claire

19. mdni. ✞daddy’s guilty pleasure✞

[pawnshopfawn]

Claire’s blog 𓂃🖊

claire. 19. leon’s daughterwife. beau’s controversially young gf. perverted darling. mixed. she/her.

❝𝐈 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐈 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐠𝐨❞ 𝐏𝐒𝐁 (𝟏:𝟑𝟖)

taboo topics ,, mdni ,, dead dove content ,, ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱

𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 || 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱

do not upload my fics on c.ai or anything w/o consent!!

❥ requests are always open!!

[kissthigh]

Double Life ୨ৎ

Summary: The last time you saw him, he left you in the alleyway, leaving you with nothing, not even your dignity. This time around, you have something against him, and he doesn’t know how to handle it. ♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, stripper!user, prof x student, smut, rough sex, public sex, panties in mouth, unprotected sex, pet names (baby, whore), creampie, spanking, degradation, humiliation, embarrassment, blackmail, deception, banter, he’s reeeally mean, lying, manipulation, power imbalance, reader-insert, no mentions of y/n.  wc: 4.1k | : my laptop being iffy again… of course!! but I hope u guys enjoyed <33

part 1 here <3 + part 2 here <3

The lights in his office are dim, and an orange hue cascades across his face. He sits before you, his arms across his chest, and the gaze in his eyes unreadable as he looks down at what you’ve placed on his desk.

You sit there, uniform tight and fitting, your tie slightly loose around your neck, and leftover makeup from the night before—glitter on your eyes, dripping down your cheek, and your leg is crossed over the other.

“Where the fuck did you get this?” He asks, his eyes narrowing as he looks at you across from him, nostril flaring. “I don’t wanna hear a snarky remark, or anything like that—tell me where the fuck you got this.”

The grin that curls into your lips makes him ball his fist under his desk, the other hand tossing the glasses onto the desk that once sat on his nose. He sniffles and leans back, realizing the games you’re choosing to play.

“Where did you get my wife’s number?” He asks more clearly, his hands folded in his lap, and his eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know,” you shrug, tilting your head to the side.

It was simple, probably the easiest thing you’ve done; a few searches led you to a profile of hers, and then her job, and then her number on the website. A stupid chiropractic clinic downtown, one of the physicians who came in Mondays, Tuesdays, and Fridays, and there it was. Her number, written on a sticky note, before him.

“So,” he starts, tilting his head to match hours. “What? Are you gonna tell her I’m fucking you? A stripper?” He asks, running his tongue over his teeth.

“No,” you reply and shake your head, swallowing hard. “But I can lie.”

You watch his eyes darken in real time, and he scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief—he deserved it, really, for what he did to you last night; fucked you in an alleyway, left you there, admitted to fucking some teacher, and then told you to meet him in his office the next morning.

You listened, so obediently, and now you’re here, just like he wanted you to be.

“Lie? About what?” He asks, crossing his leg over the other, his hand scratching at his scruff. “She’s smart, wouldn’t believe a whore, you know?”

“She’d believe a student, though,” you pose, blinking slowly, and you slowly stand up. “A student… mhm, being fucked by her professor.”

His lips part at your words, and he watches you begin to walk towards his desk, bypassing it, walking around it. He swivels the leather chair around to meet you, uncrossing his legs, keeping them spread now. He inhales when you make your way between them, your hand reaching for his tie.

It’s like you’re doing a dance for him, but you’re not at all; you’re lightly tugging him by the tie, and he groans as your eyes meet, and his hands find your hips, gently pressing against the soft fabric of your pleated skirt.

“Do you want me to call her?” You ask, your eyes gazing down at him, and you can see his jaw clench. “Tell her you fuck me over your desk?” You add on, and his teeth grit.

“She wouldn’t believe you,” he mutters and shakes his head again, pulling you closer. “Besides, what’s your proof? Where’d you get that, baby?”

“Hmm…” you hum softly and look up at the ceiling, acting like you’re thinking hard. “Maybe your son would believe me.”

“What?” He practically growls, his hands freezing on your hips. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

You grin. “He goes here, I know that… majoring in engineering, mhm… graduated from high school with honours, same age as me,” you carry on, and you can see the anger building behind his eyes, and leaving with a deep exhale.

“Are you stalking my fucking family? Is that what’s happening here?” He asks, his eyes narrowing.

“You don’t have a family,” you shoot back, tightening your grip on his tie. “You have two people you go home to that don’t like you,” you mumble, and you can see him smiling.

“That’s right?” He asks, his eyebrows raising. “What’re you then? Where’s mommy and daddy?”

You swallow hard and shift on your feet. “You… you already had your chance to build a family, and you fucked it, and… and now you fuck strippers,” you reply, swallowing hard.

The two large hands on your hips lightly guide you, and you’re straddling his lap now, and your lips press together; it’s quick and hungry, all heat and teeth, both of you just eating each other alive. You can smell his thick cologne and cigarette smoke, and he can smell the sweet perfume you spray on before taking the stage.

His hands glide up your thighs, and he purposely digs his fingers into the sheer black tights, ripping them slightly, letting them fray. You groan softly the second he does it, and then there it is, the knock on the door.

“You in here?” The soft voice says, and you pull back, turning your head to gaze at the wooden door.

It’s her, the other professor he fucked last night before you, coming back in the morning, expecting something from him. You pry yourself off of him, wiping your mouth, and you’re lucky as she opens the door, only to see the slight shimmy away.

“Oh—are you… busy?” She asks, her eyes flicking between the two of you. “At… nine in the morning?” She adds, scoffing.

“No,” he states, adjusting his tie you yanked out of place. “She’s having difficulty with her schedule, that’s all.”

The professor looks at you, and her eyes narrow, and then they rake down your body, pausing at your thighs; the ripped tights, the way they’re fraying slightly by your thighs, and she clicks her tongue.

“Might wanna get some new tights,” she hisses, venom behind her words. “This is a classy school; we expect classy students.”

You swallow hard. “Sorry, ma'am.”

He glances at you and smirks, his hand covering the small quirk of his lips as he rubs over his scruff. He glances up at her and licks his lips, tilting his head to the side.

“What do you need?” He asks, his eyes narrowed at the older woman.

“I’ll… need something when a student isn’t in here,” she replies, her arms crossing over her chest, and you watch her breasts shift, her button-down letting her cleavage show.

“Alright,” he hums, and glances to you. “See you in class.”

The second the door closes behind you, you hear the giggling, the soft laughs from her and you glare over your shoulder, adjusting your skirt and shirt, trying your best to ignore the ripped tights that cover your thighs.

You find your best friend in the library, sitting at one of the tables, and you take a seat in front of you. She smiles, but it fades when she notices the tights—why is everybody noticing the tights?

“Did you get in a fight with a cat?” She asks, taking out her earbuds and laughing. “You’re gonna get dress-coded.”

You roll your eyes. “They ripped on a branch.”

“A branch?” She asks, laughing softly. “You’re an idiot.”

“Shut up,” you scoff and shake your head, reaching into your bag. “I’m so fucking tired.”

“Why?” She asks, her eyes glancing down at her textbooks and notebook. “That long booking last night?”

You almost flinch at her words, and then you realize that facade you had put up, the stupid lie about the kid’s birthday parties. You laugh nervously and nod.

“Yeah,” you say softly, pulling out your laptop. “It’s annoying…”

“Why’re they having you work on school nights? Like, don’t the kids have school in the morning?” She asks, lazily picking up her pen.

“I don’t know,” you lie, clicking the keyboard. “Maybe… I don’t know, it’s random.”

“It seems odd,” she says casually, shrugging. “Like, you’re booked every night… and it’s a college town? Where are these little kids?” She asks again, laughing.

“Sometimes I go out of town,” you lie again, the mouse moving over the screen. “Depends.”

“Maybe I can get in a gig,” she smiles, looking at you. “You know? Twin princesses… clearly you’re making a lot of money,” she adds, lightly kicking you beneath the table.

“Yeah… barely,” you lie and raise your brows.

“Come on,” she scoffs, shaking her head. “You have new shoes all the time, your hair is always done—what’re they paying you?”

You want to say hundreds of dollars, bills and bills from desperate men flashing you their wallet, but instead you lie and deny all accusations. She’s not sure she believes yoy, but she brushes it off. 

“Do you think teachers have sex?” Your friend brings it up, and your lips part, looking at her and away from your computer. “Like… with each other?”

“Yeah,” you nod, biting your lip. “Why?”

“My prof… she’s definitely fucking another professor,” she spills, licking her lips. “I mean, I don’t blame him… she has the prettiest red hair I’ve seen; it’s beautiful.”

The unfortunate churn in your stomach reveals itself when you scowl at her words, and you swallow back the sudden sickness that’s beginning to come up your throat. She’s talking about her, the woman that just interrupted your make-out session, the woman he fucked. 

“Probably fake, her hair,” you reply, glancing down at your screen.

“No… no, it’s not,” your friend shakes her head, and looks around at the library. “She keeps talking about this one professor—always telling us that he’s the best around, that he’s smart, and how she couldn’t meet with any of us this morning because she wouldn’t be in her office… she’d be in his.”

Yeah, she’s definitely talking about him, and you shift in the seat, still gazing at the screen. You merely shrug in response.

“Come on, you love gossip,” she eggs on, grinning. “Isn’t that weird? I feel like… it’s oddly personal to tell her students something like that.”

“Yeah, it’s weird, and she should be fired,” you reply, your voice a bit too stern, and her eyes widen.

“Okay… I didn’t know you loved gossip that much,” she teases, running her tongue over her teeth. “So, they’re fucking, yeah?”

“I don’t know!” You reply, your voice a bit too loud in the library, and a few students lift their heads from their books, glancing over at the two of you.

Your friend is shaking her head, waving her hand at how loud you just spoke up—you can’t help if, not when it feels like every nerve of yours has just been lit on fire, and then some. You feel sick.

“I was just asking,” she says, her voice quieter now that there’s an odd attention on both of you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head, going back to aimlessly typing on your computer. “I… I just need to get laid,” you laugh, trying to brush off the slight outburst.

“Okay, well, me too, but I don't scream in libraries,” she laughs quietly, clicking her tongue. “You seeing anyone?”

“No,” you deny and shake your head, clicking a new tab.

“Hmm… maybe you should go back on dating apps, find somewhere there,” she suggests, her eyes looking at her paper. “We could go on a double date! Like, to a bar, something cool…”

“Maybe,” you shrug, and she’s groaning quietly, clearly fed up with your weird attitude.

“Yeah, you definitely need dick,” she adds on, and you roll your eyes.

Time drones on in the library, and suddenly you’re packing up and splitting way after blabbering for almost two hours, talking about nonsense, and bringing up things the two of you shouldn't be saying in a public place, especially one of the prestigious places in the country.

By the time you make it to your lecture, the one where he’s the professor, you’re already filing in after other students, cramming your way into a small seat tucked in the back, and you’re taking out your laptop. He’s at the front, scribbling on the large chalkboard, writing nonsense you’re not sure you care about too much. 

Your eyes look down, and suddenly you’re a bit more conscious of the ripped tights, probably because a guy just sat beside you, and he’s peeking down there too, noticing the frays and the way they trickle down and almost hit your knee. You awkwardly smile.

