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marcyvamp1re-blog · 9 months ago

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SILLY LITTLE BAT

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Platonic! Batfamily x Anti-Hero! Fem!reader.

sinopsis ⸺ In the shadowed halls of Wayne Manor, a girl lost among the darkness seeks the connection she never had. Her mother, a kleptomaniac with a broken heart, vanished, leaving only echoes of empty promises. Surrounded by a family that never sees her, her pain turns into a deafening silence. The void left by her past traps her in a limbo of solitude and sorrow.

One dark night, seeking her own way, she became what she once despised. Now, like the albino bat rejected by its own flock, she flies alone in the twilight. Her pale skin glows in the dark, but her heart still yearns for the warmth of a home she never came to know.

warnings ⸺ Dark Themes, Dead, murdering,Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Discrimination, Violence, Blood, LGBT Content, Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Implicit Sexual Content, Mental Illness, Addiction, Suicide, Torture, Corruption, Isolation, Trauma, Phobias, Paranoia, Manipulation

Chapter Guide! Pt 2. Pt 3. Pt4

A/N — English is not my first language—Spanish is—so there might be some grammar or spelling mistakes here and there. This is the first part of a story I’m writing for a friend (Isabel, I love you, you brat), and also an experiment to see what it’s like to write on Tumblr. Please support me! :"((

Nobody is coming to save you

Get up.

Your mother was not a good woman, and that was an undeniable fact, heavy as the shadow that covers Gotham City at nightfall. She was a creature of the underworld, one among the specters that wandered under the yoke of crime, walking among dangerous names like Selina Kyle or Harleen Quinzel, yet always remaining in the background, never reaching their fame or infamy.

She was nothing more than a kleptomaniac and a mythomaniac, doomed to live by cunning and deceit. She took advantage of the men who crossed her path, from the lowest criminals, like The Penguin, to the most powerful man in the city: Bruce Wayne.

You never called him Dad. To you, he was always Bruce, and on the rare occasions you addressed him, you did so with distant formality, "Mr. Wayne." Richard, your adoptive brother, found in him a father figure, while to you, he was just another shadow in the mansion, that huge, cold house you arrived at after your mother’s death.

You remember how, time and again, you tried to warn your mother to stop stealing, to stop lying, that those dark paths would inevitably lead her to Arkham Asylum, surrounded by all the lunatics you feared so much, or even worse: to death. But she always responded with a playful smile, stroking your head with her delicate hands, adorned with stolen jewelry and crude tattoos. "Those are just fantasies of an eight-year-old girl," she would say sweetly, while her ring-laden fingers assured you that you needn’t worry, "I will always come back for you," she promised, "because you are the only thing more valuable than any diamond I’ve ever held."

But the cruel truth was that was the last time you saw her. That night she left, and she never returned. It was then that the last vestiges of innocence faded with her absence. From that moment on, you ceased to be a child.

And that was one of the few things you understood with absolute clarity. There were no more empty promises, no more caresses tinged with lies. All that remained was the silence of a life fading away, like a stolen jewel that never returns to its rightful owner.

The only thing you knew after calling the police when your mother didn’t show up after two days was that they found her corpse in a back alley far from Gotham, showing signs of having been beaten and bruised by some underground gang.

Commissioner Gordon searched the entire house for illicit substances and signs of debts to mobsters, but he only ended up finding documents, stolen jewelry, and letters from your mother that were never sent, and most importantly, DNA evidence implicating that the city’s millionaire was your biological father.

From then on, your life was stained with eternal gray, that muted shade that erased all traces of light or shadow. There was no more white or black, only a silent fog that, day by day, enveloped you and dragged you into a madness that seemed inevitable. Gotham itself seemed more alive than the place you called home, although "home" was never the right word.

You didn’t love any of the Wayne family members. Bruce, your biological father, never listened to you. To him, you were always just another shadow, a ghost in the vast mansion that he prioritized over his other children, his "true" heirs. There was always something more important, something more urgent, and your presence faded among the cold walls and the echo of his hurried footsteps. With each passing day, you became more invisible to him, as if your very existence were a mistake he preferred to ignore.

Richard, the perfect brother, was kind on some occasions. He spoke to you courteously, but when you needed him, when you asked him to attend one of your performances, there was always an excuse, something that kept him away, as if your passion and accomplishments were insignificant details in his heroic life.

Jason, on the other hand, despised you from the start. He saw you as an intruder, a child of gold—but not of that pure and valuable gold, but of a dirty and false one, which he always mocked with disdain. And although you never cared for him, when he died, silent tears rolled down your face. It wasn’t out of love, but out of respect for what he represented, for the brutal reality of his fall.

Tim, in contrast, was the most indifferent. To him, you were a nobody, so irrelevant that you weren’t even worth a glance. Spending time with his friends or being the Robin of the moment mattered more than you did. You lived on his periphery, in a limbo where neither your name nor your face seemed to exist.

Cassandra, Stephanie, Barbara… at least they treated you with politeness, but you knew they didn’t really remember who you were. They saw you, smiled at you out of obligation, but deep down you knew they had no idea of your name, your story, your struggle to be more than a shadow in that world.

The worst of all was Damian, your younger half-brother. When he arrived at the mansion, Alfred introduced him to you with that serene formality he always had, and you, driven by an almost desperate impulse, tried to reach out to him. You wanted to offer him the support and affection of an older sister, that warmth you would have longed for in his situation. But all you received in return was a cold response: a katana piercing your abdomen. I wish I could say it was just a metaphor, but no, that wound was as real as the blade that cut your skin.

You would have liked to think that the pain was symbolic, that Damian had only rejected your affection with harsh words or his usual arrogance. But no, it was much more than that. The only thing you received in exchange for your attempt at fraternal love was a stab, a scar you still carry not only on your body but also in your soul. Because in that brutal gesture, you understood that the blood that united you also separated you, sharper than any weapon. And that was how you tried to connect.

You strived to stand out, to learn, to shine in your own ambitions, wishing that your success would be enough to earn you a place, a bit of affection. But no matter how hard you tried, it was never enough. Your talent crashed against indifference, your achievements faded into the air, as if they had no weight in the lives of others.

The only light, the only beacon in that storm of gray, was Alfred. The only one who smiled at you with genuine tenderness, the only one you truly loved. To you, he was the real father, the one who was always there, expecting nothing in return, offering you a silent but firm love. You did call him father, and his presence was the only thing that kept your sanity, the only thing preventing the gray from consuming you completely.

But even that love, so genuine and deep, was not enough to fill the void that your own family left you. And in that void, you continue to float, trapped between the girl you were and the woman you are trying to be, searching for a place you can truly call home.

Y/n's small room, though modest, had always been her refuge. The walls were adorned with unfinished sketches, trophies from various activities, and some paintings she had completed with dedication, showcasing her passion for both manual and performing arts.

The dawn light filtered softly through the curtains, bathing the space in golden tones, giving it a warmth that contrasted with the coldness of the rest of Wayne Manor.

On the desk, a small cake rested on a plate, simple yet made with love. Beside it, Alfred, with his usual understated elegance, watched Y/n with a mixture of nostalgia and concern. He, the only one who seemed to remember her birthday, offered her a delicate professional drawing set, wrapped in smooth, elegant paper.

"Happy birthday, Miss," Alfred said with a gentle smile, although his eyes reflected a sadness that was hard to conceal. "I know how much you love art, so I thought this would be helpful for your new projects."

Y/n took the gift in her hands with a genuine smile. It had been so hard for her to find moments of joy lately, but Alfred's gesture filled her with a warmth in her chest that she hadn't experienced in a long time. She placed the gift into one of the many brown boxes she had prepared for her upcoming move.

"Thank you, Alfred. It's perfect," she said, examining the set carefully, as if each detail were a reminder of the affection he held for her. "It will help me a lot... although, well," she sighed, as if searching for the right words. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that." Alfred raised an eyebrow, attentive, as she continued, glancing at the small space that had been her home within the vast mansion.

"Today... today is not just my birthday. It's the day I leave here." Her voice was firm, yet there was a sense of liberation in it, as if this were a long-awaited step. "I am finally no longer a Wayne. I go back to being a L/n."

Silence filled the room for a moment, heavy and dense. Alfred clasped his hands, striving to maintain his composure.

"Miss, I can't help but feel a certain unease hearing this. Are you sure this is what you want? This house, though empty in many ways, has always been your home..."

"Home?" Y/n looked at him with a mix of sadness and determination. "This house has never been my home, Alfred. Not like it was for Dick, nor even for Bruce. I have always been a stranger here, the daughter of a woman who never fit into this world, the bastard child. My mother taught me to find my own path, to not cling to what doesn’t belong to me... and being here, being called Wayne, has never belonged to me." Alfred sighed softly, turning his gaze toward the window. He knew there was truth in her words, but that didn’t lessen the pain of her leaving. "I know it’s hard to understand," Y/n continued, "but for the first time in a long time, I feel happy, Alfred. I’ve graduated, college is just around the corner, and I want to start anew. I want to find what truly makes me, me... not what others expect of me."

The old butler remained silent for a few moments, nodding slowly. He knew he couldn't retain her, that it was not his place to interfere in the young woman's dreams. But still, he couldn’t help but feel a pang in his heart at the thought of the house being even emptier without her. "I just wish you find what you’re looking for, Miss. And if you ever need a place to return to... this door will always be open for you."

Y/n stepped closer to him, gently hugging him, something she had rarely done. "Thank you, Alfred," she whispered against his shoulder. "You will always be my family, but I need this. I need to discover who I am outside of this last name."

The old butler felt the lump in his throat as he tightened the embrace a little longer before letting her go. He knew that deep down, she was doing the right thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less to see her leave.

"Alfred, can you call the movers? I’ll be leaving tonight," Y/n said as she closed the last box with trembling hands, her gaze lost in the empty corners of the room she once considered her refuge. The butler, ever serene, nodded with his unwavering calmness.

"Don't worry, Miss, I assure you they will be here on time." His voice was soft, almost an echo of the ancient walls of the mansion, as if he himself were part of that structure that had seen so many comings and goings, so many lives broken and healed in silence.

Alfred turned halfway to leave, but Y/n's voice stopped him, broken yet sweet, like a melody at sunset. "Alfred..."

The man turned slowly, his eyes filled with paternal warmth, though always contained behind a formal gesture. "Yes, Miss?" he replied, with that tranquility that had always brought Y/n peace in her worst moments.

She took a breath, feeling how the words she had kept for so long fought to come out, to break the shell she had built since childhood. "I’ve never told you, but... thank you. Thank you for being the father I never had, for being there when no one else was."

For a moment, the silence in the room was heavier than all the accumulated boxes, deeper than any word. Alfred, who had been a witness to so many confessions and secrets in that house, stood still, his eyes shining with an emotion he rarely showed. "Miss," he murmured, his voice slightly choked, "it was an honor and a privilege to take care of you. If I ever gave you anything close to what you deserved, then my life has had true purpose."

Y/n smiled sadly, nodding slowly. "You did, Alfred. You did. And for that, I will always carry you with me, even if I leave here."

The butler slightly bowed his head in respect, swallowing any emotion that might betray his composure. "Wherever you go, you will always have a home here, Miss."

"I know," she said, though in her heart, she knew she wouldn’t return.

And as Alfred left the room to make the call, Y/n let out a long sigh, as if with it, she were leaving behind a part of herself, a part she could no longer carry with her.

Life in Gotham is like constantly walking on the edge of a razor blade. The city never sleeps, always alert, always dangerous, and for someone with the Wayne surname, the risks multiply. It has been a year since you left the mansion, trying to erase any ties that bound you to that life, desperately wishing the name would fade into the echo of the dirty streets and crumbling buildings. But it's not that easy. The name Wayne remains an indelible mark that the media and the people of Gotham refuse to let fade. The forgotten child, the silent accident of billionaire Bruce Wayne. And although you try to live as if you don’t exist under that shadow, the weight of the legacy haunts you.

You left with little, barely enough money to rent a small apartment in one of the worst corners of the city. You share the space with a friend, a plant-loving girl who has filled every nook of the place with leaves and pots, as if trying to make green defy the constant darkness of Gotham. You get along well with her; her love for nature is almost an antithesis to the chaos of the city, and she has taught you that even in the hardest concrete, something can bloom. She always accompanied you on the coldest, loneliest nights, giving you a warmth that, although ethereal, was very welcome. But still, life is not easy. You barely survive, spending the little you have on cheap food and paying the rent. There are days when the cold seeps through the poorly sealed windows, and you wonder if it was really better to be in the mansion instead of this little trench. However, you prefer this rough freedom to the soulless luxury of Wayne Manor.

Freedom, however, comes at a price. It wasn't enough to distance yourself, to change your life, or even to always carry a knife for defense. Gotham does not forget. People recognize you in the shadows, whisper your name, and approach you, sometimes with curiosity and other times with disdain. You have been beaten more than once. Some just for being a Wayne, others because they think they can extort you, even though they have no idea you can barely get by. The scars on your body bear witness to those beatings, but you refuse to give up. You get up every morning, despite the pain, and continue on your way. You don’t need Batman. You don’t need Bruce. You learned long ago that he wouldn't come to save you.

That night, like so many others, you were heading to the subway for your night shift, with the hood of your coat covering your face, trying to go unnoticed. The sound of the tracks echoed in your ears, a constant reminder of the city's hustle. You had gotten used to walking fast, avoiding eye contact, as if each step was a small battle won against the city. But this time, something was different.

"So it was true, the little Wayne girl is roaming the city... how lovely." The raspy, mocking voice rang out beside you, cutting through the heavy air of the train station. The man speaking wore a suit that, at first glance, seemed elegant, but there was something about his extreme thinness, his skin clinging to his bones and his disheveled hair, that made him look more like a specter of Gotham than a distinguished figure. A ghost from the shadows that had stalked you since you set foot on the streets.

If it weren't for his gaunt appearance and unsettling aura, you might have mistaken him for one of your father's employees. "I'm not a Wayne anymore," you said disdainfully, your voice sharp like the edge of a dagger refusing to be touched. "If you want money, I don’t have any. And Mr. Wayne wouldn’t give a cent for me either."

Your gaze drifted to the station clock. 8 minutes until the train that would take you away from this corner of Gotham, far from the shadows and faces that always seemed to recognize you.

The man let out a dry, raspy laugh that sent chills down your spine. "I don’t want your money, pretty girl," he replied, moving closer, invading your space with the same familiarity that Gotham’s filth slipped into every corner. "You’re worth more than that." You felt his calloused, scarred hand rest on your hip, with a pressure that was neither violent nor friendly. The contact filled you with disgust.

7 minutes.

You clenched your fist, your jaw tight as you struggled to maintain your composure. "I don’t want sex either, idiot," you spat, your words loaded with contained fury. Your hand subtly slid toward your bag, where your knife lay, waiting to be used.

6 minutes.

The man didn’t flinch. In fact, he let out a low, mocking laugh. "And I don’t want that either, little girl," he murmured, his cold, deep blue eyes scrutinizing you as if they could read every dark corner of your soul. "I want something more from you."

5 minutes.

"What do you want then?" you asked, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady, even as the ice of fear began to creep down your spine. Your eyes scrutinized him, searching his gaze for any hint of his true intentions, but all you saw was darkness.

4 minutes.

He let out a long, chilling laugh, tightening his grip on your hip. "Do you know what I want, Y/n?"

3 minutes.

His voice dropped, as if his words were a cursed secret the wind refused to carry away. "I want you."

2 minutes.

The world seemed to stop. You knew there was no time to run. There was no time to pull out the knife or to scream. It was as if the clock itself had conspired against you, reducing those last minutes to mere seconds.

