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Daddy dearest. Papa loves you. Father knows best. Leon’s going to fix you because you need fixing. And he is sorry. Truly, deeply sorry for the fact that he cannot love you without trying not to eat you alive.
Because Leon is wrong. He’s spent a good chunk of his life wondering why.
Maybe it was his hair, so blonde and delicate. Pretty to the point he wasn’t a daddy. He wasn’t even a man. Just a beautiful little boy. Something soft and easy to look at. Like a flower meant to be plucked.
At least that’s what everyone told him back then, and it stuck to him ever since.
So maybe that’s why he’s got this little issue. Some weird insecurity that makes him take up so much space in your life. But fathers are allowed to have a big presence in their dearest daughter’s life, right?
A father is meant to be everywhere.
It’s his right to make himself at home in your body, because that’s where he rests and feels steady. Flattening you out, turning you into a table so he doesn’t have to eat off the floor. Refusing to lower himself to anyone anymore, even if it means lowering you.
He just forgets sometimes that you look so much like him. That you are him, technically. Or maybe he doesn’t forget at all. Maybe that’s exactly why he does this. This punishment or some form of correction. As he terrorizes you with your own body until you learn to terrorize yourself.
Because life is short, he thinks—though he keeps that thought away from you. It’s short because he’s shortened his in so many ill-advised ways. There are years behind him that feel thinner than they should. Shortened by people who took and took, until there wasn’t much left worth keeping.
So he takes something back. Something that won’t fight him on it.
Life is terrible and that’s an understatement, but he keeps that away from you too. He keeps so many things away from you, except himself. Never himself.
Your life is small. Smaller than his, and he makes sure of that. But it’s not short, you still have something left to give.
Something he’s never had. The total and utter submission from someone who doesn’t know how not to give it.
Such a sweet little soul he’s got. A wide-eyed angel for a daughter, and every part of you belongs to him.
—
It’s lunchtime when you go to the bathroom. Your body running like clockwork. Bladder tugging to the Pavlovian dog whistle the minute it hits break. It’s probably because you used to eat in the toilet stall during lunch in middle school.
Nobody needs to know that though.
You hear your dad in the kitchen somewhere as you wash your hands. The house smells of butter and something sharp. It’s not rare that Leon cooks for you, but it’s rare that he cooks at all. He’s hardly ever home.
Most of your childhood was spent with nannies, since your mother had left you at such a young age. Left Leon, better said. But he doesn’t tell you that—that it was him who failed the marriage, by being such a miserable sack of shit who was never home. So instead, he lets you experience the shittiness instead.
You pad down the stairs into the kitchen, met with the broad frame of his back.
“Come set the table,” he says without looking back.
And as you do, your stomach tightens. This mundanity of it all makes you feel a little lightheaded every time it happens. You barely know the man cooking in front of you sometimes.
But still, he is your father. You know he’ll stick with you through thick and thin. Through sickness and pain. For better or for worse.
You shrug the weight of your running thoughts off your shoulders as he sits himself in front of you. Your eyes wandering across his body. Looking at his light stubble, hard chest, almost greying hair. Not noticing the eye contact, as you do so.
Such a wonderful dad you’ve got. Handsome, too.
“Mm, it’s good, Dad,” you mumble as you chew, breaking down the pasta slowly.
“That’s good to hear.” You hear him smile as he says it, while you twist your fork against the plate.
“How’s college life treating you?” He asks, disrupting your eating and you go quiet. Because it’s not treating you at all. You barely experience it, forgetting your name the minute you step onto campus.
“Amazing. I have so many new friends.” You finally say.
“Boyfriends?” he asks, slightly smirking. What’s wrong with him today?
“Not really.” Not at all.
“Good.” Bad.
“What about work?” you ask. “How’s Chris and all?” You remember meeting him a lot more often as a kid. He’d come over every now and then, when your mum was still around, for lunches and things like that. Nobody visits anymore, though.
“Work is good.” He doesn’t mention Chris. Because Chris is big and loud. The kind of man who fills a room just by walking in it. And Leon has always had a fragile sort of ego when it comes to that.
You just hum at his answer, taking another bite of your food.
The rest of lunch goes fine, almost normal, until you decide to make a mess.
