summery: the one where you bump into the future dad of your future kids while recording a video for them.
pairing: Andrew Garfield x fem!reader
posted on: April 16th, 2026 | MasterList 💐
notes & thoughts: hey guys it’s been a while since I posted something and even this idea is a bit rushed bc my life is so messy rn, I can’t even explain and I wasn’t really using my creativity at all. Hope this one is worth reading and I promise next one will be amazing! I got a great idea and I’m excited for uuu to read. I am revolving back to spidey obsessed era so here I am bringing you short fic on one of my favorite actors of all time (idk why he’s so underrated, he deserves sm recognition for his work).
And oh! Does anyone how to create a c.ai bot for Peter Parker without it being taken down? Bc mine has been taken down thrice! It’s frustrating af.
The camera shakes before it settles, catching more sky than it should.
“Okay—wait, hold on,” you mumble, adjusting it with both hands. Your face slides into frame, slightly off-center, eyes squinting as you try to get the angle right. A strand of hair sticks to your lip and you laugh, brushing it away.
“Hi.” You pause, like you’re deciding whether to say the next part out loud.
“Hey… future kiddos.”
It comes out light, playful—like you’re not fully committing to the sentiment, but still letting yourself have the moment.
Behind you, New York City moves like it always does—fast, loud, alive. A taxi honks somewhere behind you, someone brushes past your shoulder, a distant siren cuts through the noise. And yet, somehow, you look completely at ease in the middle of it.
“Okay, so—I had this idea,” you say, lowering your voice slightly. “It’s kinda stupid… but also cute? I think?” You shrug.
“I’m gonna record some of my adventures. Just little bits. So someday I can show you that I had a great time. That I actually did things.”
You turn the camera outward briefly—capturing the street, the rush, the sunlight bouncing off buildings.
“And maybe,” you add, softer now, “we can come back here together someday.” You turn it back to yourself, smiling.
“Sounds like a good plan, right?”
The video cuts.
🗽
Golden hour settles into the city like a quiet promise.
The light is warmer now, softer—painting everything in gold. You’re walking without much direction, phone in hand, occasionally recording pieces of the day. Your steps are unhurried, your expression open, like you’re taking everything in without trying too hard.
“Okay, I think this might be my favorite part of the day,” you say into the camera, walking backwards slightly. “Everything just looks—”
You turn—
—and collide straight into someone.
“Oh—!”
The phone slips from your hand. There’s a flash of movement, your startled laugh, and then the frame tilts upward—sky, buildings, blur—
—and then him.
“Whoa—hey, you okay?”
He crouches into view, catching your phone before it hits properly. His hand steadies it instinctively, careful, before he looks up at you.
You’re already laughing, brushing your hands against your jeans. “Yeah—yeah, I’m so sorry. That was completely my fault.”
“That makes two of us,” he says, a small, easy smile forming.
There’s something about the way he says it—like he means it, like he’s not trying to make you feel better, just stating something simple and true. He hands your phone back. Your fingers brush his.
“Thanks,” you say, still smiling, tucking your hair behind your ear. The moment lingers. Not awkward. Just… quiet in the middle of noise.
His gaze flicks to your phone. “You filming something?” You glance down, then back up, grin returning. “Yeah. Just… random stuff.”
“Like a documentary?” he asks lightly.
You laugh. “God, no. That would require actual effort. I’m too lazy for that.”
He huffs out a soft laugh at that, shoulders relaxing just slightly.
“Fair enough.”
A beat passes.
He nods toward your phone. “You sure it’s okay?” You follow his gaze. The red light blinks. Your eyes widen. “Oh my god.”
He leans slightly, amused. “Still going?”
“Yeah,” you laugh, covering your face for a second before dropping your hands. “Great. So now there’s just a whole clip of me crashing into you.”
“Could be worse,” he says. “At least I caught it.”
“That’s true,” you grin. “Very heroic of you.”
“I try.”
You tilt your head, studying him now. There’s something calm about him. Something that doesn’t match the chaos of the street. He shifts his weight, then extends his hand.
“I’m Andrew.”
You take it easily, giving him your name. “Nice bumping into you.” You say sarcastically, making him heartily laugh.
“Nice bumping into you too.”
Your hand lingers a second longer than necessary. “So,” he says, glancing around, “first time here?”
“Is it that obvious?” you ask.
“A little,” he admits. “You’ve got that… everything matters look.”
You smile. “Well, it does matter.” He nods, like he understands that more than he says.
A pause.
Then—
“I could show you around,” he says, almost casually. “If you want.”
You blink, surprised—but not hesitant.
“Like a tour guide?” you tease.
“Something like that.”
You pretend to think about it, then nod.
“Okay. Yeah. Why not.” His smile deepens—just slightly.
“Alright.”
And just like that— your day changes direction.
🗽
It starts without a plan.
That’s the first thing you notice.
There’s no map in his hands, no “we have to be here by this time” urgency. Just walking. Just being there. And somehow, that makes the city feel less overwhelming—like it’s not something you have to conquer, just something you get to experience. He walks beside you, matching your pace without thinking about it. Not too close, not distant either. Easy.
“So,” he says after a moment, glancing sideways at you, “what have you seen so far?” You hum, thinking, stepping over a crack in the pavement. “A lot of walking. A lot of almost getting run over. And a lot of pretending I know where I’m going.”
He smiles. “That’s pretty accurate.”
“I feel like that counts as exploring.”
“It does,” he nods. “That’s the best kind.”
You glance at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You get lost often?”
“Only when I’m trying not to be found.” You let out a soft laugh. “That sounded way cooler in your head, didn’t it?” He shrugs lightly. “I stand by it.” You bump your shoulder into his. “Of course you do.”
And just like that, it feels lighter. Like you’ve slipped into something comfortable without noticing.
🗽
You wouldn’t have found it on your own.
It’s tucked between two buildings, easy to miss unless you know exactly where to look. The door creaks slightly when he pushes it open, holding it for you as you step inside.
The shift is immediate.
The noise of the city dulls into something distant, like it’s happening far away instead of right outside. The air smells like coffee and something sweet—warm, grounding.
“This place doesn’t look like much,” he says, stepping in behind you, “but the coffee’s good.”
“I trust your judgment,” you reply without thinking. You don’t miss the way his eyes flick to you for just a second after that.
You order something you’re not entirely sure how to pronounce. He doesn’t correct you—just hides a smile behind his cup when you butcher it slightly.
“Don’t laugh,” you warn.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
You take your drinks and settle near the window. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You watch people pass outside—fast, purposeful, like they all have somewhere important to be.
Then—
“So,” he says, leaning back slightly, “what made you come here?”
You trace the edge of your cup with your finger. “I don’t know. I just… wanted to. It felt like something I should do at least once.”
“Just once?”
“Okay, maybe more than once,” you admit with a small smile. “But this is the first.” He nods, like that makes sense to him.
“You travel a lot?” he asks.
“Not as much as I want to,” you say honestly. “But I’m trying to change that.” He watches you for a second—not in a heavy way. Just… taking you in.
“That’s good,” he says quietly.
You tilt your head. “Why?”
“Because most people don’t.”
You hum, thinking about that. For a while, you just talk. Nothing serious. Nothing heavy.
The weird things you’ve seen since arriving. A guy dressed as a statue who scared you half to death. The way you got lost trying to find your hotel. The overpriced coffee you accidentally bought earlier. He listens—really listens. Not just waiting for his turn to speak. And it makes you relax in a way you didn’t expect. At some point, your phone ends up on the table, still recording small pieces—your voices overlapping, your laughter filling the quiet space.
“You’re really easy to talk to,” you say suddenly, not overthinking it. He looks up, slightly caught off guard.
“You too.”
And it doesn’t feel like a compliment.
It feels like a fact.
🗽
When you step into Central Park, it feels like stepping into a different world. The shift is almost immediate. The noise fades. The air feels softer. Trees stretch high above you, leaves catching the last light of the day and breaking it into soft, flickering patterns on the ground.
You exhale without realizing you were holding your breath.
“Okay,” you say, turning slowly, taking everything in. “This is insane.” He watches you instead of the park.
“You like it?”
You laugh softly. “I love it.”
There’s something about the way you say it—so certain, so genuine—that makes him smile. You walk without rushing. You point things out like you’re seeing them for the first time—because you are.
“That dog is literally living a better life than me,” you say, watching a golden retriever sprint across the grass.
“That dog has no responsibilities,” he replies.
“Exactly. I want that.”
You walk further in, eventually settling on a patch of grass.
You drop down without hesitation, stretching your legs out in front of you, leaning back on your hands. He sits beside you, slower, more deliberate. For a moment, you just exist. You tilt your face toward the sky, eyes half-closed.
“This doesn’t feel real,” you admit quietly. There’s no performance in your voice now. No joking tone.
Just honesty.
He glances at you, then at the skyline peeking through the trees. “It is,” he says. You turn your head slightly, looking at him.
“Yeah,” you murmur, a soft smile forming. “I guess it is.” Your shoulders brush this time. Neither of you moves away.
You end up staying longer than planned. Talking about nothing. Sharing stories that don’t feel like oversharing, even though they probably are. At one point, you laugh so hard you fall back onto the grass, and he laughs with you—really laughs, the kind that makes his shoulders shake.
And it feels… Easy.
Like you didn’t just meet a couple of hours ago.
🗽
By the time you leave the park, the sky has started to deepen into evening. The city lights flicker on one by one, like something quietly coming to life. He takes you somewhere higher. A rooftop. An overlook. Somewhere you wouldn’t have found alone.
When you step up to the edge, your breath catches. The city stretches endlessly below—streets glowing in long lines, cars moving like streams of light, buildings lit from within.
“Okay,” you breathe, stepping closer to the railing. “This might actually be my favorite part.” He leans beside you, close but not touching.
“You said that earlier.”
“I know,” you say, smiling. “I change my mind a lot.”
“That’s totally you. Totally allowed.”
You lift your phone again, recording—but slower this time. More intentional. The camera catches the skyline, the lights, a quiet moment between movements. Then you turn it slightly toward yourself.
“Today was really good,” you say softly. Not performative. Not exaggerated.
Just… true. Behind you, he’s there. Watching you.
“Like, unexpectedly good.” Your eyes flick to him for a second. There’s something in that look—something that lingers a little longer than it should. You lower the phone slightly.
“Definitely keeping this one.”
A small silence settles between you. Not empty. Just… full. After a moment, you let out a soft breath and lean lightly against the railing.
“Thanks for being my tour guide,” you say, glancing at him.
Your tone is half honest, half teasing.
“Five stars. Would recommend.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you nod. “Very professional. Didn’t even get me lost once.”
“Give it time.”
“Are you suggesting we’d be meeting again, Mr. Garfield?” You playfully asked tilting your head looking at him.
“Only if you want, Ms. YLN” And for a second, neither of you says anything. But it doesn’t feel like something missing.
It feels like something beginning.
🗽
The room is dim.
Soft lamplight spills across the living room, wrapping everything in warmth. The kind that comes from time, from familiarity, from a space that’s been lived in.
The television glows gently, playing the old video.
It’s slightly grainy now. The colors a little softer than they used to be.
But the feeling?
Still there.
Still alive.
“Mommy!”
“That’s mommy!”
“And that’s daddy!”
Small voices fill the room—excited, overlapping, pointing at the screen like they’re discovering something new, even though they’ve probably watched it a dozen times already. You sit curled into the couch, little Savannah tucked against your side, her head resting against your shoulder. Your hand moves absentmindedly through their hair, fingers gentle, automatic.
Your eyes stay on the screen.
On her.
On the version of you that didn’t know. Didn’t know that one wrong turn, one careless step, one dropped phone would change everything.
Beside you, your husband, Andrew leans back into the couch, relaxed in a way that only comes from years of belonging somewhere. One arm rests along the back of the couch, just behind you. His fingers brush lightly against your shoulder every now and then—absent, familiar, grounding.
On the screen, the moment plays.
You—laughing, breathless.
Him—leaning into frame, catching your phone.
The beginning.
“That’s when you bumped into daddy,” your three-year-old daughter, Abigail says, pointing excitedly.
“And you dropped your phone!”
“And daddy caught it!”
