A/N: Long time fav of Dexter's mom, for obvious reasons. Thank you, inputwo, for the artwork and inspiration.

Chapter Nex: Dexter's Mom Has Got It Going On

This wasn't working.

None of it, nothing. Every single schematic he had come up with, every single blueprint and layout painstakingly sketched and layered down, all of it was trash. And he didn't know why. This is what he did, this was the very thesis of his life: creating scientific marvels the likes of which the world had never seen, and then subsequently hoarding them for himself to dangle over the head of that clown Mandark or else take what he had just created and build upon it to make something even greater.

Or both. It really depended on how petty he was feeling at the moment.

"Aaaagh... no. No, none of this will do!" he shouted in frustration, glancing around at all the papers sprinkled over his desk.

For a change of scenery, once the confines of his wonderful lab had grown somewhat stale and stifling, Dexter had chosen to create in his bedroom, or at least try to. But even that was beginning to drive him mad with indecisiveness. There were over six new inventions that required his attention and he kept hopping from one to the other like a rabbit on crack, scribbling a little note here, a little graph there, but nothing substantial, nothing that made him want to actually commit to a single one.

Infuriating didn't even begin to describe it. Mostly because working on six inventions at a time, concurrently? That was considered child's play by his standards, he lavished the challenge—but right now, it was proving to be the most taxing endeavor of the year. And he couldn't even blame Dee Dee this time around because the moment summer break started, she took off to camp with those two other color-swapped simpleton friends of hers.

"Peh, camp... what a waste of time... frolicking around in the dirt and eating worms, bah! The true test of one's mettle is this!" He nodded almost courageously at the crumpled up files, at all the failed second and third attempts to get his creative needle to move. "The battlefield is not out there with the dreaded sun," and he hissed over his shoulder at the window, which he had made sure was tightly sealed off, "it is here! Forging our own destiny, overcoming our shortcomings, and... and, er..."

Much like with every other thing he had been attempting to conquer this past week, Dexter's train of thought derailed off a cliff and he sagged in his chair. He couldn't even feel the conviction in his own words so what was the point in saying them? More than once he contemplated the horrifyingly depressing idea that as he grew, his love of inventing would naturally diminish and be replaced with something more… he honestly didn't know, the what was eternally elusive because to him, there was nothing more self-satisfying than creating, than building with his own hands.

"Going on fourteen and still confused….Get a grip, Dexter..."

What time was it even? He didn't know. Oh sure, he had a watch, a really nice self-made one at that, but a circuit had fried in it a couple days ago and he just couldn't be assed to fix it. Even though it would probably take all of five minutes, maybe less, or maybe more with the kind of funk he was under.

"Why...?"

He stared from one blueprint to the next.

"Why?"

Pushing his glasses back into proper position, Dexter picked one up in each hand, narrowing his eyes, struggling to see what he was missing, whether it was his calculations or... or what?

"Why won't you speak to me anymore?" he ground out under his breath, setting them both down with the respect they deserved, even though he was getting none in return. No matter how he felt right now, that twister of frustration and anger churning his insides... he knew all too well that destroying the source of his problems would not fix them.

Just more fuel to the fire when those problems reared their ugly head for a second time.

"I have to fix this... but how?"

Pushing away from his desk, Dexter stood, grunting when his back cracked in a way both pleasurable and painful. He was half-tempted to keep forcing himself to work until he hit a breakthrough but he wasn't an idiot. There was value in taking a break, as Dee Dee had shown him when she led them on an excursion outside.

And granted, while that outing led to Dexter destroying his entire lab and left him to start anew from the ashes, the merits behind taking a breather was something even he couldn't deny.

"I'll go get something to eat then try again… and again, and again and again until I get it. This won't beat me," he vowed thickly, heading toward the door.

When he pulled it open, the sweetest aroma filled his nostrils and he sniffed like a drug dog, instinctually following it down the hall into the living room. He half expected to see a tropical array of fruits waiting to be sampled and devoured, but no. What he saw was infinitely more tempting, more delicious, disgusted as he was to admit it. Curled up on one end of the sofa was his mother. Her gleaming red hair was done up in its usual style and she seemed to be enthralled in whatever insipid show was playing on the TV. She was wearing a two-sizes-too-big white tee that read 'Hard Wrench' in metallic font surrounded by flames and... as Dexter's gaze followed the shirt down to her hips, when he couldn't see the usual outline of her shorts, he quickly realized she wasn't wearing any.

