#Joe graves x reader

[kentstoji]

joseph "bear" graves who is hot as a furnace and loves to sleep wrapped around you, with his face resting on your shoulder, and his strong arms around your hips.

joe graves hates it when you push him away because you can't stand the heat he gives off anymore. in the mornings, you held back from laughing at the frown that was present on his face.

"you don't love me" was his answer, simple and dramatic. and you, after rolling your eyes, with a subtle hint of good humor, would simply kiss his cheek.

and, as if by magic, his mood improved significantly. he would spend the rest of the day smiling, presumptuously. until night comes, and you kick him away with your feet, outraged by his natural warmth.

"i hate you." you murmured to your husband.

"i know." he responds, ignoring your protests and bringing you closer.

[husherstan]

i need him so bad

he’s actually called joe bear graves because the moment he gets to fuck you, you end up pregnant with the biggest fattest chunkiest baby ever so is so silly and happy and absolutely loves their daddy

LOUDER

cw: mentions of past miscarriages, NOT by reader though

When the test comes back positive you're over the moon!! You managed to get pregnant so quickly even though your husband, Joe, warned you that he's getting up there with age, he fears that he's too old to give you a baby, not to mention his fertility issues :((

On the other hand, Joe is terrified. He went through this with his ex wife, Lena. He dealt with the pain, the agony of one miscarriage after another, the loss of a baby he wanted so much, then the constant tension and fights and ultimately a painful divorce. He thinks it's all his fault, it's him who has the weak sperm, it's him who can't give a baby so I think he wouldn't want to get his hopes up, as painful as it sounds. He couldn't deal with the heartbreak of watching someone he loves so dearly be disappointed with him again.

Well, that's until your baby arrives! The most beautiful, healthy and giggly daughter that ever graced the world! Bear would be straight up bawling while holding his newborn, the tiny baby girl cleaned and wrapped in a tiny pink blanket. Only a day ago she was still in your belly and now look at that, she's in her father's arms, doozing off while clutching her dad's finger in her tiny hand, unaware of the happiness her parents feel <33

Now, almost three months later your daughter is the chunkiest, happiest baby ever! She is the light of your life, the thing that makes you excited to wake up because you'll be able to see your baby and you know that Joe shares the very same sentiment, often playfully 'fighting' with your husband over who gets to hold the baby <3

Bear makes BIG babies; your little girl is so chunky and healthy that the doctors who do the regular check ups have only praise for her as she is cluelessly held in her dad's strong arms, giggling and babbling at the nice nurse <33

[thealtofvalleyxdoodles]

"Tell her her dress is pretty."

You were just an average babysitter. Nothing too grand-sure you loved kids, sure the parents paid nicely-but fucking hell, Joe Graves.

And Sarah-the cutest little thing ever! She's so sweet, little chatter box, sure, but it's cute, you think, hearing her rant about how cool her daddy is, and how he's got some of the coolest friends. When this happened, you just sat there, letting her talk-but one day, it happened in your front yard. So you played with her and her dolls-kinda. She forgot they were there and started waving her armsand hands around as she told a story that Joe told her, one about where had to swim in a big river. "Really, Sarah? Did you daddy say all of that?" "Yeah huh! Yea huh! He's so cool!" Sarah said, jumping up and down on her feet now. You giggled before saying, "Careful hunny. Dont wantcha falling now do we?" And Sarah shook her head. "Nuh uh. That would hurt...hey-Miss Y/n? Why don't you have a husband?"

you ch0oked on your spit. "Uhm-where'd you learn that word hunny?" "Daddy! He was talking his friends about you-" "And I told you not to eavesdrop anymore, Sarah." the gruff voice made the both of you jump. "Joe! Hi! Goodness, I didn't see you!" "I walked," he said simply. "I don't live far anyway. Besides, it's good for my health." You nodded your head, "True." Joe smiled at you, and you smiled back. Sarah huffed before saying, "Daddy! I was talking to Miss Y/n! And you said it's rude to inter-inner...I don't know!" Sarah pouted, crossing her arms over her chest in that cute little way only toddlers could. You laughed and said, "Sarah, calm down sweetie. I'm listening."

But Joe quirked a brow up. "You've never pouted like that before..." he grumbled to himself, watching Sarah go on her little taggant to you. He listening somewhat, but then looked at his wrist watch, "Sarah, sweetie. It's almost time for mom to pick you up." And Sarah pouted-again. "I don't wanna go to mom's! I wanna stay with Miss Y/n!" "Sarah...I'm being called in-you have to go to Lena's." "I'm not going!" Joe sighed and picked up his daughter. She started to fake cry. "Sarah! Enough! What the hell is wrong with you today?"

He felt bad for saying that to her, he knew it was probably a side affect of aging, but jeez...this was bad. You got up off the little picnic blanket and said, "I'm not going to tell you how to parent, Mister Graves...I'm just going to say, maybe it's because she sees how stressed and annoyed Lena makes you-maybe she's reluctant to go with her mother because of this." Huh. Good point-Sarah's was always a Daddy's girl. "Yeah-Yeah maybe..." but his daughter was (trying to and failing) glaring at him. "Sarah. Sweetie. We'll have a talk at home, okay?" Jeez-he already had to pull out the dad talk? ...Maybe Lena was right-Maybe he spent too much time at work and not enough at home.

"Say bye to Miss L/n." "Bye, Miss Y/n..." Sarah said sadly, waving to you even more so. You jutted your lower lip out before saying, "Well-here's the bag of toys she brought, Joe. Have a nice day!" Joe nodded and he took the bag, "Yeah-you too..."

