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Lights sway across the curtains, swathing the cheap motel beds with pale blue, in steady repetition. The ugly carpet patterns match, in a way, with the covers, and she can feel herself watching those lights, the busy print, and the hard line of his shoulders at the small table, over and over.
Dexter tells her to take the bed furthest from the door, and she scoffs, drying her hair. When she crawls into bed with just a large shirt and nothing underneath, he’s none the wiser. But Deb knows, and she feels high on adrenaline at the thought. She knows he’s been looking, and in this motel room, she feels like she can pretend it means something.
She can’t do this, sleep in her bed, mere feet away from him. Her wet hair soaking the pillow, talking about the beach way back when she felt protected by him, loved and cared for by him, looking back at him to see glimpses of his bare chest and the way the blue light has darkened, sweeping across the hard, muscled lines of his shoulders. She doesn’t feel it anymore, that he cares. Has he ever? Debra knows him through and through, covered his fucking ass way too many times to count, and it’s like he expects her to continue without reciprocation. She’s not asking for him to fucking fall in love with her, but he doesn’t even seem to respect her anymore.
Dexter says things like “I love you,” and “Of course I care about you,” now, in the alley between the buildings at work or when he sits on the sofa at her house, eyebrows knitted in concern and elbows on his knees, looking up at her.
He avoids holding onto her hugs too long, replaces lingering touch with words, and expects her to just be okay with it. She remembers how much it meant to her when Dexter told her he loved her back, albeit platonically, after he’d almost died at sea. But when she remembers the way he hugged her after Rita’s death, his arms securing his body to hers like it would be unfair for them to exist apart from that point on, she’d actually felt it.
Debra notices, though, when Dexter’s eyes stay on her nipples through her shirt when he drops by her house unexpectedly and how a simple brush of her hand up the hairs on his arm leaves him speechless for a moment, choking on his words. The hope he sparks with these incidents just don’t last; in the next moment, he says something so immeasurably stupid, so unfathomably unbelievable, that every part of her crashes and burns in emotional turmoil.
Her brother, the man who has had the solutions to her problems all her life, doesn’t have an answer for her anymore. Ever since she’d walked in on him at the church, knife raised, Travis Marshall wrapped in plastic to the table, he can no longer separate himself in front of her, the brother, the lover, the serial killer.
His eyes follow her, grimacing when she punches him in the arm, hard enough to bruise, playing the fucking victim. He pisses her off like no other, every time he says bullshit like “without you, I’m lost.” And before she can believe it, she needs to be able to punish him for it. All the fucking lies, just a split second before she feels herself give in to him. Because she always does . She’s fucking weak when it comes to him, so fucking keen to make sacrifices for him so he can show just the tiniest bit of affection, and it hurts her so badly to see him reject her over and over.
She knows exactly what it is. Her hands are tied and she cannot see beyond him. Her world is dark and he is the black fucking hole that surrounds her. There is no release, no reward, no benefit. It’s all for him, and it sickens her to the very fucking core. She can’t resist him. Dexter, her brother, master manipulator. How did she become so fucking easy?
There’s about an hour of silence where the lights from outside the windows sweep again and again over the ceiling, the walls, the beds and herself in thin light. Debra is seized with anger, with these self-deprecating thoughts, tense on her bed with tears dried along the corners of her eyes and cheeks. She’s been trying so fucking hard to sleep, but she’d forgotten her pills at home; without the crutch she feels like fucking screaming.
Laying on her back, she can look over to the side anytime she likes, to see Dexter curled up on his side like a child, clutching his pillow and his knees tucked up high on his body. She could drink in the sight of his torso, and scar, so perfectly placed, the muscles and heavy set arms creating moisture between her legs every second she imagines them. He’s always slept silently, wordless, empty, just like him. It’s almost as if he never actually drifts into unconsciousness, as if at nights he plays dead, dreams never claiming him, nightmares never seducing him. He could be watching her right now. He's been watching her a lot.
