methylholicbm

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heyyyy chat a/n

hey so as you may or may not have seen, I changed my url!!

basically what this means is that im going to be hosting different blogs for different fics and im moving all my newer updates and a/n and things of that nature to my main account which is located alll righttt here!

my next fic will be coming out once i get to around chapter 8-9 of this one and ill gives ygs a hint, if bm = brian moser, jp = ? stay safe angels! xoxo - inei <3

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side series | things that could happen (but won't) | brian moser (& dexter??)

hii guys so im thinking about making the first couple of installments for this mini series so i can put out longer main story chapters but still give you guys something! with that being said i have three options of where i want to start but i also encourage you to use the ASKBOX to request things you'd like to see! these are my current ideals of what to write and im letting you guys choose which i write first <3:

Reimagined first car scene with Dexter | He says yes to coming inside for tea.

Reimagined home scene with Debra (WLW) | Debra and reader get deep and the shared loneliness sparks something else.

Reimagined club scene (goes wrong) | If reader gave Zach a chance.

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"you should be at the club" I should be working on my fanfic

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CHAPTER 5 | FIXATION | BRIAN MOSER

Description: After a rough night and a worse morning, you find yourself tangled between work, lingering dreams, and an unexpected night out. There’s tequila, bad exes, and even worse neighbors, but when Rudy shows up, the night shifts and the past starts bleeding into the present in ways you can’t ignore. Word Count: 4.3k

༺♱༻

I’m back in the dark room.

Not really, but it feels like it. It always does in dreams. Cold metal hums under my bare feet, and something wet trickles down from a place I can’t see. There’s no voice this time, just the sheer presence of someone watching. And then, like it’s whispered into my skull:

Angel.

I jolt awake with my nails digging into my palm.

“You okay?” Debra’s voice slices through the haze, pulling me back to her living room and out of my skull. She’s sitting cross-legged across from me, smoking her cigarette and watching the news on TV, like I didn’t just wake up gasping for air right next to her.

I nod slowly. “Just a dream.”

She doesn’t press. Instead, she smirks over her cup and tilts her head. “Rudy really likes you, you know.”

I glance over at her, head cocked sideways. “Yeah?”

“He said you’ve got this... vibe, like you’re familiar. You’ve probably met before or something.”

I try to smile. “You okay with your boyfriend liking someone else?” I ignore the rest of her sentence and instead change the topic.

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t be weird. It’s a compliment. I think he’s just interested in who I spend my free time with.”

I nod again, slower this time, but the weight in my chest hasn’t left. I decide to go outside to get some air, maybe stop reliving this nightmare. It’s silly to think, though, how nightmares have a funny way of reaching me, and this time it’s him.

Rudy.

Leaning against his car, a plastic bag in hand. He looks up like he knew I’d come out. Like he’s been waiting for me. He comes up to me by the front door. "Couldn't sleep?" he asks me.

“What makes you think that?” I say, hugging my arms around myself despite the warm morning.

“You’re at Debra’s house, and it’s 9 am,” he says plainly. “It’s a little early for a sleepover, don’t you think?”

“Maybe we were watching the sunset together or something, you know.”

He chuckles and looks down. “Checks out.” He looks back up at me. “So what was it? Bad dream?”

I hesitate. “…I don’t really remember.”

“Sure you do,” he says, but it’s gentle. Not pushing. “You just don’t want to talk about it.”

I glance up at him. “Do you always show up like this?” I ask. “Mysteriously waiting by people’s houses and offering unsolicited advice.”

His eyes narrow just slightly, but the smile lingers this time. “Only for women who are worth it.”

There’s a pause. My chest feels tight, and not entirely from discomfort.

“…Deb’s inside.” I say.

He steps just a little closer, still casual. “But you’re out here.”

And maybe it’s the lack of sleep, but something about him, maybe the way he always seems to know more than he should, makes me feel like I should say something. So I do.

“…Because it’s freezing inside.” I say, half-joking in a desperate attempt to diffuse the tension in the air. He doesn’t laugh or respond though. Just smiles at me and walks inside the house. I sigh in relief. Fuck, what even was that? Man, he’s so sexy… What the fuck am I talking about? Debra is gonna kill me and turn my skin into a jacket.

I walk back into the house and catch them both mid-makeout session. “If you guys keep going like this, you’re not gonna have faces anymore.” I say, rolling my eyes and looking over Deb’s kitchen table for my hair clip.

Debra snorts mid-kiss and pushes him off, wiping her mouth. “Sorry, I forgot we had company.”

Rudy straightens his shirt; it makes me wonder if he’s ever actually been flustered in his life. “Can’t help it,” he says, glancing at her. “She tastes like cinnamon today.”

“Gross,” I mutter, grabbing the clip and twisting my hair up. “I hope you tell your dentist everything.”

Debra laughs, oblivious, while Rudy just leans back on the counter, arms crossed. I can feel him watching me, even when I’m not looking. “You sticking around for breakfast?” Debra asks me, pulling orange juice and pancake mix out of the bag Rudy brought.

I shake my head. “Nah. I should get home. I’ve got work later, and…” I trail off because Rudy’s still looking at me. “Stuff... yeah, stuff to do.”

“You should be doing less stuff…” Rudy says, slow and deliberate, then adds with a faint smirk, “…and more people.” He tilts his head slightly. Like he doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but it slipped. He smiles, all warmth and white teeth.

Debra’s laugh carries in the room. “Okay, Freud. Ease up on the horny philosophy.”

I smile at her. “He gets one cinnamon kiss and thinks he’s Casanova.”

Rudy just chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender—but that glint in his eyes? Still there. Deb’s voice cuts through. “He’s exactly right. You need to loosen up! I heard Masuka is really good with his hands.” She jokes, and Rudy joins her, although he’s quieter, less performative.

“Yuck. Like I’d do anything with that perv.” I say, scoffing.

Debra snorts. “C’mon, you’re too picky.”

“I’m not picky,” I protest. “I just have standards.”

“Masuka’s harmless,” she says through a grin, pouring the juice.

“Masuka probably has a collection of hentai in his desk drawer.” I reply.

That gets Rudy to laugh; it’s low, but it rumbles out of him like it’s genuine. I glance at him without meaning to, and he’s already looking back at me. In the same flirty way. Deb hums to herself while flipping a pancake in the pan, and I suddenly feel like I’ve walked into someone else’s life.

My phone buzzes on the counter. A text from Doakes. Crime scene. A… park? “I really do have to go,” I say, grabbing my phone. “I’ll tell Masuka to keep his hands to himself.”

Debra blows me a kiss. “Tell Dex I said it wouldn’t kill him to check on his sister.” And Rudy just lifts a mug and nods at me, same smile, same flirty air.

As I walk out of the house, I think about what Debra and Rudy say about ‘doing someone.’ I never actually thought about having a love life since my work consumed me fully. As time went on, loneliness felt more like solitude; that’s just how I coped with things. Yet having the company of Debra has been increasingly better for at least my mental well-being. I hadn’t loved anyone since my parents left me, and even that day was bitterly heartbreaking. It’s easier to spend your nights cleaning blood off your work shoes than wondering why someone isn’t texting you back.

Maybe I need something reckless. Not love, not even sex, just noise. A reason to get out of my own head. Maybe even a night where I don’t drink shady liquor store bought vodka and watch true crime till paranoia seeps its way into my floorboards. I drive fast. Once I’m at the crime scene in the park, and somehow made a 20-minute drive in 15 minutes, I wait patiently there and observe the body being picked up and put into the ambulance van. I pull the phone out of my pocket and scroll down to Deb’s contact.

