MINORS DO NOT INTERACT ~~She/Her/bitch/queen. Socialist.22 yrs.Latina.~~ Unofficial Tumblr badges: Joel Miller hater, Wyll girlie, Korra defender, Miguel O’Hara girlie, Caleb girlie
Wait I just remembered that ai books exist and the empty spectre of being a writer without writing anything suddenly gave me the urge to eat nails. Post rescinded. I'll write the fucking chapter.
summary: joel has sworn to protect you and keep you safe—but when the line between care and desire blurs, both of you are forced to confront what you really want.
based on this request
cw: smut (mdni), loss of virginity, unprotected p in v, use of nicknames (kiddo ‘cause I like it icky, sweet girl, baby, pretty girl, darlin’, sweetpea), oral (f rec), breathplay (not previously talked about, heat of the moment, be better in real life), implied legal age difference, girly!reader, but the girl can shoot, too
wc: 5k
a/n: if lana releases a new song, I write a joel fic! that’s just how it works
now playing: White Feather Hawk Tail Deer Hunter – Lana Del Rey
It’s the bow in your hair that gets Joel thinking. Dark red satin adorns the crown of your head, beckoning him in.
He watches as you read your book, the sun warming your skin. It’s the first truly nice day of the year—warm enough that you can sit on the porch of Joel’s cabin, only wearing one of his flannels over your cotton dress. Your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, and a slight crease forms between your brows as your eyes scan the pages.
The sight alone is enough to send Joel’s blood further south than it should be.
He knows it’s wrong—all of it is. The two of you, tucked away in a cabin just a few miles west of Jackson, together from dusk until dawn and dusk again. Joel tells himself it’s to keep you safe. Right by his side, where nothing can happen to you. The only bad man that might get you is himself, and he’s sworn to God that he’d never let it get that far.
But then you started sleeping in his bed. Nightmares used to plague your rest, causing you to wake up with sweat drenching your hairline and tears staining your cheeks. You didn’t find peace again until his arms held you tight against his chest, his soft mutters reaching your ears.
I’ll take care of you, kiddo. Don’t you worry. Go back to sleep, I got you.
And he took care of you. Kept you fed, clothed, and safe. Made sure you were happy, eager, and bright-eyed.
You were no fool either. A smart girl, more than willing to learn. He taught you to shoot, even though it made his heart race when he saw you holding a shotgun for the first time. The longer you stayed with him, the more he realized that you were far from helpless. While you hesitated to even point your gun at a deer, you were more than capable of shooting an infected from a good fifty yards away.
The more sunrises you saw together, the more Joel grew to think of you as an equal. He didn’t keep you like a miniature housewife, destined to press his shirts and keep his shoes by the fire—no, you were every bit as tough as he was.
Still, seeing you sitting in the sun reminds him of your innocence and how much he hates that you had to sacrifice it at times for your survival.
He would do anything to keep the light in your eyes lit for as long as possible. Even treat you like a kid from time to time when you’re so much more.
By the time the moon had taken the sun’s spot, Joel had been left with his own thoughts for too long.
You’re sitting opposite him at the dinner table, picking up four peas with your fork, one on each prong, and telling him about the ladybugs you found today.
“They were much more orange than red,” you recall eagerly, “And I don’t think they were the seven-spot kind—I counted at least nine.”
“Mhm,” he mumbles some kind of acknowledgement while his eyes find the ribbon in your hair again.
“Like, I mean, of course they were still ladybugs,” you go on, oblivious to his feeble attention, “But, like, they looked real different than the ones we had last summer.”
He’s noticed before that his way of speaking has bled into your vocabulary. You never used to say those kinds of things back when the walls of Jackson still surrounded you. It makes his teeth hurt to see the influence he has over you.
“They were pretty, right?” he grumbles.
You roll your eyes, a half-grin tugging at your mouth corners.
“’Course they were,” you reply.
“Then it don’t matter, kiddo.”
Dismay turns your face sour, and you huff softly.
“Guess it don’t.”
“Doesn’t,” he corrects.
“You just said ‘don’t!”
He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but he does anyway. “Yeah, well, I’m grown, I can say whatever I want.”
Your eyebrows furrow angrily. “What’s with you today?” you mutter.
His eyes snap to yours.
“Nothin’,” he replies gruffly, “Now, eat your peas. And quit playin’ with ‘em.”
You stare at him for a few seconds before you grab your fork and go back to piercing your peas one by one.
“Christ,” he mumbles to himself, then rubs a hand across his face.
The dinner continues in silence, lingering uncomfortably thick. When he’s in a bad mood, you can usually cheer him up, but once you start sulking, the day might as well be over.
He knows it’s his fault—he approached the whole thing wrong.
It takes you forever to finish your plate—you’re too busy frowning—so Joel is half tempted to send you to bed to sleep it off. Knowing that it would only make things worse, and frankly, it’s not his place, he holds off on that.
Your chair squeaks loudly as you push it back, empty plate in hand, and make your way to the sink. Your footsteps fall heavily when you walk to your room without saying goodnight.
Joel knows you want him to follow you—you’re waiting for an apology, one that you deserve but won’t get. Instead of indulging you, he starts rinsing the dishes, then wipes the counters clean. He hears the sink in the bathroom run, then two doors shut within seconds of each other. At least, you’re not slamming them. He takes that as a good sign.
Once there’s nothing left for him to clean, he sighs to himself, then leaves the kitchen. He stands in front of your door longer than he likes. You painted it a couple of weeks ago, colorful flowers and berries decorating the frame. He had worked his ass off to find you paint that was still somewhat usable, then even managed to find some thinner so that the acrylic wouldn’t be so thick.
He traces one of the flowers for a few seconds, following the delicate line that you had drawn, before he rolls his hand into a fist and knocks.
There’s a soft shuffle behind the door, then your voice follows. “What?”
Sometimes, Joel has to admit to himself that he misses the shy you. The one that didn’t talk back.
“It’s me,” he calls out.
“Yeah, I figured.”
You and your sass.
He rubs his eye once, twice, then sighs.
“Can I come in?”
Silence stretches for a few moments, and his heart drops. You couldn’t be that mad. Could you?
But then your reply echoes through the oak wood. “Yeah.”
His fingers press against the door handle, and it swings open with ease. You’re sitting on your bed, bedsheets pulled up to your navel. The shirt you’re sporting belongs to him—old and worn, but soft to the touch. Its neckline is so stretched that he catches a glimpse of your collarbones. It’s a comfort to him that you’re at least still wearing that, despite the disgruntled expression etched into your face as you look at him.
The red piece of silk is still tied in your hair, sitting there like a warning sign. He ignores it.
Joel flicks his hand, signaling you to scoot over, and you do. When he sinks down on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaks softly.
It’s quiet as neither one of you speaks for a moment. Then Joel clears his throat.
“So…” he mumbles, “Ladybugs, hm?”
He can tell that you don’t want to smile, but the corners of your mouth twitch.
“Tell me ‘bout ‘em,” he encourages quietly.
“Thought it don’t—doesn’t matter,” you argue. The disappointment in your voice makes his old heart ache.
“It does,” he murmurs. His hand rests on your knee, the blanket disconnecting you. “If it matters to you, it matters to me.”
He tilts his head to catch your eyes and sees them softening in real time.
“A whole bunch of ‘em were down by the creek,” you say, “On that one tree stump, you know?”
He nods. You continue.
“Do ladybugs have families?”
The question is so tender—so you—he has to close his eyes for a few seconds.
“Mhm,” he muses, “Dunno much about bugs, but I figure they do. They all gotta come from somewhere, and where you come from, that’s your family, right?”
You shrug softly.
“Then I guess I don’t have one,” you say blankly.
Joel shakes his head instantly.
“That ain’t true, darlin’,” he disagrees, then rubs his jaw.
“Guess I didn’t explain that one right,” he mutters to himself, then goes on, “There ain’t just one type of family. Sometimes, it’s the place and people where ya come from, and then other times, it’s the people who wish ya came from the same place as them, you know? The ones who wish they had known ya all your life.”
“So you wish you’d known me all my life?” you ask tentatively.
He winces.
“Sometimes,” he replies cautiously, “But it’s good that I didn’t.”
“Why?”
He should’ve expected this. This is why he never explained the heavy stuff.
“You know, sweetpea, it’s real late, don’t you think?” he states, looking out the window. His joints groan as he stands up, but he doesn’t get far. Your hand finds his biceps and holds him back.
“Wait,” you plead, “You can’t just… please, what do you mean? Why only sometimes?”
Joel feels himself growing grayer by the second. As the words get stuck in his throat, he gestures vaguely between him and you.
“This whole thing… it’d be—it’d be bad if I’d known ya since you were a little girl.”
“Because…?” you prompt quietly.
“’Cause I’d be—people would think…,” he drifts off, muttering under his breath, “Goddammit.”
Joel struggles to meet your eyes; he grabs your hands, both of them, and slowly brings them up to his lips. The kiss on your knuckles is soft as a feather, like a butterfly’s wings.
He doesn’t look up as he continues, “Knowin’ you back then would mean I wouldn’t be allowed to like ya the way I do now.”
The sweet look of confusion on your face makes space for realization.
“Oh,” you say softly.
He nods, still not reciprocating your gaze.
“Yeah.”
“Well, then I’m glad you didn’t know me then. ‘Cause I like that you like me that way now.”
Finally, he drags his eyes up to meet yours. Honesty twists your expression into one he’d love to bottle up and keep for bad days—tenderness.
“What am I doin’ here?” Joel asks quietly, then brushes his knuckles across your cheek. You can’t help but melt into his touch, lashes fluttering shut.
It’s always like this. One of you pushes, the other pulls away, then you find your way back into the shadows of that grey area neither one of you wants to leave. No one’s done anything wrong yet.
Joel’s hand moves to smooth down your headband.
“Shouldn’t be wearin’ that when ya go to sleep,” he mumbles, “Don’t want ya chokin’ on it if it slips down.”
“I’d wake up before that,” you reason.
He disagrees quietly, then undoes the bow and knot until it slips from your hair. The flimsy material stands out against his sun-kissed hands—his skin freckled and wrinkled, the silk smooth.
“You don’t know anything,” he says. It’s not intended as critique, so you don’t take it that way.
