#the scarecrow x reader

[mothhball]

If There's No End

Pairing | Jonathan Crane x Reader

Warnings | DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT!!! MAJOR CHARACTER DE*TH – Reader d*es! ANGST, HURT, NO COMFORT, CANN*BALISM, do NOT read if any of this feels too uncomfortable!! Jon is very, very delusional in this, drugging, lobotomy, established relationship, again - CANN*BALISM. (tumblr wants me to censor this :'] )

Summary | Jonathan reminisces about your shared life and the day you found out his secret.

Words | 2.7k

Notes | Don’t yell at me for this, you’ve been warned! Not proofread, please don’t beat me up.

@kiss-me-cill-me welp, this is the cannibalism fic lmao bon appetit

Jonathan never thought he’d know guilt. But now that he’s hunched over on his knees, digging through the mud with trembling hands, he suspects that this might be it. His vision is still blurry. Has been for the past few hours. The tears have turned his world into a faded, abstract mess, like a child’s chalk drawings that are in the middle of being washed away by the rain. If it had been anyone else, he would have settled for the large dump of hazardous waste behind ACE Chemicals. But not in this case. Never in this case.

Jonathan never thought he’d grow to respect another person, but you crashed into his life with an earth-shattering intensity that nearly made his knees give out as soon as you turned to greet him. Hi. Two letters, one syllable. And it affected him in such a profound way that his ears still burn at the memory. Even during that first fleeting conversation, he felt as if the edges of his person began to become cloudy. Desperate to merge with yours until there was no end and no beginning to the two of you as separate people. Until flesh and bone and viscera were a shared commodity between him and you. A fever dream with the appropriate symptoms. Some nights he woke from a beautiful dream, a fantasy in which the two of you were irrevocably merged into one being. And on those nights, hot tears of disappointment and anger burned so harshly on his cheeks that he expected his sheets to sizzle where the drops fell.

It was love. It had to be. And when the universe finally relented to the prayers and wishes he whispered until his throat became hoarse, his life exploded with color. Fleeting glances and coy small talk managed to bloom into something more, something deeper and more intimate than Jonathan’s analytical vocabulary could ever fully explain. You loved him in a way that was entirely foreign to him. Unconditional and patient. You just… got him. Without even trying to. Your gaze traveled past skin and ribs down to his very heart and soul, and you didn’t turn away. But you didn’t know everything back then. How could you? He was so secretive about everything involving his studies. Sometimes, he couldn’t resist the temptation of monologuing about fear and its shackles on humanity. But that was all he was willing to share with you. He granted you a microscopic detail of the true extend of his passion. A laughably small excerpt of his obsession.

Jonathan never thought he’d know love. But you proved him wrong with every smile, every whisper of praise, every tender touch upon his skin.

He knows how cliché it is to claim that settling down with someone never occurred to him before he met you, but it's the truth. In a life that was filled with hurt and contempt, you were the first to take a chance on him. Undeterred by his sometimes standoffish nature and cold attitude, you pressed onwards until he cracked, revealing the mush that you've managed to melt him into.

A future with you was worth everything he had endured up to that point. The plan was to graduate, find jobs and get hitched immediately. He wanted to put his last name on you, give you a part of himself that you would take wherever you went.

The first two steps were already completed with him getting a PhD and a professorship, that he quickly lost again, somewhere in the middle. Aside from a few mishaps and arguments about his attitude towards his patients at Arkham, all seemed right in paradise.

Often, the two of you would lie awake at night, talking about your future while you played with his fingers. "I'd like to get married in Spring," you said. And he just nodded, already imagining your bright smile when he'd put the ring on your finger. On those nights, the urge to become one often overtook him, and he rolled on top of you to devour you in a different way. In hindsight, he should've told you. Given you a chance to see the true extend of his rotten soul. You already knew so much about him, yet you still wanted a life with him. You often said how much you craved the mundane with him. Lazy Sunday mornings, standing in line to get groceries, gossiping about your neighbors in the quiet part in the outskirts Gotham City that you wanted to move to. He should've told you about the toxin he keeps stashed away in his office, no more than 15 feet behind the pillow you rested your pretty head on.

He didn't dare to think about what could've been. No, he made the right decision. Surely.

He still remembers your wide eyes. The way the color vanished from your complexion as you turned towards him with his mask in your hands. He remembers how wrong the burlap looked, crushed between your beautiful fingers. You asked him to explain, even though you were already tearing up just by looking at him. Jonathan was always convinced that he could read you like a book, but in that moment, he doubted himself. And he panicked. From one second to the next, he lunged at you, putting you into a headlock that constricted the blood flow to your brain, and you wheezed and wailed for him to stop, but he couldn’t. If he let go, you’d let yourself be ruled by secondary emotions. Emotions like betrayal and heartbreak that threatened to overshadow the deep, deep love you felt for him. It was an act of mercy for both of you. So, he held you until your struggling stopped, and your consciousness slipped away. It always takes longer in real life than in the movies. And he cried with you. God, did he cry, soaking your hair with his tears as he choked you into a blackout.  

You were out for ten minutes. Ten agonizing minutes which he used to prepare for what needed to be done. Your happiness was his happiness, so he had to do something to take your mind off of the situation. Or any situation for that matter. He has never done this before, but the thought of desperate measures during desperate times, didn’t give him the opportunity to hesitate. A local anesthetic and a muscle relaxant would suffice, he decided as he rushed to gather the equipment. By the time you came to, he was already straddling your torso, leaning over you with fresh tears in his eyes. As you began to silently panic, Jonathan was quick to try and shush you. Oh, how it hurt him more than it hurt you. The lobotomy set was a Christmas gift from you. A tongue-in-cheek nod to the history of the profession he chose. It was fate. It had to be.

The tip of the ice pick-like instrument felt cold against your eye socket, and he clenched his teeth at the shiver that ran down your spine. His hands were violently shaking already, and your involuntary movements didn’t make it any better.

“Shh… shh… don’t move, angel… It’ll… it’ll be so quick, I promise.”

Another sob wrecked through his body as he lifted the delicate metal hammer.

“You need to try and sing for me, okay? Or hum. Or anything. I need… I need to know when it’s deep enough. Just try, angel. Just try, okay?”

Jonathan’s voice was as shaky as the grip on the instruments. But by God, he had to do this. He had to keep you by his side. His other half, his future, his everything. The vessel of every passion and love he poured into you. You just stared up at him through watery eyes, unable to open your mouth anymore, so you settled for humming. It was a nonsensical melody, a mish-mash of several nursery rhymes without a title. The first strike of the hammer against the orbitoclast caused an incredible pressure to spread in your skull, and black spots settled in your vision as the tip of the instrument breached bone. The crack was nauseating, but you couldn’t even struggle. Jonathan’s breathing became heavy, and he wheezed out a sob that sounded like it came from a dying animal when he saw the blood that began to fill your eye. But he had to continue.

“Just like that. Just like that, angel.”

With trembling hands, he prepared himself for the second strike, but he underestimated the adrenaline that his blackened heart was pumping through his veins. Something went wrong, his sweaty hands slipped off the equipment, skewing the angle of the pick when he hit it. And he hit it hard. Immediately, your humming stopped and turned into stuttered noises. A bead of clear fluid dripped from your nose, rolling down over your lips. This wasn’t blood.

The crushing realization that he messed up caused Jonathan to freeze entirely. Cerebrospinal fluid was leaking out of your nose at a quick rate, sending him into a blind panic. He tried to pull the pick from your eye, causing even more damage to your precious brain. A brain that was meant to love, not hurt. But here you are, wasting away before his very eyes. You’re suffering beneath him like a bird that hit a window in a curious attempt to explore. And you did explore.

Back in his childhood, he once found an injured crow in the shade of the family house. The poor thing was twitching and bleeding, much like you are now. Jonathan remembered the crushing emotions that he felt when he looked at the animal. And he also remembered the feeling when his grandmother put it out of its misery by crushing the crow’s head under her shoe like it was nothing. Like it was nothing. You weren’t nothing, but you still deserved that brand of mercy.

