if we're going to do this properly, you should probably know a thing or two about the girl behind the screen. and learn the rules before you dive in.
writing disclaimer.
this is where fiction gets filthy, fantasies get fed, and fictional characters get absolutely wrecked — all in good fun, of course. nothing here is real, nothing here is endorsed, and everything here is just for the girls who get it.
so settle in, scroll around, and maybe stay a while.
please do not put my work into any form of ai.
leave any requests/thoughts for me in the inbox ! 💌
yes i know, and I don’t support jon bernthal at all !
anything that i post about him is only ever about frank castle, the character. never about jon or his disgusting actions because that’s a whole separate issue, i separate the actor from the character because who I write for (frank) wouldn’t support or condone jons behavior!
accidentally made a typo and for the first time since having tumblr it's not letting me edit the post. tumblr, count your days. babydoll is coming for you.
thinking about benjamin poindexter babying you . . .
he doesn’t do it to be mean or to make you feel dumb. it’s genuinely one of the many ways he shows his love to you– treating you like you’re a tiny, scaredy little animal that needed constant reassurance and endless amount of affection.
one thing that he does a lot at night, when thoughts and anxieties make it hard for you to fall asleep, is pick you up in his arms and hold you to his chest while lightly bouncing you against it like you’re a fussy toddler.
he walks around the apartment, humming softly while you cling to him, feeling his chest rumble under your cheek while your eyelids get heavier and heavier. every now and then he kisses your forehead or the top of your head, lingering with his nose into your hair and breathing in your scent.
if your anxiety is really bad, he’d also throw in some words of reassurance. “it’s okay, baby. don’t worry, i’m here,” a kiss pressed right on the tip of his nose, then another between your brows where they crease with stress. “don’t worry about a single thing– you don’t have to as long as i’m here with you.”
after twenty or thirty minutes of just rocking you in his arms, whispering sweet things into your ear, he feels your arms get limp on his shoulders and then fall down, hanging by your sides. even after you’ve fallen asleep, he just keeps coddling you until he’s sure you’ve reached complete relaxation, and he feels safe enough to bring you back to bed.
he lays you down first, making sure you’re in a comfortable position that won’t bring you back pain in the morning. pulls the blankets right up to under your chin and combs his fingers through your hair to move them away from your face so they wouldn’t bother you. then lays down next to you, wrapping his arms around your frame and pulling you into his chest.
he’d stay awake for another hour just to hold you and make sure you didn’t have any nightmares, and eventually, when your breathing has slowed down and your lips have slightly parted subconsciously, he’d feel his own eyes getting heavier and closing slowly, until he falls asleep right next to you with you in his arms.
no no like frank castle's girl who has needs to be doing somehting with her pretty mouth. lollipop? she's sucking it. pencil? she's chewing it. you name it, if she can fit it in her mouth, it's going in. and when she's all sad, what's better than the big fingers of some man old enough to be her father? nothing! she just lays there limply against his chest, his salt-worn digits filling her mouth while she babbles incoherent nonsense around them. her tears soak through his shirt, and he doesn't even flinch. just lets her have her moment, fingers gentle but steady, letting her tongue work around him until she settles.
18+. fem!reader. p in v sex. rough sex. humiliation (?) daddy kink.
dex who holds you down on him when you're on top, both hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he brings your knees up underneath your chest—
folding you forward, locking you against him so you can't move, can't control the pace, can't do anything but take it.
the angle makes everything sharper, deeper, unbearable. his hips snapping up into you with impolite force, each thrust punching the air from your lungs.
one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tugging your head back so he can see your face.
and he's laughing—low and mean and delighted—watching you fall apart on top of him while he does all the work.
