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pandapetals · 2 months ago

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when the leaves turn

summary: as the seasons change in jackson, so does your relationship with joel. It starts with small things—his quiet presence outside the schoolhouse, how he keeps bringing you books for the kids or how his gruff demeanor softens just slightly when he talks to you.

pairing: jackson!joel miller x fem!teacher reader

word count: 8k

content warnings: slight reader description, y/n used once or twice, slight slow burn, fluff, some angst, maria appearance, ellie being ellie, grumpy joel but soft, kissing but at the end.

a/n: request from anon. inspired by autumn/winter months. divider by @saradika-graphics.

August

Autumn in Jackson smelled like wood smoke and damp earth, like something settling in before the frost. Maybe that was why it always felt like a fresh start. Or maybe it was because school began then, and with it, the quiet thrill of sharpening pencils, smoothing out worn pages, and watching young minds spark to life.

The air carried a crisp bite in the mornings, warming just enough by midday to make the schoolhouse feel less like a drafty old cabin and more like a place where something good could grow. You tried to hold on to that feeling now as you stood in the small room, surveying the meager stack of books on the shelf. Five. That was it. Five stories to last an entire year.

Maria did what she could—she always did—but Jackson could only provide so much. Food, shelter, safety. The essentials. Books, though? Books were sacred.

The kids deserved more. They deserved to get lost in stories, to hear unfamiliar words roll off the tongue, to dream beyond the walls of this town. And right now, all you had were the same five dog-eared volumes, ones that had already been read so many times the kids could recite them back to you. They needed more.

You’d mentioned it offhand, a passing comment to Maria or Tommy—how the kids were running out of new books to read, how their little library shelves were looking thinner by the week. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

Maria had brought it up to Joel once in passing, maybe while handing out patrol assignments or over dinner at the hall. Though he didn’t say much in response—just a slow nod, a quiet grunt of acknowledgment—he’d kept it tucked away.

After that, every time he rode beyond the gates, rifle slung across his back, he started looking. Not just for threats. Not just for supplies.

For books.

For the kids, at least. That’s what he told himself.

When Maria stopped by the schoolhouse, a small stack of books cradled in her arms. She set them down on your desk with a satisfied smile.

“Look what turned up,” she said, brushing the cold from her sleeves.

Your eyes widened as you reached for the top one—a hardcover copy of Charlotte’s Web, its edges worn but still intact. Beneath it, a few dog-eared paperbacks, pages yellowed with time but still readable.

“Oh, Maria,” you breathed, running a hand over the covers. “Where did you find these?”

She waved a hand. “You mentioned needing more. Figured I’d keep an eye out.”

You smiled, touched by the gesture. “Thank you.”

Maria didn’t correct you. Didn’t mention the real reason those books were here. Just shot you a knowing look before heading back out into the cool autumn breeze.

That day, you watched as the kids excitedly flipped through the pages, some still having to share, but none of them seeming to mind. Their little fingers traced over faded words, their voices rising with excitement as they pored over the “new” books. It was worth it—seeing them light up like that.

A few days later, more books appeared.

Five of them were stacked neatly on the steps outside the schoolhouse. No note. No explanation. Just left there in the quiet of the early morning.

You glanced around, expecting someone to step forward, maybe one of the townsfolk who had extras lying around. But no one lingered nearby, no one waiting to be thanked.

Possibly Maria had found more books but something about it didn’t sit right.

Then it happened again and again.

Every few days, another small pile of books—some more battered than others, their covers soft with age, spines cracked, but pages still intact. Someone was going through a lot of trouble to bring them here.

And you were determined to find out who.

____________

“Maria?” You called as you spotted her walking through town one Saturday afternoon, bundled up against the lingering chill in the air.

She turned, offering you a polite smile. “What’s up?”

You fell into step beside her, arms crossed. “How have you been finding all of these books?” Your voice was casual, but your curiosity slipped through.

Maria blinked, then let out a small chuckle. “Oh,” she shook her head, a little amused, a little knowing. “I didn’t find them.”

Your brows furrowed. “Then who—”

“Actually, Joel has—”

You stopped mid-step. “Joel?”

Maria’s smirk deepened, but she didn’t add anything else, just gave you a meaningful look before continuing on her way.

Joel.

You found him that afternoon, just as he was tying off his horse near the stables, fresh from patrol. His jacket was dusted with dried mud, his knuckles scuffed like he might’ve had to wrestle something—or someone—on the way back. And slung over his shoulder, nestled in his pack, you could just make out the edges of another book.

You crossed your arms and cleared your throat. “So… you wanna tell me why you’ve been sneaking books onto my porch like some kind of storybook bandit?”

Joel exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he unbuckled the saddle. “Ain’t sneakin’,” he muttered. “Just droppin’ ‘em off.”

You stepped closer, tilting your head. “And where exactly are you finding all of these?”

He grunted, shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure why this was even a conversation. “Out there.” A vague nod toward the gate. “Old houses. Shops. Whatever’s left.”

You studied him, trying to piece it together. Joel wasn’t the type to go out of his way for things that weren’t necessary. He took care of what needed to be done—patrols, keeping Jackson safe—but this?

This was something else.

His fingers flexed against the strap of his pack, like he was debating whether to keep holding it or shove it into your arms and walk away.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said softly.

Joel finally looked at you then, eyes flickering with something unreadable. He swallowed, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“Kids need somethin’ to do,” he muttered. “Better than runnin’ around causin’ trouble.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “You sure it’s just for the kids?”

His gaze dropped for half a second—just long enough for you to notice.

Then he shook his head, pulling the pack from his shoulder and thrusting it toward you. “Got more in here,” he said, clearing his throat. “Figure you’ll know what to do with ‘em.”

You took it, fingers brushing his. His hand was warm, rough from years of work, and the moment lingered longer than it needed to.

“Thank you, Joel.”

His lips parted slightly, like maybe he had something to say. But instead, he just gave a short nod, stepping back, putting space between you.

As he turned to go, you could’ve sworn you saw the corner of his mouth twitch—just the slightest hint of a smile.

September

You’d slowly worked your way into Joel’s life. Not that he’d admit it—not out loud, anyway.

It had started with the books, but there had always been something about him that intrigued you. Even before that. The way he carried himself and spoke in that quiet, measured way, like he only said what was worth saying. How he seemed to be made of sharp edges but had the softest touch when it came to the people he let in.

The books had just given you an excuse to talk to him.

And once you started, you didn’t want to stop.

You made a habit of waving when you passed him in town, throwing a casual ‘Hey, Joel’ over your shoulder as you carried on with your day. At first, all you got in return was a nod. Maybe a grunt.

Then, one day, he actually said ‘Hey’ back.

After a while, he started stopping when you stopped.

He never lingered long, always busy with something—fixing the fencing near the sheep pen, hauling supplies, heading out on patrol. But he let you talk to him, and that was something.

Small talk at first—how the kids were doing, whether the new batch of patrol recruits were worth a damn, what Jackson needed more of before winter hit. Nothing special. But the more you spoke, the more he softened. You saw it in how he lingered a little longer when you crossed paths, how his gaze didn’t dart away as quickly, how his nods turned into real answers.

Like today.

“I love this time of year,” you said one afternoon, adjusting the lesson plans in your arms as you passed Joel near the hall.

Joel glanced up from where he was adjusting his pack, one brow raised. “Why’s that?”

“It’s the beginning of autumn,” you said, shifting the stack of papers against your hip. “The air gets crisp, the leaves start turning.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “Or maybe I’m biased.”

His gaze lingered for a second longer than usual. “Biased how?”

“Well…” You hummed, pretending to think. “It’s my birth month.”

Joel let out a quiet huff, shaking his head. “Yeah, see, that explains it.”

You grinned. “And what about you? What’s your favorite month?”

“Don’t have one,” he answered too quickly.

You raised a brow. “No favorite month? No favorite season?”

“They’re all the same,” he muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Just depends how miserable the weather wants to be.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, well, what about the worst month?”

“September,” Joel said immediately, shifting his pack higher on his shoulder. “It’s forgettable.”

Something about the way he said it made you pause.

Not because of the words, but because of the way his jaw tightened, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Like the answer had been waiting there, right at the surface, ready to slip out the second you asked.

Forgettable, he’d called it.

The way he said it made your stomach twist. Like he wasn’t talking about the month at all.

You didn’t push. Just nodded, shifting the papers in your arms. “Huh.”

Something about the way he said it didn’t sit right. Like, he didn’t mean September was forgettable. Maybe he meant he was.

And that’s when it clicked.

You kept your expression neutral, storing the information away. If you were right—and you had a feeling you were—his birthday was coming up.

Joel exhaled through his nose like he was already done with the conversation. “You need help with those?”

You blinked. It was the first time he’d ever offered.

“Nah, I got it,” you said, watching as he gave a small nod and started walking away.

You let him go because even if Joel Miller hated his birthday, you already knew you weren’t going to let it pass unnoticed.

____________

You found out from Tommy that Joel’s birthday was September 26th.

He hadn’t meant to tell you—just an offhand comment, muttered between sips of coffee as he patched up a tear in his glove. But the second the words left his mouth, Tommy went stiff, like he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to.

“He don’t like to talk about it,” he warned, his voice quieter now. “Lost Sarah...”

Joel had lost his daughter that same day.

The weight of it sat heavy in your chest that night, curled up under a too-thin blanket, staring at the ceiling. You wanted to do something, but how did you celebrate a day that only brought him pain? The thought made your throat tighten, eyes burning as you buried your face in the pillow.

You couldn’t fix it. Couldn’t take away the hurt.

Maybe you could give him something that didn’t feel like a celebration but still meant I see you.

The answer came sooner than expected.

It was a chilly afternoon when you spotted Joel walking toward you, his shoulders hunched against the wind. His usual scowl was in place, but something was different.

He was carrying something.

“Hey,” you greeted, shifting the basket in your arms as he came to a stop in front of you.

