#step-mom

Natasha exchanges a friendly enough smile with your Dad, watching you climb into the back of her car. It’s Sunday afternoon, the end of your weekend with your Father. He has you every other weekend and on a Wednesday night every week. Friday had been another difficult night of you clinging to Wanda’s leg, screaming and crying that you didn’t want to go to your Dad’s. Natasha knew it broke Wanda’s heart seeing you so upset but your Dad reassured them you were fine once you were at his “Come on, I’m gonna take you bowling this weekend.” Your Dad had said positively “That’ll be fun, right?”

Natasha glances at Elliott, your Dad, who just watches silently as you climb into the back of the car. Natasha doesn’t have anything bad to say about him but she’s still not his biggest fan for reasons she’s never been able to explain. She waits for him to offer up some information about your weekend, whether you’ve had lunch today and whether your weekend homework was completed but he keeps his mouth shut. After a long moment she just says “Alright, thanks then.” And then climbs into the car, starting the engine as you sit quietly in the backseat.

“Did you have a good weekend?” Natasha asks as she always does.

You simply hum in response and after a moment Natasha turns up the radio. Natasha’s been dating your Mom, Wanda, for about a year now and her relationship with you had seemed to be going okay. Wanda had been upfront about the fact she was a single parent, with a little girl who had regular contact with her Dad but was mostly raised by Wanda. After they’d been dating for six months Wanda had introduced her to you – Natasha loved you almost instantly. You were a shy, quiet child who Wanda was clearly raising well. After nine months, with your blessing, Natasha had moved into your home.

As far as Natasha’s concerned, everything is going well. Lately though you’ve been even quieter and withdrawn, and Natasha’s worried it’s because of her. She’s tried to take a step back, making sure you’re spending plenty of time with Wanda so you don’t feel pushed out but you seem to walk around with that permanently worried expression these days.

“Did you enjoy bowling?” Natasha asks you after a few minutes.

“We didn’t go.”

Natasha frowns, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel. This isn’t the first time your Dad has promised you an activity on a Friday evening and you’ve returned on Sunday saying that you didn’t go. Last time it had been ice-skating, the time before that the movie theatre – Wanda had taken you to watch the movie in the end because you’d seemed so disappointed “So what did you get up to?”

You just shrug and Natasha realises she’s not going to get any further. The rest of the car ride passes in silence except for the sounds of the radio, providing some background noise.

As soon as you’re home you run into the house in search of Wanda “Mom! Mom!”

Wanda’s not long got back from the store and she’s packing away groceries in the kitchen, but she immediately stops and scoops you up in her arms when she sees you running towards her “There’s my favourite girl!” She says, kissing your cheek “Did you have a good weekend with your Dad?”

You don’t reply, wrapping your arms around her neck and holding onto her like your life depends on it. You’ve started getting a little clingy after your weekends with your Dad lately. Natasha flashes Wanda a smile, then moves to take over the grocery unpacking while Wanda gently rocks you back and forth, kissing the top of your head. Wanda knows it’s important that you spend time with your Dad, he is your biological parent after all, but she misses you when you’re gone.

So does Natasha. Being a step-mom has never been difficult for her – rather than looking forward to their childfree weekends Natasha always feels like something’s missing when you’re not there. Natasha had always wanted a child and having a readymade one who is part the woman she loves is a dream come true. At first Natasha had been thrilled that you didn’t seem to mind her presence in your life – you often sought Natasha out at bedtime, wanting her to read your bedtime story. After Natasha had lived with you for about a week you sat on her lap for the first time, leaning your head on her shoulder as you both watched a movie. Natasha’s heart had warmed at your little display of trust.

You haven’t wanted Natasha for a while now, preferring to seek out Wanda. Natasha tries not to mind too much. Wanda’s your birth Mom after all. Natasha’s just your step-mom.

Wanda kisses your forehead, still holding you in her arms “How was bowling? Did you win?”

