#dexter showtime x reader

[nestingdoves]

Come back for a quick second! I just want to know who you want nonconing who.

[lustagel]

riding dexter in his iconic killer fit 𐫱 fem reader :p nom

he likes for things like this to be separate. things being his passion with you and his dark passenger but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to quite separate them tonight once he saw your glossy eyes and longing stare after he’d entered his apartment. he thought you’d been long asleep by the time he’d gotten there, that’s why he hadn’t bothered to change, but he was mistaken. as you pepper kisses under jaw, like you always do, you hadn’t seem to notice at all, even when you unbuckled his pants enough to slide his dick into you.

dexter would be lying if he said he wasn’t slightly distracted as you rode him, the heat of your body contrasting against the cold precision of his thoughts, he was only obtaining fragments of the scene in front of him—the soft hum of your voice, the way your body moves, the way his hands rest on your hips, offering a subtle semblance of control he doesn't truly want to exercise right now. he was silently grateful that it was dark in the bedroom, nothing emulating light but the moon through the crack of the blinds, or you would see too much of him.

as if not to let you see, he moves his eyes from you to where you are connected noticing how the fabric of his pants are becoming wet from your gushing pussy. “oh,” he says in a hushed moan, taking mental note for himself to buy new pants later. you're unaware of it all, lost in the rhythm, calling his name between moans, feeling his toned chest underneath your hands as it inflates with oxygen. your eyes follow his neck down to his chest where you see the tight, green, long sleeve, the color bouncing off the blacks of your eyes from the moonlight. you let out a little whimper at the looks of his body under yours, head slightly spinning.

his hands tighten slightly on your hips as you bounce harder, your breath hitching, but he releases as soon as he hears it. he lets it happen, lets you guide him with your own pace and speed until you reach it. it's the sound of your soft gasp, the way your nails dig into his chest as you climax, that grounds him in this moment—not as a predator, but as a man.

[dexteri0us]

i think i'm 'bout to explode, i can taste the tension like a cloud of smoke in the air

pairing: dexter morgan x f!reader

warnings: hints of fluff, smut - unprotected sex, slight spanking (hand and belt), oral (f receiving), fingering, spitting, slight choking, biting, dom!dexter, blood (i mean, obviously, he's a freak); sassy dexter

summary: requested: "...morning sex with dexter before he goes to work..."

w/c: around 5k

a/n: your wish is my command. thanks for requesting! :)

You and Dexter were perfect for each other – or close enough. You loved his bluntness, his dry sense of humor (which wasn’t always humor) and his demons, whatever they were. You had your suspicions, but you had yet to muster the nerve to ask him directly about them. It was so frustrating, because you prided yourself on opening controversial or inappropriate topics. You kept telling yourself that you were just afraid of losing the tension between the two of you once you’d call him out on his nocturnal disappearances.  

Some nights, he’d come home at an ungodly hour, collapsing into the bed beside you like gravity finally caught up with him. Occasionally, you’d wake to his stubble brushing your cheek as he laid kisses along your face. More often than not, you were too tired to make something out of it, and usually, you also assumed he’d just gotten off on something else, because he would sigh and nuzzle into you like he was still riding en endorphin rush.

You rarely engaged in a sex in the middle of the night, unless he demanded it. Once, you told him he could do whatever he wanted with you. Yours and Dexter’s sex life had its own intricate taxonomy:  I am objectifying you right in this moment and want your body sex or my hormones are acting up sex. The list was long, really, but at the very top was something went wrong sex. That was your favorite, but too bad for you, because it wasn’t very often that you got to experience it. Dexter is very careful and focused most of the time. He doesn’t make mistakes. The bright side of that: you’d never ever get tired of it. Those nights felt like Christmas. No. Better than Christmas.

One evening, he came home earlier than usual (you weren’t even asleep yet). He was so angry. So frustrated. And you wanted to help. You set aside the book you were reading (it was about a woman who fell in love with a sociopath. safe to say, it was an intriguing read) when he stormed into the room. You crawled to the foot of the bed, watching his sharp movements with wide eyes as he took off his army green shirt.

You’d always imagined yourself grinding on him while he wore his uniform. And that time was no different. But that night wasn’t about you. It was about him. Well, partly.

“Can I help?”

“No.” his tone was clipped as he continued to move frantically around the room.

You weren’t sure if you should push his buttons. Your heart beat out of your chest from the nerves. Part of you thought maybe you should back off; the other part – it thrived on the uncertainty, the thrill of not knowing how far you could push before he snapped.

“I could make you something to eat…”

Horse shit. You couldn’t cook to save your life, and he knew that. But he just scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a humorless smirk.  

“How about a bath? I could light those lavender candles and throw in one of my bath bombs.”

“I said no.”  

You were still kneeling on the bed, dressed in your checkered shorts and a spaghetti strap tank top. Trying to act as innocently as possible.

“Do you want–”

He finally charged toward you, cutting you off mid-sentence. “Do I need to spell it out?”

Finally. Bait taken.

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, slowly rising to your knees. The top of your head barely reached his chin, forcing you to tilt your neck to meet his gaze.

You started placing kisses along his collarbone, trailing up over his shoulder and to his neck. Your hand rested on his chest, palm splayed over his heart.

“Any chance I can sub in for one of them tonight?” you murmured, your lips brushing against his skin.

His brows furrowed and then shot up. “Them?”

You felt the sudden quickening of his pulse beneath your hand. You nibbled on your lower lip as you nodded.

“Who’s them?”

Instead of answering, you tanhled your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. It was a reassurance, a promise that you’d always be there. Okay, maybe you did it because you didn’t want him to leave you. You didn’t want to activate a chain reaction.

He leaned into you, his hands sliding to your waist, holding you. When your lips parted, your forehead rested against his.

“You tell me, Dexter. Or don’t. I don’t care. But I want you to be happy. Do whatever you need to me if that’s what it takes.”  

Pathetic? Most definitely. But who cares? He secretly loved it when you got like this – whiny, needy, entirely his.

His hand cupped your right cheek, his thumb brushing a faint vertical line against your skin, the nail scratching just enough to leave a fleeting mark. But his gaze darkened again, pupils dilating, like he was replaying unhappy memories.

He kissed you then – hard and insistent. His hand circled your neck, his thumb pressing just underneath your ear, while the rest of his fingers gripped the other side, his pointer brushing against your earlobe. Your hand instinctively shot up, clutching his forearm as if steadying yourself for what was coming.

Long story short, he fucked you that night, like never before. And since then, you’d been relying on your own version of Thorndike’s Law of Effect: if you wanted to ignite that fire in him, to get destroyed by him, you had to be a brat. Acting like you had control was the fastest way to make him prove otherwise. Sometimes you suspected he loved control more than he loved you. You’d told him that once, and he’d said you were being dramatic. Again. Well, you could still weaponize it.

The problem was, Dexter was otherwise a calm and patient boyfriend. He tolerated your antics with an almost infuriating ease, whether it was leaving the windshield wipers on long after the rain stopped or overbuying carrots at the farmer’s market only for him to help you eat the whole bowl of carrot salad. He even helped you find reliable owners for the stray cats that always “followed” you home. He was so good to you, and that’s why you always had to wait for something to go wrong. That’s when he was at his weakest and that’s when you struck.

Today’s the day. It was Friday and you didn’t have any classes, so you hadn’t set an alarm. You usually managed to wake up before 8 am – not too early, not too late. But this time, it wasn’t the sunlight or your internal clock that stirred you awake. It was the sound of chewing. Muffled munching, punctuated by the occasional scrape of a fork against a plate.

You cracked your eyes open, squinting as the golden rays of the early Miami morning sun flooded the room. You groaned softly and turned to look at the clock on the bedside table. 7:42. Acceptable.

Blinking the sleep away, you shifted your gaze to Dexter. He sat propped against the headboard on his side of the bed, a plate balanced on his lap, spearing pieces of egg and bacon with his fork before shoving them into his mouth.

What the fuck?

He never ate in bed. One time, when you’d brought a bowl of popcorn to share during a movie night, he’d almost thrown you out.

“I’m not a clean freak. You just can’t even drink out of a bottle without spilling it all over the place,” he’d said. Well, he wasn’t wrong, but you’d managed to convince him anyway.

Now, though? Now he was the one violating the sacred no-food-in-bed rule.

“Morning,” you mumbled, your voice still groggy as you reached for him.

He paused, registering your movement, and turned to you. His fork hovered mid-air as his gaze softened, just enough for him to take your hand and press a kiss to your knuckles. It was a gentle gesture, the grease from his lips lingered on your skin.  

“Hey,” he said, offering a weak smile. His voice carried a strange edge too, almost shaky.

You watched him carefully, he turned back to his food and with a quick flick of the remote, he raised the volume on the TV you hadn’t even noticed was on.   

The screen showed a reporter standing in front of a crime scene, her voice urgent as she rattled off details about a recent incident. They flashed an image of a man – the criminal – and then back to the reporter.

Your eyes darted from the TV to Dexter. His brow was drawn low, his stare almost predatory as he watched the broadcast. His jaw tightened and released, the muscles flexing as he chewed. Occasionally, his teeth ground together, producing a faint, grating sound.

He was in the mood. And it hit you.

He never ate in bed. He wanted you to provoke him. A slow smirk curled your lips.

“Careful, Dex. You might intimidate the reporter through the TV.”

His grip on the fork tightened and chewing came to an abrupt halt. He exhaled sharply through his nose, not amused.

“Not today.”

“Did someone leave a typo in their lab report or what?”

He stuffed the rest of his food into his mouth without so much as glancing at you.  

“Drop it.”

“Oh no, did Masuka out-gross you again?”

The plate clattered onto the bedside table with a force that made you flinch. Before you could react, he was on you. In a flash, his hand gripped your cheeks, his face hovering dangerously close to yours.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

That was easier than you thought.

“Funny? No. I think I’m just observant.”

His eyes narrowed, dark and unrelenting as he studied you. His grip on your cheeks tightened just enough to make your lips purse.

“Is that what you call running your mouth until you get yourself in trouble?”

You couldn’t help it. Even with his face inches from yours, his hand firm on your cheeks, you smirked. “Please, Dexter, you’re all bark and no bite.”

Now you were just being annoying. He was actually all bite and no bark. His jaw ticked anyway, a muscle jumping just beneath his skin. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your lips as his nose brushed against your cheek.

“You really want to test that theory?”

You tried to shrug, but his grip on you made the movement awkward.

The air between you was thick, electric. His eyes searched yours, and you finally saw that primal tweak of his.

Then, without a warning, he released your cheeks and grabbed your wrists, pinning them to the bed on either side of your head. His strength was effortless, his movement precise.

“If you don’t come at least four times until I have to leave for work, I’m not gonna let you come for four weeks at all.”

Shit. Four weeks is a long time. That’s a whole month!

“Now you’re setting ultimatums?”

“Your time is running out, you sure you want to talk back?”

And that was your cue to finally keep your mouth shut.

“Good girl.” He said, the words sending a jolt straight through you, and you became acutely aware of the wetness pooling in your sleep shorts.

“On your knees. Grab the headboard.”

You obeyed without hesitation, pressing your chest into the mattress as you shifted onto your knees, sticking your ass into the air. You felt the fabric of your shorts clinging to your slick pussy in a way that was both uncomfortable and relieving.

Dexter moved behind you, his hand brushing over your hips, the touch almost gentle before he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts. He tugged them down, watching the material stick to your pussy, making his cock twitch in his pants. You squirmed under his fingers as they brushed against the skin of your thighs, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Jesus, you’re sopping wet. Am I even surprised?” He said, bringing his fingers to your cunt and skimming them along the center from your hole, down to your clit. As he grazed that little spot, you bucked your hips into his hand, only for him to retreat it and bring it down in a swift move, slapping your clit and sending a tingling into your stomach. You moaned, not expecting him to get rough so soon.

Then, he kneeled next to you. You were too afraid to turn your head, but you could see with your periphery vision the tent in his pants. He brought the middle finger and the ring finger of his left hand to your mouth, and you opened without hesitation, wrapping your lips around them as he slid them all the way in. For you, it was awkward from that position, the fingers hooked in the corner of your mouth, forcing it to tilt slightly.

Once he decided that they were wet enough, he removed them and the same arm reached under you, his forearm touching your stomach as his fingers, now slick with your saliva, reached your pussy. They slid between your folds with ease, the two fingers pinching your clit between, before rubbing circles into it.

The tension in your stomach coiled tighter with each movement. You squirmed under him, needing more than he was giving you, and he knew that. But when you started moving too much, he slowed, barely grazing the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Dex,” you whined, your hips moving, trying to chase the friction he was withholding. But his only answer came in a form of a slap to your ass. Your mouth opened in a silent cry, and your hand instinctively let go of the headboard and reached for your cheek in order to sooth the pain. But before you could touch your own skin, his free hand was wrapping around your wrist, holding it high and causing your muscles to strain.

“Don’t make me tie you up. You don’t have time for that.”

You nodded in silent obedience, and you gripped the headboard again, focused on not letting go. His hand was still teasing your clit while his other hand reached from behind and played with your hole, your slickness sticking to his fingers. For a moment, he was enjoying the feeling of it, of you on his fingers. Then he spread the wetness up and over your asshole. He only teased your back entrance, returning to your pussy and plunging his fingers inside, making your grip on the headboard tighten, as well as your walls around his fingers.

Dexter’s fingers worked you expertly, curling upward to hit that spot inside you that made your eyes roll into the back of your head. The movements of both his hands were in sync, the combination driving you to the edge as he upped the pace, relentless and unforgiving his fingers thrusting deeper, while also pinching your clit harder and occasionally grazing a nail over it, sending shivers down your spine.

The room was filled with the sounds of your gasps, Dex’s occasional grunts and most importantly, the squelching sounds of your drenched cunt. You were almost embarrassed by it, and Dexter made sure you felt that shame.

“Listen to yourself. So messy.”

Your response was a broken whine, your body trembling as his fingers curled just right to hit that devastatingly perfect spot again and again and again. His other hand maintained its tormenting rhythm on your clit, switching between sharp pinches and soft, tantalizing circles as your juices dripped from your hole to your clit.

Your knuckles became white from the hold you had on the headboard, your focus on not letting go and letting go at the same time. The pressure pulled you further under, and when he felt you clench around him, he pressed harder, his fingers moving with even more intensity.

“You wanna come?”

“Yes,” you whined, your body shaking with the overwhelming sensations.

“Don’t forget your manners, sweetheart.”

The pressure was unbearable now, your release so close you could taste it.

“Please, can I come?”

“Go ahead.” He growled, his fingers resuming his relentless pace, the wave of pleasure hitting you like a tidal force, crashing through every nerve in your body. You cried out, your body convulsing with the intensity of your climax. Your thighs trembled and your grip on the headboard faltered, but you were quick to remember to hold on, otherwise he wouldn’t let you ride it out.

Dexter worked you through the aftershocks, his fingers slowing but still keeping you riding that high until you were an overstimulated mess beneath him. When he withdrew his hand, you thought he’d give you a moment to gather up, but instead, in a quick motion, he was behind you, spreading your ass and burying his face between your cheeks.

Your body twitched as you felt him press his tongue flat on your puffy clit, shaking his head from side to side before catching it between his lips and sucking on it. The stimulation too much, you even tried to pull away even though you didn't really want to. It was to no use anyway, he followed you and his hands pushed against the small of your back, limiting your movements. He kept sucking on your bundle of nerves, his nose nudging your wet opening.

The thought of him being this messy alone made you so fucking horny and needy, as if you weren’t at the maximum capacity to feel those things.

Dexter pulled another whine out of you when he tugged on your clit with his lips, pulling back until he let go with a pop.

“You get so fucking sweet when you’re on your on your knees.” He said before returning his tongue to your pussy, running it flat up and down your lips, spreading your cunt and mixing his spit with your juices before he slurped it all up.

Your hand itched to let go of the headboard and cover your pussy to give your swollen clit a rest, but you were afraid of what he might do if you disobeyed again.

Besides, eating you out was his favorite thing in the world, and bad things would happen if you deprived him of his favorite activities.

One time, he’d made you ride him for so long until it was physically impossible for you to lift your ass. He’d proceeded to call you lazy, and had you dared, you would have slapped him.

Now, too much was at stake. He flicked his tongue against your clit repeatedly before finding your entrance and plunging it inside, the wet muscle massaging your walls. He loved your taste, he loved how you squirmed, he loved how slick and sticky you were. And you loved how animalistic he was about it, and how he didn’t care that you were overstimulated.

He dragged his tongue in and out of you, and then finally, it returned to your clit, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot. And the slightly sharp sensation was all it took to send you over the edge again. Your pelvis twitched against him, his hands squeezing the flesh of your ass, dragging his nail against you aggressively and leaving red scratch marks behind.

You loved them more than bruises. You could get bruises anywhere, sometimes they appear, and you don’t even know how. That's a common knowledge. But chafed, irritated skin? You know exactly how it gets there. You remember it. It evokes memories.

