#Porch Screen Repair | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lubdubology · 7 months ago

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When Things Turn Green Again

SYNOPSIS: Hoping to mend the pain of your broken heart and bury the memory of your failed marriage, you turn towards the woods. A cabin was left in your name and it’s the exact distraction you were looking for. What you didn’t anticipate is meeting a quiet, ruggedly handsome man along the way who helps you heal.

PAIRING: Logan x fem!reader

WC: 11k

WARNINGS: smut 18+; mdni; angst; mentions of cheating/divorce; emotional trauma; fluff; sexual innuendos; brief mentions of drinking; dirty talk; slight dom!Logan; oral (f receiving); fingering; doggy style; cock warming; sex with feelings; unprotected p in v

A/N: I pictured either Origins!Logan or Wolverine!Logan, but I think you can envision any Logan you’d prefer. And again thanks to @joelsgoldrush for the support through writing this ❤️ I really do love this piece I wrote and I hope you do too. Feedback is always welcome and appreciated! And thank you to everyone who has read, commented, liked and reblogged both Soft Edges and Til The Sun Turns Black—I never imagined either of those stories reaching over 1k notes.

The gravel crunches under your tires as you roll down the long driveway. Memories bloom deep in your chest as you near the cabin, of times simpler than this, unburdened by trappings of real life. You spent your formative years out here in the woods with your grandfather. Summers spent learning how to fish on the lake; how to recognize the poisonous berries from the nonpoisonous ones; and making fires, roasting marshmallows long after the sun had gone down.

Your grandfather had helped build this cabin. He’d always preferred the outdoors and solitude from people—with the obvious exception of your grandmother and mother—and he’d often come here to escape. Especially after he lost them both.

The cabin comes into view through the trees just starting to unfurl their spring foliage. Patches of snow still dot the landscape but the wet brown of winter is losing to spring’s verdant hues. The structure has seen better days, last having been lived in over ten years ago.

A stab of regret pierces your chest. The cabin was willed to you when your grandfather died, but this was your first trip up here since the funeral. You planned to, of course, but as the old saying goes, life happened. Now, you’re hoping the old place can give you something to sink your energy into besides thinking about your failed marriage.

You park the truck and step out, surveying the property. The shrubs and flower beds are overgrown and choked with old growth and weeds. Years worth of leaves rest upon the roof and clog the gutters. The front porch has several loose or missing spindles and you’re almost afraid to step up onto the old boards. Proving yourself right, the wood groans and creaks beneath your feet, certain spots threatening to give way.

“That’s going to be a fun project,” you mutter to yourself.

Opening the front door, you’re met with the damp mustiness of a long closed up space. A layer of dust seems to coat nearly every surface and cobwebs linger in the corners. You’re hoping the repairs needed inside the cabin are more cosmetic than costly.

You open up the old blinds, letting the early morning light filter in the room. It’s not a large space, an open kitchen, living room and dinning area with separate bedroom and attached bathroom. A small set of steps leads up to a loft, which also doubles as a sleeping space or bonus area.

You unload your belongings from the truck, tucking them away inside the bedroom, before opening all the windows to let in the fresh air. Thankfully, the glass and protective screens are in relatively good repair—a few need replacing, but an easy enough job. You feel a sense of purpose flourish within you, something you haven’t felt for months and you wonder if this is just the reprieve you need to find yourself again.

+++

You spend the morning taking inventory of the repairs needed around the cabin to make it immediately livable. Jotting down a list of supplies, you hop in your truck and head into town to hit up the hardware store.

The owner, George, recognizes you from previous trips with your grandfather when you were younger. He greets you warmly and helps you find everything you need. As you’re checking out, he asks, “Run into Logan yet?”

“Logan?”

He nods his head. “Shares a property line with you. Has a cabin of his own just about a quarter mile north of yours. Asked him to keep his eye out on the place.”

“Oh, well, that was nice of him,” you comment, stuffing your receipt in your purse.

George shrugs. “Figured it would give him something different to do. Doesn’t interact much with people.”

“Guess I’ll just have to introduce myself then,” you say, lifting your bags up off the checkout counter.

“Good luck with that,” George responds with a huffed laugh. “He’s not one for small talk.”

You give George a polite smile and leave the store, bags in hand. But the conversation sparks your curiosity and you find yourself thinking of the man who shares the woods with you. You promised yourself once you were settled, you’d make the short hike towards his place and introduce yourself.

Arriving back at the cabin, you park the truck and hop out, stopping short when you spot a lone figure walking around from the back of your property. You can’t stop the prickle of anxiety that zips up your spine as the figure comes closer, but he doesn’t see you yet, his eyes on the ground as he walks.

You shut the truck door with more force than necessary, the sound echoing off the trees. He looks up then and you suck in a short breath as his rugged features come into view—well trimmed but scruffy beard, wild dark hair and a fit muscular frame you can see even under the flannel of his shirt.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach and you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt like this. You can feel a blush creep across your face and you grip the bags in your hands tighter just to feel something other than the hammering of your heart in your chest.

He stops short of where you’re standing and jerks a thumb behind him. “Turned your electrical breaker on,” he says without introduction and you can only stare at him.

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I, uh—thanks.”

He tilts his head and looks at you and you feel like you’re on fire under his glare. It’s an inquisitive one, like he can’t quite figure out what you’re doing in a place like this and you shift uncomfortably under his gaze. And yet, you don’t want him to stop looking at you.

“Right,” he says, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for something. He fishes out a key and holds it in your direction. “This is yours.”

You shift the bags, so you’re holding them all in one hand and reach for the key. Your fingertips brush against his just briefly, but it’s enough to set sparks along your skin and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. As he steps back from you, you blurt out your name and then immediately wish for a swift death at your awkwardness.

God, this was embarrassing.

It’s like you’ve never interacted with humans before.

He gives the barest hint of a smile. “Logan.”

“Nice to meet you, Logan,” you say, just so you can taste his name in your mouth.

Logan nods and turns to head down the path that leads away from your cabin and deeper into the woods. You watch him go, his figure fading further into the distance and you can’t help but think, I’m in trouble.

+++

You spend the rest of the day keeping busy around the cabin—wiping down dusty surfaces, sweeping up cobwebs, replacing broken light bulbs—but your mind never strays far from Logan and the inexplicable pull you have towards him.

You’ve dated. You were married. You weren’t a stranger to the opposite sex and physical attraction, but this felt like more. Like an unavoidable pull between you and him and you’ve just been spun into his orbit.

And that attraction terrifies you.

Over the next few days, you try and shove him from your mind. It helps that you haven’t seen him again, but your eyes inevitably dart towards the path leading away from your cabin as if you’re expecting him to come walking through.

Then, the idea comes to you late one night as you’re sitting in front of the fire, watching the flames lick higher. No matter how hard you had tried, Logan remained firmly planted in your mind, his roots stubborn and unyielding.

Your grandfather always said your grandmother’s cooking was always something that warmed his heart.

But as you walk the small path towards Logan’s property you briefly wonder if you’ve lost your mind. You carry the small pie dish in your hands and as his cabin grows closer you’re actually contemplating turning back and forgetting the whole thing.

Who the hell bakes pies for people any more?

His cabin is smaller than yours, a little more rustic and worn, which seems fitting based on the little you know about him. Several piles of firewood line the roofed porch and at the opposite end, a single chair and table sit in front of the window. With one last shaky inhale, you climb the steps and rap your knuckles against the door. From inside you hear heavy footfalls and then the door opens.

Logan looks down at you and then towards the dish in your hands, an odd expression crossing his handsome features.

“I made you a pie,” you blurt unceremoniously and you instantly wish for the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

Logan just continues to stare at you and you think you see the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. But maybe not.

“I, uh, my grandfather lived in the cabin next to yours and it’s mine now. I’m fixing it up, because…well, just because and he taught me to pick berries as a kid? So, I did that and I made you this,” you finish in a ramble, flames of embarrassment licking across your skin.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His eyes flick down at the dish in your hands again and you hold it up a bit higher, nudging it closer towards him. As he reaches out to take it, his fingers brush against yours and you again feel electricity tingle down your fingertips. If he notices it too, he says nothing, not that he’s said anything since you showed up on his porch.

Logan tucks the dish closer to his body and gives you a slight nod. You take that as a good sign and step back to leave. “Okay, cool, cool. Well, um, enjoy. I made sure all he berries were the edible ones so you don’t end up throwing up everywhere.”

At that he actually huffs a chuckle. “Good to know,” he finally says, his voice warm and rich and just a bit gruff.

“Right, well, enjoy!” You turn to leave and can feel his stare against your back and it takes all your remaining functioning brain cells to walk normally.

You spend the next few days trying to forget all about your ill-fated attempt to play neighbor, figuring if he didn’t want to know you before, he definitely didn’t after that.

You’re coming back from a hike when you spot Logan through the trees walking away from your place, hands tucked deep within his pockets. Your heart quickens in your chest as you walk up to the front door and find the baking dish sitting on the old welcome mat. It’s freshly washed with a folded up piece of paper sitting inside—Thank you.

You’re certain your smile could rival the light from the sun.

+++

It becomes a routine over the next few weeks—you bringing him food and him returning the dish, all without exchanging any words. You’re thankful he’s not much of a talker because you can’t seem to stop making a fool of yourself around him.

And you don’t know why.

He’s a handsome man, that anyone can see, but you’ve never been so flustered around a beautiful man before.

There’s something else about Logan you can’t pinpoint that sets your heart fluttering behind your ribs. He seems lonely in the same way you are, and you wonder if he’s out here to lick and heal old wounds just like you. You have an inexplicable want to help him, even if that means sharing your food leftovers with him and trying to chip away at the wall that surrounds him.

A part of you is hoping he can help break down your walls, too.

You’re waist deep under the kitchen sink when a knock on the door drags you from fixing the leaking drain.

“Ah, fuck,” you curse, trying to maneuver out of the space while also not spilling the stagnant water left in the sink trap. As you set the old drain down you call out, “Just a second!”

You wipe your hands against your thighs and swing the door open to find Logan standing there, your glass baking dish from yesterday in his hands. For a second you blink silently at him, unable to think of anything but the fact that you’re wearing grease stained overalls and probably smell like a swamp.

“Logan, hi,” you finally say, brushing your hair out of your face.

He gives you a strange look as he hands the dish back to you. You open your mouth to speak when he interrupts you, “Why do you feed me?”

His question hangs in the air and you freeze. Of all the things he could have asked, you weren’t sure why you didn’t expect that one. His voice is a little gruff, but underneath there’s something that makes your heart race. Something vulnerable.

You swallow and grip the edge of the glass dish. Logan stares at you, his gaze intense, and you feel exposed. Like he’s trying to dissect you with just a look.

“Oh, well, I don’t know,” you finally admit. “You just…seem like you could use some kindness.”

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything else. The silence stretches between you, heavy and charged, and you can feel your pulse quicken. “I can stop if—if you want.”

“No,” he says, his voice rough, but with an undercurrent of tenderness. “No, you don’t have to stop. Just not used to people doin’ things like that for me.”

His admission catches you off guard being the first real piece of personal information he’s shared with you. You’ve gleaned certain things from George—he’s told you about Logan being a mutant and a few pieces of his past—but you know there’s still a world of history hiding behind his loner facade that he keeps hidden. You’re hoping eventually he lets you take a peak inside.

“Everyone deserves kindness, Logan,” you say.

His gaze flickers, a shadow of something crossing his features that makes your heart ache. He shifts on his feet and stares down at the dish in your hands. “I’m not so sure of that,” he replies.

“Well, I am.”

Logan’s eyes drag back up to yours and you try to calm the nervous energy that bubbles under your skin as his stare presses into you. He gives you a small nod then before turning to leave.

He pauses as he hits your driveway and looks back at you, cursing lowly to himself. Scratching at the back of his head, he walks back up the steps and pulls something out of the pocket of his jacket. “I, uh, here,” he says uncertainly as he hands you the small cloth bag.

You can only stare as you take the bag from him, the gift surprisingly light in your hand, but the gesture heavy with unspoken emotion. Your mind races as you think of what could be inside and your heart hammers loudly in your chest.

Logan stands there, eyes not quite meeting yours as he waits for you to open it. Your fingers tremble slightly as you undo the drawstrings and peer inside, finding a mixture of different seeds. You can’t help but trail your fingers through them, feeling the faint warmth they hold from where they were nestled against Logan’s body.

“Oh, Logan,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion.

You glance up at him and he’s looking at you, scratching at his beard, the faintest hint of blush staining his cheeks. “They’re wildflowers. Don’t know what kind. But, I dunno. I thought you could use them for your garden.”

Your chest tightens as you pull the strings close and tuck the bag in your pocket. “I love them, Logan,” you say, offering him a smile. “Thank you.”

For a moment, you see the tension in his shoulders relax just a bit as he exhales. “Just seemed like something you’d appreciate,” he mumbles, more to himself than to you.

Something has shifted between you and you find yourself itching to touch him, but you don’t. Not yet. The thread holding you two together is there, but thin, and you don’t want it to fray. “I really do appreciate it,” you say softly, stepping just the tiniest bit closer.

Logan nods and his mouth tugs into something that’s not quite a smile, but close. He looks at you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze pressing into you. “Okay. Good.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turns and jogs down the steps.

“Guess I’ll see you around then,” you call after him, a smile spreading across your face.

He glances back over his shoulder. “Yeah. I guess you will.”

And maybe, just maybe, the walls around him are beginning to crumble.

+++

Sweat beads across your brow as you work, but you pay it no heed. Your attention keeps slipping to Logan as you pry another nail loose from the rotted board. You’ve fallen into an odd relationship with the elusive man whose property line you share, yet you still barely know anything about him.

It’s been a week since he stopped by and gave you those wildflower seeds. A warmth still spreads in your chest when you think about it. And true to his promise, you do see him around, albeit not as much as you’d like. He seems wary, as if his gift opened up a part of himself he wasn’t ready for you to see.

But at least he doesn’t drop off your clean dishes and run anymore.

As you pry the last nail free, the rotten board comes free and you toss it down onto the grass along with the others. Thankfully, the porch isn’t terribly large and you figure another hour or so to remove the remaining boards before you can start laying down fresh lumber.

The crunch of gravel pulls you from your work and you look up to find Logan walking down the path, a large leather bag in his hand. You look up at him, wiping the sweat off your brow and lean back onto your heels, trying your best not to stare at his forearms.

“Oh, hey, Logan,” you say, wiping your hands against your jeans as you stand. “What brings you to my side of the woods?”

He actually smiles at you and nods towards the porch. “Need help?”

You hate the little flutter you feel pressing against your ribs. “I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Well, it’s good thing you’re not asking. I’m offering.”

You blink, caught off guard by his directness. “Oh, well, if you insist,” you say, trying to calm your nerves. “It would be nice to have a second set of hands.”

He sets the leather bag down on the porch with a thud and you catch a glimpse of the tools nestled inside. Logan notices you looking and comments, “I know a few things.” His smirk makes your legs feel like jello.

“Oh, I bet you know a lot of things,” you blurt, and your eyes widen at the double entendre of your words, heat flushing across your face.

Logan laughs, a real laugh, his eyes crinkling. “Well, it’s always good to be well educated,” he says with a wink.

Fuck, you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust.

Shoving down your raging embarrassment, you lay out your plan to fix the porch and Logan gives a small nod. He starts at the opposite end, prying loose the first board with ease. You try not to stare at the way his muscles move and how his skin begins to slick with the first beads of sweat. You work in silence for a while, the only sounds those of the forest around you.

“So, what actually brought you out here?” Logan finally asks.

You glance over at him and watch as he tosses another board onto the grass. He looks at you expectantly and you sigh. “I got divorced,” you answer honestly. “And I needed something pour my energy into other than wondering where the fuck I went wrong.”

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, your openness leaving you feeling raw, and instead focus on the board in front of you. Anger begins to simmer in your veins at the thought of the last couple of years and you grab the next plank with just enough force to wedge a splinter deep into your palm. A loud curse falls from your lips as you drop the board.

You feel Logan next to you and you suck in a deep breath as he reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours. “Lemme see,” he says, pulling you close and you can smell the earthiness of him, like damp soil and campfire smoke. You find yourself staring at him, his proximity intoxicating, as you drink in his long lashes and the slope of his nose.

He tilts your palm towards himself, his fingers pressing gently yet with firm enough pressure to push the splinter out of your skin. Pulling it out the rest of the way, his eyes flick up to yours. “Somehow I don’t think you’re the one that fucked up, sweetheart.” His voice is warm and you want to melt into him.

“Well,” you start, clearing your throat, “I certainly wasn’t fucking his mistresses.”

Something in his eyes darkens and a shiver runs down your spine. “He’s a fool for losin’ you,” he growls, and his words hit you with more force than you’d care to admit.

His hand still lingers on yours, steady and reassuring and warm and for a moment you think he might lean closer. You desperately want him to. To press his mouth against yours, to feel his breath against your skin, to have his taste against your tongue. But he pulls back, his expression one of thin control, but you can see the storm behind his gaze.

“A damn fool,” he mutters under his breath and you can’t help but wonder if he’s talking about himself or your ex.

Logan lets your hand go, turning back towards the porch and you mourn the loss, your skin still tingling from the contact. You swallow hard, trying to shake off the intensity of the moment. It’s Logan—quiet, gruff Logan, who never really sticks around for a real conversation and yet here he is, offering help and showing that maybe he’s not entirely as unaffected by you as you thought.

Your heartbeat drums in your ears as you watch him go back to work, prying up the next board, his muscles flexing beneath his worn shirt. His jaw clenches and there’s a focused determination in his movements and you can’t tell if he’s working out some anger or trying to keep himself in check.

You work in silence for several more minutes, the only sounds being the prying of loose boards and creaking lumber. There’s a tension between you now, more so than there was before, something palpable.

It’s enough to drive you mad.

“What about you?” you finally ask, your voice somewhat hesitant. “You don’t talk about yourself much.”

Logan glances at you from the corner of his eye and his brow furrows, as if he’s weighing whether or not to answer. “Not much to tell,” he grunts, pulling up another board with more force than necessary.

“Somehow, I doubt that. You don’t just wake up one day alone in the woods with forearms like that.”

Logan looks over at you and smirks. “Maybe I’m just really good with my hands.” His voice dips low and you can’t help the warmth that pools low in your belly at his words.

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry. “Yeah, no…yep. I’m starting to figure that out.”

He’s silent for a few moments as he goes back to work and the air between you hums with something charged. “You really want to know?” he asks, his voice rough. “I’ve been around for too long, longer than anyone should. Done things I’m not proud of.” He tosses another plank aside and all you can do it watch him. “I’ve…I’ve hurt people I care about. People I’ve cared about have hurt me. I’m not really sure I belong anywhere, so I just…drift.”

There’s something raw in his voice, something broken and vulnerable, and it catches you off guard. For all his outward strength, there’s man deep down inside who’s lost, and your heart aches for him.

“You belong here,” you say softly.

He doesn’t look at you, but you can feel the tension shift as the weight of your words settle between you. Another board gets tossed aside. “Yeah, maybe.”

He finally raises his gaze to yours and for a moment the world quiets—the forest, the porch, all of it—as his eyes lock onto yours and his expression softens. You offer him a warm smile and then return back to the porch, hesitant to push him any further.

You work comfortably together after that. The old boards removed, Logan helps you place and nail down the new ones. Your conversation is limited to the project, but you don’t mind.

As Logan packs up his tools, you glance over at him. “Thank you.”

A half smile plays at the corner of his mouth. “You’re welcome,” comes his reply as he steps off the porch and heads down the path back towards his cabin.

“Logan!” you call, lightly jogging after him before he slips out of view. He pauses and turns back towards you. “Can I make you dinner?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t you already been doin’ that?”

“No,” you say shaking your head, “I mean, yes, I have, but like a proper dinner? Fresh from kitchen to table. I can come by you, if you’d like.”

Logan studies you for a moment, his gaze intense and you can feel your heart beating against your ribs. He’s silent for so long you wonder if you’ve overstepped and you open your mouth to speak when he says, “Alright. Come by tomorrow, six o’clock.”

You can’t stop the smile that spreads across your face. “Tomorrow it is.”

+++

You’re up before the sun, your nerves a tangle of raw edges. You lay there, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

You weren’t expecting to meet someone out here in the woods. You were hoping for tranquility, a distraction to quiet the voice in your head that kept nagging you for how your life veered off course. That maybe if you worked more, did more, loved more you wouldn’t be a thirty year old divorcee.

Instead, you find a mysterious man who sparks within you a flame you long thought extinguished. A ruggedly handsome man who’s somehow wormed his way into your life and has you wondering if maybe he can’t help mend the pieces of your broken heart.

Except you don’t know if that same spark is ignited within him and if his gesture of dinner is simple kindness. A response to the kindness you’ve shown him over the last two months or if he’s feeling that same attraction you do.

God, you hope he does.

You spend the morning cleaning, trying to pour your nervous energy into something productive other than worrying about what the evening may bring. Driving into town, you agonize over what to make even though he’s been eating what you’ve made without complaint for weeks now. You opt to keep it simple—pasta with homemade meat sauce, a nice loaf of bread and a couple bottles of wine.

While the sauce is simmering on the stove you get ready. You dress for comfort, a simple pair of leggings and a flowy top that hangs slightly off your shoulders. You catch your reflection in the mirror and give yourself a silent nod of encouragement. Despite this just being dinner, the night brims with the possibility of maybe something more.

Once the food is prepared, you carefully pack everything in a large basket and begin the walk to Logan’s cabin. The night is cool, but still holds the warmth of day and the promise of summer to come. You feel your anticipation heighten the closer you get to his place and your stomach drops when you see it appear up ahead.

It’s just Logan, you remind yourself.

Stepping up onto his porch, you give a hesitant knock at the door. He greets you almost instantly and you suck in a deep breath. Logan looks good and your heart does a flip as you take him in—well fitting jeans, a clean white shirt underneath a soft red flannel button down, his hair is still slightly damp from a shower.

“You’re early,” he comments, standing aside to let you in. You catch the slight frown tug at his mouth as he notices the basket. “You coulda cooked here, you know.”

“Oh, well, I didn’t know if you’d want me invading your space,” you reply, following him deeper into the cabin and setting the basket down on the counter.

Logan turns back towards you, bracing his hands against the counter. “I don’t mind you in my space.”

His words hang in the air between you and you can feel your pulse quicken. You glance up at him, and the way he’s looking at you—steady and unflinching—sends a thrill down your spine.

You clear your throat, trying to settle the nerves in your chest. “Next time then,” you say lightly, hoping he can’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Logan’s lips quirk into a half smile. “Next time,” he agrees.

He reaches into a cabinet above him, pulling down a couple of plates and glasses, setting a small table in the corner of the small kitchen. You keep yourself busy unpacking the food, arranging the bread, pasta and sauce on the table, working around him as he uncorks the wine and pours both of you a glass.

Logan joins you then, raising his glass and clinking it gently against yours. He nods in a silent cheers and tips his head back as he drinks, his eyes never leaving yours. You can’t suppress the shiver that shoots down your spine.

Setting down his glass, he serves you and then himself, commenting, “This smells amazing.”

“Family recipe,” you reply, taking another sip wine. “Remind me to make it for you when I have fresh tomatoes. It’s even better then.”

“I’ll have to do that,” he says with a smile.

Conversation starts off slow, but not awkward, as you both test the limits of what you’re wiling to share. Logan’s answers are often short, reserved, but what he does reveal helps bring into focus the outline of the man before you. An outline you’re hoping he’ll let you fill in.

“George says you’re a mutant,” you start slowly and you don’t miss the way his posture stiffens, his fork scraping harshly against the plate.

He goes still and you wonder if you fucked up. Crossed a boundary he wasn’t willing to cross.

Eventually, Logan’s eyes flick up to yours and he lets out a small hum. “He did, did he?”

You nod, chewing. “It doesn’t bother me.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “It bothers most people.”

“I’m not most people,” you reply, your voice soft.

