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gingereads · 2 years ago

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I read this yesterday then had to come back and re-read it again today because holy shit this tickles that dark part of my brain just right 🤌🏻🤌🏻 it's so fucking good.

I remember watching Batman Begins the day it came out in the UK, and the minute Cillian Murphy came on screen I turned to my friend and said I'd let him use me for any of his experiments and thank him for the privilege. Nearly 20 years later this drops on my feed and it's everything I was joking about in that cinema and more.

𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 || dark!jonathan crane x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || since you're the only one of his coworkers at arkham who doesn't seem to be intimidated by his intelligence, jonathan decides it's time he finds out what does scare you... and how he can embody it. unfortunately for you, turning into your greatest nightmare doesn't prove very difficult for him.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 5.5k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || EXTREME AND EXPLICIT NONCON (18+ only and please proceed with caution), drugging and kidnapping, paralysis, traumatized reader, forced orgasms/overstimulation, degradation, humiliation, choking, slapping, unprotected sex/breeding, misogyny, jonathan is very much in character which means he is incredibly evil and has incel vibes (I know y'all are not about to get mad at me for writing a villain being a villain and not uwu babifying him...)

When you interrupted and corrected your colleague, Dr. Crane, about the correct combination of pharmaceuticals for a certain schizophrenic patient in the asylum who happened to have diabetes, you thought nothing of it. After all, the whole point of staff meetings was to discuss and debate these things, and you weren’t about to let him damn-near poison a patient by giving him something that would interfere with his insulin. You weren’t trying to be snarky about it, but you did sort of make a joke about how dangerous his suggestion was— and you didn’t notice the way Jonathan’s nostrils flared and jaw tightened when some others chuckled at what you said.

When you received an email from your therapist’s office informing you that there was evidence of a break-in in her building, but that the police were unable to officially determine if confidential client files were compromised, you thought nothing of it. It was a big complex, these things happen, and you knew from being a clinician yourself how tricky the laws could be surrounding that stuff: she had to email you, legally, if there was any chance your file could’ve been accessed, and that didn’t mean you had any reason to fear your private therapy session notes had been read. Besides, who would want to read about you and your boring life, diving into your mundane hopes and fears and daily stresses?

And when Crane came into the office with tea for you, you thought nothing of it. Sure, you seemed surprised when he popped into your office with cups in hand— you asked him why he had two cups of tea, assuming they were both for himself, and he laughed. Just that was out of character, he wasn’t much of a chucklehead or anything. “Green tea, right? With lime and honey?” he asked, setting one cup down for you. You were still taken aback, but you had to admit defeat.

“Yeah,” you said, taking the cup as he sat down across the desk from you. “Yeah, that’s my order— I didn’t know you drank tea.”

“Sometimes,” he informed you, hoping his poker face was holding up as he watched you take a sip. He couldn’t help but stare at your lips wrapping around the little hole in the lid, the print of berry-red your lipstick left behind. His heart was racing already, more than he expected.

When you finished the first sip, you smiled at him and let out a small, nervous laugh. “Thank you,” you finally said. So, yes, even though you clearly noticed this was slightly odd behavior, you thought nothing of drinking the tea. That was one thing he hated about you: the thoughtlessness. You didn’t seem to second-guess yourself much, if anything you were a little on the cocky side. He found it so irritating— that confidence. Sure, you were smart and you deserved to take yourself somewhat seriously, but the way you walked around this place— the way you ignored him so easily, or spoke over him if you wanted to, or ignored his suggestions when he gave them… you were a bitch, basically. You clearly thought you were better than him— better than everybody else— for no reason at all. Just because you were pretty and had a good job you thought you could get away with anything, surely; pretty girls always think that way.

He made casual conversation with you as you sipped the tea, asking questions he already knew the answer to, hoping to catch you in a lie. For the most part, your stories matched up with what he’d learned from that file. But, you left out the gory details— you left out the best parts, really.

You mentioned where you went to medical school and that you transferred mid-way through due to ‘stress’, but you didn’t elaborate on what really happened to you. You mentioned having your own therapist— something you said passionately that every client-facing mental health professional should have— but left out what you were actually being treated for, not to mention the PTSD diagnosis.

He had to hide his smirk behind the paper cup every time you seemed to lose your train of thought— it wasn’t like you, so focused and determined all the time. No, it was the drugs finally kicking in. You went for bigger gulps of tea each time your eyes looked heavier, hoping the caffeine would work— but the trace caffeine in your green tea was nothing compared to what he’d added.

You tried to warn him that you were suddenly not feel up to par— that he needed to leave, and you might try to wake yourself up— but he just sat and waited. He watched you try to get up, and lose your balance. He watched you stumble, trip, and ultimately fall onto the floor limply. He watched your eyes flutter shut and the final ounce of energy to fight it fade; he quietly took a final sip of his tea.

You woke up on the floor. You could barely feel it beneath you, but you knew it was the floor— it was cold, and hard. And you were looking up at the dark ceiling, at the fan spinning at the lowest speed; so you were definitely on the floor.

Jonathan was standing above you, not too far off, flipping through papers. You couldn’t move— no matter how hard you fought to, you couldn’t. You barely managed to turn your head, but it felt more like it rolled to the side on its own. You tried to yell for Dr. Crane’s attention, for help, for him to explain what happened to you, but even your mouth couldn’t move. The best you could do was breathe harder— actually, you were pretty sure your body was trying to hyperventilate, but you were too incapacitated to even have a proper panic attack.

He heard you, though; he looked away from the papers and grinned down at you. “Comfortable down there?”

You started to put together a few things. One, that the last thing you remembered was being in your office, and now you were in your apartment. Two, that those papers were photoscans of chart notes— obviously you couldn’t make out the words from here, but the format gave away that it must have to do with a patient.

And three, that Crane was neither surprised that you were paralyzed on the floor, nor interested in helping you.

He half-rolled the papers in one hand and playfully hit the other hand’s palm with them. “These have been quite interesting… revealing, to say the least,” he informed you, like it was a compliment— something you should be proud to hear. “You’re quite the enigma, Doc!”

He sat down beside you on the floor, leaning on his hand first to find his balance with a little sigh; he seemed amused, actually, and your heart began to race.

As he started to read aloud from the page in front of him, you felt nauseous. He was reading patient data, describing a client who was receiving individual counseling— or that’s what the CPT code indicated, at least. As he listed the client’s demographic data— age, race, gender, height, weight— it became eerily obvious what he was doing. You refused to believe it until he went on: “Client was recommended to Dr. Min Zhang for individual therapy concerning PTSD following sexual trauma.”

Your therapist. This was a file he’d copied, which belonged to your therapist. And it was obvious whose file it was.

As you tried with all your might to scream, Jonathan flipped a few pages ahead.