Debra doesn’t look, but her heartbeat quickens again, seemingly because of his proximity and the inappropriateness of rubbing her thighs together so close to him. She imagines the way Dexter looks at her when he tells her he's lost without her, punishing herself with the thought. It hurts so badly, all over again. She feels a gasp rising up in her chest, fresh tears gathering in her eyes, and she digs her fingernails into the covers. She’s fucking wet. Because of Dexter, being there, so near and tempting.
She hates this, a part of her at least. The ever growing chasm that lies between who she used to be and who she is now is evident in the fantasies that she often finds herself scratching into her arms or swigging down with hard liquor.
Whatever control, whatever parts of herself that are still genuine to her, that are still hers, are slipping, mixing, melting. She is tainted by him, his presence, his broken promises and his lies, but more unfortunately, she hates herself for reveling in it. There's a darkness in her, too. Fuck, fuck , she wants something back. She wants to take from him. She needs her pills, she needs some goddamn reprieve. Debra needs to fucking be away from him, maybe then she won’t feel like dying every time she thinks too hard about him, about them, about a lifetime of giving herself over to him for him to dash into jagged pieces.
“Deb?” She hears the covers rustling, as if he’s sitting up, but she refuses to look, terrified that he heard. She must’ve been sobbing, but she can’t really tell anymore. Debra has to focus on breathing through the pain coursing down the length of her body, her chest seizing involuntarily, because she suddenly can’t fucking breathe. "Deb, what's happening?"
In a moment, Dexter’s beside her, looming over her, blocking out the light so she can’t look away, covering her with his shadow. “Get out of the fucking way,” she croaks, upset and cornered, desperate to hide her tears. She feels so exposed in front of him, laid bare and vulnerable, and she sure as shit doesn't trust Dexter, especially this Dexter, to tread carefully, to treat her with affection and dignity. Not even when he's looking at her like that.
The little gasps continue, unbidden and angering and helpless. It’s just the two of them, locked in a fucking motel room, her arousal and panic clear in her eyes. She’s never wanted Dexter more, but she’s so afraid. She’s so fucking afraid to try to make him see. But, he's seeing something, right now, and he's slow to react. It's like it's finally getting through to his thick fucking skull that whatever he says right now won't matter, because they've lost so much meaning.
So he doesn't say anything. Instead, he sits on the bed hesitantly, as close as brotherly appropriate, his warmth pressing through the sheets onto her freezing legs. Debra can’t physically move her body, not yet, to lift one and dig her heel into his side, because he can't have actually listened to her when she said his words don't fix a thing. It's not something he does, to consider something she's said and respect it. He always crosses boundaries, pulls away when she clings to him, doesn't fucking touch her. She wants to kick him where it hurts, to make him go the fuck away even though she truly couldn’t want anything less. She gives herself a few more seconds for the panic to subside, aware enough to know that his nearness is what helps her calm down, and despising the fuck out of that fact.
“Breathe.” He whispers softly, voice barely audible. He reaches over, brushing her heated cheek with his knuckles, leaving her tense with hope. Indignation swells up inside her, too, because he doesn’t know he's hurting her, even now. Soon enough, he'll pull away, knowing that her weakness for him grows stronger every time he wrenches away from her.
"Stop, Dexter," she says, just as softly. "Don't touch me like that and pretend like you want me, too."
“I- I love you," Dexter sighs, stronger this time, and her chest burns. "I want-"
When he struggles to continue, her heart sinks. “Fucking save it," she chokes, upset and frustrated. Why was she demanding words from him anyway? Nothing he can say will make this right. When Debra fights to turn her back on her brother, to turn over and dismiss him, he stops her. She stares at the dark ceiling, watching the lights again, feeling defeated. “It’s fine, I’m fine.”
“You’re not,” he says quietly.
“Go away,” she tells him. “You can't fix this. Nothing you do will ever fix this.”
Dexter’s hand is still on her shoulder, pressing her slightly into the bed, and the covers start to slip down to her ribs. Consequently, his gaze slips down to the hard peaks of her nipples through her shirt. He clears his throat, looking back up. He seems like he's warring with himself when he forces out, “Can I.. " He shakes his head, as if he's trying to shake his thoughts out of his head.
