So just found these pics of Dr Crane and GOOD LORDDDD!!! I'm fucking ovulating rn this is not on😭🙏 Getting turned on by looking at his mf arms and hands, what is wrong with me deadass💔
🎃 DC: The Scarecrow 🐦⬛
Art piece inspired by DC scarecrow, i been getting into reading DC batman Rogues villains in fanfiction and comics, been awhile since relight my old love for DC, lil older now get into some fun designing up my own fav rogues again, redo Dr.Crane few times till get nice vibe i like in his design, i do love long straw hair TBAS version and Arkham design, so try combo look to it.
Decided the narrow mask without straw hair, add on my own touch with crow skull to hat. like added more bones to design but didn't want over detail him to much take away from comic style wanted keep him looking to.
So Here my version scarecrow, one my fav Gothem rogues.
Next try Riddler and Jervis tetch. ;)
Warnings: drugging kink, needle play, obsession, straightjacket, power play, fear play, non-con, fear toxin
The guards brought her in at precisely 9:00 a.m., just as he had ordered. She shuffled inside, arms bound tight in the canvas of the straightjacket, the faint scuff of her shoes against the tiled floor echoing in the sterile lab.
Crane didn’t look up immediately. He liked to let the moment stretch, letting her nerves ferment in silence. When he finally lifted his eyes from his notes, the sight of her hit him like it always did: pale, trembling, eyes already shining with fear. His favourite patient. His only real subject worth this much attention.
“Good morning, Miss Y/L/N,” he said evenly, adjusting his glasses with a deliberate push of his index finger. His voice was low, gravel threaded with something darker. A smirk tugged faintly at his lips. “I do hope your morning was pleasant. Because…” His eyes raked her figure slowly, appreciatively. “…it’s about to get much, much better.”
The guards left at his nod, the door clicking shut. That sound alone sent a thrill through him.
Privacy. His time.
Crane rose from his desk with clinical precision, approaching her with the slow inevitability of a scalpel descending. His eyes lingered on the straightjacket straps biting into her form. No scratches for him today. The last set of wounds she had clawed into his chest were still healing, thin red lines criss-crossing pale skin under his shirt. He liked the scars, but not the interruptions they caused to his work.
She shifted, swallowing, trying to retreat even though there was nowhere to go. He tilted his head slightly, studying the tremor of her lip, the panic in her eyes. Obsession, fascination, hunger—it all tangled inside him until he could barely distinguish one from the other.
“Breathe slowly,” he murmured. Not for her benefit, just an instruction for himself.
He set out his tools with almost ceremonial care: cotton swabs, alcohol wipes, lengths of tubing, and at the center of it all, a syringe gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. The liquid inside shimmered faintly yellow, viscous and unnatural. Fear, refined, liquefied, tamed to his hand alone.
Crane bit his lower lip as he closed his fingers around the syringe, rolling it between them like a pen he had been waiting all morning to hold. A pulse of excitement climbed his spine at the faint clink of metal against glass. Her whimper broke the silence, small and desperate, and he exhaled a shaky breath, almost a laugh.
“So afraid,” he whispered as if to himself. His hand trembled not with hesitation, but with eagerness.
He stepped close. Her instinctive recoil, the way she twisted her neck away, only made him flush hotter. She tried to shield herself with the limited motion of her bound arms, pressing one hand awkwardly to her throat. The sight made him ache. Defiance, fear, resistance, it was perfect.
He caught her chin between his fingers, cool and firm, tilting her head just enough. Her eyes fluttered, wet, her pulse hammering so fast he could see it beneath the skin. Crane drew in a sharp breath, arousal climbing as he pressed the needle tip against her delicate flesh.
“Shh…” he cooed softly, almost tender. “You’ll feel better soon.”
The needle sank in with a slow push. Her gasp, half panic, half pain, made him nearly dizzy with desire. His own breath hitched as he depressed the plunger, watching with rapture as the toxin slipped beneath her skin, disappearing into her bloodstream.
Her lashes fluttered. Her body sagged against the restraints, awareness dulling, fear fogging over into something hazy and dreamlike. Still present enough to whimper, to tremble but not enough to resist.
Crane’s pupils dilated, his whole frame tense with exhilaration. He adjusted the tubing, sliding the IV needle expertly into her arm, taping it down with swift precision. The bag of diluted toxin began to drip, one measured drop at a time, feeding his creation into her body steadily.
