NOTES: well well well, here we are again. based on this ask
TW: no walkers au, no smut but suggestive themes, younger!reader (over 18, but no age stated), Shane is your moms boyfriend and you live with your mom, kind of girly!reader but not too bad, that’s all I think, this is pretty tame but yummy don’t worry
MASTERLIST
You love your mom in the same way you love rainstorms. Both are loud, familiar, occasionally a little destructive, but still part of the landscape of your life. You do not, however, love her taste in romantic partners. She means well. She always does. Her problem is that she falls in love fast with men who take up too much space and give nothing back. Men who needed managing. Men who treated you like an unwanted accessory to the relationship instead of a person who existed independently of it.
There had been Chris who played Xbox at least 6 hours a day. Then there was Milo who tried to convince your mom to kick you out during the first week of their relationship. And then there were the two Scotts back to back, both equally awful. Next was Phil- or had it been Frank? Maybe Fred?? Whatever his name was, he had perpetually smelled like pepperoni. And that was just this year.
So when Shane moved in, you braced yourself for another round of your least favorite game: dodging the new boyfriend.
All this meant another loud voice in the house. Another man with unwarranted opinions. Another temporary fixture.
Except Shane didn’t feel temporary at all.
He didn’t arrive with declarations or empty promises. He just… folded himself into the rhythm of the place. Mornings smelled like strong coffee and toast. Evenings came with quiet routines—greasing squeaky hinges, changing lightbulbs, tightening screws on things that rattled. He didn’t ask for praise. He didn’t even announce what he was doing, he just noticed what needed doing and handled it.
And then there was the way he treated you.
Not like a kid. Not like an obligation. He remembered the little things—the way you hated the radio talk show host on the local channel, the way you liked your eggs for breakfast, that sometimes you just needed a minute to get things off your chest when you got home from a bad day.
When your mom would snap too sharply or come home looking to pick a fight, Shane would intervene with a steady voice and an even expression, “hey, cmon now, y’know that ain’t fair.” As if defending you was instinctive.
That alone would’ve been enough to soften you.
Unfortunately, he was also devastatingly handsome in a way that snuck up on you. Nothing flashy. Not even polished. Just broad shoulders and rough, capable hands and a smile that felt earned instead of practiced. His voice—low, drawling, unhurried—had a way of wrapping around words like he was taking care with them, like he knew the effect they had.
From the very beginning, there had been a current between you. Not sparks. Not fireworks. Something slower and more dangerous. A gravity you couldn’t quite explain. Glances that lingered a fraction longer than they should. The way his attention found you in a room without any effort. Inside jokes meant just for you two. A sense that he was always very… aware of you.
And you were aware of him right back.
Which was why you’d done the sensible thing and started dating a man who was aggressively unremarkable.
Evan was… fine. Evan was harmless. Evan was what you were supposed to want. He texted you good morning and good night every day. He showed up when he said he would. He thought romance was consistency and sex was something you completed rather than participated in. His idea of being spontaneous was getting Panda Express last Friday instead of the usual pizza.
You told yourself that was enough. You told yourself that passion had to settle down eventually. This was just part of growing up and you’d get over it.
But there were only so many nights you could lay there staring at the ceiling, your body pursed for a release with nowhere for it to go. Only so many you could sit awake at night thinking about how you felt so lonely despite the man sharing your bed.
That was when you decided to end it. Well, to make him end it. You hated breaking up with people. You hated how the guy would always make you out to be some kind of evil psychopath, all the while leaving out the many ways he fell short leading up to the split. So you’d put that burden on Evan, it was the least he could do.
It didn’t need to be dramatic or cruel, you just wanted him to lose interest. Simple enough, right?
So you built a plan.
Step one: stop being appealing.
No more effort.
No more flirting.
No more carefully chosen little sets with meticulously paired accessories. Oh no, Evan was getting loooooow maintenance. Messy, even.
