#tw stepcest

you watched him kiss your mom in the kitchen this morning—watched him tuck her hair behind her ear and smile at her like she was something precious. watched him pour her coffee and ask about her day like he actually gave a shit. watched him play the perfect husband while you sat at the table feeling like your chest was caving in, stabbing your fork into your eggs like they personally offended you.

this is so stupid, you'd thought, shoving a bite into your mouth. you're being a literal child.

but that didn't stop the hot, ugly feeling from spreading through your ribs when he kissed her cheek and told her to have a good day at work.

now it's past midnight and you're curled up in bed facing the wall, throat tight with tears you refuse to shed because crying over your stepdad being nice to his actual wife is pathetic even by your standards.

you hear your door open.

"go away," you mumble into your pillow, pulling the blanket higher.

"no." his voice is low, amused, and the mattress dips as he sits on the edge of your bed. "you've been pouting all day, honey. wanna tell me why?"

"i'm not pouting."

"yes, you are." his hand finds your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles through your sleep shirt. the touch is warm, possessive, and you hate how much you want to lean into it. "you've been giving me the cold shoulder since breakfast. barely looked at me at dinner. didn't laugh at a single one of my jokes—and they were good jokes."

they were dad jokes, you think bitterly. terrible ones.

"what's wrong?" he asks, and there's genuine curiosity in his tone, like he doesn't already know exactly what's wrong.

you don't answer. can't answer without admitting how pathetic you are.

"oh." his laugh is soft, dark, delighted. "you're jealous."

"i'm not—"

"you are." he pulls you onto your back, looming over you in the darkness. you can barely make out his face but you feel his weight, his presence, suffocating and perfect. "you're jealous because i kissed your mom. because i paid attention to her instead of you."

your face burns. "that's not—"

"shh." his thumb presses against your lower lip, silencing you. "don't lie to me, baby. you hate sharing me. hate watching me touch her, ‘cause all you want is for me to touch you."

okay but like, yeah, your brain supplies unhelpfully. obviously.

"you're married to her," you say instead, voice small, but the word is sharp on your tongue.

"i married her to get to you, hun." he says simply, "she's nothing. a placeholder. a cover story. you think i give a fuck about her book club or her yoga classes or her terrible taste in wine?"

from down the hall, you hear the faint sound of your mom's tv—some late-night talk show she always falls asleep watching.

"dex—"

"the only reason i'm nice to her is so she doesn't suspect what i'm doing to her daughter every chance i get." his hand slides under your shirt, palm hot against your stomach, and you suck in a breath. "you're the one i want, honey. you're the one i think about. you're the one i fuck."

oh my god he's insane, you think, but your thighs are already pressing together, seeking friction.

"but you—you kissed her—" the fake frown dex pulls at your words makes you want to punch him or cry—or do both.

"i kiss her so she doesn't ask questions." his mouth finds your neck, teeth scraping, and you whimper. "i smile at her so she stays oblivious. i play house so i can keep you."

his hand slides lower, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, and you gasp when he finds you already wet.

"see?" he murmurs against your throat. "your body knows the truth even when you're being a brat about it."

"i'm not being a brat," you protest weakly, but you're already spreading your legs for him.

"you are." he pushes your shorts down roughly, fingers finding you slick and ready. "you've been sulking and pouting all day like a spoiled little girl who didn't get enough attention."

i mean... accurate, you think, but you're not about to admit that out loud.

"that's messed up," you whisper, but your words don’t match your body. you're already arching into his touch.

"i know." he pushes two fingers inside you without warning, and you wince at the sharpness of the action. "but you love it. you love that i'm obsessed with you. that i'd lie and manipulate and destroy everything just to have you." he punctuates each of his points with featherlight kisses.

your phone buzzes on the nightstand—your mom's name lighting up the screen. goodnight sweetie! love you!

dex sees it before you do, and he laughs—low and satisfied—curling his fingers inside you just right.

"she has no idea," he says, watching you squirm. "texting you goodnight while i'm in here finger-fucking you. while you're dripping all over my hand."

"stop," you whimper, but you don't mean it. you're pushing down onto his fingers, desperate for more.

"no." his thumb finds your clit, circling slowly. "not until you admit it. say you're mine. say you're the only one i want."

you're shaking now, so close you can barely think. the wet sounds of his fingers working you fill the quiet room, obscene and perfect.

"say it," he orders.

"i'm yours," you gasp. "i'm—god—i'm yours, okay? you're the only one i want too—"

"good girl." he adds a third finger, stretching you, and you have to bite down on your lip to keep from crying out. "there's my girl. no more pouting, yeah? you're the only one i want. the only one who matters."

"promise?" you should be embarrassed by how pathetic you sound.

"promise." he kisses you slow and deep, fingers curling inside you just right, and you come with his name on your lips and his hand covering your mouth to keep you quiet.

the orgasm crashes through you in waves, your pussy clenching around his fingers so hard you see stars. he works you through it, relentless, until you're shaking and oversensitive and trying to push his hand away.

"too much," you whimper.

"no such thing." but he pulls his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean while you watch, dazed. "you taste like mine."

afterward, he pulls you against his chest and pets your hair, and you feel safe despite everything. despite the fact that your mom is literally down the hall. despite the fact that this is so wrong it makes your head spin.

"no more jealousy," he murmurs against your temple. "you're mine. always have been. always will be."

and you believe him.

god, i'm so screwed, you think, but you're smiling into his chest.

"thank you." she crosses to him, rising on her toes to kiss his cheek. "i don't know what we'd do without you. she's really opened up since you came into our lives. i'm so glad you two are bonding."

something flickers across his face—satisfaction, maybe. possession. "me too.”

if only she knew what was flashing through his head as he smiled down at her. “she's a sweet girl. easy to care about."

"she is, isn't she?" your mom beams as she walks away, grabbing her keys. "okay, i'm off. love you!"

"love you too, babe."

the front door closes. her car starts. drives away.

dex sets his coffee down slowly, deliberately. smiling as he jogs up the steps.

—

you're dreaming about something—something warm and soft and nice—when you feel it.

a kiss.

feather-light. barely there. against the arch of your foot.

what the—

another kiss, this one wetter, open-mouthed against your ankle. then a slow, deliberate lick up your heel.

your eyes flutter open, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks as you squint against the morning light. your face is soft with sleep, lips slightly parted, a crease from your pillow pressed into your cheek. you blink slowly, confused, pupils still contracted from sleep.

dex is sitting at the foot of your bed, one of your feet cradled in his large hands like it's a precious jewel. he's already dressed—dark jeans, black t-shirt stretched across his shoulders—and he's pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin, his tongue tracing patterns on your ankle.

"what are you doing," you mumble, voice thick and raspy with sleep. you try to pull your foot back but his grip tightens, his thumb pressing into your instep. your brow furrows, confusion giving way to awareness as your pupils start to dilate.

"waking you up," he says simply, like this is perfectly normal. like he's not currently worshiping your foot like a fucking devotee. "your mom asked me to before she left for work. you've got class in an hour."

oh my gosh he's insane.

"you could've just—" you interrupt yourself with a yawn, stretching. the movement makes your his t-shirt—oversized and worn soft—ride up, exposing the curve of your waist, the gentle slope of your hip. "—shaken me or something. normal people shake."

"where's the fun in that?" his thumb strokes the arch of your foot, and you shiver despite yourself, goosebumps rising on your bare legs. then he pauses, and you watch his expression shift—something dark and hungry flickering across his face, his jaw tightening.

he's staring at your toes.

you painted them last night while watching netflix—a fresh coat of solid white polish because you were bored and your old color was chipping. nothing fancy. just clean and pretty.

"when did you do this?" his voice has dropped an octave, rough and interested in a way that makes your stomach flip, heat pooling low in your belly.

