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.
Dex as a stepdad and how your kid interacts with him
―◉― part two here | part 2.5 here | 3 | 4
The first thing that came to my mind was him walking around shirtless because he was running hot. He's making lunch while you do the laundry and when you come back out to the kitchen you see your preteen staring at his scar before going: What's that thing on your back?
You, mortified, see Dex barely look over his shoulder and you call out their name to reprimand them
"Nah, it's okay," he chimed in as he put the knife down on the cutting board. He walked over to them and kneeled. "It does look weird, doesn't it?"
He turned around and showed it off
"Wanna feel it?"
You scoffed softly and crossed your arms while you watched from the kitchen, knowing what he was up to bc he did the same thing with you. Your kid was hesitant but goes for it anyway. Poking along his spine until he yelps to scare them. Giving them a stern look and immediately breaking to laugh
"Gotcha!"
I'm going the very basic route and saying he'd be teaching them baseball. How cool would it be if your kid had even an ounce of precision like him! He says. But for other sports he's just as supportive and he lets you take the reins for that (in terms of training)
Clean freak!! Your kid will hate it at first, it's inevitable but Dex finds his own ways to make it so much fun and convinces them that cleanliness is the coolest thing in the world. If you have a son he'll tell him its the quickest way to a woman's heart (not fact checked btw) before looking over and winking at you
If you have a young kid he can and will take over much of the parenting duty because he hates seeing you so exhausted. It's to the point where you're almost never not seeing them on his hip and sometimes you wonder where the hell your kid is
One time you actually had a full nights rest and woke up confused, shooting out of bed because you got used to your kid waking you up. Checking their room to see it's empty and very tidy. You run out to the kitchen in a full blown panic just to hear Dex talking out loud
"You said she likes pancakes," he mused. You walk further out and see your kid, peaceful, head on his shoulder as he cooks one handed no problem. "Think she'll mind a little cinnamon?"
he found the dildo you’d been hiding in your dresser and now he’s sliding it through your folds, collecting the arousal that leaks from your hole before gently pushing in. the stretch makes your eyes burn and you sniffle.
“Shhhh. Not doing this because I hate you, sweetheart. I just want you to be ready. Boys your age only have one thing on their minds and I don’t want them to hurt you.” he whispers, pressing the toy deeper into your cunt as you clench around it helplessly.
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 asphyxiation. 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.
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.
Let's go with the idea that he still works for the FBI. I'm cackling at the idea of your kid coming up to you huffing and puffing, explaining to you and Dex that they're being bullied at school and while you're genuinely concerned and comforting them, he just leans down to their level to look them in the eye and says, with the straightest face possible
"...wanna find their address?"
MIND YOU. You're both still standing outside the car as parents and kids pass by. You smack his arm and have to spend the next hour explaining to your excited child why that's a horrible idea
Expect Dex to teach your kid how to fight, mostly long distance. And because of this you'll be heading to the living room and a coin flies past your face
"What the hell was that?"
Dex stands there sheepishly with your kid going to hide behind him
"That... is my fault."
Dex fidgets a lot. You've gotten used to it but it weirded your kid out at first
"Why do you roll your wrists so much?"
Dex opened his eyes to see them staring, again. A soft laugh through his nose escaped but you answered for him
"Cause he's an old man."
He turned to see you drinking tea/coffee, eyes squinting from trying not to laugh
"She's right," he said as he looked to them again. "But you two make it worse."
Trying to imagine him with a kid going through teen angst. He doesn't take a single thing they say seriously (unless it's really serious, of course)
When they had the audacity to slam their door after you told them to do chores, he stopped you from going upstairs and insisted that he'd handle it
At first you're like how would a man who's never had kids of his own know what to do, but after about an hour of a muffled conversation they both came back downstairs and they apologized with a tight hug and a pout. You hug them back, confused then you look at him
"How did you...?" You mouthed. "I'll tell you later." He mouthed back. And they never slammed their door again
So with the fbi thing, I assume he'd be out the house a lot but on the particularly long days, he always came back home with flowers and takeout from your favorite place no matter how far. If you have a daughter he'll get her flowers too
I think this would operate the same both ways but I'm going with daughter for this part. While he used to be able to get on her level and give her the world's greatest advice years ago, when she's a teen dealing with teen things, he's so lost
"And then Raquel fucked-"
"Language," he said while rubbing his temples.
