#so he can kill them without anyone noticing should he need to

[daemyra-fire]

The answer to this question is getting worse and worse.

"As if unfortunately we will never be able to see if she forgives him or not "(Also, what exactly did she have to forgive him for? That he survived? That he avoided telling Wharton that it was her who was there? How stupid), that was precisely what we wanted from the series, to show us a minimal conversation that was real between them, and you were the writers and directors and you could do what you wanted with the story. "unfortunately" is not the word I should use for this.

"I would like to believe that one day she would do it." I insist exactly that you had to forgive the person who once and again rescued June from being murdered? That every time she needed help he was there, this is incredible, she got him into trouble and not even she has the capacity to accept that it was June's fault that Nick made the mistake!

"The reason she forgave Serena was because of Noah" — EXCUSE ME, WHAT? Say that again? She forgave Serena because of Noah? Nick had two children!!! And one of them was with June! So he didn’t have the chance to raise his children … why? Because he’s a man? Because he didn’t die in June’s name when she wanted him to? This is insane. You can’t tell me that Nick had less to live for than Serena — Nick was the one who helped get her daughter out multiple times, and helped her too!!

"There was no way to stop that plane"? I can give you at least three ways to warn him without anyone noticing, and I guarantee you Nick wouldn’t betray June not even for a minute. The Commanders weren’t even expecting him — the car had already left, and she had the choice to let him die or not. That simple.

"I'm sure she didn't want that to happen, she didn't want him to die — even if she didn't want to be with him, even if she didn’t forgive him, she had no choice." But if she really didn’t want to see him die, she hid it very well. She didn’t even pretend to try and save him. She didn’t try to contact him, and after that? She didn’t even mourn him. She showed no respect for his death or his memory, and didn’t acknowledge everything he did to help her. In fact, every other character speaks better of Nick than she does in the end.

So this idea that "June had no other choice" feels incredibly forced and senseless.

Call me a hopeless romantic, but if someone I love is about to die, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to try and stop it. Yes, there were risks — but there were ways to fix it.

If the Commanders had been killed, I’m sure Nick would’ve chosen to go with June — he never questioned it, not for one second. And if the roles were reversed, he would have died to save her. But June? She never once returned that favor, despite everything he did for her. And now the actress refuses to admit that June had other choices — and that she let him die, just because she wanted to. Not to mention, the writers had plenty of other ways to end Nick’s story — and they chose to put him on that plane.

There’s no “unfortunately” that justifies this. You made that choice. You messed it up. And now you're trying to say “there was no other way” — when there’s a book with a different ending and the whole story seemed to be heading in a completely different direction. This was a deliberate move and now you all have to live with the story you decided to tell.

A ‘we wish we hadn’t done it’ or ‘we wish it had gone differently’ doesn't hold any weight anymore — when they had the choice all along.

[volvolts]

ok so one thing i cant stop thinking about is that i think that belos should have less grimwalker corspes

not because of downplaying his evilness like even killing one is bad but like. the logistics?? how many grimwalkers did he go through? how many of them with wildly different personalities? appearances? hunter is shown walking around the castle without his garb and the other coven heads KNOW what he looks like. the last golden guard was darius' mentor. was that in secret and he was killed when belos found out or did he allow that?

morever did all of them think they were belos' nephew? hunter was pretty open telling luz about this fact so did every single one say the same thing? they were ALL named hunter after a while so did no one stop to think about that?

[bxnfire]

love island ft. ryomen sukuna

masterlist

loveisland!sukuna who isn't interested in you at first (or anyone for that matter) but due to his little feud with gojo he decided to spend time and time with you, as it seemed as though gojo was smitten with you. but his scheme ended up with him actually being into you, oh boy!

loveisland!sukuna who isn't as charming or sweet as the others, and he doesn't pretend to be. for a place where men are encouraged to be on their best behavior he sure sticks out like a sore thumb, but you'd be lying if you said that it didn't attract you to him

loveisland!sukuna who is just passionate. the second he decides you'll be his, he makes it known to everyone, specially you. in your dates, he never shies away from any "hard" questions, nor does he acted like he has mixed feelings. sure, maybe he doesn't call you my love, nor does he tell you sweet nothings at all times, but when you ask him if he'd actually be in a relationship with you when this all is over, or whether he's genuinely into you, his answers make your doubts go away, as if there was never a reason to have them to begin with. he's not quite the talker, but you come to realize that he's a good fucking listener. sure, he looks annoyed about half the time, but you best believe he remembers the names of your plushies, your favorite dressing, the show you've watched 17 times, and the exact spot in your neck where you'd rather be bit than sucked on, the pace at which he should thrust into you, and what sounds let him know that you need more, that you're about to cum, or that you want to change the pace. he truly does make you wonder if anyone's truly known you before him

loveisland!sukuna who always wins the heart rate challenge, for the only one who spikes his off the charts is you, and everyone else is well, just there. this always earns him dates with you, in which he makes sure he spikes your heart rate off the chart. be prepared to wake up sore, because no matter how active you may or may not be, this man is fan of multiple rounds, and even if that was just part of the game, he believes you owe him for getting him all riled up, and he makes you pay for it. you must want to kill him by showing everyone in the cast and crew, who struggle trying to censor the obscene bulge he's worked up after your little performance. whether it is by fucking your throat relentlessly until he feels like you've earned pleasure, or by putting you in all fours and gripping your waist and hair so damn hard that you barely have time to notice he's about to go all in with no mercy, though the way your pussy clenches and gets even wetter lets him know you don't mind one last bit, or maybe even by making you sit your cunt on his tattooed face and not stopping until you're a crying, whimpering mess begging for a break, which spoiler alert! he's not giving you

loveisland!sukuna who is feisty. he's quick to get into a fight when he overhears the other contestants talk about you as if they could get you, or if god forbid, someone disrespects you. if it weren't for the public absolutely loving his twisted temper and how he is towards you, the black eyes and broken noses he's caused would've made him get sent home wayyyy sooner than planned

loveisland!sukuna who loves adventure dates and dinner dates. horseback riding in a forest or mountain can be super romantic, he gets to tease you and let his competitive side shine through, but you shouldn't be surprised to find that he was on a quest to find the perfect hidden spot where he could take you without interruptions, as it was already rough focusing on riding the horse while all you wanted to do was ride him, and he had made it clear he had about the same intentions when he "helped" you get on your horse, which sure, yeah you were secured alright, but you heavily doubted the rubbing of his fingers on your clothed pussy did anything to adjust your seat, or the fact that he explained everything to you between kisses along your neck and shoulders as his breath landed right on your ear had actually helped you on your journey. if anything, it made you wish you had worn a bikini instead of your cotton underwear, which was soon to be torn to shreds. as for dinner dates, he actually loves listening to you speak. he may always bitch when you ask to taste his food, but as he rolls his eyes he pushes his plate towards you, and makes sure to look back just in time to see you've liked his choice, not that he ordered something that would be of your taste, his taste just so happens to be excellent, the mere coincidence it has with your favorite meals is purely random, not him trying to impress you, don't be stupid. and sure, maybe he's making mental notes of your favorite desserts when it's time for those, but he makes sure you can't tell he's scheming by having you as his dessert, because who the fuck would have a spoonful of ice cream when they could easily be nose deep in your cunt instead?

loveisland!sukuna who's cutscenes with you are just hilarious. he loves to banter with you and see how witty you can be with him, and he loves the way your mouth never gives out on him, whether in argument or bed is his favorite is a big dilemma, but he knows he doesn't need to settle it

loveisland!sukuna who has always been secure of everything he's done in this life. who has never known what fear means. but the second he realizes he's fallen for you, he begins to question whether he deserves you at all, and he's fucking terrified at the thought of losing you. it pisses him off terribly to have met his match, and you make him oh so weak, it's agonizing. and yet, in the quiet of the night where it's just the two of you, he comes to realize that maybe, just maybe, he only feels safe with you, only you have lit the fire on a heart that he swore was born cold, and he'll go to the end of the fucking world for you, if you need him to, because even if he thought he preferred his life the way it was, you've given it a meaning, something to yearn for, and he'll be damned if he backs down, because truly, what fool would shy away from earning the greatest treasure of all?

[pyrodolls]

SUPERFAN! AND STALKER! YANDERE BOYS X READER HCS

WARNINGS: obsessiveness, sfw, murder, mentions of corpses, just overall unhealthy behavior cuz they're yanderes. (i do not condone yanderes irl and this is for writing purposes) gender neutral reader, no use of y/n.

A/N: guys idk why i havent updated in so long. ig i just havent had much motivation?? anyways ummm i'm still super busy right now and i have 400 assignments due in 3 days but i don't wanna do them soooooo how about i write some short and cute headcanons for y'all? 😁

if bayani was a puppy hybrid...

clingy clingy CLINGY

bros going wherever you go. even if u gotta take a piss he's gonna hold your hand. wait, you don't want him in the bathroom with you? at least let him sit outside!

he is very easy to distract, though. if you ever want to be alone for a while but he just won't leave your side, throw a tennis ball somewhere and it should keep him busy for a solid 10 minutes.

loves snuggling with you. he literally distracts you and takes up at LEAST one hour every morning trying to keep you in bed with him. if you leave him alone in bed, he'll be whining until you come back.

he's also very talkative, and always yapping your ear off about random nonsense, until you tell him to shut up. problem is, if you tell him to shut up, he isn't going to open his mouth again for a few days. he'll be very sulky about it and look up at you with those big puppy dog eyes of his, silently hoping you'll allow him to speak again. as much as he loves hearing you yell at him, he still doesn't want you to be mad at him for long periods of time.

he'll eat anything you cook. you could be the worst cook in the world and burn your dish to a crisp, and he'd still eat it up like it's nobody's business. he doesn't even notice if it's well cooked or not, he sees anything you create as a masterpiece.

but this also means he's like a guard dog! even though he is quite small and his face isn't very intimidating, he tries! he goes to the gym frequently so he can be stronger for you. he wants to be able to defend you if anything goes wrong.

he is very patient. if you have any work or assignments you need to get done, he'll sit and wait however long you need him to. he'll even bring you beverages and snacks so you can keep working without getting up.

overall, he has some similar traits to a puppy, but he's still the same optimistic (and obsessive) bayani.

if victor was a cat hybrid...

LMFAOOO good luck getting away from him.

bros a silent killer. he watches from afar. if you happen to feel his eyes staring at the back of your head, and you look to see if your feeling is correct, he'll snap his head the other direction so you don't suspect a thing.

he follows you around, but unlike bayani, he wouldn't stop if you asked him to. and he isn't in your personal space, he is much farther away so it's harder to tell when he's tailing after you.

and like a cat, he proudly brings you dead things and is convinced that you would like it. usually he kills anyone that seems to be too close to you, and shows it off like a trophy of his affection and strength.

victor would kill someone and be like: "this week's new corpse looks awesome. they'll totally love this, i gotta show them!" (you did not, in fact, love seeing the rotting corpse of your friend on your doorstep.)

he guards your house as if he's a soldier at war. if he sees anyone break in, or if it's an insect that happened to fly in through your vents, he'll eliminate the threat before you even notice it.

he's also quite moody. sometimes he's affectionate and kind to you, then the next minute he'll act like a brat and expect you to cook and clean for him.

and if you called him out on his behavior, he'll act all pouty and mutter: "i don't do that.." then he'd get up and silently do some chores around the house as an apology. if you brought up his acts of service, he'll get flustered and say you were "too lazy to do it yourself" or something along those lines.

overall, he's quiet, moody, and does things his own way. unlike bayani, victor doesn't do anything you ask him to do, but he still shows his affection for you in his own subtle ways.

[cherryredstars]

Idk what wrong with me but I've been craving some highschool oneshot, or anything tbh

So I hope if u could do badbad!Miguel x goodgirl!nerd?

I have no idea what I meant by goodgirl!nerd,let just make her an good girl who always an big time nerd in the school,who loves helping people out,especially when it come to tutoringor tutor some students,so when miguel ask for her to tutor him,so he could catch up with his grades,she say yes to him,but he really didn't need the tutoring he just wanted to play around with reader (he would been craving for some of her attention,he would have an interest in her without anyone notice) he loved teasing,flirty, and most definitely love making her all stuttering and blushing mess,but what he hate how people who think that have their advantage over reader,eye fucking her with their eyes,it just makes his blood boil,his fist clenching in anger,but he deals with them later (beating tf out of them for thinking that they can touch what his) but not feeling satisfied he just had to show u who u belong to,and make you his,so on one can try to get u before him

Idk what wrong with me like I can write when I'm zoned out (also could u pls put nfsw pls)

Anyway have an great day

Pairing: Badboy!Miguel O’Hara x Goodgirl!Reader

Warnings: Protectiveness, Suggested Physical Fighting, Smut, Slight Exhibition, Marking, Praise, Lots of Curses and Mentions to Disney

Summary: All good boys go to heaven, but bad boys bring heaven to you. (Get it..like the song)

A/N: THIS REQUEST IS SO!!!

Word Count: 4.5K (Barely Edited)

It doesn’t take much to notice you. 