“Session fourteen, eleventh of June,” he continued. “Client expressed frustration with an increased recurrence of nightmares and flashbacks to her assault. Up until now, she has struggled to explain what triggers her anxiety without having to actually elaborate on the circumstances of the event.”

He stopped, but you weren’t exactly relieved. In fact, you were horrified. He had a little grin on his face when he looked at you, but you could finally see the rage in his eyes. Suddenly, you realized how long it had been there. You had sort of picked up on it before, the resentment he had towards you— and it didn’t take a Freudian expert to figure out that he was threatened by you, especially as a man. He didn’t respond well to feeling upstaged and he clearly had an issue with women. Maybe not that issue— he was good-looking and well-off, he didn’t need to have any issues with women if he didn’t want to— but an issue nonetheless.

“Now,” he added, smiling wider than you’d ever seen him smile before, “client states she is ready to describe the incident in full detail.”

He set the papers aside for a second, leaning over you and almost looking… giddy, really.

“I won’t read you the rest, I’ve already pretty much memorized what goes on from there. It was fascinating— seeing how what happened that night connected to the fears you still have today… the nightmares. You said that you still feel sick at the smell of alcohol, you still don’t like to wear pinstripe skirts, and even just the wrong few words can make you feel like you’re right back there where it happened— on the floor of your apartment.”

All you could do was look up at him, and you felt your eyes get hot as they welled with tears.

“Not this apartment, obviously— the one by your old school,” Jonathan sighed, “but this will have to do. And the smell of alcohol, well, I wouldn’t want to let anything cloud my experience— but I dabbed a little gin on my wrists, what do you think?”

He held his hand up by your face, caressing your cheek for a second, and you imagined yourself pulling away— turning your head and shrugging his touch off of you with a grimace. But nothing happened, of course, and you were entirely helpless as the acidic stench of liquor became apparent. You couldn’t give your typical outward reaction of a frown, but inside, you felt just the same as always: your stomach twisted, your heart pounded, your head swirled.

“Smell is such a… primal trigger of memory, isn’t it?” he mused, watching your face reverently. “I can see it in your eyes, it’s affecting you even more than I expected. You act so fearless at work— but I knew you must have been overcompensating. God, you’re terrified— I would say you’re paralyzed, but, well… it would be too literal, I think.”

You knew that Crane studied fear and phobias, even trauma occasionally, as a personal interest within the field. It was normal to have a favorite subtopic, and to conduct related research on it— but obviously, this was far from normal, this was absolutely deranged. You knew that part of this was vengeance, in his own mind at least, but you didn't feel like you'd done anything actually wrong to him. And the rest of it, well, it seemed like some twisted experiment, but if you were able to speak you would've tried to remind him that this 'research' wasn't going to get him published or advance his career— but of course, that wasn't what he wanted. He just wanted to humiliate you.

“I was worried I didn’t have enough to work with, you know,” he added. “I knew I couldn’t get you to where it happened, if I could even figure it out since you never filed that police report… and the skirt, well, I considered it. It sounded pretty exciting to dress you up like the night it happened— what I would give to know everything you were wearing that night, but I don’t have a ton to work with. Obviously, you don’t own any pinstripe skirts anymore, so I would’ve had to buy one… and I wasn’t quite ready for the looks I’d get shopping at Macy’s, so…”

Carefully, he reached up to take off his glasses, folding them and setting them down on your coffee table.

“You know how detail-oriented I am— I mean, I went to all this, didn’t I?” He continued, reaching down and brushing his fingers for a moment over your leg. It was so instinctive to pull away that it took you a moment to realize you hadn’t… because of course, you couldn’t. “But it’s impossible to recreate it all perfectly. Clearly, I don’t need to— if only you could see it, Doc, you look… you look so weak. Pathetic.”

Since the only thing you could do was look around, you tried to look away— to not give him the satisfaction of seeing the terror in your eyes. He grabbed your face and turned it until you looked up at him.

“Did you think you’d be able to face your greatest fear? Perhaps with a bit more dignity?” he mused. He looked different without the glasses on; and, ironically, you felt like he could see you even better now.

It was obvious that he enjoyed lording complete power over you, but a quick glance down to his suit trousers made it clear just how much he enjoyed it. You quickly darted your gaze away, but it was too late; he started to climb on top of you, staring at your face uncomfortably close, and worked on opening his belt and fly.

“Fear rules us all, doesn’t it? Everything you did, it was guided by your fear that it would— well, why paraphrase? Let me find exactly how you put it…”

He picked up the papers again quickly, licking his thumb and flipping around until he found the right entry.

“Yes,” he said, “here it is: client states she lives in almost constant fear that it will happen again.”

So that's what this was: his disturbed take on exposure therapy.

As he tossed the copied charts away for the last time and reached up under your skirt, he leaned down and whispered in your ear— and you couldn’t even flinch from the harsh sounds of his words. “It took you over fifty sessions to admit it,” he recalled, “to tell her the whole truth. Not just what he did to you… what you did.”

With a small growl, he yanked your panties down your legs and rubbed your thighs with far too much aggression, such that you expected bruises from his hands— just like the ones you’d had before.

“You said he made you do it,” he continued, “you couldn’t help it, right? But you said nothing’s ever felt like that— that you’d never had such a powerful orgasm.”

You would’ve vomited, except that that, too, requires your muscles to not be paralyzed. Rolling your skirt up and spreading your legs, he positioned himself right between them, rubbing his cock's leaking head around your hole.

“Your greatest fear isn’t really that it’ll happen again, is it?” Jonathan taunted. “You’re afraid someone’s going to find out how much you liked it.”

With that, he punched his hips forward and speared you on his cock.

It had been years since you'd had anything inside you, even your own fingers. You couldn't even remember if being penetrated hurt like this during your assault, and you would've sworn before that you remembered every detail perfectly. But this was so real, not a memory or a nightmare. You couldn't cry out from the sting.

"God, it's tight," he groaned, "I bet you weren't this tight when it happened— you'd been whoring around, hadn't you? Letting all kinds of guys use you… just ran into the wrong one and got your drink spiked. But now…"

He hissed through his teeth, tightening his grip on your hip.

"Now it's all mine, isn't it?"

Inside, you were screaming and kicking and pleading for mercy. You imagined you would be angry and violent, beat him to death with your heel or something, but you wondered if you'd be forced to bargain with him— apologize for whatever you did to upset him, promise you wouldn't tell a soul about this as long as he left you alone. But either way, it didn't matter… on the outside, you were useless, laying there and letting him use you.

"What made you come so much before? Did he have a big cock, is that it?” he asked with a snarl. “Did he know exactly how to touch you? Or was it just that you’d been craving it, needed it really rough to get off properly? Is that why you came while he raped you?”

It was a biological response, you told yourself like you had over and over, I couldn't help it, it wasn't my fault, it was a biological response— it wasn't my fault, I didn't like it, it was a biological response.

