#Jack Daniels fanfic

[punkshort]

Hot Chocolate

Pairing: Jack 'Whiskey' Daniels x f!reader

Summary: You lead a quiet, boring life in a podunk town, but when a certain secret agent stumbles into your world needing your help to catch a criminal at the local carnival, your quiet little life changes forever.

Warnings: language, alcohol consumption, canon-typical violence (fist fights, whips and lassos, of course), smut (18+ MDNI), unprotected piv sex, dirty talk, sexual tension

WC: 6.5K

Written for @pedgito's Summer Lovin' challenge ❤️

Humidity clung to the air, and although the sun had long set, the heat hung heavy in the fairgrounds but that didn't keep the whole town from coming out to the carnival that night. You lived in a small town with not a lot to do but every year the same carnival came through and set up shop for two weeks, attracting people within an hour's drive, and every year since you were sixteen you worked there for some extra cash. Back when you were younger, your earnings tended to go towards the booze you brought to the parties in the middle of the woods, surrounded by the familiar faces of people you grew up with and their siblings. Now that you were in your twenties, that money was put toward rent and a car payment.

When you were sixteen, you had a very different idea of what your life would look like by now. Hell, you didn't even think you'd be living in this town, let alone working the same shitty waitress job at the same shitty restaurant while you tried and failed to come up with a better career path. Money was tight and the last thing you wanted to do was move back in with your parents, so you picked up extra jobs here and there. The carnival wasn't a bad gig. Pay was based on seniority and since you had worked there for so many years, the money was good and the jobs were mostly pretty fun, but it was only two weeks and you would be back to pinching pennies again.

But a week before the carnival was scheduled to arrive, a handsome man with dark hair, even darker cowboy hat and yellow aviators strolled into your restaurant with a cocky smirk and requested to sit in your section, and everything changed.

You had greeted him like any other table and subtly stole glances his way while he studied the menu, trying to figure out if you recognized him. No, you surely would remember him. Aside from his obvious good looks, he stuck out amongst the usual crowd. Dark grey, form fitting suit with a matching tie and cowboy boots? That... you definitely would have remembered.

He leaned back in the booth, one arm draped across the back of the worn cushion while his eyes slowly dragged down your frame. You glanced around nervously, suddenly feeling like you were being judged, then his eyes traveled back up and stopped on your name tag. He repeated your name out loud as if it were a question and finally looked into your eyes. His intensity sent a shiver down your spine but you nodded, confirming your name, and he smiled. It was a slow smile, one that began as a twitch in the corner of his mouth and tugged to one side, pulling his dark mustache with it until his lips spread so wide you could see his teeth. They were straight and he actually still had all of them. Yeah, he definitely wasn't from your hometown.

He didn't come back into the restaurant after that, but it wouldn't be the last time you saw him.

Two days later you made a pit stop by the Piggly Wiggly for some groceries. You made your way through the parking lot to your beat up car, stopping dead in your tracks when he came into view. He was leaning casually against your driver's side door, one ankle hooked over the other and still wearing that suit. Or maybe it was a different suit. You couldn't remember but what you did remember was the bead of sweat that trickled down from underneath his Stetson, leaving an enticing wet streak along the side of his head. He said your name and smiled, trying to disarm you, but you were still wary. He held up both palms flat as if to prove he wasn't dangerous but something told you his hands were just as threatening as any other weapon.

"Got a minute to talk, sugar?"

You glanced around the parking lot and swallowed, every natural instinct screaming at you to run back inside the store for help but instead you found yourself slowly walking towards him, as if being pulled by a magnet or some other enchanting force.

It was a bit of a blur after that. He flashed his badge, Jack Daniels, it read, with the word Statesmen being tossed around quite a bit while he explained what he did for a living, all of it sounding rather impressive but also confusing. Espionage. Spies. Undercover.

"What's all that got to do with me?" you had said. He smiled.

"Glad you asked."

Apparently he had been trying to track down a dangerous arms dealer for years. With some information Jack squeezed out of a low level guard, he discovered the arms dealer was able to be so successful because he traveled with the carnival to evade local and federal law enforcement. Always being on the move kept him under the radar, and now Jack had his sights set on taking him down when the carnival arrived in your town, but he needed help.

Jack needed someone who was on the inside, someone who earned years of trust by working for the same people and living in the same town, someone completely unsuspecting.

You.

At first, you said no, unwilling to put yourself at risk even though he promised he would be hiding in the shadows and would be in constant communication with you through an earpiece and camera. Then he offered up a few thousand dollars to sweeten the deal and your resolve crumbled. He promised you would be under government protection and your involvement would be minimal: you just needed to find the target and let Jack know which booth he was going to work. Plus, you really needed the money.

That was how you found yourself in the mid-afternoon before your shift started being suited up with impressive, high tech gear. Jack watched patiently from the corner of the trailer. For the first time, he wasn't wearing a suit. He elected to wear a pair of dark wash jeans and a white tshirt that clung to his broad chest but he was still sporting his signature cowboy hat. A beautiful woman named Ginger outfitted you with a nearly invisible earpiece and installed a microscopic camera in the button of your polo shirt. She assured you there was a tiny microphone in the camera and that Jack and the entire team assigned to the case would be watching and ready to jump into action if anything went sideways.

Simple enough, you thought.

"How're you holdin' up, darlin'?" Jack mumbled, pinching your elbow between his fingers as he led you out of the unsuspecting double wide that currently hid Ginger and all her expensive equipment and into his Bronco.

"Uh..." you began, throat suddenly feeling dry when he started the car and turned onto the familiar stretch of road. They had set up a base in the woods about two miles away from the carnival which meant you would be there in less than five minutes. Your head was spinning, the adrenaline suddenly coursing through your veins and making you lightheaded. "Not so great, actually."

He turned his head and studied you for a moment before pulling off the road and throwing the car into park. He shifted in his seat so he could face you, one elbow resting on the back of his seat and the other on the steering wheel. "I ain't gonna let anythin' bad happen to you, you hear me?" You hadn't realized your breathing was becoming more labored and your face felt hot. He was probably just worried you were about to pass out and that's why he reached out to cup the back of your neck, forcing your attention off the carnival peeking through the trees and onto his face. Your gaze lingered on his dark brown eyes and chiseled jaw and hooked nose that looked like it would be perfect nestled between your thighs.

"You promise?" you whispered, tone a little more sultry than you intended. He swallowed and nodded.

"'Course. I'll be right there the whole time. All's you gotta do is tell me where he's gonna be and I'll do all the dirty work," he told you with a wink. Your eyes darkened a fraction, having a completely different idea of what kind of dirty work you'd like him to do before you blinked and snapped out of it. You chalked it up to your nerves but it was too late. He saw it in your eyes and he clenched his jaw, his gaze flickering down to your lips and then to the camera in your shirt before slowly pulling his hand away from the back of your neck.

"What code word d'you wanna use in case you need help and can't say it?" he asked, shifting back into work mode and merging into traffic.

You thought it over for a moment, grateful for the distraction.

"Hot chocolate."

He cocked an eyebrow and grinned. "Hot chocolate?"

"Yeah, I don't think it's something I would accidentally say because who the hell would order hot chocolate in this heat?"

He smiled wider. "Fair enough."

Jack dropped you off at the entrance of the carnival, reminding you he wouldn't be far behind and to stay alert. You bobbed and weaved your way through the crowded thoroughfare, the late afternoon sun beating down on the masses as they pushed wagons of children or carried various prizes under their arms while drinking cold lemonade or licking ice cream to combat the heat. You managed to get to the air conditioned office five minutes before your shift started and clocked in before examining the schedule. Jack had warned you the target wouldn't use his real name, so he made you study multiple photos of him the day before. Balding, but a dark horseshoe of hair curved around his head. He had a mustache, too, but not like Jack. The target's mustache was bushy and unkept, but Jack warned you that could have changed. He had a paunchy belly and he was approximately 5'10" but the most notable feature was a wide, pale scar that stretched from his right elbow to halfway down his forearm.

You glanced around the somewhat crowded office. Nobody seemed to fit that description so you focused on the schedule. You were set to work the lemonade stand. One of the more boring jobs, but at least you were with one of your good friends, Stephanie, who was working the candied apple stand next door.

"All good?" you heard Jack's gravelly voice echo through your earpiece. You had no idea how to answer that without looking like you were talking to yourself so you turned to a mirror and gave a quick thumbs up. He chuckled and you had to bite back a smile. "Alright, where are you workin' so I can get set up nearby?"

Again, you weren't sure how to answer but just then Stephanie breezed through the door. You called out her name and waved as she punched in and headed over to you, giving you a sweaty hug.

"We're working together tonight. You're on apples, I'm on lemonade next door," you told her, hearing Jack confirm your location in your ear.

"Awesome, should be a slow night after dinner," she replied, hooking her arm through yours and leading you back out into the busy dirt road lined with vendors and food carts.

As she predicted, you were rather occupied until the sun set and people began to indulge in fried dough and rides, leaving your little section of the fairgrounds quiet. For the first time in hours you glanced around, wondering if you could spot Jack, but he was no where to be found.

"So, did you meet any guys so far this summer?" Stephanie asked you, leaning over her counter and popping her gum loudly between her molars.

"Nah, not really," you replied, feeling the tips of your ears burn, knowing Jack was listening. "You?"

"Just one but he turned out to be an asshole," she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. "We gotta get out of this town, girl. I swear there's no one good left. I'm either related to them or already dated them and I can't stand any of 'em."

"Yeah, maybe one day," you replied, glancing around again.

"I'm serious. Maybe we oughta make a plan, y'know? Like we always said we would? Ain't you sick of waiting tables?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," you muttered. "But where would we go? We don't know anyone outside of here."

"I got a cousin up north, maybe we can visit her and see how we like it."

For a second you almost forgot the mission when, out of the corner of your eye, you spotted a man matching the target's description disappear into the crowd. You squinted but you only saw the back of him and he was quickly getting away.

"Hey, can you cover for me?" you asked, already tossing your apron off and smoothing down your skirt.

"Yeah, sure. Been dead here for the past hour, take your time."

You hustled down the street, pushing people out of the way as you tried to catch up with the man you saw.

"Sugar, I lost ya, slow down," Jack's voice crackled in your ear.

"Can't, I think I saw him," you replied.

"Do not engage, y'hear me?" Jack said sternly. He sounded breathless now, no doubt rushing to catch up with you.

"I won't, I just wanna see where he's going."

You broke through the crowd and swiveled your head from side to side, desperately trying to spot the balding man. Now that you thought about it, he looked like he was wearing the same color uniform you had on. Your pulse raced as you turned around frantically, and just when you thought you lost him you spotted him walking up the steps to the house of mirrors. When he reached out to open the door, you saw the telltale scar and gasped.

"Jack! It's him!" you said, racing through the crowd again, dodging groups of children laughing and eating cotton candy.

"... stay... where are... losin' you-" you heard Jack's voice cutting in and out through your earpiece but the excitement got the best of you and you charged forward into the house of mirrors, the door slamming shut behind you, leaving you in a mostly darkened room. The only sounds you could hear were muffled conversations from families walking by.

"Jack?" you whispered, tapping on the earpiece and taking a few shaky steps forward. "Jack, if you can hear me, I'm in the house of mirrors. He's-"

"Looking for someone?" a man's deep voice said from over your shoulder, making you jump. You swiveled around and tried not to gasp in fear. It was him: Vic Leary, aka The Falcon. It was almost laughable how Jack had been chasing the man for years only to have him directly in front of you after a few hours. He took a menacing step forward and you swallowed tightly.

"Yeah, actually. I'm looking for my friend," you said, taking a small step backwards, a step deeper into the attraction.

"That right?" Vic sneered, taking yet another step closer. "Well I'm the only one here. Sure you ain't looking for me?"

You shook your head vehemently. "N-nope. I'm supposed to meet a friend here any minute, he's meeting me with some hot chocolate," you said the last part loudly and Vic frowned. Then he seemed to piece together that you were bugged or maybe he just saw his opportunity to strike because he lunged forward. Luckily, you were prepared and stumbled backwards out of reach, causing him to fall forward on his hands and knees. You spun around and raced through the dizzying hall of mirrors, Vic's angry curses and threats shouting after you.

The next tunnel had a wall of mirrors that shifted, causing you to feel like the floor was moving. You stretched your arms out and blinked rapidly, stumbling through and glancing over your shoulder in a panic, wondering where he went. It was quiet. His yelling stopped. Did Jack find him?

The next room was a literal maze, the walls and ceilings covered in mirrors, some curved and warped, some jagged and angular. You couldn't think of a worse place to hide and you needed to get the hell out of there.

"Can anyone hear me?" you whispered into your polo shirt, wincing when all you heard was sharp feedback in your ear. You turned a corner, jumping when you saw movement but calmed down when you realized it was your own reflection six times over. You heaved a sigh of relief and took another look around, trying to decide where to go next when a big, sweaty body jumped out from behind a mirror in front of you, tackling you to the ground. You screamed bloody murder and tried to squirm away, but he had you pinned to the ground with a hand around your throat. You scratched and kicked and yelled but it was no use. His fingers gripped the side of your throat and he watched with a sick smile as you struggled to drag in air, all the while clawing at the backs of his hands so hard, you drew blood. And just when you thought you might pass out, a black cowboy boot swung from behind your head and kicked Vic directly across the jaw, making him yelp in pain and fall backwards.

You coughed and scrambled away, clutching your throat and looking up to find Jack, his shoulders and chest heaving and his eyebrows pinched together in fury. Without taking his eyes off Vic, who was cupping his mouth, his hand collecting blood, he asked, "you alright, sugar?"

You could only nod and he told you to wait for him outside, but when you stood and took a few steps back the way you came, you saw Vic stand up and run in the opposite direction, nimbly dodging the mirrors, too familiar with the maze to be slowed down. Nostrils flared, Jack reached for his belt and grabbed a braided piece of leather. His thumb pressed down on a small button and like magic, the rest of the whip unfurled at his side. He then spun it over his head twice before snapping it forward, circling around the target's neck and yanking him back to the ground with a grunt.

Jack disappeared deeper into the maze, his grip tight. You looked over your shoulder, back to the entrance, then groaned and followed Jack. When you rounded the corner, he was towering over the suspect, whip back on his belt, Vic looking like he was knocked out cold. You peered around the last mirror, hiding from view while Jack pressed something on his watch and began to speak to a small hologram of an older looking man with a beard. He was telling him that the suspect was in custody and needed backup while he dug out a pair of metal handcuffs with his free hand.

Jack was distracted and didn't realize Vic had begun to move, but you did. When Jack's back was turned, Vic quietly rose to his feet and pulled out a knife from the back of his pants. He raised his arm above his head, ready to plunge the blade into Jack's throat. You raced forward and swung your leg out, hitting the backs of his knees with your shin and bringing him back down to the ground with a thud before he had a chance to inflict any harm.

Swirling around, Jack ended the call without warning and punched Vic directly in the nose. You heard a sickening crunch of bone and a howl of pain from the man's throat, but just as Jack was about to grab his arms and haul him to his feet, Vic rolled to the side and jumped up with a surprising amount of agility. Jack groaned and reached behind him, pulling out what appeared to be a lasso. He calmly glared after Vic, who was nearly to the exit, while circling the rope above his head. The lasso began to glow an icy blue, mesmerizing you for a moment until he snapped it down with an electric crack, wrapping and pinching the rope around Vic's lower leg.

You couldn't believe your eyes when his leg cleanly and completely severed below the knee. Slapping both palms over your mouth to muffle your screams, you curled up on the floor and watched as Jack approached Vic, who was making noises so pained and fearful that you were certain you would hear them in your nightmares for the rest of your life.

Jack was handcuffing him and warning him he shouldn't have run while the man sobbed pathetically in a pool of his own blood. You just stared, your whole body trembling at the carnage, completely numb. You didn't even hear when three other agents breezed past you to collect the target, followed shortly thereafter by a small cleaning crew wearing protective gear from head to toe. Suddenly the maze, which seemed so massive before, was cramped and making you feel claustrophobic.

His eyes finally met yours once Vic was officially in custody. His expression went from one of relief to one of deep concern when he saw the state you were in and he rushed forward to collect you off the floor.

"Hey, don't look at that," he murmured, but your gaze was still pinned on the blood staining the floor. "Eyes on me, darlin'."

You forced your eyes away from the mess and onto him, like he requested, but you were finding it difficult to breathe. Each inhale was a struggle, like your lungs couldn't expand all the way, and each exhale left your ears ringing.

"Get me out of here, Jack."

He nodded once and helped you stand. With an arm wrapped around your shoulders, he ushered you back through the maze towards the entrance. Once you were able to take in a deep breath of fresh, humid air, you started to feel a little better but the adrenaline was still coursing through your body, making you feel like you were practically vibrating.

People streamed past you laughing and joking, blissfully unaware of what just happened while you sat on a nearby bench with your head between your legs. Jack soothingly rubbed your upper back and waited for you to calm down. Your energy was too intense, the vivid images of what you just witnessed too strong and Jack seemed to sense it.

"Here," he said, leaning back and lifting his hips from the bench. Your eyes instantly locked onto his lap, where his fingers began to remove a small flask from his belt buckle. When he handed it to you, hoping the alcohol would help calm your nerves, you just continued to stare, all wild eyed and rabid.

"Have a little, it'll help," he urged while trying to ignore the hungry look in your eye. You blinked slowly and, with shaky fingers, took the flask and unscrewed the top. You winced a little at the burn but a minute later, your stomach felt warm and your muscles relaxed. You handed it back to him and he took a sip himself without breaking eye contact with you, then fastened it back onto his belt. You leaned forward, once again feeling inexplicably drawn to him, and brushed your fingertips lightly over the flask. You were playing with fire and you knew it. His eyes bore into yours with a blazing heat and he whispered, "you need somethin' stronger, sugar?"

You sunk your teeth into your lower lip and nodded. He stood up and grabbed your hand, glancing around the fairgrounds manically, the adrenaline from the past twenty minutes getting the best of both of you, it seemed.

The choices were limited and the closest area with any semblance of privacy was the bathroom and you both seemed disgusted by that prospect because he muttered fuck it under his breath and dragged you off the main road towards the dark parking lot.

Once he reached his Bronco, he twisted around and violently yanked at the buttons on your polo shirt. You yelped in surprise but when he opened his hand and showed you the button he tore off with the camera attached, you nodded. He flung it into the mud and dropped his earpiece, then you scrambled to do the same. Once you were as alone as you possibly could be, he pinned you against the side of his truck and pinched your jaw between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head up to look at him.

"You sure?" was all he asked, pupils blown wide.

You nodded. "Please."

He groaned and crashed his mouth against yours, dropping his hand from your jaw to wrap around the back of your neck. He tasted like Jameson and you imagined you did, too. "Such a polite little thing," he whispered before plunging his tongue inside your mouth and licking past your teeth. You were moments away from unzipping his jeans and letting him take you right then and there when you heard a chorus of laughter from the next row of cars and you pulled away, gasping for air. Jack appeared just as wrecked as you felt, eyes all wild and skin hot with arousal.

"C'mon," he said, as if reading your mind he tugged you away from the car so he could open the door to the backseat. You practically launched yourself inside and by the time you spun around he was slamming the door shut behind him. He gazed at you for just a moment before shedding his cowboy hat and pressing your body into the seat, picking up where he left off. You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of leather and gunpowder and his cologne, all ingrained in the fabric after years under his care.

His lips traveled down, grazing against your jaw and nipping at the spot behind your ear. His mustache tickled your skin, making you giggle, and you felt him smile against your throat at the sound. His lips latched onto your neck, sucking a bruise there while your hands dipped underneath the hem of his white tshirt. The fabric bunched up around your wrists the higher your fingers traveled up his torso, reveling in the way the muscles in his back twitched under your touch. Then his hips dropped against yours, resting his weight heavy between your legs, and you sucked in a sharp breath.

"Jack?" you whispered hoarsely.

"Mhm?"

"I-I want you," you stammered when his thumbs brushed over your breasts, nipples hardening through your shirt. "Want you so bad."

"You got me, sweetheart. I'm all yours," he mumbled, teeth scraping gently over your collarbone as he continued to move achingly slow further and further down your body.

You moaned and arched your back, pressing your chest into him. "Jack, I want you now," you tried again, and he clicked his tongue with a smirk.

"Where'd those manners run off to?"

"Please," you groaned. He hoisted himself up, holding his weight above you, the palms of his hands pressing into the seat on either side of your ribs.

"Say it again f'me, sugar. Y'just sound so pretty when you're beggin' for it."

"Please," you whispered this time, then dragged your hand down his stomach, stopping to cup his erection through the thick denim of his jeans. You rubbed the palm of your hand up and down enticingly, drawing a quiet moan from his throat. He hissed and pressed himself into your hand, rocking his hips and watching your fingers work him up and down. "Please, Jack, I need you."

His eyes flashed up to yours once before he sat back on his heels, fumbling with the tiny flask on his belt with an urgency that told you he heard exactly what he wanted to hear. He tossed both items on the floor before undoing his jeans and then, seeming to remember you were still fully clothed, dragged his hands up your thighs and under your skirt. His palms cupped your ass and squeezed before hooking his fingers around the edge of your panties and tugging them down. You lifted your hips to help, feeling slightly disappointed there wouldn't be enough room or time for either of you to fully undress, but you would make do.

"Goddamn, that's a pretty sight," he groaned when he pushed your skirt up enough to get a good look between your legs. He ran the pad of his thumb through your slit and you began to squirm impatiently. "Now, normally I'd prefer to take my time," he began, and your heart thundered wildly in your chest when he pushed his jeans down and pulled out his cock, hard and leaking. "But it would appear we don't have the luxury today, darlin'." He used one hand to steady your hip and the other to line himself up with your entrance, then you held your breath when he started to press forward, parting your walls and forcing you to stretch around his girth.

"Shit," you whined, tipping your head back and squeezing your eyes shut.

"Yeah, that's it," he whispered, watching as he slowly disappeared inside you, only looking back to your face once he was buried to the hilt. "How's that? Feelin' better now?" he asked a little breathlessly. You nodded and forced your eyes to open.

"Feels good," you murmured, licking your dry lips and gasping when he began to move. "Yeah, just like that, faster - please faster," you added hastily when you remembered his comment earlier about manners. The corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk before falling forward onto his elbows. He tugged one of your knees up so you hooked your leg around his waist, spreading your hips wide before feverishly latching his mouth onto yours, muffling your noises when he began to snap his hips faster and deeper.

"This what you needed?" he whispered in your ear. You tightened your arms around his neck, holding him close, the desire suddenly overwhelming to have him completely consume you and keep you in the safety of his arms. "Needed me to fuck you and turn that little brain of yours off for a while? Hm?"

"Yes," you admitted shamelessly. He was fucking everywhere. His mouth was drifting from your lips to your neck to your ear, his hands groping and gliding along your stomach or legs, his cock sliding smoothly in and out, each time catching on that one spot that made you see stars. Even his body heat felt like it was fully encompassing you. And he was right: it was exactly what you needed.

"Christ, too fuckin' good, sweetheart," he breathed, his hips stuttering for a moment before resuming a punishing pace. The way his lips melted against your own while the tip of his cock reached a depth inside you didn't know was possible was making your vision blur and your breath ragged. You were so caught up in the moment that you hadn't yet considered you wouldn't see him again after that night. Nor did you have a chance to realize how long you had been gone from the lemonade stand. Nothing else outside of his car mattered.

"Jack," you whimpered as heat began to lick and wrap around your spine. Your stomach tightened and your mouth was wide open, pulling in mouthfuls of air as quickly as you could. You were so close but you just needed a little more. He was busy pushing your polo shirt up and yanking down your bra, his hot tongue swiping greedily over your nipples one at a time with an appreciative groan before he sunk his teeth into your soft flesh, no doubt trying to leave a mark to remember him by.

"Love the way you say my name, darlin'. Music to my ears."

As if he could read your mind, his had slipped between your bodies and began to thumb at your clit. Your thighs tensed and you cried out, his name the only word your brain was able to conjure up, which, based on his enthusiastic reaction, pleased him greatly. You couldn't stop yourself. Your body began to meet him, thrust for thrust, your hips rolling, matching his rhythm and forcing his thumb to apply more pressure. Before you even had a chance to warn him your orgasm crashed down around you, so powerful and intense that it sent you reeling, his name and a string of unintelligible curses the only thing falling from your lips. And he fucking loved it.

"Oh, look at you," he groaned, "pretty little thing, all fucked out. Goddamn, you're gonna make me come, darlin'." His large hand splayed across your ribs and he stared, slack jawed, at the way your tits bounced from the force of his thrusts. "Shit, shit, shit," he grumbled, his jaw locking as he closed in on his release. "Where, sugar?"

"Inside," you moaned, trying to force your eyes to stay open so you could watch. He clicked his tongue against his teeth and dragged his eyes back up to your face.

"Don't say that."

"Please," you whispered, and you could see his resolve crumbling.

"Fuck," he groaned, then he shifted so he could grab onto your hips with both hands. It didn't take much longer, but each thrust after that was harsh and unforgiving until his body stilled and he came with a broken moan that you made sure to commit to memory. He panted for air and tilted his head back when he was done, his fingers still gripping your waist. An incoming call came through, lighting up the face of his high-tech watch, but he ignored it. Once he caught his breath and he began to soften inside you, he rolled his head forward, gazing down at you in admiration. "You're somethin' else," he rasped, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a half-smirk.

"You sound surprised," you teased.

"I am, but not because of this," he said, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against your lips. He slid out of you with a grunt and you sharply sucked in air at the loss. His dark eyes lingered a moment on his spend dripping out of you before gently fixing your bra and top. The sweet gesture made you smile.

"What, then?"

He grinned and tucked himself back in his jeans, then handed you your panties. "You saved my hide back there, brave girl," he murmured, pinching your chin affectionately. "Kickin' his legs out like that. Didn't know you had it in you."

You shrugged and tugged your underwear back on. "I didn't really think about it, he was going to stab you, I had to do something."

He hummed and leaned back in the seat, watching as you fixed your skirt and tried to tame your hair in the mirror before spotting his discarded cowboy hat on the floor. You grinned and picked it up, plopping it onto your head with a giggle. "How do I look?"

"Fuckin' beautiful," he said, making you laugh, "although you're doin' things a little backwards, sugar."

"What do you mean?" you asked, taking it off to see if you put it on wrong. He smiled and gently took the hat from your fingers and put it back on your head.

"The rule is, you wear a man's Stetson, you gotta ride the cowboy, but seein' as we did that already..." he trailed off and you giggled again when you finally understood. "But I suppose it depends on who you ask. Could mean somethin' else, too."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"Some say if the cowboy lets the lady wear his hat then he's interested in seein' her again," he said softly, watching as you became flustered at the suggestion.

"Oh," you breathed, feeling your skin heat up under his gaze. Reality slowly began to seep in. Now that Jack found his man, he would go back to wherever he came from and your boring life would go back to normal. But then he hooked a finger under your chin so you would focus back on him.

"Would you like that?"

"Would I ... yeah, of course, but-"

"I heard what you were sayin' to your friend. 'Bout wantin' to move?" he said, dropping his hand and shifting his weight. "What if we had a spot for you at the agency? Maybe doin' somethin' with Ginger, learn the ropes a bit? I think you got potential, sweetheart."

You laughed and shook your head. "I can't do what you guys do, are you serious?"

"You got guts. We can teach anyone how to use a weapon, but guts? That can't be taught."

When it became apparent he wasn't joking, you cleared your throat and glanced out the window. "I don't know..."

"You said yourself you're sick of waitin' tables," he reminded you, then pulled out a white business card and handed it to you. "I know it's a big decision. Think it over and gimme a call." He paused for a moment and a slow smile spread across his face. "But how 'bout you gimme a call either way?"

"Okay," you practically whispered, looking down at the card before shoving it safely in your pocket. He pushed open the door and slid down to the ground, then turned around and held out a hand for you.

You spent the rest of your night thinking over Jack's offer, replaying over and over in your mind everything you learned about the Statesmen in the past week and trying to imagine if that was something you could possibly do. You had pretty much decided it was a stupid idea, that it was dangerous and things like that didn't happen to girls like you, but when you punched in for your shift at the restaurant on Monday and looked around the dining room at the same patrons eating the same food they always did, listening to the same boring gossip and worrying about the same bills that always plagued you, something finally snapped. You tore off your apron and tossed it behind the computer before snatching your purse and walking out the front door without a second glance behind you.

You got into your beat up car and breathlessly dialed the number you had been staring at all weekend, your heart slamming in your chest excitedly. When Jack's familiar drawl answered on the other end, a huge smile spread across your face.

"That offer still stand, cowboy?"

[thelastofhyde]

hit the road, jack!

pairing. ex!jack daniels x fem!reader synopsis. the last time you sat in jack’s infamous bronco, you broke his heart. now, a year later, you’re sitting in it with a mud-stained wedding dress and he’s driving you back to the man you left at the altar. is one night, a thousand miles, and a well-timed car radio enough to remind you of the love you shared? warnings. road trip au, exes to lovers, runaway bride!reader, mutual pining, miscommunication/no communication, idiots in love, exes in love, minor character death, infidelity, one ( 1 ) comment regarding food restriction, mentions of period, smut ( unprotected piv, dirty talk, sex in public spaces, implied creampie, fairly non-descriptive ) the reader of this fic is mostly non-descript, with mentions of having hair long enough to stick to her neck when wet and hands smaller than jack's. word count. 14.7k hyde's input. quick disclaimer that this fic was admittedly better in my head, but i tried my best :') it unfortunately never got to reach it's full potential as my friends dragged me off on an unexpected trip on friday for my birthday (which is today aka the 23rd). because of that, i've not had time to finish the last few scenes as well as i'd hoped to (it's literally 5 am as i'm editing it bc it's the only chance i've had) but i don't want to post this any later as this is my entry to the #SummerLovin'24 event, organised and hosted by @pedgito, @chaotic-mystery & @amanitacowboy , a massive thank you to them for creating such a fun event. i really enjoyed taking part and i can not wait to sink my teeth into the other amazing fics from this event. if you care to listen, here is a playlist of songs mentioned/featured in the fic.

INTRO — silver springs.

“Time cast a spell on you, but you won’t forget me.”

Stevie Nicks et al chant out of old speakers, a bass blown out over time and an intruding static that demands to play alongside the band. Perched upon the bar counter, they sit adjacent to a cash register that shakes each time it opens, a slam seemingly the only way to close it. The swish of a mop over chequered vinyl flooring and the squeaks of a waitress’ coffee-stained sneakers play to their own tune. The passing of time turns it all to background noise.

Through lunch, through dinner, and two shift changes you’ve survived. Out in the parking lot now sits only a semi-truck, its drivers, two men in scuffed boots and jeans that fray at their seams, the only other customers that remain. One tucks into a Sloppy Joe, the other has fallen asleep against the table, his coffee turning as cold as your own.

You ordered the coffee for nothing more than an excuse to sit a while longer. Time for figuring out what’s next. What you’ll do, where you’ll go, how you’ll get there. The elderly couple who’d been kind enough to take you off the side of the road, moving luggage into the trunk to make space for you in the backseats, are now long gone from the roadside diner.

It wasn’t a sorrowful departure. You were quite happy to see them leave, and take their pitiful glances and unasked questions with them. The looks still linger on in others. Each pair of eyes you’ve encountered, dragging over the expanse of your messed up hair, and your smudged eyes, and your mud-stained gown. It’s not hard to imagine the scenes they play out in their heads, of a bride scorned and abandoned on what was meant to be the happiest day of her life, a day meant for vows and first dances twisted into one of heartbroken wandering and roadside pit-stops.

You wonder if any of them know you’re not the victim, but the aggressor. The one who fled, leaving behind a bouquet of striped carnations, marigolds, and purple hyacinths.

Tires crunch on gravel as a car rolls into the parking lot. Whichever fool sits behind the wheel has their full beams on. A light flickers over your head. It’s been doing so for the past hour, an irritating reflection in the window that steals your attention back into the diner.

The waitress is eyeing you again, a weary look on her face that tells you she wants to approach but doesn’t know how. Maybe she wants to ask if you’re okay, or enquire about the events that led you here, deep in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe she just wants you to close your tab and leave. 

