dead dove: do not eat. 18+. fem!reader. stepcest. stepdad!dex. psychological elements. explicit. somnophilia. daddy kink. creampie
when your mother finally rolls to the edge of the bed, dex is quick to vacate the confines of their room, moving silent as a ghost as he creeps down the hallway, away from his room and towards yours.
when he slips through your cracked door, you're on your stomach, one leg kicked out from under the blankets, wearing nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. the shirt has ridden up in your sleep, exposing the curve of your lower back and the soft swell of your ass.
dex stands at the foot of your bed for a long moment, just watching. you're so fucking beautiful like this—unguarded, vulnerable, completely his.
down the hall, he can hear your mom snoring softly in the master bedroom. the sound is rhythmic, steady. she took an ambien before bed. she won't wake up.
he strips slowly, methodically, never taking his eyes off you. when he's naked, he climbs onto the bed carefully, settling between your spread thighs.
"so pretty," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. his hands slide up your legs, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down slowly, exposing you inch by inch.
you shift slightly in your sleep, making a soft sound, and he freezes. but you don't wake. just settle back into the pillow with a quiet sigh.
"always so wet for me," he whispers, spreading you open with his thumbs. "even when you're sleeping."
he leans down and drags his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate. you taste like sleep and want, and he groans against you, licking deeper.
your body responds even unconscious—hips shifting slightly, toes twitching, a soft whimper escaping your throat. he works you with his mouth until you're dripping, until your pussy is clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled.
the bed creaks slightly as he repositions himself, and he pauses, listening. your mom's snoring continues, undisturbed.
only then does he pull back, positioning himself at your entrance.
"gonna take such good care of you, honey," he whispers, pushing inside in one slow thrust.
you're so tight, so hot, so perfect. he bottoms out with a low groan, hands gripping your hips to hold you still. the stretch is intense even in sleep—your body tensing, a confused sound leaving your lips.
"fuck," he breathes, starting to move. "you feel so good, baby. taking me so well even when you're out cold."
he fucks you with long, lazy strokes, savoring every second. your pussy flutters around him, body responding on instinct, and he can't help the filthy things that spill from his mouth.
"that's it. squeeze daddy's cock just like that. such a good girl for me. always so good."
the wet sounds of him sliding in and out of you fill the quiet room—obscene and perfect. his breathing is heavy, controlled. the mattress creaks with each thrust.
you start to stir around the fifth minute—a confused whimper, your head turning slightly on the pillow.
"shh," he soothes, leaning over you, chest to your back. his weight presses you into the mattress. "it's just me, honey. just daddy."
"dex?" your voice is thick with sleep, confused. you try to push yourself up on your elbows but he holds you down, one hand between your shoulder blades.
"yeah, baby. it's me." he kisses your shoulder, never stopping his thrusts. "go back to sleep. let me take care of you."
"what are you—oh—" you gasp when he hits that spot deep inside, and he feels you clench around him. your hands fist in the sheets, and you try to squirm away—instinct, not real protest. "wait—"
"feels good, doesn't it?" his hand slides under you, finding your clit. "your body knows what it needs, hun."
you're waking up more now, awareness flooding back, and with it comes the realization of what's happening. you try to push back against him, try to wiggle away, but he's so much bigger than you—his weight pinning you completely.
"dex, mom's—she's right down the hall—"
"i know." he picks up the pace, fucking into you harder. "she's asleep. took her pill. she's not waking up."
"but—" your protest dies in a moan when he circles your clit just right. the sound is breathy, desperate, and you immediately clap a hand over your mouth.
"that's my girl," he groans, feeling you start to push back against him now, meeting his thrusts. "take it. take all of me."
the headboard thumps softly against the wall—not loud enough to wake anyone, but enough that you're hyperaware of it. of how wrong this is. of how good it feels.
"please," you whimper, and you're not sure if you're begging him to stop or keep going.
he knows, though. he always knows.
"you're so close," he murmurs in your ear. "i can feel it. feel how tight you're getting. you gonna come on daddy's cock while your mom sleeps down the hall?"
oh my god oh my god oh my god, your brain chants, but your body is already there—clenching, shaking, falling apart.
when you come, it's with a broken sob that you barely manage to muffle in the pillow. your pussy clamps down on him so hard he sees stars, and he follows seconds later, burying himself deep and filling you with hot, thick pulses of cum.
he stays inside you for a long moment, grinding slowly, making sure every drop stays where it belongs. you're trembling beneath him, gasping into the pillow, and he pets your hair soothingly.
"good girl," he murmurs, kissing your neck. "such a good fucking girl for daddy."
he pulls out carefully and you whimper at the loss, feeling his cum start to leak out of you. he uses his fingers to push it back inside, and you squirm.
"stay still," he orders softly, and you do.
he cleans you up with gentle hands, pulls your shorts back up, and then pulls you against his chest.
"go back to sleep, honey," he whispers. "i've got you."
and you do, boneless and sated and safe in his arms, even though you know you shouldn't feel safe at all.
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 putting you in a chokehold by his big biceps🤤 when he fucks you from behind cutting your airway off , instead of trying to push him off your moaning like a cat in heat and absolutely enjoying the chokehold
18+. fem!reader. stepcest. stepdad!dex. psychological elements. explicit. p in v. breath play / erotic asphyxia. daddy kink.
you're on your hands and knees, face buried in your pillow, when his arm slides around your throat.
not hard. not yet. just... there. a warning.
"shh," he breathes against your ear. "just relax, honey."
you should tell him to stop. should push him away. but your hips are already pressing back against him, greedy and desperate, and he laughs low in his throat.
"that's what i thought."
he pushes inside you in one smooth thrust, and you gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets. your stuffed animals are scattered around you—a rabbit, a bear, a little cat you've had since you were twelve. your hand finds the rabbit, grips it like a lifeline.
"so tight," he murmurs, pulling out slow before slamming back in. "so fucking good for me."
his arm tightens around your throat. the pressure builds—his bicep pressing against your windpipe, thick and unyielding. your pulse pounds in your ears, a drumbeat that matches the rhythm of his hips.
your vision blurs at the edges. your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out.
"that's it," he says, voice rough. "feel that? feel how deep i am?"
you nod, or try to, but you can't move much with his arm locked around your neck. all you can do is take it. take him.
he fucks you harder, deeper, and the pressure increases. the world narrows to a tunnel—his cock filling you, his arm choking you, the pounding in your skull.
you should be scared. you should be fighting for air.
instead, you moan.
it's a broken, desperate sound, barely audible over the wet slap of skin against skin. but he hears it.
"oh, you like that?" his pace quickens, his hips slamming against your ass. "you're squeezing me so fucking hard right now. you love when daddy chokes you, don't you?"
tears stream down your cheeks—not from pain, but from how good it feels. from how full you are. from how the lack of air makes everything sharper, brighter, more.
your stuffed rabbit is crushed against your chest. you just keep holding on tighter.
"say it," he demands, his arm loosening just enough to let you gasp in a breath. "say you like it."
"i like it," you choke out, all breathy and broken. "i like it, i like it, please—"
"good girl."
his arm tightens again, and you're gone. floating. weightless. your thoughts fragment—can't breathe can't think can't do anything but feel—
he drives deeper, and the pressure on your throat peaks. your body convulses, pleasure and oxygen-hunger colliding in a white-hot burst that tears through you.
you come with a sob, your cunt clenching around him, and he follows immediately after, hips stuttering as he fills you.
he holds you through it, his arm still around your throat, his breath hot against your ear.
when he finally lets go, you collapse onto the bed, gasping for air. your vision swims. your lungs burn.
your rabbit is still clutched in your hand.
he strokes your hair, all soft and gentle now, like he didn't just have you seeing stars. his fingers trace slow circles on your scalp while you tremble beneath him.