"Sorry, she slept with Asha's ex the day after they split and then-"
"Wait, wait, just- slow down. Please."
"Slowing it down never helps," you chime in and curl up on the couch right next to him with a bowl of snacks. Meanwhile your daughter is cross legged on the floor in front of him talking in circles and zigzags
the first time your new stepfather calls you "honey," you tell yourself it's just a habit.
it happens over breakfast on a saturday morning, three weeks after the wedding. you're still getting used to having him here—this tall, lean man with pale eyes that never seem to blink, who moves through your childhood home like he's always belonged here. he's at the stove making pancakes (he insisted, waved your mom back to her seat with that charming smile), and you're trying not to stare at the precise way he flips each one. perfect circles. perfect golden-brown color.
he's good at everything. you've noticed that.
"here you go, honey," he says, sliding a plate in front of you. his hand brushes yours as he passes the syrup bottle, fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. you feel the warmth of his skin, the calluses on his fingertips, and something in your stomach flutters.
stop it. he's just being nice.
"oh—thank you," you manage, pulling your hand back maybe too quickly. you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a nervous habit you've never been able to break. "you didn't have to—i mean, these look really good."
god, why are you so awkward?
his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes—those pale, unblinking eyes that seem to track your every movement like you're something he's studying. "my pleasure, sweetheart. gotta take care of my girls."
your mom practically glows. she reaches over and squeezes his arm, her wedding ring catching the morning light. "see?" she coos, turning to you with that expression she gets when she's had too much wine, except it's nine in the morning and she's just drunk on happiness. "i told you he's wonderful. he's already so good with you, sweetie."
you should feel happy. you are happy. your mom deserves this—deserves someone who brings her breakfast in bed and fixes the leaky faucet and doesn't forget anniversaries. dnd you deserve a father figure, right? that's what she keeps saying. you've never had that. never had someone to teach you how to change a tire or scare away bad boyfriends (not that you've had any boyfriends, but still).
so why does your skin prickle when he looks at you like that?
"thanks, dex," you say quietly, pouring syrup over your pancakes. you focus on making sure it covers every inch, a careful, methodical process that means you don't have to meet his gaze.
but you feel it anyway. that weight. that intensity.
when you finally glance up, he's watching your mouth. watching the way your tongue darts out to catch a drop of syrup on your lower lip. his own tongue wets his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and then he smiles.
"anytime, honey," he says softly. "anytime."
────
your mom corners you later that afternoon while you're folding laundry in your room. she perches on the edge of your bed, playing with the hem of one of your shirts, and you can tell she wants something.
"so," she starts, drawing out the word. "dex mentioned maybe taking you to that shooting range next weekend. you know, the one out by the highway?"
you pause mid-fold. "the... shooting range?"
"i know, i know." she laughs, waving a hand. "it's very him. but he thought it might be fun! father-daughter bonding, you know? he really wants to spend time with you, baby. he keeps asking me how to connect with you better."
something twists in your chest. guilt, maybe. because dex has been trying. he asks about your online classes, remembers when you have exams, bought you that expensive coffee maker for your desk because he noticed you were always tired.
"i don't know, mom. i don’t really have any interest guns—"
"you don't have to shoot if you don't want to!" she’s practically pleading now as reaches over and squeezes your hand. "just... spend some time with him? please? he's trying so hard, and i think he's worried you don't like him."
don't like him?
the thought seems absurd. dex is... dex is great. he's attentive and thoughtful and he makes your mom happier than you've seen her in years. if you're feeling weird about him, that's your problem. you're just not used to having a man around. that's all.
"no,i—i do like him," you say quickly. "he's been really nice. i'm just... i'm not good with new people, you know that."
your mom's face softens. "i know, sweetie. but he's family now. and he really does care about you." she stands, pressing a kiss to the top of your head like you're still a little girl. "just give him a chance, okay? let him in."
after she leaves, you sit on your bed surrounded by half-folded laundry and try to untangle the knot in your stomach.
he's family now.
right.
family.