‘Deb Cakes.’

It’s so stupid and corny it’s kind of funny. I type out a few messages, testing which one will make me sound less robotic.

‘Hey girlfriend you wanna go out 2nite?’ That doesn’t sound like me.

‘Ty for letting me crash at your place, let me repay you with a night out?’ I sound like a sad man.

‘Feeling like mojitos tn? On me.’ Sounds casual enough, but we are past casual.

‘Club after work? Or do I have to convince you to have fun with me?’ Send.

I start cleaning up the scene once all the evidence and everything is gone. Blood drips from blades of grass, seeping into the ground, and fragments of skin are still left on the wet soil. I finish up, and as I begin to take my gloves off, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I nod to the other TCST, signalling my leave, and slip into my car.

‘Fuck yeah! Meet at Sol Noche, 9 PM?’ I type out "yes" and put my phone down on the passenger seat.

By the time I’m home, the sunset is kissing the rooftop of my apartment, but a car sits in my parking spot. That fucking loser is letting his girlfriend park here. I sigh and, reluctantly, park 3 spaces down the block. When I walk up the stairs this time, I’m not heading to my house but to my neighbor’s. I knock, not aggressively, but still loud.

The door swings open, and a slender girl hangs in the doorway. Her makeup looks ruined but in a good way, short shorts hug her legs, and the baby tee she wears stretches over her like it was tailor-made—insane because it once was mine. “Did ya’ need something?” She says questioningly. I grit my teeth.

“Your car is in my parking spot.” I say plainly, no longer upset about the car and instead about why this woman has my old shirt on.

“My boyfriend said it’s fine there.” She says, twirling her hair. She looks young, like 20.

“Your boyfriend is wrong.” I say to her, and I know he is. I know he’s doing this out of spite. One night stand gone wrong, now I can’t even have common courtesy.

“Oh, well, I’ll move it in the morning then.” I should argue with her, but I don’t; I just walk away. I don’t hear her close the door until I’ve opened my own.

I strip my shirt off in the entrance and unclip my hair, running my fingers through it to relieve the stress building in my bones. I go into my bedroom, peer into my closet, and hopefully find something that I don’t feel ill-fitting in.

I slip into a sheer, olive-green handkerchief skirt, with delicate embroidery near the slits. It moves when I walk and kisses the backs of my calves. The matching cami clings to my ribs and has a faded look, like it came from a thrift rack with stories baked into the threading. I cinch it all with a double-looped leather belt that sits low on my hips.

I slip on chunky resin bangles in olive, moss, and gold and big amber earrings. A round, olive-toned pendant hangs from a suede cord at my throat, resting right between my collarbones. Right below the scar of my past that continues to haunt me. I grab my Blumarine sunglasses and slip on my pistachio-coloured Coach platforms. They’re clunky and a little worn, but I love them anyway.

I give myself one last look in the mirror. I’m not deathly tonight. I’m sunlit and unreadable. My mascara is soft on my face, lips brown and pink, eyes shimmery, and cheeks tinged pink. I look alive.

I go to my kitchen, deciding to have just one free drink before I blow $70 and then some just buying more drinks. I pour gin into an opaque-pink shot glass, received on my 21st birthday from a random lady who worked with me some years ago; it's tacky and says ‘Florida!’ on a white sign with a beachy background. I decide to cut a lime just to chase the drink, and when I open the drawer, my blood runs cold.

There’s a knife that isn’t mine.

It’s similar—about the same weight, same shape—but it’s cleaner. Sleek. Navy blue. I frown, holding it up to the light. And that’s when I see it. Text that’s etched faintly along the blade, near the hilt, just subtle enough to miss:

‘I could’ve carved love into your throat.’

I drop the knife and stumble backwards. Before I can fully process everything that’s just occurred, my phone begins to buzz on the counter, Debra.

‘Free drinks all night!’ I can’t even question her or react properly in excitement. I down the shot of gin and recollect myself, then walk out the door.

When I stop outside Sol Noche, the sun’s almost fully gone, and the purple, hazy light emitting from inside is already bleeding onto the sidewalk. The club is nestled between a shuttered pawn shop and a shady tarot place that smells like burnt-out incense. There’s a velvet rope, but Debra’s waving me in like it doesn’t exist.

Inside, it’s all flashing lights and bodies too close together. Cigarette smoke clings to the ceiling, and the bass sounds like it’s beating at the same rhythm and tempo as my own heartbeat. My heels stick slightly to the floor as I walk toward the bar, and the air smells like sweat and ecstasy.

Deb throws her arms around me. “Finally!” she shouts over the music. “You look sooo hot!”

I smile, but it’s tight. “I’m surprised I even made it.”

She laughs like she didn’t hear me, already ordering tequila shots. Then I see him behind her, arm snaked around her waist and a grin plastered over his face as he looks down on me. “I didn’t know he’d be joining us.” I say to Deb, putting a cool smile on display. She looks back from the bar at me.

“What else did you think free drinks meant?” She grins and kisses Rudy with full force, parading themselves into a makeout session right in front of me. I fake laugh and leave them to it while sitting on a bar chair.

“Give me the strongest mojito you have, preferably with Marienburg 90.” The bartender looks at me with that look, but she shrugs and starts to make some concoction. It’s not what I asked for, but when she finishes and places the brightly coloured drink in front of me, I can’t help but try it. Fucking god, it hits me like a train. In a matter of hazy minutes, and two of whatever the hell she gave me later, I’m pulling Deb to the dance floor.

Seconds are spun into minutes and minutes into hours, while the glassiness of the floor begins to morph into itself. I stumble off of the lit-up dance floor and over to where I was last. I ask the bartender for water to sober myself up a bit, and she passes me one readily.

A voice cuts through the noise behind me.

“You clean up well.”

I turn, and it’s Rudy.

Dressed in black. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the suggestion of collarbone. My stomach drops, and I don't know if it’s from excitement or nausea.

I glance around. “So, Deb brought you to buy us drinks.”

He smirks, sipping from his clear plastic cup. “She said you invited her. I’m just tagging along.”

Of course he is.

I roll my eyes and take another sip. “You looked like you were having fun out there,” he says, leaning in slightly to be heard. “Didn’t expect that from you.”

“I didn’t either,” I say, trying not to mirror his closeness. “Just felt like letting go.” I say, although it sounds more like I'm questioning myself. He puts his drink down and looks over his shoulder. Debra signaled to him to come and dance. He reluctantly goes over, not sparing a second glance back at me. When he does get over, she eyes him down, and not in a friendly way.

“Excuse me, miss.” I hear an all too familiar voice next to me. I turn around.

“Zach.” Aka, my shitty neighbour. I give him a bitch face and sigh outwardly to further express how pissed I am to see him.

“You knew it was me. Guess I never leave your mind.” Zach grins and leans against the bar top, dangerously close. His eyes wander. “Last I saw, you were all dark and morbid,” he says, grinning like it’s meant to be charming. “Now you’re glowing. “What, finally decided to quit that shitty blood job?”

I stare at him blankly, sip my drink, and tilt my head. “And last I saw you, you were banging some coked-up chick next door. and wouldn’t give me my clothes back.”

