#dexter morgan angst

[polydeuces]

𝕻𝖗𝖔𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖚𝖊

𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚗𝚎: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜

𝔭𝔞𝔦𝔯 ; Dexter Morgan x Fem! Reader (Cult Leader)

𝔰𝔶𝔫𝔬𝔭𝔰𝔦𝔰 ; You linger in Dexter Morgan’s shadows, close enough to feel the darkness he hides so well. You know his secrets, his rituals, the thrill he keeps hidden from the world. Silently, you wait for that perfect moment to step into his path—so he can finally see that he’s been hunted all along.

𝔠𝔴 / 𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 ; (688words) mentions of cults, stalking, potential violence, intrusive thoughts, and elements of psychological tension.

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ | ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ | ɴᴇxᴛ

He was supposed to be the predator.

You’d watched him for a year now, the man who walked through the world with an all too familiar blend of invisibility and quiet command. Dexter Morgan, a blood��spatter analyst by day and something far more dangerous by night. But those were his surface-level disguises. You’d begun to peel back the layers, unraveling the nuances of a man who navigated life in the shadows, just as you have for so many years now.

It started innocently enough—fleeting moments when you’d caught sight of him on the crowded Miami streets, merging into the sea of faces like he belonged there. But you knew better. You knew what it was to wear masks, to walk amoung people undetected, unseen and unnoticed. There was something about him, the way he looked at the world, made him all the more intriguing.

So you watched. Carefully, hidden, with a patience you’d honed over years of practice, you observed him as he slipped out of his office at night, slightly tense in his gaze, focused, distant, as if he were listening to something only he could hear. Often times, you’d follow him to the places he frequented; his home, abandoned warehouses, places where the thin line between light and darkness blurred. You learned his routines, the way he’d pull his signature black gloves onto his hands, the way his eyes would sweep across the streets with a meticulous attention to detail before stepping into his own hidden rituals.

It fascinated you.. his dance, this performance between worlds. His life was a careful balance of precision and secrecy. And then there were his victims. You’d seen him work, watched from the edges as he sized up those he deemed worthy enough. You hadn’t intervened— after all, it wasn’t about them. It was about him. You needed to understand his purpose, what drove him and what rulebook or code tethered him to this life.

You began to study his life beyond the night as well, picking up pieces of Dexter Morgan, the man, the father, the blood-spatter analyst, the widower, the mask. You’d slip into his world unnoticed, lingering at places he went during the day; you listened to his colleagues, his sister and the casual comments that painted a picture of someone, friendly, yet distant, the “nice guy” who kept to himself.

You learned his patterns, his preferences, even the small, old habits he indulged in when he thought no one was watching. You uncovered the Dexter he showed to the world, the façade that kept his true nature hidden.

But you could see it—the subtle tension in his jaw, the guarded look in his eyes that surfaced when someone got too close, the small tells of a hidden life. The knowledge inside you—the kind of intimacy that was both exhilarating and forbidden—you knew him in a way no one else did, knew him not by the lies he told, but by the silence he kept.

So, you kept waiting, biding your time. You wanted him to know that he been seen, that he wasn’t as invisible as he thought. You wanted him to understand that he was no longer the only one who lived by a code of shadows. You watched him for countless nights—slipping in and out of his world like a phantom, leaving a sense of unease that you knew would begin to gnaw at him.

Until finally, one night, you decided it was time.

do not repost/duplicate on other sites. © polydeuces 2024.

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 tv show.

[bebx]

Tragic brothers.

Dexter: Dexter Morgan and Brian Moser. Genesis by Valzhyna Mort † Abel’s Body to Cain by Joseph Fasano

[viinchester]

Shape Of You

Warnings: Mentions of an injury and that it's being taken care of (nothing too graphic), Depictions of Sexual Content (Minors DNI!), Rough/Intense Sexual Content, could be considered Dubcon by coercion (not really imo, but just to be on the safe side), Themes of Possession and Objectification

Fandom: Dexter (TV Show/Series)

Pairing: Brian Moser/Rudy Cooper x F!Reader

Request: by Anon

Summary: Brian takes care of your injury after you've taken a nasty fall, however you can't help but feel like something's off about the situation. Unaware of his dark thoughts and oblivious to the deeper manipulation at play, you clear your mind by focussing on his comforting presence, and things quickly get heated.

Word Count: 3.271

My Masterlist

A/N: For some reason, I really struggled with this.😬 I rewrote it like 3 or 4 different times entirely, I hope it's not too noticable.😅 I was also unsure when exactly to refer to Brian as "Rudy" so I tried to only do it whenever the writing directly represents the Readers thoughts about him.💕 I still had a ton of fun writing this and I hope I could do the idea that anon had justice and that you guys like it!🙏🏼 I would really appreciate reposts/comments with feedback.👀 Feel free to request stuff, I always enjoy getting some inspiration to keep the writing going.💙

Brian knelt beside you, his touch gentle as he pressed the damp cloth to your leg. The sharp sting of the cut made you wince, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the embarrassment of how it had happened.

You had tripped, just like you seemed to always do. This time, it had been over something small, a simple crack in the sidewalk, causing you to suddenly lie on the ground, blood welling up and staining your skin.

Heat rose in your cheeks in frustration at yourself and the fact that Brian now had to take care of you, but he was ever calm and didn't seem the least bit bothered.

Not saying much, he offered you a soft smile and then continued tending to your cut, his focus entirely on the injury itself.

He’d always been good at this type of stuff, fixing things while being composed and so in control — qualities you usually greatly admired in him.

But as you sat there in that moment, feeling the warmth of his touch, something didn’t seem right.

You knew you should be glad.

Here was your boyfriend, cleaning up your mess, like he so often did. You were fortunate, really, to have someone like him — patient and ready to swoop in when you inevitably fell again. So though you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something was off, you did your best to simply brush it aside.

After all, this was Rudy. Sweet, dependable Rudy, who always seemed to know exactly what to do and was there for you whenever you stumbled — literally and figuratively.

And even if his fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary on your skin right now, it likely didn't mean anything. The way in which he inspected your bloodstained leg with a look of concentration reassured you further.

“You really should be more careful,” Brian suddenly said, his voice low and soothing. His gentle words and focused demeanor helped ease your nerves.

You chastised yourself for ever thinking twice about his actions. Your boyfriend was simply trying to watch out for you, that's all. Why were you even doubting him in the first place? Maybe it was just the pain from the cut or the embarrassment of tripping again. Or maybe it was the whole thing with the Ice Truck Killer going on at the moment.

Yes, that had to be it. It had probably made you more paranoid than you'd initially thought.

But you had absolutely nothing to worry about, because the sweet man kneeling in front of you was nothing like that monster.

Forcing yourself to relax a little, you sighed.

"I know," you mumbled, as he expertly bandaged your leg, secretly marveling at how steady his hands were.

It was easy to forget how awkward you felt in moments like this, with him so effortlessly tending to you. You crooked a smile at him then, but Brian didn’t meet your eyes right away. He was too busy inspecting his work, a subtle smirk of his own tugging at the corner of his mouth as he secured the bandage.

To you, he seemed satisfied with his patch job, but inside, something else simmered. He felt an almost childlike joy about the way you sat there, so vulnerable, your leg limp in his hands.

He liked seeing you this way — hurt, but not too hurt. Just enough to need him, to be reliable on him.

It stirred something deep inside of him.

