babydoll

you’ve stumbled into babydoll world! 🧁

if we're going to do this properly, you should probably know a thing or two about the girl behind the screen. and learn the rules before you dive in.

writing disclaimer.

this is where fiction gets filthy, fantasies get fed, and fictional characters get absolutely wrecked — all in good fun, of course. nothing here is real, nothing here is endorsed, and everything here is just for the girls who get it.

so settle in, scroll around, and maybe stay a while.

please do not put my work into any form of ai.

leave any requests/thoughts for me in the inbox ! 💌

babydoll writes ! — blurbs and one shots

౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡babydoll's library — long works/series

each character has their own 'sprinkle:' tag!

with love and lipstick stains,

"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're putting on your shoes by the front door when dex walks in from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. he's been tinkering with his car all morning—grease smudged across his knuckles, hair a little messy in that way that makes your stomach flip. he looks good. 

doesn't he always look good?

"where are you off to, honey?" his voice is casual, but his eyes track your movements as you grab your bag.

"shopping." you say it like it's obvious, slinging the bag over your shoulder. "my closet is having a crisis. it needs new friends."

he huffs a laugh, low and warm, and his hand goes to his back pocket. he pulls out his wallet without hesitation—doesn't ask how much, doesn't ask what for. just slides a black card out and holds it between two fingers, extending it toward you. his wedding ring catches the light.

"don't spend it all in one place."

you take it slow, letting your fingers brush against his as you pluck the card from his grip. the contact lingers—his skin warm, slightly rough from the metal he’s been working on. you look up at him through your lashes, biting the inside of your cheek.

"and if i do?"

his jaw tightens just slightly. his thumb rubs against his index finger where you touched him, and his eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before meeting your gaze again.

"then i guess you'll have to find a way to make it up to me."

your stomach flips. heat pools low in your belly. you like that. you like that a lot.

you tuck the card into your bag, blow him a kiss—his eyes track the movement of your lips—and disappear out the front door before your face can get any hotter.

—

three hours later, you're back. your arms are full of shopping bags, handles digging into your wrists, and the house is too quiet when you push through the front door.

you kick off your shoes and drop the bags by the stairs, listening. no tv. no footsteps. no sound of anyone moving around.

"dex?"

nothing.

you check the kitchen. empty. the living room. empty. the garage door is closed.

then you walk upstairs, bags in hand, and your bedroom door is slightly ajar.

you push it open.

dex is sitting on the edge of your bed, leaning back on his hands, legs spread wide. he's showered since you left—hair still damp and pushed back from his face, wearing a clean white t-shirt that clings to his chest and shoulders. he looks comfortable. patient. like he's been waiting for you.

his eyes flick to the bags in your hands, then back to your face.

"took you long enough."

you slow down in the doorway, a smile tugging at your lips despite the flutter in your chest. "miss me?"

"always." his voice is rough around the edges. he nods toward the bags. "let me see what you bought with my money."

you cross the threshold of the room and shut the door behind you. the click of the latch feels louder than it should. you drop the bags on the floor by your bed, and he shifts slightly, making room, his eyes never leaving you.

you pull out the first dress. it's short—really short—bright pink, strapless, with a little slit up the side. the fabric is soft in your hands, almost silky.

you hold it up against your chest, tilting your head as you study the item. "i don't know about this one. i thought it'd be cute, but now i'm not sure—"

"try it on." his voice is firm. not mean, just... certain. his eyes are already cataloging the dress, the way it'll sit on your body.

you look at him. "now?"

"now."

your breath catches. you should feel shy. you do feel shy, a little—heat creeping up your neck, your fingers tightening on the fabric. but there's something about the way he's watching you, steady and entirely focused, that makes you want to give him what he wants.

you pull your shirt over your head, slow, and his eyes track the movement. the fabric slides up your stomach, over your ribs, and you drop it on the floor. you're in your bra now—nothing fancy, just everyday lace—and the air is cool against your skin.

you don't turn around. you don't hide.

you step out of your jeans next, pushing them down your hips and kicking them aside. you're in just your bra and underwear now, standing in front of him, and his jaw tightens. his knuckles go white where they're pressed against the mattress.

you pick up the pink dress and pull it over your head, smoothing it down your hips. the fabric is light, barely there, and the slit hits high on your thigh. you give him a slow spin, letting the skirt flare slightly.

