This is the last fic of the month! Thank you all for joining me in this year’s Kinktober!! Kudos to those who liked/commented/reblogged and sent in asks! I appreciate it all! 💜 👻 🎃 Happy Halloween!!
You press your face against the window, breath fogging the glass as you peer out into the darkness. From the light behind you, you’re just barely able to catch a few snowflakes drifting with the wind.
“Forecast said to stay indoors,” Leon moves to stand at your back, exuding warmth and blocking the light. “Sorry we won’t be back in time for your little Halloween party.”
You shrug, “Mom’s the one hosting it. I’m not too worried about it.”
“Does she know you’ll be stuck up here with your dear old stepdad?” He murmurs into your ear and you press the dough of your thighs together.
You shake your head, words dying on your tongue when he slides his hands under your shirt to unclasp your bra. His palms smooth around your ribs to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples.
“I think now’s a perfect time to have a little fun, sweetheart,” his low smoky tone has your clit throbbing for attention. “Think it’s time you let me use you however and whenever I want.”
Relaxing back against him, you whine, hands reaching up to clasp around his neck. His fingers tug and pinch your nipples until your hips rock forward, cunt aching to be touched.
“Daddy, please,” you tilt your head to look up at him. “Touch me.”
“Ah ah, that’s not how this works,” he chuckles, squeezing your breasts in his warm palms. “Gonna stuff this chubby pussy right here against the window.”
Gasping, you help him slip your shirt and bra off. He bats your hands away when you reach down to slip off your skirt and panties.
“Leave’em on,” he murmurs, raising the back of your skirt up, pushing your underwear to the side. “Can fuck your hot cunt just like this.”
Whining, you try to brace against the windowsill as Leon notches his cock at your slick hole. You both moan when he pushes inside, inch after inch until his dick is completely buried in your pussy.
“So tight,” he grunts, fingers digging into the fat of your hips. “G’nna pound this greedy pussy all night.”
More than your breath fogs the glass; now your body heat is leaving an impression. Your bare breasts squish against the icy glass and you whimper, nipples tightening further until they’re stiff and sensitive.
His pace doesn’t slow down at all, hips pumping against your ass as he fucks you at his own leisure. No matter how you beg and plead, he ignores your swollen clit and just concentrates on slipping in and out of your clenching heat.
You lose track of time, arousal making your brain mush as he seeks out his own pleasure and ignoring yours. It’s so hot, your pussy is soaking wet; you can hear him pull his cock free with a wet suctioning noise on every thrust.
“Daddy, daddy, please,” you whine.
He growls and spanks your ass, “Shut up and take it, little girl. About to breed you full.”
“Yes, yes, please,” you drool, face smushed against the glass. “Wan’ it.”
“Slut,” he laughs under his breath before groaning.
He fucks into you a few more times before his pelvis presses tightly against your ass, cock throbbing as rope after rope of hot thick cum fills your pussy to the brim.
Your eyes roll back, “‘m so full, daddy, s’too much.”
“Nonsense, sweetheart, look at this greedy little pussy just gobbling it all up,” he chastises, pulling his cock out with a plap.
He fixes your panties back in place and pats your ass, “Leave your shirt off, wanna be able to play with those tits whenever I want.”
Standing on shaky legs you nod, “‘kay.”
He guides you back over to the couch, “And no touching that wet needy cunt. Only daddy can make you cum.”
You whine and a short little slap to your tits draws you up short.
“Behave,” his eyes narrow. “Or you won’t cum at all.”
“Okay, daddy,” you pout, cunt throbbing and hot.
The rest of the night, Leon does his best to drive you insane with horniness. He bends you over the couch and spanks your pussy until you nearly cum, then fucks you rough and fast until he can pull out and jizz all over your ass.
Later, he corners you on the stairs and fucks your tits, making you spit all over his cock so he can glide against your skin easier. When he finishes, he coats your face and mouth with thick ropes of his cum before wiping it off and feeding it to you.
The final straw for you is when he tosses you down onto the kitchen table and eats your cunt like it’s his last meal.
“Daddy, please, I need to cum,” you cry openly, tears dripping down your cheeks. “It hurts.”
“Aww,” he blows cool air across your soaked slit and you whine. “My sweet girl needs to cum?”
“Please, daddy, I need it so bad.”
“Well, if you need it,” he coos mockingly.
Raising up, he grabs your thighs and yanks your ass down to the edge of the table. You squeal and wrap your hands around his biceps. Notching the head of his cock at your cunt, he wastes no time in bottoming out in your sopping wet hole.
“Damn, you’re soaked,” he groans. “Little hole’s just made for daddy’s fat dick, isn’t she, baby?”
“Uh huh,” you scratch at his arms. “S’all daddy’s.”
“Yeah you are,” his eyes darken. “My sweet daughter’s soft chubby pussy’s just too good for daddy to leave alone.”
Shuddering, your legs wrap tightly around his waist, “Yeah, yeah, yeah, so good.”
“You’re just a cockdrunk slut,” he chuckles in your ear and you keen. “Squeezing me so tight, you gonna cum, sweetheart?”
You nod wildly, hips bucking up against his thrusts, “Uh huh, ‘m so close.”
He slips his hand between your bodies and pinches your clit.
“Oh, this clit’s so swollen,” he licks across your ear and your body spasms. “So fat and sensitive, huh?”
“Daddy, daddy, ‘m gonna cum, oh god, oh god,” you ramble, mind lost to the pleasure building higher and higher with every stroke of his cock and fingers.
He says something else but it’s completely lost to you as your climax whites out your brain. Crying out, your back bows, body thrashing underneath his as your orgasm washes over you in waves.
“Fuck, good girl, god, gonna cream your tight fucking pussy,” he groans brokenly, humping your pussy like crazy until he stills, shooting his load into your milking and clenching hole.
You lay there together, breathing heavily as you get your heart rates back down. He pulls away with a soft grunt, cock sitting half hard against his thigh. Cum oozes from your puffy cunt and he dips his head down to lick your clit.
Reached For The Gun | Leon S. Kennedy x Chris Redfield x F! Reader [Kisses for Him]
Warning: Sexual content, age gap marriage, dark elements, mild gun violence
Paring: Stepdad! Leon S. Kennedy x Dark! Chris Redfield x F! Reader
Notes: Inspired by the song, “We Reached for The Gun” from Chicago, and you’re a data analyst for DSO
If you'd like to be a part of a tag list, just ask me. Requests are closed. Asks are open.
Word count: 14.9k
Song of Choice: We Both Reached For The Gun - Chicago Cast
Masterlist
You descend the plush, deep-red carpeted stairs, the soft fibers absorbing the sound of your footsteps. As you reach the lower level, the welcoming warmth envelops you, rich with the enticing aromas of sizzling butter, sweet maple syrup, and freshly brewed coffee. Ethan, your little whirlwind of energy, is perched atop a high stool at the expansive marble island, wearing a blue apron that swamps his small frame. With a gleeful expression, he vigorously stirs a bowl of batter, the wooden spoon extending nearly as long as his arm. His concentration is palpable, blending the ingredients with all the earnestness of a little chef on a mission.
At the stove, Chris stands with his broad back to you, skillfully flipping pancakes into the air. Each pancake transforms into a playful shape—dragons with fiery tails and valiant knights—landing perfectly onto a growing stack that promises a feast. Without turning around, he greets you in his warm, familiar voice, “There's my birdie. Coffee's on the counter, just how you like it.”
Ethan’s face lights up with excitement as he squeals, “Look, Mommy! I'm helping! Sir Pancake is almost ready!”
Chris finally turns, holding a plate piled high with intricately shaped pancakes, the corners of his mouth curling into a gentle smile. However, his attentive gaze quickly scans over you, taking in the damp strands of your hair and the towel wrapped around your body, a silent concern flickering in his eyes. He sets the plate down with care, leaning in to kiss your temple. His voice drops to a hushed whisper, just for you, “Saw you looking out at the pool.”
You nuzzle your nose against his, eliciting a soft, genuine chuckle from him as he reciprocates the affectionate gesture, their familiarity making your heart swell. He delicately tucks a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing softly across your cheek, a comforting touch amidst the gentle chaos.
“Just making sure my girl's head is where it belongs,” he adds with a final, earnest look, before turning back to the stove. His tone shifts, brightening dramatically as he addresses Ethan, “Alright, Commander Ethan, status report on the dragon battalion!”
“They're getting very hungry, Daddy! The knights are getting brave!” Ethan reports, his pride evident in his voice.
“Roger that. Deploying syrup in T-minus ten seconds,” Chris replies with a grin, winking at you over his shoulder as he grabs the bottle of maple syrup.
In that moment, the tension dissipates, replaced by the warm, sugary atmosphere of the kitchen. The three of you settle into your familiar breakfast routine, the cheerful clatter of cutlery and the lively chatter of Ethan filling the air, creating a cozy cocoon that banishes the silence from before.
“Ethan, do you mind if your mom borrows your dad for just a moment? You know, it’s just mom and dad being their usual selves, okay?” You asked, holding your towel tightly around you, a blend of playful urgency in your voice. Ethan looked up from his intricately crafted dragon pancake, his small face serious as he processed your request. After a brief moment, his expression softened into a small, understanding smile.
“Okay, Mommy. Sir Pancake needs me to protect him from the syrup river anyway,” he replied earnestly, his soft voice a delightful contrast to the playful scene. With newfound resolve, he focused back on his plate, positioning his fork carefully as if it were a steadfast shield against imaginary syrupy dangers.
Chris glanced over with a raised eyebrow, an amused yet patient look dancing across his face. He placed the spatula down on the counter and wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, the casual motion emphasizing his readiness to engage.
“Hold the fort, soldier,” Chris commanded playfully, then turned towards you, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp and attentive. “What’s up, birdie?”
You stepped away from the bustling kitchen island into the tranquility of the adjoining living room, the soft, gentle hum of morning light streaming through the windows wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You could feel the weight of the world pressing down, and as you nuzzled your nose against Chris’s cheek in a desperate bid for comfort, you whispered, “Need a quick naughty time, please, daddy. My head is filled with too many grown-up thoughts.”
The moment your plea hung in the air, Chris’s eyes darkened with immediate understanding, a flicker of possessive heat igniting the atmosphere between you. He cupped your face tenderly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was deep and lingering, a promise wrapped in intimacy.
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his voice a seductive, low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. “Those thoughts don’t belong in my birdie’s head. Daddy's gonna clear them all out.” His eyes briefly darted towards the kitchen, where Ethan remained blissfully engrossed in his pancake fortress. “Fast and quiet, baby girl. Against the wall.”
He takes your hand firmly yet tenderly, guiding you swiftly into a dimly lit corner of the living room. The shadows envelop you as you slip behind the large, luxurious leather sofa, effectively shielded from the busy activity in the kitchen. He presses his body against yours, the cool, textured concrete wall sending a shiver through you as it meets your back, while his warmth creates a protective barrier between you and the rest of the house.
With deliberate confidence, Chris uses one hand to unbutton his pants, the soft sound of fabric moving echoing in the quiet space. His other hand rests beside your head, fingers brushing lightly against the wall, anchoring you in place. “Lift your towel for me,” he whispers, his voice a low murmur that sends a thrill through you. “That’s it. Let Daddy in.”
He doesn't waste time. He's already hard. He guides himself into your wetness with a low, satisfied groan, pushing into you with a single, deep thrust that makes you gasp. He sets a swift, punishing rhythm, his hips slapping against yours. His cock slips in and out of your warm walls with a soft squelch noise. The thick rug and the ambient noise from the kitchen muffled the pounding sound. His lips brushed against your neck, sending a shiver up your spine, while his voice, low and rough, dripped with intensity as he whispered, “Just focus on this... empty your mind... just my cock... fucking this pretty pussy clean... all mine…”
His movements exude a sense of efficiency and power, almost mesmerizing in their intensity, aiming to short-circuit your very thoughts. He grips your hip firmly, anchoring you in place as he fucks into you with unwavering focus, his balls slapping against your slick folds, as you mewled. The stark contrast between the raw, passionate claiming unfolding in the dim light of the living room and the cheerful, sunlit breakfast scene just a few yards away creates a dizzying dissonance. Chris's breath comes in quick, heated pants against your skin as he murmurs, “Gonna... cum inside you, birdie... mark you for the day... so you remember…”
“Take me on the floor, daddy,” you whispered as your gummy walls clenched him tightly, “Be rough, please…”
A deep, rumbling growl escapes his chest, vibrating with a primal intensity. He withdraws from you in a fluid, powerful motion, making a soft, wet noise, his fingers gripping your hips with an undeniable strength as he leads you down onto the plush, opulent rug beneath you. The coarse fibers tease your bare skin, creating a tantalizing contrast against the warmth of your body. He positions himself over you, his weight pressing you gently but firmly into the softness of the floor. His eyes burn with a fierce, possessive glow, a smoldering light that holds you captive. “You want it rough, baby girl? You got it.” He muttered, he pushed your knees apart, spreading you wide, and thrust back into you with a force that steals your breath, “This is what you need. To be reminded.”
He sets a brutal, pounding pace, each deep stroke jarring your body against the floor. There's no gentleness now, only raw, dominant claiming. He leaned down, his lips crashing against yours in a fierce, almost desperate kiss, his tongue diving deep to silence any sound that might escape you. His hands closed around your wrists with a possessive grip, pinning them firmly above your head, leaving you utterly vulnerable beneath him. As he pulled away from the kiss, his breath warm against your skin, he whispered, “No one else touches you like this. No one else makes you feel this.” He drives into you harder, deeper, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every thrust, “This messy, needy cunt belongs to me. Say it.”
The pleasure is sharp, overwhelming, a direct counter to the chaos in your mind. You can feel your own wetness slicking his thighs, the lewd, wet sounds of his thrusts filling the small, hidden space. His control is absolute, his focus on pulling a desperate, mindless release from you. His voice strained, his body tensing, “Come on, birdie... cum for Daddy... let me feel you lose control…”
“Yours, Daddy... only yours…”
The affirmation is all he needs. A final, guttural groan is torn from his chest as he slams into you one last time, his body shuddering with the force of his cumming. He collapses on top of you for a moment, his full weight a comforting, heavy blanket, his face buried in your neck as he spills himself deep inside you. His breathing is ragged, hot puffs against your damp skin.
“That's my girl. All mine.”
He stays inside you for a long moment, not moving, just letting the aftershocks ripple through both of you. Then, with a soft sigh, he pushes himself up, his movements slow and deliberate. He tucks himself back into his pants and offers you a hand, pulling you gently to your feet. He retrieves your towel from the floor and wraps it around you again, his touch surprisingly tender after the roughness. He brushed your hair back from your forehead, his expression soft, “Head clear now, birdie?”
From the cozy kitchen, Ethan's voice bursts forth with an endearing cheerfulness, “Daddy! The syrup river is flooding the castle!”