The lecture starts, and you lift your head, swallowing hard as you watch him; his blazer off and draped over the chair, his tie loose around his neck, and he’s going on, and on about stuff you don't care enough to type into the Word document that's open, unused and blank. You’re mainly focused on the time, watching it tick, and tick, waiting for it to go by and end so you can leave.

That’s until the guy beside you is nudging you, pulling you out of your daze.

“Hm?” you say softly, innocent eyes staring into his blue ones.

“He just called on you,” he says, nodding towards the front of the room.

Arms crossed across his broad chest, there he stands, a piece of chalk in his hand, and every other student has their head turned, waiting for you to stand up and make your way to the front of the room. Your lips part, and your heart drops, burning in your stomach, and you swallow hard, standing on your feet.

“This… is what a student looks like who doesn't listen,” he drawls, walking towards the chalkboard, and you’re hastily walking down the steps, moving towards the front of the room. “This isn’t to call her out, no… It’s to call all of you out, but she’s just an example.”

This is beyond inappropriate; the humiliation he’s putting you through–it’s on purpose. Your tights are ripped, and your face is flush, and he’s grinning when his back turns to the audience. You stand behind him now, and he turns around, his eyes finding yours; revenge wrapped up in a false lesson to teach the students. You’re pouting; he almost feels guilty.

“I’m gonna hand her a piece of chalk,” he says to the students, and they’re all sitting up now, attention piqued now that a student is being used as bait, you. “And she’s gonna write down the last ten words I said in my lecture.”

Your hand holds the piece of chalk, warm and sweaty from his palm, and you begin to walk towards the large chalkboard. He’s sauntering behind you, his footsteps soft on the carpeted floor, and the students stare and analyze, now trying to look like they care. Nobody wants to be in your position.

The chalk is shaky in your hand, and you go to write, but you can't. Of course, you can't. You don't remember a single word, not right now at least.

“See,” he says, taking the chalk from you when you give up and turn around. “Imagine… if she remembered those words, and actually paid attention to what was happening–if there were a quiz, she would’ve failed, and I’m sure most of you would, too.”

You shift awkwardly on your feet, swallowing hard and looking down. The gazes of the other students are too much right now, and you know they're looking at you, silently making fun of you despite the fact you stand in front of larger crowds than this sometimes, half-naked and dancing, but this is all criticism, and embarrassment, and it’s a threat. You know it is.

“She’s gonna stand here for the rest of the lecture and watch from a place where she’ll focus… this goes for all of you, so all of you… focus,” he says, his voice sharp as he returns to the board.

It’s almost scary; the way every student is suddenly rapidly typing, eyes glancing from keyboard to the chalkboard, focused on just getting the words from his mouth onto something they’ll remember, trying their best to occupy themselves with something, praying they won't be put into your spot.

None of them would be as wet as you right now, though.

When the lecture ends, his hand finds your shoulder, and he’s mumbling for you to stay behind, of course. The other students leave, eyes taking a peek at you as you stand by his desk. He’s sitting behind it, eyes flipping through paper–he’s purposely trying to look occupied; you’ve seen him do it before, not at work, but in motels when he’s flipping through his wallet or phone, and you’re watching, trying to strike and ask him a question. 

“You humiliated me,” you tell him when the students leave, and the lecture is empty.

“Did I?” he asks, not looking away from the papers. “I was teaching you a lesson, while teaching a lesson,” he replies, his humour falling flat.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you reply, standing in front of the small desk, the one that’s less intimidating than the one in his office.

“Is that why you’re wet?” he asks, slowly looking up from the papers.

You freeze, your jaw going slack at his words. You shake your head.

“I’m not,” you reply.

“Take your underwear off,” he commands, setting down the paper. “Take the ripped, stupid-looking tights off, and then take your dirty panties off, and put them on my desk.”

It’s like you’re on autopilot; your hands lift your skirt, and you shimmy down the tights, awkwardly pulling them off, your bare legs now showing in the artificial lecture lighting, and your shoes are off too, and then comes the cotton underwear. White, but now translucent. You drop it on his desk.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, glancing at the pile. “Why are they sticky?”

“Because I’m wet, sir,” you reply, nodding.

His hand reaches for them, and he holds them up, humiliating you even more.

“You’re wet,” he replies dryly, nodding as he licks his lips. “You’re a fucking whore, that’s what you are–getting wet, in front of your peers?”

“I-I–” you stutter, and he waves you over as he rises to his feet.

You move away from in front of his desk and walk around towards him, and he has your underwear in his hand, holding it in his fist. He gestures for you to go in front of him, and he immediately pushes you forward, forcing you to grip the edge of the desk.

“Put it in your mouth,” he mumbles, but he’s not asking you; he’s already reaching around and shoving it into your mouth. He’s gagging you.

The fabric of your skirt lifts, and he’s immediately slapping your ass, a cold, hard, solid smack right across you. You whine into the fabric and rock forward, your hands gripping the edge, knuckles going white, and the sound echoes in the empty lecture hall.

“Tell my wife anything,” he mumbles, punctuating the words with another hard slap. “And I will fail you, and I will make your life hell,” he adds, another cold slap against your ass.

You whine and close your eyes, your body rocking forward again, your ass already raw from his large palm. He glances at your face and smiles.

“You’ll redo my course, over and over,” he taunts, lightly rubbing the space he just smacked. “And I’ll fail you… over and over, make your daddy waste his money on his stupid daughter who does nothing for him,” he continues—another hard smack.

Each smack sends you forward, and there’s a pause, and a light jingle of his belt unclasping and undoing. You swallow hard and shift, your ass wiggling for him, and he smiles.

“And after I fail you…” he goes on, undoing his belt, and then his slacks. “I’ll go to that club you work at, and watch you work for money that’ll go nowhere, and then I’ll fuck you,” he punctuates the words with a nudge of his knee against the back of yours. You go limp and lean forward.

You’re whimpering into your underwear, your eyes glancing over your shoulder now, and you can see just how much he’s enjoying this; you bent over and limp, your head bowed forward, and then his hard cock nudges your entrances. You wince.

“You’ll be here tomorrow, and all you'll be able to think about is my cock inside of you,” he says, his voice stern as he grips your hips, shifting closer. “No other student is gonna know–maybe they will, walking in with ripped tights, looking at me with those eyes; everyone could see it, baby.”

And then he does it; that strong thrust forward, similar to last night's; no warning, just a hard rock that sends your eyes back and your body forward. You grip the desk harder and moan into the underwear, and he’s already thrusting back and forth, quick and fast, his eyes gazing around the room; the desks, the audience, the fact that a new professor is going to come in and take over, in just fifteen minutes. And you’re bent over, half naked, and filled with him.

“Gonna… gonna tell my wife about this?” he asks, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. “You’re too much of a bitch to; you’ll miss my cock too much,” he shoots, gripping your hips tighter and tighter, letting his fingers bruise your skin.

You’re already collapsing forward on the desk, your knees buckling as he mercilessly pounds into you, hitting every spot over and over, and you’re whining helplessly into your underwear, tasting it, the wetness. Your eyes are closed and he’s going back and forth, hard and quick, moving with speed in ways that make you want to cry, but come back for more.

“Maybe I’ll fail you regardless,” he spits, the threat making you whine louder, despite the fact you can barely process anything. “Make you come back and sit in the audience… make you watch me do this all over again, maybe with another girl, huh?”

The thought makes your skin burn, and your blood boil, and you shake your head quickly, and he smirks, a hand leaving your hip and knotting into your hair. He tugs and pulls you upwards, forcing you to stand as he pauses practically.

“But you’re a greedy bitch and wouldn’t want that,” he hisses, and shovers you back down, your body hitting the desk with a soft thud, and he continues to move back and forth, hard thrusts. 

All you can think about is how he must fuck that other woman; is he gentle? Is he soft? Does he tell her that he likes her? Does he say nice things? You almost don't want him to say those things to you–you almost want it to be rough and degrading, for him to use you, in his fucking classroom, in a dirty motel room, not in his bed or in his house.

“God,” he groans as he keeps thrusting and thrusting, his hips ruthlessly driving his cock deeper into you, and you’re wailing into your stuffed mouth. “You… you just take me, and take me,” he grunts, his head tipping back.

You try to mumble something into the underwear, but you can’t; it comes out as a soft whine as your knees buckle, and you’re practically falling onto the ground at this point, and then he cums.

He cums hard, and he buries himself deep inside of you, hitting that soft, spongy part that sends stars into your eyes, and your chest heaves and you lean forward. He’s grunting and panting, filling you up more than you’d like to admit—it just keeps coming, and you’re whining.

He pulls out just as fast though, and lets the cum spill down your thighs, and he discards you just as quickly; he pulls back and lets you stand there, all limp and wobbly, your body lax. He pants, and looks at the clock, shoving your skirt down.

“Gotta go,” he murmurs, and you’re whining, your head shaking. “Gonna get caught… being a whore.”

His hand pulls your underwear out of your mouth, and he doesn’t give it back to you; no, it gets shoved into his pocket, and you’re collecting yourself, trying to stand.

“I… I can’t stand,” you practically whimper, looking over your shoulder, and he’s stuffing his cock into his pants.

“You’re gonna walk out of here without underwear on,” he states, ignoring your soft pleas, and you shine again, standing on your feet. “And people are gonna see your thighs covered in my cum.”

His words are sharp, and he’s adjusting his tie, and sliding his blazer on, and you’re doing the same; pulling your skirt down, and trying to put on your shoes. You swallow hard and begin walking toward the exit doors, knowing how sticky you are, how your legs are jello, and how your face is flush.

And then she walks by; she’s the professor for the next lecture, and she’s talking to him. And you’re leaving, still filled with him. 

[sunsetbywater]

safety and honor and a stream of orderly magic is always with me

[heartsscribe]

Cookies n Cream

summary: You’ve been pining over the man next door for months. On a humid summer afternoon, the devil angel on your shoulder finally wins the argument. Between a batch of cookies and a blue sundress, you’re hoping for more than just a polite "thank you" at his front door.

warnings: age gap (reader mid-20s, leon 50), re9!leon, female reader, smut (vaginal sex, fingering, cowgirl, missionary), praise kink, mild dirty talk

pairing: Leon Kennedy x Reader

word count: 7k

A/N: English isn’t my first language, so any constructive criticism is welcome!😭 Likes and reblogs are appreciated

This is stupid. But watching Leon pull his bike into the driveway next door, shoulders heavy with a kind of exhaustion that looked bone-deep, was the final push. He’s back from whatever "work" keeps him gone for months, and opportunities to see him when he isn't guarded or half-dead on his feet don’t come often. After months of pining over the older, quiet man, you finally have the nerve to act.

You stand in your neglected kitchen, squinting at a blog post on your phone. “Set the oven to…” you murmur, fumbling with the dial until it clicks. Flour coats your knuckles as you measure sugar and butter. The ceramic bowl skids across the counter, but you catch it just before it hits the floor. By the time you shaped the first cookies onto the tray, your hands were dusted in white, and the smell of dough filled the air. You slide the tray into the oven, heart racing at the thought of giving these to him.

The whole house smells like a warm bakery by the time you reach the wardrobe. There it is—the blue sundress, still hanging exactly where you left it in the back. You reach for it before you can talk yourself out of it. 

The silk slides easily over your hips, the fabric soft and light against your skin. Your reflection makes you pause. Yeah…he’s definitely going to notice this.