but as he walked away, "Tell her her dress is pretty, Sarah," Joe said, smiling, "YOUR DRESS IT PRETTY MISS Y/NNNN!!!"

~~~~~ 𝕋 𝔸 𝔾 𝕊 ~~~~~

@spicy-seaweed @seconds-over-first @thebunnednun @staytrueblue @writing-with-moss and my backup blog: @valscodblog bc i can c:

[oatystoaty]

nobody thinks what i think 😔

[multi-fandom-imagine]

« Helping Hand || Joe Graves ||

A/n: He’s so hot! Help!

Tag List: @filliandkili , ilovedaddyprice , shadesofreyes

You and Joe have been together for years, having meet the man when you were treating one of his wounds and after that you’ve been together ever since and it wasn’t until a few months ago that you both started to try for a baby.

After the first few attempts, and when the negative tests started to roll in you both went to see the doctor, which lead him to this moment. Sitting in some room in a fertility clinic trying his best to collect a sperm sample.He tried everything besides the tapes and with a reluctant sigh he sat down unbuckling his pants, his hand slipping into his boxers as he slowly jerked himself off as his eyes were glued to the porn displayed on the screen.

He knew it should be turning him on, that he should have been hard by no but nothing was working but his thoughts were torn away when he heard a sudden knock on the door.

Gritting his teeth he fixed his pants yanking the door open about to yell at the doctor until he saw you.

“oh luv... what are you doing you can't be back here”

He glanced around then tugged you into the room locking the door, a light giggle escaping your lips.

“I just came in to help.”

Joe raised an eyebrow at your sly smile, a mixture of surprise and curiosity crossing his face. He stepped back, creating some distance as he lent back against the wall.

“Help me? How exactly do you plan on doing that?” he asked, his voice low and filled with skepticism.

Taking a step forward, you gave your husband a smirk. Your fingers trailing down his chest. “Well Hun, I was thinking about getting down on my knees, letting my lips wrap around your cock.” You turned your head and with a slight shrug of yours you glanced down to see his pants lose on his hips. “Or you can just fuck my tits.” Your voice dipped as your fingers slipped into his pants grasping his cock.

Your lips then trailed down his neck as you pulled your out of his pants. “Or I can do this.” You whispered as you rubbed your clothed pussy over his boxers.

Joe narrowed his eyes watching you straddled his lap only to feel you rub yourself against his boxers, a low growl escaping his lips at the sensation, a deep desire stirring within him.

"Naughty girl.” Licking his lips. “That’s it luv, make me cum.”His hands moved to grasp your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he guided your movements, encouraging you to roll your hips against his erection. Joe's breath came in shallow pants as he felt the friction building between you, his arousal growing with each tantalizing movement.

His lips found yours as he pulled you in for a passionate kiss.His tongue exploding your mouth with a hunger. His nails digging deeply into your hips feeling his erection straining against his boxers, desperate for a release. Breaking the kiss, his gaze focused on you, the whimpers escaping your lips, the little gaps.

"That’s it love, ride me.Make me cum. Make me fill that damn container," he murmured against your neck, his hands squeezing your ass.

You let out a weak laugh as you continued to hump him, your fingers freeing his erection from his boxers as the other grasped the container.

“Once you fill this cup Bear, I’m going to ride you and you’re going to fill my pussy like your going to do that container.”

Joe's eyes darkened with a mix of desire and amusement as he listened to your words. He could feel his cock twitch in anticipation as you freed him from his boxers, your fingers wrapping around his erection. The thought of filling the container and then filling your pussy with his cum sent a surge of lust through his veins.

Joe narrowed his eyes, a smirk slowly forming on his lips. “What a dirty mouth you have” he then gave your neck a nip. “You know me too well though, I can’t resist a challenge.I'll fill that damn container and then I'll fuck you hard until you're begging for more."

He watched intently as you positioned the container, ready to catch his release. Joe's hips moved in sync with yours, his cock sliding against your hand, the friction intensifying the pleasure building within him. He could feel himself nearing the edge, the familiar tightening in his balls signaling his impending orgasm.

Joe’s eyes glanced over, your fingers brushing the tip of his cock. “Fuck, keep going luv, Milk every drop, make me cum for you.”

Joe continued to move his hips his cock now thrusting in your hand as his movements becoming more desperate and erratic. He could feel the pressure building, his release close and with primal grunt, he finally reached his peak, his hot cum spurting into the container as he rode out his orgasm.

As the last pulse of pleasure subsided, Joe let out a deep breath, his chest heaving. He looked at the container, now filled with his essence, and then at you with a hungry gaze. A smirk on your lips as you slowly tightened the lid on the container, your fingers licking up and cum that might have spilled out.

"Now it's my turn, luv," he said, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Get ready to be fucked senseless."

[sai-int]

officer!price

the red and blue lights flash in your rearview, and you groan, already slowing to pull over in the shoulder, lowering your too-loud music. this stretch of road’s quiet, and you know exactly who it is. small town, officer john price, and it’s not your first rodeo with him.

his boots crunch on broken asphalt, the flicker of the headlights catching the glint of his badge. you roll the window down, already half annoyed, but then you see him, and that’s when the irritation starts to fade.

“license and registration,” he says, voice smooth, like he’s in no rush.

you roll your eyes but reach for the glove box anyway. “what's it this time, price?”

his brow quirks. “that's officer price, to you, hun. know how fast you were going?” he asks, leaning down just enough to make his face fill the window.

“barely over the limit,” you reply, your voice sharp but not entirely convincing.

he hums like he’s thinking it over, then steps back. “step out of the car.”

you laugh under your breath. “seriously?”

he arches an eyebrow. “you got a problem with that?”

not really. not at all.

you open the door, sliding out with an indignant roll of your eyes, but you can’t stop the way your heart beats a little faster when he reaches for you. hands on your hips, guiding your chest flush with the hood of his car, like he’s done this a hundred times (he has).

“reckless again,” he says, voice rougher than usual as his hands slide down your waist and hips, searching for weapons. “i oughta teach you a lesson one of these days.”

you smirk, unable to fight the way your hips press backwards in search of his, “teach me, then.”

he sighs like a disappointed dad before tutting. “put your hands behind your back, sweetheart.”

edit: one shot for this is here

[meowf4ngs]

navi 𝜗𝜚

Dear diary ｡｡｡

― multifandom. mdni. 𓂃۶ৎ abt. rules. writing. recs. 𓂃۶ৎ

My chest is hurting, my feet can't fall out of bed I don't know where to go, so I'll lay here instead---

― bibi, 24, taurus, she/her/they ｡｡｡ ― oc !! enjoyer !! that's me !! you'll see me writing abt my oc's ― certified yapper, always ovulating; i simp over fictional men ― bro does no one yearn anymore ? love biting, let me sink my teeth into you; im in love to the point where it'll bruise. 𓂃۶ৎ tba: masterlist. 𓂃۶ৎ

They all said it would fade but again and again I love, I love, I love, I love, I love, I love, I love, I love ｡｡｡ 𓂃۶ৎ credits: divider ! 𓂃۶ৎ

― please don't repost / translate

[rodolfoparras]

Thinking about Joe Bear Graves who claims that he doesn’t care about who you sleep with since you’re only friends with benefits, even encourages you to walk up and talk to the man who’s been eyeing you up on a night out, well encouraging would be a bit of an exaggeration since he just said “do whatever the hell you want” before he stormed off to the bar to order another round

But you don’t even get a kiss in before Bear is storming into the stall that you and the stranger were in.

“Out” Joe says, sounding out of breath but firm as ever with his request.

The man who’s down on his knees, fingers hooked onto the waistband of your jeans looks confused as ever seeing Joe standing there.

“Didn’t your hear me? Get out,” Joe repeats sounding much more firmer now as he tugs at the man’s sleeve, forcefully pulling him up to his feet.

The man swiftly gets up but turns to look at you as if you’ll defend him only to see a smile your face chest rising and falling at a rapid pace, and eyes glued to Joe who looks furious.

The man almost trips over his feet as he scrambles out of there.

However he’s long gone from your mind as Joe pushes you up against the wall of the bathroom stall, crashing his lips onto your own, and grinding his clothed cock up against your own

“Do whatever the hell you want huh? “ you mutter against his lips in a teasing tone

[yeyinde]

I know this would be terribly inaccurate and morally wrong, but it's taking too much space up in my brain and I can't write NSFW to save my life and I'll stop rambling and get to the point about this random hoe ass dream I had the other night about Bear (Graves).

But that table in the middle of their storage area room thing (with the cages)? Imagine getting railed on that table. Horrible consequences if you're caught, but in the moment that doesn't matter.

I didn't even really clock the morally wrong portion of this until just now—I just immediately started writing it.

Warnings: MATURE | 18+ — pseudo exhibition kink, corruption (as in, MC does everything possible to break Bear), risk-seeking behaviour; light smut Word Count: 2,2k Notes: it's been so long since I wrote smut that I kinda forgot how. alsoooooooo. it's deffo early season 2 Bear. With the beard and the unhinged madness and tragic angst. Okay? Okay.

It's a whim. 

One of those terrible ideas you sometimes get—like the insatiable curiosity to know what it would feel like to snuff out an open flame between your thumb and forefinger, or lick the anode and cathode of a 9V battery just for the thrill of it. The electric hum of recklessness that surges through your veins, pitched right between the accompanying high of a short-lived adrenaline rush. An addictive sense of danger that isn't really dangerous. 

It isn't enough to kill you, or cause any severe injuries—no. You're not stupid. It's just one of those passing no good, bad, and very terrible ideas that leak from that place inside your head where madness and idiocy spool. 

Sometimes, it doesn't even hurt. 

(But you've always liked it better when it does.)

This, then, must be that. 

This, of course, being: 

Bear—so austere, so stalwart—bracing his thick fingers against the back of your neck, palm so wide it swallows you whole. Clipped nails pinching your skin when he digs in tight, holding on to you as he fucks you stupid, fucks you senseless against a metal table, perfectly perched in the middle of the room like an altar. 

His nails cut a scratch on your hip when he pulls you back by the bone to meet his heavy, hurried thrusts, growling low in his throat at the madness of this all. The danger. The recklessness. 

Eyes oscillating between the open doorway split into three possible entry points where anyone—Chase, Trevor, Buddha, Caulder—could walk in and see, catching Bear fucking you over a table; and you—

Bent over, fingers scratching at the linoleum beneath your hands, keening desperately for more. 

