maisie183 - Tumblr blog

[maisie183]

Im leaving for my semester abroad in a couple of hours, and just remembered that tumblr is blocked there….

im cookedddddd

[maisie183]

I watched Dinner in America like mid/end August, and it blew up on TikTok like approximately one week ago (plus minus yk what I mean), and as someone that saw it 4 years after it came out, I am absolutely here for it. For the ones who saw it before, your lucky (I get it, I would wanna gatekeep that shit aswell)

Now all I need is some fanfics, some recommendations for movies and …more… I basically need more.

(Ps: thank you to my fyp on TikTok for showing me the edit made by glumgirledits that made me watch it in the first place. Oh and… Kyle Gallner *blushes profusely*)

[maisie183]

This the type of fiction I need

simon fell in love years ago, engaged to be married to an old colleague until she went MIA, assumed KIA. It took simon a few dozen bottles of bourbon and a few hundred therapy sessions to move on but he did, with you

let down his barriers enough to welcome the idea of marriage again, planting a big rock on your finger and is currently next to you on the sofa, helping you pick handkerchiefs

and when there’s a knock at the door, he doesn’t stop his conversation with you. only when you hear him open the door and drop the bottle of beer he was drinking

your eyes follow his and you’re grateful that you’re not stood right now. standing on the other side, fully-alive and not missing at all, is his first love. still wearing that ring he gave her

[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.

[maisie183]

We need mean!reader, angry!reader, misunderstood!reader, creepy!reader, gross!reader, toxic!reader, nonforgiving!reader, selfish!reader, narcissistic!reader, dark!reader, FEDUP!reader. That bitch is way too nice, passive, and sensible. ✋🏾😂

[maisie183]

smut is great but do you know what’s better? heart wrenching, soul twisting angst that makes you want to cry (take my money)

[maisie183]

Title: The Cost of Silence

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader

Summary: After a heated argument the night before, Joel spends the day plagued by guilt and worry. When he returns home and sees blood on the door, his worst fears come rushing back—fears of loss, of not being able to protect the one person he loves most. But the truth behind the bloodstain isn’t what it seems, forcing Joel to confront the cost of letting fear and anger control him.

Warnings: Heavy angst, fear of loss, graphic imagery (blood), intense emotional scenes, mention of past trauma, hurt/comfort.

Word Count: 1,527 words

The night before had been a bad one. You and Joel had argued—really argued—for the first time in a long while. It had started small, as these things often do, but quickly spiraled out of control. Words were said that neither of you meant, but the damage was done. Joel had stormed out into the cold night, leaving you alone in the house, tears of frustration and hurt streaming down your face.

You hadn’t meant for it to get so out of hand. You knew Joel had his demons, his fears, and you were usually so careful with him, so patient. But that night, your own exhaustion and frustration had gotten the better of you. You’d accused him of shutting you out, of not trusting you enough to share what was really going on in his head. He’d accused you of pushing too hard, of not understanding what it was like to carry the burdens he did.

By the time Joel returned hours later, the house was silent. You were already in bed, feigning sleep. He didn’t try to talk to you; he just lay down beside you, the space between you colder than the winter wind outside.

The next morning, the tension lingered. Joel left early, not saying much more than a gruff “I’ll be back later,” before heading out. You didn’t push him; you were still too raw from the night before. Instead, you busied yourself with chores, trying to distract yourself from the aching emptiness in the house.

The day passed slowly. You cleaned, you sorted supplies, you even spent some time in the small workshop behind the house, trying to fix a broken lantern that had been giving you trouble for weeks. Your mind kept drifting back to the argument, replaying every word, every hurtful thing that had been said. You knew Joel was carrying more than his share of the weight, and you hated that you’d added to it. But you were tired, too—tired of feeling like you were always one misstep away from losing him.

As you worked, you barely noticed when the blade you were using to strip some wire slipped, slicing across your palm. The pain was sharp, but it wasn’t until you saw the blood dripping onto the workbench that you realized what had happened. Cursing under your breath, you grabbed a rag and pressed it to the cut, trying to stop the bleeding.

You were too distracted by your thoughts to pay much attention to how you bandaged the wound. All you could think about was Joel—how much you wanted to make things right, how much you wished you could go back to the night before and choose your words more carefully.

By the time you finished in the workshop and headed back into the house, your hand was throbbing, but the bleeding had mostly stopped. You wiped your hand on the rag again, not noticing the streak of blood you left on the door as you pushed it open.

Meanwhile, Joel’s day had been a hell of his own making. He’d tried to lose himself in work, but the guilt gnawed at him, a constant reminder of how badly he’d messed things up. The memory of the look on your face as he’d walked out the night before haunted him, twisting his gut into knots.

He knew he had to fix this, had to make things right, but every time he thought about going back home, the words seemed to stick in his throat. What could he even say? Sorry didn’t feel like enough. He wasn’t good with words—not the way he wanted to be, not when it came to you. All he knew was that he couldn’t stand the thought of losing you, not after everything.

By the time he finally headed home, the sun was starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the town. The cold air bit at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the chill in his heart. He just needed to see you, to know you were okay, and maybe—just maybe—find a way to apologize for the things he’d said.

