#forensic science question and answer

[forensicfield]

Forensic Science QnA

Continue reading Forensic Science QnA

[amberlynnmurdock]

The First Time

Pairing: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter x Reader

Genre: FLUFF, angst, SMUTTTT 18+!!!!

Summary: Dex and his neighbor become good friends, so much so she only trusts him to take her virginity.

Based off this anon message

Note: I'M SO SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT BUT HERE IT IS I HOPE YOU GUYS LOVE IT

She’s the purest thing he’s ever known, and she lives right down the hall from him. Dex liked to keep his space neat and tidy; it was never dirty or out of order. He never allowed anyone into his space. Dex valued his privacy and, even more so, his alone time, despite feeling the lows of such often. Everything was a routine he had to strictly follow: wake up, shower, get ready for work, work, come home, be alone.

She ended up fitting into his routine, somehow. Only someone as pure and kind as she could find her way into Dex’s space--and so easily, too. She had recently graduated from New York University with a degree in forensic science and was living alone for the first time. 

He’ll never forget when she started talking to him in the elevator, one rainy evening.  

“What floor?” He asked her.

“6,” she replied. It was the same as his. Dex clicked the elevator button. 

“You work for the FBI?” She couldn’t help but notice the large letters on the sleeve of his navy blue jacket. Dex typically took it off before going out in public, but that day’s mission had exhausted him so much, he forgot to. 

“Yes,” Dex answered and shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to friendly conversation with strangers. It was natural for him to have his guard up. 

“That’s cool,” she sighed. “I just graduated from NYU last year. I got a job at the 15th Precinct in their forensics department, but working for the FBI is a dream of mine. Do you like it?”

“It’s tough,” Dex said. “It pays the bills.”

The elevator dinged. If he weren’t on the same floor as her, he’d be happy. He let her exit the elevator first and trailed slowly behind her. She waited for him so they could walk in tandem. He sighed, realizing he had no escape. 

“Do you mind if I come by sometime and ask you questions about your job? I’m new to the area—new to living here, and I’d like to know that I have a personal FBI agent to call a neighbor and—friend,” she smiled at him. Dex squinted his eyes slightly, amused by her outgoing personality and interest in his job. He wasn’t particularly a fan of being put on the spot like this, but seeing the way she looked so hopeful at him—who was he to say no? 

“Sure.”

And that’s how she ended up sitting across from him at his kitchen table, notebook on her right side, a cup of decaf coffee on her left. It had been like this for a year now—like clockwork, she was at his door at 11 PM, sometimes even later (depending on when he came home from work) to talk about his day and ask questions about anything related to his job. Dex grew to look forward to these late-night conversations with her—it was oddly reminiscent of his meetings with Dr. Mercer. 

Now, he knew these weren’t therapy sessions, and if anything, he was the one giving her advice and information, but it was comforting to talk to her about his day. He found comfort in explaining his job duties and answering any curiosities she had. She was kind, probably the kindest thing in his life right now, and he needed that. He found it harder to sleep if she didn’t come by and spend an hour with him talking about his job.

“Wow,” she breathed. “So when you guys detain whoever you need to, how soon does forensics show up to the scene?”

“They’re already on their way before we even lock the handcuffs,” Dex said. He watched as she scribbled something in her notebook. He only recently noticed how attracted he was to her—he only ever saw her at night, and she was always, more often than not, in her pajamas. He started to take notice of her rotation. Last week, she had light pink polka dot ones on. Tonight, she’s in a plain light blue set. Next was probably her black silk ones. It was always in her natural state that he saw her. No makeup, disheveled hair. Friendly smile. Curious and his favorite part, attentive, eyes. 

He rarely ever saw her during the day. He was up at the crack of dawn going to the headquarters, and she was always in three hours later. She always came home before him, and when she’d hear Dex’s familiar knock on her door, she knew he was ready for their nightly catch-up. 

Neighbors catching up…friends, like she said one time. That’s what they were, Dex supposed. 

He didn’t think of this as an almost every night thing. After the first few nights, he let her into his apartment, Dex thought it was a done deal. On the fifth night, just as he was about to get in bed, he heard a knock at his door. 

“I brought ice cream,” she was holding two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s in her hands, and squeezing her notebook under her arm. “Mint chocolate cookie or strawberry cheesecake.” 

Dex grabbed the mint chocolate cookie from her grasp and let her inside with a tired smile. 

He had also grown a bit protective over her as her neighbor. 

He remembered one time he got home from work at 10:30 PM—earlier than usual. He knocked on her door three times—it was his signal that he was ready and home—but there was no answer on the other side of the door. Dex pressed his ear against it and listened for any movement or sound. Nothing. He checked his watch and saw it was nearly 11:00 PM. It wasn’t like her to not be home already.

He pulled out his phone and called her. It immediately went to voicemail. 

Dex clicked his phone off and rested it on his lips. The increasing heaviness in his chest was something he only felt when he was on missions—he was anxious. Is she okay? 

Something inside of him locked, or maybe, unlocked at the thought of her never coming home. The thought of her never sitting across from him at his kitchen table ever again. It unlocked a feeling he kept hidden away as best as he could, despite it being the most constant thing in his life. Feeling abandoned—left behind. Alone. 

For the first time in his life, Dex didn’t want to be alone.  

Dex was too numb to go back into his apartment. He pressed his back against the wall of the hallway and slid down to sit on the floor. He decided he would wait there until she came home. 

After an hour of staring into nothing, but mentally replaying all the times he’s had someone leave him, the elevator doors dinged. Dex was too tired to look at who it was, too afraid of disappointment if it wasn’t her. He kept his eyes forward. 

“Dex?” She started walking faster towards him. “Are you okay?” Dex whipped his head up and immediately stood up on his feet. 

“Yeah,” Dex nodded, his voice feeling thick and dry. “I was—worried. About you. Your phone…”

“It died,” she explained. “And I forgot my charger. I ended up staying late to finish up some work. You waited for me here?” She asked with a hint of a smile on her face.

“Yeah,” Dex nodded, meeting her eyes finally. She still looked as wide awake as ever, full of energy and positivity he wished he could emulate. Something compelled him to wrap his arms around her and bring her close in an embrace—so he did. He sighed in relief. “Don’t forget your charger again,” he said in her hair. 

“I won’t,” she pulled back, suddenly catching on to the seriousness of his tone. “Rough day? Is it too late to talk in your apartment?”

“Not if it’s too late for you.”

It was strange, the effect she had on him. It only grew more intense after each night together. Dex watched her carefully now, across from his table. He couldn’t remember the lat time he let someone get close to him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had allowed himself to connect with someone since Dr. Mercer passed away. It was the first time he possibly found a new North Star. He hoped this one wouldn’t go out. 

She brought a warmth to his apartment that it was lacking before. He never spent time at the kitchen table unless it was the morning and he was having his coffee before work. He never thought he’d spend most of his nights here, with her, talking about his day and duties as an FBI agent. She was part of his routine now. And if there’s anything about Dex, it’s that he doesn’t like when his routine is disrupted. 

“Can I ask you something we haven’t talked about before?” She looked up from her notebook and placed her pen down on the table. Dex shrugged his shoulders. There wasn’t much he wouldn’ttell her at this point.

“Anything,” he said.

“Have you ever had to kill someone?” 

It took a lot to catch Dex off guard. But this was a question he wasn’t expecting to be asked so blatantly. 

“In the line of duty, obviously,” she followed up quickly, responding to his reaction. 

Dex held her gaze—he didn’t want his answer to drive her away. In case it did, he wanted to memorize the way she was looking at him right now. The hopeful curiosity. The kindness without judgement in her eyes. He broke eye contact and sighed. 

“Yes,” Dex said, rearranging the napkin holder in front of him. 

“Because you had no choice?”

“Yes,” he lied. 

She shook her head. Not in disapproval, but in disbelief. “I can’t imagine that. Do you—do you remember the first time you had to?”

Dex does remember his first time killing someone. But it wasn’t in the line of duty as an FBI agent. It wasn’t even when he served time in the army. 

It was when he was a child and had dreams of becoming a baseball star. The memory flashed in Dex’s mind as quickly as the baseball ricocheted off the fence and hit Coach NAME in the head. 

“I do,” Dex said. “It was a cartel member. We had the group where we wanted them, but one guy wouldn’t give up the fight. He grabbed for a weapon to shoot at my partner—Nadeem—but I got to him before he could do anything more.”

“And by got to him, you mean…”

“Mmhm,” Dex hummed. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she shook her head. “I know it’s not easy work. I know these things have to happen. But I wonder, are you okay? Knowing that that happened? And what you had to do?”

“I’m okay,” Dex said, and he wasn’t sure if it was a lie or not. “It was either him or Nadeem. They train you to think fast in those situations. You can’t waste time.”

“I’m really glad I chose the science side of it all.” She leaned back in his chair, and he liked how she made it look so casual. He wanted to mirror her but didn’t. “I don’t know if I could handle it like you do.”

“We make the mess,” Dex said, leaning forward. “Your side cleans it up.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it,” she replied. “Accurate.”

Dex sipped his coffee. “Anything else you’d like to know, Ms. Forensics?”

She smiled at the nickname. “I guess… out of personal curiosity… what did it feel like? Taking a life like that? Even if the guy was bad.”

Dex twisted the mug in his hands. Truthfully, it made no difference to him. But what would she want to hear?

“It’s hard,” Dex said. “Really hard. But these situations aren’t black and white. We have a job to do. We have to protect people. Protect our own. That’s what matters at the end of the day.”

“I see,” she said, nodding her head. “Do you have counselors at work you can talk to?”

“We have to undergo a psych-eval every once in a while.”

“That’s good,” she pressed her lips together. “Well, if the counselors aren’t always there for you, just know that I am, Dex.”

And there it was—that sweetness he had become so accustomed to. He couldn’t imagine his nights without it now. Dex smiled a little and focused his gaze on the table. 

“It’s late,” she said after a few moments of silence. “I think I’ve run you dry for tonight. Got any plans this weekend?” She asked him this all the time, and Dex always had the same answer for her.

“No,” he said. “Catching up on sleep, maybe.”

“Me too,” she began to close her notebook and collect her pens, to Dex’s disappointment. 

“You can come by tomorrow night,” Dex said with hope in his voice. “If you’re not busy and you feel like talking.”

She smiled a little and nodded her head. “I’d like that. Maybe instead of me asking about work, we can just hang?”

Dex took her empty coffee mug and wiped a coffee stain with the pad of his thumb. Her question echoed in his head. 

“I’d like that,” he answered, meeting her tired eyes. “Maybe I can ask about your life and work for once.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t be getting much,” she laughed, and Dex hoped she was kidding. “But I’ll do my best to highlight the interesting parts.” She began her walk to his door, notebook in her hand. Dex unlocked it from behind her, gently brushing his arm against hers by mistake. He took a step back to give her space.

“Good night, Dex,” she whispered. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” 

“Good night,” he softly said back. He watched her as she walked halfway down the hall to her apartment. He always waited until she was inside and locked the door before going back and retreating to his bedroom. When she was, he closed his door and locked it. He was alone again. 

◎◎◎

Dex wasn’t worried about having her over until the reality finally settled in and he realized that she would be coming over in a different context than usual. He couldn’t remember the last time he hosted something for someone and had food ready—this was possibly his first time ever. When he came home, early for a Friday night, he checked his fridge to see if he had any snacks and felt silly for it—of course, he had nothing, except a carton of milk and some eggs. 

He went back out to the corner store and paused in the middle of the aisle. What did she like to eat? He only remembered the time she brought ice cream to his place. He went to the freezer and grabbed the same flavors of Ben and Jerry’s she had once brought: mint chocolate cookie and strawberry cheesecake. Dex balanced the two cartons in his hands and went through the chips aisle. He wasn’t sure what to get, and the options were overwhelming. He settled on a jar of salsa, French onion and guacamole—that way, she’d have more than one option. He also grabbed two kinds of chips: salted and hint of lime. He also threw in a container of chocolate chip cookies. 

After leaving the store, he realized that she may be interested in drinking something. He wasn’t a drinker at all—alcohol didn’t mix well with his medication—so he didn’t have a clue of what she may like. Wine? Beer? He found himself inside the liquor store, even more overwhelmed by the options. When was the last time he was in a place like this?

He grabbed one bottle of red wine (Pinot Noir), one bottle of white wine (Sauvignon Blanc), and one bottle of rose for good measure. At the counter, he saw a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels and grabbed it. 

Dex had his hands full on his way back to his apartment. He’d never had this much food in his house—the bags practically filled his counter. He laid every snack out but paused midway—they wouldn’t be sitting at his kitchen table. Maybe on the couch? Dex began to move all the snacks to the coffee table. He placed each dip in a bowl and had two more bowls filled with each type of chip he bought. He left the ice cream in the freezer. He put the chocolate-covered pretzels in a smaller bowl. 

Then, he put each bottle of wine on the counter so that when she first walked in, she could choose. Dex finally sat down on his couch and checked the time. It was almost 10 PM. She should be home soon.

◎◎◎

His apartment felt cold and dark until she finally graced it with her presence. She was in her black silk pajamas, as Dex correctly predicted was next in her rotation. When she first walked inside Dex’s apartment and saw the line up of wine and snacks, she couldn’t help but smile at how endearing it all was, especially the hopeful look on Dex’s face as he watched her take it all in. 

“I wasn’t sure what you’d like,” Dex said, scratching his neck. “So I got a bit of everything.”

“It’s okay,” she looked at him, this well-trained and tough FBI agent who looked like he spent the last hour stressing over salted or hint of lime chips and ended up getting both. “It’s perfect. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

Dex sighed in relief. “I also got different wines you can choose from.”

She looked at each bottle. She was naturally inclined to reach for the red. But she wanted to make sure Dex had a say in the matter, too. “Which do you prefer?” She asked him.

He shook his head. “Oh, I don’t drink. I got that for you. All of it’s for you.”

“Well, if you’re not drinking, then I’m not either,” she said smiling. “I do want to dig into those chocolate-covered pretzels, though.”

“They’re for you,” Dex said.

She walked over to his couch, but Dex stayed standing by his kitchen table. He didn’t take a moment before to take in how different his apartment looked whenever she was in it. Before, everything looked as tidy as it needed to be: empty coffee table, couch lacking warmth, unused empty bowls. But she graced his apartment with her presence by making it feel comfortable. A couch is meant to be sat on, a coffee table meant to have snacks, and bowls meant to have food—just for her. He’s never seen his place so lively and it’s all because of her. 

It was like watching a science experiment in real time. The cause and effect. The hypothesis and results. Except, he felt in the thick of the experiment and the results could be a wild card. He was just happy to witness it happening. How she was so good at making it all feel so comfortable. He liked having her around. Dex wanted her to stay a while. 

“Well don’t be shy, Dex,” she patted the seat next to her on his couch. “Come stay a while.”

Dex laughed and made his way to his couch. He felt like a stranger in his own house. How should he delicately handle this new context of hanging out? He was used to her having a notebook and her doing the talking. He felt the pressure and was afraid he wouldn’t live up to expectations. 

He sat down next to her—not too close. A comfortable distance. He reached for a salted chip and dipped in the guacamole first. During training, they taught agents to start conversations with witnesses or suspects casually. He felt he could apply those tactics here, with her. 

“So,” Dex began, chewing his chip of guacamole, “first thing’s first. How was your day at work?”

Dex didn't know he had it in him, to curate and carry a conversation as long as he did with her. He asked her things about her life he didn’t know before—how she got into forensic science, where she’s from, who she used to be. She’s only 22—she’s got her whole life ahead of her, and she’s only getting started. 

When she revealed her age, Dex was slightly taken aback. The thought never crossed his mind but now that he knew she was a bit younger than him, he felt that sense of protection he had over her grow in size. All those times she had come home late, he never knew she was vulnerable like that. Maybe it was wrong to think that way… she’s independent and lives on her own. She can take care of herself. But it doesn’t have to be that way. 

Still, he had to know something. 

“My age… you’re not uncomfortable?” Dex asked in a small voice, avoiding eye contact. 

“No,” she shook her head. “Not unless you are.”

“I’m not,” Dex answered quickly. “It never crossed my mind to ask how old you were. I didn’t think there was that much of a difference.”

“Seven years is nothing,” she shrugged. Most of my coworkers are that or even more.” 

“I just want you to be comfortable,” Dex admitted. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to be here.”

“I want to be here,” she said. “I like talking to you. You’ve told me a lot about the FBI. That’s not the only reason I like talking to you, though.”

“Why’s that?” Dex couldn’t help but ask. 

“You’re nice to me,” she simply stated. “I got lucky that you’re my neighbor. I feel safe.”

“Even though you know my line of work isn’t always sunshine and daises—even though you know what I’ve done,” Dex said in a low voice, “You still feel safe?”

“You’ve given me no reason to think otherwise,” she said softly. “You’ve shown me one side of you. I’m shocked you haven’t figured out I’m trying to get to know all of you, Dex.” 

Dex held her gaze and felt something blooming slowly in his chest. “What else do you want to know?”

“We can save it for another time. You asked me here tonight because you wanted to get to know me,” she nudged his shoulder with hers, the first physical touch they’d shared all evening. 

“That’s right,” Dex said with a small nod. 

“Your turn,” She said with a welcoming smile. Dex took a deep breath. Truthfully, he felt the basic questions had run dry. He knew all there was to know about her on the surface: how she got into forensic science, where she studied, where she’s from, where she works. When he was serving time in the army, the comrades he was with often sat in circles in their tents and started playing games like Never Have I Ever or Would You Rather? He didn’t want to play those games with her now, but he wanted to get to know her on a deeper level. Those games typically made people reveal things about themselves. If she felt so safe around him, Dex didn’t see any harm in asking more personal questions. 

“Do you remember what your prom was like?” Dex asked with a sideways smile. 

“My prom?” Her eyes lit up at the question to Dex’s relief. He nodded. “Oh my, gosh, well, yes. It was such a weird time for me. I actually didn’t have a date my junior year, but senior year I did. I was the worst prom date.”

Dex smiled, trying to live vicariously through her experiences. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“It’s true. I had a crush on someone else so by the end, I ditched my prom date and went to a different party. But I had so much fun with my friends. I miss the freedom of being that young,” she smiled. “Good music, free food. Sneaking alcohol at the after party. What about you?”

Dex looked away from her and shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t go to prom. I didn’t technically have a prom.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. The institution Dex grew up in threw a makeshift prom for the seniors, but it didn’t have good music. It had free food that came from the cafeteria they ate at every day already. And absolutely no alcohol by any means. And Dex didn’t have a date. “I remember sneaking out to leave early and head back to my room.” 

“Room?” She questioned.

“I grew up in a Boys’ Home,” Dex lied again. “They invited other homes for orphans but it was awkward. No one really knew anyone. I swore off events like that after that.”

“When’s the last time you went to an event?”

“Probably then.”

“Dex,” she said his name, “we’ll have to find an event for us to go to and change that.” Dex smiled. He’d only consider it for her.

“What color was your dress?” He asked her. 

“White,” she said. “With a bunch of sparkles. My friends gave me shit about it, saying white was for weddings, but I didn’t care. I loved my dress. It was an off-shoulder dress. I felt like a princess.”

Dex tried to imagine it in his mind. White—fitting for her. 

“I’m sure you looked like one, too,” Dex said quietly. “Have you ever traveled outside the city?”

“Of course,” she smiled again. “I’ve been for Orlando, Boston… the entire east coast, pretty much. Outside, I’ve been to London.”

“London,” Dex said impressed. “Did you like it?”

“I did but, it’s got nothing on New York. Where have you traveled?”

“I’ve only ever traveled for the army,” Dex answered. “Nowhere exciting. And definitely not for vacation.”

“We’ll use up your PTO days soon,” she nudged his knee with hers. Dex liked the hopefulness in her tone—the idea of what she was saying coming to fruition one day. And he liked that she said we. 

“Do you remember your first heartbreak?” Dex asked her. 

“Oh, Dex,” she sighed. “Who doesn’t? It happened recently in college. About around the time I was a freshman. Of course, I fell for a guy who was older than me. He had me in the palm of his hand for an entire year… until he graduated and dumped me like that. I was so head over heels for him, but it taught me a great lesson. Never put your life on hold for someone else.”

“That’s true,” Dex said. “I’m sorry he did that to you. That must’ve been hard.”

“It’s okay,” she shrugged. “I hardly think about it now, unless someone asks me. Do you remember yours?”

“Yeah,” Dex replied. “Like you said, who doesn’t?” 

“What was it?”

“It’s not a typical heartbreak.”

“It’s all the same feeling.”

“I guess it would be when my parents died,” Dex said, meeting her eyes. “And then I was put in that home when I was a kid.”

“Dex, I’m sorry,” she whispered, scooting closer to Dex on the couch. His right leg was now resting against her left leg. She put her arm around his back and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Dex whispered back. “It was a long time ago. It made me capable of being on my own at an early age.”

“Do you have other family?” She asked, pulling back to look at him. 

“No,” he shook his head. “It’s just me.”

“Well,” she said instantly, “now you’ve got me.” 

Dex wanted to tell her that she couldn’t say things like that to him unless she really meant it. But he didn’t want to get serious about it all—didn’t want to ruin the moment. 

“Do you remember your first kiss?” She asked him in a lighter voice. Dex laughed. 

“Yes,” he nodded. “I had no idea what I was doing. It was awkward. And wet. You?”

She laughed against him. “I had a similar experience. It was so strange at first. I honestly hated it. I felt too young to kiss like that.”

“Yeah,” Dex nodded, trailing off, thinking of another question to ask her. He opened his mouth to say something, wondering if it may be too far, or treading a thin line of what boundaries they already had. Her leg was still pressed against his, but her hands were to herself now. “Do you remember… your first time?” He asked her.

Silence at first. So much silence that Dex had to look at her to make sure she was okay. Her eyes were focused in front of her, avoiding his. He’s never seen her like this—quiet, unsure. Dex wanted to rescind the question immediately and apologize for overstepping a boundary. But then, she gave him a small, ironic smile. 

“No,” she answered, shaking her head. Dex thought of every possibility in his head that could make her not remember something like that—having sex for the first time—and each possibility raised concern in him until she finished her answer. “I haven’t had my first time yet.”