It's more brutal than you'd expect him to be considering where you are, where he is, but there's a weight to the way he pounds into you, a palpable sense of urgency, and need. Rapacious, you think, and wonder if it's the tantalising aspect of exhibitionism, the fear of getting caught, that brims white-hot in the balmy air between you, or if it's the setting alone that threatens to undo him. 

Fucking out in the open—with a man who yelped when you tried to ride him on the bed of his stupid pickup truck under the stars; vanilla incarnate, all American apple pie left to cool on an open windowsill in the heartland—is probably as close to true trouble as a man like him, the one bent over you now, has come before. You wonder if this is his Saddam. If he scents brimstone in the air when he curls over you, staining your skin with droplets of sweat that pools down from his brow, drips off his temples. 

It was that same sweat that started it all. 

Anger carved canyons into his forehead, ploughing five neat, little lines through tanned skin—flushed slightly pink near his hairline, and bleeding down across the bridge of his nose, the patch of skin between his lash line and beard, undoubtedly from standing on the sun-beaten shores of Virginia Beach all morning. The sweat that beaded across his skin was patchy, drying into patches of congealed salt above his brow, but dripping down his temples in rivulets of exertion, and cutting a clear path to his jaw, where it fell, pooling like a lagoon in the dips of his collarbones. 

You wanted to lick it off. 

An odd thought considering the arched reprimand he was in the middle of doling out. Sharp, slurred words of can't be here, and reckless, all undercut with an air of something balmy, something hot that simmers below the surface. 

His eyes flashed, cool blue to cobalt, when you lifted your shoulder in a lazy, half-hearted shrug, shirt slipping down, exposing skin to his irritated gaze, and, oh. Oh. 

The scorching heat you felt wafting off of him in puffs of humid air had little to do with temperature, with anger. 

The words, then, took on a new meaning. 

Can't be here, can't do this here. Reckless. 

And so, you leaned up on the tips of your toes, and flicked your tongue across his skin, eyes lidded and heavy as the briny tang of sweat and seawater flooded your senses. 

It was surprising that he let you. That after some more growling protests about shame, and public decency, he quieted fairly quickly when you slipped your hand into his trousers, letting the heft of him fill your palm. 

An incorruptible man, corrupted.

Opposites attract, you think, and then bite the notion in half when he slides in as deep as he can go, husking out a muted fuck, fuck, fuck, feels so fuckin' good into your shoulder. Opposites, maybe. But something about the way he grabs you hard enough to leave marks on your bones, drags you back into his harsh ruts, his frantic pace, makes you think something reckless, something damning, lives inside him, too. 

(He never would have let you tug his trousers down over his hips, let you arch over the table for him, if he didn't, after all.)

"This is—" his breath is humid on your skin, hands spasming over your flesh. You taste clarity in his words. Cognisance bleeds into them, spilling panic, and frenzied worry over your flesh. "This is stupid. We're gonna get caught—"

He huffs, and the rough scratch of his beard skates over your skin when he mouths against the curve of your bone. 

There is a moment when you think he might pull away. Where the urge, the drive, to be proper and pious, prim and good, brim up through the overwhelming dizziness of cacoëthes that spindles through your marrow, but you arch into him until you're pressed taut to his hips, full and gasping from having big Bear inside of you this deep, and tuck it back into the box it snuck out of. 

There's no place for decency when he has you bent over a table where anyone can wander past and see how good you take him. 

So, you push back against him, taking him in as deep as you can, and then deeper still when his hips stutter at the sudden push. It edges into too much when he's pressed flush against the soft curve of your ass, but you swallow down the whimper, and rock back on your heels, swaying against him until all you see is hazy gunmetal swimming in front of your eyes. 

It's always on that uneven edge of pain with Bear—dual sensations of too much intermixed with a heady thrum of pleasure that buffers out everything. A test of your mettle. He quizzes you on the limits of your resolve when he bucks his hips, sliding inside as deeply as he can go. Eking out a place within you that you might have been untouched, undiscovered, until him. 

Where his tests are physical—pushing into you as deep as he can, until you swallow him whole—you excel in destruction. The erosion of propriety. His self-control. 

(He shatters so prettily in your hands, like a supernova scattering across the inky black sky.)

This, then, is his test. 

And he clues into it almost as quickly as the plan formed inside your head, spooling fast and recklessly in that place that convinces you that adrenaline is your friend, and that climbing higher is always the goal. The spot inside that makes you always pick dare instead of truth. 

Bear knows—knew—of your plans when you pressed your lips to his, and still let you. A quick glance to the open doorway as you slide your tongue against his. The press of his fingers on the bow of your lips, a firm admonishment not to be too loud. 

You could take it as: 

Don't let us get caught. 

And you do. But you also hear the unsaid words murmured into your ear when he fucked you harder, hips pistoning into you as if daring you to make a sound:

Don't let this end too soon. 

"You're so bad, Bear," you coo, words tangled in pleasure as the blunt head of his cock batters into that spot behind your navel that never fails to make you sing. It rises. A quick flash of heat roiling in your belly; the whine of a coil being pulled too tight. Liquid bliss in red-hot agony. "Fucking me like this. I bet you want them to see. I bet you want them to watch you fuck me, don't you?"

The hiccup in your voice belies the accusations in your words. A tremulous, teasing warble that is met with his sharp, heady groan. 

"Oh, f–fuck—"

He's close. You feel him swell. Hear the rumble in chest as he loses that mechanical rhythm; a stutter of his breath, his hips. The bones in your hip ache when he digs in tight, holding you still as he pounds you with a fury unmatched by anyone else you'd ever known. He takes you like he's working out a problem. Like he's on the opposite lines of an allegiance, and is trying to fuck you stupid enough to ramble out the answers to the questions he asks. It disintegrates into madness. Desperation. His measured thrusts grow sloppy. His breaths ragged. 

The implosion of his self-control is almost more euphoric than the flood of molten pleasure blooming in your core. Your release offset by the unignorable crumbling of his resolve. 

"Come for me, Bear," you pant, your breath whitening the gunmetal table with plumes of condensation. "Come for me—"

His hand presses against the smooth slope of your neck, pushing your cheek into the slick table. His thick fingers spasm as he grows frantic, desperately chasing his own end in your spasming body, ready to follow you—quick and reckless—over the edge of a precipice, filled with an adrenaline-rush spiking through the pleasure. 

Things just feel better when it's dangerous, after all. 

Bear comes with a groan he can bare smother, pulling your hips back into his as he spends himself inside of you, the punchy grunts of a well-earned victory tumbling from his lips. The sound bounces off the condensation-slick walls, renting the air in two. His heavy breaths are magnified in the sudden absence of silence that always seems to follow a loud sound. 

His misery-filled groan is muffled by the back of your crown when he tips forward, and buries his face into your hair. In his defeat, you victory. A sweet damnation that you relish as he struggles to regain footing after losing control. His brassbound resolve is still in tatters, and spilled across the back of the table he'll use tomorrow with everyone else, haunted by the images of you spread out and willing as he tries to pretend he doesn't know what it feels like to grip the end of the table and fuck you senseless in a room designed to amplify all sound. 

You grin into the metal when he husks out a mangled fuck into your sweat-slicked hair. It reeks of resignation. Of a man who stood so long on the crown of propriety slinking down to the depths of hedonism and bliss. Breaking the rules feels almost as good as fucking on top of them, and your mind races with all the ways you can break him again. 

And Bear, as usual, has a tap into that place inside that leaks bad ideas, and can only shake his head with a huff. 

He doesn't even bother saying no. 

(Caulder owes you ten bucks. It seems you can teach an old, pious seal new tricks.)

Your legs are still shaking like a newborn fawn. You feel him inside you still, and the phantom stretch of him touching places and pieces of yourself he really shouldn't makes you quiver. The ache in your thighs is the good kind, though. The lasting impression of success after obtaining exactly what you set out to do. 

Climbing a mountain. Running five miles. Fucking Bear Graves in the locker room with everyone else just a breath away. 

(Check, check, and check—)

He helps you into the truck, eyes sweeping over your shoulder to look for anyone else in the parking lot who might ask questions. Solid, reasonable ones like why do you stink like sex? and did you just fuck them in the locker room, Bear?

You could try and reassure him that it's empty. That no one cares. That it's all in his head. 

But you like the clench of his jaw, the flash of teeth when you giggle at him. Once the high of his release comes down, anger will follow. The kind that makes him loom. He'll lecture you about safety and decorum and not to sneak into his work to fuck him—

He'll wind himself up. Get himself nice and heated. He'll see it as a question to his authority. A tremor in his self-control. 

And to regain the footing he lost—

Well. 

It'll be a good night for you. 

"You're a bad influence," he mumbles into your jaw, words muffled by his heavy breath he buckles you in. 

You count each line in his forehead as a win, and try not to preen. "You love it."

[elainak03]

Broken (pt. 3)

TW: assault, trauma

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“hey there, pretty girl”, joe said to you as soon as you answered the skype. he’s been gone 5 weeks at this point. it’s honestly sucked being away from him this long. y’all’s friendship was really solid. he was opening up more about what’s been haunting him. he was only able to skype once a week, but hey, you’ll take that over nothing. you blushed hearing him call you that name. it’s something you noticed he started calling you a couple weeks ago, you didn’t put much thought into it.

“hey, how are you today”, you said back, smiling warmly. “i’m good, you know, could be better if i was home but hey, what can you do” he said jokingly. you giggled, “i know, im sorry. i miss you, i have a lot of paintings to show you when you get home”, you said, with a warm smile. he grinned from ear to ear, “i can’t wait to see them. i miss you too. i got some news though” he said. “oh? and what’s that”, you said, curiosity surging through you. “i’m coming home tomorrow” he said, with such a sweet expression. you tried to hide the excitement, even though you knew your cheeks flushing gave you away. “oh my goodness!! yay! i’m so excited to see you.” you said to him, eyes crinkling with excitement. he laughed subtly, “hey i gotta go cause we’re packing up, but i will see you tomorrow, pretty girl”, he said to you before ending the call.

