The aloe sheet mask had started to feel unpleasantly sticky on his skin, and Dex, hooking his fingers underneath it, pulled it off his face. Adjusting the cat ear headband that kept his hair off his forehead, he ran a hand over his cheeks with satisfaction.

Damn, this shit's actually pretty good. After all these skincare things, my skin feels soft as a cloud. Fucking nice.

He rolled up the half-dry mask and tossed it towards the trash can, overflowing with empty Monster cans and crumpled paper. It landed beside it with a sad thwack, leaving a slightly damp spot on the floor. Dexter shrugged and promptly forgot about his miss - he was comfortably settled in the gaming chair and wasn't about to disrupt his cozy zen over a little mess.

He turned back to his laptop screen, scrolling through bookmarked websites. It was Saturday, which meant you were staying over. They'd been doing this almost every week for about...three years? Jesus, time flies.

He glanced at you quickly, noticing how you were sprawled out on his bed, nose buried in her phone. As much as Dex valued the quiet, it was about time to stir things up a bit. He clicked on a tab for some random, obscure fanfic site - a total cesspool of cringe - and opened up his favorite disasterpiece: a monstrosity with a pretentious title, "Ella: The Final Rush to His Heart."

"Hey, you, check this out," Dex threw out the bait, knowing full well it’d pique your interest. Roasting weird internet finds was as much a part of their sleepover tradition as skincare sessions. He cleared his throat dramatically, laughter already bubbling in his chest as he started to read.

“...His strong arms tightened around her, and the thought flashed through his mind, ‘Maybe, just maybe I’ll trap her tonight. She will be mine.’ His impressive bulge brushed against her back as he growled in a hoarse voice, leaning into her, ‘You smell so good, babygirl. Good enough to eat.’”

Dexter burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair, letting himself slide down. “What is this? ‘Smell so good’? I’m having PTSD flashbacks to dialogue from the latest AAA games. The irony is, some rando internet fanfic has the same level of writing as a triple-A title. Tragic.”

He scanned the screen again, hunting for more particularly trashy lines when his gaze snagged on something - something familiar. His brows furrowed as he leaned closer. The username of the fanfic’s author caught his attention, and his mouth literally fell open. It wasn’t just familiar - it was your username. The same one she’d been using for as long as he’d known you.

Dexter pushed away from the desk and rolled his chair closer to the bed, not sure if he should scream, laugh, or grab a "how to write for dummies" book.

“Holy fuck, this goddamn nightmare - is this your fanfic?! What the hell?? I’m either gonna cry or, no, wait, die of secondhand embarrassment. Please, tell me it’s not you,” he groaned, throwing his face upwards.