He hummed against your hot, wet flesh, the vibrations only accelerating your orgasm. You mewled, almost screamed, but you didn’t want to seem overdramatic. Your cum spilled straight into his mouth and he drank it all down as if he didn’t want to waste a single drop. He caught it on his tongue, licking you through the orgasm. Your upper body felt so numb, while down there, it was like fireworks. And when you finally started coming down, he slowed down, laying kisses over your pussy lips and your butt and your thighs. You felt the wetness his mouth left behind, your slick slowly drying on your skin. It was almost comforting, feeling him be so soft. You felt like curling up to him, falling asleep in his embrace.

“Three to go. You think you can make it?” He asked, and you heard him move behind you, followed by the sound of his buckle as he removed his belt.

You looked at the clock. 8:02. You didn’t think you could, but even if you did, it was in his control. He was just manipulating you to think that it was yours. Or he was just mocking you. He knew you weren’t stupid.

“You think you can?”

The leather belt came down on your ass, to the same place he’d slapped before. You made a note about checking out that bruise later.

 “You’re only giving me reasons to spank the shit out of you.” He said, dragging the belt across your ass, before touching the curved part to your pussy. Once it was gone, you waited for Dexter to hit you there too, but the blow never came.

“Let go of the headboard.”

Your brows furrowed, but your confusion quickly disappeared when he hooked the belt around your neck, yanking you upwards, your back against his chest and his clothed cock nestled between your ass cheeks.

You subtly ground against him, making him purr into your ear, which made you smirk. He gripped both ends of the belt in one hand, while his other arm snaked around your waist, his hand slipping under your tank top and squeezing your breast. The way he pinched and tugged on your nipple made you buck into him with more force, and he reciprocated, grinding against you, giving in to his own pleasure. Then his hand disappeared from your body and you heard the sound of him spitting into his palm, before he brought it to your pussy. As if you weren’t completely drenched. He knew you loved how disgusting the thought was. How lewd you felt when he did that.

For him, this was nothing compared to the things he did during his free time.

Then without a warning, he released one end of the belt, causing you to collapse face-first into the bed. He unbuttoned his khaki pants and pulled his cock out before grabbing your arm and turning you on your back.

You finally got a good look at him - strands of hair sticking to his forehead, his eyes dark framed by lashes that looked like he'd used an eyelash curler (something you envied him). You admired him. Not just for his look, though that part was obvious. He knew he had women turning their heads in his direction. But they didn’t know the brilliant mind beneath it all. He was so clever, so undeniably smart, and that was what truly excited you. That a neat man with a compartmentalized brain like his could get so messy when it came to sex. Like now, all sweaty, his cock leaking onto the sheets. Some of the precum probably landed on your cunt too. The thought alone sent another wave of pleasure building deep in your abdomen.

He leaned down, his tongue flicking into your pussy in one swift motion before crawling over you and capturing your lips in a kiss, making you taste yourself on his tongue. His hand slid to your neck, his thumb pressing firmly against your pulse point, making you aware of how fast your heart was pounding. You moaned into his mouth as he applied a touch more pressure for a split second, giving him the chance to slide his tongue deeper into your mouth. You sucked on it, tasting the tanginess that he'd collected from your lower lips.

Without warning, with just a sublte shift of his hips, he was inside you. A low moan escaped him as he felt the tightness of your walls, and you let out a soft whimper at the stretch. He didn’t move at first. He kept kissing you and his hand slid down your body, squeezing your boob again, rolling the nipple between his fingers. Lowering his head, he wrapped his mouth around your sensitive peak, sucking gently on your tit. Your fingers tangled into his hair, your nails scratching lightly against his scalp, pulling him closer.

His teeth grazed your sensitive nub, sending a jolt through you, and in one fluid motion, his arm snaked beneath you, lifting and sitting up as he pulled you onto his lap. He started thrusting his hips into you, holding you in place, his cock gliding effortlessly along your slick walls.

Leaning forward, his lips found your other breast, his tongue tracing lazy circles around your nipple before his mouth opened wide, taking in as much of your soft flesh as he could. You arched against him, your back curving as your hads pressed his face closer, your head tipping back in ecstasy.

He kept on fucking you, hitting that sweet spot inside of you that made you dizzy. He drove his cock into you, quickening the pace, a sign that he was getting close. His arms around you tightened and then suddenly, you felt a sharp pain originating in your breast and going straight to your pussy, making you clench around. He was fucking you hard and deep, and when you looked down, you saw him still latched onto your tit, his upper lip covered in crimson.

You felt the sting from the way he was sucking on you, and when he finally removed his lips from your breast, you saw red drops dripping down your breast, the blood leaking from the bite marks where his upper teeth sank into your skin. You were mesmerized by it, and you wanted more. You pushed his face back against your sore nipple and Dexter surprisingly didn’t argue. He licked the blood off you and sucked again while ramming into you. Your body shuddered, and finally your third finish was brought on by a couple of additional thrusts of his hips. Then he laid you flat on the bed and chased his own release. You pulled him up by the chin, meeting his lips in a sloppy kiss as he fucked you hard and fast until he spilled inside of you.

Once you both came down, he was lying on top of you. You wrapped your arms around him, squeezing him affectionately, because you were so content that he was there with you.

But you were yanked out of your dreamland when he rose to his feet, making your brows furrow.

“That was only three,” your tone couldn't be more confused, as he headed to the bathroom.

“Yeah, but I need to shower and pick new clothes to wear. Can’t go to work with your cum all over my pants.” He came back to the bedroom with a smile on his face, as if he just hadn’t fucked the shit out of you. “Last one’s on you.”

“On me?”

“Yes. Make yourself cum before I leave. If you don’t, you know the consequences.”

He gave you a quick peck on the lips before disappearing into the bathroom.

Asshole. He knew you’d lost the ability to make yourself cum shortly after you’d started sleeping together. But luckily, you had your stash of toys that might help you with your problem.

With the roll of your eyes, you rolled over and reached into your nightstand, but in that moment, he peeked from around the corner.

“Oh, and your hands only.”

“What? That’s not fair!”

His face dropped again.

“You want to tell me what’s fair and what isn’t?”

You slammed the drawer shut and fell on your back, your body bouncing on the soft bed.

“Good girl. And no cheating. I’ll keep the door open. If I so much as hear something else that isn’t your fucking scream, I swear you’ll have to work your ass off to make me let you come ever again. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

You hadn’t done this in a long time. It almost felt unnatural. But despite that, your fingers dropped to your clit, and you began pushing yourself over another edge. Or at least you tried. But it was pointless. You tried to squeeze your wounded breast to get that rush going, but it didn’t have that effect this time. It only made you sweaty.

He managed to finish his shower before you made yourself orgasm, obviously. When he entered the bedroom with a towel around his waist, he looked at you with feigned pity.

“Aww… Don’t tell me my baby needs a manual to get herself off.”

“Dex, come on. You know I can’t make myself orgasm,” you tried to reason with him, but he wasn’t going to budge.

“I can’t do two things at once, I’m only one person,” he argued, as if it was the most logical thing in the world. “This is for your own good. I gave you an opportunity to make it to four before I have to leave. It’s not my fault you’re not capable.”

You huffed, bringing your fingers to your pussy again, stuffing them inside yourself and trying to fuck yourself, but again, to no avail.

He even laughed at you, and when you opened your eyes, you saw him already with his work bag slung over his shoulder, hands casually tucked in his pocket. You’d lost.

“Fuck, I wish you could see yourself. So desperate. It’s like your world has been destroyed.”

“It kinda has.”

He came to your side of your bed where you were still lying with your hand between your legs. He leaned over you, brushing the hair that stuck to your forehead and placing a soft kiss there.

“Take that as a lesson. You shouldn’t take a bait if you can’t handle the hook.”

And with that he turned on his heel and left, leaving you wrecked and messy, the most agonizing four weeks of your life just now beginning.

a/n2: i'm thinking it's kinda more vanilla than i intended it to be, but oh well... thank you for reading!!

[swetblom]

𝟅𝟈 brian bruises your insides feat. his big bicep, w. he’s not that sweet, but he’s sweet in his own way ♡ and that’s all that matters also the gif?? nom nom NOM!!

the neighbors are going to complain again. they’ve already knocked multiple times—sometimes more than once a night—because of you and brian, and every time, you promise, “swear i’m gonna be quieter this time.” but, as always, you fail miserably. no matter the time of day or night, your moans pound against the thin walls, loud and desperate, because it’s not your fault he keeps hitting that sweet spot inside you, the one that makes you shake and whimper about how it’s too much—only for him to keep pushing deeper.

“brian, brian, brian.” his name spills from your lips like a chant, dripping with need, mindless and pleading.

his arm is locked tightly around your shoulders, keeping you pressed close as he sinks into you, impossibly deep. you’re shivering from the stretch, from the way his cock pulses inside you, his breath warm and heavy against your ear. he’s still—so still it makes you ache, his only movement the slight twitch of his cock inside you. it’s too much, not enough, and you don’t hesitate to push back against him, rolling your hips, fucking yourself on his cock with greedy, eager movements.

brian watches, amused, as you work yourself up. your ass ripples with every desperate grind, your voice breaking into needy little moans that don’t even ask for anything—just mindless, pathetic noises spilling from your lips. he adores it.

“come on,” he encourages, voice low and smooth. “just like that.”

you try, putting all your strength behind each thrust, but it’s too much—too deep, too intense—and your pace starts to falter. he tsks, the hand resting on your stomach sliding to your hip, fingers stroking over your skin with a softness that contradicts his teasing.

“tired?” you whimper, nodding, barely able to keep moving. brian hums, sharp eyes flicking to the part of your face he can see, something unreadable glinting beneath the amusement. “want me to take care of you?” you nod again, eyes fluttering, too lost in the heat of it all to notice the way he’s looking at you. “yes . . please.”

his grip tightens. before you can process it, brian takes over, pulling your hips back with an unforgiving force and slamming you down onto his cock. your body jolts forward from the impact, but his arm around your shoulders keeps you locked in place—keeps you exactly where he wants you. a choked-out moan rips from your throat, high and broken, and he doesn’t give you a second to recover before he’s setting a ruthless pace.

the sound of skin slapping fills the room, mixing with your sharp, gasping cries. you’re shaking from the intensity, from the way he fucks into you without hesitation, without mercy, hitting so deep it borders on unbearable. every thrust has you unraveling further, has your hands grasping uselessly at the sheets, at his arm, at anything to ground yourself, but there’s no escape.

“too much—” the words barely make it past your lips, voice weak, cracked. brian huffs out a laugh against your ear, “thought you wanted me to take care of you?”

his hips roll forward, dragging his cock against that spot inside you that makes your mind go blank, and you sob, vision going hazy. his grip on your hip softens just enough to stroke over your skin, his amusement never fading. “you take it so well,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck, voice dark and filled with something you’re too fucked-out to catch. “every single time.”

you can barely form words, barely think past the relentless pleasure coursing through you. your moans are shameless, bordering on a wail as he keeps you exactly where he wants—bent, used, ruined.

and the neighbors? they’ll just have to deal with it.

[subtlebloodshed]

Make it hurt

cw. rough sex, mean mocking, dom!brian, fsub!reader, crying, manipulation but reader doesn't know it, brian as rudy, brian is his own warning

Rudy is hands down the best boyfriend you’ve ever had. He remembers all your favorite things, always knows how to make you laugh, and somehow nails every romantic gesture that makes your heart melt. Honestly, you catch yourself wondering all the time how you got so lucky—what you did to deserve him, or how many orphanages you must have built in a past life to end up with someone this amazing. But one thing’s for sure: he loves you. And he loves you so well that it blows your mind how easily he fucks you like he hates you.

And right now, it feels like he despises you. 

You saw it in the dark, hungry look in his eyes—the promise of exactly where you are now. Your hands are bound tightly behind your back with his tie, your body arched against his as his bicep wraps firmly around your throat. His teeth graze your shoulder before sinking in, sending a shiver through you, while his hand claims your breast with bruising intensity. Each relentless thrust pushes deeper, making it clear he’s lost in his desire, your comfort the furthest thing from his mind. 

“S-Slow down, baby…” You whimper through your breathless sobs, tears running down your flushed cheeks.

“God, are you crying?” Rudy grunts with a chuckle, his hand on your breast moving up to shove his fingers into your mouth, effectively gagging you, “You’re fucking pathetic, sobbing over my cock when you should be grateful for it.” 

The grip on your throat tightens, cutting off just enough air to send a wave of panic and thrill racing through your body. For a fleeting moment, you’re certain this is how it ends, but the fear only heightens the intensity of everything else. The pressure on your airway and the relentless ache between your legs blend into a haze that leaves your vision swimming, every nerve alive with sensation.

Your bound hands twist behind you, desperate for reprieve, nails digging into curves of his abdomen begging for mercy. Rudy groans at the sting, his breath hot against your ear as he growls, “Stop fucking struggling, take it, fucking take it.” 

“Rud–Rudy, please, I can’t– I can’t take anymore…” You croak out tightly, your discomfort evident. 

“Does it hurt, doll?” He asks, his hips slowing for a moment as his grip on your throat loosens enough to give you a moment to breathe. He plants kisses over the back of your shoulder, his nose nuzzling against your skin. This moment is one of reassurance; he still loves you, no matter how hard he’s drilling into you– he’s still your Rudy and he’d do anything for you.

You nod, sniffling back your tears and trying to ignore the drool running down your chin. His hand moves to tilt your head to look at him, his eyes scanning yours–studying you. Rudy is checking if you’re okay, if he should actually slow down. When you give him a slight nod with that desperate and needy look in your eyes, he smirks and leans in to plant a kiss to your jaw.

“It should hurt.” He spits before he shoves you face-first down onto his bed roughly as his hips start their assault on you again.

[sweetserialkillerblog]

the reply is so dexter bye he def would say some shit like that

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Needs

Dexter Morgan x Reader

Summary: In the dark corners of Miami, Dexter Morgan and Y/N Sinclair navigate a world of blood, secrets, and an unspoken understanding that binds them tighter than any normal relationship should.

TW: This fic contains discussions and scenes that may be triggering for some readers. Please read with caution.

Violence & Murder – Includes descriptions and implications of homicide, serial killing, and blood.

Sexual Content – Contains semi-explicit and implied sexual situations, including aggressive intimacy.

Non-consensual Themes (Implied/Discussed) – Mentions of potential non-consensual scenarios (though not acted upon).

Death & Grief – Discussions and scenes involving loss of family members, grief, and unresolved murders.

Police & Corruption – Criticism of law enforcement, themes of police negligence, and frustration with the justice system.

Psychological Manipulation – Includes references to dark urges, internal dialogues with a violent alter ego (Dark Passenger), and morally ambiguous actions.

Stalking & Surveillance – Implied scene of a character being watched without their knowledge. (Because Brian is a fucking freak.)

Crude Language – Frequent use of strong language and profanity.

Sibling Death – Mentions of past accidents and murder of a sibling, with trauma.

If you feel any of these topics may be distressing, please proceed with caution or avoid reading further.

Word Count: 14k

(I was gonna split this bitch into two parts because she was getting LONG but decided, fuck it.)

It was late fall, the kind of night where the Miami heat had finally begun to let up, replaced by something almost resembling a chill. The University of Miami’s library was quieter than usual, the usual hum of students thinning out as midterms wrapped up.

Dexter had come for a book—Forensic Microscopy, a dry but useful read he could use as an excuse for being here if anyone asked. The truth was, he liked the silence. The smell of old books and paper felt clean, precise, ordered. A contrast to the messiness of life outside.

He didn’t expect to notice her.

She was sitting at one of the long wooden tables near the back, surrounded by cookbooks instead of textbooks, her hair pulled into a loose bun with strands slipping free. She was flipping through a thick volume on classic French cuisine, tapping a pencil absentmindedly against the page. Unlike most students buried in notes or half-asleep in their chairs, she didn’t look stressed—just focused, reading with an intensity that made it seem like she was picking apart every detail, every ingredient, like it mattered.

Dexter found himself watching her longer than necessary. She had that quiet kind of presence, the kind that didn’t demand attention but held it anyway. When she turned the page, her gaze flicked up just enough to catch him staring. Instead of looking away or pretending not to notice, she raised a single eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice low, unbothered. Not defensive, just curious.

Dexter blinked. Most people would have been embarrassed. He wasn’t. Just calculating.

"You’re studying French cooking," he said instead of answering her question.

She leaned back, crossing her arms, studying him in return. "I am a culinary student," she said. "And you are...?"

Dexter hesitated. She wasn’t asking in the way most people did, with the expectation of polite introductions. There was something else in her tone, something that made him feel like she was filing information away the same way he did when analyzing blood patterns.

"Biology major," he said finally. "With a focus on forensic science."

Her expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes. A flicker of amusement, maybe.

"So, dead bodies instead of dead animals on a plate." She tapped her pencil on the book again, thinking. "You ever cook?"

Dexter shook his head. "No."

"Hmm." She closed the book in front of her. "Shame. There’s something satisfying about making something from nothing. Knowing exactly how each piece fits together, how heat and time change things at a chemical level. Cooking’s just science with better seasoning."

He could see the logic in that. The careful precision, the balance. The way something seemingly chaotic had rules beneath the surface.

"Y/N," she said after a moment, holding out a hand like she’d just decided it was worth the effort. "Y/N Sinclair."

Dexter shook it. "Dexter Morgan."