Her eyes are narrowing with each passing second as she watches his eyebrows furrow in uncertainty. Dexter’s eyelashes are stark against his skin, and his gaze is dark as he tries to discern the expression on her face, trying to fight his urges. His hair is mussed and curly, some strands sticking to his forehead in perspiration, and Debra wants to have that sweat on her neck, stomach, thighs. He leans closer after the pause, as if he can hear her thoughts, almost as if by instinct or force of nature.
She stops him with her hand on his chest, nails biting through the ginger hair. Why is he letting this happen? Debra can't, for the life of her, figure out what the fuck is going on. Minutes ago, she was shaking and crying, but right now? She's in control, for the first time in forever. It's the perfect antidote, at least it seems so right now. She wants to take him, in this fever dream. She wants to have him. Without thinking, her fingers wander lower and lower, brushing over her brother's abdominal muscles and feeling the gooseflesh she leaves in her wake. He's looking at her, startled, like he always is, like he's questioning how this is actually happening. She doesn't stop; she decides that she won't. The room is charged, and she wants her dream to go her way.
Dexter looks down at her hand as it travels back up to his nipple, brushing thumb and forefinger to then roughly roll the nub between them, the hot intake of his breath filling the air, melding into the silence before. He’s mute, unable to say a word, his mouth slightly agape as his body clearly seems to respond to the sensation. Debra can live off of this, his sounds, her growing control. She wants him to be breathless like this, all the time. She wants to cross the fucking line.
His hand finally grabs Debra’s wrist like he’s about to wrench it away, to reprimand her like he always does, and she chooses this moment to pinch, hard. He flinches, eyes on hers again, losing his voice a few times before, “Fuck, Deb ,” comes out choked and heavy, like the breaths that follow. His cursing puts a lick of heat up her spine; she's so fucking turned on, it hurts.
“Now who has the dirty fucking mouth,” she mutters, grabbing the same hand and leading it to her inner thigh, and his breath comes choppy as he realizes that she’s not wearing underwear. He physically resists a moment, and Debra lets him for the time being, her mind already made up. She watches him screw up his face, uncertain and drowning in want . She can recognize the look, now, since she's not in her head like she was. She laughs a little, incredulously. Openly staring at his sister is fine, but not this? Using her, but not this?
“Fucking touch me, Dexter,” she demands, and it's like he needed that excuse, to make it about her to give in, to close his eyes and brush his thumb over her inner thighs, her legs parting to feel his fingers rub up the wet line of her slit. Debra moans to feel him give a little more control to her, watching him wet his lips and struggle to stop himself, to take a single complete breath. His chest heaves, and his hand is stuck between her legs. He can’t seem to stop circling her clit and covering his fingers completely with damning evidence of her arousal, his eyes following the line of her body like he’s starving to see , to feel .
“ Fuck ,” He mumbles under his breath, his wrist now trapped in her grasp as she moves his fingers the way she wants them against her, her hips pressing forwards in rhythmic little thrusts, taking what she needs.
“Put one in,” she instructs, letting go of his wrist to draw up the hem of her shirt over her pelvis and breasts. Dexter's eyes widen as he sees her lean up slightly to take the shirt off, and then he’s leaning forward to place an open mouthed kiss to her navel, lingering close to her like he can’t help himself.
All of this, like he can’t control what he’s doing, when that’s always what he’s been good at his whole life. She wants to ask, what does this mean? But she has to remind herself it’s fucking Dexter. He has none of the goddamn answers.
He leans back, admiring her naked form in the moonlight, fantastical and dreamlike, lingering on her toned torso to her hard nipples, his fingers rubbing her lazily. He slowly inserts his finger into her slick pussy, closing his eyes again at her responding gasp as if he’s unable to process everything that’s happening all at once.
“What do you want?” He asks tentatively.
There’s a heated few moments of silence between them, only the slick sounds of his middle finger pumping in and out of her filling the air, followed shortly with her brief chuffs of breath. The room is spinning out and expanding, the sickly visuals of light and shadow cutting across his pecs and defining one side of his face, the glow of light framing his messy hair. It's a nice dream, Debra thinks.
“To use you like you used me,” Debra says, because this isn't happening anyway, watching her brother pause and then remove his fingers. She is about to grab his hand back when he then chooses to raise his fingers to his mouth to lick her wetness from them. His fingers stay in between his lips a beat too long, like he’s savoring her taste, watching her with narrowed eyes of his own.
