Work Text:
Was it the heat that made it hard to breathe, or the pressure? The Magnus Mudd case this brute fucking weight on her shoulders, Batista and Miller both leaving Homicide’s roster even shallower by catching the flu. Pressure from up top with LaGuerta wanting a circus for the cameras, “Show this city we mean business when one of ours is attacked,” like Mudd hadn’t been a text-book piece of shit even in Deb’s Vice days when he was collecting brutality cases like he was trying to break a fucking record.
She popped two buttons on her dress shirt.
No, she never liked him. Always rubbed her the wrong the way. Rubbed a few hookers the wrong way — literally — if the rumors had any truth to them, which they probably did.
Deserved or not, though, his shooting was yet another folder tossed on top of the already-mountainous pile that bore down on her like a heavy hand on her neck, even worse than the sun — oh, the sun. Fucking heatwave! The fahrenheits were as likely to drop you as a bullet today in Miami.
The air was hot and humid, Mudd’s shooter was a ghost, and Deb's job as lieutenant officially felt like being in the eye of a fuckstorm.
Her phone buzzed not for the first time today. She silenced it, then sighed. “How the fuck did LaGuerta survive in here without an AC?” She glanced up — did a double take. Then she looked at Joey. Then the clock again.
11:47 AM.
She got a hankering and an idea.
The phone's buzz reached her core this time. She glanced the smiling picture. His expression was no less an artifice than her composure in the middle of a hundred degree day.
Heart-rate speeding up—
“Quinn?” she called out, silencing the call again.
“What’s up, LT?”
Her eyes didn’t leave the black screen until he entered the room. “I need to catch up with this shitshow of a case and you’re lead.” Quinn opened his mouth. “Not here, it’s too fucking hot for work, and I haven’t had lunch. Let’s go somewhere we can actually breathe the air. And bring the files, I want details.”
His smile was all teeth. “I know just the place. Out of the sun, working AC.”
She stood and said great like she was listening to the words he was saying, and not the loud neon sign he wore on his face that screamed of his feelings for her. Her suit jacket folded over her arm, she strode out of the office. Her eyes glanced around furtively.
The hairs of her neck standing on end. Lizard brain hissing. Heart jolting. Fight-or-flight.
His eyes peered through the blinds, electric, his phone was pressed against his ear, and she felt a vibration in her pocket for a third time — a total of seven in the last half-hour.
She passed him over and looked ahead, pretending she didn’t see him. She thumbed the phone silent through the fabric of her suit pants.
Hungry eyes followed her. Buzzing like a growl against her skin.
(A pressure was building, and it wasn't her own.)
Yet, when Joey made some quip about the vibrating phone in her pocket (probably as an excuse to check out her ass) and asked about her new-found popularity in a joking kind of way, she looked over her shoulder at him and smiled, making sure to show teeth for anyone who might’ve been looking — her pounding heart, irrefutable proof she knew exactly who was.
Two Hours Later
The thick air reverberates with the clapping of skin-on-skin and the violent groans of well-used bed. Stern grunts of a man are joined by wordless pleas; a woman moaning and helpless.
“Why didn’t you answer?”
“Please!—”
Begging earns her only spiteful pumps of his hips, a punishing rhythm and effective, if stiff. Almost mechanical.
Whatever she meant to say dies in her throat. It’s hard to focus on anything but the thick cock filling her, even harder to do anything more than breathe with the hand around her throat.
His anger's meant to be punishment, but honestly it only makes things hotter, both on its own and incidentally. Not only are there few things like seeing him so worked up and passionate over her, but the angrier he gets the worse he abuses her; the harder he fucks her and her begging words right out of her, like he can’t respect her personhood any less.
It’s toe-curlingly cruel.
“P…lease…” Deb chokes weakly, looking up with hazy, pleading eyes.
Her dorky brother is nowhere to be seen. Instead, something relentless, obsessive looms over her, chokes her, pounds into her. She sees specks of the dark passenger somewhere, spots of shadowy ink in the hazels of his eyes. His muscles writhe in smooth, erotic motions under his sweat-slick skin. She feels the urge to lick him clean.