“I think I know what it is,” he mused, looking down at you with heavy eyes and almost purring as he watched your limp form bounce on the floor. “I think you wanted to be put in your place. You act so liberated, so empowered— but you’re a creature of instinct, like anything else. You need someone to remind you how weak you are, I know, fuck, I know you do…”

He fucked you just a bit faster, grunting and tightening his fist on the floor by your head.

“You haven’t been able to have an orgasm at all, since then,” he stated— almost making it like a question, with the way he said it, but he obviously already knew it was true. He sounded shockingly sympathetic— not even pitying, not condescending, for once. “I’m sure for a while you didn’t even try, afraid it would remind you— but that’s the thing, you can’t finish unless you’re reminded.”

You almost surprised yourself when you heard a whine come from your throat; he smiled proudly.

"It's wearing off, I think," he noticed. "I only gave you a small dose. Can you move at all? Can you beg me to stop?"

You opened your mouth to try to say everything you'd wanted to since you awoke, but all that came out was a moan. You hated yourself for that, and he laughed happily.

"You don't want me to stop," he decided. "Feels too good?"

I fucking hate you, you wanted to scream, you sick son of a bitch, I fucking hate you—

"You didn't say it outright, but he must have said something to you— during, maybe after," Jonathan theorized. "You didn't say what it was, but you told your therapist about having a vivid flashback after being accosted by a delusional homeless man on the street. He called you a bitch, seemingly for no reason… is that what your rapist said to you? Did he say you were a stuck-up little bitch?"

As burning hot tears striped your temples, you curled your fingers over and over— maybe you could move your arms if you really tried…

"He was fucking right about you. You think you're so much fucking better than everyone else," he growled. "You think you're so fucking smart, and special. But you're no fucking different, you're nothing—"

You whined and reached up, weakly trying to push him off of you, but all you could do was limply grasp at his shoulders.

"Nothing but a stupid—" he grunted the word as he slammed himself into you— "fucking—" he did it again— "bitch."

"No!" you finally heard yourself sob, clutching a weak fistful of his white shirt, but he grabbed your hands and shoved them back down to the floor.

“God,” he choked, holding your wrists tightly until you whined, “it’s so much better when you can fight— fuck, it’s so much better. Keep struggling if you want, Doc, you’re still too weak for me…”

Your legs moved a little, but they felt heavy. Sensation was only just beginning to return to them, like pins and needles, and it stung; you winced as you managed to squirm a bit beneath him.

"That's it," he praised, "this is probably just how you did it before. Too drunk and too desperate for cock to really do much, but trying so hard to look like you hate it— I understand, you don't want anyone to know that you need this. They'd never look at you the same again: the smart, accomplished psychiatrist who likes getting treated like fuckmeat. What would they think of you if they knew?"

"No…" you said again, too weak and traumatized to say much else— but it wasn't what he said that made you say no, it was the pulse of pleasure inside your cunt. He must have felt it, and if he didn't, he surely felt the next; yes, he did, because he smiled down at you excitedly.

"It's happening, isn't it? You're gonna come."

He held on tight to one of your legs, gripping your thigh and staring uncomfortably into your eyes as he kept going— faster and rougher with each thrust. You choked on your throat, trying to stop any part of this, but the pleasure was undeniable; it still hurt, yes, and you still felt so angry and sick and numb, but something familiar and desperate was tightening in your gut. It’d been so long since anyone touched you… you’d forgotten how natural it could feel, even when it was so horrible.

"I read it in your file, but I still couldn't really believe it,” he laughed quietly, “I couldn't believe you came over and over while being raped— but here you are, wow, look at you… you’re so beautiful when you’re scared.”

A long, heavy sigh fell from your lips; your eyes got heavier, and your whole body seemed to relax— in a way totally different from the medication-induced paralysis.

He cooed at you, seeming oddly proud, and you were oddly compliant as he picked you up and pulled you into his lap.

Tears streamed across your cheeks as he held you close, one hand around your back while the other moved your hips against his. “There you go— come for me, I wanna feel it— another one, baby, for me…”

It wasn’t much longer before another one came— from what you remembered, it was a lot like the first time, this terribly wonderful way your body protected itself from the trauma by immersing you in pleasure. Of course, Jonathan helped you along by rubbing your clit with his thumb, excited to watch you surrender to ecstasy even when you begged him to just stop and leave you alone.

Of course, your protests were less and less believable as more of your strength and mobility returned— you could’ve tried harder to get away, but instead you found your hips rocking with his, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. No, you didn’t want this— you never wanted this— but you found the way he spoke to you impossibly comforting even while it was still deeply upsetting. “Tell me about the nightmares, darling,” he whispered— some impossible mix of pleading and ordering.

“A-almost every night,” you whimpered. “I… I got used to it, but I used to… I used to wake up and think I was still…”

"They felt so real, hm?" he presumed, and you nodded. “It’s real now… you don’t have to be afraid of the dreams anymore, it’s all real— I’m right here.”

You couldn’t tell if he was trying to scare or comfort you; he pet your hair, clinging to you tightly, kissing your face and neck along the lines of the tears soaking your skin.

You felt his grin against your cheek when another wavering moan echoed in your chest, and he laid you back on the floor to hover over you again. “Was that your third one, already?” he noticed. “This is so much easier than I thought… you needed this so badly, you poor girl.”

A quick wave of panic settled over you when his hand wrapped around your neck. “W-wait,” you pleaded instantly, as if you really feared he would just strangle you to death right then and there. Your hands, still weak and tingly, reached up to his arm, and you felt his cock throb inside you— of course that was what he wanted, to see you react in fear again. So many other emotions were at play right now, even some you didn’t know existed (like whatever the word would be for longing for the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, or feeling like the only person you can trust is the person hurting you the most), but fear was still going to rule it all as long as he had any say.

"How many times did you come before?" he demanded to know, nostrils flaring as he fucked you harder. "Tell me how many times you came when he raped you."

"I— I don't—" you stammered.

"Say it," he ordered.

"I— I don't know!" you yelped, whimpers falling to silence as he tightened his grip on your neck.

"You don't fucking know?" he snarled at you, watching you fight for air. You clawed at his shirt, his wrist, tried to pry his fingers away, but he just sneered as he stared at your numbing face. "You don't know how many times you creamed on your rapist's cock? Bullshit."

"I—" you gasped when he let go of your throat, "I lost count…"

He went from livid to ecstatic in a second, laughing proudly and dipping down to kiss your neck passionately. "Good girl," he mumbled against your skin, fucking you even faster. "That's what you need to do for me now— come for me until you lose count."

“I— I can’t,” you choked, grabbing at his shoulders as he seemed to overwhelm you just by pressing his weight down on top of you. “I’m sorry— you… you proved your point, I— I just need a break—”

Even though the drug he’d injected you with was wearing off, you realized you were just as limp and helpless as before… after all, some of the most powerful chemicals come inside the body. You didn’t even fight it when he put his hand over your mouth, spitting out a quiet but hateful shut up and continuing with his quick and forceful thrusts into you.