"well?"

dex lets out a breath—long and controlled, like he's been holding it. his eyes drag down your body, lingering on the slit, the way the dress hugs your waist.

"keep going."

you pull out the second dress. black satin, slip-style, low back. you hold it up, and his eyebrow raises slightly.

"this one feels expensive." his voice is lower now, rougher.

"it was." you smile.

you don't ask if he's mad. you just strip the pink dress off—pulling it over your head and letting it fall to the floor—and reach for the black one. you pull it on, the satin cool and slippery against your skin, and turn your back to him so he can see the way it dips low, exposing your spine.

you glance over your shoulder, fingers finding the zipper. "help?"

you hear him stand. feel the shift in the air as he moves toward you. his footsteps are quiet on the carpet, but you feel him behind you—the heat of him, the way he invades your space.

his fingers find the zipper, and he tugs it up slow. his knuckles brush your bare spine, dragging upward, and you shiver. his hand lingers at the top, thumb pressing against the nape of your neck.

"you're testing me," he says softly, his breath warm against your ear.

"maybe." your voice comes out smaller than you meant. "is it working?"

his hand slides down to your hip, thumb pressing into the satin, and he squeezes once. then he steps back.

"more."

you turn to face him, and his eyes are darker now. hungrier.

you reach into the last bag and pull out the final dress. pale pink, babydoll style, so short it's barely a dress at all, your mother would surely hate it. the fabric is sheer and floaty, almost see-through in the light.

you don't hesitate this time. you just pull the black dress off—letting it pool at your feet—and tug the final one over your head. it slips over you like water, light and soft, barely covering your bottom.

you smooth it down and look at him. "this one's for you."

his jaw clenches. his hands flex at his sides like he's stopping himself from reaching for you.

"yeah?"

"yeah." you step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. "i picked it out thinking about you. about you watching me wear it."

his hand comes up, fingers curling around your jaw, tilting your face up. his thumb brushes your bottom lip, and your breath hitches.

"you're gonna be the death of me," he murmurs.

you smile against his thumb. "that's the plan."

then you reach into the smallest bag—the one you saved for last.

you pull out lace. white. sheer. a tiny bra with delicate straps and matching panties that are practically floss. you hold them up by one finger, dangling them between you.

"these were the real reason i went."

dex's eyes drop to the panties, then back to your face. his pupils are blown wide, and his breathing has changed—deeper, more controlled.

"put them on."

"make me."

the words hang between you. his eyes flash—something dark and possessive—and his hand tightens on your jaw.

"you want me to make you?"

you nod, just slightly, and his mouth crashes against yours.

it's not gentle. his hands find your waist, gripping the thin fabric of the babydoll dress, and he walks you backward until your legs hit the bed. you fall onto it, bouncing slightly, and he's on top of you before you can catch your breath.

he kisses you like he's starving—his tongue sliding against yours, his teeth catching your bottom lip. his hand slides up your thigh, pushing the dress higher, and you gasp into his mouth.

"you got this for me, huh?" he murmurs against your lips, his hand squeezing your thigh. "you bought all of this thinking about me watching you?"

"yeah." your voice is breathless. "yeah, i did."

"good girl." his hand slides higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of your underwear. "now let me see the rest."

he pulls your underwear down slow—dragging the fabric over your hips, your thighs—and you lift your hips to help him. he tosses them aside and settles between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs gently.

he looks at you like a starved man. like he's memorizing every detail.

"tell me what you want," he says, and his voice is serious now. grounding. "use your words, honey."

your chest aches. your throat is tight. "i want you."

"want me to what?"

