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banannabethchase · 1 year

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Matt meets up with a possible client at his Christmas Tree farm on a cold January day. He'll beat the storm to get home on time. Or will he get stuck in a Hallmark movie?

This started by me and Sarah cracking jokes about Matt being Adam's sugar daddy back in the ROH days and him buying Adam a chainsaw, and then it spiraled and this...happened? I dunno it's 98% tropes and 2% Matt saying the word Lumberjack in the horniest voice ever. Enjoy.

Mini playlist (it's a Hallmark style fic, I'm giving it a Hallmark style playlist): Last First Kiss - One Direction You and Me - Lifehouse Everytime We Touch (Yanou's Candlelight Mix) - Cascada Wait a Minute - Sub-Radio

Matt adjusts his tie as he parks, the lack of traffic causing him to be over half an hour early. The charming office is surrounded by stumps and smaller pine trees, and it’s easy to imagine what it would have looked like a month or two ago: Page’s Tree Farm, full of pine trees the perfect height to settle in the living room for the holidays. Truly, the place is as quaint as he could have possibly imagined. Matt makes sure his car’s windows are rolled up and wraps his coat tightly around himself. The forecast said the storm was going to be big, but he’s lived in the Midwest for almost a year now. Sure, California doesn’t see any snow, but he saw some back in March of the previous year. He’ll be out of here before it even starts.

He walks up the path, but the door to the shop and office area appears closed. He pulls on it – locked.

“Damn it,” he mutters, adjusting his scarf up around his ears. The temperature is dropping faster than he expected. “Mr. Page?” he calls, peeking around the sides of the small building. “Mr. Page? Anybody?”

The sun disappears behind thick, grey clouds, and Matt makes his way around the sides of the office to see an open path. He’s torn between deciding if it’s a creepy murder path or a charming woodland paradise. For his own peace of mind, he decides on the latter.

As he steps over a few snow piles, he hears some sort of rhythmic thudding from the woods, and he follows it. “Mr. Page?”

The thudding continues, and Matt reaches a clearing in the area. And feels his entire brain short circuit and fall out of his ass. Matt stares as Mr. Page – it’s gotta be him, Matt recognizes those curls from the photo on the website – swings an axe up and crushes it down on a felled, dry, Christmas tree, cutting clean through it. Like it’s nothing.

Matt is suddenly incredibly overheated in his peacoat, dress pants way too fucking tight. He needs to say something. Needs to call out to him. It’s only polite to announce your presence, right? His mother would be so disappointed. He just stares. Not a single hello or how are you. He’s a sham of a good California boy.

He’s finally jolted out of it when Page lets out this incredible grunt – manful is the only word Matt can come up with to describe it – as he swings down on the thickest part of the trunk.

Stupid tight work pants, but also thank god for the tight work pants.

Matt clears his throat. “Excuse me.”

Mr. Page finally looks up, tossing the blonde curls over his head like a damned swimsuit model in plaid and jeans. “Oh!” He lights up, smile on his face. “Hi. Sorry, didn’t see you there. Are you Mr. Jackson?”

Matt nods, and deliberately doesn’t add, if you’re nasty, because he’s a good man on a business trip and whatever the eff is going on in his pants is completely external to this situation. “Glad to finally meet you in person.” He walks over to Page, sticks out his hand. “You can call me Matt.”

“Matt,” he says, and the goddamn lumberjack of a man has a lumberjack of a handshake, too. His hands are big. Matt is screwed, and not in the way he wants. “You can call me Adam.” He gestures to the stacks of cut wood all around him. “As you can see, I’m in desperate need of your services.”

Matt lets out the most pathetic little whine at the back of his throat, because God and everyone else is trying to kill him right now. “Yeah. I, uh. Chainsaws and other tools.” Matt winces. He’s not making it any easier on himself. “That’s my specialty.” He’s okay with dying now. He’s supposed to be the put together adult here. He’s got years of experience selling things people don’t need, brokering deals with bigger companies to get their investments without losing his and Nick’s majority share of the company. He’s convinced big shot lumber companies to choose his product over that of the leading major business.

And here he is, pitching half a tent in his nicest suit pants over a guy who looks like he could carry him bridal style into a firelit log cabin and fuck him within an inch of sanity. He’s a terrible businessman.

“Perfect,” Adam says. Even his smile is sexy. This doesn’t feel fair. “I got a good group of people working for me, see, but it’s a small town, and they, uh. They’re all characters.” Adam laughs, running a hand through his hair, pushing the few curls that had fallen to across his eyes out of his face. “We’ve busted eight chainsaws in a season. Which is quadruple what I’m used to breaking in a full year.” Matt winces, and he hopes it looks sympathetic. “So I’m looking to invest in a relatively large order.”

Matt nods, back in his game. “Right. And we at Jackson and Jackson are happy to provide you a bulk discount.” He smiles. “We’re always glad to be chosen over the big chains.”

“Well, I sure as hell wasn’t going to Home Depot,” Adam says, laughing. Matt puts that detail in his back pocket. “Plus, small businesses have to support each other, right?”

“Glad to be your first choice,” Matt replies.

Adam’s smile gets a little sheepish. “Sort of. You guys called me back before the Lowe’s rep.”

“I can’t fault you for going with the most timely,” Matt says, taking the time to feel smug, because he deserves to be. Punctuality is his greatest virtue. His only one, if the way he can’t stop thinking about what those hands can do has anything to say about it.

“I got a bunch of old Christmas trees to turn into firewood for the local shelters,” Adam says. “I have people donate them here when they’re done with ‘em, so we can break the trees down and turn them into something useful. But it takes about three times as long without the chainsaws.” He gestures to the pile of trees in the corner that Matt is just now noticing. “They rot quick, though. How soon can you get the saws to me?”

Matt resists a sigh. Of course he’s a humanitarian. Of course he puts his personal time and resources into helping others. Because this isn’t stupidly Hallmark enough. “Let’s workshop that in your office. It’s uh,” he gestures behind him, “it’s beginning to snow.”

Adam looks up, frowning. A few snowflakes flutter perfectly onto his hair. “Huh. You’re right. Didn’t even notice how cold it got.” He swings the ax like a stupid movie character, catching it in his hand. “I always forget how much more energy it takes to cut wood with this.

“Well, that’s a problem I’m here to solve.” Matt shoots him his best smile, because if Adam’s going to be hot, he will be too, damn it. “Let’s go crunch some numbers.”

It takes longer than Matt expects, because Adam is good. He haggles and suggests and flirts just enough to make it work appropriate, and, infuriatingly, makes some really good points. It takes two hours to narrow down a deal that gives them both what they want. Matt wrangles an advertisement in Adam’s main hallway and a recommendation for Jackson and Jackson on the website. Adam gets 15% additional chainsaws for free in their five-deal agreement, but he throws in a smile, so Matt sort of considers it a win for himself, really.

“Well, if you’ll sign here,” Matt says, spreading out the paperwork Adam had printed from his own office computer, “we can get it all ironed out. I’ll scan it and send it to my brother, Nick, and he can fax or scan you a copy of the finalized documents by tomorrow morning.”

“Great!” Adam says. “I mean, if the power stays on.” He glances out the window. It’s practically a sheet of white outside. Matt feels himself start to panic, just a little bit. “Oh, shit. That storm came earlier and harder than we thought.”

It takes everything in Matt’s power not to make a wildly inappropriate comment at that. “I’ll be fine.”

“Like hell you will,” Adam says, and it’s forceful but not unkind. “You been out in weather like that? I’ll be surprised if you can get your tiny ass sedan out of the parking spot!”

“I’ll be fine,” Matt says, rolling his eyes.

He is, he finds, decidedly not fine. The car turns on, but even with Adam digging out the wheels, the snow has practically locked him in the space. “Well,” Matt says, stepping out of the car and brushing snow out of his hair. “This sucks.”

Adam shrugs. “Maybe it’ll let up early since the storm started early.” He gestures to the office. “Come on. It’s cold out here. I’ll light the fire and we can hopefully wait it out until the storm calms down.”

Matt pauses for a minute. He’s got the deal done. He did his job. He wants to leave this place and let himself have the inappropriate fantasies of what he wants this man to do to him happen in the privacy of his own goddamn home. But he’s got literally no alternative.

“Alright,” Matt says. “Yeah.” He rubs his hands together.

“You want a whiskey or something when we get inside?” Adam asks.

Matt shakes his head, distracted at the way that Adam walks next to him so closely. With the setting sun and the oranges spreading across the snow, the shadows strike him in ways Matt couldn’t have imagined. He swallows. He’ll stay focused. He’ll stay professional.

Matt and Adam walk into something like a back room behind the store and the offices, something much more cozy and personal. Matt takes in the children’s paintings on the walls, the pictures of dogs and a group of friends on the bookshelves. He reads the titles; everything from Rick Riordan to the Marquis de Sade to Ta-Nehisi Coates. It’s full of strange shelfmates, things Matt would have never thought to put together. He reaches out, unable to resist tracing the spine of a clearly well-loved copy of The Iliad.

“Yeah, sorry,” Adam says. “My stuff doesn’t all fit in my apartment, so my bookshelf has made its way down here over the years.”

Matt nods, not really hearing. He takes in all the titles until he finds himself seated on a big, comfy armchair with a hideous pattern. “It’s lovely,” he says, almost too quietly.

“Thanks.” Adam’s voice is quiet, gentle, soft.

Adam lights a fire with some of the logs he’d cut earlier that day, which Matt manages to convince himself not to get a boner about, and the two of them chat mindlessly as reruns of How I Met Your Mother play in the background. The snow doesn’t let up, they exchange mentioning. The sun sets and the room gets a few degrees colder, but Matt doesn’t mention it, just leans closer to the fire. It’s just a coincidence that it means he leans closer to Adam, too.

They’re halfway through singing along to a Robin Sparkles episode when the TV shuts off and the lights flicker once, twice, and go off.

Adam sighs somewhere in the darkness. “Well, fuck. I was hoping we’d avoid that this storm.” Matt hears rustling. “Give me a few minutes. I’m going to go check the breaker box.”

“You good out there?”

Adam’s laugh is better than any music Matt’s ever heard. “I got this. Done it a hundred times.”

Matt wants to argue that, duh, he knows Adam can handle it, but Matt wants to be of some kind of help. Adam’s out the door before he can explain that, though, so he gives in to his basest impulses and goes too close to the fire, just to get a little warmer.

“Power’s out,” Adam says, walking back in with a flashlight and a gust of wind. There’s snowflakes tangled in his hair. Matt wants to brush them out for him. “Snow’s halfway up the door to your car, too. Sorry, Matt. Looks like you’re stuck here.”

“Oh, no,” Matt argues. “I couldn’t impose.”

Adam laughs, something rumbling and joyful that sends shivers through Matt’s body. “God, you city kids are cute. Nah, baby, nobody’s getting out of here until maybe noon tomorrow, at the earliest.”

Matt squirms at the pet name, unsure he’s deserved it but addicted to the way it sounds out of Adam’s mouth already. “How are you getting home then?”

Adam points upwards. “The stairs. I live on the second story of the business. Makes it easy to take care of everything.”

Matt blinks. “Oh. Well that sounds convenient.”

“It is.” Adam takes Matt in, looking him up and down in a way that gives Matt goosebumps. “You gonna be comfortable in that suit overnight?”

Matt looks down at himself. While immaculately tailored, Matt’s gotten hives just from sitting in the comfiest of office chairs for too long in these pants. “Um.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Adam says. “Come with me. You can borrow pajamas. I’m sure they’ll be a little big on you, ‘cause you’re so short -”

“Hey!”

Adam shoots him a grin. “Despite your vertical challenges, they should work well enough.”

About ten minutes later, Matt finds himself in Adam’s bathroom, in Adam’s apartment, looking like an absolute buffoon. He’s wearing a Dolly Parton t-shirt and it fits okay around his arms, but it’s a little long. That’s not the problem, though. Adam was right – the pajama pants drag on the floor. They catch under his feet as he shuffles around while he brushes with the dollar store toothbrush Adam found under a giant box of Lysol wipes he’d gotten back in June of 2020. He tries to make his beard and hair look at least partway presentable, then pauses, because he doesn’t know why he’s so nervous to leave the bathroom.

He's making sure his half up top knot is angled right, because reasons, when the flashlight flickers once, twice. Then goes out.

“You okay, Matt?” comes Adam’s voice from somewhere in the upstairs apartment. “I think your flashlight went out.”

“I can see that,” Matt calls back. He feels around for the doorknob, and does his best to shuffle out the door. Unfortunately, he trips over the pants and crashes into something sturdy and warm.

“Hey,” Adam chuckles, grabbing him by the biceps and hauling him back up. “You okay?”

Matt’s suddenly delighted for the darkness, with the way his cheeks are burning. “I’m good,” he says, and he hates that his voice sounds a little fluttery. “Unfortunately you were right about the pants.”

“I’m right about a lot of things.” He places his hands on Matt’s shoulders. Matt thinks it must have been accidental, the way Adam brushes some of his hair off of his shoulders and rests his fingertips against the side of Matt’s neck. “I, uh, you wait here. I’m going to grab some more flashlights and light some candles, okay?”

Matt nods, forgetting it’s dark. “Oh, yeah. Course.” Fuck his weakness for people playing with his hair, even when it’s an accident.

He hears rustling again, a little crashing, then sees a light beam cross across the room until it settles on him. He feels too seen, examined.

“There you are,” Adam says, voice warm. “Here, this one’s yours. We probably want to go back downstairs so we can keep an eye on the fire. Don’t want to burn the building down.”

“Oh, definitely not,” Matt says. “That would be, like, the worst business deal in history.”

Adam laughs somewhere in the room, and another light flashes on. “Alright, help me carry these candles downstairs. We’ll set them up around the place. Just nothing too close to the books, okay?”

“Oh, sure, the big city boy’s too stupid for fire safety,” Matt cracks, shooting a grin at Adam as they make their way, carefully on Matt’s part, down the stairs. “I can do some things right.”

“You sure can cut a deal,” Adam says. He sets a candle on the bottom step of the stairs once Matt is out of the way. “You haggle like the grandmothers who show up here demanding a discount because of a dead tree branch.”

“I think I’d agree with them,” Matt says, lighting a candle on a dresser, far from the photo of a strange little man in an elf costume. “There should be at least a five percent discount for a defective limb.”

“How dare you!” Adam argues. He glows oranges and reds by the light of the candle in his hands. “That’s my home grown product!”

“If it’s diseased, it needs a discount,” Matt replies. He relishes the way Adam’s jaw drops in horror, the little smile in his eyes that he fights to show on his lips

“You come into my house,” Adam says, voice dangerously dark but eyes still sparkling, “on the day of a fucking discount chainsaw deal and a snow storm…the bit failed, but you get where I’m going.”

Matt legitimately throws his head back, laughing, falling back against the couch. He feels Adam slide toward him, just a little.

“You want a drink or something?” Adam asks. He sounds a little – there’s something in his voice. Something Matt wants to hear more of.

“Oh, I don’t really drink,” Matt starts, but, as he watches Adam’s face fall, “but I’ll take, like, a ginger ale.”

“I got ginger ale!” Adam says. He’s almost eager as he leaps up and darts across the apartment to the kitchen. Matt can see only a sliver of him as he hears the fridge open. “Oh, and, uh, well, I have leftover pizza. You’ve got to be hungry.”

Matt is, a little bit. “What kind?”

“Pepperoni,” Adam calls. Matt leans to see Adam, butt sticking out, face first in the fridge. It’s a good view.

“Perfect.”

They eat quietly, both of them watching the fire flicker. Matt hasn’t had pizza this good since this little Italian place he grew up with back in California. It doesn’t help the situation that the pizza’s cold, though, and he begins to shiver once he’s done.

“You cold?”

Matt nods, admitting defeat.

“We can get a little closer to the fire, if you want,” Adam says. “Sit on the floor.”

Matt drops to the floor and scoots on his knees over in front of the fire. The blaze hits him like a wall, and he half falls over.

“See, okay, I said on the floor, not in the fire.” Matt can practically feel the laughter in Adam’s voice.

“Oh, shut up,” Matt giggles, reaching out and smacking Adam’s arm. He doesn’t miss the way Adam licks his lips at the touch, and he decides, in that moment, to up his game. What happens in a log cabin in a snow storm stays in a log cabin in a snow storm, right? “Do you have a generator or anything? I’m starting to get bored.”

“What, I’m not enough entertainment?”

“I mean, I’m sure you are,” Matt says, trying not to let on that Adam’s fallen right in his web like a sexy little fly, “but, I mean, TV?”

“No generator,” Adam says. “I’ve got Clue, though.”