He kept you conscious and lucid by occasionally hitting or choking you, talking to you, once or twice even ordering you to kiss him. Like you mean it, he’d said, slapping you as punishment for doing it wrong. Truth be told, you hadn’t kissed anyone in so long that you’d really been trying your best the first time. Sometimes he told you to beg him for more— or to beg him to get off of you— and yet he would usually punish you for speaking at all. He was completely unpredictable, and you figured that was part of the plan: take away any shred of control you might try to get by making it impossible to follow his rules. Keep you confused and crying, keep you fearful, keep you obedient.

But, he did seem to enjoy when you could only just choke out a broken please. He laughed at you, pinching your sore clit in response until you sobbed and tried to jerk your hips away. “‘Please’ what, honey? You mean, ‘please keep fucking me, Doctor Crane, you’ll make me come again?’” he taunted. “Something like that?”

“Please… please,” you swallowed around your whines, “please just… finish, and go…”

“Oh,” he purred, “you want me to come?”

You’d specifically not phrased it that way, but, yes, that was what you were asking for. You weren’t sure what else he wanted from you now, it felt like he’d drained you of everything.

“You can just say that, baby— you wanna make me come?” he grinned, moving in closer for a kiss, but you turned your head away. He grabbed your jaw again and stared at you with an angry glare. “This isn’t about me. This is what you wanted. This is what you fucking wanted!”

As he screamed in your face, you sobbed and tried to look away again, but he hit you hard on the face and covered your mouth before the cry of agony could come out.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he insisted again, forcing your head to nod with his clammy, iron-tight grip. “Uh huh— and you wanna make me come, don’t you? You understand now that’s all you’re good for.”

As sick as it was, you felt yourself fall into another orgasm when he said that; your eyes rolled back a bit, and for a moment you felt even hotter between your legs.

“I think, if you beg me to come, maybe I will,” he offered— bargaining with you, probably another way to trick you into clamoring for some control only to yank it away. Unfortunately, you were in no position to turn down a deal.

“Please,” you blurted out the second he released your mouth from under his hand; when you blinked the tears from your eyes, you saw him clearly again and realized how completely different he looked from the arrogant-but-generally-unassuming man you knew from work. His hair was fallen beside his face, and he was close enough that the ends were tickling your forehead. His eyes were bloodshot, crazed, and dark. His lips, always full and plush but usually in a tight frown or neutral look of condescending boredom, were curled around the teeth he bared at you. He looked animalistic, for a man typically so measured. Only he could do something so animalistic in a way that required such intellect, foresight, and contemplation— using his superhuman skills to treat you in a subhuman manner. You realized that you were really seeing him for the first time— the person you’d known before was the mask. This was something horribly freeing for him; and you were having a much easier time analyzing and thinking about him to distract from how sickly freeing this experience was becoming for you. “Please, Jonathan—”

“Doctor Crane,” he corrected. Apparently this wasn’t enough to put you on a first name basis…

“Doctor Crane,” you repeated, “please… come. I want… I want you to come.”

“Hmm,” he considered, and you worried he’d decide he was unimpressed with your effort and hurt you again— but, he did maybe the only thing worse. “Okay,” he agreed, “if it’s so important to you.”

Just when you shut your eyes tight and hoped you could just get through this— just hold on for a few more minutes at most and then this would be over and done with— he whispered in your ear that he needed you to keep your eyes open if he was going to finish.

Though, when you obeyed, he purred at you and let his own eyes flutter shut for just a moment. For once, he actually seemed affected by all this physically and not just psychosexually. “I think I’ll come inside, like he did before,” Crane decided with a groan when he opened his eyes, biting his lip for a moment as he stared down at you. “I didn’t see any birth control in your listed medications on chart… I guess we’ll find out if you have a fear of getting pregnant.”

"Jonathan— don't," you whimpered. "Please, don't do that—"

"Shh," he soothed, petting the top of your head and laying his weight over you. "Shh, it's alright. I think you need to be filled with come… I think that might be the one thing that’ll get you to settle down, now just hold still.”

“I— please… please…” you began to beg again, but your words faded away as another wave of sensation washed over you— they started to blend together, like before, and you realized you were doing what he’d asked: you were losing count.

“Good girl,” he praised under his breath, “like that— fuck, I’m close. Fuck!”

He held onto you tight— one hand on your thigh and the other on your neck as his thrusts sped to a desperately, impossibly fast pace. You moaned— or cried, or yelled, or something— as he pushed just a little too deep and your toes curled in your heels.

“Uh huh,” he encouraged, “just one more while I come inside you— I think you can manage that, just one more good squeeze on my cock— oh, fuck, that’s it, yes, just like that…”

You stopped being able to understand what he was saying, but you heard the wavering groan that came a few moments later when his movements suddenly stopped. He gasped and kept himself as far inside you as possible; you shuddered, blinking fresh tears out of your eyes, and felt paralyzed in an entirely new way as you laid under him, staring up at your ceiling, seeing how far the sun had set since it began— actually, it had started to rain, making it even more impossible to tell how much time had really passed. Eventually, though, he took his head out from the crook of your neck and propped himself up enough to look down at you.

Reaching to your coffee table, he fumbled his hand around until he found his glasses, and shakily put them back on. “Well,” he grinned, still panting but seeming to be mostly back to himself (whoever that was). “I never thought I’d meet someone who loves fear as much as I do.”

#Honestly op chefs kiss #jonathan crane x reader

6K notes · View notes

gingereads · 2 years ago

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God, he's filthy and I WANT HIM

— release

Don’t mind me, just feeling self-indulgent today💕

Being Dynamight’s PR manager you were used to getting him out of trouble, it’s only fair he show you some appreciation.

Pairing: Bakugou Katsuki x f!reader.

Warnings: 18+, piss.

Word Count: 1.2k.

“Spread your legs.”

“What?” A fierce heat flooded to your cheeks as you tried to ignore the throb between your thighs at such a blaze request.

Your fingers stilled against your keyboard as you looked up at your boss from across the room. City lights illuminated the empty office as you were the only two left on the floor, the last minute mission reports were almost complete and your body ached from hunching over your computer for so long.

Each time Dynamight faced a destruction of public property charge it always meant staying late, his PR team working overtime to try and arrange reparations. And as his PR manager it meant staying later than the rest of your employees, who were long gone. You’d expected the phone to stop ringing during office hours, but after just getting off the phone with another disgruntled civilian at past ten, you were proved wrong.

“You heard,” He stepped towards you as he carded a hand through his messy hair.

“I should be giving you orders right now, Dynamight,” You hissed, “Do you realise how many complaints I’ve had to address today because of you?”

“People always got shit to complain about,” He scoffed, “I got the guy, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but maybe you could do it without totalling a building next time?” You sneered.

