Cate @lanadelreyylover - Tumblr Blog

what are you afraid of?

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My writing masterlist

Pairings : dbsf!re9Leon x fem!reader (mid20s)

Summary : what will you do, when your dirty little secret finally comes out?

WC : 9k

Genre/cw: age-gap, dad's best friend, yearning, smut, mdni, 18+, oral (f) recieving, squirt, multiple orgasms, pinv, missionary, langauge, dirty talk, filth pure filth, less plot -- but lots of sex

Note : idk if i like it how it turned out, but anyways... hope you enjoy.

Taglist: @mrskennedih @mskyrathefroggo @freak0nnaleash @hunniet0ria , @zeviedtiz, @archangelathena, @mothlane

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You were in your mid-twenties.

Or, if you wanted to be painfully precise...

Then you had say twenty-fucking-five.

and needless to say, you'd always been the ideal daughter. The ideal student. And now, somehow, the ideal employee, working at the company you'd dreamed of joining since university.

To everyone else, your life looked... perfect, it was.... well at least until some certain point in your life.

Because you were your father's pride and joy, honestly you don't know if you could be his pride… if he knew about… nevermind.

Anyways, four years ago, he'd divorced your cheating mother and fought for your custody — and won. Looking back at it now, you know how lucky you were, because he'd given you a home, stability, and every ounce of love he could — and your heart was grateful for it.

So really..

What more could you ask for?

Apparently, quite a lot.

Because beneath that picture-perfect life, you carried one filthy little secret.

One that nobody knew. Nobody...

Except you.

And your diary.

You let out a groan as you sat cross-legged on your bed, gripping an old – worn journal resting in your lap, you sighed at the sand rough texture of the cover and quite slowly your fingers absentmindedly flipped back to the very first page, and as you as you saw it your blood rushed straight to your core.

Embarrassing really – but let's dive into it.

21st July 2021 — you read it internally.

Dear Diary,

What do you do when you find a man twice your age attractive? Does it ever go away?

Okay... You could've stumbled across something far worse. Instead, you found something you'd always known was there.

A slow, embarrassed smile tugged at your lips as you turned the page.

2022.

Dear Diary,

If you touch yourself thinking about your father's best-friend, moan his name, hoping he had take you, in every position? Is it blasphemy?

But even if it is, what if you are not scared – because the heart wants what it wants, isn't that right?

So will God punish you for that — or would you want that man to become your God and ravish you with his cock.

For a second your jaw clenched so tight you thought you had broken it, God... how long had it been since you'd fallen for him, anyway?

Because it felt like only yesterday, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't tried — more than once, to seduce him — because you'd, you flirted with him, thrown yourself on to him — dropped hints so obvious they should've hit him square in the face, even tried your best to attempt him into seeing you as something more. but nothing.

The man was either carved from steel..Or stone. You still hadn't decided which.

With a quiet sigh, you turned the page, and a quiet ache started to settle deep into your chest. Because you knew it wasn't just an ‘physical’ attraction anymore, you'd begun craving his presence, as though being close to him was the only thing that could quiet the emptiness inside you.

2023.

Dear Diary,

I almost told him today that I loved him.

when... he threw me the sweetest birthday party I'd ever had. Dad was away on a mission, so I expected another quiet birthday.

But Leon… he stayed back from his mission, said it wasn't important and he invited my friends, decorated the house, remembered my favorite cake -- every little detail.

I didn't expect him to care that much, and yet he did, then I got drunk — danced with other men, thought it had made him furious, but he just watched me leaning against the wall, and I watched him the whole night, wearing the shortest dress I could — and his eyes never left me once -- not once -- his jaw clenched tightly as he played the glass in his hands.

But God how I wished that he had bent me over and took me in front of everyone.

And for one stupid, hopeful moment... I almost thought he was jealous.

Instead... he made sure I got to bed safely. He stayed until he was certain I was alright, made sure I'd drunk enough water, tucked the blanket over me, and only then politely sent everyone else home, and when I grabbed his arm from the edge of my bed and asked him to stay... I genuinely believed he would.

I remember the way his throat bobbed, like he was swallowing words he couldn't bring himself to say. For a second, I thought he'd give in. Instead... he just cleared his throat, gave me that infuriatingly gentle smile of his, and said, "Sleep well, kiddo."

...Fucking kiddo.

Sometimes I wonder if that's all I'll ever be to him.

Asshole.

But if you really think about it, how could you stay away from a man like that? And then spending time together with him on dinners, trips, only made it harder for me to look away from him.

I do know he feels something... I'm sure of it, because the way he looks at me, the way he suddenly looks away, the way the silence changes whenever we're alone... his heartbeat can't be that different from mine.

So... am I really that unattractive? Or is this about my age?

I don't know anymore, but I do know that I ended up crying again tonight. How can he not see what's been right in front of him all this time?

Should I move on —?

