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cillianmesoftlyyy · 10 months ago

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I Can Fix That... | Dr. Jonathan Crane x fem!reader

Summary| She's the detective assigned to investigate one of Gotham's top villains, Falcone, but as she follows her leads, she uncovers a new suspect: Dr. Jonathan Crane. His charisma and good looks won't stand in the way of justice, or at least that's what she thinks.

Warnings| Mentions of self-harm in the beginning in accordance to the movie (Batman Begins 2005). Not explicitly discussed but implied sexist and misogynistic work environment. Some archaic language when discussing psychiatric hospitals bc I tried to follow the language that the movie used. Violence with needles, drugging someone. Gun is mentioned but not used. Knife is mentioned a lot but never used to inflict pain. Smut, dubious consent, unprotected sex, restraints.

word count: 6757k (long-ass story bc I didn't want to make separate posts)

Song for a Guilty Sadist- Crywank 🎶

Butch 4 Butch- Rio Romeo 🎵

IFHY (feat. Pharrell)- Tyler, The Creator 🎶

Please read warnings before continuing, thanks <3

She had been following him for weeks, stealing into the shadows at every turn as Jonathan Crane walked through Gotham City’s Police Station. She’d been suspicious of him for months and with the men in the police force finally working up the nerve to investigate Gothem’s leading henchman, Falcone, she’d uncovered a theory that pointed simultaneously at the notorious psychiatrist. Of course, the men in her force had refused to believe her, reminding her of Crane’s long history with the department and work to establish Gothem’s Psychiatric Hospital for the Criminally Insane: Arkham Asylum. But the real reason why Crane had never been investigated was because of his status in the department of justice, and it didn’t hurt that the man was charismatic. He knew how to work the system to get what he wanted.

Jonathan Crane had a reputation of declaring criminals insane after mere minutes of deliberation, especially those who happened to work with or for Falcone. She’d been in charge of carrying out Falcone’s case and taking him to trial as a detective for the prosecution. After being put in jail, Falcone had managed to slash his wrists just enough to draw attention and a little bit of blood. He was immediately flagged for psychiatric evaluation, bringing Jonathan Crane once again into the basement interrogation rooms to administer an interview. When he clamored down the steps onto the basement floor, she was waiting for him by the door into Falcone’s interrogation room.

“Dr. Crane,” she greeted him with a smile, drawing every ounce of her long lost theater-kid days into play.

“Miss —,” he remembered her name and shook her hand with a serious glint in his blue eyes, covered by harsh rectangular glasses. His handshake was firm and strong, and he made eye contact that still shook her even after speaking with him so many times before. She didn’t let it show, however, and nodded towards the door.

“He cut his wrists last night during the changing of the guard but we don’t know how he even got access to the weapon that he used; and I’ve spoken with him numerous time since we processed him and he’s never given me any reason to suspect that he was mentally unstable, but of course, you are the professional. It’s better that he be evaluated anyway-”

“In case anything were to happen,” he finished for me and clenched his jaw. He gave a curt nod of his head and went inside, shutting the door behind him and drawing the blinds on the door closed. She scoffed quietly beneath her breath and clenched her fists. Don’t be fooled by his good looks or superior smile, she told herself, Jonathan Crane was capable of things that she didn’t know of yet. He was not someone to admire, he was someone to distrust.

After only ten minutes of quiet murmuring, she could hear clear and blood curdling screams through the door. She knocked on the door, “Dr. Crane?” She called through the door but it opened in her face before she could do anything. He stood in the doorway, his dark hair falling into his pale, angular face.

“He’s definitely what I would classify as mentally unstable,” he chuckled calmly as he side-stepped her and closed the door. He ran a hand through his hair and fixed the glasses perched on his nose. “I can’t treat him here, I’ll need to move him to Arkham.”

“Are you sure?” She asked, more surprised than anything. He had started to walk down the hallway to the stairs when he turned around, stopping right in front of her face, his breath fanned across her face.

“Are you questioning my diagnosis, detective?” He smirked, an underlying tone of warning below his wide-lipped smile. His blue eyes were unwavering as he studied her face, she swallowed to steady herself.

“No, sir. Of course not.” She apologized and crossed her arms across her chest, ducking her head nervously. When she looked back up, his eyebrow was cocked.

“Do I make you nervous, detective?” He smiled and she could tell he was setting a trap, attempting to make himself more likable, more trusting. As if he could be anything of the sort. She laughed lightly and met his eyes, holding his eye-contact defiantly.

“No, sir.” She answered and he nodded.

“Good day, Miss —.” He called with his back turned, walking to the stairs and climbing them quickly. She watched him leave and finally released a sigh of relief. There was something about him that unsettled her, but it was something that also attracted her with a devious strength, ripping factual and independent reasoning from her head.

She had started following him when one of Falcone’s men had been moved to Arkham two weeks before. She switched her assignment for the day to escort the man to Arkham, getting a chance to see the asylum for herself. It was a large gothic building with a modern facade in the center of Gotham. The attendants at the door led the prisoner (or patient now) through the heavily guarded door into the hospital’s main ward that was closed to visitors. Even police or other officials had to obtain a special license that granted them clearance into the institution. The second time she’d stepped inside, she was following a few yards behind Crane, studying how he actually entered the building. They had a separate entrance for the asylum’s psychiatrists at the side of the building by the alley. She waited a few minutes for Crane to enter the building before she approached the guard stationed at the door and flashed her badge. He’d allowed her in but warned that he’d lose his job if he did it again. The next time she followed him, she would need a new method of entering the building, one that didn’t alert Crane that she was in the building in case he got suspicious. When she entered it was easier to blend in so she followed the maze of hallways until she reached a small hub with arrows guiding attendants to the different wards of the hospital. Dr. Crane’s office was included in the psychiatrist ward (funny they had their own ward).

The psychiatrists each had their own labs, whether or not they used them was their own business, but she knew for sure that Crane used his but for what, she didn’t know. Walking down the hallway to his office, she peeked inside the wide panel of glass into his lab. He had one assistant who was copying his notes into a binder for Crane but quickly left when Crane shooed him away from the set of beakers and vials of powders he was working with. She flattened herself against the wall and pretended to answer a call on her phone as the assistant passed her in the hallway. She hurried to leave the institute, leaving through the same door she entered, thanking the security guard discreetly.

This time as she watched Crane climb the stairs, she pulled aside a police officer and explained Falcone’s transfer. The officer nodded and left to initiate the transfer to Arkham, Falcone’s hysterical screams still audible through the thick steel door. Crane tugged at the starched collar of his shirt as he crossed the lobby of the police station, sighing in relief. Falcone had tried to corner him. Him! Falcone may have been powerful but he was stupid and Crane didn’t have patience for stupidity especially from someone who was supposed to be a criminal mastermind. News flash: he wasn’t. Falcone was sloppy and arrogant, he didn’t take his own threats seriously. He’d threatened to tell the police about Crane’s experimental drug concoctions but in reality, he still didn’t know the full extent of what Crane was planning to do to Gotham.

“You don’t know anything,” Crane said pointedly, tired of Falcone’s attitude.

“I know that half of the drugs we moved belong to you and the police still don’t know what they are or what they can do.” Falcone scratched his greasy nose. Crane almost laughed. He removed his glasses and sighed, reaching into his open briefcase.

As soon as the words, “would you like to see my mask,” left his mouth, Falcone was done for. The only thing that had inspired a shred of panic for Crane was hearing the girl’s voice through the steel door, calling his name. He expected her to open the door and see his mask, and while he had an explanation that a normal officer would believe, he knew that she was different. He didn’t trust her but something about her made him laugh. She was good looking and smart but too invested in his work and he didn’t like that. He’d have to keep an eye on the young detective, Miss —. In fact, he’d like to strap her down… hide her away in his asylum and play with her head like he did with his other playthings - - - oops - - - patients. Same thing.

She pretended that her plan was straightforward, it was the only way that she could convince herself to go through with it. No one else in her department would have had the balls to sneak into the asylum where once you went in, you may not be able to leave, that is- if Dr. Crane diagnosed you accordingly. She left a note on her desk in her office, explaining where she was going and the evidence she had already collected. Photos, “destroyed” medical records, and recent missing shipments from cargo ships including one micro-wave machine meant for warfare. She made copies of everything and hid them away in a special box directed to the only person she really trusted in her department, Sgt. Gordon. Even if someone dumped the notes on her desk, Sgt. Gordon would find the box of evidence, she knew. Falcone had been transferred the day before and was nearing his second night in the institution, now was her time to investigate what he was planning to do to him and why.

She stashed a small knife at her thigh, having learned that a woman had to carry multiple weapons in this city if she wanted to protect herself, which unfortunately, happened often. She checked her weapon and put it in her holster at the small of her back. She was wearing a gray quarter length top tucked into a black skirt. She pulled on her straight black leather coat and closed the door to her office, locking the door. She knew that Crane would be in his office, he almost never went home, and with Falcone there and at risk to disclose sensitive information, he would be sure to stay close by.

The sun had already set hours before when she approached Arkham Asylum. Each window was bright with light but it didn’t make the building any more welcoming. She shivered as she approached the side door, seeing a different security guard at the door. He stood when she approached, not recognizing her.

“Stand down, officer. I’m detective — on police business,” she showed him her badge.

“You’ll have to check in at the front, detective.” The officer sat back down with a nod.

“My business here is strictly confidential; Dr. Crane said I could enter in this way.” She pointed at the side door and the officer looked nervously at her. He reached for his walkie-talkie.

“I’m here about Falcone. I am the detective assigned to his case, he was transferred here two days ago. I’m supposed to meet with Dr. Crane about some of the things Falcone has said during his initial treatment. Because of the sensitivity of Falcone’s case in the department, as I’m sure you know, the department has asked that we keep this confidential. No one inside can know that I was here to meet about Falcone. We haven’t told the public yet that he’s been transferred here. Your compliance is necessary for this.” She lied out of her ass but the officer nodded slowly when she finished, his eyes widening at the mention of Falcone’s name.

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry for delaying you. It’s just business.”

“I understand completely, thank you officer.” She smiled kindly as the officer scanned her in. Once she was inside she hid her police badge and followed the path she had scouted days before, following the black arrows to the psychiatrist ward (again, funny that they had their own ward- almost as if they were patients themselves). Her black mary janes squeaked quietly as she finally turned onto the hallway where Dr. Crane’s office was located. A row of fluorescent bulbs flickered ominously and she rolled her eyes, silently cursing the asylum for its additional eeriness. His lab was empty and dark and his office was empty though the lights were still on. An assistant passed her, coming from a different lab with a pile of boxes in her arms.

“Excuse me, do you know where Dr. Crane is right now?” She asked the assistant who shuffled the boxes in her arms to answer.

“I saw him in the ward with the new transfer patients just before I picked these up, so he’s probably about to start a sit-down with a patient. Do you have an appointment with him?” She asked curiously, knowing it was too late for a business meeting.

“No, I work in the office and I was going to request a few files to finish a transfer of a patient but it seems that he’s busy. I’ll try tomorrow morning. Thank you!” She smiled and the assistant nodded.

“Have a nice night,” the assistant hurried off down the corridor into the hub. She wasted no time in checking the door to Crane’s office which was miraculously unlocked. She hurried inside and closed the door, making sure that she left everything as she had found it. The door to the lab was located inside Crane’s office, so she entered the lab through the office. The blinds were closed to the outside so she opened the flashlight on her phone and scanned the dark lab tables for the powders she had seen before. The room smelled heavily of chemicals and cleaning solution and it was hard to breathe normally already because she was nervous. The first table was empty of anything but the second was set up for what looked to be his next round of testing. A box that looked like a closed mouse trap was set up on the table. There was a single switch on the top of the box which she knew better than to turn but she examined it nonetheless, hoping to see what it may contain. A tray of petri dishes full of powder sat beside it. Each was marked with a different series of numbers and letters, denoting their different status, she assumed. She recognized the series on one of the dishes: F7jw009. The number had appeared on the list of drugs recovered from Falcone’s drug transport. It was one that hadn’t yet been tested to see what it was composed of. She didn’t recognize the two other dishes but she assumed the powder and the mousetrap device were used for the same thing.