“I thought you liked staying late in the office with me,” He grinned, walking around the edge of your desk, “You were pretty happy when I had you pressed against my window last month.”

Your heart raced at the memory, your breasts pressed against the cool glass as he pounded into you from behind. His agency was one of the tallest buildings in the city, but there was still a chance that someone could’ve seen you.

“I think you like when I do this shit.” He pressed.

“Oh yeah, I really love spending overtime being berated on the phone.” You rolled your eyes.

“Just hang up on those fuckers,” He shook his head, “They’re always the first to complain when shitty Deku’s not there in time.”

“Unless you’d missed it, my job is to get you out of shit,” You smiled, “Not to make it worse.”

“I thought your job was to do whatever I say.” Large palms pushed your computer chair back from the desk, spinning you to face him.

“My job is to keep you out of trouble,” You crossed your arms over your chest, “Which is why you seem to enjoy making it hard.”

“I think you’re the one that likes making me hard, sweetheart.” You rolled your eyes at his crass humour as his lips curled into a smug grin, “So spread your legs.”

Bakugou’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he watched the way your cute skirt rose further up your thighs as you obeyed, revealing your plain cotton panties to his debauched gaze.

“Good girl.” He growled. You were always so obedient, so easy. The way you were ready and willing to do anything for him at the blink of an eye.

But you needed this too, especially after the day you’d had. You deserved it, and Bakugou was more than willing to give it to you.

“Been thinkin’ about this all damn day,” He groaned, “I shoulda called you into my office earlier.”

“I really need to use the bathroom first, Katsuki.” You mumbled.

A request which fell upon deaf ears as Bakugou settled himself between your plush thighs, broad arms shouldering them further apart as he nuzzled your clothed crotch. Breathing in the scent of you as you involuntarily bucked your hips into his touch, your core throbbing with desire and need.

“So pretty,” He hums, ignoring your request as he places a chaste kiss on your sensitive clit through the fabric, grinning when your body jolts in response, “You been waiting for me all day?”

“Shit,” You whined, hands blindly reaching out for his messy mop of hair as he began to lap at your folds through the thin material. Watching it darken from a mixture of your slick and his spit as your pelvis began to tighten. Trying to chase the pleasure he was giving you and ignore the dull throb that pulsed inside you, desperate for relief, “Katsuki, I really have to pee first.”

You could coax him to the bathrooms, let him pound you over the sinks as he’d done so many times before after you’d given yourself the relief you were craving. Being sat autonomously at your desk for so many hours as you tried to repair the mess that Dynamight had created, you’d lost track of time and basic human needs. His warm hands smoothing along your inner thighs reminded you of just how desperately you needed to go.

If Bakugou heard your pleas, he chose to ignore them. Palming himself through his slacks as he lapped at your sensitive clit through your panties.

You were certain you wouldn’t be able to hang on for much longer, trying to close your thighs around his head in a feeble attempt to hold yourself back for a little longer— to stop yourself from humiliating yourself in front of your boss.

Bakugou’s fingers curled beneath the fabric as he pulled them down your thighs, leaving them settled around one of your ankles as he spread you apart with his thumbs.

“Kats,” You groaned, your cunt clenched from the throb in your pelvis, “Please.”

“Ain’t no one stopping you, sweetheart.” He rasped, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against your puffy clit.

The contact with your bare cunt had your hips jerking, throwing your head back against the headrest as you felt your pelvis throb. All conscious thoughts swirling from your mind as you finally allowed yourself to relax and succumb to the desire. The euphoria almost mind-numbing as a warm stream began to trickle from between your thighs.

“Oh fuck, baby. That’s it—” Bakugou groaned as he watched through half-lidded eyes. His cock throbbing beneath his slacks as he watched you relieve yourself in front of him, “So pretty.”

Bakugou smoothed his thumb along your slit, following the warm stream as your hole clenched around nothing from the contact. Embarrassment had your heart pounding in your chest as your eyes clenched shut, your hands gripping onto the arms of your chair as you tried to close your thighs.

“Don’t,” Bakugou snarled, slapping your cunt as the wet sound echoed around the empty Office. You gasped at the contact as your eyes snapped open, “Look at me.”

The painful throb was now replaced with white hot bliss that coursed through your veins as your eyes rolled back, your lips parted in a desperate whine as he pulled back to watch you with his intense crimson gaze.

“Oh fuck,” You bit down on your lower lip hard as you emptied your bladder, finally beginning to feel your body relax as the intense throb from your clit took over. Desperate for any kind of contact as you rolled your hips into Bakugou’s touch.

“You’re so perfect, you know that?” He hummed, his fingers brushing along your wet slit before pushing inside your tight core, stealing all the air from your lungs, “My dirty girl.”

#Jo your Bakugou is far and away my fave!#Equal parts depraved and devoted 🤌🏻🤌🏻

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gingereads · 2 years ago

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I just absolutely inhaled that fic and I need your friend to know it's a fucking masterpiece.

Hey brim idk if you've answered this before but have you thought about writing for pyramid head?

I have thought about it numerous times but then I remember my best friend @gomakeawaffle already wrote the most beautiful and nasty as fuck Pyramid Head fanfic to date. There’s no way I can top THIS.

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gingereads · 2 years ago

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he lives for the chase.

your werewolf lover always gives you a head start because it makes it all better, hotter, wetter. you take off into the woods as fast as you can, feet crunching leaves and twigs, and he howls in the distance as he picks up your scent. your thighs are slick as you run. you can hear his heavy panting as he gains on you, reveling in the scent of your arousal.

then suddenly, he's there in front of you, blocking off your escape. he pins you to a tree by your arms, his cock already huge and throbbing for you. he takes you right there, snuffling at your throat, drooling all over your nipples as he shoves himself inside. once he's filled you up, marked you all over again, he drapes your sated body in his arms and carries you back home.

#My feed is coming for my 🐱 today

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gingereads · 2 years ago

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your monster boyfriend is so hungry for you, always, that you wake up in the middle of the night with his dripping cock pressed against your lower back. his teeth are already dragging across the nape of your neck, his clawed hands roving over your body as each of your nerve endings wake up.

"want you." those are the only words he can grind out in his lust. "want you."

you raise your ass, allowing his thick, drooling cock to slide down between your cheeks. he grunts as his huge, swollen tip finds your entrance, slobbering his pre-cum all over you. he's so mad with his hunger that he shoves himself inside you all at once, snarling with the force of it. you cry out and hope your roommate won't wake up.

he plunders you until you're a whining, whimpering mess. it's your climax that tips him over the edge, and his hot, viscous cum shoots inside you, coating your ass, your thighs, your bed.

he snuffles your neck, sated for now, and you fall back to sleep without bothering to clean up.