“Can’t play that with two people,” Matt says, shaking his head. “Plus, I’d annihilate you. It wouldn’t even be merciful.”

Adam scoffs. “Please. I’d win with ease.”

“Well, next time we get stuck in a snowstorm with a third person, I’ll take you up on that.” He peeks over Adam’s shoulder, trying to figure out where Adam may keep the games. “What else you got?”

“Life?”

Matt rolls his eyes. “That game is boring.”

Adam blinks. “Life is boring?”

“I’m sorry, if I wanted to rehash my early twenties, I’d be in southern California right now,” Matt says with another hair toss. “Pass.”

Adam shrugs, taking a sip of his ginger ale. Matt mirrors him before he even realizes he’s doing it. “Uh. I have cards?”

Go Fish is more boring than staring at fire, they discover, and they set it aside after the third game that Matt wins.

“Alright, we’re – we’re out of ideas.” Matt sighs. “What could we possibly do…” He trails off, a little too smug about the way Adam’s eyes follow every move he makes. He taps his finger on his bottom lip, twists a little, stretches out in front of the fire. “Truth or dare,” Matt finally says after his little show.

Adam, who had definitely been staring, shakes his head. “Huh?”

“Truth or dare,” Matt asks again. “It’s the only option left.”

“Dare.”

Matt grins. “I dare you to go outside and put your bare ass in the snow.”

“Child’s play.” To Matt’s surprise, Adam stands up and walks out the door before Matt even gets a chance to stand up. He manages to get to the door by the time Adam plops down in the snow. “Easy. This is shit I did in middle school. Up your game, Jackson.”

“Fine. Truth or – ”

“Oh, no,” Adam says, standing. He looks way too smug for a guy who just had his pants down and his ass in the snow. “It’s my turn. You know how to play truth or dare, right?”

Matt rolls his eyes. “Ugh. Fine. Truth.”

“Who’s the worst customer you’ve ever had?”

“Oh, easy!” Matt launches into the story of Brecken Callahan, an absolute dickwad who tried to shit talk Jackson and Jackson, then tried to demand Matt let him in on investing in the business.

Adam follows the story intently, eyes flickering from Matt’s wildly gesturing hands to his lips.

“Okay, now you, truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

Matt senses an opening. “Are you gay? Straight? Bi?”

Adam’s smile is slow, dirty, delicious. “I’m bi. Truth or dare?”

“Truth?”

Adam leans in a little closer to Matt. “How many people have you fucked?”

Matt tilts his head, counting on his fingers. He hopes the blush creeping across his body isn’t too visible in the firelight. “Eight. Ten, if you count blowjobs.”

“Of course I count blowjobs.”

“Then ten.” He stretches his arms above his head, tilting his head back, exposing his throat. When he opens his eyes again, Adam’s mouth is hanging open. Works every time. “Truth or dare, lumberjack?”

“Lumberjack?”

Matt raises an eyebrow as he plays with the ends of his hair. “Am I wrong?”

Adam opens and closes his mouth, then sighs in defeat. “Yeah, fine. Truth.”

“How many people have you – have you slept with?”

“Six,” Adam answers, automatically. “Truth or dare?”

They’ve moved closer to each other, the chill in the room gone for the heat between them. Matt’s practically touching Adam now. He’s ready to go in for the kill. Matt swallows. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Adam says, eyes locked on Matt’s.

“Are you hard right now?”

Adam’s eyes widen with shock, the shadows from the candles and firelight reflecting off of them, then they settle. His smile is slow, dancing across the face like the light. “Why don’t you see for yourself?”

It’s as good an invitation that Matt thinks he’s going to get. Reaching out to rest a hand on Adam’s thigh is easier than it should be. Adam leans back against the couch, opening himself up to Matt a little bit, all guards down. Matt can see it, now, the thick outline in the grey sweatpants. “That’s, uh. That’s a yes.”

Adam lets out a low laugh. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” Matt nearly whispers, so close to Adam it feels magnetic. He doesn’t lean in, though. That’s not how the game works.

“I don’t gotta tell you what I want you to do.” Adam tilts his head up and kisses Matt, threading his fingers through his hair and pulling down against Adam’s body. Matt melts into the touch, crawling into Adam’s lap, throwing a leg over Adam’s hips. Adam takes the opportunity to slide a hand into Matt’s sweatpants, grabbing a handful of his ass. Matt presses against Adam, mouth opening against his, and he almost collapses against Adam’s chest as Adam licks into his mouth.

Matt gets a little dizzy with it, but he gives as good as he gets, running his hands up the front of Adam’s shirt and yanking it up. He hates that he has to pull away from Adam’s mouth, where the taste of ginger ale still lingers, to get the shirt off. Adam laughs as he struggles to get it over his head.

“Truth or dare,” Adam says, shirtless, glowing like Apollo in the orange sparks of the fire. “Works every time.”

“This was my idea.”

Adam laughs, biting at Matt’s throat. Matt hopes it bruises like proof. “I’m the one who said I didn’t have any other board games.”

Matt’s responding laugh is cut off as Adam sucks, hard. There’s going to be a mark, alright. “You try this on all the boys?” Matt asks, leaning down to trail kisses along Adam’s jaw.

“Only the pretty ones,” Adam replies. He slides his hands up the back of Matt’s shirt. “I fucked up when I gave you my clothes. I made my own kryptonite.”

“Effing nerd,” Matt laughs, but rewards Adam with a sucking kiss to the neck. Adam’s hips seem to twitch up outside of his control, a little gasp coming out of his mouth. Matt chases is as it skates off of Adam’s tongue, falling back against Adam like he was built to be there. His hands are so goddamn big as they splay across Matt’s back, as they push the shirt – Adam’s shirt, god – up and over. Matt pulls back so Adam can pull it over his head. His eyes skate across Matt’s chest.

“Fuck, you’re ripped,” Adam murmurs, and he leans in, biting at Matt’s collarbone, down his chest, at a pec. Matt squirms against it, desperate to get closer while also getting more naked. Adam grabs at Matt’s biceps. Matt flexes a little, because he’s always been a bit of a showoff, and Adam lets out this half-hysterical little laugh.

“What?”

“Your biceps are the size of your head,” Adam says, sounding a little dazed. “You could probably, like, bench press me.”

Matt shrugs. “I’ve been working on building muscle.”

Adam laughs again, eyes glazing over. “God, I’m glad you were the consult on those fucking chainsaws.”

“Me, too.”

They fumble against each other until Adam gives up and hauls them both to their feet. They twirl around each other like it’s choreographed as they move up the stairs into Adam’s apartment, Adam catching Matt every time he nearly stumbles on the pajama pants. Matt is suddenly consumed by the smell, touch, feel of Adam all around him. He wants to drown in it, wants it to pull him under.

“What do you want?” he asks Adam, willing to give him whatever the answer is.

“You,” Adam murmurs. His lips burn a trail along Matt’s jaw. “All of you.”

“But specifically,” Matt asks, voice broken off into a bit of a moan as Adam’s hands go for his ass again.

“Wanna get inside you,” Adam says, and it’s enough of a growl that Matt gets a little weak kneed. Adam takes advantage of it, pulling Matt’s legs out from under him so his back falls to the bed. He’s miserable, for just a second, until Adam covers him again, that long, strong body on top of him, pressing him into the mattress.

He won’t hold himself responsible for the moan that comes out of his mouth, but Adam hears it, laughs against Matt’s throat. “You good?”

“Yeah, inside me, good,” Matt babbles. “Now?”

“Wait, baby,” Adam says, and it’s the pet name again, and Matt’s a fucking mess. Adam pushes the pajama pants down and off of him. He’s hit with a wave of chill until Adam’s hands are back on him, manhandling him to where Adam wants him on the bed. Matt rolls over at the touch, pliant, malleable, and all he wants is those hands everywhere.

“Can I…?” Adam asks, massaging Matt’s ass.

“Yeah, please,” Matt says.

“You’re so much politer in bed than in business,” Adam says, but he leans down to nip at the back of Matt’s neck, so he doesn’t really have the mind space to respond. There’s a few infuriating moments where Adam’s hands are nowhere near Matt, but he comes back soon enough. Adam’s finger is already coated with lube, slick as it glides between Matt’s cheeks and teases around his hole. Matt pushes back against it, and is rewarded when Adam gently rests his hand on his lower back. “I’ll give you whatever you want,” Adam murmurs. “You just gotta ask.”

“I want you in me,” Matt whines, and he’s not proud of it, he isn’t, but he doesn’t have control of it in them moment.

Adam laughs, low and tantalizing and –

Matt lets out a slow exhale as Adam slowly presses his finger in, so gentle, so hesitant. “You can go faster,” Matt practically begs.

“See, that’s what I wanted to hear,” Adam says, sounding far too put together in the moment. He moves just the way Matt wants it, rougher and faster, and Matt can’t help but press back against it.

“Jesus,” Adam says, “wouldn’t have expected this.”

“Why not?” Matt gasps as Adam teases at adding another finger. “You expect me to be a boring lay or something?”

Adam hums, sliding another finger inside of Matt like it’s nothing. “I just expect the people who come to my tree farm to, you know,” he laughs as Matt gasps at the twists of his fingers, “not be so good at taking my fingers."

Matt keens as he pushes back on Adam’s fingers. “Hope I’m not too much for you to handle.” He looks behind him to see Adam with a positively hungry look on his face. Before he knows it, Adam flips him on his back, pressing his wrists to the bed.

“Too much to handle,” he scoffs, twisting his fingers inside of Matt almost hard enough.

“Fuck me and we’ll see if you can keep up,” Matt says, because it’s been long enough, and he’s not sure if he can wait any longer. Adam pulls his fingers out of Matt, with one last twist that gets Matt exhaling sharply, and reaches over to a drawer. Matt watches him, knowing his gaze is hungry, as he pulls out a condom and more lube.

“Took you long enough,” Matt says, grinning, because he’ll never resist the opportunity to be a little bit annoying.

“You keep that up and maybe I won’t fuck you,” Adam replies, and his stare is so heated that Matt shuts up immediately. He watches, propped up on his elbows, as Adam slides on the condom and slicks himself up. Matt exhales slowly in anticipation, desperate to have that length pushed into him, fucked into him. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“You okay?” Adam asks, hand on the back of Matt’s thigh, propping his leg up. “Like, you…?”

“If you don’t fuck me, I think I’m literally going to explode,” Matt says, trying to level Adam with the same stare he’d given Matt earlier.

Adam laughs, presses a kiss to Matt’s calf, and looks back at him. Matt wants to dive into those eyes. “Okay,” Adam says.

He pushes in, so goddamn slowly, and Matt sees stars. He can’t help himself from sighing, dropping his head back on Adam’s pillow, a little smile playing across his lips.

“You look so good like this,” Adam murmurs, pressing another kiss to Matt’s leg. Matt forces his eyes open – it’s not every day he gets to see a masterpiece painted in front of him. Adam groans a little as he pulls back and pushes in, eyes closed. Matt can’t tear his eyes from Adam’s face, watching his eyebrows draw together, his hair dance across his forehead. He wants to memorize it.

And then Adam picks up the pace, and Matt loses all thoughts in his head.

“Good?” Adam asks, like it could be anything but.

Matt nods. “Yeah, so good. Don’t stop.”

Adam lets out that little laugh again. “Good to know.”

Matt tries to push back against Adam, give as good as he’s getting, but the way Adam slams into him is so deliberate and focused it knocks all sense and planning out of his head. He reaches up to brush a thumb across Adam’s mouth. He presses a kiss to it, then draws it into his mouth, making Matt whimper with the way he sucks at it.

“God, you’re…you’re so…” Matt can’t finish his sentence, arching back as Adam thrusts at a new angle.

Adam laughs, a little choked, a little desperate. “Yeah? You, too.” He ducks his head in against Matt’s neck, pressing kisses, and Matt lets it all wash over him. He clings to Adam’s arms, his waist, his neck, desperate to get his hands on as much of him as possible. The world shrinks to the two of them, to where they connect.

“Matt,” Adam groans, his voice tight, “fuck, I’m – ”

“Yeah,” Matt says, and he slides a hand in between the two of them, curling his hand around his own cock. He doesn’t even need lube – he’s leaking enough to make the motion slick and right. “Me too.”

Matt gets himself there before Adam, coming in strong pulses all over Adam’s chest and his own. Adam’s response is to get unsteady, a little wild, a little rough with his thrusts. All Matt can do is hang on to it, riding through the aftershocks until he feels Adam come inside him with a groan that sounds a whole lot like Matt’s name.

Adam takes care of the mess and then his face is buried in Matt’s shoulder as he collapses. Matt pets through his hair with his fingers, something he hopes is soothing. He’s feeling pretty exhausted himself, though, body thoroughly wrecked and mind calm. “Damn.” Adam presses his face against Matt’s neck.

“Damn is right,” Matt laughs. Adam stirs a little bit against him, lifting his head. Matt can’t resist brushing the hair out of his eyes. The man really is pretty.

“You okay?” Adam asks. “I got a little, uh,” he laughs, “a little enthusiastic.”

“So okay,” Matt says. He grins and drops his head back against the pillow, feeling warm and cozy. “Better than okay. I feel great.”

“Good,” Adam says. “Wouldn’t want you to rescind your chainsaw deal.”

“I could make a hilarious joke about me taking care of your wood,” Matt mumbles, suddenly sleepy.

“You could,” Adam says. He yawns. “I don’t know if I have the energy left to laugh about it, though.” He pushes himself up.

“What? No,” Matt says, before he can stop himself. “Where are you going?”

“Gotta take care of the fire and the candles,” Adam says through another yawn. “Can’t burn the place down.”

Matt nods and follows Adam out of bed, throwing on the grey sweatpants.

“Those were mine!”

Matt points to the elastic at the ankle. “These I can keep up. They are mine now.”

With a shrug, Adam pulls on the red plaid pants. “I guess they are.”

Matt blows out the candles while Adam makes sure the fireplace is safe for overnight, and they trade kisses as they make their way back up to Adam’s room. It feels more homey, domestic, familiar than it should be. Matt blames it on being tired, but he knows, somewhere, that it’s more than that. They fall into bed and under the covers together, and Matt is so exhausted – two hours of driving and the business deal of a lifetime can drain you – that he falls asleep without realizing he’s curling up in Adam’s arms.

He wakes up suddenly, light streaming in through an unfamiliar angle. He blinks, twisting a little when he feels the weight over his waist. His body flushes warm at the memory of the night before. Adam looks near angelic as he sleeps, lips slightly open in a sweet pout and hair fanned over the pillow. Matt shifts back into the bed, soaking in the warmth.

“Hi,” Adam says, voice gravelly. “Mornin’.”

“Morning,” Matt replies. He snuggles in and Adam opens his arms, pulling Matt flush against him. “Sleep okay?”

“I should be asking you that,” Adam says into Matt’s hair. “Since you’re my guest and all.”

Matt leans back into him. “Your guest wants to know if you think the power’s back on.”

Adam sits up, leaving a hand splayed on Matt’s hip like it belongs there. “Looks like it. My alarm clock says it’s 2am, though, so it hasn’t been on for too long.”

“Makes sense,” Matt says. “It’s cold in here.” But he’s awake now, and he sits up, a little disappointed at the way Adam’s hand slips off his waist. He wraps his arms around himself, shivering a bit.

“Is that you hinting you want to wear more of my clothes?” Adam asks, grinning. “I got a hoodie you can borrow if you want to be all high school about it.”

“With that attitude I don’t want anything,” Matt lies.

Adam grins at him, like he knows, like he feels it too. “Sure you don’t.”

The shower takes longer than expected to warm up, but Matt’s not too worried. It’s huge for such a small apartment, and Adam crowds in behind him, hands on his waist.

“Okay if I join?”

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” Matt laughs, tilting his head back. Adam goes at the hickey Matt had noticed in the mirror from the night before, and Matt squirms against it, desperate for more and less all at the same time.

They soap each other up, and Matt falls against the wall as the body wash rinses off him, pulling Adam in for a lazy kiss and letting his hands wander. Adam grins at him. “Can I blow you?”

“The eff kind of question is that?” Matt asks. He’s been a little hard since Adam joined him in the shower, but he’s at 100% already. “Of course you can.”

Adam drops to his knees. “As you wish.”

“Oh, don’t go all Westley from Princess Br – ” But he cuts off, because Adam is good at more than just negotiation with that mouth.

It takes an hour for the two of them working together to dig out the tires, and another, more fascinating hour of Adam looking like a mechanically-inclined cowboy on an ATV with a plow attachment, before there’s a fighting chance of Matt driving out of here. He wants to stall, but he’s not sure what he could do, realistically. Nick’s already called him three times, panicking, and he’d had to promise he’d be back in the city by five to go over the final plans for the next deals and the Q1 meeting that’s planned for tomorrow.

