Archive of Our Own

Alina’s obsession starts in childhood. It grows and festers in the shared bedrooms of group homes or spare rooms of a temporary foster placement that never ends in adoption. A youth filled with peeling sticker-covered furniture and cloudy windows that leaves her looking for escape. 

She passes through too many places to keep each one straight, they have all blended together in her mind. There in each nondescript house, never a home, nothing is her own; everything is only borrowed as she shuffles around the system. An unwanted thing with no place to fit except in the shadows, quiet as she is. 

She does not remember before constant changes and battles of will. Only remembers now, where she is the smallest one besides the babies who cry and take up the attention because they need it more. 

Grownups always pick the babies over her. 

Alina does the same in her own way. 

The small selection of toys wherever she goes is somewhat the same. Trucks and miniature cars and trains, puzzles and board games with missing pieces replaced by bottle caps and index cards, second-hand, half-matted stuffed animals, plastic tea sets, and best of all scuffed-up blinking eyed baby dolls. 

She plays with what she can get her hands on but her soft eyes and tender heart are always on the dolls. 

Pilling mushy cotton and delicate white lace with round cherub faces are her desire. Sweet things she can project all the love she craves onto to soothe the worst of her hurt.

The problem is, in a system designed for those outcast and down on their luck, no one wants to be the bottom kid. The way to show you’re not at the base is to step on others to prop yourself up. 

Alina’s propensity for the gentle and fragile runs deep and open: she is the easiest to step on.  

The dolls get ripped from her hands or her makeshift shoebox cradles. Plasticky limbs dangle above her grasp no matter how high she jumps. Little face scrunching in anger, cheeks damp with frustrated tears.

Next, they start to disappear. No longer placed back safe and sound in the toy box or shelves at the end of the day, gone somewhere in the bigness of the world. 

When toys broke or went missing they were unlikely to get replaced with any urgency. New or new-to-them toys came on Christmas, always to be shared. 

Alina is never clever enough to hide for herself. Too used to playing by the rules set when there is no one else to rely on, a fallback and tin can thin protection. 

So she takes what she can get. The chance to hold onto a precious doll even for a bit are the best days she can remember in her spotted adolescence. 

If she can’t play with them herself then she will sit and watch. How gentle she would be, smoothing their outfits and brushing their hair. The dolls were lost in this place just like her, quiet and passive to try and prevent further damage. 

As she grew, she became too old for dolls, according to social workers, foster guardians, and group home counselors. An ache opened up inside at the loss of pretty delicate things to her. She couldn’t complain, no protest would help, as a ward of the state, you take what you’re given and now it was hand-me-down clothes that fit just enough, slightly too big or small but never all the same. 

For one glorious week during a transition between semi-permanent homes, Alina stays with a gray-haired older woman with the kind wrinkles that form from giving lots of smiles and laughter. In the neat home, scented in artificial florals, preserved in a decade Alina never knew is a whole room full of the nicest dolls she’s seen in her short life. Each has pristine outfits, rows, and rows of sweet fluffy dresses and buckle shoes or darling onesies. For looking and not touching , her momentary guardian explains. Alina can’t help but think it is a bit of a waste to have so many beautiful dolls and not at least hold them once in a while. 

She spends as much time in the doll room as she can during that week. Asks to work on her homework in there or read and promises not to touch, just look. 

In a pair of crew socks, thick and bought in a pack of ten, Alina sneaks off in the dark of night to see them. The hum of the CPAP machine down the hall covers her tiny steps on the slightly creaky wood flooring. 

In the doll room, a calm comes over her. For a brief moment in time, she is one of them. Slots herself neatly between the wooden and glass display cases to fit right in. Her lashes flutter closed and everything is still. 

Alina is simply another one of these dolls frozen in time and space. She has been specially picked out to display along with other the pretty figurines. Her worn thin lips nightgown is instead a handmade dress designed to reflect all her abundant beauty. 

It is the most peaceful she has felt in years. 

Once her momentary play-pretend reverence ends she indulges herself again. She plucks a doll from the open shelf and holds it, feeling the surprising weight in the cradle of her arms. This will always be hers. She stays for as long as she dares before carefully placing the baby doll back in its rightful spot. Home safe and sound even if Alina isn’t. 

Her time with the dolls is short, but she never forgets it. 

Afterward, Alina spends the remainder of her youth in a teen group home. There are no toys but activities meant to keep the young adults busy and on the straight and narrow. 

To escape she takes up drawing. There is always paper and office supplies and she makes the best of what’s available. They are impersonal and bland but she makes something pretty with it all kept in an accordion folder under her bed. If the angel faces of dolls make their way onto the pages she is the only one to know. 

At eighteen she chooses to leave the group home but utilize the extended foster system to help her get set up in a tiny studio apartment by the center of the nearest town with a menial job that pays more money than she’s ever had a hold of but is only just enough to scrape by in reality.

She’ll receive monthly stipends until her twenty-first birthday to help cover costs and build savings. She enters the big wide open world with a box full of donated pantry goods, a white plastic laundry basket with a set of sheets for a mattress she orders through the mail, a pair of towels, dish rags, and oven mitts, a small set of silverware from the dollar store, and the meager possessions she had gathered at the group home. 

The social worker sets her up with a basic credit card with a high APR which she doesn’t exactly understand, just knows to use it only in an emergency if she can help it. Lastly, the man hands her a business card with his number to call if she needs any resources. 