"i want you to—" you swallow hard. "i want you to fuck me."

something in his eyes darkens. satisfied.

"there she is." he leans down, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, and you feel his smile against your skin. "that's my girl."

his mouth moves higher, trailing wet kisses along the sensitive skin, and your breath catches. his hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, and he pauses—just looking at you. studying you. cataloging every detail like he always does.

"so pretty," he murmurs, his breath warm against you. "been thinking about this all day. waiting for you to get home from the mall, knowing you were buying all this for me."

then his mouth is on you, and your back arches off the bed.

his tongue is slow at first—deliberate, teasing—dragging through your folds with agonizing patience. he hums against you, the vibration making you gasp, and your hands fly to his hair, fingers threading through the damp strands.

"dex—" your voice breaks on his name.

"i know, baby. i know." his hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, holding you open for him. "just let me taste you. let me make you feel good."

he licks into you deeper, his tongue circling your clit with focused precision, and you can't stop the whimper that escapes. your hips roll against his mouth, seeking more, and he groans—low and hungry—like you're the best thing he's ever tasted.

one hand leaves your thigh, and you feel his fingers at your entrance, teasing. he pulls back just enough to watch as he slides one finger inside you, slow and careful, his eyes locked on your face.

"look at you," he breathes, his voice rough. "taking me so well. you're so wet, honey. all this for me?"

"yes—" you gasp as he adds a second finger, stretching you, curling them just right. "yes, all for you—"

"that's right." his mouth returns to your clit, sucking gently, and your vision blurs. "all mine. my pretty girl, letting me take care of her."

his fingers pump into you steadily, finding that spot inside that makes your thighs shake. his tongue works your clit in tight circles, relentless and focused, and you can feel the pressure building—hot and overwhelming.

your hands tighten in his hair, pulling, and he moans against you. the sound vibrates through your entire body.

"dex, i'm—i'm gonna—"

"come for me, baby." his voice is muffled against you, but you hear the command in it. "let daddy see it. wanna watch you fall apart."

his fingers pump faster, his mouth sucks impossibly harder, and you shatter.

your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your back arching, thighs clamping around his head. he doesn't stop—doesn't let up—just works you through it with his mouth and fingers until you're gasping, trembling, pushing weakly at his shoulders because it's too much.

he pulls back slowly, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, your stomach. his chin is wet, his eyes dark and satisfied as he looks up at you.

"perfect," he murmurs, crawling up your body to kiss you. you taste yourself on his tongue. "you're so fucking perfect."

later—much later—when you're curled against his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your shoulder, you smile against his skin.

tomorrow, you're going to wear that pink dress out. the short one with the slit. and he's going to sit across from you at dinner, watch the fabric ride up your thigh, and remember exactly what you did tonight.

and you're going to let him.

literally me trying to come up w new smut ideas bc i litt cannot keep writing piv w/out it all sounding the same : |

anon, litt tearing up a little bit reading this. 😊 thank you so much for your sweet words—it means the world to know how much you've been liking my writing!

i honestly wasn't expecting the honey stories to take off the way they did, so getting requests like this is the biggest surprise (and the best motivation everrrr!) and i'm here to reassure you that more parts are definitely coming! i'm actively working on outline of the next chapter ;)

and oh my goshhhh, your idea about him becoming more distant to avoid suspicion while she's down bad for him??? the angst...the tension. i love it. i'll def be taking notes on that.

if something here isn't your cup of tea—that's totally fine! but please, just block me and move on. seriously! the block button is free, takes two seconds, and is so much kinder than sending anon hate mail! let's save our energy for things that actually bring us joy, kay?

also, quick refresher: what i post is rooted in fantasy and what my requesters and i find fun—not strict canon or 100% in-character accuracy. i'm here to have a freak fest, not write a dissertation or a character study. if you need everything to be perfectly lore-accurate at all times, you probably won't enjoy my work, and that's fine! we can coexist peacefully by simply going our separate ways.

negativity, rudeness, and hate mail? not on the menu. this space is for joy, whimsy, and connection. be kind, or just scroll past. it's like actually that simple. shocker, i know!

