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berlioz-the-kitten · 22 days ago

Text

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."

#dexter morgan #dexter morgan x reader #dexter showtime #dexter #michael c hall

78 notes · View notes

dustyrkives · 11 days ago

Text

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."

#ada wong x reader #ada wong #resident evil #resident evil x reader #resident evil x you #i'm just a girl #oneshot #wlw post #imagines #wlw #sapphic #wuh luh wuh #fem reader #female reader #reader insert #sapphic reader #wlw blog #lesbian

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itsjustmyfantasyroom · 1 year ago

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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

#law and order svu #svu fanfiction #svu fandom #svu fan #nick amaro x you #nick amaro x reader #nicolas amaro #law and order: svu #nick amaro imagine #nick amaro x female reader #nick amaro x

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agustdiv1ne · 2 years ago

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˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°｡2:54 p.m. — kang taehyun

genre: kinda meet cute? idk they're lab partners (as a stem major i am projecting heavily), college au

wc: 998

kang taehyun has terrible luck with lab partners.

he figures it comes with the territory — labs can be stressful, and sometimes the procedures written by the chemistry department are, at best, redundant, and, at worst, practically unintelligible. past partners have royally screwed him over by messing up the experiment halfway through, then banking on him to fix everything with the little time that is remaining. despite his annoyance, taehyun is well aware that he is not perfect; he has messed up experiments before, too, and he can easily admit that. however, unlike some of his peers (see: choi beomgyu, forensic science major), he will always clean up his own mess without anyone else’s help.

after last week’s class that only covered lab safety procedures, the first actual experiment day in his organic chemistry lab brings with it a looming sense of dread. he’s sitting outside the lab and waiting for class to begin, praying that he is not paired up with beomgyu again, not after the fiasco last semester in which he was seconds away from blowing up the science building.

within a few minutes, the lab instructor props open the door, announcing that partner pairings could be found near the fume hoods. once he walks up to the paper, he sighs, crosses his fingers, and searches for his name. directly next to his, he finds a name that he doesn’t recognize. despite this, he mentally fist pumps; anyone is better than beomgyu at this point.

“looks like we’re partners,” he hears from next to him. the finger he was using to search for his name lifts from the paper, and he swivels his head over to find you, donned in similar attire of a white coat and safety goggles, a small smile spread across your lips. you extend your arm, introducing yourself more formally. “i’m looking forward to working with you.”

“same here.” he moves to shake your outstretched hand, though he’s not sure if he means it yet, unsure of how you operate in a lab. really, it all depends on how well you work together.

“what’s your major?” you ask in an attempt to strike up conversation while you grab all of the necessary flasks and beakers and other tools required for this experiment. synthesis of aspirin — should be simple enough.

“biochem, and i’m also pre-med,” he says, before he’s asking for your own. your answer colors him shocked: you’re the same major, and on the same pre-med track? then…

“how come i’ve never seen you before?” he questions as he sets up some of the apparatus. you simply shrug in response while you finish setting up the other half. it’s impressive how quickly, how accurately, you complete it. is his bad luck finally gone? are you the lab partner that he’s been wishing for?

“i tend to keep to myself. ‘m not a fan of most people.” you’re already starting the experiment, scanning over the procedures to ensure that you’re doing everything correctly. “is the steam bath ready? the salicylic acid is all dissolved.”

“yeah, give it here.” you carefully slide it over the benchtop and he places the flask in the bath. as you wait the proper amount of time, he can’t help but ask, “am i most people?”

“i’m not sure yet. we’ll just have to see, won’t we?” and you’re almost smirking, a teasing lilt in your voice. it should be annoying after getting a total of three hours of sleep, and yet it only serves to intrigue him. you say that you don’t like people, and yet you’re basically a master at conversation; you can tease and crack jokes but still keep track of everything that is going on in front of you. it’s impressive. so far, he really likes you — in the most platonic, professional way possible, of course. you just met, and you're only lab partners. nothing more, nothing less.

the two of you work in almost perfect tandem until the experiment is finally complete, all data collected and post-lab questions already answered for the report that’s due next week. relief floods his veins the moment the two of you exit the stuffy, humid lab, stripping yourselves of your coats and groaning at the sensation of the post-experiment grime that clings to the skin of your faces. you haphazardly shove the article of clothing into your backpack, unbothered by potential wrinkles. you give him a playful salute before you’re moving to leave.

“good work, kang,” you comment, grinning tiredly as you walk backwards. you spin to face away from him and call over your shoulder, “see you in lecture!”