This is all an orphan carries to adulthood. 

Alina has absolutely no clue what she is doing or the fine print of it all, simply that whatever she’s managing to do is enough to keep going without landing herself on the streets.   

She never calls for help, instead turns to the internet where anonymous strangers can’t hurt her. 

Alina carves out a tiny life for herself. She makes friends at work that doesn’t go far beyond the office but offers chit-chat to fill the hours. Figures out how to budget money and save a bit up for emergencies so when the inevitable assistance ends she will not be left high and dry. 

Satisfies her need for the soft and dainty, finally able to buy things in small doses for herself. It’s in the body care sets that smell like pastries and candy and ripe fruit. The clothes with tiny bows in pastels she finds on discount sites and thrift stores. The fluffy carpet next to her bed to curl her toes in. 

In the moment it’s enough, but there’s a hunger under the skin for more. 

At twenty she is content with what she has. Her own slice of life, bursting like the tangy juice of a fresh orange on her tongue, even if a bitter tinge of loneliness trails after it. So what if it is some of that lonely feeling that finds Alina placing herself in the bustle of busy places to not be alone by herself? 

The flea market is the ideal shopping venue for her. A large warehouse packed full of vendors and browsers, not an inch of unused space to be found. Most items there are second-hand—vintage and unique as the out-of-towners say—but that mostly makes them affordable in the way objects similar and new would not be. The heart of it all for her is there is something lovely about picking abandoned items and giving them a new purpose.

Alina’s life is on her terms now and she chooses to live it glass half-full. 

She searches through stalls and tables of curated displays. Cozy chaos, a buzz in the air from all the voices. 

Like a bad habit, she stops to stare at a booth filled with the telltale pretty patterned boxes of dolls. She recognizes these. The collection is largely from a designer in New York whose dolls wear porcelain and marzipan skin and the most beautiful classic-style dresses. 

Alina has spent hours scrolling through webpages and archives and Etsy shops for any and all kinds of dolls in the long lone night to keep herself company. She has yet to buy one for herself, but the knowledge has kept her warm while she waits to gather the courage. 

It is chance that a tall handsome stranger asks for her help. Turning to overlooked, overpassed her for clarity in the discord. 

“Excuse me, do you know about these things?” 

The stranger gestures to the dolls. 

He looks off balance in the maze of this place. He is a full head above her dressed in the kind of clothes she’s gotten used to seeing in an office. They look like they were made specifically for him the way they fit so well. He’s older too, only the tiniest lines on his face and stray dapples of gray at his temples giving it away to her. More than that, he’s mature, even with the unfamiliar he hasn’t run away he’s turned to looking for a solution. 

It takes a moment to find her voice in the surprise of someone asking her. 

“A little bit.” Alina admits eyes glancing between the dolls and the stranger. 

He shakes his head and readjusts his black framed glasses with crystal clean lenses and no smudges, sending the disorientation away and refocusing solely on her

“Sorry, let me do this properly. I’m Aleksander,” he holds out a hand that could cover her entire forearm in greeting, “would you be able to help me with finding something, Miss…?” 

“Alina,” she’s blinking like an owl at the sight of him but grasps his hand with hers. So small in comparison it makes her knees knock. “My name is Alina. I could help you—just—I don’t work here though.”

The proprietor of the booth is suspiciously absent, only a sharpie marker sign saying be right back a clue that it’s being manned. 

“Alina.” 

Aleksander says her name with wonder. As if she is some miraculous thing he’s come across in his searches today. 

His smile is even better, “I think you might be more helpful actually.” 

Has she always been so fidgety? She can feel every inch of how she moves under his soulful gaze. The twitch of her bent left pinky, subtle but there. The way she shifts her weight from the balls of her feet to the heels and back again and again. Her heart beating like a wind-up toy soldier on his drum.

“Well, I do know about these dolls.” Alina straightens, her confidence rising to meet Aleksander’s challenge. “Can’t speak for whoever owns all of these.” 

“What if I was looking for this?” He pulls up an image on his cellphone to show her. It’s small in his hand yet large in her own. “They’re a pain to find but my assistant said I should have a chance here.”

Alina instantly recognizes the doll in the photo. The red full dress with a white bodice and lace details, brown hair perfectly curled, not a stray to be found, and a round angelic face with blinking green eyes. It was a limited edition, the kind whose photos always came up teasing that they were just out of reach except to a special few. 

The tension ebbs away, she’s going to get him his doll. Only a little bit of green envy peeking in her mind knowing that he’ll have it.

“Oh, I know this one. That’s the Valentine’s Day doll. You want to check the box stamps.” Alina points out where exactly he needs to look, ”It should say ‘Love Day Sweetheart,’ like her wrist tag in the photo does.”

She starts browsing through the stacks trying to help as he searches up high and she takes down low. 

Curiosity gets the better of Alina, “Is the doll for your girlfriend?”

He passes around her skimming the top row, pausing only slightly.

“My goddaughter. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Oh.” 

Love Day Sweetheart is tucked away in the bottom left corner of the booth space, stamp faded but there. 

“Found her!” Alina calls gently, wiggling the box free for them to check. 

Nestled in squeaky off white styrofoam and wrinkled tissue paper is the real-life copy of the photo they saw. The doll’s eyes sparkle even under the fluorescent overhead lighting, blinking open and close with the tilt of the box. 