You settle for a lighter makeup look, adding more emphasis to your eyes. An approving hum slips from you as you study your reflection. 

You gather your hair, letting it fall loosely before smoothing it down, just enough to make it sit the way you want. A few strands frame your face as you give yourself one last look.

The air in the kitchen is warm. You tuck the last of your things into your purse before stepping toward the oven. When you open it, the smell of fresh cookies rises up –sweet and inviting—and something in your chest loosens.

You take them out carefully, wrapping them into a container, your movements slower now, steadier. 

With the cookies secured, you move back to your purse. You unzip it, glancing inside—phone, keys, everything still in place—then close it and sling the strap over your shoulder.

Outside, your skin tingles under the heat of the sun. The neighborhood’s quietness amplifies the sound of your steps, the fabric of the dress swishing against your legs. Your grip on the container tightens, palms slick as you near Leon's house. A stupid idea, you thought, scoffing. 

Before you can hesitate further, you’re already on Leon’s front porch. With a deep inhale, your hold on the container loosens. Relax Y/N. Don’t overthink this. Wiping your free hand down your dress, you ring the doorbell and quickly retract it to your side. 

Insecurity washes over you as the moment stretches on, and for a second you wonder if you should’ve just stayed home. Just as you start to wallow—

“Hey there.”

You look up—and there he is. Leon. Obnoxiously attractive as ever.

He’s clad in a long-sleeved compression shirt, completely unfitting for the summer heat. It clings to him, outlining his physique a little too well. Is that even his size?

And he smells—god, he smells incredible. Clean and warm, something woodsy underneath, like fresh soap and fabric that’s been sitting in the sun too long.

Your breath hitches as you catch yourself gawking like a creep. Your posture straightens unconsciously. Not trusting your voice yet, you lift a hand in an awkward wave, nearly dropping the plastic container in the process.

The container is pressed closer to your chest now. “Hi…Mr. Kennedy," your voice comes out breathless–way too breathless. God, you felt like a highschooler with a barely masked crush.

“How’s it going Y/n,” Leon’s voice draws you out of your thoughts and you try not to linger on the quiet warmth in it.

You cough. “Um, fine—really fine. How about you?” That last part comes out a little rushed.

“Not too bad,” Leon answers, a warm smile on his face.

Without overthinking, you hold out the cookies to him. “So uh..I think I underestimated the portion and made too much of these,” the deliberate lie slips out from you. “...And I thought, maybe you’d like some?” 

Hmm, that was much less frightening than you thought it would be. Surprise flickers across Leon’s face, but he quickly masks it with a faint smile. He certainly hadn’t expected his next-door neighbor to show up at his door, somehow even prettier than he remembered.  For a moment, he just takes in the sight of you before speaking.

“I really appreciate it, Y/n.”

A quiet hum leaves his lips as he takes the cookies from you, his expression softening. “These look really good,” he says, glancing back at you, “Thanks, again.”

Nodding, you reply, “It’s nothing.” Now that your hands have lost their anchor, you smooth them down your dress, hoping to hide just how nervous you feel.

Leon scratches the back of his neck, looking toward his apartment. He hesitates, then asks, “Do you… maybe want to come in? If it’s okay.”

You press your lips together, stifling the small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Not wanting to make your excitement too obvious, you reply, “I don’t want to be a bother.” You’re secretly hoping he sees right through the bluff and insists on letting you in anyway.

He tilts his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “A bother? Not at all… I wouldn’t mind some company.”

“Okay—of course… I mean, yeah.” You groan internally at the sound of your voice, please stay home next time. Leon, however, doesn’t react to your flustered state, simply stepping aside to let you in.

The first thing you notice is how clean and quiet his place is. Light streams through the tall windows, hitting the pale floors and making the space feel bigger than it is. There’s barely any furniture, but it all feels effortless, like someone who uses what they need and nothing more.

Leon walks over to the kitchen, placing the cookies on the sleek marble countertops. His kitchen is immaculate, almost too neat. He gestures his hands towards the living room, “Please y/n, make yourself at home.” 

You shift slightly, then reply, “Thanks,” moving to sit on the couch. You tuck your hands into your lap, hoping you don’t look as out of place as you feel. A half read book lies upside down on the coffee table, its pages slightly bent, like it had been abandoned mid-thought. You linger on it for a moment—then your gaze shifts, catching on the wilting flowers in the vase. The faint scent of their petals drifts to you, and after a pause, you clear your throat and glance at him.

“Mr. Kennedy,” you say, your words a little halting, “what do you usually get up to this time of year?”

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Leon’s fine,” he says with a small smile. “And…well,” he hums for a moment, “not anything interesting if I'm being honest. Just, maybe picking up some old hobbies.”

You hum. “Makes sense… I should probably be more like you, Mr Kenne—uh, Leon.”

He raises an eyebrow, a small grin forming, “What, you mean boring and bad at cooking?”

You shake your head, a small laugh escaping. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just… I want to have more time for myself. My friends always drag me to every new event.”

Though you liked keeping busy, sometimes you just wanted a little space to do your own thing, and honestly, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to be a little “boring” for once.

“Well… it’s good to have a balance of both,” Leon says, walking over to where you’re seated, “just don’t compare yourself to me—or to anyone else.”

You chuckle, looking up at him, “Thanks for the wisdom.”

He huffs out a laugh, “Don’t mention it,” a hint of amusement in his tone. 

Leon’s eyes stay on you, calm and steady, and for a moment you can’t look away. Growing shy under his gaze, you look to the side, pretending the abstract painting on his wall is suddenly fascinating. Your stomach twists, a faint warmth creeping up your neck. Woman up Y/n — you didn’t come here to melt under his stare.

The quiet stretches, just enough for you to notice the soft ticking of the clock.

“…You look different today,” he says, breaking the silence.

“Different how?” you ask, looking back at him, trying to sound normal and failing miserably.

He shrugs slightly, but doesn’t look away, “Dressed up,” he says. “For cookies?”

Oh God. Abort mission. “I always dress like this,” you lie.

He steps a little closer, not enough to be obvious, but enough that you notice.

“Right,” he says, uncertainty laced in his tone.

“You don’t look convinced.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Maybe I’m not,” he says.

You let out a small, breathy laugh. “God, you’re making this really embarrassing for me.”

His expression shifts, softer now. “Wasn’t my intention,” he says quietly.

You take a deep breath in. “I just…” you start, then stop. God, say it. 

You let out a small, nervous laugh, shaking your head. “Wow, this sounded a lot better in my head.”

Leon doesn’t interrupt this time, he just watches you, patiently, and that almost makes it worse.

“I didn’t come here just to give you cookies,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “I mean—I did, but not just for that.”

Your fingers twist together in your lap. 

“I wanted an excuse to see you.”

There. It’s not everything, but it’s something? The silence that follows isn’t awkward, just, heavy.

Leon’s expression has changed again. Not teasing this time. Something more focused, like he’s actually seeing you now.

“…An excuse?” he repeats. 

You nod quickly, heat rushing to your face. “Yeah. Because if I didn’t have one, I probably wouldn’t have come over at all.”

“Why not?”

You let out a breath, almost a huff. “Because you make me nervous.”

That earns you a quiet reaction, a small exhale, almost like a surprised laugh under his breath. “Do I?”

“Yes,” you say immediately, then wince at how fast that came out. “I mean—obviously. Look at you.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and you pause, already regretting it. For a second, nothing happens. Then Leon lets out a quiet laugh, an actual one, not just the polite kind he usually gives.

“‘Look at me,’ huh?” he echoes.

You groan, covering your face for a second. “Can we pretend I didn’t say that?”

“No,” he says easily.

You peek at him through your fingers. He’s smiling, but there’s something else under it now. Something warmer and more interested. “…I’m glad you did,” he adds.

That makes your stomach flip, and you slowly lower your hands. The air between you feels different now, heavier and charged. Leon leans back a little, crossing his arms, but his gaze doesn’t leave you.

“So,” he says, tilting his head just a bit, “you baked too many cookies, dressed up, and came over… just for an excuse to see me.”

Your throat goes dry. “…Yeah.” 

Silence settled between you again as Leon studies you for a moment.

He tilts his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Well,” he murmurs, voice cutting through the quiet, “I guess I better make it worth your trouble.”

No fucking way.

You huff out a laugh, trying to hide the deep flush on your cheeks. “How do you plan on doing that?”  

His eyes darken slightly, amused, and he steps closer. One hand comes up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, then lingering on your cheek. You turn your face away, cheeks burning.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice low but teasing, “don’t look away from me now.”

“I’m not… I’m just…” You search the living room for a distraction. “Taking in the… architecture. It’s nice.”

Leon lets out a genuine laugh, the sound short and breathy. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

You manage a small, awkward grin, shaking your head, “Hey… give me some credit, okay? It’s not easy coming up with a lie on the spot.”

Seeing the way your cheeks flush, Leon leans back slightly, just enough to tilt your face up with two fingers beneath your chin. “If it would make you more comfortable, then I’m as nervous as you are,” he murmurs softly.

You feel your eyes soften themselves, something Leon doesn’t miss. You reach out hesitantly, fingers gently wrapping around his hand.

 “Is it because…,” you let the sentence trail off, not wanting to make false assumptions. 

“I think you know why,” he says, voice quieter than you expected.  

You bite your lip, fighting the urge to close the distance between you. His gaze drops to your lips—so quickly you almost miss it. A beat passes. Maybe two. You don’t realize how much closer you’ve gotten until the tip of your nose lightly brushes against his. 

Before you can close the gap, Leon pulls back—just slightly. He exhales, unsteady, eyes closing as if he’s trying to think. He shakes his head once. Then he straightens.

“Fuck, I… I’m sorry Y/n, that was really out of line,” he says, a slight crack in his tone, lungs still breathless. 

Your face scrunches up in confusion, did you do something wrong?

Leon pinches the bridge of his nose, voice tight and jittery. “You’re… you’re young, and I… I shouldn’t be doing this.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. “God, I wasn’t thinking.”

You stay seated a heartbeat longer, cheeks warm, fingers twisting in your lap. Slowly, you push off the couch, letting the cushions sigh behind you. You rise carefully, testing yourself as much as him.

Leon glances up, startled. His eyes flick between your face and your hands, catching the way your fingers brush the edge of your dress. His shoulders tighten, a quiet tension coursing through him.

You take a tiny step closer, almost instinctively letting your fingertips brush against the edge of his arm. “I… um,” you murmur, voice a little shaky. “I’m not a kid. I… I wanted this.”

Your lips twitch into a nervous, fleeting smile. “The cookies, the dress,” you let out a shaky exhale before proceeding, “I thought… maybe you’d like them.” The words are quiet, almost hesitant. 

Leon swallows hard, caught in between surprise and disbelief. He’s trying to process you, trying to understand. 

Seeing the confused look on his face, you let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I think you know why a girl would go out of her way…to do all this,” you say, glancing up at him. 

Feeling entirely too bold for your own good, you take his hand, placing it on your waist. “I know what I want Leon," you say, voice coming out lower than you intended. “But…if I misread this and you want nothing to do with me—then,” a shaky exhale falls from you. “Then I’ll leave.”

You couldn’t believe you just did that, not as someone who was never this direct. Either way, you weren’t going to waste any more of your time on someone who had no interest in you.