She nodded, as if the name confirmed something for her, then grabbed her books. "Well, Dexter Morgan, since you’re so interested in French cuisine, you can help me carry these back to my dorm."

It wasn’t a question. She didn’t wait for his response before stacking another book on the pile in front of him.

Dexter, for some reason, didn’t mind.

It was a Friday night, the kind where the humidity still clung to the air but wasn’t unbearable, and campus felt half-asleep. Most students had either gone out drinking or crashed early, but Y/N had convinced Dexter to come with her to a small diner just off-campus.

Well, convinced was a strong word. She had mentioned it offhandedly, fully expecting him to decline, and was only mildly surprised when he agreed.

Now, they sat in a red vinyl booth near the back, the hum of the old neon sign outside casting a faint blue glow against the window. A half-eaten plate of fries sat between them, and Y/N was absentmindedly spinning a sugar packet between her fingers while Dexter stirred his coffee without drinking it.

Across from them, Lisa and Theo—Y/N’s two whole friends—watched with barely concealed amusement. They weren’t the kind of people who pried, but the tension at the table was thick enough to cut with a dull butter knife.

“So,” Lisa finally said, her dark eyes flicking between Y/N and Dexter, “how long have you two been… whatever this is?” She gestured vaguely at them, one hand wrapped around her milkshake.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her expression perfectly blank. “Friends?”

Theo snorted. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

Dexter, to his credit, didn’t react much. He just tilted his head slightly, as if studying the accusation, before finally responding. “We met last year.”

Lisa rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay, but that doesn’t explain why you two look like you’ve been circling each other in some weird, slow-motion will-they-won’t-they for months.”

Y/N didn’t even pause before popping a fry into her mouth. “Maybe you just have an overactive imagination.”

Lisa wasn’t buying it. “Or maybe you’re just allergic to acknowledging obvious chemistry.” She turned to Dexter. “You have to see it, right? It’s like watching two stray cats who want to fight but also maybe want to cuddle.”

Dexter stirred his coffee again, this time for no reason. “I wouldn’t describe it that way.”

“No, of course not.” Theo smirked. “You’d probably use some clinical forensic analysis instead.”

Dexter’s lips twitched like he was considering it.

Y/N sighed, finally setting the sugar packet down. “Look, I get that this is fascinating for you, but I’m not in the mood for whatever romantic conspiracy theory you’re cooking up.”

Lisa exchanged a glance with Theo. “Okay, fine,” she said, lifting her hands in mock surrender. “We’ll drop it. But just so you know, everyone can see it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and reached for another fry. “Then everyone should mind their own business.”

Lisa just smirked. “Uh-huh.”

The conversation shifted after that, back to classes, campus drama, and Theo’s latest failed attempt at flirting with the barista at the campus coffee shop. But every so often, Lisa would glance between Y/N and Dexter, a knowing look in her eyes.

Dexter, for his part, was as unreadable as ever. But Y/N? She could feel it—the weight of her friends’ words lingering in the air, like a splinter she couldn’t quite ignore.

And when she looked at Dexter, just for a second too long, she knew they weren’t entirely wrong.

The Miami sun was relentless, even in late October, casting sharp golden light over the parking lot of a small sandwich shop just off campus. Y/N leaned against the hood of her truck, sipping an iced coffee while Debra paced in front of her, talking a mile a minute, hands flying in every direction.

"I'm just saying," Debra huffed, shoving her sunglasses up into her messy ponytail, "if I have to sit through another goddamn Criminal Psych lecture where Professor Reed sucks off the FBI, I might actually throw something at him. Like, we get it, dude, profiling is so impressive, ooooh." She waved her hands dramatically. "Maybe if they spent less time jerking off over patterns and actually did some real police work, they'd solve more cases."

Y/N smirked, sipping her drink. "I feel like you’re holding back, Deb. Tell me how you really feel."

Debra shot her a look but cracked a grin. "Shut up." She crossed her arms and leaned against the truck beside Y/N, stealing a sip of her coffee without asking.

Y/N didn’t bother stopping her. "You’re just mad because he called on you and you weren’t paying attention."

Debra groaned, tilting her head back against the windshield. "I was barely zoned out! And it’s not like the dude next to me knew the answer either! He was just better at bullshitting."

Y/N gave a slow nod. "And bullshitting is, what, half of law enforcement?"

Debra pointed at her. "See? You get it."

They stood there for a minute, the background noise of Miami buzzing around them—traffic, music blaring from passing cars, the faint chatter of people coming in and out of the sandwich shop. It was an easy silence, the kind you only had with people you didn’t need to fill space with.

"You coming to the Halloween party at Diego’s?" Debra asked after a moment, nudging Y/N’s shoulder with her own.

Y/N wrinkled her nose. "That mess? I think I’ll pass."

"Why?" Debra dragged out the word like it was a personal offense. "It’ll be fun. Booze, bad decisions, some dude dressed as a sexy vampire throwing up in the bushes. Classic college shit."

Y/N exhaled through her nose, half amused. "Yeah, I think I’ll stay home and not watch freshmen blackout on Jell-O shots, thanks."

Debra made an exaggerated tsk noise. "God, you’re such an old lady."

Y/N smirked. "I prefer refined."

"Right, sure, let’s go with that," Debra said, rolling her eyes. "So what, you’re just gonna sit at home and hang out with Dexter?"

Y/N didn’t flinch, but Debra was watching her, and Y/N knew she had that look—the one that was too sharp, too knowing.

"You guys are weirdly close, you know that?" Debra continued, tilting her head, studying her.

Y/N shrugged, playing it off. "We’re friends."

Debra hummed, unconvinced. "Yeah, well, if you ever get tired of whatever the hell that thing is, you let me know. I actually like socializing."

Y/N laughed under her breath. "Deb, I don’t think you’ve ever once gotten tired of hearing yourself talk."

Debra gasped in mock offense. "Excuse you—I have great conversational skills."

Y/N patted her shoulder. "Sure you do, champ."

Debra shoved her lightly, but she was grinning. "Asshole. Now get in the truck and drive me home before I change my mind and force you to come to this party."

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, tossing her coffee in the trash and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Debra flopped into the passenger seat, kicking her feet up on the dashboard like she owned the place. Y/N didn't bother telling her to put them down.

As they pulled onto the road, Debra turned the radio up, flipping through stations until she found one she liked. Y/N let her, focusing on the drive, the late afternoon light casting long shadows over the streets.

It was easy, their friendship. Even with the questions Debra didn’t realize she was asking.

It started as a small, quiet realization, the kind that crept in unnoticed until it was too late to ignore.

Dexter wasn’t in the habit of analyzing his relationships—not outside of how they served his purpose. He had Debra, the one exception, the person he knew he cared about, even if he didn’t fully understand why. Everyone else? They were pieces on a board, parts of the structure that allowed him to exist without drawing suspicion.

Y/N had never quite fit into that structure the way others did.

And tonight, as he sat across from her in her apartment, watching her work through some intricate dish for a client, he realized just how much space she had taken up in his life.

She hadn’t invited him over, not really. She never had to. Their dynamic didn’t require it. He had just shown up, and she had just let him in, offering a drink without asking why he was there. Now, she moved through her small kitchen with effortless precision, chopping, mixing, tasting. Her hair was pinned up messily, her sleeves pushed up, exposing the sharp lines of her wrists and forearms—stronger than they looked, the result of years in kitchens.

Dexter should have been bored. This wasn’t new, wasn’t useful, wasn’t anything that served him. But he wasn’t bored.

He was watching.

She wasn’t trying to entertain him, wasn’t filling the space with conversation the way most people would. And yet, it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was easier than most social interactions, easier than pretending to care about meaningless conversations.

He could sit here, and she could do this, and it was fine.

She reached for something on a high shelf, stretching just enough that the hem of her sweater lifted slightly, and before Dexter could even think about it, he stood and grabbed the jar for her.

Y/N turned, eyebrows raised slightly in amusement. “I didn’t even ask.”

“You were struggling,” he said simply, handing it to her.

She gave a short laugh, shaking her head as she took it. “I wasn’t struggling. I would have gotten it.”

“Eventually.”

She huffed, but there was no real annoyance in it. “Thanks, I guess.”

She went back to work, and Dexter sat back down, watching the way she focused, the way she seemed to enjoy the process—not in some sentimental way, but in a methodical one. She liked control. She liked knowing the outcome of her work.

It was a familiar trait.

Time passed, the quiet hum of the radio the only sound between them. Y/N finished what she was doing, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and turned to lean against the counter, crossing her arms as she looked at him.

“You’re staring.”

Dexter blinked. He hadn’t even realized. “Am I?”

She tilted her head, studying him the same way he had been studying her. It made something twist in his stomach—not unpleasant, just unfamiliar.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “You do that sometimes.”

Dexter could have denied it. He should have. But instead, he just looked at her, and for the first time, he had the uncomfortable thought that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as removed from all of this as he liked to believe.

Maybe she had managed to sneak into the parts of him that weren’t supposed to feel.

And maybe he didn’t mind.

It was late. Past midnight. The kind of late where most people were asleep, where the world was quieter, slower. Where shadows stretched longer than they should and things you didn’t want to notice became harder to ignore.

Dexter had been leaving his apartment when he saw her.

Y/N was parked outside, her old truck pulled into the nearest streetlight’s glow, hood streaked with something dark, front grille caked with debris. He hadn’t needed to ask why she was there—he already knew.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

He watched as she leaned over the hood, methodically plucking something from the metal mesh, her fingers quick and precise, like she was used to it. A bucket of water sat beside her, the rag in her hand already stained. She worked in silence, jaw tight, eyes focused—not frustrated, not shaken, just fixing it.

Like this was normal. Like it was just something that happened.

Dexter stayed in the shadows, observing. He wasn’t sure why.

He should have assumed this was exactly what it looked like. A deer, most people would say. Maybe a raccoon, a stray dog. But the damage was too intentional, too conveniently placed, and he knew Y/N well enough to know that she wasn’t careless.

He should have realized it sooner.

The moments, the little comments, the way she never asked questions she didn’t want answered. The way she had once idly mentioned how easy it was for people to get themselves killed if they weren’t paying attention. The way she never seemed rattled by things that should have disturbed her.

And now, here she was, wiping blood from her truck like it was just another Tuesday.

Finally, she sighed, shaking out the rag before tossing it into the bucket. “You gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna help?”

Dexter blinked. Ah.

So she had noticed him.

He stepped forward, hands in his pockets. "How long have you known I was there?"

She gave him a sidelong glance, then reached for the hose coiled against the curb. "Long enough." She turned the water on, rinsing the last of the grime off the metal, her movements slow, deliberate. "Not gonna ask what I hit?"

Dexter tilted his head. "Do you want me to?"

Y/N huffed a small laugh, not looking at him. "Not particularly."

Dexter watched her, the way she handled this—no panic, no guilt, no urgency. Just... efficiency.

She turned the hose off, leaning back against the truck, arms crossed, finally meeting his gaze.

And there it was.

That thing in her expression, the thing that wasn’t quite normal, the thing that shouldn’t be there but was.

Dexter had spent his life studying people, mimicking them, learning how to blend in. He knew when something was off.

And Y/N?

She wasn’t mimicking anything.

She was just like this.

The silence stretched between them, and he realized, for the first time, that maybe she understood him more than he had ever considered.

And maybe, just maybe—she had been waiting for him to figure that out.

Dexter had been tuning Debra out for the past five minutes, half-listening as she rambled on about the amazing guy she had met at a bar last week. Something about him being a cop-in-training, charming but not too charming, good with his hands—he really didn’t care. Not until she dropped something that caught his attention.

“So obviously, you’re coming.”

Dexter blinked, dragging his focus back to her. “What?”

Debra groaned. “Jesus, Dex, try to keep up. Double date. Me, Kyle, you, whoever the hell you bring.” She took a sip of her beer, then pointed at him. “And don’t even think about saying no. You owe me.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” she interrupted, leveling him with a look. “You always do. And before you start bitching about not knowing who to bring, you should just ask Y/N.”

Dexter frowned. “Y/N?”

Debra rolled her eyes, waving a hand in the air. “Yeah, Y/N. You know, your wife?”

Dexter stared at her. “She’s not my wife.”

Debra snorted. “Okay, sure, but you two are already basically married, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Dexter didn’t respond right away, processing that. “We’re not married.”

“Dex,” Debra said flatly, giving him the look. “You show up at her apartment unannounced, she lets you in like it’s the most normal thing in the world, you drive each other places without even asking, she’s the only person I’ve ever seen you sit in comfortable silence with—” She gestured wildly. “It’s a marriage, dude. You just forgot to do the paperwork.”

Dexter tilted his head. “By that logic, you and I are also married.”

Debra gagged dramatically. “Oh my God, never say that again.”

Dexter smirked slightly. “Then maybe your definition is flawed.”

Debra scoffed, shaking her head. “Nope. I stand by it. You and Y/N are some kind of weird-ass, low-maintenance, no-effort couple.” She leaned forward, pointing at him again. “And you are bringing her, because if I have to sit through dinner with Kyle and his roommate alone, I’m going to gouge my own eyes out with a butter knife.”

Dexter considered arguing, but he knew Debra well enough to know she wasn’t letting this go.

He sighed. “Fine.”

Debra grinned, satisfied. “Good. Pick me up at seven.”

Dexter took a sip of his drink, already mentally preparing for the inevitable conversation with Y/N.

Somehow, he had the feeling she was going to find this entire thing hilarious.

Y/N had been expecting something the moment Dexter walked into her apartment.

Not because he looked particularly different—Dexter never looked different—but because he was standing just inside the doorway, hands in his pockets, hovering.

That was new.

She finished tying her hair up, eyeing him from the kitchen. “Alright, spit it out.”

Dexter blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got that face,” she said, walking past him to grab a soda from the fridge.

He frowned slightly. “I don’t have a face.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s the problem.” She cracked the can open, leaning against the counter. “Now, what is it?”

Dexter was quiet for a beat, then finally said, “Debra wants me to go on a double date with her.”

Y/N took a sip. “And?”

“And she thinks I should bring you.”

Y/N stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing.

Dexter just stood there, watching as she set her drink down and covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

“Oh my God.” She exhaled, looking at him with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “She really thinks we’re that bad, huh?”

Dexter shrugged. “Apparently, we’re ‘basically married.’”

Y/N wheezed. “Jesus, Deb.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Okay, okay, so let me get this straight—you have to go, and she’s making you bring me so she doesn’t have to suffer alone?”

“More or less.”

Y/N shook her head, still grinning. “And you agreed?”

Dexter hesitated. “It seemed like the path of least resistance.”

Y/N smirked. “Ah, so you’re afraid of her.”

Dexter didn’t respond, which was answer enough.

Y/N picked up her drink again, taking a thoughtful sip. “Alright, fine. I’ll go.”

Dexter nodded, as if he had already expected that.

She tilted her head, giving him a sly look. “I’m gonna make this as unbearable as possible, you know that, right?”

Dexter finally moved, walking past her toward the fridge to grab his own drink. “I assumed as much.”

Y/N grinned, already scheming. “Good. At least one of us should have fun.”

The restaurant was one of those dimly lit, mid-tier places that tried too hard to look upscale but still had sticky menus and a faint smell of fryer oil clinging to the air. It wasn’t bad, just pretentious in the way Miami restaurants tended to be.

Dexter had already counted three exits, noted the security camera angles, and cataloged at least two potential weak spots in the building’s structure before the appetizers had even arrived.

Across the table, Debra was clearly regretting her life choices.

Kyle, her date, was fine—blond, broad-shouldered, the kind of guy who probably called his dad sir and did push-ups for fun. He was talking, saying something about police training, and Debra was nodding along, barely suppressing an eye-roll.

The real problem was Kyle’s roommate, Brandon—who, unfortunately, was Y/N’s assigned date for the evening.

Brandon had energy.

The wrong kind of energy.

“So, Y/N, right?” Brandon leaned in, flashing a grin that probably worked on drunk sorority girls but was currently being met with a blank, vaguely unimpressed stare. “Debra said you’re a chef. That’s, like, so hot. A woman who can cook? Total wife material.”

Y/N blinked. “That’s the most 1950s thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Brandon laughed, like she was joking.

Dexter knew she wasn’t.

“Yeah, yeah, no, I mean, I just think it’s cool,” Brandon continued, undeterred. “I make a mean grilled cheese, but that’s about it.”

Y/N took a slow sip of her wine. “Wow. Incredible.”

Brandon either didn’t catch the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “So what’s your specialty?”

Y/N leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her hand. “Killing men who think grilled cheese counts as cooking.”

Debra choked on her drink.

Dexter allowed himself the faintest twitch of amusement.

Brandon hesitated. “Uh… ha, ha?”

Y/N smiled sweetly.

Debra, regaining control, slapped her palm on the table. “Okay, this was a mistake.” She pointed at Dexter. “You suck at double dates, by the way.”

Dexter raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t my idea.”

Debra groaned, turning to Kyle. “You’re the only normal one here. Congratulations.”

Kyle, who had been quietly sipping his beer and watching the disaster unfold, lifted his glass. “Thanks, I guess?”

Brandon, still valiantly trying to salvage the situation, turned back to Y/N. “So, like, what do you do when you’re not working?”

Y/N tilted her head, considering. “Mostly run people over with my truck.”