Most likely she was just wearing panties underneath.

A little bowl of nachos was tucked against her side, and on the arm the chair sat a small cup of salsa, which she meticulously dipped into with every third chip. As Dexter stood in the archway, half-heartedly scratching at his stomach, he couldn't fathom why his mother persisted in wearing those yellow gloves even while eating. As far back as his memory allowed, those gloves had been by her side with more loyalty than even her own family.

Yeah, she was a germ-o-phobe, that much was staggeringly obvious, but still, Dexter had to assume that even the most devote germ-o-phobe's put down the cleaning supplies to eat at least. But not his mother. Even while lounging around, which was a rare sight by itself, those yellow gloves were a constant.

"Hey, mom?"

Instead of answering, his mother merely lifted her head as a loose sign of acknowledgement, those yellow earrings of hers glinting in the warm glow of the table-side lamp.

Dexter parted his lips, fully prepared to ask whether there was still some leftover macaroni and cheese in the fridge—and praying his dad hadn't taken the rest of it to work—but the moment the words jumped to his tongue... staring at his mother... he found that wasn't the most pressing question on his mind anymore.

"...Why are you wearing my shirt?"

And it really was his shirt, easily identifiable by the logo over the front, so to Dexter, that already eliminated any excuse of she didn't know or got it confused with one of hers. He was the only one in the family that wore tool-related clothing of any sort.

"Oh, is this your shirt, sweetheart?" she responded, still forgoing eye-contact in lieu of wrapping her arms around herself and squeezing, bolstering her expansive bust into greater view and revealing a paralyzing amount of cleavage. "I was just doing laundry earlier and had no idea...I just needed a shirt to lounge around in. It fits nicely, doesn't it, dear?"

Dexter's eye twitched. "Hrm..."

This was the third week into summer vacation and already Dexter had gleaned a number of things about his mother that he found both fascinating and highly vexing at the same time. He figured that turning thirteen last year must have been the trigger to a lot of things for her because her usual doting demeanor had heavily lapsed into something akin to a 'I've done my job' kind of vibe. Not that Dexter minded, he wasn't a little boy anymore who ran to his mother whenever he got a booboo, he was a teenager. So it was refreshing to see his mother take this hands-off approach, giving both him and Dee Dee more space than normal.

On the flip side of that coin, this came with an unprecedented level of promiscuity, and Dexter was having a hard time trying to figure out what was intentional and what wasn't. Because his mother didn't dress in her usual clothing anymore; he couldn't remember the last time he had seen her in that hallowed white apron. Nowadays she sashayed around the house in regular shirts and shorts that were both way too short and way too tight. And in any normal circumstance, that wouldn't have been any sort of problem, nothing for Dexter to even second-glance.

But his mom was thick.

Ridiculously so. Buxom up top, his mother had a waist that was entirely slim thanks to a strict regimen consisting of around-the-house workout exercises, and she possessed a pair of hips so soft and wide they almost begged to deliver more children. Even from his distance, forcing his eyes to slide from the bevy of glistening cleavage she was tempting him with, Dexter could tell that her thighs were every bit as delicious and creamy as they always were...

She was also far more playful than he remembered her being in his prepubescent years. He had lost track of the numerous times she had deliberately bumped him with those hips of hers, followed by a teasing little "oops." And walking in on him in the shower seemed to be a tri-weekly thing, along with 'accidentally' bending over in his presence and prolonging the gesture until Dexter had to realign his glasses. Sometimes even the way she pulled her socks off was filled with entirely too much eroticism, although Dexter was open-minded enough to admit that that particular motion might have more to do with him and certain kinks he didn't yet know he favored.

Dang it….

"So, since I'm already oh-so comfy, I'm sure you don't mind me wearing it, right, dear?" she questioned sweetly, angling her head in his direction but never once taking her eyes off the TV. "I mean, if you wanted it back right now, I could give it to you, but then... you'd see more than you bargained for..."

