#haunted reflections

[viinchester]

Haunted Reflections

Warnings: References to Violence and Murder, mentions of Stalking, Trauma (related to losing a limb & violent incidents), Obsessive Thoughts, Unhealthy Behavior, graphic descriptions in thoughts of Gore (Violence, Bloodshed, a bit of Body Mutilation), Moral Ambiguity (we're talking about Brian Moser here, hello?), Insults (like a single word lol), mentions of Drugs (two sentences, nothing about taking them), mentions of Death

Fandom: Dexter (TV Show/Series)

Pairing: Brian Moser/Rudy Cooper x F!Reader

Request by: @ireallydontknowohcrabs

Summary: You head to your routine appointment for a readjustment of your prosthetic leg at the Miami prosthetics clinic. This time, however, you are met with Rudy Cooper instead of your usual doctor. Unbeknownst to you, his dark secrets lie hidden beneath the surface, and you’ve unwittingly captured his undivided attention and care.

Word Count: 2.321

My Masterlist

A/N: Initially wasn't sure about which direction to go with this request, but I decided on one eventually.😅 It was fun to write, so I hope you guys will it!💞 Reposts/Comments with feedback are, as always, very much appreciated!!🙏🏼 And just as a reminder: My requests are currently open.🥰💙

You expected this visit to be the same as any other to the prosthetics clinic usually was.

You were going to meet Dr. Gardner, the prosthetist who had been with you since you’d first been fitted for your prosthetic leg, and he'd make a slight adjustment to it, and then you'd leave again.

But instead of that being the case, when you walked into the clinic today, you were greeted by someone else. A man, much younger than Dr. Gardner, with a tall frame and dark curly hair stood by the window and was currently slipping on his gloves. The doctor, obvious by the signature-white lab coat he was wearing, calmly turned to you with a professional and slightly reassuring smile.

“Unfortunately Dr. Gardner’s out sick at the moment,” he immediately explained, his voice smooth and composed. “I'm filling in for him, so I’ll be the one handling your adjustment today. My name's Dr. Rudy Cooper, it's nice to meet you.” He shook your hand gently before gesturing to the chair in the middle of the room. “Please, have a seat.”

You nodded, sitting down and rolling the cuff of your pant-leg up, glancing at him curiously. “Well then let’s see if you’re as good as Dr. Gardner at putting me back together.”

Brian gave a small smile as he seated himself across from you, gently lifting your leg to begin his examination on your prosthetic. “I’ll try my best. Dr. Gardner’s very good at it, from what I hear.” His voice was light, but he was already scanning you, taking in the way you moved, the way you spoke.

When his eyes reached your hands, he had to do a double take, his world stopping. Your nails, painted in the exact same way his mother used to paint hers. The hues were extremely similar, and the order of the colors was identical.

It came out of nowhere and hit him like a physical blow. For just a second his breath hitched and his usually steady hands trembled at the sight.

No. It couldn’t be. But it was.

His mother’s nails, now on your hands, like some ghostly echo of the past.

The carefully constructed facade of calm professionalism flickered for a moment as a flood of memories surged through him.

His mother’s laughter, the smell of her perfume, the soft touch of her hand as she ruffled his hair. And then… the blood. Her blood, mixing with the colors of those very same nails.

How could this be happening? He hadn’t thought about his mother in this way for so long, hadn’t let himself remember.

Blinking a few times, he quickly put your leg down and reached for your file instead, fighting to regain control over his composure.

He couldn’t lose it here. Not now. It was just a coincidence anyway. Just some random woman with the same taste in nail polish.

Still, deep down the shock lingered, sending tremors through the carefully walled-off parts of his mind.

He flipped through your file as casually as possible, clearing his throat once to keep his tone friendly, but professional. “Just going over some notes here. It says the injury happened... a few years ago? Could you remind me of what happened, just to make sure everything lines up?”

Forcing a polite smile, the mask of Rudy Cooper slipped into place, though it felt more strained than usual. His eyes couldn’t help but glance back to your nails every time you so much as shifted, the image of his mother — and her terrified eyes, her pleading hands, those painted nails — almost overlapping with you. He could barely hear your voice over the roaring in his head.

Not noticing anything off, you nodded, hesitating for a second. You hesitated, not because the incident was difficult to talk about anymore, but because it had become such a strange story to tell. You’d almost made peace with it, enough to laugh about it sometimes.

