#y’all he nailed that pasta sauce

[leggeteconme]

Date night <3

He made the pasta and I bought the flowers :)

#date night #food #pasta #flowers #tulips #personal #y’all he nailed that pasta sauce #marinara. bacon. mushrooms. olives. smidgen of soy sauce. muah. #i’m keeping this one <3 #(the man. not the pasta recipe. actually no i’m keeping both)

[desiraypark]

Stuck in the Mud

Characters: (Late) 60s!AdamSackler x Joyce (Black/Female OC) x Baby 

Content: New parent blues. Growing pains. Woodstock ‘69.  Y’all know what this picture does to me. 

August 15, 1969

“This is such fucking bullshit...” Adam mumbled. He pounded his fist against the steering wheel. “This is SUCH fucking bullshit!”

Her shirt lifted so that air could hit her belly, Joyce held her hand out the passenger window, letting the smothering air float through her fingers. All afternoon, she listened to Adam complain about everything. While everyone abandoned their cars to join the chaotic fun, Adam and Joyce sat in their borrowed car, bickering like the married couple they were. 

“Look at those fucking idiots still jumping the barricade. The festival is shit, just walk through. Fuckin’ assholes...”

Joyce released an exasperated sigh.

“Say it,” Adam said. “Fuckin’ say it.”

“Say what?”

“Say what’s on your mind.”

“There’s nothing on my mind, Adam.”

Adam scoffed and chewed his lip. “I hate when you fuckin’ do that.”

“Hate when I do what, Adam?”

“Pretend like you’re not mad about shit and then call me by name after every fucking sentence.”

“You know what I am about to get mad about?” Joyce asked.

“What?”

“You fuckin’ cursing at me like I fuckin’ did something to you!”

“I’m not fuckin’ cursing at you!” Adam argued.

“Yes, you fuckin’ are!”

“I’m fuckin’ NOT!!!”

Joyce rolled her eyes and reached behind Adam’s seat. She lifted the lid of the Thermaster cooler and pulled out a sandwich. “You want your sandwich?”

“No.”

Joyce huffed and pulled out a sandwich, a bottle opener, and a bottle of 7Up. First, she opened the soda and took a sip. Then, she pulled the foil away from a lake trout sandwich she’d made the night before. 

“Is that fucking fish?” Adam asked, face contorted.

“Yes, Adam. Yes, it’s fucking fish. You watched my fry the fucking fish last night.”

“I can’t take Ray’s car back smelling like fish!”

Joyce chewed on the inside of her mouth. Then, she grabbed the door handle and climbed out of the car with her food and drink in hand. Suddenly, she appeared in front of the car, and Adam watched her walk down the road. 

“Joyce? Where the fuck are you going?” he called out of the window. Without turning around, Joyce stuck her middle finger up and continued down the road.

ONE MONTH EARLIER

Joyce unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment, contemplative. Adam followed her inside, holding a box of pizza. He kicked the door closed, and Joyce jumped as if a lightbulb had gone off in her head. She rushed to Boots’ bedroom and looked inside the crib. Yes, she did pack Teddy.

“You didn’t fuckin’ forget anything, Joyce!” Adam shouted from the kitchen.

Joyce sighed. “I know.”

Just as she’d turned around, Adam was gliding into the bedroom--a singular step of his equated to two of hers. She wrapped his arms around Joyce’s waist and pulled her close.

“We’re going to go into this kitchen, we’re going to eat this fucking pizza, then we’re going to fuck all night.”

Joyce laughed. “I know the itinerary, Adam.”

“The baby’s fine,” he said.

Joyce looked down, but Adam lifted her face by the chin. “Say it.”

“The baby’s fine,” Joyce repeated. 

“Your sister has two fucking kids, she knows what she’s doing.”

“I know, I know,” Joyce said. She pulled away from Adam’s grip and paced the bedroom. “But what if something happens? What if she gets sick? What if she eats something she’s allergic to and we don’t know she’s allergic to it?”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Smalls,” Adam said. He took Joyce’s hand. “Come the fuck on before the food gets cold.”

Adam pulled Joyce through the living room and suddenly, the phone rang.

“Don’t answer it!” he said, tugging on her hand. Joyce pressed her nails into Adam’s wrist.

“Ah! Fuck!”

As she turned on her heels to grab the phone, he smacked her ass. 

“Hello?” Joyce answered. “Hey, Ma.”

Adam rolled his eyes and faked pain--hunching his shoulders and touching his chest.

“I’m doing alright, and you?” Joyce asked, biting down a smile. Adam fell to the floor slowly and dramatically. “Oh, that’s good to hear...”

Joyce covered her mouth as Adam stretched out on the floor, panting and panting until he let his head fall to the side. He closed his eyes and let his tongue hang out like roadkill. 

“We’re doing alright. Laurie is actually over at Jessica’s for the evening...just to give us a little time off...”

Adam opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling. Suddenly, he lifted his hands and pressed his fingers against an invisible waist. 

“...well, Ma, I surely don’t want to drive from New York to Philly just to bring my newborn baby for a weekend, and I sure wouldn’t have you and Dad drive all the way up here for it...” Joyce said. Her eyebrows furrowed at the sight before her. 

