#yeah. alright im locking myself back in my enclosure now

[wherenymphsroam]

Real dad! Leon coming over to help you with your car.

Something’s wrong with it, so why wouldn’t you call your dad to help you out? He gets there, pops the hood and finds the problem that he starts to fix.

You check on him every ten or so minutes, noticing how maybe he took his jacket off, how his hair is getting messier. He’s more out of breath and a little sweaty. It makes you forget he was even speaking to you, asking for you to go grab him a bottle of water so he can cool down.

And when you do come out with the water, his shirt is off this time. He grins and laughs at you. Maybe he’s a little mean and teases you about it, talking about how you haven’t seen a man like him before ugh omg

The tension would be sooo thick after that. Especially if he stays over for a while, maybe taking a shower in your bathroom. He comes out in a towel, making sure it hangs low to catch your attention since you just loved staring at him earlier

Please please please hear me out

oh I’m hearing you Mel. I’m hearing ya.

“Like mother like daughter”

cw: daddy/daughter incest, leon is your real dad in this, some mixed in religious themes, leon being a cocky douche even in his old age, kitchen counter fucking, slight breath play but it’s only bc Leon’s arm is around readers neck, barely proof read.

a/n: idc im not making this formatting all pretty, I literally blacked out and coughed up 2.5k at two in the morning. straight filth. here you go, eat you little shits.

And up until that point, it’s just that. It’s only that. Tension. Silent, deadly, heavy in the air of your small place.

That is, until he slices right through it, walking out of your bathroom in nothing but that towel.

When you were smaller, he’d never take showers when you were around, making sure to slip them in during the dark hours of the morning or long after you were asleep. And on the occasion that you were around, even into your teen years he’d all but beeline to his bedroom to get changed, only leaving you with a lingering glance at his broad back. That is, when you’d will yourself to look as he strode down the hall. You shouldn’t be looking at your dad in such immodest state, let alone like that.

And yet here you are, dry mouthed and stock still where you stand at your kitchen island. He had strode in, so confident, almost cocky, claiming he forgot his glass of water. As if he couldn’t have grabbed it after he was decent. Because he’s just so thirsty after all that work today, and the kitchen is on the way to your guest bedroom where he was going to change anyway. What would be the point in doubling back?

He’s about to grab his glass and slip back out of the kitchen, content enough to be swift in his appearance. That is, until he notices the look on your face.

“What?” He chuckles, his smile sly. He knew he didn’t look the same as he did when he was twenty something years old. The scars, the soft layers of fat that had cropped up over thick muscles in his pecs and abs, the healthy line of hair that trails underneath his towel — it’s all a reminder of what his body has been through, how it’s matured through the years. Yet, here you were standing there and gawking at him, as if you’d never seen a shirtless man before.

He’s met with silence. Wetting your lips, swallowing thickly, blinking a few times — it’s takes you a beat too long to be deemed appropriate to realize you were staring. Barely holding back the urge to curse under your breath, you cover your obvious gawking with a dry cough, a shake of your head. Waving a dismissive hand at him and rolling your eyes as if suddenly he’s a nuisance.

“Ew,” you snort, turning back to the dishes you had been in the middle of doing. “Go get changed, old man.”

“Ouch,” he hissed, snickering now. Directly defying your playful orders, he leans on the kitchen island now, leaving only the hand on his hip to keep his towel secure around his hips.

“I wasn’t always an old man. Your mom was attracted to me at one point in time, you know,” he hums, teasing, playful. Far more playful than appropriate.

“Obviously,” you mutter, willing yourself not to turn around. Your gaze bores down, practically drilling through the pan you’re scrubbing. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He laughs then, throaty and low, his stomach shaking from the strength of it.

“That you are.”

Footsteps.

Coming towards you, the old tile squeaking softly in specific weak points as he crosses your small kitchen. You don’t notice how your scrubbing slows, subconsciously distracted by his warmth as it settles behind you, looming.

“I asked you a question, you know,” he murmurs, piercing eyes trained on you.

He’s done this in times past. Sometimes when he’s reprimanded you, sometimes in joking passing. Directing your attention back to a voiced inquiry that you decide to oh so conveniently side step, choosing to ignore in favor of your own comfort. And like always, he wasn’t going to let you slide.

“What’s with that look on your face?” he rephrases, tilting his head.

