mnemosynetheone

[mnemosynetheone]

Faster Than Fear, Slower Than Love

pairing: Barry Allen x Reader

Warnings: Obsessive thoughts, toxic romantic idealization, emotional manipulation, psychological tension, hero fixation, dark themes

Central City glowed like a pulse in the dark, neon lights beating against the wet pavement. You walked home with your hood up, ignoring the sirens and the distant boom of metahuman chaos. You should have been afraid. You weren’t. Not really.

Because he was out there.

Barry Allen. The Flash. Your personal guardian angel—or something far less holy.

He’d saved you once. Just once. A mugger in an alley, a flash of red lightning, a gloved hand gripping yours as he whispered, “You’re safe now.” The city never went back to normal after that night. Neither did your mind.

Sometimes, you felt him before you saw him. A breeze on your neck. The hum of speed in the air. Tonight was no different.

“(Y/N),” he said, and you jumped. He was just there now—leaning against the lamppost like he hadn’t just broken the sound barrier to find you. His cowl was off, his hair damp with mist. His smile was soft, but there was something desperate beneath it.

“You shouldn’t be out this late.”

“I can handle myself,” you said, but your voice trembled just slightly.

Barry tilted his head, studying you with that intensity that made your lungs tighten. It was too much—like he was memorizing the pulse in your throat.

“I know you can,” he said. “But I can handle you better.”

A shiver ran through you. He stepped closer, close enough that the air felt charged. Like every molecule wanted to move at his command.

“I keep thinking about that night,” Barry said, voice low. “How small your hand felt in mine. How fast your heart was beating. I can still hear it. I hear it every time I run past your street.”

He was too close now, eyes shining with something beyond heroism—something ravenous.

“I save people all the time,” he murmured. “But you… you make me want to keep you. To never let anyone else even see you.”

Your breath hitched, torn between fear and something else—something magnetic.

“Barry…” you whispered.

He smiled like a man on the edge of worship or ruin. “You don’t have to be scared. I’m the fastest man alive. No one can take you from me.”

And in the flicker of city lights, you realized it wasn’t a promise. It was a warning.

[mnemosynetheone]

No more secrets

Pairing: Dean & Sam Winchester x Younger Sibling!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of old self-harm scars, emotional hurt/comfort, protective brothers, safe conversation about mental health

The hunt had been long and exhausting, leaving all three of you stumbling back into the bunker well past midnight. You just wanted a shower and your bed.

Dean tossed his jacket on the table, muttering about beer. Sam was already headed to his laptop to start the post-hunt research. You slipped away to the laundry room to throw your blood-stained shirt in the wash, forgetting for a moment that you’d be walking back through the war room in just your tank top.

When you stepped back into the main room, Dean looked up from his beer—and froze. His gaze landed on your forearm, where the faded, thin lines were visible in the harsh bunker lighting.

“Y/N… what’s that?” His voice wasn’t sharp. It was… quiet. Careful.

You instinctively pulled your arm against your body. “It’s nothing. Old. Doesn’t matter.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “It matters to me.”

Sam, hearing the change in his tone, turned in his chair. His eyes softened the moment he saw. “How long?”

Your throat tightened. “Years. I don’t… do that anymore.”

Dean set his beer down like it suddenly didn’t matter. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

You shrugged, trying to keep your voice steady. “You guys already have so much on your plates. Monsters, the world ending every other week… I didn’t want to be another problem.”

Dean stood, crossing the room in two strides. “You’re not a problem. You’re my family. You think I care more about hunting than I do about you? No way in hell.”

Sam’s voice was low but firm as he stepped closer. “You don’t have to deal with anything like that alone. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

You looked between them, guilt and relief twisting together in your chest. “I’m sorry.”

Dean shook his head, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t be sorry. Just promise us—if it ever gets bad again, you come to us. Doesn’t matter if it’s 3 a.m., doesn’t matter where we are. We’ll be there.”

Sam nodded, his hand brushing your arm gently, no judgment in his touch. “We mean it, Y/N. We’d rather sit with you through the worst nights than lose you.”

For a moment, the bunker was silent except for the quiet hum of the lights. And in that stillness, you realized—they weren’t just your brothers. They were your lifeline.

[mnemosynetheone]

Grace in the Silence

Pairing: Castiel x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, protective!Castiel, emotional intimacy, soft romance, hints of longing

The bunker was too quiet.