1 minute.

The blow was sharp, a flash of excruciating pain at the back of your head. The cold metal of the station, the hum of the city, everything faded abruptly. The last thought that crossed your mind, before the world vanished into darkness, was that this time, you didn’t expect Batman to save you. It wasn’t a mere thief or a street threat that was taking you.

Gotham, with all its cruelty, always had new ways to remind you that there is no escape.

That night, when the Gotham subway stopped at the station, there was no one to pick up.

The mansion felt emptier than ever, like a deserted and cold labyrinth, where each hallway seemed to stretch into an infinite tunnel, devouring the light.

The silence was overwhelming, an oppression that enveloped every corner, as if even the ancient walls had run out of words. It was so heavy that the few who remained in the mansion couldn’t help but move uncomfortably, trying to fill that void with something, anything.

Bruce Wayne walked through those same hallways with a strange feeling, as if something was missing, though he didn’t know what. An unease, a persistent discomfort that he couldn’t shake off.

He had been like this for months, with that absence haunting his mind, a gap he couldn't identify. And then, suddenly, like a gust of icy wind, the truth struck him.

You.

His daughter.

His little daughter.

How long had it been since he last saw you? When was the last time he heard your laughter, the one that always seemed too sarcastic, too filled with resentment? He stopped abruptly, frowning. Why couldn’t he remember you? He couldn’t bring to mind a clear image of your face, not even how you used to look at him... why? How could he have forgotten you like that?

Damn.

It was as if time had stopped. It had been a year, maybe more, since he had really thought about you. He felt a pang of guilt pierce his chest, a heavy, silent guilt that dragged him into the abyss of his own negligence. Not knowing what else to do, he began to check the rooms, one after another.

Each door he opened was another blow to his conscience. Where was your room? The more he searched, the more confused he felt. The mansion was enormous, but how could he have forgotten where you slept? How was it possible that he didn’t know where you lived in the house where both of you grew up? Had you been here all this time?

Each door he opened was identical to the last, as if all the rooms had fused into one.

None showed a trace of you.

None seemed to have a hint of your presence. Didn’t you decorate your room? He thought frantically, didn’t you even mark it as yours? Panic began to take hold of him. Anxiety wrapped around him like a fist tightening on his chest. Were you still living in the mansion? Or had you left without saying a word, like a shadow fading at dawn? But... no, you hadn’t mentioned anything. You hadn’t said you were leaving. Or had you? And if you had, why didn’t he remember? How could he have ignored you for so long that now he didn’t even know if you were still under the same roof?

“Ah!” he exclaimed in a whisper, unable to contain the dread he felt.

Frustration consumed him from within. He stopped in the middle of the hallway, breathing heavily, and the echo of his voice faded into the empty walls. He tried to remember something, anything about you, about the last time they spoke, about how you were... but everything was blurry, as if his mind was betraying him, hiding you behind an impenetrable fog.

How could he have forgotten so much?

He brought his hands to his head, trying to calm himself, but only felt more confusion, more desperation. The mansion, which had once been his home, now felt like a strange and foreign place.

Had you been the one who made it feel like home? The question echoed in his mind, but he had no answer. Just more questions. More uncertainties. Finally, he let his arms fall, exhausted. He had checked almost all the rooms and had found not a trace of you. Not a clue. Not a sign that you had been there. And at that moment, something dark and painful began to settle in his heart.

Had you ever really been there?

Then something caught his attention as he passed by the cleaning room. In a dusty corner, next to a forgotten bag, something was protruding. Something small, old, and faded. He bent down and pulled it from the dirty clothes. It was a stuffed animal, or what was left of one. The faded black of its suit left no doubt. It was a figure of Batman, but worn down by time, battered to the point of looking forgotten.

Bruce's eyes were fixed on the small piece of fabric hanging from the doll's neck. A tag.

Your name.

Your name, handwritten, in ink that was already fading.

Bruce felt a lump in his throat, a mix of guilt and rage. How could he have forgotten something so important?

He clutched the doll tightly, as if doing so would return a piece of you to him, but instead of comfort, he only felt more emptiness. Where were you? He ran to Alfred, who looked at him with a mix of concern and pity.

"Alfred..." Bruce said, his voice breaking. "Where is she? Where is my daughter?"

The butler, with his always serene face, seemed to age suddenly. A long silence settled between them, as if time was fading away. "Mr. Bruce, I didn’t mean to..." Alfred lowered his gaze. "I didn’t want to burden you with that truth, but... it’s time you know."

Bruce felt a chill run down his spine. Truth? What truth?

"She left almost a year ago. She didn’t say where. She just... she took all her belongings, though they weren’t many, and left. She said she didn’t want to be a burden. That you and the other family members had too many things to worry about."

Bruce took a step back, as if the words had physically struck him. Did she have enough age to leave? A burden? Never, not for a second, did he think that of you, of his little daughter who, even though she wasn’t wanted, he embraced under his wing just like Damian.

You were never a burden.

...or were you?

No, he refused to acknowledge it; he just... he hadn’t spent time with you because Gotham needed him!

But when you needed him, where was Batman?

Where was Bruce Wayne when his only biological daughter needed him?

"Alfred, do you know anything about Y/n?" the hero asked, worry clear on his face.

Alfred didn’t look at him; he only stared into nothingness. "...I haven’t heard anything about her for two months...

And honestly... I'm starting to think...

that she might be lost to us forever..."

A/N — This is definitely apart from being my first official Tumblr post, it is also my first DC post and especially the first from the Lord of the Night xD

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

Isabel, I dedicate this to you, my love. Eat more to be well, you fucking anorexic, don't suck.

take a bath!

inspiration: @acid-ixx with his Again & Again series, @gotham-daydreams' work, @i-cant-sing's work and @klemen-tine's work, be sure to check them out!

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satorucci · 2 months ago

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drug dealer! gojo

♡ cw: dubcon, drug use, manipulation, breeding, rough sex, dacryphilia, dumbification, corruption, gojo is a shady drug dealer with really good shit and just can't stand the idea of not having reader :(

♡ currently listening to: one of the girls - the weeknd

♡ author’s note: remember kids, this is fictional! don’t be like gojo in this fic irl!! next fic will be a request sent in! asks, submissions, and inbox are open - to see the schedule, please go to my wips page linked in my pinned navigation post! mwah <3

MDNI

♡ everyone knows gojo. among the student body of his college campus, he's a god. according to professors and admin, he's a stain on the well-funded, prestigious campus's name and reputation. for the police, he's the most annoying collegiate dealer they've ever tried to nail down. seriously, how can one kid who just turned drinking age be so slippery?

♡ "where can i get that adderall you were talking about?" "do you know anyone i can get good bud from?" "I'm going to the club on saturday! know anyone with some clean molly?" the answer is always gojo. if the answer isn't gojo, then it's geto, his right-hand man. gojo is the ruler on a campus where the use of study and party drugs is absolutely rampant. what else could get these students through their grueling hours of studying for life-path-determining tests and unpaid internship work?

♡ gojo, who, though he's known as the "big man" on campus, rarely makes appearances. it's your third year of college, and you still haven't caught a glimpse of him. granted, you don't really run in the same circles as gojo, nor do you run in the circles that would be anywhere near him. no, not you. you're a model student - a teacher's pet who tutors undergrads in both chemistry and english because you're one of the chosen ones who's good at both the sciences and the arts. you're the students that professors trust to run errands for them, to explain the content of the class when they're not in the room, the one everyone relies on to do their homework so that they can cheat off you. and you do it all without the stupid adderrall or the weed, or whatever else it might be that people take to help them cope with college and life.

♡ you, who doesn't even acknowledge your burnout when it hits. you, who stays up into the wee hours of the morning, textbooks and notebooks and pens and paper and cheatsheets and - ohmygod, sometimes you think your head might combust. but you never let anyone know. not your roommate or your friends back home who either decided that college wasn't for them or that they'd do better at a community college. as you sit at your desk, frustrated, head in hands (for what seems like the millionth time this year), for a split second you wonder what it'd be like to be like your peers. to relax more, to go out sometimes, to throw your cares in the fucking wind. you haven't even slept with anyone since your freshman year of college, and it was so underwhelming you've completely forgotten everything about the experience. the guys face, his name, even what his dick felt like. the only release you've felt the past two years has been from your right hand and the vibrator that sits on your nightstand. you let out a deep sigh. so is life. and then you're back to work.

♡ gojo, who is in his fifth (yes, fifth) and final year of college, decides that a great way to celebrate would be to orchestrate his own send-off. a party for the ages. a party that would eclipse any party to ever grace his college campus, past, present, or future. and so, he and geto get to work on concocting their plan. for a moment, they debate on a theme, sitting quietly as their last few functioning braincells struggle to come up with an idea. their eyes meet and they burst into laughter, instead. "oh please. fuck the theme. everyone'll hear it's my party and they'll show" gojo tells geto nonchalantly, to which geto huffs out a laugh and nods. "you're not wrong. you are the satoru gojo. i mean fuck, they don't even call you by your first name." gojo's face twists into one of confusion as his eyebrow quirks up. "they don't call you by your first name, either." geto stares at gojo, oblivious to the simple fact. "seriously, suguru, lay off the weed."

♡ you, who, for some reason, have actually found yourself palling around in the infamous gojo's circle. well, not for some reason. it's because your roommate, shoko, invited you to come out to a party allegedly being hosted by gojo and geto. at first, you didn't believe it - the invitation, that is. you didn't have many doubts in your head that the party was happening and that it was, in fact, being hosted by the most infamous pair on campus, but you were shocked when shoko invited you of all people. you didn't know much about your rather quiet and intimidating roommate. she was a short girl with a stoic face who didn't even care about stepping outside to chain-smoke her cigarettes. "hey, shoko... d-do you mind maybe smoking outside the dorm room? it's just, the smell settles into my bedding and clothes, and-" shoko had cut you off with a simple, "nah. m' gonna keep smoking in here." when you had brought it up not long after the two of you had been assigned as roommates and moved in together. `"too cold outside." it was in the high 80s, nearing the 90s in the middle of August when you'd asked.

♡ you, who shoko had grown somewhat fond of during her time living with you, told you factually that she had invited you to accompany her to the party because she "doesn't have any friends besides gojo and geto" and that she "couldn't show up with no one because they were probably gonna be stoned out of their minds or looking for a girl dumb enough to spend the night with them". shoko then asserted that she was neither, so she needed company while at the party. sometimes you forgot that tiny, quiet shoko formed a trio with gojo and geto. she just seemed so different from the stories you'd heard about them - so much more mature and level-headed. shoko kept to herself, preferring solitude and silence over the rowdiness of the weekends on a college campus. sometimes, she would go over to gojo and geto's apartment and smoke with them (you never asked what they were smoking), but she never stayed for too long. she always made her way back before you turned the lights out, signaling the end of your nightly study session.

♡ you, who have no idea how to dress for this party because you haven't been to a party in two years. you have no clue what the new fashion trends are, or if you even have something that might look like it fits in with the massive crowd that's sure to be at gojo and geto's send-off party. shoko plays on her phone, sucking leisurely on a lollipop as she tells you, "don' worry about a theme or anything. gojo and geto were too stupid to think of one, so just come as you are." you grimace at her words. it's easy for her to say that. she's friends with them, so of course, they won't care what attire she comes in. as for you, you have another year left at this college and don't want to be known as the girl who was severely underdressed for what was likely to be one of the biggest parties that campus had ever seen. you pace around the room, throwing clothes all over the floor, for nearly an hour before shoko sighs deeply and tosses her phone on her bed. "watch out." you move out of her way as she makes her way to your closet and picks out an outfit. "wear this. they'll like it." as you stare at the skimpy outfit - a tube top you think you might've grown out of a year ago paired with jean shorts that allow the fat of your ass to hang out of the bottom - you wonder who "they" is.

♡ shoko helps you do your hair and makeup in your dorm before setting off. she also picks out your lotion and perfume. it's honestly the closest you've ever felt to her since the two of you have been living together. "what should we do about coming back to the dorm? should i dd?" you ask shoko, and you've never seen her grimace the way she does in that moment. "jesus, fuck no. we'll probably just spend the night at their place. they know who you are, so they'll be cool with it." and suddenly your night has gotten even worse. even though it's a saturday night, you still have stuff to do on sunday, and shoko is already a late sleeper. you imagine she'll only sleep even later after drinking and smoking whatever it is she- wait. "you talk about me to them?!" shoko returns her attention to her phone. "yeah, sometimes. you're the only roommate i've had in college that i kind of like." kind of like? either way, you take the compliment, and it leaves you feeling as though you can't deny her offer to stay at their place for the night, nor light into her for telling those two misfits anything about you.

♡ you walk alongside shoko, taking small sips of the drink she keeps passing to you on the walk to gojo and geto's apartment. thankfully, it isn't a far walk. they live right on the outskirts of campus, but you still decided to wear tennis shoes to save yourself the pain of walking and partying in heels. shoko, who becomes more talkative and bubbly the more she sips on her drink, finds herself telling you more about gojo and geto. about how she's known them since middle school, about how geto is actually a gentle giant but that he gets jealous of the attention gojo gets, sometimes. about gojo, who, by all of shoko's accounts, is a major pain in her ass. she doesn't give many positive reviews of him, but she does say that the attention he gets is warranted. "he's actually really smart when he's not stupid high. and it's hard to beat a smart dude with good looks." you wonder what he looks like. you overheard a group of girls on campus once talking about gojo, about the blue of his eyes and how it was unnaturally beautiful. "hey, shoko? what does gojo look like?" you ask, shyly. shoko sighs. "you'll know when you see him."

♡ you, who finds yourself trying your best to squeeze through the ocean of bodies that is spilling out into the large parking lot of the apartment complex. the cops'll definitely be here in a few hours. the music coming from the house is so loud that it's causing the pavement of the parking lot to thrum with vibrations. how in the hell do people do this kind of shit every weekend? shoko is leading you, her hand in yours, into the crowd, which, to you, resembles the pits of hell. there have to be hundreds of people outside the house, so you don't even want to think of how packed it is on the inside. shoko pushes past the throngs of people, as tiny as she is. she moves them to the side as if she holds authority over them, and you follow with no questions asked, trying your best to keep up as the alcohol she kept giving you has definitely entered your system. you aren't drunk, at least, not yet. but you're definitely feeling something.

♡ shoko, who pushes past the crowd with ease and ignores the people yelling at her as she marches up to the closed front door of gojo and geto's house. a young man with brown hair stands guard outside the door, smiling stupidly even though people are arguing with him about getting in the house. "move, haibara. my roommate and i want in." shoko says. the man, haibara, laughs and scoots to the side. "be careful, shoko. they're getting pretty crazy in there, so if you need me, just holler, 'kay?" shoko rolls her eyes and proceeds to push past haibara to enter the house. as she does, a sea of people attempt to flood into the unit, but haibara swiftly stops them. the door is shut before you can see exactly what it is that he does to prevent their passage, but either way, you're impressed. then, you turn your attention to the inside of the house.

♡ you, who immediately wants to leave the moment you step foot in the front door. the apartment isn't small by any means. in fact, it's a townhome that looks to be about three stories. but all three stories are packed with people who look more akin to sardines. shoko, still holding your hand, turns to say something to you, but you can't hear her over the insanely loud bass and treble of the speaker. you can't even pinpoint where the speaker is. it sounds like the sound is engulfing the entire house. as shoko turns back around and continues to drag you around the house, you notice the smell. nearly everyone around you is smoking, and you're sure it's weed. some are smoking cigarettes, but the majority of the skunky smell is coming from the blunts and joints that hang off of everyone's lips. people gathered together in groups as they smoke, people smoking by themselves in the tiniest corners possible, potential hookups passing their blunts to one another. yeah, this is totally not your scene.