But he doesn’t want to leave.

“Alright,” says Adam, looking like a dream as he swings a leg over the ATV and jumps off of it. “That should do it. Driveway’s ready, car’s out of the snow.” He gestures. “I didn’t even try to pop a tire or anything.”

Matt can’t help but smile. “And why would you do that?”

Adam sighs, walking up to Matt, hands settling on his hips. “Because I am a dopey, romantic freak, and I want you to stay.”

Matt wants it too. He wants it so, so badly. But he can’t. “I want to stay too,” Matt says. “Wish I could. But, uh,” he looks up at Adam. “Maybe next time you could come visit me in the city? We could fake a snow day and turn off the lights?”

Adam’s grin is like sunshine. “I’d love that.” He leans down, and Matt knows it’s the last kiss, for now. He makes it last, though, tries to make it so all he can taste and smell is Adam for the foreseeable future.

When he finally pulls back, it feels the way he did when he and Nick told their friends they were leaving California. The kind of goodbye that aches. The kind of goodbye you’re not supposed to feel with a one time hookup. “Keep in touch. And not just professionally.”

Adam presses a kiss to Matt’s forehead, and it feels like a promise. “I will,” Adam says. He reaches for Matt in a move that feels like it has some interesting potential, but he just grabs at the pocket of the sweatpants and pulls out Matt’s phone. He points the phone toward Matt’s face, and it unlocks. “I’ll put myself in your phone.”

“You’re already in there,” Matt says, grinning. “Remember? Business deal and all that.”

Adam points the phone in his face. “I renamed it Sexy Lumberjack Adam.”

“Well,” Matt says, taking the phone back, “you’re not wrong.”

He waves goodbye, feeling awkward, and slides into the seat of his car. “I, uh. I hope I’ll see you soon.”

Adam nods, then frowns. Like he’s rushing, he half runs his way over to Matt’s car. “One more kiss for the road?”

Matt sighs, relief coursing over him. “Of course.”

It feels like hope.

“Text me when you get to your house,” Adam says as Matt swings the door closed.

Matt nods.

It’s the first thing he does when he pulls into his driveway.

Home!

It’s only seconds before he gets the reply. See you soon <3

#Lookee here it's more smutty fluff #The return of Sara and the Smluff!!#in which Sara writes #HangMatt #Hangman Adam Page #Matt Jackson #wtf i like wrestling now???#sarahcakes613

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macfrog · 4 months

Text

sweet child o' mine | pt. iii

now taking name suggestions for my joel's duck doodle. must rhyme with a curse word. most creative wins.

pairing: neighbor!joel x fem!reader

summary: as your pregnancy progresses, you and joel are getting closer. dangerously closer.

warnings: reader is literally pregnant so typical pregnancy symptoms & descriptions of stuff like extreme nausea and gagging (reader throws up off-page, no graphic description past sore throat/esophagus afterward), body changing, nerves around birth/becoming mom, another sonogram (gender reveal...?), baby kicks felt, labor pains shhh, age gap (late 20s reader, late 40s joel), joel is dating someone who isn't reader, our girl hates nye (she's valid), tommy uses colors to represent gender (he is Wrong), joel is for sure emotionally cheating at this point and reader knows it, joel kisses someone who is not his partner again, f masturbation, memories of the hot dirty sex they had whew, a SPRINKLING of breeding kink, praise kink, size kink, another parent dies (i love parents i promise ????), jealous!reader, protective!joel, alcohol consumption, cursing, a LOT of angst, lots of fluff, lil bit of smut, and duckie has the best comedic timing of any character in this entire series. :) DISCLAIMER: this series covers some issues which i know may be sensitive and possibly triggering to some. warnings will always be as thorough as possible, but if there’s ever anything you feel i’ve missed, please let me know. feel free to drop by my inbox anytime.

word count: 11.4k (sorry. lots to cover lots to do.)

pt. i / series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🩵

December.

The days are funneled by a quick pinch of dark, the breeze heavy in its sail. Houses lined with twinkling lights and windows pierced by pointed trees. Crooning from every radio station, teary-eyed movies on TV, and spiced apple everything.

You hate every fucking minute of it.

“Wait a second,” Tommy sits forward, leaning in, “you never do nothin’ for New Years?”

You shrug, lifting your eyebrows. “Nope. Just don’t like it much. That a crime?”

He considers it as he hands his empty tumbler up to Joel, his head lolling some. He’s on his…fourth drink of the night, right? Though, if you take into account his earlier argument – I’m eatin’ as I go. It don’t count. – it’s probably more like two. But it’s whiskey, so –

Never mind.

“Yeah,” Tommy finally decides, “kinda. The hell’s wrong with you, girl?”

“Tommy.”

Joel’s voice is a warning, edged by the sharp clink of three glasses pinched in his fingers.

His brother laughs amiably in response, though, nodding to your mock-offended expression. “At least you’re spendin’ it right this year. Last one before lil’ Dickie comes along, huh?”

Maria slaps his shoulder, rolling her eyes. “It’s Duckie,” she hisses, glancing over to you.

“Shoot,” he says, chuckling. “I knew that. My mistake.” And then, hand out towards you in an apology which makes your shoulders jerk with laughter, “I did know that, I swear.”

Tommy and Maria flew in a few days ago; the younger Miller adamant that he’d spend one last New Years with his big brother before he became a father. The night they arrived, they showed up on your doorstep – a hamper filled with diapers and muslins and baby socks hanging from Maria’s arm. They’ve asked to hang out with you every day since.

They’re good fun. Tommy likes you, at least, enough to tease you as much as you figure a brother might. He’s definitely the louder of the two – sometimes you swear you notice Joel cringing at him, something caught between a laugh and a frown on his face. And Maria’s sweet; she’s asked probably six times every hour since she first saw you if you’re feeling okay, if you’re tired, if you’re hungry.

Joel text you yesterday morning. Tommy and Maria wondering if you feel like coming over for NYE. No pressure, he added, I lie pretty good.

A smile snuck its way across your lips before you had the chance to tame it. Sure, you typed, I’ll bring the newspaper.

What Joel’s told them, about the wedding and the baby and everything since, you’ve no idea. You guys almost talked about it when he told you they were flying down after Christmas, but before you got the chance to ask him, Vanessa pulled up out front.

Not exactly a conversation you felt like having with the dude’s girlfriend hooked around his right arm.

She smiles at you, now, as you shuffle to the edge of the armchair you’re curled up in. Joel’s armchair – the plaid blanket cradling you, the leather soft and crinkled beneath. Your eyes quickly drop from hers when his hand reaches for your mug, your fingers crossing as you pass it up. “Let me come help,” you say, pushing from the chair.

He holds up a palm, shaking his head once. “Stay. I got it.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, settling back. Vanessa resumes smiling. You wish she’d fucking quit it. You wish you’d fucking quit focusing on her.

Joel knocks the mug gently against your shoulder with a small, almost sympathetic smile, and heads for the kitchen – leaving you sat between Tommy and Maria on one couch, and Vanessa on the other. You tuck your heels under your thighs, picking at a hangnail as you wait for the conversation to thaw.

Maria makes some comment about Austin in the winter: how different it is to Jackson, and the three of you nod and hum in agreement before the chatter fizzles to nothing again. You glance over to the clock, watching the hands chase one another to twelve.

This isn’t what you imagined a get-together with Joel’s family would feel like. Tight, tense. So tense that you can feel the weight on your chest, closing your lungs. Talking about the weather and the holiday traffic, talking about nothing to avoid talking about everything.

Tommy’s chin lifts, after a second too long of silence. “Hey, Joel!” he barks. “You ain’t shown me this nursery yet!”

Joel leans around the doorframe, half-distracted. “Barely even started it, little brother. Crib only got delivered yesterday.”

“Sheesh,” Maria’s eyes widen, “you sure are prepared.”

Vanessa laughs when Joel rolls his eyes and vanishes again. “You got no idea,” she says, “I have never seen him so…pedantic, right?” She looks to you, still smiling. So sweet, you worry your lips are pursing at the sight of it. Your neck tensing. Your eyes watering.

“Yeah,” you reply, nodding shyly and swallowing back the saccharine. “I think he’s more nervous than he’s letting on.”

Joel’s voice calls from the kitchen again: your name. When you answer, he says, “Why don’t you take Tommy up, show ‘im what we got so far?” and then, leaning back around the door, “She picked the color ‘n whatnot.”

“Ah,” Tommy says, palms pushing down on his knees, “so you’re the brains, then?”

You mirror him, accepting Joel’s request. As though you had any choice in the first place. Standing beside the younger Miller, you mutter, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

He holds a hand out to usher you ahead, following you upstairs. Past the tousle-haired boy in grayscale, past the German shepherd, past the Christmas Day portrait. Wandering like you know the house inside out, like you might’ve picked the exact coordinates of each nail the picture frames hang on yourself.

Like the photographs pinned to the walls aren’t still as alien to you as they’d been that day you first set foot in here, the dress Joel would come to tear from your body slung over your arm.

You twist the gold handle and unveil a homely little room, painted by you and Joel just last week. The soft blue drying into his knuckles, random splatters on your palms and your jeans. The giggles drawn from your chest; the thief either the chemicals from the paint, or the man rolling it over the walls – and you’ve a pretty good idea of which.

Tommy sniffs roughly, nodding. Taps the toe of his boot against one of the two bulky boxes leant against the wall, a crib printed on one and a rocking chair on the other. His tipsy head bob bob bobbing. “Alright. ‘s nice, ain’t it?”

You settle against the window, the glass cold at your back. “Real nice, yeah. Be even better once it’s done.”

“What’s yours look like?”

“Mine?”

“Nursery at your place. Your one pink, ‘case it’s a girl?”

You snort. “Mine is a little greener. More…I guess it’s duck egg. Had some leftover paint.”

He clicks his fingers and points to you. “See what you did there. Duck egg. Duckie.”

“Hm. Wish I were that poetic. I just like the color.”

Tommy stuffs his hands in his pockets, wanders around the bare room. The faint lingering of whiskey putting up its best fight against the clean bite of fresh paint, the sweet scent shaking from him when he nods some more at the blank walls and naked windows. He clicks his teeth and asks, “How you holdin’ up, anyways?”

“How am I holding up?”

“Yep. With, uh…” he nods to the door, eyes wide, “…Vanessa,” he whispers. Louder than he must think – probably echoed, if anything, by the palm he curves around his mouth.

You cross your arms protectively, shoulders bunching. “She’s fine,” you say, voice deliberately low. You both ignore the crack in it when you add, “I like her. She’s – she’s taken this all like a champ.”

Tommy leans on the window ledge, a rugged hand you reckon you’d know was a Miller’s just by looking at it. Same rough-cut quality as Joel’s, like they’re torn from the same sheet of sandpaper. He props the other on his hip. “But, boy – it’s gotta be complicated, right?”

“I guess. But she’s real sweet about it. And Joel’s been great, too.” You sniff, the memory of your kiss flashing behind your eyes. The steady drum of Duck’s heartbeat, the gleam in Joel’s eye when he looked down at you. The guilt seeping from your skin like beads of sweat, prickling along your spine and fizzling against the cold windowpane.

Tommy blinks at you, liquor-glazed eyes scanning. His shoulders jerk, a loud huh propelling from his throat. When your head cocks in confusion, startled from your daydream, he spills. “He ‘n I had a mighty long talk when he told me.”

You feel yourself leaning in, magnetized to him – body hunched as though you’re gossiping in the corner of a house party. Inhaling secrets with the tinge of alcohol on Tommy’s breath. “Oh, yeah?”

Tommy hums. “Just wanted to make sure he’d thought it all through. Not you – I always knew he’d take care a’ you and Duck. But…involving Vanessa,” he lowers his voice again, glancing over to the warm light spilling in from the hallway, “I just wanted him to be sure.”

Your blood begins to warm, heat flooding through your body as you step closer, murmuring, “What’d he say?”

He flicks his head, seeming to toss his initial response to the wind. “You know Joel. He is his own man.”

Your face screws, head jerking back. “What’s that mean? He is his own man?”

A voice from the doorway interrupts. A shadow swimming in the golden light. “Who is?”

Tommy steps away from you, loosening his arms as his big brother drifts into the shadowy room. Dusting the conversation under the rug. The smell of whiskey backs off. “Speak of the devil. Nice paint job, Joel. Missed a couple spots, but – I’ll let you off.”

“Uhuh.” Joel’s eyes thin, his body slanted against the wall. Arms crossed, bottle of beer hanging from his fingers.

Tommy swaggers forward when Joel holds the bottle out, taking it with a wary glance at the tall figure. A dog meandering back to his owner, tail between his legs and ears flat. It takes his gritty voice to jolt you back to the room, splintering your gaze from Joel’s toned arms and huge chest. “Looks real good, you two. ‘s one lucky kid.”

Joel’s jaw lifts, his eyes landing on you. Dogs are terrible liars. “He talkin’ your ear off?”

You smile; recognizing the softer Joel you’ve grown used to over the last three months replacing the stern, cold version you once knew so well. “Only a little.”

“Tommy,” he says then, “Maria needs you for somethin’.”

The denim-donned Miller nods knowingly and heads out of the room, thud of his boots receding downstairs.

“Maria okay?” you ask, making space for Joel as he settles beside you.

He shrugs. “Only said that to get him outta your hair.”

You frown. “You sent me up here with him in the first place.”

“So I could come up ‘n check on you. Know this must be a lot – the two of them, tonight.”

“I’m fine. Promise. I’m a big girl.”

You both sigh, turning to look out at the dark street. Your arms cross, sitting somewhere above the tiny slope of your bump – a new development you’re still getting used to. Your stomach feels tighter, a little more solid than usual when you touch it. A little more…real. There’s someone in there, right? Like, actually there. They’re changing the way you look, the way you feel.

“This is it, right?” you say, staring at the white lanterns illuminating Alice Brown’s rose bushes. “This is the year.”

“The year,” Joel agrees.

“Mhm. Become a mom. Become a dad.”

He purses his lips. “Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve had bigger years, kid.”

“Let’s hear it, old man. Let’s hear about your biggest year. God knows you’ve had plenty to choose from.”

He sucks a deep breath in, eyes tracing the silhouette of the houses across the street as he thinks. “Senior year, nineteen ninety-three. Asked Stacy Moore as my date to the prom ‘n she said yes. I was so nervous that I forgot my bow tie. Was a pretty good year.”

You hum, agreeing, and then, “I see your ninety-three, and I raise you: two thousand and one. There was this bike I wanted for-fucking-ever; it had, like, little beads on the spokes – would make this ratatatat sound whenever it moved. Tassels hanging from the handlebars, all iridescent. I begged my mom the entire year for it, and on Christmas morning I woke up, and…” You lift your hands, air puffing from between your lips. “Santa Claus delivered that year, dude.”

“Well,” Joel clicks his teeth, shell hardening only a little, “thanks for making me feel old as hell.”

“You’re welcome.” You beam back at him, breaking into a laugh when he does.

The two of you stand a little distance apart, denying yourselves the innocent brushing of shoulder against shoulder, the nudging of elbows and swaying of hips. Admiring the empty sky and emptier street, bathing between the cold moonlight of outside and the warm lamplight in.

And from somewhere deep in your belly, somewhere tucked behind your ribs, beneath your slow-growing womb: an urge to ask about her. To bring her up. To tend to the curiosity that Tommy poked a clumsy, drunken finger straight into, tearing it apart at the seams.

Like pressing on a new bruise, satiating the hungry need to know where you were hurt, how you were hurt, when you were hurt. A bent fingertip, pushing heavily into a sensitive splatter of dark purple; the burst blood vessels hissing in response, whispering, You don’t know, and you don’t want to know.

But you defy them. You do want to know. Want to satisfy the disturbed thrill you felt, leaning into Joel’s brother. Hands turning over one another, wet bottom lip trembling as he rounded the corner on some sort of…what was it, a secret? Some sort of truth, a long-buried revelation about the other woman. She’s a witch, have you spotted her crooked nose? She’s plotting something, I swear. She’s up to no good.

Your eyes lift again, focusing back on the dull color of the outside world. The bland canvas of reality. She’s not a witch, nor some genius mastermind. She’s a boring, relatively normal woman. Kind, thoughtful. Naïve and a little too eager to please; too willing to forgive a situation which warrants no such kindness or empathy.

She’s just…fine. Lukewarm. And you’ve no idea why that pisses you off so much.

Which, incidentally, makes the bruise sting all the more.

“Maria, Maria,” Tommy’s voice claws its way upstairs, “turn it on, turn it – Joel? Joel! It’s midnight, Joel, you two better come on down, now! Have we missed it –? Have we –?”