"such a good girl," he murmurs. "my perfect girl."
you don't say anything. you just lie there, breathing, feeling his hand in your hair, feeling the ache in your throat and the fullness between your legs.
i know u said u write for animal kingdom would u ever be down to do a crossover with pope and dex 👀
overlap. — STALKER!BENJAMIN POINDEXTER x STALKER!ANDREW 'POPE' CODY
dead dove: do not eat. 18+. fem!reader. stalker!dex. stalker!pope. crossover(?) daredevil / dd: born again x animal kingdom. stalking. obsession. voyerism. kinda canon behavior / events for dex & pope. kidnapping (implied). mental illness.
part 2.
it starts with coffee.
you work at a little café on the corner of fifth and main, the kinda place with mismatched chairs and chalkboard menus and that one barista that is such a bitch, but you can't say that because they practically rule the café. to put it simply, you're not good at your job—you forget orders, mix up names, spill coffee on yourself (or the customers) at least twice a shift. but you're sweet, and you're pretty, and people forgive you because you smile at them and all is forgiven.
dex notices you on a tuesday.
he's not there for you—he's there for a meeting, some low-level informant who only talks in public places. he's sitting in the corner, nursing a black coffee, watching the door. but his eyes keep drifting to the counter. to you.
you're laughing at something a customer said, your head tilted back, your ponytail swinging. you're wearing a little apron with a coffee stain on the front, and there's a smudge of chocolate on your cheek that you haven't noticed. when you turn to grab a cup, you knock over a container of sugar packets, and you curse under your breath as you scramble to pick them up.
dex doesn't smile. but something in his chest shifts in that moment.
he comes back the next day. and the next. and the next.
he sits in the same corner booth, orders the same black coffee, and watches. he learns your schedule—evening to close, tuesdays through thursdays, friday through sunday you come in early and leave mid afternoon. he learns your name—it's on your nametag, small and printed in uneven letters. he learns your habits—you bite your lip when you're concentrating, you twirl your hair when you're bored, you laugh too loud at jokes that aren't funny.
he learns that you always walk home the same way, down the same streets, past the same buildings. you don't look behind you. you don't check your surroundings. you walk with your airpods in, your phone in your hand, your eyes on the screen.
you're so goddamn trusting.
it makes his teeth itch.
he starts following you after your shift ends.
just to make sure you get home safe.
just to see where you live.
just to know.
the first time he follows you home, he watches you fumble with your keys for a full two minutes before you realize you're using the wrong one. you laugh at yourself, shake your head, and finally get the door open.
you don't look back.
he tells himself it's just observation. just information gathering. just a precaution.
but he knows the truth.
—
pope notices you on a thursday.
he's standing at the window of his new house—too big and empty, too much space to think,—staring out at nothing, when he sees you jog by.
you're wearing shorts that are too short and airpods that are playing some pop music too loud—he can hear the tinny beat of your music from inside the house. your ponytail swings as you run, and you're not paying attention to anything, just moving, just existing.
you pass the house every morning at exactly 7:23.
he watches you run by for a week before he starts following you.
he's careful—he's always careful. he knows how to move through the world without being seen, how to blend into shadows and doorways and crowds. he follows you to the coffee shop where you work. he follows you home. he follows you to the grocery store and the park and the little bookstore you visit on your days off.
he learns that you leave your front door unlocked. that you give directions to anyone who asks. that you smile at strangers like they're not a threat.
he learns that you're not very smart. no offense. you're just… soft. pliable. easy.
it makes his chest ache.
he wants to keep you safe. wants to own you. wants to hide you away from a world that would eat you alive.
he doesn't realize someone else is watching you too.
—
dex notices pope on a sunday.
he's sitting in his car across the street from your apartment, because he's been doing that a lot lately—watching your window, watching you move through your little life, watching you be so completely unaware of how fragile you are.
and then he sees him.
a man. medium height, lean, with auburn hair and a face that looks like it's seen too much. he's standing at the corner, half—barely—hidden by a tree, watching your building.
dex's blood runs cold.
he knows that face. knows that posture. knows the way a man looks when he's hunting.
he's seen pope before—not personally, but he knows the name. knows the family. everyone in law enforcement knows the codys—the matriarch, the brothers, the constant string of robberies and violence that somehow never sticks to them. they're cockroaches, the kind of family that should have been wipes out years ago but keeps crawling back. 'smurf's' crew, the whole rotten operation. and pope is the oldest, the one with the most blood on his hands, the one who went to prison and came out worse than when he went in.
and now this man is watching you.
dex watches him for the rest of the day. follows him when he leaves. learns his routine the same way he learned yours.
and he realizes: pope has been watching you longer than he has.
that doesn't sit well with him.
—
the first near-miss happens on a wednesday.
you're walking home from work, your airpods in, your phone in your hand, scrolling through instagram without looking at where you're going. you've done this a hundred times—you know this route by heart, know every crack in the sidewalk, know the exact spot where you always trip on the same loose paving stone.
you don't notice the man behind you.
you don't notice the man across the street.
you don't notice that they've both stopped moving, both frozen in place, both watching you with the same hungry intensity.
dex sees pope. pope sees dex.
they don't know each other—not really, not directly—but they recognize each other. the predator in each other's eyes. the hunger.
dex takes a step forward. pope does the same.
you keep walking, oblivious.
and then you trip on the loose paving stone.
you stumble, catching yourself on a lamppost, your phone clattering to the ground. you curse under your breath, bending down to pick it up, and when you straighten, you look around—just for a second—like you're checking if anyone saw.
dex has already melted into a doorway. pope has already disappeared into a side street.
you shrug, pop your airpods back in, and keep walking.
you don't see the two men watching you from opposite ends of the block.
you don't see the way they glare at each other before disappearing into the shadows.
—
the second near-miss happens on a friday.
you're at the grocery store, standing in the produce section, holding up two apples, trying to decide which one looks less bruised. you've been standing there for two minutes, and you still haven't made a decision.
dex is at the end of the section, pretending to read a label on a jar of fig spread sauce. pope is at the other end, pretending to examine a bag of oranges.
they're both watching you.
you finally pick an apple, toss it in your basket, and move on to the bread aisle. they follow at a distance, careful, coordinated.
and then you stop abruptly.
"oh my god," you say out loud, and both of them freeze.
you're staring at a display of cookies. "i forgot my mom's birthday is next week. i need to get her something."
you pull out your phone, scrolling through your notes, muttering to yourself. dex watches you from behind a display of crackers. pope watches you from behind a stack of canned goods.
you turn around suddenly, and for a second, you catch a glimpse of them—both of them, at the same time, too close to be coincidence.
you blink. frown.
you stare at them for a long moment, your brow furrowed, like you're trying to place them. then you shrug, turn back to your phone, and wander off toward the bakery section.
dex and pope exchange a look.
then they both slip away.
—
the third near-miss happens on a monday.
you're at the park, sitting on a bench, eating a sandwich. it's your day off, and you've decided to enjoy the weather—sunny, warm, perfect for people-watching.
you're so busy watching everyone else that you don't notice the two men watching you.
dex is on a bench across the pond, pretending to read a book. he's been following you for weeks now. he knows your schedule, your routines, your habits. he knows the way you tilt your head when you're confused, the way you grind your teeth when you're concentrating, the different pitch in the laugh use when things that aren't funny, but you still want the customer to tip you.
he knows everything about you.
and he still can't get enough.
pope is under a tree, pretending to scroll through his phone. he's been following you too—longer than dex, longer than he wants to admit. he knows the exact shade of your eyes, the way your hair falls across your face, the sound of your voice when you're sharing your phone number at checkout counters, trying to be quiet. yeah, like that's where you need to be safer.
he knows everything about you.
and he wants more.
they've been circling each other for weeks now—never quite meeting, never quite confronting, just existing in the same orbit. both of them waiting for the other to make a move.
you finish your sandwich, wipe your hands on your jeans, and stand up.
and that's when you see him.
a man, jogging past, his shirt off, his chest glistening with sweat. you watch him for a second too long, your mouth slightly open, your eyes following him as he disappears around a bend.
dex's jaw tightens. his grip on his book tightens too. he wants to break that jogger's legs. wants to make sure he never runs past you again.
pope's grip on his phone tightens too. he's been watching you for weeks, and he's never seen you look at anyone like that. it makes something hot and ugly coil in his chest.
you sigh dreamily, sit back down, and pull out your phone.
