#sorry that it's so garbage

[mypoisonedvine]

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.”

[green-lights-33]

[hedgehog-moss]

Wild roses

[ventresses]

Star Wars + Text Posts & Headlines

Star Wars: The Bad Batch (8/?)

[blueskittlesart]

at a certain point i think we need to acknowledge that art is very rarely created accidentally. if you can see a theme in a work than that theme was, more likely than not, at least somewhat intentional on behalf of the creator. you don't put a piece of yourself out into the world without thinking about what it means at least a little bit.

[mrtequilasunset]

Highkey so sad to see Kim's character get butchered by people who see Harry as whichever addict wronged them in their life.

[rhythmmortis]

[you-idiots]

unsocialized gods

[willowser]

touya + eggplant ; 3.2k ੈ‧₊˚ for our meet fruit collab ! ‧₊˚✧ ₊˚

touya's message comes across in the early afternoon, when you know he should be working.

the image that comes to mind is — hilariously sweet: him in ill-fitting trousers and freshly combed hair, leaning too far into some desk as he fiddles with his phone. biting his lip, most likely, running the very tip of his tongue across the hole his piercing left behind; amused.

it'd be even better, you think, if he wasn't sending you three eggplant emojis and nothing else.

it's bold, and startlingly so. enough that your heart rate skyrockets and sweat forms instantly on the back of your neck, in the creases of your palms, as you overanalyze three cartoon vegetables harder than you ever have in your life. you could easily believe he's sending this as a drunken joke, but he's been stone-cold sober since he was released, and if that had changed, even in the slightest, yumi would have told you.

you type out four different variations of the same question — asking what the hell that's supposed to mean — before sending none of them. are you...being a weirdo? eggplant emojis are inherently sexual, right? and maybe touya's been away for a while, but surely he would know that. right? in a single, wordless text, he's managed to make you sixteen again; too young to be crushing on your best friend's older brother.

— though you think of him now as he was only days ago: eyes clear and focused, razor sharp and set on you from across the todoroki living room. the very memory makes your stomach churn, violently; just a kid that should be worrying about their studies, and not about a boy that wouldn't give you the time of day.

before your thoughts can get themselves any more scrambled, another text follows suit:

yumi wants to know if u wanna come for dinner

eggplant, you tell yourself, as in the actual food that people eat. the actual vegetable, and not the dickish inquiry you thought it was. you do your best to ignore the little wave of disappointment that washes over you, and then the following crash once you realize that you wouldn't actually mind if he was asking after what you thought he was asking after; you, carnally.

you collect yourself enough to send him a normal, not weird text in response confirming that you'll be there, and his thumbs up comes across almost instantly. as if he'd been waiting for you.

touya was always in and out of their house when you and fuyumi were in school, but you caught him every now and then when things were good. safe at home, doing his best to hold down a job and stay out of trouble, soaking up a warmth from his family he never got as a kid, when their dad was around. how couldn't you have developed such a crush on him? to see him happy and whole, more dangerous than anyone expected, mysterious in a way that excited your teen heart — and kissing up to his mother at the dinner table?

you're not delusional enough to think he ever noticed you or your big goo-goo eyes, but sometimes he would stick his head into his sister's room, to grin and wiggle his eyebrows at you, before getting pelted in the head with a stuffed animal and chased away. it earned a high-pitched laugh from him, more of a game than anything sincere, but you still thought of him while staring at the ceiling in your own bedroom, wishing.

in all the time he was away — in rehab or jail or who-knows-where — you thought you'd outgrown your juvenile infatuation, but — here you are, still, with fevered cheeks at the very thought of him.

here you are, still, taking care to choose your clothes for dinner, as if it were only going to be you and him. fussing with your hair for far too long, as if he would notice. making little crescents with your nails into your palm outside the door to the todoroki house, as if you haven't been here thousands of times.

you've seen him since he's been home, of course, in the last few months, but there's been this weird aura surrounding you both, worse than it was when you were younger. you're tip-toeing around each other and you both know you're tip-toeing, and he's always wearing his little smug smile and looking too long. it's hard to be around him, really. a little easier to text, but every winky face he sends only winds you up even further.

when the front door swings open, you hold your breath unintentionally, neck straining until you realize —

it's only shouto.

