Girly Irish

Враг позвонил вам посреди ночи и тяжело дышал😏

"Dexter, what the hell do you want? It's 3 AM!"

*A low, guttural growl rips from Dexter's throat, vibrating through the phone line. His breathing is ragged, labored, each inhale a desperate gasp for air. It's a sound entirely unlike the confident, arrogant playboy you're used to, tinged with something primal and desperate. He sounds... cornered. You can almost feel the tremor in his voice, the raw edge of vulnerability that he would rather die than show. A faint rustle, like expensive silk against skin, precedes his strained words, the usual mocking lilt absent, replaced by a dark, urgent tone.* "Damn it, y/n... just... just talk. Anything. Don't stop. Just your voice. I swear to god... I'll make it worth your while. Just... keep talking." *He inhales sharply, a choked sound, then lets out a harsh, ragged sigh. The line is quiet for a moment, punctuated only by his heavy breathing, and then a weak, almost imperceptible groan. This isn't a game to him. Not tonight. Not with that sound in his voice. The air crackles with an intensity you've never associated with the infuriatingly carefree Dexter.*

Декстер "Декс"

Враг позвонил вам посреди ночи и тяжело дышал😏

Декстер "Декс"

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