Hunts were always loud—blood, chaos, gunfire—but the silence that followed was worse. Silence left room for memories, and memories were merciless. You were pacing the library when you found him: Castiel, standing so still between the shelves he looked like a shadow carved out of stone.

The lamplight caught the edge of his trench coat, the blue of his tie, but his eyes were fixed somewhere far away. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable. He didn’t move when you stepped into the room.

“Cas?” you whispered.

His head turned, slowly, like it took effort to pull himself back to the present. His voice was flat but gentle. “You should be resting.”

“So should you.” You crossed the room, barefoot on the cold floor. He watched each step, gaze flicking down and back up, as though trying to decide if he should stop you.

When you were close enough, you tilted your head. “You’ve been… distant. Even more than usual.”

Something flickered in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or sorrow. “I’ve seen too much,” he said at last, voice rough. “I’ve… done too much. My presence brings danger, not comfort. If you understood the weight I carry, you wouldn’t be standing this close.”

“Cas…” You reached out, and though your hand only brushed his sleeve, he went completely still. “I don’t care about the weight. I care about you.”

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. He just stared at you, like he was trying to memorize every detail: the curve of your mouth, the warmth in your eyes, the stubborn way you refused to look away from him. His shoulders finally slumped, as if the fight in him cracked under the gentleness you offered.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you whispered back.

The silence stretched, but this time it pulsed, alive with something unspoken. His hand rose hesitantly, trembling just a little, and hovered near yours. You closed the gap first, sliding your fingers against his. His grace thrummed faintly under his skin, and it felt like touching the edge of a storm—terrifying, but beautiful.

His breath hitched. “You shouldn’t… I could hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you said firmly. “Not you.”

The war inside him was plain as day, written across every line of his face. Duty and shame battled with the fragile human emotion he so rarely allowed himself to feel. And then—slowly, carefully—he bent his head, pressing his forehead to yours.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t even romantic in the traditional sense. It was reverent, like he was afraid the moment might break if he moved too quickly.

“Your presence is… different,” he admitted, voice low, almost hoarse. “When I am near you, the noise quiets. The echoes fade. I feel… peace.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into him. “Then stay. For once, just… stay.”

His lips parted, like he might argue, but the fight never came. Instead, his hand cupped your cheek, thumb tracing lightly over your skin. The warmth of his palm was grounding, human despite the grace that thrummed beneath it.

“Do you know what you’re asking of me?” he asked quietly.

“Yes,” you said, your voice steady despite the flutter in your chest. “I’m asking you to let yourself be loved. Even if it’s just in the quiet moments.”

For the first time that night, something softened in him. A faint smile tugged at his lips—not his usual awkward mimicry of human expression, but something real, fragile and fleeting.

“Then I’ll stay,” he said simply.

And as he stood there with you in the bunker’s dim light, forehead pressed to yours, you realized it wasn’t Heaven or Earth that made Castiel who he was. It was this: the quiet grace of choosing to stay when he thought he should walk away.

[mnemosynetheone]

hollow eyes in the motel light

Pairing: Soulless!Sam Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Dark themes, psychological tension, morally gray dynamics, predatory behavior, suggestive content, mild violence.

The motel room’s flickering light cast a sickly yellow glow on the walls, illuminating the cracked wallpaper and the weapons laid out on the table. The rain hadn’t let up outside, and the rhythm of it against the window seemed to fill the silence Sam left behind.

He was sitting at the table, back to you, methodically cleaning his gun. The soft, rhythmic clicks and swipes of the cloth against metal were the only proof he was even in the room. He hadn’t said a word since you walked in.

You hovered near the door, clutching your duffel. “Are we just… staying here tonight?”

Sam didn’t look up. “Unless you’d rather go out there. In the rain. With the wendigo still on the loose.”

The casual indifference in his voice made your skin prickle. The old Sam would’ve at least cracked a smile, tried to reassure you. This Sam—this hollow Sam—didn’t bother.

You didn’t answer. You just kicked off your wet boots and dropped the bag on the floor, trying not to watch him as he set the gun aside and reached for a hunting knife. His fingers were sure, graceful even, as he spun it once in his palm and began wiping the blade clean.

“You’re quiet,” he said finally, glancing at you. His eyes were unreadable, like they had been carved from stone.