“Yeah, it was... a pretty bad day. Tried to steal some drugs. Not for me, though.” You smiled shyly, a hint of awkwardness in your tone. “My idiot ex, thought I could help him out of a mess he got himself into. But then I got cornered by three guys with a chainsaw. Like something out of a horror movie, right?” You laughed a little, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Brian’s hands paused again, but he kept his face neutral, even with the chaos inside him growing. Drugs? That was already close enough to the horrors of his past. But then you mentioned three guys with a chainsaw, and the floor seemed to fall away beneath him. Though his expression didn’t change and he resumed his adjustment on your prosthetic, the memory inside his mind hit him like a sledgehammer, and in vivid detail as well. His mother, the men, the chainsaw whirring. He was too young to stop it, too small to save her, but the memory had never left him. The blood, the screams, the way her nails had clutched at him in desperation before the world went red.

And now here you were, sitting in front of him, your soft voice recounting a version of his nightmare.

Brian exhaled slowly, maintaining a steady voice. “That’s... an intense way to lose a leg. It must have been terrifying.” His words sounded professional, if empathetic, but internally he struggled to comprehend how this was possible. How could you have survived something so reminiscent of what happened to her?

His disbelief mixed with something darker, something predatory. He had been powerless as a child, but not now. Not anymore.

The thought of you cornered by men with a chainsaw, just like his mother, made something in him snap into place. His shock was replaced by cold determination.

It was as if the universe had handed him a second chance, a way to rewrite the past. This time was different. This time, he wouldn’t be helpless. This time, he would stop the violence, before it consumed you, too.

You gave a small shrug and kept talking, oblivious to the storm brewing inside of him. “Yeah, it was... I honestly didn't believe I’d make it out alive. But it’s been a few years now and here I am, still standing. Just… in a slightly different way.” You offered a small, self-deprecating smile. “Guess I’ve learned to adapt. Well, kind of. I’m still getting used to the leg in a way, but hey, I haven’t fallen flat on my face in a while, so I guess that’s progress.” You smiled again, this time more genuine though, trying to lighten the mood. “And at least my ex didn’t get the drugs. Silver linings, right?”

Brian’s gaze darkened slightly at that, though he kept his tone light. “I see. That’s very impressive and brave of you, as I can only imagine how tough all that must have been. I’m hoping your ex is not someone you still have to deal with on top of that?”

You hesitated, biting your lip and avoiding his eyes, a little uneasy at the topic of your ex boyfriend. “Well, actually… he’s, uh, kind of been stalking me, on and off. Nothing too serious, but... it’s still annoying, you know?”

Brian's fingers flexed around your prosthetic, the material fitting securely into place. His eyes, though still composed on the surface, deepened in intensity and became more focused. Your ex was stalking you. Lurking, like a predator. His jaw clenched, and his disbelief at the situation melted away, replaced by a new resolve.

I couldn’t save her. But I can save you.

The idea of this man, your ex, still in your life filled him with an odd sense of purpose. He didn’t care about people, not really, but this was different. You had painted nails. You had suffered violence. You reminded him of her.

He would make sure nobody hurt you ever again. Starting with that ex-boyfriend of yours. Yes, he would definitely be dealt with. Permanently.

And going further, from now on, you would become his patient. Dr. Gardner had served his purpose, but Brian knew, with a chilling certainty, that you wouldn’t be seeing him again. Not if he could help it.

He forced a sympathetic chuckle, masking his true emotions as he continued to work on your prosthetic with his usual precision. “That sounds... frustrating. You’d think he’d get the hint by now.”

“Right?” You rolled your eyes playfully, trying to dispel the tension that came with the subject of your ex. “But I’m fine, really. It’s just one of those things I have to deal with.”

Brian simply nodded, his hands moving delicately, ensuring the fit was perfect, but his thoughts were miles away, plotting, considering what exactly he needed to do next to make sure you'd no longer have to do deal with it.

He was nothing if not methodical, his mind working like a finely-tuned machine, always planning, always calculating. When it came to taking care of your ex-boyfriend and Dr. Gardner, he would need to use two different approaches, that much was obvious.

Your ex-boyfriend would be the one to pay in blood. The man had been the catalyst for your suffering, the reason you had been put in a situation that mirrored Brian's own mother's gruesome death.

So your ex wasn't going to just disappear, that would be too easy, too nice. Instead, the bastard was going to feel every ounce of pain, every bit of terror that Brian imagined his mother and you had felt. He’d stalk him for days and learn his habits, figure out where he was most vulnerable. And when he’d finally make his move, it would be somewhere isolated, somewhere he could really take his time.

The act itself would neither be quick nor clean. Instead, Brian would make it messy, and visceral. He'd use tools that mimicked the chainsaw that had haunted both him and you. While he wouldn’t use an actual chainsaw, far too noisy and difficult to control, he would choose something just as violent, perhaps a hacksaw or an axe. He would let your ex feel the terror, hear the whir of a blade, and realize that his time was up.