He sees you all the time, sitting in the front like the good little girl you are. Batting those innocent eyes up at every teacher as you shoot your hand up to answer every question with a bashful smile. Eyes you as you go up to different students, reminding them of tutoring sessions or offering help. His good little girl just wanted to make sure everyone graduates with passing grades. Just want to be so helpful for everyone, to feel needed. He could make you feel needed. Only if you’d let him, only if you needed him as much as he needed you. 

When he calls your name, your head shoots up instantly to turn to him. Your cheeks heat up when your eyes meet his, a smirk spreading on his face. He calls you over, finger forming a ‘come here’ motion. You instantly obey, getting out of your seat and standing over his desk. You flutter your lashes shyly at him, fingers fidgeting together as you try to kill the redness on your face. Miguel hums lazily, hand reaching out to play with a strand of your hair resting on your shoulder. Your hair is soft and silky against his fingers, his eyes watching as it twirls around his fingers.

“Tutor me.” He says simply, eyes blazing a lazy trial up to your face. His expression is one of boredom, except his eyes are glistening with mischief. 

The eye contact makes you flush deeper, face practically a tomato as you refocus your gaze to his ear to avoid his gaze. A stuttered response leaves you, uncertainty masking your voice as you ask him what he needs help with. The question momentarily pauses his movements. Truthfully, he doesn’t need help with anything. He has a high class rank, closely following behind your up and coming valedictorian title. In the end, he replies with science, a class he has a perfect grade in. You instantly agree, shyly giving him a time and day to go to the library for his sessions. 

He always shows up a few minutes early, you find him on his phone as his feet are propped up on a secluded table with his chair leaning on its back legs. A lazy smile crosses his face as he watches you walk over, not caring for the science workbooks you set down at the table. You try your hardest not to meet his gaze, finding it hard when he sets his feet down and leans closer towards you as you explain the material in quiet, stuttered sentences. He simply hums along to your explanations, not really listening as he brushes his shoulder against yours, accidentally grazing your hand when he points to a random paragraph, pressing the side of his knee against yours under the table. 

Each touch makes you stop talking, body tensing as a flush covers every inch of your skin. His touch burns against your skin, causing your voice to waver and fingers to tremble. He drinks in every reaction, interrupting your explanations with questions whispered too close to your ear in a flirty tone. They’re questions he already knows the answers to, but he just wants to keep hearing you talk and stutter. He’ll make you late to your next tutor session with a pout, teasing that he still doesn’t understand what you’re trying to teach him. It always causes your eyes to soften towards him and make you promise that you’ll move your schedule around to make room for a sooner tutoring session. It always causes Miguel to puff up with pride at his clever antics and for his heart to beat faster at the thought of spending more one-on-one time with you. 

When he’s not with you in his lovely tutor sessions, he keeps his eye on you. He watches you in the cafeteria as you offer someone your lunch because they didn’t bring any money and don’t have anything to eat. He smiles slightly to himself whenever you get stopped by an underclassman and you fuss over making sure they get to the right class and don’t end up lost in the halls. He gets slightly annoyed and furrows his brows when you hold the door open for a long string of people and only a few of them acknowledge your kindness with a thank you. You’re just so nice and he wishes he can have that sweetness of yours all to himself. Especially when he sees some random ass fuck trying their go at you. Because, of course you’re not just nice and smart, you’re a total fucking knockout. 

You have the sweetest little face paired with a body any man would get on his knees to worship, (a thought Miguel thinks about very often in the comfort of a bathroom or his bedroom), the shiniest fucking eyes that always blink up at everyone like they’re the most interesting damn thing you’ve ever met, and a voice that drips of honey and hidden sex appeal. And if it isn’t your looks that instantly draw them in, it’s that perfect personality of yours. Always kind and patient and funny. You’re always walking with someone in the halls, making everyone you’re with laugh and crave to be the subject of your attention. You’re a goddamn magnet, and everyone wants to be connected to you. You’re the type of woman that would convince any man to settle down, to drop to a single knee and ask you to be his for life. Because everyone knows that you’re a once in a lifetime girl and no one will ever come close to you. Every boy (and some girls) in this damn school wants a chance with you. 

And that pisses Miguel the fuck off. Because while you’re wife material, most boys here don’t even meet the requirements to be considered boyfriend material. Sleezy fucks who want a trophy wife that will suck them off after they come home from some meaningless job that they sit around all day doing nothing at. Immature cunts who think they’re funny when they poke fun at insecurities and claim it's a joke. Disgusting toddlers in overgrown bodies who don’t deserve to be in the same universe as you are. But, of course you’re still nice to them, and of course they think it means they have a chance with you. 

Miguel is always clenching his jaw and preparing his fists whenever he walks into the library to meet you after one of your earlier sessions to see some disney channel-looking fucker trying to sweet talk you. Key word being ‘trying’, because he can tell from a mile away that you’re still trying to be patient even though your body language screams ‘I am so close to slapping this boy with my textbooks’. The thought makes Miguel snort out a laugh that instantly dies as he watches some Zac Efron wannabe lean closer towards you. The asshole’s eyes instantly drop to your chest, where your textbooks are causing your boobs to be pushed together, revealing the most mouthwatering sight. Miguel’s eye is practically twitching when the dude’s slimy fingers come to run down your arm with the ugliest smirk Miguel has had the displeasure of seeing. 

Miguel doesn’t hesitate to walk over, walking slowly as he stops at the end of the table with a bored and displeased expression on his face. The boy, who’ll probably end up as a drug addict in his 20s, looks very annoyed at his presence. Even muttering something about Miguel being a ‘cock-blocker’ under his breath. The retort makes Miguel lift his brow in surprise. He didn’t know Mickey Mouse Junior even had a dick. Must be one of his magic mousekatools, he concludes. 

Miguel ignores him, instantly turning to you. The grateful look on your face as you stare at him makes Miguel puff out his chest, proud of himself for making you feel better. His body loses the tiniest bit of tension as you smile softly at him. “He bothering you, princesa?”

You instantly widen your eyes, moving to shake your head when Donald Duck speaks up, “I think you’re the one bothering her, actually.”

He must have been a mosquito in his past life, Miguel thinks to himself, it would explain why he’s so fucking annoying. Miguel turns over to Shrek’s brother and stares him down. The boy instantly looks like he might piss his pants, but keeps his position as much as his wobbling legs can, “I think you should leave Miguel. I’m sure she’ll be…preoccupied for the next hour or two.”

His comment makes you cringe from the applied meaning and Miguel sees absolute red. He has to laugh at what this fucker thinks would have happend if Miguel didn’t show up. Yeah right, like this motherfucker could last that long. Miguel grabs the front of his collar with a tight grip, almost pulling the poor boy over the table. A vein is visibly running down Migue’s neck as his jaw clenches. 

“Puta madre. Cuando termine contigo, no podrás tocar nada nunca más.” Miguel grinds out, shaking the worthless piece of shit slightly before turning towards you in a nicer, softer tone, but still laced with a bit of tension: “Go find us a nice table, hermosa. I have to take care of something real quick.” 

You can only nod, watching as Miguel leaves with the boy out the back entrance of the library. You wince slightly as the door closes rather loudly, feeling a bit of sympathy for the boy who most likely won’t schedule another tutoring session once Miguel comes back. You spend the next 20 or so minutes preparing the secluded table Miguel likes best. Laying out all your books and supplies, sitting still and then getting antsy and shifting things to straighten them every few minutes. 

When Miguel finds you, he walks over with his hands in his pocket. He looks just like he did a few minutes ago, his hair just slightly disheveled. Your heart might have actually stopped when his hand leaves his pocket to grab yours that are drummin nervously on the wooden table. His hand is rough compared to your soft one as he bends down and brings it to his face. His lips are soft, if not slightly chapped, when he presses a fleeting kiss to your knuckles, mumbling an apology for taking so long as he stares into your eyes. Your eyes are wide as you stutter out reassurance that it’s fine. Miguel simply hums before dropping your hand and going to sit down. He pauses when your small hands grab his once again.

Your thumb strokes over the redness and slight purple color of his knuckles, something that definitely wasn’t there when he first came in, hinting at what happened outside of the library building. A slight crease appears between your brows and your lips are in a sad pout.Your eyes don’t leave his hand when you mutter, “You’re hurt.” 

Your concern makes Miguel slightly happy, liking the idea you care for him. He slips his hand into yours, bending back down as his hand goes under your chin to lift your face. Out of sight from peering eyes, he presses a kiss to the corner of your lips. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, mkay?”

Your stuttered and shy state makes him smile, muttering how cute you are as he finally sits down. You have to clap a hand over your mouth to conceal a squeak when Miguel grabs the seat of your chair and pulls it closer to him, practically connecting the edge of the chairs. He casually throws his arm over the back of your chair, not doing any dramatics like faking a yawn or stretching. You stare and blink at him, nervousness bubbling in your stomach as he leans in closer. “Are we going to start or what, mami?”

He keeps his smile to himself, watching as you clear your throat and scramble to open your science textbook to where you had left off the last time. He just sits and watches, fingers ghosting over your shoulder gently, feeling nothing like the other guy. He listens to what you’re saying faintly, pointing at some diagram in the book. He thinks you asked him a question because you stare at him patiently, yet expectantly. He turns to you, shrugging, “Can’t see the model clearly.”

You nod, moving to push the book closer to him before his hands are on your waist. He leans fully back into his chair as he lifts you off yours and into his lap. He pulls the book in front of the both of you, head resting on your shoulder as he hums. “That’s better. Now ask the question again.”

Your brain stops functioning for a second, Miguel’s hands leaving your waist to rest against your legs, fingers slightly caressing the side of your thigh. Your nervousness makes you squirm, and his hands instantly grab onto your thighs tightly with a hiss. He grinds out for you to ask the question again, but he doesn’t sound aggressive. His voice sounds more pained and desperate. You nod with a gulp, hesitantly reasking the question that he pretends to think about before answering correctly just to hear your praise. 

As you continue talking, Miguel’s fingers rub the skin just below the ending of your skirt. You try to ignore the touches, but your body melts against his front as your voice quiets and you shift your body slightly to press into him. Miguel’s breath tickles your neck and your thighs clench as a single finger slips under the material of your skirt. It just barely skims over your panties, and your breath hitches. Miguel smirks at your reactions, asking you what’s wrong as he slowly moves your leg so it hangs over his leg. You’re a stuttering mess, brain malfunctioning when his hand comes back and caresses the crotch of your panties. Your cheeks flush, knowing it’s damp in arousal. 

A quiet groan leaves Miguel as he moves your panties to the side, letting his fingers rub against your bare pussy. Sticky fluid instantly clings to his fingers and his head turns to press kisses against your neck, his free hand coming up to your chin to tilt your head to the side for more room. Your hand comes down to hold his arm, eyes closing as the tips of his fingers tease your entrance. When he hears your slight whimper, he looks up to your face and pulls his fingers away, moving them to trace circles in your inner thigh. 

The small sound you make in protest causes him to chuckle, “Shh, shh. Keep talking, baby. You’re supposed to help me, remember?”

You open your mouth to protest but his fingers are back, this time slowly sinking into your heat instead of just teasing with his fingertips. Your eyes instantly close again and you let out a shuddering breath. You open our eyes, trying to focus on the words in the book. When you begin to read and explain a scientific equation, Miguel’s fingers reach knuckle-deep into you. You can hear the muffled sound he makes as he continues to suck and kiss your neck. Your weak explanation is cut off when he pulls his fingers back and pumps them into you, curling his fingers. The beginning of a moan is let out before your hand clasps over your mouth. Miguel laughs evilly as he continues moving his fingers. 

You're sure this is a game to him. Everytime you stop explaining things, he stops and tells you to continue. But once you start talking, his pumps and curls his fingers faster, causing you to cut yourself off when sounds of pleasures. You’re a mess by the time you finish your explanation, hips grinding into Miguel’s hand and fingers clutching to the edge of the table for stability. 

Once you say your last words, Miguel speeds his fingers up and bites into your neck, “Good girl. Gonna give you a reward for being such a good girl for me, yeah?”

You don’t hesitate to nod, face screwed up in pleasure as you reach closer and closer to the edge. Miguel leaves your neck, licking the bite soothingly before tilting your face back towards him. He muffles the loud moan you make as you gush around his fingers with a deep kiss. He bites and sucks on your bottom lip, eyes closed and brows furrowed as he savors the taste of your lip gloss. His tongue swipes over the seam of your lips, causing you to part them as his tongue explores your mouth. 

His fingers move to lazy pumps, working you through your orgasm before stopping completely. Your body shakes slightly against his, and he smirks into the kiss before pulling away. His fingers reappear from under your skirt, covered in your white cum. You both watch as he part his two fingers, white strings connecting the two. You let out an embarrassed whimper, watching as Miguel brings them up to his mouth, licking them clean. Your taste instantly floods his mouth and he practically rolls his eyes back. Of course you’d taste so fucking sweet and delicious. His fingers leave his mouth with a small pop, hurriedly coming back to kiss you again. A shy moan leaves you at your own taste. 

Miguel’s hand moves your other leg, spreading you out fully so both of your legs are pressed into the sides of his thighs. His hand leaves your chin and scoots you further up his leg, working on undoing his jeans just enough to stick his aching cock out of his underwear. The head is red and leaking, precum sliding down his length. His hand comes to pump himself before he moves you back over him, his cock resting against your ruined panties. 