“Why didn’t you answer the phone? Huh? Why didn’t you answer your phone? Why didn’t you answer?” he insists, relentless. The spiteful monotony of his tone makes her insides thrum with excitement and fear. “Why didn’t you answer your phone? Were you doing something? Answer me, Deb.”
“Please," she sighs, "Dexter...”
Smack!
Her head snaps aside, cheek burning pleasantly.
“Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
He keeps asking like a bully egging himself on. There's no real intention on getting an answer, just more excuses to fuck her up; her inability is taken for refusal, her helplessness for disregard, even though he knows better — because he knows better. There's a flagrancy to his wilful ignorance that sweetens the cruelty.
It’s the same reason she keeps trying to explain herself. Because she knows as well as he does that her protests will fail her, and that'll egg him on even more. His long strokes keep reaching her guts, painful but pleasurable punches — so fucking good — that leave her unable to do anything except lie back fuck-drunk and moaning way too loud.
This too is on purpose. Dexter revels in the thought of the neighbours hearing her get her insides rearranged, and Debra having to face them the next day while knowing.
Another layer added to her ruthless humiliation. And all for something she didn’t even do. She had lunch with Quinn, no more, no less, but her protests of such did little to satisfy Dexter when she had the wherewithal to make them — they do even less now, half-sighed, slurred out in a cock-drunk stupor, or sighed free from a breathless throat.
“Why didn’t you answer?” Suddenly removing his hand from her slender neck, Dexter frames her left shoulder and right hip, and pulls her onto his thrusts— oh, fuck.... Oh, fuck. Holy shit!
"Oh my—god!" she squeals.
The clapping grows obscene, her voice follows suit. Pleasure shockwaves through her repeatedly. “Why didn’t you answer? Were you ignoring me? Why didn’t you answer your phone, Deb? What were you doing, huh? What were you doing?”
“Ple-eas-uh—” she jerks.
“Were you sucking his cock, Deb?”
Indignation flares, but she’s denied by the incoherence of her own grunts. His accusation is vile, beyond insulting.
And it makes her cum; eye-rolling, jaw-slackening — oh how it makes her cum.
Not that Dexter gives a fuck. Amidst the pulses of bliss, he turns her lolling head on its side and mushes her into the pillow. “Were you sucking Quinn’s cock? Huh? Were you sucking his cock while I was calling you? Answer me, Deb, were you sucking his cock?”
Being talked down to like she’s some junkie whore fiending for a cock-fix and not the Lieutenant, his boss — his sister for Christ’s sake! Jesus! Degrading doesn’t begin to describe the experience.
But that only makes her all the more pathetic for dignifying it with denial — or the attempts at, at least: “…wasn’… I wasn’...”
He lets her head go to slap her. Her head lolls, lazy and cock-drunk. “Shut the fuck up," he breathes dangerously. "I know you’re fucking him.”
She keeps shaking her head. Her clit throbs.
“Should I start calling you Brandy, whore?”
Debra gasps. Her undercover name in Vice, how’d he even— It doesn’t matter. All her trials and tribulations, all her hard work, just to be reduced to Brandy?
It does for her.
Quakes brutalize her orgasming body again. She gushes against the sheets and his cock, cunt clenching, and her erratic gasps and stuttering moans fade quietly in her vulgar throes. All the while, his thrusts never slow. Her mind is filled with hot-white and she no longer knows where she is, or what’s happening. Only that it’s amazing…
“—fucking whore.” She comes to, just in time to hear his growl turn husky. “It’s my fault for fucking you so much, now you can’t get enough of good dick. You’ll fuck anyone to get cock.” His lust-lidded glare makes her heart race. “Would you fuck Batista, huh? Would you suck his cock? Would you eat Miller’s cunt? Put on your sex suit for Matthews and show him all the tricks you learned in Vice, you fucking whore?”
“D-Dexter!” she yelps, taken aback — almost out of character. And in a good way. Deb can’t remember the last time someone scandalized her this deliciously, which is only half as surprising as Dexter being the one who scandalized her.