“Thank you, Alina. I can’t begin to tell you how difficult finding this thing was.”

Aleksander boxes the sweetheart back up gently holding her steady under his arm. 

“I’m sure your goddaughter will love it,” Alina smiles, happy to know both the doll and his goddaughter are well-loved in the end, “Especially with all the trouble you went through. I always wanted a doll like this when I was a little girl.” 

Her admiration for them must show on her face so surrounded by everything she’s never had the fearlessness to take for herself. 

“You can still have them now if it’s what you want.”

It should be the obvious answer. He holds no judgment in his assessment of her situation, only an apparent understanding of her feelings. 

“Isn’t it childish?”

“That’s for you to decide Alina, not anyone else. If you could have any doll here, which would you choose?” 

There are a lot of options to pick from—too many, actually, a problem that had caused her to run away from the stall overwhelmed on previous trips. 

But he’s asking and she’s a people pleaser deep down and well…there are a few she really does want. She squints as she searches the boxes, some faded some not, and their stamps for something that stands out, a familiar name or series. Her hands go itching and red a reaction to the dust that sticks to half-forgotten things, a feeling she’s long used to ignoring. 

Then she spots it. Tucked in the middle of the display are the words China Sun on a blue box. She peeks inside seeing the beautiful golden netted dress, the pinned in place hair with a straw hat on top, a little red fan still wrapped in plastic brand new. 

She knows her heritage from a manilla folder her old social worker gave her when she moved to her apartment. Something that before, was told to her when she asked but never explained. Her mother was Chinese, her father Russian both children of immigrants. She knows nothing about either culture, just the homogenized Americanization she grew up with that takes up the space. 

This doll, silly as it may be, feels like some distant connection to another part of herself. 

“This is the one I’d pick,” she doesn’t dare touch, only stares at the doll before boxing it back up. 

She goes to replace its spot in the display when Aleksander stops her. His hand is firm but gentle, as he seems to be in all things. 

“Then you should have it. My treat, to thank you for your help.”

He is utterly sincere, the truth of it knocking the breath right out of her. It’s as if he can glean the need in her heart and head and aches to meet it. Perhaps that is his own secret, that he seeks to fill the needs of others in all the ways only he can. 

“No that’s—“ Alina cuts herself off, deciding to let herself accept with grace instead. Selfish one might say, but she thinks the man in front of her would call it a deserved reward. “Thank you.” 

They wait around a few more minutes until the vendor returns, idle polite chatter filling the time. Then, Aleksander swipes his card blocking her view of the total price. She’ll never know what it cost, can only estimate based on online pricing, but it is a more than generous gift. 

He hands her the box, careful not to jostle it. This should be where they part, say their goodbyes, and move on back to the lives from which they came. 

It doesn’t happen. 

Alina can’t just let him go. Aleksander is a person who has seen her in a way no one else has, she won’t give that up without trying to have it for herself. 

“Wait! You said you had a long ride back. You should have a snack for the road. It can be my treat?” She offers, something to prolong their clandestine moment and a bit of repayment for the kindness and happiness he’s given her. 

It doesn’t end up being her treat when he whips out cash from his pocket before she can begin poking around in her strawberry shaped bag, at the snack counter. Just another chance to say thank you, darling. They get frozen lemonades and cookies the size of her head, eaten over a wooden picnic table on the patchy grass outside. 

The conversation starts to flow more naturally between them now than it has with anyone she’s ever met. She quickly learns Aleksander lives in the city. Drove two and a half hours up and out to the market just to find that perfect gift for his goddaughter’s sixth birthday. 

He designs buildings. Mostly residential, high end and expensive to boot from the pictures he shows her. They look like palaces to her but they are still homes to the ones who will dwell in them and he makes them look and feel that way. He takes such care in the details, warm lights not cool, open spaces adapted to the needs of couples and families, and lots of windows for comfort and views.

He has a sweet tooth he can’t help indulging as he goes back inside to grab an old family recipe fudge square that’s actually for the road this time. 

He’s thirty-eight years old to her twenty and perhaps it should be daunting or off-putting but she only feels reassured by the fact. He is a man with a put-together life, full of routine and purpose. He knows who he is and what he wants. He is not lost, but a shepherd, and Alina feels quite like a lamb forcing herself under his foot. 

Alina shares pieces of herself in return letting him know she lives not far from the market. She takes the bus here on the weekends for fun. Works in town as a receptionist for a local insurance company within walking distance of her place which is good because she doesn’t have a car. No family but sometimes she gets invited to happy hour after work and she’s met some neat friends online. 

“But who takes care of you , sweetheart?” 

No one. 

That day Alina leaves the flea market with her first doll and the phone number of a gentleman she hadn’t planned on. He tells her to call or text him anytime, for a talk or if she ever needs help. He promises to always answer. The wicker baskets for organization under her bed she came to the market to search for are long forgotten when he waits with her at the bus stop until hers arrives. They part at last with his lips pressing the most tender of kisses to her cheek.

Alina texts Aleksander when she’s back at her apartment, just like he insisted. She gets a response back a minute later and then the back and forth doesn’t stop. It’s exactly as easy to talk to him through the phone as it was in person. 

He quickly becomes the man she goes to for everything. He’s never annoyed or bothered regardless of how silly or frivolous Alina thinks it is, he treats the matter with respect and maybe a little mirth but she can handle that. 