“Move your panties to the side for me, yeah?” He mumbles against your lips. You comply instantly, pushing your panties to one side, moaning when Miguel takes a hold of his cock to align it with you. He pushed slowly into you, his hand releasing his cock to hold onto your thigh and to cover your mouth as you continued moaning out. He throws his head back with a choked moan the moment he bottoms out, holding still to bask in the way your tight cunt swallows him and squeezes around him. 

“Feels so fucking tight. Feels like I’m in heaven.” Miguel hisses out, his hips thrusting into you experimentally. 

The cutest of mewls leave your mouth, causing Miguel to nose your cheek almost lovingly. He takes his time, lazily thrusting into your pulsating pussy in an attempt to hold himself back. But he’s wanted this for so long. He’s wanted to touch you, to kiss you, to just be near you since the moment he laid eyes on you. And he’s here, in the goddamn school library, and you’re letting him fuck you as you sit on his lap. It feels like a scene straight out of some fucked-up erotica or porn video. Would it be too much if he started thanking you until he’s a babbling mess?

A strangled noise leaves Miguel when you start fucking bouncing on his cock, impatient with his slow speed. Instinctively, his hips speed up. The sound of wet squelching filling the small, unoccupied section of the library. Anyone can walk over, some poor student or librarian in need of a book only to find his good girl riding his cock so desperately. The thought makes his balls tighten and he has to distract himself before he blows his load into you too soon. He buries his head into the curve of your shoulder, shifting the hand that covers your mouth to stuff two of his fingers past your lips. Without even asking, you start sucking on them as you lift your hips up and down. 

“Good girl. Good fucking girl, princesa.” Miguel praises into your ear, his hand leaving your thigh to pinch and play with your neglected clit. It causes you to squirm and for your steady riding to falter. “Oh fuck. Taking my cock so well, yeah? Taking it is so good for me. Holy fuck!” 

More curses leave his mouth as he pounds into you, shifting his hips until he hits that gummy spot inside of you that causes you to wrap your arm around his neck to hold on for dear life. Your pussy just keeps quivering around him, milking him for the cum you so desperately need to be filled with. The cum he wants to fill and claim you with. The thought of you walking out of the library, hell going to tutor another student, with his cum flooding your pussy and dripping through your panties is something he’s fantasized about for months. His pure, innocent girl tainted with how dirty she is by fucking him of all people, in a place where anyone can see how naughty she really is.  

“Miguel!” 

The sound of your muffled call makes his eyes snap open from their closed position, He looks up at your face, watching as a line of drool drips from your stuffed mouth. He has to groan and give you deep thrusts as a thank you for the pretty sight. As he thrusts, he realizes how much your walls have contracted, practically trying to trap his cock inside you. He notices how much your body is beginning to twitch and he knows you’re close. Your eyes look hazy and the muffled moans you let out add on to how close you must be to coating his cock. 

“Wanna cum on my cock, love? Gonna cum and make you all mine, yeah?” He whispers into your ear, slowing his fast thrusting in exchange for hard and deep thrusts that cause you to whine. You desperately nod your head, babbled and incoherent nonsense being said around his fingers. 

Miguel let out a low chuckle, speeding up again and relishing the happy noise that vibrates in the back of your throat. Your walls clench around him like a heartbeat for a few blissful moments before you're screaming around his fingers as your back arches and thighs shake. Miguel moans as he feels you cum around him, the lewdest noises coming from your wet cunt as he hammers into you for his own release. A sweat builds up on his face as he drives into you, trying to push in and out of your tight walls that only seem to tighten the more he thrusts. 

“That’s my good fucking girl. Came so beautifully around my cock.” He mumbles, looking down to where the two of you are connected to see the most gorgeous white ring at the base of his cock. He can feel himself twitching inside of you, on the brink of exploding. 

Miguel bites into your neck as one last act of claiming as he spills into you, his hips not stopping as he pumps you full of his seed. A delirious moan comes from you as you feel his warmth, but you seem happy as you melt into him. Your skin is sticky from sweat, arousal, and Miguel’s saliva when he pulls his face away from your neck. The bite mark is red against the purples beginning to stain your skin. He can feel himself getting hard again at the sight of it, but he refrains from taking more than what you’ve already given him. 

He lifts you up slightly, moaning as a mix of cum slowly falls from your hole, dripping onto the underside of his semi-hard cock. It drips down, merging with the cum that still sits at the base of his dick. He makes you stand between his legs, your upper body pressed against the table as you try to recompose yourself as Miguel lifts up the back of your skirt to study your glistening pussy and thighs. He pressed a small kiss on your pussy lips before readjusting your underwear to cover you again. A proud smile graces his lips as he watches the previous wet spot in them get darker from the cum still trying to leave you.

When he pulls the skirt back down, he finds you looking over your shoulder with a shy look. His beautiful good girl is back to her doe eyes and flustered cheeks. Miguel tucks himself back into his underwear, zipping himself back up. He takes the time to lazily look around, amazed that no one realized what was happening or witnessed it. He stands up off the chair, looking back towards you and wraps one of his arms around your middle to pull you up against his chest. 

The tiniest of squeaks leaves you as you meet his hard chest again, looking up at him with amazement. You can’t help but study his face, admiring the way his lashes flutter as he blinks and the way he looks good from even this angle. HIs eyes look down at you briefly, a lazy smile coming over his face as he shakes his head. He works on packing up your things for you, closing the unneeded textbook and stuffing it and your other supplies back into your bag. When he’s finished, he shifts his face down towards you, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. 

The sappy smile that appears on your face makes his heart beat fast and for his own cheeks to heat up. He gulps and clears his throat, looking away as his hand starts rubbing the skin it rests over. He slings your book bag over his shoulder, the pastel color of it a large contrast over his entirely black attire. He stares back down at you, pushing hair out of your face and tilting his head at you. 

“Do you have another tutoring session to go to now?” He whispers softly, smiling when you shake your head no wordlessly. He hums in pleasure, his arm sliding from around your center and down to your hand, dwarfing it in his. He gives it a tight squeeze and pulls you with him as he starts walking towards the exit. You follow him with no resistance, just hurrying your pace to keep up with his long strides. 

“Where are we going?” You ask as the afternoon sun instantly hits both of you when you walk out the door. He pulls you straight to his car, opening the passenger door for you and closing it before putting your bag in the backseat. You watch without question through the windshield as you buckle in and he rounds the car to go through the drivers’ side door. After he buckles in, he turns and starts reversing, not answering until he’s out of the parking spot and turning the wheel back to straighten it. 

“Imma take you home so you can change.” He says simply, turning to throw you a quick smile before grabbing your hand again and intertwining them as he clutches onto the gearshift. “And then, I’m going to take you out on a date.”

Part 2

Literally the longest thing I’ve posted because I love this request so much! I now reached 100 pages in my writing doc. As always, SpanishDict was used.

[darkbluekies]

OMG SILAS WEDDING? YES PLZ THAT SOUNDS SO GOOD

Saying 'I do' is like a death sentence

Yandere!mafia OC x reader

Sumamry: Silas gets you to marry him

Warnings: threats, mentions of murder, guns, forced marriage, dubcon kiss?, violence, mentions of punishment, trauma from said punishments, possessiveness, jealousy, family drama

Word count: 3.5k

Things have been awfully quiet these last days and you've noticed a certain spark in Silas’s eyes. You didn't think much of it before seeing his second in command — whose eyes are normally dead — light up. But no one has talked to you.

You’re sitting in the window, looking out over the front yard and the houses down the street. You’ve seen school children come home from school and their parents join them with grocery bags. They’re living so … normally.

There's a knock on the door, which makes you even more confused. Silas doesn't knock on his own bedroom door. His second in command walks in.

“Y/N, you're going to come with me”, he says.

“Why?” you question.

“You will see. Come.”

You hesitate. Silas has told you countless times to never listen to any of his men, never walk somewhere with them. The only one you should listen to is Silas, the only one you should ever walk somewhere with is Silas. He has tested you before to see if you would leave the house with any of his members … and you’ve been greatly punished for it.

But Silas’s trusts his second in command … you know that he would never betray Silas.

“You don’t need to be afraid”, the second in command says and waves at you to come over.

“I don’t want to be punished …”, you whisper.

He takes a step forward. You press yourself closer to the window. It’s another trap, you’re certain of it. Silas is standing outside the room, waiting for you to take the bait. This is the final level, to see if you would listen to the man he trusts the most, one that you think that you can listen to. You shake your head quickly.

“Y/N, you can trust me”, his second in command says and puts his hand on his chest. “I swear on my mother’s life that I won’t get you into trouble.”

“Has Silas told you to get me?” you question carefully.

“Yes.”

Slowly, you get down from the window and walk over to him. He puts his hand on your back to guide you out of the room, into the corridor and down the stairs. Your heart is beating loudly against your ribs. What if the second in command is lying?

“Where is he?” you ask as you make your way down to the first floor.

“I am taking you to him”, the second in command says calmly.

You stop and turn to him. “Please promise me that this isn’t a test, and that I’m not going to get punished.”

“Y/N, I’m not lying to you. Silas have asked me personally to drive you to him.”

“Why?”

“You will find out once we get there.”

“Okay …”

You follow him out to a car. He holds the backseat door open and lets you jump in.

“Put on a seatbelt or else Silas will kill me”, he tells you.

You pull the seatbelt over your body and clicks it into place while the second in command walks around the car to sit down in the driver’s seat. You watch the houses as you drive by.

“I really thought that this was going to be one of those tests …”, you admitted hesitantly while scratching your nails. “I really don’t want to go down to the basement again.”

“I understand that.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Depends.”

“Don’t you ever feel bad for … what happens in the basement? To any of the people unfortunate to end down there?”

“Not necessarily. Most of the people that gets thrown down there has done something to deserve it. You see, Y/N, Silas never hurts anyone without a reason. If he could have it his way he wouldn’t hurt anyone, but people are stupid enough to cross and challenge him.”

“What would he do without it? Isn’t that how you’re supposed to survive and climb the ladder in this world?”

“He would do his business and trading without hurting anyone. In a perfect world, people pay on time and doesn’t try to steal territory. No human likes hurting anyone else — unless they’re psychopaths, but that’s rare. Even the most gruesome killers have guilt.”

“But how can he hurt someone he loves? I could never do what he does to someone I love.”

“I won’t meddle in your relationship, because that’s not my business, but things aren’t black and white.”

“I wish things could be colorful for once.”

The second in command sighs and turns on the radio. You listen to the music as the landscape outside the car swishes by. You don’t recognise anything, except for a supermarket chain that you used to shop at. Soon, you start to think that the silence between you two feels sickening. You can’t stop thinking about what awaits you once the car stops.

“I know that you’re not allowed to actually conversate with me, but can we just … talk about anything?” you sigh and shrug while trying to find a suitable conversation topic. “Could be about the weather.”

“The weather?” the second in command scoffs and smiles in amusement. “Fuck no.”

“How far is it left?”

“Around fifteen minutes.”

“You don't talk much normally, don't you?”

“I talk when I have important things to say. Otherwise, why should I? I get paid to act, not to talk.”

“I don’t get paid at all.”

The second in command tugs at his smile. “You still have it better than the majority of us.”

When the car finally stops, you look around to see that you’re by the beach. The second in command opens the door for you and helps you out. You look around and feel your heart sink when you see where Silas is, and what’s surrounding him. Candles and flower petals. You stop right in your tracks as you go stone cold. You’ve feared for this day.

“What are you stopping for?” the second in command asks and gives you a small push. “Come on.”

You notice a gun in his hands. On stiff, frozen legs you stumble towards Silas. The sand feels heavy under your feet. Silas smiles and takes your hand.

“I think you can guess what I’m going to do”, he says cheekily and takes up a small, black box out his pocket.

You shake your head, but Silas doesn’t seem to notice — or care. He gets down on one knee. You try to pull your hand out of his grip, but he tightens it.

“I don’t think words can explain the amount of love I feel for you”, he starts.

It’s not love. It simply can’t be.

“I know that I want to spend my entire life with you”, he says, looking up at you in awe.

“N-No … wait-”

He opens the box. “Will you marry me?”

You can’t breathe. You know that if you answer no, you might get to taste the gun in the second in command’s hands and you’ll definitely end up in the basement. But you can’t answer yes. If you do, you will be bound to Silas for all eternity. You will have to wear a ring claimed by him, take his name, officially be his. You will be known as his husband/wife forever.

“Y/N, I think that you better want to answer ‘yes’”, he whispers warningly, “for your own sake.”

You hesitate, going through every possible scenario. Every scenario where you decline him ends in physical and mental pain — not only to you, but probably to your family as well. If you accept his proposal, you will trap yourself deeper into his spider web and get tortured for the rest of your life, but you won’t piss him off. You can’t win, no matter what you choose.

“Okay …”, you whisper in defeat. “I will.”

Silas’s face lights up. He shoots up from his knee, wraps his muscular arms around you and devours your lips with his. He pulls your hand to him and places a ring on your finger. The ring is made of a shimmering gold and multiple glistening diamonds. You can’t help but stare at it.

“Congratulations, boss”, his second in command smiles. “You’re going to have a marvelous wedding.”