He doesn’t remember how he did it. Whether he wrapped his hands around your throat or injected you with enough muscle relaxant to put you down. In fact, he doesn’t remember much of the first night of complete silence. When he emerged from the blur, his throat felt raw from sobbing, and his eyes were swollen and red. He had left the room that contained your body immediately, fearing that he’d catch fire from stepping into a place that had been consecrated by the death of an angel. Eventually, after he had bitten his lips bloody and used up every tear in his eyes, he dared to face you again. And God, were you still so beautiful. And as ashamed as he was for thinking this way, there was also a positive to this. A big one at that. You would always be his. No one else would ever get the privilege of seeing your eyes or hearing your voice again. You truly belonged to him in every way. And as he stepped over to kneel besides your body and take your hand in his, he actually smiled. It was just the two of you. Like you always planned.

It was a grueling process. To strip skin from flesh, and flesh from bone. But he was patient. Patient in the same way that you were with him. Patient in a tender, saccharine way that made his insides squirm as if he was infested by maggots. But the only parasite inside of him was love. That's how it works, right? You can never truly get rid of it.

Once the bones were clean, he had to step back for a while. The impending loneliness made him stumble into the bathroom to vomit into the toiled bowl. For a good 30 minutes, he sat there. Doubled over and white-knuckling the porcelain. There was no disgust involved. Just fear. God, he was terrified of being alone again. Terrified of truly losing the one thing he couldn't breathe without. And as he sat there, heaving like a dog, he found a solution.

He ate your heart first.

Every bite, every mashing of teeth against teeth was an act of love. He had to pause a few times, chuckling at himself for his choice. How cheesy it was to go for the heart first. But how could he not? Even Jonathan wasn't immune to symbolism. It wasn't about taste or texture. It was about the growing sensation of having his stomach filled. Of having his hunger satiated by forming an everlasting connection with you. You would never be wearing his wedding ring, but you'd be with him forever in a different way. You'd be his until the day that he died. And even then, he hoped, your spirits would be so entangled that there was no way of separating the two of you. Maybe you'll get reincarnated as one soul together.

Over the course of three weeks, he forced himself to consume as much of you as he possibly could, setting the table for two since you were there as well. It always started off tame. He tried to savor the feeling of becoming one, but at some point, his composure always cracked, and he ate your body like he was a starving animal trying to fill the never-ending pit inside of him. The part that hurt him more than anything, though, was crafting a story. In the process of keeping you to himself, he had to ruin your reputation.

It was easy for others to believe. Of course, you would leave Jonathan for someone else. Most people in your small circle secretly never believed that this relationship would last. It was easy to make them believe something they had already expected to happen at some point. In this crafted lie, you went off to live with someone else, far away from Gotham. But in reality, you were always here with him. Beneath his skin that now became your own.

Jonathan never thought he’d feel peace. But now, that he has finished digging this hole in Gotham Central Park, he thinks he’s gotten pretty close. It has started to rain a few minutes ago, but he’s not bothered. In his mind, it’s your doing. Your loving attempt to wash the sin and guilt from his body. Because you know the depths of his devotion, know the intend behind his actions. This isn’t the first hole he has dug since the two of you became one. But it’s the final one. Back when he was confronted with the reality of what to do with your bones, he decided to do what you would want. You always were the romantic in the relationship, so he decided to leave your remains in places that were significant to the both of you.

His hands aren’t shaking anymore, as he pulls the plastic bag that he brought closer to himself. The material shreds quickly as his fingers tear through it, and he pulls it open to reveal the last pieces of your previous body. A tender smile spreads over his face as he reaches into the bag to pull out the bones of your fingers and wrists, remembering how he tore off the flesh and skin with his teeth. Your loving touch would always be with him. Carefully, he lowers everything into the hole he dug before he turns to the final piece. Tears of relief well up in his eyes as he gazes upon the empty sockets of your lovely skull. With the caution and gentleness of a mother setting down her newborn, he places your skull into the earth, whispering promises of everlasting love under his breath. This isn’t the end. Far from it. Once he wipes his eyes with his sleeve, he notices something else. It takes a moment to dislodge one of your molars from your jawbone, but Jonathan eventually manages. The piece of ivory bone almost seems to glow in the dim light that’s being casted by a distant street lamp. It’s your tooth. You share his now, so there’s no need for it anymore. But it’s one last piece of your smile.

And in a final act of completion, he swallows it.

[angelofthenight]

Jervis: we have to think! what would Jerome and (y/n) do in this situation?

Jonathan: you want us to make sex jokes?

[gothy-froggy]

❛  I want to taste you.  ❜

❛  all i could think about today was you.  ❜

❛  just lie back and let me take care of you.  ❜

Jonathan Crane x F!Reader

Warnings: Smut. Not proofread, Jonathan is lowkey a sub, a little rushed at the end, official first smut 😭

———————————————-

It's been a long shift. Troubling patients causing a ruckus, snotty coworkers just waiting to go home, some even hooking up in smaller spaces, angry visitors demanding requests.

It's all normal in Arkham Asylum. It felt like a normal day.

Jonathan sighed. His wrists pressed against his forehead as he leaned over the table in the break room. Out of all his years being at the asylum, this was his worst day yet. It was a lot worst than usual. One reason is because of the Asylum. On the other hand, it was his mind.

His thoughts.

Ever since last night's dream, he hasn't been focused on anything. He felt awful. He never thought he would have such dreams of his love. Not all of the sudden anyways. Never during their relationship did he have these dreams. Yes, his woman is very attractive, but he never thought about her in this way during a dream.

His mind distracted from her, gasping out his name echoing in his mind. It's not like he haven't heard them before. They've made love before, why was he so distracted by this dream?

The dream was so realistic too. He felt the warmth from her thighs as she clamped down on his face.

"The folder will be left on your desk, Dr. Crane.” One of the many workers chimed.

“Yes, thank you.” He grumbled. Jonathan removed his hands from his mouth before heading towards his office. He felt filthy for his thoughts. Even disgusted by them. He tried to get rid of that feeling, knowing it was the influence of his grandmother. His love has been helping him get over this influences. Maybe even more than she’s realized. He may not say it nor show it, but his love for her is far much deeper than she could ever imagine. He’ll show her, he just needs time. And he knows she’ll be there along the way. She’s willing to sweat and bleed with him. That’s something he’d always admired.

“Dr. Crane? Sorry, I just need your signature on these papers by the end of the day.” Jonathan flinched out of his thoughts. The woman smiled softly as she held the papers out.

“Of course. They’ll be done before then.” He slipped away into his office. He skimmed over the papers and sighed. More confirmation on patients and their state.

“Busy day?”

Jonathan froze. He couldn’t tell if this day about to get worse or better. No, that’s an idiotic thought. It’s his love. Of course this is better. The tense dissolved from his shoulders. All the negativity washed away.

But his thoughts came running back. He coughed lightly, tossing the papers on his desk with the others.

“Love, how did you get in?” He took his seat and leaned in into his chair. God he couldn’t focus anymore with her cheeky grin.

“I have my own ways.” Jonathan huffed out a chuckle. His fingers intertwined as he leaned over.

“My, my. It makes you sound like a criminal.” This truly was the only woman who could get a toothy grin out of him. Her giggled making his grin grow.

“How’s your day going?”

“Tormenting.” He groaned.

“I got them to let you off early today.”

Jonathan cocked an eyebrow. He stopped scrabbling through the papers. He barely captured her words. Getting off early? But there’s so much work to do-

No.

Jonathan pushed the partner in crime back. It wasn’t Scarecrow’s turn. He looked down at the papers. He signs the papers.

“After these, we can leave.” He replied. How thoughtful of her. She was always thoughtful. For some reason, he suddenly felt guilty for his thoughts of her. The flashes of his vivid thoughts flickered in front of his eyes. He opened his mouth before a knock interrupted.

“Dr. Crane- oh. I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware that your girlfriend was here.” The worker smiled, giving her a short wave.

“What it is, Donna?” He quickly snapped.

“Oh- um, I just need the papers. I wasn’t aware you’re leaving early.” Donna stumbled on her words. Great, he startled her.

