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The late afternoon light filters through the cracked blinds of the old Jackson house you and Joel claimed as your own, dust motes dancing in the golden beams. You're standing in the bedroom, the one with the creaky floorboards and the quilt that's seen better days, staring down at the pair of pre-outbreak jeans you've been stubbornly clinging to for months. The denim is soft now from too many washes in the communal laundry, faded at the knees and thighs from years of wear, but today... today they refuse to cooperate.
Your belly has rounded out noticeably in the last few weeks, the swell of pregnancy pushing insistently against the waistband. It's not huge yet—not like some of the women in town who've carried to term—but it's enough. Enough that the button won't fasten, no matter how much you suck in or twist. The zipper sits halfway up, mocking you, and the fabric digs into the soft underside of your bump like it's trying to remind you who's in charge now.
You hear Joel's heavy footsteps on the stairs before you see him. That familiar tread—deliberate, unhurried, the kind of walk that says he's already assessed every threat in the room before he even opens the door. He steps in, still wearing his jacket from patrol, flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and scarred from years of survival. His dark eyes flick over you immediately, taking in the scene: you half-dressed, hands on your hips, cheeks flushed with frustration.
"Still fightin' those damn things?" His voice is low, rough around the edges like gravel, that Texas drawl wrapping around every word. He closes the door behind him with a soft click, leaning back against it, arms crossing over his broad chest.
You huff out a breath, gesturing helplessly at the jeans. "They fit last month. Barely. Now..." You trail off, palms sliding over the curve of your stomach. The skin there is taut, warm, stretched smooth over the life growing inside. You've caught yourself doing this more and more—touching, marveling, sometimes just holding still to feel the faint flutter of movement.
Joel pushes off the door, closing the distance in two long strides. He's so much bigger up close—tall enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze, solid in a way that makes you feel small and safe all at once. His hands—big, calloused, scarred across the knuckles—settle on your hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin above the waistband.
"Let me see," he murmurs, voice dropping even lower.
You don't move. You don't need to. He drops to one knee in front of you without hesitation, like it's the most natural thing in the world. His face is level with your belly now, and the sight of him there—rugged, gray-streaked beard, deep-set eyes focused so intently—sends heat pooling low in your gut.
His palms slide up your sides, slow and deliberate, mapping the new shape of you. Fingers splay wide over the swell, thumbs stroking the underside where the jeans are biting in. "Look at you," he says, almost to himself. "Carryin' my kid. Growin' right here." One hand stays on your bump while the other tugs experimentally at the button. It doesn't give. Of course it doesn't.
He chuckles—low, dark, the sound vibrating through you. "Stubborn little thing, ain't it? Just like its mama."
You bite your lip, heat crawling up your neck. "Joel..."
He glances up, eyes darkening. "Hold still."
His fingers work the button again, thicker digits fumbling just enough to make it teasing. He presses the heel of his hand against your lower belly, pushing gently inward as if testing the resistance. The pressure makes you gasp—half discomfort, half something hotter. The baby bump yields slightly under his touch, but the denim holds firm.
"Damn," he mutters, breath warm against your skin. "My baby's stretchin' you out good, huh? Look how full you are already." His thumb hooks under the waistband, tugging downward an inch, just enough to expose more of the pale curve. He leans in, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss right above your navel. "Can't even close these anymore 'cause of what I put in you."
The words hit like a spark. You thread your fingers into his hair—still thick, still dark at the roots despite the silver threading through—and tug lightly. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Damn right I am." He rises slowly, hands never leaving your body, sliding up to cup your breasts through the thin shirt. They're heavier now, tender, nipples already peaked against the fabric. He thumbs them lazily, watching your face. "Whole damn town's gonna know soon. Gonna see this belly and know I did that. Know I filled you up 'til you couldn't button your own jeans."
You whimper, thighs pressing together instinctively. The ache between your legs has been constant lately—hormones, need, the constant awareness of your changing body. Joel notices, of course he does. His hand drifts lower, palming the front of the jeans that still won't close.
"Feel that?" he growls softly. "How wet you are just thinkin' about it. About me puttin' another one in you someday." His fingers dip beneath the open zipper, finding the damp cotton of your underwear. He strokes once, slow and firm, and your knees nearly buckle.
"Joel—please—"
He stands fully now, towering over you, one arm banding around your back to steady you while the other keeps teasing between your thighs. "Not yet. Wanna see you try one more time." He guides your hands to the button. "Go on. Show me how hard my baby’s makin' it for you."
Your fingers tremble as you try again. The button strains, the fabric pulls tight across your hips, but it refuses. Joel's hands cover yours, dwarfing them, pressing down with just enough force to make the denim bite into your skin. You whine, hips rocking forward involuntarily.
"See?" His mouth is at your ear now, beard scraping your jaw. "Too full. Too round. Too pregnant with my kid to wear these anymore." He nips your earlobe. "Gonna have to get you new ones. Somethin' that stretches. Or maybe..." His voice drops to a rumble. "Maybe I like you like this. Half-dressed, belly out, waddlin' around knowin' I bred you good."