"poor baby," he coos, voice dripping with mock sympathy, still pounding up into you relentlessly. "daddy's making you feel so good, huh?"
you try to answer but nothing comes out except broken whimpers and gasps. your hands scrabbling uselessly against his chest, your thighs shaking, completely at his mercy.
he laughs again, right in your face, eyes bright with amusement and hunger. "that's what i thought," he murmurs, grip tightening in your hair. "can't even talk back anymore, can you?"
the heat of his body beneath yours, the sharp tug on your scalp, the way he controls every movement—holding you exactly where he wants you, using the angle to his advantage.
your vision blurring at the edges, mouth hanging open, drool threatening to spill out because you're too far gone to care. and dex just keeps going, keeps laughing, keeps watching you unravel with that obsessive focus—cataloging every expression, every sound, every moment you're completely helpless against him.
i didn’t send the ai ask but i really appreciate how open and honest you were with your response!!
i totally understand how accusing writers and authors of ai can be so damaging. it sucks how readers have to fear their favorite writers use ai and how writers have to fear they’re accused of using ai for their work. it’s definitely a two-street way.
you’re one of my fav writers and i can’t wait to see more of your work. i hope nothing i said came off offensive :)
thank you! while this is the babydoll land of freakiness and perversion, honesty is key here!
as both a producer and consumer in the fanfic scene, i see it on both sides, and i really understand someone wanting to be sure they're not reading something artificially written.
so glad i'm on your list of faves, and thank you for being so sweet!
I’m not trying to be rude, but like do you use AI to help your writing because it’s very similar to how AI writes
hi! not rude at all, and in our post-chatgpt era it's a very real and genuine concern! so to give you the tldr - no i do not use any ai: generative or editorial.
i don't know much about ai's writing past when it first came out and i was genuinely intrigued by it. but, i can tell you that in most cases when something's “sounding like ai” it's because ai is starting to sound more and more human due to people feeding it human made stories.
in my opinion, ai writing is simple to find, but it’s even simpler to wrongly accuse someone of because ai is beginning to get pretty good in the most important aspects: decent enough plot lines, good grammar, character accurate dialogue, etc.
just because i know my own writing style, i can confidently tell you that i unabashedly use styles that ai does, and i've done it since i was writing ao3 fanfics in the seventh grade lols. in this blog, i tend to use short dialogue, slightly "flowery" prose (i'm still getting there, i struggle w adjectives 🙈,) jumps w/out plot, and the em dash—all of which people seem to be associating with ai. which is frustrating for writers, because what could be more human than human made work?
also, ai is not really capeble of being “creative” because it operates through prompts. thus, it's not able to replicate human emotion and spontaneity, all of which i would like to think i do use in the writing on this blog.
lastly, i am a very dedicated English student, and i have loved writing since i was little -> before AI writing was a thing -> and i know the dangers of ai in creative writing settings, and if i were using it, trust me, i'd be tagging it very clearly—honesty is key!
*also, (not aimed at you, anon) putting someone on blast bc you suspect them of using ai (esp. when they're an honest writer) is quite damaging! imo, if you're on the line about whether or not someone's work is genuine, it's better to just block and move on rather than accusing/assuming and being wrong.
please do not upload any of my work into any form of ai/ai content detection. "ai checking" websites take what they are fed and use it to improve ai writing.
okay— all in all, anon, this was a good ask!!! and please feel free to send me another inbox or a dm if you have any other questions! 🤍
Not sure if your Into this kink but I will just give a request,if your comfortable with it you can write or you can ignore it .
Primal play with stepdad dex, imagine both of you having a night walk in the Forest behind your house (only way to get away from your mother),you tease him saying your faster than him and he goes "oh yea?" And gives you a headstart to run into the dark forest before he catches you then fucks you.
author's note: hi anon! sooo i gots be real with you—i honestly had to do a bit of research on primal play, and i'm not really into outdoor sex, so i shifted things a bit. butttt all the good stuff should still here! i just moved the payoff indoors where i'm more comfortable writing. hope this still hits! 🧁
the forest behind your house is dark, the kind of dark that swallows sound. branches creak overhead, and somewhere in the distance, an owl calls.
you're walking beside dex, far enough from the house that your mom can't see, can't hear, can't know.
"needed to get out of there," he says, hands in his pockets, casual. like this is normal. like you're not hyper-aware of every inch of space between you.
"yeah," you say. "she was driving me crazy."
he glances at you, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. "just her?"
you roll your eyes, but your pulse kicks up. "don't start."