“Uhhh...” Adam moaned. “Your pussy is still so tight...”

Joyce kicked the coffee table to get Adam’s attention, but he only chuckled. “Well, she’s still a newborn to me...”

Adam began to thrust in the air. “Fuckkkk...am I fucking you good baby?” He increased the pitch of his voice, imitating Joyce. “Yes, baby, yes!”

He lowered his pitch to imitate himself. “How good?”

“I can feel your dick in my belly!” he moaned, imitating Joyce again.

Joyce covered the phone’s mouthpiece and turned her back to Adam. “I don’t know, something weird on TV...well, how about this, how about you two come up here and stay for a weekend, some day?”

Suddenly, Joyce felt the sofa cushion dip behind her. Adam placed soft kisses against her shoulder--bare under the spaghetti straps of her striped tank-top.

“Well, look, Ma--me and Adam are about to eat dinner, I’ll call you back in about an hour?”

“You’ll call her back tomorrow,” Adam whispered. He cleared his throat and leaned over Joyce’s shoulder. “Hi, Mrs. Martin!”

“She said, “Hey, baby”,” Joyce said. She wiggled her shoulder to relieve herself of the pressure of Adam’s chin. “Alright, Ma. Love you. Tell Daddy I said “hey.””

Joyce hung up the phone, turned around, and poked Adam in the chest. “You’re disgusting!”

“Grrrr,” Adam growled. He leaned in to take nibbles at her neck, making her chuckle and squeal. Then, she waved him away.

Just as the two of them rose from the sofa, the phone rang again. 

“Don’t answer it!” Adam shouted.

“It could be Jessica!” Joyce exclaimed. She picked up the phone and Adam scoffed and walked toward the kitchen. “Hello? Hi, Ms. Fran!”

Adam flew out of the kitchen and shook his head from left to right. “Yes, he’s here.”

Adam’s fingers curled, forming the shape of an invisible neck between them. Joyce smiled and held out the phone to her husband. 

DAYS LATER

“You know that arts festival they’ve been talking about?” Adam asked, walking into the kitchen with Boots in his arm. True to her nickname, Laurie “Boots” Sackler began wiggling her toes and kicking her foot, anxious to prove to her parents that she didn’t need them to carry her around anymore. But Adam paid her no mind--he only pulled her closer. 

“Good evening,” Joyce said, flashing Adam a smile as she stirred sauce in a pot. 

Adam leaned in to kiss her on the lips. “Good evening. How was your day?”

“My day was fine. And yours?”

Adam sat at the kitchen table, moving Boots onto the opposite side of him as she tugged at his shirt. “It was great. You know that music festival they’ve been talking about? Music and art?”

“Nope,” Joyce responded. She turned off the stove burner. 

“Well, there’s this arts and music festival coming to White Lake next month...”

“I have no clue where White Lake is...” Joyce responded. She walked to the cupboard and pulled out two ceramic bowls.

“It’s further north. Well, anyway. I got us tickets.”

“Oh, okay. Sounds fun. When is it, what time?” Joyce asked unenthusiastically. “What kind of art, what kind of music?”

“Janis Joplin’s gonna be there. Santana. Creedence Clearwater. Sly and the Family Stone...”

Joyce whirled around with big, bright eyes. “Sly and the Family Stone? Why didn’t you just say that in the beginning?!”

Adam grinned. “Well, it’s a three-day festival...”

“When will Sly and ‘em be there?” Joyce asked, dumping penne noodles into one of the bowls. Then the second.

“The second day I think. But I wanted us to go for all three days...” Adam added carefully. 

Joyce shook her head “no” and placed the pot of strained noodles back on the stove. “I’m not leaving my baby for three days.”

“We can take her with us,” Adam suggested, placing a kiss on Boots’ forehead. 

Joyce sighed and looked at Adam. “How far away is White Lake?”

“Joyce...”

“Yes?” she responded.

Adam stood up and walked over to Joyce, towering over her and staring into her eyes. “Let me take care of everything. I want us to start having fuckin’ fun again.”

Joyce’s neck snapped backward. “We always have fun! What do you mean?”

“We don’t really go out anymore, babe,” Adam said. He paced the kitchen floor with the baby as Joyce finished making their bowls. “We’re still fucking young and we don’t do young shit anymore. 

Joyce carried the bowls of pasta to the table. “Do I make you feel old, Adam?”

Adam’s shoulders fell. “No, honey...it’s just...we got married and had a baby, and now we’re just...stuck. Doing the same shit over and over again. And this wasn’t us before. We were always doing some new, crazy shit...”

Boots grabbed her father’s hair--dark and full like hers. “Now, the craziest shit we do is eat pizza and watch fuckin’ Bonanza with our fuckin’ pants off.” Adam gently pulled Boots’ hand away. 

“I don’t know, Adam. Let me think about it. Okay?”

____________________

August 15, 1969 

“We’re not moving anymore,” a bearded man had shouted down the road with his arms up. He and three other people had climbed out of their car, and he walked the road to warn the people behind him. He paced back toward his own car. “We’re done. We’re stuck.”

