I thought this might be a good idea to make. I never see any Dexter smuts. I took it upon myself to write some. If there’s anything you wanna see written, hit up my asks. If you wanna go incognito, you can.
🩸= smut
💬 = request
💉 = fluff
It’s probably all gonna be smut from here on out 🩷
Heyy! Could i request reader getting kidnapped and tortured by some mysterious guy that hates Dexter? You can totally ignore this if you're not comfortable! Anyway, have a great day, dear. ☺️
Blood on Pink Lace
Dexter Morgan x Reader
Dark romance
TW GORE
I loved this request!!!
The lace trim of my pink sundress brushed against my knees as I stepped out of the little bakery on the corner, the white ribbon in my hair catching the late-afternoon light. I carried a small box tied with a satin bow—Dexter’s favorite lemon tarts, the ones with the delicate powdered sugar dusting that always made him smile in that quiet way of his. He had promised to be home early tonight. “Just paperwork,” he’d said this morning, kissing the top of my head before leaving, his hand lingering at the small of my back like he never wanted to let go. I believed him. I always believed him. My Dexter. My protector. The man who made the world feel soft and safe even when I knew it wasn’t.
I didn’t hear the van until it was too late. The side door slid open with a metallic hiss, and a gloved hand clamped over my mouth before I could even draw breath. The box of tarts fell to the pavement, the ribbon coming undone like a broken promise. I tried to scream, but the sound died against rough leather. My feet left the ground. Pink ruffles and white lace tangled around my legs as I was yanked backward into darkness.
“Shhh, little doll,” a low voice breathed against my ear. “You’re going to be so pretty for me.”
The world went black.
When I woke, my wrists were bound above my head with thick rope that bit into my skin. I was in a basement—concrete walls stained with old brown splatters, a single bare bulb swinging overhead like a dying star. My pink dress was torn at the shoulder, one strap hanging loose, exposing the pale curve of my collarbone. My white stockings were ripped at the knees, and my Mary Jane shoes were gone. I whimpered, soft and helpless, the sound echoing back at me like a stranger’s.
A man stepped into the circle of light. He was tall, lean, with sharp cheekbones and eyes the color of old blood. His hair was slicked back, and he wore a dark button-down rolled to the elbows, revealing forearms crisscrossed with faint scars. He smiled, slow and knowing.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said. His voice was smooth, almost gentle, but there was something rotten underneath. “Name’s Elias Crowe. You probably haven’t heard of me. Not yet. But your boyfriend has. Dexter Morgan. The Bay Harbor Butcher’s little secret.” He laughed once, a dry, humorless sound. “I’ve been watching him for months. He took something from me. A girl I was… working on. Pretty thing, just like you. Thought he could play god and clean up my city. So now I’m going to take something from him. And you, my sweet little porcelain doll, are going to be perfect for it.”
I trembled, tears already spilling down my cheeks. “Please… I don’t understand. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. I’m just… I’m just a girl who loves him. Please.”
Elias crouched in front of me, close enough that I could smell metal and something sweeter, like spoiled candy. His eyes dragged over my body—slow, deliberate. “Look at you. All soft and pink and breakable. Those little tits straining against that dress… so round and perky. Bet they’d fit perfectly in my hands. And these thighs…” He reached out, tracing one finger along the torn edge of my stocking, up the smooth skin beneath. I jerked away, but the ropes held me fast. “So plump and innocent. I bet Dexter likes to bury his face between them, doesn’t he? Bet he tells you how pretty you are while he fucks you like the delicate little toy you are.”
My face burned with shame. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Don’t… please don’t talk like that.”
He laughed again and stood, circling me slowly. “Oh, I’m going to talk however I want. You’re mine now, doll. And I’m going to make sure Dexter hears every single sound you make before I send you back to him in pieces.”
The first cut came without warning. A thin scalpel, glinting under the bulb. He pressed it just below my left collarbone, slicing a shallow line across the swell of my breast. Blood welled up, bright red against pale skin and pink fabric. I cried out, high and girlish, my whole body arching away from the pain.
“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick with something ugly. “Scream for me. Your voice is so sweet. Like a little bell.” He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I wonder if the rest of you tastes as good as you look.”
Then he kissed me.
His mouth crashed against mine, hard and demanding. His tongue forced its way past my lips, tasting of salt and something metallic. I tried to turn my head, but he gripped my jaw with one hand, fingers digging into my soft cheeks. The kiss was wet, invasive, lingering far too long. When he finally pulled back, a thin string of saliva connected us for a moment before it broke. I gagged, sobbing.
“You’re even softer than you look,” he whispered, wiping his thumb across my lower lip. “All plush and yielding. I could kiss you for hours. But we have work to do first.”
He stepped back and picked up a small tray of tools—knives, pliers, a blowtorch, things I couldn’t even name. My heart hammered so hard I thought it might burst. I was supposed to be at home right now, arranging flowers in a vase, waiting for Dexter to walk through the door so I could wrap my arms around his neck and tell him how much I loved him. Instead I was here, bleeding, terrified, and utterly alone.
Elias chose a pair of pliers first. He gripped the hem of my dress and tore it further, exposing the lacy white bra beneath. “Look at these pretty little nipples,” he said, voice low and mocking. “All pink and perfect. Bet they get hard when you’re scared.” He pinched one through the fabric, twisting until I screamed. Then the pliers closed around it, cold metal biting down. The pain was white-hot, blinding. I thrashed, my pink ribbons coming loose from my hair, strands of it sticking to my tear-streaked face.
He worked methodically, like an artist. First the pliers on my breasts—twisting, pulling, until blood trickled down my stomach in thin rivulets. Then the scalpel again, carving shallow patterns across my belly, just deep enough to sting and burn but not deep enough to kill. “I want you alive for this,” he said. “I want Dexter to see what I did to his perfect little doll.”
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time blurred into a haze of agony. He burned the soles of my feet with the torch, the smell of scorched flesh making me retch. He drove thin needles under my fingernails, one by one, describing in detail how he would mail each nail to Dexter’s apartment. All the while he talked—filthy, degrading things about my body. How tight I probably was. How my soft hips would look spread open. How my innocent little mouth had felt wrapped around his tongue. Each word was another cut, deeper than the blade.
I begged. I pleaded. I told him I was sorry for whatever Dexter had done, even though I didn’t know. I told him I would do anything if he would just stop. My voice grew hoarse, cracking like a broken music box. Through it all, a tiny, foolish part of me still felt… sorry for him. He was broken, wasn’t he? Just like the world was broken. Maybe if I was gentle enough, if I stayed soft and sweet, he would see that hurting me wouldn’t fix anything. I whispered, “You don’t have to be this way,” between sobs. “Please… you’re hurting too.”
He only laughed and kissed me again—this time slower, more possessive, his hand sliding up my thigh under the ruined dress. His fingers dug into the soft flesh there, bruising. “Such a good little doll,” he murmured against my lips. “Still trying to be nice even while I ruin you. Dexter doesn’t deserve this kind of devotion.”
I don’t know how long I hung there. My arms had gone numb. Blood soaked the front of my dress until the pink looked almost brown. Every breath hurt. I drifted in and out of consciousness, dreaming of Dexter’s hands—gentle, careful, always so careful with me, like I was made of spun sugar.
Then I heard the door upstairs creak open.
Footsteps. Quiet. Familiar.
Elias straightened, scalpel still in hand. “Ah. Right on time.”
Dexter stepped into the light.
He was wearing his usual dark clothes, but there was blood already on his sleeve—someone else’s, I would learn later. His face was calm, almost blank, but his eyes… his eyes were something else entirely when they found me. They flicked over every cut, every bruise, every tear in my pretty dress, and something cold and final settled in them.
“Elias Crowe,” Dexter said, voice flat. “You should have stayed in the shadows.”
Elias grinned, stepping between me and Dexter like a shield. “You took my work, Butcher. Now I took yours. Look at her. All broken and bleeding and still so fucking pretty. I kissed her, you know. Tasted that sweet little mouth. Felt how soft she is everywhere. She cried so nicely for me.”
Dexter didn’t answer with words. He moved.
The fight was short and vicious. Elias lunged with the scalpel; Dexter sidestepped and drove a fist into his throat. They crashed into the tool tray. Metal scattered across the floor. Elias slashed at Dexter’s arm, drawing blood, but Dexter grabbed his wrist and snapped it with a sickening crack. Elias howled. Dexter didn’t stop. He slammed Elias’s head against the concrete wall once, twice, then wrenched the scalpel from his broken hand.
I watched, eyes wide, tears still falling. For one terrible second I felt a flicker of pity. Elias was just a man, after all. A sick man, but still a man. He didn’t deserve—
Dexter dragged him into the center of the room, right in front of me. He forced Elias to his knees.
“No one touches her,” Dexter said, quiet and terrible. “No one.”
He started with the scalpel. Precise, clinical cuts at first—mirroring every mark Elias had left on me. Then he stopped pretending. He drove the blade into Elias’s shoulder, twisting. Elias screamed. Dexter pulled it out and stabbed again, lower, into the stomach. Blood sprayed across the floor, across my torn stockings. I should have looked away. I should have felt horror. But something inside me was shifting, cracking open like a shell.
Elias gasped, “She liked it… when I kissed her… her body was so soft—”
Dexter silenced him by slamming the scalpel through his cheek, pinning his tongue to the inside of his mouth. Elias gurgled. Dexter ripped the blade free and kept going—cutting tendons, slicing through muscle, working with the same calm efficiency he used when he was cleaning up his own kills. He broke Elias’s other wrist. He carved long strips of skin from his chest. He made sure Elias stayed conscious for every second.
I watched it all. The blood. The screams. The way Elias’s eyes bulged with terror. At first I whispered, “Please… no one should die like this,” my voice tiny and trembling. But as Dexter worked, as he looked up at me between strikes—his eyes fierce and protective and full of something that was only for me—the pity drained away.
This man had touched me. He had kissed me. He had called me those awful things and made my body hurt in ways I had never imagined. He had tried to break the one good thing in my world.
Dexter was saving me. Dexter was ending the nightmare.
I felt it then—the shift. Warm and bright and all-consuming. Love, deeper than anything I had ever known. My Dexter. My monster. My everything. He was doing this for me. Because he loved me the way I loved him—completely, without limits.
Elias’s screams grew weaker. Dexter finally ended it. He drove the scalpel straight up under Elias’s ribs, into the heart. Once. Twice. Three times. Elias slumped forward, dead eyes staring at nothing.
The basement fell silent except for my ragged breathing.
Dexter dropped the scalpel. He crossed to me in three strides, knife in hand now, cutting the ropes with careful, steady slices. The moment my arms fell, I collapsed into him. He caught me, cradling my broken, bleeding body against his chest like I was still the delicate doll I had always been.
“I’m here,” he whispered against my hair. “I’ve got you.”
I clung to him, pink lace and blood and tears all tangled together. My voice was hoarse but steady when I finally spoke.
“Thank you, Dexter. I love you. I love you so much.”
He pressed a kiss to my forehead—gentle, reverent, nothing like the violation I had endured. And in that moment, with the dead serial killer cooling on the floor behind us, I knew I would never feel pity for anyone who tried to take me from him again.
I was his doll. His perfect, soft, unbreakable doll.
he eats her out for the first time (her first time too) in his apartment 😜😜😜
First Taste
Dexter Morgan x Reader
SMUT 18+ MDNI!
