summary; you were never in competition with your stepsister — but she made you the enemy anyway. after years of petty cruelty and deep cuts that went ignored by the adults in your life, it all comes to a head when you find out she’s been sleeping with your boyfriend behind your back. broken, humiliated, and done being the bigger person, you decide to take the one thing she values more than anyone: her father.
wc; ~19k
a/n; don’t remember making this?? this is so poorly done. i think it’s a good concept just poorly executed by me. just had to get out of notes. anyways, enjoy.
warnings; age gap (20s/late 40s), step-siblings rivalry, infidelity, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, slow burn plot, rough sex, degradation, slut shaming, choking, spitting in mouth, dirty talk, crybaby!reader, fingering, oral sex, cowgirl, doggystyle, hand over mouth, cheating, secret relationship, older!Jason. ᴹᴰᴺᴵ! ᴹᴵᴺᴼᴿˢ ᴰᴼ ᴺᴼᵀ ᴵᴺᵀᴱᴿᴬᶜᵀ! ʸᴼᵁ ᴴᴬⱽᴱ ᴮᴱᴱᴺ ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴱᴰ!
you never liked that house.
not because it was small. not because it was loud. not even because your daddy married a woman who couldn’t cook for shit and brought a demon into your life with a smile on her face and a fresh coat of lip gloss. you just never liked how fake everything felt inside it. like every conversation was a performance. every family dinner, a photo op. and every hallway, a trap waiting to close in on you.
the walls in that house were thin, and so was the line between civility and venom.
you were twelve when it started. when they made you sit beside her on the stairs while they took pictures of you two pretending to be sisters, wearing matching sundresses from target. your smile didn’t reach your eyes and hers didn’t even bother trying. five years older than you, and already brimming with that bitter, nasty kind of pride girls like her wore like perfume.
taylor.
the first day you met her, she rolled her eyes before you even sat down. you remember that. remember how her voice always had this sharpness to it, like she was chewing gum made of glass. she told you you walked funny, dressed funny, talked too soft. she acted like your daddy was a pest and your presence was an infestation. you didn’t know why. you were just the new kid in the house, trying to make peace. she was seventeen. damn near grown, mean as hell, and already decided you was her competition before you even finished growing.
but you weren’t in a competition. never had been. not with her. not once.
you tried not to hate her.
you didn’t respond when she mocked your hair or pretended to gag at your lunch. you didn’t react when she called your room “the maid’s closet” in front of guests. you just learned to keep to yourself. you’d pull back when she came too close. kept your music low, your eyes down, your tone careful. your dad used to say “she’s just adjusting, sweetheart. y’all gon’ be tight when you get older.” her mom would laugh it off. “that’s how girls are.”
nah.
that ain’t how you were. and it damn sure ain’t how sisters should’ve been.
she stole your little diary when you were fourteen and read it out loud during a sleepover. laughed at your crush. said your handwriting looked like a five-year-old’s. slapped her knee like it was the funniest thing in the world when you ran off crying. her mama told her to apologize. she never did. just rolled her eyes, said “god, it’s not that serious.”
but it was. because it never stopped. every boyfriend you had, every moment of peace, every inch of attention — taylor found a way to take it from you.
the worst part? nobody ever checked her for it.
you were twenty when it happened. when it all fell apart.
you and iven had just hit your two-year mark. he was soft-spoken, a little awkward, but always sweet to you. not the most conventionally attractive — didn’t have the smoothest skin or the best job — but he made you laugh. he was the first one who looked at you like you mattered. told you you were brilliant. said he was lucky to have you. and after everything you’d gone through in that damn house, that meant something.
you met him through a mutual at a party. he offered to walk you home, made sure you got water before bed. you liked that he never pushed too hard. never made you feel like you had to perform just to be loved. and in the beginning, he showed up for you like nobody else ever had.
he’d hold your hand in public. called you just to hear your voice. texted good morning every single day without fail. he didn’t have much, but he gave what he could. and you? you gave him everything.
you overlooked the insecurity. the lack of ambition. the clinginess. you gave him grace. even when your friends told you he was punching up — that you were way too fine for someone like him. that he’d lucked out. you didn’t listen. you just poured into him, loved him deeper. because you thought love was supposed to be selfless. loyal. even if it meant you got the short end sometimes.
but loyalty didn’t mean shit to iven.