“I know enough.”
Joel wants to grab you by the shoulders and shake you until you understand just how wrong you are. Instead, he lets the piece of fabric dance around his fingers, wrapping and unravelling it consistently.
“You should be runnin’ for the hills,” he remarks, “And I should be cuttin’ my hands off for thinkin’ ‘bout the things I wanna do to ya with ‘em.”
There it is—your breath hitches, and Joel is left to wonder whether that was one step too far, the one that just secured his place in hell.
But you’re moving before he has time to take it back. You push away your blanket, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs, before you sit back on your heels in front of him. He forces himself to look you in the eye.
“Is it that bad that I want you to do whatever you’re imagining?” you ask.
“Yes.” His voice trembles with restraint. He knows he should leave before he does something he can’t undo. But he stays—frozen in place, your knee almost touching his.
Your bottom lip quivers.
“Then I don’t care about being good,” you reply.
Joel has been holding back the flood for months now—and you just cracked the dam with one sentence. The ribbon slips from his fingers and falls to the floor.
His hands cup your face and pull you in before his lips crash against yours. The soft give of your lips beneath his own draws him in deeper, chasing your tongue with his own. He tastes the remnants of toothpaste on your teeth, then something that is just you.
The guilt lingers deep in his chest as he kisses you, but something about the way your breath changes drowns out his doubts long enough.
He’s the one to pull away first. With his chest heaving and his pupils blown, his gaze finds yours. He expects to see regret, or worse, disgust on your face. Instead, he sees pure, quiet, unfiltered adoration.
“Goddammit,” he grumbles.
A flustered grin lights up your face.
“Again?” you whisper.
“God, no,” he mutters, “You kiss me like that again, and I ain’t stoppin’.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking you to stop.”
Before he knows it, your mouth finds his again. The vibration of your giggle against his lips sends shivers down his spine, and he should know better—but he doesn’t—when his hands come to rest on your waist.
It starts with the slip of his fingers—brushing against your knee, then higher. Joel curses himself for continuing until you rock your hips, just a couple of inches, but it’s enough to snap away the last of his restraint.
He leans forward, slowly guiding you back until your head hits the pillows, without your lips ever leaving his.
Situated between your thighs, he peppers soft pecks down your neck, then drops his forehead against your collarbone.
“Tell me to stop,” he pleads, “Now.”
You shake your head. “I want to keep going.”
A sliver of awareness spreads across Joel’s face. “Sweetheart,” he starts, “This is a big thing. Like… a really big thing. And we’re—I’m already doin’ enough damage just by kissin’ ya.”
Joel has spent more than enough time thinking about it: you undressed in his sheets, him kneeling between your thighs—the slow ruin of the thing either one of you called familiarity.
Everything feels as wrong as it feels right.
“I want this, Joel,” you insist quietly. His frown lines deepen.
“You shouldn’t—”
“But I do.”
Joel wonders if this is a test from God Himself—he hadn’t paid that much attention to the man in the sky in the last few years.
“You don’t understand how hard you’re making it f’me, darlin’.”
You sit up slightly, then reach for him. Your fingers interlock on the back of his neck, your grip tight and determined.
“Do you want me?” you ask.
“You know that’s not the issue,” he responds.
“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you want me.”
He takes a deep breath, then nods. “You know I do.”
“Then trust me when I say you can have me.”
“You’ll be the death of me.”
Joel curses himself before he kisses you again. This time, he lets his hands dip under your shirt. His calloused fingers trace your smooth skin until they reach your ribcage, settling there. The kiss is clumsy; you grin as your teeth hit his, wild fervor evaporating from your every pore.
Goosebumps spread across your body when Joel pulls away to meet your eyes.
“I’ll do it right,” he declares, “I promise.”
Then his fingers find the hem of your shirt and pull it off of you. He discards the piece of clothing carelessly, too hypnotized by the sight in front of him. You hold your breath as his eyes wander, taking in every inch of skin laid bare.
“Got the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen beggin’ for some old man right in front of me,” he murmurs. The nerves in your chest ease a little, and you shake your head at him.
“Not just some old man,” you correct, then cup his cheek. His weathered skin is rough against your touch.
He doesn’t reply, and you know he disagrees; instead, he presses his lips to your forehead before they wander further down. As he trails kisses from your breasts down to your belly button, his fingers find your nipples. He tugs and twists gently, eliciting gasps from you as warmth spreads through your body.
You bite the inside of your cheek to stifle the noises, embarrassment flushing your cheeks. Joel notices and kisses your stiffened bud, then looks up at you.
“Don’t hide those sounds, sweet girl,” he rumbles, “Wanna hear ya. If ya want me to fuck you, ya gotta meet my demands. First one is: You don’t get to hide.”
“What are the others?” Your voice grows more breathless as Joel’s fingers dig into the waistband of your panties.
“Second one,” he begins, simultaneously tugging at the fabric that covers your core, “You tell me what you want me to do. And that’s all I’ll do.”
As soon as your panties meet the floor, he sits back on his heels. His eyes wander, taking in every bit of you. You look away, trying to escape his stare.
“And the third one,” he says, then catches your chin to tilt your face upwards, “Your eyes stay on me.”
With that, he settles between your legs, breathing in the scent of your arousal. His lips brush against your inner thigh, slowly inching towards where you want him.
You grip the sheets like your life depends on it and force yourself to watch. When he kisses the space where your thigh meets your hips, it makes you shiver.
Your hands find their way into his curls, just tugging softly, hoping that it will lead him right where you want him. But Joel takes his time—his tongue drags over your sensitive skin, kissing one lip, then the other. He looks up at you and nods in approval when he finds your gaze already on him.
“Don’t look away,” he reminds you before he spreads your legs even further and licks a broad stripe across your clit. Your grip on his hair tightens as pleasure sparks throughout your body.
He is gentle at first, spending time exploring your body. Joel listens to the kind of movements that make your breath hitch, watches for the ones that make your thighs shake. When his lips encircle your clit, sucking slightly, and your entire body jerks, he chuckles in satisfaction. The vibration travels up your spine, causing you to tilt your hips.
Joel’s hands rest on your hips, encouraging you to lock him in between your legs.
Soft gasps tumble from you, growing more and more desperate as he laps at your core, his spit and your slick mixing.
You feel your chest heaving as his tongue draws figure eights on your throbbing clit.
Lost in pleasure and the promise of him, you dip your head back into the pillows, moaning freely. You pull a little harder on his hair until he groans into your cunt.
You feel yourself stumbling closer to the edge, a second heartbeat coming to life between your legs. Warmth pools in your lower belly, and you almost taste the sweetness of relief until Joel pulls away suddenly.
“Hey—” his voice echoes through the room, “Where are those eyes, darlin’?”
You almost complain—your entire body is on fire when you force your gaze to snap back to him. The corners of his mouth twitch, and his tongue parts your folds again.
“Joel,” you moan, so close to tasting the letters that make up his name. His grip on your hips tighten, firm enough that it’ll surely leave you a reminder in the morning.
“I got you, baby,” he whispers before he goes back to circling your clit with the tip of his tongue. The sounds that filled the room were downright sacrilegious—his deep growls and your breathless whines mixing.
Stars explode behind your eyes as you come on his lips, your arousal slickening his chin. He laps relentlessly, working you through your release until he’s drawn out every aftershock he can get.
“That’s it, pretty girl,” he praises softly, “Lookin’ so pretty f’me when you cum.” Every part of you still pulses, oxytocin traveling through your bloodstream, as Joel pulls away.
His hands travel up to your stomach, holding you down gently before he leans in to kiss you. You taste yourself on his lips, the sweetly tangy flavor blooming across your tongue.
Joel lets you catch your breath and tenderly kneads the flesh on your hip as you come down. Seeing you rendered speechless, Joel prompts, “How’re ya feelin’, sweetpea?”
You look for words to describe the cocktail of emotions coursing through your mind and end up with the weak recollection, “Great.”
He chuckles, rather smug about himself. “Yeah?”
You nod, then blink through the heavy haze of release still clouding your mind. “Yeah,” you reply.
“Good,” he mumbles.
The mattress squeaks underneath you as he shifts his weight, and this time around, it’s your turn to stare. The bulge in Joel’s pants causes the saliva to collect in your mouth.
You reach blindly, fingers finding the edge of his jeans, but he stops you before you can pop the button.
“Hey, easy does it,” he says, “We don’t gotta do any more today if you don’t want to.”
You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. “I wouldn’t be trying to get your pants off if I didn’t want to keep going, would I?”
“Smartass.”
“Rule number two, I tell you what I want, and you do it, right?” you tease, looking up at him hopefully.
“Well, I haven’t heard you say what you want yet,” he counters.
You bite your bottom lip.
“I… I want you,” you stammer.
Joel raises his eyebrows, then cups your face between his rough hands. “You got me, don’t you?”
You glance at him pleadingly, but he shakes his head.
“Words, sweetpea. If you can’t say it, you don’t want it enough.”
You swallow your embarrassment and sit up. Slowly, your eyes find his before you say, “I want you to- to fuck me.”
He chuckles self-contentedly, then nods. “There you go, darlin’. If that’s what you truly want, I’ll do it.”
Then he starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one. You feel the nerves prickling in your stomach, and you grow more restless with every sliver of skin he exposes. His jeans follow his shirt to the floor. Your mouth goes dry when his boxers drop—Joel is more than well-endowed.
He feels your stare and meets your eyes, the cockiness on his face making space for a much gentler expression.
“You’ll be fine,” he promises, “We’ll go slow.”
When your back hits the mattress, and you spread your legs to make space for Joel, he doesn’t immediately follow. Instead, his eyes drift to the cherry-colored ribbon on the floor. A mischievous sparkle in his eyes, so unlike Joel, makes the butterflies in your stomach jump.
He reaches for it, then holds it up for you to see.
“You got any idea how pretty this looked in your hair today?” he asks. “Drove me damn near insane.”
A bashful smile steals itself onto your face. “I found it in the sewing kit.”
“You don’t say,” he mutters. His eyes dart between you and the ribbon until his face grows almost apologetic. “Would ya wanna wear it? Now? It’s been like a damn light signal, calling me in all day. Might as well have it with ya at the finish line.”