You don’t reply so Natasha looks over “Y/N said they didn’t go.”

Wanda frowns, leaning her head against yours, feeling your disappointment even if you don’t verbalise it. Her and Natasha exchange another glance “What did you get up to this weekend then?”

You still don’t say anything and Natasha watches, her heart suddenly sinking with worry. She’d assumed your withdrawal was something that she’d done, that you were pulling away from her because of how close she’d gotten to Wanda but what if the problem is happening at your Dad’s house? Wanda had never said anything to suggest Elliott couldn’t be trusted. In fact she’d said their break-up had been pretty amicable – Wanda had always thought she was bi-sexual but had realised a few months after you were born that she was a lesbian. The two of them had broken up, so he’d found his own place and let Wanda stay in the family home with you. Certainly whenever Natasha’s met Elliott he’s seemed nice enough – a bit useless maybe but harmless.

It would make sense though. Why you clung to Wanda on a Friday evening, why you were extra clingy when you came home, why you were starting to have more nightmares on a Thursday night before your Dad’s weekend… Natasha feels foolish for not putting these together before.

“Did Dad take you anywhere?” Wanda asks “The weather was nice, did you go for a walk or something?”

You shake your head “No. I stayed at Dad’s.”

“Okay.” Wanda says patiently “Did you do something fun with Dad at home then? Maybe you played in the garden or watched a movie or played a board game?”

You put your thumb in your mouth and Natasha crosses the room, rubbing your back with her hand “Did something happen?” Natasha asks quietly “You can tell us.” She hesitates “Or you can just tell Mom. I can give you some space if you-”

“I don’t like Dad’s new girlfriend; she’s not nice like Nat.”

Wanda frowns, exchanging another glance with Natasha at your quiet confession. Neither of them had even been aware your Dad had a new girlfriend. He’d been single the whole time Natasha has known him. Wanda kisses the top of your head – Natasha’s done most of your pick-up’s recently but Wanda knows Nat would’ve told her if there’d been a woman there. Wanda had told Elliott when she’d begun dating Natasha and had let him know that Nat was moving in. She feels uncomfortable at the thought of you spending time with a woman she knows nothing about.

“Dad’s got a girlfriend?” Wanda asks lightly.

You nod and mumble “Her name’s Candice. Her and Dad went out last night.”

“I see. Who was with you then whilst Candice and Dad were out?”

You hesitate and then whisper with a hint of reluctance “No one. I was scared. I don’t think I wanna go to Dad’s anymore, I don’t like it.”

Wanda holds you tighter “Wait… So Dad and Candice went out and left you in the house all by yourself?” You nod and Wanda continues “What time was this? When did they get back?”

“They put me to bed and then I heard the door close so I went downstairs and they were both gone. I was scared so I stayed in the living room. I don’t know what time they got back but it was very late. I was really tired but I didn't want to go to sleep until they were back.”

Natasha’s eyes darken as she imagines you alone in your Dad’s house, frightened in the middle of the night. Natasha knows you’re a nervous child, always calling out for Wanda if you’ve had a bad dream. You hate the dark; you only sleep with your nightlight switched on. Before bed you always ask Natasha or Wanda to check under your bed and in your wardrobe before you’ll go to sleep. Natasha’s seen Wanda stroking your hair and reassuring you that she’s very powerful, that she’ll always be able to protect you if something bad were to happen. Natasha had offered similar reassurances. You’re still so little, they don’t even leave you alone at home for short periods during the daytime, let alone at night.

Elliott only has you once every other weekend. Even if he hadn’t left you alone, he should be prioritising his time with you. Not spending it with some random woman. Natasha seethes on your behalf, her hand still gently rubbing your back. She can't stand parents who take their children for granted.

Wanda’s own eyes are stormy as she kisses the top of your head “Has this happened before baby?” You nod and Wanda has to bite back an angry scoff “I don’t want you to worry anymore, I’ll sort this out. Okay?”

