#still working up to the climbing back out bit

[robbysreaders]

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader warnings: age gap (unspecified, but reader is late 20s/he's late 40s) word count: 2.8k notes: a spiritual successor to my casual but not casual drabble (here it is if you are curious but you don't need to read it enjoy this one.) be kind to me, i am not a writer but dr. jack abbot is a menace who i cannot stop thinking about so you all must suffer with me.

Your phone buzzes against the sticky surface of the bar table, lit up with Jack Abbot and a photo you secretly took of him eating fries and scowling at the menu.

You grin, already a little too tipsy, and slide your finger across the screen.

“Hey, old man,” you say, standing up to find somewhere a little quieter.

You’re met with that low, dry voice you already know so well: “Please tell me that’s your third drink, not your sixth.”

You look around at the table — your best friends, all glittery and flushed and loud. “...Define sixth.”

You hear him chuckle on the other end. “Having fun?”

“Mhm. They made me take a lemon drop shot. And then a photo booth happened. Probably banned from karaoke now.”

Jack’s quiet for a beat. You know that pause — he’s doing a mental check. Are you safe? Are you happy? Are you going to try and walk home in heels again?

“I’ll get an Uber to yours in a bit,” you add. “Once I wrestle my dignity out from under the table.”

“Nah,” he says. “Tell me when you're wrapping up. I’ll come get you.”

You blink. “Wait—what? No, you worked all day. I’ll be fine—”

“I want to.”

“Jack—”

“I’d rather pick you up and make sure you don’t forget your purse like last time.”

You can hear the smile in his voice. That stubborn, I’m-doing-this-my-way kind of tenderness he never admits out loud.

You hang up. Blush. Immediately tell your friends.

Cue the chaos.

Twenty minutes later, Jack pulls up in his beat-up pickup truck and steps out, wearing a hoodie, jeans, and an expression that says I was not emotionally prepared for this level of perfume and sequins.

Your friends? Obsessed instantly.

He opens the passenger door for you like a goddamn gentleman, then circles back to help your friend Jess climb into the back, muttering, “Watch your step — last time someone faceplanted outta here was Robby after four bourbons.”

He gets everyone in, seatbelts checked, directions logged into his GPS.

You glance over at him — one hand on the wheel and one on your thigh, calm in a sea of giggles and Taylor Swift echoing from someone’s phone.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you whisper.

He just looks over, squeezes your knee, and says, “I wanted to.”

One by one, he drops each friend at their door. Waits until they’re inside. Waves when they call out “Thanks, Dr. McSteamy!” and “Tell him he’s gotta clone himself!”

Finally, it’s just you.

Tipsy. Warm. Full of something that has nothing to do with alcohol.

You glance over at him again. “They love you.”

“They’re very loud about it.”

You laugh. “They said I have to keep you.”

He smirks. “That right?”

You nod. “You making it hard to argue.”

He pulls into your driveway, cuts the engine, and looks over at you with that soft kind of affection he’s still not used to showing.

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

[tsunodaradio]

love on track ⛐ 𝐘𝐓𝟐𝟐

you wish, of course, that you could have accounted for yuki tsunoda. (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵.)

ꔮ starring: yuki tsunoda x graduate student!reader. ꔮ word count: 5.4k. ꔮ includes: romance. profanity. reader is studying something statistics-adjacent, a bit of numbers talk, isack is a plot device again, idiots in love. highly recommended that you read love at first flight before this one! ꔮ commentary box: the tsunodaradio yuki transportation verse expands! writing this sequel to my first ever yuki fic as a birthday gift for the man, the myth, the legend 🚆 without further ado.. 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ take a chance with me, niki. oh shit...are we in love?, the valley. ? (who do you think of), any name's okay. me & you, honne & tom misch. maybe?, radi. happy accidents, saint motel.

The statistical probability of running into a stranger twice in your lifetime depends on a range of variables. 

There’s location to consider. Frequency of interaction. Shared activities or interests. The probability may be low, but it is never zero. Even a 1 in 100,000 chance is still a chance. 

So, in some ways, are you really that surprised to find a familiar face on this train? 

It’s your second trip to Japan. The first one had gone by in a blur, and that was why you came back. You hadn’t felt like you were able to sufficiently enjoy yourself and you figured a country as beautiful as this one deserved a little more respect. A longer stay. More touristy commitments. 

The Sunrise Izumo Express gave you that chance. A sleeper train route of 12 hours, boasting Pinterest-worthy views of the country’s mountains and lakes within the range of Tokyo to Izumo. You had timed your vacation specifically around the snowy season. 

Do you wish you could have gotten a private room on the train? Of course. 

Did you cheap out a bit so you could buy more wagyu? Definitely. 

You find yourself on the top berth of a double-deck sleeper. It’s not much. Curtains for privacy, a reading light, an overhead fan. A barely-there wooden separator will keep you from being shoulder-to-shoulder with whoever sits—or lays—next to you. 

As you squeeze yourself into the small space, you try to think of comparably positive experiences. It feels like… summer camp. Sure. That’ll work. 

The train is set to depart at 10 PM on the dot. You glance at your watch. Half past nine, and the space next to yours is still empty. If you’re lucky, it will stay that way. 

Unfortunately, luck has never been as good to you as numbers have. 

At approximately 9:22 PM, the Familiar Stranger climbs on to the berth next to yours. He grunts when his head hits the top of the train. He falls onto the thin mattress with an incoherent cuss. You offer him a rueful smile. 

He grins back.

Then does a double take. 

“Wait,” he says, words garbled with an accent you can’t quite place yet. “I know you.” 

You nearly start sprouting numbers about this being only your second time in Japan, about the low likelihood of you recognizing anyone in this foreign land. You hold back just enough to evenly say, “I don’t think so.” 

“No, no,” the stranger insists. “I know you. I know you from somewhere.” 

The thought is laughable. You’re a tourist, for God’s sake. Nobody—most especially the person you’re supposed to sit-slash-sleep next to for the next 12 hours—should know you. 

Despite your growing irritation, you stand your ground. “I’m sorry,” you say firmly,, “but I think you have the wrong girl.” 

You try to pull the curtain close. The stranger’s hand darts out, stopping you at the very last moment. You’re already contemplating how to flag a conductor down for potential harassment. 

The man opposite you opens his mouth, ready to push, when a voice rings out. “Hadjar? Is something wrong?”

Your head snaps up. 

Again, we go back to the plain and simple fact: 1 in 100,000 is still a chance. Today, that 0.001 percent glares up at you like a neon sign in a dive bar. Bright, oppressive, unavoidable. 

Yuki Tsunoda is standing at the foot of your bunk.

He looks a little different than you remember. To be fair, it’s been over half a year.

Six months ago, on your first flight to Japan—your first flight ever—happenstance had put you in the seat next to Yuki. You chatted. Fell asleep on each other.

Held hands throughout turbulence. 

And, at the end of it all, he had slipped you his number on a scrap of tissue, asking for the statistical probability of a text. 

“You,” Yuki chokes out, eyes widening almost comically. 

He says your name afterwards, and you wince. He doesn’t say it like a curse or an insult. It comes out more like a suspension of disbelief, like he’s just seen someone come back from the dead. At this rate, maybe he has. 

“Airplane crush!” the stranger next to you—Hadjar, right, that’d been his name—announces triumphantly. “You are Yuki’s airplane crush!”

That doesn’t help. At all. 

Yuki shoots Hadjar a withering glare before turning back to look at you. “What are you doing here?” Yuki demands. He’s gripping the edges of the bunk so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. 

“Vacationing,” you say defensively. “What are you doing here?” 

“This is literally my home country!”

“I mean,” you stammer, “this is the cheapest option on this train. Couldn’t you, like, afford a compartment or something?!”

“Yuki insisted on the regular seats,” Hadjar interjects. “He wants me to get the authentic Japan experience.” 

Oddly enough, it’s the way Hadjar says those two words—regular and experience—that finally clues you to his accent. French. Your seatmate is French. 

You have bigger fish to fry, though, because Yuki is still staring at you like he can’t quite believe you’re real. Before you can decide if you should apologize or brush the whole thing off, Hadjar is already making an executive decision that is determinedly bad for everybody’s welfare. 

“Let’s switch, Yuki!” Hadjar says, enthusiastic in the way only a wingman could be. “I will take the bottom bunk!”

No, you mean to say, but you don’t know how you’d manage that without sounding rude. Yuki has a little less tact. He immediately tries to refuse, stuttering words like don’t and Isack and I am going to kill you.

Hadjar only gathers his things and begins to scramble away, completely ignoring Yuki’s protests. Hadjar even throws you a conspiratorial wink over his shoulder, like he’s doing you a favor. Like your heart hasn’t sunk to your ass at the prospect of what the next 12 hours is going to be. 

You hear them bickering below you, just out of sight. Low voices, curt exchanges. A lot of the hissing seems to be coming from Yuki. 

You lay down on your side, facing away from the berth that’s either going to be an overzealous Frenchman or a guy you ghosted after a long-haul flight. You find yourself facing what seems to be an elderly Japanese woman, already setting up her nighttime skincare routine. It’s not the worst of sights. 

The bunk you’re pointedly trying to avoid creaks under the weight of a body. You hold your breath, lying in wait. And then—

“Why didn’t you text me?” 

You have to give it to Yuki. Getting the hard question out of the way, right off the bat, is admirable. 

You keep on holding your breath. Maybe if you don’t move an inch, he’ll leave you alone. Wishful thinking. 

“I know you’re still awake,” Yuki says, tone caught halfway between amusement and exasperation. “The train has just left the station.” 

With a sigh, you turn. Yuki is seated upright, leaning against the window. You hate to admit it, but he’s still as attractive as you remember. The mop of black hair, the faint five o’clock shadow.

In the dimming lights of the train, you zero in on things you hadn’t noticed before. His stack of chrome jewelry, his designer wristwatch, his muscles rippling with every small movement he makes. 

You blink. Woah. Where did that last thought come from? 

Anyway. 

You clear your throat. He speaks up again, his gaze fixed on some nondescript point in the berth across from him. 

“I gave you my number,” he says matter-of-factly. 

You sit up, leaning your own back against the window. This doesn’t feel like a conversation to have while you’re curled up over the mattress, ready for sleep. Now both you and Yuki are glaring into the distance if it’ll mean you don’t have to look at each other. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually be waiting for a text,” you confess as you pick at a loose strand of the train-issued blanket.  

When you found out who Yuki was—really was—it made no sense to act on the number entrusted to you. On the plane, he had just been a nice seatmate who you thought you could spin into a story. A tidbit for future Two Truths and a Lie games. 

But then you landed in Tokyo, and you found out he was a racecar driver, and suddenly reaching out to him was out of the cards. 

“Besides,” you add, aiming for levity, “I’m pretty sure you do that all the time.” 

“Do what?” 

“Give out your number.” 

A beat. One long enough to make you realize your mistake before Yuki points it out himself.

“I don’t,” he says, voice so soft and hurt that you can only pray, with every fibre of your being, that the ground might swallow you whole. 

It doesn’t. You reach for the second best thing. “I’m sorry,” you say sincerely, turning your head so you’re looking straight at Yuki. 

To your surprise, he mimics the move. You’re both looking at each other as the train rumbles out of Tokyo station, starting what will undoubtedly be a long journey.

“Are you sorry for not texting?” Yuki asks, and it strikes you what kind of person he is.

You recognize the lightheartedness in his tone. He’s probably still offended, but he’s trying to tease you right now. Trying to make light of the situation. 

“I’m sorry for assuming you have bitches in every city,” you offer in return. 

Yuki laughs. It’s a bark of a surprise sound, jolted out of him like he hadn’t expected it. But you had. You had wanted to get that exact reaction out of him.

It eases some of the tension in his shoulders, makes him look at you with a little less of the flight instinct. It’s not absolution just yet; you know you’re not out of the dog house. 

But you decide you’ll take it. This small win, this break in the surface pressure. What was the statistical probability of having another 12 hours with Yuki ahead of you? 

The very least you could do was try and make it tolerable. 

You had a plan.

This whole thing about sleeping during the first hour and waking up for the sunrise. You had stayed up during the day for it, eager to make sure you wouldn’t miss anything that would justify the trip or the price tag on it.

But you don’t realize how difficult it is to fall asleep here.

It doesn’t even have anything to do with Yuki. Okay, well, that’s a lie. It’s not entirely about Yuki. He’s part of the reason, though he’s mostly out of your hair as he tries to feign interest in whatever manga he’s reading.

Your shared history—or lack thereof—exists in the negligible space between you. He’s so close that you can hear the music leaking through his AirPods.

You’re intent on falling asleep. On keeping your back turned to Yuki, fixed instead on the snoozing grandma across you.

Someone is snoring like a chainsaw below you. Hadjar, probably.

Yuki steals the thoughts right out of your head. “You’re lucky you’re not next to him,” he says dryly, making you jump a bit. 

You’re still hopeful you’ll fall asleep, so you stay curled up in your bunk as the train hurtles past the sights of Japan. It’s too dark to see anything but shadows of buildings and trees.

“Does he snore like that all the time?” you ask quietly, not wanting to wake up the woman next to you.

“Unfortunately,” Yuki chirps from behind you. “I’m a bit jealous. He’s the type to fall asleep anywhere, at any time.”

“Are you two teammates?”

There’s a moment’s pause. “You know, I thought you would be a little more invested in F1 after getting a driver’s number,” he says, that hint of amusement back in his tone. 

A snort of laughter escapes you. Your F1-obsessed best friend had gone ballistic over the knowledge you sat next to Yuki the entire flight; you withheld the fact his number was now in your phone, knowing full well that it would become a whole thing. 

Maybe you had resisted the urge to Google ‘Yuki Tsunoda’ once or twice. Maybe you were a little more tuned in with your best friend’s ramblings over the championship standings. But it was never enough to truly get you into the sport, to see what all the hype was about.