It was Dex’s turn to go silent. He looked at her expression—she was trying her hardest to keep an indifferent look, but Dex sensed a tinge of embarrassment from her, and even sadness. He wasn’t sure what surprised him more: that she was a virgin or that she was capable of emitting an emotion he knew all too well. He wanted to kick himself for triggering that emotion out of her. 

“I’m sorry,” Dex squinted his eyes, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “You’re not judging me, are you?”

Dex looked at her in disbelief. How could he judge a girl like her? Dex has killed people before—not in the line of duty. He’s used lethal force; he’s been abandoned. And she thinks that he would judge her over not having ever had sex? Dex felt hollow in his heart for a moment—that she thought for even a second he would ever judge her for something like that. She, who is so kind and sweet—pure—someone Dex is positive he isn’t worthy of having so close to him. She scares him in a lot of ways because of that. But somehow he’s earned her trust. No, there’s no world where Benjamin Poindexter judges her. 

“Never,” he breathed out, moving so he was facing her. “I could never judge you for something like that. There’s no shame in it.”

“Sometimes I feel that way, that I haven’t experienced something so intimate before,” she said behind a sad smile. In a lot of ways, Dex hasn’t experienced something so intimate before either. Yes, he’s had sex—but the sex he’s had with partners never felt intimate. It just felt like sex. Soulless, empty, physical. He always felt emptier inside after. 

“It’s okay,” Dex comforted her. “It’s not always intimate.”

“It’s not?” She asked him, furrowing her brows. “I don’t know. It seems intimate to me.”

“It is,” Dex nodded, “it can be. But it has to be with the right person. Otherwise, it’s just an act.”

“I don’t want it to be that way,” she admitted, breaking eye contact. “Just an act. I can’t—I’m too sensitive to just do it. It has to mean something. I think that’s why I’ve waited so long. Not because of religious reasons. I’m not waiting for marriage. I just want my first time to be intimate. I want my first time to mean something. I want it to be real. I’ve heard so many stories from my friends saying guys just leave them after they get what they want. I’m not strong enough for that.” 

“I understand,” Dex said softly. “I get it. But please know I could never judge you for that. If you don’t judge me for not being pure.”

“Pure,” she laughed, “is that what you think I am now that you know that?”

“No,” Dex shook his head. “I knew you were pure from the moment I met you. I didn’t need to know anything else about you to know that.”

“Why do you say that?” She asked.

“Because,” Dex struggled to find the words. He looked at his hands, her knees, her curious expression. “You talked to me so easily that first night in the elevator. So open. I’m not—I’m not used to that. You were kind. I could tell you were a good person. I—I need that in my life, __,” he said, almost pleading like she was halfway out the door when she was still sitting on the couch next to him. 

“I didn’t know you felt that way about me,” she whispered. 

“I let you come over every night to talk about my job because you wanted to,” Dex began to say, “but I also let it keep happening because it has kept me sane. Talking to you. Being with you…” he broke eye contact again. “You tell me I make you feel safe,” Dex spoke again. “You make me feel that way, too.” But when Dex says that she makes him feel safe, he doesn’t mean safe from the other people in the building or even New York City. She makes him feel safe from himself. 

“I’d never want to do something to make you go away,” Dex continued. “I want you around,” he whispered. “I want you to stay.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” she shook her head. She placed her hand on Dex’s knee. Dex slowly brought his hand to cover hers. This was the first direct contact they’d ever had—holding hands. Dex looked at the image—studied how his hand fit perfectly on top of hers. He twisted his fingers so they intertwined. Without thinking, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. She let him. He kissed her knuckles again, then the back of her and, then her wrist, and soon Dex was peppering kisses all the way up the length of her arm, pushing her sleeve up. 

“Dex…”

He rolled her sleeve down and held her hand again, waiting for her directive. When she gave no protest, Dex moved her hair behind her and kissed her neck. She gently pushed his chest away from her, but only to look at him. His eyes were dark, full of intensity. She leaned in and closed the space between them, kissing Dex and Dex kissing her back. The moment their lips touched, they both knew it was long overdue. Dex placed his hands on her waist while she held him on his shoulders. His tongue made his way into her mouth and she welcomed it gladly. Dex squeezed her gently and pulled back, resting his forehead on hers, out of breath.

“When’s the last time you’ve had a kiss like that?” She asked. Both of them had soft laughs escape their lips.

“I think that was my first time,” Dex admitted against her lips, “my first time wanting to kiss someone like that.”

“I guess there’s a first time for everything,” she smiled. 

Dex kissed her again, gently pressing her to lay down on his couch. She did so she was laying on her back, with Dex leaning over her. She pushed his chest away again, indicating she wanted to speak.

“Dex, I want you to be my first time,” she said.

“What?”

“I want you to take my virginity,” she told him. Dex pulled back completely now. He had to sit with what she was asking him. She leaned up again in concern. “I want it to be with you.”

“__,” he said her name, rubbing his eyes closed. As much as he wanted that, Dex wasn’t sure he was worthy. He wasn’t worthy to be in your presence alone—but to take that from you, the very thing that could change everything—he wasn’t sure he was worthy of that either. You were so good and so pure—to give him that responsibility is to give him the power to potentially ruin that. He couldn’t stand the thought of ruining something else that was so good in his life. 

But if it wasn’t going to be him, it was going to be someone else. And the thought of someone else doing this to her—ruining her purity—cut him to the bone. As quickly as his attachment grew in his chest, jealousy did too, at the thought of someone else doing it to her. 

Selfishly, he wants to be the one to taint her. Unselfishly, he doesn’t want to ruin what she is. 

“You don’t want me,” she shook her head and bit her lip, avoiding eye contact.

“That’s not true,” Dex said. “I do want you.”

“Then why aren’t you saying yes? Why aren't you taking me right now?” 

“Because like you said before,” Dex whispered, taking her hands again. “You want it to be special. You want it to mean something. Rushing into it on a spur of the moment thing won’t make it what it should be.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and Dex had never seen her so emotional. It made his heart hammer in his chest. He shifted so he sat closer to her. He kissed her forehead. 

“I want you,” he reassured her. “But not right now. You should sleep on it. Really think if you want it to be me. I’d hate to ruin a perfect night by us jumping into it right away.”

She avoided looking at him, but deep down, she knew he was right. 

“Okay,” she whispered. “I will.” 

He kept looking at her until the look of worry faded from her face. All that was left was exhaustion in the form of half-closed eyes and soft breathing. Dex nudged her with his knee. 

“What do you say we call it for tonight?” Dex asked. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “I should go.” 

Dex walked her to her door. As she unlocked it, she turned around to say goodnight again, and as if on cue, Dex twisted her into his arms and gently pushed her against the wall of the hallway, kissing her deeply. He locked her there, between his arms, a leg separating hers. She placed her hands on his chest to steady herself. When he pulled back, he looked away, as if the mere sight of her would make him come completely undone. 

Silence followed her into her apartment. Dex retreated back to his, and while she was no longer gracing it with her presence—he felt her everywhere. 

◎◎◎

Dex sat at his kitchen counter. His mind was too clouded by his thoughts to focus on anything—his thoughts that were consumed by her. He didn’t realize that by giving her a choice in thinking about what they talked about, he was at the mercy of that decision. 

If she ended up not wanting it to be with him, how would that change their relationship? Would she stop coming over? Worse—would she never speak to him again? Dex could’ve easily given her what she wanted in that moment, but at the same time, he didn’t want to ruin what they already had. What had easily landed in his lap without him having to do anything. 

On the other hand, if she did still want it to be with him… well, where do they go from there? Not to mention that he would be the one to take that purity away from her—and not in the sense of virginity. But in the sense that someone like him, someone who has killed and is capable of doing much worse, gets to be inside her for the first time. He didn’t feel worthy to be in her presence like that, to be the one to alter her experience with intimacy forever. If she still wanted it to be with him, he would make sure it was special and intimate like she wanted it to be. 

But he’s afraid that if this happens, he’ll never be able to let her go. It sounds wrong, but he would feel a sort of possession over her. He was protective over her already; after this, he would be downright territorial. His past lovers have all been with people before him…she would be the first he’d ever be with who hadn’t been touched before.

Touched. Dex felt a cramp in his hands thinking about touching her for the first time. He’d want to map her entire body out; take in how beautiful she looks completely naked. He’d be the first to see her like that. He hoped he’d be the last. 

There was a knock at his door.

Dex paused before getting up. It could all change in this next moment. He wasn’t sure which he was hoping more for. He took a deep breath and walked to the door. 

There she was in all her glory—her hair had brushed out, messy curls and was pushed to one side, like she had just nervously fixed her hair. She was in a new set of pajamas—pearlescent silk white. She met his eyes for a fleeting moment before looking down—Dex could still she still felt embarrassed, or ashamed. For whatever reason. It should be him who felt like that.

“It’s okay," Dex spoke first. “Whatever your decision is."

“I want it with you, Dex,” she looked up at him with worried eyes. “But if you don’t want it with me, then—“

“Come in,” Dex opened the door for her to step inside. She immediately stood in the middle of his living room as Dex shut and locked his door.

She was holding herself—arms around her stomach, avoiding eye contact. Dex wasn’t used to seeing her so unsure of herself; he was used to seeing her positive, confident, smiling. Looking at him with hopeful eyes. What did he have to do to calm her nerves?

“I want this with you,” Dex said softly, approaching her slowly. “I just want to make sure you truly want this with me.”

“I do,” she affirmed. “More than anything.”

Dex placed his hand on her cheek, studying her features before everything changes. She was right about something—sex is an intimate act. Sex changes things. He knows how it has changed things for him, but he’s not sure how it will change things for her. He wanted to remember what she looked like before the act—before he changed everything. He caressed her cheek with his thumb. He didn’t want her to feel worried. It was written all over her face.

“What are you scared of?” He asked her.

“It hurting,” she said meeting his eyes. 

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Dex began, “it’ll hurt at first. But then it won’t. What else are you scared of?”

“Making a mess,” she broke eye contact again. “I may bleed.”

“Don’t worry,” Dex shook his head, whispering. “It’s not a mess you’ll have to clean up. Anything else?”

She bit her lip and met his eyes again. “I don’t want you to stop talking to me after it’s done. I don’t want us to do it, and then that being all that you wanted, and then you stop seeing me or hanging out with me.”

Dex furrowed his brows in disbelief. Here he was, afraid of the same thing, unknowing that she too shared the same fears. Dex would never stop talking to her after it’s done. She knows she’ll be attached to him after—little did she know that Dex would be infinitely more attached to her, for separate reasons. He may be taking her purity, but she’s giving him something worse: hopes that he may find newfound purity in himself. 

“___,” he said her name, meeting her eyes. He caressed her cheek some more. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Once this happens—it won’t be possible for me to let you go.” 

She took a long shaky breath. “Okay, Dex. I trust you. I—I think I’m ready.” 

Dex continued to caress her cheek as he held her gaze, witnessing her eyes soften in comfort—safety. Trust. “Okay,” he said. “Is it okay if I kiss you?”

She blushed in the most adorable way. Avoided eye contact, bit her lip. She nodded. Dex placed two fingers under her chin to lift her to look at him. Dex slowly leaned down to meet her lips with his. And when they finally touched, she fell right into him. 

Dex cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand, holding her steady in place as he kissed her. He teased her lips with her tongue, and she opened her mouth to let him in. He started off slowly…sweetly. When she took his hands and moved them to hold her waist, he took it as a sign to deepen the kiss. His tongue danced against hers as he practically inhaled her with kisses. His strong hands rested at either side of her waist. 

They both pulled back out of breath. Dex leaned his forehead against hers, eyes closed. 

“Let me lay you down,” Dex said in a low voice. She nodded against him and let him lead the way to his bedroom. 

She sat at the foot of the bed in the center. She started to shake uncontrollably—from nerves, the AC in his room and from the reality of what was about to happen.

Dex knelt between her knees in front of her. He took her hand and held it in his. He kissed her knuckles and felt her shaking. He looked up at her. 

“This is for you,” Dex reminded her. “It’s okay.” 

“I’m just nervous,” she said. “I’ve never been completely naked in front of anyone.”

“I’ll ask you if I can do anything before I do it,” Dex said. “Is that okay?”

“Yes,” she nodded. She was taking deep breaths to calm her anxiety. Dex kissed her knuckles again. He placed both her hands on her legs. 

“Can I touch your shoulders?” He asked. 

She looked confused at first, but nodded anyway. Dex placed his hands on both her shoulders, softly caressing her with his thumbs. He moved his hands down both her arms slowly, feeling the softness of her silk pajamas. When he reached her hands, he held them both. 

“Can I unbutton your shirt?”

“Yes,” she breathed softly. 

Dex nodded and slowly started to unbutton her shirt one by one. He kept his focus on the buttons—nothing else—definitely not the goosebumps rising on her skin and definitely not at her hard nipples through the shirt. When he was done, only the center of her torso was exposed. She leaned back on her elbows and Dex leaned forward more between her legs, which were now spread a bit more. 

Dex could see her heart pounding in her chest. He took right hand and kissed her knuckles. He met her eyes.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” Dex reassured her. She shook her head. 

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Dex kissed her hand again. “Can I touch you?”

“Anywhere,” she said in a small voice. 

Dex slowly began to trail his hand up the length of her torso, from her stomach to her collarbone. He slipped a few fingers under neath her shirt, dangerously close to her left breast. Dex looked at her once more for permission. All he needed was a small nod to let him know it was okay—and she did. Dex slowly traced his fingers over her breast, feeling her soft supple skin react to his touch—goosebumps, her nipple hard in the palm of his hand. Dex took a deep breath to control his own feelings of arousal—feeling her breast in his hand, realizing he was the first person to ever touch her like this. Dex squeezed her breast lightly and traced his pointer finger underneath her breast, feeling the curve of her soft skin. He pushed the shirt away, exposing her completely. He did the same thing on her other side with his other hand. He slid her shirt completely off and she closed her eyes, leaning fully back. 

“You’re beautiful,” Dex whispered. “You’re soft and perfect.” 

She opened her eyes. “Touch me more.”

Dex scooped her in his arms and lifted her further up his bed. He knelt between her on the bed and traced his hand on her stomach again. An intrusive thought crossed his mind—would she let him come inside her? Would she want to feel his seed that deeply inside her, knowing the risk? Dex felt his cock harden at the thought of coming inside her for her first time. 

He took a deep breath and crossed the thought away. He placed both his hands on her breasts and gently squeezed them again. He leaned down and kissed the skin between her breasts. She closed her eyes in pleasure. Dex kept his hands on her waist and slowly kissed his way to her right breast, kissing it before taking her nipple in his mouth. He licked and sucked her hard nipple, gently wrapping his lips around it and starting a motion of licking and sucking. He swirled his tongue around her nipple and kissed her breast. He did the same thing on the other side.

  “How did that feel?” He asked her. 

“Good,” she answered in a breathy voice. “Really good.” She was still shaking. Dex was starting to love the idea of him making her shake like that. 

“Good,” he said. Dex began to pepper kisses down the length of her torso, holding his hands on either side of her waist. She breathed deeply and pressed her head into his pillow, bracing herself for whatever was next. He played with the hem of her pajama pants and looked up at her with a slight sense of urgency. 

“Can I take these off?” Dex asked. 

“Yes,” she breathed, closing her eyes. 

In one single slip, Dex took her pajama pants and underwear off, completely exposing her to him. Dex gazed at her sex which was slightly glistening from how wet she was, and then he noticed her slightly shaking again. He placed his hands on her thighs and kissed her on either side, trying to hold her steady. 

“It’s okay,” Dex whispered. “Just tell me if you want to stop.”

“I don’t,” she said. “I’ll stop shaking soon.”

Dex secretly hoped she wouldn’t. He slowly slid his right hand over to her inner thigh and began to draw small circles. He slowly inched his way over to touch her pussy. He ever so gently placed the pad of his thumb on her clit, mimicking the small circles he just drew on her thigh before. She shivered at his touch and Dex watched her carefully. He mindlessly kept rubbing her clit as he watched her expression change from tense to relaxed. 

“That feels really good,” she whispered. 

“Let me know how this feels,” Dex said in a low voice. He slowly knelt between her legs, pushing them farther apart. He placed his entire mouth on her pussy and began to lap slowly at her slick folds. He started from the bottom and licked slowly up to her clit. 

“Oh,” she moaned in a slightly pitched voice. Her legs shifted against Dex’s head, which was welcomed. Dex continued to lap at her wetness, completely putting his entire mouth on her sex. He pulled back momentarily to insert one finger in her tight pussy. She gasped at the tension, grabbing onto the fitted sheets. Dex reached his other hand up and took her hand, indicating that she could hold onto him. He pulled his finger and met his lips to her pussy again, this time moving his tongue around faster than before. His lips were locked on her wetness, and he began to feel himself get lost in the way she felt against his mouth, like this was his last meal on earth. She squirmed against his face, breathing deeply. She reached to pull on his hair to channel how he was making her feel. His hand gripped her thigh while the other held onto her ankle. 

Dex focused his sucking on her clit and he paid mind to how she was breathing—he didn’t want her to come yet. Her eyes were closed, mouth half open, brows furrowed together. With his lips still on her pussy, Dex looked up at her and locked eyes for a moment with her before she closed them again and sighed into his pillow. He took one last lap at her wetness before pulling back and kissing both of her inner thighs. 

“Dex…”

“You okay?” He licked his lips. 

She only nodded, slightly disappointed by how cold she felt now that he wasn’t touching her. Dex could sense she wanted more. He could sense she was ready. He took off his shirt and pants, exposing himself to her. He couldn’t remember the last time he was bare in front of someone, but he didn’t care—all those times before didn’t matter. Only now did. 

His cock was hard, pre-cum leaking at the tip. Dex was slightly surprised that she reached down to touch him, gently running her thumb over his tip. He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. He placed his hands under the small of her back and lifted her up his bed, so she lay perfectly in the middle. He was hovering over her now—his cock dangerously close to her wetness, but not touching. They looked at each other for a moment, Dex looking deeply into her eyes—he couldn’t tell what she felt. Fear, anticipation, aroused? A mix of all three, he supposed. Because it’s exactly how he felt, too. Knowing that after this, their entire dynamic would change. For better or worse. 

She spread her legs wider and placed her hands on his face. Dex leaned down and kissed her gently. 

“You still want this?” He asked her.

“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “Please be gentle.”

“I will,” Dex nodded, his hot breath hitting her skin. He pushed a strand of hair away from her flushed face. He kissed her between her eyebrows. 

Dex slowly lined up his cock at her entrance and rubbed his tip against her folds, getting himself wet with her pussy. He took a deep breath and clenched his jaw. Her eyes were closed, but he watched her as he ever so slowly tried to push himself inside her. He was too big for her to enter easily, and she was too tight for him to go any harder. She said gentle, and that’s exactly what he did. She took a sharp intake of breath and her heart was beating hard against her chest. Dex could sense her anxiety and kissed her forehead again as he tried to push himself inside her more. Slowly, inch by inch, he pushed himself inside her tight pussy, and in one quick thrust, Dex was completely inside her. They both reacted in their own way—Dex letting out the deepest sigh he’s ever taken, and her gasping for air from the pain.

“Dex, Dex,” she whispered in a slight panic.

“Shh,” Dex was trying to keep himself focused but it was hard to while he felt her tight pussy completely encase him while at the same time soften her worries. “It’ll get better. I’m going to go back and forth.”

She nodded and kept her eyes shut, a pained expression on her face. Dex felt incredible inside her, but this wasn’t about him. It was all for her. 

He slowly pulled out, and she could feel the difference immediately. He felt so big inside her that when he almost pulled out, she felt so empty—she needed to feel him like that all the time. Close, inside, tangled up with her softness. 

When he pushed back in, he couldn’t help the moan that slipped out of his lips. She was shaking, and her shaking at his cock inside her, ignited something primal in him. He was the first person to ever feel her like this and make her feel this way, and that thought alone spurred Dex on to keep thrusting inside her. She was completely soaking and he could feel her start to mold to his cock.

“Dex,” she whispered his name, “it’s starting to feel different.”

“How?” He uttered out while he still slowly went back and forth inside her. 

“Good,” she opened her eyes finally and met his dark ones. “Really good. I—“

“You want more?” Dex asked, and it was his turn to close his eyes.

“I want more,” she nodded. 

Dex wasted no time in speeding up his thrusts inside her. He went even deeper, feeling the tip of his cock touch the back of her cervix. He was imprinting his size on her. She knew she would feel him for days after. She felt so velvety, soft, wet and tight around his cock, Dex’s mouth was half open and his eyes were closed as he continued to thrust inside her.

“More, Dex,” she sighed.

His arms were under her, and hers were around his shoulders. Dex kept one arm under her and held onto his bed frame to get a better angle at fucking her, because now that’s what they were doing. Dex pounded inside her tight pussy, wetness and possibly blood coating both of them and his sheets. He watched her as she closed her eyes, mouth half open, as he continued to fuck her into being all his. He didn’t know what he liked more—being inside her or watching how much she enjoyed him being inside her. She fluttered her eyes open for a moment, meeting his, and Dex instantly closed his eyes. He retreated his arm back from the bed frame and scooped her in his arms, pressing his forehead against hers. 

She closed her eyes again and had an expression of arousal, her eyebrows knitted together and her mouth slightly open. She opened her eyes and suddenly felt very aware of what was happening between their two sexes—it was a mix of wetness from her and something else more runny—blood. Her cheeks flushed red in embarrassment, Dex could tell, and she tried to look between them as he kept thrusting his cock inside her, unsure if she should allow herself to feel good or worry about the mess she’s making. 

Dex followed her line of view and blocked it with his dark eyes. 

“Look at me,” he whispered. “Look at me. How do you feel?”

She met his eyes and sighed heavily, “But Dex—“

“Don’t,” he pressed his forehead firmly against hers, continuing to pound into her, feeling the tip of his cock touch the back of her cervix. “Focus on me.”

Focus on him she did—the way he was hitting her g-spot repetitively made her spread her legs wider and push him in even more. He filled her up so completely, so well, she was sure to feel him for days. 

“Oh, God, Dex,” she moaned, louder than before, “something’s happening—“

“Let it,” Dex whispered against her lips, closing his eyes and focusing on hitting her sweet spot. “Come for me, __. Come for me…come for me…”

“Dex!” Her pussy convulsed around his cock as she finally reached climax for the first time. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly against her, holding on like she was holding on for life. Her heart was beating rapidly in her chest and she lost her breath and regained it as she held onto his warm body. He was still inside her, thrusting more gently now. He kissed her neck, kissed the skin behind her ear, kissed her forehead and kissed her lip as he continued to move inside and out of her.