There was a small bookcase attached to the base of the lab table and she crouched, scanning the spines. The books on the top, free of dust, were on phobias. A bound scientific paper on the chemical structure of fear sat on top of the textbooks. She picked it up and flipped through the pages, noticing strokes of pen and notes on many of the pages. In the centerfold of the paper, she saw a picture of a cartoon scarecrow, one from a halloween decoration. It looked like it had been ripped from a kid’s storybook. She stared at the picture, struggling to place where she had heard about a scarecrow before in the precinct… she flipped farther through the pages and landed on a second photo shoved between the pages. It was a drawing of a mask made of burlap. The mask resembled a scarecrow’s face, she furrowed her eyebrows, more uneasy. Finally, she flipped to the very end where she found a clear note detailing what Crane thought the synopsis of the paper had been:

Fear can be constructed using a series of complex compounds and put into an admissible form. They have already invented serums that temporarily remove the presence of fear by blocking certain receptors in the brain that receive signals of distress or pain. By doing the very opposite, temporarily numbing the receptors that calm the nervous system when danger has been averted, fight or flight is heightened and the human mind is more susceptible to the suggestion of danger and terror. Fear merely needs to be suggested to elicit a response after the brain is prepped for the reaction. Fear can be weaponized. Building the compounds of fear into a powder, the drug can be administered immediately into the air and receive a simultaneous reaction. Pills? Water? How can we distribute this powder? What is the easiest way to administer fear to the entire population?

iii

The distinct click of a door opening and closing shocked her back to attention. She put the bound paper back onto the shelf and switched off the light on her phone. In the dark she scrambled into a hidden alcove inside the lab behind one of the hooded chemical boxes. She was pretty sure that the lab’s closet would be shared with the lab next door but she couldn’t remember which side of the room it was on. Dr. Crane had gone into his office and removed his suit jacket. He was too excited by Falcone’s reaction to his fear serum in powder form and he needed to get a handle on himself. It was nearly midnight when he checked his watch. Most of his colleagues would be gone by now, just the night staff remained to look after the patients. Night was the perfect time to work undisturbed in his lab, especially because his assistant couldn’t know the full extent of his research into the chemical compounds of human fear. He slipped his coat over the back of his desk chair and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.

He exhaled slowly and removed a stack of papers from his desk, flipping through them as he opened the door into his lab and kicked the door closed with the heel of his shoe. His elbow flicked on the lightswitch and he spread out the papers on the first lab table, seemingly absorbed by the chemical structures his assistant had prepared for him to review. He scribbled a note in red pen on the corner of the document, berating his assistant for his obvious mistake with one of the compound structures. What was this? High school chemistry class? He licked his thumb and turned the page, writing another note in the margin.

“I know you’re here, Miss —.” He smiled, not looking up from his notes. He tossed the first set of pages further down the table and moved to the next one. “You and your perfume… I can always tell where you’ve been by your scent. I don’t think you’re naive enough to wear perfume in your field, especially when on your little jaunts into other people’s business. So, the lovely smell is from your shampoo, I venture. You use an expensive brand of shampoo because you think that your hair is your best attribute, and I agree, it's one of the best. Your job makes you feel dirty too, doesn’t it? This city makes you feel dirty and so you wash your hair every night with the same sulfate-free shampoo to get the smell of our city out of your system. Your shampoo smells like mint and you like it the best because it makes your head feel cleaner, tingly,” he laughed and moved to the next stack of stapled papers. “And that’s why you chose this job, a detective, because you feel like you’re cleaning up our streets; removing all of the bad blood of Gotham but it’s been a disappointment to say the least. The system is backwards, though you knew that from the beginning, you thought you could fix it. You want things to be right and I don’t blame you, so do I.”

Dr. Crane finished writing a note on the last paper and capped the pen. He circled the table once before moving to the second table.

“I’m cleaning the city in my own way, I guess you could say. This city needs a restart button, a way to begin everything again and start fresh. Fear can do that, fear can be controlled and it controls.”

She could barely breathe, her back was pressed against the wall of his lab. She was scared and she knew that he knew. Fear was his thing, his kink and she anticipated the absolute worst as she waited out her fate, wondering how long it would take for him to find her or if she could manage to escape.

“This machine can diffuse the compounded form of fear. I’ve used it on most of your suspects, all of them Faclone’s men. I even used it on Falcone himself. Oh, I wish you could have seen his face! The second the powder entered his system he abandoned the arrogant criminal persona, he reverted back to who he was at his very core. He was suddenly controllable and easy to manage. So you see how this could be used to clean up Gotham. It’s a way to seize back control of our city, take it away from the people who run it now; the sycophants and billionaires.”

Crane pulled a needle from the drawer at his hip and flicked the glass tube. Her chest rose and fell in a state of panic. Dr. Crane leaned against the counter calmly.

“That’s why you like me. I’m clean. I’m orderly and smart. I’m the opposite of the criminal justice system that reminds you of this dirty city. And, Y/N, that’s why I like you.”

She tensed at his use of her first name. She’d never heard him use it before and it sent a chill down her spine. She reached for her gun. Dr. Crane rounded the corner and stabbed the needle into her neck, pushing the tranquilizer into her bloodstream. She wobbled before slumping back against the wall. She managed to push past him and run for the office door but the drugs worked almost immediately and her legs began to go numb. She couldn’t feel anything below her waist and she worried that he would break her legs running without being able to feel which bones she was using to get away. She collapsed on the floor of the lab and looked up at Dr. Crane who smiled down at her, his hair disheveled.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he cooed and crouched at her feet, “I applaud you for your efforts. You may have succeeded had I not recognized the smell of your shampoo. I know you’ve been here before. You’re a smart girl but I won this game, and the victor gets the spoils. That’s how it works, Miss —.” He crawled over her and pulled the needle from her neck. She didn’t even feel it. Her hair that he loved so much was fanned out on the floor, falling in loose curls. He twirled a curl between his fingers and nodded approvingly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll treat you with the utmost respect. Afterall, you are my colleague, of sorts,” he shrugged and stood up, straddling her. “It’s a pity that you became a detective. You would have done well in this bloodthirsty field because,” he disappeared for a moment and returned with a set of keys which he slipped into his front pocket, “you’re like me.”

He pulled her up and put one of her arms around his shoulder, supporting the brunt of her weight that way. Though he was small and lanky, he was muscular and strong. He dragged her through the door in his lab that connected to a separate room that she hadn’t even noticed. He flipped the light switch with his elbow and sighed with pleasure when the room was lit up with light.

“Here it is. This is where the real fun happens, Y/N. This is where I test my new treatments on our most psychotic patients. Falcone will be here soon, perhaps tomorrow once you and I finish our discussion.” The room was smaller than the lab and housed what looked like a mortuary slab. She tried to scream but her mouth was numb. He dragged her to the table and lifted her onto the flat surface. The numerous straps he buckled around her waist, her wrists, and her feet. When she was secured onto his table, he pushed a peddle at his foot which titled the table forward, propping her more upright.

“Ah, and now I can finally see you,” Dr. Crane smiled and moved her hair so that it was caught behind her back. He straightened her hair against her chest, running his fingers through the strands. He moved a stool in front of the table and sat on it, his legs spread and his arms across against his chest. “Do I make you nervous now, detective?” He smirked and chuckled darkly when she couldn’t respond. “It will wear off soon. It’s one of those doses that act quickly but then wear off just as quickly. I wouldn’t do anything to you while you were in this state. What kind of man would I be if I did that?”

He watched her for a few minutes, his bright blue eyes trailing up and down her body. She knew what that look meant from men. Her gun was so close and yet she knew she wouldn't be able to reach it even when she regained control over her body. While he waited, he arranged numerous tools and vials around the room, humming softly to himself. She could feel herself starting to get feeling back in her stomach as the blood recirculated from her heart. Her hands and her feet took the longest to twitch awake. She dropped her head from left to right, groaning in the absence of words. Dr. Crane came back and checked her pulse, pinching her wrist and counting the seconds on his watch.

“Good girl, you’re coming back. Can you speak yet?” He supported her chin with his hand and when she didn’t answer he nodded. “That’s all right. You’re all right.” He soothed her and she couldn’t help but relax as his eyes checked over her. “Now, Miss —, where are your weapons?” He posed the question theoretically and touched her, she flinched beneath his hands. He felt around her waist and inside her jacket. “There aren’t many places to hide it.” He whispered and wrapped his hands around her waist, finding the gun at the small of her back. “Ah, here it is.” He smiled as he took the gun from its holster and tossed it onto a small lab table. “You have something else, don’t you. You’re smart so of course, you have a second weapon.” He licked his lips, thinking but it didn’t take him long to trail his hands up her thighs, glancing up into her eyes as he did. Her skirt rose as he felt below it and soon, his fingers were on top of the knife’s handle.

“What do we have here?” He lifted her skirt, showing the knife’s hiding place at the top of her thigh. “This is honestly almost funny so forgive me if I laugh.” He ripped the knife from the holster and she cried out as much as she could, terrified by his quick movement. He let her skirt fall back into place and twirled the knife in his hand, examining the small blade. “You’ve just made my night so much more interesting, Miss —.” He smirked darkly.

She finally regained her ability to speak though her words were jumbled and hard to get out around her tongue.

“Use your words, honey.” Dr. Crane frowned frustratedly.

“Please…” she managed, “don’t… hurt… me.” She pushed the words out and he listened carefully.

“Oh but it’s so hard to resist when you so willingly came here and with your own weapons. Can you see how this might be hard for me?” He furrowed his brow as he spoke and she couldn’t tell what was sarcasm and what was real.

“It was nothing personal… I had a job to do.” She whispered weakly and he cocked his head, his lips parted.

“You know it's funny because Falcone’s men all said the same thing. I know you didn’t work with them… but I can make it look like you did.” He whispered close to her face and her chest clenched with fear. “I can do whatever I want, do you understand? I have the power to say that you checked yourself in and I evaluated you. I found you on the verge of a psychotic breakdown because we all know you were already prone to hysterics. But your office shouldn’t worry because I’ll be your psychiatrist. And so what if you happen to disappear- go missing? No one comes in here, except for you, and that was stupid.”

“You might die tonight, detective. I’m sorry to say it because you are one of the most attractive women I have met in Gotham and I fear that you have ruined our chances of continuing this to a second date.” He studied the curvature of her clavicle as it dipped above her sternum. Not knowing what else to do, she kissed him. Dr. Crane stiffened as her lips met his. He pulled away, stopping short a few inches from her mouth.

“What are you doing?” He raised his eyebrow.

“If I’m going to die, I might as well make the most of it,” she shrugged and kissed him again, her head leaning as far forward as she could reach. She hoped that she sounded truthful enough. He pulled away again and stared at her, his forehead creased as he watched her. She panted softly, straining against her restraints. Her cheeks were flushed and her chest had broken out into hives from the stress. Fear made her even more beautiful. Going against his better judgment, he leaned forward into her and kissed her hesitantly. Slowly, he began to kiss her more aggressively, his tongue dragging against the roof of her mouth before he captured her top lip in a deep kiss. Her hands instinctively went to reach for his hair but they snapped back against the table. He broke away, panting, and took a few steps back, resting his back against the wall.

“I don’t trust you,” he put his hands on his hips, still holding the knife.

“What can I do, Jonathan?” She tried using his first name and he raised an eyebrow again, “I can’t move, no one can hear me scream, you’re going to kill me… what reason is there left to trust me? So, either kiss me or go ahead and kill me.” She nearly cried, overwhelmed and terrified. Her plan had been to seduce him, to use most men’s fatal flaw against him, but she worried that it wouldn’t work with Dr. Jonathan Crane. In a way, she had planned for this. The evidence was back in her office waiting to be discovered. She hadn’t gotten a chance to take pictures of the lab but maybe depending on how far he went with this, she could get away. But God, even though she was terrified and held on a slab against her will, he was beautiful. He was looking at her with his aquamarine eyes, his black hair gelled and falling around his face. Even his glasses looked perfect on his face.

“Jonathan…” she started with a shakily voice, “despite why I came today and what you’ve told me about what you want to do to Gotham, right now, more than anything, I want you to come here and kiss me because while I may hate you and you may be the cause of my death, I want you. Give me some comfort if you’re going to take everything away from me.”

