#crowpost | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thecr0w · 2 months ago

Text

Chapter One; Fear, Festering.

Ambivalence

chap. 1, ~4.9k words

dexter morgan/reader, in which reader accidentally witnesses her unwitting savior in the act

[tags/cw; see masterlist for full list. noncon, threats of violence, graphic depictions of violence and death, threats, mental health mentions, mentions of cannibalism, reader is in an established toxic relationship with a man (ew)]

chapter two

series masterlist

i’ve thought about this for SO long i want him so bad. at the time of posting this, i haven't slept in almost 12 hours. i apologize if it's not good :( i'll double check it later!

The air inside felt dry, stale and cold, a stark contrast with the hot and humid atmosphere outside the four walls of your workplace. A lousy, tiring part-time job only accepted from desperation. Miami was two-sided like that. A beautiful city, tropical and beaming with life, with a dark underbelly. It felt so weird not being out and enjoying it all. It was hard to, hard to focus on the positives when it felt so suffocating under the negatives. The shitty job, the lame apartment shared with your mediocre boyfriend. Life, this far, was boring. Like you were stuck in traffic with a nice view. Time went slow, rush hour speeding it only barely. By the time your shift ended, it felt like you had run a marathon. The walk home felt equally as draining, your clothes sticking to your damp skin like static-charged paper.

Your boyfriend sat on the front steps of your small apartment, cigarette dangling from his lips as he flicked his thumb across the small, bright screen in his hands. His smile faded, however, when he noticed you approaching. He threw his cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out with a stomp.

“Hell have you been? Didn’t call me.”

Your stomach dropped, hands clenching nervously as he looked on.

“I forgot. I’m sorry.” You say, shifting your weight onto one leg.

He scoffed, sliding his phone into his pocket. He sat up, striding to you and pulling you into a loose hug.

“It’s a rough neighborhood out here,” he says, leading you up the stairs and into the house, “You should call me so I can make sure you’re not dead or dying.”

The night was just the same as always. Slow, boring, tiring. A shower, dinner, doomscrolling, then falling asleep in the mattress that never seemed to feel comfortable. An unsatisfying fuck every now and again. God, when had things gotten so dull? When had you allowed yourself to fall into such a miserable cycle? Despite the repetitiveness, it was, in a way, comfortable. It was comforting to know what would happen the next day, easy to prepare for and deal with. Something stable, something reliant.

Work was more of the same, a slow start, busy afternoon, and a slow night. The walk, however, was different. It was cold, a strong breeze blew through, swaying the trees lining the unkempt sidewalk. It passed through your hair, blowing strands in your eyes. With a ragged huff, you shoved your hands into your pockets and trudged onwards. The city was oddly quiet, save for a siren or a honking car every few minutes. Strange. The quietest you had ever had the city, in fact-

Footsteps.

The sound was faint, echoing off the row of houses to the left of you, and it ceased when you stopped to listen. You whipped your head around, chills running up your spine. It was silent, save for the barking of a dog heard in the distance. Nothing. Moths swarming the buzzing streetlight above, cars passing on the opposite road, but nothing to explain the footsteps. The phone felt cold in your hands as you pulled it from your pockets, your boyfriend's name lighting up the screen as you tapped the ‘call’ button. You sauntered forward slowly as the phone rang, and rang, and rang, until it eventually went to voicemail. Calling again now, you’re met with the same dialtone. Your breath quickened, as did your pace, as you walked at a steady speed towards your home.

“Call me next time, babe. I have to protect you, babe. Why didn’t you call first, and babe?”

You repeated his words in your mind and huffed, trying to push back the ever-present fear of paranoia. The wind blew again, stronger, stinging your eyes and immediately welling them with tears. In the silence, through the wind, you heard them again. The faint, pattering noise of someone treading lightly behind you. You shout, this time, snapping your head around again in a vain attempt to identify the owner of the footfall. Darkness, again. This time, you didn’t doubt yourself. You ran, hair blowing wildly as the air rushed past your ears. You ran, and you didn’t stop until you plowed right into your front door. The door swung open just as you thumped against it, tumbling you forward into the wobbly arms of your lover.