#Drooling all over myself

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gingereads · 2 years ago

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Goddamn

Bakugou convinces you to buy a skirt one day while you’re online shopping. You were hesitant to, mainly because the skirt looked like it wouldn’t cover even a slither of your ass. But he was persistent, talked about all the different options you could pair with the skirt, and ended up buying the skirt for you himself.

So when it came, you weren’t surprised that it definitely didn’t cover your ass. You twirl in the mirror, frowning as you look at how your cheeks aren’t even remotely covered by the thin strip of fabric. It would be so much cuter if it was a little longer. Wearable practicality went straight out of the window.

“Goddamn,” you hear from the door of the bathroom, meeting Bakugou’s form that leans against the wall. He’s not even looking you in the eye, too busy focused on how the skirt flares out against your ass, how good you look in the skimpy fabric. You frown though, and turn to face him, tugging at the skirt as he finally catches your gaze.

“I’m sorry I wasted your money, my love.” You sigh, looking over your shoulder in the mirror. Bakugou scoffs though, pushing off the wall to stand in front of you, holding your hips as he tilts down to take all of you in.

“And how’d you do that?” He asks quietly, resting his face in the crook of your neck, hands slithering down to cup your cheeks in his palms.

“I can’t wear this out the house! I’ll get charged for public indecency.” You half joke, batting his shoulder when he squeezes your ass in his big hands. You feel more than see his evil little grin, looking over your shoulder once more to see how his hands swallow up your ass, the glint in his eyes.

“Who said you had to wear it out the house?” You hadn’t realized the weight of his words until only minutes later when he had you perched in his lap at his desk. He still had to finish some paperwork for his agency, but promised he needed you right there with him to help him focus.

To any spectator, it looked like you were just innocently sitting there, arms wrapped around his neck and face buried in his skin. It looks the picture of domesticity, as he works with you burrowed against him. But, every time he lifts you, anyone can see the way your skirt hikes up and flares out on his hips and the curve of your ass. How creamy you’ve made his cock with coming more times than he can count. How your cheeks quiver with every squeeze and smack he lays against it.

Bakugou thinks, as he looks over your shoulder when you sit again and finds your tiny little skirt barely covering the plumpness of his balls, that he should order another one of these skirts. Maybe in red, or burnt orange this time.

#bakugou x reader

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gingereads · 2 years ago

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Just some Bakugou comfort, tw cheating mention 😊 (from a spooky dream)

"A nightmare?" Is voice is gruff from disuse as he growls into the receiver having had to stay silent most of the morning for this stake out.

You hum your affirmation, it's a sad mmhmm as he hears the tears that threaten through your voice.

"The fuck happened?" And that's when you tell him everything. It was some weird cryptic dream.

His mom was in it and his phone on top of the washing machine. Mitsuki was concerned, sitting on the couch with her legs crossed, solemn look on her face. She had said that Bakugou's grandmother kept texting him an awful lot and that he had a facetime from 2am that lasted more than an hour.

It was currently four am in the dream, and oddly real life, it made your brow furrow before she adds and I don't know the passcode but you did. Unlocking his phone to see several texts from random women and each one had nudes and flirty behavior.

It felt so real you woke up with a pounding heart, scrambling for the comfort of the ash blonde that you wanted to also confront.

But he wasn't in bed making the dream suddenly feel valid and believable

"So I was cheatin?" You grit your teeth at his conclusion, "Fuck would I do that for?"

You don't answer, it lingers, the dream well nightmare and you had called him right away. He mutes his mic for a second and your heart sinks with the weight of accusations and assumptions.

Maybe he wasn't on some stake out with Izuku and Kirishima after all. Maybe these overnight shifts really were something the dream version of his mother was worrying about.

Trying to warn you.

You're about to hang up until you hear something heavy land on the balcony to the master bedroom before Bakugou unmutes his mic.

"Gotta lemme in." Slowly you get up, unlocking the door before rushing back into the covers to hide your naked body. He notices the action, scowling as he comes closer to the bed, hanging up on the call and passing you his phone unlocked.

"Ya gotta be a real dumbass if you think I'm really cheating on you." When you don't take the phone he sits down next to you, holding the bright screen where you can see as he opens the twenty apps his has on his phone. Each one being exactly what it should be, even goes into the few text threads he has. His family group chat with his mom and dad, one with Kirishima, a giant group chat and then a smaller one before showing you the one between you two, which is much much longer than all the other threads combined. Even his photo roll is squeaky clean, just picture after picture of you in various states of dress and consciousness or the cat the two of you have.

His voice turns more serious, leaning over you with his flashlight turned up towards the ceiling so he can see your face and you his.

"I would never do anything to ruin this." Tears threaten to fall down your cheeks and maybe his with how intently he's looking at you, "I love you more than anything in this fuck all world and if you asked me to quit my hero job tonight, for you, I would. Baby you're my entire fuckin world, I need you to know that. If I've gotta move the fuckin moon to show you I will."

And it all rings true, your quirk tells you so, because you can detect any lie, even through hyperbole. Bakugou lovingly called it your bullshit meter and it was never wrong. He pulls you into a hug, fiercely keeping you pinned to him and the mattress, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

"I'll tell the guys I can't come back." He's moving away to call them before you shake your head, now you're keeping his broad shoulders in place.

"As much as I love that idea you can't. It's not fair to them." Your voice is soft in his ear, barely a whisper. He peppers you with kisses, slow, deliberate presses.

"Yer sure? I don't give a shit about 'em. Fuck 'em."

"I'm sure."

"Fine." He bites, leaning away when you let go, "But I'm leaving when you wake up again and staring vacation."

"Oh baby don't -" He places his warm palm over your mouth.

"Hush. I'm doin.it." His serious face turns quickly into a devilish smirk, "'Sides, I gotta take all week to show my princess that she's the only one for me."

He gives you just a preview of it, kissing you with such passion it steals the air from your lungs, your quirk going off in your head saying one thing.

That every word of it was true, the entire week was going to be spent worshiping you and your body better be ready for Bakugou's devotion.

#🥺🥺🥺#bakugou x reader

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gingereads · 2 years ago

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Pro Hero Bakugou x fem!reader

warnings: a leetle bit of anxiety, and a bit of bashing of paparazzi soft Bakugou, he loves his wife A LOT, his wife is you.

WC: 880

a/n: you know how people do warm ups and cool downs? Well I was gonna write tonight and I thought aiight let’s do a warm up or something. And then I started writing this, and then… didn’t do the actual writing portion after the warm up SO this will now be knows as my Warm Down. Enjoy.

The cameras are flashing, the crowds are cheering, the paparazzi are squawking like hyperactive parrots and Katsuki…is annoyed.

And moderately anxious if his tight grip and kneading fingers into your waist are any indication of it.

You don’t blame him, he’s never been quite as comfortable or proficient in juggling the paparazzi and the fame that comes with being a Pro Hero. More notably, a top ranked Pro Hero. He’s gotten better about handling the cutthroat crowds of journalists, the ever snooping tabloid photographers and the occasional smarmy talk show hosts. But the paparazzi is something that eludes him—stresses him out is a more fitting word for it.

