#or on the fucking autopsy table

[acepalindrome]

Rook realizes that half the party has the most dogshit sleeping arrangements imaginable and decides they won’t rest until they get the whole team a decent bed.

[eavangeek]

Pfft you and the other anons kill me.

I love the idea of him being reserved and all “okay don’t freak them out, just be normal for fiv-wait for real?” When you go super-sayin levels of depraved.

It's very sweet that he's wanting to go slow, and he's not trying to freak anyone out. His actual romance is nice because of that!!!

I love it, but there is such an Restrained Persona he's put up. The handful of times you get to flirt, HE'S SHOCKED. And it's Delicious™️

I need to sit in his lap and go back and forth with him about all the shit I wanna do and then I need him to match or one up me.

[bugwolfsstuff]

Im watching one of those ghost hunting shows for a fic and oh my gods this shit is so unserious

One of the hunter guys fucking asked the ghost if the ghost was attracted to him (as in keeps contacting specifically him not in a gay way) because he has Aspergers and the ghost could relate to that.

Theyre in an abandoned Insane Asylum built in 1832

the term Asperagers was coined in 1976

The ghost wouldnt fucking know what that is.

[yuukei-yikes]

haruka and takane are literally said to be experimented on but we never know what exactly happens to them and rly they didnt Have to get experimented on to get to where they end up on, just killed. but also its so much more fun to imagine they do get experimented on. my hc is since their red eyes case is kinda unique the experimenting bit also plays a part in the way saeru cheats the system to get 2 snakes out in 1 day. cuz technically ONE snake should be out by killing two people. for 2 snakes to get out you’d need 4 people!!

also something i never got is HOW is ayano able to open the daze by herself and keep one snake when it’s supposed to be when 2 people die. all 3 of their cases are a little ridiculous or i just personally dont get it. i take pride in understanding kagepro but ayano’s thing is something i never quite got lol. HOW DO ALL 3 GET A SNAKE IF THEY DIE ALONE(?) i thought maybe the daze opens for ayano bc haruka and takane’s deaths already opened it that day?? we dont rly know if ayano dies before or after haruka and takane after all. erm. 1 million thoughts in tags like always

[bumblingbabooshka]

'Parturition' is so brave for being the yaoi ship trope episode of Voyager. "Neelix and Tom Paris had a physical.....fight." Also continuing Tom's beautiful habit of loving both infidelity and child abandonment with all his heart. Also, wonderful out of context quote: "I had no right to push that pasta in your lap."

[ozymoron]

just woke up from a nap i feel light headed ough

[avephelis]

call me dissected the way i'm letting them rearrange my guts <- saw the official art disease

none of us would win one of those "could you survive the suckening" scenarios man you know this whole stupid ass website would be tripping over itself to line up for vex-and-viv-isection

[closeted-goth]

man I thought nothing would get to me again (Bleak Bleak™) post grave of the fireflies. when the wind blows (Raymond Briggs) or whatever almost did. almost but not quite. anyway, just started watching house and hello season one (1) episode four (4). congratulations on getting to me in That Way............

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

The Pathology Murders

Summary: When the reader and the boys stumble across a gruesome scene, they get the feeling that the monster they're hunting is of the human variety...

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 5,800ish

Warnings: language, angst, lots of mentions of gore/death, trauma, accident, fluff

A/N: This fic was inspired by this imagine (which makes an appearance in this one shot) and also by the horror movie Pathology!

________

“What the hell…” Dean and Sam looked around the abandoned house, pausing like you had when they got to the kitchen. Your boys weren’t wimps by any means. They’d seen some serious crap. Done some serious crap. But that kitchen? 

It took Sam all of three seconds to step out of the room and upheave his greek salad from lunch.

Meanwhile Dean took it all in before his eyes landed on where you were trying to work the scene, fighting back another dry heave. 

“You alright?” he asked. You knew he was concerned. You weren’t one to puke up your guts either. But the poor soul on the kitchen table, or rather what was left of him…twisted wasn’t even the right word for it.

“Not particularly,” you said, pointing at a glass jar that housed a pair of kidneys on the stove. “Not all the organs made it into jars. Pretty sure the liver is in the sink.”

Dean cautiously took a step inside, swallowing thickly. Unlike you or Sam, who had your own experiences with hell, Dean’s had been far more…interactive. Sam’s soul was battered around by Lucifer but it’d been more psychological than physical. You’d spent an unpleasant night with a hellhound in the same cage and while it hadn’t been fun, you’d been able to stay in a corner and out of harms way. Dean though…Dean had been sliced and diced and hacked and every other possible horror, imaginable or not. And then he’d performed the acts himself. You never blamed him for giving in, for breaking. You’d told him time and time again he was, and always would be, a good man.

Some days, more often lately it seemed the older he got, he seemed to believe you.

“Whoever did this performed an autopsy on this guy. While he was alive,” said Dean, leaning over the body to get a closer look. “Huh. Anybody see a heart around here?”

You surveyed the bloody room, finding more than a few peculiar shaped body parts but nothing resembling a heart. Sam finally made his way in, taking a deep inhale as he got used to the gore before him. “I got nothing over here.”

“Could be a werewolf,” said Dean, cocking his head as he straightened, brow furrowing. “Or a witch.”

You knew he wasn’t buying that though, neither of you were. You tore your eyes away from the search to watch Sam’s expression flare up with a strange look of familiarity. “Sammy?”

“I think a person did this,” he said. Dean rolled his eyes.

“No shit Sherlock. Someone used a knife or-”

“No, jackass,” said Sam, shooting Dean a harsh look for a brief second. “I mean I think this was a human, like an actual human. They were just talking about a cold case like this on a podcast I listened to during my run last week.”

“You and your fucking serial killer obsession,” muttered Dean. Sam’s eye twitched, the tension rising in the room. “It’s fucking weird, Sammy.”

“We hunt monsters, dumbass. How is that any different?”

“That’s our job. You don’t see me watching murder documentaries like a certain someone in my free time.” Sam got closer to Dean, Dean taking one to match, both boy’s jaws clenching. 

“Hey,” you said with a snap of your fingers, the pair reluctantly turning towards you. “Dean, plenty of people are interested in cold cases and as long as Sam isn’t a serial killer himself, his hobby is fine. Sam, Dean just gets concerned that you don’t take enough of a break from hunting but he can’t come out and say that. So hug and make up. You’re on the same side.”

They both grumbled and gave each other a half-assed embraced but it made you smile regardless. 

“So what’d your murder podcast say?” asked Dean, walking around to the other side of the cut open body. Sam’s face soured. “That good, huh?”

“They called them the Pathology Murders. A string of five victims about ten years ago that went unsolved. The killer performed live autopsies like you said about this guy earlier. The only lead they ever had was that the killer must have medical training, like a doctor, based on what they did to the victims. Oh, and all the murders took place in the Seattle area.”

“Which downtown is only twenty minutes from here,” you said, crossing your arms. “Was the heart missing at the other scenes?”

“I’m not sure. They could have skimmed over that,” said Sam. Your gaze followed Dean’s, his green eyes laced with uncertainty. “I can do some research back at the motel. You guys could check in with Seattle PD, see if the case files have anything useful.”

“We should double check that it’s not our kind of monster and if it really is a person-”

“We’re not working this case,” said Dean. Your eyebrows shot up, Sam’s face already frowning. “We do not investigate serial killers. Save it for the police.”

“Uh, what the hell is going on? You would never let a killer, monster or human, stay on the loose,” said Sam.

Dean’s gaze shot to you and quickly away, his eyes turning sharp as they zeroed in on Sam. You scoffed, Sam cocking his head in question.

“It’s because my mom was murdered. By a serial killer. Isn’t it, Dean?” Dean’s lips pressed into a thin hard line and you shook your head. “They caught her killer which you know. What does that have anything to do with-”

“You caught the killer, you did that,” said Dean, Sam completely lost. He knew your mom had been killed but not the gory details like Dean.

“Wouldn’t that be a good thing then?” he asked. “Y/N has experience with this sort of thing then.”

“Why don’t you explain to Sammy just exactly what you did to ‘catch’ her killer then, sweetheart. Go on. I’m sure he’d love to hear it.” You glared at Dean, feeling an unpleasant prickling in your eyes. Dean didn’t back down as you teared up though, instead focusing on Sam. “She let herself be bait. She let herself get caught by the son of a bitch. She almost died because she doesn’t see when she’s going too far with serial killers. The same thing happened on that Tulsa case five years ago.”

You could sense Sam had shifted very quickly to being on Dean’s side of this argument. You’d been young and reckless with your mom’s killer, barely a day over eighteen. That was years and years ago. You’d learned since then to use more sense. Tulsa…well your plan as being bait would have worked if your former hunting partner hadn’t been more focused on getting some ass that night than watching your back.

“Yeah, that’s how we met, Sam. Not working a case. No, Y/N was fucked and if I hadn’t been driving back from Jody’s that night and saw the fucking asshole grab her, she’d be dead. Wouldn’t you?” Dean snarled. You narrowed your misty eyes at him, Dean lifting his chin. “We will make sure this isn’t our kind of deal and if it is in fact a run of the mill serial killer, we are getting the fuck out of here, understand me?”

“I fucked up once. Once,” you breathed out. You swallowed thickly, wiping off your face with your jacket sleeve. “Just how many times have you been kidnapped Dean in the five years that I’ve known you? I’ve been taken once. You? How many times have I cut you loose? Taken out the monster with a knife to your throat? A gun to your head? How many times have you gotten lost in a case? Gone on a rampage? I never realized we were keeping score.”