"hi!" you say, trying not to sound as winded as you feel, though shouto — as usual — is unimpressed.

he blinks at you, two-toned, and almost rolls his eyes like the rotten teenager he's capable of being, attitude too much like touya's. there's a little doughy dumpling in his hand and he turns away from you while using it to wave further into the house. "she's in the kitchen."

fuyumi, even though you didn't ask. you follow him in and stick your tongue out at the back of his head, before going off to find your best friend — who is, indeed, in the kitchen, surrounded by bowls and utensils and too many real, actual eggplants.

"what did you do?" you ask upon seeing her treasure trove of purple veggies on the counter. "rob a farmer?"

there's really an absurd amount of them, though she doesn't look up from cutting one into little rangiri pieces. "no, actually, they were on sale at the farmer's market!"

you eye one closest to you before poking at it, oblong in shape and — kind of ugly. it feels odd in your hand when you pick it up, but that's probably because you're hyper-aware of every sound in the background of the house, of the burning embarrassment tucked away in your pocket in the form of touya's three emojis. shamefully, your thoughts take a dark turn, and when fuyumi finally glances up, you toss the vegetable back onto the counter too fast.

she snorts and shakes her head, pushing up her glasses with the back of her hand before pointing at the little steamer basket of dumplings near the stove. "try one! before shouto and natsuo eat them all."

you consider it for a moment before weighing just how much eggplant it seems you're going to consume tonight, and decide to wait until after dinner, if they're still there. along with her veggies, she's got a little tub of red miso out and also some pork frying in a pan, as well as too many bowls in the sink already. though you admire her passion for cooking, you know she'll wait to clean until everything is plated, and no one else will help her, so you take to starting on the dishes instead.

the frown she sends you can be felt, but you've been in this kitchen long enough that you think she should just give it up.

there's such comfort to being in here, with her, maybe because you really have done it so many times by now; the water is warm as it runs over your hands, sending little goosebumps up your arms, and you nod your head absentmindedly to the sound of her knife against the cutting board. you absorb the heat from everywhere quickly, and when you begin to smell the garlic and ginger cooking, you feel like a warm, doughy little dumping yourself.

you get lost in it with her and all the tension from the day melts, dissolves completely when you can lightly hear fuyumi humming over her sizzling pan. she tells you about some other things she bought at the market, gossip about a mutual friend you both have, she asks about the shirt you're wearing and why she's never seen it before, and you're rinsing your hands of dish soap when you hear her squeal—

"ah! get out!"

when you peek over your shoulder, you can see touya there, leaning too far over her own, smiling with full cheeks as he investigates what she's cooking. half of a little dumpling is in his hand and he looks down at it, makes a face before turning it over, and then he places it right back in the steamer.

"ew, gross!" fuyumi nudges him away with her elbow before plucking it right back out, trying to hand it back off to him. "nobody wants your half-eaten food."

and then, much to your horror, right in front of his sister — touya's eyes cut across the kitchen to you. one corner of his mouth quirks up in his little smirk and then you're whipping back around to look down in the sink, despite it being empty. his stare can be felt, too. you wonder if it's a todoroki thing.

"ew," fuyumi mumbles. you feel like you've been caught in some kind of way, though you don't doubt she clocked your affections for her older brother the minute they developed.

it's not something she's ever spoken directly to you about, however, which you're grateful for. you don't know how you would be able to handle that discussion, but she's always made sure to pass off the odd and unprompted little updates about touya over the years.

when he speaks again, it's clear his mouth is full. "shouto said he's not settin' the table."

"okay, then you go do it."

"no," touya snorts, "he's the youngest, that ain't fair."

"and you're the oldest, so you can ask him to do it."

"he doesn't listen to me and you know—"

"alright!" fuyumi sighs, and when you peek back at them, she's shoving her knife into his hands and shaking her head to herself, before stalking out of the kitchen.

you unravel out of your little dumpling warmth immediately, though your goosebumps return in full force. touya grins at you, happily, and tosses the kitchen knife in his hands in a way that looks too proficient, too dangerous for what it is. your teen heart thumps loudly in your ears, charmed and enamored by his tragic mystery.