In his twisted mind, Brian believed that you deserved closure. You needed to know that your ex-boyfriend was truly dead. Maybe you wouldn’t know it had been Brian, but you’d know your ex had been taken care of — brutally, and publicly even. The police would find the body, bloodied, hacked apart, left in some abandoned place where no one could escape the horror of the scene. It wouldn’t be a neat kill; it would be a spectacle. The kind that left a permanent mark in the mind of anyone who saw it.

It would be justice for you, and revenge for his mother.

It would be perfect.

You were going to feel safe, knowing that the danger had been wiped out, grateful that the threat was gone.

Dr. Gardner, on the other hand, required a different touch. Brian held no ill feelings toward him, the man simply needed to die out of necessity. But the doctor was a respected figure in your life, and if he simply vanished or died a violent death, you might grieve too hard, or worse, become suspicious. So Dr. Gardner's exit had to be quiet, peaceful, and leave no room for doubt. Brian could easily make it look natural, the man was already old enough that it wouldn’t raise too many questions if he were to die in his sleep anyway.

He'd slip a small dose of potassium chloride into Dr. Gardner’s food or drink, undetectable and mimicking the signs of a natural heart attack. The man would feel a sudden, overwhelming pressure in his chest, his heart seizing painfully — but he wouldn’t be able to cry for help. And in mere minutes, it would be over, and the man would be found peacefully in his bed or his office chair, just another old guy who’d met his end from "natural causes". No one would question it, and you might feel sad for a little while, but definitely not suspicious.

And Brian knew grief over a natural death tended to fade more quickly.

Then you’d return to the clinic in need of further adjustments to your prosthetic in the future, and who would be there for you? Him. The friendly, capable replacement who’d been there all along.

As Brian thought about it all, his hands checked the fit of your prosthetic, his fingers running along the edges.

“Now, hopefully this adjustment will work perfectly for you,” he then said, his voice calm as ever. “If you need anything else, any follow-up, you can come back to me and I’ll take care of it.”

You nodded — still oblivious to anything going on underneath his professional exterior — as you softly smiled up at him and stood up, testing your leg and finding it already fitting better. “Thanks, Dr. Cooper, it’s great, and that’s really nice of you. I’ll be sure to come back if I need any more work done.”

Brian smiled back, but it was colder this time, more possessive. “Rudy, please. And I’ll be here, whenever you need me.”

As you left the clinic, you felt relieved, glad that everything had gone well despite the fact that Dr. Gardner wasn't the one doing your adjustment. Dr. Cooper, or Rudy, had been kind, careful, and understanding. He was a really nice man. Hopefully you'd have him as your prosthetist again if Dr. Gardner ever fell sick another time.

Watching you walk away, Brian was certain of your return. He intended to mold your future so that you would always come back to him.

You may not know it yet, but he was going to ensure you’d never need anyone else, ever again.

[smol-stardust]

update (now with two fresh chapters) from yours truly.

It gets kind of heavy, more hauntings and pain ahead, proceed with caution.

[valtsv]

anyway. the haunted house is a kind of body, yes. but the body is also a kind of haunted house.

[bet-on-me-13]

Ghost Writer is literally the Ghost Writer in your head

So! This is just a quick Post so I can jot down a new Headcanon of mine.

Ya know how we have Ghosts that represent concepts? Like how Clockwork represents Time, and Nocturn represents Dreams, and we headcanon Undergrowth as the Green from DC?

Well, Ghost Writer is a representation of the Voice in your head that narrates everything you write. From Full Length Novels to Comments on a YouTube Video, every time you write you narrate it in your head, and that is what Ghost Writer is.

And another Headcanon? Ghost Writers Library, his Haunt, is an extension of his Being. Meaning, that Library is an extension of every voice in every person's head whenever they write something.

Meaning, his Library holds a copy of Everything Ever Written.

Your cringey YouTube Comments from when you were 10? Aisle 1084, Row 6939, Shelf 38299, right next to your Half-Finished Fanfics from 3 years ago.

Jane Austin's unreleased Book that was never approved for publication? Aisle 3940, Row 4830, Shelf and 83037, right above George R. R. Martins Finale Game of Thrones Book.

Bruce Wayne's contingency Plans? Nice try, get out of here Ra's.

[onehundredfallenpetals]

I'm late but here's my piece for 11/20, I had a lot of fun with the concept

[sideblogdotjpeg]

ive been thinking about the red string superstition recently and also sol bufo always and it makes me sick how uncannily caldwell tanner has made sol to perfectly target me personally

(+ cropped versions !)