His laughter echoes through the air, a deep, comforting sound that warms your heart. He leans in for a quick yet tender kiss, his lips brushing against yours with affectionate urgency. “Duty calls,” he says with a playful glint in his eyes. “Get dressed. I'll handle the flood.” With a wink full of mischief, he strides back into the bright, chaotic swirl of the kitchen, where colors and aromas collide, leaving you standing alone in the dimly lit living room, wrapped in the soft tranquility of the moment. The frantic thoughts have been successfully, temporarily, bludgeoned into silence.
You ascend the staircase with slightly unsteady legs, a physical reminder of the passionate encounter with Chris, leaving you with a warm, pleasant ache between your thighs. As you step into your bedroom, the morning light floods the space, casting a soft glow that glints off the white marble floors, highlighting their polished sheen. You make your way to the walk-in closet, a sanctuary filled with delicate silk and intricate lace, where each piece holds a story of elegance.
After selecting a flowing blue silk sundress that hugs your figure just right, you slip into a pair of sleek black heels. The morning air carries a sweet warmth, contrasting with the chilly weight of the dossier resting lightly against your skin, a reminder of the serious business at hand—only for your eyes. You carefully descend the staircase, feeling the coolness of the folder against your arm amidst the sweet, syrupy aroma wafting from the kitchen.
In the kitchen, Ethan is seated at the table, his face adorned with a ring of sticky syrup, proudly showcasing a half-eaten pancake crafted in the shape of a valiant knight. Chris stands nearby, efficiently wiping down the counter, his movements precise and practiced. Yet, his eyes immediately flicker to the folder tucked under your arm, the warmth of his smile momentarily tightening, a hint of concern lurking just beneath the surface.
He approaches, bending slightly to kiss your forehead, his gaze lingering on the dossier. Though he doesn’t voice the question hanging palpably between you, it lingers unspoken in the air. Ethan holds up his plate with beaming joy, “Look, Mommy! I vanquished the syrup monster!” Seizing the distraction, Chris gently extracts the dossier from your grasp and places it high on a shelf in the open-plan kitchen, well out of Ethan’s reach and your immediate sight. He keeps his tone deliberately light as he says, “And what a mighty victory it was! Now, how about we let Mommy have some breakfast before her big, boring workday?”
With a gentle nudge, he guides you to a seat at the table, placing a plate of perfectly golden dragon pancakes before you, each one sculpted with care. “Eat up, birdie. You'll need your strength,” he urges, his voice imbued with warmth and encouragement, making the mundane feel a touch more special.
He pours you a fresh cup of coffee, the rich, dark liquid swirling gently as it cascades into the porcelain mug, steam rising in delicate tendrils. His movements are fluid, a masterclass in controlled normalcy, yet a tempest brews in his eyes, constantly flickering toward the dossier ominously perched on the shelf. It's a subtle tension, palpable in the air. As you sit at the table, the scene unfolds like a fragile ballet. Ethan, with his infectious enthusiasm, regales you with tales of pancake escapades, while Chris maintains an easy rhythm of light conversation, his warm hand resting possessively on your knee under the table. But the undercurrent of anxiety is unmistakable. Each stolen glance at that folder pulls you deeper into a silent vortex of dread, and you notice Chris’s fingers tighten their grip ever so slightly.
He stands abruptly, clearing the plates with brisk efficiency, his movements purposeful and almost mechanical. The worn utensils clatter softly against the ceramic as he collects Ethan's sticky plate, scrubbing it with an intensity that makes the mundane act of washing dishes feel urgent. His broad back becomes a solid barrier, shielding you from the professional world represented by that ominous file. The room is enveloped in a stillness, broken only by the rhythmic sound of running water and the delicate clink of china.
Ethan, oblivious to the tension, tugs at your sleeve, his bright eyes sparkling with innocence. “Mommy, can we build the fort again today? A bigger one?” His hopeful request feels like a lifeline, a moment of reprieve, an opportunity to retreat into the warm cocoon of family life. Chris turns from the sink, drying his hands on a faded dish towel, and the corners of his mouth lift into a tender smile as he looks down at their son.
“That's a great idea, buddy. A fortress! We’ll need every blanket in the house,” Chris replies, his voice low and soothing. His gaze meets yours over Ethan’s head, carrying an unmistakable, unspoken command to let the weight of the outside world wait just a little longer.
“I’m sorry, Ethan, I need to work for just a moment. But when I’m finished, I’ll build that fort with you,” you said gently, your voice wrapping around him like a warm embrace. You smiled softly and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, feeling the softness of his hair against your lips. For a fleeting moment, Ethan’s bright demeanor dimmed, his small face falling ever so slightly before he straightened up, nodding resolutely—like a tiny soldier accepting orders from his commander.
Across the room, Chris’s expression shifted subtly, a flicker of discontent tightening the edges of his mouth. He watched intently as you rose from the table, your footsteps light yet purposeful as you walked toward the shelf where the dossier awaited, its presence seeming far more significant than mere paper.
His voice lowered, laced with a caution that hinted at deeper concerns, “(Y/N). Leave it. The fort can’t wait.” But your fingers were already closing around the crisp manila folder, its weight feeling like a key capable of unlocking hidden truths. You turned to face him, the dossier pressed firmly against your chest as though it were both a shield and a burden.
Ethan glanced back and forth between the two of you, his voice soft like a whisper. “It’s okay, Daddy. Mommy has to be a hero sometimes, too.” The innocence in his words hung in the air, a fragile reminder of the world you were trying to protect.
Chris’s jaw clenched tightly as he looked from Ethan’s trusting eyes to your determined gaze. With a slow, deliberate breath, he seemed to concede a small battle while the war still loomed ahead. His lips curved into a forced smile as he addressed Ethan, “You’re right, champ. Mommy’s a very important hero.” His gaze locked onto yours, a silent plea hidden in the depths of his eyes. “Just… make it quick, birdie. Your kingdom awaits.”
“Just remember I’m a part of DSO...and you’re BSAA…” you whispered, the weight of your responsibilities settling heavily in the stillness. You turned and made your way down the hallway, the sound of your heels clicking rhythmically against the polished marble floor—each step a stark contrast to the soft chaos of the kitchen behind you. The door to your private study clicked shut, sealing you off in a sanctuary lined with books, where the world outside faded into a distant hum.
Morning light streamed through the expansive window, casting a warm glow across the room and illuminating the brutalist steel desk that stood resolute in the center. The high-backed leather chair beckoned, but you focused on the polished surface of the desk, where you placed the dossier. The DSO emblem gleamed starkly against the muted manila cover, a symbol of the weighty decisions that lay ahead.
From the kitchen, you hear the distant, muffled sounds of Chris's voice, lower now, likely explaining something to Ethan. The cheerful energy has been replaced by a tense, waiting silence. You take a deep breath and break the seal on the dossier. The first page is a standard cover sheet: OPERATION SUNSET - AFTER ACTION REPORT - REDFIELD EYES ONLY. But beneath the formal type, Hunnigan has scrawled a handwritten note in red ink: Cross-reference timestamps with Hollow’s personal comms log. Discrepancies noted. Advise extreme caution.
Your blood runs cold. You flip past the summary to the detailed mission log. The report is dry and technical. Movements of asset C.W. through Lisbon's Alfama district. Contacts made, targets observed. But your eyes snag on the timestamps. According to the DSO log, Clara was conducting surveillance on a suspected black market drop point at 22:47 local time. Her notes, typed neatly in a sidebar, are damning. Asset reported radio silence due to signal jamming from 22:40 to 23:10. Motive unknown.
You keep reading, your heart pounding. The report details a firefight that erupted an hour later. Clara’s field report claims she was pinned down, acting alone. But ballistics analysis appended by Hunnigan indicates a second, unidentified weapon was involved-a high-caliber pistol, not standard DSO issue. The report concludes with a recommendation for a full audit of asset C.W.’s actions and a psychiatric evaluation.
A soft creak echoes in the hallway, a sound that sends a jolt of unease through you as it slices through the oppressive silence. You glance up, your breath hitching in your throat, but the frosted glass of the door offers no insights—only a hazy outline of the world beyond. The house, which just moments ago was alive with cheerful banter and clinking dishes from the kitchen, has transformed into a somber tomb, the atmosphere thick with tension. You're left alone with the cold, hard truth of the dossier cradled in your hands, its weight a stark reminder of the terrifying implications surrounding the man sleeping just down the hall.
“Birdie? Ethan's getting his blankets together. How much longer?” His voice drifts softly from just outside the door. The sound lingers in the air, causing your heart to race. You can hear the doorknob turning slowly, the metallic clink echoing ominously, although the door remains firmly shut. He's testing the lock—a cautious gesture that makes your skin prickle with alarm. “Don't get lost in there,” he adds, his tone light yet laced with an unspoken urgency.
His presence looms just on the other side of the barrier, an almost tangible pressure that heightens your sense of dread. The dossier feels like it's searing your palms. You slide it into the locked drawer of the steel desk with a deliberate motion, the resounding click of the mechanism slicing through the stillness like a gunshot. For a moment, you pause to collect yourself, taking a deep, steadying breath and smoothing your dress as if it could somehow erase the tension swirling in the air.
With a newfound determination, you cross the room to the door, turning the lock and opening it slowly. Chris stands there, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed, an air of relaxed vigilance about him. His expression is cool and neutral, but his eyes are anything but—they pierce through the shadowy corners of the room, searching for something unspoken before settling on your face. The lightness in his voice belies a deeper concern, “All done saving the world for the morning?”
He doesn't step aside to let you pass; his broad frame fills the doorway, a solid wall that holds you captive. His dark gaze shifts to your trembling hands, then slowly rises to meet your eyes, a teasing glint sparking in his expression. “You look tense, baby girl. That report has you all wound up?” His hand reaches out, brushing tenderly against your cheek as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering softly on your skin. “Maybe Daddy needs to clear your head again.”
You find yourself gasping softly, a mixture of surprise and hesitation in your voice. “But... Ethan's right downstairs.”
A slow, predatory smile spreads across Chris’s face, one that sends shivers down your spine. He steps into the study, an irresistible force that pushes you back instinctively, and with a quiet but deliberate motion, he closes the door behind him. The unmistakable click of the lock resonates in the air, sealing off the world outside. The cheerful sounds of Ethan’s playful construction in the living room become muffled, fading into the background of your apprehension.
His voice drops to a low, intimate rumble, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. “And he’s a smart boy. He knows his mommy and daddy need private time sometimes.” As he advances, you find yourself retreating toward the polished surface of the desk. “You think I can't hear how stressed you are? That little gasp… your heart’s pounding, birdie. Let me fix it.”
With a decisive movement, his hands land on the desk on either side of you, caging you in, creating an intense atmosphere of closeness. He leans in, the warm scent of soap mingling with a hint of sweetness and raw male dominance enveloping you. His lips graze against your ear, sending an electrifying chill down your spine. “On your knees. Give Daddy a sweet treat. Quick and quiet, just like you wanted.”
His hand moves to the back of your head, exerting gentle but firm pressure, a silent reminder of the control he possesses. When you hesitate, a dangerous edge darkens his expression, and the playful predator retreats, revealing the uncompromising man beneath. His fingers tighten ever so slightly in your hair—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his unmistakable dominance. He leans in closer, his voice a husky whisper filled with authority, “That wasn’t a suggestion, (Y/N). You came to me because your head was full of grown-up thoughts. Now, I’m cleaning the house. On your knees.”
He doesn't force you down, but the command is absolute, leaving no room for argument. The locked door, the muffled sounds of your son playing innocently just a room away, and the weight of the hidden dossier make the air in the study feel thick and charged. His gaze is locked on yours, waiting for your submission. You sink to your knees on the cool marble floor, the hard surface a stark contrast to the plush rug from earlier. You look up at him, the massive bulk of him towering over you, his expression unreadable in the shadowed study. The faint sounds of Ethan humming to himself as he builds his fort drift under the door, a surreal soundtrack to the tense scene. He unzips his pants, freeing his already hard cock. He grips the base, his thumb stroking the vein.
“That's my good girl. Now open that pretty mouth. Daddy's going to give you what you need to forget.”
He guides himself to your lips, the head pressing against them. His other hand remains firmly on the back of your head, not pushing, but a constant, possessive pressure. “Take it all. Deep.
And no sounds,” He whispered, “We don't want to scare the little knight, do we?”
You part your lips obediently, the musky, familiar scent of him filling your senses. He doesn't rush. He pushes forward slowly, the thick head of his cock sliding over your tongue, deeper into your throat. His grip on your hair tightens just enough to hold you steady as he begins a slow, rhythmic thrusting, setting a pace that is both commanding and measured. The only sounds are the soft, wet noises and his controlled, heavy breathing. His eyes are closed, his head tilted back slightly, “That's it... good girl... take it all... swallow for me…”
Your whimper is muffled around him, a soft, choked sound that seems to spur him on. His hips pump faster, his thrusts becoming deeper, more insistent. You struggle to accommodate his size, your throat working around him, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the strain. He groans, a low, approving sound that vibrates through his body and into yours, “You're doing so good, birdie... taking all of Daddy... fucking that pretty throat clean…”
His control is absolute, his movements precise and overwhelming. He uses his grip on your hair to guide the pace, his thrusts hitting the back of your throat with each push. The world narrows to this single, suffocating point of sensation-the stretch of your jaw, the weight of him on your tongue, the sound of his ragged breathing. His body tenses, his rhythm becoming erratic, “Gonna cum... gonna fill that sweet mouth... don't spill a drop…”
With a final, guttural groan, he spills into your throat, his release hot and bitter. He holds himself deep for a long moment, his body shuddering, before slowly pulling out. He looks down at you, your lips swollen, eyes watery, and a dark, satisfied smile touches his lips. He tucks himself away and helps you to your feet, his touch surprisingly gentle, “There. All better. No more room for bad thoughts,” He wipes a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. “Now, let's go build that fort. For Ethan.”
You swallow hard, the acrid taste lingering on your tongue—an indelible reminder of the control he wields over you. “Okay, Daddy…” you murmur, the words barely escaping your lips. As you rub your tender jaw, Chris’s gaze shifts from one of dominant intensity to a softer, paternal satisfaction. He tenderly smooths your hair back from your forehead, his thumb tracing the gentle curve of your brow with a careful intimacy.
"That's my good girl. All clean inside and out," he affirms, his voice rich with warmth. With a decisive click, he unlocks the study door, the sound slicing through the stillness of the room, signaling a return to reality. “Let’s go. Our little man is waiting.” He swings the door open, and the joyous sounds of Ethan’s fort-building erupt in a symphony of rustling blankets, muffled thumps of pillows, and the cheerful melody of Ethan’s humming. Chris takes your hand, his grip firm and reassuring, leading you out of the dim solitude of the study and back into the cheerful chaos of family life.
In the living room, Ethan has constructed an impressive fortress of blankets, cascading from the sofa to the armchairs, a vibrant patchwork of color and texture. He beams up at you from the threshold of his stronghold, a pillow held aloft like a knight's shield, his tiny frame bursting with enthusiasm.