"damn," you mutter. "this is a nice park."
dex and pope both relax. just slightly.
and then the jogger comes back around the bend, and you're watching him again, and the tension is back.
dex stands up. pope stands up.
they're both walking toward you before they realize what they're doing.
you look up, startled, as two men approach from opposite directions. you blink, your brain trying to process the sudden appearance of not one but two strangers heading straight for you.
"oh—hi?" you say, confused.
they both stop.
dex looks at pope. pope looks at dex.
they're standing on either side of your bench, and you're caught in the middle, completely oblivious to the silent war happening over your head.
"can i help you... guys?" you ask, looking between them.
dex opens his mouth. pope opens his.
they both close them.
"uh," you say, standing up slowly. "okay. well. i'm gonna go now."
you gather your things, your movements a little clumsy, your cheeks flushed with confusion. you walk away without looking back.
dex watches you go. pope watches you go.
they don't look at each other.
but they both know this isn't over.
—
the fourth near-miss happens in the parking lot of your apartment complex.
you're carrying groceries—too many bags, balanced precariously in your arms. you're fumbling with your keys, trying to unlock your door, when you drop a bag. oranges roll across the pavement.
"oh, come on," you groan, bending down to pick them up.
dex appears from the shadows, crouching down to help you. pope appears from the other side of the parking lot, doing the same.
you look up, startled. "what—"
they don't answer. they just pick up your oranges, handing them to you one by one, their fingers brushing yours.
you stare at them, wide-eyed. "okay, this is really weird. do you guys know each other?"
they look at each other. neither of them says anything.
"okay," you say slowly, taking the last orange from dex's hand. "thank you, uh, for helping. but i'm just gonna like…" you gesture blindly behind you toward your door, damning yourself for not pointing toward any of the other apartments. but that wouldn't have mattered, they both know where you live anyway.
you trail off, backing toward your door, your keys clutched in your hand. you unlock it, slip inside, and slam it shut behind you.
you lean against the door, your heart pounding.
"that was weird," you say to your empty apartment. "that was really, really weird."
you go to the window, peeking through the blinds.
they're both still out there, standing in the parking lot, looking at each other. they don't move. they don't speak. they just stand there, like two wolves circling the same prey. or two idiots having a staring contest.
you let the blinds fall shut.
"weird," you say again.
and then you forget about it.
—
the confrontation happens a week later.
dex is sitting in his car, watching your building. pope is across the street, leaning against a wall, doing the same.
they've been playing this game for weeks now—circling, watching, waiting for the other to blink.
dex gets out of his car.
pope pushes off from the wall.
they meet in the middle of the street, inches apart.
"you're following her," dex says. it's not a question.
"so are you," pope says.
"she's mine."
pope laughs—cold, hollow. "she doesn't even know you exist."
"she will."
"no," pope says, his voice low and dangerous. "she won't. because you're not going to get close to her. i'm going to make sure of that."
dex's smile is sharp, predatory. "you think you can stop me?"
"i think i can kill you."
"try."
they stand there, chest to chest, both of them ready to tear each other apart.
and then a door opens across the street.
you step out of your building, dragging a trash bag behind you. you're wearing fluffy pajama pants and an oversized polka-dot hoodie, your hair messily clipped back into a claw clip they watched you purchase weeks ago, your face bare. you look tired and rumpled and completely, utterly unaware of the two men standing in the middle of the street ogling at you.
you don't even look in their direction. you just drop the bag in the dumpster, turn around, and shuffle back inside.
dex and pope watch you go.
then they turn back to each other.
"we need to talk," pope says.
dex doesn't argue.
they walk to a nearby diner, sit in a booth in the back, and lay their cards on the table.
they don't say it out loud, but the decision is made. you're theirs now. both of theirs. and they're going to have to figure out how to make that work.
dex has been watching you for months. he knows your coffee order, your favorite podcast, the way your breath catches when you're flustered, the way you look away and bite the inside of your cheek. he knows the way you hum when you're cleaning, the way you talk to yourself when you think no one's listening, the way you leave your window cracked at night even though you live on the ground floor.
he knows because he's been there. every night. standing in the shadows, watching you sleep.
pope has been watching you for longer. he knows the sound of your laugh, the way you bite your lip when you're nervous, the way you check your phone obsessively even when there's no one texting you. he knows the way you say goodbye to your coworkers, the way you always forget to lock your car, the way you leave your back stoop door unlocked because you're too lazy to use your keys.
he knows because he's been in your apartment. going through your things. memorizing you.
neither of them knows about the others creepy little explorations.
not yet.
—
dex is the first to realize.
he's sitting in his car across from your apartment, watching your window, when he sees something that makes his blood run cold.
a shadow. moving through your living room.
a shadow that isn't you.
dex is out of the car before he can think, his hand reaching for the gun in his waistband. he moves toward your apartment, his footsteps silent, his heart pounding.
he's going to kill whoever is in there.
he's going to kill them slowly.
but then the shadow moves again, and dex stops.
it's not a stranger.
it's the man from the park. the man with the light hair and the hollow eyes. the man who's been following you too.
dex watches as pope slips out your back door, a piece of your clothing clutched in his hand—a shirt, maybe, or a bra. he tucks it into the pocket of his leather jacket like it's a trophy.
because it is.
dex's grip on his gun tightens.
he doesn't confront pope. not yet. he waits.
he follows pope back to his house. he watches him disappear inside.
and then he starts planning.
—
pope knows something is wrong before he sees him.
it's the feeling of being watched—the same feeling he gets when he knows he's being followed. he turns around, and there he is.
the man from the coffee shop. the man from the park. the man who's been watching you too.
dex is standing in the shadows, his eyes cold, his smile sharp.
"you have something that belongs to me," dex says.
pope's hand tightens around your bra in his pocket, a talisman, a claim. "she doesn't even know you exist."
dex's head tilts, something cold and amused in his eyes. "she will. and when she does, she'll choose me."
pope laughs—hollow, humorless. "she won't get the chance."
they don't move. don't blink. just stare each other down, the air between them thick and poisonous.
"we can do this the hard way," dex says, his voice low and dangerous. "or we can figure out how to share."
pope's laugh is hollow. "share?"
"you heard me." dex doesn't flinch. "you want her. i want her. we can kill each other over it, or—" he laughs, a sinister smile stretching his face, "or we can be smart."
pope studies him for a long moment. the silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable. then: "what are you suggesting?"
dex steps closer. close enough that pope can see the pale ring around his iris, the complete lack of warmth in his eyes. "we take her. together. we keep her. together. nobody else touches her." a pause. "and if either of us gets greedy..." his hand drifts to his waistband. "we handle it."
pope holds his gaze. doesn't look at the gun. doesn't flinch.
he sees it—the same hunger only he feels. the same willingness to cross every line. the same emptiness that only one thing—person—seems to fill.
"fine," pope says.
they don't shake hands. they just look at each other, and that's enough.
—
you're at the coffee shop, wiping down the counter when the door jingles. you look up, ready to greet the customer, and your stomach does a summersault inside of you.
it's them.
the two men from the park. the two men from the parking lot. the two men who've been showing up everywhere, like they're following you.
you blink, confused. "oh—hi. can i help you guys?"
they don't answer. they just look at you.
the taller of the two steps forward first. "we'd like to talk to you."
his voice is calm, measured. but there's something underneath it—something that makes your skin prickle.
you swallow hard. "about what?"
the auburn haired man steps forward, too. "about us."
you look between them, your moinding racing. you dont understand whats happening. dont understand why these two strangers are looking at you like they know you.
but there's something in the way they're standing—waiting, patient, certain—that makes you feel like you don't have a choice.
"okay," you hear yourself say.
you don't know it yet. but you just made the only choice they were going to give you.
let's be so real dex is taking pope out the moment he catches wind of him. he's so bf.
"your mom's getting inquisitive," dex had said two weeks ago, his hand sliding up your thigh in his car. "you need to get a boyfriend."
you'd stared at him. "what?"