“Let’s go to a restaurant to celebrate this”, Silas smiles and start to walk with you in his arms. He gives his second in command a tap on the shoulder. “You too.”

The man smiles and follows.

You eat at his favorite restaurant, but you can’t seem to swallow any of the food. A lump has formed in the back of your mouth, preventing anything from passing it. Silas conversates with his second in command, only noticing your sulking after finishing his own food.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” he asks, touching your cheek. “Are you not hungry?”

You shake your head.

“That’s okay”, Silas says softly and caresses your shoulder. “Do you want to take it in a togo-bag?”

You nod.

That evening when you get back home, you’re allowed to sit at Silas’s place at the end of the long rectangular table in the dining room with your heated food. You can hear Silas’s men move through the house. Silas and his second in command are in his office to plan the wedding.

You notice that someone is about to sit down on the first chair of the long side of the table. A man you have never spoken to before.

“Hi, care if I keep you company?” he asks.

Too shocked to answer, he takes your silence as ‘yes’ and sits down. You glance at the open door towards the hall and swallow thickly.

“You shouldn’t-”, you try to tell him, to warn him about Silas, but he cuts you off.

“I heard that you got engaged today”, the man says slowly and looks down at your ring. “I guess that I have to say ‘congratulations’.”

“Yeah … thanks …”, you mumble dreadfully. “But you really should-”

Your sentence is cut off by the man in the chair getting ripped up by a harsh force. You hadn’t heard Silas and his second in command leave the office.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Silas questions and pushes the man away from you. “Do you have a death wish?!”

He signals for his second in command to get rid of the man. Silas sighs heavily, runs his hand through his black hair and sinks down on the same chair he had ripped his worker from. You avoid his eyes.

“Are you okay, little thing?” he asks and you can hear how he’s trying to stay calm. “Why didn’t you tell him to walk the fuck away?”

“I tried”, you mumble. “Twice.”

“He knows better than to talk to you. Seems like you’re even more irresistible now that you have a ring on your finger.” He sighs and rubs your back. “You’re mine, and soon they all will know.”

Days go by. Silas’s second in command takes you to try dresses/suits, but for the most of the time you’re in your bedroom, waiting. Every day takes you closer to your wedding day, that horrifying moment.

And finally, one day, it’s time. Silas’s second in command has taken you to a venue where you’ve gotten your own room to get ready in, but when the time is due for you to walk out and say your vowels, you refuse to come out of the room. There’s nothing you want less than to get married in front of people that you hate. You can’t imagine anything more humiliating.

“Y/N, come on”, the second in command says as he opens the door. “Everyone is waiting!”

“I don’t want to do it!” you burst out, full on panic.

“Silas have spent a lot of time and thought about this for you. He has even invited your family. Would be a shame if they came here for nothing, don’t you think? Don’t you think that they want to see you again? Don’t you want to see them one last time?”

You give the second in command a glare. He walks over and grabs your arm, helping you up on your feet.

“Come on”, he says. “We don’t have all day.”

He’s going to walk you down the aisle to deliver you over to Silas, as planned and try to pull your arm away from the second in command, but his grip on you tightens. The second you get into the venue and see the rows of chairs filled with Silas’s men, his family and your family, you stop, eyes tearing up when seeing your parents. Realization hits you again. You’re not only getting married, you’re also saying goodbye to your old life — a life that you will never get to live again. The second in command drags you past all the guests, over to Silas. You stare at your family, taking them in. Haven’t they changed since last you’ve seen them? Aren’t they looking older? Do they think that you’re different? Do they still recognize you as their little boy/girl? Silently wishing that they would stand up and object to everything happening, you continue your way down the aisle, towards Silas. Surely they have to understand that you’re not doing this by your own will? You would rather be at home with them.

You feel how the second in command moves you over to Silas. The ceremony seem to go by in a fuzzy daze. Words are being said but you're not sure who says them. You're brought back to reality when you hear Silas say ‘I do’. Your first instinct is to pull yourself away from him, but he doesn't let you.

“Your turn, Y/N”, he whispers with a tilted smile. “Tell everyone how you're giving yourself to me.”

Time seems to have stopped. You look out over the audience, at your poor family. They look nauseous. You wonder what kind of threats they have been told to keep them silent in their seats.

And you notice someone else — someone you never thought Silas would invite. Ares. You know that he hates his little brother with all his might, why would he invite him to his wedding? The day that's supposed to be his best day ever. You guess that the older couple by him are Silas's and Ares's parents. You have never met them before, but it's clear who Silas’s has gotten his face from. He's a spitting image of his father. Ares resembles their mother more.

Silas opens up his blazer to show you a gun, which you don't have to doubt is loaded.

“If you — or anyone — tries to object in this marriage, Y/N”, he starts with a dark voice, dangerously close to your face to make sure that no one will hear, “they'll die. Do you understand that?”

You nod unnoticeably, too mortified to do anything else. You understand him very well, and you believe him.

“You better say ‘I do’”, he whispers, voice even darker. “You belong to me. You are mine. Do not ever forget that.”

“Promise me that they won't get hurt”, you whisper as quietly as you can.

He takes your hand.

“I promise”, he says and kisses your knuckles harshly. “Say it.”

You clear your throat to make sure everyone will hear you, so that you don't have to repeat yourself. Giving yourself to this man once is enough.

“I do”, you say.

Everyone but your family and Ares claps. You're puzzled by the look on Silas's parents faces, as if they're not happy but still want to support their son. The rest of the cheering guests wear bright smiles, happy for their boss. You don't dare look at your family.

A new, bigger and more flashy ring gets placed on your finger and you put Silas’s new ring on his with shaking hands. You try to pull the collar of your clothing to the side, to be able to breathe.

You've kissed Silas’s before, but never like this. Never in front of so many people. You don't have time to think before his lips are on yours and you accept it, knowing that you've already signed your life away, refusing to kiss him won't change a thing.

The afterparty goes on without you. You don’t want to see everyone celebrating you when you never want this in the first place. You are allowed to go back to the room where you had gotten ready and sit in your solitude. You can’t help the tears running down your cheeks in silence. What have you done? Could you have done something differently? No, you couldn't. If you did, your family would get hurt. Instead, you’ve trapped yourself in a venomous spider’s trap.

You hear the door open and hurry to wipe your tears.

“Uh … hi”, a familiar voice says.

You turn to watch Ares close the door behind him. You freeze. If Silas finds him here, your wedding will be even worse … and frankly, after everything Ares have done to you, you don’t want to be alone with him either. You stand up and try to leave the room, but he stops you.

“Wait, let me talk to you”, he says.

“Don’t touch me”, you hiss.

He pulls his hand back and sighs.

“It shouldn’t be you and Silas”, he says in defeat. “You didn’t want to marry him, I saw that. We can run away now and you’ll never have to see him again.”

The proposition alone makes you scoff.

“And why would I want to go anywhere with you?” you spit angrily. “You’re as sick as Silas! I don’t want anything to do with any of you. It’s bad enough that I’m stuck with one … I don’t need the other. Leave.”

Ares twitches his black eyebrows and pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Alright then. Guess I’ll have to force you with me.”

“If you touch me I will scream.”

He gives you a glance as if he’s weighing the outcomes. In a quick motion, he grabs you, trying to pull you over his shoulder. You scream and hit him, causing enough commotion for the door to swing open and for Ares to be ripped off of you. Your vision is blocked by someone dressed in black.

“Get the fuck away before I kill you”, you hear the man in front of you say. “I mean it.”

You expected it to be Silas, but it’s his second in command.

“Touch my boss’ wife/husband again and I’m breaking your neck”, he warns and rolls up his sleeve.

“Why don’t you get the fuck away and let me do what I want to do, hm?” Ares responds harshly.

“You’re really asking for it, aren’t you? This is a wedding, don’t be stupid like usual, Ares.”

“I’m stupid? Have you seen my brother?!”

“Leave, Ares. I don’t want to cause your parents any more pain.”

“What’s going on?”

Silas’s voice makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out again.

“What have you done, Ares?” Silas asks coldly.

“You’re just going to assume that I’ve done something, huh?” Ares growls.

“Why would my man waste time talking with you unless you’ve done something completely idiotic?”

“I heard Y/N scream and found Ares trying to kidnap them”, the second in command says and reaches back a hand to make sure that you’re still there, or to console you.

Silas turns his face towards his brother, his black eyes burning with anger. Before Ares has time to defend himself or throw an insult, Silas has hit him. Hard. You watch how blood seeps from his nose.

“Don’t think that you can ever try to take them from me”, he warns. “They’re mine. See the ring on their finger? Belong to me. I have all the legal rights to say that now. Don’t fucking think a thing.”

Silas puts his arm around your shoulders.

“The only one that gets to touch them is me, so put your greasy little hands away before I cut them off and force you to eat them”, Silas warns him coldly. He turns to his second in command. “Let’s go home, I don’t want to sabotage the after party.”

You’re pulled along out to Silas’s car.

“I should have known that this wedding would have drama”, the second in command sighs. “Why did you even invite Ares from the start?”

“Because I wanted him to see Y/N giving themself to me”, Silas smirks. “To annoy him.”

“You’re supposed to be older than him.”

“Oh shut up, let me have some fun.” He turns to you, growing softer. “Are you okay, little thing? Did he hurt you?”

You shake your head. If anything, you hurt him when clawing at him.

“Good”, Silas smiles and caresses your cheek. “Let’s go home.”

In the car, he takes your hand, inspecting the ring with a cocky smile.

“Now you're officially mine”, he whispered, looking at you with intense, dark eyes. “Forever. And there's nothing you can do to separate us.”

[luveline]

i lowkey need to see stripper!reader and spencer again

for you gorgeous ♡ fem

cw adult themes

Hotch and Spencer draw attention at the strip club for the same reason but in varied fonts. They're both reminiscent of your regulars, Hotch the picture of a businessman with a wife to forget and steam to blow, and Spencer the silent sweetheart, pretty but too shy to talk to normal girls. 

He doesn't need a normal girl when he has you. 

You're glad for your cover up clothes as you lean against the dressing room door. One of the bouncers peers at you from the corner of his eye. 

"Trouble?" he asks. 

"Not sure. Probably not." You wave until Agent Hotchner notices you. To your delight, he raises his hand politely. 

You step around the bouncer and bypass the stage to the lighter area of the club where they stand in wait. "Hello. I could've met you outside." 

"Would you?" Agent Hotchner asks. 

You don't need him to explain. It's not the most professional thing, loitering in a club like this. You follow them out of the club and onto the street, cold even in your sweatpants as the wind rails. Spencer lets you squeeze his fingers in greeting, but that's all. 

"It's nice to see you again, Agent Hotchner," you say honestly, giving him a smile. 

He doesn't return the pleasantry, but Spencer swears he's softer than he looks so you choose to run with it as Agent Hotchner says, "We need information on one of your patrons." 

"Tennis Lawley," Spencer adds. 

"Tennis," you repeat. "I thought my pseudonym was bad."

Spencer gives you a quick look. I'd laugh if I weren't at work, it says. "We think he's involved in a string of killings in Washington DC. What do you know about him?" 

It's not an exaggeration to say you've played therapist for Tennis and a ton of guys just like him. Being a stripper, an exotic dancer, whatever anyone wants to call it (though Spencer usually just calls it your work) has pros and cons. You've felt it to be heavier on the con side, but this is a big plus, being able to assist someone you care about with something important. It makes you feel useful for once, like you're more than the froth of the city. "Ask me anything," you say, hiding your cheek from the cold with a deft hand. 

Spencer and Agent Hotchner ask you all sorts of questions, personal to their suspect and less so, and for the most part you're able to answer them. You can tell from the look on Hotchner's face that he's both surprised and extremely satisfied by your knowing, and he emphasises his thankfulness with a touch to your upper arm before he says goodbye. "Your help is invaluable, Y/N, thank you." 

Spencer, your sweetheart, stays for a more thorough farewell. 

"Have you eaten yet today?" he asks, the hand you'd squeezed earlier leaping for yours. "You look tired." 

"It's getting close to midnight, Spence. I'm alright. You and Agent Hotchner should head home and rest yourselves…" You bring your hand to his cheek but think better of yourself, pushing your arm over his shoulder instead for a hug. His own arms contract around you immediately. "I miss you lately, where have you been?" 

"Everywhere. I miss you too," he says. Despite the months of knowing one another, and the many states he's seen you in, you know without looking that Spencer is blushing profusely. 

You kiss his cheek as your heels return to safe ground. "Come and see me again soon, okay? And bring your rich friends. The older one, Rossi, is he really a millionaire? A divorced one?" 

"Yes, he is," Spencer says with a laugh, his voice climbing higher, "but I don't think he's looking for another wife right now, sorry." 

"Maybe Agent Hotchner–" 

"Stop calling him that." 

You look Spencer straight in the eye, nearly caught off guard by how sweet and soft they meld at your touch where your hands linger in his. 

You often think that you and Spencer aren't meant to be. Your life, whether willing or unwilling, by choice or design, is entirely focused around your body, and Spencer's world revolves around his mind. You know that what you do for work isn't anything to be ashamed of, but you have the same doubts as anyone else. You know what people think of you. You wouldn't blame Spencer for thinking the same things. And you wouldn't expect him to want to be with you in any aspect that wasn't physical. 