"last night," you say slowly, suddenly very awake. your face pulses with heat, the sensation runs from your cheeks down your neck. "why?"

he doesn't answer. just brings your foot closer to his face, studying the white polish like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. then he presses a kiss to your big toe—slow and deliberate—before taking it into his mouth, sucking gently. your breath catches, lips parting on a soft gasp.

"dex—"

"so pretty," he murmurs, releasing your toe with a soft, wet schlick. "such a good girl, keeping yourself pretty for me." he moves to the next toe, giving it the same treatment, his tongue swirling around the digit.

i literally did not do it for you, you think, but your brain is still fuzzy from sleep and his mouth is doing things to your foot that should not feel as good as they do. your thighs press together automatically under the sheets.

he kisses each toe individually, taking his time, and you're suddenly very aware that you're only wearing one of his old t-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. that your legs are bare and smooth and exposed. that he's looking at you like he wants to devour you. your skin prickles with awareness, nipples hardening beneath the thin cotton.

"i have class," you try weakly, but your voice comes out breathy.

"in an hour." he sets your foot down gently and reaches for the other one, pulling it into his lap. "plenty of time."

this is so weird. this is so fucking weird and you should tell him to stop but—

he freezes again.

you follow his gaze to your hands that are stretched above your head, and his eyes are locked in on your fingernails.

french tips. classic and elegant. you did them after the toenails because you were on a roll and your hands looked sad next to your pretty feet.

"fuck," he breathes, and the raw want in his voice makes you clench. your pupils blow wide, nearly swallowing the color of your eyes.

"it's just nail polish," you say, but your voice comes out breathy and uncertain. your chest rises and falls faster now.

"it's not just nail polish." he's moving now, crawling up the bed with predatory grace, caging you in with his body. the mattress dips under his weight. one hand catches your wrist, bringing your fingers to his mouth. "it's you taking care of yourself. making yourself pretty. being such a good fucking girl."

he kisses your knuckles, then takes your index finger into his mouth, sucking gently. his eyes lock on yours—dark and intense and unwavering.

oh. oh no.

your thighs press together automatically, and he notices—of course he notices—his free hand sliding down to grip your hip possessively. his palm is hot through the thin fabric, fingers spanning the curve of your waist easily. you look so small beneath him, swallowed by his shirt, your body delicate and soft.

"dex," you whimper. "mom just left—"

"ten minutes ago." he withdraws from your index finger, a string of saliva following his mouth to the next one. "she's halfway to work by now. we're alone."

the way he says alone makes you shiver, your whole body trembling.

he works his way through each finger slowly, thoroughly, his tongue tracing the edge of each fingertip like he's memorizing the pattern. you watch his face—the concentration, the hunger, the way his eyes flutter closed when he sucks.

by the time he's done with your left hand, you're squirming beneath him, breathing hard, face flushed and devoid of rationality, lips swollen from biting them.

"please," you whisper, not even sure what you're asking for.

"please what?" he catches your other wrist, pinning both hands above your head with one of his. the position makes you feel small, vulnerable, completely at his mercy. your shirt rides up further, exposing your stomach and the underside of your breasts. "use your words, honey."

i hate when he does this, you think desperately. makes me say it out loud.

"i don't—" you bite your lip, and he watches the movement like it's hypnotic. "i don't know."

"yes, you do." his free hand slides under your shirt, palm hot against your stomach. you gasp at the contact, back arching slightly. "your body knows exactly what it wants. look at you—already squirming. already wet for me."

"i'm not—"

his hand dips into your shorts, fingers finding you slick and ready, and you gasp—a sharp, desperate sound.

"liar," he says fondly, like you're a child who got caught sneaking cookies. "such a little liar. what am i gonna do with you?"

fuck me, your brain supplies helpfully. fuck me until i can't think.

but you can't say that. can't admit how much you want this.

he seems to read your mind anyway. he always does.

"not today," he murmurs, pulling his hand from your shorts. you whimper at the loss, hips lifting involuntarily, and he smiles—dark and satisfied. "today you're gonna be a good girl and take care of daddy. can you do that for me?"

your mouth goes dry. you nod, speechless, pupils blown so wide your eyes look black.

he releases your wrists and sits back against your headboard, legs spread, the bulge in his jeans obvious and obscene.

"come here," he orders softly.

you go.

of course you go.

you crawl toward him on shaky limbs, positioning yourself between his thighs with one of your knees pulled up to your chest and the other stretched out beside you. an interesting choice of positioning, but he doesn't comment on it. the movement itself is completely graceless and desperate. up close, you can see how hard he is—the thick outline of his cock straining against denim, the wet spot already forming where his tip is lying.

"that's my girl." his hand finds your hair immediately, fingers threading through the messy strands, petting slowly. the touch is gentle, soothing, possessive. "so pretty for me. you know that? you know how fucking perfect you look right now?"

you duck your head, embarrassed, face burning, but he catches your chin with his other hand and forces you to look up at him.

"don't hide from me," he says firmly, fingers still stroking through your hair. "i want to see that pretty face while you suck my cock."

jesus christ.

your hands are shaking as you reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle. he doesn't help—just watches you struggle, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips, his hand never stopping its gentle petting of your hair.

"nervous?" he asks, voice dripping with condescension. his fingers massage your scalp lightly.

"no," you lie.

"liar." but his hand is gentle in your hair, petting you soothingly, running through the strands from root to tip. "it's okay to be nervous, baby. you're still learning. daddy's gonna teach you."

i'm not a child, you want to snap, but you kind of feel like one right now—clumsy and uncertain and desperate for his approval.

you finally get his belt undone and pop the button on his jeans. the zipper sounds obscenely loud in the quiet room. when you pull his cock free, it's already leaking, thick and heavy in your small hand. your fingers look tiny wrapped around him.

"fuck," he hisses when you wrap your fingers around him, his hand tightening briefly in your hair before resuming its gentle stroking. "look at that. your pretty little hand can barely fit around me."

he's right. your fingers don't quite meet, and the size difference makes something hot and needy pulse between your legs. 

"go on," he encourages, thumb stroking your cheekbone while his other hand pets your hair. "show me what that pretty mouth can do."

but then you do something else entirely. something bold. you lift one of your feet, still bare from his earlier attention, and press it against the hard ridge of his thigh, trailing your toes slowly up the denim.

his breath hitches. his eyes, which were locked on yours, flick down to your foot, to those perfect white-painted toes now stroking him through his jeans.

"fuck," he breathes, the sound tight against his throat. "what are you doing, honey?"

you don't answer, just continue your exploration, your toes tracing the line of his cock. you watch his face, the way his jaw clenches, the way his control starts to fray.

"such a naughty girl," he groans, but his hand in your hair is gentle, encouraging. "using your pretty feet on daddy. did you know how much i'd like that? or are you just naturally perfect for me?"

you lean forward then and lick the tip—tentative, testing—while your toes continue their slow, maddening stroking along his length. he groans low in his throat, a sound that goes straight between your legs.

"good girl. just like that. nice and slow." his fingers card through your hair, guiding you gently.

you take him into your mouth inch by inch, trying to relax your jaw, trying not to gag. he's so big, stretching your lips obscenely, and you can only take about half before you have to pull back. drool already gathering at the corners of your mouth. all the while, your foot continues its work, rubbing and stroking.

"that's okay," he soothes when you make a frustrated sound, his hand stroking your hair from crown to ends. "you're doing so good, honey. so fucking good for me. all of you."

his praise makes you want to try harder. you bob your head slowly, using your hand to stroke what you can't fit, and the sounds he makes are addictive—low groans and muttered curses and your name falling from his lips like a prayer. his breathing gets heavier, rougher.

"fuck, baby. your mouth feels so good. so warm and wet and perfect." his hand tightens in your hair, using it to guide your rhythm. not forcing, just directing. "and your foot—jesus christ—don't stop."

you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, and his hips jerk involuntarily. you feel him throb against your tongue.

