꒰ ⟡ 𝒔𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆 : a roadkill retrieval leads boyd to fixate on a fawn-like young woman . 𝟤.𝟤𝗄 words .
꒰ ⟡ 𝒏𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀 : purely self indulgent . he’s so pitiful nd i couldn’t help myself ᵎ this was also so fun to write :3
The day’s air was fierce and lain heavy, fevered within the heart of Miami. Boyd was accustomed to the swelter, to the solar fervor that slickened through his truck and left him sticky with his own perspiration. He was familiar with how the heat danced upon the pavement in stretches of road, the shimmers induced by the bent sun-rays that seemed to make the asphalt sparkle. What Boyd was not inured to, on this particular suffocating, sun-soaked afternoon, was the sight of you — a girl, streaming with tears beside the corpse of what he presumed was to be another disposal call.
During a usual roadkill removal, he would have just handily halted his bright, heinously yellow truck and flicked on his hazards. He would have sheathed on his gloves and shoveled up whatever bone-bared and bloodied carcass that lay strewn before it could sizzle onto the street. But not with you, sobbing in a small sundress, shelling out tears for an innocent animal that struck a car in a cursed second. To Boyd, it was a provocative sight. A sweet, fragile young woman, gentle enough to be teary-eyed with terror, all whilst bowed over in a tiny garment that twirled around your thighs. He could already feel his cock thickening in the confines of his camo cargo shorts.
Boyd swerved onto the shoulder of the road, his forehead sheened with sweat from below his ballcap. The gravel and dirt crunched below his boots as he beared away from his truck. Your big, sad eyes met the hazel ones beyond his glasses before they steered back to the defenseless, dead little doe. The chestnut-colored fur of the poor fawn was slick with crimson and coating the surface of the street as you sniffled at the sight.
“He died…” You acquiesce with solemnity. Boyd fights the urge to smile at your nescience of the situation. Instead, he nods with silent lament and saunters closer.
Your gaze turns to him, his form. His tan shirt, half unbuttoned in a crooked fit — loose on the abdomen, and taut over broad shoulders. Your eyes dip to the contrast of a pair of black rubber gloves that he is now retrieving from his pocket, and Boyd’s sin-stained thoughts prove substantiated in this instance — you’re ignorant of sanitation officers and their task of animal retrieval.
“A- are you gonna bury him?” Your lips tremble before they're innocently bitten with curiosity.
Boyd feels himself twitch, his balls growing tender with want. The straps of your sundress are slipped down, revealing your bikini top with a shimmer of sweat beneath it, and he's left to salivate. He has to force his eyes to strip themselves back to the baby deer’s corpse.
“No... no, sweetheart. Imma shovel ‘im.” He sighs, pointing a thick finger to the ID that marks his chest. "It's my job.”
“Oh...” You nod once, before your body shivers in a hiccup. You can’t stop slickening your cheeks, leaving them puffed and hot with emotion. You stumble on the road’s shoulder, your feet fidgeting as you try to sway out of his way. “I’m— I’m sorry, sir... he— he had been moving when I stopped. I felt–” Your throat cracks on another cry, and your body shudders at the mere acknowledgement, “I felt him stop breathing. Petted him.. as he passed.”
Boyd’s heart does sunder slightly. Your profession of such profound empathy seems to splice a few cells off his cardiac tissue. He sighs softly, frowning, his brows furrowing towards the deceased fawn’s form.
“You did a real kind thing… stayin’ with him like that.” His voice is smooth, and almost soothing to your tears. “Most people’ll jus’ drive along. But you got a real soft heart, don’tcha?” He smiles gently, his head tilting down towards yours.
“Was— was jus’ on m’way t’the beach and saw him dying a- alone and–” You make the mistake of boring down at the tiny carcass, and your blathering tapers off in a tiny blubbered sob.