Leon blinks rapidly, his mouth falling open for a second before he snaps it shut. “I…” He trails off. “No—I… I do,” he admits, voice unsteady, though there’s a quiet certainty beneath it. He huffs out a breath of laughter, turning his head to the side. “God, I do want you. I want you so bad.”

Your breath hitches, caught off guard by the rawness in his voice.

“How could I not?” Leon’s voice is a low, tired rasp, and the grip on your waist finally firms up, pulling you flush against him. He huffs a short, dry laugh, his gaze dropping to your lips. “I’ve been trying not to want you, Y/N. Believe me. “But you’re… you’re genuine. Ambitious, kind, smart. You’ve got this energy I can’t even describe, and I’ve spent far too much time away thinking about it.” He shakes his head, his thumb grazing the skin just above your hip.

A small, almost shy smile tugs at your lips, and your heart skips a beat. You can feel the warmth of him pressed against you. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the quiet between you heavy but charged. You glance up, catching his gaze, and it feels like the world has narrowed down to just the two of you.

Your fingers inch along his arm, tentative, lingering. He leans closer, his forehead almost brushing yours. You can feel your heartbeat in the quiet, each thump louder than the last.

Finally, you murmur, voice barely above a whisper: “Kiss me.”

Leon’s breath catches. His lips hover near yours for a heartbeat, then slowly, deliberately, he closes the gap. The first brush of his lips against yours was soft, uncertain, almost like neither of you could comprehend that this was actually happening.

His lips are soft, so much softer than you thought they would be. The roughness of his stubble grazes your cheek, sending chills straight down your spine. Leon takes your hands, brushing over them softly before guiding them to rest at his nape.

Your lips curve into a smile against his, fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. Leon coaxes your mouth open slowly with his tongue, a low groan slipping from him as he deepens the kiss. You sigh breathlessly, the taste of him intensifying and going straight to your head.

You slowly pull apart from the kiss, both a little breathless. Leon’s face is flushed, pupils blown so wide the blues of his irises are almost black.  

“I’m tired of standing,” you murmur, your bottom lip softening into a pout.

“Yeah,” he rasps, voice unsteady, hands tightening as he walks you back toward the couch.

As Leon takes a seat, you decide to be bolder, climbing into his lap. A rush of adrenaline tingles through your body. His eyes widen a fraction, surprised by your sudden boldness—like the kiss has knocked something loose in you.

You shift in his lap, tentative at first, until you find a position that feels right. His hands slide to your waist, warm and certain, and the small reassurance of it steadies your nerves. Your breath catches as your eyes drop to his lips again. This time, you don’t hesitate — you lean in, closing the space between you.

Leon’s grip on your waist is still there, and you feel it begin to grow tighter as the kiss deepens. You adjust your weight in his lap, and the small movement pulls a sharp hiss from him. You quickly bite back the soft moan that nearly escapes you.

His tongue teasingly traces your bottom lip, the action making your grip on his shirt tighten. Of their own accord, your thighs begin to move against Leon’s lap, slow and unsteady.  A low groan escapes him as his tongue nudges yours, parting your lips. Every brush of his tongue sends a jolt through you, heat pooling between your legs. 

A soft moan slips from you as your heat presses perfectly against his growing bulge. You grind against his thigh, the friction impossibly right. Leon gasps—really gasps—before his hands drift downward to your ass, gripping firmly and urging you on.

Without warning, Leon pulls back from your lips, his face flushed, lips tinged red. He holds your gaze, voice low and rough. “You sure you want to go further?”

“Mhmm,” you murmur, cheeks warming, fingers twisting together. Your voice is quiet, a little shaky—but there’s a teasing edge. “I… I could do all the work… if you think you can keep up at your age.”

Your stomach tightens at your own boldness. You weren’t sure what you were getting yourself into. Leon looked… strong, capable, and completely unflinching, and just imagining what might come next makes your cheeks heat. Could you really keep up with him?

“Riiight,” he smirks, his gaze sharp. “Guess I’ll leave it to you then… ma’am.”

Your chest tightens. No, no! He was actually letting you take the lead? Oh… you were absolutely doomed.

A nervous cough escapes you, trying—and failing—to hide the quiver in your voice. “R-right then… buckle up, Leon” His terrible jokes were already rubbing off on you. Of course, Leon laughs, really laughs, and for a moment, his eyes crinkle at the corners, making him look younger, almost mischievous.

Leon rubs his hands against your upper thighs, eyes lidded. “If it’s fine with you… maybe we could go to my room?”

You bite your lip, heart skipping, and nod. “Yeah… let’s.”

He lifts you with ease, your thighs wrapping around his waist as your arms settle around his shoulders. Without breaking the moment, he turns and starts up the stairs, each step measured as he carries you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

With his foot, he nudges the bedroom door open and carries you inside. Your heart races, excitement bubbling through you. You hadn’t expected things to go this far, even though you’d worn the black lacy set in preparation–but now that they have, you’re not complaining.

Leon places you gently on the bed and takes a step back. His voice lowers, tinged with concern. “Last chance to back out… are you really su—”

Your cheeks heat, heart hammering. You bite your lip, words catching in your throat… then the need bursts out before you can stop it. “Leon… if you don’t—fuck me—right now… I swear I’ll die from frustration,” you whisper, voice trembling, almost pleading.

Leon huffs out a laugh at your boldness, the side of his mouth curving up into a slight smirk, “Demanding, are we?”

Growing increasingly impatient, you toy with the neckline of your dress,  just enough to hint at the curve of your chest. Leon gulps, his eyes dropping to the flash of black lace peeking out from beneath the fabric. He steps closer, large hands settling on your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles against your skin.

“Can I?” he murmurs. 

You felt your face getting hot as you nodded and whispered back, “Yeah.”

His thumb drifts to the slit of your dress, tracing the smooth skin of your upper thigh. You bite back a soft mewl as his fingers gather the fabric, inching it slowly higher. Your breath catches as the material slides up, revealing more than it did before.

Finally tugging the dress over your head, his eyes rake over you, blue melting into molten as they take in the lacy black set you chose to wear.  He leans in, curling a finger under your chin to tilt your face up. “You really had this planned out, huh?” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

Your cheeks heat, and you press your hands to your face. “Stop…”

Leon reaches for your hands, lowering them gently. “Hey, hey… none of that,” he says softly, fingers brushing over yours. “There’s nothing to be shy about. I… really appreciate the effort.”

Something in your chest eases, a warmth spreading through you as your nerves settle slightly. Leon steps back, gaze steady on you as he pulls the navy shirt over his head. 

Your eyes widen as you catch sight of him shirtless. You’d known he was big—his skin-tight shirts had done nothing to hide it—but seeing him like this… your gaze lingers on the solid expanse of his chest, shoulders, and arms, every inch impossibly thick and muscular.

Leon’s voice cuts through your ogling, “Why don’t you take a picture?”

The corny joke pulled out a breathy laugh from you, “You can’t be real,” you murmur, shaking your head.

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s pleased with himself. He leans in slowly this time, giving you a second to react, to pull away. You don’t.

His hands find your thighs, warm and steady, and when he kisses you again, it’s firmer—less teasing, more intent. The kiss deepens quickly, his tongue tracing your bottom lip. You part your lips without resistance, letting him in, a soft sound slipping from the back of your throat.

His thumbs press lightly against your abdomen, tracing a slow path upward toward your sternum. A soft, involuntary moan slips from your mouth, and his fingers linger there for a heartbeat, as if memorizing the curve of your body—before they begin to drift downward again, gliding over the gentle slope of your waist. They move lower, thighs clenching when his fingers brush against the delicate lace of your underwear.

Leon breaks away from the kiss, eyes filled with concern, “You ok?”

You catch your breath as he pulls back, heart racing. “Yeah… yeah, I just… haven’t done this in a while, and… I guess I’m just… more sensitive,” you breathe out, words trembling slightly.

He lets out a short laugh, eyes softening, “Yeah… uh, same here.”

You slowly release the tension in your thighs, letting your legs fall into a more open, relaxed position. Leon’s gaze drifts lower, catching on to the wet patch on your panties. He groans–quiet but hoarse, “Fuck you’re soaking.”

Then, his hand slides into your underwear, fingers feathering across your mound. A broken whimper falls from your lips, pussy clenching around nothing at all. Leon’s fingers move to your slit, slowly circling your entrance. The delicate trace has you shifting restlessly beneath him, desperate for more. 

And then, after what feels like forever, he drags a single finger between your folds. It's just one finger, but it feels more than it should, your jaw unlocking and falling wide open.

You arch helplessly into his hand, chasing more. A sharp gasp escapes you as he adds a second finger, the stretch making your thighs quiver uncontrollably. 

He settles into a deliberate rhythm, his thumb circling your clit with slow, measured circles.

“Oh fuck… Leon.”A low moan breaks from you, your toes curling against the sheets.

You shove your face into the sheets, hips jerking forward as he curls his fingers through your fluttering walls. Leon watches your face closely, noting every subtle reaction. 

“That’s the spot?” He whispers, voice strained. 

You nod against the sheets, feeling your vision going hazy at the edges. A loud, frantic moan slips past your teeth as his thumb speeds over your clit, the pressure just right. Immediately, your hand covers your mouth, attempting to bury any more moans that threaten to spill out. 

“I want to hear you,” he says, his voice low and rough, “Let me hear you.”

Slowly, you lower your hand, resting it against your upper chest. His fingers plunge in and out of you, the pace quickening as he leans in. “Yeah… that’s a good girl,” he coos.

You clench hard around his fingers at the praise, a sharp gasp escaping. “Oh god, Leon—”

Leon’s eyebrows arch, his head tilting with a smirk. “You like that, huh?”

Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound catching in your throat as the friction becomes too much. 

“Leon... I’m—I’m close,” you say hoarsely, legs shaking uncontrollably as you near your edge. 

Leon looks down at you, his gaze dark and feral. “Yeah?” he goads, his pace turning ruthless, “Then don’t you dare hold back for me.”

All you can do is nod, eyes glittered with tears that threaten to spill over your lashes. 

“Fuck! ‘Im gonna cum,” you whine pathetically, hardly breathing at this point. “Leon–oh god, m’ gonna–” you cry out, every thought burned away by the raw friction of his fingers.

“I know, I know,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “I’m right here. Do it for me, sweetheart.” He maintains a punishingly perfect pace that leaves no room for air.

Without warning, the sensation tips over the edge. Your breath dies in your throat as your cunt seizes around his hand. Everything goes white, your eyes stinging and wet. 

Your back finally rests against the bed, chest heaving in a ragged rhythm. Leon tracks your shallow breaths, his gaze softening at your exhaustion. With agonizing slowness, he uncurls his nimble fingers and slides them from your slick, aching heat. A tiny, broken gasp leaves your lips as he retreats.

He leans over you, his thumb brushing away the stray strands of hair clinging to your damp forehead. “Good job,” he whispers, his voice a low, grounding rumble.

Usually, you’d flush and hide, but the intensity has left you with a daring, heavy-lidded buzz. Instead of shrinking away, you shift, propping yourself up on your elbows. The movement is slow, intentional, and entirely uncharacteristic of your usual shyness.

“Said I was gonna do all the work, right?” you whisper, your voice dropping into a sultry, confident edge as you look him dead in the eye. You offer him a playful, challenging smirk. “So lay back down, old man.”