That was the last entry you had written in your diary that was smudged with tears: and to answer that question — no, you weren't able to move on and you don't know if you ever will.

God... how were you supposed to move on, anyway? You rather not know.

So, instead of searching for an answer for that question, your mind did what it always did — it wandered into impossible scenarios, the kind that would never happen outside the safety of your imagination, and with a quiet sigh, you snapped the diary shut, the loud thwack echoing through your bedroom, and carelessly, you tossed it onto the bed before stretching your arms high above your head, your legs extending until your feet dangled over the edge of the mattress. "Enough pity party for tonight," you muttered to yourself, letting out a humorless laugh.

Just as you pushed yourself to your feet, your phone buzzed on the bed beside the diary. You barely spared it a glance.

"Later."

Leaving both your phone and your diary exactly where they were, you wandered toward the bathroom. The moment you stepped inside, you shut the door behind you, and within seconds, the gentle rush of hot running water drowned out the rest of the world.

...

If only you had known...

Tonight was about to change everything.

because, if you saw your dad texted you, you had hidden our diary — but maybe you will be glad for it: that you actually didn't.

The text read ; Dad: away on mission tonight. Leon's staying over to keep you company. Don't be a menace to him.

...

Unfortunately or maybe fortunately you didn't read it.

…

Leon, arrived at the house twenty minutes later, letting himself in with the key your father had entrusted to him, for emergencies only — Leon, she's my daughter, and you are family : the words still echoing in his skull as he stepped over the threshold.

Family, he scoffed, then he tried to shake thoughts he rather not have, "Kiddo?" The endearment slipped out before he could catch it, and he immediately clenched his jaw, trying to swallow the word back down. Kiddo. As if you weren't a grown woman. As if you weren't twenty-five with a mouth that haunted his dreams and hips that swayed like a weapon he had no defense against.

He shook his head again, “get a grip” then he moved through the living room, and every sense in him heightened, like vice, and the same hyper-awareness that had kept him alive through Raccoon City, through Spain, through countless hellscapes: came back to him — even heavier in ways he werent able to comprehend, because he knew this was different.

This was dangerous in a way B.O.W.s never were, because this was you.

And as soon as he passed through the living room and entered your bedroom, he heard the shower running behind the door, and he could imagine the the hiss of water against your body, he was aware of the subtle shift of movement behind your bathroom door: and suddenly his cock was straining against his tactical pants, thick and heavy, because the image of you in shower assaulted his mind soon before he could ‘let it go’ and it jumped on him, you bent over in that shower before him, water dripping down your spine, steam rising from your skin, his cock buried into your cunt, and he could almost feel your heat, your tightness, the way you'd gasp when he— “No,”he told himself, grinding the heel of his palm against his brow. “Kennedy. No.”

You are twice her age. You are her father's partner, you are their family. He reminded himself.

But he didn't know if he wanted… to be that family anymore, to betray your father's trust, when in his mind all he could think about taking you, marking you as his, tasting every inch of you, but as his mind was ruining him with images of you he saw it — your diary, splayed on the bed like an invitation or a condemnation — he couldn't tell which.

Then he noticed the leather cover that was worn soft from years of handling, pages filled with your private thoughts, your secret desires.

Don't, he warned himself.

But his feet were already carrying him toward your bed — one step, then another, the distance closing like a mission parameter he couldn't abort. When he finally reached the edge of it, his knees nearly brushed the mattress where you slept, where you dreamed, where you touched yourself thinking of — he would soon learn, “Don't, Kennedy," he rasped aloud again.

But his hand was already reaching towards it. His fingers trembling at his sides, still he finally clasps his fingers and grips them around the worn leather cover with a reverence that makes him sick.

God those were the same hands that had loaded countless magazines, pulled triggers, terminated threats — now they were trembling over a twenty-five-year-old girl's diary like it was the most dangerous thing he'd ever held.

Jesus he was beyond fucked.

Don't read it. He told himself.

Walk away. But still couldn't.

Call her father. Tell him you can't do this anymore. Tell him he needs to find someone else to check on her tonight, someone who doesn't wake up hard and aching from dreams of her voice saying his name.

But none of the weak protests made by his mind worked because — his heart had already decided what to do.

He sighed and finally picked it up, then he groaned, "I'm sorry," to the empty room, to the ghost of his own integrity.

For a second he stood like a statue, frozen like Medusa was looking at her, and a part of him whispered — that you had written about him too.

Oh boy, did he know? No. But he was about to find out.

Slowly, he sat on the edge of your bed and for a moment he simply held your diary like a chalice, containing the wine.

Then, with a desperation that made him hate himself, he lifted it to his face, and pressed the worn leather against his nose, and inhaled deeply, searching for any trace of you — your shampoo, your skin, that vanilla and something-else scent that had tormented him for four years.

Fuck, he inhaled everything, but nonetheless he didnt get what he wanted, so he pulled it away from his face and held it at his eye level.