"shit—sorry—" he tries to hold still but you can feel the tension in his thighs, the way he's fighting not to thrust. his fingers massage your scalp, petting, soothing. "you're making it really hard for me to be good right now." he smiles softly down at you as he tries to regain at least an ounce of composure.

good, you think with a flash of satisfaction. lose control. i want you to lose control.

you pull off slowly, a thick, slick string of saliva still connecting the two of you, and look up at him through your lashes—the way you know drives him crazy. your lips are swollen, slick, your eyes glassy. you press the sole of your foot more firmly against him.

"it's okay," you whisper, voice wrecked and rough. "you can—if you want—"

"if i want what?" his grip tightens in your hair, fingers tangling. "say it."

your face burns, heat spreading down your neck. "you can... use my mouth. if you want."

the sound he makes is almost pained—a low groan that makes your stomach twist so hard it hurts.

"fuck, honey. you can't just—" he takes a shaky breath, his hand trembling slightly in your hair. "you sure?"

you nod, and that's all the permission he needs.

his hand guides you back down, fingers firm in your hair, and this time when you take him in your mouth, he doesn't hold back. his hips roll up slowly, carefully, pushing deeper. you gag slightly and he pauses, hand stroking your hair soothingly. "breathe through your nose," he instructs, voice strained, rough. "relax your throat. that's it—good girl—fuck—"

you do as he says, and suddenly he's sliding deeper, hitting the back of your throat. tears prick at your eyes but you don't pull away. you want this. want to be good for him. his hand pets your hair constantly, fingers running through the strands.

"so perfect," he groans, starting to move, his hand guiding your head with gentle pressure. "taking me so well. such a good fucking girl for daddy."

he fucks your mouth in slow, deep strokes, and the sounds are obscene—wet and sloppy and filthy. the slick slide of him over your tongue, the gagging sounds you can't quite suppress, his ragged breathing above you.

drool runs down your chin. tears stream down your cheeks, making your vision blur. your jaw aches, stretched wide around him. his hand never stops moving in your hair—petting, stroking, guiding. and through it all, your foot continues its slow, torturous massage against his thigh, your white-painted toes a stark, pretty contrast against the dark denim. he seems to lose a piece of his control with every press of your arch.

"look at you," he pants, thumb wiping away a tear while his other hand continues its gentle stroking through your hair. "so pretty when you cry for me. so pretty with my cock in your mouth. such a mess for daddy."

your hands grip his thighs for balance, nails—those perfect french tips—digging into denim. he notices, groaning, his cock twitching in your mouth.

"those fucking nails. just love seeing them wrapped around my cock, honey. been thinking about you since i woke up." his voice is getting rougher, more desperate. his hips move faster.

you moan around him and the vibration makes him curse, his hand tightening in your hair. 

"fuck, baby, do that again—"

you do, and his control starts to slip. his thrusts are getting faster now, less controlled, more desperate. you can feel him swelling, throbbing. you can tell he's close—can feel it in the way his thighs tense beneath your hands, the way his breathing goes ragged and uneven, the way his fingers grip your hair almost painfully.

"so good," he pants. "taking me so fucking deep. letting daddy use this pretty mouth. you love it, don't you? love being on your knees for me."

you whimper around him, the sound muffled and desperate, and he groans.

"gonna come," he warns, voice rough and strained. "gonna come all over that pretty face—fuck—can't—"

he pulls out suddenly and you gasp for air, mouth open, tongue out—exactly how he likes it. your face is a mess—tears, drool, lips swollen and red. you look thoroughly debauched.

"good girl," he groans, hand working his cock fast while his other hand stays tangled in your hair, holding you in place. "such a good fucking—"

but then he looks down. his eyes flick from your face to your foot, still resting against his thigh. a new, darker hunger crosses his face.

"no," he breathes, a change of plan. "not your face."

he shifts, grabbing your ankle with his free hand and pulling your foot up, pressing the soles of both your feet together against his leaking cock. the sight is obscene—his thick length nestled between your arches, the white polish a perfect frame.

"hold them there," he orders, his voice tight. "just like that. fuck—"

you press your feet together, creating a tight channel for him, and he thrusts into the makeshift opening. it only takes a few thrusts.

"gonna—gonna cum on these pretty feet," he grunts, and then he's coming, hot and thick, painting your soles and your toes with his release. it feels filthy and intimate and so intensely specific to him that your head spins.

he's still shuddering, still spilling onto your feet, when you both hear it. the distant clatter of keys. the front door swinging open. 

"hello? dex, you guys still home? i forgot my lunch bag!"

your blood runs cold. you freeze completely, eyes flying wide open with panic, dex’s cum still warm and dripping between your toes.

oh god oh god oh god—

dex moves fast—faster than you've ever seen him move. he tucks himself back into his jeans, zips up, and grabs tissues  from your nightstand all in what seems to be one second. his hands work quickly as he wipes his evidence from your soles and toes with efficient, firm strokes.

"bathroom," he mouths silently, finishing the last swipe. "now. don’t make a sound"

you scramble off the bed on shaky legs and slippery feet and bolt for your attached bathroom, closing the door just as you hear your mom's footsteps on the stairs. your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.

"dex? honey? you guys up here?"

"yeah, babe!" his voice is perfectly normal, perfectly casual. you hear him moving around your room—probably straightening the duvet, erasing evidence. "just making sure she's awake for class. you know how she is in the mornings."

i'm gonna throw up, you think, leaning against the bathroom sink. your reflection stares back at you—trembling lips, pupils blown wide. you look thoroughly fucked.

"i forgot my lunch," your mom says, and she sounds close. right outside your door. "have you seen it?"

"pantry shelf, i think. by the cereal."

"oh! you're right. thanks, baby." a pause. can she tell? did she see something? maybe—

"she okay? she's been sleeping a lot lately."

"she's fine. just stressed about school. you know how it is."

"yeah..." another pause, and you hold your breath, pressing your hand over your mouth. "i was thinking—maybe we should all do something together this weekend. the three of us. i feel like i barely see her anymore. like you two have this whole bond and i'm on the outside."

your heart stops.

"that's not true," dex says smoothly. "you're her mom. that bond is irreplaceable."

"i know, but..." she trails off. "i don't know. maybe i'm being silly. it's just—she used to tell me everything. now she barely talks to me. and you two are always whispering, always disappearing together. yesterday i came home early and you were both in her room with the door closed."

oh god oh god oh god—

“we were talking about boys," dex lies easily. "she's got a crush on a kid in finance—boy problems. the door was closed because she had her music playing."

"right." but she doesn't sound convinced. "i'm probably just being paranoid. it's good that she has you. i just... i miss her, you know?"

"i know, babe. we'll plan something this weekend. just the three of us."

"okay." a pause. "i really need to go. love you guys!"

"love you too."

you hear her footsteps retreating, then the front door closing again. the sound of her car starting. 

driving away.

silence.

you wait a full minute before opening the bathroom door, your hands shaking.

dex is sitting on your bed, looking completely composed except for the slight flush on his cheeks and the satisfied smirk playing at his lips.

"that was close," you whisper.

"too close." but he doesn't sound concerned. if anything, he sounds pleased. "you did good, honey. stayed quiet. stayed hidden."

you should be angry. should be terrified. should be demanding that this stops before your mom actually figures it out.

instead, you hear yourself ask, "did you mean it?"

"mean what?"

"that we were talking about boys? that the door was closed because of music."

his smirk widens. "no. we had the door shut because i was fucking you while you were supposed to be doing homework. and the only boy problem you have is that you can't stop thinking about your stepdaddy’s cock."

your face burns, but you can't deny it.

he stands, crossing to you in two strides. his hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your swollen bottom lip.

"go get ready for class," he says softly. "and tonight, when your mom goes to book club, you're gonna come to my room and let me return the favor. i'm thinking i want to taste those pretty toes again. understand?"

you nod, speechless.