“Freud would have some things to say about you, Y/N.” He pushed his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and studied the edge of the knife. “Your psychology is so interesting,” he flicked his eyes up to her’s and set the knife down on the table. “To study you…” he trailed off as he loosened his tie and ripped it from his neck. He approached her, standing far enough away that she couldn’t reach him with her mouth. She exhaled, waiting. “I almost studied anatomy,” he pushed a hand against her navel, holding her even more in place.

“Why didn’t you?” She whispered.

“I loved the human mind too much to abandon it,” he smiled and drew a hand up her thigh. Her muscles spasmed beneath his hand. He leaned in against her ear, “I know you’re scared of me,” he whispered calmly, “and isn’t that incredible? That you can be so afraid of something that you want so much?” His hand pulled down her underwear and it stretched between her open thighs, held apart by the restraints. His hand went further still, gently tracing the folds of her labia. She knew that she was wet and it embarrassed her, though she knew it helped confirm her story that she wanted him, he didn’t seem to care either way. His thumb rubbed her clit as he slowly inserted his middle finger into her, pushing past the initial resistance. She always hated fingering because it didn’t feel like how people pretended it did. That being said, she sighed as he gently inserted a second finger and pulled against the top of her cunt, fingering her slowly.

“The body holds fear because our bodies hold memories,” he explained as he pressed her clit harder. “I can find what really scares you and I can fix it.”

“I’m scared of you,” she whispered, her breath escaping in a sharp pant.

“I can fix that.”

He pulled his fingers out of her and held her neck still against the table as he kissed her. The sense of urgency to fight and escape melted into an afterthought when the back of his hand slid slowly down one side of her neck, making the tendons flex. He held her neck still as he kissed down to her collarbones, licking their shelves and tracing the bone with his tongue. His free hand groped her breast over her tight shirt and then surrounded her waist. She started shifting her hips back and forth, wishing that she had something between them to relieve the pressure she felt. He smiled against her skin and clicked his tongue, pulling away from her. He pressed the pedal again with his foot and the table reclined once again as it had been. He climbed onto the table and sat above her on his knees, looking down at her as she panted.

“Look at me,” he told her and made sure that her eyes met his. “I have no plans to kill you tonight and I know this act is solely for the benefit of your own survival. But knowing that I will not kill you, would you like to change your mind?” He put both hands around her waist, showing the pale flesh of his forearms. She tried to weigh her options, she tried to think clearly but it all felt like a dream. It didn’t feel real enough to have consequences, so she shook her head and licked her lips quickly.

“No, keep going.” She whispered, “please.” Dr. Crane chuckled lightly and trailed his fingers down to her ankles.

“In that case, would you like to see my mask?” He smiled darkly, teasing her.

“No, I want to see your face.” She answered calmly and he nodded.

“Fine.” He removed the restraints around her ankles. He took the knife from the table and cut away her underwear with one strong swipe of the blade. She gasped and he smirked, “I’m a doctor, remember? I know how to use a knife, detective.”

He put the knife aside and pulled her knees up, sitting between them. He unbuckled his pants and withdrew his erection, glistening with precum. He guided himself into her with his hand, his eyes never leaving her face. She gasped again as he entered her. He rocked his hips slowly back and forth and groaned, watching her mouth open in a silent moan. She raised her knees higher, closer to her chest, giving him a better angle at which to fuck her. His hands pressed against her stomach and his thrusts became faster as his body began to learn hers.

“You’re getting wetter,” he observed with a sly smile, “I must be doing something right.” He teased her as he started to rub her clit with his thumb, the rest of his hand pressed against her uterus. She couldn’t even speak. It had been months since she’d last had sex and even then, it wasn’t good sex. “I’m going to go harder but you can take it,” he told her matter of factly and placed either hand by her hips on the table. Leaning forward he shifted his hips slowly but harder, going deeper without much care for how her body adapted to the thrusts. “There you go,” he grunted as his hips bucked rhythmically into hers. She cried out, her body sliding up and down against the table, hot with her perspiration. Holding onto the top of the table, he moved farther up, pushing more inside of her, and started thrusting fast. He was suddenly in so deep and only backing away a few inches before snapping back in. Her hips bounced off of his and she gripped the excess material around her wrists to help her stay stationary.

“Slow… God, please! Slow down… its so much, fuck.” She whimpered and smiled down at her face, flushed and angry with red. He slowed his hips, squeezing his glutes together whenever he thrusted inside. He leaned down and kissed her slowly, still rocking in and out of her. Her body shuttered from the high and started to build a more even climax. She hummed against his lips, her voicing getting higher as she started to orgasm.

“And here comes the orgasm,” Jonathan smiled and sped up slightly, leaving hickies up and down her neck. She orgasmed with a shuttering cry that she couldn’t cover with her hand, but he didn’t let her finish there. “Fuck, you got so tight again.” He groaned as she panted, her system overwhelmed with waves of pleasure and exertion. She started to tighten further around him as her thighs squeezed his hips. Her breath left her lungs in short pants and she moaned beneath him like a pitiful creature. “Are you cumming again?” He laughed and stroked her cheek. She nodded weakly and he kissed her again briefly.

“Its so tight, fuck. I won’t last much longer like this.” He took her hips in his hands and started a steady rhythm, pulling her hips onto his cock and thrusting at the same time. She came around him and he groaned animalistically, his thrusts becoming more sporadic and needy. He watched her breasts bounce inside her shirt and how he slid in and out of her, her cum collecting at the base of his shaft. Finishing with fast, desperate movements, he moaned loudly. She felt him finish inside her and it felt almost better than if she had finished herself. He pulled down her bottom lip with his thumb and admired her fucked-out face. Her pupils were shot and she shook slightly from the high. Finally, he pulled out and stuffed himself back into his pants. He sighed as he straightened his clothes and ran a hand through his hair. He took the gun and the knife and stuffed them both into a drawer and locked it with a set of keys from his pocket. They stared at each other for a while until Jonathan broke the silence, clearing his throat.

“You’re coming home with me tonight, Miss —. We’ll decide what to do with you later.”

#cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #fanfiction #cillian fanfic #smut #peaky blinders #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane fanfic #hot scarecrow #young cillian murphy #dc scarecrow #jonathan crane

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drdemonprince · 10 months ago

Text

By now, a majority of Autism researchers and clinicians are aware that the existing assessments for Autism are profoundly flawed.

They know the standard evaluation of Autism is sexist, with assessors excluding women for reasons like wearing makeup, having a boyfriend, being superficially polite, or not being fixated on suitably ‘masculine’ topics like ancient Roman history or barometric pressure.

They know Autism evaluations are racist, deeming Black Autistics “oppositionally defiant” or even “borderline” rather than acknowledging any social alienation or sensory pain they’re experiencing, and believing they must be overstating the difficulty they face in moving through the world.

And they certainly know that conventional Autism measures weren’t designed with adult Autistics in mind. Many of us are still asked to make up stories based on paintings of frogs in a toddler’s picture book, when we sit down for assessments at age 20, or 30, or 45 — because all the evaluation methods were written for young kids.

The data has already proven the far-reaching consequences of using such shoddy measures of Autism. People of color, gender minorities, older adults, and women are diagnosed at later ages, and also go undiagnosed at massive rates.

A growing population of scientists are admittedly interested in fostering a new literature of what they call “patient-driven” Autism research, but they never stop thinking of us as mere patients, the passive receivers of care rather than the leaders of communities and political movements who are the ought to be the primary authors of the studies about us, and the sole determinants of what our desired outcomes should be. Even when they observe that their work could benefit from a greater Autistic perspective, researchers do so from closed rooms, filled with other professionals who are largely not Autistic, wondering amongst themselves what it is that we want instead of learning to quiet their voices and follow our lead.

Though many basically well-intentioned Autism researchers believe that Autism assessments need reform, what neurodiversity really needs is to abandon the diagnostic process altogether. If Autism is a benign, neutral, naturally occurring form of human difference that requires acceptance rather than a cure, then there’s no need to diagnose it as if it were a sickness. And if hundreds of thousands of Autistic women, people of color, queer people, and older people have been able to give a voice to ourselves and find one another without having ever been given a label by a professional, then improved professional labeling is not what we need.

Autistic self-realization is the future of Autism assessment. We hold the collective wisdom, organizing ability, insight, and political power to define who we are. No authority figure should have to sign off on our identities.

Because psychiatrists fail to diagnose such a large percentage of the Autistic population, many Autism researchers now accept self-identified Autistic adults within their subject pool. Within the peer-reviewed journal Autism in Adulthood, self-realized Autistics often make up the bulk of the participant sample, and they have repeatedly been found to be indistinguishable from their formally diagnosed peers.

A growing body of research now also considers the presence of Autism-spectrum traits as qualifying for inclusion in many Autism studies. The data makes it quite obvious that Autistic people exist within all human groups, spread all throughout the world, and that a great many people have experiences in common with us who have not been formally diagnosed. This itself reveals that a formal diagnosis is hardly necessary, and that a psychiatric paradigm of accepting self-identification is inevitable. The researchers are increasingly already doing it.

You can read the full essay for free (or have it narrated to you!) at this link.

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kurominiiiz · 2 months ago

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Anime is fictional DRAWINGS. It is completely fine for someone to age up a character and fantasize cause guess what? It’s a DRAWING.

it’s how things have always been done on this app and always will be. If you can’t handle tag triggers or get off the app. Stopping ruining other peoples fun. it’s a DRAWING.

grow up.

If your "fun" is imagining a character r//ping you, then you need to get a psychiatric evaluation. It doesn't matter that they're fictional, they're still characters. Do you happen to like lolicon? You seem like you do. Fucking weirdo.

"Ruining peoples fun" my ass. How old are you? Are you even old enough to be on my blog, yet alone comprehend what the fuck I even said? Reread, get yourself some help, and get off the internet.

#jjk x reader #jjk #kurominizsmau #jjk smau #kurominichatz

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mysillytdsideblog · 1 year ago

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My headcanons for mike & co

Vito

Co-host w/ Mike from ages 14-16

Mentally 18-19 ish

System big brother

Handles a lot of the family issues

The one who steps up fr

Sexual Protector Alter

Trauma Holder, but doesnt have a full picture of their trauma

Sexualizes self for attention

Just a cool guy if u get to know him

Wishes he was more built irl lol

He was the one dating their first girlfriend

She didnt know about their DID, both Mike and Vito would rather keep that private

Wants a normal life

Also held down their first job (semi-canon)

He gives a shit but can be emotionally reserved

He doesn’t hate Mal, he just finds him frustrating

A bit of a troublemaker but not out of wanting bad for the system, it’s just the way he is

Creeped out by Mal, thats why he doesn’t like him

Secretly holds grudges but doesn’t tell them unless he’s picking a fight

Kinda a pothead

Chester

Mentally 60s-70s

No specific trauma memories, but he was split from trauma

Has never been the host but he switches in quite often

One of the first alters to have been discovered by their psych

At first the psych thought they were faking just cause of how theatrical Chester was, and how much it annoyed Mal

The psych thought they were faking to get out of juvie

Not to help, Mal said it was a “voice in his head” and would talk to him out loud, not caring who heard

He’s not an introject, but they don’t know why he’s old

He just is who he is

They don’t know why he has a scar over his eye, they presume there’s a trauma reason for it but nobody has any memory of something bad happening to their eye

He feels like he’s a grandfather to Mike, but the feeling’s not reciprocated

Not yet at least

Mike learns to love him

He gets annoyed by Chester still but he finds him more endearing

He likes his hot beverages and pastries

And yelling at the tv

He finds commenting on everything so entertaining

He’s co-con 80% of the time

He finds fronting to be physically exhausting, like it makes him physically feel his age

Has chronic pain in his hips and joints, his psych says it’s phantom pain

He loves his psych, he could go on for hours

He loves little kitty cats! There has never been a cat he couldn’t pet

He wishes he was more welcome when visiting nursing homes, he feels lonely but they don’t like his “portrayal” of an old man

He had gotten kicked out before

Actually, he gets kicked out of places quite often

He has health anxiety and constantly thinks he’s going to fall ill and die

His doctor is so fed up

He believes so many wives tales and basically you can tell him anything and he will believe you (unless he’s in a mood, then he’s just going to shout at you)