—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.

you'd stared at him. "what?"

"a cover." his thumb stroked circles against your inner thigh. "someone to take you out. someone she can fuss over."

so you'd done it. found logan from bio class—sweet, harmless logan who laughed at his own jokes. asked him out for coffee. let him take you to dinner.

and now he's sitting at your dining room table, looking like he wants to disappear into the floor.

"so, logan." dex leans back in his chair, arms crossed. a black henley stretches across the wide expanse of his shoulders. "what are your intentions with her?"

logan shifts in his seat. his palm is damp where it rests near yours on the table. "i—uh—i really like her, sir. she's smart and funny and—"

"and young," dex interrupts. his eyes don't leave logan's face. "and trusting." each word lands with weight. "i hope you understand that means i'm watching you carefully."

your face burns. logan looks pale.

"honey," your mom says, but there's something uncertain in her voice. "you're being a bit..." her words bang in the air for a moment before she finds her end, "much."

"am i?" dex's expression softens when he looks at her. "sorry, babe. just want to make sure she's safe."

"it's fine," logan says quickly. "i get it. if i had a daughter—"

"you don't." dex's voice is flat. "so you can't possibly understand."

the rest of dinner is excruciating. dex asks logan about school, about his family, about his plans—all while his foot finds yours under the table. presses against your ankle. slides up your calf, slow and deliberate, while he's asking logan about his major with perfect innocence on his face.

you focus on your pasta. try to breathe normally. try not to think about the fact that three hours ago, dex had you contorted in the back of his car in an empty parking lot, his hand over your mouth.

your mom keeps glancing between you and dex. her brow furrows. then her eyes land on you—really land on you—and something shifts in her expression.

"honey," she says slowly. "what's that on your neck?"

your hand flies to your throat. fingers find the spot where dex had sucked too hard yesterday. you'd thought the concealer was enough.

"it's nothing," you say. "i—uh—burned myself with my curling iron."

your mom leans closer. studies you. "that doesn't look like a burn."

"i bruise really easily. you know that." you were on fire now. it felt like everyone at the table could read your mind. you'd never wanted to curl into a ball and die more than you do right now.

logan is staring now too, confused.

dex looks completely unbothered. if anything, there's satisfaction in his eyes.

"you've been so distracted lately," your mom continues. her voice is careful. measured. "spacey. and you're always—" she gestures vaguely. "—you two are always disappearing into rooms together."

"we're bonding," dex says smoothly. "isn't that what you wanted?"

your mom's jaw tightens. she opens her mouth. closes it. looks at logan, then back at you. whatever she was going to say, she swallows it. "never mind. i'm being silly."

but she's not looking at you the same way anymore.

when dinner finally ends, logan practically runs for the front door. you follow him outside, your legs unsteady.

"sorry about dex," you say quietly on the front porch, twisting your hands tentatively behind your back. "he's just—"

"protective. yeah." logan shoves his hands in his pockets. "it's kind of sweet, actually."

he leans in to kiss you—just a quick peck—and you're about to let him when the front door swings open.

"logan." dex's voice cuts through the night. "i think it's time you headed home."

logan jerks back. "right. yeah. sorry, sir."

"no need to apologize." dex steps onto the porch, positioning himself between you and logan. "just remember what we talked about. respect. boundaries."

"yes, sir." logan's already backing toward his car stumbling along the front path. "goodnight."

he's gone in seconds.

you turn to dex, something hot and confused twisting in your chest. "what is wrong with you?"

"nothing's wrong with me." he's not smiling, but there's something in his eyes—something warm and possessive that makes your stomach flip. "just being a good father."

"i'm not your—"

"go inside." his hand finds the small of your back. the touch burns through your sweater. "your mom needs help with the dishes."

you obey before you can think about it.

your mom is in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher with sharp movements. "that was a bit much, don't you think?" she says when dex walks in.

"just looking out for her."