────
three months in, and dex has made himself indispensable.
he fixes the leaky faucet in the bathroom with surgical precision, replacing parts you didn't even know existed. he brings your mom breakfast in bed every sunday—coffee exactly how she likes it, toast with butter and jam, a single flower in a small vase. he volunteers to pick you up from campus on the rare days you have to go in for a lab, even though it's twenty minutes out of his way.
"your car's been making that noise again," he says, like it's a fact. like he's been paying attention. "i don't want you driving it until i can take a look."
and he remembers everything. your coffee order (iced oat milk latte, extra shot, vanilla). he exact temperature you like your shower (scalding, almost too hot to stand). the way you hum under your breath when you're nervous, some melody you don't even realize you're making.
he notices everything.
your mom thinks it's adorable.
"he just wants to bond with you, baby," she says one night, sitting behind you at your vanity while she brushes your hair. it's something she used to do when you were little, and the familiar rhythm should be comforting. but all you can think about is the way dex watched you earlier, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen while you made tea, his gaze heavy and unblinking.
"let him," your mom continues, working through a tangle with gentle fingers. "it's so sweet that he's trying. most men wouldn't bother with a stepdaughter your age."
your age.
you shouldn't need a father figure, shouldn't crave this kind of attention.
but you've never had it before. never had someone ask about your day and actually listen. never had someone fix things without being asked, anticipate your needs before you voice them.
maybe this is what it's supposed to feel like.
maybe you're just overthinking it.
"i know," you say softly, watching your mom's reflection in the mirror. she looks happy. younger, somehow. "i'm trying."
she just smiles, pressing a kiss to your temple. "i know you are, sweetie. and he sees that. he told me just yesterday how lucky he is to have you."
something warm and uncomfortable blooms in your chest.
lucky to have you.
────
so you let him.
you let him sit beside you at dinner, his knee pressing against yours under the table while your mom drones on about her book club. tonight it's some romance novel with a shirtless man on the cover, and she's had two glasses of wine, maybe three, and her words are starting to blur together.
"and then the duke—no, wait, the prince—he tells her that he's been in love with her the whole time, but she doesn't believe him because of her traumatic past—"
you're nodding along, making appropriate noises, but all you can focus on is the heat of dex's leg against yours. he's wearing jeans, and you're in yoga pants, and you can feel every point of contact like a brand. the solid weight of him. the way he spreads his legs just slightly wider, the bone of his knee digging into the plush of your thigh.
you shift away, just an inch.
his hand finds your thigh under the tablecloth.
you freeze.
his palm is warm, fingers splayed across your leg just above your knee. not moving. just... there. possessive. claiming.
your heart hammers against your ribs. you should say something. should move his hand. should—
he squeezes. once. firm enough that you feel it deep in the muscle.
a warning? a promise?
then he's reaching for the salt shaker with his other hand, his voice smooth and engaged. "that sounds fascinating, honey. what was the name of that book again? i’d love to read it."
your mom beams. "oh, dex, you're so thoughtful! it's called the duke's forbidden desire. i can lend you my copy if you want."
"i'd appreciate that."
his hand is still on your thigh.
you stare down at your plate, at the chicken and roasted vegetables that suddenly look completely unappetizing, and try to remember how to breathe.
it's nothing. he's just... he probably didn't realize. it's an accident.
but his thumb starts moving. small circles. deliberate. slow.
"sweetheart, you okay?" your mom's voice cuts through the fog. "you've barely touched your food."
you force yourself to look up, to smile. "yeah, i'm fine. just—i had a big lunch."
liar.
"you sure?" dex's voice is soft, concerned. His hand finally leaves your thigh, and you can breathe again. "you're looking a little flushed. you feeling alright?"
he knows. he knows exactly what he's doing.
“i'm fine," you repeat, and your voice sounds strange even to your own ears. “just tired. long day."