Something in his face softens then, the furrow of his brow a little less pronounced. A slight smile plays at his lips. “No. No you’re not.”

You feel a warmth bloom in your chest and your face flushes. Taking another bite, you ask, “Can I see?”

Logan studies you for a moment and you can see him deciding whether or not to show you that part of him he’d rather keep hidden. He sets the silverware down and he flexes his fingers before resting his palms back on the table. Then, he unsheathes his claws and you can’t stop the gasp that falls from your lips.

You see him flinch at your reaction and he goes to retract his claws and you reach for him. “Don’t,” you say, your fingers hovering just above the blades.

As he relaxes, you gently rest your fingertips against the metal, finding it surprisingly cool but still holding a faint warmth from his body. His eyes drop to where you’re touching him as you slowly begin to trace each blade with your fingers, following the slight curve down to where they emerge from his skin. You look up at him, finding his gaze fixed on you and you shiver under the intensity.

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper. You feel him shudder beneath you as he retracts his claws, leaving your fingertips nestled against the skin between his knuckles.

You pull your hand away from his, mourning the loss of his skin against yours. Logan clears his throat and pulls his hands into his lap, glancing down at them as if they’re foreign, something he’s never taken the time to notice before. He flexes his fingers once more before dragging his gaze back to your face.

“Do they hurt?” you ask quietly.

He shakes his head. “No. Not anymore.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “Thank you for showing me.”

Logan studies you for a long moment, searching your face like he’s trying to figure you out. You know he’s probably not used to this, someone seeing him as something other than a mutant, an aberration, someone who should be hidden away. Then, his face softens.

“People don’t usually ask,” he says quietly.

You smile gently, feeling that flame inside you burn just a bit brighter. “I just want to know you.”

He leans back in his chair, his gaze still steady, but more open, as if some of those invisible walls he surrounds himself with have started to come down. If only just enough to let the light shine through.

An unspoken tension simmers, thickening the air, and you know he can feel it too, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s heavy with promise. You turn your attention back to your plate and for a few moments, neither of you speak.

“So,” you say after a beat, “Do you ever use them as forks?”

Logan huffs out a laugh, the sound surprising you and his eyes crinkle in genuine amusement. “I can’t say that I have,” he replies with a smile.

You grin. “You should give it a try.”

“If I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

The rest of dinner passes with easy conversation and you feel your nerves begin to settle, just a bit. Logan seems less guarded too, more at ease than you’ve ever seen him.

You help him clear the table, ignoring his request that you just sit and relax. As you stand next to him, emptying the leftovers into a container, you feel his eyes on you. When you hand him the container, your fingers brush again, but this time he doesn’t immediately pull away. His fingers linger just a bit longer than necessary and your breath catches in your throat.

“Thanks for dinner, he says quietly, voice low. “And for…understanding.”

You nod, feeling that unmistakable pull between you, the tug that’s kept you orbiting closer and closer to him. “Anytime, Logan,” you answer softly. “You don’t have to hide from me.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, like he’s been burned before and is still figuring out if he can trust what you’re offering him. And you understand his turmoil, trust having shattered your heart into pieces, pieces you’re still trying to pick up and reshape.

Logan steps a little bit closer then and before you can say anything else, his hand gently reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is simple but intimate and it sends a shiver down your spine, heat pooling lowly in your belly.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let me walk you home.”

He grabs your basket before you can protest and you follow him out into the night. There’s a full moon hanging heavy in the sky, illuminating the path in front of you, yet you remain close to Logan. You curse to yourself as you trip over an exposed root and then you feel Logan reach out for you, his fingers wrapping securely around your own. The heat of his palm against yours is almost overwhelming.

Your cabin comes into view and Logan slows, his fingers slipping from your grasp as he sets the basket down on the porch.

“Good night, Logan,” you say softly as you walk up the steps.

As you turn from him, he reaches for your wrist, his fingers curling and pressing hotly against your skin. Your breath hitches as he climbs the steps to join you on the porch, and your gasps dies in your throat as he tilts your chin up and forces you to meet his gaze.

“Do I make you nervous?” His voice is low, breath hot and damp against your skin.

“Yes,” you breathe, somehow inching closer to him, your fingers reaching for the hem of his flannel and twisting into the fabric.

“Why?” He brushes his nose against yours and you chase after the touch.

Swallowing hard, you look up at him from under your lashes. You tilt further into him, your mouth hovering just over his. “Because I haven’t felt like this in a very long time and I don’t want it to go away.” Don’t want you to go away.

Logan nods and whispers, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.” And then he presses his mouth to yours.

It’s soft, barely a hint of skin against skin, but when you whisper, “Please,” against his lips, Logan growls and then he’s everywhere. His kiss claims you, his tongue licking in your mouth and you whimper as his fingers curl along the nape of your neck somehow pulling you impossibly closer.

You wind your arms around his shoulders, your fingers tangling in the short strands at the back of his head. Your entire world is focused down to the feel of his lips on yours and the press of his fingers against your jaw as he pulls you towards his hungry mouth.

Logan’s grip on you tightens, one hand splayed across your lower back and the other pressed firmly between your shoulder blades, anchoring you to him. The heat between you is palpable, each movement of his lips setting you further aflame. You lose track of time, lost in the sensation of his beard scraping against your skin, leaving a tingling trail in its wake.

When he finally pulls back, you’re both breathless and his forehead rests against yours, your shared breaths mingling in the space between you. His eyes are dark and intense as they search your face and you feel untethered, Logan being the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough, but surprisingly tender as his thumb traces along the line of your jaw.

You nod, swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat. You don’t trust yourself to speak.

His lips quirk into a small smile. “Good.” He brushes a stray strand of hair away from your cheek, his hand lingering at the side of your face. He presses one last soft kiss to the corner of your mouth before he steps back and walks down the path back home.

+++

You can’t stop thinking about the kiss—Logan’s lips against yours, the taste of his tongue, the press of his hands against your skin, hot and heavy, yet gentle.

You want to live in that moment forever. Want to know only his kisses for the rest of your life, for him to be the first person you kiss good morning and the last person you kiss goodnight. For him to kiss you just because he can, because he misses you, because he can’t get the feel of your mouth out of his mind and he needs to feel you again pressing against him.

You also want to run away, hide yourself from these emotions that are overwhelming you and leaving you feeling raw and exposed and absolutely terrified. You haven’t kissed another man in two years and he broke your heart, leaving nothing but shattered pieces and dust in his wake. Dust that still clings to you despite your best efforts to sweep it up. Those pieces of your heart are still sharp, jagged where they should be smooth.

You’ve always been trusting, choosing to see the light in others as opposed the darkness. Believing deep down that everyone deserves kindness, deserves a second chance, that one bad deed does not a bad person make. But he stole a part of that from you and you hate him for it. Hate that even now, after all this time, he’s able to worm his way into your brain and make you question the motives of the man who’s made you feel more alive than you have in months.

Last night you felt unshackled, unbound by the fear that had chained you for so long. You felt as if Logan’s very touch, his presence, had set your soul on fire and instead of fearing the burn, you were ready to embrace the warmth.

But now, raw contempt begins to simmer in your veins and you need something to pour your frustration into before it threatens to consume you whole.

Throwing your hair up into a messy bun and throwing on a paint-stained shirt and ripped jeans, you head outside looking for a project to sink fingers into. In the small shed behind the cabin, you find a few gardening supplies—a small shovel, trowel, bow rake—and you drag them out and to the overgrown flower beds.

You don’t even bother with the tools at first, ripping at the dead growth with your bare hands, pulling it from the earth in great clumps and tossing it aside. Your pulse beats loudly in your ears as you move from bed to bed, clawing away the old growth, your breathing growing ragged and your palms staining with dirt.

Grabbing the rake, you dig at the remaining plants, tearing at the roots, destroying the new growth. Tears run hotly down your face, blurring your vision and your throat aches from force of your breathing and screams you’ve been holding back.

From behind you, you hear the sound of your name and you whip around so quickly, the rake goes flying from your hands. You can hear the snikt of Logan’s claws as they unsheathe and the splintering of wood as he deflects the rake flying at him. It clatters to the ground between you as he retracts his claws and looks at you, his brow furrowed in concern.

You wonder, then, exactly what you look like in that moment. Dirt caked on your hands and under your fingernails, cheeks flushed with exertion, hair a halo of disarray. The pure adrenaline you’d been running on wanes and your limbs suddenly feel heavy and you sink to the ground in front of him. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, because you’re afraid of what you’ll see.

Logan approaches you slowly, kneeling down in front of you and gently raising your chin to look up at him. The stark worry etched on his face makes you ache and fresh tears burn in your eyes. You wipe at your eyes, which only serves to smear dirt across your face.

“I’m terrified, Logan,” you whisper, wanting to reach for him, but afraid to touch him. “I terrified of how much I like you.”

“You scare me too,” he confesses softly and your heart breaks.

He leans closer, fingers resting hesitantly against your knees. You reach for him too, grabbing on to the open sides of his jacket and pulling him to you. Logan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t push back and instead envelopes you into his arms, your head resting against the solid warmth of his chest.

Safe in his arms, you cry. Harsh, broken sobs as he rubs your back, the soft caress of his fingers along your spine anchoring you to him as he holds you. He murmurs into your hair that he’s got you, to let it all out, and you do.

Eventually, you calm and sigh, pressing your forehead against his chest, loathe to move just yet. “I’m broken, Logan,” you mumble into his shirt. You look up at him then, the softness and concern on his face making you physically ache. “I still have broken pieces where I should be whole.”

Slowly, tentatively, he brings his hands up to your face, cupping your cheeks in his hands. His thumbs brush at the dirt and tears under your eyes and he smoothes the hair away from your forehead. “Maybe some of my pieces fit,” he says, voice low, but steady.

His words send a flood of emotion through you, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him. Then the gravity of what he’s saying hits you—he’s offering you himself, all his jagged and scarred pieces, the pieces no one else sees.

The pieces he wants you to see.

You lean forward, pressing the lightest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. His sigh is hot against your cheek, but he doesn’t press further.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his skin and somehow it feels like the most important thing you’ve ever said.

“C’mon,” he says, “Let me help you get this cleaned up.”

You nod, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. Logan stands, offering you his hand. You take it, your fingers slipping into his and his grip is steady, yet gentle as he helps you up.

Without a word, Logan grabs the broken rake and begins removing the debris from the beds you laid waste to. You watch him work for a moment before joining in, pulling the weeds from the beds you hadn’t gotten to yet. Every now and then your eyes meet, but you don’t say anything. You don’t feel the need to fill the space with words, his presence beside you speaking volumes more than he could ever say.

After a while, Logan pauses and looks over at you, wiping the dirt from his hands into his jeans. “You still got those seeds I gave you?”

“Of course I do.”

“Go get ‘em,” he says nodding towards the cabin. “We’ll plant something new.”

You retrieve the small pouch where you’ve kept it safe and come out to find Logan kneeling in the dirt, his fingers making small pockets of earth to house the new flowers. He looks up at you, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You join him on the ground, dropping a few seeds in each well as he moves to create the next one.

“I’m not very good at this,” Logan starts, covering the last well with dirt, “but I promise I won’t break you. You don’t gotta be scared of me.”

He looks at you then, his hazel eyes meeting yours and you reach for his hand, your thumb brushing across his dirt stained knuckles.

“No,” you reply with a smile, “I don’t think I do.”

+++

It’s been three days since that moment with Logan in the garden and the air between you has been quiet. Logan hasn’t come by the cabin, but you hadn’t sought him out either. You weren’t avoiding him, exactly. More a need for space, a chance to process the feelings you felt for him, to test if you were truly ready to open yourself up to him.

Your mind never strays far from him, though. An almost constant loop plays in your brain of the way he held you, the way he spoke, the quiet promise he made not to break you. There’s a large part of you that believes him; your heart is screaming at you shed your lingering doubt and trust him, but your rational brain is grasping desperately to the kernel of truth that vows can be broken.

So you turn to what you do best—pour your energy into other things. The cabin is spotless now, cleaned of disuse and age, turned into a cozy place of retreat, a simple shelter turned into a home. And yet…

You’re sitting on the porch, watching the sun dip lower in the sky, the book you’d been trying to read long forgotten. The forest is peaceful, alive with the sounds of early summer. But as calming as it is, you can’t ignore the ache in your chest—you miss him. More than you thought possible.

Just as you’re about to stand, the sound of boots against gravel catches your attention. You look up and there he is—Logan. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his worn jacket as he walks up the path. His look is cautious, as if he’s unsure whether or not you’ll accept his presence.

Your heart skips a beat and you stand, wiping your palms against your jeans as he draws closer. His hazel eyes meet yours and there’s something softer about him, something open.

He stops a few feet away from you, gaze steady. “I wasn’t sure if I should come by.” His voice is still gruff, but quieter than usual. “If you needed space or not.”

“I did, need space. But not from you,” you clarify. You take a hesitant step towards him. “I missed you.”

Logan sighs then, his posture relaxing just slightly. “I wanted so badly to see you. I didn’t know if I should stay away.”

Before you can second guess yourself, you step down from the porch, closing the distance between you. You stand in front of him, noticing the faint lines of tension around his mouth, the way his jaw is clenched as if bracing himself for your rejection.

“Don’t stay away,” you say softly, “I want you here.”

You reach for him, your fingers brushing against his hands as you pull them from his pockets. Logan doesn’t pull away and the warmth of his skin against yours feels like the most natural thing in the world. You feel it then, that familiar pull—the one that’s been there since the beginning, drawing you closer and closer into his orbit, his sun.

You brush your thumbs across his knuckles and look up at him. “You wanna come inside?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll make you something to eat?”

Logan nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

As you lead him inside, something in the air between you shifts, something subtle. But you know one thing for certain—you’re not afraid anymore. Not of this.

+++

The sun has set, the food long gone and as Logan’s hand reaches for the front door, you slip in front of him. His scent overwhelms you, that earthy dampness you’ve come to associate with him flooding your senses.

“What if you stayed?” you ask, the slight waver in your voice betraying your boldness.

You watch as his eyes darken and he leans even further into your space. “Do you know what you’re asking, sweetheart?” he replies, eyes searching your face.

Swallowing, you nod. “I do,” you whisper.

Then you slide your arms around his waist, pulling him closer as you lean in and kiss the hollow of his throat. You can feel him swallow hard beneath your lips and you smirk into his skin as you drag your mouth higher, over the long column of his neck to nip at the corner of his jaw.

“Stay,” you murmur in his ear.

Logan turns, his nose brushing against your cheek as he seeks your mouth and you inhale deeply as his lips find yours. His fingers wind themselves into your hair, resting against the nape of your neck as he pulls you closer. You whimper into his mouth when he pulls back, eyes blown black.

“Show me where,” he says, his voice low.

You lead him up the stairs, his hand warm in yours and you barely make it to the top before Logan’s spinning you around, mouth finding yours. His is kiss is demanding, so different from that first one all those nights ago. This is urgent and desperate, like he can’t possibly get you close enough to satisfy the need deep within him. And you feel it too, pouring yourself back equally into the kiss, moaning as his tongue finally slips alongside yours.

Your fingers fumble along the top of his jeans, pulling his shirt from where it’s tucked and sliding your hands up along the sides of his ribs. He rewards you with a deep groan of his own, nipping slightly at your bottom lip.

“Christ, sweetheart,” he rumbles against your lips, kissing you once, twice, “I’ve been dyin’ to feel your hands on me.”

“Me, too,” you reply, gasping as his hands find the hem of your shirt, lifting it just enough to brush his fingers hotly along your skin.

Logan pulls back just enough to look down at your face, his fingers still clutching the fabric of your shirt, but lifting it just a bit higher. His gaze is questioning, asking for silent permission to continue. You nod once and he slowly drags the shirt up, his fingers skimming along your sides, over the swells of your breasts as he pulls the shirt over your head.

Despite the heat coursing through your veins, you shiver under the intensity of his stare. He kisses you again, inhaling deeply, before moving down, nipping over your chin, your throat, in between your breasts.

Logan’s hands follow his mouth, running a trail from your shoulders, down long your spine, easily flicking open the clasp of your bra on the way. He glances up at you as he moves to pull the straps aside, dragging them down your arms.

“Do you know how beautiful you are?” he asks, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, thumbs fanning out across your nipples.

A jolt of pleasure shoots down your spine and pools low in your belly. You feel like you might spontaneously catch on fire and he’s barely touched you. You can’t remember ever feeling like this when a man has touched you, so consumed by want and need.

His fingers trail lower, brushing along the top of your jeans, popping open the button. You grab for his hand, stopping him. You see the concern flicker across his face and you smile. “Your turn,” you say, sliding your palms up his chest and pushing the flannel from his shoulders, his shirt following suit.

You revel in his muscular physique, your fingers tracing along his collarbones, down over the broad planes of his chest, feeling the wiry hair beneath your fingertips. His muscles flutter beneath your touch as you follow the trail of hair lower, down to the vee between his hips.

Logan’s arousal is evident by the tenting of his jeans, and your eyes locked on his, you dip lower, giving the faintest of caresses over the fabric.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he curses. “Take your pants off.”

It’s a command, not an ask, and one you’re more than willing to comply with.

Nervous energy licks at your skin as your fingers tuck into the waistband of your jeans and pull them down. Logan follows your lead, unbuckling his belt and shoving his jeans over his hips, kicking them aside. His cock juts out proudly, thick and heavy, nestled in a bed of hair.

Logan’s on you before you can kick away the last leg, hoisting you up under your thighs and forcing you to wrap your legs around his hips. His palms are hot against your ass and you can feel his cock trapped between you.

He moves you both to the bed, setting you down before crawling over you and slotting himself between your thighs. Leaning back on his heels, he stares down at you, skin flushed. He kisses you softly once, before dragging a single finger down the center of your chest, hooking it into the waistband of your panties.

“What do you like?” he asks lowly, eyes boring into yours.

You stare at him, unable to comprehend his question as he slides his finger back and forth across your skin. Electric sparks of anticipation crawl up your spine and you can feel the rapid flutter of your heart against your ribs.

“You want me to touch you with my fingers?” His voice is low, so low and you shiver.

Your mouth has gone dry and you can only nod.

“You want me to touch you with my mouth?” Logan leans down, skimming his lips across your collarbone, nipping lightly.

Your fingers stutter across his shoulders and wind themselves into his hair. Logan’s smirk presses into the corner of your jaw. “Want me to touch you with both?”

“Please,” you whine into his neck, breath hot against his skin.

Logan trails back down your body, kisses peppering over your neck, both breasts, your belly before he presses a kiss to the top of your clothed mound. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and looks up at you, asking for permission. At your nod, he pulls he material down, eyes never leaving yours as he trails his fingers down your legs and tosses the fabric aside.

You’re fully bare, exposed in a way you haven’t been in a long time and your nerves blush across your skin. Instinctively, you try to close your legs, but he stops you, his hot palms curling against your thighs.

“You don’t gotta hide from me,” Logan says, kissing your knee and spreading your legs further apart. “You’re so pretty like this. Flushed and wet and smelling so sweet for me.”

A jolt of desire zips down your spine. Nothing could have prepared you for the filthiness of words that would spill from his mouth. Or how much you’d enjoy hearing them.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” you murmur.

“That’s not possible.”

“Other men have—“

Your words die in your throat as Logan grips your chin, forcing your gaze up to his face. His expression is soft, but his eyes flash with a glint of something dark. “When I fuck you, I’ll be the only man in your bed, understand?”

The roughness and edge in his voice makes you shiver and heat pools between your thighs. You swallow heavily and nod.

“I want this,” he says, his tone softer. “I want you. Whatever you’ll give me.”

Slowly, you reach for his hand and guide his fingers to where you’re wet and aching for him. At the first brush of his fingertips against your folds, you gasp and your fingers dig deeper into his skin.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Logan coos. “I’m gonna make you feel good.”

And then he’s touching you, fingers dragging through your arousal before circling around your clit. He caresses you like he knows you and you’re molten beneath him. One finger, then two slip inside you, pressing against that spot that makes you squirm and grip at the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “You weren’t lying.” Logan quirks an eyebrow, fingers still curling within you, his rhythm picking up speed. “You are good with your hands.”

His chuckle rumbles through his chest as he continues to move, this thumb working over your clit. Your hips jolt off the bed when Logan replaces his thumb with his tongue, drawing the sensitive bud into his mouth.

He continues to work your cunt, long, flat presses of his tongue against your clit punctuated by the short, sharp thrusts of his fingers. The dual sensation is enough to wind that tension in your core tighter, building you up higher and higher until you feel yourself reaching that inevitable peak.

“Logan, I—I’m so close,” you gasp, fisting your fingers into his hair.

His growl against your cunt is enough to send you over the edge, the vibrations rippling through your body as your orgasm washes over you. Through half lidded eyes, you meet his gaze from between your thighs, his eyes dark with desire and you shiver at the intensity of his stare.

Logan crawls over you, pressing a kiss to your lips. You can taste yourself on his lips, bright and sour, as he licks into your mouth.

“Do you trust me?”

Logan’s fingers are still moving against you, wringing out the last of your orgasm and you can only nod. He withdraws his fingers and you whine, but he just smirks and taps your hip.

“Turn over,” he commands lowly.

A shudder ripples through you as you willingly comply, rolling onto your stomach as Logan’s palm trails from your hip over the swell of your ass. His fingers kneed into your flesh and you squeak as he curves them over your skin, pulling you up onto your knees, drawing your hips flush with his. The thick feel of his cock presses into your ass and you can’t help but push back, enjoying the strangled moan that falls from his lips.

“I can’t wait to be nestled deep inside you,” he groans, slotting his cock between your thighs, running the length along your wet cunt.

You peer over your shoulder and smirk at him. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Logan lines up then and the air punches out of your lungs as he slowly eases himself in to the hilt. He’s deep at this angle and you feel claimed, owned in the best way possible as he begins to move his hips. The drag of his cock against your walls is exquisite and you’re sure you’ve never experienced pleasure quite like this before.

His fingers dig into the flesh at your hips, grabbing as much as he can to pull you back into him and you push back, meeting him thrust for thrust. His grip is enough to be bruising, teetering that line between pleasure and pain and yet you relish it.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasps. “Look so good stretched around my cock.”

Pleasure zips along your spine and curls along your limbs, each drag of his cock against you coiling that band in your belly tighter and tighter. Yet, you need more. You need to feel him, feel his arms around you, on you, feel his mouth hot and open against your skin.

“I need to feel you closer,” you whine. “Please, I—”

Logan’s arm slips underneath you, curling just under your breasts and pulling your back flush to his chest. He holds on, fingertips splaying across your ribcage as he fucks up into you, his breath hot and damp against your ear.

You turn your head just enough to capture his lips, your mouth pressing against his in an open-mouthed kiss. He steals the moan from your throat as his other hand dips to where you’re joined, fingers beginning to circle around your clit.

Slipping a hand into his hair, you hold him to you, your head falling back onto his shoulder. Logan groans when you rake your nails along his scalp and you do it again. Your mixed groans and the wet noises from where he’s thrusting into you fill the room and time seems to stop. There is nothing but the thick feel of him between your legs, the fervent press of his fingers against your clit and the tight grasp of his hand across your breast.

A litany of praise falls from his mouth and his words burn through you, setting you aflame from the inside. It’s too early for thoughts of love and forever, but you can feel something real, something undeniable pulling you together, uniting you in a way more than just physical. You’re bound to him.

Logan’s hand slides up your sternum, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, pulling your focus back to him. The pad of his thumb pulls at your lower lip. “Come for me, sweetheart,” he husks into your ear. “I wanna hear those pretty sounds you make.”

And you do, two more forceful thrusts sending you teetering over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you. Logan doesn’t stop, fucking you through wave after wave, his thrusts getting sloppier as he chases his own release.

“Let me feel you, Logan,” you pant, your breath coming out in short gasps. “Please.”

With a deep groan into your shoulder he comes, his cock spasming deep within you, painting your womb with his seed. His arm around your hips holds you firmly in place as he uses your body to wring out the last of his pleasure, shallowly thrusting as your walls caress him. When he finally stills, breath hot against your skin, you can feel your combined come slick against your thighs.