“Woah, the fuck? What happened?” He asks loudly, sounding more accusatory than concerned.

You panted, gripping onto his forearms as you looked at him.

“I- I don’t know, I don’t know, I heard footsteps- I got really scared! There was-”

“What are you saying? Nobody would try anything here.” He grunts, dropping your shoulders and slamming the door shut. “Just call me next time.” He adds, reaching for his pant’s zipper as he turns from you. Your stomach drops as you stare at his back, watching him slip past the kitchen archway.

“I did. I called twice, and you told me this was a ‘rough neighborhood’. So yeah, I was freaked out.” You rebuddled, careening towards the bedroom. You begin to peel off your work clothes, kicking your shoes off. He responds, unintelligibly, and you wouldn’t have cared to hear it anyway. The thought of leaving him occurred daily, something you felt an intense guilt for. It felt meaningless to continue being here, with him, but the same would be argued the other way around. What's the point in leaving? You would be doing the same things, just without someone to see every day. Still, you felt an attachment to him. Sure, he may be a dick, but he’s not a dick when he’s telling you he loves you. Not when he slings an arm around your waist at night in bed, not when he makes you laugh and tickles your sides when you’re lying in the bed you share. Your heart flutters when you think about it, but it dies when he slings open the door and stares harshly at you.

“Seriously? You’re just going to ignore me?” He spits, eyebrows furrowing.

“I didn’t hear you.” You pull one of his shirts down over your head.

He snorts. “Yeah. Yeah, whatever.” There’s a damp spot on the hem of his shirt, you notice. He sees you glance at the spot, and covers it with his hand.

“Spilled soap.” He swallows and looks at the one you’re wearing. One of his favourite shirts, an oversized one he bought during a daytrip at the beach. “You look good in that.”

You hum in acknowledgement, sitting on the bed. “Thanks.” The amalgamation of feeling when you think about him is too much, and you fall back on the bed in exasperation. Your eyes sting when he flicks off the light.

“Night. ‘M gonna go eat dinner, love you.” The door makes a soft thump as he closes it, and the sting in your eyes subsides as a warm tear glides down your cheek and into the dip of your ear. Sleep took you quickly, so quickly that by the next morning you couldn’t remember falling asleep. Everything went by in a blur, thoughts of the implications from your boyfriend, the paranoia of being followed, the disbelief that he wouldn’t believe you. Through the next few days, the same thing happened. You’d walk home, from anywhere, and hear the disembodied footsteps behind. Never a body to match them with, and the only times they weren’t there were the two night your boyfriend picked you up from work. He understood, he said to you, he understood why you were afraid. What he couldn’t understand, however, is why someone would be following you of all people.

It was about a month after the initial incident when a man came into the store, narrow, unfeeling eyes locking with yours. He strided forward, towards the counter you attended, and smiled. He felt around at products on the shelves for a while, casting the odd glance to you every once in a while. It was weird, yes, but he seemed well-meaning enough. Maybe he thought you were pretty. The thought was enough to make you smile to yourself. It vanished, though, when you heard him stride toward you.

“Hello there.” He began, glancing at your nametag. He read your name slowly, and you swear you saw a shudder roll down his back. He looked normal, middle-aged and greying. Still, you doubted he meant any real harm. Maybe he was just a little awkward. You were awkward, too. He was tall, lanky in a way that made you think he was active. He started saying something about how he needed to find a specific park nearby, but you could barely focus on what he was saying as he reached a hand forward, fingertips brushing over your skin like sandpaper catching onto carpet. It sent a wave of unsettling panic through you, and you winced.

“Bayfront Park?” You repeated the words.

“Yes.” The confirmation sounded more like a hiss than an actual word.