— and then you take in his still-pristine work outfit, openly, now that he's watching you; slacks a little slouchy on his narrow hips, white shirt buttoned up to his neck. the tattoo there is covered up by bandages on purpose, and though he means to simply hide them from view, it only sharpens all his edges.

the small pink, hello-kitty band-aid on his cheek helps, too, in a cutesy way. makes you all too aware of how much has changed over the years. how much he's changed, all the work he's had to do, the dues he's had to pay. your heart swell stubbornly, seriously, and you try to shake it away.

your voice starts out small, embarrassingly enough. "you look nice in your fancy office clothes."

touya's hand slip into his pocket and he rocks back and forth on his heels once, pleased, before looking down at his loose tie. "think so? you like a white-collar man?"

you look back to the sink, shy. it pulls him in; a moth to the flame of your hesitance, and it's not a moment later that he's leaning up against the counter beside you, watching your heated face carefully. the knife at his side gleams in the kitchen light and — you're not afraid of him, couldn't be, but you wonder if anyone else has ever been.

the truth of what landed him in trouble with the law is unknown to you, the one thing fuyumi never shared, and you can't help but to be curious as to why. you're practically family at this point and it's not as if you could ever look down on them, ever, and while you couldn't possibly understand the horror they went through with their father — you can sympathize with the fact that it wasn't easy. that he left scars they'll always nurse.

touya's always been so out of your reach, despite being just down the hall. blame it on time or the slight age difference or your relationship with his sister; it's hard to hope that he could be here, at your side, truly. finally.

instead of answering, you simply turn so that you're facing him, hip leaned against the counter, and the bright eyes he has on your cheeks are almost impossible to be at the mercy of. even worse when his smile grows, boyish-ly cute.

"what, coming on too strong?" he asks, laughing quietly when you put on a brave face and roll your eyes. "figured the emojis would'a opened the door a little."

your cheeks flame, and you press your hands into them to tide back your smile at how — flirty he is. the step back you take doesn't go unnoticed. "i couldn't even believe what i was seeing when you sent those."

"oh, yeah?" the tone of his voice changes then, shifts a bit lower. if you weren't tracking his eyes as they shift down to your mouth, burning a little brighter, you might've though you'd upset him or said the wrong thing. "what'd you think i meant?"

you glance away from him, directly at the ugly eggplant you'd been fiddling with earlier, and the dark thoughts return. when you don't answer right away, he reaches over to flip on the tap, running the knife blade underneath the stream as you map the wide expanse of his hands, the length of his fingers. small, translucent scars litter his knuckles.

"i don't know," you lie, and then it seems like you have said the wrong thing, this time; touya turns a little, placing all his attention in the dish soap and the sponge you'd left out to dry.

you are sixteen, speechless, nervous by his proximity—

"you seein' anyone right now?"

—but this is not the same boy that left you behind.

you have to laugh in order to keep yourself rooted to your spot, here on earth in the todoroki kitchen, and it brings his attention right back to you. "uh," you say, lamely, "what?"

it makes him laugh, too, all your sputtering. "yeah, c'mon. i mean, i know i'm fucked in the head, but," and then he really laughs, open-mouthed, showing off the piercing still in his tongue. "i'm workin' on it, and stuff. renewed and reformed, or whatever."

"hang on," you shake your head quickly, frowning at him as you replay the words over and over; his self-deprecation is so genuine that you almost missed it. "i don't think you're...fucked in the head."

"well, that makes one of us—"

"no, touya, i'm serious," the step closer you take has him looking away, down into the empty sink; hilariously, a mirror of yourself that you never could have imagined seeing. it does strange things to your heart, your stomach, and your nerves. makes you bolder than you really are. "i've never thought that."

he doesn't say anything for long time, choosing to watch droplets of water as they fall from the faucet. his jaw works in the silence, like he's chewing the inside skin of his cheek, like he's thinking too hard.

and then he says, quietly, "i know." he continues without looking at you, sensing the confusion on your face. "i know you never did, 's'why i couldn't..."

you blink, lost suddenly in the meaning of his words and their whirlwind. you think back to all the times he grinned at you from fuyumi's doorway, how uninterested he seemed in you from across the dinner table, his silence on the rare occasions you were alone together.

you've known touya since you were fourteen and he was fifteen. you remember when their parent's got divorced and when touya got his license and when he got locked up, the first time. you've known him through so many of his bad moments and it never dimmed the little stars you had in your eyes for him, and you once thought that was a bad thing, that it would only lead to heartbreak time and time again from him. you once thought it was something only you and fuyumi knew about.