“They’re done.” He held the papers out. She quickly snatched the papers.

“Perfect. Have a great rest of your day, Dr. Crane.” She hurried off.

Jonathan couldn’t focus. He got up and grabbed his coat.

“Are you ready?” He dragged his sigh. She knew something was up, but agreed.

————————————————-

Jonathan slouched on the couch once they got home. He didn’t even kick his shoes off. Jonathan gently tugged on his tie and closed his eyes. He heard his girlfriend walk over to him, kissing the top of his head. He loves that this happens. He opened his eyes, looking up at her with puppy eyes.

“I have to do the dishes, Jonny.” She ran her fingers through his hair. A shiver ran down his spine, making him shudder slightly. It didn’t help with his thoughts. He almost winced from it. Jonathan tilted his gaze up.

“You just rest, Crane.” Her hands slipped away from his hair. He already missed and craved for her touch. It frustrated him. He watched her washed the dishes. His partner in crime sneaking into his mind.

‘Stop holding back.’

This time, he listened.

Jonathan’s hands slithered around her waist. His head rests on her shoulder. The vibration from her laugh fills him with joy every time. She turned around and wrapped her arms around his neck. She scratched his hair, instantly making Jonathan whimper quietly. He dragged her away from the dishes, guiding her to their room. The slight sloppy kisses being shared between them. The door shut from Jonathan’s body pressed against it.

 “All i could think about today was you.” Jonathan breathed. His eyes gazing into hers. He sounded so hesitant. Her finger gently rubbing his bottom lip.

“I was having thoughts. About you.” He murmured. He almost choked from her breathy chuckle.

“What were those thoughts, Jonny?” She questioned. Jonathan placed her on the bed. “Please,” he started.

“Just lie back and let me take care of you.” His hands traveled up her thighs. Jonathan  roses from the ground. His lips sucking and nipping her collarbone. Her soft gasps and hums of pleasure fueled his lust and desire. His hands help shrugging off the sleeves off her shoulders and attacks her revealed chest.

“Jon…” She mumbled, slightly tugging his hair. There were no more control in Jonathan anymore. The hair tug made him go feral. He groaned and wasted no time to remove her clothes. Jonathan buried his head in between her thighs. He was overwhelmed by her as always. She was so…perfect. So perfect, yet she’s with him.

“Why would something with such beauty allow me to do what I want?” His question was muffled.

“What do you want?”

“I want to taste you.”

Jonathan gave her clit a kiss. He slowly moved away.

“Not yet.” He slipped two fingers inside her pussy, moving at a slow pace. The grip on his hair tightens and his self control leaves. The breathy moans asking him to go faster weren’t left ignored. His fingers quickened their pace, occasionally curling up.

“Fuck, Jon-”

“Yes?”

“Please,” she moaned.

He removed his fingers and quickly latched on, sucking her juices with a satisfied hum. His lovers moans encouraged him to dive in and eat more. Making every nip and tongue swirling count. Jonathan ate her out as if he was a starved man. He made room to play with her clit, enjoying the feeling of her thighs pressing against his head. Her shudders letting him know he’s pleasing his lovely Goddess. And then he was rewarded. Her climax pouring into his mouth, leaving none to spill. Jonathan pressed kisses and love bites over her thighs. He lifts his head up. Jonathan reaches out to embrace her.

But he was stopped. He froze as he felt her hand wrapped around his neck. His heartbeat quickens.

“Jonny, we aren’t finished yet.” His eyes widened slightly as she climbed on top of him.

“I haven’t rewarded you yet.”

“You already have, love.” Confusion drove his sentence. She tsked and gave his neck a squeeze. He whimpered, his hand reaching for her arm.

“That was just the beginning.”

Jonathan couldn’t wait to heal and express his love. He truly love her.

[sister-lucifer]

[wakes up in a cold sweat] JONATHAN CRANE USING LIQUID FEAR TOXIN AS LUBE IN ORDER TO STUDY ITS EFFECTS WHEN EXPERIENCED IN TANDEM WITH SEXUAL AROUSAL [immediately passes out again]

[decaying-words]

The Innocent

All chapters Jonathan Crane x Reader • 18+ Explicit • 4.1k words TW & tags: NonCon, fear kink, masturbation, awful everything AO3 • All my stories

"She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear. I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…"

The Innocent

Foreign music notes of a perhaps forgotten song vibrate in my dry throat in low hums, barely covering the insistent scratch of the fountain pen darkening the cream coloured papers splayed on my antique desk. The watch which delicately sublimes my bony wrist with its dark brown Italian leather and finely carved metal hands indicate three hours and fifty-six minutes in the afternoon; I still have four whole minutes, I realize with a palpable excitement that is most unwelcome in my line of work. My patient is, without a single doubt, already waiting in the other room; I will not greet her before the time has come, for it is absolutely crucial to not reveal any ounce of delight or impatience. In fact, I must remain perfectly professional, detached and clinical, or else I am taking the risk of exposing my ulterior motives and intimate desires. 

Four minutes is exactly the amount of time needed to adjust my tie (dark brown as well; a color not too contrasting to my marble pallor and which makes me look distinguished and inspires confidence, a key component in my profession), inspect my impeccable tweed vest made of Irish virgin wool dyed an exquisite amber color, and delicately clean the lenses of my round glasses with a microfiber cloth. Three hours fifty-nine; the last notes fade on my chapped lips when I leave my cognac leather armchair and direct my wiry frame to the door, spidery fingers holding the brass handle which feels pleasantly cold against my tight skin. 

Within my aging ribcage are percussions worthy of Ravel’s Bolero; intense in nature and laced with the fruitful musicality of controlled nerves. The entrance is methodical, natural and restrained, with a smile, polite enough to be welcoming but faint enough to remain professional, and soft crow’s feets rolling in a pleasantness that seems genuine. There are no emotions in my eyes; yet, dissimulated behind my glasses it might be hard to tell. My voice is warm and comforting, despite the crystal-like brokenness of its undertones which has been forged through the years.

Her smile, painted in a shiny coral red, is wide and transpires a heavy relief. She has been looking forward to our session all week long, I am sure; she reminds me of a teapot in the way she lets her worries fester until they turn ugly and make her completely dysfunctional. Her fingers cross and uncross nervously on her lap, as if incapable of knowing what to do with her own body, before she stands up, flattening her perfectly ironed marine blue pencil skirt, and retrieves her matching blazer jacket. I hold the door open and she penetrates my office with a footstep so light it could have belonged to a ghost; I notice the floral notes of her perfume, horrifyingly sweet and childish.

Through the nine sessions we had together, it is worth mentioning that her outfits are always delicately picked, colors matching and completed with a set of earrings (one on each lobe), a gourmette bracelet with her name engraved (a baptism gift, I reckon), and a now very familiar pearl necklace which I abhor passionately. Her hair is always impeccably styled down and her face painted just enough to be womanly without looking like a whore; something important, I suppose, for it matters greatly to her father. She reminds me of a ventriloquist’s doll, carrying a fabricated superficiality that betrays the profound emptiness of her soul. I am not certain she likes her appearance very much, the short heeled suede shoes, the old-fashioned manicure or the vulgar pearl necklace; but rather that she likes the simulacre of control on her life this shows on the outside, especially to her father, a figure we never cease to talk about.

My patient does not sit down until I instruct her to, the anxiety to pick the wrong choice and disappointment still viciously anchored in her childhood; an emotionally absent and academically demanding father tends to create such complex insecurities in the younger hearts. I would know. As always, we will be talking about it; and as always, she will unravel the same pointless secrets in an uninteresting logorrhoea that could very well bore me to death if it weren’t for the topic of her recurrent nightmares, cautiously sprinkled in her stories and immensely more fascinating —from a clinical point of view, of course. 