Dean’s gaze fell to the floor, his hand running over his jaw, searching for the right words.

“Sam, go back to the motel and research. Dean and I’ll do the fed schitk and get the files we can. Whoever’s behind this, I’m going after them. You two can do whatever the hell you want,” you said, storming out of the room and out of the house.

“You look pretty,” said Dean softly a few hours later as you exited the motel bathroom in your fed suit, a light blue button down blouse with your charcoal gray suit jacket and pants. You ignored him as you dug through your duffel for your pointed black booties. Professional but also you knew for a fact you could run and fight in them. You growled in frustration when you couldn’t find them though, hearing Dean clear his throat behind your back. You glanced over your shoulder, following Dean’s gaze to where he’d set them down by the end of the bed.

“Thanks,” you grumbled, slipping them on and pulling up the side zipper. Dean was sporting his navy suit today, the one he looked extra hot in. You ignored that fact as you tucked your gun into the back of your pants, fixing your suit jacket over it.

“Y/N.” You sighed, giving him a look that you really didn’t want to do this right now. He took a long breath, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Sam quietly slinked out of the room into his adjoining one. Most of the time the three of you shared but when you could swing it, Sam got his own next door to give you and Dean some privacy.

Privacy you didn’t necessarily want at this moment.

“You do good cop, I’ll be the hardass if it comes to it,” you said, shoving your phone in your pocket. You tried to walk past him for the door but he caught your hand, stopping you after a few feet. “Dean.”

“I do not, and have never, thought you were weak. But serial killers are a blindspot for you. Sam and I both have them. This is yours.” He lowered his head, like he was fighting the words that were coming out. 

To your surprise, he dropped your hand and stood. 

“Be careful on this one, sweetheart.” He walked past you to the motel door, cracking it open and pausing. “We should get going.”

“You sure I’m not going to lose it? Get too carried away and get myself captured?” you said, unable to stop from poking back after his earlier insinuations. Dean’s shoulders rose and fell, one hand going to the doorframe to grip it as you watched the back of his head lower.

“Y/N, don’t you know by now I’m an idiot that’d rather lose you because I’m a dick than find you in the hands of some monster like whoever did that to that poor guy? Don’t you know I know you’re stronger than me? Don’t you think I realize how hard it is to be with someone like me?”

“You don’t stop Sam from doing dangerous things,” you said. “You don’t bring up the past to him.”

“Yes I have,” he said quietly. “And convincing Sam to stay in a motel room where it’s safe to research has never been hard thankfully.”

“You don’t treat me with the same respect though,” you said softly. “It hurts to know you never will think of me as being as capable as he is all because I’m your girlfriend.”

Dean shook his head, straightening his back. “You are more than capable, sweetheart. But sometimes…I just want to be a man that protects his girl. I don’t want to be scared of failing you for once…because if that monster got anywhere near you…”

You took quiet steps over to him, staring at his broad shoulders as they sagged.

“Eventually everyone I love dies or has something awful happen to them. Maybe I don’t say it the right way but fucking hell, all I want is for those things to not happen to you.” He spun around, green eyes full of worry. You nodded, taking his hand and lacing your fingers together. He squeezed them gently, the warmth of it pleasant.

“Our job is dangerous, Dean. We hunt the monsters, supernatural or not. I love you but you don’t get to keep me locked away.” You ran your thumb over his scuffed up skin, still healing form last week’s hunt. “That said…I promise not to get so angry if you promise to just say you’re scared for me. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, a flicker of a smile on his face. “I just have a bad feeling about this one.”

“Then we’ll be smart, okay?” You leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “And don’t call yourself an idiot. I don’t like it.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s go figure out what the hell is going on.”

Two Hours Later

“This guy’s a fucking psycho,” you said into your phone while Dean came outside with a bag of burgers and fries. “Apparently he sends the hearts to the victims families in a little box with a bow.”

“Sounds about right for a guy who cuts people open for fun,” said Sam on the other end. “I’m gonna pour through the records you just sent over.”

“Alright. Dean and I should be back in fifteen-”

“Why don’t you guys have a date night? I got this for a few hours.” You bit your bottom lip, Sam’s silence going on. “Come on, Y/N. You guys should talk about Dean’s protectiveness and your stubbornness.”

You wanted to argue that fact but sighed, closing your eyes.

“Any suggestions on how we find that line when our job is to hunt killers?” you asked.

“Maybe remember that he’s your boyfriend first, hunting partner second. Most boyfriends wouldn’t want their girlfriend near a serial killer either, no matter what their job.”

“Don’t have good points, Samuel,” you said as Dean took a seat next to you on Baby’s hood. “We’ll be back in two hours.”

You hung up and dove your hand into the bag of fries, smirking when Dean presented you with a chocolate milkshake. He grinned as you dipped the fry in it and tossed it back, giving him a big thumbs up.

“I love you,” you said, Dean smiling as he dug out his burger. “I always love you, even when we fight.”

He glanced at you, landing a gentle kiss on your lips in the next moment. He barely moved his lips, letting them linger instead. He moved back only an inch and nodded. “I was a dickhead earlier. All because I’m afraid of finding you with a serial killer standing over you with a giant ass knife again. I don’t know why I can’t just come out and say that shit in the moment.”

“Because you’re human,” you said, wrapping an arm around his waist. “And you’re so much better at talking to me than five years ago. The old you wouldn’t have even been able to say that to me.”

“I try,” he said, letting you kiss him, your own a tad more forceful than his had been.

“That’s all I ask for,” you said, Dean’s phone going off at that exact moment. He sighed as he took it out, Sam’s name appearing. He tapped it onto speaker and took a bite of his burger. “What’s up Sammy?”

“Guys, I think I figured something out. All the victims were patients at Mercy West hospital back in the day and this latest guy? He was a patient there last week.” You and Dean shared a frown. “Yeah, I know. The cops investigated all of the hospital staff there back then but they never came up with anything. They thought maybe a doctor was behind it but he died in a car accident between the second and third vics.”

“It could have been him and he had a partner. Definitely is someone with access to records so they have to work there,” said Dean as you held up a finger. “What?”

“I could have sworn I’ve heard about this hospital in the news before. Something to do with a boat accident?” you asked. You heard Sam typing loudly before he hummed.

“Yup. They made national news about six months ago when seven of their medical students died in a boating accident. Explosion apparently when they got boozed up and had a bonfire on the boat. The bodies were so bad they couldn’t identify the remains,” said Sam. Dean took another bite of his burger and swallowed. “Already checking through the police files. Shit.”

“Shit what, Sam?” you asked, dunking a fry in your milkshake.

“Shit as in the boat accident wasn’t an accident at all. There was definitely an explosion but they found damage on the bodies indicating some injuries occurred before death. Like being carved up alive. They don’t want the public knowing the killer is still active in the area.”

“It’s gotta be someone linked to that hospital. Only question is why can’t the police figure out who?” asked Dean.

“Good question,” said Sam. “I’m going to keep digging, see if there’s a connection between the two we missed.”

“Thanks Sammy. We’ll be back in twenty to help,” said Dean, hanging up. He glanced at you, biting the inside of his cheek.

“This isn’t a monster,” you said quietly. “At least, it’s a human one.”

Dean polished off the rest of his meal quietly, the air still for a few beats. 

“When you get too worried about me on hunts, you put yourself in danger,” you said, slowly sipping from the shake. His heated gaze was on you as you handed him the drink. “You have to trust that I’m strong enough to do this. Careful and capable. We both need to work on that.”

“Alright. But do me a favor? Stick close to me or Sammy on this one. You’re just…” You waited, let him find his words. He took the drink and finished it off, shoving the trash in the bag. “You just got over that shoulder injury. Your punches don’t hit as hard as normal right now. I don’t mean that in a bad way, just-”

“Okay,” you said, finding his hand, slipping yours inside. “Now let’s figure out who this bastard is.”

He hummed, letting go of you for a brief moment so he could toss the garbage away. You slid inside the passenger seat, Dean back and behind the wheel after the blink of an eye. Approximately ten seconds later you were pulling out of the parking lot and on the road, headed down main street and for the motel.

“So I was thinking this guy does autopsies on victims right?” said Dean, turning the radio down low on a soft rock station. You glanced out the window on the dark night, a rumble of thunder overhead. “But the cops can’t find him. Well, isn’t there someone that sometimes works at hospitals and for the police that would be able to fuck with a body after the fact and hide traces of their involvement?”

“A pathologist. I was thinking that too but wouldn’t that have been their first look? I mean they literally call them the Pathology Murders,” you said, waiting for the the light to turn green. “It could be someone that knows someone at the department covering for them. Stranger things have happened.”

“Maybe. I get the gist this guy works alone though. I only clocked one set of boots at the scene this morning,” he said, the bright green light illuminating the dark interior.

“Same. It’s absolutely someone associated with that damn hospital-” you said, Dean’s arm shooting in front of you in your peripheral. A millisecond later, something slammed into the right side of Baby, your side. Your lap belt tugged on you hard as your body lolled to the side, weightless for a moment before gravity reared it’s ugly head and slammed you down. Your head smacked something hard and it all went dark.

You could hear Dean asking a paramedic a million questions, not a single one concerned about himself. You opened your eyes to find yourself in the back of an ambulance, Dean lying on a stretcher beside you. He could tell you were awake and struggled to reach over to you but couldn’t. Instead he thrashed his head back against his pillow in defeat, straining against the straps that held him down.

