syd

A Daddy Kink? Oh, absolutely.

But with Phillip, I don’t think “Daddy” is just about the word.

It is about what the word does to him.

Phillip likes titles. Commander. Sir. Daddy. Husband. Father. Those words put him in place. They tell him who he is in the room, what kind of authority he has, what kind of claim he gets to make.

So before kids?

Yeah.

“Daddy” is pure cocky authority kink for him.

It is the same part of his brain that likes being called Commander Graves. The same part of him that likes giving orders and watching people obey. Except now it is you saying it, breathless and flustered, handing him control with your own mouth.

And he would be so smug about it.

You’re mouthing off, pushing him, acting real brave for someone standing that close, and he just tilts his head.

“Careful, young lady.”

And you hate how fast it works.

Hate that your mouth shuts before you can stop it. Hate that your breath catches. Hate that your whole attitude stumbles for one stupid second.

Phillip sees it.

Of course he does.

His eyes drop. Just once.

Then they come back to your face, slow and mean and pleased.

“Oh,” he says, voice low. “That’s what we’re doin’?”

Awful man.

Terrible man.

Because now he knows.

And once Phillip Graves knows something works, you are finished.

I think he is very much a say my name man. He wants you present. He wants you looking at him. He wants all that attitude stripped down until the only thing left in your mouth is him.

“Say it, darlin’. Let me hear it.”

“Look at me.”

“Who’s got you?”

“Who do you belong to right now?”

And yes.

Absolutely.

“Who’s your daddy?”

Not in a goofy way. Not in a corny way. In that low, controlled, too-cocky Phillip voice where he already knows the answer and just wants to make you give it to him.

That is the part he likes.

The admission.

The fact that you can be stubborn and mouthy all you want, but eventually he can get you soft enough, flustered enough, desperate enough, that you say it.

And the worst part?

It gets to him too.

You can see it. The way his eyes go darker when he finally hears it. The way his mouth parts for half a second before the smugness slides back into place. Like hearing you hand him that title hits somewhere lower than he expected, and now he has to make that your problem.

And Commander Graves?

That is its own fucking issue.

Because that one is cleaner on the surface. Polished. Professional. Respectable.

Which somehow makes it dirtier.

I can absolutely see his secretary calling out sick and you filling in for the day. Nothing serious. Just answering phones, organizing papers, sitting outside his office in a skirt and heels like you are not fully aware of what you are doing to him.

And Phillip tries to be normal about it.

He really does.

For about twenty minutes.

Then you walk into his office with a folder tucked against your chest, all eyelashes and floral perfume, sweet and helpful, and say:

“Commander Graves?”

His pen stops moving.

That is it.

Just one little pause.

For one second, Phillip does not look at you.

He looks at the paper like it has personally betrayed him.

Then his eyes lift.

Slow.

Sharp.

He takes in the heels first. Then your legs. The skirt. The folder held against your chest. The innocent little expression on your face like you are not playing with fire in his office while he is trying to run a company.

“Need somethin’, sweetheart?”

And you smile like butter would not melt.

“Just your signature, sir.”

There.

That one gets him.

You can see it in the way his jaw shifts. The way his hand tightens around the pen. The way his eyes flick to the office door and back to you like he is doing math he already knows the answer to.

That door is getting locked eventually.

Maybe not right away, because Phillip has restraint when he wants to.

And honestly?

He likes the waiting.

He likes watching you sit outside his office pretending to behave while he knows exactly what that title sounded like in your mouth. Likes having to school his own hand away from his belt buckle when he catches sight of you through the glass, sitting at that desk in your skirt and heels, working so hard for his company like you are not doing every bit of it on purpose.

But eventually, the intercom clicks on.

“Come here a minute, darlin’.”

And when you step inside, he is leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, expression calm in that way that should immediately make you nervous.

He does not say anything at first.

Just looks at you.

Then he nods toward the door.

“Lock it.”

So yes.

Daddy. Commander. Sir.

It is all the same family for him.

Authority. Control. Permission. Proof that you know exactly who he is and still want him anyway.

But after he becomes an actual father?

The Daddy thing changes.

Not disappears.

Changes.

Because now “Daddy” is not just something you call him when he has you pinned down and flustered. Now there is a baby in the house calling him that with sticky hands and sleepy eyes and his whole little chest.