Zach laughs, low and forced, like he doesn’t want to admit that stung. “Still a mouth on you.”

I arch a brow. “Still a parasite.”

He’s about to say something else that’s probably gross, and then I’ll regret not throwing a drink over it, but a hand casually laces itself around my waist and pulls me in. “Everything alright here?” Rudy’s voice cuts into the conversation and carries just enough weight to make Zach glance up and stiffen. I don’t even need to look to know Rudy’s smiling that same too-calm, too-clean smile.

“Yeah, uh, everything’s fine. Just wanted to talk to this pretty lady.” Zach says, suddenly gripping my wrist like he’s trying to assert some last pathetic dominance. It’s not tight, but it’s enough.

Before I can say anything, Rudy moves. Not chaotically. Not even quickly. Just… deliberately. His hand releases my waist only to grab Zach’s hand, fingers clamping around his wrist. I hear Zach’s breath catch and the subtle crack of pressure building where bone meets bone.

Rudy’s smile doesn’t change.

“I’m afraid she’s already talking to someone,” he says softly.

Zach tries to pull away, but Rudy doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in closer, like he’s telling a secret just for him. “You’ve had your moment. Don’t make it awkward.”

Zach nods, barely, and Rudy lets go. Zach steps back, rubbing his wrist with a forced chuckle. “Didn’t know you brought your watchdog,” he says to me.

I smile, baring my teeth. “Goodnight, Zach…” and tell that chick at your place to take my fucking shirt off.” He disappears into the crowd, and it’s like the loudness of the room goes with him.

I turn back to Rudy. “Thanks,” I murmur, more breath than voice.

He shrugs, as if nothing happened. But something did. His hand is still warm against the curve of my waist when he touches me again, gently this time, thumb dragging slowly along the fabric of my shirt, just above my hipbone.

“You alright?” He asks, his voice dipped in genuine concern, but his eyes are unreadable.

“I am now.” I say.

He studies me for a second, like he’s debating something. “Dance with me?” he says, not a question, not a suggestion. A gentle command. When I nod, slow, almost hesitant, he pulls me through the crowd, into the pulse of the music, the dark, and the heat. Right there, his hands find my hips, and mine find his shoulders, and for a moment, I forget about the knife, the scar, and the way "angel" floated so effortlessly off his lips. My hips roll with the beat, slow and instinctive, and I feel the way his breath stutters once against the shell of my ear. He spins me, and I lay my back against his chest.

I tilt my head back just a little, eyes fluttering, letting myself move with him, and that’s when the familiarity suddenly makes sense. His grip, his eyes staring into mine, and the way he drags his hand down my throat and stops just above my pendant, right where the scar is.

And it hits me.

A flicker of my existence, or what could’ve been the end of it, a version of himself, and a knife held at my throat. It’s navy blue. Then everything vanishes as fast as it comes.

I tense, every part of me screaming to run, but I don’t move. Not with his fingers ghosting over the scar like it’s still fresh. “Trying to hide this from me?” he murmurs. I nod before I can lie. He brings his face just inches from mine, and I swear, I can feel his smile. Not the fake one. Not the charm. The one beneath it. The wolfish one. “You were talking so much a while ago; what now?”

His hands slowly glide over my thighs and torso, not in the seductive way, but in the sizing-me-up way. Like snakes preparing their prey. My body betrays my better thinking, and I arch myself into his touch, knowing that I’m walking that thin line between lust and morality. Sin and sinning. He turns me to face him again, and this time I’m seeing him for real. Under dim light and heavy-lidded eyes, I’m putting pieces of a puzzle together, but they’re just becoming even more scrambled.

“You keep looking at me like that, and I’ll think you’re actually into me.” He says to me, a breathy laugh escapes his lips. I see it as a challenge.

“So what if I do?” I say it with intensity, before the thoughts of Stockholm syndrome can hit me. He leans in again, closer this time, but not to kiss me. No, he’s more careful than that.

He presses his mouth beside my ear, “Goodnight, Angel.” He says it and dissolves into the crowd of people around us. I’m standing by myself in the middle of the dance dancefloor, stunned and nonplussed. I was stuck in a fog, in a memory, but when he left suddenly the room looked brighter and sounded louder, and Debra, smiling at me and weaving through the crowd, beamed 10 times over.

“Do you know where Rudy is? I can’t find him anywhere.” She asks me.

“I think he went to the bathroom over there.” I say, not even looking in that general direction. She walks past me, and maybe it’s the smell of her perfume that makes my eyes sting or the big drunk guy who keeps hitting my shoulder, but I think it’s time I went home.

The walk back to my car is a blur, and I don’t remember saying goodbye to Deb or even if the bouncer gave me a second glance. I only remember the sound of grown men yelling outside and homeless people sleeping on the pavement and how suddenly cold it got outside when the sun was kissing the moon. When I get home, my throat is dry and my chest is hollow. I leave the lights off, lock the door, and walk into darkness, like I’m afraid to see something I’m not ready for.

I drop my platforms by the door; my accessories and pendant hit the floor next. I don't even look at the knife again since I left it where it landed. On the tile. Near the cutting board. I’m afraid if I pick it up, I’ll read it again. I shower in silence, with cold water and only the emptiness of the house to accompany me. I scrub until my skin is tender, like I can wash the memory off me.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. Everything feels unfamiliar, off, since I know now that the person who’s been in my house is so close yet so far out of my reach. The AC kicks in with a loud whine, and I flinch like it’s a scream. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, tracing the outline of the darkness and where my lamplight diminishes it.

And still, he’s under my skin.

When I finally do sleep, I dream I’m back in the dark room again. Not the club. Not Deb’s place. But the real one. The one with metal floors and a voice I can’t place taunting me. I say something; I can’t remember what, but I do remember light but rough hands grazing my hair and tugging with clumsy force. I remember blisters on my bottom lip after my parents rushed to my side and screamed, “Where did you go?” and “What happened to you?”

I remember a picture of me in a local newspaper; my parents threw it into a fire, and I’d forgotten it ever existed. Fire was how you escaped a bad memory, and that’s how I remembered them.

In that fire.

The screaming of the neighbourhood—

When I wake up, it isn’t screaming, though. It’s sirens.

Not the blaring kind that wails down the street and vanishes into someone else’s nightmare. No, these are parked. Stationery. Flashing red and blue bleeding through the blinds, pulsing right outside. I sit up slowly, migraine throbbing in my head and body heavy with remnants of alcohol. I move to the window and peel the blinds open with two fingers. Two cop cars. One unmarked. Caution tape was already being strung up like party décor next door.

“Fucking Zach, what did you do to that girl?” I step outside the door barefoot, everything about me still soaked in the afterglow of sweat and regret. A female officer eyes me but doesn’t say anything.

And then I see her.

That girl from last night. Standing outside in one of those tacky robes that you can buy secondhand for $12. Makeup in ruins, and arms crossed. Her baby tee—my baby tee—is balled up in her fist.

She’s crying, saying, "I didn’t do anything." I woke up, and he was just… gone like that.” Her voice cracks. “I thought he was asleep.”

But the EMTs aren’t rushing; they’re quiet, professional…slow.

Because he’s dead.

Zach’s body is wheeled out under a pale blue sheet, and for a moment the wind picks up just enough for me to see the outline of his neck. It's too clean. Like a warning.

I take a step back inside and close my door, locking it, and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor in my underwear, mouth dry, heart racing.