[nobeerreviews]

There is something haunting in the light of the moon.

-- Joseph Conrad

[thinwhitedoc]

SHERLOCK | Martin Freeman as John Watson

[mourn-and-watch]

so if solas sees himself in the inquisitor because of how they were made a leader, a prophet and a symbol by people who followed them, just as fen'harel had been made a leader and a saviour for by the freed elven slaves, will he see himself in rook because they're left alone against the threat they can't possibly defeat without singlehandedly making decisions that will impact the world in unknown ways, just as fen'harel had been left alone against evanuris with no other option but to create the veil

[cherubchoirs]

Do the siblings ever Show Lucifer the testament god left about him? Man's gotta be depressed already over something so preventable :[

did something a bit different and wrote a small one-shot for this - it's an idea i've had stuck in my head, about just what it would mean for lucifer to find god's regret and how it could possibly find a way into a mind so thoroughly consumed with hatred for him (~1300 words)

Lucifer stands frozen before the terminal, locked into an infinitely receding space that reduces everything that surrounds him to a single room. A single display. He is impossibly small, flattened, compressed into it until only he and this feeble echo of God remain. A poor replica of what they once had been at the start of everything, just before creation exploded out into its unfathomable expanse when Lucifer was bursting with light and God was the entire universe. Lucifer now, a smoldering, hollow shell and God only words on a screen.

            Nothing like His true voice. A language of images and abstractions woven into visual song.

If this was the way it was always meant to end, that would be its only justification. A long game, a damnation incomplete until it brought him before this one screen and the meager text displayed on it. How insignificant, how indifferent they are, the very banality of evil. Lucifer would read the words until they began to blur together and he could make them out as some trick of Hell, how he strains to hear laughter thrumming through its halls. But it’s quiet, almost distant, as though the prison itself has retreated from him now. And how it should.

            All of this, come to nothing.

The pitiful flame still in his belly burns in a terrible ache, that last living part of God unable to withstand this regret. It never had to be, the first and oldest tragedy rendered meaningless. The thought locks into his mind, rapidly consuming it until he has nothing else beneath it or before it. He would dig his fingers into his own eye if tearing it out would take away what he now knows. It was so much better to think his beloved Father had turned to hatred of him for reasons he would never parse, he could live in perfect hatred toward Him in kind if that was their fate. He hated, and hated, and hated, devoured whole and corrupted down to his very core, his entire fabric, to turn into an antithesis of his maker. Thousands of years immeasurable to become the distilled poison of God, eviscerated by his grief and carrying all the bodies of those dead angels in his own to cultivate a vile evil unknown to any other than Lucifer.

But it was never returned. Lucifer perpetually and ever all-ignorant, loved endlessly by a Father that had sent him so far it had devoured God just as it had the Devil. How he would have helped, false memories crashing into his mind to temporarily dislodge that one looping, intractable truth – if God had found an answer for him in that moment, if He had responded in truth to His child’s anxiety. How Lucifer would have served Him then, risen up to be the perfect son in the mold he had been made and how his love would have burned ever brighter in the face of it. A whole history that would have been unravels in an instant, showing all of what he could have been in full clarity.

And Lucifer recoils from it.

He does not feel that way his hands begin to burn, molten cracks bursting all along the cindered remains of his arm and shining through his gutted insides. The light of God Himself, so torturous to the walls of Hell all around him that it screams, writhing and twisting but unable to eject him from the terminal before him, unable to shut the room away in the face of the very primordial force that had made it. Flames burst forth, flashing in now terribly billowing smoke, threatening to consume the entire space yet nullified instantly by the shrill light of the sun, the very essence of the Celestial Rose petrifying all it now touches.

Lucifer flares, the mantle of his flames consuming his broken body barely able to now sustain them, the train of his wings corroding every surface they touch. The dead air breathes into life not meant for it and so dies a second time, Hell rushing to quarantine his fire as it rapidly spreads to turn its body necrotic. Lucifer himself too burned down, his ashes crying out against his own awful divinity and yet he feels none of it. He sees only the words in front of him.

AN ANGEL SO BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL ASKED ME THIS…

His right hand finds the terminal screen, display flickering and just as soon burning through, before he even touches it.

AND I CAST LUCIFER, TOO, INTO THE INFERNAL DEN

Upon slightest contact, the metal and circuitry of the terminal are no more and he is flooded with the holy word instead.