The bell above the door rings as it opens. It’s been a while since you heard it do so. A smile comes over the waitress as she greets the newcomer. Her eyes seem to take them in, slowly. From top to bottom, and right back to the top. Innocent, if not a little flirtatious. She’d not looked at either of the truckers that way. Perhaps this is her lover, here to wait about and keep a watchful eye as she works the night shift. You can’t imagine it’s the safest place in the world for a woman to find herself working through the twilight hours, nothing but open road and sky-rise trees surrounding the diner.

A sip from your coffee. It’s as cold as you expected. Bitter too, having not found your voice in time to ask for sugar. Your stomach growls, a plea for a meal. If you’d only stayed at the venue, you’d be full of vanilla frosting, and smoked oysters, and… had it been the coronation chicken or the roast sirloin the wedding planner had gone with in the end? You can’t remember. What you do remember is her unwanted advice: just stick to some light bites, no bride wants a food-baby in her pictures.

In retrospect, you’d disliked her from the moment you met her. But you had no desire to plan a wedding. And no time either, much to your future mother-in-law’s chagrin. So out she’d gone, a cat on the hunt, dragging home some mousy-brown haired wedding planner as a sacrificial lamb. Better it be her than you who stresses over the shade of napkins, and the taste of merlots, and the seating arrangements.

Footsteps thud against the floor. Slow, deliberate, not a stumble in the way they move. You stare back out the window and spy a cowboy hat reflected in it. It belongs to the waitress’ lover, who by now is likely making his way over to pull her in real close and swoon her with a kiss only men blessed by southern charm possess.

A different version of you, a happier version, used to be kissed like that every morning.

“Are you lost, sweetheart?” The voice of a man echoes. Softly spoken, yet loudly heard in the quiet of the diner. In the window, the cowboy hat stands right behind you. You turn slowly, let your eyes dance over its owner. Like a sculpture plucked out of ancient Rome, he’s a fine art only the most delicate hands could shape. He’s brown-eyed affection. He’s an aquiline nose. He’s a well-groomed moustache. He’s Jack. “Think it’s a few miles up north they’re expecting a pretty bride.”

Leather jackets and well-fitted jeans have been traded in for a suit. Simple, classic. White shirt, black tie, a trademark cowboy hat you’d never failed to spot amongst any crowd. There’s a crinkle where a cheeky grin meets eyes framed by full brows and lashes, a scar on his right temple a reminder of the kind of man he is. Dauntless, righteous, brave. An undercover agent, posing as the CFO of one of the largest whiskey distilleries in the world. 

An illusion plays out where no time has passed and his is still the face you come home to each night. A lot can change in a year, however, like the bed you sleep in, or the ring upon your finger.

He welcomes himself into the seat across from you. The protective barrier of a water-ring stained table keeps a safe distance between you both, yet you still feel his knee knock against your own as he makes himself comfortable. One arm stretched over the backrest, the other rests against the table and drums a nervous tune with his fingers.

“You’ve worried a lot of people, darliln’,” his gaze studies you. You wonder if it’s the same look he used to give his targets. The thought sours the sweetness of seeing his pretty eyes after all these months. “Runnin’ off like that, not even a hoot or a holler to let your daddy know you’re alright.”

Your dad. He’d slipped off to the bathroom, a kiss to your cheek and a promise he’d be back in time to walk you down the aisle. What must he have thought, rounding the corner to the sight of a bouquet, abandoned a la Cinderella and her glass slipper. Before you stew in guilt for too long, the rest of Jack’s words catch up to you.

He knew you ranaway. That glimpse of a cowboy hat amongst the pews had not been an illusion.

Jack was at the wedding.

“What happened?” His hand seeks you out. Warm as you remember him to be, large enough to engulf your smaller palm in his. “Why’d you run?” You stay quiet. Shrug your shoulders, eventually, and stare down as his thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You gonna give me a proper answer, sweetheart?”

Another shoulder shrug leads Jack to a sigh. There’s a pause in the quiet tension brewing between you, in the shape of the smiling waitress, pen and pad in hand. Her eyes seem to dart between you both, and you can almost hear her wondering who Jack is, if he’s the man you were meant to meet at the end of the aisle. There’d been a time when yes was the only possible answer to such a question.

“A glass of your finest whiskey. Neat, of course. And how ‘bout somethin’ to please a sweet tooth, hm?” His foot bumps yours beneath the table, calling you to look at him. You meet his eyes, watch him raise his brows in question. “Spied a pretty mean lookin’ cherry pie on my way in. That sound good to you, darlin’?” Your mute staring continues. Your stomach takes control, answers him with a disgruntled growl from within. His head turns to the side, laughing, and he nods at the waitress. “Think she’s gonna need a slice of that pie, miss!”

The right to speak returns to you at last, as you watch the glass of liquid caramel be placed down in front of him, head turning to stare out the window, a familiar Bronco sits poorly parked, obnoxious in the way it treads the line of two parking spaces.

“You shouldn’t drink and drive.”

Surprise flashes over his face, but he recovers quickly, untensing his shoulders as he sinks further into the booth. “Didn't order it for me,” he slides the glass of whiskey over to you. “Eat up, drink up. You need it.”

Though it kills you to admit it, the first bite out of the pie feels like heaven in your mouth. Tart, sweet, with pastry so golden it’s as if King Midas baked it under the heat of his own hands. A sip of the whiskey isn’t so great, but you stomach the burn and accept the erasure of nerves it promises. Your eagerness to clear the plate and empty the glass has nothing to do with the approving smile Jack watches you with.

“How did you find me?” 

“You doubtin’ my skills?” He’s teasing. You know this. Still, you fall into the trap of a panicked head shake, a cough over the final bite of cherry goodness. “I stopped at a gas station. Runnin’ on an empty in the middle of nowhere ain’t on my list of wants, you see. Overheard two kids talkin’ about some bride sittin’ at a dinner a few miles down. Don’t take no Hercule Poirot to figure it was you”

“Oh.”

You shouldn’t feel disappointed by his answer, there’s no reason a man you hurt so deeply would have any vested interest in finding you.

The last you’d seen of Jack was through your car’s rear-view mirror, his tear stricken face watching you drive away, five years of clothes, and shoes, and memories stuffed into your car. He’d begged you not to leave your shared home; offered to sleep in the spare room, give you both time to work things out between you. You’d been the one to declare it useless.

“This isn’t something we can fix, Jack!”

“But, darlin’, I love you.”

“A happy coincidence, I was lookin’ for ya anyway. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on inside that head of yours yet?” At least this time your mute stare is paired with a head shake. “Look, I mean well when I say this, but darlin’, you’re lookin’ a mighty mess. Now, a pretty mess that may be, but a mess all the same.” His hand is back on yours, squeezing with enough strength to ground you and keep you from floating off into the landscape of your own conflicted mind. “So here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m gonna take a trip to the gents, then I’m gonna square up whatever we owe this fine establishment, and then we’re gettin’ that pretty caboose of yours up'n out of here.”

Frozen where you sit, it takes a few moments for the warmth of whiskey to settle in your bones, lurching you forward when it does, a gasp and a tight grip at his wrist, holding him back before he can stroll away from the table.

“Where are we going?”

“For a drive, sweetheart.”

TRACK 1 — vienna

You and Jack are no strangers to a late night drive.

An entire love story, told within the confines of four wheels and a chassis. The very night you met, you wound up in his passenger seat, arms up in the air and the wind blowing through your hair, the charming cowboy next to you taking every joyful laugh as a plea to go faster, nothing ahead but the open road and a southern voice crooning out of the radio. Too lost in your own head, that’s what he’d claimed you to be, having strolled up to a lonely-you in a crowded bar, lamenting over a glass of bitter white wine, freshly fired and with no real clue of what you were going to do next. Never one to entertain a stranger, you’d tried to brush him off, but he flashed that smile and invited you, so tenderly as the intro to a Bruce Springsteen song began to play, to just give him one dance.

One dance led to unimaginable love.

As time passed, a relationship burst into full bloom, the imprint of you carved into the car’s leather. Jack insisted you grow accustomed to the life of a passenger princess. He picked you up from work, drove you to all your girls’ night outs, sacrificed hours of necessary sleep to drop you at airports, and train stations, and whatever other public transport your work trips demanded you to travel upon. But how could you dream of saying no when you got to ogle the view of him, one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, effortlessly manoeuvring his beloved vehicle. 

The car came on couples' vacations, too, road trip getaways. Up north, past the Canadian borders, and down south to the skyline of Mexico City. Out west, a trail up to the Grand Canyon, the Empire State Building in the east. But the late night drives, those were your favourite. Times when life felt too much, with work stressing you out, or your parents giving you grief, or a stress headache gnawing away at your remaining sanity, Jack would tug you wordlessly out into the driveway, buckle your seatbelt, and drive off into the night. Roof down, radio on, the cool breeze clearing your mind.

The only breeze you feel now blows in through an open window.

Pulling away from the diner, Jack turned the wheels south, out into the dark of the night. Trees wall the road in, a never ending sea of pine-green lit by headlights, the looming presence of a dark, dangerous, rumbling sky above. A storm brews ahead, awaiting the perfect moment to crack open and drop a downpour on the world. Little words have been exchanged between you, most of them spoken by Jack, as he tells you about the nightmare he had checking in at his hotel, and the difficulty he had finding the venue, and just how beautiful you look in your dress, tears tracks and messy hair aside. Softly playing over the radio, Billy Joel seems to speak to you, pleading that you slow down, you crazy child.

“D’you remember our trip to Vienna?”

Your head snaps over to Jack. His eyes remain on the road ahead, and a part of you is thankful, unsure of how you’d fare gazing into them as melancholy tangles itself in their shades of brown. The other part misses how it used to feel to catch him watching you from the driver’s seat, affection incarnate as his loving gaze burned heat into your cheeks, your own voice pleading him to pay attention to the road, the light’s already green, Jack!

“How could I forget you almost getting us kicked out of Saint Peter’s church?”

“Hey, now darlin’, let’s not start playin’ the blame game!” His head turns once in your direction, a teasing smile splashed upon his rosy lips. You try not to think about how you’ve felt that very smile pressed against your mouth, memorised the shape of it so perfectly you could draw it with your eyes shut. “You knew what you were doin’ wearin’ that pretty little sundress.”

The dress in question had been a purposeful attack, an attempt at getting payback for the night prior, in which Jack found pleasure in reducing you to tears, begging for release hour after hour, after hour of edging touches. Never the best at putting up a fight against his pouting lips, pleading eyes, and filthy tongue, you’d caved into his hands the moment they skimmed their way up the length of your thigh, the watchful eyes of any Lord above be damned.

“I still dream of the garden’s at Schönbrunn Palace,” a sigh floats out of you as your brain hits play on a kaleidoscope of memories of strolling the grounds, hand in hand with a man you’d imagined yourself being with for the rest of your life.

If I asked you to marry me, would you say yes? He’d asked, as you watched a couple get engaged before your very eyes.

Promise me we’ll get married here, and I’ll consider it.

“I still have nightmares of the boat.”

“The boat!” The patterns in the kaleidoscope shift into images of a viennan skyline reflected upon glassy waters, a city cruise dragging you down the canal. “I still can’t believe you fell off it!”

“I jumped.”

“Backwards? Just admit it, you fell into that water!”

“I jumped, to make you laugh!”

“Oh, don’t worry, me and the coast guard were definitely laughing!”

A silence settles between you both. Jack drums his fingers along to the closing notes of the song, your foot does the same. It crosses your mind that this, in itself, may very well be a dream. Sitting back in the Bronco, staring over at Jack as he drives you both into the aimless night. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s visited your dreams.

You watch him inhale, deeply. With a blink, his eyes reflect the moonlight, glassy with unfallen tears, the image of him too beautiful to be fiction. 

“Sometimes I wish we’d never left Vienna.”

His words cut you deep, the sorrow he speaks them with cuts you deeper. Barely a week back in your own home, suitcases still unpacked, pulling into the driveway hours after the unexpected funeral of a friend, you broke both your hearts.

All that goes up must come down and, in the very same place your relationship started, it ended. Sat across from him, rain beating down on the windows, tears trailing down your face. He begged you to stop before those words came out of your mouth, tried his best to switch the engine back on and pull out into the road. You’re just stressed, darlin’, he’d said, a deceptive whine in his voice cracking his straight-faced facade. Just need to clear your head, right? Lemme take ya for a drive. It was too late, your own hand curling back around the handle and forcing the door open, the water from outside flooding in. I’m sorry, I can’t be with you. Not anymore.

“Yeah,” you exhale, shaky. Swallowed emotions, a tight lipped smile, eyes that search for sanctuary out the window. “Me too.”

In the wing-mirror, lighting crashes amidst the sea of pine-green.

TRACK 2 — purple rain

A perfect summer’s storm.

Mother nature’s mid-June release of pent-up heat, making space amongst the skies for what’s yet to come in the scorching months of July and August, the last of any rain to be seen until September brings back the sombre skies and cooler weather. The rain falls heavily, a persistent thump-thump-thump of water that bounces off the car’s roof, bonnet, windows. In the sky, thunder roars an angry sound, each one louder than the last, followed by an even brighter flash of lighting that electrifies its surroundings, turning the black night into shades of violet, and midnight, and indigo, and purple.

“You’ve not bought any new albums? None at all?” The question comes as you flip through Jack’s collection of discs, a notable lack of change in his roster since the last time you’d sat in his car.

This lack of change is likely not without good reason, like the lack of time to go CD hunting between secret missions to save the world, or a general lack of interest in newer records. He’s always been a fan of the old fashion, after all, the home you’d once shared made up of collections of vintage whiskeys, and classic records, and faded wallpaper that he convinced you gave the kitchen charm.

“Nothin’ new since…” His eyes shift over your way, the look in them enough to wordlessly end his sentence. “You were always the one buyin’ me music. Said you didn’t want me get-”

“Getting bored on missions,” impulse seems to be what forces you to speak, an honest smile sent his way. “I remember.”

It had been a while into your relationship, with i-love-yous and apartment keys exchanged, until the truth of Jack’s job came up.

On your first date, he’d told you he was a businessman. A few dates later, he specified that he was an investor, dipping his fingers into the honey jar of some classically Texa whiskey distillery. Only a half lie, and not one that was hard to believe. Every fibre of his being, stitches and loose threads included, made sense as a man in the business of selling whiskey. The overzealous amount of Statesman whiskeys occupying the shelves in his apartment, the photos he’d send of the view from his high-rise office, the endless number of suits and ties that occupied his wardrobe, even his damn name, Jack Daniels. 

Then, out came the truth.

A phone call from one of Jack’s co-workers, Ginger, lasting no more than five minutes and of which only three words mattered: Jack’s been shot.

A bullet through his head. Any ordinary man would have died. Yet there was your Jack, eyes open, a measly bandage over his temple, and standing up-right. To your own credit, you managed to keep a grasp on your sanity long enough to drive him home, cook him dinner, and sit yourself down across from him at the table. But when he pricked his finger on the tip of his knife, the rivulet of blood dripping down his finger was enough to send you over the edge. Open mouthed sobs, hands clinging to him the instant he sank down on his knees at your side, tears staining every inch of his white cotton t-shirt.

You could’ve died, Jack.

Now how could I go dyin’, when I got such a pretty reason to live for?

You begged with questions, he promised with answers. Hands intertwining with your own, a gentle voice guiding you out the apartment, the soft slam of a car door closing. He turned the key in the ignition, pulled your hand up to his mouth for a kiss, and drove you both off into the night. Under the melodic fall of rain beating down on the car, you came to terms with three facts: Jack was involved in the business of selling whiskey; Jack was otherwise known as agent Whiskey, esteemed senior agent to the Statesmen secret intelligence agency; and Jack was not often shot- at least not in the head.

Arriving home that night, with the rain falling heavy on your front lawn, you’d tried your best to dash from the car and into the house but Jack had other plans. He’d gripped your hand, and pulled you close, and kissed you under the flash of lighting. And when you dared whine that your clothes were soaked, he held you tighter and let himself guide your body into a gentle sway, two lovers under the moonlight and the storm. That night had ended with a fatal promise from Jack, your limbs entangled upon a shared bed, his lips pressing into your forehead.

I promise I’ll always come home to you safe.

“Don’t need no discs anyway, already got all I need right here,” Jack’s impeccable timing, seemingly sensing the shift in your demeanour. It’s like he knows what you’re thinking about, and trying to drag you out of the past and back to the present, his fingers stretching over to turn the volume up. A familiar set of haunting chords plays over the radio, a grin instantly appearing on his face. “Shit, they even got Princ-”

“Stop the car.”

“Huh?”

“Just pull over, Jack!”

Despite the confusion, he abides by your words, foot pressing down on the break, hands steering the wheels off-road, fingers switch the car off. Without the hum of the engine, the rainfall grows louder, the view out the windscreen suddenly blocked behind a wall of flowing water. The radio plays on, the voice of an angel singing lyrics that so aptly match the purple shades painted across the sky by the storm above. There’s a cautious echo of your name, and, for a moment, it’s easy to forget this is the first time you’ve heard him actually say it in over a year. It feels like just yesterday he was calling out to you, begging with solutions you weren’t willing to give.

Your heart beats with a longing to escape your chest, hard and steady against the cage that is your ribs. Your eyes fill with emotions from the past and of the present, as every version of yourself that’s sat within this car comes together as one. Your hand curls around the silver grip of the door, pulling it open and lunging yourself out into the pouring rain.

Under the storm's wrath, you’re reborn. Baptised by mother nature, a soul cleansed of all its prior troubles, returned to you brand new and free of heartbreak. As the rain soaks your face, your neck, your dress, it washes all the pain away. Breathing easy, head tilted back, eyes closed. It's the feeling of being alive, an anomalous euphoria found only beneath a thunderous sky. The tears that dare fall here mean little, a known comfort that they’ll mix with the rain and be swept away.

Enthralled under the moonlight and barefoot, you drift on through the trees that line these woods, chasing the sweet promise of petrichor. You’re unsure if it comes from the sky, or the trees, or Jack, but something calls your name. A fallen tree trunk becomes your own personal tightrope as you dance over the length of it, one careful foot in front of the other, arms stretched out to the heavens above. All it takes is one misplaced step and you lose your footing, slipping over moss and bracing for impact that never arrives.

“Heaven to Betsy, darlin’!” Jack’s hands, warm as a summer breeze, catch you by the waist, your shoulder socking him square in the face as you fall back into his figure. He makes no complaint of pain, taking it like a champ and placing you back down on steady ground, upon unsteady feet. “Did’ya sneak a few extra whiskeys when I was takin’ a leak?”

You open your mouth to reply, to deny, but the rain comes to a stop, and the thunder no longer rumbles, and the moonlight breaks through the parting blanket of clouds, and you’re suddenly so aware of how close you both are.

Like his hands, do his lips still feel the same? Soft as a feather, pillowy as a cloud, as sweet as a peach? It’s not something a married woman should be thinking about another man, about the man another version of her had loved.

But you’re not a married woman, are you?

Wet to the bone, it's as if your wedding dress has shrunk, possessive linen meant to warn you away from leaning forward till your face meets his.

“Careful where you point those eyes, sweetheart. Don’t go givin’ me a reason to make a dishonest woman out of you.” His warning only makes you want to lean in more, test just how dishonest he’s willing to make you, in a dress you wore for another man, upon a forest floor covered by moss, and mud, and rainfall.

He’s stepping back and holding out his hand before you can even try, saving you the trouble of mixing up your head even more. 

Careful steps back to his car, where the radio plays on as Prince’s voice slowly fades out. The headlights are back on, the key sits in the ignition, and you half wonder just how quickly he chased after you, abandoning his precious car so carelessly at the side of a darkened country road, free for any Tom, Bill, or Sally to claim for themselves.

“You’re lucky I got spare clothes in the back,” Jack’s voice echoes out from where he stands, bent at the waist, and rummaging through the floor of the back seats. You want to think he’s not going this on purpose, putting himself on display so obviously, but it feels easier on your conscience to blame him for your own inability to stray your eyes away from how snugly the soaked dress pants hug his behind. “Ain’t no hope in hell I’d let you in my car, all drippin’ wet.”

“You never used to complain about me being wet in your car.”

It’s a quickfire response, the kind you don’t quite get the chance to think over before you say it. Though it may shock your own ears to hear, it seems to shock poor Jack more, the smack with which his head hits against the car’s roof loud enough that you almost feel it in your skull.

You rush over to his side, dress dragging through more mud, and more leaves, and more broken gravel. No chance to even rest your hand upon his arm, Jack’s already pulled himself out the car to face you, a splash of pink brewing across his cheeks and a hand soothing over the back of his head. In the backseats, his hat lays abandoned, knocked off in the commotion.

“Can’t just be sayin’ things like that, darlin’,” he says as he holds out a change of clothes for you, smugness in his voice yet a shake in his hand. “Not unless you’re tryin’ to give old Jack over here a heart attack.”

In silence, you both turn your back on each other. Jack does so in spare of your modesty, and you, in search of someplace dry to lay down his clothes. You do so upon the passenger seat, hands immediately contorting every manner of way they can to reach the dress’ buttons that span down the length of your spine, each more finicky than the last. You manage to free only two, in the very centre, before you sigh and wonder if the entrapment you feel in the white gown could get any more literal than this.

“Jack,” it only feels right to seek out his aid, you tell yourself, the sooner the buttons are undone, the sooner the dress will be off, the sooner you’ll be changed, and the sooner you’ll both get back on the road again, destination unknown. It only makes sense, really, so who could blame you when you say, “come help me out my dress.”

No reply comes your way.

At first, you think he’s not heard you. Then, you worry that he has, and is choosing to ignore such a request, thinking it best he keeps his hands away from any act that involves undressing you. Then, fear that you’ve given him that heart attack after all. Fingers brush wet hair off your shoulders before you can turn to check on the cowboy.

Cicadas scream out into the night, and some faceless host rants over the car radio about the rising conspiracy theory of spycams in childrens’ toys, and your heart beats louder than any set of drums could ever hope, but all you can hear is the steady breaths Jack pulls in and blows out behind you, so close you feel each exhale brush your skin. His fingers do so too, with each button they pop loose, each inch of skin he reveals.

Before you can ask him to touch you with more than just his mouth and breath, his own voice fills your ears.

“I used to dream about doin’ this someday.”

“I think we both know this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten a girl out her dress, Jack.”

“Is your mind ever anywhere but the damn gutter?” A pinch delivered against your left side, a chastising tsk accompanying his words. “I meant that I dreamt about this, me helpin’ you take your weddin’ dress off.”

There’s an audible hitch in your breath, one that perfectly tells Jack everything your own voice seems to fail to. Air stings at your eyes, yet you refuse to blink, too aware of the tears building within them. His warm hands dance back up your spine as the final button is loosened, tracing slowly over skin he’d once memorised, a missionary returning to the land it once knew.

Your dress falls to the floor.

“‘Course I never thought I’d be doin’ it on the side of the road, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

TRACK 3 — lover you should’ve come over

“Wait, are these pyjama pants?”

The realisation dawns upon you twenty minutes after you hit the road again. Confined to the small space of the Bronco with little to look at— besides Jack, his clothes still damp and smelling of summer rain, a towel laid over his seat— you’ve resorted to the finer details, picking apart the scraps of clothing he’d handed you. A plain white t-shirt that, when paired with one of his tight-fitting jeans and a corduroy-lined leather bomber jacket, becomes a Jack Daniels staple. You find it best to ignore how it smells of campfire, and sweat, and the cologne you’d bought Jack on your last anniversary. He’s paired it with a pair of blue chequered pyjama pants, loose-fitting yet tied securely around your waist by a fraying draw-string.

“Took myself and the old gal up to Alaska a few weeks back, chasin’ after a view of the Northern Lights.” There’s a flash of something hot, bright, green as you register his words, myself and the old gal, tamed and dampened only when you remember that’s what Jack calls the Bronco, his old gal. “I was livin’ out my car the whole trip, figured it was easier than trynna find some inn out in the middle of the Alaskan woods. In fact, if you check down there, pretty sure you’ll find some uneaten energy bars I packed for the trip.”

He seems to point aimlessly down at a space around your legs, hand back on the wheel and guiding the wheels around a harsh bend before you can truly pinpoint what he’s referring to. You settle on the glove compartment, sitting upright and reaching a hand out to pop it open.

Then you remember what it houses, the weapons Jack carries in there. The lasso, the whip, the pistol, the bullets. A sickness burns your throat, your eyes unable to even glance down at the opened compartment, instead searching for Jack’s own eyes that stare back with equal amounts of surprise.

“I forgot those were in there.” He steals the words right out your own mouth, a nervous chuckle following them. You’d known to never touch the dreaded compartment, for your own sake, too eager to forget about the parts of him that made him an agent, the parts of him that put him in danger. “You can read ‘em, if you want. They were written for you anyway.”

Confusion floods the soul, curiosity winning over survival and dictating that you muster the courage to turn your head, take a peak at what sits inside the glove box. When you do look, you find there’s no whip nor pistol, no piece of Agent Whiskey in sight. What is there are the energy bars he’d promised, a hiking guidebook of sorts, a map, and a stack of wrinkled envelopes.

One glance back at Jack, he encourages you to take them with a nod, and so, you do. Feel the weight of them all in your hands, do your best to not drop any as you pull them out onto your lap. They scatter all over you, each a different shade of white, unopened and all sporting a red return to sender stamp. All appear addressed to the same place, and it takes only a moment of wondering why it seems so familiar for you to realise.

It’s your old address.

“They’re all labelled with dates, I wrote the first one a few weeks after you left. Wasn’t sure where you’d moved to, I figured there was a chance you’d gone back to your old place. I never forgot about how much you loved that apartment,” he says, and you did. Leaving it behind had been hard, the first real home you’d made for yourself since moving out of your parent’s place, the first space you made your own in the world. The idea of making a new space with Jack, a place you could build together, share together, had outweighed the pain of saying goodbye to your little one-bed apartment. “Wrote the second one because you didn’t reply, and I was missin’ you. Then I just kept writin’ em, and sendin’ em, and waitin’ on you writin’ back, even if just to tell me to get lost. I got a note back, along with the letters, but it wasn’t from you. Some older couple moved in to your old place, told me they’d been keepin’ em all safe incase you ever came round to collect your old mail, but they figured it was time I stopped writin’ to a ghost.”

Attentive to his every word, you search for the letter with the earliest date. Sent two weeks after things ended, with a colourful stamp and a seal that’s slightly opened at the edges, the glue’s hold loosening with time and neglect. You tear it open completely and unfold the sheets of paper found within, eyes drawn immediately three quarters down the page.

I saw our friends tonight for the first time since you left. They asked how you’re doing and where you were. I thought they were just being cruel at first but no, they didn’t know about the break up. I told them you weren’t feeling well, that you decided to stay home tonight. I guess I just wanted one more night where you were still mine, even if it was just in the eyes of our friends. I will tell the truth next time I see them.

You feel as though you’re invading his privacy, reading over words he’d written months ago, despite being the intended audience. That doesn’t mean you have the willpower to stop, however, eyes diving deeper down the page.

Or maybe I won’t have to tell them. Maybe, next time I see them, you’ll have come home. There’s still a chance for us. I believe it because I love you. You said this wasn’t something we can fix. I think you’re wrong. There’s never been an issue we couldn’t solve by talking it through, why should this one be any different? Let’s get coffee, darling. Our usual place, our usual time, next Tuesday. We can get through this, you just have to let me know it’s something you want, that I’m something you still want. 

Jack’s quiet in the driver’s seat, forgiving with the time he gives you to read over his letters. When the turning of pages and the ripping of envelopes rings too heavy in the car, your shoulders tensing up in a discomfort of disrupting the peaceful silence, he wordlessly turns the radio back up and the voice of Jeff Buckley greets you both.

You return to his letters, the second he’d sent already open in your palm.

I went to our usual spot. You never showed up. Your lack of reply to my letter should have been enough to tell me that, but I still had hope. Maybe I really am a fool. Our friends seem to think so. I told them about us and they immediately asked what I’d done wrong. There was no answer I could give them. The worst thing isn’t just that I’ve lost you, it’s that I don’t even know why.

You open the next envelope, and the next one, and the next one, paragraphs melting together into a heartbroken shape.

I tried to sleep in our bed. I lasted half an hour before crawling back to the guest room.  Our room just feels too empty without you. I smell you everywhere no matter how many new sheets I buy.

Eggsy and Tilde got married. It’s the first wedding I’ve been to without you. I’m doing a lot of firsts without you recently. I hate it. Our friends (am I wrong to call them our friends? I’m not ready to just call them mine) tried setting me up with someone new. They showed me a picture and she’s beautiful, but I just kept comparing her to you. Against your beauty, she’s nothing.

Your mother was at the Statesman ground tour today. I was surprised to see her, she already done the tour years ago. I tried not to talk about you too much, I didn’t want her knowing how desperate I am to hear about you. Congratulations on your promotion, I always knew you’d get it. I’m so proud of you for finally applying for it. I heard you’ve started seeing somebody, a veteran turned mechanic. Your mother was kind enough to give me his name. I hope you understand that I don’t want to invade your privacy but I had to make sure you’re safe. The guy’s got a clean slate, other than a sketchy trip down to South America with some other vets. He seems like a good man. I want you to get your happy ending. Are you happy? I’m not. 

Only one envelope remains unopened. The weight of it sits heavy in your lap, a fear settling in that has you not wanting to open it. You study the front of it, find out it was mailed three months ago. The radio moves in sync with you, it seems, the song that plays reaching its climatic moment at the same time as you do, tearing open the final letter. Next to you, Jack clears his throat and wrings his hands over the steering wheel.

This last one, you read the letter in full.

Darling girl,

Spring came faster this year. The daffodils you planted bloomed in early March. I’ve been tending to the garden, I know how much love you put into it. The flowers are coming up alright, the fruit and vegetables not so much. If only I had your green thumb.

I visited Tequila last week. I don’t know if it’s right to call him that anymore. Champ’s still not named his successor, part of me thinks he wants to retire it. That’s not what Tequila would’ve wanted. He would’ve wanted Ginger taking on the mantle. The grounds he’s on are beautiful, if not sombre. They overlook a lake, and the grass is cut everyday, and the sun shines on his grave from sunrise to sunset. I didn’t say much to him, just sat and enjoyed the view. Thought about a lot of things, and finally realised why you left.

You were scared. For me. I thought you were being selfish, breaking my heart like that, but I finally understand how awful that day must’ve been for you. We’d just buried my comrade, our friend, and you had to watch Tequila’s wife say her last goodbye, knowing it was almost me in that casket and you on the podium. That was my mission he went on, I could’ve been the one who didn’t come home to the woman I love.

I’m sorry I took so long to understand. I retired from my position at Statesman. I’m agent Whiskey no more. I’m coming to find you, and hope you give me one last real try at fixing us.

Love always,

your Jack.

“Your wedding invitation found me first,” Jack says, foot off the accelerator, eyes off the road, hands on the wheel.

The weight of his stare drags down to your lap, where the heap of papers now all sit, piled atop one another and rustling with every movement you make. Your own eyes have welled with tears that slip down the apples of your cheeks and splash the papers below, smudging the ink.

The confirmation of his invite knocks out the questions of how he wound up in the pews.

“I didn’t invite you,” you’re unsure if the truth is crueller than fiction. No part of you wants him to think you’d be so spiteful, so hurtful as to invite him to a day you’d once promised to share together. “I didn’t invite anyone. I was… busy, with work. My mom dealt with the invites, she must’ve written you down by accident.”

Your lips may be the ones to say it, but your own ears struggle to believe. Your mother’s always been a meticulous woman, practical, with her affairs eternally in order. The only mistakes she makes are the ones she means to.

“Yeah,” Jack sighs out from the driver’s seat, resignation in his voice. “I figured you didn’t invite me.”

TRACK 4 — 50 ways to leave your lover

Jack drives deeper into the night.