“Sir, I need you to calm down,” said the paramedic as you blinked slowly at Dean. You knew something was wrong with you, with both of you, but you weren’t quite sure what that was yet. You struggled when you saw Dean upset. You wanted him to feel better. “You need to relax, she’s seeing you panic and that’s making her do the same.”

Dean stopped as he took in how your heart rate had skyrocketed, how scared you looked. He sighed and forced himself to stay calm. You saw him relax and heard him say it was okay. Neither of you enjoyed the feeling of being tied down, especially when the both of you were in plain view of one another and couldn’t reach each other. You tried to speak but couldn’t as you felt how raw your throat was. 

“We’ll be at Mercy West in just a few minutes,” said the paramedic to Dean as you half-listened. 

“No, take us somewhere else!” yelled Dean suddenly, fighting again. The paramedic sighed as you both started struggling once more. You didn’t have much of an idea of what was going on but if Dean didn’t want to go there, it wasn’t safe. 

“I’m going to give each of you a sedative and by the time you wake up, you’ll be in your hospital beds feeling a lot better,” he said gently. 

“No, don’t you touch her,” said Dean as you started to get very sleepy. The last thing you saw was Dean shutting his eyes as you finally remembered what had happened.

If Sam didn’t get to you soon, you were screwed.

Your eyes wearily opened under bright lights that made your head hurt. You winced and turned away from it, limbs heavy and still. Dean’s voice echoed somewhere, to your left maybe? You forced your eyes open again, Dean strapped down to a metal table with metal drawers behind him, the look on his face like he was screaming at you. You blinked, the ringing in your eyes loud and obnoxious, droning him out.

“Get up, fucking get up!” Dean shouted so loud you shook your head, a splitting headache cracking over you. “Y/N get out of here!” 

It took only a moment to discover that unlike Dean, you weren’t restrained in what was most likely the hospital morgue. Something was wrong though. A sedative? No. You were becoming more alert if anything but your arms were growing more tired, head becoming too heavy to lift.

“Something’s off,” you tried to say, the words caught in your throat, unable to be voiced. Your eyes flared wide, Dean’s drifting past you.

“Someone took a long time to wake up,” said a voice to your right. Suddenly a hand was under your head.

“Don’t you fucking touch her!” Dean snarled, your head set on a…stand? Something to keep it elevated and from rolling to the side. You tried to move but the message wasn’t getting to your body, your eyes glued on the handsome face with a just slightly off smile leaning over you.

“You were in a nasty accident, Agent Carlson. Unfortunately for you, your head trauma was too severe and you coded in the ER. Meanwhile Agent Manns in his grief unfortunately succumbed to his injuries. At least that’s what the autopsy report will say,” he said, inspecting what felt like a cut on your temple. “Such a shame. It won’t be my best work but you’re not the first law enforcement to cross me. Sadly no one will be able to discover your remains once you’re accidentally incinerated as John and Jane Doe but it’s good practice.”

“Let her go you fucking psycho,” growled Dean when the doctor moved out of view and returned with a pair of shears. 

“Psycho? I’m Dr. Thomas, ER Trauma physician and part-time pathologist. I’ve saved far more lives than I’ve taken, Agent Manns,” he said, snipping through your blouse. 

“What the fuck did you do to her?” Dr. Thomas bagged your shirt in a plastic bag nearby, doing the same with your pants and boots once they’d been removed.

“Paralyzing agent. Hard to come by but it has it’s advantages. No messy straps or ropes in the way,” he said, lifting your arm as you watched helplessly, cold metal against your skin as he cut through your bra straps.

“I swear to god I’m going to rip your spine out of your fucking face. If you touch her-”

“Not my style,” said Dr. Thomas, pulling away the fabric, sending a chill down your back. He gave you his focus again, a smirk on his face as he put two fingers to your neck. “Your heart is hammering away, isn’t it? Biology is fascinating that way. It’s so strange how an emotion such as fear can cause physical reactions in our bodies.”

“Get the fuck away from her!” shouted Dean. Dr. Thomas’ smile towards you dropped when he looked at Dean. He sighed and set the shears down, walking out of view.

“You’re really starting to irritate me,” he said, the distinct sound of tape being ripped from a roll filling the room and then Dean’s cries became muffled, only quiet thumping as he struggled coming from him now. Dr. Thomas appeared again wearing another smile. “Sorry about that. It’s always the men that get all squirmy. The women always live longer. Now, one could argue that’s because women have on average more blood in their bodies than men but I’ve gotten a fairly large sample size over the past decade to believe they’re psychologically stronger and therefore last longer.”

You tried hard to move your hand when he held up a scalpel near your face but nothing worked. 

Fuck if you could move anything you’d be shaking harder than a tree in a damn hurricane. Dean struggling right beside you with a front row seat was not helping.

“Now I like to explain all of my procedures to my patients beforehand. While you are paralyzed to a degree, you will still feel things. That’s perfectly normal.” You were wide eyed, Dr. Thomas chuckling. “The procedure typically takes me around thirty minutes. However, you’ll die from the blood loss or shock after roughly seven so don’t worry about that aspect. Considering you were in an accident less than an hour ago, I suspect it’s more like four or five for you which is unfortunate for me but it is what it is. Perhaps Agent Manns will give me more time.”

He lowered the scalpel to your shoulder and dug in hard to the skin, dragging it inward towards your chest. Your scream was caught in your throat as he did it on the other side to match.

Dean was shouting and thrashing on the table beside you but you couldn’t even turn your head to look. Dr. Thomas started talking about incisions and procedures and then you felt something completely unnatural against your arm, another shout trapped in your lungs. Forget the brave face. You would have been full on wailing if you were capable of it.

Crack. Snap. Shudder. Rip. It was around the time that Dr. Thomas held up something dark red and sticky looking that your body decided passing out was the best course of action. Unfortunately, it wasn’t doing that for some reason and you were stuck on the edge of consciousness, terrified and wishing something would come along and smash your head in to end this.

A loud bang shot out and something heavy smacked your leg, something else skirting against your side. 

“Dear god,” whispered Sam. Your eyes were locked open as you heard Sam rush over, staring down at you for only a split second before he moved to Dean. 

That was not good. You were far more injured that Dean, somewhere on the verge of death if you figured. Sam would have stopped to help you first.

Unless you were beyond saving.

“Sweetheart,” said Dean, grabbing one of your blood covered hands in both of his. Fuck he was crying. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You were so totally fucked. He looked over to Sam, Sam staring back with an open mouth. They couldn’t fix this. Shit, shit. You were going to die cut open like a Thanksgiving turkey. “W-What about Cas?”

“Dean,” said Sam, an air of resignation in his voice. “He’s in Kansas.”

“Jack then.”

“He’s with Cas. He doesn’t know how to-”

“A spell, a cure, something! Take her upstairs to a fucking doctor!” shouted Dean. 

“De. Half of her organs are…” said Sam as you got light headed, Dean’s hand running over your head. Dean found your face, his chin wobbling. “I-I don’t know what to do.”

“Then we sit with our girl,” said Dean softly, tucking a hair behind your ear. “And you fall asleep, sweetheart and when you wake up again, you’ll feel all better. I’ll come find you someday. Okay? Just close your eyes and try to sleep for me.”

Dean lowered his head, kissing your forehead as he fought back the tears that wanted to spill over. Sam took your other hand, squeezing it gently as you tried to do what he asked.

“Bloody hell, of course a Winchester took out a nutter like that. I’d have thunk he deserved more than a bullet,” said a familiar voice. 

“Rowena?” both boys echoed. She didn’t respond though, Sam’s hand dropping yours as a flash of red hair moved in front of you. You stared up at her, her hands cradling your cheeks.

“Dean, let go.” He did and about two seconds later you were shot straight upright, body in one piece, full of feeling and horror as you wrapped your arms over your chest, looking all around. 

“What the hell was that?” asked Sam while Dean shrugged out of his fed jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders, buttoning you up before he picked you up and was cradling you in his arms.

Rowena faced him with a hand on her hip, your own gaze falling down to where a dead Dr. Thomas lay on the floor, blood oozing from the back of his open head.

“Do you boys still not see me as a friend?” she asked, an undercurrent of hurt in her voice. You were shaking in Dean’s arms, clutching to his shirt with your too long sleeves. 

“You’re the queen of hell. Why would you stop a death?” asked Sam. She rolled her eyes and approached you, resting a hand on your arm.

“Because I’m the queen of hell and I do as I please, Samuel.” You wanted to say thank you but all you could manage was a few jumbled words as you buried yourself in Dean’s neck. “She’s in shock, quite bad. Best to take her home and let her rest.”

“Thank you Rowena,” said Dean, walking past her, stopping near the entrance to the room. “Next time you need something, just let us know and we’ll help.”

“Of course. I’ll take care of this mess. Oh and Y/N, dear?” You managed to lift your head, grateful to find Sam was right on Dean’s heels. “This lad is going to be spending a lot of time on the receiving end of what he gave out up here down in hell. I promise you that.”

You nodded, giving her a thumbs up. Dean kissed the top of your head, his hold on you tight.

“You’re going to be alright, sweetheart. Just give it some time.”

“How’s that feel?” asked Dean for what felt like the twentieth time back at the motel. You’d showered, took another another shower, took a bath, took another shower and currently were wrapped up in a mess of Dean’s pajamas on the bed with a big towel in your hair. 

“Better,” you said, your voice back with you once you’d gotten out of the hospital morgue. Sam was off relaying what he’d found to the local police. Apparently Dr. Thomas had worked on a few cases for the county but his sister it turned out was a hot shot detective who’d been covering for him for years. It was how he’d found out about you and Dean investigating.