Joel exhaled through his nose, his gaze flicking away like he was already second-guessing himself. Then, without a word, he reached into his pack and pulled out a small, wrapped bundle.

Rough brown paper, tied with twine.

He held it out. “Here.”

You blinked. “What’s this?”

Joel sighed, looking somewhere over your shoulder like this whole thing was deeply inconvenient for him. “You said September was your birthday month.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Carefully, you took the bundle from his hands, fingers grazing his—rough, calloused, warm even in the cold. You pulled the twine loose and peeled back the paper.

A mug.

Not just any mug. Sturdy ceramic, a little chipped at the rim, but glazed in a deep, autumn gold. You could tell it was old but well-made, like the kind you’d find in a house that had once been a home.

You swallowed past the sudden lump in your throat. “Joel…”

He shifted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured you might need one,” he muttered. “See you haulin’ coffee to the school every mornin’. Thought… well. Just thought.”

Your fingers curled around the handle. It fit perfectly in your palm.

It was nothing grand. Nothing fancy, but it was thoughtful.

You looked up at him, warmth spreading through your chest. “Thank you.”

His ears tinged pink. He gave a stiff nod like he wasn’t sure what to do with your gratitude.

Your heart pounded. Now or never.

“Actually…” You hesitated. “I have something for you too.”

Joel’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing slightly. “For what?”

You bit your lip, gripping the mug a little tighter. “For your birthday.”

Something passed over his face—quick, fleeting. His jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides.

He shook his head. “You don’t gotta—”

“I know,” you cut in softly. “I know you don’t like your birthday. But… I still wanted to do something for you.”

Joel went quiet.

You let the words settle between you, watching the tension in his shoulders, the way his mouth pressed into a firm line like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the words.

Then, finally, he exhaled, slow and measured. “What is it?”

You smiled. “Come by my place later and find out.”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable. He hesitated. Then, after a long pause, he gave a small nod.

That evening, there was a knock at your door.

Joel stood there, arms crossed, looking like he wasn’t sure if he regretted showing up or not.

You grinned. “Come in.”

He did, stepping inside cautiously, gaze sweeping over the cozy space—books stacked in uneven piles, a blanket draped over the couch, the faint scent of something warm in the air.

You grabbed the package from the table and turned to face him. “Here.”

He stared at it. Then at you.

Slowly, he reached out and took it.

He unwrapped it carefully, calloused fingers making quick work of the twine. The paper fell away, and Joel went still.

A flannel shirt.

Dark green, lined with soft fleece on the inside. Thick enough to keep him warm on patrol, but not too heavy. Well-made, just like the one he always wore—the one you knew had been patched up more times than you could count.

His fingers smoothed over the fabric, quiet.

You shifted on your feet. “I noticed yours was getting pretty worn,” you murmured. “Thought you could use another.”

Joel swallowed, still staring at it.

For a long moment, you thought maybe you’d overstepped. That he’d shake his head, shove it back at you, mutter something about how he didn’t need it.

Instead, he surprised you.

He cleared his throat. “It’s… nice.” A pause. “Thank you.”

Your chest ached at how hesitant he sounded. Like he wasn’t used to someone thinking about him, let alone for him.

You smiled. “Happy early birthday, Joel.”

He looked at you then. Really looked, and for the first time, he didn’t seem quite so uncomfortable with the weight of it.

October

October had settled into Jackson with crisp air and golden leaves crunching underfoot. The town buzzed with preparations for Maria’s fall festival: strings of lanterns hung between buildings, tables were set up with baked goods, and the faint scent of cinnamon and apples drifted through the streets.

Joel had tried to ignore the whole thing. Tried.

But then you’d mentioned it—offhand, casual.

“You’re coming, right?” You’d asked, tilting your head at him as you straightened a pile of books in the schoolhouse.

Joel had grunted, which you took as hesitation.

You just smiled. “C’mon, it wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun.”

And somehow, he’d found himself agreeing.

Now, Ellie sat across from him at the dinner table, stabbing at a slice of pie with unnecessary force, a wicked glint in her eye.

“I’m so excited for the dance,” she said, too loud, flashing Joel a knowing grin.

Joel grunted, trying to appear disinterested as he scooped up another bite of stew. “Mhm.”

Ellie’s grin widened. She was a shark who had scented blood.

“Is your girlfriend gonna be there?” she asked, dragging out the word obnoxiously.

Joel nearly choked on his food. He shot her a glare. “She ain’t my girlfriend.”

Ellie gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like she’d been personally wounded. “Wow. Harsh.”

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his spoon down with a little too much force. “I ain’t havin’ this conversation with you.”

“Oh, you so are.” Ellie leaned in, elbows on the table, smirking. “You’ve been actin’ all weird lately. Like, more than usual.”

“I don’t act weird.”

“You so do.” She started counting on her fingers. “You’ve been nice to people. Like, actually talking to them instead of just grunting. You suddenly care about how you look before you leave the house—”

Joel scoffed. “The hell I do.”

Ellie ignored him, grinning wider. “And the other day? You were smiling. Like, a real, actual smile.”

Joel picked up his spoon again, pointing it at her. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Ellie kicked her feet up on the chair next to her, completely undeterred. “Oh, but I do. You like her.”

Joel tensed, his jaw ticking. Ellie just sat there, smirking, waiting for him to deny it.

He didn’t.

Instead, he focused on his food, muttering under his breath, “Eat your damn pie.”

Ellie beamed in victory.

“Can’t wait to see you two at the dance,” she sang, hopping up from the table and grabbing her plate. “Gonna be so romantic.”

Joel groaned, rubbing a hand down his face.

What the hell had he just agreed to?

____________

The hall had been transformed. Twinkling lanterns hung from the rafters, casting everything in a warm golden glow. Tables were lined with mismatched candles, their tiny flames flickering against the cool draft seeping in from the open doors. The scent of cider and baked apples filled the space, blending with the sound of laughter and the soft strum of a guitar from the corner.

You stood near the refreshment table, hands wrapped around a warm mug, watching as couples twirled across the wooden floor. It was almost normal.

For a moment, it was easy to pretend the world wasn’t broken. That beyond Jackson’s walls, there weren’t infected lurking in the shadows, waiting to take all of this away.

You shifted on your feet, smoothing a hand over your dress—nothing fancy, just something simple, warm enough for the crisp autumn night, paired with your trusty boots. The fabric swayed gently as you moved, and you felt a little lighter, a little more… hopeful.

Then, the door swung open, and your breath caught, causing your heart to do a stupid little flutter at the sight of him.

Joel’s hair was combed back—not slicked, not perfect, just neater than usual, like maybe he’d actually put in some effort. He wore a deep green flannel, the one you’d given him for his birthday, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He wore jeans, boots, and his usual belt. Still very much Joel, but softened somehow.

Beside him, Ellie smirked up at him, clearly impressed.

“Damn, look at you,” she teased, elbowing him as they stepped inside. “Who knew you could clean up this nice?”

Joel shot her a look. “I ain’t cleaned up.”

Ellie snorted. “You so are.” Then, as if just noticing you, her smirk widened. “Ohhh, I see now.”

Joel followed her gaze, his eyes landing on you. His movements slowed, just for a second.

Then he exhaled through his nose, shifting on his feet like he was suddenly self-conscious.

You smiled. “You made it.”

He grunted, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. You asked.”

Ellie gasped, loud and exaggerated. “Wait. Wait—did Joel Miller just admit he came here for you?” She turned to him, grinning. “That’s, like, the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

Joel shot her a withering look. “Go away.”

Ellie only cackled, grabbing a cup of cider from the table. “Nah, I think I’ll stick around and see how this plays out.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Be nice, Ellie.”

Ellie snorted. “I am being nice. You should’ve seen him before we left—kept grumbling about how this was a waste of time. And yet, here he is.”

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God—”

You stepped closer, tilting your head up at him. “You do look nice, though.”

Joel’s hand dropped. His gaze flickered to yours, something unreadable behind it.

A slow breath. Then—so soft you almost missed it—“You too.”

A warmth spread through you, settling deep in your chest.

Ellie groaned, dramatically rolling her eyes. “Oh my God, just dance already.”

Joel scowled. “Ain’t happenin’.”

Ellie grinned. “We’ll see about that.”

You chuckled, taking a slow sip of your cider, already scheming.

Ellie, ever the troublemaker, smirked one last time before making a half-hearted excuse and disappearing into the crowd, leaving you and Joel standing there alone.

You turned to him, offering a fresh cup of cider. “Here.”

Joel hesitated for just a second before taking it, his fingers brushing against yours—warm and rough.

“Thanks,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor like the damn woodgrain had something interesting to say.

You smiled, watching him. It was strange, seeing him here—out of place but present, the usual tension in his shoulders just a little looser. The lantern light flickered over his face, casting soft shadows along the sharp angles of his jaw, catching the silver in his hair.

Then, the band struck up a new tune.

Your breath hitched. That song.

An old favorite, one you hadn’t heard in years. Something soft and slow, the kind of melody that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

You set your cider down, turning to Joel with a grin. “C’mon.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“Dance with me.”

Joel stiffened, shifting on his feet like you’d just asked him to recite poetry in front of the whole town. “Nah.”

You sighed dramatically. “Joel.”

“Nope.”

You took a step closer. “It’s just one dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

You arched a brow. “Not even back in the day?”

Joel huffed, eyes darting to the side like he was contemplating an escape route. “That was different.”

Your lips twitched. “Different how?”

He exhaled sharply, tilting his head back before looking at you again. “You ain’t lettin’ this go, are you?”

“Nope.”

Joel stared at you for a long moment. You could see the war in his eyes—the reluctance, the hesitation.

Then you reached for his hand, and he let you.

His palm was broad, calloused, fingers twitching slightly under yours. You squeezed gently, giving him an out if he wanted it.

He didn’t take it.

With a quiet sigh, Joel let you lead him toward the dance floor, moving stiffly at first, like his body had forgotten how this worked.

“You’re gonna be fine,” you teased softly, placing his free hand at your waist.

He swallowed. “You say that now.”