"why don't you go lie down?" your mom suggests. "dex and i can handle the dishes."
you practically bolt from the table.
later, lying in bed with your laptop open to an essay you're supposed to be writing, you can still feel the ghost of his hand on your leg. can still feel those slow, deliberate circles.
it was nothing.
it was nothing.
it was—
your phone buzzes.
Dex: Hope you're feeling better. Let me know if you need anything.
you stare at the message for a long time before typing back:
you: thanks, i'm okay
three dots appear immediately. disappear. appear again.
Dex: Good. Sleep well, honey.
you don't respond.
you don't sleep well either.
────
the kitchen incident happens on a thursday afternoon.
you're home alone—or you thought you were. your mom mentioned something about running errands, and you'd been looking forward to a few hours of peace. you're making tea, reaching for your favorite mug on the top shelf (someone keeps putting it up there, even though they know you can barely reach it), when you feel him.
"let me get that for you."
his voice is right behind you. right behind you. you didn't hear him come in, didn't hear his footsteps, and suddenly he's there, his chest grazing your back as he reaches over your head.
"excuse me, sweetheart," he murmurs.
but he doesn't move away.
he stays there, pressed against you, invading your space beyond doubt, and you can feel everything. the solid wall of his chest. the heat radiating from his body. his breath, hot against your ear. and lower—
oh god.
you try to step forward, to put space between you, but the counter's right there and you're trapped. your hips press against the edge, and—
his hand lands on your stomach.
flat. unyielding. pulling you back against him.
"careful," he says, voice low and rough, and you feel the vibration of it through your whole body. "wouldn't want you to slip."
slip? there's nothing to slip on. the floor is dry. you're not—
"i—" your voice comes out strangled. "i wasn't—"
"i know." his hand is still on your stomach, thumb brushing just under the hem of your shirt. skin on skin. “but i've got you. always."
he sets the mug down on the counter beside you. doesn't move away. you can feel his heartbeat against your back, steady and calm, while yours is trying to break through your ribcage.
"dex—"
"hmm?"
tell him to move. tell him this is weird. tell him—
"i... thank you. for the mug."
coward.
you feel him smile against your hair. "anytime, honey."
he steps back, finally, and you can breathe again. you don't turn around. can't turn around. you just stand there, gripping the edge of the counter, while he moves around the kitchen like nothing happened.
"your mom won't be back for another hour," he says conversationally. "she's getting her nails done. said something about treating herself."
you nod, not trusting your voice.
"you want some tea?" he asks, gesturing toward the mug you still haven't touched since he grabbed it for you. "i was about to make some myself."
no. no, you want him to leave. you want to go back to your room and lock the door and—
"yeah," you hear yourself say. "that would be nice."
what is wrong with you?
he makes the tea. you sit at the kitchen table, hands folded in your lap, and watch him move with that same precise efficiency he brings to everything. he knows where everything is now. has learned the geography of your home, made himself comfortable in every space.
when he sets the mug in front of you, his fingers brush yours.
you pull away too quickly, and tea sloshes over the rim.
"careful," he says again, and there's something in his voice—amusement? satisfaction?—that makes your skin crawl.
or maybe it doesn't make your skin crawl.
maybe that's the problem.
────
movie night becomes a friday tradition. your mom's idea, something about "family bonding," and you can't exactly say no without seeming like a brat. so you curl up on the couch with a blanket, your mom in the middle, dex on her other side, and try to focus on whatever romantic comedy she's chosen.
twenty minutes in, she's already dozing. the wine does that to her—makes her sleepy and soft. her head lolls against the back of the couch, mouth slightly open, and you should probably wake her up and send her to bed.
but then dex shifts closer.
"she's out," he observes quietly. "long week."
you nod, pulling your blanket tighter around yourself.
"you look tense," he says. his hand lands on your shoulder, thumb pressing into the muscle. "you're all knotted up here."
"i'm fine—"
"let me help." it's not a question.
his hands are on your shoulders, both of them now, and he's strong—military strong—and he finds every tight spot with disturbing accuracy. his thumbs dig into the knots at the base of your neck, and despite yourself, you feel some of the tension start to melt.
it's just a massage. family gives each other massages. this is normal.