At first, it warms his heart. Reminds him of a younger you, when you were smaller and easier. But then you wipe it away, off your chest, your shirt shifting slightly as you move, nothing intentional but you end up revealing more of your breasts as you rub it off. You don’t wear bras at home.
He twitches. His body doesn’t work like it used to, but seems to work just fine when around you. His dick slightly hardens beneath his pants.
He exhales sharp, almost irritated, before dragging himself back into place. Because it’s just you. Always you. His clumsy little girl.
You begin cleaning up your plate, gathering it in one hand, your glass of water in the other, before you look at Leon.
“I’m—uh, done.
You say it, but it feels like a question, asking for permission to leave the table. Always unsure how hard Leon is on those kinds of traditions. He just nods, and you walk off to the kitchen. But before leaving the dining area, you tell him it was nice to finally eat together again.
You don’t wait for his response.
Because ever since maybe four months ago—since your mother died, there’s been this unspoken distance between you and your dad. More than usual, when it was already far enough.
You weren’t close with her. You hardly spoke after she left. But she was still your mother. Blood matters, as Leon always said. Like that could make up for everything else.
He hasn’t said it since.
You haven’t even had a proper conversation with him about it. Not after the funeral. You don’t think you could stomach seeing his face—empty like that.
Because some part of you knows—you don’t know how, but you can tell—he didn’t care for her. Not one bit.
He’s a stone-cold man when it comes to her. A statue.
You wonder why they even married. Why they even had you. It’s all you ever think about when you see your face in the mirror. You wonder what he thinks.
--
Leon ogles the shape of your ass as you walk out and gets reminded of your mother. Sweet thing she was, but still, wasn’t really his thing. She didn’t make him feel anything beyond the comfort of a kiss on his cheek after a long day at work. She was warm laundry and fresh dinner on the table. But Leon was perfectly capable of doing either of those things by himself.
She made him feel incapable. That’s why he doesn’t think back on her, as nice as she was. Because he doesn’t have much to think of—besides you.
Bare bodied and sun shaped, warm in his hands. You were pure from sin when he first held you. A virgin girl with shy ankles in white lace. He wonders why he thinks of ripping it off.
Because you make him feel so much. He feels big in your eyes. Like he takes up all the space, all the gravity and it makes him lightheaded.
He doesn’t have to drink to feel like something around you. You laugh at his corny jokes.
He matters.
You make him matter.
Father, forgive him for being a bad father.
But don’t get him wrong. He’s never done anything more than lather your back with sunscreen. All he’ll do is keep you in his shade, and he’s fine with that. Perfectly fine.
He goes to wash the dishes you left in the sink when he’s done eating, listening to your footsteps from above. It’s comforting, knowing he’s not alone in this short life of his, that he’s sharing it with a smaller one.
He hums as he dries them off, thinking of everything, knowing he’s done nothing. Because the hungry little dog in him, the carnivorous child, is kept chained somewhere even he doesn’t know.
He’s got it all under wraps.
But you don’t.
Always showing some part of your body to him. He wonders if you only wear the same clothes he got you all those years ago, if that’s why every shirt you wear is either too small for you, or his.
He pours himself a glass of whiskey, looking at the sunlight outside. Day drinking has become part of his routine lately. He savours the burn down his throat before setting the glass aside and grabbing the bottle, heading to his office.
Walking up the stairs, he spares a glance at your room. It’s closed, but he can still hear you inside, mumbling something he cannot quite make out. He stays there for a moment, listening to almost nothing, before walking again.
His office is dark, woody, organized. Very Leon. He sits down, the bottle now set on the desk, and looks down.
You cause him so many problems, but you seem to cure his erectile dysfunction—but that’s probably just another problem too.
He takes another swing before unzipping his pants.
His breath hitches as his cock slaps against the hard of his stomach, twitching slightly before he wraps his hand around the base.
Jerking himself off, he looks over at your framed picture. It’s just a Polaroid of you during one of your daddy-daughter holidays. He remembers the sweat on your skin, the sunlight in your eyes. He wonders what it would feel like if it were you tugging on his dick like this.
Breathy groans slip from his mouth as his grip tightens, his hand moving faster along his length.