“Mommy! You’re back! The castle is almost ready! We need a queen!” Ethan exclaims, his voice ringing with excitement. Chris gives your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, a playful wink lighting his eyes. “And here she is,” he says with a grin.
As Chris strides toward the kitchen, you kneel to peer into the cozy confines of the fort. The air inside is warm and enveloping, imbued with the comforting scent of fabric and the sweet, innocent aroma of a little boy. As Ethan crawls in and tugs you after him, you feel a momentary escape wash over you, the burdens of the day fading against the plush pillows that cradle you in their embrace. For a heartbeat, you are shielded from the world outside, the worries that reside in the locked drawer of the study, and the tension feeling a million miles away.
But as you settle into the plush pillows, the calm is fragile. Your eyes drift toward the hallway leading back to the study, where the hidden dossier looms like a ticking bomb, threatening to disrupt this slice of bliss. The taste of Chris’s release in your mouth is only a fleeting comfort, and the peace of the blanket fort feels tenuous, the storm clouds still gathering just outside its cozy walls.
“Can we have popcorn?” Ethan asks meekly, his wide eyes searching yours with a mix of hope and innocence.
“You bet. Come on, help me in the kitchen,” Chris said, his voice ringing with a lightness that felt almost forced as he climbed the stairs, guiding Ethan in his wake. The sound of his footsteps gradually faded, leaving you alone in the living room, enveloped by a heavy silence. The quiet was punctuated only by the soft hum of the refrigerator, a reminder of the mundane life that continued beyond this moment of tension. The blanket fort loomed in the corner, its sagging structure resembling a kingdom that had been laid to waste. You hesitated, glancing at the front door, and then at the closed study, where the damning dossier sat securely locked away. Chris’s protection felt like an impenetrable fortress, yet the very walls that shielded you were constructed from secrets and coerced choices. The memory of his release lingered in your throat, a bittersweet taste that transformed what once felt like freedom into a binding chain.
As you stepped into the kitchen, the bright, sterile light struck you like a slap, a stark contrast to the dimly lit tension of the living room. Chris stood at the counter, intent on his task, measuring popcorn kernels with meticulous care as they formed a small mountain in a large pot. Ethan perched on a step stool, his small hands gripping the oil bottle tightly, his expression a mixture of concentration and determination. The scene unfolded like a carefully choreographed play of normalcy, but the air was still thick with the unspoken aftermath of earlier confrontations. Chris didn’t glance up from his work as he spoke, his voice deliberately neutral, “Just in time, birdie. We need the salt. Top cabinet.”
Ethan turned his gaze toward you, his hazel eyes wide and sparkling with unasked questions, curiosity flickering beneath the surface. He parted his lips to speak, but Chris interjected gently, nudging his son with an encouraging smile. “A little more oil, champ. Make it pop real good.” Ethan nodded, the determination in his small frame intensifying as he focused on the task at hand, replying earnestly, “Okay, Daddy.”
“We could add butter to the popcorn afterwards,” you suggested, your voice light as you reached for the salt shaker perched on the high cabinet. It felt surprisingly natural as you stretched for it, your fingertips brushing against the cool surface. Across the kitchen, Chris watched your movements, his gaze lingering on your hands for a moment, a hint of warmth in his eyes, before he turned back to the stove. The kernels in the pot erupted with a soft, frantic sound, filling the air with a cheerful popping that echoed through the cozy kitchen.
“Butter. We'll keep it simple,” he stated confidently, giving the pot a gentle shake. “No need for extra sugar today. You've had enough sweetness.” The reminder lingered in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of the earlier events in the study, but Ethan, oblivious to the underlying tension, was completely captivated by the sight of the popcorn bursting into fluffy white clouds.
“It’s like fireworks! Pop, pop, pop!” Ethan giggled, his eyes squinting with delight as he clapped his little hands together in sheer joy. Chris let out a chuckle, a genuine sound that seemed to dissolve the stress from his shoulders. “That’s right, buddy. Just like fireworks.” He glanced over at you, his gaze softening, “Get the big bowl, baby girl. The one with the dragons on it.”
You quickly retrieved the large ceramic bowl, its surface adorned with colorful dragons that danced across the ceramic. Chris carefully poured the steaming, buttery popcorn into it, the steam curling up into the air, releasing a warm and inviting scent that filled the kitchen like a comforting embrace. After setting the empty pot in the sink, he expertly sprinkled a generous amount of salt over the top, its crystals glistening like tiny jewels.
Chris ruffled Ethan's hair playfully, his eyes sparkling with affection. “Alright, knight. You carry the treasure.” He passed the bowl to Ethan, who grasped it with both hands, cradling it carefully as if it were a precious artifact. “To the movie fortress!” he declared, and the three of you set off, hearts light and spirits high.
“We could add butter to the popcorn afterwards,” You commented, as you grabbed the salt, “Or some sugar for sweet popcorn.” You reach for the salt in the high cabinet, the movement feeling strangely normal. Chris watches your hands for a moment, his gaze lingering, before turning back to the stove. The kernels begin to pop, a soft, frantic sound that fills the kitchen.
“Butter. We'll keep it simple,” He gives the pot a shake, “No need for extra sugar today. You've had enough sweetness,” Chris reminded, of what happened in the study. Ethan, engrossed in watching the popcorn explode into fluffy white clouds, misses the subtext entirely.
“It's like fireworks! Pop, pop, pop!” Ethan giggled as his eyes squinted, and he clapped his hands in glee. Chris chuckled, a genuine sound that seemed to ease the tension in his shoulders, “That's right, buddy. Just like fireworks.” He glances at you, his eyes softening slightly, “Get the big bowl, baby girl. The one with the dragons on it.”
You hand him the large ceramic bowl decorated with painted dragons. Chris pours the hot, buttery popcorn into it, the steam carrying the warm, comforting scent through the kitchen. He sets the pot in the sink and sprinkles salt over the top with a practiced hand. Chris tousled Ethan's hair, “Alright, knight. You carry the treasure.” He hands the bowl to Ethan, who holds it carefully with both hands. “To the movie fortress!”
Ethan, with a wide smile, began to walk carefully toward the living room, “I got it!”
Chris watches him leave, a shadow falling over his face as the moment of lightness evaporates. He steps closer to you, his thumb gently brushing against the fabric of your dress. He lowers his voice, ensuring that only you can hear him, “We’re not done with this. After the movie. After he’s asleep, you and I are going to have a serious conversation about trust. And consequences. Understood?” His words hang in the air like a warning, and before you can respond, he turns away to follow Ethan into the living room.
You linger in the kitchen for a moment, the aroma of buttery popcorn suddenly overwhelming, thick in the air. The promise of a looming “long talk” weighs heavily on your thoughts. Shaking off the unease, you slip into the dimly lit living room where Ethan is already back in his makeshift blanket fort, the dragon bowl sitting proudly at its center like a shimmering treasure.
Chris kneels before the large wall-mounted screen, his fingers deftly manipulating the remote. As the opening credits of the animated film dance to life, colorful light spills into the fort, illuminating the cozy interior with shifting hues.
His voice brightens once more, filled with warmth for Ethan’s sake. “Scoot over, champ. Make room for Mommy.”
Ethan shuffles aside, creating a little pocket of space. You crawl in behind him, the confines of the fort wrapping around you like a warm embrace. Chris follows, settling in behind you, pulling you back against his broad chest. His arms encircle you possessively, providing a sense of security. Ethan nestles against your side, his small frame radiating innocent trust and pure contentment.
“This is the best castle ever,” he declares, his voice filled with joy, injecting the moment with a brighter, lighter mood as the film begins to unfold around you.
Two hours drifted by, and as the final credits rolled across the screen, Ethan succumbed to slumber, his small frame nestled comfortably on the couch. Chris, embodying the role of a loving father, gently lifted Ethan in his arms, cradling him as he made his way to the serene sanctuary of his bedroom. You rose from your seat, your insides churning with anxiety over the impending correction you were about to face. The weight of your disobedience loomed heavy in the air, a consequence of your decision to disregard his instructions regarding the dossier. Silly you, for believing you could act independently without repercussions.
As you entered the dimly lit room, the door clicked shut behind you, and Chris’s presence was felt like a solid wall behind you. His voice, while firm, carried an undertone of gentleness that both comforted and unsettled you. “There still needs to be a consequence, birdie. A reminder. So you understand why we have these rules.” His eyes met yours, unwavering and steady, imbued with a sense of authority. “You're going to go to the corner. You will stand there, quiet and still, reflecting on what your disobedience could have cost this family. For thirty minutes. No phone. No distractions. Just you and your thoughts.”
With a subtle gesture, he motioned towards the empty corner of the bedroom, nestled near the heavy, sumptuous velvet curtains that seemed to wrap the room in a cocoon of luxury. The punishment, though seemingly childlike, was designed to reinforce the dynamic he had so carefully cultivated—an experienced protector guiding his wayward charge back to the right path. It was a reminder steeped in humiliation, yet undeniably effective in reiterating your place within this carefully crafted world.
Chris rose from his seat, a commanding presence as his hand briefly rested upon your head, a mixture of comfort and authority. “Go on now. I’ll be right here. I’ll let you know when the time is up.” In the background, the soft sounds of Ethan stirring in his sleep through the baby monitor served as a gentle reminder of the innocent life you both cherished and protected. The room fell into a profound silence, punctuated only by the faint hum of the air conditioner, creating an almost palpable tension as the corner awaited you—a stark space designated for contemplation amidst your luxurious prison.
You approached the vacant corner, the cool white marble floor sending chills through your bare feet, a jarring contrast to the plush surroundings. The velvet curtain grazed against your arm, a delicate yet weighty touch, as you positioned yourself, facing the wall. The brutalist concrete loomed behind you, unyielding and stark in its simplicity. You could hear Chris settling into the armchair nearby, the leather creaking softly under his weight, a reminder of his constant watch over you.
The silence enveloped you, stretching on like a taut string, broken only by the rhythmic sounds of the antique clock ticking steadily on the mantel and the soft, measured cadence of Chris’s breathing. Then, from across the room, his voice broke the stillness, “Thirty minutes, birdie. Think about trust. Think about what’s truly important here.”
Time seems to stretch endlessly, each second dragging like thick molasses. The cool texture of the wall becomes an all-consuming universe, your eyes tracing the tiny imperfections of the concrete—a faint hairline crack snaking its way up like an unwelcome thought. You can feel Chris’s gaze on your back, a palpable weight pressing down, reminding you of your vulnerable state. Unbidden, your mind wanders to the locked drawer in the study, to the ghostly recollection of popcorn shared under the dim glow of the television and the bitter tang of betrayal that lingers in the air. The baby monitor remains quiet, a small but welcome blessing in an evening thick with tension. This luxurious room, with its refined decor and soft furnishings, feels nothing but vast and isolating, a cavern that echoes your loneliness.
After what feels like an eternity of silence, his voice breaks through, softer now, “Fifteen minutes left. You're doing well. Just stay focused.” The words wash over you like a balm, yet they do little to ease the stiffness in your knees. The childish nature of your punishment burns with a quiet humiliation, yet intertwined with that discomfort is an unsettling sense of order settling in your mind. The chaos of the day is being neatly contained, boxed away in this corner of the room, kept at bay under Chris’s watchful eye.
“I’m sorry, Daddy.” The whisper is barely perceptible, a fragile admission that drifts in the stillness like a feather on the wind. You hear the soft sound of Chris shifting in the armchair, and for a moment, silence reigns once more. The clock ticks on with deliberate, unyielding precision. After a few more agonizing minutes, you hear his footsteps softly approaching. He halts directly behind you, his solid presence a warm wall against your back.
His voice, low and intimate, brushes against your ear like a whispered secret, “I know you are, baby girl. I know.” His hands come to rest gently on your shoulders, the weight of his touch both comforting and authoritative, his thumbs rubbing slow, soothing circles that chase away the coldness of apprehension. That touch serves as both an absolution and a reaffirmation of control, reminding you of the boundaries that exist between you. He continues with that same soft, firm tone, “But sorry isn't enough. You have to show me. With your actions. From now on. Time's up.”
His hands slide from your shoulders, gently guiding you around to face him. His expression is calm, radiating a profound sense of resolve, the earlier flicker of anger now replaced by a deep, possessive certainty that holds you captive. He cups your face in his hands, his gaze searching yours for understanding, his eyes an anchor in the storm of emotions swirling within you. Leaning in, he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead—an intimate yet paternal gesture that speaks volumes. “Now, we put this behind us. No more thoughts of the dossier. No more thoughts of that. It's just us tonight. Understood?”
From the baby monitor perched on the nightstand, the soft rustling of Ethan stirs the air, a gentle mumble escaping his lips before he drifts back into the comforting embrace of sleep. Chris's gaze shifts momentarily to the source of the sound, then returns to you, an expectant look lingering in his eyes, waiting for your final agreement. “Yes, Daddy,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath, accepting his comforting proposal.
Chris studies your face intently, his thumb caressing your cheek in a tender motion that sends a shiver of warmth through you. The palpable tension that had filled the room slowly dissolves, giving way to a deep, soothing calm that envelops you both. He nods slowly, a gesture of approval that feels like a promise.
“Good,” he says softly, taking your hand in his grasp. His grip is firm yet gentle, offering reassurance as he guides you towards the adjoining bathroom. The cool marble floor greets your bare feet, and the room bathes in a soft, ambient light that creates a serene atmosphere. He releases your hand and approaches the large, freestanding tub, turning on the faucet and testing the water temperature with his warm fingers. “A bath. To wash the day away. All of it,” he murmurs, his voice a calming balm.
With practiced, unhurried movements, he begins to undress you, his hands deftly slipping the straps of your dress off your shoulders before easing the zipper down, revealing your skin, the sensation tinged with an intimacy that feels both freeing and safe. He folds the fabric with care, placing it neatly on a nearby stool, an act of reverence for the day you’ve endured. Then, kneeling before you, he reaches for your heels, his touch warm against your ankles as he gently removes them. Meeting your gaze, he softly asserts, “No more work thoughts. No more field agents. Just my birdie. My wife.”
He helps you into the bathing water, the steam rising like a gentle mist, enveloping you in warmth and the soothing aroma of lavender bath oil that fills the air with a calming essence. Rather than stepping away, he remains close, taking a cloth and lathering it with soap before beginning to wash your back, your arms, your neck with meticulous care. The act is not sensual; rather, it is a ritual of purification, a deliberate cleansing of the remnants of the day's burdens and secrets. Each swipe of the cloth is slow, meditative—an intentional erasure of the turmoil that had clouded your thoughts.
Once you are thoroughly cleansed, he helps you from the tub, wrapping you in a large, fluffy towel, treating you with the same tender thoroughness. Leading you back into the bedroom, he gestures toward the soft, faded gray t-shirt he has laid out for you to sleep in—a piece of his past that swallows you whole, enveloping you in warmth and a sense of belonging as you settle into the comfort of your sanctuary.