"good girl." he kisses your forehead—tender and paternal and completely at odds with what just happened. "now go. you're gonna be late."

he leaves, closing the door behind him, and you're left standing there trying to process what just happened.

your mom is getting suspicious. really suspicious. she's noticing the closed doors, the whispered conversations, how much time you spend together. she's feeling left out. replaced.

you almost got caught red handed, or rather with his cum on your feet.

this is spiraling out of control.

and tonight, you're going to let him do it again.

i'm so screwed, you think, staring at your reflection. literally and figuratively.

but you're already planning what to wear.

already thinking about his mouth on you.

already his.

You never had a boyfriend, not even a little fling, because the minute you mentioned it to Sukuna the old man would blow a damn fuse. He'd prattle on about how he just knows that they're not good for you, and how you don't need a boyfriend—you have school to focus on.

You gave up a long time ago on asking him how he could be so sure that they weren't a respectable boy to date. He never gave you a real answer, just said, "no such thing as a respectable boy at your age."

You clear your throat, pushing your food around your plate awkwardly. "…Well? Can I?"

Sukuna sighs. "There gonna be boys at this party?"

Rolling your eyes as you set your fork down, you cross your arms in front of you. "Yes, Sukuna. There will be boys, it's a party."

"Watch it," he warns, "it's nine in the morning, don't need you bein' a brat already."

That's another thing Sukuna has always been weird about—when you don't call him "dad." It's not that you think he doesn't deserve the title, he does, especially since the divorce when he finally gave you a way out from under your mom's roof. You just like to call him by his name to get under his skin when he's pissing you off.

"Okay, sorry. But your answer?"

"It's not like you'd listen if I told you no," Sukuna grumbles, scratching at the scruff on his chin. "No staying the night, you come home alone and at a reasonable hour. Got it?"

He'd be lying if he said he was completely on board with the idea, but Sukuna knows that will never be the case. He is never going to be excited about the prospect of you going out and drinking all night, but he also knows that he can't stop you, nor should he try. Besides, the way you smile so wide and spring up from the table to run over and kiss him on the cheek as a 'thank you' makes the whole situation a little easier to stomach.

Until you come say goodbye to him later.

Sukuna's sitting up in bed against the headboard, shirt off and glasses on with his latest novel open on his lap.

You peek your head in the doorway, tapping against the wood to get his attention. "My friends are on the way, just wanted to say bye."

You're about to whip back around the corner when Sukuna tosses his book aside. "Come back here."

You know where this is going.

Slowly, you step through the doorway and into the soft light cast by the bedside lamp. His lips tug into a frown as his eyes take their time trailing over your body—or more like the dress you call an outfit.

His gaze is heavy, making you wring your hands together behind your back. You'd never ask him, but you wonder if he thinks you look good.

"Go change."

"No, I don't have anything else to wear," you lie.

Sukuna tries to look stern, because truthfully he does hate the dress. Or rather, he hates that he's not the only one who will get to see you in it.

But he can't deny that you do look good. Especially with the way it hugs your hips and is too small to safely wear without shorts but he knows you don't have any on. In fact, if you were to bend over in front of him he's sure that he'd be able to— "What happened to all those clothes you buy with my card?"

You're giggling at him while you shrug, "not sure what you're talking about."

"Whatever," Sukuna's given up already on fighting you just like he usually does, though this time a little more quickly. "Give me a hug before you go."

His voice is low and rough, and something about it makes you feel nervous tonight. Maybe it's the way you notice his eyes returning to your figure, watching the way your thighs move as you cross the room. Or maybe it's the way his chest looks bigger in the dim lighting, dark tattoos and hair sprawled across it.

You crawl onto your knees on the bed, shuffling towards Sukuna until you're able to wrap your arms around his neck and fall into him with your head curled under his chin.

You always forget how big he is.

Large, calloused hands meet on your lower back. They're firm and steady and feel like they're burning into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress.

You smell like the new perfume Sukuna bought you for your birthday. He was so glad that you liked it, wearing it everyday, like his own mark on you even if no one else knows you're his.

Sukuna's hands caress your back gently for a moment, before something possesses him to slide one lower. Your stomach twists as Sukuna snakes his hand down until the palm is resting on the globe of your ass. And you know that you should move his hand, or ask him what he's doing, or at the very least pull away from him because it's not right.

But instead you nuzzle in closer, your nose brushing against the column of his neck. Emboldened, Sukuna gives your ass a quick squeeze, fingertips digging into the fat before moving to rest on your hip.

"Don't get home too late," Sukuna mutters into your ear, hugging you a little tighter.

Your heart is racing and you can hear the blood pumping in your ears, a thick tension settling over you two. It's not completely unexpected, more something that has been brewing ever since the two of you started living alone. It was like an unspoken agreement formed, allowing yourselves to look at one another differently, no longer under the harsh scrutiny of your mother. But before tonight, things had never progressed beyond looks.

You don't want to go out. You want to stay home with your stepdad and spend the night in his bed, not out at a party with too loud music and overly sweet drinks that spill and leave the ground sticky.

But before you can entertain the thought for long, your phone is buzzing and you know your friends have arrived.

The party isn't nearly as fun as you hoped it would be. You still try to have a good time because you know there's really nothing wrong with it—the music is good, the drinks are free, your friends are with you—still, you just want to be home.

You haven't been able to stop thinking about Sukuna since the moment you reluctantly crawled out of his arms. A couple of guys have even approached you tonight, and while you'd think they would be a welcome distraction, talking to them only makes you painfully aware of how they could never compare to the man who's waiting up for you to come home safely.

The poor man, actually.

Because you've been spending all your time stuck in an endless cycle of pouring a drink, thinking about Sukuna, realizing you shouldn't be thinking about your stepdad the way that you are, finishing your drink to feel better about it, and then getting another. You're so caught up in the sad routine that you don't even realize how late it is.

When you finally check your phone there's multiple missed texts and a call from Sukuna. Shit.

You send him a quick message letting him know you're on the way before calling your uber home. He responds immediately with a thumbs up.

Apprehension pools in your gut as you sit in the backseat. Despite all the drinks you consumed, the realization that you're about to see Sukuna again has sobered you up significantly. You don't know what to expect—if he'll be mad at you, worried, disappointed for not keeping him in the loop. And above all else you wonder if he's going to acknowledge what happened before you left.

Sukuna is of course waiting for you when you step into your home, both hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. "Where were you?"

"At the party," you answer truthfully, but he doesn't seem convinced.

"It's late. I told you to be home at a reasonable hour. Does this seem reasonable to you?"

"No, I just… lost track of time," you pout. It really was an accident.

Sukuna pauses for a moment, the gears turning in his head. He remembers when he was in college, using that same excuse every time he was late because he was actually out hooking up with someone. "Were you with a boy?"

"What? No, I just was distracted, promise," you're panicking slightly, feeling a stronger urge to defend yourself than normal. You don't want him to think you were with anyone, especially not now.

His silence makes your heart beat faster. Sukuna can be so unreadable that even after knowing him for all these years you have a hard time figuring out what's going through his head. If he doesn't want you to know what he's thinking, it's almost a guarantee that you won't.

"I swear," you plead, "I wouldn't do that, I've never…" Your voice gets smaller as you trail off, too embarrassed to finish that sentence.

But Sukuna won't let that slide. "You've never what?"

You hesitate, "like, had sex. I thought you knew that."

Honestly, Sukuna had no idea. He knew that he wanted you to be a virgin, but not that you actually were one. "Nah, I didn't. But good, cause you know I don't think anyone deserves you."

You're staring at your feet, head swirling with a multitude emotions and each one is more confusing than the last. When you look back up at Sukuna again his heart melts at the way your eyes have so much adoration in them, so much hope when you ask, "even you?"

Sukuna sighs, scratching the back of his head as he tries to decide how to reply. Your anxiety grows the longer he stays quiet, wondering if you just fucked up by actually acknowledging what you've been dancing around for ages.