“Oh,” Dex whispered against her lips. “I’m right behind you—“

“Inside me,” she said in a whisper, “please.”

Dex closed his eyes as he felt himself release his seed inside her tight pussy, feeling it coat all over her inside, he was shaking against her. It was her turn to kiss him, to bring him back down from his own high. 

He laid his entire body weight on her, which was welcomed. His cock was still inside her, resting, until he slowly pulled out of her. She held him tighter. He breathed her in deeply, kissing her shoulder. She ran her fingers through his dirty blonde hair. 

He pulled back, gazed in her eyes for a moment. 

“Let me get a towel,” Dex said softly. 

He pulled the sheets over her and when he came back, he cleaned between her legs as best as he could while she fell asleep. Dex threw the towel in the hamper, a clean, perfect throw, and crawled back under the sheets with her. He pulled her in tightly, and she molded against him like she was meant to be there. It may have been her first time, but he was certain this was his first time feeling the attachment in the aftermath. He hoped this wouldn’t be their last.  

[demonic0angel]

Cass gets some gear from the Drs Fenton so she can handle ghost stuff for Danny on his day off.

Cass hummed. She and Steph were walking down a street, with the latter chattering about the recent events in her life.

Eventually, as she finished another tangent about the cute and tall boy in her forensic science class, Steph turned towards Cass and asked, "How're you and Danny doing?"

Cass smiled, lifting the cup she was holding so Steph could take a sip for her overworked throat. "Good. Met his parents on Tuesday."

"What?! Oh my gosh! You met his parents?! How was it? Were they nice? I heard that they were ghost hunters! Is it true? Did the visit go well? How—" Steph was silenced by Cass putting a finger to her lips.

"It went okay. They were nice," Cass said with a smile.

Steph beamed. "Aww, I can't believe you're already meeting his parents! So when's the wedding?" She teased, nudging her.

Cass gave her a light glare and was about to speak when suddenly, there was a scream erupting from the other street. A ghost had burst out of a store's doors and was now terrorizing the civilians.

"Where's Danny??" Stephanie asked, as the ghost went on a rampage.

Cass sighed, pulling out her purse and rummaging inside. "It's his day off."

"Dammit!" Steph cried. "There goes my shopping plans for the day!"

"I'll take care of it," Cass said, cheerfully taking out a tube of lipstick.

Steph blinked.

"Wha—" her voice was cut off again as Cass opened the lipstick and then aimed the end at the ghost.

A laser flew out and dispersed the ghost, who shrieked with pain before disappearing. Cass blew off the smoke that came from her lipstick weapon and then pulled Steph away from the scene of the crime.

Steph stared at her with her mouth agape, eyes wide. Cass smiled sweetly.

"A gift from Dr Fenton," she answered the silent question. "I think they're also really excited for the wedding."

[berlioz-the-kitten]

Needs

Dexter Morgan x Reader

Summary: In the dark corners of Miami, Dexter Morgan and Y/N Sinclair navigate a world of blood, secrets, and an unspoken understanding that binds them tighter than any normal relationship should.

TW: This fic contains discussions and scenes that may be triggering for some readers. Please read with caution.

Violence & Murder – Includes descriptions and implications of homicide, serial killing, and blood.

Sexual Content – Contains semi-explicit and implied sexual situations, including aggressive intimacy.

Non-consensual Themes (Implied/Discussed) – Mentions of potential non-consensual scenarios (though not acted upon).

Death & Grief – Discussions and scenes involving loss of family members, grief, and unresolved murders.

Police & Corruption – Criticism of law enforcement, themes of police negligence, and frustration with the justice system.

Psychological Manipulation – Includes references to dark urges, internal dialogues with a violent alter ego (Dark Passenger), and morally ambiguous actions.

Stalking & Surveillance – Implied scene of a character being watched without their knowledge. (Because Brian is a fucking freak.)

Crude Language – Frequent use of strong language and profanity.

Sibling Death – Mentions of past accidents and murder of a sibling, with trauma.

If you feel any of these topics may be distressing, please proceed with caution or avoid reading further.

Word Count: 14k

(I was gonna split this bitch into two parts because she was getting LONG but decided, fuck it.)

It was late fall, the kind of night where the Miami heat had finally begun to let up, replaced by something almost resembling a chill. The University of Miami’s library was quieter than usual, the usual hum of students thinning out as midterms wrapped up.

Dexter had come for a book—Forensic Microscopy, a dry but useful read he could use as an excuse for being here if anyone asked. The truth was, he liked the silence. The smell of old books and paper felt clean, precise, ordered. A contrast to the messiness of life outside.

He didn’t expect to notice her.

She was sitting at one of the long wooden tables near the back, surrounded by cookbooks instead of textbooks, her hair pulled into a loose bun with strands slipping free. She was flipping through a thick volume on classic French cuisine, tapping a pencil absentmindedly against the page. Unlike most students buried in notes or half-asleep in their chairs, she didn’t look stressed—just focused, reading with an intensity that made it seem like she was picking apart every detail, every ingredient, like it mattered.

Dexter found himself watching her longer than necessary. She had that quiet kind of presence, the kind that didn’t demand attention but held it anyway. When she turned the page, her gaze flicked up just enough to catch him staring. Instead of looking away or pretending not to notice, she raised a single eyebrow.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice low, unbothered. Not defensive, just curious.

Dexter blinked. Most people would have been embarrassed. He wasn’t. Just calculating.

"You’re studying French cooking," he said instead of answering her question.

She leaned back, crossing her arms, studying him in return. "I am a culinary student," she said. "And you are...?"

Dexter hesitated. She wasn’t asking in the way most people did, with the expectation of polite introductions. There was something else in her tone, something that made him feel like she was filing information away the same way he did when analyzing blood patterns.

"Biology major," he said finally. "With a focus on forensic science."

Her expression didn’t change, but something shifted in her eyes. A flicker of amusement, maybe.

"So, dead bodies instead of dead animals on a plate." She tapped her pencil on the book again, thinking. "You ever cook?"

Dexter shook his head. "No."

"Hmm." She closed the book in front of her. "Shame. There’s something satisfying about making something from nothing. Knowing exactly how each piece fits together, how heat and time change things at a chemical level. Cooking’s just science with better seasoning."

He could see the logic in that. The careful precision, the balance. The way something seemingly chaotic had rules beneath the surface.

"Y/N," she said after a moment, holding out a hand like she’d just decided it was worth the effort. "Y/N Sinclair."

Dexter shook it. "Dexter Morgan."

She nodded, as if the name confirmed something for her, then grabbed her books. "Well, Dexter Morgan, since you’re so interested in French cuisine, you can help me carry these back to my dorm."

It wasn’t a question. She didn’t wait for his response before stacking another book on the pile in front of him.

Dexter, for some reason, didn’t mind.

It was a Friday night, the kind where the humidity still clung to the air but wasn’t unbearable, and campus felt half-asleep. Most students had either gone out drinking or crashed early, but Y/N had convinced Dexter to come with her to a small diner just off-campus.

Well, convinced was a strong word. She had mentioned it offhandedly, fully expecting him to decline, and was only mildly surprised when he agreed.

Now, they sat in a red vinyl booth near the back, the hum of the old neon sign outside casting a faint blue glow against the window. A half-eaten plate of fries sat between them, and Y/N was absentmindedly spinning a sugar packet between her fingers while Dexter stirred his coffee without drinking it.

Across from them, Lisa and Theo—Y/N’s two whole friends—watched with barely concealed amusement. They weren’t the kind of people who pried, but the tension at the table was thick enough to cut with a dull butter knife.

“So,” Lisa finally said, her dark eyes flicking between Y/N and Dexter, “how long have you two been�� whatever this is?” She gestured vaguely at them, one hand wrapped around her milkshake.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her expression perfectly blank. “Friends?”

Theo snorted. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

Dexter, to his credit, didn’t react much. He just tilted his head slightly, as if studying the accusation, before finally responding. “We met last year.”

Lisa rolled her eyes. “Yeah, okay, but that doesn’t explain why you two look like you’ve been circling each other in some weird, slow-motion will-they-won’t-they for months.”

Y/N didn’t even pause before popping a fry into her mouth. “Maybe you just have an overactive imagination.”

Lisa wasn’t buying it. “Or maybe you’re just allergic to acknowledging obvious chemistry.” She turned to Dexter. “You have to see it, right? It’s like watching two stray cats who want to fight but also maybe want to cuddle.”

Dexter stirred his coffee again, this time for no reason. “I wouldn’t describe it that way.”

“No, of course not.” Theo smirked. “You’d probably use some clinical forensic analysis instead.”

Dexter’s lips twitched like he was considering it.

Y/N sighed, finally setting the sugar packet down. “Look, I get that this is fascinating for you, but I’m not in the mood for whatever romantic conspiracy theory you’re cooking up.”

Lisa exchanged a glance with Theo. “Okay, fine,” she said, lifting her hands in mock surrender. “We’ll drop it. But just so you know, everyone can see it.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and reached for another fry. “Then everyone should mind their own business.”

Lisa just smirked. “Uh-huh.”

The conversation shifted after that, back to classes, campus drama, and Theo’s latest failed attempt at flirting with the barista at the campus coffee shop. But every so often, Lisa would glance between Y/N and Dexter, a knowing look in her eyes.

Dexter, for his part, was as unreadable as ever. But Y/N? She could feel it—the weight of her friends’ words lingering in the air, like a splinter she couldn’t quite ignore.

And when she looked at Dexter, just for a second too long, she knew they weren’t entirely wrong.

The Miami sun was relentless, even in late October, casting sharp golden light over the parking lot of a small sandwich shop just off campus. Y/N leaned against the hood of her truck, sipping an iced coffee while Debra paced in front of her, talking a mile a minute, hands flying in every direction.

"I'm just saying," Debra huffed, shoving her sunglasses up into her messy ponytail, "if I have to sit through another goddamn Criminal Psych lecture where Professor Reed sucks off the FBI, I might actually throw something at him. Like, we get it, dude, profiling is so impressive, ooooh." She waved her hands dramatically. "Maybe if they spent less time jerking off over patterns and actually did some real police work, they'd solve more cases."

Y/N smirked, sipping her drink. "I feel like you’re holding back, Deb. Tell me how you really feel."

Debra shot her a look but cracked a grin. "Shut up." She crossed her arms and leaned against the truck beside Y/N, stealing a sip of her coffee without asking.

Y/N didn’t bother stopping her. "You’re just mad because he called on you and you weren’t paying attention."

Debra groaned, tilting her head back against the windshield. "I was barely zoned out! And it’s not like the dude next to me knew the answer either! He was just better at bullshitting."

Y/N gave a slow nod. "And bullshitting is, what, half of law enforcement?"

Debra pointed at her. "See? You get it."

They stood there for a minute, the background noise of Miami buzzing around them—traffic, music blaring from passing cars, the faint chatter of people coming in and out of the sandwich shop. It was an easy silence, the kind you only had with people you didn’t need to fill space with.

"You coming to the Halloween party at Diego’s?" Debra asked after a moment, nudging Y/N’s shoulder with her own.

Y/N wrinkled her nose. "That mess? I think I’ll pass."

"Why?" Debra dragged out the word like it was a personal offense. "It’ll be fun. Booze, bad decisions, some dude dressed as a sexy vampire throwing up in the bushes. Classic college shit."

Y/N exhaled through her nose, half amused. "Yeah, I think I’ll stay home and not watch freshmen blackout on Jell-O shots, thanks."

Debra made an exaggerated tsk noise. "God, you’re such an old lady."

Y/N smirked. "I prefer refined."

"Right, sure, let’s go with that," Debra said, rolling her eyes. "So what, you’re just gonna sit at home and hang out with Dexter?"

Y/N didn’t flinch, but Debra was watching her, and Y/N knew she had that look—the one that was too sharp, too knowing.

"You guys are weirdly close, you know that?" Debra continued, tilting her head, studying her.

Y/N shrugged, playing it off. "We’re friends."

Debra hummed, unconvinced. "Yeah, well, if you ever get tired of whatever the hell that thing is, you let me know. I actually like socializing."

Y/N laughed under her breath. "Deb, I don’t think you’ve ever once gotten tired of hearing yourself talk."

Debra gasped in mock offense. "Excuse you—I have great conversational skills."

Y/N patted her shoulder. "Sure you do, champ."

Debra shoved her lightly, but she was grinning. "Asshole. Now get in the truck and drive me home before I change my mind and force you to come to this party."

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, tossing her coffee in the trash and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Debra flopped into the passenger seat, kicking her feet up on the dashboard like she owned the place. Y/N didn't bother telling her to put them down.

As they pulled onto the road, Debra turned the radio up, flipping through stations until she found one she liked. Y/N let her, focusing on the drive, the late afternoon light casting long shadows over the streets.

It was easy, their friendship. Even with the questions Debra didn’t realize she was asking.

It started as a small, quiet realization, the kind that crept in unnoticed until it was too late to ignore.

Dexter wasn’t in the habit of analyzing his relationships—not outside of how they served his purpose. He had Debra, the one exception, the person he knew he cared about, even if he didn’t fully understand why. Everyone else? They were pieces on a board, parts of the structure that allowed him to exist without drawing suspicion.

Y/N had never quite fit into that structure the way others did.

And tonight, as he sat across from her in her apartment, watching her work through some intricate dish for a client, he realized just how much space she had taken up in his life.

She hadn’t invited him over, not really. She never had to. Their dynamic didn’t require it. He had just shown up, and she had just let him in, offering a drink without asking why he was there. Now, she moved through her small kitchen with effortless precision, chopping, mixing, tasting. Her hair was pinned up messily, her sleeves pushed up, exposing the sharp lines of her wrists and forearms—stronger than they looked, the result of years in kitchens.

Dexter should have been bored. This wasn’t new, wasn’t useful, wasn’t anything that served him. But he wasn’t bored.

He was watching.

She wasn’t trying to entertain him, wasn’t filling the space with conversation the way most people would. And yet, it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it was easier than most social interactions, easier than pretending to care about meaningless conversations.

He could sit here, and she could do this, and it was fine.

She reached for something on a high shelf, stretching just enough that the hem of her sweater lifted slightly, and before Dexter could even think about it, he stood and grabbed the jar for her.

Y/N turned, eyebrows raised slightly in amusement. “I didn’t even ask.”

“You were struggling,” he said simply, handing it to her.

She gave a short laugh, shaking her head as she took it. “I wasn’t struggling. I would have gotten it.”

“Eventually.”

She huffed, but there was no real annoyance in it. “Thanks, I guess.”

She went back to work, and Dexter sat back down, watching the way she focused, the way she seemed to enjoy the process—not in some sentimental way, but in a methodical one. She liked control. She liked knowing the outcome of her work.

It was a familiar trait.

Time passed, the quiet hum of the radio the only sound between them. Y/N finished what she was doing, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and turned to lean against the counter, crossing her arms as she looked at him.

“You’re staring.”

Dexter blinked. He hadn’t even realized. “Am I?”

She tilted her head, studying him the same way he had been studying her. It made something twist in his stomach—not unpleasant, just unfamiliar.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “You do that sometimes.”

Dexter could have denied it. He should have. But instead, he just looked at her, and for the first time, he had the uncomfortable thought that maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as removed from all of this as he liked to believe.

Maybe she had managed to sneak into the parts of him that weren’t supposed to feel.

And maybe he didn’t mind.

It was late. Past midnight. The kind of late where most people were asleep, where the world was quieter, slower. Where shadows stretched longer than they should and things you didn’t want to notice became harder to ignore.

Dexter had been leaving his apartment when he saw her.

Y/N was parked outside, her old truck pulled into the nearest streetlight’s glow, hood streaked with something dark, front grille caked with debris. He hadn’t needed to ask why she was there—he already knew.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

He watched as she leaned over the hood, methodically plucking something from the metal mesh, her fingers quick and precise, like she was used to it. A bucket of water sat beside her, the rag in her hand already stained. She worked in silence, jaw tight, eyes focused—not frustrated, not shaken, just fixing it.

Like this was normal. Like it was just something that happened.

Dexter stayed in the shadows, observing. He wasn’t sure why.

He should have assumed this was exactly what it looked like. A deer, most people would say. Maybe a raccoon, a stray dog. But the damage was too intentional, too conveniently placed, and he knew Y/N well enough to know that she wasn’t careless.

He should have realized it sooner.

The moments, the little comments, the way she never asked questions she didn’t want answered. The way she had once idly mentioned how easy it was for people to get themselves killed if they weren’t paying attention. The way she never seemed rattled by things that should have disturbed her.

And now, here she was, wiping blood from her truck like it was just another Tuesday.

Finally, she sighed, shaking out the rag before tossing it into the bucket. “You gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna help?”

Dexter blinked. Ah.

So she had noticed him.

He stepped forward, hands in his pockets. "How long have you known I was there?"

She gave him a sidelong glance, then reached for the hose coiled against the curb. "Long enough." She turned the water on, rinsing the last of the grime off the metal, her movements slow, deliberate. "Not gonna ask what I hit?"

Dexter tilted his head. "Do you want me to?"

Y/N huffed a small laugh, not looking at him. "Not particularly."

Dexter watched her, the way she handled this—no panic, no guilt, no urgency. Just... efficiency.

She turned the hose off, leaning back against the truck, arms crossed, finally meeting his gaze.

And there it was.

That thing in her expression, the thing that wasn’t quite normal, the thing that shouldn’t be there but was.

Dexter had spent his life studying people, mimicking them, learning how to blend in. He knew when something was off.

And Y/N?

She wasn’t mimicking anything.

She was just like this.

The silence stretched between them, and he realized, for the first time, that maybe she understood him more than he had ever considered.

And maybe, just maybe—she had been waiting for him to figure that out.

Dexter had been tuning Debra out for the past five minutes, half-listening as she rambled on about the amazing guy she had met at a bar last week. Something about him being a cop-in-training, charming but not too charming, good with his hands—he really didn’t care. Not until she dropped something that caught his attention.

“So obviously, you’re coming.”

Dexter blinked, dragging his focus back to her. “What?”

Debra groaned. “Jesus, Dex, try to keep up. Double date. Me, Kyle, you, whoever the hell you bring.” She took a sip of her beer, then pointed at him. “And don’t even think about saying no. You owe me.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” she interrupted, leveling him with a look. “You always do. And before you start bitching about not knowing who to bring, you should just ask Y/N.”

Dexter frowned. “Y/N?”

Debra rolled her eyes, waving a hand in the air. “Yeah, Y/N. You know, your wife?”

Dexter stared at her. “She’s not my wife.”

Debra snorted. “Okay, sure, but you two are already basically married, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Dexter didn’t respond right away, processing that. “We’re not married.”

“Dex,” Debra said flatly, giving him the look. “You show up at her apartment unannounced, she lets you in like it’s the most normal thing in the world, you drive each other places without even asking, she’s the only person I’ve ever seen you sit in comfortable silence with—” She gestured wildly. “It’s a marriage, dude. You just forgot to do the paperwork.”

Dexter tilted his head. “By that logic, you and I are also married.”

Debra gagged dramatically. “Oh my God, never say that again.”

Dexter smirked slightly. “Then maybe your definition is flawed.”

Debra scoffed, shaking her head. “Nope. I stand by it. You and Y/N are some kind of weird-ass, low-maintenance, no-effort couple.” She leaned forward, pointing at him again. “And you are bringing her, because if I have to sit through dinner with Kyle and his roommate alone, I’m going to gouge my own eyes out with a butter knife.”

Dexter considered arguing, but he knew Debra well enough to know she wasn’t letting this go.

He sighed. “Fine.”

Debra grinned, satisfied. “Good. Pick me up at seven.”

Dexter took a sip of his drink, already mentally preparing for the inevitable conversation with Y/N.

Somehow, he had the feeling she was going to find this entire thing hilarious.

Y/N had been expecting something the moment Dexter walked into her apartment.

Not because he looked particularly different—Dexter never looked different—but because he was standing just inside the doorway, hands in his pockets, hovering.

That was new.

She finished tying her hair up, eyeing him from the kitchen. “Alright, spit it out.”

Dexter blinked. “What?”

“You’ve got that face,” she said, walking past him to grab a soda from the fridge.

He frowned slightly. “I don’t have a face.”

Y/N snorted. “That’s the problem.” She cracked the can open, leaning against the counter. “Now, what is it?”

Dexter was quiet for a beat, then finally said, “Debra wants me to go on a double date with her.”

Y/N took a sip. “And?”

“And she thinks I should bring you.”

Y/N stared at him for a second, then burst out laughing.

Dexter just stood there, watching as she set her drink down and covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.

“Oh my God.” She exhaled, looking at him with a mix of amusement and disbelief. “She really thinks we’re that bad, huh?”

Dexter shrugged. “Apparently, we’re ‘basically married.’”

Y/N wheezed. “Jesus, Deb.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “Okay, okay, so let me get this straight—you have to go, and she’s making you bring me so she doesn’t have to suffer alone?”

“More or less.”

Y/N shook her head, still grinning. “And you agreed?”

Dexter hesitated. “It seemed like the path of least resistance.”

Y/N smirked. “Ah, so you’re afraid of her.”

Dexter didn’t respond, which was answer enough.

Y/N picked up her drink again, taking a thoughtful sip. “Alright, fine. I’ll go.”

Dexter nodded, as if he had already expected that.

She tilted her head, giving him a sly look. “I’m gonna make this as unbearable as possible, you know that, right?”

Dexter finally moved, walking past her toward the fridge to grab his own drink. “I assumed as much.”

Y/N grinned, already scheming. “Good. At least one of us should have fun.”

The restaurant was one of those dimly lit, mid-tier places that tried too hard to look upscale but still had sticky menus and a faint smell of fryer oil clinging to the air. It wasn’t bad, just pretentious in the way Miami restaurants tended to be.

Dexter had already counted three exits, noted the security camera angles, and cataloged at least two potential weak spots in the building’s structure before the appetizers had even arrived.

Across the table, Debra was clearly regretting her life choices.