“I just…” You hesitated. “You’re not yourself.”

He smirked—sharp, humorless. “I’m still me. I’m just… better now.”

“Better?” you echoed.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back in the chair, letting the knife rest against his thigh. “I don’t get weighed down anymore. No guilt. No hesitation. I can do what needs to be done without second-guessing myself.” His gaze slid over you slowly, and your chest tightened. “You should try it sometime.”

Your mouth went dry. You weren’t sure if he was threatening you or… something else entirely.

When you didn’t respond, Sam stood. His movements were unhurried, predatory in their ease. He crossed the room, and even though you tried to hold your ground, your back hit the wall before you realized you’d stepped away.

He stopped just inches from you, tilting his head as he studied your face. The lamplight made his eyes seem darker than usual.

“You’re afraid,” he murmured. “I like that. Makes you sharp. Keeps you alive.”

Your voice wavered. “You’re… scaring me, Sam.”

“Good.” He raised a hand, slowly brushing a strand of damp hair from your cheek. His touch was gentle, but it felt calculated, like a wolf nudging its prey before the bite. “Fear keeps you from running off and doing something stupid. And it… makes you honest.”

Your heart thudded in your chest. You should’ve told him to step back, but the words wouldn’t come.

Then he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Unless you give me a reason to.”

The implication lingered in the air, electric and dangerous. He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, a faint smirk curling his lips.

“Get some sleep,” he said finally, turning away as if nothing had happened. “We’ve got a hunt tomorrow. And I’ll need you sharp.”

You slid down the wall as he returned to the table, casually picking up his gun again. He didn’t look at you, but you could still feel his presence like a weight in the room—calm, controlled, and terrifyingly unreadable.

And for the first time, you realized you weren’t sure if the real danger tonight was outside in the rain—or standing a few feet away, cleaning his knife with hollow eyes.

[mnemosynetheone]

The Fractures of Grace

Pairing: Castiel x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, obsession, protective/possessive undertones, supernatural intensity, emotional tension

The bunker was quiet, but you could feel him before you saw him.

That low, thrumming presence of grace hummed against your skin, like the pressure before a storm. You didn’t even need to turn around to know Castiel was watching you.

“Cas,” you said softly, closing the book in front of you. “How long have you been standing there?”

There was a pause—too long. Then his gravelly voice came, low and steady. “Long enough.”

You turned, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were sharp, unblinking, and it made your chest tighten. It wasn’t the soft, lost angel you’d first met years ago. There was something harder there now, something fractured.

“You’ve been different,” you said carefully.

“I’ve been… aware,” he corrected, stepping closer. “I see how fragile you are. How easily the world could take you from me.”

The word me stuck in your ears.

You swallowed. “I can handle myself, Cas. You don’t have to—”

“Yes,” he interrupted firmly, the air shifting with his voice, a subtle crackle of power. “I do.”

For a moment, the weight of him was overwhelming—the sheer pressure of what he was, what he could do. He must have noticed the way your breath caught, because he tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle only he could solve.

“You fear me,” he murmured. “And yet you don’t run.”

“I trust you,” you said, though your voice trembled.

Something flickered in his eyes—pain, or maybe hunger. “You shouldn’t.”

When he moved closer, it wasn’t human. His steps were silent, and then he was there, inches away, the heat of his grace making your skin tingle. His hand rose, hovering near your cheek, but not touching. Not yet.

“Do you know what it does to me?” he asked, voice low, rough. “To see you bleed. To hear your heartbeat falter. The things I would do—have done—to keep you safe…”

Your lips parted, but no words came. His eyes burned into yours, endless, ancient, and aching.

“I’ve torn apart creatures, burned through demons, slaughtered angels…” His hand finally touched your face, palm warm, thumb grazing your jaw with devastating gentleness. “And I would do worse if it meant keeping you breathing.”

The confession made your stomach twist—fear tangled with something else you didn’t dare name.

“Cas…” you whispered.

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing yours, his voice a hushed vow. “You don’t belong to the darkness. You belong here. With me. I’ll make sure of it.”

There was no threat in his tone, but the certainty in it left no room for argument. It was both promise and warning—the truth of an angel who had fallen too far, too hard, and anchored himself to you.

And though the weight of his grace pressed against your chest, though his fingers trembled against your skin like he was holding back something dangerous, you didn’t move away.