But when he holds your hands in his like this, as though they're made of something delicate, something he wants to map every detail or by fingertip alone, you wish things were different. 

You clear your throat. "I really do miss you when you're away," you confess. 

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't be." Your hands miss his the millisecond you pull them away. "I guess I shouldn't keep you. Your boss will be wondering where you are." 

"Are you okay?" 

You can't even pretend it's a strange question; you're acting strange. "I'm fine, Dr. Reid. My nice new boss knows I know the feds, and all the girls are jealous of me when you guys come to visit. They think I'm on your payroll." 

Spencer quirks a puzzled frown, brows pulled together tightly. "You're harder to read than most people. Have I ever told you that?" 

"I guess it's 'cos I spend so much time pretending I'm a different person," you say, smiling to prompt him into smiling back. 

"Maybe." He pulls his bag from where it rests against his hip and opens it, rummaging through the contents with a confused murmur until he pulls out the shape he'd been looking for. "Here. Don't go to bed hungry, okay?" 

Spencer puts a protein bar in your hand. 

He steals a quick hug and leaves not long after that, crossing the dark parking lot to the mass of the dark SUV he arrives in. With one hand, you clutch the protein bar until it takes a new shape, and with the other you blow two sweet kisses, a cheesy, gaudy gesture that never fails to make your favourite special Agent blush. 

[bumblehoneybee]

Post-Nuclear - Chapter One

Inspired by Counting Stars Amongst Weeds by @/wearywheats

Contains Sonic 3 spoilers, so read with caution

Next

"S’just a woodpecker." You motion to the trunk above, not that Kermit really hears you. He braces on the tree, barking at the bird and jumping like he'll be able to reach it up on the tall pine branches. It hammers on, though, unfazed by the threats on its life. Seems it's used to dumb dogs with big ideas.

With a roll of your eyes, you raise the camera back up. The woodpecker pauses in its search for food to spit out the bits of wood collected in its beak. You take the chance to snap a few shots of it, hoping the sight of its tongue sticking out is caught on film. The papers and ecological sites tend to like the funnier images.

Kermit, seeing as his enemy is too far out of reach, scampers to your side instead. He braces on your leg as you fiddle with the aperture settings on your camera, whining for you to help him. However, you are not as young as he would prefer, and think better of throwing him into the tree like one would a football.

Seeing your cousin do that and then having to drive them both to get medical attention killed any sliver of consideration you could have towards the idea.

Instead, you grab a stick, slap it around at his feet, and once the dog is too overwhelmed by what's happening, throw it off into the trees. Kermit sprints after it, the sound of his feet in the brush all you need to be assured he's still nearby.

You gaze up at the trees again, finding the woodpecker turned around now, staring down at you. It's head cocks this way and that, trying to get a good look at what's causing a ruckus down below. You raise your camera again, smiling when the bird jumps at the sound of the shutter.

With a squawk of a noise, it takes flight, noisily flapping its wings so it can rise above the treeline. Before you can attempt to follow, however, something. . . happens.

You notice the light first, the sudden brightness to the sky when it should be darker. Late afternoon during this time of year means a steady setting of the sun, yet suddenly the world brightens around you, like an overexposed photo.

It's hard to see through the brambles and leaves, but high above there's a golden light burning through the canopy. You rush forward, towards your home where there's a clearing of trees, whistling for Kermit to follow. The little greyhound nips at your toes, shining bright as a star in the strange lighting, and seems unafraid of whatever phenomenon has plagued the forest.

When the trees part for clear skies, you spot it. A ball of flames scorches through the sea of blue, spiraling downwards. It cuts away at the tips of the trees, but you can tell when it hits Earth by the trembling of the ground. You stumble, knees scraping the dirt, while Kermit clumsily rolls past you.

Wow. A meteor. A falling star landed in the forest, near your home, and now you can see the smoke billowing up into the air. It's not that far away, not really, and whatever landed. . .

You bite your lip.

A meteor crater can't be safe, but then again, who wouldn't love a photo of burning meteorite still hot from its descent? You could make a decent income on some photos of that.

Without any more thought, you toss Kermit back into the house and sprint towards the smoke column, eager to make it there before anyone else can ruin the natural state of the impact zone.

A breathless laugh escapes you as you hurdle fallen stumps and small streams. Fallen leaves slick with mud send you windmilling over inclines, but you keep pace, too excited to care about mud-stained jeans and scratched up palms. You've never seen a meteorite period, much less one in its natural state. This will be thrilling, and maybe if you're very, very lucky, it'll change your life for the better.

After all, while being freelance is fun, being signed on to a nature magazine or a newspaper would make your salary not only steadier but higher too! You and Kermit could maybe even move somewhere closer to town, where the people are! Make friends and not feel like the weirdo living out on the town limits who people only see once a week, if even.

Well, maybe that's an exaggeration. After all, most folks who want wedding or birthday photoshoots call you. Still, a steady job would be a dream come true, and this meteorite could be your ticket to it.

Your shoes scuff tracks into the dirt. You wobble, nearly falling into the pit of seared earth. The grass is still smoldering, trees fluttering with burning leaves. Luckily, none of it seems like it’ll spread far, what with the wet week you’ve been having. So with that assured, you turn back to the crater, wafting away smoke.

There’s something black in the center. You catch glimpses of red too. Your heart flutters with excitement that the meteorite might still be rife with molten lava, so you quickly pull out your camera, fiddling with the exposure and such before you start snapping as fast as you can.

You take photos of the crater still filled with smoke, the burning trees, the smoky trail still burned into the sky. And finally, with your heart in your throat and enough of the smoke cleared, you approach the center of the crater.

It’s a long drop, the impact hard enough to reach a rocky layer of the Earth’s crust. You ease yourself down into the pit, wafting away the wisps of smoke that curl around your face. When the ground levels out, you ease yourself forward, a hand held out to detect anything that might be still too-hot to get close to.

You don't feel anything, even as you make it to the center of the crater. There's still a small column of smoke clinging to the meteorite. You try to waft it away too, but don't manage much. So instead, you kneel down, surprised to find that the cause of all this damage is something so small.

Your hands land on your camera, ready to get some lovely close-ups of molten space rock. You blow into the smoke, watching it curl and disperse enough to show you your prize.

Except. . . instead of rock. . . there's a hand.

You stare at it, and yeah. . . it's a hand, clasped in a white glove singed black, missing sections to reveal blistered skin. It's connected to a similarly burned arm, black fur and red stripping and even more patchy spots with burns.

Something constricts around your chest, making it hard to breathe. Your head spins, but you don't think too hard about crawling closer and grabbing the arm, fingers curling over the wrist.

It's there, a faint pulse. The soft thumps under your fingers makes everything sharpen. You stare into the clumped fur, too afraid to look farther than the elbow.

But your eyes betray you, flickering upwards to a face, slacken and covered in blood.

A fear unlike you've ever known ices your veins. You're panicking, hands fluttering now, parting fur to find more cuts, more bruises, and more burns, some worse than others. You want to turn his head, try and find where all the blood is coming from, but the quills that spike out from the back of his head make you nervous.

You're nervous. You're scared. But there's a guy-animal-thing here lying in a crater and bleeding out onto the earth, so you gotta do. . . something! And that something can be figured out when you're closer to home.

At least he's unconscious, because you certainly have no grace hauling him into your arms. He's warm to the touch, but not so hot as to hurt you. No doubt his burns are more serious than something your aloe plant can help, so there's research to be done there.

You stumble, struggling to claw your way up the crater's incline with a body half-strewn over your shoulder. There's puffs of air against your neck, hitching with each wobble of your footing. Your fingers are going to be raw from digging into the dirt and rocks, but god is your head too buzzed to care.

Kermit is understandably in a frenzy when you return with a guy in your arms. He does spins and circles around you, eager to play with the new person or new toy, whichever you chose to bring him. You stomp your feet and shuffle them at the hound so he runs away, though, expecting a game of chase. Instead of chase, however, you escape to the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

He can cry about it for now. You can soothe his hurt feelings when there's not a guy dying on you.

The tub fills with water, and you set your new guest down on the toilet for the time being. Your camera sits on the sink, and your phone sits in your hand, pages of how to identify and care for burns trying to teach you how to save something you never knew existed.

You make sure the tub isn't too warm per the instructions of a hospital, then lower the guy down into it. You keep his head propped on the tub's edge, dunking one of your wash cloths into the water to use on his face.

Dried blood and ash clears with each pass, showing you the wound that's causing most of the mess. The gash cuts through his temple, curling up around the pointed ear on his head. You clean the debris from it best you can, and wonder if any of your first aid supplies will help bandage such a wound.

Before that, however, you pull your guest from his bath. The water is a dark grey from the ash and dirt, so you drain it quick, using the shower head to do a clean of the tub before refilling it.

You focus on the quills next, carefully pouring water over his head with the cup you usually keep your toothbrush in. You watch the debris wash out into the tub with disdain. Gross. You'll need to drain it again when you start focusing on his burns.

The article on your phone mentions cold water, bandages, and pain meds (the latter of which you have no expectations for). You have that stuff on you, but the cream they recommend, silver sulfadiazine, you don't have. Looks like he's going to have to put up with your aloe plant for now.

Satisfied that he's clean enough, you pull him from the tub and pat dry his fur and quills until he's dry enough for the couch. With Kermit screaming in your bedroom, demanding to play with the new guest, you drag over your big aloe plant, walking the heavy pot to the side of the couch before you grab your first aid kit from the kitchen.

You sit on the floor before the couch, staring at the hands and legs sporting the most serious burns, blistered and shiny. You don't know what you're doing. Your worst burn has been sunburn, and anything else is lost to the panic haze and childhood daze that covers those older memories. But you know aloe helps, and bandages are needed, so you can go from there.

"Aha," you laugh, sticky hands smacking for the remote, "I'm gonna have a dead body in my house, ha."

The TV blares to life, thankfully distracting you from your lack of confidence in your medical experience. A newscaster drones on about the upcoming weather, expecting rainy days and pollen counts, while you're smearing blisters in aloe and wrapping them in gauze, near tears with each twitch of foot and hiss of air.

"In other news, more information regarding the Eclipse Canon and the state of the moon has been released by officials, showing insight to the future that awaits us."

You pause, an arm held up by the glove you have half off. The TV shows a space station, like something from a movie, alongside a picture of a half-destroyed moon. A nausea grips at your stomach.

When did the moon explode? How did it explode?

You really need to start watching the news more often.

"Sources say that the explosion of the Eclipse Canon has caused a nebula to form within the Milky Way, close enough to Earth for us to see with the naked eye." You balk, but the stern-faced newscaster continues without fail, uncaring of your misery. "Monitoring of the nebula has shown its in a stable state, with no supernovas to occur for hundreds of years. As for the moon, it's new state thanks to the Eclipse Canon, activated by one Dr. Eggman-"

"He shot the fucking moon!?" You exclaim, only to jump with the arm drops to the couch, glove fully removed. "Ah! Shit!"

"-expected for tides to shift, due to the change in the satellite's new mass. Small pieces of debris from the moon are expected to fall to Earth as well, so if you are a part of these areas, be sure to fortify and ready for cover in case of your home is in the collision course."

You groan, flopping onto your back. You could've had a piece of the moon hit nearby, but no. You got a guy, probably an alien guy, instead.

Looks like you're going to be doing some internet searching tonight. Time to catch up with the current events, since apparently missing a few days of the news to watch game shows instead means missing the fact the moon got blown up while you weren't looking.

Rubbing your hands over your face, you sigh heavily. The past hour or so plays over in your head, settling into your bones like a heavy weight. There's an alien in your home now, more or less. An alien, hurt and alone, now residing on your couch.

You hit the floor with your first. What are you going to do? Calling the police would end up with your alien being taken away, and you're scared of that. But you're not sure this guy isn't. . . bad either. He could attack once he wakes up.

God. . . where did you put your laptop? You need to look this shit up.

[rendiamberspirit]

Mute Tobirama AU

Peace happens the way it should, (with Izuna living after Hashirama saves him) and all through peace talks Tobirama never speaks a word.

The Uchiha notice him using hand signs, but they all just assume that's so they can speak without the Uchiha knowing what they are saying. They are doing the same so it's a logical conclusion.

But now it's a year into peace and it finally occurs to Madara and Izuna that they have NEVER heard Tobirama speak.

Once they reach this conclusion they start paying attention and they realize there is always a Senju around him that will talk for him.

His secretary sits at a desk in his office though right by the door instead of back by the window and she will respond to any questions being asked. And if she doesn't have the answer she will tell them to come back later when Tobirama has time.

Touka, Hashirama or Mito are almost always with him when he is away from his desk.

And if he is walking around in the village and someone asks him something a random Senju will suddenly be there answering whatever is asked.

When he is given a kind greeting he will smile and nod. But never speak.

And he never goes on a mission with anyone but a Senju, if he has a partner that is.

Everyone has always assumed he was just kind of stuck up, or possibly very very awkward in a social situation. No one would call him shy of course. But they really don't have a better word, so they go with awkward.

But now Madara and Izuna know. They know it's more than shy, more than awkward.

And they want answers!

So Izuna does whatever ration person would do. Shows up unannounced at their home and ambushes Tobirama. Starts with accusations of him being defective, or a liar, or too full of himself and racists to talk to people outside his clan.