Honestly that woman would be better off going out like her brother. She’d covered up a lot of murders for her brother. It’d be a miracle if someone didn’t take her out before then. Not that you particularly would mind that. 

You patted the bed beside you, Dean taking a seat and pulling you into his lap. He removed the damp towel and nuzzled the top of your head with his cheek, strong arms wrapped all around your body.

“So we really nailed that whole careful thing, huh?” you said. Dean chuckled deeply, inhaling the scent of your damp hair, a pretty lilac and vanilla blend you knew he liked. 

“How do you do that? Make me laugh when I don’t feel like ever laughing again,” he said, tightening his hold.

“Because I’m hilarious,” you said, closing your eyes, wrapping your hands around his forearms. “You might not understand this but what you said when I thought…you made me feel safe even when I was scared that was it. You were a guy protecting his girl tonight, even if it’s not the way you meant it.”

“Meant every word,” he whispered, breathing slowly. 

“Don’t you dare fucking apologize for not stopping it. There’s no way we saw that coming.”

“Okay,” he said, draping his legs over yours, leaning back against the headboard with you. “How’s that feel? Comfy?”

You smiled as you rolled your eyes at him, tucking in closer. “I got you, Winchester. I’ll be alright. A chocolate milkshake and order of fries wouldn’t hurt though.”

“You’re hungry? After all that?” he chuckled. 

“Yup. Ask Sam to pick some up on his way back,” you said, tilting your head back, kissing under his jaw. “Our date got cut short after all.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You couldn’t talk earlier,” he said, taking your hand, lacing your fingers together.

“I’ll have nightmares, I’m sure, and all the other crap we get. But right now in this moment, with you, I’m okay.” He smiled, holding your body against his.

“I love you so much. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Even if you do get kidnapped by serial killers.” You whacked his leg, Dean’s laugh rumbling against your back.

“Love you too, ya dork.”

_________

[happyhauntt]

a grey day — spencer reid.

writing masterlist | askbox

─── summary: spencer meets the newest member of the department.

─── pairing: spencer reid x autistic!medical examiner!reader.

─── warnings: fluff, reader is autistic & a mom, spencer's iq gets slashed to sixty when he talks to pretty girls and it's my favourite thing. no use of y/n. reader is performing an autopsy so mentions of blood but nothing too graphic.

─── word count: 1.3k.

     YOU KNOW IT'S A GREY DAY before you even manage to open your eyes.

     And really, you’re expecting it  ━  this whole week has been filled with pale pink and lime green with solid, unwavering turquoise blobs in the middle, because you started your new job on Monday and the apprehension, the excited, the nausea, they've all been stirring up inside you for days now.

     Waking up to a grey day doesn't hit you as hard as it usually would.

     Still, you feel sluggish when you drag yourself out of bed ten full minutes after your alarm has gone off. The shower is a no-go this morning  ━  if you’re honest with yourself, the shower is a no-go most mornings, when your skin feels soft and sensitive and your brain can't cope with the idea of a barrage of hot water raining down on you  ━  so you slap on some deodorant and spray some dry shampoo in your hair, tugging it up into a rough ponytail.

     You take your time with your makeup, though; strawberry lipgloss and lots of concealer, a heaping of eyeliner and your favourite gold hoop earrings are exactly what you need to feel better. When you step out into the hallway wearing your comfiest black jeans and a jumper that's probably smart enough to pass the dress code, hearing your daughter giggling in the kitchen, the grey day lightens a little.

     It gets even better when your sister-in-law presses a travel mug of iced coffee into your hands.

     "Jackie, I fucking adore you," you say around a mouthful of delicious, soul-quenching caffeinated goodness. You’d half-expected Jackie to have something planned. Four years of living together means that Jackie tends to know about your off days before you do.

     The other woman suppresses a smile, coupled with a sharp look. "There's a three-year-old right there!"

     You snort, waving your hand nonchalantly. As if you don't have this conversation every single day. "Nellie knows not to repeat what I say." You turn to your daughter, your heart swelling three sizes as the little girl at the kitchen table looks up from her drawing. "Nell, baby, what am I always telling you?"

     "Don't go home with strangers."

     "Well, yeah, but I meant the other thing."

     The little girl brightens, revealing a missing front tooth. "If Aunt Jackie won't say it, then I shouldn't say it."

      You giggle, scurrying over to drop a kiss on your daughter's forehead. "Exactly right, my little love."

     When you turn back toward the kitchen counter, your sister-in-law's face is painted with an affronted look, her mouth half-open. "I can say bad words!"

      You wrinkle your nose. "I'll believe that when I see it."

     By the time you leave the house, sliding into your car with a second cup of iced coffee in hand, the day has lightened to a pale blue. You hope it will stay that way.

     "YOU LOOK SO TIRED, DUDE."

     Well, alright, he'll admit it wasn't the first thing he was expecting to hear when he entered the coroner's office. It's been a while since he ventured down to the morgue, sure, but Dr. Peterson has never talked to him like that before, and he's fairly certain not that much has changed in the three-or-so weeks it's been.

     And Spencer's observant. He prides himself on being able to notice things, tiny details other people seem to miss, things that are so obvious to him that he can't comprehend how normal people can't see them.

     So if anyone asks, he'll never admit that it took a full twelve seconds before he realised that the girl in the white lab coat, elbow-deep in an open chest cavity, is definitely not Dr. Peterson.

     "Uh..."

     It's the most intelligent response he can muster in the moment.

     "It's okay," you add, hardly bothering to look up from the corpse. "I'm tired too. And you're not the worst-looking guy in the room." You jerk your head at the dead guy on the table. "Although I'd say that's a pretty low bar, all things considered."

     "Where's Dr. Peterson?"

     "He retired. Or got a promotion, I think? Not totally sure." You shrug, raising an eyebrow at him. "I thought I'd met most of the department already, but I don't recognise you.” You tell him your name, squinting at him through your plastic glasses.”I’m the new... coroner, medical examiner, pathologist, dancing monkey? They didn't totally specify the position when they offered it, which I think says more about me than anything else."

     Spencer blinks. He's not totally sure he's ever met anyone who could talk nearly as fast as him before. "Dr. Spencer Reid, Behavioral Analysis Unit. Nice to meet you."

     "Oh, cool!" The liver in your hands gives a wet squelch as you drop it into a metal dish. "I'm under the BAU! I answer to your Section Chief, um, Agent Strauss? She's a little harsh, huh? I'd, uh, shake your hand, but..." You hold both hands up, mimicking a surrender, showing off the blue medical gloves slick with blood.

     An inkling of a smile creeps onto Spencer's face. "I don't shake hands."

     "That's fair," you say with a shrug. "Can I help you, Dr. Reid, or did you get lost looking for the cafeteria?"

     “No, actually.” He remembers the files he was supposed to show you and reaches into his satchel. The intensity of your gaze is like lasers on his skin and he can’t help but fumble, almost sending a stack of documents scattering across the floor.

     When he looks back up at you, cheeks flushed rosy, your stare hasn’t wavered even slightly. Amusement lingers in your eyes.

     He clears his throat and holds out the files as if they are a peace offering. He doesn’t quite understand whether a battle has been fought, but he definitely feels like he lost one. “Hotch— uh, Agent Hotchner sent the Howard County ME’s report on the Richardson case. He wanted you to look it over and sign off before they file it for the District Attorney.”

     You nod at him. The corner of your mouth quirks a little at his stuttering. You’re not sure you’ve ever been so immediately endeared to somebody before, but there he is, blinking at you like a deer caught in headlights. It’s so adorable.

     “Sure, I can do that,” you say. “Just pop it on the desk over there and I’ll get on with it when I’m done here. Can’t get any bodily fluids on the paperwork, y’know? That’d be a nightmare.”

     The volume of your laugh startles him, and he jerks slightly. The sound of it is loud and warm and it should really freak him out, considering you’re wrist-deep in a cadaver and cackling like a maniac, but it doesn’t. It’s actually kind of sweet.

     “If that’s all, Dr, Reid, I’d like to finish rooting through this guy’s insides so I can sew him back up.” Your words are an obvious dismissal, but he doesn’t feel offended, not with the kind smile still adorning your features.

     He nods and backs away. His feet feel a little numb. “Sure thing. I’ll, uh, catch you later. Have fun!”

     “I’m sure I will.”

     You sound like you’re about to laugh again. Have fun, really? He knows he’s fairly inept when it comes to women, but have fun? He scurries out of the morgue and back into the land of the living, and as Spencer boards the elevator all he can think is that he’s so glad Derek wasn’t there to witness that.

     He’s certain he’d never live it down.

     Meanwhile you resume your autopsy with an odd, fuzzy feeling in your chest. You start to hum beneath your breath, a song that must have played on the radio while you were driving to work.

     Your grey day feels a little pink at the edges.

[nonbinary-potatoes]

Prompt: Change 19/10/24 @rosekillermicrofic

Word count: 811

(Was feeling super motivated to write today, but it's not proofread)

Barty would never understand why Evan and Regulus liked the library so much. It was too quiet most of the time, and the room temperature was always too warm for a jumper but too cold not to have one. Still, Barty sat in his seat and doodled mindlessly onto parchment because he'd rather be bored out of his mind in the company of his boyfriend and best friend than bored out of his mind by himself At least there was something to do here, and being alone was always a recipe for trouble when it came to Barty.