Brandon laughed again. “Man, you’re funny.”

Dexter noticed the way Y/N’s lip just twitched, the way her fingers tapped idly against the stem of her wine glass. He had seen her do this before, when she was thinking, calculating.

It was an odd thing, seeing himself in someone else.

Brandon, blissfully unaware, leaned in again. “You ever gonna let me take you out for real?”

Y/N stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Dexter, deadpan. “Husband, tell him no.”

Dexter, without missing a beat, looked at Brandon. “No.”

Brandon blinked. “Wait—”

Debra snorted. “Oh, my God.”

Y/N clinked her glass against Dexter’s. “Good teamwork.”

Dexter hummed. “We are practically married.”

Debra groaned into her hands. “I hate both of you.”

Kyle took another sip of his beer. “This is way more fun than I expected.”

Brandon, thoroughly confused, leaned back in his seat, finally—finally—accepting defeat.

Y/N, victorious, took another sip of wine.

Dexter, for the first time that night, actually enjoyed himself.

Y/N was elbow-deep in flour when Dexter knocked on her apartment door.

It was open, like always, so he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The smell of something buttery and warm filled the air, a half-finished pie crust sitting on the counter.

Y/N glanced up, brushing flour off her hands. “You look like you’re about to say something weird.”

Dexter tilted his head. “How do you know?”

“Because I know you,” she said, grabbing a dish towel to wipe her hands. “And also because you’re standing there like you just made a decision and haven’t worked out how to phrase it yet.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Dexter had spent a long time trying to figure out why this was different. Why she was different.

The answer was surprisingly simple:

It didn’t feel different.

There was no pressure, no expectation. No need to analyze how much effort it took to maintain. It just was.

Everyone already assumed they were together.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending otherwise.

So instead of overthinking it, he just said, “Do you want to go out?”

Y/N blinked. “Go out?”

“On a date.”

She stared at him for a second longer, then huffed a small laugh, shaking her head. “Huh.”

Dexter waited. “Is that a yes?”

Y/N leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Took you long enough.”

Dexter frowned slightly. “So you were expecting this?”

“Not expecting, just... not surprised.” She grabbed a fork and started absentmindedly poking holes into the pie crust. “Debra’s been saying we’re basically married for months, Theo and Lisa definitely have a bet going on when we’d cave, and half the people we know already assume we’re together anyway.”

Dexter considered that. “So this is just a formality?”

Y/N smirked. “Pretty much.”

Dexter nodded. “Alright, then.”

Y/N tossed the fork into the sink. “I assume you’ve got an actual plan?”

“I was going to take you to dinner,” Dexter said. “But considering you hate restaurants, that feels counterproductive.”

Y/N’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You actually thought about it?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” She studied him, then wiped her hands off again, finally moving toward the door. “Alright, let’s go.”

Dexter blinked. “Now?”

Y/N shrugged. “Why not?”

“You’re covered in flour.”

She smirked, brushing a streak of it from her sleeve. “And you asked me out five minutes ago without warning, so I guess we’re both winging it.”

Dexter considered that. Then nodded.

Fair enough.

As they stepped outside, Y/N glanced sideways at him, her smirk shifting into something amused.

“So,” she said. “You gonna tell Deb, or should I?”

Dexter sighed. “Let’s just get this over with first.”

Y/N grinned. “That’s the spirit, husband.”

Dexter had expected their first date to feel different.

He had expected some kind of shift, a noticeable change in dynamic, maybe even a flicker of unease. Because dating—real dating—was something he didn’t do. It was something that required emotions he wasn’t sure he had, something that came with expectations he didn’t entirely understand.

But as he sat across from Y/N in a small hole-in-the-wall diner, watching her pick through her fries while casually arguing with the waitress about why their ‘famous’ key lime pie definitely wasn’t as good as they claimed, he realized—

It wasn’t different at all.

Y/N was the same. She hadn’t changed, hadn’t suddenly become someone who expected flowers or dramatic declarations or any of the other things that usually came with relationships.

She was still stealing food off his plate like it was her right, still kicking his shin under the table when he rolled his eyes at her, still perfectly comfortable in a way that most people never were with him.

The only difference now was that the rest of the world knew.

"So," Y/N said, popping a fry into her mouth, "should I be worried that you picked a diner across from a police station for our first date?"

Dexter glanced out the window at the station across the street, then back at her. "I didn’t notice."

Y/N snorted. "Bullshit. You always notice."

Dexter took a sip of his drink. She wasn’t wrong.

Y/N smirked like she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Right. Just making sure I didn’t accidentally sign up to be your alibi or something.”

Dexter tilted his head slightly. “Would you?”

Y/N leaned back in her seat, studying him. “I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

She took another fry, chewing thoughtfully. “How good your reasoning is.”

Dexter watched her, the amusement in her eyes, the way she was always a step ahead, always considering things most people never would.

Most people asked questions they wanted answers to.

Y/N asked questions just to see what he’d say.

And, strangely, he liked that.

The waitress came back, dropping the check on the table with a suspicious glance at Y/N, who just grinned.

Dexter pulled out his wallet, but before he could reach for the bill, Y/N swiped it.

"Absolutely not," she said.

Dexter raised an eyebrow. "You’re paying?"

"Damn right I am." She tucked the check into her pocket, finishing off her drink. "You asked me out five minutes before I finished baking a pie. You didn’t even let me change my shirt."

"You said yes."

"Yeah, but now I’m setting a precedent. If you want a second date, you’re gonna have to actually plan something."

Dexter considered that. "Noted."

Y/N smirked, grabbing her jacket. "Alright, let’s go. I want ice cream."

Dexter stood, falling into step beside her as they walked out of the diner.

It should have felt different.

It didn’t.

And for once—he was okay with that.

It was supposed to be a normal afternoon.

Debra had swung by Y/N’s apartment unannounced, which wasn’t unusual. She did that all the time, mostly to complain about work, steal snacks, and pretend she wasn’t just avoiding her own place.

What was unusual was the fact that when she stepped inside, Dexter was already there.

That wasn’t the weird part.

The weird part was that Y/N was stretched out across his lap on the couch, head resting against his shoulder, legs draped over the armrest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Dexter?

Dexter, the weirdest, least touchy person she had ever met, was just letting it happen.

Not awkwardly. Not like he was tolerating it. Just… existing with it.

Debra froze in the doorway, eyes wide.

Y/N lifted her head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Uh. You good?"

Debra pointed at them. "What the fuck is this?"

Y/N blinked. "A couch?"

"You know what I mean!" Debra shot a look at Dexter, who, of course, looked completely unbothered. "Are you guys actually dating now?"

Dexter tilted his head slightly, like he was only now realizing this was something that required saying out loud. "Yes."

Debra stared. "Since when?"

Y/N shrugged, shifting so she was sitting up but still pressed against Dexter’s side. "A while now."

"And you didn’t tell me?"

Y/N smirked. "Deb, you’ve been calling us married for, like, a year. We figured you already knew."

"I was joking!"

Dexter raised an eyebrow. "Were you?"

Debra sputtered. "Okay, yeah, maybe I suspected—but still! I was supposed to get an official announcement or something!"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "What, you want a fucking press release?"

Debra crossed her arms. "It would’ve been nice."

Y/N leaned into Dexter, grinning. "You hearing this? She wanted us to romantically tell her we’re dating."

Dexter, as dry as ever, said, "Should we have sent flowers?"

Debra groaned. "Oh, my God, you two are unbearable."

Y/N patted her knee. "Welcome to the club, babe."

Debra just shook her head, dropping onto the chair across from them. "Whatever. You still should have told me."

Y/N smirked. "You should have guessed faster."

Dexter, watching Debra’s exasperation with something just barely resembling amusement, leaned back into the couch.

He had a feeling this conversation would be happening a lot.

Dexter had never put much thought into physical affection. It wasn’t something he craved, wasn’t something that fit with the carefully constructed version of himself he had built over the years.

And yet, somehow, Y/N had managed to ignore all of that.

She had always been casual about touch—leaning against him during late-night study sessions, throwing her legs over his lap when they were on the couch, ruffling his hair just to be annoying. It had been easy to dismiss when they were just friends.

But now?

Now, she had leaned into it, and he had started to realize just how much she had held back before.

The first time she curled up against him on the couch after they had officially started dating, it should have felt strange. He had braced himself for it, expecting discomfort, irritation, something.

But nothing came.

She had draped herself across him with all the ease of someone who had never questioned whether or not she was allowed to, like it was just a given that she could. Her head rested against his shoulder, fingers idly tracing patterns on the inside of his wrist while she flipped through a magazine with her other hand.

He had stayed still at first, waiting for something inside him to protest.

It didn’t.

And the more it happened, the more he realized—he didn’t mind.

Y/N wasn’t clingy about it, wasn’t performative. She never did it in public, never put him in situations where he felt like he was supposed to react a certain way.

She just was.

She would curl up in his lap when she was tired, rest her chin on his shoulder while he read through case files, lazily drag her fingers through his hair when they sat together in silence.

She never asked, never hesitated.

And Dexter let her.

Because, really, it wasn’t that different from before.

It was just Y/N, in the way she had always been—comfortable, unbothered, completely unconcerned with the idea that he was supposed to be different, supposed to be wrong about these things.

So he didn’t overthink it.

Didn’t push her away.

Didn’t tell her to stop.

Because, at the end of the day—

He didn’t want her to.

Dexter hadn’t meant to overhear.

He had come over like he always did, using the key Y/N had given him months ago, expecting to find her in the kitchen or sprawled across the couch like usual. Instead, he found her standing by the window, phone pressed to her ear, her back to him.

She didn’t hear him come in.

“I know, Mom,” Y/N said, voice quieter than usual. “I know.”

Dexter hesitated, lingering in the doorway. He could have left, could have waited outside or made some noise to announce himself—but something in her posture kept him rooted in place.

She was tense. Not in the way she got when she was irritated or faking patience, but in a way he had only seen a few times before.

A way that made him stay.

“I just—” Y/N exhaled sharply, one hand coming up to press against her forehead. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” A pause. “Yeah. I miss him too.”

Dexter didn’t need to ask who she was talking about.

Her brother.

It had been a year since he was murdered.

Y/N never talked about it, not really. She had mentioned it once, briefly, in the same flat, matter-of-fact tone she used when explaining why she hated a particular restaurant or why she didn’t drive through certain parts of Miami after dark.

But now, listening to her talk, it was different.

“Yeah,” Y/N murmured. “I know the police haven’t found anything.” A sharp edge crept into her voice. “Not like they’re trying.”

Dexter could hear her mother’s voice, muffled through the receiver.

Y/N swallowed. “No, I haven’t—” She stopped, pressing her lips together, eyes fixed on the window.

Dexter watched the way her fingers tightened around the phone, the way she exhaled through her nose like she was forcing herself to stay composed.

“Mom,” she said, softer now. “You have to let it go.”

A long pause. Y/N’s free hand curled at her side.

“I—” She hesitated, voice catching just slightly before she cleared her throat. “I can’t fix it. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Dexter tilted his head.

It was rare to see her like this, to hear her sound like this.

Eventually, Y/N sighed. “I’ll call you later, okay?” She was already pulling the phone away from her ear, already done with the conversation before her mother had even finished speaking. “Yeah. Love you too.”

She hung up, exhaling sharply, running a hand over her face before turning—

And immediately freezing when she saw him.

They stared at each other for a moment.

Y/N was good at masking things. She had a way of brushing off discomfort with sharp humor and easy deflection, of making people believe she didn’t care as much as she did.

But Dexter had been watching her for a long time.

And right now, she wasn’t hiding as well as she thought she was.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, voice a little too light, too casual.

Dexter considered lying. Decided against it.

“A while.”

Y/N sighed, tilting her head back slightly before leveling him with a look. “And?”

He studied her, the tension still sitting in her shoulders, the way she was already preparing to brush this off, to move on.

Most people would have tried to comfort her.

Most people would have said something meaningless, something empty, something that was more about them than about her.

Dexter just walked over, sat on the couch, and waited.

Y/N hesitated.

Then, after a moment, she sat down next to him, leaning into his side, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn’t have to.

Y/N had barely unlocked the door before Dexter was on her.

There was no hesitation, no usual quiet calculation in his movements—just action. His hands found her face, fingers pressing into her jaw as he pushed forward, kissing her like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t Dexter.

And yet, she didn’t pull away.

She let him consume the space between them, let him back her up into the apartment, let him press her against the door for just a second before she finally broke the kiss, sucking in a breath.

“Jesus,” she muttered, blinking up at him, lips tingling. “What the hell was that?”

Dexter didn’t answer. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing just a little too fast. His hands slid from her face to her hips, firm, deliberate.

Y/N opened her mouth to ask again, but before she could, Dexter moved—gripping her wrist, steering her through the dimly lit apartment, walking her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed.

He pushed her down—not roughly, but with purpose.

And then it clicked.

Her brain caught up, piecing it together all at once—his body language, the energy radiating off him, the way his hands were still trembling slightly where they gripped her hips.

She knew this look.

Not because she had ever seen it on him before—but because she had seen it in the mirror.

Y/N exhaled slowly, studying him from where she lay beneath him. “You did it, didn’t you?”

Dexter stilled.

Just for a second.

Then, slowly, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Y/N huffed a small, breathless laugh. “Holy shit.”

She had known. Of course she had known.

She had always suspected—had known that whatever it was inside him, it wasn’t normal, wasn’t easily ignored. She had just never expected to be here, like this, with him vibrating with something just under his skin, something electric, something alive.

She lifted a hand, trailing it up his arm, up to his jaw, tilting his face toward hers.

His breathing was still unsteady, but the moment her fingers brushed his cheek, something shifted.

His eyes flickered, lips parting slightly, as if realizing he hadn’t pieced this part together yet.

Y/N smirked.

“Well,” she murmured, fingers ghosting down to his collar, tugging him just a little closer. “Now I really have to know how it went.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, the kind of quiet that only existed in the aftermath of something big. The dim glow from the streetlights outside barely touched the edges of the bed, casting long, lazy shadows across the walls.

Dexter lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, still feeling the lingering hum of adrenaline in his veins. It wasn’t the same as before—wasn’t the wild, uncontrollable energy that had gripped him when he first showed up at her door.

Now, it was settled.

Y/N shifted beside him, stretching like a cat, her bare leg brushing against his as she turned onto her side. He felt her gaze on him before she even spoke.

“Well,” she murmured, voice low, amused. “At least you killed two—well, technically three birds with one stone.”

Dexter turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Three?”

She smirked, lazily running a hand through her hair. “First kill, first kiss, first time. All done in one night.”

Dexter blinked.

Huh.

She wasn’t wrong.

He hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t registered that all three of those things had collided in the same span of hours, hadn’t processed that this night had been one of firsts for him in more ways than one.

It should have felt big.

But lying here, looking at her, it didn’t feel like some monumental shift. It just felt… right.

Y/N stretched again, exhaling a sigh. “Kind of impressive, actually.”

Dexter hummed. “Efficient.”

Y/N grinned, eyes gleaming in the dark. “God, you’re such a fucking nerd.”

He turned onto his side, facing her, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. It wasn’t something he would have normally done, wasn’t something that had ever come naturally to him before. But right now, it felt easy.

Y/N stilled, watching him.

For once, she didn’t have some sharp, teasing remark ready.

And for once, he didn’t feel the need to fill the space with words.

They just existed, in the quiet, in the aftermath, with the weight of the night pressing around them.

Eventually, Y/N broke the silence, smirking. “So… you gonna tell me about it?”

Dexter considered her for a moment.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

And Y/N just grinned, settling in, ready to listen.

The kill should have been enough.

It was enough.

Everything had gone perfectly—every step executed with the precision he had spent years refining. The plastic, the blade, the ritual. The Dark Passenger had taken what it wanted, what it needed, and the body was gone, discarded into the ocean like it had never existed.

He should have felt calm now. Settled.

But he wasn’t.

His hands were steady, his heartbeat had slowed, but something inside him was still alive, still humming, still demanding more.

It wasn’t the need to kill.

It was something else. Something restless.

Something wrong.

Dexter stood in the darkness, staring at the rippling water where his first kill had disappeared, and felt his skin buzzing with an energy he didn’t know how to name. The Dark Passenger had fed, but it wasn’t done with him.

And before he had even processed what he was doing—before he could analyze, or calculate, or question—

He was moving.

Not home.

Not anywhere he had planned to go.

He was going to her.

There was no logic behind it. No carefully laid out reason.

Only instinct.

By the time he reached her apartment, his mind was a blur of static. His breath was controlled, but everything else inside him was spiraling, the excess energy building, pressing against his ribs like something caged.

He barely knocked.

Barely waited.

The door opened, and there she was—Y/N, her hair up, her expression relaxed, the familiar ease in her posture—

And then his hands were on her.

She barely had time to react before his mouth was on hers, before he was pushing into her space, consuming it, gripping her like she was the only solid thing left in the world.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was primal.

And for the first time in his life, Dexter wasn’t thinking.

He was feeling.

Dexter walked into Miami Metro the next morning feeling�� different.

Not visibly. Not in any way most people would notice. But there was a stillness inside him that hadn’t been there before, a strange quiet that wasn’t just the usual post-kill satisfaction.