That girl is going to be blamed. She's young, she's hysterical, and she's easy to write off, but I know it wasn’t her.

I know the difference between a messy mistake and a message.

And Rudy would never leave a loose end.

༺♱༻

✦ ⛧ Masterlist ⛧ ✦

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FIXATION | A/N!

this next chapter is gonna be a lot longer since I wanna pace the story a bit faster. So expect maybe 2k-3k words maybe more!

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CHAPTER 4 | FIXATION | BRIAN MOSER

Description: Debra’s grinning... It's abnormal. When she invites you to meet her mysterious new boyfriend, Rudy, you expect awkward drinks and small talk. What you don’t expect is how drawn you are to him. Rudy’s charming, attentive… disarmingly perfect. But perfection always has a price. And when he lets a single word slip—angel—you start to wonder who exactly it was meant for. Word Count: 1.7k

༺♱༻

The precinct has been busy all morning—phones buzzing, papers shuffling, cops grumbling. Apparently, they’ve caught the Ice Truck Killer, but none of that registers. Not when Debra is smiling. Not the polite kind either. The real kind. The kind that’s wide and bright and genuinely reached her eyes.

Something’s up.

She practically bumps into me as she turns the corner outside the locker room, hair bouncing, and giddy with excitement.

“Hey,” she says. I know this voice; it’s her asking-me-to-do-something-I-don’t-want-to voice. “What are you doing tonight?”

I blink. “Why?”

She grins wider. “Okay, better one—how do you feel about playing the bestie role for real today?”

I raise a brow. “Sounds like a trap. Wait, are we not already best friends?”

“It’s not, and no, give it another two weeks.” Then suddenly she leans in like she’s avoiding anyone hearing us talk. “I’ve been seeing someone. Not seeing, seeing. But like... seeing. You know?”

I nod slowly, lips twitching. “Since when?”

“A couple weeks. But I didn’t wanna jinx it.” She bobs on her heels. “But now I’m ready. And I need you to meet him. First.”

I stop. “Not Dexter?”

Her face falters just for a second, then is quickly overshadowed by excitement. “Dexter’s busy with… whatever weird shit he does in that blood lab. And anyway, you’re more normal than he is. Mostly. Plus, I need an honest opinion, someone who won’t lie for my sake.”

Something in her voice doesn’t sit right. It’s casual—but laced with something.

Nervousness.

I pretend not to notice.

“What’s his name?”

“Rudy.”

“Rudy…. okay. “Fine,” I say. “But you owe me food and drinks afterward.”

She claps her hands together, triumphant. “Done. You’re gonna love him. He’s sweet. Charming. Super smart. Dexter’ll probably hate him.” She laughs, and I nod along. “I’ll send you the address after work.” Then she gets up and nearly skips over to her work desk.

I subconsciously smile for her, then turn my attention back to the files I came to collect. I slightly turn my eyes up to peer through the door ahead of me; it’s slightly ajar, and I faintly make out the shape of someone inside. It’s Dexter’s lab area. He’s hunched over his computer, typing whos and whats. I look at him a little longer than I should, and the next thing I know, he makes direct eye contact with me and quickly averts his eyes. “I’m not gonna bite Dex. You can’t avoid every form of contact, you know.” I stride over to his door.

“Says who?” He says to me, fake smiling.

“Says me,” I pick up one of the blood vials on his desk, observing it. “Your sister is having me meet her boyfriend… seems like something she’d ask you to do.” Dex doesn’t look up at me, though; instead, he reaches for the vial from what he assumes is my hand and grabs my wrist instead. Not rough but not gentle either. He looks up and looks a little lost in thought when I offer the vial back to him. I take that as my cue to leave the room.

A short while later, I’m pulling up outside of the restaurant Deb gave me the address to. I’m wearing one of the outfits she gave me—a deep brown halter dress that clings to my waist and flares at the bottom. It’s soft, vintage, probably something she bought on impulse and never wore. A pearl-beaded necklace with a silver heart sits heavy at my chest, and a stack of gold bangles—thick, mismatched, loud—clinks against my wrist every time I move.

My purse is black leather; it’s a bit chunky, but it balances the rest of the look. My shoes are denim heels, probably from some expensive brand, but I wouldn’t know the difference. They’ve got little silver hearts hanging from them too. Even if I’m not confident in how I look, at least it looks like I am. I brush my bangs out of my face when I walk up to the door, and I see her laughing at a small raised table. Dark brown hair pulled back, hands gesturing wildly as she talks to a man whose back is turned.

I’m mentally rehearsing my smile and tone before I even get through the door and reach the table. Deb spots me, and her face practically beams. She beckons me over frantically, and the man she’s talking to turns his head over his shoulder. Something in my body feels odd. I try and push it down when I’m at the table, but it grows wilder by the second. “Y/N, this is my boyfriend, Rudy.”

He stands as I approach, polite, a little bashful even. Handsome in that crisp, unfussy way—dark shirt, clean jawline, eyes that crinkle when he smiles, and dark eyes.

“Rudy Cooper, or Captain Hook,” he says, offering his hand. His grip is warm, not too firm; in fact, it’s perfect against mine, like he’s felt them before. “Deb’s told me all about you. Honestly, I was getting a little jealous.”

I laugh. “Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Definitely flattered.” His voice is smooth but dripping in charisma. Something about him is deeply present. “You’re more… flamboyant than she described.” He says, eyes wavering over my outfit.

He says it lightly, without hesitation. I glance at Deb, who rolls her eyes and takes a long sip from her drink. “Yeah, well, it’s all thanks to her. Slowly bringing me out of my inner shell and whatnot.” I say, easing into the seat across from them.

We talk, the three of us, making small talk and conversation about food, Miami, and work. He’s talkative but not too much; his words come out exactly how he thinks them. Controlled, trained. It’s annoying, maybe not to Deb, but to me. She starts telling a story of how they got together, and he leans toward her, lips brushing against her ear fondly. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he says, loud enough for me to hear.

“You just noticed?” She says flirtatiously, there's a sarcastic undertone to it, but it doesn’t get past them making love eyes at each other. This third-wheeling shit sucks. I see why Dex said no.

“I guess I just have a thing for angel faces.” I snapped out of my thoughts when I heard him. He says it clearly; his tone never changes. It’s not as if it’s strange to say, Debra is beautiful and has soft features. He says it easily, like he’s said it a thousand times. But it’s off for me. He asks me a question about my work, but I don’t hear him.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom for a second.” I excuse myself from the table and begin to pace to the restrooms. I faintly hear Deb’s voice and then the sound of heels following behind me. Once inside the bathroom, I put my purse on the sink, and Deb quietly pushes the door closed, standing next to me.

“Are you okay? What was going on back there?” She says, placing a hand on my back.

“Nothing, everything is fine. I’m just a little shaken up from things at work, you know. Blood gets to a girl sometimes.” I joke, but she isn’t laughing.

“Is that all?” Her eyes search mine.

“Yes, Deb, I’m cool.” I hug her, not because I need it, but maybe that's the type of reassurance women give each other. Debra pulls away and smiles at me, then she walks out of the bathroom. I look in the mirror, my lips stained black and red from liner and lipstick, mascara and eyeliner sleek, untouched. I never see myself like this.

Perhaps it was just a coincidence. I should be enjoying myself since I hardly ever go out. I brush off the Angel comment and take a few deep breaths before resetting my composure and walking out the door.