"you drove her to campus yesterday." your mom doesn't look up. "it took over an hour. it's a twenty-minute drive."

your blood goes cold.

"traffic," dex says easily. "and we stopped for coffee. she wanted to talk."

"about what?"

"about logan, actually." he glances at you. "she was nervous about tonight. wanted advice."

your mom's expression softens slightly. "oh, honey. you could've talked to me."

"i know," you mumble. "dex just—he offered."

"it's fine." but she still looks hurt. uncertain. "i'm glad you two are close. i just... sometimes it feels like you're more with him than with me."

"i'll help with the dishes," you say.

"no, no. you've had a long night. go relax." your mom waves you off with a soft smile. "dex can help me."

you escape upstairs. change into pajamas. sit on the edge of your bed with your heart pounding.

five minutes later, you hear footsteps.

the door opens. dex slips inside and closes it behind him, the lock clicking softly.

"that was quite a performance," he says quietly. his eyes move over you—slow, thorough. "playing the sweet girlfriend."

"you told me to get a boyfriend."

"i told you to get a cover." he crosses to you. not rushed. deliberate. "not to actually let him touch you."

"i didn't—"

"you almost did." he's in front of you now. his hand comes up to cup your face—gentle, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. "on the porch. you were going to let him kiss you."

"dex—" you tried to reason.

"do you want him to?" his voice is soft. almost tender. but there's something underneath it—something that makes you shiver.

"no," you whisper.

"no," he repeats. his thumb traces your bottom lip. "because you're mine. aren't you?"

you should say no. should push him away.

but you nod.

"say it."

"i'm yours."

"good girl." he leans down, his forehead resting against yours. the intimacy of it makes your chest ache. "she's going to be down there for at least another hour. cleaning. completely unaware."

your breath catches.

"so here's what's going to happen." his voice is low. almost a murmur. "you're going to get ready for me. something pretty. something soft." his hand slides into your hair, gentle but firm. "and when i come back, you're going to show me who you belong to. okay?"

his hand moves to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there. warm. possessive.

you nod.

"that's my girl." he kisses your forehead. lingers there. "one hour."

he leaves as quietly as he came.

downstairs, you can hear your mom humming. doing dishes. completely unaware.

just as you're turning toward your bedroom door, you hear your mom's voice from the kitchen, fainter now: "dex? is she okay? i was thinking... maybe I should go check on her."

you freeze, your hand on the door knob. then you hear his voice, low and steady, "no need. i'll check on her in a bit. let her decompress, hun." you don't breathe until you hear the water running again.

"mom's at book club," he says, and his voice is soft. almost gentle. but there's something underneath it—something deliberate. "figured i'd keep you company."

you glance at him through the mirror of your vanity. he's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with those pale, unblinking eyes. but there's no heat in his gaze tonight. just... focus. intense, unwavering focus.

when you catch his eye in the reflection, he doesn't look away. doesn't pretend he wasn't staring. he just smiles—soft and real, like he's been caught doing something sweet instead of something he should apologize for. but his eyes don't soften. they stay sharp. cataloging.

your movements are small. tight. you reach for your toner with careful fingers.

"you can sit if you want," you tell him, and you're not sure why you say it. maybe because the house feels too empty without your mom's chatter. maybe because you don't want to be alone.

he crosses the room and sits on the side of your bed closest to your seat at the vanity. his hands are resting on his knees, he's watching. his fingers curl slightly, gripping the fabric of his jeans. like he's anchoring himself there.

the toner is cool against your fingertips as you press it into your skin, patting gently along your cheeks, your forehead. you can feel his eyes on you the whole time, tracking your every movement. your shoulders are up near your ears, tension coiled in your spine.

his gaze is heavy. deliberate. you can feel him studying the way you tap the product in, the exact pattern you follow—cheekbones first, then forehead, then chin. like he's memorizing it.

you catch his reflection again. he's still smiling, but his jaw is tight. patient.

something in your chest loosens, just a little.

you reach for your moisturizer, unscrewing the lid with slow precision. the cream is thick and cold when you dip your fingers in, and you warm it between your palms before smoothing it over your face. your skin is still slightly damp from the toner, and the moisturizer glides on easy, sinking into the warmth. you work it in with gentle circular motions—cheeks, forehead, chin, down your neck.