“Okay.” You mumble and Natasha can’t help but smile at the trust you place in Wanda. Although you often needed encouragement to open up you always believed that Wanda could solve all your problems.

Wanda sighs, making a mental checklist of everything she’ll need to do tomorrow. She knows she won’t be sending you to your Dad’s until she’s reassured that you won’t be left on your own ever again. And she wants to know more about this Candice, who she is and the level of involvement she has in your life. All she knew so far was that you didn’t think she was ‘nice’. That could mean a variety of things and Wanda was going to get to the bottom of it.

For now though she bounces you gently in her arms and smiles “Hey, it’s still pretty early. Me and Nat could take you bowling if you wanted to go?” You nod and Wanda kisses your cheek “Perfect. Let’s go.”

Wanda and Natasha take you bowling, and then let you have chicken tenders, fries and a milkshake afterwards in an effort to cheer you up and take your mind off the scary weekend you’d had at your Dad’s. They see your eyes drooping from your late night so they only play the one game before bringing you home. Wanda leaves you with Natasha to get you ready for bed whilst she drafts an email for her solicitor, wanting to find out her legal position for stopping your contact with your Father for the foreseeable future.

“Did you have a good evening?” Natasha asks as she supervises you brushing your teeth.

“Yeah!” You say, your usual enthusiasm returning now you’ve been brave enough to share your worries with your Mom “I was the absolute bestest at bowling.”

“Oh yeah, you were incredible.” Natasha says, ruffling your hair. They’d both made sure you won the bowling, watching you push the ball down the child’s ramp with an intense look of concentration on your face “A real pro.”

You giggle as Natasha lifts you into her arms, kissing the top of your head “I love you Nat!”

Natasha feels her heart melt as she looks down at your cute, little face, so full of trust. That’s the first time you’ve ever told her you love her and she whispers back without hesitation “I love you too kid. So much.” She kisses the top of your head again “I love your Mom and it was such a bonus to realise she has a kid as amazing as you. Thank you for trusting me and for letting me into your life. It’s an honour to be your step-mom and I feel so lucky to know you.”

“I wish you were my Mom too.” You say.

“I’m kinda like your Mom now.” Natasha says “In fact… If you wanted to… Maybe you could call me Mama? Wanda’s your Mom-”

“And you can be my Mama!” You beam, putting your hands on Natasha’s cheeks “Mama!”

Natasha’s eyes fill with tears as you cheerfully call her by her new name and she leans her forehead against yours as you giggle. Wanda appears in the doorway, having heard all the commotion and she smiles “Did I hear you’ve earned a promotion?”

“Oh yeah, I have the honour of being Y/N’s Mama now.” Natasha looks at Wanda, suddenly worried she won’t approve – she is your Mom after all, maybe she doesn’t want to share that title. But Wanda just smiles, her own eyes filled with love and affection at the way Natasha’s cradling you in her arms.

“Mom and Mama.” Wanda says “Has a nice ring to it.”

“Yeah, I got two Moms’!” You cheer happily and Natasha laughs, kissing your forehead.

“You do. And we love you both so much.”

Cate texts at 8:43 p.m., a picture of the brass key she keeps on a ribbon by the foyer console. No caption. Then:

[CATE]: he’s in tokyo

[CATE]: i’m lonely

You stare at the screen from your dorm bed, a mess of class notes and a dented Telecaster at your feet. You can almost smell the house on the edge of those words: lemon oil and money, the soft hush of carpets that swallowed footfalls, the ridiculous piano no one touched. Trophy-wife quiet. Cate quiet.

A third text arrives:

[CATE]: be a good girl and come let yourself in

You swear under your breath, shove into black jeans and a band tee, leather jacket over one shoulder, fingers combing your short hair. You tell yourself you’re not sprinting through the parking lot, that you’re not seventeen and starving anymore, that you’re not willingly sleeping with the woman you used to daydream about in that backyard pool like it was a sin you’d drown for. You tell yourself a lot of things.