♡ shoko, who finally reaches her intended destination - the kitchen. you watch as she, still pushing people away, begins to rummage through the freezer, pulling out a bottle of some sort of fancy alcohol. "it's the best they got!" she nearly screams over the music. "i-is it okay to take it?" you ask. shoko leans in, motioning for you to repeat your question, but you have a feeling she heard the first time, so you motion to the bottle instead. shoko's mouth splits into a wide grin. "time for shots!"

♡ shoko, who, you had no clue, is a heavyweight. shoko, who wants to go shot-for-shot, is absolutely whooping your ass right now. after the fourth shot paired with the alcohol you drank on your way to the party, the room is starting to spin just a little bit, but you feel good. for once, there's no stress, no guilt over not being pent up in your room studying, no desire to overachieve to prove your worth - and a lot of horniness. before you can stop yourself, you're scanning the room, looking for any potential takers. you've never thought much of your looks, so you aim for someone you think would be realistic to take to bed. none of the jocks and frat guys. but you also don't want one of the burnout stoners in your bed, either. what's it really matter? dick is dick, after all. as you're scanning the room, you watch the girls who are on the kitchen tabletops, dancing with their tits completely out, and for a moment, you wish you had their confidence. they're beautiful, and it's no wonder they were granted entrance to the party along with the honor of putting on a show that's sure to gain them more than just a few admirers tonight. they rolls their hips and flick their hair as they twirl around on the tables, grabbing at their thongs and pulling them down as if they're going to reveal themselves, but they never do. it's all a tease, and they're enjoying it so much.

♡ you, who continues to drink well past your limit. you, who should've stopped about three shots ago, recognize just how hungover you're going to be in the morning, but you're so drunk you don't care at all. surprisingly, shoko sticks by your side, knocking back shots with you, playing a round of beer pong with you (which she wins for your team), attempting to gossip with you over the loud music. everything feels good right now. everything feels so good. "you look like you're having fun!" a voice shouts over the music, loud enough for you to hear clearly, loud enough for you to turn around and come face-to-face with-

♡ "gojo!!" shoko shouts before jumping in the man's arms, totally wasted. you notice how the entire crowd turns their attention to the two men who have just entered the kitchen, likely from the backdoor connected to it. the man with the long hair pulled back into a bun must be geto. you've never seen either of them, but you're starstruck seeing them for the first time. shoko wasn't at all lying about gojo being quite the looker. snow white hair and eyes bluer than the fucking sky. he towers over both you and shoko, in fact, he seems as though he might be the tallest person in the room. but he's muscular, as well. this isn't the guy you'd think was a burnout stoner. both gojo and geto look like they could be straight-A students with incredible post-college job offers, though shoko has told you they have neither. "fuck she's drunk..." geto grimaces. the man with beautifully traditional looks turns towards you. "you must be the roommate? nic to meet you." he doesn't bother shouting over the music, his words are clear and concise and it's like they cut through the soundwaves in the room. "y-you, too!" you yell back, not a bit of grace. he gives you a gentle smile, and you think you might just melt. no. absolutely not. there's no way i'm turning into one of those campus girls who squeal over these two. you turn your attention to gojo, who has wrapped his arms around shoko and is swinging her around happily, as if she were a ragdoll.

♡ you, who find yourself upstairs in a private room with gojo, geto, and shoko, who after being spun around so much by gojo, decided she needed a toilet or trashcan immediately. you can't deny, the way gojo threw shoko over his shoulder and hauled her to (what you're assuming is) his room was attractive. geto motioned for you to follow them as gojo led the path to the bedroom, the crowd's gaze stuck on the two men that were hauling ass up the stairs. as shoko throws up in gojo's bathroom, geto carves out a spot on gojo's king size bed for you to sit comfortably. gojo remains in the bathroom to help shoko throw up all the alcohol she's digested over the past two hours. "can't believe we're finally getting to meet the roommate in person." geto says to you. you shrug and nod. "shoko says you're like... a study addict or something." you watch as the man crawls onto the bed, sitting across from you at the foot of it, and leans down to pick up some kind of tray from the ground. "yeah, i guess you could say that. i definitely don't get out much." geto nods, pulling out more containers and some sort of torch and - ohmygodhesabouttostartsmoking. "you should get out more. you caught satoru's attention when he walked in. it was you he was initially talking to, not shoko. when shoko gets drunk she only wants to be around her friends, so she saw satoru and pretty much locked onto her target." his eyes widen a bit after he's finished talking. "not saying that shoko doesn't consider you a friend, too! she just hasn't seen satoru in a while." you let out a laugh to ease the tension that had settled over the room. "no, i totally get it, no worries. to be honest, i didn't even know shoko considered us friends until tonight." you watch as geto masterfully takes some grinded up weed, opens up a blunt wrap, and empties the tobacco from it. "yeah, usually she hates her roommates, but she's never said anything bad about you. clear indicator that she likes you, 'cause typically she hates everything and everyone."

♡ you, who watches as getou prepares not one, not two, but three blunts before turning to you and saying, "i rolled one for satoru, shoko, and i, but shoko has told us before that you don't smoke, so i didn't roll you one. sure you don't wanna try miss straight-A-student?" you give geto a gentle smile and shake your head. "think i'll be okay. thanks for the offer, though." only a few moments later, gojo emerges from the bathroom with shoko, her arm thrown across his shoulders as he holds her up with one arm. he's so big... you try to physically shake the thoughts from your head as gojo hoists shoko up, once again, throwing her over his shoulder. "suguru, i'm taking her to your bedroom. she can't even hold her damn head up right." geto makes a noise of annoyance and throw his head back, pretty lips pouting as he sets aside his rolling tray (as he called it) and puts one of the freshly wrapped blunts behind his ear. "you so owe me for babysitting duty." geto says as he climbs off the bed. gojo looks at him and smirks before motioning towards you. "i think we're even. i'm stuck with the kid who doesn't even smoke." you physically shy away, embarrassed at the fact that that's all gojo thinks of you as - the kid who doesn't even smoke. you're sure that it's going to be a nuisance for him, but being that shoko insisted on spending the night here, you don't really have anywhere else to turn.

♡ gojo, who joins you in his bedroom once he and geto have gotten shoko settled into geto's bed. you shift awkwardly to give way to gojo's long limbs as he climbs into the bed, reaching for the rolling tray on the floor and grabbing the blunt geto had rolled for him. you don't know much about blunts - or weed in general - but the blunt looks pretty perfect, straight out of the movies. "you don't gotta move around too much, pretty girl. it's a king size, so there's more than enough room for the both of us." gojo flashes you a pretty smile and you feel yourself recoil because of his beauty. his flashy white teeth, his messy white hair, his muscular arms that reach for a lighter. "heard you don't smoke?" you nod your head. "any reason why? or is it just because you're a study addict or something?" a study addict or something. that's exactly what geto said. they must spend a lot of time with each other. "i think i just never really had the opportunity." you can hear a slight slur in your words from the alcohol. though you know that you're probably nothing more than a nuisance for gojo in this moment, you can't help the flush that floods your cheeks. he really is that hot. "never had the opportunity, huh?" your entranced by the way gojo flicks the lighter and brings the blunt to his lips, taking a long, deep drag before looking at you and smiling, a bit of smoke escaping through his lips. "you have an opportunity now, pretty girl."

♡ you, who shakes your head vigorously. no way. absolutely not. no way. you've already drank so much, and you don't think mixing a drug you've never done with a really hot guy you don't know would be the smartest thing you could do at this very moment. gojo gives you a pout that makes it so, so hard to resist his offer. "c'mon, not even for me? it is my graduation party, after all. you don't even have to smoke the whole thing with me. a puff or two'd have you feelin' real good." you bite your lip, contemplating what you should do. the tiny bit of logic left in your brain is telling you this is a terrible idea, but the drunk part of you keeps repeating in gojo's sing-songy voice "a puff or two'd have you feelin' real good." and the way he keeps calling you pretty girl. the way he almost purrs the words out has you feeling as though, maybe, just maybe, gojo is a safe place. maybe gojo knows exactly what's right for you.

♡ you, who reaches your hand out slowly, as if asking permission to take the blunt in your hands. you keep your eyes trained on the blunt in his hand, and nowhere else. if you keep looking him directly in the eyes, you're scared you might just fade into a sea you'll never swim your way out of. gojo chuckles and gives you a "tut tut" as he wags his finger. "the hell? didn't you want me to hit it?" you can't stop the drunken words from falling out of your mouth. "'course i do, but you gotta do it right your first time. lean in close." begrudgingly, you lean in close to the man, feeling yourself wobble as you do. satoru puts the blunt between his lips, inhaling deeply, before bringing his lips to yours.

♡ you, who is wide-eyed and confused as you feel the weed smoke enter your lungs while satoru's lips are pressed firmly against yours. he even fists your hair, keeping you in place as he blows nearly every last bit into your lungs. you try your best to inhale, try your bestnot to cough up the musky smoke because you can't embarrass yourself in front of the satoru gojo. when satoru's lips part from yours, you immediately feel the haze of euphoria glossing over your entire body. your brain, already fucked from the alcohol, becomes absolute mush. and you totally do cough. a lot.

♡ satoru, who chuckles heartily at you as you cough, reaches for a drink that's sitting next to him. "wash it down with this." he hands it to you, and when you sip it, you realize it's more alcohol. your hands feel heavy, your entire body feels heavy, but at the same time, your mind feels as ease. no, your mind feels good. satoru was right, you feel amazing. you can't really think straight, the room is twisting and turning, coming in and out of view as you enjoy the feeling you're getting from the high and the alcohol. satoru can easily tell that you're fucked up. "wow, you really haven't smoked before. and the first time you do, you get cross-faded? that's the kind of girl i need in my life." it's no wonder so many girls fall for him. aside from his looks, he's charming. always calling you "pretty girl", saying you're "the kind of girl he needs in his life". you bet he's had many women fall in love with him in his short life span.

♡ you, who can't hold your tongue with all the substances coursing through your body. "you don' mean that" you slur the sentence out. satoru quirks an eyebrow up at you as he continues to hit the blunt. "n' stop callin' me "pretty girl", i bet you use that on everyone." the grin that splits satoru's face is oh so attractive. "no, i only use it on pretty girls." he responds. his voice, a bit huskier than earlier from the smoke, sounds like heaven to your ears. "i'm boringly average." you respond, and satoru makes a face of disgust. "i don't smoke with boringly average people. ever since shoko told us about you i've been wanting to see you with my own eyes, but she said you pretty much never leave that damn dorm room." before you can respond, satoru's eyes flick towards you. "wan' another hit?"

♡ you, who finds yourself taking yet another hit of this fucking blunt. not because you want to. certainly not because you need it, but because satoru wants you to. satoru... i can call him that, right? satoru, once again, "shotguns" the blunt for you, setting it down to reach up for your hair. this time, his lips, while pressed firmly against yours, move a bit, as if he’s trying to actually kiss you. you feel it as his free hand finds purchase on your bare thigh, and the thought of him possibly moving his hand just a bit higher plays in your mind. you don’t know if it’s from the alcohol or the weed, but your body feels electric. the press of satoru’s firm lips, the way his hand is now gripping your thigh, its all too much. when he pulls away from the “shotgun”, you find yourself embarrassingly leaning forward, practically begging him for more. after your second hit, the world is completely hazy. you can barely make out the contents of the room around you, the mess of blankets on the bed. the only thing that’s clear is satoru sitting in front of you, satisfied grin splitting his mouth. “look at you, pretty girl. fucked up, huh?”

♡ you, who is absolutely entranced as satoru continues to talk to you as he smokes. you can barely make out what he’s saying with all the blood rushing through your head. or maybe it’s rushing out? maybe you’ve landed on a completely different plane of existence and satoru is your only company. it feels as though the two of you are the only people in the world at this very moment. you readjust yourself on the plush mattress, leaning back on the pillows behind you. “and then suguru- oh, you feelin’ tired?” he asks you, cutting off the story he was previously telling you. to be honest, you don’t even really know what he was going on about. you shake your head. “not tired, jus’… i don’ know. jus’ feel different…” you trail off.

♡ you, who doesn’t notice the feral grin that graces satoru’s lips as he sees you drifting in and out of consciousness. you, who doesn’t know that shoko has shown satoru pictures od you, shown him your social media, and satoru has asked about you almost everyday since then. you, who doesn’t know that satoru often talks to suguru about “turning you out” because you’re just “too cute to be that innocent”. satoru, who wants to corrupt you completely. your eyes drift open for a moment, the world spinning around you as you feel the bed moving. satoru climbs into the spot next to you. sweet you, who doesn’t know that satoru loves corrupting girls like you on campus. you, who is so hot, you’re burning up. who is flushed from head to toe, not understanding why you’re on fire, why your pussy is absolutely throbbing as satoru positions himself next to you on the bed.

♡ you, who doesn’t really understand what’s going on when satoru’s hand begins to trace small circles on the flesh of your thigh. you know you like the sensation, but you don’t understand why he’s doing it. it’s not like he’s helping you smoke anymore. it’s not like you could take anymore smoking. “feel good?” he asks, and you don’t know whether he’s referring to the circles he’s drawing on your skin or the euphoric feeling you’re getting from the weed you just smoked. either way, you nod your head, unable to really form sentences. you, who doesn’t know that satoru is a scumbag who reserves his heaviest hitting, highest quality weed for perfect girls like you. girls he wants to fuck into the mattress until you can’t feel anything but his cock deep inside of you.

♡ satoru, who constantly asked shoko for updates on you because he thought you were oh-so-cute. shoko's sweet roommate who never went out and partied, never tried drugs, barely ever drank, and, satoru theorized, hadn't been laid in a loooong time. your perfect curves, your pretty face, and shiny hair - how could he not want to corrupt the very core of your being? you don't protest as satoru rubs circles into your thigh, so then, he insists on squeezing at them, kneading the fat between his fingers, feeling his cock go from half-hard to rock solid. you're so pliant, so malleable, both physically and mentally. it didn't take much at all for him to convince you to smoke with him. for a proclaimed study-addict shut-in, you sure were eager to indulge in drugs when a pretty guy asked you to. satoru wondered what else you'd be willing to go along with.

♡ you, who doesn't protest even when satoru's hands travel from your thighs to the buttons of your jeans. his hands feel so good on you. you're trying to place the landmarks in his room, an ugly poster of... something, a carpet on the floor, but all of it looks so hazy to you. the only thing you know for sure is that satoru gojo is beside you and that his hands are on you. then, the bed shifts again, and satoru is on top of you. despite being muscular, he feels lightweight. maybe it's because you're so fucked up. satoru likes the view he gets from above you - the way your mouth is slightly parted, the way your eyes are slowly traveling the room, and look as though you aren't really sure what's going on. satoru finishes unbuttoning your jeans before leaning down close to your ear, "you want more, pretty girl? wanna feel even better?" it's only then you've noticed that he's unbuttoned your jeans, leaving you with an anxious seed that has blossomed in the pit of your gut. he doesn't intend to... does he?