The sound of cheering slowly bubbles to life behind his drawl as the TV volume picks up, the tittering of Maria and Vanessa chiming in.

“…five, four, three, two, one…Happy New Year!”

Joel’s looking over his shoulder, waiting for footsteps or voices or a girlfriend who never shows. And he ignores his brother, for he is his own man, and turns to you instead. Bracing himself on the ledge, he blinks down with a plain grin on his lips. “Happy New Year, Mom,” he whispers.

You return his smile, taking his hand when he reaches out to you. “Happy New Year, Dad,” you reply, squeezing his palm.

He pulls you in for a hug, kissing your cheek briskly as you hook your arms over his shoulders. His beard scratches your cheek, grazes the curve of your shoulder, and you don’t mind. Your small, swollen belly presses against his; the tiny curve safe in the midst of your embrace.

Outside, the sky crackles to life with the distant spatter of fireworks, color shattering across the black canvas – red, blue, green and gold, dissolving as quickly as they explode into the now-January night. A burst of purple light washes between the two of you, and you turn your head on Joel’s shoulder to watch as the sparks rain over your neighbors’ roofs.

“I should get goin’,” you whisper, feeling his heartbeat a little too strongly against your own. Becoming suddenly aware of the weight of your frames locked together.

“Glad you came,” he says as he leans away. “I know this ain’t…I know we’re all tryin’, but you’re tryin’ the most, and I appreciate it. I hope you know that.”

“I know it,” you tell him, rolling your eyes. “Now, go. Go kiss your girlfriend.”

He chuckles, making for the door. “You want me to walk you home?”

Your eyes close serenely, the image of him doused in flickers of gold burning behind your eyelids. “I’ll survive the walk across the hedgerow, Miller.”

Joel nods once and leaves, plodding downstairs to be greeted by his open-armed girlfriend, a peck between them, arms crossed behind his neck. The lyrics of Auld Lang Syne slurred against his lips.

And you think – You know what? If it’ll rip you apart from her, if it’ll keep her bright red lips and her shining curtain of hair away from you, if it’ll stop her sucking in your air and your smell and your attention for thirty fucking seconds –

Then, yeah. Walk me home. Stay for a drink. Sleep in the goddamn guestroom.

Walk me home.

You slip out of the front door when the two couples are in the kitchen, missing Joel’s calling your name – or perhaps just ignoring it altogether.

“Spread the love at St. David’s this Valentine’s Day…”

Joel slows alongside a wall of cerise hearts, each one fluttering like wings whenever the hospital doors slide open and the breeze sneaks inside. Slips scrawled with names and messages: Love you M! and J + A, crude drawings of stick figures holding hands. Your lips curl into a smirk, watching him flick through each one as you palm your round stomach.

You just saw Duck for the second time. The last time, Freya was kind enough to mention, before they’re tearing you in two. Sorry, she mouthed when your expression dropped, and went back to twisting the probe over your stomach. Silently.

You’re getting better at it, you think. Playing Mom. Like some little game of make-believe, which is only real for as long as you’re looking it square in the eye – attending doctor’s appointments, updating the neighbors on your newest list of symptoms en route to your mailbox.

A little surer on your feet, now that you’ve found a balance to it: taking it as seriously as it warrants, a dry little pill stuck on the cliff of your throat, and making it easier to swallow with humor like water, a huge gulp anytime the fear claws its way up your spine.

And no more panic, since at least before Christmas. Only a little flustered this afternoon when Freya asked if you wanted to know the sex.

It felt too big a thing to hear, too real. You’re only just getting used to the backache and the bleeding gums. (And why didn’t you know that your gums would bleed? Isn’t that something they should fucking warn you about? Congrats, you’re pregnant: prepare for blood seeping from your jaw.)

No. No, thanks. Your head shot around to Joel. No, right?

He shrugged. Makes no difference to me.

Are you sure?

I’m sure, kid. Promise.

‘cause we can find out. I mean – if you want to.

He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, tapping you amiably on the shoulder. I don’t. You’re good.

You don’t?

No, I – He sighed, a hand dragging through his hair. If you want to, I want to. If you don’t, I don’t. Alright?

Freya bit back a laugh, the closed fist over her lips doing little to hide it. You guys should write a book on co-parenting.

But then she left the room again, closed the door on that same old little bubble – the three of you perched on the bed, you and Joel blinking up at the grains of your child onscreen – and you cried. Again. More.

Everything clearer, everything even more human than before: the globe of their skull, the tiny slope of their nose. All glowing in the dark waves of your womb, twinkling like the most beautiful constellation you could ever come across. Their ankles were crossed, feet forming a tiny heart shape in the top corner of the sonogram. Your hand lifted to point it out to Joel, and before the words found voice, you choked and broke down again.

He held you, lips to your hair, body solid as a rock as you melted into him in waves of salty tears. Smiled that honey-glazed smile and said he was so proud of you, said, look what your body’s doin’, darlin’, look what you’re growin’ – which only made you weep more.

And you pretended not to wait for it – for the moment when you might tilt your head up and your lips might line with his, and he might close the achy space between you again, might shush your cries by stealing the air from your lungs and the beat from your heart.

But he didn’t.

Which is fine.

Right?

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” he asks now, eyes still glued to the sea of hearts.

Your stare snaps from him instantly, unaware it was even held there. You tug on the hem of your sweater and pull the sleeves over your hands, mumbling, “Fine, I’m – I’m just…Come on, man. I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”

“’n whose fault is that?”

You glower at him. “How considerate,” you seethe, “Vanessa’s a fucking lucky woman, you know that?”

He ignores you, a dumb smile on his face. The usual. “Let’s leave one for ‘em.”

A hot temper begins to boil below the surface of your skin, squeezing between your teeth in a fist-swinging breath. Also the usual these days, apparently. “For who?”

“Duckie. Somethin’ to mark the second scan. Last time we see them, before –”

Your hand flies up, eyes closing with a wince. Shut the fuck up. “Enough. I know.”

Joel hms, still smiling to himself. His beard has grown out a little: thicker, darker, gray sewn through like little whip stitches lining his jaw. He fishes a heart shape from the tub along with a pen, which he twirls annoyingly around his fingers as he thinks.

You sink back against the clinical white wall, an offensively bright color, holding your cheeks up in something of a smile when a nurse wanders past, nodding to both of you. Your face drops back to a scowl as soon as she’s over Joel’s shoulder, and your eyes meet his again – his brows raised, expectant.

“What?” you ask, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

He holds the slip up. “What we gonna write?”

And whatever charm the moment may have held, withers instantly. You throw your arms up petulantly. “You wanted to do it! Pick something. See you soon, or something, I don’t fucking know.”

“I don’t fucking know,” Joel muses, creases by his eyes when he smirks. “Poignant.”

“That’s what you should write,” you step closer, shoving your shoulder into his as you study the trembling hearts on the board, “if you can spell poignant, write that.”

“Hilarious,” he mutters, bending to scribble onto the shape, shielding his work from your view when you hang around his shoulder to pry. Cupping over the message until he’s straightening up, tossing the pen back to the desk, stealing a pin from the tub.

“Let me read,” you protest, tugging on his flannel sleeve.

“I will,” he says, shaking you off. “Patience, darlin’.”

Joel turns to the wall and pins the heart higher than the rest, in a spot clear of its own on the corkboard – thick arms stretching higher higher higher and pulling your gaze with them. As he steps back, he takes you gently by the waist and positions you in front of his body, your shoulders brushing against his chest. Your ribs hold your heart back from hammering into his.

You push up onto your tiptoes and squint at the note, which quivers when the hospital doors pull open again. “Mom and…Mom and Dad f…You fucking…”

Joel dodges your batting arm, snickering with you as he turns to make for the exit. “You don’t like it?” he tosses over his shoulder.

The heart stares down at you, black ink carved into the paper, watching as you turn and hurry after him, giggling. “Mom and Dad fuckin love you? So much for my potty mouth. And the –” another wheezing laugh you’d otherwise be ashamed to let him hear, “– the drawing? It looks – it looks more like a giraffe than a duck. Or, like, you know those long-necked dinosaurs?”

Joel’s head tips back, his own laughter caught up by the breeze when you wander outside, slipping your wrist around the crook of his elbow. Something infectious about it, something which stirs your own laughter until you’re walking arm in arm to the truck with a man who, six months ago, you’d barely look at twice over the fence.

The blind rage bubbling from your empty stomach seems to dissipate, dwindled to nothing in the face of that same man – his swollen cheeks and crows-feet eyes. And you say, “You’re disgustingly sentimental, you know that? Like, sickening.”

And Joel smirks, the way he always fucking does, and says, “You love it. Can’t lie to me.”

“I love it,” you concede, nudging into him as he opens the door for you.

The drive home is quiet, but not uncomfortable. There’s another thing you’re getting good at: being around Joel without need for snide remarks, without feeling your tongue curl under the weight of some snappy quip, loaded and aimed. Being around him and talking about Duck, asking how Tommy and Maria are. Forcing your teeth and tongue to carve out words which ask how Vanessa is, what she’s up to, when he’s seeing her next.

None of this is ideal, that’s for sure. Joel’s girlfriend aside, you’ve spent the last five months cohabiting your body with a stranger who lives most peacefully in the eye of a raging tornado of hormones – flitting between fits of giggles and pulsating joy in your veins, to waves of tears and an anger so hot beneath your skin that you wonder if your emotions might dry up completely by the time this is all through.

It's tough. It’s scary. And some nights you lie in bed, alone, wet eyes fixed on nothing, waiting for someone to burst into the room and announce that it’s all a prank. Just a silly joke. You and Joel can go back to tossing newspapers and casting glowers.

But for now, sat in the passenger seat of his truck – the seatbelt warped around the curve of your belly, the Eagles lilting softly from the radio – it feels like you’re making a home out of that tornado, too. Feeling the swirling walls of wind toss your hair like the breeze through the truck window; the chilled caress of the evening around your outstretched arm, soaring down the highway.

Yeah, you think. I can make something outta this.

“You know what I’m craving?”

Joel’s watching the light, waiting for green. “What’s that?”

“A fucking bagel. Cream cheese, pastrami,” you groan.

He snorts, cringing when he adds, “Pickles?”

A moan tears from the base of your throat, head lolling against your seat. “I could orgasm just thinking about it.”

The light turns, and Joel swings right. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he mutters, turning the wheel with one palm. “I got bagels back at the house, if you want one.”

You stare at him, jaw loose, saliva pooling behind your bottom lip. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He smiles, shaking his head. “Let me make you one, ‘fore you go home. Big day, ‘n all.”

And you hate it – hate the way your cheeks fill with a genuine happiness, something swollen and achy, impossible to ignore when it lifts your eyes and hurts your teeth. Appreciation, or admiration, perhaps, that you figure you’ll only ever have for him. You don’t know what the fuck to call it.

So you sum it up into three words. “That’d be nice,” you whisper, and Joel places his hand over your knee, shaking it lightly as he drives on.

It stays there, until he’s pulling into his driveway.

He pushes the front door open and steps back, an arm extended to let you by first. An after you, ma’am, between his lips. And you turn to make some mocking joke, the beginnings of some comment about how gentlemanly he is, when you’re socked square on the nose by a heavy-fisted, bitter scent.

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp, stumbling backwards across the threshold and onto the porch again. Your throat constricting around nothing, your tongue twisting, your stomach lurching.

Joel catches you just in time to stop you from falling on your ass. “The hell’s the m–? Oh.”

“Hi!” Vanessa calls from the kitchen, leaning around the doorframe to wave you both in. “Almost ready! Take a seat.”

“V–? Hey, sweetheart?” Joel calls back, one hand around your wrist and the other between your shoulders. “What – what’s cookin’?”

She pauses, glancing back at the stove. Pulls the dish towel between her hands taut. “I…I made pasta.”

“Yeah, what kind, sweet?”

“…Bolognese.”

He can’t cover his own sigh quick enough. Thick with something which feels like anger. “Shit,” he turns back to you, “I am so sorry.”

You pull in a deep, unsteady breath, your lungs struggling to separate night air from tomato juice. A weight rolling at the bottom of your stomach, your entire body beginning to tremble with it. “I feel like I’m gonna – Joel, I’m gonna –”

“Breathe,” he whispers, voice urgent, palm slipping to cup your jaw. “Just breathe for me.”

But your throat’s tightening, swallowing hard around gags which come stronger and quicker the more you try to fight them down. “I can still fucking smell it –”

Her shadow blocks the stretch of light from the house. A nervous little thing, a timid creature’s shadow stretched wide across the porch floor. “Is…everything okay?”

“It’s – it’s fine,” Joel sighs again, torn between comforting you and letting Vanessa down gently, “it’s just – tomato is one of her…her aversions.” He’s unable to pull his eyes from you, privately asking, “Are you okay?” when Vanessa turns back to the kitchen.

“I didn’t – I didn’t know,” she mumbles, thumbnail between her teeth. “I am so sorry.”

Suddenly, your will not to throw up is overpowered by your will to tell her, “It’s fine,” sucking in a deep, sickly breath before adding, “I’m just gonna – I should go.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Joel says, his teeth guarding the words from his girlfriend.

“I’m gonna clean up in here,” Vanessa points over her shoulder, and you think she must’ve heard him, “get outta your hair. I’m so sorry, again. I would’ve never…”

Joel lets go of you as you stagger backwards, the cold air tearing down your throat to meet the burning acid tickling up your esophagus. “Please don’t apologize,” you lift a weak hand, “how could you have known? I’ll –” another sharp gasp, “– I’ll see you guys around.”

He must say your name, must try once more to pull you back to his side, but the blood’s rushing through your ears, and your heart’s pounding at the back of your tongue, and your stomach’s notching its way up your spine. You make it to your kitchen sink just in time.

He keeps you waiting all of one hour before he’s calling you. Your arm reaches over to your nightstand, fumbling in the dark for your heavy phone, the screen cold against your cheek.

“Mhm?”

“Are you okay?”

Your lungs pull a deep, slow breath. The acid painted across your throat tickles as the air passes by it, an uncomfortable, scratchy feeling.“Mhm.”

“That a lie?”

“Only a little. Is Vanessa okay?”

He takes a second to answer. Lets go of whatever he was going to say with a sigh, replacing it with, “She just left.”

“Is she mad at us?”

Another second. “Just me. Not you.”

You massage the slope below your breasts, the ache in your esophagus throbbing when you move. “Why just you?”

Ruffling, like he’s settling back into his couch. Sinking into the cushion, his body as heavy as yours feels on your mattress. “I should’ve told her you didn’t like tomatoes. ‘cause now I’m a goddamn mind reader. I mean, why the hell wouldn’t my girlfriend be in my house cookin’ a damn pasta dish while I’m out, y’know? Jesus Christ.”

“Joel,” you turn slowly onto your back, bravely waiting for the waves of nausea still lapping around your stomach to turn with you, “it was a nice thing, what she did. She didn’t mean to…She probably thought she was helping.”

“Naw, I know,” he replies, the sharp bite of his words softening again, shrinking under yours. “I don’t care about her and her helping, though, darlin’, I care about y –” He barely catches it in time. “I care about you carrying my child, and I care about making sure you don’t spend your nights fuckin’…throwing up tomato sauce.”

You gulp, neck convulsing. The backwash of bile swallowed back. Your chest floods with a heat of quick panic. “Can we…maybe…not use the word? I just –”

“Sorry, baby. Sorry. This is just – it’s a lot easier if she would just…”

Your eyes close over, a salty sting sweeping behind them. If she would just lay off. Back off. Fuck off. “…but she won’t, Joel. She loves you. ‘n you…”

The words drift off, taken by the tide, swept off into silence. And neither of you bother with trying to retrieve them – you just watch, stood safe on the shoreline, as they fold under the waves of something too big for either of you to acknowledge. Too dark, too dangerous.

So, you say, “I get it,” instead; say, “I get why you’re mad. Just – let’s forget about it, okay? Sorry for…ruining dinner.”

Joel scoffs, that old, pissed-off Joel scoff. You can see his deadened expression on the back of your eyelids. You may as well have just thrown his newspaper to the end of the earth. “You know damn well that you didn’t ruin anything. How you feelin’?”

“Tired. Throat kinda hurts.”

“Still feel like that pastrami bagel?”

“Not really. Sorry. Appetite’s gone.”

“How about a water?”

“I got some here. Thanks.”

“Okay,” Joel sniffs, “how about: you take the hint and let me come over there to see you?”

You giggle, hand over your eyes to mask your expression from the dark. “I hate you. Yeah, come over. Door’s unlocked.”

Date night – six month anniversary or whatever. Call me if you need anything.

And I mean anything. OK?