You smile softly, eyes still on the screen.
“Yeah,” you murmur. He hums beside you. “Yeah.”
There’s a quiet pause.
The video continues—fragments of the day, laughter, the city, the way you both looked at each other without realizing what it meant yet.
“That’s how you met?” Savannah asks, softer now. He shifts slightly beside you, glancing at the his daughters, then at the screen again. A small smile forms.
“Yeah,” he says.
A beat.
“That’s how I met your mom.”
Your fingers find his without looking. They always do.
You lace them together, squeezing gently. He squeezes back. On the screen, your younger self smiles into the camera, the city glowing behind you, unaware of everything that’s coming.
And in the quiet of the present—
with your kids pressed close, with his hand in yours, with the life you once joked about now real and breathing around you—
you realize something simple.
That moment— wasn’t just a memory. It was the beginning of everything.
summary ; a private relationship that becomes public through several social media posts.
tw/cw ; mild invasion of privacy, celebrity speculation, public attention, parasocial interpretation
a/n ; hello! i haven’t done one of these in a while, watching wuthering heights inspired me. enjoy! requests are always welcome. <3
masterlist
jacobelordi Wuthering heights, somewhere between the wind & the quiet (+ something softer I’m keeping).
filmgrainangel not the hard launch soft launch…
perioddramasociety looking forward to your take on this. not an easy one
daisyedgarjones can’t wait to see this 🖤
augustsaltair you cannot drop yearning like this unannounced
yourusername: proud of you. all that wind and you still made something beautiful out of it 🤍. ⤷ archivedaffection “proud of you” ??? who are u? ⤷ cinematichearts the calmest comment here and somehow the loudest
keoghan92 that last one… trouble 😂
neversaynever: ok but who is SHE
zendaya the wind did its thing but so did YOU 👀
cinegirl444 the way we saw NOTHING and still saw EVERYTHING
beabad00bee I love love like this 😭
letterboxdhottie this rollout deserves awards already
popnews we support moody boyfriends and their mystery girls
internetitgirl charli narrating culture once again!!
yourusername the wind was louder than anything we said but i understood you anyway!! go watch wuthering heights, i filmed some bts on my super8 cam that i cant wait to share. <3
softspokenangel OH THIS IS THEIR LANGUAGE… I’m unwell
cinephile.mp3 they’re locked in
florencepugh my fav girl in the world
elordipress this is somehow worse for me emotionally
jacobelordi always do.
⤷ archivedaffection “always do” ??????? EXCUSE ME
⤷ whoshecarmen yeah no they’re 2gether for real
filmgrainangel THE VIDEOGRAPHER??? oh she’s booked and loved
kathynheath this is the most poetic witness statement ever
softlaunchdetective we BEEN knew but thank you for field reporting
internetitgirl outing her as talented AND pretty is crazy
letterboxdhottie “the videographer” oh she’s THAT girl
cinephile.mp3 “leaning in to hear her” yeah im fine thanks for asking lmao
yourusername we were never hiding, just keeping something ours for a minute. 🤍 my love.
softspokenangel YUH THEY STEPPED OUT
mutualyearning “never hiding” yeah we were just blind apparently
maudeapatow okkkk hard launch !!!
reelclassics lovely to see collaborators supporting each other
clairo about time omg 🥹
internetitgirl she’s pretty, talented, smells good AND has jacob elordi… pick a struggle
jacobelordi ❤️
⤷ archivedaffection HIM JUST DROPPING A HEART??? MEN ARE SIMPLE
𝔖𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 ; Dexter has quietly settled into the sanctuary, slowly becoming part of the family. A cozy, slow burn chapter exploring gentle intimacy, playful banter, and the understated bonds of this unconventional home.
ℭ𝔴 / 𝔒𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 ; cult setting, domestic comfort, slow-burn romance, subtle tension, minor references to prior darker events. (~4k words)
𝖆/𝖓 ; back in the living, breathing sanctuary. Thank you for your patience while this chapter grew. Marla, Caleb, and Elias shine in their quirks, and Dexter’s quiet adjustments to belonging take center stage. Enjoy and have a happy new year! Comment if you want to be added to the taglist! ♱ ♡
𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 | 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝
Dexter sank into the worn leather couch, the cushions molding around him comfortably. Sunlight poured through the tall arched windows, golden and warm, dust motes drifting lazily in the slight draft slipping through the old church doors.
Marla sprawled across the rug at his feet, flipping through a stack of papers and humming along with the soft acoustic record playing in the corner.
“You really know how to sit there and look like you’re calculating world domination,” she teased, nudging his knee lightly. “Do you even notice the rest of us?”
Dexter let a small smile tug at his lips. “I notice,” he said softly. “I just… choose when to speak.”
Caleb leaned casually against the counter, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You both are ridiculous,” he muttered.
“You mean charming,” Marla said immediately, rolling her eyes at him.
From across the room, Dexter’s gaze caught movement in the kitchen. You were stacking mugs and humming along with the record, the sunlight catching strands of your hair as you bent slightly to arrange things. He lingered quietly, noting the casual rhythm of your movements, the small gestures that made the space feel lived in.
When you finally draped a blanket over the couch and settled beside him, the warmth of your presence filled the space naturally. Dexter didn’t move, didn’t speak at first, letting the slow, subtle pull of proximity settle in.
Marla stretched on the rug. “See? Dex is officially one of the furniture pieces now. Permanent fixture,” she said with a grin.
“You might have to fight him for blanket privileges next,” Caleb added, smirking faintly.
Dexter chuckled softly, glancing at you again. “I think I can manage,” he said. The gentle brush of your hand against the pillow between you was quiet but enough to make the room feel warmer, more intimate.
The sanctuary hummed around them: sunlight spilling across the worn rugs, the low hum of the record, the occasional laugh from Marla, the faint clink of mugs, Caleb’s quiet observation, and Elias adjusting the cushions on his sunlit corner of the couch.
Marla flopped onto her side, stretching dramatically. “Alright, enough seriousness. Who’s up for board games?”
Caleb raised an eyebrow. “You do realize I’m terrible at board games?”
“And that makes you perfect for this,” Marla replied with a grin. “Dex, you in?”
“I’ll watch for now,” Dexter said. But as Marla set the board on the floor and arranged pieces with exaggerated care, he felt himself drawn into the rhythm, the quiet humor threading through the room.
You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “Someone has to keep Marla from cheating,” you said softly.
Dexter caught your eyes and smirked faintly. “I think I’m up for the challenge,” he murmured.
Caleb poured himself a glass of juice and settled cross-legged on the rug. “I still maintain this is a terrible idea,” he said, though the corners of his mouth lifted.
“Terrible ideas are my specialty,” Marla said, waggling her eyebrows.
As the game began, Dexter noticed the subtle dynamics forming. Elias offered quiet commentary from his spot on the cushions, occasionally nudging a piece into place, Caleb made sarcastic remarks that were more amusing than cutting, and Marla’s laughter echoed warmly through the room. You stayed close to Dexter, passing him a small snack or adjusting a cushion beside him, letting moments linger without needing words.
After a particularly silly round where Marla claimed victory despite blatant cheating, Caleb groaned and flopped back on the floor. “I’m too old for this,” he muttered.
“You’re not old, you’re experienced,” Dexter said quietly, watching him with a small smile.
Caleb blinked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that some people don’t take games seriously, and some people quietly enjoy chaos,” Dexter replied.
You leaned against his shoulder, humming softly. “I think it means you’re fitting in better than you realize,” you murmured.
Later, Dexter crouched on the rug beside Marla, peering at a fresh sketch she’d done of Caleb making a ridiculous face mid-laugh.
“You captured him perfectly,” Dexter said, smothering a faint grin. “Terrifying, ridiculous… somehow charming.”
Marla laughed, nudging him playfully. “Finally, someone appreciates subtle terror.”
Dexter smirked faintly. “I understand chaos,” he said simply.
“See? That’s why you belong here,” Marla said, stretching and nudging him again. “No one else can keep up without looking completely out of place.”
Dexter watched her for a moment, noting her careful exaggeration, the playful glint in her eye. “I can… keep up,” he said quietly.
Marla grinned. “Good. I like having someone steady-ish around. Makes me feel… contained.”
Dexter only nodded, letting the conversation linger in comfortable silence.
Across the room, Elias was rearranging cushions to catch the sunlight just right. Dexter approached quietly, not wanting to disturb him.
“You’ve gotten used to the light here,” Elias said without looking up, almost more to himself than Dexter.
“I… have,” Dexter replied softly. “It’s easier to notice things when the light feels familiar.”
Elias paused, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Good,” he said. “That’s… part of belonging.”
Dexter nodded, noting the subtle approval in Elias’ tone. No words were needed beyond that—just quiet acknowledgment, a small reassurance that he fit here.
Caleb was tangled in cords again, the small chaos of the sanctuary spilling around him. Dexter leaned in, helping him guide a loop of wire carefully into place.
Dexter didn’t respond immediately, letting his hands work with the cords. “I notice details,” he said quietly. “And I… like order, sometimes.”
Caleb smirked. “Dangerously competent,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I like it.”
A quiet laugh escaped Dexter, the kind reserved for rare moments of ease. They finished untangling the cords together, a simple rhythm forming between them.
The late afternoon sun softened the room, and the group had drifted into separate corners of the sanctuary. You settled beside Dexter on the couch, the blanket falling softly around both of you.
“You’ve… gotten comfortable here,” you said quietly.
Dexter shrugged, careful and a little awkward, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I… am,” he admitted. “Because… it’s easier with you around.”
You nudged him slightly, teasing but soft. “Good,” you whispered.
He exhaled slowly, letting the small warmth and quiet tension settle. Fingers brushed lightly, glances lingered, neither moving away.
“I… like having you here,” Dexter murmured finally, soft, careful. “Even when we’re just… here.”
You pressed a hand gently against his arm. “I like having you too,” you said softly, letting the quiet linger.
As twilight settled, Dexter remained on the couch, your hand lightly brushing his. He let his eyes wander over the sanctuary Marla asleep on the rug with a book splayed open beside her, Caleb curled in a corner with a sketchpad, Elias gently arranging the cushions one last time before leaning back, the golden light dimming into soft shadows.
He felt the rhythm of the space, the small chaos, the laughter, the quiet touches.. and realized that this was his world now. The group and the odd little domestic rituals were a soft tether to something he hadn’t known he wanted.
A slow, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips. He could exist here. He could belong. And with you near, warm, a subtle pulse of connection brushing against him, he let himself feel it, an echo of home, of family, and of something unspoken but deeply rooted between you two.
He glanced around once more, taking in the golden streaks of light fading to shadows, the mismatched furniture, the cluttered counters, the stray sketch papers.. every little detail that made this sanctuary a home. It was imperfect, chaotic, alive.
The blanket fell loosely over both of you as the room darkened, the distant Florida night carrying the faint scent of jasmine and warm breeze. Inside, the sanctuary was alive with stillness, tucked safely into every corner. And for Dexter, that was more than enough.
taglist; @delsbtch @crustaceanwitch @stre3tleopard | taglist open for updates on this story, just let me know if you’d like your name added !
important; please keep in mind that the Dexter character is not of my own original creation; it’s inspired by the work of the creators behind the tv show and the writers involved. thank you.
“Henry..” Your voice shook a little as you pulled your hand from your mouth, ignoring the jagged bitten nails. “I want to go home.” Blue eyes sought yours before he spoke.
“You know why you can’t do that.” He sighed as he turned his body more towards yours. The kitchen counter no longer resting on his back and now his upper hips. “It’s not safe. When I complete this plan, I can see you there safely.”
“And if your plan doesn’t work? I’d rather be at home, with my friends, in a familiar place.” You turned towards him as well, the counter resting more on your ribs than your hip.
“Have I not made this a home? You’ve become familiar with it, with me..”
“It’s not like that!” You quickly steadied your voice, trying not to seem too emotional. “You’re kind to me, Henry, but this isn’t my home.”
“I’m not going to allow that to happen, end of story.” Henry stood straight and walked out of the kitchen, not bothering to look back. You quickly followed and grabbed his wrist, pulling him back.