The main issue you’re facing now is that you don’t own a single thing that would fit that category. This is glaringly clear as your hot-pink tracksuit clad reflection stares back at you from your full body mirror and, damn, does it fit you well. You almost hate to push your fashion sense aside, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
This was how you end up standing outside your mom and Shane’s bedroom. The door was ajar and there sat Shane, folding your mom’s laundry, because of course he was folding her laundry. He’s perfect. You bit the inside of your cheek as you knocked on the door frame.
His eyes lifted to meet yours almost immediately, brow lifting in mild surprise. “Hey, darlin’. Everything alright?”
“Oh yeah, toooootally great,” you said brightly, forcing a reassuring smile to your lips. “I just need to ask an itty bitty favor. Can I borrow something?”
He set the sweater in his hands down on the comforter, standing from the bed. “‘Course you can. Whatcha need?”
“One of your sweatshirts.”
The pause was subtle—but it was there.
“…Mine? You sure you don’t want one of your mom’s cardigans or something?”
“Noooo, I definitely think I need yours,” you nodded. “The biggest one you have, if possible. Something that looks like it’s been through a war. OH- that police academy one you wore the other day, maybe? With the stains?” You tried to tamp down on the giddiness you were feeling at the thought of how frumpy you’re going look. This was going to be great.
Shane laughed under his breath. “That thing’s gonna swallow you, darlin’.”
“I know, it’s perfect.”
He disappeared into the closet and came back with a hoodie that looked soft and worn and unmistakably his. When he handed it over, your fingers brushed the soft, piling material. He cleared his throat.
“I hate to break it to ya, kid, but that things nowhere near fitting you.” He was clearly very amused with this whole occurrence.
“Exactly, that’s the point.” You tugged it on right there, fabric sliding down your arms, sleeves hiding your hands, hem grazing the hem of your shorts on your thighs. It felt absurd and comfortable and, strangely, a little intimate.
Shane stared.
Not rudely, but openly. Just long enough to tell you something wasn’t lining up in his head.
“And you’re plannin’ on wearin’ that out the house?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. Shane knew you well enough by now to have picked up on the fact that you never left the house looking short of perfect.
“Sure am,” you chirped excitedly, unable to help yourself from primping in the mirror against the far wall.
“…Why? You going to some kind of themed party?”
And, for some reason, you didn’t lie.
You laughed first—too fast, too light—like maybe if you said it casually enough it wouldn’t sound insane. “Okay, well—this is going to sound terrible, but I’m kind of trying to get my boyfriend to break up with me.”
That earned you a real laugh—startled, loud, completely unguarded.
“You’re kiddin’.”
“I wish,” you blurted, and then it was like the dam broke and you couldn’t stop the words pouring from your mouth. “He’s just—Shane, he’s so boring. And I feel awful saying that, because he’s technically nice, but it’s the kind of nice where there’s nothing underneath it? Like beige walls. Or unseasoned chicken. And every time we hang out I feel like I’m doing homework instead of… I don’t know, living my life?”
You waved a hand, already spiraling. “And I keep telling myself that this is what being an adult is supposed to be like, right? Stable, predictable, whatever—but I’m just sitting there thinking, is this it? Is this what I’m signing up for forever? Because that feels like a trap.”
You sucked in a breath, face warm now.
“And—oh god—this is where it gets really tragic,” you rushed on. “He’s terrible in bed. Like not even awkward-because-he-cares terrible. Just… bad. Like he thinks effort is optional. Like he pats my hip after like he’s done a good job and I’m lying there staring at the ceiling wondering if I’ll have to fake a headache for the rest of my life.”
Shane turned his head away, coughing into his hand to cover the laugh that bubbled up.
“Alright,” he said, laughing harder despite himself. “That’s enough. Way more than I needed.”
You clamped your mouth shut, mortified, tugging the sweatshirt sleeves over your hands. “Sorry—sorry. I don’t know why I’m talking so much. I’m just so tired of feeling like I’m silly for wanting more.”
“So anyway,” you continued, lighter and matter-of-fact, “I figured if I stopped dressing like myself, he’d finally lose interest and break up with me.”
Shane leaned back against the wall, arms folding, gaze drifting over you again. Slower this time. Warmer. Locked in fully on you.
“Sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head, “that ain’t how men work.”
Your eyebrows furrowed together, “it’s not?”
“Nope.” His mouth tilted into a half-smile. “A man loves seein’ his woman in his clothes.”
Your stomach flipped, sharp and sudden.
“And,” he added, casual as could be, “he really hates seein’ her in someone else’s. Makes him territorial.”
“Oh,” you said slowly, glancing down at the sleeves pooling over your hands, “territorial is bad?”
Shane huffed a quiet laugh, eyes still on you. “Sweetheart,” he said, “wearing another man’s clothes doesn’t make you less appealing. It makes a man notice you more.”
You looked back up at him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” he replied, voice easy but unmistakably warm, “it makes a guy picture things. Wonder things. Start thinkin’ about you wearin’ his stuff instead. Maybe even start imaging you with nothing on at all.”
Your breath caught—just a little.
“Oh,” you said again, trying for casual and not quite landing it. “So this isn’t reading as ‘unattractive.’”
“No, ma’am,” he said softly. “Not even close.”
You tugged at the cuff again, suddenly very aware of how familiar the fabric felt. “Guess I picked the wrong strategy.”
Shane’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Guess you did.”
“Okay, well, I’ll… rethink things, I guess.” You backed away before either of you could say something worse, smile soft but pulse skittering. “Mind if I keep the sweatshirt for the day anyway?”
Shane didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink. “Be my guest, darlin’.”
Something warm flickered low in your chest. You turned and walked down the hall.
Behind you, Shane exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face, voice barely audible—
“Lord help me.”
read more of my work here
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NOTES: this req really sparked something in me. It’s a short little thing but oh so good
TW: stepcest, no actual smut but talks of + descriptions, Rick ogling you, carl having a crush, everybody loves you basically, Shane feeling you up in the hallway, I think that’s it but lmk
Shane notices it before you do.
Rick’s eyes. They linger too long. On your legs when you cross them on the couch. On your ass when you bend to grab a soda from the fridge. On your mouth when you laugh at something Carl says. Shane sees it all, the way his best friend watches you like he’s trying not to—but he is. And it makes Shane’s blood burn.
Rick tries to play it off like he’s just passing through, being polite. But Shane knows the difference between casual and hungry. And that look on Rick’s face? That’s hunger.
And then there’s Carl. Sweet kid. Always trailing after you, grinning like a fool every time you so much as pat his shoulder. Shane almost pities him—it’s just a crush, a boy’s harmless daydream. But still, watching it grates. The way Carl stares at you across the dinner table, blushing when you ask him about school. Shane clenches his jaw. Everyone sees you. Everyone wants a piece.
But only he has you.
The girl he wasn’t supposed to want, not in a million years. The one who was meant to be his stepdaughter, someone he should’ve kept at arm’s length. Instead, you’re the one he comes home to, the one spread out beneath him at night, trembling and sweet, begging him not to stop. He knows how wrong it looks from the outside—but it doesn’t matter. He’s already too far gone.
Only Shane knows what you sound like when you’re whimpering into his chest, nails dragging down his back. Only he knows how warm and tight you get when you’re spread out beneath him, begging him to go deeper, harder. Only he’s the one who fucks you until your voice breaks and you’re sobbing his name
Rick doesn’t know the way you arch for him. Doesn’t know the way you come apart on his cock. Nobody else knows. Nobody else will.
So when it happens again—Rick brushing by you in the narrow hallway, his hand skating along the small of your back as he squeezes past—Shane’s patience snaps. He’s on you before Rick’s even two steps away, a big hand closing around your waist, dragging you flush against him. His other hand slides low, fingers splaying over your hip like a brand.
Rick glances back just long enough to see Shane’s hand there—firm, possessive, leaving no doubt—and clears his throat, muttering something about needing to check on Carl. He disappears fast.
You giggle softly, tilting your head back toward Shane, your voice light, teasing. “Jealous much?” you murmur, eyes sparkling. You know exactly what he’s doing, and you can’t help but smile at it. “He’s just being polite, Shane.”