Besides— “You told me you were a chauffeur,” you point out, still speaking to the divider. 

“You assumed I was a chauffeur,” he amends. “It was too funny to deny.”

“You could have corrected me.”

He pauses. “I know.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Would it have changed anything? If I told you I drove cars in circles?”

Well, when he puts it that way. You try to think of what that plane ride would have looked like if you knew from the get-go that he was a racecar driver, that he was revered in a sport you didn’t really understand. You like to think you might’ve just rattled off more car statistics—effectively scaring him off. 

But would it have changed anything, like the way you catalogued his laugh, the way you blushed when he flirted with you, the way you napped in his side like it was somewhere you belong? 

“No,” you say quietly. “Probably not.”

“Exactly.” The way Yuki says the word is loaded with implication. He sounds smug and sad all at once.

You try to unpack it, try to make sense of it the same way that you navigate numbers. But there is no equation to this, no logic. This is emotion, and sentiment, and the held breath of a situation neither of you thought you would be in.

After a beat too long, you hear him ask, voice softer now, “Is that why?”  

“Why—what?”

“Why you didn’t text me.”

He’s asking if it’s because he lied. Because he omitted facts of the story, twisted the narrative like he was hoping to make the medicine go down easier. 

You knew from the get-go that some white lies were being told. That was always the case with strangers, anyway. You could be whoever you wanted to be for a few precious hours, cosplay as an ideal self or somebody even far worse. You figured it was always going to be black and white with chance encounters like the one you shared. 

You weren’t meant to find each other again. Except Yuki had wanted to, maybe, with his stunt of his scribbled-down phone number, and you decide you can at least afford him a little bit of honesty. 

“Kind of,” you breathe. Him lying about being a chauffeur was only partly the reason why you never reached out. 

He picks up on the hesitance almost immediately. “There’s more to it?”

A corner of your lip twitches upwards. Yuki doesn’t see, and so you let the little smile tug. Just for a second. Just enough.

“There’s always more to it,” you say vaguely. 

“Come on, then,” he urges. “We’ve got time.”

You laugh. Soundlessly, because you don’t want to bother any other passengers. Your shoulders shake all the same as you try to dismiss him with a firm, “Good night, Yuki.”

You’re still not looking at Yuki, but you can hear the grin on his face when he says good night back.

You dream of race cars made of sushi, cherry blossoms with numbered petals, and the sound of Yuki’s smile.

When you wake up to the gentle vibrations of your phone alarm, you’re surprised to find Yuki is still seated upright. 

He has his back to the window, his eyes still trained to his phone. It’s attached to a power bank now, and he’s scrolling through what seems to be the same manga he had been reading earlier. You glance at your phone—confirming you had about seven hours of sleep—before properly curling in on yourself to look to Yuki. 

“You didn’t sleep?” you ask, voice raspy with drowsiness. 

He looks up from his phone, offers you a one-shouldered shrug. “Nah,” he says, though he doesn’t really go on to explain why. 

You try to wipe out the bleariness in your eyes. With a yawn and a pathetic excuse for a stretch, you roll over. A pinkish dawn is beginning to creep in outside the train window.

You left no part of your itinerary up to chance, so you’d noted everything from the time of the day’s sunrise to which berths had the best view. 

You wish, of course, that you could have accounted for Yuki Tsunoda. Yuki, who pockets his earbuds and locks his phone. Yuki, who awkwardly maneuvers so that he’s lying down on the bunk next to yours.

Yuki, who just outright copies you. Stomach flat to the thin mattress, gaze fixed on the countryside roaring past. You’re not about to escape him, you realize. Not today.  

“Do you have another race in Japan?” You hear yourself ask. Your voice is still pitched low, not wanting to rouse the other passengers who are all still getting up themselves. “Is that why you’re here?”

“There’s only one Japan race per season,” Yuki answers patiently. “The season just ended.”

“Ah.”

So, that time you’d seen him—that had been his only home race. You don’t know how any of the sport works, and it’s beginning to frustrate you a bit. Was it just a matter of who finished first? Did he have to drive any particular way? Were him and Hadjar in the same car or something? 

All those questions seem inconsequential to the one on the tip of your tongue. You stammer through it, not wanting to ask Did you win as much as, “Did you… do well?”

A flicker of an expression on his face seems to indicate the topic is a touchy one. But your question fully sinks into him, and he does that thing again. The one where he’s not-quite smiling; the corners of his mouth, lifting just so. 

“I drove safe,” he says, and it nearly takes the wind out of you. 

“That’s good,” you manage. 

And, just in case you forgot, he adds, “Because you told me to.”

Your parting words, blurted out in place of goodbye. Yuki, turning in the line of moving people on the plane, with damning hope on his face. When you had called his name, he had probably thought you might say something else. Ask for his number, maybe. 

Instead, you’d just said Drive safe, and now the words haunt you. 

“You’re just saying that,” you groan, burying your face in one hand. You’re trying to hide the way your own expression has betrayed you, the way you’ve cracked a grin. 

Peeking through your fingers, you see the way that Yuki has started to beam. It crinkles the crow’s feet on his face, shows off a gap between his two front teeth. He keeps his eyes on the scenery even as he glows like the day that’s just about to begin. 

“You’re right,” he agrees, words measured and slow. “Guess I just wanted to see you smile.” 

Outside, dawn breaks. You lift your head, your chin over your folded arms, to watch it happen. 

The December snow blankets Japan’s countryside in sheets of white, reflecting the orange and the yellow of the rising sun. It’s a stunning panorama, a postcard for halcyon days. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of words that could probably describe just how breathtaking the view is. 

All that comes out of you is a dazed murmur of “Pretty.” 

In your peripheral vision, you see Yuki stealing a glance at you. You hadn’t grown up on a diet of romantic comedies, hadn’t read fanfiction or watched as much TV as you might have liked. So how could you have known?

How could you have known he would respond, voice barley above a whisper—like he’s saying it to himself—”Yeah. Pretty,” while still looking at you? 

How was your heart supposed to stand a chance?

“Talk numbers with me.” 

You glance up from the Japanese city maps spread open on your lap. Yuki has abandoned his manga-reading and has also abandoned feigning disinterest in you. 

“Numbers?” you repeat dumbly.

“Numbers,” he confirms. 

You’re a little surprised he remembers. In hindsight, he’s remembered everything else; your obsession with statistics was probably much more defining than, say, the last thing you’d said to him.

“What kind of numbers?” you ask. A little defensive, a little suspicious. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “How much of Japan uses trains?” 

“69 million people daily,” you answer instinctively, knee-jerk in your admission. 

“69. Nice.” 

“Seriously?” 

Yuki shrugs, something glinting in his eyes as he continues to sit cross-legged across from you. You try not to mistake the glimmer for affection. “What else?” he prompts. 

You blow a strand of hair out of your face. “I don’t know what you want to hear,” you shoot back, a hint of annoyance finding home in your tone. “The railway system operates around 26,000 trains daily. You have great punctuality rates. Average delay of just 1.6 minutes per train. The model share’s at 72.2 percent, and—why are you laughing?” 

“I’m not laughing,” Yuki says in between laughter. 

You resist the urge to chuck a map at him. You only glare, waiting for him to calm down before you speak. “You asked for the numbers, man,” you grumble. 

Surely you can’t be blamed for sounding a little hurt. You’re not about to get into it with Yuki Tsunoda, of all people, but there’s a lot of history behind the sting. Years of getting made fun of for different interests. Grating laughter, scraped knees, side eyes.

Yuki sobers instantly. “I’m not… not laughing at you,” he offers apologetically, pulling his criss-crossed legs a little tighter around his body. 

The skeptical look on your face urges him to go on. “It makes me happy,” he says, “hearing you talk about numbers.” 

“It’s just me nerding out,” you deadpan. 

“It’s you lighting up,” he interjects. “It’s a good look.” 

“What is this, Yuki?” 

Record scratch. Freeze frame. Yuki stares at you, unblinking, unmoving. You stare back. The train chugs along. Your words hang in delicate balance. You wish, for a moment, that the maps in your hands could guide you through the next four hours, looming over you like a guillotine. 

“What’s what?” he asks. It’s his turn to sound wary, to try and build up walls. 

You chip at them anyway. “What are you doing?” you press.

“I’m talking with you.” 

“You’re flirting with me.” 

“I am,” he agrees without missing a beat. “I thought I’ve made it very clear that I’m interested in you.” 

“Why?” Your fingers are curled around the paper maps; your voice, surprisingly level amid the din of noise in the train car. “Why want someone you barely even know?” 

Yuki opens his mouth. 

“Yukino!”

Hadjar’s head pops up at the foot of the berth. He has a shit-eating grin on his face, which means he’s probably blissfully unaware of what he just interrupted. “I am going to try the noodle vending machine,” the Frenchman announces excitedly. “Coming with?” 

The moment between you and Yuki goes flat like a soda left out for too long. You glance away, angling your face back towards the window. The views are all still stunning, but the pang in your chest makes them feel a little less enjoyable. 

Yuki’s gaze lingers on you. When he finds nothing he can cling to, he gives a jerky nod to Hadjar and reaches for his wallet. 

As he steps down from the top bunk, ready to follow his friend to the mythical vending machine, Yuki calls out a question that jolts you out of your moping. 

“Do you know the statistical probability of love at first sight?” 

You look back at him. There’s no teasing on his face now. There’s nothing there but the serious set of his jaw, the purse of his lips that makes your heart thump, thump, thump beneath your ribs. It’s the kind of look you imagine he would sport before getting behind a wheel. 

“1 in 5 people,” he answers for you. “I looked it up the moment we got off our flight.” 

You’re half expecting Yuki to spend the last couple of hours with Hadjar. Out of sight, out of mind. Running from what was probably a love confession, all things considered. 

To his credit, Yuki doesn’t hide. He comes back an hour later, sure, but he still comes back. Climbs up the berth, settles into the bunk next to yours. 

Suddenly, it all feels so insufficient. The sheer curtain you could pull between you. The sorry excuse for a wooden divider that barely comes up to your knees. The one hour you have left to figure out what to do. 

What you want. 

You’re gnawing your lower lip, pretending to be very interested in the quaint prefectures flying by. Yuki, whether he’s conscious or not, mimics your stance again. 

For a couple of beats, all you two do is stare out the window. Then, simultaneously—

Your voice is remorseful; Yuki’s, contemplative. “I’m sorry.” 

You both start. You both laugh. It’s an awkward sound, but it makes things a little easier. 

“You first,” you say, and Yuki concedes without resistance. 

“I shouldn’t have put you on the spot like that,” he says. “You don’t owe me anything. I—I don’t know much, just that I left that plane really hoping to hear from you.”

There’s a twinge in your chest, put there by the sincerity in Yuki’s words. “I know,” you say, and he shoots you a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Do you know how bad I was?” 

“How bad?” 

“I spent an entire night looking up academic conferences in Tokyo.” He laughs, self-deprecating but unyielding. It’s just a fact to him, just a story being pressed into your palm. “I tried to find the one you might be at.” 

But it’s not just a fact or a story to you. You try to imagine Yuki, folded over in some Tokyo hotel, scrolling through SNS  page after page of conferences in hopes of finding you. Finding you. “That’s crazy,” you say through the ringing in your ears.  

“Well, I’ve always been a little crazy,” he says casually, as if he hasn’t just tilted your world on its axis. 

The conversation lulls as the train speakers crackle. There’s an announcement, first, in Japanese, then heavily accented English. We will be arriving at Izumo station in thirty minutes. 

A ticking time bomb. Half an hour of honesty.

“Your turn,” Yuki urges gently. Like he, too, might detonate the time bomb by dissecting what’s still unsaid between you two. “What are you sorry for?” 

A lot of things, you think, but you decide on the most glaring one. “That I didn’t text.” 

Yuki doesn’t smile, but it’s a close thing. Something on his face seems to ask, We’re still stuck on that?

You are, very much so. You’ll be stuck on it until it’s out of your system, until Yuki understands.

“Are you about to tell me why you didn’t?” he challenges. 

You hedge him with a taunt. “If you ask nicely.” 

He chuckles. It sounds far too fond to be mistaken for anything outside affection. You’re not expecting him to actually take you up on it; you half-pray he lets it go. Because what business did Yuki Tsunoda have begging you for—

“Please.” 

There’s no shame on his face. Just an earnest sort of thing, a reverence you don’t deserve. It makes you burn from the inside. 

Yuki is asking you. Not commanding, not demanding. Asking, testing, seeing how much you’ll give and how much you’ll hold back.

And maybe you’re tired of holding back.

You take a deep breath. Steel your nerves.

“It’s not because I found out you’re Japan’s golden child,” you mumble. “It’s—it’s the numbers.” 

“The numbers.” You feel the tips of your ears flare at the way Yuki repeats the words. That heady mix of amusement, confusion, disappointment. Here we go again, he’s probably thinking, because he knows you but doesn’t know you.

He knows you enough to recognize that numbers matter to you, but he doesn’t know what numbers you’re talking about just yet. 

So you let him fucking know. 

Inhale. 

“40% of couples in long-distance relationships break up,” you blurt out, ignoring the way his eyes widen imperceptibly. “Usually, they already start seeing cracks four months in—” 

He says your name as a low laugh escapes him. That burns, too. How your name sounds on his lips. How you’ve liked the sound of it since that very first time, months and months ago.

You go on, “—and I looked it up too. Love at first sight has happened to about 60% of people. That may seem like a big number, but the results are inconclusive—”

He says your name again. A little more perplexed, this time.

You ignore him again. Breathless, red-faced, with your heart at your damn feet, you keep going. “—and I don’t know how to do this,” you say, that damn helplessness rearing its head. “Numbers don’t hurt you. People do. I don’t want us to end up as a statistic in some grad student’s study about why Formula One drivers can’t date.” 