"i'm not starting anything." his voice is smooth, teasing. "you're the one who wanted to go for a walk."
"because i needed air."
"sure."
you walk in silence for a moment, the forest floor soft beneath your feet. then, because you can't help yourself, you say: "i'm faster than you, you know."
he stops. turns to look at you fully.
"oh yeah?"
there's something in his voice now. something sharp.
"yeah," you say, lifting your chin. "way faster."
he steps closer, and your breath catches. "you think so?"
"i know so."
his smile widens, slow and dangerous. "prove it."
your heart hammers. "what?"
"run." he tilts his head toward the dark trees ahead. "i'll give you a headstart. let's see how fast you really are."
you should laugh it off. should tell him he's being ridiculous.
instead, you run.
the forest blurs around you—branches whipping past, roots threatening to trip you, your breath coming fast and ragged. adrenaline floods your system, sharp and electric.
behind you, you hear him. thumping footsteps. steady. getting closer.
you push harder, lungs burning, but he's fast. faster than you thought.
"you're slowing down, honey," he calls, voice carrying through the trees.
you don't answer. can't answer. you just run.
but then his hand catches your wrist, and you're yanked backward, stumbling. he catches you before you fall, spinning you around and pinning you against a tree.
you're both breathing hard, chests heaving. his hands are on your waist, holding you in place.
"caught you," he says, voice low and rough.
your pulse is everywhere—throat, wrists, between your legs. "that's not fair. you didn't give me enough of a headstart."
"you had plenty." his grip tightens. "you're just not as fast as you thought."
you open your mouth to argue, but he kisses you—hard, hungry, all teeth and tongue. you melt into it, hands fisting in his shirt.
when he pulls back, his eyes are dark. "inside. now."
you stumble through the forest together, his hand tight around yours, pulling you forward. the house looms ahead, windows dark except for the faint glow of the porch light.
your mom is asleep. she has to be.
you slip through the back door, quiet as ghosts, and he's on you immediately—hands in your hair, mouth on your neck. you barely make it to the threshold of your bedroom before he's pushing you inside, kicking the door shut behind him.
"on the bed," he orders, voice still rough from the chase.
you obey, heart pounding, and he's on you in seconds—pulling your bottoms off, his own following. there's no gentleness, no slow buildup. just urgency. need.
he flips you onto your stomach, pulls your hips up, and drives into you in one brutal thrust.
you cry out, muffled by the pillow, and he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear.
"you ran from me," he growls. "thought you could get away."
"i—" you gasp as he pulls out and slams back in. "i almost did—"
"no, you didn't." his hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back. "you wanted me to catch you. wanted this."
he's right. god, he's right.
he fucks you hard, relentless, the bed creaking beneath you. your stuffed animals tumble to the floor, forgotten. all you can focus on is him—the weight of him, the stretch, the way he's still breathing hard from the chase, huffing heavily onto the nape of your neck.
"say it," he demands. "say you wanted me to catch you."
"i wanted it," you gasp, fingers clawing desperately at the pillow below them. "wanted you to—god—wanted you to catch me—"
"good girl."
his pace quickens, hips slamming against yours, and you're wrecked—falling apart beneath him, your body clenching around him as you come.
he follows moments later, groaning low in his throat as he fills you.
for a second, neither of you move. just breathing. just feeling.
then he pulls out, collapses beside you, and pulls you against his chest.
"next time," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple, "run faster."
you laugh, breathless and dizzy. "next time, don't cheat."
"i didn't cheat. you're just slow."
you jab a fingernail into his solid chest, and he grins.
outside, the forest is silent. inside, your heart is still racing.
18+. fem!reader. stepcest. stepdad!dex. predatory behavior / grooming. manipulation / power imbalance. p in v sex. virginity loss (implied). daddy kink.
your mom left three hours ago.