In full view of Tobirama's protective sister in law.

Mito was not pleased.

Izuna opens his mouth again about to say something else unadvisable when Mito unleashes a wave of killing intent never before seen from her.

Madara was chatting with Hashirama in his office when they feel it.

Both of them shoot up and head straight to Hashirama's home.

Where they witness Tobirama holding Mito back from murdering Izuna, whose face is now sporting a huge shiner.

Mito is spitting mad. Swearing at Izuna with words that should never be repeated.

Madara's and Hashirama's jaws drop at the vile words she is spewing.

Tobirama stomps his foot twice and that spurs Hashirama into action and he takes over calming Mito.

Madara looks down at Izuna who hasn't gotten up from the floor.

"What did you do??"

"I may have, possibly called Tobirama defective for refusing to speak."

Madara slaps a hand to his face. "What is wrong with you?"

"I wanted to force him to tell the truth, to actually respond!"

Hashirama interjects at this point, "Tobirama is mute. How did you not realize that?"

All three Senju look legitimately confused.

"How would we know that? You say that like it's common knowledge!"

Tobirama makes a few signs to Hashirama who nods back.

"It has never been a secret. He has a secretary who does all his talking for him. He seriously has someone with him whenever shopping! It's not as if we were hiding it!"

"Trust me when I say this. But NO ONE knows that."

And they discover the next day that the Uchiha were in fact correct. A year after the village was built and not a single member of any of the clans knew Tobirama was mute.

They all, like the Uchiha, mostly just thought he was rude.

Once the cat is out of the bag all the Shinobi decide they need to be able to speak with Tobirama and learn to sign so they can understand him.

Which leads to opportunities for people who are deaf in the village. They finally have an easy way to communicate with everyone in the village.

Once Madara learns to communicate with Tobirama he finds that he enjoys the other man's company. And surprisingly that he has a great sense of humor.

A year after the discovery Madara works up the courage to ask Tobirama out to dinner, just the two of them.

Once they have finished eating Madara slides a box across the table to Tobirama.

Inside is the most beautiful hunting knife Tobirama has ever seen. When he looks up Madara signs to him "may I court you?"

Tobirama blushes a deep red and nods with a shy smile.

Longer story can be found here

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64701658

[that-weird-thing-in-the-woods]

~{Heyyyy you feral gremlins! I’m back, I got all my personal stuff handled but I’ll still be little slow on posting…this stuff but don’t worry I’ll still be posting anyway to this freak of nature I call a post!}~

•Pomegranates•

Why was it always when Tim was about to finish whatever he was doing at the time and actually sleep for once without being forced or passing out it when a new villain decided to start making trouble.

So here was Tim and the rest of the Bats fighting a new villain and Tim was to sleep deprived to care what the villain was saying and just focusing on not passing TF out and hoping luck was on his side for him not to get hit to bad so he can just go to sleep after this.

But apparently luck fucking hates Tim.

The villain grabs a pendant around their neck and pulls it off and throws it at Tim as the villain was about to lose and as the pendant falls on the ground in front of Tim but before any of the bats can do anything.

Tim is surrounded by a dark pink-red mist and Tim only has one thought before he is teleported to somewhere and passed out.

“I should have just fucking slept.”

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

As Tim wakes up, he expected something like a lab or something similar….but he was not expecting this.

He was surrounded by a forest with dark oak trees from what Tim can tell but right now Tim needs to focus on getting back to Gotham or finding where he is, so Tim starts walking north.

After about 30 minutes Tim started to notice a few things that makes Tim more sure that this was not a normal forest.

First was the trees and forests itself was very odd

A figure in a dark pink-red dress that was partly covered by a soft black cloak and black hair that is covering most of his face as he looks down and hums a song that Tim doesn’t recognize and he was sitting on a black old bench by a large lake with some pomegranate trees making shade over the figure and lake.

But before Tim can take him all in, he steps on a tree branch causing the figure to look over to where Tim is standing.

And that’s when Tim sees the figures blue-green eyes and pale face but that’s not what caught Tims attention it was the very visible baby bump.

And it seems the figure saw him too.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Summary•

Danny was taken by the GIW or well he was given to them after his parents found out he was phantom and with Jazz gone off to college and Sam and Tucker out of town due to family so they can’t help.

Dani and Vlad [They have a somewhat better relationship but Dani still loves Mama Danny better] somehow get this information and decide to leave because all them are the only halfas and it’s not safe.

So Vlad and Dani break into the GIW base where Danny is being held and cause some property damage and probably kill a few GIW agents in Vlads case before they find Danny and book it out of their back to the Fenton portal as it’s the only portal to The Ghost Zone that isn’t a natural portal [Vlad shut his TF down before going to get Danny so the Fentons and GIW can’t get to The Ghost Zone and Dani, Danny and Vlad aren’t coming back]

And as they book it to the portal, Dani and Vlad get shot badly and this causes Dani’s body starts to destabilize and Vlads in no condition to hold her core in his body so Danny takes it and before the Fentons and GIW can’t get their ass Danny managed to power the portal up and throw himself and Vlad through and Wail back to the portal to destroy it.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Little Things•

-They are in Vlad’s Lair, usually ghost have to be 100 before they get a Lair but halfas just have one no matter their age

-Vlad is a overprotective fuck of Danny ~{AND IF I SEE ANYONE SHIP THEM FROM ONE OF MY POST YOU AND GETING BLOCKED!!! THAT IS A CHILD AND HIS GODFATHER}~

-They have so many pomegranate trees because Dawn makes Danny crave them and Vlad can change his Lair anyway he likes so he just put them in so it’s easier for everybody involved [Vlad, it’s easier for Vlad]

-Vlad doesn’t let ANYBODY in his lair

-Vlad will still some times call Danny his son and call Dawn his daughter…yes it’s still weird and it causes horrible misunderstandings 

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Outfit•

Danny’s appearance

Nothing really changed with Vlad besides having scars and having to use a cane when in human form [which he is almost never in anymore] and Dawns a fetus so she doesn’t really have a form.

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

~{Anyway hope you gremlins enjoyed it, byeeeee}~

[ghcstao3]

soap who grew up with a grandmother who constantly warned him about all the kinds of fae folk that existed, how to tell if someone was something, how to avoid them and how to fend for himself were anything to happen.

as a child, he soaked up all of her stories with awe, keeping all the rules in mind. as a teenager, he’d secretly roll his eyes but go along with her words to appease her. obviously fae folk weren’t real.

as an adult, not seeing her so often, he kind of… forgets. the stories and rules stay dormant in the back of his mind, never completely lost, but they’re not relevant anymore—at least, so he thinks. it’s all been dumbed down to fae folk are bad, and that’s about all he needs. soap goes years without so much as thinking the word fae, and his life goes on just as normally as anyone could have anticipated.

or, well. as normal as it can get, being in the sas.

and then he’s invited to join an elite task force, and that’s where he meets ghost.

soap doesn’t think it’s too odd to regard ghost as strange right away, not with the whole mask and mysterious persona thing, but as he gets to know the lieutenant more, there are certain things that start to have soap on edge. that have him thinking about fae lore more than he has in years.

like how his eyes reflect light like a cat’s at just the right angle. or how sometimes the way he talks just sounds off, almost like he’s trying to mimic someone else. the first and only time soap sees ghost’s face, there’s something uncanny about it that he can’t quite put a finger on. the tells continue to add up as soap starts to really look, and while he could never say exactly what ghost is, soap is sure as hell he isn’t human.

but the thing is… ghost isn’t bad. not in the way soap’s grandmother had warned him fae folk would be, at least. sure, ghost is a damn good soldier who’s garnered quite the kill count through various honed, deadly skills, but he isn’t bad. or evil, soap should say—even with questionable decisions, ghost’s heart always seems to be in the right place. he doesn’t have bad intentions unless something involves getting revenge, and he doesn’t unnecessarily hurt people just for the sake of his own entertainment.

it’s all confusing for soap, to say the least. his conflicting knowledge leaves him wondering if he should be trusting ghost, even in spite of the plentiful times ghost has proven he’s trustworthy. soap wonders if he should say something, wonders if he should drop hints he knows, wonders if ghost would be dropping an act the moment he’s been made.

the conclusion is pretty anticlimactic, all things given.

ghost catches soap alone after soap has had his realizations, having immediately noticed something off about the sergeant—which isn’t right, because soap is the human. he asks if something’s the matter, soap spills everything, and ghost doesn’t even flinch. just tells soap that his suspicions are justified, because ghost is a changeling.

“you’d admit it, just like that?” soap asks, dumbfounded.

ghost offers a stiff shrug, and no further explanation. he leaves soap feeling stunned, returning to whatever it is changelings do in their down time.

as if that didn’t open a whole new can of worms. as if a dam wouldn’t burst, and a million questions would come flooding into soap’s mind.

maybe he should pay a visit to his grandmother some time soon. it’d be nice to know whether he’s now in danger of being eaten, or something. soap can’t remember.

and now somehow, for some reason, soap has a burning desire to get to know ghost even better.

maybe ghost is evil, despite all prior judgements.

(or maybe soap is just in denial about a few things. but one thing at a time.)

[ivys-garden]

Wild Life Spoilers: Session 2 Alliance Report:

Teams:

The Spanners - (Mumbo, Grian, Skizz) - formerly the Sub One Club, immediately forget their idea of using crawl mode and lament that they can't be sub one anymore. Mumbo then decides they are “The Floaters” due to them becoming obsessed with the levitation ability. Luckily this doesn't stick because I could not handle an alliance that changes name every session. Mumbo and Skizz built their “base” as a series of bridges, leading to Mumbo calling them “The Spanners” since “they span things”.

Speaking of levitation, they died from that. And starvation. This was not Mumbo or Skizzes session, with Mumbo losing two life's and Skizz losing 3, halfing his amount of lives in one session. If Skizz loses one next week he will be yellow. Seems Grian's curse of outlining his alliance has started early.

The Bam-Boozelers - (Scar, Lizzie, Jimmy)

I normally have a lot of faith in all life series teams. I think anyone can make it to the end. I think this so long as it is not abundantly clear that they're doomed. I never say someone is Doomed from the star-

This team is doomed from the start. Immediately they decide that the Wild Card is that he can't heal from hunger, now this is a good first thought and is shared by other teams, though those other teams immediately realised that if that were the Wild Card everyone would die of hunger and started looking for other options.

These 3? They stuck with that idea and started making boats to travel. When they realised that their hunger reduced passively, they panicked until Grian saved them by telling everyone in chat that they could eat anything. Now, armed with this knowledge they just have to find a good and easy to use food source.

They chose stone shovels. An item that cannot be stacked and required way more effort and resources to make than was worth it. And they stuck by this even as others told them about better foods. They only stopped using shovels because of the randomisation.

How is Jimmy the most confident member on his team?

In other news, they're theme park is going well and Lizzie's Parrot is cute. Jimmy also apparently has “Big Mascot Energy”.

Renwood - (Martyn, Ren)

These dogs are just vibing. They each lose a life each, no big deal. A far cry from previous seasons, Ren is just chilling, Not going after anyone unless they go after them first and trying to get Martyn to do the same. And he actually does, not attacking anyone this session at all. He even gives up going after Jimmy for stealing their cows (an action which was by every account deserved.)

The Tuff Guys (Tango, Etho, Bdubs) (not technically together (?))

Ah yes, Team B.E.S.T without Skizz …. Considering Skizz was the only person keeping Team B.E.S.T from imploding, this can only go well!

Yeah this team is not staying together. Technically they're already breaking up, with Bdubs saying they should only look out for themselves and insisting they live in different houses. Bdubs even cements this mentality by fully encouraging Scar to help kill Tango for no reason.

As for the “Tuff” part, Etho has decided that they need to be tougher and take what they want from people. You know, not to be nice or polite.

Luckily we can see how this works in practice, as Gem encourages him to go be tough to the Final Girls, let's see how Etho is an not being nice:

● he greets Scott and Cleo

● makes small talk

● politely asks for copper

● tries to stop Pearl stealing from them since he doesn't know she's on they're team

● takes more of the stuff he was told he could have

● gives them obsidian in return anyway

● and still feels bad about it.

Yeah not only was this the least tough Etho had ever been, the Girls almost certainly didn't notice and probably won't even care when they do. Great job Etho.

The Fast And The Furious (Gem, Joel)

This session, Gem announced her plan to make friends so people don't judge them based on 5 seasons worth of going insane every time they go red. This lasts for 3 minutes before other people arrive, Scar misunderstands instructions, Etho lets the cops out and the Final Girls partake in their favourite pastime of miscommunication and insisting their own teammates are doing something they aren't.

Other attempts to make friends do go better, with Gem arguably being on good terms with everyone except two people. So that's good.

Gem also builds a cute little Bard that I give a session before it's burnt down or has a Creeper hole in it. Joel spends all session building a car. Everyone on the server thinks it's hideous, mainly because it is hideous.

The Final Girls - (Scott, Pearl, Cleo, Impulse, Bigb)

Somehow the most stable team here, even if it is mostly out of spite. Yeah this team will stay together, the core four have never betrayed anyone unless an outside faction is involved. They're safe. Even if they continue the tradition of forgetting all the bad stuff they did and only reimbursing bad stuff their teammates did (what do you mean Pearl doesn't trust people based on what happened in previous seasons? That was you, Cleo!)