“I’m going whether you like it or not.” Henry’s eyes darkened, but he said nothing. “I won’t stay.”
Henry spoke no words, but he pulled your hand from his, before pulling you towards him pressing his chest flat against you as his other hand slipped up the back of your neck to grip at your hair. If he could feel your heart nearly beating a hole in your chest, he didn’t show it.
“If you want to go and be torn apart by those monsters then be my guest. But, if you want to be good and appreciate all I’ve done for you, the warm home I’ve provided, food on the table whenever you so please, safety from being ripped limb from limb, you’ll understand why you have to stay.”
Henry didn’t let you respond, his lips capturing yours before they could form a smart response. His fingers tightened in your hair as he backed you up against the wall next to the stairwell. You sunk into the kiss, much to your better judgement. You knew you had to stand your ground, to fight for your freedom to leave and be at home, but how could you say no to him? He was right, he had provided so much for you, you didn’t need to work, you had endless entertainment, you had him when you had no one else to warm your bed.
His hand that held your wrist in a vice-grip released it, sliding over your hip and to your back instead. Despite being someone you had clocked as some sort of psychopath, Henry was passionate, desperate in a way. The hand he had just released wrapped around to his back, gripping his shirt as his left leg slipped between yours.
His knee provided a wonderful pressure to your core, prompting you to open your mouth further to him. The warmth in the pit of your stomach was one you had gotten used to when he had you like this. He somehow knew everything you wanted, every urge, every desire. His fingers slipped to the front of the dress he had provided for you, fiddling with each metal disk as he unfastened them. Your fingers tugged his shirt from its neatly tucked place in his pants, quickly finding their way under, to his bare skin.
Before he tried slipping the dress off of you, he pulled you from the wall and dragged you towards the old couch, his lips barely leaving yours. The ‘oomph’ sound you made as you hit the plush sofa was all the invitation he needed to slip the buttoned from your body, bringing your torso up to pull it from your arms as he tugged it over your head. Henry didn’t go back to immediately kissing you, instead burying his nose in your neck as his fingers roamed your mostly bare body.
You could hear the deep inhale through his nose next to your ear as he took in the feeling of you half-naked beneath him. It wasn’t the first time you had been in a scenario like this, bare underneath him as he found some new way to admire your body, but this time felt more predatory, more like he was sizing up his next meal. You couldn’t care to complain, however, shamefully enjoying the feeling of his fingers undoing the clasp of your bra.
Henry’s nose dragged down your neck, over your collarbones, and finally, to the swell of your breasts. His mouth made quick work, suckling on as one hand grasped the other. Your head fell back in pleasure, enjoying the sensation as he made quick work bringing your nipple to a stiff peak, before switching to the other breast.
As he sucked, your mind wandered for just a second. Was it really so shameful to give in? It had been what you assumed to be a month since your last attempt to escape. He had ‘saved’ you then, dragging you back home before some creature came to tear you apart. He was protecting you wasn’t he? And why should you feel shame for at least enjoying your stay, no matter how long it may be?
His lips released your breast as he brought his face back to yours, one hand using its grip in your hair to force you to look at him. He searched you face before yanking your head to the side so he could lean in and kiss your neck. Being in his arms like this was a sensory heaven, feeling his soft lips go from kissing to biting, firing up all the right neurons in your brain. You exhaled as he sucked roughly at the delicate skin, leaving a blooming purple bruise in its place as he pulled away.
“Don’t you see how good you have it? How well I treat you?” His voice was soft. He was playing you like a fiddle and you both knew it. “The way I practically worship you?”
You could barely form a response past an elated sigh as he brought his hand forward over your stomach, fiddling with the waistband of your panties before slipping under, digging through the folds to find your clit. When the pads of his long fingers found the bundle of nerves, he worked quickly, moving them in circles as you writhed beneath him.
“You and I both know you can’t get this back home, that there’s no one else there that can relieve the stress you feel.” Henry reveled in your whimpers and hushed moans, the sound like gasoline on a fire. “I’m the only one who can keep you safe.”
Henry pushed his hand down further, letting one finger circle around your wet entrance, as you bucked your hips into his palm with need. He always seemed to know exactly what you needed. He waited until you were nearly begging before he slipped one finger inside, pulling it back and forth as he coaxed out those sweet sounds you made.
One soon became two as he added another finger, making you fight to keep yourself from getting any louder. Henry seemed to notice the restraint and smiled cheekily, picking up the pace as he whispered in your ear. “There’s no one else here but me to hear you, there’s no need to be silent here.”
As if on cue, Henry added a third finger as he kept up his fast pace, making you whine and squirm beneath him. You felt the pressure in your gut build, your heart race, and the sweat form on your brow, and you braced yourself for that familiar release, but it never came. He quickly pulled his hand from your panties before yanking them down. Understanding his plan, you brought your hands up to fumble with his belt, undoing the buckle as he looked down on you, his cold eyes never wavering. He took great pleasure in seeing you like this, beneath him, at his mercy.
When you managed to undo the buckle, he quickly unclasped the top of his slacks, sliding them over his hips as well as his boxer shorts. You had grown comfortable with his size, having been quite nervous to proceed further during previous encounters. His right hand quickly shot out to grasp your jaw as he pushed you back into the sofa, gripping as though he had every intention of crushing it. His other hand took his length as he spread the bead of precum over the tip, before slowly sinking into you.
Your legs automatically wrapped around his hips, opening you up more so he could sink deeper. A wanton moan slipped from your mouth as he bottomed out, making him inhale sharply through parted lips. With bated breath, you held still around him until he finally began moving, setting a painfully sensual pace just to make you squirm. Henry loved how anxious your impatience made you, how it would make your brow furrow and your tone desperate. “Please, Henry- “
Most of all, he loved hearing you use his name when you begged, so sweetly. You weren’t innocent, nor were you naïve, but he let you pretend in these moments, because he knew what kind of animal you truly were. Henry knew of the animal you kept caged inside you, foaming at the mouth, desperate for love and acceptance and pleasure. As much as he delighted in using against you, he loved feeding it as well, nurturing the neglected beast.
Henry took pity and picked up the pace, moving his hips faster and sliding his hand from your jaw to your neck, pressing it into the cushion. You could feel him slowly cutting the circulation to your brain, making you lightheaded and maybe a little delirious. His lips found yours again as you were already struggling for air, feeling empowered as you squirmed beneath him. His pace went from fast to brutal as his free hand slid over your stomach and down to your wet folds, finding the bundle of nerves with ease.
Combined with the thrilling lack of air and being fully pinned down, the added stimulation was enough to bring you over the edge. The pitch of your moans raised as he turned his head from your mouth and to your ear, biting at the lobe. The pressure inside of you continued to build until the coil finally snapped, bringing your orgasm crashing over you in waves.
The feeling of your fluttering walls and you writhing beneath him soon sent him over the edge too, his seed spilling into you as it had many times before. The fingers around your neck tightened for a moment before loosening up and retreating all together. Henry looked you over as he brought over your face, sliding it up your cheek before pushing your hair from your sweaty brow. He slid his hand to the back of your head and brought it up to his mouth, placing a soft kiss to your temple, before slowly laying you back and removing himself from you entirely.
With a slight exhale, he pulled his pants back up and redid his belt, straightening himself out before he exited the living room to go retrieve a rag to clean you up. As his figure retreated through the door, you couldn’t help but stare at the empty space, wondering if now was the right opportunity to run again. The original feeling of shame returned, making your face heat up wit humiliation and anger. You couldn’t understand why he had this hold over you, why you couldn’t fully hate him despite knowing that he was lying.
Henry knew you didn’t believe or even trust him, but he had you right where he wanted you.
summary: a monster keeps your cottage safe from wolves, believing you neither see nor want him—until spring comes, and you finally turn to the creature in the trees and let him know you’ve been leaving the bread, the clothes… and that you were never afraid.
pairing: the creature (adam frankenstein) x reader
word count: around 3,000
warnings: gothic romance (set in 1800’s), talk of death and murder, slow burn, horror, MDNI (18+ only)
notes: hi first time writing in like 2-3 years so be nice please xoxoxo if you can’t tell i’ve gotten into writing horror/thriller and this was the perfect opportunity to dip my toes back in. anyways if you’re reading this here’s a kiss mwah
PART II | PART III
SERIES MASTERLIST
He’d been haunting the tree line long before you ever saw him.
At least, that’s what he believed.
All winter, something bigger than any wolf stalked the border of your little cottage, keeping the growls and yellow eyes at bay. You’d wake to claw marks in the snow that didn’t belong to any animal you knew, to the broken bodies of wolves dragged far from your door, as if someone didn’t want you to see what he’d done for you. Your lanterns never ran out of oil. Your firewood stack never emptied. Sometimes, there were heavy footprints in the mud—too large, too uneven to be human—leading back into the forest and vanishing with the mist.
He thought you didn’t know.
But you saw him.
You always saw him.
The first time, it was only a shadow: a towering figure half-hidden behind the black skeleton of a pine tree, watching you as you hung freshly washed sheets beneath a washed-out winter sky. Another time, you caught the briefest flash of his eyes, pale and aching with something that wasn’t quite hunger and wasn’t quite hatred, as he melted back into the dark.
The creature.
Adam Frankenstein.
The villagers whispered about a monster in the woods, a patchwork horror that should have never drawn breath, but you knew better. Monsters didn’t leave bread on your windowsill on nights you forgot to eat. Monsters didn’t stack kindling by your step after snowstorms, or set down a freshly killed hare just close enough that your old dog could sniff it out in the morning. Monsters didn’t linger at the edge of your light like a shield, taking every blow the world had meant for you.
So you started leaving things for him, too.
A still-warm loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and left on a flat stone near the forest’s edge. A thick, clumsily sewn shirt you’d stitched by candlelight, big enough to fit the breadth of his shoulders as best you could guess. A pair of gloves with uneven fingers. Each offering would be gone by morning, and in their place there’d be… nothing. No note. No mark. Just a silence that somehow felt shy.
Spring came slowly, softening the snow into streams and coaxing green from the hard earth. One bright morning, you took your dog and followed the familiar path beneath the budding branches, letting the cool air kiss your cheeks. You could feel him behind you—no longer a rumour, but a steady presence in the spaces between birdsong and the crunch of twigs underfoot.
He was careful with his distance.
Careful with you.
You felt him before you saw him.
The air behind you changed—thicker somehow, as if the very forest were holding its breath.
Your dog’s ears flicked, tail giving the smallest wag, but he did not bark. He sat at your heel, as though he, too, had long grown used to the giant shadow that haunted the trees.
You stood in the clearing, sunlight painting your skirts in pale gold, fingers resting lightly upon your dog’s head.
“I know you are there,” you said, voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “You have been there for a very long time, have you not?”
Silence.
The birds went quiet. A breeze stirred the budding branches overhead, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else—old smoke, metal, and the faintest trace of soap, as though someone had tried, clumsily, to scrub himself clean.
You swallowed your nervousness and smiled, though he could not see it. Not yet.
“Tell me, Adam,” you continued, your tone turning wry, “how much longer until you understand that I have always known about you… and that you do not frighten me in the least?”
Something shifted among the trees to your left. A heavy footstep, then another, crunching over last year’s leaves. Your dog gave a low, pleased whine.
Slowly, as though dragged forward by some unseen chain, he stepped out from the shadows.
He was larger than you had imagined, even after months of stolen glances. Broad shoulders strained the seams of the very shirt you had sewn by candlelight. The fabric sat oddly upon him, as if he were still unsure he had the right to wear something made with care.
His face—oh, his face.
You had prepared yourself for horror.
Instead, you found sadness.
Features too sharply cut, as though chiseled in haste and anger. Eyes a pale, unnatural blue, ringed by the kind of weariness usually reserved for much older men. There were scars, yes, and those patchwork seams that betrayed the unnatural hand that had pieced him together, but beneath them all… he was simply a man who did not know how to occupy his own skin.
He stopped several paces away, hands held slightly out from his sides, as though to show he carried no weapon.
“You… you ought to run,” he said at last, his voice rough and low, the words strangely precise yet hesitant, like a man learning to speak again after a long illness. “The villagers would tell you to flee.”