The house is unlit except for the chandelier over the entryway, a galaxy of glass. Your boots land quiet on stone tile. You pocket the key and breathe. Lemon oil. Money. Cate.

“Upstairs,” Cate calls, voice like a lacquered nail tracing a throat. “Bedroom.”

You take the stairs two at a time.

Cate has left the door half-open, enough for suggestion and mercy. You nudge it wider with two knuckles and stop dead.

Cate is on the edge of the bed in a silk slip the color of spilled champagne, her legs crossed, one barefoot dangling like a metronome ticking out your pulse. The bedside lamps cut her into soft golds—cheekbones, lips, collarbones, the elegant slope of one shoulder where the strap has slid carelessly. Her hair is up, and messy in a way that says don’t you dare fix me.

“Hi,” Cate says, like you two haven’t been doing this for months. Like she hasn’t had you on your knees in this same room, half-crying into silk sheets and clutching at the mattress like the ocean would take you if you let go.

“Hi,” you say, and your voice comes out rougher than you intended. “You texted.”

“I did.” Cate tips her chin to study you, most of a smile dancing in her mouth. “You look like trouble.”

“Always,” you say. “You knew that when you married him.”

Cate laughs, low. “I married him because he asked at the right restaurant and put the ring on the right finger and told me I’d never have to want for anything again.”

“Money,” you say, flat.

“Mm.” Cate uncrosses her legs, lets the hem ride up her thighs. “And then I met his daughter who wears jewelry like knives and looks at me like I’m the cathedral and the fire both.”

Your ears go hot. “Don’t make me poetic. I’m here to commit crimes.”

Cate pats the mattress. “Then come be a criminal.”

You shrug off your jacket. There’s a beat where you stand at the foot of the bed, hands in your back pockets, letting Cate look. Letting yourself be looked at. Cate isn’t hungry in a sloppy way, she’s the kind of hungry that chooses the knife and the plate and the lighting. You can feel yourself being plated.

Cate leans forward and hooks two fingers in your belt loop. “Closer, baby.”

The pet name lands like a coin in a wishing well. Somewhere deep, a wish echoes. You step between Cate’s knees. They’re warm against your jeans. Cate smells like peaches and a secret.

“Missed you,” Cate murmurs, almost a confession. It catches you off-guard. Cate’s mouth finds the hem of your tee, then your sternum, then the notch of your throat. You swallow, dizzy. “I should have married you instead.”

You huff a breath that’s halfway to a laugh. “Pretty sure that wasn’t on the menu.”

“It should’ve been.” Cate pulls back to look at you. “I thought you hated me.”

“I thought you married him for the money.” You drag a thumb over the silk strap on Cate’s shoulder, then slip it down, slow. “I also thought he didn’t deserve you. And I was right.”

Cate’s eyes glint, pleased and wounded. “You’re not very nice.”

“You’re not very innocent.”

“No,” Cate agrees, and parts her knees wider. “Kiss me.”

You kiss her, mouth firm, the way Cate likes: no preface, no pleading. Cate’s sigh opens her like a hand opening a drawer, and you're rifling through everything you’re not supposed to touch. Cate tastes like white wine and mint, a dinner she hadn’t eaten because she was already feeding on anticipation. When you bite, gentle, Cate’s fingers spike short hair and tug. You moan, surprised by yourself.

“Good girl,” Cate says against your mouth.

“Thought I was a criminal.”

“Criminals can be good girls,” Cate whispers, and drags your hand up the inside of her thigh. The silk is damp where it clings. “Touch me.”

You cup her through the slip, the heat there like a dare, rubbing slow circles with the heel of your palm until Cate’s stomach flutters under silk. You kiss again, sloppier now, Cate letting a little messy in at the edges. You could drown here, willingly. You break to breathe and Cate catches her lower lip with two fingers, thumb smoothing over the bite you left.