"a cover." his thumb stroked circles against your inner thigh. "someone to take you out. someone she can fuss over."
so you'd done it. found logan from bio class—sweet, harmless logan who laughed at his own jokes. asked him out for coffee. let him take you to dinner.
and now he's sitting at your dining room table, looking like he wants to disappear into the floor.
"so, logan." dex leans back in his chair, arms crossed. a black henley stretches across the wide expanse of his shoulders. "what are your intentions with her?"
logan shifts in his seat. his palm is damp where it rests near yours on the table. "i—uh—i really like her, sir. she's smart and funny and—"
"and young," dex interrupts. his eyes don't leave logan's face. "and trusting." each word lands with weight. "i hope you understand that means i'm watching you carefully."
your face burns. logan looks pale.
"honey," your mom says, but there's something uncertain in her voice. "you're being a bit..." her words bang in the air for a moment before she finds her end, "much."
"am i?" dex's expression softens when he looks at her. "sorry, babe. just want to make sure she's safe."
"it's fine," logan says quickly. "i get it. if i had a daughter—"
"you don't." dex's voice is flat. "so you can't possibly understand."
the rest of dinner is excruciating. dex asks logan about school, about his family, about his plans—all while his foot finds yours under the table. presses against your ankle. slides up your calf, slow and deliberate, while he's asking logan about his major with perfect innocence on his face.
you focus on your pasta. try to breathe normally. try not to think about the fact that three hours ago, dex had you contorted in the back of his car in an empty parking lot, his hand over your mouth.
your mom keeps glancing between you and dex. her brow furrows. then her eyes land on you—really land on you—and something shifts in her expression.
"honey," she says slowly. "what's that on your neck?"
your hand flies to your throat. fingers find the spot where dex had sucked too hard yesterday. you'd thought the concealer was enough.
"it's nothing," you say. "i—uh—burned myself with my curling iron."
your mom leans closer. studies you. "that doesn't look like a burn."
"i bruise really easily. you know that." you were on fire now. it felt like everyone at the table could read your mind. you'd never wanted to curl into a ball and die more than you do right now.
logan is staring now too, confused.
dex looks completely unbothered. if anything, there's satisfaction in his eyes.
"you've been so distracted lately," your mom continues. her voice is careful. measured. "spacey. and you're always—" she gestures vaguely. "—you two are always disappearing into rooms together."
"we're bonding," dex says smoothly. "isn't that what you wanted?"
your mom's jaw tightens. she opens her mouth. closes it. looks at logan, then back at you. whatever she was going to say, she swallows it. "never mind. i'm being silly."
but she's not looking at you the same way anymore.
when dinner finally ends, logan practically runs for the front door. you follow him outside, your legs unsteady.
"sorry about dex," you say quietly on the front porch, twisting your hands tentatively behind your back. "he's just—"
"protective. yeah." logan shoves his hands in his pockets. "it's kind of sweet, actually."
he leans in to kiss you—just a quick peck—and you're about to let him when the front door swings open.
"logan." dex's voice cuts through the night. "i think it's time you headed home."
logan jerks back. "right. yeah. sorry, sir."
"no need to apologize." dex steps onto the porch, positioning himself between you and logan. "just remember what we talked about. respect. boundaries."
"yes, sir." logan's already backing toward his car stumbling along the front path. "goodnight."
he's gone in seconds.
you turn to dex, something hot and confused twisting in your chest. "what is wrong with you?"
"nothing's wrong with me." he's not smiling, but there's something in his eyes—something warm and possessive that makes your stomach flip. "just being a good father."
"i'm not your—"
"go inside." his hand finds the small of your back. the touch burns through your sweater. "your mom needs help with the dishes."
you obey before you can think about it.
your mom is in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher with sharp movements. "that was a bit much, don't you think?" she says when dex walks in.
"just looking out for her."
"you drove her to campus yesterday." your mom doesn't look up. "it took over an hour. it's a twenty-minute drive."
your blood goes cold.
"traffic," dex says easily. "and we stopped for coffee. she wanted to talk."
"about what?"
"about logan, actually." he glances at you. "she was nervous about tonight. wanted advice."
your mom's expression softens slightly. "oh, honey. you could've talked to me."
"i know," you mumble. "dex just—he offered."
"it's fine." but she still looks hurt. uncertain. "i'm glad you two are close. i just... sometimes it feels like you're more with him than with me."
"i'll help with the dishes," you say.
"no, no. you've had a long night. go relax." your mom waves you off with a soft smile. "dex can help me."
you escape upstairs. change into pajamas. sit on the edge of your bed with your heart pounding.
five minutes later, you hear footsteps.
the door opens. dex slips inside and closes it behind him, the lock clicking softly.
"that was quite a performance," he says quietly. his eyes move over you—slow, thorough. "playing the sweet girlfriend."
"you told me to get a boyfriend."
"i told you to get a cover." he crosses to you. not rushed. deliberate. "not to actually let him touch you."
"i didn't—"
"you almost did." he's in front of you now. his hand comes up to cup your face—gentle, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "on the porch. you were going to let him kiss you."
"dex—" you tried to reason.
"do you want him to?" his voice is soft. almost tender. but there's something underneath it—something that makes you shiver.
"no," you whisper.
"no," he repeats. his thumb traces your bottom lip. "because you're mine. aren't you?"
you should say no. should push him away.
but you nod.
"say it."
"i'm yours."
"good girl." he leans down, his forehead resting against yours. the intimacy of it makes your chest ache. "she's going to be down there for at least another hour. cleaning. completely unaware."
your breath catches.
"so here's what's going to happen." his voice is low. almost a murmur. "you're going to get ready for me. something pretty. something soft." his hand slides into your hair, gentle but firm. "and when i come back, you're going to show me who you belong to. okay?"
his hand moves to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there. warm. possessive.
you nod.
"that's my girl." he kisses your forehead. lingers there. "one hour."
he leaves as quietly as he came.
downstairs, you can hear your mom humming. doing dishes. completely unaware.
just as you're turning toward your bedroom door, you hear your mom's voice from the kitchen, fainter now: "dex? is she okay? i was thinking... maybe I should go check on her."
you freeze, your hand on the door knob.
then you hear his voice, low and steady, "no need. i'll check on her in a bit. let her decompress, hun."
you don't breathe until you hear the water running again.
request: reader and stepdad dex getting extremelyyyy close to being caught by readers mom....????
18+. fem!reader. stepdad!dex. stepcest. high-stakes voyeurism / near-discovery. psychological power play / coercive control. non-consensual touching in public. daddy kink.
stepdad!dex who, when the three of you are gathered by the front door—your mom adjusting her earring in the foyer mirror, you crouched to tie your sneakers, him shrugging on his worn leather jacket—
lets his hand slide down to rest on the small of your back. it starts as a gesture of casual affection. but then his fingers dip lower. just barely. just enough to ghost over the denim stretched taut across the curve of your ass. the touch is electric. your mom is rambling about traffic on the 405, about whether the restaurant has valet. her voice is a distant buzz against the roaring in your ears. his thumb, calloused and warm, hooks into the waistband of your jeans, just a millimeter of fabric. then your mom stops talking. she pauses mid-sentence, glancing at the mirror, adjusting her earring. she's looking directly at his reflection. your breath catches. your heart slams against your ribs. his hand freezes. stays perfectly still. your mom smiles at their reflections. "you're so good with her, dex." he squeezes your hip, just once, right in front of her reflection, and says, "she's easy to care for." his voice is warm. domestic. you feel like you're going to throw up. when your mom finally turns, grabbing her purse from the table, he gives you a tiny, private squeeze—a secret promise—before pulling away to open the door for her. "after you, babe," he says. you have to take a deep, shuddering breath before you can trust your legs to walk out after them.