“actually,” he starts. you spin on your heel, a curious quirk in your brow as you stare at him. “you wanna grab some food? i’m sure you’re starving, too.”

and you’re smiling wider, and his heart is beating faster and no, he’s absolutely, positively not forming a little crush on you. he just admires your competence, the rational part of his brain supplies. you’re lab partners, completely professional, newly acquainted lab partners that barely even know each other, though he finds himself strongly hoping that you’ll say yes.

your fingers loosely grip the straps of your backpack, eyes lighting up, as you respond. “yeah, i'd like that. wanna get chick-fil-a?”

“it’s like you read my mind,” he quips, celebrating internally. “i’ve been craving that all day.”

as he falls into step next to you — the two of you complaining about the professors that you share and promising to sit next to each other and study together from now on — taehyun begins to think that luck is finally on his side.

“soooo,” he draws out, one eyebrow raised in an inquisitive expression. you glance over at him through the corner of your eye, urging him to continue with an impatient wave of your hand. “am i most people now?”

chuckling, you jostle his arm with your elbow. “nah, i think i might be able to tolerate you.”

masterlist

#txt fluff #taehyun fluff #txt x reader #taehyun x reader #txt imagines #taehyun imagines #taehyun soft hours #txt soft thoughts #txt soft hours #taehyun scenarios #txt scenarios #💌 — tyun

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beautifulmars · 7 months ago

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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

#mars #nasa #science #geology #landscape #astronomy #space

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tarabyte3 · 4 months ago

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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?!? 😂😭

#tara irl #teenagers are great at giving compliments that are also insults #it's impressive really #at least it's one of those moments where she begrudgingly thinks i'm cool #and that she actually listens to me is its own compliment really

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deadrobinthoughts · 8 months ago

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Bat Kids & Their College Degrees.

Dick Grayson - Criminology and Law. - Dick has always been involved in crime fighting. A major in crime and law would easily fit in and deepen his understanding, which only aids in combatting criminal behavior.

+ definitely a performing arts major. he would love being able to explore and express himself through dance and theatre.

Jason Todd - Criminal Justice and Psychology. - during his time as the Red Hood would instill an understanding of crime from a pov that could easily be etched in a psychological perspective. This would be able to aid in his navigation of the darker corners of his vigilante methods. ( Ignore him when he says it's to get answers, with a smirk. )

+ literature and philosophy. it's never been a secret that jason loves to read and study things. he would also get to explore complex composition and moral questions.

Barbara Gordon - Library Sciences & Information Technology - Barbara's initial career in the librarian field would be a dead give away for library science. Her expertise lies within collecting, organizing and checking information, along with hacking, which would be helped by a strong IT background.

+ creative writing. i'm not sure why, i just feel like her level of knowledge and intellect would lead her to enjoy writing and creating new worlds.

Tim Drake - Computer Science & Detective Minor. - Tim is very much known for his computer and detective skills already, majors and minors in these areas would definitely pair with where his interests already align.

+ i feel like regardless of the universe, he's got something to do with computers. even if it's graphic design. i feel like he'd enjoy creating things, too. or, he could go the way of being an agent of some sort but i'm not sure, outside of everything, if he'd be okay knowing the things that agents do. because that's beyond even what the batfam sees.

Stephanie Brown - Forensic Science & Journalism. - considering the time she's spent uncovering the truth and mystery solving, it would be easy to stick her with forensic science. plus, her determination to bring justice to light could easily be an end with journalism.

+ sociology. she'd probably enjoy studying the structure of society and understanding issues better. ( i don't like steph, i'm sorry otl so this isn't great. )

Cassandra Cain - Martial Arts & Linguistics. - her background is already deeply rooted in martial arts, so a major focusing on that area would make sense and be a breeze for her. her communication barriers are what would lead her to want to learn to read, speak and write on an effective level.

+ going the same route as dick, i feel like she'd major somewhere in dance and performing. it would be something expressive.

Damian Wayne - International Relations & Strategics. - damian would be very interested in global affairs and strategic combat. his upbringing would aid in his international relations, while other studies would align with his intellect and training. ( let's not pass up the fact he would have a minor relation to animals, medicine or plants. )

+ fine arts ( still with a double major or minor with something involving animals or plants. ) but, damian does have talent with art and i think he would enjoy the silence and time to delve into that outlet.

Duke Thomas - Electrical Engineering & Urban Studies. - duke's abilities would make it easy to work with concepts of engineering. his focus on protecting and improving, during daylight, aligns well with urban studies.

+ environmental science and, hear me out, music theory. i think duke deserves the ability to explore his creative side, as well.

#dc comics #batfam #dc scenarios #batfam x reader #batboys

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littlemisspascal · 1 year ago

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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.