~~~~~time jump to the next day~~~~~

it was about 12pm in the afternoon, when you heard your phone ding. you were chilling around your house waiting to hear from joe, and what do you know, it was him that texted you.

joe: hey i’m back, wanna catch a dinner and a movie later? that new bar & grill downtown. i’ll pick you up.

(y/n): hey! i’m so happy you’re back. of course, 5pm sound good?

joe: 5 sounds good to me, see you later, pretty girl

you say your phone down, cheeks flushing. you would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t have feelings for joe. even though he was gone for 5 weeks, y’all grew closer. having personal conversations that make a bond grow stronger. he became your rock, when you would have your nightmares, you would wake up and immediately think about him. when you did, it instantly calms you down. joe opened up more to you. told you everything that has been bothering him all these years. he told you he was so happy to have you in his life, he finally felt safe with someone to talk to about his demons. after a brief nap, you went and got ready. you decided on an oversized sweater, leggings, and some chucks. you wanted to be comfy for the movies. it was 4:30pm, when you heard a knock on the door. you quickly grabbed your keys, phone, and wallet and headed for the door. “coming!”, you shouted, tripping slightly trying to hurry. you took one last deep breath before opening the door. you opened it to seeing joe smiling at you. you both stood there for a moment, before he engulfed you in a hug. “i missed you”, he said, hugging you tightly. you squeezed him back, “i missed you too, bear” you said, letting each other go. “you ready? i’m starving”, he said to you, motioning to his truck. “yes, i am starving”, you said back, following him to his truck. he opened the passenger door for you, and you hopped in, buckled up, excited for tonight.

you and joe finally made it to the restaurant after a few minutes. got seated and eventually ordered y’all’s food. “what movie were you thinking about watching?” he asked you, curiously. “hmm let me look on my phone and see what they’re showing….omg i found the perfect one”, you said giggling, a bit of mischievousness in your tone. “but you have to wait till we get there”, you said to him, a smirk wide on your face. he gave you a curious smirk, “alrighty, we’ll see” he said. y’all’s food finally arrived, after enjoying that and laughter consuming the conversations, joe paid for y’all’s food. he helped you out of the booth, y’all’s hands touching for a moment, electricity buzzing through your body. you blushed hoping he didn’t notice. y’all headed for his truck, and then onto the movie theater.

after arriving, you both hurried inside to get out of the cold air. “you pick whatever candy or popcorn you want”, joe said to you, with a wink and a smirk. “i just want some skittles”, you said looking at him sweetly. he told the worker a pack of skittles, and a drink. joe looked at you, “and what movie did you pick?”, he said, questioning. “two tickets to ‘anyone but you’, please”, you said with a big grin to the worker. you could just hear joes groan. “what’s wrong bear? not a big fan of rom-coms?”, you said, laughing. he just laughed and said, “come on, let’s go watch your silly movie”. yall eventually found your seats and the movie began. you’ve been wanting to watch this movie for weeks and were so happy to drag joe to it. you were so deeply entranced with the movie, you didn’t realize joe was looking at you, smiling. you didn’t know it yet, but he was getting feelings for you too. bad. you could ask him to do anything, and he would do it. eventually the movie was over, and you both got into the truck. it was about a 15 minute drive to your house. after some quite chit chat, you both were listening to music, and you fell asleep. car rides always put you to sleep, it never failed. joe noticed you balled up, cold. he reached into his back seat and grabbed one of his hoodies. draping it over you. he was just about to your house when he noticed your breath quickening. getting louder. he looked over to you, worried. he saw your brow scrunching, you started panicking in your sleep. he finally pulled up to your house, when you started crying, begging for someone to stop. he put the truck in park, “ (y/n)?? (y/n) wake up please, you’re safe. pretty girl, you’re safe, you’re with me.” he said, shaking you, panic setting in. you woke up, your breath spiking up, grasping for another. you grabbed the hoodie you didn’t realize was on you, for dear life. you looked around and saw joe, your heartbeat started slowing down, but then it hit you. you just had a nightmare right in front of joe. something you hadn’t told him about. he grabbed your face with both of his hands, “hey, shh, it’s okay. i got you”, his blue eyes connecting with your (e/c) one’s. after a moment you were finally calm, but you were choking on your words. “what was that? i mean if you don’t have me asking. you were asking someone to stop” he said, worry evident in his voice. you were stuttering, trying to find the right words. after taking a deep breath you looked at him, “do you wanna come inside? we can sit down and i can explain”, you said, worried. joe would be the first person you ever told. after a moment you both headed inside.