Out the car window, you watch as the world flies by, a blur of unlit trees and unmarked road signs. Earlier’s storm has rolled away and revealed the blanket of stars above, twinkling alongside a full moon. The road is long, and winding, and seemingly never ending. There’s no discussion of destination, no sanctuary you’re waiting to reach. You feel no urgency for it, either. So long as you sit right where you are, passenger in a car, you don’t have to take the wheel, you don’t have to choose where to go, or what to do. You can just exist within this liminal space, where no wedding lies in the balance and no hearts lay broken.

It’s just you and Jack, like the old days, going for a drive.

“Ask me,” permission comes off your tongue as you observe the driver and his less than subtle glances your way. “I can see the wheels turning in your head. Everything you wanted to know in the diner, I promise I’ll answer this time.”

“I guess I’m tryin’ to put myself in your shoes, figure out what was runnin’ through that pretty head of yours,” Jack is, at his core, a gentleman. For hours, he’s let you sit beside him, biting his own tongue and fighting back his own curiosity, a trait so vital to his existence it led him into a world of spies, and guns, and movie-esque kinds of evil. Even now, with your promised approval, he eases his way into his questioning, the part of him that knows you better than your own self dictating that this is something he must address with care.  “How’d you do it?”

“I just slipped out the back, Jack,” there’s a chuckle of sorts that welcomes itself out the depths of Jack’s chest, your choice of words going hand in hand with that of the Paul Simon record reaching its end over the radio. As quick as the humour appears, it goes, leaving nothing but the unfortunate reality of the situation. “Someone left a door open, it led out onto the back gardens. The further away I got, the faster I started to run. I made it all the way past the highway on foot before an older couple pulled over. They dropped me off at a diner, and that’s where I stayed until-”

“Until I found you,” it’s a reminder you shouldn’t want, the image of Jack setting off to find you in the midst of the commotion of a missing bride. It’s not healthy for your poor psyche, already at odds with what it wants, no need for further complications brought on by unresolved feelings. You can’t help but smile at him, however, no filter strong enough to cover your subconscious’ joy. “Why did you run away?”

Your smile fades.

The promise you made is already at threat of being broken. You thought there’d be more questions, more time until he hit you with the heaviest of them all.

Why did you run away?

You know the answer. Of course you’ve known the answer, from the moment you decided to turn on your heel and sprint down the halls, in search of an escape. As much as you can pretend otherwise, and feign naivete, you can’t change the truth. That doesn’t mean you’re ready to admit it out loud, and so you refute it with a question of your own: “Why did you come to the wedding?”

It would be easy to forgive Jack for getting irate when faced with your avoidant response. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he spins the steering wheel and shoots you a smile, the kind that used to keep you warm at night.

“I wasn’t goin’ to come at first,” comes his admittance. You can’t say you blame him, really, a picture of yourself in his shoes, receiving an invite to his wedding. The thought conjures a painful throb from your heart. “Nearly tossed the damn thing into the fireplace when I got it. A few weeks later, I met with Champ for a drink. Drank myself blind, till I started tellin’ him all about the invite. He told me I had to come.”

A lift of your eyebrows, a snap of your head towards him. There’s a desire to have his full attention on you. There’s also the awareness that the road acts as a buffer for the tensing heartache that swells and lulls between you, each exchange of words a game of painful chess. You make the choice to bring forth a pawn this once, a simple why?

“He said I’ve been livin’ with life on pause since you left, maybe watchin’ you marry another man would be the thing to help me hit play at last.”

INTERLUDE — go your own way

Like tires upon gravel, time rolls on.

No matter how easy it is to forget about the world outside, look out the window and pretend you’re simply on a train, trapped in a constant onward motion, there’s no ignoring the orange glow that begins to grow on the horizon, nor the red lights on the car radio that read 05:38. A new day grows fast upon you and, where you remain mute to it, Jack can not allow the fantasy to go on any longer.

The tires screech against the gravel and everything comes to a stop.

“Thinkin’ time’s up, sweetheart,” his hands retreat from the wheel, finding purchase on his thighs. You try not to follow their descent over the tailored suit, try not to think about the thick muscles that sit hidden beneath the black trousers. It’s not your place to think about them anymore. “Where are you goin’?”

Decision has never been something you’ve struggled with, much less when the choices are so simple and limited. Either you go back to the wedding venue, and meet whatever fate awaits you of scornful mothers, and disappointed fathers, and abandoned fiances. Or, you can go anywhere.

You make a mistake, let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t, and end up asking yourself where will Jack go. He still lives in the home you once shared, this you know. Will he go there, pour himself a drink, and try to forget this night even happened?

You can still picture it all. The coffee table Jack hand-carved, both your initials engraved on the side. The picture frames all along the wall, a mural of memories shared between you. The matching set of mugs, eternally sitting on the drying board, waiting for Jack to stagger his way down the stairs and fill them with boiling coffee. If you walked through that door again, would you find everything just the way you left it? Or, has he gotten a new table, changed the pictures in the frames, bought new mugs? Is there someone there, right now, sleeping in his bed and waiting on his return?

A bitter taste overcomes your tongue at the thought, your insides twisting up like you’ve not spent the past few months sleeping next to someone else and saying yes to proposals you weren’t expecting.

“What do you think I should do?” You don’t want him to tell you to go home, you want him to say come home.

“You can’t ask that of me. My answer’s gonna be nothin’ but selfish.” Would it really be so bad, you wish to ask, if Jack was selfish? Maybe life would be easier if he was. He clears his throat, like he clears his mind, and gone is your moment to tell him you want selfish. “I can say this, though… Your fiance’s a good man, a kind man. Kind enough to trust your parents words and let me, a stranger, go searchin’ for you. He deserves to know what decision you make. It ain’t just your weddin’, it’s his too.”

He’s right, and you hate it.

There’s no way you can tell him now that you were even contemplating not going back, of disappearing into the sunrise with him, driving till life leads you down the right roads to find a new home, your old home, Jack.

The muddied wedding dress seems to call to you from the car boot, a whispering of your name that tells you to put it back on, go back, and walk down that aisle. You owe that much to your fiance, if he’ll still have you. With him, you’ve never had to worry about him coming home safe. With him, you could live a happy enough life, keep yourself busy enough to ignore all the what-ifs your mind would try seduce you with.

Besides, that’s what Jack needs, right? To see you marry another man, a final nail in the coffin named us, so he can finally move on with his life. You owe him that much, at least.

With a nod of your head and the straightening of your spine, you set your choice in stone, “drive me back to him, Jack.”

The engine shudders to life and the radio sets itself back on course, some upbeat voice that demands you go your own way, a musical slap delivered upon your face. Jack turns the steering wheel, rerouting the car’s course with an effortless u-turn before he presses down on the accelerator, propelling you forward down the paths you’ve already travelled.

You tell yourself you’re doing the right thing, even if a familiar dread starts to settle in the pit of your stomach, brushing them off as rational nerves. Who wouldn’t be anxious when facing a man they left at the altar?

A yawn escapes you.

“We’re a few hours out from the chateau.” There’s something in his voice that weighs on him, the tone between you shifting to something of desperation. Goodbye is a few hours away. This time, for good. “Sleep, it’s late.”

“Aren’t you tired?” Pull over, you want to say. Let’s sleep. The wedding can wait a few more hours.

How unfortunate that he cannot read your thoughts, understand the intentions behind your staring as you recline your chair, turn to face him on your side, hands crossed protectively over your abdomen.

One blink, and your eyes are already fighting to stay open, dragging you down into the depths of slumber.

“I’m fine. Don’t sleep much these days anyway,” the sound of Jack’s voice fades slowly into the background, melting away with the hum of the engine, and the turn of the wheels, and the voice on the radio. “Never got used to the feeling of an empty bed.”

TRACK 5 — i’m on fire

When your eyes next open, the sun’s warmth is caressing your face.

The sound of children’s laughter fills the air, and the smell of smoke fills your lungs, and the feeling of resting against Jack’s shoulder fills you with dread. Fearful to move, you take in all of him that you can see from this angle.

There’s no suit upon him, replaced with the casualness of a cotton t-shirt and a pair of faded denims. The hat’s back on his head, the curls of ungelled hair that peak through dry as a bone. A cigarette rests neatly between fingers on his left hand, the right one grasping at the neck of a beer bottle. No wheel sits in front of him, no gear shift keeps space between you. The Bronco’s been replaced with the view of your parent’s backyard and the comfort of a well cushioned outdoor couch.

You know this memory.

You’ve lived this memory.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” just like you remember, Jack’s stubbing out the half-smoked cigarette the moment he notices your open eyes. “How you feelin’?”

“Like my uterus is trying to carve its way out of me,” your mouth plays along with the dream, speaking the same words it had years ago.

“That good, huh?” A beer stained kiss meets the corner of your mouth, another follows up to your forehead, as Jack’s free hand reaches into his pocket, reemerging with silver foil between two fingers. “Got these off your mother. Let me go get you somethin’ to eat, then you can take two, hm?”

You remember thinking that you love him. You didn't dare speak it, however, simply nodding as you took the blister packet of paracetamol out his offering grasp and uncurled your legs back down onto the floor, stretching your arms. Jack bends down, presses his lips against the crown of your head, and then he’s off, venturing over to where your father stands grilling another round of burgers on the barbeque.

Jack’s always been a confident man. He carries himself with a head held high and a careless smile on his face, no chip on his shoulder and no flare for anger in his bones. A southern gentleman, who knows his own charms and, most dangerously, how to use them. Place him alone with your father, however, and watch how he crumbles like a house of cards. To the untrained eye, it’s unnoticeable, but you don’t miss the glances he spies your father with each time he throws out a joke, nor the way his hands can never seem to relax, a nervous tic of drumming against his thighs or balling into fists as he makes conversation with the older man. He’s desperate for the approval of your monotonous father, so desperate he fails to see he won it months ago, 

“Eat up, drink up, you need it,” he says as he hands you the paper plate, and his half-drunk bottle of beer. He settles back down on the couch, pulling you into him once more. “Your old man was sayin’ we should probably head off soon, ‘fore it gets too late. Think he’s startin’ to warm up to me, he’s even worryin’ bout me drivin’ in the dark.”

“Oh, he loves you,” you take a bite, break two of the pills out their casing, wash them down with a swig of bitter beer. The summer sun burns in the corners of your eyes, forcing them into a squint. “He kept looking for you at the dinner table at my mom’s birthday, you should’ve seen his reaction when I told him you were stuck in New York slaving away in your office.”

Months later, you’d come to find out he wasn’t in New York, surrounded by mountains of paperwork, but somewhere in the south of France, hunting down some billionaire wine-maker with plans to poison the crops of surrounding vineyards, leaving only his wine safe to consume.

In your memory, Jack plucks the hat off his own head and rests it gently upon your own, a shaded barrier against the bright light in the sky. You thank him, he watches on quietly as you continue to eat, gaze not peeling itself away from you the whole time.

“What? Do I have ketchup on my face? Or, in my hair?” You’d asked him, mid-chew. No answer, more staring. Panic made a debut in your mind, suddenly alert to his unusual behaviour. “Wait, is it a bug? Jack, is there a bug in my hair?”

“I love you.”

No build up, no grand-speech, no overly romantic setting.

He said it like one shares the weather, or the time, or what they’re wanting for lunch. He said it like it was something he always said, would always say, despite it being the very first time you’d heard him do so. Tears had flown in quickly, your hormones already gone haywire with the unexpected arrival of shark week earlier that morning. There’s a vague assurance that you told him you loved him too, through tears, and he teased your weepy face with kisses down your cheeks and full-chested laughter.

“Bless your cotton socks, my sweet girl, cryin’ all cause old Jack says-”

“Tell me now baby, is he good to you?”

You jolt awake.

Jack’s by your side, suit on, hair air dried, one hand on the wheel, the other rests out the window. The roof is down, letting the sun shine on you and his caramel eyes. An old Springstein song plays in the background, the very same thing that coaxed you awake. Just like the dream, he takes a few minutes to notice your opened eyes, head turning your way as another car shoots off ahead of you both, overtaking him.

“You were mumblin’ in your sleep. Were you dreamin’ of somethin’ sweet?”

“I was,” too quick comes your reply. Too honest. Nerves have you stumbling over words, scrambling to pick them off the floor of your mind and spew out the first thing that doesn’t involve Jack and his easy-going professions of love. “About the first time my fiance told me he loves me.”

You regret it as soon as you speak, the visible halt to his smile. He overcorrects it, forcing a grin that stretches the corners of his mouth so tight it almost looks painful. “Well, c’mon, don’t go keepin’ it to yourself!”

“He, uh, wrote it in the sky.”

“How romantic. Pricey too, I bet.”

“It was his best man who did it, an ex military pilot.”

As you try to reminisce on the day, little memories blossom in your mind. Instead of vivid motion capture, the day is black and white, no sound. You don’t remember where you were, what he was wearing, how you felt when you read those words up above.

It happened only two months into your relationship, that you do remember. You also remember being parked in your old neighbourhood the night before, twenty minutes spent trying to will yourself to go knock on the door to your old home. The Bronco was in its usual spot, parked outside. No lights were on as you pulled away and willed yourself back to rational thinking.

“Jeez, if that’s how he’s tellin’ you he loves you, I can’t imagine how he proposed.”

You wonder if this is as tortuous for him as it is for you, listening to you detail the life you’d gone on to live just months after walking away from five years of love. “In a restaurant,” you can’t remember the name, or what you ate, or what you wore, as if the memory is one that doesn’t belong to you, never belonged to you. “I ordered dessert, ‘will you marry me?’ was written on it in cherry sauce.”

“You must’ve said yes immediately.”

“I did.”

You leave out the part where the whole restaurant had watched him get down on one knee, or the part where you rushed to the restroom right after accepting the ring, spewing your guts out in a stall. By morning, you told yourself it was fine, you were just feeling nervous. 

After all, you loved him enough to spend time with him, so why not spend the rest of your life with him?

TRACK 6 — she’s always a woman

It had been too easy to forget the thing you loved most about road trips with Jack.

It wasn’t his constant commentary of interesting facts on sites you’d drive past, or his love for taking the long-way to anywhere and everywhere, or his ever-present need to drag your hand up to his lips with every few miles.

The thing you loved most was listening to his voice, unfiltered, unashamed, outloud, singing along to his favourite songs. The voice of a crooning angel and the shyness of a bashful fox. Every so often, when he’d catch you watching him a little too fondly as he sang along, he’d throw in a voice crack, or twist up a lyric into a sickly innuendo.

In the present, it’s you who interrupts his spirited rendition of a Billy Joel classic.

“You were right, in the letters,” the leather of your seat squeaks as you fix your posture, sit yourself up straight if only to force yourself to stop observing the way his lips fall into a natural pout and, instead, focus on memorising the licence plate that drives ahead. “I’m sorry.”

“Right about what?” As though nothing has changed, his hand extends towards your own, effortlessly intertwining your fingers, beginning an ascent to his mouth before mind takes over instinct and he’s letting you go, setting you free.

You give up on the licence plate ahead, turn your face once more towards Jack and his pouty lips.

“I couldn’t be with Agent Whiskey anymore.” A relationship made up of a man, a woman, and an agent. Whiskey would kiss you goodbye in the morning, while Jack would be the one to come home to you. With the passing of time, three became a crowd, and so you removed yourself. “I didn’t want to break your heart, Jack, I swear. But I also didn’t want to let you break mine. And you did, every time you walked out of our home and left me wondering if you’d ever come back. Then, when Tequila… You loved your job. You loved being Agent Whiskey. How could I ask you to leave that part of you behind?”

“Darlin’ if you think there’s any world where losin’ you was easier than losin’ Whiskey, you’re out of your mind.” Like his first I love you, he speaks words that flow out of him as easily as an exhale, as though they carry no weight to them. As though they do not momentarily flip your world on its axis and have you wishing he’d turn the car around, driving you both off into the forever you never got.

Yet another car overtakes the Bronco, its driver angrily pressing on his horn. You both continue to ignore the speed at which Jack drives. Up ahead, everything you’ve been dreading comes into view, an unmissable billboard. Clearview Manor.

50 miles to go. 50 miles till goodbye. 

“I’m hungry.”

“Those energy bars should still be in there, if you’re wantin’-”

“Jack, I’m hungry,” you say it louder, hoping he’ll pick up what you’re laying down.“Can’t we stop somewhere for breakfast?”

His answer comes in the form of a left blinker switching on, wheels cutting over gravel and carrying you off the main road. Then, as if to break your heart some more than his last declaration, he turns to you. “If it had been me waitin’ on you at the end of the aisle, would you have ran?”

You try to picture it.

Jack, in his suit and tie, hands clasped behind his back to keep him from drumming nervous fingers over his thighs, eyes brimming with tears as you take your first step down the aisle. Would the panic have settled in? Would you have felt that same wrongness as when you’d been sneaking a peak at your fiance waiting down the aisle?

Would you have ran?

“It’s not something I planned, y’know? Running. I didn’t think it was even an option,” you’re laying your final card on the table, a truth you couldn't bring yourself to admit earlier at last coming out to play. You’re unsure if it dismisses or further condemns you for your runaway crimes. “I took a peak, at the ceremony hall, while waiting for my father. I needed to see what I was about to walk into. I guess I thought the nerves were just from that, the unknown. Then I saw you, a few rows from the back. At first I thought I was hallucinating, that you were just a man who happened to be wearing a cowboy hat. But then I saw my mum pulling you in for a hug, and I caught a glimpse of your face. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t… marry another man, not with you standing in the crowd.”

“You’ve not answered my question,” it’s the first you’ve seen Jack put his foot down since he dragged you out the diner, the seriousness etched into his frowning forehead and stamped onto his lips. “Would you have ran?”

“No.”

Jack just keeps driving.

TRACK 7 — dancing in the dark

“You can’t be serious!”

Squeezed into the corner booth of a dingy, run-down bar, you and Jack sit across from one another, digging into a stack of pancakes lathered in maple syrup.

The bartender and two of his patrons glance at you both every so often, and you have to wonder how odd a pair you and Jack must make. One dressed to the nines, if you ignore the dried mud at the bottom of his dress pants and his loosening tie, the other wearing yesterday’s make-up paired with cotton pyjama pants. You prefer it to the stares you’d gained in your wrinkled gown.

“Deadly. I’m a serious tap-dancin’ student,” his fork stabs into the fluffy goodness, dragging it along the plate, soaking the pancake in as much syrup as possible. You try not to think of mornings that used to be spent like this, sitting at your own table, flour in his hair and eggshells in your own, both of you ignoring the disastrous mess in the kitchen begging to be cleaned as you tuck into your homemade pancakes. “Retirement breeds weird hobbies.”

“Before long, you’ll be playing bingo at the old folks home.”

“I just have to ask, I really do,” a dread you haven’t felt since stepping out the car— with the help of Jack and his offering hand, the other holding your door open— creeps back in. You don’t want to talk about your own current reality, not when it’s been so easy to pretend none of the wedding fiasco happened and, instead, you’re simply catching up with Jack after bumping into each other in this bar.  “This fiance of yours… is he bigger than me?”

As quick as it inflates, the tension pops. 

“Oh my god, Jack!” You laugh, a little too loudly, and dip your head as other tables turn their heads your way.

“What?”

“You did not just ask me that.”

“Oh, but I did.”

“You can’t just say things like that!” In mock surrender, he throws his hands up. Your own grab ahold of your knife and fork once more, an ironclad focus on the near-empty plate as you will the shameful heat away from your face, mumbling over your words. “But, no, he isn’t bigger. Happy?”

“You’ve no idea.” As though you’re being haunted by music, a song begins to play over the speakers. You’re not the only one who takes notice, Jack’s eyes lighting up with a devious look, his legs already rising out of his seat. “Think that’s our queue, darlin’.”

“Sit back down.”

“Oh, c’mon now, don’t be so uptight,” he lays out his hand, begging for you to place your own in it. Flashes of a memory, six years back, the very same song playing as the very same man attempted to coax a dance out of you. “One dance, sweetheart, then I’ll leave you in peace.”

Just like your younger self, you’re incapable of resisting his baby cow eyes, letting him guide you out onto a makeshift dance floor before it’s too late to run back and hide in your seat, the eyes of strangers already piercing you with their questioning stares. If you weren’t deemed a strange pair with your attire alone, you certainly are now, feet stumbling awkwardly along with Bruce Springstein.

“This song was playin’ when we met,” he says it like you don’t know, like you don’t remember, like you aren’t replaying that night as you speak, pretending you’re both in that same crowd of swaying bodies, young, and naive, and on the cusp of experiencing the greatest love you’ll ever know, rather than here, on an empty dance floor, stumbling blindly through the hardships of holding each other so close, mutually aware you’re dancing on borrowed time and, soon, you’ll have to go. “Knowin’ now how it ends, if I was sent back in time, I’d still ask you to dance. I’d do it all again.”

“This gun’s for hire, even if we’re just…”

He spins you, drags you closer, sways you. It’s far less care-free than the first dance you shared, no alcohol to dull the shame and a whole lot of history packed between your bodies.

The first dance had been the thing you had dreaded most about your wedding, dancing with your husband, to a whole room of loved ones watching. Dancing now with Jack— even through all the embarrassment you feel as an elderly couple point over at you— feels easier, less daunting, so much so that you can’t help the way you start to laugh, arms loosening around his shoulders, hips moving less abashedly.

The two of you inch closer, and closer, and closer as the song reaches its end. Like a happy couple finishes their first dance, Jack’s mouth lands atop yours.

A gentle kiss, innocent of sin, it begs you to give back, to press your own mouth against his. You answer its calling, hand clasping at the back of his neck, holding him safely against you, less he drifts away and reveals this all to have been a dream, a nightmare, a delusion. Like coming home after a cold winter’s day, his kiss is the comfort of knowing you’re exactly where you belong.

And it’s absolutely terrifying.

You rip away from him, flashes of your fiance’s face blinding you as you stumble off, doing what you do best: running away. You miss the way the patrons all go back to their own drinks, and the way a new song comes on, and the way Jack chases after you, stopped only by the slamming of a bathroom door.

You come up for air when you find yourself faced with the image you paint in the mirror.

Never has there been a more heartbroken girl, eyes a mess of tears, and faded eyeliner, and smudged mascara, hair a nest fit enough for any bird to build its home in, body draped in the clothing of an ex-lover. It’s almost as frightening as the image you made yesterday, wedding gown freshly laced and make-up pristinely done.

A knock rings against the door. 

It’s followed by a gentle call of your name.

You switch on the tap, welcome the cold splash of water over your face. Pray that, if you scrub hard enough, you’ll wipe away the taste of him, forget the shape of his touch, purge yourself of the desire to follow anywhere he may go. Your hand slips down your face, the dim bathroom light catches on something.

Your engagement ring, a tight shackle that binds you to someone else, reminds you of the closure you owe to Jack.

He calls your name again.

“Darlin’,” it’s muffled behind the door, but the regret in his voice is all too clear. “I just got caught up, I’m sorry. Come on out and we’ll get back on the road-”

The hinges creak as the door opens, only a crack, and your hand shoots out, grabbing a hold of Jack’s tie before you can will yourself to be rational.

He lets you invade his space with little protest, mouths returning to the dance they never got to complete. Hands move, slipping off ties, and undoing draw strings, and locking doors. There’s a mumble, are you sure, followed by a moan, please.

All hope of forgetting his skin is lost, a leg hooked around his waist, fingers tangled in his hair. He bites at your neck, and kisses along your jaw, and pants into your ear, all the while his hips rock back and forth against your own, filling you inch by inch. Mouth covered by your own hand, muffling a cry of his name as you feel him brush against that spine-tingling spot inside you. Your head falls back, eyes slip shut. Jack’s quick to rectify it.

“Watch, darlin’,” he whispers, a hand tilting your eyes down to where your two bodies meet. “ Want you to see how perfectly your lil’ pussy takes me.”

You do as he says, hypnotised by the sight of his cock, glistening in your own arousal, sawing in and out of you, each thrust deeper than the last.  

“He can’t fuck you like this, can he?” Despite his ego-fueled words, there’s a desperation in his voice, a soul lost in a sea of darkness, searching for a life jacket. “Tell me he can’t.”

He can’t, you tell him, clinging onto him tighter, needier, begging him to never leave.

Any minute now, you worry, someone’s going to knock on the bathroom door, kick you both out. Instead, the music that plays outside the door seems to increase in volume.

“Fuckin’ made for me, meant for me,” both of you grow increasingly desperate, fingernails digging into flesh, and mouths rejoining in a frenzy of kisses, and the tightening of an invisible string, drawing you nearer and nearer to the edge. “My sweet girl.”

An end that comes all too soon, both of you exhausted, and spent, and collapsing against one another, a sticky mess left between your legs where his hips continue to rut into you through his own overstimulation.

“I’m sorry,” his head falls against your shoulder, burrows into the warmth of your neck. There’s a press of his lips against your skin, and a million apologies that follow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry I love you.”

“It’s okay, Jack,” you lie, sooth a hand over his back, ignore the tears you feel falling against your skin.

TRACK 8 — hit the road jack

The clock reads 13:18 as Jack brings the car to a stop.

A set of stairs lead up to a grand double-doored entrance, a sign post declaring the extravagant building as Clearview Manor. Rented for the whole weekend, the wedding party isn’t cited to leave until late Monday evening. Though all cars remain parked in the driveway, no familiar faces await your arrival.

“I hope you get your happy ending,” the two of you step out of the car in sync. A voice whispers that it’s the last time you’ll step out the Bronco, you brush it off and follow Jack as he makes his way over to the boot. “No one deserves it more than you, Jack.”

“No promises, darlin’,” he extends his arms to you, you almost move in for a hug.

The sight of your wedding dress, no longer porcelain white, stains of brown upon a greying fabric, reminds you of why you’re here. You try your best to smile earnestly as you take it off his hands, but fear it only heightens the distress that dilates your pupils. “I’ll see you inside, right?”

The boot slams shut, and it’s an awful reminder that your time together is coming to a close, Jack dons his signature smile, cowboy hat back on his head, a head that’s shaking no.

“The mighty fool that I am, thinkin’ I could stomach watchin’ you get married to another man. After this little road trip of ours… well, I guess I just ain’t ready to hit play yet.” A tongue made of lead, shoes filled with weights. Moving feels impossible, talking even more so. You want to say his name, tell him you don’t need to marry another man, crawl back into the Bronco and beg him to drive off. “Go’on, get! There’s a good man in there, waitin’ to give you everythin’ you deserve.”

Instead, you just turn on your heel, take the first step towards the rest of your life. A life without Jack.

Halfway up the stairway, the sound of Jack’s engine reaches your ears, followed quickly by the obnoxiously poignant car radio, giving its final performance for you both.

“Hit the road, Jack, and don’t you come back, no more, no more, no more, no more!”

Eyes meeting where Jack sits, back in the driver’s seat, you share one last laugh.

OUTRO — everywhere

“Thank god you’re okay.”

Two arms, strong and secure, wrap around your waist.

On the other side of the bridal suite door stands both your mother and your mother in law, ushered out by your fiance upon your return the moment he noticed the panic on your face as questions and fingers prodded at you.

You block out the thought of the scowling faces, burrowing your own into the space between his shoulder and neck, whispering your inquiry on, “how bad is the damage?”

“We told everyone you were suffering from food poisoning. All our guests think you’ve been spewing out of both ends the past few hours, but I think that’s justified for the bruising you’ve given my ego.”

“Santi,” the shape of your fiance’s name feels foreign in your mouth, the taste of it sour on your tongue, so much so that you can’t say it in full. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t be, what matters is you’re here now.”

Jack was right, your fiance is a nice man. A good man. A man anyone would be lucky to land in the arms of, the kind of man people dream of, and romance authors write of.

But to you, his arms just feel like a cage you’ve lost the key for. “Why did you ask me to marry you?”

“I don’t know. We just… make sense.”

“We do,” you pull apart, at last, nodding your head along to his answer. “But is that all marriage should be? Two people who make sense?” You stumble a few steps back from him, feet needing space to begin pacing back and forth as your filter slips and the word-vomit begins to spew itself out onto the pristine carpeted floors. “Do you really love me enough to spend the rest of your days with me? Because I don’t think you do, and I don’t think I love you like that either.”

Santiago is calm, collected, and completely unresponsive.

The longer he watches you pace and rant, the quicker you do each thing, as though you’re racing ahead to escape the fear of breaking his heart more than you already have, his love possibly more intense than you make it seem. He ends that fear in one foul swoop of words.

“When you didn’t walk down the aisle, I felt relieved. I also slept with someone at my bachelor party and the guilt has been eating me alive.”

“I just fucked my ex in a bathroom!” In an almost paradoxical response, the pair of you keen over in laughter, any expected animosity thrown out the metaphorical window and leaving you both no choice but to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “God, we’re a mess.”

“Wait, the cowboy’s your ex? I should’ve known, your dad told him you were gone before he even bothered to tell me.” Santiago had little luck at winning over your dad, though admittedly it was no fault of his own but, rather, your father had yet to move on from Jack. There’s a sudden commotion as Santi rushes past you, peeling back the curtains and peering down out the window. “What car is it the cowboy drives?”

“A Bronco.”

“Well, you might wanna hurry, because he’s just pulling out of the parking bays.” It’s more than just a warning. It’s a blessing to leave. Overcome with emotion, you dive back into his arms and find there’s no fear of goodbye, not like there had been with Jack. An engagement ring that slips off with no resistance, no longer a shackle that ties you both together. You hand it back to him gently. “Go, before it’s too late! I’ll take care of this mess, see if I can spin this in a way that’s heartbreaking enough to get our deposit back.”

There’s more you want to say, but now’s not the time. Apologies and thank-yous can wait till you pick up your things from his apartment, right now you’re too busy rushing to the door.

A call of your name comes when you’ve got one foot out it, treading into the now motherless hallway. You face Santiago with a smile, ready to say that magic word. 

Goodbye.

“Promise me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t invite me to your wedding.”

You make it out the double-doors, which slam loudly shut behind you, before you spot the retreating shape of Jack’s car and an anxious glee commands you to break out into a sprint, legs kicking faster than they ever have before.

Don’t speed up, you think, watching as the Bronco slowly creeps down the driveway.

“Jack!” You call out to him, hoping that, with the open roof, he’ll somehow hear you over the radio. Pushing your feet to move a little faster, your arms join the mix, waving wildly to the wind, a careless attempt to catch his attention in the rearview mirror. “Wait!”

The car breaks with a squeak, the blaring music comes to a halt, and Jack turns to face you with his own eyes, as though he can’t trust the mirrors. When you reach the car, you pull at the door handle and find he’s already unlocked it. You slide in with ease, back into the seat you’ve always belonged in: by his side.

He can’t seem to move, frozen with his eyes focused on nothing but you.

“Drive, jack,” you finally proclaim, asking him what you should’ve the moment you saw him in that diner, in the pews, in the heartbreaking hours post-burying a friend.

“Where to, darlin’?”

“Anywhere, everywhere!” You can’t help the smile that overcomes you as he pulls your hand up to his mouth, planting a familiar kiss upon it, before the engine hums back to life. “It doesn’t matter, as long as I’m with you, all roads lead home.”

Like old times, you lean forward and turn up the radio, a familiar tune filling the air as you sink back into your seat, the wind back in your hair and an open road laying ahead, ready to lead you both wherever the wheels may take you.

“Oh I, I wanna be with you everywhere.”

bts with hyde. this is just a little reflective commentary that i put down here, to avoid flooding my author's note with too much rambling. please feel free to skip this!!

this fic is a compilation of firsts for me. it's the first challenge i've taken part in within the pedro fanspace, which has been equally exciting as it has been daunting. i struggle immensely with writing on a time schedule, and so i'm pretty proud of myself for not posting this (too) late.

this is also my first time writing for jack. admitedly, i'm not sure if i've done justice to him, as his character is somehow incredibly strong and, yet, so open for interpretation that i found myself struggling to connect with him in my writing. i have no plans to write for him in any future wips, but that might change. it was definitely fun to push myself out my comfort zone and write for a new character!

something i want to praise myself for is the attention i put into smaller details of this fic. for example, each flower mentioned in this fic has a very specific symbol/meaning attached to it, fitting with the themes of the scenes in which they're mentioned. the other place i hyperfocused on very unimportant details is the playlist. it opens and closes on the only two songs fronted by a female vocalist, with my intention being that these songs are a representation of the reader's inner turmoils and thoughts in the opening and closing scenes. the rest of the playlist is full of male vocalists, giving a peak into jack's mind despite the entire fic being told through the reader's eyes.

okay, i've given myself enough delusional and unnecesary praise, i'm going to sleep now. please don't be mean if you didn't like this fic, it's literally my birthday 🫡

if you've read this far, ily, i hope you have a good day !