You don’t know how long he holds you like that, back to chest, keeping you in his arms simply because he can.

Only later, when the sweat begins to cool on your skin and your flesh pebbles, does Logan lay you down, finally slipping from within you. He pulls you close and you rest your head against his chest, the comforting lull of his heartbeat echoing in your ear.

You lightly trace your fingertips over the crest of his hipbone just to feel him beneath you. His breathing evens out, approaching that blissful edge of sleep when you glance up at him. Logan opens his eyes, gaze meeting yours and he smiles.

“Logan?”

His hum vibrates through his chest.

“I think we’re healing each other.”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he answers, “I think we are.”

#logan howlett x you #logan howlett smut #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #origins wolverine #origins logan howlett #the wolverine #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine x you #wolverine smut #logan howlett fic #logan howlett fanfiction #logan x reader #logan howlett x fem!reader

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blacksheeptown · 2 years ago

Photo

Backyard in New York An example of a large traditional back porch design with decking.

#sunroom #the stair repair #decking #porch #screened in porch #bonus room

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fredswrite · 18 days ago

Text

A/N: This was supposed to be longer than that, but oh well, I love my cute emo boy even if it’s short.

SUMMARY: Your punk neighbour finally has the guts to ask you out on a date. bubbly!reader x sam!monroe

WC: ~ 900

No warning <33

MLST

KIND OF A DATE

The summer air was thick with the smell of salt and cut grass, and somewhere down the street, someone was playing Bad Religion too loud through a screen door. You were skipping across the Monroe driveway like it was your personal stage, lemonade sloshing dangerously in a plastic cup, the ice clinking with each step. Your voice dances through the air as you speak about your latest theory of clouds having secret lives.

"You see that one? It looks like a squirrel in downward dog. Don't lie, you see it too!"

Sam Monroe, half-shadowed on the porch in his navy jeans and an old Misfits t-shirt, didn’t answer. He's crouched over a warped board with a screwdriver in hand, pretending to be very invested in home repair, that his dad wanted him to join in. His black nails were chipped. His piercings caught the light. He hadn’t looked up once.

But you knew better.

You've caught him watching you more than once, usually when you're not supposed to notice. At first, he was all eye rolls and silent groans whenever you came over. Now, he just kind of... existed in your orbit, like a moody little planet circling your sunshine.

You hopped up the steps and sat beside him with a huff. "You know," you started, sipping your lemonade, "you're the most interesting person I've ever met who hasn't smiled at me even once."

His shoulders tensed. He glanced sideways at you, long enough to give a noncommittal shrug, before returning to the board.

"I smile," he muttered, and you swear it's the first thing he's said to you all week.

"Prove it."

His lips twitched. Barely. A phantom smile. But you could see it.

"Oh my god," you gasped, "was that it? That was like... a micro-smile. A mini. A smol."

He rolled his eyes, but his ears turned pink, which you considered a victory. He pushed his bangs out of his face, fingers smudged with sweat and dust, and kept his gaze glued to the screwdriver like it's more dangerous than you.

You leaned back on your elbows and tilted your head toward the sky. "You're like one of those cats that acts like it hates everyone but then starts sleeping on your pillow. Slowly. Stealthily."

He exhaled through his nose. "Do you ever stop talking?" He finally sat up, looking at you.

"Nope," you chirped. "It's one of my top five skills. Right after making bracelets, eating popsicles too fast, and finding four-leaf clovers like, weirdly often."

He gave a tiny huff—almost a laugh—and you know he's cracked. He just doesn't know it yet.

There's a pause. You sipped your lemonade. He pretended not to look at your knees tucked under you, the rainbow anklet you were wearing, the little sticker on your shoulder you forgot was there.

Then he cleared his throat. "So... there's this thing."

You blinked at him. "A thing?"

"Yeah. At the lake. On Friday." He fidgeted with the screwdriver, thumbs the worn edge of his jeans. "They do fireworks. And funnel cake.

You smiled slowly, watching the way he wouldn't quite meet your eyes.

"I was wondering if you... Maybe wanna go. With me. Just us."

It came out rushed, like he was afraid that if he said it too slowly, he would chicken out halfway through.

You blinked. Then you beam. "Duh. I've only been waiting for you to ask me out since you glared at me in your hoodie like a sad little vampire."

He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. His ears were bright red now.

You reached over and gently bumped your shoulder into his. "Took you long enough, Monroe."

He shrugged, lips quirking in that way that might became a real smile if you kept poking at it. "You're just... a lot."

"You mean awesome?"

"I mean loud."

You grin. "You love it."

He didn't deny it.

Friday came. You were wearing glitter on your cheeks and a skirt that twirled when you spun. Sam showed up in all black, of course, but he had a bracelet on—one of yours, braided with bright thread and a plastic skull bead in the middle.

At the lake, he was quieter than usual, but you filled the space between with your laughter, with questions he pretended to hate answering but secretly liked. When the fireworks start, you don't ask, you just take his hand.

He stiffened, then relaxed like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your fingers were sticky from the powdered sugar of the cake. His thumb brushed your knuckle softly.

"You're not gonna write a poem about this, are you?" he muttered, watching the sky explode in color.

"I might," you teased. "Something like: 'Black hoodie, black heart, but oh, those hands. Sticky with love."

He groaned.

You lean your head on his shoulder. "Shut up. You're smiling again."

"I'm not."

"You are. Just accept that you like me. It's inevitable."

And this time, he didn’t argue. He just squeezed your hand tighter as the sky lit up, and for once, he didn’t feel the need to hide behind silence or sarcasm.

With you, being seen didn’t feel so scary.

#sam monroe #sam monroe fluff #sam monroe x reader #anakin skywalker fluff #anakin skywalker x reader #hayden christensen x reader #anakin skywalker #hayden christensen #fredswrite #fred’s drabble #sam monroe fic #sam monroe drabble

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minnie-cai · 18 days ago

Text

༊*·˚ Working Man

pairing; mechanic!riff lorton x housewife!reader

tags/warnings; infidelity, significant age-gap marriage (older husband x younger reader), emotional neglect, implied marital coercion, sexual themes, references to fertility pressure, implied manipulation and gaslighting, mild period-typical misogyny, mentions of abandonment and child neglect, smoking and alcohol

word count; 4.1k

summary; In late 1950s West Side New York, you’re a young housewife stuck in a marriage built on duty, not desire. When a trip to the garage introduces you to Riff—a grease-stained, sharp-eyed mechanic who sees you for who you really are—it sparks a slow, dangerous unraveling. What begins with a glance becomes a ritual. And then, a reckoning.

✦•〰〰〰〰〰〰•★•〰〰〰〰〰〰•✦

The screen door creaks behind you as you step onto the sun-warmed porch, the hem of your yellow cotton dress brushing against your knees, a bit too modest for the way the July heat clings to your skin like syrup. The cicadas drone in the trees. Somewhere down the road, a radio blares a tinny tune, cheerful and out of place. You grip your woven basket in both hands like it’s a lifeline.

Your husband, Gene, had handed you two dollars that morning with a grunt and a half-mumbled list: tomatoes, string beans, new mason jar lids. And, as he’d said last night with a dry cough and that same tired glint in his eye—“We’ll try again tonight, alright sweetheart? You ain’t pregnant yet, and the Lord wants us fruitful.”

You hadn’t said much. Just nodded. You never said much around Gene.

The flea market’s only two blocks into town. You know the route by heart. Past the church with its peeling white paint, past the dry cleaners with the gossiping wives out front, past Joe’s Auto Repair, where the air always smells like hot rubber and gasoline.

That’s where you see him.

Leaning against the brick wall just under the “Goodyear Tires” sign, Riff is striking a match, cigarette pressed between his lips. His coveralls are unzipped to the waist, white tank undershirt clinging to sweat-dampened muscles like a second skin. His hair is slicked back, the kind of defiant wave no comb dares tame. Grease stains his hands, his forearms flex as he lights up, and for a moment, he squints toward the sun—and right at you.

You freeze like you’ve stepped barefoot on a snake.

His gaze lingers. Not in that polite, blink-and-gone way most men in town look at you. No, he sees you. His jaw ticks, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, and you can’t look away even as your fingers tighten on the basket’s handle.

You walk past without a word, heart pounding too loud in your ears.

It’s three days later when Gene says he needs a belt picked up for the Ford. “Rattlin’ again,” he mutters, spitting into the sink after brushing his teeth. “Go down to Joe’s. I called ahead. They’ll have it.”

You know exactly who they is.

You take your time getting ready. Lipstick, just a little. Your best dress—powder blue, tight at the waist. When Gene leaves for work, you wait a full ten minutes before stepping out, basket empty this time, but your stomach full of nerves.

Joe’s is half-shadowed by the sun when you arrive. You walk through the open garage door and the air changes—warmer, louder, alive with the scent of oil, rust, and man. Tools clink. A radio plays slow blues from somewhere deep in the garage. You don’t see Joe.

But you see him.

He’s under the hood of a car, brow furrowed, sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with grit. Riff.

He notices you instantly. Straightens. Wipes his hands on a rag. Doesn’t smile, but recognition flickers behind his eyes.

“You lost, girlie-girl?” he drawls, voice rough as gravel and twice as dangerous.

You try not to blush. Fail miserably.

“No,�� you say, forcing a smile. “My husband called ahead. For a… a fan belt.”

“Right,” he says, tossing the rag onto the workbench without looking away from you. “Gene Miller’s wife. I remember the voice.”

He steps closer, close enough for you to smell the smoke and sweat and something else—raw masculinity. You tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, your throat dry.

“You got a name?”

You hesitate.

“It’s alright,” he says low, a smirk tugging at his lip. “I’ll learn it eventually.”

You don’t remember breathing until you’re walking back out with the belt in your hand, your fingers still tingling from where he brushed them handing it to you.

The affair doesn’t start that day.

But it starts then.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You told yourself you wouldn’t go back.

Gene had the belt. The car ran fine. There was no reason—none—for you to return to that garage. But the days after felt longer. The silence at home heavier. You went through your routines like a ghost, vacuuming rooms already clean, peeling potatoes with slow, mechanical hands, your thoughts drifting to smoke curling from a cigarette and forearms streaked with grease.

You start walking to town more. At first, it’s just to the market. Then the bakery. Then nowhere in particular.

But each time, you find yourself walking past Joe’s.

And sometimes—sometimes—he’s there.

It becomes a quiet ritual. A glance. A flick of his eyes to yours. He never waves, never calls out. But you feel his stare like it’s a hand on your back, pressing. Daring.

Until one morning, two weeks later, you walk past and he says, “You always in such a hurry, darlin’?”

You stop. The heat blooms across your chest like a sin exposed.

He’s sitting on the hood of a cherry-red Impala, legs apart, arms folded, like he owns the street and knows you’re about to fall to your knees on it.

“I—” you start. “I was just walking.”

His lip curls, not quite a smile. “Seems like you’re always just walking. But never stopping.”

You swallow. “Maybe I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The gold band on your finger glints in the sunlight. His eyes flick to it. Then back to your face.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

And just like that, he hops off the car and turns his back to you.

You stand there, stupid and burning.

The next day, you don’t pass by. You walk into the shop.

He’s under another car when you come in, and your heart is hammering hard enough you feel it behind your eyes. You wait until he slides out from under the chassis, rag in one hand, hair damp with sweat.

“Well,” he says, looking you over slowly. “Didn’t expect to see you on purpose.”

You walk in further, past the signs that say “Employees Only,” past the point of decency.

“I was just… in the area,” you lie, voice barely more than a whisper.

He leans against the lift, folds his arms again. His eyes don’t leave yours. “That what you told your husband?”

You flush. Look down.

He chuckles. A rough sound. “Don’t be shy now, doll. You came all this way.”

Something in you snaps. Or frees itself.

You raise your chin. “I wanted to see you.”

That silences him. His gaze sharpens like a blade.

He doesn’t move. Not yet.

But he nods toward the back. “Come on. Office is quieter.”

You follow him past stacks of tires and the smell of gasoline, your heels clicking on the concrete. The office is small, hot, and dim. A fan rattles on the desk. There’s a chair, a filing cabinet, and not much else.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click.

The sound is deafening.

“Alright,” he says, stepping closer. “Now what?”

You open your mouth. No words come out.

So he steps even closer, and now your back is to the filing cabinet and there’s nowhere to run.

“You got a name?” he murmurs again, slower this time, like he wants you to hear what it sounds like on his tongue.

You whisper it.

He repeats it, almost reverent.

And then he leans down, just enough so you can feel his breath on your neck.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asks. “Once I touch you, sweetheart, you don’t get to pretend anymore.”

You nod.

Barely.

And then his lips are on yours.

Not gentle. Not soft. But hungry—like he’s been waiting for this moment since that first glance on the street, and he’s done pretending it’s anything but what it is.

His hands cup your face first, then slide down, rough and warm, smearing a faint line of grease across your cheek. He tastes like smoke and something wild. Your fingers curl into the front of his coveralls and pull.

You don’t care about the ring.

You don’t care about Gene.

You only care about this.

This heat.

This escape.

This man.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

You’ve never floated home before.

The pavement barely exists beneath your feet. The houses blur past like half-painted scenery, the smell of motor oil clinging to your skin like perfume. Inside, your mouth still tingles. Every part of you feels rewired—sensitive, alive, flushed with the echo of Riff’s mouth and the pressure of his body against yours.

You touch your lips once before stepping through your front door.

Inside, the kitchen smells like stew. You’d left it bubbling low before you went to town—Gene likes it with potatoes and thick carrots, heavy on the salt. You pull your apron on, check the oven, and set the table, your hands moving on instinct while your mind spins somewhere else. Somewhere far from the sterile yellow wallpaper, from Gene’s heavy footsteps and the muted clink of his belt buckle tossed onto the nightstand.

You’re humming.

You never hum.

Gene notices.

He walks in around six, same as always, rubbing his back like he always does, frowning at his shoulder like it’s personally failed him.

But then he looks up.

And he stops.

“Huh,” he grunts, dropping his coat on the chair. “You look… different.”

You tilt your head. Smile a little. “Different how?”

He squints, like you’re a painting someone hung crooked.

“You’re glowin’ or somethin’. Been in the sun too long?”

You shake your head. “Just had a nice walk.”

Gene grumbles approval. “Maybe it helped clear your head. Been uptight lately.”

You serve him stew. He eats in big bites, loud, satisfied. You barely touch yours, too busy sipping the warmth of remembered heat off your tongue. Your thighs press together under the table. You think of grease-streaked fingers pressing into your hips. A voice rasping in your ear.

After dinner, you wash dishes in the sink. You feel Gene’s eyes on your back.

That quiet, calculating look.

Then his voice, low and hopeful. “Why don’t you get ready for bed early tonight?”

You pause, the dish slipping slightly in your hand.

“Sure,” you say.

You brush your hair longer than usual. You don’t bother with the long nightgown—just the slip. You crawl under the sheets, and when Gene joins you, the mattress sags the same way it always does.

But you are different.

He kisses your neck—clumsy, always too damp—and usually you lie still and wait for it to end. You let him climb over you, breathe heavy, grind and grunt like a tired machine hoping it’ll work if it just tries hard enough.

But tonight…

Tonight you close your eyes.

And picture Riff.

You pretend it’s his mouth on your collarbone.

His weight pressing you down.

His voice whispering filth.

You arch without thinking. Your hips move with rhythm. Your mouth falls open and lets out a soft, startled moan.

Gene freezes.

“…You alright?”

You moan again—louder this time—and grip his shoulders. You’re not even looking at him. Your eyes are locked on the dark ceiling, vision painted with the image of Riff’s face between your thighs.

Gene pulls back slightly, looking down at you.

You’ve never looked like this. Not once.

“What the hell’s gotten into you?” he asks, almost suspicious. “You drunk?”

You shake your head, panting. “Don’t stop.”

Your voice is breathy. Needful. Almost pleading.

Gene hesitates.

Then he picks up the pace—clumsy, encouraged—and you turn your head away, biting your knuckles as you come with a soft gasp, thinking only of the man who kissed you like you were made of fire and sin.

When it’s over, Gene collapses next to you, panting.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then: “You ain’t never sounded like that before.”

You don’t answer.

He glances over at you.

You’re smiling.

Just a little.

And that unsettles him more than your moans ever could.

You don’t knock this time.

You walk into the garage like you belong there, the morning sun casting long shadows across the concrete floor. It’s early. Earlier than any decent housewife should be out without a reason. But you didn’t want decent today. You wanted him.

Riff’s got his head under the hood again, sleeves pushed up, tank top stained, a smudge of oil across his jaw. You just stand there for a second, watching him.

He looks like a man who moves. A man who works for what he has. Sweat down his neck. Grease under his nails. No gold watch. No sagging belly, no sagging expectations. Just muscle, movement, and heat.

And he’s your age. Your actual age.

When he hears your footsteps, he straightens—glances over, then grins.

“Well, look who came crawling back.”

You lean against the nearest workbench, crossing your arms under your chest. “You knew I would.”

He chuckles, tossing his wrench onto the tray. “Yeah. But I figured it might take longer.”

You try to act casual. You really do.

But then he’s walking toward you, wiping his hands, and your heart starts doing that desperate little dance again. He gets close enough that the heat rolls off him in waves.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and real.

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You got that look again. Same one you had when you walked in the first time. All quiet, like you’re tryin’ not to scream.”

You smile faintly. “I feel better now.”

“Yeah?” He steps in, closer. “Tell me why.”

You don’t hesitate. “Because I kissed someone my age yesterday. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m just a hole for babies and hot dinner.”

He stiffens—just a little. Eyes narrowing.

You go on. “Gene’s twice my age. You know that?”

“I figured.” He crosses his arms, watching you now like a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands. “He treat you like a kid, too?”

“He treats me like a recipe. Do this. Be that. Bake it right and it turns into a son.”

Riff’s jaw ticks.

You look up at him. “You—you don’t look at me like that. You don’t talk down to me. You look at me like I’m… I don’t know. A woman. One you actually want.”

He leans in, nose almost brushing yours. “That’s because you are one.”

You close your eyes for a second, breathing in the scent of him—sweat, metal, Marlboros.

“And you’re the first man I’ve kissed,” you whisper, “who didn’t taste like medicine and stale whiskey.”

That gets him.

He groans low in his throat, hands going to your waist, pulling you to him with that same casual control that makes your knees weak. His lips are on yours again, but this time it’s slower—surer. Like he’s claiming the moment, not just stealing it.

When he finally breaks the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You know how good it feels,” he mutters, “to be wanted by someone who sees you?”

You nod. You know exactly.

You look down at your fingers on his chest. “I dreamed about you last night.”

He smirks. “Yeah? You think about me while you’re lying next to that old bastard?”

You nod again.

“Did he touch you?”

Another nod.

“Did you moan for him?”

You bite your lip.

“Or was it for me?”

Your breath shudders. “For you.”

He laughs once, dark and pleased.

“Good girl.”

And the thing is—it doesn’t feel demeaning. Not like it would coming from Gene.

It feels earned. Shared. Desired.

You don’t feel small. You feel dangerous.

Because for the first time, you’re not just somebody’s wife.

You’re his.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It’s a slow afternoon at the garage.

Clouds hover like a threat overhead, thick and swollen with late-summer rain. The air smells like hot pavement and ozone, and inside the garage, it’s quiet except for the distant hum of the fan.

Riff’s stretched out on the creeper, legs splayed, one boot tapping a lazy rhythm on the concrete. You’re sitting on an overturned milk crate, sipping a soda he pulled from the machine out back, glass bottle sweating in your hand.

Neither of you’s in a rush today.

“You always this quiet?” he asks suddenly, voice drifting from beneath the Buick he’s half-tucked under.

You glance over at him. “Only when I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking about?”

You pause. Then answer honestly.

“That I’ve never had a moment like this before. Just… sitting. Talking. Not waiting for someone to need something from me.”

Riff slides out from under the car and props himself on one elbow, looking at you with an expression that’s more curious than flirtatious for once.

“No one ever talks to you?”

“They talk at me. Gene does. The women at church do. But it’s always about dinner or babies or what makes a good wife.” You swirl the soda in the bottle. “Nobody really asks what I like.”

Riff wipes his hands on a rag and tosses it aside. “Alright then. What do you like?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“I’m askin’. What you like. Not your husband. Not your preacher. You.”

You bite your lip. “I like walking alone when it’s not too hot. I like when songs on the radio end soft, like they’re afraid to leave. I like the smell of cigarette smoke—but only on you.”

He chuckles, low and surprised. “That last one’s dangerous, sweetheart.”

“I know.”

He sits up, resting his arms on his knees, eyes never leaving you now. “You ever think about what you’d do if you weren’t… you know. Stuck.”

“All the time.”

“What’s the dream, then?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. It used to be getting married. That’s what girls are told to want. A house, a man, a family. But now…” You shake your head. “Now I just want a place where I can sit with someone and not feel like I’m playing a part.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Then: “That’s not a dream. That’s just being free.”

You nod slowly. “Maybe that’s the new dream, then.”

Riff leans back against the wall. “You could have that, you know.”

“I could have it with you?”

He doesn’t smile. But he doesn’t look away either.

“I think you already do.”

You let the silence settle between you, not heavy—just full. Full of what hasn’t been said yet. What might never be.

But for now, it’s enough.

You sip your soda and let him work, and he lets you sit close, and for the first time in what feels like years, you don’t feel like you’re in someone else’s story.

You feel like you’ve started your own.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

It rains harder than it has all summer.

Thick drops pound the roof of the garage, echoing like war drums, rattling the roll-up door. The sky is dark, wind slashing through the trees out back. The kind of storm that keeps everyone home. Everyone but you.

You showed up soaked to the knees, breathless from running the last few blocks, cardigan clinging to your shoulders. You didn’t even knock. You just walked in, giggling like the place belonged to you now.

Riff didn’t say a word—just grabbed a faded shop towel and started drying your arms, slow and careful, like you were something breakable. He came close. His cigarette was barely hanging off his lips and his brows were furrowed while he mumbled something about how you’re going to get sick. Your head tilted to watch his face with a soft smile before you playfully started pressing small kisses around his face, making him break into a reluctant grin.

Now you’re both sitting in the garage office, the cot folded down, the air heavy with petrichor and engine oil. You’ve got a blanket wrapped around you, hair still damp, and he’s sitting at the edge of the cot, nursing a cigarette between two fingers.

Neither of you’s in a rush to speak.

Eventually, you do.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” you ask, voice soft under the noise of the storm.

Riff exhales smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling.

“All the time.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He glances over at you, one brow raised. “Maybe for the same reason you haven’t.”

You look away.

“Where would you go?” you ask instead.

“Out west,” he says without hesitation. “Arizona. Maybe New Mexico. Somewhere hot and dry where the air don’t stick to your skin. I’d open my own shop. One I could name after something that’s mine.”

You smile a little. “What would you call it?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Maybe after a girl.”

You go still.

He looks over again, something warmer in his eyes now.

“Not sayin’ who. Just… maybe.”

The rain softens outside, just a little, turning to that gentler rhythm you could fall asleep to if you let yourself.

“You ever miss your family?” you ask after a pause.

He goes quiet at that.

“I don’t know if you can miss what never really felt like yours,” he says eventually. “Old man drank himself into a pine box before I hit ten. Ma packed up and left a year later. I learned early not to expect anyone to stay.”

You reach over and take the cigarette from his fingers, press it to your lips. It’s still warm. Tastes like him. You hand it back.

“I’m still here,” you say.

“For now,” he replies.

There’s no accusation in it. No bitterness. Just truth.

You scoot closer. Press your side against his. The blanket shifts with you, and he lets you lean into him, lets you rest your head on his shoulder like you belong there.

“You know the worst part?” you whisper.

“What?”

“I never used to think I deserved more than what I had. Not until you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“You always deserved more. You just needed someone to remind you how to want it.”

Outside, the rain keeps falling.

Inside, you hold that warmth like a secret between your ribs.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t have to.