“The villagers,” you replied, “have never once stacked firewood by my door after a storm.”
His jaw tightened. He glanced away, as though ashamed.
“That was nothing,” he muttered. “A mere… task. I happened to be near.”
“And the hare left upon my step in January? Was that another mere task?”
He shifted his weight, great hands curling into fists. “You were thin,” he said grudgingly. “There were no tracks near your home. I deduced you did not hunt.”
“And the wolves?” you pressed gently. “The ones that never cross the boundary of my field, though their howls wake me in the night?”
His throat worked. For a moment, the creature looked almost… irritated. “They are foolish animals,” he said. “They do not understand when they trespass upon what is mine to guard.”
Your heart stuttered at that word.
“Yours to guard,” you echoed softly.
At last his gaze met yours. There was a terrible vulnerability in it, like a child braced for mockery.
“You ought not look at me so,” he said, voice rougher now. “You ought to scream. Or at the very least, avert your eyes.”
“I shall do neither,” you answered. “You have been my unseen champion all winter, sir. I should think it discourteous to shriek at you now.”
He frowned, as though the very notion of courtesy applied to him was offensive.
“I am no ‘sir’,” he said. “The man who stitched me together did not deem me fit for such a title.”
“Then what shall I call you?” you asked, ignoring the chill that raced down your spine at his choice of words. “The villagers speak of a monster. A demon. A fiend. I do not care for any of those.”
A shadow of something like humour passed over his face. “He called me Adam,” he said quietly. “As though I were the first of my kind.”
You nodded once. “Very well, Adam.”
Your dog, emboldened by your calm, trotted forward and sniffed at his boots. Adam stared down at him as though the small creature were some strange, new invention.
“He does not fear me,” Adam murmured, almost to himself.
“Animals are often better judges of character than men,” you replied. “He knows you have watched over us.”
A muscle jumped in his cheek. “I watched to ensure no harm came to you,” he corrected. “Whether you knew of it or not is of little consequence.”
“On the contrary.” You took a small step closer. His eyes widened, as though you had moved a mile instead of a foot. “It is of great consequence. You believed yourself unseen, did you not?”
He hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant nod.
“Then you must also have believed that the bread, and the shirt, and the gloves appeared by some miracle of the woods.” You tilted your head. “Or did you imagine the forest itself had begun to sew?”
Colour—faint but unmistakable—rose along the visible seam of his throat. He looked past you, toward the stone where you always left your gifts.
“I thought…” He paused, visibly searching for words. “I wondered if perhaps you had set them out for the poor. For some wandering soul more deserving than I.”
Your chest ached. “And yet you took them.”
“Yes.” His gaze dropped to his hands, as though the gloves were still upon them. “I told myself I had stolen them. That you would never know. That is the sort of thing a monster does, is it not? Take what is not his?”
“If I leave something upon the edge of the wood with no name attached,” you said gently, “is it truly theft for the one I hoped would claim it… to do so?”
His eyes snapped back to yours, startled. “You… hoped…?”
“For whom else do you suppose I stitched sleeves of that length?” you asked, lips quirking. “There is no man in the village with shoulders so broad as yours, Adam.”
He stared at you as though you had struck him. Not in pain—more in stunned disbelief.
“You… knew,” he breathed. “You knew I was there. All this time.”
“Yes.”
“And you were not afraid.”
You considered this. “I was wary,” you said honestly. “At first. One does not wake to strange footprints and dead wolves without a certain degree of alarm. But then I saw you. Hiding like a boy behind those poor trees, trying very hard not to be seen. And I thought—”
You broke off, biting your lip.
He took a half-step forward despite himself. “You thought what?”
“I thought,” you said slowly, “that no true monster skulks in the shadows to keep a woman’s cottage safe through a winter as harsh as this last one. No true monster leaves food instead of taking it. No true monster looks at another living soul the way you looked at my dog last month—do not pretend you were not there, I saw you through the curtain—like you were afraid to even breathe in his direction for fear you might somehow break him.”
He said nothing. His breath misted faintly in the cool spring air, harsh and uneven.
“You should not look so kindly upon me,” he managed at last. “It is… improper.”
“Improper,” you repeated, amusement bubbling up despite the solemnity of his tone. “We are alone in the forest, Adam. There is no vicar here to scold us.”
“It is not the vicar I fear,” he muttered. “It is myself.”
Your smile faded.
“Why?” you asked.
He looked down at his hands again, turning them palm up as though they were strange objects he’d found rather than parts of his own body.
“These hands have done terrible things,” he said quietly. “I have torn wolves apart, as you have seen. I have broken men who sought to harm me. I have throttled hatred at its source and found only more hatred beneath it. I was created in violence and I fear I shall end in it as well.” His eyes lifted to yours, desperate. “I cannot trust myself near that which is gentle.”
Your throat tightened. “You have been near me all winter.”
“At a distance,” he insisted. “A barrier of trees. Of shadow. Of night. It is different now.”
“Is it?” You closed the gap between you by another small step. He sucked in a breath, shoulders going rigid. You could feel the heat radiating from him now, unnatural in its intensity, like standing too close to a forge. “I feel no danger from you, Adam.”
“You should.”
“But I do not.” You lifted your hand, giving him every opportunity to retreat. “May I?”
He stared at your outstretched fingers as though they were some holy relic. “I… do not know.”
“We shall discover it together,” you said softly.
After a moment that stretched thin as spun sugar, he extended his own hand, large and scarred and trembling just enough for you to see. You laid your palm against his.
Warm. Solid. Very real.
He flinched, not from pain, but from the shock of contact.
“See?” you murmured. “You have not broken me.”
“Not yet,” he said hoarsely.
You squeezed his fingers. “Nor shall you, if I have any say in the matter.”
For a heartbeat, the forest was nothing but the two of you and the soft panting of your dog at your side. A bird dared a tentative trill somewhere above, as though deciding the danger had passed.
“You treat me as though I were… a man,” Adam said quietly, almost accusingly.
“You are,” you replied simply.
His brows drew together. “I am a collection of parts stolen from graves. I am a blasphemy against God and nature both.”
“You are standing in the sunlight speaking to me with more courtesy than half the men in town,” you countered. “If that is blasphemy, then perhaps we have misjudged Heaven.”
A startled, rough sound escaped him—half laugh, half exhale. As though he had forgotten how ordinary mirth should feel in his chest.
“You should not say such things,” he chided, but there was no true censure in it. “You are too bold.”
“You have been listening to me mutter to myself all winter,” you reminded him. “You ought to know by now that my tongue is not easily tamed.”
“I know many things about you,” he admitted, voice going soft. “I know you speak kindly to your dog even when he chews your shoes. I know you hum that same song each morning when you light the stove. I know you eat too little when you are anxious. I know you cry when you believe no one can hear.”
Your breath caught. “You ought not watch a lady in such moments,” you said, flustered.
“I know,” he said, guilt flickering through his gaze. “And yet I could not look away. Your sorrow… it frightened me more than wolves ever could. I wished to tear apart whatever had caused it, but there was nothing there. Only you, and your hands shaking, and your tears falling into the dough you were kneading.”
You blinked rapidly, your throat thick. “You saw that.”
“Yes.”
“And you still think yourself a monster,” you whispered.
He hesitated. “Do you not?”
You stepped closer until there was barely a breath between you, your hand still cradled in his. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes fully.
“If I say no,” you asked, “will you believe me?”
“I… do not know.” His voice cracked on the words.
“Then I shall tell you as many times as necessary until you do.” Your lips curved into a small, earnest smile. “You are not a monster to me, Adam. You are the reason I have slept safely these many months. You are the reason my dog still runs through these woods without fear. You are the reason I am standing here today, whole and unharmed.”
He swallowed hard. “Any man might have done as much.”
“But no man did.” You lifted your free hand to his chest, pressing your palm lightly over where his heart would be—if it beat. “You did.”
His breath hitched. For a moment, he seemed to forget how limbs functioned, standing utterly still as though one wrong move might shatter the moment into fragments.
“You should not touch me so,” he said weakly.
“And yet,” you murmured, “you do not step away.”
He closed his eyes, jaw clenched. “Because I am selfish. Because I have spent a season watching you from afar and I am not yet strong enough to deny myself this one brief… kindness.”
“Adam,” you said softly. “Look at me.”
He obeyed. Slowly, hesitantly, but he obeyed.
“There is nothing ‘brief’ about what I intend,” you told him. “You have guarded my cottage as though it were a kingdom. Will you not allow me, at the very least, to guard your heart in return?”
His lips parted, but no sound came. You could see the war waging behind his eyes—fear and longing and disbelief all tangled together.
“You… would keep company with me?” he managed at last. “Knowing what I am?”
“Knowing who you are,” you corrected. “A man named Adam who walks the tree line at night so that I may sleep. A man who refuses to let wolves cross my field. A man who looks at my foolish old dog as though he were some creature made of glass.” Your fingers curled briefly against his chest. “If that is monstrosity, I shall gladly consort with monsters.”
Another laugh—clearer this time—escaped him. It transformed his face, smoothing some of the harsh lines, revealing the man beneath the scars.
“You are very stubborn,” he said.
“So I have been told.”
“And you would not… flee, if I came nearer? If I…” He faltered, gaze flickering to your joined hands. “If I visited your cottage when the sun has set?”
“I should be most put out if you did not,” you said lightly. “I have an extra chair by the hearth and no one to fill it. My dog prefers company. As, I suspect, do I.”
He stared at you as though trying to determine whether this were some cruel trick of the mind. At last, cautiously, he lifted his other hand to hover near your cheek, stopping inches away.
“May I?” he asked, echoing your earlier words.
You leaned into the space between, closing the distance yourself. His fingers brushed your skin—calloused, uncertain, trembling. He cupped your cheek as though cradling something far more fragile than you felt.
“You are warm,” he whispered, wonder in his tone.
“And you are real,” you replied.
His thumb swept once, reverently, along your cheekbone. “If I frighten you,” he said softly, “you must tell me at once. I will go, and I shall not trouble you again, though it break what passes for my heart.”
“I do not believe you capable of breaking my heart,” you said. “Guarding it, perhaps. As you have guarded everything else.”
His eyes shone, sudden moisture gathering there. He blinked it away quickly, as though ashamed.
“I do not understand why you would offer such mercy to me,” he murmured.
“Perhaps,” you said gently, “it is not mercy. Perhaps it is simply… affection.”
The word seemed to strike him with more force than any blow.
“Affection,” he repeated, voice barely audible. “For me.”
“For you,” you affirmed. “For Adam, who walks the forest so that I might live another day to bake too much bread and scold my dog and sew shirts far too large.” Your smile softened. “Stay with me, and I shall show you there is more for you than shadows and solitude.”
He drew in a long, shaky breath. When he exhaled, something in his posture eased—the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. As though a burden he had carried alone for far too long had shifted, just slightly, into your waiting hands.
“Very well,” he said at last, voice low but resolute. “I shall try.”
Your heart lifted, light as the first spring breeze.
“Good,” you replied. “Then you shall walk me home, Adam. And after that, if you wish, you may sit by my fire and tell me all the things you have seen from the edge of the wood.”
He glanced once toward the deeper forest, then back to you—the woman who had left bread and stitched shirts and dared to speak kindly to the creature everyone else feared.
“As you wish,” he said quietly.
And when you turned toward the path, his heavy footsteps fell in beside yours—not behind, no longer hiding in the trees, but at your side. Where, you suspected, he had always longed to be.
𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: happy birthday! a social media AU where the Gallagher family, friends, and Lip himself document your life together in likes, captions, and comments for your birthday!
𝔄/𝕹: expect shameless roasts, chaotic comments, messy domesticity, and Lip being soft in the most ridiculous ways. enjoy ✮⋆˙
masterlist
⋆⭒*: REQUESTS ARE OPEN! ⋆⭒˚.⋆
302 likes
y/n: in a world full of chaos, i picked you. cheers to another year of surviving the south side 🥂
21 comments
lipgallagher: who tf let you post my face 😒. ↳ y/n: you’re lucky i didn’t use the one where ur passed out drooling. ↳ lipgallagher: delete this rn.
deb_gal: “surviving the south side” is so dramatic you live like 3 blocks from a laundromat. ↳ y/n: come spend a night in our house and say that again.
