fic: A Box I Choose [Dexter: Deb Morgan/Maria LaGuerta]
Title: A Box I Choose
Fandom: Dexter
Pairing: Deb Morgan/Maria LaGuerta
Rating: 18 (sex)
Summary: LaGuerta isn't stupid, but she does stupid things sometimes.
Author's Notes: Theclosetalker requested a Dexter fic in the drabble meme I posted awhile back. This is what I came up with. It's hate!sex, set sometime early in the second season.
Archiving: P&P is fine. All others please ask: bank_farter@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: I don't own Dexter
Maria LaGuerta is not stupid. A lot of people in the department think otherwise, and she knows that. She’s heard some of it from Doakes, but she’s also seen it for herself-the awkward, averted glances and the hush that sometimes falls over the room when she walks in unexpectedly. They talk about her. Bitch about her. Laugh about her. She’s well aware, but it doesn’t matter. If they knew half of what she’s done-what she’s had to do-to get where she is, they would know the truth, unequivocally: she’s no moron.
As much as she hates to admit it, though (even to herself), she does do foolish things sometimes. Like holding that press conference announcing that the Ice Truck investigation was re-opening. It was a matter of principle, but that stunt cost her her rank, her office, her standing in the department. She’d gotten it back, of course, but it had taken a lot out of her. She’d had to make a few sacrifices she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Her sexuality, for one. Esme, for another.
Then again, she reasons, Pascal really should have known better than to bring that crap with her fiancé into work. She didn’t, and that was her own tragic flaw. Maria just exploited it. It was nothing personal.
Not like what she’s doing with Morgan. Cornering her in bathroom stalls, in the locker room, in the gym so that she can crush their lips together, fumble with duty belts and dress shirts that take far too long to unbutton. Calling her into her office so that Deb can straddle her in the desk chair, grind herself down onto LaGuerta’s hand until they’re both sweating and panting from more than just exertion. It’s not affectionate-they don’t kiss so much as battle for dominance, teeth gnashing against swollen lips. They certainly don’t talk, except for inarticulate syllables towards the end and the dirty little things that slip out of both their mouths when they’re too far gone to really notice. But it’s clearly about Morgan for LaGuerta.
It’s Morgan’s recklessness that attracts her, she thinks, Morgan’s scent (cheap perfume with a hint of perspiration from all that working out she does) that she smells on herself hours later when she undresses before bed. It’s her irritation, her dislike, her desire to put Morgan in her place that makes it so damn satisfying to fuck her hard enough that she practically limps the next day. And Maria’s pretty sure that feeling’s mutual.
So, yeah, what she’s doing with Morgan is pretty damn personal, and extremely, carelessly stupid. Worse than the time she started that ill-advised manhunt for Tony Tucci, worse than the Neil Perry press conference. But it’s funny how that fact isn’t stopping her from snaking her hand down, pressing up against the rough material of Deb’s dress pants until her palm is flush between her legs.
“Fuck,” Morgan chokes out as she arches into the touch. Her voice is somewhere between arousal and embarrassment, and Maria knows why. Deb’s burning up under her hand, and they’ve barely even touched each other. It’s always been fast, rushed, but this… this is new. Different. And LaGuerta feels a jolt in her stomach that she’s not sure is entirely due to arousal.
She doesn’t stop, though. She never manages to make herself stop. Instead, Maria works her hand past the zipper and into Deb’s underwear, which are far less utilitarian than she should be wearing for duty. She slides three fingers into her without warm-up, presses against her own wrist the best she can-it’s an awkward angle-and then settles in and lets Deb do most of the work. Deb likes it that way, Maria’s discovered, and she supposes she can’t fault her for wanting the extra control. Plus, those first few moments when Deb starts to move against her are the most focused and intent that she ever sees her, and there’s something about that that Maria just… appreciates.
It never lasts. Deb doesn’t make it two minutes before her breath starts to catch and her movements become increasingly frantic, and LaGuerta feels herself clench a little when Deb releases a hot, breathy little moan into her ear. The pressure from her forearm isn’t much, but it’s something, and, combined with the sight of Deb biting her lip and trying to control herself enough to save face, it’s almost enough.
“Say something in Spanish,” Deb pants.
Maria hooks her fingers, presses hard into Deb, enjoys the gasp that follows. “Shut up.” She’s cool when she says it, not betraying much, but there’s just a hint of a growl because she’ll be damned if she’s going to give Deb Morgan something else not to listen to. She’s good enough at ignoring what Maria says without it being in a language she doesn’t understand anyway.
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, Morgan.” She puts an emphasis on ‘Morgan’ because she knows how much Deb hates it when she calls her that during sex. Then, she presses her face into Deb’s hair, where she knows Deb won’t see her, and cringes because this is what their interactions boil down to.
Deb, of course, comes then, cursing like a sailor under her breath as she thrusts down against Maria’s hand. Maria wonders if the ‘bitch’ she mutters when she’s riding it out is Deb’s version of calling out her name or if it was just part of some larger string of profanity that died on her lips. Maybe both.
LaGuerta pulls her fingers out and watches the younger woman slump against her desk. Her hair is mussed, her pants are around her knees, and the pinkish lipstick that doesn’t quite suit her is smeared around her face. She looks like as much of a mess as she actually is, and LaGuerta feels a little surge of pity that she knows she shouldn’t feel.
“You have five minutes to get out of my office,” she tells Deb, her voice flat. Then, she turns without looking her in the eye and walks away.
Because, really, she might do stupid things sometimes, but Maria LaGuerta isn’t stupid.