You nod slowly. As you lean forward, you expect Joel to fasten it at your hairline, but instead, he threads the headband under the lengths of your hair and then ties it around your neck. Not too tight—you can breathe easily. You almost feel like a present wrapped to be unpacked.
Joel nods approvingly, his fingers resting at your collarbone, while he admires his handiwork. “Real pretty,” he murmurs.
With light pressure, he guides you back into the pillows, then chases your lips with his own. The kiss steals the breath right from your lungs, and you barely even notice it when his palm finds its place on your upper thigh. With his other hand, he fists his aching cock and guides himself through your soft folds, collecting your arousal. The pressure makes you squeal slightly, but Joel swallows any sound instantly, his lips never leaving yours. Then his bulbous tip nudges against your hole.
“Deep breath,” he instructs, right against your mouth, “And big stretch.”
You feel as if you’re being impaled—in a good way. The unfamiliar sensation of him splitting you open has your eyes rolling back, your fingers snapping up to wrap around his biceps tightly. Joel feels your breath ghost over his face as you gasp.
“Easy, kid,” he mumbles, “That’s it. You’re okay. Want me to rip off the band-aid?”
You shake your head instantaneously and say, “You said we’d go slow. You said—”
“Mhm, yeah, I know, darlin’, I know.”
His jaw ticks with restraint as he rolls his hips just a little, advancing further into your warmth. You feel every vein decorating his cock; you’re sure he’ll mold your walls to his exact shape in no time. The burn aches and stings, but the pressure underneath makes you want more. Your eyes find Joel’s—yours pleading and needy, his cool and collected.
A certain degree of smugness etches itself into his face as the hunger surfaces in your expression.
“Ya ready?” he asks.
“Yes, yes, please, I—”
The first real thrust knocks the air out of your chest. Your fingernails dig into his arms, leaving red, half-moon-shaped marks on his skin as you feel the coarse hairs at Joel’s base meet your pelvis. You’ve never felt so full, stretched, and fed at the same time.
When he pulls back, his cock drags along the gummy spot on your ceiling, making you gasp as pleasure sparks and runs up your spine.
“How’s that, pretty girl?”
Joel holds your chin with his free hand, forcing your eyes to meet his own.
You can only nod, feeling the faint pain dissipate and turn into desire as he pushes back into you.
He chuckles and eases his grip on your chin.
“How ‘bout some words, sweetheart?” he asks.
“It’s good, Joel, it’s… it’s so good. Please, I need more,” you answer, almost frantic in your desperation. Your hips buck up all on their own, pushing to meet his.
“So you don’t want it slow no longer?” he teases, still keeping still even as you writhe and pout.
“Joel,” you whine, “C’mon, please.”
He snorts softly, then nods. “We’ll work on those manners, darlin’. But for now, you’re gettin’ off easy.”
While Joel finds his rhythm, listening for the spots that make your breath catch and your eyebrows knit together in pleasure, you feel the warmth begin to collect in your lower tummy. Even with your lips clamped together, you can’t help the sounds that make their way out of you—soft moans turn wilder, more eager, more uninhibited.
“That’s it,” Joel praises, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, “Wanna hear you, pretty girl. Don’t you dare hide any of those sweet sounds.”
He fucks you deeper, the wet sounds of your cunt echoing sinfully through the room. Joel’s entire body is tight, running on pure adrenaline and need as his cock kisses your cervix. His deep grunts fill your ears, growing darker and more animalistic with every thrust.
He drags his fingers through your folds and finds your clit. The first circle he draws feels like pure energy, pulsing throughout your entire body from your core to your toes. His other hand surprises you. At first, you think he means to cup the back of your neck with his big palm, but instead, he threads his fingers between the red ribbon and your skin. The added pressure on your throat makes your head swim.
“That okay?” he rasps, his eyes searching yours.
You nod almost instantly, feeling your walls flutter around him as the room grows quieter from the lack of oxygen. Joel’s eyes are glued to you—he makes sure not to overdo it. He takes in every micro-expression as his fingers adjust the pressure on the satin—a little more, then a little less. He decides when you breathe and how much. And you love it.
You’re not sure what pushes you over the edge at the end: maybe it’s the constant pressure on your clit, or the way his cock fills you up until you feel him in your guts. Or maybe it’s the delightful sensation of your airway being controlled by him. Or maybe it’s the praise.
“Look so sweet, baby, lettin’ me ruin you like this,” he groans, “God ain’t forgivin’ me for this, but I bet ya will.”
❤︎ just a quick reminder that the best way to support authors on here is to comment and reblog ❤︎ ☆ find my masterlist here ☆
Warnings: multiple sex partners (2), semi-public sex, sex coaxing, pinv, creampie, Joel can’t it up at first.
a/n: Finished it early so why the hell not post it huh? Also, made up a new little nickname for the man😂
It’s started with a fight. You and him, on patrol amongst others, screaming in each others faces-all because you stepped on a branch and alerted a few clickers. “So goddamn stupid, nearly killin us all!” Joel barked in your face.
“Oh fuck you, Old Man! Go take your fuckin vitamins or something!”
But then cut to a few hours later at The Bison, water under the bridge, the two of you slurring a stupid conversation on whether the infected get horny. “Well, they still function like us, so who’s to say?-.” You laughed out. “Well-except those few times you couldn’t get it up.” Joel spat out his drink “those two times I was fuckin drunk and know it, little fella just needs some time, I ain’t 30 anymore.” you dipped your head back laughing. The Old Man really did make you laugh. Joel kept looking over your shoulder-scowling. Then a guy appeared, Tom, thirties-an alright guy, you’ve had a few dates-few kisses-a blow job. “Hey you, wondering if I can buy you a drink.” You playfully flutter your lashes at him, “oh I’d appreciate that very much, sugar.” The poor guy ate it up. Off he went and Joel carried on scowling. “Really? Ya ditchin me for, Stretch there.” You lean over, “well truth be told, Joelseph, a sweet little thing has been eyeing you up since we sat down.” He turns to look, not subtle at all, and at one of the booths, is a pretty young blonde with a big smile, cute outfit, such a sweet thing. He turns back, “she’s a baby. Need a real woman, not some girl-YOU know that.” Yes you do.
Tom returns with your drink, “so can we step outside for abit?” You excuse yourself to Joel before he can say anything, and two steps away, that pretty blonde parks her ass in your seat. Leaning forward, showing off her tits in her low cut top, she laughs as she tried to ask joel questions, he-didn’t look impressed and you- were being ushered outside by an eager Tom.
You went down the alley way, he pinned you against the wall, you could feel his cock, hard rubbing against you. “So-you wanna?here?” He asks, breathless. Did you? Well he was fully hard and you were soaked. You lifted up your dress pulling your panties aside, he nudged his tip at your entrance, thrusts up and goes to town. He came quick, you didn’t, just enjoyed the feeling of his cock inside you…but still, would’ve been nice.
Moments later, The Bisons side doors swung open with the two of you barging through, laughing, swaying around. You went back to your table, only to find it empty, Joel must of scored with that blonde. Good for him, you thought. Another hour of drinking and you called it a night, Tom asking if he could come back to your place. “Nope. Need sleep.” You muttered. The walk home was sobering, the chilly air soaking into your bones…as you walk up your path, you see an amber flame flicker. Joel had made himself at home, drink, cigarette, that fuckin old man scowl of his.
“Joel? What-what the hell you doin?” Your steps up to the porch felt so heavy. “How long you been here?” He flicks away his cigarette, “since I left the alley…you fuckin random guys in alleys now? For everyone to see? Jesus, sweetheart.” The tone oozed with pure judgment. “Oh, fuck you, Joel.” You fumble with your keys which you drop as he spins you around to face him, slamming your back against the door. “Joel-let me go.” You say softly. He nudges his thigh between your legs, his thick muscles rubbing against your pussy, he nuzzled hard into your neck. “Watched you with him-didn’t even cum did ya sweetheart-fuckin waste of a man, fuckin quick draw.” You grab hold of his bulge…
“Yeah well, he might of came pretty damn quick, Old Man…but at least he can get it up.” He stops, rags you off the door and bends you over your porch railing, him-hidden in the shadows. “M’k, you like people watching-we’ll give’em a show then, darlin.” He lifts up your dress and bunches it in a fist, then tugs down your panties, rough. “Still fuckin wet from that, asshole.” He tosses them aside, you hear the jingle of his belt and the zipper moving down, followed by his cock sliding through your folds. “I may not be young, but I’ll fuckin get there, sweetheart.” As he slides his cock through, you feel it go hard, he teases your soaked slit with his tip. You straighten and reach back to stroke his cock, and Jesus, it’s thick and big. He leans in to whisper, “you were saying, sweetheart? Fella just needed a minute.”
He shoves you back over the railing, pools his pants at his feet, and reaches down to rub your clit, “gonna show ya how a real man fucks, darlin.” He pushes his tip through, stretching your hole, making it ache, feeling like you’re being torn in half. You grip the wood, “fuck, Joel-ah ah-fuuck.” trying to balance yourself as he pounds your ass, making the wood creak, you hear voices but couldn’t give a shit, not when you were so close already. “Well go on, sweetheart-like puttin on a fuckin show-let’em hear ya.” You moan out loud, he laughs. “Fuck this pussy’s so tight, darlin-she’s chokin me good.”
The sound of skin slapping was filling the streets quietness, and your moans, now muffled by Joel massive hand. He pulls you up against his hairy chest, thrusting up hard and deep. “Let any man do what he wants won’t ya, sweetheart. ‘Know where I’m coming for my fill-and you’re gonna let me aren’t ya.”
Your body’s going limp, practically melting in his arms, “yes Joel, whatever you want-just please.” He wraps his arm around your neck, his bicep squishing your face, while the other still at your swollen bud, circling it as he still rams up into you, not giving a shit if people hear. “Fuck’em let em hear it.” You grab hold of his arm around your neck, you cum hard, digging your nails into his skin. “Fuck, darlin-ah shit fuck goddamn.” He squeezes your throat tighter as he cums, his muscle all warm just squeezing it. You gargle as you come down he releases you and you scream out, your muscles tense up. “Ah fuck Joel-fuck me.” He pounds your ass a few more times and bottoms out. “”Can’t get it up”, my ass.” He scoffs.