Would you tell him to stop if he bent you over his desk?
The thought alone has him buzzing, spiralling into it, imagining you in every scenario. He’s so far gone he can practically feel you, like you’re right there with him.
Almost like he can hear you.
“Dad.” “Daddy?” “Leon!”
So clearly that he opens his eyes, only to find the door opening. Fuck. With his hand still gripping his dick, you walk in.
“We need to talk.” No. No, we don’t, he thinks.
“About Mom.” His stomach drops. Not that. Please, not that.
You start moving closer to where he’s sitting, circling the desk, almost behind it. And he’s got a split second to tuck his dick away, to look normal, to act like nothing’s wrong. And fuck is it tight in his slacks.
You lean against the table on his right and notice his silence, then his heaving chest, then the hard print through his pants.
“I—uh—I just…” You’re not sure where you’re going with this now. Not even sure what you came here for. “No—I was just thinking that—”
That what? That his dick’s huge or that you have a huge crush on your dad? Maybe both?
„Sweetheart?“ he finally says, one hand brushing through his hair, voice raspier than he means it to be.
“I’m sorry.” Your words come out too fast, too small. And then you’re gone. Out of the office before you can stop yourself, before anything else can spill out.
—
It’s after dinner now and he hasn’t cooked yet. Not like you could eat anyways. Your stomach’s wheezy enough that you might throw up. You don’t even think he’s come out of his office, and you haven’t come out of your room.
You’re glad you haven’t seen him since. Because all you’ve done is think about it. About what would’ve happened if you stayed. If you’d just said it, spilled everything, told him mom was a piece of shit for never seeing the beautiful boy in him.
If you had stayed, would he have let you want him? Would he have let you crave him?
Would he have finally let you love him properly—take care of him the way you keep thinking you should?
Because you’ve realized something about Leon.
That he’s just a big lump of insecurities. And you understand that. You and him have that in common—both of you scared of something bigger than your own shadow, scared of someone noticing how small it really is.
You both are always just scared.
That’s why you fit so well together, you think. That’s why he takes care of you. And lately, you can’t stop thinking that maybe you should start taking better care of him, too.
It’s why you start heading to his office, only to find it empty. You turn and head to his room instead, stopping in front of it, your ear pressed to the door.
You remember doing this as a kid, when you didn’t do it with the intention you’re coming with now. With the intention of helping your oldest friend, your only friend, your dearest father.
Without knocking, you open the door.
It’s what you expect, but not the sight. He’s sitting on his bed, legs splayed, one hand pumping his cock while the other fondles his balls.
You stand still for a moment, he doesn’t. He keeps going, slow and steady, like you’re not even there. You know what you came here to do, you know you have to do it now, but somehow, standing right in front of it, you want to back out.
You regret this, you really do.
Then he says your name, so sweetly, still pumping his fist. “Dad,” you echo back, out of breath. He stares over at you.
“Come here.”
You hesitate. This is wrong, way too wrong, and you don’t know what to do.
“Come. Here.” He repeats.
Slowly you make your way toward him, shoulders hunched in on yourself. But this is your fault, technically. You pushed yourself into this. You crawl onto the bed with him.
He’s not small. Not at all. His dick is too big actually. Big enough to make your stomach twist. You wouldn’t even know what to do with it if you tried.
Leon doesn’t say anything and his hand has stopped moving. You place a hand on his thigh, carefully avoiding his length, and look at him. Through his eyes, you can see yourself, and you’ve never felt worse—or better, you don’t know.
Then suddenly, Leon pulls you closer. Your head jerks back slightly and you gasp, completely caught off guard. His mouth crashes into yours. Your teeth clashing before your lips find each other properly. Then his hot tongue pushes into your mouth.
You can’t breathe, his grip tightening in your hair, anchoring you to him. Your thoughts blur and you barely register it when he slips your shorts off, too distracted by the way he keeps you pressed to him.
You tense, startled at the feeling of his cock beneath you and a small sound escapes you into his mouth. That’s what finally makes him pull back.
“Sit down,” he says.
You freeze. Even if you were prepared, you wouldn’t be able to take his dick. It was just too big and you lacked experience. You shook your head.