Mal

Ambigious early childhood to age 13 host

Mentally shifts between 13 to 17

Persecutor/Protector

Mainly a physical protector, kind of the mind’s back up plan for when things get rough and he needs to protect himself or take action

Holds most of the memory of the physical abuse

Split directly for that reason

He was one of the first

Hates his parents and tries to cause problems as a revenge for all the abuse he endured

Sadistic for this reason

He knew from a very young age that nobody was coming to save him, and they never did

Telling all the trauma he knew about in a court ordered psychiatric evaluation was the main reason he got diagnosed, but he was hoping it was going to put his parents in prison

It didnt

He was originally going to be diagnosed with ASPD before they scrapped that for just a DID diagnosis, mainly because his symptoms were too mixed and inconsistent due to the other alters existing

He still agrees ASPD fits him though and after TDAS he does more specific treatments for it in therapy

They do get diagnosed with ODD though

Basically everyone but Svetlana shows symptoms for it

Mal has it the worst because he has so much pent up hatred from everyone who hurt or failed him

And he only gets the bare minimum when he takes it into his own hands, but its better than nothing

Really clashed with Zoey at first but he was the one to make her understand them more, in his own roundabout way

Actually became close friends with Zoey even if they have their conflicts

Mike

Same age as body

Kinda bigender tbh but he’s not ready for that

Thinks he should be the one to call all the shots because he thinks hes the original

Hes not, there is none

Doesn’t have a lot of childhood memories

Nobody tells him about their trauma

Besides Mal when he’s trying to prove a point

He hates Mal because Mal threatens his sense of control

He overcompensates, being a system scares him so if he’s in charge he will be able to make sure everything’s ok

Just finally coming out of denial, still half in it

He hates being a system

Rude to his alters!!!

After All Stars, he sees his psych again who scolds him

And teaches him to accept his disorder

He does better

He compromises more, he learns that his alters are people too, he adapts to his multiplicity and eventually is the key to achieving functionality between all of them

He struggles to accept Mal, because of his persecutory nature, but he learns why Mal does what he does and with a little work from them both they are able to compromise

Mal has to grow and learn too don’t get me wrong

Svetlana

Same age as body

Transbian

Doesn’t mind being a system tbh

She likes the company

Hosts for short periods but only for upcoming competitions really because its hard for her to pretend to be a singlet

She doesn’t like hiding who she is, she’s way more open about her DID than the others are

She wishes she has more girl friends to talk with but they all know her as mike or mal :(

Total sporty girl she is multi talented in soooo many sports

Gymnastics is her fav obv

Why she has an accent? Who knows? Possibly an introject or maybe shes just like that but as far back as they remember she was there

They are all confused

Has good childhood memories, trauma free

She definitely loved recess and fronted a lot during the school years

Loves making friends, shes very social and kind!!

She’s also the most understanding and gives the best advice

Very emotional and it can be quite theatrical, on par with chester

She’s the one who gets along the most with their parents

Picky eater

She likes to eat clean and hates that the other alters eat meat because she finds it soooo gross

Has her own separate drawer in their dresser for her clothes

Bird lover and has owned pet birds before

Manitoba

Introject, half indiana jones-half steve irwin

Not a fusion he was just made like that

30s-40s

The most recent split

Has a fleshed out part of the interworld including NPCs (like his wife) and spends most of his time there (semi-canon)

He doesn’t prefer to front, he just found total drama fun to compete in

Dreams of traveling the world

Really longs for his innerworld to be real

Tries to keep everyone in line

Wishes they would be less trouble

He doesn’t side with anyone, which makes Mike very angry but he can also see a side to Mal that Mike can’t

He’s the most logical and level headed one

Loves collecting things especially memorabilia from places he’s been

He knows so many animal facts and just general knowledge

It makes Mike feel stupid cause he doesn’t know all that but its in his brain, it confused him how that works still

#total drama #td mal #td mike #td svetlana #total drama island #td manitoba #total drama all stars #total drama mike #total drama revenge of the island #td chester #mikes system hcs #mike system hcs #mike td #mike & co #mike total drama

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postoctobrist · 11 days ago

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Hello, I am a transgender woman and also a fan of your podcasts (many such cases I am sure.) I started listening to Kill James Bond a while back because as a young child I desperately wanted to be James Bond. My gmail account still has '007' in it because I never changed it. One of the few photos I have of me as a child is me in a white tuxedo holding a shirley temple like I'm James Bond (if James Bond were an eight year old future transsexual who drank shirley temples.) I did somehow wear the *fuck* out of that white tux. Move over Craig Fingersuck. Anyway.

I just listened to your episode on The People's Joker, because I also just finally got around to watching The People's Joker. I am writing this because at the end you said that trans people have to create art and joked "we have to make a People's James Bond" and the thing is I already sort of am. This past summer I completed and defended a doctorate in mathematics and then had a kind of an existential crisis about whether that was really what I wanted to do with my life and started writing a classic "allegory for my trans experience" screenplay and it sort of became a James Bond parody film. I still haven't come up with a good title, what I have so far is "there is still no time to die" or perhaps "goonraker" but thats not the point of this ask. The real question I had is: when I have a solid draft would you like to read the script? I don't know how realistic making this thing is going to be, I have some friends who are professional filmmakers and I plan on bothering them quite a lot (especially one of them who respects my writing and who I've also been collaborating with on a smaller scale live performance piece in which I am going to help her process her own gender crisis as a cisgender woman by, among other things, doing a live 'psychiatric evaluation' of whether she's a real woman or just AGP, and then ritually destroying a copy of Camille Paglia's Sexual Personae) but at this point its very much a long shot.

yeah okay I will read your screenplay

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olderthannetfic · 4 months ago

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When my (American) family lived in Scotland, I was getting evaluated for issues with delayed speech. I was too young to remember/even understand the conversation, but my mom brought up the possibility for autism and was told by the Scottish psychiatrist that they'll focus on helping me with my speech first and worry about the "American labeling" later.

I don't know if that's still a thing in Scotland or if that psychiatrist was just Like That, but it's something I think about whenever fandom gets stuck on debating What Specific Psychiatric Label their favorite anime character has and then find themselves arguing endlessly in circles when the symptoms fail to match the DSM exactly.

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she-is-ovarit · 1 year ago

Text

Trans research and scientific consensus

(2020) - Study of 139,829 students finds that in comparison to other students, transgender identity, especially non-binary identity, is associated more with perpetrating bullying than being bullied. Non-binary identity was most strongly associated with involvement in bullying, followed by [transgender] opposite sex identity and cisgender identity.

(2023) 21 leading experts on pediatric gender medicine from 8 countries wrote a letter to Wall Street Journal expressing disagreement over how gender dysphoria in youth is treated, voicing concerns against things such as the affirmative model and research conducted outside of the US has found hormonal interventions for gender dysphoria to be without reliable evidence. Among these international experts is Dr. Rita Kaltiala, chief psychiatrist at Tampere university gender clinic and author of several peer-reviewed studies on trans medicine and Finland's top authority on pediatric gender care.

(2023) Landmark study from Denmark on 3,800 transgender patients pulled data from hospital records and applications from legal gender changes and discovered 43% of this group had a psychiatric illness compared with 7% of non-trans group, and despite "gender affirming care" and legal gender changes, still had 7.7 the rate of suicide attempts and 3.5 times the rate of suicide deaths. Researchers state this rate is likely even higher due to missing data.

(2016) Study finds association with increased risk of multiple sclerosis for trans women taking estrogen/reducing testosterone levels.

(2023) Metadata study shows, at best, no improvement for patients in gender-affirming care. "The conclusions of the systematic reviews of evidence for adolescents are consistent with long-term adult studies, which failed to show credible improvements in mental health and suggested a pattern of treatment-associated harms. Three recent papers examined the studies that underpin the practice of youth gender transition and found the research to be deeply flawed. Evidence does not support the notion that “affirmative care” of today’s adolescents is net beneficial."

(2011) Long term follow up of 324 transgender people having undergone sex reassignment surgery in Sweden, found that trans women retained male patterned incidents and rates of violence and had a greater significance and rate of rape and sexual violence than cisgender men. The study also found, "Persons with transsexualism, after sex reassignment, have considerably higher risks for mortality, suicidal behaviour, and psychiatric morbidity than the general population. Our findings suggest that sex reassignment, although alleviating gender dysphoria, may not suffice as treatment for transsexualism, and should inspire improved psychiatric and somatic care after sex reassignment for this patient group."

(2020) Largest study to date on 641,860 people finds association with autism and "gender diversity", "Gender-diverse people also report, on average, more traits associated with autism, such as sensory difficulties, pattern-recognition skills and lower rates of empathy — or accurately understanding and responding to another person’s emotional state".

(2022) US study examining 10 years of data on 952 people finds large percentages of young adults prescribed hormones for trans identity no longer getting the drugs 4 years later. Discontinuation rate for both sexes combined = 30%. Female discontinuation rate as high as 44%. The standard disinformation pushed is that only 1-2% of people who begin medical transition end up desisting. But these figures show that in this cohort of young adults, the overall rate of discontinuing hormone treatment ranged from a low of 10% to a high of 44% within a space of just 4 years.

Abruzzese et al. 2023 'The Myth of “Reliable Research” in Pediatric Gender Medicine: A critical evaluation of the Dutch Studies—and research that has followed'

More to come.

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fatkish · 6 months ago

Note

Hii,could you do a part 2 of Aizawa x suicidal child? Please :)

Maybe they did hurted themselves or just confort

Father Aizawa x Suicidal Reader Pt.2

I’ll Never let you go

You and your dad went to the hospital the next day to get your mental health evaluated. Turns out it’s shit. The doctors suggested that you should be on suicide watch and be put in the psychiatric ward for the mean time until they deemed you safe for the partial hospitalization program. While you were in the psychiatric ward the doctors suggested that you see a therapist and create a safety plan. So you asked if you could bring an instrument or at least a pen and paper to write with so you could write songs and journal.

It took some time but you got settled and your dad visited you every day. As the days went by you were writing and journaling. Things didn’t seem that bright right away but that was fine.

(Play the song)

You light a candle just to see in the dark

You're only running on a fuse, and it's been falling apart again

I'm by your side, I hope at least that helps

And life sucks sometimes, it's feeling more like hell

When your dad would visit he would tell you about your cats at home, the mischief his students got into, etc. sometimes Uncle Hizashi would come with him and you two would pretend to jam out to music he’d play. But even though you smiled and laughed there was still a darkness lurking beneath the surface of your mind.

And all the walls around you are turning to ashes

And the flames surround you when everything crashes

Don't hold your head, 'cause it'll all work out

And don't let go of my hand, I won't let you down

The silence is deafening

Keep fighting, you're trembling

But it's fine, it'll be alright

See the pain in your eyes, but we still survive

As you talked to your therapist about the reasons why you feel like dying the relief of getting it out in the open was momentary before the weight of your feelings would come crashing down. You and your therapist would talk about how your dad found you as you were planning to end it all. You talked about how your dad would feel if you went ahead with it and he was too late. How it would affect him and others and how they would feel if you died.

Just don't forget about me

When you feel like you're drowning

I know it's hard to try

If it gets rough, I'm by your side

As the days passed and you talked to the doctors they eventually saw that you were ready for a partial hospitalization program. This program would have you visit the hospital and have a certain amount of hours you would need to spend in the classes at the hospital. These classes had other people in them and was a sort of rehab program for many different people. The classes were about a bunch of different topics that focused on mental health.

When everything

Is falling apart, put your head on my shoulder

Don't cry, just another bad night

You'll make it out alive

When everything is taking its toll, I'll pull you a little closer

If you slip, I'm falling too

And I'll never let you go (never let you go)

You learned a lot of different things like how different mental disorders affected the brain and its functions. You took art therapy and music therapy classes where you would draw something based on the prompt or you’d share a song and explain how it made you feel. All in all, it was very enlightening and helpful.