Katsuki’s not one for people invading his space and paparazzi seem to do that a lot. There have been a few mishaps that involved a bunch of angry rants in front of children who were present and the less than enthused photographer who got his camera smashed. But since meeting you, he’s been calmer and less easily provoked. He cites you as his rock in all the interviews, you ground him and he can’t thank you enough for it.

So the Hero Gala—where paparazzi are herded in like goats—isn’t Katsuki’s favorite place to be.

You’re both posed, standing together on the plush red carpet, wearing complimentary pieces by the hottest and most popular designers—who happen to be your in-laws— and you couldn’t look more stunning. You smile at the cameras, waving and holding their attention as Katsuki fingers dig deeper into your side. He doesn’t like this, you can tell.

Gently you move your hand and place it over his on your hip. Your touch seems to bring him back to Earth as he hums deeply to acknowledge you.

“S’wrong? Too tight? Sorry,” he mumbles, bending his head down to gaze at you.

He looks tired but tense. His jaw is tightened, the veins in his neck protrude ever so slightly from underneath his tanned skin, and his brows are pulled together so tightly you think he must be giving himself the worst headache.

Despite this, you smile gently at him. “No, I'm ok,” you assure him, intertwining your fingers with his on your hip. The crowd coos, completely enticed with your slight show of affection. They shout your name , the flashing takes off again and Katsuki winces.

You widen your gentle smile, blinking slowly and calmly as you stare into his hard crimson eyes. “You’re not though, yeah?” You ask him.

“M’fine,” he mumbles right as another group of paparazzi are herded in and scream out his name to garner his attention.

He growls and you can feel his arm wrap protectively around your waist as he pulls you tighter to his side. When you place your hand on his chest and speak his name softly, he immediately drops his attention to you, as if the world is shut out.

“Katsuki, tell me,” you command him. You're soft, but firm and assertive and again he immediately pays attention.

“Just don’t like them yellin’ at ya like that. Demanding shit from us. Can't just tell you to smile, they gotta earn that shit dammit,” he hisses into your ear.

You giggle, he’s always been like that about smiling. He’s always treated yours like it was precious. He always pokes the side of your mouth right in your dimples to ask for a smile. He calls them your laugh buttons, though he made you swear not to tell the guys about the cute little name. Still he pokes you until you give him one, your lovely smile, his favorite.

“Pretend they aren’t even there. I can’t hear them at all. All I can hear is you,” you say, playfully booping his nose. He chuckles, a tiny smirk cracking his previously pissed existence. The smirk doesn’t last long when he hears a few photographers squeal and swoon about how handsome he is. He rolls his eyes and growls again.

You grab his hand and bring it up to cup your face. As you lovingly blink up at your beautiful husband you watch his eyes soften. The hard crimson melts into viscous red magma as he shuts the rest of the world out. And as he focuses on you, you reach up quickly to tap the side of his mouth.

He pauses in confusion wondering if he should do or say anything given where he is. But all his doubt melts away when he focuses on your voice again.

“No one but you and me,” you coo and he hums in calm delight.

He knows what you’re doing and he completes the request without hesitation, he smiles for you. The one he showed you when he saw you walk down the aisle to him, the one he showed you when you said yes to marrying him. Even the one he let slip when you first started dating and you fell asleep in his arms, the moment he fell in love with you.

You beam back at him, paying him back in his favorite smile. His shoulders relax then, his jaw unclenches and takes a few deep breaths. Right before it’s time for you to continue moving down the red carpet, he kisses your forehead lightly and mutters in a deep voice.

“No one but you and me.”

#this got me feeling all gooey #bakugou x reader

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gingereads · 2 years ago

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promptis | body swap

This was originally posted in two parts on my twitter, but posting here as one thing.

Part One

Some attacks they just can’t dodge.

Sometimes there’s not enough time to move or doing so leaves someone else vulnerable instead. And sometimes the attack is a cloud of thick, acid green mist that explodes two feet to the left of Prompto and expands to encompass him faster than he can blink.

It fills his nose and throat, making his eyes stream. Noct calls his name but Prompto can barely hear him through what feels like cotton wool stuffed in his ears. Prompto drops to his knees just as a hand grips his shoulder.

The world tilts, completely twists upside down and sideways and when it stops he’s standing somehow. The mist is gone but there’s thick slime clinging to the grass underfoot in its place.

Prompto’s clutching something, he realises and he drops his eyes to his unusually pale arm and follows it down to see his fingers clenched in the shoulder of his own vest. Prompto blinks to try and focus his eyes because -

“What the fuck?” Prompto says but his voice sounds like Noct's voice and the person on the ground - him, that’s him - turns on their knees to blink up at him.

“Prompto?” his own voice sounds.

“Are you both alright?” Ignis asks, “Prompto? Are you confused?”

“Yes,” Prompto says, using Noct’s voice again, “I’m very confused.”

“Noct,” Gladio says, “Stop fucking around.”

“I’m not,” the Prompto on the ground says.

“I think we might have discovered a new status effect,” Ignis says, remarkably calm. “You should both take a remedy,” he says practically.

To be fair, they've seen weirder and worse at this point.

When Gladio takes a step forward Ignis throws out a hand to keep him in place.

“I don’t want to know what it’s like to be that broad, thank you,” Ignis says smartly, “Best not to touch the residue.”

“Noct?” Prompto says and his own head nods at him, “This is so weird.”

“Can you access the armiger?” Ignis asks and Noct looks away from Prompto and lifts a hand. He summons a vial into his hand then fumbles and almost drops it to the ground.

“Smooth,” Gladio mumbles.

“Shut up,” Noct snaps, “It’s not my fault, it’s Prompto’s body.”

“Hey.”

Noct smashes the remedy and the magic washes over his skin. He shudders and looks up at Prompto hopefully but nothing happens.

“You too, Prompto,” Ignis suggests and Prompto thinks one of the vials into his palm too. It’s a cool rush, like it always is, like washing off something itchy, but nothing life altering happens.

“They’re still covered in it,” Gladio suggests, “You guys should wash off in the river and try again.”

“You might need to sleep it off,” Ignis muses.

Noct huffs in the sleeping bag over from Prompto’s - does Prompto always sound that whiny? - and rolls over. Prompto gets it; he can’t get comfortable either. Noct has broader shoulders than him but his legs are thinner and that inch he has on Prompto must entirely exist within them because Prompto can’t seem to settle them down in a way that doesn’t feel awkward.

Prompto had always kind of thought he hated his body; he wishes he were just a little taller and that he didn’t tire so easily but he misses it now he’s existing elsewhere. Cleaning up had been awkward and embarrassing, wading into the water fully dressed and slowly shedding their sodden layers one by one. The water was clear and did nothing to hide any part of them and they soon quickly realised it was less awkward to stare at the body changing next to them - their own - rather than down at their own limbs for a change.