Boyd finds himself hovering closer, and a sweat-soaked palm makes contact with your upper arm as he attempts solace. You tense, eyes flicking to his face just in time to catch his mouth quirking up. “Hey— It’s okay, baby.”
Baby. The odd grip and petname perturbs you slightly. You to attempt not bristle at the stench of tuna that permeates through his breath, or how his touch beats into your flesh like boiled syrup — sticky with something thickened and steeped dark. You nod, stilling in his grip.
“...Yeah. S- sorry. I just... I feel sad.” You stammer out again, slipping away from him and attempting typical banter to avoid any brash behavior. Boyd cognizes your apprehension immediately, and only then does he shuffle away to grab his shovel.
He briefly imagines that were a normal man, he would’ve softened your sorrows with the press of his palm — but the sinister is already swathing over the sweet notion, and the sugar is drowned to the thought of your sobs if you were stretched and splintered on his cock instead. If you were to be smote with his shovel, shunted into his truck, sheltered, frightened, and his forever. Boyd is a sick fuck, and you’re just a sweet, delicate little doe. He knows that. It’s a blissful and bruising comparison to how fate has spawned his introduction to your innocuous form. You’re simply prey, about to be spattered and split open like the roadkill he removes from the street.
“Yea..” Boyd settles on a sigh when he strides back, staring down at your sandals before pivoting the metal to scrape beneath the corpse. “Poor fella. ‘Lil Bambi.” He murmurs, his mustache twitching as he tries not to smirk at your sniffle. He’s already planning to stalk you when he steers away to toss the carcass into his trunk.
You don’t stay. Instead, stepping back towards your car, stealing one last look at the stain that lies upon the street. You try to not dwell on the way you can still feel his sweat that clings to your arm. Slimy and unsavory, you scrunch your nose at the sensation. For a moment, you steel yourself before continuing your traverse to the sea. His seediness has stowed away your sadness; your emotions have turned to discontent and timidity when you finally peel away. It’s unbeknownst to you that Boyd has scrawled your license plate down on a piece of scratch paper. You’re unaware of his truck, which, although miles off and nearly out of sight, still maunders in surveillance until your vehicle approaches the shoreline. He passes by the parking lot. There’s no reason to pull in when he’s already preparing himself to pry through your window when the evening ensues.
The day comes to a close when the sky bleeds bright. The Floridian night envelops like sticky nectar; the swelter has turned sweet with the breeze, and Miami’s horizon is streaked lurid in the mango-swirled clouds of sunset. The heat unfurls within the cooling air when Boyd finds himself stalking you down. In a few strokes of his keyboard, your personal details were produced from the letters and numbers of your plate. The white pages and data broker sites bless Boyd with information all on his new little fawn. He’s enlightened by your full name, and enamoured by such basic intel: your age, your address, and who abides alongside you— and, by the stars’ favor, he’s delighted to discover that you’re living all on your lonesome.
The painted sky soon dissolves, and the darkness is now able to conceal his determination and derangements. Boyd discreetly parks a distance away to properly dip into the bushes beside your small bungalow without notice. And fuck, he can already see you in the honey-soft shimmer of lamplight.
You’re in what he deems to be a scandalous, lacy little slip, scooping ice cream into a dish on this summer-heated evening. You just happen to be woefully unperceptive to the pervert that peers past your windowpane.
You lick the spoon of its sweet cream, and Boyd finds the sight to be purely salacious when you incidentally stain your chin with a sheen of white. He’s forced to shove his fist against his mouth, biting it before he moans involuntarily. His beady gaze follows how your hips sway, crossing the room to sit on the couch and pressing play on some television program. The colors of the screen spire over your face in the safety of your home, slipping spoonful after spoonful into the wet expanse of your mouth.