If your clouds are grey then so are mine

Your smile faded but still you shine

Got my path again into your soul

It's a place that I call home

I can feel your fingertips, they're burnin' my skin again

But I still take your hand

And we'll run away from this mess

I'll bury my heart in the hole in your chest

Your dad would talk with you about your classes and what you learned. You’d show him your notes and he loved seeing the art you made even if it sucked. He found the techniques for panic attacks very useful and decided to have you teach them to him so he could teach his class.

Just don't forget about me

When you feel like you're drowning

I know it's hard to try

If it gets rough, I'm by your side

You spent more time with your dad and he took more time to focus on you and your mental health. He put time aside to make sure to spend with you. You guys would cuddle on the couch and you’d help him grade papers. Sometimes you’d need his help to understand what someone wrote. Apparently you read the students bad handwriting better than your dad. You decided to write feedback on some of the papers like ‘practice your handwriting on separate paper. Heroes need legible handwriting’ or you’d make small corrections and show them how to fix it for next time. Overall, grading papers with your dad was fun.

When everything

Is falling apart,

put your head on my shoulder

Don't cry, just another bad night

You'll make it out alive

When everything

is taking its toll, I'll pull you a little closer

If you slip, I'm falling too

And I'll never let you go again

You told your dad that you still have bad thoughts but now, every time you did, you’d follow your safety plan and talk to him or Hizashi. You’d find someone who you trust and talk to them. Your dad would let you snuggle up to him with your head on his shoulder as you told him everything you needed to.

You don't have to cry alone

And I'll hold this weight above you

If you slip, I'm falling too

And I'll never let you go

Some of the best things you learned were to just live day by day. You don’t have to worry about tomorrow and you don’t have to be hopeful about tomorrow either, it’s enough to just be curious about what’s next. You decided that you wanted to see your friends become heroes and that you had to see if Bakugou became the next number 1. That was enough for both you and your dad. And he promised that he would always be here for you and he’d never let you go.

#mha x reader #bnha x reader #aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta #shouta aizawa x reader #aizawa shouta x reader #aizawa x reader platonic #aizawa x reader comfort #aizawa x child reader #x reader

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the-guilty-writer · 1 year ago

Text

The Faces of Emily Prentiss

Request from anon: Could I request Emily Prentiss & teen!daughter? Maybe Emily doesn’t notice how her daughter pulls back and keeps to herself more and more because she struggles with her mom being gone so much recently and school being a lot for her (procrastination, problems concentrating when worrying about her mom, …). You can do with this whatever you like Gill, I’m just excited to read more of yours 🥰

Emily Prentiss x daughter!reader (can be read as teen!reader)

Summary: reader’s grades have been slipping and it brings up many feelings between them and Emily.

A/N: Okay, wow, I did not expect for this fic to come out this long. Maybe I should write more mom!Emily because apparently it’s inspiring. Kinda angsty with a fluffy-ish ending. There were no places to put in pronouns, so even though it’s daughter!reader it can be read as teen!reader.

CW: brief mention of psych evaluation, Emily is an absent mother, one mention that Emily wears weapons, nickname for reader is “kiddo” (if you think you know why let me know and I’ll give you a pat on the back for the right answer), reader has hair but length is not specified.

---

Manila, in your opinion, was the worst color. Not because of the color itself, but because of the things adorned with it - walls poorly painted by landlords, rags that should have been thrown out years ago, the hair of the snooty girls at school, the tug-of-war rope used in gym class that always burned your hands.

Folders.

If you could have tossed the one your teacher gave to you into the trash, you probably would have. I might as well, you thought to yourself. The thing was destined to get lost in the pile of similar ones on your mother’s desk. Would you rather go to a landfill, or sit with a bunch of cases on serial killers?

The folder, expectantly, didn’t respond. If it did, you would have been worried for your sanity. Then the next folder that landed on Emily Prentiss’s desk would have been a concerning psychiatric evaluation instead of your report card. At least with the evaluation she might have to pay a little more attention to you.

The door to your mother’s home office was always open. She locked you away from too many parts of her already - and even though she was well aware that some of the information in that room was supposed to stay classified - the idea of locking you out of a room that was in your own home, was too physical for her to bear. Not that she would ever tell you.

You knocked on the wood softly, though you didn’t know why. She wasn’t home. She was never home anymore; knocking was just a polite habit. You put your hand to the knob and swung open the door, then found yourself disappointed when she wasn’t asleep at her desk. Knocking wasn’t a polite habit; it was a hope that, for once, she would be there to answer. A hope that was far out of reach.

You put the report card folder on top of the stack, becoming just another document that had to be marked with the initials E.P. before it could be filed away.

In a house this big, the quiet should have been eerie, but it wasn’t. The quiet was normal. You sat down at the kitchen table and pulled out your phone, opening to your messages with your mom.

Badass Maman:

Hey, kiddo. Leaving for an emergency case. Be back soon. (Received 2 days ago)

You:

Okay. I love you. (Delivered 2 days ago)

Yep. Normal.

It was still that way an hour later when you did your homework, and when the nanny came to check on you. It was that way when you went to bed that night and woke up the next morning. Everything about it was normal.

You wished it wasn’t.

---

Phones weren’t allowed in classrooms, but they were allowed in the hallways. A familiar ding went off as you walked with your friend to second period math. Your friend pulled their phone from their pocket and frowned.

“Did something happen?” you asked.

They shook their head. “No notification.”

You pulled your phone out, and the world stopped entirely when you saw it was a message from your mom.

Badass Maman:

Flying home now. I’ll be back when you get home from school. I love you. (Received Now)

Relief flooded over you.

“Did something happen?” your friend asked.

“My mom is on her way home.” For the first time in days, you felt air could fill the entirety of your lungs. The million-mile-an-hour heart that was beating in your chest slowed to a regular pace. The tension in your too-tight shoulders loosened.

You:

Okay. I love you too. (Read Now)

---

You had all but forgotten about the manila folder holding your report card. It hadn’t crossed your mind since you placed it on your mother’s desk. You hadn’t bothered to look inside when you received it, too focused on the cursed cover to think about the letters inside.

When you unlocked the front door and stepped inside, you called out immediately for her. “Mom! I’m home!” but there was no answer. “Mom?”

It wasn’t unusual for her to fall asleep on the couch, waiting for you to get home from school after being sleep deprived for days. Still, the living room couch was void of any life. You turned to the kitchen, but found nobody there. So you made the walk to the only other place your mother might go in the house after a case: her office.

The door was half-way open, but still, you knocked. A polite habit.

She turned from her seat at her desk, took in the sight of you, and smiled. Within seconds you were wrapped in her arms. Your head landed on her shoulder, while she ran a gentle hand through your hair.

“God, I missed you, kiddo,” she said. The exhaustion in her voice contradicted the strength of her embrace.

“I missed you too, mom,” you whispered. She held you for a little longer than normal, and when she did let go, you couldn’t help but profile her a little.

There were three different faces Emily Prentiss wore:

The Agent Face: a raven-haired, modern fem fatale that runs off enough coffee to kill a small horse, she walks through bloody crime scenes unfazed. She’s a no-nonsense attitude dressed in heeled boots and a glock. With intelligence sharper than a blade and a smart-mouth to match, it’s only fitting that she works for one of the most elite units of the FBI.

The Emily Face: always classy with a little bit of fun sprinkled in. She’s got a wicked sense of humor, a brilliant laugh, and a bright smile to match. The kind of friend who is down for a night on the town or a quiet movie night. This, you know, is the face she wears outside of work, around her friends; you can only imagine what this face looked like before the agency, and before you.

The Mom Face: the one you see the most. It’s the face that can’t cook to save her life, though she tries very hard. The one that celebrates your ups and supports you in your downs. She’s started to find a few more gray hairs as you've grown older, but that’s to be expected from a strong woman raising a child alone. The only one of the faces that’s unsure about if she’s good enough; everything in you wants to tell her she is.

The face she wore right now, seemed to be a combination of all three. She hadn’t been home long enough to have changed from her work attire into a normal tee shirt and jeans. You could see the traces of mascara on her shoulder where either Penelope or JJ had needed a friend’s shoulder to cry on. The unsteadiness that crossed her expression only ever appeared when it came to parenting… when it came to you.

“There were kids, weren’t there?” you said. And though her past was full of secrets, she didn’t bother keeping this one in.

“There were,” she sighed. Once again, she brought her hand to your hair, as if she were trying to sooth herself with the texture of it while making sure that you were real. “But it’s over now.”

You didn’t know if that meant the case ended good or bad, and you were thankful that you weren’t a good enough profiler (yet) to read the answer in her expression. “I’m gonna finish up some work and then we can catch up, okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I’ll go do my homework.”

She pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead and you gave her a tight-lipped smile before she moved back to her desk and you moved towards the door.

“Open or closed?” you asked her, standing in the threshold.

“You can leave it open,” she replied.

It was her answer every time, but you still always asked. A polite habit.

---

Two hours later, you were still struggling through your math homework at the kitchen table and your mom was still in her office. Knuckles tightened around your pencil before you let it go with an exasperated sigh and crumbled up the loose leaf paper you were working on. You sifted through your notes, trying to find the formula, but you had either written it down incorrectly or not at all.

You pulled the textbook from your bag only to find that you’d forgotten to write down what section the class was studying. With your brain feeling fried inside your head, it made skimming through the chapter more difficult, and by the time you’d gotten to the end, you were no closer to figuring out the answer than when you started.

Fueled by frustration, a trail of French expletives left your mouth.

“Well, I’m glad you’re at least keeping up with your language studies.” You looked up to see your mom standing on the threshold of the kitchen.

Even in duck-print pajama pants, she still looked intimidating, leaning on one hip with her arms crossed over her chest. As soon as you noticed her stance, she began walking towards you, uncrossing her arms. In one of her hands was a dreaded manila folder. With the ease that only a master interrogator could have, she sat down at the table and pushed the folder towards you, opening it so you could see the grades inside.

You were sure the many files on her desk showed far more hellish images than your grades, but it even caught you off-guard to see that you were failing or close to failing every class. It dawned on you suddenly that your grades had been slipping, but you didn’t imagine that they had gone down so fast.

“I-” you started, but the shock was flooding you. Emily took the folder and closed it, pulling it out of your line of sight and snapping you back to reality. Your genuine reaction must have been enough to tell her that you were as unaware of the situation as she was.

“Kiddo,” she sighed. “What happened?”

Her voice and features softened - The Concerned Mother Face. It wasn’t one that appeared a lot… just when big things happened, like moving to a new country or faking both your deaths. That kind of stuff.

You shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. This year has been…” With a shaky breath everything rose to the surface. “It’s hard to do things when I’m never sure if you’re dead or alive.”

A new face of Emily Prentiss formed in front of your tear-filled eyes. This one was vastly different from the others. It was exhausted from sleepless nights in random police stations across the country, when all she wanted was to be home; it was pain-filled from every wound she wore on her body that she insisted she didn’t need help cleaning; and it was that of a mother who had just brought home a newborn, with no clue as to how she was supposed to raise an innocent being into a human.

She said no words, only embraced you. After the familiar comfort of her arms calmed you, you went to pull away. She didn’t let you go. A spot on your shoulder had become wet with her tears. You held her tighter, and when a sob racked through her weary body, you hummed the tune of the ballad she used to sing you as a little girl.

Only when she began to sing the words of the song, you knew it would be okay. Only then, you could be sure that Emily Prentiss - the smartest, strongest, bravest person you had ever known - wouldn’t fall apart if you let go.

In French just as smooth as her English, she began to whisper the rhyme. A dozen times you had wondered why that was the primary tongue she chose to raise you with. You were passable in Spanish and Arabic, but it was the language of love that your mother had wanted you to speak fluently.

That reason was good enough.

The song came to an end and she pulled away to look at you, caressing your cheek with a gentle hand. “I’m sorry,” she said.

You shook your head. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about, mom. You save people.”

Emily sighed. “But I can do better letting you know that I’m safe. I can at least find time to make sure to answer your texts.” You looked down, feeling the slightest bit guilty. But your mom wasn’t a profiler for nothing. “Don’t you do that,” she said sternly - The Agent Face.

“But-”

“No buts. It’s you and me. It’s always been you and me.” A sneaky smile escaped from her lips. “Plus I promised myself I wouldn’t be like your grandmother and put my job in front of my children.”