He wasn’t restless. He wasn’t wound tight.

He felt… good.

Apparently, that was enough for someone to notice.

"Well, well, well," Masuka’s voice rang out before Dexter had even reached his desk. "Look who’s walking in here all loose and refreshed."

Dexter barely glanced at him. "Loose?"

Masuka grinned, leaning back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers. "You just got that look, man. The one people have when they’ve been properly… relaxed."

Dexter stared at him blankly. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Oh, come on." Masuka gestured wildly. "You, my friend, look way less serial killer-y than usual today. And there’s only one reason for that."

Across the bullpen, Angel was watching with mild amusement. "Masuka, don’t be weird."

Masuka scoffed. "I’m always weird."

Angel sighed, standing up and crossing his arms, giving Dexter a once-over. Then, with the confidence of a man who had seen it all, he nodded sagely.

"Yeah," he said. "You got some."

Dexter blinked. "Excuse me?"

Masuka pointed at him. "See? He got some. He’s all calm now."

Dexter, who had literally committed murder the night before, was mildly fascinated by the fact that this was what they were picking up on.

"That’s ridiculous," he said flatly.

Angel grinned, nudging Masuka. "Which means it’s true."

Masuka wagged his eyebrows. "So who’s the lucky lady, huh? I mean, obviously, I know it’s Y/N, I just wanna hear you say it."

Dexter was going to shut this down—was already preparing a deflection—

And then, from behind them, someone cleared their throat.

The conversation died instantly.

Dexter turned his head just enough to see Harry, standing a few feet away, arms crossed, an expression that could only be described as a displeased father hearing his kid’s entire sex life in the middle of a crime lab.

Masuka immediately tried to look busy.

Angel coughed into his hand.

Harry just stared at Dexter.

Dexter stared back.

Then, finally, Harry sighed. "Jesus Christ, Dex."

Dexter exhaled. "I’m going to my lab."

Angel patted his shoulder as he passed. "Congrats, man."

Dexter ignored him.

Masuka just grinned. "Man, I love this job."

The first time Y/N ever set foot inside Miami Metro, it was out of sheer necessity.

She hated police stations. Hated the smell of burnt coffee and cheap cologne, the way officers sat around bullshitting while open cases collected dust. She hated the feel of it, the weight of institutional indifference pressing down on her chest.

And yet, here she was.

She stepped inside, moving quickly, eyes forward, posture stiff. The place was loud—phones ringing, detectives talking, Masuka laughing at something obscene. It made her skin crawl.

Nobody noticed her. Nobody cared.

Good.

She wasn’t here to be noticed.

Y/N walked straight to Dexter’s lab, not making eye contact with anyone. If she was lucky, she could get in, talk to him, and get out before—

"Y/N?"

Shit.

She turned her head, already irritated, only to see Debra standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised.

Debra had known about her distaste for cops—had never pried too much about it, but had definitely noticed the way Y/N always changed the subject when Miami Metro came up in conversation.

So, yeah, she looked surprised.

Y/N sighed. "I’m just here for Dexter."

Debra folded her arms, tilting her head. "You’re actually inside Miami Metro and I didn’t even have to drag you here? What’s the occasion?"

"None of your business," Y/N said flatly.

Debra smirked. "So, Dexter-related business."

Y/N didn’t confirm or deny it. She was already done with this conversation.

Debra studied her for a second, then nodded toward the hall. "Lab’s that way, sweetheart. Go do your Dexter-related business before someone tries to rope you into an interrogation room."

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, slipping past her and making a beeline toward the lab.

By the time she got there, Dexter was already looking up from his microscope, reading her like an open book.

"You hate it here," he noted.

"Sharp as ever, Morgan," she said dryly, closing the door behind her.

Dexter leaned back against the counter, studying her. "Then why are you here?"

Y/N exhaled, crossing her arms. "Because I need to talk to you, and I didn’t want to wait until later."

Dexter nodded like that made sense.

And, for him, it probably did.

Y/N glanced toward the bullpen, where cops laughed and ignored the cases on their desks, where her brother’s file had once sat before being shoved into a drawer and forgotten.

She looked back at Dexter.

"You’re the only one in this place that’s worth a damn," she muttered.

Dexter tilted his head slightly, like he was considering that.

Then, quietly, he said, "I don’t think that’s true."

Y/N shrugged. "It is to me."

Dexter didn’t argue.

Because he knew, to her, that was all that mattered.

It happened so fast that Y/N barely registered she had said anything until the silence hit the room.

It had started as an offhand comment from Debra—something about Miami Metro, about how at least they got results, about how not every precinct was a mess.

And Y/N had scoffed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just enough that it was heard.

Harry had looked at her immediately.

So had Debra.

Dexter, sitting beside her on the couch, didn’t react, but she knew he had noticed.

Debra frowned, crossing her arms. "What?"

Y/N exhaled, tapping her fingers against the side of her glass. She shouldn’t have said anything. Should have let it slide. But it was already out there, and now Deb was staring at her like she had just insulted her entire existence.

Y/N shrugged. "Nothing."

Harry tilted his head slightly. "Didn’t sound like nothing."

Y/N huffed a breath, setting her drink down. "Look, I get that this is your thing, but not everyone has a reason to worship at the altar of law enforcement."

Debra’s eyes narrowed. "Oh, so we’re doing this now?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Deb—"

"No, seriously," Debra said, arms crossed. "Do you actually think all cops are bad, or are you just being an asshole for fun?"

Y/N clenched her jaw. "Your cops didn’t give a shit when my brother was stabbed to death and left to bleed out in an alley."

The words hit the air with weight.

Debra’s mouth snapped shut.

Y/N exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. "Everyone in my family talked to the cops—my mom, my dad, Sean, Lily, Keegan, me—we pushed for months. We gave them names. We gave them places. We did everything we were supposed to do." She shook her head. "And you know what they told me the last time I walked into that station?"

Nobody answered.

Y/N let out a humorless laugh. "They told me to move on."

Harry’s expression didn’t shift, but she could feel the weight of his gaze.

Debra looked like she wasn’t sure whether to be pissed off or guilty.

Y/N exhaled again, rubbing her temple. "So yeah," she muttered, "I don’t really have a reason to believe in the system. Sorry if that offends the family business."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, finally, Harry said, "I don’t blame you."

Y/N’s head snapped up.

Harry was watching her, his expression unreadable, but his voice was even. Calm.

"You lost someone," he said. "You did what you were supposed to do, and it got you nowhere. I’d be angry, too."

Y/N stared at him, waiting for the but.

It didn’t come.

Harry just nodded once, then looked at Dexter. "Walk me out?"

Dexter stood immediately, following his father to the door, and just like that, the tension in the room shifted.

Debra was still staring at Y/N.

Y/N sighed, leaning back into the couch, running a hand over her face.

"You know I don’t mean you," she muttered.

Debra huffed. "Yeah, I know."

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Then, finally, Debra slumped into the chair across from her. "That’s still fucked up, though."

Y/N gave a dry laugh. "Yeah."

The room stayed quiet after that.

Y/N didn’t apologize.

And Debra didn’t ask her to.

The streets of Miami were always busy, especially in the evenings when the heat of the day had finally started to settle, but Y/N had never minded crowds. People were easy to read when they were in a hurry—too distracted, too focused on their own lives to pay much attention to the world around them.

Which was probably why she didn’t notice him until she walked right into him.

“Shit, sorry—” she muttered, stepping back instinctively, hands up slightly in reflex.

The guy barely moved.

Tall, lean, dark hair—not in a way that stood out, but in a way that would make him forgettable to anyone who wasn’t paying attention.

But Y/N?

She was paying attention now.

He smiled. “No harm done.”

That should have been the end of it. A quick bump on a busy sidewalk, a passing apology, nothing more.

But the moment Y/N looked at him, something was off.

The way he was watching her—not in an aggressive way, not in the way most men did when they were about to say something they shouldn’t.

No.

It was something else.

Something… assessing.

Like he was the one trying to figure her out.

Y/N blinked, stepping back slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his posture was just a little too relaxed, the way his smile lingered just a second too long.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But she did.

She had seen this before.

Not often, but enough.

Her stomach twisted slightly—not with fear, but with something closer to instinct.

She exhaled, tilting her head just slightly, watching him the way he was watching her.

Then, she smiled.

Nothing big. Just a small, sharp thing.

His smile twitched.

Like he saw what she was doing.

Y/N let the silence drag just a second longer before finally saying, “Take care.”

And then she stepped past him and kept walking.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

But she felt it.

Felt his gaze lingering, just for a moment, before he finally turned and disappeared into the crowd.

And the whole way home, the only thing she could think was—

Who the fuck was that?

Brian had always known his little brother was different.

From the first moment he laid eyes on him after all those years apart, he could see it—the carefully controlled mask, the methodical way he moved, the way he pretended so flawlessly that sometimes even Brian wondered if Dexter had convinced himself he was normal.

But this?

This was something he hadn’t expected.

He stood in the shadows, watching through the barely open blinds of Y/N’s dimly lit apartment, and grinned.

Because this—this—was raw.

Dexter had come to her immediately after the kill. No pause, no hesitation, no time to reset before slipping back into his mask. He had walked in with that same electric energy that Brian recognized so well—that post-kill high, the lingering remnants of bloodlust and satisfaction, and he had pounced.

And Y/N?

She had let him.

No, not just let him—she had matched him. Moved with him like she understood exactly what this was, like she had expected it, like she wanted it just as much as he did.

Fascinating.

Brian tilted his head, watching as Dexter’s hands gripped her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, like this was the final step in his ritual—kill, clean, consume.

She wasn’t some passive, naive little thing, either. No wide-eyed, unsuspecting girlfriend who thought Dexter was just a quiet guy with an odd schedule.

No.

Y/N knew.

Brian had suspected it the first time he met her, in the way she had watched him—assessing, reading him the same way she read Dexter, like she was waiting for something.

Now, he was sure of it.

Because this wasn’t normal.

Dexter wasn’t normal.

And yet, here she was, pulling him closer, anchoring him in a way that was both possessive and indulgent, like she knew exactly what he needed.

Brian licked his lips.

How interesting.

He had wanted to show Dexter what he truly was, wanted to rip away that mask of normalcy and bring him into the light—his light.

But now?

Now, he was starting to wonder if Dexter had already found something close to that.

Or at the very least—

Someone who wouldn’t stop him.

And wasn’t that something?

Dexter had been to crime scenes that felt less tense than the Sinclair family reunion.

The house itself was nice—lived-in, cluttered in a way that felt like too many people had existed in it at once for too many years. Family photos lined the walls, overlapping, different frames mashed together without any real sense of aesthetic. The house wasn’t quiet, but there was an underlying weight in the air, a kind of unspoken something hanging between the people who had grown up here.

Y/N had warned him.

"It’s once a year. Mom insists. Everyone’s on their best behavior, which means only two or three fights will break out instead of the usual five."

Dexter had learned not to question these things.

Sean was already in the kitchen when they walked in, talking to their mother, his voice calm, patient—the same way he had always been, according to Y/N. When he saw them, he gave Dexter a once-over before nodding in a way that felt more like acknowledgment than greeting.

“Dexter,” he said.

“Sean,” Dexter returned.

Y/N rolled her eyes, muttering, “Jesus, you two are so weird.”

Before Sean could respond, the front door swung open again, and in walked Keegan, exactly as Y/N had described him—broad-shouldered, scowling like he had already decided he was in a bad mood, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken grudges.

He barely had a chance to set his keys down before he spotted Dexter and scoffed.

“Oh, good,” Keegan muttered. “The serial killer’s here.”

Y/N groaned, already rubbing her temple. “Keegan—”

“I mean, look at him.” Keegan gestured toward Dexter. “If anyone at this table gets caught with bodies in their trunk, it’s him.”

Dexter, completely unaffected, just said, “I don’t own a car.”

Keegan blinked. “That’s not the part you should be denying.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, please don’t start.”

Their mother, clearly used to this, sighed and handed Sean a dish to put on the table. “Keegan, stop antagonizing your sister’s boyfriend.”

Keegan shrugged, heading toward the fridge. “I’m not antagonizing him, I’m stating facts.” He pulled out a beer and cracked it open. “He’s got the creepy quiet thing going, the dead-eyed stare, the whole ‘emotionless’ energy—”

Sean, already tired, muttered, “Keegan.”

“I’m just saying!” Keegan gestured at Dexter. “Tell me I’m wrong!”

Dexter, who had been standing in the kitchen of this grief-laden, barely-holding-it-together family for less than ten minutes, finally looked at Keegan and said, “Do you always talk this much?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, suddenly—

Sean snorted.

Keegan scowled. “Oh, fuck you.”

Y/N, fighting a smirk, grabbed Dexter’s wrist and dragged him toward the table. “Come on, before he starts swinging.”

Keegan, still grumbling, flopped into a chair across from them, cracking his neck like he wanted to fight someone but was barely resisting.

Their mother sighed. “We are not starting this before dinner.”

Sean, the ever-peacekeeper, grabbed the nearest dish and started setting the table. “Lily late again?”

“To no one’s surprise,” Y/N muttered.

“She’ll be here,” their mother said, even though she didn’t sound completely convinced.

Keegan took a long sip of his beer. “Sure. Just in time to make an entrance.”

Dexter observed all of this without a word.

This wasn’t his usual environment. Family dinners weren’t something he was accustomed to—especially ones with this level of thinly veiled hostility mixed with obligation.

But as Y/N bumped her knee against his under the table, as Sean sighed through yet another incoming argument, as Keegan glared at him over the rim of his beer, Dexter realized—

It could be worse.

The room was dark except for the sliver of streetlight spilling through the blinds, cutting across the ceiling in thin, pale lines. The hum of the city outside was distant, muffled, nothing more than background noise.

Dexter lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting where Y/N had curled into his side, her fingers idly tracing patterns along his ribs.

Neither of them had spoken for a while.

It was the second anniversary of Dalton’s death.

Y/N hadn’t cried, hadn’t raged, hadn’t even talked much about it throughout the day. She had just existed in that quiet, simmering grief, letting it settle around her like a second skin.

But now, in the middle of the night, with nothing between them but warmth and silence, she finally spoke.

“Dalton would have liked you.”

Dexter blinked, staring at the ceiling.

He turned his head slightly. “You think so?”

Y/N hummed, still tracing slow, absentminded circles against his skin. “Yeah.”

Dexter thought of Keegan, of his immediate suspicion, his relentless scrutiny. “Even though I’m ‘definitely a serial killer’?”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Dalton was a lot like Keegan—thought he knew everything, had a temper when he was pissed off—but he wasn’t as much of an asshole.”

Dexter felt her shift against him, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

“He would’ve had thoughts about you,” she continued, voice softer now. “Would’ve kept an eye on you for a while. Maybe given you a hard time, just because.” She exhaled slowly. “But he would’ve liked that you cared about me.”

Dexter didn’t respond right away.

He wasn’t sure he knew how to.

Y/N had told him before, in pieces, what it had been like growing up as the youngest. How their parents had already been stretched thin, already worn down by Carter’s death by the time she had come along. How Dalton had been the only one who really made sure she never felt left behind.

How he had been hers, in a way none of the others were.

And now he was gone.

Murdered.

Forgotten by the people who were supposed to find justice for him.

Y/N sighed against his skin. “He would’ve liked that you protect me.”

Dexter’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested on her back.

She didn’t say it like she was expecting anything from him, didn’t say it like she was asking for anything. It was just a statement. A truth she had come to on her own.

A truth Dexter had felt long before she had ever spoken it aloud.

His grip on her tightened slightly, just for a second.

Y/N didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

She just settled closer, and for the first time that day, she breathed.

The apartment was a fucking disaster.

Boxes everywhere, stacked haphazardly like a goddamn obstacle course, half-labeled in Dexter’s neat but completely unhelpful handwriting. The place smelled like fresh paint and cardboard, and Y/N was already pissed before she even stepped inside.

Her client—some rich asshole who thought money made up for his absolute lack of taste—had spent the last hour arguing with her over whether or not gold accents would clash with the deep red fabric he insisted on for his dining room chairs.

("You hired me to make sure your house doesn’t look like an overpriced brothel, Jonathan, but by all means, keep making bold fucking choices.")

So, by the time she reached the apartment, she was done.

She shoved the door open, already kicking off her shoes as she stalked inside, rubbing a hand over her face. "Jesus fucking Christ, I need a drink—"

And then her foot caught on something.

She didn’t even have time to process what happened before she went down.

"Goddamn it!"

The thud echoed through the apartment as she landed, hands catching her just in time to keep her face from meeting the hardwood.

A long silence.

Then—

From across the room, Dexter’s voice, as neutral as ever: "You should watch where you’re going."

Y/N snapped her head up, finding him standing near the kitchen, completely unbothered, holding a glass of water like he hadn’t just watched her eat shit in the middle of their own home.

She turned her glare toward the box that had betrayed her.

One of Dexter’s.

Labeled, in neat, precise handwriting: Miscellaneous.

"Miscellaneous my ass," Y/N muttered, pushing herself up and kicking the box for good measure.

Dexter, still infuriatingly composed, tilted his head slightly. "I did warn you."

Y/N threw up her hands. "No, you didn’t! You just stood there, watching me fucking die on the floor!"