He asks her to call him Sasha, it’s what all those closest to him do. She feels like she’s been let in on something special, his trust open to her. She takes it greedy for more, each morsel about him she learns nestled away and kept. Aleksander— no, Sasha rather—makes her feel the way she thinks belonging to a family would. Their interest and love is unconditional and colored burning true blue. 

He visits her twice the first few weeks of their situationship, driving up to see her and taking her out to pre-researched restaurants and date spots. She shows him where she’s set her China Sun doll to be displayed in her quasi-bedroom, section off from the kitchen. She’s been careful to dust and care for her dear doll each week.  

She suggests next time she can take the train and come visit him. She supposes she’s celebrating, she met the guy she could see forever with after only a short time, lulling her into a rose-tinted romantic ease, and she’d gotten a fifty-cent an hour raise at work. Things were seemingly under control so a little splurge in the name of true love couldn’t hurt. 

She packs her first overnight bag for a trip she’s chosen, she takes a full day to do it, carefully considering each piece of clothing and necessary item to make her comfortable. Packing used to be something she dreaded, handed a big black garbage bag and told to gather what was somewhat sort of hers quickly so she could leave. 

She takes the bus to the train platform and rides all the way down to Grand Central Station. She gets lost the second she gets off the train, goes the wrong way hitting a wall instead of a staircase and has to turn around. She’s under the constellations, too busy looking up at them to look forward when two hands grab her shoulders. 

She nearly falls down in an attempt to jerk away when she realizes it’s him. Sasha has found her in the midst of the crowds just like he had before. 

They barely make it back to his place before he asks if they can be exclusive and Alina gains the shiny new title of girlfriend. 

On their one year anniversary, he asks her to move in. Come to the city permanently and forget the lonely distance between them, come home to him. 

It’s the easiest decision she’s made in her life. She packs up the small apartment where her life began anew, thanks it for its protection and space to grow. Turns the knob one last time and lets the past be put away. 

Alina has more than she can ask for now. It is still unusual to walk through the townhouse and think it’s all theirs , that she deserves a place to so entirely belong. Sasha would never hear a word otherwise. It was his constant confident reassurance that made it easier. 

He has  lifted so much of life’s burden from her without additional strain on himself, in fact, Alina thinks that he enjoys making appointments and dealing with the paperwork 90 percent of adulthood requires. 

With a partner, the once difficult tasks seemed easy. Grocery shopping isn’t overwhelming because she and Sasha make a list in the morning before going to the store. They have a guide, know which brands they like and if she ever can’t decide he breaks the tie. 

No need to worry about directions because Sasha always looks them up ahead of time for her, and explains any confusing bits. He knows the city so well, it's a relief to have someone to ask if she finds herself confused (is the office uptown or downtown from the townhouse? Downtown, baby, are you sure you don’t want me to call a car? ). 

He even downloaded an app for her that helps with the subway. He makes sure she keeps a portable charger in her bag so her phone never goes dead. So many fail safes and precautions, each one a layer of protection against the big bad world.  

At home, she has a hobby room just for her, settled right across the hall from Aleksander’s office. She’s filled it with art supplies and projects, the extra free time she has spent creating. And displayed on the opposite side is her growing assortment of dolls she can admire and touch whenever she pleases. No rules or restrictions on her desires. 

She’s built her own small collection focusing on dolls designed for different countries around the world, places she’s never been but hopes she’ll visit one day. 

They’ve started the initial stages of planning a trip for the following spring. A list of countries to narrow down so they don’t rush. Sasha always reminds her they have plenty of time, words like a safety blanket hand knitted and solid around her. 

The life they’ve pieced together slotting together to fit just right. 

On her twenty-first birthday, Sasha takes her out to a place called Bleecker Street with more bars than she could count. He buys her first drink (and all the rest too). She orders something fruity that masks most of the burn of alcohol though her initial few sips still make her face twist and pucker. One drink for each place they visit like a mini birthday bar crawl for two. 

He cuts her off when she’s wobbly on her feet and clingy but she can remember the name of the bar they landed in. Her arm wrapped around him as she snuggles into his side, but even that’s not close enough, has to hook her ankle around his calf too, thread their fingers together so they’re holding hands. The closest she can get to being under his skin. It’s more saccharine than the drinks she sucked down. 

They don’t linger for too much longer, enough to call a car and close out the tab. Alina comes up with the brilliant idea to order pizza, from the place with a walk-up window and slices as big as the paper plates so it comes right when they get back. Sasha promises they’ll call in the car and pulls her outside from the packed heat of the bar to the slightly cooler air outside. After a single stumble on the sidewalk, he picks her up and carries her to the car waiting around the corner. 

It’s the happiest birthday she’s had up to that point, simple yes, but filled with love. A day she forces herself to burn to memory, making sure to film little videos to remember the moments exactly as they were. 

Back at the townhouse, shoes off and bellies full from their perfectly timed food delivery they snuggle together on the pristine-looking but comfortable sofa. This, Alina thinks, is the perfect way to end her birthday. 

There’s one more surprise though. Another gift perfectly wrapped in pink floral paper. She glances up into his warm eyes never obscured by his glasses, always open to her and he nods encouraging her. Alina tears open the package slipping her finger under the expertly taped corners to preserve the paper waste not, want not.