Exhale.

He stares at you. You stare at him. Japan flies by; the world spins on. 

The time bomb ticks, ticks, ticks. 

His next words are a statement, not a question. “You didn’t text me.” 

It’s your turn to look at him like he’s beating a dead horse. “We’ve established that,” you say dryly. 

“That means the statistical probability of you texting me was zero,” he says before you’ve even finished your sentence. “Is that right?” 

You wince. There’s a lot of things you could say about hypotheses, about sample sizes, about his gross misuse of the term ‘probability’, but you’ll let him have this. It’s a callback to the scribbled note, the one you answered with your silence. 

“Right,” you respond.

He changes the whole equation with his next question. “How much of you wanted to text me?” he asks, his eyes a little wild, his hands clenched into fists in his lap.

Because this—this is the question that mattered. 

Not why didn’t you text, not what would have happened if I had. He’s asking about the nights you spent staring at the newly saved contact, about the moments you typed out something only to hit backspace. That Google search you made about How to text first. That one evening you got drunk and contemplated outright calling, just to see if he would pick. 

Countless variables. Endless numbers. 

How much of you wanted to text Yuki?

“A hundred percent,” you answer, and he melts. 

Not in an obvious way. His shoulders slouch forward; his hands stop fidgeting. He takes in a shaky breath, the sound of it rattling in his chest, and then he stares straight at you like it’s the last time he’s going to get to do it. 

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he confesses. Your heart damn near stops in your chest.

“What’s stopping you?” 

If it’s a matter of distance, you’ll close it. You’ll climb into his bunk and kiss him senseless if you have to. You mean to say all that, except Yuki’s laughing, his head thrown back and his brow scrunched, and you don’t want to miss a moment of that joy. 

You watch. You wait. You crack a grin when he manages, voice tinged with frustration, “Fucking Isack had me trying all these crazy ramen flavors. I think you deserve more than a garlic-flavored kiss.” 

And now you’re giggling, too, because Hadjar had tried to set you up but was also ultimately the one blocking your paths. You and Yuki probably look insane—weathering this laughing fit as the overhead speaker announces you’ll be at the end station shortly. 

You have an itinerary. Plans. Bookings. You’re not about to rearrange that for Yuki, just as much as you don’t want him to ditch his friend for your sake. You give the boy the next best thing. 

“Okay,” you say. “Next time, then.” 

Yuki chokes on air mid-laugh. “Next time?” he repeats, and, oh. 

The hope in his tone is enough to make you think garlic-flavored first kiss be damned. You’ll do it. You just want to see if his smile tastes as good as it looks, as good as it sounds.

You hold yourself back. Barely. 

You’ll take your chances instead. Any chance you have with Yuki—no matter how small it may be—you’ll take it. 

You fish out your phone from your pocket. Yuki watches, bewildered, until you show him your screen. A text, sent mere seconds ago, starting a conversation thread with a contact named Yuki 🐮✈️🚗—

next time. ⛐

[silens-oro]

Well Enough Alone: Baby Blurb #7

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Animal Kingdom Masterlist Pope x Hawk Playlist Well Enough Alone Baby AU Masterlist

General Synopsis: Hawk has a late night craving and gets more than she bargained for. Word Count: 2.5k Content Warning: childbirth, but nothing in detail. AN: please don't make me go back to the main WEA fic. I'm begging. please comment & reblog :)

It was a rare night when Lena stayed with Baz instead of at Hawk and Pope’s place, and tonight was one of those rare nights. Hawk hit the eight and a half month mark and she felt every bit of those eight and a half months. Her back ached, her boobs were sore every waking second, she was always hot, and the near constant heartburn was driving her crazy. 

Hawk’s sleep schedule had been thrown out of whack by the seventh month, and she was now up at odd hours of the night —occupying herself with the plants in the garage or going for late night swims in the pool if Pope was up with her. Most of the time, though, she’d just sit up in bed while Pope slept beside her, murmuring to baby Thalia about anything and everything that happened throughout the day, or plans they had coming up, or anything Pope did in the nursery to get things ready for her arrival. Pope would wake up to full on one sided conversations Hawk would be having with the baby, taking their kicks and punches as confirmations to her questions. He’d smile into his pillow as he listened, not wanting to disturb Hawk’s ritual that became a more frequent occurrence the later in her pregnancy she got.

Hawk had taken her maternity leave from the shop at the eighth month mark at Pope’s request. If she had it her way, she’d still be working up until she went into labor, but Pope insisted she needed to take it easy because she could. Not everyone was afforded that luxury, he reminded her, so she should take it while she could.   

Pope had been on edge the further along Hawk got, especially now that she was feeling the full brunt of the pregnancy. Her due date was inching closer and closer and he was chomping at the bit for this to be over, for Hawk to be safe and for the baby to finally be here. He was with her everywhere she went, giving her just enough space to not feel suffocated, but he hovered all the same. He had the occasional nightmares of something happening to her, or the baby, and the days that followed those were unrelenting to him. He just wanted them safe and healthy, and he’d do everything in his power to make that happen, even if it meant keeping Hawk at arm’s length.  

Tonight though, Hawk’s cravings were out in full force and she was taking no prisoners. Pope, god love him, only put up a small resistance at leaving the house at three in the morning with Hawk in tow because she would not give up. They took Hawk’s small SUV when they needed to go anywhere together nowadays because she had a hard time climbing in and out of Pope’s massive truck by the time she was five months along. This all led them to where they were now -driving along the coastline to one of the local 24 hour donut shops at two in the morning. 

Pope’s right hand held Hawk’s, his thumb rubbing over the top of her hand affectionately as he drove with the stereo playing in the background. 

“I can’t believe how close we are.” Hawk breathed out, letting the salty sea air hit her face from the open passenger window. 

“Only a few more weeks.” Pope glanced at her, grinning softly. 

“Believe it or not, I’m gonna miss doing all of this. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate everything you’ve done to get us ready for this. I love you so much, Andy. I really mean that.”

“I know you do.” He kissed her hand, “and I’d do it a dozen more times if you’d let me.”

“Settle down,” Hawk laughed, head tilted back. “I’ll settle for maybe one more, but you’re out of luck for the other eleven.”

“You mean that?”

“That you’re not getting your baker’s dozen of kids? Yeah, I mean that.” Hawk scoffed.

“No, that you’d have another.”

“Possibly.” She shrugged, “I actually liked being pregnant more than I thought I would. Granted, there are things about it that drive me nuts, but I wouldn’t trade this experience with you for the world.” Her other hand rested on her bump, rubbing circles to feel the baby move. Hawk grunted when Thalia gave a particularly strong kick. “She wants a cruller…and a chocolate frosted with sprinkles, by the way.” 

“Oh, she’s got a sweet tooth tonight?” 

“She sure does.” 

“You sure you want to get down?” Pope asked her, but Hawk was already undoing her seatbelt and propping the door open. “I can run in and out.”

“Yeah, I’m getting antsy.” She said as she heaved herself out of the vehicle. Pope was quick to come around to her side and held out his arm for her to take. Instead, she pulled him down to kiss her and she pat his ass playfully. He grinned down at Hawk with a brow raised at her boldness, but walked ahead of her to open the door like a gentleman. 

When Pope noticed Hawk wasn’t right behind him and he couldn’t hear her feet over the gravel, he turned around to see her looking down at where she was standing halfway between him and the car.

“You alright?”

“I uh, I think my water just broke?” Hawk looked up at him with wide eyes. Pope blinked at her, brows furrowing as each individual word processed through his brain until they were comprehended after Hawk repeated herself. “My water broke, Andy.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes held shock. Pope, to his credit, all but levitated over to her, trying to herd her back to the SUV. 

“What the hell are you doing?” She asked as she waddled back to the passenger side. 

“We gotta go.” Hawk gently pushed him back towards the donut shop, but he stood as solid as he ever did. 

“No, no -I need those donuts!”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m not going to be able to eat anything for god knows how long, Andy! Do not deprive me of this one last thing before I pop our kid out.” Pope wanted to argue, to toss Hawk into the car and fly to the hospital “-and I don’t want to get the seat wet.” Hawk mumbled as an afterthought as she shimmied one of her legs to kick off the remnants that were dripping down it uncomfortably. 

Pope leveled her with a look, then against his better judgement he turned and went inside the shop, shaking his head the whole way. He waited in line, but kept an eye on her as she waddled back and forth next to the car, shaking her legs every few steps. She sent him two thumbs up with a big smile when she caught him watching. He could only nervously half-smiled back, but inside he was panicking. 

Pope’s heart pounded in his chest as he placed the order, his mind going on cruise control as he realized that the baby was coming, and she was coming early. Two weeks early wasn’t a big deal, Pope knew this, but it still worried him that something could possibly be wrong. 

Pope jogged outside once he had the bag and picked up his speed when he saw Hawk slightly bent against the door, clutching the metal and trying to steady her breathing with her forehead pressed against her arm. 

“Why are you still outside?” He pulled his sweatshirt over his head and opened the passenger door so he could set it on her seat before helping her in, placing the paper bag on her lap. 

“I didn’t want to get the seat wet. We’ve already discussed this.” Hawk peeked in the paper bag and smiled. Pope hustled to the driver’s side and they were flying out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell. 

“Are you timing the contractions?” His fingers tapped against the steering wheel. 

“Considering that was my first one? No,” She said as she stuffed half of the cruller into her mouth. 

“You’re killing me, Hawk.” Pope groaned. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel and the last thing Hawk needed was for Pope to have a coronary while he was driving. 

“Hey,” Hawk said firmly to ground Pope, her hand reaching over to squeeze his bouncing thigh, “Look at me.” Pope glanced over to her, then back to the road. “I am fine. The baby is fine. We’re going to be okay. Just get us to the hospital safely, alright? That’s all you need to worry about right now.” Pope nodded, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. “We’re going to be parents, Andy.” That seemed to settle him for a split second.

“Are you nervous?” He asked, full irony present, nervously. 

“I’m fucking terrified,” Hawk answered honestly, “but I’m also so excited to meet Thalia.” 

“We’re gonna meet Thalia.” Pope repeated, his eyes fluttering as nerves wracked his entire body. Hawk smiled at him tenderly and squeezed his leg when another contraction hit. 

To Pope’s credit, he tried not to glare at everyone who came in and out of the room once they were settled in, especially when Hawk winced as they checked how dilated she was. And then they kept checking. He was becoming more agitated than she was, but he kept it to himself for her sake. 

By the time they made it to the hospital, Hawk was four centimeters. He knew they needed to make it to ten, so he did everything he learned through his hours upon hours of research through articles, YouTube videos, and message boards. 

Hawk held onto his arm as he walked the halls with her, he let her squeeze any part of his she could get her hands on when a contraction hit, and he soothed her, letting her know he was staying right there with her through all of it. He had the nurses being in a yoga ball so she could open her hips and alleviate some of the pressure in her spine.  

Pope wasn’t a stranger to birth and just how brutal it was. He helped deliver Deran on the dirty bathroom floor of a gas station when he was a troubled teen, and that had been traumatic for everyone involved. Now, he just had to support Hawk in any way he could as she pushed with the best team of doctors and nurses, in the nicest hospital they could afford. He wanted this experience to be as beautiful as it could be for Hawk -and Thalia, when she finally made her appearance. 

It was seven hours of grueling labor, of screaming, crying, and pushing, but she did it. 

Pope didn’t care how many strangers were in the room —the second he heard his daughter’s thunderous wails echo in the room, he felt like he was floating off the floor in absolute euphoria. Hawk was crying tears of happy relief when a nurse placed a teeny, tiny bundle on her chest, her shaking arms holding the now quiet infant to her after she had been checked out and cleaned up. The team was finishing up all of the afterbirth tasks and the adrenaline was still pumping through her. Pope was right up at her side, looking down at Hawk with pride bursting through his chest. 

“Oh, my girl.” Hawk cooed quietly, her voice shaking as her fingertips brushed against the baby’s cheek. The infant’s just looked up at Hawk. “Welcome to the world, my Thalia.” Pope kissed Hawk’s sweaty forehead, lingering long enough to say how proud of her he was and how much he loved her. How grateful he was. His eyes shined with unbroken tears and he held Hawk’s shoulders as they both looked down at the now sleeping infant. 

The room had quieted down as everyone left to give the new parents some time alone as a family. 

“We did it.” Hawk whispered, looking up at Pope. He leaned down to kiss her lips, his hand bracing her arm so Thalia didn’t jostle. “I can’t believe she’s here.”

“She’s beautiful.” Pope whispered against the crown of Hawk’s head. “You don’t understand how much this means to me. What all of this has meant to me.”

“You deserve happiness, Andy. We both do.” He nodded, allowing himself to feel the happiness he was never afforded as he continued watching Thalia’s every little movement. “You want to hold her?” Hawk asked with a knowing grin. His palms were itching, she could tell, but he’d never rush her first time holding the baby she carried and delivered selflessly. 

“Really?” Hawk chuckled, wincing as it started a round of cramping from her waist down. 

“Yes, really. She’s your daughter, Andy, and you’ve waited long enough to meet her.” 

Pope pumped some sanitizer into his palm from the bedside table. The act itself was second nature as the man had a germ phobia (and kept a bottle of Purell in nearly every room of the house), and he made damn sure that his daughter would be well protected from things that could be prevented. 

Hawk patted the side of the bed near her hip and he gently sat down, his body angled towards her. When Pope felt the minuscule weight of his tiny daughter in his hands, the tears that had built finally fell. A small sob broke through his trembling lips as he bent down to give her tiny forehead a kiss.