[creedslove]

boyfriend!Agent Whiskey who was so unsure of starting a new relationship with you after all the heartbreak he went through; after losing his wife and unborn son, he just shut himself down for new relationships and only got involved in meaningless hook ups here and there but the moment his heart beat faster at the sight of you, he felt something inside telling him he should give himself a new chance

boyfriend!Agent Whiskey who still feels guilty about being happy after what happened to his first family and sometimes can't help dwelling into depressing and self deprecating thoughts, but gets his heart soothed when you assure him his wife would've wanted him to be happy

boyfriend!Agent Whiskey who is so thankful for your attitude towards his past, the way you are always respectful towards the memory of his first wife and you always know how to address the situation without being jealous, as the two of you know it's not the case there, Jack loves you, but he can't help being consumed by guilt at times

boyfriend!Agent Whiskey who appreciates how you are always motivating him to seek help and continue his therapy so he can be better for himself and for you too

boyfriend!Agent Whiskey who feels turned on if you call him 'Whiskey' but what he truly loves is when you call him Jack, simple as that, he's just your Jack, your cowboy, because it doesn't really matter if he's an agent or not, he's just you handsome cowboy

boyfriend!Agent Whiskey whose heart melts whenever you show him some affection, he never realized how touch starved he had been all those years until he effectively felt your warmth in several ways: your arms around him during a hug, your lips as you left pecks all over his cheek, his neck and his lips, your fingers scratching down his back gently, or going through his locks in a gentle caress

boyfriend!Agent Whiskey who doesn't feel the need to go to as many missions as he did before, instead, his adrenaline longing decreased and he values the quiet, domestic moments he spends with you on his ranch, just being around nature and loving each other

boyfriend!Agent Whiskey who loves taking you to the barn and making sweet love with you during a warm lazy afternoon, the way he loves feeling the soft feel of your sweaty skin under his finger tips and knows how lucky he truly is

boyfriend!Agent Whiskey who will definitely teach you how to ride a horse and even buy you a new one as a gift, so just he can see you enjoying the ranch life

boyfriend!Agent Whiskey who isn't so sure if he would face marriage again but it doesn't matter to him if he'll make things official or not, all it matters is that he wants to be with you forever

[almostfoxglove]

pedro pascal cinematic universe aus 16/?

the one where jack daniels comes knocking on your door. (insp)

[perotovar]

before a mirror — drabble

moodboard by @yopossum

pairing: jack daniels/marcus pike rating: PG content: fluff, jack and his never ending list of petnames, flirting, general cuteness word count: 626 dividers: @saradika-graphics beta: @qveerthe0ry (ily)

a/n: written for @yopossum 's mootboard and minifics celebration!! thank you for letting me be a part of it and congrats, honey ♥

masterlist | follow @oakslibrary and turn on notifs ♥

New York was like a second home to Jack.

The first would always be Kentucky, where his mama made the best pecan pie, and where he first learned to ride a horse. It’s also where Statesman headquarters is, but Jack wasn’t so lucky to be there. He’d been stationed at the New York office for years now and had gotten used to the unsavory sounds and people.

But New York had a lot of good things as well.

For one, not that Jack would ever admit it out loud, New York had a lot of amazing museums. He had a soft spot for the paintings, and when he had quiet moment, he’d pop over to a museum nearby to take a walk.

Jack’s favorite painting was of a nude woman, standing in front of a mirror. He didn’t know the meaning behind it or what it was meant to depict, but it spoke to him. The colors were both rich and warm as well as cool and standoffish.

“Woman before a Mirror by Toulouse-Lautrec, 1897,” a smooth voice hummed next to him. Jack turned toward the man, an easy smirk creeping onto his face as he recognized who it was. “Post-Impressionism.”

“Swear, y’must be an encyclopedia of art, Pike,” Jack chuckled, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the tight denim he wore.

Marcus rolled his eyes and snorted. “It’s literally my job,” he shrugged.

“Details.”

The two had met a few times. Marcus’ job often led him up north to take care of a few cases and Jack didn’t get a chance to go out into the field much anymore. Not unless something big happened or came up.

“Which street food catch yer fancy this time?”

“There’s a really good hot dog stand down the street, might go there after this.”

“And what’s this today, sugar sweet?” Jack smiled. He hadn’t looked away from the painting yet, not until it took Marcus a second to answer. That was something he really appreciate about Marcus Pike. He always made sure he said exactly what he was thinking. He was very focused, to the point. Jack wished he could be a little more like that sometimes.

When he turned his head toward Marcus, his breath caught in his throat a little. It always shocked him to see Marcus up close like this; he had such a striking profile and intense, but sweet eyes.

“Just taking a walk, actually. I’m on my lunch,” Marcus grinned.

“No kiddin’? So am I.”

“I know. You always come here around this time.”

“You keepin’ tabs on me, Pike?” Jack smirked.

Marcus shrugged, smiled, and didn’t answer, looking back at the painting. “And if I am?”

Normally, this would raise suspicion for Jack, but given Marcus’ line of work he knew he didn’t have anything to worry about. Statesman had every law enforcement officer’s information, including their undercover identities, so he knew Marcus Pike was cleaner than clean.

“Well, angel eyes, I think I’d ask ya what ya had planned, then.”

“Come with me. I’ll get you one of those hot dogs,” Marcus winked, turning toward Jack and looking him over. Jack felt a chill run down his spine.

He looked back at the painting and took it in one more time. The colors and the mood washed over him, briefly taking him to a time period he’d never known. He wondered what Marcus saw when he looked at this painting. He’ll have to ask him sometime.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirtin’ with me, Pike,” Jack hummed. He watched as Marcus walked toward the entrance of the exhibit and back out into the main hall.

Marcus looked at the cowboy over his shoulder and grinned. “And if I am?”

[avastrasposts]

A Baker's Dozen - Eight

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

Pedro boy number eight is ready to swagger into the bakery and I've only got four more weeks of this! I realised the very final chapter would be posted on February 12th so lets delay it by two days and end this on Valentine's Day, seeing as this is the fluffiest, most romantic thing I've ever written. Feels very appropriate to end it with my favourite Pedro boy on Valentine's Day. 🥰

This chapter is dedicated to my lovely, sweet friend @ladybess-a03 who, in my world, is this Pedro boy's beautiful wife.

Series Master List

“Is the rodeo in town?” the kid who works extra over the weekends in the bakery asks, raising their eyebrows and nodding towards the window. You look over and catch a glimpse of the man striding across the street. The comment is pretty accurate, he certainly looks like a cowboy; a slick cowboy dressed up for the city in a well tailored suit that hugs his narrow hips and wide shoulders, topped off with a black Stetson and suede shoulder patches. 

“Pretty good looking cowboy,” you say and the kid snorts, hanging their apron on the hook and giving you a quick wave goodbye. The cowboy reaches the bakery door and holds open the door for them before he steps inside.

“Afternoon, miss,” he says, greeting you with a polite tip of his Stetson, two fingers on the brim, as he saunters up to the counter, his lips quirking up in a smile. 

“Afternoon, sir,” you reply, returning his polite greeting with a smile of your own. Internally you’re swooning and giggling, there’s a smoothness to the man that makes you want to twirl your imaginary braid and kick your heels. 

“Sir,” he says, chuckling as he puts one hand on the counter, the other on his hip, pushing back his jacket and revealing a large belt buckle in the shape of a hip flask, “makes me feel about a hundred, darlin’. Call me Jack.” He offers you his hand, dwarfing your own as you shake it. 

“Alright, how can I help you, Jack?” you ask as the warmth of his hand lingers on yours. 

“Pie, sugar, I’m in a real mood for some pie,” he says, patting his belly with a grin, “And I heard you might be the best baker in town so I had to see for myself,” he winks, “if the rumors are true.” 

“I don’t know about best baker in town,” you smile back, “but thanks for the vote of confidence. What kind of pie are you in the mood for?” 

“Well, I’m an old fashioned cowboy, southern born and bred, so I doubt you’ll be surprised when you hear that I’d love some pecan pie, sugar,” he says, pointing to the one pecan pie you have in your display. 

“Not old fashioned,” you say, crouching down to slide the pie out, “but maybe traditional. And it’s a great pie,” you put it on the counter and Jack chuckles. 

“Honey, I’m anything but traditional, but I have a soft spot for pecan pie,” he says, putting an arm up on the display case and leaning in, his mouth pulling up in a crooked grin, “Sweet pecan pie, and sweet bakers,” he winks at you again and you feel your cheeks heat up and busy yourself adjusting the pie on the counter, trying to bite back the grin that’s threatening to split your face in half before you look up at the smiling cowboy again, his dark eyes twinkling under the brim of his Stetson. 

“Would you like the whole thing, or just a slice?” you ask and Jack grins. 

“Oh, sugar, I want the whole damn thing,” he replies and you swallow loudly. He keeps his eyes on you as you squirm under his gaze, your cheeks burning up as you quickly duck under the counter and grab one of the take away boxes. You’ve never met a man who so shamelessly flirts with anyone and you hear him chuckle as you look for the right sized box.

Jack is still smiling as you pop back up and start folding the flat cardboard, butterflies fluttering in your stomach under his gaze. 

“This pie sure smells wonderful, darlin’,” he says, leaning in closer and drawing a deep breath, his arm still on the display case as he puts a hand on his waist, but he’s got his eyes on you, the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smile under his neat mustache. 

“I hope it’ll taste as good as it smells then,” you reply, just to reply something. His over the top charm shouldn’t be getting to you so easily, but you’re practically a puddle at this point, any coherent sentence from you is a win and Jack seems to notice your reaction to his flirting and clearly loves how he’s getting to you, judging by the size of his grin. 

“I’m absolutely certain it will be every bit as sweet as you, sugar,” he purrs, his hand coming up to rub over his smooth jaw. 

You manage to slide the pie into the box and close the lid, pushing it over the counter to Jack, giving him a flustered smile. 

“Here you go then, enjoy,” you say, “Please let me know what you think, if you’re passing by again.”

“And what do I owe you, honey?” he asks, reaching back and pulling out a slim black wallet from his pocket. 

“Uh…umm…” you stutter, the prices, that are usually seared into your brain, have wandered off under the onslaught of Jack’s charm and you fumble for the price list next to the till, “Twenty-four, ninety-nine,” you finally get out and Jack pulls out two twenties and hands them over. 

“Keep the change, sugar, you’re undercharging for both the pie and the company,” he says, grinning as he winks at you again. 

“Oh thank you, sir-Jack,” you reply, “but that’s really not necessary.”  

“I know, but I want to,” he smiles, softer this time, “And I’ll be sure to let you know how much I like it,” He slides a hand under the box, carefully lifting it up as he tips his hat at you, two fingers on the brim again. 

“Have a good evening, darlin’,” 

“Same to you Jack, enjoy the pie.” 

“Oh, I will, I’m sure,” Jack grins, pushing the door open, letting a new customer in. 

“Ma’am,” he says, giving her a tip of his hat before he disappears with a final smile at you. 

“What a handsome man,” Mrs Morales says as she comes up to the counter, “and such good manners.” 

“He was very well mannered,” you smile at her as she comes up to the counter, “What can I get for you today, Mrs Morales?” 

…

When the doorbell jingles in the middle of the morning a few days later, you’re pleasantly surprised to see Jack’s smiling face above the small crowd of customers. He gives you a two fingered salute, tipping his hat, before he sits down at one of the café tables to wait. The crowd slowly thins out and eventually it’s Jack’s turn, and you notice that he’s choosing to wait until he can be served by you and not your shop assistant. 

“Hi Jack,” you smile at him as he comes over. He’s opted for a more casual look today you notice, a black leather jacket and white t-shirt instead of his slick suit, but the Stetson is still on his head as he gives you a crooked grin. 

“Hi there, sugar,” he drawls, his southern twang even more pronounced, “you’re looking real gorgeous today, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He winks as he leans on the counter, giving you his most winning smile and you can practically hear the eye roll from your assistant down by the till. 

“Thanks, you’re not looking to shabby yourself,” you smile back at him and he puffs his chest, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder. 

“Thanks, sweetheart.” 

“How was the pecan pie?” you ask and Jack grins widely. 

“Just as sweet as the gorgeous baker girl who made it,” he croons, “I may have eaten the whole thing already.” 

“I’m happy to hear it,” you smile, your cheeks heating up at his praise and Jack chuckles, taking off his Stetson and fanning you with it. 

“Is it hot in here, darlin’, or is my praise heating you up there?” 

“Oh shut up,” you reply, trying to give him a scowl but failing as he runs his free hand through his dark hair, smoothing out the unruly locks that have been hidden under his hat, before he puts it back on. The simple action shouldn’t make a shiver run down your spine but you feel your mind go temporarily blank as he adjusts the brim to his liking. As he cocks his head and gives you a playful smirk, the corner of his lip curling up, you try to snap out of it. 

“So what can I do for you today, Jack?” 

“How about another pecan pie, darlin’?” he asks, glancing over the display cases and spotting the one you made this morning. 

“Another one?”

“What can I say, your pie is calling my name, sugar,” he grins and winks at you, hooking his thumb into the pocket of his tight jeans. 

“I’ll make sure to keep making it for you then, Jack,” you giggle and slide the fresh pecan pie from the shelf and into a carton. 

“I’ll be a steady customer for sure,” he says and reaches back for his wallet, handing you his card with a smile, “no other bakery has better pecan pie.” You fight the grin on your face as you charge his card and go to hand it back to him, but he gently takes your hand instead, pulling you closer to him over the counter, “And the most gorgeous baker to make them,” he whispers, his low voice rich and warm as you feel his warm breath slip over your cheek.

He gives you a wink and lets go of your hand, stepping back from the counter and letting the next customer step forward as he tips his hat to you. 

“What a charmer,” Mrs Levinson says, pulling your attention away from Jack as she puts her handbag on the counter. “But I always preferred a man in a suit, and a bit less forward if I may say so.” She wrinkles her nose at you, dismissing Jack as you try to stifle a giggle. 

“I think he was just the right amount of forward, Mrs Levinson,” you reply with a smile, “Would you like your usual order today?” 

“Yes please, dear. But add one of those Lemon Meringue Pies please. I’m going over to Mrs York’s place later,” she adds the last part with a sigh. “So sad, her son and his wife have just split up, they have two such beautiful daughters.” 

“Didn’t they divorce last spring, Mrs Levinson?” 

“Yes, at Easter, but he’s still single and she’s found some new man,” Mrs Levinson shakes her head as you place the pie next to her usual bread order, “he’s such a handsome boy, always wears a suit too, he’d be a real catch for you, my dear.” 

“I’ve got plenty on my plate already, Mrs Levinson,” you smile, thinking of Jack’s flirting and tight jeans, “I just don’t have time for any more right now.” 

“You have to let yourself have some fun too, can’t be all work,” the old lady scolds you mildly as you hand her the change and she puts everything away. “I’ll tell Mrs York to send him here for some time soon, I’m sure you’d like him.” She gives you a cheeky wink and waves goodbye, letting the next customer in line step up. 

The next time Jack comes by the bakery, he’s back in his sharp suit, and tips his Stetson at you with a wink as he comes up to the counter. 

“Seeing as I was found lacking last time, I thought it best to suit up,” he chuckles and you can’t help but roll your eyes as you laugh. 

“Mrs Levinson has a sharp eye for handsome men, but might be a little bit old fashioned,” you reply, “But I do like your suit, it’s very ‘you’, Jack.” 

“Thank you, sugar, I do like to dress the part for work,” he straightens his impeccable hat again. 

“So what brings you back here, Jack? You can’t possibly have eaten two whole pecan pies in just a few days?”

“I certainly could’ve,” he chuckles, patting down the front of his suit jacket, “but I was kind enough to share it with my colleagues and told them you have the best pie in town, and I think you might be getting more customers soon.” 

“That’s very nice of you, and thanks for the recommendation”, you smile, but Jack shakes his head. 

“Only telling the truth, sugar,” he winks, “and I’ve promised them to bring another pie tomorrow so could I trouble you?” 

“Of course, I’ve been making extra just for you, Jack” you smile and Jack’s face lights up, a wide grin making a dimple appear in his cheek as he rubs a hand over his neat mustache. 

“Honey, you’re spoiling me rotten, how can I ever repay you?” 

“Well, I’d say twenty-four, ninety-nine, but this one’s on the house,” you scoot the box with the pie over the counter towards Jack who’s furiously shaking his head. 

“You know I can’t accept that, sugar. You’re already undercharging as it is,” he says, pulling out his wallet from inside his suit jacket as you raise your hand to stop him. 

“Jack, if you pull out that wallet any further I’ll have to ban you from the bakery, it’s on the house.” 

Jack’s eyes go wide, “You wouldn’t?” he exclaims with mock horror as you nod emphatically. 

“Oh I would, Jack,” you grin, pointing to the door, “Now take your pie and leave that wallet in your pocket.” 

Jack shakes his head as he picks up the pie box, “I’ll pay you somehow, sugar, but thank you very much for the pie.” 

“You’re very welcome, Jack,” you smile at him as he carefully brings two fingers to the brim of his Stetson and gives you a nod. 

“‘Till next time, darlin’.” 

You do sell a couple of more pecan pies over the next few days and you wonder if your new customers are Jack’s colleagues as you add extra pecans to your online grocery order. Thanks to Jack you’ve gone through your stores of pecans in record time, and as you tap your pen on your notebook you toy with the idea of making variations of it for Jack to try. The jingle of the bell above the bakery door pulls you out of your thoughts and you look up. Your heart skips a little beat when you recognise the black Stetson. 

“Hey there, gorgeous,” Jack calls to you as he spots you in the kitchen, “I’m not too late am I?”

“Not at all, I’m closing in about five minutes, I’m just ordering next week’s groceries,” you wave him in behind the counter and he comes to the door into your kitchen, putting an arm up over his head as he leans on the frame. 

“More pecans?” he winks and you laugh. 

“How did you know? I’m running low on them, someone keeps buying all my pies.” 

“A few of my colleagues said they’ve stopped by and bought a couple of pies,” he says as you try to discreetly glance at his tall frame as he leans against the door post. He’s back in his white t-shirt and black leather jacket this evening, and the way the shirt rides up over the edge of his tight jeans as he stretches his arm, a sliver of tanned skin peeking out, has your mind going blank. 

“Oh, y-yeah,” you stutter as your brain slowly comes back online, “A very nice woman with short black hair and glasses came in and bought one, but it was busy and I didn’t get a chance to ask if she worked with you.” 

“Ginger,” Jack smiles, “she’s the one who asked me where I got it. Tried telling her I made it myself but, funnily, she didn’t buy it,” he chuckles and comes into the kitchen, leaning over your shoulder to look down at your notes, “What are you working on there, sugar?” 

“I was thinking of making some variations of the pie,” you say, “maybe one with a hint of lemon, or a bourbon chocolate one?” 

“Now you’re talking my kind of language, sugar,” Jack grins, tapping the ridiculously large belt buckle in the shape of a hip flask that sits on his belt. 

“Don’t tell me you actually have bourbon in that?” you ask, your eyebrows shooting up and Jack nods and grins. 

“Of course, sugar! Never know when I might need a shot,” he laughs, unclipping the hip flask from his belt and flipping open the top, holding out for you to smell. The rich, warm aroma of the bourbon wafts up and you inhale deeply.  “That smells so good, Jack, it’s giving me ideas!”

“What kinds of ideas, sugar?” Jack drawls, winking at you as he leans on your workbench, his eyes suddenly level with yours, all chocolate brown and warm. Your cheeks heat up as he takes a swig from the hip flask, his eyes never leaving yours, and then offers it to you. 

“Baking ideas,” you force out, almost jumping out of your skin as his fingers slip over your hand when you take the flask from him. The warm whiskey goes down smooth and warm, heating you up from the inside as it lands in your belly, and your eyes come back to Jack’s. He’s looking at you with a smile, one corner of his mouth pulled up as he takes the flask back from you. 

“Are you making me a new pecan pie straight away, honey? Because I absolutely have room for dessert…” he trails off with a quirk of his eye brows. You bite down on your lip to stop yourself from grinning like an idiot, little hot sparks are erupting in your stomach and they have nothing to do with the bourbon. Jack runs the tip of his tongue over the edge of his lip, catching an errant drop of whiskey and you follow the movement with your eyes, his plush bottom lip disappearing for a moment as he sucks it in, wetting it. 

“Cream!” you blurt out. 

Jack raises his eyebrows questioningly, “Cream?” The tone of his voice has dropped about an octave and there’s no mistaking the suggestion in his voice. 

“No! Yes! I-I mean, whipped cream, with bourbon, for the pie,” you flounder, pointing to Jack’s hip flask as his smile widens. 

“That sounds like the most perfect addition to your pie, sugar. Right now?” 

“Yeah, if I can use a few tablespoons of your whiskey?” 

“You can have whatever you want, darlin’,” Jack replies, unclipping the bottle again and handing it to you. 

“Grab the pie from the display case,” you tell him as you open the fridge to pull out the whipping cream. You hear Jack go back to the front and bring the pie back to the workbench, as you pull out a hand mixer and a bowl, he shrugs out of his leather jacket and hangs it on the back of your chair before he comes back to the table. The white t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders as he leans on the workbench next to you.

“So I finally get to see you in action,” he says as you measure out two tablespoons of whiskey from his flask before handing it back to him. 

“For about the two minutes it’s going to take to make this,” you smile and start the hand mixer. Jack grabs the bowl and holds it steady while you slowly start whipping the cream, adding powdered sugar as you go along with the whiskey. Soon the cream has transformed to pillowy clouds and you stop the mixer. You can smell the bourbon and so can Jack, he leans forward and inhales deeply. 

“This smells gorgeous, sugar, just the thing for the pie I think.” 

You giggle as he stands up again, a small dollop of cream clinging to the tip of his nose. 

“You’ve got some cream on your nose there, Jack,” you smile and Jack laughs, going cross eyed as he tries to spot it. With a swipe of his finger he catches the dollop and puts his finger in his mouth. 

“Mmm…delicious,” he says, grinning around his finger as you smile back at him, grabbing a couple of plates and a knife for cutting. 

“Should be even better with the pie,” you say, giving Jack a generous slice and then cutting another one for yourself before spooning the bourbon infused cream next to both slices. 

Jumping up on the workbench, you grab your plate as Jack takes a step closer, picking up his own piece. You swipe your finger through the cream on your plate, wanting to taste it without the pie first. But Jack beats you to it, his hand comes out and grabs your wrist, his calloused fingers closing gently around your soft skin as he pulls your hand to his lips. The wet heat of his mouth envelops your finger as he sucks it in, his tongue brushing over your digit, and you gasp. 

The sensation of his tongue running along your finger shoots electricity through your body and you exhale sharply, your eyes locked on Jack’s mouth as he studies your reaction. As your eyes come back up to his he lets your finger slip from between his lips, leaning forward and capturing your chin with his hand. He pauses for a second, waiting for your permission, and as you lean into him, he presses a soft kiss to your mouth. A low groan slips from him and the taste of bourbon and cream fills your mouth as he tenderly dips his tongue in between your lips. Your hand comes up to his shoulder to brace yourself, his hot mouth on yours making your pulse rase. You lean into him, needing to taste more of his mouth and his arm comes around your waist, pulling you close. 

“You taste even better than the pie, sugar,” Jack mumbles against your mouth, cupping your cheek with his large hand as you chase his lips. 

“You too, Jack,” you moan, letting him angle your face so that he can deepen the kiss, fervently licking into your mouth as he pulls you closer to his chest, your legs wrapped around his waist where he stands between them. His body is warm through the cotton of his t-shirt, his muscles moving under your palms as you explore the planes of his back. Jack lets his mustache tickle across your cheek, your jawline, as he slowly moves his lips with small, wet kisses, along your sensitive skin, trailing a path down your neck. His dark hair is thick and soft when you curl your fingers into the back of it, Jack tilting your head back as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his nose buried in your hair. 

“So sweet, darlin’,” he mutters, his voice muffled, “smells like butter and sugar.” 

“Come up here and kiss my lips again, Jack,” you protest, tugging light at his hair and he chuckles, inhaling deeply. 

“Anything for you, honey,” he replies, his big hand cupping the back of your head as he drags the cool tip of his nose up your neck and jaw, bumping against yours. When you lock eyes again he’s smiling softly, all the confident cockyness gone, replaced by warmth and affection. His lips part slowly as you pull him closer, his tongue teasing yours, making you lick into his mouth. 

He hums softly, his hand caressing your back, finding the divot of your spin and trailing his fingers up and down. In the quiet kitchen all you can hear are his low groans and your own gasps as each kiss traces sparks along your nerves. Jack’s fingers press into your back as heat builds between you, his hips slowly grinding in a movement so unhurried it’s as if he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. When his warm palms find their way up under your shirt, rough calluses stroking gently over your curves, you lean back, pulling him with you until you're flat on your back, Jack leaning down over you. 

“Gorgeous…” he mumbles, burying his face in the crook of your neck again, his hands pushing further up your shirt. 

“Oh no!” he suddenly exclaims, lifting his head up from your throat and holding up his hand, covered in mushed up pecan pie. 

“You’re on top of it, honey,” he laughs, helping you sit up, and you hear the plate clatter to the bench behind you. Now that you’re up, you can feel the stickiness against your back, and you twist, trying to see how much of a mess you’ve made. 

“Is it all over my back?” you ask and Jack looks over your shoulder and nods. 

“I’m afraid so, sugar, your shirts covered in it. Do you have something to change into?”

“No, I took everything home to wash yesterday,” you grumble, twisting your arm up behind your back and feeling the remains of the pie. 

“Here,” Jack says, standing up straight and swiftly pulling his own t-shirt off, “I’ll wear just the jacket, you take my shirt.” He holds it out to you and you hesitate, temporarily mesmerized by the sudden sight of Jack’s bare chest, tan and smooth with a trail of dark hair disappearing into his jeans.  

You swallow and pull your eyes up to his face again, “I can’t take your t-shirt, Jack.” 

“Why not? Take it, I’ve got plenty more, and I kinda like the idea of you in my shirt,” he winks and takes a step closer again, making you grab his shirt as he bends and places a wet kiss on your lips, “And this way, I can come by your place and pick it up. Or leave another one.” 

He grins as stands up again, “C’mon, sugar, take that one off and let me see you in mine.” He helps you by putting his hands back on your waist and pushing up under your ruined shirt. You peel it off gingerly, trying to avoid getting pie in your hair, and Jack’s eyes darken as you sit in front of him in just your bra. 

“Want me to put it on straight away, Jack?” you tease him as you watch him take in your shape. 

“No..but yeah, or we’re not leaving this bakery anytime soon, darlin’,” he chuckles, and you pull his t-shirt over your head as Jack sighs in mock disappointment. The soft cotton is still warm from his body and smells just like Jack, you have to inhale as it slips over your head. When you pop out from underneath it Jack is watching you with a small smile. 

“Beautiful,” he says softly, his hand coming up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you feel your cheeks heat up. 

“Do you want more pie, Jack?” you ask, pointing to the remaining pie and Jack’s eyebrows quirk up. 

“What do you think, sugar?” he smirks and you laugh. 

“I think you’ve got three empty pie forms at home and an extra hole in your belt.” 

“Not yet, but soon,” he grins, patting his small belly, “C’mon, sugar, let me drive you, make sure my shirt gets to its new home safely.” 

“I’ve got my own car, but thanks for the offer, Jack,” you smile at him and slip your arms around his neck again. “Come by soon, I’ll have more pie for you.” 

“Oh, I’m counting on it, sugar.”  

Part Nine

This week's recipe comes courtesy of @goodwithcheese who shared her own Pecan Pie recipe with me! Thank you Megan!

Megan’s Pecan Pie 3 eggs ½ cup/100g sugar 1 cup/250 ml dark corn syrup 3 tablespoons melted butter 1 teaspoon vanilla  ¼ teaspoon salt  2 cups/approx 250g chopped pecans Whisk together all ingredients except the pecans. Stir in the pecans and pour the mixture into an unbaked pie crust and bake for 40 minutes at 350F/175C.

 @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3  @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers 

[penvisions]

buckles and barley {new series masterlist}

Fandom: Kingsmen - The Golden Circle

Pairing: Rancher! Jack Daniels x Ranchhand! Reader

Summary: You seek out a secluded ranch outside the city limits at the behest of your ill father. In search of one of his old friends he had lost contact with after returning from a deployment and a catastrophic fallout. But instead you find the charming, dedicated, and rather handsome son of the man who had already passed, Jack Daniels. A night of bonding over the iron wills of your fathers and you find yourself falling into bed with him, only to be called away by the hospital that your father had been rushed too.

Devastated but free from the ties of your former life, you return to the ranch a changed woman. With the help of a man who holds his own grief, you learn how to tend to the horses and maintain the land. Together, you dance around each other as the seasons change. Cultivating a life that you never envisioned for yourself.

Wordcount: undetermined

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, death of a loved one, strained family dynamics, grief, implied verbal abuse, implied anger issues, allusions to past relationships, reader finds herself, reader takes control of her life, minor injuries, accident prone reader, allusions to infidelity, miscommunication, pining, mutual pining, protective jack, adult content, sexual content, smut, p in v, unprotected p in v, oral (f and m receiving), more to be added as the story develops!

A/N: excited to delve into this once {by the grit of sandpaper} is concluded. will be doing a little bit of a different approach with this one, it's a new pedro character for me and i wanted to try writing a majority of this one before i begin posting to help establish a solid posting schedule!

ao3 link || navigation || main masterlist || ko-fi

sneakie peek || fic teaser || chapter one header

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

V ║ Appaloosa

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 4: Strawberry Roan | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 6: Mustang }

Rating: E

Summary: You and Jack play house for a day.

Warnings: This is filthy, light angst, feelings, flirting, insecurities, sexual innuendoes, protected sex, fingering, dirty talk, language, mention of food, no use of Y/N

Word count: 2.9k

Notes: Cowboy Jack and his Darlin' are back. This is a bit of a transitional chapter as we move into the second part of the their week together, and shit's getting real 🥺 I know it's been a while, and I hope this doesn't disappoint ❤️

Appaloosa: An American horse breed best known for its colourful spotted coat pattern.

Jack can’t remember the last time he missed his alarm. 

When he slowly comes to, the room is quiet, the digital beep from his phone that you must have switched off but an echo in his ears. He exhales heavily through his nose and turns onto his side, where he finds you burrowed into your pillow.

You stretch languidly as Jack drapes his arm over you, warm and heavy, his bare skin finding yours under the duvet. His baritone rumbles in your ear. ‘Mornin’, darlin’.’

You smile as he presses a kiss to your temple. You mumble back, ‘Morning, cowboy.’

‘Sleep well?’

Shifting onto your back and blinking up at his face hovering just above you, you nod and let your gaze trail over his rumpled hair, his warm eyes, still hooded with sleep, and lips curled into a gentle smile. The morning light spilling through the window chases away the tailend of the chill from last night, and the air in the room is ripe with the musk of sex and slumber. You hum and pull him in for a chaste kiss.

‘Do the horses need feeding?’ you ask as he settles between your thighs, holding himself above you on elbows either side of your face.

‘No, I left the feed out for them last night,’ he answers, but stays still otherwise, as if he’s letting you take the lead on how this morning should play out.

You run your hands down his back, sliding slowly against his skin as you feel goosebumps bloom in their wake. Cocking your head to the side, you say, ‘So theoretically, if your guests don’t feel well -’

Jack’s brow immediately furrows in worry. ‘You don’t feel well?’

You shake your head, soothing your palms over his lower back as you reassure him, ‘No, I feel perfectly well. It’s just,’ you pause and bite your bottom lip. ‘Just theoretically - could we stay one more night?’

You can tell it’s not what he expected to hear, but the way his gaze darkens just ever so slightly doesn’t escape you. His voice comes out deeper when he finally says, ‘But we’re going to miss all the sights we were going to see today.’