“There,” he said, leaning back a little to admire the bandage. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and for a split second, something unreadable passed between you, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came. “Does that feel better?”

You looked down at your leg and inspected the professionally wrapped bandage. It was not too tight and not too loose. It was perfect. Just like him.

Tension oozing from your body, you nodded and looked up at your boyfriend again, smiling earnestly. “Yeah, much better. Thank you.”

His smile widened just a fraction, not quite reaching his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m here to patch you up,” he said with a lightness in his voice that made you feel a little better. “I’d never let anything happen to you.”

The way he said it — his voice smooth and promising — made you smile, comforted by his presence.

Rudy really loved you, didn't he? He was always right there when you needed him.

He stood up and offered you his hand, and despite the slight apprehension earlier, you eagerly took it. His grip was firm and steady as he helped you to your feet, making sure that you avoided putting too much weight on your injured leg.

You pushed past any lingering odd emotions and focused on the fact that you were grateful for him. You had nothing to worry about — not with Rudy, not with the man who never made you feel stupid for being clumsy, who was always kind to you, the calm in your storm.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” you said softly, your voice carrying gratitude.

Brian's eyes flicked to yours, a faint twinkle in them. He felt content.

As he held your gaze for a moment longer, he could clearly see the relief and appreciation in you. It had him suppressing a grin, the way you were so easily fooled.

To him, you were perfect in your vulnerability, of course. A doll. Beautiful, delicate, and breakable. He liked you that way — liked the way your clumsiness brought you to him, having to be fixed, to be held together. Every scrape, every fall, was a small gift, an opportunity for him to touch you, to take care of you. To make you his again, piece by fragile piece. You were his creation, something he had molded with care and patience, and he was the only one who could keep you whole.

Or take you further apart, if he chose.

But for now, he was content to play the role you expected — your Rudy, the one who would always keep you safe.

He watched you as your eyes briefly flickered to his mouth and up again, and knew what you were going to do before you had even fully decided on it.

Slowly, you leaned in and brushed your lips against his, wanting to show him just how much you appreciated him.

Letting you take control for a moment, Brian allowed you to believe that you were doing something for him, even though he knew better. You were in his hands, for as long as you lived. The thought thrilled him in a way you could never know, in a way he would never let you see.

Keeping his lips perfectly still, Brian decided to act surprised by your sudden gesture, pausing for a few seconds, until he could just about feel you starting to pull away.

He kissed you back then, using every bit of his self-restraint to start softly, and his hand came up to cradle the back of your neck in a tender movement. Slowly, he deepened the kiss, daring to go further by tightening his grip on you slightly, almost imperceptibly.

After a few moments, you pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your heart beating faster. When you looked up at him, his smile was still there, and he looked as warm as ever to you. As you lost yourself inside his eyes, Brian felt that familiar pulse of satisfaction.

You didn’t know it, but you were already his, caught in the delicate web he had woven around you. He could see how much you trusted him and the unguarded naivety you held had been obvious to him from the very first moment that you two had met.

You were simply too brittle for this world. Too easily shattered by its sharp edges, too flimsy to protect yourself from the falls you constantly took. That’s why you needed him. That’s why you would always need him.

As his thumb stroked the pulse point along your neck, feeling the quickened beat beneath your skin, he smiled at you. It was a soft and loving smile, one he had perfected for you.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Brian now addressed your last sentence, his voice calm and encouraging, with only a tiny hint of something darker that you didn't seem to notice. “No matter how clumsy you are, I’ll always be there to fix you when you break.”

The words, meant to comfort you, immediately had their desired effect. You happily beamed up at him while blushing furiously.

“I’m really lucky to have you,” you told him and then leaned in again, kissing him softly and embracing the moment.

Wallowing in the comfort and warmth he provided you with, you slid your hands up his chest, deepening the kiss. You didn’t want to think or talk anymore, just enjoy the feeling of being with him.

Brian watched you through half-lidded eyes, noticing your movements growing more desperate with every passing second. He could feel the tension in your body — the way you were almost pleading for his control — and it amused him, in a way.

You didn’t even realize how effortlessly you fell into this role, how naturally you let yourself be pulled into his world.

Moving his hands down to your waist, he squeezed them a little tighter than usual, but you didn’t seem to notice the extra strength in his grip, too absorbed in your need.

When you grasped the hem of his shirt and tugged it up to pull over his head, he lifted his arms and let you, suppressing a smirk.

It was obvious to him that you needed this physical closeness. Your skin pressing against his, fingers now fumbling with his belt in a frenzy — you were letting go of any lingering doubts and focusing solely on him.

Feeling a sense of smugness, he guided you with quick, assertive movements, prying your clothes away with a roughness that seemed to match your urgency. You gasped as he yanked off your shirt and then dug his fingers into your skin, his touch simultaneously gentle and commanding. Leaning further into him, you longed for release already and how he always made everything else seem insignificant when you were together like this.

Brian’s lips determinedly traveled to your throat, kissing you with an insistent fervor now. You shuddered under the ferocity, but didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to stop him. His teeth grazed your skin, causing your head to fall back in an open-mouthed moan, arching your body against him, desperate for more. The heat of his passion overwhelmed you, pushing any thoughts of discomfort aside. Hands roamed your body, his traces both prodding and tranquilizing.

He could feel the way you were giving in to him and letting him take over, allowing him to guide you, and that’s exactly how he liked it. His grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging in even more, and when you winced, he knew you felt it — though you never pulled away.

You wanted this. You needed him to be in charge.

When he led you into the bedroom, your discarded clothes left in the wake of his deliberate actions, his movements were filled with a raw intensity.

You shortly cringed at the sudden pain shooting through your injured leg when his weight pressed down on you as he pushed you onto the bed, but his lips crashing against yours with hunger made you almost immediately forget about any hurt. Kissing him back just as frantically, you wrapped your arms around his neck to cling onto him. He slipped his tongue between your lips almost forcefully, licking over every hidden crevice in your mouth with purpose. His hands roamed over your body and you moaned into Brian's mouth, his touch both a source of solace and pleasure for you.

Deep down on the inside a part of you noticed a subtle shift — Rudy was not being as gentle and careful as he normally was — but that part was swiftly drowned out by the sensations of everything else going on. All you could truly acknowledge in that moment was the incredible desire for him to make you forget everything but the feeling of him against you.

As if he somehow knew about what you’d felt, Brian interrupted the sloppy kiss and moved once more with intention and a vigor that sent your heart racing. His hands, bruising but controlled, pushed down the last bit of garment left between the two of you and you gasped as fresh air hit your intimate zone. You hadn't even realized how wet you'd gotten and now felt slightly ashamed at the way your body obviously liked the way he handled you and the way he'd been — and still was — pushing you and testing your limits, teetering the edges of breaking them.

He was still Rudy though, still the man who you trusted most in the world, so you didn't give it much more than a passing thought and decided to just roll with it.

Even though it would probably give you pause if you properly questioned it — the fact that he didn't usually act this way and only when you were injured or reliant on him in some way — for more than two seconds. But you didn’t question it for more than two seconds, couldn't, as your body deliciously responded and distracted you instead.

When Brian finally pushed into you, you cried out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders and leaving half-crescent-shaped moon indentions in his skin. He allowed you to adjust to his size for a short while, pushing his forehead against yours with his mouth hanging open in a silent groan as he relished in the feeling of being inside you.