and love? he didn’t even know the meaning of the word.
two weeks ago, you were at his place like usual. legs in his lap, taking selfies on his phone while he sat gaming, zoned out in his headset. you were scrolling, bored, flipping through old photos when a banner slid down from the top of the screen.
taylor; you up?
you blinked.
taylor was a common name, you told yourself. could be anybody. curiosity made you click. you shouldn’t have. god knows you wish you hadn’t. but you did.
and what you saw—
she was sending him nudes. full-body. mirror pics. ass shots in your favorite lingerie — the one that went missing last month. laughing about how he’d said she tasted better than you. talking about how he came quick when they fucked in his car. he was complimenting her. calling her baby. saying “i can’t stop thinking about it.”
the dates didn’t lie.
this had been going on for two months.
you didn’t scream. you didn’t cry right away either. you just stood up, slow and quiet, and handed him his phone.
“i’m leaving.”
he looked up, confused. “what?”
“i saw the messages.”
his face went pale. he started stammering, reaching out to you, trying to explain — but you were already out the door.
you didn’t answer his calls. didn’t read his texts. didn’t sleep for two days.
you laid there in your bed, stomach twisted, eyes raw from the tears. couldn’t even be mad at just him, because taylor had done it again. again. and this time, it wasn’t petty. it wasn’t childhood shit. it wasn’t about clothes or social media likes.
this time, she fucked the one person you thought was safe.
and that’s when something in you broke.
you didn’t wanna cry anymore. didn’t wanna forgive or be the bigger person or turn the other cheek. you wanted her to hurt. to feel it. deep. somewhere she couldn’t cover up or pretend didn’t exist.
you wanted blood.
the opportunity came faster than you expected.
your daddy and her mom were headed out — ten-day cruise for their anniversary. jamaica, saint lucia, all that. they offered to let y’all stay at the house while they were gone, but taylor suggested her dad’s instead. more space. better wifi. pool in the back.
you hesitated at first. not ‘cause of him — you hadn’t seen her dad in years. but because of her. sharing a house with that bitch after what she did? you didn’t think you had it in you.
but then you remembered something.
jason todd.
her daddy.
and that’s when the idea bloomed.
you always knew she was a daddy’s girl. always on him, always running her mouth about how fine he was. she looked at that man like he hung the stars in the sky. was always up under him, always talking about how nobody could ever compare. she damn near worshipped him.
so what better way to get back at her than by taking the one man she looked up to more than anybody?
you didn’t plan it at first. you really didn’t.
but when you saw him again — tall, broad, lean muscle under a fitted tee, silver at his temples, that tired but sharp look in his eyes like he could read you without trying — it was like fate dropped it in your lap.
he was 48, maybe 49. clean-cut. quiet. deep voice. walked like he’d done time in the military, spoke like he hated wasting words. and he looked at you.
not often. not for long. but enough.
the second day you were there, you came into the kitchen in just your shorts and a bra, claiming you thought nobody was home. he was leaning over the counter, fixing coffee, and you caught him glancing down.
just once.
but it was enough.
he scolded you for it. told you to cover up. said this wasn’t how grown women carried themselves in somebody else’s house.
you apologized. said it wouldn’t happen again.
then did it again.
the next night, you wore a tiny tank with no bra. the night after, you just wore panties and a tee, “looking for a charger.” you made sure to always look half-innocent, half-oblivious. always said sorry. always played it sweet.
and it worked.
slowly.
he started saying less. looking longer. always quiet, always firm, but never uninterested.
becky, his wife, noticed too. the few times she was home, she’d shoot you looks. pull you aside. tell you your clothes were inappropriate. said “this ain’t college, baby girl. put some damn pants on.”
you’d act embarrassed. lie through your teeth.
“i just came from the shower.”
“these are pj’s, becky. i wasn’t tryna show off.”
“my bad, i didn’t think anyone was up.”
and every time, she bought it.
jason, though? he stopped commenting. stopped pushing back. he’d just clench his jaw, look away. sometimes he left the room altogether.
but you could feel it. the tension.
and that’s when you knew — it was gonna happen.
you just had to pick the right moment.
the house was quiet that night.
becky was working late, picked up a double shift at the hospital. taylor was upstairs with the shower running. jason was on the couch, watching some old crime flick with the lights low and a beer in hand.
you came out your room in a shirt that barely touched your thighs, no bra, panties soft and snug. you moved slow, sweet. padded barefoot to the living room, rubbing your arms like you were cold.