Leon huffs out a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. “Alright, ma’am,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave as he plays along.

He settles back against the mattress, lacing his fingers behind his head to give you the floor. He looks entirely too comfortable, his gaze fixed on you with a heavy, hooded sort of expectation—like he’s just waiting to see if you can actually back up the talk.

Smug bastard.

“Ready when you are,” he groans, the corner of his lip twitching up into a lazy, lopsided smirk.

Oh, you are definitely going to wipe that look off his face.

Slowly, you push off your elbows, your weight shifting as you crawl over him until you're straddling his abdomen. You settle there, staying just high enough to keep him waiting.

Leon’s eyes go dark, his breath hitching as you press down against the hard ridges of his abs. You reach back, the muscles of your arms tensing as you fumble with the clasp of your bra.

The moment the metal clicks, the air leaves Leon’s lungs in a low, shaky exhale. The smugness finally fractures, his jaw tightening as he stares up at you, his composure stripped away as your bra falls from your chest.

His gaze drops from your face, tracking the movement with a heavy, unblinking focus, his mouth hanging open slightly as any witty retorts are seemingly scorched from his mind. “Fuck... you’re so beautiful, you know that?” he whispers, his voice strained and barely audible in the quiet of the room.

Your neck flushes at the compliment—as if he’s one to talk. Leon’s hands slide down your sides to find your waist, his grip firm as his fingers drift lower, grazing the edge of your lace.

You slightly lift your hips up, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slide them down your legs, leaving a faint, shimmering trail of wetness clinging to the soft fabric.

You’re fully naked above him, skin gleaming in the dim light. Leon doesn’t know where to fix his gaze—your face, the curve of your chest, or the heat where your mound presses against his abs. He looks utterly entranced, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. Your fingers drift down to toy with the waistband of his jeans, a silent question in your touch.

"Can I?" you whisper.

He nods, his breath hitching in anticipation.

You make quick work of the zipper on his jeans. You’re impatient as you unbutton them and shove the denim down, leaving him in nothing but boxers. You swallow hard; you’d felt how big he was, but seeing the heavy bulge up close like this sends a fresh spike of heat through you.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and peel them away, dragging them down his legs with excruciating slowness. You toss them aside, and your gaze remains fixed, eyes immediately locked on his cock. The air between you goes heavy as you take him in, every inch of him finally exposed.

You swallow, blinking dazedly as you take in the length and thickness. It’s huge. The tip is flushed dark, already leaking slightly. It’s rock solid, twitching with every breath he takes. You don’t think your hand could even close all the way around it. 

You cough, a desperate attempt to swallow your obvious fluster. “Wow, can still get it up, old man?” you say, feigning confidence—yet your voice lacks any real stability.

Leon chuckles, low and dark, “You’re bluffing.” 

You roll your eyes playfully, thighs squeezing firmly around his hips to regain control. “Whatever, just—put it in,” you scoffed, trying to hide the fact that your heart was racing.

“Change of plans? I thought you were gonna handle this part yourself,” he drawls, mocking you with that lazy, arrogant smirk.

Your eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine then,” you challenge.

You reach down to circle the base of his length; the sudden contact makes him twitch, reacting instinctively to your grip. Slowly, your hand slides along his shaft, grip tightening slightly. Leon’s hips jerk up into your palm, a low groan escaping him at the weight of your touch.

Suddenly, you bite your lip, the heat in the room momentarily chilled by a realization. "Leon, wait," you whisper, your movements faltering. "I just realized… do you have protection?

Leon doesn't even blink. He just reaches out, his large hand covering yours for a brief second before gesturing blindly toward the mahogany nightstand. "Top drawer," he rasps, his voice a low, rough command. "Back corner."

You pause, a playful smirk tugging at your lips as you reach over and slide the heavy drawer open. You have to push aside a fountain pen and a stack of printed documents just to find the small, foil square.

The wrapper glints under the dim light as you catch the edge between your teeth; with a sharp tug, you tear it open and spit the scrap of foil aside, your eyes locked onto his the entire time.

You place the condom against the head of his cock, still flushed and leaking. With careful movements, you slowly roll it down the length of him. Your fingers faintly brush against the soft skin on the base of his cock, and leon hisses through his teeth, his grip on your waist tightening. 

You rise up on your knees, reaching between you to grab his cock. Carefully, you guide him to your entrance, thighs spread wider in hopes that you can accommodate his size. The leaking head of his cock meets your soaked slit, and it’s electric. 

Finally, you start descending on him. The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, and the second it slips past your folds, you let out a muffled gasp. There’s no way he was going to fit. 

“Leon,” you cry out, nails digging into his shoulders as you lower yourself further. 

Leon’s warm hands rub against the soft skin of your waist. “Easy, baby... take your time,” Leon says, his voice thick and strained.

You bite at your lip, thighs quivering as you lower inch after inch, your wetness making it easier to adjust to his length. You let out a ragged gasp as you finally take all of him, walls fluttering uncontrollably around his cock.

“F-fuck... don’t do that if you want me to last,” he says, his voice strained and desperate as he grips your hips.

You stay still for a few seconds, breath catching as you look down at where you’re connected. The sight is visceral, almost sinful.

Leon’s hands are steady on your waist, but his knuckles are white. He’s watching you with a heavy, hooded gaze. "There you go," he rasps, his voice strained as he tries to keep his own breathing under control. "Just breathe, baby. I've got you."

Slowly, you sink back up, the friction a slow burn that makes your head spin, before you slide all the way down again. The moan you let out is raw, and it hits Leon like a physical blow. His eyes snap shut and his head thumps back against the pillow, a wrecked "Fuck..." escaping his lips.

“You’re so warm,” he groans, his fingers digging slightly into your hips to keep himself from bucking up. “Keep that pace... just like that.”

You start to grind against him, a slow, heavy rotation. Your breasts move with the rhythm, and Leon opens his eyes, looking completely hypnotized. His hands leave your waist to grope them, his palms heavy and hot as he squeezes, his thumbs catching your nipples with every downward move.

"Look at you," he rasps, his composure starting to fray as he watches you work. "You're perfect."

Your head tilts back, your throat exposed as the pleasure starts to override his instructions. Your pace increases instinctively, the slow grind turning into a frantic, driving heat. Leon doesn't stop you anymore; he just grips your chest tighter, his breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches as he watches you take control.

Then, your legs give out. The muscles in your thighs begin to shake violently, and your movements turn sloppy. The burn becomes too much to handle, forcing you to a shaky, frustrated stop. You slump against him, your legs still twitching from the effort.

"Leon," you pant, "I—I can’t. My legs..."

Leon tries to smirk, but it’s more of a strained pull of his lips, his face flushed and damp with sweat. “Thought... thought you said you were going to do... all the work, baby,” he teases, the words coming out in short, breathless hitches.

You pout at him, your own exhaustion making your eyes watery, and Leon saves you the embarrassment of trying to continue. He lets out a low, shaky exhale, his grip on your hips tightening as he takes over. He begins moving you again, his movements heavy and uncoordinated but determined.

Suddenly, he grunts, using the last of his strength to hook an arm around your waist. He flips y’all on the bed, the world blurring until your body is splayed out beneath him. He collapses into the space between your thighs, his arms shaking as he props himself up. His eyes are dark, completely blown out as he looks down at you, and he begins to move inside you with a desperate, driving force that tells you he’s just as close to the edge as you are.

The new position made you feel him even deeper inside you. Your pussy pulsed around him while he drove his hips forward in a faster, more urgent rhythm.

“Leon–Leon, Leon, Leon!” your voice is gone, barely recognisable as yours. 

“Jesus, sweetheart—” he groans, his head dropping to the crook of your neck, his voice sounding absolutely wrecked. “You’re tight as fuck. God.”

The walls of your pussy clamp down, forcing a loud, guttural groan from him.

Leon lets out a breathless, wrecked laugh against the sensitive skin of your neck. “Fuck, you really don’t want me to last, do you? You’re trying to ruin me.”

He lets out a sinful, low-bellied groan when you shift just right, the vibration of it making your pussy clench hard in response. You don't let up—you do it again, clamping down on his cock with everything you’ve got, forcing a raw, unfiltered moan out of him that echoes in your ear.

“You’re evil,” he chuckles breathlessly, his teeth grazing your shoulder before he sucks a bruise into your skin. “Taking every fucking inch of me and still asking for more.”

His hips drive upward in a faster, more desperate rhythm, chasing the friction that’s coiling tighter and tighter in your gut. “Leon, m’ gonna—m’ gonna cum, I’m—"

“I know, baby, I know,” he whispers, his voice strained and thick with his own need as he catches your frantic rhythm. “Just like that. Take it all. Come for me.”

A few more heavy, wet strokes and you finally come undone, your walls spasming around him in a breathless, shaking mess. Leon follows only seconds later, a low growl ripping from his throat as he thrusts deep one last time, his body locking up as he spends himself, buried as far as he can go.

He stays buried inside you for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder as his breathing comes in heavy, ragged hitches. The room is silent except for the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.

Eventually, the stillness breaks as he shifts his weight, easing up on his elbows just enough to look at you.

You swallow, then murmur, “T-that was…” your voice still a little airy.

“I know,” he murmurs, a faint huff of breath following the words.

Leon pushes himself up from your body, his movements slow and deliberate. “Need to clean you up,” he says, though his eyes haven't quite lost their heat.

As he stands, the sudden chill makes you bold, and you can’t resist teasing him one more time. “I was hoping for round two,” you say, letting your gaze linger, “but then I remembered you’re…”

The insinuation hangs in the air, obvious and biting. The dark look Leon gives you makes your thighs clench together. A slow, dangerous smirk tugs at his lips, and you realize you’ve just handed him the perfect excuse to prove you wrong.

[pawnshopfawn]

Hello! I’m sorry if this is an odd thing to request, or you don’t wanna do it, it’s completely understandable. Could you do re9 Leon with a wife who seriously struggles with mental health issues and suicidal thoughts ?? As someone with experience I never really see people doing fanfics with Leon about this

ur my first ever request, lolol 🥹🥹. claire, at your service 🙂‍↕️.

alsooooo i have a draft that comes close to this request so im gonna get inspired by that one!!!

cw: mental health. past trauma. mention of domestic violence. brief mention of pedophilia and sa. suicidal thoughts. mention of guns. self harm. blood. mention of od. substance abuse. alcohol abuse. smoking (cigarettes). mention of child neglect. gentle and caring leon. reader is in denial. barely proofread!!

pairings: re9!leon x wife!reader

notes: i have experienced some of these firsthand but i excuse myself in advance if i forgot some details or neglected some things (and i hope ur okay my bb take care of urself🥹)

— 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 || 𝐯𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐚 (𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐦) 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱

getting a cat was probably a good idea, but your husband knows better. you’re allergic to them, he’s not stupid.

reaching out to a dealer for drugs and illegal pills was also a good idea.. for you at least. for your brain and heart? not so much.

you barely remember anything about the day that comes prior to today—just a dark, featureless void staring right back at you, your hands trembling as if adrenaline were surging through them, and a sense of disorientation lingering in your mind. and even when you really wanted to grab that gun you keep hidden between two shirts in your drawer, you just couldn’t, you were shaking too much. you thought that, maybe, the adrenaline wouldn’t make you feel the bullet cutting through your skull, maybe you already felt it because of the atrocious headache you have 24/7. or maybe, just a thought that’s never a thought but a plan, jumping off the roof would make you feel no pain, you already couldn’t feel your tongue and your heart was racing at 200 mph.

the roof plan goes to waste as soon as you remember that you live in a two story house that leon insisted on buying to keep you safe, strictly sealing the windows of the attic. but there were other buildings with a sketchy access, yes, but high. high enough that if you throw yourself from the-

"sweetheart" a woman’s soft voice snaps you out of your thoughts and your thumb freezes in your mouth where you were biting your nail "medication" she announces and your eyes light up just slightly before she dims your ‘fun’.