The dim glow of the Miami skyline filtered through the blinds of Dexter Morgan's apartment, casting long, shadowy stripes across the hardwood floor like the bars of a cage I wasn't sure I wanted to escape. It was late—too late for a girl like me to be here, slipping through the back door of a forensic analyst's life like some illicit secret. At eighteen, I was barely legal, a freshman nursing student with wide eyes and a backpack full of textbooks that felt heavier than the weight of what we were doing. Dexter had found me at a campus coffee shop, of all places, my fingers stained with highlighter ink as I rambled about blood spatter patterns in a true crime podcast. He'd listened, really listened, his green eyes steady and unblinking, like he was dissecting me under a microscope. "You see the patterns others miss," he'd said, his voice that low, even timbre that made my stomach twist in ways I couldn't name. And just like that, I was hooked—on the mystery of him, the way he moved like a shadow, precise and controlled, always one step ahead of the chaos.
Now, here I was, perched on the edge of his neatly made bed, the air thick with the faint scent of bleach and something metallic underneath, like the ghost of his work lingering on his skin. His apartment was a study in minimalism: white walls, a single bookshelf lined with forensic journals and a few dog-eared paperbacks on boating—his escape, he'd called it once, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. I tugged at the hem of my oversized hoodie, the one I'd thrown on over my tank top and shorts after my last lecture, feeling exposed despite the layers. He was across the room, shrugging off his button-down shirt, the muscles in his back flexing under pale skin marked by faint scars I hadn't dared ask about yet. Dexter was older—thirty-something, with that quiet intensity that made professors jealous and coeds whisper. But with me, he was careful, almost tender, like he was afraid I'd shatter if he breathed too hard.
"You don't have to do this," I said softly, my voice barely cutting through the hum of the air conditioner. My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild thing trapped in a ribcage too small. We'd been together—whatever "together" meant—for a month now, stolen kisses in his car after dark, his hand on my thigh during late-night drives along Ocean Drive. But tonight felt different. I'd confessed it over takeout Chinese on his couch: that no one had ever gone down on me, that the boys my age fumbled and finished too fast, leaving me aching and unsatisfied. Dexter had paused, chopsticks midway to his mouth, and looked at me with that dissecting gaze. "Then let me show you," he'd murmured, and the promise in his voice had sent heat pooling low in my belly.
He turned, shirtless now, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was too controlled, too deliberate. "I want to," he replied, crossing the room in three measured steps. His hands—those hands that spent days wrist-deep in crime scene evidence—cupped my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks with a gentleness that belied the strength in them. Up close, he smelled like soap and salt, the ocean clinging to him from his evening run. "But only if you're sure, yn." My name on his lips was a caress, soft and unfamiliar still, like he was testing how it fit.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I'm sure." But doubt flickered at the edges of my mind, a suspenseful undercurrent that made my skin prickle. Dexter wasn't like other guys; there was always this edge to him, a tension coiled beneath the surface, like he was holding back a storm. I'd caught glimpses—his eyes darkening when a news alert about a murder pinged on his phone, the way he'd vanish for hours without explanation, returning with a faint bruise on his knuckles he'd brush off as "gym mishap." It thrilled me as much as it terrified me, this dance on the knife's edge of normalcy. What if tonight he slipped? What if the man who analyzed blood for a living saw too much in me?
He kissed me then, slow and deep, his lips firm against mine as he eased me back onto the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and I sank into the crisp sheets, my body arching instinctively toward him. His mouth trailed from my lips to my jaw, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there, sending sparks skittering down my spine. "Tell me if it's too much," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear. I shivered, nodding again, my fingers threading into his short, dark hair—hair that was always perfectly combed, like even his chaos had rules.
Dexter's hands were everywhere and nowhere, mapping me with forensic precision. He peeled the hoodie from my shoulders, exposing the thin straps of my tank top, and I felt the cool air kiss my skin like a warning. His eyes roamed over me, not hungry like the frat boys who'd pawed at me in dorm parties, but appraising, cataloging every freckle, every curve.
"You're beautiful," he said, and there was a rawness in his voice that caught me off guard—a crack in the facade. For a moment, the tension eased, replaced by a warmth that bloomed in my chest. He meant it, this man who faked emotions for a living, or so I suspected in my quieter doubts.
He hooked his fingers under the hem of my tank top, lifting it slowly, giving me time to stop him. I didn't. The fabric whispered over my head, leaving me in just my bra and shorts, my breasts heaving with each shallow breath. Dexter's gaze lingered on the lace edging, a soft pink I'd chosen on a whim, thinking of him. "May I?" he asked, voice husky now, and the formality of it—the way he always asked permission—made me feel safe, cherished, even as my pulse thrummed with anticipation.
"Yes," I breathed, and he unclasped the bra with one hand, the other steadying my back. Cool air hit my nipples, hardening them instantly, and I gasped as his mouth descended. He kissed the swell of my breast first, soft and exploratory, his tongue flicking out to trace the underside. It was tentative, like he was charting unknown territory, and I realized with a jolt that this was new for him too. Dexter Morgan, the unflappable blood spatter expert, was venturing into uncharted waters. The thought sent a thrill through me, equal parts comfort and suspense— we were both virgins in this, fumbling toward pleasure in the dark.
His lips closed around one nipple, sucking gently, and I arched off the bed with a whimper, my hands clutching the sheets. He hummed against my skin, the vibration shooting straight to my core, where I was already slick and aching. "Like that?" he murmured, switching to the other side, his teeth grazing just enough to make me squirm. I could only nod, words lost in the haze of sensation. His free hand trailed down my side, fingers splaying over my ribs, then dipping to the waistband of my shorts. He paused there, looking up at me through lashes that were unfairly long for a man. "Tell me what you want."
The edge was back in his voice, a subtle tension that made my thighs clench. I wanted to say everything—to beg him to devour me, to make me forget the world outside this room—but the words stuck. "You," I managed, cheeks burning. "Your mouth... there."
His eyes darkened, pupils dilating like ink in water, and for a split second, I saw it: the shadow behind the man, the predator calculating angles and outcomes. It sent a shiver of fear-laced excitement through me, but then he smiled—that rare, genuine curve of his lips—and the moment passed. "As you wish," he said, and hooked his fingers into my shorts, sliding them down along with my panties in one fluid motion.
I was bare before him now, legs parting instinctively as he settled between them, his broad shoulders nudging my thighs wider. The vulnerability hit me like a wave—me, so young and unscarred, spread open for a man who carried the weight of secrets I could only guess at. His breath ghosted over my inner thigh, warm and teasing, and I tensed, every nerve alight. "Relax," he coaxed, pressing a kiss to the soft skin there, then another higher up, inching toward my center. His hands gripped my hips, thumbs stroking soothing circles, grounding me. "I've got you. Always."
The promise wrapped around me like a blanket, comfort in the midst of the storm brewing low in my belly. I forced a breath, letting my head fall back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles overhead. Then his mouth was there—brushing feather-light against my folds, exploratory, like he was tasting evidence for the first time. I gasped, hips bucking involuntarily, and he steadied me with a firm hand. "Easy," he murmured, voice muffled against me. "Let me learn you."
And learn he did. His tongue darted out, flat and broad, licking a slow stripe from my entrance to my clit, and oh god—the sensation was electric, a spark that ignited every hidden nerve. I'd touched myself before, furtive fingers in the shower, but this was different: hot, wet, insistent. Dexter groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating through me, and I felt him pause, as if savoring the taste. "You taste like salt and sweetness," he said, almost to himself, and the clinical detachment in his tone twisted into something primal, making my core clench around nothing.
He experimented then, his movements deliberate, like slides under a microscope. A tentative flick of his tongue over my clit, circling it once, twice, gauging my reaction. I moaned, loud and unrestrained, my hands flying to his hair, tugging him closer. "There—yes, like that." Encouraged, he latched on, sucking gently, his lips forming a perfect seal that pulled whimpers from my throat. The tension built, a suspenseful coil tightening with each pass, each swirl. I could feel the edge approaching, that precipice where control shattered, but Dexter held me there, teasing, drawing it out.
His fingers joined the fray, one sliding along my slickness before pressing inside, just the tip at first, testing. I was tight—untouched in this way—and he whispered reassurances against my skin. "Breathe for me. You're doing so well." The praise washed over me, a balm against the intensity, and I exhaled shakily as he pushed deeper, curling his finger to stroke that spot inside that made stars burst behind my eyelids. His mouth never stopped, tongue laving my clit in rhythm with his thrusts, building a symphony of wet sounds and gasps that filled the room.
But there was that edge, always lurking. Midway through, as I teetered on the brink, Dexter lifted his head, chin glistening with me, and met my eyes. His were stormy now, pupils blown wide, and for a heartbeat, I saw the fracture: the man who killed without remorse, who slid knives into flesh with the same precision he now used on me. "You trust me?" he asked, voice rough, like the words were dragged from somewhere deep and dark.
The question hung in the air, suspense thickening it like humidity before a storm. My body trembled, suspended between pleasure and peril. Did I? With every fiber of my too-young heart, yes—but the unknown gnawed at me, the what-ifs whispering that this intimacy was just another layer of his mask. "Yes," I whispered back, reaching down to trace his jaw, feeling the faint stubble there. "I trust you, Dexter."
Something shifted in him then—a softening, a surrender. He dipped his head again, hungrier now, his tongue plunging into me as his finger pumped faster, thumb circling my clit with expert pressure. The comfort returned in waves: his free hand sliding up to lace fingers with mine, squeezing as if to say, I'm here, I'm yours in this moment. I rode the edge with him, tension coiling tighter, suspense in every lick, every curl, until it snapped.
The orgasm crashed over me like a Miami squall—fierce, unrelenting, drowning out the world. I cried out his name, back bowing off the bed, thighs clamping around his ears as pleasure ripped through me in shuddering pulses. Dexter didn't stop, drawing it out, lapping at me like he was parched, his groans mingling with my sobs. Stars wheeled behind my closed eyes, and for those endless seconds, there was no age gap, no secrets, no shadows—just us, tangled in ecstasy.
When it finally ebbed, leaving me boneless and quivering, he crawled up my body, kissing a path along my stomach, between my breasts, to my lips. I tasted myself on him—salty, musky, intimate—and it grounded me, pulling me back from the haze. "Was that... okay?" he asked, vulnerability cracking his voice again. This man, who faced down killers without flinching, looked at me now like I held his verdict.
I pulled him down, wrapping my arms around his neck, our bodies aligning in a sweaty, perfect fit. "More than okay," I murmured, nuzzling into his throat. "It was everything." He relaxed against me, weight a comforting anchor, but even in the afterglow, that edge lingered—a subtle tension in the way his fingers tightened on my hip, as if anchoring himself against some internal tide.
We lay there for what felt like hours, though the clock on his nightstand ticked past midnight. His hand traced lazy patterns on my back, spelling silent reassurances, and I let the comfort seep in, chasing away the suspense. "My turn next time," I teased softly, and he chuckled—a real laugh, rare and precious—that rumbled through his chest.