Something’s gotten into him.
“You’d probably let them pass you around like a party favor,” he accuses, inflaming his own jealousy and her humiliation. “What’s next, invite the whole station to run a train on you in your office?”
Another slap reddens her cheek, but his words burn even hotter.
“Say you’re sorry, whore!” he spits. Anger starts to color his tone.
“I—I’m sorry.”
“Say you’re sorry for loving cock so much.”
She hesitates, but another crack across her cheek takes care of that. “I… I’m sorry… for loving cock so much.”
“Say you’re a cock-loving whore.”
“I… I’m a cock loving whore.”
“Say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry for being a cock-loving whore.”
“You want my cock, Deb?”
Her chest jerks with sobs of pleasure. “Please...”
“You’re mine. I’ll fuck you until I fix you.”
Fix her. Like she’s broken, like there’s something wrong with her, for daring to do what her body likes. How dare she have autonomy over herself? It's not her body, it's Dexter's. He doesn't say it out loud — not this time — but the unspoken part is louder.
And it's what plunges her into another seizing orgasm. Shockwaves. Nerve-flaying bliss. Consciousness scorched.
It’s getting harder to think, breathe; desire, more than stubbornness, keeps her from tapping out because she needs more, his words make her burn almost quicker than his cock can extinguish. Almost. She needs to cum a few more times. Just a few more times.
“You like my cock better than his?”
“I wasn’…” she slurred. “I wasn’—”
His hand wraps around her throat again. “Shut up. You like Quinn’s cock or mine?”
“Yours, Dexter,” she whimpers, breathless.
“That’s right. Who owns this pussy?”
“You do.” God, Dexter’s dirty-talk is hotter than she could have fucking imagined. It's true what they say about the nerdy types.
“That’s right. I can do whatever I want to my sister's pretty pussy. Abuse it all I want." He licks his lips alluringly. "You’re never having lunch with Quinn again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dexter.”
“You don’t stay alone in a room with him again. I’m the only one good enough for you, Deb. I’m gonna teach you to love my cock. You’re going to be thinking of my taste all day, my cum.”
Her cunt flexes, as his other hand joins his first, more dominating than constricting around her throat. “Yes, Dexter.”
“You don’t ever fuck anyone but me. You may be a whore, but you’re mine, Deb. You’re mine. If I have to keep fucking you to make you understand, I will. When I call, you answer the fucking phone. When I call, you drop everything and get on your knees for me ready to suck my cock. I don’t care if you’re in the middle of something. If I want my fucktoy, I’m having her. Do you understand?”
She’s barely lucid. Please just fucking ruin her!
“Say, yes.” he commands.
“Yes!” She cries out, wild from his words, the images in her head—
Her, kneeling between his legs while he’s sitting on her office couch, his hand on the back of her bobbing head as he guides her lips along his creamy length, the taste sweet and thick on her tongue; them crammed together in a bathroom stall during lunch, Deb on her knees with her palms flat across her lap, her mouth open and tongue out as Dexter furiously jerks his cock above her face, moaning desperately that he’s going to cum; Dexter hitting the emergency stop button and suddenly pushing her against the elevator wall like a bully in the locker room, molesting and fingering her against her will until she cums right then and there.
“Good whore.” His voice snaps her eyes open. Hands still around her throat, he leans down—
—captures her lips. Tongue slipping into her mouth, and fuck!
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Her heart swells with gratitude and lust, and love — a fucking tidal wave of it washing over her — because Dexter knows how much she loves this. How addicting it is, the romance of it, the way it contrasts his fucking her like he hates her.
She never thought she’d love kissing because of romance of all things (not without going ‘ew’ out of reflex), but here she is, ferally making out with her big brother and thinking, God, she loves him. She loves him so much.
The kiss is as much a sneering display of his ownership of her as it’s a wordless check-in: she loves him, he loves her, and they trust each other with their lives.
Breath comes like a cool balm when they part to catch it.
“I love you,” she can’t help but gasp, vulnerable. She promised herself she’d immerse completely this time — but fuck it. Nothing can beat this tenderness.