you showed joe the couch, and then you headed to the kitchen to brew some tea. after awhile, you headed back into the living room and handed him a cup. you held yours, staring at it for a moment. when you looked up at joe, he was looking at you worried, but there was also a caring look. you took a deep breath for a moment, “two years ago i was attacked. i was leaving an art function, when someone grabbed me and shoved me into an alley. he had touched me so disgustingly all over my body. hitting me, kicking me, if it wasn’t for the little strength i had left, yelling for help, i don’t think he would’ve stopped. someone heard me, thank god, and the guy ran off.” you said, not realizing you said it without skipping a beat. you looked at joe, he was looking at the ground, so many emotions were on his face. anger, worry, sadness, rage. “did the cops ever catch him?” he said, looking at you with a completely different look. “no they didn’t…and i’m sorry i didn’t tell you about this. i haven’t talked to anyone about this..”, you said, shame almost in your tone. joe grabbed you, engulfing you in his big arms, “you don’t have a thing to be sorry for, and don’t ever think you do. i am so sorry some low-life filth hurt you”, he said, laying his head on top of yours, and then proceeding to kiss the side of your head. that’s when you came crashing down. you held onto joe tighter, tears soaking your face, and his shirt. joe rubbed your back lovingly, letting you let all of this out, he knew you needed this.

after awhile, joe noticed you calmed down. your breathing slowed. he looked down at you, asleep, and at peace. he didn’t have it in his heart to wake you up. he quietly kicked off his shoes. grabbing a blanket off the back of your couch, while still holding onto you. he carefully laid back, putting his feet on the footstool in-front of him. you laid on his chest, peacefully. he put the blanket on you both, after watching you for 30 minutes to make sure you weren’t having another nightmare, he put his hat over his face, arm wrapped protectively over you, and eventually fell asleep.

[kentstoji]

oh, to be joe graves' controversially young partner/spouse — especially after his messy divorce. initially, he was skeptical about engaging in a new relationship, especially considering the age difference between the two of you.

however, you managed to break down the grim walls he built around himself. with little effort.

you behaved calmly, a giant contrast to his almost explosive personality. sometimes, stressed, he was greeted only by your distant look, and your voice was indifferent.

"are you done?" you questioned, as you noticed the waves of tranquility involving him. when he nodded, embarrassed by his actions, and behavior, you smiled — and the sun graced him. "great, now help me with dinner. my mom is coming to visit us".

(sorry, yesterday i was obsessed with barry sloane again.)

[frudoo]

Gifts—Joe “Bear” Graves

It’s about TIIIME I write about my baby boy

Merry Christmas my loves!!!!

Warnings: SMUT. Alcohol consumption. Lingerie. Blowjob. Fingering. Unprotected PIV. Creampie ofc. Fem!Reader is fat. MDNI.

“Holy shit.”

Joe sounds breathless, cheeks and neck flushed crimson and a matching fire in his blue eyes. In front of the Christmas tree sits you, your soft body adorned with nothing but emerald green ribbon lingerie. Gorgeous and gift-wrapped, and all for him.

“Welcome home, Bear,” you grin teasingly, beckoning him over with a single crooked finger.

Like a dog to a bone, your husband falls to his knees before you, trembling hands stretching to get a feel of your supple, cedar-scented skin or, at the very least, the silk of your barely-there garment. You’re quick to stop him, fingernails gently digging into his wrists. He raises an eyebrow at you.

“Is a man not allowed to unwrap his own present?” Joe teases, working to shrug off his fatigue coat, still caked with sweat and grime from his latest mission.

“I have a different present for you, first,” you roll your eyes playfully before sliding another gift from beneath the tree—a decorative basket with an impressive bottle of aged bourbon and two glasses inside.

Joe’s eyes widen at the sight, and he laughs softly in disbelief as he holds the bottle in his hands, cradling it like it’s a sacred artifact.

“Baby, oh my- how much did this cost you?” He looks at you with such awe, appreciation, bright blue eyes twinkling in the dim light.

“Don’t worry about that,” you wave your hand dismissively, carefully taking the drink from him to pour him a glass.

Your husband shakes his head, but the wide smile on his face betrays the absolute joy that settles in the crevices of his mind. As he takes a sip, he hums in satisfaction, savoring the addictive burn that blossoms all the way from the tip of his tongue down to his belly. There’s a hint of smoke in the aftertaste, rich and bold.

“It’s perfect. Thank you, honey,” he nods, twirling the glass in his large hand before finally meeting your gaze. “You're not gonna drink any?”

“You know I don’t like bourbon,” You shrug, placing the bottle of alcohol back in the basket and pushing it away. “And anyway, I got the glasses customized just for you. It’d be wrong of me to drink out of them!”

“You’re my wife. What’s mine is yours,” Joe clicks his tongue, setting aside his drink. “But I digress.”

You giggle, standing from the cold wooden floor and outstretching your hand to help him do the same just so you can push him down onto the couch. He grunts when he hits the cushion, looking at you expectantly.

At your full height, the lingerie hides even less of your plush body. The set is little more than a vessel to hold the ribbons across your breasts and the sheer fabric that drapes just below your hips. You give Joe a little spin, biting your lip at the low groan that escapes him upon discovering the matching g-string that can barely be passed off as an undergarment. Calloused hands reach out to grab your waist, pulling you back onto his lap. His breath is hot against your neck as he peppers short, open-mouthed kisses there, greedy fingers traveling up to grope at your lush tits.

“Already got me so fuckin’ hard for you,” Joe’s voice rumbles against your sensitive skin, sending goosebumps rising all along your body.

“W-wait, I wanna…” you trail off, gently placing your palms on his thick, muscular thighs and slipping out of his grasp.

His chest rises and falls impatiently but he doesn’t say a word, his eyes following your every move as you drop to your knees in front of him, just as he’d done when he saw you. You waste no time before unbuckling his belt and unzipping his fatigue pants. Joe lifts his hips, expecting you to undress him completely, but quickly sits back down when you shake your head.

“No, please, leave them on,” you murmur breathlessly, batting your eyelashes up at him as you palm his aching cock through his boxers.

Joe nods, abiding by your wishes. You bite your lip as you release his dick from its confines, nearly moaning at the sight. He was right—he is so fucking hard, twitching and leaking salty beads of precum that coat his fat shaft and your fingertips. You’re salivating before you can even get a taste.

“Fuck, baby,” he grits his teeth eagerly. “I need you.”

Needing no more encouragement, you dive in, licking through the slit of his thick cockhead. Your husband immediately throws his head back with a prolonged groan at the contact, muscles tensing and relaxing in sync with every swirl of your hot tongue over his tip, down to his heavy balls and tracing back up along the plump vein at the base. He has to bite down on his fist when you finally wrap your lips around him to refrain from spilling down your throat too early.

“Yes, just like- oh fuck yeah, like that,” Joe moans, one hand wrapping around the back of your neck, his hold firm but not tight enough to hurt you.

You hum around his cock with every downward plunge, fondling his balls in one hand and bracing yourself on his thigh with the other. Your jaw pops when you lean forward to take him deeper, but the pain is quickly forgotten in favor of the blissful warmth in your mouth. You bury your nose in his pubes, swallowing him down to the back of your throat and holding yourself there until you gag.

“Baby, stop,” he gasps, cupping your clammy face in his hands and pulling you off of his dick with a wet pop. “Gonna make me cum.”