People had parked on the side of the road and walked toward the festival. Not Adam. He parked the car and pouted like a child. Hotels and motels were booked, so Boots stayed home. There were no vacancies anywhere near the farm in White Lake. Or Bethel. “Wherever the fuck we are,” Adam had said.

It was hot and sticky--and there had long been calls for rain. The land was already muddy from previous rains. What was supposed to be a two-hour drive felt like an eternity--it seemed that everyone in New York City was headed to the same place at the very same time. This wasn’t what Adam had in mind. This was supposed to be fun--not a fucking headache.

“So, what are we gonna do? Just sit here?” Joyce asked. 

“We were supposed to have a motel room. We’re supposed to be out there with everybody else. We might as well be back in Brooklyn watching the fuckin’ show,” Adam complained. 

Joyce grabbed Adam’s face and kissed him on the lips. “We’re here now. Aren’t we?”

“Yeah, we’re fucking here.”

“Let’s see what all the fuss is about,” Joyce said.

Adam nodded. “Okay. But we’ve got tickets. We’re not gonna be assholes and jump the fuckin’ fences.”

“Okay, baby.” Adam and Joyce walked around for about thirty minutes before irritation took over again. The place was muddy and there was barely room to move. No shelter from the setting sun. They’d barely checked out the art vendors before they made their way back to the car. 

____________________

“Joyce!” Adam called from the window. He hopped out of the car and called down the road again. “Where the fuck are you going?!”

Joyce turned around and walked backwards. “Stop making a scene, Adam!”

Suddenly, the ground under Joyce disappeared. She fell backward--ass first into a pile of mud. 

“Oh, shit,” Adam mumbled. Festival attendees scattered about at their cars covered their chuckles, while others were prepared to step away and help Joyce up. But Adam made it in time. 

“Fucking, shit, Smalls,” he said. Joyce pouted at her lost sandwich and soda and took Adam’s hand. She was halfway up when Adam suddenly broke out into laughter. Unable to control himself, he accidentally let Joyce’s hand go, letting her fall back into the mud.

“Adam!” she cried. 

“Shit, I’m sorry!” 

Adam held out his hand again, but as Joyce grabbed it, she tugged hard to pull him down on the ground with her. Of course, “Smalls” wasn’t big or strong enough to pull him down, but he’d lost his footing and fell forward beside her. This time, making all the onlookers burst into joyous laughter. 

“That’s right, get him!” a woman shouted in the distance. 

“Good old payback!” another said with a laugh. 

Adam and Joyce sat up--two 30-something year-olds--giggling in a pile of mud. 

Hours Later

Adam and Joyce walked the festival grounds with muddy backsides for a couple of hours. They met new people, bought a few pieces of art and jewelry, then made their way back to their car before the expected rain came down. They placed a blanket along the front seat and sat inside with the windows partially rolled down. Rain poured from the clouds and Ravi Shankar’s sitar filled the country night air. 

“I’m sorry,” Adam said after a seemingly never-ending silence.  “I just wanted to do something for you. For us.”

“And I’m enjoying myself, Adam,” Joyce responded. “It’s not ideal. But we said we wanted to do something fun and crazy right?”

“Forty dollars to come to this shit and we can’t even enjoy it. We can’t even see who’s on stage. Smells like fuckin’ piss and balls all over the place. We’ve got mud all over our asses.”

“You’ve put worse things on my ass,” Joyce interrupted. She bit her lip, then released a chuckle. Adam laughed, too. 

“Fuck. Maybe we’re not as young as I thought,” he resigned. 

Joyce sighed and rested her head on Adam’s chest. “Or maybe we’re just comfortable around each other. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with watching Bonanza with no pants on.”

Adam laughed. “Maybe we can spice shit up and fuck on each other every time Hoss gets into a fuckin’ fight.”

“We can watch the show, but if Hoss gets into a bar fight, you have to take your dick out.”

“YES!” Adam agreed excitedly. “And you have to suck it.”

Joyce burst into laughter again. “Blowjobs for Hoss fights, pussy-eating for Little Joe fights.” 

“Fuckin’ deal,” Adam agreed. They laughed together once more, then fell into a comforting silence.

“I’ve got an idea...” Joyce said, breaking the serenity. 

“What?”

She turned Adam’s face toward hers by his chin and kissed him on the lips. Then, she let the tip of her finger trail down his chest. “Let’s do somethin’ crazy right now...”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah...”

“We can’t take Ray’s car back smelling like--”

“You’d better not say smelling like fish!”

Adam laughed. “No, you smell more like sweaty...”

“Don’t you fuckin’ finish that sentence,” Joyce said.

He laughed again--like a mischievous and troublesome kid. Joyce bit her lip and ran her hand along Adam’s thigh. He let his hand slide under her shirt and over her belly. Then, he pulled his hand away, and used both hands to unbutton her top.

#i had no goal no outline no mission lol

[bellafarella]

Uncle Mickey

So I’m sure y’all have seen this picture :

Well, this adorable picture gave me inspiration to write this little piece of Mickey babysitting Franny for the afternoon, fluff and cuteness ahead.