You started to sway, guiding him with slow, easy steps. After a beat, he followed.

The tension in his shoulders faded gradually, his grip firm but careful, like he wasn’t sure how much space to leave between you. You took the liberty of closing the distance just a little more, your body brushing against his as the music hummed around you.

He smelled like worn leather and cedarwood. It made you feel safe.

His hand at your waist flexed slightly. His thumb brushed absentmindedly against the fabric of your dress, barely there, but enough to make your breath hitch.

You tilted your head up to look at him. His gaze was already on you.

Something unreadable passed between you.

“You’re not bad at this,” you murmured.

Joel scoffed, shaking his head. “Not sayin’ I like it.”

You smiled. “Sure, Joel.”

He huffed, but his fingers curled a little tighter at your waist, holding you closer. His grip wasn’t hesitant anymore.

“You’re a…” He started, his voice low, rough.

You grinned. “Pain in your ass?”

Joel exhaled sharply, something close to a laugh—not quite, but enough to make your stomach flutter.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Was gonna say somethin’ else.”

You tilted your head up at him, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh? Like what?”

Joel’s jaw tightened, like he was debating whether or not to take the bait. His gaze flickered away for a brief second before landing back on you, something unreadable in those deep, hazel eyes.

“You’re persistent,” he finally said.

Joel let out a quiet grunt, but there was no real bite behind it. His thumb brushed absently along your waist just enough to send warmth curling through you.

“You always this difficult?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You hummed, swaying a little closer. “Only with you.”

Joel’s fingers twitched against your waist. His eyes held yours, something shifting in them, something softer than before.

“I should’ve known,” he muttered, but his voice had no frustration. If anything, he sounded almost… amused.

You grinned. “You’re gettin’ used to me, though.”

He shook his head, but his lips twitched just enough for you to notice. “Don’t know ‘bout that, sweetheart.”

December

Autumn was long gone, swept away with the last of the golden leaves. Winter had settled into Jackson with an unforgiving grip—bitter winds, thick snowfall, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones no matter how many layers you wore.

Today was no different.

Snow had started falling in the early afternoon, dusting the rooftops and piling in soft drifts along the streets. By the time class ended, the steady flurries had thickened into something heavier, swirling outside the schoolhouse windows.

Most of the kids had already rushed out the door, eager to get home before the worst of it hit, but a few lingered behind, helping you straighten chairs and gather up scattered lesson papers.

Then, the door creaked open, and a burst of cold air followed Joel Miller inside.

He stomped the snow from his boots, shaking his head as he pulled the scarf from around his neck. A familiar worn satchel was slung over his shoulder, and he made his way toward your desk, setting a small stack of books down with a quiet thump.

“Found these on patrol,” he muttered, glancing at you before shifting his weight like he wasn’t sure if he should linger.

You brushed your hands off on your skirt and stepped closer, fingertips trailing over the covers. “You’re making a habit of this,” you mused, looking up at him.

Joel grunted, rubbing a hand over his beard. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You smirked with an expression that read—Sure, Joel.

Before you could tease him further, the wind outside howled, rattling the old windowpanes. One of the kids—Lucy, a bright-eyed girl no older than seven—paused in the middle of stacking the bookshelves.

“Sounds bad out there,” she murmured.

Another gust of wind shrieked against the schoolhouse walls. The fire in the woodstove crackled, but a draft crept in beneath the door, chilling the air. You frowned, moving to peek outside.

Your stomach dipped.

The gentle snowfall from earlier had turned into a full-blown storm. White-out conditions. The streets had already disappeared under a thick, shifting blanket of snow, and the wind howled through town, sharp and biting.

Joel came up behind you, close enough that you felt his warmth. “Storm’s settin’ in fast,” he muttered, voice low.

You turned to the kids, trying to keep your voice calm. “Alright, looks like we’re stayin’ put for a bit.”

Lucy’s little brother, Daniel, fidgeted. “For how long?”

Joel crossed his arms. “’Til it clears up enough to walk home safe.”

The words weren’t unkind, but Daniel’s face still fell. His lip trembled, and he blinked up at Joel, eyes wide. “But what if it doesn’t stop?”

Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. You could see the exact moment he caved, the hard lines in his expression softening just slightly.

Kneeling down, he met Daniel’s worried gaze head-on. “Ain’t the first storm I’ve seen, kid,” he said, voice gentler now. “Won’t be the last. Nothin’ to do but wait it out. We’re safe here.”

Daniel sniffled but nodded.

You hid a smile, glancing at Joel as he stood back up. He caught you looking and huffed. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said innocently.

He narrowed his eyes, but before he could press, another voice piped up.

“What do we do now?” Lucy asked, shifting on her feet.

Joel glanced at you. You both knew the worst thing to do was let the kids sit in silence, stewing in worry.

You clapped your hands together. “We make the best of it.”

A few skeptical looks.

“Ever had a snowstorm sleepover?”

Lucy perked up. “Like… camping?”

“Exactly like camping,” you said brightly. “Except warmer.”

Joel snorted. “Debatable.”

You ignored him. “We’ve got books, a warm fire, and if we’re lucky…” You shot a glance at Joel. “Maybe some stories?”

Joel sighed, already shaking his head. “I ain’t—”

“C’mon, Joel,” Ellie’s voice suddenly called from the doorway.

You turned just in time to see her waltz in, brushing snow from her shoulders. “Oh, hell yeah,” she grinned, glancing around at the kids. “We havin’ a storm party in here?”

“You shouldn’t be out in this,” Joel muttered, but there was no real heat behind it.

Ellie shrugged, flopping onto a chair. “Relax, old man. I barely had to walk a block.”

She turned to the kids, nodding toward Joel. “Y’know, he’s real good at tellin’ stories. Bet if you bug him enough, he’ll spill a good one.”

Joel scowled. “Ellie.”

Ellie grinned, leaning back. “What? Just sayin’.”

You smirked, crossing your arms. “Guess it’s unanimous, then. Looks like you’re up, Miller.”

Joel exhaled sharply, glaring at Ellie before looking back at you. For a second, he seemed like he might refuse. Might grumble something about how this was your problem, not his, but then Daniel looked up at him again, eyes still a little wary, still searching for reassurance.

Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Fine.”

Cheers erupted from the kids. Ellie whooped, shooting you a smug look.

You smiled, settling in as Joel pulled up a chair.

He leaned back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the small group in front of him like he was still debating whether this was worth his time. But then Lucy wiggled forward eagerly, Daniel tucked himself into the corner of the worn-out couch, and even Ellie leaned in slightly, clearly expecting a show.

Joel sighed, like he was already regretting this, and then—he started talking.

You leaned against your desk, watching him. Hanging onto every word.

At first, you were just listening, like everyone else. But then, your focus started to shift—not just to what he was saying, but how he was saying it.

The way his deep, low voice wrapped around the words, rich and slow, his Texan drawl stretching certain syllables, dragging out vowels in a way that sent a shiver up your spine.

God.

How had you never noticed it before?

His voice wasn’t just rough—it was warm, like whiskey on a cold night, settling deep into your bones. There was a cadence to how he spoke, how his gravelly tone smoothed over certain words and sharpened on others.

The fire flickered beside him, its glow catching the silver in his hair, casting deep shadows along the strong cut of his jaw. He wasn’t a performer, wasn’t trying to be—but he had the room in the palm of his hand, his voice steady, sure, filling the space between the crackling woodstove and the howling wind outside.

You swallowed, fingers gripping the edge of your desk.

Shit.

This was bad.

You’d always liked Joel. Always found him intriguing in that quiet, rough-around-the-edges way. Now it was something deeper, dangerous.

You had it bad.

The worst part? You weren’t even sure when it had happened. Maybe it was the books or the way he always looked out for the kids. Maybe it was the rare, reluctant smirks he sent your way or how his hands lingered just a second too long when he handed you something.

Or maybe it was just him.

Joel Miller. A man made of sharp edges and quiet kindness, of steady hands and a voice that had somehow curled itself around your heart without you realizing it.

“You listenin’ or just starin’?”

Your eyes snapped up.

Joel was looking right at you, brow raised, mouth twitching at the corners like he already knew the answer.

Heat rushed to your face. “I—I’m listening.”

Joel hummed, unconvinced. His gaze flickered down—just for a second—before returning to yours. His fingers tapped against the armrest of his chair.

“Y’look real deep in thought over there,” he mused. “Somethin’ you wanna share with the class?”

Ellie perked up immediately. “Ohhh, yeah, what were you thinkin’ about?” She shot you a wicked grin. “Wait—were you staring at him?”

Joel groaned. “Jesus Christ.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “I was not staring.”

Ellie snickered. “Sure.”

Joel just shook his head, exhaling sharply. “You gonna let me finish this story or what?”

“By all means,” you said, biting back a smile.

Joel held your gaze for a second longer, something unreadable flickering behind those deep brown eyes. He leaned back again, clearing his throat.

But this time, when he kept talking, you noticed something different.

How his voice dipped a little lower, his fingers curled slightly tighter around the chair. The way his eyes found yours between sentences like maybe he was thinking about you, too.

____________

The snow finally stopped after two long hours, the sky clearing just enough for the late afternoon sun to peek through the heavy clouds. Its weak rays glinted off the thick blanket of white outside, already softening at the edges, turning to slush where footprints had trampled paths.

Joel stood near the door, arms crossed, watching as Lucy and Daniel rushed past him, their boots thudding against the wooden floor. Ellie was right behind them, already packing a handful of snow.

“Last one outside’s a rotten egg!” she called, shoving her way through the door with a laugh.

The kids shrieked, disappearing into the bright afternoon, their voices echoing down the street.

Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Told ‘em I’d walk ‘em home.”

You smirked, stepping beside him, watching the kids tumble into the fresh snow. “Think they’ll be okay without you?”

Joel scoffed. “Barely.”

You chuckled, shifting slightly—and that’s when you realized.

It was just the two of you now.