“It’s just a few blocks down.” You pointed out the window, finger shaking slightly. He remained fixated on you, smile fading slightly, then spreading widely. His teeth were stained with age, and you quickly looked away. He felt wrong all of the sudden, like how it feels to see a warped picture of yourself. It's you, but different. Altered. It made you feel nauseous.

“I see,” He took a deep, shuddering breath before starting again. “You have pretty eyes, did you know that?” His voice felt like having eyes on the back of your head. The complement came from nowhere, causing your eyebrows to raise in surprise. You laughed nervously, looking away and accidentally locking eyes with the impatient woman behind him. He seemed to notice this too, and mumbled an apology to the woman before turning back to you.

“I’ll be seeing you. Thanks for your help.” He turns quickly, striding out the door and never once turning back. It left a sour taste in your mouth, resonating anxiety burning your throat.

What an odd, odd interaction. What kind of weirdo does that? The woman in line seemed to share the same sentiment, tilting her head to the side and letting her eyes speak before placing her items on the counter.

After closing, when the doors were finally locked and you were standing outside the dark establishment, your phone pinged with a half-assed apology text from your boyfriend.

‘Hey, I’m too tired to come out and get you. Walk a different route and I’ll watch your location. I love you!’

‘really?’

‘I worked today. I'm too tired to deal with this, man.’

The artificial light illuminated your face as you read it. Too tired? What kind of boyfriend is too tired to escort his partner home, at night no less, in a neighborhood he deems unsafe? You groan in frustration, shoving the phone back in your pockets and fumbling for your housekey. The metal felt cold as you pushed it between your knuckles, deciding to use it as some sort of lame defense. It barely made a difference in the way you felt, a mix of frustration, anxiety, and betrayal at the fact that he wouldn’t even drag himself out of bed to make sure you got home safe. You clutched it tight in your hand, staring between your normal route and an alley that cuts through the neighborhood. The only option seemed to be the alley, which would throw off the normality in case someone was waiting for you on the other path. You speed-walk to it, glancing over both your shoulders before entering the darkness. Normally, there would be people gathered around areas like this. There weren’t, although a part of you felt off at the fact. About halfway down the alley, just before it ended and opened up into a city-block, the familiar sound of thumping echoed through. The key suddenly felt hot in your knuckles. You whipped around, body turning entirely to face the cause of the sound, the cause of all the fear and paranoia you’ve felt these last weeks.

Your body felt cold, suddenly. There it was. There he was. The footsteps. He went rigid, foot raised as if he froze mid-step. No more disembodied footsteps, no more looking and seeing darkness, he was here now. You couldn’t breathe, air stuck in your lungs with a sharp, sudden inhale that cut its way down your windpipe. His foot lowered slowly, and you could barely make out the lanky figure imposing on you. It was him, it had to be, your stalker and the cause of it all. Realization hits you like a car hits a deer when you realize that nothing stands between you. The alley walls feel too close, and your lungs scream for air. A truck drives by, and you see his unfeeling face in the headlights light refraction. The weird man from work.

You run, dizzy and lightheaded from depriving yourself of air. It burned when you began panting, and you almost wet yourself when you heard his heavy footsteps gaining on you. You let out a noise, something between a yell and a whimper. The wind rushed past your ears, stinging your eyes and temporarily blinding you. The fear of being chased overtook all, and you could barely make out the silhouettes surrounding you in the narrow alley. The end seemed so far, and just when you were about to breach the darkness, you slipped. Tripped over something small and blurry, something you really didn’t care for identifying as you tumbled to the concrete below. Your chin smashed against the ground, teeth clattering. A loud ‘oomph’ and a groan pushed it’s way out of you, and couldn’t help but yell out a “NO!” as you turned to face him from the ground, bleary eyed and wild. At first, you didn’t know what you were looking at. You saw a blur of struggle, someone being thrown to the ground, a large figure pining the other to the ground. The one on top punched the one on the bottom, and then plunged what looked like a pen, maybe a stick into his neck. You jerked at the crack of the man’s skull hitting the ground. The figure raised its head, and you went numb at the sight of something wrapped around his head. His broad shoulders lifted and fell slowly, sweat beginning to darken the v- shaped neckline of what looked to be a henley. You kicked your legs, scooting yourself back rapidly and shooting up. He rose with you, and you watched as he lifted his hand to his face. Another car drove past, lighting the alley for a final time.

