promised at least one tragedy.

Thrown off by seeing the Whitly crew instead of a FedEx employee, it took Gil a moment to realize that Bright was holding an entire turkey. His confusion must have shown on his face because Bright leaned towards Gil and, in a rather loud stage whisper, said, “I told Mother it made no sense to bring a whole turkey, but you know how she gets when she sets her mind on something.” Ainsley chuckled behind Bright and Jessica looked between both her children with a look of overexaggerated offense.

Gil’s manners kicked in after a moment. “Do you want to come in? I can’t eat a whole turkey alone,” he gestured with his hand to invite them in, but all three responded by shaking their heads.

“Thank you, Gil, but we can’t impose,” Jessica said in her tone that indicated there was no room for disagreement. “There’s no need to play host on today of all days.” The subtext was clear: I wouldn’t want to have to pretend to be okay on a hard day; I won’t make you. It was a kind thought but as he watched the little family walk back to the car, Ainsley and Bright joking with each other, Gil wasn’t sure if he would rather them stay or leave.

The turkey was delicious and Gil was nodding off in his favorite chair when the third and final knock of the evening came. Gil got up, again feeling the excitement of getting his new turtleneck because surely that’s the only reason someone would be at his door at 9:00 PM on Thanksgiving.

“You’re not my turtleneck,” Gil bemoaned as he opened the door to see Dani.

She scoffed, “Nice to see you too.”

“Sorry, I’ve just been waiting for the turtleneck-”

“You ordered to replace the one that got ruined in that fire Bright set?” Dani raised her eyebrows, proud of finishing his sentence.

Gil chuckled, “You and I may spend too much time together.”

Dani made her way into Gil’s living room, comfortable enough to not wait for permission. “I brought you something,” Dani said while extending her hand that held an opaque Tupperware. Her voice was tinged with nervousness; it reminded Gil of a kid handing in a test they thought they might fail. “It’s definitely not perfect and I don’t think I baked it long enough but hopefully it’s okay.”

As Dani spoke, Gil opened the container and was met by a smell so familiar and beloved that it brought a tear to his eyes. The smell was the perfect mix of apple, cinnamon, and nutmeg; a smell so connected to Jackie that Gil could have sworn she was in the room. He couldn’t resist tasting it, even though he suspected that Dani might still be talking, unaware that he had been transported to happier years. She was right, the pie could have done with another minute or two but besides that it was perfect. No one else had ever gotten it this perfect. He couldn’t even get it this perfect and he helped Jackie make her pie at least a dozen times.

“Dani,” Gil was fighting back the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him. “This is just right. How… How did you get it just right?”

Pulling a stained and folded piece of paper from her back pocket, with a look of surprise on her face, Dani responded, “Jackie gave me the recipe that first Thanksgiving, right before she got…” Right before she got sick hung in the air, unsaid. How many times had Gil seen Jackie pass out this recipe? And yet no one had ever made the pie correctly. What made Dani different? He unfolded the recipe like it was a precious artifact. Scrawled in Jackie’s messy handwriting in the corner was a note: Top secret! To make this correctly add apple cider syrup (about ½ cup). Love, Jackie.

Gil didn’t even try to contain his laugh. Of course, Jackie, his Jackie who was so competitive and always up to something mischievous, would never give out her full recipe, not even to him. And of course, Jackie, his Jackie who was endlessly compassionate and always looking out for people, would have the foresight to see that Dani would be the type of person to bring him pie when Jackie was gone. Even now, his wife was amazing him and making sure he had a proper Thanksgiving.

As Gil fell asleep that night, his phone buzzed. More out of habit than anything, he reached for it and found an e-mail. The subject line? “Men’s gray turtleneck delivery delayed to 1/31”. Gil groaned. Now if only one of his team members would show up with a turtleneck!

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Logically, Bright gets the value of New Year’s. It's a clear chance for a new beginning, a perfect time to reflect on the past, and, of course, an opportunity for one more party before the holiday season ends and everyone returns to their normal lives. It all makes sense in theory.

Theory isn’t reality and the reality of New Year’s has never met Bright’s expectations. New York on December 31st is always brimming with tourists who want to see the ball drop and make the city claustrophobic. Reflecting on the past year usually includes remembering a laundry list of mistakes and horror. Planning for the new year just results in people expecting something that never comes. And, to be completely honest, he has yet to attend a New Year’s Eve party that he didn’t regret the next morning. Nothing about midnight on January first makes anyone a new person.