"Deal," he said, but his eyes, when they met mine, held that fathomless depth. Secrets swirled there, unspoken, and as sleep tugged at me, I wondered how long we could dance on this knife's edge before one of us fell. For now, though, in the quiet sanctuary of his bed, with the city humming beyond the walls, I let myself believe we could last. Dexter Morgan was my shadow, my storm—and god help me, I was falling deeper into the dark.
I knew exactly what I was doing that night at the precinct's annual charity gala. Dexter had been distant lately, buried in his "work" – that shadowy side of him I pretended not to notice, even though it thrilled me in ways I couldn't admit. But tonight, I wanted his full attention. I wanted to see that flicker in his eyes, the one that meant his Dark Passenger was stirring, jealous and possessive. So, I dressed to kill: a slinky red dress that hugged every curve, plunging low enough to tease without giving it all away, and heels that made my legs look endless. My hair was down in loose waves, and I dabbed on that perfume he loved – the one that smelled like vanilla and sin.
We arrived together, his arm around my waist like a casual claim, but I slipped away almost immediately, citing a need to "mingle." Dexter nodded, his expression neutral as always, that perfect mask of normalcy. But I could feel his eyes on me as I made my way to the bar, where Dylan from forensics was nursing a scotch. Dylan was harmless – tall, charming in a boy-next-door way, with a laugh that echoed a bit too loudly. Perfect bait.
I leaned against the bar, ordering a martini with an olive, and struck up a conversation. "Dylan, you clean up nice," I said, touching his arm lightly, letting my fingers linger just a second too long. He blushed, stammering something about my dress being stunning. I laughed – a real, throaty one – and tilted my head, exposing the line of my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dexter across the room, chatting with Debra, but his gaze was locked on us. His jaw tightened, that subtle tell no one else would notice.
Emboldened, I stepped closer to Dylan, whispering a joke about the captain's terrible tie. He leaned in, his hand brushing my elbow as he chuckled. That's when I felt it – the air shift, like a predator closing in. Dexter appeared at my side, his hand sliding possessively around my waist, fingers digging in just enough to send a shiver down my spine. "Having fun?" he asked, his voice low and even, but there was an edge to it, sharp as his favorite knife.
Dylan straightened up, sensing the tension. "Hey, Dex. Yeah, just catching up."
Dexter's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Good. But I think my date needs a refill." He steered me away, his grip firm, guiding me toward a quieter corner of the ballroom. Once we were out of earshot, he backed me against the wall, his body crowding mine. His breath was hot against my ear. "What the hell was that?" he growled, his hand trailing up my thigh under the hem of my dress, hidden from view. "Flirting with him like I'm not right here?"
I bit my lip, feigning innocence, but my heart was pounding. "Jealous, Dexter? I was just talking."
His eyes darkened, that hazel turning stormy. "Jealous? No. But you're mine." His fingers pressed harder, teasing the edge of my panties, making me gasp. "And if you keep this up, I'll have to remind you. Right here, if I have to." He pulled back just enough to meet my gaze, his expression all heat and promise of punishment. The gala blurred around us; all I could focus on was the fire he'd ignited. We left early, his hand never leaving my lower back, steering me like I was his to command. And god, I wanted him to.
The drive home was tense, silent except for the hum of the engine and my shallow breaths. Dexter's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his usual calm cracked just enough to let the darkness seep through. I shifted in my seat, the anticipation building like a storm about to break. When we pulled into the driveway, he killed the engine and turned to me, his voice a low rumble. "Inside. Now."
I obeyed, my legs shaky as I unlocked the door. The moment it clicked shut behind us, he was on me – pinning me against the wall with his body, his mouth crashing down on mine in a kiss that was all teeth and dominance. No gentleness tonight; this was raw, possessive. His hands roamed roughly, one fisting in my hair to tilt my head back, exposing my throat for his lips to devour. He bit down, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make me whimper, the sting sending heat straight between my legs.
"You think you can tease me like that?" he murmured against my skin, his free hand yanking down the zipper of my dress. It pooled at my feet, leaving me in nothing but lace panties and heels. He stepped back, eyes raking over me like I was prey. "Strip the rest. Slowly."
My hands trembled as I hooked my thumbs into the waistband, sliding the panties down inch by inch, watching his gaze intensify. He shrugged off his jacket, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing the lean muscles I loved to trace. But tonight, there was no tenderness in his expression – just hunger.
He grabbed my wrist, pulling me toward the bedroom, shoving me onto the bed face-first. "On your knees," he commanded, and I complied, arching my back as he knelt behind me. I heard the clink of his belt, the zipper, and then his hands were on my hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? To push me until I snap."
Before I could answer, he thrust into me in one swift motion, filling me completely. I cried out, the sudden fullness overwhelming, but he didn't give me time to adjust. His pace was relentless, rough, each snap of his hips driving deeper, his fingers digging into my skin. One hand slid up my back, wrapping around my throat – not choking, but holding me in place, a reminder of his control. "Say it," he growled, his breath ragged. "Who do you belong to?"
"You," I gasped, pushing back against him, the friction building that delicious pressure. "Only you."
He leaned over me, his chest against my back, biting my shoulder as he pounded harder. The bed creaked under us, and I clutched the sheets, lost in the intensity. He reached around, his fingers finding my clit, circling roughly, sending sparks through me. "Come for me," he ordered, and I shattered, my body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed over me. But he wasn't done – not even close.
Dexter flipped me onto my back, his eyes gleaming with that feral satisfaction. I was still trembling from my release, but he didn't let me catch my breath. He hovered over me, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand, his other trailing down my body, teasing my oversensitive skin. "Lesson not learned yet," he said, his voice husky. "You need more."
He entered me again, slower this time, but no less intense – each thrust deliberate, deep, making me feel every inch. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, my nails raking down his back. He hissed, the pain spurring him on, his hips grinding against mine in a rhythm that built the heat anew. "Look at me," he demanded, and I did, locking eyes with that darkness in him. It was intoxicating, knowing I was the one who brought it out.
His free hand explored, pinching my nipples until I arched off the bed, then soothing with his mouth – sucking, biting, leaving marks that would remind me of this tomorrow. I moaned his name, begging for more, and he obliged, picking up speed, his control fraying at the edges. Sweat slicked our bodies, the room filled with the sounds of skin on skin, our mingled breaths.
"Harder," I whispered, and he obliged, releasing my wrists to grip my thighs, spreading me wider. The angle hit just right, stars bursting behind my eyes with every thrust. He buried his face in my neck, murmuring filthy promises – how he'd make sure I never forgot who owned me, how good I felt clenching around him. I came again, harder this time, my vision blurring as ecstasy ripped through me.
Finally, with a guttural groan, he followed, spilling inside me, his body shuddering against mine. We collapsed together, tangled and spent, his arms wrapping around me possessively even in the afterglow. "Don't make me jealous again," he murmured, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice. I knew I would – because this? This was worth it.
Dexter was observant. He watches you, and quite closely at that. you're his girlfriend, almost 3 years in this coming March. He knows you, like his own brain. he knows your ticks, your tells, when you're lying, and when you're needy.
You're being a brat, have been all day. snapping off at Deb, closing the elevator on Batista, and blatantly ignoring Dex. he doesn't know what happened, he left for work this morning, with you, and everything seemed fine. Your behavior was causing unnecessary tension in the department, and it was throwing him off his game. he needed to fix it, fast. He can't have his angel baby upset, not now, not ever.
he calls out for you, peeking his head out from his office, just as you're about to say something that could cause a suspension. you turn around, head snapping with so much force he wonders if you might have whiplash. Dexter walks over to you, beckoning you to his office. you roll your eyes, annoyed at his attempt to calm you down.
you turn away, trying to move from him, but he doesn't let you. Dexter grabs your hand, turning you to face him, tits pressed tight to his chest. "My office, now. don't argue, don't fight, and don't whine." your mouth gapes open, nodding dumbly, head down as you follow him. you walk into his office first, pretending to look at the supplies to seem nonchalant, but failing as you jump from the click of the lock.
You turn, trying to explain yourself, to delay the inevitable. But Dexter only shushes you. you can see the way his eyes darken slightly, the way his lips press into a grim line as he looks you over, following you as you back up against a wall. the blinds are closed, you realize as you look over, trying to avoid his gaze, you're fucked.
"you're upset." you scoff, avoiding his eyes as they glare at you. "clearly. good job noticing the obvious." your sentence is meant to come out as a hiss, but it sounds more like a timid whisper. Dexter chuckles at you, a dark one full of mirth and irritation. it startles you a bit, watching as he smiles again. he moves, head tilting down as he forces you to look at him, hand squeezing your face so tight it brings you to tears.
"oh don't fucking cry now. You wanted this, you're an uptight, spoiled, bratty fucking princess who cant function if she doesn't get some dick in her within 12 hours." you're embarrassed, not just because everything he's saying is true, but because you're getting so fucking wet from how mean he's being to you.
Dexter kneels, forcing your legs apart as you squeal, right leg lifted onto his shoulder. he takes a sniff at your panties, watching how the wet spot on your panties stick to your lips. he kisses them, through the underwear, before licking a broad strip from your hole to your clit. he slips his tongue to your hole, letting it go in you as deep as the cloth will allow, then flicking his tongue in a rhythm that feels so good accompanied by the friction of your panties.
it 's overwhelming, burning pleasure shooting through every part of your body as your head tilts back against the wall, biting your tongue so he doesn't stop. He continues this, making out with your covered hole and bud of nerves, soaking the cloth and making you whimper and whine.
it's enough to feel so, so fucking good, but not enough to make you cum. he pulls back, letting your leg fall back down, your chest heaving as you almost slide down the wall. Dexter doesn't let you fall, catching you as you start to slip. he pulls you towards him, guiding you onto his desk as he slips his hand under the waistband of your underwear.
he rubs your clit, kissing from your ear to you collarbones, sucking a collection hickies that burn purple and red, before biting down so harshly that you're sure it'll bruise even more. Dexter's a sadist, this sadistic display of power and pleasure, is foreplay to him.
eventually, he gives you a break, kissing your lips before speaking again. "lift your hips." you hesitate, looking at him in confusion, "come on, be good for me angel. know you're smart to figure out what i'm gonna do." you oblige, following his direction as he pulls your underwear down. He wraps them up, twisting them into handcuffs as he forces your arms behind you, tying them with your arousal and spit soaked underwear.
he maneuvers you using your arms, so that you turned towards him now. Dexter flick your skirt up, kissing a cheek before harshly slapping it. He doesn't let up though, repeatedly hitting you, sometimes with so much force that you wonder if he's punching your ass just to fuck with you and your dirty moans.
he stalls for a second, and you wonder if you're done, before yo hear his belt buckle unlatch, and his tip, come into contact with your lips. he doesn't slip it in, no no no, this isn't a reward. and you both know that. it's a punishment.
he fucks your slit, rubbing his cock between your lips and letting his tip twitch against your clit. you squeal and whine at every movement he makes, not once daring to fight him. he forces your back down, making you arch against his desk table as he gets close. you're so close too, but he cums before you. it's groans and sighs from him, as you feel the warm sticky liquid drip onto your cunt.
Dexter lifts you up, kissing your forehead and wiping the tears and sweat from your face as he undoes the makeshift cuffs. he puts them back on you, rubbing your cunt so that the underwear stick to you and the cum.