Noctis hadn’t taken his wristband off though. For that Prompto is thankful. He hadn't even needed to ask.

“Are you always this cold?” Prompto asks, curling his - Noct’s - toes over to clutch at the thick socks he’d thrown on before laying down.

“Pretty much,” Noct admits.

Prompto doesn’t follow up with a question to ask if Noct’s back always hurts this much or if the ache in his knee ever subsides. He already knows the answer to that and neither of them will be soothed by having it said aloud again.

Noct huffs again and then he’s moving, nylon sleeping bag dragging across the tent floor until he’s right up against Prompto’s side.

“Um, hello?” Prompto whispers in shock.

“You won’t get to sleep if you’re cold,” Noct tells him and Prompto supposes he would know.

“Right so -”

Noct wiggles until his body is curled around Prompto’s, almost half resting on top of him where he can't grab him with his limbs like he might in a real bed.

“Excuse me,” Prompto croaks.

“Shut up, you do this all the time,” Noct mumbles.

It’s true, but he normally does it in his sleep and wakes up so long before Noctis that he’d assumed his friend had no idea.

“That’s not -”

“Sometimes I don’t sleep until you do,” Noct says, voice so quiet Prompto almost doesn’t hear him.

“Oh.”

Noct shifts again, like he can’t quite settle. “Your shoulders are so bony,” Noct complains.

Prompto scoffs, “If you wanna talk about bony we can talk about your butt.”

“Boys,” Ignis snaps.

“Go to sleep,” Gladio demands.

Part Two

When Prompto wakes up in the morning still with too long legs he feels like he might cry.

He feels awful, but he doesn’t know if it's the after effects of the spell or simply what Noctis has to deal with every morning. It would go some way to explain why he’s always in such a foul mood in the mornings and Prompto vows to never make fun of him again - maybe see if there’s anything he can do to help.

Noct is gone, Prompto realises, the warmth of the other body absent and Prompto wonders if it was the slow retreat of his lingering warmth that had woken him up. When he finally musters the strength to crawl out of his sleeping bag and onto the haven he’s greeted by the sight of his own body helping Ignis at the cooking station, chattering away in much the way it’s normal inhabitant does rather than the one residing there now.

“Good morning,” Prompto says, Noct’s voice sounding rougher than normal.

“You look like shit,” Gladio tells him.

“Thanks,” Noct mumbles on his behalf, “Real nice, Gladio.” He abandons Ignis at the stove and approaches Prompto, mouth drawn tight with concern. “Your back hurts,” Noct says, very matter of fact.

“Yeah, how did you -” Prompto cuts himself off. Of course Noct would know.

Noct rolls his eyes and steps up close to his side, palm flat against Prompto’s spine he digs his fingertips up to just under his shoulder blade and rolls them over a muscle. It’s agony for a moment then a little trickle of bliss right down Prompto's spine. Noct can’t seem to quite look at him - himself, Prompto supposes - eyes fixed over Prompto’s shoulders as he zones out a little

“Wow,” Prompto mumbles, “Thanks.”

Noct keeps going for a moment then, almost idly smooths his whole hand up and down Prompto’s spine. It’s new and a little odd, but it feels good so Prompto doesn’t ask him to stop.

Gladio clears his throat and Noct suddenly jumps back, shaking out his hand like Prompto burnt him right through his t-shirt.

“We’re heading out straight after breakfast,” Gladio says, “Hopefully we won't have to fight anything until this thing resolves itself.”

Prompto doesn’t know the last time they went a whole day without fighting so it really comes as no surprise when they end up in the thick of it only an hour after setting out from the haven.

When he and Noct had accessed the armiger immediately after the spell had taken effect it had been enough to test they had magic still and for some reason they’d just assumed they had the exact same magic as they always did.

What actually seems to be the case, however, is that their bodies remember exactly what kind of magic they’ve always had even if the people currently driving don’t have the capacity to control it.

Prompto tries to keep his distance, more carefully than ever because he’ll be damned if Noct’s body gets injured while he’s the one steering it.

But Prompto literally hears his own voice says “what the fuck” then fires his gun at a killer wasp headed right for Gladio and suddenly stops existing. Or something. Temporarily. Because he does exist again, in a blink of an eye but he’s in mid air, crashing down on top of one of the wasps and if he was actually Noct he’d just switch out for a polearm and spear it through it’s weird, gross body but he’s not so all Prompto can manage is to cry out and curl in on himself to brace for his inevitable collision with the ground.

So much for not hurting Noct’s body, he thinks, as searing pain blisters across his arm. Broken, more than likely.

“I can’t warp,” Noct screams, “Somebody get to Prompto.”

There’s a crunch and some of the buzzing around him dies but it’s replaced quickly, the same sickening thwick, thwick, thwick of wings.

Blind hope makes him raise the gun again aiming it just anywhere away from the fight and his friends and anything that might make this worse. Just making sure to aim close to the ground.

“I hate warping,” Prompto says miserably.

His arm is fine, fixed up quick with an elixir but the embarrassment still has a firm hold on him.

“I hate not warping,” Noct says.

They’re alone in the tent, Prompto sulking and Noct refusing to leave his side for some reason.

“Maybe they should kiss,” Gladio’s voice drifts into them, “That’s a thing right - a kiss to break a spell?”

“It didn’t work when Noct got stuck as a frog,” Prompto yells out to him, dragging the back of his hand over his mouth as he remembers the somehow sticky and slick feel of Noct’s little head against his lips.

Noctis snorts, absently kneading one of his biceps.

“Did you get hurt?”

Noct shakes his head.

“What is the point of having biceps like this if you can’t swing a greatsword?” Noct mumbles.

Prompto blinks, takes in his own arms that he’d thought were almost too thin now.

“Biceps like what?” Prompto asks.

Noct startles and because it’s Prompto’s face he goes red all across his cheeks right up to the tips of his ears.

“Maybe they should kiss,” Gladio says again and Prompto laughs along with him this time even though Noctis doesn’t.

“Maybe we should,” Noct mutters.

He squeezes his eyes shut tight, like something's causing him pain. Any effort to ask him what’s wrong on Prompto’s part, however, is undermined when Noct’s hands clumsily reach for his face, smacking him on the nose before getting a sure grip on his jaw.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” Noct says, “I can’t, like, look at or hear me if we’re gonna do this.” He takes in a sharp breath then mutters, “This is not how the first time should have gone.”

“First what -”

Prompto almost over balances and knocks Noct over when he tugs him forward and seals their mouths together.

Prompto’s still in Noct’s body when it’s over, but it’s hard to be upset about pretty much anything right now.

#this is so cute!!!#prompto starting to appreciate his own body is such a nice touch!#the boy deserves to love himself #promptis

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