He helps you into the shirt, his hands lingering on your shoulders, “There. All clean. All mine.”
He guides you into bed, pulling the heavy duvet up to your chin. He circles the bed, checking the locks on the windows, adjusting the baby monitor volume, performing his nightly rituals of security. Finally, he climbs in beside you, turning off the lamp on his side. The room is plunged into darkness, broken only by the sliver of moonlight filtering through the curtains. He pulls you against his side, your head resting on his chest. His arm is a heavy, secure weight around you. “Sleep now, birdie. No more bad dreams tonight. I'm here.”
His heartbeat resonates like a slow, steady drumbeat beneath your ear, each thump soothingly grounding you in the moment. His breathing deepens and flows into a rhythmic cadence of sleep, lulling you into an awareness of the deep silence surrounding you. The house feels impenetrable, a fortress fortified against the outside world. Yet, as you lie enveloped in his protective presence, the stillness morphs into something heavier—like the oppressive quiet before a storm brews just beyond your walls.
You remain awake, trapped in the darkness, for what feels like an eternity, your senses attuned to the calming yet unyielding rhythm of Chris's breath and heartbeat. The house remains utterly still, the kind of quiet that wraps around you like a damp shawl, thick with anticipation. The moonlight filters through the windows, casting long, sharp shadows that creep across the stark, brutalist walls, transforming your familiar space into a fortress besieged by silence. Eventually, the weight of exhaustion drags you under into a restless sleep, filled with fragmented dreams that swirl like rain-slicked streets and the jarring echo of slamming doors.
Your eyes flutter open to the sensation of the bed shifting beneath you. Chris has already risen, moving with a deliberate grace in the dim pre-dawn glow that filters into the room. He’s clad in his BSAA tactical pants and a tight black t-shirt, his movements practiced and silent. As he senses you waking, he approaches the edge of the bed, his hand brushing gently along your forehead, a tender gesture that brings comfort. His voice is a low, soothing whisper, “Early call. Briefing at HQ. I’ll be back by dinner.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, an unspoken promise hanging in the air.
Standing up, his gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, a silent assessment to ensure that the compliance you offered the night before still holds firm. Satisfied, he turns and leaves the room, closing the door with a soft click that resonates in the now-quiet space. A few heartbeats later, you hear the distant sound of the front door creaking open and then closing, followed by the subdued purr of his car engine, which starts and gradually fades into the morning stillness. The house feels desolate now, a shell, save for Ethan, still lost in dreams down the hall.
You rise from the bed, the chill of the marble floor sending a jolt through your bare feet. The ghost of last night's confrontation lingers in the air, heavy and foreboding. Your gaze drifts against your will down the hallway, toward the locked study that holds secrets and tension. You make your way to Ethan's room, where the door stands slightly ajar. Inside, he lies deeply asleep, tangled in his dinosaur-print sheets. An arm is flung carelessly over his head, and his small mouth hangs slightly open, breathing in a steady, innocent rhythm. Nestled under his other arm is his beloved stuffed wolf, "Grey," held tightly as if it could shield him from the world's complexities. The room exudes tranquility, a sanctuary untouched by the adult struggles that pulse and thrum just beyond its walls.
You stand quietly, watching him for what feels like an eternity, his calm, steady breathing a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. The sheer innocence of his peaceful slumber stands in stark contrast to the tangled chaos of emotions you had just left behind in your bedroom. Gently, you pull the soft duvet back over his small shoulders, tucking it carefully as you smooth the tousled hair from his forehead. He lets out a contented sigh, subconsciously snuggling deeper into the plush pillow as if trying to harness the security of sleep.
As you turn to leave, your gaze drifts to the family photo resting on the nightstand—a snapshot of a happier moment in time, where you, Chris, and Ethan all beam with joy. Leon, your stepdad, is noticeably absent from the frame, a haunting reminder of the rift that has grown between you. You retrieve your phone from the pocket of Chris's oversized t-shirt, the screen flickering to life, bright against the dimness of the hallway. The keys feel foreign under your fingertips. With a swift motion, you type the urgent words, ‘Are you okay?’ and hit send. The message passes through the digital ether, marked as delivered, but the absence of an immediate "typing..." response amplifies the unsettling silence that envelops you. The echo of the argument with Leon, just days earlier, resounds in your mind—a clash born from your eagerness for his cock while Ethan innocently played in the pool. Leon had erupted in anger, leaving you alone with a lingering confusion and hurt.
You slip your phone back into the pocket of Chris's shirt and descend the staircase, the morning light pouring through expansive terrace windows, flooding the space with warmth and illumination that highlights the stark white marble tiles and the striking Renaissance paintings that adorn the walls. The blanket fort from yesterday lies in disarray on the living room floor—a chaotic heap that serves as a monument to the shattered peace of your household.
Suddenly, your phone vibrates, breaking the stillness with a sharp buzz against your leg. You glance down to see a reply that is curt and devoid of any warmth—‘I'm functional. Don't worry about me.’
In a moment of desperation, you respond with, ‘Daddy’s gone for the day. Dad, you… can come… Ethan has school today.’
The three dots appear immediately on the screen, pulsing with tension as if he’s grappling with his own thoughts. Then, just as swiftly, they vanish, replaced by a suffocating silence that hangs in the air. Standing in the sunlit living room, the remnants of last night’s blanket fort loom like a painful reminder of a bond now strained. The house feels vast and hollow, each corner echoing with absence.
Minutes drag by, and your phone vibrates again. The message that pops up is short and clipped—‘I'm not coming back there. Not with him around. Tell Ethan I’ll see him after school. I’ll pick him up at 3. Alone.’ Your heart sinks as you type back fervently, ‘But dad... daddy's gone. You can come!’ The screen remains still, ghosting your plea as silence envelops you once more.
The morning stretches on, heavy and tangible, wrapping around you like a suffocating shroud. You force yourself to go through the motions and prepare breakfast for Ethan, scrambling eggs and toasting bread, though the effort feels hollow, like an actor playing a part in a scene devoid of emotion. Ethan eventually emerges from his room, rubbing his sleepy eyes, his hair a wild mess that perfectly captures the youthful innocence he embodies. He sits down at the table and eats quietly, his small bites punctuating the tense atmosphere that hangs over the room—a pressure that seems to weigh heavily on both your shoulders.
You help him with his morning routine, tying his shoes and checking his backpack, all with a practiced familiarity that feels increasingly empty. Just then, your phone vibrates again. You pull it out to see Leon's name flashing on the screen, an unexpected jolt of urgency racing through you.
You step into the kitchen, where the atmosphere feels thick and almost suffocating in its stillness. The envelope in your hand seems to pulse with weighty significance as you place the phone against your ear. For a beat, the line is swallowed by silence—a tense, aching void that stretches between you and him. When he finally speaks, his voice emerges gravelly and strained, as if he’s been battling sleepless nights, “You shouldn't have texted.” In the distance, the faint cacophony of traffic mingles with the sobering wail of a siren. He’s outside, somewhere amid the city’s relentless pulse. The sharp sound of a car door slamming shuts the silence like a gate, “Is he really gone?”
“He is, Dad. He won’t be back anytime soon,” you reply, your words weighed down by the reality they carry.
Another stretch of silence fills the air, almost palpable. You can envision him, tired and disheveled, running a hand through his tousled blond hair, the weight of the world resting heavily on his weary shoulders. The ambient noise shifts; you can almost sense him leaning against a cold brick wall, the city buzzing around him like a swarm of anxious bees. From the living room, Ethan’s small voice pierces the tension, soft yet insistent, “Mommy? Can I have some juice?”
He catches that, and his voice tightens with unspoken anxiety, “He’s right there, isn’t he? Listening. This is a bad idea.”
“Ethan’s going to school soon,” you say, handing him a juice box, bright and cartoonish against your fading sense of urgency. “In ten minutes. After that... I’ll be here, alone.” The din of the city seems to swell, emphasizing his vulnerability, as if he’s standing exposed on a bustling street corner. “Dad, I meant what I texted you.”
Suddenly, the line goes dead with a soft click, an abrupt end to the connection. You’re left holding the phone, the dial tone buzzing faintly in your ear like a haunting echo. The silence in the kitchen wraps around you like a heavy shroud. Ethan, blissfully unaware, slurps the juice box noisily, a bright splash of innocence against the darkening reality. A new text message flashes on your screen, stark and interruptive: ‘I know what you meant. Don’t.’
Without hesitation, you type back, fingers trembling slightly, ‘You said I’d be your only girl... has that changed?’
The three dots appear on the screen, pulsing like a heartbeat for what feels like an eternity. They flicker and disappear, then reemerge again, a silent struggle playing out in digital form. He types, deletes, types again, the rhythm of his uncertainty palpable. The stillness in the room stretches out, an unseen weight, broken only by the sound of Ethan finishing his juice box with an exaggerated, conspicuous slurp.
Finally, a reply materializes, stark and raw, cutting through the tension like a knife: ‘No. It hasn't.’ A second message follows mere seconds later, words that hit like a physical blow, ‘But you chose differently. You made your bed, Sarah. Now you have to lie in it. With him.’
Desperation bubbles up in you as you type back, ‘But, Dad, please, I fucking need you now. He's not here. Ethan's going to school.’ Your phone screen remains stubbornly dark after your urgent, profane plea, no response illuminating the silence. It feels heavier now, solid, unyielding, a final wall you cannot breach.
Ethan glances up from his empty juice box, his small, innocent face etched with concern. “Mommy, are you okay? You look sad.” You muster a smile, though it feels weak and forced, your throat tight as if it’s squeezing out the words. The clock on the wall ticks audibly, a reminder that it's nearly time for the school run. The mundane reality of the day floats back into focus, crashing over you like a wave.
You bend down to help Ethan into his bright, puffy jacket, the fabric crinkling in your hands, then gather his tiny backpack—its straps slipping against your fingers. The drive to his school is enveloped in an uneasy quiet. Ethan chatters away about some cartoon episode, his voice a high-pitched murmur against the backdrop of your swirling thoughts. You barely hear him, as your mind drifts through the storm of Leon's sharp criticisms and the daunting emptiness that awaits you at home.
After dropping him off with a heartfelt kiss, you watch his small form recede, swallowed up by the welcoming, brightly-colored structure of the preschool. The soft thud of the school door closing reverberates in the silence, echoing the void left by your unanswered texts.
Back at home, the house feels profoundly desolate, every corner whispering reminders of what once was. The silence envelopes you like a heavy fog, almost tangible. You stand in the foyer, the manila envelope from Hunnigan clutched in your hand, its weight crushing. Your gaze drifts warily up the staircase, landing on the locked study door, a barrier to all that remains unspoken. Leon's words—“You made your bed”—loop endlessly in your head. The choice is painfully clear, and the suffocating loneliness that follows lingers like a ghost, now yours to bear alone.
You ascend the staircase with heavy steps, the silence of the house amplifying the weight in your chest. As you reach your bedroom door, you push it open and step inside, the coolness of the marble floor sending a shiver up your spine. You make your way to the edge of the bed, the familiar surroundings feeling strangely foreign today. Sitting down, you take a deep breath, trying to collect your thoughts, but the chaos within you only intensifies.
With trembling fingers, you pull out your phone and navigate to Leon's contact, your thumb hovering uncertainly over the call button. The screen illuminates the dimly lit room, casting flickering shadows that dance across the walls. Finally, summoning your courage, you press the button and listen as the phone rings—once, twice, three times—each ring stretching the already taut silence until it feels almost unbearable. Then it clicks to voicemail, and his recorded voice echoes back to you, calm and professional, a cruel reminder of his distance. “You've reached Leon Kennedy. Leave a message.”
The beep feels like a gunshot in the stillness. Your voice, choked with emotion, breaks free. “Dad, please! God, why are you pulling away now?” You cry out in desperation, rubbing your face in frustration. “You said you loved me. What’s changed!? Have you found a new girl? If you found a new bitch to fuck, then don't bother coming back to the house!”
The silence that descends after your explosive outburst is suffocating, wrapping around you like a heavy fog. The voicemail beep echoes ominously, marking the end of your recording time, leaving you staring at the stark glare of your phone's screen. The call log displays your failed attempt to reach out, a testament to the chasm that has opened between you. The atmosphere in the room chills, the brutalist shadows of the furniture stretching menacingly across the floor like dark fingers reaching for you. Downstairs, the grandfather clock resonates with a mournful chime, signaling the hour at ten o'clock; each deep, resonating toll reverberates through the stillness of the empty house, amplifying your sense of isolation.
It isn’t long before a single text message interrupts the oppressive quiet. The words are frigid and definitive, slicing through the silence: “That’s enough, (Y/N). This isn’t about someone else. It’s about the choices YOU made. Don’t call me again.”
In a surge of anger and hurt, you fire back, fingers trembling as you type, “That’s so fucking rich coming from YOU. If you're going to hurt me this way... Ethan shouldn’t have his grandpa in his fucking life.” The message shows as delivered, yet a profound silence follows. Your heart races, but there is no reply; the screen looms dark and unyielding. The only audible sound is the soft, almost haunting hum of the refrigerator from downstairs, its monotony contrasting sharply with the turmoil swirling within you.
Perched on the edge of the bed, you feel the weight of your own words and his icy finality pressing down upon you, suffocating every shred of hope. The once opulent bedroom has transformed into a gilded cage; the Renaissance paintings on the walls seem to leer down at your despair, their vivid colors cold and accusatory.
The ensuing silence is palpable, thickening the air around you, rendering the atmosphere almost oppressive. As your phone’s screen dims, it becomes a black mirror, reflecting your strained expression—the anxiety and regret etched in every line of your face. You’re left utterly alone with the sobering consequences of your outburst, the looming threat of cutting Ethan off from his grandfather hanging like a dark cloud overhead, heavy and foreboding.
Just when you think the silence may swallow you whole, your phone flickers to life one last time, a glimmer of hope that quickly vanishes. The message is stark and emotionless, a clinical incision made with ruthless precision: “Fine. If that’s how you want it. I won’t come at 3. Tell Ethan... tell him Grandpa’s sorry.” Each word hits like a weighted blow, leaving you to grapple with the fallout of emotions now laid bare.
The message is followed immediately by the sound of your phone powering down, the battery icon flashing red once before the screen goes completely black. The sudden, absolute silence feels like a punishment in itself. You sit there for a long time, the dead phone in your hand. The morning light through the window seems harsh now, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The bed feels too large, the room too quiet. Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimes the half-hour, a lonely sound in the hollow house. The confrontation is over. You've pushed him away, and he has accepted it. The bridge, it seems, is burned.
“You made me this way! You fucking piece of shit! You said you'd love me forever!” You screamed. The scream tears from your throat, raw and guttural, echoing off the hard surfaces of the bedroom. You snatch the nearest photo frame—a picture of you and Leon smiling, taken years ago on the terrace and hurl it against the brutalist wall. The glass shatters, raining down on the white marble floor. Another frame, then another, follows in a destructive frenzy, each crash a punctuation mark to your rage.