♡ you, who tries weakly to push satoru away, only for a moment, until you realize that you're far too fucked up to do so. satoru, who actually climbs off of you, giving you the space you're signaling that you want. little do you realize that, without him, this high is going to start feeling very uncomfortable if you can't find release. "if you don' wanna, i won't make you. rape's totally not my style." he says nonchalantly, making his way back to his side of the bed. "maybe it's time for you to head home, ya know, since you're all fucked up." and for some reason, that anxiety you'd felt earlier begins to feel overwhelming. you don't want to be sent back home. no, not by the satoru gojo. you can't be the one to disappoint him. for a moment, you think about the girls on campus, the ones who've cried because their hearts and expectations were shattered by the man in front of you. but you... you have a chance. he calls you "pretty girl", says he "needs a girl like you". you have a chance to be different from the other girls on campus - you have a chance to show satoru that you can be worth his time.

♡ you, who, with all your strength, grips satoru's hand, pulls him back towards you. "n-no... i-i wanna do it." you're voice is a whisper, hardly heard even by your own ears. satoru smirks and leans closer. "what was that pretty girl?" he asks. you bite your lip, embarrassed at having to repeat yourself to him. "i-i'll do it. wanna do it." you can feel satoru debating on whether your plea is enough for him. "please." and then it's enough. satoru is looming over you in an instant, hands on the waistband of your jeans, pulling them carefully down your legs. even the friction of the fabric against your legs as it slides down is enough to make you rub your thighs together. satoru throws your jeans across the bedroom before sliding his hands up your legs, caressing your thighs, pawing at the plush of your love handles and stomach. any other time, a man paying such close attention to your body might've made you feel self-conscious, but with satoru it was different. you could see in his eyes just how much he was enjoying this- enjoying you. "you done this before, pretty?" he asks you, fingering the hem of your tube top. you nod shyly. "...only twice. with one person." and satoru thinks he could cum just from hearing that. almost as priceless as a virgin. and from what shoko had told him, he figured that it was your freshman year of college since the last time you'd done anything besides play with that vibrator shoko says you keep on your nightstand constantly.

♡ satoru, who lifts the tube top from you, carefully removing it from your body, as he tries to get your limbs to comply with his movements. "no bra? naughty girl." he whispers to you. you're laid bare for him, nothing but your panties covering you. "you ready?" you give him a small nod, trying to cover your tits from his vision, but he quickly pulls your arms away. "don't hide from me." his voice is demanding, the most sinister he's sounded since the moment you met him. satoru wastes no time in leaning down, pressing gentle kisses to your neck. ah, at least he's gentle. but his gentle nature doesn't last long. the kisses he places on your neck quickly turn into harsh bites, and you can't conceal the whines that spill from your mouth. your knees try to come together to push him off of you, but you're quickly subdued as satoru parts them with ease. "c'mon, don't push me away, sweetheart." satoru licks, sucks, and bites at your neck as his weight becomes heavier on top of you. one of his hands finds your tit, his thumb roaming over your peaked nipple, playing with it, tweaking it, until his mouth becomes bored of you neck and moves to your free breast. it feel so good. his mouth is warm on your nipple, his teeth harsh when he bites down. not so hard that's it's tortuous, but harsh enough for you to lose your breath momentarily. his bites soothe you by turning into a gentle suck, his tongue playing with the nipple in his mouth. he swirls his tongue around, and god, you wonder what'd it feel like if he was doing it to your clit.

♡ you, who doesn't have to wait long for satoru to move down south. his lips brush against your stomach, his hands lightly tracing your ribs as he finds his way to your cunt, already soaked through your underwear. satoru presses a thumb to your clothed clit, "wow, what a body you have." he sounds amazed. "even virgins don't get this wet." you can barely process what he's saying - you're euphoric as he plays with your throbbing clit through your panties. every time your legs come up to suffocate him as a response to the gentle touches, he pushes them away. one of his hands holds down your knee as he paws at your clit, teases your clothed hole with a finger. and then he places his mouth on your clit. the feeling is like nothing you've ever felt before. a sea of euphoria washes over you as satoru's mouth latches onto your clit, his tongue flicking and licking at it before gently sucking on it. your body is writhing underneath his touch, your hips undulating as one of your hands reaches for his hair. you don't even realize that you're using your grip on his hair to press his mouth into your clit, begging for something harsher. satoru smiles against your clit before pushing your panties to the side. "baby wants more?" and you gasp as his mouth is directly on your clit. "ah! y-yes! oh my god, yes!" your other hand finds his hair, a vice grip on him, directing his head exactly where you want him to go. it's not like satoru wouldn't have done so on his own, but his cock is throbbing at the way you're attempting to take control of him. someone challenging the satoru gojo? he's up for it.

♡ you, who has no control over the coil deep in your core snapping as satoru eats you out like a professional. at some point, he completely discarded your panties. satoru sits on his knees between your thighs, his mouth on your clit and two fingers knuckle-deep inside of you, twisting and turning, scissoring your insides and brushing against your g-spot until you're brought to yet another orgasm. your entire body is shaking with pleasure, the orgasm so much more intense than the ones you have when you sober - the ones you bring upon yourself. satoru is completely entranced by your cunt. it's so perfect, he could spend hours between your legs. practically untouched, you're dripping wet, your clit just perfect, and you're so turned on it's no longer hidden by your cute little hood. all of you is perfect, and satoru loves the fucked-out expressions your typically innocent face is making. he loves hearing you moan and gasp, whine and cry out, begging, "please don't stop! i'm so close!" you obviously don't know what it's like to be fucked right. after bringing you to your second orgasm, satoru doesn't think he can hold it in any longer. his cock is leaking, aching and begging for some sort of release.

♡ satoru, who finds himself unbuttoning his jeans and throwing his shirt off. oh, how you wish you were sober enough to make out his sculpted body. he stands up for only a moment to take his jeans and briefs off, throwing them across the room, as well. he hops back on the bed, lifting your leg and kissing the inside of your thigh, biting and sucking at it as he adjusts himself between your legs. "ready for more, pretty girl? final show." you nod slowly, the room around you spinning. "aw, you don't sound too excited. maybe s' too much for you?" your heart drops, the anxiety returning. "n-no! i wan' it." your response only elicits a sigh from satoru. not good enough. "p-please satoru! please fuck me! wan' you to fuck me and no one else. wanna be one of your girls..." that's it. the look in satoru's eyes is absolutely feral. "oh, you wanna be one of my girls? want me to fuck you like one of my girls?" you nod as furiously as you can. "think you can handle it, pretty girl?" yes. yes, you can handle it.

♡ satoru, who you think will enter you gently, will fuck you softly. instead, he lines his cockhead up with your entrance gently pushing in the tip before violently bottoming out inside of you. all the breath is gone from your lungs in a matter of seconds. satoru gives you no time to recover, his hands finding your hips, fucking into you at a mach three speed. the sound of skin slapping and your uncontrollable screams fill the bedroom. your head knocks against satoru's headboard as he continues to abuse your cervix. you can't catch your breath. one of his hands travels down to your cunt, thumb rubbing at your clit and you're completely overwhelmed with the sensations coming over you, not in waves, but in a tsunami, crashing down on you with full force. your clit is throbbing as satoru pounds into you over and over and over and - and you can't stop thinking about the absolute euphoria you're feeling. you don't know if it's from the weed or the alcohol, but there's no pain in the way satoru fucks into you, only pleasure so intense, it brings tears to your eyes. your hand reaches up, placing your palm flat against the headboard to give your head a bit of relief from the constant smacking of it against the wood.

♡ satoru, who never lets you rest. the moment he pulls his cock out of you, he flips you onto your stomach as if you were light as a feather. he manipulates and contorts your body, lifting up hips up into the air and spreading your thighs, taking a moment to admire the sight of your pretty cunt spread wide open just for him. he can't help but dip his tongue in a few times, causing you to cry out, muffled against the pillows. "sorry, pretty girl. you're just too irresistible. and you're doing so good for me. thought i'd give you a little reward." you moan out as satoru continues to lap at your cunt, your legs threatening to give way as he brings you dangerously close to another orgasm. but just when you think that coil is about to snap once again, he stops. his tongue is instantly replaced by his cock, continuing his assault on your cervix. this time, it's so much deeper, so deep you swear you can feel him in your guts. his arm wraps around your midsection, helping hold you upright as he fucks into you with not a care in the world. his balls, heavy and full of cum, slap against your cunt, but it's not enough for satoru. his free hand finds your clit, rubbing it sideways, rubbing circles on it. it's too much. satoru presses his pelvis into you, pushing your face even further into the mattress. "so, so good for me, pretty girl." satoru says from behind you. he leans down, his body caging yours in as bites at you neck, surely leaving marks. his lips are right next to you ear. "really are one of my girls. if you take cock this good, might jus' make you my only girl." his words leave you trembling. he's not just amazing at sex, he's amazing at telling girls what they want to hear. satoru likes to think it's always been one of his selling points, always able to tell girls what they want to hear so that he can get what he wants from them.

♡ satoru, who fucks you so good you lose your mind. you're babbling and moaning, whining and crying as satoru fucks into you from behind. the arm that held up your midsection is gone, now restraining one of your arms, holding it behind your back as he relentlessly bullies your insides. the tears flowing from your eyes are soaked up by the mattress, and satoru keeps whispering sweet nothings into your ear as he brings you to orgasm over and over again. "this cunt is so perfect, sweet girl. really - hah - really can't believe you kept this from me. fits me just right." he's so deep his pelvis slams into your ass over and over, the noise filling the room along with his grunts and your muffled screams. at this point, you are screaming. the overwhelming feeling of being overstimulated and the constant slamming of his cock into you, it's all too much. the way satoru sometimes lets his free hand grab at the fat of your ass, slapping it, then caressing it to cool the burning left behind.

♡ satoru, who leans down, telling you, "m' so close, baby. where d'ya want it?" satoru, who asks, but has full intention on cumming inside of you. a cunt this perfect? he can't imagine doing anything but attempting to fill you with his babies. he imagines you'd be so cute knocked up. "i-i," you can barely get your words out. "in-inside, satoru, please. please, cum inside me. w-wan' you to f-fill me up, please." satoru, who decides that he must have you. even if it means keeping you high 24/7, he's willing to do it. he's willing to do anything to keep a slut this perfect. one whose a slut only for him. "oh yeah, i can do that, pretty girl. wanna have my babies?" you nod furiously into the pillow. "please! yes, please!" and that's all it takes to bring satoru over the edge. he cums hard, his balls tightening as he spills everything he has into you. he's not sure he's ever blown a load this big. but how could anyone blame him? he's found the perfect cunt for his cock - cinderella's slipper if you will. he leans against your back for a bit of support as his own body begins to shake, your cunt cumming in response to being filled up, spasming and squirting all over him. satoru watches, bleary-eyed, as his cum mixes with your juices and flows out of you like honey. your legs shake, your entire body shakes, as you babble on, thanking him for the orgasm, begging for more. you're so cute. satoru just can't get enough of you.

♡ you, who is just coming down from your high when satoru brings you a towel and tap water from his bathroom. you, who can barely keep your eyes open from the way your body has been abused through the night. you don't know how long it lasted, but you can hear that the music has died down downstairs. satoru wipes you off with the towel, forcing you to drink a little water, as he knows you're going to be so fucked in the morning. you can barely talk, so satoru tells you to sleep instead. it doesn't take you more than a couple of minutes to fall asleep.

♡ satoru, who after you fall asleep, takes a shower and texts geto. he leaves you alone in his room, bundled up in blankets before making his way to geto's room. satoru sits on the floor, sighing and shaking his still-wet hair. "that's some good shit, suguru. keep that in the rotation." geto smiles at his best friend. "told you it was great. what was better, though? the weed or the girl?" satoru laughs and shakes his head. "not sure, think i'm gonna keep both around for now." geto sports a pout. "at least include me next time."

#jjk smut #jjk #dark content #gojo smut #gojo x reader #satoru smut #dead dove do not eat

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my-eyes-on-the-skies · 1 year ago

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bringing this back bc aai just dropped and removed the read more i accidentally put 😅😅

I have to vent about ace attorney because I can’t stop thinking about the fucking MESS this universe is

ok so gatewater land is a place that exists in this godforsaken universe-

And my question is WHY. HOW THE FUCK did a HOTEL get so goddamn famous that they needed to make a THEME. PARK. I know that they probably got famous over the various legal shenanigans they’ve gotten into in the aa trilogy buT THAT DOESN’T TRANSLATE TO A FUCKING THEME PARK??????

What’s their theme???? Most amusement parks have SOMETHING tying together all the different sections of rides but there’s 3 areas that have nothing to do with each other. Shouldn’t it be hotel themed or something, like you go for a ride down a laundry chute or something????

Then there’s THIS fucker

fucking blue badger wHY ARE YOU THE MASCOT FOR THIS DISASTER OF A THEME PARK. I know it’s canonical that the gatewater group is working together with the police department as thanks for helping them out with the murders that have been happening and THAT’S why this fucker’s in here but they’re ONE OF THE MAIN ATTRACTIONS.

HOW DID

A CARDBOARD CUTOUT IN FRONT OF A POLICE DEPARTMENT GET SO POPULAR THAT A COMPANY DECIDED IT WOULD BE A GOOD DECISION TO MAKE IT THE PRIMARY MASCOT???

ALSO, what does this mean for the police department’s revenue??? Do they get paychecks from the park for using their character??? Is the blue badger owned by gatewater now??? WAS TAX MONEY USED TO BUILD THIS FUCKING THEME PARK?????? IS THIS POLICE PROPAGANDA BECAUSE THIS FEELS LIKE IT IS. ANSWER ME CAPCOMMMMM

the existence of all of this this baffles and infuriates me in equal measure and i’m completely convinced now that gatewater land is police propaganda.

#aa #aai #looking back on it maybe the gatewater company just decided to expand into amusement parks to maybe generate more attractions for people to #but its still super weird that its just called “gatewater land”#its like going to hilton park or smth #the whole police thing is still super weird tho #also idk how the blue badger got famous still #maybe from the lana skye case but like having a mascot so tied to evidence from a case connected with police corruption is an insane move #it does fit with the whole corruption theme that aa likes to play around with but its just so blatant dude

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beansprean · 6 months ago

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WHAT WE CLUE IN THE SHADOWS: A FINALE CONSPIRACY BOARD

So. WWDITS may have the actual balls to do this to us. and I for one am INCREDIBLY excited for the possibility. If you're a WWDITS fan and haven't seen Clue (1985), I highly recommend taking 95 minutes to do so before the finale. Just in case.

Clue is my favorite movie, I have probably seen it upwards of 100 times for real, and I can recite it from memory with 90% accuracy. I also have the pleasure of owning and playing the WWDITS-themed Clue game, which is centered around finding out who stole the witch's skin hat and where in the house they hid it. I don't know if that will play into the finale at all, but it's something to think about.

The thing about Clue (the film), if you aren't aware, is that there are three different endings. On the vhs/dvd, you see all three in a row between 'that's how it could have happened, but what about this?' title cards. In theaters, there were three versions of the movie (labeled A, B, and C) that were dispersed to different theaters, so depending on where and when you went to see it you would see one of 3 endings. (It's kinda unclear which letter corresponded to which originally, so my labels will be assuming a 1:1 comparison between the order of the home version of Clue and the airing order of the WWDITS episodes.) The Clue endings are not all made equal, and on the home version, the final ending is announced as 'what really happened.'

So allow me to take a moment to talk about how the different endings work in context to each other and the film, and how that could translate to three different endings for WWDITS.

CLUE SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT (for real, go watch it)

(last chance to watch Clue go)

Ending#1: "Communism is just a red herring"

In this ending, the first one that plays in the home version, Miss Scarlet is revealed to be the murderer. She is a snarky, sarcastic madam who runs a "hotel and telephone service to provide men with the company of a young lady for a short while" and has policemen on her payroll. This is what I would consider the expected ending, the one that makes sense for most viewers. It's not shocking, but it's funny and well acted and it makes the most sense. Miss Scarlet has the right personality for murder, was in the most convenient area of the house to commit them, and had Yvette (the maid, formerly one of Miss Scarlet's call girls) committing some of the murders at her direction, so she had enough alibis to not make her too obvious. Many people watching this movie for the first time will have her high on their suspect list.