Hawk’s hand soothed his leg, rubbing circles as she saw the immediate bond he lassoed around Thalia take place. Hawk was exhausted, but the smile never left her. Thalia opened her eyes when Pope pulled back and his jaw fell ever so slightly. He didn’t try to hide any of the emotions he usually kept tight under lock and key, leaving himself wide open and vulnerable to the only two people he’d allow himself to be around. 

“Hi, Thalia.” Pope got choked up, “I’m your dad and I already love you so much.” He said softly, words shaking. Hawk had never seen the smile he gave Thalia before. It lit him up completely from the inside out, and it was enough to send Hawk into another round of happy tears. Pope brought Thalia up to his chest and just held her there for a moment with his eyes closed as he tried to steady his breathing. She cooed and gurgled for a moment before settling against the heat he radiated, and Pope felt it send a shock wave through his system. 

How could Baz, or Smurf, or any of them see what he saw or physically feel what he felt while looking down at the infant they made and not want to give their child everything they had in them? How could Baz look at Lena and not feel grateful that this piece of him and Cath was on this planet? Pope didn’t understand it before becoming a father, but now? He couldn’t comprehend it. 

Pope would move mountains, he’d split rivers, he’d kill or be killed for Thalia. He only had her for minutes and yet he’d burn the world and everyone in it for her. 

“This doesn’t feel real.” Pope whispered, not wanting to disturb Thalia as she fell asleep. Hawk had given him the greatest gift anyone could have given him in his life, and he had no way to outwardly express to her how precious she and their daughter were to him in that very moment. 

she's heeeeeeeeeere

[coldbronzemoon]

Hm more thoughts actually--

I imagine most of Stan's (he probably goes by 'Pan' rather than Panley, seeing as Pan is like... an actual name) starting work is like, low-budget horror and comedy. He's particularly fond of the horror stuff, since I like to think both Stan twins were way into schlocky stuff like that when they were younger. And he gets a lot of work in that genre because he's very, very good at pretending to get maimed and murdered. Like, if you need a guy to get chainsaw'd in a movie, Stan's your man. And he gets into low-budget action because sometimes people get knifed and/or chainsaw'd in those, too. It's like Sean Bean dying in a movie.

He starts climbing up from low-budget to high-budget, and starts getting roles where he can put a little more than usual into his characters. He's still mostly there to get murdered, but he has fun with it. (In this universe, Stan gets thrown in a car trunk in the middle of the hot desert to die and has to chew his way out of it...and at the end is handed a water bottle by a disgruntled PA muttering about having to do this scene in the real goddamn desert. He spits out fake teeth to take a drink, blissfully unaware that his dimensional counterparts are losing actual teeth at this point.) I think a turning point for him is getting a supporting role for really big blockbuster that gives him room to show off his humor, his emotional chops, and, of course, how well he can get chainsaw'd.

At some point after this he gets a really good opportunity--they're making a movie based off of his and Ford's favorite childhood show, Discount Star Trek Space Track, and he landed the main character Sargent Kick! Ford, unable to help himself after learning this, sends Stan a ten-page dissertation on Kick and his character and his motivations (and how his cool space gun works.) Stan is also unable to help himself and incorporates a lot of Ford's reasoning in how he plays the character. He also can't help but model his Kick voice after Ford's, with only a little modification. Fans agree that while the fascination and glee towards the unknown that underpins all of Kick's actions in this portrayal isn't quite the same as the Kick of the original series, it's still a damn fun role and Pan Stines plays it with surprising depth.

Once he's fully aware that Ford is keeping tabs on his career and he starts being able to expand his range, Stan starts going for sciencey roles when he can. He doesn't always get them--he's a bit beefy for the common nerd archetype--but when he does he always goes for a specific voice and tends to have certain mannerisms like a pacing problem and always tucking one hand behind his back while gesturing with the other. Ford fucking knows he's the inspiration for these tics and passive-aggressively sends voicemails demanding compensation.

(I like to imagine that Ford specifically sends voicemails because Stan doesn't pick up the phone for his brother. Call it petty revenge. Call it him not having any idea what to say to his brother if Ford could actually hear him. Whichever way you slice it, Stan never responds with a call or a letter. He always just does something in public he knows will get back to Ford. Ford seethes.)

At some point Stan lands a very specific role: Frankenstein's Monster. The genre is campy horror.

Ford can't bring himself to watch it, not how he's been keeping up with all of the rest of Stan's movies. (Not because he's proud or nostalgic or anything like that. He has to know what to complain about on the phone. That's all, he swears.) He can't stand the idea of watching Stan taking a character Ford had related to way too hard with during his teenage years--a being created to be the best, one who is saddled with the expectations of its 'father' who scorns it when it turns out physically different from a normal human despite being smart and clever--and treating it all like a joke like the classic Frankenstein movie. It'll just remind him of what Stan breaking his project taught him: Stan doesn't really care. He never really cared. All of the support that Stan showed him as a child was as conditional as everyone else's attention and admiration; when Ford stopped obeying Stan's whims, Stan ruined his chances and walked away. That's how he sees it. Watching Stan play Frankenstein's Monster like something less than human now that he didn't have to pretend to be sympathetic to Ford would just be an ugly addition. And Stan will make a mockery of it, Ford's sure, because he's already been mocking Ford with every scientist he plays.

Eventually it's Fiddleford--the only one who believes Ford about Stan being his twin, mostly because he's the only one Ford trusts enough to show childhood photos and explain the estrangement to--who watches the movie first and reassures Ford that he'll enjoy it. Because while the movie is still campy horror, Stan plays Frankenstein's Monster with genuine pathos. He makes the Monster smart, just lacking in cultural understanding to explain itself or react appropriately to things. He treats the role with care, makes the Monster a person.

And Ford doesn't know what to do with that. Because that feels like something Stan would do only if he still really cared about Ford's opinions, about Ford. But he can't care. Because if he did, he wouldn't have broken Ford's project and run off to strike it big...

Right?

An au concept that's been ping-ponging around in my head:

Instead of the life of crime route, Stan goes from his canon scammy products to ending up in Hollywood and becoming an actor. Maybe some agent spots his stupid ads, laughs their ass off and then goes 'hey, maybe there's something there' or maybe Stan himself goes to Hollywood because that's where the parties and babes are and auditions for stuff on a lark.

Either way, he starts actually landing roles. And first they aren't that big, and mostly comedic--he has a very over-the-top-personality, after all--but slowly he moves more into action movie land and starts becoming more of a known name. A known face. Doesn't land lead, exactly, but a prominent supporting role in the action blockbuster of the season.

Thus, Stanley Pines (or perhaps... Panley Stine) is a rising star.

A few hundred thousand miles away lives a very unhappy Ford Pines. His feelings on Stan making it and becoming a known actor are... complex (Part of him is relieved that Stan is doing well, part of him resents it, part of him feels validated for not standing up to their dad because Stan being kicked out helped Stan become famous in a way, part of him wishes he wasn't only seeing his brother on posters, so on, so forth) but he has one big problem:

Literally fucking everyone opens conversations with him with "Hey, you look like that one guy from the Extinguisher!" and even worse, no one ever believes him when he says that said actor is his twin brother. They tend to think he's lying as a joke or for attention.

So one day Stan receives a letter. It says "Stanley, please go back to the mustache. Everyone thinks I'm you otherwise. Yours, Ford. Ps. I told you that you should've joined the drama club."

Stan's damn well hacked off. Radio silence from his brother for a couple years at this point, and THIS is the first thing Ford has to say to him? The gall.

He keeps himself clean-shaven. He even starts wearing glasses like he's needed to for most of his life. Exactly the style of glasses Ford always wore, even.

Ford sends a second, even more terse letter.

Thus begins the most passive-aggressive communication between brothers possible, starting as letters and later turning into voicemails from Ford with legally dubious phone number-retrieving help from Fiddleford. Ford bitches about a recent choice Stan's made. Stan doubles-down and finds a new thing to piss him off with as well. Rinse and repeat.

In this universe, Ford goes to Gravity Falls not only because it's so full of anomalies, but because it's so backwater he hopes they won't know about Panley Stine at all.

[rosenclaws]

More headcanons? 1. How does Logan react when he's super busy, and you're super horny for him. 2. How does Logan react when he finds out you're pregnant with his baby? And when he holds them for the first time. 3. How does Logan react when he thinks you're dead (either he sees your body, or thinks you're lost in an abyss, anything) but you awake or come back to him. 4. How smug is he when he fucks you so good your orgasm makes you pass out.

Yes!! Once again splitting them up into different posts!

How does Logan react when he's super busy, and you're super horny for him.

Origins Logan -

Ahh so he finds it cute and loves to tease you about it. He just knows that it kills you when he's out at work for too long. You get super needy and he can tell by the way you cling onto him in the mornings and the look in your eyes that practically beg him to stay. He's only a little condescending as he leaves. Telling you to be good and wait for him. That he knows you're so desperate but he'll be back early tonight. Before he leaves he gives you a hot sloppy kiss that he knows will make things 10x worse but he just can't help it, he loves coming home to you so needy.

Trilogy Logan -

He's the biggest asshole about it oh my god. He's a massive tease and drags it out way longer than you deserve tbh. Your pleading face is enough to make him cave usually but he's eating it up. Making some bullshit about having to help train some of the new recruits just to see you squirm. He'd get all up in your face, making give you a little bit of what you want only to rip it away and leave you craving more. All this just so the two of you can have crazy hot sex when he finally gives you what you want. Don't even think about trying anything on your own either. He'll know and he won't be very happy about it.

DOFP Logan -

He's just as much of a tease as the other two. He can hear you pacing outside his classroom, smell you even through the closed doors. Perks of his super senses huh. He plays dumb when you come visit him. He presses a sweet kiss to your cheek when you bring him a cup of coffee. You rub his shoulders and he pretends not to notice how tight you grip him or when your hands slip under his shirt. He keeps the game up, waiting for you to break first. Finally you do. Pushing his papers off his desk and climbing into his lap. Begging him to fuck you. Logan just smirks and tells you that he'll help you feel better and that you're so needy disturbing him while he's working.

Old Man Logan -

Ahh so he finds it very amusing. He's pretty condescending here I think. He does feel a twinge of guilt because he knows he's away for work a lot and that barely puts enough food on the table as it is. He wishes he could be home more for you but he can't and it sucks. Which is how he ends up using his phone for...less appropriate uses. You keep blowing up his damn phone and he slips into the role of telling you to quit it because you don't really know what you're asking for. When he does get home he makes you read all the texts you sent him while he teases you until you cry.

Worst Logan -

Im sorry if it's repetitive but he's also a little shit about it. He likes seeing you squirm for him. He's in his suit on his way to go help Wade and he can see it in your eyes how bad you want him. The cowl helps a lot too. His voice is low and super gruff, almost a growl when he tells you to quit whining and he'll deal with you when he gets back. You're the only thing on his mind while he's fighting. He just wants to get back home to you. After a long day he comes back and you practically pounce on him. He draws things out just a little longer. Peeling off his shirt and walking around while he's still dirty and sweaty...such a jerk really.

[bleufu1]

LIL’ OL DOVES

“What’s yo’ name huh?”

“Sammie— Sammie Moore.”

“I like preacher boy better.”

SYNOPSIS: Where a boy meets the angels his father been preaching bout’.

Cavity worth fluff imo | Little Sammie can’t handle a crush | comparisons of heaven and earth n angels | reader is a bit of a trouble maker. |

Hot an’ sunny in Mississippi. Was a Friday mornin’, everybody and they momma outside. Kids playin’ while they moms chat on the porch. The dads having a beer outside while arguing over nonsense and bullshit. Average hot day out in the country. For Sammie it won’t no different.

Sammie was outside playing along with the other kids from the church. It was nothin’ else to do with the time they had. Kicking the ball around, doin’ flips on the dirt — gettin’ they clothes dirty. Sammie was running with some of the boys. They all ran back to the houses close near. An’ getting closer to the house, he spotted something, or someone. A woman, no older than twenty at least — was speakin’ to his momma.

They looked like good friends. Laughin’ like they ain’t seen each other in a good long while. The lady stood yey-high, long thick hair pulled into a bun. She seemed sweet. Beside her stood a young lady, looked no older than a teen years. Really pretty, nice smile too. They were conversing bout’ god knows what. Sammie peered from the steps with his friends, tryna figure out what they could be chattin’ bout—

“God dammit — _____! Get the hell down!”

Sammie snapped his head along with everyone else. There he seen her. Wearin’ a yellow dress with white frills on the bottom. Hair crazed an’ leaves scattered everywhere in it. Big smile on her face too. She was climbing a tree — looks like she was lookin’ for somethin’ — an’ she won’t gon let it get away.

“One second Ma’! The cat gon fall if I don’t catch it!”

Sammie watched as the girl tried getting the cat. Reaching her hands out to it in the tree. He could hear her momma on the porch yelling for her to leave the animal alone — an’ that cats find they own way down. Clearly the girl a Bit stubborn — tried to get the cat anyway. Sammie’s friends giggled and smiled at her attempt. The young lady, assuming that’s her sister, ran to the tree in hopes to get her down.

Her attempt ain’t work. Poor girl fell — with the cat in her arms.

“I got it!”

She stood up stumbling, her sister dragged her by the arm that wasn’t holdin’ the cat, bringing her to they Ma’. Her mom was furious — rightfully so. Sammie could tell by the way her mom was using past tense in her words, this ain’t the first time this occurred. Still, she giggled like she had laughin’ gas in her tank.

“Ain’t shit funny bout’ this girl! You could’ve got hurt — or worse.”

“But I ain’t, aren’t I?”

Sammie watched, as she an’ her sister went back an’ forth. Yep, definitely sisters. He looked at her fixing her hair — ridding all the leaves out it. Brushing her hair out with her fingers. Her locks were fairly long, thick like her mom’s — looked taken care of and healthy. Sammie’s friends laughed at her an’ her sister’s bickering. The lil’ one finally pushed her hair back from her face — and Sammie’s eyes widened a little. She was pretty.