Dexter took a sip of water. "I assumed you’d recover."

Y/N groaned dramatically, shoving a box out of the way as she stalked toward him. "I swear to God, Dexter—"

But before she could finish the threat, she tripped over another fucking box.

Dexter caught her easily, hands firm on her waist, holding her upright as she sighed into his chest.

"I hate it here," she muttered.

Dexter hummed, fingers curling slightly at her hip. "I thought you liked living with me."

Y/N grumbled. "I do."

"Then stop trying to kill yourself on the furniture."

She let out a deep sigh. "Fine."

A pause.

Then, "But you’re still reorganizing these fucking boxes."

Dexter, ever the picture of calm, just took another sip of water. "We’ll see."

Y/N had seen a lot of things in her life.

She had seen Keegan break a guy’s nose in a bar fight over a misunderstanding.

She had seen Dexter walk into her apartment covered in blood with absolutely zero explanation.

She had seen her mother hold their entire, barely-holding-it-together family together with nothing but sheer willpower.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared her for the moment she turned around in Debra’s apartment and saw that.

Y/N blinked. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

Debra, standing in front of her mirror, adjusting the hem of what could barely be considered a skirt, gave her an unimpressed look. "A work uniform."

Y/N stared. "For what job? Because it sure as hell isn’t law enforcement."

Debra rolled her eyes, turning to grab her gun from the table. "Vice, dumbass."

Y/N squinted, taking in the whole outfit—the fishnet stockings, the ridiculous heels, the tight leather skirt, the crop top that looked like it was two seconds away from getting her arrested for public indecency.

Then, finally, she said, "Are you a cop or are you working for tips?"

Debra snorted. "Fuck you."

"I mean, Jesus Christ, Deb—" Y/N gestured wildly. "If someone tried to arrest you in that, I’d just assume it was your pimp getting mad at you for skimming off the top."

Debra rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, hilarious. Meanwhile, I’ll be the one actually putting away scumbags while you’re over here bitching about my fashion choices."

Y/N folded her arms, unimpressed. "What scumbags? You think any guy seeing you in that is gonna be thinking, ‘Hey, maybe I shouldn’t break the law’? They’re gonna be thanking you for encouraging their poor fucking life choices."

Debra huffed, grabbing her holster. "Not my fault men are idiots."

Y/N shook her head. "That’s the part you should be mad about."

Debra turned, now fully armed, despite still looking like she should be charging by the hour. "Okay, are you done?"

Y/N smirked. "That depends—are you actually gonna arrest people, or are you just gonna give them a lap dance first?"

Debra groaned. "I hate you."

Y/N grinned, crossing her arms. "Oh, come on. Do a little spin for me first."

Debra flipped her off on the way out the door.

Debra had two thoughts when she heard Y/N was cooking that night:

Hell yes, free gourmet food.

This is the perfect opportunity to introduce Rudy to the two most antisocial weirdos in her life.

She barely even hesitated before calling Y/N.

"Hey," she said the second Y/N picked up. "I heard you’re making actual food tonight instead of living off diner fries like a fucking raccoon."

Y/N sighed on the other end. "Jesus Christ, Deb—"

"Anyway," Debra continued, completely ignoring her, "great news. I’m coming over. And I’m bringing my boyfriend."

There was a pause.

Then, dry as ever, Y/N said, "Why?"

"Because!" Debra gestured wildly even though Y/N couldn’t see her. "You never cook, so this is, like, a rare event! And I figure, why not take advantage of that while also introducing him to you and Dexter?"

Y/N groaned. "I don’t remember agreeing to this."

Debra grinned. "Because you didn’t! That’s the best part."

Y/N exhaled, long and suffering. "Fine. But if I don’t like him, I’m ‘accidentally’ spilling wine on his shirt."

Debra rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I’ll see you at seven."

She hung up before Y/N could change her mind.

Debra sat on Rudy’s couch, legs stretched out across his lap, pointing a finger at him like a warning. "Okay, listen up, because this is important."

Rudy, amused, glanced up from the scalpel he was cleaning. "I’m listening."

She narrowed her eyes. "Under no circumstances can you bring up the police in front of Y/N."

Rudy paused for a beat, tilting his head. "Okay… why?"

Debra sighed, already knowing this was going to take some explaining. "She hates cops. Not just in a typical civilian complaining about tickets way—like, actually hates them."

Rudy raised an eyebrow. "That’s a little ironic, considering she’s dating your brother."

Debra snorted. "Yeah, tell me about it. But it’s different with Dexter. He’s not out busting down doors or arresting people—he just… looks at blood and does his weird Dexter science thing."

Rudy chuckled. "So, what, she had a bad run-in with law enforcement?"

Debra exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face. "Her brother was murdered, and the cops didn’t do shit about it. Her whole family pushed for months—gave them leads, names, everything. And they still treated it like just another dead kid in Miami. The last time Y/N tried talking to them, they basically told her to fuck off."

Rudy made a thoughtful noise, fingers tapping against his knee. "I see."

Debra gave him a serious look. "Do you, though? Because if you mention anything about cops, or how great the system is, or even breathe in the direction of ‘not all cops,’ she will hate you forever."

Rudy smirked. "Sounds like she has strong convictions."

"No, she has a fucking vendetta." Debra leaned forward. "I’m serious, Rudy—she will find a way to ruin your night if you say the wrong thing. And I really want my best friend and my boyfriend to get along, so just don’t bring it up."

Rudy nodded, expression unreadable. "Got it. No cop talk."

Debra studied him for a second longer, making sure the message actually landed, then leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Good. Now I can focus on more important things."

Rudy smirked, running a hand along her thigh. "Like what?"

Debra grinned. "Like how you’re about to meet two of the weirdest people in my life over a very fancy dinner."

Rudy chuckled, shaking his head. "I look forward to it."

Debra just laughed, completely unaware of how wrong that statement was.

Debra knew the moment they stepped into the apartment that Rudy was impressed.

The place smelled amazing—seared steak, garlic, some kind of sauce that looked fancy as hell. Y/N had actually set the table for once, which meant this meal really meant something to her.

Dexter, of course, looked completely unaffected, because he was Dexter, and he never reacted to anything. He was already sitting at the table, sipping a beer like this wasn’t the most well-thought-out meal he had ever been served.

Y/N turned from the stove, arching an eyebrow as she wiped her hands on a towel. "This him?"

Debra beamed, nudging Rudy forward. "Yep! Y/N, Dexter—meet Rudy."

Rudy, ever the charmer, smiled. "It’s great to finally meet you both. Deb’s told me a lot about you."

Y/N looked unimpressed. "Has she?"

Debra elbowed her. "Be nice."

Y/N exhaled, tilting her head slightly as she gave Rudy a once-over. "Well, guess we’ll see if I like you enough to let you eat my food."

Rudy chuckled. "Fair enough."

Dexter, from his seat, just watched.

Debra figured he would be the difficult one, that he’d be the one side-eyeing Rudy the whole night.

But for the first time ever, it was Y/N who seemed… unsettled.

Not obvious. Not anything Rudy would notice.

But Dexter?

Dexter definitely did.

And the fact that Y/N, the person who could read people too well, the person who had always been able to call bullshit before anyone else, was squinting at Rudy like she was trying to figure something out—

It was weird.

But Debra, oblivious and happy, just pulled out a chair and grinned.

"Alright, boys and girls," she said. "Let’s eat."

Y/N, still eyeing Rudy, finally sat down.

Dexter, watching both of them, didn’t look away.

The kill had been perfect.

Everything had gone exactly as it should have—the plastic, the precision, the blade sliding through flesh like it had been meant to. Blood pooling, the body shuddering, then stillness.

Dexter had cleaned everything, disposed of the remains with the same methodical efficiency as always. He should have felt calm. Sated.

But as he stood in the dark, the scent of salt water and blood still lingering in his nose, he wasn’t.

The Dark Passenger was still there.

Still hungry.

Not for another kill—no, that part had been fed. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

You’re still waiting.

Dexter exhaled, fingers flexing at his sides.

Go to her.

The thought struck like a pulse of electricity, sending a sharp thrill through his system. His breath hitched, his body tight with something else—something not quite the same as the need to kill, but just as overwhelming.

She’s waiting for you. Soft. Warm. Yours.

Dexter swallowed.

Y/N would be asleep by now. Curled up in their bed, completely unaware of the blood he had washed from his hands.

Completely unaware of the way he needed her right now.

Needed to press himself into her, to feel her beneath him, surrounding him, anchoring him.

The Dark Passenger whispered again.

Take.

Dexter felt it—felt the coiling demand just beneath his skin, the way his muscles ached not with exhaustion but with want.

He had never cared much for sex before Y/N.

Before he had learned what it meant to have someone truly understand him. Before he realized that sometimes, after a kill, when the Dark Passenger was still lingering, still pulling at him—she could settle it.

Could ground him in a way that nothing else ever had.

But he had never had to wait before.

And waiting was making it worse.

He turned, heading toward the car, heart still hammering even as his breath stayed steady.

The Dark Passenger purred.

Go home. Wake her. Take what you want.

Dexter gripped the steering wheel as he drove.

No.

He wouldn’t wake her.

She deserved more than that.

But the moment she opened her eyes—

She was his.

The apartment was dark, quiet, still.

Dexter stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching her.

Y/N was curled up under the sheets, her breathing slow, even. Completely unaware of the fact that he had been standing there for nearly five minutes, gripping the doorframe hard enough to make his knuckles ache.

She was right there.

Take her.

The Dark Passenger was still there, whispering, needling, curling around his thoughts like smoke, thick and intoxicating.

You waited long enough.

Dexter exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, but his body was still thrumming with leftover adrenaline, still riding that edge that came after a kill—when his muscles were tight, his breath still not quite right, his body demanding something more.

The Passenger knew.

Wake her up.

Dexter clenched his jaw.

Or don’t.

His grip on the doorframe tightened.

You think she’d mind? You think she’d push you away? She’s as messed up as you are, to a point. Maybe she’d like it.

Dexter swallowed hard, staring at her.

She would.

He knew she would.

Y/N wasn’t fragile. She wasn’t naive. She was his—in a way that no one else had ever been, in a way that made him feel like he didn’t have to pretend.

But even he had his lines.

Even he knew that this was one.

Not because she wouldn’t want him—no, he knew she would.

But because he wanted to watch her want him.

Wanted to see the way her breath would hitch, the way she’d smirk in that slow, knowing way, the way she’d shift under him, teasing, inviting.

He didn’t just want to take.

He wanted her to give.

So he waited.

Sat down in the chair by the window, watching her.

The Dark Passenger hissed, restless, unsatisfied, but Dexter ignored it.

Because the moment her eyes opened—

She was his.

The moment Y/N stirred, Dexter was on her.

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t moved from the chair by the window, where he had spent the last few hours watching her, waiting, muscles coiled tight with that lingering hum of energy—the pull that hadn’t fully left him since the kill.

But now, she was awake.

And she was his.

She barely had time to blink before he had her beneath him, hands gripping her hips, mouth at her throat, pressing her deep into the mattress.

She let out a sleepy, breathless laugh. "Jesus, what the fuck’s gotten into you?"

Dexter exhaled sharply against her skin, fingers digging into the sheets beside her head. "You made me wait."

Y/N smirked against his mouth. "I was asleep, Dexter."

He didn’t care.

Didn’t answer.

Just moved.

And the Dark Passenger, still there, still humming in the back of his mind, purred in satisfaction.

Yes. Yes. Finally.

It had wanted this all night. Had demanded it, screamed for it, burned inside him with leftover energy that a single kill hadn’t been able to fully satisfy.

But now?

Now, he could sink into her. Could take everything he needed, could consume her, feel her give herself over to him completely—

And then—

The door swung open.

"Hey, Y/N—"

Everything froze.

For half a second, Dexter didn’t react. Didn’t process what had just happened, too consumed, too deep in it to fully comprehend—

Until he heard her.

Debra.

His sister.

Standing in the doorway.

No.

Y/N, immediately snapping out of it, twisted her head toward the door, eyes wide with rage.

"OH, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Dexter stayed completely still.

Not from embarrassment. Not from shock.

But because the Dark Passenger had just been given what it wanted—had been on the brink of getting everything—and now, because of her, it was gone.

Snatched away. Ruined.

Debra, still standing there like a deer in headlights, took half a second too long to react—long enough for Y/N to grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at the door.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Debra scrambled backward, slamming the door shut, her voice carrying from the living room.

"I need bleach for my eyes—what the fuck is wrong with you two—"

Dexter closed his eyes.

The Dark Passenger seethed.

Kill her.

Dexter exhaled through his nose. No.

Then make her leave.

Dexter pushed himself up, rolling his shoulders, still tightly wound, his body still aching for the release that had been stolen from him.

Y/N groaned into the pillow beside him. "I fucking hate her."

Dexter, still vibrating with leftover tension, reached for his pants. "I’ll tell her to leave."

Y/N blinked up at him, still catching her breath. "Why?"

Dexter leaned down, lips brushing against her ear, voice still dark, still heavy with everything he hadn’t been able to finish.

"Because I’m not done with you yet."

Y/N shivered.

And the Dark Passenger, still starving, purred.

The apartment was quiet again.

Not the heavy, restless kind of quiet from the night before, when Dexter had sat in the chair by the window, waiting, trying to ignore the way the Dark Passenger clawed at him, demanding more, demanding her.

Now, it was a different kind of silence.

A sated, settled kind.

Y/N lay beside him, still catching her breath, hair wild against the pillow, her body marked with proof of what had just happened. Her throat was littered with bruises—deep, dark impressions where his hands and mouth had claimed her.

Her skin was flushed, every inch of her humming with exhaustion and satisfaction, her limbs loose and heavy in a way that told him she wasn’t moving anytime soon.

Dexter watched her, fingers still trailing lazily over her stomach, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breathing beneath his palm.

The Dark Passenger was quiet.

Truly quiet.

Not lurking, not waiting, not prowling beneath the surface, still wanting.

For the first time since the kill, it was gone.

It had what it wanted.

Kill. Clean. Consume.

And now, finally, Dexter was still.

Y/N sighed, tilting her head to look at him, her lips curling slightly even as her voice came out hoarse. "Jesus Christ, Dexter."

He hummed in acknowledgment, tracing a thumb over a fresh mark on her collarbone. "Too much?"

She snorted. "Shut the fuck up."

Dexter smirked, his fingers moving lower, pressing just slightly over another bruise on her hip. She shivered.

"Sensitive?" he asked, voice as even as ever.

Y/N huffed a laugh. "You’re a fucking menace."

Dexter tilted his head. "You don’t sound upset about it."

Y/N stretched, groaning slightly before settling deeper into the mattress. "I’m too fucking tired to be upset."

A pause.

Then, "Was it worth the wait?"

Dexter exhaled through his nose.

His body was calm now, loose in a way it rarely ever was. The Dark Passenger had fed, had devoured, had taken and been given, and now there was nothing left to fight against.

Nothing left but this.

Dexter leaned in, pressing his lips just beneath her ear, voice low, quiet, final.

"Yes."

[marvelsgirl616]

dexter icons // bhb

[satansapostle6]

Love The Sinner | Dexter Morgan

Dexter Morgan, a vigilante serial killer hiding in plain sight, loses sleep for the first time in his life when he’s met with the very last thing he expected: a kindred spirit.

Warnings: Violence. Mature language and themes. Sexual content.

Part One.

Part Two. Innocent Until Proven Sexy.

Johnny Bertelli, in the many long months of my murder trial, became my favorite fucking person. The jury thankfully didn’t really see it that way, but we were running circles around the prosecutors. Our claim was naturally self defense, and I have to admit, it was a fucking good one. Story goes, I entered George Randall’s house to confront him, for causing my daughter’s suicide. I got angry, and things got heated, with neighbors to attest to the fact that we were both yelling. George got angry, and attacked me. And I defended myself. The story’s so good, even I believe it.

Technically, I did come to return George’s dishes to him, and he did get pretty heated with me when we argued, so really, we weren’t telling too many lies here. As far as George’s various embellishments, this case was pretty clean. I would say the only challenge Johnny and I faced in court was spinning my obvious lack of remorse when I was arrested. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Johnny take on a real challenge. It really is funny to watch this giant Italian guy pacing about the court during his addresses to the court while he’s built like Luca Brasi.

At the moment, I’m sitting up on the stand beside the judge, while the entire courtroom scrutinizes my every move and micro expression. There are about fifty pairs of eyes on me, but right now, I only care about one. A pair of sharp green eyes, that I still recognize from when I couldn’t work that goddamn phone. But I quickly snapped out of it, bringing my attention back to Johnny, and the trial. Somehow, this felt less interesting.

“So. Nicole, I know you’ve been through a lot in the past year or so, so forgive me,” my lawyer began, evoking sympathy from the court, “But did you have any intention of murdering George Randall when you knocked on his door?”

I took a moment, almost chewing on the question as I reluctantly relished its bitter taste.

“No.”

One thing good lawyers tell you: never answer more than the question you’re being asked. Even if you think it makes you sound better.

“Now, Nicole… I’m sorry that we have to go through this… Frankly, hurtful line of questioning. If you need to, just focus on me, alright? For now, this is between us. Not the court.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

Johnny nodded kindly. God, we were fucking good at this. I was so close to nominating us both for Academy Awards.

