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badwolfvexa · 1 day ago

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STRIKE MATCH

♡ NOW PLAYING : LAYLA BY STIFF RICHARDS

₊˚‧︵ SERIES MASTERLIST : Chapter 1/10 of The Art of Losing Control

pairing: college!jack abbot x f reader

summary : It’s 1999. The dorms smell like mildew and cheap vodka. Everyone’s pretending not to fall apart.

Jack Abbot wakes before sunrise most days. Boots on, uniform pressed, ROTC drills by five. His world is narrow: biochem labs, field exercises, a fraternity that feels more like function than fun. He’s clean cut in a way that’s rigid. He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it feels like it cost him something.

You meet him at a party he wasn’t supposed to be at. You’re drunk, glitter smudged, wearing your ex's shirt. He doesn’t look at you twice… which, of course, is exactly why you walk straight over.

content/warnings : Alcohol, smoking, mild flirtation, brief mention of injury (burn), class/military themes, gendered assumptions.

a/n: Surprise early drop! I know I said Thursday, but I wrapped this up last night and couldn’t wait to share. The next chapter will be longer, just wanted to take my time setting the tone for this one since it’s the opener.

word count : ~2,700

The House on South Sixth Street | Friday Night, 11:04 PM

The floorboards creak when you shift your weight. Everything smells like warm beer with a dampness to it, like someone tried to mop once and gave up. Somewhere, probably near the back of the house, there’s a leak that never got fixed. You can hear it. Drip, drip, drip.

You don’t know whose house this is. No one ever really does. It’s just the house on South Sixth, the one with the taped up mailbox and the basement that’s been hosting questionable music since freshman year. The walls are sweating. There’s condensation on the windows and someone wedged a box fan into the front window like it’ll do anything. It won’t. It just whines.

You’re standing near the kitchen and the basement stairs, letting the noise wash over you. Your drink is warm. Your lipstick is long gone. You’re wearing your ex’s old button down because it was the first thing you grabbed. It hangs loose over your tank top, sleeves rolled. One of the buttons is missing, not that you really care. Your jeans are ripped at the knee from when you dropped a soldering iron two weeks ago in lab. The burn scar’s still fresh.

There’s glitter on your cheekbone and a faint smudge of machine oil under your nail from fixing the busted chain on your bike earlier. The damn thing jammed on your way back from class, and you ended up fixing it behind the engineering building. You didn’t really mean to come out tonight, but your room was starting to feel too quiet—too full of problem sets, stripped wires, and the low buzz of your landline. You needed noise that wasn’t your own. And anyway, the assignment’s not due ‘til Monday. You’ll get it done. You always do.

Some Bucknell band is playing downstairs. You’ve seen them before. Finance majors with trust funds, the kind of guys who wear chipped nail polish for the aesthetic and call it 'subversive'. The lead singer spent one semester in Berlin and came back talking about Radiohead like it was a spiritual awakening... like OK Computer unlocked something in him. Now he’s snarling into a duct-taped mic about alienation and sex like he invented both. The guitars are too clean, like they’re afraid of sounding wrong, but trying not to be. The bassist’s barely in it. And the drummer, Jesus. He’s offbeat. Like he learned percussion from watching someone describe it. It’s almost impressive how consistently he misses the downbeat.

They’re trying to sell this whole tortured artist, “we’re raw and real” persona, but you can still hear the lacrosse practice in their vowels. They're cosplaying. Polished boys trying to pass for wreckage.

You’ve been here ten minutes and already hate most of the people in the room. Everyone’s either doing a bit or desperately trying not to look like they’re doing a bit. There’s a guy on the couch trying to read Infinite Jest. Another one in the kitchen explaining Joy Division like it’s a personality.

You’re about to leave when you see him.

Standing near the top of the basement stairs. Not leaning. Not drinking. Just standing. He’s tall, broad shouldered, with that stiff, pressed look that screams ROTC. Hair short, posture like a ruler. His shirt’s tucked in. Tucked. In. To jeans. At a house party. You can’t even see sweat on him, and this place feels like a sauna made of armpits and cheap vodka.

He doesn’t fit. Not at all.

And the best part? He’s not even trying to.

You watch him scan the room like he’s memorizing faces or exits or maybe counting how many people are about to fall down the stairs. He looks like someone who was dragged here by a roommate and is deeply regretting every second of it.

He doesn’t look at you.

And that pisses you off more than it should.

Because most guys here? They stare. At your tattoos, at your mouth, at the way your shirt slips off your shoulder. They look at you like you’re something they get to have. Not this one. This one doesn’t even flinch.

You take another sip. Feel the burn of shitty vodka hit the back of your throat. Smirk into the plastic rim of your cup. If he’s going to pretend not to see you, you’ll make sure he does.

You push off the wall, boots heavy on the floor, and start walking toward him. You spot the tension in his stance before you’re close enough to hear him breathe. He’s standing too straight. Chin level, hands jammed into the back pockets of his jeans like he’s trying not to reach for something. Probably used to giving orders, or taking them without flinching. Not drunk. Not even tipsy. He’s dry in a room soaked in sweat and cheap vodka.

You cut across the hallway, past a couple making out against the fridge, and plant yourself in front of him. Close enough that he has to look at you, really look at you.

He does.

For a second, he just stares. You’ve been looked at before: hungry, bored, possessive, curious. This isn’t that. He looks at you like you’re a question he didn’t plan on answering.

“Let me guess,” you say, nodding at his whole pressed, upright existence. “Military haircut, boots shined to hell, standing like you’ve got a stick up your spine. You get lost on the way to a Young Republicans meeting, or is this your version of fieldwork... studying how the rest of us fall apart?”

His eyes narrow immediately. His jaw locks.

“I’m not a Republican,” he snaps. Sharp. Precise.

You blink, mock offended. “Wow, okay. That’s the part you object to?”

His mouth twitches. Just once. “The rest wasn’t worth correcting.”

You laugh, sudden and real. “Jesus. What are you, like… military prep school, tax break trust fund, and a ten year plan laminated in your sock drawer?”

He bristles, and that’s when you know you’ve got him.

“No,” he says. Firm. “I’m on scholarship. ROTC. Biochem.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Damn. You’re serious."

“I have to be.”

That gives you pause. It’s not a defense. Just a fact. Matter of fact, like the way he breathes. You take a slow sip, tilting your head to examine him under the dim light. Even now, even cornered by a glitter smudged stranger, he’s standing like someone might be grading his posture.

“You always this tightly wound,” you ask, “or am I just lucky?”

His lips press together. Irritation flares behind his eyes, but something else, too... attention. Curiosity. He could’ve walked away. Could still. But he hasn’t. You push further. That’s what you do.

“So what, you’re just standing here? Alone?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s weighing how much patience he has left. “My roommate’s the drummer.”

You raise your cup again. “Yikes.”

That almost gets him. A flicker of something behind his eyes. Not a smile, he’s holding onto that like a secret, but a crack in the armor. “What’s your excuse?” he asks.

“For what?”

“Being here.”

You lean against the wall beside him, letting your boot scuff the tile. “Needed noise,” you say. “And movement. My room felt like it was closing in. Figured I’d come get stared at and underestimated in person.”

He watches you like he’s trying to decode the sentence. “Stared at and underestimated,” he repeats.

You shrug. “Comes with the territory. People see the attitude, the ink, the boots. They assume I’m coasting.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t apologize. Just says, “Are you?”

You grin, slow. “Mechanical engineering. I reverse engineered the hydraulics on a busted car jack and turned it into a functioning record player. Passed fluid dynamics with a fever and a black eye. I don’t coast.”

His eyes flick down to your hand wrapped around the cup. The faint grease smear beneath your nail. The bandage around your middle finger. His gaze lingers, not in a way that feels possessive, but like he’s cataloging the facts. Building a profile.

“Jack,” he says finally. “Jack Abbot.”

You nod. “Knew you had a name like that.”

He studies you for another beat. “What’s that mean?”

“Just fits. Buttoned up. Clean cut. You probably write in all caps.”

“I do,” he says.

You snort. You give your name. No last name. Just enough to offer. He takes it in without comment, like he’s filing it away for later. Like your name means something, but he’s not going to say what.

“I didn’t want to come tonight,” he admits. “I had a lab write up due at midnight. Finished early. Got dragged out.”

You nod slowly. “So your version of blowing off steam is standing against a wall looking like you’re about to get deployed?”

That flicker again. Closer to a smile this time. Still restrained.

“You’re relentless,” he mutters.

You beam. “That’s the nicest thing someone has called me all week.”

He glances toward the basement, where the band is still thrashing their way through a chord progression they clearly didn’t rehearse. Then back at you. “I don’t usually stay long.”

You lean in, voice low and easy. “Good thing I don’t either.”

The silence between you tightens. Not awkward. Just full.

And still, he doesn’t walk away.

You don’t remember exactly when you ended up outside. One minute you were toe-to-toe with Jack; the next, you were shouldering past a guy in a jersey to get to the front door.

The porch groans under your boots as you step out. The air is still thick, but at least it moves. You run a hand through your hair. Your drink’s long gone. Your head’s starting to throb behind your left temple, pre-hangover setting in. There’s a lighter in your pocket and a crumpled pack of American Spirits someone left on the rail. You shake one loose, stick it between your lips, and spark it without hesitation.

The door creaks open behind you.

Of course he follows.

He doesn’t say a word. Just steps outside and settles against the far porch post, arms crossed, eyes on nothing. Like he’s replaying the whole thing in his head.

You don’t look at him right away. You take a drag, exhale toward the dark yard, and say, “You always let girls rip you to shreds, or am I just special?”

“I don’t think you need me to answer that,” he says, voice even. Not defensive. Just him.

You glance at him. “Fair.”

The cicadas buzz. Music leaks through the cracked window behind you. Someone’s screaming lyrics no one knows. Jack shifts slightly.

You sigh.

“I don’t do well in places like that,” you admit, motioning toward the house. “Too many people performing apathy. Makes my skin itch.”

“You didn’t seem apathetic,” he says.

You flick ash from the end of your cigarette. “Yeah, well. I don’t perform.”

That gets a pause. He studies you again. You let him. It’s rare, being looked at like a puzzle instead of a prize.

“You said you’re in ROTC,” you say. “What’s that like?”

“Structured,” he says. “Long.”

You smirk. “Sounds like a prison sentence.”

“Some days,” he allows.

You shift, leaning your shoulder into the porch post now, mirroring his angle. You don’t mean to. It just happens.

“So why do it?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer right away. You don’t rush him.

“Because I said I would,” he says finally.

You blink. “That’s it?”

He nods.

That’s not something you hear a lot. Especially around here, where most people pivot majors three times and still don’t know what they’re doing. “I meant what I said earlier,” you tell him. “I’m not coasting.”

He nods once. “I know.”

“I’m on a full ride,” you say, too quickly. “Work study in the machine shop. I had to rewire our dorm landline after my roommate’s bedazzled Conair blew the fuse for the third time. She’s a fashion major, leaves Teen Vogue tear-outs on my pillow for ‘aesthetic inspiration,’ and calls me her ‘feral little genius.’ I drink too much, put everything off ‘til the last possible minute, and still test out above kids who haven’t seen daylight in weeks. People think I’m gonna crash. I just don’t.”

You watch his face for the twitch, the shift, the subtle lean back that always comes after this part. The part where you stop being charming and start being real.

“And I’m telling you all this to scare you off,” you add, a little sharper now. “Because guys like you don’t actually want to know girls like me. You stick around for the novelty, for the mouth, maybe for the thrill of it. But not the reality. You hear ‘machine shop’ and ‘full ride’ and start thinking about your mommy’s dinner table. You see the grease under my nails and the half-finished soldering project on my desk and realize I’m not going to play girlfriend the way you’re used to. I pick a wrench over dinner. I say things I’m not supposed to say out loud. And I never, ever ask for help.”

You glance away. Breathe. There’s a long beat. You almost wish he’d scoff, roll his eyes, call you dramatic. That would make it easier. Instead—“You rewired your landline?”

You blink. “That’s what you’re taking from this?”

He shrugs one shoulder, unfazed. “It’s impressive. Especially for dorm wiring.”

You stare at him. “I like to fix things.”

“You say that like a compulsion.”

A pause. Then you say, more honest than you mean to be, “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

He tilts his head slightly. Something flickers across his face. Not irritation. Not amusement. Not even surprise. Recognition.

“My radiator’s leaking,” he says finally, voice quiet. Like it’s just a fact. Like you were always going to be the one he told.

You tilt your head. “Okay. And?”

“‘Ninety-three Cherokee,” he adds. “Heat gauge’s shot too. Took it to a shop last week. Charged me for the labor, didn’t touch the engine.”

His voice doesn’t change, but there’s something under it. Not frustration. Just that edge people like him carry when they don’t like asking for help.

You drop your cigarette, crush it with the ball of your boot. “You got a socket set?”

He nods once.

“Cool." you say, halfway down the porch steps already. Acting as if this whole conversation was just a smoke break detour.

There’s a pause behind you. A hesitation, not loud, but noticeable.

“Wait,” he says slowly, “was that you offering to fix my car?”

You keep walking. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your face. “No,” you say, voice dry, almost bored. “I’ll let you know if I feel like it, soldier boy.”

You know exactly what you’re doing. The name is a test. A tug on something. It lands. You hear it in the silence that follows. Something shifts in him. Not annoyance. It’s softer. Deeper. Like you reached past whatever version of him was standing guard and hit something he didn’t mean to show you.

He calls after you. Quiet, almost thoughtful. “You don’t even have a phone.”

You stop at the edge of the sidewalk, one boot heel hanging off the curb. Turn just enough to look over your shoulder. Your grin is slow, a little crooked. Like you know he’s still watching. Like you want him to.

“That’s what dorm landlines are for.”

And then you’re gone. You don’t wait for a reply. Don’t give him anything else. The night folds in around you as you head down the block, cigarette smoke still lingering. You don’t look back. Not once.

But you feel it. His eyes on you. The weight of it.

Jack stays where he is, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, thumb grazing the edge of his flip phone like instinct. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. There’s something about the way he’s staring down the street… like he’s memorizing the sound of your boots on pavement, like he knows he’s not supposed to want this and wants it anyway.

He’s not sure what just happened. He’s not even sure what to call it. But your voice is still echoing somewhere under his ribs. And for the first time in a long damn time, Jack Abbot feels like someone cracked open the casing and left the wiring exposed.

Whatever that was, whatever the hell you are—he’s not walking away from it.

⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐୨୧⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐⁐꒱

tag list (want to be added? send me an ask) : @saturnheart @princesssunderworld @blackirisesinthesunlight @lsolo @captainoates @anniesworld69 @livingavilaloca @barackosteaa @defonotelis @seeminglyincurablesadnes

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badwolfvexa · 1 day ago

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Like God Needs The Devil: Charlie Reid x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging:@kmc1989 @littleesilvia @wrestlequeen @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @beebeechaos

Summary: Charlie takes you to heaven in the hallway of his house.

Prequel piece to:

Charlie - Charlie meets someone unexpected one night at his pool hall.

The Whole Damn Night (NSFW) - You aren't anything like Charlie expected.

Companion piece to:

Risk Management - Charlie realises the two of you have been keeping secrets from one another.

Deals With The Devil - Charlie's fall from grace starts with an act of love.

The Ghost That Lingers In The Nighttime - Charlie's becoming accustomed to the late night visits.

Who The Fuck Is Charlie? - You wake up calling for Charlie but noone knows who the fuck Charlie is.

Blood For Blood - Charlie's wrath leads to his worst nightmare...

You realise Charlie isn’t like the other men you’ve been with, when he takes off your shoes in his hallway. They’re black leather stilettos that give a fuck me vibe, ones that have in the past resulted in carpet burn and rough sex. When he gets on his knees you don’t know what to expect but its certainly not his palm on your ankle, slipping each one off.

“I thought we were supposed to be fucking.” You tell him and he looks up at you with those warm whiskey eyes before he sets the expensive pumps alongside his boots in the shoe rack.

“I could lay you down on those sheets and treat you like fuck doll.” He tells you. The words roll out of him like thunder, rumbling through his chest in that delicious way of his. “I could fuck every single one of your holes, leave you dripping with my cum and send you on your way, not giving a shit that you didn’t get off.”

Your breath catches because that’s what you’ve come to expect in all your interactions with the opposite sex, mediocre liaisons that leave you feeling physically and emotionally dissatisfied.

“Or I could not be an asshole, cook for you, help you wind down and spend the night with my head between your thighs making it a much more pleasurable experience for the both of us.”

He rubs his face against your pussy through your dress trousers, nuzzling it. You can feel the roughness of his cheeks through the fabric, the heat of his breath as he mouths it.

“What do you say Em?” He murmurs, nipping at your clit through the material, sending a tremor of heat vibrating through you. “Do you want me to be the asshole or do you want me to be the man that’s going to take care of you tonight, who is going to have you coming so fucking hard you see fucking God?”

“I want to see God.” You whisper, you fingertips running through his unruly burnished steel curls.

“Good girl.” He mumbles, unfastening the button of your trousers and drawing them down over the curve of your ass. “Let’s make that happen.”

He presses his face into those pretty black panties, inhaling the scent of your arousal through the slim fabric. You’re wet already, the damp patch blossoming across the silk. His fingertip traces along the elasticated edge, dipping just inside so he can feel the moisture coating it.

“I don’t even have to take these off to make you come honey.” He whispers against your clit, framing the words against that sensitive little bud. “A little friction now and then can be a blessing, keep you from getting too sensitive for all the filthy things I’m going to do to you later.”

He guides one of your thighs over his shoulder, his palms slipping into your underwear, grasping that perfect peach of yours, pinning you against his mouth. Your back comes to rest against the wall as his tongue licks a teasing swipe across your cunt. Pleasure chases through you, unfurling like a storm on the horizon building and building as Charlie takes you apart.

Your hips are canting against his mouth, your desperate whimpers echoing through the hallway. He grips your ass harder, leaving marks with his fingertips, before he seeks out the elastic of your panties, hooking it on his fingers, pulling it aside.

He plunges his tongue into you and you hit nirvana, the heavens bursting open as the storm breaks and you climax all over his mouth. The essence of you floods his senses as he laps up that honey like it’s the finest fucking thing he’s tasted in his entire life.

“You sound just like a fucking angel.” He mumbles against your thigh, his lips brushing over the tiny birthmark shaped just like Maine.

“You’re just as sinful as the devil.” You tell him, your fingers stroking through his curls as you give him that fucked out smile or yours. “And twice as handsome.”

He huffs a chuckle into your skin, a flush creeping across his cheeks. “An angel and the devil, maybe that makes us a good match.”

“Yeah.” You say, your fingertips tracing over the five o’clock shadow that lines his cheeks as you look into his eyes. “Maybe it does.”

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badwolfvexa · 2 days ago

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Need more of these two please! 😍😍

A nice bonus.

Jack Abbot x F!Reader

9k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: reader is in a car accident but it's not particularly serious; reader breaks her wrist; possible medical inaccuracies; suggestive; reader gets a bad bruise; no use of y/n or related.

Summary: Jack sees you get hit by a car and becomes your doctor and more.

AN: Listen friends, I was missing Jack viscerally because it has been a moment since I have written for him, so I started this and have no idea where it came from or what it truly is, I just rolled with it. It's fluffy and suggestive at points and there's lots of banter. Jack Abbot has a lot of game, even over text, I believe this in my soul. This is a little bit of my Ted Talk about that towards the end. I don't know what I'm doing here anymore. 😂 Based on this ask from the 1k celebration! The prompt was "Show me that bruise please." I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading! ♥️

“This feels quite overkill if I’m honest, Dr. Abbot.”

The stupidly handsome doctor you’ve just met smirks at you in the back of the ambulance. Truly, he has to be the most attractive man you’ve ever had the privilege to lay eyes on.

Jack knows he’s literally just met you but there’s just something about you that has him already at ease with you. “That your professional medical opinion?” You watch his eyes flick up to the monitor and his smirk deepens when your heart rate increases a little. It would embarrass you a little more if you hadn’t seen Jack move a little to readjust himself where he’s sitting when you called him Dr. Abbot. “Call me Jack.”

Jack was walking to work when he saw you get hit as you were walking across the street on a walk sign by someone turning right who hardly slowed, either assuming there wouldn’t be any pedestrian traffic or forgetting there could be. He’d run over to you of course, let someone else call 911 while he introduced himself and made you stay laying on the asphalt. Once the ambulance arrived he just jumped in the back with you since they were taking you to the Pitt.

“A C-collar and backboard, really?” you huff. “I have a broken wrist and my hip and side will have nasty bruises. The rest of me is fine. This is just embarrassing.”

“I know it’s easy for me to say but you shouldn’t be embarrassed by some absolute fucking moron hitting you with his car.” He’s angry, it’s clear from his tone and the set of his jaw. Something about how he looks at you as he says it feels almost protective in a vaguely possessive way. Like he’s angry it was you they hit because it’s you. “And you’ll thank me if you have a spinal injury and I just preserved your ability to walk and use your arms.”

You sigh at him. “I think you just like having me strapped down and being in control.”

“It’s a nice bonus,” he teases.

You’d tilt your head at him if you could but you’re forced to settle for smirking at him. “Kinky.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters, rolling his eyes to try and pretend it didn’t affect him. But you can see the blush that tinges his cheeks an adorable shade of pink. “Morphine have you a little uninhibited?”

“It’s not the morphine” you laugh softly.

He smiles at you and shakes his head as the ambulance slows to a stop and the back doors open. He can’t believe you’re actually interested in him and flirting with him.

“Jack?” A different male voice calling his name has Jack breaking eye contact and helping get the gurney out of the ambulance.

“Witnessed.” Jack explains to Robby as he hops out of the ambulance behind your gurney and walks in with you. “Pedestrian versus Honda-CRV, low velocity, maybe 5 miles per hour but accelerating. Vitals are stable at 100 over 70, pulse 90, resps 14, pulse ox 97, no LOC, no head injury, oriented times 4, obvious distal radius deformity. Five of morphine en route. Hit on the right side, lower abdomen and pelvis took the brunt of the impact. Pelvis is stable. Abdomen tender on exam but otherwise unremarkable. Sensation in all extremities intact.”

“Wow,” you hum. “If I wasn’t mad at you I’d tell you how impressive I find it that you remembered all of that without writing it down, Jack.”

Jack huffs a soft laugh and shakes his head as he looks down at you. “Collared and boarded her to be safe, much to the patient’s chagrin.” You don’t miss the looks between the two other men now walking with your gurney. They seem surprised by how Jack is with you and that you called him Jack. “Liter of NS going in due to significant dehydration.”

You scoff. “I resent that. Diet Dr Pepper has water in it.”

“I, no,” Jack shakes his head at you. “No. That’s not how that works.”

“I’m Dr. Robinavitch. Everyone calls me Dr. Robby. And this is Mateo.” Robby looks between you and Jack. “Do you two know each other?” The amusement is clear in his voice, like he thinks he just caught Jack in something.

“Hi Dr. Robby and Mateo.” You give them both a friendly smile but Jack notices it’s not the same smile you gave him and something about that pleases him. He’s really into you. Perhaps more than he wants to admit.

“No. We only met when I saw the accident and went over to help,” Jack explains.

You raise your eyebrows at him. “Okay, I think you watching me get hit by a car, running to my aid, palpating my pelvis, riding in an ambulance with me and letting me call you by your first name qualify us as knowing each other.”

“I think that just means I’m your doctor.”

“I think your reticence means you don’t want to know me.” Jack snorts a laugh. “Reticence?” He says it like he can’t believe you just used that word and gives you a look to silently communicate that what you said is the furthest thing from the truth.

“Chagrin?” Your tone matches his as you smile.

Jack shakes his head at you and looks up at Robby. “I’ll just stay with her. No point getting one of you guys involved just for you to leave in five minutes. Send in one of the nurses on with me once it hits seven, yeah?”

There’s a slight pause before Robby says a drawn out, “okay,” and smirks at Jack.

Jack gives Robby a look and already knows Robby will hound him with questions when they run the board. He can just tell Robby thinks there’s something going on. Maybe Robby is a little right.

Once you’re in a room they’re quick to transfer you and the paramedics leave, Robby and Mateo clearing out with them leaving just you and Jack in the room. You’re still in the c-collar and on a backboard and you still hate it and find it embarrassing.

Jack logs in on the computer that’s in the room and starts a chart on you, puts in your first and last name and date of birth for now before ordering a few different sets of x-rays. “Are you wearing a bra with a clasp?”

You laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

He walks over to your bed and looks down at you. Jack is doing his best to keep it professional now that he’s officially your doctor. “It’ll make a difference on whether we have to cut your clothes off.”

“Oh.” Your face sobers quickly and it makes Jack smile to himself. You’re adorable. “It does have a clasp, yes. Am I making you uncomfortable? Because I can cool it.”

“You’re not.” He gives you a lopsided smile. Maybe he should tell you to cool it at least while he’s your doctor but Jack just can’t bring himself to. It’s not that big of a deal as long as it’s mostly one-sided for now and he stays professional, right? “And good. We won’t have to cut anything off.” Jack nods at you, looking away from you when the door opens. “This is Bridget, one of our nurses here.”

Bridget appears on the other side of your bed and smiles down at you. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” you greet her with a smile and your name. “Thanks for helping take care of me.”

“Bridget’s going to get you in a gown and they should be able to grab x-rays.” Jack turns his attention to Bridget. “Sweatpants are loose enough you should be able to get them down easily. Bra has a clasp so it can come off and her shirt can stay on for now and come off once her spine is clear. I ordered all the x-rays, portable, they should be in to do them all soon. I’m going to set my stuff down and run the board with Robby and will come back once the x-rays are in.”

You click your tongue at Jack’s words. “Oh so we get to work and you just abandon me like this, I see how it is.”

Jack’s eyes find yours again and he gives you a small, amused smile. “I’m not abandoning you, I have other work I have to do, unfortunately. Somebody has to run this place. Don’t do anything funny like code when I’m gone, okay? I’ll be back.”

“I didn’t realize I was just work to you, I’m hurt.” You make sure the pout is clear in your voice since Jack is walking to the door and no longer looking at you. “And, sure you will.” You draw out the sure for a few seconds. “It was nice meeting you Dr. Abbot, maybe our paths will cross again.” You can hear him chuckling as he walks out of the room and smile to yourself at the sound.