#tim rockford #tim rockford x reader #tim rockford x you #tim rockford x ofc #tim rockford fanfiction #pedrostories #my writing #my fic #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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forensicfield · 4 months ago

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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

#crime scene investigation #Forensic Medicine Mcq With Answer #Forensic science #mcq on forensic medicine #Multiple Choice Questions On Fingerprints #Multiple Choice Questions On Forensic Medicine #Multiple Choice Questions On Forensic Toxicology #Objective On Forensic Medicine

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specialagentlokitty · 1 year ago

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Carol Danvers x reader - big fan

I was wondering if you can please do Carol Danvers X reader, where the reader is Kamala's older sibling, and is also a massive fan of Carol? - Anon💜

A/N: possible spoilers from The Marvels

Walking your sisters room, you lightly hummed to yourself as you walked over to her desk, looking through the draws.

“Jeez Kamala stop taking my stuff…” you grumbled.

You grabbed some pens and turned around.

The pens fell from your hand, and you slowly reached up to remove one of your AirPods.

“Uh… hi…” you whispered.

The hero in front of you friend around, setting what she was holding back down and she smiled a little bit.

“Hey.”

“You… captain Marvel? Why.. what..?”

“I don’t know, that was definitely already broken.”

You smiled a little and you held up a hand to her.

“Can you sign something?!”

“I’m a little busy right now but after sure!”

“Oh yeah no that’s fine. I’ll show you the door.”

You couldn’t help but constantly glance at her as you led her quietly down the stairs.

You didn’t want your family knowing that there was a superhero in the house, especially with everything going on with your sister.

But getting out undetected didn’t work in your favour.

You did what you could to help protect your parents, but fighting strange aliens who looked oddly human wasn’t exactly your strong point.

Sure, you knew some basic self defence but that was in.

“Kamala get your friend back!” You yelled.

“Who?!”

“Captain Marvel! Why didn’t you tell me you guys were friends!?”

Kamala whipped around to face you, and you threw the photo you were holding behind her.

“Captain marvel was here?!”

“You should know?!”

Suddenly she was gone and in her place was Captain Marvel again, and you screamed, throwing something at her.

Hands flying to your mouth you tried your best not to laugh.

“I’m so sorry…”

You watched as she elbowed the guy behind her, then she leant down, picking up the notebook and flicked through it.

“Chemistry?”

“I’m studying to be a forensic scientist.”

She smiled, nodding her head as she carefully set your notebook back down.

“Don’t damage it then.”

You smiled back and screamed when something came flying at you and you ducked, hiding behind a chair with your mom.

She held you and you held her back just as tightly.

Everything went quiet, and you peaked your head around the chair and stood up.

“So, is your real name Captain Marvel?”

“You know it isn’t.”

You grinned a little.

“I know, I just wanted to see what I had to call you. Since, you know you busted up my parents house.”

Carol laughed a little bit.

“You can call me Carol and I uh.. I’m sorry about the house.”

“Uh huh, well unfortunately for you, you now gotta help tidy up. Superhero or not.”

Carol raised her hands a little bit and she began to help you pick up things that were on the floor.

“So, forensic science?” She asked.

“Oh yeah, I’ve always been fascinated by it. I’m only back for a short break from university.”

Carol nodded a little bit and you pushed your brother out of the way, grinning a bit at him so you could get a little bit closer to the superhero.

You didn’t know how long you were going to be able to talk to her for and how long she’d be there.

You wanted to talk to her for as long as possible, you absolutely adored her, and now you had met her, you were going to make sure you asked her everything you always wanted.

Carol listened as you rambled out questions, truth be told she probably should’ve just left right away, but she did kind of enjoy answering them.

Because you weren’t just interested in about her as a superhero, you showed interest in her as a person and that was a new thing for her and she loved it

#marvel #marvel x reader #marvel x you #marvel x y/n #marvel imagine #captain marvel #captain marvel x reader #captain marvel x you #captain marvel imagine #Carol Danvers #Carol Danvers x reader #Carol Danvers x you #Carol Danvers imagine

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sexysapphicshopowner · 1 year ago

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🤎 Context/AU (Alternate Universe): What would usually be just an intimate night turned into a horrific tragedy

🤎 Lady Dimitrescu x wife!reader

🤎 CW/TW: slight smut?, suggestive language, angst, lesbians, pet names, grief, accidental death/murder, blood drinking, reader is an artist and photographer, Alci is a depraved baby with many issues, bloodlust, mental health issues, no use of y/n, barely proofread

🤎 A/N: I cried whilst writing this- you're welcome

🤎 Notes: No description of reader, this version of Alcina isn't exactly my personal headcanon of her, but more an idea I had for her that I decided to write, I did research for the death scene on a timeline of what it's like to bleed to death and tried my best to apply the different things that happen to the body to this particular fic. I'm in no way a doctor or anything, the best thing I've got is a certification in Forensic Science so I also used my knowledge from that to give what you're about to read

🤎 Word count: 5.2k

The lady of the castle sat at her vanity, scrutinizing every little detail of her face. She studied the wrinkles, lines, and cracks of her features before covering them with makeup, perfectly slipping behind the mask that everyone knew as Lady Dimitrescu.