The schoolhouse was quiet. The fire in the stove had died down to embers, casting a dim, flickering glow against the walls. Outside, Jackson stirred back to life after the storm, but in here, it felt like time had slowed.

Joel hadn’t moved. He still stood beside you, close enough that his warmth reached you, despite the cold creeping through the gaps in the door.

You cleared your throat, turning toward him. “Guess that means you don’t have an excuse to run off now.”

Joel arched a brow. “Wasn’t plannin’ on runnin’.”

Your lips quirked. “That so?”

His gaze flickered to yours, steady, unreadable. Then—so subtly you almost didn’t catch it—his fingers twitched at his side, like he’d thought about reaching for something but thought better of it.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of every little thing. The way his hand hovered just inches from yours. The roughness of his knuckles, the calloused pads of his fingertips, how easy it would be to close the space and—

You shook the thought away.

Joel shifted, glancing toward the table where the stack of books he’d brought still sat. “Y’gonna take those home?”

“Probably.” You moved past him to gather them up, but the moment your fingers brushed the top book, another hand beat you to it.

Joel’s.

Your breath hitched.

For a second, neither of you moved. His hand had settled just over yours, warm, solid, his fingers barely curling against your skin. A beat passed. Then another.

You glanced up.

Joel didn’t pull away.

His gaze met yours, something flickering behind those deep brown eyes—something unreadable, something waiting. The air felt different, heavier, like the storm had never really left.

Then, he cleared his throat and pulled back, grabbing half the stack and tucking it under his arm like nothing had happened.

“C’mon,” he muttered, heading for the door. “Ain’t lettin’ you haul all these by yourself.”

You blinked, heart still racing, then let out a breathless laugh. “Wow. Chivalry isn’t dead after all.”

Joel rolled his eyes, holding the door open for you. “Don’t make me regret it.”

You grinned, brushing past him, close enough that your shoulder bumped his. “Too late.”

Joel huffed. But as you stepped outside, boots crunching in the fresh snow, you caught it—that small, almost imperceptible tug at the corner of his mouth.

And you knew.

He wasn’t regretting it at all.

February

“Alright, make sure not to eat the glue sticks,” you warned, hands on your hips, though you couldn’t keep the laughter out of your voice.

A few giggles erupted around the classroom.

“I wasn’t gonna,” Daniel muttered, even though you had caught him eyeing one earlier.

You shook your head fondly, surveying the scene in front of you. The classroom was a mess of red and pink paper scraps, doilies, and way too much glitter. Some of the kids took their time, carefully writing heartfelt messages in their Valentine’s Day cards, while others scribbled their names in messy, oversized letters before immediately running off to cause trouble.

Still, it was sweet.

Seeing them like this—carefree, just being kids—it made all the chaos worth it.

Once the last of the glue had dried, you clapped your hands. “Alright! Time to exchange.”

Excited chatter filled the air as the kids hopped up from their seats, running around the room to deliver their cards. Daniel handed Lucy one, grinning as he presented his with a dramatic flourish. Ellie, having appointed herself The Valentine’s Day Critic, went around judging everyone’s artistic abilities, much to the other kids’ annoyance.

Lucy—sweet, thoughtful Lucy—clutched a card in her hands, biting her lip in concentration.

Then, with a determined nod, she slipped it into her coat pocket and bolted out the door.

Joel had just finished up at the stables when he heard his name being called.

“Mr. Joel! Wait!”

He barely had time to turn before Lucy skidded to a stop in front of him, red-faced from the cold, her scarf trailing behind her.

Joel blinked down at her. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Nope!” she beamed. Then, without another word, she shoved a handmade Valentine into his hands.

Joel frowned, glancing down at it. The card was lopsided, the edges trimmed with uneven bits of lace. A few hearts were drawn in the corners, scribbled in crayon, and right in the center, in big, careful letters—

Happy Valentine’s Day, Joel!

And at the bottom—Love, (Y/N)

Joel’s entire body locked up.

Lucy rocked on her heels, beaming at him like she’d just handed him gold.

He stared at the card. His grip tightened slightly. Then loosened.

“What is this?” he asked, voice gruff.

“A Valentine,” Lucy chirped, looking far too pleased with herself. “Miss (L/N) made it for you.”

Joel blinked. “She… what?”

Lucy nodded eagerly, her braids bouncing. “She must really like you. She worked really hard on it.”

Joel opened his mouth. Closed it. Shifted his weight.

He could count on one hand the number of times in his life he’d been genuinely caught off guard. This was one of them.

“Uh—”

“Well, see ya later, Mr. Joel!” Lucy chirped, already spinning on her heel and dashing off.

Joel watched her go, still frozen in place, still holding the damn Valentine like it was a live grenade.

His heart thudded once, heavy in his chest. You had made this? For him?

He glanced down at the card again before his feet carried him towards the school.

____________

You had just stepped out of the schoolhouse, wrapping your scarf tighter around your neck as the cold breeze nipped at your cheeks. The day was already starting to fade, the sun slipping lower behind the rooftops, casting long, golden shadows over the snow-covered streets.

As you locked up the door, you heard footsteps crunching in the frost behind you.

You sighed, already turning. “Did you forget someth—”

The words caught in your throat. It wasn’t one of the kids.

It was Joel.

He was holding a familiar lopsided Valentine's card in one hand, gripping it like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

Your stomach flipped.

Joel shifted, his jaw working like he was debating something. His other hand was stuffed deep in his jacket pocket, his shoulders tense like he’d rather be anywhere else—but his feet weren’t moving.

You frowned. “Joel?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, lifting the card slightly. “You, uh… you make this?”

Your eyes flickered to the crumpled Valentine, the sight of your own name scrawled at the bottom in a handwriting that definitely wasn’t yours.

It took all of two seconds to piece it together.

Your lips parted in realization. Lucy. That little menace.

The laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, slipping past your lips, a warm contrast against the chilly air. “Oh, Joel.” You shook your head, biting back a grin.

Joel’s frown deepened. “That a yes or a no?”

You grinned, arms crossing. “It’s a no. But I know who did.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Lucy.”

“Bingo.”

He let out a heavy sigh, raking a hand through his hair. “Jesus Christ.”

You laughed again, watching as he stared down at the card like it had personally offended him.

“She told me you made it,” he muttered, like he still wasn’t sure if he was being messed with.

“Yeah, sounds like Lucy,” you mused, shaking your head. “She’s got a bit of a matchmaking streak.”

Joel grunted. “Figured that out real quick.”

You smirked. “So. What’d you think?”

He blinked. “What?”

“The card,” you teased. “You seemed pretty torn up about it. For a second, I thought you wanted me to make you one.”

Joel scoffed, but the tips of his ears had gone pink.

“I wasn’t torn up about nothin’,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders like he could physically shake off the flustered energy clinging to him.

You just tilted your head, watching him.

He huffed, stuffing the card back into his pocket like it was evidence of something, like he needed to get rid of it but couldn’t quite bring himself to toss it.

That warmth curled low in your stomach again. Because for all his grumbling, for all his attempts to brush this off, there was one simple fact he wasn’t acknowledging.

He’d come all the way here to ask you.

Just to be sure.

The thought made your heart skip.

You stepped a little closer, voice softer now. “Well… if you wanted one, you could’ve just asked.”

Joel’s breath hitched, just barely. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was stopping himself from doing something—stepping back, stepping closer.

You bit your lip, smiling. “Next year, maybe I’ll make you a real one.”

Joel swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking. Then, after a long beat—

“Yeah,” he muttered, barely audible. “Maybe.”

Then, before you could say anything else, he turned, muttering something under his breath as he stomped off into the snow.

You watched him go, his broad frame cutting through the snow, shoulders tense like he was trying to shake off something that had crawled under his skin.

Maybe that was the problem because you didn’t want him to shake it off.

Not this time.

“Joel.”

He didn’t stop.

You took a step forward, heart pounding. “Wait.”

His pace quickened, boots crunching against the frozen ground, as if putting more space between you would make this whole thing disappear.

Your stomach twisted. “Joel!”

He let out a sharp breath and finally stopped, turning on his heel so fast you nearly ran into him.

“What?” His voice was gruff, a little too sharp, like he was already regretting stopping.

The look on his face made you hesitate—jaw tight, lips pressed into a firm line, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. But you swallowed past the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to speak.

“Why… why are you upset?”

Joel scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck, his breath curling into the cold air. “Because a damn kid embarrassed me.”

You frowned. “No, I mean—”

“And because you think it’s funny.”

“I—Joel, that’s not—”

“And because—”

“Will you just shut up for a second?”

The words snapped out before you could stop them, your voice louder than intended.

Joel blinked. His mouth shut, brow furrowing as he stared at you, caught off guard.

Your heart pounded, breath shaky, but you had already started. No going back now.

“I’m not laughing at you,” you said, your voice steadier now. “I’m frustrated because you’re too damn stubborn to see what’s right in front of you.”

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

So you pressed on.

“I like you, Joel.” The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “I have for a while. And maybe Lucy saw it before you did, but hell—I see it too. In the way you look at me. The way you show up for me. The way you’re standing here, right now, instead of walking away like I know you want to.”

A long, heavy, unbearable silence hung in the air.

Joel stepped forward.

It was slow and hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was making the right move, but he was. He always had been.

His hand lifted, rough fingers brushing against your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was warm, careful, lingering longer than it needed to.

His voice was quieter when he spoke. “You ain’t wrong.”

Your breath hitched.

Joel exhaled sharply, looking down for a moment before lifting his gaze back to yours. “I—” He stopped, shook his head slightly, as if the words wouldn’t come out right. But then, finally—“I like you too.”

The words were gruff and unpolished but true.

Something cracked open inside you, something warm that had been waiting for this exact moment.

You barely had time to process before Joel was closing the last bit of space between you, his hands framing your face, his lips pressing against yours.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was steady.

Like him.

Like something solid and certain, something that had been there all along, waiting for the right moment to fall into place.

God, you melted into it, your hands grasping at the front of his jacket, pulling him impossibly closer.