“can i watch with you?”
he looked up. eyes swept your figure, then flicked to the screen again. didn’t say a word about your outfit. just nodded toward the other side of the couch.
you sat.
the movie was boring, so you talked instead. leaned in close, whispered little things. asked him questions — about his job, his life, his past. you laughed at his jokes. touched his arm when you smiled. looked up at him like he was the most interesting man in the world.
and he cracked.
bit by bit.
you felt it in the way he started looking at your mouth when you spoke. the way he shifted under the blanket, muscles tensing when you stretched.
when the moment was right, you slid closer. into his lap. looked him in the eye and said what had been on your mind for weeks.
“i want you.”
he froze. stared like he wasn’t sure he heard you right.
“you’re too young,” he said. “and i’m married.”
you didn’t back down.
you told him he’d been looking. that you noticed. that he was hard under you right now, so don’t pretend he didn’t want it too.
then you kissed him.
he hesitated.
but he kissed you back.
only for a second.
then the water upstairs turned off and you bolted, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding. left him there with his head in his hands, confused and silent.
and that was just the beginning.
you couldn’t sleep.
every time you shut your eyes, it was him you saw. the look in his eyes after you kissed him. the way he gripped your hips like he was gonna toss you off his lap but didn’t. the way his mouth lingered when he pulled back, lips slick, chest heaving, like he was trying to catch his breath and his composure.
you knew what you were doing. you had been playing this whole thing like a game of chess. slow, sweet, calculated. pawns moved, pieces in position. but you weren’t expecting that. not the way he kissed you back. not the way his hand lingered on your thigh like he wanted to leave fingerprints.
you knew you had him.
but it wasn’t enough.
not yet.
so you waited.
you watched the time crawl past midnight, digits glowing from your phone screen. listened for the shift of footsteps upstairs, the soft creak of old pipes. you heard her door click shut. you heard the low hum of a tv turn off. you heard his floorboard creak around 12:47am.
you waited.
you waited ‘til the house got still. no running water. no footsteps. no flicker of light under the door.
then you moved.
quiet. barefoot. no bra. nothing but panties and that thin little tee that clung to your body like skin. it was cold in the hallway. air thick with night and sin. your thighs trembled with every step, not from nerves — from want. from the slick already gathering between your legs just from thinking about him.
his door wasn’t locked.
you opened it slow.
he was turned to the side, one arm under the pillow, chest rising and falling heavy. and right there next to him, curled under the blanket, was his wife.
becky.
dead asleep.
your heart pounded in your chest like it was trying to warn you. but you ignored it. all you saw was him. shirtless. hair messy. back muscles peeking out from the sheet, all that lean, hard weight sitting under the dim glow of the moon through the curtains.
you stepped in. soft. steady. walked to his side of the bed and crouched down low.
you touched his shoulder.
“jason.”
he stirred. blinked blearily. looked down at you like he thought he was dreaming.
you didn’t say anything. just mouthed please as you climbed onto the bed, straddling his hips, your bare pussy pressed right against the bulge under his boxers. you could feel it. heavy. hard. waiting.
he shook his head. whispered, “no, you need to go. you gotta—” but his voice died when you rolled your hips once. slow. just enough to make him exhale through his teeth.
he sat up, grabbing your waist, pushing you back just an inch. his eyes darted to becky, then back to you. “you tryna get me killed?”
you smiled. slow. sinful.
“i told you i’d be quiet.”
his jaw clenched. hand still on your hip. you leaned in. lips to his ear.
“you been wantin’ me.”
he didn’t answer.
“and i want you so bad it hurt.”
he swallowed. his breath came hot and fast against your neck.
“you know this wrong,” he murmured.
“don’t care.”
“you should.”
you looked him dead in the eye.
“but i don’t.”
that was it.
his mouth was on you like a man starved. his hands gripped your thighs tight, dragging you down over his lap, pressing your heat right against the length of him. his lips moved rough and messy — neck, jaw, shoulder, mouth — like he was trying to make up for all the time he spent pretending he didn’t want this.
you moaned before you could stop it. not loud. just a soft, broken fuck whispered against his lips.
his hand flew up. clapped over your mouth.