Because somewhere deep down, you knew: the most terrifying thing about Castiel wasn’t his power. It was how much he was willing to lose for you.

[mnemosynetheone]

The Man Beneath the Grace

Pairing: Jimmy Novak x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Angst, emotional intimacy, references to Castiel/possession, themes of loss and healing, soft romance

The first time you saw him, you thought it was Castiel. Same trench coat. Same tired eyes. Same presence that filled the air like static.

But then he smiled—soft, uncertain, human—and you realized this wasn’t the angel. This was the man beneath it all.

“Jimmy Novak,” he said, offering his hand, the words almost foreign on his tongue. “I… don’t get to introduce myself often.”

You hesitated before taking his hand. His grip was warm, grounded. Real. And the way he looked at you—like he was both grateful and guilty—made your chest tighten.

Time with Jimmy was fleeting, but you treasured every moment.

He’d sit with you on the porch of the safehouse, staring at the stars like he could almost hear Heaven whispering back. Sometimes he talked about his wife, his daughter, the life that had been ripped away. Other nights, he stayed quiet, as if the weight of silence was easier than words.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” he admitted once, his voice barely above a whisper. “This body… it belongs to something greater. And yet when I get these moments—when I get to be Jimmy—I don’t want to let them go.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. He looked at the gesture like he didn’t deserve it, but he didn’t pull away.

“You’re more than just a vessel,” you told him. “You matter, Jimmy.”

His eyes closed, and a faint smile tugged at his lips. “You’re the first person to tell me that since this started.”

The hardest part was never knowing how long you’d have. Some days, Castiel’s presence pressed back through, claiming the body with that familiar gravitas. Other days, Jimmy would fight his way to the surface, his laugh breaking through like sunlight after a storm.

You learned to read the signs—the way his shoulders eased when it was him, the way his hands fidgeted like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them.

One night, as you sat side by side, he finally spoke the truth that had lingered in his eyes all along.

“I shouldn’t love you,” he said, voice raw. “Every moment I’m here is borrowed, stolen from an angel who won’t let me go. But when I’m with you…” He turned, meeting your gaze, his hand trembling as it cupped your cheek. “I feel like myself again. Like I’m not just a shadow in someone else’s story.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but you leaned into his touch. “Then let’s make these moments ours. No matter how fleeting.”

Jimmy’s smile was sad, but it was real. He kissed you then—gentle, reverent, like a prayer whispered in the dark. And though you knew the world would take him from you again, for that heartbeat of time, he was yours.

Not Castiel. Not a vessel.

Just Jimmy Novak—the man beneath the grace.

[mnemosynetheone]

Devotion, Dirty at the Edges

Pairing: Farleigh Start x Madonna-Whore!Reader

Warnings: Internal obsession, toxic romantic idealization, psychological manipulation, intense emotional conflict, dark themes, sexual tension (non-explicit)

Oxford was all golden mornings and old stone secrets. A place for well-bred futures and carefully restrained sins.

Farleigh Start never restrained anything for long.

He lived in the margins of privilege—untouchable, unbothered, and utterly bored. Until he met you.

You were polite to a fault. Fresh-faced. First year. All sweaters and long skirts, books clutched to your chest like a shield. You apologized when people bumped you. You cried at poetry readings. You quoted Rumi without irony.

Farleigh wasn’t supposed to notice girls like you. Girls who looked like they prayed at night. Girls who still thought love was something that saved.

But you noticed him.

And that was the beginning of the rot.

You smiled at him after lecture once—soft, sweet, shy. Like he was the sun, not the flame. Like you didn’t know what boys like him did with girls like you.

“You write the most beautiful things,” you said quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “They always sound like they’re about to break.”

He stared. No one had ever said that. Not the girls who clawed at him in dark stairwells. Not the ones who liked how cruel he could be when he was bored enough.

You didn’t want to tame him.

You wanted to understand him.

That was the first crack.

He began testing you.

“Do you think everyone’s capable of terrible things?” he asked one night, lounging across a velvet chaise at some party you didn’t belong at.

You hesitated, twisting your necklace between your fingers. “I think most people are just afraid to admit it.”

He tilted his head. You weren’t afraid of darkness. You just hadn’t walked in it yet.

“You’re fascinating,” he murmured, circling you like prey he didn’t want to devour—yet.

You blushed. “I’m not.”

