there are people who ship dexter and miguel i know it don't ignore your inner love for them.
dexter and miguel life in a mansion in miami and they are in love.
''dex?''
''miguel! finally I've reached you. you are not going to believe this''
''what? is this about last night?''
''no, last night was wonderfull''
''Ofcourse it was, I'm miguel prado for conjos sake''
''easy tiger, I was going to say that artur said his first words''
''what did our lovely young man say?''
''he said that he loves you very much and he cannot wait till you are home''
''real funny dex, i wish i could, but work is killing me today''
''fuck work, or me'''
''I got to hang up on you,love''
''sure thing, bye''
He hung up. there he was in an empty mansion with only this baby that kept saying mommy, crying for his bottle. why were kids so gross and independent. so vulnerable. he couldn't stand kids, but this kid was an exception. it looked like his mother, Celina, his sister. Dexter dragged his body to the kitchen, putting a bottle in the microwave. miguel wouldn't be home untill dinner and then the baby would be asleep, maybe they could have another fun night. but first he had to buy more whipped cream.
With the full can of whipped cream in his hand, and the lights dimmed, dexter sat on the bed. It had been past the time he should be home, no not miguel, but the murderer who's life would end on this thursday night. If this guy hadnt killed 3 innocent women, dexter would now be at home with his miguel. He heard the door open, quickly he put the whipped cream away and got into his position. With the needle in his hand he waited behind the door to attack the brutal monster that lived here.
about 3 hours later dexter got off his boat and walked over the dock. It was dark out, but he didn't have to hurry because debra promised to look after baby artur until tommorrow morning. He got in his car and put the can with whipped cream on the passengerseat. It was so delightful that he could use that tonight, no baby, no work,
only his sensual hot latino man.