"girls' weekend," she'd said, kissing dex goodbye at the door with her overnight bag slung over her shoulder. "wine tasting in napa. you two have fun bonding!"
she'd winked at you. actually winked. like she was doing you some kind of favor, leaving you alone with him for forty-eight hours.
you'd smiled and waved from the couch, your stomach twisting into knots.
now it's 8 pm, and you're sitting on your bed in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, knees pulled to your chest, staring at your closed door like it might protect you.
he hasn't come yet.
you don't know if that makes it better or worse.
part of you—the part that still wants to be good, that still remembers what normal feels like—hopes he won't. hopes that maybe the past few months have been in your head. that you've been imagining the touches, the looks, the way his voice drops when he calls you honey.
but the other part of you—the part that's been aching and empty and desperate for weeks—knows better.
your phone buzzes on the nightstand, and you nearly jump out of your skin.
Dex: Come downstairs, sweetheart. I made dinner.
your hands shake as you type back.
you: not hungry
three dots appear immediately. disappear. appear again.
Dex: Wasn't a question.
you stare at the screen, heart hammering against your ribs.
this is it. this is the moment you say no. this is where you draw the line and tell him you're not doing this, that it's wrong, that he needs to stop.
but your feet are already moving.
you're already opening your door.
you're already walking down the staircase, each step feeling like you're walking toward the edge of a cliff.
the house is too quiet. your mom's absence is a physical thing—a vacuum where her laughter and chatter used to be. without her, the house feels different. smaller. like the walls are closing in.
you find dex in the kitchen.
he's standing at the stove in jeans and a black t-shirt, sleeves tight around his biceps, and he doesn't turn around when you enter. just keeps stirring whatever's in the pot with slow, methodical movements.
"sit," he says.
you sit at the kitchen table, hands folded in your lap, and watch him. he moves with that same eerie precision he always does—every gesture controlled, deliberate. nothing wasted. he plates the food—pasta with vodka sauce, your favorite—and brings it to the table, setting it in front of you before taking the seat directly across.
not at the head of the table where he usually sits.
directly. across.
close enough that his knees bracket yours under the table.
"eat," he says.
"i told you i'm not—"
"eat."
his voice doesn't rise. doesn't change. but something in his eyes makes the protest die in your throat.
you pick up your fork with trembling hands and take a bite. it's good—of course it's good, he's always good at everything—but it tastes like ash in your mouth.
he doesn't eat. just watches you. studies you. like you're a problem he's solving.
the silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. you can feel his gaze tracking every movement—the way you lift the fork, the way your throat works when you swallow, the way you can't quite meet his eyes. your leg bounces under the table, nervous energy with nowhere to go, and his knee presses against yours. firm. deliberate. a reminder that he's right there.
"you've been avoiding me," he says finally.
"no, i haven't."
"don't lie to me, honey." he leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. the fabric of his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders. "you've barely looked at me in three days. you leave the room when i enter. you stopped sitting next to me on the couch."
your face burns. "i just—i needed space."
"space." he repeats the word like it's foreign. like he's testing the shape of it in his mouth. "from what?"
from you. from this. from whatever is happening between us that feels like it's going to swallow me whole.
but you can't say that. can't admit that you've been terrified of being alone with him because you know—know—that the second you are, everything will change.
"i don't know," you whisper instead.
"yes, you do."
he stands, and your breath catches. he's so big—six feet of lean muscle and controlled violence—and when he moves around the table toward you, you feel like prey.
he stops behind your chair. you can feel the heat of him at your back, can smell his cologne mixed with something else underneath. something darker.
his hands land on your shoulders.
you flinch.
"easy," he murmurs, and his thumbs start working into the knots at the base of your neck. "i'm not going to hurt you, honey. i would never hurt you."
liar.
but his hands feel so good. strong and sure and exactly what you've been craving without knowing how to ask for it. the pressure is perfect—firm enough to work through the tension, gentle enough to make you melt. you feel your shoulders drop, your head tipping forward slightly, a small sound escaping your throat before you can stop it.
"you're always so tense," he continues, voice soft and almost concerned. his fingers dig deeper, finding every knot, every tight spot. "you've been carrying all this stress around, haven't you? all this fear."