When you look over at Bridget she’s waiting for you with raised eyebrows and an amused smile of her own. The two of you share a laugh before she throws a gown over you and starts getting your clothes off.

Once your clothes are off and Bridget has a gown laying over your bottom half the x-ray techs come in with the portable machine and shoot images of your spine, neck, pelvis and wrist. You and Bridget chat idly while she cleans a few cuts and scrapes you got from the car and hitting the ground and you wait for the x-rays to come back and a doctor to come clear you.

You hear the door open and you know it’s Jack even with your inability to see him. You can just feel his presence. “See, I’m back, just like I said.”

“No, actually, I can’t see. I’m still boarded and collared,” you deadpan.

Jack walks over and smiles down at you. He swallows down the flirtatious comment that immediately formed on his tongue. He’s your doctor. He has to be professional. But he can’t stop his eyes from sparkling mischievously. “Your spine’s clear.”

You take in a quick breath and raise your eyebrows, mouth forming a small ‘o’ as you fake surprise. “I’m truly shocked at this news, Doctor.”

Bridget and Jack help you out of the collar and off the board, rolling you towards Jack who very deliberately keeps his eyes on yours so that you don’t think he’s trying to check out your bare ass as much as he would like to. He steps over to the counter and turns his back to you while Bridget helps you get your shirt off and into the gown properly, starts reviewing your chart on the tablet he’s holding.

“Thanks, Bridget.” Your words and the absence of the sound of fabric shuffling tell Jack he can turn around again.

“Of course.” She gives you a smile and steps out of the room for a minute.

“And thank you.” Your eyes find Jack’s. It’s a thank you for everything he’s done so far, coming over when he really could have just kept walking by, protecting your spine even if you bitched about it. For coming back.

“You’re welcome. Anyone we can call for you? Significant other? Family?” Jack asks lightly, glancing up at you from the computer and trying to keep it casual and professional. But you both know what he’s fishing for and you’re happy to give him the answer.

“Oh, no, but thank you. Bridget told me my phone survived luckily. If you don’t mind handing it to me? It’s in the bag.” Jack nods and hands you the bag, takes it back from you and sets it down again once you’ve gotten your phone out. “And I’m painfully single.”

He’s looking back down at the tablet but you catch the way the corners of his lips quirk up just slightly for a couple of seconds. He clenches his jaw to avoid verbalizing the ‘good’ or ‘maybe not for long’ that want to slip out. Jack settles for nodding at you while he grabs the stool and rolls it over to the side of your bed and sits.

“Obviously your wrist is broken,” he turns the tablet and holds it towards you so that you can see your x-ray, uses his pen to point to the very obvious line representing the break, but the move isn’t condescending. He’s just showing you. “Distal radius fracture, but it’s a pretty clean break so we just need to reduce it and get it casted, you won’t need surgery or anything.”

“Well thank fuck for that,” you huff. “Imagine me having to take time off for surgery a week into starting a new job.”

Jack chuckles. “Your pelvis looks fine on x-ray and you don’t have any symptoms of internal bleeding or other injury there, but I’d like to get a CT just to be sure, have Ortho review both sets of films.”

“This feels like even more expensive overkill now.”

“I know.” Jack nods slowly. “But that car hit you pretty good and pelvic injuries can be deceptive and life threatening. I promise you that I’m not one to order unnecessary tests because I know how expensive it gets. So humor me please.” Jack tilts his head at you for a second. “Also remember the insurance company of the guy who hit you or your underinsured motorist insurance is going to end up paying for this.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “I guess I can humor you yet again.”

His eyebrows raise a little and he smirks. “Didn’t realize you’d humored me before.” “I could have refused the backboard and collar but I didn’t. And I could have refused even coming to the hospital but I didn’t.”

“With that wrist?” He cocks his head at you.

You cock your head back at him. “We both know a walk to urgent care would’ve been astronomically cheaper.”

He nods, moving the tablet so that one edge is pressed into his lower abdomen, his wrists crossing as both hands hold the opposite side of the tablet. He leans back a little. “So why didn’t you decline?”

You shrug. “This really attractive doctor persuaded me to humor him.”

Jack feels his face heat up and glances away. You giggle at the blush that crawls up his neck to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He knew some answer like that had to be coming but hearing it in your voice still throws him for a couple of seconds. “You should text or call a friend, ask them to spend the night with you. Maybe two depending on how you’re feeling tomorrow.”

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” you laugh softly. “I just moved here from California. I don’t know anyone here and I’m not about to ask someone back home to take a plane to come take care of me for 24 or 48 hours because I was bumped by a car.”

Jack rolls his eyes at you playfully and you have to bite your lip at it. “It was a little more than a bump.” He pauses and looks at you for a second. He believes you but it’s still hard to believe that you don’t know anyone here and that you’re this chill about being hit by a car in a city you just moved to and are essentially all alone in. “You really don’t know anybody here?”

You shake your head. “Nope. I haven’t started work yet. So actually, Dr. Abbot, Jack, you’re the first person I met and now know in this city. Oh, but wait,” you hum to yourself, “that’s right, we don’t know each other,” you tease.

He laughs and shakes his head. “I’m honored to be the first person you know and to know you in this City.”

“You shouldn’t be,” you laugh with him.

He can hear how serious you are about the self-deprecation even as you laugh, can see it in your eyes and how you look away from him. Jack almost reaches out to squeeze your hand and get your attention back. Almost. He’s your doctor. He has to be professional. So he settles for growing a little more serious so that you know he’s happy to have met you.

“And yet I still am.” You look back up at him and Jack offers you a small, knowing smile. “We’ll get you in a cast, get the CT and then watch you for a couple hours and have you on your way home, okay?”

“Alright,” you nod, “that sounds like a plan, thank you.”

“How’s the pain? You need more meds?” Jack opens the tablet back up to put in the order for the CT of your pelvis.

“Oh, I’m okay, but thank you for asking.” Something about the small smile you give him makes Jack’s heart ache in a way he can’t describe. He’s falling for you. Just you and your personality and the way being around you makes him feel because he really doesn’t know much about you. He knows more about your health history than he does about you as a person. He’s been a doctor for a long time now and this has never happened with a patient.

“Alright, I’ll give you more before we reduce your wrist and cast it.” Jack forces himself to push up off the stool and stand. “Need anything before I go?” You shake your head at him. “Okay. Call button is there if you do need anything,” he points to it, “and we’ll get you casted and scanned here shortly.”

“Sounds good, thanks Jack.” You give him a little wave with your good hand as he turns to walk out.

Not long after Jack leaves you’re taken to CT and then returned back to your room in the ED. A little over an hour later and you’re surprised when it’s Jack who walks in with all the reduction and casting supplies.

“Hey. How are you doing?” he greets you as he steps back in the room and sets everything down.

“Hi.” You can’t help but giggle and it makes you feel like a teenager in front of her crush all over again. “I’m okay. How are you? How’s the day?”

Jack laughs to himself as he starts getting things set up. “I have to tell you that you are the most polite patient I think I’ve ever had. You’ve thanked me more than I get thanked by all my patients combined in an entire shift most nights. And I genuinely can’t recall the last time I had a patient ask how I was and how my day was going.”

You give him a shy smile and shrug a little, look down at your good hand where it picks at a non-existent piece of fuzz on your blanket.

“I’m alright. Haven’t been hit by a car today, so I’ve got that going for me,” he teases you with a small smirk. You laugh. “Glad one of us can say that.”

“And the day has been fine, so far. Can’t really complain.” Jack shrugs and gives you an easy smile as he wheels the tray with everything set up over by your bed and sits on the stool and rolls over to you.

“Especially because you have me as a patient,” you stage whisper and wink at him.

He wants to say it back to you in confirmation, to tell you that you actually have no idea how much easier and better you’re making this shift for him. Instead he just nods at you. But you know. You know he’s confirming it. It’s obvious in how bright his eyes are. “I’m going to give you some more morphine, then reduce your wrist and have some post reduction films taken. Then I’m going to start casting you before the films even come back because I’m pretty confident it’ll be aligned since it’s a clean break. And if it’s not then I cut it off and we start over. Sound good?”

“Are you asking for my professional medical opinion again?” You smirk while nodding so that he knows you’re okay with it.

Jack laughs as he pulls his gloves on because your answer was so unexpected and so you as he’s coming to learn. After prepping your IV Jack sticks the needle with morphine in and finds your eyes as he presses the plunger down. “I don’t think I asked for your professional medical opinion last time, I asked if it was your professional medical opinion.”

“A trivial distinction.” You can feel the morphine hit your system and you let out a breath. “Hit harder that time, wow.”

“Because you’ve already had some and that was a bigger dose,” Jack chuckles. “I need you nice and relaxed for this and don’t want it to hurt.”

There’s so much you want to say to that last sentence but you don’t because words are a little hard as you adjust to the morphine. “Mission accomplished, Doc, thanks.” You breathe a laugh, acutely aware of how it feels like you’re floating. You’re momentarily wrapped up in the feeling enough that you miss the way Jack’s jaw clenches at you calling him Doc.

Despite the morphine it still smarts pretty good when Jack reduces your wrist and palpates it after to check the alignment. It brings you right back to reality, the slight haze of the morphine clearing, though you’re still feeling good from it.

“What color cast do you want?” Jack asks you as the techs wheel in the portable x-ray to shoot your post reduction films. It takes you a few seconds to answer because you become almost transfixed on watching his hands as he takes his gloves off. Something about it is stupidly hot.

“Um,” you start, desperately trying to think about what color cast you want. You like red, but black makes the most sense because it matches everything. “Sorry, I’ll have black, please. Thank you.”

Jack’s lips press together in a small smile as he nods at you and steps out of the room to grab the black fiberglass.You’re still so polite. He finds it so incredibly endearing.

By the time Jack gets back to your room with the fiberglass they’ve just finished your x-rays and are wheeling the machine out. “Doing okay?” Jack checks with you again as he sits back on the stool and slides on another pair of gloves before starting on your cast.

“I’m good, yeah, thanks for asking.” You tilt your head as you watch Jack start. “Though this feels like a job for an intern if not a med student.”

Jack’s hands slow and he looks at you as he wraps the cotton around the stockinette on your arm. “You trying to get rid of me?” He smirks, letting his eyes linger on yours for a few seconds before looking back to your arm.

“No, no.” You shake your head. That is the absolute last thing you’re trying to do and you both know he knows it. “It was just an observation.”

“It’s good for me to do one every now and then.” He tilts his head and shrugs. “Keep up my skills.”

“Well I’m very glad I can provide this opportunity for you, Dr. Abbot.” You smile at him even though he’s not looking at you. But Jack knows you are. He can hear the smile in your voice and can just feel it radiating off you.

“Post reduction films are back,” Bridget lets Jack know as she walks in the room with a tablet. Jack rolls on the stool towards her and she flicks through the images for him so that Jack doesn’t have to take his gloves off.

“Looks good, thanks Bridget.” Jack nods and smiles at her before starting to roll back over to you.

“Thanks Bridget!”

“You’re both welcome,” she chuckles to herself as she walks back out of the room.

“So you run this place?” you ask Jack as he finishes with the cotton and starts getting some fiberglass strips ready. You remember Jack saying someone had to run the place when he was leaving you initially.

“At night, yeah.” Jack grabs one of the strips and starts wrapping your arm with it. “I’m the senior attending when I’m on.”

“The man in charge.” He can already hear the smirk in your voice. “Hot.”

“You know, Robby is technically somewhat above me because I don’t want to deal with the admin side of things in any capacity.” He glances up at you for a second.

“Dr. Robby doesn’t have salt and pepper curls that threaten to put me into cardiac arrest.” You think that’s a thought you’re saying to yourself in your head until Jack stifles a laugh and glances at you again with slightly flushed cheeks this time. “Oh fuck I said that out loud.”

“You did indeed,” Jack confirms amusedly.

You take in a breath and hold it for a second before letting it out. “I’m blaming that on the morphine this time.”

Jack chuckles at you and shakes his head. “You’re too much,” he laughs under his breath.

You catch it. You know exactly what he means by too much, know that he means it in a good way. “Too much or a challenge?”

“A challenge, yeah. Fits better for some reason.” He nods as he puts another piece of fiberglass around your arm.

“And do you like a good challenge Dr. Abbot?” You’ve dropped your voice just a little.

He stills for a second and you’re ready to apologize for going too far but before you can he makes that intense eye contact he seems to have a proclivity for with you. He knows he should look away from you and back at your cast and make some casual comment to keep the conversation moving along, but he doesn’t want to. And telling you this is just telling you something about his personality that you asked about, right?

Jack drops his voice a little too. “I love a good challenge.”

You and Jack share an especially intense moment of eye contact before he turns back to your cast. It doesn’t take much longer for him to finish it up and leave you to rest, promising his return once your CT results were back and he had a chance to check them out.

And Jack does return to check on you and let you know your CT looks fine. He lingers though, sitting on the stool by the edge of your bed just chatting with you until he knows he has to get back on the floor. An hour or so later he checks on you again, bringing you food this time. He brings some for himself too, says he figured he’d just multitask and check in on you while having lunch. You know it’s bullshit and an excuse to spend more time with you. Jack knows you know it’s bullshit. Both of you love it, the time together.

He’s back in your room checking in on you for a third time now and after talking for a bit you finally can’t help but tease him about it a little. “You know, Jack, I’ve been watching you and you don’t seem to spend this much time checking in on your other patients.”

“None of my other patients are as cute and funny as you.” The sentence slips off his tongue before Jack has any hope of stopping himself.

You grin at him. “Is that why you’re keeping me here?”

“No.” He trips on the word just a little, slightly flustered that he just said that to you at work while acting as your doctor. “I really did want to keep you under observation for a while since you’re going home alone. Getting to stop in and see and talk to you, that’s just…” He trails off as he searches for the right words.

“A nice bonus?” you offer, repeating his words from earlier.

Jack smiles at you and nods slowly. “A nice bonus, yeah.”

“Hey Jack,” Bridget sticks her head in your room and you both look at her, “STEMI two minutes out.”

“I’ll be right there.” Bridget nods and walks off. Jack turns his attention back to you as he gets up and walks backwards towards the door of your room. “I’m discharging you. They’ll get the paperwork all ready and get you out of here, okay?”

He’s turned around and speed walking towards the ambulance bay before you can even respond. You feel so ridiculous with the way your heart sinks. You know it’s his job and it’s busy and shit happens and you don’t hold it against him of course, and you know that the two of you aren’t anything anyway and try to tell yourself that this was just some harmless flirting, but you thought you’d at least be able to say a real goodbye and give him a real thank you. And yeah, maybe get his number or give him yours.

You guess it just wasn’t meant to be because you’re certain you’re not seeing Jack again today and you know he’s not the type to pull your number from your patient chart to text you. It surprises you a little because you really felt like there was something there for both of you. Your certainty grows when Dr. Shen swings by to review your discharge paperwork with you, telling you Jack is caught up in a trauma and they don’t know how long he’ll be and didn’t want to keep you waiting. You sign what you need to and Dr. Shen removes your IV before leaving you to get dressed and letting you know a nurse would be in to wheel you out soon. You get yourself dressed once he’s pulled the curtain and left, and you feel every single second of it already. You know tomorrow is going to be something.

After thirty minutes or so Bridget comes into your room with a wheelchair and the two of you chat as she wheels you towards the street exit.

“Bridget!” You really want to hate the way you smile to yourself when you hear Jack’s voice, but you can’t. Bridget stops walking and you both look over at Jack who’s walking towards you briskly.

“Yeah?” She smirks at him, clearly already knowing what’s coming.

“Shen asked for you in north 2.” Jack notices the way you look kind of surprised to see him. “I can wheel her out.”

Her smirk grows and she glances down at you, shaking her head a little. “Okay, thanks.”

You smile at her. “Thank you Bridget, for everything.”

“Of course, Honey.”

“My uber is picking me up at the designated spot out front,” you tell Jack as Bridget walks away.

“Okay.” Jack grabs the handles on your wheelchair and continues in the direction Bridget was taking you. “You didn’t really think I was going to let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?” He asks once you’re outside.

You shrug. “Dr. Shen went over the discharge paperwork with me. You’re a busy doctor. You’d finished treating me. You’re the senior attending,” you sing that last part a little before growing a bit more serious. “You have much more important and better things to be doing with your time than saying goodbye to me.”

Jack wants to tell you that nothing could be more important than seeing you again, and that there is nothing better he could possibly be doing than spending time with you. But he’s pretty sure verbalizing that would make him sound way too intense at this point.

“I’m not that busy.” It’s not really a lie in the scope of things but he’ll have to hustle to make up for spending this time outside with you. More than worth it to him though. He rolls you over towards a bench and positions you so that he can sit on the bench and the two of you can see each other. “And even if I was that busy, I would have made time to say goodbye to you.”

You have to bite the inside of your lower lip and smile to yourself at that. “Because I’m the cutest and the funniest?” you tease him.

Jack chuckles, his eyes glittering in this light. He nods. “Because you’re the cutest and the funniest,” he confirms.

The two of you share a laugh and you glance down at your phone, glad for once that your uber is taking a bit longer to get here. Your eyes catch on the silver sharpie in the pocket of Jack’s scrub top.

You look back at him for a second. “You wanna sign my cast?” Your eyes flick down to his chest pocket and back up.

Jack looks down and sees the sharpie. He’d used it earlier for a kid who wanted a black cast and all the doctors and nurses to sign it. He smiles as he pulls it out and uncaps it. “Sure.”

You hold your casted arm out to him and Jack pauses for a second, trying to decide whether he should really do this or not. But you’re not his patient anymore technically and he knows you’re interested in him. He starts writing his name and then continues.

“Taking an awfully long time to write Jack.” Just as you start teasing him Jack pulls away and caps the sharpie as you bring your arm back and look where he signed. He hasn’t just written Jack or even Dr. Abbot or Dr. Jack Abbot like you thought he might have. He’s written Jack followed by his phone number.

“Oh,” you laugh breathily when you see it, “that was smooth, Dr. Abbot.” You look up at him with a wide smile, your eyes glittering just like his. “I’m impressed.”

Jack nods just a little, self-satisfied smirk decorating his face. “I figure you can black it out with sharpie once you’ve got it down.” You nod but hold your phone out for him to put his number into so that you know you have it correctly. He’s quick to type it in and give you your phone back, his eyes finding yours again. “And I just want you to know that I promise you’re the only patient or former patient I’ve ever… flirted like this with and given my number and that you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to flirt like this with and give my number to.”

You can’t help what has to be the most love sick idiot screaming smile that pulls onto your face at his words. “I’m special?”

“Very.” Jack’s smirk has morphed into a smile that matches your own.

You push your bottom lip out in a small, fake pout. “Because you feel bad for me not knowing anyone?”

“No.” Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “Because there’s something about you. Something that makes me happy and want to be around you.”

There’s a poignant pause and your soft smile of disbelief that melts into one of adoration makes Jack want to scream because you’re so precious. After a few seconds you find words. Not particularly good ones, but words nonetheless. “Yeah… I feel the same.” Your phone chiming interrupts the moment. “Oh, shit! That’s my ride.”

Jack stands and wheels you over to the car you point out, offers you his hand to help you out of it. “Let me know you make it home safely, yeah?”

You take Jack’s hand and let him help you. Between the laying in the hospital bed and sitting in the wheelchair you’re pretty stiff. “I will.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, opening the door for you and helping you into the car.

“Jack.” He looks at you with slightly raised brows, hand on the door ready to close it. “Thank you for everything. I really appreciate your care and kindness.”

He smiles and gives you a single nod. “You’re welcome. Get home safe, okay? Doctor’s orders.”

“Okay,” you giggle as Jack shuts the door.

Less than ten minutes pass before Jack’s phone buzzes in his pocket.

You - Made it home You - In one piece and everything

He smiles to himself.

J - Good. Get in bed and rest

You - Yes, Sir 🫡

Jack’s so fucking glad he’s in the breakroom alone and can adjust himself as he reads you calling him Sir over and over again. He swears it makes him a little lightheaded and he has to tell himself to pull it together.

J - Let me know if you need anything J - I’m off at 7 (in theory) and will be asleep during the day since I’m back on tomorrow night, so you’ll probably have to call if you do need something

You smile to yourself now because he really is so sweet and caring, especially towards someone he barely knows and just met.

You - I will and good to know, thank you

J - Sleep well

For some reason your heart flutters at that.

You - You too You - Eventually 😅 You - And let me know you make it home safely

J - I will

You’re asleep when Jack texts you around 8:30 in the morning. It’s not that he forgot to text you, he just got off late.

J - Was there late but made it home. In one piece and everything ;)

Jack isn’t surprised when you don’t respond to his text. While he’d love to get to chat with you for a bit he’s glad you’re managing to get some sleep.

You wake up around ten and smile when you see a message from Jack, bite your lip at the way he echoes your words. You’re both fond of doing that.

You - That’s what I like to hear

You spend the day lounging in bed, dozing on and off and watching your favorite show. You’re beyond sore.

It’s around four when your phone chimes, your heart racing at the prospect of it being Jack. Jack smiles to himself when he wakes up to a message from you. He knows he’s so done for you with you.

J - I’m awake. How are you feeling?

You - Like I got hit by a car

J - Not just bumped?

You roll your eyes and shake your head at him but are beaming because it’s him and he’s funny and he makes your heart race and butterflies flutter in your stomach.

You - 🙄 Rude of you to use my own words against me

He chuckles to himself, sitting up in bed and running a hand over his face.

J - You like it

You - Yeah, I do 😌 Bet I’ll end up giving you a lot of my own words to use against me 😏

Now that you’re not his patient, Jack can more openly flirt with you and he’s chomping at the bit for the opportunity. So when you give it to him he takes it. Again and again and again as it’ll turn out.

J - Oh, I expect nothing less, Sweetheart. You strike me as quite the brat J - And yes, I do like it 😌 J - But only from you

Your eyebrows shoot up. He’s not wrong in the slightest, he was just so relatively reserved last night that his forwardness now is augmented. You greatly enjoy it. You can feel how much you enjoy it between your legs.

You - 😳🥵 You - Kinky You - Your flirting game is joining your salt and pepper curls as something about you that threatens to send me into cardiac arrest You - And I’m down my dominant fingers. What’s a girl to do?

Jack swallows a groan. He can’t help the way his palm glides along himself over his boxers. He woke up hard and you’re just making it worse. The smile he wears is smug as he types out and sends his next two messages.

J - There’s my little challenge J - Is that your way of asking for help? Because if you want anything you’re going to have to ask properly Sweetheart, and I expect a please and Sir in there somewhere

Your heart races at the way he calls you his little challenge, but your jaw actually drops open a little at his second message. This man might actually be the death of you. He’ll absolutely be the little death of you because you just know his confidence is earned and that he has a big dick and knows how to use it. Knows how to fuck.

You - JACK

J - Yes?

You - You’re going to fucking kill me before you even get the chance You - You have no idea how serious I am, oh my god

He chuckles to himself.

J - Not god, just me J - And I would never let that happen J - I’m going to get spotty as I get ready for work, I promise I’m not ignoring you. You need anything? J - On a serious level

You swear you’re fucking vibrating over him. You might have to find a vibrator, or you would if you knew it wouldn’t just hurt and not in a fun way with how sore you are, especially in your pelvis since it took the brunt of the impact. But you’re also melting because the man can communicate and keep you from slipping into anxiety or even panic at the change in response time. It’s just as big of a turn on as the rest of his words and self.

You - On a serious level I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you telling me that. And I think I’m okay for now, thank you for asking You - Though I was going to make a lot of good jokes about what I need

J - Why do you think I added the on a serious level? J - Let me know if that changes. My ability to look at my phone at work is inconsistent at best, but I’ll do my best to check

You - Because I’m special?

Jack smiles, rolls his eyes at you affectionately even though you can’t see.

J - Yes J - And the cutest and funniest

The man is so fucking sweet you could scream and you do actually kick your feet in bed a little before abruptly stopping and wincing.

You - Baby 🥺🫠 I’m melting You - You are so unbelievably sweet, Jack

J - I aim to please

You - You succeed

J - I know

You - Confident but not cocky. I like it You - I might end up falling asleep, so if I don’t reply that’s why

Jack is equally as appreciative of you communicating and letting him know that you might stop responding so that he doesn’t worry about you in a physical sense since you’ve just been hit by a car, but also in the sense of wondering if he did something wrong or if you lost interest or if he made you mad.

J - Good. Thank you for letting me know. As much as I’ll miss you the rest is good for you 🙂

When you don’t respond Jack figures you do end up falling asleep. It’s why he’s particularly concerned when Lupe comes and finds him at the hub talking with Robby around 6:45 and lets him know that you asked for him and are waiting in chairs, but that she can get rid of you if he wants.

“No, no.” His face clouds with concern. “I’ll get her.” Jack doesn’t even end his conversation with Robby, really. He just takes off.

He walks over and opens the door to chairs, walking towards you quickly as you walk towards him once you see him. He hates how antalgic your gait is. Even though you’re smiling at him you look like you’re in a fair amount of pain. He can’t help how he goes straight to something being wrong.

“Hey, you okay? What’s up?” He asks with deep furrowed brows and a slight frown as he rests his hand on the small of your back and guides you into the closest open exam room, leaving the door open but pulling the curtain so you have a little privacy.

“Hey. Nothing is wrong, I didn’t mean to worry you.” You give him a reassuring smile and are relieved when his face smooths out and he smiles a bit. But you still feel a little bad now for making him worry at all. “My wrist has just really been hurting.”

“Did you take your meds? Did you re-injure it somehow?” he queries, ready to go into doctor mode.

“I don’t think so and yeah, I took them. They just don’t work well.” You shrug a little, a shy smirk pulling on your face. “I was thinking maybe you could just kiss it better.”

Jack lets out a relieved chuckle and rocks back for a second. “It’s casted. I’m afraid I can’t kiss it better Sweetheart.”

“Hmmm,” you hum. “Well, I think kissing me elsewhere might make it feel better.” You take a step closer to him.

“Oh yeah?” Jack closes the last of the distance between you, hands feather light at your waist so that he doesn’t hurt you.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, resting your good hand on his chest and keeping the other off to the side.