A low rumble echoed from Dexter's stomach and he winced somewhat. "You can hold it," he told her begrudgingly, making his way over with a sulking step. "Are there any leftovers from last night? I'm hungry."

His mother only continued to stare at the TV, silent as a church mouse while the smallest of smiles played over those cherry blossom pink lips of hers.

Dexter rolled his eyes. "Really, mom?" When she didn't respond, Dexter exhaled with all the exasperation he usually reserved for Dee Dee whenever he saw she was still breathing and leaned down, bringing his face closer to hers. "Okay, fine," he muttered, inconspicuously inhaling each of her candied exhales, "but, and I want you to know this as unequivocal fact: you're really annoying."

That childish slight against her person did nothing toward gaining some sort of reaction, not that Dexter expected it to. He should have known she wasn't going to fully acknowledge his needs until he acknowledged hers, until he paid 'tribute', as she liked to call it. Tribute for the years she took care of him, nursed him back to health, for how she basically kept him from assured death by way of his own lack of self-survival skills. To hear her explain it further, this was the least he could do.

"Mmmn..." That moan, that mewl of longing that his mother all but purred out, was the most provocative little noise Dexter had ever heard, so much so that he had to fight with himself not to groan back as the softness of her lips threatened to melt his brain. What his stomach desired no longer seemed to matter, nor did the looming despair of struggling to figure out how to finish his inventions—all of it was smothered under the onslaught of his mother's lips as she passionately returned his tribute, bringing a gloved hand to cup his cheek.

Her touch was so loving, even through the glove, that Dexter leaned into it, losing himself in the warmth emanating from the woman in front of him, who was slowly bringing him to his knees both figuratively and literally, leading him by the slightest inclination of her head. When he touched down on the impeccably clean carpet, his mother began to lean back, blessing him with that seraphic smile of hers while holding him gently by the cheeks with both hands.

She was finally looking at him, and he couldn't keep from blushing.

"How did my lips taste, sweetie?" she asked quaintly.

What an absurdly strange question, so strange that all Dexter could do was awkwardly shrug. "I, uh… like lips?"

The way his mother rolled her eyes, it was full of so much loving patience that Dexter scowled. Why was she like this? Better yet, why did he like her like this?

"Are you still hungry?"

Lost in thought, his mind a million miles away, Dexter missed the question entirely. Something else held his focus. The way his mother was sitting had caused his stolen shirt to rise up her thighs during their heated kiss, just enough to give him the smallest of beguiling peeks underneath and he visibly stiffened, breath catching, at the sight of her satin orange panties, the sliver he could see nestled between those supple thighs.

"Dear?"

Her thumbs were rubbing soft circles around his ears and yet Dexter still hadn't registered her question, or what she was doing. The amount of concentration he was giving the sight between her legs was consuming at least two of his five senses, and a very base side of himself—the side he struggled with from time to time—had him wishing he could make it three out of five. The sight was tantalizing, it set his mind ablaze with questions so lewd that he could feel his groin responding in kind, also curious and seeking answers; but it was the scent, that mild, pheromone-rich aroma wafting gently from under his shirt, that tickled his nostrils and stoked his tastebuds with a longing to—

"Unfortunately, there's nothing for you to eat under my shirt," came his mother's luxurious voice, sounding rather intrigued by his rigid stance.

"I would beg to differ," Dexter muttered, blinking as hard as his stupor would allow in a vain attempt at gathering up some of hist lost braincells. He needed to be able to think straight and the bittersweet scent throttling his nose was making that a terribly difficult chore.

Returning attention back to her show, now that it was back from commercial, his mother took to playfully jostling his head side to side. "Do you now? And what do you see that's edible, sweetheart?"

Without even looking, he could tell she was giving one of her patented coy smiles. Nowadays, that's all she seemed to do, especially when she had him in the palms her hands like freeform play-doh. Ironic, yet wholly what he had lapsed into.