He keeps his tenderness, his love, contained in his eyes while his mouth sneers, “Yeah? You love me?” The threat of the abuse she's hankering for stalks the curve of his lips, the dark in his eyes.
Her nod is frantic despite its languidness. Her hand brushes with blind affection across his torso, his smooth and sweaty skin perfect beneath her palm. She explores his oblique, across the bump of a scar that runs—
Wrought iron running red, fresh crimson pooling in the torn shirt. Dad carrying a paling Dexter away as she sobs for forgiveness, it wasn’t her fault, she’s sorry, she didn’t know—!
Fingers twine with hers, and squeeze. Deb opens her eyes to see Dexter, all warm eyes and controlled concern. His other hand slips from her throat to her nape, rubbing soothingly, as his hips' rhythm gentles.
“You paying attention, whore?” The words are insulting, but his voice is soft, the one that gives her strength. Are you alright?
She nods. I am now. Her love of that scar and the man it marks swells to heights beyond her capacity for words for right now. “Lo— Love you,” she stammers inadequately. “Love you… so much.” As drunk on love as on pleasure. In that moment, they are the only real things in the world.
His hand releases her nape and his hips pick up the pace, punching moans out of her before a hand wraps around her throat again. His face turns hard, his voice derisive. “If you love me so much, then take my baby.”
Her eyes widen and she gasps, but her horror goes exquisitely unheeded. It’s a surprise she didn’t expect. “What!?”
“You’re going to take this baby for me like a good fucking slut,” he breathes, smoky. "Fucking breed you, sis."
“I can’t!” Her legs lock around his hips, pulling him deeper inside.
“I don’t care, take your big brother's baby in your womb. Take it.”
“Oh god," she says in faux-despair.
Another resounding smack! cracks across her face. This one is brutal, stinging tears to her eyes.
“I’ll do whatever I want.” He takes one of her nipples between his index finger and thumb, twists. “What are you going to do about it?”
“Please!” she begs, paralyzed with pleasure. She wouldn’t fight back even if she could, but fucking shit, the helplessness makes everything so much hotter. “I don’ wanna baby.”
“Your point?” he challenges, all intoxicating cruelty. Her babbled pleas fall on deaf ears, face assailed with slaps (gentle, thanks to her tears and wobbling lips). “Do something about it.” His thumb suddenly shoves its way into her mouth and pushes down on her tongue. “Make me stop.”
Saliva pools in the back of her throat and she has to swallow. Her please accidentally comes out "pweath!" and he laughs that soft, Dexter laugh that makes her heart skip a beat.
“That’s what I thought," he smiled, "stupid whore.” He’s had enough of toying with her and flanks her head with his hands, leaning on them. His hips shift, and with newfound enthusiasm, he starts thrusting away.
Her nerve-endings are barraged, lightning storms dancing along them as Dexter empties and fills her in astounding succession. Sloppy, wet claps fill the room. Her sobbing moans increase to match his rapidity, muffling as she pouts her lips and sucks and sobs on the appendage in her mouth. She swirls her tongue, tasting the sweat of his skin. Shocks jolt through her.
His cock throbs, his hips become feral and erratic and pound even harder, lancing punishing pleasure through her core to the tips of her toes and fingers. His body pushes down on hers. The pressure building, violent, leaving her screaming around his thumb until he pulls it out. His arms bracketing her own against her sides like a cage. Her legs swaying in the air helpless. So exquisitely helpless. She's feverish.
“Take my cum,” he growls. “Don’t ever misbehave again. Do you hear me? I said do you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, Dexter,” she moans. She tries to rein in her howling, fails. “Please don’t cum in me!”
He ignores her. Her clit throbs. “If you ever disobey me again, I’ll fuck you until you can’t think. I’ll fuck you full of my cum. Keep you nice and pregnant at all times. Your whole existence will be to birth my babies, Deb.” He groans. “Everyone’ll think Lieutenant Morgan picks up dimwits in bars and lets them creampie her in her free time like some cheap slut. They’ll say she never got over her taste for cock that she acquired from working undercover in Vice, that none of her kids know who their father is. But you’ll know. I’ll never let you forget what an incestuous slut you are!”