“shut that shit up,” he breathed. “you want her to wake up?”
you shook your head fast, biting your lip through his palm. he was still hard under you, twitching now. you rocked against him again, and this time his eyes rolled back.
“you know what you doin’, huh?” he whispered. “comin’ in here lookin’ like that. sittin’ on daddy’s dick.”
you whimpered. couldn’t help it. hips grinding, slow and wet.
“look at you,” he rasped. “cryin’ already. you a mess, baby. you came in here ready to be ruined.”
you nodded, tears already glossing your lashes.
he licked his thumb and pressed it to your clit through your panties, rubbing soft and slow. you shuddered. he laughed under his breath.
“so fuckin’ needy. what happened to bein’ quiet?”
you clutched at his shoulders, mouthing please please please like you were praying.
he moved your panties aside with two fingers, found your slit already soaked, and just stared for a second. like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do. then he dipped one finger in. slow. shallow.
your mouth fell open against his chest. you bit into the meat of his pec, anything to stay silent.
“yeah,” he murmured. “that’s it. you gon’ take it like a big girl, huh?”
you nodded, trembling.
he added another finger. stretched you wider. moved slow and deep, fingers curling to hit that soft little spot inside that made you twitch.
“so damn tight,” he whispered. “pussy grippin’ me like she don’t wanna let go.”
you rocked against his hand, wet sounds filling the dark room. you were a mess. leaking all over his fingers. eyes rolling. mouth open. every part of you screaming yes even as your lips stayed sealed.
then he pulled his fingers out. sucked them clean.
“lay down.”
you did. right on his side of the bed, body trembling, thighs open.
he crawled between your legs, pulled your panties down your thighs slow, like he was unwrapping a gift. then dipped his head.
his tongue was warm, rough. he licked one long stripe up your slit, then circled your clit slow.
you slapped a hand over your mouth and cried.
silent. wrecked. back arching.
he kept going. licking slow, teasing. every few seconds he’d look up, eyes dark.
“don’t run.”
you didn’t. couldn’t. you were frozen under his mouth, coming undone in waves. when you came, it hit hard — your thighs shook, your hands flew to his hair, and you cried into his pillow like your heart was breaking.
he pulled back and kissed your inner thigh.
“you good?”
you nodded. barely.
he grinned. then spit in your mouth.
you swallowed before he could tell you to.
“good girl,” he murmured. “you gon’ take this dick like a good little slut now?”
you didn’t answer. just opened your legs wider.
he stripped his boxers off. thick. heavy. curved just enough to press right against your wall and stay there. he lined up. pushed in slow.
you clawed at his back. threw your head back. damn near sobbed.
“quiet,” he whispered. “you said you’d be quiet, remember?”
you nodded fast, eyes wide, tears slipping free.
he bottomed out with one hard thrust and didn’t move.
“feel that?”
you nodded again.
he pulled back. slammed in again. over and over. back shots in the bed, your hands gripping the sheets, his palm over your mouth when you got too loud.
“this what you wanted?” he whispered. “gettin’ fucked next to my wife? lettin’ me split you open while she dreamin’ about god knows what?”
you sobbed into the mattress. took every stroke.
“you know you ain’t never gon’ be right after this, huh? pussy gon’ stay dumb for daddy.”
he pulled your head back by your hair, kissed your throat, bit your shoulder.
“gon’ cry? go ‘head. be a crybaby. i like ‘em soft.”
you whimpered under him, tears soaking his pillow.
he slapped your ass. rough. made you jolt.
“told you you was a slut. ain’t even tryna deny it.”
he pulled out. flipped you over. pushed back in deep, hitting your cervix with every stroke.
you covered your mouth again, shoulders shaking.
“you love it,” he breathed. “look how you creamin’ on me. fuckin’ hell—”
he spit in your mouth again. choked you while he kissed you. made you feel small. made you feel owned.
and when you came, he didn’t stop.
he fucked you through it. made you cry again. turned you into a mess of moans and whimpers, eyes glassy, mind blank.
when he came, he groaned deep in your ear, spilling inside you.
then pulled out. slow. breathless.
you laid there. shaking. wrecked. ruined.
and he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to kiss you again or throw you out.
you smiled.