That had the both of you giggling - The Emily Face.

She pulled you back into her arms, stroking a gentle hand through your hair. “I love you, kiddo.” - The Mother Face.

“I love you too, mom.”

#emily prentiss fanfiction #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss x daughter!reader #emily prentiss x teen!reader #emily prentiss x platonic!reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x daughter!reader #criminal minds x teen!reader #criminal minds x platonic!reader #criminal minds

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wolveria · 2 months ago

Text

The Anomaly Archives - Reality #005

AU of The Raven's Hymn

Pairing: Male OC x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Angst, whump, nightmares, hurt/comfort, age difference, vaginal sex

AO3

You balanced the cardboard cup holder on one hand as you swiped your keycard with the other. The observation room door slid open, and what followed was a confused yelp and the sound of a body hitting the floor.

Entering the room, you expertly stepped over the obstacle in your way, placing the cupholder on the desk and giving Kenneth a moment to recover his dignity.

“Still can’t sleep?” You set the two cups of coffee on the surface far away from the delicate equipment.

A groan was your answer, and Kenneth slid into the chair beside you, rubbing his shoulder with a wince. He was a mess, his copper hair coming out of the ponytail at the back of his neck, the bags under his eyes heavy and dark, and his freckled skin was paler than usual.

“Ah, thanks, you’re a lifesaver,” he said, grabbing one of the cups and then almost dropping it immediately before you could warn him it was still hot. “And no. Not yet.”

Any other day would earn a scolding for him falling asleep in the observation room. With some SCPs, you could get away with it, either because they didn’t require much attention, or they were harmless.

Your assigned charge was neither of those things. You glanced through the one-way mirror at the room beyond. Nothing had changed within it, the pedestal was clean and intact, and the porcelain mask remained inert.

Regardless, SCP-035 was not an anomaly to be taken lightly, and it was known to ensnare personnel who let their guard down, even for a moment.

You rubbed your finger against the side of your cup, waiting for it to cool.

“Maybe you should take a nap.” You tried to sound gentle, not judgmental, but you weren’t exactly practiced.

“What? N-no! It’s not safe.”

You rolled your eyes.

“Not here. Take the day off, go to your quarters and get some rest.”

“I meant, it wouldn’t be safe for you.”

You raised a brow, and his terrified deer look was replaced with a blush.

“Being here, alone. It wouldn’t be safe for anybody. I’m fine, I’m not that tired.”

It was a lie and you both knew it, but it was… kind of sweet. Even though Kenneth was freaked out by 035 far more than you were, he still got antsy whenever he found you early on a shift inside the observation room alone.

You didn’t know why it made him so anxious. 035 never did anything interesting while you were there. Of course, that was part of the danger with the mask SCP, by the time you noticed it had done anything to you, it was far too late. That’s why observation rotations with 035 were much shorter than other anomalies, and bi-weekly psychiatric evaluations were mandatory.

Kenneth was wrong, he was that tired, and he needed rest more than you needed a second person, but you didn’t argue the point. You enjoyed his company, and maybe that was selfish of you, but he was the one volunteering to stay.

Still, you were… concerned. Restless nights happened to everyone, it was the nature of the work, but Kenneth’s bout of insomnia wasn’t normal for him. And it had started as soon as you both began observation duty with 035.

As you filled out the logs and looked over the previous rotation’s reports, you planned your approach. You considered prodding about his last psych eval, but asking a coworker “hey, how crazy were you on your last test?” was considered poor form.

“You know…” you tried for the tactful approach, “if you need to pull off rotation early, no one will judge you.”

Kenneth stared as if you’d suggested he kiss 049, with tongue.

“Uh, what? Why would I do that?”

You sighed. So much for the subtle approach.

“Because you’re not sleeping, you’re not eating, and frankly, you look like shit.”

A small grin burst through his tired features, and for a moment he looked like his old self again.

“You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’ll sleep eventually,” he said, and that flippant statement did nothing to ease your worry. “I’ll stop at the med station and pick up some sleeping pills if it gets worse.”

You said nothing and sipped your coffee.

You didn’t know what woke you. Your room was perfectly dark, and when you touched the personal tablet at your bedside the time showed as just past midnight. Sleep nagged at you, but the fullness of your bladder made you get out of bed in defeat.

Once you were finished in the attached washroom, you checked your door, still locked. No one had attempted to enter your quarters, but someone might have knocked. There weren’t any messages on your tablet, but something still prickled at you.

Putting on a pair of slippers, you peeked your head outside the door to find the hall empty. Other doors lined the residential wing, all leading to their own individual quarters, the ones currently unoccupied belonging to those working the night shift.

On a whim, you left your room and headed in the direction of someone else’s quarters. After two right turns, you came to the correct hallway and rounded the corner.

You came to a stop, your slippers skidding at the lack of traction.

“Kenneth?”

His back was to you so you couldn’t see his face. Something about his posture set off warning sirens in your head, and it certainly wasn’t normal to find him in the corridor in the middle of the night wearing green plaid pajama pants and a white t-shirt.

“Kenneth?” you tried again, quieter this time. Was he sleepwalking? You drew closer, and the hairs on the back of your nape stood straight as you rounded him. His expression was vacant.

Hoping he wasn’t prone to getting violent in his sleep—he might have been lanky, but you didn’t want to test how hard he could punch—you carefully reached out, your hand hovering above his shoulder.

You set your hand down carefully on his shirt, but he didn’t blink. Frowning, you let him go and reached higher, planning a gentle jab against his cheek.

Your fingertips touched his skin. He flinched back with a scream.

“Kenneth!” you hissed through your teeth, because he was definitely awake now, staring at you with wide eyes as he sucked air into his lungs. He looked half-mad, which was exactly why you didn’t want anyone stumbling across Kenneth making a scene. Sleepwalking and screaming was a good way to get taken off rotation and dosed with amnestics.

He was lucid now, and unfortunately on the verge of hyperventilating, sweat trickling down his temples as his hollowed eyes looked even more sunken.

You grabbed his hand and dragged him down the hallway. Kenneth followed with a surprising lack of resistance, even when you pulled him into your room and locked the door behind him.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was this bad?” You didn’t give him the chance to speak first, though by his dazed expression as he glanced around your room it was safe to say he wouldn’t have anything intelligible to say. “Sleepwalking? Night terrors? What else is going on with you?”

His attention snapped to your face, clear panic on his.

“N-nothing!” A pause. “I was sleepwalking?”

“I found you out in the hallway, so unless someone put you there, yes!”

You took in a deep breath and rubbed the middle point of your forehead. Yelling at him wouldn’t help, and sadly, it didn’t make you feel better.

“You have to tell someone.”

“No.”

You looked up. It was the first time he’d sounded sure about anything, and at your scrutiny, he immediately dropped his gaze.

“You know what would happen,” he said quietly.

You did, or at least, there were the rumors. And you liked Kenneth. You didn’t know if he could be considered a friend, but he was more tolerable than anyone else you worked with.

“Fine. We keep this between us. Are you good to sleep again?”

His visible relief at the first part of your statement was wiped out by the second half, and his eyes returned to their previous look of dejected terror.

“I… I can’t go back there. To my room. I just… can’t.”

“Then don’t.”

You left him at the door and took of your slippers, placing them at the foot of the bed before sitting on the mattress. He still stood there looking like a lost puppy, so you took pity on him. He was so easy to mess with it almost wasn’t fun.

“Don’t go back to your room. Sleep here.”

He made a choked noise, which you ignored as you got under the covers.

“Turn off the lights when you’re done.”

“…What?”

“I can’t sleep with them on.”

“No, I mean, you… want me to sleep here?”

“I wouldn’t have made the offer if I didn’t mean it.”

When he didn’t move or make a sound, you sighed and sat up, leaning against the headboard. He stared at you with a mixture of horror and surprise, as if you were offering to torture him instead.

“I can set my door lock so that it won’t open without my passcode, which I’ll give to you. That way, you can only open it while you’re awake. No more nocturnal-wandering the hallways, and maybe you’ll get some actual sleep so you can stop looking like death.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“I can only cover for you so long before someone figures out you’re having sleep disturbances. And… maybe not being alone will help.”

Kenneth looked a little less horrified but still just as apprehensive, though his face softened a bit.

“And you would do that? For me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Hadn’t you established that? Why did he still look so tense? He was the one who would have your private passcode to come and go as he pleased.

He chewed his bottom lip, glancing once around the room before settling on you.

“What if I wake you?”

“Then you wake me.”

“Okay, well, what if I get violent in my sleep?”

“Then I hit back.”

You smiled, just a little, and some of the tension left his posture as he sheepishly returned the gesture. He was almost cute when he didn’t look like he was on the edge of a mental breakdown. Okay, maybe even then too, but no one would drag that information out of you even if they used SCP-645.

“Okay, but…” He fidgeted. “What if someone sees me entering your room?”

“They’ll think we’re having sex.”

Kenneth’s face went so red so fast it was actually impressive, and a little concerning.

“In case you couldn’t tell, I don’t care what anyone thinks.” You shrugged. “I just care if it helps. It’s no one’s business, anyway.”

His cheeks still burned, but he stopped looking like he was going to run out the door. He chewed his lip again, a nervous habit you were beginning to notice, but there was something decisive in his face.

“If you really don’t mind…”

“I don’t.”

He blew out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m just gonna… grab some of my stuff then. If that’s okay.”

“It’s fine.” You also gave him the passcode, and added, “You can use it to go in and out, no need to knock. I’ll probably be in bed by the time you get back.”

“Great, yeah. Okay.”

You simply watched him with raised brows as he finally shuffled out, and you smirked after he left. The poor guy was such a target, it was going to take a conscious effort not to tease him. Needlessly, anyway.

You laid down and planned to be on your way to asleep by the time he returned, figuring he’d take his time and possibly stall. But he came back surprisingly fast, only a few minutes after he walked out the door.

Your back was to him so you couldn’t see, but you could hear him move about the room, unzipping what sounded like a bag before moving quietly into the bathroom. The idea of having a temporary roommate would have been hell in nearly any other circumstance, but the idea didn’t feel terrible with Kenneth. With how timid he could be, somehow able to shrink his presence despite being so tall, it would probably feel more like sharing space with a mouse than a man.

You’d almost fallen back asleep by the time the mattress dipped behind you. For a bewildering moment, you’d forgotten Kenneth was there, wondering who the hell would be getting into bed with you.

He’d turned off the overhead light when he got situated, and the darkness of your bedroom was heavy with silence.

“Comfy?” you asked.

“Uh-huh.” He sounded stiff enough that he would snap in half. You snorted and closed your eyes.

“Night, Kenneth.”

“G… goodnight, Reid.”

By the time you woke up, Kenneth was gone. You would have suspected last night was just a weird dream and he hadn’t been there to begin with if you hadn’t spotted the bag next to the bed. Also, his side of the bed was neatly made, where you tended to just throw the covers back in place in a haphazard pile.

Finding no sign of him in the cafeteria either, you grabbed a couple of bagels and cups of coffee. You knew where he would be, and you weren’t disappointed to find him in 035’s observation room.

Or rather, you were disappointed, though you couldn’t pinpoint why.

Kenneth nearly jerked out of his seat when the door opened, and you stepped through.

“I’m cutting you off,” you said, placing the coffee and bagel next to him.

“Oh, no, please don’t.” He sounded sincerely distressed as he wrapped his fingers around the cup, savoring its warmth. “I would die.”

“Then perish.”

He snorted as you sat down beside him.

“I keep forgetting you’re an old Millennial. That meme is, like, from the last decade.”

“Call me old again and you’ll really feel the last decade.”

Kenneth laughed and then dived into his bagel. It had been a while since you’d seen him with an appetite.

You took another drink of coffee and pretended to sort through the observation logs, keeping your voice intentionally light.

“So. You sleep okay?”

He paused in his bagel chewing long enough for you to worry he was going to choke on it.

“I, uh… yeah, actually. I did.”

“Good.”

Trying not to appear too pleased, you focused on your actual work, though you found yourself distracted that day more than most. Ever since you’d noticed Kenneth’s disturbed sleep patterns, you’d kept an eye on him to the point where it became routine. Observe the SCP, observe your sleep-deprived coworker, and see which would yield the more interesting result.