Not the pretty of her sister, not the pretty like her momma. Sammie thought those ladies were very beautiful, but not in the way he seen her. She looked younger than him but not by that much. She won’t rough in the face either like he expected — she was beautiful. Pretty like daisy’s, pretty like the smell of lavender or sunflowers. He ain’t never seen nothing or nobody like her.

Sammie seen her mom point over to where him an’ his friends were sitting. Presumably saying to stay put with the other kids. Soon as she walked over all of em’ started asking questions. Most along the lines of why she was in the tree anyways. Sammie wasn’t paying attention to the things they were asking. He only tuned in when she answered. She said she wanted that cat back, won’t nobody gon’ tell her otherwise.

He locked eyes with her — when she looked up at him. She smiled. Sammie thought bout’ why his heart felt like it was tryna’ run out his chest.

“You that boy I been hearin’ bout round town, the preachers son — right? People call you preacher boy.”

He coughed — clearing his voice

“Yeah, but that’s not my name.”

“What’s yo’ name then, huh?”

“Sammie — Sammie Moore.”

She tapped her finger on her chin, looked him up

an’ down with a squint.

“Nah. I like preacher boy better. — My names ____.”

That was fine by him. All he did was smile an’ Nod. The rest of the day they all played. Running round’ — Sometimes _____ gettin’ yelled at by her momma for running too fast for her feet to catch up. They all decided to play hide n seek. Simple game an’ it won’t give her Ma’ a heart attack. Sammie and the girl decided to team up — she thought it’d be good to hind behind the barn, where the flower field was.

Him and her kept quiet. He took small peeks at her when she was lookin’ out for the seeker. She really is pretty, can you blame em’?

“You keep staring at me, why you do that?”

He froze, looking back at her.

“Dunno’ maybe i just like lookin at ya.”

“You like my face then preacher boy.”

“I ain’t say that—”

“You ain’t have to — i ain’t slow. It’s alright if you stare, just don’t be weird bout it — kay?”

Sammie nodded at her, she smiled back at him.

“I think imma give you a nickname — only fair, cause you’n call me by my name.”

She looked up at him. Squinting at him. She ain’t like the idea of what he was proposing — she knew boys were mean with names. Sometimes taking it too far.

“Fine, what ya thinkin’?”

Sammie thought for a second. She was really nice to everyone, kept a smile on his face too. He won’t gon’ give her a flower name — that was too basic, every man calls a woman by a flower. When he seen her, he thought he’d seen the angels his father said watched over them. He thought if she was watching over him — he wouldn’t mind it really. He ain’t know why, nor did he care to.

She looked like heaven on earth. Like the lord himself blessed him with her an’ told him keep her safe from harms way. That she was the fragile gift he had to keep from breaking. And though he’s young, and don’t know a thing bout’ how love works, he’s heard his momma speak bout it with one of the young girls in the choir, that you’ll know it when you feel it. That it feels like a breath of fresh air, without them by your side — you’d wouldn’t know how to breathe that air.

Sammie’s sure that’s what he’s feelin’.

“Sugar. I’ll call you sugar.”

“Why that? Am I a condiment?”

“No No, you’re just — sweet’n kind. That’s all.”

She hummed, nodding a little. She liked the name. Pretty nice, ain’t nothin’ mean bout the name. She’ll take it — plus preacher boy seemed pretty sweet himself.

“I’ll take it — Preacher boy.”

“Alright den’ Sugar.”

Since then, her an’ Sammie been attached by the hip. Growing up with each other. Taking the weekends and some days out the week to play together. Sometimes the whole lot of kids would be there but when it was just them, it was a lot better for both of them. Just them’n their jokes an’ ideas. Like two peas in a pod. Two puzzle pieces stuck together. Two souls meant to stay together.

Unfortunately, that ain’t last very long for them. Sugar had to move — folks sayin’ her momma thought it was safer for her up north with her auntie an’ cousins. Before she left — she gave sammie a lil’ chain she kept as a necklace, wrapped it round’ his wrist an’ told him keep it safe and clean. Promised her.

The next couple of days were rough, he ain’t play that much — always stood to the side’n on the street while the other kids ran. His momma noticed, told him she’s sure the girl would come back an’ won’t no doubt in her mind that she missed him as much ash he did her. Told him to stop brooding and go have fun.

He always wondered when she’d come back, always passing at the road she left from — hoping she’d appear.

“Sammie — Sammie, Sammie Moore!”

Elias smacked him upside the head. Stupid smirk he always wore on his face. Sammie rubbed his head — looking behind him making eye contact with his cousin.

“Boy I been callin’ yo name for the past five minutes. What got yo’ mind running huh? Let’s go, Smoke need us for sum’n.”

He had to be day dreaming again. It been a long couple years since she left. Still at his big age, he’d still look back at the road whenever he passed it. He missed her still, thinkin’ bout her smile from time to time. He still thought of what it would be like if she stayed. If her mom let her stay. They’d still be hangin’ by that field — he’d sing to her an’ she’d listen, humming along.

Him and Stack hopped into the car, Stack starting it up an’ driving off. Stack started humming sum kinda tune. Sammie wasn’t paying him no mind, too busy with his own thoughts. Till’ Stack turned to him.

“Hey — Ya’ know that girl you use ta’hang round’? One with the head full’a hair’n always being reckless like she got more than one life gave to er’? Heard she comin back to town, prolly’ tomorrow.”

Sammie paused, looked at him with wide eyes. Sugar, the girl that left years ago. The same girl he knew he loved, now that he’s older to understand what it was and what it meant. Was coming back. Back home. Tomorrow.

“Huh.”

Sammie smiled a bit to himself, looking down at her chain he kept on his wrist since she left. He upheld his promise to keep it in condition. It was still shiny, couple scratches but barely visible unless you were lookin’ too hard for sum’n. Sammie’s smile got bigger.

His Sugar was comin’ back — an’ he was keeping her this time.

——————————————————————————

🫶 — How we feeeel..when i was typing them meeting as kids i was thinking around 13-15, old enough to have a crush n understand at least what that was. Anyways hope yall like it 😪

[meadowfics]

peppermint lollipops

mother!cho hyun-ju x f!mother!reader x child!oc

the two mothers, along with their daughter, get pedicures for mother's day

you and hyun ju wake up early, whispering plans over coffee while eun-ae still sleeps, her tiny snores echoing from her room.

"we deserve a day to feel special, don't we?"

hyun ju says, her eyes sparkling as she leans across the kitchen counter, her fingers brushing yours.

you nod, squeezing her hand.

"pedicures, lunch, just us three. eun-ae will love it."

hyun ju grins, already picturing eun-ae's excitement.

"she's going to insist on picking something, you know."

you laugh softly.

"let’s let her feel like she’s in charge for a bit."

eun-ae bounds into the kitchen, her dark hair a wild mix of yours and hyun ju’s silky strands, clutching two peppermint lollipops wrapped in shiny cellophane.

"happy mommy day!"

she squeals, thrusting one at you and one at hyun ju.

"my teacher gave them for mommies, and i got two 'cause i have two mommies!"

she puffs out her chest, proud.

hyun ju kneels, taking her lollipop with a grin.

"two mommies, huh? you’re the luckiest kid, aren’t you?"

eun-ae nods vigorously.

"yup! nobody else got two!"

you unwrap yours, the peppermint scent sharp and sweet.

"eun-ae, this is so special. thank you, my love."

she beams, her eyes...your shape, and hyun ju’s warm brown...gleaming.

"can i come with you today? please?"

the three of you pile into the car, eun-ae strapped into her booster seat, singing a made-up song about "pretty toes and yellow bows," still bragging about her two lollipops she got you both.

hyun ju glances at you from the passenger seat, her smile soft.

"she’s got your voice, you know. all that energy."

you chuckle, catching eun-ae’s grin in the rearview mirror.

"and your charm. we’re in trouble."

at the spa, eun-ae insists on holding both your hands, skipping between you.

"i’m gonna sit in the big chair too!"

eun-ae declares.

you settle into the spa chairs: you on the left, eun-ae in the middle, hyun ju on the right.

eun-ae’s tiny feet dangle, barely reaching the water.

the technician smiles at eun-ae.

"what color, little miss?"

hyun ju holds up a bottle of pale yellow polish, her favorite.

"how about this? it’s like sunshine."

eun-ae claps.

"yes! sunny toes for all of us!"

you laugh, nudging eun-ae’s shoulder.

"you sure you don’t want pink or purple?"

she shakes her head, resolute.

"nope! i want to match my mommies."

as the technicians work, eun-ae giggles at the ticklish brush, her laughter making you and hyun ju exchange a warm look.

"this is the best,"

hyun ju murmurs, reaching over eun-ae's little body to squeeze your hand.

"just us, together." you nod, heart full.

"i wouldn’t trade this for anything."

when the pedicures are done, you all admire your matching pale yellow toes, eun-ae wiggling hers proudly.

"we look like a team!"

she says, hopping off the chair to hug you both.

hyun ju lifts her, kissing her cheek.

you lead the way to the cozy sandwich place you picked, its outdoor tables perfect for a sunny mother’s day.

eun-ae studies the kids’ menu, her brow furrowed like hyun ju’s when she’s focused.

"i want a grilled cheese, but with extra cheese."

hyun ju laughs, ordering the same.

"like mother, like daughter."

you opt for a turkey club, teasing, "i’m keeping it classy over here."

eun-ae giggles, sipping her apple juice.

"mommy, you’re funny but mama’s funnier."

hyun ju winks at you.

"i’ll take that win."

you all share fries, eun-ae sneaking extras from your plate.

"these are the best fries ever," she says, ketchup on her chin.

you wipe her face gently.

"only the best for my girls."

during lunch, eun-ae suddenly climbs into your lap, wrapping her arms around you.

"i love you, mommy. you liked your lollipop?"

your throat tightens as you hug her back.

"i loved it, eun-ae. and i love you. you make every day special."

she scurries to hyun ju next, burying her face in her neck.

"mama, you’re the best hugger. did you eat your lollipop yet?"

hyun ju’s eyes glisten as she holds her close.

"not yet, baby, i’m saving it for dessert, but thank you for the gift sweetheart!"

eun-ae sits back, beaming.

"i have two mommies, and that’s the best thing ever!"

as you walk back to the car, eun-ae swings between you and hyun ju, her hands tiny but strong in yours.

"can we do this again next year?"

she asks, her voice hopeful.

hyun ju kneels, brushing a curl from eun-ae’s face.

"every year, sweetheart! and maybe we’ll try blue toes next time."

you laugh, pulling them both into a hug.

"deal. but i’m picking the lunch spot again."

eun-ae giggles, her joy infectious.

"i love mommy day!"

you and hyun ju share a look, your hearts full of the love only your little family can bring.

masterlist

[batmanssweetgirl]

Bruce had a rough night as batman. So he takes it out on his wife.

Minors do not interact!, NSFW!!!! 18+

this probably really sucks because it's very late at night I'm writing this also I had to make a whole new account! I lost my log into the other one I had so many ideas💔, but here's a random little one shot for you battinson lovers like me!. This is not proof read!

You and bruce haven't been married long, but you knew immediately whatever stress he felt. You always knew. Especially the stress from him being batman.

Bruce came home after a long night of trying to catch the riddler with it only ending with him being soaking wet from the Gotham rain.

And god he was angry, frustrated even.

As he walked into his bedroom upstairs first to check up on you. Making sure you were asleep, still waiting for his return. His wet boots are louder than usual leaving slight wet steps as he walks to the bedroom. (More mess for his poor butler alfred has to clean up).

You could hear his steps a mile away, but in this case he was just right by the bedroom you two share. Your propped up back to the headboard as you hear him get closer you continue to read the book in your hands, your reading glasses tilting down a bit.

Bruce walks in, oh his love. Pride and joy in her pinkish nightgown a book propped on her hands. Except his reaction coming out as a loud huff and a sigh as he walks closer to you.

"I thought I told you I wanted you in bed before me." Bruce says leaning over the bed his hands around your wrist squeezing a bit.

Of course you smile shaking your head as you let the book fall into your lap, you cup his face smirking a bit. "I am in bed. Before you baby"

Bruce smiles a bit his suit still having drops of rain on his shoulders and back. He pulls you down a bit climbing on top of you "don't start being a brat." He grumbles his crotch against yours, he pulls out his fingers out of his glove throwing it across the room to the floor. "Would you be a good girl if I made you cum first?" His voice is still husky and breathy. Bruce moves his fingers down under your nightgown putting one fingers in touching your wet hole.

You moan, arching slightly trying to roll your hips to his touch. He's been gone for so long. Only a few hours can go by and the only thing you want is his touch. "Fuck..." "Bruce baby please"

Bruce's face was serious, but not in an imitating way. Seductive. Sly. He moves two of his fingers in you slowly tracing around your pretty pussy then harshly shoving them inside of you as you gasp. He enters them in and out hearing your pornographic moans. God. He could hear you moan his name or gasp for hours. His angel. His sweet girl. Bruce hated to admit this to himself but it's hard to be mad at you especially when he's obsessed with everything you do.

You hug your arms around his shoulders as he moves faster into your pussy making you moan more and more before you cum all over his fingers. He shoves his fingers into your mouth making you taste your cum. You slump a bit breathing hard as he flips you over. Well that is unexpected..

"Please baby, I need you so bad." You moan feeling his cold glove on the other side of your waist as he teases you smacking his dick on your pussy again as he pushes himself into you letting you get use to his big member first. He moves moaning going faster as you gasp still overstimulated by cumming on his fingers not even five minutes ago. He's fully on top of you, one of his hands on top of the headboard using it for grip as he groans his frustration into your pussy.