"We can talk about this another time," Sukuna settles on a bullshit excuse to avoid your question all together. Earlier tonight he already crossed a line, an albeit blurry one, but nonetheless, he's trying to be a good parent and do the right thing now—which is rare for him. But his restraint is wearing dangerously thin and it only gets worse when he sees the way your bottom lip quivers.

Are you about to fucking cry?

"Sweetheart, hey," he speaks softer to you now. He didn't expect you to be this upset.

You lean away from him when he tries to rest a hand on your shoulder, ducking under his arm instead to retreat to your room.

"Hey!" he calls after you but you slam the door on him.

Even though you know you don't really have a right to be upset with him, you can't help it. It's not hard to understand where he's coming from, but it doesn't change the fact that things have never been normal between you two. Who could blame you for finally talking about it?

Only now you can't help but feel like an idiot for it.

Sukuna knocks gently on your door, "can I come in?"

"Fuck off," you shout weakly.

You can hear him chuckling on the other side, "Okay, I'm coming in."

You're glaring at Sukuna as he steps into your room and he notices the few tears that are rolling down your cheeks. He sits down on your bed with a small grunt, his hands clasped together as his elbows rest on his knees.

"Look, I'm sorry," he starts and you immediately scoff. "I shouldn't have brushed you off, that's my bad."

"Yeah," is all you give him, followed by a small sniffle.

Sitting back, Sukuna pats his lap, "c'mere." You scoot a little further away from him, shooting him a mean side eye that tells him you haven't forgiven him yet. "Stubborn brat."

Before you can escape, two thick arms wrap around your waist, picking you up like you weigh nothing before dropping you down onto Sukuna's lap. You're straddling his hips, facing him so you can't ignore him anymore. His hands are holding you firmly, forcing you to stay in place and much to your dismay, you can already feel your ire dissipating.

"Don't be like that, you know I love you," Sukuna mutters, looking up at you. Your mascara is a little smudged but other than that your makeup is still in tact, your eyes are a bit glassy from the tears and your lips a little swollen from biting down on them.

"It's not the same," you mumble, blinking quickly when you feel your eyes getting wet again.

Sukuna can't help but wonder if he's really doing the right thing by turning you down if it's going to make his sweet girl so sad.

His thumbs rub your hips as his grip tightens, "let me make it up to you."

With that, he's closing the space between you two, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss starts out like an apology, slow and deep, making sure you can feel everything that he hasn't been able to say to you. And once Sukuna has your hands threading through his undercut, cradling the back of his head to hold him even closer, he only gets hungrier.

Sukuna's tongue swipes along the seam of your lips, slipping inside your warm mouth when they part for him.

You give an experimental roll of your hips, not missing the way Sukuna's breath hitches, nor the tent that's forming in his boxers. Your heart swells with the knowledge that he's feeling good too, that he wants you.

Sucking your bottom lip between his teeth, Sukuna gives it a quick bite, grinning at the way you gasp before he pulls away from you.

He uses his hands to guide you, pressing you down harder against his crotch as he moves your hips back and forth. His eyes are transfixed on the place where you're grinding down onto him, pupils blown wide when your dress starts to bunch up even higher, flashing him a view of your bare mound.

"Fuck," he breathes, "no panties?"

"Mmn, no," you shake your head, "wanted to stay home."

Sukuna groans at that, bucking his hips up into you. He can feel the way you're starting to wet the fabric of his underwear, dripping onto him. "You always take 'em off when you wanna spend time with your dad?"

You're about to tell him not to say stuff like that, but then he's kissing you again and you no longer care. His lips latch onto your neck, suckling on the skin and nipping at it until there's purple splotches left behind. Those marks are much better than the perfume that Sukuna can smell so strongly now.

He drags his tongue up the column of your neck, the strange sensation making you squirm against him.

"Aah, oh god," you whine, humping faster against his bulge. It's the perfect notch to rub against your clit, each grind taking you closer to your climax.

Your thighs burn, your breath short as your rhythm starts to falter and you let out a whine. You want to cum so bad, you're so close… but already tired.

"Keep goin'," Sukuna rasps, pressing a sloppy kiss to your collarbone. "You're doin' so well, making yourself feel good on me. Don't you wanna cum?"

Your hands snake around his neck as you hold him close to you, relishing in the way he's still worshipping you with his lips and his tongue along your skin. "I wanna—yeah," you mewl, "feels so good, please."

Sukuna loves feeling you struggle against him, witnessing your sorry attempt at making yourself cum. Your hips are moving erratically, just trying to get any sort of friction to take you higher while his hands have stopped guiding you. The little whimpers that spill from your bitten lips are just another reminder of how much you need him.

"Please what?" he coos, hands sliding to your ass to knead the fat there.

"So tired… please, need you to help me."

"All ya had to do was ask, sweetheart." With another chaste kiss to your neck, his fingers dig into your waist again, tugging you into him.

Immediately, your body relaxes, giving up entirely on doing any work for your own pleasure. You resign to Sukuna, letting your stepfather have full control.

He's dragging your cunt back and forth along the outline of his cock, the fabric of his boxers only adding to the stimulation. His hips are rolling faster now, pressing up harder against you to add to the pressure and it's perfect. He's able to do everything that you couldn't do in your own and soon your orgasm is returning full force as your head lolls back, a string of moans and curses spilling from your lips.

"C'mon, show me how good I'm makin you feel," Sukuna groans into the crook of your neck. He can feel your cunt pulsing against his length, he knows you're nearly there.

"Fuck, fuck, I think—"

"Don't think baby, just let go. I wanna feel ya cum for me."

Sukuna's overwhelming your senses as his breath fans hot against your skin, his voice low in your ear. The scent of his body wash and cologne waft into your nose as you get consumed by him entirely.

And when you cum it really is just for him. His name is the only word you can choke out between the moan that's ripped from your throat. Your muscles tense and your hold digs into him, desperate to feel him as close as possible while you crumble atop his lap.

"There ya go, just like that. Doesn't that feel nice?" Sukuna coaxes you through your release until you're breathless, slumped into his chest as he rubs your back soothingly. "Still tired?"

You're shaking your head no despite the fact that your eyelids seem to weigh a hundred pounds, and the longer you're wrapped in Sukuna's arms the closer you are to letting them slide shut.

"Maybe let's get you to bed," Sukuna suggests, but those words snap you back awake.

"No, I'm fine," you mumble so quietly that Sukuna is hardly convinced. "I want you to stay."

You can feel his hardness pressing against you. It must be agonizing to sit there with you soaking his lap, the weight of your body being the only semblance of relief provided for his arousal. And it's not nearly enough to satiate his need, you know that.

Sukuna had fully planned on selflessly tucking you in and slipping away to his room so he could take care of himself. He'd think about what your pussy would feel like wrapped around him—as he does every time—while he jerks his cock until he reaches an unsatisfactory completion.

But you cling to him as though your bodies are glued together and continue to beg him to stay. And who is he to deny you when you look at him with those wide eyes, bottom lip jutted out, your voice pleading. He is a man after all, and admittedly not a selfless one.

Sukuna's hands smooth along your back under your dress and you melt into his touch. "Were you holdin' out for me?"

You nod against his chest, unable to see the twitch of his lips. "Please," you push up, detaching yourself further from Sukuna to really meet his eyes now. "Been waiting cause I only want you."

"Shit," Sukuna breathes and any last ounce of hesitation within him melts away when you lightly grind your hips once more against his crotch. He's fully hard beneath you and you can already tell just how big he is.

His fingertips grasp the hem of your dress, tugging it up. "Let's get this off, yeah?" You're so pliant, raising your arms for him to begin stripping you down. Allowing him to move you how he pleases until you're laying on your back, your knees bent and legs spread.

Sukuna runs a hand up and down your calf, tugging it aside just a bit more. He wants to make sure he's got a good view now that you're finally naked before him.

But you press your legs back in, giving him some resistance which earns you a pointed look. "I'm—" you pause, chewing your lip as you do whenever you're feeling unsure.

"What is it?" Sukuna questions, using his strength to keep spreading your thighs apart—eventually you give in.