He seethes with spiteful pleasure, her wild wails only spurring him on.
“Fuck! Every time you give birth, I’ll wait in the room with you until the doctors leave and we’re alone. Then I’ll climb into the hospital bed with you, and breed you full of my cum and stay inside you, over and over until I’m sure you’re pregnant again. I don’t care if you beg. I don’t care if you cry. You won’t live another day for the rest of your life where you’re not carrying my cum! You’re not Debra. You’re Brandy! My fucking whore! So shut the fuck up and take my cum! Take my cum, Brandy!”
She sobs — for mercy; more. For him not to cum in her; please cum in her.
He growls at the precipice, take it! vehement and bestial.
But he doesn’t stay that way. One thrust, two — and on three he cries out. Then, careless, almost song-like moans tumble from his lips, beautiful and free. His cock throbs with every spill inside her. She watches him, quiet Dexter, her rock through all her life, moaning gorgeously and covered in a sheen of his sweat and hers, big dick pulsating snugly in her cunt like it was made to be inside her.
Dexter’s orgasms are always beautiful. Deb's, however, are more intense, and her fourth one hits harder than any of the previous three.
Toes curling, her eyes rolling back in her head, mouth slacked in a silent wail. Complete silence, at first. Then, growls jerk free of her throat; slurred curses and careless grunts so loud there’s no way the neighbors aren’t being intimately familiarized with Debra Morgan’s aggressive orgasmic wonts. God, if only they knew it was Dexter churning those sounds out of her. She’s never felt so full and warm inside before. Her mind empties. She's nothing but meat for his pleasure.
Fucking amazing.
Then, her muscles loosen, and she falls. Boneless-limp and doped out, drowning in a sea of blinding bliss, her consciousness bobs the O waves to a place outside of time. Swimming with blurred thoughts and soft sensations, like brushes of watery paint. The colors as abstract as they’re calming and beautiful.
A world without worry. Completely depressurizing.
Fuuuuck… Mindlessness is exactly what she needed.
A gentle touch jolts her back. Feather-soft brushes against her raw cheeks. A hand caresses her forehead, wiping her wild, matted hair from her face, tucking the strands behind her ears. She feels empty, physically. Dexter pulled out—
Debra starts again as her consciousness collects itself, and realizes with fluttering eyes that the sensations soothing across her face are lips, kissing her, so softly.
“Beautiful." They whisper against her feverish skin, before suckling another gentle kiss. "Mine. You're mine, Deb."
“Dex." His name is almost soundless.
He straightens and reaches aside for a glass of water, icy with condensation. Deb’s throat suddenly remembers how parched it is as a hand slips behind her head and lifts. His other brings the cold glass to her lips. She gulps audibly.
“Easy,” he mutters, soft with fondness.
She slows down, staring into his eyes intimately. Before she can help it she's overwhelmed by her love for him, and when Dexter puts the empty glass aside and looks back, he finds her swallowing a lump in her throat, sniffling.
“Hey,” he says, “It’s okay.” He doesn’t even know what’s making her cry, fucking asshole.
Whining, she reaches out and grabs Dex’ jaw, pulling him down to her face. "Kiss me."
He begins feathering kisses all over her sensitive, abused skin again, as tender as an apology. Not that he has anything to apologize for. Occasionally, his tongue laps up her tears wherever he comes across them, and she calls him a fucking weirdo, like the act doesn’t actively melt her into a shaking sobbing mess.
Beautiful ruination. Different than the kind he fucked her into. But there's no substitute for this. Soft, needy sobs huff past her kiss-swollen lips as she runs her hands along his shoulders, his arms, down his sides. His warmth enveloping her very self. She is him. He is her.
“God,” she breathes jerkily.
“Dexter, actually, but I appreciate the sentiment."
Struggling emotionally, Deb can only give a mewling frown for amusement. Dork.
“Come on,” he mutters.