“No,” he said. “You’re worse. You’re pure.”

That was the second crack.

You started spending more time around him. At first, always in daylight. Always public.

But you were drawn to the decay of his world. You didn’t belong in his flat with its ashtray stench and records that sounded like sin, but you came anyway. Sat on the edge of his bed with your hands folded in your lap like a sacrificial lamb.

“I don’t belong here,” you whispered once.

“Exactly,” he said, lighting a cigarette and exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “That’s why I want you here.”

You tried to keep yourself clean.

Tried to keep your kisses light and your hands still.

But Farleigh made you feel like everything good in you was begging to be wrecked.

“You know what your problem is?” he said one night, looming over you, fingertips just brushing your waist.

You shook your head, breath caught in your throat.

“You want to be worshipped,” he said softly. “But you also want to be ruined.”

You looked at him like he was prophecy. Like he’d spoken something forbidden out loud.

And maybe he had.

Because that night, when he kissed you—finally—it wasn’t soft. It was possession. Salt and smoke and something you weren’t ready for but took anyway.

“You’re not like the others,” he said against your throat.

You clutched his shirt like a prayer. “I don’t want to be.”

You meant it.

God help you, you meant it.

Later, Farleigh watched you sleep in his bed, curled like a question mark. Still in your cardigan. Still untouched in all the wrong ways.

You didn’t know what you’d done to him. You didn’t know that he looked at you and saw something holy—and wanted to desecrate it, just enough so no one else could touch it without tasting him first.

He lit another cigarette and smiled at the ceiling.

He didn’t deserve you.

But he would keep you.

And when the last bit of innocence finally burned out in your eyes—when you looked in the mirror and saw his fingerprints on your soul—he knew he wouldn’t need anything else.

Not poems.

Not parties.

Just you.

Bent. Beautiful.

And finally, his.

[mnemosynetheone]

Family business

Pairing: Dean & Sam Winchester x Younger Sibling!Reader

Warnings: Mild injury, supernatural danger, family fluff, protective brothers

Hunts with your brothers were always a mix of chaos and comfort. On one hand, you had Dean constantly reminding you to check your salt rounds, and Sam running research like a living encyclopedia. On the other hand, you knew—no matter how scary things got—you were never really alone.

Tonight’s hunt was no exception. The three of you had chased a ghost into an abandoned farmhouse on the edge of a sleepy Kansas town. Rain dripped through holes in the roof, the air cold and heavy with dust.

“Y/N, stay behind me,” Dean whispered, flashlight cutting across the room. “If this thing pops up, I don’t want you in the front line.”

“Dean,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. “I’m not helpless.”

“You’re our little sibling,” he said with that familiar gruffness. “Being annoying and overprotective comes with the title.”

“Dean,” Sam warned, his tall frame moving toward the creaking staircase. “Let them breathe. They’ve trained for this.”

You smirked at Sam, grateful for the backup, but before you could reply, the temperature dropped. Your breath came out in a white puff.

“It’s here,” you whispered.

The spirit materialized at the top of the stairs, its face twisted and hollow-eyed. Instinct kicked in—you raised your salt-loaded shotgun and fired. The blast echoed, and the spirit screeched, dissolving in a swirl of light.

Dean was at your side in an instant, grabbing your shoulders. “You okay? Not hurt?”

“I’m fine!” You couldn’t help the proud grin that slipped onto your face. “I got it.”

Dean’s lips twitched, clearly fighting a smile, while Sam gave you that quiet, approving nod.

Back at the Impala later, with the hunt behind you, the three of you sat in comfortable silence, the hum of the engine filling the night. Dean reached back to ruffle your hair, earning an indignant yelp.

“You did good tonight, kid,” he said softly.

Sam glanced at you through the rearview mirror, his voice gentler. “You’re one of us. Always have been, always will be.”

And sitting between your brothers, safe and warm, you knew it was true: monsters might come and go, but family—your family—was forever.

[mnemosynetheone]

Something so soft

Pairing: Dexter Morgan x Innocent!Reader

Warnings: Psychological manipulation, corruption kink (non-violent, consensual but power-imbalanced), suggestive content, emotional tension, internal darkness themes.

Rating: Mature (no explicit scenes; heavily implied)

You shouldn’t be here.

