#dilfffff

age gap ( fifty-one leon s. kennedy + twenty-odd reader); blowjob; oral sex (m receiving); secret relationship; power imbalance (mentor older agent — rookie); prison cell setting; risky/public-adjacent sex; consensual but reckless; female reader; filthy—dirty talk in thoughts.

The detention cell was a narrow, concrete coffin tucked in the sub-basement of the D.S.O. black site —a place nobody talked about unless they had to. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, one tube flickering every few minutes like it was on its last breath. The air smelled of damp stone, old coffee, and the faint metallic tang of gun oil that clung to everything here.

Leon S. Kennedy sat on the edge of the metal cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the scuffed floor. At fifty-one, the years had carved deeper lines around his eyes and threaded silver through the blond at his temples, but the posture was still the same: shoulders squared, ready for whatever came next. He’d fucked up —not catastrophically, not in a way that would end careers or start wars, but enough to earn twenty-four hours in here while Internal Affairs cooled off. A judgment call during an extraction that went sideways. Brass wanted optics, so they locked him up like a rabid dog until morning shift.

Nobody knew the two of you were together. Not officially. Not even close. You were the twenty-six-year-old field analyst who’d been fast-tracked into support rotations —sharp, quiet, still green enough that people underestimated you. He was the veteran who’d mentored you on paper, nothing more. The relationship stayed buried under late-night briefings, stolen glances in corridors, and hotel rooms paid in cash.

Which was why, when the night watch list came down, you drew the short straw. Overnight guard duty. Alone. Standard protocol for a low-threat hold: one agent posted outside the cell block, cameras monitored remotely, no visitors.

Except you weren’t planning on staying outside.

The clock on the wall read 01:13. The facility was dead quiet except for the low hum of the HVAC and the occasional creak of settling pipes. You stood in front of the reinforced door, keycard in hand, heart hammering so hard you were sure the microphone would pick it up. One last glance down the empty hallway. Then you swiped the card.

The lock hissed open.

Leon’s head lifted the second the door cracked. His blue eyes found yours immediately —sharp, surprised, then something darker flickering behind them. He didn’t stand. Just watched as you stepped inside and let the door seal shut behind you with a soft pneumatic thud.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said, voice low and gravelly from disuse. But there was no real warning in it. More like he was testing the water.

“I know.” You swallowed, fingers flexing at your sides. The black tactical pants and fitted long-sleeve clung to your frame from the long shift; you could feel the nervous heat rising under your collar. “I just… needed to check on you.”

He let out a dry huff that might’ve been a laugh. “Check on me. right.”

Silence stretched. Heavy. Electric.

Then you moved.

No preamble. No excuses. You crossed the small space in three steps, dropped to your knees between his spread thighs, and reached for his belt with hands that only shook a little. Leon’s breath hitched —once, sharply— but he didn’t stop you. Didn’t say a word. Just leaned back slightly against the wall, palms flat on the cot, watching every motion like he was memorizing it.

The zipper came down slow. Deliberate. You tugged the waistband of his black briefs lower until his cock sprang free —already half-hard, thick and veined, the head flushed dark. He’d been thinking about you. You could tell by the way it twitched when your fingers brushed the base.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, the first crack in his composure.

You didn’t tease. Didn’t have time for that. You wrapped your hand around him —warm, solid, pulsing— and leaned in, lips parting to take the tip into your mouth. The taste was salt and skin and him. You swirled your tongue once, slow, then sank down further, hollowing your cheeks as you worked him deeper.

Leon’s hand flew to the back of your head —not pushing, just holding. Fingers threading through your hair, gripping like he needed an anchor. A low groan rumbled out of his chest, raw and quiet, the kind of sound he only made when he thought no one else could hear.

You bobbed slowly at first, letting saliva slick the way, taking him inch by inch until your nose brushed the coarse hair at his base. Your throat fluttered around him; you fought the urge to gag and won. His hips jerked once —involuntary— before he locked them down.

“Jesus… sweetheart,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hummed around him in answer, the vibration making his thighs tense. Faster now. Wetter. Messier. Spit dripped down your chin; you didn’t care. One hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach, twisting gently at the base, while the other braced on his muscled thigh, feeling the tremor there.

His breathing turned ragged. Short. Desperate. The hand in your hair tightened, guiding you just enough —not forcing, never forcing— until you found the rhythm that made his abs clench.

“Look at me,” he growled.

You lifted your eyes. His were blown black, pupils swallowing the blue, jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. The sight of you —lips stretched, cheeks flushed, tears pricking from the effort— seemed to snap something in him.

“Fuck— I’m—”

He came hard, hips stuttering as he spilled down your throat. Hot, thick pulses that you swallowed greedily, milking him through it with slow pulls of your mouth until he hissed from overstimulation and tugged you off gently.

You sat back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, chest heaving. Leon looked wrecked —head tipped back, throat working, chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon.

For a long moment neither of you spoke.

Then he reached down, cupped your jaw with a calloused thumb, and tilted your face up.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said quietly. But his voice was soft now. Almost tender.

“I know.” You gave him a small, shaky smile. “Worth it.”

He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “Get out of here before someone checks the feed loop.”

You stood, legs unsteady, smoothing your shirt. Leaned in just long enough to press a quick, chaste kiss to his mouth —tasting yourself on him, tasting him on you.

“See you in the morning, Agent Kennedy.”

He watched you go, eyes lingering on the sway of your hips until the door sealed shut again.

Back in the corridor, you resumed your post. Sat in the folding chair. Stared at the monitors like nothing had happened.

The clock ticked toward dawn.

I really like my old husband better