1an: lmao the skirt pic looks like an indie band cover ↳ lipgallagher: “the denim disasters.”
carlsk9unit): you picked HIM??? bold choice. ↳ y/n: i like my men stressed and chain smoking.
fi.gallagher: Happy birthday, sweetheart! So glad you two found each other. ↳ y/n: love you fi 🥹
mick.milk: can’t believe you soft launched his kneecaps before his face ↳ lipgallagher: block then.
809 likes
lipgallagher: happy birthday to the only reason i even pretend to give a shit. don’t drop your rings in the sand again. love you, doll.
47 comments
y/n: thanks for calling me out publicly for losing one ring 🙄 ↳ lipgallagher: you cried like the world ended. ↳ Reader: it was vintage. ↳ lipgallagher: from claire’s.
deb_gal: “pretend to give a shit” is the most romantic thing i’ve ever read. ↳ lipgallagher: hallmark card energy.
1an: these pictures make us look like we just survived a house fire ↳ lipgallagher: beach trips with you feel like that tbh.
carlsk9unit: whose bottles tho? ↳ lipgallagher: not yours. stay in school.
fi.gallagher: Happy birthday sweetheart ❤️ thank you for putting up with him. ↳ y/n: fiona you get me! wouldn’t have it any other way
kevinsballs: Damnnn i can smell that beach photo through the screen 😂 ↳ vicafisher: it smells like YOUR bar. hush. let them have fun.
mick.milk: “love you, doll” ??? who’s he tryna impress? im gonna vomit ↳ lipgallagher: keep scrolling, milkovich.
frankthelegend: Never dropped a ring in the sand cuz i never had one. Think about that, children. ↳ lipgallagher: shut the fuck up, frank.
𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: happy birthday! a social media AU where the Gallagher family, friends, and Lip himself document your life together in likes, captions, and comments for your birthday!
𝔄/𝕹: expect shameless roasts, chaotic comments, messy domesticity, and Lip being soft in the most ridiculous ways. enjoy ✮⋆˙
masterlist
⋆⭒*: REQUESTS ARE OPEN! ⋆⭒˚.⋆
302 likes
y/n: in a world full of chaos, i picked you. cheers to another year of surviving the south side 🥂
21 comments
lipgallagher: who tf let you post my face 😒. ↳ y/n: you’re lucky i didn’t use the one where ur passed out drooling. ↳ lipgallagher: delete this rn.
deb_gal: “surviving the south side” is so dramatic you live like 3 blocks from a laundromat. ↳ y/n: come spend a night in our house and say that again.
1an: lmao the skirt pic looks like an indie band cover ↳ lipgallagher: “the denim disasters.”
carlsk9unit): you picked HIM??? bold choice. ↳ y/n: i like my men stressed and chain smoking.
fi.gallagher: Happy birthday, sweetheart! So glad you two found each other. ↳ y/n: love you fi 🥹
mick.milk: can’t believe you soft launched his kneecaps before his face ↳ lipgallagher: block then.
809 likes
lipgallagher: happy birthday to the only reason i even pretend to give a shit. don’t drop your rings in the sand again. love you, doll.
47 comments
y/n: thanks for calling me out publicly for losing one ring 🙄 ↳ lipgallagher: you cried like the world ended. ↳ Reader: it was vintage. ↳ lipgallagher: from claire’s.
deb_gal: “pretend to give a shit” is the most romantic thing i’ve ever read. ↳ lipgallagher: hallmark card energy.
1an: these pictures make us look like we just survived a house fire ↳ lipgallagher: beach trips with you feel like that tbh.
carlsk9unit: whose bottles tho? ↳ lipgallagher: not yours. stay in school.
fi.gallagher: Happy birthday sweetheart ❤️ thank you for putting up with him. ↳ y/n: fiona you get me! wouldn’t have it any other way
kevinsballs: Damnnn i can smell that beach photo through the screen 😂 ↳ vicafisher: it smells like YOUR bar. hush. let them have fun.
mick.milk: “love you, doll” ??? who’s he tryna impress? im gonna vomit ↳ lipgallagher: keep scrolling, milkovich.
frankthelegend: Never dropped a ring in the sand cuz i never had one. Think about that, children. ↳ lipgallagher: shut the fuck up, frank.
𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: just a scroll through your instagram and comment section, cozy social media au where the world watches your relationship unfold in likes and captions.
𝕬/𝕹: ahhh!!! first social media au in a while!! i missed making these so here’s something cute and low-stakes before i dive back into the heavier stuff. expect flirty exchanges, chaotic comments, and lots of soft domestic energy. enjoy ! ⋆.𐙚 ̊
masterlist
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ! ݁. ⊹ ₊ ݁.
845k likes
austinbutler: Putting in the work. #CaughtStealing
comments
y/nl/n: stop being perfect it’s exhausting!
⤷ austinbutler: I only fight if you’re cheering me on
pickmegurlz: i am not okay, send help
timothéechalamet: bro… even your shadows are aesthetic
duneobsessed69: my soul left my body
zendaya: This reminds me of my high school gym class nightmares.
austinbutlerish: Hot as always! 😍
528k likes
y/nl/n: solar power. 𓂃 ོ☼𓂃
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girlsforfilm: yellow is officially your color, everybody else can go home
juliawolfnyc: girl this is GQ Men of the Year levels of hot
beachg0blin: POV: i’m the grain of sand she’s stepping on
ilikebadmovies: the way i knowww austin is foaming at the mouth rn
vogue: i see a magazine cover in your future
alexachung: i wore yellow once. it didn’t look this good!
y2kangels: so we’re all supposed to just scroll past this??
grungeloveletter: austin butler, can you fight?
⤷ austinbulter: Yes.
187k likes
abutlernews: NEW! previously unseen picture of austin + meme posted by his girlfriend, y/n l/n on her instagram story. (everyone say thank you y/n)
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PINNED 📌 by author
y/nl/n: we ♡ fan pages! honestly i’m one of you, chronically online is my middle name. and i love A.
duneobsessed69: he’s sooo pretty
austinbutlerish: she’s so real for this
iheartaustinbutler: i love when the gfs don’t hate us
𝔖𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 ; Dexter returns to the sanctuary with a decision after wrestling with the truth of what your world offers.
ℭ𝔴 / 𝔒𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 ; self-inflicted wound (ritual), blood imagery, internal conflict, cult themes. (1k words or so)
𝖆/𝖓 ; back in the flesh (& blood). we’re creeping forward. thank you for being patient while i crafted this chapter (& wrestled it into something i actually liked). we’re finally meeting marla and caleb, two of my favourite messes! + dexter is officially in deep. comment if you wanna be added to the taglist.. and please, enjoy !! ♱ ♡
𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 | 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝
Dexter returned to the sanctuary. The air was thick, expectant. His steps were even, but not effortless. He moved like a man following through on something he hadn’t yet admitted out loud.
You stood in the archway, your black silhouette bleeding into the stone. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The candlelight carved your features into something reverent, but unrelenting.
“Are you ready?” you asked, voice soft but charged.
“Yes.” He met your eyes, “Show me what this initiation is.”
But that wasn’t where the decision had begun.
Hours earlier, Dexter had been in his apartment. The room was dark except for the ambient glow of streetlights beyond the blinds. His hands rested on the table, still. Not calculating. Not dissecting a crime scene. Just… still.
He hadn’t slept. He didn’t need to. Sleep was for people who didn’t feel haunted while awake.
The Code had always kept him tethered. Bound by the rules, he had survived, maybe even pretended to be good. But lately, something had changed. Shifted.
You had spoken to that shift like you’d always known it existed. You hadn’t seduced him with lust or chaos. You’d simply seen him.
The version of him that wasn’t hidden behind the gloves.
Earlier that day, he’d replayed your words again and again: “You’ve built a life of structure to cage what you are. But cages rust from the inside.”
That had stayed with him.
He hadn’t admitted it to himself in the moment, but the image of your world—the freedom of it, the purpose—had begun to bleed into his daily thoughts. Not in a manic way. Not like compulsion. More like gravity.
And Elias… whoever he was… had only confirmed what Dexter didn’t want to say aloud. That you were right.
It wasn’t just temptation. It was inevitability.
By the time the sun dipped low, he wasn’t weighing the pros and cons anymore. He wasn’t convincing himself it was just observation. He was going. And he wasn’t turning back.
—
The door to the main room was open when he arrived. Light spilled from within, casting long patterns on the worn stone floor.
You motioned for him inside without a word.
Dexter stepped over the threshold and immediately felt the pulse of this place, not in ritual or worship, but in quiet purpose. The candlelight blurred around the edges, warm and warping. You stepped forward in silence, the blade already in your hand. You didn’t offer it like a test—you offered it like a promise.
Dexter took it. No questions. Just instinct. The kind he used to trust only in solitude, now tuned to you.
You watched as he rolled up his sleeve, exposing the pale, untouched skin of his forearm. He didn’t hesitate, just pressed the edge and pulled. A clean line bloomed red.
The blood came fast, slow, steady like it had been waiting.
You caught it in your palm, like you had done this before, like you would do it again. It stained your skin, warm and thick between your fingers. A kind of communion.
When your thumb pressed into the edge of the wound, his breath caught.. not from pain, but from the fact that he let it. Let you. No one else had touched him like this not just with hands, but with meaning.
This wasn’t about sacrifice. Not entirely. It was about joining. About folding one life into another.
“You belong to something now,” you said.
He looked at your hand still holding his blood. Not repulsed. Not afraid.
“Something,” he repeated, voice low.
But he meant someone. And so did you.
A silence settled, thick but not heavy. Shared. There was no curtain of performance between you just skin, blood, breath, and the flicker of belief.
His own thoughts didn’t fight it. The old internal voice, the one that told him to run, to hide, to fix. It was finally quiet. There was no Code here. Instead, there was a man reshaping himself into something he hadn’t thought possible.
The wound didn’t sting. Not really.
What lingered instead was warmth, your touch, the sound of your voice echoing through his body longer than it had through the room. Dexter sat still for a moment after you’d stepped away, eyes on the blood drying in the crease of his elbow, wondering if this was how devotion began. Not in awe, but in relief. Not in some great revelation, but in the quiet settling of noise.
You returned quietly with a bowl of water and a clean cloth, kneeling beside him like it was nothing at all. He watched you soak the rag and wring it out over the bowl, slow and practiced, like you’d done this a hundred times. Maybe you had.
“Hold still.”
He did. You cleaned the wound without a word, wiping the blood from his arm and palm in careful circles. It wasn’t clinical—it was… something else. A care that didn’t demand anything in return. Not yet, anyway.
When you looked up, your expression was unreadable but present. Like you saw him, and still stayed.
“All right,” you said, rinsing the cloth one last time. “Let’s go meet the others.”
He followed. The hallway narrowed as you led him deeper into the sanctuary. At one point, you turned your head slightly, as if to make sure he was still there.
At a quiet door, you stopped. Hand on the knob.
“They’re good people, you’ll like them.”
As he scanned the room, a woman looked up and smiled warm, unguarded.
“Well, hell,” said the woman, voice warm and amused. “You must be the famous stray. I’m Marla. Don’t worry, we bite only if you’re rude.”
Her easy presence was a sharp contrast to the serious energy of the space. Before Dexter could answer, a tall man with calm eyes and a cook’s apron stepped forward.
“Caleb,” he said simply, nodding at Dexter. “Welcome.”
Marla elbowed Caleb lightly. “Don’t scare him off with your kitchen jokes.”
Caleb chuckled. “Someone has to keep the food coming.”
Marla grinned at Dexter. “You’ll see. It’s not all shadows and silence here. We make sure the body’s taken care of, sometimes better than the mind.”
Dexter gave a small, measured nod, still taking everything in. The four of you settled into the worn chairs near a table scattered with papers. It was a common room, not much in the way of glamour; threadbare cushions, a crooked bookshelf, and the hum of familiarity.
Caleb leaned back and sighed like he’d just finished a shift at a restaurant none of you had eaten at in years. “So,” he said, stretching an arm behind Marla’s chair. “Did the ritual have to take that long, or were y’all just bonding in there?”