This ending also dismisses the idea of 'dangerous communism' that had been a thread throughout the film (as it is set in 1953 during the second Red Scare) as a misdirection. Miss Scarlet isn't stealing government secrets to betray the US; she's doing it to make money. The real danger all along was capitalism, something that s6 of WWDITS has said repeatedly.

So, to recap, this is the Standard Ending. The Second Best ending. Version B.

Ending #2: "Mrs. Peacock did it all."

This one, played second in the home version, is in my opinion the weakest ending. It reveals Mrs. Peacock, the neurotic, hysterical, and allegedly politically corrupt wife of a senator, as the murderer. She's hilarious and fantastic to watch throughout the whole film and I love her, but this charm drops after the reveal and she becomes cold and drab as she threatens her way to safety. She committed all the murders herself, which would be very difficult to achieve with the tight timing and her position in the basement during the search.

She ends up being caught outside the house by a police inspector, who had earlier shown up disguised as an evangelist telling her to "repent, the kingdom of heaven is at hand." Interestingly, they originally filmed him immediately shooting her dead without provocation, but they thought that was too dark and edited it into an arrest instead (which is why there is such a quick cut after he pulls his gun, and we only hear her rather than see her after that). This is the 'repent for your sins' ending. You do bad things, bad things happen to you.

The obligatory "it's always who you least expect" ending. The Still-Good-But-Not-The-Best Ending. Version C.

Ending #3: "You're Mr. Boddy!"

This is "how it really happened" - the twist ending! The hero was the villain, the villain was just a pawn, and everyone committed a murder in the house to cover their own asses. Prof Plum killed the fake Mr. Boddy, Miss Scarlet killed the cop, Mrs. Peacock killed Mrs. Ho (the cook), Mrs. White killed Yvette, Colonel Mustard killed the motorist, and Wadsworth/Mr. Boddy killed the singing telegram girl.

Mr. Green, who reveals he works for the FBI, kills Wadsworth/Mr. Boddy and arrests the rest of the cast. Understandably the best and most exciting ending (though not without some plot holes) that everyone loves. We get a surprising reveal from two of our main characters that not only changes the context with how you view them, but informs aspects of their character that have been there throughout the film! Now we understand why Wadsworth retained control of the house and the timeline of events, why he was so familiar with the house, and why this entire thing was orchestrated in the first place. We also understand why the cowardly and clumsy Mr. Green was consistently the first to jump to help and defend the other characters, even when it meant putting himself if physical danger. Unfortunately this ending also suggests that he was only pretending to be gay (wouldn't that be a twist for Guillermo lol), but he could also just be in a lavender marriage which is what I choose to believe.

This ending also has the iconic 'flames on the side of my face' scene and repeats 'communism is a red herring', this time in the context of Mr. Boddy's intention to continue blackmailing them all now that they have taken care of anyone who could have pointed the finger at him.

This is the True Ending. The twist you didn't expect but are delighted to find. The 'nothing was as it seemed' endng. The ending that is the most intentional and complete, where everyone gets to shine. Version A.

So what will we be doing in those shadows?

We can assume that e11 will not revolve around finding a murderer, but it does, from what we've seen in the trailer, revolve around making a wife for the monster. Do we get three different wives? Three different actors to play her? Three different superhero identities for Nandor and Guillermo? Three different levels of nandermo: one with a handshake, one with a hug, one with a kiss? Three different explanations for the origin and/or purpose of the documentary? (this is my personal favorite) Or is each ending entirely divorced from the other? Only time will tell.

What I'm leaning toward is that each episode will come up to the same turning point - a decision, a reveal, etc. The first two versions will have reasonable possibilities, the first less surprising but more enjoyable than the second, and the third... The third will be what really happened, and pull a twist no one saw coming. Perhaps even a character will reveal a hidden identity. Maybe, just maybe...we get Simon the Devious.

I only hope the order of the episodes doesn't change between channels or time zones because that will make things very confusing when liveblogging it in the group chat lmao.

#wwdits #wwdits speculation #clue 1985 #wwdits season 6 #wwdits s6 spoilers #wwdits series finale #my post #not art #what we do in the shadows #what we do in the shadows fx #id in alt text #me continuing to make everything about simon the devious i just miss him

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prettyfastcars · 2 years ago

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He has me by my heart | Mob!Lando x Reader

Summary: Lando is bad for you. You know that, countless people have told you this. But no matter how corrupted, dark, and wicked he was. No matter how possessive, jealous, and insane he could be, almost childishly so. Despite it all, he had you by your heart, and there was no getting away from him.

Themes: mob!lando, daddy kink, smut, explicit language, possessive!lando,

a/n: you know those videos of Lando being escorted by police in italy yeahhhh

You saw it on the news.

Then again, everyone did. Ever since he was arrested a few weeks ago, people tuned in any moment they could to follow his story. He was well-known, filthy rich, and dangerous. He went against the law a lot. But somehow there was never enough evidence against him that incriminated him.

Lando had too many loyal servants who were willing to lay down their lives in order to keep him away from being locked up in prison. But a few weeks ago, a couple days after you both broke up after a huge fight, he was arrested.

Apparently he got into a rather violent fight at some exclusive club. Videos of it circulated around everywhere. And it was the most convicting evidence that had ever surfaced regarding him so the authorities used that to at least lock him up for a little time while they tried to dig up more stuff about him.

However, that ended up not happening. Lando’s people kept everything clean. Every dirty work happened in the dark with no witnesses. Every skeleton was carefully placed in impregnable closets. So the authorities had no choice but to release him.

The day of his release, you watched him on TV. How he gloated as the authorities let him go. How he enjoyed the many cameras filming him, taking pictures of him which would later surely spark many conversations in the media. He had always liked the attention.

Even through the screen you could see it on his face. The arrogance, the smirks, the determined, proud look in his eyes like he was an unchallengeable monarch. He walked to his car, grinning like a king. He was, in many ways. A king in the darker side of life.

Just then, your phone rang. It was an unknown number. You answered it with your heart racing, part of you already knew who was calling.

“Hello?” You tried your hardest to sound as unbothered as possible.

He chuckled from the other side of the call. “Hey princess, missed me?”

You exhaled shakily, “Lando.”

He scoffed, “You sound a little out of breath there, baby. Have you been watching me on TV?” He laughed. “You knew they could never keep me locked up for long, didn’t you princess? We talked about this, remember?”

Oh. So he was doing the thing where he pretended that you two hadn’t had a big fight, said cruel things to each other and decided to go your separate ways. Yet again.

“Why are you calling me?” You said, “We broke up, remember?”

He sighed like he was annoyed, “Come on, princess. You know that wasn’t real, right?” He argued. “We were both tired and angry, and we didn’t mean it.” He didn’t even wait for you to respond as he said, “I’m coming over later, and then we’ll talk. Alright, princess? I can’t wait to see you.”

With that he ended the call. And you were standing there in the middle of your apartment feeling confused. As always.

When he comes over later, you thought, you’d set everything straight and break up with him for good this time.

—

Hours passed.

You realised you shouldn’t just sit and wait for him. But you were anxious so you couldn’t do anything else other than wait.

Later in the evening, three knocks at your door signalled that he was here. You stood there for a short while, fresh out of the shower and still in your fluffy robe as you stared at the door. You decided you were going to keep this short.

He’d walk in, you’d talk, and then you’d ask him to leave. Right? Right.

But then you opened the door. And there he was, in a fresh suit. His hair was a fluffy, curly mess. He smelt amazing. And that soft, puppy dog look in his blue-green eyes.

“Hi princess,” He said, already walking in and shutting the door behind him, “I’ve missed you.”

Your walls came crashing down instantly. You had your arms around him before you even realised it. Your face pushed into the crook of his neck as you shed a few tears and inhaled his familiar scent. Body wash and cologne.

“I was so scared I would never see you again.” You found yourself mumbling against his skin as he backed you into the closest wall.

He laughed as you pulled away to wipe your tears, “Babygirl,” He cooed, “You know that would never happen.” He cupped your teary face in his large hands and smiled at you. “Were you worried for me? Hmm?”

You nodded. He chuckled, leaning in to kiss you. Soft lips against yours, you melted into him. Your back against the wall, your fingers tangled in his hair while he moaned shamelessly into the kiss… playfully biting your lips.

“I’ve missed you so much, princess.” His hands wandered, undoing the knot at the front of your robe. He let out a strained groan when he finally felt your warm skin. He whispered between messy, hungry kisses, “Daddy missed you so much.”

He pulled away to look at you. You couldn’t help but notice the way his lips were now fuller. Fuck, he was your weakness.

“Missed this mouth,” He whispered while tracing your lips with the tip of his finger. His mere touch was driving you insane. So much so that you dropped down to your knees even before he asked you to.

Lando looked down at you with pride in his eyes and a devilishly handsome smirk on his face. “That’s my good girl,” He said breathlessly, caressing your cheek gently as he watched you undo his zipper and pull down his briefs.

His cock stood proud and tall in front of you. Your mouth watered shamelessly at the sight of it. Thick and big, you realised you’d missed him just as much. Your hands instinctively wrapped around his length and you placed the tip against your lips, kissing it and feeling the pre cum coating your lips.

Lando hissed in pleasure as you pushed him into your mouth, taking in the tip and swirling your tongue around him.

“I missed your fucking mouth, babygirl…”

He whispered your name under his breath, his hand holding your head and guiding you up and down his cock. His taste drove you crazy. As did the sounds which left his mouth.

You intended on making him come hard and fast.

“Fuck…,” He moaned again, right before coming undone all over your tongue. “You did so good, princess.”

You looked up at him, still kneeling on the cold floor. You’d missed this too.

“Stand up,” He ordered. And when you did, he leaned in to kiss you again. Rougher this time, more demanding as he pulled you away from the wall and guided you over to your living room. He grabbed your face gently by the chin and said, “Can you go make daddy a drink, princess?”

You nodded immediately. Lando smiled, kissing you briefly on the lips before smacking you gently on the butt as you walked over to the mini bar to make him a drink. You watched him the whole time you poured his whiskey in a glass.

You watched how he got rid of his suit jacket, unbuttoned his white shirt and plopped down on the couch. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. He looked like he was at peace. So much so that you almost hesitated before you gently touched his face to get his attention.

Lando smiled at you as he took the glass from you first, then pulled you onto his lap. Palms gently caressing his smooth chest, you admired your man. His beard seemed coarse you realised as you stroked his cheek. You wondered whether it would feel rougher in between your thighs.

Judging by the smirk on his face, Lando thought of the same thing as he sipped on his drink. And his hooded eyes silently promised you ‘later’. His free hand rubbed up and down your exposed thigh, until he reached in between your legs.

He shamelessly watched how his fingers softly rubbed your throbbing clit. You whimpered softly, grinding against his hand on his lap.

“Who took care of you while I was away?” He asked.

You knew what he meant. Jealous, territorial, over protective man that he was.

“No one,” You answered, whining as he slid a finger inside you.

He swallowed all of the whiskey and leaned in to kiss you again. He kissed down your neck, and all while slowly fingerfucking you he whispered along your collar bones, “If I find out someone touched you while I was gone I’m gonna do terrible,” He licked and bit your skin mid-sentence, “horrible things to them.” He left marks on your skin, marking his territory. “And I’ll make you watch.”

You couldn’t help the unexpected giggle that escaped your lips. “No one touched me,” You assured him. “I took care of myself.” You added.

Lando pulled away from your skin smirking like the handsome devil he was. “Yeah?” He insisted, “Show me how.”

You gave him a shy smile.

“Come on,” He said. “Show me how you touched yourself while I was away.”

So you gave him a little show. Still on his lap as you touched yourself, like you did almost every night when he was gone. Even when you were angry at him, nothing else got you off like the memories of the moments you both spent under the covers.

Lando leaned back for a minute, his hands lazily rubbing up and down your thighs while he carefully followed your finger as it dipped in and out of your wet hole. His eyebrows furrowed everytime you moaned or let out a wanton gasp.

He grabbed your thighs tightly each time he had to hold back from shoving your hands away to touch you. His shameless stare urged you to keep going. Lando was almost just as breathless as you were when you brought yourself to the edge, slowing down and not wanting to come just yet.

“Please…” You murmured, removing your hand away and looking into his dangerously pretty eyes. “Please,” You begged again

He looked up at you and smirked. He knew what you wanted. You wanted him to make you come. His smug grin widened before he taunted, “Aww what is it, princess? Your fingers don’t feel as good as daddy’s?” He cooed, “Hmm? You want daddy to make you come, don’t you?”

You nodded quickly. Lando just smirked and shook his head. Then before you knew it, you were being pushed down onto the couch. You laid on your back while he hovered above you. You could feel the metal chain around his neck just barely brushing against your chest.

“It’s okay, babygirl.” He whispered, his face inches above yours. “Daddy’s here now.” He said before leaning in to kiss your lips. His tongue gently stroking your lower lip, then his mouth trailed downwards, kissing your neck, your collar bones down to your breasts, licking and kissing and leaving behind his marks on your skin.

Your body felt hot. Burning under him as he took his time and kissed every inch of your skin. “Missed you,” he whispered as he pressed kisses down your chest.

Within seconds his fingers found their way in between your legs again, carefully parting your wet folds before slipping inside you.

He asked, “Do your fingers feel this good, princess?” Lando leaned in again, and kissed along your jaw while his fingers stroked you gently. “I bet they don’t.”

You whined and squirmed and you wanted more. You threw your head back and whined loudly, you felt your walls clench around his fingers.

He smirked, feeling it too. “Oh? You wanna cum, is that it?” he leaned in closer, whispering against your mouth, “You want it so bad, don’t you princess?” he teased, chuckling darkly.

You moaned, and whined and tried your hardest to keep quiet but you ended up being loud anyways. His touch, his stare, his words… “Look at you,” he whispered, kissing and biting down on your skin occasionally as his fingers took you higher. “So perfect for daddy.”

He bit down on your neck as you squirmed, moaning shamelessly.

“Come for me, babygirl.”

You did. Welcoming the sweet pressure in between your legs and you came with a loud cry all over his fingers, coating them with your arousal and making him hiss and swear at the sight of you so beautifully dishevelled.

He had missed this indeed.

“You’re all mine,” Lando said.

You were still recovering from your previous orgasm that you didn’t realise his mouth was on you again, the lower half of his face completely submerged in between your legs, which were on each of his shoulders as his tongue tasting you shamelessly, eagerly.

“Fuck,” He moaned against your wetness. The sound of it making you shiver.

His tongue slipped past your folds and teased your entrance, occasionally flicking your sensitive clit mercilessly. Your hands immediately gripped his messy, curly hair and tugged gently at his roots.

“You taste so good, princess.”

You whimpered under his touch, feeling his faintly rough stubble rubbing against your soft skin. It burned a little, but you enjoyed each and every second of it and craved for more. His mouth felt good.

“Fuck… Lando,” You moaned out loud as your back arched off the couch for just a moment, your eyes closing and your head leaning back as you felt a wave of intense pleasure wash over you.

“You’re gonna cum for me, is that it, hmm?” He whispered and got back to teasing your clit with his warm and wet tongue, relishing your taste.

“Please, please….” You murmured. He chuckled, his warm breath fanning your wet folds.