Dexter moves on top of her, running his hand over the grooves and dips of her skinny frame, knees bracketing her hips as he slides the length of his body up hers.
“Do whatever you want to me, Debra,” he says softly, rising a little above her so he can stroke his hands more firmly over her body. All of his tense muscles against her feels so fucking good, she sighs into his embrace immediately, not resisting at all. She places her hands on either side of his ribs, then up over his arms to wind around his broad shoulders, fingers weaving into his hair. Dexter’s eyes, glinting and bottomless, find hers and she lets out the breath she’s been holding, feeling some control fall away from her. She wants him, but she needs to ask.
“Why?” She knows that whatever he says will ring false to her ears, arching her back slightly with each pass of his hands over the swells of her breasts and hard nipples. She can feel him contemplating what’s happening, what she asked him. He’s hesitant, grinding down shallowly to test the waters.
He leans down slowly, his arms buckling so his weight presses down on her slight build until his lips hover over hers. It’s so fucking intimate that she can feel new tears spring to her eyes, his heartbeat and the tremors of her body brought together as one. Fuck, this isn't how she wanted this to go. It's too perfect, and consequentially, it hurts. Debra doesn't want to be in pain right now.
“I want you, too,” he replies finally, like he’s weighing his words carefully, aware of how fragile she is. He tilts his face so he can press a tender kiss to her forehead, and she aches with how much she wants to accept it. “And I know…”
He pauses, his soft lips brushing hers ever so slightly, making her shiver. “What?” She whispers, and gasps as he ducks his head lower to bite her throat, the wet press of his lips mollifying the slight pain. He sucks at the skin of her shoulder next, and then presses the softest of chaste kisses back up the length of her neck.
“What, Dexter?” She demands, her throat constricting painfully, caught up in the impossibility of this moment, for once not being afraid to ask.
“I realize that…” he says, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I’m just- selfish,” he sighs, reaching up to brush her hair out of her face, “You're my life, Deb.” He sweeps his thumb along her eyebrow, then over her cheekbone, wiping away her tears like they matter to him. Dexter’s touching her tears like he’s not afraid of them, like he just wants her, "I should be the one existing for you, not the other way around." It’s the final barrier, for both of them. She realizes, shocked, that's it's not her dream. It's theirs.
He presses his mouth against hers suddenly, and she surges up to deepen the kiss immediately, her brain short cutting. Debra’s surrounded by him, her eyes closed and the smell of his deodorant and sweat filling her nostrils and the taste of toothpaste and something just so distinctly his, flooding her mouth. Her eyes sting, and she kisses him harder like she’s trying to absorb him completely. God, it's not a fantasy. It's real. Dexter's hers, touching her so perfectly, and he's real.
His hands have drifted down to her hips, gripping her solidly against him, and she hooks her arms under his to wrap around his back, her nails digging into his shoulders, hugging him as close to her as possible. He squeezes at her flesh, consuming her space and claiming her breath with every pull of his lips against hers.
He’s grinding his pelvis down to hers, the hard line of his cock through his boxers sliding against her bare sex, his little gasps pressed over and over against her mouth. She squeezes her thighs around his waist, digging her heels into the mattress so she can meet him thrust per thrust.
“Shit, shit, shit ,” Deb mumbles, her pussy soaking through the material of his boxers, and he presses his tongue against hers through their open mouths, slightly, before their lips close and slide deep, his teeth riding against her bottom lip. It’s just them, pressed together from mouths to hips, and she feels so fucking safe .
She trusts him completely and she feels so fucking pathetic for it.
“It’s not,” he rasps fiercely, and she realizes that she'd said her feelings aloud. He buries his face into her neck before she can think to react, his stubble scalding her skin, dropping butterfly kisses onto her neck and sucking slight bruises into her collarbones. “I feel the same. I always have.”
She feels his large hand palm over one of her breasts while he sucks her other nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling the nub and making her hiss, “ Fuck , Dexter,” when he pushes the tip against his teeth. She yanks at his hair, “ Don’t fucking tease.”