Your thumbs hover over the two gray messages, an awkward jig as your brain scrambles to offer words back. Where are you guys going? Too interested. Too weird. OK, what if I’m bored? Delete delete delete. Trying too hard. Sure, have a good n–

The ellipsis pops up and you freeze. A stupidly polite swish delivers Joel’s third text.

Boredom counts as anything, by the way.

And the fucker steals another smile from you. You notice it when you look up, clocking yourself in the mirror. Accompanied by a warmth which drips down your spine, swirls around your tummy; a fluttering you’re not sure is Duckie or something else.

Have a good night, Dad, you type back, tossing the phone to the end of your bed when you hit send. Swiping for a pillow, holding it firm to your face. Pressing so deep into the plush that even the linen won’t be able to see your grin.

Joel told you about this six-month anniversary last week. He wasn’t too thrilled about it then, either. Dinner to celebrate six months? A year, fair enough. But six months?

You swallowed your pride, swallowed the same throttling ecstasy which seeped through your pores on New Year’s Eve, on that February evening she cooked– never mind; a desperate desire to tear apart the very notion of Vanessa and her cutesy little date nights and candlelit dinners. I think it’s a fun idea, you said. Y’all should do it.

And Joel listened. Because he always fucking listens to you, these days. Listens when you tell him that you like the watermelon Sour Patch Kids best, and picks them up anytime he’s at the store. Listens to you when you tell him he should move the crib away from the window, in case the streetlights shine on Duck while they sleep.

Listens when you ramble about how sore your feet are, how heavy your belly feels, how there’s a clammy heat lingering under your skin at all times, bubbling and bubbling and never rising to anything more than steam collecting on the underside of your flesh.

Listens when you tell him to go spend time with his girlfriend. And neither of you pay attention to the jealous shadow behind your words, the hesitant quiver behind his.

He replies almost instantly, the ping like a gunshot at the beginning of a race. Pillow slammed into the mattress, body lunging forward.

You too, Mom. Don’t have too much fun without me.

You lock the phone and slide it back under your covers, smiling dumbly.

There’s still a small part of you waiting for the big reveal: none of this is really happening. A dream, maybe, something you’ll wake from with a tiny throbbing headache, a dry mouth and a new reason to avoid your neighbor at all costs.

But it seems that, each time that thought crosses your mind, you’re quicker and quicker to quash it. Realizing each time that what lies ahead – Joel, your baby, this future version of yourself that you’re yet to meet, still just a little out of reach – fills you with more excitement and wonder, than it does fear.

Mom.

It’s not something you ever imagined for yourself. Not someone you ever thought you’d be. And yet, each time you say it out loud, each time you look in the mirror and picture a baby in the crook of your arm, a toddler perched on your hip, a kid stood by your side, tugging on the hem of your shirt – she feels a little closer. A little clearer. She just has to look over her shoulder, notice you waiting. I’m right here, she says. Come find me.

Mom. Mom and Dad.

You imagine Joel right now, sat in some ritzy restaurant with jazz music and stained-glass lamps on every table, ordering Vanessa some glorified lentil soup and slapping his card over the bill before the waiter has a chance to reveal the damage to him. Your lips twist at the thought – her jewels and her long hair and her sweet little smile laced with a smug possession.

And then you slap your own wrists, hissing to yourself to shut the fuck up.

“She’s nice,” you argue out loud, thin air holding no debate. “She’s kind, and I like her. She’s good for him.”

And then the air replies. Good for him, it swirls, but you could do it better.

Your arm lifts, lingering for a beat before batting the thought away.

Three weeks. Three fucking weeks, between pushing yourself out of his embrace in bed, and pulling yourself back into it – armed with a pregnancy test and a chest full of fear. Three weeks of dodging him, of your cheeks bubbling with embarrassment and regret anytime you thought of it; of hoping to God that Alice or Diane or Steve and Kris across the street wouldn’t clairvoyantly know what had transpired that night and corner you on your own front lawn.

A one-night stand. That’s all it was. Two lonely bodies, excitement enough to convince you both that it was a good idea; a fitted suit and a backless dress crumpled together on the floor. Liquid courage lacing it all together.

Three weeks, then, of reminding yourself how it felt: how amazing you were together. Your hand between your legs and Joel’s name between your teeth.

Fuck. If only he knew. Goodforhimgoodforhim she’s so good for him but I’m better.

You did it better. You know you did. The sun was cresting the horizon by the time the two of you stopped. You hauled yourselves down to breakfast and sat at least three people apart, made forced conversation with Maria about the DJ stumbling off with one of her cousins, while the ghostly ache of Joel’s body churned somewhere deep inside you.

It travels through your veins the way that everything does right now: urgent and unforgiving. A need to be dealt with, immediately. Coursing through your body, an arrowhead pointing somewhere you know it shouldn’t. But your hands lift anyway – following it, loosening the waist of your sweatpants and skimming beneath your underwear.

Your body lights at the first touch. The first dip of your middle finger against the plush over your clit. Knees bend, thighs part. You push your underwear down your hips, settling your bottoms loose on your legs. You’re already wet. You’re already there.

Good fucking girl. She’s good but I’m better, right? Take it, baby. Does she take it like I take it? Take it. Can she take you like I did?

Quicker and quicker and quicker, your fingers heavy on your clit. The other hand sifting between your folds, dipping to collect a glimmer of wet. Yeah. Just like that. Do you fuck her like you fucked me? You feel what you do to me? Fuck no, you don’t. You’ve never fucked anyone like you fucked me.

Head back, eyes fluttering closed, lips parting to breathe answers to a man who isn’t here. To a man who, as he dips sourdough into an overpriced soup, sure as hell isn’t thinking about that time he fucked you so good he got you fucking pregnant.

Well. Maybe he is. You are, right?

Voice without body, drawl etched in your memory. Think she can take it all? You hum in amusement, waiting for him to answer his own question. Yeah, she can.

Attagirl. Your legs spread further, knee lifting as you insert two slick-coated fingers. His hands are on your thighs, following the dip of your hips, holding your waist as you guide him back inside. Attagirl. That’s my – Fuck, Joel, you’re so b– That’s my fuckin’ girl. Take it. Touch it. His thumb on your clit – his, not yours. You like that? Yeah, that’s nice, ain’t it?

The flesh of your breasts filling his palms, squeezing and nipping and rolling between. The warmth leaking between your legs: his and yours and fuck, he’s so deep and he’s filling you again and he’s groaning as more dribbles from where he splits your body around his own, holding you still until he’s done. Until he’s empty.

“Joel,” you whine, a third finger pushing in.

Between your hips. Headboard hammering against the wall. The sun hanging loose at the bottom of the sky. Gonna make me come again, baby. Do it. Do something irreversible. Change me forever. Fuck me fuck me fill me and then pull out, push back in with the wet squelch of your come mixing with mine and changing me forever. Making me brand new. Making me yours.

Another moan. Louder. Sharper.

Yours yours yours. All mine? All yours. We’re good at this. I know we are. Who fucks you like this? No one – No one – just you – just me. It’s so big, fuck, but I can take it. Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day, baby. All I do is think about you. All I fucking do – You gonna come for me? – is think about you.

Know you need it. Let ‘em hear you, downstairs.

Fuck, I’m thinking about you. Come home. I need you to come home, need you to –

Fuck me, Joel, I’m –

Good girl.

– fuck me.

Atta fuckin’ girl.

She’s good but I do it so much better.

We’re good at this. ‘s do it again.

She’s not as good as me.

Again? Again.

She’s not as good. She’s no fucking good.

Your walls clamp around your fist, entire body shuddering to a stop. Breath held by something shaped like the hook of his accent, two fingers either side of your throat. The same smirk on his lips that convinced you in the first place. Fuck, baby, fuck me.

“Joel,” you cry out, the sound ripping between your vocal cords, punching against the ceiling and reverberating in your ears. Your body convulses on the mattress, back arching and slackening again. “Fuck, I’m – oh, my –”

Just feel it, baby. Feel me. You got it.

Let go.

Your lungs lurch open again, breath flooding in like waves spilling over the gunwale and rushing down to pool at your feet. A lulling rock to your movements, chest rising and falling like the steady tide. Soothing, coming down. Foam and salt carrying the flotsam away, the jagged glass of his name disappearing to sea again.

And then he’s gone.

And you’re just alone in your bedroom.

Last you checked your phone, now face-down on the carpet at your hip, it was eight p.m. Streetlights on, the sky painted by the pale dregs of daytime.

Now, you lie in near-darkness, blinking up at the ceiling. Hand sifting through a bag of glow-in-the-dark stars, comparing the different sizes, considering where to stick them, and then tossing them back in frustration.

Your front door clicks open, a pause between the sound and his voice.

“Anyone home?” Joel calls, and you lift your wrist as though he can see it from the bottom of the fucking stairs.

“Up here,” you eventually announce, knuckles rubbing your tired eyes until Catherine wheels spatter across your eyelids.

His shadow splits the light from the hallway, the long rectangle crossing over your swollen belly. “The hell are you doin’?” he asks, wandering in.

You lift the bag. “Decorating. The hell are you doin’?”

He pulls your nursing pillow from its temporary home in the crib and tosses it down on the carpet, bending to lift your shoulders and slot it underneath. “Scooch,” he says, groaning as he lays back beside you. He smells like whiskey and cologne. All woody, pine and spice.

“You got a bad back,” you warn him. “You shouldn’t be all the way down here.”

“You’re seven months pregnant,” Joel clicks his teeth, “neither should you.”

“What if you get stuck ‘n can’t get back up?”

Offense pulls his brows together. “What if you do?”

You smile in response, feeling the heat of his shoulder against yours. Sucking the scent of him through your nose. The pair of you exchanging smirks and batting eyelashes, wrapped in the cool darkness of the room. It’s juvenile and intimate.

You’re trying not to think too much about it.

“I can’t fucking figure this out. I put two of the big stars over there,” you point to the far corner of the room, streetlight splintered by the shades on the ceiling, “but it looks stupid having two so close. So, then I thought,” moving your arm to the right, “a cluster of smaller ones, right over the crib. But I couldn’t move the damn thing to climb up, so…I’ve been down here ever since.”

Joel lifts his hand, stopping your train of thought. “Please do not climb on anything, bein’ that you are…with child.” And then, when your eyes roll to meet his, he grins, adding, “Nesting got you good, huh?”

“You should see my kitchen cupboards. Never been tidier.” Your expression dissolves, voice quietens – your most desperate plea since that morning you shook hands on his doorstep. Your broken wardrobes and his lonely wedding invite. “Will you help me?” you ask.

He thinks it over less than once, dragging his gaze from the twirling star in your fingers. A quick shake of his head, like it’s obvious. “’course I will. ‘s what I’m here for.” And then he yawns, lowering a hand absentmindedly to settle on the curve of your stomach; a gentle pat in greeting to Duck.

“How was dinner?”

“Good,” Joel lies.

“Vanessa okay?”

“Good,” again.

“Sorry.”

Joel’s eyes roll, fingers pausing. “Why do you always gotta be sorry for som’?”

You shrug when you realize it’s not a rhetorical question. He’s genuinely asking. “I don’t know. Just tryna be polite. I know you’d probably rather be at home right now, not…deciding where some plastic fuckin’ stars should go.”

“For my kid’s bedroom? For you?” He huffs something shaped like disapproval. “Do me a favor – stop with the sorrys, alright?”

“I’m not even done with the last fucking favor I said I’d do you.” Your eyes flit down to your bump.

He stares blankly. You know there’s a laugh gathering like hot air on a windowpane behind his eyes, threatening to shatter the glass.

“Fine,” you concede, “dickhead.”

“Better.”

You sigh, looking back down at the phosphorescent shape in your hands. Turning it over and over and over, matching the rhythm of his fingers tensing and then untensing on your belly. His fingers, matching the rhythm of your chest rising and falling with breath. The room quiet. The night’s eyes averted, even just for this moment.

“If it’s anything,” Joel says, “I think the stars look alright.”

Another stolen smile. Another defiant show of teeth. You place your hand on top of his: a thankful gesture, an invitation. Something in between.

Joel blinks back at you, his eyes flitting from yours to your lips. The dim light in the room swallowing the two of you whole, secluded in the upstairs of your home. And you think, Kiss me, kiss me kiss me kiss me, and you will the words over your tongue in a ragged breath – hoping that Joel might breathe them in and feel their sharp edges as they absorb into his bloodstream, each cell flipping like the star in your hand and whispering the same two words to him: Kiss her kiss her kiss her.

But right then –

There’s a burst of movement. Under your fingertips. A fluttering, like bubbles popping right below the surface of your skin.

Your eyes snap down at the same time Joel’s do; your fingers separating and hovering over your tummy.

“Did you – did you feel –?”

“Yeah. Did you?”

“Uhuh. Was that –?”

“I don’t know. Was it?”

He takes your hand, pressing it back against your stomach with his on top. Your knuckles safe in the canopy of his palm. Both staring into space as you hold your breath.

“They’re not…they’re not doin’ it, now…”

“Maybe it was just –”

“Wait! Did you feel that?”

A second burst on your womb, a tiny beat on the other side of your bump. A wide grin breaks across your cheeks, a disbelieving laugh escaping.

Joel laughs, too. “Is that – is that the first time they’ve ever –?”

“Yeah,” you sniff, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, “that’s the first I’ve ever felt ‘em, anyways.”

“Wait,” Joel says, lifting his hand and holding a finger up. Just yours on your belly. “They doin’ it?”

Your head shakes.

When he lowers his hand, Duckie kicks again. The two of you lean in to one another, exchanging laughter. You lift your own hand, watching his expression as he waits patiently.

But then his head shakes, too. “Nothing. They’re only doin’ it when it’s both of us.”

“What the fuck?” you laugh, replacing your hand and waiting for the baby drum. “How can they even tell? What the f–?”

You shift your hands around the globe of your bump, pausing every so often to feel for Duck’s movements. A tiny fist punching, or a heel kicking, or an elbow shoving right above your navel in a way that’s bordering on painful, but numbed by the sheer thrill of it.

And for a while, it’s all you do: play tag with your unborn baby, giggling when they respond to your tapping fingers and cooing voices.

Joel sits up, leaning on his elbow to talk to his kid; runs two fingers across your shirt like a pair of legs scaling a cotton covered hill. And he laughs, and you laugh at his laugh, as if he’s a kid himself again – tearing apart gifts on his birthday, gasping and throwing his head back with glee at whatever he uncovers.

“It feel weird?” he asks, glancing up at you.

“So fucking weird,” you tell him.

“Does it hurt?”

“More…ticklish, if anything. Might get kinda annoying, if they start doing it when I’m tryna sleep, or somethin’…”

Joel lowers his jaw to your stomach, whispering, “You know what to do, Duckie. Make your daddy proud.”

You slap his shoulder, muttering, “Asshole.”

“Alright,” he says, splintered by a laugh. He pushes himself to his feet, swiping the bag of stars from your side. “Let’s get these up so you two can get some sleep.”

You groan as he pulls you upright, one last pat on your stomach, looking at you a second too long and a touch too meaningful. Too warm, too inviting.

It’s the calm before the storm, though you’re still stood motionless. Still trying to work out whether the tornado is moving away, or headed directly for you.

At five in the morning, Vanessa’s sister calls her.

“Heart attack,” Joel tells you a few hours later, the rustle of paper crinkling in your ear. The truck hums in the background. He speaks through a mouthful of sandwich. “Her dad always had a condition, but they thought they were managin’ it with medication,” another crinkle, and then, voice even more obscured, “but he got rushed to hospital durin’ the night, and…”

“Poor Vanessa,” you reply, nail drawing shapes on the curve of your bump in attempt to lull Duck into a more relaxed state than the sharp kicks they’re throwing at your ribs. Now big and strong enough to do considerable damage, your voice falters each time they swing. “Is she – son of a bitch – is she okay?”

“Shaken up,” he says, turn signal ticking over his voice. “She’ll be alright. She’s pragmatic like that. Problem is – they’re in Houston. Her whole family. So I guess that’s where the funeral’s gonna be.”

You swing your legs off the couch, heaving your awkward, nine-months-pregnant body to your feet – the irritating scratch of hunger suddenly gnawing at your stomach. “Yeah?” you say, waddling through to the kitchen. “So?”

“So,” Joel takes another bite of sandwich, “she has to – I mean, we have to…go. To Houston.”

“We?” You slot the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you fish out a couple slices of bread.

“Me ‘n Vanessa.”

“Uhuh,” you carve a knife around a jar of peanut butter, “you gotta be there for her.”

Joel sounds a little defensive. “I know. And I am. I’m goin’ to be. ‘s just – I gotta be there for you, too. For – for Duck.”

Your stomach swirls, a fire catching which lights your chest in a trickle of flame.