Dexter sits you on his lap, letting your tremors die down as you rest your head in his neck, content. he feeds you a cookie, watching as you take every bite with a smile. you refuse a drink, but promise to drink soon. He knows you will, he watches you 24/7. He kisses you once more before patting your ass and letting you leave, before you open the door, on shaky legs, he calls out. "be a good girl, i'll take care of you later."
Hiii! Could I request some Dexter x reader fluff where you're both sheltering in his apartment waiting for a hurricane to pass? Maybe the power goes out, maybe he cooks you breakfast with the food rations, or maybe its just sleepy cuddles in bed listening to the storm? I'll leave it up to you!! Thank you sm! <3
We Made It.
Dexter Morgan x Reader
Fluff 🩷
Thank you for the request! I hope this lived up to your request!
The wind was already howling outside, whipping palm fronds against the windows like angry ghosts, as I stared at the TV screen in our cozy Miami apartment. The news anchor's voice was grave, warning about Hurricane Elena barreling toward us, set to make landfall right on our one-year anniversary.
Of all the days! Dexter and I had planned a romantic getaway, but now the city was in chaos—evacuation orders blaring, stores stripped bare, and roads clogged with cars fleeing north.
But I couldn't leave. This place was more than just walls and a roof; it was where Dexter and I had fallen in love. The tiny kitchen where he'd first cooked me pasta, burning it hilariously; the living room couch where we'd binge-watched true crime shows until dawn; the bedroom balcony overlooking the bay where he'd kissed me for the first time under a full moon.
No storm was chasing me out of our home.
Dexter wrapped his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. "You sure about this, love? We could still pack up and head to your sister’s place inland." His voice was steady, but I could feel the tension in his muscles. He was always so protective, my Dexter—my brilliant, intense forensic analyst who saw the world in blood spatter patterns but looked at me like I was the only light in his darkness.
I turned in his embrace, cupping his face in my hands. "I'm sure. This is our home, Dex. We've built everything here. Besides, it's our anniversary. If we're going to weather a storm, let's do it together." He searched my eyes for a moment, then nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Alright. But I'm not letting anything happen to you. We've got this."
We spent the afternoon preparing. Everyone staying behind had rushed to the emergency distribution centers for rations—MREs, bottled water, flashlights, batteries. Dexter and I loaded up our car with as much as we could carry, plus some extra non-perishables from the corner store before it shuttered.
Back home, we boarded up the windows with plywood we'd bought weeks ago, just in case. Dexter hammered nails with precise, methodical strikes, his shirt clinging to his back from the humid heat. I handed him tools, stealing glances at his focused expression. God, I loved how he approached everything like a puzzle to solve—even a hurricane.
By evening, the power flickered once, twice, then went out for good. The apartment plunged into darkness, save for the faint glow of the setting sun filtering through the cracks in the boards. I lit candles—scented ones we'd saved for special occasions, vanilla and lavender filling the air. Dexter set up a small battery-powered radio for updates, its static crackling like distant thunder. The storm was close now; rain pelted the roof in sheets, and the wind screamed like a banshee.
"Anniversary dinner, hurricane style," Dexter said, pulling out a couple of MREs and some canned goods. But he surprised me by arranging it all on our dining table with care—lighting more candles around it, even draping a clean tablecloth over the surface.
We heated up the meals using the little sterno cans from the emergency kit: beef stew for him, pasta primavera for me. It wasn't gourmet, but in the candlelight, with the storm raging outside, it felt intimate, almost magical.
We sat across from each other, our hands intertwined over the table. "To us," I toasted with a bottle of water, clinking it against his.
He chuckled, that rare, genuine laugh that always made my heart flutter. "To the woman who makes even a category 4 hurricane feel like a minor inconvenience." We ate slowly, talking about everything and nothing—the day we met at the Miami Metro Police Department, where I worked in admin and he'd come in looking all serious with his blood slides; our first date at that little Cuban café; the way he'd proposed we move in together after just six months because "life's too short not to seize what makes you happy."
As the wind intensified, shaking the building, Dexter's eyes never left mine. "You know, I never thought I'd have this," he admitted softly, his thumb tracing circles on my hand. "A real home. Someone who sees me—all of me—and stays anyway." My chest tightened; I knew about his shadows, the parts he kept hidden, but they didn't scare me. They made him who he was, and I loved every layer.
After dinner, we cleared the table and moved to the couch, wrapped in blankets. The candles flickered, casting dancing shadows on the walls. Outside, the hurricane was in full fury—branches snapping, sirens wailing in the distance, rain hammering like bullets. But inside, it was just us. Dexter pulled me into his lap, his arms encircling me protectively. "Come here," he murmured, kissing my forehead. "I've got you."
I nestled against Dexter's chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing amid the chaos outside. The wind howled louder now, rattling the boarded windows like it was trying to break in, but his arms around me were a fortress. He held me so tight, as if the storm itself couldn't pry me away.
"You okay?" he whispered, his lips brushing my ear. I nodded, burrowing closer. "Yeah. It's scary, but... with you here, it's bearable." We stayed like that for a while, just listening to the rain lash against the building, the occasional thunderclap booming like a cannon.
Eventually, the couch felt too exposed, even in our fortified apartment. "Let's go to bed," I suggested, and Dexter agreed without hesitation. He scooped me up effortlessly—always the strong one—and carried me to our bedroom, where we'd already set up more candles on the nightstands.
The flames danced, casting a warm, golden glow over the room. He laid me down gently, then slid in beside me, pulling the covers over us. Immediately, his body molded to mine, spooning me from behind, one arm draped protectively over my waist, his hand finding mine and lacing our fingers together.
The hurricane was at its peak now; the whole building creaked and groaned, and I swear I heard something crash outside—maybe a tree branch or a sign. My heart raced a little, but Dexter sensed it.
"Shh, I've got you," he murmured, his voice low and soothing in the darkness. "Nothing's getting through to us. Not tonight." I turned my head slightly to look at him, our faces inches apart in the candlelight.
His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, were soft, filled with that rare vulnerability he only showed me. "Happy anniversary, Dex," I whispered. "Even if it's not what we planned."
He smiled, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "It's perfect because it's with you. You know that?" We lay there, the storm our twisted lullaby, and started whispering the reasons we loved each other—like a game we'd played on quiet nights before, but this time it felt deeper, more urgent, as if affirming our bond against the fury outside.
"I love how you see the world," I began, my voice barely above a breath. "You're so logical, so precise, but with me, you let your guard down. You laugh—really laugh—and it's the best sound in the world." He chuckled softly then, proving my point, and tightened his hold.
"And I love your strength," he replied. "Not just physical, though you're tougher than you think. It's your heart. You face everything head-on, like staying here during this mess because this home means something to you—to us. You make me want to be better, to protect what we have."
I felt tears prick my eyes, but they were happy ones. "I love your protectiveness," I continued, squeezing his hand. "Like right now, holding me like I'm the most precious thing. You make me feel safe, Dex, in a world that's anything but."
He nuzzled my neck, his breath warm. "You are the most precious thing. I love your curiosity—how you ask about my work, even the gory parts, without flinching. You get me, the real me, shadows and all. No one's ever done that."
We went on like that for what felt like hours, trading whispers back and forth. "I love your smile," I said. "The one you save just for me, not the polite one you give at the station."
"I love your touch," he countered. "How you always know when I need it—a hand on my back, a kiss out of nowhere. It grounds me." "I love how you cook for me, even if it's just MREs tomorrow," I teased lightly. He laughed again. "Hey, I'll make those MREs taste like a five-star meal. But seriously, I love your loyalty. You'd fight a hurricane for our home—hell, you are fighting it."
The wind seemed to ease a fraction, or maybe we were just lost in our bubble, but his words wrapped around me warmer than any blanket. "I love your mind," I whispered next. "You're brilliant, Dex. The way you solve cases, see patterns no one else does—it's sexy." He raised an eyebrow, even in the dim light I could see it. "Sexy, huh? Well, I love your kindness. You see the good in people, even when I can't. You balance me out."
As the night wore on, the hurricane's roar became a constant backdrop, like white noise that somehow made our whispers feel even more intimate. I could feel Dexter's heartbeat against my back, steady and reassuring, his breath tickling my hair as we continued our little ritual. It was our way of pushing back against the storm—building a wall of words, of love, that nothing could tear down.
"I love your patience," he said next, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through me. "With me, with my... quirks. You never push too hard, but you're always there, guiding me out of my head when I get lost in it." I smiled in the darkness, tracing patterns on his arm with my fingertip.
"Quirks? That's a polite way to put it. But I love your honesty, Dex. Even when it's blunt, like when you tell me my coffee's terrible but drink it anyway because I made it. You don't sugarcoat things, and in a world full of lies, that's refreshing."
He shifted slightly, pulling me even closer if that was possible, his hand splaying protectively over my stomach. "I love your laugh," he murmured. "It's infectious. Makes me forget about the blood and the crime scenes for a while. You light up the room—hell, you light up my life." My cheeks warmed, and I turned in his arms to face him fully, our noses brushing.
The candles had burned low, flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity in his eyes. "I love your eyes," I whispered back. "The way they see everything, analyze it all, but when they look at me, it's like I'm the only mystery worth solving."
We paused for a moment, just gazing at each other, the wind still battering the windows but sounding farther away now. Dexter kissed me softly, lingering, before pulling back.
"I love your courage," he continued. "Staying here, facing this storm head-on. Most people would run, but not you. You're fierce, and it makes me want to be your shield." I reached up, running my fingers through his hair.
"And I love how you protect me without smothering me. You trust me to handle things, but you're always there, ready to step in. Like tonight—holding me tight, but letting me feel like we're in this together."
The conversation flowed effortlessly, each reason building on the last, weaving us tighter. "I love your sense of adventure," I said. "Even in everyday stuff, like dragging me to that weird forensic conference last month. You make the ordinary extraordinary."
He smirked, a playful glint in his eye. "Guilty as charged. I love your empathy. You feel things so deeply—for strangers on the news, for my sister's crazy stories at work. It reminds me there's more to life than patterns and evidence."
"I love your loyalty," he added after a beat, his tone turning serious. "To your friends, to your job, to us. You'd go to the ends of the earth—or stay put in a hurricane—for what you believe in."
I nodded, my throat tight with emotion. "I love your vulnerability. You don't show it to many, but with me, you let the walls down. It makes me feel special, trusted." He held my gaze, his thumb gently wiping away a stray tear I hadn't realized had fallen.
"You are special. I love how you challenge me—make me question my routines, try new things. Like this anniversary; who'd think MREs and candles could be romantic? But with you, it is."
We kept going, the words tumbling out like a dam had broken. "I love your hands," I whispered, bringing his to my lips and kissing his knuckles. "Strong, capable, but so gentle with me."
"I love your voice," he replied. "The way it soothes me after a long day, or excites me with your stories." "I love your humor—dark as it is sometimes, but it matches mine perfectly." "I love your resilience; you've been through so much, yet you keep going, keep loving."
Eventually, exhaustion crept in, the storm's fury lulling us toward sleep. Dexter held me unwaveringly, his protective embrace never loosening. "One more," he murmured drowsily. "I love you—all of you—because you make me feel alive." I sighed contentedly. "And I love you, Dex, for being my anchor in every storm." We drifted off like that, tangled together, the hurricane raging but our world peaceful.
Morning came gradually, the wind dying down to a whistle, rain pattering softly now instead of pounding. Sunlight peeked through the cracks in the boards, weak but promising. The power was still out, but the worst had passed.