I reach the table, and Debra isn’t there, just Rudy. “Where'd Deb go?” I ask as I sit in the seat.

“She just stepped out for a smoke,” Rudy says, gesturing lazily with his glass. He’s relaxed in his seat now, one arm draped over the back of Debra’s chair. “Said she’d be right back.”

I nod, sliding back into my seat. My fingers toy with the condensation on my water glass, but I keep my eyes on him. He looks… at ease. He appears to be too relaxed. Still, I tell myself to let it go. Don’t overthink. Don’t ruin this for her.

“She’s crazy about you, you know,” I say, voice light but testing.

Rudy smiles, not bashfully this time; instead, there's something more knowing. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s mutual.” The table goes quiet for a moment. I glance out the window, then back to him; he’s not looking at me but instead at his surroundings. I take the time to look at him. His features are sculpted in a model-type way. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows, exposing his forearms; they’re strong but not bulky, like he could easily lift something heavy if he wasn’t trying to be subtle about his strength. His hands are clean and deliberate. He catches me staring, smirks, and then, as Debra walks in and he looks toward the door, the tendons flex just enough to draw my attention.

He leans back slightly in his chair, and the stretch of his shirt across his chest makes me choke on the margarita I’m sipping. I clear my throat and try to play it off, but my thighs shift subtly under the table involuntarily. I scold myself internally, but it’s too late. I’m already curious. Not just about who he is, but what he feels like.

Debra leans into Rudy, whispering something that makes him laugh. I watch the way his hand drapes over her knee, as if it were just routine for them at this point in their relationship.

I should be happy for her.

By the time we part ways outside, she’s ecstatic and flashes a smile at me, and for a moment, I feel like the worst person in the world for letting her. Rudy is every bit the gentleman Deb promised he’d be, and I’m… conflicted. Caught between my friendship with Deb and the walking danger she brought to dinner. Not to mention how he’d made me feel. The night air presses in around me as I walk back to my car, heels clicking against the pavement, the buzz of streetlights overhead. It should’ve been a lovely evening.

All that’s in the back of my head is that stupid fucking word.

And how, for a split second, it felt like it wasn’t meant for Debra.

It was meant for me.

༺♱༻

✦ ⛧ Masterlist ⛧ ✦

[methylholicbm]

"There’s poetry in murder… and I think he’s been writing me a love letter." ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

✧ pairing: brian moser / reader ✧ status: ongoing ✧ format: first-person, reader-insert, dark romance, psychological thriller ✧ side series (COMING SOON): “things that could happen (but won’t)” ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

🖤 Main Story

✦ Prologue: first kill

✦ Chapter 1: bleach & bloodstains

✦ Chapter 2: whites on delicate

✦ Chapter 3: anonymous 

✦ Chapter 4: perfect stranger

✦ Chapter 5: muscle memory ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

🕸️ Side Series — (tbd) ✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

☠︎ Notes

📎 fic is rated mature/explicit for dark content, violence, sexual themes, obsession, and canon-light/heavy depictions of gore. 📎 best read in order. side series = canon-divergent possibilities or fantasies. 📎 tagging system: ❥ = gore, ❦ = fluff/smut , ☠︎ = violent

[methylholicbm]

CHAPTER 3 | FIXATION | BRIAN MOSER

Description: There’s blood on the beach. Not a crime of passion, but something arranged—deliberate. You clean the scene while Dexter stares like he's been here before. Then you find a paper buried in the sand, one word etched on it: Angel. It's the second time this week. The word follows you all the way to Debra’s house, clinging to you. And in the morning, something new is waiting. Taunting. Word Count: 1.5k

༺♱༻

The beach air stings my nose. The salt, the children laughing, the ocean crashing against shore. I step out of the car and take in the scene.

Debra’s already ten paces ahead, barking at a patrol officer while sipping the last of her lukewarm coffee. She’s recently been promoted, I’m happy for her. She flips her hair over her shoulder and curses out another officer as they’re snickering behind her back. I hang back, trailing behind.

It’s early, too early. Miami hasn’t woken up yet. But the beach is already awake. As usual. Tourists are usually out exactly at 9 am, taking over the beach in swarms and won’t leave until it rains or sundown.

There’s a body—or rather, a piece of it. It was arranged. Posed. A hand stood delicately upright on a towel, blood staining the light blue cloth. The photos haven’t started yet. Forensics is still whispering about angles and lighting. I spot Dexter nearby and walk beside him and Batista. 

“So, how long you think it’s been there?” Batistia asks, the sun forcing his face to scrunch.

“This feels familiar.” Dexter looks off into the distance, his eyes scanning the beach and its entirety.

“Okay. So, how long has it been there?” Batista asks again, this time without the jokiness in his voice.

“Blood stopped pooling, still wet… couple hours at the most.” Dexter says. I zone him out, there’s blood and the hand is male. They’ve been tailing the ITK for a while now and this doesn’t seem anything like them.

I walk away and wait until Dexter is done with Batista. “What do you mean familiar?” I say to him.  

He turns to look and me and raises and eyebrow. “This looks like Rand Beach.” He says. 

“Uh, it used to be. They renamed it Petrie Beach.” I see him replaying something in his head, whatever it is I back away, slowly, and find myself bumping into Batista. “Oops I’m so sorry.”

He just smiles at me and shakes his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Look at this though.” He points to the sand near the crime scene. A paper is crumpled up and hidden underneath, I take it out and it has a simple word on it.

‘Angel.’

“Oooh maybe it’s meant for youuuuuuu Batista.” He shrugs and laughs at me.

“Yeah right. I was thinking some lonely guy had a bad confession. I don’t think our killer is the ‘hide the clues and leave’ type, clearly.” He says. I agree with him but I just smile and leave him with the paper. 

‘Angel… where does that keep coming from?…’ I think to myself. I walk off the scene and get into my car, time to get my actual job over with.

Eventually after everything has cleared out, the cop crew long gone, and now it’s just the help, I sit in my car. Do I leave the beach or do I stay here and thinking about life or something. I start the engine and pull off. Straight to Debra’s house.

When I get there she’s half in pajama bottoms and her other half in just her bra. She leans on the doorframe. “How’d you know I wasn’t at work.” She asks.

“LaGuerta has Doakes there. I figured you’d go home.” She allows me inside, I slide my shoes off at her door and catch myself yawning in the middle of it. Cleaning the crime scene took me out, not because it was inherently a mess but because passerby’s screaming at the sight of blood and complaining about a quarter of the beach being sectioned off takes a toll on you after 2 hours or so.

Debra disappears into the kitchen without saying much. I follow the faint sound of a cupboard slamming shut and glass against the counter.

“You want tequila or whiskey?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Vodka,” I say, easing onto her couch.

She snorts. “Figures, but that wasn’t an option.”

The living room is dim—just the flicker of a muted TV casting shapes on the wall. I stare at them for a second, my mind comes up with nothing. When Debra hands me a mug, it smells like whiskey and something else. I don’t ask.

She plops down beside me, one leg tucked under the other, a cigarette already between her fingers. “So what’s up?”

“I feel like I’m being stalked. I know it sounds crazy but I can’t help but feel like there’s an overwhelming presence around me. At all times.” Debra peers over my shoulder and fights a laugh. “Do you not believe me?” I say, a little shocked at her laughter.

“No, I do. Whatever it is though, I’d rather it stay the fuck away from my house.” I smile with her and we begin to giggle together. “In all seriousness, you’re free to stay over tonight if staying home is uncomfortable.”