You storm into the bathroom, your reflection staring back from the large mirror above the sink—a wild-eyed, tear-streaked version of yourself. With a furious cry, you slam your fist into the glass. It cracks, a spiderweb of fractures distorting your image before large pieces break away and clatter into the sink. Your knuckles are stinging. You run, half-blind with tears, down the hall to the study. The door is unlocked. You yank open the desk drawer where you keep your Glock, the crow sigil cold against your palm. The weight of the gun is familiar, solid. You hold it, your hand trembling with a furious vibration, pointing it at nothing, at everything, at the ghost of Leon in the room. The metallic scent of gun oil mixes with the smell of your own panic. But the fury evaporates as quickly as it came, leaving a crushing emptiness. Your arm drops, the gun feeling impossibly heavy. It clatters onto the plush rug. You sink to your knees, then crumple fully to the floor, great, heaving sobs wracking your body. The tears come hot and fast, soaking the rug beneath your cheek. The study, once a place of professional purpose, now feels like the epicenter of your personal ruin.
Downstairs, the front door creaks open with a soft yet precise click that resonates through the air. The sound is only a faint whisper compared to the jagged sobs wracking your body, but the footsteps that follow are unmistakable. They are deliberate and steady, each footfall echoing against the cool marble floor as they ascend. Instead of veering toward the kitchen or the inviting warmth of the living room, they purposefully move up the staircase.
Your husband, Chris, strides into the study, his eyes instantly drawn to the chaos that envelops the room. He halts as he takes in the scene: the open drawer hanging limply, the gun lying ominously on the plush, disheveled rug, and you—curled up on the floor, tears streaming down your face as you cling to the shattered pieces of your control. His expression transforms, a hardened mask settling over his features, yet his voice cuts through the tension with a chilling calmness, “What have you done?”
As he steps fully into the room, the door clicks shut behind him with a soft finality, sealing the silence around you. Frantically, you reach for the gun, desperate to conceal the evidence of your despair, but Chris is quicker. In a heartbeat, he lunges for the weapon, and in your panic, your finger inadvertently brushes against the sensitive trigger. The loud bang pierces the silence, an explosion of sound that shatters the air and sends shockwaves through your already frayed nerves.
The sound of the gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space, a sharp, concussive crack that leaves your ears ringing. A puff of plaster dust blooms from the fresh hole in the wall just above the baseboard. The acrid smell of cordite fills the air, sharp and alarming. In the sudden, stunned silence that follows, your own ragged breathing sounds impossibly loud. His reaction is instantaneous, a blur of trained motion. He doesn't flinch at the shot; his grip on your wrist tightens like a vise, forcing your hand away from the weapon. With his other hand, he expertly clears the chamber, ejecting the round and engaging the safety with a series of swift, practiced clicks. His face is a mask of cold fury, his blue eyes like chips of ice, “What the hell were you thinking?”
He doesn't yell. The quiet, controlled intensity of his voice is far more terrifying. He pulls you to your feet, his grip unyielding, and places the now-safe gun on the high bookshelf, far out of your reach. His gaze sweeps over you again, taking in your tear-streaked face, your bleeding knuckles, the destruction visible through the open door to your bedroom. He turns you to face him, his hands on your shoulders, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper, “Look at this. Look at what you've done. Is this what you call handling things? Is this how you take care of my house? Of yourself?”
“Shut up!” you screamed, your voice echoing in the tense air, “My dad just left me!” His expression remained unchanged at the mention of “dad,” but you noticed a muscle in his jaw twitch ever so slightly. His strong hands gripped your shoulders firmly, holding you in place even as you unleashed your anger, the intensity of your emotions barely contained as it surged to the surface. The silence that settled after your outburst was thick and suffocating, heavy with the lingering scent of gunpowder and the haunting echo of the shot that had shattered more than just the glass.
With a voice as sharp as a blade, he replied, each word sliced through the silence with deadly precision, “He left you? Or did you push him away? Again.” His gaze flickered to the shards of glass scattered across the hallway floor, a poignant reminder of your chaos. “This isn't grief, (Y/N). This is a tantrum. A dangerous one.” Despite the palpable tension, he tapped the screen of his phone twice, lifting it to his ear with unwavering focus, his piercing eyes fixed on you. Into the phone, his tone shifted to one of cold professionalism, “Hunnigan. Yes. A minor domestic incident. A round was discharged accidentally. No injuries. I’m handling it. I need a cleanup crew, discreet, to my address. Within the hour.” He listened intently for a moment, then added sternly, “No. No police. Just the crew. Family emergency.” With a swift motion, he ended the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket as if it were second nature.
“Why would you fucking tell her!” you shrieked, rage spilling from your lips like fire, “You fucking piece of shit!” He stood unfazed by your torrent of insults, his expression as unyielding as granite. The intensity of his gaze bore down on you with an unnerving calm—an anchor in the storm of your emotions. He stepped closer, his imposing figure forcing you to look up at him, the air around you seeming to shrink beneath the weight of his solid presence, clad in tactical gear that hinted at the authority he wielded.
In a low, controlled rumble, his voice resonated in the charged silence, “I told her because this is a DSO agent's home. A discharged firearm is a reportable incident. You can't be trusted to act like an adult right now.” He gestured toward the bullet hole embedded in the wall, the stark symbol of the chaos, “This ends now. The screaming, the destruction, the recklessness. It stops.”
“We both reached for the gun, Chris,” you cried out, desperation seeping into your voice, “So it's also a BSAA incident!”
His eyes narrow, the intensity of his gaze sharpening as he catches your attempt to shift the blame. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the chill in his tone wraps around you like ice. With a steely determination, he takes your chin in his hand, tilting it up so your eyes lock onto his. “No. It's not. This is my home. You are my wife. And you just endangered yourself and this house because you couldn't control your emotions,” he says, his voice steady yet laced with a simmering fury. Letting go of your chin, his hand drops to his side, the action almost final, as if sealing a verdict. “We're done talking about this. Go to our bedroom. Now.”
The defiance in your voice surges as you snap back, “No! Fuck you!”
The word "No" reverberates in the charged atmosphere, a bright, defiant spark in the tense, gunpowder-scented room that feels as if it could ignite at any moment. Chris's expression remains unwavering, as if carved from stone. He doesn’t shout, nor does he reach for you. Instead, he takes a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance between you until his presence looms like an insurmountable wall of controlled authority. His voice drops to a whisper, chilling and absolute, “That wasn't a request, birdie. It was an order. You've lost the privilege of choice for today.” He gestures toward the shadowy hallway, his commanding posture unwavering, “Our bedroom. Now. Or I will carry you there.”
The piercing clarity in his blue eyes holds yours captive, leaving no room for negotiation. There’s a quiet certainty in his demeanor that feels more threatening than any ferocious yell could. Outside, the faint rumble of a car pulling up to the curb signals the discreet arrival of the cleanup crew Hunnigan dispatched. The real world, with its cold, unyielding consequences, waits just beyond the threshold.
Your kick connects with his shin, a sharp, futile impact against the hardened material of his tactical pants. He doesn't even flinch. His reaction is immediate and absolute. In one smooth, powerful motion, he bends, wraps an arm around your waist, and lifts you effortlessly off your feet, throwing you over his shoulder like a sack of grain. The air whooshes out of your lungs.
His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion as he carries you out of the study, “We're done.”
“Let me down!” You yelled as you punched his back, “I’m talking to you! Let me down!”
He doesn't respond. His grip is like iron, one arm clamped firmly across the backs of your thighs, holding you in place as he walks with a steady, purposeful stride out of the study and down the hall. Your fists pounding against his back are ineffective, absorbed by the thick fabric and muscle of his tactical vest. He ignores your screams entirely. He pushes open the door to your shared bedroom and carries you inside. He doesn't throw you onto the bed. Instead, he sets you down on your feet with a firm, controlled motion, his hands immediately going to your shoulders to steady you-or to prevent you from bolting. His gaze is hard, his jaw set.
He turns and locks the bedroom door with a definitive click, pocketing the key. He faces you again, his arms crossed over his broad chest, “You are going to stand right there and calm down. You are not to move from that spot until I say you can. Do you understand me?”
You let out a scream that is raw, tearing from your throat, but it seems to hang in the air, absorbed by the room's oppressive silence. Chris doesn't react to the volume or the defiance. His expression remains impassive, a mask of weary, unyielding control. He simply watches you, his arms crossed, a silent sentinel blocking the locked door.
His voice is low, almost tired, but with a core of steel, “That wasn't a question. It was an instruction. You will stand there. You will be silent. And you will wait for the anger to pass. Because if you take one step, if you say one more word... the consequences will be far more severe than a corner or a bath.”
“Fuck you! You stupid…..stupid shithead!”
He doesn't move. He doesn't speak. He simply stands there, a solid, unmovable presence, his blue eyes fixed on you with an unnerving calm. The silence stretches, broken only by your own ragged breathing and the distant, muffled sounds of the cleanup crew moving efficiently downstairs. The air in the room feels thick, charged with the aftermath of your rage and his absolute control. He uncrosses his arms slowly, deliberately. He takes a single step forward, not to grab you, but to loom, his shadow falling over you. His voice is a low, dangerous whisper, “One more word. Just one. And I will make sure you don't sit comfortably for a week. Try me.”
“You're being tried!”
The challenge hangs in the air, a final, reckless spark. For a moment, the only sound is the frantic beating of your own heart. His expression doesn't change, but something shifts in his eyes—a cold, decisive finality. He moves with a speed that belies his size, his hand closing around your upper arm in a grip that is instantly, painfully tight. He pulls you toward the large, upholstered armchair in the corner of the room, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper, “That's it. You've chosen.”
He sits down in the chair with a heavy sigh, the leather creaking under his weight. In one fluid motion, he pulls you across his lap, positioning you so your torso is draped over his thighs, your face toward the floor. The position is sudden, humiliating, and completely inescapable. His left arm wraps firmly around your waist, pinning you in place. His right hand comes down on the seat of the thin panties you're wearing under his t-shirt, not a slap, but a firm, stinging smack that echoes in the quiet room.
“This is for the gun.”
The impact is sharp, a hot sting that surprises you more than it hurts. Before you can process it, another comes, harder this time. Another sharp smack, “For the screaming.” A third, with more force, made you gasp. A fourth, his voice cold and measured, “For the destruction of our home.” Each smack is a punctuation mark on his list of your transgressions. The sharp, rhythmic sounds fill the room, a stark contrast to the silent, efficient work of the crew downstairs. He doesn't rush, delivering each stinging blow with deliberate, controlled force, making sure you feel every bit of his displeasure and his absolute authority.
After a final, particularly sharp smack that leaves a burning sensation, he stops. His hand rests on your now-tender backside, a heavy, warm weight, “Is that clear enough for you? Or do you need another lesson in who is in charge here?”
You cried softly, “I hate you.”
He doesn't respond to your tearful declaration. His hand remains on your backside, a firm, warm pressure. He keeps you pinned across his lap for a long moment, the only sound is your soft crying and his steady breathing. The air in the room is thick with the scent of gunpowder that has drifted up from downstairs and the sharp, clean smell of his soap. His voice is low, devoid of anger now, but filled with a weary finality, “You can hate me all you want, birdie. But I'm what you have. I'm what you chose. And I will not let you destroy yourself.” He guides you to stand on shaky legs in front of him. His eyes scan your face, taking in the tears, the defiance, the raw pain. He reaches out and wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the recent punishment.
He rises to his full height, casting a long shadow over you, but the menace has dissipated, replaced by an unwavering determination. “Now, you are going to stand in the corner. The one by the window. You will remain there until that cleanup crew has left and I deem you calm enough,” he declares, his tone firm. “You will not turn around. You will not speak. Do you understand?”
You tremble, a soft sniffling escaping your lips, your heart racing. “He's gone...gone forever…” You murmur helplessly. With a gentle yet unyielding grip, he turns you toward the corner of the room, where heavy velvet drapes cascade down, their dark fabric soaking up the light. The coolness of the polished white marble floor sends a shiver through your bare feet. He positions you, facing the wall, and your reflection emerges as a blurred, tear-streaked image in the dark glass of the window. For a fleeting moment, his hands rest on your shoulders—a heavy, final burden that speaks volumes.
His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, too close to your ear, “He’s not gone forever. He’s just gone for now. Because you told him to be.” He squeezes your shoulders slightly, a reminder of his presence. “Now, stand. And reflect on what happens when you allow your anger to dictate your decisions.”
You feel his footsteps retreat, the soft thud echoing slightly as he moves away from you. The door to the bedroom clicks softly as it unlocks, then swings open, yet he does not leave completely; he stands sentinel in the doorway, a silent guardian, watching over both you and the activity unfolding downstairs. The muted sounds of the cleanup crew filter up the stairs—soft voices murmur, glass crunches carefully underfoot—each sound an echo of someone restoring order in a world that’s gone awry.
You remain in the corner, trembling with the weight of your emotions. The sting on your backside serves as a fresh, aching reminder of his control, grounding you in the reality of the moment. Tears continue to stream down your cheeks, pooling on the front of the oversized t-shirt you wear—his t-shirt, a bittersweet reminder of his presence. The faint, familiar aroma of his soap mingles with the air, offering a cruel comfort in the silence. In the window's reflection, you catch a glimpse of the empty bed behind you, the rumpled sheets where this morning’s fleeting normalcy once prevailed. The silence stretches around you, interrupted only by the distant sounds of the world being carefully pieced back together, a process unfolding without your consent.
Your whispered apology hangs in the air, so quiet it's almost swallowed by the room's silence. Chris doesn't respond immediately. You hear the soft sound of the bedroom door closing fully, then his footsteps as he walks back into the room. He doesn't come to the corner, but you sense his presence behind you, a large, watchful shadow.
“I know you are.”
He moves to the bed, the frame creaking softly as he sits on the edge. You can hear the rustle of his tactical gear as he begins to methodically remove it-the click of straps, the heavy thud of a vest placed on the floor. The sounds are calm, deliberate. After a long moment, his voice is quiet, almost introspective, “But sorry isn't enough today, birdie. Not after a gun went off in my house. Sorry, it doesn't fix the hole in the wall. Or the trust.” The sounds from downstairs grow fainter as the crew finishes their work. A car door closes, an engine starts, and then there is only silence from the lower floor. The house is quiet again, but the silence now feels different-controlled, sanitized.
He stands, his footsteps approaching you again. He doesn't touch you, but stops close behind, “The thirty minutes aren't up. Keep standing. And think about what "I'm sorry" really means when your actions scream something else entirely.”
He returns to the bed. You hear the soft tap of his fingers on his phone screen, likely sending a message to Hunnigan that the crew has left. Then, silence. He doesn't speak again. He simply waits, a patient, imposing presence in the room, letting the weight of the quiet and the lingering sting of your punishment do the talking for him. The only sound is the faint, steady rhythm of your own breathing and the occasional soft creak of the bed as he shifts his weight.