“Don’t you want to?” You pant, furrowing your eyebrows in confusion and wiping away the drool and precum from your chin.

“Damn fuckin’ right I do, but not like this. C’mere,” Joe helps you off of your knees and pulls you into his lap, his lips pressing against yours desperately. “You wet for me?”

You confirm his suspicions with a muttered yes, mouth never leaving his. He tastes like the expensive bourbon you gifted him, deep and musky. He tastes like home.

“Lift your hips, honey,” he whispers, grinning softly when you comply.

Pushing aside your g-string, two of his thick fingers swipe through the dew of your slit and he moans in approval, pressing them into your entrance slowly. You keen, resting your forehead against his, gripping onto the sides of his standard green shirt with clenched fists. Joe curls his fingers to press against the sensitive patch inside of you, one strong arm wrapping around your waist when you try to flinch away. He nuzzles his nose against yours, pumping into you with more vigor. You shake your head, grabbing at his wrist to pull his hand away.

“Baby-”

“Don’t need your fingers, Joe, just need you,” you frown.

He searches your eyes for a moment, and finding no hesitation, nods. Joe pulls you in for another intoxicating kiss, nipping at your bottom lip at the same time he slides home inside of you. You cry out at the sudden intrusion, fingernails digging into his shoulders to ground yourself.

“I know. I know, honey, but you can take it all the way. You always do, don’t you? Always take it so fuckin’ well for me,” he coos, watching in awe at the way you arch your back and brave the stretch.

It doesn’t take long to get used to the feeling, all too familiar with the way your body molds itself to fit him perfectly. You rock back and forth slowly to let him know that you’re ready.

“Atta girl,” your husband praises, rough hands settling on the fat of your hips.

Joe plants his boots flat on the wooden floor, his lap giving you a sturdy seat to work with. You raise your hips and come back down at a steady pace, holding onto the sides of his thick neck for support. Your thumb rubs over his Adam's apple and he growls, pulling you down on him harder. The filthy slap that echoes throughout the living room when your ass meets his solid thighs makes the both of you moan in sync.

“Ride that dick. C’mon, baby, it’s yours, so use it,” he huffs, looking into your eyes so intensely you think you might evaporate.

Still, you eagerly comply, your knees digging into the couch cushions as you roll your hips at a dizzyingly quick pace. Your tits bounce with the haste of your motions, nearly slipping right out of your lingerie. Joe decides that he’s sick of being denied his favorite sight and tugs on the ribbons, pupils dilating at the sight of your pretty pebbled nipples now exposed to his hungry gaze. He takes one breast into his hand and ducks his head down, sucking the sensitive nub into his mouth with a delighted groan. Your pace falters in the midst of the new sensation, so Joe bucks his hips up to help you out.

“Joe, I can’t- can’t do this anymore,” you hiccup, legs burning from exertion.

“That’s okay,” he grunts, hands moving to cup your ass before he stands, chuckling at the little gasp you let out. “Just hold onto me, baby, I’ll get us there.”

You nod and hold onto him for dear life, burying your face in the crook of his sweaty neck. Sometimes you forget how strong he is, but it’s in moments like these he reminds you—effortlessly suspending you in the air and bouncing you on his cock like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He presses his cheek to the top of your head as he fucks you, and despite the brutal pace with which he pounds into you, it’s obvious that he absolutely adores you.

“You’re close,” he observes through clenched teeth, his hips stuttering as your walls clamp down on him tightly. “Gonna cum with me?”

“Yeah,” you whine, tightening your arms around his neck.

“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he growls, fingertips digging into the fat of your ass almost painfully.

He thrusts a few more times before reaching his peak, thick ropes of cum flooding your womb and triggering your own orgasm. You bite down on his neck as he rides out the high, oversensitive but euphorically so. Sweat and breaths mingle as he carefully lowers you to the ground on wobbly legs, keeping you steady with his hands on your waist. The two of you share a moment of silence before busting out into gentle chuckles.

“I think I ruined your pants,” you giggle, gesturing toward the wet spot on his cargos.

“I don’t care,” he smiles, leaning down to kiss you long and slow.

[bimbofawn]

What are the chances that someone finally writes for Bear ..and it's really really good ??? I'm so invested !!

exit, no entry wound joe bear graves x reader; part 1 (3.8k)

-

Local time at destination: 0500 hours.

And then the world rushes back to him like the culmination of a terrible dream.

Bear wakes up in another rosebush outside the front steps of the local library worse for wear. Blinking out of sleep-crusted eyes, shapes diverging in blurry unfocus before slipping back into material objects. A bench. A door. The thorny stems of roses already on their way out, already depetalling, the ground below covered in a thin layer of them. One petal even sticking to his cheek when he pulls himself off the ground, wincing at the branches that crunch around him, that tug against his skin and clothes.

His clothes smell of cheap liquor. Gin. Bourbon. It hurts to open his eyes, to sit up. 

“Morning, sunshine,” someone says. He remembers hearing it in his dream too. 

He looks to the source of his awakening, blanching when he notices the man staring at him.

Rip sits on the other side of the bushes on his haunches, looking deeply unimpressed. Hair slicked back for a change. “This what you get up to when I’m gone?”

Bear doesn’t respond. He struggles to his feet instead, hangover only just creeping in. Still drunk, to an extent. His knees threaten to buckle under him, forcing him to lay a hand flat on the wall to keep himself upright. One foot in front of the other. The walk home feels endless in the hour before dawn, hardly any light to guide him. 

“Pretty pathetic shit, Bear,” the man says, trailing along behind him. Not quite mockingly, but bordering on it. “Getting piss drunk and passing out in a bush? Really? C’mon, man. You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

There’s no sense in responding, Bear knows that now. No sense in even turning around to look. One foot in front of the other. Stumbling home alone under the cloak of night, dawn just around the corner; terrified that one day he’ll have to see it—the sun coming over the mountains, over the horizon. 

It’s been less than a year. He hasn’t yet made his amends with God. Forgiveness sits outside of him. Not quite the right time to let it in. Maybe that time passed a long time ago, a small aperture that shuttered closed at the approach of his eyes. He missed it sometime between killing a boy and losing his mind.

A man cannot hold himself up on the scaffolding of the world alone. There has to be something beneath him. There is no sense in repeating the horrors of the world back to him; he’s already lived them. He’s got something of a Midas touch for death. 

The months have been long since the divorce was finalised, since Lena left for good, since Buckley died, since Rip—since it all went down. If he thinks about it for too long, it seems like a nightmare that he woke up from still mad about; a nightmare he had no choice but to drink himself into a stupor over to escape. That’s the reality of the world. 

“You know, Bear, you’re not the one that’s fuckin’ dead,” Rip spits as he follows behind, matching Bear’s stumbling gait stride for stride. “So you can stop acting like it.”

There’s a truth in Rip’s words and it leaves him feeling nauseous. There’s also a kink in his neck and a headache threatening to split his forehead open. In the belly of him, he has a truth that says that the firmament of heaven is beyond his reach. When he looks up and the sky is void of coruscating light, the meagre stars like an exit with no entry wound, it doesn’t surprise him. Of course there wouldn’t be anything there.

On a good day, his heart feels like it’s weathered a siege. 

“So she left you! It’s time to fuckin’ move on. Go to a bar—I mean, you already are, so step one done—and pick someone up. Go on Christian Mingle or something. You keep living your life like this and you’re going to wind up killing yourself. And then the fuck good that’ll do?”

It takes everything in him to not turn around and do something rash. Only the nausea keeps him from making any sudden movements. Even if he were to turn around and do something, his knees would probably buckle under him. Probably throw up the contents of his stomach. Not much in there either. It rumbles when he thinks that, clenching at the thought of food. Then it twists, the nausea returning. 