After enough time passed for you to become used to him, you patted his shoulder and nodded ever so slightly, not capable of words.

Brian understood though, and immediately began to move, quickly setting a pace that was fast and demanding.

Pressing your eyes shut, you clung to him, wrapping your legs around him and pulling him impossibly closer — entirely missing the way his eyes were filled with something completely wild and dark. Focussing on the feeling of your boyfriend pushing and pulling inside of you, he soon began to hit that delicious spot deep in you, and you moaned loudly.

Brian leaned down then and you could feel his hot breath against your ear, his voice low and rough.

“You need me, don’t you?” he whispered, the words sending a shiver down your spine. You frantically nodded while gasping for air, unable to answer anything. “Whenever you need me, I am — and will — be there, every. single. time.”

He punctuated each word with a sharper and deeper thrust, angled directly at your sweet spot, leaving you choking for breath with tears in your eyes at one point. His words, though assertive, felt like a promise of security and care to you.

The room was heavy with heat, your breaths mingling, the sound of your bodies crashing together filling the space. Each push sent a jolt through you that made your head spin. You lost yourself in it all, in these repetitive motions, his touch, the feeling of his skin against yours.

One of his hands now moved to your clit and his movements became even more resolved and driven. He was controlling the moment, steering it exactly where he wanted, and your body responded accordingly. You could feel yourself being pulled in by the sensation, as he pushed you towards the edge.

“God, you’re so perfect like this,” Brian grunted, his voice a mix of command and encouragement. “Come on, it's alright. You’re mine, aren’t you? Just let go.”

Tears rose in your eyes as you felt your body react to both his words and actions, the increasing intensity overtaking everything else and throwing you into a rush of pure ecstasy.

Your fingers dug into his back, your breath ragged, and all at once you fell into the waves, pulled underneath by their impact. You couldn't breathe for a moment, until finally, with a twist from Brian's fingers and a sharp cry from you, you reached the surface again.

The release hit you hard, sending rows of pleasure crashing through your body, and all you could do was lie there and take it, face screwed up in the pleasure of it.

Brian followed soon after, his movements rough and forceful as he found his own release, breath hot against your neck as he groaned, low and deep.

For a moment, the world stilled as the both of you tried to calm your breathing, the overwhelming physical connection between the two of you leaving you in a daze. Your heart pounded in your chest, your body trembling beneath the weight of his body on you.

After what felt like ages, but was likely only seconds, Brian lifted himself up and out of you, leaving you feeling strangely empty at the loss of him.

He collapsed beside you then and the room fell into a heavy silence in the aftermath of what you'd done.

As he lay beside you, Brian's mind was a whirlpool of satisfaction and dark pleasure. He reveled in the way you’d clung to him, completely oblivious to the extent of his control. The contrast between your dependence on him and his calculated dominance over you joyed him immensely.

Lifting his head, he turned to you, his hand reaching out to gently brush your hair back from your face, his caress tender again and a stark difference from the intensity of the moments you’d shared just before. His fingers grazed over your skin, his touch so feather-light and soft, it immediately erased any lingering concerns in you.

It was an act, of course. A way to further embed his influence. The compassion was a calculated gesture, a way to reinforce the illusion of care while keeping you bound to him.

“Are you alright?” he asked carefully, his voice carrying a tone of worry that felt comforting, and you nodded, reassured by his touch.

He always knew how to make you feel cherished, and you clung to that sense of security.

He noted the way your body relaxed against his, your breathing steady and calm. The pretense of concern came naturally to him, a mask he wore so well.

His hand now rested on your cheek, his thumb brushing softly as he leaned in closer.

“I love you,” he whispered, the final nail in the coffin, as always, his gaze lingering on you and studying your relaxed and smitten features. To him, you were more than just a partner; you were a project, a creation he had formed. The sweetness in his voice was a facade that masked his true intentions.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, and you felt another wave of affection and safety. Any fleeting worries were overshadowed by his sedative presence. You knew he was there for you, providing the care and support you needed.

“I love you too,” you responded, wrapping your arms around him and drawing him closer, feeling his warmth envelop you.

And as you nestled closer, Brian’s thoughts were filled with a dark fulfillment. The control he wielded was subtle, deeply woven into the fabric of his relationship with you.

And you, in your innocent trust, had made it all too easy.

With the quiet settling in, you allowed yourself to sink into the comfort of his presence and fell asleep.

[happy74827]

You Must Be Haunting Me

[Brian Moser x Female!Reader]

Synopsis: Even after a year, you’re still haunted by the Ice Truck Killer.

WC: 2643

Category: Angst, No Comfort {TW: Not Proof Read 😞}

I did another one!! Are you guys proud of me? 🥹

So, rewatching the season, I forgot how sassy he was so I wanted to really show off that aspect in this one. Then my patience was over it, so the ending is just kinda… bland. But it’s okay because it’s Brian (he seriously needs more attention FOR REAL).

Anyway, for those 14 Brian fans… this one’s for you 🫶

『••✎••』

The dark circles beneath your eyes. The way you can barely stand on your feet, your body so exhausted that you can hardly lift a finger to defend yourself. You’re like a walking corpse, and he's the one responsible for putting you in this state.

It started one year ago. One year ago, you moved to Miami and became the victim of a killer. It wasn't until his brother came along and put him six feet under that you began to heal and get back into the normal, everyday routine. But then he showed up.

It was one of those nights where you’d randomly get a jolt in your sleep. You sat up straight, the sheets pooling at your hips as you looked around the room. Your breathing was shallow, and sweat was beading on your brow. You felt a shiver run up your spine as you slowly laid back down.

"You sleep soundly."

His voice caused your heart to stop. You knew who it was, the same man who had terrorized you, who made your life a living hell. Slowly, you turned to your side, staring wide-eyed at the dark figure at the end of your bed. Your hands began to shake and tremble as you reached for the lamp on your nightstand.

"Oh, don't bother."

In an instant, with the sound of fingers snapping, the lamp's light went out. You could hear a chuckle coming from the intruder, and you were paralyzed, afraid to make a move.

I mean, it couldn’t be him, right? It was just some sick joke. He was dead. He couldn’t be here.

He couldn’t.

But, god, he looked the exact same. The curly dark hair, the pale skin. He was just a silhouette in the darkness of your room, and yet, you could tell that the grin he wore was the same grin that he had on the day you met him.

"You look like you’ve seen a ghost." He mused, moving closer towards you. His weight caused the bed to dip slightly, and you could feel the fear begin to take over your body. "Should I start saying boo?"

Your throat was dry, and you couldn’t speak; all you could do was stare at him, frozen in place. He lowered his head in amusement and chuckled, leaving his lips once more.

It was when his eyes weren’t on you that broke you out of your daze. You shot up from the bed, nearly tumbling over yourself as you ran to the dresser, grabbing the nearest thing you could find and throwing it at him. It was a vase, one that held a bouquet of flowers, that shattered against the wall, causing him to look up.

"…Was that supposed to scare me?" He asked, raising a brow as he tilted his head, an almost bored expression on his face. "You’ve got the aim of a blind man."

"Get out of my house!"

The sound of your own voice startled you. Anger wasn’t necessarily the emotion you normally felt, but now it was the only thing that was running through you. Anger and adrenaline.

He stood from the bed, taking a step closer to you, the broken glass crunching beneath his feet. You didn’t care; you took a step back, holding your hand out as if it would stop him from coming any closer.