He just puts his arm around your shoulder, keeps you close, and for once, neither of you needs anything else.

Not yet.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The next time you see Riff, the sky is overcast, thick with the smell of rain and exhaust.

You don’t bring a list. You don’t need a reason.

He knows that now.

You step into the garage and he doesn’t ask why. He just looks up from under the hood of a pickup and wipes his hands, like he’s been waiting for you since the moment you walked away last time.

“I’ve only got ten minutes,” you say softly.

“That’s enough.”

It is.

You’re in the back of the shop again, this time not quite naked, but close enough—his hands up your skirt, your mouth on his throat, the ache in you too loud to ignore. Every breath is a betrayal, and yet it’s the most honest thing you’ve done in years.

When it’s over, you lie there in the quiet, legs tangled in his, your head on his shoulder. The fan hums. The radio crackles something low and moody from the next room.

“I thought about leaving,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just runs a hand through your hair, fingers slow and thoughtful.

“Thought about what I’d pack. Where we’d go.”

Still nothing.

Then finally—carefully—he says, “But you didn’t.”

You shake your head against his chest. “Not yet.”

He exhales through his nose. A short, humorless sound.

“Still waiting for the right moment?” he asks.

“I don’t know if there is a right moment.”

He shifts beneath you, not angry, just aware—that edge creeping back into his voice.

“Or maybe you’re just waitin’ for someone to decide for you.”

That stings.

Because he might be right.

But you sit up slowly, smoothing your dress, and look at him with eyes that have seen two lives now—the one you were assigned, and the one he lets you steal piece by piece.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You already don’t have me,” he says, soft but sharp. “Not really.”

You lean down, kiss him slow—less like a goodbye, more like a promise.

“I have this,” you murmur. “And I’m not done with it.”

He grabs your wrist before you pull away. Not to stop you. Just to feel you. Like he doesn’t trust you’ll come back, even though you always do.

“You come when you need to,” he says. “But don’t expect me to wait forever.”

You nod. “I know.”

You slip out the door, heart tight in your throat, and walk home under the drizzle with your stockings damp and your lips tingling from his kiss.

Gene is in the living room, snoring in his chair.

You step over his feet, hang your coat like nothing happened, and start peeling potatoes for dinner.

Outside, thunder rumbles softly in the distance.

Inside, your pulse still hasn’t slowed.

There’s no decision yet.

Just want.

And the quiet, steady promise that you’ll find your way back to Riff again.

Because you always do.

190 notes · View notes

swordsandholly · 1 year ago

Text

Steel Magnolia

Part 1 - paused

Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!plus size!reader

No use of y/n

Rating: Mature/MDNI

Word Count: 2.1k

Author’s Note: I just recently got back into fandom spaces and reading fanfic again and looooove the uptick in fat Y/N characters. Ofc as a big girl myself I wanted to try my hand at writing one too.

Hopefully I’ll post this on AO3 soon. Whenever I get my invite so I can make an acc.

“Oh! Darlin’, did ya see those boys next door?” Mrs. Duprey gasps as you swipe the last of her Bubble Bath OPI polish across her fingers.

“Next door?” You cock an eyebrow. “No one’s been next door since Adam and Eve.”

“I saw them on the way in!” She grins, the corners of her eyes wrinkling pleasantly. “Strappin’ young men - y’should talk t’ ‘em.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sure I will sooner or later, ma’am.”

“You’ve been single too long.” The nosey old bat contributes. As much as you love her she truly cannot leave well enough alone.

“And I’m perfectly content as such.” You give her your warmest smile.

The trailer home across from you has remained empty for as long as you can remember. It’s well kept - sometimes you see random gardeners mowing or going in an out with tool bags - but no one lives there permanently. You’d think in a beach town it would at least belong to some snowbirds. A timeshare, maybe. It’s none of those things, though. Just a well-maintained, perfectly empty husk.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, probably.

Sure enough, as you walk Mrs. Duprey out of your little single wide trailer, you spot a black SUV parked out front of the neighboring double wide. One that is definitely *not* a repair man or worker’s vehicle. She coos at you to make sure to talk to them before waddling off to her own car. She really shouldn’t be driving at her age. You wonder briefly - futilly- if she’d sell you her car in exchange for rides.

You suppose she’s right - even if it is for the wrong reasons. You’re not particularly interested in flirting with the new neighbors. After all, don’t fuck where you eat is a saying for a reason, but it wouldn’t exactly be neighborly to not introduce yourself. Especially with all the people coming and going from your home for your nail tech services. The old Yankee’s catty-cornered from you still believe that you're a drug dealer. At least they only come down for a couple months of the year.

Despite your staunch decision not to flirt, you still find yourself adjusting your clothes. Maybe the sports bra as a top is a bit much…

Fuck it. If they live here now they’ll see you in worse.

You fix your lipstick and throw on your platform sandals. The ones that clip-clop as you walk. Maybe it will help announce your presence.

The screen door wraps quietly as you knock. You take two steps back on the front, wooden porch so as not to come off too aggressively. As the seconds tick by you debate on knocking again. Maybe they’re out. Or busy. They did just move in today, most likely. Maybe you should-

The door creaks slightly as it opens. A very, painfully handsome man pushes the screen door until it clicks in place. “Afternoon, lassie.”

You blink stupidly as he crosses his strong arms and leans on the doorframe. His eyes are a striking shade of blue - somehow both sharp and soft. His dark hair is shaped into a slightly grown-out, un-styled mohawk. It fits him oddly enough.

“I, uh,” you take a deep breath. Christ you need to get laid if just *looking* at a hot guy has you this off kilter. “I live across the way. Just wanted t’ say welcome t’ tha neighborhood.”

That lopsided smile on his face grows into a grin. You don’t miss the way his eyes catch on your chest. “Aye? Nice tae meet ye. Names John MacTavish. M’friends call me Johnny.”

He gives your hand an extra little squeeze after shaking it. That accent might as well have you on the floor. You continue to blink dumbly, watching the at the scar on his chin stretches as he speaks.

Christ almighty, you’re pathetic.

“Nice to meet’ya.” You give him a warm smile, tilting your head to the side slightly. “Ya’ll here for vacation? We don’t get many Europeans ‘round here.”

He chuckles. It’s low and rumbling and would probably feel wonderful with your ear pressed to his chest. “Little bit o’ business, little bit o’ pleasure. This an’ tha’.”

“Hello, there.” Another man pops up from behind Johnny suddenly. Fucking hell, he’s gorgeous too. Older, for sure, with a uniquely cut beard that would probably look rather silly on anyone less handsome. At it stands, he manages to make it appear dignified.

“Ah, jus’ about tae call fer ye, Cap. This is our neighbor.” Johnny gestures toward you.

“John Price.” The man steps forward to shake your hand. It’s firm and professional and thank god your grandad made you practice a good handshake as a kid or you’d be painfully embarrassed.

“Are all UK men named John or is this just some sorta cult?” You blurt, unable to stop yourself from snickering at them.

Older John chuckles at you fondly, his facial hair giving him a pleasant U-shaped smile. “Be easier to remember that way, wouldn’t it? No, we’re with two others. Kyle and Simon. They’re out at the moment.”

“Kyle and Simon.” You repeat, nodding. Johnny, John, Kyle, Simon. “Are y’all in town long?”

“Indefinitely.” Is all Price gives you. It’s a tone that even someone as dense as you can recognize as ‘don’t ask more.’

You clap your hands together and smile a little wider, ready to make your exit. “Well, I’m not here t’be a bother, just wanted t’ welcome ya and, uh, let y’know that I have a lot of people over throughout the day - I’m a nail tech. They shouldn’t bother ya but y’know.”

“Ye can come bother us anytime, bonnie.” The Scot hits you with that grin again and your face suddenly feels far too hot.

A loud, whining screech sounds off from down the road. You check your watch. Holy shit, three-thirty already. You begin to back off the porch. “Ah, nice t’ meet ya again! See ya ’round!”

As you jog down the little dirt road of the trailer park another black car passes you. It’s smaller, a sedan. You make very brief eye contact with a blonde wearing a surgical mask and another man with the sharpest golden eyes you’ve ever seen - even through the tint of the window.

*Kyle and Simon,* you think.

You make a mental note to greet them at some point and continue down the street. The school bus slowly stops at the entrance and you take up your spot in the small crowd of parents. IT’s a shabby old bus - chipping paint and break pads that sounds like they’re about ready to snap. It’s all they’re willing to send out to your little section of the city, though.

Shelby meanders over in your direction, her usual Camel Crush lit up in one hand and the other teasing her already well-lifted hair. “Afternoon. Saw there was some new folks across from ya.”

“Hm?” You keep your eyes on the bus. “Ah, yeah. Just vacationers, I think.”

“Lookers, though.” She chuckles.

“They’re from the UK.” You offer.

“No shit!” Shelby stamps out her cigarette as the bus doors open. “Accent and all?”

“Yep.” You grin.

Shelby tsks and fiddles with her hair again. “I best go over an’ make myself known, then.”

“There’s an older fella with a neat beard. Think you’d like ‘em.” You snicker.

She hums. “I’ll bring a pie.”

The children practically burst out of the bus doors, as always. Ready to be home and shuck off their backpacks to their respective adult. Shelby’s son almost knocks her over, offering a little “Good afternoon, ma’am!” to you before heading off with his mother.

You nod to him, shoving a hand in your pocket as you wait for yours. She’s always the last. Always caught up in a book or something and doesn’t realize it’s time to get off of the bus. Sure enough, the driver has to call back to her before the little girl comes dashing out. She jumps off of the bus steps, despite being told time and time again not to, and kicks a rock on her way toward you.

You bow low for her. “Welcome home, Lady Sophie.”

She giggles, dark curls bouncing as she skips over. “Ni-ni!”

You take her bag from her. The thing really does dwarf the poor six year old. Her hand slips into yours easily. Soft and round and somehow always so much warmer than yours.

“My nail color chipped!” She announces, holding up her ring finger on the opposite hand.

“Oh! Now we can’t have that. I’ll fix it tonight.” You smile, waving at old Mr.Chester as the two of you pass.

“Well now!” He calls. “How blessed am I to see two such lovely ladies!”

You both giggle, continuing on your way. He’s a good landlord - spotted you more than a few times when Sophie was a baby and you couldn’t work consistently. Honestly, as you look around, the little community that he’s managed to build in this shitty corner of the world should be praised. Housing just enough snowbirds to cover his property costs while keeping rent low for the full time locals. Maybe you could convince Natalie at the paper to run a little story on it or something.

As you pull up to your own home, the blonde man is outside leaning on the front of their double wide. Seeing him standing at full height makes your blood run cold. The man is built like a damn barn - tall and wide. Beyond solid. *Brick shithouse*. It’s a bit weird that he’s covered in clothing head to toe but whatever. Weirder things have happened before. The mask still covers his face, you wonder if he had taken it off before you came up or just flipped it up to smoke.

“Sophie, head on in. I’ll catch up.” You push her toward the door. She scampers in, the screen door slamming behind her as you march up to the brick shithouse of a man in front of you.

“Which are ya? Kyle or Simon?” You smile, holding out your hand to shake.

Dark eyes rake over you, stopping briefly on your hand, before moving back to meet yours. He stomps out the half smoked cigarette. “Simon.”

You let your hand drop. Bit rude, this one. “Nice t meetcha.”

The other man pops his head out of the trailer. Kyle, you assume. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hi.” You smile as warmly as you can, giving your name. “I’m assumin’ yer Kyle.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “I’m guessing you’re the neighbor Price mentioned.”

You nod, about to speak again but Simon shoves past you, marching his way up the steps. “Let’s go.” He grunts, pushing the other man back into the trailer despite his protests.

You wrinkle your nose at him. What an asshole.

“Who’s tha’?” Sophie asks over the back of the old, worn couch as you let the trailer door slam behind you.

“New neighbors.” You say simply, glancing out the window. “Don’t go over there without me, yeah?”

“Okay!” She agrees, sitting back on the couch and bouncing, beginning her usual post school chant. “Bluey! Bluey! Bluey!”

You drop her backpack down beside the small coffee table. “After yer homework.”

“Nooo!” She pouts.

“Then no Bluey.”

Sophie pouts harder but crawls down in front of the coffee table and pulls out her little work sheets. At least the school doesn’t over run them too terribly with homework toward the end of the year. You glance at the calendar. Wednesday, May 22nd. Damn, she really only has about a week left. Though, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t looking forward to this summer break with her. She’s old enough now that you can take her places like the arcade without having to wait on her so much. You’ll actually be able to play some of the two-player games.

Plus, this year, you actually have a little more pocket change to make it fun.

You turn to look out the window once more at the new neighbors. Their curtains remain closed, cars neatly parked out front. The door opens slowly, the hot Scot and rude blonde wander to the Sedan. Simon’s shoulders shake at something Johnny said - you think he’s laughing but its hard to tell with that mask. Johnny’s head turns, blue eyes meeting yours through the shitty glass windows of your trailer. You squeak and duck to sit next to Sophie, praying that he didn’t catch you staring.

#simon x reader #fanfiction #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #fanfic #call of duty #plus size reader #fat reader #ghost cod #cod x reader #cod mw2 #holly writes

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loveharlow · 1 year ago

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SYNOPSIS‧₊˚[3k] Two weeks since John B and Sarah have been gone and the pogues decide it's time for a proper memorial to say goodbye, but an impulsive gesture leaves two of the four remaining pogues heads spinning.

WARNING(S)‧₊˚ swearing, mentions of death, unestablished relationship/unrequited love (Pope x Kiara), mentions of child abuse/neglect, general angst

˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗

NOW PLAYING‧₊˚

“RISE AND SHINE, BLONDIE.” You whispered in the sleeping boy’s ear. JJ immediately slapped a harsh palm over his ear, effectively slapping himself and waking himself up, groaning in pain as you stood by giggling.

“Fuck you.” He mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he sat up, Marley emerging next to him from under the covers. You tilted your head at the dog, scoffing.

“You do know that is my dog, right?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at a sleepy-eyed JJ who simply looked at the animal over his shoulder before turning back to you and shrugging with a sly smile on his face.

“Not anymore. Her real owner gives her bacon and she loves it.” He retorted, throwing an arm over Marley and pulling her into his side as he rubbed the top of her head. “Ain’t that right, girl?”

You rolled your eyes, your bare feet patting against the hardwood floors of The Chateau as you left the room, calling over your shoulder. “Then her real owner can clean up the aftermath when she vomits it out because she refuses to chew.” You reprimanded playfully, sliding your slippers onto your feet that were sat by the front door. “I’m gonna clean up a bit. Pope and Kie should be here soon. And I bought more cereal, it’s above the fridge.” You called out before going out onto the porch, letting the door shut behind you, the screen rattling.

Today marked two weeks since John B and Sarah disappeared.

Pope and Kiara had finally made time in their schedules to do a proper send off. Not that you blamed them — Kiara’s parents wanted her as far away from the pogues as possible, with you being a semi-exception. They’d swamped her with work after school at The Wreck, working from the time school ended until the street lights came on. The weekends were no different, with the addition of taking the car away, only allowing her to drive it on the weekdays to and from school.

Heyward had Pope doing grocery run after grocery run, as well catching some of the seafood supply himself. Pope didn’t mind though, he was working on repairing his relationship with his parents after everything that happened. Things seemed to be looking up, Heyward didn’t scowl when you all came around anymore and his mother started to greet you all again. They were easing up on the restrictions, too — allowing Pope to drive the car again and be out past ten.

You and JJ had been managing — he was taking small, odd jobs here and there. Mowing lawns, fixing cars just to keep the lights on and the water running. You did what you could — sneaking into your house, only once or twice, to take some necessities and things to sell. You’d managed to pawn off a good chunk of your mother’s jewelry and some things you didn’t need anymore. It was enough to keep you both fed and clean.

Life was starting to seem okay again. It didn’t seem like there was such a large storm cloud over you and your friends anymore. Now, you just all felt an emptiness when you were together, which was probably why you weren’t together as much anymore.

School was…well, school. You and JJ hadn’t been since it happened. No adults to force you to go, right? Pope and Kie had been a few times, but their parents allowed them some time to themselves occasionally.

Despite everything, today was the first day you all would be hanging out as a full group again. The Chateau always looked a mess but admittedly, you and JJ hadn’t been helping the place to look any better. The porch was littered with beer bottles, soda cans, snack wrappers. Things that had been piling up from your late night talks.

Grabbing a plastic bag, you started gathering all of the trash and throwing it inside, the space already looking better.

“SO, HOW ARE WE DOING THIS EXACTLY?” Kiara asked, hands in her pockets as she stood in front of the big tree, next to Pope. The sun was starting to set, casting a low, orange hue over the backyard.

She and Pope had arrived not too long ago, the gathering not being as lively as it used to be. Less smiles, less laughs. There was small talk and a few jokes here and there but it just seemed so forced, as if no one wanted to say “let’s just get this over with”.

The group had been divided, although none of you would admit it aloud. It seemed as if Pope and Kiara did their thing, while you and JJ did yours.

“We could just carve it. Might take a while, though…” Pope pitched, rubbing his hands over the top of his head and shifting his weight.

“I mean, we got all day.” JJ shrugged simply, adjusting the baseball cap on his head. “I say we carve this baby up.” He shrugged, hiking up the toolbox in his hand, the metal objects inside rattling, and walking to the forefront of the group. You walked up beside him, looking up with your hands in your back pockets. “Care to do the honors?” He smiled down at you, flicking out a pocket knife in your direction.

Taking the object from his hand, you faced the large, loud live oak tree and began carving the initials of your fallen friend into the wood.

THREE HOURS AND TWO BEERS LATER AND THE TREE WAS CARVED AND BRANDED. A tan-colored, heart-shaped splotch in the center.

2003 2020

JOHN B ROUTLEDGE

P4L

After you’d finished carving, JJ had done the honors of engraving the words with a heated piece of metal, burning the words forever into the oak. The four of you raised a beer to John B, hoping that he could feel you wherever he was.

You’d branched off afterwards, something that never happened before but you’d grown accustomed to the odd dynamic between the group now. You all tried your hardest to ignore it or remedy it but it was useless.

Pope was sitting on a log, staring at the fire JJ had started. JJ was swinging in the hammock as you made your way over to Kiara, who was sitting on the steps of The Chateau.

“Hey. You alright?” You asked, sitting down next to the girl as she took a sip of her beer, humming in response.

“As alright as I can be, I guess.” She replied almost despondently. You were all grieving in your own ways but something about Kiara’s grief didn’t seem like grief. It was like she was dealing with some other conflicting emotions on top of it all. “You and JJ have been keeping this place up, huh? I can actually see wood on the floor.” She joked lightly.

You chuckled in response. “Yeah... yeah, we’re trying. The place is one kick away from collapsing but it’s a home, nonetheless.”

“Have you been home? Since…” You nodded your head at the girl’s question, staring down at your sneakers.

“...Once or twice just to steal some shit to pawn off. I don’t really care for anything in that house anymore. Or anyone…” Kiara simply drew her lips into a thin line, nodding silently with no clue as to how to continue the conversation. So, you took the initiative for her. “How’ve you been? With your parents? Pope?”

She just grimaced and shrugged, playing with the rim of the open beer bottle. “They’re... going, I suppose. My parents don’t even know I’m here right now. If they did…” She trailed off, scoffing. “And Pope, I don’t know. He’s sweet, he’s just not…” She trailed off once again, but this time it was like she knew what she wanted to say but it was almost as if she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She seemed weary, hesitant — eyes fleeting between your own and the blades of grass beneath her feet. “Whatever. Forget it. Me and Pope are figuring it out, I guess. I’m trying to give it a chance.”

“That’s good.” You smiled smally, nodding absentmindedly. “If it helps, he really does like you. So, even if you two don’t work out, just let him down easy. He’s our friend and a really good guy.” She simply nodded, taking another swig of her beverage and looking out into the distance. Suddenly, she was standing from the steps, hands on her knees.

“I’m gonna go get another beer...” She sighed before walking back inside.

Maybe you were reading too much into it but Kiara’s grief was seeming more like a cold shoulder...

“YOU WARM ENOUGH, POPE?” You inquired, sitting next to the boy on the log, him shooting you a small smile before returning his gaze to the flames in front of him. The fire casting an amber glow over his skin, making his eyes seem browner, almost softer.

“Yeah, a little too hot.” He chuckled lightly, leaning back further onto the wooden seat, placing his hands behind him for support. “...I meant to ask, is JJ okay? Like, actually?” He asked with a bit of hesitance, eyeing the blonde swaying calmly on the hammock. You followed his sights, spotting JJ swaying lowly before turning back to Pope.

“He’s…doing better than I expected. But that goes for all of us, I suppose.” You offered honestly. “Why’d you ask?” You questioned, to which Pope shrugged one shoulder before replying.

“I know John B was a really big part of his life. If I was as close as those two, I don’t know how I’d feel. I know we haven’t been around much, Kie and I, but he just seems…too calm.” You didn’t know how to tell Pope that JJ was far from fine. That you’d hear him crying at night, muffled as he tried to wake you not knowing that you couldn’t sleep knowing he was outside the door crying and you couldn’t do anything to comfort him.

You’d tried asking him about it yourself. He simply acted like he didn’t know what you were talking about and you weren't one to push him. Not now, at least.

“He’s handling it all in his own way.” You reassured with mild uncertainty. “But I’ll keep an eye on him. How are you, though?”

The boy drew his lips into a thin line, tilting his head to the side in thought before shrugging and looking out at the fire in front of him. “I…don’t know.” He struggled out, almost as if he wasn’t completely sure of the words but also unsure if he was truly unsure. His brown eyes met yours, slightly glassed over with frustrated tears. “I really just don’t know.”

You gave him a pitiful smile before scooting closer and throwing your arm over his shoulders. The two of you sat in warm, content silence. In all your time of knowing Pope, he was never either fully closed off or openly emotional. He was the definition of a ticking time bomb — bottling everything up until he reached a certain breaking point. But this time, you’d figured he’d had all the meltdowns he could.

AS YOU APPROACHED THE HAMMOCK, another figure became clear next to JJ’s — Marley curled up in a sleeping ball of fur next to the blonde. You chuckled under your breath at the sight, nudging the swing with your knee to prompt JJ to open his eyes. The boy peeked one eye open before the other, eyes fleeting the yard at Pope and Kiara’s frames talking at the bonfire before returning to yours.

You took a seat on the grass in front of the hammock, looking up at JJ as he made the small effort to turn on his side to look down at you without disturbing the peaceful animal beside him.

“Done being the group therapist?” He yawned, pushing the blonde locs of hair out of his face. You simply shrugged, rubbing a hand across your forehead.

“Yeah, my office is closed.” You sighed, leaning back on your palms — small pebbles and mulch chips digging into them but you were too tired to care. “But you know I’m always willing to listen for you.” You said playfully, shooting the blonde a wink. He giggled in response, leaning forward in the hammock with one hand clutching it for support.

“You promised no pushing.” He mumbled sleepily.

“I’m not pushing.” You assured, throwing your hands up in surrender. “I’m just... politely suggesting that you open up to your best friend, is all.” You shrugged nonchalantly, pretending to pick at your nails.

“Right...how about we do a little switch-a-roo then, hm?” He threw out, shifting around once more in the hammock, eyes piercing yours. “How have you been? With everything. Bree, your mom…” He trailed off, eyes never leaving yours even though you avoided eye contact the moment he started listing issues. “I mean, The Chateau is nothing compared to your beachfront palace in Kooklandia. You gotta miss it sometimes. You’re telling me you never think about goin' home?”

You snarled, shrugging off his statement. “This is my home.” You declared, drifting your eyes upwards to connect with his, the amber glow of the bonfire making his eyes appear more green-toned than blue. “I never wanted to move to Figure Eight in the first place. I didn’t care about the ocean view or the fact that our living room and kitchen didn’t have to be one room anymore.” You explained, drawing shapes into the dirt. “I feel safe here.” You muttered. “I feel safer with you guys...”