It’s an entirely simple, painfully innocent sight – but not for the sick, paltry excuse of the man that stands outside your house, sexualizing every swallow of your throat. Boyd wonders if your soft pussy is slick right now. He wonders how you taste, how tight you’d be on his girth; how you would probably attempt to fight him off if he shattered the glass of the window and forced himself inside. How frightened would you actually be? Would the terror cause your tight little cunt to clamp up? Would he be able to make you cum? The sickness sears in his gut further and makes him leak into his boxers.
Boyd is well aware of his blight. His rancidity. It’s unveiled in fresh spoils, blooming similarly to the freckles that seep through his flesh. He’s diseased like prion, and it’s nestled deep within the fissures of his brain. He’s ruin and rot, degeneracy personified, peering through the glass panel as his dick swells up.
In an accidental spill, a few drips of ice cream begin trickling down your chest, pooling down your sternum and staining under your gown. Your fingertips gather at the sweetness between your breasts, and it’s the final catalyst for Boyd to shove his free hand down his shorts and clamber his cock out. His chubbed cheeks are blushed hot with shame and sheer desperation. He’s entirely diseased in such debauchery, and his slit is already drooling precum at the view of the pretty and precious young girl that he’s now stalked. He swipes his pleading, red and puffy tip, and his hips twitch, his bottom lip catching between his teeth at his own touch. He recalls how soft your skin was against his palm, how somberly you’d spoken to him. He can't help but think of you as so alike to that sweet fawn – myopic to the malvolence of nature. Of the massacres humanity introduces onto unsuspecting, kind little creatures.
“My— mmh! My Bambi…” Boyd pitifully whines into his hand. He grips the base of his wet cock, beginning to stroke his throbbing length to the sight of you, his sultry, darling doe. The veins of him already protrude, pulsing with blood as the burning in his belly swirls down to his balls. He has been hardening since he’d first seen you wistful on the wayside, and he’s been anticipating his orgasm nearly all day. He squeezes his dick in a sharp seize, feeling the spike of heat that shoots up his spine. His knees shake and his shoulders tense. Sweat flows down his forehead, soaking the sides of his glasses.
Boyd pants, and the jerks of his fist get harder, forcing his heavy balls to slap up with every rough, stinging tug he holds on his tender flesh. The friction of his palm and the fabric of his shorts that sticks to his sack makes his tip slicken further, faster, before the heat curls and hikes up his cock.
“Baby– my baby… F— fuck! He pants, pathetic with perversion before his balls tense. His cheeks tinge red hot, and with heaved breaths and a final stroke, his slit begins to spurt out hot, thick streams of semen against his hand. It stains warm and wet on his shirt and shorts, before dripping into the grass below. Boyd is left gasping into his palm, the release of his pleasure streaked all over his skin. He then begins to smear himself below the windowsill to clean the slick off, so his cum can now coat the side of your house.
He can smell the pungency of his own perspiration and musked orgasm. It corrodes his senses like the putrefaction of the dead and decomposed that he’s seasoned to handle. His mouth is parted with pure bliss, his mustache damp with his own saliva as staring eyes remain fixed on your cozy, couch-clad form.
His regular roadkill pickup today has raged itself into rapacity. An obsession, and a craving for an endearing, yet now endangered, creature as yourself. You’ve cracked the cowardly, confidence-lacking man open.
His recollection of your cries protrude his eardrums like a caress, a console. Your teary eyes are embedded into the forefronts of his skull, burned behind his corneas to carry him back to your first encounter.
Boyd whines out as he touches his tender, now softening cock, into oversensitivity, prodding at his pink tip before fumbling his length away back into his cum-stained shorts. There's no doubt that he will return to collect information on your routines whilst rutting his fist until he cums. For the foreseeable future, he will conduct his surveillance until he is able to strike and sequester a sweet, little Bambi for himself.
