Dead Dover

You were a sight to behold. Usually Dexter didn't find anything more beautiful than the set-up of having his victim displayed before him on a saran wrapped tabletop, but that paled greatly in comparison to the current image of having you underneath him.

He wanted to make you feel good, better than anyone had ever made you feel before.

"Show me how you like to be touched," he muttered next to your ear in that raspy voice of his, allowing you to guide his hands along your body wherever you wanted them to go. Tonight was all about you. He'd do whatever you wanted, whatever you asked for.

You could smell the slightly musky scent of his body wash as he loomed over top of you, familiar and comforting. The way he touched you felt like heaven, and you never wanted it to end.

His hands were rough and calloused, but the way they slid over your skin was so tentative, so careful, almost as though he was worried he might break you if he pushed too far. "You don't have to be nervous," you murmured in a reassuring tone. "I know you won't hurt me, Dexter. I trust you."

How ironic it was that the one person who you trusted more than anything was the one who could kill you in a heartbeat. But he wouldn't do that. He could never forgive himself if that happened.

Taking a deep breath, he simply nodded and tried his best to relax. Given how he was almost always on edge, it was easier said than done, but you somehow you knew how to bring out the calm in him, no matter what.

His gaze flicked down to the bead of precum that was already forming at the tip of your cock. Clearly he was doing something right.

"You can touch me there, it's okay," you gently coaxed, guiding his hand further downwards as you spoke. "Go on."

He shivered in something like delight at your words, his hand tentatively reaching out to wrap around the base. The choked sigh of pleasure that escaped you when he brushed his thumb along your cock head, smearing the precum a little, let him know he was doing a good job so far.

"You're so good at this," you managed to breathe out while staring up at him in awe. "I knew you had to be skilled with your hands."

Your words filled him with a certain sense of pride. I mean, it's not like you'd said anything new, necessarily. He was well aware of his capabilities, but hearing it said out loud felt different, especially when it came from you of all people.

Tentatively, he began to stroke your half-hard cock, bringing it to full mast and pulling more noises out of your mouth in the process. He never knew sex could be as captivating this. Usually it was something he only did as a way to appear "normal", but now he was actually beginning to enjoy it.

He could tell you were enjoying it, too, judging from the way your back had started arching upwards when he quickened his pace a little bit, pumping your cock faster. "Oh- oh, Dex-" You moaned out his name, his own cock twitching in sudden interest. He'd been so caught up in how you felt, he been completely ignoring the fact that he was getting turned on, too.

Before you could fully process what was happening, he pulled his hand away, causing your brow to furrow in confusion at the act. "Is something wrong?"

"Uh, no, nothing's wrong, exactly, I just-" he looked away, obviously feeling a little awkward. "Um, I just wanted to have you wait until I was inside you before you came, if that was okay."

The request surprised you a little, but you weren't upset by it. If anything, it made you proud, because you knew how difficult it was for him to be open and voice what he wanted like that.

"Yeah, it's absolutely okay," you said before he could get cold feet and change his mind just as a way to make you happy, sitting up some so you could unbuckle his belt and undo his pants.

"Sorry, didn't mean to ruin the mood or anything," he sheepishly apologized, but you just smiled at him and replied with, "you didn't ruin it at all, silly," before silencing any other worries of his with a kiss.

Once he'd finished with removing the rest of his clothes, he grabbed the lube plus a spare condom from the nightstand and positioned himself between your spread legs. He kept his eyes on you throughout the entire time he slicked up his fingers and used them to begin gently prodding into your entrance, his gaze both critical and intrigued.

Other people might've been unnerved by the excessive staring he was doing, but to you it only made you feel flustered, especially when considering how he was still fingering you the entire time. "You're so intense," you playfully commented when you were able to stop whining in delight for a moment, your words causing him to let out a dry chuckle in response.

"From where I'm standing, you don't seem to mind too much," he teased back while removing his fingers from you and grabbing the wrapped condom instead, which he tore open and slipped on. When that was done, he wrapped his hand around his already leaking cock and gave it a few pumps for good measure before lining it up with your thoroughly prepped hole. "Alright, you ready?"

"Mm-hm," you simply hummed out as answer, bracing yourself as you felt him ease in, unable to stop from moaning loudly once he'd bottomed out.

It felt good to be inside you, but it was even better getting to watch you fall apart like this. When he saw your fists grasping at the bedsheets, he reached his hands down and gently brought them up to his shoulders.

"Scratch me," he simply stated, watching to know what it felt like to have your nails clawing up his back as he fucked you.

You obeyed instantly, your nails digging into his shoulder blades as you clutched onto him, looking for a way to help ground yourself. Everything about you was perfect, from the way your eyes were rolling into the back of your head to the way your cock was slapping against your stomach from every thrust he gave.

Dexter wasn't even focused on himself at his point, if he ever was at all. It was far too mesmerizing both watching the way your body writhed in pleasure and listening to the sounds you were letting out.

"D- Dex-" you whined, your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you fought to contain yourself. You didn't want to finish so quickly, wanting to give him the chance to also get off. But he was fucking you so good, each movement taking his cock deeper and deeper inside you, and you'd been so close before, it was becoming difficult not to just let go.