I am taking place in the armchair in front of hers, crossing one leg on top of the other, not dissimilar to two long and pale sticks enveloped in soft and tasteful fabric. My elevated ankle reveals the smallest ounce of marble skin, adorned with arched tendons which roll and disappear beneath the dark Egyptian cotton of my socks. I sense her heavy gaze following the slender silhouette of my legs to the tip of the deep brown leather of my derby shoes; a rosy tint blooms on her cheeks and my lips twitch in amused curiosity while she plays nervously with the pearls of this dreadful necklace which she is, in my humble opinion, either too old or too young to wear. She feels desire for me, despite being a couple of decades older than her; an expression, I believe, of her yearning for a paternal love, approval and affection.

My notebook lays graciously on my lap, angled in such a way that makes it impossible for her to see what I will be writing down, my treasured pen already in my hand. Adjusting my glasses on the long bridge of my aquiline nose, I offer her yet another muted smile, a silent invitation to begin the session; she appears flustered, blushing some more as I seem to have interrupted her train of thoughts —probably too vulgar for the image of herself she is desperately fabricating. I wonder if she is a virgin still, having spent the essential of her miserable life catering to her father’s needs and putting aside her own intimate desires; this would explain the subtle perfume of her throbbing sex floating in my office.

I find myself more than passively listening to her most uninteresting week in a way that freezes my nerves and makes me question my career choice, gently guiding her back to the heart of her confusing weaving as she wanders and rambles incoherently. None of her anecdotes are of importance to me, subtly urging her to open the can of her anxieties and core reason for her very presence on my couch; her recurring and unexplained nightmares. 

A couple of months ago, this patient reached out to me in an attempt to exorcize her most intimate thoughts and find a more peaceful slumber. When asked the nature of her night terrors, she confessed, with great difficulty and restraint at first, having this peculiar dream for years now in which she finds herself wandering around the unknown alleys of a surrealist city reminiscing of a dark and sterile-looking maze. She can never tell where she is, every window and every door looking the same, every turn sensibly similar to the next, the streetlights aggressively cutting harsh shadows against the smooth walls of the buildings. 

As her journey progresses, she notices a shadowy form following her every step and which does not make a noise aside from an ominous buzzing that makes the lights crackle; though it has not touched her yet, its presence alone is dreadful and suffocating enough to make her survival instincts kick in. She runs through the maze-like alleys in a vain hope to escape the figure, never successful in her doing; the shadow creeping at every corner, slipping through the cracks of the building like a liquid void, looming over her like a toxic cloud, and always watching her with empty eyes and whispering incomprehensible and otherworldly things in a gnarly voice resembling a sinister borborygmus.

She wakes up screaming, in tears and drenched in sweat before it can seize her.

There is an obvious answer behind her anxiety, one draped in the cloak of her oppressing father; and yet, despite the last few unproductive sessions and unfruitful attempts to take in my hypothesis, she rejects all and any idea of daddy dearest being the root of her misery. My poor sweet girl. Through her almost touching callowness if it weren’t laced with pungent naïveté, I find great intellectual pleasure in studying her profound fear; sometimes, when the moon hits and soaks my office in a creamy light, I dissect my numerous notes, each scribbled word reminiscing me of her giant doll-like eyes turning glassy with emotion, her painted lips aquiver with wretched anguish, her neatly cared eyebrows knitted in visible despair. She reminds me viciously of a newborn deer, frail and fragile; a sight so delicious it never fails to make my turgid sex throb in interest. I have learnt since to keep my legs crossed in front of her, of course.

Her fear is at the image of her personality; carefully crafted by her visceral fantasies which she struggles to control, as if her fabricated identity would cease and disappear if she knew how to confront it. There is something delectable in her innocent emotions, something exquisitely cruel in how laughable of a person she is, and I find myself morbidly curious to see her façade break and release her true self, dying and being born again. It is exhilarating really, the prospect of witnessing her weak mind shatter and rebuild itself, morphing into something pure and liberated, surpassing her ugly cocoon.

Fear is the most sublime emotion, a capricious mistress that transforms all beings into primal creatures; there is a beast inside all of us, I firmly believe, a döppleganger, infinitely mightier and profoundly fascinating, that only fear can free and liberate. I based my entire life on understanding the beauty of fear and how to elevate and transcend it, achieving our most glorious form; prying at people’s most intimate insecurities and feeding them the putrid fruits they truly do need to alter their mind irremediably, for their own benefit, I am certain. As such, it is past the clinical need but rightfully with a voracious desire and spiritual intention that I wish to see and unravel my Innocent’s breaking point. 

The sound of her trembled sob wakes me from my contemplative state, and I realize with great indifference that I missed her last couple of sentences, which I believe gave her yet another heartache. My occulted gaze devours the sight of her pained face, glassy eyes crying perfectly round and warm tears, her bunny nose reddening; I do not care much for her grief, an emotion I find particularly repulsive and grotesque and which she seems to feel quite frequently; this might be why I find her so unpleasant to be around. Instead, I hand her the tissue box that she politely accepts, wiping her tears and runny nose. 

The corner of my mouth twitches in disgust when I see her nervously touch her pearl necklace once again. This abominable pearl necklace that embodies everything about her that I hate; her child-like appearance despite being well into her thirties, her synthetic demeanor forged by an unyielding desire to be loved, her emotionally incestuous relationship with her undeserving father and her complete and total lack of self-esteem. 

Today’s session comes to an end and I am afraid we did not progress much, to my great dismay. I offer her the same frigid smile in which she always seems to find comfort when I open the door and shake her hand, a stark contrast to the warmth and subtle stickiness of her skin. She thanks me profusely and I nod in return, wishing her a pleasant rest of the day; I will be seeing her next week.

My simulacre of a smile fades as soon as she exits my office, a boiling irritation tinting the tip of my ears a crimson color, akin to a single rose in a snowy garden. I take an involuntary peek at my reflection in the window as I run a wiry hand in the dark feathers of my hair, silvering at the temples, a few gray strands adorning the generally brown mass. My thick eyebrows are knitted together in profound frustration, collecting today’s notes and sitting at my desk to study them. I cannot be satisfied with the glimpse of her unfledged anxieties, our exchanges do not nurture me professionally or otherwise ; slumping heavily in the leather armchair, a deep sigh swelling my tight chest, I lose myself in the labyrinthic corners of my mind, all the while ignoring the aggressive hardness of my sex, its throbbing feeling like the greatest treason in this precise moment.

I will not bring myself to completion tonight, for I find her fear vulgar and unworthy of my seed, a womb so barren it feels utterly meaningless. I will not even touch myself, I decide, denying her the attention and importance she desperately yearns for, refusing to besmirch my pride for such an insensitive mind. She is spoiling the sap of her soul in a way that is perfectly unacceptable to me and makes her look profoundly hideous; and I refuse to harvest the rotten fruits of a putrid heart. Instead, I will spend the night lost in my thoughts, with deep indignation for sole company.

It took me a complete day to recover from my turmoil and hatch a plan I deem satisfying, and four more to establish a detailed inventory of her nightly habits; following her at a reasonable distance in a now familiar fashion, carefully noting down any information of importance, I managed to know exactly when she finishes work, which Café she frequents, where she goes grocery shopping, which metro she takes home… During the day and in between two consultations, I conscientiously study the map of her neighborhood, carving in my memory every alley, every path, every building until I have a clear representation of my hunting territory. Victorious is a word that comes to my mind after such rewarding labor.

Tonight is the night. I am wearing my real skin, flesh made of burlap and soiled rag, fur made of dry straw and rotten thread stitching my articulations together. The used rope rolls like tendons around my throat, the noose loose enough to breath but not enough for it to be comfortable; a simple pleasure that will leave bruised memories on my neck like a passionate lover would. I caress my clothed form, the sensation unpleasant and rough to the touch and yet so deliciously stimulating, a sensation that never fails to make me hum appreciatively, heartbeat inappropriately lively for a Scarecrow .

It is ten hours and forty-five minutes on a Thursday night; she has been to the library tonight, devouring romance novels with her third cup of herbal tea –something horrifyingly fruity, I assume. An activity she indulges frequently, seeking refuge and comfort in the elegant place, something I cannot blame her for, considering the depraved state of the rest of Gotham, in stark contrast to the magnificence of the old architecture. This habit will also work in my favor, draping myself in the thickness of the night, my elongated figure barely noticeable in the corner of the street; at best, two glowing orbs pierce the obscurity, reminiscent of an animal of some sort, or better yet of an unsettling monster.