He pulls out, his cum dripping down your leg, you use your panties to clean yourself up-ish. Joel tucks himself back in his boxers, zipping up his pants. The two of you stand there and just look at each other. “Gonna invite me in, or I gotta eat you out for admission or somethin?” You can’t help but laugh. “That’s only if you want a drink or something-gonna have to earn it.”
He runs a hand over his jaw, scratching his beard, “well in that case, I’ll have a drink, an a five-course meal. That should have me thankin ya all night, darlin.”
Summary: Your husband is unfaithful, and your contractor is hot.
Pairing: Contractor!Joel Miller x Married!Reader
Warnings: Porn with some Plot?, piv, cunnilingus, fingering, massage, Joel works for reader, adultery, but reader's husband cheated first so it doesn't count and i stand by that, divorce, Joel has a big dick, Tommy Miller, shitty marriage
WC: 8.2k
A/N: This really got away from me im so sorry. but low key lmk if i should make a part 2. Love to hear your thoughts :)
You didn’t set out to hire a contractor with the sole purpose of cheating on your husband. It just happened.
In all fairness, he cheated first. Consistently and repeatedly. His ongoing affairs are the reason you’ve found yourself in this situation in the first place.
In truth, it started long before his infidelity had. You knew marrying him was a mistake the moment he showed just how little he cared for you and your needs, miniscule as they may be, in your opinion.
You married Jeremy straight out of college, which was your first miscalculation. Guys your age never quite met your standards of what a healthy and loving relationship should be. But you married him anyway because you thought it’s what you had to do.
His job in finance allowed you to buy the house of your dreams, though it definitely needed some work. He promised you – insisted – that he could take care of the repairs himself despite having the financial means to hire someone else to do it and zero experience doing any sort of manual labor. Your career was just as lucrative as his, so between the two of you, there was no reason you couldn’t afford to hire someone to do the job. You lost track of the amount of times you’d fought him on the topic.
Just hire someone! No, I can do it myself! When? I’ll start soon, I swear!
He never started soon. And now, it’s been five years
The home itself was perfect – full of mid-century modern charm, large, bright windows, sleek, low-pitched roof, open floor plan. You loved it. You did not love the orange shag carpet or the lime green cabinets in the kitchen, nor were you a fan of the square teal tiling covering every inch of both bathrooms. But those problems could be easily resolved.
Your husband, cheating, vile, misogynistic scumbag that he is, was considerably less simple to deal with.
When you discovered his habitual adultery, you were surprised to feel nothing but anger. Not hurt. Not betrayal. Just pure, unbridled anger. You hadn’t been happy in years, and quite frankly, you weren’t sure you ever were.
It sparked a thirst for retaliation in you that couldn’t be quenched without taking full and total control of your life again.
First on your to-do list was filing for a divorce. You had all the proof you needed to back up your claims of his infidelity – texts, phone calls, receipts for motels – Jeremy was not smart, nor was he careful, which made the task incredibly simple. Seeing as he fucked anything with a pulse, you had plenty of evidence to go on. Your lawyer was astonished, either at his stupidity or the sheer amount of women Jeremy has been caught with, you weren’t sure.
Next, you gathered the funds you needed in order to complete the renovation to your home, and luckily, you’d been saving for that specific task. You wanted him to be dumbstruck when he saw the final product, and then you would hand him the divorce papers and tell him to get the hell out.
Finally, you had to hire the right contractors to get the job done. This proved to be your most ardent task yet.
It took you weeks to find a suitable contractor to take on your project. You vetted and price checked and examined their work with a scrutiny that would impress even the most seasoned detectives. You took recommendations, avoided certain ones entirely, and finally landed on Miller & Miller Construction.
Their website had no flair. No pizazz. No gimmicks. It was plain, clean, and it showcased their work in stunning clarity. You were impressed. The custom cabinetry was just what you’d been looking for, the craftsmanship simple, but precise. Their eye for design, their workmanship, everything spoke to you. You set up a consultation and met with them as soon as you could.
Joel and Tommy were two completely opposing entities that you weren’t quite sure how to read. Tommy did most of the talking, his smile easy and bright, immediately likable, while Joel sat quietly, eyes trained on you, not exactly frowning, but there was no smile to be had on his face either. You liked them, despite how quiet the elder Miller was, grizzled hair, trimmed scruff on his jaw and chin, mustache flecked with grey.
Something about him made you squirm.
You could tell immediately how their dynamic worked. Tommy was the salesman, the entrepreneur, the frontman. And Joel was the brawn, the craftsman – it showed in the rough edges of his features, his hands, his discerning eyes. Though, you’re sure they both put in their fair share of hard labor.
Tommy had a tablet in front of him, typing out the details of your project. Joel paced the kitchen, measuring, examining, testing. You watched him, admiring the slope of his broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint hints of grey in his beard, rippling muscles hidden under a flannel and a t-shirt.
You blinked out of your haze when Tommy spoke.
“Full-scale kitchen remodel. Custom cabinetry. Updated appliances. Marble counters – that won’t be cheap,” Tommy muttered, but you waved your hand.
“It’s covered. I’ve been saving for years.”
His grin flashed, warm and friendly, “Don’t worry, we won’t drain it all.” He types something else out, muttering, “Hardwood floors, new trim, drywalling, tiling..” he trailed off, listing out everything the two of you had discussed for the entirety of the house. When he was done, he looked across at you with a smile, “I’ll get you an estimate in about a week or so.”
You almost bounced in your seat, giddy with the prospect of your home finally coming to life. You were so ecstatic you almost forgot about the wreckage of your marriage.
“We’ll have our design team set up a consultation, pick materials, colors and such, and then we can get you a fixed timeline. Do you have any questions for us?”
Your eyes darted between him and his stoic older brother before shaking your head, “No, thank you so much.”
In all of your searches and meetings with various contractors in the area, it was the first time you felt seen. They didn’t ask if you needed your husband’s approval. They didn’t ask if he wanted input in the project. Didn’t even ask if you had a husband. But it was clear in your surroundings – the framed picture of you two on your wedding day situated right behind you on the china cabinet, the men’s tennis shoes discarded by the door, the ugly recliner just visible in the living room. Your wedding ring.
Your meeting with their design team went even better – though team was a bit of an overstatement. A woman your age, friendly, bright, excited to help you design your kitchen. Her name was Winona, and she was bubbly without being obnoxious, smart without being a knowitall. And best of all, she took your design ideas and turned them into something spectacular. You loved her.
Jeremy was on a business trip, probably fucking anything that moved, when you signed the final contract to get the house started. And the progress was swift. Efficient for two guys who did all the work themselves. You wondered, briefly, how many projects they normally took on. If they had a crew doing work elsewhere. But it didn’t matter. They were working on your house.
And Tommy was right. The estimate he provided didn’t drain all you’d saved for the project. You had just enough left over to tuck away for your lawyer fees for your inevitable divorce. Something you were wildly ecstatic about.
Over the course of two weeks, Tommy and Joel arrived at seven am on the dot, ripping apart your house piece by piece, hauling things away, cleaning up the site, and working at a scarily efficient tempo.
By the end of the first week, they’d had the upper level of your home completely bare, painted in the soft, off-white color you’d chosen for the hallways, and the corresponding colors you’d chosen for your office, bedroom, and guest room. You slept on the couch while the upstairs was under construction, and by the end of the second week, you were back in your bedroom, adding the decorative touches you’d been working on while they did the hard labor.
Now that your primary living space was completed, they’d moved on to the rest of the house, spending two weeks alone on the bathrooms, and another full day hauling debris from your house.
You enjoyed seeing them bright and early every day. Tommy’s friendly smile, Joel’s gruff nod. After just under a month, you’d grown accustomed to them. You offered them coffee, brewed in your home office instead of the kitchen, and had bagels and fruit out on the kitchen table for them to enjoy at their leisure. Tommy ate the bagels and fruit. Joel guzzled coffee like it would cure whatever had him looking so grumpy all the time.
You chatted with Tommy during your lunch breaks, and you were surprised to find that you enjoyed his company. He was charming and friendly and sweet and nothing like his quietly cantankerous brother. You were lucky if you got more than two words out of Joel in a day, but Tommy was quickly becoming the highlight of the entire project.
You learned a lot about him, and incidentally Joel, every time the two of you sat down for lunch. He told you about their construction company, the scale of their work, and how business has really picked up over the last couple of months. He told you about his wife, Maria, and how she was due to give birth any day now. He expressed his excitement, his trepidation, and joy at becoming a father. He’d had a lot of practice with Joel’s daughter, but she was grown now. That surprised you.
You couldn’t picture Joel getting close enough to someone to have a child with them.
While Joel cut lumber on your back patio, you lowered your voice and asked, “He’s married?”
Tommy took a heaping bite of his sandwich and shook his head, “Nah, wife ran off a couple months after Sarah was born. ‘S just him now that Sarah’s gone off to school in Washington.”
You could see Joel through the patio door, hunched over a piece of lumber, marking it with a pencil, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes focused. You hadn’t let yourself examine him very closely, but watching him work, you were struck by how handsome he was. You’d thought so when you first met the pair of them, but you were so focused on getting the project off the ground, you paid little attention.
His green flannel drew tight over his shoulders and biceps, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He tucked the pencil behind his ear as he maneuvered the piece of wood into place and ripped it through the saw. His forearms tensed, fingers deft and precise as he pulled the wood through. His jaw clenched as he examined it, flicked away the sawdust, eyes singularly focused on his task.
“Easy, sugar,” Tommy drawled, snapping you out of your trance, “He’s a surly old bastard. Don’t wanna get mixed up with that.”
You gaped at him, cheeks coloring, pressing a hand to your chest, “Excuse me? That would be highly inappropriate.” You tried to sound glib, but Tommy was right. You were attracted to Joel. And you were aching for someone to touch you.
You hadn’t had sex in nearly a year thanks to Jeremy’s exploits. You were not interested in contracting an STD from him, and you were so disgusted by him, the thought of having sex with him turned your stomach.
In the month since the project began, Jeremy had only been home twice, complaining about the mess and the dust and screaming at you for going through with the renovation when he’s perfectly capable of doing it all himself.