"Get away from me, you psycho."

He laughed. He actually fucking laughed.

"Psycho?" He repeated, "That’s a new one."

"Stay back." You hissed, feeling the tears well up in your eyes.

He took another step.

"Don't touch me!"

Another. He was only inches away from you now, and the thought of him being so close made you want to vomit.

The annoyed sigh he let out when he noticed your hand trembling was enough to set you off. You didn’t think twice; the only thought in your mind was to get him out, and so you did.

When he was walking towards you, your mind remembered the small kitchen knife that you left on the counter. Quickly, you ran past him, dodging his hands as he reached out to grab you, and grabbing the knife, and in one quick motion, you turned and stabbed him.

"That’s not going to—"

It went right through his chest. He stared down at the knife, then up at you, with that all-knowing expression.

He sighed again, "…work."

What the fuck?

In the next moment, he vanished, and the knife fell to the ground, the clattering against the linoleum floor echoing through the house.

For a minute, you thought it was a dream. That is, until he appeared in the chair beside you, his arms crossed, his eyes boring holes into your face.

"You can’t hurt me." He said, his tone flat, his eyes narrowed, "I can’t either. Not physically, anyhow."

You stared at him. He stared at you.

"I can fuck you up, though." He continued, "In many ways. Mentally, emotionally… The possibilities are endless."

"What the hell is this?" You questioned, your brows furrowing, "Are you some kind of— of, what, demented Casper?"

His expression was unreadable, but then again, he always had that look on his face.

"Casper? Wow, seriously? You remind me why I don't watch movies." He groaned, shaking his head.

"You didn't answer my question."

"And you won't like my answer."

"Try me."

"You’ve lost it." He shrugged, "Completely off the hinges, you know? And that's saying something, considering who you’re talking to."

"I don't—"

"Have a mental disorder."

"What?"

"That's what it's called. When someone has delusions of grandeur, where they think someone is after them. Someone, of course, meaning me." He explained, a grin spreading across his lips. "But, no. It's all in your head. Just. Like. Me."

The words sank in, and you stared down at the floor, your mind processing everything he was telling you.

"No, I'm not crazy." You murmured, mostly to yourself, but loud enough for him to hear.

"You're not? Well, how else would you explain me being here?" He asked, cocking a brow, "I’m dead, remember? My dear brother made sure of that."

"I—"

"And you know damn well I’d never wear this out of the office. It's not exactly the most flattering."

It was then you noticed what he was wearing.

He had his lab coat on. His entire outfit was the same thing he wore the day he met you. You were with Debra to question him about Tucci’s recovery and, god, if he didn't make the biggest impression.

It was pretty hard not to like him when he was giving one of his patients, a little boy, a lollipop from his jar and making a joke.

You remember telling Deb, 'What a nice guy'.

Oh, the irony. The fucking irony.

"What a nice guy." You found yourself repeating before looking him up and down, your lips curling in disgust. "You were just fucking with me the whole time, weren't you?"

He shrugged, "What's it matter now? I'm dead."

"It matters to me."

"Would you like me to apologize? To beg for your forgiveness?" He asked, a mocking tone in his voice, "Would that make you feel better?"

You were silent.

"Wouldn’t do anything." He continued, "And it certainly wouldn't change a thing. But, hey! By all means, you go right ahead and play pretend. Maybe then, you'll sleep better at night."

You scoffed. He was such a piece of shit.

"How much are you gonna torture me, huh?" You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, "Torture me like you did, Debra? Like your brother? Are you just going to follow me around like a bad smell? Make my life a living hell, like you did theirs?"

"I didn't torture him." He stated, a hint of malice in his tone, "He's my brother."

"Like that means shit."

"He was just like me. A lot like me, in fact." He went on, his eyes flickering over to you. "I could see myself in him."

"Well, he killed you." You countered, "That doesn't really seem like brotherly love."

"He did what he had to." He shrugged, "That Harry… he was a real piece of work, wasn't he?"

You were quiet again.

"And Debra?"

"A pain in my ass. Always sticking her nose in places where it doesn't belong." He replied, shaking his head. "But, then again, that was her job, wasn't it?"

"You broke her. You tore her apart." You snapped, the memories of the past year filling your mind. "She really loved you. She really did."

"I know."

"You don't care."

"Not at all." He said, the faintest hint of a smirk appearing. "Not in the slightest."

"Fuck you."

He laughed, his laughter filling the room before it faded out, leaving the both of you in a heavy silence.

He had a different aura around him this time. It might be the aura of a dead man, a hallucination. But he still felt so… present. Even his mannerisms were the same—the way he moved his hands, the way he tilted his head. His eyes still had that glint of mischief. It was so real.

So. Fucking. Real.

"If your just in my head, why can’t I just kick you out?" You asked, finally breaking the silence, "Make you go away."

"Because, even after a year, I still affect you." He answered, his voice low. "Even though you try to ignore it and push the memories back, I’ll always be there. In the back of your mind."

"Why couldn’t you be my dead childhood dog or something? Why do you have to be some crazy serial killer that ruined my life?" You said, shaking your head.

"I'm not boring."

"Neither was my childhood dog."

"Rocky didn't have a single interesting thing about him. All he did was drool and lick himself." He countered, his lips pursing.

"How the hell do you know— oh, fuck this. Just go away." You groaned, rubbing your temples.

He didn't respond, and the room was quiet. For a second, you thought he actually listened. Then, you heard him hum.

"Hm. No."

"Jesus Christ."

"Now, that's really a name I haven't heard in a while."

This was how it became. For months, you would have these random conversations with him, and no matter how much you tried, he would never leave. Everywhere you went, he was there.

Work.

Shopping.

Even at the damn bar.

You had no idea what this was. You didn't know if this was a side effect of the trauma you went through. Whether it was your mind trying to cope or just the result of a lack of sleep. Whatever it was, it was draining the life out of you.

You felt like a shell. Your coworkers knew something was wrong. The way your eyes were dull and lifeless, the dark circles, the slump in your shoulders.

They were concerned—except Debra. She was too concerned about the case to pay attention to anyone else.

You weren't really sure what day it was. Or month. Time was going by, and you were slowly dying mentally, as he put it.

"Is this because I can't sleep?" You asked him one night, staring at the ceiling, your voice hoarse, "Because I can't go to sleep without seeing your face? Or is it because I don't have the energy to live?"

"I would say both."

You groaned, throwing an arm over your eyes, "What did I do to deserve this?"

"It's not what you did." He replied, his eyes locked on yours, "It's what I did."

"Yeah, well, thanks."

"Don't mention it."

The two of you sat there in silence before he cleared his throat.

"How are things with my favorite bloodhound?" He asked a curious tone in his voice. "Is he still sleeping with that cute blonde, or did he wise up and break it off?"

"Rita. Her name is Rita." You corrected him, shaking your head, "She’s his girlfriend, not his flavor of the week."

"Hm."

"And, for your information, they're fine. Great, actually."

"How disappointing." He scoffed, leaning back in his seat. He genuinely looked upset, which caused a snicker to leave your lips. "What's so funny?"

"You are." You replied, looking over at him, "You're so pathetic."

He blinked.

"You're a dead man. Dead. How can you be disappointed about his love life?"

"I'm his older brother." He stated, his jaw tightening, "I want what's best for him."

"Really? Then why aren't you in his brain, harassing him?" You questioned, a smile coming onto your face, "You know what? I bet he's sleeping great. He doesn't have to deal with this. Not like I do."