I hum the broken notes of an unknown song, a simple habit that feels right, lured in the dark and waiting for her to penetrate the first alley; I recognize her ghost-like footstep, short heels clacking subtly on the pavement, naive and unaware. Oh, my sweet girl.

She does not sense me for the first two hundred meters, her oblivious demeanor both entertaining and frustrating. There is something viscerally exquisite about seeing without being seen, teasing a very particular part of me; an almost erotic melange of power and impunity. I came to realize with age and experience that hunting is not dissimilar to foreplay, and therein lies my current problem; foreplay is not endless teasing, for I am neither patient nor interested in maintaining myself on the edge of my pleasure. And when I am being ignored for too long, I cannot help but feel somewhat insulted; ultimately, I want her to see me.

My fingernails tap and scratch the cold bricks, an abominable gurgling noise escaping my fatigued throat. She freezes instantly, and my sex twitches in sensible interest which I attempt to calm down, a feverish excitement pooling in my stomach. I distinguish the tremor in her silhouette and her breath hitching ever so slightly, a subtle perfume floating in the air, one that I know by heart now and makes my mind sing and mouth salivate. She does not look behind her, a wise choice I would say under more normal circumstances, her pace quickening in the narrow alley right between the first and third street of Gray Avenue. 

I inhale the acidic perfume of my body; I would like to say that my entire form is impregnated with the residuals of an old chemical toxin I’ve developed decades ago, but perhaps it is simply my own essence, now corrupted to its very core. I am certain that the delirious effects of these quasi pheromones will soon hit her as well and change her like I expect her to.

As she navigates through the almost pitch black alleys, fingertips grazing at the walls to help her find her way, I wheeze a wretched noise from within my ribcage, dreadful sounds I have been practicing since I was born and which never seems to get old. My poor girl is sobbing earnestly now, an arm wrapped around her middle section as if to seek comfort, almost running away from me, her short heels making a music akin to a typewriter in the night of Gotham. I am fully aware I have her complete attention, but I wish she would just look at me.

I run after her, vomiting more guttural gibberish from my distorted voice, fingernails hitting and scratching every surface in a pleading cacophony. She whimpers more frankly, I can tell how delicate her nerves are at this very moment. In her panic, she picks the wrong turn. Exquisite.

She looks around her with agony and confusion, persuaded that she would be welcomed by a bridge crossing the river of the Old Street; instead, she is met with a damp and sinister dead end. She whimpers audibly, her scent turning acrid and pungent now; fear, she reeks of fear . I pant, a hundred meters behind her, putting enough distance to remain a formless creature while still appearing very much real in the dim light. The soft tremor turns into heavy shaking when she turns her head behind her shoulder, as if to convince herself that this is just a dream, just like the others she’s had. Then she screams, oh! she screams…

Her crystalline voice breaks and shatters, pure and visceral, high pitched and perverted with terror; I am so hard I could hammer a nail in raw wood. I move in a dislocated fashion, long limbs akin to spider legs, the nightmarish look making her trip and fall on her bottom and crawl back, fingers desperately digging in the cold pavement until a nail breaks, curling her form into a ball in a damp corner. She cries so hard her face turns ruby red, smeared mascara leaving dark streaks on her puffy cheeks, glistening saliva bubbling on her screaming lips – oh, how beautiful she is, my sweet girl. My cock feels heavy in my now awfully tight pants; under different circumstances, maybe I would have offered her a different fate. 

She hides her face in her arms, fingers grabbing ferociously at her hair as if trying to wake herself up, but she doesn’t, no, she doesn’t wake up, and the reality is sinking in, especially when I am standing not even five meters in front of her. There is a bitter, stinging smell in the air, and a recognizable warm golden puddle underneath her shaking body that glistens beautifully under the moonlight; I purr in between two groans, witnessing her weakest form dissolve and collapse into the void of her mind that I have conceived. I want to create her anew, an abomination made of flesh and terror, and she will recognize me as her cruel Creator. My low distorted voice echoes in the muted alley, inspired and impassioned.

Are you afraid, child?

She screams louder, screams for help, screams for her life. But no one will save her, not here, not in Gotham, not this pathetic piss soaked girl . I mock and taunt her, towering over her as she chokes on her own sobs, desperate and painfully lonely. Why won’t anyone save me , she must be thinking. Why did Father lock me in this cell, she must be thinking. Why did Father abandon me in the cornfield. My laugh sounds more like a croak, sinister and penetrating, while she begs me for her life. 

Do you know who I am, child?

She does not. I blame it on her delirious state, on her body pumping her full of adrenaline, and most probably the toxins my body produces and which she’s been inhaling. This will not do, however; I want to ruin her in a way that matters, and for that to happen I need her to know who I am, what I represent. 

I crouch in front of her weaker form, barking her name and demanding she looks at me, which she does, obediently so; I reiterate my question, my hands hunched like claws scratching the walls around her. She cries harder, but her body produces no more tears, exhausted and drained; she screws her eyes shut and so I have no other option but to grab her hair viciously, forcing her to look at me.

And she does, oh she does , giant glassy eyes that lost their innocent spark and instead glow with a fury only trauma could forge and terror could sublimate. She sees the humiliation and the absence, the neglect and the judgment; she sees what she could have been if it had not been taken away from her. She does not say it but she mouths it, the two syllables of her misery.

Father.

My cackle is nothing short of demoniac, entire body jerking wildly enough to remember my turgid sex still leaking its filth in my ruined pants, heartbeat frantic as I am slowly but surely reaching my peak; release is not only needed but deserved , I believe, as my hand crawl inside my pants and free my cock, seizing it in a vicious grip that is mostly pain under her terrified and disgusted gaze. I take in her beautifully wrecked face as I pump myself with vigor and intent while croaking heavy moans, my eyes devouring every single wrinkle, every tear and tremor, swallowing the sight of the tense tendons of her throat choking on her sobs until I hiss in disgust at the repugnant pearl necklace. 

She does not need it anymore, I believe. And so, in a movement aquiver with lust and desire, my knotted fingers slip under the chain akin to a snake closing its embrace. She shrieks in pain when I pull tightly, a most needed evil I am afraid although ephemeral, the horrendous necklace eventually giving in to my brutal punishment and breaking. I hear the clattering of the pearls falling and rolling on the pavement, hand still tightly locked around my cock as I fuck my fist earnestly in deliciously wet noises; she caresses the skin of her bare neck, as if understanding something, her terrified eyes turning back at me and begging me to let her go. Oh, my sweet child, be certain that I will miss your honeyed pleas…

My orgasm comes quickly, long spurts of milky cum spilling on her throat, the soft flesh now adorning a unique, more appropriate and beautiful set of pearls. A generous gift, one she will remember fondly, I am certain. Her lower lips tremble as more tears roll down her cheek, although not a sound comes out of her mouth. I understand, it is a lot to process. Therapy can be difficult sometimes.

I left her alone to collect herself. Once home, and after a quick yet invigorating shower, I became busy writing down in great detail tonight’s experiment and, one must admit, its most triumphant outcome.

The day before our scheduled appointment, she informed me that she would not be able to come, pretending to have a cold. I understood, of course, and asked her if I would see her next week then. She said that she wasn’t certain, and that she would call back. She never did.

[montimer]

Scarecrow x reader

Gn!Reader protecting him, also reader works in arkham

He thinks he doesn't deserve you to protect him, but still as fast as fear strikes him, he runs for your help

Maybe from a guard who wants to hurt him

He grabs your clothes "Y/n please, you have to help me!"

He hides behind you as the person who bothered him appears.

After you get them to leave you look back at him w/ a soft smile on your face "It's okay Crane, they are gone now"

He comes out from your back and smiles at you. He can't thank you enough

You never hurted him. You always cared for him.

What did he do to deserve your affection?

You bring him back to his cell.

You always stayed to chat w/ him a little.