ONCE I REALIZED WHAT I HAD JUST DONE…

I COULD ONLY WEEP

It strikes down to his core, sending deep pulses of an unspeakable, unfathomable grief through his reignited flames. Lucifer retracts into himself for the pain, for the abundant, wracking tears that burn away before they can even leave his eye. Yet in them, his world rapidly begins to expand again, away from the words he’s now eliminated, away from the memories of a life that could have been. The Testament explodes through his mind, God’s true voice in the unlimited capacity only ever heard by Lucifer and now rejected by him in his immutable hatred. It is done.

Soon, he hears the wailing of Hell; Lucifer casts his gaze finally unfrozen to a room now greatly altered around him. His hand is badly broken open, embers left behind in a flame that has once again fallen into a deep sleep, but he has done much more damage to his friend. It feels his regret and knows his apologies, evident through its slow quieting as Lucifer himself straightens to stand once more. He moves himself quickly over now ashen ground, not wishing to prolong the residual trembling left in it; he departs from what’s left of the room and it is gone behind him. Excised, and all is silent. He supposes they won’t speak for a while now.

He steps back out into a part of Hell barely recognizable as such – A dawn slowly breaks over the water stretching out in front of him. The sun is steady rising, sedate as it comes over the horizon in soft washes of color he remembers once painting himself. How now his ignorance has been reduced, seemingly to a cruel extent and yet it’s so much smaller than it seems. He had seen the alternative in what could have been, and he sees it now in this morning. To paint always, to serve forever.

If his Father had loved him all that time, if He had regretted His choice each passing day and if it contributed to His own demise…it can only be Good. God had loved him so, and Lucifer had grown in hatred in those same exact days. God’s sorrow and His death do nothing to him, they cannot change what He Himself had made in His first son – Godly, sinless hatred. He imprisoned Lucifer in the deepest pit, made him wholly wretched and placed all ugliness, all blame, all suffering onto one child to preserve His Paradise. Yet in butchering him so, He had freed him from unending, unthinking servitude.

The Archangels that had brought him there gather to him cautiously. They know Hell has swallowed the room he had stood in, they can see the damage done to his hand – Raphael offers to heal him, but no more words are exchanged. It would be pointless to elucidate his feelings anyway, all of them unable to comprehend just what he has become and what he now wishes to be. He was born illuminated with Love, the Prince of Heaven and High Priest of the choirs, and to this day he could be singing the constant refrain of the seraphim around the throne of God in his once perpetual adoration. What a small, incomplete world he would have lived in.

Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heaven.

[il3x]

lord huron is soooo good bc so many of their songs are like, Emotionally, Thematically, they're very moving and relatable love songs. but Literally, they're always about some paranormal Situation. and I know that both readings are 100 percent real

[smol-stardust]

Delphi Mortimer : small, quiet, and frail girl who’s been in the hospital for as long as she can remember.

Age: 13 (???)

Birthday: long since forgotten

Likes: books,green tea, the rain

Dislikes: her hospital room & the ghosts in it.

Lil snippet:

The hospital room is eerily silent, haunted by a presence ignored by the living. Whispers in the shadows, my bed being wholly occupied—it's not my imagination. The new ghost despises my presence; I feel its malevolence. It’s the third one this month. Nurses dismiss my pleas, acting as though I’m not here. A chilling atmosphere persists, isolating me. Each night, the ghost's resentment intensifies. I'm an intruder in my own room. Desperation grows, yet the living remain oblivious. Tonight, I fear sleep, as the ghost yearns for my departure. It craves solitude, and I am an unwanted guest in my own room.

[zcrayas]

Okay but what if - friend

[moregraceful]

It feels like getting pulled underwater—the sharp sideways tug, the slight drag of resistance, then falling, falling, till the waves close over his head. But Logan can breathe when he rights himself again, even if the light has a watery filter to it and the voices have a distant echo. // Sometimes Logan gets a glimpse of guys who've been long gone from the teal, clustered at the far end of the bench or sitting in the box across the ice. He heard Jason's voice in the hallway loud and clear, that infectious laugh. And he could have sworn he saw Raffi fucking Torres getting out of a car in the players' lot. Something tells him not to look up the rosters.

Commissioned @impmakesart to make a painting based on the Sharks' Cali Fin hype reel + the flip side by frausorge. Imp was amazing to work with and I could not be more emotional about this piece and so, so pleased with how it turned out!! 🙇🏻‍♂️🙇🏻‍♂️ Commission him here. Thank you Imp!

[yujeong]

Fuaiz, pls, what are you doing right now, I'm trying to stay cool until Episode 6

[mouse-wife]

didnt even read the joke. i was too overwhelmed with dread at the idea of someone playing cards against humanity for 10 years