"It's okay," he insisted as it was now his turn to be the one reassuring you. "I don't need anything from you tonight. You can finish when you want to."

You looked up at him through hooded eyes, your chest heaving, your nails still dug harshly into his skin, and nodded your head. As your hot, sticky cum spurted out all over both your stomach and his, all he could think about is just how glad he was that he'd spent the night with you, his sensual masterpiece.

End notes: service top dexter is just so 🫣🥴😛 and he would absolutely be one fight me on it

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Will unwrapped his burger like it was a sacred relic. “You know,” he said between bites, “Hannibal would call this ‘culinary self-sabotage.’”

“He’d call it a crime,” you said with mock solemnity, dipping a fry into your milkshake. “A heinous one.”

Will snorted. “He probably feels it in his soul right now.”

You laughed, the sound mingling with the low hum of pop music from the speakers. For a rare moment, everything felt light—simple. No elaborate wine pairings, no bone china, no Latin phrases before dinner. Just you and Will, free and happy in the glow of fluorescent lights.

You were halfway through your fries when Will froze mid-chew. His eyes went wide. “Don’t look now,” he said, voice a whisper, “but I think your prediction just came true.”

You turned your head ever so slightly—and nearly choked on your soda.

Outside, in the dim glow of the streetlight, stood Hannibal. Perfectly dressed, immaculate as always, his expression unreadable through the glass. One gloved hand was tucked in his pocket, the other holding an umbrella. His gaze—sharp, patient, unblinking—was fixed on the two of you like a hawk observing misbehaving fledglings.

Will set his burger down slowly, as though sudden movement might provoke the predator outside. “Do you think,” he said, voice trembling with fear, “if we just pretend not to see him, he’ll go away?”

You met his eyes. “Will. He’s Hannibal.”

“Right.” Will sighed, looking down at his tray. “We’re dead.”

Hannibal began to move—measured, deliberate steps toward the door. You could see the faintest curl of disappointment at the corner of his mouth, the sort that made your stomach twist with guilt and laughter all at once. The bell above the door chimed as he entered, his presence immediately too large for the cheap little restaurant.

The teenage cashier behind the counter froze. A hush fell over the place, broken only by the faint hiss of the fryer. But Hannibal paid them no mind. He approached your table like a judge to a confession booth. His gaze moved from Will’s half-eaten cheeseburger to your empty nugget box, then up to meet your eyes.

“You left the house without saying goodbye,” he said softly. “I was concerned.”

Will cleared his throat. “We were—uh—getting some air.”

“In a McDonald’s.” Hannibal said, his tone so politely neutral it could have been mistaken for sincerity.

You swallowed. “We—missed the taste of…preservatives?”

A long silence. Then, unexpectedly, a sigh escaped him—half disappointment, half fondness. He reached down, plucked a single fry from your tray, and studied it like an alien artifact before eating it. The crunch echoed like a gunshot.

He turned to Will. “Cold oil, sodium, and nostalgia. I suppose there are worse vices.”

Will blinked. “So, we’re not in trouble?”

Hannibal’s mouth twitched, the barest ghost of a smile. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Later, when you were both shepherded back into the car—your precious Happy Meals confiscated like contraband—you and Will couldn’t help but laugh. Hannibal drove in silence, the faint scent of truffle oil clinging to him. From the backseat, you whispered to Will, “Next time, we go to Taco Bell.”

Hannibal’s voice drifted smoothly from the driver’s seat. “There will not be a next time.”

Will shot you a grin. “He says that now. But you saw the way he finished that fry. If he was truly disgusted he wouldn’t have chewed and swallowed”

You bit your lip to stop a laugh, but the sound still slipped out—a snort muffled against your hand. Hannibal’s fingers flexed subtly on the steering wheel, a minute twitch that said he’d heard every word.

Will leaned back in the passenger seat, grin spreading wide as a cat’s. “I mean, come on. He examined it like he was conducting an autopsy, and then what? He ate it. That’s not disgust. That’s curiosity. You were curious, weren’t you, Hannibal?”

Hannibal’s gaze flicked toward Will, brief but heavy, before returning to the road. “I assure you, Will, curiosity is not the same as indulgence.”

“Right,” Will said dryly. “You only indulged in it for scientific purposes.”

You leaned forward from the backseat, chin resting on the armrest between them. “You did seem rather contemplative. Maybe he’s developing a taste for the common man’s cuisine.”

That earned you a low hum—a noncommittal sound that might’ve been amusement, or might’ve been Hannibal calculating exactly how to make you both repent at breakfast.

“I would hardly call it cuisine,” he said at last. “It is a fascinating exploration of how humanity manages to strip food of both nutrition and dignity.”

Will smirked. “So, what you’re saying is, you didn’t hate it.”

“I am saying,” Hannibal replied evenly, “that it would pair nicely with cyanide.”

That did it—you and Will broke into helpless laughter. Will’s shoulders shook, his hand clutching the dashboard for balance while you leaned against the seat, giggling uncontrollably. Even the steady hum of the engine couldn’t drown out the sheer absurdity of it all: the three of you in Hannibal’s immaculate car, the smell of McDonald’s grease lingering in the air like a crime scene.