One foot in front of the other. The walk home takes twice as long, his whole body aching.

“Heard you almost quit. Wouldn’t be the worst idea you ever had. Let Buddha take over—he’s earned it. Get yourself a nice piece of land in fuckin’…Montana or something. Couple cows, maybe some chicken—you could get a dog, Christ. You look like a guy who’d have a dog. Why don’t you have a dog, actually? You would’ve told me if you didn’t like dogs, so it’s not that.”

His forehead is greasy when he touches it to rub his head. Body secreting poison in his sleep. Oily. The corners of his lips crack when he yawns. It’s not like he’s never thought about a dog, about having something to care for, another living thing in his house. 

But—

(“Bear? …I don’t think we should have a child.”)

What he wants often falls to the wayside, slides off him like a glancing blow. 

Her old, familiar shape appears at the sudden loss of a dream: one where Lena’s gaze lingers on him long enough to burn; but then it is the sun.

Bear watches dawn break. Sunday morning. In a different life, he would’ve squinted into the light of a new day and closed his eyes against it, curling into the slighter body tucked into his chest for another hour of rest. Felt the rise and fall of her chest. Woken up to a hot mouth on his cock or fingers curling in his chest hair, petal lips seeking him out. Church after that, showering off the remnants of their morning, solemn in their pews with their chests still holding the laughter of an hour previous. Light as air, as a feather. 

He won’t go to church today; hasn’t in months. Not with the guilt of missing it the week before trailing after him, each missed week compounding month after month. The cracks in his faith webbing. Splintering out like stepping on the lake when it freezes over in the winter, crunching under his boot until he holds his place. Conscious that it could break under his feet.

“I grew up with a dog,” Bear finally responds, voice hoarse. First thing he’s said since last call at the bar. 

“Yeah. Figures. What kind?”

“Black lab. We called her Daisy.”

It’s another lifetime ago. Still living in his parent’s house, Daisy curled by his dad’s feet, her favourite spot to sleep. Television playing at a low volume, mom at the kitchen table doing her crossword, ink bleeding into the side of her hand. It’s been a long time since Bear buried all of them. He’s buried countless people since. 

“What—can’t get another? One and done? That’s how everything works for you?”

Teeth raze across his skin again. Trust Rip to always cut to the quick. Finally back in his neighbourhood at least, the street empty apart from the cars parked in their driveways or along the sidewalk. Bear’s stomach rumbles something fierce now, entreating him to eat. Worse than hunger is how he’d kill for a glass of water though. Anything to settle his head.

“Haven’t wanted a dog,” Bear grumbles, then clears his throat.

“Yeah, you have,” Rip scoffs. Bear hears him kick a rock, sending it skidding across the asphalt. 

“Fuck off.”

Heart silicified in his chest, composed of fossilised shells and rocks and bones. It feels heavy in his chest. 

He turns down the street leading to his house. 

“Gotta let someone else in, Bear. Girl, dog—whatever. You can’t keep this up forever or it’ll kill you.”

When he turns around at the door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, the sidewalk beyond his house is empty. 

(So a man lies down and rises not again; till the heavens are no more he will not awake or be roused out of his sleep.)

Every Friday like clockwork, Bear stops at the diner down the street for a coffee and a slice of cherry pie before heading to the bar. 

Today is like any other. He leaves the house with only his keys and wallet and walks the long twenty minutes to the diner. Every time he fights the urge to drive, but there has to be something holding him in place. A reason not to throw it all away. 

It’s never completely empty when he shows up, but it’s never full either. His seat at the back of the room is open as usual, like they put up a sign before he comes ambling down the street that says Reserved for Joe Graves and then pluck it away before he opens the door. It’d be nice if that were the case. Nice to have something just for him for a change. The thought comes with its accompanying pang of shame. Desire is a dangerous thing; anything he’s ever wanted has come at him with sharpened teeth, clamping down on his leg and ripping through the flesh. Bear trap for old Bear. 

He slides into the booth and waits for someone to notice him. Never bothers to flag someone down—if it’s ten minutes or even half an hour before he’s served, that’s fine by him. 

“Hiya,” a clear voice says to his right, pulling him away from staring through the blinds out the window. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

The face Bear turns to meet is pleasant, smiling. Wide and untroubled. It’s not a face he recognizes though, despite months coming to this diner and becoming familiar with the staff. If he had to guess, he’d bet she only started a few days ago, maybe a week at most. She still has the sparkle of someone who hasn’t had the goodness beaten out of them yet. 

“Coffee,” he says, his own smile strained. “And a slice of pie.”

“Sure—we have key lime, blueberry, apple—”

“Cherry,” he interrupts, not letting her build steam. The wick in his chest burns too low for any conversation. The quick flicker of her brow makes the shame in his chest swell again. Forgive me sitting on his lips, unsaid. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I do this. 

She nods and scurries off to the back, skirt swishing with her movements. Bear notices only because his eyes get stuck there, somewhere between the curves of her hips and the roundness of her ass. When he realizes where he’s let his mind wander, he pulls it back, flattening his lips into a hard line. Any sort of indulgence feels wrong, a taking that shouldn’t be taken. He hasn’t even begun to pay penance for all the damage he’s wrought. 

It’s only on her way back that Bear notices the small bump protruding from under her apron. His mouth goes dry. When she reaches him again, he wordlessly accepts the cup of coffee and her reassurance that the pie will be out in just a minute. For a moment, he can hardly meet her gaze, eyes locked on the gentle curve of her belly, caught off guard in a way he hasn’t been in months. 

The first thought with any clarity is, what is she doing working here? A crummy diner on a Friday night. Down the street from an even sleazier pub. His second thought is to look outside at the poorly lit stretch of road and think that this is no place for a pregnant woman to be alone. He recognizes each car in the parking lot save one, likely hers. Drove herself here with the expectation of driving herself home at the end of the night.

If it had been Lena—well, he never would’ve let it be Lena, but if it had been, Bear can’t imagine letting his pregnant wife drive herself home in the middle of the night. Can hardly stomach the thought. 

She’s not Lena though, so he has no right. 

She’s gone before he has time to say anything else, skirt swishing behind her. It catches his eye again. When he tears his gaze away for a second time, he swallows back the metallic taste of self-loathing. It curdles in his mouth. It’s the sign telling him to stop coveting, stop looking out into the world and wondering what he can take. It’s his hamartia, his fatal flaw; thinking himself above the reproach of God. Thinking that he can kill, fuck, curse, and stray farther and farther from the light only to find his way back in the dark. 

The bell above the door rings when someone else comes in and Bear tenses. His shoulders only relax when two older women step in and head to a table. 

He watches as she picks up a plate from the pass-through window and heads back towards him. When she places it in front of him, he draws a deep breath in, trying to catch more than just the aroma of fresh baked cherries. 

“Here we go…one slice of cherry pie, straight out of the oven.”

“Thanks, honey,” Bear rumbles, smile finally meeting his eyes. 

“No trouble. The guys in the back said they make it special for you. Joe, right?”

That gets him to levy her with the full weight of his attention. The thought of her asking about him. “I go by Bear.”

“Oh. Alright, Bear.” She twists the word around in her mouth and seems to find it satisfying. “I think I’ve heard your name before. You were—I mean, you’re part of Pastor Adams’ parish, right?”

He clears his throat, cutting off the triangle point of his pie with the side of his fork. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Me too,” she confides, voice a low whisper. A secret between strangers. She doesn’t glance around though, doesn’t bother to draw out the ruse. “Or, I was, anyway. Haven’t been to service in awhile. I, um…I remember you. From a year or so back. You and your—um…you and your wife used to always sit up at the front.”