Kyle, her date, was fine—blond, broad-shouldered, the kind of guy who probably called his dad sir and did push-ups for fun. He was talking, saying something about police training, and Debra was nodding along, barely suppressing an eye-roll.

The real problem was Kyle’s roommate, Brandon—who, unfortunately, was Y/N’s assigned date for the evening.

Brandon had energy.

The wrong kind of energy.

“So, Y/N, right?” Brandon leaned in, flashing a grin that probably worked on drunk sorority girls but was currently being met with a blank, vaguely unimpressed stare. “Debra said you’re a chef. That’s, like, so hot. A woman who can cook? Total wife material.”

Y/N blinked. “That’s the most 1950s thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Brandon laughed, like she was joking.

Dexter knew she wasn’t.

“Yeah, yeah, no, I mean, I just think it’s cool,” Brandon continued, undeterred. “I make a mean grilled cheese, but that’s about it.”

Y/N took a slow sip of her wine. “Wow. Incredible.”

Brandon either didn’t catch the sarcasm or chose to ignore it. “So what’s your specialty?”

Y/N leaned forward slightly, resting her chin in her hand. “Killing men who think grilled cheese counts as cooking.”

Debra choked on her drink.

Dexter allowed himself the faintest twitch of amusement.

Brandon hesitated. “Uh… ha, ha?”

Y/N smiled sweetly.

Debra, regaining control, slapped her palm on the table. “Okay, this was a mistake.” She pointed at Dexter. “You suck at double dates, by the way.”

Dexter raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t my idea.”

Debra groaned, turning to Kyle. “You’re the only normal one here. Congratulations.”

Kyle, who had been quietly sipping his beer and watching the disaster unfold, lifted his glass. “Thanks, I guess?”

Brandon, still valiantly trying to salvage the situation, turned back to Y/N. “So, like, what do you do when you’re not working?”

Y/N tilted her head, considering. “Mostly run people over with my truck.”

Brandon laughed again. “Man, you’re funny.”

Dexter noticed the way Y/N’s lip just twitched, the way her fingers tapped idly against the stem of her wine glass. He had seen her do this before, when she was thinking, calculating.

It was an odd thing, seeing himself in someone else.

Brandon, blissfully unaware, leaned in again. “You ever gonna let me take you out for real?”

Y/N stared at him for a long moment, then turned to Dexter, deadpan. “Husband, tell him no.”

Dexter, without missing a beat, looked at Brandon. “No.”

Brandon blinked. “Wait—”

Debra snorted. “Oh, my God.”

Y/N clinked her glass against Dexter’s. “Good teamwork.”

Dexter hummed. “We are practically married.”

Debra groaned into her hands. “I hate both of you.”

Kyle took another sip of his beer. “This is way more fun than I expected.”

Brandon, thoroughly confused, leaned back in his seat, finally—finally—accepting defeat.

Y/N, victorious, took another sip of wine.

Dexter, for the first time that night, actually enjoyed himself.

Y/N was elbow-deep in flour when Dexter knocked on her apartment door.

It was open, like always, so he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. The smell of something buttery and warm filled the air, a half-finished pie crust sitting on the counter.

Y/N glanced up, brushing flour off her hands. “You look like you’re about to say something weird.”

Dexter tilted his head. “How do you know?”

“Because I know you,” she said, grabbing a dish towel to wipe her hands. “And also because you’re standing there like you just made a decision and haven’t worked out how to phrase it yet.”

She wasn’t wrong.

Dexter had spent a long time trying to figure out why this was different. Why she was different.

The answer was surprisingly simple:

It didn’t feel different.

There was no pressure, no expectation. No need to analyze how much effort it took to maintain. It just was.

Everyone already assumed they were together.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending otherwise.

So instead of overthinking it, he just said, “Do you want to go out?”

Y/N blinked. “Go out?”

“On a date.”

She stared at him for a second longer, then huffed a small laugh, shaking her head. “Huh.”

Dexter waited. “Is that a yes?”

Y/N leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Took you long enough.”

Dexter frowned slightly. “So you were expecting this?”

“Not expecting, just... not surprised.” She grabbed a fork and started absentmindedly poking holes into the pie crust. “Debra’s been saying we’re basically married for months, Theo and Lisa definitely have a bet going on when we’d cave, and half the people we know already assume we’re together anyway.”

Dexter considered that. “So this is just a formality?”

Y/N smirked. “Pretty much.”

Dexter nodded. “Alright, then.”

Y/N tossed the fork into the sink. “I assume you’ve got an actual plan?”

“I was going to take you to dinner,” Dexter said. “But considering you hate restaurants, that feels counterproductive.”

Y/N’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “You actually thought about it?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” She studied him, then wiped her hands off again, finally moving toward the door. “Alright, let’s go.”

Dexter blinked. “Now?”

Y/N shrugged. “Why not?”

“You’re covered in flour.”

She smirked, brushing a streak of it from her sleeve. “And you asked me out five minutes ago without warning, so I guess we’re both winging it.”

Dexter considered that. Then nodded.

Fair enough.

As they stepped outside, Y/N glanced sideways at him, her smirk shifting into something amused.

“So,” she said. “You gonna tell Deb, or should I?”

Dexter sighed. “Let’s just get this over with first.”

Y/N grinned. “That’s the spirit, husband.”

Dexter had expected their first date to feel different.

He had expected some kind of shift, a noticeable change in dynamic, maybe even a flicker of unease. Because dating—real dating—was something he didn’t do. It was something that required emotions he wasn’t sure he had, something that came with expectations he didn’t entirely understand.

But as he sat across from Y/N in a small hole-in-the-wall diner, watching her pick through her fries while casually arguing with the waitress about why their ‘famous’ key lime pie definitely wasn’t as good as they claimed, he realized—

It wasn’t different at all.

Y/N was the same. She hadn’t changed, hadn’t suddenly become someone who expected flowers or dramatic declarations or any of the other things that usually came with relationships.

She was still stealing food off his plate like it was her right, still kicking his shin under the table when he rolled his eyes at her, still perfectly comfortable in a way that most people never were with him.

The only difference now was that the rest of the world knew.

"So," Y/N said, popping a fry into her mouth, "should I be worried that you picked a diner across from a police station for our first date?"

Dexter glanced out the window at the station across the street, then back at her. "I didn’t notice."

Y/N snorted. "Bullshit. You always notice."

Dexter took a sip of his drink. She wasn’t wrong.

Y/N smirked like she knew exactly what he was thinking. “Right. Just making sure I didn’t accidentally sign up to be your alibi or something.”

Dexter tilted his head slightly. “Would you?”

Y/N leaned back in her seat, studying him. “I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

She took another fry, chewing thoughtfully. “How good your reasoning is.”

Dexter watched her, the amusement in her eyes, the way she was always a step ahead, always considering things most people never would.

Most people asked questions they wanted answers to.

Y/N asked questions just to see what he’d say.

And, strangely, he liked that.

The waitress came back, dropping the check on the table with a suspicious glance at Y/N, who just grinned.

Dexter pulled out his wallet, but before he could reach for the bill, Y/N swiped it.

"Absolutely not," she said.

Dexter raised an eyebrow. "You’re paying?"

"Damn right I am." She tucked the check into her pocket, finishing off her drink. "You asked me out five minutes before I finished baking a pie. You didn’t even let me change my shirt."

"You said yes."

"Yeah, but now I’m setting a precedent. If you want a second date, you’re gonna have to actually plan something."

Dexter considered that. "Noted."

Y/N smirked, grabbing her jacket. "Alright, let’s go. I want ice cream."

Dexter stood, falling into step beside her as they walked out of the diner.

It should have felt different.

It didn’t.

And for once—he was okay with that.

It was supposed to be a normal afternoon.

Debra had swung by Y/N’s apartment unannounced, which wasn’t unusual. She did that all the time, mostly to complain about work, steal snacks, and pretend she wasn’t just avoiding her own place.

What was unusual was the fact that when she stepped inside, Dexter was already there.

That wasn’t the weird part.

The weird part was that Y/N was stretched out across his lap on the couch, head resting against his shoulder, legs draped over the armrest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Dexter?

Dexter, the weirdest, least touchy person she had ever met, was just letting it happen.

Not awkwardly. Not like he was tolerating it. Just… existing with it.

Debra froze in the doorway, eyes wide.

Y/N lifted her head slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Uh. You good?"

Debra pointed at them. "What the fuck is this?"

Y/N blinked. "A couch?"

"You know what I mean!" Debra shot a look at Dexter, who, of course, looked completely unbothered. "Are you guys actually dating now?"

Dexter tilted his head slightly, like he was only now realizing this was something that required saying out loud. "Yes."

Debra stared. "Since when?"

Y/N shrugged, shifting so she was sitting up but still pressed against Dexter’s side. "A while now."

"And you didn’t tell me?"

Y/N smirked. "Deb, you’ve been calling us married for, like, a year. We figured you already knew."

"I was joking!"

Dexter raised an eyebrow. "Were you?"

Debra sputtered. "Okay, yeah, maybe I suspected—but still! I was supposed to get an official announcement or something!"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "What, you want a fucking press release?"

Debra crossed her arms. "It would’ve been nice."

Y/N leaned into Dexter, grinning. "You hearing this? She wanted us to romantically tell her we’re dating."

Dexter, as dry as ever, said, "Should we have sent flowers?"

Debra groaned. "Oh, my God, you two are unbearable."

Y/N patted her knee. "Welcome to the club, babe."

Debra just shook her head, dropping onto the chair across from them. "Whatever. You still should have told me."

Y/N smirked. "You should have guessed faster."

Dexter, watching Debra’s exasperation with something just barely resembling amusement, leaned back into the couch.

He had a feeling this conversation would be happening a lot.

Dexter had never put much thought into physical affection. It wasn’t something he craved, wasn’t something that fit with the carefully constructed version of himself he had built over the years.

And yet, somehow, Y/N had managed to ignore all of that.

She had always been casual about touch—leaning against him during late-night study sessions, throwing her legs over his lap when they were on the couch, ruffling his hair just to be annoying. It had been easy to dismiss when they were just friends.

But now?

Now, she had leaned into it, and he had started to realize just how much she had held back before.

The first time she curled up against him on the couch after they had officially started dating, it should have felt strange. He had braced himself for it, expecting discomfort, irritation, something.

But nothing came.

She had draped herself across him with all the ease of someone who had never questioned whether or not she was allowed to, like it was just a given that she could. Her head rested against his shoulder, fingers idly tracing patterns on the inside of his wrist while she flipped through a magazine with her other hand.

He had stayed still at first, waiting for something inside him to protest.

It didn’t.

And the more it happened, the more he realized—he didn’t mind.

Y/N wasn’t clingy about it, wasn’t performative. She never did it in public, never put him in situations where he felt like he was supposed to react a certain way.

She just was.

She would curl up in his lap when she was tired, rest her chin on his shoulder while he read through case files, lazily drag her fingers through his hair when they sat together in silence.

She never asked, never hesitated.

And Dexter let her.

Because, really, it wasn’t that different from before.

It was just Y/N, in the way she had always been—comfortable, unbothered, completely unconcerned with the idea that he was supposed to be different, supposed to be wrong about these things.

So he didn’t overthink it.

Didn’t push her away.

Didn’t tell her to stop.

Because, at the end of the day—

He didn’t want her to.

Dexter hadn’t meant to overhear.

He had come over like he always did, using the key Y/N had given him months ago, expecting to find her in the kitchen or sprawled across the couch like usual. Instead, he found her standing by the window, phone pressed to her ear, her back to him.

She didn’t hear him come in.

“I know, Mom,” Y/N said, voice quieter than usual. “I know.”

Dexter hesitated, lingering in the doorway. He could have left, could have waited outside or made some noise to announce himself—but something in her posture kept him rooted in place.

She was tense. Not in the way she got when she was irritated or faking patience, but in a way he had only seen a few times before.

A way that made him stay.

“I just—” Y/N exhaled sharply, one hand coming up to press against her forehead. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” A pause. “Yeah. I miss him too.”

Dexter didn’t need to ask who she was talking about.

Her brother.

It had been a year since he was murdered.

Y/N never talked about it, not really. She had mentioned it once, briefly, in the same flat, matter-of-fact tone she used when explaining why she hated a particular restaurant or why she didn’t drive through certain parts of Miami after dark.

But now, listening to her talk, it was different.

“Yeah,” Y/N murmured. “I know the police haven’t found anything.” A sharp edge crept into her voice. “Not like they’re trying.”

Dexter could hear her mother’s voice, muffled through the receiver.

Y/N swallowed. “No, I haven’t—” She stopped, pressing her lips together, eyes fixed on the window.

Dexter watched the way her fingers tightened around the phone, the way she exhaled through her nose like she was forcing herself to stay composed.

“Mom,” she said, softer now. “You have to let it go.”

A long pause. Y/N’s free hand curled at her side.

“I—” She hesitated, voice catching just slightly before she cleared her throat. “I can’t fix it. I don’t know what you want me to do.”

Dexter tilted his head.

It was rare to see her like this, to hear her sound like this.

Eventually, Y/N sighed. “I’ll call you later, okay?” She was already pulling the phone away from her ear, already done with the conversation before her mother had even finished speaking. “Yeah. Love you too.”

She hung up, exhaling sharply, running a hand over her face before turning—

And immediately freezing when she saw him.

They stared at each other for a moment.

Y/N was good at masking things. She had a way of brushing off discomfort with sharp humor and easy deflection, of making people believe she didn’t care as much as she did.

But Dexter had been watching her for a long time.

And right now, she wasn’t hiding as well as she thought she was.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asked, voice a little too light, too casual.

Dexter considered lying. Decided against it.

“A while.”

Y/N sighed, tilting her head back slightly before leveling him with a look. “And?”

He studied her, the tension still sitting in her shoulders, the way she was already preparing to brush this off, to move on.

Most people would have tried to comfort her.

Most people would have said something meaningless, something empty, something that was more about them than about her.

Dexter just walked over, sat on the couch, and waited.

Y/N hesitated.

Then, after a moment, she sat down next to him, leaning into his side, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn’t have to.

Y/N had barely unlocked the door before Dexter was on her.

There was no hesitation, no usual quiet calculation in his movements—just action. His hands found her face, fingers pressing into her jaw as he pushed forward, kissing her like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t Dexter.

And yet, she didn’t pull away.

She let him consume the space between them, let him back her up into the apartment, let him press her against the door for just a second before she finally broke the kiss, sucking in a breath.

“Jesus,” she muttered, blinking up at him, lips tingling. “What the hell was that?”

Dexter didn’t answer. His pupils were blown wide, his breathing just a little too fast. His hands slid from her face to her hips, firm, deliberate.

Y/N opened her mouth to ask again, but before she could, Dexter moved—gripping her wrist, steering her through the dimly lit apartment, walking her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed.

He pushed her down—not roughly, but with purpose.

And then it clicked.

Her brain caught up, piecing it together all at once—his body language, the energy radiating off him, the way his hands were still trembling slightly where they gripped her hips.

She knew this look.

Not because she had ever seen it on him before—but because she had seen it in the mirror.

Y/N exhaled slowly, studying him from where she lay beneath him. “You did it, didn’t you?”

Dexter stilled.

Just for a second.

Then, slowly, slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched.

Y/N huffed a small, breathless laugh. “Holy shit.”

She had known. Of course she had known.

She had always suspected—had known that whatever it was inside him, it wasn’t normal, wasn’t easily ignored. She had just never expected to be here, like this, with him vibrating with something just under his skin, something electric, something alive.

She lifted a hand, trailing it up his arm, up to his jaw, tilting his face toward hers.

His breathing was still unsteady, but the moment her fingers brushed his cheek, something shifted.

His eyes flickered, lips parting slightly, as if realizing he hadn’t pieced this part together yet.

Y/N smirked.

“Well,” she murmured, fingers ghosting down to his collar, tugging him just a little closer. “Now I really have to know how it went.”

The room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, the kind of quiet that only existed in the aftermath of something big. The dim glow from the streetlights outside barely touched the edges of the bed, casting long, lazy shadows across the walls.

Dexter lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, still feeling the lingering hum of adrenaline in his veins. It wasn’t the same as before—wasn’t the wild, uncontrollable energy that had gripped him when he first showed up at her door.

Now, it was settled.

Y/N shifted beside him, stretching like a cat, her bare leg brushing against his as she turned onto her side. He felt her gaze on him before she even spoke.

“Well,” she murmured, voice low, amused. “At least you killed two—well, technically three birds with one stone.”

Dexter turned his head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Three?”

She smirked, lazily running a hand through her hair. “First kill, first kiss, first time. All done in one night.”

Dexter blinked.

Huh.

She wasn’t wrong.

He hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t registered that all three of those things had collided in the same span of hours, hadn’t processed that this night had been one of firsts for him in more ways than one.

It should have felt big.

But lying here, looking at her, it didn’t feel like some monumental shift. It just felt… right.

Y/N stretched again, exhaling a sigh. “Kind of impressive, actually.”

Dexter hummed. “Efficient.”

Y/N grinned, eyes gleaming in the dark. “God, you’re such a fucking nerd.”

He turned onto his side, facing her, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. It wasn’t something he would have normally done, wasn’t something that had ever come naturally to him before. But right now, it felt easy.

Y/N stilled, watching him.

For once, she didn’t have some sharp, teasing remark ready.

And for once, he didn’t feel the need to fill the space with words.

They just existed, in the quiet, in the aftermath, with the weight of the night pressing around them.

Eventually, Y/N broke the silence, smirking. “So… you gonna tell me about it?”

Dexter considered her for a moment.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

And Y/N just grinned, settling in, ready to listen.

The kill should have been enough.

It was enough.

Everything had gone perfectly—every step executed with the precision he had spent years refining. The plastic, the blade, the ritual. The Dark Passenger had taken what it wanted, what it needed, and the body was gone, discarded into the ocean like it had never existed.

He should have felt calm now. Settled.

But he wasn’t.

His hands were steady, his heartbeat had slowed, but something inside him was still alive, still humming, still demanding more.

It wasn’t the need to kill.

It was something else. Something restless.

Something wrong.

Dexter stood in the darkness, staring at the rippling water where his first kill had disappeared, and felt his skin buzzing with an energy he didn’t know how to name. The Dark Passenger had fed, but it wasn’t done with him.

And before he had even processed what he was doing—before he could analyze, or calculate, or question—

He was moving.

Not home.

Not anywhere he had planned to go.

He was going to her.

There was no logic behind it. No carefully laid out reason.

Only instinct.

By the time he reached her apartment, his mind was a blur of static. His breath was controlled, but everything else inside him was spiraling, the excess energy building, pressing against his ribs like something caged.

He barely knocked.

Barely waited.

The door opened, and there she was—Y/N, her hair up, her expression relaxed, the familiar ease in her posture—

And then his hands were on her.

She barely had time to react before his mouth was on hers, before he was pushing into her space, consuming it, gripping her like she was the only solid thing left in the world.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was primal.

And for the first time in his life, Dexter wasn’t thinking.

He was feeling.

Dexter walked into Miami Metro the next morning feeling… different.

Not visibly. Not in any way most people would notice. But there was a stillness inside him that hadn’t been there before, a strange quiet that wasn’t just the usual post-kill satisfaction.

He wasn’t restless. He wasn’t wound tight.

He felt… good.

Apparently, that was enough for someone to notice.

"Well, well, well," Masuka’s voice rang out before Dexter had even reached his desk. "Look who’s walking in here all loose and refreshed."

Dexter barely glanced at him. "Loose?"

Masuka grinned, leaning back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers. "You just got that look, man. The one people have when they’ve been properly… relaxed."

Dexter stared at him blankly. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Oh, come on." Masuka gestured wildly. "You, my friend, look way less serial killer-y than usual today. And there’s only one reason for that."

Across the bullpen, Angel was watching with mild amusement. "Masuka, don’t be weird."

Masuka scoffed. "I’m always weird."

Angel sighed, standing up and crossing his arms, giving Dexter a once-over. Then, with the confidence of a man who had seen it all, he nodded sagely.

"Yeah," he said. "You got some."

Dexter blinked. "Excuse me?"

Masuka pointed at him. "See? He got some. He’s all calm now."

Dexter, who had literally committed murder the night before, was mildly fascinated by the fact that this was what they were picking up on.

"That’s ridiculous," he said flatly.

Angel grinned, nudging Masuka. "Which means it’s true."

Masuka wagged his eyebrows. "So who’s the lucky lady, huh? I mean, obviously, I know it’s Y/N, I just wanna hear you say it."

Dexter was going to shut this down—was already preparing a deflection—

And then, from behind them, someone cleared their throat.

The conversation died instantly.

Dexter turned his head just enough to see Harry, standing a few feet away, arms crossed, an expression that could only be described as a displeased father hearing his kid’s entire sex life in the middle of a crime lab.

Masuka immediately tried to look busy.

Angel coughed into his hand.

Harry just stared at Dexter.

Dexter stared back.

Then, finally, Harry sighed. "Jesus Christ, Dex."

Dexter exhaled. "I’m going to my lab."

Angel patted his shoulder as he passed. "Congrats, man."

Dexter ignored him.

Masuka just grinned. "Man, I love this job."

The first time Y/N ever set foot inside Miami Metro, it was out of sheer necessity.

She hated police stations. Hated the smell of burnt coffee and cheap cologne, the way officers sat around bullshitting while open cases collected dust. She hated the feel of it, the weight of institutional indifference pressing down on her chest.

And yet, here she was.

She stepped inside, moving quickly, eyes forward, posture stiff. The place was loud—phones ringing, detectives talking, Masuka laughing at something obscene. It made her skin crawl.

Nobody noticed her. Nobody cared.

Good.

She wasn’t here to be noticed.

Y/N walked straight to Dexter’s lab, not making eye contact with anyone. If she was lucky, she could get in, talk to him, and get out before—

"Y/N?"

Shit.

She turned her head, already irritated, only to see Debra standing a few feet away, eyebrows raised.

Debra had known about her distaste for cops—had never pried too much about it, but had definitely noticed the way Y/N always changed the subject when Miami Metro came up in conversation.

So, yeah, she looked surprised.

Y/N sighed. "I’m just here for Dexter."

Debra folded her arms, tilting her head. "You’re actually inside Miami Metro and I didn’t even have to drag you here? What’s the occasion?"

"None of your business," Y/N said flatly.

Debra smirked. "So, Dexter-related business."