God for years he had ignored you, ignored your advances with the iron discipline of a man who had survived bioterrorism outbreaks and government conspiracies.

But what he had never expressed — what he had locked away in the darkest, most shameful corners of his mind, that was how he had jerked himself off in the lonely hotel rooms across the world, his fist wrapped tight around his cock, imagining you above him, below him, on him — his mouth on your pussy – Christ. How he pictured your mouth stretching around him, your tongue swirling on his tip, as your eyes water when you try to take him whole. How he'd come with your name gritted between his teeth like a prayer or a curse.

"Fuck," he laughed, bitterly, shaking his head, while your diary rested in his palms, because now he was about to find out something terrible — or perhaps exactly what he'd wanted all along, what he'd tortured himself with in the dark, what he'd never dared hope for. “Here I go," he grunted.

And then he opened it, then he read everything every little thing you'd written about him — your handwriting growing more desperate, more honest, more hungry with each passing year, and his heartbeat stumbles as he reads —

Dear Diary, I touched myself thinking of my father's best-friend.

Is it blasphemy?

Dear Diary, I almost told him that I loved him..

Dear Diary, the heart wants what it wants...

He sat there frozen because his heart wasn't in his chest anymore. It had migrated south, pulsing thick and heavy in his cock, beating a desperate rhythm against his zipper throbbing with every fill confession he'd just devoured. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Like it was trying to fuck its way out of his pants. (Pun very much intended, Kennedy, you absolute bastard.)

He sat there in shock staring right ahead, his hands were shaking now, the diary trembling in his grip, fuck — four years of carefully constructed walls, professionalism, duty, the sacred trust of your father's friendship— crumbled like ash in front of him.

Because there it was, in your elegant, emotional handwriting: you loved him. Not a crush. Not infatuation. Love.

And somewhere between the first entry and the last, between the confession of your first orgasm thinking of him and the tear-stained page where you asked why he couldn't see you, Leon Kennedy realized he was lost.

Finally the shower turned off, and he swallowed thickly.

Because

He should leave.

He should run.

Though he didn't move.

He just sat there, hard and aching and ruined, waiting for you to open that bathroom door and destroy what little remained of his restraint.

…

The steam from the shower still clings to your skin when you step back into your bedroom, towel wrapped loosely around your breasts and torso leaving your shoulders bare and your hair dripping, with a popping sound onto the hardwood floor. “Fuck, that was—” suddenly, the air feels different, charged, like the moment before lightning strikes.

And then your eyes travel towards him and see him.

Leon Scott Kennedy — your ruin — your father's best friend, his partner in the DSO, the man who'd materialized in your life; before your father's world imploded four years ago helped him, helped you — now he sat bathed in the amber glow of your bedroom lamp.

The light carved harsh shadows across his sharp features, illuminating the wrinkle at his temples, the lines bracketing his mouth that hadn't been there when you first met.

You swallow hard and your feet? They stay rooted to the floor, refusing the instinct to flee. You should be mortified — standing before him like this, damp from the shower, your towel barely worth the fabric it's made of but shame refuses to come. Instead, something hotter coils in your chest. Because after four years of invisibility, of being the obligation, the package he helped your father protect... you want him to see you.

But little did you know he finally will.

...

He was sitting on the edge of your bed, your diary open in his large, calloused hands. His head was bowed to his chest, shoulders tense beneath the charcoal jacket that strained across his broad frame.

Fuck. Did he read everything?

Not that you regret it— not truly, because some part of you, the part that had been writing his name in moans rather than ink, had always wanted him to find it.

And now he had, and maybe today. It would be the worst or best day of your life, you couldn't yet tell.

Honestly : you should curse him right now. Tell him reading your thoughts was wrong, that he had no right, when he ignored you for years.

But the words die in your throat because you feel your nipples peaked beneath the damp towel, traitorous and obvious, and when his gaze finally snaps up to find you still standing there frozen, exposed, waiting — something dark and burning beneath them sets your core ablaze and finally his gaze locks onto yours, and he pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture of exhausted resignation, but then his eyes drop.

And he finally sees you , licking his lips, he clenches his jaw, so hard and you feel him, inside your chest and he takes in a sharp hissed breath inside him — and his gaze ; alone does something undeniably dangerous to your cunt, a visceral clench that makes your breath hitch.

Suddenly your eyes drop involuntarily to the front of his jeans, and you see his cock, straining against the zipper, hard and ready to explode, and the knowledge that you did that— and now Agent fucking Kennedy is sitting on your bed with a cockstand for you —sends liquid of heat flooding between your thighs. “God Kennedy,” you groaned internally.

…

Leon didn't know what to say anymore. Instead, he straightened himself and stood there at the edge of your mattress, the back of his knees meeting the soft edge of it. and right now he was painfully aware of the erection straining against his tactical pants, and then pushing the ache burning between his thighs he turned towards you.