He pressed his finger to his lips, and you could see that he had wrapped his entire head with plastic wrap. Blood from his finger smeared over his mouth, and the sight caused a noise you’d never made before to squeeze out of your throat. Before he could move, you took off, legs wobbly and searing with pain from the brutal fall. A trail of something wet and hot glided from your face to your chest, but you didn’t stop to check. You didn’t stop until you reached your door, banging loudly on the painted metal. Sobs shook your shoulders, and you watched your neighbors porch lights turn off as you screamed your boyfriend’s name. You twisted and turned the knob, but to no avail. You pleaded, screamed for him to open the door, and searched your pockets shakily for your housekey.

Finally, the door swung inward, just as you realized that you couldn’t find your key. His face fell from angry, to shocked and confused, then to concern before settling into a mix of the two.

“What the hell?! What happened?! Are you okay?” He yells, snatching you inside the house roughly, pulling you into his chest. You collapse into him, crying loudly. When he finally pulled you off, you saw that you left a mix of blood, snot and tears over his shoulder. He didn’t seem to notice, however.

“What happened? Do I need to call the cops? What happened to your face?”

He shuts the door and pulls you into the bathroom, sitting you on the toilet and leaving briefly. He returns with a towel, a damp and crinkled one you assume was used for the dishes. You can’t understand what he says next, words jumbling together in blurry phrases. Your head hurts, your jaw feels like it’s been stepped on and your knees throb with a pain not felt since you learned how to ride a bike. He runs the wet towel over your chin, and it feels like an open blister. You hiss, a sob releasing from your lips. It’s blurry, after that. You remember begging for no police involvement, remembering how a simple finger to the lips felt like a threat, like a morbid promise. You feel too exhausted and sore, ready to sleep and forget it happened. To forget being chased, hunted. To forget the murder you witnessed.

The subsequent morning felt like a punishment for a crime in your past-life. Memories melded together, all rushing back too quickly to process. You hoped it was just a horrible, realistic dream. It felt like a dream, and you might have tricked yourself into believing it if it weren't for the smear of dried blood smudged across your pillow. Your hand flew to your chin, where you felt the beginning of a large, rough scab. When you finally crawled over your boyfriend’s sleeping form and into the bathroom, the mirror showed the giant scrape going from the middle of your chin to your collarbone.

You winced as you ran a finger over it, noticing the way an ugly purple and red bruise begins to bloom across the delicate skin of your throat. It was ugly, but nothing serious. You recalled how you tripped and fell violently to the ground, chin skidding across rough pavement. The scrape throbbed at the memory. Calling out of work felt somehow worse than everything else, and your boss’ mildly inconvenienced tone while wishing you a ‘get better’ barely consoled your shaky breathing. Almost immediately afterwards, you heard the familiar sound of the bed springs shifting emanating from the bedroom. Out of the doorway comes your boyfriend, sleep surrounding his dark-pitted eyes. He kisses you on the center of your forehead, breath hot and heavy against your skin. He allows you to slip past him, and follows you into the living room.

“I’m sorry about what happened. I should have been there, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He sounds surprisingly genuine. He looks into your eyes, and you feel like you should have never blamed him in the first place. He doesn’t consider the massive bruise on your neck when he hugs you, pressing into it with his shoulder as he pulls you tightly into him. He asks again for you to recall the events of the previous night, and questions if you’d consider going to the police. It goes like that into the night, him asking you to re-state your memories, not even considering the possibility that you don’t want to remember it. It would be easier to pretend it never happened than to deal with the lasting effects of such an event. When you were laying in bed together that night, he kissed you softly and allowed you to fall asleep against his chest. You decided then that you’d stay.