"Nice drawing, Bug," Evan muttered softly, looking up from his notes briefly and smiling at the sketch Barty had been half-heartedly working on. There were some basic anatomy sketches, based on the pictures in the book Regulus was working on - some bullshit about healer school prep. But it was fun to draw, and the pictures were pretty cool, especially the ones from autopsy results. Barty smiled, writing an I and a U on either side of an anatomical heart and sliding the parchment towards Evan who took it, folded it, and tucked it safely into his breast pocket on his shirt. "I heart you too," he mumbled before returning to his notes.

"Heyyyyy Junior," an annoying voice drawled out, some blonde girl strutting over the table the three were working at. She batted her eyelashes and smirked, clearly wanting something. Barty recognised her as some hookup from a while ago, Chloe, maybe? Some C name.

"Yeah?" Barty squinted at her suspiciously. She leant over the table the buttons on her blouse undone at the top, showing off far too much cleavage for a casual interaction. She pouted before running a tongue over her teeth and speaking in a disgustingly sweet voice.

"A little birdy told me that you're not seeing any girls at the moment... so I safely assume you're on the pull..." she drawled her words in a particularly annoying way, Barty was coping by imagining using her as a specimen for an autopsy. At least this conversation had given him some insight on a possible future career option.

"Me, you. Hogsmeade tomorrow, get me a drink, and we can come back to my dorm afterwards." She was straight to the point; credit where credit was due. Evan wrinkled his nose but stayed occupied on his notes. A shame, really. Barty would've liked to see him shut her down.

"Sorry, dollface got plans. Can't change em" Barty shrugged her off, encouraging her to quiet while she was ahead. Unfortunately it was rather unbelievable that Barty wasn't actively hunting down someone to sleep with, he wasn't exactly known for his celibacy in the same way he wasn't known for his ability to maintain a longterm relationship. He had since realised that he just didn't get that spark for women. There was never any romance... no desire to make it last the same way there was with Evan.

She reached foreward, walking her fingers up Barty's chest and pushing his chin up to look at her face. It was a rather disgusting plea for attention, attention Barty wasn't going to give her.

"Yeh bitch, we have fucking plans" Evan grumbled quietly, clearly not too please with the attention she was giving Barty but he wasn't often the type to cause a scene unlike Barty who didn't mind putting people in their place. She glanced at Evan and raised an eyebrow. "Who invited you to my conversation? You swot." She scrunched her nose up. She looked a lot like an ugly hare. Somehow, the way she spoke to Evan made her look even uglier.

"Don't talk to him like that," Barty snarled, swatting her hand from his face. He had no shame in punching her if the need arose. Luckily for her, she seemed to get the idea that Barty didn't want her unsolicited touching.

She frowned, suddenly looking much less friendly. Kissing her teeth, she stood up and buttoned her blouse back up properly. "Fucking enjoy your date with your bros" she muttered, gesturing to Evan and Regulus and glancing between them like they were offensive. She leaned close again to whisper "I don't get why you're cockblocking yourself Crouch" spitting the words out bitterly, she gestured widely to herself "what's not to want?"

"The clap," Regulus says before chuckling to himself and going back to his book, clearly proud of the comeback. The girl looked even more offended now, much to Barty's amusement.

"I'll enjoy my date with my boyfriend... and then after that, I'll very much enjoy-" Barty was cut off by Evans hand clasped over his mouth, giving Barty that stern look that easily made him shut up and not even consider talking. He smiled with his eyes and waggled his fingers as the girl stormed off, looking half disgusted and half disappointed.

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 10: EITHER FICKLE OR A FRIEND (OR A REALLY FUCKING FICKLE FRIEND)

synopsis: connor and you have a conversation. it's not uncomfortable, per se, but it's weird. connor's acting weird.

word count: 2.4k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: me? projecting onto y/n? it's more likely than you think

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya , @n30n-f43 , @igna4400 (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

Connor’s sitting in his unofficially designated chair in the corner of the android autopsy room, and you’re puttering about, stealing glances at him out of the corner of your eye.

Again, the loud and prideful creature in you is baying and yowling like a dog near death. It’s telling you to kick him out – that his kind-of-aggression and kind-of-manipulation is completely unforgivable. It curses at you for your faults, for being weak for him when he feels absolutely nothing for you. 

But you swallow it. You stomp it down and tell it to be quiet for now. 

You pat the autopsy table. It’s surprisingly loud, and startles you a little. “Khm… if you’d like to get started on the memory transfer, you can get up on the table.”

Connor stands and moves over to the autopsy table. He sits on it and leans forward, his elbows on his knees. 

You pull a couple of cables from a drawer in your desk and plug them into the side of one of your computers. When you turn to Connor, you hold up the other ends of them. “I need to plug these into your ports.”

Connor turns his head to the side and presses behind his ear. The plastic of his skin slides back, revealing two small ports. 

“Jacking in. Don’t move.” You grab Connor’s jaw to steady him, then jack in the ports one at a time. 

You pull away and turn to your monitor before you fully register what you just did. You’re so used to doing it out of instinct that you didn’t realize you were holding his face. You feel the tips of your ears start to burn, but clear your throat and try to shake it off. 

“I’m going to sift through your memory banks,” you say without turning to look at him. “Have you had this… well, I usually call it an operation, but it’s not really one. Have you had a query run on your memory before?”

“Not by an external source,” Connor says. “But I do recall the events that happened throughout the day and process them while in standby or rest mode.”

“So you call queries on yourself?” You say. “Huh. Never heard of androids doing that before. But I guess you are a prototype.”

You put your head down and start to type. “Give me temporary access to your systems?”

A pop-up appears on your monitor:

> Android “Connor” (model RK800) giving admin access to Memory Banks. Accept access? Y/N

You click accept and multiple windows appear on your screen. You sort through them and find what you’re looking for. You quickly type:

RK800.memory-banks(location.search);

//=> ‘?Jericho’ {date=11-08-2038} 

A short clip comes up after a few seconds of load time. It starts with a first-person shot of Connor looking at you (god, did you really look that worried?), then takes off and charges the deviant. He connects with the other android, and then you see it: Jericho, painted on a piece of rusty metal, just like how Connor described. Then, Connor is ripped from his connection. The video ends.

“That looks like a…” you mutter to yourself. You don’t finish the sentence. 

“Looks like a what?” Connor pipes up from behind you. 

You rewind the footage from Connor’s memory banks and look at it again. “I was going to say it looks like a boat, but…”

“It’s highly unlikely that the deviants are residing on a boat,” Connor says. “There aren’t many abandoned boats along the Detroit River, and certainly not one big enough to house most of the deviant androids.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” you say. “It’s not like there’s just a freighter floating around for them to take.”

You put your head down again and put in the commands to copy the video to your desktop. After a few seconds, it’s done. 

“Okay.” You pull away from the keyboard and turn to Connor. “I’m done.”

“Actually, Officer?” Connor asks.

Your eyebrows furrow. “Yes?”

He glances away, then back to you. “Do you have the equipment required to run a diagnostic on an android?”

“Uh…” You let out an exhale of air with something between confusion and disbelief. “Yeah? Yeah, I do. Why?”

“Can you run a diagnostic on me?” Connor asks.

“Wh…” Your face twists in confusion. “Why would you want that? I thought you had the operating power to run diagnostics on yourself.”

“I do,” Connor says, and it’s almost like there’s a hint of defensiveness in his tone. “But… I’d just like a second opinion.”

You nod, slowly. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll get that up and running.”

You turn back to the computer and close the running programs to make space for the ones you open. When you’re done, you move over to Connor and remove the cables after warning him. You almost cradle his head as you press your left palm to the port behind his ear, your thumb on his cheek. (The proud creature inside you whines and barks and kicks your liver at that.)

The wires from your glove quickly replace the cables that were just there a moment ago. Connor’s eye twitches once. 

You look over your shoulder at the computer. It’s already automatically running the diagnostic you queued up – way too slow for your liking, might you add.

“Do you have any more books on Russian literature?” Connor asks out of the blue.

You turn back to him. “Yeah. Russians of the past loved to philosophize and think. There wasn’t much else to do when most of the year was spent below freezing for most people. Why do you ask?”

“I was just curious,” Connor says. “I want to know more about you.”

You do your best to hide the bitterness that boils up in your belly. You honestly can’t tell if this is Connor trying to make conversation or another one of his little manipulative tactics. You can do nothing but operate on blind faith.

Connor glances at you out of the corner of his eye, then looks forward. “What is Russian literature about?”

You hem and haw and collect your thoughts before speaking. “It has sobornost, metaphysics, religiosity, intuitionism, positivism, realism… but I like the ones that are more universal. The ones that can apply to everyone.”

“What do you mean?” He says.

“The books about the fear of failure, and the fear of death. How it sucks to be Russian.” You shrug with one arm, trying not to jostle Connor too much. “I mean, all national literatures are – only the name of the nation changes.”

“Hm,” Connor hums and looks down. Looks like you’ve given him something to think about for the time being. 

You look over your shoulder, and the computer screen shows that the diagnostic is nearly done. When it finally finishes, you disengage the wires, the palm of your hand and fingers cool where it touched Connor’s skin. 

You step back and turn to the computer, looking over the diagnostic report. Everything seems normal, and the ALL SYSTEMS NOMINAL! message at the bottom of the page confirms that.

“Yeah, you’re fine,” you say. “Not a hair out of place.”

You turn and lean back against the desk. Connor is looking down at the ground. He stays like that for a second, then looks up at you.

“Do you have books on the history of the USSR?” He asks. You internally note his (maybe unintentional) dismissal of the diagnostic report.