He didn't bother explaining why he'd been reading your diary , knowing you hadn't asked him that either. "Your father's on a mission," he blurted out, his voice rough and strained, as soon his grip on your diary tightens, "and he asked me to stay home with you."

I never asked" Your voice was quieter this time, but no less sharp. You swallowed, your stomach twisting into unfamiliar heat. "Why are you here." Your eyes flickered down to the worn leather journal still clutched in his hands. “I just want to know why you were reading my diary?"

Here was the question, that Leon already knew was coming, "I really tried not to," he finally admitted, a weary sigh escaping him, before throwing the diary – mindlessly on the corner of the bed.

…

Something inside you suddenly snaps, like the wall getting tired of holding back all the damn water for ages, and all those years of yearning, of holding yourself back, of biting your tongue until it bled, crept up on you, and without thinking your words spills out of you, "You've ignored me for four years," you spit, as tears stung behind your eyes, "four fucking years”, you shook your head, as your chest fell and rose with heavy inhales and exhales of breaths, “I threw myself at you. I wore dresses that barely covered anything. I touched you 'accidentally' every chance I got. And you—" Your voice fractures finally and suddenly the tears involuntarily bled down your cheeks, and you hastily rub them with the back of your hands. "And you looked right through me. Like I was some kid you had to endure. Like I was nothing.”

Something fractures in his expression — that legendary Kennedy control finally cracking like ice under pressure.

He chuckled bitterly, running a hand through his hairs, before mouthing ‘fuck this shit’, "You think I didn't notice?" He clenches his jaw and closes the distance between you and him, in three long strides, so fast that you didn't even notice, and suddenly he cages you against the wall behind you, with a hand on either side of your head.

Suddenly, the heat that was burning low into your belly, it slipped down your thighs and you clenched your thighs tightly because god you wanted him inside you — a small little moan slipped past your throat, that said, ‘enough fuck me’, and suddenly he laughs as if he heard your thoughts and the heat starts to radiates off him and starts to morph into you and you can smell him — the gun oil, and that subtle cologne he wears that makes you dizzy, and he gazes at you his eyes locked on your orbs and he groans, “god you are—” he trails off, before shaking his head yet again like he could not believe himself, “You think I haven't spent every goddamn night since I met you running five miles at 0300 just to exhaust myself enough to stop thinking about you?” He growls, and he removes his that was bracing the wall to trace your lower lips, “You think I don't jerk myself off with your name on my lips?"

Your breath catches, at his admission– and before you could process his words, your arousal leaks down on you, "What?" You said quietly.

"You are so fucking clueless." He sighs, pressing his thumb past your lips until your tongue meets his skin, and you groan around it “leon…” and suddenly your gaze drops and you see the strain of his denim, and you were sure it was begging him for a release, and lord you wanted to help him, take some weight off his shoulders, but as soon as he speaks again in his deep husky voice, "I'm twice your age," that makes you look up at him, the words sounding torn from him, and you suck on his thumb until he is closing his eyes, and whispering your name like a reverence, he pauses for a second and removes his thumb from your mouth, and lets it hand fall to his side, "i am your father's partner. The man he trusts to protect you when he can't." His forehead drops until it rests against yours, his breath suddenly merging inside your skin.

"I'm supposed to protect you…not—" He grinds his jaw, the muscle twitching with each syllable. "Not want to fuck you until you can't remember your own name." He finally admits, and the vulgarity of it from his mouth — sends a shockwave through your entire core, and little begging plea ‘please take me’ escapes you.

His eyes squeeze shut tightly, and he grits out, "I feel the same, I always have." He makes a painful sound that low echo in his throat, "I'm only human after all, I've been fighting this for four years, and now I'm so fucking tired of fighting."

Then, without another warning, he leans down and his mouth crashes against yours with a violence that steals your breath and you gasp at the suddenness of it , but soon you were kissing him back and for the hundredth time your core aches for him and you say his name like a plea ‘Leon’ you moan into his mouth — and suddenly all that pent-up tension redirected into devastating need, and he smiles against your lips, “four years I resisted,” he groans into your mouth, “but today I am going to take every inch of you, and mark every part of you as mine.”

Suddenly a low growl rumbles in his chest, and his hands travel to the knot just below your shoulder blades — where your towel is secured, and with a sharp tug, he undoes it, and the fabric drops with a soft thud.

For a second he stares at your bare frame making you feel self conscious, then he swallows thickly, his Adam apple working up and down as his gaze rakes over your bare skin, your nipples peaked and aching for his touch. "A fucking masterpiece," he breathes, though he doesnt touches you yet, "Never seen anyone like you." His eyes lift to yours, dark and hungry. "You are all mine."

"I am all yours," you breathe, the words tumbling out like a prayer. "Yours. All yours. Have been yours for years." You repeat it like a mantra, desperate, as if the moment might shatter if you stop speaking it into existence.