"I would love to give him a good old-fashioned night terror. It'd be easy, too. He's not exactly the most stable." He replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But his brain is too messy. He's always been that way."

"I guess he takes after his brother."

"He took after our father. The one thing I did was make him forget about it." He retorted, his tone harsh, "Notice how he never talks about the old man? Or the past? Now it’s only me. That's because of me. I took him from that shitty childhood. I gave him a better life. A better everything. I could’ve given him the world."

You were quiet.

"Instead, he killed me." He spat, the venom in his voice obvious. "Because of that stupid, half-witted sailor mouth."

You honestly had to give your brain props for this one. He was too realistic. He was too Brian.

"You know what?" You began, sitting up, "I really am feeling a lobotomy."

At that, he actually laughed. Now that… that was different from the chuckles and snickers, this was a full laugh, something you haven't heard since you met him. It was loud, it was obnoxious, and it was the only thing you could hear.

It was the last thing you heard before the most amazing thing happened.

You fell asleep.

In the morning, you woke up to a pounding on your door and an annoying ringing. Groaning, you pulled the pillow over your head, hoping the noises would disappear. Instead, they only got louder, and you had no choice but to get up.

"Coming, coming!" You shouted, shuffling out of the bedroom and towards the door, the banging and the ringing still going on.

When you opened the door, you saw Debra.

"Good. You're up." She greeted, her expression annoyed. "Where were you last night?"

"Sleeping. What are you, my mom?"

"I called you. I even sent someone by your house. You weren't here." She stated, a slight bite in her voice, "And I'm not your mom, but if I were, I'd spank you."

"For what?"

"We have a meeting in five minutes." She said, checking her watch, "Get dressed. I'm waiting."

"Shit."

In record time, you threw on some jeans and a shirt, and within the next three minutes, you were out the door and in the car with Debra.

But as she pulled out of the driveway, he appeared directly in front of her.

"Hey, watch—"

But he only winked at you before disappearing. And at the time, you found it nothing but him being a prick. But, later on, you would realize.

This was the last time you would ever see him.

A month went by. And another. And another.

Then, a year.

The visions of the past still came. The thoughts of him were still there. The memories were still fresh. And sometimes, if you listened closely, you could still hear that laugh.

But you weren’t afraid anymore. You had no reason to be. And so, you moved on. You continued living because that's what he would've hated. And that made you smile.

Because, now, it wasn't him haunting you.

It was you haunting him.

[astrumsine]

The boys :(💔

An oil painting I made! I’m not amazing at oil painting (this is my second time ever doing it) so it’s not perfect but I thought the colors looked nice

[ostaramaclay]

Me and @ghostlyaugustine just finished writing our new AU fic 'Staged', set during the Dexter S4 finale The Getaway. We wanted to answer the question; what if it had been Deb?

Please check it out, and let us know what you think!

[qqhez]

hii!

this is my new blog where ill be writing your requests!

you can literally request anything and ill do it, but i dont write f/f or m/m content. i only write f/m. i dont shame anyone and ofc you can submit your requests as an anon!

please be kind to me, i am kinda new to tumblr and might not know how everything works here.

people i write for:

Squid Game:

Cho Sang-Woo

Hwang In-Ho

Seong Gi-Hun

the salesman

The Walking Dead:

Rick Grimes

Daryl Dixon

Carl Grimes

Negan Smith

Resident Evil:

Leon Kennedy

Ethan Winters

Chris Redfield

Carlos Oliveira

Dexter:

Dexter Morgan

for now, im just writing about people im comfortable with and know a lot of!

enjoy!!🥀

[amongaesthetics]

OK, so I’m re-watching Dexter (the TV series with the serial killer not the cartoon with the little kid scientist who wants to be evil). And I’ve got two really big thoughts that someone needs to hear.

The first is that the kind of started Dexter off as being sort of ace/aro. They went into a lot of things in the beginning about how he’s dating his current girlfriend (Rita) because she’s got issues with sex and he wanted to avoid sex in his relationship and how he could never be in love with her. And this gave me a little bit of mixed feelings in how I think about it, because whenever they assign these sorts of traits to bad people it’s supposed to be evidence of how fucked up they are. Like, “look at Dexter, he’s a fucked up serial killer who does not enjoy sex and can’t be in love with someone, he’s really-really messed up”.

I think it’s problematic because it’s making the ace/aro representation that we do have more of a representation of how people who fit within those categories are not truly human. But on the other hand, they cement this ideology even further through Dexter‘s character by eventually making it that he is in love with Rita, that he does enjoy sex with her. He marries her and has a child with her and starts to fit within this range of normal, except for the fact that he is still a serial killer and this is supposed to be exemplifying him becoming more of a “real person” while he does those things.

The other big critique I have as I’m re-watching is that, all of Dexter’s problems are caused by himself with exception to the first season. The first season, Dexter’s big bad brother Brian is back in town, killing people, reaching out to Dexter and causing him to question his foundations and his choices and Deal with a lot of trauma, while also trying to deal with the fact that his brother wants to have a relationship with him. That’s not really Dexter‘s fault. However, he consistently makes bad choices throughout the rest of the seasons where he’s like “maybe I don’t have to kill this guy. Maybe they can teach me something. Maybe I can learn from them. Maybe I’ll just get close to them and everything will be fine…”. For example, the serial killer that does kill his wife, like the guy who is sister eventually ended up seeing him kill, like those serial rapist murderers that he deals with in season 5 who set a trap for him, like him trying to make friends with that ADA serial killer, like his NA sponsor who tries to burn alive his step kids.

His issues aren’t that he is a serial killer, it’s that him being a serial killer defines the way he approaches every other relationship that he tries to enter into and causes him to enter into relationships with dysfunctional murderous people who want him dead.

[willieverseetheland]

mama?

Dexter Morgan x reader

based on this ask!

Warnings: mentions of death, blood, violence, domestic violence, all the usual Dexter stuff, very much angst Summary: Following Rita’s death, Dexter and reader become close as they deal with the aftermath.

It was a quiet evening. You were sitting on your balcony watching the full, glowing moon. You were deep in thought when your phone began to ring, pulling you back to reality. The caller ID said Dexter Morgan, you thought this was strange as he and Rita were supposed to have left on their honeymoon. Maybe they decided not to bring Harrison along after all. But when you answered, it was a woman's voice.

"Hello? This is Debra Morgan with Miami Metro Homicide, is this y/n?"

"Yes?" You replied with a slight quiver in your voice, confused. Homicide? What is happening? "There's been an incident, Dexter thought you should know. However, he's preoccupied at the moment. Rita..."

Her voice begins to shake, you can sense that she's about to cry

"Um, Rita's been murdered, I understand you two were close."

It was like the entire world stopped. Murdered? Rita was the loveliest, sweetest, most pure-of-heart person you knew. Who would possibly have wanted to hurt her?

The phone slipped out of your hand. Thankfully you were already sitting down, or you may have fell off your balcony. You can hear the woman repeating "hello, are you there?" over the phone. But everything was static. Nothing made sense. As it all began to settle into place, what really happened. You let out a loud sob. Shaking violently, tears streaming down your face. You bang your fist on the ground, screaming. Angry at the world, or whatever higher power that existed. As you sat there and sobbed, you began to think about Harrison, Dexter, Astor, Cody, everyone else who knew and loved Rita. God! Poor Harrison. He hardly got to know his mother.