“You don’t have to take it in yet, baby,” he sighs, his voice softer now, “just sit.”
You slowly lower yourself, thighs settling on either side of his stomach as he lies back beneath you, and that’s when you realize how wet you are. Feeling how your cunt reacts the second it brushes against his abdomen. His heavy dick pressed right between your ass.
His hands come to your hips first, then lower, spreading your cheeks open. You feel him twitch slightly beneath you as he slots himself between them.
“What a sweet girl I’ve got in my hands,” he murmurs, pulling you down to press kisses against your face. “Can you keep still?” he breathes against your neck, and you feel his hips shift under you. “Just let Daddy handle it.”
You let out a small whine at that, your chest pressing down against his, your nipples rubbing against his skin. The friction alone is enough to get you hot.
His hand slips between you, immediately finding your clit, rubbing slow circular motions at first, then firmer. That’s when you really make noise, a loud moan that you try to bury against his neck. He lets out a quiet chuckle at that, feeling it against his skin.
You try to stay quiet, but when his fingers press harder you can’t hold it in.
“Dad—” you whine, your eyes widening as you finally look at him.
He doesn’t stop. If anything he gets more persistent, and you feel something building low in your stomach, tight and overwhelming, creeping up faster than you expected. Your thighs tense around him.
You’re getting close.
Because of his hands. Because of this. You’re about to cum because of your father.
“Don’t.”
His fingers leave your clit as he sas it. All the air that had built up in your lungs rushes out in a sharp breath. You’re not even sure if it’s relief or frustration at the sudden loss.
“You have to cum on my cock, alright?”
Your father knows best. He always does. But like this, with you on top of him, everything about him feels scarier than usual, especially the length of his dick.
“No—let me just… let’s just stop,” you give in, your voice smaller now. It won’t work. You know it won’t fit. You try to manoeuvre yourself off him, but his grip is too tight.
“Don’t say that” he groans beneath you, his voice strained. Don’t make him feel any worse than he already does.
“It will fit,” he decides, it’s already settled. His hand slips between your legs again, his fingers pressing at your entrance. “You just need some help.”
Your hands curl into fists as he starts moving his finger inside you, prodding against your spot. Your voice pitches higher without you meaning it to, your body tightening even as the urge to pull away grows stronger.
You tell him to stop again and again, telling him that it’s too much. But he quiets you with a kiss, or with the pressure of his hand, pushing deeper, adding another finger.
With two fingers inside you, your legs start to shake. The sounds your pussy makes only make it worse, tightening on his fingers as he keeps moving.
“Hurts…” you whine.
“I know, baby,” he murmurs, like that makes it better. “But you need to help your daddy, right? It’s what you came here for.”
The worst part is he’s right.
He adds another finger, and your vision blurs at the edges, your stomach tightening all over again. “I can’t—I can’t—I can’t,” you repeat into his ear, not even sure if you’re saying it for him or for yourself.
“Yes, you can.”
He lifts you off his stomach, and your hips hover above his cock. You choke on spit when you look down. The tip of his dick drooling with pre cum and he rubs it against your sensitive quim. “My baby,” he says, but hes looking down between your legs. “My sweetgirl.”
Before you can get another stop out, his tip pushes in, already forcing you open with its girth. “Dad—!” you cry, trying to lift your hips, but his grip is iron, fingers digging into you, holding you down. You’re not going anywhere. No matter how hard you pull, how much strength you put into it, Leon is stronger.
“It’ll hurt a lot less if you don’t struggle,” he says—but that doesn’t help. It doesn’t make it hurt any less.
The almost scream that leaves your lungs is too fast to pull back in. You can’t even form full words, just half-sobbing noises as he slides his cock into you. Slow at first, dragging your body open inch by inch, pulling your walls back with him until you’re empty. And then he slams back in, too deep.
He fucks you like you’re furniture. Like you’re made to hold him. Your legs giving out again and again, trembling under you. But he doesn’t care, as he continues to pull you back onto him every time you try to fold in on yourself, until you’re keening and drooling. Clawing at the chest, fingers searching for anything stable to hold onto only to find out the man beneath you isn’t.