You stand in the corner, the cool glass of the window pane a stark contrast to the heat of your flushed cheeks. The tears slowly dry, leaving tight, salty tracks on your skin. The initial shock and rage have subsided, leaving a hollow, aching emptiness in your chest. The physical sting is a dull, persistent throb, a constant reminder of the line you crossed. From behind you, the only sound is the occasional soft rustle of fabric as Chris remains seated on the bed, a silent, watchful guardian. The house is utterly still now, the cleanup crew gone. The silence is deep and absolute, broken only by the faint, rhythmic tick of the antique clock on the mantelpiece downstairs.
His voice cuts through the quiet, calm, and measured, “Time's up. You can turn around now.”
You slowly turn, your muscles stiff from standing rigidly for so long. Chris is sitting on the edge of the bed, now wearing just a grey t-shirt and fatigue pants. His BSAA gear is neatly stacked on a chair. His expression is no longer coldly furious, but it's still grave, his blue eyes studying you with an unnerving intensity. He gestures to the space on the floor in front of him.
“Come here.”
He doesn’t raise his voice, but the authority in his tone is unmistakable. It’s a command, a clear directive rather than an invitation, marking the next phase of this meticulously orchestrated disciplinary ceremony. The plush rug, soft and warm beneath your feet, feels almost comforting as you step forward to stand before him. His eyes lift to meet yours, traversing your face, taking in your disheveled hair, the awkward way you carry yourself, the shame that clings to you like a second skin.
Reaching out, he takes your hands in his strong grasp, turning them over with a gentle yet firm touch, examining the skinned and slightly bloody knuckles that testify to your latest outburst—the reckless impulse to punch the mirror in a moment of despair. His thumb glides softly over the abrasions, careful not to cause you more pain. “This stops today. All of it. The screaming. The breaking things. The reaching for a gun when you're upset. Do you understand me? This is the last time.” His words slice through the tension, and he studies your puffy eyes, searching for sincerity in your response.
“It won't happen again,” you promise, your voice barely above a whisper.
His thumb pauses, hovering over the raw skin of your knuckles. He doesn’t rush to affirm or deny your assurance. Instead, he holds your hands between his, their sheer size and calloused texture contrasting starkly with your delicate fingers. The silence stretches between you, thickens with the weight of his expectation and the fragility of your vow. Slowly, he raises his gaze from your hands to your eyes, his expression intense and probing. “It can’t happen again. Not just for my sake, or for the house’s. For yours.”
Releasing one of your hands, he cups your cheek with surprising tenderness, his thumb tracing along your jawline. “You’re better than this, (Y/N). You’re smarter than this. Letting him... letting anyone... push you to this brink.”
He rises to his full height, still holding onto your hand, and gently guides you a few steps toward the adjoining bathroom. The broken shards of the mirror have been cleared away, leaving the space pristine and sterile, the faint scent of glass cleaner hanging in the air like a ghost of your rage. He leads you to the sink, where he turns on the warm water, its gentle flow a soothing contrast to the chaos within you. With careful precision, he washes the blood and grime from your knuckles, his movements methodical and tender, reminiscent of a caretaker tending to a wound with unhurried compassion.
After cleansing your hands, he wraps them in a soft towel, the fabric cradling your injuries with a delicate touch. His voice, low and soothing, cuts through the remnants of your distress: “I’m going to make us some tea. You’re going to sit on the bed. We’re going to have cuddles until you’re sleepy, birdie.”
After you savored the last sip of your tea, Chris enveloped you in a warm, comforting bear hug as you settled into the softness of your bed. His strong arms wrapped around you, and you could feel the gentle rhythm of his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back, his voice a soft murmur of reassurance in your ear. With every whispered word, your sniffling gradually faded, and your eyelids grew heavy, lulling you into a state of calm.
Chris made a promise, one that felt like a lifeline: your dad, Leon, would return for you. He knew Leon’s love ran deep, far too deep for him to ever truly abandon you. And in that moment, as a sense of hope stirred within you, it seemed Chris was right.
Sure enough, less than 24 hours passed before your phone buzzed with a familiar message. Leon’s words, cold and distant just hours earlier, now arrived with the pretentious ease of someone dismissing their own hurtful remarks as if they were merely a figment of your imagination. You sank to your knees, once again facing your dad, while Chris went about his work and Ethan was happily engrossed in preschool. The cycle continued, a blend of pain and longing, but also a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, things would be alright again.
Cw - p in v, daughter chasing after dad, stepcest, noncon(?) Unprotected
WRD- 1.5k
You always knew your dad was hot, total babe back in the 2000's ever since you were a kid your friends always gushed over him, and it was fair, always thought it was gross though. Like he's YOUR dad, stepdad yeah but he still raised you, sure he had a cute face, big arms, his pornstar tits were an add on. But he was Dad, nothin' more, But fuck the way he cups your cheek when your sad, hugs you, gives you that awkward Dad kiss. Just makes you yearn for him, which is wrong you know it's wrong but it's like that itch.
Your friends are always tellin' you how lucky you are, not only is Dad hot, he's nice y'know? Real good dad, picks you up everyday, gets you real nice things. Best guy honestly can see why Mom picked him!
"Hi kiddo, you wanted to check out that new place-?" Dad said opening your bedroom door, stupid fucken smile on his dumb hot face
'bury your face in my tits'
"Oh no -! It's okay- really I'm real tired"
'fuck me till I can't breathe'
"Huh- alright, come down soon dinners gonna be ready, and sorry Moms not home yet she said she'd be here in a few weeks 'k?"
'i wanna scream your name'
"Oh it's alright, and of course dad!"
With that he left, shutting the door halfway, dick move but it probably wasn't on purpose, the smell of his colone in the room, only imagining Dad stuff you up. God your disgusting, this is dad. Fourth something year old DAD, since when did you have these thoughts about him, as a kid sure you always thought he was cute 'ohhb I would totally date someone as big and strong as my Daddy!'
But it was LIKE, not actually him. But you can't stop thinkin' about him, wanting Dad to shove your face in the mattress pull on your hair, do the shit they do in pornos. Nasty thoughts, feeling gross and hot imagining all the shit you wanna do with the poor guy, as he just stood there not knowin' thinking your his innocent little daughter who could do no wrong! Oh no she would never have sex before marriage! Oh no my little girl doesn't even cuss!
Yeah right Dad, mhm. Actin' like in middle school my friends weren't blushing over you, whenever you walked in.
Fucken idiot, your little girls not pure, she's not good. She ain't innocent, hell she fantasizes about fucken you every day. It doesn't matter, nothings ever gonna come of this right? Just walk downstairs, eat dinner with dad and go back in your room and sleep it off.
"Sweetiee you finnaly came, how was your day?" Dad says sitting across from you, he didn't even cook. Fucken liar this was clearly some bullshit from a 4 star restaurant he just put on a plate. "Oh it's fine, nothin' much." You say staring at the table, trying to distract yourself from him, how he smells, how he sits, how he opens his mouth, the way he moves his bangs out of his dumb face, his breath. The intoxicating feeling of just bein' near him now.
"Are you okay?"
"Why'd you ask that? You know I'm always fine-" you say in response, playing with your fingers, avoiding his gaze. God feels like a crush in primary school, messin' up words and giggling to your friends about the fastest guy. "You just don't seem like yourselfer Hun, you can always talk to me you know that?" He says, feeling his eyes on you, not in a creepy way more an endearing way which somehow made your entire situation worse. "yeah- I know, don't worry it's fine!" You mumble, lookin' up at him, god he really was dreamy, just wanting him to- NO no more fantasy's.
You finish up, so does he. He just gives you that concerned Dad look before you get up and run back up the stairs like a bitch and lock yourself in your room, typing into Google
'how to stop liking your dad'
'is it normal to have a crush on your dad'
'is it illegal to fuck your step dad'
Jesus Christ your search history, just laying on your side in your bed. Thighs squeezed together tryna' stop thinking about dad, you've seen him shirtless before. Yeah you felt a little hot in your core before, anytime he hugged you you felt so- just so warm. Not the lovey Awee dad and daughter warm, more like if your boyfriend hugged you nice and tight! Feels good, feels warm and fuzzy, pit in your stomach that can only be filled by one thing.
Tossin' and turnin' it's only 6:00pm shit, Dad's still downstairs probobly watching some old movie, he really likes thoughs for some reason, and westerns it's kinda creepy but your the one who wants to fuck him so you really can't be judging. your thoughts are too much to bare, a girl can only last so long on the edge, panties soaked thinking about shit, and hell when you can actually recreate what you want, Nothing's stopping you. Other then ethics but who even cares anymore, walking downstairs to Dear ol' Daddy, bingo.
"Mm- Dad-? Can I talk to you?" You mutter walking up behind the sofa he's laying in, playing with your fingers, how do even address this like,
'Oh yeah dad! Can you just bend your daughter over and fuck her till she's blubbering nonsense, you raised her since she was seven but y'know !!'
No.
"Hm, yeah of course, what's the problem bunny?" He says sitting up, glancing behind him to your miserable face, little frown on your lips. He raises a brow seeing your face, you felt all fuzzy feeling your throat get dry, the hell were you supposed to do?
"Uh Dad, can- can you come upstairs" you mutter looking at him, feeling your chest get heavy. Of course dear Daddy doesn't wanna disappoint you so he gets up and walks over to ya
"What's wrong, Hun?" He says, so sweetly fuck. Looken' all concerned for you, just fall into his chest, even though Dad was in shape he had fatass boobs, real nice to put your face in whenever he hugged ya. Just like always as a concerted Daddy does he puts an arm around you, pulling you nice and tight, "Baby?" He says in that same voice, pullin' your face away from his body, looking down at you.
"Can- can we just sit down" you say grabbing his hand forcefully and leading him to the nice leather sofa, you didn't know much about Mom but she really liked expensive shit and this was the only thing at home she bought..
You push him onto his back, his head resting on the arm, he looked kinda confused, like a puppy! You crawl over on top on him, ass rested on his lower pelvis. "Hey Bunny this is a little- whats wrong?" Dad says trying to carefully lift you off of him, awe stupid Daddy actin' like you're just gonna listen to him
"Dad just let me do this- please, you love me right?" You say looking at him in the eyes, pout on your stupid lips, he just nods slowly as a response. Unzippin' his jeans, wow this really is a shitty porno plot.
'Cute stepdaughter seduces and fucks her Dad while Mom isn't home!'
Jesus Christ you fucking creep.
With his pants open pulling out is fat cock, he wasn't hard which kinda hurt, you were being all cute and all dad did was just sit and stare in shock. Like sure you were gropen him and stuff but he could put some effort in it? Whatever doesn't matter-? You sit on his thighs pulling off your night pants, your panties were already wet from earlier, sadly it seemed Dad didn't really wanna reinact your fantasy so you gotta do all the work, flicking your garments to the side, crawling back onto him. Placing your hips over his Dick, and taking it in, feeling his tip touch your cervix "Mm- fuck-" you murmer, taking a second before getting used to it, slowly moving your hips back and forth, feeling ever little movement. It was euphoric, hands on his chest, looking at his face he looked like he was trying to not enjoy it, but you could tell he was. You felt his breath get heavier anytime you went faster, such a good boy.
His fat dick bruising your womb, your walls squeezing against him, you could hear Dad muttering curse words under his breath, made you feel kinda better about this whole thing. Going to your high and getting that numbing feeling, stomach felt warm, brain all fuzzy and messy collapsing onto him, feeling that warm stuff leaking out of you, pulling yourself off Dad, laying on his chest, glancing up at him, seeing his flushed and disturbed face, awe it was so cute!
He probably felt horrible but you felt amazing, fuck best experience. Putting your arms aside his
"I love you Dad.." you spout into his shirt
"Your Mother can't hear about this B-bunny.." he replies, putting one of arms on your back, you could feel his chest go up and down so cute.
Summary: You hook up with sexy cop who is called to the spring break beach party where your having a little fun. Six months later, you find he's marrying your mother. His new title of step-father should deter you from desiring him like you do, but it only makes it worse.
A/N: This is my first attempt at my own version of step-dad!Leon although very much inspired by @lipglossanon and the amazing works she's created!
“Shots!” You cry out happily with a comically timed hiccup, then burst into giggles as you listen to your own drunken noises. You're stumbling on the beach with the rest of your classmates and everyone else who decided to join in on this spring break bash. Beer and cheap wine have been flowing all evening and it's nearing ten o'clock…still early in your book.
The party hasn't slowed down either! Somehow a telephone pole was knocked over and dragged onto the beach. It's now the fuel for a large, long bonfire. There's a van with the back doors wide open and large speakers inside blaring music. All around you, people are dancing, drinking, and having the time of their lives! Hell, there's even some guy off in the distance clearly getting his dick sucked. You sputter out a laugh, “pffft.”
Finally, one of your friends hands you a shot of…something. Who cares what it is? You're on spring break! You down the shot, it's fiery liquid burning all the way down. “WOOOO!” you yell triumphantly, your voice barely registering over the loud music. You adjust your red bikini top, making sure your boobs are still hidden - although barely given how skimpy the whole thing is - and return to dancing with your friends.
Near midnight, with the bash still going strong, red and blue flashing lights intrude on your fun. “Fuck,” you mutter, though with the music at a cool billion and five decibels, you could have yelled and no one would hear. You start waving your arms, trying to get everyone's attention and shouting, “Cops!” hoping it will be loud enough.
Eventually, enough of your fellow party goers see your wild arms and connect the dots to the flashing lights. Someone finally turns down the music.
The siren briefly sounds to ensure everyone's attention, then the officer exits the car, each of his authoritative steps hitting the dry sand with a crunch. The man saunters over to the crowd of rowdy college kids. Without words, he stares down each and every one, his eyes landing on yours last. You see him quirk a brow and his lips twitch, curling up in the slightest smirk. His face is beautiful, angular and chiseled. It’s framed by straight, dark hair, just long enough to thread your fingers through it. You see thick biceps protruding from his short sleeved police uniform shirt. You suspect he has a banging body to match. If he weren't on duty and possibly about to arrest everyone, you'd definitely fuck him, even if he is older than you, maybe by ten or perhaps twenty years. He still looks amazing!
“Got a noise complaint,” the sexy officer announces. His voice is a buttery soft baritone dream. He stalks along the crowd, assessing. “Figured I'd come and see what you kids were up to,” he adds with a wide smirk. “My name is Officer Kennedy.” The light of the bonfire reflects off of his badge, flashing the group of drunk college students.
Everyone stays quiet while you're aggressively undressing him with your eyes.
“Listen, kids, I like a good party as much as the next guy, just keep the volume down, alright?” He flashes a charming grin at the crowd. The one controlling the speakers slowly turns up the music until the officer gives him the ‘okay’ signal with his hand. Shifting his focus back to you, he walks up to you with a sly grin, his eyes raking up and down your scantily clad body. He towers over you. “Hey there, sweet thing. Couldn't help but notice you eyeing me earlier. What’s your name?”