"I'm nervous," you finally admit. You're wondering if he's going to be upset, irritated at the fact that one minute you were begging him to the stay and the next you're being like this.

Instead, his expression softens the slightest bit and he gives one of your legs a reassuring squeeze. "That's normal, sweetheart. Your dad's gonna take care of you though, you know that right?"

You nod.

"You trust me?"

You nod again.

"Good. Now quit bein' all shy."

When Sukuna steps out of his boxers and frees his heavy length, the only thing you can think about is how badly you need him. His cock is as intimidating as it is captivating, and while it's the only one you've seen, you're certain that no one else could compare. Thick and veiny, the tip looks wet already, though maybe it's just a shimmer from the silver jewelry planted there—a testament to his nature.

Because contradictory to how Sukuna acts with you, he's still rough around the edges. He's a man who doesn't listen to anyone, let alone care what they have to say, and yet he always makes time for you.

He's a man who always said he'd never truly settle down, let alone have kids. And here he is, stuck between those very two relationships with you and trying to navigate which one to pursue.

You turned him soft for you.

But he is still Sukuna. That much becomes clear when he pushes just the tip inside you and feels his self control wavering. He cares about you, but your sweet pussy is practically sucking him in, all warm and tight, and you feel so good that all he wants to do is fuck you like you mean nothing to him.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to indulge just a little bit more, right? He's been so careful up until this point, surely you can handle it.

The look in Sukuna's eyes is pure hunger, black pupils swallowing red as he stares straight down at the cunt that's stretching open around his cock. His tongue darts out to swipe along his bottom lip, your own eyes watching as he wets the soft skin. Sukuna is breathing raggedly above you, hot air fanning against your face and making the space between you two feel even smaller.

You could almost lose yourself in the closeness, letting your eyes flutter shut and inhaling the smell of him, running your hands along his bare back and feeling the way the muscles ripple beneath your fingertips. But you never get the chance because a moment later you're letting out a sound halfway between a moan and a scream, your head thrashing back into the pillow as your thighs clamp down around Sukuna's hips.

He slammed inside you in one solid thrust, unable to wait any longer to bury himself in your heat. And while he knows that he should have been courteous enough to slowly open you up to him, at least he has half a mind to allow you the time to adjust to his length. He slips a hand behind your head, supporting it as he buries your face into his chest and lightly rocks his hips.

"You okay, baby?" he plants a kiss to the crown of your head and your stomach flips.

"It's ah, a lot…" you breathe.

"I know, I know," he pulls out halfway before sliding back in. You whimper at the feeling, not yet completely used to him. "You're takin' me so well though, my good girl. Making me feel so good."

"Yeah?" The hope in your voice could make him melt. Of course it's your first time, and all you can think about is whether or not Sukuna is enjoying himself. And really, how could he not be? Another roll of his hips and you're locking your ankles around his back, holding him close. "You can go faster now."

Sukuna doesn't need to be told twice. With your invitation, he sets a rhythm that's hard enough to make your mouth fall open into the pretty shape of an 'o', hard enough to ensure that he's filling you to the brim each time he enters you. He makes sure he's pressing fully into your cunt until his hips are flush against yours, unable to go any further.

When he sits back on his haunches, he grabs your legs and throws your ankles over his shoulders instead. He's got your hips lifted off the mattress, his arms hugging your thighs for leverage as he pistons in and out of you, pulling a sharp cry from your lips. And it's not the change in speed as he bucks his hips faster that makes your head start to spin, nor is it how his pelvis is now smacking impossibly harder against your ass, but it's the way the new angle allows the head of his cock to bully that perfect spot deep inside you. Just behind your belly button, he manages to press against it with brutal precision, causing your cunt to produce a watery slick that begins to coat his shaft.

"Fuck, you hear that?" He knows you can. The wet squelching sound is embarrassingly loud now, bringing a burning flush to your cheeks as you moan unabashed. "So fuckin' wet. This pussy was made for taking my cock."

The feeling coiling in your stomach is new. Nothing like the sensation you'd experience on those scarce nights when you'd dip a hand into your pajamas, fingers fumbling around your clit until you draw out a pathetic orgasm. No, you feel this everywhere. In your tummy, your abdomen, your cunt. In fact, it feels like—"Kuna, wait!" you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder. "W-wait, stop, I think I have to pee."

But he doesn't stop. He just fucks you with even more vigor, a wicked grin on his lips as he sees the concern on your face and feels the way your silky walls are fluttering around his length. "Shit, baby, that's it." You squeeze your eyes shut and shake your head. "Come on, I'll make you feel good. Trust me, sweetheart."

Even if you didn't want to, it's not like you have much choice in the matter with how unrelenting Sukuna is. You can't fight the feeling for much longer before you're shattering beneath him on the bed, your legs shaking in his hold as you squirt. And he just keeps fucking you through it as you chant his name on repeat like a prayer, your watery release splashing onto his abs and the sheets beneath you two.

"Just like that… look so pretty when you cum for me. Fuck, you're so messy."

In all honesty, Sukuna isn't sure how he hasn't cum yet, but thinks it must be sheer willpower. He's wanted you for so long, unsure if he'd ever have you, and now he sure as shit isn't going to let you go after one measly orgasm. No, even when you're trembling from the overstimulation, stuttering out a weak protest as you come down from your high, he'll keep splitting you open on his cock.

It's almost painful in a wonderful sort of way. The overwhelming pleasure that your stepdad is forcing upon you as he keeps fucking you after you came so hard for him already—twice. It's a feeling that you never would have experienced on your own because you wouldn't be able to keep going. You're too tired, too sensitive to do much more than feebly gyrate your hips against him.

"Ohh, fuck—dad," you whine, the word falling from your lips in a way that sounds so desperate, so needy. Sukuna's hips still immediately. Your eyes open to meet his, an unreadable look on his face as he stares down at you, his mouth agape and breathing heavily. "What's wrong?" you worry.

"Say it again." You pause, your nerves coming back full force under the weight of his gaze and the accompanying demand. "Told ya to quit bein' shy around me. Now tell me who's making you feel this good." He punctuates the command with a rough thrust into your overstimulated cunt.

"Ohmygod, dad!"

Sukuna knows he shouldn't be getting off on that as much as he is, but it's hard to feel bad about it when you're tightening up around his cock every time you cry out for him. You just make it so easy for him to lose himself when he's inside you, when he has you spread out on the sheets beneath him, your back arching and head thrown back into the pillows. And then suddenly, Sukuna feels like he can't let this moment go, not without something to capture it more clearly than his mediocre memory ever could.

The flash from his phone is almost blinding but he can't turn it off because it's unreal the way you look on camera. Skin shining from sweat under the bright light, an arm thrown over your eyes to shield them. Your tits are on full display, bouncing with each rough thrust from the man grunting behind the scenes.

"Come on, baby," Sukuna groans, "say it for the camera. Lemme hear you again."

You would probably be nervous again if it wasn't for the fact that you're teetering on the edge of your climax for the third time tonight and all you care about is feeling as good as Sukuna made you feel earlier. You want him to reduce you into nothing more than a babbling mess, ensuring you don't need to think or speak because you know he'll give you everything you need, because of course he knows what that is. He's always paid such good attention to you, he doesn't even have to try to understand exactly what's going through your head.

"Be a good girl for your dad, huh? Don't you wanna cum?" Sukuna's pace slows just enough for your attention to snap from your thoughts, your wide eyes blinking up at the camera he's still shining in your face.

"Yeah," you nod, your eyebrows pinching together. You hope he doesn't stop. You need him to not stop.

Sukuna runs a hand up your side, brushing over your breast and giving it a light squeeze that makes you wiggle underneath his hips.

"Fuck, aah—dad, please!" you whine when he pinches your nipple, rolling it firmly between two fingers.

"Atta girl…" he groans, kneading your tit in his rough palm one last time before his hand returns to your sore hip. "Love when you call me that."