“Come on, ask nicely.” He whispered, biting down on your hip bone before kissing his way back to your clit.

“Please daddy,” You whined, looking at him with pleading eyes. “Please, can I come?”

His smirk meant that he was satisfied. “Of course you can, princess.” He murmured. “Come all over daddy’s tongue.”

Lando got back to eating you out like it was the only thing he ever wanted to do. The pressure in between your legs was building up nicely. So with a few more strokes of his tongue, you let go and came all over his face.

The waves of pleasure which washed over you were so intense that you teared up as you came, grinding your hips against his waiting mouth. And Lando lapped up whatever you gave him. He couldn’t get enough.

When he finally pulled away to let you breath for a moment, he kissed your thighs, admiring the pretty mess that you were.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, princess,” he whispered, looking down at you. “All mine.” He had that feral look in his eyes. Shameless, and raw. Passionate, and unrestrained. He wanted you and he wasn’t hiding it. “Get on your hands and knees.” He ordered.

You did as he asked. You knelt on the couch, holding onto the back while he stood behind you surely admiring your ass as your back faced him.

Lando trailed a finger lazily up your spine before sliding his fingers around your neck. He gripped your throat gently, and tightened his grip just enough so he got your full attention. His lips hovered over the side of your throat and his other hand reached around and toyed with your clit, his fingers making you tremble.

You could feel his erection pressing against your butt. And your heart raced in anticipation.

“Daddy missed this pussy, princess.” He whispered into your ear, his fingers teasing your clit until you were embarrassingly wet for him. “I know you missed daddy’s cock, didn’t you? Hmm?”

You whined in response as his tongue licked along your neck.

His hand gripped your throat, eliciting a loud moan out of you. “Answer me, babygirl.” He said. “Use your words and tell daddy you want his cock.”

His fingers left your clit as he undid his trousers again, grabbed you by the hips and aligned his cock to your entrance. Pushing against it just enough to make you lose your mind but not enough.

Damn him. He knew just what to do. How to play you to get you to do exactly what he wanted. You pushed back against him, desperately craving friction, as you whimpered, “Please daddy, I want your cock. Please…”

He chuckled. “There’s my good girl.” He praised and gripped the sides of your hips tighter. He pushed into you with ease, earning a sinful moan out of you.

Lando groaned as he filled you up entirely, your ass cheek pressing into his pelvic bone as he buried his cock into you. Your knuckles gripped the back of the couch tightly as you felt the familiar pressure forming again in no time, given you were already so sensitive and sore from before.

You were barely able to think straight. You’d missed him. You’d missed this way too much. Having him right now gave you a high you did not quite comprehend but you were grateful for it.

“So fucking good… princess…” Lando spoke in a haze, and you barely heard him as the only thing you focused on was how good he felt, sliding in and out of you. His cock stretching you out each time he fit it snugly inside you.

He felt it too. He relished the sounds your bodies made together. The careless moans he earned out of you, how wet and ready you were for him. How perfectly you clenched around his cock. Your soft, often loud, whimpers and his groans of pleasure.

“I dreamt of this perfect, warm pussy the whole time I was locked up in there, you know that, princess?” Lando pounded into you like his life depended on it. Stretching you out and filling you up each time he rammed his cock into your entrance.

You could feel the soreness his touch would leave behind, and you didn’t care. But fuck… his dirty mouth only made him hotter.

“The only that kept me going was knowing that I’d come home to you and fuck you like this,” He whispered, and you felt his cock throb against your walls. You tightened around him, feeling your orgasm so close that you almost shed tears again.

Lando kept mumbling in the throes of pleasure, “Like you were made for me, for this cock…” He trailed off, moaning in that boyish way that only made you want to come harder. “It’s all you’re good for, isn’t it, babygirl? Hmm?”

Right there… you were tight on the edge, ready to let go…

But just as you were, he pulled out and flipped you around. You were on your back again, looking up at him. His roughness only turning you on even more.

He smirked when he saw that look of uncontained desire on your face. “Not so easily, princess.” He chuckled. “Daddy spent all this time away from you. So it’s only fair that now you beg for my cock.” He parted your legs, and settled in between them again, his cock slipping inside you once again. “Beg for me.”

When he saw that you didn’t, his fingers wrapped around your throat once more. “I said,” he growled, “beg.”

Your lips parted as you gasped, giving in. You’d do anything for him you realised.

“Daddy please… please make me cum…” you whined, “I missed you so much, I need you-,” you cut yourself off, moaning wantonly as he began fucking you hard and fast again.

He grunted and moaned shamelessly right in your ear and the sound sent shivers down your back. Your legs started to shake as he quickened his pace. He pounded into you incessantly.

You stared into his eyes, tears escaping your eyes, lips swollen and bruised, neck littered with his bite marks, and your eyes just as wild and passionate as his. His messy hair, that dangerous way of his, his reckless nature, that annoying arrogance, his pride was his fatal flaw and yet… Oh fuck you loved him.

Lando smirked, leaning in to whisper against your mouth, “Daddy loves you more, princess.”

Well, guess you said it out loud then.

“You belong to me, don’t you? Hmm?”

“Yes.” You gasped. “Please, daddy can I-”

The pleasure was too much and you couldn’t hold back anymore. So, you came all around his cock, moaning and squirming. Your fingers scratching his neck, your arms holding him tight like he was your lifeline. He was, in more ways than one.

Lando moaned out loud when he felt your walls pulsating violently around him. His thrusts became irregular as he came right after you, filling you up again. “Fuck,” He groaned, his voice a little hoarser. “Fuck, princess.” He sighed, putting his whole body weight onto you for a moment. He nuzzled your neck and left soft kisses along your skin.

You let him rest for a moment, mindlessly playing with his hair. You almost laughed thinking about how your initial plan was to kick him out of your life, forever. But deep down you knew, you could never get rid of Lando.

No matter how corrupted, dark, and wicked he was. No matter how possessive, jealous, and insane he could be, almost childishly so. Despite it all, he had you by your heart, and there was no getting away from him.

#lando norris x reader #lando norris smut #lando norris #lando norris x you #mob!lando #f1 imagine #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 au

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forsaken-headcanons · 4 months ago

Note

I had a simple idea: what if the survivors and killers swapped roles? And that idea proceeded to snowball into a full-blown yap sesh. I’m so silly when it comes to Forsaken, y’all 😋

(This is a VERY long post, so it’s been split up into two sections. Hope you don’t mind, mod!)

��KILLERS”

Noob - Picture a lone noob, lost in the spectre’s domain. No food. No shelter. Nothing. They finally come across another survivor…or should I say sustenance. That’s right. I took Noob’s whole ‘eating snacks’ thing and turned them into a cannibal. How fun! ☺️ Kind-of takes the role of Jason with a hint of Guest 666? That comment will probably change when 666 comes out, but for now, their kit revolves around tracking down survivors one by one. They can turn mostly invisible for a short period, too.

Chance - Two Face with a touch of Jigsaw. Gambling has completely overtaken his life, with his favourite being betting on lives. Never his, of course. And gods forbid he loses… Doesn’t really take the role of anyone. They specialize in ranged attacks, but he has a melee attack, too. He still has the coin flip, but it’s used to give him a random effect (can be anything from speed I to blindness III) and the only way to get rid of said-abilities is Hat Fix. But use it wisely, as that gets rid of the good abilities, too. The only way to earn bullets is by hitting survivors. He can store a max of 3, just like before. No misfiring (🎉), but the gun attack is probably hella telegraphed.

Guest 1337 - Gotta love a corrupt police officer! Well, soldier. But still- I regretfully can’t say who this guy’s main inspiration was, but I can imagine him working closely with Builderman to enact their shared (and crooked) sense of justice. His gameplay loop revolves around running down + stunning survivors. He doesn’t need to block to do a punch anymore. Instead, his block will actually give brief slowness + a highlighted aura to anyone foolish enough to hit him while it’s active. His punch (still) has a delay, but considering how it stuns survivors, I’d say it’s worth it.

Two Time - So obsessed with death/rebirth, they drove themselves mad and proceeded to go on a killing spree to ‘share this truth amongst the nonbelievers’. Mildly inspired by the Cult of the Lamb bishops, and takes the role of Jason (aka the free killer). Bro just runs around with a dagger lol. Though they have a considerably low health pool for a killer, TT makes up for it by gaining access to their second life form upon dying. They move much faster while in this state, so it’s actually advised to NOT stun them all willy-nilly, lest you unintentionally buff the killer.

Elliot - Hell hath no fury like an overworked minimum wage employee. Elliot had enough, and now EVERYONE’S gonna pay for it. Especially vengeful towards c00lkidd, and would play a special theme upon him being the last survivor. Sort of takes the role of John Doe? I mean- he revolves around dropping poisoned pizzas/other pizza-themed traps to slow down and weaken survivors.

Builderman - Oh, shoot! He has his banhammer! Oh no! He’s using it on everyone! Builderman believes that his ticket out of here involves purging the spectre’s domain of evil…but has since developed the morality of a corrupt judge. How lovely! As previously mentioned, he works closely with Guest 1337 to achieve his goals. A mix between John Doe and c00lkidd. He still builds machines, but they act like motion sensors for the most part.

Shedletsky - A self-proclaimed master swordsman, with an ego to match. Shed let the power of being an admin get to his head. He’s the most important person in the room, and will strike down anyone who says otherwise. Takes the role of 1x1x1x1. He’d use different SFOTH swords to do different attacks (Venomshank for basic swinging, Icedagger for Entanglement, Darkheart for Mass Infection, Illumina for Unstable Eye, and Ghostwalker for Rejuvenate the Rotten). Oh, and someone snatched his chicken. I wonder who? 🤔

007n7 - Slightly inspired by Bacon General from The Last Guest, this version of 07 wasn’t quite ready to retire, even when a baby was left on his doorstep. If anything, a child meant that he could pass down his skills to someone else. And thus he continued to reign chaos all around him, all the while pressuring his son to do the same. As a killer, he still uses scripts and exploits to give him an unfair advantage. Takes the role of c00lkidd, and uses the same moves as OG kidd for the most part. Instead of summoning clones, he instead teleports to the closest survivor (which briefly stuns him upon arriving, just to nerf it a little).

— Respawn Anon

I think you absolutely cooked on all of these. Specifically Guest 1337, Shedletsky and Builderman. These are so creative.

#forsaken headcanons #forsaken #forsaken roblox #roblox forsaken #respawn anon #noob forsaken #chance forsaken #two time forsaken #guest 1337 forsaken #elliot forsaken #builderman forsaken #shedletsky forsaken #007n7 forsaken

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kurishiri · 1 year ago

Text

ikémen villains content warning list .ᐟ

this is a work-in-progress compilation of complete content warnings per route (because ikévil tends to underwarn a bit maybe to avoid spoilers) that will be updated as we go. please let me know if I missed anything, regardless if it says ‘work in progress’ or not, or pitch in with warnings. ♡ and ↻ are appreciated!

some of the ikévil routes contain sensitive themes that may be triggering. so please remember to take care of yourself while reading 🫶

GENERAL ༉‧₊˚. 🕊️

canon-typical violence, (minor but named) character death, depictions of murder, sexually explicit content.

────────────────────

WILLIAM REX ༉‧₊˚. 🍓

near death experience, drug abuse, sexual coercion (not by love interest), corruption, romanticization of death.

───────── 〔🌹〕 ─────────

HARRISON GRAY ༉‧₊˚. 🦊

corruption of the police and higher-ups, mentions of human trafficking, coercion to commit crimes, mentions of kidnapping.

───────── 〔🍧〕 ─────────

LIAM EVANS ༉‧₊˚. 🐈

attempted suicide, suicide and suicidal ideation, depression, anxiety, implied self-harm, mentions of child abuse (physical and emotional), fire, severe burn wounds, human trafficking, mental breakdowns.

───────── 〔🎟️〕 ─────────

ELBERT GREETIA ༉‧₊˚. 🍎

objectification both by and against love interest, mentions of sexual assault or rape (not by love interest), domestic abuse, attempted child sexual assault, pedophilia, obsessive and possessive behavior, stalkerish behavior, grooming, non-consensual touching, depicted suicide, self-harm, mental breakdowns, mentions of animal death, kidnapping, mentions of human trafficking.

───────── 〔🦋〕 ─────────

ALFONS SYLVATICA ༉‧₊˚. 🪞

description of children’s corpses, symptoms of depression, topics of mortality, attempted suicide, near death experience, self-harm, mental manipulation (?), dub-con or non-con*: having sexual intercourse while one has “consented” in an intoxicated state or under the influence of a curse, (perceived) non-con, mentions of drug abuse and the effects of drugs, mentions of child abuse or labor, implied animal torture and death.

*whether it’s dub- or non-con depends on the reader’s interpretation. it could be argued as either.

───────── 〔🐈‍⬛〕 ─────────

ELLIS TWILIGHT ༉‧₊˚. ⛓️ —— warnings provided by @myusuchaa !!

romanticization of murder and death, family murder and death, suppressed emotions, emotional disconnect, people pleasing, attempted kidnapping, negative treatment of disabilities, coercion, child trafficking, gang activity.

───────── 〔🥀〕 ─────────

ROGER BAREL ༉‧₊˚. 🍻

a loott of alcohol consumption, drug usage or abuse (recreational drug use), cult activity, near/death experience of a side character, dub-con, self-harm especially in the past.

───────── 〔🧪〕 ─────────

JUDE JAZZA ༉‧₊˚. ⌛️ —— warnings provided by @judesmoonbeauty !!

smoking, torture, mentions of drugs and human trafficking, neglect and child abuse, mentions of a child’s death and the death of a family member.

───────── 〔🕰️〕 ─────────

VICTOR ༉‧₊˚. 💀 —— w.i.p. !!

(t. b. a.)

───────── 〔👑〕 ─────────

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berlioz-the-kitten · 5 months ago

Text

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."

#dexter morgan #dexter morgan x reader #dexter showtime #dexter #michael c hall

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dccontramundum · 1 year ago

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HE MAKES A NOTE OF THAT IN HIS NOTEBOOK. Definitely someone to look into. "On what basis did he make the referral? Was he able to tell you very much about the program?" How much information did they get, he wonders, before signing their child up? Did they know what they were signing up for? Mr. Cartwright had known, and there was enough information in the documentation whisked away by special branch to prove that he knew he was signing his child up to be experimented on. Mrs. Cartwright explicitly said it was this, her husband knowingly putting their child through that, that motivated the murder. Without the evidence that he knew, though, that can't be taken into account. Unless, that is, Morse can find the same story here, and perhaps even other documents like those seized by special branch.

What she probably ought to do was confirm that with a lawyer. But she's just so tired. She's quiet for three long seconds, as she stares at her son, still rocking himself on the floor. "We were referred. By his pediatrician. Dr. Davies. The office is over behind the grocer." Richard will be angry that she's said anything, she's sure, but the program had been shady from the start.

#i'm kind of just tying this in with the general theme of corrupt police covering things up #so it's being covered up and morse is hoping he can uncover it #by finding other examples of parents knowing what the program involved and saying yes to it anyway #so he can use that to help this woman get a slightly better sentence while also being able to go 'hey that's awful wtf' at julian's parents #idk really where i'm going with this other than i want baby julian to be rescued from his parents #jsbashirmd #main verse two. ( the damage they could do and the damage they could find. ( series three & four. ) )

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hunzzzzz · 22 days ago

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𖥔 Liar 𖥔 Part 1

Psycho Rafe x Reader

SUMMARY: The summer started with late night car hookups and smoking like there was no tommorrow, a desperate escape from broken homes. You and Rafe two halves of a beautiful disaster, found each other- a casual fling that became something undeniably, terrifyingly real.