Beneath the wrapping is a telltale blue box with a stamp. This time it reads ‘Happy Birthday’ in the usual block lettering. Can’t contain herself as she takes the lid off in a hurry to see the angel baby hiding inside. A cupcake pink gingham dress with a floral apron and matching princess style birthday hat, lacy bloomers peeking out beneath, a bundle of gumball like colorful balloons in one little hand a present in the other, black curly hair in pigtails and amber eyes.  

She thanks him vision blurry with water, the emotions choking her up. 

The doll is everything she’s ever wanted for herself and all she’s wanted to be. And here in this happy place she’s made with Sasha she almost has it all. Almost. 

Alina can’t help but feel a little ungrateful as she makes her confession teary and more than a little drunk still, everything loose and inhibitions in the wind. She is staring at the doll he’d bought for her, the thoughts overwhelming her. This was her closest kept secret. Something stored in a little locked box between her ribs, tucked under her heart, jostled loose to her throat by the immense exigency compounding in her soul. 

“I want to be like them. Pretty and small and good and empty-headed for just a little while.” 

Sasha hugs her close, pulls her into his lap where there was no refugee but him—just the way she liked. Calms her down with velvety whispers and digits brushing through her hair. Makes her focus on her breathing so her chest isn’t so tight. All the while thinking but he doesn’t bring the idea up until she is clear headed the next morning. 

“You could be my babydoll, darling,” Sasha tells her with her chin in his grasp so she doesn’t try and hide away from this, from him. “I’ll take care of you any way you need.”

The doubts crest and roll over her mind white and foamy as an ocean wave, “What if you hate it? Hate me?” 

Alina bites her bottom lip so it doesn’t wobble. She doesn’t want to cry again, her eyes still a bit stingy from her weeping the night before, but it’s hard to not worry. Sometimes she has so many thoughts in her head and if she doesn’t direct it somewhere it will leak out of her tacky and gross and against her will. 

“That’s impossible. I could never hate you,” he assures her. 

He is so soft in the morning light, the golden glow making the edges hazy. His hair out of place, loose strands falling against his forehead, casual comfy dress that makes him all the easier to burrow to.   

“Never?” She confirms. Her lips pulling to a pouting pucker, a not so subtle signal to shut her mouth and mind up already and kiss her. 

“Not ever,” he presses a kiss to the tip of her nose and then her lips accentuating the words. “Don’t let those nasty thoughts bother you. Let me make your pretty little head go all quiet, sweetheart.”

She flings herself into the cradle of his arms and that’s how it starts. 

Alina is always home before Sasha. She works part-time so she doesn’t exhaust herself or get put under too much pressure. A job is a job however and it isn’t free from all stress. 

Today is nothing but rotten. 

Her shiny new loafers that won’t seem to break in comfortably pinched her toes and rubbed her ankles raw through her morning commute. When she finally got to her desk at the learning center all her papers were out of order, forcing her to spend the first half hour reorganizing everything so she could properly work. It threw off her whole schedule. She was late to refill the pot of coffee in the kitchen tutors waiting with ticked-off tapping feet. 

Because she was busy with the coffee she missed a call. The mother on the other end yells at her for having to call multiple times about arranging her son’s next SAT prep session. Alina apologizes and plays nice, but the woman doesn’t let up in her nastiness, promising to speak with the manager and complain the next time she is in. The fear of that alone leaves her shaking. She hardly leaves her desk after that, focusing on grading exams, having to go over each three or four times because she can’t seem to focus. 

When it was time to clock out at three she didn’t stop to greet the arriving preschoolers like usual. Her Lyft was already pulling up and she didn’t want to upset them with her poor mood. The driver doesn’t push conversation, just listens to the strangest mix of music she’s ever heard including electro-jazz, a tv show theme song, hyper pop, some classical arrangement, and ska. The distraction is enough to keep her from breaking down. 

Keys are already in hand when the car rolls to a stop. She gives a tight thank you and slides out. She runs up the steps eager for sanctuary, breathing going haphazard, keys jingling and clinking together from the way she trembles. She misses the lock twice before finally getting it in and twisting. 

As soon as she steps past the threshold she pulls in a gasping breath of air. Everything is a little bit better. She is not okay, but the relief of home helps. 

You can’t control what others do but you can control your reaction, Sweetheart. Don’t give them the satisfaction of ruining your day. It is exactly what Aleksander would tell her now as he has before. The best revenge is to pour the energy back into herself. 

The one thing that always makes a sore heart better is playtime. 

When the townhouse is a dollhouse and she’s its main occupant, strings being pulled by a firm hand. She has to ask to get what she wants, a rule she struggles with at times, preferring to try and get her way through behavior. Grasping hands and fluttering lashes, bending over in dresses to give a show of the lace she wears underneath to provoke, and nudging him with her feet. 

Alina isn’t up to those kinds of games after her day. She’s already willing to play by the rules so they can jump into the action quicker. There are still a few hours before he’ll make it back so she sends a text like a good girl.   

Sasha💘

I need to play tonight, Daddy. Right when you get home, pretty, pretty please. 

We can play. Everything okay?  

Bad day :( 

I remembered what you told me. This is what will make me happy.

My clever, brave girl. I’ll be there soon. 

The second he’s home she’s waiting for him. 