“now we even.”
morning didn’t come gentle.
it came sharp, like a blade dragged slow across your spine.
you woke up tangled in your sheets, head pounding dull, body sore in that deep, quiet way that didn’t come from sleep. your thighs ached. your mouth felt dry. and between your legs there was that heavy, used tenderness that made your stomach flip the second you shifted.
you stared at the ceiling for a long minute, blinking, breathing, letting the reality settle back into place.
last night was real.
his hands. his mouth. the way he looked at you when it was over, like he’d crossed a line he couldn’t erase and didn’t know whether to burn the bridge or stand on it. you remembered slipping out of his room afterward, pulling your panties back on with shaking fingers, padding down the hall like a ghost. remembered crawling into your own bed and staring at the dark, heart beating so loud you swore it’d wake the house.
you hadn’t dreamed it.
you pressed your thighs together, winced softly, then laughed under your breath. quiet. breathy. almost disbelieving.
“damn,” you murmured to yourself. “i really did that.”
you dragged yourself out of bed, threw on a hoodie and some shorts, tied your hair back sloppy. when you opened your door, the smell hit you first.
you went downstairs slow, cautious, like the floor might give you away. becky was in the kitchen, humming to herself, hair wrapped up, apron on like it was any other damn morning. sunlight spilled in through the windows, warm and golden, lighting her up in a way that made your chest tighten.
she smiled when she saw you.
“morning, baby,” she said, bright. “you sleep okay?”
you swallowed.
“yeah,” you said, voice smooth even though your nerves were screaming. “slept real good.”
she laughed. “good. y’all kids be stayin’ up too late. sit, eat. food finna get cold.”
you sat at the counter, hands folded in your lap, heart thudding. she slid a plate in front of you, loaded. eggs fluffy. bacon crisp. toast buttered just right.
she watched you take the first bite like she was proud of herself.
“jason still knocked out,” she added casually, flipping another pancake. “that man sleep like the dead when he tired.”
your fork paused midair.
“yeah?” you said lightly.
“mm-hm. he ain’t moved. taylor still sleep too. must be nice bein’ young.”
you forced a smile, nodded, took another bite. it tasted good. too good. your stomach twisted anyway.
becky fixed two more plates. one for taylor. one for him. she moved around the kitchen easy, content, like nothing in the world was wrong. like her marriage wasn’t cracked wide open under the weight of last night.
when she finished plating his food, she turned to you.
“can you take this up to him, baby?” she asked. “i gotta step out back and flip the laundry. holler if he want coffee.”
your heart skipped.
“yeah,” you said. “i got it.”
you took the plate. warm. heavy. every step up the stairs felt louder than the last. your pulse climbed into your throat.
his door was cracked.
you nudged it open with your foot and stepped inside.
he was on his back this time, one arm flung over his head, hair a mess, mouth slightly open. shirtless. relaxed. like he didn’t spend the night committing a sin he couldn’t undo.
you stood there for a second, just looking at him.
then you set the plate down and leaned over, tapping his shoulder.
“jason.”
he stirred. frowned. blinked.
then his eyes focused on you.
and everything changed.
his gaze sharpened instantly. mouth curved into something low and knowing. he hummed, deep in his chest, and reached out, pulling you down toward him without a word.
his lips pressed to yours. slow. unhurried. a good morning that carried weight.
you kissed him back, soft, sweet, like this was normal. like it didn’t threaten to blow the whole house apart.
he pulled back just enough to look at you.
“you good?” he murmured.
you nodded.
“yeah. i’m good.”
his hand slid down, popped your ass once. playful. familiar. dangerous.
“so,” he said, voice rough with sleep. “what we doin’ now?”
you smiled, leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. dragged your lips along his jaw.
“we can be whatever,” you said quietly. “i just wanna be closer to you.”
his jaw tightened. his hand flexed on your hip.
“that so?”
you nodded, kissed him again. softer this time. then straightened up before either of you could forget where you were.
as you turned to leave, he smacked your ass again, harder.
“bring me coffee,” he said, low.
you laughed under your breath and slipped out.
downstairs, becky was waiting at the counter.
not smiling.
not moving.
just staring.
her eyes tracked you as you walked in. slow. sharp. knowing.
she didn’t raise her voice.
didn’t curse.
didn’t even look angry.
she just said it.
plain.
steady.
“i know you fucked my husband.”
will be updating this like.. when i get up from my nap. but.. let me know how you guys feel about this trash of a fic i swear. i love commentary, feedback, and more :)
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