"Fucking hell," he curses, and suddenly his hands travel to your breasts, and you take in a sharp breath, your eyes fluttering shut as he squeezes them between his palms — and the rough calluses against your sensitive skin creates a delicious, aching friction that pools heat in your pussy, slowly he kneads them with that reverent hunger, that makes your all the senses dizzy, his eyes locked on yours as your knees begin to turn to jelly.

God... for years, this was all you'd ever wanted, and now, impossibly, you finally had him, and he wanted you too , he finally saw you — not as his best friend's daughter, but as you. And a slow, disbelieving smile bloomed across your face, as years of aching longing melted into something warm enough to make your chest feel unbearably light.

"Last chance," he growls pulling you out of your thoughts, then he leans down to your throat, his mouth hot and demanding, as he sucks on it, and you know he's marking you, claiming you with a bruising kiss that will linger for days, suddenly his free hand slides down your spine, in slow and possessive way that makes you arch your back, in a haze of pleasure, until his fingers dig into your hips with a grip that will definitely leave bruises — and you keep moaning his name into the moonlit night as he continues his sweet assault on your throat.

"Tell me to leave," he commands against your pulse. "Tell me to forget what we're about to do. Tell me to forget what I read. Tell me to be a better man.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and finally pull him closer against you, and he grunt out a low pleased huff, and you answer him with a moan of your own, and suddenly your arch into him, feeling the hard length of him through his denim pressing against your core, slowly you fist your hands into his jacket. "I don't want a better man. I want you."

“You begged for this, remember.”

“I will, Mr. Kennedy.”

He grunts, “Leon, darling, Leon.”

“Okay, Leon.”

“Good girl.”

He smiles smoothly a wicked, predatory kind — and smoothly he sticks out his tongue and licks his lips before leaning down and hooking an arm behind the back of your knees, with effortless strength, the kind that comes from carrying heavy gear through hell and back, then he hoists you up over his shoulder, his arms locking on the back of your knees, which makes you giggle, “leon!” and he hums in response as your tits bounce and scrape against the rough fabric of his jacket as he carries you to the bed, and you make a low desperate sound against him. “Patience, sweet thing.” He whispers to you, before raising his free arms – and with a loud crack – he lets it land on your ass – the impact jiggles it and you feel a lightning thunder stricken inside your hole. “Oh—fuck me!”

“I will, soon” he laughs, and as soon as he says it, he swiftly reaches your bed and throws you onto the mattress with a proud grin, and you bounce a little with an impact, completely breathless, and the diary that was resting on the corner gets knocked to the floor utterly forgotten—as you lay back completely boneless against the sheets.

God he hasn't even touched you properly and you were already unravelling, “Leon, please, hurry!”, you say, straightening yourself a little.

“Mhm, but first spread your legs for me darling," he breathes, his voice rough with need. "I need to see that pretty little thing."

You nod and do as he says, your thighs instinctively, falling open for him “a little more”, he orders, and you spread them even wider, and he grins his eyes locked on your pulsing cunt, “good fucking girl”, then he throws his jacket across the room before ripping the buttons of his shirt like they're straining to contain him, and suddenly his chest is on full display, heaving with every ragged breath, each one matching yours, but he doesn't remove the shirt completely — instead he let it hang over his torso, like a displayed collection.

"Now you're going to get me," he promises, then he drifts his gaze upwards and looks into your eyes, his blue eyes dark and possessive as it intently stares in yours, his hands travel down, already working his belt with the efficient movements of a man who knows his weapons. "All of me. Now and forever. And God help us both." He grunts as he frees himself from his pants and boxers, tossing the fabric uselessly to the floor, instantly his cock springs free with a quiet jerk, the head of his cock was wide and his tip weeps begging to be licked and yet you keep your legs spread wide, giving him a better view of exactly what he's been starving for.

He moans your name and he stretches himself out flat on his stomach, his knees hitting the edge of the bed, and then he spreads your thighs wider with his rough hands, and soon he lifts your legs onto his shoulders, settling between your thighs, and ghosts his hot breath against your slick folds, and you groan in heat of a kitten, “fuck you are a tease”, he smiles then for a second he stays there tormenting you until you were trembling with much anticipation.

When you finally sob, “Leon, please, i need it”, he grins and his mouth finally descends into your hole, and he takes a long whiff of your cunt, "smell so good", then his tongue flattens against your core in one long, filthy stroke, like a man savoring an oyster, and you squirm a little and your eyes closes in pleasure, soon he dives inside your cunt, his warm tongue lapping against your folds and he works you with devastating precision, circling your clit in rapid strokes until you're writhing beneath him, and you instinctively fists the sheets, begging him to go faster without words.

he hums in your core your wetness slicking on sheets and his as he wraps his lips around your sensitive bud and sucks it deep into his mouth, flicking his tongue against it in rapid, merciless strokes. "mphh--fuck leon!"