Y/N didn’t confirm or deny it. She was already done with this conversation.

Debra studied her for a second, then nodded toward the hall. "Lab’s that way, sweetheart. Go do your Dexter-related business before someone tries to rope you into an interrogation room."

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, slipping past her and making a beeline toward the lab.

By the time she got there, Dexter was already looking up from his microscope, reading her like an open book.

"You hate it here," he noted.

"Sharp as ever, Morgan," she said dryly, closing the door behind her.

Dexter leaned back against the counter, studying her. "Then why are you here?"

Y/N exhaled, crossing her arms. "Because I need to talk to you, and I didn’t want to wait until later."

Dexter nodded like that made sense.

And, for him, it probably did.

Y/N glanced toward the bullpen, where cops laughed and ignored the cases on their desks, where her brother’s file had once sat before being shoved into a drawer and forgotten.

She looked back at Dexter.

"You’re the only one in this place that’s worth a damn," she muttered.

Dexter tilted his head slightly, like he was considering that.

Then, quietly, he said, "I don’t think that’s true."

Y/N shrugged. "It is to me."

Dexter didn’t argue.

Because he knew, to her, that was all that mattered.

It happened so fast that Y/N barely registered she had said anything until the silence hit the room.

It had started as an offhand comment from Debra—something about Miami Metro, about how at least they got results, about how not every precinct was a mess.

And Y/N had scoffed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just enough that it was heard.

Harry had looked at her immediately.

So had Debra.

Dexter, sitting beside her on the couch, didn’t react, but she knew he had noticed.

Debra frowned, crossing her arms. "What?"

Y/N exhaled, tapping her fingers against the side of her glass. She shouldn’t have said anything. Should have let it slide. But it was already out there, and now Deb was staring at her like she had just insulted her entire existence.

Y/N shrugged. "Nothing."

Harry tilted his head slightly. "Didn’t sound like nothing."

Y/N huffed a breath, setting her drink down. "Look, I get that this is your thing, but not everyone has a reason to worship at the altar of law enforcement."

Debra’s eyes narrowed. "Oh, so we’re doing this now?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Deb—"

"No, seriously," Debra said, arms crossed. "Do you actually think all cops are bad, or are you just being an asshole for fun?"

Y/N clenched her jaw. "Your cops didn’t give a shit when my brother was stabbed to death and left to bleed out in an alley."

The words hit the air with weight.

Debra’s mouth snapped shut.

Y/N exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. "Everyone in my family talked to the cops—my mom, my dad, Sean, Lily, Keegan, me—we pushed for months. We gave them names. We gave them places. We did everything we were supposed to do." She shook her head. "And you know what they told me the last time I walked into that station?"

Nobody answered.

Y/N let out a humorless laugh. "They told me to move on."

Harry’s expression didn’t shift, but she could feel the weight of his gaze.

Debra looked like she wasn’t sure whether to be pissed off or guilty.

Y/N exhaled again, rubbing her temple. "So yeah," she muttered, "I don’t really have a reason to believe in the system. Sorry if that offends the family business."

A long silence stretched between them.

Then, finally, Harry said, "I don’t blame you."

Y/N’s head snapped up.

Harry was watching her, his expression unreadable, but his voice was even. Calm.

"You lost someone," he said. "You did what you were supposed to do, and it got you nowhere. I’d be angry, too."

Y/N stared at him, waiting for the but.

It didn’t come.

Harry just nodded once, then looked at Dexter. "Walk me out?"

Dexter stood immediately, following his father to the door, and just like that, the tension in the room shifted.

Debra was still staring at Y/N.

Y/N sighed, leaning back into the couch, running a hand over her face.

"You know I don’t mean you," she muttered.

Debra huffed. "Yeah, I know."

Neither of them said anything for a moment.

Then, finally, Debra slumped into the chair across from her. "That’s still fucked up, though."

Y/N gave a dry laugh. "Yeah."

The room stayed quiet after that.

Y/N didn’t apologize.

And Debra didn’t ask her to.

The streets of Miami were always busy, especially in the evenings when the heat of the day had finally started to settle, but Y/N had never minded crowds. People were easy to read when they were in a hurry—too distracted, too focused on their own lives to pay much attention to the world around them.

Which was probably why she didn’t notice him until she walked right into him.

“Shit, sorry—” she muttered, stepping back instinctively, hands up slightly in reflex.

The guy barely moved.

Tall, lean, dark hair—not in a way that stood out, but in a way that would make him forgettable to anyone who wasn’t paying attention.

But Y/N?

She was paying attention now.

He smiled. “No harm done.”

That should have been the end of it. A quick bump on a busy sidewalk, a passing apology, nothing more.

But the moment Y/N looked at him, something was off.

The way he was watching her—not in an aggressive way, not in the way most men did when they were about to say something they shouldn’t.

No.

It was something else.

Something… assessing.

Like he was the one trying to figure her out.

Y/N blinked, stepping back slightly, suddenly hyper-aware of the way his posture was just a little too relaxed, the way his smile lingered just a second too long.

Most people wouldn’t have noticed.

But she did.

She had seen this before.

Not often, but enough.

Her stomach twisted slightly—not with fear, but with something closer to instinct.

She exhaled, tilting her head just slightly, watching him the way he was watching her.

Then, she smiled.

Nothing big. Just a small, sharp thing.

His smile twitched.

Like he saw what she was doing.

Y/N let the silence drag just a second longer before finally saying, “Take care.”

And then she stepped past him and kept walking.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

But she felt it.

Felt his gaze lingering, just for a moment, before he finally turned and disappeared into the crowd.

And the whole way home, the only thing she could think was—

Who the fuck was that?

Brian had always known his little brother was different.

From the first moment he laid eyes on him after all those years apart, he could see it—the carefully controlled mask, the methodical way he moved, the way he pretended so flawlessly that sometimes even Brian wondered if Dexter had convinced himself he was normal.

But this?

This was something he hadn’t expected.

He stood in the shadows, watching through the barely open blinds of Y/N’s dimly lit apartment, and grinned.

Because this—this—was raw.

Dexter had come to her immediately after the kill. No pause, no hesitation, no time to reset before slipping back into his mask. He had walked in with that same electric energy that Brian recognized so well—that post-kill high, the lingering remnants of bloodlust and satisfaction, and he had pounced.

And Y/N?

She had let him.

No, not just let him—she had matched him. Moved with him like she understood exactly what this was, like she had expected it, like she wanted it just as much as he did.

Fascinating.

Brian tilted his head, watching as Dexter’s hands gripped her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, like this was the final step in his ritual—kill, clean, consume.

She wasn’t some passive, naive little thing, either. No wide-eyed, unsuspecting girlfriend who thought Dexter was just a quiet guy with an odd schedule.

No.

Y/N knew.

Brian had suspected it the first time he met her, in the way she had watched him—assessing, reading him the same way she read Dexter, like she was waiting for something.

Now, he was sure of it.

Because this wasn’t normal.

Dexter wasn’t normal.

And yet, here she was, pulling him closer, anchoring him in a way that was both possessive and indulgent, like she knew exactly what he needed.

Brian licked his lips.

How interesting.

He had wanted to show Dexter what he truly was, wanted to rip away that mask of normalcy and bring him into the light—his light.

But now?

Now, he was starting to wonder if Dexter had already found something close to that.

Or at the very least—

Someone who wouldn’t stop him.

And wasn’t that something?

Dexter had been to crime scenes that felt less tense than the Sinclair family reunion.

The house itself was nice—lived-in, cluttered in a way that felt like too many people had existed in it at once for too many years. Family photos lined the walls, overlapping, different frames mashed together without any real sense of aesthetic. The house wasn’t quiet, but there was an underlying weight in the air, a kind of unspoken something hanging between the people who had grown up here.

Y/N had warned him.

"It’s once a year. Mom insists. Everyone’s on their best behavior, which means only two or three fights will break out instead of the usual five."

Dexter had learned not to question these things.

Sean was already in the kitchen when they walked in, talking to their mother, his voice calm, patient—the same way he had always been, according to Y/N. When he saw them, he gave Dexter a once-over before nodding in a way that felt more like acknowledgment than greeting.

“Dexter,” he said.

“Sean,” Dexter returned.

Y/N rolled her eyes, muttering, “Jesus, you two are so weird.”

Before Sean could respond, the front door swung open again, and in walked Keegan, exactly as Y/N had described him—broad-shouldered, scowling like he had already decided he was in a bad mood, carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken grudges.

He barely had a chance to set his keys down before he spotted Dexter and scoffed.

“Oh, good,” Keegan muttered. “The serial killer’s here.”

Y/N groaned, already rubbing her temple. “Keegan—”

“I mean, look at him.” Keegan gestured toward Dexter. “If anyone at this table gets caught with bodies in their trunk, it’s him.”

Dexter, completely unaffected, just said, “I don’t own a car.”

Keegan blinked. “That’s not the part you should be denying.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christ, please don’t start.”

Their mother, clearly used to this, sighed and handed Sean a dish to put on the table. “Keegan, stop antagonizing your sister’s boyfriend.”

Keegan shrugged, heading toward the fridge. “I’m not antagonizing him, I’m stating facts.” He pulled out a beer and cracked it open. “He’s got the creepy quiet thing going, the dead-eyed stare, the whole ‘emotionless’ energy—”

Sean, already tired, muttered, “Keegan.”

“I’m just saying!” Keegan gestured at Dexter. “Tell me I’m wrong!”

Dexter, who had been standing in the kitchen of this grief-laden, barely-holding-it-together family for less than ten minutes, finally looked at Keegan and said, “Do you always talk this much?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, suddenly—

Sean snorted.

Keegan scowled. “Oh, fuck you.”

Y/N, fighting a smirk, grabbed Dexter’s wrist and dragged him toward the table. “Come on, before he starts swinging.”

Keegan, still grumbling, flopped into a chair across from them, cracking his neck like he wanted to fight someone but was barely resisting.

Their mother sighed. “We are not starting this before dinner.”

Sean, the ever-peacekeeper, grabbed the nearest dish and started setting the table. “Lily late again?”

“To no one’s surprise,” Y/N muttered.

“She’ll be here,” their mother said, even though she didn’t sound completely convinced.

Keegan took a long sip of his beer. “Sure. Just in time to make an entrance.”

Dexter observed all of this without a word.

This wasn’t his usual environment. Family dinners weren’t something he was accustomed to—especially ones with this level of thinly veiled hostility mixed with obligation.

But as Y/N bumped her knee against his under the table, as Sean sighed through yet another incoming argument, as Keegan glared at him over the rim of his beer, Dexter realized—

It could be worse.

The room was dark except for the sliver of streetlight spilling through the blinds, cutting across the ceiling in thin, pale lines. The hum of the city outside was distant, muffled, nothing more than background noise.

Dexter lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting where Y/N had curled into his side, her fingers idly tracing patterns along his ribs.

Neither of them had spoken for a while.

It was the second anniversary of Dalton’s death.

Y/N hadn’t cried, hadn’t raged, hadn’t even talked much about it throughout the day. She had just existed in that quiet, simmering grief, letting it settle around her like a second skin.

But now, in the middle of the night, with nothing between them but warmth and silence, she finally spoke.

“Dalton would have liked you.”

Dexter blinked, staring at the ceiling.

He turned his head slightly. “You think so?”

Y/N hummed, still tracing slow, absentminded circles against his skin. “Yeah.”

Dexter thought of Keegan, of his immediate suspicion, his relentless scrutiny. “Even though I’m ‘definitely a serial killer’?”

Y/N huffed a quiet laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “Dalton was a lot like Keegan—thought he knew everything, had a temper when he was pissed off—but he wasn’t as much of an asshole.”

Dexter felt her shift against him, pressing her forehead against his shoulder.

“He would’ve had thoughts about you,” she continued, voice softer now. “Would’ve kept an eye on you for a while. Maybe given you a hard time, just because.” She exhaled slowly. “But he would’ve liked that you cared about me.”

Dexter didn’t respond right away.

He wasn’t sure he knew how to.

Y/N had told him before, in pieces, what it had been like growing up as the youngest. How their parents had already been stretched thin, already worn down by Carter’s death by the time she had come along. How Dalton had been the only one who really made sure she never felt left behind.

How he had been hers, in a way none of the others were.

And now he was gone.

Murdered.

Forgotten by the people who were supposed to find justice for him.

Y/N sighed against his skin. “He would’ve liked that you protect me.”

Dexter’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested on her back.

She didn’t say it like she was expecting anything from him, didn’t say it like she was asking for anything. It was just a statement. A truth she had come to on her own.

A truth Dexter had felt long before she had ever spoken it aloud.

His grip on her tightened slightly, just for a second.

Y/N didn’t say anything else.

Didn’t need to.

She just settled closer, and for the first time that day, she breathed.

The apartment was a fucking disaster.

Boxes everywhere, stacked haphazardly like a goddamn obstacle course, half-labeled in Dexter’s neat but completely unhelpful handwriting. The place smelled like fresh paint and cardboard, and Y/N was already pissed before she even stepped inside.

Her client—some rich asshole who thought money made up for his absolute lack of taste—had spent the last hour arguing with her over whether or not gold accents would clash with the deep red fabric he insisted on for his dining room chairs.

("You hired me to make sure your house doesn’t look like an overpriced brothel, Jonathan, but by all means, keep making bold fucking choices.")

So, by the time she reached the apartment, she was done.

She shoved the door open, already kicking off her shoes as she stalked inside, rubbing a hand over her face. "Jesus fucking Christ, I need a drink—"

And then her foot caught on something.

She didn’t even have time to process what happened before she went down.

"Goddamn it!"

The thud echoed through the apartment as she landed, hands catching her just in time to keep her face from meeting the hardwood.

A long silence.

Then—

From across the room, Dexter’s voice, as neutral as ever: "You should watch where you’re going."

Y/N snapped her head up, finding him standing near the kitchen, completely unbothered, holding a glass of water like he hadn’t just watched her eat shit in the middle of their own home.

She turned her glare toward the box that had betrayed her.

One of Dexter’s.

Labeled, in neat, precise handwriting: Miscellaneous.

"Miscellaneous my ass," Y/N muttered, pushing herself up and kicking the box for good measure.

Dexter, still infuriatingly composed, tilted his head slightly. "I did warn you."

Y/N threw up her hands. "No, you didn’t! You just stood there, watching me fucking die on the floor!"

Dexter took a sip of water. "I assumed you’d recover."

Y/N groaned dramatically, shoving a box out of the way as she stalked toward him. "I swear to God, Dexter—"

But before she could finish the threat, she tripped over another fucking box.

Dexter caught her easily, hands firm on her waist, holding her upright as she sighed into his chest.

"I hate it here," she muttered.

Dexter hummed, fingers curling slightly at her hip. "I thought you liked living with me."

Y/N grumbled. "I do."

"Then stop trying to kill yourself on the furniture."

She let out a deep sigh. "Fine."

A pause.

Then, "But you’re still reorganizing these fucking boxes."

Dexter, ever the picture of calm, just took another sip of water. "We’ll see."

Y/N had seen a lot of things in her life.

She had seen Keegan break a guy’s nose in a bar fight over a misunderstanding.

She had seen Dexter walk into her apartment covered in blood with absolutely zero explanation.

She had seen her mother hold their entire, barely-holding-it-together family together with nothing but sheer willpower.

But nothing—nothing—had prepared her for the moment she turned around in Debra’s apartment and saw that.

Y/N blinked. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

Debra, standing in front of her mirror, adjusting the hem of what could barely be considered a skirt, gave her an unimpressed look. "A work uniform."

Y/N stared. "For what job? Because it sure as hell isn’t law enforcement."

Debra rolled her eyes, turning to grab her gun from the table. "Vice, dumbass."

Y/N squinted, taking in the whole outfit—the fishnet stockings, the ridiculous heels, the tight leather skirt, the crop top that looked like it was two seconds away from getting her arrested for public indecency.

Then, finally, she said, "Are you a cop or are you working for tips?"

Debra snorted. "Fuck you."

"I mean, Jesus Christ, Deb—" Y/N gestured wildly. "If someone tried to arrest you in that, I’d just assume it was your pimp getting mad at you for skimming off the top."

Debra rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, hilarious. Meanwhile, I’ll be the one actually putting away scumbags while you’re over here bitching about my fashion choices."

Y/N folded her arms, unimpressed. "What scumbags? You think any guy seeing you in that is gonna be thinking, ‘Hey, maybe I shouldn’t break the law’? They’re gonna be thanking you for encouraging their poor fucking life choices."

Debra huffed, grabbing her holster. "Not my fault men are idiots."

Y/N shook her head. "That’s the part you should be mad about."

Debra turned, now fully armed, despite still looking like she should be charging by the hour. "Okay, are you done?"

Y/N smirked. "That depends—are you actually gonna arrest people, or are you just gonna give them a lap dance first?"

Debra groaned. "I hate you."

Y/N grinned, crossing her arms. "Oh, come on. Do a little spin for me first."

Debra flipped her off on the way out the door.

Debra had two thoughts when she heard Y/N was cooking that night:

Hell yes, free gourmet food.

This is the perfect opportunity to introduce Rudy to the two most antisocial weirdos in her life.

She barely even hesitated before calling Y/N.

"Hey," she said the second Y/N picked up. "I heard you’re making actual food tonight instead of living off diner fries like a fucking raccoon."

Y/N sighed on the other end. "Jesus Christ, Deb—"

"Anyway," Debra continued, completely ignoring her, "great news. I’m coming over. And I’m bringing my boyfriend."

There was a pause.

Then, dry as ever, Y/N said, "Why?"

"Because!" Debra gestured wildly even though Y/N couldn’t see her. "You never cook, so this is, like, a rare event! And I figure, why not take advantage of that while also introducing him to you and Dexter?"

Y/N groaned. "I don’t remember agreeing to this."

Debra grinned. "Because you didn’t! That’s the best part."

Y/N exhaled, long and suffering. "Fine. But if I don’t like him, I’m ‘accidentally’ spilling wine on his shirt."

Debra rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I’ll see you at seven."

She hung up before Y/N could change her mind.

Debra sat on Rudy’s couch, legs stretched out across his lap, pointing a finger at him like a warning. "Okay, listen up, because this is important."

Rudy, amused, glanced up from the scalpel he was cleaning. "I’m listening."

She narrowed her eyes. "Under no circumstances can you bring up the police in front of Y/N."

Rudy paused for a beat, tilting his head. "Okay… why?"

Debra sighed, already knowing this was going to take some explaining. "She hates cops. Not just in a typical civilian complaining about tickets way—like, actually hates them."

Rudy raised an eyebrow. "That’s a little ironic, considering she’s dating your brother."

Debra snorted. "Yeah, tell me about it. But it’s different with Dexter. He’s not out busting down doors or arresting people—he just… looks at blood and does his weird Dexter science thing."

Rudy chuckled. "So, what, she had a bad run-in with law enforcement?"

Debra exhaled, rubbing a hand over her face. "Her brother was murdered, and the cops didn’t do shit about it. Her whole family pushed for months—gave them leads, names, everything. And they still treated it like just another dead kid in Miami. The last time Y/N tried talking to them, they basically told her to fuck off."

Rudy made a thoughtful noise, fingers tapping against his knee. "I see."

Debra gave him a serious look. "Do you, though? Because if you mention anything about cops, or how great the system is, or even breathe in the direction of ‘not all cops,’ she will hate you forever."

Rudy smirked. "Sounds like she has strong convictions."

"No, she has a fucking vendetta." Debra leaned forward. "I’m serious, Rudy—she will find a way to ruin your night if you say the wrong thing. And I really want my best friend and my boyfriend to get along, so just don’t bring it up."

Rudy nodded, expression unreadable. "Got it. No cop talk."

Debra studied him for a second longer, making sure the message actually landed, then leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Good. Now I can focus on more important things."

Rudy smirked, running a hand along her thigh. "Like what?"

Debra grinned. "Like how you’re about to meet two of the weirdest people in my life over a very fancy dinner."

Rudy chuckled, shaking his head. "I look forward to it."

Debra just laughed, completely unaware of how wrong that statement was.

Debra knew the moment they stepped into the apartment that Rudy was impressed.

The place smelled amazing—seared steak, garlic, some kind of sauce that looked fancy as hell. Y/N had actually set the table for once, which meant this meal really meant something to her.

Dexter, of course, looked completely unaffected, because he was Dexter, and he never reacted to anything. He was already sitting at the table, sipping a beer like this wasn’t the most well-thought-out meal he had ever been served.

Y/N turned from the stove, arching an eyebrow as she wiped her hands on a towel. "This him?"

Debra beamed, nudging Rudy forward. "Yep! Y/N, Dexter—meet Rudy."

Rudy, ever the charmer, smiled. "It’s great to finally meet you both. Deb’s told me a lot about you."

Y/N looked unimpressed. "Has she?"

Debra elbowed her. "Be nice."

Y/N exhaled, tilting her head slightly as she gave Rudy a once-over. "Well, guess we’ll see if I like you enough to let you eat my food."

Rudy chuckled. "Fair enough."

Dexter, from his seat, just watched.

Debra figured he would be the difficult one, that he’d be the one side-eyeing Rudy the whole night.

But for the first time ever, it was Y/N who seemed… unsettled.

Not obvious. Not anything Rudy would notice.

But Dexter?

Dexter definitely did.

And the fact that Y/N, the person who could read people too well, the person who had always been able to call bullshit before anyone else, was squinting at Rudy like she was trying to figure something out—

It was weird.

But Debra, oblivious and happy, just pulled out a chair and grinned.

"Alright, boys and girls," she said. "Let’s eat."

Y/N, still eyeing Rudy, finally sat down.

Dexter, watching both of them, didn’t look away.

The kill had been perfect.

Everything had gone exactly as it should have—the plastic, the precision, the blade sliding through flesh like it had been meant to. Blood pooling, the body shuddering, then stillness.

Dexter had cleaned everything, disposed of the remains with the same methodical efficiency as always. He should have felt calm. Sated.

But as he stood in the dark, the scent of salt water and blood still lingering in his nose, he wasn’t.

The Dark Passenger was still there.

Still hungry.

Not for another kill—no, that part had been fed. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

You’re still waiting.

Dexter exhaled, fingers flexing at his sides.

Go to her.

The thought struck like a pulse of electricity, sending a sharp thrill through his system. His breath hitched, his body tight with something else—something not quite the same as the need to kill, but just as overwhelming.