"that's it," he murmurs, so quietly you almost don't hear it over the TV. "let go for me, honey."
his fingers find the thin straps of your tank top. he doesn't move them, just traces along the fabric, back and forth, a whisper of touch that makes you shiver.
"cold?" he asks.
"no, i—"
"come here."
he pulls you closer, and you should resist, should stay where you are, but your body moves without permission. suddenly you're tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, his thigh pressing between yours.
your mom is right there. right there, less than two feet away.
"dex—"
"shh." his fingers trace idle patterns on your hip, slipping just under the hem of your shirt. "you'll wake her up."
this is wrong. this is so wrong.
but his hand is warm, and you're so tired of being tense all the time, and maybe—maybe you're reading too much into this. maybe this is just what having a dad is like. physical affection. closeness.
you've never had this before. how would you know?
his hand slides lower, fingers skating along your spine until they dip just beneath the waistband of your shorts.
you stop breathing.
"relax," he breathes against your ear. "i've got you."
his fingers trace the edge of your waistband, back and forth, never dipping lower but never pulling away either. your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it. your mom is right there, and his hand is in your shorts, and—
"you smell so good," he whispers. "like vanilla and something sweeter."
move. push him away. say something.
but you don't.
you sit there, frozen, while his fingers trace patterns on your skin and his breath ghosts across your neck and your mom snores softly beside you.
when the movie ends, he pulls away like nothing happened.
"i'll carry her to bed," he says, gesturing to your mom. "you should get some sleep too, honey. you look exhausted."
you flee to your room without answering.
────
you start seeing him everywhere.
in the hallway when you're going to the bathroom at night. in the kitchen when you come down for water. standing outside your door when you're getting ready for bed.
he's always got an excuse. couldn't sleep. wanted a snack. thought he heard something.
but his eyes tell a different story.
at 2 AM on a tuesday, you wake up thirsty. your mouth is dry, tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth, and you need water. you slip out of bed, padding quietly down the hallway in your sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt.
the hallway is dark except for the nightlight near the bathroom.
he's standing there.
just... standing. in the shadows near your mom's bedroom door. barefoot. wearing those gray sweatpants your mom always tells him not to wear when he gets the mail because the neighbors will talk.
not moving.
not blinking.
just watching your door.
you freeze.
his head turns slowly, and even in the darkness, you can see the pale gleam of his eyes. that unsettling smile curves at the corner of his mouth.
"couldn't sleep?" he asks softly.
your throat is too dry to answer. you nod.
"me neither." he takes a step toward you. then another. "i've been thinking."
don't ask. don't ask what he's been thinking about.
"about?" the word comes out as a whisper.
"you."
he's close now. close enough that you can smell him—clean soap and something darker underneath, something that makes your hindbrain scream danger.
"you should get some water," he says. "and then back to bed. you need your rest."
it sounds like concern. it sounds like care.
it sounds like a threat.
you slip past him, careful not to touch, and practically run to the kitchen. you chug a glass of water, then another, hands shaking so badly you almost drop the cup.
when you turn around, he's in the doorway.
watching.
"goodnight, honey," he says.
you don't answer. You push past him and lock yourself in your room, heart hammering, and stand with your back against the door for what feels like hours.
you don't hear him walk away.
when you finally work up the courage to crack your door open, he's gone.
but you lie awake until sunrise, knowing—knowing—that he was out there.
waiting.
────
it happens on a saturday night.
your mom is asleep—you heard her stumble to bed an hour ago, giggling about the wine she had with dinner, slurring something about how lucky she is. you're in bed with your laptop, trying to finish a paper that's due monday, but you can't focus.
you keep thinking about the way dex looked at you during dinner. the way his foot found yours under the table. the way he smiled when you jerked away.
then you hear it.
the soft click of your door opening.
your blood turns to ice.
he’s there, silhouetted in the doorway. barefoot. shirtless. those gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. the moonlight from your window catches the sharp planes of his face, the intensity in those pale eyes, the faint, unsettling smile that curls at the corner of his mouth.