Joel let out a quiet breath against your lips, his fingers tightening slightly like he’d been holding himself back for too long and wasn’t sure how to stop anymore.

Neither of you pulled away.

When you finally did, Joel’s forehead rested against yours, his breath warm in the freezing air.

“Guess Lucy was onto somethin’,” you murmured.

Joel huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Little troublemaker.”

You grinned. “Mm. Remind you of anyone?”

His lips brushed against yours, just barely, before he murmured—

“Not a chance, darlin’.”

And then, he kissed you again.

#joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #tlou joel #joel the last of us #the last of us hbo #joel miller #fluff #joel tlou #ellie williams #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #pedro pascal #joel x reader #pedro pascal joel miller

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acynicalsweetheart · 2 months ago

Text

BUNNY LOVE !

pairing: leon s. kennedy x fem!reader

cw: smut, ddlg, daddy kink, innocence, piv, virginity loss, creampie, reader is a bunny hybrid

note: super insecure ab how bad this turned out wow… first time writing leon so whoever reads please take it with a grain of salt! older leon in mind duhh.. very disjointed n clunky sorry. hope it’s readable still. any interaction/feedback appreciated!! (works of rimqueen/rigorwhoring used as framework!)

For pestering Hunnigan with his dad jokes and unintelligent quips as it were, Leon receives instant karma in the form of shitty weather. Angels must’ve chosen her side today. He gets it. Worn out all his lucky stars, said all his prayers, counted all his blessings, no more good cards to play. Just Leon Scott Kennedy and his misfortune back to their old ways.

Made a fool out of himself, one-sided bickering making it seem like Leon’s some kind of looney. Only gets that Good job! when he’s within an inch of his life, has totally fucked up, or under the false pretense that someone was speaking to him. Back in the day he got ‘em as easy as pie. Pie but no pussy. Leon in a nutshell. Leon is the nutshell at this point.

Got his ass thoroughly kicked today to say the least—a blossoming bruise on Leon’s shin out of all places ‘cause he stubbed it on the coffee table, ran out of change in the cafeteria and lost a couple dollars, people outright refusing to laugh at his jokes and witticism. Plain disrespectful. Where’s the love?

Paperwork and office days are tough, man. Makes field work seem like the lesser evil here, and Leon nearly dies each time on duty. Least it makes him feel alive, as paradoxical as that sounds. Prefers fighting in B.O.W. infested domains rather than battling the confusing ways of social interaction. One he’s good at, the other? Not so much.

He’s got a girl waiting for him at home that is not much too keen on social interaction herself. Being locked up in the confines of his apartment and all. God, Leon feels bad. But you don’t mind. He thinks. You’re smart enough to know how to handle a door, could just open up and walk out if that were a problem. Leave him alone with no one but Matilda and the restless phantoms of his past haunting him to no end. Guess Leon will never really be alone in that way.

Makes it to the parking lot garage in a ratty umbrella. Leaves it in his trunk tucked away for a rainy day that might be tomorrow given Leon’s series of unfortunate events as of late. Vintage real leather of his jacket thankfully unscathed, same horsehide fabric Claire shoots him those nasty glares for. Sorry Ms. Hybrid Rights, this one was fullblood, it’s fashion. Lasts longer.

He is more worried about what you think in all honesty. Horses probably eat your kind in one big bite, so with that in mind Leon’s certain you’ll be on his side if the debate ever comes. Not that he’s especially knowledgeable about animals or hybrids either way.

Leon has sacrificed his Costco coupons for your monthly carrot supply. In turn, you bite his arms.

You came to Leon in a box. Literally. Ordered a package of… something. Not sure he wants to think about what was initially meant to be inside that package but let’s just say it was pretty damn big. A pleasant surprise when he unboxed what he thought he ordered, nice costume and everything, bit naked—Playboy Bunny sort of look—thought to check his bank statement if they charged him extra for that.

Only, he didn’t have the time to ‘cause you opening your eyes and blinking at him caught him rightfully off guard. Strange. Like a programmed robot. Not what he ordered but alright, a blindfold should do, but before he could finish thinking, you fucking hopped out and stumbled to stand up. Took Leon that long to realize that things went wrong—either he unintentionally financed a black-market sex trafficking ring by shopping there, or somebody switched out his package. Still haven’t gotten to the bottom of that yet. Maybe someday, likely after he’s dead. Blown his brains out ‘cause the suspense was killing him.

Of course, Leon being Leon, of course he was going to do the right thing. Call law enforcement to get you justice, lax on his assholery and capitalize Claire’s TerraSave hybrid rights movement, fund Billy and Rebecca’s hybrid shelter… key word: was. What he wasn’t going to do is explain what he was doing—more specifically what he was buying—to have this transpire. So like any normal, dignity-having, modest man, Leon decided to keep you.

(A secret.)

Whole thing had him contemplating if things were supposed to be this way—God’s plan or whatever; which entails Leon dying alone and fuckless for longer than a man should ever go fuckless. That’s just a crime against biology. And his dick.

Leon is lonely, okay? He’s old. Old and lonely and he can damn well buy a sex doll if he damn well wants to. Just his luck, his punishment due that it was an off-limits bunny hybrid. One that cannot be fucked under any circumstances. Doll was expensive as hell, too, sacrificed major funds that Leon surely will need when he gets the boot. Shit was custom made, designed specifically after an old flame and her red dress which should’ve been the first giveaway, really.

(Her name is unspoken in this household ‘cause Leon himself knows as well as anybody, that one mention is more than enough to send him spiralling. The only pull of the trigger, all it takes to fire the instant depression bullet through the endless barrel and if Leon wasn’t an alcoholic before, you best believe he is now.)

It was a horny mistake—let the head of his dick control him. No way he’s buying another one just to have it happen again and be walking around with two bunny girls hogging up every square inch of his apartment.

God, that sounds nice. But Leon is a good man. An aspiring one anyway, so he won’t. Won’t think about it. Honest. Will just sulk with his pussy-starved dick and balls that so desperately yearn to slap against some ass, empty themselves into a warm tight clasp. To impregnate a womb before the biological hourglass runs out, sends the last grain of sand into sterile territory. Missionary ‘cause he’s a sap nowadays.

…

Are you even human? Sure, you’ve got the body, put the ass in assets, thanks to the multitude of carrot cakes you’ve got him baking thrice a week. But you’ve also got your floppy ears, perky fluffy cottontail—and let’s not forget the bunny chompers. Leon’s felt enough of those. A very nice addition to his scar-littered skin are now the chewing marks irremovably indented onto his forearms. ‘Cause apparently you think Leon counts as a vegetable. He doesn’t mind. Really. It’s fine. He has not thought of filing your teeth down. Promise. Claire’s snippy, passive aggressive questions regarding Leon biting himself do not bother him.

(Leon has considered upping his biotin supplement intake in order to boost arm hair growth to hide them. Only time mama’s Italian genes have ever failed him.)

Oh my God, Leon. You look like shit!

Thanks.

What are those? Have you been chewing on yourself? Are you insane? Don’t answer that by the way, it was a rhetorical question. Jeez. Take your meds, Leon. They’re going to institutionalize you. Listen, I’ve gotta go, in the meantime you should cover those things up.

Claire—

Conclusively, it wouldn’t be wrong to fuck you. Immoral, maybe. Stupid? For sure. Tempting?

His dick rising like Jesus every time he’s around you speaks for itself.

While at it, Leon’s not even entirely sure that you aren’t just a figment of his imagination—a schizophrenic hallucination or something of the sort. He has been slacking on the meds recently after all. Could very well be that this entire thing is just one long-ass episode. Being a nutjob is par for the course with Leon as many would agree. As even his therapist would agree.

He has not yet given you a name. Leon ain’t good with those, whether that’s remembering ‘em or coming up with ‘em. Was thinking of Matilda as unoriginal as he is, but that one’s reserved for his trusty gun. Closest thing Leon’s ever had to a wife, she’s a real cougar, 7 years older than him. Or maybe he was the cub all along.

After taking on the role as a marionette for all these years, he is completely clueless as to how he’s supposed to manage this situation. Apparently the skills of controlling and handling things, let alone a crazed bunny, don’t come naturally for a man of Leon’s age, total fucking bogus by the way. Right now he’s just going with the flow—his so far unsuccessful flow—and seeing where it leads him and if that is down into another hole, well that’s just Leon, ain’t it?

Things between you and him used to be just fine before Leon got headbutted by a star-crossed streak, and now you’re resolved to being this stomping and pouting angry little thing, while Leon’s struggling to deal with his completely non-consensual attraction towards said stomping and pouting angry little thing. It’s a delicate balance—you get a sugar rush during the hours he so desperately needs to sleep, and Leon in turn struggles to keep the bulge in his pants down.

He does everything for you; cooks, cleans, brushes your teeth, appeases you with pets, buys you clothes, helps you get dressed up, cuts a hole in the back of each of your panties to make room for your tail. Yet you’re some sort of fucking rebel, a revolutionary. ‘Cause you insist on not wearing any. Which causes Leon himself a great deal of embarrassment when he has to continuously hide his boners around you.

Not that you even know what it implicates which then makes Leon’s dick even fucking harder because he’s a pervert. And the situation escalates from plain fucked-up to downright catastrophic. A torrential downpour of filthy, forbidden, absolutely out-of-question thoughts overflowing his mind. Much like D.C., shit just doesn’t stop. Evolves into a flood of fantasies and an obsession with someone (read: something) Leon should definitely not be having, but perversely allows himself to drown in. Can barely get any paperwork done ‘cause all he’s thinking about is stuffing you full. With his cream. Like a cannoncini.

Pull yourself together, Kennedy. That was last week. It’s not going to happen again. It’s not. It isn’t. Don’t worry, just have a drink—One. One drink. And everything will be—

“Daddy!” A weight in his lap. Plushness spilling past his fingertips. Floppy ears nearly smacking him right in the face.

Oh lord, his back.