"they’re safe, just take them" she says with the same voice she uses for scared kids and your eyebrows furrow.

does she think i’m five or what? i’m perfectly fine.

"they’ll help you, baby" another male voice snaps you out of your thoughts and you don’t even realize that you’ve been staring at the small cup holding a pill of activated charcoal like a pervert getting their hand on what they fantasise, or a druggie having access to their favorite substance.

you turn your head and you see leon, your husband, looking at you with eyes filled with understanding. he’s sitting beside your… hospital bed? "what the hell…" you mumble and look down at yourself only to find out that they’ve put the ugliest hospital robe on you, probably seen you butt naked too.

"miss, if you don’t want to get better we’re gonna have to put you in our rehab unit" it’s certainly not your first time here (probably not the last as well if they don’t do shit about it) and they know you well. well enough to know your next move once you get out of that hospital. well enough to be conscious of the dark thoughts that you have since you’ve been mumbling about it one day under your drugged up state.

your first reflex when you notice how many staff there are in the room waiting for you to take the damn pill is to hide your arms, second is to make yourself appear more like a victim. yes, you are one, but you just wanted to get this over with, for them to take pity on you and stop bothering you. and the lights don’t help, you feel as if you’ve reached the gates of heaven and a construction worker is hammering nails straight into your brain.

but it was too late to hide your ‘cat scratches’ along your arm because they’ve already seen them, carrying you to this damn uncomfortable bed and injecting you with naloxone which you notice shortly after when you feel the iv catheter in your arm.

"holy fuck" you mutter and throw your head back against the pillow with a whine.

leon holds your hand the whole time, his thumb tracing gentle, caring circles over the skin between your index and your thumb.

he doesn’t care about himself right now despite dealing with the same thoughts you had. just a bullet through his head would be perfect, cherry on top. but after meeting you it felt as if you’ve cast a spell on his brain, something like may all your worries dissipate into thin air, mister.

the minutes passed like hours and hours felt like days, your headache wasn’t getting any better and you still had that disorientated sensation in your head.

(not so) soon enough, they discharge you with a humongous hospital bill and a flyer about some shitty rehab centre they’d like you to take into consideration. like hell you will. you throw it in the trash at the entrance of the tall white building that stood like a vilain laughing down at you. maybe it’s just your fucked up mind playing tricks on you.

"maybe you should think about it" leon’s voice cuts you out of your thoughts for the hundredth time for the past few tortuous hours, "you know.. the rehab centre?"

you shoot him a sideway glance and he doesn’t react, not even a flinch. he’s used to it by now, "i’m as healthy as a horse" you narrow your eyes and your eyebrows knit together "i don’t need some stupid lady nagging me about her stupid stupid rehab."

it wasn’t an option in your head, listening to old people talk about how it was the best decision of their life to be admitted there, take rounds to say their name and applose like they’ve found the cure to cancer. it’s idiotic for you, you’ve never liked listening to other people’s problems, trying to find a nice way to tell them "i don’t give two damn about your alcohol addiction or the fact that you’re a druggie."

or maybe those were the words you were afraid to hear when you finally open up.

"can we just go home? i’m sweating bullets" a frown creases on your face and you tug the long sleeves of your shirt further down your arms.

the ride from the hospital to your house is long and filled with a deafening silence. leon doesn’t dare to say anything no matter how ‘calm’ you looked: your eyes are like two voids, staring at everything but processing nothing. it was the same look you had as a child when your parents would argue in front of you, throw plates around like it was handball game and the one who hurt the other the most would win a gold medal. it was also the same look when you couldn’t feel anything the day they ripped you out of your home to live with strangers in sketchy houses and a habit of touching you in places no adult should touch a child.

once at home, it was the same as always; you’d take a quick bath leon helped you with while you sat in the bathtub, still and wincing when he’d touch a certain scar, smoke a few cigarettes until you couldn’t hold the wine bottle correctly.

its red liquid reminds you of that night, sitting on the bathroom floor with a razor blade pulled out from its original place, your arm bleeding onto the cold marble floor. it was your first time seeing yourself get hurt intentionally, and it felt good no matter how twisted that sounded.

"put the bottle down" leon leans against the counter next to you, his arms crossed against his broad chest, showcasing the muscles you used to see clearly back in the day and now they’re just a blurry figure of two beige forearms hooking under your thighs and your back to carry you away.

you put the bottle down with more force than necessary, the bottle threatening to crack at the bottom and spill over the whole counter like a bloody massacre, "i’m not happy in this marriage, leon." you glare at him.

he sighs quietly, clearly not the first time he’s heard that sentence after you’ve drank a few glasses. he knows you don’t mean those words. he takes the bottle from your death grip and you, surprisingly, don’t fight back, too dizzy to even think about it.

he puts the bottle away slides the glass in front of you farther away on the counter, "i hate seeing you like this" he says in a hushed tone, shaking his head desperately.

you don’t answer, you couldn’t really. your fingers tap against the edge of the counter, a rythm leon has heard a thousand times when you’re stressed or starving for the adrenaline cocaine gives you.

he sighs again and wraps his arm around your waist gently before leading you upstairs, careful to avoid making you stumble between two steps and face plant into the carpeted stairs.

he lays you down on the bed with calculated movements, muscle memory perhaps, and slides under the sheets next to you. his arms wrap around your middle section as he holds your unresponsive to his touch body, feeling you tense up.

maybe it was the whole pack of marlboro reds you’ve consumed that night or the glass of red wine you stopped counting that made you drowsy but you fall asleep in his arms, where you know you’re safe from your own thoughts.

[pawnshopfawn]

i hate mosquitoes i hate ai i hate the heat i hate everything

[worldscoolest]

[prisethug]

[pawnshopfawn]

would yall exterminate me if i put the "my friends are gone" quote by leonard cohen on the death of a ladies man fic?? 🤔

[pawnshopfawn]

the fic might take a while cause i keep crying at the backing vocals #help

[pawnshopfawn]

would yall exterminate me if i put the "my friends are gone" quote by leonard cohen on the death of a ladies man fic?? 🤔

[kissthigh]

Playing Dangerous ୨ৎ

Summary: The party you’re at gets busted, and two cops walk in on you and your boyfriend doing… unfortunate things. One of them is Beau Arlen, your dad’s best friend. ♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, dbf!beau arlen, smut, sex (riding), drunk sex, unprotected sex, creampie, nothing too kinky, pet names (kid, sweetheart), praise, sexual tension, infidelity, moral dilemma, mentions of drugs and drinking, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert. wc: 3.5k | : based off of a lovely request… that i’ll link when i find it!! Enjoy <33

The party is loud beneath you, a blend of loud music and singing, young adults from your shitty college shouting and drinking. You’re absolutely drunk, and whining softly as your boyfriend rocks back and forth, his hips rolling forward, doing little to provide you with any sort of relief.

It’s a random bedroom that you’re in, a random bed that you’re being fucked on, and your boyfriend is grunting and whining into your neck, sloppily kissing at it, his hips moving with little to no rhythm. You’re whining, your own hips shifting, poorly trying to adjust the way you’re positioned so maybe he’ll hit the correct spot. He isn’t.

You’re glad that you’re drunk right now, doped up on something else too, anything to make the painfully unsatisfying sex worth it—you know it won’t be; you’ve never orgasmed in your life because of your boyfriend.

He was the one who dragged you to this party, told you it would be a fun way to spend your Saturday now; drugs, alcohol, sex on a random person’s bed, and now the cops busting down the door.

Your boyfriend immediately stops the second the door swings open, and two tall men stand there, wearing their uniforms and holding flashlights; they’re staring at the two of you, eyebrows knotted in concern at what they had just walked into. Two people having sex.

The music must’ve been too loud, and you were too in your head to realize that the cops were busting the joint—probably a noise complaint, and the fact that some people were drinking, mostly the teens who snuck in from high school, and were now being shoved in the back of police cruisers.

“C’mon, get outta here, kids,” the voice drawls, and it sounds a bit too familiar. “Not in trouble… just be on your way, and you’ll be fine.”

As your boyfriend crawls off of you and you’re scrambling for your shirt, you realize who is currently standing there; it’s Beau Arlen, the head sheriff, and your dad’s best friend. Your eyes widen, your mouth agape, and you hesitantly slide on your flimsy shirt.

“Don’t look at me like that, punk,” Beau murmurs when your boyfriend nudges him, bumping the Sheriff’s shoulder, and his eyes narrow as the kid leaves. “Hurry up, c’mon, darlin’.”

Beau seems not to realize that it’s you, currently hunched over, trying to casually slide on your denim skirt, purposely bowing your head to make sure your hair falls in front of your face. You stand up and out of the random bed, and begin to walk towards him shyly. He grabs your upper arm.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, stopping you. “You okay? What’re you doin’ here?” Beau suddenly asks, his hand lifting to cup your cheek.

He gazes down at you, and all he sees are those wide, innocent eyes staring up at him, all glossed over and hazy, and he knows that you’re clearly drunk. He glances over his shoulder at the other sheriff, and sighs.

“What’re you thinkin’?” He whispers, setting his lips. “Why’re you at a party like this?” He continues, his thumb swiping beneath your eye, before he rests it against your shoulder, gently rubbing.

“Please… please don’t tell my dad,” you plead, and Beau is currently looking over his shoulder as another sheriff begins walking towards the scene. “Please…”

“Hey… hey, I won’t, darlin’,” he shakes his head and looks back at you, carefully pulling you into a hug, his hand resting against the back of your head. “I’ll let you ride back with me, okay? Ain’t gotta worry about me tellin’ on you.”

Beau holds you close to him, and you feel like you’re seventeen again; your face pressed into his shoulder, crying because of your parents' divorce, and he was reassuring you, telling you that he’d be the one to take care of you if he had to—you stayed with your dad instead, making it easier for Beau to visit every day.

“Hands behind your back,” he mumbles as she pulls away from the hug, and your eyebrows furrow. “Can’t walk past the others and have them seein’ you like this, and not handcuffed,” she explains, rubbing his scruff.

You let out a drunken groan and barely turn around, stumbling over your own feet as you lazily put your hands behind your back. Beau takes the cuffs off his belt, carefully wraps them around your wrists, and pushes them against your lower back. His eyes flick to you, watching your back arch and your head tip back.

It’s a shameful walk back to the cruiser. A few people you know are on the steps of the porch, being questioned as to why they’re smoking pot at two in the morning, a few others being caught for public indecency—yeah, you should be on that list too, and Beau is letting you off the hook, for some reason.

“You got her?” Another sheriff calls to Beau, and he nods, giving him a thumbs up, all while he leads you to the car.

“Where’s my boyfriend?” You ask, glancing over your shoulder at Beau, and he sucks in through his teeth.