Don’t stop scrubbing.

You don’t. If anything, the movements of your arm grow faster, harder, practically burning your sponge into the surface of a pan that’s been clean for two minutes now.

“What look?” you hum, feigning ignorance, clearly so busy with your task at hand.

Rolling his eyes, he adjusts his towel around his hip, tugging it tighter. The action had the back of his palm brushing into your hip.

“Nope. You don’t get to play dumb with me,” he tuts, low and far too close to the back of your neck. A few inches more, and his breath would fan against the back of your neck.

“When was the last time you went out, anyways? Hell, the last time you told me about a boyfriend?” he snickers, moreso at the mental image of the last loser you brought home to him.

Sighing, your jaw sets, your heart skipping in your chest.

“Dad, we’re not talking about this right now,” you groan, adjusting your craned neck, shifting your weight over your feet as you turn the faucet on. Suds slide off the nonstick surface of the pan, pooling and circling to disappear a moment later down your drain.

“You’re right. We’re not.”

Pausing, your gut twists in a way you haven’t felt in a while. It’s that feeling you get, that tugging that tells you the guy you’re hanging out with wants more. That the guy you’re alone with has intentions driven by hunger, need. That he wants you.

But you’re not alone with just some guy. Not alone with even a guy your age. He’s not a classmate. Not a friend. Not some sleazy tinder date you brought home.

It’s your dad.

A deep breath in. An effort of swallowing and burying that feeling. Of shoving it deep enough in hopes that it wouldn’t crawl back up again.

An exhale through your nose, forcing your movements as you reach for the next dirty dish.

“Then what are we talking about?” you scoff, glad he can’t see your face, your eyes that waver. Taking a tone you typically do during your nitter nattering with him, a tone he would reprimand you for in your teen years.

“The fact that you were eye-fucking your father a minute ago,” he mutters, his tone indecipherable.

“That’s what we’re talking about.”

Was he angry?

Disappointed, maybe?

Uncomfortable?

You can’t tell. Out of all the times you’re able to read your father, quick to pin down his vocal habits, of course it’s right now that you fail to get a read on him. Because admittedly, you haven’t heard him like this before.

Why did you care? Did you want him to be angry? Uncomfortable?

Why aren’t you uncomfortable?

Finally, your pitiful stress scrubbing comes to a halt. It’s as if he just fed an IV of ice water through your veins, his voice resounding through the kitchen as it falls silent around you.

You’re hesitant, slow when you turn your head. Brows knitted, lips parted — something you got from him — you can’t even bring yourself to meet his damn eyes.

“W… What? Dad, I’m not eye-fucking you-“

“Be honest. When was the last time you got laid?” he scoffs, all amusement drained from his voice. Not quite lecturing, nor demanding. But firm.

Glancing up at him, you search his eyes, silently floundering under his hard gaze. It takes all your willpower not to let your own wander down the still damp skin of his neck, his collarbones.

This isn’t appropriate.

When you were younger, he’d physically cringe at the idea of you ever experiencing sex. Would clench his fist, draw his brows at the idea of some insolent little boy getting his hands on you, in you.

“Don’t forget to mention the .45 I keep in my bedside,” he’d not so jokingly quip whenever you’d head out for a date.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it then. Gotta go polish my bat,” he’d make a point of specifying the one time you had a male friend over to study for a big exam.

It was from a place of protectiveness. Of love. Because you were his little girl. Didn’t want you getting hurt. Even if he knew that one day you’d probably end up entangled in the back of some college idiots Honda accord his parents got him, that you’d one day be introduced to the world of true heart break, he wanted, needed to keep you out of the worlds grips for just a little bit longer. For as long as he could control.

And here he is, asking so crudely when you last got laid.

“I asked you a question.”

A beat passes. Another one. Your neck is uncomfortable, half turned over your shoulder like this. But you dare not turn away.

“Never.”

Oh.

Oh.

There it is. All it took was some light prodding and you’re coughing up.

Because he told you to. Because he loves you. Because you’re a good girl. His good girl.

Not some sleazy tinder dates.

Not some broke college boy with a measly Honda accord.

No, no. He really should’ve known better. You have more refined taste than he often wants to give you credit for. Well, that is, until he’s taking credit for you, so quick to remind you it’s him you inherited such trait from.