“You are. You will be. Houston’s only, like, three hours away.”

He sighs.

The turn signal fills the silence between you, between Joel and an appropriate answer. Clicking like the sound of a tennis match, his head spinning between his grief-stricken girlfriend, and the third-trimester mother of his child.

“I’m here,” he says, and you hear the squeal of brakes out front. “Give me a sec.”

The door pushes open as you sink back into the couch, balancing the plate on the planet beneath your breasts. Joel crumples his sandwich paper in his fist and lowers his hand over the back of the couch, scrunching his fingers over your belly as he passes.

“Thought you hated that stuff,” he calls over his shoulder, disappearing into your kitchen.

“I had a craving,” you say, ripping the first bite from your sandwich. “You made me hungry.”

He returns a minute later with a glass of water which he sets down on the coffee table in front of you. He lifts your legs, letting them fall gently in his lap when he collapses into the opposite end of the couch, heels of his palms pressing against his eyes.

You tap his thigh with the ball of your foot and he turns to you, placing a hand over your ankles. A sticky paste of peanut butter and bread between your molars, you ask, “What’shup?”

Joel holds back a smirk at your chipmunk cheeks. “Just – just worried that you…you know, while I’m gone, is all.”

You scoff, gulping. “Come on. I am not gonna go into labor in the, what – two days? How long would you even be gone?”

He seems to wince at the thought, fingers sifting through his hair – a gray sweep sat casually over his left eyebrow; flicks following the curve of his ear towards the hinge of his jaw. “Less than that, if I can help it.”

“Joel.”

He turns to you, saying your name just as deflated in response.

“You have to go.”

He rolls his eyes, thumb and middle finger massaging his temples. Crosses his arms and huffs like a teenager. “Well, I ain’t happy about it.”

You snort, unable to hold it in as you take another bite. “I ‘on’t think Vanesha’sh too happy about it, either, to be honesh wih ya.”

Joel’s jaw slackens, a choked laugh bursting from the back of his throat. He lifts a cushion and swings it in your direction. “Heartless. That’s heartless, you know that? Jesus, baby.”

He leaves on Saturday morning.

You stand on your porch, watching him shove a suitcase into the backseat of his truck, squinting in the sunlight as he stalks across your front yard. Joining you in the shade, he leans into you, shoving you lightly.

“Quit it.” Your hand locking with his, steadying yourself. Something in the back of your mind begging him not to let go.

And as if he can hear the thought: “I can stay. You know I can stay, right?”

“I don’t want you to stay,” you tell him, sweeping the hair from his forehead. “We will be fine. We’ll stay up late, eat junk food and watch TV; I’ll do audio description for Duck…”

He scoffs, glancing across the street.

“…and then you’ll be back home, back to buggin’ the hell out of us. It’ll be Monday before you know it.”

Joel’s jaw tightens. “And what if…?”

“You really think that’s gonna happen? You think your kid’s that much of an asshole?”

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah,” he shrugs, tongue in his cheek, “they’re half you.”

“Alright,” you click your teeth, turning away from the simper on his lips, “why don’t you just fuck off to Houston now, asshole?”

“I’ll fuck off, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Uhuh. Here’s hoping you don’t break down, or get a flat, or get struck by lightning, or anything.”

“You’re so funny,” he whispers, leaning closer.

“Hm. Now go.”

His jaw turns, beard grazing your skin. And then his lips; soft and warm, damp when he kisses your cheek. A moment too long. And he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t lean back the way you both know he should. No, he lingers – his lips by your ear, eyes flitting up to the street to make sure nobody sees.

“Joel –”

“I know.”

“We shouldn’t –”

“I know.”

But your arm is hooking around his neck, asking him to do it anyway, and his lips are lowering to yours, submitting to your request, and what’s supposed to be a goodbye kiss lasts at least a few seconds too long for it to mean anything less than a don’t go kiss.

You pull away when you feel the wet dab of his tongue against yours, realizing with an ice-cold shock where you are, and who he is, and what’s happening. Realizing how fucking stupid it’d be for both of you, how catastrophic and terrible the outcome.

A one-night stand.

A one-night –

He leans his forehead against yours, nose nuzzling your cheek. “I’ll call you when we get there.”

Your arm loosens, letting him go.

Just – letting him go.

Saturday Night Live ends just after midnight.

You arch your back into the couch, your swollen belly pushing forward. It’s an effort to get to your feet, what with the steady ache in your back all day, the weight on your front, and the fucking human being smushed into every vital organ inside you.

A deep breath feels like it inflates your lungs only halfway, Duck using the bottom half as a fucking ass cushion, and scaling the stairs takes another ten minutes – by the end of which, you’re slumped against the handrail, pausing before making off for your room.

You sink into the mattress, creasing the cool, smooth sheets. Duck stirs inside you, stretches out and throws a right hook against your bladder. You curse under your breath, hoisting yourself back to your feet.

“We gotta sleep, baby,” you hum, swaying back and forth with a hand under your belly. “Shh, ‘s okay. Take your fuckin’ fist outta my bladder, you little asshole.”

Whichever traits of yours and Joel’s have blended into the human cocktail growing in your uterus, you know one thing for certain: this kid has your stubbornness. The weight remains on your bladder, regardless of how much swaying, or pacing, or rubbing, or threatening you do.

You growl, wandering through the upper floor of your house in attempt to shift Duckie, or distract yourself, or, at the very least, tire the two of you out enough to fall asleep.

From the nursery door handle hangs a little wooden star, a tauntingly sleepy smile painted on it. You push the door open with two hesitant fingers, stepping into the still bedroom, the weak wash of streetlight meeting moonlight on the greenish walls.

You suck in a deep breath, floorboards squealing as you take your first step. Over the crib hangs a plastic mobile, soft plush shapes twirling slowly. The matching changing table slotted alongside it, a rocking chair over by the window.

You pad across a fluffy rug and lower yourself into the chair, tilting back and forth on your toes as you glance around one of the two rooms you and Joel have spent the most time in since that October morning bonded you forever. A baby duck ornament perched on a shelf above the dresser, its orange legs dangling. A multi-photo frame Joel’s mom bought you, both scans in the first two slots and the third empty, lying in wait.

Your breathing fragments, struggles, eyes slipping over to the baby clothes hanging in the closet. “You know, little Duckie,” you whisper, rubbing your bump and thinking back to Tommy’s words six months ago, “you are a pretty lucky kid.”

The hooded towel robe on the back of the door, the perfect size for a newborn. The framed prints sat atop the chest of drawers, waiting to be nailed to the wall: a rainbow, a frog, a starry sky.

“You got two houses. Two bedrooms, all to yourself. You got two parents who already love you more ‘n the whole world. And,” you gulp, “you got Vanessa. And she loves you, too.”

You glance down, watching the tiny pulse of movement when the baby stretches in your womb. Your hands scoop them up, as if holding them closer than they already are. As if already cradling them, forcing yourself to feel less alone.

Duck seems to quieten, to still; seems to consider what you’re avoiding. Reads between the lines, hears the words you’re not speaking.

Two of everything, you think, and I barely even had one.

The most evidence you have of being loved by anyone in your life is the house you live in. Four brick walls and three decades’ worth of belongings, more inheritance than memories. But they roll around like marbles – they echo against the walls when they hit them. There’s nothing binding them, no thread of love, or family, or anything real enough to hold it all together.

You’re the only living organ inside a skeleton’s cage. A lonely little heartbeat, making noise for no one to hear.

And that’s the way it has been, at least since you were eight. The absence of warmth and safety isn’t anything new to you – it left the second your parents did. The last scrunch of your mom’s nails on your head, the last kiss of her lips to your plump little cheeks. The passing over to your grandma, like you were cargo, like you were a box to be checked.

Maybe you found some distant flicker of heat in the way Joel looked at you, the day you told him you were pregnant. Maybe you saw the same glimmer of a flame that you used to see in your mom’s eye. The rosy smell of her perfume, the feel of her finger inside five of yours. Maybe, for the first time since you were a kid, you felt safe.

We’re gonna work it out, he said. I’m here. We’re in this together, alright? I am not running out on you.

Together. And yet, now, sat in your child’s nursery – a room built from scratch by Joel’s two hands and strung together by every beat of your heart – you’ve never felt more alone. The same two hands that are wrapped around Vanessa right now, consoling her, wiping her tears away, massaging her shoulders and sweeping her hair from her eyes.

And the same heartbeat which quickens now, fueled by an angry desire, an impulse scratching deep into your flesh to march all the damn way to Houston and tear the pair of them apart. Like he’s yours; like the way he touches you and looks at you and talks to you means anything more than his child growing inside you.

Like it’s you he’s touching and looking at and talking to, and not Duck. Like his attention won’t cease to shine on you, the second this little baby leaves your body.

And then, washing over the scorching hot sand of anger: a foam-lined wave of guilt. Of shame, for wishing for the breakdown of something that clearly makes the two of them happy. That makes Joel…happy.

He doesn’t owe you anything – he was never yours to begin with. Just one drunken night, a mistake until you noticed the two pale lines on the pregnancy test. And by that point, he was already hers again. You had missed him without even knowing it.

You sigh, pushing up from the rocking chair and reaching for a tissue from the changing table. Turning back, giving the room one last teary glance before closing the door, you sniff.

“You’re just…the luckiest little kid who’s ever gonna live.”

At one twenty a.m., cicadas chirping and trees rustling, the low breeze carrying the sounds through your half-open window – your back begins to ache. A blunt, gnawing pain. Feels like your period, and in your doze, you stuff a pillow between your legs and pray you don’t stain the sheets with a show of blood.

The realization comes over you as if that stifling breeze flips to freezing. You slowly come around, eyes peeling open as you think it over twice, then three times, then four. Duck shifts somewhere deep inside you, somewhere you’ve never felt them shift before.

“…No. Not right now, Duck. You gotta give me, like, twenty-four hours. Just – wait until your dad gets ho–”

A blinding pain interrupts you, the moonlit-blue room fading out of focus for half a second before you’re wide awake, clutching the bottom of your spine where you’re sure the kid just tore a fucking hole straight through your uterus.

“You’re a fucking dick,” you whimper, fingers clenching in tight fists around the bedsheets. “You’re a fucking – dick.”

One twenty-three. You go into labor.

#i think duckie is my favorite character i've ever written. that fetus has more personality than vanessa icl #joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #macfrog #neighbor!joel #neighbor!joel miller #babydaddy!joel #tw pregnancy

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midwestmade29 · 1 month

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For the Both of Us 🧡

Just a sweet story about Hangman 🥰 Not gonna lie, I'm pretty excited about this one 🤭🖤

Word Count: 1,888 Divider by: @saradika-graphics *GIF is not mine

Disclaimers: Just a couple of curse words, that's it! 🙂

This story is written from the POV of Hangman Adam Page 🤠

Fiction

Hangman has a very important question to ask Y/N's father...

Today’s the day. I’m going to ask Y/N’s father for his permission to marry her. We haven’t been together for very long, but there’s no doubt in my mind that she’s the one! I’ve met all her family, and they seem to like me just fine. Her dad is a different story. He doesn’t like my career choice; he says he doesn’t understand it. He’s been vocal about his dislike for the way I dress and my longer hair, and our opinions and views on things don’t always match up. There is one thing we do have in common though, and that’s our love we have for Y/N.

After sitting in my truck for the last 15 minutes trying to calm my racing heart, I finally put one foot in front of the other and knocked on the front door. Y/N’s mother opened it and greeted me with a smile and a hug. I handed her the wildflowers I had picked on my way over as I crossed the threshold.

I had called her a few days ago to let her in on my plan and she was thrilled! My ear is still ringing a little from the loud shriek she let out. “It’s good to see you, sweetie! Y/N’s dad is about to come in from the fields for lunch if you want to wait with me in the kitchen. I can fix you something to eat too, get you a beer to calm your nerves? Maybe something stronger? I’ll even have one with you!” Y/N’s mother seemed just as nervous as I was with the way she was rambling, but I still appreciated her kindness. She’s who Y/N gets her loving and caring nature from. “I’ll take you up on that beer. Thanks,” I smiled. She opened the two beers and clinked her bottle to mine before we each took a swig.

Sitting and waiting for Y/N’s father was tortuous as the minutes ticked on. I was fidgeting on the barstool and my palms were sweaty. I kept going over what I wanted to say to him in my head while trying to maintain small talk with Y/N’s mother. She gave her best effort trying to soothe my nerves, her words of comfort were making me feel better, “Now I know Y/N’s father can be a bit of a hard ass, but I also know he just wants what’s best for his little girl. I see the way you and Y/N look at each other, how she lights up whenever you walk into a room. She’s completely smitten with you Adam! I’ve never seen her happier than she is with you,” I can’t hide my stupid grin, even when I try to by pressing my beer bottle against my lips. I’ve got it so bad for this girl.

Our casual conversation came to a halt when the back door opened and the sound of heavy boots hitting the floor echoed through the small hallway leading to the kitchen. “Somethin’ sure smells good in here,” Y/N’s father called out. The slight smile he had on his face when he looked at his wife quickly faded when he noticed me sitting at the counter. Y/N’s mother cleared her throat, breaking the silence that had suddenly fallen around the 3 of us, “Hi honey! Your lunch is ready, want me to get it for you? Adam here wanted to have a little chat with you too. He was just telling me all about this week’s wrestling show, weren’t you sweetie?” I smiled and nodded in her direction; my mouth now felt as dry as a desert. With a low groan, Y/N’s father spoke up, “Well, come on son. I don’t have all day; the fields still need tending to and I didn’t set aside much time for a lunch break. Let me wash up real quick and I’ll meet you in the living room,”

The ticking coming from the clock on the mantel was deafening while I sat and twiddled my thumbs on the couch. I practically jumped out of my skin when Y/N’s father made his presence known suddenly, “Let’s get things going, son. What’s on your mind that’s so important you felt the need to interrupt a hard-workin’ man’s lunchtime?” From his tone and the way he plopped down in his favorite recliner, I could already tell he was in no mood for small talk or beating around the bush. I swallowed my nerves and got right to it, “I know time is of the essence for you sir, so I’ll try and make this quick. I came here today to ask for your blessing. I want to ask your daughter to marry me,” My voice came out a lot shakier than I wanted it to. “Y/N is everything to me, and I want nothing more than for her to be my wife. It’s important to her, and to me to have your blessing,”

Y/N’s father seemed to be lost in thought, or possibly avoiding the topic at hand. The stillness in the room threatened to make me insane, but I wasn’t quite sure how to navigate this conversation. I said the first thing that popped in my head next, “Sir, I know you don’t like me much, but I am a good man. I can’t imagine how hard it is to give permission to someone who wants to take something that means the whole world to you away. I work hard and I’m good at what I do. I’m an honorable man and I will strive every day to be everything your daughter needs. I support her dreams, the vision she has for her future. She’s all I’ve ever wanted in a spouse, a best friend. I can’t promise that things will always be easy, but I promise to love her enough for the both of us,”

The man continued to sit in the chair, stiff as a board. I’m convinced he was enjoying making me squirm while I waited for him to show any kind of life. I was just about to excuse myself to leave, but when he eventually spoke up, his words stopped me in my tracks. “Are you sure you’re not proposin’ to me son? Them’s some romantic words you just said to me. You’re shit outta luck if you are cause’ I’ve been happily married for 40 years,” his tone and expression unreadable. “Excuse me?” I asked full of confusion. The laugh he let out came from deep in his belly and only continued to grow as he took in the dumbfounded look I had on my face. When he caught his breath, he decided to put an end to my suffering, “I’m just yanking your chain boy! You’ll have to forgive me for my piss poor joke. It’s not every day I have someone askin’ me for my daughter’s hand in marriage,” He pushed the leg rest down and stood up, still chuckling to himself as he walked over to me. I joined in, laughing nervously as I rose to my feet too. “Before you go on and say somethin’ else, I have somethin’ I want to say too,” he explained. I nodded my head, looking him in the same rich brown eyes that Y/N has and let him say his peace. “I know I give you heck whenever you’re around. It’s just the way this old stubborn farmer is I suppose. You can ask my wife, she’ll confirm just how stubborn and set in my ways I am,”

“I know that’s right!” Y/N’s mother called out from nearby. We both shared a genuine laugh at his expense before he continued, “Y/N is my baby girl, my pride and joy. We’ve had a special bond ever since she was little and sometimes it’s hard for this old man to accept that she’s not so little anymore. I know you’re a good man, son and I know she loves you just as much as you do her. I guess what I’m gettin’ at is, I’ll give you my blessing, but I have a couple of conditions,” His face went back to serious which made me swallow hard and shift on my feet a little bit, but at this point I was about to agree to whatever this man wanted as long as it meant I could marry Y/N. “Okay, sure. What are your conditions?”