“Probably worth a try,” he murmurs as he leans his head down. Your lips meet in an achingly sweet kiss. You both pull away just slightly and open your eyes to take in the other’s, both sets of eyes hooded, with pupils that have blown wide. You’re quick to lean back in for another kiss, and then another, and another that gets a little more heated, lips moving against each other like satin. You nip at Jack’s bottom lip as he pulls away. “Feeling better?”

“Oh, so much better,” you laugh breathily before leaning back into him and letting Jack kiss you again. You’d let this man do whatever the fuck he wanted with you, would hand yourself over to him, body, mind, and soul. You already know it.

Jack knows this is really not the place to be doing this but he just can’t bring himself to care right now. He lets his tongue swipe along the seam of your lips and licks into your mouth when you open for him, groaning softly at the taste of you. He has to force himself to pull away and while you’re just as sad as he is about it, you understand and respect it.

“How’d you know I’d be here early?” He takes your casted arm and brings your hand up so that he can gently kiss at your fingers.

“You just have that air about you. And you would’ve been early yesterday if you hadn’t gotten involved with me,” you giggle.

“Observant,” he murmurs against your fingers before gently bringing your hands back down together. “Can I check out the bruise on your side while you’re here? Please.”

You fake a scandalized gasp. “Are you asking me to take my pants off for you? Because you got that for free yesterday, but now it’s going to require dinner first.”

“No,” he shakes his head at you with a knowing and slightly smirked smile, “I’m asking you to pull your shirt up a little and the waistband of your pants down just slightly so that I, as a medical doctor, can evaluate the bruise and make sure you’re okay.”

“You’re not my doctor anymore,” you point out. “And yet you’re here asking me for pain relief,” he’s quick to fire back with a smirk. It’s hot how fast the words slipped off his tongue. “Which I happily gave you and will continue to give you.”

You raise and eyebrow and smile at him, bob your head once. “Touché.”

“I want to ask you out to dinner, believe me,” Jack sighs. His eyes are so earnest as he smiles at you, almost imploring you to believe him like you don’t already. “And I was planning on it tomorrow when I had a chance to call you, but right now in this conversation I don’t want you to think that you have to say yes or that I’m only asking you out to find out if you’re really okay or that I expect you to take your pants off for me at the end of the date.”

You soften, your hand still on his chest rubbing at it softly in what you hope is reassurance. “Jack, please don’t worry about any of that. None of that ever occurred to me with you. I know you’re not like that.”

“Good.” Jack raises his eyebrows just a touch and widens his eyes a little, tilts his face. “Show me that bruise please,” he whispers.

You laugh softly and nod, adjust your purse and then pull down the waistband of your pants. Jack helps and lifts up your shirt just enough for him to see. He winces as the bruise comes into view.

“You can see the grill marks, it’s kind of cool,” you laugh.

He grimaces as he looks up at you, unamused at the way the grill marks of a car are bruised into your skin and the thought of you hurting as much as you must be. “Pain hasn’t changed? No new symptoms or anything?”

“Nope.” Jack drops your shirt back down and you pull your waistband back up.

He’s in full Dr. Abbot mode now. “No abdominal tenderness or distention? You don’t feel bloated or anything? No blood in your urine?”

You give him what can probably only be described as a gooey smile. “No, Dr. Abbot,” you murmur.

“What?” The lightest blush colors his cheeks at the way you’re looking at him.

You shrug gently. “I just think you’re incredibly sweet. Worrying like this about me.”

“I told you,” he cups your jaw in one of his large hands, thumb brushing over your cheek, “there’s something about you.”

“There’s something about you too, Jack.” You wrap your good hand around the wrist of his hand that cups your jaw, anchoring him there. He leans down and the two of you kiss again, slow and soft and achingly sweet.

You’re both grinning like idiots at each other when you break apart.

“You really came here just to see if you could get a kiss?” Jack raises his eyebrows slightly and moves his hand back to your waist when you let go of his wrist, your hand settling on his chest again. “You have to be in a lot of pain. I know you are. I can see it in how you’re walking.”

“I mean yeah, some. It’s not so bad though. Especially not after the kisses. I’m only two blocks away so it’s not like it was a ton of walking. And in addition to seeing if I could get a kiss, I also had a hunch getting to see me would help ease some of your worry and I don’t like you worrying.” That makes Jack’s heart melt. You don’t like him worrying. You care about him enough to walk the two blocks down here to see him just so he could lay eyes on you and reassure himself that you’re okay. He’s not sure if he deserves that. “Plus I forgot my insurance card last night. But I waited all day to come get it so that I could see you!”

Jack huffs with mock offense. “So it wasn’t even me!”

“No, that’s not true! It was you. I could’ve had them mail the insurance card back to me or picked it up during the day when you weren’t here. Getting to pick up my insurance card was just a nice bonus.” You wink at him.

Jack laughs and shakes his head. You have to laugh with him because his laugh is so infectious and hearing it makes you happy.

He smiles at you like you’re the only thing in the world that makes him happy as his laughter trails off. “So will you let me take you out on a date?”

“I thought you’d never ask Dr. Abbot.” You nod and bite your lip, thumb brushing across his chest. “I’d really like that.”

“Good,” he gives you a quick kiss, “I can start showing you Pittsburgh’s best.”

“I think you already have,” you giggle.

You and Jack both start laughing again. “That was terrible,” he teases.

“Hey, it made you laugh.” You’re falling for the sound, chasing it already. “And it’s true.”

Jack shrugs and blushes again as he thinks about your words. “I’m the first person you’ve met here. You have nothing to compare me to. I could be Pittsburgh’s worst. Maybe you just think I’m the best because I’m the first.”

“I know you’re not the worst.” You shake your head. “You’re the best. Of everywhere. You’re just the best.”

“I mean,” he draws the words out a little. “I’m this old and single. Could mean something.”

“Yeah, it does,” you say simply. “It means you’re a doctor and a workaholic.”

“That obvious, huh?” He cocks his head.

You cock yours back at him. “Maybe the universe kept you single because I hadn’t moved to Pittsburgh yet and it knew I’d be the one who could handle and be okay with you being an emergency room physician and workaholic.”

Jack grows a bit more serious. You can tell this is something that’s burned him before. “Could you? Handle it? The hours and… workaholic-ism? If this went somewhere? Because I’d really like it to.”

“I could, yeah. We’ll work it out together. Promise.” This is something that’s burned you before too. “Could you?” you ask quietly, letting him know that you’re also somewhat of a workaholic with long hours. “Because I’d really like this to go somewhere too.”

“I could,” he nods, gives you a lopsided smile. “Like you said, we’ll work it out together.” Jack leans in and gives you another lingering kiss before murmuring against your lips. “Promise.”

I hope it was okay and silly and fluffy and a little hot! I really love hearing your thoughts and comments, they give me so much inspiration and liking, replies and reblogging are always so so appreciated! My inbox and DMs are always open for thoughts, comments, and general screaming, I'm always up to chat!

Want more Jack? Check out my masterlist here!

Want to be added to my Jack tag list? Interact with this post!

Interact with this post if you'd like to join my Robby tag list, and this post if you'd like to join my Andrew Pope Cody tag list! Each tag list is separate, so be sure to interact with each post for each character you'd like to be tagged for!

Divider by @saradika-graphics.

Tag list:

@loveyhoneydovey @love-affair-with-fandoms @mstrsgoodgrl0628 @equallyshaw @kmc1989 @artsymaddie @moonshooter @whiskeyhowlett-writes @smallcarbigwheels @hawkswildfireheart @blackwidownat2814 @viridian-dagger @andabuttonnose @beebeechaos @pear-1206 @starkgaryan @travelingmypassion @marvelcasey05 @daydreamingallthetime-world @millenialcatlady @nursejuju86 @escapefromrealitysm @emilia527 @satanxklaus @frazie99 @kastleandmurdock @guardiancardigan @zoctopiii @4rosabellaa @adissapointmentlol @nowandajenn @book-of-roses @redzscare @concentratedconcrete @freshbearbouquetblr @qardasngan @practicalghost @wolviehugh @athena1504 @iamcryingonceagain @acn87 @moonpascal @lostfleurs @beltzboys2015-blog @pouges-world @tinyharrypotterkpopfriend @roseanddaggerlarry @lauraneedstochill @robbyrobinavitch

#jack abbot x reader

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badwolfvexa · 2 days ago

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Sammy Bryant Masterlist

Whiskey - You get some real insight into how fucked up Sammy’s marriage really is.

The Cycle - You recognise the cycle Sammy’s trapped in.

Good Boy - Sammy thinks you might just be ready to move on from your old partner.

Daddy - An encounter at the beach leads the two of you to consider if it’s time to fuck around and find out.

Fuck Around And Find Out (NSFW) - Sammy and you decide to fuck around and find out.

Wild Nights & Dog Days - Sammy wants all of your wild nights and dog days.

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badwolfvexa · 2 days ago

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Doctor’s Orders - oldman!Joel Miller x pregnant!reader

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Pairing: oldman!Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: He’s been gentle, cautious, too afraid to touch you since you started showing. But the green light changes everything—and Joel makes up for lost time.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Age gap, explicit sexual content, older!Joel being clingy and so fucking desperate, pregnant!reader, oral (f receiving), unprotected p in v, slow and emotional, lots of praise, begging, Joel on his knees (literally and emotionally), soft aftercare

Word count: 2.6k

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The paper from the clinic is still folded in your bag when you get home, the corner of it crumpled where Joel’s thumb worried at it the whole drive back. You’re barely through the door before he sets the keys down too carefully, like any wrong movement might rattle the room, the house, the world. He looks at you like a man standing at the edge of a lake he’s been dying to sink into—and suddenly remembered he doesn’t know how to swim.

You toe your shoes off. “You’re quiet.”

“Just thinkin’,” he says, which is a lie, because Joel doesn’t think like this. He broods, he calculates, he fixes. Now he hovers—hands flexing and unflexing, shoulders tight, jaw clenched around all the things he’s not letting himself want.

You drop your bag on the counter. “About what?”

He swallows, eyes skittering from your face to the gentle roundness of your belly, like looking at you straight-on might undo him. He steps forward, slow, like he’s still afraid you might vanish between blinks.

Then his hand finds you—one palm warm and steady over the swell of your belly, the other trembling slightly where it rests on your thigh.

“S’posed to help with sleep. And swelling.” His thumb rubs small circles on your stomach.

Joel says it like it’s science. Like it’s not the only thing he’s been able to think about since the words left the doctor’s mouth.

“Doctor said it’d be good for you. For me too, probably.”

He’s rambling. You haven’t seen him like this since the first time he kissed you—hesitant, wrecked with want. All that broad, stubborn, aging strength wrapped around a man completely undone by you.

“Been so damn good, baby,” he whispers, forehead pressing against yours like a weight. “Didn’t wanna pressure you. Didn’t wanna…”

His throat works around the words. His hands tighten, just slightly. “But I’m losin’ it.”

You can’t help it; you laugh, soft, because he sounds like he’s quoting holy scripture. “Joel.”

He steps back and drags a hand over his mouth. “Been tryin’ to do right by you. By him. Or her.” His palm spreads, reverent, over the curve of you. “Didn’t wanna push. Didn’t wanna be selfish.”

“You’re not selfish.”

“I am,” he says quietly, like a confession. “’Specially with you. And when the doc said it was fine—hell, baby, I ain’t heard much else since.”

You step in close, and the air shifts. He stares down at you like you’ve offered him absolution. You tip your chin up, press your mouth to his, and the sound he makes is low and wounded and hungry all at once. He kisses you back like he’s breaking—first careful, then not at all.

When he pulls away, his eyes are glassy. “Tell me no if you gotta.”

“I’m not gonna tell you no.”

“Say you want me,” he whispers, like he needs to hear it in present tense, like the words themselves will anchor him.

“I want you,” you breathe. “Joel, I’ve missed you.”

That’s all it takes. Something in him gives. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks and then he’s kissing you again—deeper, messier, a hand framing your jaw, thumb stroking your cheekbone like he can soothe away the distance he put there.

He doesn’t drag you to the bedroom. He guides you, one hand warm at your lower back, the other steady on your hip, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he’s not touching you.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, and Joel follows, dropping to his knees between your legs so fast it’s like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind. His hands find your thighs, spread them gently, eyes flicking up to your face and then lower—to the part of you he hasn’t touched in weeks.

He’s breathing hard. His palms are warm, his thumbs stroking lazy circles like he can calm himself through touch alone. He’s not calm.

“Let me,” he says, voice frayed, breath hot against your skin.

He leans in to kiss your belly first. Just once. Then lower—just above the waistband of your underwear. Then lower still. His fingers slip beneath the fabric, but he pauses and looks up again, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Can I taste you?”

Your breath catches. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Please.”

He groans, like just hearing it out loud is too much, and pulls your underwear down slowly. You lift your hips to help him and feel him curse under his breath as the fabric peels away, damp and clinging.

Before you can even blink, his hands are under your thighs again—firm and steady—and he lifts one of your legs up, drapes it over his shoulder.

And then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Slow. Tongue first—broad and soft, dragging through you like he’s learning you from scratch. You suck in a breath, your fingers grabbing fistfuls of the comforter behind you. He groans again, low and rough, and fuck, you feel it against your core.

“You’re already so wet,” he mutters. “Jesus.”

You let your legs fall wider and he presses in closer, tongue sliding deeper, licking you like it’s his last meal. His beard is scratchy and his mouth is everywhere, and it’s messy already. He doesn’t try to stay quiet. Doesn’t try to be pretty about it.

“Been thinkin’ about this every night. Imagining what you’d taste like. Dreamin’ about you wrapped around my fuckin’ mouth.”

He groans. “Better than I imagined.”

His tongue circles your clit once, twice, and then sucks—just enough to make you cry out, hips jerking. But his arm is locked tight around your thigh, keeping you in place.

You can feel everything.

The heat of his mouth. The scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs. The slick slide of his tongue. The way his fingers tighten on your hips every time you moan his name.

You try to warn him when you’re close—but you barely get the words out before your orgasm crashes over you, hard and sudden. He doesn’t stop. Just licks you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body until you’re wrung out and shaking.

When he finally pulls back, his mouth is wet, chin glistening, chest rising like he’s just run a mile. His eyes drag up to yours, wrecked and hazy, and he kisses your thigh before lowering your leg slowly from his shoulder.

“Could stay down there all fuckin’ night,” he mutters. “But I need you, baby. I need to be inside you.”

Your whole body throbs with it. With how much he means it.

You tug at his shirt, and he gets the hint—ripping it off over his head in one rough motion. The rest follows fast, kicked off or pulled down, hands fumbling with the urgency he’s been swallowing for weeks. He’s bigger like this—broad, flushed, chest rising hard with each breath. His body’s scattered with old scars, muscle under soft skin, dusted with salt-and-pepper hair that trails down his stomach in a way that makes your mouth water.

His cock is already hard, thick and leaking, flushed dark at the tip. You see it twitch when your eyes land there. He watches your face as you take him in—and when your lips part on a breathless little sound, he blushes. Actually blushes.

Like he doesn’t know he’s the most devastating thing you’ve ever seen.

You reach for him. “C’mere.”

He comes like you’re pulling him by the spine—like he can’t stay away. His body covers yours, heavy and warm and grounding. His chest presses to yours. His cock lies hot and aching against your thigh. You can feel how badly he’s holding himself back in the way his muscles tremble, the tightness in his jaw, the drag of his breath through his nose.

“Tell me what you need,” you whisper, already dizzy with the feel of him.

“You,” he says, hoarse. Immediate. “Need to be inside you. Need to feel you wrapped around me—please. I missed you so much. Just—fuck—just let me be there. I won’t move. Not ‘til you say.”

He’s panting now, forehead pressed to yours. You can feel his cock twitch where it rests between your legs, feel the tension bleeding off him in waves.

You frame his face in both hands. “Joel. I want you.”

His body stutters like you just hit the release valve on something tightly wound.

“Fuck. Okay.” His voice cracks. “Okay.”

He fumbles in the drawer for the lube, and you watch his hands shake as he slicks himself up, the glide of his fist over his cock making your thighs press together. Then his fingers are back on you—parting you, stroking you open, slow and gentle but purposeful, like he’s memorizing every second of this.

You gasp when his thumb grazes your clit. He hisses under his breath.

“God, baby—feel how wet you are? You’re ready. You’re fuckin’ perfect.”

You spread your legs wider for him, aching and desperate, and he groans like it’s killing him not to be inside already.

“Please,” you breathe.

That’s all it takes.

He lines up, one hand gripping your thigh, the other guiding his cock, and then—slowly—he pushes in.

The stretch steals your breath. Thick, hot, filling you inch by inch until your back arches off the mattress and your nails dig into his shoulders. He watches your face the whole time—jaw clenched, neck straining, sweat already beading at his temples.

“So tight,” he pants. “So fucking tight—shit, baby, you’re squeezin’ me—”

When he bottoms out, his body jerks. He lets out a raw sound and goes still, shaking above you.

“Don’t move,” you whisper, but he’s already frozen, forehead dropping to your shoulder, breathing like he just ran a mile.

“Fuck, I—fuck, I forgot how good this feels. I missed you so much, baby, you don’t even—fuck.”

You can feel him throbbing inside you, thick and heavy and pulsing deep. You tighten around him, just a little, and he whines—actually whines.

“Fuck,” you breathe, tilting your hips up. “You can move, now.”

His head snaps up like he’s not sure he heard you right. When you nod, he starts to move—slow at first, deep and smooth, dragging the full length of his cock out before sinking back in, shuddering with every inch.

“Oh my god,” you gasp.

“I know. I know. I missed this, I missed you, fuck—feels like I’m home again—”

You feel the sweat drip from his brow onto your collarbone, the slick grind of his hips against yours, the way his cock drags against every inch of you. One of his hands slips under your thigh and pushes it higher, opening you wider, letting him hit deeper.

“So fucking perfect,” he rasps. “You take me so good. You always do. Like you were made for me.”

His voice is breaking apart—wrecked and hungry and sweet all at once.

“You feel me? You feel how deep I am?”

You nod, but it’s not enough.

“Say it.”

“I feel you, Joel,” you choke out. “You’re—fuck—you’re so deep.”

“That’s right,” he groans. “Let me give it to you. Let me fuckin’ have you.”

Your hands claw down his back, nails dragging red across his shoulder blades, and he loses it.

He thrusts harder now—still careful, still controlled, but no longer holding back. Every stroke punches a gasp out of you. His hand moves to your belly, holding there like it’s sacred. Like he’s holding everything he loves in one place.

“So good for me,” he pants. “You’re everything. Everything.”

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you know is the weight of his body, the heat of his cock, the burn building deep in your gut.

“Baby,” he gasps. “I—I can’t hold it—please, tell me it’s okay—tell me—”

“Come,” you whisper. “I want you to.”

He lets go with a broken, guttural sound—hips jerking, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spills into you with everything he has. His whole body shakes. He doesn’t stop moving, not fully. Just slow, sloppy thrusts as he rides it out, breath shuddering against your neck.

And even after he stills, he doesn’t pull out.

He stays inside you, still panting, still gripping your waist like he doesn’t want to let you go. You feel the heat of him dripping out of you slowly, spreading wet and warm between your thighs.

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You feel the moment he starts to come back to himself—not in a rush, not all at once. Just the slow easing of tension from his shoulders. The stutter in his breath smoothing out. The drag of his nose against your neck, slower now. Gentle.

But he still doesn’t pull out.

His hands are everywhere. Stroking your sides. Mapping the curve of your belly. Smoothing over the thigh he’d pushed high around his waist. Like he’s afraid if he stops touching you, you’ll disappear.

You slide your fingers through the sweat-damp curls at the back of his neck and hum, content and dazed.

“You okay?”

His breath hitches. He nods, but it’s not convincing.

“Joel.”

He lifts his head, and the look on his face breaks you.

Eyes glassy. Lips parted. That little furrow in his brow that only shows when he’s completely undone.

“I’m okay,” he says softly. “I just—fuck. I missed you.”

“You had me,” you whisper, brushing the hair off his forehead. “You still do.”

His eyes flick over your face like he’s memorizing you from scratch.

“Don’t feel real,” he murmurs. “Been wantin’ you so bad I thought maybe I made this up.”

You shift under him, and he finally—finally—eases out, slow and careful. You both hiss at the feeling, at the warmth and wet that follows. He watches it for a second, cheeks pink, then leans over you to grab a towel from the drawer.

His hands are gentle as he cleans you up. Reverent, almost. Not because he thinks you’re fragile—because he’s so in love with you it leaks out of him in every touch.

When he’s done, you reach for him.

“Come here.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He crawls back into bed and pulls you into his chest like a lifeline. One arm curls around your shoulders, the other slipping low to rest protectively over your belly. You’re still sticky with sweat, flushed and swollen and thoroughly fucked—and you’ve never felt so safe in your life.

Joel kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw. His mouth lingers everywhere like he’s checking for damage.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Joel,” you murmur, hand sliding up his chest. “You were perfect.”

He breathes you in like he’s starving for air and nods, just once. His hand starts moving again—absently stroking your arm, your hip, the swell of your stomach. His thumb rubs soft little circles there like he’s trying to soothe the baby through your skin.

You can feel the kick inside your stomach at the same moment Joel does.

He smiles. You feel it in the way his body relaxes behind you, the deep, bone-deep sigh he lets out as he settles.

“Gonna do everything right, y’know,” he whispers. “Be good to you. Good to them. I’m not gonna fuck this up.”

You turn your head, kiss his jaw.

“You haven’t fucked anything up. You waited. You took care of me. Of us.”

His hand tightens over your belly. He presses a kiss there, then rests his head between your shoulder blades.

You lie there like that for a long time. His chest against your back. His arms around you like armor. You feel the twitch of his fingers even after his breathing evens out. Even when he’s asleep, he doesn’t let go.

You don’t want him to.

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badwolfvexa · 3 days ago

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Love You Anyway (3) | Andrew Cody x Brother's Best Friend ! Reader

Andrew Cody x F ! Brother’s Best Friend ! Reader

Summary: You get your college acceptance letter and go to the Cody house to tell Deran—but he’s not there. Instead, you spend the afternoon with Andrew. It’s easy and unexpected… until you return to the house and realize things aren’t as normal as they seemed.

Word Count: 8480

Warnings: Nine-year age gap (late teens / late 20s) — Andrew Cody x reader are NOT together in the “Then” timeline

Author’s Notes: omg sorry guys. i had major writers block and then got busy. but part 3 is here. unfortunately my summer is coming to an end and i have to start up my job again BOOOOO. (crying i dont wnat to go back) so i'll prob be updating whenever I can, sorry. oh i finally made it to season 3 of animal kingdom yuhhhh, but last half of season 2 was so good i was on the edge of my seat. Anyway, here's part 3!!! Enjoy! - Ryn

THEN: ACCEPTANCE LETTER 2008

You biked as fast as you could to the Cody house, the midday sun beating down on your back. You gripped the letter in your hand as you grip the handle bars of your bike.

You didn’t want to wait.

Not until dinner. Not even another hour.

You just wanted to tell someone—wanted to see Deran’s face when you said it out loud.

You roll into the driveway, pressing the handle bar breaks to slow down your speed and hop off your bike. You roll your bike towards the open garage, noticing Andrew working out on the workout equipment.

Andrew was shirtless, wearing jeans that hung low on his hips, his back sweaty. He was focused, jaw tight, arms flexing as he pulled down on the cable machine with steady rhythm.

“Hey,” you called, still a little breathless as you leaned your bike against the garage wall.

Andrew glanced over his shoulder. His eyes landed on you briefly before he turned back to the machine.

You’d been around more since the day at the beach—seen Andrew a handful of times since then—but things between you hadn’t changed. He kept his distance. Every interaction was brief or clipped. You only spoke to each other when you had to; otherwise, you stayed out of each other’s way.

Baz and Deran, on the other hand, had been more welcoming. They talked to you, included you in whatever they were doing when you came around to hang out with Deran. But Andrew still held back, like there was an invisible line you weren’t supposed to cross—and he wasn’t about to let you forget it.

“He’s not here,” he said, voice low but clear—already knowing who you were here for.

“Oh…” You pushed your hair back, trying to catch your breath. “Do you know where he went or when he’ll be back?”

He didn’t pause. Just pulled again, the weights clanking softly. “Nope.”

You stood there, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. The excitement that had propelled you here was starting to fade, caught in the silence between his reps.

“Okay… is anybody else home that could tell me where he is?”

Nothing.

“I’ll take that as a no, then…”

You glanced down at the envelope in your hand. Its edges were crumpled from how tightly you’d been holding it.

“I got my letter back. From one of the colleges I applied to.”

Andrew's rhythm of his reps slowed. A subtle adjustment, like he’d finally stopped pretending not to listen. He remembers you mentioning how you applied for different colleges.

You looked up at him again, searching for some reaction. Still nothing. Just the steady rise and fall of his shoulders as he continued to pull the handles down.

The envelope suddenly feels heavier in your hands.

“I don’t know why I came here,” you said with a quiet laugh, mostly to yourself. “I guess I just wanted to share it with someone… with Deran.”

Andrew didn’t say anything, but the pause between his reps stretched a little longer this time.

You thumb the edge of the envelope. “He’s the one who kept telling me to go for it. Said I’d get in, no problem.”

Your voice wavered just a little. Not enough to crack—just enough to reveal the truth beneath it.

You had been nervous about applying. Nervous about even wanting something that far away. A school that meant starting over, leaving behind everything familiar.

But Deran hadn’t laughed, hadn’t shrugged it off like you half-expected him to. He’d just looked at you and said, “Why not you?” Like it was obvious.

That stuck.

So you’d done it. And now the letter was here, trembling just slightly in your grip, and the one person who told you to take the leap… wasn’t.

“It’s the college I really want to go to,” you added, trying to fill the silence.

Andrew huffed, not quite a scoff but close, still not facing you. “You don’t want to open this at home? With your family?”

“My parents are busy with work,” you muttered, voice low. “I didn’t even tell them I applied… to a university outside of California.” Your eyes are still on the letter.

“I was gonna tell Deran in person,” you added after a beat. “But since he’s not here…”

You stepped forward, lifting the envelope slightly. “I guess you’ll do.”

You hesitated, suddenly unsure if this was something you should be sharing with Andrew. Deran was the one who encouraged you, who believed in you when you were too afraid to believe in yourself. Maybe you should’ve waited—waited to open it with him.

But the anticipation was gnawing at you, tightening your chest. You couldn’t wait any longer.