“You’re so much better than he is,” Cate says, thoughtless in the way that makes it true. “At everything. At…God, everything. And—” She glances down, the corner of her mouth lifting as her fingers skate over the rigid line tenting your jeans. “You’re certainly better endowed than your father. Where on earth did you get that from?”

You freeze, then groan into Cate’s shoulder. “Ugh. Gross.” You nip the skin there in protest. “Can we not talk about my dad when I’m about to ruin you?”

Cate’s laugh is unrepentant, silvery and mean in the way that makes you want to make her sweet by force. “Fine—occupy my mouth with something else then,” she suggests, the world’s most elegant brat.

“God, you’re lucky you’re hot.” You grab her softly by the jaw, turning her face up. “Open.”

Cate does. Slow. Obedient. You kiss her until her lips are shiny and wordless and then step back just enough to look at her, chest heaving, eyes heavy-lidded and shameless.

“Get on the bed,” you say, voice gone lower. “Up there. Hands to the headboard.”

Cate scoots back, that little smile tugging at one corner like a stitch she keeps plucking. “Bossy.”

“You like me bossy.”

“I like everything about you.”

You climb after her, caging Cate in with your knees bracketing Cate’s hips. You push the slip up to expose lace that could have paid for a month of tuition and mouth along the edge until Cate shivers. You’re patient in the way you know Cate is not. You draw it out because Cate wants to be made to wait. When you finally slide the panties aside, Cate’s breath stutters.

“Look at you,” you murmur, filth somehow soft. “Messy for me already.”

“For my stepdaughter,” Cate says, eyes bright with wickedness. “God will strike me down.”

“Then I better make it worth the lightning.”

You go down on Cate with something like reverence and something like hunger, tongue slow and deliberate, paying attention to what makes Cate’s thighs tremble, to where the tremble turns to a quake. Cate tastes like salt and sugar, like a choice made and remade. Her hand is in your hair, not pushing, just anchoring, and her other goes to the headboard like she was told. Power and surrender sit neatly beside each other in her body and you're drunk on the contrast.

“Daddy,” Cate breathes when she’s close, careless with the nickname. It still shocks her sometimes, how easily it comes. You growl into her, fingers curling where your tongue can’t reach, and Cate’s hips climb up, seeking. “Daddy, please—”

You don't stop until Cate’s voice breaks. When Cate comes it’s with a ragged little sob and a laugh braided together, the laugh of a woman who has never been refused anything and still can’t believe she gets this. You lick her through it, slower, gentler, until Cate is shivering and swatting weakly at your shoulder, “Enough, enough,” and then you kiss the inside of Cate’s knee because you can.

Cate drags you up by the collar and kisses you, tasting herself and not pretending otherwise. “Take your clothes off,” she orders in a whisper that frays at the edges. “Now.”

You end up naked in the lamplight, scars and freckles thrown into relief, breasts flushed, cock heavy and damp against your thigh. Cate props herself on her elbows to look, greedy and soft.

“God, where did you get that from,” Cate says again, wonder under the teasing this time. “Jesus.”

“Nowhere we’re talking about,” you tell her, rolling a condom on—fast, practiced, a habit you didn’t have before this became a habit, too. Cate’s eyes smile at the gesture, something vulnerable flickering there and gone.

You drag the silk up to Cate’s waist and settle between her knees. The first press is always the worst and the best, the place where every nerve comes online: the slow stretch, the heat, the way Cate’s mouth falls open and she looks a little startled every time, like she forgot how full this feels.

“Fuck,” Cate says, reverent.

You pushed in another inch, then another, watching Cate’s pupils blow wide, feeling the clutch around you. Cate’s hands grab for you and find them—biceps, shoulders, anywhere the muscle jumps when you brace. You lean in and nuzzle the corner of Cate’s mouth, voice gone raw. “Hey. With me.”

“With you,” Cate echoes, and tilts her hips to take you deeper. “God, with you.”