His hands grope her breasts crudely in response, muttering, “I’m not." Dexter sucks marks down the length of her abdomen worshipfully, licking over the light bruises as they form, her whole body jerking every time he exhales over a sensitive spot. Her body is strung so tight, and he notices, massaging her torso slightly with his big fucking hands. It's so gentle, so fucking reverent and respectful, she feels herself arching against his touch and just accepting the pleasure, taking what she deserves. When he lingers, sucking kisses over the thin skin at her waistline, his hands caressing her hips and thighs, she fights the urge to burst into tears again. Dexter is fucking hers, she doesn't want his hands or his mouth or his body on any-fucking-one else. She feels so special.
“Point of no return, Deb,” Dexter informs her softly, hooking his thick forearms under her thighs, his large hands gripping the same spots on her hips that hurt from bruises he left there.
”Shut the fuck up,” Debra grabs two fistfuls of his hair, ready to shove him down where she wants him, but he’s already there, burying his face between her thighs. His shoulders and arms tense under her legs and his fingers tighten on her skin, and she moans low in her throat at the sensation. He's possessing her, and for once, he's not using her. It's their dream brought to reality, and they belong to each other.
He’s a fucking animal, ravaging her dripping cunt with hard presses and strokes of his flat tongue, then suctioning his wet lips around her clit until her thighs clench around his head, alternating the two over and over. "Fuck, Dexter! Fuck!" she wails, her hands holding her brother in place while her hips grind up against his mouth, thinking minemineminemine.
Dexter sounds like he’s fucking starving, licking her out until her legs shake over his back, his fingers pressing into her bruises every time she moans to make it so she chokes on them. He wants to claim her, too, to take her, to have her. Still, fucking jackass.
In turn, Debra hooks her heels under his shoulder blades, ignoring his hiss of pain, and fucks his face, hands in his hair, her head thrown back in ecstasy. She rides Dexter’s face, gasping and trying and failing at keeping a full breath, her entire body shaking, heat shooting up her spine every time he moans against her.
He keeps pushing himself closer to her, insatiable and equally as desperate, and she’s already more than halfway gone from all the fucking kissing and grinding, anyway. “I’m- I- n-not going to last Dexter,” she groans, and he squeezes at her hips in response, drawing out another hiss of pain. He moves his hands from her hips to her thighs, his arms digging into her legs to pull her impossibly closer. I want you, too, he seems to convey. I want you in exactly the same way.
It doesn’t help that he’s barely even coming up for air, just letting her do whatever the fuck she wants to him, like he'd promised and wanted. He’s tongue fucking her into oblivion, making good on his words, kiss-swollen mouth sucking on her clit until she starts spiraling towards the edge. “I’m close , I’m-“ She yanks at his hair and he moans brokenly, the vibrations running up her spine and buzzing all over her skin.
“I-I-“ Deb can’t even speak, the heat in her stomach is coiled so tight that her entire body tenses completely, “fucking motherfuck I’m c-com-ing!” She bucks her hips involuntarily, watching through half-lidded eyes how Dexter doubles down and continues licking her out despite the absolute fucking mess on his face. It’s enough to send her tumbling over, rolling her hips until the throbbing in her pussy spreads into intense, blinding heat throughout her body, softening into warmth.
Dexter looks absolutely debauched, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he gets up on his knees, Debra’s legs falling to his sides. His hands massage the tops of her thighs and he leans down to kiss her knee.
“Jesus fucking christ.” Debra throws an arm over her eyes, feeling him slump into the pillow next to her.
“Dexter’s fine,” he says, deadpan, and she looks over at him. His eyes are a light, muted green in the moonlight, his hair wet from exertion, and she feels the same moisture cooling over the expanse of her naked body. He smiles when she glares at him, but she’s too satiated to hold up the pretense for long.
She rolls to her side and puts her hand down his trunks, drawing out his dick. “Fucking wow,” she giggles, and he rolls his eyes. He drops the attitude though when she starts pumping his cock with a tight fist, drawing his precum over the tip and dragging it down to the base continuously. “One more minute of eating me out and you would’ve come in your pants like a teenager,” Deb mocks, and he doesn’t even deny it, turning slightly so he can reach out towards her.