Your fingers tore the seal open before you could second-guess yourself. You pulled out the paper, unfolding it with shaky hands, eyes scanning for one word. Just one.

Then you saw it.

Congratulation

You gasped. A laugh broke from your chest.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, your hand flying to your mouth. “I got in—I got in!”

You shrieked, joy bursting out of you like a firecracker. You jumped up and down, spinning in place as you waved the letter in the air, barely able to hold onto it.

Andrew paused, his hands still gripping the handlebars of the exercise machine. His shoulders rose and fell with quiet, controlled breaths as he turned to look over his shoulder at you. He let go slowly—arms dropping to his sides

You hadn’t realized he was watching.

He watched your reaction—your spinning, your laughter—and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. A quiet chuckle slipped out before he could stop it.

“Good for you,” he said.

You heard that much. By the time you calmed yourself, his smile was gone. You didn’t catch how his smile lingered, genuine and quiet, drawn out by your happiness and the excitement you couldn’t contain.

You pressed the letter to your chest, breathing hard, cheeks flushed.

Andrew stepped away from the machine, grabbing a water bottle from their outside refrigerator. His expression had already settled into something more neutral, but there was still a softness in his eyes if you looked closely enough.

“Where to?” he asked, taking a sip.

You tell him the name of the school. “It’s on the east coast”

He lowered the bottle, recapping it slowly. “Far.”

Good, he thought. You’ll be away from all their bullshit.

“I know,” you said, practically bouncing with a mix of nerves and excitement. “But it’s exciting!”

Your heart raced at the thought of taking the leap — scared, but ready.

He went back to the machine grabbing his towel that was draped over the bars on the workout machine.

“You can stay… wait for Deran, I mean,” he said, wiping his face, then tossing the towel over his shoulder.

He didn’t know why he said that. It came out before he could stop it—quieter than usual, not gruff or sharp. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said it, eyes fixed somewhere near the floor, like offering that kind of invitation cost him something.

You were surprised. Of all the things you expected him to say, that wasn’t one of them.

You nodded quickly, hopeful but trying not to seem like it. “Yeah. I’ll wait. If that’s okay.”

Andrew gave a short jerk of his head toward the house—a wordless cue: go on in.

You hesitated just long enough, thinking he might say more. When he didn’t, you took the side door and headed toward their house.

He stood there a moment longer than necessary, watching you disappear, towel still resting on his shoulder. Then he tossed the towel aside, turned back toward the machine, and started working out again.

—

You moved into the living room and sat on the couch, the envelope still in your hands. You sank into the couch, left alone with the silence. For a moment, you thought Andrew might follow you inside—but he didn’t.

After a few minutes, you pull out your flip phone. The screen was smudged, the battery half-dead. You flipped it open and hit Deran’s number.

It rang a couple of times before going to voicemail.

“Hey! I’m at your place—sorry, I should’ve called first to check if you were home. Andrew said you were out, but I got my acceptance letter in the mail! I wanted to tell you in person. Sorry… I opened it. It couldn’t wait, but I got in! I’m going to the East Coast! Call me when you get this”

You hung up, leaving the voicemail, then snapped the phone shut with a soft click.

Now you wait.

Time dragged. Twenty minutes. Then thirty.

Andrew came back out, freshly showered and dressed. He was in a clean T-shirt and jeans, towel still in hand as he ran it through his damp curls. He stopped in the space of the living room

“No word?” he asked.

You toyed with a loose string on the throw pillow clutched to your chest. You shook your head, “He’s probably busy.”

You stood from the couch, smoothing your hands down your legs just to give them something to do. “I should get going.”

Then added you, “If you see him… can you tell him to call me?”

Andrew didn’t say anything. Neither did you. There was no goodbye.

You stepped past him and made your way back outside the house. You grabbed your bike from where you’d left it against the garage wall and started rolling it up the driveway toward the street.

Andrew came out a moment later, keys in hand, heading toward his truck parked just a few feet away. He didn’t say anything, just walked in silence, unlocking the doors with the fob.

You were halfway up the drive when he said,

“C’mon.”

You stopped in your tracks, caught off guard.

“What?” you asked, turning to look at him.

“Let’s go.”

“But—”

“Leave your bike and get in the car,” he said, climbing into his truck. You knew with Andrew, he never asks—he tells.

You weren’t sure what was happening, or why he wanted you in his truck, or where you two were going, but you did what he said. You rolled your bike and left it leaning against the outside of the garage, then climbed into the passenger seat of his truck. The engine was already running, the car humming softly.

“Seat belt,” he said.

“Right” You mumbled as you reached for it, pulling it across your chest and clicking it into place just as he shifted the truck into reverse.

He backed out of the driveway in one clean motion, then turned onto the street. The gate closed behind you with a mechanical hum, triggered by the clicker in his hand.

You glanced at him once, but he didn’t say anything. Just kept his eyes on the road.

You stared out the window as the truck moved down the street, houses blurring past. Every few seconds, you felt the urge to say something—ask where you were going,

The silence wasn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn’t easy either.

“So…” you said finally, the word slipping out quieter than you meant it to.

Andrew didn’t look at you, but you saw his fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

You waited, but when he didn’t follow up, you added, “Where are we going or better yet… where are you taking me?”

You shifted in your seat, not sure if you were annoyed or just anxious. Maybe both.

Nothing.

“Andrew,” you said, a little firmer this time, trying to keep your voice steady despite the frustration bubbling under the surface.

He shrugged nonchalantly, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Relax.”

“Relax?” You blinked, incredulous. “How am I supposed to relax when you’re basically kidnapping me?”

He furrows his eyebrows, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face, but he doesn’t look over. “Kidnapping? You got in the car willingly.”

You crossed your arms, leaning back against the seat. “Only because you practically ordered me to. You didn’t exactly give me much of a choice.”

He finally glanced your way, expression unreadable. “I didn’t force you. You have free will. You could’ve just said no.”

You let out a breath, part exasperated, part amused. “Yeah, well, when someone’s voice sounds like a command, saying no doesn’t exactly feel like an option.”

“You don’t have anything better to do,” he said flatly.

You raised a brow. “How do you know? Maybe I had plans.”

He gave you a look, dry and pointed. “Did you?”

You hesitated, then muttered, “That’s not the point.”

“It kind of is.”

You rolled your eyes and looked out the window. “God, you’re infuriating.”

He drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel. “And yet you got in the car.”

You turned your head, shooting him a glare. “Because you made it sound like it wasn’t up for discussion.”

You turned to look out the window, watching the blur of palm trees and strip malls pass by.

Then, quietly, “Would it help if I said I didn’t want you sitting around by yourself?”

Andrew didn’t want you to be alone. Your parents weren’t home, and neither was Deran. There was no one around to celebrate with you. Sure, you could celebrate later—but it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing compared to sharing the moment while it was still alive, still buzzing in your chest.

That caught you off guard. Your head turned slowly back toward him.

He wasn’t looking at you—his jaw tight, eyes ahead—but the tension in his shoulders had softened, just barely.

You blinked. “So this is… what? You playing chauffeur out of pity?”

“No,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Not pity.”

You waited, but he said nothing else. Just kept driving, hands steady on the wheel.

“I’m hungry.”

You blinked. “Okay?”

“I thought you might be too.”

You stared at him for a second, trying to make sense of it. Was… was he taking you out to eat? That couldn’t be right. Not Andrew. Your best friend’s older brother. The one who always kept his distance, who made it painfully clear he didn’t want anything to do with you—or have you hanging around. That Andrew was now driving you somewhere for food?

It didn’t make sense.

“You’re taking me to get food?” you asked slowly, raising your eyebrows in disbelief, trying to figure out if there was some sort of ulterior motive.

His jaw tightened just slightly, like he was already regretting saying anything. Then he muttered, “Seemed like a decent way to mark the occasion.”

You paused.

That’s when it clicked.

This wasn’t just about food. Andrew was taking you out—it wasn’t random. It was intentional. A quiet, awkward way of showing he cared, even if he couldn’t put it into words. He wasn’t going to say “congratulations,” No grand gestures, no speeches—just this simple act that said more than he ever would aloud. This was his version of showing up.

And even if he couldn’t say it out loud, you could feel it.

You didn’t know what to say. It was… sweet. Simple. Thoughtful, even—that he’d go out of his way to do this for you.

His truck pulled into a small parking lot, easing into a stall right out front. High Tide Diner was painted across the large front window in a faded retro font, the kind that hadn’t been updated in decades but somehow still felt timeless.

You climbed out of the truck, the door creaking slightly as it shut behind you. Andrew didn’t say anything, just nodded toward the entrance, and the two of you headed inside.

A bell above the door jingled as you stepped in. The place smelled like coffee, salt, and something fried. Vinyl booths lined the walls, cracked in places, and the floor tiles were uneven from years of foot traffic. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm. Familiar.

It wasn’t crowded—just a handful of people and families scattered here and there throughout the diner, low conversations humming beneath the clatter of dishes.

Andrew stepped past you and slid into an empty booth tucked away near the back, far from everyone else. Typical. Always picking the quietest corner like he needed distance to breathe.

You followed and slid into the seat across from him, the vinyl sticking slightly to your legs as you settled in.

“This place is good. We don’t have to eat here. We could go somewhere else—”

“No, no, this is fine. Really,” you said quickly, cutting him off before he could protest. “I like it”

You reached for the menu and scanned the beat-up plastic laminate in front of you. The corners were worn, peeling a little from years of use. The food options were exactly what you expected—greasy, oily, unapologetically comforting. Burgers stacked high, loaded fries, grilled cheese, milkshakes thick enough to bend a straw. No frills, no health section. Just pure, deep-fried Americana.

“This place has personality,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

Across the table, Andrew shrugged, like that was the point. “The food's good. That’s all that matters.”

You looked up at him, watching the way he leaned back against the booth like he’d been here a hundred times. Like he fit.

“Do you come here a lot?”

He shrugged again, eyes still on the menu he hadn’t even picked up. “Used a lot when I was a teenager. With… Julia sometimes. But I come around every so often”

“Julia…” you repeated softly, the name unfamiliar on your tongue.

He glanced up, just briefly. “My twin sister.”

You blinked, surprised. “You have a twin?”

Deran hadn’t mentioned he had an older sister. In fact, no one in the family had ever mentioned her—not once.

“Been a while since we’ve seen her,” he said, almost too casually—but there was a tightness in his voice that said more than the words did. He didn’t elaborate.

You hesitated, unsure if you should say something else, asking what happened. But the way he was staring past you now, like he was seeing a memory and not the diner, made you pause.

Instead, you just nodded. Quiet. Respectful.

“There’s so much on this menu,” you said, your voice lighter, pulling things gently back to the present. “I might need, like… a solid twenty minutes.”

Andrew didn’t smile, exactly, but his mouth twitched like he almost could have. “Pick something greasy. It’s what they do best.”

An older woman came over with two glasses of water balanced in one hand and a notepad in the other. Her name tag said Deb, and she gave you both a polite nod.

“Hi there! Are you two ready, or need a few minutes?”

“Double Cheeseburger. Everything on it. Extra pickles. Fries. Chocolate shake.”

Deb jotted it down and turned to you.

You hesitated for a second, then said, “I’ll have the same thing he’s having… but strawberry shake.”

Andrew looked over at you, one brow lifting.

Deb gave a smile. She took the menus. “Alright, I’ll get that in.” She turned and headed toward the kitchen, the order slip already in her hand.

You glanced back at Andrew as he stared at you. “What? Your order sounded good…”

Andrew’s brow twitched slightly, amusement flickering behind his eyes. “Didn’t peg you for the copy-my-order type.”

You shook your head. “It’s not copying—my order is different from yours”

He scoffed. “Just swapping the shake doesn’t make it different.”

You glanced at him with a smirk. “Didn’t peg you for someone so territorial about food. Are you always this dramatic over an order?”

Andrew shook his head and rolled his eyes, then muttered, “Should’ve stuck with chocolate.”

“Strawberry’s better.”

Andrew gave you a sideways glance. “Better, huh? That’s… questionable.”

Silence falls between the two of you.

Andrew rested his arms on the table, fingers tapping against the table top as he stared out the window.

You noticed his knuckles were almost healed. The scrapes had faded into thin, reddish scabs—the kind that stuck around after the worst was over. You remembered how bad they’d looked at the beach, when he came back to Baz’s truck. Bloody, raw.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” you said quietly, the words spilling out.

Andrew glanced at you, his brows knitting together. “Do what?”

“The surfer. At the beach.”

His eyes narrowed, like he might deny it, might brush it off with some half-answer—but you cut him off before he could.

“I’m not stupid, Andrew.” You sighed “I know what you did.”

His tapping stopped as he caught you staring at his hands. He didn’t say anything—just slowly moved his hand from the table to his lap.

For a long second, he didn’t say anything. Just stared past you, jaw tight, like he was weighing the cost of answering.

Then finally, he said, “He was out of line.”

“That’s it?” you asked, not bothering to hide your frustration. “He was out of line, so you beat the shit out of him?”

His eyes met yours. Steady. Unapologetic. “Yeah.”

There were a dozen things you wanted to say—about how messed up it was, about how you weren’t his problem, about how that’s not how normal people handled things.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

Because part of you wanted to yell at him.

But the other part—annoyingly louder—just felt that same strange twist in your chest. That not-quite-fear, not-quite-comfort thing.

So instead, all that came out was, “You didn’t have to.”

“He dropped in on you, didn’t he? When you were surfing?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“And he hit you.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” you said. “It was an accident.”

“That guy could’ve seriously hurt you, out in the water and Then he ran off like a coward after he hit you”

You swallowed. “And you took it personally?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “You got hurt. I don’t care who started it or what excuses anyone gives. That shouldn’t have happened.”

You blinked.

“And that justifies everything?”

“Maybe not,” he said finally. “I wasn’t thinking about right or wrong. But I’d do it again.”

It knocked the breath out of you—not because it was shocking, but because of how easily he said it. Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t even a question in his mind.

That shut you up.

Because he meant it. Completely and without regret.

You stared at him, trying to make sense of it. Of him.

And maybe that should’ve scared you.

But somehow… it didn’t.

“Well…Thanks,” you said—quiet, measured. Nothing more, nothing less.

You left it there, even if you didn’t agree with how he handled it.

You didn’t say it was okay. You didn’t pretend it made sense.

But you also didn’t take it back.

He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just studied you for a moment, like he was trying to decide whether to say what he was thinking or keep it buried like usual.

“Here we are—two cheeseburgers with everything on ’em, extra pickles, fries, one chocolate shake, and one strawberry,” Deb announced as she approached, balancing the tray like it was second nature.

She set it down in the center of the table with practiced ease.

You both murmured a “Thanks,” nearly in unison.

Deb gave a nod and a quick smile. “Holler if you need anything else,” she said before turning and disappearing back toward the kitchen.

You dug in, taking a big bite of the burger and let out a muffled groan. Your eyes flutter shut for a second. “This is so good,” you mumbled around a mouthful, barely pausing between bites.

Across the table, Andrew watched you with a mix of amusement and disbelief. A quiet chuckle slipped out as he took in the way you were devouring your burger like you hadn’t eaten in days.

“You gonna breathe at some point?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “You know—maybe in between bites?”

You held up a finger, chewing furiously, and pointed at the burger. “Too good,” you said, barely intelligible. “Not my fault.”

Andrew took a big bite of his burger, enjoying the juicy flavors. As he chewed, a bit of ketchup slid from the bun and landed right on his nose. He didn’t notice.

You caught it instantly and snorted, covering your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing mid-chew.

“What?” he asked, mouth half-full, tone flat.

“You’ve got—” You broke into another giggle, motioning vaguely toward your own face. “Ketchup. On your nose.”

He frowned and tried to see it, his eyes crossing slightly, which only made it worse. You practically wheezed only made you laugh harder.

“I got it, I got it,” you said, still laughing as you reached for a stack of napkins from the dispenser.

You leaned across the table. “Hold still.”

He didn’t move. Just sat there watching you with that calm, unreadable expression.

You were suddenly aware of how close you were—close enough to catch the faintest trace of his aftershave and the subtle heat of his gaze on you. You dabbed at the smear of ketchup on his nose, biting back a smile as he let you do it, silent and still, his expression flat but clearly unamused.

Your hand lingered a second longer than it needed to before you finally pulled back.

“There,” you said softly.

“For that,” you added, reaching over without hesitation, “I deserve a fries.”

You snatched a couple off his plate and popped one into your mouth before he could protest.

“Hey,” he said, half-amused, half-indignant. “You’ve got your own.”

“I saved your nose,” you shot back. “If it weren’t for me, you’d still be looking like Rudolph.”

He shakes his head. “One smear of ketchup and suddenly you're a hero.”

You grinned, already reaching for your milkshake “Damn right I am.”

—

After finishing up at the diner, the two of you ended up driving aimlessly with no real destination in mind.

There was no rush. No plan. Just the road stretching out ahead and the quiet comfort of his presence beside you.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gearshift. You leaned your head against the window, watching the world blur past—quiet neighborhoods, aging gas stations, wide-open lots bathed in the soft gold of the setting sun.

At a red light, he glanced over at you. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. This is nice.”

He gave a small smile—one of those rare ones that didn’t quite reach his eyes but meant something all the same. “Yeah. It is.”

As he drove, the two of you did nothing but talk. And it was different—unexpectedly so. Easy in a way that caught you off guard. You’d been talking—really talking—and somewhere along the way, Andrew’s walls, usually built so high, had lowered without ceremony. Without either of you even noticing when it happened.

For the first time, it felt like you were beginning to truly know him—not just the version everyone else saw. And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to know you too. There were still parts of him kept carefully out of reach, tucked away behind familiar silences, but that didn’t bother you.

And, strangely, he didn’t seem to mind you seeing him like this. Not tonight.

Eventually, you found yourselves at the beach near the pier, the truck rumbling to a stop just as the sun began to dip low on the horizon. The sky was brushed in soft shades of orange, pink, and fading lavender, the last light of the day stretching long across the sand. The breeze off the ocean carried the scent of salt and something faintly sweet—maybe kettle corn from the boardwalk nearby.

Shoes in hand, you wandered the shoreline together, the sand cool beneath your feet. The tide rolled in gentle and steady, lapping at your ankles. Andrew kept to the drier sand away from the water, watching you with that same quiet expression—as if he was memorizing the moment, even if he didn’t know why.

“You think you’re gonna get homesick when you’re on the East Coast?”

“Maybe,” you admitted with a shrug. “But I guess that’s part of the point—learning how to deal with it.”

“I can’t wait to get out of here—away from my parents, on my own. All I’ve ever known is California, Oceanside. I’m just excited to experience something new, though it is daunting.”

He stood standing, eyes fixed on the shoreline where you walked splashing in the water.

He was envious—of your freedom, your clean break. The way you had the opportunity to leave and actually go. He could do his own thing in theory, but in practice… he couldn’t. Not really.

Even as an adult, hardened by everything he’d been through, Andrew was still tethered to Smurf. No matter how far he tried to pull away, that invisible thread always snapped him back. She had a way of pulling him in, of making sure he never drifted too far. He was loyal to a fault.

Watching you—so full of hope and momentum—was a stark contrast to his world. You, who grew up in a stable, middle-class home. Two loving parents. Consistency. Safety. Unconditional Love. Things he never had. Things he didn’t even know how to trust.

In his world, nothing was handed over willingly. Everything had to be taken—stolen, hustled, fought for. They didn’t work to earn in the traditional sense. They planned, schemed, and survived. And when they got what they wanted, they didn’t celebrate—they braced for whatever came next.

You were everything he wasn’t. Everything he’d never be in this lifetime.

It was better that you were leaving—going off to college, to the East Coast, to anything that wasn’t this. Better you got out before you had the chance to really see what he and his brothers were. What they did.

He glanced over at you then, eyes catching yours for just a second before flicking away again.

“You’ll be good out there,” he said quietly. “You’ll figure it out.”

You moved slowly along the shoreline, letting the waves chase your toes. Every now and then, you’d glance back at him, and he’d give you that faint, unreadable smile of his.

“You gonna get your feet wet or what?” you called over your shoulder, teasing.

He smirked, but didn’t budge. “I’m good right here.”

You turned back to the ocean, the breeze tugging gently at your clothes. A particularly strong wave rolled in and soaked your calves, making you gasp and laugh as you jumped back. You heard him chuckle behind you,

“Come on” You kick some water at him

“Hey stop that!”

You giggle as you continue splashing through the water, coming to flick some back at him just to get a rise out of it.

“Angel, quit it—” he says, voice low but amused.

You freeze for a second, the nickname catching you off guard.

They all called you that—Angel. Baz had started it that day at the beach, half a joke, half a dig. After that, they hardly used your real name at all. But Andrew?

He never used it. Not once.

Until now.

And it felt different coming from him. Not careless or mocking. Not something he said just because the others did. His version was quieter. Almost gentle.

You didn’t know why it made your chest feel tight, or why you wanted to hear it again—just not with the usual teasing behind it.

“Boo, you’re boring!”

“Oh, yeah?” he said, an eyebrow lifting, just before he stepped forward and scooped you up like it was nothing.

“Andrew—wait! No, no, no—”

But it was already too late. He was already walking straight into the ocean, steady and unbothered, even as you squirmed in his arms.

“Andrew—!” you kicked your feet in protest, laughter bubbling up despite yourself.

He didn’t slow down. Just kept moving forward, water lapping higher—first at his knees, then his thighs. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck tighter, clinging to him as tightly as you could.

“Andrew, don’t you dare—”

He smirked. And then he leaned.

“Oh, don’t you dar—!”

Too late.

With one swift movement, he dunked you both under.

You shrieked as the cold water swallowed you whole, salt stinging your nose, your laughter muffled in the splash. You surfaced with a gasp, hair plastered to your face, eyes wide, and already laughing so hard it made your chest ache.

Andrew came up behind you, shaking the water from his curls, completely soaked. His clothes clung to him, heavy and dark with seawater, and he ran a hand through his hair, flicking droplets everywhere.

Andrew just grinned, smug and unapologetic. “Totally worth it.”

You swiped your soaked hair out of your face, still laughing. “Says the one who wanted to stay dry!”

“And then you started kicking water at me like it was gonna do anything.”

You scoffed. “I barely got you wet!”

He gave you a look, eyes narrowing like he couldn’t believe you were still pretending. “My jeans were damp. That was a violation.”

You grinned. “Oh, poor you.”

“I had to restore balance,” he said solemnly. “Full submersion was the only way.”

You splashed him again. “You’re such an asshole. Where’s the logic in that, by the way? You didn’t want to get wet, so you decided to throw yourself into the ocean—with me?”

He shrugged, completely unfazed. “I didn’t say it was good logic.”

—

Andrew’s truck pulled into the driveway. He stepped out, door slamming shut behind him as he headed over into the garage.

The brothers were mid-count—money spread out across the workbench in uneven stacks, jewelry glinting under the garage lights. A gun sat openly beside a half-zipped duffel. They were too hyped to care.

Craig glanced up first.

“Dude, where the hell have you been?! We’ve been calling you—” Craig’s voice was loud, half-laughing, charged with adrenaline and whatever trouble they’d stirred up all day.

“You guys did a job?” Andrew’s voice cut through the room, sharp and disbelieving. They’d gone out and done something—without him. Without even telling him.

If he’d known, he never would’ve brought you back to the house—not with the heat still fresh, with evidence still laid out in plain sight. At the very least, he would’ve warned them, told them to clean up, to stash the bags and play it cool. But now? It was too late for any of that.

Andrew’s stomach dropped. He was pissed, sure. They’d cut him out, made a move without him. That stung, and he’d deal with it later. But right now? None of that mattered. All he could think about was you.

“Dude, why are you all wet?” Baz asked, staring at Andrew with a raised brow as he stepped up from the beach.

Andrew didn’t answer right away. His eyes flicked over his shoulder—to the car, to the door he knew was about to swing open.

“Get rid of it,” he said sharply.

“What?” Baz blinked, thrown.

“Get rid of it. Now.” he tells his brother

And then you stepped out of Andrews truck.

Still damp from the ocean, sand clinging to your legs, hair a tangled, wind-blown mess. You were brushing sand off, not even aware of the storm you’d just walked into.

Four sets of eyes locked on you, and just like that, the air in the garage turned sharp, still, and heavy.

Craig’s grin evaporated as he stared, blinking like he wasn’t sure if he was seeing you or some kind of mirage.

Deran froze halfway through shoving bills into a bag. “Wait—Angel?”

Even Baz, usually the smoothest at holding his expression, faltered for a beat. His gaze landed on you, then flicked to Andrew. His jaw clenched, subtle but visible.

Then they moved.

Fast.

They quickly managed to stuff everything away. The jewelry was swept off the table in hurried, careless motions. Bundles of cash were stuffed back into the duffels with practiced, frantic efficiency. Craig cursed under his breath as he knocked something over—a watch clattered to the concrete floor, its face cracking sharply. Without missing a beat, he kicked it out of sight.

By the time you came into the garage, there was no evidence left—no sign of what had just been there.

“Hey guys!” You beam. Your voice was cheerful, easy—completely unaware of what they just did. The room looked almost normal, but the tension hanging in the air told you otherwise.

Craig froze mid-zip, then straightened with a crooked grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Angel! What’s up?”

Baz was already standing in front of the table like he’d just happened to be leaning there all along. “Didn’t expect to see you around,” he said, tone smooth but eyes still calculating.

Deran tilted his head, eyeing you with a mix of confusion and something else you couldn’t quite place. “Uh… what are you doing here?”

His voice had that weird edge to it—trying to sound casual, but it didn’t quite land.

You smiled, trying to keep it light. “Nice to see you too. I stopped by earlier—you didn’t get my voicemail?”

He shook his head. “No, I didn't see anything.”

“Well, I came to open my acceptance letter.”

Deran’s eyes widened. “Wait—the one from the college on the East Coast?”

You nodded, grinning now. “Yeah. I got in.”

“Angel, that’s awesome!” His whole face lit up. He stepped forward and pulled you into a hug, lifting you slightly off the ground even though your clothes were still soaked.

“Congratulations!” Deran says as he sets you back down.

Baz brows raised. “No shit? That’s big. Congrats, Angel.” His voice was casual, but there was a flicker of genuine pride behind it, the kind he didn’t hand out often.