“Can you tell me what you were thinking, as you knocked on George’s door?”

I thought for a moment, calling back to our preparations for this trial.

“I… I was naturally angry, and disgusted, when I read my daughter’s suicide note, stating that George Randall had…”

I did genuinely choke on the word.

“Raped… my daughter,” I told Johnny. “I was appalled, but… More than anything, I wanted answers.”

Johnny looks at me curiously. “‘Answers’?”

I cleared my throat. “I… I just couldn’t understand how someone, a human being, could be capable of that sort of evil. I mean, to rape a child? To cause a twelve year-old girl, my little girl, to take her own life? What kind of monster does that?”

Johnny nods, agreeing with me. “Yes. It’s unthinkable. That’s what it is, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, unthinkable, and unspeakable… But unfortunately, my client, Nicole, does not have the luxury of being able to ignore what this man did… Because this man’s evil claimed two lives; not only the life of twelve year-old Isabella Carvalho, but Nicole Carvalho’s as well, if the prosecution prevails,” he says harshly. “That is the truth; if the prosecution succeeds in wrongfully convicting Nicole Carvalho of murder, she will receive a prison sentence, or God forbid, the death penalty, for defending herself against the man who attacked her, the very same man who raped and drove her daughter to suicide at only twelve years old.”

Johnny nods solemnly, looking at me gratefully before turning to the court.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I believe that this is a crucial factor in this case; George Randall may be dead today, but the fact remains, he was neither murdered, nor a victim. He raped a twelve year-old girl.”

A harsh wave of silence washes over the court, as most hold their breath.

“He raped a twelve year old-girl, driving her to the irreversible act of suicide at the young age of twelve, not even a teenager yet, and when that girl’s mother knocked on her door, he couldn’t handle it, and lashed out at her!”

The jury seemed just as disturbed as they should’ve been at this. I sat quietly on the stand, not having to say a word. Johnny was working the court. Together, we were such good liars, I think we even believed ourselves, on some level. As Johnny continued his argument, highlighting me as the victim in our perfect narrative, I looked around the room with a deep sadness in my eyes. I really was thinking about my daughter. I felt like I was living in some dystopian world, a world where my daughter was dead, and I had become a murderer.

Everything around me felt so distant and surreal, but then, I looked into his eyes. The man I had hardly noticed before, because he looked like every man. It was him, watching my trial, next to another man he’d come with, a short bald man. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but it really was him, the man who had helped me with the phone at Miami Metro all those months ago. It was him, I was sure of it, sitting there lost in the crowd watching the proceedings of my court case with his eyes darting back and forth like at a basketball game. I looked right into his cold green eyes, and suddenly, reality hit me again.

I was no longer lost in my melancholic fantasy. I was brought back to real life, in all its delicious violence and passion. I didn’t believe in God, but this man had the presence of an angel. Not, like, a cartoonish cherub with tiny wings and a halo, but a real, biblically accurate angel. I looked into his cold, icy eyes that seemed to watch me with an almost inhuman precision, and I felt so strange. This feeling was like nothing I’d ever experienced before with any other stranger. I looked into his eyes, felt his austere gaze on me, and I could’ve sworn it was like all the blood drained from my body.

I looked into this man’s eyes, and I felt more things in that one millisecond than I’d ever felt in my life. This man looked to me like an angel. Not because he was so soft and comforting, but because I could’ve sworn I looked into his hawklike eyes and heard a voice tell me ‘do not be afraid’. It felt just as surreal as a human in the bible encountering a real angel, in all its terrifying glory. In that moment, I had no idea what came over me, but when our eyes met, I looked at him for a moment, no longer lying, or playing a character. I looked at him from across the room, electrified, and for a split second, I smiled. I don’t know why, I couldn’t help it.

I risked my entire court case just to look at this strange man across the room, and I just smiled, with no remorse or concern for anything but my own appetites. What was even stranger was that he looked at me, saw my flirtatious smile, and returned it, for so short of a time that afterwards, I couldn’t even be sure if it was real.

*****

After today, I left the court room with Johnny in tears. Real tears. Not many of them, but enough to warrant sunglasses. I was still emotional about Isabella, given that she was practically murdered, and it just so happened that it came out from time to time in public. After walking out of the courthouse with Johnny, with his hand on my back as we ran past the journalists trying to get interviews and photos, I wiped away the last of my tears, brushing mascara clumps off of my fingers.

“You did good, kiddo,” Johnny promises me.

I just smile, nodding. I love this man, because he talks to me like we’re on The Sopranos. I hurry down the street with him in my Jimmy Choos, rushing to our cars just as I accidentally bump into a man on the street.

“Oh, sorry—!” the man exclaims, as his companion turns.

I suddenly stop as, right there on the street, the man from Miami Metro and his bald friend stand right in front of us. Johnny is somewhat confused by my lingering, but waits with me. The bald man looks at me like he’s seen a ghost, staring at me like he’s starstruck. Fuck, I think, he must recognize me. I thought he was about to panic, or act like I have something contagious, given about half of society currently sees me as a murderer, but he seems to have a completely different reaction.

“O-Oh my God!” the little bald man exclaims, as the other man just smiles at me uncomfortably. “You’re—You’re—”

He seems incapable of finishing the sentence.

“Nicole Carvalho,” I finish the sentence for him.

“…Miami MILF!” he exclaims, before I can finish. “Murderer I’d Like to Fuck!”

I frowned, not really expecting that as Johnny chivalrously comes to my defense.

“Hey, pal…” my lawyer begins, before I cut him off.

“Johnny, it’s alright,” I turned to him, not threatened by this man.

The bald Japanese man scrambles before just handing me his coffee cup. “Do you think you could sign this?!”

As far as strange interactions after I became a household name, this honestly wasn’t the worst.

“You… want me to sign this?” I question, needing confirmation as he hands me the mostly empty coffee cup.

He nods. “Yeah!”

But before this can go any further, the man from Miami Metro intervenes, taking the coffee cup from me as an act of courtesy.

“Okay, Masuka,” he says responsibly, “I don’t think we need to do that—”

I take the cup back, smiling as I fish for a pen in my purse. “It���s alright,” I promise them, deciding to just sign the cup, “I’ve always wanted to give an autograph, albeit, under different circumstances… What’s your name?”

The bald man practically jumps for joy as I sign the cup. “Vince. It’s Vince.”

Honestly, his morbid fascination with me was somewhat… well… fascinating. I was probably a murderer, or at the very least definitely a killer, but he didn’t seem to care, because I looked good in a pencil skirt. God, the halo effect is real.

“Okay, great, I’ll make this out to Vince:”

“Thank you!” Vince says far too enthusiastically.

I nod. “Mm-hmm.”

The man from Miami Metro just stands there, awkwardly, frowning sympathetically as I sign and give back the paper cup.

“Here you go,” I say charismatically, “Just… Promise not to lift it for prints, okay?”

This makes even the sandy-haired guy from the police station chuckle, before Johnny chimes in, with perfect comedic timing.

“She’s kidding, of course,” Johnny says quickly, smiling, “You wouldn’t find much if you did.”

I smile as I seem to have made the bald man, Masuka’s, day.

“Thank you,” the sandy-haired guy says sheepishly, “And sorry…”

“Not a problem,” I offer, “At least I get to feel like a celebrity for… two seconds.”

“Oh, come on,” Vince Masuka says, “I’m sure guys ask you for autographs all the time.”

I smile awkwardly. “Surprisingly, no.”

“Really?” he thinks. “Huh. Well, they should, because… All due respect… You’re a dime piece.”

I smile. “Well, that just brightens up my day….”

He laughs a laugh that I can only describe as Beavis and Butthead-esque.

“Alright, well… Thank you for your time,” the Miami Metro guy thanks me politely and apologetically. “Vince… let’s leave the nice woman alone,” he prompted, seeming desperate to get away.

But why? Why was this man who had been watching me for days suddenly so keen on getting away? He must’ve wanted some semblance of distance from me… To watch me in the shadows, without me knowing he’s there. He was trying to get away, but I didn’t let him. I just couldn’t. He was like a fly stuck in my trap.

“I’m sorry, what was your name?” I ask him.

Forget the cat, curiosity was killing me.

“Uh, Dexter,” he says in a friendly manner, shaking my hand.

“Dexter,” I smile, as if trying it out.

Of course it had to be something like that. I considered that maybe he’d given me a fake name, but given that he had a friend with him, I supposed it probably wasn’t.

“Well, Vince, Dexter, it was nice meeting you,” I wave as I walk away with Johnny.

Vince looks at me like a lost puppy, waving hopelessly as I walk away. Dexter, on the other hand, gives me a tiny wave before the friendly smile on his face disappears, revealing a colder, smarter mind beneath the surface, if only for a second. I had no idea who this man was, or why he was really so interested in my case. Logic told me he could’ve been just as pervy of a fanboy as his friend, but something told me it certainly wasn’t that. I didn’t know what his fascination was with me, but I knew it was something dark. There was something just so present, and unnerving, in the way he looked at me, even just as he waved goodbye to me on the street.

I just couldn’t quite place it, and it was killing me. I racked my brain, but still, I couldn’t think of just one instance where somebody looked at me the exact same way this Dexter character did. It was strange. However, there was one memory of someone in particular that wasn’t exact, but a close match. The closest thing to the look I saw in Dexter’s eyes was the look in George Randall’s eyes, right before he died, somewhere between the tenth and eleventh stab wound.

-

Part Three.

[havocskies]

hhihi i love the ur headcanons sm and i was wondering if u could also write girlfriend reader x brian headcanons 💗

tags : romantic , he’s still pretty evil sorry , brian is mostly rudy here , so i guess you’re probably fine

honestly brian would have to REALLY like someone to truly date them i feel like

like, his main concern is getting to dexter

BUT he did seem to like monique a bit, so it’s at least not impossible

even though he did still kill her….

i feel like brian, if he TRULY loved someone, would be very protective

of course, he knows how to not make it seem overbearing

he’s very good at playing ‘rudy,’ and he’ll never let it slip around you

you’re the last person he wants to find out about his little taboo hobby

sometimes he fantasizes about showing you the freezer room, about taking you on kills and having you help out with the prep

but he knows realistically that’s just wishful thinking

it’d be too big of a risk, one he doesn’t really want to take

so, he’ll continue to play the loving and innocent boyfriend who’s only motive in life is to help the needy

brian would absolutely be very touchy, both in a possessive way and in a casual, subconscious way

he loves to let people know you’re his, but at the same time he also just loves the reassurance that you’re there, with him

even if he doesn’t show it he does inwardly get insecure, worried that you’d somehow find out about his tendencies and leave him

once he has something he likes in his grasp he isn’t very keen on letting it go

brian would heavily enjoy painting your nails, wanting to keep them colored the way he loves close to constantly

the moment they begin to chip he’s commenting on it, already wanting to fix it

brian also clearly seems to enjoy putting his attractions on display

he has a large drawing of a naked woman on his living room wall, and limb sculptures all around his apartment

with that being said, brian absolutely would enjoy taking pictures of you (both compromising and not 😇)

like, he’s clearly a freak

i don’t, however, think he’d be too possessive in public

of course, he loves physical contact and being near you

however, making it known you two are dating isn’t exactly being possessive

i don’t believe brian would get jealous very easily

he wouldn’t dictate what you wear, instead finding it more enjoyable to show you off in a way

i do think, however, that if you wanted him to give suggestions towards your outfits he would absolutely love it.

while not very possessive, he does love having control

brian would strongly enjoy picking out minor things, such as your jewelry or a specific shirt

if you wanted him to pick out an entire outfit, however, he wouldn’t complain

since brian would be playing as rudy around you i don’t think he’d have too many red flags

of course, he’s still the ice truck killer, but he’d be more careful around you

if you weren’t a killer, that is

if you were that’s an entirely different story

regardless, if you’re a moral and true citizen of society, brian is careful around you

he doesn’t drop many hints, and the ones he does are only small comments you couldn’t possibly catch on to

(both brian and dexter do this in the show and i think it’s so funny it kills me)

brian in general is also very touchy

we see this in the show when he’s with deb

listen, if he could be that touchy and needy with a woman he hates with every fiber of his being and piece of his soul imagine how he is with someone he loves

yeah he’d never be leaving you alone

brian does (assumingely) hook up with hookers somewhat often

unless he’s just killing most of them i guess, obviously

regardless, since brian’s life is centered mostly around dexter, i don’t think he’s had many partners if any at all

i don’t even think monique really counts, as they seemed to be portrayed more as just sex partners than actual partners

they don’t really have anything romantic to say about each other so 😭

with that being said, that would mean his entire focus would be on you

also, if his apartment decor is so shameless i would not be surprised if his drive was high

considering how he was acting with deb, he would be beyond needy with an actual partner

he’d absolutely insist on keeping control in every situation

but he’d without a doubt be wanting your attention fairly often

now, i do think he’d still have cold spells where he’s distant, but i don’t think they’d truly last that long

all in all, as long as you’re dating rudy, you’re pretty safe

[nestingdoves]

You and me both, friends. We're really all in this together. 👏

I, unfortunately, have nothing in mind other than elaborating further on some of those posts I made. (As in, full on fic.)

So feel free to send me in your darkfic requests.

[microwavedmaggot]

Dating Brian Moser headcanons (Brian Moser x fem reader)

He leaves you for a man

[lustagel]

can you please write smut about dexter i LOVED the riding one i ate that shit up

of course! this is also for the other person that asked! :3 first fic of the year! sorry it took so long :((

he doesn’t see you much anymore. with his job eating up his noon hours, and killing his latest murder at night, he has to admit he’s yearning. but he realizes, maybe too late, how much—how badly he’s missed this—until the morning sun is cracking through the blinds of his apartment and his cock is halfway into you, your skin is soft against his and he’s in complete control of how much cock he’s giving you. no, control has never been his problem. but now, with you wrapped around him, he’s finally allowing himself to forget.

it’s annoying, really, how forgetful he gets when he’s with you— how careless he gets. “more, dex. please.” you never have to beg much, because of how easily he caves, giving in to your voice. he hides in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin, his hair tickling your face. your fingers trail through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, where they meet the fullness of his hair, soothing and anchoring him as if you know he needs it, before adding soft kisses to the shape of his ear. his cock fills you up without much room for anything else, as always, and you never complain despite your whines and body shivers.

you take him in every way, and he wonders, in the moments when his mind isn’t entirely lost in you, if he could ever do the same. the thought doesn’t last long before he’s spilling inside of you and you’re squeezing onto him. his movements slow, his focus narrowing to the way your body fits against his, the softness of your touch. he sighs, his eyes falling shut to enjoy the way you completely consume him.

so many things have been trying to keep him away from you— away from this feeling, but he just doesn’t want to escape it. and, the darkness that keeps pulling is his to keep. in his head, the words come unbidden, clear and resolute: i’ll never let it touch you. It isn’t something he’d ever say aloud—not to you, not to anyone. promises spoken can be broken. but here, in the quiet sanctuary of his own mind, it’s absolute.

[weirdnezzt]

DEXTER MORGAN FANART 😩

its that time of year to get obsessed with this mf again 😔

i only simp the 2006 dude idc i dont wanna watch the new one XD

pic with reference imageee >

[swetblom]

Dexter x doll reader again?? <3

of course! canons but like also like multiple canons about the same thing?? lol

​⊹ doll! reader who leaves dexter the cutest little messages when his hands are snug in latex gloves, blood dripping from them.

look what i made! you send him a picture of a cupcake with pink frosting and sprinkles, tiny and delicate, perfectly sweet. he’s scrubbing blood off his arms when he sees it. made u a dozen. miss uuu. xx

just passed ur apartment. ur car’s not here :( you sends it while he’s in an abandoned warehouse, head tilted as he watches the life drain from someone’s eyes. must be busy! have a good day, baby! <3

if he’s in the middle of a kill and he actually sees it in the moment, he’ll keep one glove on, peel the other off with his teeth. blood smears his knuckles as he types a quick, bland response. yeah. busy. your reply comes back with a string of hearts and a miss u!!! and he just shoves the phone back into his pocket, mind a little lighter than before.

if he’s been distant for days, too many bodies, too many secrets, and you send a text that says, did i do something wrong? he can’t help it. he’s sitting in his car, waiting for his victim, and he peels off both gloves, trying to be quick just in case he misses his opportunity. no. just busy. you responds with: okay! just checking. ily!

but if not messages, voicemails. he definitely listens to them on his way back to his apartment or on his boat when he’s done dumping the bodies.

on the boat, as a body sinks beyond the surface of the water. your voice comes through warm and bright, like you’re talking to him from your couch, feet kicked up and perfectly content. “hey, babe! just left that cuban restaurant you like and guess what? got your favorite. got you two ��cause I know you’ll forget to eat. anyway, let me know if you’re home. if not, i’ll just eat ‘em both. bye, bye.” dexter’s jaw clenches. he saves it. tells himself it’s so he doesn’t forget to ask you about the sandwiches.

in his lab, staring at a blood slide, your voice in his ear. “so, i was gonna text this but it’s too long and i’m too lazy to type. i found this shirt that’s, like, the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen, and i swear it’s something you’d love. i took a picture. gonna send it to you in a sec. okay, that’s it. byeee.” dexter glances at his phone, waiting for the picture to come through. when it does, it’s a neon-green, hideous button-up. he smirks. almost smiles.