I lock eyes with her. Thankful. My smile falters and falls into a questioning look. “You are closer to Miami Metro….” I pause, “As long as I get to steal from your clothes, then I’m down.” She rolls her eyes at me.

“Fine.” Debra nudges my shoulder with hers and stands. “C’mon. I’ll grab you something to sleep in.”

I follow her down the hallway, watching the way she walks in confident strides. She disappears into her bedroom and rustles around in a drawer. A soft T-shirt gets tossed my way. It smells like detergent and maybe a little like her. I change in the bathroom, wipe my makeup off with a hand towel, and take my hair out of its updo and run my fingers through it.

The tile is cold against my feet, the AC is on bitingly cold conditions. When I finally decide to step out of the bathroom, it’s quiet, and the house is still. The only sound is the TV running on some sitcom on the lowest volume and wind slightly blowing into the house from a cracked out window.

I shuffle over to the couch and wrap myself in the spare blanket Debra left out. She’s on the end of the couch, already fast asleep and I sprawl out slightly on the opposite end of her. 

I lie and stare at the ceiling. I observe the way the fan rotates and use it as some type of method to lull me to sleep. Eventually my eyes grow heavy and the last thing on my mind buries itself there as an ever-growing thought.

‘Angel.’

When I wake again the sky outside is a hazy blue, darks mix with brights to create the streamlined light coming through the window. My eyes pan over across from me and Debra is nowhere to be seen. The pipes under the house groan and running water can be heard down the hall. 

I rub my eyes as I sit upright, my head spinning possibly from thinking too much all night. I feel the tingling anxiety crawl up my arms as memories of yesterday threaten to overwhelm me. Nonetheless, I push it down when I hear the bathroom door open and wet-haired Debra steps out in just her underwear. “Oh you’re awake. Are you coming to the station today? Guerta’s on my fucking ass so I have to be there 3 hours earlier than my shift for some bullshit reports.” She pauses to grab a brush from inside the bathroom before she comes out to continue.

“If you want to stay I don’t mind that either, I can just give you my spare—“ 

“No it’s fine, thanks Deb. I think I’ll head home, I don’t wanna feel like I’m intruding.” I say getting up and picking up my bag and walking to the front door. She looks at me like I’m crazy and then walks into her bedroom. When she finally comes back out there’s a small folded stack in her hands.

“Here, wear this next time you come to the department. It’s an upgrade from whatever the fuck you’re always wearing.” She says. I scoff at her and she just smiles at me and nudges her hands out once more.

I take the clothes from her and slide on my shoes. “We’ll see what happens. Thanks though. See you soon.” With that I walk out the door and start towards my car, I throw my things on the passenger side and sidle into the drivers side. I catch glimpse of Debra waving at me through the door and then she closes it.

The ride home is feels like a few seconds even though it was 20 minutes or more. I kill the engine in my car and grab my stuff out the passengers seat. As I walk up the stairs, the feeling of dread feels like it’s only 3 steps behind me, and it only gets worse when I reach my front door.

When I step inside my home it feels like the energy has shifted. Everything is in the place I left it but something still feels like it doesn’t belong. I cautiously look around, hand on an imaginary gun holster and eyes scanning the walls. 

I lower my defensive stance when I  walk into the kitchen and make eyes with a pink sticky note on my fridge. I didn’t leave it here.

“I missed you last night.”

༺♱༻

✦ ⛧ Masterlist ⛧ ✦

[methylholicbm]

is it weird that i just love the anatomy of people? their hands and their arms and their muscles and their noses and eyes. i love the anatomy of humans.

[methylholicbm]

I swear I’m gonna reorganize my story posts to be prettier and better fitting to my aesthetic omfg 😭🙈

[methylholicbm]

CHAPTER 2 | FIXATION | BRIAN MOSER

Description: Dexter offers you a ride. That’s it. Just a ride. But the silence in the car is louder than any siren, and every question you ask feels like poking at something dormant in him. The quiet doesn’t end there. It follows you inside, into your shower, your tea, your sleep. Until a message finds its way to you. Word Count: 2.1k

༺♱༻

I settle into the passenger seat. The leather creaks under me, and the seatbelt clicks into place; it sounds louder than normal in the unsettling silence. My fingers twitch in my lap. I tap on the seatbelt where it sits snug against my shoulder. Dexter observes everything except me: the rearview mirror, the gas gauge, and a crack in the windshield that isn’t even there. “What? Not a conversationalist?” I say, catching his eye in the mirror.

His gaze flicks to mine, then just as quickly away. “I don’t usually give people rides,” he says. Lucky me.

“Right,” I murmur, shifting slightly, feeling the cool AC brush over the side of my neck. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you’re friendly or something.”

He doesn’t respond. He just turns onto Biscayne like we’re not even having a conversation. The hum of the tires is the only reply I get. I keep my eyes trained on the streetlights awakening as we pass by; it’s almost dark, but Miami has no curfew. “Do you like it?” I ask, finally. “Your job. Blood spatter?”

He doesn’t look at me. Of course, he doesn’t. “Sure,” he says. “It’s…Controlled. Predictable. Blood never lies.”

“Right. Very…Shakespearean…romantic even.”

He almost smiles. Almost. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’s faking being amused. “It’s not meant to be romantic.”

“Figures why you’d be into it,” I say. It was accidental, oozing with too much fierceness in my words. Of course, it was something I didn’t mean to say, but I also meant it in full.

A silence stretches. At this point, the tense air in the car was becoming as suffocating as the heat outside. I’d be home soon, out of this awkward encounter. Why am I playing up a conversation he very clearly isn’t interested in? I steal another glance. His jaw is tight, stubble stretching up to the middle of his ears. He doesn’t look like Debra, I wondered, my eyes lingering for maybe a moment too long. I pan over to his hands at a perfect ten-two on the steering wheel. “Do you ever get tired of just… reading patterns?” I ask, softer now. “Doesn’t it get boring? Just facts, no context.”

He exhales slowly; the questioning, small talk—it’s as if I’m exhausting him. “Boredom isn’t something I allow myself.”

I almost laugh. “Must be nice to have that kind of discipline.”

“No,” he says, eyes still on the road. “It’s necessary.” I don’t know what to say to that. I let the quiet creep back in. I think about the motel. The blood. The way my hands had shaken afterward, but only in private.

When we finally pull up to my building, the streetlamp cuts us in half—me in the light, him still shadowed. I reach for the door handle, then pause. “Do you want to come in?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Tea, or coffee, or… actually, I think I only have tea.”

He hesitates. I see it—the flicker of calculation behind his eyes. “I can’t,” he says finally. “Maybe another time.”

“Right.” I nod like it’s nothing. “Next time.”

He gives me a brief nod, a ghost of a smile that dies before it hits his eyes. And then he’s gone, taillights disappearing into the night. I stood there a moment too long. Watching nothing. Listening to the silence like it might tell me what the hell just happened. 

I turn on my heels and pace myself to the entrance of the complex. The building stares back at me. The layered but chipped paint clots intself into the corners of the stair case, grand black fences that are supposed to read as wealth, and wildflowers in half-bloom under the decaying leaves of palm trees. I see the lights on in the windows of my neighbours apartment, his girlfriend’s car outside and parked, she must be staying tonight. I sigh and trudge up the steps.