stepdad!dex who, when your mom leans over to grab her purse from the floor of the passenger seat, reaches across the center console and presses two fingers against the inside of your thigh. she's bent forward, fumbling with the clasp, her back to both of you. the windows are tinted, creating a shadowed world in the back. he doesn't look at you. just keeps his eyes forward on the road, his hand resting there, palm hot through your thin jeans. you feel the pressure of his fingertips sinking into the soft, sensitive muscle of your inner thigh. you know that if he moved his hand just two inches to the left, he'd be right where you're aching. "can you tell me the directions, or should i plug them in?" he asks your mom. while he speaks, his thumb traces a slow, deliberate circle against your leg. you sit frozen, thighs trembling. then your mom stops fumbling. she goes still. you watch her turn her head—just slightly—looking for something in the glovebox right beside your knee. her face is inches from his hand. if she glances down, she will see it. you hold your breath. your vision tunnels. your body goes rigid. you watch his hand, frozen mid-stroke, his thumb hovering just above your thigh. after an eternity, she finds her chapstick and sits back up. "got it," she says. his hand slips away like it was never there. the sudden coolness is a shock. you can't stop thinking about how close her eyes came to seeing exactly where his fingers were resting.
stepdad!dex who, in the checkout line at the grocery store, stands behind you while your mom realizes she forgot to get eggs and darts off to the next aisle. the space is suddenly too intimate. his chest presses against your back, a solid wall of warmth. his arm reaches around you, a casual gesture to grab a pack of gum. but instead, his hand rests flat on your stomach, his pinky slipping just beneath the waistband of your jeans, touching the bare skin of your lower belly. his fingers curl, pressing into the soft curve of your belly, a proprietary grip. "you're so tense, honey," he murmurs against your ear. "relax." you're paralyzed, anchored against him, your breath shallow. and then you hear it—your mom's footsteps. she's coming back down the aisle. her heels click against the linoleum, getting closer. she's going to round the corner and see him pressed up against you, his hand hidden beneath your waistband. you can't move. you can't breathe. his hand doesn't move. he simply smiles, tilting his head as your mom rounds the corner, groceries in hand. "we're all set, babe," he says smoothly, his hand sliding out from beneath your waistband and grabbing the cart handle like it was never there. your mom doesn't notice. she's already complaining about the egg aisle. you stand there gripping the cold metal of the cart, trying to remember how to breathe.
stepdad!dex who, when you're washing dishes at the sink and your mom is in the next room, folding laundry with the tv on, slides up behind you. you don't hear him coming until his hips are pressing firmly against your ass. you feel the full, hard length of him through his jeans, the way he slots against you like he belongs there. his hand covers yours on the dish soap bottle. "let me help," he says softly, his voice low and dark. his fingers guide yours over the soapy plate, slow and deliberate. you can hear your mom humming off-key in the other room. you can hear your own heartbeat, too. he moves against you once—a slow, grinding roll of his hips that presses his length deeper into the curve of your ass. you gasp, and the sound is loud. too loud. you hear the tv turn down. your mom's humming stops. "dex? did you say something?" her voice is closer now. she's moved to the doorway of the kitchen. you don't dare turn around. you stare at the soapy plate in your hands, your body frozen. his hand is still covering yours. he doesn't pull away. he just smiles, turns his head just enough to call back to her. "just talking to the girl about her homework, babe." there's a pause. you can feel her eyes on the back of both of you. "oh. okay." her footsteps retreat back to the living room. the tv volume goes back up. he steps back. "there," he says. "all done." you don't remember washing the plate. you don't remember anything except the sound of her footsteps stopping at the doorway.
stepdad!dex who, when you're hugging your mom goodbye before a weekend trip with your friends, pulls you into his own hug immediately after she releases you. it's normal. it's expected. but his hand slides down your back, finds the hem of your shirt, and slips two fingers beneath the waistband of your leggings. they press into the dip of your spine, just above the curve of your ass. his fingertips trace the elastic band of your underwear, back and forth, a featherlight caress. he leans in, pressing a wet kiss to your temple, and whispers, "be safe, honey." but his fingers don't leave. he holds you there for three electric seconds. then your mom's voice cuts through the air from the driveway. "honey! you're gonna be late! get in the car!" his fingers jerk against your skin at the sound of her voice. he doesn't pull away fast enough. your mom is walking back toward the driveway, past her’s and dex’s cars and down to yours. her heels click on the concrete. she's coming to see what's taking so long. his fingers are still curled against your panties. she's stepping between their cars. you can see her shadow through the back glass of your own car. he finally releases you—slowly, deliberately, his fingers dragging against your skin as he pulls away—just as she rounds the back your vehicle. "get going," he says, his voice perfectly calm, smiling at your mom. "she was just saying goodbye." you walk to the driver’s seat with his touch still burning against your skin, your hands trembling too much to fit the key into the ignition. you can still feel the way his fingers jerked at the sound of her voice, the split second where you thought she was going to see everything.
stepdad!dex who, during a backyard barbecue with neighbors and coworkers, finds you alone by the grill, dutifully turning burgers. you're holding a plate of cooked patties, your hands full. your mom is across the lawn, the perfect hostess, chatting with the neighbor from two doors down, totally distracted. he comes up beside you, all easy smiles and charm, reaching for a burger. "these look perfect, honey," he says, and uses the movement to press his palm flat against the front of your skirt. his thumb finds the seam of your shorts, presses down just once, right against the place where you're already aching. he holds it there for a beat. "thanks, honey," he says, loud enough for anyone to hear. but this time, your mom is walking back. she's crossing the lawn, wine glass in hand, heading straight toward the grill. she's smiling. she's saying something to the neighbor about his wife's potato salad. she's twenty feet away. ten feet. you're gripping the plate so hard your knuckles are white. his hand is still there, pressed against your crotch, not moving, not pulling away. she's five feet away now. you can see the confusion flickering in her eyes, the way she's looking at his hand, at the odd placement of it, at the way you're frozen. at the last second, he lifts his hand naturally—reaching for a napkin from the dispenser beside the grill—and says, "hey babe, i was just asking her if she wanted a burger." your mom blinks, the confusion softening into a smile. "oh. i'll take one." you hand her the plate with shaking hands, and you don't meet her eyes. you can't. because you both know that if she had been two seconds faster, she would have seen him palm you in broad daylight.
stepdad!dex who, when the three of you are piled on the couch watching a movie, and your mom dozes off ten minutes in, lets his hand drift to your thigh. you're squished between them, a throw blanket over all your laps. he starts slow. casual. just resting there. then his fingers inch higher. under the edge of your shorts, past the fabric of your underwear. he hooks a finger underneath the elastic and tugs just slightly. his thumb brushes over the sensitive skin just above your hip bone. you bite your lip to stay quiet. your mom stirs. she shifts. but she doesn't wake. he continues his slow, maddening exploration, his finger tracing the edge of your panties. and then—the movie ends. the credits start rolling. the sudden quiet is deafening. your mom mumbles something in her sleep, shifting to stretch. her hand, still half-asleep, reaches out blindly toward the blanket. her fingers brush against his hand. the one that's hooked beneath your panties. your heart stops. you feel her fingers graze his knuckles. you feel her pause. she's still half-asleep, her hand resting on his, her fingers lazily interlacing with his. she doesn't realize she's touching the hand that's currently holding her daughter's underwear out of place. he doesn't move. doesn't flinch. just lets her hold his hand while his fingers stay curled against your hip. after a long, suffocating moment, she pulls her hand back, rolling onto her side, falling back asleep. he doesn't pull his hand away. he just looks at you, dark and steady, and continues his slow tracing of your panty line. you don't watch the credits. you barely breathe. you don't know if you just had a near miss, or if you just crossed a line that can never be uncrossed.
stepdad!dex who, when you're helping him bring groceries in from the car, traps you against the kitchen counter. your arms are full of bags. as you turn to set them down, he moves, caging you in. his arms bracket you on either side. his chest presses against yours. his hips are just inches from yours. "you smell nice," he says, inhaling deeply just behind your ear. your mom is still outside, fussing with the recycling, her voice muffled. in the split second before she comes back inside, he takes your hand and presses it flat against his crotch. you feel the heat of him through his jeans, the thick, hard shape, the way he pulses under your touch. he holds your hand there for two heartbeats. but the door swings open far too early. your mom is standing there, hands full of empty cardboard, her keys jangling in her hand. she's looking right at you. his hand is still pressing yours against his crotch. you can't pull away. you can't move. your face goes white. but his hand moves—so fast, so seamlessly—releasing yours and reaching for the bags you dropped. he looks at your mom, smile perfectly in place. "finally, some help," he says, laughing, gesturing to the bags. "she tried to carry them all in at once. stubborn." your mom laughs, shaking her head. "honey, you know i told you to take two trips." you just stand there, your hand still tingling from where it was pressed against him. she had seen you two standing there, so close, your hands hidden between your bodies. she had looked right at you. and he had lied so smoothly you almost believed it yourself.