He simply hummed and nodded in agreement. “I get that.” He sighed. “I feel the same about my house. I don’t really care that all my shit is there and that I have to sneak back and forth to get what I need. My dad… he makes me hate that house. And I hate myself for being able to hate the house because of him but not being able to hate him.”

“He’s your dad, though. It’s understandable. You feel like you should love him no matter what.”

“...Do you hate your mom?” You paused your drawing in the dirt to peer up at JJ through your lashes, his eyes wide and wondering. The question caused you to feel a way you’d never felt before. It was such a loaded question and even with everything that happened, you figured the answer should be easy but...it wasn’t. Saying that you hated your mother felt like venom on your tongue. Even if you knew you had every right to say that you did.

“No.” You sighed, tucking your hair behind your ears. “But, it’s like, I don’t love her either. I just…don’t recognize her anymore. In my eyes, she’s not my mother. But in my heart, she is and always will be. And I hate that.”

The two of you fell into silence after that, the only sound being cicadas and crickets. You directed your gaze up to the sky, counting the stars and silently acknowledging constellations while JJ kicked one leg out to swing the hammock gently as he stared up as well.

You figured the conversation ended there. It was getting late and you’d scored a babysitting gig for tomorrow that was paying good money. So, you figured heading to bed now was ideal because being late wasn't. You sighed, hands slapping your knees as you stood up with a groan, stretching as JJ’s eyes drifted to your frame.

“Well, I think my social battery has officially died.” You yawned, stepping closer to the blonde to ruffle his fluffy head of hair. “Night, blond-” You didn’t get the chance to finish your sentence before JJ’s hand was wrapping itself around your wrist, pulling you down until your faces were just centimeters apart, him taking the opportunity to connect your lips with his, placing his free hand on the nape of your neck.

Your eyes went impossibly wide as the blonde pressed his lips to yours firmly, his eyes closed blissfully. A normal, friendly reaction would be to push him away, to say that you shouldn’t be doing this. But the way he was kissing you..

It was like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it.

From the way his fingers dug into your skin to the amount of force he was using to hold you in place.

Something in you suddenly relaxed, allowing you to close your own eyes and move your lips to kiss him back. Your lips moved in perfect sync with his for the moment. But you figured it would be nothing but. This was JJ, your best friend. He knew you like the back of his-

Oh. Oh, God. You were kissing your best friend. You were kissing JJ.

You pulled back so fast you nearly stumbled over your own feet, head whipping around in panic to find Kie and Pope still engulfed in their own conversation before turning back to the starstruck blonde in front you. His hair was messy and his lips were swollen with a deep shade of red blooming within the lower one. His own blue eyes were wide but you didn’t know for what reason.

You just looked at each other with an unknown expression. Terror? Confusion?

Neither of you said anything, just stared at each other, panting in panic. Your heart was beating wildly out of your chest prompting you to adjust the neckline of your top away from your throat, the material suddenly feeling constricting.

You didn’t know what else to do so you did the only thing you could do.

Swallowing harshly and touching your aching, wet lips, you swiftly walked off in the direction of The Chateau. The last thing you heard was JJ call out your name one, heart aching time before the door of The Chateau closed behind you.

next chapter>

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#jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #svn #jj mayback x reader #jj mayback imagine #obx jj #jj maybank fluff #obx jj x reader #jj maybank smut #jj maybank x you #jj maybank imagine #obx jj maybank #jj maybank fanfiction #jj maybank outer banks #jj maybank angst #rudy pankow x reader #rudy outer banks #Spotify

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magnolia-among-the-stars · 9 months ago

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the last bit of us (chapter one)

Plot: Tyler Owens hasn’t been home in a year. He’s survived all the storm chasing and motel living with his new partners as they try to save lives. But with all the damage they’ve taken from driving high beams first into monster storms, it’s time to pay the piper and bring the truck in for repairs. And the only person who can fix them is the best mechanical engineer he’s ever met. Eleanor Harding, his estranged wife.

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Estranged Wife OC (Harding Daughter)

Word Count: 2441

Playlist Song: Snap by Rosa Linn

A/N: This is a hefty intro to Eleanor but really wanted to establish her before we get angsty!

prologue / one / two / three

______________________________________________________________

The sky was still dark when my alarm clock went off. My hand slides along the mattress, slapping the snooze button. It can’t be time already. There’s no way. I snuggle deeper into the mattress and peel one eye open to squint at the cracked window. The big moon is lower in the horizon but the sun hasn’t made its known yet.

My phone starts to go off, across the room atop my bureau. “Fuck.”

I try to get the kink out of my neck when I get up. The wooden floorboards of the farmhouse creak as I shuffle past the bureau into the bathroom and shut off the alarm. The bulbs above the mirror are too bright and I have to shut my eyes for a minute to adjust. I wash my face, toss my hair into a quick braid and pull up the weather app on my phone before heading downstairs.

The coffeemaker in the kitchen is ancient but after a few taps and fiddling with the cord of the plug, it starts to gurgle. It’s a satisfying sound. While it brews, I check the living room through the archway for Carter. He’s still curled up under a small crocheted blanket on her couch where I left him last night. He’s too tall and most of his calves dangle over the arm of the couch.

“Carter, time to get up,” I call and pull my thermostat off the drying rack to fill with fresh coffee. He doesn’t move. I sigh and look down at my watch. The long spider web of cracks in the glass doesn’t distract from the face. It’s 3:19 AM. We gotta get on the road. The wind chimes are loud out on the porch. The rain should be starting soon.

“Carter,” I say again. I walk through the archway and grab the closest thing I can find and chuck the pillow at his face.

Carter startles immediately, shouting “I’m up,” in the process. He grabs for his glasses, dropped onto the coffee table.

“No you weren’t,” I say, stepping back into the kitchen to fill his thermostat. “We gotta go, the storm should be rolling in any time now and Birdie will murder us if we’re late.” When I turn to look at him, he’s sliding his rain boots back on.

“I’m so sorry, I forgot. I thought you were Birdie’s boss,” he says, hand on his chest to fey surprise.

“It’s too early for your sarcasm. C’mon.” The entryway into the house is cluttered with a few pairs of boots and sneakers, my raincoat and denim jacket along with a variety of hats hanging from the hooks. I stare at the wooden loveseat under the coat hooks while sliding on my boots. I can only see the bottom half of the painted heart on the backing.

“El, anytime you want to get moving,” Carter says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

I blink a little, standing up and grabbing my own backpack. “Fuck you.”

The farmhouse sits out in the middle of an open field in Guthrie, Oklahoma. The barn doors shudder a little from the wind and I can see my dad’s red beat up Dodge Ram on the lawn. I smile a little, pushing the screen door open. It squeals as I unlock the door to my truck and slide in. The engine stutters a little when it comes to life and we whip out onto the road.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” he asks me, taking a sip of his coffee. A bump in the road causes the truck to jump and a little splatters on him. “Ah jeez.” He tries to wipe at it and I can’t help but chuckle.

“Not really,” I shake my head. I reach for the radio, turning the dial so I can hear the morning station. There’s a new Luke Combs song playing and I tap my fingers a little to the beat. “Too much on the brain with this project.”

“I don’t know if you’re aware El but you always have too much on the brain,” he says.

“Well someone has to do work on this team,” I joke, smirking at him.

It’s not a lie. Ever since Charlie and I had gotten our first big contract with FEMA, I had been in nonstop work mode. Throwing myself into each project a little deeper than the last. It was probably worrisome how much time I spent at the warehouse, elbow deep in some new tech but I couldn’t help myself. It was a safe and mindless space, fixing and tinkering.

We drive down the long stretch of dirt through the fields and I peer up at the sky again. There’s a loud ringing in the cab of the truck and I glance over at Carter, peering down at his phone. “It’s Birdie,” he says. “She says we’re late.”

I grin a little, shaking my head as the warehouse comes into view. The freshly painted sign on the building reads TempestEdge Innovations. I push the button on the callbox and the military grade barrier raises to allow me to drive through. I swing around the side of the building to the open garage door. It’s just about 3:46 AM.

I slide out of the truck as the door to the garage closes behind me. “You’re late,” Birdie’s voice echoes across the warehouse.

“Birdie, give me a break, I had to make four repairs last night before we left,” I say, walking toward the tall blonde woman. Her hair is pulled snug up into a ballerina bun, a clipboard held to the fleece of her vest. “Not all of us go for a run a 2 AM to start our day.”

She scoffs and shoves me playfully. “Maybe you should give it a try.”

We grin, making our way deeper into the warehouse where all of our desks are crowded together with a few computers. Tables of spare parts, design blueprints and drawings and our small kitchen are scattered throughout the space. Beyond that, my engineering floor houses large models and mock ups that sit large and wide.

I drop my bag at my desk and smile at the photo frame on the corner. It’s from graduation at OSU. We’re all making funny faces at the camera, hugging each other tightly. I tap on my keyboard to wake the screen, noticing my phone buzzing in my pocket. I ignore it and look up, “How’s everyone doing this morning?” I ask.

“Morning E,” Palmer, our Meteorologist says when she looks up over her computer screen. She gnaws on her lip, auburn brows raised. “I don’t think this classifies as morning quite yet.”

“I mean, dawn, maybe?” Sean says, walking up from behind me with a coffee mug in hand. It’s white with rope lettering that spells out This ain’t my first rodeo! Sean walks over to Birdie who is looking over her clipboard, comparing it to the large chalkboard we wheeled over to her corner of the office. She’s talking to herself as he kisses her head on the way to his desk.

“Dawn is defined by a sun rising in the sky,” Carter remarks, tapping away on his computer. “Definitely not dawn yet.”

We’re interrupted by Charlie, stepping into the office space with her phone pressed to her ear. “Alright, yes. I can definitely get out there next week. Thank you so much, have a wonderful day,” Charlie says. She smiles at everyone. “Alright team, let’s get this test going.”

Everyone slides up from their desk chairs, grabs their tablets and walkies and heads to the back of the warehouse. We slide on our swanky mesh neon vests, easily identifiable out in the storm. Sean slides the back door open and we step out onto the ramp. The rain has started and it’s coming down sideways, like a thick curtain across the landscape. A few hundred feet from the warehouse, a row of buildings line up on either side.

“Alright, we all remember safety procedures?” Birdie asks, looking over her clipboard. There’s a chorus of noise and Birdie grumbles. “C’mon people, we’re all about to bunker separately for the tornado. Do we all remember safety procedures?”

“Birdie, we’ve done these bunkering tests a few times now, c’mon,” I say.

With our current contact, we started trying to build new infrastructures on different buildings to withstand a tornado in the hopes to help families and businesses not fall into a pit of financial burden from having to rebuild. It was the biggest project yet and took us nearly six months just to build the fake town with different materials and different methods. The only way to collect data around the structural integrity of the buildings was to bunker into each of the different variations.

Palmer had tracked cells moving toward the area and we were certain an EF2 was heading straight for us. Which was a perfect opportunity to split up again and see how well the buildings held up. It would be our third test trial. It’s not the smartest move but growing up with two crazy famous storm chasers? Kind of breeds crazy.

The winds start to pick up and I look up at the debris and dust kicking up in the air. “Alright guys, let’s head out,” I say, turning on my radio. We take off in different directions, saying goodbyes and waving each other off through the harsh winds. While Charlie stays safe inside the warehouse, Birdie takes to the gas station, Sean the grocery store. Palmer heads to the farm house tucked behind everything and Carter yells “Stay safe” as he turns into the doctor’s office. I head the furthest down the road to the bar & grille.

I look up the doors behind me, moving to the safety corner where all the monitors are. I slide into my space and settle in, logging into our tracking system on the tablet to type in my notes. I can barely hear the wind outside and pull my walkie talkie from my waist. “Alright, I am settled and am clear. See you guys on the other side.”

I wait, anxiously tapping my foot as I watch the footage off the street for the incoming destruction. But ten minutes passed with no noise whatsoever. I glance up and toward the door, confused. I tap the storm tracker, noticing the pattern of movement for the storm diminishing. I click the button of the walkie with my thumb. “P, am I reading right that the storm choked itself out? Over,” I say, watching the monitor again.

“The winds are dying down, I think it missed us,” Palmer calls back.

“Let’s hold for another five minutes to be cautious,” Birdie’s voice crackles. But five minutes pass with no movement. Birdie calls that we’re clear and I head out of the building. The sun is starting to rise, illuminating the fields with a golden glow as if there hadn’t been 40 to 60 mile an hour winds and rain only a little while ago.

“We woke up at the ass crack of dawn for this?” Carter groans.

“Not dawn,” Palmer corrects, walking in step with us back to the warehouse. Birdie wraps her arm around Sean’s waist as they step ahead of us.

“The conditions seemed perfect,” Birdie says, shrugging. “All we can really hope for.”

The door slides open to the warehouse to reveal Charlie. She’s got this fixed look on her face as if she just stepped in dog shit. “We’ll get the next one Charlie, no need to fuss. They know that we can’t control the conditions of the storms,” I point to the sky and pat her on the shoulder.

“That’s not what soured my mood,” she says. She crosses her arms over her chest and huffs.

My eyebrows knit together in confusion as the team steps passed us, back to our desks. “What is it?”

“Someone’s out at the gate,” she says, nodding to the opposite end of the warehouse. “Someone’s here? No one comes here.”

“Oh, if only,” Charlie says. She turns on her heel, heading to the door on the other side of the building. I rack my brain for people who know the warehouse. We had some rich investors who would stop by trying to buy us out, our clients and FEMA reps that would come our way to see new tech and some family but, Mom and Dad would’ve called me before showing up. Curiosity kills the team and I hear their chairs scrap against the floor. Loud footsteps follow us as Charlie shoves the door open with a knowing look.

I step around her and peer out at the gated entrance to see a suped up red Dodge rumbling idle. The engine turns off after a moment and the driver side door swings open. I see his cowboy boots before I see him. He’s wearing a stupid flannel and his stupid backwards baseball cap. Tyler. He takes off his sunglasses, expression is hard to read. He’s not showing his normally beaming pearl whites that I caught a few times while passing Carter’s viewing of their YouTube videos. His face is stiff, uncomfortable as he rests his hands on his hips. What takes me by surprise is the young woman who steps out of the passenger side.

I don’t notice my feet are moving until I realize how far away Birdie’s “Son of a bitch” is. I don’t even realize how fast I’m moving or how close Tyler is. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask when I’m close enough that I could throw a rock if I wanted to. And I wanted to.

He looks down, trying to collect his thoughts. I can see the gears turning in his brain, trying to figure out what to say to me. He rubs at his jaw, nearly smiling and leaning up against the door of the truck. His eyes sparkled a little. “Hi El.” Bold to go with charm.

“That’s all you have to say? Hi El?” I cross my arms across my chest, staring him down. He’s insane.

Tyler purses his lips, gaze softening as he takes me in. He turns to look at the woman, now having moved in front of the hood of the car. “Kate,” his drawl is still thick with an enthusiasm that can’t be rivaled. “Meet Eleanor. Eleanor Owens.”

“I prefer to go by Harding these days,” I retort.

“Owens…you mean–,” the woman – Kate – stutters a little.

“Wife,” I state, turning to look at her. “He means wife.”

Thank you for reading! Want to be added to the tagged list or share feedback? Click here :)

#twisters #tyler owens #tyler owens imagine #tyler owens imagines #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens x oc #twisters movie #twisters 2024 #the last bit of us fic

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carlos-in-glasses · 5 months ago

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There's something I need to get off my smutty chest about Tarlos having kids and the true reason I wasn't into the idea at first (and have since come around).

(Before and during season 4) I was uncertain about Tarlos having kids because – in all honesty – they are the Hot Sex couple. How are they supposed to have Hot Sex whenever and wherever, while there are kids in the house? Surely they aren’t. They can’t. And, selfishly, how would that impact how I want to write them in my canon-compliant/very canon-adjacent fics?

However. As time passed, the idea of them becoming dads overwhelmed me with not just how adorable it is (and it IS! That little 'room' they've made for Jonah that looks like it has a race car bed?? Come onnn!!!! My heart!!!) but how radical, when for so long same-sex couples not having kids was the default because they were not allowed to do it. But now they can, and I am so moved and excited for them to permanently adopt a child and represent that particular progress. I think it's important to remember that what we are seeing on screen with Tarlos is radical already, and I know it might not seem like it because the sexy times moment in 5x05 was so brief, but it really is. Same-sex marriage was legalised five minutes ago. Seeing same-sex couples in media raising a family is still massive and frankly in this current age, essential. With Tarlos we’ve been so lucky to have both: a storyline about how one part of a couple isn’t ready for kids, which I feel like we never see and was very interesting, and we have a storyline where they both become ready (unfortunately rushed and we’re only going to see three seconds of it, but still. Still!). I’m sure if the show were continuing, they wouldn’t have done a kids storyline for them yet anyway, or they would have told one with room to breathe. So, there is also an allowance to make for completing their arc as a couple under unfortunate circumstances. It might be a speed-run, but it was always how their story would end, and we are lucky we get a proper ending at all. We get to see them make choices, make mistakes, and change, which allows them to be even richer as characters imo.

All this is to say – if you, like me, are dubious about them having kids because of the sex thing and are trying to reason it out – it's okay to say it. Or I've decided it's okay to admit it anyway lol. Personally, I have come to the conclusion that they are still going to be the Hot Sex couple. Because they are still them. They are Tarlos. And they are OURS. They are going to have Hot Hot Hot Sex because they are going to really want it. And isn’t that delicious? Whenever the kids aren’t around, they are going to be all over each other. They are going to bonk in every corner of their suburban home. And in the yard. The back porch swing. The roof. They are going to need to do house repairs often, because of this. Their neighbours will hate them. And as it should be. They are per-canon obsessed with having sex with each other. Also! Having said all this: They can be written by fic writers as childless. That's completely fine. Or, any and all fics can be set pre. 5x08 if that's what people want to do. I might want to do that for the most part if it's easier to tell a specific story. I don't know yet! In any case:

Tarlos is going to be happy. Afterglow is their resting state.

In the words of Ghost Gwyn, it is all going to be okay.

#911 Lone Star #Tarlos #gay dads #911 Lone Star spoilers #is him becoming ready

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santaasi · 1 year ago

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SHADOWS

pairing: jj maybank x routledge!fem!reader

summary: when emotions take over and shadows are swallowed up, all you need is to find a person who will become your light (based on shadows by sabrina carpenter)

warnings: angst, a little bit of fluff, use of y/n, english is not my first language

word count: 2.3k

a/n: the action takes place after the finale of the first season of obx

We all got nightmares in our dreams

We look for someone to believe in us

And show us the way

And make it okay

The world can be dangerous

EVERYONE IN KILDARE KNEW WHO JJ MAYBANK WAS. A flighty, self-confident blonde, a girls man, the life of all parties, and the honored prince of pogues. You could always buy the best weed from him at the best price, and repair the car as soon as possible. He appears in the police station more often than at home, and all parents pray only that their child does not fall under his charm. JJ Maybank was a walking problem, but despite that he had a heart of gold.

As a child, his mother told him that life consists of white and black stripes, like a zebra. But for some reason, JJ's own life was like a big and long black tunnel, in which fireflies sometimes appeared, illuminating his life. John B, Kiara and Pope were the only bright spots in his life, the most important people who, no matter what, stayed by his side.

But it was only for John B, that JJ was ready to do anything, because their bond had always been stronger than just friendship. They were brothers who had been going through all the problems together since childhood. John B. was by JJ's side when his mother left the family when he was seven. John B. was there when JJ's drunk father beat him almost to death when he returned home one night. John B. was there to treat his wounds, and allocated a separate room for him in the chateau so that JJ would not have to return home. John B. was the one who always believed in JJ, who knew that despite all the words of the people around Maybank, he would not become like his father.

That's why the loss of John B in the storm two weeks ago was another blow to JJ's gut from a life that proved to him over and over again that JJ Maybank was not made for happiness.

There's something so rare in your veins

Not a single thing I would change

And oh, if you only knew how I see you

Would you come alive again, alive again?

But despite how much JJ Maybank treasured his friendship with John B., he couldn't do anything about his feelings for his friend's younger sister, who, like a little sun, always lit his way in this pitch darkness of his life.

Y/N Routledge has always been her brother's most precious treasure. After their father disappeared, John B. devoted himself to his sister, protecting her from everything, promising that he would always be by her side. And now, seven months after Big John disappeared, John B. wasn't with her either. She was left all alone in this big world, which seemed ready to swallow her completely.

The first week after John B. went missing, JJ heard Y/N crying quietly at night, suppressing her screams, burying her face in the pillow. He could hear the sound of her bare feet on the wooden floor and the slam of the screen door when she woke up at the middle of the night from nightmares and went out on the porch to get some fresh air. Every night, Maybank cursed the thin walls of the chateau and John B. for causing her so much pain by leaving. But no matter how much JJ wanted to help her, he was too deeply drawn into the swamp of his own feelings, from which he could not get out in any way.

Y/N wasn't blind to what was going on with her brother's best friend either. She knew how much shit JJ had to go through in his entire life, how many loved ones he had to lose, and she understood that losing John B was another blow for him. She felt how he blamed himself for what had happened, heard how he wakes up at nights from nightmares, asking John B. and Sarah not to go into the storm, saw how only a pitiful shadow remained of the former JJ and it broke her heart.

The girl always admired the strength of JJ's spirit, despite all the shit that happened in his life, he stayed afloat. He raised his head and walked confidently and straight on. He supported his friends, was ready to do anything for them, even go to prison for a case that he did not commit, as long as his friends, his only family remained unharmed.

And JJ Maybank was always there for her. When her heart was broken for the first time, he was there, holding her tightly to his chest, whispering soothing words in her ear. When she was fighting with John B., JJ was always on her side, listening to her outrage. JJ Maybank went to parties with her, dancing with her until the sunrise, sat with her on rainy evenings at the chateau, watching romcoms that he hated, brought her her favorite sweets when she was sick, taught her surfing and listened to all the gossip from her work during their mini spa days at the chateau with such interest, as if Y/N told him about the beginning of the universe. JJ Maybank was always there for the younger Rotledge and it was just impossible for her not to fall in love with him.

She loved her brother's best friend even when he was a complete mess. When he cried on her shoulder after another fight with Luke. When he got drunk and she had to carry him to the chateau. When he was angry at her for getting into all these dangerous things with all the other pogues.

Y/N Routledge loved JJ Maybank in every shape and condition. And she would never change even the slightest detail about him, because for her, JJ Maybank was perfect for who he is.

Y/N was also hurt by the loss of her brother, and she, like no one else, could understand all of JJ's pain, but unlike him, she had the strength to live and move on. She didn't blame herself for what had happened, realizing that John B. had always been too stubborn to listen to anyone, but JJ… He was devouring himself from the inside out. He dug out the grave himself and buried himself with his head. The darkness that had been accumulating in him for so long was finally winning. And Y/N was scared. She didn't want to lose him either. She couldn't lose him.

I need you to understand

Y/N stood in front of the door to JJ’s room, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, doubting the correctness of her actions. They haven't spoken since the day John B disappeared, although they've been living under the same roof all this time, but they were functioning on their own.

After hearing another sob from behind the door, the girl finally opened it, going inside.

It was very dark and cold here, but after getting used to the darkness for a couple of seconds, Y/N began to distinguish silhouettes.

The room was a complete mess: all the clothes from the wardrobe were spread out on the floor, along with books, notebook sheets, rumpled bed linen and glass fragments that glittered in the moonlight. The lamp fell from the bedside table and was lying in the corner.

JJ was sitting at the foot of the bed, his head buried between his knees, and his hands were clutching the strands of his blonde hair in fists. His body was trembling. Even without seeing his face, Y/N could tell with certainty that JJ was trying his best to cope with the hysteria that was punishing him.

"Hey, J, are you okay?" the girl asked softly, quietly approaching the guy and kneeling next to him.

Startled, JJ mmediately raised his head, staring at the girl in shock, as if he had seen a ghost. There were wet marks on his cheeks, and his eyes were swollen and red from crying. More than anything, Y/N wanted to hold him close and comfort him, to convince him that everything would be fine.