He doesn't reply instead he keeps working on you with his tongue-- fuck it's better than your rose toy , no -- God , better than anything , you have ever used on yourself — and you feel your nerves sparking and going numb with overwhelming sensation.

And you convulse shakily , while your jaw slacks open instinctively and you feel your drip drool down your chin, and your thighs starts locking around his neck like a vice, and your hips buck against his face as you pulse and flutter on the edge of your orgasm, soon you guide your hands on your breasts and start to knead them beneath your palms, "oh god-- this-- dont stop."

"That's it," he growls against you, the vibration rippling through your core, and you tremble relentlessly, your body covered in sweat and he pulls back just enough that shows a glistening string of saliva connects his lips to your pussy god it was so filthy — and you try to get up but as soon as you do he slaps your folds sharply which makes you fall against your back again, it was though a encouraging sting pass through your body and you jump a little out of your skin. "Give it to me. Been dreaming about this taste for four fucking years."

You scream his name, and your back arches off the mattress, as he leans down to spit a thick glob of saliva directly onto your hole. You feel it land inside you hotly, and you tighten your legs around his neck feeling the ache build in your belly. Soon, he's on you again, licking you with long, filthy strokes. "God, you smell so good," he chuckles against your folds, the sound vibrating through your core and you hummed dazily. "I wish I could stay here forever."

Your walls start to pulse around his tongue, and you feel your body tightening toward the edge and you know he feels it too, of course he does, and soon his voice comes muffled and smug against your walls: "Close, aren't you?"

You groan his name as your only response, and he rewards you by sucking your bud deep into his mouth again, and you make soft little sounds completely lost in pleasure, and when he releases it with a wet, filthy ,pop, his breath hot against your oversensitive skin, you complain, “Leon, why'd you stop?”

"Keep your eyes on me when you cum on my tongue," he commands, his voice breaking at the edges, "Baptize me with your juices."

Then he dives back in, kissing and licking and devouring you until you lose yourself completely, and you do as he says, meeting his gaze with same desire and your thighs finally starts to burn with the orgasm tethering on your edge, and your core clenches around him as you feel your walls spasm around his tongue.

And when you finally break screaming his name into the empty room, as you come against his lips — he doesn't stop, instead he lets you ride his face, grinding your weight down, desperate for more, and he keeps you riding that edge, tongue fucking you through the aftershocks until you're trembling, overwhelmed, tears streaming down your face.

With a satisfied sigh, he pulls himself back slowly, straightening until he's kneeling between your thighs, and his cock springs free, heavy and hard against his stomach. Then he grins down at you, eyes dark with satisfaction, as he drags his fingers through your slit once more, gathering your arousal, then brings them to his nose and takes a long, appreciative whiff, before his tongue darts out, licking them clean with a guttural groan. "God," he breathes, savoring the taste. "You taste like fucking honey.”

He waits until your glazed eyes find him and when it does your eyes flutter half open as it strains to stay on him. "Look at me." His voice drops and he says it like if you didn't he had stopped right there. "You let anyone else taste this? Did anyone else touch what's mine?”

"No," you gasp. "I could not, it was always you or no-–"

"Damn right." He grins, cutting you off in between, thoroughly pleased with your answer and then without letting you recover he pulls your one leg over his shoulder, and hooks the other around his waist, and lines himself up to your core the thick head of him presses against your entrance, and your walls spasm around nothing — but the need of his shaft inside you.

Then he leans in closer to you, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm going in," he warns, his voice strained to breaking. "And I'm not stopping. Not after this. Not ever. You understand? You take all of me or you tell me to walk away right now."

You nod frantically, though you weren't sure if you even processed what he said instead your nails digs into his shoulders almost causing it to bleed. "Please. Please, Leon fuck put it inside me—" then you inhale sharply, as with one sharp stretch, he slides deep inside you , and your walls hugs his cock like it was always belonged there, and you cry out, screaming his name as he fills you completely to the brim, then he shifts his weight, licking the tears from your cheeks, his voice a broken rasp against your temples. "I'm going to move.” He warns.

“Please.” you beg.

He does, and finally he rolls his hips, making him grunt your name. "Fuck—your filthy hole is so tight," he tries to breathe, pushing himself deep inside you again. "Damn it," he groans again, stilling inside you for a second, yet your walls contract on his cock, and your breath tightens inside your chest as you let out small little sounds of pleasure. "You're strangling me, darling.” He croons “Fuck, four years I've waited for this. Four years of jerking off to the thought of you just like this — and you're even tighter than I imagined."

Your phone suddenly buzzes on your side, the screen lighting up: Dad, Incoming Call. Instead of feeling dread, you are so fucking turned on. You glance at Leon, and he glances at it, then back at you. That wicked smirk curves his mouth. "Answer it.”

"Leon—" you start.

"Answer it," he repeats, already reaching for the phone, while still being buried inside you. "Or I stop."