I stirred first, feeling Dexter's arm still draped over me, his breathing even. "Dex?" I whispered, not wanting to wake him abruptly. He mumbled something incoherent, then blinked awake, instantly alert—always the light sleeper. "Hey," he said, voice rough with sleep, pulling me back against him. "Storm's over?" I nodded, listening. "Sounds like it. We made it."
He kissed my temple, lingering. "Told you I'd keep you safe." We lay there a bit longer, savoring the quiet, before hunger nudged us up. The apartment was a mess of shadows and candle stubs, but it was ours—intact. "Breakfast?" I suggested, and he grinned. "MRE special. Coming right up."
We padded to the kitchen, barefoot, hand in hand. Dexter rummaged through our rations stash, pulling out a couple of packets—cheese tortellini for me, chili mac for him. We used the flameless heaters from the kits, watching the chemical reaction warm them up on the counter. No stove needed; hurricane-proof dining. He even found some instant coffee packets, mixing them with bottled water over a sterno flame for makeshift mugs.
As we sat at the table, poking at our meals with plastic spoons, the normalcy felt surreal after last night's intensity. "Not bad," I said, taking a bite. "You make even survival food taste better." He chuckled, reaching across to squeeze my hand.
"It's the company. Happy anniversary. Here's to many more—hopefully without natural disasters." We talked about the cleanup ahead, checking on neighbors, but mostly just basked in the afterglow, grateful for each other and our little haven that had weathered the storm.
The dim glow of the crime scene lights cast eerie shadows across the blood-soaked floorboards, where the arterial spray patterns told a story of a frenzied struggle—high-velocity spatter from the victim’s defensive wounds arcing like a macabre Pollock painting.
I was the last one here, wrapping up the cleanup after the team had processed the scene, my gloved hands wiping down the last traces of luminol residue that had revealed hidden bloodstains under UV light.
The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of hemoglobin and the faint chemical bite of bleach.
That’s when I heard the door creak open behind me. Dexter Morgan stepped in, his forensic kit slung over one shoulder, those piercing eyes scanning the room with that clinical detachment I both admired and feared.
“Still here, I see,” he said, his voice smooth and measured, like he was analyzing a fresh viscera sample. “Good. I wanted to go over some restraint techniques—proper ones, based on ligature marks we’ve seen in cases like this. It’s for training purposes. You don’t mind, do you?”
Before I could fully protest, he was closer, his presence filling the space, the faint scent of his aftershave cutting through the forensic odors.
He gestured to the evidence table, where zip ties and cords from the scene lay cataloged. “Hands behind your back,” he instructed, as if it were just another protocol.
I hesitated, my heart pounding, but something in his unyielding gaze made me comply—maybe curiosity, maybe the late hour blurring professional lines. His fingers brushed my wrists as he looped the restraint, not too tight at first, demonstrating the perimortem bruising patterns we’d avoid in a real takedown.
“See how the ligature distributes pressure evenly? No petechial hemorrhaging if done right.”
But then his grip tightened, pulling me back against him, his breath warm on my neck. “Now, imagine resisting,” he murmured, his free hand sliding to my waist to “steady” me. I felt a flush creep up, involuntary, as the “lesson” shifted, his touch lingering longer than any training manual would allow.
My pulse quickened as Dexter’s fingers dug into my skin just enough to mimic the ecchymosis we’d document in autopsy reports—subtle bruising from applied pressure, nothing that would raise alarms in a post-mortem exam.
“Resist,” he repeated, his voice a low timbre that vibrated through me, clinical yet edged with something primal.
I tried to pull away, twisting my wrists against the zip tie, feeling the plastic bite in a way that echoed the antemortem restraint marks on so many victims we’d analyzed. But he anticipated it, his body pressing closer, trapping me against the edge of the evidence table where dried blood flakes still clung like silent witnesses.
“Notice how the body responds,” he said, almost pedagogically, as if this were a seminar on physiological reactions under duress.
His hand trailed up from my waist, skirting the hem of my shirt, fingertips brushing the exposed skin in a path that could map capillary dilation—heat rising, blood flow increasing in betrayal of my protests. “Adrenaline surges, mimicking fight-or-flight, but sometimes it crosses into… other responses.” I gasped as he tugged the fabric aside, exposing more, his touch precise like dissecting a tissue sample under a microscope.
“Petechiae could form if I go too far,” he whispered, lips grazing my ear, “but I know the thresholds.”
I murmured a weak objection, “Dexter, this isn’t training,” but my voice faltered as his other hand ventured lower, fingers tracing the inseam of my pants with forensic accuracy, probing for reactions like testing for rigor mortis onset.
The room’s forensic haze—lingering traces of fingerprint powder and DNA swabs—seemed to close in, amplifying every sensation. He chuckled softly, that detached sound he made when piecing together spatter trajectories. “It’s all about patterns. Yours are telling.”
My breath hitched as Dexter’s fingers continued their deliberate path, mapping out the contours of my body like he was tracing ballistic trajectories from a gunshot wound.
“Every reaction is data,” he explained, his tone still that of a lecturer in a forensics lab, dissecting evidence slide by slide.
I felt his palm press flat against my abdomen, right where the rectus abdominis would tense under stress—mine certainly did, a reflexive contraction that he noted with a subtle nod.
“See? Muscular rigidity setting in, not unlike early rigor in a fresh cadaver, but here it’s from cortisol spikes.”
He shifted his weight, pinning me more firmly against the table, the edge digging into my thighs in a way that mimicked contusions from blunt force restraint.
I tried to twist away again, but his hold on the zip tie was unyielding, the plastic creaking under the strain without snapping—engineered for exactly this kind of controlled pressure.
“Don’t fight it too hard,” he advised, almost gently, as if counseling a suspect during an interview.
“You’ll only cause unnecessary abrasions—linear ones, like we’d swab for epithelial cells in a struggle.”
His free hand dipped lower now, unfastening the button of my pants with surgical precision, the kind he’d use wielding a scalpel in the morgue.
The cool air hit my exposed skin, raising gooseflesh that he brushed over lightly, commenting on the piloerection as a vasomotor response to arousal or fear—often indistinguishable in the heat of the moment.
I whispered another protest, “This has to stop,” but it came out breathy, my body betraying me with a shiver that wasn’t entirely from dread.
Dexter’s eyes met mine in the dim light, that analytical gaze piercing through, cataloging every microexpression like facial reconstruction from skeletal remains.
“Does it?” he countered, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric, exploring with the methodical patience of someone sifting through crime scene debris for latent prints.
He found what he was seeking, teasing lightly at first, then with more intent, drawing out responses that made my hips buck involuntarily—much like galvanic skin response in a polygraph test, spikes of conductivity from sweat and stimulation.
“Patterns emerging,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, laced with that dark satisfaction he reserved for solving a particularly gruesome puzzle.
The forensic jargon blurred into something intoxicating, his words wrapping around me tighter than the restraints, as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing my collarbone where he’d “demonstrate” bite mark analysis next.
I felt the heat of him, the controlled power in his frame, and despite everything, a forbidden thrill coursed through me, mingling fear with an undeniable pull.
He paused for a moment, as if assessing lividity—the settling of blood in dependent areas—but here it was the flush spreading across my chest, a telltale sign he exploited with a knowing smile.
“Admit it,” he said, his touch growing bolder, circling with expert rhythm that mimicked the helical twist of DNA strands we’d amplify in the lab.
“Your vitals are elevated—heart rate, respiration—all pointing to submission, even if your words say otherwise.”
“Your vitals are elevated—heart rate, respiration—all pointing to submission, even if your words say otherwise.”
Dexter’s voice held a new edge, not just the cool detachment of analysis, but a undercurrent of hunger, as if my body’s betrayal fed something starved within him.
His touch slowed for a moment, fingers stilling inside me, hovering on the brink, teasing the ache he’d built. He leaned in closer, his breath uneven against my skin, betraying the control he usually wielded like a scalpel.
“I’ve needed this,” he admitted, the words slipping out like an unintended confession during an interrogation.
“You… you see through the patterns, the ones I hide even from myself.”
His hand resumed, but slower now, deliberate strokes laced with desperation, as if drawing out my responses could quench a thirst deeper than bloodlust.
The Dark Passenger, he called it, but here it felt personal—he wanted my secrets, the insights I’d gleaned from the case files, the anomalies in the blood spatter that hinted at a killer’s ritual too close to his own.
“Tell me,” he urged, his free hand sliding up to grip my shoulder, fingers digging in with enough force to leave latent bruises, the kind we’d dust for prints later.
“What did you notice about the cast-off patterns? The ones that don’t align with the weapon trajectory.”
His eyes locked on mine, dark and pleading beneath the forensic mask, needing my words as much as my body—complicity to seal my silence, to pull me into his shadowed world where lines blurred like smeared evidence.
I hesitated, my mind foggy with the building heat, but he pressed harder, his rhythm quickening in tandem with his demand.
“Give it to me,” he growled, voice roughening, his hips grinding against me instinctively, arousal evident and insistent, straining for more than physical release.
He needed my admission, wrapped in moans, extracted through this coerced intimacy— proof that I was his, not just in this moment, but in the conspiracy of what he hid.
The zip tie bit deeper as I shifted, but he didn’t loosen it, using the restraint to anchor his plea, his touch now frantic, circling and thrusting with a need that made his breath hitch.
“You’re the only one who gets it,” he whispered, lips brushing my ear, a vulnerability cracking through, like fracture lines in bone under stress. “The voids in the spatter, the negative space—tell me you see it too.”
His body trembled slightly, the analyst giving way to the man, craving validation, alliance, something to tether his darkness to mine. I felt the pull, the intoxicating draw of his want, mingling with the forensic haze of the room—luminol glow fading, but our connection igniting.
As his fingers curled deeper, hitting that spot with precision born of study and desire, a gasp escaped me, carrying the first fragment of what he sought.
“The angle… it’s off by degrees,” I murmured, surrendering the detail, and his response was immediate—a low groan of relief, his pace intensifying, rewarding my yield with waves of pleasure that crashed like arterial spray.
But he wasn’t done; his need ran deeper, pushing us both toward the edge,where secrets spilled as freely as blood in a crime scene.
Im thinking of rewriting this…I wrote it a while back. LMK
I never thought a simple evening at the lab would lead to this. Dexter, with his quiet intensity, had always caught my eye—those sharp green eyes that seemed to see right through me, but in a way that made me feel safe, desired. And then there was Brian, or Rudy as he introduced himself, Dexter's charming new acquaintance who somehow felt like an extension of him, with a smile that promised secrets and a voice like velvet. Miami's heat mirrored the fire building between us.
We ended up at my apartment after a late-night case discussion turned into drinks, laughter, and lingering touches. Now, here we were, the three of us on my couch, the air thick with anticipation. Dexter's hand brushed my cheek first, his fingers tracing the curve of my jawline with a reverence that made my heart skip.
"Oh, look at this face," Dexter murmured, his voice low and sincere, eyes locked on mine. "So perfect, every line, every freckle. It's like art, isn't it, Brian? The way her eyes sparkle—they hold entire worlds in them."