With a slow nod, you reply, ‘I know.’

Jack shifts, taking his weight off one elbow so that his hips slowly but surely brush against yours. ‘We’ll have to take a shortcut.’

You don’t mean for your words to come out so breathless, but they do anyway. ‘I understand.’

Jack’s voice drops to a throaty whisper. ‘We’ll have to ride extra hard tomorrow to make up for lost time.’

‘How hard?’ you prompt, wrapping one leg around his waist, your breath hitching when you feel his hard length sliding through your folds.

‘Very hard,’ he breathes through gritted teeth, his large palms cupping your ass and squeezing greedily, pulling you flush to him.

‘How about I show you how hard I can ride, cowboy?’ You grin against his lips. ‘Will it put your mind at ease, sir?’

Jack groans and takes your lips in a searing kiss, rocking against your dampening core before pulling back to growl, ‘Not fuckin’ likely, darlin’.’

Jack’s never been one to cut work. Hell, he’d never even taken a sick day until his wife’s accident. After the funeral, he’d packed up his truck and headed straight into the woods, where he spent the entirety of three months in silent solitude in the depths of the forests.

Then he went back to work, and he’s never stopped since.

But right now, he can’t bring himself to care that he’s putting a blemish on his perfect record - not when his eyes are on your tits as you bounce on his cock, the pulse in your neck rabbiting under the scrape of his teeth when you throw your head back, nails digging into his shoulders and grounding him to the moment. In the back of his head, he hears the bed creak underneath, an off-key violin to the tune of your gasps and moans.

‘Fuck, darlin’, you ride me so well,’ he praises you, one hand coming down to smack you on the ass, which makes you stutter something incoherent as your pussy clenches around him.

‘Told you so,’ you somehow manage to reply smartly, prompting a growl from him as he thrusts up into you so hard that you nearly fall off his lap. ‘Jack!’

‘Just testin’ how well you stay on a buckin’ bronco,’ he sasses back at you with a debauched grin.

You bite your lip, hips desperately grinding against his. So close that your insides are trembling, you let his comeback slide, begging instead, ‘Do it again, Jack, please, gonna cum -’

He leans forward and presses a desperate kiss to your lips, his words catching in his throat as he feels you break around him. ‘Anythin’ for you, darlin’.’

Tequila’s battered truck rattles up to the Halfway House a few minutes after nine, the metallic grunts of the engine breaking the still of the morning. Jameson sits patiently on the passenger side, but his tail is thumping excitedly on the seat at the sight of his favourite playground in the mountains.

Whistling to himself, Tequila rounds the truck to let the border collie out, who bounds headfirst towards the paddock. Looking up, he grins at the sight of the three horses still in the stables.

Champ owes him fifty bucks, and he intends to collect.

He knocks anyway - his mama taught him manners - and he gives it a couple more tries before letting himself in, leaving the door ajar if Jameson wants to come in. 

The house is silent, only the floorboards creaking under his boots as he makes a sweep of the living space. Remnants of the night before are scattered about in wine-stained glasses, empty dishes and dying embers in the fireplace. 

He gotta give it to Jack. Man’s got moves.

Humming quietly to himself, Tequila pulls open the fridge door, the interior light flooding him in orange as he pokes his head inside, and his eyes light up at the half-eaten chocolate cake. He shrugs and reaches for it - might as well have a second breakfast while he waits.

And he doesn’t have to wait long. He’s just finishing up the last of his slice at the dining table when he hears movement down the corridor to the guest bedrooms. There’s a flush of the toilet and a trickle of water, then Jack emerges in just his jeans, head down while he does up the fly.

‘Mornin’ sunshine,’ pipes up Tequila, louder than he needs to. He enjoys the way the normally calm and collected cowboy jumps a foot in fright.

Rubbing his palm over his eyes, Jack groans and stumbles over his words. ‘Oh fuck. Sorry, I meant to call. Our guest - uh, she isn’t feeling well, so we’ll be staying one more night. So that she can - get better.’

Tequila crosses his arms, one eyebrow arched. ‘She isn’t feeling well, huh?’

‘Yeah, um - something with the food,’ mumbles Jack as he stalks over to the kitchen sink to pour himself a glass of water, which he downs.

‘Losing your touch in the kitchen, Daniels?’

‘Shut up, Teak,’ glowers Jack, steadfastly avoiding his friend’s gaze as he busies himself with moving the dirty dishes from the kitchen counter. He turns on the hot water and squeezes far too much washing up liquid into the stoppered sink. Grabbing a sponge, he begins to aggressively wash up.

Tequila watches with a pleasant smile and comments, ‘Funny choice of attire when our guest can walk in any moment, by the way.’

Spinning around with soapy hands, Jack opens his mouth, ready to make up another excuse - when his eyes alight on the box of condoms haphazardly ripped open lying in plain sight on the table in front of the other cowboy. 

Pointing what he hopes is a menacing finger at Teak - as menacing as it can be with suds sliding off the tip of it - he growls, ‘Not a single word from you, understand?’

Tequila flashes him a shit-eating grin. ‘C’mon, a thank you would be nice. I drove into town specially to get you those rubbers, you know. Did I get the sizing right, by the way? Not too loose?’

Jack resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. ‘How did you even -’

‘Like recognises like,’ winks Tequila.

Rolling his eyes, Jack turns back to the dishes and says, ‘Just get the fuck out of here before she wakes up.’

‘I can’t,’ he protests. ‘I gotta collect your dirty laundry and strip the beds. Bet I only need to strip one bed though.’

The front door whines on its hinges - it really needs a good oiling - as Jameson runs into the house, barking at the sight of Jack, who gives him a wet pat on the head. 

He freezes when he hears another door creak, but before he can sound the warning, you pad out of the corridor and into the living area in just his shirt, your eyes still squinty with sleep.

‘Did I just hear a dog -’ you stop abruptly in your tracks when you spot Tequila waving to you.

‘Mornin’ sweetheart,’ calls out Tequila with a two-fingered salute. He turns to Jack and pronounces, ‘Well, she hardly looks rode hard and put away wet, does she?’

You blink, your limited morning brain power preoccupied by Jameson, who’s shimmied up to you wagging his tail. Scratching him behind the ear, you try to muster a response to Tequila’s rather cryptic remark. ‘I mean, um, maybe not in so many words -’

Jack cuts in from across the kitchen. ‘Darlin’, do not answer that. It’s a southern sayin’ and he’s just tryin’ to wind you up.’

Tequila wriggles his eyebrows at you playfully. ‘Wind up the birthday girl? Never! Happy birthday, by the way. I’m guessing Jack showed you a good time?’

‘Get outta here, Teak!’

He surrenders with his palms up, vacating the kitchen table. ‘Alright, alright, no need to shout, Daniels. I’ll be back tomorrow then. If you decide to stay another night, just send a text,’ he pauses and gives you a suggestive wink. ‘We can always send a car to pick you up instead at the end of the week.’

Whistling at Jameson to follow, Tequila calls out over his shoulder in farewell. ‘Keep your saddle oiled and your gun greased!’

As the door shuts behind him, you burst into laughter. 

‘What the hell did he just say?’

The afternoon light filters through the half-drawn blinds over the bathroom window, casting shadows on the tiled floor that only grow longer as the lazy hours tick by. 

The water has long gone tepid, your plans for what was meant to be a quick bath alone derailed when Jack climbed in after you.

The condoms are in the bedroom, and neither of you are inclined to leave the tub, so he has you spread in his lap, your tits heaving just above the waterline. Bubbles cling to your nipples as Jack draws slippery circles on your clit, sucking hot kisses onto the side of your neck.

‘Harder, Jack. Mark me, please,’ you beg. His cock is hot and heavy in your hand, and you feel him twitch as your words hit home.

‘Yeah? Want me to fuckin’ brand you, darlin’?’ he growls into your ear before sucking on your skin so viciously that you cry out, thrusting his fingers into you as you start to cum. You stroke him harder, feeling him tense behind you before a violent shudder goes through his body, harsh breaths in your ear as he lets go. ‘That’s it, darlin’. So good for me, cummin’ so hard on my fingers like that while I mark you -’

You slump bonelessly into Jack’s chest when your high passes, and you tilt your head backwards so that he can kiss you fully on your mouth, tongues meeting languidly, your nails sliding into his wet hair to pull him closer.

Nose in your temple, he eyes the blooming hickey on the base of your neck with a deep grunt of satisfaction.

Jack’s voice is warm against the shell of your ear as he ambles up behind you, big palms leaning on the kitchen counter on either side of you. ‘Is it regressive of me to find the sight of you cookin’ very sexy?’

You smile, not looking up as you measure out the dried pasta. ‘It might just be that I’m wearing nothing underneath your shirt.’

You shriek when he draws up the hem to see that you’re not lying, ducking to press an open-mouthed kiss to the side of your naked hip before wrapping his arms around you.

‘What’s on the menu, chef?’ he asks, chin on your shoulder.

‘Carbonara,’ you answer, the ingredients you found laid out on the kitchen counter, along with the freshly cut parsley that Jack got from the garden.

‘With cream and peas?’ he asks dubiously.

You toss him a look over your shoulder. ‘Didn’t peg you for a pasta snob, cowboy.’

He chuckles. ‘I’m not sure who will want to wring your neck first - Poppy or the Italians.’

‘Good thing I can count on you to get me out of a spot of trouble, can’t I?’

‘Depends on how good that carbonara is,’ he teases, letting out an exaggerated oomph when you gently elbow him in the stomach in rebuke. He adds, ‘You didn’t have to cook, you know. I would’ve been happy to do it.’

‘You deserve a break,’ you say as you crack an egg for the sauce. You pause, the words caught in your windpipe as you hesitate. When they do come out, you don’t sound as nonchalant as you would’ve liked to. ‘And I wanted to show you that I can feed myself when you’re not around to cook for me, cowboy.’

It’s the first time any mention of what lies beyond this week has been articulated between you two. The air shifts, and for a split second, the unwelcome weight of reality suddenly looms over you, all-consuming - until you feel Jack shuffle on his feet behind you.

His calloused palms close over hands - you’ve completely overbeaten the egg mixture while your mind wandered - and you set the bowl and fork down, your restless fingers gripping the edge of the countertop instead. 

‘I have no doubt you will manage without me,’ he says, almost diplomatically.

But when his hands find your waist again, he holds you tighter.

Out on the deck, next to the stairs, stands a serious-looking telescope. Over the carbonara - a home run, by the way - you remind Jack he promised a couple of nights ago that he’ll show you the constellations. Warm from eating in front of the fire, you venture outside afterwards with just a thick blanket draped over Jack’s shirt, your legs bare from mid-thigh down.

But the cowboy’s not very inclined to keep his end of the bargain.

‘I could fuck you all day,’ he hums distractedly into your neck.

You roll your eyes fondly. ‘You have fucked me all day.’

‘I want to fuck you all day tomorrow, too.’

‘Cowboy -’

‘And the day after.’

 ‘Jack - ’

‘And the day after that.’

You know he doesn’t mean to, but your heart sinks at his casual mention of days after - how many more do you have left before it’s just… after? 

After this week.

After this trip.

After Wyoming.

After Jack.

You can hear the sands shifting. You can no longer tell the top of the hourglass from the bottom.

But you can’t dwell on that - not now. 

‘You said you’ll show me the stars, cowboy,’ you try to redirect the conversation as he slides a hand under the shirt and squeezes your breast. You arch into his touch - it is beyond your comprehension how your body is still responding after all that he’s tirelessly wrung out of it today.

‘Don’t worry, darlin’,’ he quips, his other hand delving underneath the layers to cup your bare pussy. ‘I’ll make sure you see stars, all right.’

Then he bends you over the white railing - the blanket discarded at your feet and your shirt hitched up around your waist - you faintly hear the clink of his belt buckle and the rustle of a condom packet before he’s pushing into your wet cunt. 

Your bottom lip stings as your teeth close over it, his fingers lacing with yours on the bannister as he thrusts into you. His moans fill your ears as you take him, his cock ramming into you so hard that you’re pinned to the railing on your tiptoes by the sheer force of his fucking.

‘You can be as loud as you want, darlin’,’ Jack coaxes. Facing the other way, you can’t see him, but you can almost hear his teeth grind as he fights to hold on. ‘Let me hear you, please, I need to hear you -’

He has you panting into the Wyoming night sky, the sweet sound of his name on your lips something that he will remember you by - months from now, when he sits on the porch on his lonesome, another cohort of strangers fast asleep in the bed that you two once shared on a crisp midsummer night.

Notes: It was so much fun writing Tequila into this chapter after Jack and Darlin' have had so much alone time together! I know this was quite a short chapter compared to what's come before, but I think a lot of my anxiety was actually coming from chapters running (which means more time and more editing), so I think we might be seeing more compact chapters from now on.

I'm thrilled to see so many new readers these few weeks, but I noticed that most only like the chapters. This is a gentle reminder that comments and reblogs are strongly encouraged ❤️ We writers put in so much of our free time on our fics, all we ask for is meaningful interaction to keep us going!

Horsey notes: I was googling Southern sayings that Tequila could deliver as a punchline, and ridden hard and put away wet was so perfect that I laughed out loud when I discovered it because it was so on-theme!

The phrase describes someone who looks unwell, and has a horsey origin. You never put a horse away wet if he's sweaty or washed down, they should always be towelled or brushed dry. This is covered in the last chapter when Darlin' scrapes Whiskey dry after hosing him down.

[tightjeansjavi]

ℙ𝕖𝕕𝕣𝕠 ℙ𝕒𝕤𝕔𝕒𝕝 ℂ𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝔽𝕚𝕔 ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕤 ♡

𝓑𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓽𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓫𝔂 𝓣𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓙𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓼 𝓙𝓪𝓿𝓲

𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 (+18) 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙖 𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙤𝙧, 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙤 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙞𝙧 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩/𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩. 𝙋𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙗𝙚 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙖𝙨 𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡.

ᴊᴏᴇʟ ᴍɪʟʟᴇʀ : ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ + ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

♡ @chaotic-mystery

dbf!joel series (Dbf! Joel Miller x f!reader)

Warnings: mature (+18) smut, fluff, implied age gap (legal)

If you are looking for some nasty, toe curling smut, look no further because Maddi has mastered the craft! dbf!joel is just so hot.

___

♡ @loquaciousferret

Country Lovin’ (pre!outbreakJoel Miller x F!Reader)

Warnings: mature (+18) smut, alcohol use

Master list for other Pedro works

Love me some pre!outbreak joel

___

♡ @mishasminion360

In an Instant (Joel Miller x fem reader)

Warnings: mature (+18) canon typical violence/angst/death

Master list for other Pedro Works

this story absolutely shattered me. Ripped my heart out and stomped all over it. Beautiful writing.

___

♡ @lovers-liability

Close Your Eyes (Joel Miller x AFAB reader) *series*

Warnings: mature (+18) mentions of death, smut/fluff

Jaw dropping, stunning depictions of finding love during the apocalypse

___

♡ @forever-rogue

The Locket (Joel Miller x Fem!reader)

Warnings: mature (+18) TLOU canon typical violence, language, angst, mentions of death

Master list for other Pedro works

absolutely heartbreaking read. I loved it so much, I went back for seconds.

ꜰʀᴀɴᴋɪᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴀʟᴇꜱ : ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ + ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

♡ @peterhollandkait

Everything I Know Leads Me Back To You (Frankie Morales x AFAB reader/ OC *series*

Warnings: mature (+18) addiction,angst, triggering themes, smut

Master list for other Pedro works

Frankie + Sunny = your heart getting crushed.

ᴊᴀᴠɪ ᴘ : ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ + ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

♡ @loquaciousferret

Little Games (Javier Peña x f! Reader)

Warnings: mature (+18) smut

Master list for other Pedro Works

One word: delicious.

ᴊᴀᴠɪ ɢᴜᴛɪᴇʀʀᴇᴢ : ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ + ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

♡ @mirasantidotes

Messy Annotations (Javi G x fem!reader) *series*

Warnings: none, tooth aching fluff,shy!javi G + sunshine! reader

Cutest shit I have read in awhile. Javi G is to die for in this one.

ᴅɪᴇᴛᴇʀ ʙʀᴀᴠᴏ : ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ + ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

♡ @fuckyeahdindjarin

Consent Series (Dieter Bravo x Intimacy Coordinator F!Reader)

Warnings: mature/explicit content (+18) smut, gloriously douchey Dieter Bravo

Master list for other Pedro works

Cee’s writing of Dieter makes me absolutely feral. I would let this man ruin me any day of the week

___

♡ @whatsnewalycat

psychomanteum (Dieter Bravo x F!Reader) *series*

Warnings: mature (+18) alternating POV, death, drug use, alcohol use, spooky stuff

Master list for other Pedro works

This story deserves to be in it’s own category to be honest. Totally unique, eccentric, a must read!

ᴊᴀᴄᴋ (ᴡʜɪꜱᴋᴇʏ) ᴅᴀɴɪᴇʟꜱ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ + ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

♡ @fuckyeahdindjarin

Palomino Series (Jack Daniels x F!Reader)

Warnings: mature (+18) flirting, eventual smut, lots horsey details

Master list for other Pedro works

Cee and I became pals after I started reading this story. As a horse girl/equestrian, Palomino just itches my brain in the best way. Oh, and Jack is pretty delectable as well.

ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɴᴅᴀʟᴏʀɪᴀɴ/ᴅɪɴ ᴅᴊᴀʀɪɴ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ + ᴏɴᴇ-ꜱʜᴏᴛꜱ

♡ @theidiotwhowritesthings

Familiar & Unfamiliar (din djarin x female!reader)

Warnings: mature (+18) attempted assault on reader (not by Din), canon violence, angst, fluff, light smut

Din Djarin Masterlist

This is one of my favorite depictions of Din. Protective, soft, and still a little dom. Chefs kiss

___

♡ @frannyzooey

Take Me To Church (Din Djarin x Fem!Reader Western/AU)

Warnings: mature/explicit (+18) smut on smut on smut

Master list for other Pedro works

AU anything is so good, but this one? Takes the cake. Absolutely delicious in the every way possible.

[creedslove]

HEARTLESS 💔 - FINAL CHAPTER

Agent Whiskey (Jack Daniels) x f!reader

Summary: A wedding, a new addition to the family and revisiting memories finally bring the Daniels family their well-deserved happy ending ❤️

(This is the last chapter of the HEARTLESS 💔 series)

• YOU CAN READ THE ENTIRE SERIES ON MY MASTERLIST

Warnings: a tad bit of angst (but not really, it's mostly just expressing emotions and revisiting sad memories), mentions of suicidal thoughts, fluff, brief smut (more like mentions of it), tension, talks of becoming a widow, Wyatt and his baby sister being the most adorable kids in the world, happy ending ❤️

A/N: it took me so long to get this done, I guess nearly six months, I don't know, I feel I sort of lost my way with this story, but I had to come back and finish our cowboy adventure, give them their happy ending. I love you all and I really hope you enjoy this chapter, I thank you everyone who has followed this story and showed me support through all these months of writing! It wouldn't have happened if it weren't for you ❤️🫶

12.6k words

Nothing could have prepared you for the reaction your cowboy had the moment you broke the news to him you were pregnant - or rather he found out about it by spotting the test boxes in the bathroom trash. You had been worried about everything, so many scenarios running through your head, always anticipating the worst and making you fear each single measure he could take. Just to have a grown ass cowboy on his knees before you, his face resting against your womb as he blinked away the tears that insisted on flooding those brown baby cow eyes of his. He just worshiped you, mumbling so many words you couldn't quite tell what they were, but the way he looked up at you, as if you were his whole world, made your heart skip a beat. It was a terrifying change, but you oddly didn't feel scared, not at that moment, not when you had Whiskey at your feet, showing he wasn't going anywhere, he was committed and devoted to you, to his family, a family that was growing, just like that tiny little seed in your womb, that was going to grow into a full baby, a blessing to that undeserving man, something he prayed for every single night, there was nothing Jack Daniels wanted more than to be a good man to his family, to be the husband and the father you and the kids deserved. 

The kids. 

He chuckled to himself at the thought of it, something that seemed just like a distant dream short days ago, was now a reality, the fact Wyatt was about to become a big brother, and the overwhelming love he felt for his son, also multiplying towards his second child. It was also terrifying to him, to love someone he hadn't even met yet, and how that could be taken away from in the blink of an eye like it happened to him before. He shook his head, squinting his eyes unaware of the tears that rolled down his cheeks, chasing those thoughts away. Nothing would happen to his family, you, Wyatt and the little angel inside of you would be just fine, because that was his responsibility and he would fight for it until his last breath. You felt his tears against your bare skin and a gut feeling told you exactly what he was thinking about, you didn't want him suffering for that, things wouldn't be as tragic as they were, Jack Daniels was a heavily traumatized man, who lived in fear of losing his family by not being good enough to protect them. You couldn't let your cowboy suffer in anticipation like that, so you pushed him gently, sitting on the floor to face him in the same eye level and stroked his cheek, the way his eyes were red with tears and he sniffed even if he tried his best to control his emotional reaction, reminded you so much of Wyatt, your son being the tiny little version of him. You placed your lips on Jack's forehead, then you went to his cheek kissing his tears away and finally to his lips, never breaking eye contact, at the same time he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you as close as possible, needing the reassurance only your touch could provide. You kept your cowboy so close to your heart, taking deep breaths and letting his presence sink in, finally realizing how much you'd missed your cowboy, spending days apart from him. You had been so deep into your own thoughts after finding out about the pregnancy you completely neglected the side that craved your cowboy with you. You wanted to hold him, kiss and make love to him, but at that moment, you could see the vulnerability in his eyes.

It broke your heart; Jack was a strong, fearless man towards anything that did not involve his family. He was able to take down dozens of enemies in a fight, he could face the most furious bull in a ring, he didn't fear death or pain when he was out in the world protecting a nation that didn't even know they were in danger to begin with, but he was not that brave when it came to his sugar and his son, and especially not once they added a baby into the mix. One could call him paranoid, but he was just not willing to take the slightest risk, it had happened once, it wasn't going to happen twice. 

"Sugar, I-” 

His voice cracked, he had tears in his eyes, threatening to spill at any given second, he wanted to promise you, word it out loud how hard he would fight for you, for your relationship as a couple, your upcoming wedding, he wanted to assure you you could splurge as much as you wanted, choose whatever made you happy, he wanted to throw himself at your feet like the dog he was, he wanted to cry and beg your forgiveness even if he had already done that before, more than once, and even if you, out of your superior state of grace, had forgiven him. He wanted to tell you he knew he wasn't worthy of you, but he wasn't strong enough to keep away, he wanted to swear you and the kids would be forever safe, he would do anything you wanted him to: quit Statesman, throw away all his lassos and whips, he would become a goddamn farmer if it were up to you. He wanted to thank you for bringing sense into his life again, for robbing him from those depreciating, suicidal thoughts. He wanted to thank, and beg and promise you, but he couldn't bring himself to say anything at all, all he did was blinking his tears, letting them run down his cheeks. You knew it, you knew it all, he didn't have to say it, you could feel it from his heart to yours. Caressing his cheek gently, you nodded, leaned towards him and kissed his lips once more. 

"I know cowboy, I know it” 

                               •••

The slight noise of crayons sliding through a sheet of paper filled your ears and brought your attention back to reality. You focused your eyes on the bright colorful shades that added a meaning to a confusing drawing Wyatt was finishing. A pillow under his bum so he could be tall enough to use the coffee table as his personal art table, while he glanced at his baby sister, Rosie, who rested in her baby seat and watched attentively her big brother's every move. The eight-month-old cooed and kicked her little legs, wanting Wyatt's attention back at her, their bond being as strong as it was the day she was born, he giggled at her. 

"Calm down, Rosie… I will continue the story in a minute” he said in his smart pants way and turned his head at you, knowing something was up. Wyatt was only six - proudly going 7 in a few months, but he was able to tell whenever you were lying to him. He'd asked if you were alright a couple of times in the last hour, and you'd said yes. But you clearly weren't fine. 

Dropping his crayons, he got up and walked towards you, bright brown eyes staring into yours and a comforting smile. 

“What happened, mommy?” 

“N-nothing happened, honey… why don't you go and keep telling Rosie the story… What story was it?” 

"The story of us before she was born…” he said proudly and you let out a chuckle, of course he would want his little sister to know her origins and tell her everything that happened in the months that followed your wedding proposal up to her birth. You allowed yourself to stop the mental torture and point at Rosie who kept cooing in order to have Wyatt talking to her as she loved. As much as the sight melted your heart, a heavy weight in your chest stopped you from taking another breath without feeling pain. Jack should have been there with you. He should be sitting right next to you, playing with his kids and giving you all sorts of dirty smirks hinting at what would go on in your shared bedroom once the kids were off to dreamland. But he wasn't, and you swallowed hard every time you thought about it. You hadn't lied to Wyatt at all, when you said nothing happened; because nothing indeed had happened, the real problem was that something should have happened. He should have declined Champ’s request for a last mission, and being the stubborn cowboy he was, when he got there, he should've killed his enemies straight away, he should have answered Statesman's official communication channels, and above all, he should have arrived home two days ago. 

You didn't get contact from him and neither did the agency, even if they actually sent Ginger to your ranch so she would keep you company and make sure you weren't lost in bad thoughts, even if she stood in your kitchen making you a cup of tea, always offering you dozens of stories in which Whiskey managed to save the day and showed up at the last minute, it still didn't work, quite the opposite, it made it everything worse. But you had to remain strong for the kids, there was no reason to spread panic, even if you were feeling panic yourself, you couldn't do that to them. 

You hugged your little boy tight, burying your face into his soft curls, and smiled, looking at your precious Rosie, picking her up from her seat and holding her gently. 

"Go ahead, love” you told your son and Wyatt smiled, giggling and tickling her tiny little feet. 

"So… after daddy found out you were a little seed in mommy's tummy…”

And at your son's sweet words towards your daughter, your mind drifted off to the memories he was taking so much pride in telling her. 

                             •••

“Honey, it's okay, I'm fine, our baby is fine” You'd told your cowboy for the third time but he wasn't convinced just yet, it had been a silly little accident and nothing more: you’d been playing tag with Wyatt and Jack outside when a chicken running lose crossed your path and your tripped over it. Thinking in retrospect, it wasn't silly, it was plain stupid actually, but the moment Jack saw you tumbling, he ran towards you as fast as possible, immediately lifting you up and placing his hand on your belly. The pregnancy was now two months along, and your soon-to-be husband was always in a state of alert, just like a guard dog, he wouldn't leave your side unless it was strictly necessary to, and at any slight glimpse of danger - well, his exaggerated conception of danger -, he would be ready to act. 

"Sugar please, you fell down, that's something pregnant women aren't supposed to do, let's just go to town, get you to the clinic, have one of those fancy ultrasounds exams and make sure everything’s fine. Afterwards, Wyatt can have one of those happy meals he loves and you can check up any remaining wedding details you'd like to” 

You both knew there was no detail you hadn't double checked in the month and a half you'd found out about the pregnancy. Your wedding was all set and ready to take place - a week from then, at the Daniels’ ranch. Everything was thoughtfully chosen, organized and done despite how fast things were going. However, the fear in that man's eyes made you nod and agree to his request. You knew you were okay, just as your baby was okay, but he didn't, not when his worst nightmare haunted him every single day, giving him no breaks or concessions; the horror of losing yet another child taking away his logical rational side more often than he'd liked. So you did it for him, for your worried cowboy. For the cowboy who wouldn't keep his hand away from your small baby bump and would pray silently for things to be okay. 

“Alright Jack, let's go” 

You gave in to his request and allowed him to help you climb up the Bronco, along with Wyatt safely tucked in the backseat just a few moments after he ran inside to grab you and himself a jacket. Your heart clenched with an overwhelming wave of love, your family was so perfect it didn't even seem to be real. As you watched the ranch become smaller and smaller in the rear mirror, Wyatt played with some dinosaur toys in the backseat, you noticed the cemetery entrance Whiskey drove by; the same cemetery Gabriella was buried with her unborn baby and that brought another pang towards your chest. You thought of her and her baby, and the joy and expectations she must've had, you thought of your own cowboy, and how hard it must've been for him to receive the news that destroyed his life. Placing your hand on your womb, you stroked it gently. You weren't worried until then, but the cold realization of what happened to your fiance, was enough to spike the doubt. Life was going so well for you, perhaps too well, and you worried at some point the good wave of luck would die out. Thoughts wandered, but a heavy hand rested on your thigh, snapping you out of your thoughts. Jack glanced at you, still keeping his attention on the road, but making sure to look into your eyes. 

"It's going to be fine sugar, our sweet little bean is here, safe and sound” 

You nodded thankfully for his words and tried calming down, knowing you'd be in town soon.

You could list the most emotional moments of your life: your first kiss, your first love, the first time you ever saw that pathetic handsome cowboy, the instant you fell in love with him, your first time with your cowboy, the first time you exchanged love words, finding out you were pregnant with Wyatt, listening to his first heartbeats and you could spend a lifetime listing all of those moments. So you figured the moment you heard your newest baby's heartbeat for the first time, you wouldn't become too emotional, but you were definitely wrong. The moment the loud heartbeat filled the room, your heart raced like crazy, looking around you saw your cowboy's eyes filled with tears, a sweet smile as he leaned in and pecked your lips gently, at the same time Wyatt's happy grin also caught your attention. The way he clapped his small hands so excitedly and giggled. 

“See mommy? Baby sissy is alright!” 

He said happily, as he was sure he would get a sister, and turns out, he was right all along. 

That night, after Wyatt was safely tucked into bed, Jack came over to you, a basket and blankets in hand, a shit eating grin as he cornered you and kissed your cheeks, before going south and getting to your neck. Goosebumps spread all over your skin, you knew exactly what he was thinking of and you couldn't help but chuckle. He was still your handsome, charming silly cowboy and you loved him with every fiber of your being. He didn't even need to say anything, just offering you his hand, knowing you'd take it without questioning and without further ado, you two were quickly running through the green grass of the ranch, escaping to your old getaway spot, the one you'd spend uncountable hours with your cowboy, just enjoying the sunlight or the moonlight, relaxing and hiding away from everything and everyone. The early stages of your relationship, where you didn't know if you and the cowboy would actually become something more than a steamy affair, before even dreaming of getting pregnant with his child and going through everything you did. You would both get into your favorite date place: the barn. 

Just a blanket to make things comfortable, some treats to nibble on and all the love flowing through your veins. 

"It's been so long since we came here” you told Whiskey, as he opened the door and welcomed you after him. He didn't say anything, not before pressing you against the wall and stealing a kiss. And that cowboy was hungry for you. The way his hands gripped your waist before roaming over you, his heavy breathing and a whole new discharge of hormones thanks to your pregnancy, got you so worked up, your hands sinking into the softness of his hair, his stetson lying on the floor at how fast your make out session started. 

"Missed you, sugar.. it was about time we came up to our good ol' barn, ain't it right? Just us… ‘cause mommy and daddy gotta have their fun” Jack's heavy breathing was so enticing to you, the way he hungrily went over to your neck and without you even noticing him, he had set the blanket on the floor, making it a cozy place for the two of you to lie down among stacks hay. Smooth dirty cowboy, must've done that a thousand times. If those barn walls could talk, they'd certainly tell the most explicit erotic tales, ones out of many that were actually starred by you. However, there was no place for jealousy of the past, instead you focused on the bright future you got ahead of you and the known fact you were now the only one going to the barn with your cowboy. No other woman would touch him but you, and that was priceless. 