“C’mere,” he slurs breathily, his arms pulling her over until her tits press against his side, her leg is thrown over his thighs, and her head rests on his shoulder. She presses hard kisses to his mouth while he bucks his hips into her grasp, moaning into her mouth and letting her taste her own cum on his tongue.
“You’re so beautiful, Deb,” he sighs, dragging her even closer with his arms as he sucks on her lower lip before kissing her deeper. She kisses him back fervently, savoring his touch and the heat of his body and the warmth of his tongue pushing against hers, observing how he gets more messy and wanton with each passing second.
Deb takes the cue that he’s close and jerks him faster, expertly twisting around the ridge at the top and then moving down to squeeze slightly at the base. He doesn’t last more than a few more moments before he tenses, his abdominals flexing as he screws up his face with pleasure, muttering fuckfuckfuck in forced, raspy exhales until his cum lands in streaks across his stomach and all over her hand.
Deb reaches for her discarded shirt and uses it to wipe her hand, then hands it to him so he can wipe his torso. He does, tossing the shirt next to the bed to worry about later. He huffs as he slumps back into the bed, his arms limp at his sides, staring up at the dark ceiling.
“I never thought we’d actually go there,” Dexter says, wondrously, breathlessly.
Debra stares at the line of his jaw, his dark eyelashes, and the bitten-pink of his lips, overcome. He's her anchor, her savior. She can't lose him. When the silence stretches, he turns to look at her. She tells him, “I love you," because what else is there to say? She wants answers, but she doesn't know how to ask for them in ways she already hasn't.
He sobers, nodding, “Me too. More than you know.”
“Dexter, I-I- what does that mean ?” Debra starts, irritated, repeating what she always has, but then he strokes his knuckles against her cheekbone, calming her like he did earlier that night. He's different; has been for a while. Debra can recognize that he wants to be better. The question is "how?"
"It means I want to fix this, no matter what it takes. But I know it’s …killing you to stay with me,“ he says softly. He doesn’t continue after that, closing his eyes tightly as if in pain, as if that’s the damning fucking statement. That she’ll walk away because of personal detriment and sacrifice, as if she wouldn’t choose him over everything else, every fucking time.
“You also fucking keep me alive, Dex,” she says hotly, “You’re so fucking deluded, you don’t get to decide whether or not I deserve to be around you. I’ve-“
“I know! I know .” He says just as fiercely, “Deb, I’ve always found it difficult to see death as a loss, so telling you that I would die for you is not enough of a sacrifice. It would be quite selfish actually.” He takes a deep breath, shaking and intense, “But… I want.. I want to live for you, Debra. I want to endure life to be with you, because... you're what makes me real. I can't - I can't see beyond you and I don't want to. I want to always choose you."
“You better not be talking out of your ass." Surprisingly, Dexter's words have filled her with warmth, and his touch still lingers over her body. She just wants him close, she always does.
As if he heard her thoughts, her brother closes the small distance between them to kiss her chastely on the lips, “You and Harrison. All I fucking need."
“You'll have to fucking prove it,” Debra challenges. He nods, accepting that she won’t believe him for a while. “And since when did you start swearing?”
“Since you rubbed off on me,” Dexter teases, grinning boyishly and raising his eyebrows. “Want to do it again sometime?”
“You’re sick,” Debra says with a smirk, feeling his hand slide over the skin of her waist, taking care not to touch her bruises. She'll have to leave some on him next time, because he's hers. Fucking hers.
He kisses her again, and this time, Debra follows him back to his arms, just letting herself feel safe again. The glow behind the curtains is steadfast, quiet, resting over their skin in a blanket of light. She rests her head on his chest, tracing the long line of his scar, right over his ribs, with the tip of her finger, casting blue shadows over his torso.
It's a beautiful dream, and maybe it's theirs, or maybe it'll just end up being hers and she'll crash and burn. Or maybe, she thinks, feeling Dexter tighten his arms and press a kiss to her hair, maybe he'll finally give himself to her, exactly the same way she has been giving herself to him. Maybe, just maybe, they'll survive this shit, somehow.