Now it is real.

Now it has weight.

Before kids, Daddy means:

I’m in charge.

After kids, Daddy means:

I made you Mama.

And unfortunately for everyone involved, that would go straight to Phillip’s head.

Because Phillip’s breeding kink is not just “I want to get you pregnant” in some shallow way.

It is proof.

Evidence.

Consequence.

It is the fact that your body carried something that came from both of you. The fact that there is a little person in the world because you loved each other hard enough to make life.

And Phillip Graves would be absolutely unbearable with evidence.

The baby is proof.

Your body is proof.

The way you answer to Mama now is proof.

The little voice calling him Daddy from down the hall is proof.

Proof that he had you.

Proof that you let him.

Proof that you chose him so completely that both of your lives changed shape around it.

He would see you holding the baby on your hip, tired and soft and giving him attitude over your shoulder, and it would hit him low and hard all over again.

That is his wife.

That is his baby.

That is the woman who let him love her so hard it became a person.

And God help you if he decides he wants to do it again.

Because now when you call him Daddy in bed, it is not just a game anymore.

It is a reminder.

A threat, almost.

A promise.

He is thinking about another baby.

Another little voice.

Another piece of proof.

He is thinking about his hand spread low over your stomach and the first time your body took him seriously enough to make him a father.

It is not just:

“Who’s your daddy?”

It is:

“You remember what happened last time you called me that?”

And he says it with his mouth close to your ear, voice rough and too fucking pleased with himself because he knows you remember too.

Because there is a baby sleeping down the hall who happened last time.

Because he knows exactly what he gave you.

Because he knows exactly what you gave him.

That, to me, is where the kink gets hotter.

Because it stops being only about control and starts being about consequence.

Phillip is a results man. He likes proof. He likes outcomes. He likes being able to point at something and know he made it happen.

So of course breeding would get under his skin.

It is the most physical, undeniable version of all of that.

His name in your mouth.

His baby in your arms.

His whole life suddenly walking around outside his body because the two of you could not keep your hands off each other.

Before kids, he likes the title because it gives him power.

After kids, he likes it because he is Daddy.

Because you made him one.

Because every time he hears it, some greedy, possessive part of him remembers that he got to make you Mama too.

And wants to do it again.

Over and over.

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Taglist:

The phone hits the receiver, and his chair creaks. It’s followed by the tread of his heavy boots and then he’s leaning in the doorway with his sleeves shoved up his forearms and your eyes dart back to the computer screen because if you look you’ll surely get yourself into trouble.

“You can go home, love,” he says.

“Just finishing something,” you lie.

“S’that so?”

“Mhm,” you nod once.

He doesn’t move but you can feel his eyes, see the breadth of him in your peripheral.

“What’re you finishing, then?”

“The brief,” you answer surely.

“Brief’s been done. Went out this afternoon.”

Your eyes flick to him as your hands go clammy over your keyboard. He’s watching you with his arms folded, the corner of his mouth pulled up enough to notice, his tongue pushes briefly against the inside of his cheek.

“I’m makin’ sure it was done properly.”

“Right.” He pushes off the frame and nods his chin toward his desk. “Come into my office a minute.”

You push your chair back and stand up with a small wobble at your knees.

His office is warmer than the corridor outside it. Probably something to do with the heating in this wing, or maybe just with him — the size of him, the bulk of his shoulders, the heat that rolls off his hands.

He shuts the door behind you with a click and you hear it, the small mechanical sound of it, and your stomach drops an inch. You turn to look at him.

“Desk,” he gestures.

You walk over. The lamp on it puts a circle of yellow light on the leather blotter and the open file framing a stack of paperwork. You reach for the papers, finger trailing over the text, trying to catch a keyword to clue you in.

“What am I looking at?”

“This bit.” He comes up behind you and reaches around. His chest is ghosting your back, his arm reaching out along yours. He taps a paragraph halfway down the page with his index and you cannot read a single word of it. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.”

The warm scent of his day-long body and sweet cigar smoke rush your lungs and all the words on the page start to blur together. “I—,”

“Take your time,” he murmurs before his hand settles on your hip and his chest is no longer a ghost.

You stop breathing.

He just lets it rest there, heavy, the heat of his palm soaking through the cheap polyester of your skirt, his thumb just barely tracing the seam at your waistband. You stare at the page but the words won’t stop swimming.