"Always getting away." Bruce grumbles as he goes faster. His skin slapping against yours as his nine inches gets deeper inside of you. Balls. Deep. He groans cumming in your pussy as you moan arching your back clenching your legs a bit squeezing around him. He smiles leaning down kissing your cheek then getting off of you grabbing a towel from the bathroom cleaning you up.

You work his suit off, your knees on the end of the mattress kissing the scars on his back as he gets the suit fully off he looks at you. Fuck he loved and lusted you. all the time. Bruce moves, turning round seeing your soft expression from kissing his back scars and tracing them with your fingers. He hated being vulnerable. Your his wife of course he had to be. Only around you though. Bruce pushes you down back on the bed fully kissing all over your face as you giggle "bruce! Baby please we gotta haha- go to bed!" holding his back scratching it with your nails.

This was the life.

[livin-on-the-webways]

and the good times keep coming

pairing - illi x fem!reader

summary - while caught in the throes of your period, illi pays a late night visit to try and remedy your troubles.

word count - 1.1k

warnings - tw periods, fluff, established relationship, fem pronouns used for illi, mentions of kissing, proofread (somewhat)

a/n - so this isn’t the official illi fic I’m currently working on but I wrote this because I am suffering right now and wanted to focus on something that wasn’t my body screaming at me. also, I haven't written in a long while so im a little rusty. enjoy <3

An ache had settled just below your spine. 

It was all encompassing, as if it were trying to reach around you. The iPod you once clutched onto as a form of distraction now lay on the floor, along with your cheap tangled earbuds you had replaced about four times now. You had knocked it down earlier, probably when you had managed to drift off for more than a few seconds. Pain rippled through your lower back, its suddenness causing you to whimper. 

It was Friday night, yet you were anchored to your bed like a frail, Victorian child. You glanced over at your bedside table, to find your movie ticket still patiently sitting there. It was for a special throwback screening of Evil Dead II, which premiered at the local theater downtown over an hour ago. By lunch tomorrow, your friends will be itching to talk about it, and you’ll have to sit there, and hear them drone on and on, and act like it didn’t sting just a little bit. 

“Fuck this,” you muttered, cringing as another surge of pain coursed through your abdomen. You clenched onto the sheet, as a slight tremor ran down your body. A faint sob broke through your lips, as the heavy ache seemed to sink deeper the longer it carried on. You curled forward, hoping it would stall the pain enough for you to take a breath. 

After a long, tormenting minute, the cramps eventually subsided to a dull throb. You sniffled, and drew a shaky breath, pushing down the queasy feeling of your stomach threatening to crawl up your throat.  

A gentle knock came from your window, startling you out of the position you had been in for the past half hour. You groaned, propping yourself up on your elbow as you peered out the window. Through the dark, invasive shadows of the night, you could make out a bright, familiar face grinning at you. 

Illi shook a plastic bag in her hand and hurriedly motioned for you to unlock the window. You sluggishly crawled out of bed and dragged your body over to her. As soon as your finger lazily flipped the hatch, she dug her fingers beneath the window and pushed it up. You stepped back, watching as she clumsily climbed over the windowsill, nearly stumbling into your room. 

“You think after a dozen times you would be a natural at this,” you teased, reaching out to steady her. 

“You’re not the one who has to crawl up a drainpipe every time,” she said, turning to shut the window. She whipped around to face you, her infectious, gummy smile warming the pit of your stomach. A few loose, black strands of hair framed her soft face. You reached forward, your fingertips brushing against her cold cheek as you pushed the strands of hair behind her ear. 

“What brings you here so late, anyway?” you asked, letting your hand travel down her arm. Illi cleared her throat, struggling to fight against the crimson heat rising to her face. 

“Well…uh,” she stammered, before lifting the bag. “You mentioned you weren’t feeling great earlier.” 

You softly smiled. “You didn’t have to do all that.” 

“You’re my girlfriend,” she stated. “Am I supposed to let you suffer in peace, or something?” 

“No, but you should have given me some time to prepare.” You glanced down at your current outfit, which was a baggy pair of shorts, and a wrinkled T-shirt with a tea stain on the front. You felt your face heat up, as you immediately began to fiddle with the edges of your shirt.

“I look like a mess.” 

Illi’s gaze was affectionate, as she scanned you up and down. “I’ll admit, it’s a cute look.”

You rolled your eyes, prepared to reply when a sharp pain as sudden as lightning shot through you. Illi immediately reached for your arm, as you gritted your teeth and hunched forward.

“Shit,” you hissed, gathering in a sharp breath. “I’m sorry, I was hoping the Tylenol would have kicked in already.” 

“Don’t apologize,” she said, frowning at you. “It’s not like you can help it. Come on.”

Her hand found yours, as she interlaced your fingers and carefully brought you back over to your bed. You crawled back onto the mattress, finding the familiar spot you were in before Illi had arrived. Within a few seconds the pain quelled, leaving your body exhausted and limp. 

“Fuck god,” you muttered, staring up at the ceiling. Illi chuckled, her palm coming to rest on your upper thigh. Her fingertips tickled, as she absentmindedly drew shapes against your skin. The sensation lulled your body, allowing you to sink further into the mattress. You blinked, fighting against the urge to doze off and instead glanced over at the bag now resting her hip.

“Are you going to show me what you brought, or leave it a mystery?” you asked, gesturing over to it.

Illi smiled and dumped the confines of the bag onto your bed. Revealing various candy bars, and convenience store brand snacks. A VHS fell on top of it all, no doubt crushing the rolls of smarties randomly littered throughout.

Illi plucked it from the pile, presenting it to you. “I know you were looking forward to see that movie today, so I figured we could watch it here instead.” She blushed as she spoke, glancing away from you as you took the tape from her.

On the front cover was a skull, with warm brown eyes looking at the viewer. Below the image, in red lettering, was the title Evil Dead II. You looked up at Illi, to find her eyes still avoiding yours. An overwhelming surge of affection swelled inside you, squeezing at your tender heart. You sat up abruptly, tossing the tape onto the bed as you hooked your fingers onto Illi’s jacket. Her eyes widened as you drew her closer.

“Come here,” you barely muttered out, before your lips collided. Illi sighed into the kiss, her shaky hands grasping at the back of your shirt. You could faintly taste the bitter pallet of her last cigarette on her warm tongue, mingling with the sickly-sweet coating of her sheer cherry ChapStick. Her hands slowly wandered, as she took her time carefully dragging her fingertips to rest on your hips. She lovingly squeezed your hips, coaxing you closer. Your heart thudded rapidly in your chest, as the taste of her clouded your mind.

You reluctantly detached yourself from her, your eyes sweeping over the sheen of ChapStick now coating the outer edges of her mouth. Her wide eyes drank in the sight of your panting form. You softly smiled and pulled her down to rest on the bed with you, leaning into her side as she draped her arm over you.

Your lips grazed the surface of her cheek, before pressing a chaste kiss.

“Thank you,” you whispered, moving to rest your head in the crook of her neck. You could feel the imprint of her gummy smile pressing against your forehead.

Perhaps spending your Friday night at home wasn’t such a waste after all.

[mummyemmatojames]

40. A Hard Day: Struggling with the Dynamic in Public

Hello, dear community. Emma here, your Mummy-in-training, with a tough update on our MDLB and FLR journey. Yesterday was a real challenge—while our dynamic feels natural and solid at home, James is struggling to accept me as his Mummy out of the house, and it came to a head during a night away at a friend’s wedding. It’s left me feeling off-balance, and I’d really appreciate your wisdom on finding the right approach in public.

The Setup: A Night Away

We were invited to a friend’s wedding a few hours away, so we booked a hotel room for the night. James assumed it’d be a “night off” from our dynamic—maybe because it’s a big event, or because we’d be around others all day. But I had no intention of pausing things entirely; this is who we are, and consistency matters to me. I packed his bottles and formula (no surprises there), along with his train-themed pajamas and a spare dummy, just in case. When he saw me packing, his face fell—“Seriously, Mummy?”—but I brushed it off, saying, “We’re still us, even at a wedding, sweetheart.” I thought he’d adjust once we got there.

The day started fine—he was charming with my friends, sticking close to me, and I kept things subtle: holding his hand, ordering his drink (juice, no alcohol). At one point I made him sit at the kids table “to entertain them”. The problem? It was all toddlers—3- and 4-year-olds—no one even close to his 10-year-old headspace. He wasn’t happy, shifting uncomfortably as they babbled and spilled juice. I let him have an adult meal instead of a kids’ portion because I couldn’t work out how to justify it, but he still grumbled under his breath, clearly feeling out of place.

The Bedtime Battle

The real trouble hit at 8:30 PM. I’d already stretched his bedtime as a treat—normally it’s 7:30 routine, 8:30 lights out, but I let him stay up an extra hour since it was a wedding. The ceremony and dinner were done, the dancing had started, and I figured it was a good time to wind down. I leaned over and said quietly, “James, it’s time to head up and get into bed.” He fumed instantly—his jaw tightened, and he hissed, “Everyone’s still here including the toddlers, Mummy, I’m not going!” I stayed calm, reminding him, “You’ve had an extra hour, the main events are over, and little boys need their sleep.” But he wasn’t having it—he crossed his arms and glared, drawing a few curious looks from nearby guests.

I tried to comfort him the usual way, offering to nurse him for a few minutes to settle him. Normally, my boobs are his reset button, but tonight, he wasn’t interested, “Not here, this is stupid.” He was too worked up, too humiliated by the idea of bedtime while the party went on. I didn’t push it—so I took him up to the room, tucked him in with a bottle of formula instead, and turned off the light. “Mummy’s going back down for a bit,” I said. “I’ll check on you.” He just rolled over, silent but seething.

Back at the Party—and Checking In

I went back to the reception, danced a little, and caught up with friends, but I couldn’t fully relax—I kept picturing James upstairs, upset. I checked on him a few times during the night, slipping up to the room with the baby monitor app on my phone. He was asleep each time, bottle half-finished, looking small and sulky even in his sleep. I got back around 11:00 PM, and he didn’t stir when I climbed into bed. This morning, he’s been quiet—eating his breakfast (on his safari plate I’d packed) but not really talking, still processing last night.

Why It’s So Hard in Public

At home, our dynamic is second nature—bedtime, bottles, my role as Mummy all flow effortlessly, and James thrives in it. But out of the house, he’s struggling to accept me as his Mummy in the same way. The wedding highlighted it—he thought a night away meant a break, and when I held the line, it clashed with his expectations. Sitting with toddlers, going to bed early while adults partied—it made him feel exposed, not cared for. I get it; public settings are trickier, and he’s sensitive about others noticing. But I hate the idea of switching it off entirely—it’s not a costume we put on and take off; it’s us.

I let him have that extra hour and an adult meal, thinking it’d ease the sting, but it wasn’t enough. Not even nursing worked, and the bottle felt like a weak substitute when he was that mad. I’m wondering if I pushed too hard—maybe I should’ve let him stay up until 9:30, or skipped the kids’ table gig. But then I think, if I bend too much, where’s the consistency? It’s so hard to get the balance right in public.

What Do You Think?

I’d really love some guidance from the community—how do you handle your dynamic at events like weddings when the public setting throws it off? Have you had pushback on bedtime or little roles in front of others, and how did you settle it? For those whose partners struggle with Mummy out of the house, did they come around, or did you scale back? And if you’ve got tips for softening these moments—maybe a compromise that still feels like care—I’m all ears. I want James to feel safe, not furious, but I don’t want to lose what we’ve built.

Thank you for being here as I wrestle with this. Today was hard, and I’m still figuring out how to bridge the gap between home and away for my little boy.

With all my love (and some weariness), Emma (aka Mummy) ❤️

[quandledlngle69]

i am a SLUT for doll rin and for your latest isagi fic where he accuses reader of being a witch… i sense a pattern i love. would you be interested on writing/expanding more on them? OwO

context: isagi & rin.

hi anon! i had a field day kinda expanding on isagi and i wrote a bit for doll!rin but was lowkey kinda stumped :( the isagi fic was honestly a one–shot and i do have plans for doll!rin but my brain is empty asf

TW; corrupt religion, whipping, forced confession, strangulation, demonic and religious themes, unwanted advances.

 ݁ ⋆˚꩜｡  ݁

okay for a bit of context, i'm going to deep dive in on why the reader was accused and who exactly in the clergy it was, and the aftermath.

isagi is the son of a farmer, reader is one of the only cow maids, as her mother bears nerve damage in her hands from an infection that wasn't treated quick enough. she works for mr. isagi to help support her mother. its known that one of the deacon's son's is enticed by reader. she doesn't do anything that's believed to be a stake of anything beyond platonic, but her over–politeness and kindness is taken as a gesture of feelings.

the deacon's son then changes his attitude towards her mostly out of interest. he starts getting touchy, more flirty-mostly things that would be considered 'normal desire' for a boy of his age. reader picks up his shift in behaviour and she's uncomfortable, yet still polite. the boy then becomes way more bold. she tells him she's in love with a farmer's boy, and it goes through one ear and out the other.

he tries to forcibly kiss her, and in retaliation, an opened palm slap is given.

his ego is bruised, and he's angry. in retaliation, he tells his father that he saw you performing witchcraft. and a man is always going to believe his son.

word spreads quickly in a village where everyone knows everyone.

when isagi finds out at first, he's conflicted and refuses to even acknowledge it. but then the priest pulls him aside. he says to isagi that it's true, and why wouldn't he believe a messenger of god?

he overthinks and nit picks every interaction you've ever had with him, he's angry, confused and overall filled with fear and disgust.

that's when he decides to confront you.

after that, you're taken away. but he's not told of the forced coercion you go through to get a warped confession. he's not told or aware of the violent flogging inflicted on you until you confess to something that was a corrupt lie.

all he's told is that you fully confessed to your crimes and were guilty.

and the pleaded guilty do not get trials, only their punishment.

you're burned at the stake. He tells him he holds no sympathy for you, yet he has to cover his ears at the agonising shrieks of pain at the heat licking up your body, squeezing his eyes shut when the fire ruthlessly burns through layers of fat and muscle to the bone.

he can't sleep peacefully anymore. and it seems as though the deacon's son can't either, because he feels guilty enough to finally confess that he lied.

he isn’t ever held accountable for the words leading to your cruel death.