By the time I get inside my apartment, the weight of the day finally catches up to me. I drop my bag to the floor, take the pin out of my hair and take my platforms off to massage the pains in my feet. The place smells like home, teakwood and vanilla scents stain the furniture, a sweet whiskey smell lingers underneath, and no trace of blood ever comes in or leaves the door. The walls are a warm, deep red, like a fine wine and the furniture in my living room is covered in plush neutral-coloured throw pillows and white pillows.

I head to the kitchen and flick on the overhead light. The rhythmic hum of the refrigerator kicks in and synced with my own heartbeat. I open a cabinet, grab a chipped mug with a faded skull print, and fill it with water. I place the cup I the microwave and grab a sharpie out of a drawer along with a sticky note to jot down a list. Groceries? Goals? I stick it to the fridge. The microwave goes off and I grab the cup by the handle, then put a tea bag inside and find myself fidgeting with the string on the outside as I walk to the couch, eyeing the me sized divot from nights I couldn’t sleep in bed.

Steam curls into the air and the heat radiating creates warmth along my face. I stare at the water changing color, browning like old bruises. I sit on the couch and pull my knees up. The fabric is worn and tired, but cozy with remnants of a life not yet lived. I glance over at the list on the fridge, written on the sticky note:

Bleach

Teabags

Milk

Call Debra?

Don’t.

Throw out old towels.

Sleep more.

Stop making conversations awkward.

I sip the tea. It tastes like eucalyptus. I forgot the fucking honey. My fingers find the hem of my shirt and start tugging. I lift it to my nose, iron. The motel is still on me. The blood.

I put the mug down and stroll to the bathroom, flip on the light, and peel off my clothes piece by piece. The shirt’s stiff with dried sweat and a few flecks of what I could only assume is old blood from the scene earlier. I turn the shower water on and go to look in the mirror. It’s foggy, but I can still make out my face behind the glass. My lipstick still lines perfectly; it’s a pretty plum color. My eyes look drained, but the life in them is somewhat apparent. I smile. I haven’t done that in a while, but it looks pretty on me.

The water in the shower is searing, but I don’t adjust it. I stand there, arms crossed over my chest, letting it burn off the layer of filth I feel embedded in my skin. It doesn’t work, but at least the heat makes me feel good, or maybe just less alone? Somewhere in the noise of the water, I think about him—Dexter. How still he was behind the wheel. How deliberate. Not unfriendly, but…off. I can’t find a way to describe the uneasiness, but it’s somehow always there.

I step out. The steam fogs the mirror until my reflection is gone. I dry off, wrap myself in an oversized shirt, and wander barefoot back into the living room. The tea’s gone cold. I dump it in the sink and stare down the drain.

I should sleep, but instead, I grab a marker and go to the fridge. I cross out "Don’t" on the note.

Just to see how it feels.

I wake up with my cheek pressed against the couch cushion and the taste of yesterday ghosting my mouth. Morning light cuts through the blinds, casting long horizontal shadows across the tiled floor. The shirt clings to my damp skin, and my hair leaves a light, wet residue on the couch. I must’ve fallen asleep here.

I pull myself upright and drag my feet towards my bedroom, but something on the floor catches my eye—paper. Slid under the front door.

My heart drops.

There’s no envelope, no name—just a single, neatly folded page. I crouch down, scanning my surroundings and peering into my bedroom. When I open it, there’s nothing written—just a drawing.

Red ink. A crude but precise sketch of a heart—not the emoji version, not the one you send to someone you love, not something sentimental. A real heart. Labeled like it came from a medical textbook. The aorta, the ventricles. Veins are inked in careful strokes.

On the bottom corner, there’s a short line scrawled in black:

“To the one I never finished. Angel.”

My fingers curl tighter around the page. My stomach twists. There’s no return address, no mark of where it came from, just that strange message that sounds like it came from a bad storybook. I stare at it for a moment too long before I fold it again and shove it into the junk drawer, hiding it under a pile of coupons and old batteries. My pulse is beating fast, but I try to regain my peace of mind.

After a short drive and too much paranoia, I kill the engine, step out, and stifle a yawn. By the time I make it into the precinct, the coffee in my hand is already cold.

I swipe my visitor pass at the security desk and make my way inside. The hall smells like bodies: the fear of the unaccused, the anxiety of the guilty, the hostility of the dangerous, and—

“Coffee?”

Debra’s already there—leaned against a filing cabinet, feet kicked out, two cups in hand. She spots me and lifts one like a peace offering.

“Thought you might need it,” she says, “unless you’ve already overdosed on whatever dark roast horror you drink at home.”

I take it, grateful. “More like whatever atrocity I grabbed from Three Palms.”

She walks beside me, leading the way past the squad room, where the usual buzz of phones and police chit-chat clutter the air. “They found a body,” she says low, under her breath. “Early this morning. Another one.”

I blink. “Another?”

She nods, teeth clenched. “Nearby scene, different vibe. But it’s not ours. Homicide from Hialeah’s handling it.”

“How fun.”

She shrugs. “Miami’s always been a freakshow. It’s either show your body or become one.” She takes a long sip from her cup and gestures to the breakroom. “You got time to sit for a second?”

We slip inside. The coffee machine’s still sputtering like it’s dying, and the fluorescent lights flicker. I perch on the edge of a cracked navy blue vinyl chair while Debra leans her hip against the table, stirring sugar into her cup with a half-bent plastic straw.

“So,” she says, grinning faintly. “What’s your life like. Pretty girl with a wild side? Or are you just as weird as my brother.”

I smirk. “Who knows. I haven’t been to a club in a while since it mostly just results in being hit on but lackluster men.”

“Right? Every guy’s either a perv, a sociopath, or just…sad. My last date told me his spirit animal was a fucking Komodo dragon.” She groans. “Like, what the hell does that even mean?”

“Probably that he wanted to bite you and watch you dissolve over a few hours,” I offer.

She nearly spits out her coffee. “Jesus. You’re worse than me.”

“Not worse,” I murmur. “Just honest.”

Something shifts in her expression—less laughter, more pause. Like she’s looking at me differently now. She taps her nails against her coffee cup. “You and my brother should talk more. He’s got the same... freak vibe. Quiet loner bullshit.”

I smile, but it doesn’t last. “He’s not exactly chatty.”

“Yeah,” she sighs. “Well. If either of you decides to go psycho murderer, I get to say I saw it coming.”

“Deal.”

We part ways after that. She heads toward the bullpen. I head for the evidence bay. But before I make it, I pass Dexter by the elevators. He’s staring at something in his hands, but when I approach, he glances up. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes. Or maybe suspicion. It’s hard to tell with him.

“Morning,” I say, neutral.

He tilts his head slightly. “You look tired.”

I shrug. “Cold tea, hot shower, and… some questionable recap on human anatomy.”

“Interesting,” he says, stepping into the elevator. I step in with him.

Before the doors close, he adds, almost offhand:

“Do you ever think about how much blood it takes to fill a heart?”

I don’t answer. I’m still thinking about the paper in my drawer.

༺♱༻

✦ ⛧ Masterlist ⛧ ✦

[methylholicbm]

CHAPTER 1 | FIXATION | BRIAN MOSER

Description: Crime scene cleanup isn’t glamorous, but it pays the bills—and it keeps you close to the mess. When you're called to a lifeless body in a pool, you're expecting a routine assignment. What you get is Dexter Morgan: unreadable, clinical, oddly magnetic. The scene is sterile. No blood. So why does it cling to you? Word Count: 1k (a little over)

༺♱༻

"You're all standing around debating the head wound, and no one thought to check the pulse?"