Hii! If you’ve watched Dexter, can I request Brian Moser x male reader, who is too sweet? Like, the reader is constantly kissing and hugging him, looking at him with such tenderness, stroking his knuckles and gently ruffles his hair, even when they shower together the reader gently kisses his bare skin. I could go on forever, but I hope you get what I mean (and how he would react if the reader stayed just as sweet even after finding out who he really is) Thank you in advance, I love your writings so much ^^
TOO SWEET
Brian Moser x Male Reader
You’d known Dexter for years. Not best friends, but close enough. He was someone who understood silence, who never pushed when you didn’t feel like talking, who showed up when you needed him. And through him you met Brian. Just another face at first, someone who seemed charming enough, quick with jokes, sharp in the way that made you pay attention.
You didn’t realize, of course, that the only reason he’d gotten close was because of Dexter. At first, you were a convenient way to dig deeper into his long lost little brother’s life.
A pawn. A mask.
But then you smiled at him.
You kissed his cheek when you said hello. You brushed your fingers across his knuckles when you laughed at one of his darker jokes. You tucked yourself into his side on the couch without hesitation, looking at him with that warm, tender gaze that no one had ever turned on him before.
And Brian realized, horrified and fascinated, that the longer he spent with you, the less you felt like a pawn and more like an anchor.
He told himself it was just lust. That it was easy to enjoy the way you kissed him like he was fragile, like he wasn’t dangerous at all. That it was nothing when you absentmindedly played with his hair while talking about your day or kissed his shoulder while he brushed his teeth. But then he caught himself thinking about you when he was setting up his plastic wrap. About the way you hummed under your breath when cooking dinner. About how you sometimes pulled him into your arms without a word, just letting him rest his head against your chest.
It was dangerous. Love was dangerous. And yet, he couldn’t stop coming back for more.
So when you eventually found out the truth, he was prepared for it to be the end. You weren’t meant to come over. You weren’t meant to see the tarp, the tools, the way his eyes lit up with a sharp, cold hunger. You froze in the doorway, the reality of who he was snapping into place.
He expected you to scream. To run.
But instead, you stepped forward, calm as anything, and said softly, “Brian…”
His hand holding a knife twitched. He could end it right here. End the softness before it became a weakness. Instead, you reached for him. You cupped his bloodied hand in yours, kissed the knuckles like you always did, even though the skin was still wet with someone else’s life.
He stared at you in disbelief. “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”
You smiled faintly, brushing your thumb over his jaw. “Because you’re still the man who holds me at night. You’re still the man who kisses me like I’m the only thing in the world.”
From that moment on, something shifted.
He wasn’t gentle by nature but he found himself becoming softer with you. Holding you longer after sex. Letting his guard down in ways he never had before. He’d watch you in the shower, how you pressed kisses across his chest and shoulders, how you whispered sweet things against his skin like he deserved them.
Sometimes it made him angry. He’d snap, grab your chin roughly, demand, “Why do you look at me like that? Why the hell aren’t you running?”
And you’d always answer the same: “Because I love you, and I think a part of you loves me, too.”
He hated that it was the truth.
Your sweetness burned through him like a slow poison, leaving him addicted. And though he’d never admit it out loud, he knew. If anyone ever tried to take you from him, he’d paint the world red before letting that happen.
where like reader is a pervert and stole dexters stuff to jerk off too and dexter found out n they fuck ( bottom reader ) u dont have to write it ofc if u dont wanna
DEXTER MORGAN — creep
pairing: dexter morgan x pervert male reader
including: creeping, sniffing clothes, stealing belongings, dexter is a freak(in the show too don't ignore that), stalking, blood obsessions, so ooc oh my god(like HEAVILY OOC), dexter already has feelings for reader im just too lazy to include it completely
note: i love bjork(pretend she didn't do racist actions) i never proofread. man y'all better blow ts up y'all been begging me for dexter for WEEKS.
dexter morgan, who never missed anything. not a beat, or a heartbeat. he never missed the changes in personality, never missed subtle hints, never missed when something was missing. not now, not ever.