It's like a flip switched in your brain and you've regressed back into the most desperate version of yourself, your eyes not leaving Sukuna's when he starts drilling you into the mattress again. The picture in his video is shaky and blurry, but it's okay because the audio is still picking up on the best part—

"Oh god, dad! D-Dad, 'm gonna cum!"

"Do it," Sukuna snaps, breathless, "squirt all over my dick like the last time. Show the camera how fuckin' messy my daughter's pussy gets."

His daughter.

That's the part that sends you over the edge this time. He always insists that you call him dad, but you rarely hear him call you his daughter.

Your stomach flips with pride as your walls constrict around Sukuna's length one more time, stealing another moan from the man. And when your muscles tense and start to tremble, your hands clawing at the sheets, Sukuna has half a mind to bury himself inside you and steady the video for once. He angles his phone straight down to where your bodies connect just in time to see you cum. With the flash on, it's impossible to miss the way you squirt around him, the liquid release splashing all over the both of you.

"Ahh shit, I'm gonna cum too."

And he probably should have pulled out, Sukuna knows that. He shouldn't have came inside your sweet pussy like he did. He shouldn't have fucked you in the first place. Hell, he shouldn't have even kissed you.

But if he didn't do all those things, then he wouldn't have gotten to see the way you looked after he fucked you nearly to sleep. The expression on your face was of pure bliss as you were overcome with exhaustion. Your legs were spread when he pulled away and the video perfectly captured your pulsing cunt, all slick and puffy, his cum oozing out of the poor abused hole.

The same pussy that was virgin just a couple of hours ago, now claimed as his after being stretched to his size and filled with his seed.

No amount of guilt can withstand being washed away after a sight like that—he'll fuck his pretty stepdaughter again and again to see it even just one more time.

—the one with the thin straps and the hem that barely reaches mid-thigh. the fabric is soft against your freshly showered skin, still warm and slightly damp at the edges where you didn't dry completely. your hair is down, falling in loosely over your shoulders, and you can smell the vanilla body wash you used—the one he once mentioned he liked. your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat, in your wrists, behind your eyes.

from downstairs, you hear the muffled sound of the television—some sitcom your mom loves, canned laughter filtering up through the floorboards. the sound of her wine glass clinking against the coffee table. she's settled in for the night, completely oblivious.

she has no idea. no idea what's about to happen right above her head.

the lock clicks.

the sound makes you flinch, makes your stomach drop and your thighs clench together automatically. he doesn't knock. just slips inside and closes the door behind him, turning the lock with a soft, final sound that feels like a death sentence and a promise all at once.

"look at you," he says, voice low and rough, and the sound goes straight between your legs. his eyes drag over you—slow and possessive and hungry, taking in every detail. the way the nightgown clings to your chest, your nipples already hard and visible through the thin material. the expanse of your bare thighs. your feet with those perfect white toenails. "so pretty. so obedient. did exactly what daddy told you to do."

you can't speak. can't move. your mouth is dry, your palms are sweating, and you're acutely aware of how exposed you are. just sit there trembling as he crosses the room in three strides, the floorboards creaking slightly under his weight.

"stand up."

you obey automatically, legs shaky, and he circles you like a predator. you can feel the heat radiating off his body, can smell his cologne mixed with something darker—want, possession, barely controlled violence. his hand trails across your shoulders—rough calluses catching on your soft skin—down your spine, over the curve of your ass through the thin fabric. you shiver, goosebumps rising everywhere he touches.

"perfect," he murmurs, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the ownership. "absolutely fucking perfect. my perfect little girl."

"dex—" your voice comes out breathy and uncertain, barely above a whisper. "what if she—"

"she's downstairs watching tv,” he interrupts, hand fisting in your hair and tilting your head back. the pull makes your scalp tingle, makes your back arch, makes you gasp. "wine-drunk and oblivious. she won't hear a thing as long as you're a good girl and stay quiet. can you do that for me?"

you nod, throat working, and he smiles—dark and satisfied and terrifying.

"we'll see."

his mouth crashes against yours—rough and demanding and nothing like the careful touches he's given you before. this is different. this is him unleashing everything he's been holding back. his tongue invades your mouth, claiming, possessing, tasting like his favorite mint chewing gum and something uniquely him. you whimper against him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt, as he groans into your mouth.

"that's it," he growls, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. the mattress presses against the backs of your thighs. "let me hear those pretty sounds."

he pushes you down and you bounce slightly, the springs creaking, gasping as the cool sheets meet your overheated skin. he's on you immediately—knee between your thighs, spreading them wide, hands pinning your wrists above your head. his weight presses you into the mattress, and you can feel every inch of him—his chest against yours, his hips grinding against you, the hard length of his cock pressing into your stomach through his jeans.

"been thinking about this all through dinner," he says, mouth moving to your neck, teeth scraping against your pulse point. you can feel his breath hot against your skin, can feel your pulse jumping under his lips. "watching you sit there with that little shit. watching him try to touch you. wanted to break his fucking hand."

"you told me to—"

"i know what i told you." his teeth graze your pulse point harder and you arch into him, a sharp gasp escaping. "doesn't mean i have to like it. doesn't mean i'm not going to fuck you so hard you forget his name. forget everyone's name except mine."

his free hand slides up your thigh, pushing the nightgown higher, and the drag of his rough palm against your smooth skin makes you tremble. when his fingers find you bare underneath—already wet, already ready—he groans, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours.

"no panties. fuck, honey. you really are daddy's good girl, aren't you?" his fingers slide through your wetness, teasing, and you can hear how slick you are, the obscene wet sounds making your face burn.

"yes," you whimper, hips lifting involuntarily toward his touch. "yes, daddy—"

"that's right." two fingers slide inside you without warning—thick and long and stretching you—and you cry out, back arching off the bed. his hand immediately covers your mouth, palm hot and slightly rough against your lips. "not too loud. remember?"

you nod frantically, eyes wide, and he starts moving his fingers—rough and fast and so deep you see stars. the wet sounds are louder now, obscene, and you can feel yourself clenching around him, can feel the way your body is trying to pull him deeper.

"so needy already," he says, almost conversationally, like he's not currently plunging his fingers into you while your mom watches tv one floor below. "been thinking about this too, haven't you? been waiting for daddy to come back and have this sweet little pussy."

you're trying to stay quiet but it's impossible—little whimpers and moans escaping against his palm, your breath is coming in short gasps through your nose. his fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur and practically every atom in your body cramp up, and you sob against his hand.

"that's it. take it. show me how much you need this." his thumb finds your clit, rubbing harsh circles, and you're shaking, trembling, so close already it's embarrassing.

too much too much too much—

he pulls his fingers out suddenly and you sob at the loss, your hips bucking, chasing his touch. he releases your mouth to work his belt, and you gasp for air, your chest heaving.

"on your stomach," he orders, voice rough with want. "ass up."

his crass wording sets your cheeks ablaze, but yet, you scramble to obey, face pressed into the pillow—you can smell the fabric softener, can feel the cool cotton against your flushed face—ass in the air. the nightgown has ridden up completely, pooling around your upper arms, and you feel exposed. vulnerable. completely at his mercy. you can feel the air conditioning on your wet pussy, can feel yourself clenching around nothing.

his hands grip your hips—hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the soft flesh—and then you feel the head of his cock pressing against you. he's so big, so thick, and for a moment you panic.

too big. he's too big. he's going to—

then he's pushing inside in one brutal thrust, and you scream into the pillow.

"fuck," he groans, bottoming out, and you can feel him everywhere—stretching you impossibly wide, so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach. "so fucking tight. so perfect. made for me. only me."

he doesn't give you time to adjust. just starts fucking you—hard and deep and relentless. the headboard slams against the wall with each thrust—thud thud thud—and you bite down on the pillow to muffle your cries, tasting cotton and your own tears.

she's going to hear. she's going to hear the headboard. she's going to come upstairs and find us and—

"that's my girl," he pants, and you can hear the strain in his voice, can hear how close he is to losing control. "taking daddy's cock so well. such a good little girl for me."

his hand fists in your hair, pulling your head back, and you gasp—back arching deeper, changing the angle so he's hitting something inside you that makes you see white.