“Who’s paying for all of this anyway?” He asked derisively. You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at him. Joel and Tommy were downstairs, completing the tile work for the guest bathroom, and you knew they could hear every word. “I bet they’re taking you for a ride. Women always get scammed by contractors, are you stupid?”
“Shut the fuck up, Jeremy!” You shouted at him, unable to contain your fury. “Why don’t you just go back to fucking your assistant and keep your shitty opinions to yourself!” You stormed out of the room, slamming the door in his face and retreating to the back patio where Joel was hunched over a wet saw, lining up a tile to cut with with the precision you’d come to expect from him.
He looked up at you, his face neutral, lips set in a firm line, dark eyes assessing.
“Everying alright?”
Stunned by his gentle voice, you’d been unable to speak, simply nodding your head and watching as he nodded back and hunched over the saw again.
Jeremy left, and hadn’t been back since.
Between your frustration at your husband, and Tommy’s comment about Joel, a spark of determination lit inside you like dry shrub in a wild fire. Your previously controlled, distant admiration of Joel transformed into a cloying, desperate urge, and he was the one and only thing on your mind.
But that didn’t mean anything would happen. Not with Joel’s sour disposition and gruff exterior. Talking to Tommy was easy. Talking to Joel – well, there was very little that came out of his mouth, so you weren’t sure it could be qualified as talking. Which is why it was so shocking to you that he’d spoken to you in the first place.
You tried. You really did. Every time he came to your office for a coffee refill, you immediately dropped what you were doing in order to strike up a conversation with him. But he never budged. Just grunted, gave one word answers, sometimes even just stared at you like you hadn’t spoken at all. You wondered why he even bothered coming into your office in the first place. Why not just send Tommy to get his refills if it was such a burden to talk to you?
His silence perturbed you. And you were determined to get his attention.
You were so desperate, you started wearing less. Instead of yoga pants and a conservative pull over sweater, you switched to shorts and loose t-shirts that hung off your shoulder. It was an easy switch to make as the last remnants of chilly spring weather finally succumbed to the prickling heat of summer.
If Joel noticed your slowly deteriorating selection of moderate clothing, he didn’t let on. And the more he ignored you, the more you wanted him.
Instead of letting him come to you for coffee, you brought the pot out to him, low cut, form fitting, spaghetti strap top displaying your perky breasts. Your shorts barely covered your ass. And he didn’t even blink.
“Coffee?” You ask coquettishly, lifting your chest just a touch. His eyes stayed on yours, steadfast, hard, and determined, as he held his mug out for you to fill.
“Thanks,” he grunted, taking a large gulp.
“Hot today,” you point out, the beginning of summer making its presence known. “You sure you don’t wanna come inside? Take a break?”
His eyes never strayed. Not once. He shook his head, “Tommy should be back with more lumber any minute.”
It’s the most words you've heard leave his mouth in a consecutive string. It emboldens you.
You nod at the comfortable, air conditioned living room just on the other side of the French doors, “Just a quick break. I can get you something cold to drink. Lemonade? A beer?”
You were pushing, and he wasn’t conceding, turning back to the makeshift work table he had set up under the shade of your patio; three saw horses with a large piece of plywood acting as the tabletop, “‘M alright, darlin’. Why don’t you go cool off?”
Darlin’. That subtle Texas drawl, syrupy smooth, deep and rich like honey. He’d called you Darlin’.
You shouldn’t devote too much thought to it. Tommy calls you ‘Sugar’ all the time. Even goes as far as ‘Sweetheart’ on some occasions. But it was natural coming from him. Harmless and utterly platonic. He’s a smooth talker and a schmoozer. From Joel, it was so foreign, so out of character, you didn’t know what to do. He’d hardly said two words to you in the past, and now he’s giving you sweet nicknames. Calling you Darlin’ was just as harmless as Tommy calling you Sugar, but it did something to you.
You left him on the patio and shuffled back to your office, dazed.
You liked it, you realized, skin flushed and heat simmering low in your belly. You wanted him to do it again. Call you by more endearing pet names. Even in your five years of marriage to Jeremy, he’d only ever addressed you by your name or a condescending ‘babe’. You hadn’t realized how pathetically you’d been yearning for more. Something softer, sweeter, kinder. Not until Joel.
But he didn’t seem interested. Should you be more direct? Ask him, outright, if he was attracted to you? Should you strip naked and throw yourself at him? No, no. That was too direct. You had more self respect than that. Maybe. Probably not.
Jeremy had neglected you for so long, your mind was spinning out of control. You want to be wanted. You want to be touched. And you want Joel.
When Tommy returned with the lumber, you watched them unload it from his pickup truck. Joel shed his flannel and was now clad in a white t-shirt that hugged his biceps, his back spotted with sweat and his muscles bulging with the effort of lugging wood into your home. Fuck, you couldn’t stand it.
You have to do something about this ache between your legs. The sudden, unquenchable thirst you feel for him. If skimpy outfits and shy invitations to join you for coffee don’t do it, you know what will. And it’s just about as close to stripping naked as you could get.
When Joel arrives the next day, without Tommy, you greet him with a smile, a fresh pot of coffee, and a question in your gaze that asks where his brother is.
“Wife went into labor late last night. I’ll be finishin’ up without him,” he grunts, though without any of the typical irritability that comes with the need to socialize. Maybe the birth of his nephew had softened him.
You’re a little sad you won’t get to see Tommy, but thrilled to have Joel all to yourself.
As you step aside to let him in, you don’t miss the way his eyes flit down your bare legs. You hadn’t bothered getting dressed, still clad in your oversized sleep shirt that barely hangs down past your ass.
As he sets about getting his bearings from where he left off the previous day, you pour him a cup of coffee and toast and butter a bagel for him, knowing he doesn’t much care for the indulgence of cream cheese or jelly. He thanks you with a grunt and shuffles his way onto the patio to get started. Your eyes linger on the way his navy t-shirt stretches across his broad, muscular back.
After you change into a revealing tank top and the shortest shorts you own, you coop yourself up in your office to get some work done. But when you’re done for the day, you can’t help yourself. You check in on him, peering through the back doors and asking if he wants something to eat. You expect him to decline, but when he graciously accepts, you bounce giddily to the kitchen to make him a sandwich.
Today is different. You can feel it.
When you present him with the sandwich, he dusts his hands on his jeans and nods at you in thanks, but doesn’t say anything. He only watches you, eyes flitting to your cleavage so quickly, you think you imagine it. But then he looks you dead in the eyes as he takes a bite of the sandwich and chews it slowly.
Something in you snaps and your blood heats, making your skin flush. You rush away from him, and as you retreat inside, you swear you hear him chuckle.
With your heart racing and an idea bubbling to life in your mind, you race upstairs and start digging through your closet until you find exactly what you’re searching for. If he wants to tease you, you’re going to tease him right back.
You pull on a white and blue bikini with strings that tie at the hips, around the base of your neck, and at the middle of your back. After applying a nude gloss to your lips and dabbing a light amount of makeup across your cheeks, you pull on a black sheer coverup, that flows down past your ankles, leaving it open. It does little to hide your scantily clad body as you tiptoe back downstairs with a book and a bottle of tanning oil in your grip.
You walk past the back door as deliberately as you can, making sure to catch his attention as you carefully maneuver your way through your deconstructed kitchen to fill a glass with ice water and lemon slices. With your sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose, you finally step onto the patio, your tits on display, legs bare and gleaming, and smile coy and searching.
”I’m going to lay out by the pool for a bit. If you get hungry or thirsty, help yourself to anything you like,” you tell him, feigning disinterest. Acting like you don’t see the way his throat bobs and his eyes greedily drink you in. He doesn’t say anything to you as you take the three short steps down to your yard and traipse over to your pool.
The early summer sun is blazing hot, and sweat prickles your skin the moment you lay out on your teakwood lounger, the white cushion comfortable but warm from the heat of the day. Your eyes dart toward Joel to make sure he’s watching, and you slowly slip out of your coverup, intentionally dropping it and bending at the waist to pluck it off the stone pavers surrounding your pool.
It feels almost comically pornographic to resort to this type of temptation, but with the blatant way he watches you, it’s worth it.
You lean back on the lounger, snatching up your book and flipping to the page you’d left off on. It’s some tawdry romance novel with a shirtless cowboy on the front. Painfully transparent with little to no plot, but you’re not reading it for the plot, anyway.
Your skin prickles with awareness, your eyes darting toward Joel every few minutes to catch him watching you for the briefest moment before he returns to the meticulous work of assembling your cabinetry.
When your ice water is half gone and too warm to enjoy, you decide to take a brief dip into the pool. You stand, adjusting your bottoms, pulling them up just a touch, before wading slowly into the rippling water. The effect is instant, the water immediately cooling you and making goosebumps pebble across your skin, tightening your nipples.
You’re careful not to get your hair wet, brushing it aside as you drift further in, then back toward the shallow end. A quick glance in his direction makes you frown. His back is to you, broad shoulders leaned over his plywood table.
The power saw buzzes to life, then quiets. He blows away the sawdust, t-shirt damp with sweat. Biceps straining as he joins two pieces of wood together, fastening them with a clamp. You’re enraptured by his focus. Envious of your very own cabinets and wishing he’d look at you with such deliberate intent and concentration. House be damned.
When you can tell he’s about to turn in your direction, you climb out of the pool, allowing the water to trickle off your frame and slick down your body. You run a hand down your stomach, briefly toying with the pink jewel at your naval, then adjust your bottoms again as you strut back to the lounger.
Under the dark, impenetrable lenses of your sunglasses, your eyes dart to him. He’s staring, his throat bobbing, hands tight around the clamps he’s using to fasten the cabinets together.
You hide your smile, laying out on your towel to let the sun soak up the water from your skin. You feel his eyes on you more prominently than the moisture coating your body. With a sly smile, you push your sunglasses down your nose to look at him.
“Hey, Joel?” Voice dripping with honey and mischief.
“Yeah, darlin’?” He calls back, still watching. Not even bothering to pretend anymore. And he calls you that name again. Darlin’. Your core clenches.
Biting your lip, you give him a coquettish look that’s all sin and wicked intention, “Will you help me put on some sunscreen?”
Straight out of a porno. The oldest trick in the book. Painfully, achingly transparent. You’re inviting him to touch you. And even from afar, you can see his resolve snap. Eyes darkening, posture going rigid.