Hope you enjoy! 💖

you can also read it here

**********************************************

Somehow Mickey got roped into babysitting. That’s why he’s at the Gallagher house - home, mid-morning with Franny. Kid’s cute but Mickey’s never spent alone time with her. He’s been married and living at the Gallagher house - taking over the boys room and making it their own - for six months now and the only times Mickey has spent with the little redhead girl is when Debbie is there or Ian is. He’s babysat her with Ian before but this is the first time without him. Debbie’s at something important that she didn’t wanna fucking say and Ian’s working so he got roped into watching her for the day. 

It’s nearing lunch and he could eat - not knowing what else to do with the kid, he says, “Hey, you hungry?”

She looks up at him from where she’s sitting next to him on the sofa. Franny nods with a smile on her face. She asks, “Can we get McDonalds?”

Fuck yeah we can get McDonalds, he thinks, trying to avoid swearing so much in front of her as per Debbie’s request. What he says is, “That’s a good idea actually.”

Franny bounces in her seat as Mickey gets up. “Common,” he tells her before making sure he has what he needs - phone, wallet, keys. Franny runs over to the entrance to grab her little shoes and put them on. It’s spring so it’s not too chilly out but Mickey tells Franny to run up and get a sweater before they leave.

Mickey’s wearing some dark jeans with a black tank top and a flannel grey shirt on top. They make their way down the stairs and when they leave the property to head towards the El, Franny takes his hand. It’s only a couple stops to the closest McDonalds. Franny sits on his lap in the train and an elderly woman smiles at them as she sits down across from them. “Aren’t you sweet.”

Franny smiles at her and says, “I’m Franny and this is my Uncle Mickey.” 

“Why you tellin’ people who we are,” he says to the little girl but he can’t help the little smile from spreading on his face hearing her call him that. She didn’t call him Uncle Mickey until a couple months into him living at the Gallagher house. He was just Mickey before, even though he and Ian were already married. 

“Hello Franny and Uncle Mickey,” the old woman says. 

Mickey smiles at her before the train stops. “Let’s go,” he says, picking Franny up off his lap and putting her down as he stands. She takes his hand and they walk towards the door. “Say bye to the nice lady.”

“Bye,” Franny says in her little voice as she waves at the lady with her free hand.

They walk the few blocks to the McDonald’s the whole time Franny asking Mickey “do you love it?” about anything she sees or thinks about. 

“Stop asking me stupid fucking questions,” He tells her and she just looks up at him and blinks. He lets her run inside the McDonald’s when they get there - all the way to the counter. “I want a happy meal,” Franny says from where she’s standing by the display of the toys that could be in her happy meal. 

“Okay let me get a happy meal for the kid and a big mac trio for me, coke for the drink,” Mickey tells the cashier. “What do you want to drink?” He yells to Franny.

“Apple juice!” She says, bouncing her way back over to him.

“And apple juice,” he repeats before paying for their meals. They stand off to the side, in front of the display where Franny talks to him about what each toy's name is and what they do. He just nods along, not paying any attention. 

The girl calls their order so he takes their tray and Franny follows him to a booth. They sit next to each other, eating their meals. The kid has her mouth full, ketchup smeared on her cheek and Mickey can’t help but laugh. He takes his phone out of his pocket and tells her to look at him. He snaps a picture of it and sends it to Ian and Debbie in a new group chat before putting his phone on the table and grabbing some fries, dunking them in barbecue sauce. 

His phone dings a few times so he picks it up and sure enough it’s the two ginger siblings fawning over how cute Franny is and Ian saying how cute Mickey is to have brought her to ‘Mickey Dees’. He sends at least six middle finger emojis back before putting his phone back down and listening as Franny taps at his arm wanting to ask him about her toy that she got - she got the one she wanted in the happy meal. 

*

After McDonald’s, they start walking when Franny spots a park, she asks them if they can go so he says why not, not knowing what else he was gonna do with her anyway until Ian or Debbie gets back. 

Mickey sits on the bench and smokes a cigarette as he watches Franny run around with her happy meal toy, showing it to other kids. He laughs as he watches her go up to the slide and go down head first, little badass. 

Mickey has time to smoke a couple of cigarettes as he watches Franny the entire time. Debbie threatened his life if anything were to happen to her precious angel under his watch. He’s seen what she can do, he definitely doesn’t want to fuck with her.

“Uncle Mickey!” Franny yells as she runs over to him. “Can you push me on the swing?”

“Sure,” he tells her, blowing the last of his smoke out of his nose. He tosses the butt of the cigarette to the side and follows where she leads him to the swing set. 

Mickey pushes her higher and higher as she laughs and squeals, gripping onto the chains of the swing, her toy secure in Mickey’s pocket where she didn’t want to lose it. He pushes her until his arms get a little tired then it’s time to go. He pulls his phone out of his pocket as they make their way through the park. He’s got a missed text from Debbie saying she’ll be home within the hour. Perfect. 

Mickey tells the kid and then takes her little hand in his before heading to the El and making their way back home. 

*

“I’m home!” Debbie yells as she opens the back door. 

“Mommy!” Franny squeals, hopping off the sofa and meeting her by the doorway separating the kitchen and living room. Franny hugs her mom where Debbie crouched down to squeeze her and kiss her head. 

“How was your day with Uncle Mickey?” Debbie asks her.