Leon just strokes your head and shushes you. “Dad’s right here, sweetheart , I’m right here,” he murmurs. “I know it’s big, but crying isn’t going to make it any smaller.”
His other hand presses into your lower back, thumb dragging slow circles there, trying to calm something he’s the one causing.
Stop.
He only moves harder when your pussy tightens, hips snapping up into you with more force, the sound of it filling the room and you swear you can feel him bump against your cervix.
He has to stop.
Your eyes flicker around the room without focusing—the familiar shapes blurred and wrong. The pillow beneath you that belong to him and your dead mother, the sheets that twist under your hands, the space that should feel safe but doesn’t anymore.
“Stop!—” you manage again, your breath catching on the word.
“I know, baby,” he says, not slowing, not even a little. “But you want to cum, don’t you?”
You try to shake your head. You don’t. You don’t want this.
“That’s too bad, then.” Both his hands tighten on your waist but instead of forcing you back down again, he suddenly shifts, pulling out just enough to move. Before you can react, he’s turning you, flipping you onto your back.
The mattress dips hard beneath you as your shoulders hit it, the breath knocked clean out of your lungs. He drags you back into place before you can even think to resist.
“Stay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as he pushes your legs apart, settling between them, and he presses his cock into you once more.
The world dances behind your eyes as you squeeze them shut, trying to hold it off. Trying to drown him out. But every time you get close to slipping away, he drags you back—reminding you exactly where you are, exactly what you’ve done.
“I’m gonna cum,” you choke out, the words barely forming through spit and breath. “Stop— I’m gonna cum—”
He doesn’t slow. If anything, he goes faster.
Your abdomen tightens, your thighs locking up as it crashes over you, your body giving in. You cum on him and somewhere above you, you hear him praise you.
“Just like that, baby—fuck…”
His mouth is on yours again before you can breathe, tongue forcing its way in, swallowing every sound you make.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t let up. Your cunt burns from overstimulated, every thrust dragging something raw inside you as he keeps going. The sound of sex fills the room, and his voice hot and uneven against your ear.
“Fuck—fuck, listen to you.”
You can’t. You’re gone. Your brain’s white noise and stuttering whimpers. You feel yourself clench and spasm around him without meaning to, the mess of it dripping down your thighs.
He cages you in, arms tight around you. “I love you,” he says. And again. “I love you.”
The words blur into each other, into the movement. “I love you too, dad,” you barely manage to wheeze out. You really do—you love him despite all this, and you always will.
“Cum on my cock again,” he pants, desperate now.
All you can do is whine, your head falling back, your body already teetering on the edge again as he keeps hitting that same place, over and over.
“Fuck—baby—Daddy’s so close…” His hands move over to your chest, groping and twisting your sensitive buds. Your eyes roll to the back of your head. You don’t even realize it’s happening again until your body snaps, gasping for air as you convulse, slick spurting out from your stretched cunt.
He follows right after.
His rhythm breaks as he loses control. His thrusts turnibg uneven as he buries himself deep, holding you there as he finishes, his cum spilling out inside of you.
“Good girl—fuck…” he murmurs when he’s comes back down. “So tight and it's all for me.” He kisses you through his shallow thrusts. The wet noises of the both of you now echoing.
“You took it so well,” he says quietly, one hand coming up to your face, wiping away the mess of sweat, drool and tears. He looks at you, then below. Admiring the cum spilling out in pulses from your pussy.
He spreads your legs and dips between them. "Let me clean the mess?" he murmurs into your thigh, and you shriek as you feel his tongue on you and move your hands to push his head away. He grips your hands and continues to eat you out.
His tongue lapping up the mess he made in long stripes. But he continues to make more of a mess, spitting onto your pussy before licking it up again. Your body cums in waves until you begin to pass out, you don't wake up as he uses your body for pleasure once more.
--
Leon’s awake when you lay asleep next to him, and he’s thinking about his life again.
Life is short, and the world is at least half terrible. There’s always going to be someone who breaks in, someone who leaves you with nothing. There’s always someone out there who’s big and scary and he knows that’s not him.
But when he looks at you, he’s in love. In love with his world, seen through the eyes of his girl. Because you make this place beautiful—make him feel beautiful.