 ݁ ⋆˚꩜｡  ݁

oh and where do i start with doll!rin...

he's creepy. not in a perverted way, but in a weird, mysterious way. the rosemary your mother gave you had abnormally went missing, even when you recall it being placed in the ceramic dish on your vanity.

sometimes you wake up in the dark, the hairs on your neck standing straight up when you feel someones eyes picking you apart.

you tell rin softly to come back to bed, trying to not let your voice waver in fear at his figure looming over you on the edge of the bed. only when you pat his empty side after a beat of silence does he listen, never saying a word before climbing in, and you swear he feels more colder then usual when he wraps his arms around you.

sometimes you forget he's a puppet of demonic power, not gods work.

other then that, life is...peaceful.

you find he's more of a baby fawn, still stumbling and making mistakes in a world that an anomaly like him wasn't really supposed to interact with. he occasionally forgets how to use a fork, or when he gets annoyed at that gnashing empty feeling in his lower abdomen called 'hunger', or that he can bleed and feel pain. he grumbles every time you help or correct him, but he knows and is grateful he can rely on you.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

[wrathofrats]

I want weird tour bus sex please and thank you

Happy mushy may

Mushy May Day 11: sitting in their lap

600 words, nsfw, rain/aurora, prompts by @forlorn-crows !

Read under cut or find all of mushy may on ao3

Rain and Aurora dry hump on the tour bus. It’s mostly princess banter.

(Trans rain btw, as always but just in case)

“You don’t get to complain when you hit your head” rain put his hand right above her, on the top of the bunk to try and soften the blow he knew was coming. She rolled her eyes and ducked further as she tucked herself into the small space, straddling rains lap.

It was an uncomfortable squeeze, as always. Back hunched over, eventually placing her hands on either side of his head to keep herself somewhat up right. Truly Aurora doesn’t know why she let him be the one to lay down. Maybe it was because he was a foot taller than her. Who knows.

“You’re the one who was feeling me up after the show, how come you get to be the bottom?” Aurora grumbled. She grabbed the curtain and pulled it across to close the bunk once more, a metallic hiss from the rings to let everyone know what they were doing. As if it wasn’t wasn’t already a bit obvious.

“It’s my bunk and I’m bigger than you, suck it up princess”

Aurora flicked him in the forehead, finally settling to sit in his lap fully. She tucked her hair behind her ear as it fell into her face from the awkward angle. The rest of the ghouls filed in after them, dew accidentally hitting the curtain with his foot as he climbed into the bunk above.

“Ok well if youre not playing princess tonight, then you do the work while I look pretty. Or at least take your pants off yourself” she grabbed his hand, placing it on her hip with an expectant look. Her other went to his jeans, flicking the button open.

Rain lifted his hips, shoving his pants down and fiddling with them with his legs to get them off. Aurora leaned down, grabbing his shirt and nosing at his neck while he struggled. They shifted once again to get comfortable, this time Aurora moving to sit on his thigh instead.

“Black lace? And you want to call me a princess?” Aurora snapped the waistband against his hip.

“I’m calling you a princess because you’re the one still complaining, when I was the one who wanted to look pretty for you Rory”

Rain punctuated his words with a pout, grabbing her waist to pull her down on his thigh, making her grind. Her leggings were practically painted on, the thinnest material she could probably get away with and rain could absolutely feel every degree of heat coming from her through them. She hummed with the feeling, eyes fluttering shut in satisfaction as she rocked again.

“You’re a lot prettier when you give me what I want” Aurora laid down fully on top of him, resting her head in the crook of his neck to place a little kiss on his pulse.

“Only if you’re reciprocating, move your leg give me something too princess”

She grumbled but ultimately leaned slightly the other way to put the weight of her thigh between his legs. He canted his hips up, grinding into her as well. They both gave a small gasp, now starting to move with more purpose.

There was a push and pull, hips practically slamming into each other while Aurora sucked marks into rains neck. He wove a hand through her hair to keep her there, pulling lightly like she liked. His eyes screwed shut as he moved, finding a new angle as her thigh drug over his clit.

“Forgot how good you feel” Aurora mumbled, “should just sneak into your bunk after every show”

There was a slow, syrupy sense to their movements. Something sweet like molasses as they both cuddled into each other. Aurora was warm, combating how cool rain usually ran. It was comforting, like sleeping with a heating pad.

“You’re always welcome to rora” rain sighed, pulling her closer from where she threatened to fall out of the bunk, “whatever makes the princesses happy”

[stupidlittlespirit]

trying to find any semblance of privacy with ford while he's still living with his brother, especially over the summer when the kids are there. just. tugging him into empty rooms and closets during the day, waiting for stan to go to bed and take his hearing aids out, maybe even sneaking out to his car and going for drives to secluded places at night. god. trying to keep quiet when there's no other choice or fool proof way of hiding. ford feels like a teenager again sneaking around like this- well, the kind of teenager he never was, he was sneaking around to stay up studying, but he can see why stan was climbing through the window to meet his girlfriends.

also getting caught but that's just my kind of thing i like to read about in fic since it's both funny and embarrassing for everyone involved

dwasjkhdsakjfhjsdf oh my god how did you know..... My main weakness...... Tearing my skin off at the thought /pos

I'm so, so obsessed with the concept of sneaking around like this (and getting caught), it's literally a main feature of mtb because I love it so much. There's something very fun (and sexy) about having to sneak around, either behind someone's back or just for privacy reasons. I think Ford is a bit of a thrill seeker too, so this plays really well into that concept as well.

I have this little scenario in my mind with mtb!Reader which I'll very likely write as a one shot eventually but it's similar to what you've described here:

In this silly daydream, the house is very busy. People are everywhere, and neither you nor Ford have had the opportunity to even brush up against each other because of it. You've had to keep each other at arms length and every time you have tried to get a little closer, someone has barged into the room and spoiled the moment/almost caught you.

So, things are tense and you're both desperate to off-load some of it on each other.

You end up being invited to stay after work and watch a movie with the family. Maybe the kids are having their other friends stay over for the night too and they've roped everyone (Ford, Stan and you) into joining them for it in the living room.

Stan is snoozing (already) in his favourite chair. Some of the kids are sprawled out on the floor. Mabel is lounging on the couch beside Ford, but the moment she spots you, she shuffles up to give you room and you take a seat beside her.

Everything is very kosher. Everyone settles in to watch the movie, everyone is glued to the screen or making silly comments etc, but.... You're hardly paying attention: your mind is full of thoughts of Ford and you find your gaze drifts a little halfway through the movie. You use the excuse of readjusting in your seat to sneak a glance at Ford, or you *ahem* stretch your neck and just so happen to look over towards him, but it doesn't seem as though the favour it returned. Frustrating, however not the end of the world. He's probably just focused on the film.....

And yet, after you've given up on trying to very subtly check him out, something touches the back of your neck. It's feather light and very gentle, and you almost jump right out of your skin (though you're saved by the fact a scary scene is playing and the kids all jump too). You turn to look but Ford is resolutely still engrossed in the screen and pointedly not looking at you. Except..... his arm is stretched along the length of the back of the couch. It's super casual, as though he's only resting it there for convenience sake, but his hand has crept up from its place behind the cushions and he's very softly caressing the side of your neck.

You're surprised, but you don't move away. If anything, you lean imperceptibly closer. It's a pretty bold move on both of your parts, even though it seems like no one else is paying enough attention to notice.

Ford's fingers gently ghost the side of your throat and your trapezius muscle. They draw out goosebumps and you have to supress several dramatic shivers as he skates his fingertips back and forth over your skin. It's a light touch really, hardly even there at all, but it's intimate and risky, and it makes you hot all over. Your heart beats faster and your skin feels like it's on fire, and after barely ten minutes of it, you have to clear your throat and announce that you're going to get a drink refill.

Ford snatches his hand away very carefully because the kids turn to look at you the moment you speak, and they beg you to get them something too so they don't have to miss anything on screen. You oblige and then turn to him, and for a moment, Ford looks as though he's concerned that you might not have received his touch in the way that he hoped you would.

You can't comfort him in front of everyone, of course, so instead you ask very sweetly: "lend me a hand, would you? I don't think I can carry everything by myself...."

Ford nods wordlessly, always ready and happy to help you no matter the task. He follows your lead and strides after you into the kitchen, kicking the door shut behind himself and already quietly babbling his apologies for "-being inappropriate. I'm terribly sorry, my love, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or-!"

And he's silenced instantly when you drag him down by the collar into a very hot, very eager kiss the second you're out of sight. The kitchen is mercifully empty and there's no risk of anyone else catching the two of you in the moment. You're as alone as you're going to get for this evening and you're ready to take advantage of that.

Ford's panicky words are cut short and replaced with a very happy little groan, and he wastes no time at all in cornering you against the kitchen counter. You throw your arms around his neck and encourage him closer, and Ford obliges without hesitation. It devolves rapidly into a very heated makeout/heavy petting session; lots of groping and grasping and sighing and gasping. You make it last as long as the two of you feasibly can without arousing the suspicion of the others with your absence or letting things get too far, and you both have to spend a good five minutes calming down after you decide to put a pin in it so you can return to the movie.

You're both visibly flustered when you pull apart: hair and clothes astray, hot all over, rumpled to high heaven. The second you catch sight of each other, you're both laughing at the other's messy look. You have to de-fog and straighten poor Ford's glasses before re-entering the sitting room, too, bless him.

By the time you return, no one notices you've been out there for twenty minutes or so. The kids are still far too focused on the movie and Stan is fast asleep. You and Ford refill the drinks and retake your seats, and only the two of you know why you're both smothering smug little grins behind your hands for the rest of the evening.

[arietem]

stop being a tease, jj

masterlist

jj maybank x fem!reader

a little glimpse in some fun on the beach for you and jj

suggestive content

You’re sitting on the porch step, the sun unrelentlessly hitting your upper back, heating you up and making you agitated. JJ is somewhere in the chateau, collecting his surfboard or whatnot, taking his sweet time while you’re waiting here for him, slowly melting away.

“Jayyy,” you yell out as loud as you can, hopeful he’ll hear you. “Are you coming or what?”

The plan for today is to get down to the beach, get a surf on, and then have a picnic. Your duty was to get the food ready, and you think you did pretty good, with a couple of containers of fresh fruit, some sandwiches, and a lot of snacks like pretzels and crackers. JJ’s job was to get the surfboards and show the fuck up.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming. Just had to wax these beauties a lil’.” JJ comes bounding through the front door, both surfboards strapped to his sides. He leans down to kiss the top of your head and nearly beheads you in the process.

“Hey!”

JJ shrugs apologetically and you smack his ass. Then you double down and squeeze him a bit too. He’s just looking too yummy not to.

“You like what you see, huh?” JJ winks at you and jumps over the steps, wobbling when he meets the ground. He manages to keep his balance, and you roll your eyes, following him down the stairs.

Twinkie is yours for the day, so the two of you pack all the supplies in the back and climb in the front. JJ’s at the wheel, and you can’t help but marvel at how the sun bleached his hair almost white blonde. His golden skin is sparkling, and his long fingers are drumming on the dashboard.

“What?” JJ says, turning to look at you.

“Nothing,” you smirk, “I like looking at you.”

“Well, I like looking at you, too, princess.”

JJ reaches over and puts his calloused palm on your thigh, his pinky inching a little higher. A wave of heat envelops you, even stronger than the sun.

He’s still looking at you, and you bite your lip. JJ’s pupils widen, and his hand goes even higher, but suddenly stops. You pout and he grins, his dimple popping.

“You’re such a tease, JJ,” you say in mock annoyance.

“I’m your tease and you love it,” he says in a sing-songy voice.

You give him the finger, and he chuckles, finally starting the drive to the beach. He’s not wrong, though, you kinda do love the tease of it all, the thrill and the chase. There’s something hot about working for it. That’s why JJ’s in for a surprise when you get to the beach, and you can hardly wait to show it to him.

The drive is short, and with a few turns, you’re there. As soon as JJ parks the van, you jump out and collect the little fridge with your food, and JJ takes out the surfboards.

The beach is deserted, with it being a time in the middle of the work day, and because it is a bit isolated and out of the way, if you don’t know what you’re looking for.

You pick a nice spot on the sand and lay out the blanket, putting the fridge down. JJ is already in his swim shorts, and you can tell he is just itching to jump in the water and get on the board.

“Go, Jay, I’m right behind you.” You smile at him, happy because he’s happy. The ocean is his home, and he is in his element here. You’ll lick off the salty droplets from his skin later.

JJ blows you a kiss and makes a run for it, throwing himself between the waves. You can see his head bobbing, and before you know it, he’s standing tall on the board, doing spins and tricks.

“Show off!” you shout at him, but you’re so proud of him and his skills.

You watch him a little more, and when he realizes you’re still on the beach, still clothed, he starts swimming back. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.

You slowly undo the dress straps around your neck and the top falls down, exposing your boobs. Then you slowly shimmy out of the skirt part, and you’re not wearing any bikini bottoms.

At this point, JJ is already at the beach, ready to come get you. You see him stop and gawk at you. After a moment of shock, he grins and runs toward you, almost knocking you down when his cold body connects with your hot one. The sensation is unlike any other.

“‘Kay, I see ya. Sex on the beach, huh? You a nasty little freak, princess.” His hands are wandering all over your body, squeezing and caressing in all the right places.