"Angel?" JJ asked hoarsely, not believing his eyes. The sound of her soft and gentle voice sent a wave of goosebumps through his body. Her voice. It had been so long since he had heard her voice. "Did I wake you up? I'm sorry... I-I didn't mean to... I-" JJ stumbled through his words, frowning and averting his gaze from the girl.

"Hey, hey, hey... calm down, J," the girl whispered softly, covering his palm with her hand. "I understand, okay? Everything is fine," the girl said soothingly, trying to smile.

I don't mind your shadows

'Cause they disappear in the light

JJ's gaze ran over her face, going over every detail of her appearance that he has memorized over all these years by heart. She looked the same as always, but her gaze seemed to have lost the spark that made his heart beat faster every time. But now all he could see there was emptiness and sadness, which even her slight smile couldn't hide.

All these two weeks, living under the same roof with her, JJ avoided her gaze, afraid to see this look. The look of loss. The loss of a brother that JJ felt responsible for. The lucky charm for all problems in the world is JJ Maybank. And JJ hated himself for it.

He caused her so much pain, coming to her to heal his wounds after fights with his father or kooks, or when he brought girls to the chateau, knowing full well about her feelings for him... Because he's afraid to admit to her that he's experiencing the same thing. JJ Maybank destroyed not only her life, but also the lives of all the people around him. And he thinks that it would be better for everyone if he just didn't exist.

Y/N noticed how his jaw clenched, and his gaze fixed on the wall became colder and felt a wave of goosebumps pass through her body when he abruptly got up from the floor early. Routledge Jr. could always understand her brother's best friend even without words. This situation was no exception. She understood that JJ's inner demons were devouring him from the inside out.

"Don't do this, Jay. Don't do this to yourself," Y/N whispered softly, trying to fight back the tears that threatened to burst, but her voice trembled treacherously.

"I'm the problem, angel," JJ said without turning to the girl still sitting on the floor. "I am the main cause of your troubles! Wherever I go, I only make things worse! I... didn't save John B.... I'm hurting you... I..."

"Don't do this to me, Jay!" the girl repeated more forcefully, jumping to her feet, wiping away tears.

"I don't care about your shadows! I'm not afraid of them!" Y/N said sobbing, clutching his hand. "I'm here! I'm always there for you! I'll be your light if you need me. But don't leave me… I-I love you."

And listen to me, it's okay to be afraid

Just walk like you're never alone

"I didn't stop your brother, Y/N," the guy continued to insist, whispering, feeling tears accumulate in his eyes again. "He’s not here! And it’s my fucking fault!"

Y/N's hands cupped his cheeks, pressing his forehead to hers, closing her eyes and trying to calm her breath. JJ's hands rested on her waist, pressing her against his body, wanting to feel such a missing and dear warmth to his heart. JJ could feel her thumbs wiping away the tears rolling down his cheek.

"Listen to me, J. It's not your fault," Dana whispered softly.

"It's not your fault that John B is a stubborn bastard who always does everything the way he wants," the girl chuckled softly, feeling tears begin to roll down her cheeks too. She missed her brother like crazy, and she would do anything to have him here with her right now. But here and now, there was no John B., it was just her and JJ, who was damn bad at handling his emotions. So, Maybank and his mental state were more important to her than grief for her brother right now.

"You know you wouldn't have stopped him, so stop blaming yourself," Y/N sniffed, opening her eyes to meet his blue gaze. "It's not your fault."

The guy nodded slowly, holding her closer to him, burying his nose in her neck, inhaling soft vanilla scent of her hair. Y/N felt his body shaking in her arms, as he desperately clung to her, trying not to let himself completely collapse.

"I'm so scared that they won't come back, angel," the guy whispered softly into her neck. "I'm so scared that he won’t come back…"

"Me too, but it's okay," the girl whispered with a lump in her throat, running a soothing hand through his hair. "Everything will be okay… He will return… It’s- It‘s John B, he always returns"

There was silence in the room, broken only by their ragged breathing and the patter of raindrops on the window. JJ lifted his head, gently brushing away the strands of hair stuck to Y/N's cheeks, giving her a soft smile. JJ kissed her gently on the forehead before pulling her to his chest, hugging her tightly. His chin rested on top of her head.

"But we'll get through this together, as we always have. Like we've done it hundreds of times," Y/N said in a barely audible voice, forcing not only JJ, but also herself to believe that someday, everything will come to its senses again.

That someday John B and Sarah will come back and everything will be as before. That maybe someday her father will be found too and she will have a family again. That the black shadows that consumed JJ's life would be replaced by the sun's rays that would illuminate his path. That someday their life will really become like a zebra, and not like a black tunnel from which there is no way out.

But for now, all they could do was hold on to each other tightly, not letting themselves drown in the shadows of grief and loss.

And Y/N Routledge knew for sure that with JJ Maybank by her side, she could survive anything.

And all these voices in our head

Well, they keep screaming louder and louder

But they won't pull us under

thankx for reading <з

this is my first work on Tumblr, so I hope you enjoyed it. feedback always appreciated :з

– your santi ✨

masterlist

#– santi 🪐#jj maybank x reader #jj mayback imagine #jj maybank x y/n #jj maybank x you #jj maybank fic #jj maybank angst #jj maybank x routledge!reader

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hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year ago

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Large colorful 1879 home in Delavan, IL needs some work, but it's livable. 5bds, 4ba, for $259,900 is pretty much a bargain. Let's see what needs to be done inside.

Look at the huge porch with a tile floor. Plus, there's also a screened in area.

This is different- large entrance hall with original tile. Look at that window in the wall. Have to see what that is. There's a large hole in the ceiling that needs repair.

The hall continues down to the right. That window has etched glass. Love the wainscoting and leaded glass windows.

Entrance from another side of the home.

It enters under the gorgeous stairs. Oh, that's the window- it's in here.

Love this room with the original stairs.

I see pocket doors and a corner fireplace. Nice. Floor's good, too. Plus, pocket doors.

Beautiful built-in cabinet, beautiful fireplace & ceiling beams.

Note the rough plaster walls. Beautiful folding doors to the sun room.

It looks to me like the owner tried to refinish the wood, but did a very slipshod job.

Not thrilled with the kitchen remod, but you could work with it. There's an original niche on the right and the doors are also original, plus the pantry is still there.

Nice bedroom. Like the built-in shelves and fireplace. I wonder if they're going to take their gun safe.

Oh, wow, it has a nicely redone en-suite. Look at the vintage tub and pedestal sink. There appears to be a walk-in closet, also.

2nd fl. Nice stained glass windows, wainscoting and railing. Needs a nice light fixture or chandelier.

Okay, this bedroom has a closet and needs floor work.

Too nice to be a closet with the stained glass window.

Now, this is a beautiful big primary bedroom with a fireplace. The wallpaper seams are peeling, though.

This room is nicely finished.

Very nice vintage bath with tub and pedestal sink, but the built-in is so beautiful.

Don't know what's going on w/the shower in the closet, but it doesn't look good.

This is a lovely room with stick walls.

Look at the twisty brick chimney. Too bad you can't really stand up in here.

Lots of yard space.

The outbuildings are so pretty, they need restoration.

Large house on a .52 acre lot. I think it's a great price, love this house.

Corner property in a nice neighborhood.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/202-W-3rd-St-Delavan-IL-61734/5331412_zpid/

#victorian homes #fixer upper #old house dreams #houses #house tours #home tour #homes under $300K

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softmamawrites · 3 months ago

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And Then There Was You : Chapter 2

the way this chapter made me want to scream because I lost a very big portion of it and had to rewrite it. but I also love this chapter because we get to see bitter bitch John and he’s my beloved.

Warnings: masturbation (I’d like to reiterate, John is intersex, he has both female and male genitalia, it’s talked about a lot in this chapter. this is also my version of that and if you don’t like it…well there’s the door 👋🏻), graphic descriptions of birth (you can skip that bit, starting at week 34, to the little cut off line), self loathing Gale, one mention of men killing themselves, and of course bitter bitch John. Mama John 💕

Words: 11.5k words - I am once again wanting to say sorry for that but I’m also proud of this so….

Moodboard by me

dividers by: @sweetmelodygraphics

thank you to @trashbag-baby666 for listening to me scream, cry, and throw up over mama John 💕

-24 weeks-6 months pregnant-

“It’ll look even nicer with a new coat of paint on it. And don’t even think of getting up on a ladder yourself.” Brady says as he looks at John, both of them standing on the sidewalk outside of John’s new home. The ivory colored home is quaint, a farmers porch stretching across the front of the home. With a sturdy white wooden bench swing sitting there, it’s what originally drew John to it. Benny was happily moving boxes from the bed of his pickup truck, there wasn’t much there.

Maybe 20 boxes all together, it’s whatever John could fit in his duffle bag and then whatever he’s picked up over the course of his time in New Mexico. Meatball barks happily as he rolls around in the grass, tongue lolling out with his feet in the air. Brady looks around slightly at the yard, cataloging in his head what needs to be done. The grass was slightly overgrown, the weeds needed to be pulled, there were some slats of the fence that would need to be repaired.

“Don’t worry, I know you two will tan my hide if I get up there. And I don’t trust myself up on a ladder anyways.” John responds, shaking his head slightly as he rests a gentle hand on his belly. He had swelled out just a bit now, mostly just over his belly button and down above his pelvic bone. But he noticed it when he was trying to button his slacks, he didn’t even need a belt anymore to keep them up. Brady chuckles softly as he nods in agreement and they both step up the four wooden steps.

John hums softly as they step through the screen door, smiling softly when he sees the inside of the home. It would need some stuff done to it, but it was well maintained for the most part. The elderly couple that owned it had done their best, when the wife found out that John was pregnant. She insisted they leave all of the furniture, stating they didn’t need it in the nursing home. She had even made sure to tell John there was a crib upstairs in the attic from when she had her babies.

“I’m so happy you moved down the road from us, that’s so awesome. It’ll be so much fun!” Benny says from where he’s setting one of the last boxes in the dining room. Brady smiling a little as he watches his fiancé, the man was like a giant puppy, just like his beloved husky. The road they lived on was quiet, eight houses in total between both sides. John lived at the end of the dead end road, with a sweet little old lady across from him. Mrs. Ellis whom had already introduced herself, and upon finding out that John was expecting. Had declared she was going to knit him all of the socks, sweaters, and blankets he could ever need.

He was finding that he was being taken care of whether he liked it or wanted it. Benny had been ecstatic when he found out John was pregnant that night all those weeks ago. Proclaiming happily that he had been there when his ma had his two youngest sisters, and he loved babies. He had taken over any heavy lifting that John needed to be done, it was very sweet. While Brady had been quietly taking care of John, he was the one who found the house to begin with. Telling John about it one night when they’d been having dinner together. He had been silently sending leftovers home with John to make sure he had food for the next day. He had even slyly asked one time what John had been craving, and the next day there were chocolate chip cookies for dessert.

John smiles softly as he continues looking around, seeing the god awful floral couch sitting in the living room. A beige colored rug resting in the middle of the floor, a coffee table on top of it. Two red suede lounge chairs sat on the opposite side, almost blocking the view of the big front window. John would have to try and move the couch, he wanted to be able to look out the window. He turns his head as he hears the clomping of footsteps coming into the house.

“You’ve got a big backyard too John! You could get a dog!” Benny calls from where he’s standing in the kitchen, Brady rolling his eyes slightly as he shakes his head. John laughing quietly as he looks towards the kitchen, seeing Benny coming back out with a little pep in his step. Coming over to kiss the side of Brady’s head gently, John smiling softly as he watches them. While many still saw it as wrong to lay with another man, it wasn’t deemed a blue ticket home anymore. So they were free to be together in the eyes of the military, even if they were relatively quiet about it outside of the house. But John was happy to see his friends getting to embrace the love they’d been harbouring for some time now.

“Yea, I don’t think I’m gettin a dog anytime soon Ben.” John responds making the younger man whine a little, before all three of them are looking over to the sound of clawed feet trampling into the house. Meatball having heard Benny’s whine and coming to investigate his owner’s distress. Nudging his nose into the side of Benny’s hip, before the man is scruffing his neck and between his ears. The husky’s foot bouncing slightly when Benny gets a good spot, his tongue lolling out happily.

“Hi Meatball.” John murmurs when the dog pushes his wet nose against the side of John’s belly. His fingers coming down to scratch gently, feeling the dog press closer to him. Before John feels the faintest of flutters, his hand coming down to cup the bottom of his stomach. Pulling both Benny and Brady from their mini argument about getting another dog for Meatball to play with. Brady looking at his friend worriedly, stepping closer to place a hand on his bicep and look at him. Benny moving closer instinctively, both men surrounding their old Major. Meatball whining from where he’s being pressed in between John and Benny’s thighs.

“I think…I think the baby is moving.” The oldest states, his eyebrows drawn together as he tries to figure out if it’s what he’s feeling. Trying desperately not to panic at all, feeling the way Brady’s fingers are gently holding him. Midwife Carole told him every time she saw him that his chances for a spontaneous miscarriage had dropped significantly. But it still didn’t stop those thoughts from rolling in, it didn’t stop him from panicking at every little thing. It didn’t always help when it came to trying to decipher any aches or pains in his body.

“What’s it feel like John?” Brady asks him softly, Benny looking at his boyfriend in slight worry. Both of them had grown to be very overprotective of the older man, taking care of him. Just like he always did for them when they were overseas, he was a mama before actually becoming one. And now it was his turn to be taken care of, it was his turn to know someone was there for him whenever he needed them.

“Feels like flutters…I don’t know how to describe it. Like when someone runs their fingers over your arm, I don’t know if that makes sense.” Both of the men nod their heads in understanding, smiling softly as they look at him. John feeling tears welling in his eyes as he stands there with his friends. Hormones having taken over for just a moment, breathing deeply as he tries not to sob. He didn’t feel alone anymore, not all of the time anyways, he knew he had people around him. He had found a family, even if he lost one, his found one was accepting him for who he was.

-29 weeks pregnant-7 months pregnant-

John sighs softly as he lays in his bed, trying to roll over for the 100th time that night. The ache in his side not going away, the too hot feeling he’s had all day just simmering. He huffs quietly as he tucks a pillow under his side, propping himself up just slightly. He was a belly sleeper, and he couldn’t do that anymore. He had officially popped three days prior, a nice rounded out shape under his shirts now.

Benny told him that it reminded him of a basketball, like it had just been shoved up under John’s shirts. And John had to agree that it did look almost too perfectly round at times, but he could feel it stretching his skin almost too taut at times. Which made him often wonder how he was going to get through the next 11 or so weeks before his baby would be born. He gently drags his hand down his side, feeling the baby respond. An elbow dragging down to follow their mama’s touch, John watching as his belly ripples slightly.

“I feel you little one.” John voices quietly, tapping by his belly button and smiling as he feels the push back. Rubbing his thumb across his skin, breathing deeply and feeling the tears welling. Huffing at himself in frustration, John had never cried as much as he did lately. He was always good at keeping that in check, but lately he couldn’t stop the tears from tracing down his face. Rubbing his hand over his eyes, he lets out a steadying breath. Chest rising and falling evenly, adjusting his hips just the slightest bit to get the pressure off of his side.

Shifting again John lets out a soft sigh at the brush of his shirt against his nipples. Feeling that little pleasurable zing go down his spine, his eyes slipping closed. Breathing deeply, feeling his nipples pebbling under the cotton of his shirt. His cock giving a little twitch of interest in his boxers, core beginning to tingle. John had never been this easily worked up before, not since he was 13 and found out what an orgasm was. Biting into his lower lip as he lays there, before he’s shrugging out of his shirt. The cool air breezing over him now feeling almost as good as the arousal flowing through him.

Licking the fingers of his left hand, he brings his fingers down to gently rub and pinch at a nipple. Whimpering a little, it was almost so sensitive that it hurt, the little nub hardens even more. Making him take in a deep breath, little goosebumps forming on his skin as he rolls his fingers over his nipple. He feels his center beginning to clench around nothing, his cock giving another twitch of interest. His free hand going down to slide into his boxers. Squeezing around himself, rubbing his thumb across the tip.

He wouldn’t produce any slick, not yet anyways, not until he was orgasming and then it would spurt out in little splatters. His core is clenching again in want, feeling the little bud of his clit starting to ache. Breathing deeply he slowly slides his fingers down, to feel himself wet with slick. A little shudder going up his spine, he didn’t usually slide his hand lower than his cock. The only person that really did was Gale, but Gale had also avoided touching his cock.

“Oh fuck.” John whispers as he slides two fingers through his puffy outer lips, swollen and slick already. His hole clenching at the contact, his pelvic muscles tensing at the stimulation. Before he’s bringing his hand back up to his cock quickly, using the wetness he gathered to rub over his tip. Pinching his nipple gently causing another hitching whine to come from his throat. Beginning to move his hand on his length, squeezing and rubbing. That peak becoming clearer for him, within reach now, before he’s slipping away from it.

Groaning softly at the loss, his eyes squeezing shut, trying to focus again while also trying to keep his mind blissfully blank. Feeling as his clit throbs again, neglected and wanting. His walls squeezing around nothing, before he’s huffing softly. Letting go of his cock and turning his head to the side, eyes closing a little tighter. While he runs his fingers through his slick again, whimpering at the pressure. Before he’s trying to slide two fingers into himself, whining at the stretch. The heel of his hand brushing against his little pearl, thighs threatening to close. The pleasure zap almost too much for him, the tender flesh was more sensitive than it usually was.

“Please…please just, oh fuck.” John gasps as he gets a good rhythm, trying to remember what he’s done in the past to women. His heart beginning to thud in his ears harder, stomach spasming with want. He curls his fingers inside of himself, whining lowly before he’s having to pull a finger free. Too swollen and sensitive to keep going with two, his walls tensing again. Palm of his hand grinding into his clit, while his forearm keeps his cock trapped against his rounded belly.

John’s toes curl under the sheets, feeling that precipice coming higher and higher. His feet digging into the bed slightly, whimpers flowing from his mouth freely. His fingers pinching at his nipple again, a high pitched noise slipping free. John working his finger inside of himself a little quicker now, jaw dropping at the pleasure curling around his pelvis. His fingers leave his nipple to go and grab at the pillow under his head.

“I’m, fuck yes, please…G Gale…please.” John gasps out as he’s suddenly slamming into that high. Body tensing completely, lower back arching off of the mattress, his breathing stopping. Before a wrecked sob is coming from his throat, pants falling from between his parted lips. Laying there alone in his bed, skin sticky with sweat, core dimly throbbing, his cock pulsing. His tacky release coating his fingers and the spot of his hip where his tip was trapped during the whole ordeal.

He slowly heaves himself out of bed, legs a little wobbly like a newborn deer. His heart still hammering away in his throat, while he cleans himself up. Wincing a little as the shame begins to flood in, hot tears pin pricking the corners of his eyes. He had touched his core, made himself cum, and said Gale’s name out loud while he did it. There’s nothing that can stop the tears from flowing down his face, shutting off the bathroom light before going back to his room.

Crawling in his bed, pulling his shirt back on, situating pillows, trying to get comfortable. His arm curling around the closest pillow, willing himself not to cry to sleep tonight. It had been awhile since he had done that, he was doing better. He hadn’t thought of Gale in that capacity in a long time. He hadn’t thought of the blond while touching himself since before the stalag. When he had had that one last sad jerk session in the shower before flying the next day with Brady.

Now when he thought of Gale, it was tinged in sadness, longing and yearning in a way for companionship. Just wanting the younger man to be around, but knowing he could never have that. He could never have Gale the way he wanted to, because Gale was in Wyoming living the life that he wanted. And John wasn’t apart of that life, not anymore.

-32 weeks pregnant- 8 months pregnant-

“Hello John, it’s nice to see that you’re resting.” Midwife Carole says smiling as she comes up the walkway for John’s home. Seeing the man sitting in the porch swing, his boot covered foot swaying him back and forward slowly. She can see paint smudged on his shirt, and his hair was curlier today, like he had been sweating. A mug of something resting on the prominent swell of his belly, he turns his head to look at her. Smiling softly when he does, he looked tired, little bags under his eyes.

“Hi Midwife Carole, it’s too nice out to not take advantage of the swing.” He responds before he’s carefully heaving himself off of the wooden bench seat. Standing for a moment to make sure he doesn’t get dizzy or lose his balance at all. Before he’s leading her towards the house, always a gentleman with his greeting of her title, always opening the door for her. The both of them step inside, the home smelling like drying paint going up the stairs. She can see the cabinets in the kitchen have all been replaced, no doubt his friend having done it.

“How have you been feeling? Are Brady and Benny still feeding you meals?” She asks after he’s come back from the kitchen, having refilled his mug with water. Slowly sitting down on the couch, while she sets her bag down on the coffee table. Sitting on the couch next to him, she found it best if they talked for a few moments before any medical stuff came up. John was better than he was the first time they met, he wasn’t as jumpy around her. He still shied away when they had to measure his belly, or had to discuss any of the more personal matters.

“I’m, tired, I haven’t been able to get very comfortable. Feel like the baby is up in my ribs sometimes, makes it hard to breathe. Both of them are usually here for dinner, I tell them I can cook, I don’t know if they believe me or not though.” Carole chuckles softly and smiles as she looks at him, nodding a little bit. Watching as John shifts slightly, eyes flicking over to the bag on the table. Before she’s reaching for it and opening it, beginning to pull out the tools she needs. A stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, fabric measuring tape, and a pinard horn.

“I’m going to listen to your heart, check your blood pressure, measure your belly, and then listen to baby. Is that all okay John?” The man nods his head softly as he looks at her, sitting up a little straighter for her to get to his arm better. Feeling as she wraps the fabric around, before she’s pulling her stethoscope on. And beginning to inflate the cuff, listening intently to the sounds, before she’s smiling at him.

Listening to his heart and lungs next, before she’s gently helping him roll his shirt up over his belly. John looking down at his skin and taking a deep breath, he had always stayed in relatively good shape. Seeing himself stretched out was different for him, he struggled just a little with it. He could see the little stretch marks up by his ribcage forming, he was sure he had more down lower he just couldn’t see them. The hair he had had on his lower belly was thinned out, almost non existent. It almost made him sad, that was one thing that he had that made him feel masculine.

His eyes trail slightly as he waits for her to say anything, pupils catching on the books he has on the table. Brady had found them when he’d went into town, picking them up for John to be able to read. The man having marked things he thought would be best for him to remember. Brady had even found a book with a section in it that contained men giving birth. John had read that part of the book at least four times over now, still trying to make sure he’s prepared.

“Is everything okay?” John asks softly as he sits there, the midwife holding the tape at the bottom of his sternum down to his pelvic bone. John squirming just a little bit at the touch, before he’s letting out a deep breath. Carole smiling encouragingly at him as she measures, feeling the baby kicking at her hands.

“Everything is wonderful John, every belly is different, and we have areas of measurement that we expect to fit into. You fit into those measurements perfectly, your baby is growing wonderfully.” He nods softly and lets out a deep inhale, letting himself relax just a little bit. Watching as she picks up the horn, before she’s gently placing it to his stomach. Resting her ear down to listen, John staying quiet as she does. He wished he could listen too, knowing it would comfort him just a little to be able to hear his baby’s heart beating.

“A nice strong heartbeat, have you been feeling any twinges at all? They would be down here, maybe on the sides.” Carole asks as she gently touches down by his pelvic bone, before touching the sides of his rounded belly. John shakes his head softly, looking down at himself as he tries to think. His body was always feeling tight lately, but he didn’t remember any odd twinges.

“I don’t think so, my skin feels stretched tight as it is. But I don’t think I’ve had any twinges or anything.”

“And that’s perfectly okay, those twinges are what we call practice contractions. As you get farther along you may begin to experience them, especially if you’re doing too much. Or not drinking enough water, it’s important to rest when you can.” Carole informs him, before she’s packing her things away. John rolling his shirt back down, smoothing the cotton down with gentle fingers. Feeling as the baby kicks again, a foot or elbow meeting his palm. Making a little smile flicker on his lips briefly, he didn’t think he’d ever get used to feeling a baby move inside of him.