Brian leaned in from my other side, his breath warm against my ear as he cupped my chin gently, turning my head toward him. "Absolutely, brother. Those eyes... they're mesmerizing. I could get lost in them forever. And these lips," he added, his thumb grazing my lower lip softly, "so soft, so inviting. They're made for smiles that light up rooms, and kisses that steal breaths. You're a masterpiece, darling. Every inch of you deserves to be adored."
I felt a flush creep up my cheeks, but their words wrapped around me like a warm embrace, making me feel cherished in a way I'd never known. Dexter's lips pressed to my forehead then, lingering there as if savoring the moment. "Your skin here is so smooth, flawless. It tells stories of strength and beauty. We want to worship it all, starting right here."
Their hands explored my face with feather-light touches—fingers tracing my eyebrows, my nose, my cheeks—each accompanied by whispers of praise. "Such elegant features," Brian said, kissing the tip of my nose. "You're exquisite, my love. Let us show you just how much."
My breath caught as their attentions shifted lower, leaving my face tingling from their kisses and caresses. Dexter's fingers trailed down from my cheek to my neck, his touch so light it sent shivers racing across my skin. He paused there, his eyes darkening with a mix of awe and hunger, as if he were memorizing every curve.
"Your neck," Dexter whispered, his voice husky yet reverent, leaning in to press his lips against the pulse point just below my ear. "It's so graceful, like a swan's—elegant and strong. I can feel your heartbeat here, quickening for us. It's beautiful, the way it arches when you sigh. We adore this part of you, the vulnerability it shows, the trust you're giving us."
Brian mirrored him on the other side, his hand sliding up to cradle the back of my neck while his mouth grazed the column of my throat. "Oh, darling, this skin is silk under my lips," he murmured, planting soft, open-mouthed kisses along the length. "So smooth, so sensitive. Every inch deserves our worship—look at how it flushes under our touch, like it's blooming just for us. You're exquisite here, my love; this neck holds your voice, that sweet sound we crave to hear moaning our names."
I tilted my head back instinctively, exposing more to them, and a soft gasp escaped me as their tongues traced delicate patterns, alternating between kisses and gentle nips that made my toes curl. Dexter's hand moved to my shoulder then, pushing aside the strap of my top with careful fingers. "These shoulders," he said, his gaze intense as he kissed the newly bared skin. "So strong, carrying the weight of your days, yet so delicate under our care. We want to ease every tension here, worship the resilience they represent. You're our queen, and these are your throne—perfect, unblemished."
Brian followed suit, his palms massaging my other shoulder in slow circles, his breath warm against my collarbone. "Absolutely, brother. These curves are divine—soft yet firm, inviting our hands to explore. I love the way they rise and fall with your breaths, syncing with ours. Every freckle, every subtle line, tells a story of your beauty. Let us lavish them with the attention they deserve, sweet one. You're a goddess in our eyes, and this body is our temple."
Their words wove through me like a spell, making me feel seen, cherished beyond measure. As they continued, their hands ventured down my arms, fingers interlacing with mine briefly before tracing back up. Dexter lifted my arm gently, kissing the inside of my elbow. "Your arms are poetry in motion," he said softly, his lips brushing the sensitive skin there. "Slender and capable, they've held so much—now let them hold us. We worship their grace, the way they wrap around us, pulling us closer."
Brian took my other hand, pressing kisses to my wrist, then up along my forearm. "These wrists are delicate masterpieces," he added, his voice laced with adoration. "So fine, yet pulsing with life. And your hands—oh, these fingers, so clever and gentle. We could spend hours just on them, tracing each knuckle, each nail. You're perfect, darling; every part of you ignites our devotion."
The room felt warmer, the air charged as their praises flowed endlessly, their touches growing bolder yet always tender. I surrendered to it, my body responding with a heat that built slowly, deliciously, knowing this was only the beginning of their worship.
My heart raced as their hands continued their devoted exploration, the air in the room growing heavier with desire. Dexter's fingers hooked under the hem of my top, his eyes meeting mine with a question in them—silent permission that I granted with a nod, my breath hitching in anticipation. Slowly, reverently, he lifted the fabric, exposing my chest inch by inch, as if unwrapping a precious gift.
"Oh, look at this," Dexter breathed, his voice filled with genuine awe as my breasts came into view, the cool air pebbling my skin. He cupped one gently, his thumb brushing over the curve with the lightest touch. "These breasts... they're perfection itself. So full, so soft, yet firm and responsive. Every swell, every contour is a work of art, made to be cherished. I love how they rise with your breaths, inviting our worship. You're breathtaking, my dear—let us show you how much we adore this part of you."
Brian's eyes darkened with hunger as he leaned in closer, his hand mirroring Dexter's on my other side. He traced the underside with his fingertips, sending sparks of pleasure through me. "Darling, these are divine," he murmured, his lips hovering just above my nipple before pressing a soft kiss there. "Such beautiful shapes, nipples so sensitive, hardening under our gaze like they're eager for our attention. We worship them—the way they fit perfectly in our hands, the silkiness of your skin here. You're our everything, sweet one; these curves deserve endless praise, endless caresses."
I arched slightly into their touches, a soft moan escaping my lips as Dexter's mouth descended, his tongue circling my nipple slowly, teasingly. "Feel that?" he whispered against my skin, his breath hot and tantalizing. "This peak is exquisite—responsive, alive. We could spend all night here, lavishing you with kisses, showing you how perfect you are. No flaw, only beauty that drives us wild."
Brian joined him, his lips capturing my other nipple, suckling gently while his free hand massaged the fullness beneath.
"Mmm, taste so sweet," he said between kisses, pulling back just enough to admire. "These breasts are a symphony—each movement, each sigh from you music to our ears. We love every inch, every subtle vein, every freckle that dots them like stars. You're a goddess, my love; let us kneel at this altar and pay homage with our mouths, our hands."
Their words washed over me like a tide of warmth, making me feel utterly desired, every insecurity melting away under their fervent adoration. As they continued, their hands ventured lower, skimming my ribcage.
Dexter's palm flattened against my side, tracing the bones there. "Your torso," he said, his voice low and intimate, kissing down the valley between my breasts to my sternum. "So elegant, the way it tapers—strong core holding you together, yet so yielding to our touch. We worship this strength, this grace. It's the heart of you, literally and figuratively."
Brian's fingers danced along my waist, dipping into the curves there before pulling me closer. "These hips," he added, his hands gripping gently but possessively, thumbs rubbing circles over my hipbones. "Wide and inviting, perfect for our grasp. Every dip, every rise is mesmerizing. We adore how they sway, how they fit against us. You're flawless here, darling—curves that beg to be explored, praised."
The heat between my legs built as their mouths trailed lower, alternating kisses and licks across my abdomen. Dexter paused at my navel, his tongue dipping in playfully. "This belly," he murmured, his eyes locked on mine with pure devotion. "Soft and warm, a canvas of life and sensuality. We love it—all the little marks, the smoothness. It's where your fire burns, and we want to stoke it."
Brian nuzzled against my side, his breath sending goosebumps across my skin. "Absolutely, brother. This skin is velvet—inviting our lips to map every inch. You're our treasure, sweet girl; let us worship this core with the passion it deserves."
I squirmed under their attentions, my body alive with sensation, their sweet words fueling the fire as much as their touches.
My body hummed with the echoes of their touches, every nerve alight from the way they'd lavished my upper half with such tender, obsessive care. But now, as their hands paused on my hips, I could see the strain in their eyes—the raw need building in them, mirroring the ache pooling between my thighs.
Dexter shifted slightly, his free hand moving to the front of his pants, unbuttoning them with deliberate slowness while his gaze never left my form. Brian did the same, both of them freeing themselves, their cocks springing out, hard and throbbing, already glistening at the tips from the sheer intensity of worshiping me.
"Oh, sweetheart," Dexter said, his voice a gravelly whisper as he wrapped his fingers around his length, stroking slowly from base to tip. "Look what you've done to us. This body of yours—it's intoxicating. Every curve we've touched so far has us on the edge already. We can't help but edge ourselves, drawing it out, because rushing would be a sin against such perfection."
I watched, mesmerized, as he pumped his hand in long, languid strokes, his thumb circling the head on each upstroke, teasing himself just enough to make his breath hitch.
His other hand remained on my waist, thumb rubbing soothing circles over my skin, as if to remind me this was all for me. "Your hips here," he continued, his eyes tracing the flare of them with reverence, "they're so alluring, wide and feminine, made for our hands to hold. We adore how they sway, how they promise more delights below. Stroking myself like this... it's because I want to savor you longer, worship every inch without losing control too soon."
Brian mirrored him, his hand gripping his cock firmly, sliding up and down with a controlled rhythm that had him groaning softly. He edged himself masterfully—speeding up just a fraction before slowing to a torturous pace, his hips bucking slightly into his fist. "Darling, you're the reason we're like this," he murmured, leaning in to kiss my navel again, his breath hot against my abdomen. "This belly of yours, so soft and inviting—it's got me throbbing. We love it, the gentle rise and fall, the way it quivers under our lips. Edging ourselves... it's our way of honoring you, building the anticipation so we can give you everything you deserve."
Their praises flowed like honey, each word laced with adoration as they continued their self-torment. Dexter's strokes grew a bit firmer, his cock twitching in his grasp, but he pulled back just in time, a bead of pre-cum trailing down as he exhaled sharply. "Feel how hard we are for you," he said, guiding my hand to touch his briefly, letting me feel the heat and pulse before returning to his own rhythm. "Your skin, your essence—it's all we need. These thighs," he added, his free hand sliding down to caress the top of my leg, fingers tracing the inner seam. "So plush, so strong. We worship them—the smoothness, the way they part for us. You're a vision, my love; edging like this makes every second with you eternal."
Brian's eyes locked on mine as he edged closer to the brink, his hand twisting slightly at the head, drawing out a low moan. "Mmm, sweet girl, your legs are poetry," he whispered, his other palm kneading my thigh gently, inching higher. "Long and toned, or soft and curvaceous—whatever they are, they're perfect. Every muscle, every dimple we find is a treasure. Stroking myself while I touch you... it's bliss, but we hold back for you, to make this worship last. You're our muse, our obsession; let us edge on the precipice, all because your body commands it."
I felt empowered, desired beyond words, as they continued—strokes syncing occasionally, their breaths ragged but controlled, all while their free hands and lips roamed lower, praising my thighs, my knees, even the arches of my feet with whispers of perfection.
"These calves," Dexter said, kissing down my leg. "Firm and elegant, carrying you with grace. We adore them." Brian followed, his edging hand never stopping. "And your feet—delicate, sensitive. Every toe deserves our kisses." Their self-pleasure was a testament to their devotion, building the tension until I was aching for more, knowing they'd only release when my body had been fully exalted.
The sight of them—Dexter and Brian, both so composed yet unraveling at the seams from their own touches—sent a thrill through me that I could hardly contain. Their cocks, rigid and veined, glistened under the dim light of my apartment, each stroke deliberate, drawing out beads of pre-cum that they smeared along their lengths with thumbs that trembled just slightly. They were edging themselves relentlessly, breaths coming in syncopated rhythms, all while their eyes devoured the lower half of my body, as if I were the sole reason for their restraint.