Marla snorted. “Took so long I thought he’d come out married.”
You tilted your head at Caleb, dry. “You wanna try it sometime? See how long you last before cracking?”
“I’d last longer than he did,” Caleb said with mock confidence, jerking a thumb toward Dexter. “He looked like he came out three years older.”
Dexter blinked, then glanced over at you. “Does everyone here joke about mild trauma, or is this a special occasion?”
“Oh, stray,” Marla grinned, “this is a special occasion. You’re new. You get the celebratory roast.”
“No gift basket,” Caleb added. “We gave those up after the toothpaste incident.”
Marla gasped, hand to chest. “Hey, I liked the peppermint one.”
“It exploded, Marla.”
You smiled faintly, the first Dexter had really seen. “Consider this your warm welcome. We make fun of each other so we don’t implode.”
He looked at you for a long moment, then muttered, “Noted.”
You stood after that, brushing your fingers against the arm of the chair as if to mark the exit. “I’ve got something to check on.”
Marla raised a brow. “What, now?”
“Yeah,” you said, voice casual, eyes unreadable. “Suddenly urgent.”
And just like that, you were gone.
—
“So,” Marla began, leaning back with a playful smirk, “what do you think so far? Not what you expected, huh?”
Dexter’s gaze flicked between them. “No. Definitely not.”
Marla’s eyes sparkled. “Good. Because if this was easy to understand, we wouldn’t be here.”
Caleb smiled quietly. “There’s a rhythm to it. A balance. You learn the steps or get lost.”
From somewhere behind a closed door, a sudden burst of raised voices cut through the quiet. Dexter’s head snapped toward the sound. Marla caught his glance and nudged him.
“Eyes over here, rookie. Don’t get distracted.”
He let out a breath and looked back at the table.
Marla leaned forward, elbows to knees, chin in hand. “We’re family. Not the sweet kind. The real kind. The kind that argues in parking lots and still shares fries. You’ll get used to it.”
Caleb pointed at him. “Or you’ll die trying.”
Dexter shook his head, lips twitching just slightly. “I think that might be true.”
Marla smiled wide. “Welcome home, stray. Stick with us,” she said, grinning. “We’ll show you the ropes. Maybe teach you how to keep your head when things get messy.”
Caleb nodded, folding his hands calmly.
Marla’s grin widened, nudging Dexter again.
“And watch out, looks like you’re starting to enjoy yourself already. Might have to call you our new favorite.”
Dexter smiled and sat back, eyes flickering once more toward the closed door, where muffled voices stirred. Something distant. Something not meant for him.
Marla stood up and stretched with a loud groan, grabbing an apple off the counter.
“Well, boys, I’m off. Try not to trauma bond without me.” She winked at Caleb, ruffled Dexter’s hair like he was twelve, and disappeared around the corner with her boots thudding off beat down the hall.
The door she’d gone through clicked shut, and suddenly it was just him and Caleb—who was scraping the bottom of a ceramic bowl with lazy precision. Whatever he’d made smelled like cumin and something smoked.
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Caleb, without looking up, said, “She talks too much, but she’s usually right.”
Dexter didn’t respond. A faint sound drifted from the hallway, muffled voices, one of them unmistakably yours. Calm, but with a current of purpose underneath. A second voice replied, lower, steadier. Then silence.
“You hear things,” Caleb said, like he’d timed it. “Walls are thin, but meanings aren’t.”
Dexter’s eyes lingered on the hallway before turning back. Caleb set the empty bowl on the table with a soft clink, finally meeting his gaze.
“She picked you,” he said. “That means something.”
taglist; @delsbtch @crustaceanwitch @stre3tleopard | taglist open for updates on this story, just let me know if you’d like your name added !
important; please keep in mind that the dexter character is not of my own original creation; it’s inspired by the work of the creators behind the tv show and the writers involved. thank you.
𝔖𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 ; Dexter returns to the sanctuary with a decision after wrestling with the truth of what your world offers.
ℭ𝔴 / 𝔒𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 ; self-inflicted wound (ritual), blood imagery, internal conflict, cult themes. (1k words or so)
𝖆/𝖓 ; back in the flesh (& blood). we’re creeping forward. thank you for being patient while i crafted this chapter (& wrestled it into something i actually liked). we’re finally meeting marla and caleb, two of my favourite messes! + dexter is officially in deep. comment if you wanna be added to the taglist.. and please, enjoy !! ♱ ♡
𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 | 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 | 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝
Dexter returned to the sanctuary. The air was thick, expectant. His steps were even, but not effortless. He moved like a man following through on something he hadn’t yet admitted out loud.
You stood in the archway, your black silhouette bleeding into the stone. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The candlelight carved your features into something reverent, but unrelenting.
“Are you ready?” you asked, voice soft but charged.
“Yes.” He met your eyes, “Show me what this initiation is.”
But that wasn’t where the decision had begun.
Hours earlier, Dexter had been in his apartment. The room was dark except for the ambient glow of streetlights beyond the blinds. His hands rested on the table, still. Not calculating. Not dissecting a crime scene. Just… still.
He hadn’t slept. He didn’t need to. Sleep was for people who didn’t feel haunted while awake.
The Code had always kept him tethered. Bound by the rules, he had survived, maybe even pretended to be good. But lately, something had changed. Shifted.
You had spoken to that shift like you’d always known it existed. You hadn’t seduced him with lust or chaos. You’d simply seen him.
The version of him that wasn’t hidden behind the gloves.
Earlier that day, he’d replayed your words again and again: “You’ve built a life of structure to cage what you are. But cages rust from the inside.”
That had stayed with him.
He hadn’t admitted it to himself in the moment, but the image of your world—the freedom of it, the purpose—had begun to bleed into his daily thoughts. Not in a manic way. Not like compulsion. More like gravity.
And Elias… whoever he was… had only confirmed what Dexter didn’t want to say aloud. That you were right.
It wasn’t just temptation. It was inevitability.
By the time the sun dipped low, he wasn’t weighing the pros and cons anymore. He wasn’t convincing himself it was just observation. He was going. And he wasn’t turning back.
—
The door to the main room was open when he arrived. Light spilled from within, casting long patterns on the worn stone floor.
You motioned for him inside without a word.
Dexter stepped over the threshold and immediately felt the pulse of this place, not in ritual or worship, but in quiet purpose. The candlelight blurred around the edges, warm and warping. You stepped forward in silence, the blade already in your hand. You didn’t offer it like a test—you offered it like a promise.
Dexter took it. No questions. Just instinct. The kind he used to trust only in solitude, now tuned to you.
You watched as he rolled up his sleeve, exposing the pale, untouched skin of his forearm. He didn’t hesitate, just pressed the edge and pulled. A clean line bloomed red.
The blood came fast, slow, steady like it had been waiting.
You caught it in your palm, like you had done this before, like you would do it again. It stained your skin, warm and thick between your fingers. A kind of communion.
When your thumb pressed into the edge of the wound, his breath caught.. not from pain, but from the fact that he let it. Let you. No one else had touched him like this not just with hands, but with meaning.
This wasn’t about sacrifice. Not entirely. It was about joining. About folding one life into another.
“You belong to something now,” you said.
He looked at your hand still holding his blood. Not repulsed. Not afraid.
“Something,” he repeated, voice low.
But he meant someone. And so did you.
A silence settled, thick but not heavy. Shared. There was no curtain of performance between you just skin, blood, breath, and the flicker of belief.
His own thoughts didn’t fight it. The old internal voice, the one that told him to run, to hide, to fix. It was finally quiet. There was no Code here. Instead, there was a man reshaping himself into something he hadn’t thought possible.
The wound didn’t sting. Not really.
What lingered instead was warmth, your touch, the sound of your voice echoing through his body longer than it had through the room. Dexter sat still for a moment after you’d stepped away, eyes on the blood drying in the crease of his elbow, wondering if this was how devotion began. Not in awe, but in relief. Not in some great revelation, but in the quiet settling of noise.
You returned quietly with a bowl of water and a clean cloth, kneeling beside him like it was nothing at all. He watched you soak the rag and wring it out over the bowl, slow and practiced, like you’d done this a hundred times. Maybe you had.
“Hold still.”
He did. You cleaned the wound without a word, wiping the blood from his arm and palm in careful circles. It wasn’t clinical—it was… something else. A care that didn’t demand anything in return. Not yet, anyway.
When you looked up, your expression was unreadable but present. Like you saw him, and still stayed.
“All right,” you said, rinsing the cloth one last time. “Let’s go meet the others.”
He followed. The hallway narrowed as you led him deeper into the sanctuary. At one point, you turned your head slightly, as if to make sure he was still there.
At a quiet door, you stopped. Hand on the knob.
“They’re good people, you’ll like them.”
As he scanned the room, a woman looked up and smiled warm, unguarded.
“Well, hell,” said the woman, voice warm and amused. “You must be the famous stray. I’m Marla. Don’t worry, we bite only if you’re rude.”
Her easy presence was a sharp contrast to the serious energy of the space. Before Dexter could answer, a tall man with calm eyes and a cook’s apron stepped forward.
“Caleb,” he said simply, nodding at Dexter. “Welcome.”
Marla elbowed Caleb lightly. “Don’t scare him off with your kitchen jokes.”
Caleb chuckled. “Someone has to keep the food coming.”
Marla grinned at Dexter. “You’ll see. It’s not all shadows and silence here. We make sure the body’s taken care of, sometimes better than the mind.”
Dexter gave a small, measured nod, still taking everything in. The four of you settled into the worn chairs near a table scattered with papers. It was a common room, not much in the way of glamour; threadbare cushions, a crooked bookshelf, and the hum of familiarity.
Caleb leaned back and sighed like he’d just finished a shift at a restaurant none of you had eaten at in years. “So,” he said, stretching an arm behind Marla’s chair. “Did the ritual have to take that long, or were y’all just bonding in there?”
Marla snorted. “Took so long I thought he’d come out married.”
You tilted your head at Caleb, dry. “You wanna try it sometime? See how long you last before cracking?”
“I’d last longer than he did,” Caleb said with mock confidence, jerking a thumb toward Dexter. “He looked like he came out three years older.”
Dexter blinked, then glanced over at you. “Does everyone here joke about mild trauma, or is this a special occasion?”
“Oh, stray,” Marla grinned, “this is a special occasion. You’re new. You get the celebratory roast.”
“No gift basket,” Caleb added. “We gave those up after the toothpaste incident.”
Marla gasped, hand to chest. “Hey, I liked the peppermint one.”
“It exploded, Marla.”
You smiled faintly, the first Dexter had really seen. “Consider this your warm welcome. We make fun of each other so we don’t implode.”
He looked at you for a long moment, then muttered, “Noted.”
You stood after that, brushing your fingers against the arm of the chair as if to mark the exit. “I’ve got something to check on.”
Marla raised a brow. “What, now?”
“Yeah,” you said, voice casual, eyes unreadable. “Suddenly urgent.”
And just like that, you were gone.
—
“So,” Marla began, leaning back with a playful smirk, “what do you think so far? Not what you expected, huh?”
Dexter’s gaze flicked between them. “No. Definitely not.”
Marla’s eyes sparkled. “Good. Because if this was easy to understand, we wouldn’t be here.”
Caleb smiled quietly. “There’s a rhythm to it. A balance. You learn the steps or get lost.”
From somewhere behind a closed door, a sudden burst of raised voices cut through the quiet. Dexter’s head snapped toward the sound. Marla caught his glance and nudged him.
“Eyes over here, rookie. Don’t get distracted.”
He let out a breath and looked back at the table.
Marla leaned forward, elbows to knees, chin in hand. “We’re family. Not the sweet kind. The real kind. The kind that argues in parking lots and still shares fries. You’ll get used to it.”
Caleb pointed at him. “Or you’ll die trying.”
Dexter shook his head, lips twitching just slightly. “I think that might be true.”
Marla smiled wide. “Welcome home, stray. Stick with us,” she said, grinning. “We’ll show you the ropes. Maybe teach you how to keep your head when things get messy.”
Caleb nodded, folding his hands calmly.
Marla’s grin widened, nudging Dexter again.
“And watch out, looks like you’re starting to enjoy yourself already. Might have to call you our new favorite.”