dexter morgan, who initially thought someone had found him out(like he always does). someone was stealing his shit to turn him in, to find him out, to catch him in the act. but what would someone like that need with his underwear? his socks? ..one of his shoes? he was confused, he could easily figure out who it was because whoever figured themselves out into his house wasn't slick about it by any means.
dexter morgan, who never thought it would be you. you were always so well collected, so kind, genuinely understanding and never pissed him off much. but he hated when people went through his shit, he couldn't stand it. murderer or not, he hated it more than anything in the world. but you? pretty privilege must be real.
dexter morgan, who found himself getting off to it. found himself liking the fact that you were doing this, that you were infatuated with him on another level. it was perverted, yeah but who wasn't? just a natural human need.
dexter morgan, who would start watching you like you watched him. just way more careful. he'd take just a small peek into your window and catch you at the right moment. catch your with a button up of his in your hand, clutching it to your face as you sniffed in his scent. your hand reached down into your pants and stroking yourself shamelessly, moaning his name over and over like some prophecy.
dexter morgan, knew he could make up some cheap excuse to get into your house with your permission. you'd let him in with no excuse anyway. he was usually awkward, but confident on his own so he could get what he wanted. "uh..yeah, sure you can come over. im not really busy." you would say it and hesitate, but it wasn't a "i'm not sure" hesitation. it was an "i need you so bad" hesitation. you were nervous, and that was good.
dexter morgan, that would look around your room and already see about five of his shirts laying around on your floor. "sorry it's a mess." you'd say, settling on your bed and tapping at your thighs. "i never have people over." he'd assure you it was fine, before he allowed his eyes to lock onto a green button up. "you know, i had a shirt that looks just like that one?" your eyes snapped towards the shirt, and you gulped. "it went missing some time ago." his eyes came back to you, no longer focusing on the shirt. because it wasn't about the shirt. "really? wha— what a coincidence." "yeah. what a coincidence."
dexter morgan, who'd fuck you like he was the one stalking you first, like he stole your clothes, like he'd looked at you with such want. he was vocal, very vocal, and you just adored it. he sounded like he was just as needy as you, his moans were broken and filled with need and it was so damn perfect.
dexter morgan, who would make his scent much stronger for you. oh the way you'd melt when his scent touched your nose, the way you would be all embarrassed and hide the tent in your pants trying to work and ignore that smell. you had fucked a few times at work inside some cramped closet or the bathroom, the two of you would be as quiet as you could. shared breathes, huffing, grinding, sweat mixing from how hard and rough the two of you would go.
dexter morgan, who hated when people went through his shit. he hated it more than anything. not you though, it was okay when you did it.
-> not sure when or how it starts. but Dexter prefers to see his gf when he vacuums. so everytime he does it, she takes it as her queue to stand on the sofa, a pillow hugged to her chest, watching him do his thing. and she's not allowed to touch the ground until he's all done and gives her a little kiss on the mouth. every time.
-> Dexter who bonds with his gf by painting her nails for her. he likes how precise he has to be in doing so. even would go ahead and give her a full on pedi and mani to a professional degree. Will cut her cuticles for her and everything while she rambles on about her day or whatever's on her mind lately.
-> Dexter who worries his gf may look too vulnerable to a killer, so he spends weekends training her, making her do little exercises to help her in case someone tries to hurt her. and by the end of it, he always rewards her, without a fail. it could be going for ice cream, or watching her favourite movie, or going for a swim, or sometimes she'll ask for a kiss and that they go for a walk, and he complies because of course he does <3
-> Dexter who always takes out the trash without being asked. Dexter who keeps her medicine cabinet restocked. Dexter who looks after her very well <3
-> Dexter who doesn't bat an eye when she accidentally leaks on the bed during her periods. He cleans up and comforts her, tells her little jokes to not make her feel embarrassed. and then she'll be sitting on the toilet lid, while he tells her how to wash off blood best in the sink in scientific detail while he scrubs her sheets.