Oh Bigb also joined this session. Though I imagine this will be a Heart Foundation situation where he bases alone despite being on the team.

Scott and Cleo spend a lot of time this session fixing the mistakes Pearl and Impulse make by acting how they always do. A house and wall are built and Pearl and Impulse prepare revenge plans on Grian and Martyn. Pearl encourages Impulse not to tell the others, seemingly forgetting that Cleo and Bigb are addicted to revenge and would have no problem with this.

Alliances and Friendships:

Lizzie and Gem

these two agree to team up if their teammates die. Since their teammates are idiots.

Remember, Lizzie is the one who made the stone shovel plan.

Spanners Vs Bammers

The Bam-Boozelers still hate the Spanners, dropping their reputation all the way to zero. Mumbo and Skizz either don't realise this or don't care. Grian was gone almost all session mining so can't really say what his thoughts on the situation are.

The Family - (Joel, Etho, Gem)

Etho is indoctrinated into yet another family, though he seems more willing to be present for this one. When Tuff Guys breaks up like 5 minutes into session 3, we all know where he's going.

Also Scar might also be part of the family though every else seems to just ignore this.

Spanners Vs Tango

The Spanners are really angry at Tango for accidentally killing Skizz. They seem satisfied with manifesting his death through belief, but it seems they haven't let him off the hook yet. We all know Bdubs won't help him

Joel might also be mad at Tango since he ate the wheels of his ugly car.

Mumbo & Jimmy still hate Renwood

Mumbo still doesn't trust Martyn after the enchanter fiasco and Jimmy attempts to get revenge for the cow theft. Ren and Martyn have chosen to ignore this, Mumbo seems to have forgotten he was angry, and Jimmy is satisfied that he got revenge.

Ren buys his friends

Ren bought Gem and Tangos friendship through iron. Will this hold up? No.

Gem has beef with team oblivious

Gem hates Pearl and Impulse this season. They are at the top of her inevitable murder list.

● The Final Girls came round for a visit

● Impulse was accused of stealing

● He said he wouldt stela since he knows what it's like to be stolen from

● Gem took this as him amusing her of stealing

● Scott cut him off before he could explain himself by saying he was purposely antagonising them

● Gem cut both of them off by ranting about how much she doesn't trust them

Stellar miscommunication guys, great job as always. Please never change, the series would be way less funny if you did.

Pearl also made it worse by trying to Poison Gem 30 minutes later. Woopsie.

Neither Pearl nor Impulse notice that Gem hates them and the others refuse to tell them.

[revelboo]

Oh my gosh, The “Everything is Alright” drama just slowly ripling outward is so so juicy. Devouring this! Ur writing is so good. Every fic being gently connected is so fun. TY for the food!

I’m glad you enjoy my nonsense!

The pointy cryptid arrived!

Everything Is Alright Pt 121

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• Watching Soundwave inspect your soft hands, turning them over in his and rumbling unhappily at the sight of your bleeding knuckles where you’d lashed out at Starscream, Megatron lays back on the berth. Unable to watch those two fussing over you, unable to deal with the problem of your lifespan along with your sparkling. And someone has to be full size and ready to defend their family. That thought catching him off guard. Is that what they are now? Fragged over by the universe into the most dysfunctional family ever. “Someone needs to teach you how to throw a punch,” he mutters. “You’re awful at it.”

• Almost laughing despite yourself, you hate that you want to relent. To bury your face against Starscream and soak in the warmth and familiarity of him. But know it’s a trap. “I can’t do this again. I won’t.” Glancing at Megatron, you tug your hand from Soundwave. Why can’t this be simple? Because you’re greedy and want more than you should. Because something is wrong with you and you can’t decide. “No more lying. No more plots.” No more not taking your voice into account. “Please.”

• Grimacing, Starscream’s aware of Megatron sprawled on his back, head turned to watch them. Watching him. And you’re asking him to stop trying to seize control, to ignore all the wrongs, the mistakes. The pain. Hand cupping your cheek, he ignores Megatron and Soundwave. Aware suddenly that you’ve given him the ultimate immunity against Megatron by fully bonding the warlord. You’d protected him for life from Megatron’s rage. “I only look to the future.” Sees you frown and nudges you with his head. “Our future. Together.” Knows he’s neglected you, focused on protecting you without stopping to even ask if you wanted to be protected, but he couldn’t risk losing you. Still can’t.

• Still upset, but your mind is calming as his servos curl around your upper arm, finding skin to strengthen the connection. Megatron had told him to bond to you again, but he can’t. Not when you’re still off kilter and unsure of everything. Hurting. Doesn’t want to take this time, wants you to reach out to him. “I don’t know if I can trust you. Any of you,” you mumble and his spark constricts. Because he’s had as much a part to play in this as the other two. He’d tried to manipulate you and Megatron, had done it to protect you, but had never thought about what you’d actually wanted. Though, apparently you had wanted Megatron. More than him. He’s trying so hard to not think about the fact that you held back with him, but submitted completely to Megatron. Wanting to believe that it hadn’t been you, that you’d unconsciously been offered a chance to survive and has seized it without being aware what you were doing. But it still hurts.

• “Trust is earned,” Megatron growls, servos pressing against his own chassis over his spark. Can barely sense that weak spark nestled inside him, that impossible life a way forward. How long has it been since there’s been a new generation? Well before the war began. Wants to hang on to that anger at what you’d done to him, about the inevitable complications and questions it’s going to cause, because at some point the spark will need to be transferred to a protoform. And that’s going to be noticed. And a sparkling will be even more helpless than you are. Staring at you rubbing your eyes, his spark constricts. Because you’re a problem. Vulnerable, helpless, and his life is dependent on yours. On no one figuring out that he’s fully bonded to you and deciding to take him out by killing one ridiculously fragile human. “I don’t see that we have much choice but to work together. Because anyone gunning for me will target our helpless little mate.”

• Mate not pet. You feel Starscream stiffen against you and you don’t know if it’s that he doesn’t want to get along with Megatron or even try or if he’s just now realizing that you’re going to be a target. It’s definitely not something you’d considered. But it really shouldn’t surprise you, because of course things can get worse.

Previous

Next

[nosyp]

May you do yandere platonic gi hun team season 2 with young adult reader who is really sick and joined the game to pay for her sickness. The reader coughs blood sometimes and can barley even stand up or walk. When she eats she needs 2x the amount but she stills feel insecure

Last squid game thing before idek.. and im not sure who you classify as gi hun team

General Dynamics

The team quickly notices your fragile condition. How you struggle to stand, your frequent coughing fits, and how you need more food than others but hesitate to take it.

At first, they assume you’re weak and might slow them down, but the moment they learn you joined the games to pay for your medical treatment, their obsession locks in.

They become a tight circle of overprotective guardians, refusing to let you do anything remotely dangerous.

If anyone tries to pick on you for being sick, they’re met with an immediate and brutal response.

Seong Gi-hun

The most emotionally invested in keeping you safe. He sees you as a kid who should’ve never been in the Games.

Constantly fretting over you, even for small things. "Are you cold? Do you need to sit down? Here, take my jacket."

If you ever cough up blood, he goes full panic mode, holding your shoulders and looking around helplessly.

“You shouldn’t be here! Damn it, this isn’t right…”. The guilt of seeing you suffer eats him alive.

Tries to bargain with other players to get you extra food or an easier role in the games.

If he ever thinks you’re in danger of being eliminated, he’d sacrifice himself for you without hesitation.

Young-il

Takes the role of your bodyguard, making sure no one gets too close.

If a game requires physical activity, he will insist on doing your part while making it look like a team decision.

“Stay back. I’ll handle it.” is his becomes his default response for everything.

If you collapse from exhaustion, he picks you up and carries you without hesitation.

He rarely speaks, but his presence alone makes sure you’re never in danger.

Jang Geum-ja

Acts like an overbearing mother figure, completely disregarding your independence.

Forces you to eat more, making sure you get double portions (whether by persuasion or stealing).

If you ever say, "I don’t want to be a burden," she immediately shuts you down.

“A burden? Don’t be ridiculous. If anything, we should be grateful to have you.”

Uses mind games to ensure you never think about sacrificing yourself for others.

Cho Hyun-ju

The most blatantly aggressive about keeping you safe.

Anyone who so much as breathes wrong near you is getting punched.

She glares at you if you try to argue that you can handle things yourself.

"Shut up and let us take care of you." → She refuses to take ‘no’ for an answer.

Will physically pull you back if you try to exert yourself too much.

Bak Yong-sik

Surprisingly gentle with you compared to how he treats others.

Always checking your temperature and forcing you to rest, even if it means risking their position.

Would rather take a loss in the game than watch you push yourself too hard.

If you ever cough up blood, he’s the first to panic and starts yelling for help.

“You need to stop. I mean it. You’re gonna kill yourself at this rate.”

Kim Junhee

The softest in the group but equally obsessed.

Holds your hand when you feel weak and always stays by your side.

Tries to make you laugh, distracting you from the horror of the games.

Whispers sweet reassurances even when things seem hopeless.

“It’s okay. We’ll get through this together. You don’t have to do this alone.”

If You Try to Leave the Group...

Absolutely not happening. They physically stop you from going anywhere.

If you insist, they gaslight you into staying.

“You’re safer with us. The others won’t protect you like we do.”

They don’t care if you think they’re overbearing—you’re staying with them, period.

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Needs

Dexter Morgan x Reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crude Language – Frequent use of strong language and profanity.

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

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

Word Count: 14k

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

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

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

He didn’t expect to notice her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dexter shook his head. "No."

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

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

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

Dexter shook it. "Dexter Morgan."

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

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

Dexter, for some reason, didn’t mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dexter’s lips twitched like he was considering it.

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

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

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

Lisa just smirked. “Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N smirked. "I prefer refined."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was watching.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eventually.”

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

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

It was a familiar trait.

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

“You’re staring.”

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

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

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

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

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

And maybe he didn’t mind.

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

Dexter had been leaving his apartment when he saw her.

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

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

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

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

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

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

He should have realized it sooner.

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

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

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

Dexter blinked. Ah.

So she had noticed him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And there it was.

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

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

And Y/N?

She wasn’t mimicking anything.

She was just like this.

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

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

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

“So obviously, you’re coming.”

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

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

“I don’t—”

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

Dexter frowned. “Y/N?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He sighed. “Fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

That was new.

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

Dexter blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

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

Y/N took a sip. “And?”

“And she thinks I should bring you.”

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

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

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

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

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

“More or less.”

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

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

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

Dexter didn’t respond, which was answer enough.

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

Dexter nodded, as if he had already expected that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brandon had energy.

The wrong kind of energy.

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

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

Brandon laughed, like she was joking.

Dexter knew she wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

Debra choked on her drink.

Dexter allowed himself the faintest twitch of amusement.

Brandon hesitated. “Uh… ha, ha?”

Y/N smiled sweetly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Brandon blinked. “Wait—”

Debra snorted. “Oh, my God.”

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

Dexter hummed. “We are practically married.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wasn’t wrong.

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

The answer was surprisingly simple:

It didn’t feel different.

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

Everyone already assumed they were together.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending otherwise.

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

Y/N blinked. “Go out?”

“On a date.”

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

Dexter waited. “Is that a yes?”

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

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

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

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

Y/N smirked. “Pretty much.”

Dexter nodded. “Alright, then.”

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

Dexter blinked. “Now?”

Y/N shrugged. “Why not?”

“You’re covered in flour.”

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

Dexter considered that. Then nodded.

Fair enough.

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

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

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

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

Dexter had expected their first date to feel different.

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

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

It wasn’t different at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dexter tilted his head slightly. “Would you?”

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

“On what?”

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

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

Most people asked questions they wanted answers to.

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

And, strangely, he liked that.

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

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

"Absolutely not," she said.

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

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

"You said yes."

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

Dexter considered that. "Noted."

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

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

It should have felt different.

It didn’t.

And for once—he was okay with that.

It was supposed to be a normal afternoon.

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

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

That wasn’t the weird part.

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

And Dexter?

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

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

Debra froze in the doorway, eyes wide.

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

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

Y/N blinked. "A couch?"

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

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

Debra stared. "Since when?"

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

"And you didn’t tell me?"

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

"I was joking!"

Dexter raised an eyebrow. "Were you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now?

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

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

But nothing came.

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

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

It didn’t.

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

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

She just was.

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

She never asked, never hesitated.

And Dexter let her.

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

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

So he didn’t overthink it.

Didn’t push her away.

Didn’t tell her to stop.

Because, at the end of the day—

He didn’t want her to.

Dexter hadn’t meant to overhear.

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

She didn’t hear him come in.

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

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

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

A way that made him stay.

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

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

Her brother.

It had been a year since he was murdered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dexter tilted his head.

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

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

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

And immediately freezing when she saw him.

They stared at each other for a moment.

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

But Dexter had been watching her for a long time.

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

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

Dexter considered lying. Decided against it.

“A while.”

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

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

Most people would have tried to comfort her.

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

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

Y/N hesitated.

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

Neither of them said anything.

They didn’t have to.

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

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

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

And yet, she didn’t pull away.