He tells you about a book he read. His smile widening as you nod, showing you are listening.

You are the sweetest aren't you?

For most of his life affection has barely crossed his life.

He doesn't want this to end, he knows you have to leave. He just whises it wouldn't be so soon.

He can't wait to break out from this horrible place and find you.

Because surely you wouldn't mind?

[riddle-me-ri]

I apologize if I sent this already but I honestly can’t remember, if it’s alright could we please have the scarecrows when they get jealous??? 🙏🏼🥺

A/N: no worries, you're all good you haven't sent it in yet! And I have no doubt these wee boys can be quite envious lol.

Jealousy Scenarios w/ The Scarecrows

Arkhamverse Scarecrow: 

Jonathan thinks that, much like fear, he’s above jealousy.

Which is exactly why he’s not…jealous of you spending time with the Arkham Knight.

He’s mostly confused, you should be by his side…he’s the orchestrator of this whole night. 

Jonathan will likely think he’s hiding his displeasures, but he actually makes it painfully obvious. 

Jonathan insists…almost demands you stay with him. He finds tasks for you to do…he even begins being more physical with you.

You know you shouldn’t push it, but you enjoy the idea that he cares enough to be jealous in the first place. 

And you don’t miss the soft lool on his face when he notices you staying with him more often. 

Nolanverse/Murphy Scarecrow: 

Jonathan didn’t want too think much of the new psychologist at Arkham Asylum.

He didn’t…at first until they began openly flirting with you. 

Jonathan could barely swallow his resentment when he saw you smiling and laughing with them.

He’d grit his teeth and clench his fists. 

You were far too kind and welcoming for your own good. 

Jonathan makes an extra effort to be more present at Arkham. 

You’re surprised to see him more often, but you’re enjoying having him with you more. 

He sneaks kisses on your cheek and whispers compliments in your ear…

However, you can’t help but wonder where that new doctor went…who has been missing for almost a week now. 

Batman The Animated Series Scarecrow: 

Jonathan aways knew it would be a bad idea to allow you to meet his more…eccentric colleagues. 

But he didn’t think it would be because they were trying to charm you off your feet.

Jonathan is silently seething in the corner, steam about to burst out of his ears. 

Jervis made you giggle. Edward made you blush…

It took everything for Jonathan not to drag you away and keep you to himself again. 

But he didn’t want to take any chance to upset you, so he silently seethed.

Until you come over and hug him…showing appreciation in him trusting you to meet his friends.

Jonathan instantly melts when you kiss his cheek, instantly comforting him without you knowing. 

The New Batman Adventures Scarecrow: 

This Scarecrow…was always weary of someone better coming your way. 

You are so bright and joyous, you deserved better than him.

It was only a matter of time, until the proper partner for you came along. 

He’s unsure what to do when he sees you hanging out with a co-worker. 

Jonathan wants to snatch you away, make your co-worker undergo a terror they’ve never imagined…and just keep you to himself from now on. 

Just before he could dig himself deeper into his envy, you show up with your bright smile and a welcoming kiss. 

You love him openly, unconditionally every time…and this dissipates the gnawing jealousy in his heart.

Fear State Scarecrow: 

Like other Scarecrows, this Jonathan is incredibly observant. 

He’s aware of you being extra cheerful or distracted lately. 

It doesn’t take long for thoughts and assumptions to come up in his mind. 

Some childhood friend of yours has come back to town. Possibly some feelings being re-kindled as well. 

Ironically enough, he feeds himself into his own fear of losing you to someone else. 

He will come up with a plethora of excuses to get you to stay, or have you run errands to keep you busy. 

Anything to keep you near him, but not hinder his plans. 

It’s obvious to you what’s happening, and you can’t help but find it a tad bit amusing. 

Year One Scarecrow: 

Jonathan is extremely protective and defensive of you.

You’re the first bit of peace and happiness he’s found in anyone.

He sure as hell isn’t going to lose you to anyone.

Jonathan gets jealous easily, moreso than either of you like to admit. 

Actively drags you away from someone else and tries to take up your time.

He’s just really used to being abandoned or abused and…he’s not sure he can go through that again with you.

But every time you reassure him, you continue to stay by his side. 

Jonny grows more secure in the relationship and less jealous…eventually.

Masters of Fear Scarecrow: 

Like earlier Scarecrows, he tries to ignore it. 

He knows you’re faithful, he knows you love him and wouldn’t leave him…

But just so everyone knows you’re his…

Jonathan will always keep a hand on your person. 

Whether it’s your hand, your shoulder, or the small of your back. 

He will conveniently come up with plans so you couldn’t go out with someone he feels threatened by. 

It doesn’t take long for you to notice his jealousy. 

You’re quick to reassure him that he has nothing to worry about

Harley Quinn: The Animated Series Scarecrow: 

Definitely tries to hide his jealousy.

But masks it….terribly.

He can’t help it…he adores you, but he knows other people like you too!

How could they not want to spend time with you?

Jonathan tries not to show his discomfort, but you can tell from how fidgety he is. 

His fiddling with his hands, he’s shrugging, and is less sure of himself…more than usual. 

You try to includ ehim, if you can’t, you assure him that you two will spend some quality time together. 

Jonathan instantly perks right up and doesn’t learn why he got jealous in the first place…

Until he gets jealous again.

Happy Halloween Scooby-Doo Scarecrow: 

Likely believes he’s too old or mature to ever get jealous.

Unlike other Scarecrows, you’re likely to try and make him jealous than do it by accident.

Just to see what he’s like…and maybe prove a point out of spite.

Not much works, since he can tell you’re trying to get a rise out of him.

When he does get jealous, it's when you least expect it. 

Jonathan becomes clingy and more physical; holding you, pulling you closer to him.

His attention is now on you tenfold, but he also steals glances at whoever it was that set him off…

This is the closest you will get to seeing him jealous, and you’re absolutely enjoying it before you rub it in his face.

[quandaryqueen]

*metal pipe noise* Hi hello I was wondering if I can request some soft cuddling Headcanons for Scarecrow from the Harley Quinn show... he just makes my heart go 'yippee!!!'

Soft

Harley Quinn Series Jonathan Crane X Reader

Gosh yes you can, I love him so much you can get out of the pipes now :D

🧡 So when you cuddle with you back against him, completely trapped in his arms, he has the tendancy to be on his phone with his arms wrapped around you, so you also have a view on his activities. Spoopy man is always reading celebrity gossip (cough aka fellow rogues fucking up since they're being treated as such cough) and it's always fun to low-key judge his fellow rogue's life choices.

🧡 He prefers to be big spoom. Clingy, will have all his limbs wrapped around you and will nuzzle his face against whatever surface you are offering. Your face? You neck? Chest? Back? Hell ye. He loves the warmth you give off, your general presence will always put a smile on his face and squeezing you helps regulate his oxytocin.

As for him being cuddled, he wouldn't mind at all, being little spoon won't hurt once and a while. Sure, squeeze the life out of him.

🧡 So I'm not sure whether this is considered cuddling but... He likes your head on his lap when he's seated. He'd be absent mindedly stroking your head while occupied with his book or phone, occasionally scratching your scalp or massaging your temple. When in a cheeky mood, will playfully pinch your nose.

On the flip side, if you were to have his head on his lap, he will playfully slam his head against your lap and cause impact. Feel free to lightly smack him in the forehead for that.

🧡 Will groan and grumble of you need to get up for a moment, no matter the circumstances.

"Poppeeeeet.... Come baaaack...."

In his sleepy haze, he would sometimes attempt to reach for you but to no avail, as he gives up and let his hand limply fall and dangle from the bed. And when you return, he is striking like a python and wrapping you tightly in his arms and legs again before attempting to fall back asleep again.

[dibmembraneisgoodlooking]

[mrsedwardnygma]

Seven minutes in heaven with Jervis and Jonathan. If y'all want me to post my other seven minutes in heaven just tell me (they all feature Batman rouges)

MAD HATTER X READER

The game keeps going until it's finally your turn. You weren't paying much attention to who had been drawn because you were still inspecting the clock Jervis gave you earlier. As you get ready to draw Jervis lunges over and snatches the watch out of your hand and drops it into the hat. You raise an eyebrow at him before reaching into the hat and pulling out the watch once again.