[subtlebloodshed]

Talk to Strangers

description- After a rough day at work, you find comfort in your favorite place: your boyfriend Rudy's arms. After a steamy night, you wake up to discover more about him than you ever wanted to know.

word count- 3.6k

cw. brian moser as rudy cooper x f!reader, fem terms, drinking, drunk sex, surprisingly gentle sex, oral f!receiving, unprotected!piv sex, biting, canon typical violence, gagging/vomit mention, dismemberment, manipulation/gaslighting, domestic violence (kind of?), strangulation, brian is his own warning.

You knock on Rudy’s door with a six-pack of his favorite beer and a bottle of red wine, leaning against the frame. You’d had the worst day at work; it felt like everything went wrong or crashed around you. Nothing more in this world comforted you like him: his strong arms, warm, inviting scent, and those pretty green eyes. Being with Rudy was like being at home–entirely relaxing and soothing. 

Rudy opens the door in his boxers, a smile on his face and one hand almost instantly pulling you inside. 

“Hey, beautiful,” He murmurs against your temple as he plants a kiss there, his nose nuzzling in your hair, “Why didn’t you let me know you were stopping by?”

He’d barely put his hands on you and you're melting into his embrace, resting your head against his shoulder.

“I did, must’ve missed it. Were you sleeping?” You ask, pulling away enough to set the drinks down onto his desk. 

He lets out a quiet chuckle as he shrugs, “Yeah, dozed off in bed, long day, I guess.” 

You naturally move to the kitchen as if you’ve done it a million times before. Getting on your tiptoes, you pull out a wine glass. “Tell me about it, I cried as soon as I got in my car.” You sigh, making your way back out to grab the bottle and settle on the couch. 

“You want to talk about it, doll?” Rudy asks, moving over to sit next to you after he grabbed the six-pack. He takes your bottle and pours your glass for you. 

“God no, I just wanted to be with my boyfriend,” You say, taking the glass and sipping much too large of a sip from it, “Maybe get a little bit of dick.”

“Well,” That draws a grin from him, his lips brushing the top of your ear as he whispers, “You definitely came to the right place for that.”

—

A bottle of wine and six-pack of beer later, you both are tangled up on his bed. There’s a giggle between every kiss and every movement is clumsy, uncoordinated. His head is buried in your neck, peppering kisses, bites, leaving marks all over your skin. Each sense is filled with him– him, him, him. Every experience with him felt like that from the moment you met. You fell so fast, so hard. And Rudy made it so easy and so damned sweet. 

“I’m so in love with your body.”  He murmurs against your skin as his hands trace patterns across your bare abdomen.  Most of your clothes never even made it to the bed, a trail of fabric littered its way like rose petals. 

Your hand tangles in his hair, guiding his head towards yours for another kiss. The flavors of beer and menthol flood your mouth, a combination that has become familiar and addicting. You have grown accustomed to everything that is uniquely him and crave it like a drug. It's as if you stopped needing air the day you met him.

His hand pulls your thigh over his legs before sliding up to firmly grasp your ass. You grind your hips against him, feeling desire pooling between your thighs and drenching both of you. He hardly needs to touch you to elicit such a reaction anymore - just one look from him and you're ready for him.

“Please,” You whisper, pulling back and resting your forehead against his. It's tender, loving, soft– his beautiful face melting into that darling smile as he guides his fingers through your wetness. How could he still look like a Disney prince with his hand between your legs? 

"Here?" He teases, rubbing slow circles on your clit and studying the way your eyes flutter closed in response. "Or here?" His voice dropped an octave as he slowly pushed the tips of his fingers into your hole before returning to your clit.

You whine in frustration, pushing your hips forward into his hand and trying desperately to gain more than he was giving, “Rudy, I need you, stop teasing…” You plead.

He knows how easy it is to rile you up and play with you. “I’ll take care of you, doll.” He smirks, rolling you onto your back. His lips find their way from your neck down to your chest, pausing to explore every inch of skin and eliciting gasps and moans from you. When he playfully bites down on your hip bone, you squeak in surprise. “Just lay back and let me work my magic.” 

Rudy doesn’t have to tell you twice, you simply lay your head back and let your eyes close. The warm, wet trail of saliva followed his tongue as he traced it over your hip bones, then down to your mound, and the junction of your legs and thighs.Your grip on his hair tightens as his tongue makes contact with your clit.

“Fuck, Rudy…” You sigh as you roll your hips towards him for more contact. He chuckles softly at your eagerness, holding you down by placing his hand on your lower abdomen.

"Easy now, don't get too greedy," He mutters before biting down on your inner thigh and sucking softly. "Take what I give you."

You nod in agreement, loosening your grip on his hair slightly. "O-okay."

Rudy seems pleased with your submission, continuing to pepper kisses along your thighs. "Good doll, good…" He praises as his other hand moves between your legs to tease around your entrance and lubricate his fingers. Slowly, he slides two fingers inside of you and you let out a sharp moan, pushing back into the pillow. The pace is gentle and slow at first, his fingers opening you up and preparing you for more. His tongue continues to work its magic on your clit, bringing you closer and closer to the edge of pleasure.

Your body arches as Rudy's skilled fingers and tongue work in tandem, pleasure building steadily. The room fills with your soft moans and the wet sounds of his mouth and fingers. Your hands tangle deeper in his hair, holding him close as your hips begin to rock against his face.

"God, Rudy, don't stop," You gasp, feeling yourself getting close to the edge. You can barely open your eyes to look down at him, but you’re so glad you do. He looks gorgeous like this– his dark curls tangled in your fingers, eyes closed in concentration, nose brushing against your mound. 

He hums against you, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. His fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your thighs begin to tremble as the tension in your core builds. And the moment he opens those breathtaking eyes to look up at you, the dam breaks and you cry out, waves of ecstasy washing over you as your orgasm crashes through your body.

Rudy works you through it, lapping up your release as your body quivers beneath him. When the last aftershocks subside, he plants a final kiss on your inner thigh before crawling back up your body.

"You taste divine," he purrs, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, mingled with the lingering flavors of alcohol.

Your hands roam over his muscular back, feeling the strength coiled beneath his skin. Rudy's erection presses insistently against your thigh, hot and hard. You reach between your bodies to wrap your fingers around him, stroking slowly.

"I need you inside me," you breathe against his lips. "Please, Rudy."

He groans, rocking his hips into your touch. "Anything for you, doll."

Rudy positions himself at your entrance, teasing you with just the tip. You whimper arching your hips to try and take him deeper. He chuckles softly, nipping at your earlobe.

"Patience, doll," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "I want to savor every moment with you."

Slowly, torturously, he sinks into you inch by inch. Your breath catches in your throat at the stretch, your walls fluttering around him. When he's fully sheathed, he stills, giving you time to adjust. No matter how many times you’ve taken him, the full length of him always left you breathless. His forehead rests against yours, those mesmerizing green eyes locked on your face.

"You feel incredible," Rudy breathes, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "So perfect for me. You were made to take my cock."

His words send a shiver down your spine, igniting a renewed fire in your core. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. Your hands slide up his strong arms to cup his face, pulling him down for a desperate kiss. As your tongues tangle, Rudy begins to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm that has you gasping against his mouth. 

"Yes," you moan, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him even closer. "God, Rudy, you feel so good."

He picks up the pace, driving into you with powerful thrusts that make the bed creak beneath you. Your nails rake down his back as the pleasure builds, leaving faint red lines in their wake. Rudy growls, burying his face in your neck as he pounds into you relentlessly.

The room fills with the sounds of your shared passion– skin slapping against skin, breathless moans, and whispered sweet nothings. Rudy's thrusts become more erratic as he nears his peak. He slips a hand between your bodies, his fingers finding your oversensitive clit.

"Come for me again, doll," he commands, his voice rough with exertion. "I want to feel you squeeze my cock when you come, let me feel you."

His words and skilled touch push you over the edge once more. You cry out his name as waves of pleasure crash over you, your inner walls clenching rhythmically around him. The sensation triggers Rudy's own release. He buries himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, his hips jerking as he spills inside you.

For several long moments, you both lay there panting, bodies slick with sweat and tangled together. Rudy presses tender kisses along your jawline before capturing your lips in a languid, post-coital kiss. When he finally pulls out and rolls to the side, you whimper at the loss.

“Mm, come back…” You whine as you wrap your arm around his abdomen, head settling on his chest and leg strewn over his. He presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his hand running through your hair softly.

"Feel better now, beautiful?" he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You nod, nuzzling into the crook of his neck with a yawn, “Much better.” 

—

Hours later, you stir a bit, waking up with a dry mouth and a pounding headache. Maybe drinking the whole bottle wasn’t the smartest move. You turn over, hand reaching out for Rudy but he’s not in his usual spot next to you. 

“Baby?” You murmur, sitting up to look around. He’s not in the bathroom– the lights off. You grab the robe you keep at his place, wrapping it around yourself as you stumble through the apartment, still slightly buzzed.

Maybe he’s in the kitchen? You make your way through the apartment, slightly stumbling since you’re still a little drunk, a frown set on your face as he’s not in any of his usual spots. That’s when you feel a cold draft hit you next to the living room with a sigh. He must have left the freezer door open, when would he even have opened it?

You creep towards the cracked door. You’d never even seen the inside…had you?

Your fingers grip the cold handle, and you pull the door open just enough to peek inside, curiosity gnawing at you. And what you’re greeted with is enough to make you sick. 

A frozen woman’s body lies in pieces on a metal table, limbs neatly arranged as if pieces on a board. Your boyfriend stands over her, bone saw in hand, cutting through one of the limbs with a practiced rhythm.

You stagger backward, your breath hitching in your throat, eyes wide and disbelieving. The bottle of wine and the six-pack seem like artifacts from another life, the cozy intimacy of just hours ago obliterated by the macabre sight before you.

Rudy looks up at the slight noise you make, but makes no effort to move. His face flickers through a spectrum of emotions: surprise, irritation, and finally, something calm and unreadable. That calm, more than anything, makes you begin to tremble in fear. 

"You're awake," he says simply, as if you’ve just caught him reheating leftovers instead of dismembering a human body. His voice is steady but there's a tension behind his eyes, something calculating, as if he’s evaluating your reaction. He doesn't stop working, the bone saw whining softly as it slices through icy cartilage and bone.

You want nothing more than to run, scream, throw up– but your feet are planted frozen to the floor in fear and disgust. 

“You-you…” You mutter, heart in your throat as your hand comes to your mouth, the other wrapped around your abdomen in a guard, “What have you done?” The walls feel like they're closing in on you and you fight down the bile that seers through your esophagus, threatening to escape with each breath.

Rudy sets the saw down with precision, slipping off his gloves like he’s just working on a project. "I was hoping you wouldn’t see this," he says, his tone almost regretful. "Not like this, anyway." 

It clicks together like some fucked up grotesque puzzle, “You’re the killer I’ve been reporting on for months.” You manage to croak out, pure anguish settling over you. How could you have never guessed? How many times had he fucked you in the same bed as these poor girls? How many of them sat in his passenger seat with his hand resting on their thigh like you had?

In some fucked up way, the thought of him cheating on you makes you just as sick. 

But no, this isn’t real, this can’t be real. This has to be some twisted nightmare, a drunken hallucination that will disappear once you rub your eyes hard enough.

But no matter how hard you try, the moment doesn’t fade away.

“Listen, I know this is a lot to take in,” Rudy says, moving from around the table to approach you. You should run, why aren’t you running? “But I’d never hurt you, you know that right?”

His hand comes to your hair, petting it as he’s done a hundred times before but this time, it felt like a façade, his way of lulling you into relaxation. 

“Don’t you trust me?” He says, leaning in to press a kiss to the top of your head. You feel disgusted, every touch from him is tainted by all the blood he has on his hands. He’s a monster—and by all means, you should treat him like one. But he’s looking at you with those forest green eyes, they’re so full of emotion like he’s begging you to trust him. 

‘Trust?’ You want to scream at him, every nerve and warning sign igniting in your body. The rage inside you is boiling: you had trusted him so foolishly, how you had no knowledge of the monster you shared a bed with every night. But your frozen, mouth agape, more conflicted than you had ever been in your entire life. 

This shouldn’t even have to be a conversation. The moment you saw him with that saw in his hands you should have ran, called the police, anything than stand here like you are right now.

Of all the emotions swirling within you, one nauseated you the most; you were jealous. The Ice Truck Killer only killed prostitutes. It gnaws at you, the thought of him touching them, the same way he’d touched you. His hands on their skin. His lips against theirs.

Your thoughts are a tangled mess of rage and self-loathing as you try to articulate any of it. “You’re—you’re just sick…we…we can fix it. You just need help…” You stutter out, the words even more pathetic than they had been in your head. He wasn’t some broken little boy who needed fixing—he was a serial killer. A wolf in sheep’s clothing you’ve let devour you whole. 

“You think I haven’t heard that before? I spent fourteen fucking years in a ward getting ‘help’. It didn’t change anything. This is who I am.” He shakes his head, reaching his hand out to caress the side of your face. 

“I-I don’t understand,” You deny, bringing a hand up to grab his wrist. You don’t pull him away, however, you just stand there in confusion holding him, “You were good, you’re…you’re good. You wouldn’t…” This doesn’t even feel real, you are trapped in a haze of fear, disgust, shock, and confusion. All you want to do is disappear or go back in time and live blissfully unaware. You’d give anything to have not woken up or let yourself get curious, you didn’t want to have to face this. 

“Hey, hey, doll, look at me,” Rudy cajoled, hooking his finger under your chin to meet his eyes, “It’s going to be okay, I promise. You just have to stay calm, alright?”

You have trouble focusing on his eyes, your rationality a million miles away, “O-okay? How is it going to be okay?” 

Rudy sighs, leaning his forehead in against yours, “You know I love you, right? More than anything.” 

You just nod dumbly against his head, your fawning response settling over you. He says he loves you and as long as you behave, he’d have no reason to hurt you. You didn’t have to end up on the table all the other girls had. You were important to him, different– better than them. 

“Good, baby, good.” He mutters, planting a kiss against your lips. He’s ice cold to the touch, the time in the freezer showing with the red on his cheeks. It’s something you would have teased him about had you seen it in a better setting. God, it’s hard to think. The sight before you eats away at every positive memory you’ve ever had– your brain feels like utter mush right now. 

Your fingers tremble against his wrist, and it’s not from the cold but rather the unbearable weight of what you’d seen. The man who held you so tenderly, who made you feel safe, was the same man who had been dismembering women and arranging them like frozen sculptures in public like a gallery of horrors. 

“Rudy…” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the freezer. Your grip on his wrist tightens, but you still don’t pull him away.

“I know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple as if this were any other night, as if you weren’t standing in front of proof that the man you loved was a monster. “It’s a lot to process, but you don’t have to be scared.”

The way he says it—it’s almost comforting. Almost.

But you are scared.

Terrified, actually.

Not just of him, but of yourself. Because as much as every bit l in your body is screaming at you to run, another part of you—the sick part of you that has spent nights tangled in his sheets, breathing in his scent, tracing the lines of his body with your fingertips—wants to believe him, wants to believe that somehow, someway, this isn’t as bad as it looks. You want to believe that there’s a version of this story where he’s still the same man he was a few hours ago, where you can wake up tomorrow and pretend you never saw a damn thing.

But the body on the table won’t let you forget.

Your stomach churns as your eyes flicker to it again, the pale, dismembered limbs arranged with precision. You gag, clamping a hand over your mouth, and Rudy’s grip tightens just enough to remind you of his strength.

“I need—” Your voice cracks. “I need a second.”

“Of course,” Rudy says smoothly, finally letting you go. Your body stumbles back before you catch yourself against the door.

He watches you, not like a man afraid of losing his lover, but like a predator waiting to see what his prey will do next.

You could run.

You should run.

But where would you go?

Your phone is in the bedroom. Your keys, too. And Rudy—Rudy is faster than you, he'd beat you to the front door, watching you with those green fucking eyes, as if he can hear every frantic thought racing through your mind.

“You’re thinking of leaving.” His voice is calm, but there’s a warning beneath it.

You shake your head without hesitation, even though you both know it’s a lie.

Then, with a rush of adrenaline, you’re sprinting to the door. If you could get to a neighbor's door, you could scream and someone would help you. 

Your hand is on the handle and you are pulling it open, you’re going to make it out.

A surge of pain radiates from your head and your vision goes for a moment, the sound of the metal door slamming filling your ears. His hand is tangled in your hair and he’s pulling you back against his chest, then his bicep is wrapped around your throat. 

“I told you to stay calm, this could have been different. Why didn’t you listen?” 

The sound of his voice is distant as you can feel yourself slipping in and out of consciousness from the lack of blood flow to your brain. 

You want it to stop. 

God, please someone make it stop.

Stop. 

Stop. 

Stop. 

“You should have listened, doll.” 

Stop.

authors note- it was originally supposed to be a drabble and i got carried away. oops. hope you enjoyed! <3

taglist- @brian-mosers-cumsock, @butterbabyflapjack (wasn't sure which blog to tag)