By the time you were both finished with your round, all that was left was resting against each other's body. His arms firmly wrapped around you, short nails scratching up and down your naked back, at the same time you nuzzled his chest. His warm skin and his heartbeat, those small details reminding you it was real. Your happiness was real. Love overflowing you at all times and nothing could be better at that moment. As you shifted and lay on your back, Jack's hand immediately rested on your baby bump. It was still quite small, but you could both see it taking its shape, it was your child growing healthy and strongly inside of you. The mixture of you and the cowboy, the final proof your love was so abundant it flooded into something more. Whiskey's hand stroked your skin, a distant smile on his face, as so much went through his mind. He couldn't help but experience so many feelings at once: love, fear, excitement, regret, grief. All of that mixed up in the handsome mess he was. He couldn't wait to meet his sweet daughter, because just like Wyatt, he was also certain it was time for a baby girl Daniels to make her debut in the family, yet, he couldn't help feeling the bitter taste of regret, thinking of all the wasted time and opportunity he could've spent around you and baby Wyatt. Thinking of how he could've and should've been there for you and him. Your first pregnancy, how everything was so new and scary, how hard and stressful things were, how much you and your son needed him. He closed his eyes and silently prayed for forgiveness, trying to convince himself better late than never, which was true, but he could've been a better man. His mind also drifted to very old times, when he wasn't much more than a boy recently graduated from high school, a wedding ring shining and a beautiful, young and bright Gabriella expecting their baby boy. She was supposed to have gone to college that year, if she hadn't gotten pregnant, Jack knew she would've made a great lawyer, exactly like she dreamed of; he often blamed himself for robbing her of her bright future, even if he knew he would've managed to work and given her and their son the best life possible. It was a topic he discussed several times in therapy and grief counseling. At first, he was adamant about not wanting to do it, but Champ only gave him two options: either treat his old deep wounds, or leave Statesman behind and start over with no job, no money, no support. And he was being kind, because more than once Jack heard people telling straight up to his face he should be rotting in jail. The truth was that Champ was right, he needed to, he should've treated himself years ago, it made him understand and finally accept that no one was to blame, but the killers who ended Gabriella's and the baby's lives. It made him see, he had loved them with all his heart, but he was still alive and he was entitled to be happy, he shouldn't feel guilty about loving someone else, about wanting to build a life with someone other than Gabriella, and above all, he understood that his sweet Gabriella would want the same for him, because he was sure if he was the one who died that night at a convenience store, he would never wish her a lifetime of sorrow and grief like he led. 

"I think you're miles away from here, Jack…” your voice had snapped him out of his thoughts and brought him back to reality, just as your touch, fingers running through his hair as he chuckled and nodded. 

"Just thinking about life, that's all” 

"You know I love you, right, cowboy?” 

“I do, just as I love you sugar. With my whole heart” 

He pecked your lips and then got to your belly, his mustache tickling your skin as he left a trail of little butterfly kisses on your bump. 

“And I love you too, baby, with all my soft old heart, a broken heart fixed with so much love and patience by your beautiful mama, your handsome big brother and by you, because I'm sure you're daddy's little sheep” 

                      •••

"... So when you still lived in mommy's tummy, daddy called you little sheep, because you were too tiny to be a cowboy and also a girl” Wyatt giggled at his own joke and cooed as Rosie clapped her chubby hands. Your kids’ genuine happiness and innocence filled your heart with love and pride, and the fact your cowboy wasn't anywhere Statesman looked for him, only fueled the worst fears and thoughts you had going on. Raising your two kids on our own wouldn't be impossible, you'd done it before with Wyatt, you'd been strong enough to do it, but that was not the occasion any longer. You wanted your cowboy by your side, Jack and you were meant to be, you were married now and you wanted nothing more than to stay with him for the rest of your life, to watch your kids grow and grow old with him. You loved him with all your heart and that lack of news was driving you insane. Turning to Ginger, she simply shook her head, still no sign of him, and it pierced your heart. You wanted your sweet handsome Jack next to you, so you could both enjoy your family. 

"... And then Rosie, mommy married daddy and it was under the willow tree! Remember we played snowman last Christmas there?! Mommy looked like a princess! Mommy, tell Rosie you looked like a princess!” 

Wyatt tugged at you and caught your attention again, you kissed your daughter's head gently and then stroked your son's beautiful face. He was the sweetest child you'd ever met, he'd been your best friend for so long, you just nodded at his words. 

"And you tell Rosie you looked like a tiny little prince and walked mommy down the aisle!” 

“So Rosie…, Mommy and daddy's wedding was so fun! Let me tell you…”  

                            •••

The arrangements for the wedding weren't as complicated as you thought they'd be, not when you had Whiskey by your side, always willing to make your dream - and his, come true. No matter the decoration, the dress, the flower arrangement or the buffet. Anything was perfect for him, because at the end of the day, you'd be his forever, his wife, the mother of his beautiful children. You'd sign your name as Mrs.Daniels, just like Wyatt and your baby would. And he couldn't wait for that to become true. 

Taking advantage of the fact it was awfully warm for December, you both decided to hold the wedding at the ranch, where you could fit all the guests - nothing too much, just friends, some relatives, fellow agents on Whiskey's part, anyway - and all the other things implied by a wedding: a beautiful altar, a nice dance floor and all the great amount of flowers your cowboy insisted on you gifting you with, roses of course, he loved those as a little boy because his grandma and mama loved them, and it's a commonly well-known fact that above being a Mama's boy, Jack Daniels had been a grandma's boy, which only made you love him even more. He was a roses man, and you knew with all your heart that a little Rosie was growing up in your belly, the perfect mixture of your love and the cowboy's, just like your handsome, precious son Wyatt, was. 

The location chosen at the ranch could only be by the willow trees, such a special place for you and your family, it was bound to become even more special. It would be the place where you and Jack would exchange your vows of always loving each other and your family; it was beautiful. The directions were also perfect, the exact balance between simple and elegant. Nothing to be too much, just some fairy lights carefully placed on the trees, white chairs on the green field and several roses of all colors scattered all over the place. You'd always heard men didn't usually take part in those details, but your Whiskey couldn't be further from that; he loved spending every moment helping you decide what you wanted and giving some of his thoughts too. The cake tasting was also another happy occasion: Jack made sure to take you to the best bakery in town, you, him and Wyatt had the hard task of trying a little bit of every cake available in order to pick the right one for the party. You, trusting your boys’ fine taste, you let them pick the cake: strawberry and cream. Everything seemed ready for the two of you to tie the knot. The dress was also easy to find, you weren't picky, you wanted something pretty and comfortable, that would make your baby bump discreet and allow you to enjoy your special day. Taking Wyatt with you so he would help you choose the best outfit, you simply loved how attentive and sweet he was, all the time he clapped his little hands and giggles 

"You look pretty mommy!” 

That's what you'd heard the most those days. 

Your handsome cowboy on the other hand, had his suit completely figured out: after inviting some of the Kingsman agents, Eggsy sent your fiance a special fine tailored suit, the kind that fit your cowboy so perfectly and it hung tight to all the right places. He looked so good, too good it was almost impossible to be able to hold yourself back and honor the agreement you'd both made to wait until the wedding  to sleep together again. It was quite silly to do that, but you remembered being younger and reading somewhere about how having a dry spell a few days before the wedding could fuel the honeymoon even more. You and Jack decided not to travel for your special getaway, he was still very worried about your health, no matter how many times your doctor assured both you and him things were alright with mama and the baby. There was also the fact you didn't have anyone to leave Wyatt with as well, he was a kind and sweet child to be around, but he wasn't used to being away from you for more than just a couple of days. Your mom was completely out of the picture and you and Jack didn't really feel comfortable in hiring someone to watch your boy on such short notice. A couple of weeks at your ranch, enjoying the upcoming end of the year festivities, your family and taking care of your pregnancy didn't sound that bad at all, you were looking forward to it and each time you saw Whiskey, your heart fluttered, thinking of all the happiness ahead of you. 

Two days before your wedding, Wyatt woke up sneezing and sniffling, you had warned him not to spend too long around the river with his dad, you weren't certain what kind of vegetation was that, but it was enough to strike an allergic reaction in your little boy; and since Jack had been out to go fishing and Wyatt wouldn't leave his side for two seconds, it was understandable he didn't wake up feeling great, which made you give him some antiallergics in order for him to feel better. It'd worked to an extent, if it weren't for the fact the antiallergic your son got was the drowsy kind and it put him down to sleep through the whole afternoon, so without Wyatt's usual presence around you, always playing or asking millions of those thoughtful and creative questions, you took some time for yourself, relaxing and lying on the couch, waiting for Whiskey to be home. Your future husband was as excited for the wedding as you were, he couldn't wait to say ‘I do’ and finally be able to be your husband, and yet, you could still see there were some days in which Jack's mind wandered and he seemed so lost in thought. Or late at night, it wouldn't be rare to get up to grab a glass of water and find him looking out the window, silently and reflexively, just staring into the darkness outside the window. You hadn't asked what was going on, suspecting it had to do with something extremely intimate, and that didn't worry you one bit, your love was strong and your cowboy was devoted to you, perhaps it was something to do with those ugly thoughts he dealt with a while back; although he'd assured you he still went to the his therapist appointments regularly and things were much better in that sense then. Eventually, you felt your eyes getting heavier and heavier, and you ended up dozing off, your body fully relaxed against the comfortable couch and the warmth of the sunshine coming through the big window. 

The distant sound of the Bronco's engine wasn't enough to wake you up by itself, you were so tired, a combination of your pregnancy and all the rush you had been settling things, all you needed was just a couple of hours of extra sleep and you'd be all set. Your sweet cowboy knew that more than you did, so he just tiptoed his way into the kitchen in order not to disturb you. The cowboys sweet tooth was really making him lose focus, so he had to grab a slice of that delicious cake you'd made him; no matter how many times you'd told Jack he looked the same sexy cowboy as always, he was sure he was growing a soft belly, and that was certainly due to your great cooking and mostly baking skills. And yet, he couldn't care less about it. He would trade any abs and fit body in the world for the happiness of your shared domestic bliss. He was so absentmindedly eating his second slice of cake - it was just too good to stop in the first one, he didn't even notice you approaching him, only when you placed your delicate hand on his back he managed to turn around and give you a smile as best as possible, due to the amount of cake he was eating, so you just chuckled and shook your head

“Chew it slowly cowboy” you said sweetly and wiped some crumbles off his cheek and then went to his chest, doing the same with his shirt. His free immediately rested on your belly as he grinned. 

"How's the little cowboy?” 

"He's alright… I'd like to talk about the big cowboy, though” you told him and saw his puzzled face as you chuckled and wrapped your arms around his neck. Jack's body was so broad and strong, it simply made you always feel safe and quite turned on, although you couldn't get distracted by him. His arms wrapped around your body, heavy hands resting on the small of your back as he sighed, he hoped he wasn't in trouble, although he had quite a good guess what you wanted to talk about. He placed a peck on top of your head and looked into your eyes. 

“What is it, sugar?” 

"I want to know what's going on, cowboy… I know you're excited about our wedding, just as I am, but sometimes you just get so lost in thought, you wake up in the middle of night and underneath all that spark of happiness, I still see some melancholy underneath… I don't want to see you sad, Jack” 

He closed his eyes when he felt your hand on his cheek, the slightest caress was already so comforting for that broken cowboy; he was a screw up but he had the best intentions, all he wanted was to make you happy without having to worry about losing the three of you. You, Wyatt and the baby being much more than he ever deserved, he just wished he didn't worry so much about everything all the time. Taking a seat on the chair and pulling you to his lap, he rested his face on your cleavage, sighing as he wondered if he should actually open up and tell you what was constantly on his mind. What if you somehow misinterpreted what he meant?! What if you got angry with him and his over protection? So many things ran through his mind as he remained in silence for a few seconds, until once more that healing caress of yours snapped him out of his newest wave of melancholy, this time tangled into his messy hair, you could see the tension dissolving from his shoulders and how he was ready to talk. 

"I'm so happy with everything that's going on… our wedding, our baby, our cowboy Wyatt growing up stronger than a horse, I spent so long thinking I could never be happy in my life only to be the happiest man in the world. I'm so thankful to you for all of that, sugar. You made me a better man, you made me want to be better for you and our family and now we're welcoming a new baby into our lives, I can't help my excitement to do this with you, sugar, it's my dream coming true” 

The cowboy said honestly, this time he was the one who held your face between his hands, caressing it gently and being so delicate towards you like he'd always been. Still, you knew him, being sure there was a little bit more to it than just the pure excitement. 

"And…?” 

Whiskey licked his lips and gave you a sad smile, seeing nothing would go past you unnoticed, not when it came to him at least. He felt pretty happy and safe because of that, his heart warm at how sweet you were. 

“And my mind keeps taking me back to when I was young… All this wedding preparation going on reminds me of the first time I got married… how young and naive I was, how happy Gabriella got, and how hopeful we were when lil Jack was growing in her belly” he swallowed hard and lowered his eyes “please sugar, don't think I'm comparing you two or that I still love Gabriella in that way, but it makes me sad to think my boy could've become a man, a big strong cowboy, and his mama should be a hell of a successful woman by now. I know I discussed this hundreds if not thousands of times over the years, but their fate was just so unfair, and along with that, the fear of losing you and our beautiful little family the way I lost them starts creeping up in my chest and I just get so paranoid over everything an-”

You interrupted your cowboy with a kiss; touching his lips with yours, feeling the warmth of him irradiating onto you, the way his arms wrapped around you and he deepened the kiss, loving to have a taste of you, especially when his mouth couldn't make the right words, he knew his heart could, and above all, your heart could listen to it. And you understood it, you really did, it wasn't because Jack still thought of his late wife, not in that way, but he just couldn't help wondering what would've happened if things didn't go the tragic way they did. Your cowboy was a romantic and sensitive man, no matter what he tried saying or doing. You broke the kiss with a gentle smile and took his hand “come on, cowboy, let's go for a ride” you told him as you dragged him out of the kitchen, stopping midway just to let Helen know you and Jack would be gone for a while and she should keep an eye on Wyatt just in case. 

The walk to the stables was quick, as your cowboy didn't hesitate in going after you, still slightly puzzled as to why you decided to go out like that, but the moment he saw your smile, he went soft: he would do anything for you. You finally let go of his hand and went to Silver Pony, greeting her and petting her head, warming up his heart. Jack loved how sweet and kind to the animals he kept at the ranch you were, knowing you loved that beautiful horse, just as much as Wyatt loved his beautiful little pony, he frowned softly as he saw you getting the saddle and putting it on your horse. 

"I thought we'd agree you wouldn't ride horses for now, you know, to prevent stuff in case you fall or-” you interrupted your cowboy with another peck on the lips, knowing he wouldn't resist further than that. Smiling you shook your head slightly 

"You know, it's funny you don't want me to ride a horse but you do want me to ride a cowboy every single night” you winked as you saw a slight red shade crossing his cheeks before he cleared his throat “come on, Jack, I'll be safe, I'll be with you, you're the best cowboy in the world, the best I've ever seen, we'll just take a short ride and that's it…” 

And with your puppy eyes, you managed to convince him. Like you always did. 

And you were right after all, the ride was short and calm, nothing different went on, as you two exited the ranch entrance and took the small side road towards the fruit trees, the cowboy just assumed you were going to pick up some to make a dessert or something similar, but the moment you crossed the fruit path and walked a bit further, stopping by the cemetery, was when he finally realized what you'd had in mind. He did not see that coming, a part of him still tried to deflect him from considering that, but when he saw you getting off Silver Pony and picking up some flowers, it was the confirmation he needed. 

“S-sugar, why? Why are we here?” 

He asked as you took his arm and made your way inside of that holy place. 

"I think it's important, maybe this will ease your mind, Jack… I know how hard this subject still is for you, and I also know you haven't visited her in a while. I think it's important for you, and well, for me too, that way we can soothe these feelings that still haunt you, cowboy. Let's go, I do it with my heart open” 

And with your encouraging words, your cowboy Jack Daniels took your hand and walked towards his late wife's grave, knowing it was always a bittersweet feeling, but above all, necessary. He hadn't been there in a while, it was almost as if he'd lost the habit of doing so, not feeling that need of visiting them, not after he started attending therapy and realized he had to let his first family go, not after he realized he needed to fight for the family he had with you and that was the most important thing. Still, around special dates such as their anniversary or worse, the anniversary of their passing, he felt he had to honor them by showing up and leaving a couple of flowers. Jack was also aware that you visited their grave once and it warmed his heart. You took some of your time to acknowledge their existence in a substantial way and not treat them as if they were just his weird obsession. Once he realized you both stood in front of the tombstone, he took a deep breath. No matter if years and decades went by, the sight of their names written there always pierced his heart. He knew his relationship with Gabriella could've taken so many turns if she hadn't died: they could've been together until this day or they could've split up, they could still have feelings for each other or hate each other's guts, so many possibilities, none of them would ever come true, but what shattered his heart for real, was to think of his little boy, think of his little Jack, still so small and fragile inside his mommy's tummy, unlike Gabriella, Jack never got to hold him, never got to look into his eyes or caress his hair. Technically, it should've been easier for him to get over the loss of someone he had never met, but it wasn't, if anything, it was even worse, because he could never stop himself from wondering what would've happened. Would his son be good at school or get bad grades? Would be a mama's boy like Whiskey himself was as a kid or would he be rebellious? If he'd followed his dad's step and found his sweetheart earlier in life, there was a fat chance Whiskey would be a grandpa by then. 

But those ifs and might-have-beens were just spiculation. There was no way to know it, and not to descend into madness once more living off daydreams and made up scenarios, was that he seeked help. He was better now, better than he'd ever been, but at emotional times like those, it was quite difficult not to be caught in the moment, so he felt startled when you placed your hand on his shoulder. 

"Do you want me to go and give you some time?” You suggested as you placed the flowers on Gabriella's and the baby's graves, you had a gut feeling that moment was important for your cowboy, but now that you were actually there, you felt slightly dislocated, not knowing exactly what to do or what to say, it felt so intimate to be there, to see Jack's eyes fill up with tears, but instead of asking you for a moment, he tightened his grip around your hand and kept you in place. The two of you closed your eyes and said a silent prayer to his first family. You thanked Gabriella for taking care of your Jack and promised her you would make him happy, not letting him fall into his old depressive habits again; you also wished her and her baby's soul peace and happiness in heaven. Jack, on the other hand, prayed for them and for his new family, he told them he would always keep them both in his heart but it was time to let them rest, they'd never be forgotten or unloved, but the cowboy had another family to love and protect, he asked them for their blessing and he burst out crying when he spotted a blue butterfly on Gabriella's grave. She used to love butterflies and blue was her favorite color. It could've been a sign or not, he wasn't really sure, but the fact was that a weight seemed to be lifted off his chest at the same time he pulled you for a hug and thanked you for going there with him. 

Truth was: if roles were reversed and Jack had died that night instead of Gabriella, he would've wanted her to move on and find peace and love with someone who could truly make her happy, so he finally realized and convinced himself there was no reason for him to do that, his late wife would've wanted the same. 

                             •••

As Ginger got off the phone and paced the room, you felt your throat tightening with anxiety and worry; your chest was so heavy and the tears threatened to splurge from your eyes at any moment, there was still no sign of your cowboy and the way Ginger seemed tense as she whispered information with whoever was at the agency, only brought you even more fear of having lost your husband. You eyed the kids, who behaved perfectly and it pained you not being able to appreciate that, you wish you could sit down with them, talk and play, smile and hold them, but at that moment you were so unavailable, all you needed was to have some news from your cowboy, that was all you wished for; you wish you could hold him tight, you wish you could feel his presence, his warm, his scent all over you again. You craved your cowboy, your husband, and you couldn't even begin to consider the possibility of not having him anymore, at the same time those depressive thoughts were the only ones that crossed your mind. Wyatt complained about being hungry and as much as you should have gotten up and started making him dinner, you simply couldn't move yourself from your seat. Everything hurt and the way Ginger hung up and simply shook her head, signaling there were still no words about your cowboy, just shattered your heart. You discreetly dried a single tear and nodded at her, as you buried your hand into your son's curly hair - exactly like his dad's when he went a few extra weeks without a pretty decent trim. Even at your gentle caress, Wyatt still whined about being hungry, but seeing you were under no conditions of making them dinner, Ginger offered herself to make him some mac&cheese while Helen immediately stepped up to prepare Rosie's bottle. You thanked them and enjoyed a moment of silence as you were left in the living room by yourself. You shook your head thinking of things you couldn't actually change, but if you had that power you would've insisted him to stay, not to take that last mission, the future for the two of you along with the kids was just so bright, you had so many possibilities, he didn't need the money, he should've just stayed home with you. It should be a quiet evening, having a family dinner together, feeding and bathing the kids and then snuggling in bed, feeling those quick strong hands of his, roaming all over your body while those devilish lips whispered the most sinful things in your ear. 

If only. 

You sighed and got up, walking around the living room, stretching your legs and trying to control that huge sadness that seemed to have taken over you like a dark thick shadow that wouldn't go away. As you went to the window and watched it how the overcast sky had turned into a dark night, cold night, you saw the trees moving softly with the wind, which blew coldly through the leaves, you thought of how thoughtful Jack had become those early days before the wedding, how he would just stare outside and allow his mind to drift away, you knew now he had thought of his late wife and how things could've been different for her, you didn't want to think of that, because your troubled mind would wonder if you had really lost your husband already, if your worst nightmare had become true, if he would be reunited with Gabriella at that moment. So many ifs, as much as you fought that thought it didn't seem so distant which made you gasp and finally broke into tears. It was torture. Your heart was broken. 

When you looked out the window once more, your eyes were still blurred with tears, as you tried controlling yourself, knowing it wasn't the time for your kids to see your outburst, so at first, you didn't actually see that curious figure moving in the darkness, it wouldn't even make sense to you, no one could be possibly wandering around, the glimpse of a mysterious figured might've been confused with a hallucination, but not the sound of a horse's hooves approaching the house. That was very real, you realized, the moment you raised your head and frowned trying to see exactly who it was. It wasn't possible, was it? The thing you'd been praying for the most for the past couple of days, had you fallen asleep? Were you dreaming? You wouldn't be able to tell, not with that anxiety bombing you completely making you feel as if your heart was about to beat right out of your chest. Not holding back anymore, you simply ran to the front door, opening it and rushing towards the knight in shining armor coming back home to you. 

"Jack!!!” You screamed at the top of your lungs, your face filled with pure emotion as your depressing, pained tears were quickly replaced by happy ones, the relief you felt was enough to spread through your body and make it weak, having the sensation you could reach the ground at any moment, but there was no problem, your cowboy was finally back home.

Noticing you, your despair and your eagerness to see him, Jack immediately got off the couch and finished the path towards you by running. Welcoming you into his eyes, you jumped on him, crying and gripping his body against yours as if your life depended on it. You cried as you felt his hands running up and down your back, the way he whispered sweet little soothing words, reminding you he was finally safely home. You couldn't believe it, one moment you felt terrified you'd have to move onto a sad, depressing life without your cowboy, and then next, he was right there, for you. You also knew he was tired, hungrily, bruised and in need of a shower and certainly a lot of Ginger’s painkillers, but you allowed yourself to be a little bit more selfish and keep him to yourself, holding your husband and taking every bit of him.

"It's okay sugar, I'm home… it was the last one, I promise you, from now on, I'm retired Agents Whiskey, no more leaving my family behind to risk my life for others” he promised you with his whole heart, not being able to take your sadness at the realization of how much you'd suffered with him gone. He couldn't do that to you nor your family, he had priorities in life, and they would always be you, Wyatt and Rosie. 

The way Jack kept you in his embrace, face buried into your neck, your sweet scent reminding him of home and showing him that just like you, he wasn't dreaming, he was indeed back home from a mission he didn't die for a true miracle, his heart calmed down. You could've stayed in that embrace forever, it was all your heart begged and ached for, nothing more or nothing less, and the only thing that was able to break that hug was when Wyatt's voice shouted a happy “daddy!!!” at the top of his little lungs, followed by Rosie's cooes and loud baby noises, the cowboy's eyes filled with tears at that scene. It wasn't just his sugar, it was also his kids claiming for him, his family who waited hopefully and patiently for him to come home to. He opened his arms to them, Wyatt running as fast as his favorite horse and Rosie being brought in by Helen, but it didn't take very long until she was in her daddy's arms, cooing and gripping his cheeks like she always did while he kissed her sweet face. There was no reason to cry or be sad about stuff, the Daniels were reunited again. 

                            •••

The next couple of hours went by in a blur, you felt anesthetized at everything that went on, and while Jack had to sit down with Ginger - and Champ who arrived about an hour later and got them all locked into your cowboy's office, Helen insisted you to take a bath, followed by a calming herb tea, while she kept an eye on the kids for you. 

You never really knew what went on during the mission, it was top secret after all, the only thing you were informed about was that the mission was dangerous, but a success, and Jack Daniels, now retired and former Agent Whiskey had been a hero. As a thank you for all the years of service, Champ gifted your husband with a significant part of the Statesman's shares, which would assure you and your family a comfortable future to put it mildly. Not only that, but he also offered your cowboy his CEO job, not the whole chain, but from the local factory, which meant he didn't have to drive more than just a few miles until the distillery, sit down at his desk, get his demands done and come back at the end of the day to see his beautiful family. It certainly brought you a big relief, your cowboy would be safe and sound and your kids would grow up with their dad around. 

Once everyone finally went home, Jack had clarified all the professional details, he was able to shower, eat and have you take care of his wounds, stitching him up and patching him up, he was finally good to go. Of course, he had a 5 o'clock growing due to the days he was unable to shave, but he would have enough time for that. The important thing was that the four of you lay on the couch of your living room, relaxing and letting the calmness sink in. Your cowboy sighed relieved as he rubbed your arm up and down, at the same time the kids yawned but fought so hard their sleep. Wyatt was rubbing his little eyes, and yet, he didn't want to go to sleep at all, his tiny little hands caressed Rosie's thin and soft hair, the one that smelled like strawberry baby shampoo and he loved it. He giggled at her, who returned her big brother's affection by giving him a sweet gummy smile.

"Mommy, daddy, can I continue telling Rosie about the wedding?” Wyatt asked between yawns as Jack chuckled and nodded, his fingers toying with his son's soft curls, the feeling of his feeling surrounding him was better than anything he'd ever experienced before. 

"Go ahead little cowboy, just don't forget telling your pretty little sister how beautiful mama was” 

At his daddy's incentives, Wyatt let out one last long yawn and looked at his sister. 

“So, Rosie… about mommy's and daddy's wedding. Mommy was so pretty!” 

                           •••

The unusual warmth for December allowed you to have the wedding of your dreams: right by the willow trees, just as you had fantasized about since you were just Whiskey's girlfriend a few years back. Time flew by just as a lot of things between the two of you, things that had finally been settled and worked on, and your happy ending was near. You stared at yourself in the mirror, in awe at the fact the wedding dress suited you way better than you thought it would. It was a relief, as your pregnancy progressed, one of your bride's fears was not fitting into your special dress on your even more special day. Luckily, that wasn't the case. Everyone who helped you get ready, had been nothing but kind and honest, when they all told you you looked beautiful, but none of these compliments were nearly as heart warming as your son's, whose little eyes got brighter the moment he spotted you. He had insisted on getting dressed along with his dad, since he was convinced cowboys should help each other, but once he was ready in his adorable cowboy attire, he insisted on helping his mama this time, after all, you two had been best friends for a long time, so it was fair he would be by your side. Not only that, since he'd been officially invited to walk you down the aisle, Wyatt had noticed how important his task was, and he didn't want to do his mommy dirty, he wanted things to be perfect, so once he rushed to you, you simply got on your knees to hug your little man. In a way, if it weren't for him, none of that would be happening. 

"You're beautiful, mommy!” 

There was something Wyatt wasn't tired of saying, perhaps it was all the kindness you had in your heart you used to raise him well, or maybe he was just taking after his dad in being a charming cowboy, it was still too early to figure it out, but what really mattered for you, was how proud you were of the little human being he was becoming. Those were motivational things that assured you things were on the right track, when it came to raising and loving your family. As you twirled and your son clapped in excitement, he giggled and wrapped his little arms around your legs once more, not containing his urge of hugging his mommy once more. It never crossed his witty mind that it could wrinkle your beautiful dress in any way, but if you were being honest, neither did it go through your own mind. You'd never refuse any of your beloved ones’ caresses out of fear of wrinkling a piece of clothes. Things were perfect the way they were, you couldn't want anything more for the three - well, now four, of you. 

"Mommy! Daddy’s so nervous! He can't wait” Wyatt whispered between his giggles, not sure if that was gossiping or not, but he didn't see any harm in telling his mommy about important things like that, and those were important to him. You chuckled and held him again, placing a peck on top of his head and nodding. 

“Well, I'm nervous too… it's a dream daddy and I have, you know? It's coming true… it's like having so many butterflies in your tummy, kinda like when it's your birthday and you can't wait, that's all you can think of and you feel as if your tummy is funny but in a good way?!” You explained to him the best way you could, a way you knew your son was going to understand and you couldn't be happier about the face Wyatt was so damn smart. Good thing both your and the Daniels genes were a good mixture, because he took you by the hand with his smaller one and nodded. 

“It's time mommy!” 

The walk from the house to the willow trees didn't seem to be that long before your wedding day, you could've sworn things were a lot easier than they seemed at that moment, but each time you looked at your son's pure determination in taking you to his daddy, your heart calmed down. You figured your husband was as nervous as you were, but not only that, he was probably as happy as you were too, and in addition to it, he must've been so handsome. You just didn't expect him to be that handsome. So handsome that the moment you reached the willow tree path, everything seemed blurry and not so important. The decorations you knew were beautiful, the fairy lights on the trees, the roses all scattered around, the guests, all of your friends, fellow agents and important people who took part in your lives, all of that simply came second the moment you spotted your cowboy. Jack was so handsome, the gorgeous, flawless suit he'd been gifted by Eggsy and the Kingsman simply fit him like a velvet glove, perhaps it was that, or the way he took off his cowboy hat in respect at your entrance, knowing you should be the spotlight, after all, you were the bride, just not any bride, you were his bride and that was enough to make that old mushy heart beat nearly out of his chest. It was like nothing existed at that moment except you and him, and once the song played and your son took you by the hand, accomplishing the very expected task given to him, you could barely believe that was real, but it was, and you were marrying your cowboy. 

As you stood in front of your fiance, you swore you never felt such a stronger wave of love for him. You both had gone over so many things, but in the end, love overcame it all and there was no other way things would be like, you and him would finally be together, married, before the men and before God, forever and ever. 

"You look gorgeous, sugar” he whispered and took your hand, kissing it gently, before he turned to the priest and you did the same. The ceremony was short and full of beautiful words, exactly like you and Jack wanted. No boring services where you both and the guests would fall asleep halfway towards it. Your cowboy always defended the idea of small ceremonies and large parties, and you couldn't agree more. When you were both pronounced husband and wife, he kissed you, and you returned the kiss, the way he held you in his arms showing you it was real and meant to be, oh that cowboy meant business. But he didn't just stop there, once he broke the kiss, he got on his knees in front of you, like the gentleman he was and pecked your stomach very gently. An obvious and yet extremely delicate way of breaking the news to the world there was a new member of the Daniels family on their way. 

                             •••

As you carried an asleep Rosie into your eyes while Jack did the same with Wyatt - your husband was a gentleman, he carried the heavier one so your back wouldn't hurt - he couldn't help but chuckle. 

"He fell asleep before telling her about our wedding party, that was a good one” 

"And he couldn't even get to her birth either, but don't worry Jack, I'm sure we'll all be gifted with his version of the facts, all they gotta do is recharge their batteries for a little while and they'll be good to go, way better than us, by the way, because I'm exhausted” 

"Me too, sugar” 

Your cowboy planted a sweet peck on your lips, watching as you placed Rosie carefully in her crib and covered her up, tucking your gorgeous daughter in and allowing her to fly into her sweet dreams. Then, it was your son's turn, you followed Jack into Wyatt's little cowboy room and watched him do the same, tucking your son gently and wishing him sweet dreams with the loveliest whisper and closing the door behind him. And then it was just the two of you, finally the two of you. 

As Jack took you to your shared bedroom, you could already see a hint of sadness in his eyes. He was sure you were about to enquire about what happened on that mission, but the only thing you did was approach your cowboy carefully and slowly and kiss him. Feeling his heavy hands resting on your hips as they brought you closer to him at the same time you wrapped your arms around his broad width. Things didn't have to rush, not now, not at the moment where you were so deep into his caresses. As he broke the kiss, you stroked his cheek. 