        "Okay, It's yours again!" He says in a chipper voice. Before bouncing over to the closet giddily. He bows and ushers you in saying 'ladies first.'

        Once you are in he quickly joins you and shuts the door himself. Once it's dark he takes a long almost sad sigh.

        "Not very subtle about who you wanted to get picked by back there huh?" You say.

        He holds up the watch and spins one part of it around and the it lights up in a hypnotizing swirl. Now you can see his face. It looks somber. He cups your cheek with his hand gently and presses a soft gentle kiss against your lips before pressing you against him and pausing in the moment. Warmth radiates over you and you go deeper with the kiss but a warm tear falls from his face to yours.

        "Jervis, what's the matter?" You ask softly pulling away even though you don't want to.

        He looks down clutching the watch. 

        "You aren't my Alice..." he says his voice cracking.

        "I can be your Y/N."  You say taking his warm hand in yours. He squeezes softly.

        "I want you. I cannot have you. I'm sorry." He says ripping away from you and flinging open the door. he runs across the ballroom and out the front door. You stand there with all the other guests staring at you. You want to follow him but you don't.

JONATHAN CRANE X READER

You suck in a breath as you pull out a crow feather from the hat. You look over to see Jonathan's reaction. He hasn't seemed to notice. He's sitting on a windowsill singing quietly to himself. Joker hops over to where he is and slaps him on the back. Jonathan whimpers in fear and falls off the windowsill looking mortified.

        "Lovely singing voice there Johnny but you gotta go in the closet now!" Joker yells in his ear.

        Jonathan looks angry and unhappy about this as he glides to the closet like a ghost. When he sees you coming the anger fades away and a blush covers his cheeks. You smile at him. He just stares at you. You go into the closet and the door shuts leaving you and the horror themed serial killer alone in the dark. You should be scared. But the fear is mixed with excitement. Like the feeling at the top of the roller coaster before you drop.

        "It's so dark." He whispers before crumpling to the ground against the wall knees to his chest. You sit down beside him and wrap your arm around him. With your other hand you take out your phone and turn the flashlight on. He stares at the light before looking up at you with fear in his eyes. He looks like he is about to cry. 

        "Im Im sorry. Im pathet- Pathetic. Leave me. Please. I don't want you to see see me in the... dark..." He chokes trying to hold back tears.

        You set your phone on the ground face down so it illuminates the closet and his beautiful eyes. With the now unoccupied hand you intertwine your fingers in his pulling it away from his face where he's trying to conceal his tears. Your other hand wipes his tears away. 

        "It's okay to be afraid. It's okay to cry." You say squeezing his hand.

        He sobs another apology before collapsing into your embrace until he is basically just crumpled in your lap. You tell him he doesn't have to apologize. You run your fingers through his hair because that used to calm you as a child. 

        The door opens and Joker just stares for a minute before closing the door again. We stay in there for a long time. You want to kiss him but you don't want to frighten or overwhelm him. He plays with your necklace while lying in your lap and eventually he falls asleep. You stay like this for a long time. Hours later he seems unsettled by a dream and you softly kiss his forehead. He awakens looking scared and you stay up talking the rest of the night. The Joker is very amused when he finds you still there in the morning.

[playthelaughtrack]

The Scarecrow woke up early to prepare a lovely breakfast for his partner (Y/N), as a way of letting them know just how happy he is to be married to them. Unfortunately, they just don't feel like getting up.

Inspired by this post.

Warnings: None!

A/N: I'm feeling Soft

The shrill 'caws' of the crows outside was enough to rouse the Scarecrow from his slumber. He groans, silently cursing those blasted birds for waking him up just before the sun rose each morning.

At least it isn't all bad. He thinks to himself, feeling his burlap lips quirk up in a fond smile as he gazes at your sleeping figure. At least i'm here, and not still stuck on that dreadful pole.

His side of the bed creaks as he finally heaves himself up. He leans against the wall, adjusting the hay that had bunched up unevenly within him as he slept. Normally, he would try and ignore those birds, and lay around until you had woken up, but today he had a mission. A mission so important, not even the Good Witch of the North could task him with something greater -- he was going to make you breakfast.

Even after being married for some time now, he had never really fallen out of his 'honeymoon phase'. He was constantly at awe at the kindness and tenderness you showed him, the way your smile seemed to shine brighter than the sun itself, the rapid beating in his chest each time you placed a tender kiss on his cheek... you were the greatest gift life had bestowed upon him, and each day he set out to remind you of just that.

Setting off into the kitchen of your home, Scarecrow gathered up everything he would need. He wasn't the best cook in the world, he somehow managed to burn the ends of the hay sticking out his hands whenever he tried, but surely pancakes and fruit wouldn't be that difficult, right?

"This is supposed to make eight," He reads outloud, scratching his chin as he looks over the cookbook, "But I want to make a whole lot... one serving needs one egg, so maybe I should triple it!"

He fumbles around the cupboards for the measuring cups -- no luck. Ah, that's fine. He could probably just eyeball it. It should be fine. This was fine.

It was not fine.

No one ever really took the time to teach him how to do most things, always just being him and his intellect against the world. The first truth that dawns on him: He had no idea where most things were. He wanders around, practically turning the place inside out, until he got his gloved hands on his most important tool -- the spoon.

Second truth that dawns on him: Not only was he horrible at just 'eyeballing it', he had no idea on how to convert measurements.

"Gosh, people have to do this every time they want to eat?" He is baffled on how much effort a simple meal was already taking out of him. "Now, this is why good ol' fashioned fruits and veggies are the way to go! Much less workin' that way. Ah, no matter. They always say must of cooking is just mixing the stuff in... i'm sure the worst of all this is already behind me!"

,

,

"Batter should not be this hard to get out of hay." Scarecrow bickers to himself as he cleans up his space.

No matter. This would all be worth it.

"Wake up!" The bedroom door creaks open, allowing his head to peak through. "I made breakfast, love."

You feel the light flood into the room as he opens the curtains. It's warm and comforting, but nothing could beat the relaxation you found under the covers.

"Now..." You managed to finally let out, voice raspy as it gets comfortable with being used after being out of service for hours. "When I said 'yes' to this whole marriage thing, I thought we were on the same page and you understood when i said i don’t wake up before 6pm.”

Chuckling, he leans over, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. "Good morning to you too, sweetheart."

The smell from the kitchen wafts over to your nose. Your stomach growls, earning another laugh from your husband. In response, you grab the end of your sheets, prompty pulling it over your head. You would not be coaxed into surrendering so easily!

"Sweetheart?" You could hear that goofy smile in his voice. "I spent all morning making that for you."

You let out a small laugh, amused. "And is my kitchen still intact?"

You heard him hesitate. "The kitchen's fine. Nothing I can't handle!"

That wasn't entirely a lie. The kitchen was a mess, yes, but he cleaned it up! Though, if you somehow end up finding little clumps of batter in strange places for the next week, he will profusely deny that he had anything to do with it.

He lays his body weight on you, testing the 'make you uncomfortable' route. You teasingly respond, "It's just like a hug!" while making yourself more comfortable underneath him.

He eventually gets up, making you mentally pat yourself on the back at the success. Scarecrow begins to step out the door, turning towards you one last time. "Such a shame too... I made pancakes."

"I'll be right there." You rush out, as you were excited to dig into the meal so lovingly prepared by your husband... that, and all his talking woke you up.

He lets out a humored laugh, rushing out to make you a plate.

[angelofthenight]

You, writing to Arkham: Jerome, my love, if you’re reading this-

Oswald: Can Jerome read?

You: Jervis, if you are reading this out loud to Jerome-

Oswald: Can Jervis read?

You:

You: Jonathan-

[gothy-froggy]

I miss your every kiss

AK!Jonathan Crane x goth!fem!reader

She/her for reader

Warnings: patching Jonathan’s face, needles, fluff, possibly hurt & comfort, definitely comfort for Jonathan, insecure Jonathan, slightly suggestive if you squint, Not proofread

Summary: Jonathan thinks back to different moments his lovely wife as she patched him up from a fight. He wonders, how did he get so lucky?