"i am tryin' now," he continues with a sigh, a little winded. "seriously. got this shitty job and am goin' to my meetings. not as big of a piece of shit." when you start to object, he shakes his head and holds up a hand to stop you from arguing. "i know, i just mean...you wanna white-collar guy, i'm a white-collar guy."

you feel shy again, especially as the high points of his cheek flush pink. boyish-ly cute. "so that's why you sent me three eggplant emojis instead of just asking me to come eat dinner?"

touya snorts. "yeah, like i said, i'm workin' on it."

"no, i..." it feels wrong to admit anything to him like this, so close as his grin grows on his handsome face, dimples showing. you've been thinking about moments like this for years, but now that it's here, you feel a little dizzy, looking into his bright eyes. "i like the eggplant emoji." you step away from him for just a moment, to grab his half-eaten dumpling, and his expression grows serious — a little dark — as you nibble on it. "i like the way you...do things."

his smile grows knife-sharp, something he's too good at wielding. "well, in that case—"

"can i come in yet? our dinner is about to burn."

you both whip around to take in fuyumi, hovering at the edges of the kitchen with her arms crossed. watching on, her cheeks tinged pink, too. you try to step away, embarrassed and caught, but touya only leans in, knocking his hip to yours.

fuyumi rolls her eyes at him, but the small smile she sends you has you wanting to be swallowed up by the floor; this isn't a discussion you've ever had to have with her, but now — it's inevitable.

you suppose you can't complain too much.

"okay, you had your moment, now get out," she sticks her tongue out at touya before shooing him away, making a small noise when he pinches your elbow teasingly. it makes him laugh when she swats at him, and he only holds up his hands and tries to drop all his weight back on her as she steers him out of the kitchen.

you fish the knife out of the sink and return to cutting another eggplant once she's back and stirring in her leeks and little miso mixture. the moment is tense between you to begin with — but then she's humming quietly under her breath and knocking her hip into yours, too, tucking you back into the comfort of this house you've always been in. this family you've always loved.

"you know," she murmurs eventually, rolling her eyes with another smile when you glance up at her face. one of the eggplants is weighed in her hands, and even she frowns down at it, before shaking it at you in a way that makes you both laugh. "he made me buy these, by the way."

—tucking you back into the comfort of this family that has, maybe, always loved you, too.

[ryuubff]

chinese new year is still going on so i have a reason to start spreading my half-chinese!sebastian propaganda 🧧

[captainhysunstuff]

22 more images below the cut (Warning: Less than moral discussion ahead):

Light leads L to a particular stretch of woods that he calls "neutral ground" and demands to hear L's conditions for him to work with Kira. L tries to explain in a way that will convince Light to accept his assistance. It appears to be successful...

Next

Previous

First

Master List

Transcript

Big Disclaimer here: I, personally, don't condone the "Kira Plan" in any way, shape, or form. I don't even believe that there is a "correct" way to enact it. I am very firmly on the "Anti-Kira" and "Light is a Tragic Character with Bad Coping Mechanisms/Self Delusion" teams. I don't want to spoil too much of what's left of this story, but I do have a plan/explanation in the future~.

[w1lmuttart]

Imagine your comeuppance, your karmic destiny for working as a bodyguard in a terrorist group, being getting occasionally possessed by a fart ghost for promotional art

[partywithponies]

I was promised a stupid and cheesy show, no-one said anything an intro that slaps this hard!

[finchcritterart]

I finally watched/read Nimoner

[possession1981]

freshly done makeup vs end of the day 🌅

[even-disco-baby]

CINDY THE SKULL — “Evening, officers. It’s a bit late to be skulking about, don’t you think?” Though she’s lounging around the coal room door as languidly as ever, her pale eyes ringed with coal dust seem to bore a hole in your skull.

YOU — “I’m looking for a place to sleep.”

CINDY THE SKULL — She lifts an eyebrow at you and Kim. “Did the cafeteria man finally decide he wasn’t interested in keeping a pigsty?”

YOU — “No, Kim is still staying there. I just can’t pay my bill.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant clears his throat slightly. “Let’s not give people the impression that officers of the RCM make a habit of dodging their tabs, detective.”

CINDY THE SKULL — She glances at Kim, lips pursing just slightly.

EMPATHY — His little comment irritated her. Curious.

CINDY THE SKULL — “Tough luck, officer.” She shrugs, the faux fur collar of her coat brushing her cheeks. “There’s a perfectly good garbage bin in the courtyard. It’s got a lovely view. Real prime real estate.”

YOU — “I know. Garte said I could sleep there, but I’d rather find somewhere else.”