She glanced behind her in the mirror at the sound of her bedroom door opening, eyes meeting yours as she applied her lipstick, “Ah, my love, you’re home early.”

You wasted no time in making your way across the room, slinking your arms over her shoulders as you planted a kiss to her cheek, holding out a photo in front of her, “I had to, look at how my latest pictures of you came out.”

Alcina's expression remained unchanged, even as you kissed her cheek. Her eyes focused squarely on the photograph. Her gaze swept over the image once, then twice.

"Hm," she murmured, her eyes wandering back to your face. "You like these?" She asked. The question was innocent enough, but her demeanor suggested something altogether different.

You deflated just slightly at her dry response, nodding as you studied the photo for yourself, “Of course, I do, love. You look amazing.”

“You think I look amazing,” she repeated slowly, her voice flat. “And did you think of me when looking at these pictures? Or simply my appearance?” The question was followed up by a long, drawn-out pause.

“Well?” She leaned forward on the vanity, asking point blank as she met your eyes in the reflection again.

“I-I....”

"What? Speak up, don't be modest. I want to hear your thoughts." She purred, her eyes trained on yours. Golden irises gleamed in the candlelight, as she held your gaze steadily.

You fixed your gaze onto hers, voice sincere as you answered, “I thought of you quite fondly when developing the photos... It’s why I came back home. I wished to be in your presence after seeing your face for so long.”

Alcina's gaze softened at this. The corners of her lips curled into a smirk as she glanced down at the picture, and then back up to you. "And do you believe me to be a beautiful woman?" She asked. The question was an obvious one, but the vampire wanted to hear the words fall from your own lips.

You ducked your head, eyes remaining on hers in the mirror as you pressed a kiss to her shoulder, "More beautiful than any man or woman to ever walk this Earth."

Alcina dimpled sweetly, her lips curling into a pleased grin. She knew she was beautiful. It was a fact- one that you reminded her of regularly. But to hear you describe her as such... The sound of her own ego being stroked tickled a deep, dark place within her.

"I am glad that you think so, my love," she purred. "You know, there is something I want from you tonight."

You set the photo down, practically instantly forgetting about it as you brought your hands to her arms, “Yes? Anything.”

"I want... " Her voice quivered with anticipation, as her gaze swept over your form. "You." Alcina reached up, pressing her delicate fingers against your cheek. "I want you tonight. All to myself."

A chuckle escaped your lips as you pressed a few open-mouthed kisses to her throat, “Yeah? You want me?”

"I want to savor every inch of your body." Alcina purred, her voice dropping to a low, husky rumble. She traced a single fingernail down the line of your jaw, trailing towards your chin. "I want you. With every fiber of my being. I want to worship you."

You let out a hum, nipping at her skin, “Come to bed, Alci... then you can have me.”

"But I want to have you... right here," she cooed, almost trying to coax you into staying there with her. "I want everyone to know that you are mine. Only mine." The countess grabbed your wrist and hauled you close, trapping you between her and the vanity in one swift motion as her mouth trailed from your neck down to your collarbone, biting down gently on your skin. "Mine."

You sucked in a breath, clutching her arms for purchase as you adjusted yourself atop the vanity, “Fuck... y-yeah...”

"Such a good girl," she purred, her other hand snaking its way past your hair to grip onto the nape of your neck. She bit the soft skin of your neck as she nuzzled closer to your ear, her lips brushing against the sensitive spot just behind your lobe as she spoke, "No one will have you. Ever. You belong only to me. Do you understand?"

Your lady lover had used such possessive and outright aggressive language with you before, but you didn’t notice the cloudy look misting her golden irises as she spoke, your lip nestling between your teeth before you released it to let out a breathy answer, “Yes... only yours...”

Alcina's lips curved into a pleased grin as her fangs sparkled in the low light. She could do whatever she pleased with you... And you would enjoy every moment of it. She pulled back slightly to gaze down at your flushed face, tilting her head slightly.

"Good girl," she praised. For a moment, it seemed as if she might kiss you. But her lips instead met your neck in a lingering, passionate kiss punctuated by sharp canines.

You let out a hiss the second you felt the slight sting of her canines pricking into your skin, “Shit...”

"You like that, do you," Alcina purred, her grip on your neck tightening slightly as her fangs sank deeper into your skin. Golden eyes glowed in the dim light, pupils dilated before they narrowed in on their prey. "How does it feel to be at my mercy?"

"A-Alci.... please...."

Her answer was a slow, drawn-out purr as she withdrew a single fang before she bit down again, her mouth a suction that fed from the sweet blood as she pulled you deeper and deeper into her hungry embrace. She moaned, eyes growing half lidded as the taste of you on her tongue sent waves of pleasure through her veins.