There's the signal. “Come on.” The start of their aftercare routine, simple as can be.
Picked up bridal-style, she puts her head on his shoulder as he carries her to the bathtub, filling it up with usually warm, but this time cool water while she sits inside. When it's full, he gets in the tub behind her, and she leans back across him, pillowed on his sculpted body.
He cleans her of his cum, laughs at her sputters and gasps for breath when he puts far too much shampoo in her hair and the bubbles slide down her face so she can't breathe until he washes it off. She splashes water at him in revenge, and when he lets her shampoo his hair in return she makes it foams so much it slides down his face and he has to close his eyes. Deb giggles at his exaggeratedly deadpan expression before he drops it and chuckles with her.
Their filled tanks of emotions empty: insecurities, excitement. The reassurance of sated eyes, and serene, comfort them.
For Deb, there’s another aspect. An anticipation, for words.
The words. They always come, but he likes making a game of it. Something sweet and innocent and completely unlike Dexter. His behavior reminds her of a kid's poor attempt at acting natural in front of his crush, while a giant bouquet sticks out behind his back.
Sometimes she believes it's the only time he's ever acted like an actual kid ever since finding out how much of her childhood memories of him being normal was just Harry's instructions. Some days that makes her hate Dad, for not helping him heal instead, but others it makes her love Dexter with renewed fervor. Today it's the latter.
Today he waits until they’re lying in bed, sweating off the bath atop their towels before he leans over her, and nuzzles her neck. The whisper feels like a kiss.
“I love you too."
It occurs to her that Dexter’s a real asshole. Not as much as he used to be — there's an Atlantic span between harmless indulgence of one's inner fuckwad and dismembering people in your spare time, after all — but still; an asshole. A veritable dick-nugget.
She woke up on the couch — they only sleep in the same bed when Harrison's visiting Orlando or they're at her house — to the scent of freshly brewed coffee, high on memories of a great evening with her brother and his kid, not to mention an amazing fuck-session.
One look at the clock crashes her to depressing depths. At 7:26 AM, she's only got about an hour and a half before she has to go back to the office and deal with the shit show waiting for her there.
It's then that Dexter's darkness deigns to manifest itself in the most cunty, infuriating way possible; so infuriating, in fact, that she'd bet her skinny-mean-bitch ass it'd be considered a valid defense in an aggravated assault trial if she loses her temper. It's then he tells her Magnus Mudd shot himself.
(She discovers later that afternoon that IA was investigating him and it got leaked to Mudd who tried to get out of it in about the stupidest way possible. But for now, she works through her disbelief.)
When Debra finally gathers her thoughts, she snaps, “Why the fuck didn’t you say anything before?”
His approach is sudden. The intrusion of her personal space startles her, and before she can react she gasps as he invades her mouth with a thumb, padding down on her tongue.
Deb should be tearing his big, strong-browed, strong-jawed fucking head off his shoulders... but instead she stares up at him, eyes wide with anticipation, panting.
Call her a horny degenerate, but it doesn’t take much to get her in the mood these days. She lives for this. And she pined after Dexter far too long to give up even a single fuck-session with him to give Magnus "Einstein" Mudd's ex-wife (who hates his guts) closure a few hours earlier than if she did exercise some needless self-control.
His sigh leaves his lips like smoke. “Punishment...” A shiver runs through her.
It suddenly occurs to Deb that if the case is already solved, (shit-show for LaGuerta or not; there’s no way she’s spinning this one on Deb) then none of the brass can give her shit if they both come in late.
They can just say they were working the case together… Yeah, that’ll work.
“W…What punishment?” she whispers.
Dex steps closer, imposing his crotch to her face, and tilts her head up. Fuck, she can make out the shape of his bulge. Deb imagines that pale length throbbing above her face, slick with her spit, and its sweet and thick taste on her tongue. Her mouth waters.
“I’m going to fuck every trace of Quinn out of your body,” he states, smiling. “Starting with your mouth.”
Her chest heaves with rapid pants. Swallowing, she gives his thumb a suckle and starts unbuckling his belt, sighing, “Yes, Dexter.”