Shane presses in close, his lips brushing your ear, his voice a low rumble that makes your knees weak.
“Sweetheart,” he croons, slow and dangerous, “there ain’t nothin’ polite about the way he stares at you. Man looks at you like he’s undressin’ you right there in front of god and everybody.” His grip tightens on your hip, keeping you pinned. “And I can’t fuckin’ stand it.”
You laugh again, soft and sweet, brushing your hand up his arm. “You’re crazy,” you whisper, playful, though your pulse gives you away. “But I like knowing you’ll remind me who I belong to.”
He groans low, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and rough all at once. “Damn right, I will. Rick can stare holes through you, Carl can blush ‘til his face permanently turns red—but they’ll never know you. They’ll never touch you. That’s for me, and me alone.”
You whimper softly, thighs squeezing together, but your voice is still playful, warm. “Mhm. Only yours, Shane. Always.”
That does him in. He smirks, biting lightly at your earlobe.
“Should make you show him,” he mutters darkly. “Should sit you in my lap right in front of him. Let him watch me spread you open, let him see who you belong to. He wouldn’t be able to look at you the same way again.”
Your cheeks burn, but you giggle against his jaw, kissing him quickly, sweetly. “You’re awful,” you whisper, though your body trembles against him. “And I’d still let you.”
His laugh is rough, disbelieving, and he tilts your chin up, making you meet his eyes.
“Don’t you worry, sweetheart,” he says, softer now but no less intense. “I’d be crazy to ever let another man within 5ft of you, ‘specially not with you lookin’ all pretty like you do.”
He kisses you hard then, swallowing your gasp, his hand heavy on your ass, holding you against the hard line of him. When he finally pulls back, your lips are swollen, your breath shaky, and your smile is dizzy-sweet.
And just like that, his jealousy burns into satisfaction. Because Rick can look, Carl can dream—but you’re here. With Shane. Sweet, playful, teasing, but his. The girl he should’ve never touched, but couldn’t let go of now if he tried.
I will open my legs for you crazy style to discuss stepdad Shane. Or like.. any of the prompts, I love Shane and literally nobody gives him any love.
we could also discuss it, like normal people, I suppose 😊
Get to stretching pookie—
MASTERLIST
Stepdad!Shane is lethal in a completely different way from Shane in the show. He’s still got that cocky grin and the swagger, but in a home setting, it’s paired with this almost old-fashioned, grounded sweetness. He’s the kind of man who’s up before you, making coffee, flipping pancakes, and teasing you about sleeping in while sliding a plate your way. He takes real pride in looking after the house and the people in it, your mom included, but it’s you he’s softest with.
He notices if you’ve been quiet all day and will come find you, leaning on the doorframe with that easy smile, coaxing you into telling him what’s on your mind. When something needs fixing, he won’t let you lift a finger—“that’s what I’m here for, darlin’”—and then he’ll show you how it’s done anyway, his hands brushing yours, his voice low and warm. He’s playful, always ready with a joke or a story, but there’s weight behind the way he looks at you sometimes, like he’s cataloging every little thing about you.
This Shane isn’t unhinged or dangerous—he’s domestic, dependable, the guy who mows the lawn on Sunday and makes sure your car’s got gas—but all that steadiness just makes the tension worse. Because you know he’d never cross that line… unless you gave him a reason to. And the longer he’s in your life, the easier it is to fall into this rhythm with him. You start to notice the little ways he’s always there—how he’ll grab your favorite snack without asking when he’s at the store, or how he’ll make sure the porch light’s on if you’re getting home late. He talks to you like you’re not young enough to be his kid, like your thoughts and opinions actually matter to him, but there’s still that undertone of “I’m looking out for you” in everything he does. Sometimes it’s as simple as him tossing you his jacket when you’re cold, other times it’s his hand at the small of your back when you’re walking into a crowded room. It’s domestic and ordinary on the surface, but you feel every brush of his knuckles, every quick glance that lingers a little too long. You start catching yourself thinking about him in the quiet moments—like when you’re brushing your teeth and you can hear him moving around downstairs, or when you’re curled up on the couch and he drops onto the cushion beside you with a beer and a half-smile.