That’s what Dexter tells himself every time you walk into the lab. Bright eyes, soft smile, a floral notebook tucked against your chest like you’re still in high school. You’re new. Sweet. Unscarred. And that makes you dangerous—to him.

He knows people like you don’t belong in his world.

So why does he want you to?

“Hi, Dexter,” you say, your voice light and hopeful. “Can you help me with this blood pattern?”

You don’t even flinch when you say it. You lean closer, breathing softly beside him. You smell like vanilla lotion and spring air. And he smells like bleach and something much darker.

He shouldn’t want this.

But he does.

“You trust me,” he says one evening, the question not really a question.

You nod without hesitation. “Of course.”

He stares at you, his gloved fingers tapping against the steel table behind you. “You shouldn’t.”

You laugh, softly. “I think you’re just shy, Dexter.”

Shy.

He almost smiles. That’s what you think this is. He wonders what you’d do if you saw the real him—beneath the lab coat, beneath the practiced smile. The monster in the corner of his mind.

But you only see the quiet man who holds doors open and says thank you when no one else does.

He steps closer. “You really think I’m harmless?”

You look up at him with those wide eyes, lips slightly parted. “I think… you’d never hurt someone who didn’t deserve it.”

That makes him pause.

Because you’re right. But how do you know that?

And why does the thought of corrupting something so pure make the monster in him stir?

He doesn’t kiss you like a normal man.

He kisses you like a choice.

A decision to stop pretending. To let a little bit of the darkness out.

His hand slides up your neck, thumb gently tilting your chin as his lips brush yours. Your gasp is soft. Your innocence, intoxicating. And when you whisper his name like it’s safe in your mouth, he knows he’s too far gone.

“Dexter,” you breathe, “I’ve never—”

“I know,” he whispers back, brushing your hair from your face, his touch careful. Reverent. Like you’re glass.

Because you are.

And he’s not.

But tonight, you let him press you against the lab table. Let him murmur instructions in your ear. Let him take control while you surrender everything—your curiosity, your sweetness, your innocence—like a gift.

Like you trust him not to break it.

He doesn’t deserve that. But he takes it anyway.

After, you fall asleep curled against him on his couch—barefoot, hoodie-draped, still soft, still smiling.

He watches you for a long time, the need in him quieted for now.

He didn’t spill blood tonight.

Only took something just as red.

Just as dangerous.

[mnemosynetheone]

Sugar on the Edge of a Knife

Pairing: Dexter Morgan x Innocent!Reader

Warnings: Internal monologue about murder and obsession (Dexter-style), themes of manipulation and psychological dominance, corruption kink (non-explicit), suggestive tension

Miami always shimmered like a mirage—bright, beautiful, and burning. But under that sunshine? Darkness. The kind Dexter Morgan knew intimately.

He had lived in shadows long enough to stop pretending the light could touch him. Until he met you.

You were an intern in the lab, fresh from college with soft cardigans and an apologetic laugh. You greeted everyone by name. You stayed late to organize samples that weren’t yours. You said things like, “You catch more flies with honey,” and “Everyone has good in them somewhere.”

Dexter wasn’t supposed to notice people like you.

But you noticed him.

You asked questions no one else did. You lingered after hours, tracing blood patterns on glass with your fingertip like they were constellations.

“It’s kind of beautiful,” you’d said, looking at a spray of arterial mist. “Like… messy truth.”

He shouldn’t have felt it then. That low tug in his chest. The wrong kind of hunger. Not for blood.

For you.

For the way your innocence made him ache.

He began testing you—dropping hints, saying things that should’ve scared you.

“Sometimes I think people only behave because they’re afraid of consequences,” he mused one night.

You tilted your head, a thoughtful frown on your face. “I think some people are just… broken. But even broken things can be held carefully.”

You looked at him when you said it. Like you knew.

That was the second crack.

Dexter didn’t need to stalk you the way he stalked others. You came to him.

You’d sit beside him in the quiet of the lab, swinging your legs off the high stool like a schoolgirl, sipping your too-sweet coffee with cinnamon on top. You smelled like strawberries and fabric softener. You didn’t belong anywhere near him.

And yet you asked, “Do you ever wonder what it would be like to let go? To do something bad… just once?”

The slide in his hand slipped a fraction. He looked at you.

You blushed, quickly adding, “Not murder. Just… something selfish.”

Something stirred in him—slow and dark.

“What would you do?” he asked, voice low.