A tingle runs through you, from the tips of your ears all the way down to your toes. Your already flushed face blushes even more as you attempt to hide your smile, with great failure. You give him your first name with a soft, breathy voice. “You, uh, wanna stick around for a drink…Officer?” You find yourself flirtatiously twisting back and forth like a lovestruck teenager.
“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m on duty. Can’t be drinking,” he replies, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “Though, I’m off in…” he pauses to check his watch, “twenty minutes.”
A confident grin slowly creeps across your face. “I’m sure we can find something to do till then,” you muse.
Officer Kennedy lets out a snort, his mischievous smile reaching his eyes. He glances around the beach, finally locating a small shack in the distance, no doubt full of miscellaneous, nautical bric-a-brac. He looks back at you and subtly nods in the direction of the shack. You grin widely and nod in acceptance, following quickly beside him toward your time killer for the next twenty minutes.
He holds the rickety wooden door open for you and you step inside. Sure enough, there’s old beach chairs, various parts of boats, a jetski, and several feet of rope scattered throughout. At the back, there’s a workbench that Officer Kennedy obviously finds sturdy enough for your cute little ass because as soon as he shuts and secures the door, he lifts you into his arms and carries you to it. As soon as you’re set down, his mouth is all over you. Pillowy soft lips capture yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, demanding entry. You open up for him and with a groan, he wastes no time exploring your delicious mouth. “Mmm, you taste like whiskey, baby girl.” He returns to his slow sweep of your oral cavity. His hands roam along your body, caressing every inch of exposed skin, which, let’s be honest, is most of it. You moan in reply as his fingertips dance along your hips.
You tangle your fingers in his hair while he wraps your legs around his waist, pressing his hardening cock to your wet core. Your back arches, pressing your body against his hard chest. Your nipples are so hard they might rip through your bikini top.
Officer Kennedy grunts, feeling the heat from your smoldering cunt and the sensation of your tits on him. “Fuck, baby girl…you want this bad, don’t you?” He moves his lips, kissing your cheek then dropping to your neck. He begins with a gentle suck to your tender skin, drawing out the sweetest sighs from you.
“Fuck…yes! God, I want it so bad. Please, Officer Kennedy!” you confess.
The officer’s eyes darken and he stops his assault on your neck. “Name’s Leon, sweetheart,” he reveals and pulls off your bikini top with one tug of the thin string. His eyes widen at the sight of your pert breasts. “Fuck…your tits are fucking perfect.” He latches onto one of them with his mouth, sucking it greedily into his mouth with a guttural moan. Better than my girlfriends, he thinks to himself but refrains from saying that out loud.
Your head falls back and you pant heavily. Your pussy gets so wet you might as well have just walked out of the water.
Leon unzips his uniform trousers, desperate to relieve the pressure of his hard cock against his pants. After giving plenty of attention to each breast, he crouches down to remove the remaining piece of your bikini and free your sweet, wet cunt. He licks his lips and growls. Without warning, he dives in, mouth engulfing your soaked folds. You gasp in a breath of air and then cry out in pleasure. He moans gruffly, like a starved man enjoying his first meal in days. He throws your legs over his shoulders as he continues his all out assault on your pussy.
Your chest heaves, rising and falling with labored breaths as he drives you closer and closer to a life changing orgasm. Your hips roll to match the rhythm of his sweet torture as his mouth grapples with your slippery flesh. You think he's about to devour you whole when his tongue drives inside your trembling vault. Your entire body contracts, but he holds your legs wide open for him. With one arm wrapped around your squirmy leg, he slips his thumb over the hood of your clit, gently rubbing at first, then increasing in intensity. His tongue finds the most sensitive patch of flesh inside you and you're overwhelmed with delicious pleasure. You writhe and squirm, but he holds you tightly in place. Your fingers grip his hair and he growls back in approval.
He increases his pace and rubs your clit faster and harder. You're beginning to feel dizzy from all the intense sensations when you finally cum, screaming his name. He greedily slurps up your cream and kisses his way up your body, across your tits and back to your mouth, sharing the sweet taste of your essence with you. You feel his long, thick erection dragging against your leg, smearing precum on your smooth, silky skin. You manage to catch your breath, but just barely before he manhandles you, turning you over so you're bent over the workbench. You spread your legs without prompting.
“Good girl. What a good little slut,” he purrs as he gently rubs your back and teases your pussy with the head of his cock.
You babble incoherently but manage to beg him to fuck you. Suddenly, you feel him grab your wrists and cuff them together behind your back. You moan, “fuck yes…” Your pussy starts dripping all over again at the thought of him dominating you like this.
He rubs your clit with his cock head, your cream coating his shaft. He leans down to whisper in your ear, “I'm gonna fuck you like no one ever has, baby girl. You just keep those legs spread nice and wide for me, got it?” He rubs your ass gently then delivers a light slap. You yelp in surprise, but your body betrays you as more slick oozes onto Leon's dick. “Oh. You like that baby girl? You like when I get a little rough with you?”
You belt out a moan. “Yes! Fuck…it's so hot!”
Your reaction drives him into madness. He thrusts his thick cock inside you, hard. You cry out with a mix of pleasure and pain, almost more than you can bear but everything you want.
He groans roughly as he feels your tight cunt envelope him, tossing his head back. He grabs onto your hips, stilling your movements while he tries to keep himself from cumming already. When he's finally regained control of himself, he starts moving slowly, pulling almost all the way out, then gliding back in, his dick lubricated by your infinite supply of creamy slick.
“Fuck…” he groans, drawing out the word. “You've got the best pussy in the world, sweetheart.” He pants heavily. “Shit…might bust a nut before I even get started…”
Your pussy clamps down on his cock as you hear his words. The thought of him filling you nearly has you cumming again yourself. “Oh God, yes! Please! Please cum in me!”
Leon stops suddenly, nearly falling over at your begging. “What!? You'd actually let me cum inside you?”
You grind your ass against his hips, angling his cock against your g-spot. “Please! I want it!”
He smirks at the submissive goddess beneath him. He slaps your ass again and resumes his pace. “You got it, baby girl. Want Officer Kennedy to breed this little pussy?”
Your walls contract once more, sucking in the throbbing cock that's fucking you deeper and deeper. “Oh, fuck yes!”
He growls and his pace starts to quicken, growing more and more erratic. He reaches around and rubs your clit, the oversensitive bundle of nerves that brings tears to your eyes from so much overwhelming pleasure.
You choke out another raspy moan as he brings you to climax once more. Your cunt grasps him tight as your walls contract yet again.
“Yes! Yes! Fuck yes, cum on my dick, baby girl!” he pounds into you hard and fast, chasing his high as your pussy holds onto him for dear life. Finally, sheathed deep within you, he explodes, cumming all over your cervix, splattering his seed against the entrance to your womb. He collapses on top of you, his chest heaving as he catches his breath. You do the same, desperately gulping in extra oxygen.
“Holy shit…holy fucking shit…” you choke out.
“Yeah…that was…” he pants.
“Yeah…it was…” you reply.
You both stay like that for a few more moments before Leon finally pulls out of you. He unlocks the cuffs and replaces them on his utility belt. He glances dramatically at his watch. “Well, would you look at that? It's after midnight. How about that drink, baby girl?”
You grin as you put your bikini back on and nod.
You enjoy a few drinks together and when the night ends, you share a tender kiss, but neither of you are brave enough to say you want to see each other again. It's as if there's so much magic in what you experienced together tonight you don't want to risk spoiling it. “Good night Leon,” you whisper.
“Good night, baby girl,” Leon replies with a smirk and pecks a quick kiss to your cheek before getting back into his cruiser.
As he drives away, you feel a twinge of sadness, but you know you'll get over it and you’ll never see him again anyway…or so you think…
Six months later
You lay outside on the patio, enjoying a book under the summer sun, a glass of iced tea sitting next to you. You've enjoyed the break from school and had the place to yourself since your mother was away on vacation with her boyfriend. You chuckle to yourself at the thought. That won't last long, you joke to yourself. The reason her marriage to your father ended is because she cheated on him. You wouldn't put it past her to do it again. You almost feel obligated to warn this new boyfriend of hers.
Your peaceful solitude is brought to an abrupt end when your mother's voice rings through the house all the way to the back yard where you are. She calls your name and you hear her footsteps trotting through the house. “Sweetie! I'm engaged!” You hear your mother shout as she bursts into the backyard patio. She squeals with delight.
“What!?” You cry out, jumping up from your lounge chair.
She grins widely and ostentatiously shows off her engagement ring. It's modest, but pretty.
You give her a curious look. “So, where's your boyfriend? I haven't even met him.”
She turns her head back toward the inside of the house and bellows, “Honey! C'mon out here for a second! I want you to meet my daughter!”
Your whole world stops when your mother's fiance steps outside and you finally get a look at him. It's Leon. Leon Kennedy. The officer you shamelessly banged six months ago during spring break. You slept with your future step-father and let him cum inside you! Your eyes widen but you quickly hide it, desperate to keep the dirty little secret from your mother. Leon keeps his face stoic and neutral but tiny microexpressions appear and disappear in milliseconds. You know he recognizes you, too.
“This is Leon! Leon, this is my daughter,” your mother proudly introduces you, thankfully not perceiving the unmistakable rise in tension at all. You force a smile and shake his hand. You exchange a tense greeting followed by a few pleasantries then quickly excuse yourself, claiming you feel sweaty after sitting outside and need to shower.
You lean against your bedroom door, frantic from what is happening. Your life is about to turn upside down. Your step-father! You fucked your step-father! You start to feel nauseous and stumble into your bathroom.
But it's not your fault. You didn't know he was with your mom when you met…you didn't ask if he was with anyone, exactly. You didn't care; you hadn't planned on ever seeing him again. And it's not like he was your step-dad at the time. And…and it felt so good. He felt so good inside you. Your pussy starts heating up again, recalling the rapturous orgasms he gave you. You begin to pant as the memories come flooding back. A shower does nothing to calm your nerves and sleep eludes you for hours. Finally, you get out of bed and pad downstairs to the kitchen and get some water. You glance at the clock in the kitchen. It's 2:34 AM.
“Can't sleep either?” You hear Leon's voice call from the doorway. You jump at the sudden sound.
“Oh God! You scared me…” you say with a start.
“Sorry…” he replies with a whisper. He takes the seat across from you at the table. “...you okay?”
You open your mouth to lie and tell him that everything is fine and in fact you don't even remember him…but you do. Despite your drunken state at the time, you remember everything…well, enough, anyway. “No. I'm not. This is…I haven't stopped thinking about…” Your face blushes bright pink and your cheeks burn hot with the memory of your illicit, one-night affair.
“Yeah…me too…” Leon confesses, his gaze turned away as his own cheeks start to redden.
You bravely turn your glance toward him. “What…do we do?”
“I know what we should do…” he begins, his gaze rejoining yours.
“What?” You ask. You're not sure what you're hoping for, though.
“We should pretend it never happened and forget we know each other,” he finishes, though it sounds like he has more on his mind.
“But?” you tentatively probe, your heart racing.
“But all I want is to bury my dick inside your perfect pussy over and over again and never fucking stop,” he confesses, staring up at you through half lidded eyes, his guilt raging against his desire.
Your breathing intensifies as you actually entertain the thought. “God, I want that, too,” you admit.
Leon's eyes darken as he succumbs to his dark urges. He swiftly rises and maneuvers around the table then pulls you into his arms, kissing you passionately. “I thought I'd never see you again…”
“Leon…” you moan softly. You should stop.
“Shh. Just let me kiss you, baby girl.” He returns his lips to yours, hands caressing your soft body like it was only yesterday that he last touched you.
You melt into his embrace, returning his heated kiss with equal fervor. Your arms snake their way around his neck, pulling him closer.
His primal instincts take over as he lifts you up onto the table and steps between your legs, all without breaking the kiss. He takes in rapid, shallow breaths, the heat from his nostrils hitting your cheek. He's a man possessed by need. His fingers slip underneath your pajama bottoms, finding their way into your already wet folds. “Mmm you're so wet for me, baby girl.” He smirks against your lips and goes back to jamming his tongue inside your mouth while he fingers you.
Suddenly, you hear your mother's tired voice from the hallway at the top of the stairs, “Leon? Sweetheart?”
Your and Leon’s eyes widen. He immediately pulls away and you both sit back down in your chairs, your pussy still thrumming with need. Leon crosses his legs to hide his raging erection.
“Hey, honey,” Leon greets your mother with forced calmness when she finally enters the kitchen.
“You guys okay?” she asks, suspicion in her voice.
“Yeah, Mom. I was just having a hard time sleeping and Leon was keeping me company.”
Your mother smiles softly. “Well, I'm glad you two are getting along.” She leans down to kiss Leon. He returns it, but his heart is nowhere in it. Not now that he's found you again. Still, bitter jealousy boils within you. Your mother gets to have him whenever she wants and after they're married, you'll never get to touch him again.
You manage to avoid each other for the next few weeks, both Leon and your mother busy with wedding preparations.
The day comes all too quickly. What should be a beautiful day, is turning out to be your worst nightmare. You sit quietly at the wedding reception, staring at your mother and Leon…your new step-father. God, he looks so fucking handsome. You have to fight the urge to run up to the head table and kiss him everywhere. You had hoped that once Leon and your mother were married, it would be easier to resist your attraction to him, but it's not. In fact, it might be worse. You both share heated glances throughout the evening, still knowing you can't act on them. You watch them share their first dance and so many kisses as everyone clinks their glasses, dishing out more and more torture for you.
Eventually, you can't take it anymore and you sneak out of the dance to hide somewhere. Luckily, the reception is at the hotel where everyone is staying, so you slip back into your hotel room for the night, flopping onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. A knock on the door makes you jump. You briefly consider ignoring it but eventually decide to answer. With a sigh, you open the door. Your jaw drops open when you see Leon standing in front of you, hair slightly damp from sweating. His tuxedo jacket is off, probably back in the dance hall where the reception is. His tie is loosened and his white dress shirt sleeves are rolled up, showing off his gorgeous forearms.
He coos your name gently. “You okay?”
Your eyes fall to your feet, sadness overtaking your expression. “It's…just hard watching you with her…” you confess, speaking as though the woman who just married Leon isn't your mother.
Leon tentatively steps closer, gently cupping your face with his hand, guiding it up to look at him. “I thought it would be easier now…to stay away…but I can see that's not the case. Maybe…maybe if we just…one more time…”
You take in a deep, hopeful breath, looking up at him. “Yeah,” you carefully agree, “one more time…to get it all out of our system, right?”
He lets out a shaky breath and nods. “Exactly. Then we go back to just being step-daughter and step-father.” He swallows hard, like he knows this won't be the end of it; it's merely a lie you both tell yourselves now to justify what you're about to do.