"you're so pretty," he says quietly. and it doesn't sound like a compliment. it sounds like a fact he's observed. documented. filed away.

you pause, hands hovering over your throat. "what?"

"just noticing." he shrugs, but his eyes haven't left you. not once. "you do all this stuff every night, and i never really watched before." there's an edge to his voice. like he's annoyed with himself for missing it. for not paying attention sooner.

you don't know what to say to that. so you keep going—body cream next. you pump it into your palm, and the scent of vanilla fills the small space around you. sweet and warm and familiar.

his cologne cuts through it. sharp. woodsy. clean. the contrast makes your head spin a little.

your movements are slower now. deliberate. you rub the cream into your arms first, long strokes from wrist to shoulder, feeling the slip and glide of it against your skin. then your legs—you prop one foot on the edge of your chair, smoothing the cream over your calf, your knee, your thigh. the lotion is cool at first, then warm as you work it in.

his eyes follow every stroke. every inch of skin. you can see his knuckles go white where he's gripping his knees, muscles tense beneath his shirt. he's holding himself perfectly still, but there's nothing relaxed about it. it's control. deliberate, focused control.

your shoulders have dropped. you're breathing easier.

he doesn't move. doesn't try to touch you. just watches, like you're the most interesting thing in the world. like he's committing every second of this to memory.

"come here," he says when you're done. his voice is still soft, but there's an edge of command underneath it.

you hesitate for just a second, then cross the few steps between you two and stand in front of him. he reaches up, his hands finding your waist, and pulls you gently between his knees. his grip is careful. measured. like he's holding something beyond fragile. you've never felt this before.

"hi," he murmurs, looking up at you. his eyes are still sharp. still focused. but the small grin on his face is rounding out his intensity.

"hi," you whisper back.

he tugs you down, and you settle onto his lap, straddling him. his hands rest on your hips, thumbs stroking small circles through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. the touch is gentle, but his fingers press in just slightly. like he's reminding himself you're real.

"you smell nice," he says. "like vanilla."

"it's the body cream."

"i know." he smiles, soft and real. "i like it." and the way he says it—like he's already decided he'll buy you more. like he's already planning to make sure you never run out.

he leans in, pressing his lips to your forehead. then your nose. then the corner of your mouth. each kiss is slow. deliberate. like he's savoring it. cataloging the taste of your skin, the way you smell this close, the small sound you make when his lips brush yours.

you let your eyes flutter closed. this is different from the other times—no urgency, no desperation. just him, just you.

his lips find yours, and it's slow. sweet. his hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. like there's nowhere else he'd rather be. his mouth is warm and gentle, but there's something underneath it—hunger, controlled and leashed. he's memorizing this. the exact way your lips feel against his. the small hitch in your breath. the way you melt into him.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. his breathing is careful. measured.

"you okay?" he asks quietly.

you nod, not trusting your voice.

"good." he presses one more kiss to your lips—lingering, like he doesn't want to let go—then helps you stand. his hands slide away slowly, reluctantly. "you should get some sleep."

"okay."

he's at the door before you can stop yourself.

"dex?"

he turns. and for just a second, you see it—the intensity in his eyes, barely restrained.

"thank you," you say. "for not... you know."

he smiles—that soft, real smile again. but his jaw is still tight.

"i can be patient," he says. "when i want to be." and it sounds like a promise. like a warning.

he closes the door behind him, and you stand in the middle of your room, lips still tingling. the air smells different now—vanilla, yes, but underneath it, the sharp clean scent of his cologne lingers. woodsy and warm and unmistakably him.

you feel something warm bloom in your chest.

it's not the usual guilt. not the usual fear.

it's something else entirely.