The rhythm you two find is unhurried and filthy—you rolling your hips, Cate meeting every stroke with the kind of control that says she used to be a dancer, that she knows how to make her body an instrument. The bed complains in expensive creaks. Outside, the world is gated and hedged. Inside, it is undone. When you drive deeper, Cate’s breath stabs and breaks, and she scrapes nails down your back, not hard enough to draw blood but to promise she could.

“I should have married you,” Cate murmurs again, drunk on the shape of you inside her. “I should have—God—picked you at the restaurant and said give me the girl with the boots who looks at me like a dare.”

“Not legal,” you say, teeth flashing, sweat beading at your temple. “Not on the menu.”

Cate wraps her legs higher around your waist, heels pressing into the small of your back, dragging you closer, greedier. “Then I should have waited. And begged.”

“Yeah?” You grind in deep, brain nearly short circuiting when Cate clenches. “What would you have begged for?”

“You,” Cate says, simple. “Every last unholy inch.”

You laugh, breathless, wrecked. You set a hand around Cate’s throat, not squeezing, just cradling the column of it, the pulse that thunders there. Cate’s eyes flutter, a quiet surrender. “Daddy,” Cate whispers, a plea and an answer.

“Tell me when,” you say, thrust smoothing into something relentless but careful, the way you know makes Cate cum hard and clean. “Tell me, baby.”

Cate tells you with her body—hips, hands, the desperate roll of her tongue when she kisses you like you’re the air keeping her alive. When she comes this time, it’s messier, the silk hiked around her waist, her thighs trembling around your hips, a wordless cry guttering into laughter. You follow, the orgasm ripping through you with a sound that’s almost a question, like where else could you possibly go but here, but Cate’s throat and mouth and everything that’s not allowed.

Together you collapse into the pillows, laughing like thieves. Cate pets your hair back from your damp forehead with a gentleness that makes your chest ache, thumb sweeping the stubborn wrinkle between your eyebrows.

“Come live here,” Cate says thoughtlessly, immediately walking it back with a flutter of lashes. “Kidding. I’m kidding.”

You huff into her neck, still catching her breath. “You’d hate me after three days of my laundry.”

“I’d fold your shirts.”

“I don’t fold my shirts,” you say, scandalized. “Wrinkle couture.”

Cate smiles. She kisses you, softer now, less hunger and more gratitude, the kind that stains. When you pull out, Cate winces—empty always hurts—and then relaxes when you press your palm low on Cate’s belly like you can keep the feeling there.

“Stay,” Cate says. Not a command this time. An almost childish wish.

“For a little,” you answer, because you’re still learning how to be brave about the rest. You pad to the bathroom to toss the condom, and return to find Cate sitting up, texting. Her mouth is pursed, eyes narrowed. She looks like a queen drafting a decree.

“Who are you texting?” You ask, skeptical.

“My trainer,” Cate says, deadpan. “To cancel tomorrow. Legs are going to be useless.”

You roll your eyes and flop beside her, stealing the phone. “You are impossible.”

Cate plucks it back, smiling. “And you are very, very good at this.”

“At what? Crime?”

Cate catches her jaw again, thumb tender. “At making me feel like I married the wrong person.”

You wince. “Do not say that while we’re naked.”

“Fine.” Cate taps a nail against your mouth. “I won’t talk about your father when you’re inside me. But I will talk about how you feel when you’re not.”

You catch her wrist, kiss her palm. “How’s that?”

“Like the thing I wanted,” Cate says, and the words hang between your bodies, dangerous and bright.

Outside in the hall, the air conditioning kicks on. The house hums. You think about all the ways this is going to go wrong and all the ways it has already gone right. Cate’s hand slips under the sheet to your ribs, rest there, the weight light as a promise.

“Round two?” Cate asks, smiling into your shoulder, too sharp to be sweet, too sweet to be cruel.

“Give me five minutes,” you say, eyes closed, grinning. “Then I’ll fuck you until you forget you ever learned my dad’s name.”