Your brows knit together, hands gripping her arms tighter as you felt a lot more pain than you usually did when you would allow her to drink from you, “Alci.... hurts....”

She simply let out a hum as she tilted her head slightly, your back now resting against the vanity as she was hunched over you like a true predator. You were pinned under her as she continued to drink from your neck.

“Does my little blood bag feel woozy,” Alcina asked, voice taunting and holding a sort of just slightly playful mockery. She hummed with her every suckle, as if savoring the taste of you. Her nails trace against the back of your neck, her touch as sharp as a razor.

You struggled against her hold, tapping her shoulder repeatedly as your vision began to go a bit hazy, “B-baby... please... don’t...”

“Please what, my love,” she purred her lips curling into a playful smile, attaching right back to your neck as she continued to drain you of your life force.

You were always so much sweeter than her other maidens... The taste of your blood... It was enough to bring an ache to the core of her very being. She couldn’t get enough of it.

Even as you tapped her shoulder, her lips remained pressed against your skin. She was in heaven, and this was her idea of making love.

You on the other hand were beginning to panic. You didn’t find your wife when you looked down into her eyes.

No, you didn’t know who or what you were looking at.

Her eyes were almost venomous, pupils narrowed to slits.

Her usual gentle, reverent touch was nowhere to be found, nails and fangs stinging against your skin.

You felt powerless struggling against your 9-foot lover.

Your voice gurgled in your throat, her teeth having torn the skin of your neck open in search of getting better access to your vein that she was currently drinking heavily from.

Your heart rate is beginning to accelerate, something that doesn’t help you, but makes it much easier for your bloodthirsty wife to bleed you dry as blood is now pumping directly to the area where her mouth is accompanied by the wound from her tearing into you.

A lightheaded, truly woozy feeling begins to set in along with a sudden wave of fatigue.

You can’t focus outside of the blaring worries in your mind that if you don’t bleed to death from the gaping hole in your neck, your wife will certainly take care of drinking the rest of it. Your skin has gone pale, sweat beading every inch of it as your body is trying to fight back against the losses, as well as you with your pushing against her, trying to get her off of you.

All the while, Alcina is continuing to feed. Pulling more and more of your vitality as she drank, her body was practically shaking with ecstasy, eyes rolling back as she drew deeper and deeper from the vein.

Primal growls rumbled out of her throat, her breathing heavy and hot against you.

She was far too sucked in to realize what she was doing. She was killing you. Her love, her life, her light.

Alcina would never.

And yet... she was.

With every beat of your heart and pull of her mouth suctioned to your neck... she was pushing you closer and closer to the cliff that was death.

There’s too many feelings, too many thoughts.

You feel spaced out, unaware of what’s even happening anymore, yet hyperaware as your anxiety is spiking to astronomical levels. Your breathing is shallow, your pushing growing weaker and weaker as your hands and feet begin to tingle.

You’re dying.

You know it.

You can’t help but think about your life.

How you came to the castle in the first place.

You were commissioned for your work. You were a wonderful portraitist, a very skilled painter who was very adept and well-known for your art- especially your portraits.

Originally, it was Bela who’d begged her mother to have you called into the castle to do her portrait.

Then Daniela just had to have hers done as well because ‘look how good she painted Bels’.

Cassandra begrudgingly asked if you’d paint her as well, only after being teased by Dani for being the only one of the three sisters to not get herself painted.

It was after finishing the three works that you finally met the ever elusive and lady of the castle- Alcina Dimitrescu.

Alcina took a liking to you.

Being a patron and lover of the arts herself, she found herself drawn to your talents as a painter, sketch artist, and photographer. You also both had a shared love of jazz and blues music- a fact that led her to realizing her feelings for you.

Your first date was in her old music room. The two of you played a few pieces on the piano together before you sat back to let her sing for you, taking pictures to use as reference for later sketches that you would gift to her after five months of courting between the two of you.

It was a whirlwind romance, the two of you swept up in never having had a love like this before. She was the darkness to your light, the moon and stars to your sun.

She was your muse. You were her beloved, her most devoted.

Your marriage was a surprisingly small occasion, just a little ceremony held between the two of you, the other three Lords, and Mother Miranda as the officiant. Bela was the maid of honor, Cassandra carried the rings, and Daniela was the flower girl. It was sweet.

Alcina herself was sweet.

So how did things progress to here?

There’s a pounding ripping through your skull, a headache- or perhaps migraine would be a better word- like none you’ve ever experienced before.

How long had this been going on?

It felt like hours.

In truth it wasn’t more than about 4 minutes.

Next came the ringing. A terrible and tinny noise in your ears, blocking you from hearing anything else.

It was coupled with the terrible spinning you seemed to feel. It was disgusting.