“Shit. Fuck.” Leon bounces you up and down a little—adjusting his hold on you ‘cause he was very prepared for that. You’re climbing him like a tree and he hasn’t even gotten a chance to close the front door yet. “Uh,” great example he is, can’t even keep track of his own swearing, “you didn’t hear a thing, bunny.”

“Missed you,” you mumble into his neck, pouty lips brushing against the skin there. Thankfully unbothered by Leon’s slip-up.

“Daddy missed you more, baby.” He breathes in your scent, nuzzling your hair and finally getting to shut the door of the shitty day behind him. “You have no idea.”

Pulling back, you’re giving him these glossed over puppy eyes, staring up at him all curiously. Pretty ironic. Your pupils are so big Leon can see his reflection in them, wow, real nice. Really makes his wrinkles and eyebags pop in the overhead lighting. Claire was right, he does look like shit.

Shit doesn’t cut it, he looks like a pile of shit ate a second pile of shit then shat out a third pile of shit. Leon being the third pile of shit. If his therapist could read Leon’s mind he would say Leon, you’re spiralling again, take a deep breath and count to ten and let’s continue this total fucking waste of time and money.

(See, Leon’s doing just fine unmedicated. The screams of agony late at night are a part of the healing process, insists a voice in his head he’s named Kevin after a late buddy back in the cop academy. Not late as in dead, just Leon fucking things over as per usual. Friendship’s long gone—the real Ryman ain’t.)

Then you close them and lean in. Leon’s convinced you’re playing with him till you press your lips smack bang against his.

Oh?

He sees it, feels it, processes it, before he realizes.

Catches him so off-guard he nearly drops you, feeling around to get a better grip and ends up grabbing a handful of your asscheek and a handful of your tail.

“Hey.” Leon tries to remove you, detach your lips from his and it’s like peeling off an actively bloodsucking tick. Damn near impossible. “Where’d you learn that?”

‘Cause Leon did not teach you that. Sure he kisses you—everywhere but your lips, and they’re more of a peck, really. Once in a while (every night before bed) you get an earnest forehead smooch and that’s that. But that? That was a lover’s smooch. A boyfriend and girlfriend kiss. The beginning of a make out session. So who broke in and robbed your innocence under the fleetingly long hours of his workday? Taught you how to kiss like that? …Did they also steal Leon’s shit?

Reaching your finger up to press it against your lips, Leon receives a very impractical “shh” paired with a girlish giggle.

“Nuh-uh,” he lowers your hand, “tell me.” Using not his Leon voice, but his daddy voice which is a timbre lower and a tone sterner. “Tell daddy.” Seems to work, shake your little bunny boots so awfully Leon almost feels bad.

With a fallen face, you point to the TV screen through the open lounge. Currently airing… ad break.

Late bloomer, huh. Well, fuck. Hope Leon didn’t stir that up, incite your heat cycle or whatever by letting you watch the TV. Can’t say he knows the first thing about bunnies, but he wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what happened. That’s just ol’ Leon business—always the first to press the big red button, to walk into a trap, to situate himself deeper into the grave that he’s been digging for more than half his life. To fuck up.

At least now the fallacy of burglary can be ruled out. Though Leon coulda sworn he left Disney Channel on. He remembers dialling 24 before taking off for work this morning, prompting whatever kids watch nowadays. What he does not remember is leaving the TV with some Baywatch or Bachelor bullshit on, you know, the ones with the raunchy shit. Kissing’s probably the tamest action they’ve ever aired on there. Uh, common knowledge. Obviously. So unless Disney Channel’s the perpetrator…

You’re watching Disney Channel!

Oh.

Cinderella and that other guy. Prince Charming? Some felons they are, stealing your innocence like that. As a govvie, Leon will let it slide. Might’ve been your way of showing him that you proclaim Leon as your personal Prince Charming, but that’s just wishful thinking—well past his prince days by now, scruff and wrinkles and canities and all. Retinol, Tretinoin and whatever-the-fuck-noin don’t help with that. He’s tried.

See, initially, you insisted on calling Leon mama which was just a punch in the fucking gut. An inflicted testicular torsion, even. By yours truly. Made him so insecure he considered going under the knife and getting a haircut for quite some time after that, just to help you distinguish between man and woman. Leon then decided against it when you said you liked his hair out of the blue. First time anybody’s told him that. Still mulling over the plastic surgery part though.

The daddy situation was surprisingly not Leon’s idea. He may be the occasional pervert but no way in hell does it go that far. Impossible to get you to give the word up as well ‘cause you’re one stubborn fluffy little thing, so eventually Leon just went with it. Went and had a little too much fun with it. Has a visceral reaction to that word, just hearing it awakens something inside of him that’s so sinister even his balls get the heebie-jeebies.

He puts you down, lets you scamper over to the couch and lets it squeak! when you jump onto the sectional. Lying pancake flat on your tummy with your feet swinging in the air, watching vintage fairytales like it’s the most interesting thing since sliced bread.

You’re wearing his boxers. Okay. You put them on funky, right? That’s how Leon was able to feel your—

There’s a hole.

Of course there’s a hole. There’s always a hole. Whether that be a loophole, an asshole or a… boxer-hole to fit your ball of fluff.

He didn’t peg you to have the motor skills to use a pair of scissors yet. Well, on the bright side—you’ve no longer got an excuse to not help him around the house. Nah, that’s just mean. You’re a little bunny, Leon’s little girl, you don’t deserve that. Leon’s the one who wears the pants ‘round here anyway. Figuratively. He’ll make do of it.

“Daddy’ll get changed, okay, baby?” He shrugs off his leather jacket, toes off his dad shoes as some have insisted. “You just stay right here.” Leon speaks into the open air. ‘Cause you don’t even look at him, too engrossed with the antics of a Disney princess.

Leon returns in lounge clothes, bit later than necessary ‘cause he was not scrutinizing his appearance in the mirror like he’d do before a date. He did not brush his teeth and reapply his cologne and smooth over his hair, he did not spend an additional five minutes plucking off stray greying strands.

At least the newfound scent gets your nose twitching. In the blink of an eye you’re springing up like a slinky, hopping from cushion to cushion and once again landing on Leon. When he catches you his hands land on the peaches of your ass. God. He does not feel the heat between your legs when they’re wrapped around him so tightly and he does not let his mind go places it shouldn’t.

Sitting you on his lap—the normal way—Leon showers you with headpats and general pets, moreso in order to settle himself down rather than you. Pacifies your constant itch for physical affection though. Wool tufts of Leon’s cheap carpet are clinging to your fur, he picks them off, flicks them away into the horizon of his apartment. Poor baby, probably rolled around on the rug like a disheveled beetle while waiting for your daddy to come home.

Okay, fine. Sympathy pecks. That’s it.

Leon’s gut is already getting queasy from having you on his lap alone—queasy in a way that says he might not be able to keep his wandering hands in check. But Leon has enough self-control to not fall victim to the cradle-robber phenomenon. He does. Just loses his inhibitions from time to time, particularly around pretty young things. Pretty young, fluffy, bunny things shaped like you. You’re just too cute, terribly adorable, he could eat you up. In more ways than one.

After petting and pecking your head till your ears stand at 2 o’clock rather than upright, watching TV with you and failing to dodge the smooches you try to place smack bang on Leon’s lips every time you see a similar scene—he figures enough is enough. Damn Cinderella and her damn Prince Charming for kissing so much.

(Thank the Lord.)

Drunk off endorphins ‘cause no one’s ever loved Leon as much as you do—and you’ve got no clue what love even means—he indulges in you and your kisses. Leon’s not blushed in twenty years, let alone to the point where his ears are getting second degree burns. Probably looking more like a clown and less like your King Not-So-Charming.

His initial hesitancy of kissing you back wears off when you start letting out all these noises, cute frustrated huffs and puffs ‘cause you’re still new to the concept of kissing.

No tongue ‘cause God knows that will throw every last ounce of Leon’s dignity, morals, and integrity—everything he’s ever stood for—right out the window. So he lets you clumsily slot your lips against his until your jaw grows tired, until you’ve successfully raised Leon’s dick like your mouth alone is a conjurer of Viagra spells.

Then you snuggle up against his chest and fall asleep. Just like that. Blue balling men like it’s nothing. Okay. Looks like somebody’s been reading up on how to be a total fucking tease.

No idea when Leon passed out but he’s awoken by his own snoring, most likely ‘cause of the fucking hard-on that sprung up so fast there wasn’t enough blood flow left for his head. Hopefully his balls have gone back to normal as well, less painfully lonely and more… ballsy. Dick’s dead again, as is to be expected.

Might’ve been a dream.

Schizo. States a voice suspiciously identical to Claire’s in the back of his mind.

“Daddy.” You’re loafing in his lap, ears flat against your head as you stare up at Leon. Unorthodoxly close to his dick. Shit. Tilting your head, you keep calling out for him till the murkiness of his hearing clears out. “Daddy?”

“Princess,” Leon groans, tasting the sleep on his tongue, stretching his arms out before petting your head once again—in case everything really was a dream, “how long was I out?”

Raising your brows, you shrug and pout.

“Why don’t you wait in bed, honey? Dad’s—I mean, uh, daddy’s gonna…” Leon was hoping that would’ve gone unnoticed, too late when you’re giggling at his umpteenth slip-up today, “‘m tired, okay? Gonna help you.”

(God, does Leon want to help you—help you cum, help you make him cum.)

He sighs at his heart fluttering when you do what you originally do best, being a good girl for Leon and listening to every word he says. Not being a pissed-off and spiteful fluffy bun, no matter how cute it may be.

Feels like somebody’s lobotomized Leon with a needle of your fur, pierced through his skull and switched out the frontal lobe for tufts of your cotton. Swear he feels you inside on a regular basis—a mini you poking and prodding at his cerebrum like a call bell for attention. You’re living rent-free in his mind and in his house and Leon is powerless when it comes to you. Willfully enslaved to a ball of fluff.

It’s not the fact that Leon purposely overlooks the orange bottle wrapped up in this piece of paper with his name on it—it’s you.