“I’ll make sure I keep drinking a lot, and I promise I’ll take more breaks. I just, can’t sit still lately. I need to be doing something.” John says as he slowly rises off of the couch, going to lead her out. Wanting to sit back on the porch again, the breeze really did feel nice today. Carole smiles softly in understanding as she listens to him, before they are saying their goodbyes on his porch.

-Gale-

“Is there a reason?” Marge asks as the pair lay in their bed, both of them pink cheeked, a little sweaty. Gale laying on his back next to her, his blond hair flopped down onto his forehead. The man turning his head to look at her, furrowing his eyebrows slightly. Before he’s watching her slowly get up, keeping her nightie pulled up away from her stomach. His drying cum streaking her skin, as she shimmies off of the bed.

“A reason for what Marge?” Gale asks as he sits up, reaching for his briefs on the floor. Listening as she walks towards the bathroom across the hall from their room, the tap turning on. While Gale sits on the side of their bed, his hands clenching the edges of the mattress. Breathing deeply while he lets his shoulders loosen just a little bit, his eyes closing.

They had been tip toeing around one another for the last few months now, the first two weeks of him being home had been like a honeymoon phase. Everyone was so happy to see him back, so happy to get hands on him. Marge hadn’t left his side, glued to him and so proud to show him off to anyone. It had been nice, but nice only lasts for so long. And Gale could feel himself slipping the longer he was home, the longer he was away from John.

He tried, he tried so hard to not think of John, but sometimes when he’d close his eyes he’d see ocean blue. Sometimes when he’d turn his head he’d expect to see the older man, the woodsy smell of John’s cologne haunted him. He missed the way the man smelt so much that he went and bought a pack of Lucky Strikes just to smell. Until it wasn’t enough anymore and he was lighting one up to smoke, that night he had whimpered around a cigarette.

Gale was mortified with himself, he had used his best friend because he couldn’t admit to himself that he loved him. Some of the instances Gale could say it was lust, loneliness, that was what drew the two men together, especially in the stalag. But Gale couldn’t rationalize away the night John came back to Thorpe Abbots, that had been purely Gale being selfish. He needed to feel that John was alive and pulsing under his finger tips. He needed to feel his heart thudding, he needed to know that John was real.

“Is there a reason you won’t look at me when we’re making love? A reason you won’t…finish inside of me?” Marge asks, voice tight and holding an edge to it that has Gale’s stomach curling in on itself. His shoulders tensing all of the way up to his ears again, sitting in just his underwear on the side of their bed. Marge standing just inside of the bedroom door to look at her fiancé. Watching as he avoids looking up at her, and it’s a sudden realization for her.

“Who was it? Was it a Red Cross girl? A nurse?” Gale looks up quickly at that, making something snap in Marge’s chest. She can feel the bubbling anger, but it’s overrun by the overwhelming feel of hurt and betrayal. Before Gale is quickly looking away, his chest feeling tight now, his stomach spasming like he’s going to be sick.

“It was John.” He whispers suddenly, without meaning to, needing to fill the sharp silence between them. He hears the little intake of air from Marge’s lips, peeking up at her again. Seeing the way she’s tensed herself up, her dainty fingers gripping the sides of her nightie. Her soft lips set into a little pouty scowl, before she’s really looking at him again. Scanning over whatever she can consume and see, she’d always been able to see through Gale.

“You’re not telling the whole truth…you may be able to lie to others Gale Winston, but you’ve never been able to lie to me.”

“I used him Marge, I used him and left him. I left him again.” The blond finally gets out, feeling the weight leave his chest just slightly. The air leaving his lungs quickly as he sits there, bringing his hands up to cover his face. He wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t sure he remembered how to cry. Having taken so many beatings as a child for showing emotion, it was like something had broken inside of him. He had used John just like his dad had used both Gale and his mother, he was no better than the older Cleven man.

“If there’s one thing I know about you Gale, it’s that you aren’t a user. So we’re going to talk about this, and we’re talking about right now. Collect yourself and come down to the kitchen…because this is not the end of this discussion.” Marge states before she’s turning on the ball of her foot and going for their stairs, setting about making a pot of coffee. Neither of them were going to sleep tonight, it was starting to make sense for her. Gale was carrying guilt around with him, more than just fighting in a war like her daddy had said. This was the kind of guilt that pushed men into killing themselves, the kind of guilt that didn’t just disappear.

Gale quietly gets himself dressed, he didn’t want to have this conversation. He didn’t want to lay his cards on the table, he didn’t want Marge to see the parts of himself that he had been hiding. But on the other hand, it felt so freeing to say it out loud. To voice how he had been feeling since he’d woken up naked next to John. The older man nestled into his side, skinny and bony, sleeping so peacefully. Like Gale had been the answer to all of his night time horrors, like Gale had been the remedy that John needed.

Gale gets down to the kitchen, seeing that Marge has brewed a pot of coffee. A mug sitting by the chair he frequently sits in, along with his pack of Lucky Strikes, a box of matches, and an ashtray. She didn’t like that Gale started smoking, but it was something that she didn’t fight, her only rule was not in the house. Tonight seemed to be an exception, he looks at her to see her staring at him expectantly. The man almost skittering to his chair, if anyone scared him, it was Marge. The way she could command a room without even having to raise her voice. Terrified him more than some of the drill sergeants he had encountered.

“You’re going to start at the beginning, and I don’t care if we sit down here all damn night.” Marge states as she looks at him, her usually soft brown eyes holding a slight sternness to them. Making Gale look down, fidgeting a little before he’s lighting a cigarette, pulling it to his lips to take a deep pull from it. His stomach rolling slightly as he tries to collect his thoughts, chewing on his lower lip.

“I, I love him Marge…I’ve loved him since flight school. Since he came into the bunk rooms and declared me ‘Buck’, I tried, I tried so hard to not let it get to me. But he’s, John is an enigma, he draws people in and makes them feel whole again. At first I thought it was just a crush, cuz he was giving me attention and everything. I was wrong, when I, when I had to bail out of my plane, I wasn’t thinking of you. I wasn’t thinking of home, I wasn’t even thinking of my men, I was thinking of John. And how the last time he had seen me was when I slow danced with a goddamn dog.” Gale says with a bitter laugh, shaking his head a little. Drinking from his mug of coffee, cigarette coming back up to his plush lips. Marge watching as he takes a deep inhale, his shoulders shaking slightly with it. Blue eyes looking a little hazy, like there’s a sheen of tears sitting there.

“Then I didn’t die, and he didn’t die, and he came to the camp. And it was like I could breathe again, but he was so battered. He was so beaten Marge, I thought he was going to die, he slept for 3 days when he got there. I couldn’t let him out of my sight, I couldn’t let him go. I needed him close, and I could lie to myself while we were in there. It made it easier, to pretend for even just a minute that he wanted me the way I wanted him. But then I, I left him there Marge. I left him behind because he told me to run, I heard gunshots and I still ran. Because I knew if I turned and went back, John would have been so pissed at me.” The blonde woman watches as he lights his third cigarette, his hand quivering just slightly. She could see that what he was saying was slowly unraveling him. Like he was tugging at the string that he had carefully wrapped around himself to keep him whole when he got back. The man had carefully crafted himself back into a whole human being, and she hadn’t seen it.

“Then I waited…I waited and I waited for weeks for him to come back to Thorpe Abbots…to come back to me. I didn’t deserve it, I didn’t deserve to feel the relief that I did when I heard his voice. Rosie and I landed the plane and there he was, skin and bone, looking smaller than I’ve ever seen him look. It fucking killed me, it gutted me to see him like that. He insisted we go to the club, he insisted we go see the guys who came back before him. I just wanted to get my hands on him, I just wanted to know that he was real. And so…I, I took him back to my barrack room, and I wasn’t going to sleep with him. I just wanted to hold him, like we did when we were in the camp. I couldn’t stop myself once I’d started, I just needed to know he was there and breathing.” Gale says as he breathes deeply, his eyes stinging slightly with unshed tears. Baring his soul in front of the girl who he pledged to love for years to come, he was telling her he cheated on her. But he didn’t feel guilty for that, he didn’t feel guilty for defaming his character, he felt guilty for John. She could see that, she could see that he felt like he’d used John. She wasn’t expecting the next words to come spilling from his mouth in anguish.

“I asked him not to say anything the next morning…I asked him to still be my best man. We flew home, we waited at the train station together, I promised to write, I promised to call. I promised that we would see each other, and I…I haven’t written to him. I tried, I sat down and stared at the paper for hours. I couldn’t get anything to come out, I couldn’t make myself write words that I knew weren’t true.” Gale says, a few tears rolling down his cheeks as he sits there. Smoke billowing from his mouth, flowing out of him and to the window. Marge watches as more tears flow down his face, and she’s sitting up straighter. Not sure how to touch him, not sure if he wanted to be touched right now. So far down in a self loathing hole that she isn’t sure he can find his way back up.

“Gale…you broke his heart. You asked him not to say anything to anyone, you treated him like a dirty secret. You made promises that you didn’t keep…but that doesn’t mean you need to punish yourself still.”

“I don’t know what to do Margie.” Gale whispers, shame filling his tone as he sits there and tries not to cry harder. Breathing deeply while reaching for another cigarette, she rests her hand on top of his. Stopping him from grabbing the pack, getting his pale blues to meet her gaze. Their eyes connecting, the sheen on Gale’s pupils looking shiny.

“I think you know what you need to do Gale.”

-34 weeks pregnant- 8 months pregnant-

John groans softly as he finds himself sinking to his knees in the living room, upper body laying across the couch. His muscles shaking as another contraction rolls up his spine, eyes squeezing shut. He had called the midwife's house, but with the storm outside she wasn’t sure when she’d get there. He had tried calling Benny and Brady, they were both out and he couldn’t get ahold of them. He knew this was too early, Midwife Carole had sounded concerned when he’d told her that he’d been contracting for awhile now. If his timing was right he had been like this for almost 10 hours at this point.

Grunting when he suddenly feels a wet splash between his legs, looking down to see that his water has broken on the area rug. He really hates this rug, but for the moment he’s glad it’s there. Glad it’s there to pad his knees and catch the mess that is still leaking from him. His muscles tensing as another contraction slams into him, eyes squeezing shut while he tries to breathe.

This was not going according to his plans at all, he had felt fine all day yesterday. It wasn’t until he was getting into bed that he suddenly felt twinges up his side. But he thought they were the practice contractions that Midwife Carole had been telling him about. He had been able to mostly go about his day, it had only gotten worse within the last two hours or so. He had been doing the dishes when he felt the ripping pain up his spine.

"Oh fucking fuck." John groans as his shoulders tense up, this contraction harder than the last one. Racking up his spine and making him double over into the couch cushion in front of him. One hand going down to cup his core, feeling like he's being ripped from the inside out. His pelvic bone burning while he tries to rock through it, just like the book taught him. Raising up on his knees slightly he whimpers into the cushion again, toes curling behind himself.

"Oh my god...oh fuck. Oh fuck." John gasps out as he shakes, body pushing automatically as he kneels there. One arm up gripping the couch while the other stays between his legs. Jumping slightly when a flash of lightening fills the entire room, followed by a crack of thunder. Turning his head a bit to watch as the storm rages on, he tries to breathe deeply.

Touching his entrance and scrunching his nose up, he didn't know what he was feeling for. His hips sway slightly as he tries to take the pressure off of his pelvic bone, before he's contracting again. Fingers gripping the cushion under him as he groans deep in his chest. Pushing again on instinct as he kneels there, wetness dripping down his thighs onto his rug. Of course his baby would decide to come during the biggest rain storm of the year so far, an entire six or so weeks early on top of it.

"Okay...okay, it's okay. Mm it's okay." John whispers hoarsely more to himself than anything else as he tenses again with another contraction and push. Biting into the couch cushion as he pushes again, grunting in his throat with the effort. His muscles quivering as he concentrates, a broken sob coming up his throat.

Feeling as the baby descends lower, his fingers suddenly touching gooey hair, knowing it isn't his own. He lets out a soft sob, breathing deeply when he can and pushing down. Biting the cushion harder as he pushes, a low scream leaving his throat at the burning sensation. Before he's shuddering as the head emerges, a wail getting stuck in his throat. He touches gently as he pushes again, feeling the curves of his baby's face.

Tears rolling down his own at the burning pain going through her center, his other hand shooting down to catch the baby. Sobbing openly as the baby slides down in a rush of fluids, John automatically bringing the baby up towards his chest. Crying as he pats the baby's back, shaking a bit from the adrenaline and the pain, bringing the baby away from his body.

Smiling a watery smile before he's trying to clear out their airway, until a wet cry fills the air. A breath of relief coming from John’s mouth, he had been terrified he would be delivering a baby who would never cry.

"Hi sweetheart...hi, I know, it's cold. You're okay, I've got you." John whispers hoarsely as he shrugs off his flannel shirt, shaking a little as the cold air licks at his sweat soaked white undershirt. The baby crying still, John wiping at his eyes slightly, before he's smiling softly. Swaddling the baby up in his shirt and nuzzling their cheeks together.

"Hi Ruth Adelaide'" He murmurs as he brushes his nose against her's softly, her little cries quieting down. Listening to the timber of his voice as he holds her close, brushing his hand over her sticky hair. Another crack of thunder and lightening filling the living room while they stare at one another.

John smiling as he looks at his baby, heart aching just slightly as he sees some of the features that he loves. The little upturn of her nose, soft pink lips, her hair a dark blonde color but curly like John's own. She was so tiny in his hands, fitting in both of his palms with a little overhang from her legs, her skin holding a pink tinge to it under the goo.

Laughing wetly he looks at his daughter, bringing her up for a gentle kiss to her forehead. Before he's groaning at a pain shooting down his stomach into his pelvic bone. Holding her closer to his chest, as he rests a hand on the couch to support himself. Entire body tensing with the pain rolling through him.

"Bucky?! It's Johnny and Benny! Where are you?!" Brady calls as they come in from the rain, soaked to the bone and shivering slightly. Benny trying to turn on one of the light switches, looking up when it doesn't even flicker. Before Brady is heading in from the front hallway, jaw dropping as he sees John kneeling by the couch. Naked from the waist down, a baby cradled in his arms while he looks up. His black curls falling onto his forehead, cheeks flushed a rosy color. Brady drops his jacket on the ground with a wet slop, making Benny look over. His own jaw dropping slightly before he's following his fiancé quickly.

"Oh my god, are you okay? We came to check on you, the power was out at our house when we got back. Jesus Christ John." Brady says slightly breathless, hearing as Benny runs to get towels and a pair of scissors. The older man laughs quietly and nods his head, wincing as another pain flares up his middle. Turning the baby to show to Johnny, a smile forming on the brunet's face. Seeing the baby looking around, alert and curious as John cradles her close.

"Ruth, her name is Ruth Adelaide." John states, Brady smiling softly as he looks at her again. Nodding his head a bit before he's watching as John's face contorts in pain. Brady looking at him in concern, listening as Benny comes running back down with a handful of towels. A baby diaper in one hand and the blanket that Mrs. Ellis knitted together in the other. Stopping and dropping things onto the other end of the couch to free his hands.

"What's wrong John? What hurts?”

“Did you call the midwife?"

"Just feels like more contractions...l know I have to pass the after birth. But this is just like it was when I was having her...I called, she didn't know when she’d get here." John answers, slightly breathless towards the end as he's overtaken by another contraction. Reaching with one hand to grab the cushion, Brady shifting to kneel next to his friend. Trying to support him, taking the scissors from Benny to snip Ruth's cord. Gently handing the baby off to his fiancé, before he's trying to help John. The older man whimpering just a little as he shakes with another contraction.

"You're sure it was just one? The midwife confirmed it?" Benny asks as he carefully puts a diaper on Ruth, the little girl fighting sleep as she lays there. Before he's swaddling her up in the blanket, gently patting her butt. John groans into the cushion where he's got his face buried in, gripping the material tightly. Brady wincing as he watches, reminding himself to never ever do this.

Eyes widening as he watches John tuck a hand down under himself, Benny wincing a bit at the pained sound to leave his friend's throat. John whimpering at the burning feeling of already abused and torn skin clenching with a contraction.

“She said it was one...she listened to the heartbeat last week. Oh my fucking god." John gets out as his eyes screw shut, already feeling ripped from the inside out. Hand shaking as he tries to feel himself again, wincing at the tenderness. Pulling his hand away to see fresh blood coating his fingers, breathing deeply as he leans into the couch more. Brady kneeling next to him wide eyed as he watches, not sure where he can help.

"Do you want to switch positions? Maybe it's the afterbirth? My ma always said it wasn't a pleasant experience." Benny offers as he looks at his friend before looking at his fiancé, seeing the way Brady has gone a little pale. His blue eyes staring at John, watching as the older man rocks slightly while another contraction comes up.

Before Brady is moving to rub John's back softly, peering down to try and see if he can see anything. John not having the energy to bat him away, muscles tensing as pain licks up his spine. Burying his face back into the couch while he pushes again, Brady's jaw dropping again as he watches.

"J John...Bucky I think you're having another one. I swear to god there's another head." Brady says as he looks at his friend, the man groaning while bringing his hand back down. Touching the gooey mess, feeling just like he did with Ruth, a broken sob coming up his throat. Body tensing, back bowing up at the hot white pain flaring through him. Brady wincing as he reaches for a towel to try and help, John pushing again while biting the cushion harder.

"You're doing good John...we've got you now." Benny says as he gently lays a sleeping Ruth down on the couch, coming to kneel on his other side. Brady looking over the broad expanse of John's shoulders at his fiancé. Benny nodding softly as he grabs another towel and rests it on the ground between John's thighs.

A hiccuping cry coming from Bucky's throat, pushing again as he sobs. Tears wetting the cushion and his arm, he was exhausted, he was hurting everywhere. He just wanted it to be done, but he was glad he wasn't alone anymore. Feeling Brady’s warm hand touching his spine soothingly, while he rocks just a little bit. His toes curling again as he pushes once more, sobbing in frustration now.

"Feels stuck in my pelvic bone...can't get it out. It’s gonna break me. Oh fuck." John grunts out after he's pushed another round, Benny biting his lip before he's getting behind Bucky. Grabbing the older man's hips and pushing them forward so he's upright more. Brady watching with a bit of fear licking up his chest, John looked like he was bleeding a lot.

The rug underneath him was soaked, and he had never seen Bucky cry before. But watching as Benny got him into a different position was almost heartbreaking. Listening as John openly sobbed again while he pushed, Benny grabbing a towel to lay across his lap. Ready to help one of their best friends, Brady looks at John again.

"John, you're the strongest person I know." Brady states, watching as Bucky turns his head slightly in confusion. Face pinching up slightly as he pushes, entire body tightening with it. An almost high pitched noise coming from his throat, the baby shifting in his birth canal.

Moving lower now, Benny letting out a soft sigh in relief, he wasn't sure what he was going to do if this didn't work. He just remembered watching the midwife do this to his ma when she was having his youngest sister. Brady offers his hand to John, feeling as he curls his big hand around his own slender digits, squeezing.

"Please, please I can’t. Please just…oh fuck." John whimpers out, his hand reaching back to touch the baby's head as it emerges. His body shaking a little at the strain, Benny bringing the towel up to try and help dab away the blood. John whining at the burning rough feeling of it touching ripped skin, breathing deeply as he pushes again. Brady peeking down and letting out a little incredulous laugh.

"Holy shit! John! It's right there! Keep going!" Brady says as he looks at his friend, wrapping his hand around Bucky's bicep slightly. Squeezing gently while Benny shifts to try and help the baby out. John sobbing as the head comes out all of the way, Benny quickly grabbing for the cord wrapped around the baby's neck.

Unraveling it before John is pushing again, the shoulders beginning to come out. Benny hooks his thumb under one shoulder, carefully and gently helping the baby slide out into the towel. John falling into the couch slightly, panting and shaking, waiting for his baby's cries to fill the air.

"John!? Mr. Egan! It's the midwife, Carole!" A woman calls as she comes rushing into the house, gasping softly as she sees the three men. John quivering where he's kneeling against the couch, a wet cry filling the air from the baby.

Bucky letting out a deep heaving sigh of relief, tears welling in his eyes again as he tries to reach back for his baby. Brady quickly going to help him, Benny passing the baby through John's thighs. Before John is accepting his newborn against his chest, his white shirt was already soaked through. Blood, amniotic fluids, sweat, and probably tears marking the material.

"They’re so tiny...will they be okay?" John asks after they've got him situated so the midwife can check him over. It having taken Brady, Benny, and Carole all to carefully shuffle John around. A towel being placed under him now to cushion his butt, his back resting against the couch in his exhaustion. An ambulance having been rung when John’s power suddenly flickered on, both Brady and Benny hovering nervously.

Placentas had been birthed one at a time, much less intense than either of the babies had been. His legs splayed out in a butterfly like position, adrenaline still coursing through him. Muscles shaking and quivering from all of it, Carole between his legs making sure everything has passed. He was still slightly in shock that there were two babies inside of him and not the one he had originally thought.

The baby in John's arms is staring up at him, pretty blue eyes the exact same shade as his father's. Cornflower blue, with John's nose, pink plush lips just like his sister's. Brady holding her now, smiling softly as he looks at both of the babies. Benny kneeling next to John still, holding a glass of water to help the older man sip at slowly.

"They are both small, but they were also born close to six weeks early. The fact that they both cried after they were born is really important, you did amazingly well John. I'm so sorry I couldn't get here sooner. You have some tearing so I'll have to stitch you, but you did incredibly well. The ambulance is going to have to take you three in, they will most likely keep you for observations too." John nods softly and looks down at his son again, wincing when the midwife adjusts his legs. Rubbing his fingers down the gooey head of his son, dark just like his own hair but straight. Not a single curl in sight, watching as the baby turns his head and roots around slightly. John carefully adjusts him, helping him to his nipple, sucking in a breath at the odd sensation.

"What's his name Bucky?" Benny asks softly as he watches his fiancé hold Ruth, John smiling softly as he runs his hand down the side of his son's face. Feeling as he suckles at his nipple, before he looks over at his daughter. Sleeping peacefully in Brady's arms, he knew he would have to wake her soon to try to feed her too. His hand reaching out to gently brush over her matted down little curls, her little nose scrunching up in her sleep.

"Milo...Milo Curtis." John says the middle name quietly, Brady looking up at him in understanding. Brushing his hand over Ruth's hair gently, watching as her little face scrunches slightly. Smiling a little when he sees some of John’s features shining through. Looking back at John before all of them are looking over at the ambulance pulling up outside of John’s home.

———————

“You must be their mama…my name is Julie, I’ll be watching over them. And from my understanding a happy birthday is in order for these two…December 27th, 1945. They made their arrival a few weeks early eh?” A nurse asks smiling softly as she looks at both of the twins in their little incubators. Ruth had taken her turn to nurse on the ride over, Brady had ridden over with them all. Midwife Carole also staying with John, knowing how terrified John was at the moment.

The twins were doing well all the way up until they had gotten onto the maternity ward, when suddenly Ruth’s little lips turned a blue shade. Then Milo was sounding like he was choking, and both babies had been taken to the specialty ward. While John had been taken to a separate room, Brady had stayed with John, unable to go with the twins. While Carole relayed everything to the doctor on call, explaining what had happened. Before she had promptly told the doctor to leave the room, his derogatory remarks were not needed.

Which was how John found himself with the head midwife at Carole’s clinic coming in to take care of him personally. The man finally being allowed to go in and see his babies, both of them looking tiny. Little breathing tubes in their noses, but they were relatively healthy. The midwife had assured him they wouldn’t be in here long, they just needed a little help with breathing.

But because they had already nursed well from John it was a good sign, it meant they were developed well. They had just made their arrival early, that was the case for most twins according to Carole. She was upset with herself for missing that there were two the entire time, but it was also not an exact science. John had delivered two beautiful, healthy babies with little to no assistance.

“I’m…I’m sorry, what did you say the date was today ma’am?” John asks as he looks at the nurse, the woman smiling from where she’s been gently adjusting the little blankets on the sleeping babies. John staring at her for a moment, before he’s looking back down at his children again.