Craig grinned from where he was crouched by a bag, wiping his hands on his jeans before getting up. “Hell yeah! That’s huge! You better throw a party before you leave. Better yet, we’ll throw you one” He pulled you into a one-armed hug, not caring about the wet clothes.

“Thanks, guys,” you said, a little overwhelmed by their rare, unfiltered support.

You glanced toward Andrew. “Yeah, Andrew and I hung out today—”

Craig cut in before you could finish. “Wait, you and Andrew hung out?”

That stopped everything.

Baz’s gaze flicked from you to Andrew, then back again. Deran raised an eyebrow.

The three of them stood there, silent now, their attention sharper—focused in a way it hadn’t been before.

Craig’s smirk had faded into something more curious. Baz didn’t bother hiding the suspicion in his eyes.

You gave a nervous laugh, trying to brush it off. “I came by to hang out with you,” you said, nudging Deran lightly in the chest. “But you weren’t home.”

You shrugged. “Andrew was around. So we hung out. No big deal.”

But it felt like a big deal now—with the way they were all looking at you.

“Why are you guys wet?” Baz asked, eyebrows raised, voice careful now.

“Beach,” you and Andrew answered at the same time.

Your voices overlapped, perfectly matched—flat, casual, a little too in sync.

Craig snorted, more amused than anything. “Cute.”

Baz leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Didn’t know you two were going on beach dates now.”

“It wasn’t a date,” you and Andrew said in unison.

You knew they were teasing, but seriously—you and Andrew? No way. That wasn’t what this was. He was Deran’s older brother. It would’ve been weird. Messy. Off-limits for so many reasons.

You scrunched your nose and made a dramatic face like you were physically repulsed by the idea. “Ew. No. Gross.” You waved your hands as if to push the thought far, far away. “He’s like…ancient”

Andrew glanced at you clearly unimpressed. “Wow. Thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” you said, mock-defensive. “You’re basically halfway to forty.”

Craig burst out laughing. Baz smirked. Deran didn’t laugh at all.

It wasn’t a date—at least not by any definition either of you would use.

But it was something.

You weren’t sure what Andrew had expected when he told you to get in the truck. But today felt... different. Not romantic, not even close to it—but it was rare. Easy. The kind of connection that didn’t need to be explained.

Craig, sensing the shift but not knowing what to do with it, let out a breath and offered a weak grin. “Well, sounds like you two had fun,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “That’s... cool.”

You are taking in the scene. The guys look worn—sweaty, out of breath, exchanging looks that say more than words. Your gaze shifts toward the workbench. One of the duffel bags is sitting there, the zipper slightly open.

You tilted your head. “So… what’s with the duffels?”

The question hung in the air.

Craig’s head snapped toward you, eyes wide for a beat. Baz didn’t move, but his jaw tightened. Deran’s fingers twitched like he was seconds away from grabbing the bags and chucking it out of sight.

Deran says “Nothing important.”

You arched a brow. “Looks important. That one’s practically bursting at the seams.”

You took a step forward, curious.

Baz moved fast—subtle but firm—as he casually shifted into your path, blocking your view with that practiced, easygoing grin. “It’s not,” he said smoothly. “Just moving some stuff out of storage.”

“Yeah,” Craig added, nodding way too hard. “Cleaning house. You know how it is.”

Baz says “Just old crap we’ve been meaning to toss. You know how Smurf is—keeps everything.”

Your eyes narrowed a little, suspicion stirring—but not enough to press.

Behind you, Andrew shot them a look. Cold. Sharp. A silent warning not to screw this up.

You lingered for a second, gaze drifting toward the duffles again. Something didn’t sit right—your gut told you there was more to it than “old crap,” but you couldn’t put your finger on why. The way they all moved. The way they watched you. It was too… controlled.

Still, you let it go. For now.

“Right.” You dragged the word out, still not convinced. “Well, Andrew said I could use the shower, so…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Craig said quickly, waving you off like everything was totally normal. “You do that.”

“You can borrow my clothes—help yourself,” Deran said as you passed him.

“Thanks,” barefoot and still damp as you padded around them towards the side door of the garage.

You glanced back at Andrew. “Oh… and thanks for today.”

His eyes lingered on you, unreadable.

You gave him a quiet smile before turning away and heading inside, leaving the boys where they stood.

None of them said another word until you were out of earshot.

Deran scoffed, disbelief flashing across his face. “Are you serious right now? What the hell are you doing with Angel? So what now—you’re just hanging around my best friend?”

He shot back, voice sharp. “Don’t act like this is all out of the kindness of your heart. You’ve been weird about her for months—saying to keep her away. And now? You’re all buddy-buddy with her?”

Andrew didn’t flinch. “This isn’t about being buddy-buddy. I’m here because someone has to look out for her. And if that means being around her, so be it.”

Andrew stepped forward, voice colder now. “You’re the one pulling her into it without even thinking. You bring her around like this shit isn’t dangerous—like she’s immune to it, but she’s not, Deran. None of us are.”

Deran scoffed. “You’re such a goddamn hypocrite.”

Andrew turned, eyes narrowing. “What?”

“You’re always telling me to keep her out of this,” Deran says. “To keep her safe. You act like you’re above it—but look! She almost saw us going through our shit!”

Andrew’s voice cut back, defensive. “How was I supposed to know you guys did a job? None of you told me.”

Craig threw up his hands. “We tried calling!”

“I didn’t answer one time and you all went off without me?”

Deran’s voice dropped, cold. “Don’t turn this around like we’re the problem. You’re the one who brought my best friend home—with duffels wide open and a gun sitting out.”

Andrew’s jaw tightened. “You wanna talk about me bringing her around? Fine. Let’s talk about how many times you almost dragged her into shit then”

Deran’s expression twisted. “Don’t put this on me—”

Andrew snapped “But you let her crash here with stolen merchandise in the guest room and a duffel full of guns in the hall closet. She almost found both—just looking for a blanket. You think about that?”

Baz’s jaw tightened. He remembered.

Andrew kept going. “She borrowed your truck—the glovebox wasn’t cleared. She was two seconds away from opening it. Loaded piece inside, cash under the seat.”

Deran opened his mouth to speak, but Andrew cut him off and didn’t stop.

“You leave your burner lying around. She almost answered it once—could’ve ended up on the phone with someone who wouldn’t blink before pulling the trigger.”

Craig shifted but stayed silent.

“You’ve had her this close to shit she never signed up for,” Andrew shouts “And you’ve got the nerve to look at me sideways?”

Deran’s jaw clenched.

Andrew didn’t back down and got in Dearn’s face “You don’t get to lecture me. You’ve had more close calls with her than I ever have. I’m not the one leaving doors open.”

Craig hovered nearby, watching the two of them like they might come to blows. “Alright, can we not do this right now?” he muttered, half to himself, half to keep the peace.

��She’s not just some girl, Pope,” Deran said, voice rough. “She’s mine. My best friend.”

He shook his head, the anger in his eyes cracking into something raw. “She’s the only person who doesn’t see me as a screwup. She thinks I’m smart—like I could actually be more. More than what everyone expects me to be. She believes in me. And that means something.”

Andrew’s voice cut in, low and sharp. “And if she saw you now—how we really are—what then? Do you honestly believe she’s gonna think that when she finally catches on—when it’s not just some close call, but the real fallout? Then what? You think she’ll still believe the good guy story you’ve been telling yourself? Because right now, all I see is someone who’s setting her up to get hurt.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy.

Baz finally stepped in, arms crossed. “Okay. Everyone shut up. She’s inside. She hears this, it’s over.”

No one said anything.

Andrew just turned, jaw tight, and walked off toward the house.

Deran didn’t follow. He stayed where he was, chest rising and falling, the line between protectiveness and guilt blurring fast.

—

You were in Deran’s room, fresh out of the shower and already changed, towel still in hand when you saw it—and froze.

The duffel bag.

The same kind the guys had in the garage earlier. Scuffed black canvas, worn straps, the zipper just slightly askew. Now it was here, half-hidden under the bed, the corner barely tucked in.

It hadn’t been there when you came in earlier to grab clothes. You were sure of it.

A slow chill crept down your spine as you stepped closer, towel slipping from your fingers and landing on the bed in a damp heap.

They’d said they were cleaning. Getting rid of old stuff.

So why move one of the bags into this room?

You knew you probably shouldn’t look. But your gut twisted. Your fingers moved before your brain could stop them.

You dropped to your knees and pulled the zipper back.

The first thing you saw was the gun—matte black and heavy-looking, nestled against rolls of cash, thick and uneven, banded in rubber and duct tape.

Then something else caught the light.

Jewelry.

Not just one piece—several. Tangled chains, a gold bracelet, a small velvet pouch half-open with what looked like diamond earrings spilling out.

Your breath caught.

You stared down into the bag, heart thudding so hard it almost drowned out the quiet hum of the house around you. The room felt colder now, heavier.

You zipped it shut fast—too fast—but carefully, like if you messed up even one detail, someone would know you’d seen it.

Your hands were shaking.

You stood slowly, knees stiff, mind spinning. You didn’t know what this meant—not exactly—but you knew it wasn’t nothing.

You’d seen it.

The gun. The cash. The jewelry.

And you couldn’t unsee any of it.

The sound of the door clicking shut made you jump. You picked up your towel and moved like you were drying your hair.

Deran looked at you “You good?”

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just got out.”

Your voice didn’t sound right. You knew it. He probably did too.

Deran lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, his gaze drifting—briefly—to the spot under the bed.

For a split second, his eyes flicked to the duffel bag, half-hidden and poorly tucked away. He realized he hadn’t done a good job hiding it, but said nothing. Figured you probably didn’t notice.

You held your breath.

Instead, he walked in slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey… sorry I wasn’t here earlier when you came by with your acceptance letter.” He trailed off, not quite meeting your eyes. “Sorry I didn’t answer your call. If I had checked my voicemail, I would’ve called you back.”

You nodded, unsure what to say.

“But I’m proud of you,” he added after a beat, softer now. “College on the East Coast? That’s huge. You deserve it. We should celebrate—I’ll take you out sometime this week.”

Your throat tightened. “Thanks.”

He offered a small smile—genuine, but tired. “Your bike’s in my car, by the way. I figured I’d drop you off. Whenever you’re ready.”

You swallowed hard, that bag still sitting beneath the bed like a ticking clock.

“Okay,” you said, managing a small smile. “Yeah. That’s cool.”

Deran looked at you a second longer, like he wanted to say more. Like he was trying to read something on your face.

Then he nodded, grabbed a clean shirt from the dresser, and headed for the hallway.

“You sure you’re good?” he asked again, pausing in the doorway.

You hesitated, just for a breath. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing a fraction like he didn’t quite believe you—but he let it go.

Then he disappeared down the hall.

As soon as he was gone, you let out a shaky breath. Your chest felt tight, your thoughts racing.

You didn’t know what scared you more—the weight of the secrets hidden in that duffel bag, or the sinking feeling that maybe you didn’t really know your best friend and his family at all.

You tried to gaslight yourself, telling yourself it was nothing. Just stuff. Nothing to worry about.

But your instincts screamed otherwise—there was more here than met the eye. Something buried deep and dangerous, just waiting to surface.

LYA Tag: @obfuscateyummy @princesssunderworld @jumpingjackalope @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @alexandrathegreat3 @cozyfanficnook @livingavilaloca @oldmanbunnylover @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @child-of-the-amis @cheekeym8s @aj3684 @sunfairyy @ravenouswild @feverxxdream @naxxsstuff

Love You Anyway | Then (1) (2) (3)

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badwolfvexa · 4 days ago

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Shawnstown: The Prohibition Era - Charlie Reid x Reader

Tagging:@kmc1989 @littleesilvia @wrestlequeen @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @beebeechaos

Premise: Shawnstown is an AU universe, where different Shawn Hatosy characters have found a home over the years for different reasons within their journeys. This is not in line with any of the current ongoing storylines for these characters.

Learn More Here

Summary: Charlie didn't get the memo about prohibition night...

Companion piece to:

Chapter One: Dead Man Walking - Every Thursday night at 9pm Charlie receives a phone all from the man who tried to kill him.

Masterlists:

Andrew Pope Cody

Sammy Bryant

Charlie Reid

Clayton Emerson

Jack Abbot

Stan Rosado

The reason that Charlie’s at the distillery on a Thursday night is because of a poker game, an illegal one with over half a mil in the pot.

Once a month cattle baron Weyland Henderson hires out the bar underneath the rickhouse, where the casks are stored because he likes the frivolity of hosting his poker tournament in an ‘honest to God’ speakeasy. The pretentious asshat even pays to have Scotty’s Prohibition bourbon served at the table.

It’s one of the oldest whiskeys that she distils, each bottle selling at $10,000 dollars to private collectors out of state. Him and his cowpoke friends guzzle it down like its soda, instead of savouring it the way that it deserves.

It’s just another reason Charlie hates those rich fucks. Money can buy a lot of things but it can’t buy class.

This whole thing started out as a favour to Clayton because as much as he likes the money these assholes funnel into the town through their ‘generous donations’, he doesn’t like the entitlement that comes along with that, especially from Weyland Henderson.

Charlie had been pissed at first about playing a glorified security guard but then he’d met Scotty and well, let’s just say he comes to work with smile and a duty to protect the woman who makes his insides light up like a Christmas tree.

He’s been waiting in the parking lot for five minutes, playing Angry Birds on his phone before Clayton’s toy car pulls in. Most men after a divorce would have gone out and bought a Porsche or a Corvette, Clayton instead had thrown his money at a midnight blue 1965 Sunbeam Tiger. A car he had always coveted but his ex-wife Victoria had refused to let him buy during their marriage because she thought it made him look dated.

Charlie actually likes the car. He thinks it goes with Clayton’s aesthetic, just like those tasteful patterned shirts and his love of surfing, both a hangover from his time working as a councilman in Honolulu.

He frowns when he catches a flash of dark cherry in the passenger seat. There is only one person in this entire town with that hair colour and there is no discernible reason that Scotty should be sitting in that car with their mayor.

Charlie’s already opening the passenger door before Clayton even has a chance to exit the vehicle. They’re both gentleman when it comes to how they treat their women, it’s the thing that Victoria liked most about her husband, and the man she cheated on him with.

He holds out his hand to help Scotty out of the car and her palm fits into his like it was always meant to be there. It sends a familiar spark of electricity racing through his nerve endings as she clambers out and int hat moment he forgets to breathe. She’s always been a stunning woman but tonight she’s something else.

The thick, relentless curls she usually keeps tied back tumble just past her shoulders making Charlie want to run his hands through the unruly locks. Her voluptuous mouth is painted pillar box red, her teeth grazing her plump lower lip and Charlie’s dick strains at against the zipper of his jeans at the thought of running his thumb over it.

Those eyes flicker up to meet his, whiskey coloured with hints of dark sherry that bring out the unspoken depths that linger behind them. Looking into them always makes him feel drunker than any of the bourbon he’s enjoyed at her establishment.

“I see you didn’t get the memo about the Prohibition theme?” She says, her voice like velvet caressing his skin as she gestures at his jeans and the fresh charcoal grey shirt. “Apparently it’s Weyland’s birthday.”

His gaze strays to the outfit she’s wearing and he can feel heart pounding against his ribcage as he drinks it in. She’s clad in a black form fitting dress that shies away from the traditional flapper styles of the era and instead plays to the Romani influences of her heritage. The shoulders and neckline are bejewelled in cobalt blue and poppy red flowers, set within a bed of gold leaves that accentuates the delicate shape of her curves through the fabric. The hem stops above her knee giving way to shapely calves and red peeptoe heels that Charlie wants to feel scratching up his back as he buries his face between her thighs.

“I guess Weyland forgot to tell me.” He says, his voice gravelly as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his Shawnstown PD jacket. He knows for a fact that asshole did it on purpose. The same way he conveniently forgets to send over the times for the poker games because he thinks Charlie’s a cock block and he would most certainly be right about that.

“I thought this would happen.” Clayton says climbing out of the car with a garment bag in his hand. “So I took the liberty of throwing something together for you.”

He thrusts it into Charlie’s chest so he has no choice but to accept the unwanted gift. He unzips the first couple of inches, revealing a white shirt with suspenders and a bowtie.

“You can’t be serious.” He says zipping it back up again.

“If I have to dress up for a bunch of rich assholes who can’t appreciate a good bourbon then you have to wear that.” Scotty says, leaning in close. The scent of her perfume floods his senses, something dark and floral that speaks of untold mischief. Her palm slaps his cheek lightly, the sudden jolt sending a drop of pre-cum trailing down the length of his cock as he tries to bite back the urge to kiss her. “Besides at least you’ll be in good company right Chief?”

He watches as she stalks away to open up the distillery, his gaze fixed on that pert ass of hers as it sways like the most filthiest temptation. Clayton clears his throat, drawing Charlie’s attention back to him.

“If you’re done eye fucking her, there’s something else that we should talk about.” He says as Charlie slings the garment bag over his shoulder. “Victoria’s going to be in town the next few days to visit Kai, she wants to see you.”

“Hard pass.” Charlie responds, the blood flow to his cock decreasing with this new information. “I would rather this bullet drilled itself the rest of the way into my heart than sit down with that sea witch.”

Clayton barks out a laugh and Charlie finds himself grinning. The only good thing to come out of the affair was his friendship with Clayton. It’s unusual, the husband and the lover becoming besties but the two of them had endured the exact same brand of emotional and psychological warfare both before and after the divorce. They were practically brothers in arms by the time Victoria was done with them. The only reason Clayton hasn’t blocked her number is because they share a twenty two year old son.

“You know she’ll track you down.” Clayton warns him as he heads towards the driver’s side door of his car. “That woman she always gets what she wants.”

“She didn’t get to keep you or me.” Charlie points out, still triumphant over the fact they both stood their ground when she suggested that little arrangement. “She didn’t get the husband in Hawaii or the boyfriend in Chicago.”

“No she did not.” Clayton says as he pauses, his arms coming to rest on the roof of the car as he surveys Charlie with a critical eye. “Me and Scotty, we’re just friends you know? I picked her up tonight because she had something she needed to talk about and her car was in the shop.”

Charlie can not express the relief he feels in that moment. He tries to school his features to hide it but Clayton knows, it’s in the way his lips purse together as he looks away.

“Just make sure you give her a ride home when the poker games over. I don’t like the way that Weyland’s been fawning over her, I think it’s going to become a problem the longer we keep the poker games going.” Clayton tells Charlie who nods his agreement.

It’s something he’s noticed over the past few months, that persistence. It used to be light teasing, a joke about a kiss for luck but it’s becoming more aggressive. Its only a matter of time for he lays hands on her.

“Maybe her sister can sub in for a spell?” Charlie suggests but Clayton shakes his head in response to his words.

“The thing with Mel and Scotty… it’s rocky Charlie, really fucking rocky….” He grimaces as he trails off and Charlie realises it’s because he’s dangerously close to betraying a confidence.

“I’ll keep an eye on her.” He says instead, giving his friend a two fingered salute. “She’s safe with me.”

“I know she is.” Clayton responds as he climbs back inside the Tiger. “After all you barely take your eyes off her.”

Love Charlie? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

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badwolfvexa · 4 days ago

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@/coffeeguitar | pt. 3

Pt. 1, Pt. 2

Summary: Your day begins with Joel’s shirt—and ends with the feeling he’s already part of your life. Every kiss and message from him pulls you closer. Until he asks that one question.

Warnings: slight Angst, Fluff, soft!joel, Age gap! (50s and 20s), lots of kissing, lots of romantic stuff, brief grinding

A/N: Oh me oh my. I need to write HtD chapter five but oh boy, this story sucked me in and it’s not letting me go lol. I hope you guys like this one just like the other too. As usual this Idea was originally by @glitterspark <3

The night had folded softly around you. Streetlights flickered somewhere behind, but all you saw was Joel.

He walked beside you, hands shoved in his pockets like they weren’t fidgeting with every thought in his head. His heart still beating quickly, his mind stuck on the kiss. You still tasted it on your lips, barely talking, both of you just drunk off something that wasn’t alcohol—just feeling, just ache, just anticipation held between small smiles and glances that couldn’t hold still.

Then his hand found yours.

Not urgently. Not bold. Just one finger brushing, testing—then curling around. You did the same, as if you were used to this. The shape of his hand just fitting perfectly to yours. Like a missing puzzle piece finally in place.

You looked at him.

He looked down, then laughed nervously and muttered, “Angel… do you wanna come over?”

It wasn’t confident. It was breath and hesitation and everything that makes an invitation feel real. As you locked eyes with him, you could see the nervousness, the way he is overthinking.

He shook his head, quickly. “Sorry. That was too much, I think.”

You squeezed his hand.

“Not too much,” you said. “I’d love to.” And you would. You would love to see Joel’s house, you would love to see the porch he sends photos on.

The drive was quiet, but not empty. Music played low—some scratchy country song he never turned off. One of Joel’s hands stayed on the wheel, the other kept twitching like it wanted to touch you again. You caught him looking at you—cheeks flushed, lips still parted from smiling—and his eyes darted back to the road like he’d been caught stealing something.

His heart didn’t calm down the entire ride.

Joel’s house sat tucked into trees, hidden like something sacred. Cozy and calm—just like him. No lights on except the porch, which glowed amber and soft. He unlocked the door with keys that jangled too loudly in the silence.

Inside smelled like coffee, wood and him.

You didn’t speak at first. Just stepped in, toes brushing the threshold, soaking in all the things he hadn’t told you: the worn boots by the door, the guitar stand without the guitar, the couch blanket half-folded like someone tried but didn’t finish.

Then your eyes found the porch.

The crooked swing. The view that always showed up in his photos.

“You write from here, huh?” you said.

Joel’s voice caught in his throat. “Yeah. I mean—yeah,” he nodded, rubbing his neck. “That’s the spot.”

Your smile softened everything in the room.

Then you walked up. He met you halfway. Your lips crashed together once again.

The kiss wasn’t graceful. Your teeth bumped once, his hand tangled awkwardly in your hair, your jacket slid off your shoulders like it didn’t want to leave but had to. You both laughed, a little breathless, then kissed again—deeper, warmer, messier.

You stumbled into the couch together.

His body met yours in pieces. Hands unsure. Breath unsteady. Mouth greedy and slow and wanting. The couch creaked once and neither of you noticed.

He whispered something against your neck and it made you shiver. You pressed your forehead to his and tried to catch your breath.

Eventually, you stopped moving.

Not from reluctance—just from weight. From everything catching up at once.

You stayed curled together on the couch, limbs knotted but comfortable. Your head on his shoulder. His hand brushing the small of your back, tracing lazy shapes into your fabric. Neither of you spoke. Sleep took it’s time, but it found you.

Later in the night, Joel stirred.

His arms pulled you closer before he even opened his eyes. He looked at the couch, then at you—cheek pressed against his chest, breath calm, spine curled.

He didn’t want to wake you.

But he didn’t want the couch hurting you either.

So he carried you.

Careful. Quiet. Like you weighed nothing. His bedroom was warmer—smelled like cinnamon and old books. He laid you down gently, pulled the blanket up to your shoulders, then slid in beside you.

Your body found his again. Automatically. Like it knew the map.

That’s how you slept. Tucked into trees. Into safety. Into him.

You woke before the world did.

The room was dim, filtered light spilling through the blinds in thin lines. The kind of light that didn’t demand you rise, only offered its presence.

At first, you were confused.

You remembered the couch—the warmth of Joel’s arm around you, the way sleep took you both mid-kiss, breath still tangled. But now, your cheek rested against a pillow that smelled faintly of cinnamon and cedar. The bed was bigger, softer, and definitely not the couch.

You turned, and there he was.

Joel was lying on his side, arm folded near his face, shirt bunched at the neck. His mouth was parted slightly in sleep, hair unruly from all the tossing. One quiet snore, then silence again.

Your heart did something.

Not big—not loud. Just a soft thrum. A settling.

You looked around the room carefully. There was a shelf with crumpled notebooks, a mug with three pens inside, a few polaroids curled at the corners. And there—on the small desk near the window—you saw pieces of carved wood. Stacked, scattered, half-shaped into small animals. Some had lines etched deep, others wore smooth curves like whispers.

Joel stirred.

A slow blink. That fuzzy confusion between sleep and sunlight. He turned toward you with half-lidded eyes and murmured, voice hoarse and quiet:

“Good morning, angel.”

You smiled, tucked further into the pillow.

Joel sat up, rubbing one eye and yawning like it was too early for words. “Couch would’ve killed your back,” he said, eyes still not quite open. “Figured you’d sleep better in here. Hope it wasn’t too much.”

You reached for his wrist and gave it the gentlest squeeze. “Joel, you’re the sweetest,” you said. “Thank you for yesterday.”

He blinked at you slowly, and you didn’t let go. For a while, you just laid there together—limbs messy under the blanket, noses inches apart, warmth pulled tight.

Then he leaned in.

The kiss was slow. Sleepy. But not soft. It had that weight of quiet need. The kind of kiss people give each other when they don’t want to leave the moment untouched.

After a pause, you glanced toward the corner.

“Joel… you carve wood?”

He immediately grew shy, eyebrows knitting as he sat back and scratched his neck. “Yeah. S’a little hobby I picked up,” he mumbled. “Nothin’ big.”

You stood, barefoot on the cool floor, and walked over. The carvings were simple but moving—one looked like a mountain ridge, another a fox curled into itself. You traced a fingertip along the grooves.

“These are so good,” you whispered.

Joel flushed. “S’nothing,” he muttered.

You turned to him.

He met your gaze—soft, nervous—and couldn’t help smiling. You looked enchanted. Not by the art itself, but by the fact that he’d made it.

So Joel stepped forward, picked up a raw block of wood, and placed it on the desk.

“This one’s fresh,” he said, grabbing a carving knife and turning it in his hand. “Here—see the grain? You start slow. Just follow it. It tells you what it wants to be.”

You watched him speak—not just with his voice, but his hands. Steady fingers, calloused from strings and tools. He carved a small line, showing how the blade glides gently if you don’t force it.

He handed you the knife.

You hesitated. Then took it.

Joel leaned close, guiding your fingers around the handle. “Don’t press. Just trust it.”

You carved the first line.

It wasn’t perfect. The shape didn’t matter.

What mattered was the silence that followed—not awkward, but blooming. The kind that only happens when two people share something they never expected to.

“Stay a little longer?” he asked, almost hesitant. “I’ll make us some breakfast.”