"i'm not scared," you lie.
his hands still. then his grip tightens—just slightly, just enough to make you gasp—and he leans down until his mouth is right next to your ear.
"don't. lie. to me."
your heart is trying to break out of your chest.
"i'm sorry," you breathe.
"i know you are." his hands resume their massage, gentler now. soothing. his fingers slide up into your hair, tangling at the base of your skull. "you're such a good girl. so sweet. so eager to please. that's what i love about you, you know. you just want to make everyone happy."
his fingers tighten in your hair—not pulling, just holding—and he turns your head to the side so you're forced to look up at him. his face is inches from yours, pale eyes boring into you with an intensity that makes you want to look away.
but you can't.
you're trapped.
"but you can't make everyone happy, sweetheart," he says, and there's something raw in his voice now. something hungry. "sometimes you have to choose."
"choose what?" your voice is barely a whisper.
"who you belong to."
the words hang in the air between you, heavy and inevitable.
his hand slides from your hair down to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse hammer against his palm. his thumb traces the hollow of your throat, back and forth, a whisper of touch that makes you shiver.
"i've been patient," he says, and there's that edge underneath now. that barely leashed violence. "so fucking patient. waiting for you to come to me. waiting for you to realize what this is. what we are."
"we're not—"
"yes, we are." his thumb presses against your pulse point, and his smile widens. "we have been since the day i met you. since i saw you standing in that kitchen in your little yellow sundress, looking at me like i was something safe. something good."
he laughs—a short, bitter sound.
"i'm not good, honey. i'm not safe. but i'm yours. and you're mine. and we both know it."
"this is wrong," you manage, but even as you say it, you're leaning into his touch. your body betraying you. "you're married to my mom. you're my—"
"i'm your what?" his grip tightens. "your stepdad? is that what you think i am?"
you nod frantically, and he releases your throat only to grip your chin instead, forcing you to maintain eye contact.
"no." his voice is flat. matter-of-fact. "i married your mother because it was the easiest way to get close to you. because i knew—knew—the second i saw you that i had to have you. that you were mine."
the words should horrify you.
they do horrify you.
but they also make something hot and shameful coil in your stomach.
"that's not—" you're shaking your head, trying to process what he's saying. trying to reconcile the man who makes pancakes and fixes leaky faucets with the man who's telling you he orchestrated an entire marriage just to possess you. "that's not true. you love her. you—"
"i tolerate her." his hand slides from your chin down to your shoulder, then lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. his palm is warm against your bare skin. "she's a means to an end. a cover. a way to be close to what i actually want."
his fingers splay across your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, and you gasp.
"and what i want," he continues, his other hand joining the first, both palms sliding around to your stomach, "is sitting right in front of me. trembling. scared. desperate for me to touch her even though she knows she shouldn't want it."
"i don't—"
"yes, you do." his hands slide lower, fingers tracing the waistband of your shorts. "you've been wet for me for weeks, haven't you? lying in your bed at night, thinking about me."
your face is on fire. "no i—"
"i told you. i've been watching." one hand slips beneath your waistband, beneath your panties, and his fingers find you wet and aching. his breath hitches. "i know everything about you, sweetheart. i know you bite your lip when you're trying not to cry. i know you hum when you're content. i know you touch yourself at 1 am on tuesdays and thursdays after your late classes because you're too wound up to sleep."
oh god.
oh god.
"i know," he continues, voice dropping lower, fingers circling your clit with maddening precision, "that you think about me when you come. that you whisper my name into your pillow when you think no one can hear."
"stop," you choke out, but you're not pushing him away. you're not moving at all. your hips are rolling against his hand, chasing the friction, and you hate yourself for it.
"why?" his fingers slip inside you—two at once—and you cry out. "when we both know this is what you want?"
you sob—actually sob—when he curls his fingers, finding that spot that makes you see stars, and his free hand comes up to cover your mouth.
"shh," he soothes, thumb brushing away the tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. "it's okay, honey. it's okay to want this. it's okay to want me."
"it's not," you gasp against his palm, but your body is betraying you, clenching around his fingers, desperate for more. "it's wrong. it's so wrong."