There is a process to this, a certain mindset to fall into, parts to play. Getting Alina dressed and ready makes all the difference. They climb upstairs to the bedroom, hand in hand as he leads, steadfastly taking over. He places Alina in front of the walk-in closet and she waits.   

Aleksander is exacting in everything he does. He doesn’t let the details slide. 

Her hair is still in good shape from that morning but he takes the time to smooth the flyaways. Releases the half-up section of her hair to remove the plain clip there and secures it with a large bow to hold her hair back from her face instead. He never pulls, never catches his fingers on a tangle in her shiny black hair. The luster is more prominent now with her new shampoo and conditioner they bought at one of those fancy mall stores. 

From the closet, he pulls out a powder blue dress, the kind she loves best with puffed-up sleeves and delicately flowing skirt from the empire waistline that hides her curves but shows her legs. Lifts her arms straight up and high to slide it on. Alina moves so easily at his whim. Deft fingers secure the zipper at her side, careful not to let her golden skin get nipped by the teeth in the process. Lastly rolled on her wiggling toes are a pair of crisp white socks with a ruffle at the ankle that she’d used to envy on the feet of little girls on school picture day. He takes each foot one at a time and holds her steady so she doesn’t wobble and fall then pats her thighs as if to say all done. 

No shoes because they’re in the house, though she has a few pairs of shiny patent leather mary janes in their closet. The racks and drawers are full with things and she’s determined to wear them all.  Even as she tries to keep her own indulgences in check, Sasha is insistent on spoiling her. And in return, she does what she can to care for him—coffee at his bedside in the morning, straightening out his tie before he leaves, a packed lunch sealed with a kiss. 

Alina stands and waits for final approval, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the closet doors. Every detail of her is perfectly in place and coordinated, her hair looks full, no creases or folds mar her dress, her feet aren’t turned in like she has the bad habit of doing and genuine light shines through her body. She looks happier and it feels just right to be like this. 

“Where’s your smile, babydoll?” He pokes at her tummy right near her belly button and it makes her smile, bright and cheery on the tail end of a giggle. “There she is.” 

That’s all the approval they need. 

He carries her back out to the main floor where their kitchen and living room sit. She holds on, arms wrapped around his neck to steady herself. There is always something to do before playtime can begin. 

He sets her down on his armchair with the soft green upholstery. No unnecessary jostling, limbs intact and angel eyes blinking open. She knows exactly what to do. Alina goes pliant all over so he can move her as he pleases into the best pose.  He crosses her ankles, her right in front of her left. Settles one hand on her lap, places the other on the armrest, and tilts her head just so, chin sloped slightly down and to the right, the kitchen in her periphery.  

He presses a hand to her slumping spine reminding her to straighten. 

Sasha hums in approval, looking at her over the rim of his glasses, fondness easy to read on his face. Now she’s positioned like a proper little lady—exactly the way he likes outside of the bedroom. 

“Beautiful,” his smile is all teeth. Predator but she isn’t his prey, she’s his property. “The kind that should be seen really, but I’m happy to have you all to myself, sweetheart.” 

She smiles in response, pleased to be pleasing, before answering, “Thank you, Daddy.” 

Alina’s a talking doll, the kind that will babble and respond when prompted with the right actions. Almost lifelike but too perfect for reality when she’s like this. She falls so easily into the headspace, empty head over socked feet, because of the comforts of him—of home—a constant aegis. 

“Stay just so now. Be my good girl,” an order and a reminder. 

She rarely outright misbehaves—teasing and provocation don’t really count. The inclination doesn’t thrum under her skin when she has more attention than she knows what to do with. Acting out had never done her any good in the past, her few and far between outbursts of boiled over frustration and hurt, just moved her along to be another person’s problem until she realized it was best to keep those feelings to herself. Now, misbehavior had consequences, ones that seemed to hurt Sasha more than they hurt her and that is worse than any spanking could be. 

Any rules are directly tailored to her, not preset ideas to keep as many in line as possible. 

Daddy presses a kiss to her forehead, large palm gripping the back of her neck and squeezing reassuringly before he steps away. 

It’s all the encouragement she needs. There is no thinking. Her focus is on remaining in position, not letting her posture fold. Daddy is such a stickler for good posture. All about lines and visuals and the overall picture. Beneath that it’s the structure and safety of a strong foundation and like concrete below a house the spine holds her up. 

He disappears to the kitchen, she can hear him move about and catch glimpses from the corner of her eye. He would never leave her alone unsupervised, much too precious for such things, coveted by those who see her beauty and overlook her value. 

Only him and her now, Daddy and Dolly. 

In the peace and semi-quiet, the day rolls off her shoulders like water off a baby duck’s back. No accidents that can’t be fixed, safe and sound, and loved. Between them is care and control, service and release. 

If she feels her back has slumped she slowly rolls her spine straight and her shoulders back, the kind of tiny movements you don’t notice all at once unless you’re staring. She has no fear of small slip-ups. As long as everything is in place, showing that she has been trying her utmost to do as she’s told there is no reason for punishment. 

It is not about being perfectly still, a feat anyone would strain under at some point. It is about control. It is about being as close to fantasy as she can get. It’s about space and time to clear her mind and just be a dolly. 