“One is, you’re gonna have to explain this wrestling stuff to me again. Help me understand what exactly it is you do. Two is, you’ll talk to Y/N and her mother and convince them to let me wear my boots with whatever get up they’re gonna want me to wear to the wedding. There ain’t no way I’m cramming these size 13’s in a pair of dress shoes,” The relief I felt when he smiled a genuine smile was immediate. All tension felt like it had left the room, and it was as if a new leaf had been turned. I returned his smile, grinning from ear to ear when my brain finally registered what he just said. My words rushed out as happiness washed over me, “Yes sir! I think that can be arranged. You’ve got yourself a deal,”

I extended my hand to him, and he gripped it firmly, shaking it swiftly before pulling me in for a hug. “Well, it’s settled then. I give you my blessing to ask Y/N to marry you. Looks like there’s gonna be a wedding soon!” he sang. Y/N’s mother clapped and cheered as she entered the room, her eyes glossed over with happiness as she embraced me tightly for the second time today. “Oh honey, I’m so happy for you two! Y/N is gonna make the most beautiful bride, and you’ll be the most handsome groom! Oh! Show me the ring sweetie! Please tell me you brought the ring with you!” the excitement in her mother’s voice was contagious, it made Y/N’s father and I laugh at her very animated antics. “It’s uh, actually out in my truck but I’d be happy to go and get it,” I offered. Before she could answer, Y/N’s father spoke up for the last time of the day, “And that son is my cue to get back to the fields. I trust you’ll let us know when you’re planning on popping the question,” “Of course, sir. I’ll keep you guys in the loop,” With a pat on my shoulder and a nod, he made his way back to the kitchen and out the back door. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Y/N would be arriving since she had promised to help her mother with some of the farm chores, so I rushed out to my truck and grabbed the ring box. I opened it and the small diamond sparkled in the sun, causing me to grin at the thought of it doing the same thing once I slide it on my future bride’s finger. When I was finally able to make my leave, I smiled like an idiot the entire drive home. I started to picture Y/N in a fancy white dress walking down the aisle, right to me. I don’t know what I ever did in life to deserve an angel like her, but I’m so damn lucky she’s mine.

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definitelysel · 5 months

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Running fingers through their hair 🤍

ft. wriothesley, alhaitham and neuvillette.

synopsis : you convince them into playing with their hair and you end up taking undue advantage of it.

warnings : implied fem!reader, pet names, mention of murder and suicide (neuvillette – no there is no angst here.).

a/n : fluff but seriously hair is so floof in genshin and i love me some domesticated content.

ALHAITHAM 🌱

"No." He crossed his arms in disapproval at your request.

"Haitham! Come on!" You begged your husband to let you run your fingers through his hair in hopes to help him unwind and relax but he was adamant not letting you.

"I am sorry [Name], but I have a meeting due in an hour with the Dendro Archon about some administrative changes and as much as I would love to catch a break, I can't as of now." He exasperated, voice laced with annoyance.

Ever since becoming the Acting Grand Sage, Alhaitham had gotten just a tad bit more whinier. You weren't complaining since Alhaitham had the emotional quotient of a rock.

"Oh come on! It's still an hour away. C'mere." You patted your lap. He sighed but agreed. You found yourself combing your nifty fingers through his grey locks. They felt soft to touch. Who are you kidding, he was a well groomed gentleman despite his emotionally constipated personality.

His eyes were focused on a book he was reading, his eyes scanning the pages but his expression was relaxed. He won't admit it but he liked it. This was a simple yet intimate gesture.

You on the other hand, stared outside of the window, fingers still running through his hair. The scenery of Sumeru city stretched out far and wide for your eyes to see. The sky was beaming with light, birds were chit chatting on the tree branches and–

Snore.

Your focus gets redirected back at Alhaitham who now had the book resting on his face, his chest rising rhythmically as you heard him breathing softly.

You chuckled at the sight. He really did fall asleep. He looked so carefree when a moment ago he was complaining about meetings and work. How amusing. An idea bubbled up in your head.

When Alhaitham woke up, he realised that he had fallen asleep and hurried out of the room to meet up with Nahida in the Sanctuary of Surasthana.

"Good evening Acting Grand Sage, I was just waiting on you- pfft!" Nahida's cheeks puffed up and the little Archon started giggling.

"I am sorry for being late- wait, why are you laughing?" He tilted his expression in confusion. Could his late timing be a matter of amusement for his Archon?

"Who made two tiny ponytails in your hair using sparkly pink pyro slime hairties!" Nahida chuckled more, unable to hold her laughter.

"..." he reached up to feel the two tiny fountains of hair made by tying them up. Who could've done such a— you.

Needles to say, Alhaitham image of a big mighty serious guy in front of Nahida had now been ruined.

NEUVILLETTE 🌊

"Ma Chérie, what do you think of this case?" Neuvillette leaned back into his chair, papers spread out on his table. You picked up one of the documents and examined them.

What made you and Neuvillette a match made in heaven was that you were one of Fontaine's best lawyers and Neuvillette was the Ludex. You both would brainstorm cases together though Neuvillette always tended to quote how he is unbiased as it is his duty as the Chief Justice to not let personal feelings get in the way.

Still, you catch him staring at you during court proceedings, expression twisting and turning based on the situation out of his instinctive concern for you.

"Well, I think this is a classic murder which is being displayed to the common eye like a suicide." You sighed and put the paper back on the table, stretching your back from fatigue.

"I must say, that's quite a possibility. I'd suggest you investigate futher and seek the truth." He pondered, his gloved hand resting on his chin.

"Neuvi, can we take a break? I am tired." You slumped down in the chair across him, exhausting from the repetitive task at hand.

"Indeed. Repetition tends to tire out the mortal brain. Let's continue this after lunch." He nodded and started to sort the papers according to there designated folders.

"Can I play with your hair till you get the sorting papers thing done?" You asked him and he seemed amused at the idea. Neuvillette was never reluctant from trying out new things and gave into your small pleasures if they made you happy. "Sure."

You ran your fingers through his white locks. Honestly his hair were so beautiful, it would put women's hair to shame. Neuvillette took good care of them. You started using this opportunity to experiment different hairstyles on him.

Neuvillette glanced up, only to see his hair in a braid from his reflection in the mirror with a black ribbon in them. He stared at the braid for a good minute, "Hmm simple, practical and elegant. It's quite nice." He mused.

You were proud of yourself before Neuvillette asked if he could try hairstyles on you.

An afternoon spent with chuckles, smiles, whacky and pretty hairstyles.

WRIOTHESLEY 🧊

You watched as Wriothesley worked like a machine.

Step 1 : Grab the paperwork

Step 2 : Read and Sign it

Step 3 : Put in the "done" pile

The sounds of paper swiping and pen scribbling filled the room. You tried to entertain yourself with some novel but you could hear wriothesley grunted and groaning in annoyance.

"Y'know, the best thing is to simply not to do the work if you don't feel like it, wrio." You suggested, flipping to the next page in the novel.

"You're right. I'll settle for a nap, drink tea after I get up and then continue doing this..." he grumbled before getting up and making his way to his bed upstairs. You afte a few minutes got up and followed him.

You both laid beside eachother, under the blankets, soaking in eachother's warmth. "You joinin' me on a nap, sweetheart?" A smile crawled onto his face as he looked at you with his icy hues.

"No, I am simply here to take care of you, silly." You kissed his nose as he took your palm firmly in his and kissed the back of it, endearingly. You peppered his face with feather kisses, tousling his soft black locks earning a relaxed hum of content from him.

Wriothesley was a man of limited needs and such small moments with you were his saving grace from the buttload of prison paper work. His arm snaked around your waist as he kissed the top of your forehead before his hand rested on your cheeks, his eyes fluttering shut.

He yawned and made himself comfortable before drifting off into his well deserved nap.

But..

"Oh my god, you are associated with Sigewinne in this??" He baffled at the sight of his face covered in stickers. Melusines loved to play pranks but his own lover? Now that was some serious betrayal.

"First my back and now my face?" He stared at you, jaw dropped, wanting an explanation. You simply stifled a laugh before hearing a click.

"Sigewinne, did you just take a picture of me?? HEY! Don't run away!? [Name]! Sigewinne! You guys better delete that picture!" He chased after you two as you ran with Sigewinne in your arms. It was a moment of solace and perhaps another moment added in your archive of memories.

a/n : to say i am obsessed with domesticated genres and tropes is an understatement.

don't steal, copy, plagarize.

©definitelysel

not proof read.

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roosterforme · 2 months

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Some Things Take Time | Bob Floyd x Reader

Summary: Bob is a man well known for his patience. He never rushes things in the air, and he tries to live by a similar philosophy on the ground. You and he are both on the same page about welcoming a child into your home through foster care, but it's hard for him to watch you try to bond with her unsuccessfully. He soon realizes that Avery is a lot like him, and that some things are worth the extra time.

Warnings: angst, fluff, mentions of infertility, mentions of foster care and adoption, Bob making all other men look like trash

Length: 5800 words

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x wife!reader

Happy birthday @wkndwlff! Check my masterlist for more!

You were laying on the couch with your head resting on your husband's lap, spinning his wedding band around on his finger while you tried to put your thoughts into words. You could tell he knew you were on the verge of speaking, sending you several expectant glances as you and he both pretended to watch the movie he started an hour ago. But Bob would never rush you, and you were thankful for that, because you wanted to make sure you got this right.

"We've been trying for a long time," you whispered, and Bob's blue eyes met yours as you looked up at him. "Almost two years."

He nodded once and smiled softly. "We have," he murmured, squeezing your hand in his larger one. You pressed your lips together as tears stung your eyes. Bob never seemed upset that he was pushing forty years old and in spite of trying and trying, you'd never gotten pregnant. He never put pressure on you to keep trying or to stop. You were convinced he never would, but you wanted to know what he was really thinking.

"What if we... stopped. Stopped trying. And just went with an alternative?"

"Honey, I already told you I'm happy with things how they are. We can stop trying if you want to, or we can talk about alternatives if you want to do that. But there's nothing wrong with just you and me. In fact, I'm really quite enjoying myself."

You closed your eyes as his fingers drifted along the curves of your side. It would be delicious to get back into the habit of having sex when you wanted to instead of when your cycle demanded it. You and Bob sharing your undivided attention with each other was something you were craving, but you still wanted something else, too.

"What if I said I wanted to look into fostering and adoption again?" you asked softly as you started to sit up.

He pulled you closer so you were straddling his thigh. "Then I would say we can call our lawyer on Monday and get some answers."

You smiled as you nudged his glasses with your nose and kissed his cheek. "And what if I said I'm not fertile today, but I want you anyway?"

Bob reached for the remote and turned the movie off as a soft blush rose in his cheeks. "Then I would say it's time we got in bed, Honey."

---------------------

Bob was a man who was well known for his patience. He never rushed things in the air, and he tried to live by a similar philosophy on the ground. He knew he wanted to marry you about halfway through the first date. He also knew you would have looked at him like he was insane if he admitted that to you halfway through the first date. So instead of rushing things, he took the time to make sure you were on the same page he was and that you were comfortable. He always tried to do that.

When a baby just didn't seem to be happening, he was more than willing to keep trying, but he was also completely content with the idea of no kids at all. It wasn't worth rushing anything as long as he had you in his life. But you had recently convinced him of a third option, and his lawyer helped the two of you smooth out the details.

And this is how Avery ended up at Bob's house on a random Monday evening. She was eight years old and in need of a foster family, and you were adamant when you answered the phone call that you and Bob were more than ready for her to be dropped off even on such short notice.

"I'm so nervous," you whispered as you held Bob's hand and watched through the front window as a van pulled up.

"I'm excited," he told you with a soft laugh. When he thought about having kids, he always pictured a little girl. For some reason, the idea of reading princess stories and painting a bedroom a putrid shade of purple really appealed to him. As he watched Avery being led up the walkway, he realized she didn't look one bit like you or him. He also realized that having a child who resembled him was actually never part of his dreams.

As the doorbell rang, you bounced in place and whispered, "She's here. She's really here."

Bob pulled you in for a kiss as his heart thudded. He realized he needed to tamp down his excitement a little bit. The two of you were merely fostering Avery. Nothing was set in stone even though you told the lawyer you wanted to eventually adopt a child. But right now your eyes were glittering with hope and anticipation, and Bob couldn't take that away from you.

"Let's make her feel welcome," he said as you both headed for the door.

Avery stood there with an unreadable expression on her adorable face, and Bob noticed right away how the case worker seemed to rush through everything. There were papers to sign and a schedule to keep, and even though all of it pertained to Avery, she ended up sitting quietly at the kitchen table while everyone else talked about her.

It was late by the time you and Bob were alone with her, and now her unreadable expression looked something like sadness. "Avery," Bob said softly. "Do you want to see your bedroom?"

She looked up at him and nodded without saying a word, and then you helped her down from the chair. You had taken the time to freshen up the extra bedroom and buy a pink glitter toothbrush and a pair of pajamas in her size. But Avery just sat down on the edge of the bed with her bag and asked, "Do I have to go to school tomorrow?"

"Yes," Bob replied with a smile. "I'll drop you off on my way to work, and then I'll pick you up in the afternoon."

When she didn't respond, you asked, "Is there anything you want? A bedtime snack or something to drink? I could make you some hot chocolate or get you a cookie. Bob makes the best oatmeal cookies, and there are a few left from the weekend. Maybe you can help Bob make the next batch." You were rambling now, and Bob reached out to squeeze your hand as you said, "We're just excited that you're here."

But Avery shook her head and told you, "I'll just read my book. Thanks." Then she untied her shoes and took a well worn copy of The Secret Garden from her bag, but she sat on the bed with rigid posture, not looking at either of you.

Bob wasn't quite sure what to do. You'd already shown the child where the bathroom was, and she seemed to have all of her essentials. He swallowed hard, deciding not to rush Avery even though he could feel your disappointment radiating off of you. He cleared his throat and said, "We'll leave our bedroom door open in case you need anything. And we'll get you up around seven for school. Good night, Avery."

She just nodded and squinted down at the tattered book cover like she was going to cry. Bob led you down the hallway, through your room and into the en suite bathroom where he gathered you in his arms as tears filled your eyes. "I don't think she likes us," you gasped before you buried your face against his neck.

Bob kissed the top of your head and whispered, "I just think she needs some time. Let's not rush anything."

-------------------------

You cried yourself to sleep the first night. You knew that your response wasn't fair to Bob or Avery or even to yourself, but you'd imagined meeting a little girl who was at least a little bit more talkative if not upbeat. You had your hopes set on fostering a child who at least gave the impression that your home was better than another alternative. You'd been given a vague picture of where Avery had come from, and you wanted her to be comfortable here, but now you felt stupid for buying the glitter toothbrush and the Minnie Mouse pajamas.

Bob's hand drew lazy circles on your back as you turned away from him and cried softly. "It's just the first night," he reminded you in that sweet, even tone that you loved so much.

"I know. I just wanted this so desperately," you admitted between shaky breaths. His hand on your body helped you eventually fall asleep, and the next morning, Bob was up before you, making breakfast. When you tapped on Avery's door which was ajar, you poked your head in to find her once again sitting on the bed reading.

"Did you sleep okay?" you asked, and she nodded in response. "That's great!" you said in a tone of forced excitement. "Do you need help getting ready for school?"

"No," she said softly, setting the book aside.

You took a deep breath and said, "Bob's making breakfast. Do you want to come downstairs and eat?"

"Yes."

That was the last word you heard her speak before Bob led her out to his car in his uniform. He smiled at you over his shoulder as he told you to have a good day working on your true crime novel, but you knew you weren't going to. You spend two hours trying to write, but you ended up with three and a half new sentences. Instead, you spent most of the day thinking you'd made a huge mistake and hating your own body. Avery would probably last two weeks tops with you and Bob before she was begging to go somewhere else. You didn't even know if you could stand to see her melancholy little expression when your husband brought her home from school today, but you didn't want to call her case worker for help yet.

In the afternoon, you bought everything you needed to make oatmeal cookies along with the rest of your usual groceries. You paused next to the checkout line where there was a display of children's books and grabbed a few of them. Avery appeared to like her book more than anything else, so maybe she would appreciate these ones, too.

But when Bob brought Avery home with him after school, she barely spoke. She didn't want to help make any cookies, and after dinner, she went back to her bedroom. Bob tried to help her with her homework, but she told him it was easy and she already finished it. When you dropped off the new books, she told you she already had a favorite.

"Oh," you said, standing in the doorway with your hands full of the unwanted books. "That's good... that you have a favorite. I have a favorite book, too."