Dexter's hand slowed on his shaft, gripping the base tightly to stave off the inevitable, his gaze dropping to my thighs where his other palm still rested, kneading the flesh with reverent squeezes. "These thighs of yours," he whispered, his voice strained with desire, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along the inner seam, inching higher with each one. "So lush, so inviting—they wrap around us like a promise. We worship their softness, the way they quiver under our lips. Every inch is perfect, my love; strong enough to hold us, tender enough to make us ache. Stroking myself like this... it's torture, but sweet because it's for you."
I parted my legs instinctively, exposing more to their hungry eyes, and Brian groaned, his strokes quickening for a moment before he forced himself to slow, twisting his fist around the head of his cock, hips jerking forward as if seeking friction he denied himself. "Darling, look at this ass," he murmured, his free hand sliding under me to cup one cheek, lifting slightly to admire the curve. "Round and firm, a masterpiece sculpted for our hands. We adore it—the bounce, the dimples, the way it fills our palms. Kissing it, squeezing it... it's heaven. Edging here, so close to the edge, just to prolong this worship. You're flawless, sweet girl; this ass deserves sonnets, but we'll settle for our tongues tracing every contour."
Dexter joined him, his lips trailing up my thigh to the crease where it met my hip, his breath hot against my skin as he nipped gently. His hand on his cock moved in lazy pumps now, edging closer to release but pulling back with a hiss. "And here," he said, his fingers finally brushing over my mound, light as a feather, making me gasp. "This pussy... oh, it's exquisite. So warm, so wet already for us. We love the folds, the sensitivity—every petal blooming under our gaze. Worshiping it means savoring, not rushing. Feel how hard I am, edging for you, because this part of you commands patience."
Brian shifted, his mouth following suit on the other side, kissing the top of my slit while his hand continued its torturous rhythm on himself, pre-cum dripping steadily now as he held back. "Mmm, yes, brother," he agreed, his tongue darting out for a teasing lick along my outer lips, sending sparks through me. "This clit—small but mighty, pulsing like a heartbeat. We adore it, the way it swells for us. And these lips, so plush, guarding your sweetness. Edging ourselves... it's our devotion, building until we can taste you fully. You're our goddess, my love; this pussy is a sanctuary, and we're honored to kneel before it."
Their words poured over me, each praise igniting fire in my veins as their free hands and mouths explored intimately—fingers parting me gently, lips pressing reverent kisses to my clit, my entrance, even the sensitive skin around. Dexter's strokes grew erratic, his cock twitching violently as he edged to the brink again, pulling away with a growl. "Your scent, your taste—it's addictive," he confessed, dipping a finger inside me slowly, curling it just enough to tease. "We worship this wetness, the tightness that grips us. Every ridge, every response is perfection."
Brian mirrored him, his tongue circling my clit while his hand squeezed his base hard, denying release. "Sweet one, this core of you is divine," he whispered between licks. "Warm and welcoming, made for our love. We could edge forever just to hear your moans. Look at us, throbbing for you—it's all because your body is irresistible."
I writhed under them, my own hands clutching the sheets, the combination of their self-denial and lavish attention pushing me toward my own edge. They continued praising, edging, worshiping—fingers and tongues delving deeper, but always pulling back to prolong the ecstasy, their sweet words never ceasing. "These inner thighs," Dexter added, kissing there. "Silken paths to your heaven." Brian hummed agreement, his edging hand slick now. "And this entrance—tight and eager. We love it all." The tension coiled tighter, their devotion making me feel like the center of their universe.
My body was a live wire, every inch pulsing from their endless praises and touches, the air thick with the scent of our arousal. Dexter and Brian had pushed themselves to the brink with their edging, their cocks straining, slick and ready, but their focus remained solely on me—on worshiping me like I was their sacred idol. Dexter's eyes met mine, dark with need yet softened by adoration, as he shifted back on the bed, laying down flat with a inviting smile. "Come here, my love," he whispered, his hand still loosely around his shaft, giving it one final slow stroke before releasing. "Let me feel you envelop me. This body of yours—it's made for this, for us. We adore how it responds, how it welcomes us in."
I straddled him eagerly, my knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips, positioning myself above his throbbing length. Brian knelt behind me, his presence a warm shadow, his fingers tracing the curve of my ass with reverent strokes. "Oh, darling," Brian murmured, his voice husky as he leaned in to kiss the small of my back. "This ass is perfection—round, firm, begging for our attention. We worship it, the way it clenches, the softness under our hands. You're so beautiful here, sweet girl; let us show you by filling you completely."
With a guiding hand from Dexter on my hip, I lowered myself onto him, feeling the head of his cock nudge against my entrance before sliding in inch by glorious inch. A moan tore from my throat as he filled me, stretching me perfectly, his girth hitting every sensitive spot inside. "Yes, just like that," Dexter groaned, his hands roaming up to cup my breasts again, thumbs circling my nipples. "Your pussy... it's heaven, tight and warm, gripping me like it was made for this. We love it—every flutter, every squeeze. You're exquisite, my dear; riding me like this, you're a vision of grace and passion."
I began to move, rolling my hips slowly at first, savoring the fullness, the way he throbbed inside me. Brian's breath hitched behind me, and I felt his fingers, slick with lube he'd discreetly applied, circling my asshole gently, teasing the tight ring of muscle. "Feel this, love," he whispered, pressing one finger in slowly, knuckle by knuckle, until it was buried deep. "This hole of yours—it's so responsive, so tight and eager. We adore it, the way it yields to us, the hidden depths it holds. You're perfect here, darling; letting us both take you, worship you from both sides."
The sensation was overwhelming—Dexter thrusting up into me from below, his cock sliding in and out with rhythmic precision, while Brian added a second finger, scissoring them gently to stretch me, his free hand stroking his own cock again, edging himself as he watched. They moved in tandem, fucking me together in this intimate dance, their bodies syncing to bring me higher. "Look at you," Dexter said, his voice filled with awe as he gazed up at me, one hand trailing down to rub my clit in slow circles. "Taking us both so beautifully. Your body is a miracle—curves that fit us like gloves, responses that drive us mad. We worship every part, from this clit that's swelling under my touch to the depths we're exploring."
Brian leaned over my shoulder, his lips brushing my ear as his fingers pumped in and out, matching Dexter's pace. "Mmm, sweet one, feel how we adore you," he added, nipping at my neck. "This ass clenching around my fingers—it's divine, warm and inviting. And with Dexter inside you... you're complete, our perfect union. We love the way you moan, the flush on your skin. You're our everything, my love; this double worship is just the beginning of showing you how cherished you are."
I rocked between them, pleasure building in waves, their sweet words weaving through the haze of sensation like a loving mantra. Dexter's hips bucked harder, his cock hitting deep, while Brian's fingers curled inside me, pressing against that spot that made stars burst behind my eyes. "Your insides," Dexter panted, "so velvet, so alive—we could lose ourselves here forever." Brian hummed agreement, his edging hand speeding up briefly before slowing. "And this back entrance—tight perfection. We praise it all." The rhythm intensified, their devotion pouring out in every thrust, every curl, making me feel utterly adored and consumed.
The rhythm we'd established—Dexter thrusting up into me from below, his cock filling my pussy with steady, deep strokes while Brian's fingers worked my asshole open with patient curls—had me teetering on the edge of bliss. My body trembled between them, every nerve singing from their touches and the constant stream of their adoring words. But I craved more, needed to feel them both claiming me fully, and as if reading my mind, Brian withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving me clenching around the emptiness.
"You're ready for me, aren't you, darling?" Brian whispered against my ear, his voice a velvet caress as he positioned himself behind me, the head of his cock, still slick from his earlier edging, pressing against my stretched entrance. His hands slid up my sides, reaching around to cup my breasts from behind, fingers teasing the undersides before homing in on my nipples. "This ass of yours—it's magnificent, tight and welcoming, a perfect haven for us. We worship it, the way it yields so beautifully. Feel how much we adore you, sweet girl; I'm going to fill you now, pinch these perfect peaks while I do."
With exquisite slowness, he pushed in, inch by inch, his cock stretching me further, the burn giving way to a fullness that made me gasp and arch. Dexter stilled beneath me for a moment, letting me adjust, his hands gripping my hips with reverent strength. "Oh, my love," Dexter murmured, his eyes locked on mine, filled with awe as he resumed his thrusts, shallower now to match Brian's entry. "Taking us both like this... your body is a wonder. This pussy gripping me, and now your ass enveloping him—we love every response, every shiver. You're flawless, our queen; feel how we cherish you inside and out."
Brian bottomed out with a groan, his hips flush against my ass, and he began to move—slow, deliberate thrusts that synced perfectly with Dexter's, creating a symphony of sensation that had me moaning uncontrollably. His fingers found my nipples then, pinching them gently at first, rolling the hardened buds between thumb and forefinger with just enough pressure to send jolts of pleasure-pain straight to my core. "These nipples," he breathed, twisting them a bit firmer, making me cry out. "So sensitive, so responsive—they harden like jewels under my touch. We adore them, the way they peak for us, begging for more. Pinching them like this while I fuck your ass... it's pure devotion, darling. Your breasts are divine, full and bouncy with every thrust."
I rocked between them, the dual penetration overwhelming in the best way—Dexter's cock hitting deep in my pussy, brushing that spot that made me see stars, while Brian's length claimed my ass with possessive strokes, his body pressed tight against my back. His pinches grew rhythmic, alternating between soft tugs and sharper twists that had me clenching around both of them, drawing out their own moans. "Feel that clench," Brian whispered, nipping at my shoulder. "Your ass is heaven—warm, tight, milking me so perfectly. We worship this hole, the hidden pleasure it gives. And these nipples... mmm, look how they flush, so pretty when I pinch them. You're our masterpiece, sweet one; every part of you deserves this ecstasy."
Dexter's hands roamed up to join Brian's on my breasts briefly, squeezing the fullness while Brian focused on the peaks. "Yes, brother," Dexter agreed, his voice strained with pleasure as he thrust harder. "Her body takes us so well—pussy dripping around me, ass hugging you. We love it all, the way she moves, the sounds she makes. These curves, these sensitive tips... pinching them makes her even tighter, doesn't it? You're incredible, my dear; let us worship you deeper, fill you with our love."
The words flowed endlessly, their praises wrapping around me like their bodies, heightening every sensation as they fucked me in unison—thrusts building in intensity, pinches sending sparks through my chest, all while they murmured how perfect, how adored every inch of me was. "This back," Brian added, kissing along my spine. "Arched so elegantly for us." Dexter nodded, his fingers circling my clit again. "And this clit—swollen and eager. We praise it all." I was lost in them, the pleasure coiling tighter, knowing their devotion would push us all over the edge soon.
The dual rhythm of Dexter and Brian inside me—Dexter's cock thrusting deep into my pussy from below, hitting that perfect spot with every upward drive, while Brian pounded into my ass from behind, his hips slapping against my cheeks—had me spiraling toward ecstasy. Their bodies moved in perfect harmony, filling me completely, but the hunger in their eyes promised more. Brian's pinches on my nipples had grown firmer, twisting with a edge that made me whimper, and now his thrusts deepened, rougher, more demanding, as if he couldn't hold back the raw passion any longer.
"Oh, darling," Brian growled against my neck, his voice rougher now, laced with a primal edge as he slammed into me harder, the force making my body jolt forward with each impact. "This ass of yours—it's fucking incredible, taking my cock so deep, clenching like it never wants to let go. We worship it, the way it stretches for me, the heat that surrounds me. But I need more, sweet girl; I need to claim it roughly, show you how much this perfect hole drives me wild. Feel how rough I can be? It's all because you're so exquisite, my love—every bounce, every quiver deserves this intensity."