“Probably gettin’ a new one ripped by another Sheriff,” he says plainly with a shrug, reaching over to open the backseat. “You’ll see him in the mornin’, sweetheart,” he reassures, his hand lightly pushing your head down, helping you into the vehicle. 

The back of the car is spinning, and you whine softly, your wrists shifting in the tight cuffs, and you lean your head against the window. You can see Beau telling others about you, gesturing to the drunken girl in the backseat, and how he can handle it all—he’s covering for you, of course.

“Alright, darlin’,” Beau groans as he opens the driver’s seat, huffing as he takes a seat. “You doin’ good back there, kid?”

“Please… don’t tell my dad,” you whine again and shake your head, gazing at Beau in the rear view. “He’ll kill me… and… and he thinks I’m studying… and, oh my god, he thinks I’m a virgin… he still thinks… my boyfriend is my best friend,” you drunkenly babble, and Beau sits there, soaking it in.

Beau’s used to picking up drunk teens and young adults, easily negotiating with them, but also giving them the punishment they deserve for whatever the hell they did, but of course, he’s going easier on you, and there’s a pressure in his chest when you bring it. Virginity.

He’s not sure why he grips the steering wheel a bit harder when you mention it; he saw it with his own eyes: the girl he used to push on a swing, now being caught in a frat house, while her boyfriend fucks her in a random bedroom. It was the worst-case scenario for him, and he was trying to play off the sickness. 

“Told you I wouldn’t say anythin’,” Beau reassures, pulling onto the road, the tires rumbling against it. “Secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you… thank you, daddy,” you sigh softly, leaning your head against the window, and you don’t realize the word that fell out of your mouth.

You meant to say his name, but too many thoughts were swirling in your brain; the fact he’s your dad’s best friend, the way he’s acted like your dad far too many times, and how horny you are from your boyfriend’s inability to fuck you right. And it all led to one, painfully awkward thing: calling him daddy. 

“Yeah… yeah, you’re welcome, baby,” he says, his Texan accent thick and low, and he awkwardly adjusts his hips against his seat. He swallows hard and reaches over, turning up the radio to end the silence. 

You lift your head. “Beau… I don’t wanna go home.”

“Yeah?” He mumbles, looking at you in the rear view mirror. “Where you wanna go? Your boyfriend’s?”

“Your place…” You mumble, staring at his green eyes, biting your lip. “I… I’ll get in trouble at mine… don’t even know where my boyfriend is…”

Beau grips the steering wheel tighter and swallows hard. “Yeah… that’s fine, kid, my place it is.”

Beau’s eyes glance in the rearview mirror as he drives down the road, peeking at you in the back; you’re quiet, handcuffed, and drunk, and he’s not used to that; you’re usually a laughing mess, even when you were just a girl. 

The cruiser ends up in front of his small trailer, on the outskirts of the town, and he sighs, getting out and going around, and opening the car door for you. You would, but you’re currently handcuffed, and a bit too drunk to hold your head up.

“C’mon, kid,” Beau mumbles softly, grabbing you and carefully taking you out of the vehicle. “Watch your step.”

He takes you towards the house, watching your feet trip over themselves, your heels making it a bit harder to walk, and he smiles at your giggles, shaking his head. He thinks it’s a bit cute, how drunk you are.

“I don’t wanna sleep,” you tell Beau when you walk into the small house, your eyes gazing around his space. “Let’s… let’s watch a movie, let’s… yeah, let’s do something!”

“No way, darlin’,” Beau laughs and shakes his head, still gripping your hands behind your back, guiding you towards the couch. “You’re drunk and need to sleep off this mess.”

“No…” You whine and shake your head, feeling him carefully undo the cuffs. “Movie… we should watch one.”

“I said no, kid,” he shoots back, and you whine again, slumping over and sitting onto the couch.

Beau stands before you; his hands are on his hips, and he’s in uniform; his holster filled with weapons, his eyes slightly narrowed at the drunk girl before him, and his badge glints in the orange lighting in the small house. You tip your head back.

“Okay… no movie,” you agree, and shake your head, crossing your arms over your chest. “What… what about cuddles? Cuddles… we should cuddle.”

Beau laughs. “No… no, sweetheart, the only thing we’ll be doin’ is gettin’ you to sleep.”

He watches your eyes squeeze shut, your nose scrunching in slight defiance at his words. He feels bad, a flicker of guilt in his stomach, and he sighs, taking a seat beside you on the couch instead.

“C’mere,” he mumbles, his arm stretching behind the couch, and takes your shoulders. 

Beau is big and filling up half the couch, and your eyes immediately glance down, shamelessly looking at the way he manspreads, how his thick thighs look right now, and how his belt presses against his waist. You swallow hard and lazily reach over, your hand on his badge.

“Sheriff Beau Arlen,” you drawl lazily, giggling as you rub your thumb over it. “Makes you sound like… like a scary man, like you’ll… do bad things to me.”

Beau watches your eyes flick up in the moment, and he wets his lips, blaming that look in your eyes on the drugs and alcohol in your system. He scoffs and adjusts his hips.

“I deal with dangerous people,” he says calmly and nods, looking back at you. “I need to be a scary man.”

“You don’t scare me,” you slur out and shake your head. “I don’t think you could ever scare me…”

“Scared a few of those kids at that party,” Beau smiles, biting his lip too. “Maybe you’re just a tough girl?”

You giggle. “No… I just know you.”

“Ah,” he nods, wetting his lips again and looking around his house. “Smart girl, then.”

“Smartest girl you know,” you mumble, biting your lip and moving to rest your head against his broad chest. “Mmm… am I the smartest girl you know, Mr. Arlen?”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, gently rubbing your shoulder.

“Prettiest girl you know?” You add, nuzzling your face into the fabric of his shirt.

He pauses. “Sure thing.”

You lift your head, grinning at him, and your eyes flash down to his lips; they’re slightly parted and soft, his scruff being a bit overgrown, and he notices the way you’re ogling him. He lifts his hand and gently cups the back of your head, pulling your hair out of your face.

“Beau,” you mumble, biting your lip, inching your body a bit closer to his. “You’re not gonna tell my dad I’m having sex, right?”

He pauses and swallows hard. He hesitantly nods, a bit caught off guard by how close you are, and by the way you’re looking at his lips, and biting your own. He’s already reassured you a few times.

“The sex… wasn’t even worth it,” you babble and shake your head, resting your chin on his chest. “So… so bad, Beau, my boyfriend can’t fuck.”

Beau raises his eyebrows and awkwardly looks around the room, still running his fingers through your hair. 

“Ain’t my… business, sweetheart,” he shakes his head and sighs, hoping you don’t notice the bulge in his pants and how it’ll push against you if you shift a bit.

“How much did you see?” You ask curiously, smiling.

“Enough of it,” he replies, shaking his head.

“Enough to know… he can’t fuck,” you add on, and Beau inhales. He nods.

“Uh-huh,” he mumbles, sliding his hand down to gently rub your upper back.

You blink slowly and swallow hard, and you carefully drag your hand up his thigh, and then you do it, you cup the bulge in his pants. His eyes widen, and his jaw goes slack, and you can’t help but grin—he’s so hard.

“Darlin’—“ Beau starts, trying to explain, but you help him out and press your lips against his.

Beau goes against every moral he has; he’s kissing back, his lips moving slowly against yours, tasting the alcohol on your mouth, and your tongue lazily slides into his mouth. You’re fully making out now, and his hand finds your hip, helping you onto his lap. You grin.

It’s a strange thing between you, how easily you’re making out, how simple it feels, and how naturally it is for the both of you. There’s an immediate rhythm, your saliva mixing, and his lips chasing yours, your tongues colliding and locking, his hands gently holding your hips. He’s always been a gentle man.

“Ain’t right,” Beau mumbles as he pulls back, but he’s kissing your neck now, and your eyes are closing again. “This ain’t right, sweetheart…”

“Don’t care… I don’t care,” you breathe out, and you’re already rocking your hips, letting your skirt ride up, giving your body direct access to the bulge in his pants.

“Can tell you don’t… always been fuckin’ reckless,” he breathes out, his lips moving over your neck still, and his hands encourage you to move back and forth. “Not bein’ a good girl…”

There’s a pause, and Beau is already reaching down, unbuckling his belt, and you’re smiling, giggling as he fumbles with it. It’s urgent, like his hands are moving quicker than his mind, and if he can outrun his thoughts, it’ll be easier to fuck you.

You shift back, and you watch Beau pull his hardened cock out of his pants. He watches your drunk eyes widen in real time; now your jaw is going slack; he’s big, bigger than anything you’ve seen with your two eyes, and he’s trying not to get cocky.

“Oh, my gosh,” you breathe out, the drink words spilling out of your mouth. “That’s… that’s not fitting,” you mumble, shaking your head.

“Told you that you were a tough girl,” he mumbles, his eyes finding yours, and his hand is sliding up your skirt. “Prove me right.”

Your lips part, and you can feel Beau pushing your underwear aside, just a swipe of his two thick fingers, and your hands find his shoulder. You grip them tightly as your hips lift, and he’s aligning himself, already knowing you’re wetter than you should be.

You feel the thick tip, his head prodding against your entrance, and you breathe out, taking a deep breath as he begins guiding you, helping you—he almost feels bad that he’s so big, and that your face is contorting in ways that reveal only pain.

“You’re okay, baby,” Beau breathes out, holding onto your hips, helping you fully sink. “You’re… yeah, you’re okay.”

There are helpless, drunk sounds leaving your mouth; all whines and mewls as you try to adjust to his thick cock that’s somehow fitting inside of you right now. You can feel it all in your stomach, that steady pressure, and his own head tips back against the couch cushion.

“So tight, sweetheart,” he breathes out again, and now he’s guiding you to rock. “C’mon, you’re a brave girl,” he eggs on, helping you move your hips.

Your movements are silly and hesitant, barely there drunken shifts, and he’s almost smiling—yeah, your boyfriend clearly can’t fuck you properly, and your vague inexperience is shining through you.

“God, you’ve never… done this before,” he observes, and the loud whine is a confession that, no, you’ve been on top of your boyfriend. “Poor thing, Christ…”

Beau is helping you move back and forth, his thick fingers pressing against your hips, finding the fact that your skirt is just pushed up to be oddly sexy—the urgency was sexy; this whole desperate act is sexy.

“Atta girl, look at you,” he nods, looking up at you, watching your head tip back in awe, finding more pleasure in these seconds. “Keep goin’, doin’ real good for me, baby…”

He’s assisting your hips, helping you grind, all while including that little bounce that helps Beau get off too. It’s a perfect tango that neither of you want to stop, even if it’s with your dad’s best friend. 

“Mmm… good girl, perfect,” he praises some more, words you usually don’t hear. “Takin’ my cock so well… that pretty body of yours… learns quickly, smart girl,” he goes on, and you’re drunk off the praises. 

Beau is gazing up at you; your lips hanging open, hopeless moans leaving your mouth, all urgent and bleeding into whines, high-pitched noisss he loves more than anything. He keeps you going, keeps you rocking.

“C’mon, sweet thing… you’re doin’ so well, stretchin’ around me so good,” he adds on, lightly patting your hip. “So… so well, god, c’mon…”

It almost makes Beau mad, knowing your boyfriend has access to this all of the damn time, and gives you the lousiest, worst sex of all time. He clenches his teeth, feeling himself getting close, and he knows that you are too.