The fork scrapes against the plate. “Ex-wife.”

He catches her wince from the corner of his eye. “Oh. Sorry. You just—” She doesn’t have to say it. The slight dip of her eyes tells him all he has to know, and besides, it’s his own fault for still wearing the ring. Even with the paperwork signed and dated, even with Lena in another state now, starting a new life without him, the thought of taking it off makes him break out in a cold sweat. 

“It’s not—” Bear starts before giving up. He curls his fingers into a fist on the table. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine. Not a big deal.”

She fidgets in the silence. Bear can’t bring himself to break it or make the atmosphere less oppressive. He tenses under it, the ache in his low back worsening. These days, he always aches. Nerve damage, a disc on the verge of slipping, an old ankle injury that flares up whenever he goes running. A ghost that follows him from haunt to haunt. The ring on his finger is just another old ache. 

“So, uh—” he clears his throat, nodding to her belly. “Your first?” 

It’s inappropriate, hardly his place to ask. Incredibly intrusive for someone he’s met for the first time, a stranger just trying to do her job and serve him coffee and pie before he goes off to drink himself half to death again at the dive bar down the road. 

Still, he asks. 

Only the faintest wrinkle of her nose betrays any embarrassment. “Oh. Yeah. First one.”

“Congratulations.” It’s sincere. The envy in his gut is old, but it’s a manageable pain. 

“Thanks,” she says, with a small, private smile, hand resting absently under her belly. “I’m excited. I’m only a couple months along, but, uh…it’s been a journey. Just me and baby against the world, you know.”

That stops him in his tracks. Screws up the whole course of his evening because suddenly the sound of the bell over the door jingling doesn’t draw his attention away. It stays fixed on the smiling girl to his right that just opened her mouth and said something unacceptable. 

“Where’s the dad?” he asks, far too bluntly. 

She shrugs. “Somewhere. Didn’t stick around long enough to tell me where. It’s fine though—I’ve got my little peanut. That’s all that matters.”

“You told him and he left?” 

The pie sits cooling in front of Bear as a pit in his stomach opens up. It’s a terrible, empty hole that holds truths like the fallibility of the body and the good shouldering the burdens of the world.  

He only regrets being so direct when her lip quivers, a little motion that betrays her until she wrests control over her face again. “It’s not his fault. I don’t think he was—well…you know, it was a surprise.”

“That’s—” he struggles to find his words, “—that’s not right.”

Again, she shrugs. “That’s life.”

Bear feels his eyes go hard. A coldness settles under his skin. 

In the deep, dark gut of him, only anger lives. He spends his days questioning why God has allowed everything else in his life to fall apart, has allowed countless other people to die, but refuses, for reasons unbeknownst to him, to kill him. He’s given him enough opportunity and enough reason. 

The answer he circles back to time and again is the same. An eye for an eye. Divine wrath. The litany of his sins could be sung until the end of time and there’d still be more to sing. It’s only right that there would be consequences for him. 

The rage that simmers in his blood now is twofold. It begins with the sharp pang of injustice, of witnessing a punishment meted out to someone innocent. The girl standing by the booth he’s shoved himself into, almost too small for a man of his size, cannot be deserving of the same punishment that he’s brought upon himself. She has never killed. The babe in her belly has never killed. The two of them should never have to meet at the point of two paths converging with the likes of someone like Bear and proceed down the same road together. 

Then it sinks into a familiar territory. A place at the core of him where righteousness gives way to envy, as it always does. After what he's been through, the thought of someone having everything that he's always desperately wanted handed to them on a silver platter and then sending it back leaves him feeling a bit off-kilter. Not quite right. 

“Bear?” Her voice breaks the silence. When he blinks, concerned eyes stare down at him, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, dragging a hand down his face. Shaking it off. “Sorry, I—got lost in my head. Sorry.” 

“That’s alright,” she says, again gentle in her voice and smile. “Easy place to get lost in, isn’t it?”

He makes a sound in acknowledgment. Drags the silence out. Her mouth twists shy under his scrutiny. 

“Anyway, I have a few other tables to get to, if you don’t mind. Enjoy your pie. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

He eats his slice of pie in silence as she leaves, eyes following her to her next table. Rage still sizzles under his fingertips. It makes his hands shake, old nerve damage and anger problems. 

It’s like a gun punch to think of her all on her own. It’s not right. For someone like him, well, it’s—deserved, earned. Inevitable, even. Every step taking him further away from grace, from its light. No one who knows his story would think otherwise. 

She’s a pretty thing though, this new waitress. Too tired, the bags under her eyes testament to that, no matter how well she hides them with makeup. Slightly puffy anyway, maybe from a lack of sleep or too many tears. His stomach aches at the thought. It must have come as a shock, the bottom of her world dropping out from under her when the baby’s father took off. Dragged away from the church not through her own doing, but the fault of another. Not her shame to bear, and yet. 

He forces the pie down. Bites that taste like nothing, 

Bear hears the lilt of her voice from two tables over. “Refill on your coffee, hun?” 

A supplicant sits in his place as he sips his coffee. The hour slips by into the next and it starts to come together in his mind. Why he's been forced down this long road alone, why God hasn't struck him down yet despite every terrible thing he's done. His eyes follow her flit across the diner, the light seeming to bend around her like a halation. 

When Bear looks across the room at her, he thinks, Lord, do not think I am waiting patiently for your hands. Every part of me trembles with anxiety.

(O Lord, show me I can fall apart together again; but not just yet.)

He stays until the last customer has finally left, waiting for her to come back to his table with an apologetic smile. When she does, Bear hands her his empty plate, watching her take a step back when he scoots out of the booth, rising to his full height. He makes note of the way her eyes round as they follow him up. Taller than her, unsurprisingly. Surprising though, the way her bottom lip droops just the slightest bit. 

“Is it just you closing up?” he asks, voice a tad too gruff. He clears his throat again, looking around for anyone else. 

“Well, the chef’s cleaning up in the back, but, uh—” she looks around the diner, conspicuously empty apart from the two of them. “Yeah. Just me.”

Bear gestures with his chin towards the door. “I’ll wait ‘till you’re done, then walk you to your car.”

“Oh, Joe—”

“Bear,” he corrects.

“Bear,” she amends, fingers twisting together now. He relishes the sound of it on her lips. “You don’t have to. I’m used to it, honestly. I know I just started here, but I’ve done closes before, you know.”

“I’ll wait outside.” A statement now. Stubborn. He’s always been a bit mulish, hard to shake off. 

He can tell the second she relents, shoulders slumping. “Alright. I shouldn’t be too long…you can leave if you get bored though. Won’t blame you.” 

He fights the urge to tilt her head up by the chin to make her meet his eyes. Just barely restrains himself. 

Leaning against a tree out front, he twirls the ring around his finger as he watches her clean up. For the first time in a long time, he slips it off.

[angel5ofp0rn]

that’s it that’s the whole post

[inkbybambi]

7 minutes in heaven with bear that starts with him hauling you up onto the bathroom counter, crowding against you and kissing you slow and sloppy and deep and ends with him bending you over the counter, both still fully clothed, one big paw of his securing your wrists behind your back while the other keeps a firm hold at nape of your neck, biting and mouthing at your throat and shoulder, telling you to keep quiet lest they think you’re being mauled by a bear and you want to quip that you practically are, but the weight and heat of his cock makes your brain go fuzzy, and all you can do is whine low in your throat, desperately trying to arch back against him.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Not me about to write a fic based around this clip

Where the reader { replaces his wife } helps him.😈