But as he approached the house, his steps faltered.

There, on the doorframe, was a streak of blood.

For a moment, Joel’s heart stopped. His breath caught in his throat as a thousand horrifying scenarios flashed through his mind. He didn’t even realize he’d dropped his pack as he lunged forward, throwing the door open with a force that made it slam against the wall.

“Baby!” he called, his voice rough with panic.

There was no answer. The house was eerily silent, save for the echo of his own voice. His eyes scanned the room frantically, searching for any sign of you. He saw more blood—on the floor, on the edge of the table—and his heart twisted in his chest.

No, no, no…

He bolted through the house, checking every room, calling your name until his voice was hoarse. When he didn’t find you in the bedroom, the bathroom, or the kitchen, a sickening fear gripped him, threatening to pull him under.

What if… what if something had happened while he was gone? What if you were hurt—or worse—and he wasn’t there to protect you? The thought was too much to bear, and it sent him spiraling into a panic he hadn’t felt in years.

Finally, he ran to the workshop. He practically kicked the door open, his heart pounding in his chest as he braced himself for the worst. But what he found made him stop in his tracks.

You were sitting on a stool, your back to the door, holding your hand to your chest. The rag you’d been using was stained with blood, but you were alive—alive and very much okay, aside from the wound on your hand.

The relief that flooded Joel was so overwhelming that his knees nearly buckled. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, leaning against the doorframe as the adrenaline left his body in a rush.

You jumped at the sound of his voice, spinning around to face him. “Joel? What—what’s wrong?”

For a moment, all he could do was stare at you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The sight of you sitting there, unharmed but for the bandaged hand, sent a wave of relief crashing over him that nearly knocked him off his feet.

“Are you okay?” he finally managed to ask, his voice trembling with the aftershocks of his panic.

You frowned, glancing down at your hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just cut myself while I was working—” You broke off as you saw the look on his face, the fear still etched in his features. “Joel, what happened?”

He shook his head, closing the distance between you in a few quick strides. He reached out, cupping your face in his hands as if he needed to feel you, to reassure himself that you were really there. “I saw the blood on the door,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “I thought… I thought you were hurt. Or worse.”

It took a moment for his words to sink in, and when they did, your heart ached at the realization of what he must have gone through. “Joel,” you whispered, covering his hand with your uninjured one. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realize… I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours as he let out a shuddering breath. “Don’t apologize,” he murmured. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I don’t know what I’d do if…”

The words trailed off, but you didn’t need him to finish the sentence to understand what he meant. The fear of losing you, especially after the argument the night before, had been more than he could bear. And you realized, with a pang of guilt, that your fight had probably only made it worse.

“I’m sorry about last night,” you said quietly, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean to push you like that. I was just… I was scared too. Scared that we were drifting apart.

Joel’s hands tightened on your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to fall. “You ain’t driftin’ anywhere,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. “I was wrong to say what I did. I just… I get so scared sometimes. Scared that one day you’ll realize you deserve better than this… better than me.”

“Joel,” you whispered, shaking your head. “There’s no better than you. I’m here because I want to be. Because I love you.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours as if he was trying to memorize every detail of your face. “I love you too,” he said, his voice breaking. “More than anything.”

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes as you let the weight of his words settle over you. The fear, the anger, the hurt from the night before—it all melted away, leaving only the love that had brought you together in the first place.

“Let’s not fight like that again,” you murmured, opening your eyes

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

Writers Note: The plot idea came to me last night and I went on to work on it right away. I 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 here.

[maisie183]

I am by all means a reader. But lately, I’ve been thinking of writing. Especially fandoms, where I can’t find the story’s I would like (because there are barely any, or I’ve already read them 😊). So, should I try? Or not?

And if yes, here are the fandoms I thought about:

(I’ll might delete this, unless…)

[maisie183]

pictures like this are the reason i have pinterst

i wanna write a fic off this

[maisie183]

Calling out to all the Dexter fic writers. Pls write more. Currently obsessed with the show and there sadly isn’t much about it on here. Your work is very much appreciated!!!

Ps: in case this motivates you, feel free to tag me

[maisie183]

You are loved.

Reference here

[maisie183]

Pedro is Roman general Acacius

[maisie183]

[maisie183]

If you feel this way, here are some Gofundmes you can donate to

Abu Shammalah Family (€953/100,000)

Moment Alostaz family (€7,539/70,000)

Youssef family (€9,395/50,000)

Renad & Her Family (£9,696/25,000)

Alia's Family (€7,870/30,000)

Mohamed Hamad and his family (£3,872/50,000)

Safaa and her family (€9,757/20,000)

Maliha Family (€23,446/32,000)

Mahmoud Abu Hamam (CAD $5,348/10,000)

Eman Abuhayya Family (AUD $40,455/85,684)

Ezzideen & his Family (€26,314/75,000)

Ahmed's family (€4,658/70,000)

Let's do our part to help the people of Gaza!!!!

[maisie183]

we DO grow old and happy. btw.

[maisie183]

[maisie183]

"Joel will be 61 in season two of the Last of Us."

Nice try, HBO. But I know a babygirl when I see one.