Fandom: Dexter
Pairing: Deb Morgan/Maria LaGuerta
Rating: 18 (sex)
Summary: LaGuerta isn't stupid, but she does stupid things sometimes.
Author's Notes: Theclosetalker requested a Dexter fic in the drabble meme I posted awhile back. This is what I came up with. It's hate!sex, set sometime early in the second season.
Archiving: P&P is fine. All others please ask: bank_farter@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: I don't own Dexter
Maria LaGuerta is not stupid. A lot of people in the department think otherwise, and she knows that. She’s heard some of it from Doakes, but she’s also seen it for herself-the awkward, averted glances and the hush that sometimes falls over the room when she walks in unexpectedly. They talk about her. Bitch about her. Laugh about her. She’s well aware, but it doesn’t matter. If they knew half of what she’s done-what she’s had to do-to get where she is, they would know the truth, unequivocally: she’s no moron.
As much as she hates to admit it, though (even to herself), she does do foolish things sometimes. Like holding that press conference announcing that the Ice Truck investigation was re-opening. It was a matter of principle, but that stunt cost her her rank, her office, her standing in the department. She’d gotten it back, of course, but it had taken a lot out of her. She’d had to make a few sacrifices she wasn’t entirely comfortable with. Her sexuality, for one. Esme, for another.
Then again, she reasons, Pascal really should have known better than to bring that crap with her fiancé into work. She didn’t, and that was her own tragic flaw. Maria just exploited it. It was nothing personal.
Not like what she’s doing with Morgan. Cornering her in bathroom stalls, in the locker room, in the gym so that she can crush their lips together, fumble with duty belts and dress shirts that take far too long to unbutton. Calling her into her office so that Deb can straddle her in the desk chair, grind herself down onto LaGuerta’s hand until they’re both sweating and panting from more than just exertion. It’s not affectionate-they don’t kiss so much as battle for dominance, teeth gnashing against swollen lips. They certainly don’t talk, except for inarticulate syllables towards the end and the dirty little things that slip out of both their mouths when they’re too far gone to really notice. But it’s clearly about Morgan for LaGuerta.
It’s Morgan’s recklessness that attracts her, she thinks, Morgan’s scent (cheap perfume with a hint of perspiration from all that working out she does) that she smells on herself hours later when she undresses before bed. It’s her irritation, her dislike, her desire to put Morgan in her place that makes it so damn satisfying to fuck her hard enough that she practically limps the next day. And Maria’s pretty sure that feeling’s mutual.
So, yeah, what she’s doing with Morgan is pretty damn personal, and extremely, carelessly stupid. Worse than the time she started that ill-advised manhunt for Tony Tucci, worse than the Neil Perry press conference. But it’s funny how that fact isn’t stopping her from snaking her hand down, pressing up against the rough material of Deb’s dress pants until her palm is flush between her legs.
“Fuck,” Morgan chokes out as she arches into the touch. Her voice is somewhere between arousal and embarrassment, and Maria knows why. Deb’s burning up under her hand, and they’ve barely even touched each other. It’s always been fast, rushed, but this… this is new. Different. And LaGuerta feels a jolt in her stomach that she’s not sure is entirely due to arousal.
She doesn’t stop, though. She never manages to make herself stop. Instead, Maria works her hand past the zipper and into Deb’s underwear, which are far less utilitarian than she should be wearing for duty. She slides three fingers into her without warm-up, presses against her own wrist the best she can-it’s an awkward angle-and then settles in and lets Deb do most of the work. Deb likes it that way, Maria’s discovered, and she supposes she can’t fault her for wanting the extra control. Plus, those first few moments when Deb starts to move against her are the most focused and intent that she ever sees her, and there’s something about that that Maria just… appreciates.
It never lasts. Deb doesn’t make it two minutes before her breath starts to catch and her movements become increasingly frantic, and LaGuerta feels herself clench a little when Deb releases a hot, breathy little moan into her ear. The pressure from her forearm isn’t much, but it’s something, and, combined with the sight of Deb biting her lip and trying to control herself enough to save face, it’s almost enough.
“Say something in Spanish,” Deb pants.
Maria hooks her fingers, presses hard into Deb, enjoys the gasp that follows. “Shut up.” She’s cool when she says it, not betraying much, but there’s just a hint of a growl because she’ll be damned if she’s going to give Deb Morgan something else not to listen to. She’s good enough at ignoring what Maria says without it being in a language she doesn’t understand anyway.
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, Morgan.” She puts an emphasis on ‘Morgan’ because she knows how much Deb hates it when she calls her that during sex. Then, she presses her face into Deb’s hair, where she knows Deb won’t see her, and cringes because this is what their interactions boil down to.
Deb, of course, comes then, cursing like a sailor under her breath as she thrusts down against Maria’s hand. Maria wonders if the ‘bitch’ she mutters when she’s riding it out is Deb’s version of calling out her name or if it was just part of some larger string of profanity that died on her lips. Maybe both.
LaGuerta pulls her fingers out and watches the younger woman slump against her desk. Her hair is mussed, her pants are around her knees, and the pinkish lipstick that doesn’t quite suit her is smeared around her face. She looks like as much of a mess as she actually is, and LaGuerta feels a little surge of pity that she knows she shouldn’t feel.
“You have five minutes to get out of my office,” she tells Deb, her voice flat. Then, she turns without looking her in the eye and walks away.
Because, really, she might do stupid things sometimes, but Maria LaGuerta isn’t stupid.