“So much fun!” She squeals, jumping up and down a little. “We went to McDonald’s and to the park!”

“Wow, what a fun day,” Debbie tells her, a grin on her face.

“And look what I got!” Franny shows her the toy from the happy meal.

“That’s great, baby.” Debbie pats her head and walks back to the kitchen. “Want a beer?” She yells over to Mickey.

Mickey yells back, “Yeah.” She makes her way back over with two open beer bottles, passing him one. She sits down next to him with hers, taking a long sip. 

“Your kid talks a whole fuckin’ lot,” Mickey informs her after taking his own long sip.

Debbie chuckles. “Did she ask you if you love it?”

“Non fucking stop!” Mickey can’t help but laugh with Debbie. “She’s cute though.”

“Damn straight.”

*

Ian gets home right before dinner, making his way inside after toeing off his shoes at the front door. He finds Mickey in the kitchen at the table with Franny and Debbie’s cooking dinner. “Hey guys,” he greets them.

“Uncle Ian!” Franny says turning to look at him. Ian grins at her and makes his way over when she says, “Look at our drawings!”

Ian grins at his little niece, taking her face and kissing it making her giggle. He looks at her drawing and one of Mickey’s and they’re both the same, it’s the two of them standing outside of McDonald’s. “Very nice drawings,” Ian tells her, ruffling her hair a little.

She giggles and grabs her drawing, running to show Debbie around the corner. Ian bends down and kisses Mickey on the lips softly once, twice, caresses his cheek with the back of his fingers, and kisses him one more time before taking Franny’s seat next to his husband. 

Mickey shakes his head, blush creeping up his neck. “Missed you today, looks like you two had a lot of fun,” Ian tells him, squeezing his thigh.

“Yeah, it was alright,” he says. “Missed you too.” Ian grins at him, making Mickey smile back before rolling his eyes and taking a sip of his beer.

“Stop blushing, Mick,” Ian teases him.

 “Shut up man,” Mickey says, making Ian chuckle. “She’s just fucking like you, never shuts up.” Ian’s laugh comes full force that it gets Mickey going too. “You’re the worst.”

“You love me though,” Ian says when his laughter subsides. He rubs his hand up and down Mickey’s leg when he says it too, getting him a little nervous, he can tell. 

“Can’t imagine why,” Mickey teases.

“Mmm, why don’t I show you why,” Ian flirts, digging his nails a little into his thigh.

“Settle down boys, it’s dinner time,” Debbie says as she makes her way over, dumping a huge pot of pasta on the table. 

“I’m gonna wash up,” Ian says as he stands. Before leaving the table the two feet to wash his hands in the washroom off the stairs, he leans over Mickey again to kiss him softly, winking at him.

Mickey watches him go, butterflies constantly in his stomach whenever he’s with Ian - that feeling never going away or dimming, not in the years they’ve been together, not since being married. It might have even gotten worse since they tied the knot. Mickey’s always in a state of will today be the day my heart beats out of my fucking chest?

Mickey watches him go and thinks that if this is how days will end with Ian after spending the afternoon with his new niece then he’ll happily watch her whenever Debbie needs him too.

#my fic #mickey milkovich #franny gallagher #ian x mickey #gallavich #gallavich fic #gallavich fanfic #ian x mickey fan fic #also read on ao3 #ao3 fic #ao3 fanfic #ian gallagher #debbie gallagher #shameless us #future fic #fluff #husbands #uncle mickey #MY HEART

[thepuckishrogue]

The Batboys in: “I’m late.” Take one.

A/n: Y’all ready for some cliches? No? Well too fucking bad because that’s what you’re getting lmao. This time around I’ve only got fills for Jaybird and Timmy-boy, but fear not--Dick and Older!Dami’s will be up sometime this week. For right now except these humble offerings, crafted in the thick of my sleep derivation... [This has since edited to match the AO3 version--my apologies to all who read that first, hella rough draft. Also! Part 2 is done now!]

Taglist [if you want in on some of this sweet, sweet tagging action just hit me up in an ask]: @aspiratinganxiety

Prompt: “I’m late.”

Presented For your consideration/entertainment:

Say the Word (Practice Makes Perfect) [Jason Todd x Reader]

Just because you weren’t ready didn’t mean that you didn’t want it...

You and Me Both, Babe [Tim Drake x Reader]

When you see an opportunity you take it. That’s one of the things he loves about you the most.

Say the Word (Practice Makes Perfect) [Jason Todd x Reader]

As you stare down at the single pink line on the tiny display your feelings are mixed.

On the one hand you’re hardly ready to raise a child, not when you still feel like a kid yourself most days, and that’s saying nothing of Jay’s chosen profession. Vigilantism is hardly conducive to home and hearth, after all. But despite knowing all of this you still feel… oddly crushed?

In the hours since your shaky murmur of “I’m late” was breathed into the crook of his neck, visions of little girls with inky ringlets and toddling boys with irises the color of a Caribbean tide had embedded themselves in your mind’s eye. With each minute that passed you allowed yourself to dream up a whole new life with Jason, one full of tiny giggles and toothless smiles and scabby knees. You saw your son seated aloft his broad shoulders, content and happy; your daughter on his knee as he read her his favorite Doctor Seuss book; you saw a future filled to bursting with things you’d never knew you wanted, knew you needed until that moment.