She’s waiting for you. Soft. Warm. Yours.

Dexter swallowed.

Y/N would be asleep by now. Curled up in their bed, completely unaware of the blood he had washed from his hands.

Completely unaware of the way he needed her right now.

Needed to press himself into her, to feel her beneath him, surrounding him, anchoring him.

The Dark Passenger whispered again.

Take.

Dexter felt it—felt the coiling demand just beneath his skin, the way his muscles ached not with exhaustion but with want.

He had never cared much for sex before Y/N.

Before he had learned what it meant to have someone truly understand him. Before he realized that sometimes, after a kill, when the Dark Passenger was still lingering, still pulling at him—she could settle it.

Could ground him in a way that nothing else ever had.

But he had never had to wait before.

And waiting was making it worse.

He turned, heading toward the car, heart still hammering even as his breath stayed steady.

The Dark Passenger purred.

Go home. Wake her. Take what you want.

Dexter gripped the steering wheel as he drove.

No.

He wouldn’t wake her.

She deserved more than that.

But the moment she opened her eyes—

She was his.

The apartment was dark, quiet, still.

Dexter stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching her.

Y/N was curled up under the sheets, her breathing slow, even. Completely unaware of the fact that he had been standing there for nearly five minutes, gripping the doorframe hard enough to make his knuckles ache.

She was right there.

Take her.

The Dark Passenger was still there, whispering, needling, curling around his thoughts like smoke, thick and intoxicating.

You waited long enough.

Dexter exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself, but his body was still thrumming with leftover adrenaline, still riding that edge that came after a kill—when his muscles were tight, his breath still not quite right, his body demanding something more.

The Passenger knew.

Wake her up.

Dexter clenched his jaw.

Or don’t.

His grip on the doorframe tightened.

You think she’d mind? You think she’d push you away? She’s as messed up as you are, to a point. Maybe she’d like it.

Dexter swallowed hard, staring at her.

She would.

He knew she would.

Y/N wasn’t fragile. She wasn’t naive. She was his—in a way that no one else had ever been, in a way that made him feel like he didn’t have to pretend.

But even he had his lines.

Even he knew that this was one.

Not because she wouldn’t want him—no, he knew she would.

But because he wanted to watch her want him.

Wanted to see the way her breath would hitch, the way she’d smirk in that slow, knowing way, the way she’d shift under him, teasing, inviting.

He didn’t just want to take.

He wanted her to give.

So he waited.

Sat down in the chair by the window, watching her.

The Dark Passenger hissed, restless, unsatisfied, but Dexter ignored it.

Because the moment her eyes opened—

She was his.

The moment Y/N stirred, Dexter was on her.

He hadn’t slept. Hadn’t moved from the chair by the window, where he had spent the last few hours watching her, waiting, muscles coiled tight with that lingering hum of energy—the pull that hadn’t fully left him since the kill.

But now, she was awake.

And she was his.

She barely had time to blink before he had her beneath him, hands gripping her hips, mouth at her throat, pressing her deep into the mattress.

She let out a sleepy, breathless laugh. "Jesus, what the fuck’s gotten into you?"

Dexter exhaled sharply against her skin, fingers digging into the sheets beside her head. "You made me wait."

Y/N smirked against his mouth. "I was asleep, Dexter."

He didn’t care.

Didn’t answer.

Just moved.

And the Dark Passenger, still there, still humming in the back of his mind, purred in satisfaction.

Yes. Yes. Finally.

It had wanted this all night. Had demanded it, screamed for it, burned inside him with leftover energy that a single kill hadn’t been able to fully satisfy.

But now?

Now, he could sink into her. Could take everything he needed, could consume her, feel her give herself over to him completely—

And then—

The door swung open.

"Hey, Y/N—"

Everything froze.

For half a second, Dexter didn’t react. Didn’t process what had just happened, too consumed, too deep in it to fully comprehend—

Until he heard her.

Debra.

His sister.

Standing in the doorway.

No.

Y/N, immediately snapping out of it, twisted her head toward the door, eyes wide with rage.

"OH, WHAT THE FUCK?!"

Dexter stayed completely still.

Not from embarrassment. Not from shock.

But because the Dark Passenger had just been given what it wanted—had been on the brink of getting everything—and now, because of her, it was gone.

Snatched away. Ruined.

Debra, still standing there like a deer in headlights, took half a second too long to react—long enough for Y/N to grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at the door.

"GET THE FUCK OUT!"

Debra scrambled backward, slamming the door shut, her voice carrying from the living room.

"I need bleach for my eyes—what the fuck is wrong with you two—"

Dexter closed his eyes.

The Dark Passenger seethed.

Kill her.

Dexter exhaled through his nose. No.

Then make her leave.

Dexter pushed himself up, rolling his shoulders, still tightly wound, his body still aching for the release that had been stolen from him.

Y/N groaned into the pillow beside him. "I fucking hate her."

Dexter, still vibrating with leftover tension, reached for his pants. "I’ll tell her to leave."

Y/N blinked up at him, still catching her breath. "Why?"

Dexter leaned down, lips brushing against her ear, voice still dark, still heavy with everything he hadn’t been able to finish.

"Because I’m not done with you yet."

Y/N shivered.

And the Dark Passenger, still starving, purred.

The apartment was quiet again.

Not the heavy, restless kind of quiet from the night before, when Dexter had sat in the chair by the window, waiting, trying to ignore the way the Dark Passenger clawed at him, demanding more, demanding her.

Now, it was a different kind of silence.

A sated, settled kind.

Y/N lay beside him, still catching her breath, hair wild against the pillow, her body marked with proof of what had just happened. Her throat was littered with bruises—deep, dark impressions where his hands and mouth had claimed her.

Her skin was flushed, every inch of her humming with exhaustion and satisfaction, her limbs loose and heavy in a way that told him she wasn’t moving anytime soon.

Dexter watched her, fingers still trailing lazily over her stomach, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breathing beneath his palm.

The Dark Passenger was quiet.

Truly quiet.

Not lurking, not waiting, not prowling beneath the surface, still wanting.

For the first time since the kill, it was gone.

It had what it wanted.

Kill. Clean. Consume.

And now, finally, Dexter was still.

Y/N sighed, tilting her head to look at him, her lips curling slightly even as her voice came out hoarse. "Jesus Christ, Dexter."

He hummed in acknowledgment, tracing a thumb over a fresh mark on her collarbone. "Too much?"

She snorted. "Shut the fuck up."

Dexter smirked, his fingers moving lower, pressing just slightly over another bruise on her hip. She shivered.

"Sensitive?" he asked, voice as even as ever.

Y/N huffed a laugh. "You’re a fucking menace."

Dexter tilted his head. "You don’t sound upset about it."

Y/N stretched, groaning slightly before settling deeper into the mattress. "I’m too fucking tired to be upset."

A pause.

Then, "Was it worth the wait?"

Dexter exhaled through his nose.

His body was calm now, loose in a way it rarely ever was. The Dark Passenger had fed, had devoured, had taken and been given, and now there was nothing left to fight against.

Nothing left but this.

Dexter leaned in, pressing his lips just beneath her ear, voice low, quiet, final.

"Yes."

[dustyrkives]

Academic Affair

PAIRING: Ada Wong x fem reader

WARNING: RE4r Ada, college AU, age-gap (Ada is 33 while r is 19), modern AU, student r, r is Wesker's fave student, power imbalance, tension, forbidden attraction, professor/student dynamic, parties, Ada kinda lowkey a stalker lmao, GP Ada because I said so! Allusions to sex, r is on a pill, pet names, strangers to paramours and that's about it, I think.

WORDCOUNT: 3.1k

SYNOPSIS: Under the merciless gaze of Professor Wesker, every student fights to meet impossible expectations—except for you. You’re different. You’re his favorite. But when he vanishes for a month-long seminar, his replacement arrives: Professor Wong. Calculated, enigmatic, and dangerously perceptive, she plays a different kind of game—one of quiet intrigue and unspoken challenges.

not proofread

MEN, MINORS DNI

Wesker is a terrifying professor–he makes his students question why the hell did you even take the course.

He is strict, disciplined, and expects perfection from his students with a "survival of the fittest" mentality. Not to mention, his exams are... intense–making you question how the hell you survived the second semester.

Wesker may be the spawn of the devil, a walking terror of a professor...but you are his favorite student.

The atmosphere is tense as Professor Wesker discusses Forensic Biology. In his typical fashion, he wanders around the lecture room, his cold, piercing voice echoing and cutting through the silence. He is wearing all-black attire: a black turtleneck, overcoat, tapered trousers, and oxfords; hair slid back and neatly styled to perfection, mirroring his flawless appearance.

You furiously take note of his insights as he points his laser at the huge monitor, outlining the key points of his discussion. Your eyes snap from the professor clad in black then back to the screen of your laptop before your name echoes in the lecture room.

Your blood runs cold as your peers turn their heads to look at you as the older man's question rings loud and cold–you stand up.

"A body is discovered with high levels of potassium in the blood. Autopsy reports indicate no sign of trauma. What is the most probable cause of death?"

You gulp, "Considering the high potassium levels and lack of trauma, one likely cause is a lethal injection of potassium chloride, which disrupts the heart's electrical activity and induces cardiac arrest. This method is commonly used in euthanasia and executions, as well as in certain homicides designed to mimic natural heart failure."

The room is silent, a flicker of something–satisfaction, perhaps, crosses Wesker's face but it vanishes just as quickly.

He nods slightly, his voice carrying a rare, measured approval.

"A precise and well-reasoned answer. Potassium chloride induces asystole by overwhelming the heart’s ability to maintain its resting potential. A careless investigator might mistake it for a heart attack—yet you, would not." Wesker then glances at the class.

"Let this serve as a reminder: Science does not reward assumptions. Only those who pursue absolute knowledge will succeed. You may all learn from her example."

He referred to you.

A sense of relief and pride swells in your chest as the tension in the room eases slightly, while the rest of the students take mental notes.

As the class comes to an end, the professor make's an announcement.

"I won't be teaching this class for quite some time." The older man pauses. "I'll be attending a team-teaching seminar in Spain–I'll be leaving you under the care of another instructor, Professor Wong."

"When will she start teaching our class?" You ask, out of curiosity.

"Eager to be rid of me?" He mused, and your cheeks blossomed red as you stammer to defend yourself, but the older man cuts you off.

"Tomorrow, " he interjects. "Professor Wong will start tomorrow. I've already made the necessary arrangements, so she will be informed of my decision." Wesker then stacks his lecture modules and secures them against his side. "I'll see you all again next month." He strides out of the door before pausing just an inch before leaving the room.

"Oh, and a reminder," he peers over his shoulder. "If I hear one complaint from Professor Wong in regards to your behavior–I will automatically grade you zero for Midterms, do you all understand?"

"Yes, professor." The class says in unison, and the man leaves.

Professor Wong is a drop-dead gorgeous woman.

Her complexion is smooth, and unblemished, as if untouched by stress or time. Dark hair, cut in a sleek, asymmetrical bob, frames her face with effortless elegance. When she speaks, her voice is low and deliberate, every word measured, every pause intentional—a professor who does not waste breath on the obvious.

Dressed in a deep wine buttoned top, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, showing off her vintage Cartier timepiece. Tapered black trousers and ankle-length black-heeled boots.

Her eyes survey the classroom as if to scan for imperfections within Wesker's class.

"Good morning, everyone." She greets in a cold yet rich velvet tone, "I'm sure Albert has already informed all of you that I will be teaching in place due to his seminary. I'm Professor Wong, Ada Wong."

She takes out the clicker, and the monitor glares on, her eyes snap in your direction, and you flinch at the harshness of her gaze as she continues, "We'll pick up where Wesker has left off." Before letting her gaze linger and tear from you.

You swallow slowly and open your laptop, shaking off the piercing sensation your new professor left you. Compared to Wesker, in which fear is subordinate to him, Professor Wong's class is a breeze–yet still holds an air of authority and expectation. Laid back yet inquisitive, the short-haired professor can also be unpredicted–she'd introduce information and then ask her students, and she'd expect you to expound and articulate.

In class, she rarely raises her voice. She doesn’t need to. A single look from her is enough to silence even the most restless student. Unlike her colleague, Professor Wesker, who demands perfection with a rigid and merciless grip, Professor Wong lures her students into brilliance, challenging them with cryptic questions and moral dilemmas that have no clear answers.

Several minutes later, the class is dismissed.

As you join your peers amidst the shuffling of steps and excitable chatter–you can't shake off the feeling of being watched; upon reaching the doors to the exit, you finally look back to see the new professor's eyes on you.

She holds your gaze for a moment before her lips quirked to a ghost of a smirk. The sight makes your stomach churn as warmth blossoms on your cheeks before you tear your gaze away from the former, finally exiting the lecture room.

The first thing anyone notices about Professor Wong is her presence—unassuming yet impossible to ignore. She moves through the halls of the Forensic Sciences & Human Behavior Department like a whisper, a striking contrast to her colleagues. Where others command attention with volume, she does so with silence, the soft click of her heels enough to draw every eye in the lecture hall.

Her features are delicate yet sharp, an enigma of contrasts. Dark, almond-shaped eyes—intelligent, assessing, always watching—betray no emotion beyond what she allows. If a student dares to meet her gaze, they are left wondering whether she’s amused or simply studying them, filing away their every microexpression for later use. Dressed always in subtle sophistication, her wardrobe rarely strays from fitted blouses, dark trousers, and, on rare occasions, skirts and heels that somehow make no sound when she walks.

"If a criminal believes their actions are justified, are they truly guilty?" she once asked, leaning casually against her desk. No one spoke for a long moment, and then she simply smiled. "Good. You're starting to think."

She never tells her students they are wrong—only that they haven’t thought hard enough.

And somehow, you'd catch yourself hanging on to every word that she utters–her eyes would flit in your direction, gleaming with... intrigue? Expectation?

Approval?

It was impossible to tell, especially from a woman of her caliber.

Professor Wong sits on the edge of her desk, legs crossed, holding a sleek black pen between her fingers. The dim afternoon light filters through the blinds, casting sharp shadows across the room. She surveys her students with that ever-present, unreadable smirk before her gaze settles on one in particular. You.

Shit

"You," You needn't ask for clarification–the way that her gaze pins you down is enough.

Gulping, you stand from your seat, legs shaking from underneath the table. "Yes, professor?"

She tilts her head slightly as if considering you before speaking in that slow, deliberate tone.

"A suspect is brought in for questioning. There’s no physical evidence tying them to the crime, no witnesses, no confession. But something… feels off. They maintain their innocence flawlessly—no nervous tics, no inconsistencies. Yet you’re certain they’re guilty. Tell me—how do you break them?"

Shit, shit, shit–how the fuck do I answer this?

The silence in the room weighs heavy as your peers' eyes focus on you. The older woman quirks a brow, a warning that time is a luxury you don't have.

Stammering, you answer: "I wouldn't try to catch them in a lie. Instead, I'd make them believe they've already been caught." You pause, "I'd try to articulate their perception, have strategically placed evidence in the interrogation room, fake witness statements, subtly mirror their own body language to create subconscious trust. I’d control the environment, guide the conversation until they feel cornered, until they confess… without ever realizing they were never in danger."

The former's lips twitch to a smirk, and there's a flicker of something behind those composed dark brown eyes–then just as it appears, it's gone.

"Clever," She praises, and warmth pools in your bowels, and a chill crawls down your spine.

The classroom is still as her gaze lingers on you, her lips curving into something that is neither approval nor warning, but something in between. The air shifts. The lesson should move on, but for a moment, it doesn’t.

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, caught in a game no one else realizes has already begun.

And finally, she breaks the air. "That'll be for today, see you all next meeting." Just like that, the moment passes. The class exhales, the spell broken.

You pack your things and join your peers. As you make your way to the exit, you are met with a familiar feeling of being watched–a sensation that tugs you from behind, without thinking, you look back–and your body freezes.

Professor Wong is only a few feet from you–how the hell did she come near you so fast?

And goodness, she's beautiful up close, and is that her perfume you smell? Wood, cherries, vanilla and spices?

"Wesker was right about you," She starts, snapping you from your stupor. "P-pardon?"

A small smile graces your professor's lips, and a bemused expression dances on her elegant countenance. "You're one of his brightest students." A blush spreads on your cheeks, "H-he said that?"

She chuckles lowly, "I'll be watching you." Your professor says it like a casual remark, but you can hear it—something deeper beneath the words. A challenge. A promise.

You stand there, slack-jawed, as she walks past you–giving you the chance to take another whiff of her subtle yet expensive scent.

And just like that–she has successfully lured you into her game.

It was a Thursday afternoon, class had ended, and you wanted to grab a bite.

The problem? By the time you reached the counter with your favorite drink, you're a dollar short.

"Shit," You curse as you fish for extra change in your bag while the lady merely glares at you impatiently.

Then, a familiar voice: "Let me,"

You bristle as you catch the familiar smell of wood, spices, vanilla, and cherries. You quickly snap your head to the side and your jaw slacks as the short-haired professor hands the lady the bill.

"Y-you didn't have to!" You blurt, face red as she takes your drink, examining it–strawberry milk.

"And let you embarrass yourself?" The former muses as she hands you your drink, "I think not."

"Thanks," you murmur and reluctantly take the drink. "I-I'll pay you back."

A strange smile graces the fair woman's lips. "No need for that." She folds her hands behind her back and leans down to whisper in your ear–your body halts function as her warm breath fans against the outer shell of your ear.

"Just perform well in class." Ada purrs before walking past you.

When you finally come to, you realize that she didn't buy anything...

And true to Ada's request–you repay her by performing well in class and each day goes by, a nagging feeling pesters you.

No, you are not attracted to her, right?

With the way that she carries herself with grace and confidence, her small smile, that fucking smirk–and her praises, oh you're in trouble.

A gasp leaves your lips as you feel her back brush against your front as she gets one of the books atop the university library's shelf. "Here," Ada smoothly says as she hands you the book from behind.

"T-thank you," you squeak as you slowly turn around. The older woman has that blasted smirk on her lips; her arms are crossed, and her stature is relaxed. "You always look like a deer in headlights whenever I'm near you." She husks, "It's rather adorable."

The air suddenly becomes charged–with what? You refuse to acknowledge it.

"W-what?"

Oh, you knew what she meant–but your mouth had always been faster than your brain whenever she's near you.

Her expression relaxes, "Tell your peers that I'll be meeting the class 30 minutes late from our schedule–the topic is short after all, got it?"

"Yes, professor." You clear your throat while Ada rewards you with a nod before turning her heels and walking away from you, knowing you won't be able to tear your gaze away from her–she sways her hips.

Oh, you're so in trouble.

EDM music blasts over the speakers, the lights transition from red, violet, blue and green–bodies pressing, grinding and dancing.

You look around in awe at the after-party of your batch. Midterms ended a week ago, and your peers let loose by partying and drinking. It didn't take long for you to join them on the dance floor with booze in your hand.

And minutes into the dance floor, you feel cold hands touch you through the fabric of your clothes–and despite the smell of smoke and mixed perfumes, you can smell it... smell her.

Your breath hitches as her voice fills your ears.

"Relax," Ada husks, "It's me,"

Quickly, you turn around, and she pulls you flush toward her, and holy shit–she looks good. She wore an asymmetrical bodysuit that showed off the skin on her waist, showing off her obliques, straight-cut jeans, and boots; she didn't look like a student nor a woman in her thirties–she matched with the other students.

"P-professor–" The latter cuts you off by placing an index finger against your lips, and you could've sworn hunger gleamed in those dark brown crevices of hers.

"Shh," Ada purrs, "Can't have you spoiling the fun now, don't we?" Ada leans close, "Dance with me, pretty girl." Momentarily, your body forgets you as its owner as you obey the older woman–your skin tingles with each teasing touch that drives you crazy.

Oh, Ada knew how to play you like a fiddle–and it pleases her that you're attuned to her touches as her pants begin to constrict with a tent growing on her jeans. She makes it known by grinding her hips against yours, allowing you to feel her growing need–and Jesus, she's packing.

And that's enough for you to throw all rational thought out of the window as you quickly drag her to the restroom, locking the room without regard for those needing it, Ada can only smirk devilishly as you lose control, almost as if she wanted it to happen. "Why are you doing this?" You demand through batted breath. Ada doesn't reply. Instead, she stalks toward you, the air becomes tense with anticipation; desire charges the air as Ada backs you against the ledge of the sink.

"I think we both know the answer, doll." Ada rasps as her slender, well-manicured hands wrap around your waist, pressing against you, making you feel the clothed cock protesting in her pants. It took a lot for Ada to grind against your clothed pussy.

"You want me just as much as I want you." She murmurs, her lips brushing against the skin of your neck, her perfume engulfing your senses. "You can't deny it."

Your hands automatically latch onto her back, and Ada revels at your touch. "And quite frankly, I'm getting impatient." She admits and presses a kiss against the available surface of your neck. A gasp leaves your lips, and you throw your head back, giving her more access–and Ada is more than eager to indulge as she gently bites your skin.

"T-then take me."

"Very well," Ada grins, "But not here, I prefer to fuck you in the privacy of my room."

And that she did.

When Ada ravages you in her penthouse suite, she leaves no skin unmarked by her lips and teeth. The bed creaks, mixing with groans and throes of passion as you both release your pent-up desires.

Ada's thrusts are deep and punishing, leaving no room for doubt that you're now hers, painting your wall white with her cum as she fucks you into her sheets, leaving you whimpering and begging for more.

The next morning, you are left limping with bites and bruises all over your shoulders, breasts, and thighs while her back is full of your scratch marks.

Ada drove you back to your dorm the next morning, a vile grin danced on your lips as she had to help you out of her Ferrari.

Let's just say that after your night with the professor–you both were insatiable. She'd sent you the filthiest things to your phone ranging from her physique to her cock. Ada would sneak you into her office in the late hours of school time just to fuck you or accompany her while she checks and grades the worksheets of your batch.

Like now, for example. Ada ordered you to bring the worksheets of your section to her office quarter before lunchtime ends.

"Ah, thank you, darling." Your paramour smiles as you place the curated papers atop her desk. "Are you free tonight?" Ada queries.

"Why?" You arch a brow with a playful smile as she circles the table and pulls you to her, "Because I want to have dinner with you." The older woman murmurs before leaning down to your left ear, her voice dropping an octave lower.