He sat back for a moment, just watching. Watching her blink sluggishly, watching her body soften, her breaths grow shallow. His own arousal pressed painfully against the fabric of his trousers, but he ignored it, savoring the build. The way her fear hung between them, sweet and chemical, the way she trembled even as her consciousness slipped further away.
“Look at you,” he muttered hoarsely, dragging a hand down his face before pushing his glasses back up. “My perfect little patient.”
He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing her ear. “You’ll always be mine in this room. Always.”
The first flush hit her veins like fire. The warmth spread fast, a creeping burn beneath her skin, making her chest tighten. She gasped against the restraint of the straightjacket, sharp and shallow.
Her pulse betrayed her immediately. Crane’s eyes flicked to her throat, watching the vein there throb wildly as if it might tear through. Every hammering beat against fragile skin made his cock twitch harder.
The drip kept its rhythm: one drop, two drops, steady as a metronome. Each one sent another wave through her. Fear sharpened, splintering in her chest. She couldn’t catch her breath. Her lungs dragged in air, but it wasn’t enough, her vision trembling at the edges.
Pupils blown wide, glossy with a sheen of tears, she blinked up at him like a frightened animal. The panic was raw, instinctive, primal.
Crane bit down on his lower lip, teeth indenting the flesh as he drank her in. “Yes…” he whispered, the sound escaping before he could stop it. His hand hovered above her, mapping every tremor of her body.
Every muscle betrayed her. Her chest rose in ragged bursts, her lip caught between her teeth as though that tiny pain might ground her. But the toxin was clever, insidious. It wouldn’t let her find calm. It kept her on the cliff-edge of a panic attack, never letting her topple, just holding her there, trembling and desperate.
He adjusted the drip slightly, fine-tuning. Her breath hitched, then stuttered into shallow gasps. A sheen of sweat beaded on her skin, glistening under the fluorescent light.
“Perfect,” he murmured, almost reverent. His hands shook now, excitement bleeding past his clinical façade. He pushed his glasses up again, but his eyes never left her face.
”N–no...” She whimpered something, half-word, half-cry, and her back arched slightly against the chair. Fear radiated off her in waves he could almost taste. His own breath quickened, chest tight with arousal. He leaned in close enough that her frantic exhale brushed hot against his cheek.
“You feel it, don’t you?” His voice cracked low, hungry. “That edge. That’s what I made for you.” He smiled genuinely, head tilted a little.
Her pupils, black and blown, locked on him in confusion and terror, and that was enough. It was everything. He could have stayed there forever, watching her body betray her, drinking in every detail of her unraveling.
Above them both, the drip ticked on. Steady. Relentless. A metronome of fear that tethered her to his obsession.
Jonathan shifted, pressing one hand against the edge of the gurney near her hip while the other moved down the front of his trousers. Slowly, deliberately, he began stroking himself through the material, keeping his eyes glued to her. Every shiver she made, every quiver of her chest, every flutter of her lashes drove him wild.
The toxin made her haze-softened, obedient in fear, and the sight of her like this.. the trembling, the glazed eyes, the taut skin over her ribs, sent waves of heat straight to his cock.
He pulled it out, and she whimpered, terrified.
He leaned closer, bracing himself again with one hand on the gurney while the other pumped faster, slick and sure. Her fear, so raw and chemical, coated the air, and he groaned, voice ragged, teeth biting into his lower lip as he kept his gaze locked on her. He bent lower, fingers grazing her cheek, tilting her head up, forcing her wide, hazy eyes to meet his.
“Yes…” he hissed, jerking harder, hips snapping forward. “Look at you…”
The sight of her helpless under the toxin, the needle still in her neck, skin damp with sweat, lips parted and panicked, sent him over the edge. He groaned, spilling across her face, warm and sticky, streaking over her cheeks, lips, and lashes. She shivered in response, pupils blown, chest heaving, the drip still feeding fear into her veins.
Jonathan finally drew back, straightening, gloves removed, chest heaving. The room smelled of sweat, chemical fear, and obsession. She was still trembling, still tied to the IV, still under his control—and he inhaled it like air, savoring every ragged breath, every panicked flutter, every hazy blink of her pupils.