"I know, Jack. I know you aren't supposed to talk about what happened on that mission, I'm aware it's top secret, but I also know you nearly died, so I just want to tell you I'm thrilled to know you aren't doing it again, I'm so happy you've finally retired, that way I don't have to worry about not having you coming back home to me, and well, us, your kids, your family. I just love you with all my heart, and I don't think I'd bear becoming a widow…” 

Your lips were immediately connected with his, as he felt the urge of kissing you once more, the way your words stung - because he knew you were correct, he knew missions were getting more and more dangerous, either that or perhaps Jack was becoming too old for that. But he also knew he had no right to screw things up, not when you two had built a gorgeous family, he didn't have the right to take that away from you by letting you become a widow, and god forbid Jack die before enjoying his marriage and kids. It wouldn't be fair, not after everything you two fought so hard for - still, your words melted his heart all at once, he loved you endlessly, more than anything in the world, and he wished he knew how to word that out for you, so a gentle kiss was the best he could come up at that moment. 

“You won't lose me, sugar. I promise you that much, you got all of me, I am retired and I'll be around so much you gonna get tired of my face all the time” 

“I doubt that, cowboy… I love you” 

"I love you too, my beautiful sugar. You're the woman of my dreams, my beautiful wife” Jack kissed your hands as he wrapped his arms around you, placing you down the bed and straddling you. He was having his way with you that night, something the two of you anticipated so much. There was nothing you wanted more than to sink into your cowboy's arms. Forever. 

                            •••

What Wyatt failed to tell his little sister before the two of them fell asleep exhaustedly wasn't the biggest part of the story, but you were sure he would've told her how good the yummy food was - and that he was the one who helped you pick it all up, and in case you and their daddy decided to get married again, for the party purpose of course, and nothing remotely similar to a breakup, Wyatt was sure you'd call Rosie for her help too. He would also tell her about how pretty it was to see the two of you waltzing, exactly like a princess and a prince, and how you and his daddy danced with Wyatt on the dance floor until he was too tired to remember what happened next. For the following months, there was nothing more than just pure bright happiness in that ranch. Wyatt started school, he was still in kindergarten, and as much as you and Jack were proud of your little boy, you could've sworn you saw a single tear run down your tough cowboy's cheek. He was thinking of how many important things he'd missed from his son's life, but that wasn't going to happen again. He was a present dad, the kind of person to attend any type of teacher-parent conference and be there all the time for his kids. He loved them with all his heart, and with the months progressing along with your pregnancy, Jack had stayed by your side at any given opportunity. He loved you, and he loved his baby girl, and every single night he dreamed of her; he dreamed of her sweet face, a face that resembled yours, as well as Wyatt's, and even resembled his own. He wondered what her hair and eye color would be like, and as he saw your pregnant belly swollen with his baby, the love seed he planted there, it also made his own heart swollen with pride. 

When you woke up cramping and soon enough your water broke, he felt he had won the damn Superbowl, driving you to the hospital in his Bronco at the speed of light and later on having Helen pick up Wyatt from school and take him to the hospital. By the time your lovely little cowboy was officially a big brother to your newest bundle of joy: Rose Marie Daniels. 

Although Wyatt insisted on calling her Rosie because he thought it was cuter and the nickname sort of caught on. If you usually went by ‘sugar’, your husband and son went by ‘cowboy’, why couldn't your beautiful daughter go by ‘Rosie’ after all?

And so went on your life as a married woman to the man of your dreams and your two beautiful children. There was nothing you could ask for, you had it all, and you loved every single part of it. 

                              •••  

A whole year had passed: your cowboy had finally gotten used to his retirement, out go super secret dangerous missions, and in come mornings spent at the distillery, supervising the production of the finest Statesman's liquor, afternoons spent taking care of the ranch and carrying Rosie all over, as the two of them waited eagerly for Wyatt to come home from school. You had talked to your husband about daycare, he knew it was quite a good idea, his baby daughter was smart and fast as a thunder, but the mere idea of sending her off to spend the whole day away from him was enough to tear his heart apart: he couldn't go without watching silly little cartoons, or making  cute piggy tails on her soft hair and allow her to take a daily nap on top of his chest and belly. She was almost turning two, and as much as it mesmerized him to see her blossoming and growing up so fast, it still saddened him to see how fast time flew by. He was getting a third kid fever, but he wasn't sure if it was happening; maybe it was, he still needed to talk to you about it, but those were later plans, he still had so much to do with his life, with his family, he wanted to enjoy Wyatt, who was now nearly turning 8. His beautiful Rosie was practically a toddler now, and there was nothing more he enjoyed in the world than picking up Wyatt from school and letting the kids run loose with you in the green fields while he grilled his famous burgers. Those were special days, because they had nothing elaborated in them, just a family moment among the Daniels, something the brokenhearted cowboy thought he would never get, but turns out he did. He deserved it all. After trying so hard to convince himself he didn't, after trying to convince himself he was just a heartless man, he was shown he wasn't a horrible human being as the two of you had thought several times. You two had come along a long way, but in the end, things had worked out, because your love was big and strong, and nothing in the world could come between you. 

As you watched Wyatt and Rosie playing with Silver Star, you walked to Jack, wrapping your arms around his body and kissing him deeply. His face was smooth as always and his mustache always trimmed, just as you loved kissing and riding quite often. You smirked at him and snuggled him.

“So, have you made up your mind, honey?” 

"About what, sugar?” 

“You know, running for mayor in this upcoming election..” 

You and Jack had discussed it, more likely drunkenly discussing the possibility, you didn't know if he had actually meant that, but you knew your husband well enough to see that fire in his eyes and the genuine will to help the ones in need and give it back to the city that took him in. He returned the smile and kissed your neck, warning a groan from you. 

"I still don't know, I think of it sometimes, it would be nice, I know I'd have support from you, the kids and quite a lot of people in town, but I worry it would make our lives too exposed you know, and I don't want that, I love our life the way it is, how happy and calm those kids are, I don't know about mixing up things…”

“Well, I want you to remember I love you and I'll support you no matter what. I gotta admit it makes me feel a little nervous to have this possibility of getting into politics and having our lives changing completely, although I'm sure I'd love to call you Mr.Mayor” 

And at that naughty line, you earned a smack on your butt, making you squirm softly and see your cowboy really enjoyed the nickname, even if he didn't try running for mayor. Still, there was something else you knew he wanted, it could be a future plan too, but it wouldn't hurt to talk about it. 

"You know, I was thinking that maybe in the near future, we could have a third baby… what about adopting this time?” 

And your cowboy's heart nearly exploded with happiness and excitement. There was nothing he wanted more than seeing his family grow. No matter if it was by blood or simply by love, for a man who bought a ranch to fill it in with broken promises and lost dreams, nothing made him happier than to see his family running all over that place with so much joy and excitement. The happy giggles and squeals, and to think that could even grow, it was just an endless bliss, the kind of bliss Jack Daniels, former Agent Whiskey had to pinch himself and make sure he wasn't asleep, but instead, it was his lovely, beautiful reality. 

"Daddy!!! We're hungry!” 

Wyatt chimed in as he ran to him, followed by Rosie, who clung to her dad as if her little life depended on it. 

"Yes, daddy, we’we hungwy!” She imitated her big brother, still not able to pronounce the R’s properly and making her daddy's heart melt into a puddle of love and affection. He got on his knees, wrapping his arms around his children. He loved them with all his heart. Just as much as he loved you, deeply, more than anything he had ever loved anyone. 

Jack Daniels, former Agent Whiskey, a man whose heart was once broken, was now a man full of love. He was devoted to his wife and his beautiful kids, nothing in the world mattered more than them and for someone who had been known as a heartless man, he was nothing but love and comfort for you, Wyatt and Rosie. 

The four of you were perfect for each other and maybe in the near future, there would be another addition to the Daniels, but until then, that cowboy was going to devote himself completely to you. 

He wasn't ever called a heartless man again, not with that amount of love he felt overflowing through himself. He loved and he received love, just like he was supposed to, just like he deserved it. 

____

A/N: thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you all for the kindness and the support you all showed me with this story. It's been nearly a year of what should've been just a one shot and turned into a 20 chapter piece of work! I'm so happy and proud of myself for being able to write this beautiful story, nothing cheers up my heart more than knowing you all showed me so much love! Please besties, it's been a long ride, so if you can, leave me a feedback for our cowboy's last ride, I hope you've enjoyed it, as much as I did! Love you all and once more, thank you for the support ❤️💫

[almostfoxglove]

pedro pascal cinematic universe aus 15/?

the one where jack daniels writes from the front lines. (insp)

[lady-bess]

A Lady Bess announcement!

Bess is back in their writing nook, and things are about to take a turn! There is a new series on the horizon!

Well, this one might be a little too niche, but oh well! I need my boys together in the same universe somehow.

"Lost in the West" - a Doctor Who x Kingsman crossover (11th Doctor/Jack Daniels/Reader) is in the works! (Rating TBC)

For those of you who are new to my blog, or haven't had the misfortune of me talking your ear off about it, I grew up with Doctor Who. I got into it with 9, adored 10, and I would go on to really enjoy 12. But 11? Dear readers, I fell in love, and I fell hard. Rumour has it I still haven't got back up, fourteen years later.

*whispers* the rumours are true

Writing for the Doctor Who franchise is actually how I got started with fic writing. When I was 13 I wrote a full Wattpad story on my iPod Touch Gen.2 (a blast from the past, am I right?), but it would be another six years before I started on A03. Before I was LadyBess, I was MrandMrsDoctor, and I uploaded a handful of stories back in 2018.

Some of them didn't live to see today - I used to write RPF for the cast, and while I think some RPF definitely has its place from an artistic standpoint, mine did not age well at all. It wasn't anything crass, not by a long shot. But those stories no longer reflect me as a writer.

But, the rest remain! And I'd like to dip my toe back into writing for Doctor Who/11 specifically - I revisited the franchise in November with my story "Run", and it was lovely to see it get some traction. Also good to know I don't just write for Kingsman 🤭

So, what will this story entail?

Well, we're still in the rough draft stage at the moment, so I can't give away too much. This post is just to get y'all excited! But let's just say that there'll be a trip to a small town in the American West, and we'll meet a very familiar looking cowboy...

But what will happen when your time is over, and you're supposed to leave?

I'll do posts about this as it develops more! As with Fallout, I'll personally want to have written a good amount of this before I start publishing. But updates and artwork will start arriving soon!

Like what you just read? Drop me a follow! And if you want to read something from either the Kingsman or Doctor Who franchise in the meantime, check out my Masterlist! All my Doctor Who fics still live over on A03 only, but they're in my Masterlist nonetheless.

With love, Lady Bess xox

[blehcupidd]

Hello Gorgeous

Agent Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels x Wife!reader

Summary: Your husband, Jack, has been out on the field recently. He was constantly travelling around the globe, leaving you and your four year old daughter on the ranch.

Warnings: fluff, angst but not really, no use of y/n, hottie cowboy is your husband, grammar and spelling mistakes (I'm dyslexic), you have a 4 year old daughter called Sophia, after the events of Kingsman Golden Circle, Jack isn't meat ;), slight sexual innuendo, reader is a housewife (don't we all want to be Jacks housewife???), Reader is referred to more “feminine” terms such as mom, mommy, wife that sort of stuff

A/N: Short little one shot. I wanted Jack to be happy. Also writing this I got distracted by roblox colour or die, and I won so :). Then I got distracted by work at a pizza place; this is probably what people mean by me having adhd. But I'm in denial, so I wrote this the day after :)

WC-1014

Masterlist

Pedro & Characters Masterlist

During the four months, your husband was away, you and your four year old had done multiple things to distract each other. In the beginning, you were just distracting Sophia with her dad not being home. This shortly changed when you started to miss him, meaning you had started hugging your little girl more often. Sophia had no objections to this. If her daddy wasn’t there to hug her, then she would have her mommy.

With the summer heat coming down onto your ranch, you made sure to spend every moment outside or have the curtain open. The driveway was filled with the multicoloured drawings of chalk Sophia had drew, accompanied by your handwriting for the “Sophia, Mommy, Daddy and the horses’ names”.  Along the edges of the driveway, there used to be plain old boring grey rocks. The vast majority of the rocks were now coloured in many different mixes of paint.

Since Sophia was born, she was constantly being creative. This had carried on through to her being almost five. You and your husband learnt that to distract or make Sophia happy was to get the paints out. It's what you had been attempting to do throughout the four months. There hadn’t been any tears, not even when your clumsy girl had bumped into something, only the amazement of a purple bruise forming. Whilst your mothering skills were going overdrive being alone with some animals being bigger than you, and a small inquisitive child. Keeping the latter away from being unsupervised was hard with a massive land going so far out.

Today, you were brought with a surprise. Sophia was down in the dumps.

You had tried countless times to find what the problem was, but your mother's intuition only went so far. You started the morning with Sophia’s favourite; french toast, with extra sugar. This was enough to get a small smile and what the two of you were doing today. With Sophia always wanting to be creative and messy, she chose fingerpainting.

Setting up a blanket with a mat for the activities, Sophia brought the paints and paper. When Sophia was pressing her adorable small hands onto her ‘masterpiece’ it slowly clicked what the issue had been. Sophia had made a drawing of her dad riding on a horse with her or attempted it. Nevertheless, she was showing how she felt instead of telling you. Wiping your hands down, you shuffled towards your daughter.

“Is this what the problem is?” You quietly asked as you wrapped your arm around her and pressed a kiss to her temple, much like what her father does to the two of you. “Are you missing Daddy?” Knowing that she had been caught she pouted her bottom lip and nodded.

After wiping the paint off of her fingers you lifted her into your lap, practically surrounding her with your body. “It's okay to cry, baby.” You comforted her, giving her more kisses. “I miss Daddy too, and when he comes back you can go out on the horsies again.” Giving her another kiss you started to see the smile that could light up a dark night sky. “There's that gorgeous smile!” As the smile got brighter, you came up with a solution to the horse problem. With being married to a cowboy, you had never learnt how to ride a horse. This was harsh for your little girl who wanted to do nothing more but ride them, even with her dad away, but the thought of you falling even with Jack there terrified you.

“How about we have our horsie fun?” You asked, seeing the confusion written across Sophia.

“Mama, you can’t ride the horsies. Silly!” Sophia was trying to figure out what you were thinking.

“Who said I was riding?” You got a shriek of enthusiasm from Sophia as you bounced your legs up and down. You carried on until the only thing you could hear from your baby was laughing her head off. “Let's finish our paintings and give them to Daddy when he comes home, how does that sound, sweetheart?”

Pulling up to the drive, Jack could see the pretty drawings he knew his little girl had spent time drawing. The sight of the rocks had also changed, there were pretty colours. He felt happy that his girls had kept themselves occupied in his absence. Walking through the ranch, no one was in. Checking in all of the rooms, and he couldn't find his girls. 

Walking outside he could hear the laughter of what could be compared to angels singing. Looking out he saw the most beautiful sight known to man, his girls laughing and enjoying themselves. He was pulled out of his daze by himself and his inner voice, telling him to go see them. 

“Hello, gorgeous.”

A familiar southern drawl spoke, alerting you and Sophia. His eye contact with you was broken by his little cowgirl running full speed at him. “Daddy!”

“Hiya, what’s my cowgirl been doin’?” He asked repositioning her onto his hip, still walking towards you.

“Me and Mommy drew you pictures!” Only this is when Jack noticed the paint on his clothes, as well as his princess's clothes and face.

“Oh, that's wonderful,” the mess didn't stop him, Sophia was happy and that's all that mattered. Taking a seat next to you, he instantly received a bundle of kisses. “I missed you baby.”

“I missed you more.”

Making dinner that night was the best feeling in the world for you and Jack. Sophia had her chicken nuggets whilst you and Jack had spaghetti bolognese. Stirring the bolognese, you felt a presence come up behind you. Sliding his hands along the sides of your waist, you were pulled into him.

“I really did miss you, Sugar,” Jack muttered into your ear. That's when you felt something growing against your ass. “Really missed you.”

“You can show me how much you missed me when Sophia is in bed.” You spoke into his neck, gazing your eyes up at your cowboy.

“Don't tempt me with a fun time, mama.”

[trulybetty]

14 x kisses - jack daniels x reader

prompt: sky pairing: jack daniels x reader word count: 656 notes: fluff, heavy on the equine (which I know nothing about, don't come for me), au as we don't know the movie here, no y/n, no reader description, jack being jack, don't have to read them but these two are from the december prompts summary: valentines day on the ranch with one it's newest additions

x. masterlist

The horses were something you still left for Jack to contend with. Almost two years now of the both of you taking over the running of Opal's ranch and yet you still were not a fan of them. The ranch had started with two older horses, but with Jack's guidance there had been several new additions, including a foal Blue, who had been abandoned at birth. Ever since his arrival, he'd taken to Jack instantly, and the feeling was mutual. 

That morning, as usual, Jack had gone out and done his rounds at the stables while you went to the office and handled the invoices and admin. A fair trade-off since you'd given up your job to move to the ranch full-time and still weren't up to speed with ranch life. 

After hours of dealing with payroll and trying to figure out the amount of hay that needed to be ordered, you pushed your chair back and stood up. Stretching your arms above your head, you rolled your neck from side to side, enjoying the sensation of loosening up your body after being hunched over for so long.

You sighed, grateful for the brief respite from paperwork, and made your way outside to find Jack. The sun was high in the sky, casting a warm glow over the ranch. The place was truly night and day since Jack had taken his stake in the place. You walked past the rows of wooden fencing, hearing the soft nickers and whinnies of the horses.

Your hand up to your eyes, shielding them from the sun, you spotted Jack. He was in the open paddock with Blue, the foal stuck to Jack's side despite his attempts to get him to take the free run. No matter how many times he pushed him away, Blue came back and nuzzled into his chest.

Jack let out a laugh, a genuine one, one that had been rare lately due to the pressure from the Statesman Ranch. The ranch shared a border with yours, and they were disputing where the boundary lay. He brought his head down to meet Blue's and kissed the foal's forehead. Blue snorted and playfully nipped at Jack's shirt, causing him to chuckle once more. 

“You going to come any closer darlin'?” Jack called out, turning his head to tilt his hat at you, a wide smile on his face.

“Just admiring the view,” you shouted back, a smirk on your lips.

Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out an apple, tossing it to you without warning. You caught it, albeit clumsily, your hands fumbling before securing the fruit. 

“You should give Blue his Valentine's,” he said, his eyes shining with challenge and encouragement.

You hesitated, looking from the apple in your hand to Blue, who had now noticed you and was watching with curious eyes. “I don't think he's interested in anything I have to offer,” you said, trying to mask your nervousness with humour.

“Ah, come on. He's a little softie, aren't you, Blue?” Jack coaxed, patting Blue gently on the side. Encouraged by Jack's confidence, you took a hesitant step forward, extending the apple towards Blue.

The foal eyed you cautiously at first, but the allure of the apple was too much to resist. He took a step forward, his nose twitching as he caught the scent. Slowly, carefully, he took the apple from your hand, his lips tickling your palm as he did so, and you couldn't help but laugh.

“There, that wasn't so bad, was it?” Jack said, a proud smile on his face.

You shook your head, a smile spreading across your face. “No, it wasn't. Happy Valentine's, Blue.”

Jack wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Happy Valentine's, darlin',” he murmured, kissing the top of your head. 

You leaned into him, cherishing the moment of peace as you took in the picturesque view of the ranch, “Happy Valentine’s Jack.”

[ninebluehearts]

flirty whiskey hopelessly in love with a shy reader

AWwwWWWw, okay bb

Sorry this took so long babes-

Also, I'm soo using the quote in this-

-------------------------------------------------------

You sat at the bar as you watched your friends dance with random men, nursing a blue Hawaiian. Now, most people would be lonely sitting by themselves while their friends had fun without them, but you? You loved it.

People watching was one of your favorite hobbies. Seeing people all dressed up and dancing, having the time of their lives after a long day made you really happy. It was almost like watching a live show.

And your favorite character of the night was sitting in the corner, sipping on what seemed to be a whiskey on ice. You've been watching him since you got here, and you were honestly shocked he hadn't noticed your staring yet.

"Hey!" Your friend said as she hugged you; though it was more of her draping her body on top of yours than anything.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

"I'm tired. And I wanted to see you!" She sat on the seat next to you, asking the bartender for another shot of tequila.

You nodded, taking another sip from your drink. You glanced back at the corner of the room where the man had been sitting, noticing his disappearance.

You were honestly disappointed. Maybe in another lifetime you would've asked him out, or at the very least asked him for his name, but sadly, that would never happen in this one.

"My god, you have got to be the prettiest woman I've ever seen." A man said from behind you, a deep Southern accent evident in his tone.

You assumed he was talking to your friend, honestly used to it at this point.

"What's a handsome man like you doing here?" Your friend said, twisting her hair around her finger as she looked up at him, batting her eyelashes.

The man cleared his throat. "Respectfully ma'am, I wasn't talking to you."

You glanced behind you, making direct eye contact with the man from the corner. Shit-

You quickly turned your head back, staring down at your drink.

"Ugh, whatever, I've gotta piss anyway." Your friend said with a sigh, slightly slurring her words.

"I thought you wanted to go home?" You grabbed her hand, looking at her with panic in your eyes. Please don't leave me alone right now.

"Umm, no?" Your friend tugged her arm away, storming off towards the bathrooms, obviously offended.

"This seat taken?" The man asked, gesturing to the newly available seat.

You silently shook your head, keeping your eyes down.

"I'm Agent Whiskey, but you can call me Jack."

Agent? You wondered which agency he worked for. There had to be a million in Texas.

You responded with a simple nod.

Whiskey sighed, leaning in a bit closer. "Don't be shy, sugar. I saw you starin'."

Your eyes snapped up to look at him; so he had noticed?

Whiskey huffed out a laugh. "What? You thought I wouldn't notice a pretty girl starin' at me like that all night?"

"I'd hoped not." You mumbled, picking at a hang nail on your thumb.

Whiskey stood up, resting his arms on the bar as he leaned in close, his mouth ghosting over the shell of your ear. "Listen here baby, how would you like to ride home on a real cowboy? I've got a six pack on ice and my roomies out all night, so you can scream my name as loud as you need to, sugar."

Chills ran down your spine as blood rushed to your cheeks, your thighs squeezing together. "Excuse me?" You looked up at him, the smirk he had making it hard to maintain eye contact.

"You heard me. So, what'll it be, sugar? I ain't got all night."

"I don't know-"

"Hey now, don't listen to this." He said, gently poking your head. "But listen to this." Whiskey set his hand on your knee, slowly dragging it up your thigh.

You grabbed his hand, not enough to stop it, but enough to make you feel like you were in control. You were conflicted; the logical side of your mind was screaming for you to run away as fast as you could, but your heart?

Your heart was beating a million miles an hour and was practically begging for you to say yes.

"What about my friends? I can't just leave them."

"You didn't see them 'em slip out the door not even five minutes ago?" Whiskey asked, jabbing his thumb behind him towards the door.

"What?" You glanced around the room, your 'friends' nowhere in sight. "What the fuck." You mumbled, throwing back the rest of your drink.

"So?" Whiskey asked, moving a strand of your hair behind your ear.

You looked up at him, a beautiful shade of crimson painted on your cheeks. Fuck it.

You sighed. "Okay."

[fuckyeahdindjarin]

IV ║ Strawberry Roan

Jack Daniels x f!reader

{ Part 3: Dapple Grey | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 5: Appaloosa }

Rating: E

Summary: Jack pulls out all the stops for your birthday. All of them.

Warnings: Flirting, yearning, insecurities, sexual tension, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, use of dating app, sexual innuendoes, fingering, protected sex, dirty talk, language, mention of food, drinking, mention of breakup, mention of hair, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.4k

Notes: It's here. See you on the other side 😉 Palomino will be taking a little break, if you want to see what I'll be up these few weeks, check it out here. See you in November!

I forgot to link to it when I posted this - a deleted scene from this part is published as a drabble - Béarnaise.

Strawberry Roan: A horse with a reddish coat that is liberally flecked with white hairs.

Day 3

The next time you wake up, the sun is high in the sky and Jack is nowhere to be seen. You tap your phone for the time and sit up groggily - by this hour, you’re usually already saddled up and ready to go.  Grabbing your toiletries and riding clothes from your bag, and a bottle of water, you trudge barefoot towards the nearest treeline to get ready.

Jack has his back to you, cooking breakfast, when you make your way towards the camp in jodhpurs with mint on your breath. You stop by the horses grazing in the shade, giving all three scratches behind the ears and a pat on the neck good morning, mindful not to get your toes trodden on by accident.

‘Morning,’ you call out as you approach the reignited fire.

Jack twists around to smile at you. ‘Mornin’, darlin’.’

Bending over, you roll up your sleeping bag. ‘Why didn’t you wake me? It’s late.’

‘It’s your birthday, you deserve a lie-in,’ he answers over his shoulder. ‘We’re not far from the Halfway House anyway - we can take it easy today.’

Sitting cross-legged next to him, your eyes light up at what’s sizzling in the pan. ‘A lie-in and pancakes for breakfast? You spoil me, cowboy.’

A bowl of mixed berries sits next to the pancake batter and maple syrup. You pop a raspberry into your mouth, the burst of tart sweetness sharpening your still fuzzy senses. With a tea towel, you grab the kettle carefully from where it’s sitting warm on the fire, pouring yourself a coffee and topping up Jack’s half-empty mug. 

Jack flips the pancake over theatrically in the pan, flashing you a smile with teeth. ‘Only the best for my birthday girl.’

You really shouldn’t - and you suppose you can blame it on the fact that you’re not quite awake yet - but your heart lurches at him calling you as his in any way. The kettle lands clumsily on the metal grill with a clatter as your arm gives out.

You’re still floundering when he asks casually, ‘How are you feelin’?’

With four little words, he unwittingly throws you into bedlam, and you go stock-still. Oh fuck. Is he asking you about the kiss? The chaste yet spine-tingling kiss which, in the bright light of day, you can't even quite believe actually happened - 

His calm drawl cuts through your panicked thoughts, oblivious to the turmoil inside you. ‘I’m a bit hungover myself, not gonna lie.’

Oh. Okay. Hangover chat. You can do that.

You clear your throat and force a smile. ‘I’ve been worse - just a tiny bit of a headache. Thought you could handle your liquor, cowboy.’

Satisfied that the pancake is done, Jack slides it onto a clean plate and passes it to you. He pours more batter into the pan, and the sweet smell of butter clings to the morning air. ‘Well, luckily, today’s ride is easily managed even while hungover. We chose a good night to drink.’

Except… you didn’t just drink. Revelations, too intimate to even fathom in the waking hours, confided in the dead of night - none of which you had the chance to discuss before throwing in the kiss at sunrise into the ring. And you’re not brave enough to bring up any of it.

Jack flips the pan again, sending the half-cooked pancake somersaulting through mid-air, and shoots you a triumphant grin. 

You can’t help but grin back. 

Later. You’ll worry about everything else later.

One thing you’ve come to realise about Jack is that he’s a meticulous planner. It’s easy with just the two of you, but the logistics of moving twelve horses and twelve riders across the mountains can’t be an easy feat. The way he equal parts encouraged and pushed you yesterday so that you can have a laid-back birthday today offers a glimpse into his firm grasp on the planning of the trip.

The unassuming way that he both literally and metaphorically takes the reins has you staring at his hands more than once today.

It’s just past half three when the Halfway House appears on the horizon. It has a red roof like the main lodge back on the ranch, and it is bigger than you expected - a sprawling single-storey house with a handsome veranda out front. There’s definitely plenty of space even for a fully-booked pack trip. 

A fenced paddock stands next to the house, and adjacent to it is a half-enclosed stables with a free-standing roof. There’s a small outbuilding on the far side which you assume is the tack room. Even from a distance, you can see that three stalls have been done up with clean wood shavings, and there is hay in the nets for the horses’ supper this evening.

It’s a well-rehearsed routine now when you go about untacking Scotch. After putting the tack away in the store room and leaving the damp saddle pad to air-dry on the fence, you give him a thorough hosing down, careful to brush out any sweat that has built up. Then with a rubber scraper, you skim it over his coat to wring out the excess water. By the time you finish, Scotch is impatiently tossing his head, and you let him into the paddock with an affectionate pat on his rump.

Jack’s just about done with Whiskey. Glancing up at you, he nods towards the house. ‘Go ahead, darlin’, your bag will be in there. There’s a bathtub if you feel like it, so take your time. I’ll come in when the horses are settled.’

‘Alright, I’ll see you in there,’ you reply, plucking your pack from where it’s lying on the grass, and a couple of others as well, and walk up to the house.

The stairs to the porch creak under your boots and the door grinds on its hinges when you swing it inwards. It’s stuffy, so you open a window to let the breeze in, and it sweeps through the space as you glance around appreciatively. The house is cozy with low-maintenance stone floors and plush rugs in front of a huge sofa and a wood-burning fireplace. A stack of logs sits neatly next to it.

The kitchen is open-plan and modern, surprisingly high-spec for a house in the middle of nowhere. There are multiple cooking hobs, a big double sink, and high stools are neatly arranged around the kitchen island. The more formal dining table can easily seat a dozen.

Despite the high ceilings held up by wooden beams, you can’t help but feel somewhat closed in with a roof above you.

As you move about the space, your ears pick up on the low hum of electricity, and your phone vibrates in your pocket from new messages coming in - it’s strange to be back in civilisation after just three days away. You idly wonder how Jack jumps between these two worlds. 

The bag you packed for the second part of the trip, with a fresh supply of clean clothes, is sitting in the living room. Hitching it onto your shoulder, you venture down the corridor on the far side of the house, ready to clean up for the day. 

Pushing open the first door of many, you peer into the comfortable space. It’s roomy and welcoming despite the simple furnishings - but if you’re being honest with yourself, you only need the king-sized bed in the middle of the room. 

The bedroom has a clear view of the paddock through the window, and you set your bag down on the desk next to it. You linger for a little while, half digging into your bag for a change of clothes and half watching Jack brush down Bourbon.

His sleeves are pushed up past the crease of his elbow today - the beginnings of the bulge of his biceps peeking from underneath the fabric. Then he bends over by the waist to lift up Bourbon’s hind leg, checking if there are any small stones or caked dirt in the hooves that need to be removed - granting you an unobstructed view of his pert backside and the strong columns of his thighs from behind. 

You turn around before you get too wound up. The last thing you need is him catching you masturbating in the shower too.

Taking one of the fluffy towels on the bed, you go in search of the bathroom, which is a couple of more doors down. Jack wasn’t lying - a stately clawfoot bathtub takes prime position in the space, but what you really need after three days in the wild is a deep clean in the shower. The bath will have to wait. 

You take your time, relishing the strong shower stream and hot water as it will be another few days before you get the chance to take another one. You condition your hair and run your razor over your legs and underarms. You tidy up down there as well - maybe a bit too hopefully.

There must be a second bathroom in the house. When you finally step out of the shower, you hear another one shut off. Towelling dry, you pull on the cutest outfit you brought on the trip - your favourite jeans with a flattering cut and a long-sleeved blouse that shows just a hint of cleavage.

There’s a hairdryer which you make full use of, and you dig into your sponge bag for the minimal makeup that you brought. You hear Jack puttering around while you dab concealer under your eyes and colour on your cheeks. When you’re done, you pace nervously in front of the mirror, picking off invisible lint from your clothes and studying your reflection critically.

You can’t put off leaving the safety of the bathroom forever. Taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders, you open the door and walk into the living space.

It’s strange seeing Jack in a domestic setting. You haven’t even been indoors with him yet, if you don’t count the stables. He’s in clean jeans and a light shirt, wearing socks but no shoes. His hair is wet and sits a bit closer to the scalp than it does than when it’s dry.

Prepping bowls and crockery are spread over the kitchen island, but you’re sure there’s a method to his madness. He’s easily commanding the space, wiping a kitchen knife with a tea towel and setting it on the chopping board. He’s humming to himself with his broad back to you, unaware as you pad quietly into his space.

‘What’s that song?’ you ask as you sidle up to him.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat, even when you catch him by surprise. He hums a bit louder before answering, ‘It’s called Strawberry Roan.’

You grin at the name of the song. ‘I love it - cowboy music. I’ll play it on Spotify?’

‘Spotify what?’