“You sure about that?” He asks, voice tight and rough.
You nod, biting your lip for good measure, “Uh huh.”
He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to do, and a devilish smile spreads across your face, triumphant. Joel dusts his hands off on his jeans, trudges down the patio steps, and prowls over to your lounger. His tall, broad frame eclipses the sun, casting shade over you. You grin and roll onto your stomach, acutely aware of the way your ass looks in your tiny bikini.
“Sunscreen, there,” you point to the bottle of tanning lotion on the teakwood table next to you. It’s more of an oil with UV protection, but the idea is the same: you want him to rub it all over your body, and then fuck you senseless.
The scent of pine and leather wraps around you as he sits on the edge of the lounger, careful not to touch you. He grabs the oil and huffs a laugh, “This ain’t sunscreen.”
“It has UV protection!” You argue.
“This is nothin’ more than body oil.”
“Still. Please?” You ask, looking back at him and resting your cheek on your arms. He shakes his head, cheeks dimpling against the smile he’s trying to fight off.
“Ain’t payin’ me to lather you up, honey,” he says under his breath, flicking the cap of the oil open and drizzling it along your back.
“That’s okay. You need a break.”
He hums, setting the bottle aside. Your entire body tingles with anticipation, waiting for his skin on yours. You wait and wait, feeling the oil drip along your spine, your shoulders. Then, finally, the coarse surface of his work roughed hand meets your skin and you shiver.
“S’it okay if I untie this?” He asks, voice so low, so smooth, you’re sure you imagined it. But then you feel his fingers playing with the ties at your neck and you nod, frantically, too eager. “Of course it is.”
You almost giggle. He knows what you’re doing and he’s still placating you. You wiggle a little when he unties the neck, then the back, leaving you bare from the waist up. The moment his hands are back on you, you gasp. Pressure firm, but gentle. Sure and thorough as he spreads the oil around your skin. Brushing your hair aside, he massages the oil into your neck. You peek at him to see that concentrated look on his face. Like tearing him away from his task would undo him.
Then, both of his palms press into your back, eliciting a moan straight from your lips. You clamp your mouth shut, but the pressure is so divine, you almost do it again.
“Feels okay?” He mutters, hands skimming down your body, your waist, your lower back, and then up again. His fingers graze the sides of your breasts and you nod again. God, if he stopped now, you think you’d cry.
Every pass of his hands turns you to jelly, and soon, he moves down to your legs, first starting at your ankles, then up your calves, careful not to go much further than the bend in your knee. You’re soaked. Skin humming with the effects of his firm, soothing touch, heated by the sun, and glowing faintly with the sheen of oil.
When you feel his hand inch up the inside of your thigh, you suck in a breath.
”Relax,” he coaxes, moving from the top of your thigh down to your knee and back up again. Over and over and over, pressing a little firmer on the way up, and stopping just short of the gusset of your skimpy bikini. “You told me to help myself to anything I liked.”
You did say that. And then you called him over to you to touch you freely. You grin, peeking up at him, cheek resting against your arms, “And you like me?”
His cheeks dimple, his smile so soft, so sexy, you almost say to hell with your little ruse. Something between a grunt and a laugh escapes him, “Darlin’, you got no idea.”
Darlin’. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of it. You feel yourself grow damp as he moves his hands to your other thigh, repeating the same, torturous ministrations. But this time, he goes so much higher, you think he’s going to graze the covered, soaked apex of your desperately neglected pussy. He never does. Massages right below it. There’s no reason to put oil there, but he does it anyway. His thumbs get closer, massaging circles into your skin, very nearly grazing you, teasing, refusing to give you what you want.
When his hands leave you, you almost cry out in protest, but then he’s nudging your hip, “Turn over for me, sweetheart.”
As you lift up to turn, you toss your bikini top aside, having no desire to feign modesty any longer. He knows it, and you know it. You want him to fuck you.
His eyes spark with interest as they land on your breasts, perky and waiting, nipples tight from your dip in the pool. You lie back, making yourself comfortable as he stares.
He chuckles, deep and smooth, “Not bein’ shy no more, are you?”
You grin in response as he grabs the oil and drizzles it over your chest, your stomach, and along your arms. He starts at your hands, making sure you’re fully covered, his large ones engulfing them completely in his grasp. The texture of his fingers is rough, but you like it as he moves his way up your wrists, your forearms, and then toward your shoulders, massaging along the way.
“Mm, Joel,” you sigh, his hands rubbing the oil into you completely before moving on. He presses his thumbs into your shoulders, then your collar bones, then the tops of your breasts. He still doesn’t touch you there, but then one hand wraps around your throat, resting, thumbing your pulse point where it hammers rapidly against your skin.
“Lookin’ so pretty,” he says quietly, keeping one hand on your neck while the other finally finally covers your breast. The initial touch is feather light, thumb grazing your nipple. Then, he presses firmer, his entire hand covering you with his palm while he kneads and massages. His hand leaves your neck only to cover your other breast, and you’re giddy with need as he works you into a whimpering, keening mess. “That feel good, darlin’?”
“So good,” you nod, grabbing his wrist to keep him there, demanding more.
He hums, keeping the hand you’ve now possessed on your breast, while the other moves down to rub oil into your tummy. His hands are a work of art, skilled in so many ways. You’re trembling by the time he reaches the top of your bikini bottoms. His pinky slips under the hem, making you gasp. He withdraws and does it again, rubbing back and forth until your hips move up to seek his touch.
“Want me to take these off?” He asks, tugging at the strings, already knowing your answer before you nod rapidly.
“Off, please. Take them off.”
His reply is a deep grunt, and you think that must be his grumpy little way of teasing you, “Needy little thing.”
The bottoms come off, and you’re bared to him, your center slick with need and ready to be fucked. But you just know he’s going to take his time. Simultaneously, you can’t stand it, but you also yearn for it. Being teased and molded into a whimpering mess, desperate for his touch. Your husband has never made you feel like this. Sexy. Desirable. Loved.
“Fuck, look at that pussy, baby,” he groans, still not touching you where you really, really need it. He’s massaging your hips now, leaning over you in a way that’s almost obscene as he gets closer to your slick heat. His thumbs press into your hips, then down your thighs until he’s rubbing oil into your legs, still neglecting you, even though every pretense of professionalism has all but burned up in the wake of your arousal.
“Joel,” you whine, arching your hips.
“Patience,” he answers sternly. And that’s that. Nothing more.
Every stroke up and down your leg is torture as he repeats the same teasing he’d done to the backs of your legs. Getting closer and closer to your pussy, but never fully touching. You’re so eager, your slick coats your thighs, and on a final pass, he rubs it into your skin before his fingers finally graze your clit. You suck in a sharp breath, your hand shooting out to grab him again. To keep him there. Because if he stops now, you think you’ll actually die.
You look up at him, his eyes dark, his grin wide. You’ve never seen him smile like that, and it’s blinding, warm, and teasing. He rubs circles over your clit delicately, not pressing too hard, not too light. It’s so perfect and you’re so on edge that it has you on the precipice of your orgasm faster than you can blink.
And then he eases up, halting your peak so quickly, your hips buck, making you moan in protest, “No, no, no, don’t stop, please, Joel.”
“Ain’t plannin’ on stoppin’, baby,” he says softly, “Just need to get a better look at you.”
And then he shifts, gently lowering himself to the ground, knees probably screaming in protest, and grabbing you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the lounger, slightly askew on the cushion, but still comfortable. He lowers his head, making you squirm, lips brushing against your hip, across your tummy, briefly pausing to kiss around the pink belly button piercing. You arch your hips, enticing him.
“So eager,” he grumbles, one hand spreading your thigh, hooking it onto his shoulder, the other running up your opposite leg, kneading and massaging you into a puddle.
“I need — I need—“ you breathe, one hand clutching the teakwood, the other reaching for him, digging into the muscles of his shoulder.
“What do you need, baby?”
Your chest is heaving as he plants another kiss below your bellybutton, still massaging your leg while his other hand keeps your thigh firmly planted over his shoulder.
“Fuck, you smell so sweet,” he sighs, inching down. It’s torture. It’s pure, unbridled torture — waiting for him. You’re a slick mess, oiled up, pussy wet, walls fluttering around nothing. “Tell me what you need,” he repeats.
“I need your tongue,” you gasp, the prickle of his beard on your skin driving you insane. You never would have guessed this. That Joel Miller is a fucking tease. That he’s slow and methodical. That he enjoys making you squirm. But here he is, peppering kisses all across your body, everywhere except your aching core, “Please, make me cum. Please, Joel.”
His chuckle is deep, a hint of red coloring his cheeks and neck, either from the sun or arousal, you don’t care.
“Since you asked nicely.”
And then his mouth is on you, hands spreading your thighs wide, keeping you open for him as he drags his tongue from your weeping cunt to your clit where he sucks, teasing you, making you gasp for air, arching your back off the lounger.
Your burrow a hand into his hair — it’s damp with sweat, but that doesn’t bother you in the slightest.
His mouth is devastating against you, licking stripe after stripe up your slit, pausing briefly to suck and nibble at your clit until you’re sobbing with need. And then, just when you think it can’t get any better, he pushes one, thick finger into you, stretching you. The burn makes you cry out, the slow drag sending prickles of lightning up your spine.
“This is what you wanted, right, darlin’?” He asks, voice rough with arousal, eyes nearly black as he slowly pumps his finger into you. “It’s why you’ve been walkin’ around lookin’ like that. No pants on. Shorts barely coverin’ you, askin’ me to touch you. Askin’ to get fucked.”
You can’t answer. Your voice stalls in your throat. You can only nod, frantically. He adds a second finger and it almost undoes you. You’re so fucking close. He pushes them deep, leaning down to tease your clit again with his mouth, sucking hard, groaning.
“How do you think your husband would feel if he knew his pretty little wife was gettin’ fucked by the help?”
He twists his fingers, curling them just so. He prods at the sensitive, soft spot inside you, making your arch.
“Ex. Ex — husband. Soon.”
He hums, “Judging by that ring, he’s no ex.”
It takes every ounce of will power you have to rip your hand away from him and tear the ring off your finger. It glints in the sun and clatters on the table next to you when you slam it down. Then your hand is back in his hair, urging him back to your cunt where he grins and licks you again, this time not pausing, not slowing.