The word—bred—makes your core clench hard around nothing. You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in. "God, Joel..."
He walks you backward until your thighs hit the edge of the bed. Gently, so gently despite the roughness in his voice, he eases you down to sit. Then he kneels again, this time between your spread legs. His hands worship now—sliding up your calves, behind your knees, over the soft thickness of your thighs that have grown plush with pregnancy. He kisses the inside of one knee, then the other, working upward.
"These hips," he murmurs against your skin. "Wider now. Made for carryin' my babies." His palms cup your ass, squeezing, lifting you slightly so he can mouth along the lower curve of your belly. "This belly... fuck, darlin'. Look how it rounds out. How it sticks out even when you try to suck in." He presses kisses in a slow circle around your navel, tongue dipping in briefly, making you arch. "Gonna get so much bigger. Gonna feel every kick, every roll. Gonna watch you swell up 'til everyone knows you're mine. Know you let me come inside you raw, let me pump you full 'til it took."
You’re shaking now, hands fisting the quilt. "Joel—I need—"
"I know what you need." He hooks his fingers in the waistband of the jeans and drags them down your legs with deliberate slowness, peeling them off like he's unwrapping something precious. The denim catches briefly on the widest part of your hips, and he growls low in his throat at the sight. "Fuckin' beautiful."
The jeans hit the floor. You're left in just your underwear and the loose shirt, belly proudly on display. Joel's eyes devour you—dark, hungry, reverent. He pushes your shirt up and over your breasts, exposing them to the cool air. They ache at the sudden freedom, nipples tight and dark.
His mouth closes over one, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking. His hand kneads the other, thumb circling the peak. "These are gonna fill up soon," he says against your skin. "Gonna leak for me. Gonna let me taste." The thought makes you moan, loud and needy.
He switches sides, lavishing the same attention, while his free hand slips between your thighs again. Fingers push the underwear aside, finding you soaked, swollen. Two thick digits slide in easily, curling just right. You cry out, hips bucking.
"That's it," he praises, voice muffled against your breast. "Take it. Take what your man gives you." He pumps slowly, thumb finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles. "Gonna keep you like this. Round. Full. Mine."
You’re close already—embarrassingly fast—but he knows your body too well. He pulls his fingers free just as you start to tighten, ignoring your frustrated whimper. He stands, shedding his jacket, then his shirt, revealing the broad chest dusted with dark hair, the scars that map out every fight he's survived.
His belt clinks as he undoes it, jeans shoved down just enough. His cock springs free—heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip. He strokes himself once, eyes locked on your belly.
"Look at you," he says again, voice wrecked. "Spread out for me. Belly full of my baby. Gonna put more in you. Gonna fuck you 'til you're drippin' with it."
He climbs over you carefully, mindful of your bump, bracing on his forearms so his weight doesn't press down. The head of his cock notches at your entrance, teasing, spreading you open inch by slow inch.
You gasp at the stretch—always so much, always perfect. He sinks in deep, groaning low in his chest when he's buried to the hilt. "Fuck... feel that? How tight you still are even after I knocked you up?" He rolls his hips, grinding against your clit. "Gonna stay buried in you. Gonna come so deep you'll feel it for days."
He starts moving—slow at first, savoring every drag, every clench. His hands roam—over your breasts, down your sides, cradling your belly like it's something sacred. "Love this," he rasps. "Love seein' what I did to you. Love knowin' my seed took. Gonna watch you grow. Gonna fuck you every night 'til you're beggin' for the next one."
The pace builds, harder now, but still careful. His mouth finds yours, kissing you messy and deep, swallowing your moans. One hand slips between you, rubbing your clit in time with his thrusts.
"Come for me," he growls against your lips. "Come on my cock while my baby's safe right here." He presses his palm to your bump, possessive. "Let me feel you squeeze me. Milk me dry so I can fill you up again."
The words tip you over. You shatter around him, crying out his name, walls pulsing hard. He follows seconds later, hips stuttering, burying himself as deep as possible as he comes with a guttural groan. Hot pulses flood you, and he keeps grinding slow, pushing it deeper, like he wants to make sure every drop stays.
He doesn't pull out right away. Instead, he rolls to his side, bringing you with him, still connected. His hand stays splayed over your belly, thumb stroking lazy circles.
"Stay like this," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "Let it take."
You hum, boneless, content. His big hand covers so much of the swell now—protective, proud.
After a while, he shifts, reaching down to grab the discarded jeans. He holds them up, smirking faintly. "Guess these are done."
You laugh softly. "Yeah. Guess so."
He tosses them aside, pulling you closer. "Good. Means I did my job right." His voice softens, almost tender. "Means you're growin' my baby just like I wanted."
You turn in his arms, pressing your forehead to his. "Keep going like this... and I won't fit anything soon."
His eyes gleam. "That's the plan, darlin'."
And as his hand settles back on your bump, warm and sure, you know he means every word.