And once again- to make matters infinitely worse for you- you couldn’t even speak or fight back anymore. You were essentially limp within her hold at this point, almost resigning yourself to your fate now.

Within another few seconds, your sight grows hazy, darkness seeping into the edges of your vision as your eyes turn up to the ceiling, no longer able to watch your wife.

Then comes the sweet release of being unconscious.

Like the world’s sickest fade to black, you passed out in her arms, not realizing how close you now were to death.

You suffer a heart attack, the organ unable to handle the strain your wife’s drinking has now put on your body.

Just like that... it’s over.

In a little under 5 minutes Alcina had killed the love of her life.

She didn’t stop when your body went limp underneath her, heart no longer pounding in your chest against her.

No, she pulled away once the flow of blood into her mouth stopped.

In her feeding frenzy, Alcina hadn’t truly known what she was doing to you. As the taste of your blood faded from her lips, she slowly opened her eyes, blinking away the haze of the drunken feeling that came along with drinking blood.

What she found before her left her horrified.

Cradling your still body, the countess couldn’t come to terms with the idea of you having died at her hands.

She pressed a few kisses to your forehead in an attempt to wake you. Tears welled in her eyes as she tried, trying to will you back to life.

She held your body close, tears continuing to brew despite her attempts to fight them back. For the first time in a while, she felt a surge in emotion.... Grief.

This wasn’t what she had wanted. She had no intention of hurting you.... And yet, the damage had already been done.

She brought her other hand up to your cheek, fingers brushing against your smooth skin in a last attempt to try and wake you.

"You can't leave me..." she whispered, sobbing now at the realization. But your heart beat against her chest no longer. And your eyes were now shut, forever.

After a few minutes of letting her tears fall, she wiped away her tears and straightened up, her red eyes staring straight ahead in silent mourning. The countess closed her eyes tightly and inhaled slowly and deeply, trying to process the loss. She also couldn’t take the sight of her face in the mirror. Your blood and her smeared lipstick staining her stark white skin. It wasn't long before her face returned to its cold and emotionless facade.

She stared through her reflection rather than at it as she murmured, “How disappointing.”

Her demeanor became one of stark detachment, just like that of the stone-cold killer that the soft side of her now believed herself to be. It was almost as if she hadn’t been in love with the now dead woman in her arms in the first place.

Her hands tightened around your body as she lifted your limp form in her grasp with ease. Without much ceremony, she began to walk towards the window at the back of the chamber.

“Now, dear one,” she began, “You shall be as one with the night.”

As she reached the open window and stared down at the dark landscape below her, the vampiress seemed to contemplate.

In her arms lay the woman she once called her safe space.

Her eyes narrowed as she considered her next move. Without a second thought, she tossed your body out of the window.

The wind howled as the form tumbled down to Earth. You plummeted through the air in a graceful spiral, the fall over so quickly that if there were even still a shred of life within you, you did not suffer for long. Your body impacted the ground with a soft thud, crumpling in a broken heap.

In a swift moment, the countess closed the window and drew the curtains with finality. The body was nowhere to be seen, and the chamber wa just the way it was before you ever arrived.

With a heavy sigh, Alcina finally allowed herself to sink onto her stool. For a while, she remained still in her seat, staring at the mirror in empty contemplation.

As she sat alone in the room, she wondered to herself.

Why had she done such a thing?

A soft hand rose to her mouth as she wept for a moment, once again wishing to take back the events. But she knew deep down, there was no turning back.

Eventually, Alcina rose from her chair and crossed over to the bed. She lay down on the soft mattress, staring up at the moonlight which spilled in through the curtains of the other windows in the bedchamber.

For some time, she stared up at the ceiling, her expression blank. But slowly, the grief she felt earlier started to grow within her again.

Unable to hold back her tears any longer, the vampire broke down into heavy sobs. She’d never loved anyone as she did you. But that love had been her exact downfall.

She’d been blinded by her love for you and your trust for her, thinking she had the self-control not to hurt you. Yet and still, she did.

“Why?” She whispered into the moonlight. “Why did you have to love me so much?”

The countess released a loud, mournful wail as she cried into the night. A part of her wish so badly that she could take it all back. But she knew it was already too late for regrets.

“It’s done,” she mumbled, her eyes squeezed shut as she tried to calm herself. But her heart would not follow suit. It continued to ache for you.

Eventually, she fell into a fitful sleep, but the night only brought nightmares which haunted her rest.

The countess awoke the next day with a start. For a moment, she almost didn’t recognize where she was. Almost didn’t remember what had happened. Then the memories from the previous night returned.

“No....” Alcina whispered. She turned over in her bed to face the empty side of the mattress. In your place, there was only a memory. “No....”

Once again, the tears started to flow. “Why?” She asked herself.