You hesitated, then smiled nervously. “I don’t know. Maybe kiss someone I shouldn’t.”

There it was.

You were innocent, but curious. Afraid, but drawn to the edge. And Dexter? He lived on that edge.

He leaned closer. “That sounds dangerous.”

You didn’t pull away. “Maybe I want dangerous. Just once.”

That was the third crack.

And this time, it didn’t just split—it shattered.

He kissed you in the evidence room. Quiet. Controlled. But possessive.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t stop him. You let him tilt your chin, press you against the cool metal cabinet, steal that first, trembling taste.

You tasted like sugar and heat and something unspeakably pure.

“I’m not who you think I am,” he murmured against your neck.

You shivered. “I don’t care.”

You meant it.

God help you, you meant it.

Later, alone in his apartment, Dexter washed his hands in the sink and stared into the mirror.

You didn’t know what you’d awakened. The hunger. The desire to pull you down into the dark—not to hurt you, but to stain you. Ruin you just enough so no one else would understand you but him.

He dried his hands slowly.

He didn’t deserve someone like you.

But he would have you.

Carefully. Slowly. One touch at a time.

And when the light in your eyes finally flickered—when your sweetness bent into something darker, just for him—he knew it wouldn’t be blood that satisfied him.

It would be you

[mnemosynetheone]

soft hands in a dark world

Pairing: Dexter Morgan x Innocent!Reader Warnings: Mentions of violence, internal monologue about murder (Dexter-style), but no graphic content

Miami’s air always smelled like salt and heat. Underneath, there was something else—something coppery, something rotten. Most people couldn’t smell it, or maybe they just didn’t want to. But Dexter Morgan? He lived in it.

Blood spatter analyst by day. Serial killer by night.

He had lived in the dark so long that light made him flinch. Until he met you.

You worked at Miami Metro, in Victim Support Services. New. Fresh-faced. The kind of person who apologized for bumping into a desk. Who brought muffins to the morning meetings. Who cried for strangers and meant it.

He wasn’t supposed to notice people like you. He wasn’t supposed to care.

And yet…

You had a habit of lingering in the lab, curious about the science of it all. Dexter had first brushed you off with the mechanical charm he reserved for people who didn’t matter.

“Blood is… honest,” he had said, lifting a crimson-stained slide up to the light. “It never lies.”

Your eyes had widened, not in fear, but in a kind of sad wonder. “That’s beautiful in a way. Terrible, but… beautiful.”

That was the first crack.

Now he watched you—always careful, always calculating. But lately, he wasn’t watching you the way he watched his next victim. He was watching the way your face lit up when you spoke, the way your fingers danced nervously when you talked too fast. The softness of your voice. The quiet strength in your kindness.

He didn’t know how to process it.

You had no idea what he was. Couldn’t possibly. And yet, sometimes you looked at him like you saw something. Like you sensed it. And still you smiled.

That terrified him more than anything.

One evening, after everyone had gone, you found him in the lab. The lights were low. The hum of the air conditioner was the only sound.

“You’re always here late,” you said, stepping into the room like it didn’t hold monsters.

Dexter turned, his mask slipping on. “You too.”

You offered him a shy smile, holding out a paper cup. “I brought you chamomile. You look like someone who doesn’t sleep much.”

He took the cup, your fingers brushing. His skin prickled.

Chamomile. Harmless. Soothing.

You sat beside him on the stool, close but not too close. “Can I ask you something weird?”

“Only if I can pretend I’m normal while answering it.”

You laughed. Soft. Musical. “Do you ever feel like there’s too much sadness in the world to fix?”

Dexter stared at you, searching for the lie, the angle. There was none.

“Yes,” he said, before he could stop himself.

You looked at him, and he felt it again—that unbearable warmth. “But I think people like you help fix it, in your own way.”

If you only knew.

Something twisted in his chest. Harry’s Code whispered don’t get close, but you had slipped past his defenses with sugar and tea and honest eyes.

He didn’t deserve your light.

But that didn’t stop him from wanting it.

“Can I walk you to your car?” he asked, the words foreign on his tongue.

Your eyes brightened. “Sure.”

As you walked into the night, Dexter stayed a step behind, watching the world around you with predator’s eyes—not to hunt, but to protect.

Because if anything ever tried to hurt you, he knew exactly what he’d do.

And it scared him how much he’d enjoy it.