You shake your head, “please don’t” your body already panicked, but he's already snatching up the phone, and answering it, you try to bite your lips to stop yourself moaning his name, but he pounds into you with a brutal thrust that steals your breath — then presses the phone to your ear, his eyes glinting with dark amusement as he watches you struggle to compose yourself.

"Hey, sweetheart," your dad's voice comes through the line.

You try to sound normal, you really do, but Leon deliberately chooses that moment to roll his hips in slowly, qgainst that spot that makes your toes curl, and your chest squeezes your heart inside, and you close your eyes, embarrassed but not, regretting it, Jesus, "H-hey, Dad," you manage finally, your voice breathy.

"Leon there yet?"

Leon thrusts again, hard enough to move you up the mattress, and you make a hiccup sound and soon cover it with a loud cough and he leans down, his mouth at your free ear, as he whispers, in a low and filthy tone, "Tell him I'm inside."

You choke back a moan. "Y-yeah. He's... he's inside."

"Inside?… So did you check if he had come yet?"

Leon chuckles against your throat, the low vibration of his words sending shivers through your spine, and you press a hand over his mouth to silence him, but he only smirks against your palm — then he licks it, teasingly, his tongue hot and wet against your skin, and you pull away with a gasp, and he shifts upwards catching your earlobe between his teeth, biting sharp enough to sting before dragging his tongue down the column of your throat, leaving a glistening trail of his saliva, which makes you shiver under him. "Stupid man," he mouths against your pulse, angling his hips to hit that spot that makes your vision blur and your toes curl. "Tell him." You grind your teeth, desperate not to spill what you're feeling, the words tumbling out strained and breathy. "Not yet."

"Not… not yet," you gasp into the phone, and Leon's eyes flash with dark, predatory amusement. He thrusts again, deep and punishing, knocking the air from your lungs, and grunts, "But he will. Really... really soon. He's... working on it." he groans at his words, low and guttural, letting his head fall back as he loses himself in the rhythm, and his eyes flutter shut, his lashes dark against his cheeks, and you repeat what he fed you like a parrot : god, it was dirty, so fucking dirty — fucking deranged how he was ruining you while you were on the phone with your father, and damn you that you didnt regret it and honestly you didn't know he had it in him, this cruel edge, this wickedness that made your core clench even tighter around him.

Leon feels it too, how you ripple and tighten around him and his eyes snap open, pinning you with a look that says.

I own you now, your every sound, every breath, every lie.

And you smile at him, and your dad hums; droning on about dinner, about your day, about the back door—and Leon keeps fucking you in , slow and filthy and merciless circles, while his free hand covers your mouth to muffle the sounds you can't help making.

Then his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, circles on it, while his mouth moves against your ear: "You take me so good, darling. Can you feel how deep? How hard I'm going to come inside this pretty little—

and you start to whimper feeling yourself on the edge of your pleasure then he grunts and cuts himself off, snapping his hips forward with brutal force, that makes you scream, and suddenly he's wrenching away the phone from your ear, hitting the end button on the call, and hastily tossing it across the room, and you finally finally scream into the room sobbing his name like an orison. “What if he hear–”

"Dont care" he growls, cutting you off in between your worries, “Could not wait”, he breathes, snapping his hips again, hitting your G-spot dead-on. "Couldn't listen to another second of his voice while I'm buried inside his daughter. While you're clenching around me— like you never want to let go."

Then he pounds into you relentlessly, and his each thrust drives the air from your lungs, a brutal rhythm that has you clawing at his back, desperate for anchor, and his thumb works your clit with ruthless efficiency, and he keeps pressing it, there — sensation sharp as a knife, building in your belly like a storm, and his mouth finds your throat, as his teeth sink inside you. The pain threads through the pleasure, bright and electric, and you feel yourself unraveling, feeling yourself explode, "Leon—I am going to—fuck—"

The orgasm crashes through you before you could even complete your sentence in violent waves and you close your eyes sobbing his name, and for a second you ascended to heaven, and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic spasms, milking him, and the pleasure crests so hard white sparks explode behind your eyes. Your stomach floods with that heavy, liquid warmth, every muscle unlocking at once, relief so profound it borders on ache. "That's it, good girl," he snarls against your jaw, voice wrecked. His hips don't slow. "But give me one more. One more before I fill you up."

He pauses, swallowing thickly, "I want to make you squirt." His eyes find yours, dark and demanding. "Can you do that for me?"

"I don't know, I never squirted." The admission comes breathlessly out of you.

He nods in a hum, like a silent promise ‘there is a first time for everything’ and he grunts, as he pulls his cock out of you and slams inside you in one strong motion.

Then he adjusts his angle, while dragging the head of his cock across that sweet spot inside you behind your urethra, over and over again, and your thighs start to shake and you feel the pressure build differently, this time and a hot swelling behind your pubic bone that makes your thighs tremble, and suddenly it happens.