You think of all the times you saved Rita from Paul. All the late nights scared it would be the last time. Scared, because you didn't know when it would be the last punch, kick, slap. There were honestly times you thought he would kill her. You thought you had prepared yourself for this, but how could you, how could anyone. When he died, you were there to support Rita of course, but deep down you were glad. You saw first-hand how he treated her, how it affected the kids.

Rita was like a sister to you. You considered yourself like an aunt to those kids. A piece of you died today, something you don't know if you'll ever get back.

--

You were awoken by the sound of loud honking. You open your eyes to see the bright morning sun over Miami. It made you angry, how could the world go on when yours came crashing down less than 24 hours ago. You look around, you must've cried yourself into exhaustion and passed out on your balcony.

You go back inside. Your cat comes up to nudge your leg. You look down at him and he just stares at you and meows. You wish you could be like him, blissfully unaware of all the evil in the world.

You go to make a pot of coffee, but you just collapse on the floor of your kitchen. How can you go on? Rita is dead. Harrison, Astor, and Cody just lost their mother. Dexter lost his wife. And yet the world keeps spinning. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, it's your boss. You look at the time, you were supposed to be at work an hour ago.

"Fuck" you sigh, leaning your head back against your kitchen counter

You answer, telling him you won't be coming in today, death in the family. He can be a dick at times, but he's understanding when it comes to this.

You scan your apartment. Eyes settling on the picture on your bedside table. You walk over to it, picking it up. It's a photo of you, Dexter, Rita, and the kids at Rita's birthday party. You place it face down; you can't bear to look at it right now.

Dexter lingers in your mind. God! How could you be so selfish? He must be in shambles right now. Grieving the death of his wife and having to be responsible for little Harrison. Maybe you should go check on him, see Harrison. Might take your mind off of things. Or make things worse. You don't know. Either way you need to do something.

You throw on a sweater and your shoes. You know the house is likely still a crime scene so you can't go there. Dex and Harrison are probably with his sister, who conveniently lives at his old apartment, so finding the place won't be too difficult. You drive like a bat out of hell, trying to get there as fast as you can.

You arrive and knock on the door, no one answers. You knock again, still no answer. You figure nobody is home, so you turn to leave. As you start walking away, you hear the handle turn, and the door unlatch. You turn around, seeing Dexter peering out from the crack in the door. You greet him with a warm smile as he opens the door fully. You immediately lean in for a hug, which he doesn't move away from but doesn't exactly reciprocate. He just stands there with his arms at his side, stiff. He does lean his chin on your shoulder though. He sighs in relief, shoulders loosening.

"Deb called me last night, told me what happened. I know it's probably a stupid question, but how are you?" You look in his eyes, sincerity and empathy written all over your face.

He knows this is hard on you too.

"I'm doing okay, I have to, for him." He turns to look at Harrison, sleeping soundly in his crib.

You two go to sit on the couch, you place a hand on his shoulder, trying to be comforting.

"I found him sitting in a pool of her blood" He turns to look at you, face empty, exhausted.

Your hands fly to your mouth as you gasp

"Dexter, my god. I'm so sorry" Tears begin to well up in your eyes

"If it's too much you don't have to answer, but how did it happen exactly? Deb told me she was murdered, but not what happened."

"You've seen the trinity killer on the news, right?" He turns to look at you

"A single cut to her thigh, slicing the femoral artery. She bled out." His voice is steady, concise.

Anyone who didn't know Dexter would think he's unbothered, but you know this is just him. He's devastated on the inside.

"I, I uh... that's horrible, I'm sorry you had to see that." Your voice is soft, comforting.

"If it's any help, I wouldn't mind watching over Harrison for a few days, while you get the funeral things figured out. And Astor and Cody, if needed."

"They're with their grandparents, they don't know yet. They're coming back today. Thank you, that would actually be a big help." He gives you a slight smile, you can tell it's forced but you appreciate the effort.

--

The days go by, each one as painful as the previous. Everyone tells you to take it one day at a time, but nothing is changing. Nothing is getting better. Her funeral was devastating, you cried the entire time. You tried to stay strong, for the kids, but seeing her lying there, you couldn't. She looked beautiful, like she was sleeping. Astor and Cody went to stay with their grandparents in Orlando, which you know is hard on Dexter. He really loves them. You switched your hours around so you could work nights and watch Harrison during the day while Dex is at work. Harrison has been the only highlight of your life recently, one of the only things you have left of Rita. He's truly an amazing child, and thankfully he doesn't seem to be affected by what happened. You know Dexter was really concerned about that.

You've tried to be there for Dexter as well, but he hasn't been as accepting. You understand though. However, it's what Rita would want you to do. She always trusted you to take care of her family. You considered Rita to be like a sister, and it's what you would do for family.

You take Harrison back home that afternoon. Dexter has the biggest smile on his face as he takes Harrison into his arms, he's a great father and loves Harrison so much.

"How was he?" He questions

"Wonderful as always, he's such a little angel" You smile

"But the real question is, how are you, Dexter?"

"You don't have to worry about me, I'm fine" There's a hint of irritation in his voice

"Dexter, but I do worry about you. You've just suffered a great tragedy. I just want to be sure you're okay"

"I just told you I am okay, why do you care so much anyways?" He shakes his head and places Harrison in his crib

"It's what Rita would've wanted!" You exclaim

He turns around to look at you, you can see that he's distraught. Being a single parent is never easy, especially one that's grieving.

He sighs

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I really am okay, I promise" He gives you another one of his classic fake smiles, you know he doesn't want to talk about it anymore, so you don't press

"Alright, if you insist"

--

It's been almost a year since Rita's death now. You still miss her like crazy, but things have gotten easier. Harrison is walking and talking which has been very emotional, you wish Rita was here to see it. He's become a part of your regular routine now. Dexter offered to pay you to be his nanny, but you declined, quite aggressively. Dexter kept insisting but you would not accept under any circumstances. Spending all this time with Harrison has also meant spending quite a lot of time with Dexter as well. You've grown to really care for him.

One morning, you were over at Dexter's feeding Harrison breakfast. Dexter was getting ready for work. He came out of the bedroom, shirt unbuttoned. You couldn't help but stare, which made you feel guilty. You admired his hands as he swiftly fastened the buttons, his arms as he rolled up his sleeves, his sculpted chest peeking through the top of his shirt. You felt wrong. He comes over to give Harrison a kiss on the head. As he walks by, his shoulder brushes yours. You blush, in embarrassment and due to your true feelings. As you airplane another spoon of yogurt into Harrison's mouth, out comes something that shocks you to your core.

"Mama" Harrison babbles

You and Dexter immediately make eye contact. Your eyes are blown open wide, mouth agape.

"I'm so sorry, I have no idea why he would say that" You panic

"It's alright, he doesn't know any different" Dexter reassures you

You and Dexter just stand there, looking at each other. He smiles, a genuine smile this time. Something you've missed seeing.

He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you close. He brings his hand to your cheek and leans in, placing a tender kiss on your lips. You immediately melt. You felt so guilty for feeling the way you did, falling for a man who was grieving his dead wife. You bring your hands up to hold his face. Deepening the kiss. When you pull away, you can't help but smile a big goofy grin. Dexter is smiling too, which makes your heart flutter.