"says who?" he works you with ruthless efficiency, every movement calculated to break you down. "your mother? some arbitrary moral code that doesn't actually matter?"
"it matters," you insist weakly.
"no." he removes his hand from your mouth and wraps it around your throat instead—not squeezing, just holding. just reminding you who's in control. "what matters is this. what matters is how you feel when i touch you. how you've been aching for me. how you've been waiting for me to stop pretending and just take what's mine."
his fingers curl inside you again, and you're so close, teetering on the edge, and he knows it. he can feel it in the way you're trembling, in the way your breath comes in short, desperate gasps.
"that's it," he murmurs. "let go for me, honey. let me feel you come on my fingers."
"dex—"
"no." his hand tightens around your throat. "that's not what you call me. not anymore."
you know what he wants. what he's been prodding you toward.
"daddy," you whisper, and the word breaks something open inside you.
"good girl." his fingers move faster, harder, and you're falling apart. "such a good fucking girl for daddy."
you come with a broken sob, clenching around his fingers, and he works you through it with that same precision he brings to everything. drawing it out. making it last. making sure you feel every second of it.
when you finally come down, trembling and gasping, he withdraws his fingers slowly. brings them to his mouth. maintains eye contact as he licks them clean.
"upstairs," he says. "now."
you should say no. should run. should do anything except obey.
but you're already standing on shaky legs.
already moving toward the stairs with him right behind you, his hand on your lower back, guiding you.
he steers you past your room—past the bed where you've spent so many nights thinking about this exact moment—and toward the master bedroom.
their bedroom.
her bedroom.
"dex, we can't—"
"yes, we can." he opens the door and pushes you inside gently but firmly. "and we will. i want you in my bed, honey. want you to know exactly where you belong."
the room smells like your mother's perfume—floral and sweet and familiar—and the guilt crashes over you in waves.
but then his hands are on you again, pulling your shirt over your head, and the guilt gets buried under want.
he strips you methodically—shorts, panties, bra—until you're standing naked in front of him, and he's still fully clothed. the imbalance makes you feel vulnerable. exposed. small.
"look at you," he murmurs, circling you slowly. his gaze tracks every inch of you, cataloging, memorizing. "so fucking perfect. so small. i could break you in half without even trying."
the words should terrify you.
but they don't.
they make you feel good.
"on the bed," he orders. "on your back. spread your legs."
you obey, climbing onto the mattress—their mattress—and positioning yourself exactly how he wants. the sheets are cool against your heated skin. you can smell your mother's perfume on the pillows, and it makes your stomach flutter.
he stands at the foot of the bed, just watching. studying. his eyes track every inch of you, and you feel exposed. vulnerable. like he's peeling back layers you didn't know you had.
"do you know how long i've been planning this?" he asks, finally pulling his shirt over his head. his body is lean and muscled, pale skin marked with old scars. "how many nights i've laid here next to your mother, thinking about you in the next room? imagining what you'd look like spread out for me like this?"
he unbuttons his jeans, pushing them down along with his boxers, and your breath catches.
he's big. bigger than you expected. thick and hard and intimidating.
"don't worry," he says, catching your expression. his smile is sharp. predatory. "i'll make it fit."
he climbs onto the bed, settling between your thighs, and his body covers yours completely. you feel so small beneath him. so delicate. his weight presses you into the mattress, and you can feel every inch of him—the heat of his skin, the hardness of his muscles, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
"i've been preparing for this," he continues, reaching over to the nightstand. he pulls out a condom, tears it open with his teeth. "bought these three months ago. hid them in my nightstand. your mother never looks there."
the casual admission makes your stomach twist.
"i knew," he says, rolling the condom on with steady hands, "from the beginning that this is where we'd end up. that you'd give yourself to me. that you wouldn't be able to help yourself."
he positions himself at your entrance, and you feel the blunt pressure of him, and panic floods your system.
"wait—"
"shh." he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. gentle. tender. completely at odds with what he's about to do. "it's okay, honey. daddy's got you. i’m going to take such good care of you."
he gives you no time to argue before he suddenly invades you.
the stretch is immediate and overwhelming. you cry out, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks.