His voice gave it away—the need, the quiet ache. It wasn’t just about eggs and sunlight. It was about you. Still there. Still in his space. Still real. Joel didn’t have anyone in his space for such a long time, no warmth, no person who smiled at him, no person who wrapped their arms around him. He didn’t want this to end.

You turned, tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and nodded. “Okay.” You didn’t want this to end either.

Joel smiled—not a confident one, not wide. Just grateful. Like someone catching their breath mid-sentence.

He walked into his closet for a second and returned with a worn navy shirt. The sleeves were long, the collar a little stretched. He held it out, eyes avoiding yours.

“Thought the dress might be kinda… uncomfortable. You can wear this, if you want.”

You took it in both hands. Soft cotton. Faintly smelled of cedar and coffee. Of him. You smiled, nodding your head “Thanks.”

You went to his bathroom, slipped into his shirt. It draped down past your thighs, sleeves nearly to your knuckles. You rolled them just a bit and glanced up.

It looked right. Felt right.

When you stepped out, Joel was at the stove, spatula in hand, already working on scrambled eggs with practiced wrist flicks. He turned at the sound of your footsteps, caught the sight of you wearing his shirt—and just froze.

“Uh—hey,” he said quickly, voice cracking a little.

You raised an eyebrow, stifling a smile.

“Hi.”

He fumbled with the pan. “Eggs are almost… uh, done. Toast’s in the—uh, toaster. Obviously.”

A giggle escaped your lips as you sat down at the small kitchen table, legs tucked under you. The chair creaked slightly, wood old and worn but steady.

He handed you a plate, eyes darting between your knees and your face, trying desperately to be casual. You took it, fingers brushing his for a moment longer than they needed to.

“Thanks, chef,” you teased.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks faintly flushed. “Don’t get used to this. I’m only good at like… three breakfast things.”

You took a bite, the eggs buttery and soft. “Well, that’s one more than me.”

He sat down across from you, he changed into a hoodie. Sleeves pushed up, hair still messy. The toast popped behind him and he jumped slightly.

You laughed.

And then you talked.

About everything and nothing—old movie quotes, weird childhood habits, how your cat always walks across your laptop during video calls. Stuff you’ve shared before, but now it felt closer. Like each word came with a glance or a gesture that meant more.

Joel kept looking at you between bites. Not openly. Just in flickers. Your fingers curling around the mug. The way you leaned on one elbow and grinned sideways.

He’d never seen you like this.

And he didn’t want this morning to end.

The breakfast plates sat pushed slightly aside, scrambled eggs half-eaten, toast crumbs scattered between mismatched mugs. Joel leaned back in his chair, arms crossed as he watched you sip the last of your coffee, your fingers curled gently around the ceramic rim.

You smiled at him—slow, knowing—and your eyes drifted toward the guitar propped in the corner by the wall. It wasn’t there by accident. It never was.

Joel followed your gaze, and before you even spoke, he groaned.

“No.”

You tilted your head. “Please?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Just one song.”

“Angel.” He shook his head, but he was already slipping. You saw it. The slight curve tugging at his mouth.

You narrowed your eyes, gave him the patented pout. “I’ll beg.”

“You already are,” he muttered.

You leaned your elbows on the table, chin resting in your hands, gaze unwavering.

He sighed, tugged at the collar of his hoodie, and muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like surrender.

“Fine. But I swear, if you make fun of me—”

“I won’t,” you whispered, already grinning.

Joel reached for the guitar with that familiar reverence, fingers brushing the strings before he even sat back down. He adjusted in his chair beside you, knees angled your way, gaze glued to the fretboard for just a second too long.

Then he started to play.

Soft. Measured. Almost uncertain.

“If I ever were to lose you…”

“I’d surely lose myself…”

The sound echoed between the walls—gentle and raw, like the way a secret sounds just before it’s spoken. You stopped breathing without meaning to.

“Everything I have found dear…”

“I’ve not found by myself…”

Your eyes met his. He didn’t look away.

Suddenly the cluttered table, the chipped mug, the quiet hum of the fridge—all of it faded. The entire kitchen narrowed to just the two of you.

“Try and sometimes you’ll succeed…”

“To make this man of me…”

The rhythm slowed. His voice deepened.

“All my stolen missing parts…”

“I’ve no need for anymore…”

He was still staring at you. Like he hadn’t planned it, like the words were spilling out just for you. Just now.

“I believe…”

“And I believe ‘cause I can see…”

“Our future days…”

“Days of you and me…”

The last chord stretched long, trembling in the quiet.

Joel blinked slowly, lips parting like he was about to say something—anything—but you moved first.

You kissed him, right there over toast crumbs and folded napkins. One hand in his shirt, the other holding his face like it was something priceless.

He blinked after, stunned. “Jesus, angel… liked it that much?”

You giggled, nodding as your forehead rested against his. His thumb traced your cheek and that look—God, that look—held everything.

A knock pulled you two out of your thoughts.

Three short thuds. Sharp. Impatient.

Joel’s shoulders tensed immediately. He set the guitar down without a sound, glanced at the door, and muttered, “That’s Tommy.”

You shifted upright instinctively, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. Joel brushed his hair back, walked to the door, and opened it halfway.

Tommy stood there with a small brown bag in his hand. “Brought that socket wrench back,” he said, then looked past Joel and froze.

His eyes found you—sitting there, elbows resting on the table, mug clasped in both hands.

You smiled nervously.

Tommy didn’t speak. Not right away. Then his eyes flicked back to Joel, then to you again. It was subtle, but his posture shifted—like puzzle pieces sliding, trying to fit together.

Joel cleared his throat and stepped aside. “Tommy… this is her,” he said. “That’s my brother,” he added quickly, turning to you.

You tucked your hair behind your ear, half-smiling. “Hi.”

Tommy nodded, voice a little uneven. “Hey.”

He stepped inside, walked toward the hallway, then turned to Joel. “I gotta look for something in your room,” he said.

Joel raised an eyebrow, already sensing something. “Sure,” he muttered, following.

The door shut gently behind them. The room was dim, lamp still on from earlier, scent of pinewood hanging in the air.

Tommy didn’t dig through drawers. He didn’t move at all.

“She’s very young,” he whispered, suddenly.

Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. He took a breath. “I know.”

The silence stretched.

“But it’s not like I planned any of this,” Joel said, voice low. “I didn’t go looking for someone that age. It just… happened. And yeah, I thought about it a hundred times. Still do.”

Tommy didn’t say anything, just watched him.

Joel rubbed the back of his neck, eyes unfocused. “I’ve been alone a long time. Not just without someone—just… disconnected. Worn out. Then she showed up and it felt different. Like maybe I could breathe again without it hurting.”

His gaze flicked toward the hallway.

“She’s smart, she sees more than most. Makes me feel like maybe I’m still worth something.”

Tommy’s face softened, just slightly.

Joel shrugged. “I know it’s complicated. I’m not asking you to like it. Just… don’t write it off like it’s nothing.”

Tommy nodded slowly. “Alright.”

Joel and Tommy stepped back into the hallway. You glanced up, catching Joel’s expression—guarded but calmer.

Tommy didn’t linger. He set the bag down on the counter, gave Joel a light pat on the shoulder, then nodded toward you again. “Nice meeting you,” he said simply, tone softer than before.

You smiled, unsure if it was okay to relax yet. “You too.”

After he left, the door clicked closed, and the silence stretched a little longer. Joel leaned against the wall, arms folded.

“He’s not mad,” he said. “Just… cautious.”

You nodded, eyes searching his. “I get it.”

Joel pushed off the wall, walked over, and rubbed his hand along the back of your chair before kneeling beside you.

“He’s always looked out for me,” he said, voice low. “Even when I didn’t want it. We’re different now, older, but that part’s the same.”

You reached over, your fingers brushing his jaw. “You don’t have to explain anything.”

Joel caught your hand and held it there. “Maybe not. But I want you to know I’m not just being reckless. I think about you all the time… and I’m careful with it.”

You leaned down and kissed his forehead gently. He kissed your hand, then slowly traced his way up to your arm, biting it with a teasing glint in his eye. A yelp escaped you, and you slapped his shoulder playfully. He just grinned—and before you could pull away, Joel caught your lips again, kissing you with unhurried softness.

You didn’t cry when you left Joel’s house.

You thought maybe you would. That something about leaving his porch or untangling from the warmth of his arms would make your chest twist hard enough to spill. But it didn’t. Your chest was full, not broken. Still pulsing with the look he gave you when he carved wood slowly and said your name like it mattered.

But when your door closed behind you at home, the quiet finally caught up.

You stood there for a few seconds, keys still in hand, his shirt brushing against your thighs. The air was still. Familiar—but colder. You kicked off your shoes, took a deep breath, and didn’t take his shirt off.

You kept it on through everything. Dinner. Dishes. Shower steam curling against the mirror, even as you folded the shirt gently onto the bathroom stool. When you pulled it back on, it clung to your skin like comfort. It smelled less like cedar now and more like you and him together.

You didn’t mean to make it permanent—but it became that without trying. It was your pajamas now. Your weekend wear. Your comfort thing. And Joel never asked for it back.

Whenever he texted you a porch selfie—warm mug in hand, cat lurking somewhere in the corner—you sent one back: messy hair, sleepy grin, his shirt draped over your shoulders.

He sends you the usual photo of his porch.

@/coffeeguitar: Your seat’s cold today. Cat walked across it twice, seemed confused.

You send him a photo of you in his shirt, curled on your couch.

@/angelwings: Tell her she’s got competition.

@/coffeeguitar: She’s scared. I told her you win. She hissed.

@/angelwings: She’s valid.

At work, you found yourself waiting for his good-morning text. That tiny buzz around 10am. Sometimes it was an emoji. Sometimes it was a low-resolution photo of his boots on the railing and a quote he swore he didn’t make up. And when you had breaks, you called. Sometimes he answered half-asleep. Sometimes he answered in the middle of sanding something. Once he answered and just let you talk about how someone left the printer jammed on purpose.

He didn’t always speak. But he always made you feel like he was there. And that turned into something important—something you didn’t expect.

You started realizing it late at night. That feeling in your chest when he called you “sweetheart” without thinking. When he sent you a photo of his hands dusted with sawdust and said, “this feels good again.”

Joel made you feel safe. Seen.

And maybe that was why the ache came—because it felt like a shape you used to know. Something your father used to give you. That soft steadiness. That gentle protection. The way his eyes scanned your face like you were worth keeping whole.

Joel filled that space without even trying.

You didn’t feel like a child, and he didn’t treat you like one. You knew how the world might see you both—you understood the questions about age, about time, about Tommy’s too-long stare when he first walked in the kitchen. And yeah, part of you wondered if you’d ever get tired of explaining. If you’d ever have to defend something that felt so simple when it was just the two of you.

But you also knew this:

Joel meant it.

And you did too.

@/angelwings: I thought being close to someone meant constant talking and all that… but with you, I just feel calm. It’s weird. Good-weird.

You curled up in his shirt that night, mug warm in your hands, heart steady.

Not thinking about forever.

Just thinking about now.

And how it felt like enough.

Joel sat in his worn chair, thumb hovering over his phone screen. The message you’d just sent lit it up:

@/angelwings: Your coffee is questionable. But your arms are warm, so I guess it evens out.

He exhaled a small laugh, mouth tugging into something soft and reluctant. “Guess I’ll take that as a win,” he murmured.

Then came the knock—two short raps.

Joel stood, pocketed his phone, and opened the front door.

Tommy stood there, cardboard box tucked under one arm, a paper bag dangling from the other.

Joel raised a brow. “You movin’ in?”

Tommy smirked. “Nah. Just brought some tools you left behind… and some cookies.” He held up the bag. “Thought she might like ’em.”

Joel eyed him warily. “You sure?”

Tommy nodded. “Yeah. I’m sorry for last time. I jumped to conclusions too fast.”

Joel didn’t move for a beat. Then: “Alright…”

Tommy stepped inside, placing the box on the counter and setting the cookies down gently like they were part of an offering.

“I saw the way you look at her,” he said quietly. “You’ve got that light back in your eyes again. That’s what matters to me.”

Joel leaned on the counter, nodding slowly. “She called my coffee questionable this morning.”

Tommy grinned. “She’s got good taste.”

Joel smirked. “Yeah. But she said my arms are warm, so I evened out.”

Tommy laughed. “Well damn. That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said about you.”

Joel chuckled, glanced at the cookies. “She’ll love those.”

—

@/coffeeguitar: movie evening, today?

@/angelwings: Yes please!

His fingers hovered over the screen long after the notification faded. He’d re-tidied the living room twice, set the cookies Tommy dropped off onto a plate like that made them fancier, and even vacuumed near the couch—something he never did unless company was coming over, and let’s be honest, you weren’t just company.

So when the knock came, his heart jumped.

He opened the door, and there you were—cat curled sleepily in your arms, eyes a little tired but smile tugging at your lips, his shirt slouched over your frame like it belonged there.

Joel’s mouth twitched.

“Gotta say this shirt suits you better than it did on me,” he said softly, opening the door wide so you can step into his space.

You laughed. “Y’really think so?” And he just nodded.

You stood on tiptoe and brushed a kiss to his jaw, your voice feather-light against him. “Missed you.”

Joel looked down at you, one brow raised. “Yeah, sweetheart? How much?”

The grin on your face turned mischievous, and before he could blink, your lips caught his and held. The kiss stretched long—hands curling into his shirt, cat softly meowing from under your arm, forgotten. You pressed against him until the porch light behind you flickered unnoticed.

“This much,” you murmured, breathless between kisses.

Joel laughed softly and tugged you inside, finally taking the cat from you and whispering, “She better not mess with my woodwork.”

“Not promising anything,” you teased, plopping down onto the couch.

He joined you a moment later with tea, the cookies, and a blanket he’d very obviously chosen for its softness, though he’d deny that later. As you curled together, knees tangled and your head pressed to his shoulder, Joel nudged the cookie plate your way.

“Tommy brought these last week,” he said. “Said you’d like ’em. Also… he already said sorry.”

You blinked up at him.

“For what?”

“For acting weird when you two first met. I didn’t even have to push it. He just kinda… figured it out.”

You smiled and took a bite of a chocolate chip one. “He’s trying.”

Joel wrapped his arm tighter around you, tugging you in like he was afraid the couch might swallow you. The movie he picked was something classic, low-action and background enough that neither of you were really watching. You felt the warmth of him beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way your cat was sprawled beside his leg like she’d known him all her life.

Halfway through, Joel shifted.

You glanced at him, expecting some comment about the pacing or the lack of explosions. Instead, he was staring at you with that crooked look—half determined, half nervous.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he asked.

You blinked. Heart hiccupped. The movie audio turned into a blur.

Then laughter spilled out of you, loud and delighted. “Are you serious?”

Joel nodded, cheeks slightly pink, eyes refusing to look away.

You climbed into his lap without a second thought, arms around his neck, the cookie forgotten entirely.

“Yes,” you whispered, sealing it with another kiss. And then another. And then five more until both of you had lost track of time and plot and popcorn.

You started to move, slow but sure—your hips pressing down gently, mouth grazing his. Joel’s breath hitched; his hands held you steady but didn’t push. Your hips started to grind, creating a friction against your crotch while you messily made out.

Then he leaned back slightly, voice low and wrecked.

“Jesus, Angel,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. A little moan slipping past his lips “Slow down.”

His thumbs brushed your waist, then your arm, landing on your face like he didn’t want you to stop—only stretch this moment longer. Feel every inch of it. Earn it with stillness.

And you understood.

Taglist: @daisybvck @billionairecowgirl @akah565 @sunofnebulah @psclcain @truthfullyevie @rwbyssx @untamedheart81

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badwolfvexa · 5 days ago

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Twitter timeline doing its thang

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badwolfvexa · 5 days ago

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badwolfvexa · 5 days ago

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Pope's Back

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badwolfvexa · 5 days ago

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Oooh I’ve been waiting for this one! Wanted to see what Jack did to make someone so angry. 😆🚒

Shawnstown: Colours - Jack Abbot x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @yousigned-upforthis @julius-ceasar @flu3rm0r3 @thinemineours

Learn More Here

Summary: Jack tries to ask a favour...

Companion piece to:

When Is A Search Not A Rescue - Jack latest search operation yields more questions than answers.

Masterlists:

Andrew Pope Cody

Sammy Bryant

Charlie Reid

Clayton Emerson

Jack Abbot

Stan Rosado

Jack does not want to get out of his car. He does not want to get out of his car because he knows as soon as he steps foot on Anna’s porch she’s going to find some clever way to murder him. To be honest she’d be well within her rights too because that decision he made three months ago, it hasn’t stopped having consequences, not for her.

He grips the steering wheel, staring at the house where he’d spent Sunday mornings in bed with a beautiful woman, laughing with her, loving her.

That’s over now but Jack, he still feels it. Everytime he catches a glimpse of her on Main Street or hears her voice at a town meeting, it makes his chest hurt because he knows there isn’t a chance in hell the two of them can never go back.

He sighs as he reaches into the glove box, removing the photocopied versions of the letters that were found scattered outside Sheila’s car. He’d returned the original set to Charlie for Forensics to review when they eventually got on the scene. His prints are already on file for elimination for when their searches turn into something more problematic like this one.

He tucks the paperwork under his arm before he forces himself out of the car, hissing through his teeth at the ache in his lower back.

He’s been on his feet too long. An eight hour search on uneven terrain has exhausted him and the twinge in his hip reminds him that he needs to switch out his prosthetic from the multi-axial ankle to the flat foot now that he’s on steady ground again. He has it in the trunk of his car but he doesn’t want her to glance through the window and see him sitting there because if she does he knows she’ll refuse to answer when he knocks.

He drags himself up the concrete steps to the white door. There’s a sunflower wreath adorning it these days, her favourite flower. He suspects it’s something Aubrey has made.

That’s good, he thinks as his fingertips chase over the petals. It’s good that she has someone to talk to about this whole mess with.

The door swings open when he raises his hand to knock. His gaze comes to rest on her as she searches for the keys to the Jeep in the depths of her purse.

She’s wearing that brown suede fringe jacket she’s had since the 90s over a pair of worn out Wranglers. Her platinum blonde hair is loose, falling across her face into an edgy layered bob just like the one out of Halsey’s music video for Colors.

The only reason he’s seen the damn thing is because Ani, Scotty’s niece had kept watching it on repeat when he was keeping an eye on her as a favour.

That song though, the meaning of it, it’s not lost on him.

He’d watched the vibrancy leak out of Anna after her last search, the colour in her fading into grey. That’s why he did what he had to do.

When she looks up and sees him standing there, she reacts the exact way he expected she would, by trying to slam the door in his face. He manages to jam his foot in the gap, so she tries to slam it harder and that’s when she realises which leg he’s using.

“It’s not fair that you can use the prosthetic against me.” She informs him, leaning against the door frame. “What do you want? I’m on the way out.”

“I gotta favour to ask…”

She lets out a laugh. It’s a bitter sound that carries across the porch, twisting at his insides as she steps over the threshold, yanking the door closed behind her. He listens for the lock clicking into place before he follows her down the stairs onto the paved pathway.

“Why would I be doing you any favours Jack?” She retorts as she heads towards the battered Jeep. “You kicked me off the SAR team, which led to me being forced to take a leave of absence from my job. I have literally just started back this week and now you turn up asking for a favour. You are fucking unbelievable.”

Anna unlocks the Jeep, climbing inside but Jack catches the door before she can close it. The look she gives him, he’d be burning alive if he believed in things such as heaven and hell.

“It’s not my favour, it’s for Charlie-”

“Oh the other Judas who almost ruined my career.” She shoots back, trying to tug the door from his grasp. “Whatever it is you can tell him he lost all that good will when he went to the town council and had me forced onto mental health leave.”

She tears the door out of his grasp, slamming it closed. He reaches for the handle again but she hits the lock, shutting him out. The engine roars to life and he steps back as she pulls away from the curb, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk.

He debates getting in his car, going after her but he knows better than that. Instead he returns to Anna’s porch and holds up the folder he has tucked under his arm up to the doorbell camera. The chiming on her phone will drive her crazy enough to watch the video later on, he can guarantee it.

“This contains the final words of a dead woman.” He says into the camera pointing at the folder. “We think she was murdered out by Oakpine Woods, you wanna know more? You know where I am.”

He makes a show of sliding it underneath the doormat before he raises his hands and backs off, retreating to his car. He picks up his phone from the passenger seat and dials Charlie’s mumber. He can hear talking in the background and guesses that Forensics have arrived are on the scene so he keeps it brief.

“She took off but I’ve left the letters for her to look through when she gets back.” He tells the other man as he inserts his key in the ignition. “Trust me, if there’s one thing that woman can’t resist it’s a mystery.”

Love Jack? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the Shawnstown taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

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badwolfvexa · 6 days ago

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Another one couldn’t hurt… right? pt. 3

WC 11.9k - you tell daddy Joel, but not in that way… that he’s gonna be a daddy again.

NSFW 18+ MDI!

warnings/content: no outbreak!au, fluff, domestic bliss, parenthood, established relationship (husband/dad!joel x wife/mom!reader), age gap relationship, some physical descriptions, results of childbearing, mentions of pregnancy, mild language/swearing, unprotected p-in-v, oral sex (m & f receiving), breeding/pregnancy kink (even if your eyes are wide open, you don’t need to squint), multiple orgasms, so sweet it’s almost sickening.

pt. 1 | pt. 2 / main masterlist

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

pt. 3

It had started earlier in the week. Just little things, subtle shifts in the air of your body.

Your mouth tasted metallic first thing in the morning. You’d get waves of nausea around the same time, like clockwork.

And the smell of bacon? Joel made it Saturday morning and you’d nearly cried. Not from nausea. From joy. You swore it never smelled that good before.

By Thursday, you’d had enough unofficial confirmations, even if you’d already had an idea based on your missed period and the potential implantation bleeding you’d had.

You made the appointment. First thing Friday morning, your doctor confirmed what your body had already been whispering to you.

You were pregnant.

You were four weeks along, which seems so much sooner than you’d known than the last times, but you and Joel had been persistent, and also right about the general day it’d stuck.

You sat in your car for a long moment, hand resting over your lower stomach, the envelope in your lap practically glowing with proof.

Your heart was full. So full you thought it might spill over. With joy, with nerves, with love.

You didn’t hesitate to call your husband to share the news, and Joel picked up on the second ring.

“Hey, baby,” his voice rough with that mid-morning work rasp he always had. “Everythin’ alright?”

You smiled softly, biting your lip. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s… good.”

There was a pause, and then his voice dropped even lower, knowingly, “Yeah?”

“Mhm,” your voice caught just a little. “I saw the doctor this morning.”

Joel went quiet again. You could picture it, him going still, bracing his forearm against whatever surface was closest, pressing the phone tighter to his ear.

“And?”

“And it’s real,” you whispered. “We’re having another baby, Joel.”

You could hear the breath leave him. A choked sound of disbelief and something more tender, “Darlin’…”

“I wanted to tell you in person, but I couldn’t wait,” you laughed quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he murmured, voice rough and full. “Thank you for callin’.”

You closed your eyes and sighed deeply, “I can’t wait for you to come home.”

“Gimme a few hours,” he promised. “Don’t lift a finger until I’m there. We’re stayin’ in with the kids tonight.”

—

You spent the rest of the day a little floaty. Having taken the day off from work, you spent the day with the kids, well, mostly Ellie until you picked up Sarah and Artie from school. The kids now entertained with each other and their toys as you kept watch, your belly warm with your favorite tea as you curled up with a book you couldn’t focus on. You tried to nap while the kids had their quiet time and failed, then you thought about cleaning, but Joel would’ve scolded you. Your mood was too soft to want that.

You’d just started dinner when you heard the truck pull into the drive, you were already waiting at the door.

He stepped out with a paper bag tucked under one arm, flowers in hand. You didn’t even have to ask, he’d remembered everything.

Pickles. Green apple gum. That weird organic ginger ale you swore helped with nausea.

And the flowers were sunflowers, with a few wild sprigs of lavender tucked in, because he knew you liked those best.

Joel climbed the steps slow, watching you with that soft, awestruck smile that never failed to make you feel like the only thing in the world.

“Hey, mama,” his eyes dropped to your stomach as he stepped into your space. “You keepin’ my baby warm?”

The way he smells the second he steps close— earth and cedarwood, the faintest bit of gasoline and soap, and him. That familiar undercurrent that’s always been uniquely Joel, something sharp and grounding and warm. It hits you like a punch to the chest, stealing your breath and making your knees feel like jelly.

You take a step closer like you’re being pulled, pressing the ultrasound envelope to his chest as your other hand fists in the front of his shirt.

“You smell so good,” you murmur, eyes fluttering shut as you lean into his chest. “God, you reek of testosterone right now.”

He chuckles as he kisses your forehead, then your lips, then drops the bag on the counter to wrap you up in both arms, “You okay?”

“No,” you admit, your nose buried against his collarbone. “You smell like home and maybe a little bit like you should pin me to the nearest surface.”

He laughs again, louder this time, one hand slipping around your waist and dragging you flush against him. “That the hormones talkin’, or just you?”

“Does it matter?”

His thumb strokes along the side of your ribcage like he’s memorizing the feel of you again, and his other hand finally takes the envelope you’d pressed to his chest.

“What’s this?” he murmurs.

You lift your head just enough to watch him peel it open, calloused fingers careful and slow. His eyes scan the blurry little bean-shaped silhouette, and you watch the way his throat bobs when he swallows.

He stares at it for a long moment before whispering, “That ours?”

You nod, lip trembling.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, brushing his nose against your temple, “I’m gonna be a daddy again.”

You’re just about to melt into his chest when—

thump-thump-thump—

“Daddy’s home early!”

You barely have time to react before the sound of running feet echoes down the hall, and then three small bodies collide with Joel’s legs.

He grunts softly but chuckles, already crouching to catch them, “Hey, hey— slow down, ya little heathens.”

“Daddy, guess what!” Sarah says breathlessly, climbing halfway up his knee like a monkey. “We saw a frog in the puddle and it jumped so high and we didn’t even scream, okay maybe I did but it was just one time…“

Then Artie tugs at Joel’s bootlace, determined for full attention, “I drew you somethin’! It’s you, but you have a sword!”