You squirt hard, gushing hot liquid around him and scream his name like a prayer, and your back arches off the bed, and your vision finally for a while whites out.

The release is so messy, and embarrassing that you could not help but hide your eyes by your arms, and you fold your arms on your eyes, as suddenly you transcend all at once to heaven or hell, you didn't care, and your body surrendering completely to his will. “Look at me.” He grunts.

You don't listen, but then he orders “I said, "Look. At. Me.”

Then finally you open your eyes and meets his gaze, and he smiles softly, “You did so good darling, but now I need” he thrusts, “to cum too.”

You nod and he keeps thrusting himself through your own spasms, chasing his own release, his each stroke creates a wet squelching sound.

Until he's groaning, in a broken tone — and finally with one last thrust, his cock throbs and with a final loud guttural sob he spills inside you, his hot semen pulsing out of him in waves, and his cum ropes inside your womb completely.

Soon you feel every twitch, every pulse of his heat painting your walls.

Then with a low guttural moan of your name he collapses onto you, his chest heaving, and you feel him still hard and twitching inside you. His sweat slicked body, remains on you anchoring you and his heartbeat hammers against yours. “I want more”, you suddenly breathe out.

“More?”

“More.”

“Good, thought we were already done.” he smirks, before pressing a soft kiss onto your neck.

...

Then he rolls you over, that instantly make you take a sharp hissing breath inside your lungs as you feel the soreness start to build between your thighs.

But still you don't want to stop. God, he was so addictive—this ruinous thing between you.

He pulls you on top of him, guiding your hips with rough hands and settling you on his cock.

The slide of him back inside your swollen, slick heat makes you both groan, and the stretch leaves a sweet burn that has your nails digging crescents into his chest.

"Thats right, darling mark me" his hands grip your hips even deeper, bruising your skin and you moan out his name bracing your palms against his shoulders now as he sets a brutal, grinding pace that has you gasping. “Ride me hard, make me proud sweet thing.” he breathes.

So , you do — desperately and hungrily , you feel your thighs burn as you chase that edge again, and every roll of your hips drags him across that sensitive spot inside you, the friction building, coiling tight in your belly.

God you feel so sensitive now, and your hands clutch against his chest, feeling his heart hammering through his cock and his ragged breaths starts to match yours.

and his hands with a sneaky smile finds your breasts, palming them fondly, while his thumbs brushes your nipples with absent reverence and you smile at him, "I dreamt of this..” you said , feeling his cock rubbing on the backside of your pussy.

“I dreamt of this too.” He murmurs and your cunt clenches again, involuntary, greedy.

But you feel the pressure mounts inside you differently this time and you feel yourself cresting, tipping over your own cum, and then you're falling apart suddenly, squirting once more in hot torrents that spill across his thighs and some on his stomach, and he groans "fucking hell, thought you could not do it" then his abs starts collect some of your liquid and he — makes no move to shed it, instead he let himselt bask in that liquid, proudly — that you are his and your body betrays you completely as you collapse against his heaving chest, finally your cheek presses to his sternum, hearing the thunder of his heartbeat, "tired?" He rumbles, you and hum in response, soon you feel his arms come around you instantly he wraps you up, sated and smug, pressing a kiss to your sweat-dampened hair.

His chest rises and falls beneath you and you feel so filled with him that you never want to empty yourself of him ever again.

"I haven't cummed", he admits, "use me then" you murmur against his chest and then he groans your name loudly, "you are killing me, darling." Then he moans, like a broken breath tore straight from his lungs before thrusting up once more, deeply and exploding his cum inside you — in hot, thick, ropes, flooding where you're already soaked.

and finally you feel him pulse, his veins throbbing against your walls then soften to semi-hard, still filling you -- completely and he still remains joined, though he doesn't pull out of you.

Instead he just wraps his arms tighter around your wrecked body and breathes you in, completely sated and content, "Fuck," he chuckles, his voice thick with satisfaction, vibrating against your temple. "I… I love you." His arms tighten just slightly on you "And I'm not letting you go. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not even until I take my last breath, you hear me? You're mine now. Officially, completely, irrevocably mine."

'I love you.'

God. You spent years waiting to hear those words spill from his mouth and now, finally filled with him— his cum, his weight, his love coating you inside and out—you get to hear it. The timing feels perversely perfect, this confession wrapped in sweat and sex and surrender, spoken against your temple while he's still buried deep, still claiming space in your body.

You're grateful, fiercely, desperately grateful that he read your diary — that he saw every messy, wanting page, every fantasy you scribbled in the dark.

So, you nod against his chest, sleepily whispering “I love you too’ because you were too wrecked to speak loudly, but you knew he heard it too, so you let yourself settle and feel your body still trembling with aftershocks, and you feel him smile against your temple, lips brushing skin, reverent and claiming all at once. "My good girl.”

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

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