She looked up at you and nodded, but soon you were backing out of the room and trying to hide your tears from Bob. "It takes time," he reassured you as you balled your hands into fists and cried on him again.

You knew you needed to be as patient as he always was, but you just weren't like him. And you started talking before you could stop yourself. "If we could have gotten pregnant, we'd have our own child," you sobbed. "One that we raised from day one who would love us and bake cookies and read new books."

Bob kissed your ear and whispered, "Nothing is easy, Honey. But sometimes the harder something is at first, the more rewarding it is later on."

You cried yourself to sleep again.

------------------------

Bob tried his best for that first week. He watched you start to pull away and retreat into yourself the more Avery kept to her bedroom. Every day when he dropped her off and picked her up, she thanked him for the ride. When he asked if she would rather start taking the bus, she told him it didn't matter. When he asked if there was something special she wanted to eat for dinner, she said she wasn't picky.

And all the while she just squinted down at her book. Just The Secret Garden even though you brought home some others. When he pulled up to the curb in front of her school one morning, he said, "Avery, would you like me to take you to the library one day? Or maybe a bookstore where you can pick out what you want?"

She looked at him as she grabbed her backpack in one hand and her book in the other. "Maybe." Then she climbed out of the car, and he waited to pull away until she was inside the school building. That was the most promising answer he'd received yet. He drove to work thinking about signing her up for a library card, and when he got there, he was in a much better mood.

Natasha was the only one who knew that Avery was under his care. He didn't want to give anyone too many details, but she sweetly asked him the same question every morning after they got to work. "How are you and the Mrs. making out with your houseguest?"

And this morning, he said, "Maybe a little better today, Nat. I'm just trying not to rush it."

She patted him on the chest and smiled. "You never do, Bob. You're a man of details."

She was right. He spent the day thinking about all of the details that he knew about Avery. She was eight years old and very quiet. She only wanted to read one book even though you offered her more. She seemed to find the most comfort when she was alone. She was honestly a lot like Bob.

When he picked Avery up from school, he watched as one of the teachers patted the top of her backpack and sent her on her way. She squinted toward his car before trudging over in his direction with a frown on her face. Bob sighed as she climbed into the backseat and buckled herself in. "How was your day, Avery?" he asked as he shifted into drive. But today he got no verbal response at all. Instead he heard her crying.

Without another word, Bob pulled his car around and into an empty parking spot before killing the engine. He opened his door and closed it before taking a few deep breaths, and then he climbed in the back door and settled in next to the crying child. He let one hand gently rest on her shoulder, giving her a small squeeze before asking, "Do you want to talk about what's bothering you?"

She just shook her head as tears flowed down her cheeks, and she stared at her feet. "It's stupid."

Bob smiled slightly. "You might think so, but I'd probably find what you have to say fascinating."

She turned her head to look at him, examining his face to see if he was being honest. But of course he was. He just wanted her to tell him what was on her mind. It took a few minutes before she started to settle down, but eventually she said, "I failed my eye exam with the nurse today." She unzipped her bag and pulled out a yellow sheet of paper and handed it to him. "She told me my eyesight is terrible and that I need to get glasses."

Bob looked at the page and had to hide his alarm from her. Avery failed her eye exam spectacularly. It was a wonder to Bob that she was even able to see in her classroom. But now her squinting and her preference for one, well worn book were starting to make sense. As he filled in the blanks in his mind, he said, "Glasses aren't so bad," while he tapped his own silver frames. "They certainly make my day a lot easier."

She kind of rolled her eyes and said, "But you're an adult. People aren't going to make fun of you for wearing glasses."

"You think you'll get made fun of?" Bob asked softly, folding the yellow paper in half.

"Yes," she replied immediately as she wiped at her tears. "I already do. Glasses will make it so much worse."

Bob wanted to press her for more details, but he didn't think this was the right moment. Instead he asked, "Is that why you only like to read The Secret Garden? Because you already know most of the words by heart?"

Avery looked at him like she couldn't believe he solved a very complex riddle. "Yes."

He nodded and asked, "Would you like to be able to read other books, too? Because glasses would definitely help with that."

She shrugged and sniffed as she said, "I like books about gardens and flowers and fairies. I don't know of any other ones I would like anyway."

Bob patted her on the shoulder one more time and said, "I like those kinds of books, too. And I think I can help you get glasses that look cool and help you pick out more books. If you'll let me."

Another partial shrug was his only answer, but at least she wasn't telling him no. As he climbed back into the driver's seat, he sent you a quick text telling you that he and Avery were fine and to go ahead and have dinner on your own. Then he drove along to his optometrist's office, hoping they would squeeze an extra appointment into their schedule.

"You're in luck," the receptionist told him when they arrived. "There was a last minute cancellation. Have a seat, and we can take you back shortly."

The rack hanging on the wall was filled with books and magazines for people of all ages, but Bob watched Avery squint as she took a seat empty handed. He skimmed a magazine and offered to read an article to her, but she said no. When ten minutes had passed, Bob asked her, "Are the kids at school mean to you?"

He was already considering other options that might make her feel more comfortable when she said, "I just don't fit in. Everyone else has parents or grandparents. Everyone else is loud, and I like it better when it's quiet. Everyone else already made friends."

Bob nodded his head. It was like she was living his own childhood in many ways. "I like it better when it's quiet, too. So does my wife. And making friends can be hard at any age. I still struggle with it."

"You do?" she asked him, eyes wide and interested.

"Absolutely. Sometimes I still get nervous and stumble over what I want to say, and I'm thirty-nine. And you know what?"

"What?"

"There's nothing wrong with that."

He watched Avery take a deep breath and look down at her hands before both of their names were called. Once they were in the exam room, Bob got to witness her fail the test for the second time in one day, and then her tears started up again. The crying was only made worse when the receptionist popped in and tried to quietly tell Bob that Avery wasn't approved for any vision insurance.

The child was clearly smart as a whip, and if she was having a hard time fitting in at school, he didn't want to make it worse by making her feel like she didn't fit in with you and him either. "I was planning on paying out of pocket today," he told the receptionist who just nodded in response. Then he turned to Avery and said, "Looks like the nurse was right. How about we pick out some glasses?"

She looked at the displays while she wiped at her eyes with a tissue, but she wouldn't tell Bob which ones she wanted to try on. "Which ones are the cheapest?" she asked softly.

"I have no idea," Bob replied easily. "What's your favorite color?"

"Purple," she whispered, and Bob followed her squinting gaze to a purple frame sitting on a shelf above her head.

"I like purple, too," he said as he reached them down and handed them to her. She held them for a couple minutes, and Bob decided not to rush her. She finally slipped them on and looked in the mirror, and he told her, "I think they look cool."

She nodded a little bit. "They're pretty good. But nobody else at school has purple glasses."

As she removed them and tried to hand them back to him, Bob quickly looked at the adult sized frames. There was one pair that came in a deep purple, and he kind of liked them. "Just hang onto those for a minute. I need help picking out new glasses for myself, okay? What do you think about these?"

When he removed his wire frames and replaced them with the purple plastic, it seemed like Avery couldn't help but smile. "I like them."

He nodded once. "Then I'll get them. That way we can match since we both like purple. Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome," she replied quietly, looking at the glasses she was still holding before handing them to Bob.

He took both pairs in his hand before nodding toward the door. "I'm feeling like it's a good day to get ice cream for dinner and look around the bookstore. I can think of at least two more books that you might like to read once your glasses are ready for you to wear. Sound good?"

"Yes."

--------------------------

You didn't know what to expect when Bob brought Avery home after seven o'clock on a school night, but you definitely weren't prepared to hear her laughter for the first time. You'd barely made any progress on your novel since Avery arrived a few weeks ago, merely existing in your own funk all day long. But the sound of Bob's voice followed by her light giggle as they walked inside left you feeling better than you had in ages.

"Hi," you said, your voice dripping with optimism as Bob headed your way with a shopping bag in his hand.

"Hi, Honey," he replied, kissing your cheek while Avery took her shoes off.

"How was school?" you asked her.

"Terrible," she told you with a smile aimed up at Bob. "I failed my eye exam."

"Oh," you gasped, already making a mental note to call the eye doctor first thing in the morning so she could get some glasses. "We can take care of it for you."

"Already did," Bob said as he squeezed your hand. "Stopped on the way home and picked them out. Should be ready next week."

"Really?" you asked in surprise as he pulled two books out of the bag. Both were covered in vines and flowers, but one was clearly a novel for an adult while the other was much slimmer and looked like it was for Avery's reading level.

"Yes," he replied softly. "Now, on the drive home, I told Avery that you're a writer, but that you're also really good at reading books out loud." When you nodded and looked at her, she was squinting up at you. Bob handed you the smaller book and said, "I didn't get to take a shower before I left work, so I need to go do that now. But I promised Avery that you'd read a chapter to her after she gets ready for bed." He patted her on the shoulder and then made his way upstairs.

Your head was swimming with information. New glasses and new books and a child who was looking up at you with hope in her eyes. A husband who set up some time for you to spend alone with her. Tears stung your eyes as you said, "I love reading books out loud. Do you want to change for bed and brush your teeth now?"

Ten minutes later, you were sitting next to Avery on the spare bed, reading to her about a magical garden filled with flowers that turned the characters into superheroes. You read all sixteen pages of the first chapter, and then she asked you to read more.

It was a little bit past bedtime when you finished the third chapter, and she was yawning. "How about I go get you one of my bookmarks from my office? And we can read more tomorrow night?"

"Okay," she replied easily, and when you returned a minute later with a bookmark that had a purple tassel, she smiled. "I like this book so far, but I think I'd like it a lot better if there were fairies, too. Thank you for reading to me."

"You're very welcome," you told her, barely shutting off the light in time for a tear to slide down your cheek. "Goodnight, Avery."

When you rushed into your own bedroom, Bob was in bed reading the other new book. "How did you do it?" you asked him, quickly climbing under the covers with him. "How did you get her to open up a little bit?"

He set the book down with a soft smile. "She just needed some time, Honey. She's a lot like me. She can't be rushed."

"No," you said, pushing your fingers through his hair as you cried a little bit. "That's not it. I think you're actually magical."

"Maybe," he agreed. "But her vision is so bad. That's why I think she kept reading The Secret Garden. She probably has it memorized and didn't want to tell anyone she couldn't see."

"Poor thing," you whispered, realizing that most of Bob's magic came from his patience as you fell asleep in his arms.

-------------------------

A week later, Bob noticed you were exhausted, but you seemed a lot happier, because Avery seemed a lot happier. You had successfully read two books to her, and she was starting to become more vocal around the house. He was hoping she was having an easier time making friends at school now, too. But he was a little bit concerned with how late into the night you'd been working.

When he got a message around lunchtime letting him know both pairs of glasses were ready, he smiled. Pretty soon Avery would be able to attempt reading a new book on her own. He sent you a text letting you know that he'd be home with Avery after a quick stop back at the optometrist's office. And when he picked her up from school, she squinted at his car before climbing in the backseat.

"Ready to go get our new glasses?" he asked before pulling out onto the road.

"Yes," she replied softly. "I've decided that wearing glasses is a better alternative than not being able to read new books. At least until I can get contacts."

Bob chuckled. "A wise choice."

A few seconds later, she asked, "Will you take me to the library this weekend? There have to be more books there that I'd like."

"Of course I'll take you to the library. We can ask the librarian to help you find you as many books as you want to read."

He hoped that would make the new glasses an even easier decision for her. He parked and led her inside where the eye doctor got them both fitted correctly before handing them a mirror. "What do you think?" Bob asked as he smiled at Avery. "I think they look cool on you."

She shrugged. "They're okay."

"Can you see better?"

"Yes," she whispered. On the way outside, she said, "Thanks for getting new glasses with me. I like yours, too."

Bob checked himself in the mirror before he backed out of the parking spot. "I think it's kind of my color."

You were waiting in the living room for them when Bob opened the front door. The house smelled like dinner cooking, and you had a stack of bound pages on the couch next to you. When you jumped to your feet, you said, "You both look great!" as you bounced in place a little bit.

"Purple is kind of our color," Avery said, making Bob laugh as you covered your massive smile with your fingertips.

"It really is," you replied, wrapping Bob in a quick hug before cautiously placing your hand on Avery's shoulder for a beat. "I have something I wanted to show you. I was hoping to get your opinion."

"Me?" she asked, looking up at you, eyes wide behind her purple frames.

"Yes," you told her softly. "I've been working on a new story for the past week, and I really think you'll be able to help me with the ending."

"What kind of story?" she asked you, and Bob slowly made his way into the kitchen where he could still hear the two of you talking.

"Well," you told her as she joined you on the couch, "it's about a fairy who gets invited to live in a magic garden. And she starts to learn how to use magic herself while a friendly witch and a kind wizard supervise her. And the garden is really pretty, and she loves it there and starts to make friends with the other creatures. Do you want to take a look at it?"

"Okay."

Bob hovered in the doorway and watched you hand the bound manuscript to the little girl next to you while you chewed nervously on your lip. He knew you wanted this to work out; he did too. He was also very surprised that you'd been working on this for the past week without sharing your secret even with him. But it truthfully wasn't really for him. It was for her. And you.

The child looked up at you and whispered, "You named the fairy Avery."

You just nodded and smiled. "Your name is so pretty, and you remind me of the kind of little girl who would have magic inside her."

Avery turned back to the page in front of her and snuggled in a little bit closer to you. She started reading out loud, and after a few pages, handed it over to you for a little bit. The two of you went back and forth like this for an hour before Bob carried in two plates of dinner and set them on the coffee table.

"Even magic fairies get hungry," he said softly before leaving both of you to the story.

---------------------------

When you woke up a few weeks later on Avery's ninth birthday, you were beyond exhausted. The past few nights had been late ones for you as you tried to finish up and edit the story you'd been working on. The title that the two of you came up with was The Littlest Fairy in the Garden, and you were just as proud of this as your true crime releases.

Then you realized that there was actually a reason why you woke up. You could hear Bob talking. It sounded like he was on the phone even though it was barely eight o'clock. You climbed out of bed and stretched before finding him sitting on the floor in the walk-in closet talking softly on the phone in his pajama pants, undershirt and purple glasses.

"I'm sure she's going to agree with me. We want to move forward if that's what Avery wants, but I'll call you back in an hour or two. Thank you so much."

He ended the call right when you asked, "Who was that?"

Bob jumped a bit as he looked up at you with a tentative smile. "Our lawyer," he whispered.

"What did they say?" you whispered back as he got to his feet and wrapped his arms around you.

When Bob's lips found your ear, you shivered at his words. "It was just a preliminary conversation, but they asked if we would be interested in pursuing adoption."

"With Avery?" you gasped, and he nodded against you.

"Yes. With Avery."

Tears filled your eyes as you clung to him. You thought about all the books she'd been reading with you and the birthday cake waiting in the kitchen. You could practically still smell the oatmeal cookies she and Bob made a few days ago. You could picture her smile and imagine her laughter, both of which were coming more easily with each passing day. "I want to adopt her. She belongs here. With us."

"I think so, too," he replied immediately, and you could hear the unshed tears in her voice. "I think we should have a conversation with her about it today. The process could take a little time, but I want to be sure it's what she wants as well."

You nodded, a jerky motion against him as your heart pounded faster and faster. "Let's talk about it when she wakes up."

Bob led you downstairs to the kitchen, his fingers laced with yours, and he started to crack some eggs while you made coffee and fresh orange juice. Avery had picked the menu for each meal today for her birthday, and the plan was to take her to the zoo after lunch. There was currently a purple banner with flowers and fairies on it stretched across the kitchen along with a large assortment of balloons. You couldn't remember being this excited about something in such a long time.

"Good morning," came a soft voice from the bottom of the stairs, and you nearly dropped a mug on the floor as you turned to look at her.

"Happy birthday!" you and Bob replied in unison, and then all three of you started laughing.

Without another word, Avery made her way into the kitchen in her Minnie Mouse pajamas and gave you a hug around the waist. You gasped softly as you hugged her back, her purple glasses pressing against you. Then she tucked herself against Bob's side and hugged him right after that. "Thanks for all the birthday stuff. And thanks for being so nice to me and getting me glasses and everything."

You and Bob shared a look over her head as he rubbed his hand along her shoulder. "It makes us happy that you're here, Avery," he said softly, and you had to swipe at your tears. "Let's have your breakfast, and maybe we can talk about making this permanent."

"Permanent? Like me staying here for a while?" she asked softly as she looked up at him.

"Like you staying here forever."

--------------------------

This is a little birthday treat for @wkndwlff! I hope you have a great day, Taylor! I set out to write a nice little story based on this mood board, but somehow it turned into this angsty thing instead. Thanks to @sylviebell @mak-32 and @beyondthesefourwalls

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