Before Aleksander, to distract herself from the thoughts she would use her phone to overload her senses. Play music from her free Spotify account, scroll the Instagram explore page then bounce over to Pinterest to see what the algorithm pulled for her, find something she doesn’t recognize to google, then back to Pinterest, no, Instagram actually. Switch from being curled up under the sunshine climbing through her lone window and into bed lying across it the wrong way. Peek at the news then shut it closed quicker than she can take anything in. Skip that song, no that one’s not right either—pick a new playlist and off to Wikipedia. Find a link to Etsy, then decide to look at dresses she didn’t have the money for. 

She’d lose hours like that and it didn’t make her feel any better in the end. A temporary time slip to waste her life because she didn’t know any other way. 

These silent moments to herself are better. Let her work off the bad thoughts and reset, knowing the physical catharsis so much like absolution, always comes after. 

The thoughts end the moment Sasha is in her immediate line of vision again. She keeps still waiting on him to determine the next steps. Every inch of her is calm under his gaze. 

His thumb presses on her chin, fingers curled beneath her jaw as he lifts her eyes to his. 

“Babydoll, you’re the prettiest thing. I could look at you for hours.” 

The pleasant burn of a blush rosies her cheeks red. The heat inching its way down her neck and over her chest at his persistent watch. She isn’t embarrassed, she is pleased . 

“But I don’t let my dolly just sit on the shelf, do I?” He asks and Alina responds with a shake of her head, small motions as she’s still held in his grasp. 

“That’s right, I use her exactly as intended. Should I use you dolly?” 

She nods this time, so vigorous his hold almost slips as she answers, “Yes, please use your dolly, Daddy. Please.” 

“Such a sweet girl. Of course, I will.” He releases her chin and pulls her to standing. “But first you need to eat. Daddy can’t let his dolly’s batteries go out.” 

He guides her over to the table and settles her in his lap to eat. Balanced on the middle, both legs slung to one side, ankles perfectly crossed below. Takes care to cut all her food into small bite size only pieces. She always gets the first bite, utensil pressed to her lips to remind her to open up. 

She knows her Sasha grew up with nannies around more than his mother. His childhood was not neglectful exactly but rather prearranged. He was always going to be something and he is now. Heads his own architectural firm, phone always clogged with work emails. A precarious balance he keeps that just fits. 

He calls the shots and makes the tough decisions. It’s not a switch he can turn off, deeply ingrained as it is, but like a dimmer he can soften. At home instead of sealing million dollar design deals he picks dinner so she doesn’t have to, sets the pace and decides how much she can take. 

He holds out another bite to her and she shakes her head stomach full.

“One more. You’re going to need your energy tonight.” 

She opens up, chews the morsel of vegetable, and swallows obediently from the excitement. He has big plans. The idea leaves her squirming anticipation thrumming through her body. 

His hand comes to rest over her lap, stilling her. 

“Eyes up,” he directs and when her own meets his, he continues, “You’ve had a hard day, you haven’t had your special medicine in a while. What do you say?”

The medicine has been an occasional occurrence. It's a special treat for a reason, not meant to be used every time but when it is, the experience is always more intense—physically, emotionally, sensually. 

The fantasy becomes real, puffy dream cloud ideas slipping into materiality. 

In bed, Alina finds it much harder to keep still, than anywhere else he sets her down. The frozen serenity is an important part of their play. Usually, she gets tied down, silks or cuffs or soft rope, only the best to prevent scratching and marks on his babydoll. She wants to be still, wants to let the person she trusts most in this world take care of it all while she takes it. Use her like the object she wants to be for him alone. 

If he is offering, she will always accept, it’s why he decides when. She could let herself fall into the fantasy and never want to climb out, but the net he offers catches her before she gets too deep to be pulled out. 

“Yes, please. I want to be a good doll for Daddy.” 

The capsule is slipped on her tongue, water glass pressed to her lips to help her chase it down easily. 

She doesn’t know what exactly the medicine is, only the effect it has on her. Soon her anxious body will still, her too big for her own good thoughts will slow, and everything will be as it should be. 

“You’re the best dolly there is, Alina.”

She can’t resist the urge to kiss him, hands on his cheeks, bread prickling her fingers. He indulges her, caught in the moment too. Soon she won’t be able to do much of anything on her own. 

She settles back against him cuddling into the warmth of his chest so she can slowly slip away there. 

Alina has lost the when of it all, time faded and only a concept, but now the mind-numbing stillness has taken her over. She is in their bed propped up by the cushiony softness of the mattress and some of the many pillows around. 

He kneels at the edge. Spreads her sweet dimpled knees apart to burrow himself between her legs, pushing up the frills of her dress, reverent as a worshiper at the temple of her girlhood. 

Starts with gentle kisses up, up inner thighs. Warms her inside out with his hot touch as wetness gathers in anticipation, drippy like syrup and just as sugary. 

All the while her head is starting to swim, sinking her under the waves of drowsiness, pulled by a distant force—another delightful effect of the medication. 

There is nothing in the world to worry about for she is safe at the hands and will of Daddy, her ardent owner. 

The moonlight glow illuminates the room. Casts stretchy patterns above her head to get lost and stare at with glassy doll eyes. She would reach out to trace them all the way down the walls if she was capable of moving on her own. 

Daddy doesn’t let her attention drift for long. 

His fingers spread her folds and she feels deep down to the very bitty bits of herself when his lips wrap around her clit. 

Her body is too heavy, limbs made of cotton candy that feel like cinder blocks, but her mouth easily goes slack and dulcet moans pour out. 