"breathe," he instructs, voice strained. he's holding himself still, giving you time to adjust, and you can see the effort it takes. the way his jaw clenches. the way his arms shake. "breathe through it, baby. let me in."
you try. god, you try. but he's so big, and you're so full, and it hurts in a way that's both terrible and perfect.
"that's it," he groans, sinking deeper. inch by inch. "that's my good girl. taking me so well. letting daddy have what's his."
when he finally bottoms out, you're both panting. he stays still, letting you adjust, and his hand comes up to cradle your face. his thumb brushes across your cheekbone, catching a tear you didn't realize had fallen.
"you okay?" he asks, and there's genuine concern in his voice. genuine care.
it makes everything worse.
"yes," you whisper.
"yes, what?"
"yes, daddy."
"good girl." he starts to move—slow, deep thrusts that make you gasp. "gonna fuck you so good, honey. gonna make you forget anyone else exists. gonna make you mine."
and he does.
he fucks you with the same meticulousness he does everything else—calculated and controlled and devastatingly effective. every thrust hits a tender spot inside of you. every touch, every word, every deliberate move is designed to break you down and build you back up as something that belongs to him.
the bed creaks beneath you. the headboard ruts against the wall. you can smell the candle sitting on your mother's bedside table,—her favorite scent—and it should make you stop, should make you push him away, but it doesn't.
it just makes you hold him tighter.
"say it," he demands, hand wrapping around your throat. not squeezing. just holding. just reminding you. "say you're mine."
"i'm yours," you gasp.
"say you belong to me."
"i belong to you."
"say you'll never leave me."
"i'll never—" you're crying now, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion and the sheer wrongness of how right this feels. "i'll never leave you, daddy. i promise."
the groan that leaves him is borderline animalistic. "that's my girl." he fucks you harder, faster, and you're falling apart beneath him. "gonna come for me, honey? gonna come on daddy's cock like a good girl?"
"yes—yes, please—"
"then come," he orders. "come for daddy. now."
you shatter. break apart. come so hard you see stars, and he fucks you through it, prolonging it, until you're sobbing and shaking and completely undone.
he follows seconds later, burying himself deep and groaning your name—your name, not your mother's—and you feel him pulse inside you even through the condom.
for a long moment, neither of you move. you just lie there, tangled together, breathing hard.
then he pulls out slowly, and you whimper at the loss.
he disappears into the bathroom, and you hear water running. when he returns, he's got a warm washcloth, and he cleans you with surprising gentleness. his touch is tender now. careful.
"you did so good," he murmurs as he works, pressing kisses to your thighs, your stomach, your chest. "so perfect for me, sweetheart."
the praise makes you glow despite everything.
he climbs back into bed, pulling you against his chest, and you curl into him instinctively. his arms wrap around you—possessive and protective—and you feel so small in his embrace.
"this is where you belong," he says, and there's something dark in his voice now. something final. "right here. in my bed. in my arms. mine."
you don't answer. can't answer. you just lie there, listening to his heartbeat, and feel the weight of what you've done settle over you like a shroud.
"you sleep here from now on," he continues, fingers tracing idle patterns on your spine. "when she's not home. okay?"
"dex—"
"please."
the word sounded foreign on his tongue. you nod against his chest, because what choice do you have?
his arms tighten around you. "good girl."
you lie there for what feels like hours, wrapped in his arms, in your mother's bed, and try to process what just happened. try to reconcile the guilt and the satisfaction and the desperate, aching need for more.
eventually, his breathing evens out. deepens. he's asleep.
you carefully extract yourself from his embrace and slip out of bed. your legs shake as you gather your clothes, as you tiptoe out of the room and down the hallway to your own.
you close your door and slide down to sit on the floor with your back against it.
what did i just do?
what the hell did i just do?
you should feel disgusted. should feel horrified. should feel something other than this confusing mix of guilt and satisfaction and desperate, aching need for more.
but you don't.
you just sit there, naked and trembling, and know with absolute certainty that you're going to go back to him.