Joel’s eyes flick to yours over the tops of their heads, amused and overwhelmed in equal measure. “A sword, huh?” he says, reaching into the grocery bag to hand them the snack he stashed there, a small pack of gummy bears each, “I love it, bud, I’ll hang it up on the fridge.”

Artie beams, practically vibrating with pride, and Sarah immediately peels open her bag like it’s the greatest treasure in the world. Joel’s still kneeling when a soft, sleepy voice pipes up from behind them.

“Daddy…?”

Little Ellie stands at the edge of the hallway, thumb in her mouth, curls tousled from her nap. She’s still in her footie pajamas, dragging her favorite blanket behind her like a lifeline.

Joel’s whole expression changes, he melts.

“There’s my girl,” he says, voice going quiet and syrupy sweet. He stretches one arm toward her and she toddles over, clinging to his shoulder as he pulls her into the mix.

“Were you sleepin’?” he murmurs into her hair, rocking her gently while the other two bicker about who gets the red gummy bears. Ellie doesn’t respond, just burrows closer with a subtle nod of her head as her little fingers curl into the collar of his shirt.

You lean against the doorway, watching them with a fluttering heart, watching him. He’s a mess of children and exhaustion, but there’s nowhere on earth he looks more at home.

He shifts his weight, still crouched low with Ellie tucked into one arm, his free hand smoothing over Artie’s wild hair as the boy chatters on about frogs and swords and a dream he had last night where Joel turned into a dragon. Joel hums through it, listening, nodding when he should, but his eyes meet yours again and something in them softens even more when he sees you standing there watching him. Like he can feel what you’re feeling, like your heart’s spilling right into his chest.

It had always been this way with him. From the very beginning, when he first told you, voice barely above a whisper, “I want all of it with you. The house, the babies, the mess, the love, we ain’t half-doin’ this.”

And you’d believed him. Because he meant it. Because he never said anything he didn’t plan to give his whole damn soul to.

Joel had always been meant to be a daddy. You knew it in the way he held Sarah for the first time, how his hands shook with awe instead of fear. You knew it in the way he rocked Artie on nights he couldn’t sleep, humming some old country lullaby under his breath. The way he let Ellie curl into him like a barnacle, so content just being close. And you know it now, watching him crouched in your hallway, half-crushed beneath the weight of your children and still looking at you like you were the greatest gift of all.

Sarah’s now halfway on his back, gummy bears forgotten as she wraps her arms around his neck from behind and rests her chin on his shoulder. He tilts his head to nuzzle her cheek, murmuring something that makes her giggle, that open-bellied kind of laugh only kids know how to make. Causing her to lose her grip and double over in a fit of giggles.

You watch the way his fingers curl protectively around Ellie’s tiny back, the way his thumb absentmindedly traces the hem of her blanket like it’s instinct. How even when his shoulders slump under the weight of the day and the weight of them, all of them, he carries it like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

Your heart squeezes tight.

He glances up through the mess of his curls and kids, eyes dark and warm like strong coffee. And when he sees the look on your face, like you’re falling in love with him all over again, his mouth lifts into a quiet smile, barely-there but full of knowing.

“Hey,” he says gently, voice just for you in a room full of chaos. “Come ‘ere.”

You cross the room, stepping around a plastic truck and a stray sock, and Joel rises slowly with a child in one arm and the other two clinging to his legs, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He shifts his weight and wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you in close, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

You sniff, pressing a kiss to Ellie’s curls before cupping Joel’s cheek in your hand. He leans into your touch like he needs it, as he always has.

“Missed you,” he murmurs.

You press your face into his shoulder, one hand cupping Ellie’s back where she has her face mushed against him, the other resting just beneath his ribs.

Joel breathes you in, like the scent of your skin alone is enough to ground him. His nose brushes your temple as his lips graze your hairline, pressing gentle kisses to it, slow and lingering. Like he’s been waiting for this all day. Like this, you, pressed in close, wrapped around the weight of your family, is the only home that’s ever made sense.

“I missed you too,” you whisper.

Joel hums low in his chest, content and full, and then—

CRACK.

A sharp, plasticky snap draws your attention toward the floor just as Artie gasps.

“I didn’t mean to!” he cries, holding up the now two halves of what used to be his toy sword. “I was just showin’ Daddy!”

Joel sighs into your hair, the sound fond and exasperated all at once. “Alright, alright, no one’s in trouble. Just lemme see it, bud.”

Artie sniffles and shuffles closer as Joel squats down again, the movement making Ellie shift and blink blearily against his neck. “We can fix it, can’t we?”

“Yeah, we can fix it,” Joel says, inspecting the toy. “I’ll glue it after dinner. You’ll be back to fightin’ dragons by bedtime.”

That earns a quiet, “Yessss!” complete with a dramatic fist-pump from your son.

Meanwhile, Sarah’s tugging at your shirt now, her voice climbing higher with her excitement. “Mama, guess what? Guess what?”

“What, baby girl?”

She bounces on her toes like she can barely contain it, “I- I counted to a hundred today. By tens! Ten, twenty, thirty, uh… all the way! Miss Lewis said I was on fire!”

You laugh, brushing a stray hair from her cheek, “You’re on fire every day, baby.”

Sarah beams up at you, her missing front tooth making her grin look even bigger, “And we learned about mammals too! Whales are mammals, did you know that? Even though they swim!”

Joel huffs a soft laugh from where he’s crouched, glancing over at you like ‘you hearing this?’ In a soft, prideful ‘our kid loves learning’ type of way. You nod back with a fond smile.

“She told the whole class you love whales,” he murmurs, straightening with Ellie tucked against him and Artie’s arms still wrapped around his leg. “Said it was genetic.”

Sarah practically bounces out of her shoes, “Miss Lewis said I must be just like you!”

Your heart tugs a little, “That’s the best compliment I’ve ever heard.”

Joel chuckles, shifting Ellie to his other shoulder and reaching to ruffle Sarah’s hair. “Just wait ‘til she starts tellin’ people I’m the one who likes glitter.”

“You do like glitter,” you tease.

“Like hell I do,” he mutters under his breath, though his eyes are soft and gleaming as he watches all three of your babies orbit you like planets.

“C’mon,” you say, nudging Sarah’s back gently. “Let’s go wash up for dinner, little star student.”

She spins around dramatically, announcing to the room, “I’m gonna count the soap bubbles!”

Joel chuckles as he follows behind, Ellie still sleepily clutching the collar of his shirt.

You move to the kitchen, the floor warm beneath your feet as the last of the evening light pours across the counter. The table’s already half-set, the big pot of your favorite pasta sauce simmering low on the stove. A loaf of bread waits to be sliced, butter softening nearby.

Joel gently adjusts Ellie in his arms as he turns toward the hallway bathroom. “Alright, gremlins,” he calls, ushering Sarah and Artie ahead of him. “Let’s get those sticky little paws cleaned up before dinner.”

Sarah speeds off like it’s a race, and Artie happily obliges to the challenge and dashes after her. Ellie clings tighter to Joel’s neck, who mumbles something soft and unintelligible as he brushes a kiss over her temple.

“C’mon, baby girl,” he murmurs, nudging the door open with his foot. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You hear the water run, the sound of Joel’s low voice guiding each child— “Palms too, Artie. Not just the backs,” and “Good job, Sarah, now dry off.” Ellie lets out a small whine, but Joel soothes her quickly, gently murmuring, “I know, sweetheart, just a little bit, we’re almost done.”

A few minutes later, he returns to the kitchen with a trail of kids behind him. Sarah’s already narrating her bubble count results, Artie excitedly babbling about a new dinosaur he learned about this week, and Ellie with her blanket now dragging behind her freshly clean feet. Joel crouches to guide each of them to their booster seats and chairs at the table, pressing kisses to each forehead as he goes.

Then he straightens with a groan, rubbing the small of his back, and finally turns his attention to you.

“Alright,” he says softly, catching your eye with that little smile that only ever belongs to you. “My hands are free, darlin’. Whatcha need?”

You gesture to the grocery bag and flowers that were left on the counter with a fond, teasing look, and he chuckles, walking over and picking up the bouquet, sunflowers and sprigs of fresh lavender bundled together like a warm-weather prayer. He holds it out to you, that crooked smile tugging at his lips, boyish and soft.

“For you,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to give you every beautiful thing he finds. A flush creeps up his neck, coloring his cheeks, and there’s something so endearingly bashful in the way he stands there, like he’s young again, asking you out for the first time.

You take them gently, fingers brushing his, and that small touch sparks something between you, something electric and familiar. Your smile deepens, the kind that reaches your eyes and then sinks deeper, curling around your ribs like smoke. “They’re perfect,” you say, voice a little breathier than intended.

Joel exhales through his nose like he’d been holding that moment in. His eyes track you as you move toward the sink, filling a vase while the early evening light paints the kitchen in gold. He watches the curve of your shoulder, the slope of your neck as you lean forward, and his hand drifts instinctively to the back of your waist like a tether.

“Wasn’t sure if you still liked the lavender,” he murmurs, stepping in close behind you, the warmth of his chest pressing to your back. “But I remembered you said once it helped when you were feelin’ queasy with Ellie.”

You pause, heart tightening, and glance back at him. “You remembered that?”

Joel nods, brushing his lips to your temple. “Of course, darlin’.”

His hands don’t wander far, just a palm splayed wide across your belly, thumb stroking gentle circles over the fabric of your shirt. It’s reverent and slow. His fingers curl protectively like he’s already cradling the life you only just confirmed, like his body is remembering what it was like to hold you swollen and glowing and made for this.

The tension isn’t rushed. It simmers low. It builds in the weight of his hand on your stomach and the press of his breath against your skin. The scrape of his stubble as he nuzzles into your neck and lingers there.

“Joel,” you whisper, fingers now grasping the wooden spoon, giving the pasta sauce a final stir.

“Mhm?” he hums, lips brushing your hairline.

You glance up at him, his hand still pressed low and warm over your belly. “We’ve got kids to feed.”

His nose grazes your cheek as he leans in, voice dark and honeyed with something unfinished. “I know. But don’t think for a second I’m done with you.”

You feel his words everywhere—low in your spine, deep in your belly. His hand slips away slowly, dragging across your waist as he finally steps back, eyes catching yours with a spark that promises later. A promise that curls heat through your body even as you turn toward the kitchen table.

He reaches for the plates while you grab the bread. “How many meatballs for Artie?” he asks, the quick change of tone never failing to leave you reeling.

“Three,” you answer, trying to keep your tone level as you pass him the serving tongs, “but he’ll say four, and then eat one and a half.”

Joel smirks as he spoons the specified helpings onto each plate, falling into step beside you like it’s second nature, which it is. He’s already sliding cups into tiny hands and catching the stray spoon Ellie tries to toss when she gets too excited. The soft clatter of dinner unfolding around you becomes its own rhythm. The soft thud of Sarah’s feet swinging under the table and against her chair’s leg, Artie’s constant sound effects, Ellie babbling sleepily between bites.

But even in the warmth and noise and scent of garlic bread and tomato sauce, you can feel him, his attention lingering. His touches stay just a little too long when he brushes past you for the butter. His gaze drifts over the curve of your hip when you lean to grab napkins. His voice lowers when he says your name, the way it always does when he wants to kiss you more than breathe.

Dinner starts with giggles and sauce-smeared chins and stories from preschool and first grade. But Joel hasn’t stopped looking at you like he already knows exactly how he’s going to finish what he started.

And god, you hope the kids fall asleep early.

Dinner winds down in a tangle of crumbs and giggles, pasta sauce smudged at the corners of tiny mouths and a nearly empty bread basket that Joel swears he only got a single piece from. Ellie is curled sideways in her booster seat now, humming softly to herself between little bites, her cheek smushed into one pudgy hand.

“Artie, don’t lick your plate,” you warn gently, already reaching for a napkin. “It’s not that kind of clean-up.”

“But it’s good,” he insists, licking one more stripe across the porcelain as Joel chuckles quietly into his water glass.

Sarah leans forward with the intensity only a six-year-old can muster. “Can we play outside before bath? Pleeeease? I’ll even help Ellie with her jammies after.”

You raise an eyebrow and glance at Joel, whose hand finds the small of your knee under the table like he can’t not touch you.

“Alright,” you say. “Before it gets dark.”

Cue a full-on cheer squad as chairs scrape back and the kids barrel toward the back door, leaving behind a table that’s still littered with crayons and a half-eaten carrot stick shaped like a dinosaur. You help Ellie out of her booster seat and she finds a burst of energy from who knows where and chases her older siblings out the door. You turn to follow, but Joel’s hand doesn’t move.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and only for you as the screen door bangs open and you hear the sound of bare feet hitting grass.

You turn your head just slightly, your shoulder brushing his chest, the heat of him at your back like a pull.

Joel’s lips graze the shell of your ear, “That little dress you got on’s been drivin’ me insane since I walked through the door.”

Your breath catches.

His palm shifts higher on your back, fingers splayed wide now across the curve of your waist, thumb brushing just beneath the hemline, slow and possessive. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, mama, and you’ll be gettin’ more than a bedtime story once they’re down.”

You bite back a smile, warmth flooding your chest and sinking low, pooling between your thighs. “Mm,” you hum, steadying yourself with a hand on the counter like your knees didn’t just threaten to give out. “Then I guess you’re on bubble duty tonight, daddy.”

Joel chuckles, low and throaty, and gives your hip a playful swat before turning toward the door. “Deal,” he tosses over his shoulder, the screen creaking open. “But then you’re mine, darlin’.”

Joel steps out onto the porch and the back door creaks closed behind him. You follow barefoot, the soft swish of your dress brushing against your legs as you descend the steps beside him. The wood beneath your feet is warm from the day’s sun, the scent of fresh-cut grass and tomato vines thick in the air.

Sarah shrieks with delight somewhere near the garden bed, leaping from a rock with her plastic sword raised high. “I’m Queen of the Frogs!”

“Correction,” Artie yells back from under the swing set, “You’re Queen of the Frog Butts!”

Joel chuckles under his breath, shaking his head as he watches them, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Real poets, our kids.”

“They get it from you,” you nudge him with your shoulder. He turns just slightly, and you catch that look again, his eyes hooded and warm.

“You’re really tryin’ to start somethin’ in that little dress,” he murmurs low, just for you, lips barely brushing your ear.

You smile, sweet and dangerous, and keep your eyes on the kids, “Just existing, hun.”

He lets out a slow breath like he’s measuring his restraint second by second.

Across the yard, Ellie plops herself down in the grass and begins pulling at dandelions with quiet concentration. You head over first, grabbing the picnic blanket from the porch railing and shaking it out before spreading it near her. Joel follows behind, grabbing the bottle of bubbles and tossing it gently onto the blanket.

The kids settle into their rhythm— Sarah giving a passionate monologue to a clump of ants, Artie blowing bubbles with his whole body, Ellie quietly humming to herself as she rests her cheek on Joel’s knee. He’d sunk down behind you on the blanket, one leg stretched long beside you, the other bent for her to lean against. His arm curls instinctively around your waist when you sit, pulling you in close.

You rest your head on his shoulder, watching the golden light catch in the wisps of Ellie’s curls.

“This is nice,” you whisper.

Joel hums, dipping his chin against your temple, “Yeah, it is.”

Your fingers tangle with his over your belly, slow and absent. The soft murmur of the kids, the chirp of crickets waking up with the dusk.

By the time the sun dips low behind the trees, casting long golden fingers across the backyard, Sarah’s spinning in dizzy circles and Artie’s shirt is mysteriously soaked.

Joel stretches, “Alright, ya little mud monsters, it’s bath time.”

The chorus of nooo! rises immediately, followed by giggles as Joel lifts Artie into the air like a sack of potatoes.

You scoop Ellie into your arms with a playful sigh, “I swear she gets bigger every day.”

Ellie tucks her head under your chin and murmurs, “No baff… jus’ cuddles.”

“You can have both,” you promise, kissing her temple and carrying her inside.

Joel herds Sarah along, who’s trying to negotiate an extension to her outdoor reign, and the five of you funnel into the warm glow of your home, barefoot and sun-kissed and brimming with life.

The hallway bathroom is already half-steamed from the hot water you started running, the sound of splashing and bubble requests filling the space. Joel gets Artie ready first, lifting him into the tub while you peel off Ellie’s footie pajamas, her little curls sticking to her forehead.

“Duckies,” she demands, outstretching her arms towards where they sat on the shelf behind him.

Joel obliges, tossing in the yellow army while Sarah supervises.

You perch on the edge of the tub with a towel draped over your shoulder, sleeves rolled up, one hand splashing water gently over Ellie’s arms as she sits contentedly between her siblings. Joel kneels beside you, sleeves pushed back, working shampoo into Sarah’s hair while she chatters on about whales and classroom pets and how she’s going to “be the first paleontologist astronaut ballerina.”

“Ambitious,” Joel murmurs, glancing up at you with a crooked smile.

You bump his knee with yours under the tub and glance down at the three soaked, soapy little ones. Ellie has a duck in each hand, chewing thoughtfully on one. Artie’s humming to himself, already drowsy. Sarah’s recounting the exact moment she realized counting by tens was “basically magic.”

Joel wets a washcloth and dragging it lovingly down Ellie’s back, “They’re gonna crash hard tonight.”

His voice dips just enough to make you glance sideways.

He doesn’t look at you right away, just keeps his eyes on the kids, on the way Ellie’s lids are already fluttering and Artie’s head is tipping toward Sarah’s shoulder. But there’s a pull at the corner of his mouth, a slight shift in his tone that’s all for you.

Your heart skips.

There’s no need to ask what else he’s insinuating. Not with the heat curling low in your belly from the way he said it. Not with the way his hand slides along the edge of the tub, fingers brushing yours. Not with the way he looks at you now… steady and full of all that slow-burning hunger he’s been holding onto since you told him the news.

You two finish rinsing your soapy kiddos off.

Joel squeezes the water from the cloth and lays it gently over the edge of the tub, rising to his feet with a quiet grunt, “Alright, c’mon, little raisins. Time to get out.”

Sarah groans dramatically, “But I’m not even pruney yet!”

“Yes you are,” you say, reaching for a towel and unfolding it, “You look like a baby grandma.”

She gasps, delighted. “I do not!” But she lifts her arms anyway, letting you wrap her up in the soft towel and plant a kiss to her forehead before helping her put on her jammies before sending her off toward the hall.

Artie’s next. Joel coaxes him up with a gentle hand under his arm, bundling him in a fluffy towel and rubbing his damp curls dry and hands him off to you to put his jammies on.

Ellie resists the most, she’s still chewing on the duckie, half asleep. Joel scoops her out with practiced ease, cradling her against his bare forearm as you hand him a towel. She curls into him without protest, thumb finding her mouth, her damp curls sticking to his chest.

You watch them, heart aching a little with the sight of it. Joel presses a kiss to the crown of her head, then glances over at you with that same look from earlier, low and smoldering and already thinking about what comes next once the house is finally quiet.

You handed him her set of jammies and she complied sleepily, sticking her little arms and legs into the soft fabric and then cozying back into her daddy’s arms.

You and Joel move through putting the kids to bed like a dance. Artie’s scraped knee gets a bandaid and kissed, Ellie fights off the slumber she’s been inching towards all evening until you hum softly in the rocker, rubbing her back until she melts against you. Sarah wants one more story and Joel obliges, letting her pick a chapter book and sitting on the floor next to her bed while he reads to her.

Artie’s breathing soft and even, one arm flopped over his stuffed rabbit. Sarah is curled beneath her favorite quilt, her eyelids already fluttering. And Ellie has fallen asleep across your chest as you rock gently in the nursery chair, her little hand fisted in the collar of your shirt.

Now Joel stands in the doorway after getting a glass of water which Sarah had requested yet forgotten in the haze of sleep. He’d already made sure the nanny cam was on and connected. Now, he was just watching.

After a moment, he crosses the room quietly, kneeling down beside you so he’s eye-level with Ellie, brushing his knuckles gently over her cheek.

“She’s out,” he murmurs, his voice the kind of quiet you feel more than hear.

“She fought it,” you whisper. “Like always.”

He smiles then leans in to kiss her forehead, then yours, gently shifting her into his arms and taking her to her bed.

He crosses the room again, slower this time. And when he reaches you, he doesn’t speak, he just offers his hands, tugging you up from the rocker with care. His fingers linger at your hips, eyes searching yours for something he already knows the answer to.

You don’t look away or say a word, you just let him lead you down the hallway and into the soft hush of your shared space.

When he closes your bedroom door behind you, it’s like the rest of the world falls away.

You stand there for a moment, close but not touching, the silence between you thick with everything that’s been building since you’d called him that afternoon to share the news… tenderness, longing, the slow ache of wanting him again, always.

Joel steps into your space, hands coming up to cradle your face, brushing his thumbs along your jaw like he needs to feel every part of you.

“Y’alright?” The question is soft under his breath.

You nod, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “I just… love you.”

His gaze softens, lashes lowering, “Yeah, baby,” his voice thick with affection, “I love you too.”

He kisses you like it’s the first time again, deep and warm and steady, like a promise. His hands find your hips, pulling you in until there’s no space left.

You breathe against his mouth, lips brushing his, “You always smell like coffee.” The scent clung to his shirt, it was faded, but there. His long days on the site and a couple cups of coffee throughout the day always lingered in some way.

He huffs a soft laugh, his hand sliding just beneath the hem of your shirt, “yeah, I know y’like my coffee breath, hun. You’ll get it in the mornin’, promise.”

You reach down between you, fingers tugging at the waistband of his jeans, your fingers sliding to unbutton them and unzip them slightly, just enough to make him groan.

“I like it when you’re like this,” you whisper, mouth brushing his jaw. “Warm and soft. All domestic and sweet… and a little bit dirty.”

His hands tighten at your hips, “Sweetheart, if you don’t stop talkin’ like that, I’m gonna bend you over the dresser and make the bed wait.”

You gasp, mock-offended, smiling into his mouth, “You’d make love to me on the carpet?”

“I’d make love to you in the fuckin’ pantry if you asked nice enough,” his lips trail down your neck, “but the bed’s softer. You deserve soft.”

“But I like it hard, baby…”

That makes him groan again, his fingers flexing against your hips like he’s holding back everything that’s already threatening to spill over.

“You say shit like that,” he mutters, voice thick and husky, “and you’re surprised I can’t keep my hands off you?”

“You never could,” you arch just enough to press your chest to his, teasing your mouth along the slope of his neck. “Not when I beg for it… not when I don’t.”

His hands slip beneath your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he walks you backward toward the bed. “That’s ‘cause you’re always fuckin’ beggin’,” he growls against your skin, “even when you’re quiet about it.”

He sets you down by the edge of the bed, taking off your dress in one smooth motion, his eyes darkening like it physically hits him to see you like this every time. That familiar awe, that heat.

“Jesus, you’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers, almost to himself.

You reach for him in turn, pulling his shirt off, letting your hands drag along the strong lines of his chest, the soft edges of time carved into him. Your fingers trail low, through the line of coarse hair that disappears beneath his jeans, teasing at the waistband again.

He pushes you back gently onto the bed and kisses down your chest, your stomach, pausing just above your navel.

His breath fans hot over your skin as he lingers just above the waistband of your panties, hands spreading over your thighs.

“You know I’ve decided that I hate when these are in my way,” he mutters, snapping the elastic of your waistband gently against your skin.

You lift your hips in invitation, “Then do something about it.”

His fingers trace lightly up your inner thigh, you gasp when his hand finally presses where you need him most, fingers teasing just enough to make you arch. His mouth trails lower, kisses growing messier as he goes, like he’s losing control by the second.

He smirks and shakes his head lazily, then hooks his fingers under the waistband, dragging them down slowly. His eyes stay on yours the entire time like he’s daring you to squirm.

Once they’re halfway down your thighs, he pauses to press a kiss to your hipbone, then murmurs against your skin, “Always so fuckin’ eager f’me…”

He finishes peeling your panties down your legs and tosses them somewhere behind him without looking. Then his attention shifts to your bra, your chest heaving beneath it.

You arch your back and begin to reach behind you to unhook it, but he grabs your wrists, pinning your hands gently above your head, the grasp of his hand fitting both of yours in his grasp.

“Uh-uh,” he murmurs and shakes his head, voice thick. “You know better, ‘s my job.”

You let your arm fall back with a soft grin, watching as he reaches behind your arched back with that practiced ease and undoes the clasp. He drags the straps off your shoulders slowly and reverently. The moment your breasts are bare, he groans, actually groans, and dips down to mouth at one immediately, tongue flicking over your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth.

Joel lifts his head a beat later, lips glistening, voice rough. “You keep lookin’ at me like that and I’m never gonna make it past your tits.”

You grin, slow and lazy, eyelids heavy, “I don’t see the problem.”

He growls, the sound low and real in his chest, and suddenly his mouth is on yours again— hot, commanding, hungry. His tongue slides deep, claiming, his hand on your breast still teasing the peaked nipple between two fingers.

When he pulls back, you’re breathless and dazed, and his hand wraps around your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Be good,” he murmurs, soft but firm. “Hands up. Wanna see you.”

You obey instantly, arms stretching over your head, back arching just enough to make his gaze darken.

“There she is,” he says, eyes raking over you. “My sweet girl.”

He kisses your ribs, your stomach, trailing lower, pushing your thighs apart with a slow, familiar pressure that makes your core throb.

“Can’t get enough when you always let me have you like this,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you, eyes fixed between your legs like he’s starved for it. “Laid out all pretty… arms up, legs open, fuckin’ soaked…”

His palms slide beneath your thighs and hook around your knees, spreading you wider, and his mouth waters at the sight of you already glistening and dripping for him.

His lips brush the inside of your thigh. Then again, higher. He takes his time, drags it out, teasing kisses and soft bites as he works his way in. You squirm, trying to tilt your hips toward his mouth, but his grip tightens.

“Uh-uh,” he says, voice low. “You stay still for me. Let me take care of it.”

Your whole body burns. And then he licks you, one broad stroke from your entrance to your clit, and you shudder.

“Yes…”

He hums like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all week and dips in again, this time sealing his mouth over your clit, tongue moving in circles while his fingers squeeze your thighs, holding you open.

Your hands twitch above your head, but you obey. You’re good for him, just like he asked, and it only makes him moan harder into you.

“Always so sweet for me,” he groans, pulling back just enough to speak. “You know how fuckin’ good you taste?”

You sob— yes, sob, because it’s too much. The pressure, the pace, the way his mouth moves with purpose and not teasing anymore. He’s a man on a mission.