You stand there in comfortable silence, before Dexter announces he has to go, and that he wants you to be here when he gets home. He kisses your cheek and leaves. Your heart feels so full. However, you still feel guilty, like you're betraying Rita, but you also feel like this is what she would want. You know her family well, and you love them like they're your own.

You lay Harrison down for a nap, kissing him on the forehead. You grab a cup of coffee and go outside. It's a chilly spring morning. As you're looking out over Miami, a white butterfly lands on your finger. A tear rolls down your, cheek. You've never been much of a spiritual person, but you know it's her, and suddenly everything starts to feel like it's going to be okay.

...

Literally almost cried while writing this, I love Rita so much. I hope I did your vision justice! Sorry it's so long lol

[polydeuces]

𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔅𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔙𝔢𝔦𝔫𝔰

( The Full Series Masterlist )

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.

𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢

𝔬𝔫𝔢; The Ghostly Meeting

𝔱𝔴𝔬; Into the abyss

𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔢𝔢; Shadows in the Church

𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔯; Her World Unveiled

𝔣𝔦𝔳𝔢; The Cult of the Red Hand

𝔰𝔦𝔵; Initiation’s Echo

𝔰𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫; Her Dark Philosophy

𝔢𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱; The Warning

𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔢; An Unsettling Offer

𝔱𝔢𝔫; Revelations of Darkness

𝔢𝔩𝔢𝔳𝔢𝔫; Between Predator and Prey

𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔩𝔳𝔢; The Choice

𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔯𝔱𝔢𝔢𝔫; Last Words, Lingering Questions

( to be continued . . . )

do not repost/duplicate on other sites. © polydeuces 2024.

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.

gifs created by @erodingsinner

[bebx]

Dexter: s06, e07 — Nebraska

[maisie183]

The silence between us

Pairing: Dexter Morgan x Female Reader

Summary: You’ve just started working at Miami Metro as a forensic scientist, and though Dexter Morgan initially seems distant and emotionless, his quiet presence begins to draw you in. As the friendship slowly develops, you find yourself falling for him, even though you’re convinced that he doesn’t share the same feelings. Little do you know, Dexter is battling an internal conflict of his own.

Warnings: Mild language, psychological tension, slow-burn romance, minor violence (typical for a Dexter setting), angst  

Word Count: 1,343 words

Miami heat had a way of sticking to your skin, making every breath feel heavy and damp. The cold blast of the A/C inside Miami Metro Homicide was always a relief, though the sterile environment felt unsettling in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

You weren't sure what you expected from your first day as a forensic scientist in the trace evidence department, but the place was already bustling when you walked in. Detectives scurried from one desk to another, phones ringing off the hook, and conversations about cases filled the air.

You were just trying to find your footing, balancing coffee in one hand, a new ID badge in the other, and navigating the maze of desks when you spotted him—Dexter Morgan. Everyone knew his name. He was the mysterious blood-spatter analyst, infamous for being exceptional at his job but with a demeanor that left people guessing. You’d heard whispers about his distant personality, the kind of guy who never really let anyone in.

He was there, sitting quietly at his desk, eyes focused on some blood-pattern analysis, the sharp angles of his face set in concentration. His posture was relaxed, but there was a coldness to him—a silence that felt unnatural. You swallowed and continued on, trying not to stare.

Over the next few weeks, you settled into your role, working on trace evidence analysis alongside Dexter, though you rarely exchanged more than a few words. It wasn’t until the third week, during an unusually gruesome case involving a triple homicide, that you finally had a conversation that wasn’t purely professional.

You were both tasked with examining the scene. Dexter was working on blood spatter while you gathered trace fibers. The quiet tension in the room seemed to thicken as you moved around the scene in silence. It was hard to ignore the way Dexter was so methodical, calculating, and completely detached from the violence.

“Does this stuff ever get to you?” you asked, breaking the silence, your voice slightly muffled by the forensic mask covering your mouth. You weren’t sure why you were talking to him, but the eerie stillness of the crime scene and his distant nature compelled you to reach out.

Dexter didn’t look up from his work. “No.”

One word. Simple. Cold.

You blinked, unsure of how to respond. “Not even a little?”

He paused, turning his head slightly to glance at you, his eyes unreadable beneath the fluorescent lighting. “Should it?”

You let out a soft, humorless laugh, shaking your head. “I guess not. It’s just… a lot to process sometimes.”

He nodded, but there was no flicker of emotion in his expression, nothing to suggest that he understood what you were saying on any level. You decided to let the conversation die, returning to your work, though his cold demeanor lingered in your mind long after you left the scene.

----

Despite his distant nature, you found yourself paired with Dexter more often than not. Cases brought you together, and while most of your conversations were minimal, you began to notice small things. The way his eyes would narrow when examining a particularly puzzling pattern, the occasional, almost imperceptible quirk of his lips when something amused him (though that was rare), and the fact that he seemed to enjoy your company—not that he’d ever admit it.

Lunches at the food truck parked outside Miami Metro became routine. You never ate together, per se, but it became normal to run into him, grab your food at the same time, and exchange brief conversations about the cases you were working on. His responses were always short, but he was attentive. The more you spoke, the more you started to see cracks in his cold exterior.

One afternoon, after a particularly long day in the lab, you both found yourselves in the break room. You were rummaging through the fridge, searching for your leftover sandwich, when Dexter walked in, grabbing his own lunch from the fridge. For a few minutes, the two of you ate in silence—something that had strangely become comfortable.

“Why trace evidence?” he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet. You looked up, startled that he had initiated a conversation.

You shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s a puzzle, you know? Small things people don’t notice can tell the whole story.”

Dexter nodded, his gaze sharp. “I know what you mean.”

There was something in his voice, something dark and distant, that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You couldn’t quite place it, but you found yourself wanting to peel back the layers of whatever he was hiding.

“Why blood spatter?” you asked, returning the question.

Dexter’s lips twitched ever so slightly. “Patterns are predictable.”

You smirked. “People aren’t.”

His eyes met yours, and for a brief moment, there was something there—something unreadable but undeniable. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Dexter looked away, his mask back in place.

----

Over the next few months, you and Dexter settled into an odd but comfortable rhythm. You never defined it as a friendship, after all, Dexter wasn’t exactly the friendship type. But there was a familiarity in your interactions now, a quiet understanding that neither of you acknowledged aloud.

And yet, you couldn’t help but notice the way your chest tightened whenever he was near. The way his voice, calm and detached, made your heart skip in ways it shouldn’t. You tried to tell yourself it was nothing—that you were just overthinking things, and that Dexter, of all people, was probably the least likely person to ever reciprocate those feelings. He didn’t even seem capable of them.

But that didn’t stop your mind from wandering late at night, thinking about him. Thinking about the way his eyes lingered on yours during those rare moments of vulnerability. Wondering if there was something—anything—behind the cold mask he wore.

You were foolish for letting yourself feel this way. Dexter was a puzzle you couldn’t solve, a riddle with no answer. And yet, you found yourself getting lost in his silence.

---.

One evening, long after everyone had left the office, you were still there, finishing up some final touches on a report. You were surprised when Dexter’s presence filled the doorway.

“Still here?” he asked, his voice as neutral as ever.

“Yeah, just finishing up,” you said, leaning back in your chair and rubbing your tired eyes. “You?”

“Same.”

There was a pause, a strange heaviness in the air as Dexter walked further into the room. For a moment, you wondered if he was going to say something, but instead, he moved to the window, gazing out at the darkened skyline.