that you're going to let him do it again.
that you're going to keep letting him do it until there's nothing left of the girl you used to be.
stepdad!dex who takes it upon himself to become your personal uber driver, even though you're perfectly capable of driving yourself.
he always finds a reason—"state patrol's gonna be out because of the long weekend, i don't want you getting a ticket," or "you went to sleep too late, i don't trust you behind the wheel," or "roads are slick from the rain, just let me take you." it's always something. always delivered in that calm, reasonable tone that makes it impossible to argue.
the drives become routine. his hand resting heavy on your thigh the moment you buckle in, fingers splayed wide like he's claiming territory. the heat of his palm seeping through your jeans or the thin fabric of your skirt. he squeezes sometimes—casual, possessive—thumb stroking small circles against your inner thigh while he keeps his eyes on the road. his wedding ring cool against your skin. the radio playing low, filling the silence with something that isn't conversation but feels like it anyway.
on good days, when he's feeling particularly soft, he'll reach over and lace his fingers through yours instead. those drives are your favorite—the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles, the quiet intimacy of it, the way it feels almost normal. almost like you're just a girl holding hands with a boyfriend, someone who cares about you.
but the trips that end with the two of you staying in the idling car, tucked away in the confines of the garage—those are the ones that make your chest tight. engine humming beneath you, the world outside reduced to blurred shapes through fogged windows. his hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. the first kiss always slow, deliberate, like he's savoring it. his cologne sharp and woodsy in the small space, mixing with the leather of the seats and the faint sweetness of your lip gloss.
he kisses you like he drives—controlled, patient, but with that edge of hunger underneath. his other hand still on your thigh, gripping tighter now, pulling you closer across the console until you're half in his lap. your fingers curling into his shirt, breath catching when he deepens the kiss. the way he pulls back just enough to look at you—studying your flushed face, your swollen lips, cataloging every detail like he always does.
"we should go," he murmurs eventually, but neither of you move. not yet. not until he's satisfied.
lwk think I accidentally linked my stalking account to that post but whateves!
could u do some spanking w stepdad dex ? hehe tyy x
okay, now we're cooking with heat. hope you enjoy, anon <3 !
imagine standing between stepdad!dex's knees, skirt rucked up, his hand already resting on the curve of your ass—not gripping, just there, waiting with that clinical cynical patience of his.
"do you know why we're doing this?" his voice too calm, like he's been thinking about it all day, cataloging exactly how this would go. the way his wedding ring feels cool against your heated skin when his palm slides lower. the way your throat gets tight when you have to say it out loud: "because i broke curfew."
the first smack lands sharp and sudden, not hard enough to really hurt but enough to sting, to bloom bright and focused across your skin. "count," he says, and you do—"one"—voice already shaking. his hand resting on the spot he just struck, fingers pressing in slightly, studying the darkness blooming under his touch. memorizing it. "you take it so well," he murmurs, almost to himself, cataloging your reactions. his thumb stroking a small circle before the next one lands harder on your left cheek, his other hand catching your hip when you lurch forward, attempting to escape the next strike. "stay still."
the sting is building into a steady burn by the sixth, seventh, eighth—you gasping now, trying to remember what breathing feels like as your finger curl into fists against your stomach. his cologne is invading you—sharp and clean. everything feels amplified. the cool metal of his wedding ring against your heated skin between strikes. him tracking every flinch, every hitch in your breath, every small sound. "two more," he says, and there's that edge underneath now—hunger, barely leashed.
the ninth one is what finally makes you sob, knees buckling, his grip on your hip the only thing holding you steady. the tenth landing across both cheeks, hardest yet, and you cry out—loud and broken. his hand staying flat against your pained skin, exhaling slowly. satisfied. his fingers tracing the edges of the burning marks afterward, gentle now, almost reverent, committing every detail to memory. pulling you close so you collapse against him, legs shaking, skin still burning, his cologne mixed with the salt of your tears. that soft kiss to your temple before he tells you, "leave your door open tonight"—because of course he wants to check on you in the morning, to see if the marks are still there, to make sure you remember.
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