stepdad!dex who, when your mom leaves for a week-long work conference, doesn't wait a single second. the front door clicks shut. her car engine rumbles to life down the street. and he's on you before the sound has faded. he backs you into the hallway, one hand grabbing your skirt, the other yanking the back of your bra. "no more hiding, baby," he growls. he turns you around, bends you over the hallway table—the one your mom picked out, the one she dusts every sunday—and pushes your skirt up to your waist. he doesn't bother removing your underwear. just shoves the flimsy lace to the side, frees himself, and slams into you in one brutal stroke. you cry out. but then—you hear it. a car door slamming. not a distant one. your driveway. your mom's car door. and then, her voice, muffled but clear. "dex?! honey?! i forgot my laptop charger!" your blood turns to ice. you're bent over the table, his cock buried deep inside you, your skirt bunched around your waist. the front door is unlocked. you can see her shadow through the frosted glass of the front door. she's digging through her purse, fumbling for her keys. "god, i can't find it—" she mumbles. you can hear the jingle of her keys in the lock. dex doesn't pull out. he freezes, his hips flush against yours, his hand clapping over your mouth. he doesn't move. you feel him twitch inside you, the sheer proximity of her making him harder. the front door swings open. she walks in. you can hear her footsteps in the foyer. you can hear her moving toward the stairs. her steps pass the hallway table. you can see her legs passing by the edge of the table from your hunched, bent-over position. she doesn't look down. she's too busy talking to herself. she goes upstairs. you hear the floorboards creak above you. you hear her call out, "dex? i'll get it myself!" you're still bent over the table, still filled with him, staring at the spot where her feet just passed. he exhales, a low, shaking sound against your ear. "fuck," he whispers. he doesn't stop. he resumes thrusting, slow and deep, while she's walking around upstairs. you listen to her footsteps above you while he fucks you in the hallway below, both of you silent, both of you waiting for her to come back down. when she does, she calls out, "okay, got it! love you, bye!" the front door slams shut. her car starts. drives away. he doesn't pull out. he fucks you harder than before. and you realize, with a sick, dizzying horror, that the risk didn't stop him. it just made him want you more.
okay! so i leaned way more into the almost getting caught part and less into smut / explicit moments... hope you still like it, anon. also, this was way longer than intended lols sorry for giving you guys like a whole dang essay.
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.
you're sitting on the couch, phone in hand, pretending to scroll through instagram. but your eyes keep drifting up—over the screen, past the glowing feed of strangers' lives—to where dex is standing in the kitchen doorway.
he's not doing anything. just standing there in grey sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, hair still damp from the shower, scrolling through something on his own phone. the light from the kitchen backlights him, making his shoulders look broader.
he's being completely normal. completely casual.
and you can't stop staring.
it's the way his jaw moves when he lifts his coffee mug to his lips, the way his fingers curl around the ceramic—long and deliberate. the way his shoulders fill out that shirt like it was made for him, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the bob of his adam's apple visible even from your spot across the room.
you've been doing this a lot lately. looking. watching. noticing things you should not notice about your stepfather.
the house is quiet, your mom left an hour ago for brunch and shopping with friends—"won't be back until late." she had said as she pranced toward the door, eager to spend money. now, it's just the two of you, and the silence feels thicker than usual.
he catches you.
of course he catches you.
his eyes lift from his phone, and there's a beat of silence where you both just look at each other. your face goes hot immediately. you drop your gaze back to your phone, heart hammering in your chest, pretending you weren't just ogling your stepdad like some kind of—
"what?" his voice cuts through the quiet, casual but amused. "something on my face?"
"no," you say too quickly, your voice coming out higher than normal. "nothing."
you hear him hum—a low sound in the back of his throat—and then the soft pad of his footsteps crossing the living room. the couch dips as he sits beside you. not at the other end. right beside you, close enough that his thigh brushes yours as he situates himself against the cushions.
you don't move away. you can't. your body has gone stiff, frozen in place, every nerve suddenly aware of how close he is, buzzing at the mere proximity.
everything about him invades your space—the heat of him, the smell of his cologne, something woodsy and clean that makes your stomach flip.
"you sure?" he asks, and his voice is closer now. softer. "cause you were staring pretty hard."
"i wasn't—" you start, but the words die in your throat when you look up and find him already watching you. his face is inches from yours. too close. you can see the pale ring around his irises, the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his lips curve into the smallest smile.
your fingers tighten around your phone. you don't know what to do with your hands. you don't know where to look. your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.
"you know," he says slowly, like he's thinking out loud, "you're at that age. curiosity and all that. it's normal."
your brow furrows. "what?"
"boys." he says it simply, like it's obvious. his eyes don't leave yours. "you're curious about them, right? about what it'd be like to be kissed by one." he pauses, and his smile widens just slightly. "all that stuff."
your mouth goes dry. your heart is trying to break out of your chest. "i—i don't—"
"it's okay." his voice is so gentle. so patient. almost paternal. "you don't have to be embarrassed, honey. it's natural. every girl your age wonders about these things."
you swallow hard. your throat feels tight. your hands are trembling slightly in your lap, and you press them together to hide it. "i guess. yeah. maybe."
he tilts his head, studying you with those pale, unblinking eyes. cataloging every detail of your face, storing them away in his mind.
"have you ever been kissed?" he asks. "properly, i mean. not just a peck behind the bleachers." he must think he's a comedian, the way he laughs at his own question, not even bothering to hide it.
your face burns. you shake your head, unable to form words. your fingers twist together in your lap, picking at a loose thread on your jeans.
"thought so." he sets his coffee mug on the side table with a soft clink, then turns to face you fully. his knee presses against yours, warm and solid. "you know, i could show you. if you want."
your head snaps up. "what?"
"show you how it's done." he says it like it's the most reasonable thing in the world. like he's offering to help you with homework or teach you to drive. "so you don't embarrass yourself with some boy your age who doesn't know what he's doing either. you deserve to have your first real kiss be something memorable. something done right."
your brain is screaming at you. this is weird. this is wrong. this is your stepdad offering to teach you how to kiss like it's a freaking chemistry lesson.
but instead your mouth says: "okay."
the word comes out before you can stop it. small. uncertain. barely audible.
your mouth is an idiot.
his smile is slow. satisfied. something dark flickers in his eyes. "good girl. come here."
he shifts closer—or maybe you do, you're not sure—and suddenly there's no space between you at all. his thigh is pressed fully against yours. his shoulder brushes your arm. you can feel the heat radiating off his body.
one hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you flinch slightly at the contact. his palm is warm against your skin, slightly rough with calluses. his thumb traces your cheekbone, feather-light, and you shiver.
"relax," he murmurs, and his voice is so soft. so soothing. "it's just me. nothing to be nervous about."
you try to relax. you really do. but your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it through your skin. your hands are trembling in your lap, and you curl them into fists to hide it. your whole body feels like a live wire.
"okay," he says gently. "close your eyes."
you hesitate for a second—some instinct telling you not to, telling you to get up and go to your room—but then you do it anyway.
the world goes dark. you can feel the warmth of him in front of you, can hear his steady breathing, can smell that cologne that makes your stomach feel like it's full of butterflies. your other senses sharpen in the absence of sight.
"now tilt your head up. just a little. yeah, like that."
his thumb guides your chin, tilting your face toward his. you feel his breath on your lips—warm and soft and smelling faintly of coffee—and you hold your own breath without meaning to.
"relax your mouth," he says, his voice low and close. "don't tense up. just let your lips be soft."
you try. you really try. but your lips are pressed together tightly, your jaw clenched, your whole body rigid with nerves.