CINDY THE SKULL — She blinks her coal-smeared eyes at you. Then, she turns to the lieutenant. “Is he joking?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No,” he says drily. “He is not. If you know of any… more *comfortable* places to sleep, we would be much obliged.”

CINDY THE SKULL — She stares openly at the two of you, as if in disbelief.

COMPOSURE — The absurdity of your plight has nearly broken right through her veneer of youthful detachment.

CINDY THE SKULL — “Maybe I’m the one who should be a detective. I can solve your little case for you right now.” She points to the lieutenant. “Your room.”

KIM KITSURAGI — His face is solid stone. “No.”

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — There are so many reasons why he does *not* want to do that. He has neither the time nor any desire to share them with Cindy. Or with you, for that matter.

-1 MORALE

CINDY THE SKULL — She whistles softly. “Damn. Must be true what they say about pigs and cannibalism.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant does not rise to her bait.

EMPATHY — But there is something playing at the downturned corners of his mouth and the furrow of his brow. Something like guilt.

YOU — “What about the coal room, Cindy?”

CINDY THE SKULL — She outright laughs at you. “Fuck no! You want in my room, get a warrant, piggo!”

LOGIC — While drug possession is not a crime in Revachol, it doesn’t stop most cops from confiscating substances from vulnerable civilians for their own personal use. Including yourself, most likely.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY — Hey, good idea! Cindy’s an artsy type, she’s probably got all kinds of shit to get her creative juices flowing.

PAIN THRESHOLD — And to get her through the cold and the hunger and the cruelty.

VOLITION — No. Don’t make things any worse than they already are.

YOU — “But then… where do I go?”

CINDY THE SKULL — She shrugs again. “It’s not my problem, is it? Ask your partner, here. Or maybe you should take a hint and go back home to the farm.”

YOU — “I don’t know if I have a home… I think I lost it.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant’s frown deepens. He stares down at his boots rather than meet your or Cindy’s eye.

CINDY THE SKULL — A long, almost uncomfortable silence. Her eyes are hardening as they take you in— you and your bloodshot eyes, your slightly labored breathing, your clothes that are certainly too thin to keep you warm tonight.

EMPATHY — She feels sorry for you, and she resents herself for it.

CINDY THE SKULL — She lets out a long sigh, closing her eyes and shaking her head. “All right, piggy. Just quit looking at me all pitiful… You saw the foreclosed apartment in the hall, right? If you wait for the cleaning lady to go to sleep, and you don’t stay long, it’s not a bad place. Better than the trash, anyway.”

REACTION SPEED — She seems to regret it as soon as the words leave her mouth. She’s not thrilled at the idea of trusting your honor not to rat out or even arrest your fellow squatters. But it’s too late now.

SUGGESTION — Wait. Is it really that simple? What if she expects something in return for the information? Or she could be setting a trap for you!

YOU — “Hang on. What’s the catch?”

CINDY THE SKULL — A wry smile breaks out across her face. It almost looks pained. “No catch, officer. I’m no snitch. Nor a pig.”

RHETORIC — You’ve insulted her more deeply than she cares to let on. She helped you because she knows your struggles intimately. Struggles that have claimed the lives of people she cared about. But now you’ve reminded her of the difference between you: she calls you pig because you sold your humanity for the power to strip others of their own.

EMPATHY — She’s sad. She was born sad and she will die sad. You are the one making her sad.

YOU — “Hey, Cindy?”

CINDY THE SKULL — “What?”

“I’m sorry. Thank you for helping me.”

“You shouldn’t judge me. We’re the same. We do what it takes to survive. You have the Skulls, I have the RCM.”

“Can’t we just get along?”

“I’ll pay you back somehow. I’ll make things right.”

“I don’t want to be this kind of animal anymore.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant looks up at you, startled. Concerned, even. He almost looks as though he wants to say something, but nothing comes to him. He just stares at you, at a loss.

CINDY THE SKULL — She levels you with a steady gaze. Even without the coal dust, her eyes would look sunken into her wan face. If it weren’t for the roundness still clinging to her cheeks, she would have lost nearly all trace of her youth by now.

“I don’t think you even understand what kind of animal you are,” she says coolly.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Homo sapien.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — A tiny, violent ape.

AUTHORITY — Predator.

HALF LIGHT — Prey.

VOLITION — You’re a human, Harry. Nothing more or less.

INLAND EMPIRE — The saddest and cruelest animal of them all.