Hours to build up that new life in your head, and only two minutes to see it collapse around you.

“Is it weird that I’m a little disappointed?”

You finally tear your eyes away from the line, but you still can’t bring yourself to face the man that hovers behind you. “No,” you start after a few long seconds. “But it’s for the best… Right?”

You don’t know what Jay sees in your eyes when you finally meet his in the bathroom’s mirror, but you do know what you see in his—that same future that had shone so brief, but brilliant.

There’s a gentleness in his gaze, a fragility that leaves you choking on a sob. Before the first tears even fully form you’re being spun around and gathered up into his arms. Jason’s hands trail the length of your spine in long, lulling strokes even as you dig your nails into the muscles of his back and pull yourself flush against him. Your grip is firm bordering on bruising, but if it hurts him he doesn’t show it. He whispers words of comfort that echo in his chest, and reverberate through you. The feeling registers more than his voice, and while it’s calming in a way it still not enough.

“This is so stupid. Why am I crying? I’m not pregnant so I can’t even blame my hormones!” The sentences come between heaving breaths and gasping sobs.

“It’s not stupid,” he assures you, hands still working at soothing your quaking frame. “If you want a family with me honey, you say the word and I’ll give you one. But it’ll be on our terms, and not the result of a bad batch of birth control or a faulty Trojan.”

You laugh a bit at that, sniff loudly, then look up at him. You know you must be a sight—eyes and nose red and wet, face splotchy and puffy—but he still looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. Your answering smile is a small thing that trembles a bit with the last dregs of your breakdown, but it’s there and it’s real and it’s hopeful. You don’t know when the pair of you will be ready for a family, if ever, but just knowing that the option is there enough for now.

Jay returns your smile as he wipes away the wetness on you cheeks with soft motions and gentle hands. In the face of such tenderness and care there’s only one thing to be said—“I love you.”

“I know,” he says, and there’s no cockiness behind the words, only confidence in what the two of you share. “And I love you too.”

“That’s good to hear, especially after what I just did to your shirt.”

“What? You mean the scratching? Don’t get me wrong, you’ve got a hell of a grip babe, but it’s not nearly enough to do any real damage.”

“No, not that—but also sorry for that.”

“No harm, no foul, doll. Hey, that rhymed! Aww, come on now! Don’t roll your eyes baby—respect my flow.”

“Whatever,” you say around a laugh as you push away from him. “Go get some real bars and change your shirt.”

“Pssh. Please woman, my bars and my shirt are both tight as hell.” He pulls at the compression material then and releases it; how he manages to avoid pinching himself in the process is a mystery, but the audible pop of it snapping back in place leaves you with the impression that the action has the potential to be just as painful.

“Tight or not, I’m pretty sure that the Absorbent Tip TM was pressing into your back for a while there sooo... yeah. You might want to take care of that.”

It takes a second for him to realize what that means, but once he does…The look of mild disgust that flashes across his face leaves you snickering even as you apologize.

“You could at least pretend to feel bad about this, you know,” he says with a shake of his head. “But hell babe, if you wanted me to lose the shirt all you had to do was ask.”

The laughter dies on your lips as he reaches behind himself to grab a handful of the black tee; a tug and what has to be an unnecessary amount of flexing sees the clingy scrap of material removed and tossed away. Your eyes narrow as you take in your stupid, sexy, smirking, cocky cock of a boyfriend, but there’s no denying the wicked gleam in his gaze or the way it affects you.

You might not be ready to make a baby right at this very moment, but there’s nothing wrong with a little practice…

You and Me Both, Babe [Tim Drake x Reader]

Your home smells amazing right now.

The warm, hardy scent of fresh baked bread is cut through by the tang of herbs simmering in a tomato-based sauce. The meatballs—recipe compliments of Alfred—adds a richness to it all, while the lemon rinds that’re left over from the vinaigrette you’d whipped up earlier adds a nice, citrus-y note that, while not readily identifiable, does help to lighten the dense canopy of the more cloying aromas.

Though it smells divine, the spread is far from elaborate. Spaghetti and meatballs, breadsticks, and salad—hardly the meal one would expect the wife of the heir to the Wayne Enterprises throne to prepare for dinner, but then again one would hardly expect you to cook for yourself at all.

Driven by paranoia and practicality in mostly equal measure, both you and Tim decided against hiring someone to help around the house. Paranoia because, even if the dangers of his night job could be ignored, there's still a certain amount of caution to be exercised just from bearing the family name; practicality because, despite the square footage, your high rise apartment's easily maintained by the two of you. Keeping yourselves fed is a bit trickier given your schedules, but between Alfred occasionally dropping off pre-made meals (with heating instructions simple enough that even your husband in his base, half-sleep state can follow) and honing the magical skill that is meal prepping (this too is a gift imparted by the aging man, bless him) you have a solid, home-cooked meal at least four days out of the week.

Your phone chirps an alarm that tells you it’s time to pull the pasta from the heat; after a quick drain it’s tossed with the red sauce and meatballs before being transferred to a serving dish. The whole of the meal is then moved to the dining table and then you’re hurrying off to the other end of the flat to change (because while eau de marinara might work for spaghetti it does very little for you).