"dex—" your voice cracks. "what are you—"
"mom's asleep," he says, like that explains everything. like that makes it okay.
he doesn't ask permission.
he never asks.
he crosses the room in three silent strides, and suddenly he's looming over you, one knee pressing into the mattress beside your thigh. you scramble back, but there's nowhere to go. your back hits the headboard.
"wait—"
his hand finds your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. his thumb drags across your lower lip, rough and possessive, and you feel the tremor in his fingers—the barely leashed violence that lurks just beneath his skin.
"do you know how hard it's been?" he murmurs, his voice a low, rasping whisper. "watching you. Smelling you. feeling you brush against me in the hallway like you're begging for it."
"i'm not—i wasn't—"
"shh." he leans closer, his forehead almost touching yours, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath, the faint metallic tang of something darker underneath. "i know you feel it too. i see the way you look at me when you think i'm not paying attention."
no. no, that's not—
"you've been so good to me," he says, his hand sliding from your chin to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse hammer against his palm. "so sweet. so fucking perfect."
his thumb traces the hollow of your throat, and you should push him away. you should scream. you should—
"do you know how long i’ve waited for this?" he whispers, his lips brushing the corner of your mouth. "how many nights I've stood outside your door, listening to you breathe? how many times I've watched you sleep, wondering what sounds you'd make if i just..."
he trails off, a low, dark chuckle rumbling in his chest.
"dex, please—" your voice is shaking. everything is shaking. "this isn't—we can't—"
"tell me you want this," he says, and it's not a question—it's a command, whispered with that same unnerving calm he uses when he's fixing the sink or making pancakes or doing any of the hundred normal things that made you think he was safe. "tell me you've been thinking about it too. tell me you've been waiting for me to come in here and take what's mine."
his?
"i'm not—" you try to shake your head, but his hand on your throat holds you still. "you're married to my mom. this is—"
"your mom," he interrupts, "is passed out drunk in our bed. She won't wake up until noon." his thumb presses against your pulse point, and his smile widens. "it’s just us, honey. just you and me. the way it should be."
"this is wrong—"
"is it?" he tilts his head, studying you like you're a puzzle he's solving. "because your heart is racing. because you're not pushing me away. because i can see it in your eyes—that part of you that wants this. that's been waiting for someone to see you. really see you."
and god help you, he's right.
you have been waiting. waiting for someone to notice you, to want you, to make you feel like you matter. you've never had a boyfriend, never been kissed, never had anyone look at you the way dex looks at you—like you're the only thing in the world that matters.
it's wrong. you know it's wrong.
but you don't push him away.
"that's my good girl," he breathes, and then his mouth is on your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point, and you feel his smile against your skin.
he's been patient. he's been so patient.
but benjamin poindexter doesn't miss.
and tonight, he's finally taking his shot.
his free hand slides under your shirt, palm flat against your stomach, and you gasp. His skin is rough with calluses, warm, possessive. he traces up your ribs slowly, methodically, like he's memorizing every inch of you.
"please—" you whisper, but you don't know what you're asking for. for him to stop? for him to continue?
"i know," he murmurs against your throat. "i know, honey. let me take care of you. let me show you how good it can be."
his hand reaches your breast, and—
a door slams downstairs.
you both freeze.
"dex?" your mom's voice, slurred and confused, drifts up from the first floor. "baby, where are you? i woke up and you weren't there..."
he pulls back, and the loss of his heat is almost painful. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and for a moment you see something feral in them. something dangerous.
then he smiles.
"duty calls," he says softly. he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that feels like a brand. "we'll finish this later."
it's a promise.
a threat.
he's at your door in two strides, pausing to look back at you. you're still pressed against your headboard, shirt rucked up, skin flushed, breathing hard.