You ran, but the blood followed, staining your hands and haunting your every breath.

You cared about him, maybe even loved him. But was that enough to lie for him? Enough to twist your morals into knots, to let the image of blood haunt your nightmares every single night?

And when the lines between loyalty and survival blurred, slowly, terrifyingly, a new truth began to dawn on you: Rafe wasn't the one who needed protecting anymore.

It was you.

TW: guns, blood, violence, smut, f!oral receiving, PinV sex, manipulation, corruption, coercion (idk what coercion means but just tagged it in case??), dark themes, dark Rafe

A/N: this is gonna be a short series!! I’m so excited for you all to read!! Leave me some feedback, it’s my first time writing crazy Rafe.

Comment if you want to be on the Taglist!

Your body felt like a lead weight, each muscle screaming in protest as you tried to shift. You groaned, your head lolling painfully from where it had been dangling over your shoulder. You tried to blink away the oppressive darkness, but it clung to you, thick and absolute. It was then you realized: a rough fabric was pressed against your eyes. You instinctively tried to reach for it, but your hands wouldn't obey.

Panic flared as you discovered your wrists were bound, the rope digging into your flesh. A quick, desperate struggle confirmed your legs were secured too, likely to a chair. You tried to cry out, to scream, but only a pathetic, muffled sound escaped, confirming the makeshift gag shoved into your mouth.

One minute, you were at the police station, the next you were in this suffocating darkness, this absolute powerlessness. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You were in danger. Real, undeniable danger.

The distinct sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, broke through the ringing in your ears. Each one echoed the thumping of your own pulse, growing louder, closer. You strained against your bonds, the wooden chair groaning under your frantic movements. The ropes bit deeper, a searing pain blooming across your raw wrists and ankles.

A whisper, chillingly close to your ear, cut through the suffocating silence. "Shhhh," he breathed, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "You'll tire yourself out, baby." A cold, hard press against your temple, and your blood ran to ice. Your struggling ceased instantly, every muscle locking in place.

Then, the world exploded into agonizing light as the blindfold was ripped away. Squinting, your eyes struggled to adjust, finally settling on a pair of wide blue eyes, shattered and wild, staring back at you.

Tears streamed down your face, blurring Rafe's manic features as you tried to mumble his name through the gag. You attempted to glance around, desperate to orient yourself, to understand your surroundings. But the cold, hard barrel of the gun pressed against your temple forced your gaze back to him, his eyes wild and unblinking.

From what you could make out, you were in a basement. A single, dingy lightbulb cast long, dancing shadows across the stone walls. You were tethered to a wooden chair in the center of the room, completely at the mercy of the man in front of you.

"Eyes on me," he snapped, his voice sharp and laced with an unsettling intensity. "Keep your fucking eyes on me, yeah?"

You nodded, a sob catching in your throat as fresh tears traced paths through the grime on your cheeks. Your entire body trembled, a tremor that started deep within your bones and shook you violently.

"Don't make me regret this," he whispered, his voice a low growl as he slowly dragged the gun's cold metal down the side of your face. Then, with a sudden yank, he tore the gag from your mouth.

"Rafe," you croaked, your voice raw and hoarse from disuse, your throat parched. "What—"

"I'll ask the questions," he cut you off, tapping the gun against your jaw, a chilling punctuation mark to his words.

"Rafe, please—"

"You know, I'm just having a hard time understanding," he mused, his tone deceptively calm, almost conversational, "how you ended up from getting your hair done at the mall, all the way to the police station?"

He reached out, his fingers brushing your damp hair off your forehead. The gesture was anything but comforting.

"I swear, I wasn't," you pleaded, your voice desperate, praying you sounded convincing. This was the performance of a lifetime, a desperate gamble for survival. This was, quite literally, life or death.

You were lying, of course. You'd been lying for months. Lying to everyone around you, lying to yourself that you were okay. But the truth was, nothing was okay. Nothing had been okay since that day at the airstrip.

The word 'okay' tasted like ash in your mouth, no matter how many times you tried to force it out, you couldn't forget what you saw.

That haunting day marked the cruel, abrupt end of what had been, in its own messed-up way, a perfect summer.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

At the beginning of summer you’d met Rafe at the country club, him practically drowning himself in whatever he was drinking, and you, well, you were just looking for a distraction from your own family drama.

You knew him, of course, and he knew of you. Everyone on the island knew everyone else's dirty laundry, and you two were practically poster children for "damaged goods." The entire island knew it. You were gasoline, and he was the match. Trouble. With a capital 'T'.

In a misguided attempt to deal with your own family's particular brand of chaos, you both fell into a strange routine of seeking each other out when you needed an escape. It wasn't romantic, not exactly. But it definitely wasn't platonic either.

You were both just each other's stress relief, a convenient, no-strings-attached arrangement you’d both explicitly clarified that first night you somehow ended up naked underneath him.

"Just friends who sometimes… you know," he'd mumbled, and you'd just nodded, too gone to care.

But as the summer stretched on, those "sometimes" became "a lot." Especially once he started crashing at the Glissons' house while they were vacationing in Sun Valley. So it was just you and him in that huge, empty house, sometimes you wouldn’t even go home for a full week. And honestly? It was the most peace you’d ever gotten in your life.

Your days fell into a rhythm: surfing in the morning until your arms ached, then back to the house to get high, and then fuck. Sometimes you'd actually make a grocery run, begrudgingly cook something, then get right back to it when his lips pressed against your neck as you were washing up the mess from dinner.

Nights were spent by the water smoking a joint, or at some dingy bar drinking cheap beer, or sprawled on the sofa drinking wine, half-watching some terrible movie. And the night always ended with you two tangled up together under the sheets.

But the lines never blurred. You swore they didn't. You knew exactly who he was. He was Rafe Cameron, the golden boy gone bad, the one who didn't "do girlfriends." He’d made it crystal clear what this was that very first night.

So you never let yourself think it was anything else. Not when he’d kiss you while he was buried deep inside you, or when he’d carefully brush the sand out of your tangled hair after a beach day.

Not when he’d hug you from behind as you brushed your teeth getting ready for bed, or how you both would start a movie on opposite ends of the couch, only to inch closer and closer until you were tangled together under a single blanket, and 20 minutes into the movie, the TV was long forgotten as you somehow ended up straddling his lap.

As intimate as all those moments were, you didn't let them confuse you. Because it was just a summer fling. That's all it could ever be. And you were content with that; you had enough family drama, the last thing you wanted was boyfriend drama.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

As the summer started to fade, you stepped inside the Glissons' house one evening, bottle of wine in hand, ready to relax and unwind with Rafe. What you were met with was anything but. Rafe was pacing the sitting room like a caged animal, pulling at his hair, his face a storm cloud.

He was so lost in his own agitated world, he didn't even notice you until he practically charged past, clutching his car keys in a white-knuckled grip, beelining for the door. He glanced at you, then at the door, and before you could even process it, he was dragging you with him, half-shoving you into the passenger seat of his truck.

You didn't get many answers from him. He just mumbled a terse, "Gotta take care of something," his voice tight, barely audible over the roaring engine.

He gripped the steering wheel in a death grip, his knuckles stark white. His eyes, usually a captivating blue, were wild, burning with a fire you'd never seen before, his skin flushed red with anger. This wasn't the Rafe you knew, the one who just needed a few hits and a lazy afternoon. This was something darker, more volatile.

"Hey! Slow down!" you scolded, the words barely escaping your lips as the truck accelerated, flying down the winding roads faster than you thought possible.

The trees blurred past the window, and you braced yourself against the dashboard, a knot of dread tightening in your stomach. You were only saying it because of the speed, of course. Not because you were worried about him. Not at all. That's what you convinced yourself.

And of course, when he pulled up sharply at the airstrip, you protested. "Rafe, what are we doing here? What's going on? Rafe!"

But he was already out of the truck, slamming the door shut with a deafening bang after barking, "Stay in the car!"

You anxiously chewed your gum, the mint flavor long gone, replaced by a tasteless pulp. You had no idea what was going on with Rafe, or why he was acting so manic.

You actually questioned why you'd even gotten in the car with him. But beneath the fear, a sick, persistent part of you was still worried.

You thought maybe he was just going to drive around to clear his head, maybe get some ice cream on the way back to cool him down. You had no doubt you could fix his sour mood once you got back to the house; you just needed five minutes and a hair tie. It always did the job when he got into a spat with his dad, a quick moment of tenderness, a quiet understanding, and his anger would dissipate like smoke.

You thought this time would be no different. You were a fool to have had that hope.

Just as you were sifting through takeout menus from the dashboard, debating what to order for dinner, when a deafening crack ripped through the air. It wasn't thunder. It was the unmistakable, horrifying sound of a gunshot. Your hands flew to cover your ears, but the sound had already slammed into your chest, stealing your breath. Your entire body ignited into a frantic fight-or-flight response.

Adrenaline surged, blurring your vision as you fumbled with the door handle, practically falling out of the truck. Your heart plummeted, a cold, heavy stone in your gut, as the first horrifying thought pierced through the ringing in your ears: Rafe was hurt. But what slammed into your sight next was infinitely worse.

There he stood, Rafe, his back to you, a dark, menacing silhouette. And in his hand, a gun, still smoking faintly. Your gaze dropped. Peterkin. She was on the ground. A grotesque, widening stain bloomed beneath her, soaking into the asphalt. So much blood. So much. The metallic tang of it seemed to coat your tongue, even from a distance.

Sarah, Rafe's sister, was huddled nearby, a small, broken figure on the ground, her choked sobs barely audible over the high-pitched shriek in your ears.

The fight, whatever lingering courage you had, was instantly extinguished. It vanished, replaced by an overwhelming, primal urge to flee. Every fiber of your being screamed run! You didn't think; you just turned and ran.

You didn't know how long you ran, each ragged breath a desperate gasp for air. You didn't notice the sun dipping. You didn't stop until the world around you was swallowed by absolute darkness, until your lungs burned and your legs threatened to give out. You had no idea where you were, lost in the unfamiliar marshlands, your phone forgotten in Rafe's truck, a distant, useless artifact.

You finally collapsed onto the cool, damp grass by a murky creek, your body trembling uncontrollably. Your hands, still shaking, clutched at the rough blades of grass, desperate to feel something real, anything to ground you in the terrifying reality.

Your breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. Every time you squeezed your eyes shut, it was there: Blood. So much blood. And Rafe’s figure clutching the gun. The memory was a relentless loop, playing over and over behind your eyelids.

If you could turn back time, you would have stayed home that evening. You would have just sat and listened to your mom berate you, taken it all in stride. You could have dealt with that. But you didn’t. You wished you’d never gotten in the car with Rafe, never seen what happened at that godforsaken airstrip.

What were you to do now? You couldn't run forever. Not on this small island. You couldn’t hide from him, not from him.

Should you go to the police? Tell them what you saw? Tell the truth and get Rafe locked behind bars? It was the right thing to do, you knew that. The logical, moral thing. But could you really do it?

You cared about him. There was no point in lying to yourself about that anymore. You'd gone to great lengths all summer to cheer him up, to pull him out of his darker moods. And he always, always returned the favor for you.

And there were moments, so many moments, where it wasn’t just about convenience, or the drugs, or the casual sex. There were raw moments, moments that were real, too real.

Like the time your stupid dog, Skipper, bolted during a thunderstorm. Rafe, who usually couldn’t be bothered to tie his own shoelaces, stayed out with you all night, flashlight in hand, trudging through the soaking wet marsh until you found Skipper shivering under an oak tree. Rafe didn't complain once.

Or when you were being a total piss-baby with him because you were on your period, being moody and snapping at every stupid thing he said. He just disappeared for a bit, only to return with a tub of your favorite ice cream—mint chocolate chip, the one he swore tasted like toothpaste—and a bag of your favorite Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. You hadn't even told him you were on your period. He just knew.

Then there were the tender moments, late at night in bed, long after your bodies were slick with sweat, a cool drift coming in through the open window, carrying the salty ocean air. You would talk for hours, just whisper-talking about everything and nothing.

Your messed-up childhoods, where you grew up, his almost-obsession with basketball, your desperate dream of moving away one day and never looking back. His weird, irrational fear of sea urchins, your ridiculous collection of Labubus, the time he broke his ribs cliff diving that one summer. He even told you about his mother, a soft vulnerability in his voice you rarely, if ever, heard.

All those whispered dreams and secrets, shared under the pale glow of the moon, you kept them all, locked away in your heart.

You knew him, truly knew him, beneath all the Kook bravado and the reckless abandon.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

You sat by the creek until the sun, a cruel artist, painted the sky a sickening blood orange once more. Dried tear tracks crisscrossed your cheeks, and you hugged your knees, burying your head, wishing you could disappear into the earth.

The crunch of footsteps behind you, the sound of your name carried on the damp air. You didn't need to turn around. You knew.

"Been lookin' everywhere for you," Rafe's voice, surprisingly soft, reached you. He crouched down beside you, his fingers gently cradling your jaw, turning your face to look up at him. His thumb stroked your cheekbone,

"Don't run off on me like that, you had me worried." His eyes were now somber, filled with a deep, unsettling tenderness compared to the fire you'd seen just hours before.

You tried to speak, but your throat was a knot of fear and raw emotion. No words came.

"You scared me, y'know," he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. "Can't lose you. Don't ever wanna lose you…… I love you."

Those three words. They hit you like a physical blow, stripping away the last shreds of your composure. You bit your trembling lip, because deep down, in the fractured mess of your heart, you felt them too. You had dreamed of hearing him say them, yearned for it, despite everything. Now, they felt like a heavy chain.

You pulled away from his searing touch, the vision of Peterkin's lifeless body flashing behind your eyes. "Rafe, what happened at the airstrip, you— you—" Your voice broke, a raw sob tearing from your throat. You covered your face with shaking hands, desperate to blink away the horrifying images.

"Hey, hey, listen to me, okay?" His voice was insistent, as he pulled your hands away, forcing you to look at him. "I love you, you hear me? I fucking love you."

The intensity of his confession was was met with another ragged sob from you. He cradled your face with both hands, his thumbs meticulously wiping away your tears, each stroke a subtle reassertion of control.

"And I know you love me too, don’t you?" he spoke softly, a persuasive whisper, layered with an unnerving confidence. "I know you feel it too, I know you do. This thing between us, it's real. We got something here, something rare, and I'll be damned if I let anything... or anyone... mess that up."

You shook your head weakly, your mind a whirlwind. Was this a calculated lie? A desperate ploy to keep you quiet? Or was it... genuine? You couldn't tell.

But he was right about one thing, a truth that burned through the haze of shock: you did love him. That was the most dangerous part.

"You had a gun—"

Rafe didn't let you finish. He cut you off, his voice firm and unwavering, like it was a fact set in stone, a new reality being hammered into place. "John B shot Peterkin." He paused, letting the words hang in the air, allowing them to sink in, to replace what you actually saw. "It was John B, okay? I was there. You were there. We both saw him. It was John B."

"Rafe—"

"Do you love me?" His wide eyes searched yours, demanding an answer, a pledge. He took one of your trembling hands and placed it on his chest, right over his heart. "You feel that? That's all for you. My heart. My truth. Tell me you feel it too. Tell me we're in this together."

The steady thumping against your palm was a stark contradiction to the chaos in your mind.

"I do, I feel it too." you finally admitted, the truth tearing itself from your lips, there was no point in lying about it.

He pressed his forehead against yours, a profound sigh escaping him, a sound of relief and triumph. "I love you," he muttered.