“Fillin’ you up… how does that sound, darlin’?” Beau asks, panting softly, not grunting. “Sound good? Lettin’ me fill you up?”

“Mhm—mhm,” you mumble out, quickly nodding, feeling his cock consistently hitting this one stupid spot, a spot your boyfriend couldn’t hit if his life depended on it.

“Yeah… yeah, atta girl,” he breathes out, knowing it’s coming. “Want you to feel all of me… wanna feel all of you, too.”

Beau’s eyes widen the second that you finish; zero warning, just a loud whine from you, your head bowing forward, your hips suffering, and god, the way you clench—it makes him cum, the sudden grip you have on him, and how it hugs every vein, and ridge. He groans, and tips his head back.

You’re both sitting there, spent. You’re practically collapsed against him, and he’s rubbing your lower back, panting, his eyes wide and gazing at the ceiling, his stray hairs sweaty and fraying against his forehead, his green eyes blown out. And you’re just out of it, absolutely drunk and high on Beau.

“Good… good girl,” he breathes out, not even sure of what to say, and he’s still rubbing your back. “You’re… god, I’m deep,” he groans, just realizing how deep inside of you he is right now. You’re just taking him all right now.

“I… I know, I know,” you babble, nodding, your face buried in his neck. “I… I make my boyfriend wear a condom.”

Beau’s eyes widen, realizing that you really let him do it raw, let him cum inside of you, zero hesitant, and your poor boyfriend is forced into wearing protection every time. It doesn’t matter you never cum, anyways.

There’s a soft sound of static, and Beau’s eyes narrow, and he sits up a bit, being careful—you’re still stuffed, and whining with each tick. 

“Arlen?” A man’s voice drones over the walkie, and his eyes widen slightly. “Pick up—more kids are fuckin’ around at a party… been gone for too long.”

Beau isn’t sure how to explain that he currently has a drunk girl, his best friend’s daughter, full of cum, and whining every time he tries to pull away.

He sighs, tipping his head back. “I’ll be there…”

[jewellaces]

𑣲 Accidental match

Summary: It was supposed to be a joke. One night of mindless right-swiping with your best friend on a dating app. The next morning you wake up to a message from Beau Arlen, your dad’s best friend.

৻ꪆ Warnings: MDNI, 18+, NSFW, age gap, dads best friend, car sex, rough sex, mentions of bruising, hair pulling, secret relationship, mild power inbalance, creampie

wc: 2k

You weren’t even supposed to be on the app.

It started as a stupid joke. Your friend had dared you to download it, set up the most half-assed profile possible, and swipe right on every single person who came across the screen. 

So you did exactly that. You kept going until the app itself forced you to stop and “take a break.” The two of you dissolved into giggles, tossed your phone somewhere on the bed, and passed out.

Morning came with a flood of notifications.

Most of the messages were the usual garbage, thirsty openers, unsolicited dick pics, guys who clearly hadn’t read a single word of your bio. You scrolled past them without interest.

Then you froze.

Beau Arlen.

Your dad’s best friend. The man who’d been in your life for as long as you could remember. The one who still called you “kid” at every family barbecue.

Somehow, impossibly, you’d matched with him.

“What the fuck?” you muttered, sitting up so fast the sheets tangled around your legs. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes and refreshed the chat list like it might disappear.

Two unopened messages sat under his name.

You stared at them for a long moment, thumb hovering. Your friend had already left early that morning, so there was no one to bounce this off of. No one to tell you to just unmatch and pretend it never happened.

You swallowed and opened the chat.

“Didn’t expect to see you on here.”

“Did you mean to swipe right?”

Your stomach flipped. You typed out a reply before you could overthink it.

“Yeah, sorry. Last night me and my friend just swiped right on everyone. It was a dumb joke.”

You were already reaching to lock your phone when the three little dots appeared.

“Don’t worry about it, darlin’.”

“But be careful on here, alright? Plenty of creeps.”

A small, unwilling smile tugged at your mouth. Your cheeks warmed.

Beau had always been nice to look at. Quietly handsome in that older, put-together way that never quite registered as dangerous until right now.

“Yeah I’ve noticed, lol”

You giggled under your breath, the thought slipping in before you could stop it, maybe he’d be a little jealous?

The reply came fast.

“You’ve noticed?”

“Yeah. Tons of weirdos. But it’s okay.”

“Hm. Just block them, baby.”

The pet name hit harder than it should have. You dropped back onto the bed, phone clutched in both hands, legs kicking lightly in the air like you were sixteen again. Your face felt warm. He was still typing.

You found a match?

You raised an eyebrow at the screen. Why did he care?

Not really, unless you count?

The three dots appeared almost instantly.

I do count.

Let me take you out. Like a real man.

Your eyebrows shot up. Heart pounding a little too hard, you tapped the little heart under his message before you could second-guess yourself.

Okay. Pick me up tonight?

Will do. Be ready by 8, hun.

You stared at the last message for a long second, phone still warm in your hands. Eight o’clock. With Beau Arlen. Your dad’s best friend.

You spent the rest of the afternoon overthinking everything.

Outfit. Hair. Whether you should tell your dad you were “going out with friends.” By the time 7:45 rolled around you were standing in front of the mirror in a soft black dress that hit mid-thigh, hair down, a little makeup, and a stomach full of butterflies that refused to settle.

At exactly 8:00 your phone buzzed.

Outside.

You grabbed your bag, took one last look in the mirror, and slipped out the front door before anyone could ask questions.

His truck was parked at the curb, engine low and quiet. The passenger window rolled down as you approached. Beau leaned over, one arm draped across the steering wheel, eyes dragging over you in a way that made your skin prickle.

“Damn,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “You scrub up nice.”

You climbed in, the leather seat warm under your thighs. The second the door shut, the truck felt smaller. He smelled like cologne and something darker, and when he put the truck in drive his hand brushed your knee like it was an accident.

It didn’t feel like one.

“Where are we going?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

Beau glanced over, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Somewhere your dad won’t walk in.”

He took you to a low-lit steakhouse on the edge of town, zero chance of running into anyone from your dad’s circle. The hostess seated you in a corner booth, and Beau slid in across from you like he’d done this a hundred times. Maybe he had. You tried not to think about it.

“Order whatever you want,” he said, already looking at the menu. “My treat.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Trying to spoil me already?”

His eyes flicked up, dark and amused. “Maybe. That a problem?”

“No,” you answered a little too quickly.

The conversation stayed light at first, work, the weather, how long it had been since you’d last seen each other at one of your dad’s cookouts. But every so often the air shifted. Beau would watch your mouth when you spoke. You’d catch yourself staring at the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders. Under the table his foot found yours and stayed there, warm and solid.

Halfway through dinner he set his glass down and leaned forward a little.

“You know this is complicated as hell, right?”

You nodded, pulse ticking faster. “Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything else about it. Just reached across the table and brushed his thumb over the back of your hand, once, like a promise.

When the check came he paid without looking at the total. Outside, the night air was cooler. His truck waited under a streetlight. Beau opened the passenger door for you, but before you could climb in he stepped closer, boxing you in gently against the side of the truck.

“You good?” he asked, voice low.

You looked up at him. “Yeah.”

He studied your face for a second longer, then dipped his head and kissed you, slow, deliberate, tasting like whiskey and something darker. One hand settled at your waist, thumb pressing just under the hem of your dress. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a moment.

“Still want me to take you home?” he murmured.

Your answer came out soft. “Not yet.”

Beau drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting high on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. The further you got from the restaurant, the quieter the streets became, until the only light came from the dashboard and the occasional streetlamp.

He didn’t take you home.

Instead he turned down a side road that led to a quiet overlook above the river, the kind of place people went when they didn’t want to be found. He parked, killed the engine, and the sudden silence settled heavy between you.

For a second neither of you moved.

Then Beau unbuckled, turned toward you, and reached over to unclip your seatbelt too. His fingers brushed your collarbone as he did it. 

You climbed across the center console and into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, dress riding up. The second you settled, his hands were on you, one sliding up the back of your thigh, the other curling around the nape of your neck to pull you down into another kiss. This one was hungrier, deeper. He made a low sound against your mouth when you rolled your hips experimentally.

“Jesus,” he muttered, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak. “You have any idea how long I’ve thought about this?”

You shook your head, already a little breathless. “How long?”

His grip tightened on your thigh. “Longer than I should admit.”

He kissed you again before you could answer, one hand slipping under the hem of your dress, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear. When you shivered he smiled against your lips.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, hands already sliding under his shirt to feel the warm skin and muscle underneath. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

He adjusted the seat back, giving you more room, then guided your hips down against the hard line of him. Even through the layers of clothing the friction made both of you exhale sharply.

Beau’s hands flexed hard on your thighs like he was fighting himself.

He kissed you hard, one hand sliding fully under your dress to grip your ass while the other worked the button of his jeans with impatient fingers. The zipper sounded loud in the quiet truck. You helped shove the denim and briefs down just far enough, and then his cock was free, thick and already leaking against your inner thigh. He didn’t bother taking your underwear off. He just yanked the fabric aside with a rough tug.

His eyes stayed locked on yours as he lined himself up and thrust in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one deep stroke. The sudden stretch punched a sharp sound out of your throat. Beau’s jaw clenched, a low groan ripping from his chest.

“Shit, so fucking tight...”

He gave you only a second before he started moving, deep, punishing thrusts that rocked the entire truck. The leather seat creaked under you. One of his hands clamped down on your hip hard enough to leave marks; the other fisted in your hair and pulled your head back so he could bite along the column of your throat.

“Been wanting this for too damn long,” he growled against your skin. “Watching you at those cookouts, pretending I didn’t notice how grown you’d gotten. Sitting there all polite while I thought about bending you over.”

Every word was punched out between hard snaps of his hips. You braced your hands on his shoulders and met him thrust for thrust, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the cab. Beau’s grip tightened. He yanked you down onto him harder, grinding deep when he bottomed out, like he was trying to leave a permanent imprint inside you.

“That’s it, take it. Fuck, you take me so well.”

He shifted, bracing one foot against the floorboard for better leverage, and the new angle made every stroke hit deeper. Your moans got louder. He didn’t tell you to be quiet. If anything, the sound seemed to drive him harder. His free hand slid between your bodies, rough fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight, almost too-hard circles.

“Come on my cock,” he ordered, voice rough with strain. “Wanna feel it.”

The combination, his size, the roughness, the filthy way he talked, the fact that it was Beau, pushed you over the edge fast and hard. You came with a broken cry, clenching around him so tightly his rhythm stuttered. Beau cursed, both hands locking on your hips as he fucked you through it, chasing his own release with short, brutal thrusts.

He followed a few seconds later with a guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could go and holding you there while he spilled inside you, hips jerking with the force of it.

Beau stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand still fisted in your hair, the other stroking almost possessively down your back. His voice came out low and rough when he finally spoke.

“Still complicated as hell,”

[pawnshopfawn]

sooooooooooon

[pawnshopfawn]

i am the way i am because i used to date a pedo who saw me as his daughter

[theresbloodonyouu]

@hiruby

[worldscoolest]

[halbravd]

damn congratulations to whoever’s bouncing on it

[pawnshopfawn]

his daughter