"you're nervous," he observes, and it's not a question.
you nod, not trusting your voice.
"that's okay." his thumb strokes your jaw soothingly, back and forth in a slow rhythm. "everyone's nervous their first time. just breathe for me, okay? nice and slow."
you take a shaky breath. then another. your chest rises and falls unevenly. his hand stroking your hair isn't exactly helping with the calming.
"that's it. good girl."
the praise makes something warm bloom in your chest. you want to hear it again.
"okay," he says. "i'm going to kiss you now. just a soft one. nothing scary."
you nod again, barely moving. your whole body is tense, waiting.
and then his lips are on yours.
it's gentle, soft. just the lightest press of his mouth against yours, warm and dry. you feel his lips move slightly, like he's testing the shape of you, learning the contours. your whole body goes stiff.
he pulls back after a few seconds. you open your eyes, blinking, and find him watching you with a small smile. his hand is still cupping your jaw.
"see?" he says. "not so scary, right?"
you shake your head. your lips are tingling. you touch them with your fingertips, smiling at the sensation.
"you held your breath again," he says, and there's amusement in his voice. "you gotta breathe through it, honey. can't kiss if you can't breathe."
"right," you say, and your voice comes out squeaky. you clear your throat. "sorry."
"don't apologize." his thumb is still stroking your jaw, slow and soothing. "you're learning. that's what this is for. ready to try again?"
you nod, a little more confident this time. your heart is still racing, but it's not just fear anymore. there's something else mixed in. something that makes your stomach flip.
"okay. close your eyes."
you do.
"this time, don't tense your lips. let them be soft. and remember to breathe."
his mouth meets yours again, and this time you try to do what he said. you let your lips relax, let them mold against his. it's still gentle, still soft, but there's something different about it now.
you feel him smile against your mouth. "good," he murmurs, his lips brushing yours as he speaks. "that's good. you're doing so well."
his lips move against yours again, and you try to follow. clumsy at first, unsure of the rhythm, but he's patient. his hand stays on your jaw, softly guiding you, tilting your head just slightly to get you exactly where he wants you.
"there you go," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. his breath ghosts over your wet lips. "that's how it's done. you're a natural, honey."
your breathing stutters at the praise. "really?"
"really." he leans forward and kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and brief. "you learn fast."
you smile, giddy and breathless. your heart is still racing, but it's not fear anymore, now it's something else. something warm and fluttery that makes you feel like you're floating .
"want to try again?" he asks. "a little deeper this time?"
you bite your lip, nervous again but excited too. "okay."
"close your eyes."
that must be his new mantra, you think as you do what he says, the world fading away again.
"now part your lips. just a little. yeah, like that."
he kisses you again, and this time you feel the difference immediately. his mouth is more insistent, his lips parting against yours, and you feel the briefest brush of his tongue against your lower lip.
you gasp, pulling back instinctively. your eyes fly open.
"what—" your voice is breathless. "what are you doing?"
"using my tongue," he says simply, like it's nothing. like he's explaining a math problem. "it's part of it. when you get more comfortable. you don't have to use it yet if you're not ready."
your heart is racing. "'kay."
"but you should know how it works," he continues, his voice taking on that patient, instructional tone. "too much and it's sloppy. too little and it's boring. there's a balance."
you nod, hanging on his every word. your hands are shaking in your lap.
"want to try again? just a little tongue this time. nothing scary."
you hesitate. some part of you—the part that still has a functioning brain—is screaming that this is wrong. that you should get up and leave. that this isn't normal.
but his hand is so warm on your jaw. his voice is so gentle. and he's looking at you like you're something precious.
"hey." his voice is soft, coaxing. "look at me."
you do. his eyes are warm, patient. concerned. concerned you're going to tell your mother what her husband just did to you.
"i'm not going to do anything you don't want," he says. "if you're not ready, we can stop. but it's just practice, honey. it doesn't mean anything. it's just so you know what it feels like. so some boy can't take advantage of you later."
you take a shaky breath. "okay."
"okay?" he smiles. "good girl. eyes."
you let out a breathy giggle, the word eyes having been said so many times, it's starting not to sound real anymore, but you shut them anyway.
his mouth meets yours again, and you feel his tongue touch your lips gently. you part them without thinking, and he slides in just barely—just enough for you to feel the warmth and wetness of it.
you make a small sound against his mouth. surprised, maybe. or overwhelmed.
he pulls back. "you okay?"
"yeah," you breathe. "yeah, i'm okay."
"that was good," he says, and his voice is rougher now. "you're doing so good. are ready for more?"
you nod.
his tongue touches yours this time—light, teasing—and you feel your whole body shiver. it's strange and unfamiliar. but not unpleasant. his hand moves from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulls you closer.
you let him.
you let him kiss you until your lips are tingling, until your head is spinning, until you've forgotten that this is supposed to be practice. his tongue slides against yours, slow and deliberate, and you try to follow his lead. your hands come up to grip his shoulders, needing something to hold onto.
when he pulls back, you're both breathing hard.
"see?" he says, and his voice is rough. strained. "nothing to be scared of."
you smile, dazed. "yeah. nothing."
he thumbs your bottom lip, and you shiver. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.
"you want to practice some more?"
you nod before you can think about it.
—
it happens again two days later.
you're in the bathroom, reaching for a bottle on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, when you feel him come up behind you. his chest presses against your back, solid and warm, and his arm reaches over you to grab the bottle himself.
"here," he says, his voice low near your ear. "let me."
you freeze. your whole body goes rigid. you can feel the hard planes of his chest through his shirt, the heat of him seeping into your back. he doesn't move away immediately. just stands there, arm still extended, boxing you in against the vanity top.
your heart is pounding. your hands are gripping the edges of the vanity so hard your knuckles are white.
"thanks," you manage, voice small.
he sets the bottle of body cream down in front of you but doesn't close the mirror to the cabinet, nor does he step back. his hand lands on your hip, warm and heavy, and he turns you around to face him, pressing the tips of his fingers into your hip bones as he does. you're trapped between his body and the vanity, and he's looking down at you with that same soft, patient expression.
"you've been thinking about it," he says. it's not a question.
your mouth goes dry, just play dumb, you think. "about what?"
"the other night. the kissing." his other hand comes up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. "haven't you?"
you should lie. you should say no. you should push past him and walk away and pretend this never happened.
"yes," you whisper.
his smile is slow. satisfied. "i knew it. i could tell. you've been looking at me differently."
you have been. you've been replaying that night in your head over and over, touching your lips when no one's watching, wondering what it would be like to do it again. wondering if it felt as good for him as it did for you. because it surely felt good for you.
"you want to practice again?" his voice breaks you out of your racing thoughts.
you hesitate. your hands are shaking at your sides. "i don't... i don't know if we should," you say, and your voice is uncertain. wavering. "it feels..."
"what?" he asks, and his voice is so gentle. so concerned. "what does it feel like?"
"wrong," you whisper. "it feels wrong."
his expression softens. he reaches out, cups your face with both hands, and you flinch slightly before forcing yourself to stay still.
"it's not wrong," he says firmly. "it's just... unusual. but that doesn't make it wrong. i care about you, you know that, right?"
you nod, still uncertain.
"i want to help you," he continues, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "i want you to be ready when you meet someone your age. someone who deserves you. and i'm the only one who can teach you properly. your mom can't do this. your friends don't know what they're doing. but i do. don't you trust me?"
you do. that's the problem. you trust him so much it scares you.
"yeah," you say quietly. "i trust you."
"good." he smiles, and it's warm and reassuring. "then let me help you. okay? just practice. that's all it is."
you nod, and he slides away from you for just a moment as he closes your bathroom door—caging you in, putting a barrier between you and the rest of the house. a barrier between you being able to get away.
it's different from the first time. slower. his mouth is more demanding, and you feel his tongue slide against your lip almost immediately. you gasp, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss.
your hands come up to his chest, not pushing, just... holding. you don't know what to do with them. they feel useless and awkward and sweaty—gross.