“What about my mom?” you ask and carefully glance down the hall to make sure she isn't following.
Leon waves his hand dismissively. “She's happily drowning herself in champagne and gossiping with her friends. She'll be occupied for hours.” He smirks and steps closer to you, far enough inside the hotel room to close and lock the door. “Forget about her, about all that. Just…let me have you one more time.”
Your heart soars and your cunt throbs, aching with wanton need. You take his hand and lead him back to your bed. You tremble with anticipation and nervousness. You're about to have sex with your step-father. On purpose.
He notices your hesitation and reassures you with a tender kiss. “It's okay. Daddy's here, baby girl.” He smirks and captures your lips once more.
Lust fills you as his words release your dark side. Daddy. Daddy. You moan, repeating his self-assigned title, “Daddy.”
Leon nearly starts salivating, hearing you say the word out loud. His cock is so hard it might burst through his tux pants. He quickly undoes his belt, throwing to the side, carelessly then discarding the rest of his clothes, all without breaking eye contact with you, his gaze like that of a starving predator. He rips your dress off hastily and shoves you onto your bed and pins you in place, cock pressing hard against your body. “Say it again,” he demands with a low growl, then attacks your neck with wet kisses and hard sucks.
You arch your back into him and loll your head to the side, granting him unrestricted access to your throat. “Daddy,” you repeat, this time with an even needier moan. You bite on your lower lip.
Leon loses himself entirely in you as he hears your sweet words. One word. ‘Daddy’. Fuck, it's the hottest thing he's ever heard. “Daddy's gonna fill your sweet pussy again, baby girl. Wouldn't you like that?” He licks your neck then bites down lightly on the tender flesh.
You grunt, letting out a sultry howl. “Oh God…Daddy…yes…please!” you tangle your fingers in his hair as he continues to ravish you. His kiss travels to your breasts, taking one of the plushy mounds in his mouth. You should be disgusted with yourself, condemning your and Leon's behavior, but instead it turns you on tenfold. The taboo nature of your tryst is almost enough to bring you to climax. Add to that the threat of getting caught and it's a wonder you’re not lying in a puddle of your own slick already. You're slowly losing your battle with your self control. When Leon slips his ring and middle fingers inside your drenched pussy, you lose it entirely. Crying out in pleasure, you wiggle and squirm beneath him as he finger fucks you and suckles on your breasts.
“Oh…” Your chest shudders with shallow breaths as you moan, “Daddy…” You feel the cold metal of his wedding band warming quickly inside you.
“Gonna cum for me, baby girl? Gonna cum on Daddy's fingers? Gotta do it so I can fuck you. Gonna give my princess a full load.” He doubles his efforts, sucking hard on your tits and curling his fingers against your g-spot.
You gasp in a gulp of oxygen as you cum and cry out, moaning his name, “Daddy!”
Lust and desire drives Leon's groaning as he feels his fingers squeezed inside your cunt, sucked in like they're massaging the walls of a vortex. “Good girl. Good girl. Daddy’s gonna fuck you now.” He slowly crawls up your body and kisses you possessively as he slides his cock against your folds, teasing you and coating his shaft with your natural lubricant.
“Daddy please!” you beg beneath him, wiggling your hips and trying to guide his thick cock inside you.
“Anything for you, baby girl,” he purrs and slides home, slowly, delicately, savoring the last time he'll be able to feel your sweet cunt tighten around his cock…ah fuck it! Who is he kidding? He knows he can't stop! He kisses you passionately and starts thrusting. He supports his weight on one forearm so he can knead your breasts with his free hand. His tongue surveys your entire mouth before he lowers his face to your ear. He whispers, “you're mine, baby girl. You belong to Daddy, understand? No one else.”
Your tits jiggle with each delicious thrust of his hips, driving his cock deep inside you. In this moment, the entire world fades away as pleasure and lust overruns your mind. “Yes…” you reply between hungry gasps, “yes, Daddy!”
“That's my good girl.” He nibbles on your neck once more and drives into you faster, gripping your breasts with greater urgency. The need he feels to fill you with his cum is overwhelming. “Need you to cum for Daddy again, okay, baby girl? Cream my cock so I can fill my new daughter's tight little pussy.” He returns to kissing your plump lips and reaches his hand down to circle your clit.
If his attention to your buzzing nub wasn't enough to send you over the edge, his words are. You nearly choke on the guttural moan bursting through your throat as you pussy clamps down on his dick, greedily sucking him in. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! I'm cumming!” You cry tears of unfiltered joy and pleasure. His thrusts continue as does his pressure on your clit. Your orgasm drags on and eventually you feel the warm rush of fluid gushing from your body.
“Oh, fuck yes, baby girl! Squirt on Daddy's cock! Fuck! You're so easy!” He growls proudly and leans down to kiss your neck. “Not even your mom does that. But I guess my cute little daughter has no problem squirting on her Daddy's big cock, huh?” His thrusts are like earthquakes, shaking your entire body until he buries himself balls deep and cums hard. You feel his essence spurting against your cervix. You melt into a puddle, falling limp on the bed. Limp, but so satisfied. He rolls off of you and pulls you into his arms. “Close your eyes, baby girl. Daddy will stay with you till you fall asleep.” He kisses your forehead and holds you close.
True to his word, you fall asleep still in his arms, but wake the next morning alone. Your stomach briefly twists in knots, knowing Leon probably consummated his marriage to your mother last night. Yet, you don't feel terribly upset. In fact, you smile at yourself, realizing he was probably thinking of you the entire time. Your appetites have been wetted and neither of you will be satisfied for long. You're confident that Daddy will keep coming back for his baby girl.
Soon i’ll make a masterlist but until then i’ll need to write a fic or a bunch of drabbles soo sooooo give me di!leon ideas incest or stepcest or fauxcest the list goes on babes
The Day It Happened | Leon S. Kennedy x Chris Redfield x F! Reader [Kisses For Him]
Warning: Sexual content, fauxcest, age gap marriage, dark elements
Paring: Stepdad! Leon S. Kennedy x Dark! Chris Redfield x F! Reader
Notes: The prologue of the “series,” and yes, you do have a son. No dialogue.
If you'd like to be a part of a tag list, just ask me. Requests are closed. Asks are open.
Word count: 1.8k
Song of Choice: Gothic Lolita - Emilie Autumn
Masterlist
You remembered it with unsettling clarity—the day your world fractured with the loss of your only family member, your mother. The memories blurred together, but one stood out vividly: the moment you ran into the arms of your stepfather, Leon. With a voice as smooth as polished marble, he would often reassure you, his words a twisted blend of care and manipulation. “I’ll take care of my only girl left in this life,” he’d declare, his gaze intense and unwavering. “I’ll protect you from the monsters that lurk in the shadows. I will love you more than your mother ever could.”
From the tender age of fourteen, you found yourself ensnared in a web woven with more than just familial affection. He held you close, his embrace firm yet delicate, as if you were a fragile doll meant to be cherished and shielded from the dark and chaotic world outside. His possessiveness was something he flaunted, dismissing the concerned glances of friends and colleagues with a scoff, as if their words held no weight.
As he embarked on dangerous missions, he left you cocooned in a fragile sense of security, promising that he would always return for his girl. He maintained contact through covert means, utilizing smuggled burner phones and diverting mission orders, even entrusting handwritten notes to low-ranking agents who understood the unspoken bond between you two.
Upon his return, the routine was unbreakable. He would gather you into his lap, an act that felt both comforting and confining, as he spun sanitized tales of his exploits. It didn’t matter if you were fourteen or seventeen; you remained his beloved audience, eager and enthralled. Slowly, his smooth, silver-tongued narratives stirred an insatiable hunger within you for his undivided attention and touch.
You would find yourself counting down the days until his return, each passing hour filled with a blend of anticipation and yearning. When he was far away, the thrill of hearing his voice over the crackling line would ignite a fire in your veins, an intoxicating rush that left you craving more, more of him; his stories, his caresses, his overwhelming presence that engulfed you like a powerful tide. Each intimate moment heightened your dependency on his affection, binding you closer to the very man who promised to be your protector and confidant.
By the time you reached your 18th birthday, you had finally become his—his one true girl, bound to him in a way that felt destined. The night you crossed into adulthood, you surrendered your virginity to him after a lengthy conversation that left you both vulnerable and raw. He painted a vivid picture of how other boys would come into your life, only to steal your innocence and treat you as nothing more than a fleeting pleasure, using you without a second thought, before disappearing into the night. But he promised he would never be that man; he was your father, and in your heart, he was yours forever.
The first time was a confusing whirlwind of pain and tenderness. You lay in bed, tears streaming down your cheeks as the reality of what was happening coursed through you. The sharp sting was accompanied by a warmth—the blood between your thighs a testament to this newfound bond. He whispered sweet nothings, his kisses gentle and reassuring against your tear-streaked face as he took what he believed belonged to him. Yet, the moment was fleeting, and with each passing day, your desire to belong to him in the most traditional sense only deepened. You longed to be his proper wife, to dream of a life together, sharing a cozy home filled with laughter.
But when he broke the news that marrying you was impossible due to “complications,” your heart shattered. You envisioned a future filled with warmth, picturing the two of you in the small house where you were raised, surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of your childhood. You imagined a backyard wedding, donning a delicate frilly white dress, a bouquet of red roses clutched tightly in your hands, while Leon’s friends gathered to bear witness to your love. Those dreams crumbled before your eyes.
Seeking solace, you turned to the one man who you believed could fill the void—Chris Redfield, Leon's brother-in-arms. In secret, you began to meet with Chris, despite the glaring age difference of 31 years; you were just 18, and he was 49. Your secret meetings were fraught with tension, transforming into heated kisses and passionate nights that left you breathless.
With Chris, you felt a soothing sense of security. He had been a constant presence in your life since you were a shy, awkward teenager, hiding behind your sleeves, metamorphosing into a more confident young adult under the watchful gaze of Leon. Chris had been entrusted with your care, a promise from Leon that offered you comfort. When you came to him one evening, tearful with puffy eyes, your smudged eyeliner betraying your sorrow, you poured your heart out, confessing about your unfulfilled dreams of marrying the man you loved. Chris's response was a heartfelt embrace filled with those charming words that swept you off your feet, leading you both into a whirlwind romance.
It didn’t take long for the two of you to be engaged to one another; within a month, you found yourselves standing before the altar in a small, intimate ceremony that felt like a dream. Yet, the reality of your situation loomed heavily over you. You knew you would have to confront Leon, your stepfather, and reveal this secret relationship, especially as he began to sense your withdrawal from his affections. You crafted small deceptions about sleepovers with friends, all designed to hide the truth of where your heart truly lay…belonging to Chris.
When you finally gathered the courage to tell Leon, the reaction was nothing short of explosive. He spiraled into a whirlwind of emotions, his face contorting as the reality of your impending marriage sank in. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he violently ripped down the cherished photographs that lined the walls, each picture bearing witness to a lifetime of memories. Chairs crashed to the floor as he hurled them across the room, the sound echoing in the heavy silence of disbelief. The only way to calm the tempest within him was for you to kneel before him, your eyes steady on his, and your relaxing throat. Gradually, the storm subsided, and as he took a deep, shuddering breath, a more serene expression settled on his features. He finally granted you his blessing for the marriage, his voice softening as he proclaimed that, despite the new chapter with Chris Redfield, you would forever remain his little girl.
Your wedding day arrived with alarming speed, mere days after Chris had proposed. Time seemed to blur as the preparations unfolded rapidly—Leon, in his conflicted state, seemed to resign to the inevitable, hastily coming to terms with the role change. Surrounded by friends from Chris’s life, including his resilient sister Claire and trusted companion Jill Valentine, the atmosphere was electric with joy. Yet, amid the celebratory cheers and laughter, Leon stood apart, nursing his heartbreak in silence. He poured drink after drink, his facade of the cliché sad father giving away his daughter almost too fitting, while inside, resentment simmered.
An hour before you were meant to whisk away with Chris as newlyweds, Leon decided to remind you of a complicated truth—that in many ways, you would always belong to him first. The weight of that night hung thick in the air, charged with unspoken words and lingering glances, as he took you to a closed-off area in the wedding venue to fuck you senseless. When you and Chris finally shared your passionate wedding night that same night, it felt different, layered with complexities you could hardly grasp.
Two weeks later, the realization of a positive pregnancy test sent waves of elation crashing over Chris; he was ecstatic at the prospect of becoming a father, eager to embrace a new identity beyond just being your “daddy.” In stark contrast, Leon wore a knowing smirk, a blend of pride and possessiveness that hinted at the web of emotions beneath the surface. Chris remained blissfully unaware of the tangled dynamics between you and Leon, a secret you felt obligated to guard fiercely.
As bedtime enveloped you in its quiet embrace, countless nights turned to restless tossing and turning. The question haunted you: who truly was the father of your child? Was it Leon, your stepfather, who felt an ownership over you, or Chris, your husband, who symbolized a shot at normalcy? If the child were Leon’s, would it bring a sense of relief or a feeling of entrapment? Conversely, if it were Chris’s, would it mean a glimmer of hope for the life you had always envisioned? The weight of these thoughts pressed heavily on your chest, leaving you bewildered and searching for clarity in a world swirling with contradictions.
In the end, it made little difference because when Ethan Redfield entered the world, he bore a striking resemblance to you. His soft brown hair was reminiscent of Chris's, yet his eyes held a unique charm; hazel, a blend of blue and brown, suggesting a connection beyond mere genetics. As time passed, it became evident that Ethan would increasingly take on your features, a peculiar mix of blessing and curse that left you uncertain. During the heavy intimacy of your evenings with Leon, he would lean close, his breath warm against your ear, and insist with a hush that he knew he was the true father of your son. You would respond sharply, reminding him he should feel fortunate even to have a grandson. Meanwhile, Chris, oblivious to the undercurrents, bestowed unreserved love upon Ethan, cherishing every moment as if he were the boy’s sole parent. Did the question of paternity truly matter? In your heart, the answer was clear—he was your son, and that was all that held weight.
As the years slipped by, four in total since you had exchanged vows with Chris and welcomed Ethan into your life, the dynamics shifted. Leon remained a constant, his presence a fixture in your household, seemingly to help raise your toddler son. But when Chris was called away for his missions, chaos would ensue. Leon, with his unyielding desires, often pounces on you, seeking relief in a desire that had to remain hidden from Ethan. Deep down, you recognized the moral ambiguity of your actions, yet the vows you had made to your stepfather loomed large; you were his wife first, bound by the unspoken understandings of marital duty. His kisses were yours to give, a privilege you once cherished, but they did little to dull the ache of your soul during those fervent nights shared with Chris, who would call you his little birdie, insisting you return the affection by addressing him as “daddy.”
Four years had come and gone, and as you sat in reflective silence, you couldn’t recall the last time you had felt truly… free. The weight of your choices bore down, a reminder of the complex web of relationships you had woven…a tapestry of love, obligation, and longing that seemed inescapable.