“Such pretty noises you make, darling.” He’s amused. Alina can picture the curve of his smirk, satisfied with his work. It makes her even wetter. 

She wonders if her noises sound the same to him as they do to her own ears: unrestrained and carnal, the basest parts. 

Then she notices there are fingers inside her, two of them from the way they gently spread her wider all the way inside (when did that happen?).  He does so love to explore every piece of her,  discover all the special features his darling doll has hidden away. 

There’s always something new to unlock. 

The fingers are gone, Daddy’s tongue laps at her entrance, licking up all of her core. How wet is she now? It feels so slippery in the apex of her thighs and up her mound. Like he’s been milking all the sticky wet goodness out of her. 

She can’t keep track of what is happening anymore, only pleasure, pleasure, pleasure through her licorice veins. Is she spinning? Is she hovering above the bed, lifted by a cloud? 

No, no it’s something else entirely. It’s every point of light inside of her tangling up, compressing together, and burning scorching bright white until it explodes out. 

The orgasm comes hard, without warning. It lasts seconds, minutes, hours, lifetimes—tingling her soul and skin. All because of him. 

She doesn’t know how many times Daddy works her over like a feast. Two or three times? Maybe it’s more while she is under the surface of the world. She’s a baby chick pecking her way out by the guiding pleasure of his mouth and fingers, her own distant mewling. The feelings real and unreal, all the same.  

Is she shaking? Is she capable of such a thing in her wobbly Jell-O world that’s impossible to solidly grasp onto? Wherever she is everything is too much but she hasn’t had enough yet. 

Daddy’s voice peeks through, penetrating enough for her to turn the dial of the radio in her mind and tune into his ramble. 

“I’m going to fuck you now babydoll. You’ve been so good for Daddy, so good. I won’t let you be empty anymore. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To be plugged right up where we fit?” 

“Uh-huh,” she slurs words as unsteady as her body, disjointed from her brain. “Wanna be… filled.”

No matter the number of orgasms or length of time, in Alina’s point of view, they cracked the wishbone together and she gets the biggest half. 

Once she’s settled on his cock, used to the thrusts and deep pulse inside, snug as a bug with no room between them, he changes their position. Her legs are wrapped around his middle, ankles crossed to keep her there. He slips his hands under her back pressing her to his chest, sits up that way, and switches them around so she’s slumped against him like a rag doll. All her weight pressed on him, more comforting warmth. 

“So helpless like this, can’t even move without me doing it for you. No idea how fucking gorgeous you are babydoll. Next time I need to record you so you’ll know.” 

His thrusts don’t stop, coming harder and faster now. Everything is unsteady, her head pressed to his neck instead of upright, arms slung across one shoulder. Her whole body moving with the force of him, him, him. 

Brutal, efficient, pushing her beyond where she thought she could go but never breaking, never scarred. Daddy knows how to use his toys to their full potential. 

This is the way he rocks her, comforts and cradles her when she needs it the most. The deep vicious hole of empty loneliness she thought would eat her inside out satiated only by an equally ferocious force. She likes it in her heart of hearts to be used whole and loved in return for all she gives.

“Do you want my cum dolly? I want to hear you squeal for it. You can do it can’t you?” He’s right in her ear, can feel the press of his tongue on her lobe. He’s a tease too when he wants to play. 

Her voice seems so distant, throat and vocal cords floating in the abstract possessed by her soul and pussy and not by her brain. 

But for him she always tries, eyes fluttering between the light and darkness as she pulls the high keening from herself. There aren’t any words left, only squealing now that she’s set herself on it. The desperation evident as he pulls her strings. 

His cock goes deep in her belly, so close she could choke as he groans and shudders holding onto her for grounding as his cum pours inside her. 

He doesn’t stop though, only for a moment before continuing. The hot seat of pleasure pulsing at her core, fingers poking and rolling and rubbing for more from her. Until she’s fluttering around his softening length and every last bitty bit of her gives out. 

He doesn’t let her go for a while. That much she knows. Stays just as they are tangled up in imperfect bliss. 

He leaves at some point. She doesn’t think it’s for very long because she hardly gets cold and then he is back. The warmed washcloth brushes over sensitive skin, cleaning away some of the intertwined mess of them all over her. 

“A bath first thing in the morning,” Daddy promises. By then she’ll be back in control, able to lift her head from the feathery pillow he’s laid under her against. 

Her organza doll dress is switched out for baby pink breathable silk and lace. Hair bow set on her bedside table, it might have been knocked out during their play or removed by his adept hands. Her toes are free from the frilly socks, she hates sleeping in bed with socks on. 

“Co-” her voice is horse, a bit slurred still as she struggles to get the words out, “come sleep.”

He finishes his fussing, setting the cloth in the bathroom before sliding into bed with her. 

“Hand,” she demands, no other way to convey what she wants. 

Sasha takes her hands in his, threading their fingers together. Kisses her crooked left pinky that healed funny when she bent it out of shape at ten years old and her foster parents at the time hadn’t bothered with a doctor. Daddy says it makes her even more rare and special. One of a kind, perfect just as is. 

Alina is sure she’s smiling utterly content, “Love you.”

“Love you too, babydoll,” he pulls her closer to drop a kiss on her lips. 

Together under the covers sated and cozy, it’s their own kind of happily ever after.