When the laughter finally subsided, Hannibal exhaled softly through his nose—one of those delicate sighs that could mean anything from I adore you both to I will make you regret this.

“Tell me,” he said, voice silky again. “Was it worth it? Sneaking out into the night like adolescents for...nuggets?”

Will turned in his seat to glance at you, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Absolutely.”

You nodded, smiling despite the weight of his tone. “Every greasy, glorious bite.”

Silence fell again, save for the rain starting to patter against the windshield. The lights of the city shimmered in the glass, streaking across Hannibal’s face in passing gold and red. He looked almost peaceful—if one ignored the faint tightness in his jaw.

Then, after a beat, he murmured, “I will prepare something tomorrow that will make you forget this transgression.”

Will grinned. “Something with fries?”

The pause that followed was chilling and oddly funny all at once.

“Something that will remind you why you do not eat fries.” Hannibal said smoothly.

When you arrived home, Hannibal was the picture of grace—helping you both out of the car, holding the door open, not a single scolding word. But as you kicked off your shoes and exchanged a guilty glance with Will, you heard the faintest sound from the kitchen: the low hiss of oil meeting a pan.

You peeked around the corner. Hannibal stood at the stove, coat hung neatly, sleeves rolled up, a small pot of oil heating beside him. On the counter sat a paper bag with the golden arches logo.

Will whispered, stunned, “Is he analyzing the fries?”

You whispered back, “He’s refining them.”

Hannibal looked up then, eyes flicking between the two of you, lips curling faintly. “Since you enjoy them so much,” he said in that velvet tone, “I thought I might improve the recipe.”

And that’s how, the next morning, you both found yourselves sitting at the table in front of a pristine plate of hand-cut, golden fries drizzled with some kind of herbed aioli and sprinkled with shaved truffle. They smelled divine, looked sinful, and were clearly meant as both punishment and temptation.

Will took one bite, blinked, and sighed. “He’s weaponized fries.”

You nodded gravely. “We can never go back to McDonald’s.”

“Lawn clippings do not possess restorative properties.” Hannibal replied smoothly, taking the cup back and tilting your chin up to check your throat with the precision of a surgeon.

Will muttered from the doorway, “You can’t just doctor him, Hannibal. He needs rest, not—whatever medieval potion you just concocted.”

“Better than the three cans of Campbell’s soup you suggested.” Hannibal shot back.

You groaned, tugging the blanket over your head. “Can you two please stop fighting over my corpse?”

There was a pause, then Will huffed and sat at your bedside, gingerly brushing your sweaty hair back. “You’re not a corpse. You’re just…gross right now.”

You peeked out from under the blanket. “Romantic.” you deadpanned.

Hannibal set a bowl of broth on the nightstand, his gaze softening just slightly. “He means you are pitiful, which, in its own way, is a rare opportunity for us to dote on you.”

You sniffled, voice muffled. “So what you’re saying is…you’re enjoying this?”

Will shot Hannibal a look. “Don’t say it.”

But Hannibal only smiled faintly, dabbing at your temple with a cool cloth. “I do find you rather endearing when you’re vulnerable.”

You groaned again, tugging the blanket tighter. “Great. I’m someone’s art project and someone’s hypochondria trigger.”

Will leaned down to kiss your damp hair. “Pretty much.”

Hannibal smoothed the blanket around your shoulders, indulgent as ever. “Rest, beloved. Endure our care for a day. Tomorrow, we may allow you to reclaim your sarcasm.”

From under the blanket, your voice croaked out: “If I survive your tea.”

Will chuckled.

It was dangerous. Love was dangerous. And yet, he couldn’t stop coming back for more.

So when you eventually found out the truth, he was prepared for it to be the end. You weren’t meant to come over. You weren’t meant to see the tarp, the tools, the way his eyes lit up with a sharp, cold hunger. You froze in the doorway, the reality of who he was snapping into place.

He expected you to scream. To run.

But instead, you stepped forward, calm as anything, and said softly, “Brian…”

His hand holding a knife twitched. He could end it right here. End the softness before it became a weakness. Instead, you reached for him. You cupped his bloodied hand in yours, kissed the knuckles like you always did, even though the skin was still wet with someone else’s life.

He stared at you in disbelief. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “Because you’re still the man who holds me at night. You’re still the man who kisses me like I’m the only thing in the world.”

From that moment on, something shifted.

He wasn’t gentle by nature—but he found himself becoming softer with you. Holding you longer after sex. Letting his guard down in ways he never had before. He’d watch you in the shower, how you pressed kisses across his chest and shoulders, how you whispered sweet things against his skin like he deserved them.

Sometimes it made him angry. He’d snap, grab your chin roughly, demand, “Why do you look at me like that? Why the hell aren’t you running?”

And you’d always answer the same, unwavering: “Because I love you. And I think a part of you loves me, too.”

He hated that it was the truth.

Your sweetness burned through him like a slow poison, leaving him addicted. And though he’d never admit it out loud, he knew: if anyone ever tried to take you from him, he’d paint the world red before letting that happen.