“Yeah.” You open a drawer and pull out the first book you see, then hold it up for Connor. It’s a book that was published in the late 1900’s, named The Reversal of Archduke Franz Ferdinand: How the Death of Agent Ekaterina Nechayeva Prevented the Collapse of the USSR. 

“This one is about the Kollektiv 2.0 Disaster and how the death of Major Sergey Nechayev’s wife inadvertently prevented things from…” You think for a moment. “Well, not from going wrong, but from things getting worse.”

You look down at the book. “It’s the same butterfly effect Archduke Franz Ferdinand created, but in reverse. She saved lives by dying instead of ending them.”

“That’s interesting,” Connor says.

“Somewhat.” You put the book back and shut the drawer, then look back up at Connor. “Kind of like… you. You could’ve died killing that deviant in Stratford Tower – the station android. But you risked that to save human lives.” You narrow your eyes at him. “Why?”

Connor looks at you with those big doe eyes. He blinks and tilts his head to the side. “If the deviant succeeded in its mission of a mass shooting, it would’ve most likely killed Lieutenant Anderson, too. Like I said a few days ago, I need both the Officer and the Lieutenant for maximum efficiency when solving this case.”

“So you put your secondary mission above your first,” you say. “Because hunting deviants is your top objective, yes? So you put the safety of Hank above your primary mission.”

“I…” Connor’s LED turns yellow, then returns to blue. “Yes, I did. Because Lieutenant Anderson’s safety was compromised at that moment.”

You hum and lean back, crossing your arms. You didn’t exactly love putting him in situations like this – ones where he was forced to reflect inwardly, guided by your hand. How you both somehow rounded back to these conversations and topics was almost like a base instinct, spurred on by your primal reptilian hindbrain and his innermost motherboards. 

“Why do you keep doubting my non-deviancy status?” Connor finally asks. 

“I…” You exhale sharply. “I’m just not used to being around androids that are so expressive. I know it’s part of your… social relations program or your interrogation software, but still. Maybe I’m just a fool.”

You tap the front of the drawer you just shut. “Not a fool regarding books or cybernetics or polymer, but a fool regarding relationships.”

Connor looks at you weirdly. “Officer, we’re not… in a relationship.”

“Not like that!” You feel your face grow warm. “We’re two people that have met each other. By definition, we have a relationship.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well, what do you think of our relationship?”

“I mean…” You look up at the ceiling, your eyes tracing the outlines of the tiles. “I’ve always had trouble putting people into boxes. My mind seems to blur the lines between stranger, acquaintance, and friend. So most people, even friends, just default to some weird in-between.”

Your eyes return to Connor. “Are we… friends? Because I don’t know if we are. I don’t mean that in a bad way, I just… truly don’t know.”

Connor tilts his head to the side. It kind of reminds you of a puppy looking at something it doesn’t understand. “I believe so.”

You allow yourself to feel just a spark of hope, but you’re careful to not let it ignite into a Californian wildfire. You bite the inside of your lip to keep from smiling too widely. “It would be nice to be friends. But… you have to promise me something.”

“Yes?” He says.

You steel your expression. “You admitted to basically manipulating me to get into my good graces. Please, don’t do that again. I don’t want you to be fake around me. I…” You swallow thickly. The creature of pride in your belly is baying and scratching at the walls of your stomach. “I don’t want the Connor who kisses ass at every opportunity, or the one who worships the dirt I piss on. I want the real Connor. Even if… even if the real Connor is just a machine.”

Connor just stares at you, almost unblinking. His LED is circling in on itself in a steady yellow. You feel your face start to burn hot with shame and you’re just about ready to fall through the ground. Your eyes fall to the floor.

“Uh, never mind, forget I said –”

“No,” Connor cuts you off. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll try my best not to… ‘kiss ass’ in the future.”

You feel a laugh bubble up in your throat and you can’t even stop it before it spills from your lips. It’s so sudden that you have to bring a hand to your mouth to try to silence yourself.

Connor looks at you inquisitively. “Why are you laughing?”

“You…” You giggle, then clear your throat. “That’s the first time I’ve heard you curse. It sounds weird coming from you. Like it’s foreign.”

“I’ve always been able to curse,” Connor says. “I just don’t feel the need to.”

“I know,” you say. “It’s just… odd, is all. I’m not used to it. Like when someone tells you the sky is blue. You have to pause for a moment, then you think, ‘Oh, of course. That’s obvious.’ Not because you didn’t know that the sky is blue, but because you’re not used to people stating the obvious like that.”

“Huh.” Connor looks down at the floor. “You talk a lot. It’s useful for my machine learning algorithms.”

You perk up a little at that. To hear Connor say that he likes when you talk, even in a completely roundabout way, is… weirdly comforting. (You can faintly feel the dry grass around the spark of hope catching fire in your chest. The proud beast stomps out the growing flames and keeps it in check to make sure it stays just that – a small, flickering spark.)

“Well, khm…” you look away and scratch your cheek. “Thank you.”

Connor nods, but doesn’t speak.

You glance at the clock on one of your many monitors. It’s nearing seven in the evening. “I should probably get going. It’s getting late.”

“It is,” Connor says. 

You quickly save everything on your computer and shut off the monitors. You grab your coat from the back of your chair by your desk and shrug it on. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” You say. 

“Yes.” Connor’s eyes twitch and his LED flashes yellow for a moment. “Lieutenant Anderson has just alerted me that his request for a meeting with Elijah Kamski has been accepted. It’s set for 11:20 AM tomorrow.”

You nod. “And I’m assuming Hank will swing by to pick me up.”

“Yes,” Connor says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Officer. Have a good night.”

You smile at him, a lightness in your chest. “You too.”

[postcardsfromheapside]

There's something so funny to me about assuming that anyone who is enamored of Emmrich would be put off by an autopsy table in his room, as if seeing him command mouldering skeletons to fight in the reveal trailer wasn't the reason we realized we wanted to fuck that old man in the first place.

Lol

“Oh no he practices SCIENCE in his rooms, are you AWARE.”

The thought does distract me and keep me up at night. Heinously.

[hmslusitania]

Ranking the Companion’s Rooms by Sleeping Situation

1. Davrin

That is a real, actual bed. It is in an alcove. It is made. There’s a goddamn throw pillow. 10/10, responsible dad

2. Taash

That is ALSO a real bed! It doesn’t have pillows but there’s a horn situation going on that I can’t speak to so probably the lack of pillow is intentional. 8/10.

3. Rook

This couch and the fade!fish have seen More Things than either probably needs to, but the couch gets bonus points for style and looking comfy if not cosy. 6/10.

4. Bellara

I’ll be honest I totally missed that she had an actually mattressed cot in here until I went to take this picture. One bonus point for it being stylish and her room being pretty overall. 5/10

5. Lucanis

That is… a camp bed you put in the pantry. It is, however, an actual designated bed with a cushion and a bed roll. 4/10.

6. Harding

I took this picture early in the game so her room is not yet the beauty it becomes, BUT she ranks higher than some others because a) I’m 100% sure of where she sleeps and b) she’s a stone-magic dwarf so theoretically sleeping on quarried rock isn’t as painful to her as it might be to, say, me. 2/10

7. Neve

I can’t say for sure that you actually sleep on this bench in your office but it’s also the only candidate. The good detective could use a lesson not only in scurvy but in lumbar support. 1/10

8. Emmrich

My dude literally where the FUCK do you sleep?!

…please tell me its not on your autopsy table

0/10

[aloysiavirgata]

Fisher King prompt: dark crescendoing to light. Daniel Waterson and his baggage come back into her now-married life; maybe by way of the autopsy table. A dark case comes across Mulder’s desk. You pick. A happy surprise at the end to bring them both out of it?

Thanks, lady.

It is the dead nurse that catches his attention. Two days back from his honeymoon, attaboys and filthy jokes and cigars and a stack of manila folders on his dust-rimed desk.

Pendrell whistles when he sees Mulder, makes a predictable playing-doctor joke. He leers as though it obscures the soulful puppy wetness of his face. As though he hasn’t noticed Dana at crime scenes before, the autumn bonfire of her hair. Her tourmaline eyes.

Mulder thumbs the band on his left ring finger, spins it a little in the cool morning light. Flips them all off with good-natured grouchiness as he makes his way to the elevator. He thinks it might be fun to be an old man, to listen to the slap of his bedroom slippers on the grocery store linoleum.

The air in his office smells like cardboard boxes, like ghosts of lo mein and forgotten pizza. Copier toner. Pencil shavings.

His wife says, “Honestly, Mulder,” and makes chicken sandwiches from dinner leftovers, makes him salads with salmon and almonds and avocados and says he needs to gain eight pounds. He’s taken to her demands like a stray cat adjusting to life indoors. He’s growing glossy and sleek, full of essential amino acids.

Full of life.

***

There is no congestion in any of the organs. No petechiae in her eyes, no blood clots in the fragile slices of brain. Lips, mouth, esophagus free of corrosion, not an aneurysm the size of a poppy seed. The bruises and claw marks on her gray throat are her own doing. There are over a dozen witnesses.

Her nails are clotted with her own crumpled skin.

Dana pokes her finger into the aorta, sniffs the dead, butcher-shop air of Ludovica’s mouth. She prods at the lungs and hunts for lesions and surfactant. The nurse’s stomach contains a half-digested bagel and tuna salad. The muscular walls are in the very pink of health. She has lungs like freshly chewed bubblegum.

Dana huffs a strand of hair off her lip. She does not want to call him.