Joel shifts, sliding two fingers inside you without warning, curling them perfectly while he keeps his mouth on your clit.

You cry out, hips jerking, but he growls into you, it’s possessive, dominant, and protective even in the way he holds you down.

“That’s it,” he rasps against your skin. “Cum on my tongue, sweetheart. Want you shakin’.”

Your thighs clamp around his shoulders and your body locks up as the orgasm slams into you, sharp and full and completely his. You gasp his name, eyes squeezing shut, your whole body trembling under the intensity.

Joel keeps going. Licks you through it, groaning like a man who doesn’t give a damn about anything except finishing what he started.

Only when your legs start to twitch uncontrollably does he finally slow down, kisses gentler now, featherlight and adoring.

He pulls back, lips wet, beard glistening, looking at you like he’s proud of what he just did.

“My good girl,” his voice reverberated through you as if you’re a livewire, hanging on his every word of praise, your chest blooming in pride and satisfaction. “Did so fuckin’ good f’me.”

And he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, the same goddamn thing he’s done for over a decade now, so perfectly fine-tuned to your every desire and never failing to make you melt against him and around him.

Your orgasm is still buzzing through you, thighs trembling as Joel finally pulls his mouth away from your soaked core, lips slick and beard damp, his expression absolutely wrecked with satisfaction.

He sits back on his heels, breath heaving, and drags his hand up your inner thigh before letting it drift over your stomach to your breast then up to your jaw.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice rough with restraint, “you look so fuckin’ good like this.”

He leans in to kiss you and it’s deep and lingering, the taste of you thick on his tongue… and then he shifts back, rising onto his knees and then stepping off of the bed.

He pushes his jeans down, just enough to free himself, his cock hard and flushed, already leaking. His hand wraps around the base as he strokes himself once, slow and deliberate, watching the way your eyes darken at the sight and the way your mouth instantly waters.

He strokes himself once, watching you. “Look at ya,” he says, wrecked. “You think I ain’t gonna give it to you good when you’re lookin’ at me like that?”

You smirk, lazy and breathless, watching the roll of his forearms, the flex of his stomach as his hand works over his cock. “Oh, I know you will,” you murmur. “You always do.”

He groans at that and crooks two fingers towards him, commanding now, “Get it wet then, baby, show me how badly you want it.”

You drop to your knees slowly in front of him, never breaking eye contact, the corners of your mouth curling up just enough to make his cock jump in anticipation.

Joel’s broad and flushed over you, but completely at your mercy, his cock thick and heavy in his hand as he watches you settle in front of him. You rest your hands on his thighs first, fingertips dragging up the denim covered muscles before you slide your mouth over the head of his cock.

His entire body jerks.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” His voice is already unraveling, one hand reaching out to cradle the back of your head.

Your mouth is warm and wet and perfect around him, tongue swirling as you take him deeper, your eyes fluttering shut as you let him fill your mouth. You hum, and he swears under his breath.

He watches, completely enraptured by the way you take him deeper into your mouth, breaching the gag reflex of your throat and nearly taking him to the base, “Fuck, darlin’, jus’ like that…”

He grips your hair tightly and pulls you from him, saliva dripping from your mouth as you’re so rudely disrupted from one of your favorite pastimes.

“Can’t give it to ya the way you need if I cum down your throat now, can I?”

You blink up at him, lips swollen and breath shaky, spit still glistening on your chin. You look utterly wrecked, and so fucking proud of it.

“Well,” you rasp, licking your lips, “you better fuckin’ fix that, Miller.”

Joel growls at that, the sound deep and primal, his jaw tight as his hands haul you up off the floor like you weigh nothing.

“You got a mouth on ya, Mrs. Miller,” he mutters, tossing you onto the bed with a roughness that makes you gasp and smile all at once.

He grabs your waist, turning you easily, one hand pushing your upper back down until your elbows hit the mattress, your ass in the air, waiting for him.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, hair a mess, chest rising fast, “You married it.”

Joel kicks off his jeans the rest of the way, gaze dragging hot and heavy over every inch of you. He presses both hands to your lower back, hovering over your ready, wanting body, then leans in to press a slow kiss to your shoulder.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “And I just can’t help but keep knockin’ ya up.”

His hand drags up the back of your thigh, palm warm and possessive, spreading you open with a grip that borders on brutal. “You carryin’ my baby again, sweetheart… fuck, best bad decision I ever made.”

You laugh breathlessly, your whole body already pulsing with anticipation. “Thought you said I was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“I did,” he murmurs, pushing your knees even further apart, “Same thing.”

He lines himself up, and doesn’t waste any more time. He slides in slow, groaning as he fills you, inch by inch, until his hips are flush with your ass and your head tips back and a broken moan falls from your lips.

He stills, fully seated inside of you with his hands braced on your hips. “What’s that, baby?” he pants. “Where’s all that back talk now?”

You gasp, “Shut up and fuck me.”

Joel chuckles, but there’s no amusement behind it, just hunger. He pulls out halfway and slams back in, making you cry out, your forehead dropping to the bed. His hands grip your hips, bruising and greedy.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he mutters, breath rough against your spine. “Mouthy ‘til I’m buried inside a’ya.”

You whimper, trying to push back against him, but he tightens his grip and stills you. Control. He knows you love it when he takes it from you.

“Stay just like that. Let me take care of ya.”

He starts to move again— hard and deep, with no hesitation. Every thrust hits home with the kind of precision only he could give you. He knows your body too well. The angle that makes you whine. The speed that makes you shatter. His name’s already slipping from your lips in pieces.

Joel leans forward over your back, his chest brushing against your spine, the sweat of his skin warm on yours. One hand slides up, curling over your shoulder, holding you there while he drives into you, over and over, thick and relentless.

“You feel that, darlin’?” he breathes against your neck. “This pussy… you were made f’me.”

Your response is a broken moan, your fingers fisting the sheets.

He grunts as you clench around him, the rhythm faltering for just a second as he recovers. Then his hand finds your hair, fingers weaving into the strands and tugging just enough to pull your head back.

“So fuckin’ beautiful like this, my good girl, takin’ it so damn well.”

You gasp at the praise, at the rough way he holds you while still pressing kisses to your shoulder. It’s brutal, but it’s beautiful.

He adjusts his angle just slightly and you cry out, the sound ripped straight from your chest. You can feel his heavy balls slapping rhythmically against your clit and it makes you whine at the sensation,

“There it is,” he groans, pounding into that spot over and over, his voice dropping low. “Right fuckin’ there, huh?”

Your body’s shaking, you’re so fucking close, and he knows it, can feel it. He brings his arm around you and slides a hand down between your thighs, fingers circling your clit with that same confident pressure he’s used on you a thousand times before.

“Come on, baby,” he growls. “Cum f’me...”

And god, you do, your orgasm tearing through you, white-hot and blinding, making your whole body clamp down around him, white fists whitening at the harsh grip you have on the sheets as he fucks you through every wave of your release.

Joel groans deep in his chest, his rhythm faltering as he pushes in once, twice more before spilling inside you with a ragged breath, pulsing thick and warm as he fills you.

He stays there, buried deep, bent over your back and panting, one hand still between your legs, the other wrapped around your waist like he’s trying to anchor himself to you.

After a moment, he presses a kiss to your shoulder and murmurs, softer now, voice warm and reverent…

“You know I’ll never get tired of this, of you like this, right?”

You smile, cheek pressed to the mattress. “You better not. I’m your favorite bad decision, remember?”

Joel laughs, breathless and wrecked, then leans in and kisses the back of your neck. “Yeah, baby. You always will be.”

You’re still catching your breath, forehead pressed to the mattress, when Joel finally moves, easing out of you like he’s afraid to hurt you, even though he just split you open in the best way.

He exhales hard, then leans over your back to kiss your shoulder again. Then the space between your shoulder blades. Then the curve of your spine. One hand runs down your side… but then his eyes catch sight of his cum already beginning to ooze back out of you, warm and thick down your thighs.

You blink up at him over your shoulder, flushed and dazed, but your breath hitches when you feel his fingers trailing down between your legs.

“Joel—”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, kissing the small of your back. His other palm flattens across your lower belly, wide and protective, and you feel the shift in him instantly. “Fuck,” he whispers, reverent. “You’re really carryin’ my baby again…”

Your breath catches.

You twist just enough to look over your shoulder at him, and what you see floors you… his eyes glassy, jaw tight, his hand still firm on your belly like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

Then two of his thick fingers are sliding back inside of you.

“There we go,” he breathes, watching the way your body reacts to him, how easily you take his touch, even when you’re already spent. “So fuckin’ good for me. Always are.”

“I know this body so fuckin’ well,” he murmurs, kissing the curve of your spine, fingers stroking just right with each slow press. “Know every little sound you make. Know how to touch you, how to get you to fall apart f’me.”

Your breath catches, his tone intense and intimate. You fucking loved the way he talked to you… you pulsed around his fingers as they curled against the perfect spot inside of you.

He drags his fingers out just far enough to make you gasp, then sinks them back in slow and deep. Just that steady, unbearable rhythm that always ruins you.

“Joel…” you whimper, finally finding your voice again, your hips twitching and body shivering from the aftershocks and the way he won’t stop. “I can’t…”

“Yes, y’can,” he says, voice like gravel and honey. “Y’always say that, but y’always give it to me. Let me have it, baby.”

He curls his fingers again, dragging them right over that spot inside you that makes your knees go weak, and you keen, arching into his touch even as your body trembles with overstimulation.

“Come on, darlin’,” he whispers, lips ghosting over your shoulder. “Wanna feel your tight pussy clench down around me again.”

You cry out, legs shaking. “Joel, please…”

“That’s it…”

And when it hits, hot and bright and bone-deep, your entire body curls around it, your breath caught in your chest, your hands fisting the sheets again as you come undone for him all over again.

He doesn’t stop moving his fingers until he feels every last pulse of it, until your body is slack and spent and whimpering into the pillow.

Then, finally, he pulls his hand from between your legs and kisses your lower back, soft and slow, before wrapping his arms around your waist and guiding you gently onto your side, his chest warm against your back.

You can feel his smile in the kiss he presses just below your ear.

“Goddamn,” his voice thick with love and pride. “Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than you fallin’ apart like that. You spoil me, darlin’.”

You laugh weakly, a breathy, broken thing, your chest still rising and falling in uneven waves. Eyes fluttering closed for a beat, you let your head fall to the side, turning your body, your cheek brushing the warm pillow as you lay your head down and just look at him.

Joel’s lying beside you, heavy and golden in the soft light, his skin flushed and slick with sweat, muscles relaxed in that post-release sprawl. One arm tucked beneath his head, the other draped across your hip, his hand splayed wide against your lower belly, a possessive gesture he’d adopted every time he’s knocked you up or was in the process of doing so, it was like a magnet kept drawing his palm to that same spot, every time he had access to it.

There’s a crooked little smile tugging at his lips, lazy and so fucking pleased with himself.

“You’re awfully proud of yourself,” you murmur, voice hoarse and wrecked but tinged with that familiar teasing edge.

He hums and leans in close, nuzzling your shoulder with his scruffy jaw, his stubble scraping gently as he breathes you in.

“Can you blame me?” His nose trails the curve of your neck, breath hot as he murmurs against your skin. “You’re the mother of my babies. My whole damn world.”

He kisses your temple gently, “And now we’re doin’ it all over again.”

His hand curves tighter over your belly… gentle, protective, and proud. And when you glance down, you catch the way he’s looking at it, that soft focus in his eyes, like he’s picturing it already. The way you’ll swell. The way he’ll get to watch you grow all over again.

“I can’t wait to see you pregnant again, baby,” he whispers. “S’when you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your throat tightens. Your hand covers his, lacing your fingers over that same spot, holding him there like you always do.

His body shifts beside you, so broad and warm, all heavy limbs and slowing breath, the faint scent of sweat and cedar clinging to him like second skin. The bed dips beneath his weight as he props himself up on one elbow, casting you in the long shadow of his frame.

You crack one eye open and roll it, even as your lips pull into a smirk, “You’re insufferable when you’re smug.”

Joel chuckles, low and content, and trails a finger lazily over the sensitive skin of your stomach, “And yet here you are, still wearin’ that fucked-out smile I put on you. And pregnant with my baby, gonna be all swollen and sensitive…”

“You are the worst,” you breathe, voice thick with affection, your smirk deepening.

“Mmm,” he hums, dipping his head to mouth at your jaw. “You keep sayin’ that, but your thighs were shakin’ a minute ago, so I ain’t exactly convinced.”

You swat at him, laughing through your exhaustion, but he catches your hand easily, and threads your fingers with his again, pressing them to the mattress above your head.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, eyes dark as they trace your face, then lower, lingering on your kiss-bitten lips. “You look too damn pretty to tease and not expect consequences.”

Your breath hitches, because of course he knows. He always knows when your mood shifts, when desire returns, subtle and slow like a tide rolling back in.

He kisses you then, long and unhurried, just mouth and breath and weight. His lips are warm and full and a little chapped, and he kisses like he touches, like he means it. Like this is just another way he says I love you.

Your arm slips around to his back, fingers pressing into the hard muscle at his shoulder blade and massaging there, he lets out an appreciative groan.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is a murmur against your lips, “That mouth still got somethin’ to say?”

You smile and brush your thumb along his jaw, “Not right now.”

Joel kisses you again, but doesn’t deepen it, just content to be against you like this. Mouths molding against each other’s, his tongue sliding against yours in that rhythmic dance only the two of you knew.

“Carryin’ my baby again,” He shakes his head in disbelief, his forehead pressed against yours, “Don’t think I’ll ever get over that.”

Your eyes flutter closed, and your fingers trace a slow, aimless pattern across his back.

“People get a visual of how bad we are at keeping our hands off of each other for the last time.”

He huffs a laugh, warm and low in his chest. “Yeah, well… I like makin’ sure people know what’s mine, I’ll make that known one way or another.”

Your nose nudges his, and your laughter is soft, but it tumbles out helpless and giddy, “You’re insatiable.”

His hand slides to your belly again, splayed wide and possessive. “Damn right I am. Look at ya,” he says, voice dropping, eyes roaming like he’s already picturing you bigger, rounder, glowing. “Can’t fuckin’ help myself when you’re like this.”

“I’m not even showing yet,” you tease, breathless from the look in his eyes alone.

“Don’t need to be,” he growls against your skin, kissing just below your ear. “Your scent changes, your skin gets warmer… you start lookin’ at me like you wanna make me ruin you all over again. Drives me outta my damn mind.”

Your breath hitches, lashes fluttering as he mouths along your throat, slow and deliberate. He’s not rushing… no, this is worship. Like he’s already mourning the days you’re about to outgrow. The last time your body will carry an additional life. The last time he gets to see you like this. On the cusp of change, of becoming, of motherhood once more.

“You keep saying this’ll be our last baby like that’s supposed to make me calm the fuck down,” he mutters, voice thick with heat, “but all it does is make me wanna memorize every moment of ya like this.”

His hand cups the underside of your belly now, gentle as ever, reverent in that way only Joel gets. “Wanna remember what you feel like before you start showin’. Then again when you do. And again when you’re round as the moon and swearin’ at me that I’m the one who did this to you.”

“You are the one who did this to me,” you whisper, laughing softly even as your voice shivers.

He growls, mouth tracing the curve of your jaw, his hips instinctively rolling closer, “You think I’ll ever let you forget that?”

His other hand ghosts over your thigh, down the back of your knee, pulling you closer until there’s nothing left between you but heat and heartbeat. His palm glides up, tracing the slope of your ribs until it’s resting just beneath your breast.

“I know you’re barely even pregnant yet,” he murmurs, voice dipped in something darker now, “but they’re already gettin’ heavier…”

You shiver as his thumb brushes over your nipple, gentle but deliberate, the sensitive bud tightening under his touch. You’re not even sure when they got sore— only that suddenly, you’re aching for more. Needy and warm and already so fucking wet again, even with his cum dripping out of you, you could tell you were getting even wetter somehow.

His gaze flicks down, jaw tight as he watches the way your breath hitches, the way your back arches for him without even thinking.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “These tits always drive me crazy.”

His thumb swipes again, slower now, circling until your nipples pebble and your thighs shift instinctively, trying to relieve the pressure building there.

You reach for his wrist, but not to stop him. To ground yourself against the heat that starts rolling off his body in waves.

“You get so worked up when I’m pregnant,” you whisper, half in awe, half teasing.

Joel’s already leaning down, already mouthing at the swell of your breast, his stubble scraping your skin. “Can’t help it,” he says, voice muffled against your skin. And when his mouth closes around your nipple, sucking gently, everything in you tightens. Your hips roll without thinking, thighs brushing his. You feel the press of him between your legs, hard again, and getting harder by the second.

He groans against your skin, a sound thick with hunger. “Jesus, baby…”

He doesn’t need your words. He’s already shifting between your thighs again, one hand braced beside your head, the other still cupping your breast.

You barely get a gasp in before he’s lining himself up again, one hand on your hip, the other fumbling beneath your thigh, opening you to him again.

“Joel,” you try, breathless.

But he’s already slipping back inside you, one hard, greedy thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“I just…” he frowns in concentration as he bottoms out and stills for a moment, letting you adjust to him around you again, “just need you, baby… can’t fuckin’ help it.. need..” his words are stuttering out now as your walls flutter around him and he can’t stifle the groan from deep in his chest.

You cry out, head tilting back, and he follows, burying his face in your neck as he fucks into you without a shred of restraint, hands everywhere… gripping your ass, cradling your thigh, pawing at your chest like he needs to worship every part of you.

Your legs lock tighter around him in answer, heel digging into the small of his back, anchoring him to you.

Your hands roam over his back, down the ridge of his spine, nails scraping lightly as you murmur broken, and reverent things against his skin.

Your mouth finds his shoulder, teeth grazing the skin there, and he groans, rutting harder, coming apart from the feel of you alone.

One of your hands cups his jaw, tilts his head up just enough so you can kiss him messily. You taste him like you own him as his tongue meets yours, frantic and hot, and your bodies slam together again and again like they need to break apart to be whole again.

He groans against your mouth, raw and needy, then pressed his forehead to yours as if grounding himself in the press of your skin. You feel every tremble, every stuttered breath as he ruts forward, desperate and greedy for more.

“Fuck… baby, please,” the words spill out, broken and helpless, barely held together by breath. His hips move without rhythm now, his hands everywhere, gripping your thigh, dragging down your waist, fingers splayed wide across your sweat-slicked skin like he can’t get enough.

Your hands find his hair, tugging hard, and he shudders. Mouth dragging down your throat, across your shoulder. “You feel so fuckin’ good,” he pants, hips grinding in hard and deep. “Always so hungry for my cock, so needy… droolin and beggin for ‘im to split ‘er open. ”

You whimper as he talks to you so filthily, you can feel your walls pulsing around him, “Joel, don’t stop, please, don’t stop…”

His rhythm is messy now, nothing slow or patient in the way he takes you. Every sound out of his mouth was wrecked and reverent.

“Need you to cum, baby,” he mutters against your jaw, words barely strung together.

Your body, always eager to give him whatever the hell he wants, breaks open for him, body seizing with a cry caught in your throat as your walls tighten and pulse around him. Your nails dig into his back with the intensity of it.

“There,” he groans, thrusts faltering, gasping against your neck. “That’s it, fuck, such a good girl f’me.”

He finishes with a strangled moan, spilling inside you, body collapsing against yours, all heat and weight and trembling limbs. His breath stutters against your skin, heart pounding against your chest.

You both lie there for a moment, a heap of tangled limbs and spent breaths, your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

Joel lets out a low, dazed laugh against your neck. “Been going for doubles lately, knockin’ you up makes me feel young again.”

You giggle, too spent to lift your head, “You sound about a hundred years old right now.”

“M’gonna take that as gratitude,” he mumbles into your shoulder, kissing the slope of it with an exaggerated groan, "I still got it.” He slowly slips out with a mutual hiss escaping from your lips.

You hum, smug. “You got something, alright. Probably need a damn chiropractor after that.”

His hand slides over your ass, giving it a lazy squeeze, “Ain’t heard you complainin’.”

“I blacked out a little.”

He grins, lips dragging across your skin, “Yeah, I felt that.”

You sigh, boneless, stretching slightly under him. “Well, congratulations, again, daddy.”

His chest rumbles as he shifts, propping himself up on one forearm so he can look down at you. There’s sweat on his brow, pink still high on his cheeks, and his hair’s an absolute mess, but he’s glowing. Pure adoration written into every line of his face.

“Last one,” you repeat, as if you needed to remind yourself and him.

Joel leans in and kisses your forehead, your nose, then your lips, “Then I better make this count.”

You laugh, breath catching as he rolls onto his side and drapes his arm around you, tugging you in close.

“Don’t worry, old man,” you murmur against his chest. “You already have.”

“I love you,” he says, quiet but certain. “So damn much.”

You squeeze his hand back, breath catching for a beat.

“I know,” you whisper. “I love you too.”

And then, everything’s still. Just your heartbeats, tangled legs, and the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of your breath shared in the dark. The sound of home.

—

The morning light spills golden through the kitchen windows, catching on syrup-smeared plates and a half-finished second pot of coffee. The kids are outside already, shrieking and thundering through the yard, leaving a brief hush behind them like the house exhaled.

You rinse the last plate in the sink, and before you can reach for the dish towel, Joel’s already behind you, easing it from your hand and tossing it aside. His arms circle your waist, chin resting heavy on your shoulder.

“You’re in a good mood,” you murmur, smiling as his nose brushes your cheek.

“Might’ve had somethin’ to do with last night,” he drawls, voice all honey and gravel.

You huff a quiet laugh, leaning back into his chest. “Is that right?”

“‘S your fault,” his lips brush the curve of your neck as he mutters against you. “You walk around this kitchen in my shirt as if you don’t know how it makes me feel.”

Your hands come up to hold his forearms, warm and solid around you. “I let you sleep in and made your favorite pancakes.”

“Yeah,” he says, swaying you both gently side to side. “Pretty sure I married up.”

He kisses your temple, then the space just behind your ear. His stubble grazes your skin and you feel it low in your belly, all flutter and warmth and the ache that never quite leaves you when he’s this close.

You twist in his arms until you’re facing him, and he doesn’t hesitate, his lips find yours instantly.

When you pull back, your fingers are still toying with the hem of his shirt, and his are resting, of course, low on your belly. You swear he was obsessed with that part of your body now, as if he was willing the bump to start showing, for the baby to grow faster so he could witness it.

You glance down at where he’s touching you, then look up again, your voice quieter now. “You still wanna wait? Before we tell anyone?”

Joel’s eyes soften. His nose bumps yours, “I like it bein’ just ours. For a little while longer.”

You nod, lips brushing his again. “Me too.”

Joel’s thumb strokes slow across the curve of your belly, his eyes are still on you like he’s seeing more than just the here and now, like he’s picturing everything ahead.

His lips just barely touch yours again when the brief moment of peace was inevitably interrupted.

“Mooommy! Daddy! Sarah locked me out!!”

Artie’s muffled yell slices through the quiet like a siren, followed immediately by the screen door slamming, tiny footsteps pounding toward the kitchen like a herd of buffalo.

Joel sighs into your mouth, forehead falling to your shoulder, “So much for a quiet moment.”

You laugh softly, brushing his hair back with your fingers. “You got thirty uninterrupted seconds. That’s practically a miracle.”

Sarah barrels in first, beaming. “I didn’t lock him out. There is no lock on the playhouse.”

Artie storms in behind her, face scrunched with betrayal. “You held it shut!”

Joel lifts a brow, “This true, Sarah?”

Ellie waddles in last, wearing a sparkly skirt over her pajama shorts, one rain boot on and a cookie clutched in each fist, “I didn’ do anyfing.”

You blink. “Why are you holding cookies?”

She shrugs. “Found ‘em.”

Joel mutters under his breath, “We really need to hide snacks better.”

You start rounding up the troops, brushing crumbs from Ellie’s face, smoothing Sarah’s hair, helping Artie yank a twig out of his curls. Joel watches the chaos for a second, then steps in beside you, reaching for his coffee.

As the kids chatter and bicker and pull at your sleeves, he leans down, mouth near your ear, “Still glad we’re doin’ this again?”

You glance at him over your shoulder, your smile slow and sure. “With you? Always.”

His grin is boyish and a little cocky, “Damn right.”

And with that, he sets down his mug and hoists Ellie under one arm like a sack of sugar, her cookie still clutched victoriously as she squeals.

You linger there a second, hands stilling. The hum of the fridge, the creak of the screen door, the light filtering golden across the floorboards, all of it blurs behind the slow thrum in your chest.

God.

You never thought life could feel like this.

This kind of love… it crept in quiet, threaded through grocery lists and toy-strewn floors, through baby giggles and tired kisses and the rasp of his stubble brushing your cheek at the end of the day. It stitched itself into every ordinary moment until it wasn’t ordinary at all. Just yours.

You reach for the dish towel again, smile still ghosting your lips. He always says you’re the one who spoils him, but the truth is he spoiled you every moment he as yours.

That soft Texas drawl. Those hands that always know where to land. That unshakable way he looks at you, like you’re still the best thing he’s ever done, even after all these years and stretch marks and sleepless nights and three kids with now a fourth on the way.

You press your palm to your belly without thinking, protective and reverent all at once.

You still can’t believe it. This new life. This quiet little secret just the two of you are holding for now.

His hand was there just minutes ago, splayed wide, protective and possessive, as you knew it would be for months to come.

You sigh, your whole body humming with it. With the fullness of everything you’ve made together. The chaos and the comfort. The hunger and the hush. The way he always reaches for you like you’re it. Like you’re home. The same way he is.

You glance up in time to catch him looking back at you from the doorway, Ellie still in his arms, Sarah climbing his leg, Artie tugging at the hem of his shirt.

And despite the noise and the mess and the ache in your lower back from standing at the sink too long… your heart could burst with how much you love him. How much you like him. How lucky you still feel.

He grins. That soft, crooked, unbearably Joel smile.

୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧ ୨୧ ⏔⏔⏔⏔♡⏔⏔⏔⏔ ୨୧

Sorry this took so long to get edited, going back to school in a month! So I’ve been very busy and a little brain dead but more is coming in all regards!

I love this little family, and I doubt I’ll stop here with them, buckle in for the ride!

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