————————————————————————-

Cold, dense, agony, miserable.

These were the things Jonathan felt, grunting at the pain form the sharp needle as he worked to keep his face from falling apart. How could his wonderful plan go all to waste? How could the Batman, not feel fear? His frightening toxin not do anything to him?

Part of him wonders, was it Batman who wasn’t afraid, or the man behind that mask? Perhaps both? It didn’t matter. No, not right now. What matters is him getting back on his feet, climb his way back as a feared villain of Gotham. The media perused him as dead, but he could assure the people of Gotham that he is not. Just slowly piecing himself back together. Literally in a sense.

As he walked in the sewers below, he felt as the pain course through his body. Physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually. Slowly walking, hissing at any shift that causes his damaged leg trouble. His one working cloudy eye quickly scanning around.

He needed a way out. He needed to escape. His work, his toxin, his reputation, life,

His wife.

He stopped, leaning over a wasted crate as he tried to control his breathing.

Would he still have a wife? How long has he been down here? That was something he couldn’t tell. Even if she was looking for him, why would she stay? He looked…hideous.

His thoughts continued as he made it out, at the edge of city itself. He could barely make out the boats in the water. It was night, moon hitting the water. The thoughts continued as he water the water, getting louder as he closed his eyes.

His cloudy eyes shifted slowly once they opened, hearing faint footsteps, slowly getting louder with each step. It stopped, to the side slightly behind him. He turned, heart racing as his eyes widened.

“Oh darling,” She whispered out, gently touching his face. Mumbling a sorry when he let out a groan. She observed him head to toe, bringing him back to one of their locations.

He sat there, watching her finish up patching his face, stopping when he told her to.

“Gotham will pay, my love. It’s only a matter of time.” She reassured him.

Jonathan’s hand ghostly touching her suit, feeling the nice fabric of her black suit. He couldn’t understand. Why wasn’t she afraid of him? Not walking away, not disgusted by the way he looks? Here she was in her all black professional suit, carefully stitching his face together with fabric for him, not an hint of fear of his damaged face. She still wore her ring too. But again, he couldn’t help but think of the question again,

Why isn’t she afraid of him? Disgusted by him?

He here now, curled in a ball, muttering to himself. The look of pure terror in his eyes as he scurried away from his wife. To be fair, she looks undead to him. No, no, it can’t be. Her voice echoing in his mind,

“Why didn’t you save me?”

What happened? What have he done? What haven’t he done?

Feeling restricted as he screamed, his wife screaming his name, forced to see her decomposing face. His new greatest fear, losing her.

“Jonny,” Jonathan opened his eyes again. She was there. Alive and well. A sigh of relief escaped through his teeth. Her smile wiping the memories of what he saw from the fear toxin away.

“I’ve got you.” She whispered, looking at him oh so lovingly. And once again, he couldn’t help but ask in his mind,

Why isn’t she afraid of him? Disgusted by him?

Jonathan came back from a disappointing conflict, resulting to his scarecrow textured face getting damaged. His wife, now sits on the desk with the needed materials, fixing him up. Her long, black dress, winged sleeves tied back as she focused on stitching things back.

“You’re concerning me, Crane.” Ah, Crane. She was serious. Jonathan only stayed silent, only letting out soft noises of discomfort from the needle as she finished up his cheek.

“Why?” The room got quiet. She looked into his eyes. Puzzled by his short question, tilting her head.

“Why what?”

“Why are you still here? Look at me,” Jonathan was giving her a partially accidental glare.

“Rough fabric, hideous, no lips, yet you are still here. Why?” He voice ever so slightly quivered. She leaned in, gently placing her forehead on his. It was their substitute for a kiss.

“How does your appearance partakes who you are, my dear?” He shivered as a hand followed his jawline.

“You could be nothing but a beast, and I would still be by your side. Be with you.” She said above a whisper, pressing a kiss on what remained of his lips. unable to stop himself, Jonathan’s tongue slipped inside her mouth, letting out a soft groan. Only to pout as it came to an end. His face expressed grim.

“I miss your every kiss. The ones from the past.” He mumbled. It was a shame. They were so great. He feel everything. It was harder and different now.

“Though I do not miss the time that I haven’t had any.” Jonathan placed his forehead against hers. He pulled her in by her waist, enjoying the warmth form both her body and her laughter. He truly couldn’t believe he how found someone who loved him. Someone so loyal and faithful to him as he is for her. He grabbed her hand, glancing at their matching silver ring. Both with such tiny gothic details engraved inside.

Jonathan brought her hand up to his teeth, gently nibbling on it as his form of a kiss. He was always secretly eager for her warm and soft skin. Her soft skin against his rough fingers.

“How did I…end up so lucky, with a wife like you?”

“Not quite sure, but let me finish patching you up. Then you have to eat. You will eat, right Jonathan?” She said his name sternly.

“Or is the Scarecrow going to keep you a hostage for the plan?” Jonathan let out a soft chuckle, helping her off his lap.

“I will,” He agreed. She finished patching his face, pressing a kiss in his teeth, leaving a bit of her colored lipstick on them.

“I could never love someone like I love, Jonny.”

“I feel the same for you, my dear.” He watched her leave.

The Batman may be a fear of his, but losing her who is the absolute love of his life was one as well. It was one he finds worthy to avoid.

————————————————————————-

[sister-lucifer]

Yooo give us the tea on the Scarecrow x reader x riddler fic 👀👀👀

here’s the run down:

You are the star student of Professor Jonathan Crane’s psychology class, a classic goodie two shoes little bookworm. Maybe you even manage to get close to Dr. Crane, maybe even having something of a friendship. One day you accidentally leave your bag in Crane’s class, and have to run back to retrieve it.

The Riddler himself had managed to get into Crane’s classroom through an open window right after you had left, hoping to get a moment alone with his “friend” (theres scriddler undertones oops). Neither of them expected you to come barging in the way you did, and upon seeing Dr. Crane conversing casually with a blood splattered Edward Nygma, you panic, unable to get to the door before Crane grabs your arm and pulls you back, sitting you forcefully in his desk chair. Riddler lets it slip that Jonathan is The Scarecrow, and now you officially know too much.

They can’t just let you leave, they have to figure out some way to convince you to keep your mouth shut…

[Antics Ensue]

[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.”

[montimer]

can you write how would arguing with scarecrow be? <3

Sure!

Arguing w/ scarecrow

Lil angst, gn!reader

Whatever you two were arguing about turned into yelling.

Hes yellings are loud, and he will hit whatevers near him w/ his fist (not you tho)

If you are sensitive and start crying he'll immediately froze down. His chest hurts, this guilty feeling hits him. He made you cry..he swears he didn't meant to. He promised to never hurt you in any way. And now you are backing away from him.

Seeing you so scared, especially of him, its no fun for him.

He really doesn't know what to do, and while he frozes you sneak out of the room to calm down.

When he looks up to apologize hes mouth is open but he doesn't speak. All he sees is that you are gone. Where were you, did you leave him, did he scare you away?

"No,no. Im sorry, y/n no-"

He brokes down crying, thinking you left him for good. He starts mumbling about how worthless he is and keep on saying sorrys.

You hearing him sobbing makes you worried. When you enter the room you can see him on his knees, face in hand, crying desperately for you.

Your heart hurts, seeing him like this. So you go up to hug him.

He hears footsteps coming his way, when he looks up he sees your face, he jumps to hug you, not letting go. Fearing if he do you will run away again.

He cries harder when you hug him back. You came back,you really came back!

He'll start apologizing over and over again you have to sush him. "It's okay, i wouldn't leave you" you reassure him.

After that he'll be pretty quiet for a little time. He will promise not to snap at you like that again. He realised that he never wants to see you like that, scared,crying,so hurt.

Even if you try to say it was ur fault he'll ignore it and say it isn't.

This scarecrow loves you too much, the thought of losing you is just too much to bare for him.