***

“What killed her?” Mulder asks, around a mouthful leftover quiche. God it’s good. She caramelized the onions, used two semesters of organic chemistry on the pastry and can declaim on the Maillard Reaction in a voice fit for Showtime.

“I’m working on it,” his wife says, brisk. “Thus far it seems to be nothing, which is a bit of a problem, medically speaking.”

“How embarrassing,” Mulder says, hunting around for another chunk of broccoli. “To die of nothing. You talk to this Waterston chappie yet?

Silence.

“Dr. Scully?”

A sigh.

Mulder’s brow furrows. “Dana Katherine, what gives?”

She sighs again. “You remember that med school professor I told you about? Funny story…”

***

He gazes at her the way tourists gawp at the Mona Lisa; not with a particular appreciation, just a bit awed that they can check it off their bucket lists.

Twice, for Daniel. A certain chumminess. A hint of inside jokes and favorite restaurants and that-lovely-inn-we-stayed-at. Of possessiveness. Territoriality.

Mulder shakes his head, just a twitch. Just enough to clear Daniel’s smug carnal knowledge of his wife away. Mulder’s fucked people’s daughters as well. People’s wives. There was one at Oxford, Honora, her husband a full professor and he -

Mulder doesn’t say this. He doesn’t say anything as Daniel stares at his Rossetti wife, undoubtedly thinks about the determined twitch of her twenty-one year old ponytail and her scuffed Keds and her slipshod Navy brat graces and her body like Artemis bathing by moonlight.

But Daniel’s alone and Mulder isn’t.

Dana isn’t alone either because, against all reason and karma, she’s married him, married Fox Mulder, like it was an absolutely sane thing to do, and her family simply went along with it.

“Tell me what you saw,” says Mulder, with the gentle absolution of a priest. “No judgement here,” he lies. She was hardly more than a girl, she was an innocent, she trusted you, you fucking asshole, you predator, you-

Daniel looks at Dana. Looks down at his surgeon’s hands. No ring on any of his fingers.

Daniel closes his eyes and looks at nothing.

“We began a midline sternotomy, absolutely routine, Suddenly Ludovica - Nurse Giordano - grabbed her throat and said she couldn’t breathe. She…she screamed Diavola! Said there was sulfur, said it was mustard gas, but none of the rest of us smelled a damn thing. But she was thrashing on the floor of the OR and our patient was-“

He looks around then, catches Dana’s eye, shyness in his expression. Shyness in his fatherly face. Dana had looked up at it for approval, no doubt. In what she probably thought was passion. Maybe even love.

Dana nods encouragingly and Mulder feels it then, the weight of years. He understands in that moment that time really is the fourth dimension; that it has a hot, heavy plasticity into which you can sink. He understands the realness of an event horizon, that they are all being pulled towards the unfinished thing between Daniel and his wife, Ludovica Giordano’s corpse included.

His wife was a physics major, his wife rewrote Einstein with the ebullient narcissism of the young.

He understands that his wife and Daniel speak the same primal, arcane language of science. He is a lowly psychologist, the major you pick when you can’t get into dental school but still want to Help Others.

Kepler’s Third Law tells us that intensity equals the inverse of the square of the distance from the source.

And he’s brought Daniel back into her orbit.

***

“I can’t believe you fucked him,” Mulder gasps into her tender seashell ear. An inch from her extraordinary brain.

“I was a child,” she hisses back. “Essentially. Don’t stop, Christ, don’t - I was a child, I-“

She was, she was, she was Eos newly born, she was radiant and young, she was Persephone to Daniel’s Hades, she was fresh milk at Ostara, and a sunrise over the Atlantic.

“Did you love him?”

Her thighs so taut and pale and quivering. Her wedding dress, her misty veil. Her palimpsest skin, on which he can rewrite himself.

“I thought I did but but it wasn’t this, it was never this, it was never you, I-“

Mulder comes in her, groaning, feels the tiniest sting of shame at how good it is to reclaim her from this other man.

***

“Dana,” Daniel says, heavy-tongued for Mulder’s consecrated, Catholic wife. He is hard; he shifts in the uncomfortable chair.

Mulder knows and Dana knows and the air is thick with this knowledge but strangely not unpleasant. The air is July just before a thunderstorm. The air is dense and verging. Primal, fecund, cataclysmic.

Hot.

Green.

Alive.

The air tastes like a 9-volt battery. He wants to put a baby into his wife.

“You were there,” Mulder says, his buckskin hands woven and laced. “What did you see?”

Daniel looks at Dana, Daniel is here for Dana, because he believes she is cold and lonely and alone in the way of the outer planets. He still thinks only he can warm her.

(He doesn’t know, Daniel, not really, that there is a solid core beneath the icy mist.)

She’s too distant and abstruse and Daniel doesn’t know.

***

Daniel smirks at Mulder, this old man who felt briefly alive in the hot juncture of his wife’s thighs; smirks as though he’s done anything real at all. They view the human heart so differently, he and Daniel.

Dana - Dr. Scully - rests her palms against her sharp tweed knee. She only wants to know what stops any human heart from beating. What shuts the brain down, from prefrontal cortex in a cascade to the lowly lizard stem.

“What did you see, Daniel?” She is poised and tensed. She is waiting. She is untouchable.

Mulder - Fox - is disarmed by the chill of her haughty face. Her Plutonian eyes are so very, very cold . So very, very far.

Ice could never be so warm.

***

“‘Maggie,” he breathes, into her amber light. Into her aura, in her husband’s office, after Mulder went out for their lunch order.

“No,” Dana says. “I don’t care. Tell me about the nurse.”

Daniel huffs. “I don’t know, it was nothing, Dana, Maggie said-“

“I don’t care,” Dana says, crisp. “I don’t care about your daughter. You certainly didn’t, when you brought me to your bed.

Daniel is appalled. “Dana, you were-“

“I know what I was,” she replies. “I knew what I was doing and I don’t regret it, not really. But I didn’t understand what you were, not then. And you should regret me, Daniel.”

He looks at her, his brows drawn.

He looks away, back through the years. Dana, all sharpened Ticonderogas and her mouth an unplucked apricot. Skin like fresh-churned butter.

“She was…she was gasping,” he says to the wall of of clippings. To the Flatwoods Monster and wendigos and little lost girls and stills from the Zapruder Footage. “She was clawing at her throat, she…diavola.”

Diavola.

Daniel looks at the ceiling. “She clawed her throat to ribbons,” he says. “She said our patient was full of demons, she said…” He shakes his head and looks at Dana again.

Dana knows. Dana has seen. Has read and wondered and wondered, considered the Gerasene demoniac in the synoptic gospels. Tooms at her belly on the chilly tile of her bathroom…

It will do no good. Whatever her husband says, the truth is not always a panacea. The patient has lived and Ludovica has died and all anyone wants is official paper with Dana’s name at the bottom.

A reckoning, now. A choice.

“Anaphylaxis?” Dana murmurs, in the perfume and cashmere of a different rich man’s wife. She puts a little throatiness in her voice now, like she did after Dr. Waterston spoke to her in private about Starling’s Law. She can give him this. She can give Ludovica’s family this.

Diavola.

Mulder is right, Mulder is almost always right. But Mulder is right in his own time and Ludovica’s family needs her home.

Daniel catches the lifeline she throws, grateful.

Humbled.

Daniel, when his gaze returns, is a bit smaller in her eyes. “Yes,” he says. “It must have been.”

***

They’re eating dinner at the Peruvian chicken place on the corner because Dana is hollow and Mulder has moderately weaponized his own culinary incompetence.

“Ansel died today,” she says, poking at her rice.

Mulder nearly chokes on a mouthful of black beans. “What?!”

“Died. Massive coronary at his desk. Dead within seconds.”

Mulder gapes. Ansel Jordan, Chief Medical Examiner in DC; the alpha and omega of the unexpectedly dead in the District. “He ran marathons.”

Dana nods into the middle distance. “He ran marathons. He had a treadmill in his office. He was 57 and he was my boss and I split his chest apart with a Stryker before his body had even cooled this morning. My god, I forgot what warm tissue feels like.”

She looks up with her wide, delphinium eyes. “They asked me, Mulder.”

They asked? He is appalled. “They asked you to autopsy him? That’s really fu-“

She shakes her head. “No, nobody asked me that. No one would ever. I volunteered, it was the right thing to do, for my colleagues. For Ansel. We were hardly close but I had tremendous respect for the man.”

Ansel was a runner. He ate well and drank in moderation. He cared for his body like a classic car; starting to slow down but with lots of miles left.

The human body is strange and unpredictable.

“Are you okay?” How do you cut open a man you know? He cannot believe she didn’t call this morning but also of course she didn’t call this morning. She is an eternal riddle, a beautiful enigma.

“I’m surprisingly fine,” she says. “I mean, it’s horrible and pointless and tragic. But the process of an autopsy…it soothed me. I knew what to do and there was a…a checklist.”

He smiles, soft. “You’re always a doctor first.”

Dana shrugs, fluid and dismissive. “I guess.”

He realizes then, awed. Adoring. “They want you to… to step in, to be Chief. Dana, that’s incredible, that’s a huge honor. I’m sorry it’s come at the cost of Ansel, but Christ. It’s tremendous.”

He will never achieve this in his own career and is delighted that she can.

Dana nods slowly, a blush creeping up her fine, pale cheeks. She spears a plantain and examines it on the end of her fork. “It’s obviously not a formal offer yet, my god, he’s only just been released to the family, but yes. It’s tremendous.” She bites into the plantain.