“Well?” he presses gently.

“I— there’s a— the wording in paragraph four…”

“Mm.” His thumb slides up, up, under the hem of your blouse, finding the strip of skin above your skirt, pressing into the soft of you. “What about it?”

“It—,” you try and give up before you get any lie sorted. “Captain,” you sigh.

“Hm?”

Your whole body is going languid. His mouth is at the side of your throat, not kissing, just there, lips sliding softly, his breath at the hinge of your jaw. You make a sound that you didn’t mean to make and feel him huff a laugh into your skin.

“Look at you,” he says, low. “You’ve been wound up for hours.”

“I haven’t—”

“Coming in here with that mouth on you,” he continues over you. “This little skirt.” His hand at your hip slides around, splays flat against the front of your stomach, presses you back into him so you can feel exactly what he is, the hard line of his cock against your lower back, hot through his trousers. “Did you wear it for me, love?”

“No—”

He tisks. “Liar.”

He says it warm, almost fondly. And then his hand comes up under your jaw and turns your face over your shoulder and his mouth is on yours.

The angle is awkward, but it doesn’t stop him. Or you. His mouth is open and heated from the start, his tongue in your mouth, his hand on your throat, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw, keeping your face turned where he wants it. You moan into him and feel his other hand drag up the back of your thigh, your skirt riding with it, his palm rough against your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he says against your mouth.

“Don’t—”, you whimper softly.

“Don’t stop?”

“Don’t stop.”

“Atta girl.”

Was it wise to have said the things you had said about him? No; you knew it when when you felt your gut constrict as you pressed 'send' on the email you'd sent to your boss, you knew it when you saw a black car outside your office in the wake of your decision, and you knew it when a small card and a single rose was left on your desk.

A white rose, and a note that was amused.

I appreciate the coverage; you're a lot nicer than the others who've covered me in the past - so I'm choosing to be nice to you. There will be a car waiting for you outside at 8pm.

Don't take my kindness for granted, birdie.

S.R.

Yes, it was a threat cloaked in the kindness of the gesture of the white rose.

A peace treaty, you'd supposed. Something to tell you to keep your mouth shut and quit prying into things you had no business sticking your nose into. Unfortunately, it was in your nature to be curious, and while some would have been inclined to take the warning and throw the rose in the bin, you'd rushed to the staff room, poured down the remnants of your morning coffee down the drain.

You filled your cup with cold water, and for the rest of the day sheepishly smiled and waved off any speculation of a possible new man whenever your co-workers would motion towards the flower in the makeshift vase.

The noise around the peculiar gesture swelled like an orchestral climax, striking the chords in your heart, ignorant to the blinking line on the empty word document as your hands hovered above the keyboard of your laptop.

Instead, your attention was split between two things: the rose, and the clock.

A blessing and a curse.

An hour felt like a decade, and life was reduced to a purgatory; you were needlessly suspended in your own self-indulgent pondering of what the interaction between the pair of you would be. You'd been a clumsy shot for a while at that point, aiming at the target, only ever managing to skim it until the article you'd published a couple of days prior.

Confirmation of your success was withheld, and for a short while you'd been under the belief that, once again, you had missed despite your coverage being the most personal anyone had managed to provide to the public.

So, when the clock struck eight, you hadn't even had the dismay of clumsily shoving everything into your bag because, for the entirety of the day, anything you pulled out was placed right back in once it had served its purpose.

You hoped he was more caring than you were.

Leaving your office, your breath clouded in the air, the lights of the entrance revealing the body of a sleek, black car parked right in front of the building.

Outside it stood an older gentleman with a thick moustache and a dark glint in his eye. Dressed in a black blazer, and dress pants. They hugged the curve of his muscles, and when he shifted, the fabric of his white shirt creased. His hand held his wrist, resting just over the crotch of his pants.

He cocked his head slightly as you approached him. Letting go of his wrist, he extended his hand out and stepped to the side, pulling the car door open. You looked between him and the black leather interior of the car, tongue heavy in your mouth.

"I advise," he said, his tone as rough as acid-washed jeans, "you comply. It'd be the best thing for both of us."