Alcina sat up in her bed, staring ahead in silence. Though your absence gnawed at her heaviy, the memories she shared with you only made the grief worse. Your loss was more than any one heart could bear, but for a vampire... Your loss would be eternal.

“It’s not fair,” she told herself, her voice hoarse and quiet.

“I don’t want to forget you. I want you back... so that I can feel your lips against mine... hear your soft whispers in my ear... know that you were real....”

Before she could fall too deep into the guilt that laced itself through her grief, the phone rang.

She answered the phone with a heavy heart, not expecting anyone but Mother Miranda to be brazen enough to call at this time. I couldn’t be but maybe an hour after sunrise.

It was Karl.

Instead of being greeted by his usual infuriating and condescending tone that usual was also paired with his crass words that were typically used to hurl insults at the countess- his voice was solemn as he spoke.

The sound sent a chill down her spine, cheeks still damp with tears as she listened to him, “Hey, Alcina... A couple of my Lycans brought in a body last night.... It’s... It’s your wife...” There was a pain in his voice that Alcina had never heard from him before.

“Do you want me to bring her over for a proper burial, or...?”

Alcina was thrown back by the question. Before she could reply, grief and guilt simultaneously struck her like lightning, her legs turning to jelly beneath her. A hand shot to her mouth, as if to shield herself from hearing any more words.

"No..."

It was the only reply that escaped her lips. In her eyes, she could see it all again...

Your body plummeting through the window, your face pale, your limbs broken. That look on your face as you died...

She bit her palm, trying to distract herself from the horror.

Heisenberg called out when the vampiress didn��t say anything, “Are you alright? What happened to her?”

"Karl, please," Alcina pleaded, her voice coming out hoarse as if she had just wept for hours. The countess wanted nothing more than to fall back into bed and drown in a sea of grief, unable to face the truth of your death once more.

"I... I cannot talk about it. Please, just... bring her body to me so I can bury her. There is no need for any of us to speak of what happened... it's better that way," she pleaded, her voice filled with misery.

“I’ll be there in an hour.... I’m really sorry, Alcina...”

The countess was silent for a moment. For the first time, she felt truly powerless. She didn't wish to remember the way you died at her hands, and yet as she awaited your body... The pain and guilt was suffocating.

"Thank you" she replied quietly, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

What would your family think? Your friends, your loved ones... Would they ever know the truth? They were going to have to. In some way, this was her fault.

No, she wanted a funeral. And you would have it.

One hour.

That was all that separated Alcina from her greatest mistake. But in this time, she did what she could to prepare for your arrival.

A casket- made of elegant wood and lined with elvet of a deep garnet hue- was prepared. It wasn’t new. You had made it saying she’d need somewhere to put you when your time in her life finally expired.

She couldn’t help but cry as she remembered how happy you two had been together. How much you had loved her.

Your hair and body was washed, a crown of roses placed in your hair- Alcina's handiwork.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered as she stared at your beautiful face in the casket. She could almost hear you whispering in her ear... Telling her that you loved her and just how much as you often did. She wanted nothing more than to hold you one last time and kiss you deeply. But as she reached out to do so, a dark feeling came over her.

The truth was hidden in that darkness.

“Please.... forgive me,” she whispered, tears rolling down her cheek.

She had to excuse herself from the little ceremony to what used to be your shared room.

She ended up at her vanity, gripping the edge of it before her eyes fell on the last picture you had ever taken of her. The one you had brought with you from the night before.

It was a portrait of Alcina in her most vulnerable state. Her hair disheveld, her eyes hazy as she had just awakened from sleep when the photo was taken.

Still, the photo was one of the best memories you’d held of her.

She was beautiful, regardless of how much sorrow and grief had taken hold.

Holding onto the photo for a moment, Alcina turned it over repeatedly, a faint smile crossing her red lips.

“I’ll see you again one day, my love,” she whispered, her voice choked with tears.

“We haven’t said goodbye yet.”

After a long few long moments of staring at your portrait of her, the countess dried her tears and returned to the casket room that held you rcasket to stare down at your still face.

The tears came again, but she was too far down the rabbit hole to turn back.

With her hands, Alcina closed your eyes with all of the love she held for you. She couldn’t bare your gaze any longer. But she couldn’t bear your silence either...

As Alcina kissed your cheeks with gentle tenderness, memories of your first kiss came rushing back to her. It was nothing but a distant shadow now.

In all the centuries that she had walked the Earth, Alcina had never felt love like this. She had shared her flesh with countless lovers, but it meant nothing... Not now.

Because this- you... you were different.

“Sleep, my love. Dream of our nights spent together.... our passion...”

Alcina burshed a stray lock of hair behind your ear- chest tightening when your eyes didn’t open at the motion- before she took a step back.

“We’ll be together again soon,” she promised, a pained smile on her lips.