It’s not that anything’s happened… yet. But it’s there, simmering just under the surface, and every sweet, easy thing he does for you only makes it harder to forget.
NOTES: well here we are again. I have a few other works/thoughts under #stepdad!shane <3 I will happily take reqs
TW: stepcest (stepdad/stepdaughter), no smut, just questionable/inappropriate interaction and relationship, mention of bad first date, shane comforting you
MASTERLIST
You barely have the door closed before Shane’s off the couch. The TV’s still on behind him, some late-night game recap murmuring in the background, but he’s not looking at it anymore. His eyes are on you, scanning from head to toe like he’s making sure you’re all in one piece.
“You’re home early,” he says, and it’s not really a question—more like he’s already figured something went wrong.
“Yeah.” You hang your coat by the door, pretending you don’t feel self-conscious under the way he’s watching you. “Date was a bust.”
He’s already walking toward you, slow and unhurried, like he’s got all night to get the full story. “What happened?”
You wave a hand, trying to make it sound smaller than it was. “Nothing dramatic. He was just… I don’t know. Talking over me, making little digs, acting like I should be grateful he even showed up.”
Shane’s jaw flexes. Then his hand comes up, fingers warm and firm under your chin, tilting your face up toward his. “That right?” His thumb brushes under your eye, catching the faint smudge of mascara. “Any guy who doesn’t think you’re worth his full attention is a damn fool, honey.”
Your face warms instantly—which is stupid, because it’s just Shane. “You’re just saying that.”
“Nah,” he says, steady as anything, and he’s smiling, but there’s no joke in his eyes. “You look better than a million bucks tonight. If he couldn’t see that, he’s blind.”
He says it like it’s a plain fact, like there’s nothing unusual about your stepdad telling you that, about the way his thumb lingers against your skin for just a moment longer than necessary before falling away. You tell yourself it’s just him cheering you up. Shane’s always been hands-on, always known how to make people feel better.
Then he hooks a hand at your waist and tugs you forward, down into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is for him. He’s warm and solid beneath you, smelling faintly of his soap and the detergent your mom has always used, one arm sliding snug around your back while the other rests heavy on your thigh.
“Much better, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you can feel the vibration of it in your ribs.
Your laugh comes out breathy. “This is ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he says easily, “but you’re tense, honey.” His hand squeezes lightly above your knee, thumb pressing into the muscle just enough to make you shift. “Let me help you loosen up.”
It’s not like he’s doing anything, not really—just sitting there with you, blanket pulled over your legs. His palm drifts up under the edge of it, warm and steady against your skin, sliding a little higher under the pretense of tucking the fabric closer around you.
“You’re too nice to me,” you say, leaning your head back against his shoulder.
“That’s ’cause you deserve it,” he replies without hesitation. His thumb starts tracing slow, idle circles on the inside of your knee, each pass a little closer to the soft skin above it. “And I always take care of my girls.”
You know he means your mom, the house, the whole picture. But right now, the way he’s holding you, it feels like he just means you. Which is fine. It’s just Shane being Shane. He’s always been touchy, always known how to make you feel seen, even if that means keeping you right there on his lap, arm tight around your waist, like he doesn’t plan on letting you up any time soon.
The TV drones on in the background, the game long since forgotten. His hand never really stops moving—small, absent-minded touches that feel like comfort if you don’t think too hard about them.
And you don’t.
You’re not going to make it weird.
Not when it feels this good to be right where you are.
Do you think step-dad Shane would sneak out of his room at night to go visit you? Like, maybe you don’t even notice the first few nights because he’s just there staring at you from the door “making sure you’re alright” until you catch him one day 🫣
Actually ☝🏻 yes in fact I do.
In my mind, stepdad!Shane would be like the biggest doter in the world. It’s easy to just pass it off to your mom (his wife) as he’s looking out for you. Someone’s gotta make sure you’re eating right and sleeping well. I think he’d do all kinds of freaky shit under the guise of it being done out of care and concern