You were aware enough to know that was a little weird, but it was a hard urge to fight. Kenneth was prone to being easily startled, like there was a prey animal living under his skin, and you still didn’t know how he’d managed to end up at the Foundation. It generally took a more aggressive personality to literally survive the job.

Maybe you did feel a little protective. So what?

The workdays were less awkward than you thought they would be, though the nights held their own kind of tension. Maybe Kenneth’s nervousness was rubbing off on you, but at least he seemed to be sleeping soundly. Even you slept like the dead until your alarm went off, and each time you woke to find Kenneth already gone.

The facility ran on a 24-hour schedule, with someone always on duty during night and weekend shifts. But as part of the research team, you and Kenneth had a more traditional schedule, and you were looking forward to your weekend.

And then the thought hit you. What were you going to do this weekend? Usually, you caught up on shows or devoured as much reading as you could, but with Kenneth there… Were you supposed to hang out with him? Or would he go off and entertain himself? Come to think of it, outside of your workdays, you didn’t see him much and had no idea what he did on his off time.

Your anxiety over the looming weekend kept you up Friday night, and it was why when Kenneth’s nightmare started, you were awake for it.

You sat up and stared down at him, the glow of the digital clock on your nightstand enough for you to see by. Kenneth trembled, breathing too fast, and his eyes were shut tight as if trying to block out what he saw.

“Kenneth.”

He didn’t respond.

“Kenneth,” you hissed louder. “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

His twitching worsened and a small whimper squeezed out of him.

Shit. You scooted closer, one hand hovering over him.

“If you hit me, I swear to God, you’ll be doing the coffee runs for the rest of your life.”

He was insensate to your threats, so you lowered your hand and very carefully placed it on the side of his neck. You remembered how touching him over his shirt hadn’t done anything, but skin contact had.

The trembling immediately stopped. He still had his eyes wrenched closed and he was breathing too fast, but at least he was no longer shaking.

Another scared noise left him, and you let out your own defeated breath. This was either going to go extremely poorly and you’d be embarrassed, or it would help, and you’d still be embarrassed.

Moving your hand to his shoulder, you gently rolled him toward you on his side. He moved easily with your effort; surprising, because you thought he would fight it. You scooted a little bit closer and higher up on your pillow, making it easier to slot you together.

All you’d wanted to do was move him close enough that you could wrap an arm around him and ease the nightmares. But as soon as your chests touched, Kenneth wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, buried his face in your neck, and held you tight. You couldn’t move.

Fuck.

You didn’t move, eyes wide in the dark as he held you like his own personal teddy bear. It took every brain cell you had just to keep breathing normally and not whack him off of you.

It was startling, and weird, and he was way too close, but it was also kind of… nice. Warm. He was surprisingly soft for being all arms and legs.

His hold on you was also one you couldn’t wiggle out of, so you didn’t try to escape. You were tired, and he wasn’t making any more sad puppy dog noises, so you took the victory. And tried not to think about how you were going to explain this in the morning.

When you woke up, your first thought was one of vague confusion. Even before you opened your eyes you knew Kenneth was there. It was the first morning he hadn’t vanished before you woke up, and you knew that, because he still had a hold around your waist.

He was also rigid, like someone had the muzzle of a gun shoved into his back.

Ignoring his terror, you stretched a tiny bit, enough to ease your muscles but not dislodge him, and then relaxed against the pillow. You even propped your chin on top of his head.

“Uh,” he said. Okay, maybe you were enjoying his torment a little too much.

“Morning,” you mumbled, your eyelids heavy with sleep as you were tempted to slip back into a doze.

“You’re… awake.”

“Mmhmm.”

“You’re… uh…”

He floundered, uneven to even begin to address the strange situation. You sighed through your nose.

“You had a nightmare. I tried to move you closer. You turned into a Velcro monkey.”

The noise he made was an impressive mixture of choked horror and surprised snort.

“What time is it?” you asked.

“It’s, uh…” He leaned up to look past you. “Half past seven.”

“Mmm. Go back to sleep.”

“Go back to… sleep…”

“It’s too early.”

His baffled silence stretched on and on.

“What?” you finally asked.

“You…” He audibly swallowed. “Don’t mind… this?”

“No. Do you?”

Okay, this was a little too relaxed, even for you, but you wanted to go back to sleep and Kenneth was unfairly warm.

“I… n-no. No, I don’t mind.”

The noise you made was unconvinced, but he didn’t move away so that was something. But he was still so damn stiff.

After a few moments of restless silence, he said, “But this is weird, right?”

“You’re makingit weird.”

He laughed, and you didn’t know if it was from your response or how cranky it sounded.

“Sorry, sorry.”

And then he pulled in close, tucking his face close to your neck, and—oh, that was nice. You closed your eyes again, and if your arm tightened around his shoulder, well, you were both too polite to say.

He had another nightmare the following night.

You don’t know why this one caught you off-guard. Maybe because the weekend had been going surprisingly well. It turned out you both were reclusive introverts, not wanting to go out when you could simply stay in. It wasn’t much different than your usual weekend, except this time when you started up a movie, you had someone to watch it with.

You were growing more comfortable around Kenneth, which was perhaps why when he woke you up with his violent shaking and startled cries, you didn’t hesitate to wrap an arm over his torso and lean your head on his chest.

Like the first time, the shaking immediately stopped. His heart raced fast against your ear, and you listened as it gradually slowed into a calmer rhythm, and the regular pattern lulled you back to sleep.

And for a second time in a row, when you woke up, Kenneth was still there. He was awake and awkwardly stiff, but when you stretched and stayed where you were, bidding him good morning, he relaxed. A little. His heart still tamped out a fast beat against your ear, and you wondered if he’d had another nightmare.

The nightmares, which had been practically absent for the first few days, erupted with a kind of vindictive violence, as if angered they weren’t allowed to play out. It was becoming so routine that you barely woke, only enough to roll over and set your head on his chest, or when he was turned away from you, wrap your arm around his waist and lean against his back.

You’d rather have teeth pulled than admit you liked when you got to do that. He was like your own personal heater, and maybe it was your imagination, but he seemed to relax in proportion to how much physical contact you had.

And then of course, you’d wake up in the morning and Kenneth would still be there, frozen like a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf. You would almost think he dreaded waking up like that from how he acted, but the times you pulled away first, you could have sworn he moved toward you.

Most likely, he just missed the warmth. The damn facility was kept cold, even the living quarters, and you hadn’t realized how uncomfortable it was until there was someone else’s body heat to chase away the chill.

Unspoken but somehow agreed upon, you both started preemptively subverting the nightmares ahead of time. You wouldn’t call it cuddling, it was more of… close proximity sleeping that might involve a limb or two being fastened to the other person.

It was strategic. Anticipatory. Definitely nothing to get excited over.

Until one night you woke up, startled and breathing too far, the lingering horror of hands holding you and pulling you under so real you could still feel it. And then you realized you could feel a pair of arms around you.

You tensed, about to throw your elbow backwards, but Kenneth’s voice stopped you.

“You were having a nightmare. So I…”

Ah. You relaxed, though your heart still thudded too fast and refused to slow down.

“Was it…”

He trailed off, and you encouraged him with a noise. You didn’t trust yourself to speak yet.

“Was it about any particular SCP?”

You shook your head, forgetting he couldn’t see it in the dark.

“Nothing that specific. Just a sort of… vague dread. Like something has me trapped and I can’t escape.”

He hummed in understanding. There was something that everyone experienced at one time or another. An oppressive, horrific knowledge that Foundation staff rarely ever reached retirement age. At least, not with their body and mind intact.

You didn’t look into these nightmares any deeper than that, and by the time the morning came around, you were too focused on actual horrors to worry about imaginary ones.

“What do you dream about?”

He went stiff at your sudden question, and you didn’t expect a response, so you were surprised when you got one.

“…035.”

You could have guessed that, but the confirmation caused your chest to ache.

Kenneth started to move away, but you grabbed his hand and moved it back around your waist. He didn’t say anything, and neither did you. He understood. It was unspoken.

The next time you woke up, you didn’t move, too comfortable with Kenneth’s weight against your back and his arm heavy around you.

It was… different from when you held him. When you did it, it was comfortable and soothing, like hugging a giant stuffed animal that sometimes moved and snored a little. But when he held you like this, curled around you like he was trying to meld you together, it was distracting. A restlessness took hold of your body, your skin felt too hot, and it was difficult to remain still.

Which was why you failed at it, shifting in place as if that could make you more comfortable. It was a mistake. Your hips moved back too far, and something hard pressed against your ass. Kenneth let out a quiet breath, but he otherwise didn’t move, still asleep.

Now you understood why he froze whenever you embraced him like this. You couldn’t move, your muscles locked into place. You should leave, get out of bed and let him sleep and stay ignorant to this embarrassment. He didn’t mean it, anyway. It was a natural response, and he wasn’t even conscious.

But you didn’t move. Your heart raced, and you listened to the even pace of his breathing with barely a breath of your own.

And then his hips shifted again, pressed harder against your ass, and you forgot how to breathe. Kenneth nosed against your hair as if to get more comfortable, but then he went very, very still.

By how carefully you weren’t moving, he knew you were awake. He tried to back away, and like the night before, you grabbed onto his hand. He froze.

Delicately, as if you were defusing a bomb, you pulled his hand back and placed it over your stomach. He didn’t resist, but he didn’t ease up from his anxious tension either.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. He was your coworker, maybe even your friend. You were taking advantage. It wasn’t right.

You took his hand and slipped it under your shirt, sliding upward until you pressed his hand against your breast.

He sucked in a breath, a small tremble racking through him, and then his thumb grazed over your nipple, hard and sensitive. He groaned and molded himself against your back, his face pressed into the crook of your neck.

Encouraged, you arched your back, and he didn’t hesitate to grind against your ass. His response surprised you, enthusiastic where you thought he was going to run away. You would have let him, even knowing you had just ruined your friendship and working relationship, but that hadn’t happened. You let go of his hand, and he kept it right where you left it, his fingers toying with your nipple.

You ached. Days of tension building inside you that you couldn’t ignore or make go away, even in the shower with your hand between your legs.

You rolled onto your back, and with a light tug you guided him to lay on top of you, hardly having to pull at all. He eased himself between your legs, but he moved his hand to hold your waist, as if nervous to touch you without your direct intervention.

The overhead lights were dim and pale, simulating the early sunlight, and you could make out his features. Color suffused high on his cheekbones, his long red hair messy, and his eyes were dark in what could easily be arousal or fear. Perhaps a mixture of both, knowing him.

Kenneth had moments where he was kind of cute. Adorable, even. And there were moments, rarely glimpsed when he let himself be vulnerable, where he was pretty. Unfairly pretty.

And there were moments where you would look over and see him chatting to other facility members. Researchers, security personnel, janitorial staff, it didn’t seem to matter, he would talk to anyone. His eyes would light up, his actions animated, and he was pretty. A stab of jealousy would shoot through you at whoever was being given that warm, sunny attention, until you turned away and went somewhere else.

That same possessive need, the feelings you were so careful to bury deep where it couldn’t find nourishment and take root, clawed its way to the surface and growled its demands.

You cradled the back of his head, weaving your fingers into his hair, and pulled him down.

You kissed him, lips meeting in a heated hunger from your side, and a surprised stiffness from his. You let him pull away, reining in your own need so you didn’t devour him. It was a close thing.

“Sorry,” you whispered, though you weren’t really. “I shouldn’t have—”

But he shook his head and didn’t retreat further, his breath trembling but his weight on you solid.

“Are you sure?” he asked, wincing, as if he was the one taking advantage. “I don’t want you to… I mean, if you’re not sure, then—”

He didn’t get out the rest of his words, either; you took his hand and slipped it under the waistband of your sleep pants and underwear, pushing his fingers between your legs. You were soaked and coated his fingers immediately.

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath, and without your prompting curled his fingers, as if seeking out your slick heat of their own volition. “I… Reid…”

You pulled him down and kissed him again, and his hesitation melted away along with his resistance. As his fingers prodded your entrance, you pulled off your shirt, having to break the kiss to yank it over your head.