Dexter smiled and sat back, eyes flickering once more toward the closed door, where muffled voices stirred. Something distant. Something not meant for him.
Marla stood up and stretched with a loud groan, grabbing an apple off the counter.
“Well, boys, I’m off. Try not to trauma bond without me.” She winked at Caleb, ruffled Dexter’s hair like he was twelve, and disappeared around the corner with her boots thudding off beat down the hall.
The door she’d gone through clicked shut, and suddenly it was just him and Caleb—who was scraping the bottom of a ceramic bowl with lazy precision. Whatever he’d made smelled like cumin and something smoked.
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Caleb, without looking up, said, “She talks too much, but she’s usually right.”
Dexter didn’t respond. A faint sound drifted from the hallway, muffled voices, one of them unmistakably yours. Calm, but with a current of purpose underneath. A second voice replied, lower, steadier. Then silence.
“You hear things,” Caleb said, like he’d timed it. “Walls are thin, but meanings aren’t.”
Dexter’s eyes lingered on the hallway before turning back. Caleb set the empty bowl on the table with a soft clink, finally meeting his gaze.
“She picked you,” he said. “That means something.”
taglist; @delsbtch @crustaceanwitch @stre3tleopard | taglist open for updates on this story, just let me know if you’d like your name added !
important; please keep in mind that the dexter character is not of my own original creation; it’s inspired by the work of the creators behind the tv show and the writers involved. thank you.
In “Your Blood in my Veins,” Dexter Morgan encounters a mysterious woman who claims to truly understand his darkest urges and hints at an unsettling knowledge of his secret life as a vigilante killer. Drawn to her cryptic words, he follows her into the dark and uncovers her connections to a secret cult that turns ordinary people into killers. As Dexter navigates his intense new world, he realizes he’s facing something, or someone, that may be more dangerous—and more like him—than he ever imagined. Their complex relationship challenges his perception of true evil and identity, pushing him to confront the very darkness he seeks to control.
𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Physiological tension , Dark Themes, Cult Activity, Mental Health Issues, Sexual Content, Violence, Blood/Gore, Death, Explicit language. (& more) !
𝔗𝔥𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔰: Moral Ambiguity, Identity and Self-Discovery, Power and Control, Isolation and Connection, Darkness and Redemption.
𝔅𝔬𝔬𝔨 𝔬𝔫𝔢: The Whispering Darkness
A tale of first encounters, secrets, and the lure of a hidden world. The vigilante is drawn to a woman whose twisted allure reveals the shadows within himself.
note; i have a taglist open for updates on this story—just let me know if you’d like your name added.
important; please keep in mind that the dexter character is not my own original creation; it’s inspired by the work of the creators behind the dexter tv show.
𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 ; Under your command, Dexter steps deeper into a hidden order, where loyalty is forged in quiet rituals — and a single meeting threatens to tip his understanding toward belonging.
𝔠𝔴 / 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 ; (1k words, woah a lot !) Psychological manipulation, Coercive behavior, subtle indoctrination, growing allegiance.
ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs | ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ
The days bled into nights, a haze of twisted conversations, clandestine meetings, and whispered secrets in shadowed rooms. Each time Dexter met with you, a new layer of your world was peeled back, revealing glimpses of something vast and unnerving. You led him down alleys he had once only viewed as prey, to forgotten corners of the city where he felt both out of place and completely at home.
On one particular night you took him deeper than ever. You met in the same church once again, where the quiet was almost suffocating, pressing down like an omen. Only this time, you took him farther. As you walked down the hall, you motioned for him to follow, and Dexter felt the pulse of another soul.
“Come closer,” you said, your voice low, shaped by quiet certainty rather than seduction. The words settled between you like a pact, spoken with an ease that came from having lived them. Your fingers brushed the carved wall — not as a guide, but as a woman who had built this place from bone and resolve.
Dexter’s eyes followed your every motion, reading not just the room, but the weight it carried for you. The flicker of candlelight cast long shadows across your features, softening them into something almost tender. Here, you were not playing a part. Here, you were whole.
“This is where they come to breathe,” you told him, your voice threaded with something quieter than reverence, heavier than pride. “Where we let go of the versions of ourselves that the world demanded.”
His gaze shifted to the worn stone beneath his feet, then to you again — always back to you. The space around you felt lived in, but not ancient. There was no pretense of holiness here. Only something raw, carved out of necessity.
“You’ve carried your rules like armor,” you continued, your eyes meeting his with unwavering focus. “You’ve built a life of structure to cage what you are. But cages rust from the inside, Dexter.”
Your steps were measured as you led him deeper, past the empty altar and through an archway into a quieter room. No ceremony greeted you, no crowd. Just the hum of quiet existence.
Someone was there — a man, seated alone at a long wooden table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, scars like old roadmaps across his forearms. He looked up as you approached, and Dexter sensed, at once, something familiar in his eyes. Not awe, not fear. Respect. Recognition.
You nodded to the man, a silent exchange between equals. “Elias,” you said simply, introducing him without embellishment. “One of the first to understand.”
Elias inclined his head, his gaze settling briefly on Dexter. There was no sizing up, no threat. Only a quiet study, as though he saw the same fracture lines in Dexter that had once split him open too.
“You’re not what I expected,” Elias said, his voice rough but not unkind.
Dexter’s response was measured, almost instinctive. “Neither are you.”
You allowed the exchange to unfold, watching Dexter not as prey, but as someone who might yet belong. “Elias is proof,” you explained, your tone steady. “Proof that what we carry doesn’t have to rot in silence. That it can be shaped into something deliberate.”
Elias’s fingers drummed against the table, casual yet purposeful. “She found me when I thought the only way forward was destruction,” he admitted, not ashamed. “Turns out, destruction has its uses. If you aim it right.”
Dexter’s gaze lingered on Elias a moment longer before returning to you. There was a flicker in his eyes — not belief, not yet, but curiosity. Dangerous curiosity.
You took a slow breath. “There’s no blind devotion here, Dexter. No gods to kneel to. Only the choice to stop hiding from yourself.”
The simplicity of the words felt heavier than any sermon.
“What you built before,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “was for survival. What we build here — is for something more.”
He let the weight of your words settle in his chest, feeling them like iron. Like inevitability.
“Stay,” you offered, not as a plea, but as an invitation only the surest of leaders could extend. “Watch. Understand before you choose.”
Dexter glanced once more at Elias, then to you — and, without a word, stepped further into the room.
What followed in the hours ahead wasn’t ceremony but instruction. You let Elias take the lead, as if to show that your control didn’t need to cling tightly to be absolute. That was the first lesson in itself: your power was in the axis you provided, not the shadow you cast.
Elias laid out their internal architecture with quiet precision. No myths, no blind ideologies — just structure.
“Every person here learns three things,” Elias began. “First, how to see. Not look — see. Patterns in behavior, weak seams in strong fronts. We study human nature until it becomes predictable.”
Dexter listened, sharp and attentive. This wasn’t unfamiliar territory. It was, disturbingly, a refinement of his own approach.
“Second,” Elias continued, “we learn control. Over self, over instinct, over the moment of decision. We are not wild dogs chasing urges. We are scalpels, not hammers.”
Elias’s lips curved, not into a smile, but something more reserved. “Third is choice. To use what you are, or let it use you.”
You watched the exchange unfold with an almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction. Dexter was already threading himself into the logic, testing the weave of it against the fibers of his own code.
“You see, Dexter,” you said quietly, stepping closer, not to corner him but to anchor the conversation, “this is not a doctrine of chaos. It is clarity. Each person here operates with autonomy. They are given the tools to direct their nature, not deny it.”
There was an allure in that honesty. Dexter, who had spent his life bending himself around rigid constraints, felt the subtle tremor of something dangerously liberating.
“What happens if they lose control?” Dexter asked, his mind already calculating the risks.
“They don’t,” you answered, your tone firm, unyielding. “Because they understand the cost of failure. Not to me — to themselves. Accountability is the foundation here. I give them power, and they bear its weight fully.”
Dexter’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. It wasn’t blind faith. It wasn’t even loyalty. It was ownership. And that, he knew, was a far stronger chain than fear.
“You’re building something,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Not a family. Not a cult. A… machine.”
“A system,” you corrected softly. “One that does not falter because it does not depend on a single cog.”
Your gaze held his like steel wire — not trapping, but tying him in.
And though Dexter didn’t say it aloud, in that moment, he understood the most dangerous part of all:
You didn’t need him.
But you had carved out a place where, for the first time in his life, he might just want to stay.
taglist; @delsbtch @crustaceanwitch @stre3tleopard | taglist open for updates on this story—just let me know if you’d like your name added !
important; please keep in mind that the dexter character is not of my own original creation; it’s inspired by the work of the creators behind the tv show and the writers involved. thank you.
𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 ; Under your command, Dexter steps deeper into a hidden order, where loyalty is forged in quiet rituals — and a single meeting threatens to tip his understanding toward belonging.
𝔠𝔴 / 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 ; (1k words, woah a lot !) Psychological manipulation, Coercive behavior, subtle indoctrination, growing allegiance.
ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs | ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ
The days bled into nights, a haze of twisted conversations, clandestine meetings, and whispered secrets in shadowed rooms. Each time Dexter met with you, a new layer of your world was peeled back, revealing glimpses of something vast and unnerving. You led him down alleys he had once only viewed as prey, to forgotten corners of the city where he felt both out of place and completely at home.
On one particular night you took him deeper than ever. You met in the same church once again, where the quiet was almost suffocating, pressing down like an omen. Only this time, you took him farther. As you walked down the hall, you motioned for him to follow, and Dexter felt the pulse of another soul.
“Come closer,” you said, your voice low, shaped by quiet certainty rather than seduction. The words settled between you like a pact, spoken with an ease that came from having lived them. Your fingers brushed the carved wall — not as a guide, but as a woman who had built this place from bone and resolve.
Dexter’s eyes followed your every motion, reading not just the room, but the weight it carried for you. The flicker of candlelight cast long shadows across your features, softening them into something almost tender. Here, you were not playing a part. Here, you were whole.
“This is where they come to breathe,” you told him, your voice threaded with something quieter than reverence, heavier than pride. “Where we let go of the versions of ourselves that the world demanded.”
His gaze shifted to the worn stone beneath his feet, then to you again — always back to you. The space around you felt lived in, but not ancient. There was no pretense of holiness here. Only something raw, carved out of necessity.
“You’ve carried your rules like armor,” you continued, your eyes meeting his with unwavering focus. “You’ve built a life of structure to cage what you are. But cages rust from the inside, Dexter.”
Your steps were measured as you led him deeper, past the empty altar and through an archway into a quieter room. No ceremony greeted you, no crowd. Just the hum of quiet existence.
Someone was there — a man, seated alone at a long wooden table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, scars like old roadmaps across his forearms. He looked up as you approached, and Dexter sensed, at once, something familiar in his eyes. Not awe, not fear. Respect. Recognition.
You nodded to the man, a silent exchange between equals. “Elias,” you said simply, introducing him without embellishment. “One of the first to understand.”
Elias inclined his head, his gaze settling briefly on Dexter. There was no sizing up, no threat. Only a quiet study, as though he saw the same fracture lines in Dexter that had once split him open too.
“You’re not what I expected,” Elias said, his voice rough but not unkind.
Dexter’s response was measured, almost instinctive. “Neither are you.”
You allowed the exchange to unfold, watching Dexter not as prey, but as someone who might yet belong. “Elias is proof,” you explained, your tone steady. “Proof that what we carry doesn’t have to rot in silence. That it can be shaped into something deliberate.”
Elias’s fingers drummed against the table, casual yet purposeful. “She found me when I thought the only way forward was destruction,” he admitted, not ashamed. “Turns out, destruction has its uses. If you aim it right.”
Dexter’s gaze lingered on Elias a moment longer before returning to you. There was a flicker in his eyes — not belief, not yet, but curiosity. Dangerous curiosity.
You took a slow breath. “There’s no blind devotion here, Dexter. No gods to kneel to. Only the choice to stop hiding from yourself.”
The simplicity of the words felt heavier than any sermon.
“What you built before,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “was for survival. What we build here — is for something more.”