Despite all of that, Bright’s loft was decked out for a New Year’s Eve party thanks to a bet. He had been so confident the janitor had killed their victim and JT had been equally confident Bright was wrong. So the bet was made: if Bright was right JT had to reveal the letter that came after the J in his name; if JT won, Bright had to throw a New Year’s Eve party. It had not been the janitor, but the janitor’s identical twin brother who killed the victim. Despite his best efforts to convince him otherwise, Gil ruled in favor of JT and now Bright had a party to throw.

Mother had, of course, taken matters into her own hands, insisting that there was no way Bright could throw a New Year’s party as well as her event planner could. He had tried to convince her that this would be a small party with just a few people from work and that it truly did not require an event planner who would charge at least $4,000. His efforts were in vain and now he could barely recognize his own home through the catered food, the enormous number of gold and silver decorations, and the pièce de résistance: a disco ball that was far too big for his apartment.

Perhaps it was fitting that he couldn’t recognize his home under the decorations. Life had become increasingly unrecognizable since that day in Vermont with Martin and the Woodsman. The day his father had tried to kill him and Bright had instead murde– killed his father. (His army of therapists had been working diligently to help Bright change the way he spoke about the event; shifting from Bright murdering Martin to Bright having defended himself. It was a very slow process.) Bright didn’t recognize himself most days and his safe spaces had dwindled rapidly. There was court and mandatory time off and 72-hour holds and so much therapy. There were hard conversations to be had and confessions to be made and apologies to be given by the dozens. Now, still far from okay but no longer on the edge of insanity, Bright was facing a completely foreign idea: a new year without his father.

Martin Whitly would not see a single second of 2022.

Malcolm Bright would get to see all of them.

Malcolm had never had a year without his father. Never had a chance to see what he could be without Martin. Never even considered that one day he wouldn’t feel torn between Claremont and the real world where people were sometimes cruel but mostly kind. Maybe Bright didn’t buy into the idea of New Year’s because he’d still be carrying his trauma and demons and flaws whether it was December 31st, 2021 or January 1st, 2022, but it did seem worth celebrating a year where he would only carry the ghost of his father, instead of the real thing.

So, despite the party being entirely over-the-top, Bright made the most of it. He laughed with his friends, played party games and lost at all of them in spectacular fashion. He ate some food that wasn’t licorice and Dani literally applauded him for it. He got to hold JT’s baby who smiled at Bright and for a moment he enjoyed being with someone who did not find him strange or odd or shattered through with trauma. Kisses and hugs were shared at midnight and it felt like maybe beautiful things were beginning.

By the time 2:00 AM rolled around, it was just Bright, sitting on the floor, his back against his front door. The loft was a disaster and Bright was certain it would take years to de-glitter the space. The sirens outside were loud and more frequent than normal and if he squinted, Bright could see snow falling lightly outside. He leaned his head back against the door and released a long breath, thinking about how this year, as ridiculous as it was, felt different, felt lighter. It was enough to make him laugh. The noise bubbled up out of his mouth involuntarily and startled Sunshine awake from her perch just a bit above Bright’s head. She chirped indignantly, as if scolding him for waking her up. It made him laugh even more. He apologized to her and pulled himself up to start heading to bed.

“Happy new year, Sunshine. I think it’ll be a good one.”

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A/N: For a person who has only just started using emojis in the year 2023, not using them in Tally and JT’s text was shockingly difficult. I hope you enjoyed seeing me flex my very limited memory of emoticons. Also, I googled secret ingredients for apple pie so if you make one with apple cider syrup and it’s bad, it’s not my fault.

Also, I’m sorry to all my Ainsley fans; on hour six of writing so she did not get a vignette. (Though there’s totally something to be said for a piece about Ainsley at Halloween.) Sorry that she’s the only main cast member who didn’t get some love.

Thank you for reading! If you’re someone who is going through holidays without their loved one, I’m sending you hugs, warm blankets, and your favorite beverage. I hope this maybe brought a bit of catharsis or hope. May all of you have a wonderful 2024, full of loved ones, good food, and lots of pleasant surprises. And most importantly, may 2024 bring us the miracle of a season 3!

#psonsecretsanta23 #prodigal son #and I am not tagging all the characters that are in this but they're mostly all there #didn't Tumblr use to have a horizontal line you could put in your text so you don't have to type ----- to separate sections?#did I imagine that?#silence emily #have fun with this; I wrote it in 6 hours with no breaks after thinking about it for at least 2 months #grief man. it's crazy

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