"sweet dreams, honey," he says.
then he's gone.
you hear him on the stairs, his voice warm and concerned: "i'm here, baby. hust getting some water. come on, let's get you back to bed..."
you sit in the darkness of your room, hand pressed to your throat where you can still feel the ghost of his touch, and try to remember how to breathe.
your laptop is still open, your essay still unfinished.
the cursor blinks at you, patient and waiting.
you don't write another word that night.
you just sit there, listening to the sounds of your mother and stepfather settling back into bed, and wonder what the hell you're going to do.
because he's right.
you have been waiting.
and now that he's started, you know he won't stop.
benjamin poindexter doesn't miss his targets.
and you've been in his crosshairs since the day he said "i do."
your mom is passed out on the other end of the couch, wine glass still clutched loosely in her hand, mouth open slightly as she snores.
classy, you think, trying not to laugh. she's been like this since the second glass—lightweight as always.
dex sits between you, one arm stretched along the back of the couch behind your shoulders, the other resting casually on his thigh. to anyone watching, it would look perfectly innocent. just a nice family movie night.
except his fingers are playing with your hair, twirling the strands, and every few minutes his hand drifts lower—brushing your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your spine.
on screen, some action movie plays out. explosions. car chases. you haven't been paying attention for the last twenty minutes.
"you okay, honey?" he asks, voice perfectly normal, like he's not currently sliding his hand down your back and slipping it beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts.
your breath catches.
"mhm," you manage, trying to keep your voice steady.
"good." his fingers find the damp spot that’s been growing on your panties, and he makes a soft sound of approval. "always ready for me."
this is insane, you think, eyes darting to your mom. she's literally right there. right freaking there.
but dex doesn't seem to care. he works you slowly, methodically, two fingers pushing inside while his thumb makes its way to your clit. your lips sink into your lip hard enough to taste blood, trying to stay quiet, trying not to move.
the wet sounds are so loud in your ears—obscene and obvious—the movie barely covers them.
"such a needy little thing," he whispers against your ear, so quiet only you can hear. "sitting here dripping on my fingers while your mom sleeps three feet away."
your mom shifts in her sleep, and you freeze completely, every muscle locking up.
dex doesn't. he keeps fingering you, keeps that maddening rhythm, curling his fingers just right.
oh my god if she wakes up—
"relax," he murmurs. "she's out cold. had too much wine. she's not waking up."
"dex," you breathe, barely audible. it's supposed to be a protest but it comes out like a plea.
"shh." his thumb presses harder against your clit, and you have to roll your head over your shoulder and push it into the couch to muffle your sounds. "you're doing so good, baby. staying so quiet for me."
your thighs are shaking, clamped around his wrist, and you're so close you can barely breathe. the couch creaks slightly as you shift, and you freeze again, heart pounding.
your mom's wine glass tips slightly in her hand, and for one horrible second you think it's going to fall—going to shatter and wake her up and she's going to see—
but it doesn't. she just adjusts her grip in her sleep and keeps snoring.
this is the most insane thing that has ever happened to me, you think, but you're also grinding down on his fingers now, desperate and shameless.
"that's it," dex encourages quietly. "take what you need. show me how much you want it."
"i can't—" you whimper, voice breaking. "i can't be quiet—"
"yes, you can." his fingers speed up, and you're seeing stars. "you're gonna come for me right here. right now. with your mom three feet away. and you're not gonna make a sound."
he's actually insane. like clinically insane.
but you're going to do it anyway because you're just as insane as he is.
when you come, it's silent and devastating—your whole body going rigid, pussy clenching around his fingers in waves, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the effort of staying quiet. you bite down on your fist so hard you'll have marks tomorrow.
dex works you through it, relentless, thumb never easing up even as your thighs clamp around his wrist and you're shaking so hard the couch creaks.
your mom stirs.
"mm..." she makes a sleepy sound, shifting. "what'd i miss?"
you're still coming down, still trembling, and dex pulls his hand from your shorts smoothly, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean while maintaining perfect eye contact with you.
"nothing, babe," he says easily, voice completely normal. his arm tightens around your shoulders, pulling you against his side as he turns to face her. "just the boring parts. go back to sleep."
"m'kay," she mumbles, already drifting off again.
you sit there trembling, feeling his cum-slick fingers trace patterns on your shoulder, and you're pretty sure you're going to pass out.
"good girl," he murmurs against your hair, so quiet you almost miss it. "next time i'm gonna make you come on my cock while she's sleeping right there. would you like that, honey? would you like daddy to fuck you with your mom in the room?"
no, you think.
but your pussy clenches at the thought, and you know—know—that when he does it, you're going to let him.