He dropped you off at work the next morning, and kissed your cheek when took his departure. You’d spent at least an hour beforehand attempting to cover the bruise with makeup, but your attempt was obviously not enough. You’d seen your coworker’s brow raise with surprise as you walked in, and you pretend not to notice. You explain it away as a bad fall, claiming to have tripped on your own shoelaces.

“I’m way too clumsy.” You’d said, laughing slightly. She didn’t believe you, but didn’t care enough to push it further. She waved goodbye as you clocked in, and you returned it with more fervor than you had meant to. It was incredibly slow that day, and normally you’d have plucked all your hair out from boredom. Today, you were happy it was slow. You didn’t have to deal with anyone, mainly regulars who knew what they wanted already, and took leave without much of anything else.

You found yourself in the same position a week later, and the incident in the alley felt more like a suppressed memory you weren't sure happened. You were crouched behind your counter, trying your best to scrape off an old sticker from the worn tile below. You cringed at the residue it left under your index fingernail, wiping it on your pants. The door chimed as it opened, and someone stepped in silently. You cleared your throat, knees popping as you stood up.

“Hey, welcome-”

The words died in your throat as you laid your eyes upon the man standing at the door. He said nothing, giving you a slight nod as he scanned his eyes over the store interior. You swallowed thickly, suddenly feeling exposed. You couldn’t explain why he shook you so much, why he was so unsettling, or why you were so nervous. You brushed it off on the simple fact that he was an attractive man. His hands were buried casually in his khaki pants, messenger bag slung over his wide shoulders. His dark-red hair blew slightly under the air conditioner mantled to the wall, shiny with sweat. Thick biceps flexed under the bright-blue button up clinging to his skin, and there was a noticeable wet patch of sweat under his collar. He seemed to feel your eyes on him, because he turned his head and caught your eye. You looked down quickly, pretending to look at the informational pamphlet taped to the countertop. Your cheeks grew hot with embarrassment, and your throat throbbed when you tried to swallow the feeling down. You busied yourself by trying to scrape and peel off the sticky residue on your fingers, not looking up even as another customer wandered in.

The tip of someone’s foot thumped on the counter, and you let out a hesitant breath as you raised your head to greet the man standing in front of you. His hands remained in his pockets, giving you the same curt nod he did when he entered.

You opened your mouth to speak, cleared your throat instead. His lips spread into a tight smile, and he looked over your face quickly, not saying anything. He felt.. familiar. Like you’d seen him before, like you’d spoken with him many times over. You blink up at him, lips parted slightly in thought as you try to recall any reason why you’d know him. It was his turn to clear his throat now, and it embarrassingly startled you.

“Hi.” He said simply, never once breaking eye contact.

“H-hi.” You stammered over your response, a feeling of unease spreading across your stomach.

“Could you help me find something? I’m looking for tape.” His voice is soft, raspy in a way that scratches a part of your brain.

You nod, looking from his imposing gaze to his stubbled jaw. You tripped slightly as you rounded the corner of the counter, cursing yourself quietly. He pretends not to notice. He follows you down the crafting aisle, and you point to the array of tapes lining the hooked stands. You turn to face him, and you’d never felt more uncomfortable to be in the presence of a customer. He stares at your face as if he was trying to memorize every detail, savoring every nervous tremble of your lip and twitch of your nose. You clap your hands together, and he doesn’t react to the noise.

“Got anything stronger? Little project I’m working on.” His voice sounds closer than he is.

“Like.. like duct tape?” You answer, looking away from him and pretending to fix something on the shelf.

“Yeah, like duct tape.” He repeats, smiling in a way that his teeth are visible. It makes you feel warm.

The aisle feels like it’s stretching on when you walk down it, and the man stays entirely silent as he practically glides behind you. A roll of duct tape catches your eye immediately, and you bend down to pick it up. When you stand back up, he’s right in front of you. You bump into his chest and gasp, tape falling out of your grip as you bring your hands to cover your mouth.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t know you were behind me-”

He cuts you off with a hearty laugh, quickly snatching the tape from the floor as he pops up with a sudden energy. Like a switch has been flipped, and suddenly you’re a close friend he’s known for ages.