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

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

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

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

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

And then it clicked.

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

She knew this look.

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

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

Dexter stilled.

Just for a second.

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

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

She had known. Of course she had known.

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

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

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

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

Y/N smirked.

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

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

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

Now, it was settled.

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

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

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

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

Dexter blinked.

Huh.

She wasn’t wrong.

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

It should have felt big.

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

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

Dexter hummed. “Efficient.”

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

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

Y/N stilled, watching him.

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

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

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

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

Dexter considered her for a moment.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

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

The kill should have been enough.

It was enough.

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

He should have felt calm now. Settled.

But he wasn’t.

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

It wasn’t the need to kill.

It was something else. Something restless.

Something wrong.

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

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

He was moving.

Not home.

Not anywhere he had planned to go.

He was going to her.

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

Only instinct.

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

He barely knocked.

Barely waited.

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

And then his hands were on her.

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

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was primal.

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

He was feeling.

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

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

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

He felt… good.

Apparently, that was enough for someone to notice.

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

Dexter barely glanced at him. "Loose?"

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

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

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

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

Masuka scoffed. "I’m always weird."

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

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

Dexter blinked. "Excuse me?"

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

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

"That’s ridiculous," he said flatly.

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

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

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

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

The conversation died instantly.

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

Masuka immediately tried to look busy.

Angel coughed into his hand.

Harry just stared at Dexter.

Dexter stared back.

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

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

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

Dexter ignored him.

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

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

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

And yet, here she was.

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

Nobody noticed her. Nobody cared.

Good.

She wasn’t here to be noticed.

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

"Y/N?"

Shit.

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

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

So, yeah, she looked surprised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You hate it here," he noted.

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

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

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

Dexter nodded like that made sense.

And, for him, it probably did.

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

She looked back at Dexter.

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

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

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

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

Dexter didn’t argue.

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

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

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

And Y/N had scoffed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just enough that it was heard.

Harry had looked at her immediately.

So had Debra.

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

Debra frowned, crossing her arms. "What?"

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

Y/N shrugged. "Nothing."

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

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

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

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Deb—"

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

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

The words hit the air with weight.

Debra’s mouth snapped shut.

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

Nobody answered.

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

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

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

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

A long silence stretched between them.

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

Y/N’s head snapped up.

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

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

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

It didn’t come.

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

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

Debra was still staring at Y/N.

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

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

Debra huffed. "Yeah, I know."

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

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

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

The room stayed quiet after that.

Y/N didn’t apologize.

And Debra didn’t ask her to.

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

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

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

The guy barely moved.

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

But Y/N?

She was paying attention now.

He smiled. “No harm done.”

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

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

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

No.

It was something else.

Something… assessing.

Like he was the one trying to figure her out.

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

Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But she did.

She had seen this before.

Not often, but enough.

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

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

Then, she smiled.

Nothing big. Just a small, sharp thing.

His smile twitched.

Like he saw what she was doing.

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

And then she stepped past him and kept walking.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

But she felt it.

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

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

Who the fuck was that?

Brian had always known his little brother was different.

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

But this?

This was something he hadn’t expected.

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

Because this—this—was raw.

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

And Y/N?

She had let him.

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

Fascinating.

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

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

No.

Y/N knew.

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

Now, he was sure of it.

Because this wasn’t normal.

Dexter wasn’t normal.

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

Brian licked his lips.

How interesting.

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

But now?

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

Or at the very least—

Someone who wouldn’t stop him.

And wasn’t that something?

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

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

Y/N had warned him.

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

Dexter had learned not to question these things.

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

“Dexter,” he said.

“Sean,” Dexter returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sean, already tired, muttered, “Keegan.”

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

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

There was a beat of silence.

Then, suddenly—

Sean snorted.

Keegan scowled. “Oh, fuck you.”

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

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

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

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

“To no one’s surprise,” Y/N muttered.

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

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

Dexter observed all of this without a word.

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

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

It could be worse.

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

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

Neither of them had spoken for a while.

It was the second anniversary of Dalton’s death.

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

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

“Dalton would have liked you.”

Dexter blinked, staring at the ceiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dexter didn’t respond right away.

He wasn’t sure he knew how to.

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

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

And now he was gone.

Murdered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

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

The apartment was a fucking disaster.

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

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

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

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

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

And then her foot caught on something.

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

"Goddamn it!"

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

A long silence.

Then—

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

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

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

One of Dexter’s.

Labeled, in neat, precise handwriting: Miscellaneous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I hate it here," she muttered.

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

Y/N grumbled. "I do."

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

She let out a deep sigh. "Fine."

A pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Debra snorted. "Fuck you."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Debra groaned. "I hate you."

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

Debra flipped her off on the way out the door.

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

Hell yes, free gourmet food.

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

She barely even hesitated before calling Y/N.

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

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

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

There was a pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N looked unimpressed. "Has she?"

Debra elbowed her. "Be nice."

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

Rudy chuckled. "Fair enough."

Dexter, from his seat, just watched.

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

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

Not obvious. Not anything Rudy would notice.

But Dexter?

Dexter definitely did.

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

It was weird.

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

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

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

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

The kill had been perfect.

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

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

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

The Dark Passenger was still there.

Still hungry.

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

You’re still waiting.

Dexter exhaled, fingers flexing at his sides.

Go to her.

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

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

Dexter swallowed.

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

Completely unaware of the way he needed her right now.

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

The Dark Passenger whispered again.

Take.

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

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

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

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

But he had never had to wait before.

And waiting was making it worse.

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

The Dark Passenger purred.

Go home. Wake her. Take what you want.

Dexter gripped the steering wheel as he drove.

No.

He wouldn’t wake her.

She deserved more than that.

But the moment she opened her eyes—

She was his.

The apartment was dark, quiet, still.

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

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

She was right there.

Take her.

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

You waited long enough.

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

The Passenger knew.

Wake her up.

Dexter clenched his jaw.

Or don’t.

His grip on the doorframe tightened.

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

Dexter swallowed hard, staring at her.

She would.

He knew she would.

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

But even he had his lines.

Even he knew that this was one.

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

But because he wanted to watch her want him.

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

He didn’t just want to take.

He wanted her to give.

So he waited.

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

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

Because the moment her eyes opened—

She was his.

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

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

But now, she was awake.

And she was his.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t care.

Didn’t answer.

Just moved.

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

Yes. Yes. Finally.

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

But now?

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

And then—

The door swung open.

"Hey, Y/N—"

Everything froze.

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

Until he heard her.

Debra.

His sister.

Standing in the doorway.

No.

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

"OH, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Dexter stayed completely still.

Not from embarrassment. Not from shock.

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

Snatched away. Ruined.

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

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

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

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

Dexter closed his eyes.

The Dark Passenger seethed.

Kill her.

Dexter exhaled through his nose. No.

Then make her leave.

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

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

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

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

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

"Because I’m not done with you yet."

Y/N shivered.

And the Dark Passenger, still starving, purred.

The apartment was quiet again.

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

Now, it was a different kind of silence.

A sated, settled kind.

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

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

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

The Dark Passenger was quiet.

Truly quiet.

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

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

It had what it wanted.

Kill. Clean. Consume.

And now, finally, Dexter was still.

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

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

She snorted. "Shut the fuck up."

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

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

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

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

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

A pause.

Then, "Was it worth the wait?"

Dexter exhaled through his nose.

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

Nothing left but this.

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

"Yes."

[nxtaliaistyping]

scarecrow escaping from Arkham to go to his partner's house and show her how much he missed her (I leave you that idea)

Scarecrow coming back to his girlfriend’s place <3

Author’s note: love love love this request, doctor crane my beloved <3

18+ nsfw, fem reader, fear play mentions, creampie

As Jonathan heaves his way through the typical rain that covered Gotham city at this time of year, he realises he’s still smiling.

Gassing the imbeciles that make up the security team at Arkham asylum had been a gleeful experiment. He’d watched with the familiar glint in his eye how they’d grabbed at their own throats in terror, writhing on the floor as the horror filled their senses.

But he had to tear himself away, knowing this was his chance at escaping. So he’d slipped away from the asylum, keeping to the shadows so no eagle eyed night walker would notice the garish orange of the Arkham prisoner jumpsuits.

His first instinct was to go to a safehouse, get to work right away at enacting his revenge on the city for incarcerating him. But his feet seem to have a mind of their own, and as much as he hates to admit it, his heart does too. So he finds himself knocking harshly on your apartment front door.

On the other side, you're a startled wreck. It's 1am for gods sake, and someone is banging on your door. With a shaky voice you ask who it is, your breath catching as you do.

"...it's me..."

You'd recognize that voice anywhere, and with a furious conviction, you open the door and see your lover standing there. He stumbles in, running a hand through his slightly greasy hair before slamming the door behind him. His hands are on you immediately, pushing you against the wall as he breaths raspily.

"Missed you sweetheart...like you wouldn't believe."

His tone has your skin tingling with excitement as you reach out and gently touch his jawline, as if you confirm he's actually here. "How did you..."

"I'll tell you later." he remarks gruffly, before his lips attach to your neck and gently suck, like his first instinct was to remark you as his own. "Just missed you."

Before it can strike you just how vulnerable he's being, he captures your mouth in a searing kiss that effectively kills off any lingering thoughts you had. It's clumsy and messy, his need winning out over technique as his tongue traces your own.

He moves to place sloppy kisses down your neck, tugging the straps of your nightgown to access more skin. He grins as he feels the material in his fingers; he'd always told you how much he loved that nightgown on you, said it reminded him of a slasher victim in a bad horror film, one who'd provocatively search the house before being killed in a gruesome way.

The white lace makes you look so...vulnerable in his eyes, like a lost lamb willingly baring her neck to the wolf who wants to eat her. So he keeps tugging, until your breasts spill out over the fabric. He attaches his lips to them, sucking softly as you gasp and run fingers through his hair.

"Jonathan...bedroom." you say, knowing that in his state, he'd most likely end up fucking you right there in the hallway. He reluctantly detaches himself from your tit, tugging you hastily to your bedroom and pushing you down onto the mattress.

"You don't know what it was like in that damn place." he remarks, finally getting sick of your nightdress all together and roughly tugging until it hangs loosely around your ankles. "How infuriating it was. I had Nygma in the cell next to me ranting that nobody was matching wits with him, and Tetch in the other going on about wonderland or whatever bullshit."

He moves to your wet pussy, hole twitching slightly as he runs his long digits through your folds. Catching the wetness, he circles your clit in precise circles as he continues. "Couldn't even relieve myself without someone ruining the fantasy."

"What were you thinking about?" you ask, and the grin he gives you should frighten you...if you were anyone else.

"Oh dear...I was thinking of you dripping over my lap, high on my fear toxin as i delivered spank after spank over that pretty ass of yours."

You whimper at his words, just as he sinks two fingers inside your cunt. He crooks them, feeling your g spot and sighing at the familiar texture. "And about how delicious you'd look as I fucked you, so scared and brainless, clinging onto me for dear life."

He fingers you quickly, eager to prep you so he can be inside of you once again. He never used to be like this, so desperate for wanton physical contact. But you've changed him, wormed your way into his life and heart until he craves you, craves the reactions and noises you give him as you lie helplessly beneath him.

"A pity I used up all my toxin on the guards." he lies, in truth he has some left over in his overall pocket, but he keeps up the charade. "Oh what a lovely victim you always make."

He pulls his fingers out roughly, giving your swollen clit a nice spank for good measure before hastily stripping. You sit up to watch him, missing him just as much as he'd missed you. The dangerous man before you had been the subject of all of your salacious and desperate fantasies as you'd touched yourself the whole time he was in Arkham. Nobody was like him, nobody could give you the thrill that Jonathan could. And as he rubs his swollen cock along your folds, feeling the way you write, you know that you don't want anyone else.

He enters you, giving you the courtesy of going slowly as he deduces it'll have been a while since you've had something substantial filling you up like this. As he bottoms out with a guttural groan, your fingernails dig in to his shoulders, the pain delicious to Jonathan as he bucks his hips, driving his cock impossibly deep.

"Fuck...you minx." he mutters, starting to fuck you. Each thrust he ensures that he's reaching as far in as he can, wanting to feel every bit of you.

You moan softly with each thrust, telling him how much you missed him too, how lonely it's been without him. And each sentence has his heart-rate spiking in a way that feels dangerous. He never meant to form attachments, thinking it as weak, or a distraction from his work. But it's clear now more than ever that he can't let you go.

So he drives into you faster, burying his face in your neck and biting, leaving harsh hickeys all over your throat. "Mine...mine."

"All yours Jonathan."

He groans again at your words, feeling his dick throb with desire. He knows he won't last long, being apart from you for so long (and his age) meaning his stamina has taken a direct hit. But he savors the moment regardless, feeling you on your back beneath him, like you were meant to be.

"Not gonna last..." he warns, and you nod in understanding, locking your legs around him to ensure he cums inside.

With a couple more thrusts, he empties himself inside your cunt as it milks him for all he has. His moan is broken and desperate, but the relief is palpable in his tone as he relaxes. The tension in his shoulders seems to lift, as his breath heaves.

"I...really did miss you." he reiterates, somewhat annoyed at himself for feeling the need to tell you once again, but the soft look on your face makes it worth it...at least a little.