The one driving Leon crazy is you and you know what? He is completely fine with that. Needs something to get his mind off the horrors and tragedies, focus on the simple pleasures of life. Like sex for example. ‘Cause soon he won’t be having any of that. Leon has not been having any of that for too fucking long now.

You’re all but his last shot.

All this thinking’s giving him a headache. Leon needs a drink. What time is it? Monday? 9PM?

Whiskey o’clock.

Pouring the drink down into the stubby glass, sight is about as disappointing as Leon’s soft dick. There is not much. The hell? Bottle’s so dark he can’t even tell if there’s actually nothing left or if it’s fucking with him just for the sake of it. Well, no worries, ‘cause Leon’s got an endless supply of—

…Nothing?

The worst possible outcome takes shape: an empty bar cabinet. Leon runs his hand over his face, settles at his stubble, feeling it disconcertedly. Only thing he’s thinking is what the fuck. Finishes the little pesky pint of alcohol—chugs it like water, doesn’t even feel the burn—and after the whole ordeal he is still thinking what the fuck.

What the fuck is Leon supposed to do now? How’s he supposed to pesticide away the invasive species that are his thoughts and urges to fuck your little bunny self into oblivion?

Tonight Jack Daniel’s was supposed to be momentary. A band-aid of some sort. Patch up more like wash away all the happenings of today. And yesterday. And the past 25 years of his life. One that he can then rip off, peel away the crusting scab beneath it and reopen the wound till it festers, patch it back up with 40% liquor filling the infinitely gaped lesion. The uroboros cycle Leon has come to know as coping.

Seems like the only thing he’s going to be filling is you. With… love, of course. With love. And a snuggle. Nothing more, nothing less. A morale safekeeping measure. Just a bunny and Leon embrace—that’s the extent of it.

Yes, Leon is a fully grown-ass man, 47 years of age.

Yes, Leon wants to be held like a baby at night.

Cuddled and coddled like his very being is God’s greatest gift, entire form smooth and clean and unscathed to the naked eye. Lulled to sleep by the sweet voice of an angel’s singing hymns that might just be the Devil in disguise because that’s just his luck. A comfortably overbearing presence, nonetheless—a personage blanket Leon is in desperate need of. Something to take the weight off his diligent shoulders.

But when your only seeming purpose in life is to save the world, you don’t get that. You get something between a nonchalant pat on the shoulder, a snobby dick in whatever hole the possessor deems fit, and a fuck-you if you’re unfortunate. What you’ll never get is a little fucking appreciation. Five minutes of fame, maybe. At most. Then you’re back to being pretty much no one. Just another forgettable face in the presidential bootlicker squad. That’s Leon for ya.

He is not conceited for wanting some affection.

(He is conceited for wanting some affection.)

Leon’s master agenda is to get you to spoon him. Shitty. Total shocker. Classic Leon. But by God will he fucking wake up decomposed if he walks touch starved a moment longer. Loneliness is actively disintegrating his skeletal system into fine grains of sand. Melancholy induced osteoporosis. All that’s gonna be left of him is specks of Leon-dust that you’re probably going to snort like coke ‘cause you got ahold of Pulp Fiction. Also ‘cause no one else is coming for him.

Can’t have that happen now, can he? You’re here, he’s here… two’s company or whatever they say.

Leon’s utilizing the last of his strength into letting the intrusive (instructive) thoughts go.

“Bunny? You up?” Leon knocks twice, creaks the door to his bedroom open like he doesn’t own the place.

With a ruffle of the sheets, you peek out from under them. Warm light of his bedside lamp casting this homely glow across your face, like a fireplace, makes Leon feel oddly domesticated—and you’re the pet here.

You stare blankly at him, like there isn’t a single thought running through that little bunny head of yours. Leon bets it’d echo if he gave a knock or two to the side of your skull, and that is immensely sexy. No.

He gets into bed next to you before something in his mind clicks, the mystery of the navy pile on the floor solving itself.

“Baby,” Leon’s trying to approach this matter delicately, sneaking glances at the discarded pair of underwear on the floor. His underwear that you’ve been prancing around in all day, given away by the unmistakable choppy hole cut to fit your tail. “You, uh… you leave those on the floor?”

“Accident.” It’s said simply, playing with your fingers above the sheets. Okay. Leon sees right through you.

“Now, you know that ain’t true, bunny. Remember the rules daddy told you about? Those still apply.” Hand dwarfing both of your cold ones when Leon stills your fidgeting, tries to squeeze the information out of you without giving you a mouthful. “Why’d you take ‘em off?”

…

“Uncomfy, daddy,” you mumble, still avoiding eye contact, ears back to being flat against your head.

“Uh-huh,” Leon says unconvinced, stroking his finger along the length of your unusually warm bunny ear, “they weren’t comfy, huh? So you just… threw ‘em on the floor?” Always complaining about your underpants, Leon’s underpants in this scenario. Too tight, too rough, too fast, too hard, too—naughty? “They’re just lying there, baby. We’ve been through this.”

“Sticky.” Is your argument.

“Sticky…” he repeats thoughtfully, squinting at nothing in particular and trying to figure out what the hell that could mean. ‘Cause rest assured Leon’s boxers are not sticky. Not on their own, and those were a fresh pair.

“They got sticky. When daddy was kissin’ me.”

“Hey, I was not—“

Oh.

That was real?

And that’s what you meant by sticky. Lord. You’re… naked. Pantless. Pantieless. Bare. Nude.

Sticky.

“…Yeah?” Leon breathes out hoarsely, a big horny lump building up in his throat as he speaks. Impossible to swallow, ‘bout as big as your tail. Wouldn’t be surprised if the lump’s somehow made of your fur as well. “They were all sticky, huh, baby? Daddy did that?”

“Mmm,” you nod, absentmindedly flicking against his fingers. “N’ swollen.”

Hearing you describe the way you got all sticky and swollen from Leon kissing you just about did him in. Planted him six feet under along with his dignity. Tout de suite. “You’re gonna give daddy an aneurysm if you keep talking like that, bunny.”

Or an orgasm—possibly both. Not that you even know which either of them mean and yep. You guessed it. Hard again. God. That is not why he came in here. Leon tries his best to be good, he loves you, but you’re just so untiringly hellbent on turning him into a dirty old man.

(More so beckoning out the already existing dirty old man inside of him. The one whose eyes linger just a little too long on each curve and outline of your body during bath time, the one whose hands accidentally brush against the plushness of your ass, the one who gives you feet rubs just to keep his hands occupied, the one who tickles you to feel another body against his, the one who deliberately feeds you large carrots to watch you struggle to fit them into your mouth.)

“Didn’t know what to do,” you continue, “so bunny was checkin’ what was wrong…” You’re not done? Just exposed your true intentions—you are plotting Leon’s demise.

“Checking?” Leon swallows hard, hoping you didn’t hear how loud of a fucking sound it just made, “how’d you check?”

“Touch. Touched.”

“…Touched what, bunny?” He asks even if he knows damn well what it is you touched. “You touched yourself between your legs?”

You shrink.

“Show me, baby.” Lifting your chin, Leon searches for your eyes and lets the perversion sink its venomous, infectious teeth into him. “Show daddy what you did.”

Judging by the anxious chewing on your bottom lip, you’re still a bit shy about the whole thing.

“It’s okay.” Leon lets go of your hands, giving you a heartfelt yet equally as unbearably horny smile. “Don’t be scared, alright? ‘S just daddy.”

If his arousal was slipping through the cracks of his tight smile, it mustn’t have been very obvious ‘cause you pull down the sheets, revealing your body to Leon. From the cutesy eyelet top with a teensy ribbon adorning the lace that cost him more than a pretty ugly penny, to your naked lower half. Jesus.

Your hand snakes down your frame, leaving Leon to picture his own hands in imaginary cuffs—for both of your sakes. Thinks he’s about to get the show of his life but you look over at him before going any further, like you’re not sure if it’s okay. Almost makes Leon want to shake you, finish the job himself.

“Go on, let daddy watch,” he says like he isn’t about to explode.

Fingers finding your pussy, you aimlessly rub away, movements as uncoordinated and unpracticed as ever and it’s the hottest thing Leon’s fucking witnessed. Producing sticky noises that bounce off the walls the way you should be bouncing on his dick. You let out a small whimper as your ears flop back up.

“Fuck,” he needs to know, needs something to stroke his ego if something is not stroking his dick, “were you thinking of daddy, baby? Thought of me when you played with yourself?”

“Maybe…” you reply so quietly Leon can’t tell if he imagined that or if it was something you actually said.

He takes it. Wilful hearing’s better than nothing.

“God, bunny.” Leon wants it to be his hand, his body against yours. He needs to rip off your flimsy top and replace your hand with his. “What were you thinkin’ ‘bout daddy?”

“Daddy. Without a shirt. Daddy’s cute without a shirt.” Only then does it click, the last piece of this lewd puzzle that creates the full image of you with your hand between your thighs.

“Think daddy should take his shirt off, little girl? So you can see him?” Leon is the dirtiest, filthiest man to ever exist.

And before you even get a chance to nod, he’s on it.

Leon’s never taken off his shirt so fast in his life, baring his torso so you get to see the battlefield—the war zone that is his body, cicatrices scattered about like cracks in old porcelain. Relatively tan porcelain ‘cause Leon’s making an effort to dump his vampirish habits lately, D.C. sun don’t do much though. “Still think daddy’s cute?”

You moan, loud, he takes it as a yes.

“Keep going, baby, don’t stop.”

“Forgot how to…”

Leon hasn’t indulged in Christ or anything revolving the man—much less his entire religion—since mama passed all those years ago, but right now he’s praying for the strength to keep his hands to himself. Passio Christi, conforta me, o bone Iesu, exaudi me… Uh, how the fuck’s it go again? Imperet illi Deus, my growing erection? Damn. Thyne dicketh shalt not rise? Thyne hands shalt not wander to—fuck this shit.

He needs to be inside you and he needs it now.