He thinks back to that feeling of wanting a baby, wanting her to have it, and knows that the new Chief Medical Examiner of DC will have other pressures, other concerns.

She’s expressed interest in babies in a vague sort of way, but doesn’t want them like he does. Dana grew up with hand-me-downs and home haircuts and spaghetti the last week of every month. She knows that babies grow into scraped-kneed children who need lunch money and trombones and French tutors and football uniforms.

He’s rich enough for it all, for night nurses and nannies, but he knows her body is not a rental property. He wants a baby, he does, but he also doesn’t care if it means this for her. He doesn’t care if her star can rise.

“I love you,” he says, raising his plastic cup of horchata. “And I’m so goddamn sorry about Ansel.”

She lifts hers back, his wife, her old-master face and her slapdash smile. “Thank you,” she says, still pained. “And slaínte.”

“L’chaim,” he replies. To life.

[finniestoncrane]

What's a kink of each of the riddlers that you feel like you haven't really talked about?

More Riddler Kinks

Riddler Headcanons hooray, finally getting round to this one after the event!! it's a long one too oops... ok i am got INTO this. some of them i think i've mentioned before but i am so glad to put my silly little thoughts into more detail 💚 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: so many potentially triggering kinks here, cnc, piss, free use, roleplay, rough sex, violence, monster fucking, nude photography

dano

i have written about it a LOT but he definitely has a thing for cnc/rape play

and with him, it comes from a space of feeling like he's not good enough, and follows his life's trajectory of having to take things he wants rather than wait patiently for them to come to him

he wants to be in control of a situation, something he's never had before in any aspect of life

something that allows him to feel like he's in charge, that he's got the power

and at the same time, it's so emotionally fulfilling for him to be trusted by someone to that extent

to know a partner is willing to allow themselves to be so vulnerable around him, to get to be so close and intimate with someone

to feel like he's someone you have actively chosen to trust and let him take part in something like that

and to speak to him like an intelligent adult while you cover rules and boundaries and safe-words

that's so healing for him to experience, and it only amplifies his sweet and adoring behaviour outside of your more intense bedroom sessions

plus, any excuse to offer you the most satisfactorily sickeningly sweet aftercare, that's what he's really after

arkham

i play with this man like he's a fucking doll honestly there's not a kink i wouldn't give him, but allow me to delve into my most recent fixation

because i'm giving him a piss kink and no one can stop me

i don't think it's so much about the piss for him, more about the mess and the sense of control over someone's behaviours and habits

definitely about the embarrassment and humiliation

because the minute you let yourself go, the minute you're vulnerable standing or sitting in front of him

bound by his rules to not interrupt him for bathroom breaks

knowing that any mess you make is your own fault

that's when he gets his kicks

and the ability to chastise and degrade you for making a mess of yourself and having very little self-control is an added benefit

telling you how ashamed you should be, while you can see the smug smile on his face and the growing tent at the front of his stupid cargo pants

i don't think he'd piss in you or on you though. as messy as he is i think even he knows standards of good practice when it comes to germs and such

(he's filthy, yes, but very picky over certain textures and substances, it's the autism)

plus the act of him defiling you would be too much, since this idiot harbours intense feelings of admiration and respect that he's too scared or embarrassed to admit to

gotham

i don't think i've gone into too much detail about his medical fetish, but he definitely has one

i mean, i did write that thing on the autopsy table... but anyway!

definitely veering towards the experimental side of medical roleplay

he'll get all of the correct gear on, nothing inherently sexual about it unless you're into that kind of thing

protective gear though, a smock, rubber gloves, maybe a mask

and you'll be expected to be fully nude, all of you exposed to him so that he can test the limits of each part of you

see how every square inch of your skin reacts to his touch

or to his various 'tools' that he's got, sterilised and prepared to work on you

there's no medical benefits to this, he's not aiming to fix you

but he is definitely good at making you feel much, much better than you did before you were laid down on his table

teased, torturous edging, new experiences and toys

until you're a shuddering mess, ready to be eased up for some aftercare before he cleans up for your next appointment

his desire to study you, to see what makes you tick and what makes you make the sweetest sounds is what motivates him here

and he will take rigorous and extensive notes during and afterwards

and then study them in his down time (or alone time)

telltale

corruption, for sure. like his whole personality revolves around being the best and greatest manipulator and schemer that ever was

so corrupting your innocence, real or roleplayed, gives him everything he wants from a sexual encounter

and in a relationship

it's not like he's 24/7 on with the whole "i am your master" thing

but it leeches into everyday life easily enough when you spend a lot of time in his company

any roleplay scenario where he can play an authoritative character while you are a weaker, more innocent position works for him

professor and student, master and servant, he's not beyond playing god and having you pretend to be a nun either, and there are more taboo pairings he's willing to try

there's often elements of bondage, dominance, spirit breaking, orgasm control

anything where he has the higher ground

and he can teach you and show you new and exciting, or scary, things

having you beg to show him the correct ways, to educate you, to give you a new experience, to touch you in a way no one else has

that's what gets him off for sure

twojar

100% is into breeding, and definitely barebacking

the idea of fucking you completely raw (pending your health checks. he's completely clean and fine, but you on the other hand... he needs the documents)

that's what he's most into, especially if he can incorporate some other kinks into the foreplay or actual sex

and then have the grand finale be painting your insides with his cum, letting you feel the warmth of him

but it has to end with you under him, whichever position you prefer the most he's not fussy

with his cock buried deep inside of you

cumming inside of you and holding himself there, keeping you pinned to him

thrusting a couple more times for good measure so he can be sure he's pumped his seed as deep as it can go

and holding you afterwards, telling you how good you took him

his perfect little breeding stock, his sweet little cumdump

filled up and ready to bear the fruits of his labour

btaa

there is no doubt in my mind that every waking minute that he isn't spending on schemes or building his little gadgets

is spent playing fantasy roleplay games, of any kind, on any platform, alone or in groups

he's a huge nerd! it's one of those things that he'll never outlive, once a big dweeb, always a big dweeb

so a big thing for him is roleplay, and specifically, roleplay where he can involve some monster fucking

he can either play the hero, slaying the beast and then saving the girl, who promptly rewards him with herself to use

or being the hero who sets out to defeat the creature and instead ends up fucking it

or let him be the monster and he'll show you how monstrous he could really be

as long as it involves preparation, dramatic reactions, practice and rehearsing, preferably a script with some room for improv

and, of course, the most extravagant and detailed costumes (accurate to the scenario or time period, obviously)

then he will be a very happy, and satisfied, boy

zero year

i haven't really talked about this but it's a huge one for me personally with him

but i think he's a big fan of free use obviously like he just screams it

loves nothing more than a sort of semi-permanent situation where you spend days completely naked and at his mercy

and add a bit of roleplay into it, maybe you're his live-in housekeeper

cleaning for him, cooking for him, washing him, feeding him

and whenever he feels like it, he can stick his dick in you

but you can't react to him unless he gives you permission

you gotta stand there, kneel there, sit there, lay there while he fucks you without making any sounds

and comitting to whatever task you were in the middle of when he decided to start going at you

i just think it would absolutely send him to the moon to know that when you're walking around naked, bending over in front of him

hanging on his every word and obeying his every command

he could also just decide to press his cock inside of you nonchalantly

unburied

he's literally devoutly into cuckoldery, but he's the bull

imagine watching your partner get railed by some ineffectual dweeb with a penchant for riddles

knowing that he's giving it to them with all he's got, making them scream in pleasure and shout out his name

making eye contact with him at some point

and having him wink at you? stick his tongue out? give you some finger guns?

all with the most smug, self-satisfied grin you've ever seen on a human being

and then to top it off, he's calling out sex-themed riddles?

and laughing at you when you don't get them right?

that's not something you can come back from

that changes someone, on several deep levels

and truthfully, that's the part that he likes the most

the emotional scarring on your ego, and the little stroke his gets

knowing he's so annoying that he's unforgettable, which would be the biggest crime to him

btas

i have these ideas about him that always revolve around something artsy or classy

and while i think he would be into some dorky roleplay (he's definitely pretending to be a minotaur, sorry)

i do, selfishly i suppose, think that he would be into body worshipping

specifically in the form of erotic photography

he'd be keen to take pictures of you, in poses, costumes, scenarios, roleplays

directing you, encouraging you, watching you loosen up and let yourself go

whatever you were comfortable with, that's key here

and he'd cherish seeing your face afterwards when he showed you the final products

knowing he'd captured everything about you that he loves and finds attractive

pictures that he'll keep if you want, or destroy

it doesn't matter to him in the end really

he takes them because he thinks of you as his muse, the act of photographing you, of being allowed the vulnerability

to create with you in mind

that's what he finds most erotic and exciting and ultimately, an expression of his love and adoration for you

young justice

if you managed to get him to find the courage to admit to it, you'd learn his favourite thing is uh...

well... just because it plays into his... awkwardness, and shyness, and inexperience...

just... it makes sense that he has a virginity kink

but interestingly, it goes both ways

while he's so keen to have you show him the moves, and pretend to be inducting him into your little black book

teaching him how to touch you or how to move his hips

he's equally interested in switching the roles up a bit

it's a challenge for him, sure, but he's the riddler! there's no challenge he can't live up to

even if that means weeks of practice and lessons with an acting coach to get past the initial nerves

it would all be worth it to pretend that he was confident, dominant, and knew what he was doing

that and the satisfaction of taking something from you, something important

the honour in knowing he's your first (or at least pretending)

and the lasting impression he might have on you for that

that's the kind of idea that has him rutting into you like a fuckin beast