As with the meal, there’s nothing fancy to be found in your chosen attire. The sweater you slip on was actually Tim’s once upon a time—though after finding you puttering around his kitchen in nothing but the over-sized garment he had decided that it looked much better on you…

  “Keep it.”

You’d grown used to his ability to move about in virtual silence, but knowing what Tim was capable of didn’t leave you any better equipped to deal with it. Breathing in sharply, you whipped your head towards the man hard and fast enough that whiplash was a legitimate concern. You had fully intended to threaten him with a bell collar yet again, but the smile he gave you was so dopey, so damn lovesick that all the fight bled right out of you. Suddenly shy in the face his unabashed adoration, you quickly turned your attention back to the omelet you’d been assembling. A few seconds passed before you remembered the words that had startled you in the first place.

“Keep what?”

“The sweater,” he said, voice sounding from far nearer as he made his way towards you. A few long strides saw strong arms wrapping around your middle and lips at your ear. “Looks good on you.” The sentence was little more than a whisper, a breath of a thing that would’ve went unheard had he not been so close. His nose followed the curve of your ear upwards until he was able to press a lingering kiss to your temple.

Your breath caught and the rose dust that stained you cheeks deepened. The sweater. You’d honestly forgotten that you were wearing it.

You hadn’t felt like wresting yourself back into the restricting clothing you’d worn the night before, but walking around completely naked wasn’t an option you were willing to entertain either. Silly, given that he’d already seen you in naught but your skin, but still—‘leave something to the imagination’ and all that jazz. The thing was big and warm, almost too warm in the heated apartment, and still smelled like him. The V of the neckline and the sleeves both hung down far lower than what was necessary for your purposes; there was nothing to be done about the former, but the latter was quickly remedied with several cuffing rolls. Over the course of you washing, chopping, and whisking the various ingredients those cuffs had slowly loosened—more so on your dominate arm; annoying but expected—and the collar had drifted off to the left leaving the shoulder there on display. Having to constantly shrug the thing back into some semblance of order was annoying, but when a pair of warm lips pressed against the once again exposed skin.

Well.

Tim might’ve thought the sweater looked better on you, but you both agreed that it was at its best left in a careless heap on the floor.

  The memory is an old one, but it’s just as warm and vivid now as it was when you made it. It was the first time you had spent the night at his place, and though neither of you actively acknowledged it then, that was the day that you both knew you’d found the ever elusive one. Moments like that could never fall prey to the dulling touch of time.

The sleeves, so used to being cuffed after years of the action, roll into place effortlessly. Joggers are exchanged for a pair of jeans and then you’re swapping out your fuzzy socks for ones not covered in rogue marinara drips. You don’t bother with makeup though you do spare a few minutes to sort out your hair from the messy style you’d thrown it into before cooking. Satisfied with your appearance, you go to your purse and pull out the paper that confirmed what you already knew.

An absentee period combined with the three EPTs you’d taken yesterday was enough to convince you that your body did indeed have a new tenant, but much like your husband you liked redundancy so off to the clinic you went. Two samples later and Doctor Thomas was sending you on your way with a promise to put a rush on the blood analysis, and she’d kept her word. An hour after Tim had left this morning you were getting a fax full of medical jargon about hormone levels and percentages.

You still can’t make heads or tails of most of it, but the gist is clear—you’re going to be a mother. And Tim—your sweet, precious, adoring husband—is going to be a father.

Any trepidation you may have felt over the matter is instantly quelled by just the thought of him alone. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne is the most loving, caring, reliable man you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing, and cliché though it might be, you know that there’s nothing that you can’t face so long as you’re together.

You fold the paper over and tuck it into your back pocket, all the while smiling so hard that your cheeks actually begin to ache. A mom. I’m going to be a mom. The thought leaves you full of a joy that can’t be contained. It manifests itself in the bounce of your walk and the childlike swing of your arms as you head back to the dining room to ready the plates.

You want Tim as relaxed as possible when you give him the big news, not out of fear, but rather so he’ll have the mental clarity to properly process it. Though he does his best to shake it off during his commute, work has a tendency to follow him home; sometimes in the form of actual tasks that still need to be seen to, while others its complaints about the Board and their “–total lack of insight as to how the world actually works.” You have no problem with letting him blow off some steam, welcome it even, as it’s better than him falling back on his old habit of bottling everything up. You’re his sounding board, his anchor, a tether that will always pull him back to calmer waters. To this end you have many methods at your disposal, and at least several of them involve food.

Feeling kind of fancy, you decide to try to plate the pasta using that neat little trick that Alfred had showed you with the tongs and the spoon; it takes a few tries, but eventually you end up with two perfect mounds of spaghetti. Unfortunately this leaves no place for the meatballs except for around said mounds. You place them as artistically as you can, but it still ends up looking like something that could potentially summon the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

Eh well, I married a nerd; if anyone can appreciate it, it’d be him. The musing pulls a giggle from already smiling lips. 

The salad takes a lot less effort, though you do make a mental note to thank Jay again for linking you to those vinaigrette recipes. Habit has you reaching for wine glasses and a nice vintage, but then you remember the little bean growing inside of you and stop. You’ve heard it said that one glass of wine a day is actually acceptable, but you’re not so sure. 