He let the weight of your words settle in his chest, feeling them like iron. Like inevitability.
“Stay,” you offered, not as a plea, but as an invitation only the surest of leaders could extend. “Watch. Understand before you choose.”
Dexter glanced once more at Elias, then to you — and, without a word, stepped further into the room.
What followed in the hours ahead wasn’t ceremony but instruction. You let Elias take the lead, as if to show that your control didn’t need to cling tightly to be absolute. That was the first lesson in itself: your power was in the axis you provided, not the shadow you cast.
Elias laid out their internal architecture with quiet precision. No myths, no blind ideologies — just structure.
“Every person here learns three things,” Elias began. “First, how to see. Not look — see. Patterns in behavior, weak seams in strong fronts. We study human nature until it becomes predictable.”
Dexter listened, sharp and attentive. This wasn’t unfamiliar territory. It was, disturbingly, a refinement of his own approach.
“Second,” Elias continued, “we learn control. Over self, over instinct, over the moment of decision. We are not wild dogs chasing urges. We are scalpels, not hammers.”
Elias’s lips curved, not into a smile, but something more reserved. “Third is choice. To use what you are, or let it use you.”
You watched the exchange unfold with an almost imperceptible nod of satisfaction. Dexter was already threading himself into the logic, testing the weave of it against the fibers of his own code.
“You see, Dexter,” you said quietly, stepping closer, not to corner him but to anchor the conversation, “this is not a doctrine of chaos. It is clarity. Each person here operates with autonomy. They are given the tools to direct their nature, not deny it.”
There was an allure in that honesty. Dexter, who had spent his life bending himself around rigid constraints, felt the subtle tremor of something dangerously liberating.
“What happens if they lose control?” Dexter asked, his mind already calculating the risks.
“They don’t,” you answered, your tone firm, unyielding. “Because they understand the cost of failure. Not to me — to themselves. Accountability is the foundation here. I give them power, and they bear its weight fully.”
Dexter’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. It wasn’t blind faith. It wasn’t even loyalty. It was ownership. And that, he knew, was a far stronger chain than fear.
“You’re building something,” he said, more to himself than to you. “Not a family. Not a cult. A… machine.”
“A system,” you corrected softly. “One that does not falter because it does not depend on a single cog.”
Your gaze held his like steel wire — not trapping, but tying him in.
And though Dexter didn’t say it aloud, in that moment, he understood the most dangerous part of all:
You didn’t need him.
But you had carved out a place where, for the first time in his life, he might just want to stay.
taglist; @delsbtch @crustaceanwitch @stre3tleopard | taglist open for updates on this story—just let me know if you’d like your name added !
important; please keep in mind that the dexter character is not of my own original creation; it’s inspired by the work of the creators behind the tv show and the writers involved. thank you.
𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 ; Standing in the church’s shadows, feels an undeniable presence and a pull toward something darker. With a single step, he leaves his past behind, bracing for what lies ahead.
Dexter was rarely one for superstition. Churches, abandoned or otherwise, didn’t faze him. But tonight, standing before the crumbling, gothic structure on the outskirts of Miami, he couldn’t ignore the feeling creeping up his spine. The air was heavy with age and silence, and the once-magnificent arches now loomed like a dark sentinels above him, casting deep, endless shadows.
A note, written by you in scrawling ink as black as midnight, was tucked into the windshield wiper of his car. One word: Sanctuary. It had felt like a dare. And now here he was, searching for the answers you had promised him. Stepping inside, he was met with an overwhelming stillness. The remnants of pews were scattered in disarray, wooden fragments catching the dim moonlight through stained glass. The place smelled of damp stone and forgotten memories.
“Dexter,” your voice drifted to him from somewhere deep within the shadows, barely a whisper yet unmistakable to his ears.
He followed the sound, his footsteps echoing against the worn floors, each step resonating with a sense of anticipation he couldn’t shake. He saw you, standing near what once night have been the altar, framed by the dim light filtering through the windows. You looked beautiful here, almost like an apparition, perfectly at home in this place of darkness and decay.
“So you came,” you murmured, your voice carrying a subtle reverent tone.
“Your invitation was… hard to ignore,” Dexter replied, his voice steady, though his mind raced. “What is this place?”
“A sanctuary,” you said softly, your eyes drifting across the decaying church you called home. “A place for those who don’t quite belong anywhere else.“ You held his gaze, your expression unreadable. “People like us.”
Your eyes locking intimately with his, your words wrapping around him like an unseen thread pulling him closer. He had never longed for a place to fit in–until now, he hadn’t thought he needed one. But there you were, holding the answers he hadn’t even known he was seeking.
He didn’t ask any questions this time. Maybe because the answers didn’t matter–or because he already knew.
You stepped forward, your presence steady, unbothered by the silence stretching between you. “You didn’t come here because you couldn’t stay where you were.”
Your words hit like a fault line splitting open. No comfort, no soft edges. Just cold truth, raw and unavoidable.
“You left pieces of yourself behind,” you continued, voice quiet, like you were speaking directly to the parts he had thought he had buried. “Not because you wanted to, but because you needed to, because they didn’t fit anymore. The people, the places– they were anchors disguised as roots. And you can’t grow when you’re chained to the ground.”
His jaw tightened, a flicker of defiance—or maybe grief—passing through him. But he didn’t look away.
You stepped closer, your fingers brushing his arm, light as breath but sharp enough to draw something out of him he wasn’t ready to name. “It’s not the leaving that haunts you. It’s the echo of what stayed behind .”
The emotions washed over him like ash—weightless, but impossible to shake off. For the first time, he didn’t feel the urge to hide, to deflect, or pretend.
“And what do you want from me?” he asked, his voice rough, brittle at the edges.
Your smile was small, but your eyes held something darker. “To show you that what you leave behind doesn’t define you. To teach you how to love without the ghost of it trailing after you. We could change everything together—not by holding on, but by burning it down.”
Something inside him switched, dark and electric, like a door unlocking in a room he’d shut long ago.
“But,” you added, your voice a piercing blade, “there is a price. If you step further into this world, there’s no turning back.”
Dexter breathed in your warning, but the thrill of the unknown drowned out any fear. You were offering him a key to something he had never allowed himself to consider, a purpose that went beyond his code, a path to explore without limits.
“I am not one to turn back,” he replied, voice firm, matching your intensity.
“Good,” you whispered, your gaze deepening. “Because the real initiation begins now.”
You turned, moving towards the shadows that stretched beyond the altar. Dexter followed you, his heartbeat thudding in his chest, feeling as though he were crossing an invisible threshold. As you stepped deeper into the abandoned sanctuary, he felt the air grow colder, thick with secrets and intentions he couldn’t yet grasp.
And for the first time in years, Dexter Morgan felt a thrill like a blade to the ribs—faith, not in salvation, but in a darkness so absolute it felt holy. In the shadows of the church he was no longer alone. A presence lingered in the stillness, just out of sight, but distinct. His body seemed to recognise it before his mind did.
The heaviness of everything he was leaving behind —the life, the lies, the mask—felt distant now, like a fading echo.
A slow breath. Then another step. Deeper into the darkness.
taglist; @delsbtch @crustaceanwitch @stre3tleopard | taglist open for updates on this story—just let me know if you’d like your name added !
important; please keep in mind that the dexter character is not of my own original creation; it’s inspired by the work of the creators behind the tv show and the writers involved. thank you.
𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 ; As the city’s shadows seems to conspire around him, you reappear, offering answers and something far more dangerous: understanding. Faced with your presence, Dexter begins to question if he can keep pretending.
𝔠𝔴 / 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 ; (921 words) Themes of psychological manipulation, morally gray dynamics, and tension. Includes mentions of stalking and emotional vulnerability.
𝔞 / 𝔫 ; thank you so much for the immense support and encouragement on this story. it means the world to me, keep up the comments and notes !! you keep me inspired. seriously.
ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs | ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ
The days following his encounter with you were a haze for Dexter. He replayed your conversation over and over, your twisted words echoing in his mind, daring him to go further, to step deeper into a world he didn’t yet understand. You had promised answers, hinted at something he both craved and feared. He wasn’t used to this—the pull of another person, the feeling that someone could see right through him.
Late one night, he found himself back in the same place he had first met you. His instincts told him this was a mistake, brag he was letting himself be led into a trap. And yet, the part of him that longed for understanding kept him rooted to the path, moving forward through Miami’s shadowed streets.
The city seemed quieter than usual, almost holding its breath. Every sound felt amplified: his footsteps against the pavement, the faint hum of streetlights, the distant siren waiting as a he passed through silent alleyways. Then, almost as if by fate, he saw you again, leaning against the side of a crumbling brick building, arms crossed, waiting for him.
“Back so soon?” you asked, lips curling into that enigmatic smile.
“I am here for answers,” Dexter replied, feeling a chill run down his spine. “Who are you, really?” And what do you know about me?”
You turned to face him, your gaze steady, piercing. “My name is not important. And as for what I know.. I am a collector of secrets, Dexter.”
Your words cut through the night, mysterious yet tantalizing, he found himself unwillingly drawn closer. “Why would you seek me out?”
You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “Because you and I are alike. We both see the world for what it is—a place that needs us, people who can do what others refuse to do. I knew the moment I saw you that we were connected.”
A feeling of wariness consumed Dexter, “Connected how?” he asked. There was something dangerous about her, something he couldn’t ignore.
“I have dedicated my entire life to uncovering the potential in people. There are those who hide in the shadows and those who embrace them.” you continue. “You, Dexter, were born to embrace them,” your voice barely a whisper, as if letting him in of a secret.
He narrowed his eyes, figuring the pull of your words. “You think I’d join some cult of yours?”
You smiled with an all knowing expression. “I’m not asking you to join, I’m simply offering you a glimpse into something larger. A place where you are understood, where your urges are celebrated.”
For the first time, Dexter felt himself falter. What you said stirred something inside him—a curiosity mixed with the undeniable desire to finally be seen. His life has been an endless game of hiding in plain sight, of pretending to fit in a world where he didn’t belong. Now, here you were offering him something different, something that hinted at freedom.
“Why do you want me?” Dexter’s voice was quiet, almost vulnerable.
“That I have told this once before, I know who you really are, Dexter.” you say, soft yet sharp enough to draw blood. You reach out, your fingers barely brushing his shoulder, a tough as light as a whisper, both cold and electric, sparking something he can’t name. “And because I can show you what you’re truly capable of. The others, they have found freedom. They’re waiting waiting for you”
His breath shudders, his composure cracking. He’s a man who’s spent his life pretending, wearing masks that no longer fit. You see it, the flicker in his eyes, the pull of curiosity warring with the instinct to turn and walk away. He doesn’t know yet if he’s afraid of you, if he’s afraid of how much he wants to listen.
You step back, slowly, deliberately. The sound of your boots on the pavement fills the air, each step like a ticking clock counting down to the moment he’ll have to choose. His silence tells you everything. He won’t follow you—not now. That’s fine. They never do, at first.
“You’ll know where to find me when you’re ready,” you say, stopping just at the edge of the shadows. You glance back at him, holding his gaze for a beat longer than necessary. His face is a mask, but you see through it. You see the hunger there, buried deep but unmistakable. “But don’t take too long. The darkness doesn’t wait forever.”
With that, you step into the night, letting it shallow you whole. The shadows close around you like a shroud, but you don’t need to look back to know he’s still standing there, staring after you. You can feel it, the weight of his gaze, the tension in his body as he wrestles with himself. You can what’s coming. The seed has been planted, and it’s only a matter of time before it grows into something he can’t control.
You’ve seen men like Dexter before. They all think they’re unique, that their darkness is different, special. And maybe it is. But it always leads them to the same place. Sooner or later, he’ll come. And when he does. he’ll wonder if he ever really had a choice at all.
As you disappear into the shadows, Dexter is left alone, staring into the darkness with a feeling he hadn’t experienced in years: anticipation.
taglist; @delsbtch @crustaceanwitch @stre3tleopard | taglist open for updates on this story—just let me know if you’d like your name added !
important; please keep in mind that the dexter character is not of my own original creation; it’s inspired by the work of the creators behind the tv show and the writers involved. thank you.
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