It was beyond Dexter to actually care what his mother thought at this point, he had already taken several steps into the land of debauchery, so when he inhaled with enough strength to ruffle the hem of his nicked shirt, the subtle coo of surprise that left his mother did little more than ignite what was fast growing into raging flame in his pants. It matched the heavenly sensation that bloomed in his nose, that smelled so intensely he could almost gather a taste on the back of his tongue.

"Tch…."

By no means was Dexter satisfied, and he would probably have to continue this at some point in the future lest he lose himself to the rampaging reprobate version of himself that skulked the limits of his restraint, but those schematics spread over his desk took precedence. After all, science before pleasure—always.

"Any macaroni left?" Dexter ground out, realizing he was scowling without meaning to. Not that it bothered his mother. In fact, if he didn't know any better, he would swear she took some sort of twisted pleasure in watching him struggle to resist her.

"There might be some left," she said fleetingly, even though Dexter knew full well she was privy to any and everything within her kitchen. It was her domain, after all. At any time she knew what was in the fridge, how many seasonings she had in the spice rack, and what snacks were running out. Her mastery over everything kitchen-related nearly rivaled his in the lab.

When Dexter wordlessly rose to his feet, she giggled. "Dear, are you legs trembling?"

"No."

They were.

"Yes, they are. Now, why might that be?" She inclined her head to stare at him through her bangs. "Did you happen to see something interesting, hm?"

"I saw plenty interesting," Dexter admitted, though his eyebrows were knitted with annoyance, "but I'm just hungry. I haven't eaten all day."

In a motion that caused Dexter to audibly swallow, his mother slowly swung those thick legs of hers around so that she was properly sitting, except there was considerable space between her thighs and she hooked the hem of her shirt with her pointing finger, curling it back toward herself with a look of pure seduction. "Oh, my darling boy, you must be absolutely famished," she mewled lustfully, her half-lidded eyes focused on nothing but him. "What kind of mother would I be if I made you take that long walk to the kitchen? Especially when there's a nice, hot meal for you to enjoy right here?"

With every beckoning motion of her finger, the shirt rose higher... and higher... traveling up her bodacious hips and revealing those orange panties in their entirety. They hugged tight in a way that Dexter felt should be illegal, but his groin didn't seem to agree with him at all; it was making its glee known by the obvious protrusion in his pants, and the sight of it only caused his mother's smile to deepen, her eyes surveying the tattletale tent with keen interest.

"...Your show must be on commercial," Dexter surmised evenly, feeling sweat begin to pebble his forehead as he pushed up his glasses.

His mother nodded slowly, then she leaned back into the sofa, bolstering her chest into greater light and further spreading those luscious thighs. "It is, which means you've got two minutes to enjoy this delicious meal your mother has prepared for you." She threw one arm behind her, gripping the cushion, and gave a stifled moan when Dexter planted a hand on her thigh, squeezing it firmly. "Nnn... ravenous, dear?"

Kneeling was something Dexter had no intention of growing accustomed to, but... he was hungry, and so when he found himself down on both knees yet again, at least he had a good reason for doing so. As though his mother hadn't spoke, Dexter placed his other hand parallel to the first, and proceeded to forcefully push his mother's legs as wide as they could go. Her moan from before turned into a gasp of surprise as he inched closer, inhaling steadily, letting her natural musk fill his lungs. It was somewhat humid between her legs and he placed a suckling kiss on her inner thigh, finding a devious pleasure in the way she shivered, and he lashed at the soft flesh there with his tongue, long strokes that had his mother biting the knuckle on her gloved hand.

"Mmm—ahn... doing that's only going to make your meal wetter, dear," she admonished teasingly, though the blush rising in her cheeks was all too visible, along with the way her nipples stood firm against his shirt, a clear sign as any of her arousal.

And she wasn't kidding. The more Dexter teased her thighs, alternating between long, languid licks and suckling nibbles, the more pronounced and heady the mouth-watering scent of her treasure became, until he could see beads of wetness forming against her panties.

"I was always a slow eater, mom," he replied easily, and he dragged the flat side of his talented tongue up the front of her flavorfully damp panties, a slow and rough motion that saw his mother clench her toes and throw her head back, "but I don't think you're going to mind."