Better safe than sorry, you reason as you fill them with water instead. Though it is something to look up. A fair bit of research is definitely in your future—well, Tim’s more so than yours. The man never braves any new territory without first arming himself to the teeth with every scrap of intel available to him, and you know that your pregnancy will be no different. 

With the table now fully set there’s nothing left to do but wait, and so you grab your phone and slump down in your seat. A quick time check tells you that Tim should be home any minute, but you’re too restless to sit idle. Needing something, anything, to save you from yourself you pull up a game on your phone and start swiping. The first few levels you tackle are defeated easily enough thanks to the power-ups you’ve been hording like some techno-centric millennial dragon, but once you run out you essentially hit a wall. A courtesy hour of unlimited lives means you get lost to the menial task, so much so that you don’t even realize Tim’s home until he shuffles into the room. 

“Hey sweets,” he says as he leans down to press a kiss against your forehead. “I’m late, I know, I’m sorry.” 

“Ten minutes is hardly ‘late’, love.” 

“Yeah, but still…” 

The exchange is as familiar as anything else in your relationship. Early on in your platonic days you had learned that Tim offering up his time to you was among the most significant displays of affection in his arsenal. Hardly surprising given that between the day job that is his necessity and the night gig that is his passion, there’s not much of it to be had that isn’t already accounted for. Free time was more often than not a concept for the man, not a reality, but he had made it more than clear that what little he had was yours if you’d have it. 

The moment his forehead leans heavy against yours you know you’re going to have to abandon your initial plan; he’s clearly world-weary and in need of some good news ASAP. Besides, you’ll never be able to forgive yourself if you allow a setup as prime as the one he just handed you to pass by. When you retell this story to your future child years from now—hell when you tell it to your family and friends over the next few days—this one-liner will be a distinct a point of quipping pride.

Really, you owe it to you all. 

Your lips curl upwards in anticipation of the sentence that will leave people both within and without the Wayne clan face-palming for years to come— 

“It’s okay, babe—I’m late too.” 

For his part Tim just blinks a few times in confusion, clearly ignorant of the excellence he’d just bore witness to. With his brows draw inwards and a slight pout on his lips he’s pretty much the human equivalent of a puppy; the curiosity that tints the sapphires that search your face for clarity does nothing to dissuade the image. The wide smile you give him is returned in kind, though the arching of a brow is a silent call for an explanation; when all the reply he gets is the folded sheet the second rises to join the first. He gives you an expectant look then, but you just grin and a nod towards the paper in his hand. His gaze is probing as he pulls the thing back to size without breaking eye contact, but there’s nothing of substance to be found in the mirth that dances in your eyes.

“Okay then,” he says on a laughter laced sigh. “I guess I’ll actually have to read this—wait. What is all this? Lab workups… Results…” His mumbles become near silent as he works his way down the page. “Human chorionic gonadotropin levels—hCG, hCG… That’s the pregnancy hormone. And at 7,480 units per milliliter…” 

He looks up at you, eyes suddenly glassy as he breathes out your name. “Baby, sweetheart—are you– I mean you have to be… Right?” 

You nod hard, not trusting your voice not to crack under the weight of your emotions. Faster than you can process the motion you’re being gathered up and squeezed tight. A flurry of Oh my god’s and declarations of love pour out of him as readily as his tears and your replies ring out in kind. You stay wrapped around each other for several long minutes before Tim finally pulls away enough to look at you. That same dopey, lovesick smile that had brought you to this place in your lives is back as he leans his forehead against yours again.

“We’re going to be parents.” His voice is awestruck in that way that says he can’t believe he’s managed to land on the right side of luck yet again.

“Correction: we’re going awesome parents. Way better than all those scrubs that let their kids run around terrorizing the general populace.” 

He laughs even as he shudders. “That’s for damn sure. God, there’s so much to do. How many weeks along are you? For that matter how long have you known? Are you feeling okay? I’m pretty sure you haven’t been experiencing morning sickness, unless you’ve been hiding it from me—you haven’t right? We’re in this together, sweetheart, so–”

You pull him in for a proper kiss then, knowing it’s the only way to stop the deluge of worries and words. He’s resistant at first, still trying to speak even with your lips smushed together, but kneading fingers at his nape sees that nonsense meeting a quick end. It takes a few long moments, but under your expert touch the tension has no choice but to drain away. 

“We got this babe. Yeah?” It comes out as a question, but your expression says that you won’t accept any answer other than a solid yes. 

“Yeah. We do,” he agrees, nod resolute and voice steady. “So Missus Wayne, what now?” 

“Now, we eat, Mister Wayne. Spaghetti Monster summoning charms wait for no man, or expecting mother for that matter.”

#Jason Todd x Reader #Jason ToddxReader #Jason Todd Imagine #Tim Drake x Reader #Tim DrakexReader #Tim Drake Imagine #Batboys Imagine #A little angst #A lot of fluff #It's all good #Nobody asked for this but idc #aspiratinganxiety #((Immy does fan fiction: the Batboys)) #This post has been edited for quality assurance.