"put your hands on my shoulders," he murmurs against your lips. "or in my hair. wherever feels natural, honey."
you slide your hands up to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt. he makes a sound of approval—a low hum in the back of his throat.
"that's it. good girl."
he kisses you again, deeper, and his hand slides from your hip to your lower back, pressing you against him. you can feel everything—the hard muscle of his chest, the heat of his skin through his shirt, the way his breathing is getting faster.
and you can feel something else. something hard pressing against your stomach.
your eyes fly open. you pull back slightly, breathless and confused.
he's watching you, his eyes dark. "it's okay," he says softly. "that's normal. that's just what happens when someone makes you feel good."
your face burns. you don't know where to look.
"you make me feel good," he continues, his voice low and rough. "you're so sweet. so responsive. it's hard not to react, baby."
you're trembling. your whole body is trembling, and you don't know if it's nerves or excitement or both.
"you're shaking," he says, pulling back slightly, but still holding your shoulders, studying your face closely "you okay?"
"yeah," you say, but your voice is shaky. "i'm just—i'm nervous."
"i know." he strokes your hair, soothing. "it's okay to be nervous. this is new for you. but i've got you, remember? i'm not going to let anything bad happen."
you nod. you believe him.
"you trust me?"
"yeah," you say, and you mean it.
"then just let go," he says softly. "let me take care of you."
he kisses you again, and this time you let yourself sink into it. you let your body relax against his, let your hands slide up into his hair, let him kiss you until you're breathless and dizzy.
when he pulls back, you're both breathing hard. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. his hands are gripping your hips tightly.
"you're doing so good," he says, and his voice is rough. strained. "so fucking good."
you blush at the praise, at the curse word. "really?"
"really." he kisses your forehead, tender. "you're a quick learner."
then he steps back abruptly, and you almost stumble without him there to hold you up.
"we should stop," he says, and his voice is tight. controlled. "i'll call you when your mom's ready for dinner."
you blink, disoriented. "what? why?"
"because," he says, and he sounds strained, "if we keep going, i'm not going to be able to stop myself. and you're not ready for that." he's putting distance between the two of you as he speaks, guiding you away from the vanity with gentle pressure on your shoulders, clearing a path to the door.
your cheeks burn, but there's a part of you that wants to say i am ready. that wants to see what he'd do if you pushed.
but he's already opening your bathroom door, running a hand through his hair as he leaves your bedroom, stepping out into the hallway with a loud sigh.
you lie on your bed, staring at the ceiling, and you replay every moment. every kiss. every touch. every word.
you're doing so good.
such a good girl.
you make me feel good.
you press your thighs together, heart racing. your body feels hot and restless, like there's something building inside you that needs release.
you don't question it. not once. because why would you? he's your stepdad. he loves you. he said it's normal. he said it's natural. he said he's just teaching you.
so you trust him.
you trust him completely.
—
the third time, you're not even pretending it's practice.
you're on his bed—his and your mom's bed—sitting cross-legged while he sits across from you. she's at work. won't be home for hours. you've been here for twenty minutes, talking about nothing, and you both know what's going to happen.
"you've been getting better," he says, watching you. "really improving."
"thanks." you look down at your hands, picking at your nails. "it's cause you're a good teacher."
he laughs, low and warm. "that's one way to put it."
you look up. he's watching you with that same intense gaze, and your heart starts hammering. your stomach is full of butterflies, your palms are sweaty.
"come here," he says.
you crawl across the bed to him, and he pulls you into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world. your thighs straddle his, and his hands settle on your hips, and you're so close you can feel his breath on your lips.
"you know," he says slowly, "you're still making a few mistakes."
you frown. "i am?"
"mmhmm." his thumb strokes your hip through your thin shirt. "you keep trying to take the lead. you're not letting me guide you."
"i'm sorry," you say quickly. "i didn't mean—"
"it's okay." he kisses your cheek, soft and reassuringly. "you're still learning. just let me show you, okay? let me take control."
"okay," you say, and you mean it. you want him to take control, you want him to show you how it's done. that's all you want, you tell yourself.
he kisses you, and you let him. you let him tilt your head just how he likes it. you let him guide your hands to his shoulders, his chest, wherever he wants them.
"relax your jaw," he murmurs, nipping lightly at your lips. "you're clenching."
you try to relax, but your whole body is tense with nerves and anticipation.
"breathe, baby." he reminds you. "slow and steady."
you take a shaky breath, and he kisses you again. this time, it's deeper. his tongue slides against yours, and you feel your whole body shiver. his hands stroke your sides, warm through your thin shirt, and you arch into the touch without meaning to.
"that's it," he breathes. "you're doing so good."
he kisses you until you're dizzy, until you're panting against his mouth, until all you can think about is the feeling of his lips on yours and his hands on your body.
"you feel that?" he asks, pulling back just enough to speak. his voice is rough. "the way your body responds? that's natural. that's just your body telling you it feels good."
"it feels good," you echo, and you sound dazed.
"yeah?" his lips trail down to your jaw, your neck. you gasp, your head falling back. "you want more?"
"yes," you breathe. "please."
he chuckles against your throat. "so polite. such a good girl."
his hands slide under your shirt, and you gasp at the contact—his palms hot against your bare skin. your back arches instinctively, pressing closer to him.
"relax," he murmurs. "it's okay. this is normal. this is what people do when they're attracted to each other."
"we're not—" you start, but the words die when his mouth finds that spot behind your ear.
"not what?"
"we're not—" you can't think. your brain is fuzzy, scattered. "we're not... people."
he pulls back, looking at you with those dark eyes. "no," he agrees softly. "we're not. we're something else. something special."
your chest aches at his words. "special?"
"yeah." he kisses you again, tender and sweet. "and that's why you can trust me. i'll take care of you. i'll teach you everything you need to know."
you melt into him. completely. utterly. because he's right—this is special. this is different. and he's taking care of you.
"now," he says, his voice low. "let me show you how to really kiss someone."
he kisses you again, and this time there's nothing gentle about it. his mouth is firm and demanding, and you whimper against his lips. his hands grip your hips too harshly for your liking, pulling you closer, and you can feel how hard he is beneath you.
"open," he murmurs, and you do. his tongue slides in, and you moan, clutching his shoulders.
"that's it," he groans as he pulls away, throwing his head back in a pant. "god, you feel so good."
"i do?"
"yeah, honey. so good. you're making me feel so good."
you're not sure what exactly he means—the kissing or the fact that he's rubbing against you—but it makes your stomach flip in the best way. you press closer, rolling your hips slightly, and he makes a low sound in the back of his throat that you feel everywhere.
"okay," he says, pulling back abruptly. his breathing is heavy, his eyes dark and wild. "okay, that's enough for today."
"what?" you blink, disoriented. "why?"
"because," he says, and he sounds strained, "if we keep going, i'm not going to be able to stop myself. and you're not ready for that yet."
your cheeks burn, but again there's that small, beyond reckless voice in your head whispering i am ready, i want this. i want you. but you can't find the courage to vocalize it before he's already lifting you off his lap, setting you on the bed beside him, hands shaking slightly.
"go to your room," he says, and his voice is rough. "i'll call you when dinner's ready."
you nod, even though you don't want to leave. your body is buzzing, hot and restless, and you feel like you're living outside of your own body.
it's starting to feel like a routine as you walk down the hall to your room.
you lie on your bed—again,—staring at your ceiling—again,— and you replay every moment from the past few weeks since your 'practices' began
every glance.
every 'good girl.'
every rough groan from the depths of your stepfather's throat.
your hips shift restlessly against the mattress, searching for something you don't have words for. your body feels too warm, too tight, like you're wound up and don't know how to unwind.
he's so patient. so kind. he's teaching you things you never knew, showing you what it feels like to be wanted, and it's—
it's everything.
you don't question it. not once. because why would you? he's your stepdad. he loves you. he said it's normal. he said it's natural. he said he's just teaching you so you'll be ready.
so you trust him.
you trust him completely.
you don't see the way he smiles to himself on his bed. you don't hear the quiet laughs he lets out as he adjusts himself in his sweatpants and heads back downstairs, happily chatting with your mother, already planning the next lesson in his head.