I dropped my bag with a dull thud beside the body, crouching low enough for my fingertips to press gently into the still-warm blood puddling on the tile. A broken mug lay nearby, soaked in wet shades of deep red.

"That's not your job, cleanup girl," Doakes snapped from somewhere behind me, his arms crossed like always, his voice heavy with whatever pent-up angst a cop like him would have.

I didn't look at him. Didn't need to.

"No," I muttered, brushing hair out of my face with the back of a glove. "I'd just rather not have a corpse lunge at me. That's normal, right?"

He huffed something under his breath about "goddamn weirdos" and stalked off, probably to go grunt at someone else who didn't deserve it.

I stayed there, crouched by the body, eyes half-lidded and dry, like I hadn't quite woken up yet. The man's face was still frozen mid-expression—shocked or scared, I couldn't tell.

I've seen worse.

Dexter passed me, staring down at his gloves, before someone's voice cut through the air. "Morgan L/N. There's a body at The Seven Seas Motel." Dexter pauses and looks down at me and back up at them before taking off. I shrug and catch up to him before he can fully leave the scene.

"Hey—Dexter, right? Mind if I catch a ride? Since we're going to the same place anyway." He looks at me for a moment. He's probably asking himself why I can't just drive there myself. I hope he doesn't ask. I can't tell what he's thinking, but something is turning his mental gears. "I won't talk, promise," I add jokingly.

He half smiles, I think, and leads me to his car. The car ride is eerily silent. I try to look around, but I'm afraid that he'll think I'm looking for something if I do, so instead I keep my eyes fixated on the road and rub my fingers against a small area of my throat.

Dexter glances over at me, but if he has something to tell me, he doesn't say it out loud. We whip past the slums of deep Miami, empty alleyways still managing to look haunting even during dawn, overweight older men flashing their gold teeth and rotten gums, slender sexy ladies flipping their hair or throwing themselves at the nearest Porsche, and finally, a big-ass crime scene at a tacky motel.

Dexter and I make our way out of the car and through the piling of cops outside, pulling black vinyl gloves on, until he's stopped by Vince, or as everyone else knows him, Masuka. "What are you doing here?" He says to Dexter, who looks at him pointedly, like he was waiting for Masuka to realize how dumb that sounded.

"It's a crime scene?" Dexter says.

"Yeah, but there's no blood."

For a second, I believe Dex zoned out, his facial muscles contorting ever so slightly before returning to normal, something unreadable beneath his calm exterior. "Are you okay?" I ask him, and he quickly looks at me and then back at Masuka, who leads both of us to the body. He and Angel lift the cover over the body, revealing pieces of flesh completely drained of all of its blood.

I look over the body parts that aren't fully wrapped for evidence yet.

"How does a killer get rid of all the blood..." Dexter says haphazardly out loud, like he meant to say it in his head.

"It's hard to say, especially since the body is in good shape." Angel retorts.

"No prints either," Masuka says, further adding to the confusion.

"It's very clean. Near surgical cuts... looks like he didn't have time to finish though." I say, pointing to the unfinished cut on the victim's upper left thigh.

"Right. Which means it's possible he was interrupted. LaGuerta's working on finding a witness." Angel says.

I look over my shoulder at LaGuerta fraternizing with other cops and some reporters just itching to find a way in. I walk away from the scene to go and look around the rest of the motel.

I peek into any window, seeing if it's possible that someone could've seen something from their bedroom, but all I'm met with are off-white, barely even white actually, blinds with untouched rings of dust on them. I get to a half-open door and push it open to see a taller woman that I recognize seeing once or twice but have never actually had a real conversation with. "Don't look at me like that. It's a disguise." She says. Officer Debra Morgan.

"I wasn't going to question you, Debra." I say, leaning on the doorframe. She's a little taller than me with her heels on and has this air of confidence wafting around her. She meets my eyes, at first with a snarky look, and then she laughs.

"Well, you never fucking know, you know?" She says, blowing an exhale of smoke out as she speaks. Her heels clack on the grimy, off-white linoleum as she switches her weight onto her other foot. "Who are you anyways? One of LaGuerta's?"

I crack a smile at her. "As if I'd be caught dead running orders for anyone at Miami Metro. I'm simply just a TCST. Y/N L/N. However, I've been working closely with you guys as of late; Miami is just more lively than my home office in Ft. Lauderdale." She ashes out her cigarette in an ashtray and comes to stand by me. I turn, and we both look out at the crime scene unfolding before us.

"I haven't seen you up until now." She says to me.

"I lurk. Quiet. I don't like drawing too much attention to myself, you know? It puts you in a position of vulnerability." I say coolly, not noticing how weird that sounds to just say out loud to someone. Instead of being thrown off, however, Debra just smiles at me and walks off to the rest of the officers.

"You're right." She says, not turning to look back at me, and then she disappears into the clutter of cops.

I catch Dexter before he manages to leave. "Could you drop me home?" I see his face; it says, 'Not really, I don't even know who you are.' But his mouth comes out with a different set of words.

"Sure," he says, but the hesitation in his voice sounds louder than the word itself.

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[methylholicbm]

cover for the brian fic 😋

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I be saying "he's so silly" while he's killing someone with his bare fucking hand

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PROLOGUE | FIXATION | BRIAN MOSER

Description: Before the blood, before the badge, before Miami—it was just a girl and a locked door. You're young, scared, and trapped somewhere you don't recognize with something, or someone, cold just behind you. You don’t remember his face. You weren’t supposed to survive. But you did. And he never forgot. Word Count: 380

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The room was dark, a light hanging above and gleaming down silently on the teenage girl on the floor. Her vision blurred, her hands tied in amateur knots, and the black surrounding her foreboding.

Goosebumps spread across her skin as the door creaked open and a boy walked in—knife in hand, and nothing in his eyes. The girl felt a lump down her throat, she didn’t know if it was her swallowing her heart or if it was fear. She blinked a few more times, trying to see him clearly. His jawline was soft, hands thin, a baby face.

He stared down at her like she was nothing special… but this was special for him.

His first kill.

The girl looked back down at his hands. His knuckles were white, his grip on the knife was firm but untrained. Clumsy. She looked up at him, streaking mascara pooling at the outer corners of her eyes and cascading down her heat flushed cheeks. Her lazy smile slowly morphed itself into a quiet laughter. “This is how I die?” She said, tears daring to prick her eyes. “Embarrassing. Could’ve had a suicide. Maybe even got hit by a train.”

The boy had swiftly made his way behind her, his hand grasped tight in the tangles of her hair, pulling her head back so he could look into her eyes.

They were shut tight. He could no longer see the life leave her eyes.

He gritted his teeth and pressed the cold steel of the knife against the softness of her throat, a droplet of blood making a single stream down her chest, it was almost ritualistic. He noticed the bruising on her bottom lip, it was flushed red from biting down, due to some human like emotion he couldn’t bring himself to recognize.

His grip never left her head, it tightened, and then… he committed to the role he’d written for himself,

The knife against her throat ready to make her sing like the final ballad at the opera, a picture perfect death to display to the news… his audience, and a dark passenger, high up in the box seats above the stage the that would never be satisfied with him.

No one pulled the curtain back.

No one checked for a pulse.

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