"louder," he demands, hips snapping harder. "want to hear you."

"can't—mom—" you sob, but it comes out broken, desperate.

"she can't hear us over the tv." another brutal thrust and you keen, high and desperate. from downstairs, you hear your mom laugh at something on the show, completely oblivious. "and even if she could, i don't care. need everyone to know who you belong to."

he's so deep. so big. stretching you impossibly wide, and you can feel every inch of him—every ridge, every vein. the drag of his cock against your walls is almost too much, pleasure bordering on pain. you're so full, so stretched, and the wet sounds of him fucking you are obscene—the slap of skin on skin, the squelch of your wetness, his ragged breathing.

"please," you sob, face pressed into the pillow, drool soaking the fabric. "please, daddy—"

"please what?" his other hand slides around to find your clit, rubbing harsh circles, and you jerk in his grip. "use your words, honey."

"need to—gonna—"

"gonna come?" his voice is mocking, condescending, and it shouldn't turn you on but it does. "already? we just started, baby. daddy's not done with you yet."

but he doesn't stop. keeps fucking you hard and fast, fingers working your clit, and you're falling apart—shaking and crying and coming so hard you can't breathe. your pussy clenches around him rhythmically, trying to pull him deeper, and you feel wetness gush out around his cock.

"that's it," he groans, and you can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "squeeze daddy's cock. fuck, you feel so good when you come. feel you milking me."

you're boneless, trembling, oversensitive, but he doesn't slow down. just keeps using you, chasing his own pleasure. each thrust punches the air from your lungs, makes the bed creak, makes you whimper.

"gonna fill you up," he pants, and his rhythm is getting erratic now, less controlled. "gonna come so deep inside you. mark you. make sure you remember who you belong to."

"yes," you whimper, barely coherent, face wet with tears and drool. "yes, please—"

he flips you over suddenly—manhandling you like you weigh nothing, and the sudden movement makes you dizzy—and pushes back inside. this angle is even deeper, even more intense, and you claw at his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt.

you can see him now—see the way his jaw is clenched, the way his pupils are blown wide, the way sweat beads on his forehead. he looks feral. dangerous. completely consumed by you.

"look at me," he demands, hand gripping your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. "want to see your face when i come inside you."

you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. you can see yourself reflected in his eyes, can see how wrecked you look.

"mine," he growls, hips snapping faster, harder, the wet sounds getting louder. "say it."

"yours," you gasp, voice breaking. "i'm yours, daddy—"

"fuck—" his rhythm falters, and then he's coming—hot and deep and endless. you feel every pulse, every twitch, feel him flooding you with his cum, and it triggers another orgasm that has you sobbing his name, clenching around him, trying to milk every last drop.

he collapses on top of you, and the weight of him is crushing and perfect. both of you are breathing hard, sweat-slicked and trembling. you can feel his heart pounding against your chest, can feel his cock still twitching inside you, can feel his cum starting to leak out around him.

downstairs, you hear the tv still playing. your mom laughing at something again. the sound of another wine cork popping.

completely clueless.

for a long moment, neither of you move. just lie there tangled together, breathing, coming down. then his hand comes up to cup your face—gentle now, tender—and he kisses you. soft and slow and sweet, completely at odds with the brutal fucking he just gave you.

"good girl," he murmurs against your lips, and his voice is soft now, affectionate. "took me so well. made daddy so proud."

you can't respond. can barely think. just lie there feeling his cum leaking out around his cock, getting your bedding all messy, feeling the weight of him pinning you down, feeling completely and utterly his.

he pulls out slowly—you both wince at the sensation—and you feel the rush of his cum spilling out of you, warm and wet, soaking into the sheets beneath you. you whimper at the loss, at the sudden emptiness.

"shh, i've got you," he soothes, and his hand strokes your hair back from your sweaty forehead. "daddy's got you, honey."

he shifts off you, and you immediately feel cold without his weight. but then he's moving, and you hear him in your attached bathroom—water running, drawers opening. he comes back with a warm washcloth, and the sight of him—still fully dressed except for his open jeans, holding a washcloth like this is normal, like he does this every day—sends a flutter through your chest.

"spread your legs for me, baby," he says softly, and you obey automatically, too wrung out to do anything else.

the warm cloth against your oversensitive pussy makes you gasp, makes you flinch, but his other hand comes to rest on your stomach—grounding, soothing.

"i know, i know," he murmurs, cleaning you gently, carefully, wiping away the evidence of what you just did. "you're so sensitive. did so good for me. such a perfect girl."

his touch is tender now, reverent almost, and it makes your eyes sting with fresh tears. he cleans over your stomach, between your thighs where some of his cum dripped, then gently over your swollen, used pussy. when he's done, he tosses the washcloth aside and adjusts the pillow under your head, making sure you're comfortable.

"there," he says, lying down beside you and pulling you into his chest. his hand strokes through your hair—slow, soothing motions from crown to ends. "that's my girl. my perfect, beautiful girl."

you burrow into him, breathing in his scent—cologne and sweat and sex—and his arms tighten around you. possessive. protective.

"you're mine," he whispers into your hair, pressing kisses to your crown, your temple, your forehead. "all mine. no one else gets to touch you. no one else gets to see you like this. just me."

"just you," you echo, voice small and wrecked.

his hand continues its gentle path through your hair, and his other hand rubs slow circles on your back. you can feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and strong, and despite everything—despite how wrong this is, despite the fact that your mom is one floor below—you feel safe.

i shouldn't feel safe. this is the opposite of safe.

"so proud of you," he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "took everything i gave you. didn't complain. such a good girl for daddy."

you make a small sound—half sob, half sigh—and press closer to him.

"need you to do something for me," he says after a moment, and his hand stills in your hair.

you tense slightly. "what?"

"need you to go to the bathroom. clean up properly. can't have you going downstairs with my cum running down your legs." his voice is practical, but there's an edge of possession underneath. "then you're going to put on some pajamas and go downstairs. smile at your mom. tell her what a nice time you had with logan tonight."

the mention of logan makes you flinch.

"and tomorrow," he continues, hand resuming its stroking through your hair, "you're going to break up with him. tell him it's not working out. that you need space."

"but you said—"

"i changed my mind." he pulls back to look at you, and his expression is serious. intense. "don't need a cover anymore. don't want anyone else touching what's mine. don't want to sit through another dinner watching some boy try to put his hands on you."

his thumb traces your swollen bottom lip, and you can see the possessiveness in his eyes—the jealousy, the ownership.

"understand?"

you nod, and he smiles—satisfied and dark and completely in control.

"good girl." he kisses you again—soft and lingering—then helps you sit up. your legs are shaky, your whole body feels like jelly, and he steadies you with his hands on your waist. "go on. bathroom. i'll wait."

you stumble to the bathroom on unsteady legs, and when you close the door behind you, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror.

you look thoroughly fucked. hair a mess, lips swollen and red, hickeys blooming on your neck and chest, eyes glassy and unfocused. you look like exactly what you are—a girl who just got fucked by her stepdad while her mom watched tv downstairs.

i'm so fucked, you think, but you're already cleaning yourself up.

when you come back out, he's smoothed himself over, looking completely composed while you're still a wrecked mess. he helps you into a pair of pajama shorts and a t-shirt—his hands gentle, and presses one more kiss to your forehead.

"fifteen minutes," he says against your hair. "then come downstairs. act normal."

he leaves, and you're alone—hazy and sore and still feeling the ghost of him inside you.

from downstairs, you hear him greeting your mom. hear her ask if you're okay. hear him say you're just tired from the date.

she has no idea. no idea at all.

but you're already planning how to break up with logan.

already thinking about tomorrow.

already his.