"And perhaps, have you for dessert later, at my place?"

A giggle leaves your lips as you wrap your arms around her neck, "Sounds perfect," You whisper before pecking her lips.

On cue, her office door swings open, and you instinctively remove yourself from the older woman as–WESKER???

You thought he was coming back to teach the class next week???

"Welcome back, Albert." Ada greets cooly as she fixes her single-lapel blazer. "Ada," He greets as his eyes snap between the two of you, you excuse yourself from the two professors, shutting the door behind you.

The blonde older man turns to Ada with his arms crossed against his chest, looking at her with scrutiny and prejudice. "Of all the people you can be with, you chose my favorite student?"

Ada merely strides to her office chair and sits down, crossing one leg over the other. She leans back slightly, tapping her manicured fingers against the desk as her smirk deepens. Then, with a knowing glance in Wesker’s direction.

"What can I say, Wesker? I have excellent taste."

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

new hs history teacher(/basketball coach ofc) steve who is being shown around the school by gym teacher chrissy.

she takes him around the building to show him where the teacher's lounge is, the cafeteria, what bathrooms to avoid at all costs, and to where her office is if he ever needs anything.

"If I'm not here, I'm probably in Robbie's class over in the language department."

"Robbie?"

"Robin, my partner. She officially teaches ASL, but she likes to join in on the others' lessons whenever she has downtime."

Finally, once they've covered the whole length of the school, she brings him to his room. "So this is you, and right next door is Eddie, our Criminalistics teacher." gesturing to the still-dark window of the door directly across from his in the alcove. 

There's polaroids covering nearly every inch of the outside of the door, pictures of what he can only assume are students with the same dark-haired man.

"Criminalistics?"

"It's a science elective," she explains, "It focuses on the basics of forensic science!"

"Wow that’s…really?"

She nods enthusiastically, "It’s super interesting,” she nods, moving to unlock the empty what-will-be history classroom. “Eddie’s here on even days, and in the music room on odd days for the guitar elective classes."

"Anything I should know about my wall neighbor?" he asks as she pushes the door open.

It looks like she's going to say no, but something flickers across her face and she winces minutely.

"Oh god, what is it?"

She looks at him sheepishly, "How do you feel about metal music?"

--

Since his tour in mid June, Steve's completely overhauled his classroom. 

The only room available to him was the one down here in the science hall, but he made do, plastering removable whiteboard contact paper to the tops of the lab tables and a little reminder at each spot for the students about his less-than-stellar hearing, to make sure they speak up when answering a question from the back of the room.

And ever since he got his room, he'd been waiting for the day he finally meets his neighbor.

He met Chrissy's Robbie the same day he had the tour, and they clicked instantly (No seriously, how did he ever function before Robin?). Chrissy had made the comment about them being platonic soulmates one night in August when they'd gone out for one too many drinks, and it's stuck ever since.

Speaking of: "What are you still doing here, dingus? It's almost five."

"Yeah, I know, I know," he says, waving her off.

Robin comes in from the hall and plops herself down on one of the table tops instead of helping him hang a map behind his desk. "You're still adding stuff to your walls?"

"Well, I haven't been here for a couple years already, Bobs," he grits out as he stretches up on his toes to hang the far corner of his map. Finally, the eyelet hooks over the many-times-painted-over hook embedded in the concrete wall. "So yes."

"Well you can finish up tomorrow, we," she emphasizes the word by dramatically waving the same sign with her hand between them, "Have a burger date to get to." 

--

The following day, the day before the school year officially starts, Steve arrives early to his classroom, only to find his neighbor's classroom lit up as well.

The be-polaroided door is propped open all the way, the sound of heavy drums and guitar streaming out the door along with the faint smell of moth balls and a spicy incense.

His own room forgotten, Steve steps through Mr. Munson's doorway.

Eddie is standing behind his desk at the front of the room, but hunched over it scribbling onto something.

When Steve's shoe squeaks against the tile floor, Eddie says "Hey, what do you think, identifying skeletal remains, or blood spatter first?" without looking up at him.

"Skeletons, of course." Eddie's head snaps up to look at him. His huge dark eyes are much more striking in person than in a photo. "Much more interesting, yeah?"

Eddie blinks at him. "You're not Chrissy."

"You're correct."

Eddie blinks again, "Who're you?"

"Oh, sorry, hi. I'm Steve. I'm your new neighbor." he gives the other man an awkward wave when he still doesn't move. "Sorry, should I--" he says, gesturing over his shoulder with a thumb.

"No!" Eddie interrupts, standing straight and hurrying out from around his desk. 

He extends a hand and jogs lightly up to Steve. His pen is still laced into his fingers, the end of it chewed flat. "Oh shit, sorry, sorry," he tucks the pen behind his ear, "I'm Eddie. Munson."

"I know," Steve smirks, taking Eddie's hand. "I've been waiting to meet you."

"Oh have you?" he smirks.

"Yeah, Chrissy told me you're her best friend and I wanted your advice on maybe asking her out."

Eddie's face hardens immediately, the warm milk chocolate of his eyes curing into a solid dark, the easy smirk morphing into a cringe as he looks Steve up and down.

He opens his mouth to say something particularly scathing, Steve's sure, but he cuts him off before he can. "I'm kidding, man, I know she's with Robin."

His expression softens just a bit.

"Plus, she's not really my type anyway, even if I were hers."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I'm more into brunettes." Steve winks, finally releasing Eddie's hand. "I still have a bit more to get done, but I'll check in with you later?"

"Oh--yeah, for sure, I'll be here." Eddie stammers out, his cheeks tinged pink.

Steve fist pumps in his head as he heads to his door, You still got it, Harrington.

[vampzity]

get to know your mutuals! (new thread)

ty @st4ytiny for tagging me!! the og post was so long so i just made a new one😭🙏 i loved doing this!

what’s the origin of your blog? ➜ my best friend actually came up with the name for me! i love vampires so she was like what about vamp city? we just replaced the c with a z to make it cool!

favorite fandoms: ➜ atiny, zerose, stays, once, as well as anime fandoms! i also love monster high & love and deepspace too! OH and animal crossing!

OTPs/shipname: ➜ jikook, chanlix, woosan & haobin! i love their friendships sm they’re all truly the best of friends who grew up together and i love that for them! i love comparing my own friendships to them 💔

favorite color: ➜ black and red! i also love baby blue and baby pink! such cute colors hehe

favorite game: ➜ it tends to change but i wanna say any spider-man game, mariokart, mario party, and animal crossing!

song stuck in your head: ➜ devil game by zerobaseone & deer hunter by &team!

weirdest habit/trait? ➜ i make weird noises OR sing a random verse out of no where LMAO. i also can make my voice really deep for no reason

hobbies: ➜ i love photocard collecting, singing, dancing!

if you work, what’s your profession?: ➜ retail…

if you could have any job, what would it be?: ➜ forensics!

something you’re good at: ➜ yapping people’s ears off, singing and dancing!

something you’re bad at: ➜ tbh focusing on one thing. my attention span is literally out the window..

something you love: ➜ driving, kpop, dancing, dogs, sword art online

something you could talk about for hours off the cuff: ➜ conspiracy theories!!! i love them

something you hate: ➜ SPIDERS!!! i hate them!!! i also hate when people always try to one up you or are just rude for no reason at all. also ppl who actively try to make a rise out of your dog after you tell them he’s overprotective !! ugh.

something you forget: ➜ to eat. i constantly forget and not on some ED type beat i just genuinely forget until im lightheaded and shaky LMAOO😭

what’s your love language? ➜ gift giving and words of affirmation! i will literally spend my last 3 dollars on somebody like

favorite movie/show: ➜ sword art online & the nightmare before christmas

favorite food: ➜ loaded fries, mac and cheese and pizza

favorite animal: ➜ cows, i LOVE cows😭

are you musical? ➜ yes!! i’ve been in choir from 6th -12th grade as well as musicals! i was in marching band during highschool and i’ve also been apart of a kpop dance group! :)

what were you like as a child? ➜ quiet but also kinda weird? my mom had my brother bc she said i kept talking to myself so that alone should answer your question. i still talk to myself actually LMAO. but i was quietly chaotic. i didn’t like talking to people but around ppl im comfortable with im a whole extrovert

favorite subject in school? ➜ social studies & science

least favorite subject? ➜ math.

what’s your best character trait? ➜ i’m super empathetic, it’s kinda bad for me but it’s good for others haha

what’s your worst character trait? ➜ i get angry over nothing very quickly

if you could change any detail about your day right now, what would it be? ➜ i wish i was tearing down some dominos cheesy bread rn

if you could travel in time, who would you like to meet? ➜ michael jackson!! i wish i could’ve gone to one of his concerts before he died tbh

recommend one of your favorite fanfics (spread the love): ➜ omg i have a few but the way to his heart is by far MY FAV series!!! i always recommend it. angie truly did her thing with this!

no pressure tags! @lov3yv4mps @desirehorizon @everyonewooeverywhere @rvereri and anyone else who wants to do it!

[eternal1993]

cyriel’s shifting & manifestation introduction

welcome. sit down with me. now pretend I’m dramatically lighting a cigarette, while frowning like a man with a vaguely problematic marriage, and a car that just broke down in the middle of a rainy highway. yes I’m being obnoxious on purpose to make sure that this post doesn’t attract the wrong crowd.

anyways, I’ve been an avid and mostly successful manifester for a decade now, but only recently discovered shifting. that was wild. felt like everything just clicked in that moment, and I broke down crying. I’ll probably post some manifestation guides here and there, while also inhaling shifting content like my life depends on it. equivalent exchange or whatever that’s called.

I am very very friendly, so don’t be scared to message me. although I also have pretty severe adhd, and I get busy at times, so my replies might be spontaneous. the speakeasy thing isn’t entirely a joke, I’m a vaguely employed bartender, so weird sleep schedules and random work hours do happen.

in terms of manifestation advice and whatnot, I’ll have to give it some thought. almost everything that can be said has been said by someone already, and in comparison to the guides here, my methods are relatively primitive and otherwise not all that exciting. but if you have any questions at all, I will do my very best to answer them.

Name: cyriel, but feel free to give me insane nicknames. like cylinder

Age: 22, soon to be 23, which means I should currently be playing bingo in a retirement home by the internet’s standards. and honestly that sounds kind of great

Pronouns: he/him, but I don’t mind if you call me girl or whatever else. I’m gay as all hell, and happily married to my lovely husband. and by married I mean we’ve been together for ages, but who can afford an actual wedding in this economy? not me

Likes: tea, coffee, cheap cigarettes, and italian wine. I love music, all of it, so if you have any song recommendations whatsoever then please, do share. used to love reading classic literature, but it’s been a few years since. I adore my beautiful cats. yes, plural, I have three. and they’re simultaneously angels on earth, and demons from the deepest pits of hell – which is to say they’re perfect.

Trivia: future biomedicine and forensic sciences student, if all goes well. have lived in multiple countries in europe, because I have commitment issues with places. oldest of five children, so I have a tendency to nag like a parent and not follow my own advice. deeply unserious person, honestly. an artist currently experiencing the deepest pits of art block.

that’s about all for now. haven’t made one of these in a while, so au revoir before I start to disintegrate

[itsjustmyfantasyroom]

Over your head

It's been a while and most of this is personal to my life. Just needed to little Nick loving.

Warnings: None, just fluffy Nick.

WC: 736.

Enjoy x

You should have said no, but you couldn’t now, everything was in place and you knew it have to be like ripping a band aid off, but you were nervous. When Liv came to you and told you that SVU was going to be getting the funds to have an in-house forensic science lab and suggested that you go and get your degree so you could be the head of the lab, it took you nearly 3 days to decide. Life had not been kind recently and you were in your era of second guessing yourself with everything you had been through and what was still to come in your personal life. Your divorce was finally coming to the final stages of being settled and you had just got the kids in a routine as a single mom, and now you were nothing but crazy taking on a full-time degree study as well as working. It was lucky you lived with your mum and the kids went to the same school as Amanda's girls, so between her and Sonny, when you needed it, they said they had it all under control.

As you walked into the huge lecture hall, you found a seat as far up the back as possible and you sat down, sitting your bag on the seat next to you. You had a little giggle as your eyes scanned around the room at all these “Young kids” doing a course as heavy as this, thinking about everything you had seen after 12 years of SVU.

You were looking down at your phone to a message Amanda had messaged you about her plans with all the kids that afternoon after school when you heard a familiar voice and instantly all your worries melted away, your eyes slowly scanned up and surprisingly your eyes met and you blushed as he gave you quick wink and continued talking,

“Good morning, everyone, I’ am Nick Amaro your professor for the next 12 months. I’ am here to answer any questions you may have. All I ask is no phones during my class, unless an extreme emergency” Nick looked at you with a smirk and you giggled to yourself dropping you phone back into your bag.

If that is what you had to listen too for 1 hour every day for the next year, you would be glad to do it. Listening to Nick talking about all his lab skills and referring to his SVU days and cases he had worked on with you and how it led him to this path, made you feel warm and fuzzy. You hadn’t seen him since the night he told you he was moving to LA, your life was already a mess from the break up and he held you on floor as you sobbed at the fact that you were losing your best friend. You had kept in contact, he calling and facetiming the kids as often as he could but you never would have thought in a million years that he would be back in New York teaching.

You watched as all the other students filed out and then you stood up walking out of the aisle you  were sitting on and you walked down the stairs. Just as you were almost at the bottom, Nick walked from around his desk and made his way towards the stairs, stopping at the bottom step not stepping up. You stopped on the bottom step, looking down at Nick, not taking them off his as you sat your bag down on the chair next to you. It was like a magnet pulled you together, your arms going around his neck and his around you middle,

“I’ve missed you sweetheart” Nick kissed the cheek he could reach.

You lent back, your arms going from around his neck and your hands went straight to his beaded cheeks, his moving to your hips, the feel of his facial hair smooth on your hands,

“You have no idea how much I have missed you. How long are you back for?”

“At the moment 3 years” he squeezed your hips “But I’ am hoping I won’t need to leave again”

“Have something important to stay for Professor?” You grinned.

“Yes actually” he paused for a moment looking down at your lips and then looking back up at your eyes “I ‘am looking at her”

Tags: @beccabarba @ben-c-group-therapy @alwaysachorusgirl @jemmakates

[forensicfield]

Multiple Choice Questions on Forensic Medicine

1. The visual disturbances seen in methyl alcohol poisoning include all of the following, except? A) Concentric diminution of visual fields for color and form B) Pinpoint pupils C) Photophobia and blurred vision D) Sudden failure of vision

Continue reading Multiple Choice Questions on Forensic Medicine

[beautifulmars]

HiPOD: Muddy Ejecta Flow

This small 2 kilometer-wide crater was sitting around, minding its own business when a meteoroid struck the ground just to the west and created a new, larger crater almost 10 kilometers in diameter (not pictured).

The ejecta spraying out of the new crater landed back on the ground and then continued to flow away from the new crater, and the smaller crater was in the way of that muddy flow. You can see where much of the muddy material flowed around the crater’s uplifted rim and forms a squiggly ridge, but you can also see where the mud flow slid over the rim and ponded down in the bottom of the crater.

One question we don’t know the answer to is: “how wet was the muddy ejecta?” Ongoing observations like this and laboratory-based experiments are trying to find the answer to that question.

This image also illustrates a common theme in geology, namely, the law of superposition. Because the crater has been affected by ejecta from the larger crater to the west, the small crater had to be there first and then the second, larger crater and its ejecta had to form. This allows planetary geologists to decipher the relative ages of different landforms. Because a central goal of geology is to understand past events from present-day clues, geology is sometimes compared to forensic science.

ID: ESP_046843_1940 date: 24 July 2016 altitude: 275 km

NASA/JPL-Caltech/University of Arizona

[tarabyte3]

This semester, my highschool kid has taken a Fringe Science/Conspiracy Theory class, a Forensics class, and a lit class that's focused on Romanticism and Gothic lit. 15-year-old me is extraordinarily jealous. Like, it hurts to see someone living your dream, but mom me is THRILLED that it's her!

Except today on the way home from school, she told me she keeps impressing her teachers by answering questions and saying she knows what something is because, and I quote, "You're always talking about something so I've learned way too much about random stuff I don't care about, and now it's finally useful!"

You're welcome?!? 😂😭

[aventurineswife]

Iiiiiiiiiiit’s yappin’ time~! (For me, anyway, lol—)

Reader having the uhhhhhhhhh “ Tism™️” (in quotation marks because they never got diagnosed so nobody knows but sometimes they act in certain ways that make you squint) coupled with the sheer hilarity that is them being very introverted yet somehow a “people magnet” as March likes to call them (there is just something about Reader that draws people to them whether they like it or not 💀).

And this ends up pulling Reader and Aglaea into each other’s orbit for various reasons: Aglaea already had her eye on Reader ever since they showed up in Okhema, not because they were unintentionally causing a stir by asking if anyone has seen Dan Heng and the Trailblazer, but because of other details about their arrival.

First off, their lack of any severe injuries (or any visible injuries, at least). They quite clearly came from the direction of Janusopolis where Nikador’s titankin are roaming; yet, aside from some scrapes and bruises from their own crash-landing, and their sore feet from the very long trek, they don’t seem as wounded and/or frazzled as refugees normally would be, especially compared to the evidently more experienced Trailblazer and Dan Heng.

Tribbie asks about it, and Reader looks confused for a moment. “Titankin? Oh, you mean those moving statues? Ah, they looked like trouble, and I was by myself, so I just snuck past them like a scaredy-cat.” Alright, makes sense.

But there are other things that are more noticeable over time, and others that are somewhat difficult to describe, like Reader’s intelligence, and their occasionally odd way of thinking and sense for “patterns” where most people otherwise see none. They’re also rather sensitive, shying away from the ruckus of large crowds like in the public baths of Marmoreal Palace, the strong fermented scent of ambrosia, and even the bright daylight from the Dawn Device carried by Kephale.

Then there’s Reader reading people (lol) and that “hyper-focusing” of theirs that often strikes whenever, most notably during Aglaea’s “interrogation” of the trailblazing group. Dan Heng and the Trailblazer were busy standing their ground while answering her questions, whereas Reader was less worried and moreso observing Aglaea.

Castorice asks Reader about it later, to which Reader admits that they were a bit worried, but they had a hunch that Aglaea was actually bluffing. Even if she had intended to kill to them, she would have been in no position to do so. She would have been politically shooting herself in the foot by “proving” critics and the Kremnoans right as a dangerous and authoritarian figure, and she would have risked dragging down Castorice along with her as her loyal executioner. The most Aglaea would have been able to do was sentence them to exile. As for why Aglaea felt it necessary to bluff like that, Reader has yet to figure out (leaving poor Castorice utterly baffled).

And then, there are Reader’s more conventional but highly advanced talents in different sciences and fields. Medical, forensics, law, history — you name it, Reader probably has it, most blatantly showcased in a court trial with the priests of Talanton over a murder case. Most people assumed it was a Kremnoan, but Reader proved through collected evidence and lab results that it was actually a nobleman from Okhema trying to pin it on said Kremnoan to both get rid of his rival and further smear Mydei’s people.

Aglaea already pieced it together from surveillance through her golden threads, but watching Reader connect the dots on their own without any supernatural abilities? Oh ho ho, Aglaea is not letting Reader leave her side any time soon. They are simply far too knowledgeable and valuable, useful for any potential incidents when dealing with the Council of Elders.

And, Reader is also pretty cute. Giving the Trailblazer the stink eye when Reader finds them drunk off their ass from too much ambrosia, forcing Reader to carry them back to their shared room; being a nerd with Dan Heng over Amphoreus’s flora, fauna and ancient ruins; letting Phainon and Mydei haul them around like a ragdoll kitten; playing with the chimeras in the Garden of Life; and sinking up to their face in a more secluded and private corner of the baths.

Maybe if Aglaea spends enough time with Reader, she might remember how it feels to be a normal human.

Ohhh this is absolutely delicious. Reader just unintentionally outmaneuvering everyone around them without even trying because their brain is wired for patterns, logic, and hyper-fixation? The perfect contrast to all the high drama and politics of Amphoreus.

Aglaea watching them, waiting for them to slip up, only to slowly realize, Oh no. They actually are that smart. And then she’s hooked. It’s so funny because at first she probably thought, Ah, another pawn I can use—but then she realizes that Reader is an enigma wrapped in a puzzle and she physically cannot let them out of her sight. The golden threads surveillance is already an advantage, but the fact that Reader gets there on their own without divine intervention? That does something to Aglaea.

And I love how Reader is just there for all of this, unaware of the sheer weight of their presence. Being dragged around by Mydei and Phainon like a plush toy, nerding out with Dan Heng about ancient ruins, side-eyeing Trailblazer for their ambrosia-fueled nonsense, and just trying to live their very introverted life while somehow being the center of everything. March would die laughing if she saw them getting politically kidnapped by Aglaea.

Also, the sensory details? The way they struggle with light, noise, and strong scents is so well incorporated. Not in a way that screams look at this trait, but in a way that feels natural, real. Just another part of who they are.

The final line, though. Maybe if Aglaea spends enough time with Reader, she might remember how it feels to be a normal human.

God. That hurts in the best way. Because it’s true. Reader is unintentionally making her feel something beyond duty and control. And she probably doesn’t even realize how much she needs that.

[littlemisspascal]

Rockford & Roan Pt. 4

Pairing: Tim Rockford x Female Reader/OFC ‘Roan’

Word Count:2.8k

Summary:  “Do you doubt our match, Miss Roan?” he asks, and it’s a shocking enough question you legitimately can’t tell if he’s joking or not. But if he is being serious…

Rating: T 

Warnings: Language, Reader has a dog, Reader has military background, Superpower AU, They Were Roommates AU, self-esteem issues, soulmates-ish, original characters, worldbuilding, references of dead bodies + suicide, police, HTTYD reference, scars

- Reader has no first name and no physical traits described in detail except for being shorter than Rockford. Reader is mentioned to have hair

Author Note: Thank you so so much for all the kind support 💗

Special thanks to @beecastle for beta reading and encouraging me 💜💜💜

Series Masterlist

The Case

You take possession of one of Rockford’s spare notebooks, yellow and spiral bound, scribbling down details about the case he’s been asked by the police to help investigate.