His hands gripped my hips now, fingers digging in with possessive strength, pulling me back onto him as he thrust forward, rough and unrelenting, the pace quickening to a punishing rhythm that had me crying out. Yet even in his roughness, his words remained a torrent of adoration, whispered hotly between grunts. "Your skin here," he continued, one hand sliding up to squeeze my ass cheek hard before spanking it lightly, the sting blooming into heat. "So smooth, so resilient—it marks so beautifully under my touch. We love it, the curve, the fullness. You're our goddess, darling; taking this rough fucking like you were made for it, and it only makes us worship you more."
Dexter watched from below, his green eyes blazing with desire as he matched Brian's increased fervor, his own thrusts growing sharper, deeper. But he slowed for a moment, lifting one hand from my hip, his fingers—still slick from earlier touches on my clit—hovering near my lips. "Open for me, my love," he murmured, his voice steady and commanding yet filled with that same reverent tone. "These lips of yours... so plush, so inviting. We adore them—the way they part, the softness inside. Suck my fingers, sweetheart; let me feel that mouth worship me back, just a taste of how perfect you are."
I parted my lips eagerly, taking two of his fingers into my mouth, swirling my tongue around them as I sucked, tasting the faint saltiness of myself on his skin. A low moan escaped him, his cock twitching inside me as he pushed his fingers deeper, fucking my mouth gently at first, then more insistently, matching the rough cadence Brian had set. "That's it," Dexter praised, his free hand roaming back to my breast, kneading it firmly. "Your tongue... oh, it's magic, warm and wet, wrapping around me like silk. We love this mouth—every lick, every suck. You're flawless, my dear; sucking so greedily while we fill you elsewhere. It shows your devotion, your beauty in submission."
Brian's roughness amplified, his thrusts now erratic and powerful, one hand reaching around to pinch my nipple again—harder this time, rolling it between his fingers with a twist that bordered on pain but flooded me with pleasure. "Hear those moans around his fingers?" he rasped, leaning over me, his chest pressed to my back as he drove in deeper, rougher, the friction building to an unbearable heat. "Your voice is music, vibrating through us. We worship your sounds, your responses—this body that's taking our roughness so well. Your back," he added, kissing down my spine roughly, teeth grazing the skin. "Arched and strong, bending for us. And these shoulders, tense with pleasure—we adore them all."
I sucked harder on Dexter's fingers, hollowing my cheeks as he pumped them in and out, his eyes locked on mine with pure adoration. "Feel how wet you are around me," he whispered, his hips snapping up roughly now, syncing with Brian's brutal pace. "Your pussy—dripping, pulsing. It's divine, gripping us tighter with every rough thrust. We love it, the way it milks us. And your throat, taking my fingers deep... mmm, so eager. You're our everything, sweet one; this roughness is just another way to exalt you."
The combination was intoxicating—the roughness of Brian's anal fucking, his pinches sending sparks through my chest, Dexter's fingers in my mouth, their bodies claiming every part of me while their words poured out endless praise. "These inner walls," Brian grunted, spanking my ass again. "Tight and hot—perfection." Dexter nodded, curling his fingers on my tongue. "And this jaw, so delicate yet strong. We praise it all." I was theirs completely, the worship turning fierce, pushing me closer to the brink with every rough, loving motion.
The intensity between us had reached a fever pitch—Brian's rough thrusts into my ass, deep and unrelenting, each one sending shockwaves through my body, while his fingers twisted my nipples with that perfect blend of pain and pleasure. Dexter's cock filled my pussy from below, his hips snapping up to meet me, and his fingers pumped in and out of my mouth, my tongue swirling around them hungrily, sucking as if to pull every ounce of his essence into me. Their words never stopped, a constant hymn of worship that made even the roughness feel like the highest form of love.
But then Dexter's eyes flashed with something darker, more possessive, as he withdrew his fingers from my lips with a wet pop, trailing them down my chin, leaving a glistening path. "Your face," he murmured, his voice low and fervent, cupping my cheek gently at first, thumb brushing over my flushed skin. "So beautiful, so expressive—those cheeks that blush for us, these lips swollen from our kisses and now from sucking so perfectly. We adore it all, my love; the way it shows your passion, your surrender. But sometimes, to truly worship strength, we test it."
Without warning, his hand reared back slightly and connected with my cheek in a sharp smack—not brutal, but firm enough to sting, the sound echoing in the room like a crack of thunder. Heat bloomed across my skin, a mix of surprise and arousal that made me gasp, my body clenching tighter around both of them involuntarily. Dexter's eyes softened immediately after, his palm returning to soothe the spot with tender strokes, but the fire in his gaze burned brighter. "Look at that," he whispered, awe in his tone as he traced the reddening mark. "Your skin here flushes so gorgeously, resilient and alive. We worship this face—the way it takes our mark, turns pain into beauty. You're incredible, sweet one; that smack was for the fire in you, the strength that lets you embrace it all."
Brian groaned behind me, his rough pace faltering for a second as he felt my ass tighten around him from the impact, then resuming even harder, his hands gripping my hips like anchors. "Oh, darling," he rasped, leaning forward to kiss the nape of my neck, his breath hot and ragged. "Seeing that—your cheek blooming under his hand—it's exquisite. This face of yours is a canvas, perfect for our devotion, even in its fiercest form. We love how it stings and then glows, showing your passion. Feel how rough I'm getting? It's because you're so strong, so perfect, taking us both while he claims you like that."
I moaned, the sting fading into a warm throb that only heightened everything—the dual penetration, the way their cocks dragged inside me, filling me to the brim. Dexter smacked me again, lighter this time, on the other cheek, his hand lingering to massage the spot with reverent care. "These cheeks," he continued, his thrusts growing more insistent, syncing with Brian's brutal rhythm. "Soft yet tough, they deserve this worship—the sharp and the sweet. Your eyes, watering just a bit... they're stars, my love. We adore the tears of pleasure, the way your expression shifts from surprise to bliss. You're our masterpiece; this face commands our every action."
Brian's roughness amplified, one hand leaving my hip to reach around and smack my ass in echo, the dual slaps making my body jolt with electric pleasure. "Yes, brother," he agreed, his voice strained as he pounded into me, rough and deep, his free hand now pinching my nipple harder, twisting to the rhythm of his thrusts. "Her whole body responds so beautifully—ass clenching like velvet around me, taking this rough fucking as praise. We worship it all, from this tight hole that's milking me to the face that's marked with love. Sweet girl, you're divine; every smack, every thrust is for you, showing how cherished you are."
The worship continued, their sweet words contrasting the fierceness—Dexter's hand alternating between smacks and caresses on my face, each one followed by praises of its beauty, its resilience, while Brian's rough anal fucking pushed me higher, his pinches and spanks adding layers of sensation. "This jawline," Dexter added, tracing it after another smack. "Elegant and strong—we love how it tenses." Brian hummed, his cock slamming home. "And this back, arching under the intensity. Perfection." I was lost in the storm of them, adored in every rough, loving way, the edge drawing nearer with each moment.
The storm of sensation raged through me—Brian's cock slamming roughly into my ass, each thrust deep and possessive, stretching me to my limits while his hands roamed my body, pinching and spanking with that fierce devotion. Dexter beneath me, his length buried in my pussy, thrusting up with equal intensity, his hand delivering those sharp smacks to my face that left my cheeks tingling, a burning reminder of their worship. Every part of me was alight, claimed, adored in ways that blurred the line between pain and ecstasy, their words a constant anchor pulling me deeper into the bliss.
"You're so close, aren't you, my love?" Dexter whispered, his voice breaking with strain as he smacked my cheek one final time, lighter now, his palm immediately cupping it tenderly, thumb tracing the heated skin. "This face of yours—reddened and radiant, eyes glazed with pleasure. We worship it, the way it reflects every thrill we give you. Those tears streaking down... they're beautiful, signs of your surrender to us. Feel how we adore you, sweet one; your body is our temple, and this is the pinnacle of our praise."
Brian's roughness peaked, his hips grinding against me in erratic, powerful drives, one hand snaking around to rub my clit furiously while the other gripped my hip hard enough to leave marks I'd cherish. "Darling, this ass—fuck, it's perfection, milking me so tight, taking every rough inch like it's yours to command," he growled, his breath hot on my neck as he nipped at my earlobe. "We love it, the clench, the heat; it's divine, made for this. And your clit here, swelling under my fingers—sensitive and eager, pulsing like your heartbeat. You're our goddess, sweet girl; every part, from this dripping pussy to your marked skin, deserves this finale, this release we've built for."
I was unraveling, the coil in my core tightening unbearably as they both thrust in unison—Dexter deep in my pussy, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind my eyes, Brian rough and unrelenting in my ass, his fingers circling my clit with expert pressure. Their bodies pressed against mine, sweat-slick and fervent, every movement a testament to their obsession. "Your whole body," Dexter panted, his hands now roaming everywhere—breasts, waist, thighs—squeezing and caressing. "We adore it all: these breasts bouncing with our rhythm, nipples hard and begging; this waist curving so elegantly; thighs quivering around me. You're flawless, my dear; come for us, let us feel your worship in return."
The words pushed me over—my orgasm crashed through me like a wave, my pussy and ass clenching around them in rhythmic spasms, milking them relentlessly as I cried out, body shaking between theirs. "Yes, just like that," Brian groaned, his roughness giving way to a final, deep thrust as he followed me, spilling hot inside my ass with a shuddering release. "Feel me filling you, darling—your ass taking it all, so perfect, so warm. We love this, the way you pull us in, claim our seed. You're everything, my love; this body has us undone."
Dexter thrust up one last time, his cock pulsing as he came deep in my pussy, flooding me with warmth, his hands holding me close as if I'd vanish. "Oh, sweet one," he murmured through his moans, eyes locked on mine with pure reverence. "Your pussy gripping me, drawing out every drop—it's heaven. We worship this union, the way your insides flutter, the completeness you give us. From your toes curling in pleasure to the crown of your head, every inch is adored, cherished beyond words."
We collapsed together, their arms wrapping around me in a tangle of limbs, breaths mingling as they peppered my skin with soft kisses—my forehead, my shoulders, my back—whispering endless praises even in the afterglow. "Your skin glowing," Brian said softly, tracing my spine. "We love how it shines after." Dexter nodded, kissing my lips gently. "And your heart, beating strong against ours—perfection." In that moment, wrapped in their devotion, I felt truly exalted, our twisted story ending in a symphony of love and worship that lingered long after the heat faded.
I looked for the post "you're not really desperate till you're looking at the blank page" And yeah I agree, but also in between of ff.net and writing a fic is a lot of various stages of desperation that I feel some of you people never experienced.
So here's my proposal for an improved version of this hierarchy.
Not desperate at all - ao3
You'll manage- ff.net
It's tough- tumblr
You are over 14 y/o? You should be ashamed of yourself- wattpad
Holy fuck bro, what happend to you? - devinart
Go touch some grass, how did you even managed to find this site. How desperate for content are you? - A random site from 2000's that is called something similar to "dark lord potter"
There's no hope for you, either start writing or give up - Amino, quotev and etc.