Your orgasm is volcanic, blinding. You think you scream. You know your fingers clench around his hair so tight, you’re in danger of pulling it out of his scalp. And he just keeps going. Finger fucking you into oblivion, tasting your release on his tongue, moaning against you as you ride the waves of your climax into bliss.
You’re trembling when he lifts himself off the ground, fingers still probing deep, hunting for another orgasm. He leans over you, bracing his other hand next to your head, and kisses you. You whimper into his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips, tongues stroking and breaths mingling.
“Joel,” you moan when he removes his fingers, leaving you empty and limp. But he’s not pulling away. He’s kissing down your neck, sucking a spot just below your ear that drives you crazy that your husband always neglects, and undoing his belt.
“Tell me what you need,” he says into your neck. But he already knows. You know he knows. You’ve been begging for it this entire time.
“Fuck me, Joel,” you whine, hands searching for the end of his shirt. They slip underneath, and you moan at the way his muscles feel under your fingertips. He’s warm and rough and you want to see him. “Off.”
He hums, leaning up to pull his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere among your discarded bikini. He comes back to you, lips hot on yours while you concentrate your efforts on getting his jeans undone. He’s hard against your hand as you pull the zipper down, aching and needy.
Once his cock is freed, you break away to take him in, and you almost shrink. He is huge, leaking from the tip, resting heavy against your thigh. Even with how wet you are, you don’t know if he’ll fit. But God you want to try.
“Don’t worry, baby, I got you,” he grunts, shoving his jeans and boxers off. He straightens you on the lounger, making room for himself as he climbs over you. He’s golden and glistening in the sun, slick with sweat and your arousal shimmering on his chin.
The sight of his broad, hard form over you almost makes you cum again.
He catches you gawking and you could swear he’s trying to fight off a smug smile, but his lips only twitch in amusement instead. Taking his cock in hand, he drags the tip through your folds, making you shudder and reach for his hips, holding him as he hovers, nails pressing a little harder than you intend. He doesn’t seem to mind.
As his tip catches your entrance, he groans, “Nice and wet for me, aren’t you?”
You can only nod, speech evading you as he slowly, cautiously sinks into you. The stretch is everything. You’re so full, so wet, and inconsolable, it makes you mewl in delight.
“What’s that, darlin’?”
”So — so big. Your cock is so big, Joel,” you sigh, shifting your hips, taking him deeper. The burn is exquisite, but you need him to move. Need him to fuck you into another reality. ”Please..”
”Such pretty little manners,” he tells you, withdrawing slowly.
The first thrust is devastating. The second is mind numbing. And after the third, you’re holding onto him for dear life. It doesn’t take long for you to melt underneath him, arching your hips so he hits at just the right angle.
“Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had, baby,” he pants, leaning down to mutter profanities into your ear, nibbling and kissing your neck, “That husband doesn’t take care of you at all does he?”
”No, no, no, never,” you chant, every part of you ready to snap.
“Bet he hasn’t fucked you proper in years,” he grunts, the sound of your skin slapping together downright obscene. “That’s all you needed, huh, darlin’?”
“Uh huh,” you yelp, almost a broken sob leaving you as he drives into you, “Fuck me, Joel..”
“Nothin’ to worry about now, I’ll take real good care of you.”
You could cry from the relief of it. The way his hips slam into you, how deep he is, how attentive. Even at the strongest point in your marriage, it’s never been like this, and it’s ecstasy.
Pleasure pools low in your belly, his cock hitting that sweet, sensitive spot inside you so perfectly, the precipice of your orgasm is on you in an instant. Just as you’re about to cum, he stills, breath heaving, your walls trembling, clenching around him.
“Joel,” you whine, breathless and wanting.
“Not yet, baby,” he tells you, voice syrupy and thick. Pressing a kiss to your neck, then your lips, he sits up on his knees, takes you by the thighs and lifts your hips to grind against him. The position is utterly indecent, back arched, him holding your thighs for leverage while he begins snapping his hips against you. And it’s like he never stopped in the first place.
Your orgasm crashes into you, hands reaching for his wrists to hold on as he towers over you, giving you everything he’s got. The power of his thrusts knocks the breath out of you.
“Take it, baby, fuck, you’re such a good girl,” he grounds out, sweat slicking his muscled chest, dripping down his temple. “You got me so wound up, darlin’, prancin’ around looking sexy as sin. Now I’ve got you all to myself.”
“Don’t stop, please,” you keen, desperately grasping for air, your climax driving away all rational thought and composure. “It’s so good, please, don’t stop.”
“Gonna make me cum, sayin’ things like that.”
You think, then, that you’d be fine with it. Letting him cum inside you, or paint your oiled up body with his seed. Mark you, stake his claim on you. He can cum wherever he wants, you decide, as long as he promises to do it again.
“Ain’t gonna let that piece of shit husband touch you again,” he declares, pinning you with a solid, steady stare, “You’re mine now, darlin’.”
You tell him, then, “Cum inside me, Joel,” nearly sobbing as his powerful thrusts drive you toward another orgasm with blinding speed. His movements are precise and deliberate, his eyes going dark at your words.
You know he wants to do it, that he can’t stop himself even if he wanted to. Even if you weren’t begging for it.
“Yeah?” He huffs, hooking his arms a little higher around your thighs to gain better leverage. You shift your hips, cry out as his cock goes deeper, spearing into you so completely you never want him to leave.
You’re almost sobbing with the approach of another orgasm, one that will undo you and wreck you for the rest of your life. All you can do is nod and gasp and hold onto him as he fucks you deeper. Your neighbors are going to hate you.
“Shit, darlin’,” he grunts, the buck of his hips frantic as he chases his release. When your nails bite into his forearm, the tight coil of his control snaps like a cable and you feel warm ropes of cum fill you. A final orgasm paints stars across your vision, and you faintly hear a guttural moan leave him as you tighten around him once more. He doesn’t stop fucking you until you’re both spent, your muscles aching and fingers sore from how tightly you have them wound around his wrists.
He collapses on top of you in a heap, your bodies slippery with sweat and oil. His hot breath fans over your neck, the weight of him both grounding and comforting. The scruff of his beard prickles your skin as he peppers kisses along your chin, down the column of your throat.
”Ain’t gonna be able to finish those cabinets today,” he grunts.
A slow smile spreads across your lips, ”Why not?”
He lifts his head to gift you with a warm smile of his own, captivated, even after the way he’d fucked you. Surprised that he gives it so willingly now that you’ve had each other in the most physical and intimate manner possible.
”Wanna take you out. Dinner. Will you let me?”
His offer stuns you into silence.
Yes, you’d practically begged for him to fuck you. Asked him to cum inside you. Told him you were as good as divorced. And yeah, you have every intention of having sex with him again.
But a date? That says something. It speaks volumes to his intentions. Which both frightens and thrills you.
Despite you throwing yourself at him for weeks on end and finally getting what you want, he wants more. And not just your body.
Your hesitation draws his eyebrows down, “We don’t have to ––“
”I want to,” you answer quickly. But there’s still that lingering sense of doubt. Of trusting someone with yourself only to be stabbed in the back. Betrayed in the most visceral sense. You didn’t have sex with him because you wanted to move on from Jeremy right into another twisted, sickly excuse for a relationship. You just needed attention. And Joel gave it.
He lifts himself off of you and pulls on his jeans, “It’s fine if you don’t wanna ––“
”Joel.”
”I’m too old to be playin’ games, darlin’. If I wasn’t clear before — I like you. More than I should. And I know you’re married, but that didn’t stop us, did it? So if you want this, I’m here. If not, no hard feelin’s.”
He’s half dressed now, jeans buttoned, belt still hanging loose, t-shirt hanging over his broad shoulder. His wide frame blocks the sun, allowing you to see him clearly. No man has ever been as direct and straightforward with his needs. Not like that. It’s… different. Refreshing. Almost unheard of.
You almost want to pull him back down and let him have his way with you again, but you’re a woman of control and poise. You can articulate your needs just as clearly as he has. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little bit interested in seeing what manifests.
”Dinner would be lovely,” you begin, keeping your expression controlled, “When Jeremy gets back from whatever trip he’s on, I’m serving him the divorce papers.”
You can see the moment when your words sink in, the pleasant twitch of his lips, the way he leans over you and brushes his lips against yours. This kiss is tender and sweet in a way you haven’t experienced from your own husband in years. But it’s what he says next that turns your body into mush and your mind pliant and docile.
PLEASE I NEED RE9 LEON SO BADLY IK HE WPULD LOOK AFTER US SO WELL PLSSSSS
I cant
જ⁀➴ Aftercare with RE9!Boyfriend!Leon ᝰ.ᐟ 18+
Leon wasn’t a stranger to hard work or long distance— he was trained for it, quite literally. That’s why he cherishes his time at home, with you, why he settles for nothing more than to worship every inch of you in bed.
He’s gotta make up for the lost time somehow, right?
And fucking you into the mattress until the only thing on your mind is him… is exactly how he does that, and he’s damn good at it too. He knows your body like he knows his way around a gun; it’s second nature to him. He knows exactly how to coax those breathless moans from your perfect lips and how to get you to arch up into him, when to press deeper and when to ease up, how to bring you over that edge and keep you right on the brink.
He gives it to you good, so it’s only logical that he takes care of you after he’s done fucking you dumb.
“You always take it so good, baby,” he coos against your shoulder blade, where he brushes a series of feather-light kisses, his lips trailing slowly down your spine— his stubble whispering against your flushed skin. “You okay, hm? not too sore?” he almost sounds proud of himself.
“A little achy, it’s a good ache though.” You hum into the pillows from where you’re lying on your stomach, face buried into the silk— your voice lazy and a little muffled.
“Good, means I did my job right,” you can feel his lips curl into a smug grin as he presses his face into the nape of your neck— his big palm running over the curve of your hip. “c’mere, let me hold you.”
Your body, heavy and boneless, relaxes into his big warm arms— he had joked one time that they were shaped to hold you, just like this, with your head tucked under his chin whilst his fingertips run nonsensical patterns up and down your spine in long soothing strokes, his touch grounding you in the moment, his heartbeat under your ear.