“It’s December 27th, Carole said you’d delivered both of them mid afternoon. Around 2 and 245, this dang freak storm really knocked a lot out for a lot of people. She also said you did a lot of it by yourself, that isn’t something many mothers can say. You did an excellent job, they won’t be in here for very long.” Julie tells him, John looking at his babies with a little bit of sadness that they were even in the incubators to begin with.

If his body had done what it was supposed to, they would still be safely inside of him still. Maybe if he hadn’t of tried to move the crib, if he had rested more, if he had drank more water, there had to be something that he could have done to prevent this. He watches as both babies sleep peacefully, wishing he could hold them both again. Julie stepping out after a few minutes to give John some time with his babies.

“I’m sorry…mama is sorry.” John whispers as he sits there, the tears beginning to fall before he can stop. His entire body was sore, his groin was on fire, he had stitches, he was bloated still. He just wanted to be at home, he wanted to be up in his bed with his babies in their bassinet.

John lets himself cry quietly as he sits in the wheel chair that was provided for him, situated between the twins incubators. He lets himself feel the emotions without having to tamp them down, even if it’s just for a few minutes. Needing to let it all out, every feeling he had had that was bottled up spilling out.

-2 weeks later-

“Gale…wow, how are you?” Brady says in shock as he looks at the tall blond standing on his porch, Brady wiping his hands off on a towel. Clocking the bag next to Gale’s feet on the ground, the older smiles softly as he looks at his old comrade. Tooth pick tucked into the corner of his mouth, aviators slid into the breast pocket of his button up shirt. He’s trying not to stuff his hands in his pants or wipe his sweating palms down.

“Hey Johnny…I’m sorry to drop by unannounced, I was passing through. Thought I’d stop by and say hi.” Gale responds as he relents and tucks his hands into his pockets, smiling at the younger man. Before he’s being enveloped in a hug, looking up when he hears footsteps.

Seeing Benny coming from the kitchen, not realizing that someone is at the front door as he opens his mouth to talk. Wiping his hands off on a dish towel, fingers stained with cream colored paint. The tanned man having been working on finishing up the second crib for the twins, not that they would need it soon. But Benny was bored, he had two weeks left before he got to go back to the air field.

“Johnny, do you know if Bucky liked that pasta dish I made last time? Was going to make extra and drop it off for him…oh…oh hi Buck.” Benny says eyes widening slightly when he sees the blond, Brady’s body having gone stiff for a moment. Pulling away from Gale slowly, he turns towards his fiancé with a little glare.

While Gale stands there, chewing on the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. Brain finally registering that they’ve said the name of the man he’s been searching for. He had gone to Manitowoc first, but the first person he came across at the bus station had told him John had been long gone. There was plenty of gossip and rumors around town, some as crazy as John being pregnant were floating from what Gale could make out.

“I uh, I didn’t know John lived around here…”

“Yea, not many people do.” Brady responds, his voice slightly clipped now, as he looks at his old Major, seeing the way he shifts slightly. Their eyes meeting as Gale realizes Brady must know something about John that he doesn’t. A little sour twirl starting to spin in his stomach as he stands there, before Benny comes closer. Chewing on his lower lip, knowing he opened his mouth when he shouldn’t have. Gale clears his throat softly as he stands there, taking a deep breath and suddenly wishing he had a cigarette. He had started kicking it about two weeks ago, after he had spilled everything to Marge.

“Does he live close by?”

“Listen Gale, I know to an extent what happened. I don’t know if John would want you to come around unannounced. You can stay with us if you want to, or there’s a motel in town. But, I don’t know if I should tell you where he’s at. He’s my friend too.” Brady states as he looks at his Major, seeing the way he swallows thickly. Jaw feathering just slightly where he’s got it clenched, the tooth pick in his mouth bending just a sliver. Benny looks at his fiancé, before he takes a deep breath. Deciding against his better judgement as he looks back at Gale. Watching as the blond nods his head slightly, before Brady is stepping back into the house.

“He lives down at the end on this side…if you make me regret telling you…Johnny is gonna come for both of us.” Gale nods softly in understanding, before Benny is reaching down for his bag. Quietly sliding it into the house by the front closet, nodding his head at his friend. Gale stepping down from the porch and going down the street in the direction that Benny pointed. Benny not hearing as Brady steps closer to him, leaning against the wall slightly.

“You better know what you’re doing Bernard. Or I’ll hold the twins while John digs your grave.” Brady says from where he’s standing in the front entry way, Benny turning to look at his fiancé. Both of them letting out deep sighs, the door being closed quietly.

——————

John hums softly as he lounges on the porch swing, Ruth and Milo tucked into his chest. They had just gotten home from the hospital two days ago, and John was in the trenches. John was a mess for the entire week and a half stay that they were all there. He had refused to come home without them, they had moved a bed into the room for him. Letting him be close to his babies, knowing it settled all of them.

His foot gently sways them all in the swing, the little breeze ruffling through his hair. The babies sleeping peacefully after their most recent feed, he was struggling with it. Struggling to make sure they got enough, if one wanted to nurse then the other was suddenly wanting to nurse. Or if he finished with one, the other was waking up ready to eat.

His supply wasn’t quite where it needed to be, in his opinion. But the midwife was happy with their weight gain over the last few weeks. Especially Milo, he had been born at only 4 lbs and 1 oz. While Ruth had been 5 lbs even, he had some catching up to do. Both of them were healthy though, and John was healing slowly.

He opens his eyes as he hears footsteps coming towards his house, expecting to see Benny or Brady. The two of them were consistently bringing him dinners, and had made sure his fridge was stocked for him to come home to. Choking slightly on his spit when he sees golden blond hair, gelled to perfection.

“Hi John…” Gale says as he stops on the sidewalk, eyes flitting over the older man, widening slightly when he sees the two babies resting on his chest. Mouth opening before closing, watching as John slowly rises from the swing. An almost pained limp to his walk, slowly coming around the banister on the porch. Clutching the two babies closer to his chest, both of them wearing cream colored sleep gowns. Little bodies tucked into half crescents, tiny toes and feet sticking out of the bottom of their sleepers.

“I, you.”

“Did you come here to take them to your precious Marge?“ John cuts him off, Gale wincing a bit at the almost hostile tone to the older man’s voice. Gale stepping a little closer on the sidewalk, watching as John steps backwards on the porch. His deep blue eyes not leaving Gale’s face, the usual warmth and tenderness that was always there before was now gone. Something twisting painfully in his chest, before John’s words are becoming clear in his head.

“They’re mine?”

“Of course they are yours, who else’s would they be? I know I was the slut on base but I never…” John trails off as he takes a deep breath, frowning softly and turning his head to glare at the tree in his front yard. He hates that tree, but he didn’t want to cut it down either, bringing in a deep inhale trying not to work himself up. Hearing Gale shuffle slightly on the sidewalk, looking back over at the blond man. Seeing him staring at his shoes, glaring slightly at the sidewalk.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Gale questions quietly, trying not to be angry but unable to bury all of it. He deserved to know that he was having children, he deserved that little bit. He looks up to see John staring back down at him, the babies on his chest looking tiny. Curled up in small balls, so little they could probably fit in one of John’s arms comfortably. One blonde haired and the other dark brown almost black, little curls sitting on one head while pin straight hair sat on the other. He couldn’t see their faces, could barely make out their profiles from where he was standing.

“You were the one who didn’t want me to tell anyone what happened. The one who said we would write, call, still see one another. And then refused to look at me when you left…so I took it as a sign. We don’t need you…we’re fine without you.” John says as he looks at Gale, watching as his jaw clenches. The setting sun hitting his face just right, accenting the wetness brewing on Gale’s lash lines. Something twisting painfully in John’s chest, even as he curls the babies closer.

Ruthie making a soft sound, nuzzling close to his nipple through his shirt. Rooting around as she smells her mama close to her, John stiffening slightly as he feels the tingling sensation in his chest. He did not want to pull his shirt up in front of Gale and all the block to see. But the thought of Ruthie starting to cry made his stomach twist and snarl itself.

“They’re half of me; half of you. I deserve to be in their lives John. That isn’t fair.” Gale watches as John slowly lifts his head up to look at him, before he’s stepping off the porch. Walking up to Gale so there’s only a foot of space between them, the blond fighting to keep his eyes up from the babies. Even if he catches the wet patches starting to form on John’s white t-shirt. Seeing the burning fire in John’s deep ocean orbs, his breath catching. Almost able to feel the anger radiating off of the older man.

“What wasn’t fair was how you asked me to not tell anyone what happened. What wasn’t fair was you fucking me and knowing you were going back to Marge. What wasn’t fair was making me fall in love with you just to rip it all away Gale.” John seethes as he stands there, looking at the blond haired man with venom in his eyes. His jaw clenched so tightly that Gale is worried for a second he’s going to crack a tooth.

Flinching slightly at what John has to say, he knew John would never raise a hand to him. If anything it had been Gale who had hit John in the past, he still remembers the crack of John’s nose in the stalag. He still remembered watching the blood bloom, the pain in his own chest a bare minimum to the knowledge that he had hurt the man he loves.

“I…Marge and I aren’t…I left her because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I missed you like someone would miss a limb. I love you John…and I have for a long time. I’m sorry I hurt you. I made a mistake, but that doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to get to know them.” Gale states as he looks at the older man, seeing the way his nose twitches slightly. His fingers tightening just a little around the babies cradled in his arms. Both of them now turning their heads to nuzzle close to his chest.

Gale wanting to reach out and touch their tiny feet that are exposed, wanting to know if they are as soft as they look. The little wrinkles on the soles of their feet looking like velvet. Their profiles more in view for him now, admiring the gentle slopes and curves of their faces. Skin the fresh pink of new babies who haven’t gotten used to the outside world yet.

“I was a good enough hole for you to fuck…you don’t love me Gale. You love what I gave you. Go away and don’t come back. Your biggest mistake was coming here. I don’t need you. They don’t need you.” John states before he’s turning around, wincing at the tugging in between his legs. He can feel that he’s damp and wet, he needs to change his padding. But he refused to let it slow down or hinder his determined march to his house.

Slowly climbing the four wooden stairs onto his porch, he opens the front door and nudges it closed with his foot. Gale watching him go, now understanding how John felt at the train station when Gale went home to Casper. His heart aching like John ripped out half of it and took it with him. He stands there for a few more seconds before he feels the rain drops coming.

#softmamawrites #john egan x gale cleven #john bucky egan #gale buck cleven #buck x bucky #clegan #brenny #lactating John #John Bucky Egan x Gale Buck Ceven #bitter bitch John #mama John 💕

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bonniebird · 11 months ago

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Aaron Hotchner x Reader

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Request: Hotch freaks out when he finds out you haven’t showed up to work on time like you usually do and thinks that something is wrong

Hotch frowned as he looked up, causing Rossi to pause mid-step as he approached the large desk covered with files that were between them. "You were expecting someone else." Rossi said in a half-teasing voice. Hotch nodded slightly and glanced toward the windows of his office and out over the bullpen.

"I was supposed to have a meeting with (Y/N) today. It isn't like them to be late." Hotch admitted and glanced at the small clock on his desk. Rossi frowned a little and saw Garcue hurrying past the open door as she gathered the others. He and Hotch fell into step as they headed in the same direction to see what the next case would be.

"There are roadworks not far from (Y/N)'s house. I imagine that's all it is." Rossi offered up and Hotch nodded. By the time Garcia had presented the case the others had also noticed your absence. Hotch excused himself to call you while everyone else prepared to board the plane. When he received no answer he sat at his desk thinking for a few moments. Prentiss knocked at his office door.

"Everything ok?" She asked and stepped into the room quickly when he glanced up at her. Rossi followed closely and crossed his arms, frowning to himself.

"I can't get hold of (Y/N).” Hotch admitted. Emily glanced at Rossi who gave her a slight nod. After a moment's hesitation, she left and informed the others that Rossi and Hotch would meet them on the case. Derek complained a little but beyond that, and a rather serious oath from Garcia on keeping them up to date, nothing held the team up as they left.

“You think I could be serious?” Rossi asked. He waited as Hotch tried several other numbers and went through the last few emails you sent him. “You trained this kid. That’s what’s worrying you.” Rossi summed up as he observed his friend and watched Hotch pause.

“(Y/N) planned on going into an entirely different field.” Hotch sighed with a sigh and pocketed his phone as he stood up. Rossi followed Hotch to the lift making it clear that he planned on going wherever Hotch went to try and figure out what was going on. They were going together or not at all. Hotch didn’t complain.

“So what? You think you’re responsible for the kid's lack of punctuality.” Rossi was verbally poking at Hotch now, trying to get him to open up. But he wasn’t going to. Not until they got to your place and found you hung over or came across you stuck in traffic on the way. At least Rossi hoped that was how they would find you.

*****************

“Guys. This way.” Garcia said as she passed the group. Sharing confused glances the team followed her, slowly exiting the lift and spotting Rossi talking with someone in a suit in Hotch’s office.

“Hey… what’s going on?” Derek asked, having had an uneasy feeling for a while now. Garcia didn’t say anything as she hurried to set up the screen in the meeting room. When Derek glanced at Emily she shrugged and gestured that they should follow her.

“Maybe (Y/N)’s sick or something.” Reid offered up hopefully. He and JJ followed behind Derek and Emily in tense silence after his comment. They slowly sat around the table while Garcia stared at her tablet. No one said a word as Garcia sank into her chair and looked up.

“As you know Hotch and Rossi stayed behind to find (Y/N). They expected that there was a delay with traffic or something…” Garcia trailed off and JJ reached over to grasp her hand trying to comfort Garcia enough to help her through what she had to say. When Garcia had recovered she pointed the remote at the screen. It beeped. A small sound that every member of the team would always associate with dreadful pictures and misery.

“That’s… that’s (Y/N)’s house. I helped repair the porch…. What. What’s going on?” Derek demanded and Garcia shook her head as she swallowed down a small sob.

“No one knows.” She blurted out. She looked flustered and began quickly muttering to herself.

“What!” Emily said as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Even with that security system that you helped set up?”

“Someone hacked in and made it loop a video and. And managed to disable all my security alerts for tampering. They used the system's connection to the wifi to drop out everything connected inside the house. Hotch spoke with the higher-ups and I have a small team helping me go over everything digital but even if we are able to get the original footage that they hide with their recording. It could take days.” Garcia said gently and winced as if she worried that someone would be upset with her.

“Are we sure that (Y/N) didn’t just go to visit family?” Reid asked hopefully as he stared at the picture of your house. He recognised it from the picture you and Derek had shown everyone after Derek had helped you. You’d been so happy. He couldn’t look away from the picture without his eyes stinging with tears. Emily frowned and shook her head.

“No. They wouldn’t have done that.” Emily muttered and cleared her throat unsure how much she detail should go into.

“Yeah. (Y/N) isn’t exactly close to their family. If anything they would go to Hotch with an issue.” JJ added, still grasping Garcia’s hand, though now just as much for her own comfort as Garcia’s. The group fell into a long heavy silence. They needed to do something, someone should be telling them to go somewhere. But they were trapped. Stuck in the weight of their emotions.

“Alright. Hotch is going over the house and he wants us to join him there. I’ve spoken to the director of the FBI and seeing as this guy took out six blocks of techno… whatever all at the same time and managed to override anything that could identify him, we have a no-holds-barred situation. The director thinks that this might be a practice run to higher-ups. The only catch is that we need solid evidence that (Y/N) has been kidnapped or attacked.” Rossi said as he hurried into the room and gestured for everyone to follow him out to the SUVs. The team was immediately on their feet and moving as if Rossi had broken them out of a spell.

“You wouldn’t have happened to imply that this could be a practice run?” JJ asked and Rossi chuckled.

“I may have impressed upon him the likelihood of it to some degree. Now let's find whoever has done this and bring (Y/N) home.” Rossi said as he called for the lift.

*****************

Emily stared down at the framed photo in her hands. She and Derek had flown out to meet with your family. The team had hoped you had a family emergency and the cyberattack just happened to coincide with you leaving. They knew it was unrealistic. You would have called Hotch. If you’d felt like you couldn’t tell Hotch, then Garcia would have been your next call. Once you’d gotten into the FBI Academy. You never went back home. They knew they wouldn’t find much to help them here. Emily held in a bitter chuckle as she realised they probably knew you better than any of your family members. She felt a tightness in her chest as she looked at the picture, about ten maybe eleven, holding a bat and wearing some kind of team uniform while grinning at the camera.

“I don’t see how I can be any more help. We don’t exactly get along.” Your mother admitted to Emily. Realising she risked alienating the older women Emily scoffed jovially.

“I don’t know. I think my mother would say the same thing about us. I like to think it isn’t true.” Emily tried to give a smile but she thought it may have come off more of a grimace from the way the woman opposite made a disapproving face.

“Ma’am the boxes in (Y/N)’s old room. Would it be alright if I went through them?” Derek asked. Emily was relieved that Derek had come back down from looking over your old room. The conversation had been awkward and standoffish. Emily wasn’t willing to listen to her criticism of you and your mother wasn’t willing to speak about anything else. It hadn’t exactly made for a pleasant chat. The woman shrugged in a careless way that made Derek and Emily share an irritated look.

“Sure. You can go ahead and take them and the ones out in the garage.” She waved a dismissive hand and shuffled off to get another drink from the kitchen. Emily helped Derek gather the boxes from your old room and carry them out to the car in one trip then they headed with him to the Garage at the side of the house.

“More than a little dismissive.” Emily muttered. Derek nodded as he opened the door to the garage with a loud rattle.

“They don’t get on and now (Y/N)’s missing. Maybe she doesn’t know how to feel yet.” Derek offered up hopefully, as if he wanted there to be a real reason behind her reaction, and Emily nodded as if she understood and felt the same way.

“I suppose…” She went to say something else until someone shouted. Turning in unison they found an angry-looking man, short, stout and red face. He hustled down a driveway of a nearby house and stomped across the road, his arms swinging so ferociously that it caused his green sweater to rumple up at his waist.

“What are you doing?” He snapped. He approached rather quickly and Derek lowered the box he had in his hands gently to the floor in case the man swung for one of them.

“Who are you?” Derek asked quickly. Emily looked around and couldn’t see anyone else. Your mother was still inside and she was fairly sure that she might have actually locked the door behind them.

“Never mind who I am. You can’t just help yourselves to things that aren't yours.” the man shouted. Emily pulled out her badge which silenced the man.

“You know the people that live here?” Derek pressed quickly. Emily could tell he was holding back from shouting at the man but with everything going on, she didn’t think it would take much for Derel to lose his temper. The way the man was shouting it wouldn’t take much for her to lose hers either.

“That poor woman putting up with that ungrateful child.” The man sighed out and shook his head.

“Alright. Why don’t you come and answer some of our questions?” Derek said as he pulled cuffs out from his back belt loop and cuffed the man who began to shout. Emily took the last of the boxes to the car and reached for her phone to update the others.

Derek and Emily returned to the BAU office late that evening. Derek had interrogated the man who turned out to be a neighbour. While he was certainly a creep, according to Garcia, there was no way he could be the unsub. The team slowly went through all the boxes they had brought back hoping for anything that might help. It was late in the evening. Reid was skimming through old diaries while JJ and Derek went over paperwork. Garcia was sorting through any electronics while Emily and Rossi went through everything else. Hotch was finding links to your life at the BAU with your old life at home. Garcia had almost fallen asleep staring at a progress bar when an irritating chime started. Everyone looked at her as she struggled to find where it was coming from until she unearthed Hotch’s phone from a pile of cables.

“Hello?” Hotch said as he hurriedly snatched the phone from Garcia and answered it. There was silence on the other end while Garcia tapped frantically at her keyboard.

“Hotch?” Your voice cracked out in a weak echoed whisper as he put the phone on speaker.

“(Y/N). Where are you?” Hotch asked quickly.

“Don’t… know… others here. Rossi and I… we were close.” There was a shout in the background and the line cut out. Everyone turned to Garcia who became increasingly flustered.

“It wasn’t long enough for an exact location but I can give you a general area.” Garcia said. Hotch’s face hardened as he frowned but before anyone could jump to Garcia's defence he reached out to place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“That’s more progress than the rest of us have made all day. Reid helped Garcia. The rest of us should go through any cases that (Y/N) and Rossi have worked on together.” Hotch said as he gave a small smile to Garcia who beamed back at him and returned her attention to the laptop in front of her with even more determination.

“Rossi has been on the team the entire time that (Y/N) trained and became a full agent.” Derek pointed out and hurried to keep in step with Hotch who rushed towards his office.

“Yes, but Rossi was the one who did additional training with (Y/N).” Reid spoke up. Derek paused and frowned at him As they followed Hotch.

“I did (Y/N)’s physical training. Why not target me?” Derek asked. Hotch opened a cabinet in his office and pulled out several files.

“Because I took (Y/N) on the road a few times. Two cases before their training was finished. Four more after. Hotch wanted to be absolutely sure that (Y/N) would do well here. He found them in the academy. Coming straight to the BAU…” Rossi trailed off and everyone made noises of agreement. It was a hard job. They understood the string of tests even if they were upset that they weren’t informed.

“Well. Six cases, that narrows it down a huge amount. Plus with the preliminary profile of the hacker and Garcia working on the location…” Emily started eagerly. The pile of cases on Hotch’s desk gave the group hope they hadn’t had since Garcia had filled them in.

It didn’t last long.

“GUYS!” JJ shouted as she ran to the door. She gestured for everyone to follow her to frantic to explain what was happening. Rossi grabbed the case files and followed after everyone, Hotch two steps behind him. His eyes fell on the large screen with the news playing some kind of report.

Garcia was standing in front of the screen, her hand over her mouth. JJ had come to a stop next to her, putting her arm around Garcia while Emily stood next to them, frozen in horror as she stared at the screen. Derek shook his head, unable to look and took a seat while Reid blinked several times and gave up on keeping his tears hidden. Rossi would have given everything to have never walked into the room at that moment. Though he imagined Hotch felt that more than he did.

“You have eleven hours left.” The screen said and then cut to a stunned reporter.

“I am sorry folks for what you’ve just seen. It appears that we have had some issues with our technical equipment.” The reporter finished and then they cut to an ad.

“JJ can you…” Hotch said grimly.

“Yeah. Already on it.” JJ said as she grabbed at the phone on the table. Derek watched as Hotch and Rossi rushed to their offices to get hold of the news station while JJ called some of her contacts.

“What did we miss?” Emily asked as she and Derek hurried over to Garcia who was scrambling to get a copy of the whole footage.

“They were hurting someone on there.” Garcia waved a hand at the screen, her chunky jewellery clunking as she did. “But (Y/N). Look.” Garcia turned the laptop. Emily and Derek leaned in, looking at the dim blurry picture. Derek snapped up to his full height when he realised that it was your face in the background to the left of the gore on the screen.

“We have our proof for the director.” Derek muttered and sighed, shaking his head. He’d hoped more than anything you’d just skipped town for some reason and you’d show up and laugh it off.

“Hotch isn’t going to take this well.” Emily muttered and glanced at Garcia who had been staring tearfully at your face on her screen.

“I think I found an overlap.” Reid said. He’d gone so quiet that in the hubbub no one had noticed him sitting down to compare a printout of Garcia’s map to the maps in the case files you’d worked on with Rossi. When Hotch came back to inform the group that he and Rossi were planning on going to the station with JJ he found them huddled over the map.

“We’ll stay here. Reid’s onto something.” Derek said as he stepped away to quickly fill him in on what Reid had found. Hotch nodded, turned to leave, then hesitated and turned back to Derek.

“Don’t go anywhere without backup.” Hotch said firmly. Derek agreed and went back to the group as Hotch led the way to the lift. JJ and Rossi were silent as the doors closed, sharing only a quick glance. The anger radiating from Hotch was a rare thing and it made the air heavy. They both understood the look that they shared. For you or the unsub. This case wasn’t going to end well.

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#aaron hotch x reader #bonniebird #criminal minds

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