A little moan escapes your lips, and you can feel JJ shudder. You can also feel something poking you. You look down and then up at his face with a raised eyebrow.

Without saying anything else, his lips crash into yours, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. JJ gently lowers you to the ground and starts trailing kisses down your neck and chest, then your stomach and your thighs. His hair is tickling you and dripping on your body.

He makes his way up and stops at your lower stomach, still a bit higher than where you want him to. You wrap your legs around his back and tug on his hair.

“JJ, I need you so bad right now. Be a good boy and stop being a tease.”

“Game on, mama.” JJ gives you a hot, sloppy lick, and your head falls back, your nerves on fire. The day is just getting better and better.

[sequinsmile-x]

Someone's Mother

The anger is fierce and overwhelming. It’s something she’d only felt once before in another life when she had to kill a little boy to allow him to live. She wonders what it means that the stakes are so much lower this time, that it isn’t a case of morality or life and death, but that it hurts so much more.

AKA the one where Jack brings home a Mother's Day gift, despite conversations Emily and Aaron have had with the school, and Emily is furious.

-x-

Hi besties,

Happy Mother's Day to all those who celebrate it today.

I know today can be a hard day for people, for many different reasons, so please know that I am holding space for those who are struggling and I am thinking of you <3

This turned out a bit differently to how I originally anticipated - as in it's much fluffier than what I thought I would write when I opened my laptop this morning!!

As always, let me know what you think! -x-

Warnings: None

Words: 2k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Emily smiles as her phone chimes in her pocket. She picks it up, taking a moment to look at her wallpaper - a photo of her, Aaron and Jack - before she unlocks it to read the text from her fiancé. 

The meeting didn’t overrun in the end. Packing up to go home. 

She chuckles as she types out her response, looking up from her phone as she hears the bell ring, signalling the end of school. 

I see how it is. Very convenient that the meeting ended just in time for me to do the school run. 

She sinks her teeth into her lower lip when she sees the three little dots appear in the bottom left of the screen. 

I’ll make it up to you.

She laughs outloud, entirely unsure when she’d become this person. When she’d turned into someone who would blush and giggle when the man she loved wasn’t even around, and she shakes her head, typing out one final response as she sees the hordes of kids run out of the school.

That better be a promise, Mr Hotchner. 

“Emily!” 

She looks up and smiles as she sees Jack run towards her, his backpack almost the size of him and another bag hanging from his hand, hidden behind his back as he looks at her with a mix of delight and confusion. 

“Hey sweetie,” she says, ruffling his hair and hugging him as he wraps one arm around her, “How was school?” 

“Fine,” he says, “I thought Dad was picking me up today.”

“He got held up at work,” she replies, turning and leading him towards where she’d parked, “So you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.” 

“I like being stuck with you.” 

She smiles at him, “I like being stuck with you, too.” 

She still wasn’t used to the normality of the life she had now. She’d say she’d fallen into it, but she hadn’t. She fought for it. She’d died for it, and she hoped she’d never lose sight of that. That she’d always see the beauty in the ordinariness of it all. Even if it did mean doing the school run on Friday afternoons for the foreseeable future, a life with her family, the family she and Aaron were already trying to grow, hope permating everything in their home like the smell of the fresh paint still lingering in the hallway, worth so much more to her than anything else. 

“Want me to carry anything for you?” She asks, and he shakes his head fiercely, happy to walk alongside her, purposely holding the white gift bag that had been behind his back out of her way. 

When he climbs into the back of her car, she finally catches sight of the gift bag despite his attempts to continue hiding it from her, and she realises his handwriting is on the outside. The words ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ written in bright red pen stand out against the plain white card, and she feels a lick of anger burning in her blood. His teacher knew about Haley, and they’d asked to be told about whatever projects there would be for Mother’s Day so they could prewarn Jack. It was a fine balance between not wanting him to be singled out, not reminding his classmates that his mom had died, and giving him the option to do something else if needed. She desperately tries to think about whether they’d been told about it this year, if she’d somehow forgotten in the mix of moving into their new home and planning a wedding, but she’s sure she’d remember. She never forgot anything about Jack. It was something purposeful, something she did for Haley as well as the little boy himself, all too aware that she couldn’t fill the hole in his life but desperate to make sure he knew he was loved. 

She’s tempted to park the car, take him back inside and leave him in the hallway with her phone as a distraction so she can give his teacher a piece of her mind, but it’s something that she has to swallow back down. Something she has to let simmer in her gut, so Jack doesn’t catch on. He carries on talking to her from the back seat, acting as if the bag didn’t exist, while he tells her about his day. Whatever picture his teacher had their class make to mark Mother’s Day barely visible, just the edge of a canvas sticking out of the top. Small splashes of colour that she could see whenever she casts a glance in the rearview mirror, enough to occasionally make her stomach roll with anger. Her hands tight on the steering wheel as she grasps it hard enough to make her skin go bone white as it pulls over her knuckles, her love for the little boy rolling through her like a second pulse. 

She offers to carry the bag into the house for him, but he shakes his head, insistent that he carry it himself as he runs into the house and up the stairs, the gift disappearing with him into his room. As soon as he’s out of sight, she lets the tension settle into her jaw, her teeth clenched as she rolls her neck, her hands tight around her keys as she considers going back to the school. She hears Aaron’s footsteps coming from the kitchen, and she blows out a breath, desperate to calm herself down. 

“Was that blur that just went upstairs Jack?” Aaron asks, “Thanks for going to get him…” he drifts off when she turns to look at him, her outrage painted across her face.

“You don’t have to thank me,” she replies, smiling tightly as if she can fool him, as if he can’t read her like like a book, as if he hadn’t studied every page so he could understand her like no one else ever had, like no one else had ever tried to. “We’re a family. It’s what we do.” 

He stares at her a second, waits her out to see if she’ll say anything else, but she doesn’t. He clears his throat and steps towards her, his hands in his pockets as he raises an eyebrow at her and purposely puts himself in her line of sight.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”

She sniffs and crosses her arms over her chest, her keys still in hand, still not entirely unsure she wasn’t going to head back out, “Nothing.” 

“Em…” 

“He has a Mother’s Day gift with him,” she admits in a whispering shout, still able to remind herself that Jack was only upstairs, even with her irritation getting the better of her. The anger is fierce and overwhelming. It’s something she’d only felt once before in another life when she had to kill a little boy to allow him to live. She wonders what it means that the stakes are so much lower this time, that it isn’t a case of morality or life and death, but that it hurts so much more. The space in her chest that she’d carved out for Aaron and Jack, the space she thinks might have always been their waiting for them, aching as it fills with anger and a sense of protectiveness that she’d call maternal if she didn’t think it would be overstepping. “We’ve told them to give us the heads up so we can talk to him-”

“Em-”

“And I knew Mother’s Day was coming up,” she says, carrying on as if he hadn’t said anything, “And I should have thought about it, but with the move and the wedding planning, it’s just slipped my mind, and I should have known better-”

“Em-”

“But he’s just a little boy, and he doesn’t have a mom.” She’s holding her keys so tightly now that they are sharp against her palm, a throbbing pain she thinks she might deserve. She doesn’t notice Aaron getting closer to her, doesn’t see the smile he’s trying and failing to suppress, and she carries on, getting herself worked up in a way only he and Jack were able to bring out in her. “And Miss Whitmore knows that and she still sent him home with a painting in a Mother’s Day bag he decorated himself,” she finally stops talking long enough to blow out a breath, “I should go back, tell her that this isn’t acceptable-”

“She told me about it,” Aaron says, his words finally registering with her, and she looks at him, her head tilted as she swallows thickly, hurt catching in her throat as she tries and fails to swallow it back down. 

“Oh,” she replies, releasing her grip on her car keys, smiling tightly as she nods, dropping the keys down on the side table. She knew she wasn’t his mom. She knew that, but Aaron usually involved her in things like this, usually let her in on his parenting decisions, asking her for advice and her opinion, so she had let herself forget, allowed herself to get lost in the fantasy of the family she had built around herself. The family she wants to grow and cherish for the rest of her life. “I see. I should go change-”

“He made it for you,” Aaron says, catching her as she tries to slip past him, his arm around her waist as he stops her in place. She looks up at him so quickly he thinks it must hurt, her eyes wide and full of confusion that makes her look adorable, her beauty somehow accentuated by it. 

“Wh…what?” 

“It’s meant to be a surprise,” he says, squeezing her hip, “But I can’t have you spiralling over this until Sunday,” he smiles when she opens her mouth to deny that she was spiralling, but she stops herself, her lips pressed together for a moment as she places her hand over his on her hip. 

“He made it for me?” She asks, her lungs cramped, all the space in her chest taken up by love for the two of them. 

Aaron nods and cups her cheek, runs his thumb back and forth over the slope of her cheekbone, “The teacher spoke to me about it last month, and she said he told her he wanted to make you something this year. So before I spoke to you, I spoke to him, and he said he wanted it to be a surprise.” 

“Oh,” she says, and she clears her throat to try and remove the shake in her voice, “That’s…” she blows out a slow breath, “Why?” 

He chokes on a sound that he thinks was originally supposed to be a laugh, his disbelief turning it into something else. He makes her look at him, only realising then that she’d looked down in an attempt to cover her emotions, her eyes shining with tears she still tried to hide from him from time to time, so unused to having someone she could share everything with that she was still prone to act as if she was facing the world alone. As if he wouldn’t set it all on fire to make sure she was okay.

“Well, in his words, you do everything a mom does for him,” he says, smiling softly when he sees the sharp breath she inhales, sees how it catches on her ribs, “And in my words, it’s because whether you know it or not - you’re an incredible mom, sweetheart. Jack and whoever else may come along are lucky to have you.” He smiles and she leans against him, everything she can’t say - everything she can’t find the words for - said in silence when she hugs him close, her hands fisted in the back of the shirt she’d picked up from the dry cleaner for him just a few days ago. He kisses her temple and runs his hand up and down her back, hugging her back just as fiercely as she was holding him. “You’ll have to act surprised on Sunday,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at her. “He’ll be mad at me if he finds out I told you.” 

“Well, we can’t have that.” She laughs, the sound wet as it catches in her throat, and she nods, resting her forehead against his, “Your secret is safe with me.” 

[coffeelovingcreature]

★a little story I wrote

I just wrote a small image of Eli who calls Ghost "dad" for the first time. It's been two years since Ghost had adopted Eli and he never called him that before :P

---★

It was a normal day at home. It was pretty early in the morning, and Ghost was already ready for work. Normally, he would’ve been off long before dawn to do some training and prepare for a long, hard day of missions, but this morning was different.

Since Eli had stepped into his life, a lot had changed.Now it was already 7 a.m., and Eli had to go to school. Ghost had to wake him up- well, almost drag the little boy out of bed. Eli was eight years old now and in 3rd grade. Ghost sighed, barely noticeably, as he stood in the kitchen preparing some sandwiches for Eli.

With his big, calloused hands, he tried to cut the cheese sandwiches smaller, since Eli had complained that the toast was always too big to eat. When Ghost finally managed to cut the sandwich into four equally sized pieces and put them into a lunchbox, he also added an apple. Then he closed the lid and brought the box over to Eli’s backpack.

When Ghost returned to the kitchen, he saw Eli still sitting at the table, eating cereal. A bit of milk had spilled on the table, and as soon as Eli was done eating, he jumped from his chair and dashed out of the kitchen. Ghost ran a hand over his face and grabbed a tissue to clean up the mess. While doing so, he called out: “Don’t forget to brush your teeth, kiddo!”

He heard Eli’s pounding footsteps heading to the bathroom and the boy shouting back: “Okayyy!”

As Ghost wiped the table, his mind wandered to how much Eli had changed since he adopted him. In the first few months, Eli barely spoke. Ghost hadn’t minded, he actually preferred it when kids were quiet and didn’t get on his nerves, but something had shifted in Eli’s brain. Suddenly, he had become a loud, energetic child who always kept Ghost on his toes.

Even as Ghost had always been against the idea of adopting a child, in fact, he’d never even considered it, he’d somehow has gotten used to having Eli around. The thought of waking up one day and not having the kid there, gave him a weird feeling.

He was used to Eli running around and spreading chaos. But sometimes, Ghost wondered if it had been a smart decision to adopt a child given the nature of his work. He had always kept people at a distance for a reason. Every mission he went on was a risk. Every morning he got up could be his last. He accepted that risk, but now, with Eli in the picture, he wondered what would happen to the boy if he didn’t come back one day. Would they send him back to an orphanage?

The thought stung a little in Ghost’s chest, even if he normally didn’t allow himself to get emotional.His dark train of thought was interrupted by Eli, who now stood in front of him and said: “My teeth are clean!”

Ghost looked down at him. “Really now?”, he grumbled. “Show me.”

Eli gave him a wide, toothy grin.

Ghost just nodded. “Good. Then get to the car.”

Eli threw on his dinosaur jacket, slung his backpack over his shoulders, and ran out to the car. Ghost was already sitting inside, waiting. After Eli climbed in, Ghost drove the usual route to school.When they arrived, Eli opened the door but leaned over to Ghost before getting out. He said cheerfully: “Bye! I love you, Dad!”

Ghost froze for a moment. Before he could say anything, Eli had already jumped out and slammed the door shut. He watched the kid run towards the school building and the other children already going inside.

For a few minutes, Ghost just sat there, staring after him.

“Dad...” he murmured to himself.It was the first time Eli had ever called him that. Normally, he’d say Simon or Ghost, but never Dad.

Ghost looked into the small car mirror and thought about it. It sounded strange. Him? A... dad? But it wasn’t a bad feeling. Actually, it wasn’t bad at all.

As Ghost drove off to work, he caught himself smiling, just for a second. He could actually get used to the term, when he really thought about it.

Then his expression shifted to a slight scowl.If Johnny found out about this, he’d never let me hear the end of it...