“Want me to go run you a bath?— reheat that pizza?” he murmurs against your temple, brushing a kiss to your hairline as you tilt your head to gaze up at those baby blues of his that the warm lamplight catches.
“Mm, in a minute… just wanna look at you first,” he smirks at your needy response, bringing a hand up to run his fingers through your hair, a silent 'I'm here' in his touch.
“Don’t think there’s much to look at… m’just wrinkles now baby,” he says, a faint chuckle catching in his deep voice.
He watches you roll your eyes at him, in that fond way you do whenever he says or does something ridiculous and god does he just thrive off of your little expressions— it’s free ammunition, that frown you get between your brows and that pout to your lips of yours that he loves to kiss right from your mouth.
You huff, muttering something about him ‘ageing sexily’ as you press a kiss to his stubbled jaw, then another to the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment. “You’re still my man.”
“Damn straight I am, baby, all yours.” He beams, pride warming behind his ribs and bleeding all through his chest as he hauls you closer to him— dragging your thigh across his hips, your soft curves pressing up into the hard planes of his body like puzzle puzzles. “My girl,” he whispers as if to remind himself, bumping his nose against yours before stealing a slow kiss that has you melting further into him with a pleased noise.
Your fingers thread through his salt and pepper hair, smiling against his mouth when you feel him lean into your hands with the faintest hum— his forehead dropping to yours.
“I’ll build you that bookshelf tomorrow, after I make you breakfast.” you feel his voice rumble through his chest like distant thunder as he speaks, low and yet impossibly tender— always tender with you. “Right now, I’m gonna run you a bath and get some food in you.”
And all you could do was nod, humming a grateful thanks. His words weren’t up for debate, not when it came to looking after you.
AN: oh my god writers block has been beating the shit out of me lol. I’m watching someone play Re9 and got the sudden urge and wrote this <3
Summary: you hear a bump in the night and call your neighbor to come check it out.
Words: 1k
You're standing in your kitchen, ridiculous yellow gloves on while you scrub a particularly stubborn plate. Then you think you hear it. You turn the sink water off, turning your head like trying to catch a signal.
The first sound is small. Too small to mean anything on its own. A soft scrape somewhere in the house that makes you pause mid-scrub, dish still in your hand, suddenly very aware of how quiet everything else is.
Then it happens again. Closer this time.
Your stomach drops before your mind catches up. You don’t think. You just move. You pull your phone out of your back pocket as you back up to the kitchen counter, sinking into a squat against it.
While you're whispering to yourself that it’s probably nothing, the house settling, a branch, anything normal, your fingers are already dialing.
You don't know why you're calling your neighbor. Even though he's a big, buff, federal agent, you two aren't that close. But your body recognizes where safety is in a moment of crisis.
Leon answers on the second ring.
“Yeah.”
It’s all he says at first.
And somehow that steadiness is what breaks you out of your paralysis.
“I think someone’s in my house,” you say, voice too tight, too fast. “I heard something. I don’t–I don’t know.”
His tone instantly shifts.
“Lock yourself in a room. Now.”
You’re already moving.
“Bedroom,” he adds. “Door locked. Stay on the line.”
You do as you’re told without question, because there’s something about the way he speaks that doesn’t leave space for hesitation. The line stays open while you sit on the edge of your bed, listening to your own breathing and the faint, distant sound of your house feeling wrong.
“Leon,” you whisper after a moment. “I’m sorry, I just, I didn’t know who else to call.”
“You did the right thing,” he says immediately.
Nothing extra, just certainty.
Minutes later, you hear another sound outside. Not inside your house this time. A car door shutting too firmly. Footsteps on gravel.
Your phone crackles slightly as he says, “I’m here.”
You hear the front door open.
“Hey,” his voice calls out, lower now, closer in real space than the phone. “It’s me.”
His boots make their way to your bedroom. A soft knock follows.
“You in there?”
“Yeah,” you shout back, fiddling with the lock.
When the door opens, Leon steps in like he belongs there. His eyes are scanning, posture already assessing every corner of the room before they land on you.
Nothing about him is rushed. That’s the first thing your body registers. Like the world can be falling apart, but he’s already decided how to stand between you and it.
“It’s okay,” he says again, quieter this time.
You shake your head.
“I thought…I thought someone was–”
“I know.”
He doesn’t let you finish the spiral. Just closes the distance carefully, stopping close enough that you can feel his presence without him crowding you.
“I checked the house,” he adds. “Front, back, windows. Nothing’s broken. Nobody’s inside.”
Your breath catches like your body doesn’t quite believe it yet.
Leon watches you for a second longer, then says, “You’re safe.”
You force out a short breath, a sheepish smile crawling onto your face. You scratch your cheek with trembling fingers.
A nervous habit.
“Well that's embarrassing,” you say softly.
“Hey.”
You look up.
“If you hear something again,” he says, “you call me sooner.”
You can feel it once the adrenaline fades. Embarrassment rushes in to take its place.
Your hands twist together in your lap. “God, I’m sorry. I probably freaked out over nothing.”
Leon doesn’t accept the premise. He just leans against the doorframe, still half in assessment mode, like he’s making sure your fear doesn’t come back the second he leaves.
“It wasn’t nothing to you,” he says.
You huff out a small, awkward laugh. “Still. I made you come over here for basically… paranoia.”
“You didn’t make me do anything.”
There’s no annoyance in it.
You're still embarrassed.
You glance at him, then away again, heat creeping up your neck.
“I feel like I should make it up to you.”
That gets a faint shift in his expression. Subtle curiosity.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” you say quickly. “But I want to.”
He studies you for a second like he’s deciding whether to argue further. Then he doesn’t.
“Okay,” he says simply. “How.”
You blink, thrown.
“Uh.”
The seriousness of him makes your brain scramble for something equally serious. Something appropriate. Something adult and neighborly.
And then, because your brain betrays you in moments like this, you say, “Do you like pie?”
That earns the slightest pause.
Leon’s mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly.
“Pie.”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” he says finally, like he’s confirming a detail in a report.
Relief loosens your shoulders immediately.
“Good. Okay. I can do pie. I can definitely do pie. It’s like the least weird thank-you food.”
“I wouldn’t call it weird.”
“That sounded like you almost did.”
“I was considering it.”
You laugh, properly this time. It surprises you how easy it is around him, even after something like tonight.
Leon pushes off the doorframe a little.
“You don’t have to pay me in pie for checking your house.”
“I’m not paying you,” you insist. “I’m… expressing gratitude. With baked goods. Very normal human behavior.”
He nods once. “Understood.”
That makes you smile again, softer now. Less frantic.
“Okay,” you say. “Then it’s settled. Pie.”
Leon hesitates like he’s about to refuse out of principle, then doesn’t.
“Alright,” he says. Then, quieter, almost like an afterthought: “What kind.”
You blink. Almost smile.
“Apple,” you say. “Is that okay?”
Leon considers it with the same seriousness he gave your broken locks and your fear.
“Yeah.” He nods his head. “I like apple.”
Something about the way he says it, simple and unguarded, makes the whole moment feel different.
Not just a rescue or neighborly obligation. More like the beginning of something. Something unspoken but shared.
You nod, smiling a little to yourself.
“Okay. Then I’ll make you apple pie.”
Leon straightens slightly, like the conversation has officially concluded in his head, but he doesn’t leave immediately. Instead, he glances at you once more.
“You’re okay now?” he asks.
You think about it. Then nod.
“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”
He holds your gaze for a second longer than necessary.
“Good,” he says.
And this time, when he finally turns to go back outside into the night, it doesn’t feel like he’s just your neighbor anymore.
A/N: I love the stoic awkwardness at the end. Leon 'I can't let myself enjoy something that I think I might really enjoy' Kennedy, everybody
💭 thinking about re9!Leon Kennedy threatening to shave his happy trail 18+ I’m insane about him oml
He’s standing at the foot of your queen-sized bed in a pair of boxers, having just gotten out of the shower. “I think I might need to shave this off soon, baby.” Your head instantly snaps up at his direction, dropping the book you were reading onto the mattress beside you.
You watch in silent horror as he runs his hand over the dark hairs that dust across his chest and down towards that delicious happy trail of his, his brows all pinched together in contemplation, even the thought of him considering it sent you into panic.
“Absolutely not. No,” you tell him, shaking your head in vehement protest as you shuffle to the end of the bed on your knees.
His eyes catch yours, and his frown softens into a grin. “Look at it, baby, it’s getting out of control down here.” He huffs in amusement, fingers still grazing over the coarse hairs, heart melting a little at the way your lips purse out into a frowny pout.
“It’s sexy, Leon.” You tell him, brushing his hands away from the sacred trail with a huff. “You’re not allowed to just shave it all off.” your fingers now toy with the waistband of his boxers.
He chuckles, cupping your cheeks between his big palms and tilting your head back. “Not allowed? What you gonna stop me?”
“No… but if you shave it off I-I-” you pause, wracking your sleepy brain for a suitable punishment, “I won’t have sex with you until it grows back.”
“Oh, fighting talk, huh? You wouldn’t last a week, babe.” He replies smugly, knowing for a fact that he’s not wrong. You barely survive when he gets pulled away by his ever-demanding job, always relying on those special homemade videos you both made.
You groan in frustration, and he coos down at you, running the pad of his thumb over your pouty lips to try and coax you to smile— but it doesn’t work, you seem genuinely heartbroken, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t amuse him just a little.
“C’mon… don’t look at me like that, baby, it needs taming.”
You don’t answer, but your expression turns determined. You lean forward, looking up at him through your lashes as you press a wet kiss right over the hard ridge of his abs. His fingers slip into your hair, tightening a little at the roots, your name catching in his chest as you drag your tongue back up his firm stomach.
“Oh Fuck-” his voice comes out hoarse, ragged.
“Promise me you won’t get rid of it.” You tell him, dragging sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down to his V-line, and when he doesn’t answer right away, you pull back, scowling at him. “Promise me, Leon.”
“Yeah, yeah, I promise… I’ll keep it, s’all yours gorgeous.” He breathes out heavily from above you, dick already hard and twitching to life against the thin fabric of his boxers.
“Good.” You beam up him happily, tugging the waistband of his boxers down a little further with a lick of your lips.
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AN: is this a safe space to say I love big hairy men and women?