“Don’t sweat it, I have a habit of not paying attention to the things I do. Hey, I bumped into my coworker this morning and spilled coffee all over him.” He chortles, and tosses the roll of tape into the air like it’s a ball he’s playing catch with. It puts you at ease slightly, and you laugh with him. Still, his eyes see you in a way you’re not sure you want to be seen. He tells you some story of how the coworker almost choked him for it on the way to checkout, but you barely listen to what he’s saying. Instead, you think of the way he looked at you earlier. Present, but distant. Like a mask. He stops on the outside of the countertop, and you shoot him a quick smile while you scan the barcode on the tape.

“Whoa.” He muttered, and his hand suddenly shot forward to your neck. His brow falls as his fingertips trace the faded outline of the bruise and the scrape gently, and a small noise catches in your throat at the burning feeling. He notices, pulling his hand away. You can feel the invisible trail he left, the feeling resonating deeply.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s just- I mean, I didn’t notice. What happened?”

He sounds concerned, genuinely, but it sounds uncanny. Too concerned for someone you’ve just met.

“Um..” You begin, quickly regaining your already crumbling composure. “..fell.” You muttered.

He clicks his tongue, cocking his head to the side, looking intently at the area before flickering his gaze to your face.

“I’m a detective. Or, well, Forensics, but a bruise like that is more consistent with serious trauma not caused by a little fall.”

Detective? Forensics? You stare at his hands as he talks.

His hands.

Deep, foreboding dread opens a pit in your stomach. You know those hands. You know the pink-tinted fingernails and freckled flesh. The hands that belonged to the man killed the one who chased you, the one who lifted a finger to his lips. The ones you tried so hard to forget.

“Were you pushed?” His tone is different.

You shake your head.

“You know, you can tell me if you need help.” He leans in close. “I can help.” You can smell the aftershave on his skin.

You shake your head again, pushing the tape into his hands.

“My name is Dexter. What’s yours?”

You whisper your name, never once looking up from the tape, now clutched in his hands.

“You can tell me what happened. Do you remember?”

Your head shot up, nearly knocking into his. Remember?

He smiles at that, corners of his lips fliting up in a small smirk.

“Somebody went missing a week ago, last seen in the area. You know anything about that?”

Your eyes go wide, and you almost want to say yes.

“Did you see anything?”

It sounds like a threat. Like he’s asking a rhetorical question, one he knows the answer to and doesn’t want a response for. His voice is deep, resonating in your ears like a bassline in a song. You shake your head again, lips parted and breathing faltered. Your heart beats out of rhythm, and he leans in closer than before. His forehead almost brushes yours, and the proximity made you want to vomit. If it were any other circumstance, maybe you would’ve felt flattered. Seen, flustered. Presently, you felt like he wanted to peel the skin off your bones. Does a rabbit feel like this when it knows it's being hunted?

“Good.”

Your knees feet like gelatine. He pulls a crumbled piece of paper from a pocket on the outside of his messenger bag, grabbing your arm and placing it in your palm. His fingers meet around your forearm. The squeeze is gentle, but it leaves your skin feeling like it’s on fire. Goosebumps erupt up your arm, raising all the little hairs along the way. He doesn’t look at you when he places a neatly folded bill on the register, swiping the tape from the counter. You watch as he leaves, turning to face you one last time, bringing his hand up in an open-palmed wave as the doors swung open for him.

“Call me if you remember anything. It’s a special case, afterall.”

With that, the door chimes as it closes. You take a minute to breathe before you unfold the paper, and written in neat writing are a series of digits, with Dexter written neatly under them. You barely get to the trashcan before bile erupts from your stomach.

#dexter morgan #crowpost #dexter #deaddove #dexter x reader #dexter morgan x reader #cw: noncon #cw blood #i hope y'all like it LMFAO

160 notes · View notes