His little girl was always needier than that. Better than that. Smarter than to so freely give herself to whatever scumbag picked her up some flowers from the grocery store on his way over to the house before a date, smarter than to let some asshole take advantage of any insecurity.

“You were saving it for me weren’t you?”

His voice comes out as a panted snicker into your neck, spoke into the numerous bites and blooming spots of color along your nape. It takes you a moment, lost in the hazy, sickly heated daze the two of your have made of the kitchen air around you. With pots long forgotten, one side of the sink full of cooled water, the sound of the faucet that had been running earlier is replaced with the wet claps of skin against skin.

Sharp, deep, all consuming when his pelvis collides into your ass, the fat of it rippling under each heavy collision. It threatens to steal your sense of coherency from you with each drive.

“H… Huh?”

Your voice is a mess, not too unlike the rest of you. The thick arm he has wrapped around your neck doesn’t really help, seeing as how it only constricts your already dry throat. Speaking proved to be far more difficult than it maybe should be right now.

“Your virginity, sunshine,” he murmurs into your ear, low and hot, brewed with an aftertaste of amusement. As if he didn’t just address you by the nickname he gave you when you were, what, three? As if he wasn’t speaking over the sounds of his body burying him within yours.

“Y’saved it just for me, huh? Knew only your Daddy could take care of you?” he snickers, looking at you oh so intently, adoringly almost. Far too tenderly, given how the thick muscles of his arm ripple with each jerk of your body in his hold.

You were always so pretty. Got it from your mother. Those sweet eyes, the pout of your lips. Even your tears, how they rolled down your cheeks in fat, hot trails of ecstasy matched how your mother would cry for him. How sweet.

And oh, even sweeter, the hitch of your constricted breaths. Your cries, your whimpers, those broken moans that fall so steadily are heavenly, even if what he was committing right now was far from.

Leon had never been a religious man, at least not into his adult life.

What the hell did he care about how wrong this was? God could twist and turn and kick and scream all he wanted, sat up on his high and mighty throne. He could whine and cry all about this was wrong, how he didn’t bless Leon with such a beautiful daughter for him to fuck her.

But right now? Leon doubts that. Hell. Somewhere, hidden deep into the darkest corners and recesses of his mind, Leon hopes that is the reason he was given a daughter. He snickers at the very idea of you being bestowed to him like the damn sacrificial lamb for the slaughter, his own personal sunshine and warm body.

Because why else would you cry like her?

Why else would you sigh and tremble and shudder just like her?

Why else would your voice crack and pitch along the same patterns hers did when he pushed her to her very limits?

Why else would God let his most beloved walk out of his life and leave him with her most beautiful creation, if not to fall in love with her all over again?

“Yes, yes, yes,” you whimper, like a damn broken record in his arms. With your shorts pooled around your ankles, your shirt shoved up just high enough for him to paw at your pretty tits, you were practically a spitting image.

A growl of satisfaction, of delight reverberates through him and you feel it. It all but shakes you to your core, how his chest rumbles against your back. It’s all consuming, so overwhelmingly delicious how warm, how strong he is. You really couldn’t be to blame for how quickly you deteriorate, stuttering through gasped warnings of impending end.

“Ask me properly,” he mutters into your neck, breaths heavy with exertion and hot with carnal lust as he speaks into the shell of your ear.

“Tell Dad you wanna come.”

“Please, please-“

Coughing, your choke briefly around your own spit, and it takes you a second to recover. But it’s only a moment later that you’re shaking your head to the best of its mobility trapped in the crux of his elbow, eyes hazy as you gaze up at him.

“Dad- Dad lemme come. Wan’ come so bad, please, please Dad-“

Eager. So fucking eager, just like your damn mother. All that spunk, all those sarcastic retorts and matter of fact quips that attempt to keep him at bay, stretched thin and see through around the girth of him. He can’t help but laugh at the irony, even moreso when you only spasm around the sound.

And when he finally utters his permission, he’s not gazing down at you to revel in how your orgasm tears through you. He’s tracking every facial expression; every tear, every wobble of your lip and roll of your eyes, all in search of her.

Because as much as he adored the parts of you that were him. As much as he loved teasing you for your similarities, poking fun at the parts of you that were her, he couldn’t help but come to a compromise then.

That yeah, you were a Daddy’s girl through and through.

But at the end of the day, the saying really should be ‘like mother like daughter’.