7 suicides over the past 8 months 

Unsure why the brief lapse during the third month

Perhaps to throw police off potential trail?

Victims are all different ages, backgrounds, careers

Also found dead in different locations across Fox Leap—alleyways, parking lots, isolated spots

No witnesses

No suicide notes left behind 

Single commonality: all died by ingesting a cyanide pill

Suspects? None

Police aren’t convinced deaths are connected 

Rockford is certain they are

I don’t know what to think

The Invitation

Friday evening finds you job hunting across the internet from the comfort of the couch. It’s another one of the steps of Dr. Odair’s grand therapy plan to reintegrate you into society. Of course, what she failed to mention was that the potential career opportunities for ex-military empaths are few and far between. You lean back against the cushion, resisting the urge to grab your mug of tea and pour it onto your laptop. It’s not the computer’s fault there’s a prejudice against those with mind-gifts after all. 

The squeaks of Banjo’s stuffed toy pull your attention towards the dog rolling around on the floor, his beloved plush panda Bamboo held between his paws, teeth gnawing at its leg. Rockford lies stretched out on the white rug nearby, eyes closed, the picture perfect example of tranquility. He isn’t sleeping—you can tell by the tapping of his fingers against his stomach, a song only he knows—but it’s nice to pretend. For all that you’ve pestered him with questions about his job and for all that Rockford has patiently answered each one without even the tiniest thrum of irritation, his bizarre, seemingly nonexistent sleeping schedule is a topic you’ve yet to broach with him. 

Brown eyes snap open, startling you so badly it’s a miracle your laptop isn’t sent crashing to the floor. Before you can ask what’s wrong, Rockford’s on his feet and stalking off down the hallway in a blur. You blink, caught off guard, and exchange a look with an equally bewildered Banjo. Should you follow after him or…?

A knock on the front door makes the decision for you.

The prospect of a guest sends Banjo into a tizzy, ditching Bamboo without remorse, tail wagging so fast it’s a wonder it doesn’t fly off. You can’t exactly blame him. Other than a quick visit from the landlady to give you your own set of keys and introduce herself— Professor Rosasharn Claremont, an instructor of forensic sciences at the local university with prehensile hair she used to slap the back of Rockford’s head for not visiting her enough—nobody’s knocked on the door as long as you’ve lived here.

You’re not sure who’s brain function shorts out first when you open the door: yours or the unknown man wearing a police badge on his belt. He’s middle-aged, dirty blond hair, a scar twisting along in a distorted line from the left side of his mouth to his ear. A hideous mark, but at the same time intriguing in its uniqueness. You can’t help but think how if it was copied onto the right side, it’d almost look like some kind of villainous grin.

Banjo’s attempt of squeezing between your leg and the doorway to get a good sniff of the man is enough to jumpstart you back into motion. Nudging him away with your socked foot, you tell him to return to his bed, punctuating the command with a firm point of your finger. Only once he sullenly pads away, ears drooped as if you’ve just gutted Bamboo right in front of him with a butcher knife, do you turn back to face the policeman, who appears to have also gotten over his initial surprise.

“Can I help you, officer?”

“Inspector,” he corrects with an accent you can’t quite place, almost like a rumbling sort of growl, but despite the harsh sound his tone is polite as he introduces himself. “Inspector Dorrance with the Fox Leap Police Department. I’m here for Tim Rockford.”

His emotions are almost unnaturally steady, like he’s got the internal parts of a clock ticking away rather than temperamental hormones. You figure he must’ve gone through some sort of training course for mood management. Smart. A lawman with a high pressure job, anger issues, and a loaded gun is a disaster waiting to happen.

“Oh, is this about the case?” you ask with far more perkiness in your voice than you intend. 

“He told you about that, did he,” Inspector Dorrance says in the exact same instant that Rockford calls out from the depths of the apartment, “Get to the point why you’re here, Kez.”

Kez? You mouth to yourself before opening the door wider, inviting the inspector to step inside. He isn’t subtle as he looks around, gaze lingering noticeably on the few personal items of yours spread throughout the room, before he turns towards the hall.

“Another body’s been found. Abandoned warehouse near the wharf.”

“And?” Rockford asks, still out of view. 

Dorrance side-eyes you, clearly debating with himself the legalities of discussing an open case with a civilian present. A civilian he clearly knew nothing about as of two minutes ago. You offer up only silence in response, too curious for your own good to leave without him directly asking.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Your roommate emerges from his office, his trench coat gripped in one hand and mouth fixed in an unimpressed frown. He gestures between you and the inspector. “Kez, my current roommate and match, Roan. Roan, my ex-roommate and one of the only competent members of law enforcement in the city, Keziah. Can we get back to the victim now?”

Your eyes widen. Ex-roommate? How long have they known each other? There’s definitely a story there. 

“I’m sorry,” Dorrance begins, “did you just say she’s your match? When the hell were you going to tell me this happened?”

“Apparently not,” Rockford mutters. “I was going to tell you when it came up. And it just did.”

“You—” Dorrance cuts himself off with a sharp exhale through his nose.

It really is a credit to Dorrance’s mood management training his emotions don’t even so much as dip or catch fire. Instead, he shoots Rockford a look that plainly says, We’re going to be talking about this later, and then turns to face you once more.

“I wish we were meeting on better circumstances. And I’m sure I don’t need to tell you since you’re his match that underneath this—” he gestures vaguely at Rockford which doesn’t go unnoticed.

“You just gestured to all of me.”

Dorrance carries on, unbothered, “—is a giant question mark nobody will ever find the answer to. But if I were to bet on anyone coming close, I’d put my money on you.”

“Thank you, I think,” you say, daring a quick glance at Rockford’s face, which you’re pleased to notice has softened the tiniest bit. “You’ll be the first one I tell if I do.”

For whatever reason, your answer has the inspector immediately smirking, left side of his face stretched tight due to the scar tissue.

“Kez, in addition to being a recurring pain in my side,” Rockford explains, sensing your confusion, “is also a lie detector. Any hint of dishonesty and his gift’ll catch it. Makes him handy in the interrogation room.”

Gifts can be interesting like that sometimes, lining up perfectly with a specific job. A singer with the ability to alter their voice to any pitch, a fireman with an immunity to burns, a veterinarian who can speak to animals–you’ve seen them all. Human lie detector is a new one though, you’ll admit.

Dorrance shoves a hand into his pocket, fishing out his phone vibrating with an incoming text. He scans the message, smirk wiped off his face and replaced with grimness. 

“Right, back to the reason I came over,” he says briskly, tucking his cell away again. “You know how the victims never leave notes?”

“Yes.” Rockford’s listening attentively, eyes narrowed. “What of it?”

“This one did.”

Rockford’s expression doesn’t change, not even a twitch of his brow. His mind though, oh his mind’s the calm before the storm. Something’s beginning to stir awake underneath the surface. Tempted by the reveal, hungry for more details to dig its teeth into. 

For weeks you’ve wondered about the depths unknown to your empathy, about what lurks there. You’ve got a distinct, icy certainty crawling up your spine you’re soon to discover another side of your match previously unseen. 

“Will you come to the scene?” Dorrance asks hopefully.

“Of course. No point sitting at home when there’s an exciting development going on.” Rockford begins slipping his arms through the sleeves of his trench coat, adjusting the collar to his liking. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been down to the wharf.”

“Just try not to piss off anyone, will you? One dead body is enough to deal with as it is.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior,” Rockford says with a wry grin. Then, turning to you, he arches an eyebrow, “Well, Roan, you got any plans this evening?”

You think of your laptop back on the couch, numerous job sites still left to be checked. 

“Uh, no,” you answer, shaking your head. “Not really.”

“Roan was in the military,” your roommate tells the inspector, but his eyes remain held on your face, a speculating glint in them that has you subconsciously straightening up. Almost as if you’re standing at attention. “You saw a lot of violent deaths, didn’t you?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Witnessed several dangerous situations?”

“Worst of the worst. Stuff of pure nightmares.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts, becoming heavier. There’s a crime scene needing to be examined, a case to be closed, and yet everything seems to have slowed down all at once. As if the very air itself has frozen solid. And you realize you’re holding your breath, waiting for something.

“Want to see some more?”

An invitation.

Dr. Odair’s been telling you now that you’ve matched and your mind-gift has become more manageable, it’s time to pick up some hobbies. To go out to more places for fun other than just the library and dog park. No doubt she was probably thinking of safe and relaxing options like chess or badminton or pottery classes at the rec center.

The problem though, is that safe and relaxing doesn’t spark a wildfire in your blood, bringing you back to the days where you had a clear purpose to fulfill and problems to deal with head-on. You want another adventure, and here’s one dangling right in front of you, just waiting for you to say—

“Hell yes,” you blurt out, and even without your mind-gift you can tell Rockford’s happy with your choice by the half curl of his mouth and crinkling around his eyes as he asks Dorrance for the address.

The Doubt

Rockford holds the cab door open for you, sliding in after you’ve settled against the plush seat with Banjo secure in your lap. The little mutt’s tail beats a rhythm against your jacket, excited about the trip even if he has no clue the final destination. You’re still not convinced bringing a dog of all creatures to an active crime scene investigation is the wisest move, but let the record show your roommate has a helluva weakness for Banjo’s puppy eyes. 

“Keziah’s team of imbeciles disguised as CSIs are wreaking havoc on the scene as we speak. I highly doubt there’s much more damage Banjo can cause,” Rockford had said with an amused look when you voiced your concern. “Besides, no man left behind. Isn’t that the military creed?”

And well, he wasn’t wrong about that. (Not to mention, you’ve got a pretty big weakness for Banjo’s sweet brown eyes too…)

The drive to the wharf is brief without too much annoying traffic. Outside, the sun’s dipped out of sight and darkness is enveloping the city, street lights blinking on. Inside, it’s quiet except for a country song playing lowly on the radio. The cabbie’s mood is easygoing if not a little bogged down by exhaustion whereas Banjo’s is a bouncy spring of enthusiasm, nose practically pressed against the window as his eyes struggle to keep up with all the sights rolling past. Still, as entertaining as the pup’s emotions are, your mind-gift continues circling back to the man sitting next you like a homing pigeon.

Nothing’s changed within his mindscape during the journey. The calm, almost eerie stillness from before is still in effect. You can tell he’s thinking about something—the man’s never not thinking—but whatever it is clouding his gaze, furrowing his brow, is not disturbing enough to imprint upon your empathy. It’s moments like this one where you wish you were a mind reader, if only for a few seconds. 

“We’re here,” Rockford announces, paying the cabbie his fare.

Scrambling out of the vehicle, you set Banjo down on the ground. While he performs a full-bodied shake, you take in the cluster of police cars and flashing lights and abundance of barricade tape surrounding a warehouse, derelict and foreboding, along the waterfront. The press have also caught wind of the scene, prowling around with their microphones and cameras like vultures. You swallow, subconsciously twisting the leash around your fingers.

You’d wanted an adventure and yet…this is all so very, very different from a battlefield. It’s a whole other form of organized chaos, and it’s terrifying not having the slightest clue how to safely navigate it. 

Your initial fears were misplaced. It won’t be Banjo making a mess. It will be you.

Rockford starts forward, clearly eager to get to work, only to halt after five steps when you fail to follow. He turns around to look you over from head to toe, carefully nudging at your mind-gift as he does so, confusion only deepening when he fails to understand your lack of movement. “Is something the matter?”

You bite your lip, glancing nervously once more between the hive of activity and his steady brown eyes. “I don’t think I belong here.”

Rockford stares at you, the glow of the street light illuminating one side of his face. 

“Do you doubt our match, Miss Roan?” he asks, and it’s a shocking enough question you legitimately can’t tell if he’s joking or not. But if he is being serious…

Your head’s already shaking aggressively before a response forms. “N-no, absolutely not!” you say hastily, frantic to assure him of the truth. You close the gap of distance, hoping somehow being closer will remedy the spiraling situation, but when that doesn’t smoothen out the wrinkles on his forehead your empathy reacts by hurling a tangled ball of loyalty-friendship-safety-contentment straight at him. The most desperate of Hail Mary plays.

Rockford sucks in a breath. You watch his expression spasm, knocked off-kilter, before it settles into something as exasperated as it is fond. This time, the nudge against your mind-gift is firmer, the only warning you get before the ball you’d thrown returns and smacks you square in the chest. 

“Oh,” is your immediate reaction, breathless from the intensity.

What was it he had said before? You and him are two halves of the same whole.

And then there’s a warm hand on top of your head, gentle, affectionate, and you’re breathless for an entirely different reason. You blink up at Rockford, heart thudding in your chest.

“That’s right. You,” he says slowly, purposefully, “belong anywhere I am. Banjo, too.”

Banjo woofs, baring his teeth in a snaggletoothed grin, and you’d chuckle at that if you had any air left in your lungs. Not for the first time, you cannot help but marvel at your match’s realness. There’s no such thing as perfection, but you think he comes pretty damn close. 

“Now you’ve done it,” you aim for humor, but you can’t shake the wobble from your voice. “You'll never know a moment’s peace again.”

“Ah, peace is overrated,” Rockford declares with an unconcerned shrug, hand returning to the pocket of his trench coat. “So, we’re in agreement then. We’re stuck with each other.”

“Mhmm, no take backsies.”

You needed this moment, this reassurance. The doubts you hadn’t even known you carried have been firmly put to rest, vanquished by the proof he values the soulbond tying your lives together just as much as you do. 

But despite the importance of this conversation you can’t keep ignoring the flashing lights up ahead forever. Your eyes slide past Rockford, spotting Inspector Dorrance in his grey suit amongst the sea of navy uniformed officers gesturing with his arms.

“Ultimately, it’s your choice where you go,” Rockford says, and it’s clear he’s made up his own mind by the way he turns away from you, resuming his walk towards the scene. 

You watch the dramatic flaring of the bottom of his coat with each step, watch the tapping of his fingers against his left thigh, watch as the man tosses one last remark over his shoulder:

“Keep up, Roan. We both know you’re coming with me.”

By the time he reaches the barricade tape, you and Banjo are right by his side. Exactly where you both belong.

[frank-olivier]

Uncharted Skies: Exploring the Mystery of UAPs

The study of Unidentified Aerial Phenomena, or UAPs, has long been a topic of fascination and debate, with some approaching the subject with skepticism and others dedicating themselves to understanding these enigmatic events through a scientific lens. Dr. Kathleen Murray, a scientist with a background in forensic science, geoscience, and education, brings a unique perspective to the field, combining her expertise with a passion for nature and the universe. Her journey into the world of UAPs began with a remarkable sighting in 1997, where she witnessed a small, stylized object moving within an equilateral triangle of stars in the desert, an experience that sparked her curiosity and set her on a path of discovery.

Dr. Murray's research on UAPs is characterized by a combination of observation, recording, and analysis, as she uses binoculars with 36x optical zoom to capture videos of these phenomena, which she then meticulously analyzes using software such as Stellarium and Flight Radar 24. One of her most recent sightings, which took place on the 4th of March, is particularly noteworthy, as it involved a flashing object moving from south to west that she was unable to identify as a satellite or aircraft. Despite consulting with an astronomer and checking with Flight Radar 24, Dr. Murray was left with more questions than answers, highlighting the complexities and challenges of studying UAPs, where the lack of concrete evidence and the abundance of unknowns can make it difficult to draw conclusions.

Dr. Murray's approach to investigating UAPs is marked by a commitment to scientific inquiry and a willingness to consider alternative explanations for these phenomena. She recognizes that there is still much to be learned and that it is essential to approach the subject with an open mind, avoiding the pitfalls of skepticism and dogma. By doing so, Dr. Murray hopes to contribute to a greater understanding of UAPs, which may, in turn, shed light on the mysteries of the universe. Her use of technology, such as binoculars and software, allows her to collect and analyze data in a systematic and rigorous manner, while her decision to share her findings with others, including the scientific community, reflects a commitment to transparency and a desire to advance our understanding of UAPs.

Dr. Murray's exploration of the possibility of summoning UAPs, using techniques such as the Gateway Experience program, music, and visual imagery, demonstrates her willingness to think outside the box and consider unconventional explanations for these phenomena. Although these attempts have been unsuccessful, they reflect her openness to new ideas and perspectives, an essential quality in a field where the unknowns are so great and traditional explanations may not be sufficient. By embracing this openness and commitment to scientific inquiry, Dr. Murray's work on UAPs serves as a model for how to approach complex and mysterious phenomena, and her contributions to the field may ultimately help to shed light on the nature of reality itself.

Dr. Kathleen Murray: Pulsing Orb (UAP Files Podcast, March 2025)

Tuesday, March 11, 2025

[thevoicefromanotherworld]

"I'M LISTENING"

SOOOO this is my first fic with Will Graham, because I've recently started watching Hannibal since it's been on my watchlist for ages, I LOVE HIM SO MUCH, HE'S A BABY AND MUST BE PROTECTED AT ALL COST (that's it, that's whatI wanted to say lol)

I hope you like it!

You stopped in front of the door to your forensic science teacher's office.

You took a couple of deep breaths before knocking softly on it.

You needed to ask him some questions about the assignment he had assigned you two for next week, and any excuse was good enough to see him.

It was Friday, so you two wouldn't see each other again for another two days.

Maybe what your best friend Liz said was true, and you had a little crush on your teacher.

You shook your head a couple of times, determined to focus on what you had to say as soon as he gave you permission to enter.

His voice sounded on the other end, inviting you in, so you did. As soon as you saw him, you felt all your defenses completely vanish, like a sand castle at the mercy of the wind.

He had a stack of exams in front of him, ready to be graded. He held a red pen between his index finger and middle finger, which he put down on the table as soon as he saw you.

His blue eyes looked at you through his black-rimmed glasses, for a moment without making eye contact, before he gestured to the chair in front of him.

“Please sit down,” he invited, and you did. “You’ve come because you have questions about the assignment I asked you to do,” he said, taking the words out of your mouth. You nodded.

“Exactly,” you murmured. “You want us to do an assignment on the laws and principles of forensic science,” you recited. “But that’s too broad a topic. I mean, if we started doing an assignment on that, we’d never finish,” you explained. “So my question is, can’t we choose a law or principle to base the writing on?” That way the assignments would be shorter, and it would take you less time to correct them, everyone wins - you added -

Will looked at you, avoiding your eyes at all times, before answering

-Clearly I did not explain myself clearly regarding the content of the assignment - he began - the idea was for you to make an introduction where you would explain the laws and principles of forensic science in a summarized way, and then you should choose one of them, which is what your writing will be based on - he pressed his lips into a thin line - I'm sorry I was misunderstood that way. It was not my intention

-It's okay, we are human and humans make mistakes - you said making him raise the corner of his lips in a clear attempt at a smile - Don't you think so?

-Totally - he nodded, agreeing - humans are imperfect creatures, it is precisely our imperfections that make us special - he cleared his throat to break the tension that had suddenly settled between you - if you don't have any more questions, I would appreciate it if you would leave me alone for a while - he placed his hand on the pile in front of him - I have to correct all this for tomorrow

-I need advice for the presentation, how to captivate the audience and all that - you said - I know that the oral part is 60% of the final grade, so I want to do it as well as possible

-Understandable - he murmured, slowly taking off his glasses, leaving them delicately on the table - I am not the best person to answer that question - he confessed - I myself am still learning how to do it

-I think you are captivating - you confessed - you make classes interesting - you said - that is not something I can say my previous teachers did

-I appreciate your words - he murmured kindly - I think only you share that opinion. Your classmates who fall asleep during my lessons certainly don't," she whispered. "Thank you, it means a lot to me." She nodded. "I'm curious to know, what was your favorite class this semester?"

You paused to think about it for a few moments. It was difficult, since there had been many that you had liked, due to the amount of things you had learned.

-I don't know - you confessed - there were many very interesting ones, but now I can't remember any of them - you laughed - it's funny how the mind works sometimes

-You said that my classes were captivating - he said, resting his gaze on your earrings -

-I meant that YOU were, you are - you confessed, making him interlace his fingers on the table in a nervous gesture -

-That's it… - he smiled as he put his glasses back on - it's definitely not something I expected to hear from one of my students - he swallowed hard - thank you, that's very kind of you - he clicked his tongue - anyway, focusing again on your concerns, one of the pieces of advice I can give you, which I myself learned when I started teaching here, is that you have to be sure of yourself - he explained - you must show the audience that you know what you're talking about - he said - you can make a joke, or laugh with the rest of your classmates

-It almost sounds like you're asking me to flirt with them -You laughed, he shook his head slowly-

-I don't think flirting is a good idea -he said making you give a small smile- not because you're not attractive or anything like that, it's just

I don't think that… it's a good idea," he finished before clearing his throat to try to dispel the tension of the moment. "You should have more faith in your work," he encouraged you. "You're a good student, you don't need the professor to do you any favors to win his sympathy."

The office was silent for a few moments, basically because neither of them knew what to say, until he intervened.

"I have an idea," he said. "Why don't you get up and pretend that this is the day of the presentation?" he suggested. "Tell me about the idea you have for the work, that way you'll be calmer for the day of the presentation." He paused. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Biology," you said very confidently, he nodded.

"Interesting," he murmured. "Anything more specific?"

-Pathological anatomy – you pointed out-

-Okay, go ahead – he leaned back in his chair – I'm listening

-Pathological anatomy or forensic pathology is a type of science, used to identify victims and how they died – you began – a forensic pathologist reviews medical records, performs autopsies and collects evidence from bodies for further study. These experts work with law enforcement and provide support to investigations

-That's a good explanation – he said – continue, please

-For example, the evidence on your body right now if I do this – you slowly placed your hand on his – is that the vein in your neck is throbbing strongly, which means you're nervous

-It's likely – he admitted, although he didn't take his hand away – we shouldn't be doing this – he whispered – but the weight of your hand on mine feels so good…

You approached him while he remained seated. Will watched as you lowered your head to kiss him, and he didn't stop you when your lips softly connected with his.

He closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of your thin lips against his.

-Do you want us to stop? –you asked- because we can…

-No please don't stop –he whispered- it doesn't matter that you're my student you just… c-can you? Can you kiss me again?

You placed your lips on his again in response. He held your cheeks between his hands gently to deepen the kiss a little, before pulling away

-As good as this is going, you're not going to get out of doing the presentation –he said making you laugh-

-I know –you whispered kissing him again-