You shake your head as you connect your phone to the bluetooth speakers, and brisk guitar chords fill the space. ‘I know you’re old-fashioned, but at least try to keep up?’

I was hangin' 'round town, just spendin' my time

Out of a job, not earnin' a dime

A feller steps up and he said, "I suppose

You're a bronc fighter from looks of your clothes"

"You figures me right, I'm a good one" I claim

"Do you happen to have any bad ones to tame?"

Jack dips in and out of the song as you watch him organise his mise en place, his throaty crooning has you leaning on the table as your knees wobble. A few choruses in, you remark, ‘It’s strange seeing you cook in an actual kitchen. All you’re missing is an apron.’

He narrows his gaze as you pat yourself on the back for your bright idea. You rummage through random cabinet drawers until you find one, in a gingham print with a loud, frilly border, brandishing it triumphantly like a prize.

‘C’mon, it goes with your plaid,’ you tease.

‘No ma’am,’ he says sternly. ‘I’m not wearing that.’

Ignoring his protests, you walk straight up to him and stand on your toes to loop the apron around his neck. You could’ve - probably should’ve - circled around to do up the apron from behind. But instead, grabbing the ends of the strings, you pull them back and tie them around his waist with your nose to his very warm chest, catching the whiff of soap on his skin and fabric softener on his shirt.

If you’re being honest with yourself, you miss the musk of his sweat and the scent of leather that he seems to wear like a second skin - but you might be crossing the boundary of reason if you begrudge a man for practising personal hygiene.

Drawing your hands back to rest on your hips, you tip your face up at him impishly. ‘The apron suits you, cowboy.’

He shakes his head, but a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips as he taps the tip of your nose with a spatula. ‘Don’t get used to this, darlin’.’

What does he mean by this, exactly? Him cooking for you? Him letting you do whatever you want, as long as you flirt your way out of trouble? 

Well, it’s too bloody late either way.

Reluctantly, you step back, rounding the counter to sit on a stool. His eyes follow you, and he says, ‘You look nice tonight.’

It’s not fair how even the most mundane of compliments from him sends your pulse racing.

‘Thanks, you too,’ you answer, a sudden shyness creeping in, and you twine your fingers together so they don’t fidget. Changing the subject, you ask, ‘So, what’s for dinner?’

‘Poppy really went all out.’ Jack spins around to open the fridge and heaves a fully-laden tray to the kitchen island, reciting the menu to you. ‘You have three options - a beautiful ribeye from our neighbouring cattle ranch, wild-caught salmon from California or a vegetarian lasagne with produce from our own farm. Or all three,’ he adds with a wink.

‘Steak sounds good,’ you reply excitedly. All the meals on the trip so far have been mostly vegetarian, which is understandable due to the lack of refrigeration, but you can do with some variety.

‘I was hoping you’d pick that,’ smiles Jack, transplanting the two thick steaks onto a chopping board, then pops the rest back into the fridge. ‘And of course, there will be Poppy’s famous chocolate cake for dessert.’

Your tummy rumbles - breakfast was a while ago. ‘Perfect.’

‘You want a drink while I cook? I’m not letting the birthday girl lift a finger today.’

‘Maybe a Coke if there’s one?’

Jack pulls a can out of the fridge and pops it open, then pours it into a glass with ice, setting it in front of you on the counter. ‘I thought you weren’t hungover?’

You take a sip, the carbonation bubbling on your tongue. ‘I’m not, just taking it easy. I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner.’

Elbows on the countertop, you watch Jack bustle about the kitchen, just as at home as he is in the saddle. Steady fingers turn the knobs on the oven at precise angles before five measured steps bring him back to the fridge. One large hand easily holds a bunch of asparagus, shallots and mushrooms from the vegetable drawer, the other grabbing a casserole dish of ready-made potato dauphinoise. There’s no hesitation as he plucks oils and condiments from the shelf, lining everything up on the kitchen island.

‘So, was cooking part of the job description when Champ recruited you?’ you ask conversationally.

Satisfied the oven is preheated, he slides the potato dish in to bake and sets the timer. ‘It wasn’t even a consideration when I first joined. It was sandwiches and cereal bars for a long time, but when Poppy came on board she really turned things around.’ 

‘When was that?’

Jack tilts his head to the side as if counting the years. ‘About seven years ago. It was like boot camp, we were cooped up in the kitchen all winter, all day long, to get up to speed before pack trip season started. Tequila still needs a bit more help, so Poppy preps more things for him when he’s on duty. But I enjoy doing it.’

The ice in your glass clinks as you swirl it around. ‘So you didn’t cook before that?’

He seasons the steaks with salt and black pepper. ‘Not much, my wife did most of it. But I had to learn to fend for myself pretty quickly. What about you?’

Your heart swells warmly at the spontaneous mention of his wife. It doesn’t escape your notice that it wasn’t accompanied by any wary glance or hesitation. Like he trusts you enough to bring her up in casual conversation with you.

Realising you’re slow to respond, you reply, ‘My ex and I used to take turns cooking, me more than him. It’s a bit more effort to cook for just one nowadays, so I’ve been getting a lot of takeaway.’

He looks up from the shallots he’s peeling expertly. ‘He called you last night, didn’t he? Your ex?’

You pinch your lips. ‘How did you know?’

‘Your face fell pretty spectacularly when your phone rang.’

Yeah, because he was just about to kiss you.

You shrug. ‘I told him not to contact me this week. It was probably about the house we’re trying to sell.’

Jack arches an eyebrow and cuts off the ends of the shallots. ‘You sure he’s not trying to get you back?’

You snort. ‘That ship has long sailed, cowboy. Boarded by pirates. Set on fire. Sunk to the bottom of Davy Jones Locker. Eaten by the Kraken.’

That draws a chuckle from him. ‘So - that’s a no?’

‘A hard no,’ you confirm.

Warm brown eyes hold yours as one corner of his lips ticks up in a smile. ‘Good.’

You chew the inside of your mouth. ‘Yeah?’

He nods in the affirmative. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Tension hums between you again, but before it gets too heavy, you sneakily slide a hand over to the asparagus. Jack raps you on the back of your fingers playfully. ‘No. You’re not helping tonight.’

You pout. ‘Please?’

He sighs and gives in with a lopsided smile. ‘Anythin’ you want, darlin’.’

The steak is delicious cooked, if Jack may say so himself. It was the right call to make the Béarnaise from scratch, even though it’s a pain in the ass - or rather, in the arm. Watching you happily smear the last of your steak through the creamy sauce makes all the whisking worthwhile.

The two of you are perched at the kitchen island, bookending an intimate corner, a vase of wildflowers sitting between your plates. Earlier that morning, he caught the way your gaze lingered on the meadow as you mounted Scotch, obviously finding it hard to leave. He cut a bunch of blooms with the Swiss knife he keeps in his shirt pocket while you weren’t looking, putting it away in one of the saddle bags. 

Your eyes softened when they alighted on the slightly crushed flowers as he laid the table, which in turn, softened his.

Red wine - one sensible serving each - sits low in the glasses when Jack clears the counter surface, setting the empty plates in the sink.

Drying his hands with a tea towel, he asks, ‘Can you give me a few minutes, darlin’?’

Polishing off your drink, you give him a quizzical look. ‘What for?’

He pulls an imaginary zip across his mouth with a shrug.

With a roll of your eyes, you slide off your seat and give him a little shove on the shoulder in warning as you pass by. ‘You better not be planning anything funny, cowboy.’ 

It’s getting chilly despite the windows being just cracked open. As soon as he hears your door shut with a soft thud, Jack starts with getting a fire going in the antique fireplace which Champ bought from an auction a few years back. He collects the cake from the spare room where it’s been left to thaw from the fridge chill for the past hour - under strict instruction from Poppy - and sets it down gently on the kitchen island.

Hands on hips, he glances about for the birthday candles. An inconspicuous paper bag sits untouched on the counter by the fridge. That must be it. He grabs it and peeks inside -

- only to find a spanking new pack of twenty extra-large condoms. 

Thinking he hears movement, Jack hastily closes up the bag and shoves it into the space on top of the fridge in a panic, spinning around with his heart thumping in his ears as he fully expects you to catch him red-handed and sweaty-palmed.

He sighs in relief when an empty living room stares back at him.

Fuck’s sake. He bets that it’s Tequila’s idea of a joke. He scoffs to himself as he shakes his head at his co-worker’s antics. He got the extra-large part right - he'll give him that. But a twenty pack? Really?

He eventually does find the candles in a drawer near the dishwasher, and he plants one delicately in the middle of the cake. Spotting the other party decorations in storage, an idea comes to him.

You’re reapplying a lightly tinted lip balm when you hear Jack call your name.

All the lights in the living room and kitchen are off when you emerge from the corridor, the only source of illumination being the roaring fire in the hearth. It’s strangely comforting to see Jack in the familiar firelight. You cross your arms. ‘What’s all this, cowboy?’

He tips his head towards the door. ‘Someone wants to say happy birthday.’

Only then do you realise that the porch light is on, and a laugh tumbles from your lips when your head finally makes sense of what you’re seeing.

All three horses are hovering at the door, birthday hats hanging from one ear, sparkly tinsel around their necks. They seem confused but not unhappy to hang about the doorway - with the air of teenagers being cajoled into doing something vaguely embarrassing by their dad.

You give each of them a well-deserved cuddle, promising them extra treats tomorrow for being such good sports. At Jack’s smooth baritone singing happy birthday, you turn around and watch him approach with a wicked-looking chocolate cake. Your cheeks ache at how wide you’re beaming when he stops in front of you.

‘Make a wish, darlin’,’ he prompts, eyes flecked with gold as the candle flickers in the breeze coming through the front door.

You do - eyes closed and hands clasped together - and blow out the flame.

‘Ginger did promise I’d have the best birthday ever.’

‘And did we deliver?’

‘You know you did. Thank you, Jack.’

The plush cushions laid out on the rugs are kind on your sore muscles as you lean back lazily against the sofa, the fire warming your bare feet. Your plate of half-eaten chocolate cake lies abandoned on the floor. It’s sinfully rich and delicious, but you’re so stuffed that you can’t bring yourself to have another bite.

A buzz from your phone draws your gaze.

‘You can reply to your friends if you want,’ Jack says.

You wave him off. ‘No, I’ll do it later. I want to send a picture to my parents though - take a selfie with me?’

‘Sure.’

He shuffles closer, draping an arm on the seat of the sofa, brushing the ridge of your shoulders. You fit into his side comfortably, the turn of his strong shoulder pressing into your nape. Boldly, you lean your head against his so his moustache tickles your temple, and snap the photo.

‘It’s a cute picture,’ he comments when you show him, chin brushing your shoulder.

Neither of you move away when you open up Whatsapp to send it to your mum. As you do, you accidentally brush the Tinder notification that appears on top of the screen, which takes you to the app.

You laugh and tilt the screen towards Jack. ‘Look who showed up on my Tinder?’ 

He snorts, amused. ‘Tequila. I'd be disappointed if he wasn't.’

You scroll through the photos while Jack watches, sniggering, ‘Why am I not surprised that he’s topless in four out of five photos?’

He rolls his eyes, but there’s an undeniable fondness in his tone. ‘That’s Teak for you - always the exhibitionist. We once had a bachelorette party book a private tour and Champ put him on it - he never did tell us exactly what happened on that trip.’

‘So… should I swipe right, or…?’ you trail off.

‘What’s swiping right again?’

‘If you like the look of someone, you swipe right. Like, they’re right for you.’

He stares at you closely. ‘So? What’s it gonna be?’

You swipe left unceremoniously and Tequila’s profile falls off the screen. ‘Not my type.’

You feel a rumble of a laugh in his chest pressed against your side. ‘What is your type then, darlin’?’

Is he being deliberately obtuse?

You nudge him in the ribs with your elbow for his insolence, and he grunts, pretending to double over in pain and catching your wrists to immobilise you. 

Heat runs up and down your spine at his touch, and you put your nose in the air. ‘Don’t think I’ll just spill my secrets like that, cowboy. Your turn.’

Any disappointment of him letting go of you is tempered by the way his weight pushes into your side as he struggles to get his phone out from his very tight jeans.

‘Alright, here goes nothin’,’ he grumbles and taps on the fire icon.

A woman shows up on his screen, exuding confidence and sex appeal. You make a noise of appreciation at her curls and red lipstick as he flips through the photos.

With a nonchalant shrug, Jack makes to swipe left when you stop him. ‘Whoa, hold your horses cowboy, what’s wrong with her?’

‘Nothin’, she’s just not my type.’

Your eyebrows reach for your hairline. ‘Not your type? She’s gorgeous.’

He swipes to a photo where the woman is holding a cocktail, wearing a plunging black dress. ‘Look at her nails. I can’t go out with someone like that.’

You scoff, ‘I’m not saying marry her. I’m saying, if you met her in a bar, wouldn't you pick her up?’

Jack gives you a long-suffering stare. ‘Darlin’, I’m not interested. Do I have your permission to swipe left? Please?’

‘Fine,’ you grouse, shrinking into yourself.

If a woman like that can’t sway Jack Daniels’ interest, you don’t know who can.

Certainly not you.

As he swipes the woman out of view, your profile pops up.

His fingers find your shoulder and he gives you a squeeze, along with a teasing grin. ‘Well, well, look who I found.’

You squirm at your own face smiling back at you on the screen. Coming after that beautiful woman, you feel like an absolute sucker. Like the kid who's unfortunate enough to go after the prom queen’s dance and musical number in the high school talent show. 

‘What were you doing here?’ he asks, pausing at one of the pictures where you have a champagne glass in hand.

‘It was my best friend’s wedding.’

‘It’s a great photo of you,’ he smiles at you.

‘Thanks.’

After clicking through the rest of the photos, you panic when you see where his finger is poised to go. ‘Wait - what are you doing?’

Jack turns to you, confused. ‘I’m swiping right.’

You shake your head. ‘No, you swipe right if you’re interested.’

He looks amused at how you drag out the word as if it’s four separate ones. He nods slowly, ‘I know, darlin’.’

You blink. ‘But… you weren’t interested in the last one.’

‘Yes, and?’

You squint at him. ‘She’s gorgeous. And I…’

‘What?’ he prompts you.

‘I - I look nothing like her.’

He throws his hands up in frustration. ‘I don’t know how many other ways I can put this, darlin’. I’m not interested in her.’

‘Why not?’ you ask, almost accusingly.

‘Why should I be?’

You sigh, agitated. ‘Because you’re so handsome and she’s beautiful -’

‘You’re beautiful,’ he interrupts you.

That shuts you up. Your heart is set to claw its way out of your chest any moment, especially when he’s looking at you like that.

‘You really mean to swipe right?’ you ask in the smallest voice.

A smile twists his lips. ‘I kissed you, didn’t I?’

‘I thought it was like - a happy birthday kiss,’ you admit with air quotes.

He laughs, the rich sound warming you. ‘You think I just kiss anyone who has their birthday on a pack trip? Like how you get a free dessert at Applebee’s?’

You flush. ‘I don’t know!’

He chuckles, reaching out to brush your cheek with the back of his fingers. ‘Darlin’, I can assure you, I don’t just go ‘round kissin’ guests.’

With that, he swipes right emphatically, and your phone buzzes with the notification that there are new potential matches nearby.

From the corner of your eye, you see his profile, which you set up for him just yesterday, come up.

You turn to meet his stare. Without even glancing at the screen, you swipe right - there’s a matching ping from both of your phones.

Jack’s voice drops an octave, raspy in the tense silence. ‘So - what happens now?’

If you were with another man, your mind would’ve wandered - thinking about how you haven’t been with anyone but your ex for the last three years. Worrying about how you haven’t felt a man’s touch in months, if you’d be any good.

But it’s not any other man. It’s Jack. And he’s kissing you, lips latched to yours wet and restless, every stuttering exhale sending your head spinning. One big hand curls around your waist, the other sliding down your denim-covered thigh to twist your body towards him. Your head is full of him - his earthy scent with a touch leather, hoarse grunts as he swipes his tongue into your desperate mouth. You taste chocolate on his tongue - and dark rum, must be Poppy's secret ingredient - as it moulds around yours.

You can only cling to him, one arm hooked around the back of his neck, fingers sneaking into his still damp hair as you angle your mouth to kiss him deeper. Your other hand finds the seat of the couch as you clamber atop of him, your knees on either side of his slim hips.

You haven’t made out with a man, fully-clothed, in years. Jack seems happy to keep kissing you - deeply and skilfully - like he has all the time in the world. You jump when he cups your bottom through your jeans, nails scratching a path down the back of your thighs, making you whimper.

‘Jack,’ you pant when you pull back for air, eyes struggling to focus on his intense gaze on you.

His next words are unexpected.

‘I have to tell you somethin’.’

Your stomach drops and your body, pliable under him just now, goes board-stiff as dread runs icy in your veins. You jump to the worst conclusion - was he just joking that he wanted you? Is this some kind of elaborate prank? You should’ve known it’s too good to be true -

Jack senses your anxiety and holds your face between his palms, calloused palms grounding you and resting his forehead on yours. ‘Darlin’, listen, it’s nothin’ serious. I just want it to be out in the open between us before anythin’ else happens.’

‘Okay,’ you exhale shakily.

He takes a breath, and says, ‘Champ - I think he meant to set us up.’

You blink. ‘How do you mean?’

He adjusts his grip on you, hands falling to your waist to pull you close. ‘The Kingsman have been comin’ to the ranch every year in the same week for the past ten years. There’s no way they just rescheduled - I know for a fact Champ changed their dates just so he can get us alone.’

A chuckle bubbles in your throat and you let out a low whistle. ‘That’s a bold move.’

He grins. ‘That’s Champ for you. Can’t say I’m too mad at him right now though.’

‘Me neither. In fact - I think I owe him a fruit basket.’

He’s still chortling when you kiss him again. And this time, he pushes your hips into his unequivocally, and you gasp at the hard bulge in his jeans that nudges at you insistently. You rub against him, the heat and tension quickly escalating between you.

Jack skims his teeth along your exposed collarbone and his palms find their way under your blouse. ‘It’s a very pretty top, darlin’ - can I take it off?’

‘Please.’

The hitch in his breath when your bra comes into view goes straight to your head. You bait him teasingly, ‘You’ve seen me in a bra before, cowboy.’

He tries to smile at you, but it comes out as a pained grimace. ‘I remember darlin’ - you made me just as hard that time.’

Your lips part in a question. ‘What?’

He drags a kiss over your neck as he confesses, ‘When you jumped on me in the lake, you got me so hard. I had to rub one out in the shower. Came all over my fist thinkin’ about your beautiful tits pressed up against me.’

You can’t believe what you’re hearing, but it’s alright because Jack kisses his way down the swell of your breasts before sucking a nipple into his mouth through the thin fabric, making you squirm. ‘Can I take this off, darlin’?’

In your delirium, your fingers skid uselessly off the buckle, so he reaches back to help you, working the clasp open with a practised flick. He peels the bra from you, and with reverential hands, he pushes your breasts together and his tongue laves a wet trail from tip to aching tip.

‘Jack,’ you whine. There’s too much denim between you, it’s not enough. You feel the slick dripping from between your legs, probably staining your jeans, even though he’s gone nowhere near it. ‘Want you. Now.’

‘Want you too, darlin’,’ he growls into your skin.

A thought strikes you suddenly, like thunder on a clear day, and you push him back with clumsy hands. ‘Wait - wait. Do you have any protection on you?’

Jack freezes, and your heart drops. It’s not like there’s a corner shop you can nip out to for a quick purchase -

He clears his throat and peers at you sheepishly from under thick eyelashes. ‘Ok this is embarrassin’ - but they sent a box of condoms with the cake.’

Relief floods you as you burst out laughing. ‘You wouldn’t believe the five-star rave review I’m going to leave on Tripadvisor.’

You bounce off the surface of the bed where Jack drops you, bare back hitting the soft duvet. Just that sensation alone is enough to make you moan.

Your top and bra are abandoned where he took them off you on the floor in front of the fireplace. His shirt is discarded somewhere between the living room and your bedroom.

Blood pounds in your ears as you watch Jack take off his jeans, pushing them down and kicking them off impatiently, together with his socks. He crawls over you, cock straining in the confines of his boxers. There’s just something about being underneath this man that has your heartbeat rioting in your chest. Blinking up at him through your lashes, so broad and all-encompassing that you can barely see anything other than his silhouette, you pull him down by the nape of his neck for another kiss. Your lips are swollen but you don’t care, wanting more.

You reach down to unbutton your own jeans and undo the zipper, the metallic purr loud in the stillness. His big hands join yours, shucking the denim from your skin, leaving you writhing in your soaked panties. A low groan echoes in his rib cage as he hovers over you, close enough that you feel his body heat, but not close enough to touch. You arch off the bed for contact, and he deliberately holds back with a cocky smile that has you letting out an almost bratty wail, which makes him grin even wider. Dragging his eyes over your almost naked form, he patiently kisses down your throat and sucks an earlobe into his wet mouth.

Jack drawls into your ear, his voice deep as sin. ‘I want you to show me how you touched yourself that night, darlin’. When you were thinkin’ about me.’

Your eyes widen, biting down hard on your bottom lip. Hooking your fingers into the sides of your panties, you slowly push them down your hips, bringing your knees up to untangle them from your ankles. Jack’s nostrils flare when you part your legs and his dark stare lands on your pussy.

‘You’re so pretty, darlin’,’ he praises you, one hand palming the back of your thigh before pushing it right up against your body, splaying you open to his hungry gaze.

You’ve never done this, never let anyone watch you touch yourself - the debauchery makes your pussy clench. But there’s no taint of embarrassment with the way he’s staring down at you, jaw slack and his hands gripping hard on your inner thighs as if he needs to keep them open - not that he has to, you want him to see.

Dipping into the wetness that’s pooled in your pussy, you trace a glossy trail up to your clit, just like you did that night in the dark. With two fingers, you circle and rub and tease, and you hope he can hear how wet you are over your panting breath.

‘That’s it, darlin’,’ he whispers fiercely, his moustache tickling your ear. ‘Tell me - does it feel good?’

Somehow, you muster the sass to talk back, ‘I bet your fingers will feel better.’

That unleashes a feral growl from Jack, and he surges forward to kiss you, before ripping away from your face to grab your wrist, sucking your fingers into his mouth. Pressing into the cradle of your thighs, his clothed erection grinds into your wetness, making you wriggle beneath him. ‘You taste amazin’. What about my tongue? Please - can I eat this gorgeous pussy?’

Self-doubt pins you to the mattress, unmoving. You avoid his keen eyes that have no doubt picked up on your sudden change in demeanour.

What kind of woman would turn down such an offer? That girl he swiped left on Tinder certainly wouldn’t have. What would he think of you?

A gentle kiss pressed to your lips dislodges your thoughts. ‘You can say no, darlin’. I can make you come with my fingers, and my cock,’ he groans when a shiver runs through you. ‘Or maybe even my words would be enough?’

You mewl, and he hums into your throat. ‘As much as I love these sounds you’re making, tell me what you want, darlin’.’

‘Can we take a raincheck on your mouth?’ you ask timidly.

A gentle thumb brushes your cheek. ‘Of course. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable with the suggestion.’

Recovering your composure - or lack thereof - you give him a crooked smile and reach up to grip his broad shoulders, letting his weight anchor you to the present. ‘I’m far from uncomfortable, cowboy.’

He chuckles and retorts, ‘But I don’t want you to be comfortable, darlin’. I want to make you come so hard you can’t walk tomorrow.’

You choke on an inhale at his words, but somehow, you manage a brash comeback. ‘Good thing we’re travelling by horseback, huh?’

A laugh rumbles in his chest as he takes your lips again, and you sag under his ministrations. Easing your thighs apart, two fingers glide over your sensitive clit, mapping invisible patterns as he mouths at your neck, your hips thrusting into the contact. You feel him rut against your hip, a shudder running through your bodies in tandem as he pushes one finger into your heat.

‘Fuck,’ he husks as he sinks all the way in down to the knuckle. ‘Such a tight pussy, darlin’.’

‘More,’ you say bossily, and you breathe a yes - both in relief and also not enough - when he reenters you with two fingers.

He shifts, bracing himself on one side so he can watch him emerge from you, shiny with your slick, before pushing them back in. Your pussy is loud, squelching around his thick digits as he pumps deeply into you. You cry out when he brings his other hand to your clit, rubbing insistently, and he grunts at the gush of wetness he feels around him.

‘That’s it,’ he growls. ‘Getting so wet on my fingers, darlin’. Can’t wait to feel you on my cock - fuck, I’m so hard for you.’

‘Harder, Jack,’ you urge him, hips lifting from the bed to get more friction. ‘I’m gonna cum.’

No sooner do the words leave your mouth when you feel it - your stomach starts to tighten and the air gets knocked clean out of your lungs in anticipation of the fall. Jack eases up and over your body again, whispering encouragingly in your ear as you break, telling you in his delicious Southern timbre how tight your cunt is squeezin’ him, how you’re drippin’ on him, how he can’t wait to push his cock into you.

You seek out his mouth, teeth and tongue connecting as your high gives way to a drunken sluggishness. Your limbs are heavy as you pull him down onto you, caging your smaller body in his grasp, still inside you, relishing the snug fit even as your pussy stills.

He kicks off his boxers, and you jump when he brushes the velvety underside of his cock through your wet folds. He slurs against the shell of your ear, ‘Want you now, darlin’.’

‘Yes’ you beg, head thrown back into the soft bed. ‘Need you inside me.’

He fumbles with a condom packet, tearing it open with trembling hands before rolling the rubber over himself. You watch him, running your palms languidly up and down his firm back, which has him preening under your touch. ‘You definitely didn’t photoshop that nude pic, cowboy.’

‘As if I’d know how to do that,’ he chuckles, settling on top of you again. You hook your knees onto his hips, gasping when he runs a finger along your leaking seam. ‘Ready for me?’

With a nod, you reach down to line up his tip with your entrance, your noses bumping together, and you stop breathing as you both listen to the wet give of your cunt as he nudges just the head in. The air is pushed out of your lungs as he inches in, his grip bruising on your inner thighs as he grits his teeth. ‘So tight, darlin’. You feel fuckin’ incredible.’

Too full to make a sound, you can only stare when his face twist into pained pleasure when he finally fills you to the hilt. Your words come out garbled. ‘Jack - you’re so big.’

Something like possessiveness colours his tone, and he pinches your chin so that you have nowhere to look but at him. ‘Yeah, darlin’? Am I bigger than your ex?’

‘So much bigger,’ you whine.

He shudders like it’s exactly what he wants to hear, shifting just the tiniest bit inside you, which is enough to make you moan. ‘Good. You ready for me to fuck you with my big cock, darlin’?’

Remembering the way he reacted yesterday, you scrape together the last of your brain cells to say with all the cheek you can muster. ‘Yes, sir.’ 

Oh, the way his eyes turn completely black as your words sink in has you squirming and fisting the sheets. He swallows thickly, and you see his arms flex as he holds his body over you to watch your face. He draws back slowly, savouring the slow slide out of the tight clench of your pussy - mercy, even that feels incredible - before plunging back into you with a reckless snap of his hips, eliciting a loud cry from you that he swallows in a hard kiss.

Maybe you’re naive, but you didn’t know missionary can be like this. The way he’s groaning into your throat, into your tits as he sucks on them, makes your insides twist and your nails dig into the meat of his ass. When he’s had his fill, he plasters his firm front to you, pressing your foreheads and your humid, panting breaths together. It’s so intimate your eyes slide shut of their own accord, and you snag onto his dark hair to press him deeper into your skin as he scrapes his teeth from your clavicle to your shoulder, the sensation making you keen. The lewd, rhythmic slap of skin on skin makes you even wetter, the blunt drag of his cock in your pussy makes you keen for more.

‘Harder,’ you whimper. ‘I can take it, Jack.’

Pulling back suddenly, he sits up on his knees, and you have a split second to trace your heavy eyes over him - skin flushed in the moonlight, the firm lines of his arms swelling and contracting as he manhandles you clean off the bed, still buried deep inside you, rearranging your legs around his waist. Leaning over you, one hand by your head and the other holding your curve of your ass, he fucks into you, harder and deeper at this angle. He feels bigger like this, barely squeezing into you without a fight.

‘Like this, darlin’?’ he asks you, but by the way he’s smiling down at you - warmly but with just a healthy touch of confidence - it’s clearly a rhetorical question.

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ you call out anyway even though he doesn’t need the endorsement. You grab onto the pillows behind you as he jostles your entire body, making the bed shake on its frame. His lips catch one nipple after the other as they jiggle lasciviously under his movements.

‘Such a good girl, askin’ for what she wants,’ he grunts, regarding you with dark eyes. ‘Need to feel you cum on my cock. Will you give me one more, darlin’?’

You nod frantically as two of his fingers breach your swollen lips, and you suck crudely on them. You savour the look of utter abandon on his face as he watches your little show, tasting yourself on his skin. Now spit-slick, they retreat - almost reluctantly - from your mouth to find your clit again, sensitive as you shudder from even the gentlest touch. It won’t take much, his cock begins to hit somewhere deep inside that makes you quiver.

This one starts deep inside you. The beginning of a devastating high that swells and builds inside your pussy as he continues to pound into you, granting you no quarter - until you’re clenching desperately around him, tugging on his hair and screaming his name. His rhythm starts to stutter and broken words fall from his lips. ‘That’s it, darlin’ - you feel amazin’ - oh fuck yes, ride it out with me, ride it - I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna -’

Is it wrong that he wishes he’s fucking you with nothing in between? That he’s cumming into your bare, pulsing cunt, instead of the condom? That he wants to see you dripping with him, just so that he can swipe at the dribble and have you lick his fingers clean?

With one last push of his hips, his arms give and he crumples onto you, barely managing to hold his weight so he doesn’t crush you. He hums at the way your body rises and falls against him as you catch your breath. You squeak, voice hoarse from how vocal you’ve been, when he rubs his nose into your throat’s sensitive hollow. Your body instinctively seeks him out as you stretch languidly, movements slow as syrup as the adrenaline seeps from your system, only to leave a deeply sated exhaustion.

The sweat that’s pooled in the dip of his back is rapidly cooling, and he feels goosebumps break across your bare skin as the chill sets in. Shifting off of you, he presses his front to your back and yanks the duvet from beneath him to drape it over you both, pressing a wet kiss on the nape of your neck as his softened cock falls out of you, making you shiver. 

The condom is so slippery with your cum that he can barely get any purchase on it. Carefully removing it and tying it up, he throws it at the trash can by the bedside table when you twist around to smile at him. He returns it, leaning over to kiss you.

‘Did you - was it - good for you?’ he asks with a touch of insecurity that you find infinitely endearing.

‘I would count any day with two orgasms as a pretty good one,’ you joke with a lazy grin, your eyelids drooping as you slide your hand over his bigger one, tracing your fingertips over the ridges and veins. ‘But seriously - I think you’ve ruined all future birthdays for me. So thanks for that, cowboy.’

And if you’re being honest with yourself - he’s probably ruined all other men for you as well.

But that’s a whole other can of worms you can’t open right now.

‘Good. That was exactly what I was goin’ for,’ he flashes you a playfully smug smile.

He gathers you into his arms so that your head is tucked underneath his chin, his body bracketing yours with an arm around your waist. Wanting to feel every part of you, he wedges a leg between yours so that he’s entirely tangled up in you.

He knows, without looking, the exact moment you fall asleep - your soft body going pliant in his grasp and your breath evening out all at once.

More often than not, he can’t sleep after sex. In that midnight purgatory, his fingers almost always itch for a cigarette that he has long given up and guilt usually finds a way to settle deep into his bones when the pleasure dissipates, leaving him staring blankly at the ceiling until it’s light enough for him to sneak out and drive away.

But tonight, he lets go of all of that.

Neither of you move until the morning light spills in through the window at sunrise.

Jack's Tinder profile:

Horsey notes (optional reading): Temperament varies widely by breed and by personality of each horse. The school I used to ride at retrains racehorses for schooling, and I don't think any of the thoroughbreds would let you anywhere near them with tinsel 😂 One thing that you could do with a horse is desensitisation training. It's a wonderful thing to do and you have a much safer horse if they don't spook at every little thing or sound.