“Aw, it’s okay, bunny, daddy’s here to help.” Leon grabs ahold of your hand, bringing it up to his lips to place an earnest kiss to the back of it, quickly sucks the tips of your slick fingers till they’re dry. “Daddy’ll show you how it’s done, baby. How to touch between your legs.”

“Okay, daddy.”

“So fuckin’ cute, baby,” he pulls you closer, snuggling up against your side and spreading your legs wider, fingers finding your heat. Lets out the biggest sigh of relief anybody’s ever let out, Leon bets. Your stickiness clings to his calloused skin as he circles your clit nice and slow.

One hand gripping the sheets and the other Leon’s wrist, you mewl and buck your hips.

“Yeah?” He noses at your neck, inhales deeply till you’re squirming, ears flopping around. “Like it when daddy touches you like this?”

“Mhmm,” you mumble and his dick pokes into your thigh through his sweats like the fucking tower of Pisa.

Leon moves his hand again, palm cupping your mound and brushing against your clit as his fingers shift down to your slit, gliding up and down. Can’t help the low noise that slips out of him, can’t remember the last time he’s felt a pussy. “Gonna go inside, okay?”

Sliding a single digit inside, you gasp. “Oh!”

“That’s it, princess, just let daddy take care of you.” You’re sucking him in so tight Leon gets the notion your walls might be intent on getting his finger stuck there forever. To prevent that, he slips another one past your dripping entrance. Leon moves ‘em in and out carefully despite his raging need for you, meeting that sweet spongy spot that has your back arching.

“Daddy!” Poor baby, can barely get the words out through your moans. Leon tries to placate you with neck kisses. “Daddy, what’s happening?”

“Shh, shh, it’s alright, bunny,” he mumbles into your sternum, voice resonating against you, not letting his movements up, “just let yourself feel it, daddy’s got you. ‘M right here, baby.”

Legs kicking, back bending off the bed, thighs snapping shut ‘round his hand—Leon thinks it’s safe to say you’re cumming, first orgasm creeping up on you from your curled toes to your erratically flopping ears. “Ohh!”

Your walls contract, very obviously trying to milk what they think is a cock ‘cause they know no better. Against the heel of his palm Leon feels your clit twitching in tandem with your nose. Awfully adorable, might just shed a tear. Beautifully guileless you are.

“Jesus Christ,” Leon beholds the entire thing, your orgasm damn near rubbing off on him—no pun intended—dick so fucking pent up it’s going to take off like a rocket with the final destination being between your legs. “Such a good girl, baby.”

His brain practically short-circuits, thoughts disappearing like erased off a whiteboard. Leon’s heart rate is probably high enough to land his ass in the ER, organ pounding hard and fast in his ribcage the way his dick should in your—No. Self-control.

(Yes. Very much yes. Self-control went out the window the second he stepped foot into your secret session.)

Panting like you’ve just run a marathon—which, if Leon’s being technical, you sort of have with the way your legs were hopping away into the air like that—you bonelessly loll back. Limbs spread out like a starfish except for the rigid hand gripping his wrist, chest heaving up and down.

“Made such a big mess, princess,” that you did, slick pooling beneath you and completely coating his fingers. Leon could just… slip right in if he tried. Pull out and replace his digits with his dick. Just like that.

He should take things slow but the realization’s starting to dawn on him, you’re mature enough. Never connected the dots till now but he’s seen the sticky patches in your panties while doing the laundry, noticed the way you walk funny probably ‘cause of that ache between your legs. Leon would be doing you a favor.

(That is his dick speaking.)

“You trust daddy, don’t you?” He’s already peeling off your top, raising your arms and tugging it off your dampening body.

“I… trust daddy.” You’re doing that thing again. Looking at Leon in a way that turns him into straight mush.

Leon’s stomach is doing somersaults, flipping like a fucking gymnast coin. Heads and tails—nausea and arousal. Throw up and kill yourself or fuck the shit out of your baby girl.

Must’ve landed on tails ‘cause as bad as it sounds, he ain’t gagging or retching or itching to reach for his gun right now. But Leon’s dick is jumping like it’s warming up for something. Even God is scared of what that something may be.

“You do? That’s… good.” Leon feels a little sick still, can’t tell if it’s ‘cause of how overwhelmingly aroused he is or if it’s your naïveté—the way you blindly put your faith in him. He swallows the feeling, nothing he ain’t had before, seeing monster guts on the daily and all. Kind of used to walking around with a pit of unease in his stomach by now. “Daddy’s sweet little girl.”

Bringing his fingers slick with your essence on ‘em to your mouth, Leon nods for you to lick them clean.

And you do. Fuck.

“Don’t wanna hurt you, baby, but I need you.” Leon says into your throat to spare himself the embarrassment of facing you when he’s about to do such a depraved thing. “Gonna take care of you just a little differently, ‘kay?”

“Okay.”

Leon pushes down his sweats and boxers while you blink at him.

“Don’t look, just close your eyes, bunny, take a deeeep breath and count to ten, alright? Might sting a little but daddy’ll be right here. Just hold onto him if things get… rough.”

Eyes fluttering shut, you take a deep breath, arms wrapped around Leon’s neck as he shifts to brace himself on top of you. Can feel you exhale onto his cheek, scratching yours with his scruff.

He springs his cock free, shit’s furious. Angry reddish tip after going so long without any action. Slicks his fist up and gives himself a couple of strokes.

“One.” Leon counts with you, forearm already cramping next to your head but he will be damned if he lets that stop him.

“Two.” He lines up the head with your lower lips, taking a deep breath himself, trying to not flatline.

“Three.” You puff out your cheeks, eyes squeezed tightly shut and face pulled into a grimace as Leon pushes forward.

“Four.” His dick is forced out. Okay.

“Five.” Leon tries again, you whine, snap your legs tighter ‘round his hips. “I know, baby, I know. ‘M sorry.”

“Six.” Shifting forward again, he manages to get an inch inside of you.

“Seven.” Is mumbled into your neck, an attempt to stifle Leon’s groans as he slowly but surely sinks inside of you.

“Eight.” He’s halfway inside, halfway ready to combust.

“Nine.” Leon pulls himself together, a quarter left ‘fore he’s stretched you out all the way.

“Ten…” You’re still making this puffed up little face, something between a blow-up doll and childbirth.

“All done,” he says finely and dandily like he isn’t actively resisting the urge to plow you into oblivion. “So perfect, bunny, look at that.” Leon nods to where you’re bumping uglies. More like his ugly bumping your pretty. Surprisingly without blood.

Peeling your eyes open, you blink down curiously before the discomfort sets in again.

“Daddy’ll be gentle, baby,” Leon kisses your face, everywhere he can reach, genuinely unable to stop his hips from starting to rock into yours. “Promise.”

“Daddy…” you’re moaning again, breathy noises spilling past your open mouth as you stare Leon right in his eyes. Thankful that the room’s pretty much dark besides the singular lamp so he doesn’t have to see his reflection in your pupils again—watch himself make the biggest, sexiest mistake of his life.

“That’s right,” he grunts, holding your body tight like a lifeline, “daddy’s your daddy.” Is the best Leon can come up with ‘cause his mind blanks from the way you’re gripping his dick so fucking tight. Might snap it in half and leave it stuck inside you forever

Leon fucks you harder, till you’re squealing and till he has to muffle your noises with kisses on the mouth. Till clammy foreheads are pressed against one another’s, till the bed is on its last legs, till damp bodies are sticking together.

And every word he’s taught you these past couple of months is nothing but a memory.

Daddy, daddy, daddy!

“You’re so beautiful, sweetheart,” most beautiful you’ve ever looked—taking your daddy’s cock like a champ, walls pulsating around him. Legs kicking so rabidly your hips hump against Leon’s, unintentionally fucking him back as you drown in your second ever orgasm with a loud gasp. “My perfect little baby bunny.”

Balls slapping against your ass, Leon tries to rush his first coming so you won’t have to deal with his dick bullying your sensitive insides for much longer. Pushes your shoulders down into the mattress so he can reach deeper, base disappearing into your hole.

The sight of your face is enough to send Leon over the edge, spilling into you before his somatic system even has time to process what’s going on. Moaning like a pornstar ‘cause it’s been so fucking long. Hips stuttering and stilling, shooting thick hot ropes of cum where one should never shoot thick hot ropes of cum.

Probably the last of Leon’s sperm storage, would be a miracle if they impregnated you but that’s just a tender and sappy ol’ fantasy. Swears he feels his orgasm prolonging itself by imagining you round with his babies. Lord.

“I love you,” he’s cupping your face, panting into your mouth and petting your head with shaky hands.

“Daddy…” tip of your nose brushing against his, Leon’s heart twists at your earnest declaration, “bunny loves daddy.”

Leon savours the moment, waiting a couple of minutes before pulling out of you with a sticky pop! and watching his load drip out of you. Body going slack—worn out from all the banging, you blink at him heavy-lidded, lazy fucked-out smile lining your lips.

He flops down next to you, sweaty and guilty and out of breath.

Shit, everybody’s gonna know, see right through Leon like the fucking ghost he is. Smell your bunny scent on him. If he didn’t already get the judgmental, knowing once-overs at the office then, you best believe he will now.

Claire’s going to bite him in the ass for having been balls deep inside you. Hunnigan’s gonna let out one of those disappointed mother sighs she does on the regular, Rebecca and Sherry will look at him like vintage damsels in distress. Chris is going to go Oh my God, Leon in his constipated voice, Jill won’t even spare him a second glance. Ashley will gasp and clutch her heart like it is the biggest betrayal since the ‘09 presidential election.

When the day comes, he’ll take it, face it like a man.

(Take Matilda in his hand and set you free.)

But when you cuddle up against him all sweetly like that, spooning Leon like he’s your personal oversized teddy bear, he might just reconsider. Reconsider taking the easy way out, reconsider his position, might retire and take on the full-time job of being your Daddy for the rest of his life.

Leon’s got everything he needs right here. He is ready for the long haul that might be the next couple of decades of his life, or the next twenty-four hours.

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