The concept of blood on his hands seemed, not to be a stranger, no, rather, to be an inconvenience to the man. Not that you'd been left with much a choice, you'd not considered running. In fact, you crouched over and got into the car.

The journey was uneventful, driven through city streets you'd scoured since you were an undergraduate journalist, surviving on a diet of cup noodles and speculation with no appetite for dishonesty.

It worked stunningly, although, not good enough to keep you from streets filled with litter, and it had only been when you blinked and took a breath as the car came to a sudden stop that you'd realised that the city you called home was more than a stranger than you'd considered it to be.

"Stay," said the man at the front of the car, addressing you like you were his loyal mutt.

Shamefully, you didn't dare bark back a response, no did you dare to grab hold of the handle of the door. No, instead, you settled with obeying him, watching him through the window as he left the car.

He opened the door for you, motioning for you to get out with a polite hand. Like the loyal mutt you’d proven yourself to be, you did as you were told, head panning the surrounding street you’d ended up on. It was somewhere in the expensive part of the city; you knew that from the lack of track lining the curb side, and the dim lights of the restaurant windows. Above the entrance of the one you’d parked outside of were the words ‘The White Rose.’

Oh, you’d thought, so the rose wasn’t a peace treaty.

Your heart skipped a beat, lips curling to form a smile. A man of metaphor was a man for you most definitely. You were ushered into the restraint by the brown haired man, and while he took you, you attempted to squeeze even a semblance of information out of him, but he refused to let a word pass his thin lips, and only spoke to address the masked devil tucked away in one of the corners of the restaurant.

Placed on the table was a vase of white roses, and sitting before him was a glass of what you’d believed to be whiskey. His mask shifted upwards at the sight of you, extending his hand out to clasp the top of his glass, the tendons of his hand nudging against the bulging vein in the centre. He tongued at the inners of his mouth, tongue poking against the side of his cheek, pertruding past the fabric of his mask as his eyes skimmed your body. Had you known what was waiting for you that morning, you would have opted to wear something over than your greying white shirt and office slacks.

“Thank you, Price,” breathed the man, “You’re dismissed.”

The man offered him a prompt nod, turning quickly on his heel, leaving you with the man. Much to your surprise, he rose from where he was sitting, rounding you like hunter would its prey. His aftershave hit the back of your throat like a shot of alcohol as he moved around you. Close enough to feel the heat of his body, far away enough to leave you wanting more.

He pulled your chair out. “Take a seat, birdie.”

No words made their way to your mouth, and so you nodded, taking a seat. You heard him let out a breathy chuckle. Your hands braced the bottom of the chair as he pushed it in. Resting your hands against the top of the table, he rounded the table and took a seat.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“It’s not like I would have had much of a choice if I didn’t want to be here,” you said, digging your nails in the tablecloth. “I have a feeling I would’ve been sitting here whether I liked it or not.”

“Smart girl,” answered the man with a nod, grinning, “I like that.”

“The rose wasn’t a peace treaty.”

“I’d put a bullet in my head before I considered doing something like that – but, from what I’ve seen of your coverage, I think you already know that.”

“I do,” you said, watching as he pushed a glass of red wine across to you. “My favourite,” you said, pressing your back against the chair, “You’ve been watching me longer than you’ve let on.”

“Since the first piece you wrote on me.” He answered you with the same tone someone would use to tell you what they’d had for dinner the day earlier. “You’ve got a talent. Anyone would think I was paying you to flatter me.”

Taking hold of the glass, you pressed it against your bottom lip, “Hm. How odd.”

“You’ve been trying to get my attention.”

“And what if I have been?” you asked. “How would that make you feel?”

His eyes narrowed, opting to steal a lick of the night sky’s darkness, containing it in his pupils. A sucked a breath up through his mouth, broad chest swelling, his hand forming a fist around the glass in it, obscuring it from your view. With a grunted sigh, he confessed, “Intrigued.”

“Why?”

“Because the only people who actively seek me are the police. Everyone else knows to keep their heads down and to look the other way… but not you, sweetheart. No; you’ve been writing me love letters for the whole world to see.”

“Is that an issue?”

“No,” he said, shifting in his seat, hand slipping off the table, covered by the table cloth. He grunted when he added, “not at all." There was a brief silence between the two of you, and he spent that time simply staring at you before saying. "Quite the opposite, really."

You smiled. "How peculiar."