Kenneth immediately took advantage of the new angle and buried his face in your neck, latching onto the skin as he sucked and licked. You tried to tug off your pants and underwear, but when his thumb found your clit and pressed down at the same time he slid two fingers inside, you immediately forgot what you were doing.

Kenneth didn’t, and he tugged off the rest of your clothes with one hand while the other slowly pumped in and out of you. It was tortuously gentle, and you growled and pulled off his shirt with frustrated impatience.

He smirked against your throat, the little shit, but at least you wiped it off his face when you reached under his waistband. You grabbed him, firm and tight, and he groaned as his cock involuntarily twitched in your hand.

“Pants off,” you huffed in his ear. With him lying on top of you, you couldn’t get him out past his waistband.

“No… foreplay?” His question was a breathless laugh, cut off by another groan as you squeezed.

“Later,” you said and purposefully didn’t think about the implications of a later. “I need you to fuck me, now.”

Kenneth made a choking sound, but he was quick to obey, pulling off his pj pants and boxers in a hurry.

Impatient, you wrapped your legs around his waist and tilted your hips upward, at the same time guiding his cock at your entrance. You didn’t care that his fingers were still inside you and technically in the way. He would either have to move them, or you would have to take all of it inside you, because you weren’t waiting.

“Jesus Christ, Reid.” He barely moved his fingers in time as you notched him against your entrance, and then all his protests vanished as he pushed into your tight heat.

Kenneth tried to take it slow, but you dug your heels into the backs of his thighs, and he swore again as you swallowed up every inch of him. You should have paid better attention, because you couldn’t tell if he was just thick, long, or both, because there was a lot of him.

You finally breathed when he pushed all the way inside, though it felt like you couldn’t take a full lungful.

“S-slow down,” Kenneth stuttered as you ground yourself against him. You forced yourself still for his sake, knowing if he came now he’d probably die from embarrassment.

You wouldn’t mind. His noises and reactions would be worth it, and you were confident you could get him hard again with minimal effort. With how high-strung he was, it wouldn’t take much.

Letting him take a moment, you stroked the back of his head, letting your fingertips lightly scratch against his scalp. Kenneth groaned and shuddered, and maybe it would have been nicer to leave him alone while he regained his composure, but you weren’t feeling nice.

You leaned up and nuzzled into his neck, dragging your lips against his skin until you stopped in one place and sucked, hard.

He trembled and his hips stuttered involuntarily. You smirked and made sure to suck where he couldn’t hide it underneath his shirt collar.

“Reid.”

Your name came out as a whine, pleading for mercy, so you sucked harder, making sure to squeeze his hips between your thighs.

He shuddered again and finally gave up on the idea that you’d give him a moment to breathe. His hips moved in shaky, aborted movements, as if he was trying to fight himself as well as you.

With a movement far more coordinated than you thought it would be considering how much taller he was, you rolled him onto his back and straddled his hips, making sure he was still deep inside you. The pillows had scattered, and you had him flat on his back, his eyes large and startled.

But you were almost gentle as you kissed him, though it was more of a tease, your lips dragging across his in languid taunt.

Finally, he showed some lack of restraint, forcing the kiss deeper, his hips pushing upward in frustration. Unable to wait any longer, you gave him what he wanted, rolling your hips and grinding down on him with deep, decisive friction.

Kenneth gasped for air, breaking from the kiss he started, but you couldn’t keep your mouth off him. Your lips and teeth were at his neck, alternating between brief kisses and nipping bites, and Kenneth kept repeating, “fuck, fuck,” in a breathy mantra.

You ground down harder, chasing the pleasure that was slowly uncurling deep in your abdomen, and Kenneth must have felt it because he tried to thrust upward. He couldn’t move far, but the combination of sensations kept building the high at a slow, tortuous pace.

But it did build, each thrust its own molten pleasure, as if it was one long simmering orgasm. You might have said something, a nonsensical smattering of words that might have been you telling Kenneth how good he was.

He whined at whatever it was you said, and then he gave a small, begging, “Please.”

You latched your teeth on the crook of his neck, and his startled cry pushed you over the edge. You clenched around him hard and let go of the bite, propping yourself up so you could ride him through the last spasming waves. It seemed to never end, every inch of your skin prickled with pleasure, and when you finally opened your eyes you were surprised to find Kenneth watching you, his eyes dark and teeth clenched in effort.

It was almost sweet, Kenneth holding back so your orgasm could last longer. But you didn’t want sweet, you wanted to watch as he lost control. You sat up all the way, leaned your hands against his chest, and rode him hard.

With the way he rolled and bucked under you, it really was like riding, and you held on with digging nails and clenched thighs. The sound of him fucking up into you was sloppy and obscene, and impossibly, you felt another orgasm on the horizon.

Your brain shrouded and not thinking clearly, you took one of his hands and shoved it where your hips met, but you couldn’t get the right angle. Kenneth understood what you were trying to do, and he held your hip tight as he pressed circles into your clit.

You choked down your own whine, losing your rhythm as you started to clench tight, and Kenneth’s voice was strained and hoarse.

“I’m gonna--… you gotta get off me before I—"

“No.”

You ground down on him, purposefully, intentionally.

“Come inside me.”

He cursed and fucked up into you like he was going to die if he didn’t, and you screamed through your teeth as the pleasure shot through you like a thunderbolt.

You were distantly aware of your own body after that, too lost in the deluge of sensation and heat, but you could feel the distant throbbing between your legs that wasn’t yours.

Trying to catch your breath, and suddenly too self-conscious to meet his eye, you laid on top of him and rested your cheek against his shoulder. The bite hadn’t broken skin, but you could already see the bruised indent from your teeth.

Kenneth was the one to speak first, his voice catching, and he cleared it before continuing.

“I… I shouldn’t have done that.”

Something cold and unpleasant filled your stomach, even as the rest of you was warm and relaxed.

“Which part?”

“The, uh… coming inside you.”

The cold dread thawed a little.

“I’m on birth control. It’s fine.”

“Oh, that’s… that’s good.”

“But the rest of it?”

When he didn’t answer for several seconds, you started to move away. You should have done so already, it wasn’t as if he wanted you just lying on top of him. You weren’t lovers or partners or—

You moved off of his lap, wincing as his cock slid out of you, and that’s about as far as you got. Kenneth caught your waist and pulled you back down, tucking you against his side as he turned toward you.

You didn’t mean to freeze up, awkward and unsure as he kept his arms wrapped around you.

“I should… get us something to clean up with.”

He blew air out of his mouth, like he was laughing.

“Seriously, Reid? Can you relax, for like, two seconds.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I’m not the one who—”

His lips were on yours, stealing a kiss and your breath. You weren’t as annoyed as you could have been, but you sent him a dirty look when he broke away. He grinned like a cat who’d gotten in the milk.

“You’re not allowed to win arguments that way,” you said.

“But I would win them.”

Your gaze narrowed and his smile brightened.

Settling back against his side, you were just starting to relax when he went and ruined it.

“So… we should probably talk.”

You groaned.

“We really don’t have to.”

“Don’t we?”

You closed your eyes and considered ignoring him, but when had that ever worked.

“It’s not that complicated,” you said. “Do you want to have sex again?”

“Right-right now?!”

It was your turn to grin, though he couldn’t see it from this angle.

“Because I don’t think I could, not so soon—”

“Wanna bet?”

“Against you? Absolutely not.”

You snorted and then propped up on your elbow so you could face him.

“Do you want to keep doing this?”

Kenneth swallowed and his gaze drifted to somewhere around your shoulder.

“I mean… what is this?” He made a vague gesture at you both lying naked in your bed. “Is it just… you know. Sex?”

Now you couldn’t meet his eye, unease coiling in your gut. Not because you didn’t know what you wanted—you absolutely did. But Kenneth was younger than you. He had other options, avenues he could pursue without much effort. What you both got out of this might be very different things.

“It’s whatever you want it to be,” you finally said.

“Really? You’re leaving this up to me?”

His skepticism drew your attention and your annoyance.

“Why not.”

“Because that’s not fair. What about what you want?” He shifted, his fingers fidgeting with wrinkles on the sheet. “You’re kind of getting the raw end of the deal.”

Your glare grew sharper, and before he could back away, panic growing in his eyes, you crowded him into the mattress and kissed him.

It wasn’t a half-assed thing, either. You licked into his mouth, tasting him on your tongue until you finally let him up for air.

“Your counterargument…” He gasped for air, his face flushed. “…is persuasive.”

You smirked when something hard and familiar pressed against your hip.

“I told you I could get you hard again.”

“That’s not—”

He actually squeaked when you licked a stripe up his neck and purposefully pressed your thigh against his cock.

“W-we’re not done talking yet.”

You sighed. Of all the moments, he had to be responsible now.

“Fine.” You backed off and met his eye, probably with more glare than was warranted. “I want to keep doing this, and I’m not interested in anyone else. That cover it?”

He blinked slowly, as if his brain was catching up to the words.

“Y-yeah. That’s… yeah.”

You lifted your brows, and it took a minute for the lightbulb to turn on in his head.

“And, I mean, I want to keep doing this too, obviously. And I’m not…”

Your brows lifted higher as he progressively grew tongue-tied, until he finally flopped back on the bed and blew out a frustrated breath.

“Come on, Reid.”

“What?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“You have to know by now.”

“Know what.”

“I’ve had a crush on you since day one.”

The silence stretched on long enough for him to frown up at you.

“You… didn’t know.”

“Of course I didn’t know!”

“Really?” He said this last to himself, rubbing his chin. “Nix always said it was super obvious.”

Ah, yes. Kenneth’s strange little friend from down in anomalous body storage. They were attached at the hip most days, and you didn’t think you imagined the evil eye Nix sent you whenever you were in the same room. Then again, they looked at everyone that way.

You gave him a blank stare.

“Anyway.” Kenneth rolled onto his side so he could face you again. “I didn’t think it mattered since you didn’t seem to know I existed. The first time you said my name, I actually forgot it was my name, because there was no way you were actually talking to me—"

“Kenneth.”

“—Yeah, that’s exactly how you said it, and annoyed tone and everything—"

You shut him up with another kiss, and yeah, it turned out it was an effective way to stop an argument. You could get used to this, and something about that felt dangerous.

When you felt Kenneth had been sufficiently kissed into silence, and by his dazed expression when you broke apart, he had, you leaned back and stared at him for a moment. When you’d mentioned contraceptives, the thought had crossed your mind, and you’d almost joked, If I did get pregnant, do you think they’d give us both parental leave?

And then you realized how unfunny it was. Starting a family was one of the few ways to get out of the Foundation that didn’t involve a body bag. Sure, they’d give you so many amnestics that you’d barely remember your name, but at least you had an escape option. You both did.

But then… did you want to leave? You’d been here for years, and while the work was still satisfying, it had lost its charm. One by one, coworkers would disappear, either through transfer, or they simply… vanished.

You didn’t want that to happen to you or Kenneth, and you knew if you ever found a way out, you wouldn’t leave without taking him with you.

But then you started to think of the anomalies you would leave behind, the ones you tried to give a little extra attention and kindness to. There was 053, and she adored Kenneth. It was hard to imagine leaving her and the other humanoid SCPs.

Plus… Dr. Puli had hinted that the next subject in your rotation was the enigmatic plague doctor. You could admit there was a curiosity there that went beyond professional. Were you ready to give up the opportunity to study SCP-049 because you started having doubts?

“Hey.” Kenneth’s soft voice pulled you back to reality. “Where’d you go?”

“I’m right here.”

“You sure?” He chewed his lip again. “No… regrets?”

You squinted at him.

“I was pondering something.”

“Oh?”

“Do you think it would be workplace sexual harassment if I started calling you Horse Dick Kenny?”

He choked, sputtered, and then buried his face in your shoulder so you couldn’t see the face that you knew would be bright red.

“Don’t worry,” you said and patted his arm. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Very safe. You would jealously guard that knowledge to your grave.

“Come on.” You grabbed his head and tugged him out of bed. “We’re filthy.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kenneth followed obediently as you led him to the shower, and you left your dark thoughts behind in the bed.

#scp foundation #scp containment breach #the anomaly archives #oc x reader #male oc x reader #kenneth the assistant

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