The countess stayed with you for a while, the weight of her grief slowly becoming much mor eoverwhelming. But eventually, she had to bring herself together to say her final goodbye before Karl buried your casket.

She rose from her seat for the final time, looking down on you for a moment.

“I’ll find you in my next dream.”

Her voice was barely even audible before she turned on her heel, turning over her shoulder to take one last look at your peaceful face before she withdrew from the room.

“I love you, dearest. Always."

Alcina shut her bedroom door and closed every curtain.

It was the first time in a long time that she had been left alone inside her chamber- neither you nor any of the girls there to come bother her. For so long you had been there.... your soft voice to comfort her... your warm body to hold at night in bed.

But now- for the first time- this place felt empty, colder, lifeless without you.

Alcina took a deep, shaky breath as she fought back her tears.

She approached the window where she ahd so coldly tossed your body out, the chill of the wind stiniging and reminding her of that very moment.

Perhaps you wished to speak to her. Bid her your own last farewell.

With this thought in mind, she took a deep breath as she stared out into the night, “If you can hear me, my love, I want you to know...”

The wind howled loudly as if to answer her words.

“I will always love you,” she finished, her eyes gazing up at the sky.

Though the chill of the wind bit at her heart she didn’t bother with closing the curtains back again. She wanted to be as close as possible to where you lay, so that her words could travel further with the hopes of reaching you somehow.

“I’ll see you some day soon, darling... I’ll see you soon....”

A few tears found their way from her eyes. At the salty sting, she shut her window, head bowed.

The wind’s howling died down as she shut the window behind her. She stood in front of it for a moment, as if you were just beyond the curtains.

A small smile spread across her lips at the thought.

"Farewell, you magnificent creature," she whispered, as a final tear tumbled down her cheek.

"My beautiful darling."

For a second, Alcina's heart stilled. The silence seemed deafening.

She waited a moment, hoping to hear you speak one last time.

She only heard the silence of nighttime, and her own soft breath in her chest.

"If you can hear me," the countess began after a long while. "I hope it's not painful beyond death," she whispered, her voice choked with regret. "I hope that I haven't failed you somehow."

She was silent for a moment, before speaking again.

"I'll never forget you."

A moment passed, and a sigh escaped the countess. She turned around, stepping back into the darkness of her bedchamber. For a moment, the shadows seemed to dance and shimmer, as if your spirit was right there with her.

The wind whistled outside. No.

She was going insane.

"I'm sorry," Alcina whispered, her voice filled with sorrow and guilt. "I should have been more careful. Maybe if I had been a better woman, you'd still be here with me."

Her voice was thick with grief.

After a few more moments of silence, Alcina sat down on her bed.

"I'll tell you about myself," she spoke quietly, her voice almost breaking into tears more than once.

"My favorite color is dark green. My favorite food is… was… well. You." She chuckled, "I like to read and listen to music. My favorite genre is jazz. My favorite band is… was.. uh. Never mind."

She fell silent again, taking a second to compose herself. She took a deep breath and continued.

"My favorite season is fall. I love looking at the orange leaves as they fall to the ground. I love the way the trees change color in the autumn. I remember how when it was still warm enough you would bring the girls and I outside to rake and play in the leaves..."

Another pause.

"My favorite time is night. When the birds and animals fall quiet, and the darkness closes in. My father used to say it's beautiful, but I think it's sad. A sort of beautiful kind of sadness... This melancholic time when all is quiet but yet, it isn’t. Wind still blows... trees still rustle... chirps of the daytime become the hooting sounds of owls..."

She laughed, the sound of her voice breaking her heart a tiny bit.

"Your favorite time was dawn, wasn't it?" She was speaking to herself now.

"We shared two things in common, did we not?"

She continued quietly, "We were passionate about art, and music." Her voice shook a little, tears now rolling down her cheeks.

"You would have loved to read my poetry, I just know. I remember how you used to ask about it and then I would always tell you that you had to let me see inside your sketchbook first."

She fell silent again, thinking about her words before speaking again.

"We were both lonely, and that's why we found each other. I mean, of course, it was thanks to Bela and the girls’ portraits, but in essence our attraction was built out of a sort seeking of solace in one another, no?"

Alcina's words became softer and softer as she spoke as if she was speaking to you.

"I know how much you wanted to paint me… how we spoke about it almost every day. Every night before bed you would come in, hands tracing the lines and features of my face... You’d say ‘Oh, Alci... my darling how I wish you’d model for me’..." She chuckled softly. Her chest ached with a thousand needles and pins as she remembered your words.

"I was always too tired. I wished I could've been a better muse for you, a better woman, a better lover."

Alcina's voice was breaking, but she still wanted to tell you one last thing.

"If you hear this," She murmured into the darkness, "I have to tell you..."

"I love you."

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