“You don’t have to stay so late, you know,” you said, trying to break the silence. “You could let the rest of us handle things once in a while.”

“I don’t mind,” Dexter replied, his voice soft.

You watched him for a moment, the familiar tightening in your chest making it hard to breathe. There was something about the way he stood there, so completely isolated from the world around him. Something about the way his eyes looked out at the city but never really saw it.

“Do you ever feel… lonely?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you immediately regretted asking.

Dexter turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at you. His expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes shifted. “No,” he said quietly. “Not anymore.”

The weight of his words hung between you, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his gaze—something human.

But then, just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. Dexter turned back to the window, his mask firmly back in place.

You swallowed, the silence between you suddenly too loud. You stood from your chair, gathering your things. “I should go,” you said, your voice tight. “Goodnight, Dexter.”

He didn’t reply, and as you walked out of the office, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were falling for a man who would never be able to love you back.

----

To be continued???

-----------------

Writers Note: I just looked at the poll I did a few days back, and saw that a Dexter story was most appreciated from the voters. So here it is. For this story I again used an AI writing tool to help bring it to life, since as I said before, I am not a writer, I am a reader. I hope that is okay. The last thing I want, is to disrespect the writing community in any way. Btw, if someone has already posted a fic with the same themes/idea, tag them so I can also tag them on the pic here.

[happy74827]

DEXTER MASTERLIST

This is my official masterlist of every fic I’ve written about Dexter (series). Enjoy!!

Masterlist guide

Angst [⛈] // Hurt/Comfort [🌦] // Fluff [🌷] // Lime [🫦] // Hurt/No Comfort [🌧️] // Platonic/Familial - [🌸] // Smut [💋]

Brian Moser

Contagiously Human (⛈️🌷)

The Perfect Gift of Appreciation (🌦️🌷)

You Must Be Haunting Me (⛈️🌧️)

Dexter Morgan

Dusty (🌦️)

Primal Fear (⛈️)

Burning Bridges (⛈️🌦️)

A New Moon (🫦)

[the-oblivious-writer]

Shatterpoint

Debra Morgan x Reader

Part One: Debra’s Perspective

Summary: You die doing what you always do, putting other lives before your own. It's what Debra Morgan both loved and despised about you.

Warning(s): Swearing, (major) death, graphic depictions of violence (blood/gore), gun violence, phycological trauma, depression, grief/loss, and vomiting

Notes: Someone requested Debra Morgan angst so......... here it is! I ended up writing a part two from Dexter's perspective (platonically), so that'll be out tomorrow. I've been wanting to write platonic fictional dude characters x reader for some time now

Dexter’s Perspective

The first time Debra breaks down, it's in the middle of the Miami Metro parking lot. You're three days dead, and she's just found one of your forensics reports tucked into a case file – your neat handwriting mapping out blood spatter analysis, methodical and precise. She vomits behind her car, heaving until there's nothing left but bile and grief.

The second time is at your funeral. She watches them lower your body into the ground and something inside her splinters. The sound that tears from her throat isn't human. Dexter has to physically restrain her from jumping into the grave after you. Later, she'll have no memory of this – just the dirt under her fingernails and bruises on her arms where her brother held her back.

The third time destroys her completely.

It's been two weeks since that convenience store security camera caught your last moments. Two weeks since a frightened kid with a shaky trigger finger turned your chest into a crime scene. She's standing in your shared apartment, trying to pack up your things because that's what people do, right? They pack up the dead's belongings and pretend it helps.

Your forensics kit is still by the door where you left it that last morning. She opens it, and your scent hits her – latex gloves and that shampoo you loved and something uniquely you. The organized compartments blur through her tears. Each tool precisely placed, because that's who you were – someone who brought order to chaos, who could look at blood patterns and tell stories of violence with scientific detachment.

She starts throwing things. Your carefully labeled evidence containers shatter against walls. Your case files scatter like dead leaves. She's screaming, but she can't hear herself over the roaring in her head. Over the echo of your voice from that last argument:

"You can't keep running forever, Deb. I love you, but I can't chase you anymore."

The neighbors call the police. Fucking ironic, isn't it? Angel finds her surrounded by the wreckage of your professional life, clutching your laminate to her chest. She's laughing now, a horrible broken sound, because isn't this exactly what you were afraid of? Her inability to handle emotional intimacy, to face her feelings instead of drowning them in rage and whiskey.

They take her to the hospital. Put her on leave. Make her talk to department shrinks who use words like "complicated grief" and "post-traumatic stress" and "survivor's guilt." As if labeling her breakdown makes it more manageable.

She dreams of you. Not the you from the security footage, bleeding out under fluorescent lights. But the you who used to wake her from nightmares about the Ice Truck Killer, who knew exactly how she took her coffee, who could make her laugh even at crime scenes. The you who saw her walls and loved her anyway.

"I'm sorry," she tells your ghost. "I'm so fucking sorry."

But you're not there to forgive her.

Dexter finds her one night, sitting in your office at Miami Metro, organizing blood slides with obsessive precision. Trying to find patterns like you taught her, as if understanding the science of death will somehow make losing you hurt less.

"You're starting to worry me," he says, in that awkward way of his.

She laughs, sharp and bitter. "Starting to? Fuck, Dex, I'm starting to worry myself."

The security footage plays on repeat in her mind. She's memorized every detail – how you raised your hands, trying to de-escalate. How you stepped in front of the teenage clerk, protecting her. Your body jerking back, a crimson flower blooming across your chest. The way you looked surprised, almost confused, as you fell.

She keeps working cases, because what else is there? But every crime scene becomes yours. Every victim wears your face. She gets reckless, aggressive with suspects. Takes stupid risks because maybe, just maybe, if she's fast enough, smart enough, brave enough, she can save someone else's you.

Angel takes her gun after she nearly beats a convenience store robber to death.

"This isn't what they would have wanted," he tells her gently.

"Yeah? Well, they're not fucking here to want anything, are they?"

She finds one of your hair ties under the bed and falls apart all over again. Remembers how you used to gather your hair back before leaning over evidence, that little furrow of concentration between your brows. How she used to tease you about being so serious, so focused. How you'd smile and say, "Someone has to be, with you charging around like a hurricane."

The hurricane is all that's left now.

Some days she can almost pretend she's healing. She goes to work, follows leads, eats when Dexter reminds her to. But then she'll catch a glimpse of the forensics lab, or smell latex gloves, or hear someone mention blood spatter analysis, and she's right back in that convenience store, watching you die on an endless loop.

The department shrink asks her what she thinks you would say if you could see her now.

She doesn't tell him about the letter she found in your forensics manual. The one that begs her not to let grief make her harder, not to let loss change how fiercely she loves. She's already failed you there.

Instead, she says, "They'd probably say I'm proving them right. About running away. About not being able to handle my feelings."

But that's not entirely true, is it? Because this time she's not running. She's standing perfectly still, letting grief consume her, letting the absence of you hollow her out until there's nothing left but echoes and regret.

The security footage plays on. You raise your hands. The gun fires. You fall.

And somewhere in Miami, Debra Morgan keeps breaking, keeps shattering, keeps failing to put herself back together.

Some things just break, and stay broken, and all we can do is learn to breathe around the shards.

-----------

A/N: Not me changing my format...

[astrumsine]

Crossover comic I made of Dexter and UnOrdinary (Because I can’t help but combine all of my hyper-fixations 😋)