“But—“ before you could say anything else, his lips crashed onto yours. It was a kiss of desperation, an open flame pressing against your lips, burning you.

"I love you," he kept repeating, a relentless mantra, a spell he was casting, using those three powerful words to bend your will, to rewrite your memory. "Say it, baby. Say it."

"I love you," you whispered back, the words tasting like ash and surrender, your voice barely a breath. A small, chillingly triumphant smile spread on Rafe's face.

"What happened at the airstrip?" he asked, his voice now a soft test, watching you, waiting for your compliance, for your full submission to his narrative.

"John B shot Peterkin."

"Good girl," he murmured softly, a dark warmth in his eyes, before kissing you again, more deeply this time, devouring your lips, consuming your protests, solidifying his victory.

He wrapped you in his arms, pulling you impossibly close, tucking your head under his chin. "I love you," he muttered again, stroking your hair, his hand felt like a lock. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

You were drowning, not in water, but in crimson. The world around you was a swirling, opaque red, thick and viscous. Your head was held beneath the surface, pressed down by an unseen force, unable to break through the current. You thrashed, desperate for air, for light, but the crimson enveloped you, pressing in from all sides.

Finally, your lungs screamed, and you had no choice. You gulped it in, swallowing ungodly amounts of the warm, metallic blood, feeling it fill your throat, then your chest, expanding, burning. The world went dim, the only sensation left an agonizing ache, a crushing weight in your chest.

Guilt. So much of it. A suffocating, relentless guilt. Your silence was a crime itself. Blood was on your hands too.

A faint sound, your name being called from a distant, muffled place, began to cut through the oppressive red.

Then, a firm shaking. You jolted upright, gasping, eyes snapping open to the inky darkness of the room. Your skin was slick with cold sweat, your hair plastered to your forehead, your legs clammy beneath the duvet. You looked around wildly, your heart hammering, until two pale, concerned slits of white appeared in the darkness, gazing back at you.

"Another bad dream?" Rafe's voice broke the silence. He sat up with you, immediately wrapping your trembling body in his arms. The warmth of his skin, did little to soothe the cold terror still gripping you. You were trapped, not just in his arms, but in the nightmare you couldn't escape.

It wasn't just ‘another’ bad dream; it was the same suffocating nightmare that had plagued you all month, your body's visceral protest against the lies forced down your throat.

An innocent person was dead, the sheriff of your town, her life brutally extinguished. And another innocent person, John B, forced to take the fall, his freedom snatched away.

You, meanwhile, were in bed with the real killer, protecting him, lying for him, a complicit silence that felt heavier than any spoken word.

"It's okay, I've got you." Rafe murmured against your neck, a siren's song. He gently guided you back down onto the bed, kissing your neck, his fingers pulling the straps of your nightdress down your shoulders, peppering hot kisses down your body, a deliberate trail that left a searing, possessive path in its wake.

"I love you," he murmured, as his lips found the soft skin of your thighs, kissing between them until his face was nestled there, hooking your legs over his shoulders.

This was his go-to move, his perfect distraction. Whenever the guilt became too much, whenever you started questioning everything, he knew exactly how to pull you back, how to make your mind go blank. After all, this is how it had all started with him at the beginning of summer.

He was a distraction, the ultimate escape from your own chaotic life. A mother who saw you as nothing more than a burden, a mistake that had shattered her dreams. She never hesitated to remind you of the life she lost because of you, a life meant for adventure, not motherhood.

You were the daughter she never wanted, couldn't love, because the hate in her heart was too vast, too consuming, fueled by a marriage she was forced into with the man who got her pregnant, binding her to a life of perpetual unhappiness.

Your father, on the other hand, gave you everything tangible: money, a lavish roof over your head, a steady dinner on the table, a car, anything your heart desired was at your fingertips. But love was a currency he simply didn't trade in.

While your mother regularly got drunk and vomited cruel, venomous words at you, your father was a man of chilling few words, his silence a different, colder kind of neglect.

Love was a foreign term, a language you’d never heard spoken, a feeling you’d never truly experienced. And when Rafe offered it to you—those three simple words—you thought that's what it was. You didn't know any better. How could you?

After being starved of it your entire life, how could you not run towards the one person who was dangling it, shining and tempting, right in front of your face?

You threw your head back, a moan escaping your lips, part pleasure, part surrender, part desperate attempt to breathe.

Through the murky darkness of the room, you could make out his blue eyes, intently fixed on your face, watching the erratic rise and fall of your chest, a silent, chilling vigilance. His tongue worked relentlessly, slowly, expertly, turning your brain to a hazy mush until you finally came undone.

But he didn't stop there. He never stopped. He would keep going, he always did. No matter how much you tried to push his face away, pulled at his hair, tried to writhe away from his engulfing touch, he held you firmly in place. He didn't stop until you were a whimpering, sobbing mess, until the only coherent words that tumbled from your lips were broken pleas of his name.

He wanted you completely, utterly fucked out of it, every sharp edge of reality dulled, every horrifying image washed away until there were no coherent thoughts left in your mind.

Only then could you sleep peacefully, and in turn, only then could he sleep peacefully. It was a small price to pay for him, this erosion of your will, this silencing of your conscience. You were the last loose string in his carefully constructed freedom, and he would be damned if he let you unravel.

When Rafe found you that morning by the creek, he took you straight back to his home. You should have been surprised that his dad, Ward – a man Rafe usually spoke of with disdain – welcomed you with unsettlingly open arms. They insisted you stay with them, a suggestion you hesitantly accepted, preferring the peace of Tannyhill over the chaos of your own home.

You were too naive, too broken, to understand it then, but it was painfully clear now: they were overcompensating, trying desperately to keep you happy, no matter the cost. Rafe kept you satisfied and distracted, while Ward watched you like a hawk.

Every move you made, every whisper you uttered, was under scrutiny. If you were on the phone with a friend, either Rafe would abruptly appear, suddenly needing something in the same room, or you’d hear the tell-tale creak of floorboards in the hall, a subtle sign that Ward was listening, always listening.

They didn't just watch; they controlled the flow of information. Suddenly, your phone seemed to have terrible reception whenever you tried to call anyone outside Tanny Hill.

Messages would mysteriously fail to send, or calls would drop mid-sentence. You'd often find Rafe "charging" your phone for you, or "cleaning" it, always returning it with a knowing look that implied he'd been through your recent calls. Texts from your friends asking to hang out never came through to you.

If you mentioned wanting to go into town alone, Rafe would suddenly have an urgent errand, or a "surprise" outing planned that conveniently overlapped with your intentions. Your car keys had a tendency to disappear, only to reappear in Rafe's pocket, or on a hook in the kitchen "for safekeeping." There was always a plausible excuse, a soft smile, a reassuring squeeze of your hand.

Rafe insisted on tagging along with you everywhere. If you were getting your nails done, he'd come and wait patiently, scrolling on his phone, occasionally offering a comment on your color choice. He’d drop you off at your friends' houses, then pick you up again, always right on time.

He even came with you for your wax appointment once, hovering just outside the door, chatting up the receptionist.

You weren’t given an inch of space. Any other time, you would have found it completely overbearing, a suffocating invasion of privacy. But you were a fool in love, desperate for any semblance of care.

You took all of this as Rafe being cautious, caring for you after the traumatic scene you’d witnessed. You mistook his control for concern, his manipulation for love. And he knew it. He counted on it.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

"The girl," Ward's voice was a low, conspiratorial rumble, "She won't be a problem, will she?"

"I got it, Dad," Rafe replied, his tone surprisingly calm, almost dismissive. "I'm taking care of it. You don't have to worry about her—"

"Listen to me," Ward interjected. "I'm handling everything right now. I'm cleaning up this entire mess, so tell me this won't backfire!"

"It won't."

"Because if she's a loose cannon," Ward hissed, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper, "then we need to deal with her before she can become a bigger problem.

Your blood ran to ice overhearing Ward and Rafes conversation. ‘Deal with her’. They weren't talking about gently persuading you. If you decided to tell the truth, if you dared to expose them, they would take you out. They would probably make you disappear, just like they had Peterkin.

You scrambled away from Ward's office, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, urging you silently back to Rafe's room. You practically dove into the attached bathroom, locking the door.

The perfect, shimmering mirror of his 'love' that you had so desperately clung to, now cracked into a thousand jagged, ugly edges, sharp enough to draw blood.

He didn't love you. He didn't care about you. You were just a problem he was keeping at bay, a ticking time bomb he was afraid would explode and expose the truth, the insidious web of their lies. You were a loose end, and the Camerons always tied up their loose ends.

There was no way out.

The door handle rattled violently, followed by a loud knock. "Baby, everything okay?"

You sniffled, frantically wiping your tear-streaked cheeks, then stumbled to unlock the door. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," you mumbled, turning away from him to face the mirror.

One look confirmed it: your mascara-stained eyes and flushed cheeks were a dead giveaway. You weren't fooling anyone, especially not him.

He turned you around, his brows raised in question. "What's wrong?"

Before you could even formulate a word, he hoisted you onto the cool bathroom counter, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His gaze was so intensely endearing, that your train of thought derailed completely.

"What's got my beautiful girl like this, hmm?" he asked, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

You wanted to scream a million things, to voice the fears and doubts clawing at your gut, but after hearing his conversation with Ward, you bit your tongue.

"Hate to see you like this," he began peppering kisses across your face—your wet cheeks, your jaw, your forehead, before finally settling on your lips.

His hands, warm and knowing, began a slow, delicate dance up and down your thighs, then, with a subtle shift, slipped under the hem of your dress.

It was almost impossible to focus on anything beyond the fire he was creating on your skin. His tongue slipped into your mouth, his fingers brushed teasingly over your panties. "You know I love you, yeah?" he whispered into your ear, sending a shudder through you that had nothing to do with desire.

"You're my everything, y'know that." He pushed the fabric to the side, his fingers doing what they always did when you were crying, when the ugly truth threatened to surface.

But now it was all tainted. As his fingers began their work, every touch, every soft murmur, vividly resurrected the images you so desperately wanted to forget: the airstrip, Peterkin shot dead, the chilling crimson seeping into the asphalt, Rafe clutching the gun.

And that was it. That was the moment of chilling clarity. He couldn't distract you anymore. You couldn't look past what he'd done, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how good his mouth was, how skilled his fingers were.

He wasn't a distraction anymore; he was the chaos itself, the root of all your terror. You let out a choked sob, your thighs clenching around his hand. Your head fell onto his shoulder, heavy.

"I love you so much," he groaned, unbuckling his pants, his hard tip tracing a scorching line up and down your slit. "I love you," he repeated, a low growl, as he slipped into you, the sudden fullness making you cry out.

"I'll always take care of you," he blabbered on, his forehead resting against yours, thrusting into you with slow, deliberate precision. Each movement of his hips was sharp, calibrated, punctuating his empty words.

"We take care of each other," he kissed the corner of your mouth, his grip on your hips tightening as he sped up his pace.

He whispered praises into your ear, but you barely heard him, the words dissolving into the ringing in your ears. Tears streamed silently down your face, hot and endless. You weren't really there; you were dissociating, floating above your body, back at the airstrip.

"I love you," he groaned, spilling into you, wrapping his arms around you, still buried deep inside. He tucked your head under his chin as you continued to cry, his hands stroking soothingly up and down your back, holding you captive.

.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・.

"Liar," Rafe's hot breath fanned across your face, the word a venomous whisper. "Don't lie to me, baby." He slowly uncoiled from his crouched position, rising to his full height, a terrifying shadow looming over you.

"I'm not lying, please— please just untie me, Rafe," your voice was barely a whisper, desperate and trembling.

Rafe blew out a breath, his mouth forming a perfect 'O', lips pouted together in mock contemplation. "Now you're lying about lying?"

"I'm not!" The denial ripped from you, a desperate, futile sound.

"Go ahead," he urged, a chilling invitation. "Tell me another lie. I dare you."

"I don't like this, Rafe. This isn't funny, untie me. Now." You swallowed hard, trying a new tactic, attempting to project an authority you absolutely did not feel. You tried to strong-arm him, to command, but his gaze, sharp and knowing, cut right through your pathetic bluff.

"Oh, you wanna know what I don't like?" He tapped his chin with the cold steel of the gun, a sickening rhythm that echoed the frantic beat of your heart.

"I don't like when my girlfriend lies to me. I don't like it when she runs to the police station. I trusted you, and you ran the first chance you got." He sighed dramatically, a theatrical display of disappointment.

And now, you were genuinely, utterly terrified. His eyes, wide and unblinking, held no emotion. No anger, no sadness, just a chilling, bottomless emptiness that promised nothing but pure, unadulterated madness.

"You think I’m stupid, huh?" he spat, the words laced with a sudden, sharp venom.

He began to circle your chair slowly, a predator assessing its trapped prey. The gun in his hand moved with him, its cold barrel tracing a terrifying path across your shoulders, a light touch that made your skin crawl. He stopped directly in front of you, the gun now aimed precisely, deliberately, at your carotid artery.

"ANSWER ME!" he roared, his voice erupting, making you flinch violently against the ropes.

He pressed the cold metal harder, a sharp, cutting pressure against your pulsing skin, a silent promise of the imminent end. The stakes were no longer just freedom, but life itself.

"No."

"Liar."

He had planned for this type of betrayal. Not expected it, not entirely, but he was always prepared.

That afternoon, when you had insisted he drop you off at the mall alone, telling him to pick you up in two hours, he'd played along, feigning compliance. But he hadn't left the car park. Not really. He’d watched, his heart sinking in his chest when he saw you step outside again, checking your surroundings, then hailing a cab.

He’d tried to give you the benefit of the doubt then, a flicker of hope that you wouldn't betray him. But that flicker had died the moment he tracked your phone, watched the little dot move inexorably towards the police station.

Just before your foot could cross the threshold, he'd been there, a ghost in the shadows, grabbing you, the prick of the needle, the swift, silent push of the sedative.

"I loved you," he whispered, the words sounding like a eulogy for something already dead.

He trailed the gun slowly up your face, the cold metal dragging across your skin, until the barrel rested precisely between your eyes. With a thumb that trembled almost imperceptibly, he clicked off the safety. The soft click echoed in the silence, a death knell.

He never thought it would come to this. He truly hadn't. And now, he didn't know which stung more: your betrayal, raw and burning, or the cold, bitter realization that his father, had been right about you all along.

"Please don't do this. I won't say a word, I swear. I won't. Just... please."

"I trusted you," Rafe's voice cracked, and tears, real tears, brimmed in his eyes. He pulled the gun away from your face, rubbing his hands over his eyes, scrubbing at the moisture. "I fucking gave you everything, and what do you do in return, huh?"

His instability was palpable, his mood swinging from scalding fury to choked despair in a heartbeat. He was a volatile mess, and you knew, with a terrifying certainty, that you were treading on a razor-thin wire.

"No— no, please just give me another chance," you pleaded, desperately searching for any crack in his fractured sanity.

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me," he clicked his tongue, a soft, sickening sound. His face hardened, the brief vulnerability vanishing. "I'm not taking the risk, baby."

He pointed the gun between your eyes again, the barrel an inky black void staring back at you. "I really did love you. I never lied to you. Can't say the same for you."

"I do!" you screamed, anything to survive, anything to delay the inevitable. "I do love you! Rafe, I love you!"

"Liar," he whispered, a single, stray tear tracing a path down his cheek, even as his eyes narrowed, staring down at you from over the gun, waiting for you to say your final words.

His finger, steady now, began to press on the trigger.

You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the impact, the finality. And then, a desperate, impossible whisper tore from your lips:

"I'm pregnant."

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